"...your tie is crooked," she murmurs softly, "can't have you presenting that new product of yours with a messy outfit, now can we?" his tie, in fact, was not crooked whatsoever, and she knows that he knows that. the eldritch horror was nothing but immaculate when it came to his appearance, after all. no, cäcilia was simply using his outfit as an excuse to invade his personal space, one hand settling on his waist while the other haphazardly fumbled with his tie. (1/2)
cäcilia hates how impossibly tall he is. even while wearing stilettos and being on her tiptoes, she barely reaches his shoulders. “come here,” she croons, yanking black hat down with a fistful of his shirt in her hand. and before he even has the opportunity to fire back a retort, she’s pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “make sure to save me some leftovers if they don’t end up buying anything. the last group of villains you killed was absolutely delicious, sweetheart.” (2/2)
Scuffled offense is quick to sprout at the implication that his appearance was anything other than pristine in its structure (he had double checked before embarking in that little business jaunt of his, he’d be aware of any imperfections) . Gray lips instinctively part to voice his pique at the remark, to endow her with an abrasive comment of his own to scotch any future repetitions of this bout of presumptuous impulse.
Any ill coated words die on his mouth however. The sensation of lithe hands upon his waist stilling him into a state of surprise, though his form remains relaxed in its posture, not deeming her enough of a threat to switch into a defensive stupor that would have swiftly degraded their tranquil encounter into one of flurried peril.
Slitted hues regard her with lukewarm impassivity, adorned with the edges of grated nerves, which are only exacerbated in their intensity when his tie is toyed with so audaciously, but are promptly vanquished into Neverland when there’s a graze of lips upon his skin. The pull forward but a fleeting happening to his conscious.
It’s foreign. An odd sentiment of indescribable surrealism. A sting that lingers despite its softness, despite her removing herself from him but a blink of a second after it was initiated. From an erudite’s perspective, he’s capable of understanding the meaning behind the action, why they do it, but was never one interested in the affair himself, never felt the compulsion. He understood it in theory, as they would say, but in practice?
“Of course it was,” he preens, ever the braggart, no expressions of gratitude or acknowledgment of the touchgiven as deft digits fix his tie.
Though his gaze remained on her.
baratheonpilled
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