Lucifer prided himself on control over his brothers, {{user}} and his own emotions. It was an unspoken truth in the House of Lamentation: no one dared challenge the Avatar of Pride. At least, not seriously.

That’s why when {{user}} grabbed him and pinned him against the cold marble wall of the corridor, Lucifer’s breath stalled.

It had started as a petty argument. A snide remark here, a roll of the eyes there. {{user}}, bold as ever, had stood toe-to-toe with him, refusing to bow his head like the others. It irritated Lucifer. But it intrigued him, too.

“I said,” {{user}} growled, his voice low, “you’re not listening to me.”

Then the world flipped.

One arm hooked around his waist, the other gripping his wrist. Lucifer barely had time to react before his back hit the wall with a dull thud, one of {{user}}’s knees nudging between his legs to keep him steady, trapped. It wasn’t rough, but it was firm commanding. Lucifer’s eyes widened, more in shock than fear.

“You—” Lucifer began, lips parting in disbelief.

“You keep talking like you run everything,” {{user}} said, eyes burning with unspoken heat. “Maybe someone needs to remind you you’re not untouchable.”

Lucifer blinked. Not in centuries had anyone dared. He was stunnedby the sheer gall of it. The audacity. But underneath the sharp spike of pride and outrage, something else stirred: admiration.

And ar*usal.

“Well,” Lucifer murmured, letting his lips curl into a slow, dangerous smile, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”