i fell in love with a war
He doesn't quite flinch, but something flickers across his face nonetheless. An unreadable grimace of the lips, something dark flashing through his eyes. His eyes trace Thorn's curved, amused gin like a razor traces a throat. The courtesan's arms are still crossed across his chest but the curve of them are more languid, less stubborn, and the light catches on the fabric of his shirt to illuminate the swathe of skin underneath. Casimir realizes, perhaps with a delayed start, that Thorn is mocking him. Not in the way he usually does, easy and light and teasing, but digging a dagger into a weak spot Casimir hadn't done a good enough job of guarding.
Casimir is not one quick to anger. He can't be, in this job, and his fighter's past taught him to assess any threat with a measured, careful eye before springing into action. But, as he looks into Thorn's grinning face, eyes marked with something strange and sparkling, tossing the word friend like he knows it means something to Casimir, the slow kindling begins to build. If the day had been different, if the energy built was less strained and so utterly out of their usual routine, he would've kept his usual demeanor, dismissing Thorn with a scoff and a minute shake of his head.
Almost faster than his build would give him credit for, Casimir buries his strong hands in in Thorn's collar and presses him up against the bar, trapping his hips in the strong curve of his legs. The fabric of his sheer shirt is slippery and smooth under his hands but Casimir grips them like they're boxer's wraps, feeling the way his fingernails press into his palm through the thin fabric.
"Yeah. Right," He growls, low and under his breath, dangerous and threatening. Gods, to think he was almost believing this. And then, even lower, his voice gravel and strained, "I don't take kindly to being made fun of."
Casimir is not one quick to anger. He can't be, in this job, and his fighter's past taught him to assess any threat with a measured, careful eye before springing into action. But, as he looks into Thorn's grinning face, eyes marked with something strange and sparkling, tossing the word friend like he knows it means something to Casimir, the slow kindling begins to build. If the day had been different, if the energy built was less strained and so utterly out of their usual routine, he would've kept his usual demeanor, dismissing Thorn with a scoff and a minute shake of his head.
Almost faster than his build would give him credit for, Casimir buries his strong hands in in Thorn's collar and presses him up against the bar, trapping his hips in the strong curve of his legs. The fabric of his sheer shirt is slippery and smooth under his hands but Casimir grips them like they're boxer's wraps, feeling the way his fingernails press into his palm through the thin fabric.
"Yeah. Right," He growls, low and under his breath, dangerous and threatening. Gods, to think he was almost believing this. And then, even lower, his voice gravel and strained, "I don't take kindly to being made fun of."
Casimir
and nobody told me it ended
