on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
Stone faced and always easy on the eyes despite the quiet aloofness and occasional venom that sat beneath, Thorn was still quietly captivated in the way the attuned cuts through the lemons – practiced and smooth. He tries to pay it little mind, but he can’t help the way his mind wanders briefly with this silent yearning in his chest.
Of course, anything he says with all of his languid dramatics and the paths his mind takes him down are promptly blown up to hear his voice, regardless of the content within them. And he perks up, the grin spreading on his face and a dazzle returning to him as if Casimir is the rain that the droughted flower of himself had been hoping for.
“Ohho, big guy’s snark’s back. Thought y’lost your voice.” He points a glinting finger of the hand holding the whiskey glass at Casimir, before he takes another sip and relishes the burn and the twist in his stomach that starts to guide him toward buzzed more than it does sober. And he finds himself locked in the mirrored gaze, the impassiveness he can read from the bartender’s face and wondering what hid behind that handsome, stony face. “Think my impression was pretty on par. You wanna say somethin’ else an’ I can really give it a better go?” He goes so far as to bat his lashes at the bartender, huffing a laugh shortly after as his posture starts to fix itself, the silver sheen of his sheer shirt rustling with the movement.
It takes everything in him to not hang onto the words he says, but he can’t help the way he runs the phrase over and over in his mind, the way his voice would sound lovely ricocheting around the bar with the acoustics in here that made everything feel that much holier. He thinks he can get a reaction again, and so he tries, leaning forward across the bar with his head tilting so that he might hear him better should he speak again – and prepares to potentially be disappointed with nothing in response. Of course, before that can fully happen, the shrill shriek of speaking squirrels can be heard from the window behind the bar, the flash of chestnut fur as they bounce around, trying to convince anyone to go outside and follow them to gods know where.
“Uuuughhhhghh. Not those fuckin' squirrels again.” A usual pest at the windows of the House of Midnight, their appearance is almost enough to deflate all the excitement Thorn had earlier.
Of course, anything he says with all of his languid dramatics and the paths his mind takes him down are promptly blown up to hear his voice, regardless of the content within them. And he perks up, the grin spreading on his face and a dazzle returning to him as if Casimir is the rain that the droughted flower of himself had been hoping for.
“Ohho, big guy’s snark’s back. Thought y’lost your voice.” He points a glinting finger of the hand holding the whiskey glass at Casimir, before he takes another sip and relishes the burn and the twist in his stomach that starts to guide him toward buzzed more than it does sober. And he finds himself locked in the mirrored gaze, the impassiveness he can read from the bartender’s face and wondering what hid behind that handsome, stony face. “Think my impression was pretty on par. You wanna say somethin’ else an’ I can really give it a better go?” He goes so far as to bat his lashes at the bartender, huffing a laugh shortly after as his posture starts to fix itself, the silver sheen of his sheer shirt rustling with the movement.
It takes everything in him to not hang onto the words he says, but he can’t help the way he runs the phrase over and over in his mind, the way his voice would sound lovely ricocheting around the bar with the acoustics in here that made everything feel that much holier. He thinks he can get a reaction again, and so he tries, leaning forward across the bar with his head tilting so that he might hear him better should he speak again – and prepares to potentially be disappointed with nothing in response. Of course, before that can fully happen, the shrill shriek of speaking squirrels can be heard from the window behind the bar, the flash of chestnut fur as they bounce around, trying to convince anyone to go outside and follow them to gods know where.
“Uuuughhhhghh. Not those fuckin' squirrels again.” A usual pest at the windows of the House of Midnight, their appearance is almost enough to deflate all the excitement Thorn had earlier.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
