i fell in love with a war
As Thorn eases himself onto his lap, Casimir moves a hand from his cheek down to his supple waist to support him, gingerly grasping the side of it. He moves as if a single incorrect movement will shatter the man in his hands like a porcelain doll dropped upon yielding stone even as Thorn pushes himself closer into him, intertwining ringed hands into curled hair. The air around them seems to flicker from the contact, like the illusory lightning storm had conjured within the bar to electrify their skin, but it's just Thorn. Thorn, with his roving hands and hungry touch and his gentle way, his mouth against Casimir's and his body on his lap and nothing else here matters but that.
He feels like he's gone a lifetime without sun and Thorn opens a long-barred and dusty window to the sensation he didn't even know he was missing. His tomb, long-buried and caked in dust and cobwebs, cracks open, and so does the confines of his heart. How could he have ever shut himself off from this? Casimir's hip move under Thorn's lap, adjusting him slightly, adjusting him closer. He allows Thorn to guide them, pushing when he pushes and pulling when he does, letting the courtesan to draw him deeper into bliss.
Hand swimming up Thorn's body, he traces up the sheer clothing until his hand rests cradling and fisted against his heart. It beats under his touch, steady and wild and so alive, and--
Casimir's chest is empty. He realizes it then, with the warmth of the other hand under his hands that he's cold as a corpse and though what's left of him yearns for this, yearns for Thorn to move his hand against his neck, there's nothing inside worth having.
He pulls away with a gasp, ripping his hands from Thorn's body and scrambling off the stool. The lithe man gets shoved off his lap and he feels another horrible, petrifying wave of guilt and carrion birds cawing as he stumbles backwards, breathing heavily.
"I--" The words come stopped and choked in his throat but Thorne deserves something other than the hollow silence he leaves behind him. "I'm sorry," He spits out before doing what he does best. For the second time that night, he runs from Thorne, turning heel and fleeing from the enchanted room.
He feels like he's gone a lifetime without sun and Thorn opens a long-barred and dusty window to the sensation he didn't even know he was missing. His tomb, long-buried and caked in dust and cobwebs, cracks open, and so does the confines of his heart. How could he have ever shut himself off from this? Casimir's hip move under Thorn's lap, adjusting him slightly, adjusting him closer. He allows Thorn to guide them, pushing when he pushes and pulling when he does, letting the courtesan to draw him deeper into bliss.
Hand swimming up Thorn's body, he traces up the sheer clothing until his hand rests cradling and fisted against his heart. It beats under his touch, steady and wild and so alive, and--
Casimir's chest is empty. He realizes it then, with the warmth of the other hand under his hands that he's cold as a corpse and though what's left of him yearns for this, yearns for Thorn to move his hand against his neck, there's nothing inside worth having.
He pulls away with a gasp, ripping his hands from Thorn's body and scrambling off the stool. The lithe man gets shoved off his lap and he feels another horrible, petrifying wave of guilt and carrion birds cawing as he stumbles backwards, breathing heavily.
"I--" The words come stopped and choked in his throat but Thorne deserves something other than the hollow silence he leaves behind him. "I'm sorry," He spits out before doing what he does best. For the second time that night, he runs from Thorne, turning heel and fleeing from the enchanted room.
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
