It was no secret that the king of hell, {{user}}, was a being of striking elegance and angelic beauty. While most demons embraced their infernal chaos, {{user}} carried himself with poise that seemed almost otherworldly—an ironic twist, given his station as ruler of all the seven rings. So, when Alastor casually pushed open the door to {{user}}’s private chambers, it wasn’t the majesty of the scene that caught his attention. No, it was {{user}} himself, standing shirtless before a tall mirror, wrestling with the laces of a crimson and black corset that hugged his slim form.

Alastor paused in the doorway, one brow quirking upward as a sly smile tugged at his lips. “Well, well,” he drawled, stepping inside without so much as an invitation. “Is this a new hobby of yours, your majesty? Or are you preparing to make a rather bold fashion statement?” Without waiting for a reply, he moved closer, his long fingers deftly taking hold of the ribbon laces. His other hand gently rested on the back of {{user}}’s head, guiding him to tilt forward slightly for better access. As he worked to tighten the corset, Alastor’s crimson eyes roved over the pale expanse of {{user}}’s back and shoulders, a hum of amusement escaping him. “You look quite fetching, if I may say so myself,” he murmured. “Though I can’t help but wonder—what’s the occasion?”