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Character of the Season
Once known as the Butcher of Whitebrim, he's now The Butcher of Dygra, stepping forward as the first created demigod of the Ancients. There is no question that Astaroth casts an intimidating silhouette. Tall, domineering and dangerous, if looks could kill you'd be dead already, but to get up close and personal with the Grounds' resident cannibal tells a much different story. Dripping with charm and clad in only the finest attire, Asta is a gentleman monster, as polite as they come and committed to his role as security for the Dusklight and those who have earned his loyalty. Be careful of that smile, though - those teeth are sharp.
Congratulations, Asta!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
OG Skinning provided by Kaons, with functionality and many custom plugins made by Neowulf!
The hunger in which Casimir responds to that claiming kiss surprises him, the hesitance he had on That Night melting away into certainty. Sparks travel down his hands, the heat of them racing through his cold fingers. Thorn is solid and steady where his hands touch Casimir’s body, solid, unchanging, and here. He can feel his chest rise and fall, and this is the proof of life he’s been looking for, he knows.
His arm, freed from Thorn’s grasp but missing the warmth around it, finds its way to rest his hand upon Thorn’s waist, just above where the towel precariously sits. How strange, Casimir thinks, that after years of being cold, the moment his body re-learns what warmth is it yearns for it again. How easy it is to forget the feeling of life upon your skin, but how much the body realizes it craves it upon the slightest reintroduction. His touch is firmer now, almost grasping, as his fingers trace its own trailing patterns where his hands linger.
He cannot tell Thorn he missed him too, ached for his haunting at the bar and the sound of his teasing voice, so instead he just holds himself there, breathing in Thorn, the smell of his clean sandalwood soap lingering in the back of his throat. At the mention of That Night — the redo, the failure, the future — he freezes, going solid under Thorn’s flowing touch.
”Are you sure?” He whispers, despite the certainly in Thorn’s voice. There are so many ways he could hurt Thorn here, and the scent of the blood he drew last time still lingers in the air. But, Casimir has grown selfish enough, wanting enough, yearning enough that he does not think he has the willpower to run this time, even in Thorn’s certainty and willingness to get hurt. He’s crumbling, melting at Thorn’s touch and determined voice, his defenses crashing down brick by brick. The right thing to do would be to leave. The good thing. Before he hurt Thorn again.
The reciprocation is precisely the boon Thorn hopes it is. The way he can stick his hands into Casimir and crack him open with the confidence he can hold whatever keeps him together. He doesn’t know the depth of it, obviously, Casimir rarely talked let alone his past. But Thorn has always considered himself a mender, a shelf that he can hold and harbor whatever heaviness weighs on those strong, beautiful shoulders.
There’s no answer of how much Thorn had missed him, nor any indication verbally that the bartender had missed him too. But Thorn can tell physically that the other man had, the way he’d offered to help him to his room, the way he’d told him to go and shower, the way he remained even when he had ample opportunity to leave. And here Thorn is, before Casimir, still dripping with water and hardly any of his usual flair and pomp, and still the bartender stays.
He feels Cas freeze before his handsome, lovely voice reaches his pierced ears. “Yeah.” Thorn says in the short distance between them, all confidence and assurance. “Yeah, m’sure.” Even if today was just sitting there, held and holding by hands that weren’t really in it for anything else or paying for the opportunity to. It’s something he hadn’t known he’d missed until Cas did it That Night. And like a wound in the mouth, Thorn can’t stop fucking with it to remind himself it’s there.
The hand that wraps around his middle above the rim of the towel is a delicious sear, the kind that has him all but melting as he readjusts his arms, looping them around Casimir’s neck to keep him close, pulling back in the comfort of his multitude of messy blankets. “I think I’ve been sure for a while now.” The admission comes from a place where Thorn realizes he might still be a bit drunk, flushing immediately after it slips past his lips but trying desperately to bypass it with the seal of another greedy kiss.
Casimir moves with Thorn's arms wrapped around his neck, falling with him into the mass of blankets and soft things he never thought he would accept for himself again. It feels like he's falling free through miles of air, his stomach floating lightly in that horrifying, death-dropping lurch, but it doesn't feel dangerous or like he's about to smash into the unforgiving ground. Instead, he's lighter than he ever felt and Thorn's gravity pulls him unyieldingly into his orbit. He collides into the kiss, the flood of Thorn's surety sending him into a dizzying rush of joy.
He matches Thorn's hungry movements of those of his own, some internal dam broken with Thorn's admission that he was more than sure. His hands, those things that have caused so much bruising and bloodshed by his hands, now caress Thorn's body like it's the only living thing in a forest of famine and drought. Thorn leads, unequivocally, and Casimir follows.
He pulls back from the revelry for a moment to take in the man in front of him: Thorn's freshly-combed hair now disheveled and falling into those eyes that look at him -- him -- with such admiration. This man could unravel and unmake Casimir if he wanted, shape him to his will and whim however he wished, and Casimir would let him do it. Perhaps then he could be someone worthy of Thorn's adoration.
Moving his hand from the snaking vines, he pulls the back of Thorn's neck with cupped hand, pulling him back in, feeling the way his calluses catch against the soft skin and lightening his touch to compensate. His mouth still moves like Thorn's is a holy thing, fragile and light, but hungry nonetheless. Eyes fluttering shut, he allows himself to fall into the moment. Under them, the sheets are soft, the air around them light and warm; and though the room is not magic, if it had the ability to change, Casimir would have kept it just like this.
He doesn’t fully realize it, but Thorn is infinitely happy to be the one to crumble the walls Casimir has built around himself. He dives into the fortress that is the strong, muscled bartender with the hopes of reaching the center, and the longer it goes on the more Thorn thinks he might be succeeding. Though, a part of him isn’t sure if it’s because of himself (that Cas actually felt something for him) or whether it was simply his persistence.
He tells himself that he’d be fine if this is all it was and Cas never wanted anything to do with him after, but it’s just to alleviate any kind of pain he might feel from the reality of it. It becomes his shield in a way. He wants it to be more, but he’s not sure how to articulate it in a way that won’t make the attuned run for the hills. So he doesn’t, he just sinks back into the bed with his arms locked behind Cas’ neck, pressing his lips to his in a searing kiss he hopes feels like holy light — because it does for the courtesan.
It feels like hope and want and pure, all things that Thorn isn’t all that familiar with. Want is probably the closest, and even then Thorn only gets that answered every so often with a story he can hang onto. But Casimir is an unread book, a dusty one in the edge of the library nobody knows where it came from, where the spine has been exposed to so much that the title is nearly impossible to see, with pages that look strong but feel fragile, so nobody opens it up in fear of breaking it.
Thorn tries, though. Tries to read him and indulges himself, but it means very little in the grand scheme until Cas’ warm, calloused fingers cup the back of his neck, guide him back in like he too can’t get enough. His arms tighten, body arching up to meet Casimir’s the same time their lips connect, a spark that filters through that has a soft sound escaping him that’s both pleased and happy. The towel is forgotten in the movement, sandwiched between them just enough to continue to hide his assets, but not the swoop of his hip where the vine that had dipped below sweeps along the sharp edge of bone and curves backward. Instead, Thorn’s hands lift to rake through those soft, strong curls, keeping him close with his eyes closed, devouring every ounce of the kiss he can with absolute need.
When the towel slides down, exposing more of Thorn's hip, Casimir feels it slide against his thighs and hesitates. His hands still caressing the back of Thorn's neck, he pulls back just slightly, breathing hard, chest rising and falling from life rather than existence for the first time in years.
"Wait," he breathes, and he's not running away this time, genuinely, but--
This is real. Whatever this strange dance the two have, whatever pull Casimir feels towards the man with the kind eye who haunts his bar and seems to want to lever back his rusted armor to see if anything soft still lives under there, whatever they've built up in their last few years of rotating each other's orbit is real. What it is, Casimir cannot name, just knows it makes him yearn for Thorn's gentle presence by his side and his soft hands on his chin.
He doesn't want to rush into this, whatever this may end up being. He does not want to be another person who Thorn thinks sees his body first and foremost. He does not want Thorn to think Casimir is only relenting now because of the brittle tragedy that lines his bones and the yearning he held within him for the past few days. And, all that aside, Thorn is exhausted. Though showered and lightly-napped, Casimir knows the man is more ragged than he's ever seen him, thoroughly worn from clearly an arduous journey. Thorn is softer here, less disguised, without the glitter and the mesmer and Casimir can finally see him how he is when the spell he casts on others has worn off, and it's beautiful. It is not for a lack of desire that makes him draw back, but an abundance of care for what the other man needs.
"It's-- you need rest," He manages out, and he prays to Mort and Frey and Dygra it doesn't sound like a rejection. "Not this." His hand moves to cup Thorn's cheek, firm and anchored. Throat bobbing, he fights with the words to eke out what he means. "But... I'll stay here while you rest. If you want." They come out quiet, as always, but almost shy, with that edge of defensiveness that always lines his words.
He’s panting too, breaths escaping him as the taste of the bartender on his lips serves well to almost daze him. The wait has him hesitating, though, face flushed darkly and seafoam eyes warm yet confused as they scan Casimir’s beautiful face. His head tilts slightly into the warm touch of his hand at the back of his neck, studying his face and getting distracted by the beauty marks that dot his face.
The explanation comes with the urge of a protest rising on his lips, locked and loaded there and prepared to explain to Casimir why he’d be fine — but it fizzles out like the end of a mouthful of pop rocks to feel the warm, calloused hand cup his cheek, and any argument fails him as he tilts into it like a cat getting attention. There’s almost something stubborn that begins to bloom in his seafoam gaze, something that feels like Casimir is challenging him, but he tries to take it at face value.
And besides, he hasn’t ever heard a string of words like this from the other man before. That had to count for something.
So the courtesan nods, slow and gentle and puffs out a little sigh that’s bypassed by the lift of the corner of his mouth in a small smile. “Yeah. I do want that.” He confirms, arms tightening for a second around Casimir’s neck to keep him close as if proving the words, before he’s lifting one arm free and rolls onto his back for a moment to groan and rub at his face. It doesn’t last long, though, a little gathering of himself to rouse him enough to shift, to prop himself up on an elbow and start to snag the pillows down for the both of them — because you bet he’s intending on using Casimir as a heated pillow for his sleep — and drags a fleece blanket overtop of them before he curls in against the hard lines of the bartender’s chest and takes a long, slow, steadying breath of his scent of bourbon and woodsy essence that seems to relax him like nothing else so far.
Except, perhaps, the extra strong drink he’d had earlier. Enjoy chewing on that one, Cas.
The journey that flashes across Thorn’s face is plain and open to Casimir, who’s as skilled at reading Thorn as the other man is him. Once, Casimir likened the courtesan to an open book, something well-loved and well-read, his stories not obfuscated by layers of dust or mystery. Thorn’s heart is worn on his sleeve, which has always terrified Casimir with his rough hands and actions that always seem to hurt more than help. He sees the argument that builds up in Thorn, face warping in that indignant flush that seems caused by Casimir’s callousness, and prepares himself to flee from Thorn’s scorn. But then it dies down, almost as quickly as it reared, and a soft glowing smile like candles in a window emerges in its place.
He doesn’t realize he was anticipating until the prospect of it disappears and Thorn settles himself into the blanket. Casimir holds himself still, so still like he’ll crush Thorn with his movements, while the catlike courtesan finds his preferred spot with Casimir as his pillow, and with Thorn’s head on his stone chest he thinks certainly the other man will hear how hollow he is inside.
Casimir dares not move from the position Thorn settled him into. Still slightly sticky from his bar shift, likely smelling of sweat and whiskey, the fleece feels odd and awkward on him. Will sleeping on his chest bring Thorn nightmares? He feels odd and stiff.
Cautiously, he moves his hand from where it lays curled around Thorn’s shoulder and drifts it up to pass light fingers through Thorn’s hair. It’s still damp from the shower and he takes careful pains not to muss it up after farther than it already is. If he’s some rotten, desecrated thing, more hurt than human, he wants whatever good Thorn may see in the pieces to belong to the man on his chest. If that means resting his head on his broken, fighter’s body, then Casimir will lay for as long as the man needs.
The courtesan has always been fluid and easily moveable, taking a surprising amount of strength before he even began to cave to the pressure. So, he’s silently confident that however hard Casimir pushed or pressed, he’d be more than happy to withstand it. For now, though, deep down Thorn knows the bartender is right. That he does need sleep. That just because finally for the first time he has Casimir within his grip and can’t seem to find it in him to let him go, doesn’t mean that if he were to sleep now that the bartender would vanish like a dream the second he woke up.
At least, he’s holding Casimir accountable to it. And after the gravelly, deep voice that scratches all the itches in his spine in all the right ways, promises he’ll stay, Thorn won’t take anything less. So he shifts them, adjusting to settle into the bed and allow himself to finally start to relax – warm and comfortable and safe in the strong arms of the attuned. He closes his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep despite the heat that still floods his face and chest, even though it come sup empty for the time being – too riled up.
So, he listens to the quiet heartbeat he can hear through the fabric of Casimir’s shirt like a siren song – like there is something there despite the blood and rot that the bartender is certain sits beneath the surface. Thorn can hear everything good within him, the lightness, the dull thrum of each beat of his heart. But it isn’t enough to pull him under until he feels the hand by his shoulder shift to run through his dark, still damp hair, dragging through strands that would probably be crazy when it dried despite it not being Casimir’s fault in the slightest.
That is the last piece of the puzzle. His arm drapes around the bartender’s middle, keeping himself close as well as the blanket that sags along his shoulders and Cas’ chest. He falls asleep hard and fast, so much more than he’d been anticipating when he’d tried to settle down. It’s a blissful dreamless sleep, one that has him hardly moving apart from the occasional attempt to cuddle closer to the bartender. Should Casimir move, Thorn would definitely start to rouse, fingertips twitching at his side even if he wasn’t fully there to wake up yet.
It’s hours by the time Thorn starts to wake – slow and stubborn, head tilting and burying itself further into Casimir’s chest, not quite there at all yet but it feels like it begins with a little more purpose than it had been before.
Casimir, unlike Thorn, who seems to drop into unconsciousness pretty damn quickly if the deep and even rise and fall of his chest is any indication. There seems to have been some sort of switch triggered in Thorn, as soon as he settled himself comfortably enough against the muscled chest of the bartender, and he’s out more or less like an extinguished candle once Casimir starts thoughtfully combing through his hair.
Casimir barely sleeps that night, focused too deeply on keeping himself still under Thorn’s sleeping bed and trying to urge his heart to stop hammering so incessantly. Perhaps it’s the ease in which Thorn drops off that keeps him so alert and awake, barely skimming below that first level of consciousness to anything more than a drowse. It’s like he’s trying to nod off with a tiger leaning on his chest, or a rare butterfly is perched on his outstretched finger and he’s desperately trying not to crush it. Instead, he focuses on the slow in-and-out of Thorn’s breath, almost meditative in his contemplation of it, and tries not to let the panic push through his body so loudly it may wake Thorn up.
What is he even scared of, he wonders, as he waits for morning to crawl closer. Of waking Thorn, yes, but perhaps also of opening himself any more fully than he already has. It feels silly — Thorn has already embraced more of him than anyone else in years, Casimir having shown him more than he showed everyone else — but this, this simple act of resting in harmony, sends Casimir reeling in a type of panic similar to what sent him retreating on That Night.
He stays, though, this time. He makes himself stay. Thorn told him to stay and he will not fail him, will not hurt him again, even though he inevitably will. He will not hasten along that inevitability if he can help it. Eventually, the morning dragging itself into the room at a slow crawl, Thorn stirs slightly where he’s curled on his chest. Casimir feels his face bury itself in him like he was the pillow on a warm morning, and it burns something so bright and intense within him he stops breathing for a moment.
Someone normal, someone romantic, would bid Thorn good morning, maybe kiss him awake. Casimir is neither of those things, is barely even functioning and breathing. Rather than something of that sort, he moves his hand back to Thorn’s shoulder, rubbing it slightly, trying to wake up him to the reality of the day with the (alleged) comfort of his touch.
Completely unaware of the terror he seems to constantly put the bartender through – that he’s the slow burning fire to Casimir’s icy exterior, slowly thawing him out yet not quite enough to ensure there’s no way for the attuned to simply ignite. Instead, all Thorn is aware of is how nice this is. How comfortable the bartender is. How his heartbeat thunders beneath his ribcage in a rabbiting pace that hasn’t seemed to improve despite the hours of sleep.
Thorn is slowly drawing himself closer to consciousness the longer he starts to adjust, and without a lot of movement from Casimir, it’s a slow going process. He rubs his cheek against Casimir’s chest, before he feels the soft rub of the bartender’s calloused hand on his shoulder, and for a split second Thorn’s half convinced everything of the night before was conjured – made up. That it wasn’t Casimir he was currently curled up with but someone else, that maybe he’d been more drunk than he’d thought and had somehow ended up here.
But no, this is his room. The man at his side still smells like Casimir. The hand that brushes against his arm is just as calloused as he remembers and as he lifts his head and slowly starts to blink himself awake, he can see the sharp panes of the other man’s face, the curls that rest against Thorn’s own pillows.
Now, completely sober and no longer at the brink of passing out from exhaustion, Thorn turns quite a few shades dark as heat floods his cheeks. There’s quiet excitement in the seafoam of his gaze, a quiet surprise there, too, that the man had stayed true to his word. So, the courtesan shifts to sit himself up a little more, only halfway cognizant enough to realize he’s not wearing anything but a towel and Casimir is still dressed in everything from the night before. “Hi.” He says dumbly at first, still red and still like he can’t actually believe this is happening. “You stayed.” He breathes it like he’s relieved, like perhaps it’s the best thing that has happened to him in weeks – hell, possibly years. A sound that does not often fall from the courtesan’s lips.
Thorn comes to slowly, but Casimir can pinpoint the exact moment the surprise rushes into him, the shock clear as the daylight filtering in. He thinks he should be offended probably, that Thorn didn't have the faith that Casimir wouldn't bolt, but given his track record, he can't fault him. The look on his face is radiant even as the redness blossoms into his cheeks. His hair, totally wild, sticks up in all directions and Casimir reaches a hand to attempt smooth it down against his head. He's totally unsuccessful, of course, but it's a valiant effort. It makes him feel oddly domestic, and his own cheeks redden slightly as he drifts his hand back down to rest on Thorn's shoulder.
All things considered, he probably should start to disentangle himself. Not from an emotional perspective, though his heart still rabbits frantically in his chest and his fight-or-flight thrums low in his veins, but from a practical one. He's a little damp from all his all-night worrying, his already slightly gross bartender's shirt now spotted with sweat. His lips curve up into a ghost of a smile at Thorn's slightly shocked exclamation, the utter elation in the courtesan's tone inspiring something strangely warm peeking through the already widened cracks in his armor. Thorn's eyes are too widened in surprised for it to be flattery, or deceit to try and and keep Casimir with him, and Casimir cannot attribute the emotion in his voice to anything than genuine joy.
The fear that sparks is routine now, an injured dog snapping at a gentle hand, but is no less fierce in its movement.
Casimir does not respond to Thorn's exclamation, but knows he doesn't expect him to. He lets the slight upward curve of his mouth speak for itself. He shifts slightly under Thorn, trying to wake up his frozen arms, realizing now just how cramped he had grown in his nighttime vigil over Thorn's sleeping body. He would feel it for certain later that day at his shift on the bar, neck cricking and back aching, but the regret doesn't flow into him yet. Not yet.
His hair does stick up in varying directions, having dried in the way he’d curled up against the bartender. Much like the night before, though, as Casimir’s hand lifts to brush through the wild strands, Thorn leans into it completely willingly, without a single second of hesitation. He finds that any kind of touch Casimir wants to provide, Thorn will soak up like a sun starved sunflower.
Even though it doesn’t do much, the hand that drops to his shoulder is warm and comfortable especially with the morning chill, and he props himself up, tugging the blanket up to cover more of his chest as if trying to keep the heat in. There’s no answer from the bartender – that’s expected these days, but the curve of his mouth is answer enough.
And really, all it does is spark the slow excitement in his gut back to butterflies – an electric little zap that jolts through him to realize he hadn’t dreamt any of this, that it was real, that Casimir was still here, in his bed, and didn’t seem too upset about being here. He only belatedly realizes the way Casimir’s arm stretches out a little, shifting beneath him as if to try and wake it up, and it makes Thorn sit up with a soft little laugh and a curse. “Shit, sorry.” He murmurs, giving him free rein to sit up and stretch out whatever he needs to.
It’s about then that he notices the light filtering through the small window of his room, looking over and squinting at it before a slight little panic settles in. “You’re not gonna be late, are ya?” He asks, looking back at Cas with a hint of concern flaring in the seafoam of his eyes, worried that he might have kept him away from his job for too long.
The warmth of Thorn’s body disappears from against Casimir’s arm and once again that chill of loss flows back into him. The sensation of it, still so new to the man who’d grown used to that absence until it had felt like normalcy, sends the hair on the back of his neck sticking up. He suppresses a slight shiver as he unfurls his body, pulling his muscular arms overhead into a long, painful stretch, the blood flowing back to the atrophied parts of his body. During his singular-minded task of staying still and comfortable for Thorn, he had totally tuned out the regular aches and pains that came with holding such a position — aches and pains which his body now, furiously, reminded him.
His breath released from his lungs in a long exhale as he stretched, rolling his neck to try and loosen up some of where it had locked in place. Still, even with the current fragility of his body, Casimir tried his best to keep his stretches casual and unobtrusive, like he was waking up his body on a normal day after a normal night. There’s no need for Thorn to feel guilty for the way Casimir responded to affection.
In the golden glow of the morning, Thorn’s eyes are even lighter, sparkling like waves under a bright sun, still holding a mixture of that shock and excitement from just a few moments ago. Casimir shakes his head slightly to the question. He’s always been more accustomed to the later shifts, with his haunted air and intense gaze that never quite befitted the morning crowd. As if to reassure Thorn, to return him to that languid state he was in before the reality of consciousness slammed in, he reaches over and curl’s Thorn’s hand lightly in his. He doesn’t dare initiate another kiss — not this time, not after last time, maybe never — and his fingers are almost hesitant where they reach for Thorn’s.
He’s stayed, for what it’s worth, and he will stay. He’ll make himself. Until Thorn tells him to go, or gets tired of him, or has to go to work or until Casimir hurts him. Which he will.
Selfishly indulgent, Thorn watches as Casimir starts to stretch out his arms. A part of him – the part that’s good at reading people, specifically the handsome bartender – can see the stiffness, the way he tries to play it cool as his limbs stretch and his back arcs to try and shake out the sleep, to wake up the pain in his arms and body. He doesn’t comment on it right this second, though, instead, simply appreciating the way he unfurls like a cat from where Thorn sits up to watch and grant him the space to stretch.
He can also tell that he’s trying to play it cool, to mask it, assuming it’s because he doesn’t want the courtesan to think it’s his fault. So he doesn’t let it sink into him, just watches as Casimir regards him and shakes his head, allowing Thorn to breathe a soft sigh of relief, for the smile to curve on the corners of his lips in a soft little lilt and a nod. “Good.” Thorn murmurs, starting to relax, shoulders drooping as he feels the touch of the calloused hand reach for him, tangling with his fingers.
He lets him, willingly, his freehand shifting slightly to cover the rest of Casimir’s in a comforting little connection, though it makes the blanket slip from the rest of his shoulder, pooling into his lap. He squeezes his hand there before he’s leaning over Casimir again, this time no longer in a position to make his arms fall asleep, and instead starts to fuss with the curls that pool around the bartender’s face and cheeks, his touch soft and featherlight as he brushes them back and away. “Did ya get any sleep?” He asks, brushing his fingertips along Casimir’s cheekbones, soft and gentle, silently trying to hide the fact he's overjoyed.
