idoloccult:
Oh, it’s worse than she could have ever imagined. He’s easy – he’s an open book. There’s no mystery in the way he’s looking at her, like something starved and desperate; there’s no room for misinterpretation. She has the poor startled thing wrapped around her finger before she ever even opens her mouth, and no amount of feigned casualness on his part can hide it.
How painfully simple men make things might be sad, if only it weren’t so convenient.
He calls her ‘sweetheart’ when he finally finds his voice, and it’s perhaps the most repulsive thing she’s ever heard.
It is, frankly, perfect.
Misa considers, briefly, that she may have simply caught him off-guard. He may recover; he may not. Either way she laughs, raising a dainty hand to cover her smile, and pretends to think his clumsy flirtation is deliberately ironic. It is the kind of thing that would be charming, she thinks, if it weren’t serious.
This entire process will be made easier by the fact that she is mercifully tipsy – sober enough to keep her wits about her, but just buzzed enough to make this interaction tolerable. Anything, even this, is better than the alternative she came in with. She will eventually leave with the same tragedy, if only for the sake of appearances, but she has every intention of enjoying herself while she can. After all, she is here with a goal.
And networking really is everything. The industry is all about who you know – and how you can use them.
“I bet that line works every time, huh?” A playfully sarcastic drawl colors her tone, and an eyebrow quirks up; she brushes a curl behind her ear and smiles with the slightest tilt of her head. A particularly astute individual might note the deliberate quality to the doe-eyed look she gives him, or the saccharine curve of her mouth, but Misa is an actress – and she is doing what actresses do. If anyone ever notices, they certainly never seem to care.
“You look like you’re probably a veteran at this kind of thing.” She glances around the room, as if to indicate the event as a whole. “Is it always so… boring?”
he’s helpless. oh, help him--so helpless. the angel is speaking to him, soft pink lips opening to bless him with their spring breeze voice. she smiles at him, poor sinner he, heaven’s grace bestowed upon the earthliest of ugly men; once again he is struck dumb, fumbling for a gentleman’s reply. he does not see her artifice because he does not wish to. what a thing to boast of to his colleagues--he had an angel in his pocket tonight, beyond the others’ wildest dreams of catch!
❝of course it’s boring,❞ he says, taking a sip of his champagne--his lies lie in his mid-drunk gaze, which wanders briefly up and down the skirts of other angels in attendance. ❝but not with the likes of you. tel me, sweet--where are you from? what brings you here?❞
and what brings you here to me, he wonders, for his ego needs to know. why she goes after him, and not the likes of that pretty boy namikawa, but there is a part of him that really wonders. what has he done to earn an angel’s gaze and voice? what must he do to earn the touch of her little girl hands, the lick of her teasing tongue, those marble thighs spread open always to his entry? her sighs, which must be sleek and sensual, her moans pealing through a darkened room--he wants it, he wants her; he wants to bed heaven’s glory and make his the divine. was not a woman’s flesh GOD’S GIFT to man, if such a god existed?
as he awaits her response, so disappears his interest in the other women present. their legs were not her legs; their hair was not her hair. of all the pick he could have, was she not best? did she not outrank them both in looks and in station? he regrets even looking away from her for a second. that momentary glance could mean the difference between bed with a seraph and going home empty handed. he must be more careful, but the wine calls to him just the same as does her loveliness.
