on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
The more Casimir shifts toward looking aloof and indifferent, cold and unimpressed, Thorn treats it like a wound in his mouth. Poke and prod until the soreness continues just to remind you that it’s there. A habit that’s hard to break and never quite fixes itself up enough to heal when you kept fucking with it. His words hang in the air without much of a reaction, Thorn’s head tilting despite how the world seems to shift with it, and he stares back at the beast that is the bartender, standing before the bear and continues to poke.
He could choose to let Casimir keep his secrets, but given that he’d spent the last few years allowing the bartender the secrecy he seemed to so desperately need, the courtesan decides the moment that his gaze shifts closer toward a glare to say fuck it and cross a line he hasn’t before.
The bar held the clipboard that had the rotating schedules of them all, and somehow in the past Thorn had never thought to snoop on the rest of the workers. This time, however, he fully intends to find out. So, Thorn tangoes with the silent flame, uncaring if he gets burned. He’s got the scars to prove just how much he’d burned in the past, anyway, so what’s a couple more?
The courtesan lifts the glass of water to his lips, throat decked in the shiny choker bobbing as he swallows the sip, sets the glass down and stands. He sways for only a second before he’s prowling on the other side of the bar, toward the back open space with a surprising amount of grace for how much his head is already swimming, slips behind the bar and hunts for that drawer with the inventory lists and the rest of the paperwork for this section of the House of Midnight.
It does, however, bring him the closest to Casimir he thinks he has been before, and no longer sitting he’s stuck with the realization that this close the man is delightfully tall enough that he has to look up to meet those cold eyes. Not that he has, so far, not as he slides open the drawer and snags the clipboard, scanning the subsect of names. He finds the bartender section and when he finds the endpoint for Cas, he can’t help but to turn to the bartender with the clipboard clutched in his glittering fingers, shooting him a roguish grin. “You’ve got less than ‘n hour??”
It's about now that he does take into account the way he has to look up, his seafoam gaze sparkling with mischief and liquid courage. "Let's get somethin' to eat when yer done."
He could choose to let Casimir keep his secrets, but given that he’d spent the last few years allowing the bartender the secrecy he seemed to so desperately need, the courtesan decides the moment that his gaze shifts closer toward a glare to say fuck it and cross a line he hasn’t before.
The bar held the clipboard that had the rotating schedules of them all, and somehow in the past Thorn had never thought to snoop on the rest of the workers. This time, however, he fully intends to find out. So, Thorn tangoes with the silent flame, uncaring if he gets burned. He’s got the scars to prove just how much he’d burned in the past, anyway, so what’s a couple more?
The courtesan lifts the glass of water to his lips, throat decked in the shiny choker bobbing as he swallows the sip, sets the glass down and stands. He sways for only a second before he’s prowling on the other side of the bar, toward the back open space with a surprising amount of grace for how much his head is already swimming, slips behind the bar and hunts for that drawer with the inventory lists and the rest of the paperwork for this section of the House of Midnight.
It does, however, bring him the closest to Casimir he thinks he has been before, and no longer sitting he’s stuck with the realization that this close the man is delightfully tall enough that he has to look up to meet those cold eyes. Not that he has, so far, not as he slides open the drawer and snags the clipboard, scanning the subsect of names. He finds the bartender section and when he finds the endpoint for Cas, he can’t help but to turn to the bartender with the clipboard clutched in his glittering fingers, shooting him a roguish grin. “You’ve got less than ‘n hour??”
It's about now that he does take into account the way he has to look up, his seafoam gaze sparkling with mischief and liquid courage. "Let's get somethin' to eat when yer done."
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
