Deacon remembers that night. The cold front that blew through the area and had them both shivering at the safehouse. She saw M7-97 very much like a kid brother then, in part because she had sworn off romantic relationships after losing her opportunity for parenthood. Maybe that's why she allowed it. It was nice to be someone's caretaker, even if that someone was a fully grown (and stacked) man with absolutely no life experience.
Deacon collects herself and changes, slipping out of the dress and sliding on another that's still flowy at the bottom but more fitted up top. "Kind of..." she mutters, then opens the curtain sheepishly, her hands pressed to her chest as she moves toward him, turning her back on him where he'll note that the zipper along her spine is still open half-way.
Whatever Danse had expected, it wasn't this. He's already been caught up far beyond his expectation in the appeal of this form, the existing contrast between tough and soft, but the body language and the request just take all of that and amplify it. He swallows, eyes traveling down now from the delicate little tendrils outgrowing from that buzz cut to the smooth line of her neck and then the sensually bared expanse of back. Asking Danse for help with nearly anything is going to please him, but it feels charged when Deacon asks him now, and he doesn't speak as he rises smoothly from the chair to come up behind her.
His hand rests lightly, warmly on one shoulder just to hold the dress in place, the weight of it deliberately held back and tempered, and he doesn't go so far as to skim his other one down along her back before he takes the zipper between his fingers--he knows how to be a gentleman, after all--but he thinks about it as he pulls the zipper carefully upward. This close to her, things feel slightly muddled, because he knows what it's like to hold onto Deacon at this distance (or closer still) even if it was for very different reasons. The height difference feels similar, the scent is the same, and yet when he tries to remind himself that this is still Deacon, it just...doesn't hit with the strength it should.
"Anything else?" His voice near her ear is still soft, and deeper than it should be. It has none of the 'are we done here' curtness that Danse would ordinarily be infusing it with.
Deacon can see behind herself vaguely, from her peripheral vision, the reflection in the dressing room mirror is almost at the perfect angle to catch the way Danse looks at her, the way he delicately zips up her dress, and how big and dark his eyes are when he speaks in her ear. It doesn't escape Deacon how much his behavior has changed since she conjured up a pair of tits, and Deacon thinks wickedly that it's about time she reminds him who she is, and that she hasn't changed in anything more than shape.
Her hands leave her chest, but one moves up to touch at Danse's on her shoulder. Spinning on her heel, her eyebrows rise again above her glasses, but not in surprise this time. Her fingers are following the length of his arm to press at his chest, guiding him back to the chair he'd been seated on.
"Yes. Please retake your seat, soldier," she teases, smirking at him. "Unless you're interested in helping me test how durable this would be in combat."
It's almost as much about giving himself permission as it is about the form itself, about telling himself this has nothing to do with their typical dynamic, and so the reminder is coming at a good time. But that trailing of fingertips up his arm doesn't help, and that light push to his chest really doesn't help.
Only his evergreen embarrassment and fear of being told he's crossed a line puts a damper on what would otherwise be the unambiguous turn-on of Sexy Sparring. The few and far-between women he's been with were all Brotherhood knights and paladins. The idea of testing that little number's usefulness in combat is not remotely a deterrent in and of itself.
But he takes the hint, flushing pink and sitting back down as he's told, finally averting his too-keen gaze again. "No," he says, though it's the closest thing to a lie he's ever told, "that's...not necessary, I'm sure."
"No?" Deacon laughs warmly, not withdrawing her touch even as Danse sits and looks away. "It might be. You never know in places like this. We've been oddly lucky today, don't you think?" Fingers reach up to tip Danse's chin back to look at her as she asks that question.
The flush on Danse's face is exciting, particularly because Danse had caught Deacon off-guard earlier, and now she feels as if she has the upper hand. Considering how infrequently that's seemed to have happened since arrival, she's not about to let it go without taking advantage of it, especially with the moon pulling at her strings and urging that mischief-minded Fae behavior out of her.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm not like... complaining that I haven't actuallt needed you to stand guard," she teases, easing herself down into his lap, "I just didn't realize you'd be so game for a different kind of look-out."
His eyes widen faintly at that touch to his chin, the subtle command in the way she manually turns his face to make him look even when he's trying to be reserved and proper, and the tingling heat that spreads through his core as she does. It would be a losing battle not to find that hot as hell, regardless of the circumstances.
But these are not ideal circumstances. In any way. He should be guarding the door, should be more responsible, shouldn't be letting his own usually-controlled libido distract him from the possibility of getting gunned down by cyborgs, and he doesn't know how Deacon, of all the people in this world or the one they came from, has managed to derail him into forgetting this.
(Because he knows he would hear a threat coming before it even got inside, these days, and there's nothing in the vicinity. But more importantly, because Deacon is as calm and unguarded right now as Danse has been, and it's somehow already become second nature for Danse to trust his instincts since they've been here together.)
He might say all this, and might not immediately snap back into guilty, ramrod-straight patrol-duty mode, were it not for the way she slides into his lap like she belongs there, with the same magnetic charisma he always envies and admires from Deacon in every other guise and situation. The shock of it isn't quite enough to override his long-practiced control over his own arousal responses--but he doesn't have nearly so much practice with the curse that is the tail, and to his abject mortification, it thumps audibly against the chair of its own accord.
Maybe Deacon got a bit ahead of herself here, but since coming into her powers and the surge of the moon's effects on the convoy, she's been more compelled than usual to mess with those around her. And Danse is an easy target, because he gets so flustered, or because sometimes, if she's lucky, he'll play along. And lately? Maybe she's just inexplicably really hungry for the way he looks at her with those big, wet eyes of his.
His tail thumps against the chair, and suddenly Deacon has another wishlist item on her Top Reactions list, because it may be the most compelling thing she's witnessed Danse do yet. So he likes this, huh? And he's asking her this why? Because he can't deny it?
"I dunno," she replies easily, "But you seem to be enjoying it..." she teases, nodding to his tail, just before the hand at his chin reaches up to scritch behind his furry ears. "Don't you, good boy?"
The last time Deacon had made so much as a 'good boy' joke about the ears, Danse had been unable to explain and unwilling to analyze why it made him blush as deeply as it did, but he'd still shoved Deacon away from him and let him sink in the lake with no remorse about it after the fact.
This is so, so much worse. He had been entirely unaware, before this exact moment, that the ears were an erogenous zone. He could happily have gone the entire rest of their journey, however long it might be, without ever knowing that. And having his unwanted tail double the pace of its reflexive, enthusiastic thumping at the scratch is the worst possible way he could imagine finding out.
It's probably not the scritching that finally breaks through that veneer of self-discipline, though, but the wicked purr of that distressingly arousing pet name that shoots straight to his dick and makes it respond tangibly under her weight. The ensuing flood of panic leaves him almost ready to shove Deacon off him yet again, and only the awareness that they're not floating in water this time prevents him from sending her sprawling onto the floor.
Instead, without a second thought, he seizes her matter-of-factly around the waist and lifts her off him to deposit her, roughly but not violently, beside the chair. And he gets immediately up from that, as well, hastening to pick up the clothes he's found from the floor and holding them in a loose pile in front of him.
"We're done here," he says, with decidedly less composure than he'd like. "You've got your things and I've got mine. Let's go."
The slow creep of a grin that had been forming on Deacon's lips, growing with the pace of Danse's wagging tail, drops the moment she feels his hands on her waist and her body being unceremoniously lifted off of him. Effortlessly. As if gravity ceased being a thing. It's a display of just how strong Danse really is, and it has Deacon's ears warm and her own body buzzing with a sudden uncertainty when it comes to composure. But unlike Danse, she isn't given the opportunity to really give into how aroused that might make her, because she's deposited as quickly as Danse is moving away and rejecting her.
She should feel satisfied, because her teasing got a reaction, but she doesn't. She feels disappointed and she'll spend the entire evening analyzing why. It's not just because they were having fun and now they're suddenly not. It's not even because Deacon is irritated with herself for taking things too far. It's some more complicated feeling that she didn't even realize she felt until today, and needs to put a name to.
"...oookay." She pouts. "So could you unzip me? Or am I wearing this out of the store??"
Danse just stares at her, almost but not quite uncomprehending, as if the computer component of his brain has taken control and the program is hanging before either resuming or crashing to desktop. He's not well equipped to handle Deacon's typical refuge in audacity even at the best of times, which this is not.
"Jesus," he says finally, with teeth-gritted anger that still manages to be directed slightly more at himself than Deacon. Maybe he's the one imposing more weirdness on the situation than there should be. Maybe this is just more of him not knowing how to have fun like everyone else apparently comes pre-programmed with the ability to do. He's never certain, and never less so than right now, but he concludes that it probably would make things weirder to refuse than to just do it.
There is definitely none of the sensual slowness or care this time as there was when he zipped up the dress in the first place. He grips the back neckline of the dress to hold it in place, yanks the zipper down with a swift irritable movement, and stomps toward the exit without another word.
Asking that question was probably the nail in the coffin for Deacon, but Danse does help, albeit angrily, and Deacon shuffles back to the changing room to return to his normal form and clothing. He can't really bare to look at himself in the mirror as he bundles up all the items he's collected, shoving them all haphazardly into a bag he can sling over his back while sneaking back to the convoy.
He somehow does manage to catch up to Danse, but he keeps his distance, watching his body language tells him everything he needs to know. Still, he at least owes it to him to watch his back for any cyborg attacks as they leave.
His shoulders tense a little as he hears Deacon come up close behind him, but Danse doesn't speed his pace or try to escape him. He can be an adult about this. Sort of. Not really. Maybe.
For what it's worth, he hasn't discarded any of the clothing items Deacon picked out for him, and they're still visible in his arms.
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Deacon collects herself and changes, slipping out of the dress and sliding on another that's still flowy at the bottom but more fitted up top. "Kind of..." she mutters, then opens the curtain sheepishly, her hands pressed to her chest as she moves toward him, turning her back on him where he'll note that the zipper along her spine is still open half-way.
"Could you give me a hand?"
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His hand rests lightly, warmly on one shoulder just to hold the dress in place, the weight of it deliberately held back and tempered, and he doesn't go so far as to skim his other one down along her back before he takes the zipper between his fingers--he knows how to be a gentleman, after all--but he thinks about it as he pulls the zipper carefully upward. This close to her, things feel slightly muddled, because he knows what it's like to hold onto Deacon at this distance (or closer still) even if it was for very different reasons. The height difference feels similar, the scent is the same, and yet when he tries to remind himself that this is still Deacon, it just...doesn't hit with the strength it should.
"Anything else?" His voice near her ear is still soft, and deeper than it should be. It has none of the 'are we done here' curtness that Danse would ordinarily be infusing it with.
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Her hands leave her chest, but one moves up to touch at Danse's on her shoulder. Spinning on her heel, her eyebrows rise again above her glasses, but not in surprise this time. Her fingers are following the length of his arm to press at his chest, guiding him back to the chair he'd been seated on.
"Yes. Please retake your seat, soldier," she teases, smirking at him. "Unless you're interested in helping me test how durable this would be in combat."
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Only his evergreen embarrassment and fear of being told he's crossed a line puts a damper on what would otherwise be the unambiguous turn-on of Sexy Sparring. The few and far-between women he's been with were all Brotherhood knights and paladins. The idea of testing that little number's usefulness in combat is not remotely a deterrent in and of itself.
But he takes the hint, flushing pink and sitting back down as he's told, finally averting his too-keen gaze again. "No," he says, though it's the closest thing to a lie he's ever told, "that's...not necessary, I'm sure."
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The flush on Danse's face is exciting, particularly because Danse had caught Deacon off-guard earlier, and now she feels as if she has the upper hand. Considering how infrequently that's seemed to have happened since arrival, she's not about to let it go without taking advantage of it, especially with the moon pulling at her strings and urging that mischief-minded Fae behavior out of her.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm not like... complaining that I haven't actuallt needed you to stand guard," she teases, easing herself down into his lap, "I just didn't realize you'd be so game for a different kind of look-out."
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But these are not ideal circumstances. In any way. He should be guarding the door, should be more responsible, shouldn't be letting his own usually-controlled libido distract him from the possibility of getting gunned down by cyborgs, and he doesn't know how Deacon, of all the people in this world or the one they came from, has managed to derail him into forgetting this.
(Because he knows he would hear a threat coming before it even got inside, these days, and there's nothing in the vicinity. But more importantly, because Deacon is as calm and unguarded right now as Danse has been, and it's somehow already become second nature for Danse to trust his instincts since they've been here together.)
He might say all this, and might not immediately snap back into guilty, ramrod-straight patrol-duty mode, were it not for the way she slides into his lap like she belongs there, with the same magnetic charisma he always envies and admires from Deacon in every other guise and situation. The shock of it isn't quite enough to override his long-practiced control over his own arousal responses--but he doesn't have nearly so much practice with the curse that is the tail, and to his abject mortification, it thumps audibly against the chair of its own accord.
"--What the hell are we doing?"
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His tail thumps against the chair, and suddenly Deacon has another wishlist item on her Top Reactions list, because it may be the most compelling thing she's witnessed Danse do yet. So he likes this, huh? And he's asking her this why? Because he can't deny it?
"I dunno," she replies easily, "But you seem to be enjoying it..." she teases, nodding to his tail, just before the hand at his chin reaches up to scritch behind his furry ears. "Don't you, good boy?"
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This is so, so much worse. He had been entirely unaware, before this exact moment, that the ears were an erogenous zone. He could happily have gone the entire rest of their journey, however long it might be, without ever knowing that. And having his unwanted tail double the pace of its reflexive, enthusiastic thumping at the scratch is the worst possible way he could imagine finding out.
It's probably not the scritching that finally breaks through that veneer of self-discipline, though, but the wicked purr of that distressingly arousing pet name that shoots straight to his dick and makes it respond tangibly under her weight. The ensuing flood of panic leaves him almost ready to shove Deacon off him yet again, and only the awareness that they're not floating in water this time prevents him from sending her sprawling onto the floor.
Instead, without a second thought, he seizes her matter-of-factly around the waist and lifts her off him to deposit her, roughly but not violently, beside the chair. And he gets immediately up from that, as well, hastening to pick up the clothes he's found from the floor and holding them in a loose pile in front of him.
"We're done here," he says, with decidedly less composure than he'd like. "You've got your things and I've got mine. Let's go."
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She should feel satisfied, because her teasing got a reaction, but she doesn't. She feels disappointed and she'll spend the entire evening analyzing why. It's not just because they were having fun and now they're suddenly not. It's not even because Deacon is irritated with herself for taking things too far. It's some more complicated feeling that she didn't even realize she felt until today, and needs to put a name to.
"...oookay." She pouts. "So could you unzip me? Or am I wearing this out of the store??"
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"Jesus," he says finally, with teeth-gritted anger that still manages to be directed slightly more at himself than Deacon. Maybe he's the one imposing more weirdness on the situation than there should be. Maybe this is just more of him not knowing how to have fun like everyone else apparently comes pre-programmed with the ability to do. He's never certain, and never less so than right now, but he concludes that it probably would make things weirder to refuse than to just do it.
There is definitely none of the sensual slowness or care this time as there was when he zipped up the dress in the first place. He grips the back neckline of the dress to hold it in place, yanks the zipper down with a swift irritable movement, and stomps toward the exit without another word.
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He somehow does manage to catch up to Danse, but he keeps his distance, watching his body language tells him everything he needs to know. Still, he at least owes it to him to watch his back for any cyborg attacks as they leave.
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For what it's worth, he hasn't discarded any of the clothing items Deacon picked out for him, and they're still visible in his arms.