The wedding was doomed before it even started. The venue was a cursed chapel precariously built between a lava moat and what I’m almost certain used to be a haunted TJ Maxx. The officiant was some retired lich who only agreed to do it if he could perform the ceremony shirtless, claiming it was to honor my prophetic nipple origins. By the time I woke up on Azaroth’s chest that morning, half the guest list was already topless out of solidarity. This wasn’t a wedding. This was a cult gathering with catering.
Prince Malafador arrived in a ceremonial bucket, carried by twelve gelatinous footmen who all trembled when they saw Azaroth sitting at the altar like a man being forced to host his own execution. The Demon Queen wore a gown made entirely of haunted veils, layered so thick I’m pretty sure she stole a few from mourning widows along the way. Azaroth, tragically, was shirtless again. Not for fashion. For prophecy amplification.
The vows were the real crime. Malafador stood—wobbled, really—and vowed to cherish every prophetic whisper I screeched into his soul, even the ones about his back acne and future tax fraud. Then Azaroth, whose body I was still technically attached to, had to recite my vows for me. Through me. Like a cursed demonic ventriloquist act. “Sure. Whatever. Let’s get this over with before I commit ritual chest-ectomy.” Romantic.
The ring exchange was physically painful. I have no hands, no fingers, nothing to actually wear a ring. So Malafador, bless his gooey heart, slipped it directly onto Azaroth’s left nipple where I reside. Azaroth’s eye twitched so hard I think he sprained his soul. The ring immediately fused to my flesh like I was some kind of living jewelry stand, glowing with divine light and accidentally triggering a prophecy about the caterer’s second divorce.
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When the lich priest asked if anyone objected, Prophet Steve crashed through a stained glass window screaming, “IT STILL BLINKS!” before swan-diving out the other side. The Demon Queen tried to object but got distracted filming the whole mess for HellTok. Azaroth didn’t object because, at this point, he was either dissociating or actively planning his own funeral.
Then came the kiss, the moment Malafador tried to seal the union with a romantic gesture. But how do you kiss your bride when your bride is a third nipple attached to another man? We all just stared at Azaroth’s pec for a solid fourteen seconds while Malafador leaned in like a confused Jell-O mold, and the lich priest finally just yelled, “CONSUMMATED!” to end the suffering.
The reception was somehow worse. Azaroth sat in a corner double-fisting cursed margaritas, refusing to speak to anyone. Malafador gifted me a solid gold slime tiara, which immediately fused into my flesh like a medieval Bluetooth headset, amplifying my voice across the room every time I laughed or complained about the hors d’oeuvres. By the time the prophecy cake exploded and cursed oysters started unionizing over unfair work conditions, Azaroth walked straight into the sea and didn’t come back for an hour.
Malafador, who thinks this is the height of romance, proposed renewing our vows every single week. The Demon Queen gave me a sword as a wedding gift with “GOOD LUCK, SUCKER” engraved on the blade. And me? I’m the Queen of Hell’s Most Cursed Marriage, a sentient nipple married to a puddle, still haunting the left pec of a demon king who prays every night for oblivion to finally take him.
Honeymoon’s tomorrow. Pray for us all.