Send me "Ruffle" for my muse's reaction to your muse randomly coming up and running their fingers through mine's hair.
That was--that was unexpected. Eldon had been leafing through a book on ornithology, passing time whilst Hannibal was in the kitchen doing god-knows-what, when he suddenly felt fingers in his hair, pushing through his ever-so-carefully styled locks like it was nothing.
He shut his book around his thumb, face slightly redder than it had been before, and lifted his eyes to peer at Hannibal with a frown. "I'm reading," he muttered, with about as much conviction as a man with no real qualms and yet no desire to seem complacent.
"I mean, as much as I love having my hair ruined," the ecologist huffed, sliding his thumb out of the book and setting it aside, now, as he turned to face Hannibal properly, "it's just been cut, and thus it is especially disagreeable today. So if you could just refrain from that--" Or keep doing it. Yes, that's preferable. The latter is a great idea. "--I'd greatly appreciate it."
Despite what he said, the corner of his lip quirked in a half-smile and he leaned his elbow on the back of the couch, not bothering to try and remove himself from Hannibal's reach.
"But, I feel obligated to ask--is there any particular reason you've decided to quite literally 'ruffle my feathers'?"
