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."
It's been a very long time since someone's touched Deacon this way, and he's savoring it, burying his face in soft fur and nuzzling beneath the fingers petting his scalp. He's sleepy too, but not so out of it that he doesn't catch that mischief in Danse's voice, something that feels both like it doesn't belong there and like perhaps the sexiest thing he's ever heard. He'll never stop considering the other man's playfulness a personal achievement.
"Mmmhm, live here," he echoes tiredly, a sort of dreamy quality to it. His arm curls itself over Danse's center and squeezes himself close, like it's afraid he'll escape. "Til then," he yawns tiredly, "I'm gonna count the sheep jumping over our white picket fence..."
It is a personal achievement, because it might still be faint and relatively rare, but he doesn't let anyone but Deacon bring it out in him.
'Live here' is more literal than Danse realizes or means it to be, the way they've both been incrementally but steadily renovating the house to make it more and more comfortable and functional. It has a bathroom now, with ancient-but-working fixtures, and a medicine cabinet where their toothbrushes and razors have just sort of...found their way there on a more permanent basis, for convenience. The rotten and now heinously stained couch has been replaced with a cleaner one that Danse at least has tried to be more conscientious about not getting fluids on. The kitchen doesn't have a working fridge, but it does have a hot plate, a coffee pot, two chipped mugs and a radio to listen to while cooking and eating.
And the blanket covering the mattress, which Danse tucks gently around them both now, is bigger and softer now and sports fewer holes. He'd planned to take the original one back to the bunker, because it was only meant to serve here as a temporary measure until he found a better one for this room anyway, but...he hasn't been back to the bunker. After a taste of what it feels like to have company, both out in Sanctuary's streets and here in this house, the crumbling old listening post had felt so much bleaker in comparison that Danse couldn't bear to set foot in it again.
This house doesn't light up when he's alone, when he crashes here instead of sleeping in the Castle barracks or at some other settlement he's guarding, the way it does when Deacon's here. But it feels like a hopeful place regardless, and that's enough. Not bad for a place they're still both thinking of as a secret hookup spot, when they let themselves think about what they're doing with it at all.
"Do that," he says, with a smile in his voice and a soft lingering kiss to the top of Deacon's head. The notion that he could escape--that he could possibly want to leave this bed right now even if raiders were attacking right outside their door--is so impossible to him that it doesn't cross his mind. He squeezes Deacon a little tighter anyway, and lets himself drift off to sleep.
They can tell themselves it's a matter of convenience, but even as Deacon pries himself from Danse's chest at first light and waddles his way to the coffee pot, there is extreme comfort in starting his day in this house. After he puts the coffee on, he can be found leaning against the counter, looking over the open floorplan and idly day dreaming over what he'll fix up next.
Deacon has spent most of his nights on the road for the past several decades, crashing in houses just like he'd found this one when outside of Railroad HQ or the approved safehouse. If he sleeps at all. It's the closest thing to a home he's had since his farm, and with plenty of land surrounding the suburban home, he could easily maintain one here.
If Danse doesn't join him in the kitchen before the coffee is ready, he'll pour them each a mug, carrying them back to the mattress where he'd left him. Either way, Danse is greeted with a smile that reaches Deacon's still-bare eyes and a slightly hoarse "Morning, beautiful."
It's a reasonable expectation that Danse might join him in the kitchen, because he often does, but this morning, for some reason, he stays out like a light as Deacon slips away. He's ordinarily an early riser--when he sleeps at all, because he's much like Deacon in that regard, and it's never a given that he'll be able to--but between the physical exertion and the emotional intensity of last night, his usual easily-woken vigilance isn't a match for Deacon's stealth, and it's only when Deacon brings him that mug of coffee that he blinks awake.
So unusually soundly has he slept that he looks a little startled, almost disoriented, partly by the brighter-than-usual morning light filtering through the window paper, but mostly by the beauty of the eyes he's looking into, needing a moment to remember how that came to be. It's only a second or two before wide-eyed confusion gives way to an unfiltered smile of his own, though, and a faint blush at the endearment as well.
"You're one to talk," he says, "with those eyes." He takes the mug to warm his hands around and scoots over to give Deacon room to sit beside him and drink his too, with a 'good morning' and 'thanks for the coffee' kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth. The fact that Deacon's still left the glasses off is a marvel to Danse, and he would wonder if it's because Deacon can't find them, but this train of thought is cut off before it gets anywhere by the fact that he can see them on the floor where they'd fallen last night, undamaged and perfectly within reach.
"They need me at the Castle tonight, so I have one hell of a hike ahead of me, but I don't have to get started just yet. I can probably stick around another hour or so unless you need to get moving."
Deacon huffs out a quiet laugh as he hands over the mug and settles beside him, nose scrunching at that little kiss. He can't help but smile, and it occurs to him belatedly that he could get very used to this casual sort of affection, let alone the discussion of daily plans that may or may not involve one another. Danse says he can stick around, and Deacon's first thought isn't to run off, but that he hopes he does stick around as long as he can.
"I was just going to play farmer for a bit. See if the tatos have grown in yet," he replies between sips of coffee. "It sounds counter-productive but... I'm thinking about testing out the shower here, first. You can join me, if you'd like."
"Nice." Danse hadn't been sure at first where the healthy and well-tended tato plants around the back of the house came from, and he'd initially been concerned by them, hoping it didn't indicate that the house was being claimed by someone else--but there's something both surprising and endearing about knowing Deacon put them there. He likes the thought of Deacon getting to relax and peacefully tend a vegetable garden.
It's another of those things Danse has come to think he deserves, after everything the Institute has put them both through--and he isn't sure exactly when he came to think of things in those terms, as opposed to thinking of the Railroad as equally threatening in their own right despite their common enemy, and responsible for bringing their own Institute-backed suffering upon themselves when nobody asked them to. Slowly, the mindset of the Brotherhood is losing its grip on him, and he's coming to understand more of why Deacon did the work that he did. It helps, of course, to know that he himself directly benefited from it, even if his feelings on that are still deeply complicated, and even if he doesn't know just how directly.
The offer to share the shower catches him slightly off-guard, making him look up from his half-finished coffee. Naturally, it's not as if he's never showered in someone else's company before--he's used to having a whole barracks' worth of company, in point of fact--but that's a very different sort of thing from the intimacy of sharing a space this small and a private daily ritual with a lover. They've always just used the bathroom separately as necessary when leaving in the morning after one of these rendezvous before. The idea of scrubbing each other down in the shower warms him to the point of a pleased little flush, and not only because he's still warm and ready and a little hard from waking up.
"I'd love to," he says, with another private smile. "I think we can indulge. Even if we will both immediately be getting ourselves sweaty again."
Deacon drinks his coffee, eyes glancing aside to Danse between sips, admiring everything that the light from the windows highlights on his body. He's still bewildered by this affair, still somewhat in disbelief that they've ended up tangled together in this way and happy, and maybe quietly trying not to get his hopes up too much about some sort of happy ending for them both.
"Mmmhm, indulge me, Baby Brahmin," he teases, setting his mug aside, "I bet I can have you sweating again before we're even finished in the shower."
The prospect of this, and all the different ways Deacon could go about it, has Danse's skin prickling with delicious goosebumps in the cool morning air, and his cock twitching under the corner of blanket draped haphazardly across his lap.
"Well, that just sounds like a challenge," he says solemnly, perfectly monotone and straight-faced but for the glint in his eye. "I would be remiss not to invite you to try." And when he's being exhorted to indulge Deacon the way he's already been thinking Deacon ought to be indulged more often, how could he possibly say no?
He drains the rest of his coffee in a few slow deliberate gulps, throat working as he tilts his head back, and stretches deeply and luxuriously (and maybe a little bit purposefully show-offily) after setting his own mug on the floor beside the mattress. When he gets up off it, he extends a hand to Deacon to help him up too. "Come on. I think I've gone long enough without getting my hands on you."
'Long enough' apparently being maybe eight hours, tops.
Monotone as it is, Deacon recognizes it for what it is, not bothering to mask the smirk on his lips. It's worth noting that without his glasses, Deacon doesn't have half the poker face that he does with them, and the way his pupils expand with desire as Danse stretches out before him is clue enough.
He's practically purring as Danse helps him up from the mattress, and once on his feet, his hand pushes past Danse's palm to skirt up his forearm, Deacon following it around Danse's back and circling him like a shark. "You'll be gone all evening," he murmurs, "You'd better get your fill of me while you can."
He smacks playfully at Danse's rear, nudging him along to the shower and keeping close behind him the entire way.
The smack to his bare ass resounds in the empty room, and prompts a truly embarrassing startled little yelp even when he ought to have expected it. It's been well over a decade since anyone but Deacon would have dared to do that, but nonetheless, it could have been anticipated. Danse sure as hell isn't complaining, though, once the sheepishness from that reaction wears off.
It doesn't take long. It's difficult to dwell on that, after all, amidst the novelty and delight of being able to really see for the first time the way he can make Deacon's eyes light up with lust. Nothing else feels important next to that.
"I intend to," he growls, leading the way to the tiny bathroom with its little stained ceramic shower stall, and wasting no further time in pushing Deacon back against the tiles to cage him in. "I need something better to think about than another round of weapon drills with the recruits. Give me something to remember when I'm sleeping in that cold bunk wishing I was back here with you."
No sooner than the moment his bare back hits the tiled wall are Deacon's arms being thrown around Danse's neck, welcoming him close. The water isn't even on yet, but how is Deacon supposed to even remember how to turn it on when he's so distracted by those strong arms and those deep pools of honey that Danse calls eyes. He could just drown in them.
"Mmm, something to warm you up, maybe?" he purrs, "Remind you that you belong here with me?" he flashes a smile then, tugging Danse closer, "That you belong to me?"
His lips crash forward against Danse's, fingers already clawing into his hair, a heavy groan in his throat.
That heated possessiveness, whether earnest or part of their usual game--though the lines there have grown so blurred now that Danse has no idea where they are anymore, and he's afraid to go looking for clarity--is still just as wildly effective now as it was the first time, making Danse meet that groan with a fervent hungry noise of his own into Deacon's mouth, pinning him to the tile with his full weight the way he'd held himself back from doing last night, cock jerking and filling out with almost startling speed against Deacon's hip.
There are so many ways he can think of to let Deacon mark him up in a way he'll still be able to feel after a full day's hike clear across the Commonwealth, and even more that might not linger like a bitemark or a bruise but will stick so vividly in his memory that they might as well. He thinks of the heat of Deacon's come spurting between their stomachs last night and plastering them together, slick and sliding between them with each breath and minute movement, lingering on his skin until he'd only reluctantly cleaned it off.
Just the thought of it warms him again, and the mental image of feeling it across his face raises an even hotter flush to his skin, but it's still only a start to the list of what he could want. There are things that haven't yet occurred to him to picture, though not for lack of subconscious desire.
"Yeah," he breathes, too laser-focused to make any move to turn the water on either as he gives a slow grind of his hips. "Something to really stake your claim on me. Don't you let me forget it." As if he possibly could.
A gasp against Danse's mouth later and Deacon's own cock is filling out against Danse's thigh, easily aroused by the fervent need of the other man and the press of his body. He groans at that slow grind of the other man's hips, his own rolling against them with a building need. When their kiss breaks, Deacon noses himself closer to Danse's ear, whispering there between nips to his jaw and earlobe.
"I've read books about how pre-war creatures laid claim to one another as part of their mating rituals," he murmurs, "More aggressive breeds mark one another in obvious ways- Deathclaws, for example, choose their mates based on strength. I hear the strongest of them bite and scratch at each other to lay their claim..." Deacon's fingers claw across Danse's back as if demonstrating this while he kisses and sucks at the soft skin just beneath Danse's jaw, testing it with his teeth.
"Mole rats, however, take a different approach..." he continues, tongue lapping over the spot and back to Danse's ear. "Their habits don't seem to have changed since pre-war as their size has. A queen mole rat marks her subordinates by scent."
Deacon could wax poetic about mole rats for hours, but this isn't the point. Danse wants something that lasts. Marks and scents are all fine and good, but it's the memory that's important. Deacon can't let Danse leave for the castle until he's certain that he's left him with something to think about for days.
"It's more than musk, Baby Brahmin; have you ever tried to get mole rat piss out of a wood floor? Impossible. You'll think you managed it, but the ghost of that smell will haunt your foyer for years."
Deacon's soft gravelly voice can be hypnotic to Danse at the best of times, especially when he's making it this deliberately seductive, so close to the shell of his ear as to vibrate against it and send a delicious shiver through his body.
He doesn't actually know where Deacon is going with this, but he's along for the ride every step of the way--and he would be even if it were only for the pleasure of hearing Deacon talk about the things he's read, self-made in his education and all the more impressive for it. The nibbles to the sensitive skin of his neck and jaw make him tense up to anticipate a deeper bite, maybe, and the coiled excitement in his muscles makes it clear how welcome that would be as Deacon's nails rake across his skin, but then Deacon moves on from it, leaving Danse's brow faintly furrowed with confusion.
At another time, he could (and will) listen to Deacon wax poetic about mole rats for hours. At another time, he could tell Deacon about Scribe Neriah and her little menagerie of spoiled mole rat research subjects up on the Prydwen, which he thinks Deacon might enjoy hearing both for the knowledge that the crew indulges them with treats and the satisfaction of knowing that half the ship reeks of their piss.
But this is not that time. Because when he realizes what Deacon is getting at here, his entire body flushes bright and hot, mouth falling open with a quick sharp unsteady inhalation and cock leaking a desperate spurt of precome onto Deacon's skin. It's already decided for him what he thinks of this coy proposal, before he can consider it in any further depth than his body's breathlessly needy fascination with the idea. The repressed, conservative, tightly-disciplined soldier in him tries in vain for a moment to tell him it's a disgusting thing to want, but if he were listening to that part of his brain anymore, he'd have missed out on a lot of things he doesn't regret now.
"God," he whispers, swallowing hard as he collects himself after the strength of that reaction. "It--it would send a message, that's for sure." He licks his suddenly-dry lips, steeling himself to ask.
"That's what I want. I want you to--mark me like that. Please."
There are plenty of other animalistic mating rituals that Deacon could list off if none of these were to Danse's liking, but after a reaction that strong, there is not a doubt in Deacon's mind that it's what the other man wants before he can even utter the words. Danse will never fail to surprise him.
Deacon eases back slightly, steeling his expression as he fixes Danse with a gaze. He's learned a lot about Danse over the past several months, but the ongoing theme is his desire to belong, a sense of purpose. It doesn't matter whether that is belonging within a community or to a person. An oath of some sort, or simply giving someone the pleasure they desire. At the end of the day, that's all it boils down to, and Deacon wants to give him everything he needs.
He imagines this isn't dissimilar to joining the Brotherhood; being promoted to knight and given a title. Deacon visualizes the way an Arthurian knighting ceremony is illustrated in picture books, sword placed upon them and marking them with the insignia of their new order.
"Kneel." he intructs, arms sliding back from Danse's shoulders until his hands can press firmly against him.
So much of this is calling back to the first time they did this, when neither of them expected it to be happening or would have done it of their own accord, and when Danse would have insisted that it would be a cold day in hell before he ever took an order of any kind from a man like Deacon. And yet his body had responded with swift and unmistakable desire to that firm, confident sit down, and it takes him no longer now to fall to his knees at that command (as he'd been eager enough to do for Deacon then as well.)
There had been more consciousness, if not more intention, in the way he'd responded back then to Deacon's gently possessive wording and claiming gestures. He'd understood why they struck such a chord in him as to make him ask for more once they'd committed to doing this again. And he understands why he wants this so badly now, even if it makes him blush so deeply as to feel lightheaded. (Though some of that dizziness might well be because so much blood has been diverted to his cock, and so swiftly, that there's not enough left for his brain.)
His ceremony of promotion to knighthood hadn't been as medieval as all this, no kneeling or dubbing with a sword, but the literary romance of it appeals to the same part of him that had appreciated it from the Brotherhood in the first place, even if this is a thorough inversion of that in just about every way he can think of. The one way in which it isn't is the most important one--the fact that Deacon's doing this because he understands just as well as Danse does why Danse wants it, and he cares enough to give it to him without restraint.
His hands roam gently up the outside of Deacon's thighs to steady himself there, and he looks upward with faith and affection and black-eyed lust, cheeks still pink with embarrassed desire. "Anywhere you want," he says huskily, and then amends after a second's thought. "Except--maybe not on my face. Anywhere below the neck."
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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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"Mmmhm, live here," he echoes tiredly, a sort of dreamy quality to it. His arm curls itself over Danse's center and squeezes himself close, like it's afraid he'll escape. "Til then," he yawns tiredly, "I'm gonna count the sheep jumping over our white picket fence..."
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'Live here' is more literal than Danse realizes or means it to be, the way they've both been incrementally but steadily renovating the house to make it more and more comfortable and functional. It has a bathroom now, with ancient-but-working fixtures, and a medicine cabinet where their toothbrushes and razors have just sort of...found their way there on a more permanent basis, for convenience. The rotten and now heinously stained couch has been replaced with a cleaner one that Danse at least has tried to be more conscientious about not getting fluids on. The kitchen doesn't have a working fridge, but it does have a hot plate, a coffee pot, two chipped mugs and a radio to listen to while cooking and eating.
And the blanket covering the mattress, which Danse tucks gently around them both now, is bigger and softer now and sports fewer holes. He'd planned to take the original one back to the bunker, because it was only meant to serve here as a temporary measure until he found a better one for this room anyway, but...he hasn't been back to the bunker. After a taste of what it feels like to have company, both out in Sanctuary's streets and here in this house, the crumbling old listening post had felt so much bleaker in comparison that Danse couldn't bear to set foot in it again.
This house doesn't light up when he's alone, when he crashes here instead of sleeping in the Castle barracks or at some other settlement he's guarding, the way it does when Deacon's here. But it feels like a hopeful place regardless, and that's enough. Not bad for a place they're still both thinking of as a secret hookup spot, when they let themselves think about what they're doing with it at all.
"Do that," he says, with a smile in his voice and a soft lingering kiss to the top of Deacon's head. The notion that he could escape--that he could possibly want to leave this bed right now even if raiders were attacking right outside their door--is so impossible to him that it doesn't cross his mind. He squeezes Deacon a little tighter anyway, and lets himself drift off to sleep.
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Deacon has spent most of his nights on the road for the past several decades, crashing in houses just like he'd found this one when outside of Railroad HQ or the approved safehouse. If he sleeps at all. It's the closest thing to a home he's had since his farm, and with plenty of land surrounding the suburban home, he could easily maintain one here.
If Danse doesn't join him in the kitchen before the coffee is ready, he'll pour them each a mug, carrying them back to the mattress where he'd left him. Either way, Danse is greeted with a smile that reaches Deacon's still-bare eyes and a slightly hoarse "Morning, beautiful."
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So unusually soundly has he slept that he looks a little startled, almost disoriented, partly by the brighter-than-usual morning light filtering through the window paper, but mostly by the beauty of the eyes he's looking into, needing a moment to remember how that came to be. It's only a second or two before wide-eyed confusion gives way to an unfiltered smile of his own, though, and a faint blush at the endearment as well.
"You're one to talk," he says, "with those eyes." He takes the mug to warm his hands around and scoots over to give Deacon room to sit beside him and drink his too, with a 'good morning' and 'thanks for the coffee' kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth. The fact that Deacon's still left the glasses off is a marvel to Danse, and he would wonder if it's because Deacon can't find them, but this train of thought is cut off before it gets anywhere by the fact that he can see them on the floor where they'd fallen last night, undamaged and perfectly within reach.
"They need me at the Castle tonight, so I have one hell of a hike ahead of me, but I don't have to get started just yet. I can probably stick around another hour or so unless you need to get moving."
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"I was just going to play farmer for a bit. See if the tatos have grown in yet," he replies between sips of coffee. "It sounds counter-productive but... I'm thinking about testing out the shower here, first. You can join me, if you'd like."
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It's another of those things Danse has come to think he deserves, after everything the Institute has put them both through--and he isn't sure exactly when he came to think of things in those terms, as opposed to thinking of the Railroad as equally threatening in their own right despite their common enemy, and responsible for bringing their own Institute-backed suffering upon themselves when nobody asked them to. Slowly, the mindset of the Brotherhood is losing its grip on him, and he's coming to understand more of why Deacon did the work that he did. It helps, of course, to know that he himself directly benefited from it, even if his feelings on that are still deeply complicated, and even if he doesn't know just how directly.
The offer to share the shower catches him slightly off-guard, making him look up from his half-finished coffee. Naturally, it's not as if he's never showered in someone else's company before--he's used to having a whole barracks' worth of company, in point of fact--but that's a very different sort of thing from the intimacy of sharing a space this small and a private daily ritual with a lover. They've always just used the bathroom separately as necessary when leaving in the morning after one of these rendezvous before. The idea of scrubbing each other down in the shower warms him to the point of a pleased little flush, and not only because he's still warm and ready and a little hard from waking up.
"I'd love to," he says, with another private smile. "I think we can indulge. Even if we will both immediately be getting ourselves sweaty again."
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"Mmmhm, indulge me, Baby Brahmin," he teases, setting his mug aside, "I bet I can have you sweating again before we're even finished in the shower."
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"Well, that just sounds like a challenge," he says solemnly, perfectly monotone and straight-faced but for the glint in his eye. "I would be remiss not to invite you to try." And when he's being exhorted to indulge Deacon the way he's already been thinking Deacon ought to be indulged more often, how could he possibly say no?
He drains the rest of his coffee in a few slow deliberate gulps, throat working as he tilts his head back, and stretches deeply and luxuriously (and maybe a little bit purposefully show-offily) after setting his own mug on the floor beside the mattress. When he gets up off it, he extends a hand to Deacon to help him up too. "Come on. I think I've gone long enough without getting my hands on you."
'Long enough' apparently being maybe eight hours, tops.
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He's practically purring as Danse helps him up from the mattress, and once on his feet, his hand pushes past Danse's palm to skirt up his forearm, Deacon following it around Danse's back and circling him like a shark. "You'll be gone all evening," he murmurs, "You'd better get your fill of me while you can."
He smacks playfully at Danse's rear, nudging him along to the shower and keeping close behind him the entire way.
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It doesn't take long. It's difficult to dwell on that, after all, amidst the novelty and delight of being able to really see for the first time the way he can make Deacon's eyes light up with lust. Nothing else feels important next to that.
"I intend to," he growls, leading the way to the tiny bathroom with its little stained ceramic shower stall, and wasting no further time in pushing Deacon back against the tiles to cage him in. "I need something better to think about than another round of weapon drills with the recruits. Give me something to remember when I'm sleeping in that cold bunk wishing I was back here with you."
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"Mmm, something to warm you up, maybe?" he purrs, "Remind you that you belong here with me?" he flashes a smile then, tugging Danse closer, "That you belong to me?"
His lips crash forward against Danse's, fingers already clawing into his hair, a heavy groan in his throat.
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There are so many ways he can think of to let Deacon mark him up in a way he'll still be able to feel after a full day's hike clear across the Commonwealth, and even more that might not linger like a bitemark or a bruise but will stick so vividly in his memory that they might as well. He thinks of the heat of Deacon's come spurting between their stomachs last night and plastering them together, slick and sliding between them with each breath and minute movement, lingering on his skin until he'd only reluctantly cleaned it off.
Just the thought of it warms him again, and the mental image of feeling it across his face raises an even hotter flush to his skin, but it's still only a start to the list of what he could want. There are things that haven't yet occurred to him to picture, though not for lack of subconscious desire.
"Yeah," he breathes, too laser-focused to make any move to turn the water on either as he gives a slow grind of his hips. "Something to really stake your claim on me. Don't you let me forget it." As if he possibly could.
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"I've read books about how pre-war creatures laid claim to one another as part of their mating rituals," he murmurs, "More aggressive breeds mark one another in obvious ways- Deathclaws, for example, choose their mates based on strength. I hear the strongest of them bite and scratch at each other to lay their claim..." Deacon's fingers claw across Danse's back as if demonstrating this while he kisses and sucks at the soft skin just beneath Danse's jaw, testing it with his teeth.
"Mole rats, however, take a different approach..." he continues, tongue lapping over the spot and back to Danse's ear. "Their habits don't seem to have changed since pre-war as their size has. A queen mole rat marks her subordinates by scent."
Deacon could wax poetic about mole rats for hours, but this isn't the point. Danse wants something that lasts. Marks and scents are all fine and good, but it's the memory that's important. Deacon can't let Danse leave for the castle until he's certain that he's left him with something to think about for days.
"It's more than musk, Baby Brahmin; have you ever tried to get mole rat piss out of a wood floor? Impossible. You'll think you managed it, but the ghost of that smell will haunt your foyer for years."
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He doesn't actually know where Deacon is going with this, but he's along for the ride every step of the way--and he would be even if it were only for the pleasure of hearing Deacon talk about the things he's read, self-made in his education and all the more impressive for it. The nibbles to the sensitive skin of his neck and jaw make him tense up to anticipate a deeper bite, maybe, and the coiled excitement in his muscles makes it clear how welcome that would be as Deacon's nails rake across his skin, but then Deacon moves on from it, leaving Danse's brow faintly furrowed with confusion.
At another time, he could (and will) listen to Deacon wax poetic about mole rats for hours. At another time, he could tell Deacon about Scribe Neriah and her little menagerie of spoiled mole rat research subjects up on the Prydwen, which he thinks Deacon might enjoy hearing both for the knowledge that the crew indulges them with treats and the satisfaction of knowing that half the ship reeks of their piss.
But this is not that time. Because when he realizes what Deacon is getting at here, his entire body flushes bright and hot, mouth falling open with a quick sharp unsteady inhalation and cock leaking a desperate spurt of precome onto Deacon's skin. It's already decided for him what he thinks of this coy proposal, before he can consider it in any further depth than his body's breathlessly needy fascination with the idea. The repressed, conservative, tightly-disciplined soldier in him tries in vain for a moment to tell him it's a disgusting thing to want, but if he were listening to that part of his brain anymore, he'd have missed out on a lot of things he doesn't regret now.
"God," he whispers, swallowing hard as he collects himself after the strength of that reaction. "It--it would send a message, that's for sure." He licks his suddenly-dry lips, steeling himself to ask.
"That's what I want. I want you to--mark me like that. Please."
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Deacon eases back slightly, steeling his expression as he fixes Danse with a gaze. He's learned a lot about Danse over the past several months, but the ongoing theme is his desire to belong, a sense of purpose. It doesn't matter whether that is belonging within a community or to a person. An oath of some sort, or simply giving someone the pleasure they desire. At the end of the day, that's all it boils down to, and Deacon wants to give him everything he needs.
He imagines this isn't dissimilar to joining the Brotherhood; being promoted to knight and given a title. Deacon visualizes the way an Arthurian knighting ceremony is illustrated in picture books, sword placed upon them and marking them with the insignia of their new order.
"Kneel." he intructs, arms sliding back from Danse's shoulders until his hands can press firmly against him.
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There had been more consciousness, if not more intention, in the way he'd responded back then to Deacon's gently possessive wording and claiming gestures. He'd understood why they struck such a chord in him as to make him ask for more once they'd committed to doing this again. And he understands why he wants this so badly now, even if it makes him blush so deeply as to feel lightheaded. (Though some of that dizziness might well be because so much blood has been diverted to his cock, and so swiftly, that there's not enough left for his brain.)
His ceremony of promotion to knighthood hadn't been as medieval as all this, no kneeling or dubbing with a sword, but the literary romance of it appeals to the same part of him that had appreciated it from the Brotherhood in the first place, even if this is a thorough inversion of that in just about every way he can think of. The one way in which it isn't is the most important one--the fact that Deacon's doing this because he understands just as well as Danse does why Danse wants it, and he cares enough to give it to him without restraint.
His hands roam gently up the outside of Deacon's thighs to steady himself there, and he looks upward with faith and affection and black-eyed lust, cheeks still pink with embarrassed desire. "Anywhere you want," he says huskily, and then amends after a second's thought. "Except--maybe not on my face. Anywhere below the neck."
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