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."
It's not like Deacon to need permission for anything, yet for some reason receiving it has a powerful effect on him. His hands clutch at Danse, grasping him wherever he can reach, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. Don't even think. How can he when his whole body feels tight, like the tension could just snap and any moment.
He whimpers Danse's name again, eyes fighting to stay focused, but he's drifting. He does know Danse has him. The most honest man in the settlement has kept quiet about each trist for Deacon's benefit and reciprocated every strange thing Deacon's thrown his way.
Another wail and with a sharp arch of his spine, Deacon's eyes finally roll back, toes curling behind Danse's shoulders as that coiled tension within him snaps and sends him spiraling into an orgasm that has him clenching hard around Danse's cock while his own spills between them.
Danse will never know how he manages to hold it together long enough to watch Deacon fall apart like this. It's sheer force of will, knowing that this will be seared into his memory for as long as he lives if he can keep his eyes open to drink it in, and he files away every last minute little detail to keep and take out and re-analyze and cherish when he's alone. The way Deacon's jaw goes slack, the way his entire body responds to Danse's command as readily and as thoroughly as Danse's had given in to him that first time, the way his spend streaks hot against Danse's skin.
He hangs on nearly until the end, but not quite; their climaxes overlap as Deacon's body tightens around him as if milking his own release from him, drawing it out in long pulses deep inside him as Danse lowers his head and cries out between gritted teeth. He's almost dizzy with the force of it, vision blurred for a moment as he trembles through it, and even as he lets go of Deacon's thighs so that he can relax the position of his legs, Danse doesn't pull out of him yet. He can't bring himself to move.
The intensity of what they've just done is beginning to sink in, but that feels like all the more reason to let it linger, slowly, for as long as he can stay inside. His forehead rests exhaustedly against Deacon's shoulder as he catches a droplet of sweat on the tip of his tongue.
Deacon clings to Danse as he feels him come deep inside of him, trembling with panting breath. As Danse loosens his grip, Deacon goes nearly limp beneath him, limbs all flopping down to the mattress as he catches his breath. He'd be dizzy too, were he not laying down, but he's too thoughtless still from that overwhelming pleasure to do anything but lay there, anyway.
Danse's thank you brings some life back to him, his arms, as noodle-like as they currently feel, coiling back around him to clutch him close. Fingers feed into his hairline and scratch lazily at his scalp, but Deacon doesn't speak just yet, his brain still foggy, the reasoning for Danse's gratefulness not completely apparent.
His head rolls to the side, straining slightly to fetch a kiss from the man that just fucked him thoughtless, but Deacon laughs softly against him as he regains some clarity. "Really? You did all the work."
"You did plenty." Danse is resisting the urge to collapse as well, making himself support his weight on his elbows even when the rest of him feels worn out to the core, because smothering Deacon under 215 pounds of synth would be a deeply unsexy and unromantic end to this otherwise incredible affair (though perhaps a fitting enough end to an illustrious Railroad career.) The scalp massage only relaxes him further, to the point of feeling absolutely gelatinous.
He can't immediately tell if Deacon is entirely joking--if he understands the reason for the thanks and is simply deflecting, or if it really is lost on him. He meets that kiss gladly, soft and sweet in his indulgence of it, sorting through his thoughts and letting himself focus in the meantime on the rare and pleasurable feeling of Deacon's come binding them together and still warm between their stomachs.
"I mean for...for letting me see you like this. I wanted to ask, but I never had the nerve."
Deacon would encourage the weight in a heartbeat. If he dies, he dies. It would be worth it. He tugs slightly at Danse's shoulders while they kiss, enough to perhaps coax him into relaxing a little more, given they're still connected in more than one spot.
A pleased, dreamy sort of sound buzzes between their lips just before Danse pulls back enough to clarify, and Deacon sighs, smirking as his fingers scratch against Danse's scalp again.
"Look, I had a hunch you'd be into the panties," he teases, but he's starting to realize that they aren't what Danse means, either. The ole brain's still rebooting, and Deacon gives Danse another little peck on the lips before pulling back to look at him again, eyes much more heavy-lidded in his spent state than before.
"...I didn't uh, plan it this way, you know," he continues softer than before, now on the same page. He'd never planned any of it, when it came to Danse. The start of it all was pure coincidence, and it's spiraled so quickly into whatever it is now that Deacon often feels like he's playing catch up with himself nightly over it. Even so, one thing he's certain of. "I don't regret any of it."
Slowly, gradually, at that encouragement, Danse lets himself settle a little more of his weight onto Deacon, exhaling further tension from his body in a soft, warm sigh against Deacon's neck. His eyes are just as drowsy now, an affectionate gaze awash in post-coital endorphins, and he blinks with pleased feline slowness at that little peck--but he's listening, still.
He knows the loss of the glasses hadn't been deliberate, the way he's sometimes hoped it would be when it happened, but that promise from Deacon is the reassurance he needs. It's easy for Danse to believe him now, with things like this. He wants to believe. There seems to be a distinction, he's realizing, between the things Deacon tends to lie about and the things that he demonstrates to be truth.
Before all of this happened between them, Danse wouldn't have believed anything out of Deacon's mouth, up to and including 'the sky is blue.' And he still holds some skepticism for tales about Deacon's past, things that sound crazy-but-theoretically-possible, things that technically constitute Railroad intel and would have been too sensitive to discuss before the Institute fell. But when Deacon talks about how this insane little affair between them makes him feel, Danse takes it at face value. Danse is no great reader of people, or doesn't think of himself as one, but the emotion he's heard in Deacon's voice before feels too real to be another pointless lie, even before Danse could see the look in his eyes to back it up.
"I don't regret it, either," he murmurs. "This is the happiest I've been since I joined the Brotherhood, you know." Happier than he ever was in it, even if joining up itself had been a moment full of hope and promise. This is the sort of thing it had made him believe he could never have, that he'd already opted out of with no chance of taking it back.
"...Not that you were wrong about your hunch. Even if I wasn't talking about that."
Just as seeing him this way seems to please Danse, Deacon finds a great deal of pleasure in seeing Danse's body lose it's tense rigidity and relax against him. He looks happy; something Deacon notices before Danse even confirms it.
Deacon barks a quiet laugh at the Brotherhood comparison, but it makes sense that it would have been a big day for any soldier, gaining a sense of belonging and community. He can say the same for the Railroad, anyway.
"I'm happy too..." he murmurs thoughtfully, "It's nice to have something to look forward to. Someone to look forward to." He sighs, his fingers scratching at Danse's scalp. Deacon stretches his neck out and presses a kiss to his forehead, humming against him. "...and I'm glad you're happy. You deserve to be."
Quiet though he is, Danse is fairly glowing right now at the thought of being someone to look forward to. If anyone but Cutler has ever thought such a thing about him, he isn't aware of it, and he imagines Deacon is the only other person who's ever felt that way. His other lovers, few and far between as they've been, might have looked forward to the sex, and that's theoretically all this is as well, but...if that's what Deacon had meant, he would have said so. He isn't making it sound like that's all he's talking about.
There's a different, deeper kind of satisfaction to the knowledge that he makes Deacon happy. Danse has still only scratched the surface yet of awareness that Deacon's upbeat jester persona is not what it seems, but even he knows that a clown mask doesn't imply genuine happiness on the part of the one making people laugh, even when it isn't also a front for dark and dangerous espionage. But this, too, he believes when Deacon says it, and takes pride and pleasure in it.
"I think we both do."
They don't need to have a debate or a discussion about what either of them deserves--even if it's a meaningful thing now to hear that he deserves happiness, when Danse has been doubting it lately in light of the knowledge that he's a synth, and when others might dispute it after his long affiliation with the Brotherhood. Deacon is uniquely qualified to address both. Danse believes him less qualified to judge his own worthiness. On a different night, as they've done before, he would curl up and rest his head on Deacon's chest, or let himself be spooned, but this has been an evening for reversals. Deacon deserves to let himself be taken care of a little, too.
He hates to have to withdraw, but he does, finally, and stretches out alongside Deacon now. There's a washrag and a canteen of water by the mattress, and he reaches out to wipe Deacon's stomach clean with gentle affection before he cleans off his own, and beckons him closer after rolling onto his back. "Come here," he says softly. He can be the pillow for tonight.
Whether or not Deacon believes it himself, he needs to hear it sometimes. Danse telling him that he deserves to be happy is meaningful, because there was a time when the man looked scornfully at him and would have called him dangerous. Deacon is dangerous when he needs to be, but that's not really what he wants to be known for.
Deacon doesn't argue or protest, merely making a soft, displeased grunt as Danse pulls away. He watches him reach for the canteen and thinks nothing of it, and then is surprised to be cared for and cleaned up like he is, swallowing back a little chuckle. He sits up for a moment, tossing off the lingering bra to whatever black hole the panties were tossed into, then crawls over to where Danse beckons him and curls up at his side.
"You spending the night?" he asks quietly, his fingers brushing over Danse's hairy chest, humor creeping into his voice again as he nuzzles into it. "Can't wait to see Francis' face when he runs into you while grabbing the paper."
As quickly, unexpectedly and thoroughly as he's come to love tucking himself in against Deacon's side to sleep in this little oasis of a room--and as much comfort as he'd derived from it on that cold night in the safehouse he doesn't remember--there's something that feels equally, deliciously comforting and right about being able to cradle Deacon against him and stroke his fingers softly over the barely-there stubble on Deacon's scalp, slowly and soothingly massaging.
He sighs with contentment as Deacon's face nestles into his chest, but it trails quickly into a snort at the reminder of the roleplay that he's very nearly forgotten. But he's no longer too distracted to play along again, sleepy though he might be, and there's a tinge of mischief to his voice in reply.
"Of course I'm spending the night," he murmurs. "I'm back for good, remember? I live here. Francis is just going to have to get over himself and accept his defeat with dignity."
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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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He whimpers Danse's name again, eyes fighting to stay focused, but he's drifting. He does know Danse has him. The most honest man in the settlement has kept quiet about each trist for Deacon's benefit and reciprocated every strange thing Deacon's thrown his way.
Another wail and with a sharp arch of his spine, Deacon's eyes finally roll back, toes curling behind Danse's shoulders as that coiled tension within him snaps and sends him spiraling into an orgasm that has him clenching hard around Danse's cock while his own spills between them.
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He hangs on nearly until the end, but not quite; their climaxes overlap as Deacon's body tightens around him as if milking his own release from him, drawing it out in long pulses deep inside him as Danse lowers his head and cries out between gritted teeth. He's almost dizzy with the force of it, vision blurred for a moment as he trembles through it, and even as he lets go of Deacon's thighs so that he can relax the position of his legs, Danse doesn't pull out of him yet. He can't bring himself to move.
The intensity of what they've just done is beginning to sink in, but that feels like all the more reason to let it linger, slowly, for as long as he can stay inside. His forehead rests exhaustedly against Deacon's shoulder as he catches a droplet of sweat on the tip of his tongue.
"Thank you," he murmurs, after a silent moment.
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Danse's thank you brings some life back to him, his arms, as noodle-like as they currently feel, coiling back around him to clutch him close. Fingers feed into his hairline and scratch lazily at his scalp, but Deacon doesn't speak just yet, his brain still foggy, the reasoning for Danse's gratefulness not completely apparent.
His head rolls to the side, straining slightly to fetch a kiss from the man that just fucked him thoughtless, but Deacon laughs softly against him as he regains some clarity. "Really? You did all the work."
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He can't immediately tell if Deacon is entirely joking--if he understands the reason for the thanks and is simply deflecting, or if it really is lost on him. He meets that kiss gladly, soft and sweet in his indulgence of it, sorting through his thoughts and letting himself focus in the meantime on the rare and pleasurable feeling of Deacon's come binding them together and still warm between their stomachs.
"I mean for...for letting me see you like this. I wanted to ask, but I never had the nerve."
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A pleased, dreamy sort of sound buzzes between their lips just before Danse pulls back enough to clarify, and Deacon sighs, smirking as his fingers scratch against Danse's scalp again.
"Look, I had a hunch you'd be into the panties," he teases, but he's starting to realize that they aren't what Danse means, either. The ole brain's still rebooting, and Deacon gives Danse another little peck on the lips before pulling back to look at him again, eyes much more heavy-lidded in his spent state than before.
"...I didn't uh, plan it this way, you know," he continues softer than before, now on the same page. He'd never planned any of it, when it came to Danse. The start of it all was pure coincidence, and it's spiraled so quickly into whatever it is now that Deacon often feels like he's playing catch up with himself nightly over it. Even so, one thing he's certain of. "I don't regret any of it."
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He knows the loss of the glasses hadn't been deliberate, the way he's sometimes hoped it would be when it happened, but that promise from Deacon is the reassurance he needs. It's easy for Danse to believe him now, with things like this. He wants to believe. There seems to be a distinction, he's realizing, between the things Deacon tends to lie about and the things that he demonstrates to be truth.
Before all of this happened between them, Danse wouldn't have believed anything out of Deacon's mouth, up to and including 'the sky is blue.' And he still holds some skepticism for tales about Deacon's past, things that sound crazy-but-theoretically-possible, things that technically constitute Railroad intel and would have been too sensitive to discuss before the Institute fell. But when Deacon talks about how this insane little affair between them makes him feel, Danse takes it at face value. Danse is no great reader of people, or doesn't think of himself as one, but the emotion he's heard in Deacon's voice before feels too real to be another pointless lie, even before Danse could see the look in his eyes to back it up.
"I don't regret it, either," he murmurs. "This is the happiest I've been since I joined the Brotherhood, you know." Happier than he ever was in it, even if joining up itself had been a moment full of hope and promise. This is the sort of thing it had made him believe he could never have, that he'd already opted out of with no chance of taking it back.
"...Not that you were wrong about your hunch. Even if I wasn't talking about that."
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Deacon barks a quiet laugh at the Brotherhood comparison, but it makes sense that it would have been a big day for any soldier, gaining a sense of belonging and community. He can say the same for the Railroad, anyway.
"I'm happy too..." he murmurs thoughtfully, "It's nice to have something to look forward to. Someone to look forward to." He sighs, his fingers scratching at Danse's scalp. Deacon stretches his neck out and presses a kiss to his forehead, humming against him. "...and I'm glad you're happy. You deserve to be."
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There's a different, deeper kind of satisfaction to the knowledge that he makes Deacon happy. Danse has still only scratched the surface yet of awareness that Deacon's upbeat jester persona is not what it seems, but even he knows that a clown mask doesn't imply genuine happiness on the part of the one making people laugh, even when it isn't also a front for dark and dangerous espionage. But this, too, he believes when Deacon says it, and takes pride and pleasure in it.
"I think we both do."
They don't need to have a debate or a discussion about what either of them deserves--even if it's a meaningful thing now to hear that he deserves happiness, when Danse has been doubting it lately in light of the knowledge that he's a synth, and when others might dispute it after his long affiliation with the Brotherhood. Deacon is uniquely qualified to address both. Danse believes him less qualified to judge his own worthiness. On a different night, as they've done before, he would curl up and rest his head on Deacon's chest, or let himself be spooned, but this has been an evening for reversals. Deacon deserves to let himself be taken care of a little, too.
He hates to have to withdraw, but he does, finally, and stretches out alongside Deacon now. There's a washrag and a canteen of water by the mattress, and he reaches out to wipe Deacon's stomach clean with gentle affection before he cleans off his own, and beckons him closer after rolling onto his back. "Come here," he says softly. He can be the pillow for tonight.
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Deacon doesn't argue or protest, merely making a soft, displeased grunt as Danse pulls away. He watches him reach for the canteen and thinks nothing of it, and then is surprised to be cared for and cleaned up like he is, swallowing back a little chuckle. He sits up for a moment, tossing off the lingering bra to whatever black hole the panties were tossed into, then crawls over to where Danse beckons him and curls up at his side.
"You spending the night?" he asks quietly, his fingers brushing over Danse's hairy chest, humor creeping into his voice again as he nuzzles into it. "Can't wait to see Francis' face when he runs into you while grabbing the paper."
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He sighs with contentment as Deacon's face nestles into his chest, but it trails quickly into a snort at the reminder of the roleplay that he's very nearly forgotten. But he's no longer too distracted to play along again, sleepy though he might be, and there's a tinge of mischief to his voice in reply.
"Of course I'm spending the night," he murmurs. "I'm back for good, remember? I live here. Francis is just going to have to get over himself and accept his defeat with dignity."
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