[ 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.
[ Kaspar feels it. Because they are connected. Every twitch and throb reverberates across his lips and tongue. He takes him in smoothly with a hum at the shiver. Setting a slow pace over him, stoking the lone plant on an outcropping to flames long before being engulfed by the lava that already surrounds it.
Kaspar's body bows and moves fluidly with the scrape of nails, making sounds better felt in his throat than heard in the otherwise quiet night air. He presses back against their raking, then curves away like lava flowing down the path of least resistance first. It works the hem of his shirt up just enough to reveal a stretch of glowing skin. Curiously, there is a small mark to one side, skin as dark as Steinbeck's in the night. Its only dark edge wraps enticeingly toward the unseen front of his hip. Kaspar gently squeezes the back of his thighs as he works him deeper.
He is speared, stuck in another trap of his own making when Steinbeck goes and says that. His chest heats and his throat tightens, urging Kaspar to swallow around him before he moans. He soaks in the compliment with the breathlessness of taking him to the hilt. Light-headedness and endorphins mix like tin and copper; the thrill of feeling wanted by someone he cares for. His glow pulses, light slowly dimming before brightening again, more star like freckles visible over his cheeks and ears. Tears prick, but his expression is serene.
His hands begin their retreat as his mouth does, taking a deep breath as he blindly undoes the buttons of his flannel. Shrugging it off, he tries to keep Steinbeck's cock cradled on his tongue and then his mouth. It's too hot. He works hard for the definition of his arms. And he wants Steinbeck to see more in the dark. His white undershirt is tight, sleeveless, and military grade; leaving bare two glowing arms littered with hard to see scars. Only a couple noticeably dim the glow of his skin. Burns, now only visible at night unless one knows exactly where to look. ]
[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.]
[ 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. ]
[There's something about holding Kaspar like this. Like a star truly crashed onto earth, and here he is, holding it between his hands with as much care and wonder as he would if the man were something magical, ethereal, about to be blown away like a million dandelion seeds. The man's eyes fix on him, holding him in place with a breath caught in his throat - and then something wet is felt between his fingers. Tears. Steinbeck finally breaths, eyebrows creasing downward as his thumbs move to wipe away the drops that come.]
[Something flutters in his chest, melancholy at the sight, but all the more determined to do more. As if he, a lowly man, can send the rain back into its cloud, pull the star back into its place. He wants to kiss them away. He wants to press lips over and over over those soft features and absorb them all into himself. Plants need moisture, after all, right?]
[The hands over his hips makes him murmur, muscles straining before tension releases as fingers press down. As much as their positions in this scenario seem to indicate otherwise, Kaspar has such careful control that it makes him a little dizzy. If he wasn't incredibly aroused already, he knows he'd be there in no time at any regular moment, like the man has a thrall over him that can't be broken any time soon.]
[And now, there's only one moment, one little pause to intake a breath of his own, before Kaspar descends like a rushing waterfall of lava-like heat, and Steinbeck feels a cry wrenched out of him as he gasps in fervor.]
Ah- shit-!
[And that's all it takes. His peak hits like a thunderbolt through the entirety of his body as his own heat breaks over. He can't even hear anything, see anything, as he spills down Kaspar's throat with a fire he feels he's never felt. Fingers clench over the man's face as Steinbeck throws his head back, voice stuttering as sparks flash behind his eyes. He hopes his voice adds to the song, their voices mixing in the cool night air.]
[This must be what its like to be hit by a shooting star.]
[ Kaspar knows what is coming, purposefully rooting him. Throat relaxing, his teary gaze is as alive as it's ever been. Fixated on what he can see of Steinbeck's straining, pleased body, raindrops to steam against his fingers. The blue of his eyes, like the blurred inner core of a candle, pulses with the throb, the breathless calm as the humming quiets and wax melts down his throat.
Consistent wet warmth seeks to empty him fully, Kaspar confident in his ability to hold his breath for longer than he needs. It crystallizes the moment, distilled, hold relaxing into soothing circles on the other man's hips as he lets him ride it out with abandon and welcoming warmth. The heat, the life beneath his fingertips and sliding deep into him is consumed greedily, shamelessly, paired with the soft and affectionate slide of his palms up over the scars of his stomach. It is just the two of them, reveling in the crater of their own making.
He lingers after he is spent, only teasing the tip with the loving kiss of his slightly swollen lips and the playful parting swipe of his tongue. The summer air buys more time before the chill, keeping Kaspar's movements languid as he shifts again. Lava, addicted to earth and vine, moves to feather kisses slowly up Steinbeck's stomach, chest; affection pressed to ever past ache or pain that he can find in the gentleness of the afterglow.
Reaching his jaw, kissing up to his ear as he reaches to hold him. A different need, of ash warmed by the sun, fertilizing the soil. Though he does not hide the obvious hardness pressed snugly between them, sighing at the feel of even that friction. Edging, the favorite pastime of the sensitive, though Kaspar knows not the term.
But his voice is deep now, made hoarse from wax and affection. There is no expectation, just the offer with half lidded eyes and the promise of more pleasure. Though he seems just as content to stay like this forever, hands sliding around Steinbeck's waist to embrace him. ]
[He half expects for Kaspar to pull off, to give himself ease from the heat, and yet, the feeling of detachment never comes. Then again, should he be surprised? He already feels entangled into the man, roots dug deep where no strength will ever pull them from their position. Kaspar has a hold on him that feels pleasurably light yet beautifully heavy all the same, and he finds his mouth quirking up into a grin that almost feels proud as his mind starts to gather itself up from scattered thoughts. The man's face, luminous, is something he wants to hungrily capture as an immortal picture, framed in his memory,]
[He shivers at the touch to his stomach, muscles tensing under adroit and careful hands. Steinbeck only has a moment to let his glance flutter to the movement before things truly shift. As Kaspar moves forward, Steinbeck's body falls back. His own hands, fingertips dancing like leaves, tickle over the other's chest, waist, and then back. He murmurs a few words at each kiss to his marked skin - it would be nice if such things could erase the mistakes of the past. As if he is a rough rock to sink into the flames, burning away into a pretty diamond. He thinks he'll indulge in that fantasy for the time being.]
[The weight pressing against him down below is not unnoticed. The tone of voice, alluring and pleased, tickles his ear. Steinbeck pauses, before he turns his head and captures the man's lips - another way to give his thanks, a fruit offered by a lonely tree.]
[He's been lonely for a very long time. Even with the balm of a beloved partner wasn't enough, especially when he knew that partner would leave him again, for good reason. A part of him was jealous when it happened. If only he could be free like that, free from human worries, free from the weight of sins.]
[He says his next words into the man's mouth, like he wants him to swallow them, be sated, and yet ask for more. A grapevine's dream, perhaps.]
Yeah. [He says, just as quietly - he knocks forehead against forehead.] I feel like you just gave me a small taste. I don't think I can get enough of it.
[ 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. ]
[A fleeting thought offers the pondering that perhaps, some wayward soul will happen upon them like this. One man almost bare yet dark in this nighttime air, the other illuminating the darkness like a light at the end of the tunnel. Another fleeting thought answers. Let them see. As if he cares at the moment, when his eyes are fixed on Kaspar and Kaspar alone, groaning a little with wanton pleasure as the other's hands dip and trace over touch-starved skin. He may have been spent already, but he knows himself, his own stamina. To walk away from this without feeling like he's been broken and put together anew, as if he's a pot of clay to reconstruct with one's desires, would be simply unfair.]
[The cup of his ass makes him hiss. He meets those hips with a slow, determined roll of his own, before the moment moves on. His back meets the softness of the blanket below. Something about it makes him feel a spark of amusement - if Kaspar had placed him directly against the ground, it would somehow be fitting. Part of their responsibility is this place is to farm, after all. Here he can be planted, tilled, dug into, filled.]
[Steinbeck looks up with eyes lidded. Gone is the boyish charm, sometimes exaggerated to the point of nausea. Left is pure want of a man, drunken with admiration. He sees that smile. but feels the intent behind it, and he doesn't mind. He allows Kaspar to undress him as his own hands tickle over every vertebrae of the man's spine. A smattering of scars are even on his legs, too. He has had his share of wounds from fights, but the majority are self-afflicted. A price to pay for ability-led growth.]
[The unfamiliar words tickle his ears. He gazes up curiously, but somehow, the tone says all it needs to say. Steinbeck doesn't answer just yet, fixated on the show Kaspar has to give as fabric is peeled away from gorgeous skin. The light is a blessing. He can see every inch of him, from his muscles to the curve of his ribs to the edges of his chest. His mouth feels dry. He's been fed before, now he wants to feed again, to sear his lips over every inch of him, revere it like a forest worships rays of sunlight.]
You're gorgeous.
[He says, quietly. Steinbeck finally gives in a little to his urge, pushing his own head up to press kisses against the other's neck, one after the other, down in a line. His fingers slide down towards his hips, cupping, sliding, covetous as one squeezes over the other's ass.]
Scars and all.
[A mirror of what Kaspar said, even if he's unknowing of it.
[ From accident, combat or self infliction, Kaspar runs along each one his fingertips find on the way. They twitch, dig, at the compliment. But more the way Steinbeck is looking at him. It's addicting, like the scent of the forest in the early morning, before the sun is bright. When the flowers still have dew. Finding respite, he can almost imagine him spread out on a field of wildflowers. Blue and yellow petals, his bare skin caressing warm, welcoming green. Legs spread with the same look in those blue eyes as he does now.
Kaspar's smile doesn't waver in the face of pure want. He courts it, bathing in it just for Steinbeck; like moonlight or the flash of his skin between shadows and linens on a sunny day. Kaspar's eyes languidly follow his, until lips press to his neck. The tickle of vines, openly presented with a weak point. Kaspar actually twitches against him, breath hitching.
He swallows, tilting his neck to give Steinbeck more access with a soft sigh. But the sound changes, peaking sharply to a surprised rush of a moan at the squeeze. A new sound, flushing him with delight. ]
Ah--
[ Kaspar's glow brightens again. He knew the touch was coming, but not what it would actually feel like. The surprise itself is so rare that it pulls a laugh from him.
But it is more than that, he moves to cup Steinbeck's face and steal a kiss from his own neck; a press as peaceful as the sway of the trees on a passing breeze. His hand slides to the other's chest, his heart. His fingers curl, nails slightly grazing. Kaspar wants him to feel the words against his lips. ]
You understood again. Without knowing.
[ With that, his hand drops to bring the rest of his clothes down to pool at his knees. The glow extends over every inch, bared from his knees up. At his hip, is the dim exception, hinted at above and below hemlines. It is as dark as Steinbeck's skin at night, like a punch from a card, a black hole among stars or burned into crisp bristol. The sloping outline of its petals and leaves are branded at his hip. Wispy silhouette following the curve of his body, the skin raised, smooth, depressed with the rise and fall of the outline of every detail. Too intricate a design for branding anyone unable to sit still. Done in one go, by a steady hand to unprepared flesh, it isn't perfect, but it is healed.
Kaspar pulls a bottle from his pocket, moving to press the cool container against Steinbeck's lower back when his arms loop his waist again. Warming the contents against his skin as he kisses him. He tips it, letting it coat his fingers with it where the other can feel it as he grazes a slick trail down his spine, teasing a finger farther. As if there is no hurry. ]
[Steinbeck has never been the type to rush. Of course, even in the Guild, he did his work as requested, but he would take his time on it. There, it had partially been to the nature of it, distasteful like an acid aftertaste of a pill that had to be swallowed. Here, however? Its something sweet and soothing all at once. He wants to drink it all in slowly to the point where it spills out of his mouth, burning over his chin and dripping over his bare chest to form more scars (now wanted).]
[He wants to take his time, and enjoy every second of it. Kaspar's glow, burned in an afterimage on his retina. That kiss on his neck, which make Steinbeck shiver and gasp, sinking into his skin. Although Kaspar is seemingly soft, like a wisp of a cloud, the way he moves is anything but. He doesn't think he could have predicted it. Purposeful, solid, like the roots of a mighty oak, staking claim on land and twisting into it to never let go.]
Did I? [He murmurs, his mouth moving up into a pleased little smirk, words infused with warmth.] I'm glad.
[He is glad. He's glad more than anything. Damn. He's been that lonely, hasn't he? So used to lack of connection outside of a single person that he naturally would cut himself off, like snatching grafts of vines from where they were hungrily twisted around others. Perhaps that's the inherent sadness of a plant confined to a pot. There's no room to grow. No other roots to entwine with, to become part of the forest canopy of life.]
[His eyelashes flutter with some muted surprise at the appearance of the bottle, before he grins at it.]
How very prepared you are. [His voice is thick as anything, like syrup poured. Sap, more likely. He offers another squeeze down below, before a hand scrapes lightly over ridges of spine bone to the shoulders above. The finger makes his heart rate spike, biting down on his lower lip before he licks over the side of the other's jaw.] I bet you'll put that to real good use.
[ Kaspar only hums in response, one that rumbles up from his chest, effusive as a tender eruption. The trail of lava, pressing, circling and teasing as his free hand loses the bottle blindly beside them. Kaspar, long oppressed beneath rock and ore. Tempered need and purer affection, long kept to himself and never fully sated by his own hands and thoughts alone. Heat, pressurized by repressed wants and imaginings, finds scalding release in the breaking of ceramic and clay. Freeing roots only to singe and entangle. Steam rises in feeling alone from his fingertips when he reclaims purchase on one cheek, spreading and gripping.
Changing the landscape again, Kaspar's knees part wider and he fluidly slides forward as he sinks back. Lifting, effortless with more than average human strength to take the weight of Steinbeck's legs in the crooks of his elbows with both hands cupping him firmly by his ass. The dip and rise of softly glowing abs flex to greet his cock, the heat of Kaspar's own a heavy promise grazing sensitive skin between his legs. So close to its final destination that Kaspar pauses for a deep breath, a heady drag of air against his skin.
His hips still, even when excess lube drips thickly from his fingers. Kaspar eases one slowly into him, fingertip rough but softened by the clear and viscous fluid; the pressure is agonizingly gentle, whole body melting towards the push inside him, holding him like a precious grove in the night.
There's meaning in the reverant and careful sinking of his touch, the slow slide of his tongue up Steinbeck's neck to every sense with the other man. Hazy warm tone, still hoarse, Kaspar presses deep and starts to move, curling his finger, rotating to soothe resistance. Somehow, playfulness slips into the undercurrent of his very delayed answer-- ]
I will. ... but have you never touched yourself, surrounded by beauty?
[ Admitting nothing while explaining why the bottle was already opened, face still flushed. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninetydegrees
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
2023-01-24 22:48 (UTC)Kaspar's body bows and moves fluidly with the scrape of nails, making sounds better felt in his throat than heard in the otherwise quiet night air. He presses back against their raking, then curves away like lava flowing down the path of least resistance first. It works the hem of his shirt up just enough to reveal a stretch of glowing skin. Curiously, there is a small mark to one side, skin as dark as Steinbeck's in the night. Its only dark edge wraps enticeingly toward the unseen front of his hip. Kaspar gently squeezes the back of his thighs as he works him deeper.
He is speared, stuck in another trap of his own making when Steinbeck goes and says that. His chest heats and his throat tightens, urging Kaspar to swallow around him before he moans. He soaks in the compliment with the breathlessness of taking him to the hilt. Light-headedness and endorphins mix like tin and copper; the thrill of feeling wanted by someone he cares for. His glow pulses, light slowly dimming before brightening again, more star like freckles visible over his cheeks and ears. Tears prick, but his expression is serene.
His hands begin their retreat as his mouth does, taking a deep breath as he blindly undoes the buttons of his flannel. Shrugging it off, he tries to keep Steinbeck's cock cradled on his tongue and then his mouth. It's too hot. He works hard for the definition of his arms. And he wants Steinbeck to see more in the dark. His white undershirt is tight, sleeveless, and military grade; leaving bare two glowing arms littered with hard to see scars. Only a couple noticeably dim the glow of his skin. Burns, now only visible at night unless one knows exactly where to look. ]
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...
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. ]
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2023-01-27 22:59 (UTC)[Something flutters in his chest, melancholy at the sight, but all the more determined to do more. As if he, a lowly man, can send the rain back into its cloud, pull the star back into its place. He wants to kiss them away. He wants to press lips over and over over those soft features and absorb them all into himself. Plants need moisture, after all, right?]
[The hands over his hips makes him murmur, muscles straining before tension releases as fingers press down. As much as their positions in this scenario seem to indicate otherwise, Kaspar has such careful control that it makes him a little dizzy. If he wasn't incredibly aroused already, he knows he'd be there in no time at any regular moment, like the man has a thrall over him that can't be broken any time soon.]
[And now, there's only one moment, one little pause to intake a breath of his own, before Kaspar descends like a rushing waterfall of lava-like heat, and Steinbeck feels a cry wrenched out of him as he gasps in fervor.]
Ah- shit-!
[And that's all it takes. His peak hits like a thunderbolt through the entirety of his body as his own heat breaks over. He can't even hear anything, see anything, as he spills down Kaspar's throat with a fire he feels he's never felt. Fingers clench over the man's face as Steinbeck throws his head back, voice stuttering as sparks flash behind his eyes. He hopes his voice adds to the song, their voices mixing in the cool night air.]
[This must be what its like to be hit by a shooting star.]
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2023-01-29 02:46 (UTC)Consistent wet warmth seeks to empty him fully, Kaspar confident in his ability to hold his breath for longer than he needs. It crystallizes the moment, distilled, hold relaxing into soothing circles on the other man's hips as he lets him ride it out with abandon and welcoming warmth. The heat, the life beneath his fingertips and sliding deep into him is consumed greedily, shamelessly, paired with the soft and affectionate slide of his palms up over the scars of his stomach. It is just the two of them, reveling in the crater of their own making.
He lingers after he is spent, only teasing the tip with the loving kiss of his slightly swollen lips and the playful parting swipe of his tongue. The summer air buys more time before the chill, keeping Kaspar's movements languid as he shifts again. Lava, addicted to earth and vine, moves to feather kisses slowly up Steinbeck's stomach, chest; affection pressed to ever past ache or pain that he can find in the gentleness of the afterglow.
Reaching his jaw, kissing up to his ear as he reaches to hold him. A different need, of ash warmed by the sun, fertilizing the soil. Though he does not hide the obvious hardness pressed snugly between them, sighing at the feel of even that friction. Edging, the favorite pastime of the sensitive, though Kaspar knows not the term.
But his voice is deep now, made hoarse from wax and affection. There is no expectation, just the offer with half lidded eyes and the promise of more pleasure.
Though he seems just as content to stay like this forever, hands sliding around Steinbeck's waist to embrace him. ]
... Would you, like more?
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2023-01-29 05:15 (UTC)[He shivers at the touch to his stomach, muscles tensing under adroit and careful hands. Steinbeck only has a moment to let his glance flutter to the movement before things truly shift. As Kaspar moves forward, Steinbeck's body falls back. His own hands, fingertips dancing like leaves, tickle over the other's chest, waist, and then back. He murmurs a few words at each kiss to his marked skin - it would be nice if such things could erase the mistakes of the past. As if he is a rough rock to sink into the flames, burning away into a pretty diamond. He thinks he'll indulge in that fantasy for the time being.]
[The weight pressing against him down below is not unnoticed. The tone of voice, alluring and pleased, tickles his ear. Steinbeck pauses, before he turns his head and captures the man's lips - another way to give his thanks, a fruit offered by a lonely tree.]
[He's been lonely for a very long time. Even with the balm of a beloved partner wasn't enough, especially when he knew that partner would leave him again, for good reason. A part of him was jealous when it happened. If only he could be free like that, free from human worries, free from the weight of sins.]
[He says his next words into the man's mouth, like he wants him to swallow them, be sated, and yet ask for more. A grapevine's dream, perhaps.]
Yeah. [He says, just as quietly - he knocks forehead against forehead.] I feel like you just gave me a small taste. I don't think I can get enough of it.
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2023-01-29 14:06 (UTC)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. ]
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2023-01-29 17:24 (UTC)[The cup of his ass makes him hiss. He meets those hips with a slow, determined roll of his own, before the moment moves on. His back meets the softness of the blanket below. Something about it makes him feel a spark of amusement - if Kaspar had placed him directly against the ground, it would somehow be fitting. Part of their responsibility is this place is to farm, after all. Here he can be planted, tilled, dug into, filled.]
[Steinbeck looks up with eyes lidded. Gone is the boyish charm, sometimes exaggerated to the point of nausea. Left is pure want of a man, drunken with admiration. He sees that smile. but feels the intent behind it, and he doesn't mind. He allows Kaspar to undress him as his own hands tickle over every vertebrae of the man's spine. A smattering of scars are even on his legs, too. He has had his share of wounds from fights, but the majority are self-afflicted. A price to pay for ability-led growth.]
[The unfamiliar words tickle his ears. He gazes up curiously, but somehow, the tone says all it needs to say. Steinbeck doesn't answer just yet, fixated on the show Kaspar has to give as fabric is peeled away from gorgeous skin. The light is a blessing. He can see every inch of him, from his muscles to the curve of his ribs to the edges of his chest. His mouth feels dry. He's been fed before, now he wants to feed again, to sear his lips over every inch of him, revere it like a forest worships rays of sunlight.]
You're gorgeous.
[He says, quietly. Steinbeck finally gives in a little to his urge, pushing his own head up to press kisses against the other's neck, one after the other, down in a line. His fingers slide down towards his hips, cupping, sliding, covetous as one squeezes over the other's ass.]
Scars and all.
[A mirror of what Kaspar said, even if he's unknowing of it.
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2023-02-01 15:27 (UTC)Kaspar's smile doesn't waver in the face of pure want. He courts it, bathing in it just for Steinbeck; like moonlight or the flash of his skin between shadows and linens on a sunny day. Kaspar's eyes languidly follow his, until lips press to his neck. The tickle of vines, openly presented with a weak point. Kaspar actually twitches against him, breath hitching.
He swallows, tilting his neck to give Steinbeck more access with a soft sigh. But the sound changes, peaking sharply to a surprised rush of a moan at the squeeze. A new sound, flushing him with delight. ]
Ah--
[ Kaspar's glow brightens again. He knew the touch was coming, but not what it would actually feel like. The surprise itself is so rare that it pulls a laugh from him.
But it is more than that, he moves to cup Steinbeck's face and steal a kiss from his own neck; a press as peaceful as the sway of the trees on a passing breeze. His hand slides to the other's chest, his heart. His fingers curl, nails slightly grazing. Kaspar wants him to feel the words against his lips. ]
You understood again. Without knowing.
[ With that, his hand drops to bring the rest of his clothes down to pool at his knees. The glow extends over every inch, bared from his knees up. At his hip, is the dim exception, hinted at above and below hemlines. It is as dark as Steinbeck's skin at night, like a punch from a card, a black hole among stars or burned into crisp bristol. The sloping outline of its petals and leaves are branded at his hip. Wispy silhouette following the curve of his body, the skin raised, smooth, depressed with the rise and fall of the outline of every detail. Too intricate a design for branding anyone unable to sit still. Done in one go, by a steady hand to unprepared flesh, it isn't perfect, but it is healed.
Kaspar pulls a bottle from his pocket, moving to press the cool container against Steinbeck's lower back when his arms loop his waist again. Warming the contents against his skin as he kisses him. He tips it, letting it coat his fingers with it where the other can feel it as he grazes a slick trail down his spine, teasing a finger farther. As if there is no hurry. ]
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2023-02-05 23:54 (UTC)[He wants to take his time, and enjoy every second of it. Kaspar's glow, burned in an afterimage on his retina. That kiss on his neck, which make Steinbeck shiver and gasp, sinking into his skin. Although Kaspar is seemingly soft, like a wisp of a cloud, the way he moves is anything but. He doesn't think he could have predicted it. Purposeful, solid, like the roots of a mighty oak, staking claim on land and twisting into it to never let go.]
Did I? [He murmurs, his mouth moving up into a pleased little smirk, words infused with warmth.] I'm glad.
[He is glad. He's glad more than anything. Damn. He's been that lonely, hasn't he? So used to lack of connection outside of a single person that he naturally would cut himself off, like snatching grafts of vines from where they were hungrily twisted around others. Perhaps that's the inherent sadness of a plant confined to a pot. There's no room to grow. No other roots to entwine with, to become part of the forest canopy of life.]
[His eyelashes flutter with some muted surprise at the appearance of the bottle, before he grins at it.]
How very prepared you are. [His voice is thick as anything, like syrup poured. Sap, more likely. He offers another squeeze down below, before a hand scrapes lightly over ridges of spine bone to the shoulders above. The finger makes his heart rate spike, biting down on his lower lip before he licks over the side of the other's jaw.] I bet you'll put that to real good use.
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2023-02-06 21:29 (UTC)Changing the landscape again, Kaspar's knees part wider and he fluidly slides forward as he sinks back. Lifting, effortless with more than average human strength to take the weight of Steinbeck's legs in the crooks of his elbows with both hands cupping him firmly by his ass. The dip and rise of softly glowing abs flex to greet his cock, the heat of Kaspar's own a heavy promise grazing sensitive skin between his legs. So close to its final destination that Kaspar pauses for a deep breath, a heady drag of air against his skin.
His hips still, even when excess lube drips thickly from his fingers. Kaspar eases one slowly into him, fingertip rough but softened by the clear and viscous fluid; the pressure is agonizingly gentle, whole body melting towards the push inside him, holding him like a precious grove in the night.
There's meaning in the reverant and careful sinking of his touch, the slow slide of his tongue up Steinbeck's neck to every sense with the other man. Hazy warm tone, still hoarse, Kaspar presses deep and starts to move, curling his finger, rotating to soothe resistance. Somehow, playfulness slips into the undercurrent of his very delayed answer-- ]
I will. ... but have you never touched yourself, surrounded by beauty?
[ Admitting nothing while explaining why the bottle was already opened, face still flushed. ]