i'm a thinker, not a talker
When Thorn sits up to remove his boots, shoulder brushing up against Casimir’s, Casimir doesn’t think he could panic any more than he is right now. Then Thorn’s shirt gets pulled over his head, exposing a surprisingly muscular chest decorated completely in tattoos, and he thinks his brain breaks clean in two.
If Thorn were to look up from his cozied perch pressed up against Casimir’s side, he would see the bartender’s face redder than perhaps it has ever been before. He is, to put it scientifically, freaking out. His eyes unintentionally flicker downward to study the intricate patterns of tattoos adorning his chest, seeing the way they tangle together and then disappear down his waistband. And then he’s very carefully not looking, tearing his eyes away and examining the extremely interesting patterns on wood on the doorframe. That’s much better. Much more interesting than the curve of Thorn’s chest, bare and unexplored like untold wonders, a treasure map aching to be read.
It took him everything not to shift away and let the man’s exhausted body slump to the bed as he fled the House of Midnight and changed his name. The courtesan doesn’t smell of his usual mix of floral perfumes and scents, instead giving off the smell of something rich and earthy and vaguely horse-like. He should probably try and convince Thorn to take a shower, knew the man would thank him for it in the moment, but he thinks if he caught a glimpse of Thorn’s body shining and damp from the shower he couldn’t handle it.
Thorn’s exhausted, obviously so, and seems to want his body against Casimir’s for whatever reason. It would only make things worse if he tired to talk right now or apologize for That Night or try to make things right. Wouldn’t it be better just to be the thing Thorn needs him to be in this moment? Carefully, he lifts a hand, the one closest to Thorn, and rests it gingerly on the man’s knee.
If Thorn were to look up from his cozied perch pressed up against Casimir’s side, he would see the bartender’s face redder than perhaps it has ever been before. He is, to put it scientifically, freaking out. His eyes unintentionally flicker downward to study the intricate patterns of tattoos adorning his chest, seeing the way they tangle together and then disappear down his waistband. And then he’s very carefully not looking, tearing his eyes away and examining the extremely interesting patterns on wood on the doorframe. That’s much better. Much more interesting than the curve of Thorn’s chest, bare and unexplored like untold wonders, a treasure map aching to be read.
It took him everything not to shift away and let the man’s exhausted body slump to the bed as he fled the House of Midnight and changed his name. The courtesan doesn’t smell of his usual mix of floral perfumes and scents, instead giving off the smell of something rich and earthy and vaguely horse-like. He should probably try and convince Thorn to take a shower, knew the man would thank him for it in the moment, but he thinks if he caught a glimpse of Thorn’s body shining and damp from the shower he couldn’t handle it.
Thorn’s exhausted, obviously so, and seems to want his body against Casimir’s for whatever reason. It would only make things worse if he tired to talk right now or apologize for That Night or try to make things right. Wouldn’t it be better just to be the thing Thorn needs him to be in this moment? Carefully, he lifts a hand, the one closest to Thorn, and rests it gingerly on the man’s knee.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
