Danse hadn't known if this was going to happen again or not. In the light of day, the blurred lines of that shared fantasy had seemed clearer, but on the side of 'just a fictional story they'd been telling together,' and without any ability to go back and reread the messages for evidence to confirm or deny that hunch. This had probably been for the best, or Danse would have driven himself insane with overanalysis, as he does.
And the few times he's seen Deacon since then have given him plenty to overanalyze as it is. They haven't had sufficient privacy for him to ask about seeing each other again, always just within risk of earshot of someone they knew, if not actual earshot. Deacon hadn't acknowledged anything aloud, but neither had he acted like there was nothing to acknowledge, and those smoldering little smirks and teasing, purring double entendres had had Danse on the verge of just pushing him against a wall and kissing him.
Had it happened one more time, he would have--but then he gets that message, and his mind is immediately planning, strategizing, even as he looks forward to it with something that borders embarrassingly on desperation. That room had suited their purposes the first time because there was no other option, and even now, it works well enough in terms of privacy, but he isn't going to give Deacon an excuse to hold back from the kind of intimacy he'd spoken of in those messages, even if Danse knows that expecting all of it is too much. Besides which, that couch is one more good fuck from falling apart altogether, and Danse is too large a man to be comfortable on it anyway.
He sources a mattress that doesn't smell like mole rat shit or have any too-identifiable corpse stains on it and lugs it matter-of-factly into the room the night before they're set to meet, and adds the blanket from the bunker for good measure, because he can always find another one for himself. When he arrives for the rendezvous, he leaves his power armor in a far corner of the living room, so that someone would really have to be staring through the window in order to see it. Danse is never one for real stealth or subterfuge, but he can manage some degree of discretion when necessary.
He pauses in the doorway to drink in the sight of Deacon in those tight leathers, always a welcome one but never more so than right now, even better than his imagination had conjured up when stroking himself at his terminal. He, too, is wearing something different than last time; he'd put actual thought into wearing something different and perhaps more appropriate than the flightsuit, even if he doesn't own much. Just the army fatigues he's scavenged from another room in the listening post, faded and tight over his muscles.
"I didn't haul that thing here at two in the morning for someone else to be making use of it," he deadpans, "so you'd better tell them there's a change of plans." His eyes linger covetously on the snack cakes, though he's staring every bit as much at Deacon's fingers as he unconsciously licks his lips at the offer.
"But you bet I do. I was going to ask if you already knew those were my favorite, but on second thought, if you did, I don't want to know how." He joins Deacon on the mattress, sitting with the same stiff-postured awkwardness one would expect, but he'll loosen up.
Deacon feels the need to thank Danse for that pause in the doorway. It gives him an equal opportunity to drink in the tight fatigues that Danse if wearing for him, his own brain pinning red yarn to a board as it determines whether or not those were worn specifically for his benefit. They have to be. Danse has a very dependent relationship with his power armor and Deacon was pretty sure he didn't even own any other clothing.
"Two in the morning!" Deacon laughs, "The commitment. You've gotta respect it."
Years of working with synths, Deacon has noticed a pattern. Call it a hunch, but there was not a chance that Danse was different enough from the other synths that he didn't have a bit of a sweet tooth for snack cakes. Deacon was willing to take this risk, and looks a bit like the cat that ate the canary to learn he's right.
He shifts slightly to make room for Danse to sit, but not nearly enough to put space between them. They both know why they're here. He sighs, shrugging a bit. Deacon moves almost too casual and cavalier, pushing himself upright so that his hand can walk itself over the small space between them and up Danse's chest. "You could say I had a hunch. I know a lot more than I let on..." Which isn't a lie at all, even though it kind of sounds like one.
The hand at Danse's chest presses him gently back and against the wall, his other hand lifting the cake wrapper to his own mouth to bite and tear open. "I suppose you'll want the first bite..."
"It was in the service of discretion. I know how important that is to you."
The implication here, though not entirely true, is that it isn't particularly important to Danse--but in that sense, Deacon is right that the gesture had been about commitment. Danse wants to prove to him that he can keep this secret, that he's trustworthy enough to merit more relaxing of Deacon's guard, that Deacon won't come to regret it if he does. There's no need for subtlety might as well be a personal motto for Danse, and it still serves him well in battle, but this isn't battle. In any case, it's not as if he wants to be shouting this from the rooftops either, at least not any time soon, so they're pretty well in accord, but he doesn't think it hurts to reassure Deacon of that where he can.
The light, playful touch to his chest doesn't make him relax any, but the tension in his frame feels pleasant and anticipatory now rather than awkward, making him tilt almost unconsciously toward Deacon like a hubflower toward the sun. Insane, the kind of craving this can awaken in him after the one single solitary encounter in which they've ever actually laid hands on each other.
That doesn't even sound like a lie to Danse; he believes that much from Deacon without hesitation and usually finds it ominous, but he doesn't even care right now. Nothing could possibly hold his focus as much as the way Deacon's mouth works at that packaging, his gaze riveted to it, already making him long for a kiss. But he knows that will happen in good time, and patience at Deacon's urging had certainly paid off last time. He's never come that hard by his own hand in his life.
"If you're offering," he says, voice already softer and huskier.
Honestly, for Danse to make the effort to be discreet simply because it's important to Deacon feels significant. Daresay, Deacon feels touched. One can hear the power armor coming yards away if they're paying attention, and Danse didn't even park the thing outside, this time.
If Deacon really thinks about it, he's not sure what good hiding their meetings does outside of just having to hear less teasing from others. It's perfectly normal for adults to mess around with one another like this. But there is something very sexy about making Danse sneak around with him. Their little secret.
He smirks in reply, lifting the cake in its wrapper to Danse's lips, crowded over him, now. "You know, they're my favorite, too," he murmurs there as he offers the bite, his other hand still on Danse's chest, fingers toying with the collar of his fatigues, "Got a bit of a sweet tooth... but I don't mind sharing."
Before all this, Danse would have disdained the notion of keeping this a secret just for the thrill of doing so--he would have thought it exactly the kind of thing Deacon would want, would have sneeringly called it 'subterfuge' as if that were as dirty a word as the kind Deacon's driven him to in the throes of pleasure, but he wouldn't have understood the appeal. And he still doesn't, in quite the same way--but he likes the quiet privacy of this, the feeling that there might as well not be anyone outside this room at all, only the two of them here, close enough that they don't even need to speak above a whisper if they don't want to.
He likes that sense of sharing, the way he'd felt so strangely pleased the first time at the way Deacon had spoken like they were bonding over some inside joke, the kind of thing Danse has always felt like he's watching from the outside and never anticipated having for himself. He likes the notion of sharing this, too, even if it's something as light and inconsequential as a favorite snack.
He leans in closer, his posture easier now, not nearly so stiff as he takes a bite from the cake and closes his eyes to savor it with a low blissful hum. These are a rare treat, one he hasn't gotten to enjoy in a long while, and it's all the more touching that Deacon would share them now--though Danse knows the motive isn't pure altruism, nor does he want it to be. He licks the little crumbs slowly from his lips, suspecting that Deacon is getting just the same enjoyment from watching him do that as Danse was from watching him bite the package open, and the beginnings of an unusually-impulsive desire start to form in his head.
"I appreciate it," he says. "But they are still yours, after all." He takes the cake from Deacon's hand with a lingering brush of his fingers, intending at first to share it in the same way--but his thumb instead reaches to scoop out a little dollop of filling from the center, reaching up with pulse-speeding momentum to smear it gently across Deacon's lower lip, and leaning in to follow that with a kiss before he can lose his nerve at the uncharacteristic initiative, tongue dragging over that trace of icing before he sucks Deacon's lip into his mouth for that last taste of sugar.
That's the thing about Deacon; married to the job and yet years of solo missions have made things like inside jokes a novelty. Danse may have craved to be part of something like that, but what Deacon craves at times more than anything is being understood. He's gotten rather good at reading others over the years, and when he looks at Danse, behind all of his stern expressions and Brotherhood indoctrinated bullshit, there's something else. He's lonely. Deacon thinks, Like me. And if anyone knows what it's like to break out of the hold of a bigotted gang of losers and struggle to find himself, it's Deacon; nevermind their secret shared past, which if he thinks too much about he'll make himself crazy.
Then again, he might go crazy anyway, because watching this man hum and lick his lips like that has him nearly crawling into his lap; Deacon manages to control himself and only because Danse is moving in first. The swipe of an icing-coated finger over Deacon's lip is infuriating. That's his move.
The last of Deacon's self-control wanes and now he is climbing into Danse's lap, his tongue licking into the other man's mouth to have a taste himself, a hand grabbing blindly at the cake and making a mess of it on his fingers, which by the time their kiss breaks and leaves him breathless, he's wiggling in Danse's direction.
Danse has done his best, before arriving, to temper most of his expectations about how many of the things in those messages they'd volleyed back and forth while jerking off might actually happen in person. Even with the mattress in play, he doesn't know if the intense ideas they'd built on as they got closer and closer to climax are really feasible.
But clearly, having Deacon straddle him in tight leather pants was not too much to ask for, and Danse's mouth is preemptively watering as he thinks back as well on the things Deacon had promised to do with his fingers. The icing on them now is an unexpected bonus, and Danse would be almost every bit as eager to swallow them down regardless. He gathers Deacon closer against him, moaning with earnest delight into that kiss, his own hands slipping down to squeeze Deacon's ass through the leathers and appreciate how little they leave to the imagination, using that leverage to hold him close.
Those waggling fingers are tantalizing, but he doesn't take the initiative again this time. Not yet. His eyes are alight with exactly the kind of excitement Deacon wants at that hinting, but he resists the urge to lean in.
The unexpected squeeze of Danse's hands on his ass cheeks causes a giddy sound to leave Deacon as well; light, airy, and playful. It also causes the front of those tight leathers to begin feeling a bit tight, or perhaps that's what ends up leaving Danse's lips that has Deacon purring in his lap, the clean hand pressing against his chest again and pinning him to the wall.
Deacon rakes his teeth over his own lower lip in anticipation as he leans in, his messy fingertips pressed to Danse's lips to begin feeding them in. With the word choice of 'make me', he doesn't bother going easy, pressing three fingers at once with a low, hungry chuckle.
"Dunno, something tells me you won't fight me on this, will you, baby brahmin?" he teases. It's the first time he's uttered that pet name out loud, and it's just as fun to say as it was to type.
It's even more delicious to hear than it was to read, for Danse, as he knew it would be, but he hadn't been prepared for it right this second, and it gets a shaky unguarded little inhalation from him as it makes his cock twitch against Deacon's thigh.
Not that he's trying to be guarded about any of this at all. Deacon knows that. That's not what either of them wants--Danse isn't here to fight him when the surrender is so much more blissful, letting Deacon push him to the wall with a quiet little grunt and no resistance whatsoever even if he could, hips rocking easily against the growing bulge in Deacon's leathers.
The invasion of three fingers at once is unexpected, but sweet in more ways than just the icing on his tongue, making him swallow hard already to accommodate them before his tongue can curl around them as he tries to lick them clean and his voice vibrates around them with another soft deep moan. He'd promised to be skillful and obedient at this, and promised likewise to let Deacon make a mess of him, and Danse is always a man of his word. He grips gently at Deacon's wrist to steady it, thumb rubbing gently and almost unconsciously at the pulse point just for the pleasure of more sensual contact.
With a reaction as gorgeous as that, Deacon knows he won't be able to resist calling Danse sweet things while they're alone together like this. Maybe it's a bit much, but this now repeated encounter with the other man is nothing short of indulgent, and so he'll allow himself to act accordingly.
The rock of Danse's hips has Deacon's clean hand groping at his pecks, a low, rumbling hum of pleasure coming from deep in his own chest. Danse wanted to experience Deacon's cock filling out beneath leather in person, and he's getting it now, because Deacon can't keep himself from rolling his hips down in return and letting himself relish in the pleasure of feeling Danse's arousal against his own.
"Good--" he croons as he watches his fingers disappear into the other man's mouth, filling it up, "Such a good boy for me. You make it real difficult to do anything but give you what you really want." he sighs, an almost dreamy quality to his voice.
The tips of Deacon's fingertips curl slightly against Danse's tongue, playing with it as much as they're forcing his jaw open wider. They then withdraw slowly, and Deacon lewdly laps at his own fingers, cleaning off any remaining cake stuck to them. He gives Danse a little smirk, showing teeth.
"...And what is it that you really want, tonight?"
"God," he breathes, when his mouth is free to talk again, jaw already aching faintly in preparation for more of what he wants. And there's so much he wants, so much it embarrasses him, so much he feels like he needs to be strategic when asking in a way that isn't his nature to be. But he supposes that's fitting, when sleeping with the man he associates more than anyone else with careful Machiavellian manipulation.
He wants what they'd written back and forth about, and he thinks they both know that. He wants to look into Deacon's face this time and see his eyes, bare and honest without the sunglasses, if Deacon is so drawn to the wide vulnerability and candid emotion in Danse's own. But he can ease into that, carefully, and he won't be lying, when he's fantasized about every bit of leadup to that as well.
"I want more than just your fingers in my mouth," he says, low and husky, eyes riveted to Deacon's glistening hand. "I...I want to suck you like I did before, until you can't possibly hold out any longer. And then I want to ride you."
He has practiced this request, lest he feel too embarrassed to get the words out. He doesn't think anyone needs to know this.
It'll be a hard sell to get Deacon to agree to the removal of his glasses, but it's not exactly impossible. They're as much of a safety blanket to him as Danse's power armor is; he sleeps in them, for christ's sake. But there's still time for that, later, because what Danse asks for now is very appealing to Deacon, already.
Danse may not be able to see the way Deacon's eyes widen behind his sunglasses, but there are hints. His eyebrows, for example, the wrong color for his wig, rising above the frames. The suble way that the corners of his lips curl upward. The sudden inhale that's as audible as his words.
"Who am I to deny you?" he scoffs, rolling his hips as he leans in close, suddenly very desperate to taste Danse's lips again. He kisses him soundly, lifting himself up onto his knees so that they can reposition themselves as necessary once the kiss breaks, Deacon's teeth dragging over Danse's bottom lip as he does, not letting go until distance makes it slip from his grasp.
"Love it when a guy knows what he wants," he murmurs, "Don't be afraid to ask for more, you have me all night."
Danse drinks in every single one of those hints like a heady aged liquor, not a single one of them lost on him, for all he's overheard people snickeringly call him 'Paladin Dense' before. When he's this laser-focused on Deacon's reactions, starving for anything he can elicit, when he's spent weeks mentally replaying the desperate choked urging in Deacon's voice as he'd spent himself inside every part of Danse's body, he picks up on every crumb of that arousal now as if getting the last bits of sweetness from the snack cake wrapper.
All night feels like almost too sweet a promise, the same way Deacon's been keeping him on this edge of emotional near-overstimulation, like rubbing hard at the head of his cock, ever since they started all of this. The thought of falling asleep in Deacon's arms after they wear each other out feels like something Danse should be pushing aside, like Deacon can't possibly mean it that way, because it would be too much to ask of the man who'd bolted from the room last time before Danse could even get his underwear back on.
But maybe it feels like a bigger deal than it is, too, to a man who's spent so long sleeping in crowded barracks and tents full of squadmates that the notion of privacy to cuddle naked against a lover after sex is almost unheard-of. Don't be afraid to ask for more, Deacon tells him, and...maybe he will, in a little while. Just not yet, when that deep biting kiss is stirring him to far more urgent things.
He meets Deacon halfway with that movement, kneeling with him, pushing the leather jacket from his shoulders and skimming strong hands up his sides to get rid of the shirt underneath it as well. This is one of the ways Danse has been most determined to turn the tables this time, when Deacon's seen him fully bare-ass naked now and Danse had only gotten glimpses here and there of his body in turn. He's not letting Deacon get away with keeping clothes on this time, and he only has so much patience.
"I do know what I want," he murmurs, between further kisses. "You're handsome as hell, and I want to see all of you."
This isn't the surprise, rushed dalliance of their first encounter. This was planned for, by both of them. Deacon set the evening aside just as Danse had prepared a mattress for them to lay upon. Too much effort for him to run off after and pretend it didn't happen. If he's honest with himself, there's no pretending it didn't happen anymore, anyway; they're way past that, now, the option discarded as quickly as his jacket.
Deacon hums as Danse moves over him, but not tearing his hands from where they've rooted in Danse's hair during their kiss until it becomes necessary to do so for the other man to remove his shirt. The compliment makes him laugh, a grin creeping onto his lips.
"I'll give your compliments to my surgeon," he mutters, his own hands busying themselves with unbuttoning Danse's too-tight shirt so that he can get them on that big, hairy chest of his, eager to feel up all of the strong muscle he hides beneath armor all day. "But you have a lot of room to talk-- you look like one of those marble statues some ancient Roman artist chiseled away at for years just for some 21st century pre-war guys to theme their casino around." He pauses, "That was... supposed to be a compliment. I got carried away."
The surgeries are something of which Danse is abstractly aware, because Deacon is never shy about discussing them, and neither is anyone else when they talk about him. It's just a level of artifice and technology that baffles him, that he doesn't really have any experience with or know the extent of what's possible, because the Brotherhood's medical tech focuses entirely on the utilitarian.
And now that he has Deacon's shirt off, he can see scarring more extensive than he even expected, scars he's only incidentally skimmed his fingers over before while politely avoiding focus on them, but all the ones he can immediately see look like the work of weapons, not scalpels. They fascinate him, and turn him on more than they should, but he won't ask about them--not now.
His own body, even for all the combat he's seen, is comparatively light on the scars, more so than his face is. Power armor is serious business. And just as before, he finds himself not minding when Deacon praises it--finds himself liking it, wanting to hear even more of it, especially with Deacon's gift for entertaining turns of phrase. There's no need for an apology, when it wouldn't have occurred to Danse not to take that all as a compliment, though the twist of his lips in response is wry, as if trying to hide a broader smile.
"I'll take it," he says, helping shrug his shirt from his shoulders and resting his hands on Deacon's waist to pull him close again. "I'd give your compliments to the Institute scientists, but they're dead now."
It's unconventional pillow talk, but Danse knows he's at least talking to someone for whom that's just as much of a triumph. Gently, tempering his strength, he pushes Deacon backward now to make him stretch out on the mattress. He wants room to work.
"Hahh-" Deacon laughs breathlessly as Danse pulls him closer, his hands getting their fill of touches to his chest and shoulders, "Probably for the best..." he starts to mutter, but the press of Danse's hands are a distraction, and moments later he finds himself flat against the mattress with dizzying arousal.
It's a new perspective to be beneath Danse like this, his arms instinctively resting above his own head. Although he found the inverse thrilling, he thinks this is one he could get used to, himself. Especially when the dim light from the holes in the window coverings casts shadows that only seem to make Danse's features more dramatically handsome, when those big, dark eyes of his seem luminous in the fading light.
"Didn't think you were gonna turn the tables on me, Baby Brahmin," he coos, "But I'm not complaining. Far from it."
"Good," he says, with a tinge of that table-turning self-satisfaction audible in his low growl. "Because I'm just getting started."
How could he not be, with a feast like this laid out for his eyes and hands and mouth? And no time limit, no awkward positioning or uncomfortable furniture to make do with as best they can, little risk of interruption or need to stay half-dressed so that they can vacate the premises or fight intruders at a moment's notice--nothing Danse needs to worry about at this moment, except indulging the wave of pure lust that always manages to startle him with every glimpse of vivid ginger body hair.
Everything about Deacon's flushed and eager form is appealing to Danse right now, but the way Deacon stretches out for him inspires him to new heights of need. He straddles Deacon's hips just for now, just to give him a base to reach from, and with another one of those impulsive boosts of confidence, grips Deacon's wrists in one hand to hold his arms where they are.
His mouth descends on Deacon's neck with gentleness incongruous to that pinning gesture, exploring and nuzzling into the crook of it and sucking too softly to bruise, learning the taste of his skin in a way he didn't have the chance to before--and he wouldn't entirely have wanted to then, when they were both reeling from the drugs and half in denial that they were really doing this with each other of all people, but he wants it now as much as he craves water, kisses trailing further down over Deacon's chest with a brief embarrassed-yet-aroused detour to one exposed armpit. His hips grind down against Deacon's as he does, free hand braced on the bed and grip tightening around his wrists.
There's a moment when Deacon thinks about reaching for the hips straddling his own, and then all-too fast Danse's hands are gripping his wrists and Deacon gasps in surprise.
"Oh, so that's how this is gonna be..." Deacon scoffs teasingly, testing Danse's grip with a squirm, but not fighting him off. He's well aware that the man above him is much stronger than he is, but while eventually he plans to give into that, right now he would love to make him work for it. At least, that is until the other man's mouth begins to suck and kiss at his neck.
"...is this what you think about?" he asks breathlessly, those tantalizing kisses making him yearn for more, "When you're alone in your bunk..." he clarifies, rolling his hips back up as Danse mouths along to an armpit, the tighter grip on his wrists making him test against them again.
"Ahh-- tickles-- you fiend," he teases, grinning ar to ear, "You've been plotting this for a while, admit it. I know a revenge scheme when I see one-- mmh-- feel one..."
That unguarded gasp is music to Danse's ears, and the teasing struggle is a thrill, but not so much of one as the way Deacon pauses it while distracted by pleasure. It makes Danse reward him with more attention there, a longer and more lingering and slightly harder sucking kiss to the pulse point.
"You already know what I think about," he murmurs in Deacon's ear, "because I've detailed it for you while I'm doing it." But that's hardly been the only time he's done that before or since. And Deacon is absolutely right about what's on his mind lately.
"I think about the way you taunt me every time I see you," he pants, voice deep and vibrating against Deacon's skin. "I think about how you're practically begging me to drag you just out of view and pin you to a wall--see how well you can really keep quiet when secrecy is on the line. But I've thought about this, too. Having time to do anything I want. Working you up like you did when you made me beg you for it. Remembering what you taste like, for the next time I have to go without touching you for weeks on end."
And because Deacon's letting him--taunting him again, encouraging him even if it sounds like teasing protest--he punctuates this with a slow drag of his tongue along that same armpit, the pressure just light enough to keep tickling.
"At least you're admitting you've given me a reason to want revenge," he breathes over the wet skin.
Deacon shivers beneath Danse's hot breath, the sultry way he's murmuring in Deacon's ear making him weak to the onslaught of attention. It's such a stark contrast to the last time, even to the evening they'd spent messaging one another behind their terminal screens, but Deacon can't complain about the way Danse takes initiative, it's inspired.
"Hearing you say it is so much more satisfying than a few words on a screen..." Deacon muses, "Your voice--" he croaks, cut off but the things Danse starts saying to him, each one flattering and hotter than the last. He squirms, panting himself, his spine arching up off of the mattress.
"You make me sound so obvious..." he groans, "Jesus, you make it impossible to keep quiet. Listen to yourself," Deacon practically moans as he says it, "What if I told you you'd have me begging in no-time if you keep this up?" he breathes, his hips grinding up hard against Danse's.
His arms flinch and stress again at where Danse holds them, a ragged inhale audible as he's tickled again. "It's a never-ending cycle," he sighs teasingly as he calms himself again, "I am so getting you back for this. Just you fucking wait."
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And the few times he's seen Deacon since then have given him plenty to overanalyze as it is. They haven't had sufficient privacy for him to ask about seeing each other again, always just within risk of earshot of someone they knew, if not actual earshot. Deacon hadn't acknowledged anything aloud, but neither had he acted like there was nothing to acknowledge, and those smoldering little smirks and teasing, purring double entendres had had Danse on the verge of just pushing him against a wall and kissing him.
Had it happened one more time, he would have--but then he gets that message, and his mind is immediately planning, strategizing, even as he looks forward to it with something that borders embarrassingly on desperation. That room had suited their purposes the first time because there was no other option, and even now, it works well enough in terms of privacy, but he isn't going to give Deacon an excuse to hold back from the kind of intimacy he'd spoken of in those messages, even if Danse knows that expecting all of it is too much. Besides which, that couch is one more good fuck from falling apart altogether, and Danse is too large a man to be comfortable on it anyway.
He sources a mattress that doesn't smell like mole rat shit or have any too-identifiable corpse stains on it and lugs it matter-of-factly into the room the night before they're set to meet, and adds the blanket from the bunker for good measure, because he can always find another one for himself. When he arrives for the rendezvous, he leaves his power armor in a far corner of the living room, so that someone would really have to be staring through the window in order to see it. Danse is never one for real stealth or subterfuge, but he can manage some degree of discretion when necessary.
He pauses in the doorway to drink in the sight of Deacon in those tight leathers, always a welcome one but never more so than right now, even better than his imagination had conjured up when stroking himself at his terminal. He, too, is wearing something different than last time; he'd put actual thought into wearing something different and perhaps more appropriate than the flightsuit, even if he doesn't own much. Just the army fatigues he's scavenged from another room in the listening post, faded and tight over his muscles.
"I didn't haul that thing here at two in the morning for someone else to be making use of it," he deadpans, "so you'd better tell them there's a change of plans." His eyes linger covetously on the snack cakes, though he's staring every bit as much at Deacon's fingers as he unconsciously licks his lips at the offer.
"But you bet I do. I was going to ask if you already knew those were my favorite, but on second thought, if you did, I don't want to know how." He joins Deacon on the mattress, sitting with the same stiff-postured awkwardness one would expect, but he'll loosen up.
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"Two in the morning!" Deacon laughs, "The commitment. You've gotta respect it."
Years of working with synths, Deacon has noticed a pattern. Call it a hunch, but there was not a chance that Danse was different enough from the other synths that he didn't have a bit of a sweet tooth for snack cakes. Deacon was willing to take this risk, and looks a bit like the cat that ate the canary to learn he's right.
He shifts slightly to make room for Danse to sit, but not nearly enough to put space between them. They both know why they're here. He sighs, shrugging a bit. Deacon moves almost too casual and cavalier, pushing himself upright so that his hand can walk itself over the small space between them and up Danse's chest. "You could say I had a hunch. I know a lot more than I let on..." Which isn't a lie at all, even though it kind of sounds like one.
The hand at Danse's chest presses him gently back and against the wall, his other hand lifting the cake wrapper to his own mouth to bite and tear open. "I suppose you'll want the first bite..."
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The implication here, though not entirely true, is that it isn't particularly important to Danse--but in that sense, Deacon is right that the gesture had been about commitment. Danse wants to prove to him that he can keep this secret, that he's trustworthy enough to merit more relaxing of Deacon's guard, that Deacon won't come to regret it if he does. There's no need for subtlety might as well be a personal motto for Danse, and it still serves him well in battle, but this isn't battle. In any case, it's not as if he wants to be shouting this from the rooftops either, at least not any time soon, so they're pretty well in accord, but he doesn't think it hurts to reassure Deacon of that where he can.
The light, playful touch to his chest doesn't make him relax any, but the tension in his frame feels pleasant and anticipatory now rather than awkward, making him tilt almost unconsciously toward Deacon like a hubflower toward the sun. Insane, the kind of craving this can awaken in him after the one single solitary encounter in which they've ever actually laid hands on each other.
That doesn't even sound like a lie to Danse; he believes that much from Deacon without hesitation and usually finds it ominous, but he doesn't even care right now. Nothing could possibly hold his focus as much as the way Deacon's mouth works at that packaging, his gaze riveted to it, already making him long for a kiss. But he knows that will happen in good time, and patience at Deacon's urging had certainly paid off last time. He's never come that hard by his own hand in his life.
"If you're offering," he says, voice already softer and huskier.
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If Deacon really thinks about it, he's not sure what good hiding their meetings does outside of just having to hear less teasing from others. It's perfectly normal for adults to mess around with one another like this. But there is something very sexy about making Danse sneak around with him. Their little secret.
He smirks in reply, lifting the cake in its wrapper to Danse's lips, crowded over him, now. "You know, they're my favorite, too," he murmurs there as he offers the bite, his other hand still on Danse's chest, fingers toying with the collar of his fatigues, "Got a bit of a sweet tooth... but I don't mind sharing."
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He likes that sense of sharing, the way he'd felt so strangely pleased the first time at the way Deacon had spoken like they were bonding over some inside joke, the kind of thing Danse has always felt like he's watching from the outside and never anticipated having for himself. He likes the notion of sharing this, too, even if it's something as light and inconsequential as a favorite snack.
He leans in closer, his posture easier now, not nearly so stiff as he takes a bite from the cake and closes his eyes to savor it with a low blissful hum. These are a rare treat, one he hasn't gotten to enjoy in a long while, and it's all the more touching that Deacon would share them now--though Danse knows the motive isn't pure altruism, nor does he want it to be. He licks the little crumbs slowly from his lips, suspecting that Deacon is getting just the same enjoyment from watching him do that as Danse was from watching him bite the package open, and the beginnings of an unusually-impulsive desire start to form in his head.
"I appreciate it," he says. "But they are still yours, after all." He takes the cake from Deacon's hand with a lingering brush of his fingers, intending at first to share it in the same way--but his thumb instead reaches to scoop out a little dollop of filling from the center, reaching up with pulse-speeding momentum to smear it gently across Deacon's lower lip, and leaning in to follow that with a kiss before he can lose his nerve at the uncharacteristic initiative, tongue dragging over that trace of icing before he sucks Deacon's lip into his mouth for that last taste of sugar.
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Then again, he might go crazy anyway, because watching this man hum and lick his lips like that has him nearly crawling into his lap; Deacon manages to control himself and only because Danse is moving in first. The swipe of an icing-coated finger over Deacon's lip is infuriating. That's his move.
The last of Deacon's self-control wanes and now he is climbing into Danse's lap, his tongue licking into the other man's mouth to have a taste himself, a hand grabbing blindly at the cake and making a mess of it on his fingers, which by the time their kiss breaks and leaves him breathless, he's wiggling in Danse's direction.
"God, look what you made me do..." Hint, Hint.
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But clearly, having Deacon straddle him in tight leather pants was not too much to ask for, and Danse's mouth is preemptively watering as he thinks back as well on the things Deacon had promised to do with his fingers. The icing on them now is an unexpected bonus, and Danse would be almost every bit as eager to swallow them down regardless. He gathers Deacon closer against him, moaning with earnest delight into that kiss, his own hands slipping down to squeeze Deacon's ass through the leathers and appreciate how little they leave to the imagination, using that leverage to hold him close.
Those waggling fingers are tantalizing, but he doesn't take the initiative again this time. Not yet. His eyes are alight with exactly the kind of excitement Deacon wants at that hinting, but he resists the urge to lean in.
"You gonna make me take them?"
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Deacon rakes his teeth over his own lower lip in anticipation as he leans in, his messy fingertips pressed to Danse's lips to begin feeding them in. With the word choice of 'make me', he doesn't bother going easy, pressing three fingers at once with a low, hungry chuckle.
"Dunno, something tells me you won't fight me on this, will you, baby brahmin?" he teases. It's the first time he's uttered that pet name out loud, and it's just as fun to say as it was to type.
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Not that he's trying to be guarded about any of this at all. Deacon knows that. That's not what either of them wants--Danse isn't here to fight him when the surrender is so much more blissful, letting Deacon push him to the wall with a quiet little grunt and no resistance whatsoever even if he could, hips rocking easily against the growing bulge in Deacon's leathers.
The invasion of three fingers at once is unexpected, but sweet in more ways than just the icing on his tongue, making him swallow hard already to accommodate them before his tongue can curl around them as he tries to lick them clean and his voice vibrates around them with another soft deep moan. He'd promised to be skillful and obedient at this, and promised likewise to let Deacon make a mess of him, and Danse is always a man of his word. He grips gently at Deacon's wrist to steady it, thumb rubbing gently and almost unconsciously at the pulse point just for the pleasure of more sensual contact.
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The rock of Danse's hips has Deacon's clean hand groping at his pecks, a low, rumbling hum of pleasure coming from deep in his own chest. Danse wanted to experience Deacon's cock filling out beneath leather in person, and he's getting it now, because Deacon can't keep himself from rolling his hips down in return and letting himself relish in the pleasure of feeling Danse's arousal against his own.
"Good--" he croons as he watches his fingers disappear into the other man's mouth, filling it up, "Such a good boy for me. You make it real difficult to do anything but give you what you really want." he sighs, an almost dreamy quality to his voice.
The tips of Deacon's fingertips curl slightly against Danse's tongue, playing with it as much as they're forcing his jaw open wider. They then withdraw slowly, and Deacon lewdly laps at his own fingers, cleaning off any remaining cake stuck to them. He gives Danse a little smirk, showing teeth.
"...And what is it that you really want, tonight?"
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He wants what they'd written back and forth about, and he thinks they both know that. He wants to look into Deacon's face this time and see his eyes, bare and honest without the sunglasses, if Deacon is so drawn to the wide vulnerability and candid emotion in Danse's own. But he can ease into that, carefully, and he won't be lying, when he's fantasized about every bit of leadup to that as well.
"I want more than just your fingers in my mouth," he says, low and husky, eyes riveted to Deacon's glistening hand. "I...I want to suck you like I did before, until you can't possibly hold out any longer. And then I want to ride you."
He has practiced this request, lest he feel too embarrassed to get the words out. He doesn't think anyone needs to know this.
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Danse may not be able to see the way Deacon's eyes widen behind his sunglasses, but there are hints. His eyebrows, for example, the wrong color for his wig, rising above the frames. The suble way that the corners of his lips curl upward. The sudden inhale that's as audible as his words.
"Who am I to deny you?" he scoffs, rolling his hips as he leans in close, suddenly very desperate to taste Danse's lips again. He kisses him soundly, lifting himself up onto his knees so that they can reposition themselves as necessary once the kiss breaks, Deacon's teeth dragging over Danse's bottom lip as he does, not letting go until distance makes it slip from his grasp.
"Love it when a guy knows what he wants," he murmurs, "Don't be afraid to ask for more, you have me all night."
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All night feels like almost too sweet a promise, the same way Deacon's been keeping him on this edge of emotional near-overstimulation, like rubbing hard at the head of his cock, ever since they started all of this. The thought of falling asleep in Deacon's arms after they wear each other out feels like something Danse should be pushing aside, like Deacon can't possibly mean it that way, because it would be too much to ask of the man who'd bolted from the room last time before Danse could even get his underwear back on.
But maybe it feels like a bigger deal than it is, too, to a man who's spent so long sleeping in crowded barracks and tents full of squadmates that the notion of privacy to cuddle naked against a lover after sex is almost unheard-of. Don't be afraid to ask for more, Deacon tells him, and...maybe he will, in a little while. Just not yet, when that deep biting kiss is stirring him to far more urgent things.
He meets Deacon halfway with that movement, kneeling with him, pushing the leather jacket from his shoulders and skimming strong hands up his sides to get rid of the shirt underneath it as well. This is one of the ways Danse has been most determined to turn the tables this time, when Deacon's seen him fully bare-ass naked now and Danse had only gotten glimpses here and there of his body in turn. He's not letting Deacon get away with keeping clothes on this time, and he only has so much patience.
"I do know what I want," he murmurs, between further kisses. "You're handsome as hell, and I want to see all of you."
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Deacon hums as Danse moves over him, but not tearing his hands from where they've rooted in Danse's hair during their kiss until it becomes necessary to do so for the other man to remove his shirt. The compliment makes him laugh, a grin creeping onto his lips.
"I'll give your compliments to my surgeon," he mutters, his own hands busying themselves with unbuttoning Danse's too-tight shirt so that he can get them on that big, hairy chest of his, eager to feel up all of the strong muscle he hides beneath armor all day. "But you have a lot of room to talk-- you look like one of those marble statues some ancient Roman artist chiseled away at for years just for some 21st century pre-war guys to theme their casino around." He pauses, "That was... supposed to be a compliment. I got carried away."
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And now that he has Deacon's shirt off, he can see scarring more extensive than he even expected, scars he's only incidentally skimmed his fingers over before while politely avoiding focus on them, but all the ones he can immediately see look like the work of weapons, not scalpels. They fascinate him, and turn him on more than they should, but he won't ask about them--not now.
His own body, even for all the combat he's seen, is comparatively light on the scars, more so than his face is. Power armor is serious business. And just as before, he finds himself not minding when Deacon praises it--finds himself liking it, wanting to hear even more of it, especially with Deacon's gift for entertaining turns of phrase. There's no need for an apology, when it wouldn't have occurred to Danse not to take that all as a compliment, though the twist of his lips in response is wry, as if trying to hide a broader smile.
"I'll take it," he says, helping shrug his shirt from his shoulders and resting his hands on Deacon's waist to pull him close again. "I'd give your compliments to the Institute scientists, but they're dead now."
It's unconventional pillow talk, but Danse knows he's at least talking to someone for whom that's just as much of a triumph. Gently, tempering his strength, he pushes Deacon backward now to make him stretch out on the mattress. He wants room to work.
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It's a new perspective to be beneath Danse like this, his arms instinctively resting above his own head. Although he found the inverse thrilling, he thinks this is one he could get used to, himself. Especially when the dim light from the holes in the window coverings casts shadows that only seem to make Danse's features more dramatically handsome, when those big, dark eyes of his seem luminous in the fading light.
"Didn't think you were gonna turn the tables on me, Baby Brahmin," he coos, "But I'm not complaining. Far from it."
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How could he not be, with a feast like this laid out for his eyes and hands and mouth? And no time limit, no awkward positioning or uncomfortable furniture to make do with as best they can, little risk of interruption or need to stay half-dressed so that they can vacate the premises or fight intruders at a moment's notice--nothing Danse needs to worry about at this moment, except indulging the wave of pure lust that always manages to startle him with every glimpse of vivid ginger body hair.
Everything about Deacon's flushed and eager form is appealing to Danse right now, but the way Deacon stretches out for him inspires him to new heights of need. He straddles Deacon's hips just for now, just to give him a base to reach from, and with another one of those impulsive boosts of confidence, grips Deacon's wrists in one hand to hold his arms where they are.
His mouth descends on Deacon's neck with gentleness incongruous to that pinning gesture, exploring and nuzzling into the crook of it and sucking too softly to bruise, learning the taste of his skin in a way he didn't have the chance to before--and he wouldn't entirely have wanted to then, when they were both reeling from the drugs and half in denial that they were really doing this with each other of all people, but he wants it now as much as he craves water, kisses trailing further down over Deacon's chest with a brief embarrassed-yet-aroused detour to one exposed armpit. His hips grind down against Deacon's as he does, free hand braced on the bed and grip tightening around his wrists.
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"Oh, so that's how this is gonna be..." Deacon scoffs teasingly, testing Danse's grip with a squirm, but not fighting him off. He's well aware that the man above him is much stronger than he is, but while eventually he plans to give into that, right now he would love to make him work for it. At least, that is until the other man's mouth begins to suck and kiss at his neck.
"...is this what you think about?" he asks breathlessly, those tantalizing kisses making him yearn for more, "When you're alone in your bunk..." he clarifies, rolling his hips back up as Danse mouths along to an armpit, the tighter grip on his wrists making him test against them again.
"Ahh-- tickles-- you fiend," he teases, grinning ar to ear, "You've been plotting this for a while, admit it. I know a revenge scheme when I see one-- mmh-- feel one..."
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"You already know what I think about," he murmurs in Deacon's ear, "because I've detailed it for you while I'm doing it." But that's hardly been the only time he's done that before or since. And Deacon is absolutely right about what's on his mind lately.
"I think about the way you taunt me every time I see you," he pants, voice deep and vibrating against Deacon's skin. "I think about how you're practically begging me to drag you just out of view and pin you to a wall--see how well you can really keep quiet when secrecy is on the line. But I've thought about this, too. Having time to do anything I want. Working you up like you did when you made me beg you for it. Remembering what you taste like, for the next time I have to go without touching you for weeks on end."
And because Deacon's letting him--taunting him again, encouraging him even if it sounds like teasing protest--he punctuates this with a slow drag of his tongue along that same armpit, the pressure just light enough to keep tickling.
"At least you're admitting you've given me a reason to want revenge," he breathes over the wet skin.
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"Hearing you say it is so much more satisfying than a few words on a screen..." Deacon muses, "Your voice--" he croaks, cut off but the things Danse starts saying to him, each one flattering and hotter than the last. He squirms, panting himself, his spine arching up off of the mattress.
"You make me sound so obvious..." he groans, "Jesus, you make it impossible to keep quiet. Listen to yourself," Deacon practically moans as he says it, "What if I told you you'd have me begging in no-time if you keep this up?" he breathes, his hips grinding up hard against Danse's.
His arms flinch and stress again at where Danse holds them, a ragged inhale audible as he's tickled again. "It's a never-ending cycle," he sighs teasingly as he calms himself again, "I am so getting you back for this. Just you fucking wait."