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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no subject
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?"
no subject
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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
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??"
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.