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."
Deacon himself is reflecting upon this with the memory of their first meeting in this house, the way he'd watched Danse kneel before him so eagerly in a way that captivated him then. This feels even more meaningful, somehow, because it isn't just lust. Danse asking to be claimed has been an ongoing theme, and in truth it's felt different since the previous night. A point of no return, Deacon realizes, when he'd turned over and revealed himself bare and asked Danse if he could handle it. If he could handle him.
He can feel emotional over it all later, when he's longing for Danse and waiting by the window for him to return home as if he'd actually gone to war. Right now he's got to focus past his sudden arousal and give Danse his new oath to carry.
He can't help but huff softly at the instruction, a hand reaching to thumb over Danse's cheek admiringly. Deacon smirks, his hand dropping to palm himself with a muffled groan.
"You're almost too pretty to mark, you know," he murmurs, aiming himself for Danse's chest, that soft pile of fur he'd slept through the night on. "Even more reason to make certain everyone knows you're mine."
It takes only a moment's focus, but with a relaxed hum he manages to relieve himself, showering Danse's chest until the hairs matt down and it begins to tricle down his abs.
There's that word again, the strange gentle tenderness of Deacon calling him pretty rather than something blunter or more sexual or more masculine, and Danse still doesn't know why he likes it, except that it does continue to make him feel like someone who deserves to be treated delicately in a way nobody but Deacon ever has.
He's already shuddering softly both at the compliment and the thought of being so publicly claimed, in that way that's been a staple of this game almost from the very start, and yet neither of them has tried or considered bringing it out of the realm of fiction. Nobody else knows they're anything but colleagues who have grown a bit less reluctant to work together over the past several months; nobody knows this house is anything but completely vacant and gathering dust.
But it would be real enough if anyone were to make a move on Danse, he realizes. People might not know he thinks of himself as Deacon's by now, and he doesn't know what explanation he would come up with to deflect someone else's attentions, but he'd find a way. And he trusts, implicitly, even without talking about it, that it's mutual. He knows Deacon better now than to think he's playing the field.
He doesn't know exactly what he's expecting from the sensation here, but when the heat of it bathes his chest, he gasps aloud, head tilting immediately back as if exposing his throat to an alpha dog and cock straining so hard into thin air that he wonders for a delirious second if he might come like this. How is this something he can want so badly and never have known it until this moment?
Almost unconsciously, his hand finds its way to his cock and gives it a few tight squeezing pumps, and he isn't even sure whether he's trying to hold himself back from the edge or spur himself toward it. The trails of piss snaking down his abdomen like rain on a window gather under his palm, lubricating his strokes, and he groans with total abandon.
"Keep going," he pleads, as if either of them could stop now.
Deacon is the last person to assign gender to a word, but even he can imagine the sorts of things people have typically called Danse. That said, pretty is fitting and delicate, because while Danse was built to be (he assumes) a war machine, he's also strikingly beautiful, made moreso by the heart in his chest and the soul behind those eyes; things that make him precious and worth caring for delicately.
He couldn't have been prepared for how deep this claiming thing would go. The Railroad fought to give every synth their freedom, and Deacon would never deny Danse that, but that isn't what this is about and he knows it. He can tell that Danse desires to belong to someone, but what he hopes that Danse understands is that Deacon wants to belong to him, too. It's for this reason that he's not playing the field, either, committed whether he admits so or not to give all of himself to Danse, literally and figuratively.
Watching Danse like this is more erotic than he was prepared for, too. The gasp alone would be enough to set Deacon off, but the way he moves, the exposed neck, his tight abdomen and rock-hard cock, and the way he can't seem to help but to touch himself, completely loses himself in this has Deacon groaning as he relieves himself further, his aim drifting down along his abs and directly onto his cock, further lubricating those needy strokes.
"That's it," he croons, "Show me how badly you've needed this; how good it feels to belong to me. You deserve it. Don't you, baby?"
The exclamation as the pressure of that hot stream hits his aching cock is startled, breathless, a little embarrassingly high-pitched for him, and completely and utterly uncontrolled. The jolt of physical pleasure alone is dizzying, very nearly enough to push him right over the edge with nothing more, but it's not so all-consuming that Deacon's words don't register too. Danse is immensely glad for that, because the pleasure that wells up in his chest at them is of an entirely different sort that only enhances all of it together.
"I can't--it feels so good, Deacon, I don't even have the words for how good it feels--" And he means all of it, verbal and physical, as he gives his cock a few more quick and erratic strokes. Baby is still echoing in his ears, and he knows he'll have to reiterate when he's more coherent how much he likes to hear Deacon call him that. He could stand to hear it just about anywhere, in any context, public or private, sexual or chaste, as long as Deacon kept saying it with that same affection.
He doesn't know about deserve. For as often as he's said Deacon deserves something good or affectionate or pleasurable, and thought nothing of it because it was so obviously true, he finally understands the hesitance to accept it when it's turned back on him. But he knows Deacon means it as much as he himself does, and it raises even more of a flush to his already-red face. It's too much to ask him to hold out any longer, and he lets go of his cock to let that stream pounding at his shaft give him the last push he needs, a sharp and completely novel stimulus that has him crying out as he comes hard across the shower floor without any further touch at all.
It's a long orgasm, even after last night's exertion, body wracked with the shivers of it as his fingers imprint new bruises on Deacon's thighs over the ones he's already inflicted. In the aftermath, panting softly, he kisses Deacon's stomach in a daze.
"If either of us doubted that I really am yours," he murmurs, "that clears it up." It's acknowledgment that this isn't about the imaginary audience of jealous pre-war neighbors and their rosebushes, or even about their mutual acquaintances, who won't be able to sense any of this once they've showered it off. It's between them and about them, and still holds true even in the clarity after orgasm, though Deacon still needs to be taken care of. And will be, thoroughly, if Danse has anything to say about it right now. Deacon is his, every bit as mutually.
There may be no greater pleasure in the world to Deacon than watching Danse come undone. It heats Deacon inside and out, his own skin flushing.
"You can," he commands softly, "That's okay, baby, you're doing so good."
Deacon's stream does eventually weaken as he empties his bladder onto Danse, the other man's fingers practically wringing him dryas they dig into his thighs. Deacon's own cock gives a mighty throb af the absolute vision Danse makes shaking apart in front of him. He praises him throughout, voice soft and fingers petting his hair and cheek.
A beat later, Deacon is sinking slightly on his haunches so that he can press a kiss of his own to the very top of Danse's head, then reaching to turn on the tap so that the water can come to a comfortable temperature.
"I've never doubted you, baby brahmin," he coos softly, offering his hands to help him stand again, content to ignore his own lust for the moment as long as he has Danse to take care of. "Let me clean you up."
After that climax and that gentle kiss, Danse could use the steadying assistance as he gets to his feet again. He lets Deacon hold him and turn the water on, getting his bearings and still feeling deliciously loose-limbed and warm inside, but he's somehow less patient than Deacon is about the prospect of reciprocation.
He drapes his arms gently around Deacon's waist under the lukewarm shower spray, bending down to kiss him softly again and give his ass an affectionate little squeeze. "All right," he says, because the thought of letting Deacon soap him down and run gentle hands all over his body is too appealing to put off just to be contrary, but there's no reason it can't go both ways.
What he'd love right now is to really get his mouth around Deacon's cock the way other things had distracted him from last night, but something tells him there will probably be time for it before he leaves. Right now, his hand closes around Deacon just to stroke him with not-quite-idle tenderness as the water begins to rinse the evidence of his own pleasure down the drain.
"Sometimes I wish I were good at nicknames the way you are," he muses. They're so completely outside the realm of anything that comes naturally to him that he doesn't even really think to draw a distinction between nicknames and romantic pet names and ordinary endearments, only knows that he delights in every single one Deacon bestows on him no matter how silly or unexpected, and he wishes he knew how to return the gesture. "You should have something like that, like the way you call me 'baby brahmin.' I don't even know how to think of that kind of thing."
Deacon hums into the kiss, smirking a bit as he eases back from it and glances up at Danse. The height difference between them can often be forgotten when they spend so much time horizontal or with Danse on his knees, and moments where he's reminded just how much larger the other man is are kid of thrilling, not that Deacon has ever been the sort of guy that gets intimidated by larger men.
He reaches for the soap, but nearly fumbles it as he feels Danse's hand close around him. He'd been so keyed up that he hadn't realized just how badly he wanted to be touched, soft groans of pleasure leaving him as he fights to regain focus on his task and lather up the soap in his hands.
"Oh?" Deacon replies as he begins to rub his lathered hands over Danse's chest, luxuriating in the shape of him and giving his chest a few cheeky squeezes as he works the suds into his thick body hair. He laughs lightly, shaking his head, his cheeks just a little more pink from that thought.
"You just made it easy, is all," he remarks, "You've got those big, brown, beautiful eyes... and well, I felt inspired."
Deacon's shoulders shrug as his hands rub circles of soap lower along Danse's abs, but he smiles up at him with sincerity. "You don't have to think of anything, I'm not deducting points for it."
The compliment to his eyes still makes him blush, pleased pinkness creeping down his neck even as he's already flushed under Deacon's touch, no matter how many times Deacon tells him they're beautiful. And now that he finally knows what Deacon's eyes look like in turn, the compliment feels all the more meaningful, because Danse doesn't think his own are anything particularly special compared to those clear blue jewels, and yet Deacon calls them inspiring.
"I don't want you to have any doubt how I feel. I don't want you to think you don't inspire me, or that I don't think about you constantly, because I do. You told me once that the sounds I make in bed haunt you...do you have any idea how often I replay the sounds you make when you come? The way you sounded last night--I'll be hearing that in my dreams."
And the quiet noises that fall from Deacon's lips as Danse strokes him are only spurring him on to more of that, fist tightening and thumb swirling softly around the head of his cock as he continues with equally fervent sincerity. "The way you feel in my hand like this, the way you taste, hell, the way your sweat smells after we're finished wearing each other out--it drives me insane. I'm no good at talking about these things, but it does. I need you to know that."
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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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He can feel emotional over it all later, when he's longing for Danse and waiting by the window for him to return home as if he'd actually gone to war. Right now he's got to focus past his sudden arousal and give Danse his new oath to carry.
He can't help but huff softly at the instruction, a hand reaching to thumb over Danse's cheek admiringly. Deacon smirks, his hand dropping to palm himself with a muffled groan.
"You're almost too pretty to mark, you know," he murmurs, aiming himself for Danse's chest, that soft pile of fur he'd slept through the night on. "Even more reason to make certain everyone knows you're mine."
It takes only a moment's focus, but with a relaxed hum he manages to relieve himself, showering Danse's chest until the hairs matt down and it begins to tricle down his abs.
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He's already shuddering softly both at the compliment and the thought of being so publicly claimed, in that way that's been a staple of this game almost from the very start, and yet neither of them has tried or considered bringing it out of the realm of fiction. Nobody else knows they're anything but colleagues who have grown a bit less reluctant to work together over the past several months; nobody knows this house is anything but completely vacant and gathering dust.
But it would be real enough if anyone were to make a move on Danse, he realizes. People might not know he thinks of himself as Deacon's by now, and he doesn't know what explanation he would come up with to deflect someone else's attentions, but he'd find a way. And he trusts, implicitly, even without talking about it, that it's mutual. He knows Deacon better now than to think he's playing the field.
He doesn't know exactly what he's expecting from the sensation here, but when the heat of it bathes his chest, he gasps aloud, head tilting immediately back as if exposing his throat to an alpha dog and cock straining so hard into thin air that he wonders for a delirious second if he might come like this. How is this something he can want so badly and never have known it until this moment?
Almost unconsciously, his hand finds its way to his cock and gives it a few tight squeezing pumps, and he isn't even sure whether he's trying to hold himself back from the edge or spur himself toward it. The trails of piss snaking down his abdomen like rain on a window gather under his palm, lubricating his strokes, and he groans with total abandon.
"Keep going," he pleads, as if either of them could stop now.
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He couldn't have been prepared for how deep this claiming thing would go. The Railroad fought to give every synth their freedom, and Deacon would never deny Danse that, but that isn't what this is about and he knows it. He can tell that Danse desires to belong to someone, but what he hopes that Danse understands is that Deacon wants to belong to him, too. It's for this reason that he's not playing the field, either, committed whether he admits so or not to give all of himself to Danse, literally and figuratively.
Watching Danse like this is more erotic than he was prepared for, too. The gasp alone would be enough to set Deacon off, but the way he moves, the exposed neck, his tight abdomen and rock-hard cock, and the way he can't seem to help but to touch himself, completely loses himself in this has Deacon groaning as he relieves himself further, his aim drifting down along his abs and directly onto his cock, further lubricating those needy strokes.
"That's it," he croons, "Show me how badly you've needed this; how good it feels to belong to me. You deserve it. Don't you, baby?"
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The exclamation as the pressure of that hot stream hits his aching cock is startled, breathless, a little embarrassingly high-pitched for him, and completely and utterly uncontrolled. The jolt of physical pleasure alone is dizzying, very nearly enough to push him right over the edge with nothing more, but it's not so all-consuming that Deacon's words don't register too. Danse is immensely glad for that, because the pleasure that wells up in his chest at them is of an entirely different sort that only enhances all of it together.
"I can't--it feels so good, Deacon, I don't even have the words for how good it feels--" And he means all of it, verbal and physical, as he gives his cock a few more quick and erratic strokes. Baby is still echoing in his ears, and he knows he'll have to reiterate when he's more coherent how much he likes to hear Deacon call him that. He could stand to hear it just about anywhere, in any context, public or private, sexual or chaste, as long as Deacon kept saying it with that same affection.
He doesn't know about deserve. For as often as he's said Deacon deserves something good or affectionate or pleasurable, and thought nothing of it because it was so obviously true, he finally understands the hesitance to accept it when it's turned back on him. But he knows Deacon means it as much as he himself does, and it raises even more of a flush to his already-red face. It's too much to ask him to hold out any longer, and he lets go of his cock to let that stream pounding at his shaft give him the last push he needs, a sharp and completely novel stimulus that has him crying out as he comes hard across the shower floor without any further touch at all.
It's a long orgasm, even after last night's exertion, body wracked with the shivers of it as his fingers imprint new bruises on Deacon's thighs over the ones he's already inflicted. In the aftermath, panting softly, he kisses Deacon's stomach in a daze.
"If either of us doubted that I really am yours," he murmurs, "that clears it up." It's acknowledgment that this isn't about the imaginary audience of jealous pre-war neighbors and their rosebushes, or even about their mutual acquaintances, who won't be able to sense any of this once they've showered it off. It's between them and about them, and still holds true even in the clarity after orgasm, though Deacon still needs to be taken care of. And will be, thoroughly, if Danse has anything to say about it right now. Deacon is his, every bit as mutually.
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"You can," he commands softly, "That's okay, baby, you're doing so good."
Deacon's stream does eventually weaken as he empties his bladder onto Danse, the other man's fingers practically wringing him dryas they dig into his thighs. Deacon's own cock gives a mighty throb af the absolute vision Danse makes shaking apart in front of him. He praises him throughout, voice soft and fingers petting his hair and cheek.
A beat later, Deacon is sinking slightly on his haunches so that he can press a kiss of his own to the very top of Danse's head, then reaching to turn on the tap so that the water can come to a comfortable temperature.
"I've never doubted you, baby brahmin," he coos softly, offering his hands to help him stand again, content to ignore his own lust for the moment as long as he has Danse to take care of. "Let me clean you up."
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He drapes his arms gently around Deacon's waist under the lukewarm shower spray, bending down to kiss him softly again and give his ass an affectionate little squeeze. "All right," he says, because the thought of letting Deacon soap him down and run gentle hands all over his body is too appealing to put off just to be contrary, but there's no reason it can't go both ways.
What he'd love right now is to really get his mouth around Deacon's cock the way other things had distracted him from last night, but something tells him there will probably be time for it before he leaves. Right now, his hand closes around Deacon just to stroke him with not-quite-idle tenderness as the water begins to rinse the evidence of his own pleasure down the drain.
"Sometimes I wish I were good at nicknames the way you are," he muses. They're so completely outside the realm of anything that comes naturally to him that he doesn't even really think to draw a distinction between nicknames and romantic pet names and ordinary endearments, only knows that he delights in every single one Deacon bestows on him no matter how silly or unexpected, and he wishes he knew how to return the gesture. "You should have something like that, like the way you call me 'baby brahmin.' I don't even know how to think of that kind of thing."
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He reaches for the soap, but nearly fumbles it as he feels Danse's hand close around him. He'd been so keyed up that he hadn't realized just how badly he wanted to be touched, soft groans of pleasure leaving him as he fights to regain focus on his task and lather up the soap in his hands.
"Oh?" Deacon replies as he begins to rub his lathered hands over Danse's chest, luxuriating in the shape of him and giving his chest a few cheeky squeezes as he works the suds into his thick body hair. He laughs lightly, shaking his head, his cheeks just a little more pink from that thought.
"You just made it easy, is all," he remarks, "You've got those big, brown, beautiful eyes... and well, I felt inspired."
Deacon's shoulders shrug as his hands rub circles of soap lower along Danse's abs, but he smiles up at him with sincerity. "You don't have to think of anything, I'm not deducting points for it."
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The compliment to his eyes still makes him blush, pleased pinkness creeping down his neck even as he's already flushed under Deacon's touch, no matter how many times Deacon tells him they're beautiful. And now that he finally knows what Deacon's eyes look like in turn, the compliment feels all the more meaningful, because Danse doesn't think his own are anything particularly special compared to those clear blue jewels, and yet Deacon calls them inspiring.
"I don't want you to have any doubt how I feel. I don't want you to think you don't inspire me, or that I don't think about you constantly, because I do. You told me once that the sounds I make in bed haunt you...do you have any idea how often I replay the sounds you make when you come? The way you sounded last night--I'll be hearing that in my dreams."
And the quiet noises that fall from Deacon's lips as Danse strokes him are only spurring him on to more of that, fist tightening and thumb swirling softly around the head of his cock as he continues with equally fervent sincerity. "The way you feel in my hand like this, the way you taste, hell, the way your sweat smells after we're finished wearing each other out--it drives me insane. I'm no good at talking about these things, but it does. I need you to know that."
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