on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
As he’s studied, Thorn glares at the squirrels that continue to try and corral any visitors to their whims, before he’s starting to deflate again. Another sip of his whiskey goes down and he sets the glass down on the counter, spinning the glass idly as he huffs a little sigh. “’Least there’s nobody around for ‘em to fuck with.” He drawls, head propped back on that raised fist, pulling his seafoam gaze away from the window to the bartender again.
He’s back to work being silent and quietly charming as usual, and it’s true that Thorn isn’t that used to not getting his way these days. He was often celebrated, often busy and sought after with regulars. Here, though, Thorn feels as average as the next guy under Casimir’s gaze, and perhaps like a moth to flame this is why the abandoned can’t help but to find himself slinking to the bar every night.
He glances up in time to see the look that suggests he continue, and while he’s usually used to just snarking and yapping at the other man, the liquor makes him feel bold. His long ringed fingers stretch out with a flare toward the lemons he’s cutting, a bit of magic he doesn’t often show off with his telekinesis to snag an already cut lemon slice and guide it to his drink so he might add a smidge of lemon to sour it like his rapidly decreasing mood.
“I’m uh.. I’ve been debatin’ and thinkin’ I might… move sometime soon.” He says it a little quieter, squeezing the lemon slice into the whiskey and downs it so the sourness of his face can be attributed to the citrus rather than the news he hasn’t told anyone yet aside from Colt.
He’s back to work being silent and quietly charming as usual, and it’s true that Thorn isn’t that used to not getting his way these days. He was often celebrated, often busy and sought after with regulars. Here, though, Thorn feels as average as the next guy under Casimir’s gaze, and perhaps like a moth to flame this is why the abandoned can’t help but to find himself slinking to the bar every night.
He glances up in time to see the look that suggests he continue, and while he’s usually used to just snarking and yapping at the other man, the liquor makes him feel bold. His long ringed fingers stretch out with a flare toward the lemons he’s cutting, a bit of magic he doesn’t often show off with his telekinesis to snag an already cut lemon slice and guide it to his drink so he might add a smidge of lemon to sour it like his rapidly decreasing mood.
“I’m uh.. I’ve been debatin’ and thinkin’ I might… move sometime soon.” He says it a little quieter, squeezing the lemon slice into the whiskey and downs it so the sourness of his face can be attributed to the citrus rather than the news he hasn’t told anyone yet aside from Colt.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
