Danse has to admit that every part of him likes the sound of that, mind and body. He swallows again, almost as if in anticipation. The prospect of turning the tables in some small way by being able to drive Deacon to a loss of control, maybe even to incoherence, is deeply appealing. Thrilling, even.
And beyond that, he's curious--what actually is under those ever-changing disguises? How many people actually get to find out? He hasn't heard of any, though it's not as if their acquaintance has been close enough for him to really know, anyway. Even if Deacon oddly isn't making any move to take off the sunglasses, which Danse had thought that maybe he might by now, he'll take the pleasure of seeing the rest.
His body already misses the weight of Deacon straddling his lap, but he doesn't waste time either in sliding off the couch, kneeling smoothly with no protest whatsoever. It's worth it already for the new stimulus it makes possible, pushing Deacon's shirt up (it does have that heady hot-sun skin scent to it, delicious, intoxicating) and mouthing down over his sternum and stomach. Only when he works Deacon's jeans open, his lips brushing with earnest desire through the treasure trail beneath his navel, does he actually look up, eyebrow arched with surprise and no small amount of interest.
The prospect of being driven to a loss of control is something that might normally raise his hackles, but under the circumstances, it's thrilling for Deacon too, a sort of yearning in his expression as Danse slides lower. It's already making his breath hitch just to see Danse this way, but with the added stimulus of his clothing pushed aside and the other man's mouth on his body, he thinks that control might wane sooner rather than later.
His hands card into Danse's hair, thick as it is with whatever is being used to keep it in place. Deacon could care less; he needs something to grip onto once his jeans are being opened. A protesting sound is erupting from his throat involuntarily with the loss of that mouth. The question shakes him back to reality and he scoffs, practically panting with an eager impatience in its wake.
"I mean, I don't know if it's the right time for semantics, but..." he replies, trailing off and rubbing at his own head for a moment.
Because in the absence of anything red on Deacon's actual head, and honestly even if he did have hair there, the term that would have been used in any locker room or barracks in Danse's experience is 'firecrotch.' But decorum prohibits actually saying this.
This is just about the only way in which decorum is making any appearance whatsoever right now, given the bright-eyed relish with which Danse continues to tug Deacon's jeans down his thighs, and the flush that deepens in his cheeks at--so much of this, truly. The sounds Deacon makes, every bit as unstudied and candid as Danse had hoped they would be, making them feel like equals again. The fist in his hair, tugging at his scalp with a sweet sting that vibrates all the way down through his body to pool in his groin and throb there. The weight of Deacon's cock in his hand as Danse finally pulls it free, and the heat in his gaze that makes it clear just how appealing he does find this particular shade of carpet, with or without drapes to match.
"I'm guessing you'd rather I not be, from here on out."
Deacon thinks they're well past being polite, but the response does get an airy chuckle out of him, too distracted by the heated way the other man's face seems to light up as he takes Deacon's hard cock into his hand. Just the initial feeling of release from his jeans have Deacon sighing, but once Danse's hand finds it, he's swallowing another sound as the muscles in his stomach and thighs grow tight.
"Hah-- Definitely not," he replies breathlessly, "Courtesy is still acceptable, though, for the record." He bobs his head to the side, considering, then giving that thick hair an encouraging tug, "Honestly, so is disrespect and everything in-between. I'm not actually picky."
The tug to his hair gets a tense and breathless hum of pleasure, just on the border of a whimper, cock straining at attention in his briefs, but the calculating look in his eye at those words tells another story.
"What I'm not hearing here are my actual orders, Deacon." His hand strokes slowly along Deacon's length, with pressure he knows wouldn't be enough if it were his own. "If we were out in the field, I'd hate to have to put you on report for dereliction of duty."
Because two can play at this game, now that he's been given a chance to adjust to the rules, and Danse has been playing it a lot more consistently, if not actually for longer.
"Am I free to act on my own initiative here, or are you going to make me take it?"
The huff that leaves Deacon's lips at the mention of orders is nearly choked on. This is closer to that lecturing attitude he might have expected from Danse to begin with, but so quickly after those big baby brahmin eyes met his is giving Deacon whiplash.
"If we were out in the field, I don't think dereliction of duty would be their biggest concern," he quips, but Danse's next question makes his entire body feel warm, his cock throbbing inside Danse's frustratingly light grip. He has no idea why he finds that question so hot, but it inspires him, and the hand in Danse's hair grips tighter and twists, pulling his head back so that Deacon can tease in-kind.
"Attention, soldier," he hisses, "Drop that jaw nice and open for me. I want to see just how much of it you can take."
If there's one thing Danse can almost literally do in his sleep, it's give a smug lecture on military protocol. It doesn't take much extra brainpower, once he gets his bearings. But that sharper pull to his hair has his eyes widening again, alight with breath-stealing arousal as Deacon gives him exactly what he wants. He gasps, shakily, with mingled triumph and still-desperate need.
Even if he felt like he could close his mouth right now, breathless as he is, he wouldn't. He does as he's told, opening still wider with anticipation. It's been a long damn time since he's done this--not since his days as a knight, not often even then--but he's determined to prove himself. It's part pride, part fierce competitive spirit, and part a stubborn and embarrassing little underlying voice that wants Deacon to say he's pleased and truthfully mean it.
He smirks at the other man's compliance, getting a rush as he sees those eyes grow large again. Deacon doesn't make him wait, not so cruel to torment him further (nor himself), grasping his own cock to hold it in position.
"Good boy..." he purrs, inching forward to feed himself into Danse's mouth slowly. Just a taste as the blunt tip presses against Danse's lips at first, giving him the time to adjust for it to push further in, but Deacon is holding his breath as he watches, his own lips parted and breathless at the warmth already emitting from Danse's mouth.
This little reward gets the closest thing to an actual whimper that anything has drawn from his throat yet, the startled needy noise vibrating against the tip of Deacon's cock as Danse's face floods with color again. That, he needs more of that, and he hadn't even known it until just now.
Nobody gives praise like that in the Brotherhood--certainly not exactly like that, obviously, because that would be a hilarious disaster, but even the appropriate kind is in pretty short supply. Danse tries to encourage his squad with ample positive reinforcement for well-performed duties and exemplary bravery, making up for what other commanders do less of, but no military outfit is ever going to encourage its soldiers with this kind of simple, gentle, erotic tenderness. And soldiers with lives outside the Brotherhood might be able to enjoy that kind of thing elsewhere, but Danse has never known anything quite like it in his life.
His one hand grips tight onto Deacon's hip to steady himself, but his other reaches for his own cock, gripping desperately again and stroking through the thin fabric of his briefs, because he can't go without anything at all, not anymore. He laves the precome gently from the tip of Deacon's cock with his tongue and lets his jaw go that little bit more slack, ready for more.
That noise has Deacon's cock throbbing against Danse's lips, a curse breathed out as he realizes the profound effect such a thing has on the other man. How can he deny Danse anything other than praise when that is how he reacts? Jesus... Deacon already wants to see it again.
He suppresses a pleasured sound of his own as his hip is grasped and he feels the press of a hot tongue against the tip of his dick. With an easy push of his hips, he eases the head of it past Danse's lips, the surrounding heat making his muscles tense. It doesn't go unnoticed that Danse is palming at himself, and after a shaky breath, Deacon groans and slides his foot forward until his shin is at his thigh for him to grind against if he wishes to.
"Look at how worked up I've got you..." he teases gently, his voice oddly dripping with a sort of affection, "Let me watch you stroke that pretty cock of yours while you suck on mine. Not fair that I only got a preview."
It isn't arousal that wells up in Danse's chest at that soft undercurrent in Deacon's voice--or not entirely, though it still does make him throb all the harder. What it is, he can't even name, doesn't even know if it feels good for as confusing as it is, but he wants more of it all the same.
He has just enough coherence in reserve to remind himself that this is Deacon's job, to know what people want to hear and shift everything about himself in order to supply it, to lower everyone's guard by any means necessary and work his way into their heads. He can't let himself believe there's anything more to that gentle teasing affection--like they're in on a shared joke, like they have something that belongs just to them--than Deacon reading him well enough to know he longs for it, and he should hate that even more than he hates the profanation of his military service.
But he doesn't. Because they're never acknowledging this again. And in this room, where nothing is going to leave it or matter, it feels so fucking good to indulge it. It's not real--but neither are the childhood memories the Railroad planted in his brain, and those don't make the feeling of a cold empty stomach any less familiar. He knows exactly how real something fabricated can still feel.
He should have the discipline not to want to hump Deacon's leg like a damn dog, either, and he holds back for a good long moment, but the weight of Deacon's cock and heady taste of him on his tongue and that strange, gentle, flattering command are all too much for him in combination. He moans, soft and deep, and swallows around Deacon with a slow thrust of his hips before pulling himself free again and giving another squeezing stroke along his own length.
Deacon's instinct at the present is to give Danse everything he wants, not because he's trying to fuck with his mind, but because the reactions it illicits are so fucking hot that he can't help himself. That said, he's always been a 'positive reinforcement' sort of leader (if one can even call him a leader, these days), so it comes naturally.
Right now, what isn't coming naturally is restraining himself from pushing deeper into Danse's mouth and rutting against his face the way the other man momentarily humps against his leg. Whatever has them this keyed up is shredding Deacon's usual reservation and making him act recklessly by doing this to begin with. He has no idea how he's supposed to sleep ever again as long as he lives, because he's pretty sure every time he closes his eyes he will see this image of Danse, swallowing back his cock while stroking at his own, moaning and doing anything he asks.
"Fuck--" he chokes, "You feel so good..." His hand pets through Danse's hair, fingers scratching at his scalp. "And you like this, don't you? Show me. Wanna watch myself disappear into your mouth. Wanna see you get off like this."
The scalp massage sends delicious shivers down his spine, heightened by the airborne aphrodisiac only in the way that a little bit of salt enhances a flavor that already exists, because he's always been deeply sensitive there and so rarely gotten the chance to enjoy the pleasure of feeling it teased this way. Not when he spends so much of his time in a flightsuit hood to the point where even the wind or sun on his head feels like an indulgence.
The continued praise is better still, and Deacon knows it. He must, given the increasing rapidness with which Danse follows every soft sweet order. He'd been willing to hold off on taking initiative before; now, he presses forward, taking Deacon's cock as deep as he can, pushing resolutely past the barrier of his own out-of-practice inexperience and relaxing his throat until his nose is nestled into wiry red hair. He can't sustain it, but he can manage for a moment before he has to pull back a bit, shallower but no less enthusiastic as his head bobs and his hand moves all the more fervently on his own cock.
He's been desperate since the moment he walked into this room, but even he hasn't expected his pleasure to boil over quite as quickly as this once he finds his rhythm, shoving him right to the edge and making him tremble as he resists the urge to pause for breath. If Deacon wants to watch him get off, he'll get his wish in very short order.
"Jesus--" Deacon breathes, watching in awe as Danse takes him nearly to the root, a soft moan falling from his lips as Danse begins to bob onto his cock. His fingers clench at dark hair, twisting hard as he feels himself nearing his own edge, eyes struggling to focus between the gorgeous show of skill from Danse's mouth to the work of art he's been stroking at between his legs.
"Come for me," he rhasps lowly, convinced that he won't be able to let himself go until he sees the other man shaking apart on his knees before him.
That's all it takes. He'll tell himself later that he's not so eagerly submissive that he'll come just from being ordered to, and maybe he isn't--maybe he wouldn't have without the added facets of the tug to his hair and the needy breathless admiration in Deacon's voice, more real and true and sincere than anything else he thinks he's ever heard from the man, but he'll never know.
At that quiet gravelly command, his thighs spread greedily just that little bit further apart on the floor, and the motion of his hand falters finally as he spends in thick streaks across the carpet and a little bit on the leg of Deacon's jeans. He'll apologize for it later, probably. It's not like Deacon doesn't have other pants.
Right now, his body feels so slack with the shuddering relief that it's all he can do for a second to remember where he is, clutching Deacon's hip all the tighter for stability--but he hasn't forgotten why he's down here, and it doesn't take him long to renew his efforts, fiercely determined now to drag Deacon over the edge along with him and swallow every drop.
It's challenging to be anything other than oneself like this... which is why he's sworn off this sort of connection to begin with. It's too high a risk of Being Seen. And to be seen is to be known, or something. It's dangerous.
But that's beside the point now, because in a moment of aphrodisiac-fuelled weakness he has found himself standing over another man making sounds and faces he's never made where others can see. He's letting himself indulge in something carnal and in that, there's no mask to be worn. And Danse clearly is too; their little secret. No one has to know that Deacon has any human qualities whatsoever, and no one has to know how fucking beautiful Danse looks when he's doing what he's told with a desperation to please that he has never seen in any man. Jesus Christ.
He doesn't give a fuck about his jeans. Not when Danse is moaning around his cock, making a mess just for him, and clutching at his hip like a life raft. Not when Deacon can't even help but rut into those swollen lips just enough to get him tensing up and spilling down Danse's throat with a whimpering moan.
Those human qualities are what Danse will be dwelling on long after they part ways. Markers of humanity in general tend to feel increasingly precious to him now that he knows he doesn't technically have any of his own--though he's always found himself drawn to a partner's scent and taste, wanting to indulge and drink them in as deeply as he can on the increasingly rare occasions when he's been able to shed his armor and make that kind of intimate connection.
Now it's simply taken on an additional dimension of fetishistic appreciation, but that isn't the sole reason he so thoroughly relishes the heat and salt of Deacon's release down his throat. It's even more about that uncontrolled thrust of his hips, the utter lack of artifice in that moan, the continued assurance that this, for once even if perhaps never again, is the truth.
He does rejoice in knowing Deacon is a man with needs after all, even if Danse can be trusted not to use that against him outside this room. And he rejoices too, privately, in the intimacy of sharing a secret. He licks away every last trace from Deacon's cock, wiping the remainder from his lips as he finally pulls back, and rests his forehead momentarily against Deacon's stomach to catch his breath before getting slowly to his feet.
It feels odd to be the taller one again, when Deacon's been looming over him for one reason or another almost since they started this. Danse feels wrung out like a rag, but not fully satisfied, like this is only a lull between battles--but it's enough to think a little more clearly, even as his gaze falls to Deacon's lips again with a strange unexpected longing.
"Can I kiss you again?" he asks, voice quiet and a little rough from what he's just put his throat through. Earlier, he'd simply have done it, but now, in this post-coital uncertainty, he feels the need to ask.
There's a moment when Danse rests his head against Deacon's stomach that his hand pets idly though his hair as if petting a cat. As if the motion is second-nature as he catches his breath and lets that lightheaded feeling run its course. It almost trips him up when Danse does stand again, when Deacon is reminded just how imposing a figure the other man cuts, and he's breathless when he's asked that question.
Speechless for the first time, he nods, already staring at Danse's lips with a sort of desire he can't place, more focused now and less desperate. He leans forward, lips parted and hovering close. His hands find Danse's waist, rubbing up and over his strong chest alowly until they can rest over his shoulders.
The way Danse melts into it now has none of the near-starvation of before, the way Deacon's hands are moving over his chest at half of the frantic speed they'd had earlier. Even if the need hasn't actually dissipated, it's refined itself enough that it can be savored with some actual thought now, in a way Danse will be able to remember with more clarity later.
Maybe that isn't what either of them should actually want. But if they'll never do this again, or speak of it again, then remembering it vividly is all Danse is going to have. He lets his hands map gently and thoroughly over the lean hard planes of Deacon's body, recalling enough of what his mouth had traveled over to steer clear of the worst of the scars under his shirt. Even in this bizarre hour of indulgence, where they're something more to each other than grudging temporary allies at best and potential enemy combatants at worst, Danse doesn't think he should ask about those, nor let his hands linger on them without knowing where they came from.
But it's all secondary to the heat of Deacon's mouth against his own, anyway. That's what he really wants, enough to wrap his arms around Deacon's waist and lose himself in it completely.
Against his better judgement, or at least in the wake of an orgasm that's left him hazy and relaxed, Deacon lets himself indulge. He moans into Danse's mouth, tongues tangling together, his hands sliding into his hair, and body leaning into his.
It starts slow and indulgent but begins to grow more heated, Deacon's fingers twisting and tugging against his scalp again, teeth scraping against his lip. With Danse like this, complaint and eager in his company, Deacon feels greedy, years of denying himself pleasures like this bottled up and exploding out of him in a release of pent-up frustration. He pulls back enough to growl against Danse's lips, a renewed hunger in his voice.
"I'm not finished with you, yet." he mutters there, "Back on the sofa. I want you draped over it and holding yourself open for me."
Danse feels pent-up and desperate enough right now after his own solid decade of dutiful celibacy--he has no way of knowing how much longer it's been for Deacon. Neither would he have guessed, without knowing the reason. The common thread through all of Deacon's various looks and personas and disguises that Danse has seen, after all, is the fact that he's a good-looking man, ruggedly handsome and charming and capable of easy flirtation (Danse has overheard those exchanges with Cait, too) and possessed of the kind of bad-boy intrigue that pairs well with his professional aura of mystery. Clearly the only reason for his bed to be empty would be if he wanted it that way, and if Danse knew why he did want it that way, his heart would go out to Deacon.
He doesn't know what it's like to lose a spouse. But Cutler had felt like one, in some ways, their lives joined enough for major decisions to be made as one, both of them refusing to go where the other couldn't follow until circumstances forced them apart. Danse knows what it is to fear that unhealing wound of loss so much as to be unwilling to risk it again. He would be stunned, touched, to know he merits being an exception, no matter how powerful the drug influencing them both right now.
He's already stunned enough by the demand, but not in a remotely unwelcome way, the suggestion alone making his spent cock begin urgently and immediately to stir again. He wants to obey, has no intention of refusing, but he doesn't hasten to strip down and do it quite yet.
"I've...I've never actually done it from, uh, that side of the equation."
Danse also doesn't know about his and Deacon's own tangled past, or the way a younger version of both of them sort of imprinted on one another after bonding on the road. It wasn't like this; not at all. But Deacon still felt the loss of the man once he'd been wiped of his memory and renamed. Deacon's- or Doe's at the time- last big drop before being promoted, inspiring him to rename himself, as well.
This version of Danse is more lived-in, ruggedly handsome in his own way, the sum of his experiences and all of them unknown to Deacon too. He had been surprised to see this face again, decades later, and is frankly still in awe that it's in front of him, now, big brown eyes glassy and yearning. Deacon's thumb brushes gently over the cheekbone under one, a stark contrast to his handling before, but the effort made to show Danse that he's capable of being gently with him as he sucks in a grounding breath.
"A bit different for me, too," he scoffs, "Do you trust me?"
A loaded question. He knows Danse doesn't- of anyone he knows back at Sanctuary, Danse likely trusts him the least. Here in this odd little room, though, under these circumstances? The secret they both now share? Maybe that's not so much to ask. And maybe Deacon craves that answer a bit more than he'd admit to.
If the question were being asked at any other time, in any other context, Danse would barely even be letting Deacon get those words out before vehemently denying it. If Deacon meant it in a more general sense even here, Danse would still say no. But the softness of that touch to his face, more tenderness in the gesture than anything Danse can remember feeling in years, tells him what Deacon really means by it.
And he's already trusted Deacon to be gentle enough with his rustiness at this; he'd felt that careful restraint in the spring-coiled tension of his hips, when he knows a part of both of them had wanted Deacon to let go and fuck his mouth with more abandon even if it would have ended badly. This is more than that, a nerve-racking escalation, but nothing about anything they've done in this room tells him Deacon would be rough or careless or cruel with him in a way he didn't want.
When Danse thinks about it, that isn't the kind of thing he would associate with Deacon under any circumstances. Of all the reasons not to trust Deacon, thinking he would be a selfish lover is...not one of them. Not at all. Quite the opposite, even. He closes his eyes, face tilting almost unconsciously into that touch.
The way Danse's face tilts into his touch is so tender it nearly makes Deacon sick. Add to it the other man claiming to trust him and he thinks he may explode. He doesn't understand how this is happening to them any more than he did before, his brain practically functioning like a colony of ants that got smoked out of their hill and are scattering everywhere. He'll piece all of this together later. Probably.
"Good."
His hand slides lower, over Danse's chest, then he walks him back to that sofa, pushing him down, but not forcefully. A side table made of rotting wood is sat beside it, an assortment of items piled on top of it, and Deacon busies himself to poke through them until he finds something safe to use as lubricant.
"Like I said: Spread for me." he instructs, giving the other man an expectant smirk while he pops open the cap of the bottle and drizzles a generous amount of oil over his fingers.
He has a distinct sense of deja vu as his ass hits the sofa again at Deacon's command, though he hadn't needed to be pushed last time. And he'd been content enough to stay where he was put then, without much time even to think about it anyway before Deacon had been straddling his lap--but this time he's torn between the nervous impulse to watch what Deacon's doing with those fingers, and the sensual desire to do as he's told, because he knows it will pay off in pleasure. Only the latter requires him to actually get off the couch.
He opts for this anyway, as they both knew he would. His hands feel clumsier than he can ever remember them feeling before as he unzips his flightsuit the rest of the way, stripping down to his underwear as methodically as he can make himself do, and glancing with slight hesitation out the dirty window to ensure nobody's there before slipping those off too and standing naked beside the couch. The discrepancy between his nudity and Deacon's reasonably complete outfit, sunglasses and all, feels almost like more of a show of vulnerability and trust right now than the actual thought of letting Deacon put fingers or anything else inside him.
Then again, he's still got four inches and about forty pounds on the guy. He could probably fight naked if he had to.
"I'm really not sure I--" It just feels like a little much for him yet, the spreading, even when he does know how this works; he remembers the scribe he'd had a standing appointment to sneak off with on Thursday afternoons at the Citadel, who had no compunctions about bending over the nearest table as soon as Danse shut the abandoned conference room door behind them, who'd responded to Danse's curious request to switch things up once in a while with 'that would just be a waste.' Danse wants this, as much as he had then, but--
--well, he'll compromise, bending carefully over the arm of the sofa as directed, but leaving things at that for now, twisting to glance back at Deacon over his shoulder.
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And beyond that, he's curious--what actually is under those ever-changing disguises? How many people actually get to find out? He hasn't heard of any, though it's not as if their acquaintance has been close enough for him to really know, anyway. Even if Deacon oddly isn't making any move to take off the sunglasses, which Danse had thought that maybe he might by now, he'll take the pleasure of seeing the rest.
His body already misses the weight of Deacon straddling his lap, but he doesn't waste time either in sliding off the couch, kneeling smoothly with no protest whatsoever. It's worth it already for the new stimulus it makes possible, pushing Deacon's shirt up (it does have that heady hot-sun skin scent to it, delicious, intoxicating) and mouthing down over his sternum and stomach. Only when he works Deacon's jeans open, his lips brushing with earnest desire through the treasure trail beneath his navel, does he actually look up, eyebrow arched with surprise and no small amount of interest.
"You're a redhead?"
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His hands card into Danse's hair, thick as it is with whatever is being used to keep it in place. Deacon could care less; he needs something to grip onto once his jeans are being opened. A protesting sound is erupting from his throat involuntarily with the loss of that mouth. The question shakes him back to reality and he scoffs, practically panting with an eager impatience in its wake.
"I mean, I don't know if it's the right time for semantics, but..." he replies, trailing off and rubbing at his own head for a moment.
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Because in the absence of anything red on Deacon's actual head, and honestly even if he did have hair there, the term that would have been used in any locker room or barracks in Danse's experience is 'firecrotch.' But decorum prohibits actually saying this.
This is just about the only way in which decorum is making any appearance whatsoever right now, given the bright-eyed relish with which Danse continues to tug Deacon's jeans down his thighs, and the flush that deepens in his cheeks at--so much of this, truly. The sounds Deacon makes, every bit as unstudied and candid as Danse had hoped they would be, making them feel like equals again. The fist in his hair, tugging at his scalp with a sweet sting that vibrates all the way down through his body to pool in his groin and throb there. The weight of Deacon's cock in his hand as Danse finally pulls it free, and the heat in his gaze that makes it clear just how appealing he does find this particular shade of carpet, with or without drapes to match.
"I'm guessing you'd rather I not be, from here on out."
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"Hah-- Definitely not," he replies breathlessly, "Courtesy is still acceptable, though, for the record." He bobs his head to the side, considering, then giving that thick hair an encouraging tug, "Honestly, so is disrespect and everything in-between. I'm not actually picky."
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"What I'm not hearing here are my actual orders, Deacon." His hand strokes slowly along Deacon's length, with pressure he knows wouldn't be enough if it were his own. "If we were out in the field, I'd hate to have to put you on report for dereliction of duty."
Because two can play at this game, now that he's been given a chance to adjust to the rules, and Danse has been playing it a lot more consistently, if not actually for longer.
"Am I free to act on my own initiative here, or are you going to make me take it?"
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"If we were out in the field, I don't think dereliction of duty would be their biggest concern," he quips, but Danse's next question makes his entire body feel warm, his cock throbbing inside Danse's frustratingly light grip. He has no idea why he finds that question so hot, but it inspires him, and the hand in Danse's hair grips tighter and twists, pulling his head back so that Deacon can tease in-kind.
"Attention, soldier," he hisses, "Drop that jaw nice and open for me. I want to see just how much of it you can take."
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Even if he felt like he could close his mouth right now, breathless as he is, he wouldn't. He does as he's told, opening still wider with anticipation. It's been a long damn time since he's done this--not since his days as a knight, not often even then--but he's determined to prove himself. It's part pride, part fierce competitive spirit, and part a stubborn and embarrassing little underlying voice that wants Deacon to say he's pleased and truthfully mean it.
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"Good boy..." he purrs, inching forward to feed himself into Danse's mouth slowly. Just a taste as the blunt tip presses against Danse's lips at first, giving him the time to adjust for it to push further in, but Deacon is holding his breath as he watches, his own lips parted and breathless at the warmth already emitting from Danse's mouth.
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Nobody gives praise like that in the Brotherhood--certainly not exactly like that, obviously, because that would be a hilarious disaster, but even the appropriate kind is in pretty short supply. Danse tries to encourage his squad with ample positive reinforcement for well-performed duties and exemplary bravery, making up for what other commanders do less of, but no military outfit is ever going to encourage its soldiers with this kind of simple, gentle, erotic tenderness. And soldiers with lives outside the Brotherhood might be able to enjoy that kind of thing elsewhere, but Danse has never known anything quite like it in his life.
His one hand grips tight onto Deacon's hip to steady himself, but his other reaches for his own cock, gripping desperately again and stroking through the thin fabric of his briefs, because he can't go without anything at all, not anymore. He laves the precome gently from the tip of Deacon's cock with his tongue and lets his jaw go that little bit more slack, ready for more.
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He suppresses a pleasured sound of his own as his hip is grasped and he feels the press of a hot tongue against the tip of his dick. With an easy push of his hips, he eases the head of it past Danse's lips, the surrounding heat making his muscles tense. It doesn't go unnoticed that Danse is palming at himself, and after a shaky breath, Deacon groans and slides his foot forward until his shin is at his thigh for him to grind against if he wishes to.
"Look at how worked up I've got you..." he teases gently, his voice oddly dripping with a sort of affection, "Let me watch you stroke that pretty cock of yours while you suck on mine. Not fair that I only got a preview."
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He has just enough coherence in reserve to remind himself that this is Deacon's job, to know what people want to hear and shift everything about himself in order to supply it, to lower everyone's guard by any means necessary and work his way into their heads. He can't let himself believe there's anything more to that gentle teasing affection--like they're in on a shared joke, like they have something that belongs just to them--than Deacon reading him well enough to know he longs for it, and he should hate that even more than he hates the profanation of his military service.
But he doesn't. Because they're never acknowledging this again. And in this room, where nothing is going to leave it or matter, it feels so fucking good to indulge it. It's not real--but neither are the childhood memories the Railroad planted in his brain, and those don't make the feeling of a cold empty stomach any less familiar. He knows exactly how real something fabricated can still feel.
He should have the discipline not to want to hump Deacon's leg like a damn dog, either, and he holds back for a good long moment, but the weight of Deacon's cock and heady taste of him on his tongue and that strange, gentle, flattering command are all too much for him in combination. He moans, soft and deep, and swallows around Deacon with a slow thrust of his hips before pulling himself free again and giving another squeezing stroke along his own length.
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Right now, what isn't coming naturally is restraining himself from pushing deeper into Danse's mouth and rutting against his face the way the other man momentarily humps against his leg. Whatever has them this keyed up is shredding Deacon's usual reservation and making him act recklessly by doing this to begin with. He has no idea how he's supposed to sleep ever again as long as he lives, because he's pretty sure every time he closes his eyes he will see this image of Danse, swallowing back his cock while stroking at his own, moaning and doing anything he asks.
"Fuck--" he chokes, "You feel so good..." His hand pets through Danse's hair, fingers scratching at his scalp. "And you like this, don't you? Show me. Wanna watch myself disappear into your mouth. Wanna see you get off like this."
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The continued praise is better still, and Deacon knows it. He must, given the increasing rapidness with which Danse follows every soft sweet order. He'd been willing to hold off on taking initiative before; now, he presses forward, taking Deacon's cock as deep as he can, pushing resolutely past the barrier of his own out-of-practice inexperience and relaxing his throat until his nose is nestled into wiry red hair. He can't sustain it, but he can manage for a moment before he has to pull back a bit, shallower but no less enthusiastic as his head bobs and his hand moves all the more fervently on his own cock.
He's been desperate since the moment he walked into this room, but even he hasn't expected his pleasure to boil over quite as quickly as this once he finds his rhythm, shoving him right to the edge and making him tremble as he resists the urge to pause for breath. If Deacon wants to watch him get off, he'll get his wish in very short order.
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"Come for me," he rhasps lowly, convinced that he won't be able to let himself go until he sees the other man shaking apart on his knees before him.
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At that quiet gravelly command, his thighs spread greedily just that little bit further apart on the floor, and the motion of his hand falters finally as he spends in thick streaks across the carpet and a little bit on the leg of Deacon's jeans. He'll apologize for it later, probably. It's not like Deacon doesn't have other pants.
Right now, his body feels so slack with the shuddering relief that it's all he can do for a second to remember where he is, clutching Deacon's hip all the tighter for stability--but he hasn't forgotten why he's down here, and it doesn't take him long to renew his efforts, fiercely determined now to drag Deacon over the edge along with him and swallow every drop.
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But that's beside the point now, because in a moment of aphrodisiac-fuelled weakness he has found himself standing over another man making sounds and faces he's never made where others can see. He's letting himself indulge in something carnal and in that, there's no mask to be worn. And Danse clearly is too; their little secret. No one has to know that Deacon has any human qualities whatsoever, and no one has to know how fucking beautiful Danse looks when he's doing what he's told with a desperation to please that he has never seen in any man. Jesus Christ.
He doesn't give a fuck about his jeans. Not when Danse is moaning around his cock, making a mess just for him, and clutching at his hip like a life raft. Not when Deacon can't even help but rut into those swollen lips just enough to get him tensing up and spilling down Danse's throat with a whimpering moan.
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Now it's simply taken on an additional dimension of fetishistic appreciation, but that isn't the sole reason he so thoroughly relishes the heat and salt of Deacon's release down his throat. It's even more about that uncontrolled thrust of his hips, the utter lack of artifice in that moan, the continued assurance that this, for once even if perhaps never again, is the truth.
He does rejoice in knowing Deacon is a man with needs after all, even if Danse can be trusted not to use that against him outside this room. And he rejoices too, privately, in the intimacy of sharing a secret. He licks away every last trace from Deacon's cock, wiping the remainder from his lips as he finally pulls back, and rests his forehead momentarily against Deacon's stomach to catch his breath before getting slowly to his feet.
It feels odd to be the taller one again, when Deacon's been looming over him for one reason or another almost since they started this. Danse feels wrung out like a rag, but not fully satisfied, like this is only a lull between battles--but it's enough to think a little more clearly, even as his gaze falls to Deacon's lips again with a strange unexpected longing.
"Can I kiss you again?" he asks, voice quiet and a little rough from what he's just put his throat through. Earlier, he'd simply have done it, but now, in this post-coital uncertainty, he feels the need to ask.
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Speechless for the first time, he nods, already staring at Danse's lips with a sort of desire he can't place, more focused now and less desperate. He leans forward, lips parted and hovering close. His hands find Danse's waist, rubbing up and over his strong chest alowly until they can rest over his shoulders.
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Maybe that isn't what either of them should actually want. But if they'll never do this again, or speak of it again, then remembering it vividly is all Danse is going to have. He lets his hands map gently and thoroughly over the lean hard planes of Deacon's body, recalling enough of what his mouth had traveled over to steer clear of the worst of the scars under his shirt. Even in this bizarre hour of indulgence, where they're something more to each other than grudging temporary allies at best and potential enemy combatants at worst, Danse doesn't think he should ask about those, nor let his hands linger on them without knowing where they came from.
But it's all secondary to the heat of Deacon's mouth against his own, anyway. That's what he really wants, enough to wrap his arms around Deacon's waist and lose himself in it completely.
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It starts slow and indulgent but begins to grow more heated, Deacon's fingers twisting and tugging against his scalp again, teeth scraping against his lip. With Danse like this, complaint and eager in his company, Deacon feels greedy, years of denying himself pleasures like this bottled up and exploding out of him in a release of pent-up frustration. He pulls back enough to growl against Danse's lips, a renewed hunger in his voice.
"I'm not finished with you, yet." he mutters there, "Back on the sofa. I want you draped over it and holding yourself open for me."
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He doesn't know what it's like to lose a spouse. But Cutler had felt like one, in some ways, their lives joined enough for major decisions to be made as one, both of them refusing to go where the other couldn't follow until circumstances forced them apart. Danse knows what it is to fear that unhealing wound of loss so much as to be unwilling to risk it again. He would be stunned, touched, to know he merits being an exception, no matter how powerful the drug influencing them both right now.
He's already stunned enough by the demand, but not in a remotely unwelcome way, the suggestion alone making his spent cock begin urgently and immediately to stir again. He wants to obey, has no intention of refusing, but he doesn't hasten to strip down and do it quite yet.
"I've...I've never actually done it from, uh, that side of the equation."
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This version of Danse is more lived-in, ruggedly handsome in his own way, the sum of his experiences and all of them unknown to Deacon too. He had been surprised to see this face again, decades later, and is frankly still in awe that it's in front of him, now, big brown eyes glassy and yearning. Deacon's thumb brushes gently over the cheekbone under one, a stark contrast to his handling before, but the effort made to show Danse that he's capable of being gently with him as he sucks in a grounding breath.
"A bit different for me, too," he scoffs, "Do you trust me?"
A loaded question. He knows Danse doesn't- of anyone he knows back at Sanctuary, Danse likely trusts him the least. Here in this odd little room, though, under these circumstances? The secret they both now share? Maybe that's not so much to ask. And maybe Deacon craves that answer a bit more than he'd admit to.
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And he's already trusted Deacon to be gentle enough with his rustiness at this; he'd felt that careful restraint in the spring-coiled tension of his hips, when he knows a part of both of them had wanted Deacon to let go and fuck his mouth with more abandon even if it would have ended badly. This is more than that, a nerve-racking escalation, but nothing about anything they've done in this room tells him Deacon would be rough or careless or cruel with him in a way he didn't want.
When Danse thinks about it, that isn't the kind of thing he would associate with Deacon under any circumstances. Of all the reasons not to trust Deacon, thinking he would be a selfish lover is...not one of them. Not at all. Quite the opposite, even. He closes his eyes, face tilting almost unconsciously into that touch.
"If you'll believe it, yes."
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"Good."
His hand slides lower, over Danse's chest, then he walks him back to that sofa, pushing him down, but not forcefully. A side table made of rotting wood is sat beside it, an assortment of items piled on top of it, and Deacon busies himself to poke through them until he finds something safe to use as lubricant.
"Like I said: Spread for me." he instructs, giving the other man an expectant smirk while he pops open the cap of the bottle and drizzles a generous amount of oil over his fingers.
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He has a distinct sense of deja vu as his ass hits the sofa again at Deacon's command, though he hadn't needed to be pushed last time. And he'd been content enough to stay where he was put then, without much time even to think about it anyway before Deacon had been straddling his lap--but this time he's torn between the nervous impulse to watch what Deacon's doing with those fingers, and the sensual desire to do as he's told, because he knows it will pay off in pleasure. Only the latter requires him to actually get off the couch.
He opts for this anyway, as they both knew he would. His hands feel clumsier than he can ever remember them feeling before as he unzips his flightsuit the rest of the way, stripping down to his underwear as methodically as he can make himself do, and glancing with slight hesitation out the dirty window to ensure nobody's there before slipping those off too and standing naked beside the couch. The discrepancy between his nudity and Deacon's reasonably complete outfit, sunglasses and all, feels almost like more of a show of vulnerability and trust right now than the actual thought of letting Deacon put fingers or anything else inside him.
Then again, he's still got four inches and about forty pounds on the guy. He could probably fight naked if he had to.
"I'm really not sure I--" It just feels like a little much for him yet, the spreading, even when he does know how this works; he remembers the scribe he'd had a standing appointment to sneak off with on Thursday afternoons at the Citadel, who had no compunctions about bending over the nearest table as soon as Danse shut the abandoned conference room door behind them, who'd responded to Danse's curious request to switch things up once in a while with 'that would just be a waste.' Danse wants this, as much as he had then, but--
--well, he'll compromise, bending carefully over the arm of the sofa as directed, but leaving things at that for now, twisting to glance back at Deacon over his shoulder.
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