[ Those words would've echoed for Kaspar at his darkest moments. Had he known war before he met it, he wouldn't have marched to eagerly into it. He went, because he was raised and primed for it his whole life and there was never a choice. He could see that clearly now, in useless hindsight.
His strength had been a blessing, then a curse. Under his own control, now it simply is. The ringing of the bells no longer dictates the rhythm of his demoted, mundane existence. With no new letters from his family, and no second loves. The solitary depths of his own imagination, vivid daydreams and curiosity kept him sane, alive, repressed. Moments like this, the kind to quicken his pulse and send sparks down his spine used to scare him. They were enticing, what his senses longed for most when alone. Selfishly.
He no longer feels the ghost of the deep and gutting pain at the sight of a lover's beaten face. Not even a thought of it sprang free at the feel of lips against his on this island. A reflied as death had been a price too steep for Kaspar to pay for unmarried kisses back home. Untouched for so long, his sensitive ears only flush darker with even just that light touch of lips.
Kaspar's breath catches, becoming an almost laugh. He keeps his hold, pressing the hand in his once again to lips made soft from his own daily efforts. One part of his body reclaimed; a small yet pillowy contrast to the palm, fingers, and wrist that Kaspar moves to brush feather light kisses along. Starved, calloused skin catches like benevolent nettles, needy and pulling.
Kaspar pauses, before turning his head towards Steinbeck's just so. He bumps their noses with the confidence of old lovers, if allowed. Light blue glow half shuttered by half lidded eyes, illuminating them both, Kaspar does not rush to words or movement.
Even when riding on raw feelings and impulse, when the subtle lick of lips is too close, he halts on the edge without peering over it. As if he fully trusts the cliff he stands upon. ]
Cw: some vague past homophobia
His strength had been a blessing, then a curse. Under his own control, now it simply is. The ringing of the bells no longer dictates the rhythm of his demoted, mundane existence. With no new letters from his family, and no second loves. The solitary depths of his own imagination, vivid daydreams and curiosity kept him sane, alive, repressed. Moments like this, the kind to quicken his pulse and send sparks down his spine used to scare him. They were enticing, what his senses longed for most when alone. Selfishly.
He no longer feels the ghost of the deep and gutting pain at the sight of a lover's beaten face. Not even a thought of it sprang free at the feel of lips against his on this island. A reflied as death had been a price too steep for Kaspar to pay for unmarried kisses back home. Untouched for so long, his sensitive ears only flush darker with even just that light touch of lips.
Kaspar's breath catches, becoming an almost laugh. He keeps his hold, pressing the hand in his once again to lips made soft from his own daily efforts. One part of his body reclaimed; a small yet pillowy contrast to the palm, fingers, and wrist that Kaspar moves to brush feather light kisses along. Starved, calloused skin catches like benevolent nettles, needy and pulling.
Kaspar pauses, before turning his head towards Steinbeck's just so. He bumps their noses with the confidence of old lovers, if allowed. Light blue glow half shuttered by half lidded eyes, illuminating them both, Kaspar does not rush to words or movement.
Even when riding on raw feelings and impulse, when the subtle lick of lips is too close, he halts on the edge without peering over it. As if he fully trusts the cliff he stands upon. ]
Would you... like to be kissed by one?