i fell in love with a war
The gentle touch of Thorn's hands burn against Casimir's forearm, bright and vivid and much too painful for the lack of pressure Thorn really puts on there. They burn where they press, and Casimir swears if he looks down he'll see sizzled skin and bright handprints ensconcing his arms. Still, though the touch sears and makes Casimir want to rip himself away, they're not the touch of a guilty man trying to free himself from retribution. The touch matches his words, true and underlaid with a thread of genuineness Casimir has never heard from the man.
The bartender had spent years seeing Thorn perform, watching from his perpetual station at the bar, an audience to Thorn's shows. The courtier dazzles and obscures, drawing in customers with honey-soaked sweet nothings that draw people in like flies, always conjuring the perfect words like magic spells. Always, no matter what, there's a layer of falseness to what he does, though so thin that only the discerning eye can see the acting behind the batted eyelashes. Casimir has a very discerning eye, and the practice in watching Thorn's fluttering eyes, his silver tongue, his moving, gentle fingers.
His eyes flicker up and down again, Thorn's touch sending heat shooting from his forearms like roots from a tree, the feeling burrowing deep into the burn of the back of his throat. Why isn't the man struggling to get out of Casimir's hold? A guilty man would be fighting, not holding on like one trying to tame a wild beast, and it's in that moment Casimir realizes Thorn hasn't been projecting any of his tells that indicate to an audience he's performing.
The pressure on his forearms is growing painful now, though Thorn's hands haven't tightened at all, and he grits his teeth against it, willing it away. He can feel their chests moving in careful synchronization, his own pressing firm and harsh again Thorn's smaller. It is in this moment that Casimir realizes he cannot remember the last time he was touched gently, other than fleeting moments where fingers meet while passing a drink. His body is wound tight, so tight, a set of rusted cogs ready to snap and--
Abruptly, he lets go of his temporary prisoner, wresting his arms away and backing up from the spot where he pinned him on the bar. He catches himself so it hopefully looks more graceful than fleeing, but his arms retreat like he had just touched them on a furnace. Shoulders set in defense like they're still waiting for an attack, Casimir keeps his eyes on Thorn.
"Fine," He manages through gritted teeth, but to precisely what part of Thorn's words, he leaves it unsaid.
The bartender had spent years seeing Thorn perform, watching from his perpetual station at the bar, an audience to Thorn's shows. The courtier dazzles and obscures, drawing in customers with honey-soaked sweet nothings that draw people in like flies, always conjuring the perfect words like magic spells. Always, no matter what, there's a layer of falseness to what he does, though so thin that only the discerning eye can see the acting behind the batted eyelashes. Casimir has a very discerning eye, and the practice in watching Thorn's fluttering eyes, his silver tongue, his moving, gentle fingers.
His eyes flicker up and down again, Thorn's touch sending heat shooting from his forearms like roots from a tree, the feeling burrowing deep into the burn of the back of his throat. Why isn't the man struggling to get out of Casimir's hold? A guilty man would be fighting, not holding on like one trying to tame a wild beast, and it's in that moment Casimir realizes Thorn hasn't been projecting any of his tells that indicate to an audience he's performing.
The pressure on his forearms is growing painful now, though Thorn's hands haven't tightened at all, and he grits his teeth against it, willing it away. He can feel their chests moving in careful synchronization, his own pressing firm and harsh again Thorn's smaller. It is in this moment that Casimir realizes he cannot remember the last time he was touched gently, other than fleeting moments where fingers meet while passing a drink. His body is wound tight, so tight, a set of rusted cogs ready to snap and--
Abruptly, he lets go of his temporary prisoner, wresting his arms away and backing up from the spot where he pinned him on the bar. He catches himself so it hopefully looks more graceful than fleeing, but his arms retreat like he had just touched them on a furnace. Shoulders set in defense like they're still waiting for an attack, Casimir keeps his eyes on Thorn.
"Fine," He manages through gritted teeth, but to precisely what part of Thorn's words, he leaves it unsaid.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
