i'm a thinker, not a talker
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.
Casimir has never been good.
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.
Casimir has never been good.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
