// you can't keep a secret if it never was a secret to start —
Because he’s working and the fact it’s Longheat and at least 8000 degrees outside, Thorn is dressed more scantily than he typically was. Decked out in all of his jewelry – glinting chains of metal strung around his neck and glints from his ears, his fingers just as shiny where they pluck a mocktail from the counter as he’s aptly giving the bartender shit (as he always does, it’s his tradition, after all). The shirt he wears is hardly that, a thin and sheer netting that has holes all throughout it, leaving all of his tattoos on display.
From where he stands when Colt walks in, it’s to his back where she can see the full spread of his tattoos – the ones that wrap around his wrists in thorny vines that trail up his arms and the back of them, trailing down his sides to spread out across his hips – a floral spark of a tramp stamp dazzling his lower back.
When he hears his name called, he turns immediately mid conversation and a sly smirk on his face to see Colt’s arrival, immediately brightening with seeing her. “Colt!” He chimes, looking back at the bartender and sticking his tongue out at him, he leans against the countertop of the bar on one elbow as she approaches, his gaze focused on the wicker basket. “Are we goin’ on a picnic?” He asks her, his jeweled fingers reaching out to poke at the basket with clear almost childhood impatience. His seafoam gaze flits up to her, his lashes darkened by a bit of kohl and glittering with excitement, confusion, and curiosity.
From where he stands when Colt walks in, it’s to his back where she can see the full spread of his tattoos – the ones that wrap around his wrists in thorny vines that trail up his arms and the back of them, trailing down his sides to spread out across his hips – a floral spark of a tramp stamp dazzling his lower back.
When he hears his name called, he turns immediately mid conversation and a sly smirk on his face to see Colt’s arrival, immediately brightening with seeing her. “Colt!” He chimes, looking back at the bartender and sticking his tongue out at him, he leans against the countertop of the bar on one elbow as she approaches, his gaze focused on the wicker basket. “Are we goin’ on a picnic?” He asks her, his jeweled fingers reaching out to poke at the basket with clear almost childhood impatience. His seafoam gaze flits up to her, his lashes darkened by a bit of kohl and glittering with excitement, confusion, and curiosity.
thorn
— at least pretend you didn't wanna get caught,
we're concentrating on falling apart //
we're concentrating on falling apart //
