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.
Maybe this shouldn't come as the startling, shout-inducing surprise to Danse that it does. It's not that he's forgotten how this happened before, the other way around. He had, in fact, been rather leery of doing anything that might cause his dick to trap Deacon in place like that again, until he'd been soundly reassured that it was a feature rather than a bug and Deacon had no issue with it whatsoever.
But this does not explain why it's now happening to him, stretching him and filling him and binding him in a way he's never even imagined the like of, let alone felt. It's a burning, heart-pounding adjustment, one he's almost about to say is too much as long as Deacon's asking, but when his body relaxes further, settles into it just a bit more, it's not. His body is Institute-tough on top of werewolf-strong, he's been teased and spoiled and fucked open well enough, and when Deacon grinds to let Danse feel the slickness of that come trapped right inside him where he greedily knows it belongs, the gasp it elicits now is one of exhausted pleasure.
"Are you doing it on purpose?" he asks, dazed. It's the only explanation that would seem to make sense, except that the way Deacon had been moving in the immediate aftermath had suggested he wasn't expecting it any more than Danse was that first time. "Because I'm not complaining, but--I recall you having a different configuration of parts when I did it."
"I don't think so," he breathes, easy to forget he can be so easily changeable whenever he desires to be. "But I can probably undo it, if need be."
Deacon shifts slightly, his weight resting carefully atop Danse for the moment. "It's like something comes over me when we're together..." he starts, "Urges. Feelings. More intense than they have any right to be. Like I'm feeling them for both of us."
It's the best way he can explain the pact bond between them without having the right understanding or vocabulary for it. He knows it's something to do with their powers though, because it's too intense to not be, and the pull of the moon has come to be a very specific feeling to Deacon.
He nuzzles against Danse's face again, resting there until his breathing returns to normal. "For the record though, it's fucking hot from this side, too."
It's quicker, sharper, more vehement than Danse even expects it to be, let alone means for it to be. But the very thought of Deacon moving--leaving him empty, bereft, even if he's still right there--makes Danse tighten his grip, arms holding him right there in place with that possessive wolf-strength, knees giving his sides a stern don't you dare squeeze before letting go to try and find the most comfortable position to stay in this exact spot for the next half-hour.
(That position involves turning partway onto his side, just a bit, the better to nuzzle into the curve of Deacon's neck and rest on his shoulder.)
It's enough to know Deacon could use his powers to separate them early if an emergency made it necessary. That doesn't mean Danse wants him to do it for anything short of another cyborg attack. Deacon's weight atop him is easy, only heavy enough to feel like the deep comfort of a weighted blanket, and Danse finds himself letting his body go slack again in order to be a better and softer mattress for him, guided by the sense-memory of doing it for Jane Doe last time. His hand reaches up to massage softly and soothingly at Deacon's scalp with the pads of his fingers.
"Do you remember where we were when you first arrived? That valley with all of the bizarre...gravity issues. Do you remember how we could hear each other's thoughts? I don't know why I would still be able to do that, though. We must be hundreds or thousands of miles from there by now."
Deacon grunts, his hips jolting forward as if he could push himself deeper in response to the demanding way that Danse responds. He wouldn't have changed unless Danse had asked him to, but the possessiveness is enough to turn him on all over again.
"God," he breathes, murmuring against Danse's ear, "Remind me to find something on our next city trip to keep me from leaking out of you..." An unlikely find, sure, but he can fantasize. Especially once they're relaxed and comfortable and Deacon can look over Danse dreamily while he reminds him of his first arrival.
"...Actually, I nearly forgot about that until you mentioned it. Maybe it was never the place, and it's just something you can do."
The concept concerns him, because there are still things that Deacon would be worried about Danse finding in his thoughts. Things he hasn't told him yet out of respect for a previous version of his' wishes.
"Share that sort of thing all you want in bed, but promise me you won't go rooting around in my head until I've gotten to at least warn you of all the mess you'll find."
An unlikely fantasy, but one that makes Danse's skin flood with heat and color, drawing in a quick shivering breath at the mere suggestion. If he were even a fraction less thoroughly spent right now, he'd be hardening again already at the mental image of going about his day with Deacon's come still bound up safe inside him, where Danse can feel it and think of him with every step and shift.
The desire and affection and trust inherent in that proposal are what make that next warning feel all the more incongruous, in a way. Danse has been nuzzling deeper into Deacon's neck, kissing the sweat away from it in eager unspoken agreement to the previous idea, but at this, he pulls back to look into those blank gray eyes again.
"I didn't even do that to you then," he reminds Deacon, with mild but sincere offense. "You can't think I would be more likely to do it without permission now."
After a moment, though, he feels like he needs to elaborate, though the offense is smoothed over again with another soft, pensive kiss to the underside of Deacon's jaw. "Part of that is because I trust that you'd tell me if there was something important, though." What qualifies as 'important' here, even Danse isn't really sure, but he supposes he'd know it if he heard it.
"I know, I know..." he sighs in defeat, petting reassuringly at Danse's hair. "It's not even you. The last big lore drops weren't given with either of our consents, I just-"
Deacon sighs again, clearly struggling with this. It's been so long since he's been this close to anyone, let alone physically. His head tips up and he kisses Danse's forehead, starting again after clearing his throat.
"I trust you," he breathes warmly, "There's just a lot I still feel like I should tell you; too much to dump on you all at once... and I just don't want you to find out because I didn't get to share it on my own." His expression is mildly pouty as he pulls back enough to look at Danse again. "I'm sorry. Maybe we're back here for a reason. A second chance..."
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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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But this does not explain why it's now happening to him, stretching him and filling him and binding him in a way he's never even imagined the like of, let alone felt. It's a burning, heart-pounding adjustment, one he's almost about to say is too much as long as Deacon's asking, but when his body relaxes further, settles into it just a bit more, it's not. His body is Institute-tough on top of werewolf-strong, he's been teased and spoiled and fucked open well enough, and when Deacon grinds to let Danse feel the slickness of that come trapped right inside him where he greedily knows it belongs, the gasp it elicits now is one of exhausted pleasure.
"Are you doing it on purpose?" he asks, dazed. It's the only explanation that would seem to make sense, except that the way Deacon had been moving in the immediate aftermath had suggested he wasn't expecting it any more than Danse was that first time. "Because I'm not complaining, but--I recall you having a different configuration of parts when I did it."
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Deacon shifts slightly, his weight resting carefully atop Danse for the moment. "It's like something comes over me when we're together..." he starts, "Urges. Feelings. More intense than they have any right to be. Like I'm feeling them for both of us."
It's the best way he can explain the pact bond between them without having the right understanding or vocabulary for it. He knows it's something to do with their powers though, because it's too intense to not be, and the pull of the moon has come to be a very specific feeling to Deacon.
He nuzzles against Danse's face again, resting there until his breathing returns to normal. "For the record though, it's fucking hot from this side, too."
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It's quicker, sharper, more vehement than Danse even expects it to be, let alone means for it to be. But the very thought of Deacon moving--leaving him empty, bereft, even if he's still right there--makes Danse tighten his grip, arms holding him right there in place with that possessive wolf-strength, knees giving his sides a stern don't you dare squeeze before letting go to try and find the most comfortable position to stay in this exact spot for the next half-hour.
(That position involves turning partway onto his side, just a bit, the better to nuzzle into the curve of Deacon's neck and rest on his shoulder.)
It's enough to know Deacon could use his powers to separate them early if an emergency made it necessary. That doesn't mean Danse wants him to do it for anything short of another cyborg attack. Deacon's weight atop him is easy, only heavy enough to feel like the deep comfort of a weighted blanket, and Danse finds himself letting his body go slack again in order to be a better and softer mattress for him, guided by the sense-memory of doing it for Jane Doe last time. His hand reaches up to massage softly and soothingly at Deacon's scalp with the pads of his fingers.
"Do you remember where we were when you first arrived? That valley with all of the bizarre...gravity issues. Do you remember how we could hear each other's thoughts? I don't know why I would still be able to do that, though. We must be hundreds or thousands of miles from there by now."
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"God," he breathes, murmuring against Danse's ear, "Remind me to find something on our next city trip to keep me from leaking out of you..." An unlikely find, sure, but he can fantasize. Especially once they're relaxed and comfortable and Deacon can look over Danse dreamily while he reminds him of his first arrival.
"...Actually, I nearly forgot about that until you mentioned it. Maybe it was never the place, and it's just something you can do."
The concept concerns him, because there are still things that Deacon would be worried about Danse finding in his thoughts. Things he hasn't told him yet out of respect for a previous version of his' wishes.
"Share that sort of thing all you want in bed, but promise me you won't go rooting around in my head until I've gotten to at least warn you of all the mess you'll find."
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The desire and affection and trust inherent in that proposal are what make that next warning feel all the more incongruous, in a way. Danse has been nuzzling deeper into Deacon's neck, kissing the sweat away from it in eager unspoken agreement to the previous idea, but at this, he pulls back to look into those blank gray eyes again.
"I didn't even do that to you then," he reminds Deacon, with mild but sincere offense. "You can't think I would be more likely to do it without permission now."
After a moment, though, he feels like he needs to elaborate, though the offense is smoothed over again with another soft, pensive kiss to the underside of Deacon's jaw. "Part of that is because I trust that you'd tell me if there was something important, though." What qualifies as 'important' here, even Danse isn't really sure, but he supposes he'd know it if he heard it.
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Deacon sighs again, clearly struggling with this. It's been so long since he's been this close to anyone, let alone physically. His head tips up and he kisses Danse's forehead, starting again after clearing his throat.
"I trust you," he breathes warmly, "There's just a lot I still feel like I should tell you; too much to dump on you all at once... and I just don't want you to find out because I didn't get to share it on my own." His expression is mildly pouty as he pulls back enough to look at Danse again. "I'm sorry. Maybe we're back here for a reason. A second chance..."