[ Despite feeling frustrated and teased, Castiel still doesn't understand what Dean's apologizing for. Isn't this what he wanted? "Nudes" ? Regardless of Dean's wants though, apologies aren't what Castiel wants from him either, unless those apologies involve either Dean's mouth or his hands.
He thinks about demanding it. He thinks that Dean would be agreeable, and give him what Castiel is suddenly, thanks to Dean's attention, so intent on having. But he doesn't ask. He tries to find patience, to remind himself that this is for Dean, even as Dean's hand is sliding, smooth and wide, down his chest as if marking his bones— no, deeper. his grace— in a human language with fingertips painted in the shimmering gold color of his soul. ]
It's fine.
[ Castiel says, voice thick and unsteady as his chest rises and falls quickly under the press of Dean's hand. It's not fine, though. His grace pulses as his blood does, heart and essence both racing towards Dean's touch. He feels like a ticking bomb, desperate to explode, but he waits, watching Dean with focused, dark blue eyes. And when Dean touches his knees, his biceps, his chin, Castiel watches him each time and allows himself to be positioned like an artist might. Dean wants to remember him like this. Castiel feels how he imagines Michaelangelo's lovers must have felt. He feels incredibly human as he holds the pose Dean arranges him into. Dean wants to remember this, remember him. Castiel's heart throbs, ticking away. ]
If you forget, I'll remind you.
[ It's an egotistical sort of promise, but Castiel can't help making it. He doesn't want Dean to remember him with pictures. He wants this, Dean's attention on him like this, over and over again, for as long as Dean still wants (or needs) him. ]
no subject
He thinks about demanding it. He thinks that Dean would be agreeable, and give him what Castiel is suddenly, thanks to Dean's attention, so intent on having. But he doesn't ask. He tries to find patience, to remind himself that this is for Dean, even as Dean's hand is sliding, smooth and wide, down his chest as if marking his bones— no, deeper. his grace— in a human language with fingertips painted in the shimmering gold color of his soul. ]
It's fine.
[ Castiel says, voice thick and unsteady as his chest rises and falls quickly under the press of Dean's hand. It's not fine, though. His grace pulses as his blood does, heart and essence both racing towards Dean's touch. He feels like a ticking bomb, desperate to explode, but he waits, watching Dean with focused, dark blue eyes. And when Dean touches his knees, his biceps, his chin, Castiel watches him each time and allows himself to be positioned like an artist might. Dean wants to remember him like this. Castiel feels how he imagines Michaelangelo's lovers must have felt. He feels incredibly human as he holds the pose Dean arranges him into. Dean wants to remember this, remember him. Castiel's heart throbs, ticking away. ]
If you forget, I'll remind you.
[ It's an egotistical sort of promise, but Castiel can't help making it. He doesn't want Dean to remember him with pictures. He wants this, Dean's attention on him like this, over and over again, for as long as Dean still wants (or needs) him. ]