"...it wasn't a metaphor or anything, babe, pretty straightforward," Deacon teases, his expression exceptionally soft at the way those eyes grow wide. God, he could stare at them all day like this. Absolutely drown in them.
He nods again, confident. "I've day dreamed about nuzzling between those cheeks so often I've lost count. C'mere. Let me take care of you."
Hands grasp at Danse's hips, fingers sliding behind them to cup at his plush ass and nudge him higher. Deacon licks at his own lips, his eyes only leaving Danse's to steal a glance at his cock as it fills out again, the sight alone nearly enough to get Deacon's to stir.
Danse isn't sure which aspect of that statement melts him more--the urging to let Deacon take care of him, the way Deacon always does so well as to make him crave it in his alone time, or the casual admission that Deacon thinks about this when he's alone. And not just once, but uncountably often.
The thought of it takes Danse's breath away, makes it catch in his throat with surprise and warm pleasure as he inches forward at Deacon's urging until he can brace and steady himself with hands against the wall. He stalls briefly, self-conscious, the flush to his skin taking on a tinge of embarrassment in addition to the arousal--but Deacon so clearly knows what he wants, with absolutely zero ambiguity, and when Danse already knows how deliriously pleasurable it is to give Deacon's fingers and cock free rein with his ass, the anticipation of feeling his tongue there pushes him the rest of the way until he's hovering carefully over Deacon's mouth on his knees.
So concerned is he about smothering Deacon, though, that his ass is clenched as tightly as all of his other taut muscles, straining as he tries to hold himself in a position where he's not actually touching Deacon at all, let alone putting weight on him.
"Like this?" he breathes, even his voice tense and trembling.
Deacon can't seem to contain his excitement in the moment, kissing along his thighs as soon as he's within reach. His hands knead at Danse's ass to encourage him closer. "Not quite..." he responds between nipping little kisses along the softest part of inner thigh, "...but we'll get there. I'll have you warmed up to it in no-time."
While he does believe Danse when he said he trusts him, he also is keenly aware that he is a bigger man and self conscious still about his potential to hurt Deacon. He understands, of course. There are things about Deacon himself that he is insecure about; thinking that those things will hurt anyone who gets too close to him. Things from his past that Danse doesn't even have an inkling to, that make the concept of having a deeper relationship with the man feel impossible, too afraid that revealing them would send him running. Deacon wouldn't be able to handle it if he did.
He's putting all of that far from his mind as he mouths along the underside of Danse's cock, sucking kisses along his shaft and over his balls. He has to gain Danse's trust now, perhaps not with Deacon but with his own body, and pleasuring it is one sure-fire way to get him to forget those preconceptions and relax a bit more. Deacon's lips part wide, tongue lapping over the middle seam of Danse's testicles before drawing one of them into his mouth to warm and suck at with a groan. He'll work lower, but he'll need Danse to at least meet him halfway.
As with a great many things, Deacon is right about how quickly Danse can warm up to this whole idea with encouragement this strong from so many different angles. Deacon's enthusiasm alone could drive him wild, that eagerness already heating him like plasma from the inside out as soon as those lips descend on his inner thighs, making him spread them wider for both of their pleasure as his mind indulgently recalls the way he'd done the same to Deacon's last night. How could he deny his lover the same pleasure?
He has a sense of the way he'll need to relax for Deacon to reach what he wants, but the fact that he isn't doing so yet is less about worry or self-consciousness now and more about sheer preoccupation, his mind thoroughly consumed with the sensation of Deacon licking and sucking him from this unfamiliar angle as his cock swells back to full mast, and at the rough heat of Deacon's tongue against his sack he lets himself press forward a little in his breathless desire for more.
"Ah, god," he gasps, fingers clenching against the wall as Deacon teases expertly at his balls, body easing very carefully further downward now that the slight trembling is just as much due to the pleasure he's feeling as to the difficulty of holding himself still. He can make it to that halfway point, low enough now to give Deacon's tongue access to his hole even if he's still feeling the burn in his thighs, but the way he removes one bracing hand from the wall to close it around his cock suggests that he can be persuaded further.
"I didn't even know people did this," he breathes, with wonderment. "And the idea of you wanting it all this time--touching yourself thinking about me like this--jesus, you don't know what that does to me."
Deacon's own fingers dig into Danse's flesh as he sinks lower, as if perhaps he can claw him further down, tongue lapping and lips sucking at soft, sensitive skin. He groans as he notices the way Danse stirs, watching from beneath heavy lashes as Danse's hand comes into view. As Deacon's lips leave his sack, his nose nuzzled against it instead, murmuring his response.
"Then tell me," he mutters, lapping kisses trailing along the stretch of skin behind Danse's balls, his own heart racing as he inches closer to his destination. Deacon's own cock gets its second wind by Danse's response, but he doesn't dare remove a hand from Danse's body to address it.
"I can only imagine, given what the idea of you thinking of me in your solitude makes me feel..." Deacon sighs, hot breath against Danse's skin before his tongue brushes across it in a wide arch, seeking out that tight hole while his hands pull his cheeks further apart.
He might have managed some, actually, if just barely, while Deacon was still nuzzling at his balls, but the prospect of that grows more distant with each lingering kiss along his taint, making his breath come too hard and fast to speak eloquently, and as that heated tongue finally begins to work at him, Deacon's hands exposing him more than he expects to be right off the bat, all he can come up with now is a strangled noise of shock and delight.
His hand has gone still on his cock to focus on the sensation of Deacon's mouth, but at this, he squeezes tight along his length, lubricating it with the slickness Deacon is already eliciting from him as he lets out a choked and shuddering breath.
"God damn, it's a good thing I've got my own quarters there," he gasps. The thought is only tangentially connected, not well-articulated, but he thinks at this rate that he'll barely even make it to the Castle without needing to take care of himself again, with everything Deacon's giving him to think about right now.
That initial groan of pleasure inspires a chuckle from Deacon, his hands keeping Danse open above him even if pulling his ass straight down onto his face is their ultimate goal. He's still confident that he'll ease Danse into it as he laps over his puckered rim a few times. And Danse needn't elaborate, either, because the image of him touching himself uncontrollably roadside makes him groan hungrily against Danse's ass, his own cock dribbling out precome onto his own thigh.
Deacon's tongue circles that tight ring of muscle a few times befote the pointed end of it teases at its center, prodding lightly to test its resistance. He can already imagine what Danse might look like during his pitstop, making a mental note to possibly find other things to keep him occupied on their evenings apart. These thoughts have Deacon getting ahead of himself, moaning against Danse and pushing his tongue past his rim almost too eagerly.
This is more than enough to make Danse falter in his concentration at holding himself up, weight sinking further down onto Deacon's face partly from that distraction and partly as a deliberate, needy move to chase more of that pleasure.
"God--"
He's always been vocal, always been prone to needing to stifle himself physically with his hands to keep from being loud enough to alert any too-close passersby that the house isn't empty, but he doesn't have a free hand right now, and the urgent rock of his hips is accompanied by a cry between clenched teeth, as he tosses his head back and jerks himself faster and parts his thighs wider still to let Deacon open him up for more.
The only part of this that Deacon would change is his ability to praise Danse for his behavior. Alas, his mouth is occupied entirely by the way the larger man moves his hips, encouraging him to lap into him deeper and stroke him from the inside. Groans will have to do.
Hands also, one of them easing its grip to pet fond circles into Danse's hip. The soft touches are affectionate and contrast deeply with what his mouth is doing. He can't help himself, either, because Danse is so fucking hot when he gets worked up. It makes Deacon feel like he's on fire, let alone needy in his own ways. His tongue swirls in circles and he finds his hips rotating in time, grinding up into nothing. If he bends his legs and raises his knees just maybe he can rut the tip of his own cock into his belly and ease some of its tension.
The groans vibrating against some of Danse's most sensitive nerves from the inside out should be completely stripping him of words, and they are--and the contrasting tenderness of Deacon's hands is still absolutely undoing him as much as it did the very first time--but when it registers in his pleasure-drunk brain what Deacon's hips are doing, he finds within him an untapped reserve of coherence to speak.
Decorum, though, is fully out the window. He takes that steadying hand off the wall and reaches blindly behind him to grab onto Deacon's hip with bruising-tight fingers, too far gone to temper his own strength now. "Don't you dare," he growls, pushing down as if to pin Deacon one-handed to the mattress. "I'm not leaving without getting to suck you off. You're going to wait for me."
If it's any consolation to Deacon, the way Danse's thighs are trembling and balls are tightening is clear evidence that he won't be waiting much longer at all.
Deacon audibly gasps against Danse's hole as he's pushed down, that order ringing through his body and making him shudder beneath him. His knees drop uselessly to one side, but his hands grip harder at Danse's hips, tugging him down more forcefully to make him sit fully onto his face, his tongue plunging deep inside of him.
If this is a fight for dominance, he isn't sure, but just as Danse has his desires, Deacon has his own, and risking his neck or frankly just smothering himself with Danse's ass is it.
"Fuck!" It's almost a wail, the second time in the span of half an hour that Deacon has pushed him to uncharacteristically vivid profanity with the kind of pleasure he's never felt before or even thought to fantasize about, and he doesn't fight it when Deacon pulls him in without thought of consequence. They may both have cause to regret it later, or they might not, but right now, the only thing holding Danse up from settling his full weight on Deacon's mouth is that hand still pushing down at his hip.
If he is smothering Deacon, the saving grace might be the fact that he can't hold out any longer. Hips still grinding and hand still moving furiously and erratically on his own cock, they both go still as his orgasm overtakes him, his hole clenching and spasming rhythmically around Deacon's invading tongue as the shudders wrack him, his come spilling over his tightened fist and dripping onto Deacon's forehead as his throat looses a hoarse and desperate whine.
There's nothing in this world more pleasing to Deacon than the way he somehow manages to make Danse act uncharacteristically in their throes of pleasure (except perhaps making him laugh, that's probably the runner-up). He's positively radiating joy as he plunges his tongue in and out, dragging it along Danse's inner walls and flicking it across his rim before restarting the cycle again and again.
Luckily, Deacon can spare the moment of shallow breathing to work Danse through another intense orgasm, the hot drip of spend on his head making him growl against Danse's ass. As much as he wants to draw back and lick the other man clean, he keeps his rhythm until he can be certain that he's wrung every drop from him. It isn't until then that his hands ease their grip on his hips, one of them giving his ass cheek a loving little tap to signal him to sit up again.
For all he'd been so nervous and cautious beforehand, he's dazed and spent enough now that the tap almost doesn't register through the haze. It takes him a good few seconds' delay to process it, and only then does he startle and promptly scoot back down over Deacon's chest until he can roll safely off to the side. He's panting even without having done much physical activity, though his muscles all feel like water and it'll take some time for the burn in his thighs to fade. He'll be fine once he gets into his power armor, as if he's done some bracing calisthenics before his journey.
"You're insane," he breathes, a deliberate echo of last night, surprising even himself with the depth of affection in his voice. "That was goddamn transcendental. Come here." He cups Deacon's cheek and pulls him into a kiss, not even caring where his tongue has just been.
Deacon looks almost equally delirious once freed from the confines of Danse's ass and legs, particularly due to the dreamy way he stares at Danse. He's without words for a moment, and then Danse speaks and he bursts into laughter, voice squeaking as his cheeks turn red.
He starts to reply, a desire to tell Danse how gorgeous he is when Deacon manages to bring him to his limits like this, but he doesn't find his words in time before a kiss so filthy that it has him groaning again and rolling over into Danse's lap. Any soreness he feels in his neck was absolutely fucking worth it.
Danse doesn't know just how much Deacon prizes making him laugh, but he too has a similar running list in his mind of all the different ways Deacon's laugh can sound, and when, and why. All of them are enchanting in their own way, but never quite so much as the sheer uncontrolled joy Danse can hear in it right now, and he feels for a moment like his chest just isn't big enough to contain the emotion that rises in it at that silly, genuine, blushing little squeak.
He squeezes Deacon close as if to transfer some of that energy to him, kissing deeper, gripping onto his ass and letting him grind his dripping cock for a moment against the hirsute washboard of Danse's stomach and leave a trail of clear slick through the hair, before flipping him over again and caging him against the mattress.
"I told you I wasn't leaving until I got my mouth on you," he purrs, letting his lips and teeth follow the same path as they had last night with the fading marks he can still see. He's quicker about it this time, no leisure and all hunger no matter how spent he might be, but he takes the time to grab the bottle of lube and bring it closer to hand before swallowing Deacon's cock back into his throat.
As equisite as it feels to grind against Danse like this, he hasn't forgotten how the man sounded when he'd held him down and demanded his cock be saved for his own needs. And no sooner does he think of it than Danse acts, flipping him onto his back once more and purring as he travels lower and makes Deacon whine with need.
"You did," he breathes, "I haven't forgotten... you're just so damn destracting..."
His fingers find their way into Danse's thick head of hair, breathless at the sight of him, but nothing can prepare him for the way Danse swallows him whole in one fell swoop, hips bucking and abs flexing as he sobs with pleasure, a delayed "-What the FUCK!" howled as he feels the sensitive tip of his cock drag across the back of Danse's throat. The fact that the lube has been secured hasn't escaped him, and he's going nuts trying to imagine what it's about to be used for.
"Oh my god-- You maniac. I-- ngh, what nefarious schemes are you plotting?"
If Danse's throat were any less occupied, he would chuckle at this, but his gag reflex isn't quite trained enough yet to manage that and take Deacon this far back at the same time. Not for lack of wanting or trying, though, as often as he implores Deacon to let him indulge his oral fixation on the nights they spend together. He's come a long way from his unpracticed eagerness that first time, and when Deacon rewards him with responses like this, it would take another full memory wipe to sway him from his determination to keep doing better.
That sob of pleasure will fuel him for the entire week they're apart, makes him lap roughly at the seam between Deacon's balls while Deacon's cock is still far enough down his throat for him to reach them with his tongue, but only at this direct and desperate question does he pull back enough to make the answer clear. Not enough to speak, but enough to coat a finger with lube and probe gently at Deacon's hole while sucking him, shallower bobs of his head now that give him space to concentrate on seeking out that sweet spot.
It's truly amazing how far Danse has advanced in skill for this particular task. Deacon can't wrap his head around it, and not because of any reason other than his own insecurities. He can't really grasp why Danse would want to with him, and yet he feels far too greedy to ask, let alone protest how worthy he is of such dedication.
It's bewildering, actually, when he feels that hot tongue on his balls and moments later a slick finger against his hole. Overwhelming. Deacon shudders, staring deeply into Danse's eyes as he reaches up and swipes a drop of Danse's come from his forehead before it's too dry to lewdly suck it from his finger with a moan so loud he feels it vibrate through his chest. He won't last long, not with the onslaught of sensation and the taste of Danse on his tongue.
If he were to ask, he would get nothing but heartfelt honesty, no matter how Danse might try to protest that he isn't good at explaining his feelings. It's easy enough, of course, even by the standards Danse holds himself to, to talk about how handsome he finds Deacon--the agile, lithe-muscled frame; the pale skin with freckles only Danse gets to see and touch and kiss; the battle scars that speak of something he must have been tough as hell to survive; the hints of vibrant red hair that feel like their own little secret for Danse to keep when others wouldn't know what color Deacon's hair was if asked. Danse already feels like he should tell Deacon all of this more often.
But it's nowhere near the only reason why he loves to do this. He wants so badly, always, to return some of the caretaking energy that had made this so downright addictive to him that first time. When he thinks back to the first time he'd tried to swallow Deacon's cock down to the root, barely able to hold the position and only able to sustain it for a second or two, he remembers how carefully Deacon had controlled his movements even when they'd both been drugged just as strongly, how tenderly he'd praised Danse for the effort, how second-nature it had seemed to him to order Danse to come first before letting himself surrender to pleasure, even during an act that should have been focused on him.
It should go both ways. Deacon deserves this. Danse's sense of justice and fairness had demanded it even before his affections had caught up, but now, it's about wanting to see him sated and warm and content for the pleasure of knowing he's happy.
Though there's an entirely different kind of thrill and pleasure in knowing how carnally wild Deacon gets for him, even if Danse in turn doesn't completely understand his own appeal. He doesn't need to understand it to groan vibratingly around Deacon's cock in turn as he watches Deacon suck traces of him from his fingers, another image that will be playing on a loop in his fantasies when he's alone in the Minutemen officers' quarters trying to force himself to keep quiet as he slips a hand into his uniform. He adds a second finger, pumping them in and out with drive and conviction now as he sucks, the deep hum of his voice taking on a coaxing, encouraging tone to spur Deacon on.
It's not so easy as telling Deacon how handsome he is. He knows he's handsome, his face hand-picked to be just handsome enough to make him charming but not overly memorable. It's more his own hang ups. Danse may still be learning who he is without the Brotherhood, but at least he's honest about that. Deacon's lost who he was years ago, has no idea anymore how much of him is fabricated or trained into him after so many years of servitude, swapping faces, names, and never sleeping in the same bed for more than maybe a week's time, if he's lucky.
It's easy to forget during these stretches of time spent with Danse, but he's never even told the other man of his past and the awful things he's done. He's past the point of casual honesty and now it's driven by fear, because he's let himself get far to close ans comfortable to someone who would surely feel nothing but betrayal by him once he finds out. It would kill Deacon to hurt Danse like that, but even moreso he knows he would not be able to handle the rejection that would come after. There's only so much that soft touches and praise can get you. He doesn't think forgiveness is included in that.
He'll meditate on this once Danse has left, haunted by it and the images of him in their throes of passion while his chest aches in torment. Until that time he's savoring everything Danse is giving him, panting with soft murmurs of praise until his babbling is incoherent.
He's sucked that finger clean a few times over at this point, hips gently rocking along with Danse's movements until that vibrating him has a moan getting caught in his throat. The hand in Danse's hair twists tighter, all the muscles in his legs and feet flexing as he howls Danse's name and spilling down his throat.
It's strange to Danse just how all right he is, at least for now, with not knowing any details about Deacon's past. It's not something he would always have been content to let lie, but when he knows now how flimsy and meaningless a facade 'the past' can truly be--how nothing he thought of as his own past actually did shape him the way he thought it did, because it was nothing but fiction, and how his actual past has no bearing on him now either, because he doesn't remember it--he doesn't think he needs to ask. It's one of the things he still wouldn't trust Deacon to be truthful about, anyway.
When Deacon remembers all of the other faces he's worn and the people he's pretended to be, when this is just the latest in the ever-longer string of names he's gone by, even Danse can understand how the lines might blur. But this is the only version he's ever known of the man falling apart in his arms, or so he thinks. To him, Deacon is only the sum total of his experiences in the same way as anyone else. The wit and charm and tenderness and sincere altruism have been a consistent enough throughline in Danse's acquaintance with him to feel as real as Cait's boldness or Piper's curiosity or Preston's tenacity, inherent qualities it would be absurd to suggest they couldn't take credit for.
But he has only the dimmest awareness of this internal conflict of Deacon's. And the historical details, the things by which he himself would deserve to feel betrayed upon learning them, are a complete mystery to him. Still--he is growing steadily more aware, to his shame, that he owes a lot of apologies these days, and he needs to hope that people have the grace to offer him forgiveness they aren't obligated to give. He isn't in a position to judge when it comes to old bigotry. Particularly not the kind Deacon is making up for.
The hand clenching in his hair is the last little piece of delicious sensory stimulation that he'll remember in his alone time this week, and he swallows everything Deacon gives him with thorough satisfaction, tongue bathing his shaft to ensure not a drop is left before he finally pulls back and withdraws his fingers. Neither of them is being precious about the kissing, and so he slides up and ducks in for one more, looking positively invigorated now.
"If that doesn't give you a reason to be smug at Francis while I'm gone, I don't know what will."
Perhaps that's all it takes, two men knowing they're borh trying to escape their wicked pasts and create a better future, not just for themselves but others. Deacon could live with that. He could be happy. And as Danse polishes him off and climbs higher, Deacon feels a little misty-eyed. It could easily be written off as overstimulation. Maybe it is, but he's no less than three times in the last 24 hours said something so heartfelt to Danse that he's sure he'll regret, and this could also easily be the fourth.
Panting, he kisses Danse with enough passion to last him for his trip; like it's the last he'll ever taste of him, a hand still tangled in his hair and the other caressing his cheek like its his job.
His laugh at Danse's callback is weak, but only because he's still dizzy from his orgasm. His voice is hoarse when he speaks back; "Francis Who? Don't know how I can be bothered to spare anyone that isn't you a single thought."
The kiss is startling in its fervor, but Danse will never complain about that, or hesitate for a second to melt into Deacon's arms and throw himself into the reciprocation. Never in his life has he had anyone it was genuinely difficult to drag himself out of bed with, anyone who could make him want to shirk his military duties for more time in their company, let alone actually consider doing so (if only for a minute.)
And never has he had anyone else who would prioritize him this way, or tell him so. He's glowing at that soft husky promise, kissing the heel of Deacon's palm as it caresses his cheek and looking so deeply pleased by it that he wouldn't even know how or why Deacon could regret saying it. He couldn't let Deacon take that back even if he tried, not now.
"And you call me the charmer," he murmurs, as he finally and reluctantly drags himself upright. "I'll be counting down the minutes until I can come home."
This is it. This is the image that's going to haunt him more than any other. The soft kiss against his palm, the way Danse's eyes seem to take on a new sort of shine, and that unrestricted smile he gives Deacon. It's beautiful. And as gorgeous as he's looked while absolutely debauched, it doesn't compare to seeing him so fucking happy.
His chest aches as Danse pulls away, but Deacon sits up anyway, that ache throbbing harder as he hears Danse say home. It's a perfectly normal word to use for the entire settlement, but in this context, Deacon attributes it to himself and this little house they seem to keep playing homemakers in. Maybe it should be home. It will be. Once Danse is inside of it again.
"Don't let yourself get too distracted, soldier," he teases with a smirk, "But if you do, I wouldn't mind the occasional message letting me know."
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He nods again, confident. "I've day dreamed about nuzzling between those cheeks so often I've lost count. C'mere. Let me take care of you."
Hands grasp at Danse's hips, fingers sliding behind them to cup at his plush ass and nudge him higher. Deacon licks at his own lips, his eyes only leaving Danse's to steal a glance at his cock as it fills out again, the sight alone nearly enough to get Deacon's to stir.
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The thought of it takes Danse's breath away, makes it catch in his throat with surprise and warm pleasure as he inches forward at Deacon's urging until he can brace and steady himself with hands against the wall. He stalls briefly, self-conscious, the flush to his skin taking on a tinge of embarrassment in addition to the arousal--but Deacon so clearly knows what he wants, with absolutely zero ambiguity, and when Danse already knows how deliriously pleasurable it is to give Deacon's fingers and cock free rein with his ass, the anticipation of feeling his tongue there pushes him the rest of the way until he's hovering carefully over Deacon's mouth on his knees.
So concerned is he about smothering Deacon, though, that his ass is clenched as tightly as all of his other taut muscles, straining as he tries to hold himself in a position where he's not actually touching Deacon at all, let alone putting weight on him.
"Like this?" he breathes, even his voice tense and trembling.
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While he does believe Danse when he said he trusts him, he also is keenly aware that he is a bigger man and self conscious still about his potential to hurt Deacon. He understands, of course. There are things about Deacon himself that he is insecure about; thinking that those things will hurt anyone who gets too close to him. Things from his past that Danse doesn't even have an inkling to, that make the concept of having a deeper relationship with the man feel impossible, too afraid that revealing them would send him running. Deacon wouldn't be able to handle it if he did.
He's putting all of that far from his mind as he mouths along the underside of Danse's cock, sucking kisses along his shaft and over his balls. He has to gain Danse's trust now, perhaps not with Deacon but with his own body, and pleasuring it is one sure-fire way to get him to forget those preconceptions and relax a bit more. Deacon's lips part wide, tongue lapping over the middle seam of Danse's testicles before drawing one of them into his mouth to warm and suck at with a groan. He'll work lower, but he'll need Danse to at least meet him halfway.
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He has a sense of the way he'll need to relax for Deacon to reach what he wants, but the fact that he isn't doing so yet is less about worry or self-consciousness now and more about sheer preoccupation, his mind thoroughly consumed with the sensation of Deacon licking and sucking him from this unfamiliar angle as his cock swells back to full mast, and at the rough heat of Deacon's tongue against his sack he lets himself press forward a little in his breathless desire for more.
"Ah, god," he gasps, fingers clenching against the wall as Deacon teases expertly at his balls, body easing very carefully further downward now that the slight trembling is just as much due to the pleasure he's feeling as to the difficulty of holding himself still. He can make it to that halfway point, low enough now to give Deacon's tongue access to his hole even if he's still feeling the burn in his thighs, but the way he removes one bracing hand from the wall to close it around his cock suggests that he can be persuaded further.
"I didn't even know people did this," he breathes, with wonderment. "And the idea of you wanting it all this time--touching yourself thinking about me like this--jesus, you don't know what that does to me."
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"Then tell me," he mutters, lapping kisses trailing along the stretch of skin behind Danse's balls, his own heart racing as he inches closer to his destination. Deacon's own cock gets its second wind by Danse's response, but he doesn't dare remove a hand from Danse's body to address it.
"I can only imagine, given what the idea of you thinking of me in your solitude makes me feel..." Deacon sighs, hot breath against Danse's skin before his tongue brushes across it in a wide arch, seeking out that tight hole while his hands pull his cheeks further apart.
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He might have managed some, actually, if just barely, while Deacon was still nuzzling at his balls, but the prospect of that grows more distant with each lingering kiss along his taint, making his breath come too hard and fast to speak eloquently, and as that heated tongue finally begins to work at him, Deacon's hands exposing him more than he expects to be right off the bat, all he can come up with now is a strangled noise of shock and delight.
His hand has gone still on his cock to focus on the sensation of Deacon's mouth, but at this, he squeezes tight along his length, lubricating it with the slickness Deacon is already eliciting from him as he lets out a choked and shuddering breath.
"God damn, it's a good thing I've got my own quarters there," he gasps. The thought is only tangentially connected, not well-articulated, but he thinks at this rate that he'll barely even make it to the Castle without needing to take care of himself again, with everything Deacon's giving him to think about right now.
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Deacon's tongue circles that tight ring of muscle a few times befote the pointed end of it teases at its center, prodding lightly to test its resistance. He can already imagine what Danse might look like during his pitstop, making a mental note to possibly find other things to keep him occupied on their evenings apart. These thoughts have Deacon getting ahead of himself, moaning against Danse and pushing his tongue past his rim almost too eagerly.
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"God--"
He's always been vocal, always been prone to needing to stifle himself physically with his hands to keep from being loud enough to alert any too-close passersby that the house isn't empty, but he doesn't have a free hand right now, and the urgent rock of his hips is accompanied by a cry between clenched teeth, as he tosses his head back and jerks himself faster and parts his thighs wider still to let Deacon open him up for more.
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Hands also, one of them easing its grip to pet fond circles into Danse's hip. The soft touches are affectionate and contrast deeply with what his mouth is doing. He can't help himself, either, because Danse is so fucking hot when he gets worked up. It makes Deacon feel like he's on fire, let alone needy in his own ways. His tongue swirls in circles and he finds his hips rotating in time, grinding up into nothing. If he bends his legs and raises his knees just maybe he can rut the tip of his own cock into his belly and ease some of its tension.
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Decorum, though, is fully out the window. He takes that steadying hand off the wall and reaches blindly behind him to grab onto Deacon's hip with bruising-tight fingers, too far gone to temper his own strength now. "Don't you dare," he growls, pushing down as if to pin Deacon one-handed to the mattress. "I'm not leaving without getting to suck you off. You're going to wait for me."
If it's any consolation to Deacon, the way Danse's thighs are trembling and balls are tightening is clear evidence that he won't be waiting much longer at all.
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If this is a fight for dominance, he isn't sure, but just as Danse has his desires, Deacon has his own, and risking his neck or frankly just smothering himself with Danse's ass is it.
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If he is smothering Deacon, the saving grace might be the fact that he can't hold out any longer. Hips still grinding and hand still moving furiously and erratically on his own cock, they both go still as his orgasm overtakes him, his hole clenching and spasming rhythmically around Deacon's invading tongue as the shudders wrack him, his come spilling over his tightened fist and dripping onto Deacon's forehead as his throat looses a hoarse and desperate whine.
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Luckily, Deacon can spare the moment of shallow breathing to work Danse through another intense orgasm, the hot drip of spend on his head making him growl against Danse's ass. As much as he wants to draw back and lick the other man clean, he keeps his rhythm until he can be certain that he's wrung every drop from him. It isn't until then that his hands ease their grip on his hips, one of them giving his ass cheek a loving little tap to signal him to sit up again.
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"You're insane," he breathes, a deliberate echo of last night, surprising even himself with the depth of affection in his voice. "That was goddamn transcendental. Come here." He cups Deacon's cheek and pulls him into a kiss, not even caring where his tongue has just been.
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He starts to reply, a desire to tell Danse how gorgeous he is when Deacon manages to bring him to his limits like this, but he doesn't find his words in time before a kiss so filthy that it has him groaning again and rolling over into Danse's lap. Any soreness he feels in his neck was absolutely fucking worth it.
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He squeezes Deacon close as if to transfer some of that energy to him, kissing deeper, gripping onto his ass and letting him grind his dripping cock for a moment against the hirsute washboard of Danse's stomach and leave a trail of clear slick through the hair, before flipping him over again and caging him against the mattress.
"I told you I wasn't leaving until I got my mouth on you," he purrs, letting his lips and teeth follow the same path as they had last night with the fading marks he can still see. He's quicker about it this time, no leisure and all hunger no matter how spent he might be, but he takes the time to grab the bottle of lube and bring it closer to hand before swallowing Deacon's cock back into his throat.
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"You did," he breathes, "I haven't forgotten... you're just so damn destracting..."
His fingers find their way into Danse's thick head of hair, breathless at the sight of him, but nothing can prepare him for the way Danse swallows him whole in one fell swoop, hips bucking and abs flexing as he sobs with pleasure, a delayed "-What the FUCK!" howled as he feels the sensitive tip of his cock drag across the back of Danse's throat. The fact that the lube has been secured hasn't escaped him, and he's going nuts trying to imagine what it's about to be used for.
"Oh my god-- You maniac. I-- ngh, what nefarious schemes are you plotting?"
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That sob of pleasure will fuel him for the entire week they're apart, makes him lap roughly at the seam between Deacon's balls while Deacon's cock is still far enough down his throat for him to reach them with his tongue, but only at this direct and desperate question does he pull back enough to make the answer clear. Not enough to speak, but enough to coat a finger with lube and probe gently at Deacon's hole while sucking him, shallower bobs of his head now that give him space to concentrate on seeking out that sweet spot.
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It's bewildering, actually, when he feels that hot tongue on his balls and moments later a slick finger against his hole. Overwhelming. Deacon shudders, staring deeply into Danse's eyes as he reaches up and swipes a drop of Danse's come from his forehead before it's too dry to lewdly suck it from his finger with a moan so loud he feels it vibrate through his chest. He won't last long, not with the onslaught of sensation and the taste of Danse on his tongue.
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But it's nowhere near the only reason why he loves to do this. He wants so badly, always, to return some of the caretaking energy that had made this so downright addictive to him that first time. When he thinks back to the first time he'd tried to swallow Deacon's cock down to the root, barely able to hold the position and only able to sustain it for a second or two, he remembers how carefully Deacon had controlled his movements even when they'd both been drugged just as strongly, how tenderly he'd praised Danse for the effort, how second-nature it had seemed to him to order Danse to come first before letting himself surrender to pleasure, even during an act that should have been focused on him.
It should go both ways. Deacon deserves this. Danse's sense of justice and fairness had demanded it even before his affections had caught up, but now, it's about wanting to see him sated and warm and content for the pleasure of knowing he's happy.
Though there's an entirely different kind of thrill and pleasure in knowing how carnally wild Deacon gets for him, even if Danse in turn doesn't completely understand his own appeal. He doesn't need to understand it to groan vibratingly around Deacon's cock in turn as he watches Deacon suck traces of him from his fingers, another image that will be playing on a loop in his fantasies when he's alone in the Minutemen officers' quarters trying to force himself to keep quiet as he slips a hand into his uniform. He adds a second finger, pumping them in and out with drive and conviction now as he sucks, the deep hum of his voice taking on a coaxing, encouraging tone to spur Deacon on.
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It's easy to forget during these stretches of time spent with Danse, but he's never even told the other man of his past and the awful things he's done. He's past the point of casual honesty and now it's driven by fear, because he's let himself get far to close ans comfortable to someone who would surely feel nothing but betrayal by him once he finds out. It would kill Deacon to hurt Danse like that, but even moreso he knows he would not be able to handle the rejection that would come after. There's only so much that soft touches and praise can get you. He doesn't think forgiveness is included in that.
He'll meditate on this once Danse has left, haunted by it and the images of him in their throes of passion while his chest aches in torment. Until that time he's savoring everything Danse is giving him, panting with soft murmurs of praise until his babbling is incoherent.
He's sucked that finger clean a few times over at this point, hips gently rocking along with Danse's movements until that vibrating him has a moan getting caught in his throat. The hand in Danse's hair twists tighter, all the muscles in his legs and feet flexing as he howls Danse's name and spilling down his throat.
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When Deacon remembers all of the other faces he's worn and the people he's pretended to be, when this is just the latest in the ever-longer string of names he's gone by, even Danse can understand how the lines might blur. But this is the only version he's ever known of the man falling apart in his arms, or so he thinks. To him, Deacon is only the sum total of his experiences in the same way as anyone else. The wit and charm and tenderness and sincere altruism have been a consistent enough throughline in Danse's acquaintance with him to feel as real as Cait's boldness or Piper's curiosity or Preston's tenacity, inherent qualities it would be absurd to suggest they couldn't take credit for.
But he has only the dimmest awareness of this internal conflict of Deacon's. And the historical details, the things by which he himself would deserve to feel betrayed upon learning them, are a complete mystery to him. Still--he is growing steadily more aware, to his shame, that he owes a lot of apologies these days, and he needs to hope that people have the grace to offer him forgiveness they aren't obligated to give. He isn't in a position to judge when it comes to old bigotry. Particularly not the kind Deacon is making up for.
The hand clenching in his hair is the last little piece of delicious sensory stimulation that he'll remember in his alone time this week, and he swallows everything Deacon gives him with thorough satisfaction, tongue bathing his shaft to ensure not a drop is left before he finally pulls back and withdraws his fingers. Neither of them is being precious about the kissing, and so he slides up and ducks in for one more, looking positively invigorated now.
"If that doesn't give you a reason to be smug at Francis while I'm gone, I don't know what will."
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Panting, he kisses Danse with enough passion to last him for his trip; like it's the last he'll ever taste of him, a hand still tangled in his hair and the other caressing his cheek like its his job.
His laugh at Danse's callback is weak, but only because he's still dizzy from his orgasm. His voice is hoarse when he speaks back; "Francis Who? Don't know how I can be bothered to spare anyone that isn't you a single thought."
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And never has he had anyone else who would prioritize him this way, or tell him so. He's glowing at that soft husky promise, kissing the heel of Deacon's palm as it caresses his cheek and looking so deeply pleased by it that he wouldn't even know how or why Deacon could regret saying it. He couldn't let Deacon take that back even if he tried, not now.
"And you call me the charmer," he murmurs, as he finally and reluctantly drags himself upright. "I'll be counting down the minutes until I can come home."
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His chest aches as Danse pulls away, but Deacon sits up anyway, that ache throbbing harder as he hears Danse say home. It's a perfectly normal word to use for the entire settlement, but in this context, Deacon attributes it to himself and this little house they seem to keep playing homemakers in. Maybe it should be home. It will be. Once Danse is inside of it again.
"Don't let yourself get too distracted, soldier," he teases with a smirk, "But if you do, I wouldn't mind the occasional message letting me know."