Deacon can feel that press of Danse's cock at his back, making him yearn for it. He can feel the way it reacts to every sound that he makes, validating Danse's claims.
"Yeah-" he starts, but that perfect stroke of Danse's thick finger makes him groan again, hips pushing out needily for more.
His arm gropes behind him, wrapping itself around Danse best it can. "You're certifiably insane. Probably." he mutters in response, even though that praise makes his stomach quiver and his heart rattle at its enclosure. "I wouldn't have you any other way, for the record."
He squirms again, his breathing growing heavy, "Don't make me wait, baby brahmin. You can be insane and not cruel."
Danse's laugh is a bare soft breath in Deacon's ear at this, but it's the kind of laugh Deacon wrings from him so easily, so frequently, more in these past months than in all the rest of his life combined. And yet he still won't admit that he's worthy, the bare minimum of the praise Danse could gladly keep lavishing upon him.
There's nothing he craves more than to give Deacon what he wants, to the point where he nearly moves to do so before his brain can catch up with his body--but at that pleading, he stops himself. He doesn't move to meet that searching rock of Deacon's hips, or fill him with another finger. Maybe it's cruel to hold back, but it's cruelty with the best and tenderest of intentions, and he leans in for another kiss before he speaks.
"Not until you admit something to me," he says softly. "Tell me that I'm lucky to have you."
Danse may be able to see a glimpse of a sort of pleading look in his eyes from the angle he has behind Deacon's glasses. If not, it can be inferred by the way his brow is pinched in his reflection. His ask makes Deacon's breath hitch softly, a huff escaping a moment later that lands just short of a laugh.
"I'm lucky to have you," he argues with the slightest shake of his head, "Despite your cruelty, you are so good to me."
But he knows Danse is being serious, and he wants more. He wants to make Danse happy with him, the same reason that he calls Danse his good boy on occasion and claims him as his own. Deacon lies all the time. This should be easy. It's just another lie isn't it? Or maybe it's true, and that's what makes it so difficult to say.
"I-" he stutters, then takes a deep breath, his chin tipping aside to look Danse in the face. "You're lucky to have me, too." he admits, stomach tight. "We're lucky to have each other."
Danse's hand has gone still as he waits on this response, his body held with careful discipline behind Deacon's to keep him on the edge, but what he can't do is keep his expression completely impassive at Deacon's protest. Praise like that from Deacon has always melted him, spoiled him, ruined him, when he'd come to realize so early on with startling strength of conviction that he wanted nothing more in the world than to be Deacon's good boy. Even now, it makes him throb against Deacon's skin, makes his breath echo that little catch, and it's all he can do not to press a fiercer kiss of appreciation to Deacon's temple for it.
But he holds firm, because he does want more. And when it comes, halting and strained, he can hear the truth of it in Deacon's voice. He doesn't hesitate now to meet that with a kiss as Deacon turns to face him, slipping another finger into him and dragging them both over the spot Deacon needs and plunging his tongue between Deacon's lips in time with them, eager to demonstrate his pride in Deacon for pushing himself to say that out loud. It swells in his chest even when he pulls back, with one last sweet little suck to Deacon's lower lip.
"Good," he says, as his fingers keep working to prepare them to be fully joined. "I knew you could say it. We are. We both are."
The kiss alone would be more reward than he needs for such a feat, but the addition of another finger has him moaning into Danse's mouth, his hand squeezing at the back of his neck, muscles trembling.
He takes his time savoring the taste of Danse's lips and tongue, his own rolling against it. Not because it keeps him from his own reflection, but because it really is something that Deacon feels lucky to share, especially when distance and duty keeps them apart.
He grinds against Danse's hand with soft gasps as their lips part, still clinging to him as his body relaxes into the new stretch. "Don't get cocky..." he purrs between heated breaths.
"I don't believe you mind that one bit," Danse teases, letting them both indulge as his hand works. The grip to his neck makes him shiver pleasantly with a slow grind against Deacon's back, a promise of what's to come, and it feels all the better for this interlude where their eyes are only on each other as they kiss and share breath.
But he still hasn't yet shown Deacon everything he wants to. He slicks himself down with a tight stroke and nudges at Deacon's head with his own to direct him back to the mirror, lining himself up and making sure Deacon watches every slow, sweet, steady inch of Danse's cock vanish into him the way he'd watched his own cock be swallowed down earlier.
"So good for me," he whispers in Deacon's ear, his voice hoarse with the effort of control in the throes of his own pleasure. "You take me so well. I think about this, too, when I'm alone in the Castle barracks at night--think about how you would ride me if you were there, make that bunk frame slam against the wall until people could hear it through the stone--how you'd fall asleep on top of me when we were done, with me still inside you."
The grind of Danse's hips is so pleasurable that he doesn't fight at all when his head is directed forward again. Moments later, he feels Danse shift their weight, and fixes his eyes on their reflection, trailing down over the way his own cock strains in the air, dripping with arousal and flush pink at the tip. The way his balls look heavy draped in front of his stretched rim, puckered and needy as Danse's cockhead nudges against it.
"Please..." he sighs, voice just short of a whimper, at least until he feels Danse start to push in and the way his body stretches to accommodate him. His eyes can't look away, then, each thick inch of Danse disappearing as he sinks atop him, making him moan and sob.
"Fuck, Danse," he whines as Danse bottoms out inside of him, noticing the way Danse's cock bulges in his lower belly, the outline of it vaguely noticeable from their reflection. Deacon's own cock throbs at this realization, all those filthy things Danse whispers only helping make him ache with need and moan softly in pleasure. The arm that isn't wrapped around Danse for stability reaches forward, and Deacon palms over that outline, his rim clenching reflexively at Danse's girth.
"I'm gonna see this every time I close my eyes..."
"Jesus," Danse exhales, awed to the point where his train of thought dissolves like mist at the sight of Deacon stroking, teasing, highlighting the way Danse's cock stands out inside him. It pulses with frantic, aching heat underneath that tracing palm.
When he'd first conceived this idea, more spur-of-the-moment than nearly any of his plans ever are, he hadn't taken into account the way he's never seen them from this angle either, never been so uniquely well-positioned to watch the way their bodies fit together as if hand-crafted to.
"That's exactly what I want," he says, feeling increasingly delirious and less in command with every sound from Deacon's lips. He dreams sometimes about that sobbing noise Deacon makes at his absolute heights of desire, and it makes his hand clench tight on Deacon's hip like an anchor now as if to leave a claiming mark. "I just wanted you to see how beautiful you are--wanted you to see what I love--"
Whether or not Deacon agrees with Danse over how beautiful he can be when they're together like this is irrelevant. Every insecurity that Deacon has that seems to cycle through his mind grinds to a halt, alarm bells going off instead. His expression falls and Deacon is silent for a moment after a harsh inhale.
Danse, honest to a fault, just uttered a word that Deacon hasn't heard used on reference to himself in something like twenty-odd years. Deacon's head whips around to look him straight-on, awaiting some sort of clarification.
For as uncharacteristically as Danse has been winging this all so far, that word had crossed the line into completely unintentional, and that gasp from Deacon is enough to freeze his breath. His hips stutter and still themselves, and neither of them moves.
But why should Deacon not hear it? The endearment is unplanned, but like everything else out of Danse's mouth, honest to its core. Has this not been the entire point of this exercise, after all? Why has he done this, if not to let Deacon experience his feelings to their fullest, whatever name Danse gives to them?
He won't take it back. He locks his eyes with Deacon's and doubles down in word and gesture, his hand sliding down over Deacon's stomach to curl around his flushed and straining cock and squeeze, his own hips starting up their rhythm again slower, harder, as if punctuating.
"I want you to know that I love you," he growls. "I want you to know why. I want you to know everything you've done to deserve it."
Somewhere deep inside of Deacon's brain, something short-circuits, and he's speechless for a long moment save for the shuddering sound of an exhale he makes as Danse grips his cock and thrusts into him again. When it kicks into gear again, he's twisted his torso to the side his other hand cupping at Danse's jaw with a sort of reverence as he crashes their lips together into another moaning kiss. It's passionate and a bit rough, his hips churning in time with the way Danse thrusts into him again and again.
When Deacon pulls out of the kiss with a gasp, his hand leaves Danse's jaw to pluck his glasses from his eyes and toss them aside. His heart is aching and beating so hard, he can hear his own pulse in his ears. This feels too important to hide behind sunglasses to say. Too important to dance around and feed his partner lies over. He thinks he's known how he's felt for a time now, but he's told himself that he was being foolish and made any excuse to stay in denial.
"I know..." he breathes, "I know, because I feel the same way. I love you. No bullshit. I'm fucking crazy about you, Danse."
Danse's answering groan is smothered between their mouths, his kiss breathless with relief and desire and adoration, a messier clash of lips and teeth than he usually indulges, but he can't get enough of anything and everything Deacon will give.
He gulps for air too as Deacon pulls back, expecting only that momentary pause, but his mouth is left hanging open as Deacon throws the shades aside. For all Danse implores him at every opportunity to take them off and let him soak in the surprising expressiveness of those eyes, blue as clean safe water and wrinkled at the corners from life and wisdom and laughter, he hasn't asked tonight. And it's a gift that he doesn't need to ask. Every word out of Deacon's mouth is a gift nobody else has ever given Danse, not in his real memories or his false ones, not before the Brotherhood or in it or after it. Not even Cutler, whom he'd have followed to the end of the world.
The arm bracing them on the bed comes up to wrap itself around Deacon's body instead, diagonal across his chest and holding him tight and close as Danse throws his weight forward to fuck him for dear life. His hand in its speeding pace slips out of sync with the movement of his hips, and he doesn't care, so wild is he to pleasure Deacon by any and every means at his disposal now.
"You always let me know that I'm yours," he pants. Whether outright in what they could tell themselves was silly bedroom playacting, or in a million different soft honest unspoken ways. Deacon knows it's all Danse has ever wanted. "And you're mine. You're perfect, and you're mine, and I want the whole damn Commonwealth to know it--"
Deacon could have expected a big reaction from Danse, but the passion that follows is something he could never have imagined. He clings to Danse with both arms, nails practically clawing into skin. There's nothing else that Deacon can say, not with Danse fucking into him so hard that he grunts and cries out with every thrust. But Danse isn't alone here, because he's inspired Deacon as well. Deacon's knees crack, but it hasn't stopped him from fucking himself down harder onto Danse's lap and thrusting up into his hand.
Danse continues to shower him with praise thats somehow both romantic and lewd, and Deacon busies his mouth by kissing roughly over his jaw and neck, teeth dragging between gasps of air. The fingers of one hand drag over his chest, tugging at his chest hair and toying with a nipple, the edge of a nail circling and flicking over it.
"They’ll know-" he gasps, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, "Everyone can probably hear us from here-Oh fuck! Mm, Danse, right there..."
"Good." Danse's voice is animalistic in its passion right now, the kind of rough, full-throated snarl heretofore reserved for the frenzied climax of battle.
Later, maybe, with post-orgasmic clarity and a lengthy cooling-off period, he'll have the wherewithal to be embarrassed about throwing decorum and propriety this far to the winds, when both of them still have to look the people of Sanctuary in the eye, and everyone still thinks this house is unclaimed and standing empty.
Everyone still thinks, in point of fact, that Danse and Deacon are still nursing enough political grudges barely to tolerate each other's company. Everyone thinks Danse lives in the guardpost and showers in his armor. Everyone thinks Deacon is a loose assembly of three mole rats and a book of riddles in a trenchcoat, impervious to human desire. After this, they will know better, but--
"I don't fucking care."
He hisses helplessly at the sweet sharp sting of Deacon's nails and bucks his hips, already beginning to snowball toward the edge, burying his mouth in the curve of Deacon's neck and shoulder and sucking hard enough to bruise. Danse can identify in his mind by now exactly which of Deacon's shirts could cover up the mark, if he wanted to. He also knows which of them won't.
He pauses now, with all the willpower he has, only to turn Deacon bodily around to straddle his lap and face him fully before thrusting back into him. He needs this face-to-face now. "I need to feel you come on me," he gasps, decorum lost and gone and buried now. "Come for me, love--"
That wolfish snarl is really doing it for Deacon, but it's the sudden cursing that makes his cock throb and nearly come on the spot. It often feels like Danse goes to lengths to not curse, even in the throes of passion, but he seems to be on one tonight, and Deacon is fucking thrilled by it.
"So much for secrecy--Mhh!" Deacon moans at the feeling of Danse's lips pulling a bruise to surface on his skin. It's paired with a slow, sweet grind of his hips, right before he's manhandled into a new position, a show of strength that leaves Deacon gasping for air again.
"Could've told them-- fuuuck..." he interrupts himself with another cry of pleasure as Danse impales him again, "Told 'em- mh, fighting a yoo-guy, yaw-gee, fuck it; a bear."
His hands both paw their way back up Danse's chest and slide up his neck and into his hair, fingers twisting into the strands and tugging as he starts to ride Danse again with renewed determination.
"God, you too, fill me up, baby. Please-" he groans, finding his momentum until their skin is slapping together again steadily. "I'm close, baby brahmin. Say it again, tell me you love me..."
Danse's forehead rests on Deacon's shoulder as this incredibly Deaconesque digression makes him gasp out a startled laugh with the little breath he has left, ghosting over the sweat-slick skin as his rhythm falls apart. The hands tightening in his hair drag a fervent moan from him, as they always do and always will, but he has just enough command left in him to protest--wants to demand, somewhere between teasing and deadly earnest, that Deacon tell anyone who asks exactly how he got that bruise and from whom.
He never gets the chance. That heartfelt request, with that endearment that always sets his every nerve aglow when Deacon is this free with it in bed, drives every other thought from his head but the yearning to obey it.
"I love you." His hands slip down to grasp Deacon's ass, dragging him in as closely as they can possibly be joined. "I love you, I love you..." He's still chanting it like a prayer as he spills himself inside Deacon, unable to hold himself back no matter how determined he'd been to make his lover come first, breaking down and trembling in Deacon's arms as if they're the safest refuge he knows.
Whether it's Danse's words or the hot spill of his pleasure deep inside of Deacon's body is unclear, but in the end it doesn't matter, because seconds later he's crying out in pleasure of his own, hips bucking frantically. His cock ruts against Danse's taut abs until it's painting them with come, leaving Deacon's voice cracking and body twitching, muscles tired and spent.
He takes a moment to take a deep, shaky breath, and then his hands tug again at Danse's hair to pull him into another kiss, this one lazy and a little messy, ending with more soft, sweet kisses that trail over Danse's scarred cheek to his ear.
"I love you, too," he whispers there like it's a secret, nuzzling against him and resting until he can catch his breath.
Danse wraps both arms around Deacon and holds him close and tight, still buried inside him, still dizzied and unsteady, reveling as if drunk in the claiming mark of Deacon's release on his skin.
The voice in his ear makes him shiver, squeezing Deacon tighter against him and absolutely loath to let him go. He scoots as far backward onto the bed as he can, as carefully as he can lest his cock slip free, and reclines with him as their feet dangle over the edge of the bed. The sheet is abandoned, too far away to reach, when Deacon's body is all the warmth he needs now even as their sweat cools.
Abandoned, but not entirely forgotten. He brushes the softest of kisses over each of Deacon's eyelids, grateful that he can reach them. "So," he murmurs. "We going to leave that mirror uncovered now?"
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"Yeah-" he starts, but that perfect stroke of Danse's thick finger makes him groan again, hips pushing out needily for more.
His arm gropes behind him, wrapping itself around Danse best it can. "You're certifiably insane. Probably." he mutters in response, even though that praise makes his stomach quiver and his heart rattle at its enclosure. "I wouldn't have you any other way, for the record."
He squirms again, his breathing growing heavy, "Don't make me wait, baby brahmin. You can be insane and not cruel."
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There's nothing he craves more than to give Deacon what he wants, to the point where he nearly moves to do so before his brain can catch up with his body--but at that pleading, he stops himself. He doesn't move to meet that searching rock of Deacon's hips, or fill him with another finger. Maybe it's cruel to hold back, but it's cruelty with the best and tenderest of intentions, and he leans in for another kiss before he speaks.
"Not until you admit something to me," he says softly. "Tell me that I'm lucky to have you."
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"I'm lucky to have you," he argues with the slightest shake of his head, "Despite your cruelty, you are so good to me."
But he knows Danse is being serious, and he wants more. He wants to make Danse happy with him, the same reason that he calls Danse his good boy on occasion and claims him as his own. Deacon lies all the time. This should be easy. It's just another lie isn't it? Or maybe it's true, and that's what makes it so difficult to say.
"I-" he stutters, then takes a deep breath, his chin tipping aside to look Danse in the face. "You're lucky to have me, too." he admits, stomach tight. "We're lucky to have each other."
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But he holds firm, because he does want more. And when it comes, halting and strained, he can hear the truth of it in Deacon's voice. He doesn't hesitate now to meet that with a kiss as Deacon turns to face him, slipping another finger into him and dragging them both over the spot Deacon needs and plunging his tongue between Deacon's lips in time with them, eager to demonstrate his pride in Deacon for pushing himself to say that out loud. It swells in his chest even when he pulls back, with one last sweet little suck to Deacon's lower lip.
"Good," he says, as his fingers keep working to prepare them to be fully joined. "I knew you could say it. We are. We both are."
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He takes his time savoring the taste of Danse's lips and tongue, his own rolling against it. Not because it keeps him from his own reflection, but because it really is something that Deacon feels lucky to share, especially when distance and duty keeps them apart.
He grinds against Danse's hand with soft gasps as their lips part, still clinging to him as his body relaxes into the new stretch. "Don't get cocky..." he purrs between heated breaths.
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But he still hasn't yet shown Deacon everything he wants to. He slicks himself down with a tight stroke and nudges at Deacon's head with his own to direct him back to the mirror, lining himself up and making sure Deacon watches every slow, sweet, steady inch of Danse's cock vanish into him the way he'd watched his own cock be swallowed down earlier.
"So good for me," he whispers in Deacon's ear, his voice hoarse with the effort of control in the throes of his own pleasure. "You take me so well. I think about this, too, when I'm alone in the Castle barracks at night--think about how you would ride me if you were there, make that bunk frame slam against the wall until people could hear it through the stone--how you'd fall asleep on top of me when we were done, with me still inside you."
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"Please..." he sighs, voice just short of a whimper, at least until he feels Danse start to push in and the way his body stretches to accommodate him. His eyes can't look away, then, each thick inch of Danse disappearing as he sinks atop him, making him moan and sob.
"Fuck, Danse," he whines as Danse bottoms out inside of him, noticing the way Danse's cock bulges in his lower belly, the outline of it vaguely noticeable from their reflection. Deacon's own cock throbs at this realization, all those filthy things Danse whispers only helping make him ache with need and moan softly in pleasure. The arm that isn't wrapped around Danse for stability reaches forward, and Deacon palms over that outline, his rim clenching reflexively at Danse's girth.
"I'm gonna see this every time I close my eyes..."
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When he'd first conceived this idea, more spur-of-the-moment than nearly any of his plans ever are, he hadn't taken into account the way he's never seen them from this angle either, never been so uniquely well-positioned to watch the way their bodies fit together as if hand-crafted to.
"That's exactly what I want," he says, feeling increasingly delirious and less in command with every sound from Deacon's lips. He dreams sometimes about that sobbing noise Deacon makes at his absolute heights of desire, and it makes his hand clench tight on Deacon's hip like an anchor now as if to leave a claiming mark. "I just wanted you to see how beautiful you are--wanted you to see what I love--"
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Danse, honest to a fault, just uttered a word that Deacon hasn't heard used on reference to himself in something like twenty-odd years. Deacon's head whips around to look him straight-on, awaiting some sort of clarification.
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But why should Deacon not hear it? The endearment is unplanned, but like everything else out of Danse's mouth, honest to its core. Has this not been the entire point of this exercise, after all? Why has he done this, if not to let Deacon experience his feelings to their fullest, whatever name Danse gives to them?
He won't take it back. He locks his eyes with Deacon's and doubles down in word and gesture, his hand sliding down over Deacon's stomach to curl around his flushed and straining cock and squeeze, his own hips starting up their rhythm again slower, harder, as if punctuating.
"I want you to know that I love you," he growls. "I want you to know why. I want you to know everything you've done to deserve it."
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When Deacon pulls out of the kiss with a gasp, his hand leaves Danse's jaw to pluck his glasses from his eyes and toss them aside. His heart is aching and beating so hard, he can hear his own pulse in his ears. This feels too important to hide behind sunglasses to say. Too important to dance around and feed his partner lies over. He thinks he's known how he's felt for a time now, but he's told himself that he was being foolish and made any excuse to stay in denial.
"I know..." he breathes, "I know, because I feel the same way. I love you. No bullshit. I'm fucking crazy about you, Danse."
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He gulps for air too as Deacon pulls back, expecting only that momentary pause, but his mouth is left hanging open as Deacon throws the shades aside. For all Danse implores him at every opportunity to take them off and let him soak in the surprising expressiveness of those eyes, blue as clean safe water and wrinkled at the corners from life and wisdom and laughter, he hasn't asked tonight. And it's a gift that he doesn't need to ask. Every word out of Deacon's mouth is a gift nobody else has ever given Danse, not in his real memories or his false ones, not before the Brotherhood or in it or after it. Not even Cutler, whom he'd have followed to the end of the world.
The arm bracing them on the bed comes up to wrap itself around Deacon's body instead, diagonal across his chest and holding him tight and close as Danse throws his weight forward to fuck him for dear life. His hand in its speeding pace slips out of sync with the movement of his hips, and he doesn't care, so wild is he to pleasure Deacon by any and every means at his disposal now.
"You always let me know that I'm yours," he pants. Whether outright in what they could tell themselves was silly bedroom playacting, or in a million different soft honest unspoken ways. Deacon knows it's all Danse has ever wanted. "And you're mine. You're perfect, and you're mine, and I want the whole damn Commonwealth to know it--"
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Danse continues to shower him with praise thats somehow both romantic and lewd, and Deacon busies his mouth by kissing roughly over his jaw and neck, teeth dragging between gasps of air. The fingers of one hand drag over his chest, tugging at his chest hair and toying with a nipple, the edge of a nail circling and flicking over it.
"They’ll know-" he gasps, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, "Everyone can probably hear us from here-Oh fuck! Mm, Danse, right there..."
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Later, maybe, with post-orgasmic clarity and a lengthy cooling-off period, he'll have the wherewithal to be embarrassed about throwing decorum and propriety this far to the winds, when both of them still have to look the people of Sanctuary in the eye, and everyone still thinks this house is unclaimed and standing empty.
Everyone still thinks, in point of fact, that Danse and Deacon are still nursing enough political grudges barely to tolerate each other's company. Everyone thinks Danse lives in the guardpost and showers in his armor. Everyone thinks Deacon is a loose assembly of three mole rats and a book of riddles in a trenchcoat, impervious to human desire. After this, they will know better, but--
"I don't fucking care."
He hisses helplessly at the sweet sharp sting of Deacon's nails and bucks his hips, already beginning to snowball toward the edge, burying his mouth in the curve of Deacon's neck and shoulder and sucking hard enough to bruise. Danse can identify in his mind by now exactly which of Deacon's shirts could cover up the mark, if he wanted to. He also knows which of them won't.
He pauses now, with all the willpower he has, only to turn Deacon bodily around to straddle his lap and face him fully before thrusting back into him. He needs this face-to-face now. "I need to feel you come on me," he gasps, decorum lost and gone and buried now. "Come for me, love--"
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"So much for secrecy--Mhh!" Deacon moans at the feeling of Danse's lips pulling a bruise to surface on his skin. It's paired with a slow, sweet grind of his hips, right before he's manhandled into a new position, a show of strength that leaves Deacon gasping for air again.
"Could've told them-- fuuuck..." he interrupts himself with another cry of pleasure as Danse impales him again, "Told 'em- mh, fighting a yoo-guy, yaw-gee, fuck it; a bear."
His hands both paw their way back up Danse's chest and slide up his neck and into his hair, fingers twisting into the strands and tugging as he starts to ride Danse again with renewed determination.
"God, you too, fill me up, baby. Please-" he groans, finding his momentum until their skin is slapping together again steadily. "I'm close, baby brahmin. Say it again, tell me you love me..."
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He never gets the chance. That heartfelt request, with that endearment that always sets his every nerve aglow when Deacon is this free with it in bed, drives every other thought from his head but the yearning to obey it.
"I love you." His hands slip down to grasp Deacon's ass, dragging him in as closely as they can possibly be joined. "I love you, I love you..." He's still chanting it like a prayer as he spills himself inside Deacon, unable to hold himself back no matter how determined he'd been to make his lover come first, breaking down and trembling in Deacon's arms as if they're the safest refuge he knows.
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He takes a moment to take a deep, shaky breath, and then his hands tug again at Danse's hair to pull him into another kiss, this one lazy and a little messy, ending with more soft, sweet kisses that trail over Danse's scarred cheek to his ear.
"I love you, too," he whispers there like it's a secret, nuzzling against him and resting until he can catch his breath.
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The voice in his ear makes him shiver, squeezing Deacon tighter against him and absolutely loath to let him go. He scoots as far backward onto the bed as he can, as carefully as he can lest his cock slip free, and reclines with him as their feet dangle over the edge of the bed. The sheet is abandoned, too far away to reach, when Deacon's body is all the warmth he needs now even as their sweat cools.
Abandoned, but not entirely forgotten. He brushes the softest of kisses over each of Deacon's eyelids, grateful that he can reach them. "So," he murmurs. "We going to leave that mirror uncovered now?"