[ His cheeks almost miss those hands as they drift to graze over his broad chest, his tapered waist. Firm muscle beneath softer edges, the touches pull quiet inhales. Kaspar's eyes close this time without spilling tears. But his eyelashes are still wet, as is his mouth when it moves into their kiss fluidly with patient hunger; promising the sinking of teeth into skin, indulgently rending the flesh of carpels and juicy vesicles, knowing not to choke on the pit but cradle it on his tongue. There is soft and pleasant surprise at a man willingly to risk the taste of himself and Kaspar melts into it, swallowing words whole like the ones he routinely struggles to conjure. He will swallow Steinbeck whole before the night ends.
The yeah has his looped arms squeezing him, to feel the way their bodies press, bare scars to white cloth. His eyes open again to greet Steinbeck's as their foreheads touch, impact cushioned by stray blond curls. Kaspar's hands slip down the other man's backside, taking their sweet time as gravity demands. A gentle groping, fingers dipping beneath whatever might be in the way to glide over the curve of his ass; strong hands aware of how to alternate softer skin with rough and test the give of handfuls of earth. If there are no protests, he lifts those hips to meet his own by the kneading of his hands.
For a short time, this is how he lingers. Mouths connected, heat pooling between his legs while still clothed. The closeness is more satisfying than the sparks ignited by even that much. But he wants more, flame to oxygen.
Kaspar leans back, slowly as if his mouth and hands are actively resisting the attempt; lava pulled in too many directions. He eventually succeeds, hands letting the other fall the short distance back to the soft blanket. And for a moment he hovers over him, smiling like he isn't filled with thoughts of watching him fall apart again, here in front of the long dead campfire. Now he is the sole source of light between them and the sky.
As he parts, his hands slide down to free Steinbeck of what he is allowed to bare; warm hands and warmer thighs keeping the summer night tepid over bare skin. At the summit again, looking down at how lava has reshaped the lush landscape; an undoing, destruction laid thick with ash in its wake. Rebirth.
Groscian, a melodic whisper full of appreciation that rains down like hot summer rain. ]
... a warrior's beauty is measured in the tapestry of their scars.
[ And then his eyes are for Steinbeck's, candle hot, as his hands retreat. That look is smoldering, an attempt to pin him in place with nothing but the loving, heady intent found in them. Kaspar drifts his hands down his own stomach, letting the fabric bunch before he hooks his fingers beneath its hem. Lines of muscle shift, definition across his flat stomach and rounded chest illuminated as he moves with the effort of peeling the sleeveless top over his head. Inch by inch, the way he moves like liquid is a natural, kinesthetic awareness. Someone self aware, so confident in their own skin that it must have been a perfect mold made just for his gentle soul to be cast in. Capable of violence, firm beneath layers of velvet. His revealed skin glows just as brightly as the rest, peaks of his chest lit like perfectly formed clusters of stars. The exception to his glow, the smudge of skin devoid of light, noticeable by how low his trousers have fallen. Lighter, aged scars across his torso and upper body map his swift education. And easy access to medical care. ]
no subject
The yeah has his looped arms squeezing him, to feel the way their bodies press, bare scars to white cloth. His eyes open again to greet Steinbeck's as their foreheads touch, impact cushioned by stray blond curls. Kaspar's hands slip down the other man's backside, taking their sweet time as gravity demands. A gentle groping, fingers dipping beneath whatever might be in the way to glide over the curve of his ass; strong hands aware of how to alternate softer skin with rough and test the give of handfuls of earth. If there are no protests, he lifts those hips to meet his own by the kneading of his hands.
For a short time, this is how he lingers. Mouths connected, heat pooling between his legs while still clothed. The closeness is more satisfying than the sparks ignited by even that much. But he wants more, flame to oxygen.
Kaspar leans back, slowly as if his mouth and hands are actively resisting the attempt; lava pulled in too many directions. He eventually succeeds, hands letting the other fall the short distance back to the soft blanket. And for a moment he hovers over him, smiling like he isn't filled with thoughts of watching him fall apart again, here in front of the long dead campfire. Now he is the sole source of light between them and the sky.
As he parts, his hands slide down to free Steinbeck of what he is allowed to bare; warm hands and warmer thighs keeping the summer night tepid over bare skin. At the summit again, looking down at how lava has reshaped the lush landscape; an undoing, destruction laid thick with ash in its wake. Rebirth.
Groscian, a melodic whisper full of appreciation that rains down like hot summer rain. ]
... a warrior's beauty is measured in the tapestry of their scars.
[ And then his eyes are for Steinbeck's, candle hot, as his hands retreat. That look is smoldering, an attempt to pin him in place with nothing but the loving, heady intent found in them. Kaspar drifts his hands down his own stomach, letting the fabric bunch before he hooks his fingers beneath its hem. Lines of muscle shift, definition across his flat stomach and rounded chest illuminated as he moves with the effort of peeling the sleeveless top over his head. Inch by inch, the way he moves like liquid is a natural, kinesthetic awareness. Someone self aware, so confident in their own skin that it must have been a perfect mold made just for his gentle soul to be cast in. Capable of violence, firm beneath layers of velvet. His revealed skin glows just as brightly as the rest, peaks of his chest lit like perfectly formed clusters of stars. The exception to his glow, the smudge of skin devoid of light, noticeable by how low his trousers have fallen. Lighter, aged scars across his torso and upper body map his swift education. And easy access to medical care. ]