on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
The courtesan might be able to hear it, if it weren’t for the thunder in his own ears. It drowns out nearly everything except the bartender’s breaths, but the next flash of lightning that crosses along them doesn’t even garner a reaction when Thorn continues to hold Casimir close. His head tilts slightly into the hand clasping against his cheeks, seafoam meeting slate blues that seem more like the storm of an ocean with its choppy waves, daring anyone to get near, knowing it only served a terrible kind of fate.
But Thorn’s lost in them regardless, soaking in that gaze, the softness of Casimir’s curls between his fingers, the way he’s perched up here on the edge of the bar and he thinks that, perhaps, the space between where Cas sits on the stool and where Thorn has propped himself up was more like miles than the mere inches their faces make it seem.
It’s this space that feels like it goes on for eternity, studying one another, the way their breaths intermingle and Thorn swallows in anticipation when Casimir’s hand drops to his neck, the silver chain choker moving slightly beneath his palm. But like a hummingbird drawn to nectar, Thorn dives in when Casimir breaks the space between them, this better angle practically supercharging the courtesan into shedding the caution and uncertainty of before.
A low hum of a moan slips past his lips, pouring into Casimir’s mouth as he shifts, slinking closer somehow like he can break the distance between them. He uses all of his agility and ability to slip off the lip of the bar into the bartender’s lap, arms threading further to wrap around his neck and tangle his fingers into those soft, bouncing curls, and he selfishly indulges.
But Thorn’s lost in them regardless, soaking in that gaze, the softness of Casimir’s curls between his fingers, the way he’s perched up here on the edge of the bar and he thinks that, perhaps, the space between where Cas sits on the stool and where Thorn has propped himself up was more like miles than the mere inches their faces make it seem.
It’s this space that feels like it goes on for eternity, studying one another, the way their breaths intermingle and Thorn swallows in anticipation when Casimir’s hand drops to his neck, the silver chain choker moving slightly beneath his palm. But like a hummingbird drawn to nectar, Thorn dives in when Casimir breaks the space between them, this better angle practically supercharging the courtesan into shedding the caution and uncertainty of before.
A low hum of a moan slips past his lips, pouring into Casimir’s mouth as he shifts, slinking closer somehow like he can break the distance between them. He uses all of his agility and ability to slip off the lip of the bar into the bartender’s lap, arms threading further to wrap around his neck and tangle his fingers into those soft, bouncing curls, and he selfishly indulges.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
