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!"
There's a part of Danse that's always secretly wondered if Deacon glues his sunglasses onto his face somehow, because he's never once seen them so much as slide down his nose, let alone fall off even in the midst of combat or sex or sleep. The tenacity with which they stay on is a substantial part of Deacon's mystique. But then, where sex and sleep are concerned, Deacon's nearly always been the one controlling the pace and the position so far, and usually woken up and gotten dressed before Danse as well.
Only a couple times has Danse woken in the middle of the night and had the chance to quietly watch Deacon sleep for a little while, the sort of privilege he's never had the privacy for with any other lover, and he would never have dreamed of taking liberties and peeking behind the sunglasses while Deacon was unaware of it. But this doesn't mean he hasn't fantasized, soft and embarrassing daydreams about Deacon wanting to take the glasses off for him, removing them before sex and fucking Danse passionately into this very mattress while looking into his face and seeing him in full color for the first time.
He hasn't anticipated it happening like this. He ought to have, presuming the glasses are not actually permanently attached, because expecting them to stay on in defiance of gravity and rough jostling and slick dripping sweat on a freshly-shaved head is more than anyone can ask the laws of physics to bend. But his heart skips a beat of shock and anticipation and longing when they fall to the pillow with a clatter, and the fact that Deacon pleads with him to keep going has it soaring with hesitant hope as well.
He wants more. Like expecting the glasses not to budge through all of that exertion was too much suspension of disbelief in science, it feels in the heat of this moment like it's asking too much for Danse to carry on this affair week after week in perfectly clandestine silence, to let Deacon fill him more thoroughly and intimately than any other lover he's ever had and fuck him in every position while whispering sweet things about the beauty of his eyes, and know what Danse looks and sounds and feels like when he comes and when he pleads for more, and for Danse still not even to know what fucking color this man's eyes are in turn.
The finer details of this shared roleplaying fantasy have fallen by the wayside as Danse has become increasingly distracted with pleasure, but the bones of it are still there--the commanding, the mutual possession, the fictional image of them as a married couple reuniting, and this is what infuses his voice as he pants "Turn over."
He pulls himself free of Deacon to allow it, hands slipping from his hips as he finally shucks his own pants the rest of the way off and throws them aside. "I want to remember how gorgeous you are." It fits the roleplay well enough, but he means in the future.
Deacon hesitates for a moment, not necessarily because he doesn't want to comply, and not just because he has never revealed this part of himself to Danse (or anyone in the settlement, for that matter) until now. It's how Danse speaks to him. That continued softness, such a stark contrast to the way his cock is pulled out of him and leaving Deacon shuddering with emptiness.
Slowly, Deacon eases down off of his knees and rolls onto his back, cheeks rosey and eyes yearning. Faced with anyone else in a more normal situation, Deacon might avert his gaze, but can he really be expected not to look in Danse's eyes? Those big, brown, beautiful eyes that swell with emotion? Please be serious.
"Don't tell me you've forgotten," he murmurs softly, playfulness and longing present in his voice. He has to make a comment like this to downplay the whole thing, and yet he's reaching above him to secure his arms around Danse's neck and drag him down into a deep, passionate kiss immediately after, a leg hooking up around Danse's hip to draw him back in.
Never have those big brown baby brahmin eyes been wider, more liquid, or more positively starry than right now. Danse had thought this was about seeing Deacon's eyes, and maybe it mostly still is, but the entire landscape of a face changes when it isn't half occupied by dark glasses--it drives home just how little Danse has truly known Deacon's face until now, for all his intimate understanding of the man's erogenous zones.
It's not only about finally knowing the color of his eyes, like the brightest and healthiest hubflowers Danse has ever seen, but the fine lines of age and expression, the way he blushes high up on his cheeks, the visible clarity of emotion when Deacon finally meets his eyes in a way Danse can reciprocate. His breath hitches as much with the weight of the intimacy as with the wave of admiring attraction that follows. He surges back into Deacon's arms and meets that kiss with a soft fervent groan, pleased beyond expression at the way Deacon responds to this, melting breathlessly into him, but not pushing back inside him yet--not quite.
He grinds briefly against the satin covering Deacon's hip as Deacon hooks that leg around his waist, forcing himself to pause for breath and speech. "I could never," he gasps against Deacon's neck, kissing it hard. He's never going to forget how incredible Deacon looks, fully bared to him in the middle of sex. "Jesus, Deacon, you could blind people with those eyes."
And he does his best to lock onto them again and keep holding that gaze, even as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of those panties to yank them down and off. He wants more room to work now than the zipper allows him.
So much is happening at once, enough that Deacon feels a bit overwhelmed by it all. Emotional in a way he shouldn't show. But he's also never seen Danse like this, either, and it tugs at something deeper. Never has he wanted so desperately to hold that face in his hands and offer it affectionate and comfort, and as Danse's lips meet his again, he does, his hands sliding back down to cradle his face as they kiss.
Deacon whines against Danse's lips as he feels him pull away, the opposite of what he's expecting; the teasing grind, and then the affectionate words at his throat that leave Deacon breathless and blushing.
"I have," he groans back, arching beneath him, "Why do you think I wear protection?" A harsh gasp follows as the panties are tugged from his body, sending his cock slapping against his own stomach in a way that makes him groan and claw needily at Danse's shoulders again. "...You can handle 'em though, can't you, baby? You handle the rest of me so well..."
It's the most perfectly Deacon thing to say, and with Danse's guard at an all-time low, it gets the laugh he'd held himself back from earlier, breathless and joyous and affectionate. The hands caressing his face make him thrill, even if it isn't the first time he's felt tenderness like that from Deacon and let himself believe it meant something. It hits different now.
"I can handle them," he agrees, dropping a few quick, hurried, needy kisses along the inside of Deacon's bare thigh as he makes his way back up, and licking a stripe up the underside of his cock with the rough flat of his tongue solely because he can. "I can handle anything, if it's you."
Reaching for the lube again, he adds another generous slick to his own cock before curving his hands around Deacon's thighs, guiding them over his shoulders this time as he pushes back inside, steady but slow. He knows Deacon can take a rougher pace, trusts him to have been honest about his limits and what he wants, but he'll let himself build up to it again after that pause. It gives him the space to look down into Deacon's eyes again, still absolutely captivated in a way that's written all over his open book of a face.
He'll notate that laugh in his records later, another big win for Deacon in the little game they play. The one that no one's bothered to name or explain the rules to. He also laughs back, easy and soft, moving in sync with Danse as if he knows each step; spreading his thighs wider for that attention the first of them. Danse's tongue makes him gasp and groan, but its his words that really steal his breath away once again. It doesn't feel like a game anymore, or at least not the one they were playing just moments ago involving a pesky neighbor. It feels like a promise, in a way, and one he'd never expected to make with a man who once looked at him with scorn.
"Prove it to me," he replies quietly, testing the limits here, "I can handle it, too."
He watches Danse ravenously as he slicks himself up, lifting his knees before Danse even has the proper grip on him to help him, and he doesn't look away as Danse pushes inside again, even as his eyelashes flutter from the pleasure of being filled again.
Danse has proven himself better at the game than he ever thought he could be, certainly better than anyone else who knows him would ever have expected him to be where acting and roleplay are concerned--but he always does forget himself at the height of passion. There always does come a point where he defaults back to truth and sincerity, and right now, more than ever, he can't remember anymore who he's supposed to be other than himself or what they were pretending their relationship was.
He'll prove anything Deacon asks him to, if it means making someone so famously skeptical believe this is real. He sinks all the way back into Deacon with a bone-deep shudder, feeling absolutely weak at the sight of his eyelids trembling with the pleasure on his face, the kind of sight Danse has never been privy to before now (and he knows with a wolfishly possessive thrill that nobody else is going to be.)
Fingers gripping Deacon's thighs with bruising force again, he lets himself gather more and more speed with every deep thrust, the heat of it building up inside him all the more quickly and fiercely for that pause and making him shake again with the intensity of it. He's not entirely sure how much longer he'll be able to hold out now. And yet still, for all that, he only lets his eyes drift shut for a moment before he fixes them on Deacon's again, keeping that promise.
There is a part of Deacon that wants to tear his eyes away and hide his face, but it's at war with the part of him that simply can't look away, entranced by those big brown eyes and that affectionate stare, the way Danse looks at him like he's something treasured. He hasn't been seen this way in decades, hasn't felt worthy of it, still doesn't.
"Fuck, Danse--" he gasps as he shudders against him, passing that wave off to Deacon who echoes it with a shudder of his own. Danse feels even deeper like this, and he can't even finish his thought once those fingers grip down and Danse's hips start pumping into him with building force that causes Deacon to sob beneath him and his cock to leak over his taught stomach.
Never before has Danse had anyone to look at like this, anyone who would have wanted or allowed it, but even in his blissful ignorance of Deacon's reasons for believing himself unworthy, he can't think of anyone else he would rather admire than the man who's been so open and poetic in his praise as to make Danse feel like he deserves to take real pride in his Institute-manufactured body. How could Deacon not deserve the same?
It isn't merely about the physical. Deacon is all the more ruggedly handsome without the glasses, his eyes rare and striking and his features surgically symmetrical, but seeing him with his walls crumbling makes Danse want with fierce determination to make Deacon understand how good surrender feels--to make him feel as safe and desired as he'd made Danse feel even when they had no reason to trust each other but mutual drug-induced need. Deacon's never made Danse feel anything but safe and wanted in this bedroom, and he'll be damned if he fails to show Deacon how mutual it truly is.
"Good," he whispers, heart squeezing like a fist at those undone noises from Deacon's lips. "Perfect. Let it out for me and don't hold back. Don't even think. You know I've got you."
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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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Only a couple times has Danse woken in the middle of the night and had the chance to quietly watch Deacon sleep for a little while, the sort of privilege he's never had the privacy for with any other lover, and he would never have dreamed of taking liberties and peeking behind the sunglasses while Deacon was unaware of it. But this doesn't mean he hasn't fantasized, soft and embarrassing daydreams about Deacon wanting to take the glasses off for him, removing them before sex and fucking Danse passionately into this very mattress while looking into his face and seeing him in full color for the first time.
He hasn't anticipated it happening like this. He ought to have, presuming the glasses are not actually permanently attached, because expecting them to stay on in defiance of gravity and rough jostling and slick dripping sweat on a freshly-shaved head is more than anyone can ask the laws of physics to bend. But his heart skips a beat of shock and anticipation and longing when they fall to the pillow with a clatter, and the fact that Deacon pleads with him to keep going has it soaring with hesitant hope as well.
He wants more. Like expecting the glasses not to budge through all of that exertion was too much suspension of disbelief in science, it feels in the heat of this moment like it's asking too much for Danse to carry on this affair week after week in perfectly clandestine silence, to let Deacon fill him more thoroughly and intimately than any other lover he's ever had and fuck him in every position while whispering sweet things about the beauty of his eyes, and know what Danse looks and sounds and feels like when he comes and when he pleads for more, and for Danse still not even to know what fucking color this man's eyes are in turn.
The finer details of this shared roleplaying fantasy have fallen by the wayside as Danse has become increasingly distracted with pleasure, but the bones of it are still there--the commanding, the mutual possession, the fictional image of them as a married couple reuniting, and this is what infuses his voice as he pants "Turn over."
He pulls himself free of Deacon to allow it, hands slipping from his hips as he finally shucks his own pants the rest of the way off and throws them aside. "I want to remember how gorgeous you are." It fits the roleplay well enough, but he means in the future.
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Slowly, Deacon eases down off of his knees and rolls onto his back, cheeks rosey and eyes yearning. Faced with anyone else in a more normal situation, Deacon might avert his gaze, but can he really be expected not to look in Danse's eyes? Those big, brown, beautiful eyes that swell with emotion? Please be serious.
"Don't tell me you've forgotten," he murmurs softly, playfulness and longing present in his voice. He has to make a comment like this to downplay the whole thing, and yet he's reaching above him to secure his arms around Danse's neck and drag him down into a deep, passionate kiss immediately after, a leg hooking up around Danse's hip to draw him back in.
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It's not only about finally knowing the color of his eyes, like the brightest and healthiest hubflowers Danse has ever seen, but the fine lines of age and expression, the way he blushes high up on his cheeks, the visible clarity of emotion when Deacon finally meets his eyes in a way Danse can reciprocate. His breath hitches as much with the weight of the intimacy as with the wave of admiring attraction that follows. He surges back into Deacon's arms and meets that kiss with a soft fervent groan, pleased beyond expression at the way Deacon responds to this, melting breathlessly into him, but not pushing back inside him yet--not quite.
He grinds briefly against the satin covering Deacon's hip as Deacon hooks that leg around his waist, forcing himself to pause for breath and speech. "I could never," he gasps against Deacon's neck, kissing it hard. He's never going to forget how incredible Deacon looks, fully bared to him in the middle of sex. "Jesus, Deacon, you could blind people with those eyes."
And he does his best to lock onto them again and keep holding that gaze, even as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of those panties to yank them down and off. He wants more room to work now than the zipper allows him.
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Deacon whines against Danse's lips as he feels him pull away, the opposite of what he's expecting; the teasing grind, and then the affectionate words at his throat that leave Deacon breathless and blushing.
"I have," he groans back, arching beneath him, "Why do you think I wear protection?" A harsh gasp follows as the panties are tugged from his body, sending his cock slapping against his own stomach in a way that makes him groan and claw needily at Danse's shoulders again. "...You can handle 'em though, can't you, baby? You handle the rest of me so well..."
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"I can handle them," he agrees, dropping a few quick, hurried, needy kisses along the inside of Deacon's bare thigh as he makes his way back up, and licking a stripe up the underside of his cock with the rough flat of his tongue solely because he can. "I can handle anything, if it's you."
Reaching for the lube again, he adds another generous slick to his own cock before curving his hands around Deacon's thighs, guiding them over his shoulders this time as he pushes back inside, steady but slow. He knows Deacon can take a rougher pace, trusts him to have been honest about his limits and what he wants, but he'll let himself build up to it again after that pause. It gives him the space to look down into Deacon's eyes again, still absolutely captivated in a way that's written all over his open book of a face.
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"Prove it to me," he replies quietly, testing the limits here, "I can handle it, too."
He watches Danse ravenously as he slicks himself up, lifting his knees before Danse even has the proper grip on him to help him, and he doesn't look away as Danse pushes inside again, even as his eyelashes flutter from the pleasure of being filled again.
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He'll prove anything Deacon asks him to, if it means making someone so famously skeptical believe this is real. He sinks all the way back into Deacon with a bone-deep shudder, feeling absolutely weak at the sight of his eyelids trembling with the pleasure on his face, the kind of sight Danse has never been privy to before now (and he knows with a wolfishly possessive thrill that nobody else is going to be.)
Fingers gripping Deacon's thighs with bruising force again, he lets himself gather more and more speed with every deep thrust, the heat of it building up inside him all the more quickly and fiercely for that pause and making him shake again with the intensity of it. He's not entirely sure how much longer he'll be able to hold out now. And yet still, for all that, he only lets his eyes drift shut for a moment before he fixes them on Deacon's again, keeping that promise.
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"Fuck, Danse--" he gasps as he shudders against him, passing that wave off to Deacon who echoes it with a shudder of his own. Danse feels even deeper like this, and he can't even finish his thought once those fingers grip down and Danse's hips start pumping into him with building force that causes Deacon to sob beneath him and his cock to leak over his taught stomach.
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It isn't merely about the physical. Deacon is all the more ruggedly handsome without the glasses, his eyes rare and striking and his features surgically symmetrical, but seeing him with his walls crumbling makes Danse want with fierce determination to make Deacon understand how good surrender feels--to make him feel as safe and desired as he'd made Danse feel even when they had no reason to trust each other but mutual drug-induced need. Deacon's never made Danse feel anything but safe and wanted in this bedroom, and he'll be damned if he fails to show Deacon how mutual it truly is.
"Good," he whispers, heart squeezing like a fist at those undone noises from Deacon's lips. "Perfect. Let it out for me and don't hold back. Don't even think. You know I've got you."
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