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