on the low, i get vertigo from body overdose
It feels right, like everything is starting to fall into place. He settles in Casimir’s lap, his hands diving into those smooth, soft curls. Mouth against mouth, Thorn flushes darkly, patches blooming against his pale, tattooed skin. He’s happy to sit here for however long the bartender wants, each and every second that passes feels like a warm rain shower, like he’s being cleansed.
He can tell it’s different for the other man, ravenous in a way that’s different from Thorn’s. Because it wasn’t like he lacked any ability to make out or fuck, but in the way that it means more. This wasn’t just a passing fling for the courtesan, an attempt to be whatever the other man needed in order to get some money. This had real, underlining feeling laced all throughout it.
So, perhaps, he shouldn’t be too surprised when it starts to go sideways. Until then, he thrives with each adjustment that Casimir makes, each adjustment of his hip and the feel of those calloused hands rising up his shirt and against his chest where his heartbeat runs away with itself. He barely has time to catch his own breath as Casimir starts to scramble, sucking in a sharp breath, dazed and in bliss before everything starts to shift.
He slips off the bartender’s lap, shoved, hitting the ground a little harder than he otherwise would if he had his magical wits about him. He hits his hip on the wood floor rather hard, but it’s nothing a little of his magic can’t fix. For now, though, he rises up enough on his side, propped up by his elbow as Casimir bolts, and all he can do with the wind knocked out of him is reach for the barstool with a dazed “wait!” though he anticipates the bartender missing it in the hurry of his departure.
Thorn doesn’t chase this time. He's too winded. Instead, he rolls over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling as the lightning strikes across the windows again and illuminates it in a ghoulish blue. His hands lift, rubbing at his face before one drops to his hip and it starts to glow, healing the bruise that would linger from the shove.
And for yet another time tonight, the courtesan wonders if he’d overstepped.
He can tell it’s different for the other man, ravenous in a way that’s different from Thorn’s. Because it wasn’t like he lacked any ability to make out or fuck, but in the way that it means more. This wasn’t just a passing fling for the courtesan, an attempt to be whatever the other man needed in order to get some money. This had real, underlining feeling laced all throughout it.
So, perhaps, he shouldn’t be too surprised when it starts to go sideways. Until then, he thrives with each adjustment that Casimir makes, each adjustment of his hip and the feel of those calloused hands rising up his shirt and against his chest where his heartbeat runs away with itself. He barely has time to catch his own breath as Casimir starts to scramble, sucking in a sharp breath, dazed and in bliss before everything starts to shift.
He slips off the bartender’s lap, shoved, hitting the ground a little harder than he otherwise would if he had his magical wits about him. He hits his hip on the wood floor rather hard, but it’s nothing a little of his magic can’t fix. For now, though, he rises up enough on his side, propped up by his elbow as Casimir bolts, and all he can do with the wind knocked out of him is reach for the barstool with a dazed “wait!” though he anticipates the bartender missing it in the hurry of his departure.
Thorn doesn’t chase this time. He's too winded. Instead, he rolls over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling as the lightning strikes across the windows again and illuminates it in a ghoulish blue. His hands lift, rubbing at his face before one drops to his hip and it starts to glow, healing the bruise that would linger from the shove.
And for yet another time tonight, the courtesan wonders if he’d overstepped.
Hawthorn
so tell me your name and tell me your problems, i got the same
