"Ugh..." Deacon's initial reaction to being compared to a bloodbug is the least-sexy one he could imagine, but Danse is somehow circumventing that buzzkill with a little kiss and a sultry little reassurance. He laughs, nearly dizzy from being ripped from his edge, grinning as his fingers pet down the side of Danse's face and cradle it affectionately.
"I want it on purpose, this time," he replies huskily, "I want marks left by your teeth in my skin, so no one has to question that I'm yours."
Deacon licks at his own lips, his thumb reaching over to stroke along Danse's lower lip to encourage a peek at those fangs behind it.
"Of course, I'm more than happy to return the favor..."
"I--god." A shudder sweeps through him at this demand, eyelashes fluttering again as he flushes deeply at the mental image. His lips part without thought at the swipe of that thumb, tongue darting out to tease at it. Deacon knows him, how sharply that desire cuts right to his core.
At home, the desire would have been stronger for Deacon to be the one doing the marking, leaving bruises and imprints on his skin despite his toughness, proof that he belongs somewhere and to whom--but here, the wolf does have desires of its own. Even without its influence, Danse does want to stake a claim on the people who mean the most to him, quiet and heated.
It's only the thought of purposely drawing blood that gives him pause right now, and not so much of one, either. Scratches down the back, kiss-bruises on the throat and inner thighs, all of these are Danse's bread and butter already, but to use these razor fangs and leave a real, solid, lingering mark...he isn't sure, even as it makes his cock strain at his suit to think of it being visible on Deacon's ginger-pale skin as he goes about the rest of his week, wordless proof that he has a mate who goes feral for him.
"I just don't want to hurt you." But when he throbs, too, at the very thought of Deacon returning the favor in exactly the same way--how much harm does it actually do?
Deacon can tell that this request isn't being taken lightly; that Danse yearns for it despite his concerns just by the way his body seems to react. He looks gorgeous, all flushed and aroused, debauched with swollen lips from pleasuring his lover, and it just makes Deacon want him more.
"You won't," he answers with a purr, "Not in any way I won't like."
Deacon sits up slightly, enough to lean down and capture Danse's soft lips in another reassuring kiss, one where his fangs graze delicately over his skin to remind him that they're there before pulling back to look him in the eyes again.
"I don't trust that many people, babe, but I trust you."
That little graze gets another shiver, though it could be just as much from the words themselves, another heady reminder that feels almost too sweet for as badly as Danse always wants to hear things like that. Without even casting about for the memory, his own voice pops into his head from the last time--Tell me I'm your good boy again. Tell me I'm your best one.
It would mortify him now had Deacon hesitated even for a second to oblige him, had Deacon sounded anything short of exactly as pleased by it as he was, but they do understand each other. For someone as perpetually on-edge as Deacon to be not only letting Danse take knife-sharp teeth to his throat, but asking him for it--what greater proof of trust or care could Danse ask for? And he knows that he's earned it, too. Not just with his own obedient submission, his own growing faith in Deacon, but with his steadfast support through all the horrors this place has shown them.
He holds those blank blue eyes without faltering, but presses forward for another kiss before Deacon can pull back too far, testing the waters with something only as sharp as he's done unthinkingly before. He sucks Deacon's lower lip tenderly into his mouth and gives it a gentle bite--just sharp enough to prick and catch, drawing just enough blood to taste, as he pulls Deacon's lip outward with him before letting go.
He could get a taste for that. He doesn't want to--but he could. He isn't built to be energized by it the way Deacon is, but he might as well be for the passion with which he ducks back in now, kissing his way down from Deacon's ear and over his jaw to his throat, nuzzling hotly into it before letting his teeth break the skin again. It takes so little effort, sharp as they are. It's harder to temper them than to puncture with them.
That request, at the time, had hardly needed to be made. Deacon willingly and enthusiastically assures Danse that he's good for him, and that will never change. What had started as light-hearted teasing had morphed into something much deeper once he'd seen the way Danse reacted, and he knows now that Danse's desires are so closely aligned with his own; to belong and to have purpose.
It's why after another kiss and small gasp at the way Danse's fangs catch on his lip, Deacon whispers praise against them.
"Good boy..." is rasped there before his neck cranes for Danse to freely explore. He'd have more to say if it weren't for the feeling of Danse's teeth sinking into skin making him gasp raggedly, his arms squeezing around Danse's shoulders to hold him close. His cock throbs between them, causing his hips to grind subconsciously into Danse's as he moans in delicious pain-pleasure.
He's hoping for it, waiting for it, and it has exactly the dizzying effect Deacon wants. The memory of it from before is clear now, as vivid as it ever was, but memory is no substitute for hearing it afresh, feeling the heated breath of it against his lips and the gravelly purr of it vibrating in Deacon's chest when they're curled this close together. His flightsuit is painfully confining now, cock jerking against Deacon's grinding hips, and he reaches between them to unlatch the fall flap without pulling his mouth away so much as an inch.
His own voice rumbles deep against Deacon's skin as he moans, more sensation than sound, lapping up the welling blood as Deacon had done to him before--the synth he was at home might have revolted at the prospect of drinking human blood; the werewolf relishes it like wine--and finally pulling away to admire his handiwork only when he's been sure to get both top and bottom fangs in there, sinking in far enough to feel each one, for a set of four neat and visible marks on Deacon's neck.
It's possible someone might think he has two very precise vampire lovers. Danse is pretty sure people will know who did the biting, though. He grins, lips stained red, and begins to peel his suit the rest of the way off, kicking away his boots as he does and multitasking with another kiss. "That enough of a mark for you?"
It's already an intense feeling, more emotional than anything, to have Danse's teeth in his neck and claiming him, but once he's reached between them and released his straining cock from its confines, Deacon is practically whimpering as he grinds against it, suddenly much needier than he'd been previously.
That neediness is echoed in the kiss, his tongue diving deep into his mouth and tasting his own blood on Danse's tongue with a growl. There's a renewed energy within him that he can't explain; the same sort of feral hunger he'd felt the last time that Danse had bitten him. It somehow makes the mark feel sweeter, claimed and part of something, and with his feeling rapidly returning to his legs, Deacon finds the strength to roll and flip their positions until he has Danse pinned beneath him.
"It's perfect. You're perfect," he rumbles, bowing against Danse to sink his own teeth in his neck and renew the mark he'd left before.
Even if he could keep himself from letting out a strangled little cry at this, Danse wouldn't bother to repress it. If Deacon is going to spoil him with extravagant flattery that Danse can actually still believe from him, then the very least he can do is give his lover the pleasure of hearing exactly how good it all feels, without restraint.
And just as before, Deacon's pinning weight brings with it a sense of rightness, a lightheaded urge to roll over for him in eager submission and stretch his neck out for the taking, arms twining around his shoulders as he gasps again and lets Deacon drink from him.
"You'd better be ready to go all night," he pants, but even the teasing is subdued despite its phrasing, because one doesn't really make demands of the alpha wolf. His wish, as before, is just Deacon's strong recommendation--still, surrender comes so much more easily when he knows Deacon will give him everything he wants anyway.
Such noises make Deacon shiver against him, moaning as he laps droplets of blood from Danse's neck and rolls his hips against him. Ready to go all night suddenly sounds like an understatement. This sort of reunion calls for barricading themselves inside of the vehicle until their survival requires otherwise.
Deacon laughs darkly, hands raking down Danse's sides until they can hook beneath his thighs and hike them up around him. "Be careful what you wish for," he purrs, giving his backside a little tap, "When I'm finished with you it'll be you that needs carrying around the convoy."
His legs wrap tight around Deacon's waist with only the barest encouragement, hips jerking with startled pleasure and tail thumping a few extra times at that little slap to his ass.
"Take a few more swigs of blood and you should be just fine to do it," he tosses back, fingers cradling and massaging at Deacon's scalp as if longing for that soft fuzz to bury them in.
Danse might be generally more oblivious than most to exactly how powers tend to work around here, particularly his own, but even he can connect the dots between Deacon's greedy thirst for his blood last time and the way he'd been able to hold Danse up and impale him on his cock as if he weighed nothing at all. Just the memory of it has Danse throbbing between them, hard and slick and fever-hot against Deacon's stomach as his pulse quickens.
Deacon chuckles in response, his fingers kneading at the spot they'd tapped before, warming Danse up a bit while his other hand reaches above them and palms around for a flacon of oil he'd stored beneath the mattress for moments like these, hopeful its still there. He hums in delight when his fingers find it, his thumb immediately uncorking it so that its contents spill into his hand and he can smear that slick oil all along the cleft of Danse's ass.
"Not yet-" he replies, "I want you conscious so that I can take pride in wearing you out."
The tail thumping and the desperate way Danse clings to and throbs against him have him dizzy, and Deacon doesn't hesitate to smother his neck and jaw with kisses as his fingers work diligently to get him to relax.
Danse groans, soft and broken, head tilting back against the pillows and back arching gently, as his body remembers how to adjust to this. It's still so new that even the clear memory of last time isn't enough to make it second-nature. He's still learning how to relax into the sweet invasion of it, to let his body be loose for Deacon's slim talented fingers, but it's eager to keep practicing.
"You'll do admirably," he pants, trying his best to melt further into the mattress, until Deacon's finger strokes just where he needs it and he tightens up again with another buck of his hips and a choked-out "God."
His legs adjust their grip around Deacon's waist, trying to offer more of himself to that touch, open himself more to those fingers, as he turns his face to catch Deacon's lips again with his own and moan softly into the kiss. He could touch himself, could just fit a hand between the press of their bodies, but he digs his nails into Deacon's back instead, because he can.
"Almost," he gasps, "almost--" His impatience to feel Deacon inside him can just wait until he's loose enough.
Deacon can be patient. Even though every grind of Danse's hips tests that patience, he will maintain control as long as necessary to ensure that his lover is satisfied and taken care of completely.
Danse's kiss is met once again with the plunge of Deacon's tongue, sucking at Danse's and tasting all of him, sucking at his lower lip with a growl that rumbles deep within his chest.
"I won't rush you, Baby Brahmin, " he coos, his finger sawing in and out of Danse now, "I'll savor every moment like this; every moment where you are relaxed and in bliss. You deserve that, and so much more," Deacon kisses at Danse's jawline, nuzzling against it while his hips grind easily against Danse's, the slick from their mutual arousal making it all the sweeter.
"You're not rushing me, I just--" Deacon knows as well as anyone else, probably better, how measured and patient and practical Danse can be, how sensible both in his own actions and his advice to everyone else. Only Deacon drives him so far beyond that as to forget what responsibility even is, to want nothing more than to thoughtlessly chase the pleasure his lover is offering him.
"--want to feel you already," he finishes, when he can find words again after that sidetracking, flushed bright all over and nearly trembling with pleasure and tension at more of that verbal spoiling. Nobody, nobody but Deacon knows how to make up for lost time that way, knowing that nobody's ever told Danse anything like this before.
It could set off some flags or questions in Danse's mind, but it doesn't--Deacon's certainly worked with enough Institute-fresh synths to know how people treat them underground, and nobody has to be intimately acquainted with the Brotherhood to know that praise and tenderness are in short supply there as well, and even were both of those things not true, Danse has some sense of how poorly he hides his own starvation for affection. He knows Deacon's reading him like a book to give him what he wants. But he still believes it, even with all of that in plain view.
It's true that Deacon learned long ago that treating Synths like people made all the difference in the world, but praising Danse like this is far beyond the normal treatment Deacon may have given others of his kind. While he'd always treated them with patience and kindness, his attitude towards Danse in particular changed when he'd begun this journey in Revan, traveling alongside him. Deacon's teasing good boys had a much different reaction than he'd expected, and it became almost a game to him to poke and prod at Danse with affections that delicately peeled apart his tough outer shell and revealed the softness beneath it.
It had been addiction, after that, but Deacon had always had a more addictive personality than most. Fortunately, making Danse's cheeks turn pink and his eyes blow wide was a far greater high than any chem he'd tried, and it didn't take very long at all for him to simply desire to make the other man happy. Maybe it was a little manipulative of him, but with the most honest intentions he was capable of.
"I'm here, baby," he reminds Danse, lips trailing kisses over his scars to his brow while his fingers slip out of him and trail up over his balls and along the firm shaft of his cock, teasing him. "You have me. You'll always have me."
Deacon doesn't tease him further, lining himself up and pushing inside until he feels his cockhead slip past his rim, nice and easy.
Easy as it is, it still draws a sharp breath into Danse's lungs, makes him clench before forcing himself to relax again, when his nerves are already wire-tense and vibrating from Deacon's teasing. And the distraction is beneficial right now, when his penchant for anxiety would otherwise be making him dissect that romantic promise instead of drinking it in like the sweet reassurance it's meant to be.
His heels dig into the small of Deacon's back, pulling him deliberately in deeper, slow but sure and steady. The burn is sweet, perfect, enough to fill his mind with nothing but sensation and want, enough to crowd out the worries that might encroach. Deacon's promising him things he's spent his entire life aching to hear, and Danse knows that at least in this, he isn't lying on purpose--but can either of them promise such a thing?
He won't be able to put that question off all night. But for now, just for now, he can wrap himself around Deacon and think of nothing but how perfect his cock feels, and whisper that into his ear while nuzzling and kissing his temple in what has very quickly become a reflex. Danse loves when the shades are off and there's nothing stopping him from brushing his lips over the points of Deacon's face where they would be sitting.
"Don't know what I would have done here without you," he murmurs, voice hoarse.
Deacon doesn't think of these things when he says it, too caught up in the fantasy of it all. He does know that their lives in Revan aren't stable now that they've seemingly glitched home and back, but he also knows that if he had any choice in the matter, he'd follow Danse anywhere, whether they remembered their relationship or not. Perhaps it's fantasy too for him to think that they'd inevitably fall for one another again wherever they end up, but he'd rather gamble with that than the alternative.
The clench of Danse's body and the way he squeezes around him makes Deacon groan with pleasure. He lets himself be drawn deeper, pulsing his hips to help with easing himself inside while he basks in the affections Danse gives him. He nuzzles and kisses back against Danse's throat, inhaling at that soft whispered confession.
"You'd survive," he murmurs back, kissing over his pulse. "Fight for the others, do the right thing," Deacon answers easily, continuing to kiss along Danse's neck with every pause.
"You wouldn't give up, and then you'd find me again. Isn't that right, my good boy?"
"When you say that, it's easy to believe." The irony in that is unspoken, they both know it, but leaving it unsaid is Danse's gesture of affection in the same manner of Deacon insisting that he trusts Danse to do the right thing. Deacon being trustworthy and Danse having a moral compass that would satisfy the Railroad used to be the last things either of them would take for granted--but they can, here. Maybe it would be the same back home now. Maybe it will yet.
The good boy makes him shiver again, a delicious full-body shudder of pleasure and a tightening of his stomach, feeding into the sensation of those kisses along his neck and priming him to be even more sensitive to the heat of Deacon's mouth. He tightens the grip of his arms as Deacon bottoms out inside him, holding him still and steady for a moment when this feels important to talk about and yet his thoughts want to slip away like soap.
"You'd let me try again, even if we forgot all of this? You'd still want it? I know you didn't hate me or anything, but--"
Danse's shiver carries through Deacon's body like a wave, feeling the way he tightens against him has him moaning softly against his neck. He pulls back enough to look over Danse's face, watch the way his big brown eyes stare up at him while he speaks. Deacon's own expression grows achingly soft, a hand reaching up to pet through Danse's hair.
"I've always considered you an ally," he replies effortlessly. It's true, too, that he'd told Nora himself that Danse was their pal, that he was a good person caught up under bad leadership. "I can only imagine that even without the influence this place may have had, that I'd still be drawn your way."
He knows that much is true, at least, given Danse is a synth in need of protection. It's likely their relationship would have remained much more professional back home as it had been before Danse chose that name, but who knows? He hopes this much is comforting, at least, even if it does stir up complicated feelings about having known Danse much longer than he realizes.
It is comforting, more than Deacon realizes or even perhaps intended it to be. It comes as more of a surprise to Danse than Deacon probably meant it to be, either, and the twinge of guilt that it wasn't mutual is just strong enough to project through the pack link when they're tangled up this intimately in each other--but it's brief, and it's not as strong as it might be, because Danse can say he'd trusted Deacon more than anyone else from the Brotherhood had, even before he'd known he had any reason to.
It's a very low bar to clear. But there never had been anything personal about his wary suspicion, never anything about Deacon himself that Danse had taken issue with. Even his grousing about manipulation and subterfuge had come from an odd place of something more like disappointment than contempt, something like a wish or expectation for Deacon to do better, because Danse had faith that he could.
Where that faith came from, he'd never analyzed. He'd chalked it up to Deacon simply being far more inherently likable than a whiny little weasel like MacCready or a resentful scold like Preston. Pinkerton's memory wipe hadn't been so shoddy as to make Deacon read as familiar to him. But impressions can linger, maybe, where memories themselves don't.
And maybe that will comfort Danse too, when all is said and done and his burst of anger at learning the truth has fizzled out--the proven promise that he'll always still feel for Deacon, the knowledge that it's happened before and will happen again, that everything they have together now is built on what came before it, no matter whether both or one or neither of them remembers it. It's all more than the sum of its parts.
"Good," he murmurs, turning his head to kiss the inside of Deacon's wrist as those fingers comb through his hair, melted and mesmerized by that look. His arms loosen their grip, needing movement again, hips beginning to rock and pick the rhythm back up. "I'll hold you to it."
Deacon doesn't acknowledge the guilt; another rabbit hole to fall down if he does, and it's perfectly reasonable that it hadn't been mutual, given their knowledge of one another at the time. His lips simply brush up along the bridge of Danse's nose to kiss the spot between his eyebrows and wordlessly tell him he's accepted despite it.
"You can hold me all night-" he breathes, "Later-"
That rocking of Danse's hips is met with a slow build of thrusts from Deacon's hips in-time, his cock pulling out further to slide deep again until the force behind them is causing their skin to audibly slap together.
"Right now, I want you to let go," he growls, "And let me take care of you..."
His nose scrunches under that sweet unexpected kiss, tail giving an upward wag that brushes it in a quick sharp tease across the backs of Deacon's thighs and over his balls, the motion only half as inadvertent as usual.
It's the last gasp of concentration that his brain can manage, though, as Deacon's pace grows perfectly relentless, just as rough as Danse can handle and no more--he always ought to have known Deacon would apply those too-sharp powers of observation to being a considerate lover, but nobody else ever has wanted to take care of his pleasure this way.
He lets his body go slack, lets himself surrender as thoroughly as Deacon urges him to, lets his weight be jolted and jostled with the momentum of those thrusts and arches his back to meet them as his pleasure builds and builds on itself. He could almost come like this with his cock untouched, so good does that mindless indulgence feel, but he slips a hand between them anyway to stroke himself and heighten it all to perfection.
His mind is open, that link between them a gate thrown wide to share that sensation, letting Deacon feel what it would be like to fuck and be fucked at the same time--and it isn't deliberate, but it would be if Danse only knew he were doing it and knew how, his reciprocal contribution to the ecstasy Deacon's rapidly driving him toward.
"Fuck," he gasps, "oh, fuck, Deacon, that's how I need it--"
Deacon gasps at the brush of Danse's tail. He'd have forgotten it was there had it not been wagging against the mattress to begin with, but he hadn't expected that soft fur to tease him like that.
"God-" he breathes, "Such a good boy..."
Kisses are pressed along his jaw, nipping at skin until his nose is nuzzling against the soft furry ear behind it. "You're so fucking gorgeous when you touch yourself like that. When you lose control and talk dirty..." he purrs, "Take your pleasure, baby, I--"
That link between them has his voice choking off abruptly again, suddenly overwhelmed by the pleasure emitting between them. Internal and external stimulation with that emotional edge, his blood burning him up from the inside-out. Deacon's cock throbs inside of Danse as his thrusts grow slightly uneven, a low, deep moan goes unsuppressed against Danse's ear.
"Is that-- Danse..." he breathes, his voice tight as if he's ready to come on the spot. "Feels so good."
The gravelly moan in his ear feels so much deeper with his heightened senses, as if the sound itself is stroking him with those vibrations. He doesn't know what he's doing, what he's projecting--but a memory stirs now, triggered by Deacon's reaction, one Danse had been drunk enough to forget at the time but that resurfaces now with clarity.
He can remember Deacon clinging to him then as he does now, gasping as if Danse had made him come with words alone, and he remembers too how it might well have been the hottest damn thing he'd ever seen in his life. He'll ask about it this time, needing to pin down what's causing it so that he can make it happen again, but not now, not yet, when his own pleasure is drowning out his train of thought and Deacon is urging him on with such sweet intoxicating praise.
"So good," he echoes, "so fucking good, I'm so close--"
He likes to hold out and let Deacon come first, when he can, both of them oddly chivalrous in that way, but he wouldn't be able to right now if he tried. The nails of his free hand dig into Deacon's back again as he cries out, strangled and rough as he spills between them, their bodies so tight-pressed that there's no option except for both of them to share and revel in the mess.
Even if Danse could hold out, Deacon can't any longer, that intensity from both Danse's pleasure and his own making his vision go blank as he thrusts deep and spills inside of Danse. He can't even cry out, breath caught somewhere as he shudders through his orgasm. It isn't until his thoughts come back and he tries to rut and grind against Danse that he realizes why he feels so tight; just as Danse had done to him before, his own cock is swollen at the base, a wide knot keeping them stuck together so that not a drop of him is lost.
"Fuck--" he gasps when he's finally capable, "Holy shit... this is--" he pants, his face pressed to Danse's cheek, "...How's it feel to be on the other end of this?" he teazes breathlessly, hips grinding in punctuation.
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"I want it on purpose, this time," he replies huskily, "I want marks left by your teeth in my skin, so no one has to question that I'm yours."
Deacon licks at his own lips, his thumb reaching over to stroke along Danse's lower lip to encourage a peek at those fangs behind it.
"Of course, I'm more than happy to return the favor..."
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At home, the desire would have been stronger for Deacon to be the one doing the marking, leaving bruises and imprints on his skin despite his toughness, proof that he belongs somewhere and to whom--but here, the wolf does have desires of its own. Even without its influence, Danse does want to stake a claim on the people who mean the most to him, quiet and heated.
It's only the thought of purposely drawing blood that gives him pause right now, and not so much of one, either. Scratches down the back, kiss-bruises on the throat and inner thighs, all of these are Danse's bread and butter already, but to use these razor fangs and leave a real, solid, lingering mark...he isn't sure, even as it makes his cock strain at his suit to think of it being visible on Deacon's ginger-pale skin as he goes about the rest of his week, wordless proof that he has a mate who goes feral for him.
"I just don't want to hurt you." But when he throbs, too, at the very thought of Deacon returning the favor in exactly the same way--how much harm does it actually do?
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"You won't," he answers with a purr, "Not in any way I won't like."
Deacon sits up slightly, enough to lean down and capture Danse's soft lips in another reassuring kiss, one where his fangs graze delicately over his skin to remind him that they're there before pulling back to look him in the eyes again.
"I don't trust that many people, babe, but I trust you."
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It would mortify him now had Deacon hesitated even for a second to oblige him, had Deacon sounded anything short of exactly as pleased by it as he was, but they do understand each other. For someone as perpetually on-edge as Deacon to be not only letting Danse take knife-sharp teeth to his throat, but asking him for it--what greater proof of trust or care could Danse ask for? And he knows that he's earned it, too. Not just with his own obedient submission, his own growing faith in Deacon, but with his steadfast support through all the horrors this place has shown them.
He holds those blank blue eyes without faltering, but presses forward for another kiss before Deacon can pull back too far, testing the waters with something only as sharp as he's done unthinkingly before. He sucks Deacon's lower lip tenderly into his mouth and gives it a gentle bite--just sharp enough to prick and catch, drawing just enough blood to taste, as he pulls Deacon's lip outward with him before letting go.
He could get a taste for that. He doesn't want to--but he could. He isn't built to be energized by it the way Deacon is, but he might as well be for the passion with which he ducks back in now, kissing his way down from Deacon's ear and over his jaw to his throat, nuzzling hotly into it before letting his teeth break the skin again. It takes so little effort, sharp as they are. It's harder to temper them than to puncture with them.
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It's why after another kiss and small gasp at the way Danse's fangs catch on his lip, Deacon whispers praise against them.
"Good boy..." is rasped there before his neck cranes for Danse to freely explore. He'd have more to say if it weren't for the feeling of Danse's teeth sinking into skin making him gasp raggedly, his arms squeezing around Danse's shoulders to hold him close. His cock throbs between them, causing his hips to grind subconsciously into Danse's as he moans in delicious pain-pleasure.
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His own voice rumbles deep against Deacon's skin as he moans, more sensation than sound, lapping up the welling blood as Deacon had done to him before--the synth he was at home might have revolted at the prospect of drinking human blood; the werewolf relishes it like wine--and finally pulling away to admire his handiwork only when he's been sure to get both top and bottom fangs in there, sinking in far enough to feel each one, for a set of four neat and visible marks on Deacon's neck.
It's possible someone might think he has two very precise vampire lovers. Danse is pretty sure people will know who did the biting, though. He grins, lips stained red, and begins to peel his suit the rest of the way off, kicking away his boots as he does and multitasking with another kiss. "That enough of a mark for you?"
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That neediness is echoed in the kiss, his tongue diving deep into his mouth and tasting his own blood on Danse's tongue with a growl. There's a renewed energy within him that he can't explain; the same sort of feral hunger he'd felt the last time that Danse had bitten him. It somehow makes the mark feel sweeter, claimed and part of something, and with his feeling rapidly returning to his legs, Deacon finds the strength to roll and flip their positions until he has Danse pinned beneath him.
"It's perfect. You're perfect," he rumbles, bowing against Danse to sink his own teeth in his neck and renew the mark he'd left before.
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And just as before, Deacon's pinning weight brings with it a sense of rightness, a lightheaded urge to roll over for him in eager submission and stretch his neck out for the taking, arms twining around his shoulders as he gasps again and lets Deacon drink from him.
"You'd better be ready to go all night," he pants, but even the teasing is subdued despite its phrasing, because one doesn't really make demands of the alpha wolf. His wish, as before, is just Deacon's strong recommendation--still, surrender comes so much more easily when he knows Deacon will give him everything he wants anyway.
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Deacon laughs darkly, hands raking down Danse's sides until they can hook beneath his thighs and hike them up around him. "Be careful what you wish for," he purrs, giving his backside a little tap, "When I'm finished with you it'll be you that needs carrying around the convoy."
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"Take a few more swigs of blood and you should be just fine to do it," he tosses back, fingers cradling and massaging at Deacon's scalp as if longing for that soft fuzz to bury them in.
Danse might be generally more oblivious than most to exactly how powers tend to work around here, particularly his own, but even he can connect the dots between Deacon's greedy thirst for his blood last time and the way he'd been able to hold Danse up and impale him on his cock as if he weighed nothing at all. Just the memory of it has Danse throbbing between them, hard and slick and fever-hot against Deacon's stomach as his pulse quickens.
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"Not yet-" he replies, "I want you conscious so that I can take pride in wearing you out."
The tail thumping and the desperate way Danse clings to and throbs against him have him dizzy, and Deacon doesn't hesitate to smother his neck and jaw with kisses as his fingers work diligently to get him to relax.
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"You'll do admirably," he pants, trying his best to melt further into the mattress, until Deacon's finger strokes just where he needs it and he tightens up again with another buck of his hips and a choked-out "God."
His legs adjust their grip around Deacon's waist, trying to offer more of himself to that touch, open himself more to those fingers, as he turns his face to catch Deacon's lips again with his own and moan softly into the kiss. He could touch himself, could just fit a hand between the press of their bodies, but he digs his nails into Deacon's back instead, because he can.
"Almost," he gasps, "almost--" His impatience to feel Deacon inside him can just wait until he's loose enough.
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Danse's kiss is met once again with the plunge of Deacon's tongue, sucking at Danse's and tasting all of him, sucking at his lower lip with a growl that rumbles deep within his chest.
"I won't rush you, Baby Brahmin, " he coos, his finger sawing in and out of Danse now, "I'll savor every moment like this; every moment where you are relaxed and in bliss. You deserve that, and so much more," Deacon kisses at Danse's jawline, nuzzling against it while his hips grind easily against Danse's, the slick from their mutual arousal making it all the sweeter.
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"--want to feel you already," he finishes, when he can find words again after that sidetracking, flushed bright all over and nearly trembling with pleasure and tension at more of that verbal spoiling. Nobody, nobody but Deacon knows how to make up for lost time that way, knowing that nobody's ever told Danse anything like this before.
It could set off some flags or questions in Danse's mind, but it doesn't--Deacon's certainly worked with enough Institute-fresh synths to know how people treat them underground, and nobody has to be intimately acquainted with the Brotherhood to know that praise and tenderness are in short supply there as well, and even were both of those things not true, Danse has some sense of how poorly he hides his own starvation for affection. He knows Deacon's reading him like a book to give him what he wants. But he still believes it, even with all of that in plain view.
"Please, I don't need any more--"
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It had been addiction, after that, but Deacon had always had a more addictive personality than most. Fortunately, making Danse's cheeks turn pink and his eyes blow wide was a far greater high than any chem he'd tried, and it didn't take very long at all for him to simply desire to make the other man happy. Maybe it was a little manipulative of him, but with the most honest intentions he was capable of.
"I'm here, baby," he reminds Danse, lips trailing kisses over his scars to his brow while his fingers slip out of him and trail up over his balls and along the firm shaft of his cock, teasing him. "You have me. You'll always have me."
Deacon doesn't tease him further, lining himself up and pushing inside until he feels his cockhead slip past his rim, nice and easy.
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His heels dig into the small of Deacon's back, pulling him deliberately in deeper, slow but sure and steady. The burn is sweet, perfect, enough to fill his mind with nothing but sensation and want, enough to crowd out the worries that might encroach. Deacon's promising him things he's spent his entire life aching to hear, and Danse knows that at least in this, he isn't lying on purpose--but can either of them promise such a thing?
He won't be able to put that question off all night. But for now, just for now, he can wrap himself around Deacon and think of nothing but how perfect his cock feels, and whisper that into his ear while nuzzling and kissing his temple in what has very quickly become a reflex. Danse loves when the shades are off and there's nothing stopping him from brushing his lips over the points of Deacon's face where they would be sitting.
"Don't know what I would have done here without you," he murmurs, voice hoarse.
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The clench of Danse's body and the way he squeezes around him makes Deacon groan with pleasure. He lets himself be drawn deeper, pulsing his hips to help with easing himself inside while he basks in the affections Danse gives him. He nuzzles and kisses back against Danse's throat, inhaling at that soft whispered confession.
"You'd survive," he murmurs back, kissing over his pulse. "Fight for the others, do the right thing," Deacon answers easily, continuing to kiss along Danse's neck with every pause.
"You wouldn't give up, and then you'd find me again. Isn't that right, my good boy?"
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The good boy makes him shiver again, a delicious full-body shudder of pleasure and a tightening of his stomach, feeding into the sensation of those kisses along his neck and priming him to be even more sensitive to the heat of Deacon's mouth. He tightens the grip of his arms as Deacon bottoms out inside him, holding him still and steady for a moment when this feels important to talk about and yet his thoughts want to slip away like soap.
"You'd let me try again, even if we forgot all of this? You'd still want it? I know you didn't hate me or anything, but--"
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"I've always considered you an ally," he replies effortlessly. It's true, too, that he'd told Nora himself that Danse was their pal, that he was a good person caught up under bad leadership. "I can only imagine that even without the influence this place may have had, that I'd still be drawn your way."
He knows that much is true, at least, given Danse is a synth in need of protection. It's likely their relationship would have remained much more professional back home as it had been before Danse chose that name, but who knows? He hopes this much is comforting, at least, even if it does stir up complicated feelings about having known Danse much longer than he realizes.
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It's a very low bar to clear. But there never had been anything personal about his wary suspicion, never anything about Deacon himself that Danse had taken issue with. Even his grousing about manipulation and subterfuge had come from an odd place of something more like disappointment than contempt, something like a wish or expectation for Deacon to do better, because Danse had faith that he could.
Where that faith came from, he'd never analyzed. He'd chalked it up to Deacon simply being far more inherently likable than a whiny little weasel like MacCready or a resentful scold like Preston. Pinkerton's memory wipe hadn't been so shoddy as to make Deacon read as familiar to him. But impressions can linger, maybe, where memories themselves don't.
And maybe that will comfort Danse too, when all is said and done and his burst of anger at learning the truth has fizzled out--the proven promise that he'll always still feel for Deacon, the knowledge that it's happened before and will happen again, that everything they have together now is built on what came before it, no matter whether both or one or neither of them remembers it. It's all more than the sum of its parts.
"Good," he murmurs, turning his head to kiss the inside of Deacon's wrist as those fingers comb through his hair, melted and mesmerized by that look. His arms loosen their grip, needing movement again, hips beginning to rock and pick the rhythm back up. "I'll hold you to it."
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"You can hold me all night-" he breathes, "Later-"
That rocking of Danse's hips is met with a slow build of thrusts from Deacon's hips in-time, his cock pulling out further to slide deep again until the force behind them is causing their skin to audibly slap together.
"Right now, I want you to let go," he growls, "And let me take care of you..."
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It's the last gasp of concentration that his brain can manage, though, as Deacon's pace grows perfectly relentless, just as rough as Danse can handle and no more--he always ought to have known Deacon would apply those too-sharp powers of observation to being a considerate lover, but nobody else ever has wanted to take care of his pleasure this way.
He lets his body go slack, lets himself surrender as thoroughly as Deacon urges him to, lets his weight be jolted and jostled with the momentum of those thrusts and arches his back to meet them as his pleasure builds and builds on itself. He could almost come like this with his cock untouched, so good does that mindless indulgence feel, but he slips a hand between them anyway to stroke himself and heighten it all to perfection.
His mind is open, that link between them a gate thrown wide to share that sensation, letting Deacon feel what it would be like to fuck and be fucked at the same time--and it isn't deliberate, but it would be if Danse only knew he were doing it and knew how, his reciprocal contribution to the ecstasy Deacon's rapidly driving him toward.
"Fuck," he gasps, "oh, fuck, Deacon, that's how I need it--"
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"God-" he breathes, "Such a good boy..."
Kisses are pressed along his jaw, nipping at skin until his nose is nuzzling against the soft furry ear behind it. "You're so fucking gorgeous when you touch yourself like that. When you lose control and talk dirty..." he purrs, "Take your pleasure, baby, I--"
That link between them has his voice choking off abruptly again, suddenly overwhelmed by the pleasure emitting between them. Internal and external stimulation with that emotional edge, his blood burning him up from the inside-out. Deacon's cock throbs inside of Danse as his thrusts grow slightly uneven, a low, deep moan goes unsuppressed against Danse's ear.
"Is that-- Danse..." he breathes, his voice tight as if he's ready to come on the spot. "Feels so good."
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He can remember Deacon clinging to him then as he does now, gasping as if Danse had made him come with words alone, and he remembers too how it might well have been the hottest damn thing he'd ever seen in his life. He'll ask about it this time, needing to pin down what's causing it so that he can make it happen again, but not now, not yet, when his own pleasure is drowning out his train of thought and Deacon is urging him on with such sweet intoxicating praise.
"So good," he echoes, "so fucking good, I'm so close--"
He likes to hold out and let Deacon come first, when he can, both of them oddly chivalrous in that way, but he wouldn't be able to right now if he tried. The nails of his free hand dig into Deacon's back again as he cries out, strangled and rough as he spills between them, their bodies so tight-pressed that there's no option except for both of them to share and revel in the mess.
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"Fuck--" he gasps when he's finally capable, "Holy shit... this is--" he pants, his face pressed to Danse's cheek, "...How's it feel to be on the other end of this?" he teazes breathlessly, hips grinding in punctuation.
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