i'm a thinker, not a talker
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 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.
Casimir
i've no one to talk to, anyway
