Any time he gets a genuine laugh out of Danse feels worth celebrating, because not long ago he has been lucky he wasn't simply given a scowl. He's already practically beaming before the other man is growling for him, and then Deacon simply couldn't look happier with himself as a finger hooks under the bra and drags him in for a kiss that stokes the flames in his core and makes him warm with arousal.
He returns the kiss with equal passion, his hands following the lines of Danse's strong arms from where they connect with his own body up and onto his shoulders. They grip onto those shoulders as Danse walks him backwards to the mattress, leveraging his hold so that he doesn't fall before there's cushioning to land upon.
"You could leave them on, too," he murmurs against Danse's lips between kisses, "In case you want them ruined for later use."
"Hmmm." The sound is equal parts teasing and relishing and pensive, as he lets go of the bra just long enough to grip Deacon's ass with both hands and drag him in closer, letting him feel the promise of the half-hard cock under Danse's fatigues before pushing him back to land on that mattress and promptly joining him there.
"I very well might, actually." He crawls up over Deacon's body, leaving no ambiguity about the way he wants Deacon to stretch out beneath him. "When they look this good on you, why shouldn't I? But I want a better look at the details first."
The Details™ are getting cupped gently in one strong hand, as Danse continues to stroke his fingertips over that satin and feel out the strength of the zipper, rubbing deliberately back and forth over it where it seems to rest right behind Deacon's balls. It would seem a waste, he thinks, to just pull it down right now with his fingers--there was a time when he would have, but Deacon has helped him begin to understand the real merits of teasing when a situation allows time for it.
Danse thinks, too, about how exactly he could position that zipper when he does get it open. The possibilities are numerous, and every one of them makes his breath quicken audibly as his cock twitches against Deacon's semi-bare hip.
Had he known this would inspire this sort of behavior in Danse, he'd have been hoarding every pair of lace panties he found, because there seems to be an almost devilish glint in Danse's big brown eyes that make Deacon wonder if these things will even make it through the night without being shredded by the other man's teeth. And good god there's something intensely arousing about that.
Deacon's always had a thing about control; needing to be on top of things, making sure his team is taken care of, safe with escape routes and plans filed away, frequent face changes. When Danse grabs him like that, manhandling him and pressing him against his half-hard cock and then pushing him backwards onto the mattress, something short-circuits in his brain, and every meticulously planned action, every thought disappears as quickly as Deacon would with the flip of a switch on a stealth boy.
"Oh..." is all he can utter as he gawks up at Danse, squirming back on his elbows as the larger man crawls over him. "Be my guest."
He's half-hard himself as Danse grabs at his cock, but that teasing rub of his thumb over the zipper sends waves of arousal through him until that satin isn't just filling out, but soaking up the moisture from the tip of Deacon's leaking cock, a dark spot seeping through the material.
Whenever he manages to stun Deacon into quiet, whenever he succeeds in making the mysterious and calculating Secret Agent Man lose his train of thought, whenever he can see the clear and undeniable physical evidence of how thoroughly he's working Deacon up, it turns Danse on so swiftly and so hard that it leaves him lightheaded. Every single time, and now is not an exception. He'd already wanted to get his mouth on Deacon as quickly as possible; now, he wants to sink his teeth in.
He likes to indulge in kissing his way down over Deacon's body whenever they have the time for it, but the kisses have a bite to them now, sharp nips and stronger sucks at the skin, a nipple tugged between his teeth before he lets it go, tongue dipping into Deacon's navel in a detour he doesn't always make, but feels too enticing now when it's only just above the waistband of those panties.
Danse leaves Deacon's arms free to do as they please, rather than pinning them as he sometimes has before, but this is because his hands are too busy pushing Deacon's thighs apart to spread them wantonly wide and pin them there instead, kissing a line further down over the smooth fabric as it strains and tents in its attempt to contain Deacon's cock, rubbing his nose and mouth over the bulge. It's hard enough to resist doing that when Deacon's wearing thick leather pants, and the barrier between them now is so much thinner, enough so that he can tongue at that damp spot of precome and then suck it out of the cloth.
It's one thing to have Danse compliant and begging beneath him, it's another altogether to have him ravenously devouring every inch of him and making Deacon lightheaded. As long as he's reaping the benefits of it, he can really appreciate just how dedicated and passionate Danse can be.
Deacon's breathing is heavy, soft moans escaping beneath nips and sucks, but it's the tug to his nipple through that satin that makes Deacon whimper desperately, his fingers weaving into Danse's thick hair and twisting there, gripping it like the reigns to whatever Danse is driving. He's practically mewling by the time Danse's hot tongue laps at his navel, becoming unraveled far faster than he's even known possible for himself.
"Oh my god-" he gasps as Danse moves lower, rubbing his face over his cock and making Deacon tremble and twist his grip against Danse's scalp. And that's before he's gawking and moaning at the way Danse sucks at the wet spot on those panties, his thighs flexing beneath his hands as more needy sounds leave his lips.
"Hungry boy~" he purrs, "More where that came from... I'm so wet for you already..."
In his hair is precisely where Danse hoped Deacon's hands would end up, and the twisting only makes him growl with all the more pleasure and relish as his hands grip tight enough to leave lingering red fingerprints on tender inner-thigh flesh, reciprocally tight with the delicious tension of Deacon's fingers against his scalp. The flexing, the moaning, have his voice vibrating in turn against the head of Deacon's cock, tongue teasing more firmly before he licks the traces of wetness from his own lips.
The pet name makes him shiver as much as that particular genre of endearment from Deacon ever does, even if this time, it doesn't inspire him to stretch out and be good for Deacon in any way he wants. That can be for next time. Danse still loves it, still craves it, but this evening, it's Deacon's turn. He longs to pull those panties impatiently down all at once, take Deacon's cock into his mouth and clean away every last salty drop with his tongue, but--no. Deacon is patient with him when the shoe is on the other foot, patient and drawn-out and teasing until Danse is a pleading wreck, and Danse can at least aspire to that.
And besides--what else is the zipper for?
"Oh, I know there's more," he murmurs, with one more gentle bite to Deacon's thigh before letting up the pressure of his hands. "Turn over. Ass up."
If there's anything Deacon can appreciate, it's patience, even if he typically doesn't practice it under these circumstances. Stalking a target, aiming for a mark and waiting for the right timing, all part of his specialties. This is uncharted territory. Danse makes him want to be impatient nearly as much as he makes him want tp draw things out all evening and take his time.
"Ah-" he gasps at the additional bite, the heat of it lighting up his veins. And then he's given instructions and Deacon can't help but laugh pathetically, far too worked up to pretend for a moment he's not 100% into this.
"Oooh, gonna mark that, too?" Deacon teases, his legs falling aside so that he can get into position, "A little souvenir to remember you by?" he taunts, crawling onto all fours and waggling his ass back towards Danse. "Don't be afraid to get a bit rough."
If Deacon weren't pushing back and taunting him a little, it wouldn't be him, and Danse wouldn't want it. He lets a smirk pull at the edges of his lips, when Deacon's too busy wiggling his ass to look back and see it anyway, gaze hot and hungry with anticipation.
He does need the encouragement to get rougher, just a little, because he's used to holding back his strength and being gentler than he needs to until Deacon tells him otherwise, but he will take that to heart. And he flushes pink and warm as Deacon points out Danse's desire to mark him up--but he does want that, wants it reciprocally, wants it in more different ways, and he'll keep doing it now too. Even Danse can tell when someone's angling to be spanked.
"You need something to remember me by?" He grins, reading back over the embroidery he can see and remembering what's written on the bra cups. "If I'm the only one who isn't 'off-limits,' then you must have been waiting for me to come home. Thinking about me every night. Touching yourself through your clothes until I came back to do this for you."
Danse has calculated the angle, and his arms curl around Deacon's thighs now to hold him steady and give himself leverage, ducking his face between Deacon's legs to catch that dangling zipper pull in his teeth and begin to drag it slowly backward to open.
Roughness he can handle. Deacon's worked up a decent pain tolerance over the years, having undergone extensive surgeries every few months-not usually recommended by surgeons, by the way. Regardless, whatever Danse has on his mind, be it spanking or clawing or biting, Deacon isn't just prepared, he's eager for it.
"Need isn't the right word... or on second thought, maybe it is..." he replies, "I don't need it to remember you, but-- oh shit!."
Deacon's alarm at the way Danse proceeds to unzip those panties with his teeth comes hand in hand with a throbbing pulse to his dick. He feels frantic and desperate, his hands gripping the mattress like a vice. Thighs part wider and tremble in place, excited for what's to come.
"You're insane," he breathes, voice dripping with admiration, "And I do need you, Baby Brahmin, make no mistake."
The sound Danse makes at that oh shit is somewhere between a laugh and a moan, a deep and wicked hum of absolute delight that he makes sure to let vibrate against Deacon's cock. And the way Deacon's thighs tremble in his arms has Danse's cock straining so hard against his own zipper that it damn near hurts, but he can be patient enough with his own frantic need, too.
If someone had told Danse before all this that he would someday take a 'you're insane' from Deacon as one of the highest compliments he's ever been given, he wouldn't have believed it--but now, he's very nearly glowing with the satisfaction of it. And an 'I need you' will never fail to thrill him, either. "That's what I like to hear," he says, with warmth he couldn't keep out of his voice if he tried.
It's not easy to see exactly what he's working with through the narrow gap of the zipper, what all he can reach through it, but when it's fully open, he works his tongue through it to explore--tip teasing at the seam between Deacon's balls and the stretch behind them, the way he'd be wanting to do anyway if he had Deacon fully naked right now. He rubs the knuckle of an index finger along the length of Deacon's cock through the fabric as his mouth works, lets it start to crescendo, and then pulls back to reach for the oil they keep handy by the bed. It's usually being used on Danse, but, well.
"Don't worry," he purrs quietly. "I'll give you everything you need."
That pleasured laugh is absolutely diabolical, both in the way it hits Deacon's ears and his cock, muscles tensing and head spinning. The warm words spoken after it nearly give him whiplash, and Deacon hears himself laugh weakly, a bit dazed by it all.
Deacon's body feels like it's on fire as Danse's hot tongue finds skin, pleasured sensations shooting through him like electic volts that make whatever hair there is present on his body stand on-end. He exhales with a groan, spine arching so that his pelvis tilts and pushes that opening further out for Danse's access.
He's never felt needy like this, before, or at least not in a long time, and he doesn't know what to do with it, usually busying himself with tormenting his partner and not the reverse. Danse must have compiled notes during their other meet ups; Deacon is impressed. And just as he's starting to feel winded by it all, it stops abruptly and leaves him whining at the loss of heat, gazing back over his shoulder with longing as Danse purrs promises in his direction.
"I wasn't worried--" he replies almost defensively, his voice pitched high in a way that is not intentional. He clears his throat to try again, but can't help but sound like Danse has turned more than a few cogs in him and worked him up more than he'd readily show. "I bet you give as good as you take."
Oh, he has notes, all right. Everything Deacon's ever done to drive him absolutely wild, make him beg to be fucked deeper while incoherent with need, Danse has filed away in the most vivid part of his memory. And now, when Deacon is reciprocating that so beautifully, Danse can't help but bend over and kiss the back of his neck as a little demonstration of just how pleased he already is.
"Well, it looks like you deserve it," he says, tugging the panties into a position where he can reach Deacon's hole through the zipper, and beginning to circle it gently with an oiled finger. He's rusty on this, as he'd been with all things sexual before he and Deacon first fell into bed (or onto couch), but not entirely inexperienced, and he has a whole separate folder of mental notes about the way Deacon does it for him.
Danse hasn't fully analyzed why this particular style of wartime underwear is setting him off so much, though it isn't terribly complicated--he's a soldier, one who's always been prone to deeply romanticizing the days before the bombs, and there's always been something intensely poignant to him about the thought of having someone waiting and longing for him to come back. It makes him want to lean into this with the kind of roleplaying energy that doesn't always come naturally to him of his own accord, but that he's been enticed into before with the right company and the right encouragement. Right now, he has both.
"Waiting so faithfully for me to come back for you. Not letting anyone else touch you, even if my letters got misdelivered and you thought something might have happened." His finger slips inside, gentle and careful yet despite that previous encouragement, and begins to stroke in and out. "You knew I wouldn't leave you. You never doubted I'd come home to take care of you--because I take care of what's mine."
Deserve is a word that Deacon has a difficult relationship with, but he can't really argue once Danse's finger starts stroking around his sensitive rim. Even that affectionate kiss has him shivering, soft noises escaping his lips as he worries them with his own teeth.
"Uh huh," he replies at first, then furrows his brow in confusion as Danse continues talking. It's not easy with a finger slipping inside of him and making him moan and whine for more, and it takes Deacon another moment to realize Danse is performing some sort of bit. Deacon's chin tucks against his own shoulder so that he can glance back at Danse, ginger eyebrows pinched in the center of his forehead.
"Maybe not entirely patient," he whines, "Those letters would get me through lonely nights, touching myself and imagining you doing the same as you wrote them..." Deacon's lips curl into a smirk, hips rolling back now that he's settled into character.
"Mmhmm, fuck yeah you do," he hisses as Danse's finger drags along his sensitive nerve endings, " That bastard Francis across the street tried to convince me you were gone for good and tried to make a pass at me. So I mowed over his rose bush and told him that my man would be back any day now and that he's a tenth of the man you are..." Deacon trails off, getting a bit too carried away in his little fantasy. He laughs breathlessly and then rolls his hips against Danse's hand again. Take two.
It's not immediately obvious why Danse's forehead falls to rest against the back of Deacon's shoulder again, or why his body is trembling slightly against Deacon's as the rhythm of his hand stutters a bit. It becomes clear after a second that he's trying desperately to suppress a laugh. He could argue that the comedic direction shift here is killing the mood, but it isn't. In fact, once he's regained some composure, this tale gets rewarded with another slick finger and a deeper, firmer drag of them both over that sweet spot.
"To hell with Francis," he agrees. "His roses were ugly anyway. And he doesn't deserve you." There's the word again, when Danse is oblivious to anything Deacon might feel about it, and when it doesn't occur to him anymore that Deacon shouldn't merit care or trust or affection. He might have agreed, once, but even before they'd begun this odd liaison, he'd already started to question that. It had grown harder to discount the value or even the morality of Railroad espionage once he'd seen behind the curtain to what the Institute was truly capable of, and the paranoia feeding some of Deacon's lies had felt more justified as well.
The promised I'm yours is part of the language they've developed for these private rendezvous, a kind of roleplay in and of itself from the very start, and Danse knows this--even now, it's both an echo of what he's just said and a callback to what he's promised Deacon before in turn. But it makes him shiver again in a way that has nothing to do with laughter, that has warmth welling up in his chest again, because they don't often do things this way. Danse is usually the one promising that, being encouraged to. He doesn't hear it as often from Deacon.
And he's still taking his cues from what Deacon's done with him in this room before, still working from those well-studied mental notes, drawing on the things that had made him whimper and beg and join in any call-and-response Deacon wanted when rasped softly into his ear. Something deeper stirs too, inspiration that wouldn't have occurred to him on his own, but that rings in the back of his mind now when he thinks of all this in light of Deacon's offhanded talk about past personas. Impulsively, riding the wave of it before he second-guesses himself--
"Say it again," he whispers into Deacon's ear. "Tell me whose girl you are. I want to hear it again."
In all honesty, Deacon wishes Danse wouldn't suppress his laughter, because he loves hearing it. Just as Danse has compiled notes on what Deacon's done to make him whimper, Deacon keeps track of what has successfully made the man laugh and what hasn't, because each laugh is like a gold star on his report card. And as far as Deacon's concerned, if you can't laugh during sex, you're taking yourself too seriously... but he'll forgive Danse this time, in the spirit of staying in character. But also because once that second finger slips inside of him, he's fucking useless.
"Fuck Francis--oh my god!" he moans, a harsh arch of his back pushing himself down onto Danse's hand. And if he thought that was bad, Danse whispering like that in his ear makes him shudder, a jolt of pleasure pulsing through him with a ragged gasp.
"Danse-- " he gasps, "I'm yours," he babbles frantically, "I'm your girl, yours to care for-- Baby, take me, I'm gonna scream your name so loud it keeps that bitter bastard awake all night..."
If ever Danse has been at genuine risk of coming in his pants before sex even gets underway, it's right now, between that shocked, moaned oh my god and that frantic pleading baby. The latter is what nearly does him in, making him press his forehead to Deacon's shoulder blade again with a gasp as his fingers keep working and stretching, but Deacon couldn't be clearer that he wants no further ado here, and Danse couldn't hold out longer if he tried.
He sits back, undoes his pants and shoves them down his thighs with rapid military efficiency--taking them off altogether would delay by only a few more seconds, but they're seconds he still doesn't want to waste when he could be slicking himself down and lining himself up in that narrow zipper opening instead. He feels desperately harder than he's been in as long as he can remember, more even than the last time they'd met up in this room, because Deacon always manages to drive him to new heights of need, but never so much as when he's begging take me.
"That's it," he groans, as he begins to push carefully inside. It's been--jesus, over a decade since he's felt this, and the sensation is near-overwhelming, but not quite enough to distract him from this shared fantasy they're constructing. "Let him know. Let everyone hear it--let them all be jealous that I have you--oh, christ, Deacon--"
Deacon is oblivious to the thread he's posed to Danse, the press of his head against his back a normal enough gesture that it doesn't register as anything more than what it is. What Deacon does become very aware of is the urgency Danse has to push into him, because the moment he feels the loss of those fingers, he's gasping himself, gazing over his shoulder to watch the way Danse hurriedly undresses himself and lines himself up.
It's been ages since Deacon has felt anything like this, too, and he's certain that when he had, it was nowhere near the size he's contending with now. Danse is a large man, and propotionally, his cock looks big. Feeling it is another story, stretching his rim slowly as he pushes inside, causing a litany of gasps and whimpers to leave Deacon's lungs.
"Oh my god, oh my god!" he moans, thighs shaking and hands gripping hard at the mattress, "Will you even fit? I'm-- god, Danse. It feels like you're parking the whole fucking Prydwen in my ass. Christ."
This is not a particular comparison Danse has ever heard made, though it's not the first comment he's ever gotten about his size. And were anyone passing by the window and listening closely enough, that sure as hell would let them know just who Deacon is fucking, perhaps more literally than either of them means for this fantasy to be right now.
But this does call a temporary halt to the banter, as Danse pauses, the comanding growl in his voice giving way to concern. "Are you--do you need more lube? I should have done more."
He will dwell more later on the myriad flatteries and complications of the fact that his cock is being compared to a hostile warship the size of the Hindenburg, one the complimenter would probably be happy to see go down in similar flames. Right now he's more concerned about not demolishing Boston Airport.
Danse's concern is heartwarming; if Deacon wasn't currently experiencing the connection between the height of sexual arousal and weird little bits and games, he'd be absolutely swooning. Instead, he reaches behind himself to claw around Danse's wrist on his hip and hold it firmly, then begins slowly winding his hips to grind back onto him with a groan.
"Now's not the time to stall, soldier," he growls between gritted teeth, "Eyes on the target."
Deacon is determined now to ease the concern and not ruin the mood. He can take everything Danse has given him and more, and he rocks against him as if he means to prove it. "C'mon, baby," he breathes, getting back into character, "It's been so long since you left home. I need to feel all of you."
Well, there's no ambiguity in that, and a good thing for Danse, too. He tips his head back with a hard helpless shudder and a broken moan as Deacon pushes back to take him deeper and deeper, and the hand being clutched on Deacon's hip digs fingers in tighter, enough that there will be bruises on that pale skin in the morning.
The momentum of that fierce take-charge mindset he'd come in with has drained a bit, enough for Deacon's passably-military authority to sneak through his defenses and hit a different nerve than it usually does. When he straightens his spine and steadies himself, immediately and without comment, it's the posture of a soldier snapping to attention and following that order, but the energy of a man who usually yearns to be told he's Deacon's good boy.
But that earlier momentum isn't depleted entirely, and as Deacon gets back into it, building the sunny pre-war neighborhood back up around them, Danse slips back into that mode too with only a little faltering.
"I--I know," he pants, voice strained with the heat of it as Deacon rocks backward and Danse begins to take over that slow inward slide again. "I know you do. I know you can take me--you always do, you're so good for me--" Nearly there, but he remembers the care Deacon had taken with him the first time and intersperses shallower thrusts to work up to the deep ones.
What will keep Deacon's mind racing later is the thrilling realization of how much power he has over Danse, even like this. All it's taken is a shift in tone and a few words, and there is a profound change in energy in him.
"Mmmh, there you are..." he purrs, sinking backwards onto Danse with a low, breathless sound. The initial burning in that stretch of muscle eases into something pleasant and warm, making his movement more fluid and his body more pliant. Through all of this, his heavy cock strains, trapped under satin and leaking through it. Sweat dots his brow, each breath heavier than the last.
"'Course I am-" he gasps, "Good for you, yours. Isn't that right, baby? Tell those bastards I belong to you."
Even when Danse is working back up to grabbing the reins, Deacon has power over him. That full-throttle need to please might be taking a different shape tonight than it usually does, but Danse is no less fervently eager to give Deacon what he wants, no less wholeheartedly determined. He can feel Deacon relaxing, and finally rocks his hips deep enough to slide all the way home, jaw slack and eyes closed with the intensity of it until he swallows and collects himself.
"God, that's it," he exhales. "That's perfect. That's my good girl. Mine, and nobody else is laying a hand on you--"
But he will, because he knows how he always aches for it when Deacon fucks him, and Danse has promised to give him everything he needs. His one hand leaves Deacon's hip to slip down the front of those tight panties, circling Deacon's dripping cock with a thumb and forefinger and letting the slowly-building momentum of his own hips drive it into his grip.
"Nobody else could ever feel this good around me. Just you. Calling me 'baby' like that--making me want to give you anything you ever want--"
Moans shake from Deacon's body as Danse bottoms out inside of him, the hand gripping at Danse's taking on a new utility and grounding him to his body. Muscles tense and relax intermittently as he comes accustomed to the size of the other man, letting that deep, sultry voice soothe him until he's floating again.
"Wouldn't dare," he breathes, then sucks sharply at the air as Danse's hand finds his cock, shuddering out another moan as their bodies begin to rock together. This started as a bit, as Deacon playing it up for Danse's benefit, but it's easy now to succumb to the pleasure and let himself drown in it.
"God-" he whines, "...and you're all I want. Fuck me, Baby Brahmin. I can take it, I swear."
There's not that much objective difference between 'baby' and 'baby brahmin,' but Danse loves both for different reasons. The latter is personal, privately tender, their secret little reference, but the former sounds so natural when gasped in the throes of passion, as if Deacon can't even help himself. If he couldn't feel the way Deacon's body was pulling him in, pliant around him now and moving smoothly with him, he would still worry too much to let himself go--but he could never deny a request like that.
"I trust you," he pants, unthinkingly and freely, letting his hips speed their pace and his fingers curl tighter around Deacon's cock, his own pleasure mounting at a rate his body desperately wants to chase and build upon. Slippery with each others' sweat now, skin slaps satisfyingly against satin and more skin, his rhythm jolting Deacon's body with every thrust.
Not many people trust Deacon, and those that do don't readily admit it. Hearing Danse say it like that leaves him breathless. It's difficult for him to dwell too long on how that makes him feel when Danse is thrusting into him faster and stroking him tighter with every wind of his hips.
His head hangs low between his shoulders, the hand on Danse's dropping back to brace himself on the mattress. Danse's cock feels like a match striking against his inner walls and lighting his body on fire, and Deacon is letting himself be consumed by it.
As his body jolts with a gasp, his glasses slip loose from his face, and another deep thrust sends them falling onto the mattress. Deacon can't be bothered to correct this in the heat of their passion, and all it takes is another buck of Danse's hips for them to get knocked further away. It's for the best, lest they become crushed and unwearable, and Deacon's pleasured moan is interrupted by the need to reassure him: "Don't stop!"
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He returns the kiss with equal passion, his hands following the lines of Danse's strong arms from where they connect with his own body up and onto his shoulders. They grip onto those shoulders as Danse walks him backwards to the mattress, leveraging his hold so that he doesn't fall before there's cushioning to land upon.
"You could leave them on, too," he murmurs against Danse's lips between kisses, "In case you want them ruined for later use."
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"I very well might, actually." He crawls up over Deacon's body, leaving no ambiguity about the way he wants Deacon to stretch out beneath him. "When they look this good on you, why shouldn't I? But I want a better look at the details first."
The Details™ are getting cupped gently in one strong hand, as Danse continues to stroke his fingertips over that satin and feel out the strength of the zipper, rubbing deliberately back and forth over it where it seems to rest right behind Deacon's balls. It would seem a waste, he thinks, to just pull it down right now with his fingers--there was a time when he would have, but Deacon has helped him begin to understand the real merits of teasing when a situation allows time for it.
Danse thinks, too, about how exactly he could position that zipper when he does get it open. The possibilities are numerous, and every one of them makes his breath quicken audibly as his cock twitches against Deacon's semi-bare hip.
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Deacon's always had a thing about control; needing to be on top of things, making sure his team is taken care of, safe with escape routes and plans filed away, frequent face changes. When Danse grabs him like that, manhandling him and pressing him against his half-hard cock and then pushing him backwards onto the mattress, something short-circuits in his brain, and every meticulously planned action, every thought disappears as quickly as Deacon would with the flip of a switch on a stealth boy.
"Oh..." is all he can utter as he gawks up at Danse, squirming back on his elbows as the larger man crawls over him. "Be my guest."
He's half-hard himself as Danse grabs at his cock, but that teasing rub of his thumb over the zipper sends waves of arousal through him until that satin isn't just filling out, but soaking up the moisture from the tip of Deacon's leaking cock, a dark spot seeping through the material.
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He likes to indulge in kissing his way down over Deacon's body whenever they have the time for it, but the kisses have a bite to them now, sharp nips and stronger sucks at the skin, a nipple tugged between his teeth before he lets it go, tongue dipping into Deacon's navel in a detour he doesn't always make, but feels too enticing now when it's only just above the waistband of those panties.
Danse leaves Deacon's arms free to do as they please, rather than pinning them as he sometimes has before, but this is because his hands are too busy pushing Deacon's thighs apart to spread them wantonly wide and pin them there instead, kissing a line further down over the smooth fabric as it strains and tents in its attempt to contain Deacon's cock, rubbing his nose and mouth over the bulge. It's hard enough to resist doing that when Deacon's wearing thick leather pants, and the barrier between them now is so much thinner, enough so that he can tongue at that damp spot of precome and then suck it out of the cloth.
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Deacon's breathing is heavy, soft moans escaping beneath nips and sucks, but it's the tug to his nipple through that satin that makes Deacon whimper desperately, his fingers weaving into Danse's thick hair and twisting there, gripping it like the reigns to whatever Danse is driving. He's practically mewling by the time Danse's hot tongue laps at his navel, becoming unraveled far faster than he's even known possible for himself.
"Oh my god-" he gasps as Danse moves lower, rubbing his face over his cock and making Deacon tremble and twist his grip against Danse's scalp. And that's before he's gawking and moaning at the way Danse sucks at the wet spot on those panties, his thighs flexing beneath his hands as more needy sounds leave his lips.
"Hungry boy~" he purrs, "More where that came from... I'm so wet for you already..."
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The pet name makes him shiver as much as that particular genre of endearment from Deacon ever does, even if this time, it doesn't inspire him to stretch out and be good for Deacon in any way he wants. That can be for next time. Danse still loves it, still craves it, but this evening, it's Deacon's turn. He longs to pull those panties impatiently down all at once, take Deacon's cock into his mouth and clean away every last salty drop with his tongue, but--no. Deacon is patient with him when the shoe is on the other foot, patient and drawn-out and teasing until Danse is a pleading wreck, and Danse can at least aspire to that.
And besides--what else is the zipper for?
"Oh, I know there's more," he murmurs, with one more gentle bite to Deacon's thigh before letting up the pressure of his hands. "Turn over. Ass up."
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"Ah-" he gasps at the additional bite, the heat of it lighting up his veins. And then he's given instructions and Deacon can't help but laugh pathetically, far too worked up to pretend for a moment he's not 100% into this.
"Oooh, gonna mark that, too?" Deacon teases, his legs falling aside so that he can get into position, "A little souvenir to remember you by?" he taunts, crawling onto all fours and waggling his ass back towards Danse. "Don't be afraid to get a bit rough."
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He does need the encouragement to get rougher, just a little, because he's used to holding back his strength and being gentler than he needs to until Deacon tells him otherwise, but he will take that to heart. And he flushes pink and warm as Deacon points out Danse's desire to mark him up--but he does want that, wants it reciprocally, wants it in more different ways, and he'll keep doing it now too. Even Danse can tell when someone's angling to be spanked.
"You need something to remember me by?" He grins, reading back over the embroidery he can see and remembering what's written on the bra cups. "If I'm the only one who isn't 'off-limits,' then you must have been waiting for me to come home. Thinking about me every night. Touching yourself through your clothes until I came back to do this for you."
Danse has calculated the angle, and his arms curl around Deacon's thighs now to hold him steady and give himself leverage, ducking his face between Deacon's legs to catch that dangling zipper pull in his teeth and begin to drag it slowly backward to open.
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"Need isn't the right word... or on second thought, maybe it is..." he replies, "I don't need it to remember you, but-- oh shit!."
Deacon's alarm at the way Danse proceeds to unzip those panties with his teeth comes hand in hand with a throbbing pulse to his dick. He feels frantic and desperate, his hands gripping the mattress like a vice. Thighs part wider and tremble in place, excited for what's to come.
"You're insane," he breathes, voice dripping with admiration, "And I do need you, Baby Brahmin, make no mistake."
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If someone had told Danse before all this that he would someday take a 'you're insane' from Deacon as one of the highest compliments he's ever been given, he wouldn't have believed it--but now, he's very nearly glowing with the satisfaction of it. And an 'I need you' will never fail to thrill him, either. "That's what I like to hear," he says, with warmth he couldn't keep out of his voice if he tried.
It's not easy to see exactly what he's working with through the narrow gap of the zipper, what all he can reach through it, but when it's fully open, he works his tongue through it to explore--tip teasing at the seam between Deacon's balls and the stretch behind them, the way he'd be wanting to do anyway if he had Deacon fully naked right now. He rubs the knuckle of an index finger along the length of Deacon's cock through the fabric as his mouth works, lets it start to crescendo, and then pulls back to reach for the oil they keep handy by the bed. It's usually being used on Danse, but, well.
"Don't worry," he purrs quietly. "I'll give you everything you need."
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Deacon's body feels like it's on fire as Danse's hot tongue finds skin, pleasured sensations shooting through him like electic volts that make whatever hair there is present on his body stand on-end. He exhales with a groan, spine arching so that his pelvis tilts and pushes that opening further out for Danse's access.
He's never felt needy like this, before, or at least not in a long time, and he doesn't know what to do with it, usually busying himself with tormenting his partner and not the reverse. Danse must have compiled notes during their other meet ups; Deacon is impressed. And just as he's starting to feel winded by it all, it stops abruptly and leaves him whining at the loss of heat, gazing back over his shoulder with longing as Danse purrs promises in his direction.
"I wasn't worried--" he replies almost defensively, his voice pitched high in a way that is not intentional. He clears his throat to try again, but can't help but sound like Danse has turned more than a few cogs in him and worked him up more than he'd readily show. "I bet you give as good as you take."
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"Well, it looks like you deserve it," he says, tugging the panties into a position where he can reach Deacon's hole through the zipper, and beginning to circle it gently with an oiled finger. He's rusty on this, as he'd been with all things sexual before he and Deacon first fell into bed (or onto couch), but not entirely inexperienced, and he has a whole separate folder of mental notes about the way Deacon does it for him.
Danse hasn't fully analyzed why this particular style of wartime underwear is setting him off so much, though it isn't terribly complicated--he's a soldier, one who's always been prone to deeply romanticizing the days before the bombs, and there's always been something intensely poignant to him about the thought of having someone waiting and longing for him to come back. It makes him want to lean into this with the kind of roleplaying energy that doesn't always come naturally to him of his own accord, but that he's been enticed into before with the right company and the right encouragement. Right now, he has both.
"Waiting so faithfully for me to come back for you. Not letting anyone else touch you, even if my letters got misdelivered and you thought something might have happened." His finger slips inside, gentle and careful yet despite that previous encouragement, and begins to stroke in and out. "You knew I wouldn't leave you. You never doubted I'd come home to take care of you--because I take care of what's mine."
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"Uh huh," he replies at first, then furrows his brow in confusion as Danse continues talking. It's not easy with a finger slipping inside of him and making him moan and whine for more, and it takes Deacon another moment to realize Danse is performing some sort of bit. Deacon's chin tucks against his own shoulder so that he can glance back at Danse, ginger eyebrows pinched in the center of his forehead.
"Maybe not entirely patient," he whines, "Those letters would get me through lonely nights, touching myself and imagining you doing the same as you wrote them..." Deacon's lips curl into a smirk, hips rolling back now that he's settled into character.
"Mmhmm, fuck yeah you do," he hisses as Danse's finger drags along his sensitive nerve endings, " That bastard Francis across the street tried to convince me you were gone for good and tried to make a pass at me. So I mowed over his rose bush and told him that my man would be back any day now and that he's a tenth of the man you are..." Deacon trails off, getting a bit too carried away in his little fantasy. He laughs breathlessly and then rolls his hips against Danse's hand again. Take two.
"I'm all yours, handsome. Always."
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"To hell with Francis," he agrees. "His roses were ugly anyway. And he doesn't deserve you." There's the word again, when Danse is oblivious to anything Deacon might feel about it, and when it doesn't occur to him anymore that Deacon shouldn't merit care or trust or affection. He might have agreed, once, but even before they'd begun this odd liaison, he'd already started to question that. It had grown harder to discount the value or even the morality of Railroad espionage once he'd seen behind the curtain to what the Institute was truly capable of, and the paranoia feeding some of Deacon's lies had felt more justified as well.
The promised I'm yours is part of the language they've developed for these private rendezvous, a kind of roleplay in and of itself from the very start, and Danse knows this--even now, it's both an echo of what he's just said and a callback to what he's promised Deacon before in turn. But it makes him shiver again in a way that has nothing to do with laughter, that has warmth welling up in his chest again, because they don't often do things this way. Danse is usually the one promising that, being encouraged to. He doesn't hear it as often from Deacon.
And he's still taking his cues from what Deacon's done with him in this room before, still working from those well-studied mental notes, drawing on the things that had made him whimper and beg and join in any call-and-response Deacon wanted when rasped softly into his ear. Something deeper stirs too, inspiration that wouldn't have occurred to him on his own, but that rings in the back of his mind now when he thinks of all this in light of Deacon's offhanded talk about past personas. Impulsively, riding the wave of it before he second-guesses himself--
"Say it again," he whispers into Deacon's ear. "Tell me whose girl you are. I want to hear it again."
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"Fuck Francis--oh my god!" he moans, a harsh arch of his back pushing himself down onto Danse's hand. And if he thought that was bad, Danse whispering like that in his ear makes him shudder, a jolt of pleasure pulsing through him with a ragged gasp.
"Danse-- " he gasps, "I'm yours," he babbles frantically, "I'm your girl, yours to care for-- Baby, take me, I'm gonna scream your name so loud it keeps that bitter bastard awake all night..."
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He sits back, undoes his pants and shoves them down his thighs with rapid military efficiency--taking them off altogether would delay by only a few more seconds, but they're seconds he still doesn't want to waste when he could be slicking himself down and lining himself up in that narrow zipper opening instead. He feels desperately harder than he's been in as long as he can remember, more even than the last time they'd met up in this room, because Deacon always manages to drive him to new heights of need, but never so much as when he's begging take me.
"That's it," he groans, as he begins to push carefully inside. It's been--jesus, over a decade since he's felt this, and the sensation is near-overwhelming, but not quite enough to distract him from this shared fantasy they're constructing. "Let him know. Let everyone hear it--let them all be jealous that I have you--oh, christ, Deacon--"
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It's been ages since Deacon has felt anything like this, too, and he's certain that when he had, it was nowhere near the size he's contending with now. Danse is a large man, and propotionally, his cock looks big. Feeling it is another story, stretching his rim slowly as he pushes inside, causing a litany of gasps and whimpers to leave Deacon's lungs.
"Oh my god, oh my god!" he moans, thighs shaking and hands gripping hard at the mattress, "Will you even fit? I'm-- god, Danse. It feels like you're parking the whole fucking Prydwen in my ass. Christ."
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But this does call a temporary halt to the banter, as Danse pauses, the comanding growl in his voice giving way to concern. "Are you--do you need more lube? I should have done more."
He will dwell more later on the myriad flatteries and complications of the fact that his cock is being compared to a hostile warship the size of the Hindenburg, one the complimenter would probably be happy to see go down in similar flames. Right now he's more concerned about not demolishing Boston Airport.
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"Now's not the time to stall, soldier," he growls between gritted teeth, "Eyes on the target."
Deacon is determined now to ease the concern and not ruin the mood. He can take everything Danse has given him and more, and he rocks against him as if he means to prove it. "C'mon, baby," he breathes, getting back into character, "It's been so long since you left home. I need to feel all of you."
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The momentum of that fierce take-charge mindset he'd come in with has drained a bit, enough for Deacon's passably-military authority to sneak through his defenses and hit a different nerve than it usually does. When he straightens his spine and steadies himself, immediately and without comment, it's the posture of a soldier snapping to attention and following that order, but the energy of a man who usually yearns to be told he's Deacon's good boy.
But that earlier momentum isn't depleted entirely, and as Deacon gets back into it, building the sunny pre-war neighborhood back up around them, Danse slips back into that mode too with only a little faltering.
"I--I know," he pants, voice strained with the heat of it as Deacon rocks backward and Danse begins to take over that slow inward slide again. "I know you do. I know you can take me--you always do, you're so good for me--" Nearly there, but he remembers the care Deacon had taken with him the first time and intersperses shallower thrusts to work up to the deep ones.
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"Mmmh, there you are..." he purrs, sinking backwards onto Danse with a low, breathless sound. The initial burning in that stretch of muscle eases into something pleasant and warm, making his movement more fluid and his body more pliant. Through all of this, his heavy cock strains, trapped under satin and leaking through it. Sweat dots his brow, each breath heavier than the last.
"'Course I am-" he gasps, "Good for you, yours. Isn't that right, baby? Tell those bastards I belong to you."
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"God, that's it," he exhales. "That's perfect. That's my good girl. Mine, and nobody else is laying a hand on you--"
But he will, because he knows how he always aches for it when Deacon fucks him, and Danse has promised to give him everything he needs. His one hand leaves Deacon's hip to slip down the front of those tight panties, circling Deacon's dripping cock with a thumb and forefinger and letting the slowly-building momentum of his own hips drive it into his grip.
"Nobody else could ever feel this good around me. Just you. Calling me 'baby' like that--making me want to give you anything you ever want--"
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"Wouldn't dare," he breathes, then sucks sharply at the air as Danse's hand finds his cock, shuddering out another moan as their bodies begin to rock together. This started as a bit, as Deacon playing it up for Danse's benefit, but it's easy now to succumb to the pleasure and let himself drown in it.
"God-" he whines, "...and you're all I want. Fuck me, Baby Brahmin. I can take it, I swear."
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"I trust you," he pants, unthinkingly and freely, letting his hips speed their pace and his fingers curl tighter around Deacon's cock, his own pleasure mounting at a rate his body desperately wants to chase and build upon. Slippery with each others' sweat now, skin slaps satisfyingly against satin and more skin, his rhythm jolting Deacon's body with every thrust.
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His head hangs low between his shoulders, the hand on Danse's dropping back to brace himself on the mattress. Danse's cock feels like a match striking against his inner walls and lighting his body on fire, and Deacon is letting himself be consumed by it.
As his body jolts with a gasp, his glasses slip loose from his face, and another deep thrust sends them falling onto the mattress. Deacon can't be bothered to correct this in the heat of their passion, and all it takes is another buck of Danse's hips for them to get knocked further away. It's for the best, lest they become crushed and unwearable, and Deacon's pleasured moan is interrupted by the need to reassure him: "Don't stop!"
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