[ Kaspar can't resist the draw between them. Another trap of his own accidental making. Drunken promises led them like fools, or geniuses, to this willful entanglement. Fingers clasping at his nape, the mutual press of their clothed bodies flush together. Who is leaning into whom? Kaspar loses track, leaving it to instincts and the steadying indent of Steinbeck's fingers against the glowing skin of his neck. Even that amount of pressure sends another shiver, from nape to fluttering in his stomach. It's just as subtle as the last, though the hold on him leaves no more room for any subtleties.
Something unseen snaps in Kaspar. There is no tension to break in his languid movements, no whiplash. He is not wildfire. But daydream suddenly becomes reality, and Kaspar is the deceptively slow, unstoppable spread of lava after a silent eruption, filling every crack in his path with heat at his own devastating pace. Kaspar closes the short distance between their lips, their souls; the pour of precious molten metal into a welcoming mold. He's always found more beauty in the imperfect. Like an intricate design, red hot and damaged, that Kaspar refuses to let cool against his body.
The fire crackles, slowly dying as the one between them comes to life.
Kaspar can never quite bear to close his eyes all the way, too curious to miss a cue or the beauty of passion. It leaves opposing blue to reflect the light before them if they brave it, but his gaze is present, startling so, when he licks a flat tongue over his bottom lip. He takes Steinbeck's movements as an invitation to press his warm and appreciative palms down his sides, to keep him close and enveloped in black smoke where Kaspar is the only breath. The only light. ]
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Something unseen snaps in Kaspar. There is no tension to break in his languid movements, no whiplash. He is not wildfire. But daydream suddenly becomes reality, and Kaspar is the deceptively slow, unstoppable spread of lava after a silent eruption, filling every crack in his path with heat at his own devastating pace. Kaspar closes the short distance between their lips, their souls; the pour of precious molten metal into a welcoming mold. He's always found more beauty in the imperfect. Like an intricate design, red hot and damaged, that Kaspar refuses to let cool against his body.
The fire crackles, slowly dying as the one between them comes to life.
Kaspar can never quite bear to close his eyes all the way, too curious to miss a cue or the beauty of passion. It leaves opposing blue to reflect the light before them if they brave it, but his gaze is present, startling so, when he licks a flat tongue over his bottom lip. He takes Steinbeck's movements as an invitation to press his warm and appreciative palms down his sides, to keep him close and enveloped in black smoke where Kaspar is the only breath. The only light. ]