[ Kaspar's ears drink in the sounds, every huff and groan a sweet encouragement. His eyes are drawn to each button being undone, mouth watering with the impulse to lick and bite along every scar revealed. Kaspar's hands move to palm over hips to press glowing fingers, his own with fainter scars tracing what he can reach of Steinbeck's before his cheeks are cupped.
The touch to Kaspar's face is earth reclaimed, tempting the kiss of spring after a winter of defiant molten heat. Gentle enough that it is delicious whiplash to the harsher scrape of nails. Caught between the sting of nails and the tenderness of rough palms, Kaspar's senses become filled with him. Red is woefully hard to see at night, beneath the faintly brighter glow left by breaking skin on his neck or back.
Only this visible at night, flushing deeply, glimpsing them this bright is rare. Kaspar's hot cheeks have healthy give, rounded with soft skin. Well cared for; cleansed, moisturized, made the perfect flowerbed to support a clear and starry sky. Until he finally closes his eyes and they break with the relief of overfull clouds.
A moonlit reflection, a single line painted down each cheek by the light glow that quickly fades. Slow moving tears blur the image like shooting stars down to the defined line of his jaw. Forced from his eyes, they seek refuge pooling in cupped hands. There is no tremble. He opens his eyes with a flutter, following scars lazily up to Steinbeck's face again. There is no hint of pain or discomfort on his own, despite the wetness.
His hands flatten over Steinbeck's stomach as he pulls back to the tip if those calloused hands allow him passage. They slide to exert enough pressure to still his hips, a confident, soothing suggestion, rather than a command. He takes a deep breath, as though taking in the summit after a steep climb.
That only warning before the sudden drop, plunging him to the heart of eruption with the relaxing, abrupt tightening of a throat wet from crying; the suction, tongue and eventually the huming of a lovely song.
His eyes are heated beneath tears with the aching need to see Steinbeck's expression as he moves to undo him. ]
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ninetydegrees
no subject
2023-01-27 19:05 (UTC)The touch to Kaspar's face is earth reclaimed, tempting the kiss of spring after a winter of defiant molten heat. Gentle enough that it is delicious whiplash to the harsher scrape of nails. Caught between the sting of nails and the tenderness of rough palms, Kaspar's senses become filled with him. Red is woefully hard to see at night, beneath the faintly brighter glow left by breaking skin on his neck or back.
Only this visible at night, flushing deeply, glimpsing them this bright is rare. Kaspar's hot cheeks have healthy give, rounded with soft skin. Well cared for; cleansed, moisturized, made the perfect flowerbed to support a clear and starry sky. Until he finally closes his eyes and they break with the relief of overfull clouds.
A moonlit reflection, a single line painted down each cheek by the light glow that quickly fades. Slow moving tears blur the image like shooting stars down to the defined line of his jaw. Forced from his eyes, they seek refuge pooling in cupped hands. There is no tremble. He opens his eyes with a flutter, following scars lazily up to Steinbeck's face again. There is no hint of pain or discomfort on his own, despite the wetness.
His hands flatten over Steinbeck's stomach as he pulls back to the tip if those calloused hands allow him passage. They slide to exert enough pressure to still his hips, a confident, soothing suggestion, rather than a command. He takes a deep breath, as though taking in the summit after a steep climb.
That only warning before the sudden drop, plunging him to the heart of eruption with the relaxing, abrupt tightening of a throat wet from crying; the suction, tongue and eventually the huming of a lovely song.
His eyes are heated beneath tears with the aching need to see Steinbeck's expression as he moves to undo him. ]