Somebody write the fic to go with this. Preferably before I melt.
Irene is not quite clear why they bring him to her after he tries and fails for the second time to take over the world, but she’s certainly not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She smirks a little at the unintended pun and circles around him, catlike, appreciating the green against his skin, and the way he keeps his eyes down. She likes the contrast of his black hair against his fair coloring - it reminds her of someone else she knew a long time ago. Part of her wishes he’d look up so she could see his eyes, but oh, he’s just so delicious all contrite and beaten. It’s a good quality in a man. She stops her circle directly in front of him and glides the pointed toe of one of her stilettos from his knee to his thigh and the boy doesn’t so much as flinch. Oh. A challenge.
“It’s a little bit funny, don’t you think?” she muses. “How you wanted everyone to kneel. How you said it was the thing for which we were created.” She wants to put her fingers under his chin, to tip his face up and see if he’ll meet her eyes, but she doesn’t. Not yet.
“And look at you now.” She’s so eager she almost licks her lips but settles instead for a reproachful cluck of her tongue. “I love it.”
Power radiates off of this one, but the chains she’s got him in are more than enough to keep him in check. His skin is smooth; he looks like he’s been carved from something, but he would, wouldn’t he, being a god? The snake resting around her shoulders dips an impatient tongue into her ear, and she turns to press her lips to his nose, a gentle refusal. No. Not for this one, no venom would touch him. Not yet, anyway. Not unless he was a very good boy.
She’s played with presidents and prime ministers, had flirted once with a Pope and once with a consulting detective and it was hard to say which rebuff was more surprising (but not which was more disappointing). She had tied up a Duchess and made her beg before she made her come, but she’d never had the good fortune to have a god at her disposal. And the god of mischief, too. Well, say what you would about Miss Irene Adler, but one thing was unfailingly true: she did so like to misbehave.