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Steinbeck has to test himself sometimes, spending the morning hours when he’s free and Lovecraft’s shambled off seeing how far he can push himself with his ability. The vines blossom and spread, Steinbeck loses himself in foliage, only the feeling of branching and the plants around him existing. He only comes back to pay attention to his body when he feels familiar footsteps over the ground, riffling between the blades of grass he's connected to. The vines retreat back to his neck, coiling down to small branches extending only a few inches out and Steinbeck turns, greeted with the sight of Lovecraft wandering over. Lovecraft intercepts his vanguard, raising a hand in a ‘stop’ motion before Steinbeck can finish dissipating the vines around his neck. Steinbeck holds still, curious, as Lovecraft draws to a stop right in front of him.
“The vines. Let me see?” Lovecraft says, not waiting for a response before he gently takes Steinbeck’s chin in hand and tilts the side of his face upwards.
Steinbeck watches him, brows furrowed, but allows himself to be moved about. “What do you want with it?” He doesn’t expect an answer (Lovecraft almost never gives them), and indeed, none is forthcoming. The answer is taken from Lovecraft staring with rapt attention at the vines sprouting from the side of Steinbeck’s neck, gaze very slowly traveling up the spindly paths their roots make upwards and along his cheek. There are a few seconds of silence before the attention makes Steinbeck uncomfortable (uncertain, embarrassed) and he attempts to turn his face out of Lovecraft’s grasp.
Lovecraft is having none of it. He keeps Steinbeck still, grip tightening just enough, and leans down toward him, in the gap left by turning Steinbeck's face away. Steinbeck’s question of what Lovecraft think he's doing is cut off halfway through the second syllable as Lovecraft places a kiss over one of the more prominent roots along his cheek. It feels weird , and distinctly. Not something Steinbeck really knows how to describe, it's like the feeling of pressure, the root pushing downwards over muscle, and an abnormally amplified impression of Lovecraft’s soft kiss. The roots don’t hurt, it’s just a confusing jumble of information and feeling; something akin to static sparks, pressure, and warmth. Steinbeck can feel his heart rate picking up-– both he and his root systems are confused as to how to deal with the acute sense of presence the roots and his body in general attain when Lovecraft kisses them.
Great.
Steinbeck exhales in a gentle huff, red dusting around his ears. If Lovecraft notices he takes it as encouragement and he kisses another to much the same effect. It's embarrassing, somehow, between the alien sensation of actually noticing the plants growing under his skin to the fact that it doesn't feel remotely unpleasant. The root under Lovecraft branches minutely, tiny offshoots that feel similar to a finger running over Steinbeck's cheek where they grow. He can feel Lovecraft's breath as if the roots are seeking it out, skin prickling. Lovecraft moves down Steinbeck’s cheek to the ridge of a root spreading over the curve of his jaw. Steinbeck feels the roots sharply, distinct paths spreading across his face, intermingling with heat, and he can feel Lovecraft, oddly cool skin against his cheek. The root along his jaw Lovecraft does not just kiss, instead Steinbeck feels him open his mouth–- sharp teeth dragging against the now-hypersensitive root manages to force a whine from past Steinbeck's teeth, and Lovecraft following this by licking a brief stripe along the root is downright surreal .
Steinbeck shakes, just a little, but he's abruptly reminded he has both feet and dignity, the latter he should... maybe consider preserving, he can't at least wilt without a word. He turns, chest to chest with Lovecraft rather than sideways to him, and tries to look something other than flushed.
It doesn't quite work, but he can pretend. Step two is... probably say something. Steinbeck opens his mouth, with nothing coherent getting past the storm of static that he feels is all that's in his head. Inhale. He manages to force something past the feedback. “What are you doing?” He tries to sound more firmly in control of things than he is, despite the dark red creeping about the side of his cheeks and the slight waver in his voice when he first starts speaking.
Lovecraft seems distinctly put out that he’s not longer got Steinbeck in his grasp. “Seeing what happens.”
“ Why .”
“You didn’t mind, did you?” It is not a very good answer to why, but it is a rare moment of perception from Lovecraft. Steinbeck sighs, mostly exasperated at himself. He is supposed to be working (or something like that), not baring his neck for his partner as he resists the urge to stutter.
But Lovecraft makes a fair point, and Steinbeck is forced to concede, at least partially out of desire to see where things go. He mutters a “fine, just be careful,” as he turns his partially back towards Lovecraft, tilting his face once more upwards.
Lovecraft takes full advantage of the permission he’s been offered. A hand winds around Steinbeck’s waist, holding the younger still and nicely against him, leaving just barely enough room for Lovecraft to do as he wills. A scrape of teeth and tongue again on a root making its way up Steinbeck’s neck earns Lovecraft a quiet ‘ fuck ’ and a command to do that again. Lovecraft laughs, a thing that’s felt against Steinbeck’s skin rather than heard, and complies. A gentle bite the root bends toward.
Lovecraft never pays much attention to himself, so Steinbeck can’t decide if it’s intentional on Lovecraft’s part or not that he feels the hand over his hip break into tentacles that idly wind around him, coiling over midsection and poking against the buttons on his shirt. Steinbeck mutters quietly, moving his head further back. Two can play that game. The vine growing out of Steinbeck’s neck unfolds itself from a small nub of a sprout to a full vine, curling down along the curve of Steinbeck’s shoulder until it can wind around Lovecraft’s arm. Steinbeck’s free arm goes to Lovecraft’s head, fingers tangling in his hair with just enough pressure of grip to keep his head down. A clear imperative to stay where he’s at, Lovecraft understands that much. The roots in Steinbeck’s neck spread as the vine unfurls and winds, they bow briefly against Lovecraft’s lips and then extend further along Steinbeck’s cheek. Lovecraft follows with mouth one sprawling almost to Steinbeck’s nose, before he lifts his head (against the urging of Steinbeck’s hand trying to push him back down) and regards carefully the man before him. He’s flushed still, clearly trying (and failing) to keep his breathing from being ragged. Steinbeck opens an eye and glares at him without malice.
Lovecraft is reminded why he occasionally wraps himself up in humans, indulges– who is he to deny himself something interesting in a package of blood and feeling.
“Are you done?” Steinbeck asks, sufficiently ruining Lovecraft’s reprieve. Steinbeck would really rather him not be done–- he decides he’ll drag Lovecraft back to the trailer and straddle him there if he must.
“No,” Lovecraft says, following with a brief kiss to the bow of Steinbeck’s lips. He ducks to the ragged hole Steinbeck’s vine draws out of in his neck and runs his tongue along the edges of the wound. It’s warm there, almost feverish (not that much of Steinbeck’s face now is any cooler, but it is a different sort of feeling). The vine smooths out just at the edge of Steinbeck’s neck, making the torn edges of the opening ridged with the last vestige of bark. The edges of the wound are left briefly cold behind Lovecraft and Steinbeck gasps, shuddering against the man holding him still, curling the fingers in Lovecraft’s hair into a half fist. He feels altogether too constricted in his body, too much attention and awareness drawn to the winding tendrils of plant underneath his skin and to how Lovecraft’s mouth registers against them with tongue and open kisses. The vine tries to acknowledge the feeling of constriction it, spreading out where his body exists in an attempt to alleviate that hardly works when all it does is send branches to twine around Lovecraft and Steinbeck's leg.
Steinbeck watches, a bit too frustrated, as Lovecraft once again straightens up. He presses his forehead against Steinbeck’s, the unnatural cool of Lovecraft’s skin noticeable and welcome against Steinbeck's overwarm flush.
“Now I’m done,” Lovecraft says, voice airy, because he knows what response he'll get.
“Like hell you are.”