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