[He's been through nonstop ordeals, has dealt with murder and violence and watching his partner twist the bones of grown men as if they were pretzels. He had to look his boss in the eye and play polite while carrying out orders that would make an average person sick to their stomach, and this, this, is what makes him break down into tears?]
[Nostalgia is a potent poison in its own right, and yet he indulges, and he can't help it. If he weren't as touched by everything from before with food and food conversation he may have pulled away. Now, though, he feels like his body is a weight, and he lets it fall against the other man in that embrace. Solid, and warm, truly. His own hand, after a moment, reaches out to pat the other's knee gently, eyes looking up to catch the other's face with a light huff of a sigh.]
Hey. Don't cry. I don't know what you've been through. But still...you're too nice to have to deal with it.
[ Kaspar looks down, catching those eyes with his own. He's strong enough to take his weight easily, with soft edges and cloth over muscle. At least, strong enough to carry dying men from the very tunnels that ate the last of his teenage years. And any true innocence he'd had left. His eyes still emanate light blue through the fracturing of unshed tears. He breathes a laugh, barely there. But the angle splits the illumination of his form. One half warm and wavering with the light of the fire, the other side a cool, dim glow like distant stars.
That side only flickers when he gives that laugh. And it continues when he speaks again, voice thick but unashamed. ]
[It really does make this feel like a dream, seeing the glow from Kaspar's eyes. Its like something fantastical one of his little sisters would make up on a whim, a dream destined to disappear with opening up eyes to reality.]
[He continues to lean against the man, and he laughs a breathless laugh, fingers squeezing the man's knee. Well, the emotion of it should say enough, but...]
[ Ah, the squeeze to his knee distracts him momentarily. He doesn't look away from Steinbeck. But he inhales subtly, selfishly soaking in the affection without a thought to moving it away. It takes him a beat too long to find the words. That wasn't what he'd meant, but he'd been so used to this happening for so long that he almost reacts like he normally would. ]
It... [ Usually, he'd go along with however he was misunderstood. But for once he swallows the rest of his translation and clarifies instead. ] ... I meant, you understood. Without even knowing.
[ His free hand shifts as he says it, slowly and easily stopped on its path for an approximation of where he thinks Steinbeck's heart should be. Though a moment later, it's already beginning its retreat. His voice is still heavy as it drifts without judgment-- ]
[He takes the clarification and dwells on it for a moment, gaze flickering away to the fire aa a spark alights over the pile of wood and disappears as quick as it came.]
That's the power of music, I think. No matter where you come from, what language its in...sometimes there's things that you always can understand.
[Something universal, perhaps, sitting within the voice of a single individual. He only manages to catch the movement of Kaspar's hand, and he doesn't stop it, only something bittersweet crossing his eyes as they narrow with a light smile.]
[Ah, you, you're reaching for something that's probably not there.]
[Regardles of his own thoughts, he lets out a hum, head tilting to knock against Kaspar's shoulder.]
Sure. If you want to explain it, I don't mind at all.
[ Kaspar leans his cheek against Steinbeck's head, hold on him becoming a loose loop as the hand at his heart drops. He curls toward him ever so slightly, as if anyone might overhear some kind of secret. Like he's sharing something important and meaningful. Somehow, he still manages to seem so damn calm. ]
It, used to be about, the glow worms that gather and flourish overhead in the older, larger caverns.
Stars still remind me of what I used to believe was their vastness. Individuals take turns so the colony never fully stops flickering throughout the whole day.
It's nothing like this world, opened up by the sun.
[ why does he sound so happy about that? It dries his tears and has him sighing softly. He goes on, if Steinbeck has patience once again. ]
... But the song says that, even though they have no eyes, they hear everything that happens beneath them. So no matter who you are, poor or ugly, none of it matters. They'd keep all your prayers and secrets just the same. And if you're lucky, you may get a sign in their flickering. You feel it in your soul.
They added to it, later...
[ He stops it short. But it's otherwise hard to tell that the next part leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Comfort in the present wholly wins out over the complicated feelings about home.
He goes peacefully silent, all worded out for the moment. It's a comfortable, warm quiet on his end. His gaze drifts to the fire again. Ever changing, the flames and the controlled destruction playing out before them keeps catching his attention. It's a newer smell somehow, this close to the flames and feeling suddenly closer to him. Would he ever get used to the feeling? He hopes not, for it's as exhilerating as it is terrifying, every time. Like leaping into the dark, relying on equipment and your own reflexes to keep yourself alive. Your skill as a sharpshooter to know how much slack you and every man with you needed to safely descend.
On the island, there's no danger to either of them for openly embracing like this. Yet it still feels selfish. Even if he'd forgiven himself for the things he cannot change. ]
[He's noticed from the beginning how quiet Kaspar's voice can go. He never commented on it. His work partner at home could barely be understood at times with how he mumbled, and he never minded. He'd never call it out. But here, it feels a little different - in the quiet night, with both of them here in this vulnerable embrace, and no one to witness or watch, its as if they're the last two people in the world and they're saying things that may never be heard by another person again.]
[He listens as Kaspar talks about the glow worms - he idly wonders if the glow worms, perhaps, have something to do with the nature of the man's skin - and his gaze becomes a little more distant. So no matter who you are, poor or ugly, none of it matters..]
[It really...shouldn't matter. And yet, in a world like his, where money is power, where people tell others to do horrific things such as murder, or torture, where people are born into circumstances they can't control, can a sentiment like that truly exist?]
[Kaspar falls into silence, and Steinbeck lets it hang for a moment. A shift of his arm, and he's moved it from the man's knees to surrounding his torso, lightly, to complete the embrace. His head still rests against the other's shoulder, holding him, like a drowning man momentarily finding hold onto an anchor. His blue eyes are bright and yet somewhere lost all the same.]
I still pray to God. [He murmurs, finally.] But I think I've given up a long time ago that He would hear me out.
[A small admission, but its piercing all the same. He's grown up with faith. That faith feels like an albatross around his shoulders, now.]
I think its nice, though. To want someone to look after you. Stars. Glow worms, too. [He sighs, heavy, fingers stretching, gripping again.] Someone's out there, listening.
[ Kaspar is silent, but present in every sense. He listens until the words also run dry for the man in his arms. His embrace tightens instinctively, protectively at the feel of gripping fingers at his side. Strength, the duality of a man raised at odds with his nature. Kaspar relaxes again.
The song had become warped as the ideas of those that sang it shifted. Less about the things that actually mattered and more the sins and the crimes of thought alone. Neighbors turning on neighbors in fear of that which they might never understand. Using the plight of the poor and disenfranchised, whose very existence was a symptom of the callousness of the rich. The church was richer than anyone now. No one starves, yet many still die. All sides had their ugliness steeped in history. Their beauty too.
Kaspar had no choice but to grow up in faith. And he never truly ceased believing, even before being reinforced by their circumstances. His belief is personal, internally well formed and lending his next words a deep and unshakeable confidence. Faith. Its roots run deep in him, a grounding yet rarely revealed presence buried beneath the soft yet stable earth of his soul.
These words are pillars, unlike most from Kaspar. ]
... Had your God or mine completely forsaken us, they would not have given our souls leave to be here.
[ He pauses, before an admission of his own. His voice has gone soft again, but there is no less confidence in it. ]
I prayed for change. I believe, this place an answer.
[God gave permission for his soul to relax here, in a place like this? His eyes narrow, pensive and dark - it doesn't quite feel like that. It feels like a joke. He was doing all that he could to make up for his mistakes, set things right, go after the very man who pushed and prodded him into becoming the worst kind of monster. To be here feels like thorns under his skin, more insidious than the vines that can literally grow there. His grapes are kind. His own restless agitation, eating away at him at the thought of things left unfinished, is not.]
[But its a good thought, he supposes. A kind, sincere thought. It could be worse.]
[It could be hell. A place that he deserves, at the end of the road, burning up his worthless soul into ash and flame, not unlike the wood that crackles and disintegrates in front of them now.]
[The last admission makes him abandon his own worrisome thoughts - enough about him. Here's a man who has found something here, perhaps, an anchor to latch onto to move forward. He'll rest his own thoughts on that, one of his thumbs moving in a small circle before resting.]
[I can't find any form of salvation, but maybe you-]
[ Kaspar can't see Steinbeck's expression at this angle, but he feels it again, in the silence after he speaks. Unintentionally pressing in those thorns, his hold tightens, as if he might hold the other man closely enough to rip them out with gentle force through his skin to Kaspar's. A fittingly bloody mess for two murderers.
With a sigh, his hold loosens again, relaxing into him. It's difficult not to be honest, with all he's been through since coming here. How much he's learned, about himself, the universe, and it's more than he'd ever hoped life would be for him. Change. Constant adventure, learning, and growing.
He has to consider it, filling the moments with one hand sliding to Steinbeck's hair to thread in it affectionately as he speaks. The uncertainty doesn't seem to faze him at all. ]
... Being here alone is, answer enough to all of my prayers. [ He means it, but draws breath like he is going to on only to pause again, before-- ] Having people to care about, was relegated to dreams.
[ And yet, he's never been so far away from crying. Eyes dry but suddenly more tired at their edges. ]
If I discover more of the answer, I suppose I'll only know it once I am there.
[Kaspar's embrace pulls him in. There's a part of Steinbeck that wants to fiercely push him away, so self-loathing that a gesture like that seems anathema to his being. He doesn't deserve this. He wouldn't deserve this. Choose someone better, someone less wrapped in their own flaws and problems to the point of cracking.]
[But even as the urge comes up like bile in his throat, the hand to his head stills him, makes his eyes widen. And like instinct, he leans into it, a dying plant desperate for light. Ah, that's what it is, isn't it? Here he is, the insidious weed, hearing the lament of the moon wanting to be sun and wanting to tell him that the light that shines is still worthy, still needed.]
[The corner of his mouth quirks, a momentary smile.]
I'm sure you won't be lacking when it comes to people to find to care about. [A beat - he raises his hand up, hesitant, before brushing up in those light curls of hair at the back of his neck.] Though the opposite is true, too. I think your cup will overflow with people who will care about you.
[It feels like a hidden admission, personal - how odd, he thinks, that he could even feel that way for a practical stranger. But the circumstances are special, and his soul hangs bare, and it feels like something he can't simply ignore and move on from so easily, even if he wanted to.]
[ There aren't any words needed. Steinbeck's movements say more than his mouth is willing or able to admit. Yet Kaspar sees no need in forcing things that already feel so naturally understood. A look in someone's eyes, a caress, or the way their shoulders lean, can say so much more. Communicating need or feeling with touch is as simple for Kaspar as the unconditional, undemanding affection he offers those he wishes to envelop within it. The language is Kaspar's second, with all the complexities and nuance he sometimes wishes he could translate into words. Speaking them would still feel hollow when trying to describe why the lean of Steinbeck's head into his hand makes his chest ache for him instinctively.
Kaspar's fingers mirror Steinbeck's, trailing down to the other man's neck only to card back up his nape, clean nails grazing up into his hair. Kaspar's eyelids flutter as the touch to his own neck raises goose bumps and wavers his glow to pulsing slowly. Loving and gentle, Kaspar's touch belies his strength, even in the firmer press of calloused fingers; a reminder that Steinbeck is revered, important. And not fragile or broken. At least to him.
The words too, Kaspar somehow hears over the indulgences of their embrace. They have him humming, a sound felt more than heard in his throat. Some might care about him in the end. Many won't. His own beat of warm silence and caring fingers, before he admits--- ]
... I have, found people to care about.
[ Another, subtler, squeeze has his fingers curling into Steinbeck slightly. So often, people think him an idiot, slow moving at his own pace, strange, or too laid back. The habit of keeping many thoughts to himself usually persists. Especially in the swiftness with which these came on. But the open vulnerability between them while Kaspar holds someone he now cares for is what ultimately eases the words.
These are the softest ones he's spoken all night, simple and undemanding: ]
[Hands say a lot about a person. He's noticed that over and over, through the years. The hands of the elite, the rich men, the powerful ones, were more often than not unblemished and perfect. Too perfect. It almost made him sick. Men who never worked hard a day in their life, dictating other's lives from behind a desk with a flick of a wrist.]
[The fact that Kaspar's hands, in comparison, are calloused, makes him feel warm. His own hands are rough from years of farm work, dotted with miniscule scars from fights and self-injury for the sake of his power. Kaspar's hands being similar reassures him - it feels like glancing at someone across a bar and meeting their eyes as they look at you.]
[You and I, we're alike, aren't we?]
[A healthy blush settles in his cheeks, moving up to his ears, more warm than the fire in front of them. And at the man's last statement, a smile crinkles over his distant, pensive face, attention resting on Kaspar's face like a bee on a flower.]
Come on. [His own hand slides to tickle behind Kaspar's ear. He needs to reemphasizewhat he said before. Perhaps tomorrow he would wake up at home, consider it a dream, but even with his own tendency for self-destruction and denial, he wouldn't let go of an opportunity like this. Something genuine, a fire to stoke the endless night. He wouldn't deny himself that. He wouldn't deny Kaspar that.] I'm already there, silly.
[ There was no erasing the years of combat from Kaspar's body either, aged as the worst scars are now. He still relishes the rarer spots of softness. Refugees like the tenderer parts of his soul, they eked out a gentle survival beside the rougher. Cuts, blood losss, the force of unforgiving strikes, Kaspar was pushed to his physical limits from a young age for his country, his parents, his brothers, for Orm himself and for the blessed Avus whose rings he'd kissed; a state sanctioned childhood smeared with structured, controlled violence, blood, and enough pain for his light to develop by force.
He learned as a child, how to let the scariest and most violent memories slip away like blood stained grains of sand between his fingers. Flashes of blurry color viewed through foggy glass as Kaspar turns his focus toward the future. Not that his body could ever truly forget the hardships; complicating his relationship with pain and touch. It only intertwined it forever with feeling wanted, needed, and loved for more than his ability to bring swift ends in dark depths.
So it is far more than Steinbeck's smile that keeps him in the present. Yet the way he looks at Kaspar, makes it even easier to naturally float above it all. His warm presence is a salve, a bandage-- only ruined, affectionately, by the tickle to his ear. It sparks a laugh from Kaspar, fuller like he just fell on a slide slicked with lube. The bright, warm amusement makes it easy to miss the slight shiver that precedes it.
Kaspar's eyes well again with relief at the confirmation. His hand moves to slide his along the back of Steinbeck's. Aiming to hold it there against him, sandwiched between flushed warmth while he seeks words that never come. It lingers, just like his eyes upon Steinbeck's, until he gives his thanks in the best way he can express it in the moment. He returns the smile. Without breaking eye contact, he turns his head slightly enough to press his lips blindly to the palm of Steinbeck's hand. ]
edited (proooobably a cw is warranted actually) 2023-01-23 14:12 (UTC)
[Oh, bodies that are used to pain and hardship - Steinbeck knows that intimately. Once upon a time, he told a young child (crying, pleading, asking "why is it me" when it came to a horrific ability that was ingrained to the core) a few very simple things.]
["The reason you suffer is because you were born as you".]
["Since you were born with this kind of ability, things can only end this way for you".]
["God exists, He just doesn't love you".]
[And of course, but of course, it was about him too. An ability that requires him to gouge out wounds and slash necks and arms and legs, to bury in grape seeds and let them take root in an atrocity of a body. Plants are lovely things, seeking life and warmth. In the end, this body is substrate for better things. Maybe one day, he should go down to the valley, slit his throat, and let himself be fertilizer for the barren land.]
[He's entertained the idea. Not seriously, but how nice it is, a twisted thought of letting a final act on earth be one that provides, instead of takes.]
[The laugh makes him twist up his mouth in a barely restrained grin of his own. He supposes this isn't on the same level as giving his body for greenery, but letting a smile grow in that soft face should be reward enough. The kiss to his palm makes a little stirring of heat move through his chest. He exhales, low, letting the sensation settle of gentle lips against hard skin. He aims a bashful smile at the man, before he shifts his body a little closer, leaning his head up to press a light kiss against the man's ear.]
Mm. [A murmur as he presses his nose against the man's cheek, chest heaving a little with a breathless chuckle.] It's like I'm holding a star.
[ Those words would've echoed for Kaspar at his darkest moments. Had he known war before he met it, he wouldn't have marched to eagerly into it. He went, because he was raised and primed for it his whole life and there was never a choice. He could see that clearly now, in useless hindsight.
His strength had been a blessing, then a curse. Under his own control, now it simply is. The ringing of the bells no longer dictates the rhythm of his demoted, mundane existence. With no new letters from his family, and no second loves. The solitary depths of his own imagination, vivid daydreams and curiosity kept him sane, alive, repressed. Moments like this, the kind to quicken his pulse and send sparks down his spine used to scare him. They were enticing, what his senses longed for most when alone. Selfishly.
He no longer feels the ghost of the deep and gutting pain at the sight of a lover's beaten face. Not even a thought of it sprang free at the feel of lips against his on this island. A reflied as death had been a price too steep for Kaspar to pay for unmarried kisses back home. Untouched for so long, his sensitive ears only flush darker with even just that light touch of lips.
Kaspar's breath catches, becoming an almost laugh. He keeps his hold, pressing the hand in his once again to lips made soft from his own daily efforts. One part of his body reclaimed; a small yet pillowy contrast to the palm, fingers, and wrist that Kaspar moves to brush feather light kisses along. Starved, calloused skin catches like benevolent nettles, needy and pulling.
Kaspar pauses, before turning his head towards Steinbeck's just so. He bumps their noses with the confidence of old lovers, if allowed. Light blue glow half shuttered by half lidded eyes, illuminating them both, Kaspar does not rush to words or movement.
Even when riding on raw feelings and impulse, when the subtle lick of lips is too close, he halts on the edge without peering over it. As if he fully trusts the cliff he stands upon. ]
Would you... like to be kissed by one?
edited (Someday I'll remember to change the title ...) 2023-01-23 18:10 (UTC)
[What is there to say about the past when it came to intertwining with others? Not much, Steinbeck thinks - to be solitary on his self-imposed journey, tied up in the whims and orders of a man above all, seemed to just be his only lot in life. Of course, there had been his constant stalwart, gloomy partner, but even as fond of the man as he was, Steinbeck wouldn't ask more of him. Life on a daily basis had already tired too much out of that man (or...whatever he was, deep-sea dweller and all), and Steinbeck wasn't selfish enough to prod for more. Whatever he got was quick physical fixes, and even then those were rare to begin with.]
[So something like this, with embraces before a flame, and lips pressing against the scarred rough skin of his hand, like signatures, feels like something altogether new. It's terrifying. It's exciting. He can't resist it. Steinbeck lets out a short, restrained little exhale at the ticklish sensation. Something drops, like a warm spark, into the bottom of his chest, sinking deeper.]
[He feels drunk. And yet there's not a drop of alcohol in his body, he knows that. Perhaps this man is his drink, a warm, bright swallow on a dark evening, and as Kaspar presses his nose against his, the hand around the man's body grips and pulls him closer. His fingers clasp around the nape of the other's neck, supporting him, keeping him steady.]
Ha. [His breath is hot against the man's lips, eyelashes fluttering like restless butterflies. His voice, usually chipper, cheerful, comes out in a low tone, a pleased purr of a whisper.] As if I'd say no.
[ Kaspar can't resist the draw between them. Another trap of his own accidental making. Drunken promises led them like fools, or geniuses, to this willful entanglement. Fingers clasping at his nape, the mutual press of their clothed bodies flush together. Who is leaning into whom? Kaspar loses track, leaving it to instincts and the steadying indent of Steinbeck's fingers against the glowing skin of his neck. Even that amount of pressure sends another shiver, from nape to fluttering in his stomach. It's just as subtle as the last, though the hold on him leaves no more room for any subtleties.
Something unseen snaps in Kaspar. There is no tension to break in his languid movements, no whiplash. He is not wildfire. But daydream suddenly becomes reality, and Kaspar is the deceptively slow, unstoppable spread of lava after a silent eruption, filling every crack in his path with heat at his own devastating pace. Kaspar closes the short distance between their lips, their souls; the pour of precious molten metal into a welcoming mold. He's always found more beauty in the imperfect. Like an intricate design, red hot and damaged, that Kaspar refuses to let cool against his body.
The fire crackles, slowly dying as the one between them comes to life.
Kaspar can never quite bear to close his eyes all the way, too curious to miss a cue or the beauty of passion. It leaves opposing blue to reflect the light before them if they brave it, but his gaze is present, startling so, when he licks a flat tongue over his bottom lip. He takes Steinbeck's movements as an invitation to press his warm and appreciative palms down his sides, to keep him close and enveloped in black smoke where Kaspar is the only breath. The only light. ]
[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.]
[ 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. ]
[Beautiful, beautiful star. But not above the world so high this time, but in his arms, something so solid yet restless, gentle yet fierce, soft yet strong. Plants find unusual ways to grow out of the darkness towards rays of light, poring through cracks, reaching out with needy vines. Kaspar's back arches in such a lovely way, and Steinbeck's hand follows, a low noise sifting through his lips as he covetously strokes over it to memorize the line of bones below. With his ability, his knowledge of anatomy is better than most. He has to know every detail of his own to understand where a knife can go without posing damage, even if he knows his own vines will always do their best to stem up wounds and knit tissue together.]
[Kaspar's anatomy is infectious. There may be cloth between his touch and the skin below, but he finds a thrill in the pull of muscle, the solidity of flesh. He wonders if there may be a chance here to pull back barriers and be burned against that persistent glow. He may not have to wonder for longer. Kaspar tugs him in, and he finds his legs shifting into place as his hips cascade down onto the other's. The spark from before that dropped into his belly feels like the lighter from before, his body a crackling pile ready for a burning to be destroyed and made anew.]
[Steinbeck won't restrain the groan in his chest as his tongue is captured, sucked on - his teeth clack against Kaspar's, a little greedy, a little generous. Its not enough for Kaspar to dote this attention on him. He has to return it, to offer himself like fruit on the vine to be sated on. A generosity he almost never affords to others. His soul may be dashed in the future for all he's done, a black mark in a man's checkbook, but Kaspar? Hardly not. Perhaps he understands the life Kaspar embodies, a hope that still feels so far away, optimism in a future he doesn't recognize. But maybe, for a moment, its nice to indulge in it.]
[A deeper kiss. Thank you. Another noise, for ears to be pleased. Thank you. A tantalizing scrape of nails over bare skin on his neck. Thank you.]
[ The stroking melts the skin from his spine with sensation, leaving him only with the anchoring sparks those fingers drift over vertebrae. It's electric even through cloth. Quiet, appreciative sounds are earned, harvested from the play of fingers, vines. They accentuate the natural fluidity of his movements, an unintentional dance choreographed by touch. It's been so long that the rush over his senses is almost painful, somehow sweetly.
Kaspar doesn't stifle the sounds as they rise up on breathy draws, releases of air by needy lungs. Heating their joined mouths or slipping by when the seal breaks messily, gossamer and silk fall from his lips. Or maybe they feel all the softer with the persistent and molten heat of his confident hands.
It doesn't broach pain, but Kaspar feels the way his skin protests and gives in to the scrape of nails. The touch bears new, fuller fruit. A low sound, rumbling, eaten up greedily by one or both of them. It is his loudest sound tonight, yet still clearly a whisper of the moan it could be. The feel of it warms his throat, pitches him forward to tilt Steinbeck back just so.
His hands flatten, palming down to his settled thighs. Lava into the crevices, a deft hand moves to free at least part of him, to ghost fingers over bare skin. Kaspar is heavy between them, an outline so solid it is a wonder there is blood left to pound in his ears and keep his skin so flushed. Kaspar's glow brightens as the fire burns low.
A sudden want sows the seeds of suggestiveness between their lips. His tongue presses firmly, encircling, following the line of its underside like a vein. ]
[Part of him isn't at all surprised its going the way its going, their bodies intertwining as if glowing skin is impossible to pull away from sullen flesh. The fabric between them seems a subtle annoyance, the blanket that had once covered their knees pulled away by his own hand as he leans back, lets Kaspar settle in glowing radiance below. His face feels like its burning, and he gasps out a whine - it must be hunger. He's known hunger of a kind, before, staring at bare tables and sullen faces of family, but this is different. How can hunger, such an insidious feeling, light up his senses like this, make his eyes shine bright? Kaspar pulls him out, already half-hard with no shame to be felt, and his eyelashes flutter as the man's tongue slides lovingly over him.]
[Its funny. Before, he had felt a little bad about not bringing something to feast on for the campfire, too focused on the materials for the fire itself. Now, perhaps that fire is the feast, here, deposited in Kaspar's hands for him to consume as much as he wants. His grapevines feed on his blood. Let Kaspar feed on him too, and break him down when all is said and done.]
Ah. Hey. [A breathless tone of voice still infused with warmth comes. His hand reaches forward to brush through the man's hair, ever soft, before giving it a tug of encouragement. Lava, this man might be, but lava moves slow, eats through foliage and flowers as it moves along. He doesn't mind, but he can't help to push it further, punctuating growing desire with a fond little hiss.] Eat me up.
[ Kaspar stills briefly at the initial breathless words. Steinbeck could rebuff him at any moment in any tone, but he'd lean into the hand brushing through his hair either way. He puts effort into his hair too, enjoying the look of loose, effortless curls. He never used to like it being yanked out in a fight, but the tug hits him right, sensitizing his scalp. It tingles like bubbly wine, leaving the imprint of the feeling in his hair.
His laugh this time is as light as his head, throat somehow already hoarse with such a wet mouth. Playful in their closeness, he reaches for Steinbeck's hand to bite at the callouses. He doesn't aim to hurt, but he knows the pressure needed for him to feel something before he kisses to soothe the same spot. This is his choice. Kaspar's other hand runs the softest parts of his palm slowly over the half hard cock by his loose, glowing, hold and the gentle brush of a rough thumb
Steinbeck's urging only sets him up to discover how quickly lava can descend off of a cliff when it decides to. It's one fluid motion, dragging Steinbeck's fingers to bury in his curls as his head dips low to envelope as much of him as he can, whether he is still half hard or not. Exhaling through his nose, the soft contented sound at the back of his throat would almost be cute if a cock didn't muffle it. Kaspar, and lava, can only be hurried so much for so long before derailing into sensual indulgence.
Everything he does is illuminated, his saliva leaving a faint film of bioluminecence as he pulls off. The lighter silhouette fades quicker than his blood would, hazy dim frost receding again to slicked darkness as he breathes, hot against sensitive skin. Edged by the glow of his skin as he inhales and flattens his tongue up the length, gentler if he isn't fully hard. Kaspar's never touched one, licked one that doesn't glow.
Mouth open, tongue fully pressed, Kaspar flicks his gaze up to Steinbeck's face. The brightest part of him makes it all the more striking when the campfire dies to soft embers. ]
[The campfire is snuffing out. There's something about this moment that he'll keep for a very long time, frozen like a crystal, of the sensation of this scene illuminated by night stars and the fervent glow of a man's body. It seems akin to a dream on a restless night - he wouldn't blame his own head if he woke up at this very moment from it, let it wash over him in a breakout of sweat and arousal to then recede back to vague fogginess like a tide. But he doesn't wake up. This is happening. This is real.]
[The bites to his hand make him laugh, a little hiccup of a noise. It makes a little whirlwind of affection twist in his chest. Kaspar seems the sweet man, and for sure, he's far sweeter than the bitter fruit Steinbeck bears, but things like this make him purse his lips for the victorious feeling of being given the knowledge that there's more. What a gift. What a treat.]
[Kaspar is swallowing him down, but the sight of all of this, Kaspar in luminous starry glow, is his own dinner to indulge in, for the time being.]
[God. An urge passes over him, makes his cock throb, a heat passing through his body with a noticeable shiver. A desperate thought pulls forth, like a stifled sprout, finding fertilizer, finally discovering the rays of the sun. I want to see what he looks like naked.. He channels the urge into using both of his hands to scrape lightly underneath the man's clothes to his upper back, wondering if scars burn just as brightly, like cracks of orange through darkening ash.]
Mm. [A low grunt, as he moves his hips up just a tad.] You look...so good.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninetydegrees
no subject
2023-01-22 06:57 (UTC)[He's been through nonstop ordeals, has dealt with murder and violence and watching his partner twist the bones of grown men as if they were pretzels. He had to look his boss in the eye and play polite while carrying out orders that would make an average person sick to their stomach, and this, this, is what makes him break down into tears?]
[Nostalgia is a potent poison in its own right, and yet he indulges, and he can't help it. If he weren't as touched by everything from before with food and food conversation he may have pulled away. Now, though, he feels like his body is a weight, and he lets it fall against the other man in that embrace. Solid, and warm, truly. His own hand, after a moment, reaches out to pat the other's knee gently, eyes looking up to catch the other's face with a light huff of a sigh.]
Hey. Don't cry. I don't know what you've been through. But still...you're too nice to have to deal with it.
no subject
2023-01-22 07:12 (UTC)That side only flickers when he gives that laugh. And it continues when he speaks again, voice thick but unashamed. ]
... I didn't even tell you the translation.
[ Of the song. ]
no subject
2023-01-22 07:26 (UTC)[He continues to lean against the man, and he laughs a breathless laugh, fingers squeezing the man's knee. Well, the emotion of it should say enough, but...]
Then tell me. What does it mean?
no subject
2023-01-22 07:43 (UTC)It... [ Usually, he'd go along with however he was misunderstood. But for once he swallows the rest of his translation and clarifies instead. ] ... I meant, you understood. Without even knowing.
[ His free hand shifts as he says it, slowly and easily stopped on its path for an approximation of where he thinks Steinbeck's heart should be. Though a moment later, it's already beginning its retreat. His voice is still heavy as it drifts without judgment-- ]
I'll still tell you, if you'd like to know.
no subject
2023-01-22 14:00 (UTC)[He takes the clarification and dwells on it for a moment, gaze flickering away to the fire aa a spark alights over the pile of wood and disappears as quick as it came.]
That's the power of music, I think. No matter where you come from, what language its in...sometimes there's things that you always can understand.
[Something universal, perhaps, sitting within the voice of a single individual. He only manages to catch the movement of Kaspar's hand, and he doesn't stop it, only something bittersweet crossing his eyes as they narrow with a light smile.]
[Ah, you, you're reaching for something that's probably not there.]
[Regardles of his own thoughts, he lets out a hum, head tilting to knock against Kaspar's shoulder.]
Sure. If you want to explain it, I don't mind at all.
no subject
2023-01-22 15:27 (UTC)It, used to be about, the glow worms that gather and flourish overhead in the older, larger caverns.
Stars still remind me of what I used to believe was their vastness. Individuals take turns so the colony never fully stops flickering throughout the whole day.
It's nothing like this world, opened up by the sun.
[ why does he sound so happy about that? It dries his tears and has him sighing softly. He goes on, if Steinbeck has patience once again. ]
... But the song says that, even though they have no eyes, they hear everything that happens beneath them. So no matter who you are, poor or ugly, none of it matters. They'd keep all your prayers and secrets just the same. And if you're lucky, you may get a sign in their flickering. You feel it in your soul.
They added to it, later...
[ He stops it short. But it's otherwise hard to tell that the next part leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Comfort in the present wholly wins out over the complicated feelings about home.
He goes peacefully silent, all worded out for the moment. It's a comfortable, warm quiet on his end. His gaze drifts to the fire again. Ever changing, the flames and the controlled destruction playing out before them keeps catching his attention. It's a newer smell somehow, this close to the flames and feeling suddenly closer to him. Would he ever get used to the feeling? He hopes not, for it's as exhilerating as it is terrifying, every time. Like leaping into the dark, relying on equipment and your own reflexes to keep yourself alive. Your skill as a sharpshooter to know how much slack you and every man with you needed to safely descend.
On the island, there's no danger to either of them for openly embracing like this. Yet it still feels selfish. Even if he'd forgiven himself for the things he cannot change. ]
no subject
2023-01-22 17:40 (UTC)[He listens as Kaspar talks about the glow worms - he idly wonders if the glow worms, perhaps, have something to do with the nature of the man's skin - and his gaze becomes a little more distant. So no matter who you are, poor or ugly, none of it matters..]
[It really...shouldn't matter. And yet, in a world like his, where money is power, where people tell others to do horrific things such as murder, or torture, where people are born into circumstances they can't control, can a sentiment like that truly exist?]
[Kaspar falls into silence, and Steinbeck lets it hang for a moment. A shift of his arm, and he's moved it from the man's knees to surrounding his torso, lightly, to complete the embrace. His head still rests against the other's shoulder, holding him, like a drowning man momentarily finding hold onto an anchor. His blue eyes are bright and yet somewhere lost all the same.]
I still pray to God. [He murmurs, finally.] But I think I've given up a long time ago that He would hear me out.
[A small admission, but its piercing all the same. He's grown up with faith. That faith feels like an albatross around his shoulders, now.]
I think its nice, though. To want someone to look after you. Stars. Glow worms, too. [He sighs, heavy, fingers stretching, gripping again.] Someone's out there, listening.
no subject
2023-01-22 22:53 (UTC)The song had become warped as the ideas of those that sang it shifted. Less about the things that actually mattered and more the sins and the crimes of thought alone. Neighbors turning on neighbors in fear of that which they might never understand. Using the plight of the poor and disenfranchised, whose very existence was a symptom of the callousness of the rich. The church was richer than anyone now. No one starves, yet many still die. All sides had their ugliness steeped in history. Their beauty too.
Kaspar had no choice but to grow up in faith. And he never truly ceased believing, even before being reinforced by their circumstances. His belief is personal, internally well formed and lending his next words a deep and unshakeable confidence. Faith. Its roots run deep in him, a grounding yet rarely revealed presence buried beneath the soft yet stable earth of his soul.
These words are pillars, unlike most from Kaspar. ]
... Had your God or mine completely forsaken us, they would not have given our souls leave to be here.
[ He pauses, before an admission of his own. His voice has gone soft again, but there is no less confidence in it. ]
I prayed for change. I believe, this place an answer.
no subject
2023-01-22 23:32 (UTC)[But its a good thought, he supposes. A kind, sincere thought. It could be worse.]
[It could be hell. A place that he deserves, at the end of the road, burning up his worthless soul into ash and flame, not unlike the wood that crackles and disintegrates in front of them now.]
[The last admission makes him abandon his own worrisome thoughts - enough about him. Here's a man who has found something here, perhaps, an anchor to latch onto to move forward. He'll rest his own thoughts on that, one of his thumbs moving in a small circle before resting.]
[I can't find any form of salvation, but maybe you-]
...What sort of answer are you looking for?
no subject
2023-01-23 07:15 (UTC)With a sigh, his hold loosens again, relaxing into him. It's difficult not to be honest, with all he's been through since coming here. How much he's learned, about himself, the universe, and it's more than he'd ever hoped life would be for him. Change. Constant adventure, learning, and growing.
He has to consider it, filling the moments with one hand sliding to Steinbeck's hair to thread in it affectionately as he speaks. The uncertainty doesn't seem to faze him at all. ]
... Being here alone is, answer enough to all of my prayers. [ He means it, but draws breath like he is going to on only to pause again, before-- ] Having people to care about, was relegated to dreams.
[ And yet, he's never been so far away from crying. Eyes dry but suddenly more tired at their edges. ]
If I discover more of the answer, I suppose I'll only know it once I am there.
no subject
2023-01-23 09:39 (UTC)[But even as the urge comes up like bile in his throat, the hand to his head stills him, makes his eyes widen. And like instinct, he leans into it, a dying plant desperate for light. Ah, that's what it is, isn't it? Here he is, the insidious weed, hearing the lament of the moon wanting to be sun and wanting to tell him that the light that shines is still worthy, still needed.]
[The corner of his mouth quirks, a momentary smile.]
I'm sure you won't be lacking when it comes to people to find to care about. [A beat - he raises his hand up, hesitant, before brushing up in those light curls of hair at the back of his neck.] Though the opposite is true, too. I think your cup will overflow with people who will care about you.
[It feels like a hidden admission, personal - how odd, he thinks, that he could even feel that way for a practical stranger. But the circumstances are special, and his soul hangs bare, and it feels like something he can't simply ignore and move on from so easily, even if he wanted to.]
no subject
2023-01-23 11:16 (UTC)Kaspar's fingers mirror Steinbeck's, trailing down to the other man's neck only to card back up his nape, clean nails grazing up into his hair. Kaspar's eyelids flutter as the touch to his own neck raises goose bumps and wavers his glow to pulsing slowly. Loving and gentle, Kaspar's touch belies his strength, even in the firmer press of calloused fingers; a reminder that Steinbeck is revered, important. And not fragile or broken. At least to him.
The words too, Kaspar somehow hears over the indulgences of their embrace. They have him humming, a sound felt more than heard in his throat. Some might care about him in the end. Many won't. His own beat of warm silence and caring fingers, before he admits--- ]
... I have, found people to care about.
[ Another, subtler, squeeze has his fingers curling into Steinbeck slightly. So often, people think him an idiot, slow moving at his own pace, strange, or too laid back. The habit of keeping many thoughts to himself usually persists. Especially in the swiftness with which these came on. But the open vulnerability between them while Kaspar holds someone he now cares for is what ultimately eases the words.
These are the softest ones he's spoken all night, simple and undemanding: ]
Even if they are not always in my cup.
no subject
2023-01-23 11:51 (UTC)[The fact that Kaspar's hands, in comparison, are calloused, makes him feel warm. His own hands are rough from years of farm work, dotted with miniscule scars from fights and self-injury for the sake of his power. Kaspar's hands being similar reassures him - it feels like glancing at someone across a bar and meeting their eyes as they look at you.]
[You and I, we're alike, aren't we?]
[A healthy blush settles in his cheeks, moving up to his ears, more warm than the fire in front of them. And at the man's last statement, a smile crinkles over his distant, pensive face, attention resting on Kaspar's face like a bee on a flower.]
Come on. [His own hand slides to tickle behind Kaspar's ear. He needs to reemphasizewhat he said before. Perhaps tomorrow he would wake up at home, consider it a dream, but even with his own tendency for self-destruction and denial, he wouldn't let go of an opportunity like this. Something genuine, a fire to stoke the endless night. He wouldn't deny himself that. He wouldn't deny Kaspar that.] I'm already there, silly.
cw: past violent militaristic childhood mentions in here (also dont mind this unfinished icon orz)
2023-01-23 13:40 (UTC)He learned as a child, how to let the scariest and most violent memories slip away like blood stained grains of sand between his fingers. Flashes of blurry color viewed through foggy glass as Kaspar turns his focus toward the future. Not that his body could ever truly forget the hardships; complicating his relationship with pain and touch. It only intertwined it forever with feeling wanted, needed, and loved for more than his ability to bring swift ends in dark depths.
So it is far more than Steinbeck's smile that keeps him in the present. Yet the way he looks at Kaspar, makes it even easier to naturally float above it all. His warm presence is a salve, a bandage-- only ruined, affectionately, by the tickle to his ear. It sparks a laugh from Kaspar, fuller like he just fell on a slide slicked with lube. The bright, warm amusement makes it easy to miss the slight shiver that precedes it.
Kaspar's eyes well again with relief at the confirmation. His hand moves to slide his along the back of Steinbeck's. Aiming to hold it there against him, sandwiched between flushed warmth while he seeks words that never come. It lingers, just like his eyes upon Steinbeck's, until he gives his thanks in the best way he can express it in the moment. He returns the smile. Without breaking eye contact, he turns his head slightly enough to press his lips blindly to the palm of Steinbeck's hand. ]
cw: self harm and suicide mention
2023-01-23 15:38 (UTC)["The reason you suffer is because you were born as you".]
["Since you were born with this kind of ability, things can only end this way for you".]
["God exists, He just doesn't love you".]
[And of course, but of course, it was about him too. An ability that requires him to gouge out wounds and slash necks and arms and legs, to bury in grape seeds and let them take root in an atrocity of a body. Plants are lovely things, seeking life and warmth. In the end, this body is substrate for better things. Maybe one day, he should go down to the valley, slit his throat, and let himself be fertilizer for the barren land.]
[He's entertained the idea. Not seriously, but how nice it is, a twisted thought of letting a final act on earth be one that provides, instead of takes.]
[The laugh makes him twist up his mouth in a barely restrained grin of his own. He supposes this isn't on the same level as giving his body for greenery, but letting a smile grow in that soft face should be reward enough. The kiss to his palm makes a little stirring of heat move through his chest. He exhales, low, letting the sensation settle of gentle lips against hard skin. He aims a bashful smile at the man, before he shifts his body a little closer, leaning his head up to press a light kiss against the man's ear.]
Mm. [A murmur as he presses his nose against the man's cheek, chest heaving a little with a breathless chuckle.] It's like I'm holding a star.
Cw: some vague past homophobia
2023-01-23 17:44 (UTC)His strength had been a blessing, then a curse. Under his own control, now it simply is. The ringing of the bells no longer dictates the rhythm of his demoted, mundane existence. With no new letters from his family, and no second loves. The solitary depths of his own imagination, vivid daydreams and curiosity kept him sane, alive, repressed. Moments like this, the kind to quicken his pulse and send sparks down his spine used to scare him. They were enticing, what his senses longed for most when alone. Selfishly.
He no longer feels the ghost of the deep and gutting pain at the sight of a lover's beaten face. Not even a thought of it sprang free at the feel of lips against his on this island. A reflied as death had been a price too steep for Kaspar to pay for unmarried kisses back home. Untouched for so long, his sensitive ears only flush darker with even just that light touch of lips.
Kaspar's breath catches, becoming an almost laugh. He keeps his hold, pressing the hand in his once again to lips made soft from his own daily efforts. One part of his body reclaimed; a small yet pillowy contrast to the palm, fingers, and wrist that Kaspar moves to brush feather light kisses along. Starved, calloused skin catches like benevolent nettles, needy and pulling.
Kaspar pauses, before turning his head towards Steinbeck's just so. He bumps their noses with the confidence of old lovers, if allowed. Light blue glow half shuttered by half lidded eyes, illuminating them both, Kaspar does not rush to words or movement.
Even when riding on raw feelings and impulse, when the subtle lick of lips is too close, he halts on the edge without peering over it. As if he fully trusts the cliff he stands upon. ]
Would you... like to be kissed by one?
no subject
2023-01-23 18:29 (UTC)[So something like this, with embraces before a flame, and lips pressing against the scarred rough skin of his hand, like signatures, feels like something altogether new. It's terrifying. It's exciting. He can't resist it. Steinbeck lets out a short, restrained little exhale at the ticklish sensation. Something drops, like a warm spark, into the bottom of his chest, sinking deeper.]
[He feels drunk. And yet there's not a drop of alcohol in his body, he knows that. Perhaps this man is his drink, a warm, bright swallow on a dark evening, and as Kaspar presses his nose against his, the hand around the man's body grips and pulls him closer. His fingers clasp around the nape of the other's neck, supporting him, keeping him steady.]
Ha. [His breath is hot against the man's lips, eyelashes fluttering like restless butterflies. His voice, usually chipper, cheerful, comes out in a low tone, a pleased purr of a whisper.] As if I'd say no.
no subject
2023-01-24 03:03 (UTC)Something unseen snaps in Kaspar. There is no tension to break in his languid movements, no whiplash. He is not wildfire. But daydream suddenly becomes reality, and Kaspar is the deceptively slow, unstoppable spread of lava after a silent eruption, filling every crack in his path with heat at his own devastating pace. Kaspar closes the short distance between their lips, their souls; the pour of precious molten metal into a welcoming mold. He's always found more beauty in the imperfect. Like an intricate design, red hot and damaged, that Kaspar refuses to let cool against his body.
The fire crackles, slowly dying as the one between them comes to life.
Kaspar can never quite bear to close his eyes all the way, too curious to miss a cue or the beauty of passion. It leaves opposing blue to reflect the light before them if they brave it, but his gaze is present, startling so, when he licks a flat tongue over his bottom lip. He takes Steinbeck's movements as an invitation to press his warm and appreciative palms down his sides, to keep him close and enveloped in black smoke where Kaspar is the only breath. The only light. ]
no subject
2023-01-24 05:12 (UTC)[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
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. ]
no subject
2023-01-24 14:05 (UTC)[Kaspar's anatomy is infectious. There may be cloth between his touch and the skin below, but he finds a thrill in the pull of muscle, the solidity of flesh. He wonders if there may be a chance here to pull back barriers and be burned against that persistent glow. He may not have to wonder for longer. Kaspar tugs him in, and he finds his legs shifting into place as his hips cascade down onto the other's. The spark from before that dropped into his belly feels like the lighter from before, his body a crackling pile ready for a burning to be destroyed and made anew.]
[Steinbeck won't restrain the groan in his chest as his tongue is captured, sucked on - his teeth clack against Kaspar's, a little greedy, a little generous. Its not enough for Kaspar to dote this attention on him. He has to return it, to offer himself like fruit on the vine to be sated on. A generosity he almost never affords to others. His soul may be dashed in the future for all he's done, a black mark in a man's checkbook, but Kaspar? Hardly not. Perhaps he understands the life Kaspar embodies, a hope that still feels so far away, optimism in a future he doesn't recognize. But maybe, for a moment, its nice to indulge in it.]
[A deeper kiss. Thank you. Another noise, for ears to be pleased. Thank you. A tantalizing scrape of nails over bare skin on his neck. Thank you.]
Cw uhhhh nsfw now 🙈
2023-01-24 17:22 (UTC)Kaspar doesn't stifle the sounds as they rise up on breathy draws, releases of air by needy lungs. Heating their joined mouths or slipping by when the seal breaks messily, gossamer and silk fall from his lips. Or maybe they feel all the softer with the persistent and molten heat of his confident hands.
It doesn't broach pain, but Kaspar feels the way his skin protests and gives in to the scrape of nails. The touch bears new, fuller fruit. A low sound, rumbling, eaten up greedily by one or both of them. It is his loudest sound tonight, yet still clearly a whisper of the moan it could be. The feel of it warms his throat, pitches him forward to tilt Steinbeck back just so.
His hands flatten, palming down to his settled thighs. Lava into the crevices, a deft hand moves to free at least part of him, to ghost fingers over bare skin. Kaspar is heavy between them, an outline so solid it is a wonder there is blood left to pound in his ears and keep his skin so flushed. Kaspar's glow brightens as the fire burns low.
A sudden want sows the seeds of suggestiveness between their lips. His tongue presses firmly, encircling, following the line of its underside like a vein. ]
campfire truly got some heat to it
2023-01-24 18:14 (UTC)[Its funny. Before, he had felt a little bad about not bringing something to feast on for the campfire, too focused on the materials for the fire itself. Now, perhaps that fire is the feast, here, deposited in Kaspar's hands for him to consume as much as he wants. His grapevines feed on his blood. Let Kaspar feed on him too, and break him down when all is said and done.]
Ah. Hey. [A breathless tone of voice still infused with warmth comes. His hand reaches forward to brush through the man's hair, ever soft, before giving it a tug of encouragement. Lava, this man might be, but lava moves slow, eats through foliage and flowers as it moves along. He doesn't mind, but he can't help to push it further, punctuating growing desire with a fond little hiss.] Eat me up.
Cw glowing bjs
2023-01-24 19:16 (UTC)His laugh this time is as light as his head, throat somehow already hoarse with such a wet mouth. Playful in their closeness, he reaches for Steinbeck's hand to bite at the callouses. He doesn't aim to hurt, but he knows the pressure needed for him to feel something before he kisses to soothe the same spot. This is his choice. Kaspar's other hand runs the softest parts of his palm slowly over the half hard cock by his loose, glowing, hold and the gentle brush of a rough thumb
Steinbeck's urging only sets him up to discover how quickly lava can descend off of a cliff when it decides to. It's one fluid motion, dragging Steinbeck's fingers to bury in his curls as his head dips low to envelope as much of him as he can, whether he is still half hard or not. Exhaling through his nose, the soft contented sound at the back of his throat would almost be cute if a cock didn't muffle it. Kaspar, and lava, can only be hurried so much for so long before derailing into sensual indulgence.
Everything he does is illuminated, his saliva leaving a faint film of bioluminecence as he pulls off. The lighter silhouette fades quicker than his blood would, hazy dim frost receding again to slicked darkness as he breathes, hot against sensitive skin. Edged by the glow of his skin as he inhales and flattens his tongue up the length, gentler if he isn't fully hard. Kaspar's never touched one, licked one that doesn't glow.
Mouth open, tongue fully pressed, Kaspar flicks his gaze up to Steinbeck's face. The brightest part of him makes it all the more striking when the campfire dies to soft embers. ]
no subject
2023-01-24 20:36 (UTC)[The bites to his hand make him laugh, a little hiccup of a noise. It makes a little whirlwind of affection twist in his chest. Kaspar seems the sweet man, and for sure, he's far sweeter than the bitter fruit Steinbeck bears, but things like this make him purse his lips for the victorious feeling of being given the knowledge that there's more. What a gift. What a treat.]
[Kaspar is swallowing him down, but the sight of all of this, Kaspar in luminous starry glow, is his own dinner to indulge in, for the time being.]
[God. An urge passes over him, makes his cock throb, a heat passing through his body with a noticeable shiver. A desperate thought pulls forth, like a stifled sprout, finding fertilizer, finally discovering the rays of the sun. I want to see what he looks like naked.. He channels the urge into using both of his hands to scrape lightly underneath the man's clothes to his upper back, wondering if scars burn just as brightly, like cracks of orange through darkening ash.]
Mm. [A low grunt, as he moves his hips up just a tad.] You look...so good.
(no subject)
by(no subject)
by(no subject)
by(no subject)
by(no subject)
by(no subject)
by(no subject)
by(no subject)
by(no subject)
by(no subject)
by(no subject)
by