Those dark fathoms creep even deeper as his glamour thins by a few shades. The ends of pointed teeth creep a little further from beneath their mask of perfect, civilized rows. The ends of his fingers grow sharper and more pronounced beneath his gloves, subtle claws still clutching the scientist's shirt collar tightly and oh so close to the pale flesh of his throat. He leans closer, smirking that smug smirk. One would think a habitual smoker like Maxwell would suffer from halitosis, but no; he smells like smoke and mirrors, with an infuriatingly alluring hint of some sort of cologne that probably doesn't actually exist. He's a complexing combination of reality and illusion, blended so well and so long that it's hard to say where one ends and the other begins. And his attention is firmly and entirely on Wilson.

"You could do something better with that mouth than babbling, you know," Maxwell croons, his voice somewhere between teasing and complaining and... and...

... and his lips, full and pouty, are so close.