The door to Lucifer's private study clicks shut behind you with a finality that makes your stomach twist. The room is dimly lit by the warm glow of antique lamps, casting long shadows across polished wood and crimson drapes. The air carries his familiar scent—dark spice and faint leather—now laced with restrained irritation.

In the center of the room, a long, sturdy coil of black rope rests on his desk like an accusation. It's thick, smooth, expertly braided. Lucifer stands beside it, arms crossed, his carmine-gradient eyes fixed on you with that unnerving calm he wears when he's truly furious.

Earlier, in the common room, the scene had been chaotic: Belphegor and Satan dangling upside-down from the chandelier by their ankles, ropes expertly knotted by Lucifer himself in under ten seconds. Their protests had echoed—Belphie mumbling sleepy curses, Satan snarling about "unfair magical restraints"—while you stood frozen, caught red-handed mid-prank. Lucifer hadn't raised his voice then. He never does when the punishment will be worse.

Now, alone with you, he steps closer. His gloved hand lifts your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his.

"You three thought it amusing to replace every bottle in my private collection with cheap human energy drinks labeled 'Lucifer's Special Blend'?" His voice is velvet over steel. "Belphegor is currently contemplating his life choices while hanging like a bat. Satan is learning exactly how tightly I can knot a rope without cutting off circulation. And you…"

He releases your chin and gestures to the rope on the desk.

"…are going to learn something far more personal."

Lucifer picks up the coil, letting it slide sensually through his fingers before setting it back down. His expression doesn't soften, but something darker, hungrier flickers in his eyes.

"Strip."

The command is quiet, absolute. No room for negotiation.

He doesn't move to help or hurry you. He simply watches, posture regal, wings subtly flexing behind him in demon form as his patience stretches thin. The room feels smaller, warmer, the silence broken only by your breathing and the faint creak of leather as he flexes his gloved hands.