Castiel's first brush with intimacy was a last minute, I may never see you again kind of passionate kiss that involved pressing Meg against a cool wall in hell, and stealing the breath from her. Admittedly, there'd been something building since she cared for him through his insanity, and he'll forever regret never taking her up on "moving some furniture around". The second was that bizarre amnesia marriage, and to be honest, most of that's a blur, likely for the best. The last, with April, and that, while deeply rewarding and highly enjoyable, ended with murder (his murder). He's had the experience, and there's no part of the anatomy or physiology around it that he doesn't understand on a chemical, molecular level.
It's this strange, there but not there dance along the edge of celebration and provocation. The art of balancing propriety and a mild, steadily building undercurrent of arousal as a motivation for an increasingly suggestive... art? Ritual? Mimicry? Waters he hasn't tread, but it's dawning on him, and he's warming to it, settling in. Enough that there's no hesitation when Obi-wan requests another dance. He hopes, somewhere, Meg's proud of him.
He watches the Jedi toss back a flute of cordial like the most well mannered shot he's ever seen, and Cas follows suit, snatching his own and taking it much less elegantly - less diplomat, more ex-marine bent on getting turnt, but at least it's efficient. Enough he reaches out and snatches a second before taking Obi-wan's hand with a beaming, relaxed smile.
"My pleasure. There's no limit to the value of education." Sure, we'll call it that, and not Cas riding a dazzling and delightful high he's been so starkly lacking the last month and a half. All misery and survival, grief and desperation. Obi-wan's managed his goal spectacularly, and Castiel's pausing to roll his sleeves up above his elbows, and loosen the first button or two on his shirt. He slides back into place as if he belongs there, fingers slipping into Obi-wan's, palm sweeping up his side and around his waist, curling the Jedi into his chest. The alcohol eases his mind into a joyful, fuzzy hum, and he watches him with tranquil, slightly dilated eyes. "Why this one? Is there a related story of intergalatic, diplomatic intrigue?"
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It's this strange, there but not there dance along the edge of celebration and provocation. The art of balancing propriety and a mild, steadily building undercurrent of arousal as a motivation for an increasingly suggestive... art? Ritual? Mimicry? Waters he hasn't tread, but it's dawning on him, and he's warming to it, settling in. Enough that there's no hesitation when Obi-wan requests another dance. He hopes, somewhere, Meg's proud of him.
He watches the Jedi toss back a flute of cordial like the most well mannered shot he's ever seen, and Cas follows suit, snatching his own and taking it much less elegantly - less diplomat, more ex-marine bent on getting turnt, but at least it's efficient. Enough he reaches out and snatches a second before taking Obi-wan's hand with a beaming, relaxed smile.
"My pleasure. There's no limit to the value of education." Sure, we'll call it that, and not Cas riding a dazzling and delightful high he's been so starkly lacking the last month and a half. All misery and survival, grief and desperation. Obi-wan's managed his goal spectacularly, and Castiel's pausing to roll his sleeves up above his elbows, and loosen the first button or two on his shirt. He slides back into place as if he belongs there, fingers slipping into Obi-wan's, palm sweeping up his side and around his waist, curling the Jedi into his chest. The alcohol eases his mind into a joyful, fuzzy hum, and he watches him with tranquil, slightly dilated eyes. "Why this one? Is there a related story of intergalatic, diplomatic intrigue?"