Deacon isn't sure what response he's expecting, but it isn't this. Not that he's complaining to be surrounded by those big, burly arms and given a face-full of Danse's chest, which he relaxes against and breathes in the heady scent of him. It's a smell he started to miss over the course of the week as the pillows and sheets aired out and smelled less and less like him every night. It makes Deacon kind of melt there, his arms clutching at Danse's back and resting happily against him until his face is pulled up to look at Danse, his cheeks flushed red.
"If you insist," he murmurs back, "I've only got an appetite for you, anyway..."
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"If you insist," he murmurs back, "I've only got an appetite for you, anyway..."