i'm a thinker, not a talker
Thorn’s fingers are burning hot on Casimir’s chin, searing him as they guide his face upward to look at the beautiful courtesan. And Casimir, for all his muscles and brute, all his scars attesting to fights hard one, is weak. His head tilts upwards at Thorn’s guiding hands, meeting that seafoam gaze that always seemed to able to see right through him.
The question would have come barreling out of nowhere if it had not been circling them all evening, a carrion bird hunting for a meal. The whole evening has circled around stayings and goings, Casimir’s self-destructive desire to stay battling with his logic that demanded him to go. It seemed, now, Thorn was dragging it into light, demanding Casimir meet it and his eyes.
Casimir is frozen under Thorn’s touch breathing all but stilled, and though his instincts scream for him to look away, his eyes meet Thorn’s like he’s looking into the sun. It’s a question, and he could answer, knows what he should answer. But every choice he makes is always the wrong one.
”Tell me to,” escapes the cage of his mouth, low and rough, filled with gravel and laced with the thinnest thread of yearning.
The question would have come barreling out of nowhere if it had not been circling them all evening, a carrion bird hunting for a meal. The whole evening has circled around stayings and goings, Casimir’s self-destructive desire to stay battling with his logic that demanded him to go. It seemed, now, Thorn was dragging it into light, demanding Casimir meet it and his eyes.
Casimir is frozen under Thorn’s touch breathing all but stilled, and though his instincts scream for him to look away, his eyes meet Thorn’s like he’s looking into the sun. It’s a question, and he could answer, knows what he should answer. But every choice he makes is always the wrong one.
”Tell me to,” escapes the cage of his mouth, low and rough, filled with gravel and laced with the thinnest thread of yearning.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
