Suddenly, Deacon's mouth feels very, very dry. He swallows thickly as he watches Danse pull himself free. Well-hung could have been assumed, given the man's stature, but jesus christ. He'd certainly wanted to turn his head, give the man some privacy and all, but the way his fist closes tight around his cock has Deacon's dripping where its cramped in his jeans, and he shudders, jaw clenched to keep silent, his own palm grasping at the outline of it in hopes it will bring him relief.
It doesn't.
A soft sound escapes past his tightly clamped lips, and as it does, the stealth boy's battery shorts and he flickers into view. Deacon tries to move out of direct sight as he realizes it's happening- perhaps dive beneath the old, worn couch in the center of the room- but it's too late and he knows it. He'll just have to play it cool, like he always does. Surely that'll work out.
"...nice cock," he mutters, regretting that immediately, "Is this normal team building stuff in The Brotherhood?"
"Jesus christ!" Deacon thinks it, but Danse says it aloud, with a full-body startle and the kind of volume and vehemence usually reserved for combat. He tries reflexively, a bit frantically, to find something to cover himself and hide from the unexpected scrutiny and commentary--or failing that, to at least shove his cock back into his jumpsuit, but this is easier said than done when he's still hard enough to ache, and this is somehow not making his erection flag even the tiniest bit.
"What in the goddamn hell is the matter with you? Did you follow--"
He doesn't finish that sentence, because the barest second of analysis makes it clear that the accusation can't be true. He's been standing with his back pressed against the room's only entrance or exit the entire time. Deacon has to have been in here already; Danse is the intruder.
And his train of thought won't even focus on that, whether for an apology (unlikely) or anything else, because it derails itself almost immediately with vivid curiosity about what it would feel like to get closer, the thought that on a warm day like this, Deacon's worn old white shirt would smell like fresh clean sweat where it drapes over exactly the kind of lean muscle that's been occupying Danse's fantasies--
He has to get out of here. He begins hurriedly resuming his efforts to make himself decent enough to leave.
"Forget it. You can have the room, and we will never acknowledge this again."
'Did you follow-' Danse begins, and Deacon's chin tips slightly askew, a pale eyebrow rising above his sunglasses. The wonderful advantage of wearing them right now is that Danse won't be able to tell when Deacon's eyes fall back down to the massive erection he's sporting, which of course they immediately do. If he takes a step closer, he hardly realizes that he does so.
"What's wrong with me?" he repeats with a breathless sort of laugh, then shakes his head, "Same thing that's got you all worked up, is my guess." Because Deacon isn't stupid, even if his constant jokes and nonchalance leads people to think that he is. He notices things. Patterns. Behavior. Those people disappearing mid-day? If it wasn't in pairs, it almost certainly was to go take care of themselves individually like this.
His heart rate hasn't slowed and he's pretty sure he can feel his pulse in his groin at this point, which is making him feel crazy. Deacon is not usually someone to act impulsively, but when a rock-hard synth that someone at the Institute clearly took a lot of care to meticulously sculpt is served to him like this on a silver platter, he's got to at least shoot his shot, right? All of that self-punishment and self-preservation shit is the last thing on his aphrodisiac and adrenaline-fueled mind, right now.
"At ease, soldier," he replies with an air of amusement, another step forward, and an outstretched hand that one might use when approaching a nervous horse, "You’re not heading back to your post like that, are you?" he nods to the heavy cock stuffed into his suit, then nods toward the couch, smirking, his voice firm when he speaks again.
No, Deacon isn't stupid. And that's not a descriptor Danse has ever so much as thought to apply to him, whatever other unflattering adjectives might have come to mind in the past. Dishonest, manipulative, untrustworthy, all of those things, sure, but those all require a kind of cunning that precludes being considered stupid, and what it does all go hand-in-hand with is the notion that things don't really affect Deacon. He's too controlled, too suspiciously aloof in a way Danse somehow manages to disdain and envy at the same time.
A part of Danse has always wondered what it would be like not to be the perpetually-open book that he is. What must it be like, to be Deacon? Is it easy? He makes it look so damn easy, and what has Danse feeling nearly delirious with need right now isn't his interrupted touch or the haze still hanging in the air. Drinking in the sight in front of him, his cock protesting its confinement all the more urgently as he does, it's the first time in their entire acquaintance that he's felt like he has evidence Deacon is even human.
(Not that the flush to Deacon's face or the breathless catch in his voice or the hard-on straining at his jeans would necessarily require him to be human, of course, as Danse himself is proving to perfection. This is not the point.)
It galls him to be anything other than offended by that flippant at ease from a man who wouldn't know or care about proper military decorum if it bit him (and god, a part of Danse wants to, thinking about how easily-marked that pale skin must be.) But it goes straight to his cock anyway, that outstretched hand holding him frozen in position as if it possesses some kind of actual power, even if that power is just the ability to make him want to see where this is going. He tells himself these things. He could get back into his power armor like this if he had to; he could leave even more easily than Deacon could if he wanted to, could return to his post with nobody in town any the wiser, disciplined enough to endure the discomfort and blue balls for the sake of his dignity and self-respect as a soldier--
Sit down.
Stunned, flooded with heat that sweeps through him as suddenly and thoroughly as a nuclear blast, he sits down without a second thought. He didn't know Deacon's voice could do that. He didn't know, until right this second, that he wanted it to.
Things affect Deacon plenty, he just bottles it all up and pickles it until it's sour. It's not easy, either. He's perpetually repulsed with himself and his shame drives him to be anyone but himself; to wear a mask that's easier to digest by others. It's safer, that way. Deacon's lies and his ever-changing appearance are his own protective shell just like the Power Armor that Danse never seems to take off.
Deacon is a soldier in his own way, and he tells plenty of stories suggesting he may have actually been one once, but given his track record there's no telling what's true. What can be assumed is that he's learned enough of that so-called proper decorum to make him good at pretending and blending in among soldiers should he have to. And there's plenty more in the chamber now that he's getting a glimpse of how Danse responds to it.
But speaking of, what he isn't expecting is just how willing Danse is to follow an order. If he wasn't wearing his glasses, Danse would be witness to the way his eyes widen behind them, the way that for a moment, Deacon stares at his own hand like there is power in it, at least until his eyes are drawn back to the place Danse has taken his seat, his body turning to follow and close more of that distance between them.
"Shit--" he breathes, a scoff of disbelief following. A new wave of arousal pulses through him and makes him feel overly warm, desperate in his own desires and absolutely captivated by the way those big brown eyes stare up at him expectantly.
"As long as we're never acknowledging this again..." he mutters, standing over Danse, taking a beat as he gathers his nerve before lowering himself down to the sofa, a knee placed on the cushion between Danse's legs and pushing right up against him. One of his hands braces himself on the arm of the sofa, while the other delicately reaches between them, a finger hooking on the collar of his suit. A pale eyebrow arches above his sunglasses, the slightest smirk growing on his lips before he gives the fabric a little tug.
Danse isn't sure there's any reaction Deacon could have had here that would make him less mortified by his own response, wanting to sink through the floor even the slightest bit less than he does at the way this has forced him to undo his uniform again, because if he doesn't, either the fabric or his cock is going to give way and he doesn't want to see which one it will be. He tries to wrestle back a bit of dignity, face positively aflame all the way to his hairline and creeping down his neck.
"Don't look so pleased with yourself," he mutters, but he can't summon nearly as much heat for it as he wants to, when every inch of his body feels like it's reaching out to meet Deacon eagerly halfway when he kneels on the couch, cock jerking again at that precariously-placed knee. With just the slightest bit less self-discipline, he'd be wanting to rub against it, increasingly desperate for any kind of stimulation again--but he doesn't, even as the finger hooked into his parachute clip makes him lick his lips with audibly faster, shallower breath. The tug wrings a soft noise from his throat that he did not intend to make.
And yet, Deacon still asks. There isn't a single aspect of Danse's entire body right now that isn't pleading to be done with as Deacon likes, but the command still stops there, and Danse is almost shocked by how much it makes him want to trust Deacon with more. Just for now. Only in this room, and nowhere else. If they're never acknowledging this again.
He nods, shakily, his mouth dry with the craving to have Deacon's pressed against it right now. "Yes," he breathes. He can't bring himself to beg, but his cock might as well be doing it for him, so he thinks that should suffice.
"I'm not pleased with myself," Deacon says simply, "I'm pleased with you."
There's a smirk that follows that might be arguable in which of those things is really true, but in the end the result is the same. Deacon is already fairly confident that the answer is going to be yes before it's spoken, given the way Danse is licking his lips. He's thinking about how he's never noticed how plush those lips are, at least until Danse makes a sound that goes straight to his dick.
That affirmative is barely uttered before Deacon is pressing closer, gripping at the closures of Danse's suit to pry it open and get his hands beneath it and on skin. They scratch over a chest full of hair as his mouth crashes against Danse's lips, open and hungry, tasting him with a groan. He pulls back suddenly, but not completely; just enough to mutter against his lips.
Whether it's true or not, Danse wants it to be, and he's deeply annoyed with himself for how viscerally his cock and his heart rate both respond to that clear praise.
At least he doesn't have time to stay angry about it, diving into that kiss with equal fervor and not a second's hesitation, mouth opening and tongue meeting Deacon's halfway with more than just eager surrender. God, he's forgotten what this feels like; he would need more brainpower than he has right now to even remember the last person he kissed, and there haven't been so very many.
He does have the space to wonder, with suspicion, how Deacon is familiar enough with a Brotherhood flightsuit to be able to tear it open so quickly and easily, but that too flies out of his head at the feel of gun-calloused hands against his bare skin, heart pounding under Deacon's palms as he moans into his mouth. In the absence of hair to grab a fistful of, the way he wants to, one large hand simply cups Deacon's face and then slides around to the back of his head as they kiss--and then Deacon pulls back, leaving Danse gasping for breath and almost willing to lean shamelessly back in for more, before that command smacks him across the face.
He hates it. He hates that it makes his entire body practically vibrate. He hates that Deacon, of all people, is saying it with that smirking irreverence, and he hates that the taboo of hearing it from him is what damn near makes him come right there and then between their still-clothed bodies. His hips buck sharply upward at it, and he can't pretend then that he's as offended as the seething in his eyes makes him look.
Fine. If it's a command, he'll follow it. After a good long moment to smolder with suspicion. "Where do you want me?" he grinds out.
If there is a faction uniform in the Commonwealth, Deacon owns one in every color and has perfected the art of the quick change into it (or out of it, in this instance). Danse might not be happy to know why, but his body reacts as if it is, and that's enough to continue to draw his hands lower, working open more of it with a desire to get his hand around Danse's cock and make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him earlier.
Danse's hips buck up into Deacon's and he grunts in reply, considering rerouting his own path just to give himself a bit of relief, but he's distracted as hell by just how angry Danse looks, and he'd be lying if he said it wasn't pleasing to him in some way he couldn't articulate.
His breathing has grown heavier and his body is a bit in the way of his own thoughts, but he hears himself say "On your knees," before he realizes it, moving off of Danse's lap as if its an afterthought.
Danse has to admit that every part of him likes the sound of that, mind and body. He swallows again, almost as if in anticipation. The prospect of turning the tables in some small way by being able to drive Deacon to a loss of control, maybe even to incoherence, is deeply appealing. Thrilling, even.
And beyond that, he's curious--what actually is under those ever-changing disguises? How many people actually get to find out? He hasn't heard of any, though it's not as if their acquaintance has been close enough for him to really know, anyway. Even if Deacon oddly isn't making any move to take off the sunglasses, which Danse had thought that maybe he might by now, he'll take the pleasure of seeing the rest.
His body already misses the weight of Deacon straddling his lap, but he doesn't waste time either in sliding off the couch, kneeling smoothly with no protest whatsoever. It's worth it already for the new stimulus it makes possible, pushing Deacon's shirt up (it does have that heady hot-sun skin scent to it, delicious, intoxicating) and mouthing down over his sternum and stomach. Only when he works Deacon's jeans open, his lips brushing with earnest desire through the treasure trail beneath his navel, does he actually look up, eyebrow arched with surprise and no small amount of interest.
The prospect of being driven to a loss of control is something that might normally raise his hackles, but under the circumstances, it's thrilling for Deacon too, a sort of yearning in his expression as Danse slides lower. It's already making his breath hitch just to see Danse this way, but with the added stimulus of his clothing pushed aside and the other man's mouth on his body, he thinks that control might wane sooner rather than later.
His hands card into Danse's hair, thick as it is with whatever is being used to keep it in place. Deacon could care less; he needs something to grip onto once his jeans are being opened. A protesting sound is erupting from his throat involuntarily with the loss of that mouth. The question shakes him back to reality and he scoffs, practically panting with an eager impatience in its wake.
"I mean, I don't know if it's the right time for semantics, but..." he replies, trailing off and rubbing at his own head for a moment.
Because in the absence of anything red on Deacon's actual head, and honestly even if he did have hair there, the term that would have been used in any locker room or barracks in Danse's experience is 'firecrotch.' But decorum prohibits actually saying this.
This is just about the only way in which decorum is making any appearance whatsoever right now, given the bright-eyed relish with which Danse continues to tug Deacon's jeans down his thighs, and the flush that deepens in his cheeks at--so much of this, truly. The sounds Deacon makes, every bit as unstudied and candid as Danse had hoped they would be, making them feel like equals again. The fist in his hair, tugging at his scalp with a sweet sting that vibrates all the way down through his body to pool in his groin and throb there. The weight of Deacon's cock in his hand as Danse finally pulls it free, and the heat in his gaze that makes it clear just how appealing he does find this particular shade of carpet, with or without drapes to match.
"I'm guessing you'd rather I not be, from here on out."
Deacon thinks they're well past being polite, but the response does get an airy chuckle out of him, too distracted by the heated way the other man's face seems to light up as he takes Deacon's hard cock into his hand. Just the initial feeling of release from his jeans have Deacon sighing, but once Danse's hand finds it, he's swallowing another sound as the muscles in his stomach and thighs grow tight.
"Hah-- Definitely not," he replies breathlessly, "Courtesy is still acceptable, though, for the record." He bobs his head to the side, considering, then giving that thick hair an encouraging tug, "Honestly, so is disrespect and everything in-between. I'm not actually picky."
The tug to his hair gets a tense and breathless hum of pleasure, just on the border of a whimper, cock straining at attention in his briefs, but the calculating look in his eye at those words tells another story.
"What I'm not hearing here are my actual orders, Deacon." His hand strokes slowly along Deacon's length, with pressure he knows wouldn't be enough if it were his own. "If we were out in the field, I'd hate to have to put you on report for dereliction of duty."
Because two can play at this game, now that he's been given a chance to adjust to the rules, and Danse has been playing it a lot more consistently, if not actually for longer.
"Am I free to act on my own initiative here, or are you going to make me take it?"
The huff that leaves Deacon's lips at the mention of orders is nearly choked on. This is closer to that lecturing attitude he might have expected from Danse to begin with, but so quickly after those big baby brahmin eyes met his is giving Deacon whiplash.
"If we were out in the field, I don't think dereliction of duty would be their biggest concern," he quips, but Danse's next question makes his entire body feel warm, his cock throbbing inside Danse's frustratingly light grip. He has no idea why he finds that question so hot, but it inspires him, and the hand in Danse's hair grips tighter and twists, pulling his head back so that Deacon can tease in-kind.
"Attention, soldier," he hisses, "Drop that jaw nice and open for me. I want to see just how much of it you can take."
If there's one thing Danse can almost literally do in his sleep, it's give a smug lecture on military protocol. It doesn't take much extra brainpower, once he gets his bearings. But that sharper pull to his hair has his eyes widening again, alight with breath-stealing arousal as Deacon gives him exactly what he wants. He gasps, shakily, with mingled triumph and still-desperate need.
Even if he felt like he could close his mouth right now, breathless as he is, he wouldn't. He does as he's told, opening still wider with anticipation. It's been a long damn time since he's done this--not since his days as a knight, not often even then--but he's determined to prove himself. It's part pride, part fierce competitive spirit, and part a stubborn and embarrassing little underlying voice that wants Deacon to say he's pleased and truthfully mean it.
He smirks at the other man's compliance, getting a rush as he sees those eyes grow large again. Deacon doesn't make him wait, not so cruel to torment him further (nor himself), grasping his own cock to hold it in position.
"Good boy..." he purrs, inching forward to feed himself into Danse's mouth slowly. Just a taste as the blunt tip presses against Danse's lips at first, giving him the time to adjust for it to push further in, but Deacon is holding his breath as he watches, his own lips parted and breathless at the warmth already emitting from Danse's mouth.
This little reward gets the closest thing to an actual whimper that anything has drawn from his throat yet, the startled needy noise vibrating against the tip of Deacon's cock as Danse's face floods with color again. That, he needs more of that, and he hadn't even known it until just now.
Nobody gives praise like that in the Brotherhood--certainly not exactly like that, obviously, because that would be a hilarious disaster, but even the appropriate kind is in pretty short supply. Danse tries to encourage his squad with ample positive reinforcement for well-performed duties and exemplary bravery, making up for what other commanders do less of, but no military outfit is ever going to encourage its soldiers with this kind of simple, gentle, erotic tenderness. And soldiers with lives outside the Brotherhood might be able to enjoy that kind of thing elsewhere, but Danse has never known anything quite like it in his life.
His one hand grips tight onto Deacon's hip to steady himself, but his other reaches for his own cock, gripping desperately again and stroking through the thin fabric of his briefs, because he can't go without anything at all, not anymore. He laves the precome gently from the tip of Deacon's cock with his tongue and lets his jaw go that little bit more slack, ready for more.
That noise has Deacon's cock throbbing against Danse's lips, a curse breathed out as he realizes the profound effect such a thing has on the other man. How can he deny Danse anything other than praise when that is how he reacts? Jesus... Deacon already wants to see it again.
He suppresses a pleasured sound of his own as his hip is grasped and he feels the press of a hot tongue against the tip of his dick. With an easy push of his hips, he eases the head of it past Danse's lips, the surrounding heat making his muscles tense. It doesn't go unnoticed that Danse is palming at himself, and after a shaky breath, Deacon groans and slides his foot forward until his shin is at his thigh for him to grind against if he wishes to.
"Look at how worked up I've got you..." he teases gently, his voice oddly dripping with a sort of affection, "Let me watch you stroke that pretty cock of yours while you suck on mine. Not fair that I only got a preview."
It isn't arousal that wells up in Danse's chest at that soft undercurrent in Deacon's voice--or not entirely, though it still does make him throb all the harder. What it is, he can't even name, doesn't even know if it feels good for as confusing as it is, but he wants more of it all the same.
He has just enough coherence in reserve to remind himself that this is Deacon's job, to know what people want to hear and shift everything about himself in order to supply it, to lower everyone's guard by any means necessary and work his way into their heads. He can't let himself believe there's anything more to that gentle teasing affection--like they're in on a shared joke, like they have something that belongs just to them--than Deacon reading him well enough to know he longs for it, and he should hate that even more than he hates the profanation of his military service.
But he doesn't. Because they're never acknowledging this again. And in this room, where nothing is going to leave it or matter, it feels so fucking good to indulge it. It's not real--but neither are the childhood memories the Railroad planted in his brain, and those don't make the feeling of a cold empty stomach any less familiar. He knows exactly how real something fabricated can still feel.
He should have the discipline not to want to hump Deacon's leg like a damn dog, either, and he holds back for a good long moment, but the weight of Deacon's cock and heady taste of him on his tongue and that strange, gentle, flattering command are all too much for him in combination. He moans, soft and deep, and swallows around Deacon with a slow thrust of his hips before pulling himself free again and giving another squeezing stroke along his own length.
Deacon's instinct at the present is to give Danse everything he wants, not because he's trying to fuck with his mind, but because the reactions it illicits are so fucking hot that he can't help himself. That said, he's always been a 'positive reinforcement' sort of leader (if one can even call him a leader, these days), so it comes naturally.
Right now, what isn't coming naturally is restraining himself from pushing deeper into Danse's mouth and rutting against his face the way the other man momentarily humps against his leg. Whatever has them this keyed up is shredding Deacon's usual reservation and making him act recklessly by doing this to begin with. He has no idea how he's supposed to sleep ever again as long as he lives, because he's pretty sure every time he closes his eyes he will see this image of Danse, swallowing back his cock while stroking at his own, moaning and doing anything he asks.
"Fuck--" he chokes, "You feel so good..." His hand pets through Danse's hair, fingers scratching at his scalp. "And you like this, don't you? Show me. Wanna watch myself disappear into your mouth. Wanna see you get off like this."
The scalp massage sends delicious shivers down his spine, heightened by the airborne aphrodisiac only in the way that a little bit of salt enhances a flavor that already exists, because he's always been deeply sensitive there and so rarely gotten the chance to enjoy the pleasure of feeling it teased this way. Not when he spends so much of his time in a flightsuit hood to the point where even the wind or sun on his head feels like an indulgence.
The continued praise is better still, and Deacon knows it. He must, given the increasing rapidness with which Danse follows every soft sweet order. He'd been willing to hold off on taking initiative before; now, he presses forward, taking Deacon's cock as deep as he can, pushing resolutely past the barrier of his own out-of-practice inexperience and relaxing his throat until his nose is nestled into wiry red hair. He can't sustain it, but he can manage for a moment before he has to pull back a bit, shallower but no less enthusiastic as his head bobs and his hand moves all the more fervently on his own cock.
He's been desperate since the moment he walked into this room, but even he hasn't expected his pleasure to boil over quite as quickly as this once he finds his rhythm, shoving him right to the edge and making him tremble as he resists the urge to pause for breath. If Deacon wants to watch him get off, he'll get his wish in very short order.
"Jesus--" Deacon breathes, watching in awe as Danse takes him nearly to the root, a soft moan falling from his lips as Danse begins to bob onto his cock. His fingers clench at dark hair, twisting hard as he feels himself nearing his own edge, eyes struggling to focus between the gorgeous show of skill from Danse's mouth to the work of art he's been stroking at between his legs.
"Come for me," he rhasps lowly, convinced that he won't be able to let himself go until he sees the other man shaking apart on his knees before him.
That's all it takes. He'll tell himself later that he's not so eagerly submissive that he'll come just from being ordered to, and maybe he isn't--maybe he wouldn't have without the added facets of the tug to his hair and the needy breathless admiration in Deacon's voice, more real and true and sincere than anything else he thinks he's ever heard from the man, but he'll never know.
At that quiet gravelly command, his thighs spread greedily just that little bit further apart on the floor, and the motion of his hand falters finally as he spends in thick streaks across the carpet and a little bit on the leg of Deacon's jeans. He'll apologize for it later, probably. It's not like Deacon doesn't have other pants.
Right now, his body feels so slack with the shuddering relief that it's all he can do for a second to remember where he is, clutching Deacon's hip all the tighter for stability--but he hasn't forgotten why he's down here, and it doesn't take him long to renew his efforts, fiercely determined now to drag Deacon over the edge along with him and swallow every drop.
It's challenging to be anything other than oneself like this... which is why he's sworn off this sort of connection to begin with. It's too high a risk of Being Seen. And to be seen is to be known, or something. It's dangerous.
But that's beside the point now, because in a moment of aphrodisiac-fuelled weakness he has found himself standing over another man making sounds and faces he's never made where others can see. He's letting himself indulge in something carnal and in that, there's no mask to be worn. And Danse clearly is too; their little secret. No one has to know that Deacon has any human qualities whatsoever, and no one has to know how fucking beautiful Danse looks when he's doing what he's told with a desperation to please that he has never seen in any man. Jesus Christ.
He doesn't give a fuck about his jeans. Not when Danse is moaning around his cock, making a mess just for him, and clutching at his hip like a life raft. Not when Deacon can't even help but rut into those swollen lips just enough to get him tensing up and spilling down Danse's throat with a whimpering moan.
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It doesn't.
A soft sound escapes past his tightly clamped lips, and as it does, the stealth boy's battery shorts and he flickers into view. Deacon tries to move out of direct sight as he realizes it's happening- perhaps dive beneath the old, worn couch in the center of the room- but it's too late and he knows it. He'll just have to play it cool, like he always does. Surely that'll work out.
"...nice cock," he mutters, regretting that immediately, "Is this normal team building stuff in The Brotherhood?"
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"What in the goddamn hell is the matter with you? Did you follow--"
He doesn't finish that sentence, because the barest second of analysis makes it clear that the accusation can't be true. He's been standing with his back pressed against the room's only entrance or exit the entire time. Deacon has to have been in here already; Danse is the intruder.
And his train of thought won't even focus on that, whether for an apology (unlikely) or anything else, because it derails itself almost immediately with vivid curiosity about what it would feel like to get closer, the thought that on a warm day like this, Deacon's worn old white shirt would smell like fresh clean sweat where it drapes over exactly the kind of lean muscle that's been occupying Danse's fantasies--
He has to get out of here. He begins hurriedly resuming his efforts to make himself decent enough to leave.
"Forget it. You can have the room, and we will never acknowledge this again."
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"What's wrong with me?" he repeats with a breathless sort of laugh, then shakes his head, "Same thing that's got you all worked up, is my guess." Because Deacon isn't stupid, even if his constant jokes and nonchalance leads people to think that he is. He notices things. Patterns. Behavior. Those people disappearing mid-day? If it wasn't in pairs, it almost certainly was to go take care of themselves individually like this.
His heart rate hasn't slowed and he's pretty sure he can feel his pulse in his groin at this point, which is making him feel crazy. Deacon is not usually someone to act impulsively, but when a rock-hard synth that someone at the Institute clearly took a lot of care to meticulously sculpt is served to him like this on a silver platter, he's got to at least shoot his shot, right? All of that self-punishment and self-preservation shit is the last thing on his aphrodisiac and adrenaline-fueled mind, right now.
"At ease, soldier," he replies with an air of amusement, another step forward, and an outstretched hand that one might use when approaching a nervous horse, "You’re not heading back to your post like that, are you?" he nods to the heavy cock stuffed into his suit, then nods toward the couch, smirking, his voice firm when he speaks again.
"Sit down."
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A part of Danse has always wondered what it would be like not to be the perpetually-open book that he is. What must it be like, to be Deacon? Is it easy? He makes it look so damn easy, and what has Danse feeling nearly delirious with need right now isn't his interrupted touch or the haze still hanging in the air. Drinking in the sight in front of him, his cock protesting its confinement all the more urgently as he does, it's the first time in their entire acquaintance that he's felt like he has evidence Deacon is even human.
(Not that the flush to Deacon's face or the breathless catch in his voice or the hard-on straining at his jeans would necessarily require him to be human, of course, as Danse himself is proving to perfection. This is not the point.)
It galls him to be anything other than offended by that flippant at ease from a man who wouldn't know or care about proper military decorum if it bit him (and god, a part of Danse wants to, thinking about how easily-marked that pale skin must be.) But it goes straight to his cock anyway, that outstretched hand holding him frozen in position as if it possesses some kind of actual power, even if that power is just the ability to make him want to see where this is going. He tells himself these things. He could get back into his power armor like this if he had to; he could leave even more easily than Deacon could if he wanted to, could return to his post with nobody in town any the wiser, disciplined enough to endure the discomfort and blue balls for the sake of his dignity and self-respect as a soldier--
Sit down.
Stunned, flooded with heat that sweeps through him as suddenly and thoroughly as a nuclear blast, he sits down without a second thought. He didn't know Deacon's voice could do that. He didn't know, until right this second, that he wanted it to.
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Deacon is a soldier in his own way, and he tells plenty of stories suggesting he may have actually been one once, but given his track record there's no telling what's true. What can be assumed is that he's learned enough of that so-called proper decorum to make him good at pretending and blending in among soldiers should he have to. And there's plenty more in the chamber now that he's getting a glimpse of how Danse responds to it.
But speaking of, what he isn't expecting is just how willing Danse is to follow an order. If he wasn't wearing his glasses, Danse would be witness to the way his eyes widen behind them, the way that for a moment, Deacon stares at his own hand like there is power in it, at least until his eyes are drawn back to the place Danse has taken his seat, his body turning to follow and close more of that distance between them.
"Shit--" he breathes, a scoff of disbelief following. A new wave of arousal pulses through him and makes him feel overly warm, desperate in his own desires and absolutely captivated by the way those big brown eyes stare up at him expectantly.
"As long as we're never acknowledging this again..." he mutters, standing over Danse, taking a beat as he gathers his nerve before lowering himself down to the sofa, a knee placed on the cushion between Danse's legs and pushing right up against him. One of his hands braces himself on the arm of the sofa, while the other delicately reaches between them, a finger hooking on the collar of his suit. A pale eyebrow arches above his sunglasses, the slightest smirk growing on his lips before he gives the fabric a little tug.
"May I?"
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"Don't look so pleased with yourself," he mutters, but he can't summon nearly as much heat for it as he wants to, when every inch of his body feels like it's reaching out to meet Deacon eagerly halfway when he kneels on the couch, cock jerking again at that precariously-placed knee. With just the slightest bit less self-discipline, he'd be wanting to rub against it, increasingly desperate for any kind of stimulation again--but he doesn't, even as the finger hooked into his parachute clip makes him lick his lips with audibly faster, shallower breath. The tug wrings a soft noise from his throat that he did not intend to make.
And yet, Deacon still asks. There isn't a single aspect of Danse's entire body right now that isn't pleading to be done with as Deacon likes, but the command still stops there, and Danse is almost shocked by how much it makes him want to trust Deacon with more. Just for now. Only in this room, and nowhere else. If they're never acknowledging this again.
He nods, shakily, his mouth dry with the craving to have Deacon's pressed against it right now. "Yes," he breathes. He can't bring himself to beg, but his cock might as well be doing it for him, so he thinks that should suffice.
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There's a smirk that follows that might be arguable in which of those things is really true, but in the end the result is the same. Deacon is already fairly confident that the answer is going to be yes before it's spoken, given the way Danse is licking his lips. He's thinking about how he's never noticed how plush those lips are, at least until Danse makes a sound that goes straight to his dick.
That affirmative is barely uttered before Deacon is pressing closer, gripping at the closures of Danse's suit to pry it open and get his hands beneath it and on skin. They scratch over a chest full of hair as his mouth crashes against Danse's lips, open and hungry, tasting him with a groan. He pulls back suddenly, but not completely; just enough to mutter against his lips.
"Fall in."
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At least he doesn't have time to stay angry about it, diving into that kiss with equal fervor and not a second's hesitation, mouth opening and tongue meeting Deacon's halfway with more than just eager surrender. God, he's forgotten what this feels like; he would need more brainpower than he has right now to even remember the last person he kissed, and there haven't been so very many.
He does have the space to wonder, with suspicion, how Deacon is familiar enough with a Brotherhood flightsuit to be able to tear it open so quickly and easily, but that too flies out of his head at the feel of gun-calloused hands against his bare skin, heart pounding under Deacon's palms as he moans into his mouth. In the absence of hair to grab a fistful of, the way he wants to, one large hand simply cups Deacon's face and then slides around to the back of his head as they kiss--and then Deacon pulls back, leaving Danse gasping for breath and almost willing to lean shamelessly back in for more, before that command smacks him across the face.
He hates it. He hates that it makes his entire body practically vibrate. He hates that Deacon, of all people, is saying it with that smirking irreverence, and he hates that the taboo of hearing it from him is what damn near makes him come right there and then between their still-clothed bodies. His hips buck sharply upward at it, and he can't pretend then that he's as offended as the seething in his eyes makes him look.
Fine. If it's a command, he'll follow it. After a good long moment to smolder with suspicion. "Where do you want me?" he grinds out.
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Danse's hips buck up into Deacon's and he grunts in reply, considering rerouting his own path just to give himself a bit of relief, but he's distracted as hell by just how angry Danse looks, and he'd be lying if he said it wasn't pleasing to him in some way he couldn't articulate.
His breathing has grown heavier and his body is a bit in the way of his own thoughts, but he hears himself say "On your knees," before he realizes it, moving off of Danse's lap as if its an afterthought.
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And beyond that, he's curious--what actually is under those ever-changing disguises? How many people actually get to find out? He hasn't heard of any, though it's not as if their acquaintance has been close enough for him to really know, anyway. Even if Deacon oddly isn't making any move to take off the sunglasses, which Danse had thought that maybe he might by now, he'll take the pleasure of seeing the rest.
His body already misses the weight of Deacon straddling his lap, but he doesn't waste time either in sliding off the couch, kneeling smoothly with no protest whatsoever. It's worth it already for the new stimulus it makes possible, pushing Deacon's shirt up (it does have that heady hot-sun skin scent to it, delicious, intoxicating) and mouthing down over his sternum and stomach. Only when he works Deacon's jeans open, his lips brushing with earnest desire through the treasure trail beneath his navel, does he actually look up, eyebrow arched with surprise and no small amount of interest.
"You're a redhead?"
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His hands card into Danse's hair, thick as it is with whatever is being used to keep it in place. Deacon could care less; he needs something to grip onto once his jeans are being opened. A protesting sound is erupting from his throat involuntarily with the loss of that mouth. The question shakes him back to reality and he scoffs, practically panting with an eager impatience in its wake.
"I mean, I don't know if it's the right time for semantics, but..." he replies, trailing off and rubbing at his own head for a moment.
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Because in the absence of anything red on Deacon's actual head, and honestly even if he did have hair there, the term that would have been used in any locker room or barracks in Danse's experience is 'firecrotch.' But decorum prohibits actually saying this.
This is just about the only way in which decorum is making any appearance whatsoever right now, given the bright-eyed relish with which Danse continues to tug Deacon's jeans down his thighs, and the flush that deepens in his cheeks at--so much of this, truly. The sounds Deacon makes, every bit as unstudied and candid as Danse had hoped they would be, making them feel like equals again. The fist in his hair, tugging at his scalp with a sweet sting that vibrates all the way down through his body to pool in his groin and throb there. The weight of Deacon's cock in his hand as Danse finally pulls it free, and the heat in his gaze that makes it clear just how appealing he does find this particular shade of carpet, with or without drapes to match.
"I'm guessing you'd rather I not be, from here on out."
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"Hah-- Definitely not," he replies breathlessly, "Courtesy is still acceptable, though, for the record." He bobs his head to the side, considering, then giving that thick hair an encouraging tug, "Honestly, so is disrespect and everything in-between. I'm not actually picky."
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"What I'm not hearing here are my actual orders, Deacon." His hand strokes slowly along Deacon's length, with pressure he knows wouldn't be enough if it were his own. "If we were out in the field, I'd hate to have to put you on report for dereliction of duty."
Because two can play at this game, now that he's been given a chance to adjust to the rules, and Danse has been playing it a lot more consistently, if not actually for longer.
"Am I free to act on my own initiative here, or are you going to make me take it?"
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"If we were out in the field, I don't think dereliction of duty would be their biggest concern," he quips, but Danse's next question makes his entire body feel warm, his cock throbbing inside Danse's frustratingly light grip. He has no idea why he finds that question so hot, but it inspires him, and the hand in Danse's hair grips tighter and twists, pulling his head back so that Deacon can tease in-kind.
"Attention, soldier," he hisses, "Drop that jaw nice and open for me. I want to see just how much of it you can take."
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Even if he felt like he could close his mouth right now, breathless as he is, he wouldn't. He does as he's told, opening still wider with anticipation. It's been a long damn time since he's done this--not since his days as a knight, not often even then--but he's determined to prove himself. It's part pride, part fierce competitive spirit, and part a stubborn and embarrassing little underlying voice that wants Deacon to say he's pleased and truthfully mean it.
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"Good boy..." he purrs, inching forward to feed himself into Danse's mouth slowly. Just a taste as the blunt tip presses against Danse's lips at first, giving him the time to adjust for it to push further in, but Deacon is holding his breath as he watches, his own lips parted and breathless at the warmth already emitting from Danse's mouth.
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Nobody gives praise like that in the Brotherhood--certainly not exactly like that, obviously, because that would be a hilarious disaster, but even the appropriate kind is in pretty short supply. Danse tries to encourage his squad with ample positive reinforcement for well-performed duties and exemplary bravery, making up for what other commanders do less of, but no military outfit is ever going to encourage its soldiers with this kind of simple, gentle, erotic tenderness. And soldiers with lives outside the Brotherhood might be able to enjoy that kind of thing elsewhere, but Danse has never known anything quite like it in his life.
His one hand grips tight onto Deacon's hip to steady himself, but his other reaches for his own cock, gripping desperately again and stroking through the thin fabric of his briefs, because he can't go without anything at all, not anymore. He laves the precome gently from the tip of Deacon's cock with his tongue and lets his jaw go that little bit more slack, ready for more.
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He suppresses a pleasured sound of his own as his hip is grasped and he feels the press of a hot tongue against the tip of his dick. With an easy push of his hips, he eases the head of it past Danse's lips, the surrounding heat making his muscles tense. It doesn't go unnoticed that Danse is palming at himself, and after a shaky breath, Deacon groans and slides his foot forward until his shin is at his thigh for him to grind against if he wishes to.
"Look at how worked up I've got you..." he teases gently, his voice oddly dripping with a sort of affection, "Let me watch you stroke that pretty cock of yours while you suck on mine. Not fair that I only got a preview."
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He has just enough coherence in reserve to remind himself that this is Deacon's job, to know what people want to hear and shift everything about himself in order to supply it, to lower everyone's guard by any means necessary and work his way into their heads. He can't let himself believe there's anything more to that gentle teasing affection--like they're in on a shared joke, like they have something that belongs just to them--than Deacon reading him well enough to know he longs for it, and he should hate that even more than he hates the profanation of his military service.
But he doesn't. Because they're never acknowledging this again. And in this room, where nothing is going to leave it or matter, it feels so fucking good to indulge it. It's not real--but neither are the childhood memories the Railroad planted in his brain, and those don't make the feeling of a cold empty stomach any less familiar. He knows exactly how real something fabricated can still feel.
He should have the discipline not to want to hump Deacon's leg like a damn dog, either, and he holds back for a good long moment, but the weight of Deacon's cock and heady taste of him on his tongue and that strange, gentle, flattering command are all too much for him in combination. He moans, soft and deep, and swallows around Deacon with a slow thrust of his hips before pulling himself free again and giving another squeezing stroke along his own length.
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Right now, what isn't coming naturally is restraining himself from pushing deeper into Danse's mouth and rutting against his face the way the other man momentarily humps against his leg. Whatever has them this keyed up is shredding Deacon's usual reservation and making him act recklessly by doing this to begin with. He has no idea how he's supposed to sleep ever again as long as he lives, because he's pretty sure every time he closes his eyes he will see this image of Danse, swallowing back his cock while stroking at his own, moaning and doing anything he asks.
"Fuck--" he chokes, "You feel so good..." His hand pets through Danse's hair, fingers scratching at his scalp. "And you like this, don't you? Show me. Wanna watch myself disappear into your mouth. Wanna see you get off like this."
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The continued praise is better still, and Deacon knows it. He must, given the increasing rapidness with which Danse follows every soft sweet order. He'd been willing to hold off on taking initiative before; now, he presses forward, taking Deacon's cock as deep as he can, pushing resolutely past the barrier of his own out-of-practice inexperience and relaxing his throat until his nose is nestled into wiry red hair. He can't sustain it, but he can manage for a moment before he has to pull back a bit, shallower but no less enthusiastic as his head bobs and his hand moves all the more fervently on his own cock.
He's been desperate since the moment he walked into this room, but even he hasn't expected his pleasure to boil over quite as quickly as this once he finds his rhythm, shoving him right to the edge and making him tremble as he resists the urge to pause for breath. If Deacon wants to watch him get off, he'll get his wish in very short order.
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"Come for me," he rhasps lowly, convinced that he won't be able to let himself go until he sees the other man shaking apart on his knees before him.
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At that quiet gravelly command, his thighs spread greedily just that little bit further apart on the floor, and the motion of his hand falters finally as he spends in thick streaks across the carpet and a little bit on the leg of Deacon's jeans. He'll apologize for it later, probably. It's not like Deacon doesn't have other pants.
Right now, his body feels so slack with the shuddering relief that it's all he can do for a second to remember where he is, clutching Deacon's hip all the tighter for stability--but he hasn't forgotten why he's down here, and it doesn't take him long to renew his efforts, fiercely determined now to drag Deacon over the edge along with him and swallow every drop.
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But that's beside the point now, because in a moment of aphrodisiac-fuelled weakness he has found himself standing over another man making sounds and faces he's never made where others can see. He's letting himself indulge in something carnal and in that, there's no mask to be worn. And Danse clearly is too; their little secret. No one has to know that Deacon has any human qualities whatsoever, and no one has to know how fucking beautiful Danse looks when he's doing what he's told with a desperation to please that he has never seen in any man. Jesus Christ.
He doesn't give a fuck about his jeans. Not when Danse is moaning around his cock, making a mess just for him, and clutching at his hip like a life raft. Not when Deacon can't even help but rut into those swollen lips just enough to get him tensing up and spilling down Danse's throat with a whimpering moan.
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