[Fire is still fire. He should be afraid of it - part of him has always put himself equivalent to the plants that twist their roots in him when he lets them, vines solidifying with blood vessels and nerves. He shouldn't let himself be burned. And yet, he thinks he must finally understand the illogical thrall that a burning candle has to an insect. Kaspar's glow, like the star he called him as, seems to draw him in, but what seems to seal his fate is the burning kiss he presses against him, searing through his body, sparking up nerve after nerve.]
[Purely physical, it is not. There's more to it than that, depths of things sifting from the surface. Volcanoes give way to ash. Ash gives way to life. He's heard how, after eruptions, forests spring back as if by magic, sprouts cracking through the dark and swollen earth. Steinbeck's own hand slides downward over the curve of the other's spine as he returns the kiss, a little gasp of breath as he notices the other's eyes on him. He can't close his own, now, not like this.]
[So he'll indulge a little. Kaspar has poured into him, and now Steinbeck wishes to return the favor - he nips down on the other's lower lip, grinning into it all the while with a row of bright teeth. His own tongue darts between his lips, a tease, as his fingers stroke through brilliant curls.]
[Steinbeck's blue eyes are bright, but usually cold. Here, something has stretched forth from the ash, ready to bear fruit, and his eyes are warm, now hot, ready to return more than is given.]
no subject
[Purely physical, it is not. There's more to it than that, depths of things sifting from the surface. Volcanoes give way to ash. Ash gives way to life. He's heard how, after eruptions, forests spring back as if by magic, sprouts cracking through the dark and swollen earth. Steinbeck's own hand slides downward over the curve of the other's spine as he returns the kiss, a little gasp of breath as he notices the other's eyes on him. He can't close his own, now, not like this.]
[So he'll indulge a little. Kaspar has poured into him, and now Steinbeck wishes to return the favor - he nips down on the other's lower lip, grinning into it all the while with a row of bright teeth. His own tongue darts between his lips, a tease, as his fingers stroke through brilliant curls.]
[Steinbeck's blue eyes are bright, but usually cold. Here, something has stretched forth from the ash, ready to bear fruit, and his eyes are warm, now hot, ready to return more than is given.]