[and denim is not kind. he has to move a hand to his chest to slow it down after a time before he grinds himself raw, tilting his face down to disengage mouths and mumbling a wait, wait to work his hand between them and shimmying the waist of cas' pants down on his hips. his palm slides a trail down from his navel, pausing for a beat to look up at him again before edging his fingers under the waistband of his shorts to draw him out with like all the care he'd handle a fuckin antique rifle, circling a callused thumb over sticky mess and sliding down]
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