( there are very few things in his life that feel as natural as this – every touch, every press of lips against lips and slide of tongues burrowing its way to the base of his spine, a singular thing that leaves an impression within him, screaming that he should have thought of this sooner, that he should have followed any sort of inclination that his harrowed and bereft mind deemed fit to overlook. that he should have taken every opportunity given to him, whether he'd been consciously aware of it or not, and not even thought to think about the repercussions, because there would be none, because this is about as natural as something gets.
… at least, that's what he would have been thinking, had his conscious mind not seen fit to throw on the brakes, to reel him in and bring him back from everything that his physical self is chasing, the touch and the taste of castiel at his fingertips and the back of his tongue enough to have him groaning at the thought of it, the smallest thing that he knows he should follow – but doesn't want to, because –
… because why? has he even paused long enough to consider that? has he –
oh.
everything in him is putting on the alarm bells, telling him to stop because there's something he's been missing here, something that he's been taking for granted for who-knows-how-long, and the breath is catching in the back of his throat as the other rocks up beneath him, pushes up into every single touch he's giving him, and god, it's not enough. not going to be enough, even when he knows what it means to push forward with everything that he really, really wants.
they do have the whole night. they have the whole of – well. he might be taking things for granted, here, that there will be the opportunity for anything beyond this evening once he's gotten his thoughts out of his mouth, and even with every press of lips and hands and the sound of castiel's voice in the forefront of his mind, it's difficult to pull back, to rest the whole of his weight on his knees and peer down at the disheveled mess – beautiful, disheveled mess – beneath him, biting the edge of his tongue until it hurts and he tastes blood.
he groans, low and rough and wanting in the back of his throat at the pass of those nails against his ribs, and he hates everything in him that – )
I – you – fuck.
( he spits out the word, sharp and almost venomous, the whole of his body revolting against the process of his mind, and he allows himself the smallest lee-way, a nip to the corner of castiel's mouth that tastes too much like everything he's denied himself for too long. )
no subject
… at least, that's what he would have been thinking, had his conscious mind not seen fit to throw on the brakes, to reel him in and bring him back from everything that his physical self is chasing, the touch and the taste of castiel at his fingertips and the back of his tongue enough to have him groaning at the thought of it, the smallest thing that he knows he should follow – but doesn't want to, because –
… because why? has he even paused long enough to consider that? has he –
oh.
everything in him is putting on the alarm bells, telling him to stop because there's something he's been missing here, something that he's been taking for granted for who-knows-how-long, and the breath is catching in the back of his throat as the other rocks up beneath him, pushes up into every single touch he's giving him, and god, it's not enough. not going to be enough, even when he knows what it means to push forward with everything that he really, really wants.
they do have the whole night. they have the whole of – well. he might be taking things for granted, here, that there will be the opportunity for anything beyond this evening once he's gotten his thoughts out of his mouth, and even with every press of lips and hands and the sound of castiel's voice in the forefront of his mind, it's difficult to pull back, to rest the whole of his weight on his knees and peer down at the disheveled mess – beautiful, disheveled mess – beneath him, biting the edge of his tongue until it hurts and he tastes blood.
he groans, low and rough and wanting in the back of his throat at the pass of those nails against his ribs, and he hates everything in him that – )
I – you – fuck.
( he spits out the word, sharp and almost venomous, the whole of his body revolting against the process of his mind, and he allows himself the smallest lee-way, a nip to the corner of castiel's mouth that tastes too much like everything he's denied himself for too long. )
Wait, Cas. Just … just wait.