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."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
"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..."
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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."