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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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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."