// i saw the walls, finished and plain //
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.
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.
Hawthorn
// lavender blooms on the ink of my name //
