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.
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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.