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--"
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.