Danse can hazard vague guesses as to the sort of thing Deacon might mean. Fomenting anarchy and chaos in the name of the Railroad, destabilizing society for the sheer hell of it, or so the Brotherhood thought without sparing much consideration as to the reasons why they'd want to do it. There was a time when Danse would have thought the same, even after knowing he owed his own freedom to that so-called chaos.
It just doesn't feel important here. No conflict from home does, in the face of what they've built in this world and the pack bond that's proven itself to supersede prior allegiances. Even at home, Danse was beginning to come around to giving the Railroad more of its due credit, but the going had been slow and the progress nonlinear. It would still have stood in the way of something like this, at least for the time being.
His throat tightens at the notion that they need to travel to a different world entirely to get a second chance. It's distracting enough that he doesn't analyze the choice of phrase any further, to wonder if Deacon really does just mean the way they've found themselves here again for another try. When he blinks, his eyes are wet.
"I'll take it," he says, quiet and hoarse. "I know neither of us can make any promises about what we'd do back home, Deacon, but I'll let a lot of bygones be bygones here. You're what's important. If you've...I don't know, killed Brotherhood soldiers or sabotaged their operations or something, it's in the past. I'm not losing this now."
Oddly enough, none of those things are what really worries Deacon. Danse has seen his ugly past already and knows what he is capable of. He has seen his most traumatic memories too, the things that molded him into the person Danse now knows him as. What he's done in service of the Railroad is a given. He'd think Danse could assume all sorts of things, and whether or not they are misconceptions doesn't bother him.
The biggest component of his memory that he fears Danse seeing are the memories where he's the star. A younger man, M7-97 at the time, traveling with Jane Doe from the Commonwealth to the Capital. Burly as he is, he looked so small curled up in a sleeping bag on the floor of a safehouse while Jane stood watch. Just as small somehow tucked in against her side on the colder nights, while she idly pet at his hair like she imagined she may do had she had a son of her own.
Jarring, how different they are. A memory wipe and some implanted memories later... and a good twenty years or so of life in the Wasteland made Danse almost unrecognizable with a passing glance. But he had looked Danse in the eyes at the police station when Nora answered their distress call and recognized him instantly. It took the breath right out of him, then, easily played off with exasperation after fighting off a pack of ferals, but they make him breathless now for a different reason entirely.
Maybe that's why hearing 'You're what's important' hits Deacon harder than he could have ever anticipated. He feels an aching pull in his chest at those words, at the way Danse looks up at him with big, wet eyes that plead with him all on their own. Deacon's own throat feels tight suddenly, a burning feeling that he tries to swallow down, his desire to remain stoic for Danse as he'd always been, even decades ago, a reflex at this point.
"No. You're stuck with me, I'm afraid," he says softly, his tone sweeter than it is teasing. "Don't worry about any of that..."
As his voice trails off, he shifts slightly, eyes still trained on Danse's. He can feel himself starting to soften already, making it easier to settle in beside Danse with less restriction. When he speaks again, there's a vulnerability to it that wasn't there, before.
Danse eases gradually onto his side too as the knot begins to shrink, until they're facing each other in that gentle still-joined tangle of limbs. He curls against Deacon's chest, as utterly unconscious as he always is of the way he mirrors his former self when he does that.
He'll never remember burrowing against Jane for warmth, unprepared for the inhospitable cold of the surface after knowing nothing in his life beyond the too-hot, poorly-ventilated maintenance tunnels of the Institute. He doesn't recall the way she soothed him through nightmares that he didn't have the language to describe, because the Institute's official scientific position was that synths couldn't dream--why would they ever need to know what those terrible sleeping flashbacks were called?
It isn't a perfect mirror, anyway. For all his muscle, M7 had been passive enough to manhandle, or at least to follow Jane's lead in all things. Danse, no matter how submissive he might enjoy being at the height of arousal, is still so long-accustomed to command now that it's second-nature to guide Deacon's body as they shift under the blanket, to be the one gently manhandling him now that they're basking in the afterglow, directing things to work best for them both.
And that vulnerability in Deacon's voice--rare, but not unprecedented, not here, not for Danse--makes him all the more fiercely determined to give back that stoic protection and reassurance when it's needed. He doesn't need to remember Jane doing it when Deacon's done it often enough for him just as they are. And it's a good, fair question. It's one Danse has given a lot of thought, over the months before they found themselves torn away from the carnival here. He doesn't have a simple answer, but he can at least continue that thought process aloud, let Deacon work on it with him somehow.
"It's..." He's trying to distill it down to its most important aspects, even without a single word he can assign to it. "It's something I want to last. I don't want either of us anticipating an endpoint to it. And I know it goes without saying that we're not doing this with anyone else--" Goes without saying, or just has already been said outright, in a dozen other different ways. "But I might as well say it too, if you're asking."
In effect, in the most roundabout and awkward way he could possibly have described it, a lifetime commitment. There's just something that still feels missing, unspoken, that he isn't sure how to articulate, and he rests his forehead briefly against Deacon's shoulder again as he parses it out.
"If I call you my mate, it feels like giving this place and these damn mutations too much credit. I don't want it to sound like I wouldn't feel this for you without...animal instinct involved. I would."
There's a give-and-take between them that Deacon wouldn't trade for the world. As much as he desires control and autonomy of his own, he admires any show of strength from Danse and finds the act of giving himself over to the other man's care very freeing. Letting Danse position their bodied together for optimal cuddling is an easy task, benefiting directly from it by feeling cared for by someone else for the first time in decades.
Deacon is quiet as Danse explains, his hands rubbing idly over the other man's back and arms as they nuzzle close. "I don't mind that, though... mate," he repeats, "But 'boyfriend' or 'partner' might achieve the same thing."
There are other words or titles that feel even more intimate, but Deacon doesn't speak them, afraid of the implications even if what they are discussing now alone implies the same sorts of feelings.
"I would too, for the record," he admits with an easy smile, "But you're not someone I would want to hide away, and that scares me, if I'm honest. The people that I love get hurt. And I can't lose this either."
Danse's nose wrinkles slightly at the word 'boyfriend,' only because it doesn't feel appropriately serious for whatever this has become. Not that it's a word he's ever had applied to him before, or applied to anyone else, and not that he wouldn't feel a little skittish about more dramatic terminology for the same reason Deacon is avoiding it, but 'partner' smooths out that little furrow as he considers it more thoroughly. He could go for that, he thinks.
He would say so, after that internal debate, but the word love from Deacon's mouth makes his heartbeat speed enough for Deacon to feel it against his own skin where they're pressed together, makes Danse's arm tighten gently around him in glad, unspoken welcome for it. He presses a soft kiss to Deacon's neck, over the marks his fangs have left as a visible sign of their bond.
"I know," he whispers. "I read something once, about...how it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. But I don't believe that. I don't think you do either. I know why you wouldn't." He's seen it for himself, ached for Deacon at the terrible sight of Barbara's blood on his hands--in both more and less literal of a sense than Cutler's had been on his own, but Deacon knows that story, too. It doesn't bear dwelling on now, but the ghost of it is hanging in the air.
"I don't know if it's any consolation, but I can take care of myself better than most." He looks up again, trying for a hint of an encouraging smile. "And when I can't, you've done an admirable job making up the difference so far. You didn't even have to burn down that forest after all, and we came out of it all right."
It's almost enough distraction for Danse to have reminded him of his strength, but it only makes Deacon think of all the times Danse has come to his rescue, which certainly outweighs that one little time in the forest. Acts that have made it so easy for Deacon to admire him and trust him with the whole of his being, making him feel things for Danse that he'd never thought possible.
"You've always been incredibly capable, Baby Brahmin," Deacon coos, his body pressing into Danse's to accompany the way he's being squeezed. "You've saved me countless times now, and I'd burn down every damn forest to repay you."
Deacon can feel that heartbeat, pumping blood through Danse's body in a way that makes him salivate. He's listening to it, eyes drifting closed at the feeling of Danse's lips on his skin and thinking about how satisfying it feels for that heart to beat for him. How that heart pumps blood through his body and how it tastes on his tongue. He can't help but think about it all rushing south through Danse's veins, making his cock strain against him and throb so hard that he can feel Danse's pulse there too-- an unconscious pull of his own power that drinking from Danse has given him.
"Danse..." he breathes, feeling that stir between them and realizing quickly that it might be his doing, his hand skims quickly down Danse's body to reach between them and meet that throbbing erection while his own cock still sits soft against his own thigh, "I... jesus- lay back for me, beautiful... Maybe there's another way I can spend my time repaying you."
It's simultaneously the strangest feeling and also the most natural thing he could imagine right now, and for all Danse knows, this could be entirely his own needy reaction to that sweet, heady praise and affection. He could get drunk on the way Deacon spoils him with words like nobody ever has before. How difficult is it to think he could harden again already at just that promise, the renewed press of Deacon's warm nude body against his, the remnants of Danse's pleasure still binding them together as it dries on their skin?
Only the swiftness of it serves as a clue that it isn't just his own lingering, smoldering arousal being stoked back into a fire. And Deacon seems to realize that it's his doing somehow, though it's clearly coming as just as much of a surprise to him as the knotting had been. That much could at least be blamed on Danse in some capacity, but this--this is new. New, exciting, worth playing with and relishing.
He lies back without hesitation, without protest, cock jerking fully of its own eager accord now at the prospect of how Deacon could carry out this proposal, and cups his lover's cheek in his hand to pull him down into a quick hungry kiss.
"This isn't me conceding that you need to repay me," he says, "but I'd never turn down an offer like that. Please, Deacon..."
The backs of his fingers tease along the length of Danse's shaft as he lies back and pulls him into a kiss that Deacon groans into, licking into his mouth briefly. He scoffs at Danse's reply, lips already traveling down his jaw and neck where his fangs nip lightly at his skin.
"You don't think you've earned it?" he teases, thumbing at the head of Danse's cock as his lips drag over his chest, taking a moment to savor his body. "I'll prove it to you, yet. Don't worry..." Deacon's voice trails off as his tongue laps over a nipple, teeth worrying over it and lips sucking until it hardens and Deacon can draw back, pleased with his work.
"Why don't we start out easy," he suggests as he crawls lower yet. "Tell me what a good boy you are. I want to hear you say it. Tell me what would make you feel good while I reward you."
By the time Deacon's lips are kissing along Danse's happy trail, his mouth is watering so much that he can barely speak. His fingers curl around the base of Danse's dick, holding it in position while he hovers above it.
It's not about earning it, he wants to protest, wants to gather his indignant thoughts and explain to Deacon exactly why, but that sweet sharp little bite scatters them again beyond a hope of pulling them back together for as long as Deacon's mouth is anywhere on his body. He arches gently, pushes his chest up into that heated teasing, his cock throbbing under the bare brush of Deacon's fingers.
The haze of need usually loosens his tongue, makes it far easier to be free with filthy language and confident in his requests when Deacon wants him to be, but this feels different. It's one thing to articulate an already-held fantasy when encouraged, but another to give himself the kind of praise he's still coming to accept he deserves when Deacon says it.
Still, how could he deny a request that sweet? And surely it would make him less good, in Deacon's eyes, if he refused. That's enough to sway him. Danse swallows, thighs parting further as his cock strains impatiently in Deacon's waiting grip, body already aching to feel the slick heat of his mouth.
"I can," he insists, head tilting back against the pillow. "And I...I am. I'm your good boy." The 'your' is crucial; the specific possessive is what makes it easier to say. He can't even summon a fantasy to elaborate on right now beyond the immediate desperation to have Deacon swallow him down, but he rallies.
"Christ, Deacon, everything you do to me feels good. All I want is your mouth, but I--" He falters, flushes, pink creeping down his chest as he finds the words. "I want to see you change again, too. I want to see you look like you did last time--you don't even have to wear the dress, I want you naked this time--"
"Yeah, you are..." Deacon murmurs, finally giving into temptation and fitting the head of Danse's cock between his lips. He groans hungrily as he tastes his arousal on his tongue, tongue curling around him to suck him clean.
Danse's expression is so sweet as he relaxes back, encouraging Deacon to take more of him into his mouth. Jaw relaxing, he moans around Danse's cock as he starts to bob his head lower, his eyes practically twinkling as they notice the flush of pink down over Danse's chest. He doesn't have a lot of practice in this, not in probably nearly thirty years, but the benefit of his powers make it easier to accommodate Danse's size without difficulty, and by the time the other man is asking him to change, he's already letting that heavy cock stretch open his throat to swallow him back fully until he can bury his nose in Danse's pubic hair. The growling that request summons vibrates around Danse's shaft before Deacon is taking a deep inhale of air through his nose, flooding his senses with the scent of Danse while his hands massage at his inner thighs, one sliding lower to play with his balls.
He doesn't change yet, wanting Danse to get an eyefull of him like this before he does, wanting him to see just how badly he too wants to please him and show his appreciation. His eyelids are heavy as he rests there for a moment, adjusting before he slowly begins to draw back. His eyes finally flutter shut, neck working to take Danse's length over and over.
Danse might not be as out of practice with receiving this as Deacon is with giving it--hell, he wasn't even alive the last time Deacon did this, though anything surrounding that fact is a mindfuck he's been trying not to dwell on.
But the couple of people who've done this for him were never doing it with this kind of affection anyway, this reverence for something more than just his body. Even when he'd uncomplicatedly enjoyed that sort of appreciation, he'd longed for more. The look in Deacon's eyes as he takes Danse's cock in--the tenderness and the joy at pleasing him, so clear and strong they come right through even that pupilless gaze--is everything Danse wanted, whether he knew it all those years ago or not.
If Deacon were swallowing him down any less spectacularly, Danse could keep his own eyes locked on that gaze for as long as Deacon let him, but the thoroughness of this--the hot, glorious tightness of Deacon's throat, deeper than anyone else has ever taken his cock like this before--has him collapsing back onto the pillow again with an utterly helpless sound, an unconscious echo of that sobbing noise Deacon makes that Danse always replays in his dreams both sleeping and waking.
"My god," he gasps, dazed and twisting the sheets in one hand, reaching out with the other to stroke almost clumsily at Deacon's cheek and jaw and the back of his head, because his eyes are shut tight with focus and he can barely think, but he needs to be touching Deacon somehow.
"Stay...stay like this a little longer," he manages. He hasn't changed his mind about what he ultimately wants here, but he needs to drink in just a little more of Deacon looking and feeling like Deacon. If only he had the wherewithal to actually sit up and watch again, instead of arching his back with another shameless moan.
Say what you will about their monstrous changes, but Deacon is thankful that his allow his body to become the perfect shape for his partner no matter their circumstances. With his mouth occupied as it is, he can't deliver the level of praise he wishes to, but it seems that his eyes have said more than words might convey anyway, and as Danse collapses back in ecstasy, he allows himself to get truly lost in his task between Danse's thighs, swallowing around Danse's cock over and over.
That vocalized desire to have Deacon the way he is causes him to choke slightly, that tight burning feeling in one's throat that comes with a swell of emotion. Deacon has spent so long running from himself, desiring to be anyone but who he is. Very new face seems to distance himself further from the last, but that creeping self-hatred eventually catches up, and the moment he begins to get used to the way he looks, he's eager to make the change all over again, but Danse takes away all of that. Danse gives Deacon a reason to appreciate what he sees in his own reflection.
He moans around Danse again, his thumb massaging over his balls while cradling them so that his middle finger can rub along the stretch of skin behind them. The swell of emotion in Deacon's chest just makes him desire to give Danse everything he wants and more, a free hand gripping at Danse's hip to encourage him to fuck up and into Deacon's mouth to take what he needs.
This is the version of Deacon that Danse fell in love with, even if not the first one he'd ever come to feel a kind of adoration for--the only one he thinks he's ever known, even if he's wrong. Jane's form is exciting in the way it ironically feels novel, but half the appeal is that she's still Deacon underneath. The enjoyment lies in being able to share a different kind of pleasure with the same lover, and Danse trusts now that the man he's come to love is the real Deacon, with as little deliberate artifice concealing him now as Deacon is capable of.
Even if he can't interpret that little choke of emotion for exactly what it is, the message still comes across in the way this request from him makes Deacon redouble his efforts, as if reiterating that insistence that he deserves to be repaid somehow for what he wanted freely to give. Danse couldn't even begin to protest anymore.
He can't find words at all, driven wild to a point just shy of overstimulation, incapable now of the restraint he might otherwise still have tried to hang onto. That teasing stroke of fingers, gentler through sensitive skin than the earlier thrusting of Deacon's cock inside him, makes his hips buck upward with no thought other than sharp, desperate need, and his fingers would twist in Deacon's hair if it were long enough to anchor them.
This is a night to be grateful for synth stamina and moon magic both, because this isn't where he wants the night to end, but his urgent, pleading desire to spill down Deacon's throat is too strong. And maybe he doesn't have to find the words for it. Maybe if he opens his mind, projects as deliberately as he can, that request will come through without speech. He has just enough coherent thought to try.
It's the real him as much as it can be. Far from his original face or name, but maybe neither of those are important, given what the man with that face and name was capable of. As Deacon, he has grown into a better man, one that Danse can lay claim to, and that is all that's important, here.
He's overjoyed when Danse gives into the temptation to rut up and into him, and Deacon takes everything he has to give without protest. His thumb massages at Danse's hip while his other hand continues to cradle and tease, his jaw stays slack and throat open, the shift to accommodate his lover the only disingenuous thing about his current form, forgiven hopefully by the fact that it's done in service of Danse.
Thoughts and images flood Deacon's mind, projecting onto his own and making it even easier to give all of himself to the other man's desires. There's a link between them, he knows, evidenced earlier by the way he felt Danse's pleasure with his own, and he feels it now too, a rising tension and need for release, teetering there in that sweet spot. A rumbling moan escapes Deacon around Danse's cock, nearly causing Deacon to shudder around him in pleasure. He wants this just as badly, his eyes fluttering open to look up at Danse again and show him that he's ready for it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It just doesn't feel important here. No conflict from home does, in the face of what they've built in this world and the pack bond that's proven itself to supersede prior allegiances. Even at home, Danse was beginning to come around to giving the Railroad more of its due credit, but the going had been slow and the progress nonlinear. It would still have stood in the way of something like this, at least for the time being.
His throat tightens at the notion that they need to travel to a different world entirely to get a second chance. It's distracting enough that he doesn't analyze the choice of phrase any further, to wonder if Deacon really does just mean the way they've found themselves here again for another try. When he blinks, his eyes are wet.
"I'll take it," he says, quiet and hoarse. "I know neither of us can make any promises about what we'd do back home, Deacon, but I'll let a lot of bygones be bygones here. You're what's important. If you've...I don't know, killed Brotherhood soldiers or sabotaged their operations or something, it's in the past. I'm not losing this now."
no subject
The biggest component of his memory that he fears Danse seeing are the memories where he's the star. A younger man, M7-97 at the time, traveling with Jane Doe from the Commonwealth to the Capital. Burly as he is, he looked so small curled up in a sleeping bag on the floor of a safehouse while Jane stood watch. Just as small somehow tucked in against her side on the colder nights, while she idly pet at his hair like she imagined she may do had she had a son of her own.
Jarring, how different they are. A memory wipe and some implanted memories later... and a good twenty years or so of life in the Wasteland made Danse almost unrecognizable with a passing glance. But he had looked Danse in the eyes at the police station when Nora answered their distress call and recognized him instantly. It took the breath right out of him, then, easily played off with exasperation after fighting off a pack of ferals, but they make him breathless now for a different reason entirely.
Maybe that's why hearing 'You're what's important' hits Deacon harder than he could have ever anticipated. He feels an aching pull in his chest at those words, at the way Danse looks up at him with big, wet eyes that plead with him all on their own. Deacon's own throat feels tight suddenly, a burning feeling that he tries to swallow down, his desire to remain stoic for Danse as he'd always been, even decades ago, a reflex at this point.
"No. You're stuck with me, I'm afraid," he says softly, his tone sweeter than it is teasing. "Don't worry about any of that..."
As his voice trails off, he shifts slightly, eyes still trained on Danse's. He can feel himself starting to soften already, making it easier to settle in beside Danse with less restriction. When he speaks again, there's a vulnerability to it that wasn't there, before.
"...what is this, to you?"
no subject
He'll never remember burrowing against Jane for warmth, unprepared for the inhospitable cold of the surface after knowing nothing in his life beyond the too-hot, poorly-ventilated maintenance tunnels of the Institute. He doesn't recall the way she soothed him through nightmares that he didn't have the language to describe, because the Institute's official scientific position was that synths couldn't dream--why would they ever need to know what those terrible sleeping flashbacks were called?
It isn't a perfect mirror, anyway. For all his muscle, M7 had been passive enough to manhandle, or at least to follow Jane's lead in all things. Danse, no matter how submissive he might enjoy being at the height of arousal, is still so long-accustomed to command now that it's second-nature to guide Deacon's body as they shift under the blanket, to be the one gently manhandling him now that they're basking in the afterglow, directing things to work best for them both.
And that vulnerability in Deacon's voice--rare, but not unprecedented, not here, not for Danse--makes him all the more fiercely determined to give back that stoic protection and reassurance when it's needed. He doesn't need to remember Jane doing it when Deacon's done it often enough for him just as they are. And it's a good, fair question. It's one Danse has given a lot of thought, over the months before they found themselves torn away from the carnival here. He doesn't have a simple answer, but he can at least continue that thought process aloud, let Deacon work on it with him somehow.
"It's..." He's trying to distill it down to its most important aspects, even without a single word he can assign to it. "It's something I want to last. I don't want either of us anticipating an endpoint to it. And I know it goes without saying that we're not doing this with anyone else--" Goes without saying, or just has already been said outright, in a dozen other different ways. "But I might as well say it too, if you're asking."
In effect, in the most roundabout and awkward way he could possibly have described it, a lifetime commitment. There's just something that still feels missing, unspoken, that he isn't sure how to articulate, and he rests his forehead briefly against Deacon's shoulder again as he parses it out.
"If I call you my mate, it feels like giving this place and these damn mutations too much credit. I don't want it to sound like I wouldn't feel this for you without...animal instinct involved. I would."
no subject
Deacon is quiet as Danse explains, his hands rubbing idly over the other man's back and arms as they nuzzle close. "I don't mind that, though... mate," he repeats, "But 'boyfriend' or 'partner' might achieve the same thing."
There are other words or titles that feel even more intimate, but Deacon doesn't speak them, afraid of the implications even if what they are discussing now alone implies the same sorts of feelings.
"I would too, for the record," he admits with an easy smile, "But you're not someone I would want to hide away, and that scares me, if I'm honest. The people that I love get hurt. And I can't lose this either."
no subject
He would say so, after that internal debate, but the word love from Deacon's mouth makes his heartbeat speed enough for Deacon to feel it against his own skin where they're pressed together, makes Danse's arm tighten gently around him in glad, unspoken welcome for it. He presses a soft kiss to Deacon's neck, over the marks his fangs have left as a visible sign of their bond.
"I know," he whispers. "I read something once, about...how it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. But I don't believe that. I don't think you do either. I know why you wouldn't." He's seen it for himself, ached for Deacon at the terrible sight of Barbara's blood on his hands--in both more and less literal of a sense than Cutler's had been on his own, but Deacon knows that story, too. It doesn't bear dwelling on now, but the ghost of it is hanging in the air.
"I don't know if it's any consolation, but I can take care of myself better than most." He looks up again, trying for a hint of an encouraging smile. "And when I can't, you've done an admirable job making up the difference so far. You didn't even have to burn down that forest after all, and we came out of it all right."
no subject
"You've always been incredibly capable, Baby Brahmin," Deacon coos, his body pressing into Danse's to accompany the way he's being squeezed. "You've saved me countless times now, and I'd burn down every damn forest to repay you."
Deacon can feel that heartbeat, pumping blood through Danse's body in a way that makes him salivate. He's listening to it, eyes drifting closed at the feeling of Danse's lips on his skin and thinking about how satisfying it feels for that heart to beat for him. How that heart pumps blood through his body and how it tastes on his tongue. He can't help but think about it all rushing south through Danse's veins, making his cock strain against him and throb so hard that he can feel Danse's pulse there too-- an unconscious pull of his own power that drinking from Danse has given him.
"Danse..." he breathes, feeling that stir between them and realizing quickly that it might be his doing, his hand skims quickly down Danse's body to reach between them and meet that throbbing erection while his own cock still sits soft against his own thigh, "I... jesus- lay back for me, beautiful... Maybe there's another way I can spend my time repaying you."
no subject
It's simultaneously the strangest feeling and also the most natural thing he could imagine right now, and for all Danse knows, this could be entirely his own needy reaction to that sweet, heady praise and affection. He could get drunk on the way Deacon spoils him with words like nobody ever has before. How difficult is it to think he could harden again already at just that promise, the renewed press of Deacon's warm nude body against his, the remnants of Danse's pleasure still binding them together as it dries on their skin?
Only the swiftness of it serves as a clue that it isn't just his own lingering, smoldering arousal being stoked back into a fire. And Deacon seems to realize that it's his doing somehow, though it's clearly coming as just as much of a surprise to him as the knotting had been. That much could at least be blamed on Danse in some capacity, but this--this is new. New, exciting, worth playing with and relishing.
He lies back without hesitation, without protest, cock jerking fully of its own eager accord now at the prospect of how Deacon could carry out this proposal, and cups his lover's cheek in his hand to pull him down into a quick hungry kiss.
"This isn't me conceding that you need to repay me," he says, "but I'd never turn down an offer like that. Please, Deacon..."
no subject
The backs of his fingers tease along the length of Danse's shaft as he lies back and pulls him into a kiss that Deacon groans into, licking into his mouth briefly. He scoffs at Danse's reply, lips already traveling down his jaw and neck where his fangs nip lightly at his skin.
"You don't think you've earned it?" he teases, thumbing at the head of Danse's cock as his lips drag over his chest, taking a moment to savor his body. "I'll prove it to you, yet. Don't worry..." Deacon's voice trails off as his tongue laps over a nipple, teeth worrying over it and lips sucking until it hardens and Deacon can draw back, pleased with his work.
"Why don't we start out easy," he suggests as he crawls lower yet. "Tell me what a good boy you are. I want to hear you say it. Tell me what would make you feel good while I reward you."
By the time Deacon's lips are kissing along Danse's happy trail, his mouth is watering so much that he can barely speak. His fingers curl around the base of Danse's dick, holding it in position while he hovers above it.
"You can do that, can't you?"
no subject
The haze of need usually loosens his tongue, makes it far easier to be free with filthy language and confident in his requests when Deacon wants him to be, but this feels different. It's one thing to articulate an already-held fantasy when encouraged, but another to give himself the kind of praise he's still coming to accept he deserves when Deacon says it.
Still, how could he deny a request that sweet? And surely it would make him less good, in Deacon's eyes, if he refused. That's enough to sway him. Danse swallows, thighs parting further as his cock strains impatiently in Deacon's waiting grip, body already aching to feel the slick heat of his mouth.
"I can," he insists, head tilting back against the pillow. "And I...I am. I'm your good boy." The 'your' is crucial; the specific possessive is what makes it easier to say. He can't even summon a fantasy to elaborate on right now beyond the immediate desperation to have Deacon swallow him down, but he rallies.
"Christ, Deacon, everything you do to me feels good. All I want is your mouth, but I--" He falters, flushes, pink creeping down his chest as he finds the words. "I want to see you change again, too. I want to see you look like you did last time--you don't even have to wear the dress, I want you naked this time--"
no subject
Danse's expression is so sweet as he relaxes back, encouraging Deacon to take more of him into his mouth. Jaw relaxing, he moans around Danse's cock as he starts to bob his head lower, his eyes practically twinkling as they notice the flush of pink down over Danse's chest. He doesn't have a lot of practice in this, not in probably nearly thirty years, but the benefit of his powers make it easier to accommodate Danse's size without difficulty, and by the time the other man is asking him to change, he's already letting that heavy cock stretch open his throat to swallow him back fully until he can bury his nose in Danse's pubic hair. The growling that request summons vibrates around Danse's shaft before Deacon is taking a deep inhale of air through his nose, flooding his senses with the scent of Danse while his hands massage at his inner thighs, one sliding lower to play with his balls.
He doesn't change yet, wanting Danse to get an eyefull of him like this before he does, wanting him to see just how badly he too wants to please him and show his appreciation. His eyelids are heavy as he rests there for a moment, adjusting before he slowly begins to draw back. His eyes finally flutter shut, neck working to take Danse's length over and over.
no subject
But the couple of people who've done this for him were never doing it with this kind of affection anyway, this reverence for something more than just his body. Even when he'd uncomplicatedly enjoyed that sort of appreciation, he'd longed for more. The look in Deacon's eyes as he takes Danse's cock in--the tenderness and the joy at pleasing him, so clear and strong they come right through even that pupilless gaze--is everything Danse wanted, whether he knew it all those years ago or not.
If Deacon were swallowing him down any less spectacularly, Danse could keep his own eyes locked on that gaze for as long as Deacon let him, but the thoroughness of this--the hot, glorious tightness of Deacon's throat, deeper than anyone else has ever taken his cock like this before--has him collapsing back onto the pillow again with an utterly helpless sound, an unconscious echo of that sobbing noise Deacon makes that Danse always replays in his dreams both sleeping and waking.
"My god," he gasps, dazed and twisting the sheets in one hand, reaching out with the other to stroke almost clumsily at Deacon's cheek and jaw and the back of his head, because his eyes are shut tight with focus and he can barely think, but he needs to be touching Deacon somehow.
"Stay...stay like this a little longer," he manages. He hasn't changed his mind about what he ultimately wants here, but he needs to drink in just a little more of Deacon looking and feeling like Deacon. If only he had the wherewithal to actually sit up and watch again, instead of arching his back with another shameless moan.
no subject
That vocalized desire to have Deacon the way he is causes him to choke slightly, that tight burning feeling in one's throat that comes with a swell of emotion. Deacon has spent so long running from himself, desiring to be anyone but who he is. Very new face seems to distance himself further from the last, but that creeping self-hatred eventually catches up, and the moment he begins to get used to the way he looks, he's eager to make the change all over again, but Danse takes away all of that. Danse gives Deacon a reason to appreciate what he sees in his own reflection.
He moans around Danse again, his thumb massaging over his balls while cradling them so that his middle finger can rub along the stretch of skin behind them. The swell of emotion in Deacon's chest just makes him desire to give Danse everything he wants and more, a free hand gripping at Danse's hip to encourage him to fuck up and into Deacon's mouth to take what he needs.
no subject
Even if he can't interpret that little choke of emotion for exactly what it is, the message still comes across in the way this request from him makes Deacon redouble his efforts, as if reiterating that insistence that he deserves to be repaid somehow for what he wanted freely to give. Danse couldn't even begin to protest anymore.
He can't find words at all, driven wild to a point just shy of overstimulation, incapable now of the restraint he might otherwise still have tried to hang onto. That teasing stroke of fingers, gentler through sensitive skin than the earlier thrusting of Deacon's cock inside him, makes his hips buck upward with no thought other than sharp, desperate need, and his fingers would twist in Deacon's hair if it were long enough to anchor them.
This is a night to be grateful for synth stamina and moon magic both, because this isn't where he wants the night to end, but his urgent, pleading desire to spill down Deacon's throat is too strong. And maybe he doesn't have to find the words for it. Maybe if he opens his mind, projects as deliberately as he can, that request will come through without speech. He has just enough coherent thought to try.
no subject
He's overjoyed when Danse gives into the temptation to rut up and into him, and Deacon takes everything he has to give without protest. His thumb massages at Danse's hip while his other hand continues to cradle and tease, his jaw stays slack and throat open, the shift to accommodate his lover the only disingenuous thing about his current form, forgiven hopefully by the fact that it's done in service of Danse.
Thoughts and images flood Deacon's mind, projecting onto his own and making it even easier to give all of himself to the other man's desires. There's a link between them, he knows, evidenced earlier by the way he felt Danse's pleasure with his own, and he feels it now too, a rising tension and need for release, teetering there in that sweet spot. A rumbling moan escapes Deacon around Danse's cock, nearly causing Deacon to shudder around him in pleasure. He wants this just as badly, his eyes fluttering open to look up at Danse again and show him that he's ready for it.