// i saw the walls, finished and plain //
Their eyes meet – and once again Thorn is reminded of seeing into the ocean. The way Casimir’s slate blues seem like they hold stories upon stories, each shift a different wave crashing against each other. And Thorn’s, meeting his the way he does, finds he can be the seafoam left behind in the rough choppy waves of Casimir’s. It’s a byproduct, one that Thorn doesn’t think too long about, not as he successfully keeps the bartender’s attention on him with a surprising amount of ease compared to Cas’ brawn.
The bartender could be stubborn, put his strength in response of where his words would be and Thorn wouldn’t have any success in getting him to do anything. But the fact that all it takes is a few fingers to nudge that handsome face up toward him, for Thorn to smile and ask his separate question, the gravel of the attuned’s voice is like music in how the courtesan revels in it.
“Stay.” He repeats, with no question this time. A demand rather than a request. The fingers still caressing the hard line of his jaw sweep back to the back of his neck, threading through the curls at the nape of his neck. He descends just enough to close the gap, to press a somewhat chaste kiss to the bartender’s lips, feeling the electricity spark within him and the way his stomach wills itself to do summersaults. He plays it cool, though, withdrawing enough to ensure that Casimir doesn’t have to feel trapped unless he wants to.
His other hand comes out, reaching for Casimir’s strong forearm, snagging with his long fingers and tugs him a little closer – no longer questioning. Just demanding. It seems like Casimir likes it better that way, at least.
The bartender could be stubborn, put his strength in response of where his words would be and Thorn wouldn’t have any success in getting him to do anything. But the fact that all it takes is a few fingers to nudge that handsome face up toward him, for Thorn to smile and ask his separate question, the gravel of the attuned’s voice is like music in how the courtesan revels in it.
“Stay.” He repeats, with no question this time. A demand rather than a request. The fingers still caressing the hard line of his jaw sweep back to the back of his neck, threading through the curls at the nape of his neck. He descends just enough to close the gap, to press a somewhat chaste kiss to the bartender’s lips, feeling the electricity spark within him and the way his stomach wills itself to do summersaults. He plays it cool, though, withdrawing enough to ensure that Casimir doesn’t have to feel trapped unless he wants to.
His other hand comes out, reaching for Casimir’s strong forearm, snagging with his long fingers and tugs him a little closer – no longer questioning. Just demanding. It seems like Casimir likes it better that way, at least.
Hawthorn
// lavender blooms on the ink of my name //
