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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.
