He knows how to do this, serviceably enough, from the other side. He's always wanted to know how it feels, but he never touches himself with the kind of indulgence it would take to learn his own body like that, never has the privacy or gives himself the time. But it wouldn't have been like this anyway, not enhanced to this extent by the continued stream of praise or the way he can feel Deacon's cock already dripping for him again, making him groan against the fist he now presses to his mouth and long to feel even more of that against his skin. That desire cuts both ways.
"I know you can," he breathes. "God, that's good. How do you always know what you're doing?" Always, in any given situation he's ever seen Deacon in, every startlingly detailed reference to pre-war things Danse has only ever vaguely heard about, every too-accurate disguise. It fascinates him even when he knows he shouldn't be approving of it, because it's not likely to be used for anything that will work out in the Brotherhood's favor.
Not that he should want things to, anymore. Not for his own sake. This is an interesting little microcosm of the way Deacon's bizarre breadth of knowledge works perfectly to Danse's advantage on a personal level, but this is also the last thing in the world he wants to be analyzing while Deacon's fingers are inside him lighting up that sweet spot like the HUD on his power armor and the muscles of his thigh are tensing needily against that tantalizing touch.
"Come on. Dig your nails in a little harder. I can barely feel that."
That question makes Deacon feel like he's burning up inside. It's pddly complimentary in a way that provokes the mysteries Deacon builds around himself. It's his job to know things, even if this doesn't exactly qualify as business, but intimacy is a bit like riding a bike to him. He's never really forgotten how to do it, but it has been a long time, and maybe he's lacking a little finesse, but Danse hasn't seemed to notice.
He laughs in response, his finger curling inside of Danse and stretching at his muscles so that he can tease the tip of a second digit against his rim. "Because you are extremely vocal about what you like," he answers finally, "Takes the guessing out of it."
Another laugh; this one darker, nearly a growl, his fingers at Danse's thigh gripping until his nails bite at his skin. "For example..." he mutters teasingly, dragging his teeth along Danse's shoulder before sinking them into the place where it connects to his neck. That little taunt of Danse's has made Deacon's cock throb against him and invite a more bruising pace from the fingers inside of him.
Yes. For example. Danse thinks finesse is overrated at the best of times anyway, and is rarely shy about saying so, but nothing about the way Deacon has been working him up feels remotely lacking in it or anything else. It makes it feel impossible not to be vocal, and he has only the barest shred of bandwidth left to feel indignant about being called out for the open book that he is.
There are so many better things he could be doing with his energy than trying to prove Deacon wrong right now. Things like rocking back against that second finger in an unspoken plea for it, like loosing a strangled shout from his throat at the teeth and the nails and the utterly perfect sting of them, and then forcing himself to be quieter lest someone passing by try to investigate. The pulse of Deacon's cock against his ass makes him almost delirious with the desire to feel that inside him, but in the meantime, what he needs more than anything is to make Deacon's voice sound like that again.
"That's better," he growls back, when he can breathe again. "You want vocal, you keep that up."
As if they don't both know perfectly damn well that he'll be gasping and whimpering and moaning in the end no matter how Deacon opts to go about stretching him open and filling him up, just as long as he does.
Everything Danse does is exquisite. He feeds into Deacon's movements like he can read his mind, each reaction specifically tailored to turn him on. The growled tone of Danse's voice and the borderline combative way he taunts Deacon are making his heart race, and his finger is sliding home inside of him like it belongs there, curling and scissoring open and shut as Danse's hole is worked like a lock and Deacon's fingers are a set of bobby pins on a mission.
"As if I could stop now," he groans in that same low, taunting voice, stubbled jaw dragged over to Danse's ear while his fingers pump in and out of him, "You're so open and compliant... and I just know you're gonna feel fucking outstanding around my cock. Bet you pull me right in."
His tongue darts out and laps up a bead of sweat from Danse's brow, the taste of him making Deacon shiver. "...Should we find out if I'm right, soldier?"
He might have glowered with performative lack of amusement, to hear Deacon tease him with his own catchphrase under any other circumstances. Now, breathlessly, he laughs--just a little huff of it, but laughter nonetheless, trailing into an ecstatic gasp as Deacon's stubble rasps over his skin and raises goosebumps, as his fingers work and stretch and fill Danse in a way he didn't know he could possibly come to crave this quickly.
Maybe he can blame some of it on whatever's still lingering in the air, making his body more relaxed and supple and pliable under Deacon's deft hands, but he can't credit all of his desperate need to the drugs anymore, not when that shiver at the taste of his sweat makes him want to reach back and drag Deacon closer, makes him think in one wild intrusive thought that he could almost push back and impale himself on Deacon's cock for how much more of this he already wants.
"Do it," he pleads, reaching unthinkingly for Deacon's free hand for reasons he'll analyze later, squeezing it rough and tight. "I'm ready. Come on."
"Mmmh, I thought so..." he teases again, nipping at that earlobe before his fingers are sliding out of Danse and wrapping around his own cock. He pulls back, lining himself up as Danse grasps his hand, which thoughtlessly flexes, forcing Danse's grip open so that his fingers can be woven interlocking with Deacon's.
"There's my good boy..." he purrs, rubbing the head of his cock teasingly around his rim, just one circle before it's pushing in and past it. Deacon sucks in a breath of air as he does, the tight heat of Danse's body making his head spin. He lets himself sink inside as much as he's able before easing back and rutting deeper until he's fully sheathed.
Maybe Danse has overestimated how much he should ideally be trying to handle at once, greedy as he feels for this right now. Maybe he should be asking for it a little slower, tempering his own impatience.
That's a problem for tomorrow, and not even so much of one, when they both know he's built Institute-tough. When Deacon takes that reflexive assurance-seeking gesture and doubles down on it, holding him, praising him, his voice simultaneously soothing and tantalizing, it would take a deathclaw attack to drag Danse away from doing his utmost here to live up to that praise and take Deacon's cock as well as he possibly can.
It's a lot. He didn't think it could feel like this much, even with the faint stretched ache still lingering a little in his jaw, when those fingers had fit inside him like they perfectly belonged, but he can push through the burn like the high of good exercise, hissing and gripping Deacon's hand almost tight enough to bruise, other hand making the leather of the couch squeak in protest as his fingers dig into it too.
But he was right to trust Deacon. Danse can feel how steady and careful he's being, and he lets out a slow breath to relax himself further when he feels Deacon finally balls-deep inside him, giving that hand another, more conscious squeeze as if to confirm that he's all right. "It's good," he says, voice still strained, but no less needy for it. "Jesus, though, you feel enormous."
The tight clutch of Danse's body is one thing. It's another completely to see him work through this, hissing and clutching the leather like a life raft. Deacon feels time freeze for a moment while he stills, buried inside of Danse as deep as he can go. He returns that squeeze at his fingers, leaving that reassurance unspoken, but shortly after, he's scoffing out a laugh.
"You had me in your mouth a moment ago, you tell me..." he teases, then draws his hips back slowly. His hips begin to thrust forcefully, but too slow for a true pace. "Was I?" he asks, punctuating with a thrust.
His free hand, the one that snakes around Danse's body to palm at his cock, curls around it's tip and strokes it once toward its base creepingly slow.
"Nnngh--" It was so, so much easier to be cocky and combative before, without the sheer intensity of this stealing every coherent thought from his mind. He can't even manage words between those forceful thrusts, not yet, and if he could, he would want to swear, but he forces himself to maintain that composure even if he's not sure he can manage any other kind.
It's true. He would know, and it feels far different to feel Deacon inside him this way than it had before, but that filthy, teasing question and the deep thrust accompanying it are both stealing his breath away again. The pace is what Danse needs, but it isn't what he wants. And the impossibly slow stroke, nowhere near close to what he craves yet, wrings another whimper from his lips.
He knows, when his mind can settle on a train of thought, what kind of praise he should give in order to get more of what he's desperate for--it certainly wouldn't be a lie, either--but no, he thinks Deacon should have to work a little harder for that satisfaction, too.
Deacon sighs loudly and playfully in response to all of Danse's grunts and whimpers, grinning behind him. His hips begin to amp up their thrusts, a slow crescendo into a quick pace, letting Danse's body adjust and tell him what it needs.
'You're respectable.' nearly breaks him, hips faltering in their movement, his hand sudde and squeezing around Danse's cock at it's base. He barks out a sound of amusement before resuming his pace, his hand letting go of Danse's to instead tease along his body, nails scratching as they go.
"That's okay, babe, but we'll just have to work on your dirty talk a bit..." he mutters, the end of the sentence a husky growl. Deacon draws himself out of Danse nearly all the way before he drives himself back in, quick and hard, then repeats.
"For now, I just want you to tell me who's good boy you are," he continues, his voice softer and sweeter now, just a little teasing. His hand glides over Danse's chest and braces itself on his opposite side, bent over his back and holding him close so that he can bite and kiss at his neck, shoulders, and earlobes. His thrusts become shorter and harder, testing which speed gets the best reaction before committing to one.
Danse does not think of himself as a person who can do any kind of dirty talk, ever. His rare occasional attempts in the past have not gone over as intended. This, however, gets exactly the response he was going for--but his satisfaction at that bark of laughter is short-lived, because that babe nearly breaks him in turn, getting a completely unbidden, soft, breathless "oh" from him and making him flush visibly pink all the way down his shoulders and back.
And Deacon doesn't even give him time to process it, which might be for the best, because the increasing depth and pace of those thrusts are already unwinding him, and that quiet demand is pulling his mind in the opposite direction from it as if dragged by wild horses. It's almost too much. It's the overwhelming, sweet, perfect kind of almost-too-much, and only when Deacon's cock hits the right spot again at the absolutely ideal angle does he answer as if unable to hold it back.
"Yours," he gasps, bucking desperately into the tight hand around his cock. And again, as if he can't believe he's saying it but needs to reiterate it anyway-- "Yours."
The thwarted, frustrated motion of his hips suggests that the faster thrusts are what he wants, and he thinks in a heart-pounding daze that surely he's earned the reward.
Danse's skin flushes a lovely shade of pink for Deacon to admire, and he does. He bows over Danse's back, pressing kisses up his spine, between his shoulder blades, at the base of his neck. He can't explain his desire to give Danse these softer touches outside of the simple fact that it seems to really effect him, but maybe that's enough. It has to be for now, because he's not in the mindset to analyze it further.
"Mmn." he hums as Danse answers him the first time, like he's just tasted something perfectly preserved. An amused sound follows, something just smitten by the way Danse eagerly repeats himself. That's all it takes for Deacon to let go and begin to fuck into Danse the way the larger man so clearly craves, Deacon's humming drowned out by loud sounds of skin hitting skin.
"That's right," he grunts, "You are my good boy..." Deacon growls darkly at the back of Danse's ear, nipping at it between breaths, "Which is why I know you'll ask me for whatever you want--" he breathes, a moan interrupting the thought, "--Why I'll give you whatever you want..."
He feels like he's already being given damn near everything he could possibly want, between the speed of the pace, the reinforcement of the praise, the bite, the hot breath on the back of his neck, the way Deacon doesn't hold back that moan--what more could Danse even think to ask for, when this is already almost drowning him in pleasure? He would beg to hear more of Deacon's pleasure too, but Deacon's already letting him, and Danse takes hold of that and clings.
He's been grinding unthinkingly against the couch, the way eased by his own precome as his hips rock, driven by the momentum of Deacon's thrusts, but if he's to be explicitly rewarded now, he'll ask for more. It might drive him to incoherence, but he'll ask.
"I want you to touch me," he begins, still a little hesitant, still self-consciously reserved in his wording. "I want your hand on me--"
"Tell me where," Deacon replies, in that same dark baritone, not letting up momentum as he continues to fuck into the other man relentlessly. He knows where. There is only one place Danse could be requesting his hands, and yet Deacon is making this a game because he wants to hear him say it.
His hands aren't making it any easier, raking up his spine, or across his thighs, squeezing at his ass or his chest, touching Danse damn near everywhere but the place he knows that he wants it the most.
"Am I getting warm?" he teases, fingertips creeping down his abs.
"Damn you," he says, unthinking, and then in the space of the next breath, "Sorry."
The teasing touch is driving him wild enough that he doesn't think he could pull his brain together for a coherent answer even if he weren't flushed brightly pink at the prospect of being more explicit, and what's already coming out of his mouth is almost stream-of-consciousness. His abdomen tenses and tightens under Deacon's slow searching fingers, almost trembling with the need for them to slip a little lower, but if Deacon keeps dragging over his prostate at that perfect pace, maybe he can hold out without needing to give in--
But the desire to be good and praiseworthy is every bit as strong as the desire for Deacon's hand around his aching length, and it's this that makes him push through to fulfill that wickedly growled command. "I just--" He swallows, head hanging slack as he lets himself focus on that relentless fucking for a moment, and tries again.
"Will you please just touch my cock already?" He's furiously flushed now, but it's as much from exertion and ecstasy as it is embarrassment.
Deacon's face lights up at the way Danse curses at him, grinning against his neck where he's been pressed close, a low, breathless laugh leaving him between thrusts. The apology only humors him more, and with an amused tone he's pressimg his lips to Danse's temple, muttering in his ear again.
"Ohhh, I forgive you, I know it's hard being so good for me, no one's perfect." He's taunting, panting between words, and as Danse's head falls away from his reach he winds his hips harder to compensate for his lack of teasing closeness.
"There you go--" he groans delightedly, his hand finishing the painfully slow route to coil around Danse's cock and give it a squeeze, loosening just enough for the momentum of his hips alone to be the force that drives Danse into his fist again and again.
"Now was that so hard, beautiful?" he teases, feeling his abs tighten again as he nears his own peak. "I want you to come for me again, but this time I wanna hear you begging for me to fill you up."
It feels like a flood of startling relief in more ways than one--not only in that tight grip where he needs it, and the never-slacking pace that matches the thrust of Deacon's hips, but in that renewed stream of affirmation too. It's like letting out a caught breath, to hear Deacon call him beautiful again and tell him he's done the right thing. It could be dangerous to get as used to this as he's gotten in the space of under an hour, addictive as a hit of Jet and just as heart-poundingly thrilling.
But with his tongue freed from its bindings now, there's more to come if that's what Deacon wants from him. Danse can't possibly be too proud to beg when he's being given pleasure like nothing he's ever felt in his life. If Deacon's going to fulfill that promise of giving Danse exactly what he wants, taking care of him exactly as he said he would, he deserves what he asks for in turn.
And Danse can feel that tightening muscle against his back, making his cock pulse with eager anticipation in Deacon's grip, his entire body hot and desperate now to feel Deacon breaking down and shuddering against him. God, does he need this.
"Please." Immediate, fervent, utterly without hesitation this time. "You know I can take it. You know how much I want it. God--please let me feel you--"
Dangerous for Deacon as well; he's far too into this to think too deeply on it now, but later with some sobering clarity he'll feel conflicted regret, not that he'll be able to do anything about it. How is he supposed to go about his life when every time he sees Danse trotting around in his armor, he thinks about what he's done to the body hidden inside of it? He won't be able to help himself, just as he can't help but give Danse everything he wants, just because he's so pretty when he asks and mind-numbingly hot when he's getting what he wants.
The pulse of Danse's cock, followed by a fountain of pleas from the man, are nearly enough to drive Deacon to orgasm on their own. His hips begin to move more erratically and huffs of breath are released against the back of Danse's neck. "Again," he commands, wanting Danse to continue his begging until he breaks.
When he does come, a choked-off sound ushers it along, Deacon's body tensing with one deep thrust, cock spilling deep inside of Danse and only easing back into his pace once he's certain he's spent every drop, fucking it all deeper within him. Nails rake down Danse's spine as Deacon mumbles hoarsely, "C'mon, c'mon..."
Danse couldn't stop that begging now if he tried, once the floodgates open, but that single rough command nearly makes him come again right there and then, like he had when ordered to earlier. His near-singleminded desperation is to feel Deacon break first this time, to drive him to it, to be so good for him that it brings him over the edge.
"Goddamn it, Deacon, just give it to me, just--please just do it, just--finish in me so I can feel you--"
He shudders deeply under Deacon's body as he feels the dam break, feels him push as deep as Danse can handle and pulse hot and wet inside him, marking him from inward out in way Danse won't ever be able to forget either. He'll be hearing that gravelly growl ringing in his ears every damn night now, every time he touches himself, every time he lets himself get distracted. He'll be feeling that sensation of being branded right to his core with every deeper push inside him, over and over again.
He's too keyed-up, too primed and sensitive, and when those nails drag down his back, he comes with a yell that only his fist against the couch cushion even begins to muffle--pressed desperately and futilely against his mouth, leaving visible bite marks on his own skin. The leather of the couch is a mess of glistening sweat and clear pooled slick and stripes of come, but Danse sags against it anyway, gasping for breath.
At least, after that, he's finally beginning to soften, and his mind feels--not clear, still exhausted and hazy and soaked in glowing post-coital endorphins, but no longer drugged. Clarity is intervening just enough to make him uncertain about what he'll find if he turns around to look Deacon in the face--especially while they're still physically joined.
Fuck, if the way Danse's entire body clenches around him doesn't make Deacon dizzy, that sound that he makes would. But it's also loud enough that it makes Deacon anxious they'll be heard, and he's already scheming up an escape plan as his cock is softening inside of the other man.
Deacon's hand pets tenderly at Danse's back while he catches his own breath, a heavy sigh of a man exhausted leaving him as he turns to reach for a box of water on the coffee table. His cock slips out in the process and he winces, groaning interrupted by a gulp of water. He recaps it and waggles it over Danse's shoulder to him.
"Drink up, babe," he coos, keeping up his cool demeanor even though he feels a bit like one of the scarecrows slung up in the settlement garden, all slumped over and spent. He gives Danse's ass a little slap, smirking to himself. "Gotta keep my good boy hydrated!" he exclaims, already putting himself away in his jeans.
"Ole Deacon's got an appointment to keep, now... you can have the room for as long as you need, take your time. Just make sure to dream of me, ok?"
Danse doesn't expect to feel as suddenly hollowed-out and bereft as he does, when Deacon pulls out of him and leaves him empty again. And he doesn't know if that's really only a physical sensation, or if there's more emotion bound up in it than there should be, when this is the first time he's been intimately touched in a decade, and the first time he's ever had anyone inside him like this. And now he's still bent over a semi-public couch naked as the day he came out of the skin vat, looking wrecked in every possible way as Deacon's come begins to trickle down over his balls and the taste of it still lingers on the back of his tongue.
"I--"
He doesn't have the time to process any of that, let alone the fundamental underlying what the hell did we just do crisis, when Deacon sounds downright manic, and Danse can only assume he's probably trying not to alight on that train of thought long enough for it to sink in either. But Deacon's tenderness doesn't just abruptly stop even without the motivation of getting what he wants out of Danse in bed, and between the pet name still making him blush, and the considerate offer of water, and the startling smack that resounds loudly throughout the room, Danse is getting the kind of whiplash that makes it impossible to pause and analyze anything.
He will realize later that this was probably the point of it. Or at least, he'll tell himself so.
Danse does not necessarily fault Deacon for now trying to escape the situation as quickly as he can. Had he done it without any of this lingering affection, as if it wasn't so transparently and mutually fake as to render the facade unnecessary to keep up after orgasm, as if there really might have been a kernel of something true in it, then that would simply have been the end of this. They're never going to discuss this again. That was the deal. They haven't been in their right minds, and now sanity has been restored.
But Danse will be dreaming of this now, asleep and awake. He could promise Deacon that in response. But he doesn't. He drags himself upright to search for his clothes, as if he can't already feel every burn and twinge that will leave him sore tomorrow, and nods to Deacon with all the straight-postured commanding dignity he can summon back up while still sweaty and naked and covered in their various fluids.
"Take care."
It's not the kind of thing you generally say to someone who's just fucked you in multiple different holes to blissful dizzying orgasms. But it's not the kind of thing Danse would ever have said to Deacon before, either.
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"I know you can," he breathes. "God, that's good. How do you always know what you're doing?" Always, in any given situation he's ever seen Deacon in, every startlingly detailed reference to pre-war things Danse has only ever vaguely heard about, every too-accurate disguise. It fascinates him even when he knows he shouldn't be approving of it, because it's not likely to be used for anything that will work out in the Brotherhood's favor.
Not that he should want things to, anymore. Not for his own sake. This is an interesting little microcosm of the way Deacon's bizarre breadth of knowledge works perfectly to Danse's advantage on a personal level, but this is also the last thing in the world he wants to be analyzing while Deacon's fingers are inside him lighting up that sweet spot like the HUD on his power armor and the muscles of his thigh are tensing needily against that tantalizing touch.
"Come on. Dig your nails in a little harder. I can barely feel that."
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He laughs in response, his finger curling inside of Danse and stretching at his muscles so that he can tease the tip of a second digit against his rim. "Because you are extremely vocal about what you like," he answers finally, "Takes the guessing out of it."
Another laugh; this one darker, nearly a growl, his fingers at Danse's thigh gripping until his nails bite at his skin. "For example..." he mutters teasingly, dragging his teeth along Danse's shoulder before sinking them into the place where it connects to his neck. That little taunt of Danse's has made Deacon's cock throb against him and invite a more bruising pace from the fingers inside of him.
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Yes. For example. Danse thinks finesse is overrated at the best of times anyway, and is rarely shy about saying so, but nothing about the way Deacon has been working him up feels remotely lacking in it or anything else. It makes it feel impossible not to be vocal, and he has only the barest shred of bandwidth left to feel indignant about being called out for the open book that he is.
There are so many better things he could be doing with his energy than trying to prove Deacon wrong right now. Things like rocking back against that second finger in an unspoken plea for it, like loosing a strangled shout from his throat at the teeth and the nails and the utterly perfect sting of them, and then forcing himself to be quieter lest someone passing by try to investigate. The pulse of Deacon's cock against his ass makes him almost delirious with the desire to feel that inside him, but in the meantime, what he needs more than anything is to make Deacon's voice sound like that again.
"That's better," he growls back, when he can breathe again. "You want vocal, you keep that up."
As if they don't both know perfectly damn well that he'll be gasping and whimpering and moaning in the end no matter how Deacon opts to go about stretching him open and filling him up, just as long as he does.
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"As if I could stop now," he groans in that same low, taunting voice, stubbled jaw dragged over to Danse's ear while his fingers pump in and out of him, "You're so open and compliant... and I just know you're gonna feel fucking outstanding around my cock. Bet you pull me right in."
His tongue darts out and laps up a bead of sweat from Danse's brow, the taste of him making Deacon shiver. "...Should we find out if I'm right, soldier?"
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Maybe he can blame some of it on whatever's still lingering in the air, making his body more relaxed and supple and pliable under Deacon's deft hands, but he can't credit all of his desperate need to the drugs anymore, not when that shiver at the taste of his sweat makes him want to reach back and drag Deacon closer, makes him think in one wild intrusive thought that he could almost push back and impale himself on Deacon's cock for how much more of this he already wants.
"Do it," he pleads, reaching unthinkingly for Deacon's free hand for reasons he'll analyze later, squeezing it rough and tight. "I'm ready. Come on."
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"There's my good boy..." he purrs, rubbing the head of his cock teasingly around his rim, just one circle before it's pushing in and past it. Deacon sucks in a breath of air as he does, the tight heat of Danse's body making his head spin. He lets himself sink inside as much as he's able before easing back and rutting deeper until he's fully sheathed.
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That's a problem for tomorrow, and not even so much of one, when they both know he's built Institute-tough. When Deacon takes that reflexive assurance-seeking gesture and doubles down on it, holding him, praising him, his voice simultaneously soothing and tantalizing, it would take a deathclaw attack to drag Danse away from doing his utmost here to live up to that praise and take Deacon's cock as well as he possibly can.
It's a lot. He didn't think it could feel like this much, even with the faint stretched ache still lingering a little in his jaw, when those fingers had fit inside him like they perfectly belonged, but he can push through the burn like the high of good exercise, hissing and gripping Deacon's hand almost tight enough to bruise, other hand making the leather of the couch squeak in protest as his fingers dig into it too.
But he was right to trust Deacon. Danse can feel how steady and careful he's being, and he lets out a slow breath to relax himself further when he feels Deacon finally balls-deep inside him, giving that hand another, more conscious squeeze as if to confirm that he's all right. "It's good," he says, voice still strained, but no less needy for it. "Jesus, though, you feel enormous."
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"You had me in your mouth a moment ago, you tell me..." he teases, then draws his hips back slowly. His hips begin to thrust forcefully, but too slow for a true pace. "Was I?" he asks, punctuating with a thrust.
His free hand, the one that snakes around Danse's body to palm at his cock, curls around it's tip and strokes it once toward its base creepingly slow.
"You'd know."
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It's true. He would know, and it feels far different to feel Deacon inside him this way than it had before, but that filthy, teasing question and the deep thrust accompanying it are both stealing his breath away again. The pace is what Danse needs, but it isn't what he wants. And the impossibly slow stroke, nowhere near close to what he craves yet, wrings another whimper from his lips.
He knows, when his mind can settle on a train of thought, what kind of praise he should give in order to get more of what he's desperate for--it certainly wouldn't be a lie, either--but no, he thinks Deacon should have to work a little harder for that satisfaction, too.
"You're respectable," he pants, after a minute.
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'You're respectable.' nearly breaks him, hips faltering in their movement, his hand sudde and squeezing around Danse's cock at it's base. He barks out a sound of amusement before resuming his pace, his hand letting go of Danse's to instead tease along his body, nails scratching as they go.
"That's okay, babe, but we'll just have to work on your dirty talk a bit..." he mutters, the end of the sentence a husky growl. Deacon draws himself out of Danse nearly all the way before he drives himself back in, quick and hard, then repeats.
"For now, I just want you to tell me who's good boy you are," he continues, his voice softer and sweeter now, just a little teasing. His hand glides over Danse's chest and braces itself on his opposite side, bent over his back and holding him close so that he can bite and kiss at his neck, shoulders, and earlobes. His thrusts become shorter and harder, testing which speed gets the best reaction before committing to one.
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And Deacon doesn't even give him time to process it, which might be for the best, because the increasing depth and pace of those thrusts are already unwinding him, and that quiet demand is pulling his mind in the opposite direction from it as if dragged by wild horses. It's almost too much. It's the overwhelming, sweet, perfect kind of almost-too-much, and only when Deacon's cock hits the right spot again at the absolutely ideal angle does he answer as if unable to hold it back.
"Yours," he gasps, bucking desperately into the tight hand around his cock. And again, as if he can't believe he's saying it but needs to reiterate it anyway-- "Yours."
The thwarted, frustrated motion of his hips suggests that the faster thrusts are what he wants, and he thinks in a heart-pounding daze that surely he's earned the reward.
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"Mmn." he hums as Danse answers him the first time, like he's just tasted something perfectly preserved. An amused sound follows, something just smitten by the way Danse eagerly repeats himself. That's all it takes for Deacon to let go and begin to fuck into Danse the way the larger man so clearly craves, Deacon's humming drowned out by loud sounds of skin hitting skin.
"That's right," he grunts, "You are my good boy..." Deacon growls darkly at the back of Danse's ear, nipping at it between breaths, "Which is why I know you'll ask me for whatever you want--" he breathes, a moan interrupting the thought, "--Why I'll give you whatever you want..."
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He's been grinding unthinkingly against the couch, the way eased by his own precome as his hips rock, driven by the momentum of Deacon's thrusts, but if he's to be explicitly rewarded now, he'll ask for more. It might drive him to incoherence, but he'll ask.
"I want you to touch me," he begins, still a little hesitant, still self-consciously reserved in his wording. "I want your hand on me--"
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His hands aren't making it any easier, raking up his spine, or across his thighs, squeezing at his ass or his chest, touching Danse damn near everywhere but the place he knows that he wants it the most.
"Am I getting warm?" he teases, fingertips creeping down his abs.
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The teasing touch is driving him wild enough that he doesn't think he could pull his brain together for a coherent answer even if he weren't flushed brightly pink at the prospect of being more explicit, and what's already coming out of his mouth is almost stream-of-consciousness. His abdomen tenses and tightens under Deacon's slow searching fingers, almost trembling with the need for them to slip a little lower, but if Deacon keeps dragging over his prostate at that perfect pace, maybe he can hold out without needing to give in--
But the desire to be good and praiseworthy is every bit as strong as the desire for Deacon's hand around his aching length, and it's this that makes him push through to fulfill that wickedly growled command. "I just--" He swallows, head hanging slack as he lets himself focus on that relentless fucking for a moment, and tries again.
"Will you please just touch my cock already?" He's furiously flushed now, but it's as much from exertion and ecstasy as it is embarrassment.
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"Ohhh, I forgive you, I know it's hard being so good for me, no one's perfect." He's taunting, panting between words, and as Danse's head falls away from his reach he winds his hips harder to compensate for his lack of teasing closeness.
"There you go--" he groans delightedly, his hand finishing the painfully slow route to coil around Danse's cock and give it a squeeze, loosening just enough for the momentum of his hips alone to be the force that drives Danse into his fist again and again.
"Now was that so hard, beautiful?" he teases, feeling his abs tighten again as he nears his own peak. "I want you to come for me again, but this time I wanna hear you begging for me to fill you up."
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But with his tongue freed from its bindings now, there's more to come if that's what Deacon wants from him. Danse can't possibly be too proud to beg when he's being given pleasure like nothing he's ever felt in his life. If Deacon's going to fulfill that promise of giving Danse exactly what he wants, taking care of him exactly as he said he would, he deserves what he asks for in turn.
And Danse can feel that tightening muscle against his back, making his cock pulse with eager anticipation in Deacon's grip, his entire body hot and desperate now to feel Deacon breaking down and shuddering against him. God, does he need this.
"Please." Immediate, fervent, utterly without hesitation this time. "You know I can take it. You know how much I want it. God--please let me feel you--"
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The pulse of Danse's cock, followed by a fountain of pleas from the man, are nearly enough to drive Deacon to orgasm on their own. His hips begin to move more erratically and huffs of breath are released against the back of Danse's neck. "Again," he commands, wanting Danse to continue his begging until he breaks.
When he does come, a choked-off sound ushers it along, Deacon's body tensing with one deep thrust, cock spilling deep inside of Danse and only easing back into his pace once he's certain he's spent every drop, fucking it all deeper within him. Nails rake down Danse's spine as Deacon mumbles hoarsely, "C'mon, c'mon..."
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"Goddamn it, Deacon, just give it to me, just--please just do it, just--finish in me so I can feel you--"
He shudders deeply under Deacon's body as he feels the dam break, feels him push as deep as Danse can handle and pulse hot and wet inside him, marking him from inward out in way Danse won't ever be able to forget either. He'll be hearing that gravelly growl ringing in his ears every damn night now, every time he touches himself, every time he lets himself get distracted. He'll be feeling that sensation of being branded right to his core with every deeper push inside him, over and over again.
He's too keyed-up, too primed and sensitive, and when those nails drag down his back, he comes with a yell that only his fist against the couch cushion even begins to muffle--pressed desperately and futilely against his mouth, leaving visible bite marks on his own skin. The leather of the couch is a mess of glistening sweat and clear pooled slick and stripes of come, but Danse sags against it anyway, gasping for breath.
At least, after that, he's finally beginning to soften, and his mind feels--not clear, still exhausted and hazy and soaked in glowing post-coital endorphins, but no longer drugged. Clarity is intervening just enough to make him uncertain about what he'll find if he turns around to look Deacon in the face--especially while they're still physically joined.
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Deacon's hand pets tenderly at Danse's back while he catches his own breath, a heavy sigh of a man exhausted leaving him as he turns to reach for a box of water on the coffee table. His cock slips out in the process and he winces, groaning interrupted by a gulp of water. He recaps it and waggles it over Danse's shoulder to him.
"Drink up, babe," he coos, keeping up his cool demeanor even though he feels a bit like one of the scarecrows slung up in the settlement garden, all slumped over and spent. He gives Danse's ass a little slap, smirking to himself. "Gotta keep my good boy hydrated!" he exclaims, already putting himself away in his jeans.
"Ole Deacon's got an appointment to keep, now... you can have the room for as long as you need, take your time. Just make sure to dream of me, ok?"
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"I--"
He doesn't have the time to process any of that, let alone the fundamental underlying what the hell did we just do crisis, when Deacon sounds downright manic, and Danse can only assume he's probably trying not to alight on that train of thought long enough for it to sink in either. But Deacon's tenderness doesn't just abruptly stop even without the motivation of getting what he wants out of Danse in bed, and between the pet name still making him blush, and the considerate offer of water, and the startling smack that resounds loudly throughout the room, Danse is getting the kind of whiplash that makes it impossible to pause and analyze anything.
He will realize later that this was probably the point of it. Or at least, he'll tell himself so.
Danse does not necessarily fault Deacon for now trying to escape the situation as quickly as he can. Had he done it without any of this lingering affection, as if it wasn't so transparently and mutually fake as to render the facade unnecessary to keep up after orgasm, as if there really might have been a kernel of something true in it, then that would simply have been the end of this. They're never going to discuss this again. That was the deal. They haven't been in their right minds, and now sanity has been restored.
But Danse will be dreaming of this now, asleep and awake. He could promise Deacon that in response. But he doesn't. He drags himself upright to search for his clothes, as if he can't already feel every burn and twinge that will leave him sore tomorrow, and nods to Deacon with all the straight-postured commanding dignity he can summon back up while still sweaty and naked and covered in their various fluids.
"Take care."
It's not the kind of thing you generally say to someone who's just fucked you in multiple different holes to blissful dizzying orgasms. But it's not the kind of thing Danse would ever have said to Deacon before, either.