[ Kaspar knows he is the fire, the burden of control and strength. He participated in the burning of wild, illegal groves of blasphemous plants. Eradicated for the simple crime of existing outside Orm's light. Kaspar believed that line then, despite the awful, twisting ache in his heart. He'd never been able to take his eyes off of them as they brilliantly ceased to exist. Their resilience to the lick of flames, a tragedy as their ash became nothing but dirt beneath their boots. Nothing, from once there was something beautiful and no way to replace it ever again. Every moment is precious, even those fleeting as flames.
More than physical, it certainly is. Kaspar is loath to label precious, personal things like this and pin them in by their limitations. Memories stoked, he makes no attempt to douse them or stop the open flow of heat.
Yet for Kaspar, physicality is natural conduit for him. It runs deep, a connection to the well of sunless emotions that lack words. He arches his back in time to the touch down his spine, sighing softly through his nose and curling his fingers into the fabric at Steinbeck's side as he shudders. There really is no hiding his sensitivity, not that he tries. Then again, vines always seem to find their way through cracks.
A gentle, sensual soul, having danced too often with death, he has no shame over the visible stuttering of his glow at the nip to his bright lips. The edges of off white light wobble, brightening the splash of freckle like pinpricks across his cheeks. He won't forget the feel of those teeth. Kaspar remembers the color and scent of every lovely, lost flower he bore witness or executioner. He remembers the faces of the dead. Beauty and death, preserved together; encased within his sensation rich memory, beneath volcanic ash and pumice.
He chases Steinbeck's tongue with his own. Tuned in fully, unable to miss a new sprout to char with affection. He strokes his own along it, rubbing his thumbs over his clothes at the same slow pace. It tries to draw Steinbeck's in to his mouth greedily, where he can envelope, suck gently, and dote on it properly.
Built atop the cooled and blackened rock, Kaspar has optimism for the universe, the future. Even the heat between them. He moves to gently guide Steinbeck's hips to meet the slow roll of his own, all by the hold on his clothes. He forgave himself his own sins, and he doesn't care if he scorches Steinbeck's soul carelessly, lovingly, with that fact. His body, the life in him, a living embodiment of it. ]
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ninetydegrees
no subject
2023-01-24 08:43 (UTC)More than physical, it certainly is. Kaspar is loath to label precious, personal things like this and pin them in by their limitations. Memories stoked, he makes no attempt to douse them or stop the open flow of heat.
Yet for Kaspar, physicality is natural conduit for him. It runs deep, a connection to the well of sunless emotions that lack words. He arches his back in time to the touch down his spine, sighing softly through his nose and curling his fingers into the fabric at Steinbeck's side as he shudders. There really is no hiding his sensitivity, not that he tries. Then again, vines always seem to find their way through cracks.
A gentle, sensual soul, having danced too often with death, he has no shame over the visible stuttering of his glow at the nip to his bright lips. The edges of off white light wobble, brightening the splash of freckle like pinpricks across his cheeks. He won't forget the feel of those teeth. Kaspar remembers the color and scent of every lovely, lost flower he bore witness or executioner. He remembers the faces of the dead. Beauty and death, preserved together; encased within his sensation rich memory, beneath volcanic ash and pumice.
He chases Steinbeck's tongue with his own. Tuned in fully, unable to miss a new sprout to char with affection. He strokes his own along it, rubbing his thumbs over his clothes at the same slow pace. It tries to draw Steinbeck's in to his mouth greedily, where he can envelope, suck gently, and dote on it properly.
Built atop the cooled and blackened rock, Kaspar has optimism for the universe, the future. Even the heat between them. He moves to gently guide Steinbeck's hips to meet the slow roll of his own, all by the hold on his clothes. He forgave himself his own sins, and he doesn't care if he scorches Steinbeck's soul carelessly, lovingly, with that fact. His body, the life in him, a living embodiment of it. ]