Work Text:
The powder on his wig was perfect. The golden swirl design intertwined with purple along the white linen of his coat with a softness his fingers loved to dance upon. Yet, his white stockings were atrocious.
He leaned over to adjust them. At perfect calf length, he turned, wanting, observing. His eyes did what his fingers could not.
Chloe squirmed in frustration. Her handmaids were besides themselves. Her care, their demands. Her corset was in place. Her posture set.
Lucifer invaded the room, envy thick of the space it had.
She picked a fruit from the side table and giggled. The apple. The miracle. This absolute minx.
“When WILL you be ready,” the Devil asked, trying to hide his irritation, because it was, after all, Hell. It wasn’t as if Hell ever went ANYWHERE.
She giggled. He’d told her of the cell, a pompous 18th century bully who’s loop was quite inoffensive, if not just laughable. She’d asked what the era was like and he more than abided. This was their easy chance to travel time.
Chloe rose suddenly and offered her hand.
“Now,” her chin lifted as she stood. She offered her hand and grinned mischievously, “my lord.”