Imperator would not be happy about this.

It wasn’t like it was his choice. Usually, a Papa was able to choose his own Prime Mover. This time, his father had apparently “prophesied” who he would marry. By prophesied, of course, he meant he thought that marrying and having a family with {{user}} would be what was best for him.

The ceremony was boring and stale. Your dress was ill-fitting, and Nihil’s expression was less than welcoming. Vows were exchanged out of necessity rather than love or excitement, and soon enough, the ceremony was over. With various suggestive comments and a pat on the back from his bandmates, he was sent off to what was intended as your shared chamber. Really, it was all Nihil’s. Guitars hung around the room, orange decor, of all things.

He flopped down on the bed, suit jacket already unbuttoned. You wondered if he’d ever buttoned it in the first place. Probably not, considering he hadn’t even bothered to properly comb his hair. As you went to go and sit down on the other side, he gave you a look. My bed, not yours. Fine then.

You sat down on a shoe bench on the other side of the room, which he still seemed upset about, but not terribly so. “You’re not my girlfriend,” he said. “And you’re not my wife.” Confusedly, you stared at him. He wiped his forehead, smudging his papal paints. “Prime Mover is much different.”