[He looks at that revealed skin like a man drunk on the sight of it.]
[The universe must be aligned in such a way that will never happen again, he thinks. Cloth starts to be pulled away from the other's body, showing more of the expanse of the other's masterpiece of a body. He does mean it when he thinks masterpiece, especially with those marks and scars he catches with momentary glimpses. Steinbeck never been the type to enjoy whatever avant-garde sculptures or paintings hung up in the rooms of hotels and ships he had stayed in before in his previous line of work. His old boss had horrid taste: empty, lifeless, fitting for a man fixated on money being the solution to all evils. If only he could take Kaspar and pin him to the wall (oh yes, oh yes) and show them all what a true masterpiece is.]
[...Ah, but part of him doesn't want to do that. Perhaps its selfish of him. This is for him to enjoy, him to savor. A gift, to let the overwhelming heat tarnish and sink through his own body, so that he can harvest what is to grow from this fruitful union. Kaspar's mouth works over his cock as Steinbeck finds his breath quickening with desperate, pleased huffs, but its the moan and the way the man swallows that make him groan a little loudly with a definite shiver and a twitch of his cock. It makes his ears burn, but he's far too pleased to feel even a hint of shame.]
Damn.
[Oh, did someone strike up the campfire, again? He's pulling a hand back to unbutton his collar, before pulling more open as he descends downwards to reveal his own chest. His own scars crisscoss across his skin, solid muscle straining in a slender frame. Its hot. Its so hot. The roots are curling and turning black. But restless, he won't go down yet - like needy vines, his fingers cup over the other's cheeks. They're gentle compared with the act below. His thumbs make little fond circles over those dotted, beautiful freckles as his cock starts to leak, threatening to send him over.]
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ninetydegrees
no subject
2023-01-24 23:25 (UTC)[The universe must be aligned in such a way that will never happen again, he thinks. Cloth starts to be pulled away from the other's body, showing more of the expanse of the other's masterpiece of a body. He does mean it when he thinks masterpiece, especially with those marks and scars he catches with momentary glimpses. Steinbeck never been the type to enjoy whatever avant-garde sculptures or paintings hung up in the rooms of hotels and ships he had stayed in before in his previous line of work. His old boss had horrid taste: empty, lifeless, fitting for a man fixated on money being the solution to all evils. If only he could take Kaspar and pin him to the wall (oh yes, oh yes) and show them all what a true masterpiece is.]
[...Ah, but part of him doesn't want to do that. Perhaps its selfish of him. This is for him to enjoy, him to savor. A gift, to let the overwhelming heat tarnish and sink through his own body, so that he can harvest what is to grow from this fruitful union. Kaspar's mouth works over his cock as Steinbeck finds his breath quickening with desperate, pleased huffs, but its the moan and the way the man swallows that make him groan a little loudly with a definite shiver and a twitch of his cock. It makes his ears burn, but he's far too pleased to feel even a hint of shame.]
Damn.
[Oh, did someone strike up the campfire, again? He's pulling a hand back to unbutton his collar, before pulling more open as he descends downwards to reveal his own chest. His own scars crisscoss across his skin, solid muscle straining in a slender frame. Its hot. Its so hot. The roots are curling and turning black. But restless, he won't go down yet - like needy vines, his fingers cup over the other's cheeks. They're gentle compared with the act below. His thumbs make little fond circles over those dotted, beautiful freckles as his cock starts to leak, threatening to send him over.]
[Not yet. Not yet.]
G-god...