on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
His face is so passive, it’s impossible for the courtesan to see what hides behind the façade. And perhaps that’s why he keeps edging closer, trying to spark a reaction where he can, bold and bolstered by the sudden realization that the game he enjoys may not go on forever and instead, might actually have an end. It’s almost as terrifying of a thought as it is for Casimir to realize the way Thorn tries to find those little holes in his armor to pour his honeyed self into.
He doesn’t grip the clipboard tight when Casimir reaches for it, taking it from his hands. Thorn’s seafoam gaze drops to the clipboard held against the bartender’s broad chest, the no that leaves him flatly has Thorn’s gaze rising again, brows lifting as he snorts in response. It’s a one-word answer, sharp and biting and Thorn finds that he craves the sting.
In his state, however, Thorn doesn’t notice the way Casimir keeps the distance between them, how every inch Thorn tries to get closer, he steps away in his own dance. Instead, the abandoned only spots the way he turns away and takes the clipboard up to a high shelf where it would be next to impossible for the courtesan to reach, lest he were to climb all over the bar. And even he, for his usual lack of drinking too much, wouldn’t dare attempt it without making a fool of himself.
So, he folds his arms across his chest, the sheer fabric of his shirt bunching with the movement as he leans back against the edge of the bar, not forced out just yet despite the clear invitation to get the fuck out of Casimir’s space and on his rightful side of the bar. “Why not?” He asks instead, lifting his chin enough that it could be considered trying to stand his ground, if he wasn’t built willowy and athletic and nothing at all like the strong muscles that ripple along the bartender’s arms and shoulders.
At least the alcohol is starting to even out in him so there’s hope yet. “It’s jus’ a couple’ve people gettin’ together to eat. That’s all.” He knows his batting eyelashes won’t work on Casimir, no matter how much he’s tried in the past, so he tries for a stronger approach, one similar to Cas’ own hardened exterior.
He doesn’t grip the clipboard tight when Casimir reaches for it, taking it from his hands. Thorn’s seafoam gaze drops to the clipboard held against the bartender’s broad chest, the no that leaves him flatly has Thorn’s gaze rising again, brows lifting as he snorts in response. It’s a one-word answer, sharp and biting and Thorn finds that he craves the sting.
In his state, however, Thorn doesn’t notice the way Casimir keeps the distance between them, how every inch Thorn tries to get closer, he steps away in his own dance. Instead, the abandoned only spots the way he turns away and takes the clipboard up to a high shelf where it would be next to impossible for the courtesan to reach, lest he were to climb all over the bar. And even he, for his usual lack of drinking too much, wouldn’t dare attempt it without making a fool of himself.
So, he folds his arms across his chest, the sheer fabric of his shirt bunching with the movement as he leans back against the edge of the bar, not forced out just yet despite the clear invitation to get the fuck out of Casimir’s space and on his rightful side of the bar. “Why not?” He asks instead, lifting his chin enough that it could be considered trying to stand his ground, if he wasn’t built willowy and athletic and nothing at all like the strong muscles that ripple along the bartender’s arms and shoulders.
At least the alcohol is starting to even out in him so there’s hope yet. “It’s jus’ a couple’ve people gettin’ together to eat. That’s all.” He knows his batting eyelashes won’t work on Casimir, no matter how much he’s tried in the past, so he tries for a stronger approach, one similar to Cas’ own hardened exterior.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
