casimiro wakes up in stages. at first, it's a small ache in the core of his being, like he'd been hollowed out and filled, before being completely empty. it isn't a feeling he's afraid of, it's not one that scares him. it's almost a feeling of satisfaction, of wholeness in a sense that he'd not known until recently.
then it's the sensory feeling of being in a bed that isn't his own. the sheets feel different, the weight of the blankets on his naked body feel off. the pillow isn't as cold as he's used to.
then it's the feeling of warmth around him, not from a blanket, but from a body. it comes back to him in pieces, hazy, dream filled memories of the previous night, only hours ago. he yawns, stretches, and turns to see samael there. "good morning." he says through the yawn, grin spreading over his features. there's only the smallest wince as he moves—he had told sam not to hold back and the son of madness didn't disappoint. "what time is it?"
@ichabodsam