Sleep has always been elusive for Danse, increasingly more so as the endless nightmare of that recon mission had dragged on. But he's never thought of himself as someone who needed the comfort of a soft mattress or a warm blanket, let alone the feeling of someone else's bare skin or gently-tangled limbs underneath it to make it even warmer.
That was before he had any of that. He can't imagine anymore how he ever managed to rest at all without Deacon beside him, but his body seems determined to make up for lost time in so many different ways now--sleeping soundly in his lover's arms for hours, and waking up not only refreshed, but always hard and heavy against the small of Deacon's back, face nestled into the curve of his neck and palm resting on his stomach to feel the still-asleep softness of his breathing.
He's not trying to wake Deacon, exactly. Just nuzzling a little closer against his throat, with a tender lingering kiss, and letting his fingers play gently and idly with the trail of ginger beneath Deacon's navel.
Similarly, sleep didn't come easy to Deacon, either. There are several contributing factors; nocturnal tendencies, deep paranoia, nightmares all chief among them. There's a comfort though, to having two hundred-some pounds of warm muscle pressed behind him and coiled around him. Deacon hasn't slept this consistently in ages.
There's an almost pavlovian response to feeling Danse's erection against him that Deacon's body seems to reflexively act on even in his sleep. He squirms back against it, his own cock chubbing up beneath where Danse's fingers tease. He barely remembers his dreams when he first wakes, but right now they're sweet from the way Danse touches him. The sort of dream you don't want to end.
Only recently has Danse truly come to understand dreams like those. His subconscious has never been one to spin little bits of external stimuli into fantastical scenarios; his brain sorts through things by replaying, revisiting, zooming in on details it already possesses, but never inventing. His dreams flash back only to the things he remembers, and only since he's begun to share Deacon's bed does he have pleasurable things to remember as he sleeps and want more of when he wakes.
His lips tug into a smile against Deacon's skin, breath hitching softly at the unconscious grind of Deacon's ass just where he craves it--he aches already, somehow, just from this not-even-deliberate encouragement, but Pavlovian is right. Ten solid years of dutiful celibacy and hard solitary bunks and cold showers at dawn, and now Danse is hard-pressed to think of any little sleeping detail about his lover that doesn't make him hungrier for sex than for breakfast in the mornings.
He nudges slowly, lazily, against the curve of Deacon's ass, pushing in closer and staying melded against him, fingers brushing over his thickening shaft without quite closing around yet.
There's a sound at even that faint touch from Danse's fingers, escaping Deacon's lungs with the hoarse roughness that results from an evening of light snoring. A pleasured sort of whine and a twitch of his hips. His eyes are moving rapidly beneath his eyelids, cataloging his own images of his lover touching him to go with the heat of his touch, though they're hidden beneath a worn satin eye mask that Deacon can't sleep without.
The slow, lazy nudge of Danse's cock eventually inspires Deacon's thighs to part slightly, his own cock growing harder in his sleep. It wouldn't be the first time that he'd woken up hard as a brick and ready to feed in to any of Danse's desires, and he's expressed to Danse before how hot he's found it to wake to the feeling of the other man's arousal pressed against him. He's never been a morning person, and he tends to take much longer to drag himself from bed than Danse, generally, but little morning 'work outs' like these do tend to help.
Deacon speaks, but the words are so mumbled, they barely can be interpreted as words at all. Whatever the strained phrase was, it sounds pleading more than anything.
"I don't believe I caught that." The teasing in Deacon's ear would perhaps be more effective if it weren't so soft as to be barely audible, as if Danse is torn between wanting more coherent pleading and wanting to let Deacon stay in that half-drowsing state a little longer. He needs rest, after all, and even if he didn't, there's nothing Danse has come to find more fascinating and endearing than that strange sleep-talking. He almost wants to just see where it will go.
But he won't turn down the invitation in those parted thighs. He slips easily into the tight hot space, slick already with precome to ease the way as the tip of him nudges against Deacon's balls and settles there for now to be warmed.
And neither will he let the pleading go unanswered, his hand curling around to grip and stroke with slow, steady firmness as his own cock leaks further from the sheer pleasure of touching Deacon's.
It's the sort of teasing that Deacon would just adore were he awake and conscious of it, but in his sleep he's more responsive to the warmth of Danse's breath on his ear than anything. He hums in response, a satisfied sound that is echoed again at the press of Danse's cockhead against his sensitive balls.
"Pass the Fancy Lads..." he murmurs, his voice trailing off into a low, growling sort of moan as Danse's fingers close around his cock. It only takes a stroke or two until he's firm and leaking over Danse's fingers, his legs twitching and flexing against Danse's.
"Oh, you'll get them." It's a damn shame that Deacon isn't conscious enough to hear the absolutely smitten chuckle underneath those words, too. Danse only wishes he had a Fancy Lad on him right now, to crumble and trail an icing-sticky finger down over Deacon's throat and collarbone and suck away the sweetness and imagine the indignant that's my trick! that would ensue if Deacon were awake.
But that doesn't mean he can't pretend, playing along with this evident dream and leaving slow sucking kisses across Deacon's neck and shoulder from behind as his hips rock between those lean thighs with needier insistence.
He pauses only briefly in his stroking--still letting his cock drag rhythmically over the stretch behind Deacon's balls, still letting the tip of it kiss them with every thrust--to lick the clear fluid from his fingers with all the same relish as he would savor a snack cake, moaning with pleasure that rumbles against Deacon's back.
Danse's mouth continues to pull soft, pleased sounds from Deacon's throat, and Deacon's thighs squeeze around the friction of his cock. Each nudge against his balls makes his cock ache for more, and with the loss of Danse's stroking hand comes a whine from deep within Deacon's chest.
"Shh!" he hisses as Danse moans, "This is a library."
Despite his sudden scolding, he doesn't seem to lead by any sort of example. One of Deacon's legs shifts back, tangling in Danse's while his body rocks against him
"...Of course. My apologies." Danse's voice drops back to a whisper, biting his lip against a smile and playing along to keep this dream-journey going. Not without effort, either, because Danse is vocal in bed at the best of times, and when Deacon squeezes his muscles unconsciously tighter around his cock, the gasp it wrings from him is sharp and still too loud for library decorum.
It's a thrilling little mental picture, the idea of pressing Deacon up against a bookshelf where a scribe could turn the corner and catch them at any moment, covering his smart mouth with a hand and burying his own in Deacon's neck again to keep them both just silent enough, fucking his thighs exactly like this because there would have been no time or lube to prep for anything deeper--
He's been holding his breath unconsciously as he loses himself in that fantasy, and he lets it out in a rush now against Deacon's shoulder, hips stuttering and hand finding Deacon's cock again to squeeze it tight and stroke with renewed vigor.
That resumed stroking causes Deacon to gasp and shudder, it’s voice cracking with a hoarse moan. His dream isn't as vivid, too disjointed and surreal to follow any plot, but it’s easy enough for his body to move reflexively with Danse's movements.
He's normally such a light sleeper, any movements or sounds disturbing him and making him jolt awake, but Danse provides a perfect sleepy environment by tiring him out, making him feel safe, and playing along with whatever seems to be going on inside his head.
"The cylinder fits in the circular slot-" gasps Deacon with a disjointed sort of urgency, hips starting to rut into Danse's hand a bit.
"I...what?" Danse has been on a roll, ready and willing to keep up this strange half-asleep improv fantasy, but this shakes him out of it with bafflement. There's a cylinder fitting somewhere, to be sure, and it throbs all the harder with heavy, desperate need at that rough groan as Deacon fucks into his fist, but Danse has abruptly run out of words to respond to this latest incoherent plea.
Words would likely have eluded him anyway, as close as he's drawing to the edge, and he shudders as he curves his entire body around Deacon's to tangle their legs tighter, mattress thumping faintly and rhythmically against the wall as his thrusts push Deacon's cock deeper into his grip with their momentum.
Deacon flinches suddenly, groggy but awake, his cock throbbing in Danse's hand as their movement grows with momentum. His head rolls back against where Danse is tucked behind him, a hand lazily reaching up to push up his sleep mask and glance down over them.
He can feel Danse's hard cock slide between his thighs, tapping at his balls, huffs in aroused amusement over the predicament he's found himself in, and then turns his head over his shoulder. The sweat on Danse's brow catches the light from the window and just seems to illuminate his most striking features. Deacon hums, eyelids heavy and sleep still crusted to their corners, but he doesn't miss a beat in churning his hips properly now, thighs squeezing while he murmurs huskily to his lover; "Kiss me, gorgeous."
Danse feels the shift in movement and tension immediately as Deacon wakes, but his own motion is momentarily paused, arrested by the way his heart still (always) skips a beat when he gets to look into those beautiful hubflower-blue eyes. The second's hesitation is only for that, and there's no sheepishness in the smile that Deacon's gaze triggers in him. It's been made more than clear enough before that this might as well be waffles and tarberry jam served on a tray in bed for all Deacon minds waking up to it, and Danse intends to keep reminding him why.
"Flatterer," he purrs, surging in to obey without any further ado, capturing Deacon's lips and sucking at the lower one and plunging his tongue between them in time with another passionately forceful pump of his hips and fist.
His muscles are trembling now as Deacon puts more deliberate pressure on his cock, giving him exactly what he needs as pleasure surges all the higher for that brief delay, but he's not going to let himself come without dragging Deacon with him, and he'll hold himself back as long as he has to.
The humored sound from Deacon's lips at Danse's reply is short-lived as Danse kisses him heatedly, replaced by a moan that rumbles deep in his chest. He can feel the way Danse's cock throbs between his thighs and his own echoes it in Danse's hand. Instinct takes over with a carnal need, hips thrusting to fuck himself into Danse's fist, abs tightening and a hand grasping firmly at Danse's thigh.
"Fuck," he whines against Danse's lips, feeling wound and ready to snap at any moment. His other hand clutches at Danse's where it's held at his waist, squeezing it as he starts to breath more heavily, face still pressed against Danse's. He can barely hold out another second, and his voice cracks with a moan as he spills into Danse's hand and over his own stomach.
"That's it, that's it--" His voice takes over without thought, all but begging Deacon to come for him, and his growl of satisfaction is almost feral as he feels that hot pulse over his hand. The strain of ecstasy in Deacon's voice makes his nerves sing, a spike of heat that sends him tumbling over the edge with one last slam of his hips as he paints Deacon's cock and balls and inner thighs with his release.
It takes longer to catch his breath than it might, when he's trying to do it between kisses that taper gradually from messy still-urgent desire to slow and sweet and languorous, but finally he leaves off doing that with a last nuzzle to Deacon's cheekbone.
The feeling of Danse's orgasm against him prolongs his own pleasure and leaves him twitching in Danse's arms, muscles jumping as he whines into every kiss, meeting them with equal urgency. As they slow, and Deacon's body turns more to face Danse, he sighs happily against the nuzzle to his cheek and pets a hand through his hair.
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kinktober - somnophilia
That was before he had any of that. He can't imagine anymore how he ever managed to rest at all without Deacon beside him, but his body seems determined to make up for lost time in so many different ways now--sleeping soundly in his lover's arms for hours, and waking up not only refreshed, but always hard and heavy against the small of Deacon's back, face nestled into the curve of his neck and palm resting on his stomach to feel the still-asleep softness of his breathing.
He's not trying to wake Deacon, exactly. Just nuzzling a little closer against his throat, with a tender lingering kiss, and letting his fingers play gently and idly with the trail of ginger beneath Deacon's navel.
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There's an almost pavlovian response to feeling Danse's erection against him that Deacon's body seems to reflexively act on even in his sleep. He squirms back against it, his own cock chubbing up beneath where Danse's fingers tease. He barely remembers his dreams when he first wakes, but right now they're sweet from the way Danse touches him. The sort of dream you don't want to end.
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His lips tug into a smile against Deacon's skin, breath hitching softly at the unconscious grind of Deacon's ass just where he craves it--he aches already, somehow, just from this not-even-deliberate encouragement, but Pavlovian is right. Ten solid years of dutiful celibacy and hard solitary bunks and cold showers at dawn, and now Danse is hard-pressed to think of any little sleeping detail about his lover that doesn't make him hungrier for sex than for breakfast in the mornings.
He nudges slowly, lazily, against the curve of Deacon's ass, pushing in closer and staying melded against him, fingers brushing over his thickening shaft without quite closing around yet.
no subject
The slow, lazy nudge of Danse's cock eventually inspires Deacon's thighs to part slightly, his own cock growing harder in his sleep. It wouldn't be the first time that he'd woken up hard as a brick and ready to feed in to any of Danse's desires, and he's expressed to Danse before how hot he's found it to wake to the feeling of the other man's arousal pressed against him. He's never been a morning person, and he tends to take much longer to drag himself from bed than Danse, generally, but little morning 'work outs' like these do tend to help.
Deacon speaks, but the words are so mumbled, they barely can be interpreted as words at all. Whatever the strained phrase was, it sounds pleading more than anything.
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But he won't turn down the invitation in those parted thighs. He slips easily into the tight hot space, slick already with precome to ease the way as the tip of him nudges against Deacon's balls and settles there for now to be warmed.
And neither will he let the pleading go unanswered, his hand curling around to grip and stroke with slow, steady firmness as his own cock leaks further from the sheer pleasure of touching Deacon's.
no subject
"Pass the Fancy Lads..." he murmurs, his voice trailing off into a low, growling sort of moan as Danse's fingers close around his cock. It only takes a stroke or two until he's firm and leaking over Danse's fingers, his legs twitching and flexing against Danse's.
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But that doesn't mean he can't pretend, playing along with this evident dream and leaving slow sucking kisses across Deacon's neck and shoulder from behind as his hips rock between those lean thighs with needier insistence.
He pauses only briefly in his stroking--still letting his cock drag rhythmically over the stretch behind Deacon's balls, still letting the tip of it kiss them with every thrust--to lick the clear fluid from his fingers with all the same relish as he would savor a snack cake, moaning with pleasure that rumbles against Deacon's back.
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"Shh!" he hisses as Danse moans, "This is a library."
Despite his sudden scolding, he doesn't seem to lead by any sort of example. One of Deacon's legs shifts back, tangling in Danse's while his body rocks against him
no subject
It's a thrilling little mental picture, the idea of pressing Deacon up against a bookshelf where a scribe could turn the corner and catch them at any moment, covering his smart mouth with a hand and burying his own in Deacon's neck again to keep them both just silent enough, fucking his thighs exactly like this because there would have been no time or lube to prep for anything deeper--
He's been holding his breath unconsciously as he loses himself in that fantasy, and he lets it out in a rush now against Deacon's shoulder, hips stuttering and hand finding Deacon's cock again to squeeze it tight and stroke with renewed vigor.
no subject
He's normally such a light sleeper, any movements or sounds disturbing him and making him jolt awake, but Danse provides a perfect sleepy environment by tiring him out, making him feel safe, and playing along with whatever seems to be going on inside his head.
"The cylinder fits in the circular slot-" gasps Deacon with a disjointed sort of urgency, hips starting to rut into Danse's hand a bit.
no subject
Words would likely have eluded him anyway, as close as he's drawing to the edge, and he shudders as he curves his entire body around Deacon's to tangle their legs tighter, mattress thumping faintly and rhythmically against the wall as his thrusts push Deacon's cock deeper into his grip with their momentum.
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He can feel Danse's hard cock slide between his thighs, tapping at his balls, huffs in aroused amusement over the predicament he's found himself in, and then turns his head over his shoulder. The sweat on Danse's brow catches the light from the window and just seems to illuminate his most striking features. Deacon hums, eyelids heavy and sleep still crusted to their corners, but he doesn't miss a beat in churning his hips properly now, thighs squeezing while he murmurs huskily to his lover; "Kiss me, gorgeous."
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"Flatterer," he purrs, surging in to obey without any further ado, capturing Deacon's lips and sucking at the lower one and plunging his tongue between them in time with another passionately forceful pump of his hips and fist.
His muscles are trembling now as Deacon puts more deliberate pressure on his cock, giving him exactly what he needs as pleasure surges all the higher for that brief delay, but he's not going to let himself come without dragging Deacon with him, and he'll hold himself back as long as he has to.
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"Fuck," he whines against Danse's lips, feeling wound and ready to snap at any moment. His other hand clutches at Danse's where it's held at his waist, squeezing it as he starts to breath more heavily, face still pressed against Danse's. He can barely hold out another second, and his voice cracks with a moan as he spills into Danse's hand and over his own stomach.
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It takes longer to catch his breath than it might, when he's trying to do it between kisses that taper gradually from messy still-urgent desire to slow and sweet and languorous, but finally he leaves off doing that with a last nuzzle to Deacon's cheekbone.
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"Mmh," he hums, "Good morning to you, too."