When Dez asks the new girl what they should call her, she laughs and says Dancer like it's the best joke she's ever told.
And because Deacon is good at his job, he knows why: back when you could do that sort of thing for a living, she'd fill entire theaters with people who paid to watch her dance, and with the acrobatic way she moves and the divine shape of her body, it's not hard to believe. But it's less of a codename and more a force of spirit. With Dancer, everything's a performance. Slaughtering an entire apartment building of raiders becomes a choreographed routine on her elegant legs. Sometimes he feels like the only man in the audience of her violent, graceful one-woman ballet. Dancer lives for the spotlight, Deacon clings to the shadows, and together they make a hell of a team.
Deacon knows her actual name, too, and that's the real joke - a name so plain it may as well be fake (he likes that about her: not quite anonymous, but adjacent to). And, funnier yet, the woman herself is anything but. She stands out like a beacon, tall and slender with cream-and-coffee skin, and a wild mane of dark honey curls - fucking stunning, those colors together, and he wonders every now and then what two beautiful people came together to make a woman like Jill Carver.
For a while, he doesn't even think of her that way. Things stay nice and distant - safe, the way he likes. Maybe his eyes linger too long on the smattering of light freckles like constellations across her cheeks, or he finds himself staring at the slim column of her neck, wondering if she might like to be bitten there. He chalks it up to having a partner for the first time in - ever. Not used to having anyone watching his back, let alone someone like Dancer.
And then one day they make a quick stop by Goodneighbor to barter off the junk that always weighs down Dancer's bag. The mayor himself makes an appearance for the illustrious vault dweller, throws a familiar arm around Dancer's shoulders and mutters something in her ear that makes her giggle and flush rose gold, and Deacon's not a jealous guy, he's really not, but something in him tightens like a spring, coiled and tense and heavy in the pit of his stomach. He feels the sudden, familiar urge to run, fade into the shadows and disappear, never to be found again - and a counter-desire, strong and growing stronger, to stay exactly where he is.
Deacon likes getting to the bottom of things. He's good at it. Knowledge is his strongest weapon, his ultimate defense - in another life, he might've used it to actually do some good - but right then, he's wishing he never found out about the small part of him that's slowly falling for Dancer.
Because after that, it's much harder to ignore.
A dark, storm-heavy night hangs overhead when they walk the winding shoreline back to Warwick Homestead, raider blood and seawater on her boots and his sneakers. Dancer counts through the caps and ammo in her pockets with a grin, white teeth flashing between russet lips. The deep green of her jumpsuit clings to her body at the waist, hinting at round hips and those legs that go on and on and on, carry her through his dreams at night so that he wakes up always parched and starving for her. "I'd call that a job well done," she says proudly, dark eyes glancing his way.
He eyes her from behind his shades, smirking. "Y'know, back before I met you, I'd go whole days without massacring a bunch of things. Honest."
It's that last word that makes her laugh, and he likes the sound of it, even if it's at his expense. Likes the look of her smile even more, full, parting lips the color of chestnut, warm and rich and soft. "Come on, that one's not even a lie," he complains, and she gives him an amused, "Uh-huh" in response.
Deacon lingers in the shadows outside while she goes in to tell the Warwick family their raider troubles are over and sell them the Minutemen spiel. He smokes a cigarette and listens to the distant melody of her voice, remembering all the times he's heard it around his name. His codename. The six letters and two syllables that identify who he is to the Commonwealth, to her, and very little else. They're partners and they're practically strangers, his favorite kind of friendship, and Dancer plays her part fabulously.
The small, cement room at the back of the settlement doesn't provide much warmth or comfort, but it's private, and these are the highlights of Deacon's day anyways, the times when he gets Dancer all to himself. He stretches out over the ripped cushions of a faded black couch, his feet dangling off the edge and an arm bent back under his head.
Dancer throws a cursory glance his way, eyes lingering just a beat too long on the shape of his bicep. Beneath his stellar poker face, he fights the urge to smile. She's a difficult read, he'll give her that, but after a few weeks trailing around in her shadow, he's pretty sure he's got her pegged.
She's guarded, but not shy. Listens more than she talks, sings to herself when they're alone, and always, always calls him on his lies - the ones she picks up on, anyways, and he keeps a mental tally of his successes and failures, which ones she laughed away and which flew under the radar. Sometimes, much to his reluctant admiration, he can't tell one way or the other. She'll smile and tilt her head a little, let him wonder whether she took the bait or not, her own form of lying, dishonesty to deflect.
It's like someone hand-crafted her out of every wet dream and adolescent crush he's ever had, all his weaknesses and latent fantasies, wrapped her up tight in green cotton and sent her strolling into his life.
So yeah, Deacon's thought about it. Slipping her out of her jumpsuit, his hands on her rich, dark skin, those thick thighs thrown over his shoulders or wrapped around his waist. He thinks about it the first time he sees her, stumbling through the empty streets of Concord. He thinks about it when she walks into HQ and stares Desdemona down past the barrels of Glory's minigun. He's thought about it several times since then, in deeper and deeper detail, and he's thinking about it right now, as Dancer starts to loosen the straps of her leather armor.
She pulls the black bandana from her hair, the thick mass of curls springing loose and falling down around her shoulders. He spies a stray curl clinging to the nape of her neck and imagines coming up behind her, brushing it away with his fingers and touching his mouth to the copper-brown skin there.
Dancer empties ammo and loose cigarettes from the breast pockets of her jumpsuit - previously little more than a pile of cloth in the back of a Red Rocket before she got her hands on it. She's reinforced the cloth with ballistic armor, sewed reinforced leather into the knees and elbows, and replaced the inner lining with a length of some soft black material she found in an old crafts store. Cinched in the waist, too, because apparently for all her secrets, she refuses to let her figure be one of them. She even stitched over the old, worn nametag of whatever poor sap had worn it before her: it now reads Dancer in sprawling, bright red script. "So the Institute knows who to expect," she says with a smile. She's wearing the jumpsuit and the smile when that courser bleeds out at her feet in Greenetech Genetics, and he imagines, for better or worse, Dancer might just get her wish.
She rolls the sleeves up to her elbows and sits down over his legs, fishing a bottle of rum from her bag and waving it at him temptingly.
He raises a brow over his shades at her. "Tryin' to get me drunk already, boss?"
"Trying to keep warm," she says, lifting her chin, all decadent pre-war haughtiness and even in the damp, cold metal shed of some backwoods settlement, he's very much still all about it. "You want to freeze to death, be my damn guest."
"Maybe it'll thaw out that cold heart of yours, Dancer." He takes the bottle when she passes it to him and draws a long swig.
She laughs, teasing her fingers through the rain-damp mass of her curls. "Please. That's a top shelf liquor deal at least, and I would not be drinking it in a cold dark room in the middle of a radstorm."
"You pre-war girls and your standards."
"You mean you wouldn't prefer a dry bed right now?"
"I've slept in worse places. Company's decent, at least."
Her eyelids slip a little lower, crooked smile still gracing her lips. "There's always that," she agrees fondly.
She slips the filter of a cigarette between her lips, patting her pockets down for a lighter. Deacon brandishes his between two of his fingers, grinning at her. Dancer leans closer, closer, until he can feel the ends of her curls tickling his bare arm and the inch of skin where his t-shirt has ridden up. Her hand slides over his hip and she tilts her head up, bobbing the cigarette in his direction and smiling around the filter.
Deacon flips the lighter open and swipes the flame to life, watches in abject fascination when two slender fingers come up to hold the cigarette in place as she takes a drag and the cherry lights. He can smell her, pre-war bubblegum and gun oil under sharp cigarette smoke.
Dancer settles back on her heels, and the weight of her on top of him is comforting, warm and soft and intimate. In a simple way, bodies are always honest, and even if he can't be with Dancer, maybe ever, he can offer her that. After a few pulls of smoke that she lets curl and spin like silk through the air, she taps ash onto the floor and cocks a smile down at him. It's a lazy smile, crooked and devious. "Thanks," she says, deceptively casual, her dark eyes lingering on his throat as he swallows back more rum. "You really light my fire, partner."
"God." He shakes his head with a groan, laughter churning under the sound. "Might wanna stick to your strong suit, boss. Y'know . . . blowin' heads off, breakin' hearts, musical numbers about rainforest animals - "
She rolls her eyes, smiling despite herself. "Lions, Dee. We were lions. And you probably would've thought it was dumb, leaping around on a stage covered in makeup, but that was my life." She leans her head back, dark eyes two hundred years away. "God, it was amazing. I toured all over the country. I had fans. Even had a stalker once, before Luke scared him off." Then she falls silent, because she never brings him up if she can help it; and whenever she does, it's always Lucas Carver, not this warm, fond Luke. Her expression stays easy, though, open, instead of closing off - and he knows nuance, he knows body language and vocal tones, but mostly he knows Dancer, and he knows that some small part of her trusts him now, in spite of all his many warnings not to.
"And I'm not a heartbreaker," she says evenly, while she does a fair job of breaking his. "Just a strong-willed woman who knows what she wants."
"Semantics? At this hour? You know I don't parse after dark."
"Parsing is syntax, smart-ass," she laughs, a rough, smoke-heavy sound. "And you have read way too many fucking books."
He shifts beneath her weight, reaching up instinctively to steady her. His palm lands at her waist, one long, muscular thigh sliding down over his hip. It's a painfully intimate position, nothing farther than moments they've had before when drunken flirting got a little out of hand - but close. She doesn't move away, so he keeps his hand on the rough, patched material of her jumpsuit. "So what's a dancer need all that language talk in her brain for? I saw your old textbooks. Pretty in-depth stuff."
"Mind, body, and soul," she lists off like a mantra, tilting the neck of the rum bottle back and forth with each word. "If you keep them fed, you'll be happy. Dancing fed my body. Linguistics fed my mind."
Deacon watches the smile dance across her face like the first beam of sunlight after a radstorm. "And the last one?"
Dancer spears him with those dark brown eyes, irises blending into pupil. A flush of tawny amber touches her cheeks, and her lips part, tongue flashing out to wet her plump bottom lip. "Starving."
He swallows, feeling a rush of heat shoot down his body toward his groin. "Picky eater?" he rasps in a dry voice.
"Yeah," she murmurs, her thumb idly stroking the neck of the bottle. He notices. "Picky - but decisive."
"Really?" His hand squeezes gently at her hip. "What kinda decisions we talkin' here, Dancer?"
She sets the bottle down onto the floor with a dull clunk and leans forward, bracing a hand over his shoulder. Her knee lands on the other side of his leg, and she's straddling him proper now, fingers curling around a handful of his shirt. "Reckless ones," she whispers, slightly breathless. "You down?"
He laughs, a choked, hungry sound. "Never dance around the point, do you?"
"Oh, god, not now," she huffs in amusement, nipping brazenly at the skin below his jaw, and a shudder grips his body from spine to toes in response.
"Guess you'll have to shut me up, then."
"Great." She lets the word out in a breath of relief then kisses him with little preamble, just a quick, coy smile and her eyes slipping closed before he feels her lips brush over his. He tastes rum and cigarettes, his tongue pushing deeper, over the swell of her thick bottom lip and then he tastes Dancer. His hand finds the nape of her neck and curls around the soft skin there as he kisses her deeper.
"Deacon," she murmurs, and her voice around his name is a marvel as she rolls her hips and presses her weight down on the erection caught in his jeans, scattering the rest of the thoughts in his mind into wordless bliss.
"Tell me what you need, boss." He toys with the zipper of her jumpsuit, shifting his hips to press himself up against her, drawing a strangled breath from her lips.
She sucks at his throat, tongue scraping over stubble, and the sudden sting makes his cock throb beneath her. "Mmn," she hums in appreciation, smiling delightedly. "Get me out of these clothes."
He draws the zipper down, parting the faded green material around her cinnamon skin and the white cotton of her tank top underneath. She shrugs impatiently out of the sleeves and runs her hands up his arms, admiring firm muscle and smooth skin under her fingers, the occasional thin ridge of scar tissue. He tugs the jumpsuit down to her hips with a rumble somewhere deep in his chest. Her tank top is torn in places and a size too small for her, clinging snug to her waist and restraining the swell of her breasts. Deacon presses his mouth to her collarbone, trailing his lips and teeth lower to the dip between her breasts, nipping at the soft flesh there.
Dancer's nails scrape over his biceps, the muscles twitching and bunching under her hands. She murmurs something like "fucking love your arms" and then bursts into a curl of sharp laughter, too high and fast to be sultry, but he likes that. She can't be all sensual. The Commonwealth wouldn't stand a chance if she was.
She hasn't taken her hands off of him yet and doesn't seem likely to anytime soon, so Deacon grabs her tank top it in his fists and pulls until the worn cotton tears apart in his hands.
Dancer squeaks in surprise like a tiny bird, and he opens his mouth to mutter something like an apology, but the sight of her breasts spilling loose steals the voice from his throat. Her nipples are dark and small, and a tiny metal bar rests through the left one, wee little silver balls on either side of the stiff peak. "Well, well, well." He presses a gentle kiss to her pierced nipple and tentatively flicks his tongue out over it, feeling the smooth metal under his lips.
"Ng, yeah, like that," she encourages him, her hand at the back of his neck. When he covers her with his mouth and lightly sucks, her eyes flutter shut and she whimpers.
"You're just full of surprises, aren't you?" he says with delight. "Gotta admit, even I've never seen one of those before."
"A relic from my youth," she confesses with a lovely crimson flush. "Took fuckin' hours to thaw out after the vault."
He muffles his laugh against the soft flesh of her breast, and she murmurs lovingly in response. "Deac - oh!" His mouth and tongue on the peak of her other dusky nipple cuts his name short in her mouth, her voice melting into a wordless moan. At this point, it won't be long before they're both just making unintelligible sounds at each other, and it's not very romantic, but Dancer was hardly that kind of woman before the war, and she certainly isn't now.
"Gotta get these off you, sugar," he purrs in her ear, bunching the thick cloth of her jumpsuit in his hands.
With a whisper of impatience, she rolls off of him and gracefully onto her feet, rising into a slim silhouette against the moonlight streaming in through the window. He slinks after her, kicking out of his sneakers and landing on his knees at her feet. He grins and slides his hands over the soft skin of her stomach, pale against her rich tawny-brown. As he tugs the suit down her legs, she swings her hips from side to side in rolling, fluid waves. He can feel every shift and tense of her muscles beneath his palms, and finally seeing the body he's only witnessed in brief glimpses before is even better than he thought it'd be. He feels like a vaultie seeing the sun for the first time.
Deacon closes his mouth over her skin and laps at her thigh, cupping the back of her leg in his hand. "Fuck, Dancer," he sighs before scraping his teeth over her skin and feeling her jerk in response. "You're gorgeous."
"My name, Dee," she pants down at him, her fingers soft over the back of his head. "I know you know it. You know - hah - fucking everything."
Grinning, he lifts his mouth inches from the damp seat of her underwear, where he can see how wet she is for him already. "Jill," he says, caressing her thighs with his hands, then repeats himself pointedly, "Tell me what you need."
"Your hands," she puffs out in desperation, and in the dim lighting he can see her throat move as she swallows empty air. He's barely touched her, barely said a word, and already she looks ready to fall apart. "Your mouth, your cock, anything, just god, please fuckin' touch me."
It's too sweet and too candid an invitation to resist. It erases any lingering reservations from the back of his mind as he slips her underwear down her thighs, tongue running along the back of his teeth in anticipation. "Your wish is my . . ." His throat goes dry at the sight of her glistening and slick for him under dark curls. "Strong recommendation," he finishes in a weak, creaking breath.
Dancer giggles, the sound edging toward shy as she smiles down at him. "Leave the shades on," she adds breathlessly and taps the frame of his sunglasses with a finger.
"I can do that." With a few more helpful wiggles of her shapely legs, she helps him free her from her boots and the rest of her clothing. He guides one of her knees over his shoulder, forcing her to rely on his hold to keep balance, and slowly she leans into his hands - trusting him, and god that shouldn't turn him on as much as it does.
At the first brush of his lips over her skin, Dancer gasps sharply and twitches against his hands, then laughs as if he's startled her. "Mmn, been a while."
"I'll make it a good one," Deacon promises. It's been a while for him, too - not that long, and certainly not as long as her - but he's always been particularly good at this and he means to fulfill that promise. He parts her folds with his tongue in one long, slow stroke that makes her shudder above him. Her skin is soft and slick with want, and when he closes his lips over the sensitive bud hidden between, she lets out a delicious little whimper. He feels her leg tense briefly over his shoulder, a reflexive reaction to pull him closer.
"Shit," she whispers, incredulous. "That's better than I remembered."
"Oh, I dunno," he remarks casually, sliding two fingers up the wet length of her slit. "I might just be awful good with my mouth." He traces back down and dips his fingers into her, down to the first knuckle, so that she feels the stretch around them, but no deeper. When his mouth returns to her aching sex, she presses down into him.
"Good for - mmfh." Her head drops back, her body swaying dangerously until he steadies her. "For more'n just lying, it seems," she pants finally, before a wrecked laugh that seems to roll out of her.
He tuts in mock disappointment. "The hand that feeds, Jill," he teases, and places the hand in question innocently over her knee instead. "Come on, you're smarter than that."
"Fucker," she accuses, and then suddenly her hands are on his shoulders and she's pushing him down onto his back. He lands splayed out on the cold metal floor, Dancer flushed bronze and gloriously naked on top of him, leaning in to cover his mouth with hers. She kisses him hungrily, nipping and licking at his lips, grinding herself down onto his cock through the rough denim of his jeans.
The floor is hard and unforgiving beneath him, but Dancer is warm and soft. He feels out her hips and ass, tracing the generous curves there before reaching around to brush his calloused fingertips over her sex.
"Jesus, Dee, you already struck gold," she whines impatiently at his teasing, slapping his hand away in favor of tugging at his shirt. Her eyes are dark and dilated with lust as she helps him pull it up over his head. "Oh, yes," she breathes in admiration, tracing her fingers over the contours of his chest. "Y'know, I thought the constant costume changes were gonna piss me off." She lowers her mouth to the slope of his ribs, tongue flicking over his skin and drawing a shaky breath from his lungs. "But if I'm quick enough, I get to see a little of what's underneath. . ." Her lips continue lower, one hand sliding down a trail of dark ginger hair to the button of his jeans. "And now I just want to see more." She wrestles him out of his jeans with strong, almost aggressive hands, like she takes riling her up as a personal affront to her pride. The grey cotton of his underwear barely restrains his cock, hard and straining since the moment she sat down on top of him, and she lets out a pleased little moan at the sight of him. "Mmn, I've been missing out, I see."
He taps the side of his nose with a wink. "Need-to-know."
She frees his cock from his briefs and cradles it in her hand, dipping her head to kiss the base of his shaft. Her palm is warm and soft like silk as she slowly drags her lips up his length. Then she reaches the throbbing head, tongue sliding over a thin vein before she takes him into the scorching heat of her mouth.
"Fuck, Jill," he groans, burying his fingers into her thick curls. His head falls back against the cold floor and the words leave him in a deep gust of breath, curling with laughter. "Ohh, fuck, wow."
Her lips tremble around him when she laughs back. He can feel her tongue stroking along his cock as she sinks deeper, suckling softly, fingers curling tight around the base of his shaft. Her thumb shifts lower to stroke once, gently, over the shape of his balls right as he hits the back of her throat, like an orchestrated dance - because she's fucking Dancer and even when she's sucking him off, every movement is purpose and precision.
She lifts her gaze to meet his through the dim light from a nearby lantern, hand still twisting tight and saliva-slick over the last few inches of his cock. Her cheeks are stained a deep crimson with desire; it makes the freckles over her face stand out, and vaguely he registers a small part of himself that wants to count each and every one.
Deacon doesn't know where to look - every part of her is so tempting and sinful, from her soft, round shoulders beneath her massive curls to the thick ring of her lips around his cock. He just wants to drink in the beautiful sight of her for an eternity, floating through the waves of sharp pleasure that wash over him.
Dancer shifts her knees, rubbing at the elbow that's been supporting her weight against the hard, unforgiving ground.
"I'm no pre-war expert, but I'm pretty sure they made furniture for this kinda activity," he suggests with a smirk, breath coming short and fast.
Smiling coyly, she stretches to her feet and saunters over to the mattress in the corner. Deacon kicks out of his jeans, cock bobbing with the motion. She laughs and sprawls out over the bed, knees bent and pressed together as he kneels down beside her.
He runs a hand up the slope of her leg, slipping between her thighs to the slick heat of her sex. "Ah, shit, Dancer," and he means to say her name instead, but he's too caught up in need and heat to remember. He slides his fingers slowly into her, registering hot and wet and tight until they're buried fully inside of her, his palm flush against her folds.
"Oh," Dancer gasps. "Dee - "
"Yeah," he chuckles, his voice harsh. He grinds the heel of his palm gently against her clit, then harder when she whimpers and digs her nails into his forearm. "Sit tight, sugar. I got you." He makes a big show of situating himself between her legs, shoulders brushing her thighs, all while his fingers are still deep inside of her. He crooks them every few seconds, coaxing gasps and moans from her swollen lips. Her hips buck into his touch, seeking friction and pressure, her cunt pulsing around his fingers, and he groans at the thought of her around his cock.
Deacon straightens his shades on the bridge of his nose before licking his lips and setting to work. With his fingers still fucking her, languid and easy, he laps at her clit with rough, slow drags of his tongue. The combined sensation has her twitching and trembling in seconds, dark thighs clenching around his head like he's fantasized about a thousand times before.
Her fingers slide over his head seeking something to hold onto, brushing uselessly over a nearly nonexistent layer of fine stubble. "Fuck," she groans, and grips at his shoulders instead until he feels the faintest prickle of nails in his skin. He presses his lips into a tight circle around her clit and sucks lightly, pumping his fingers faster, in a shallow, quick rhythm.
"Yes," she hisses, throwing one arm up over her head and catching the leg of a side table in a death grip. She uses the leverage to writhe and squirm back and forth, meeting and evading his determined tongue in turns to find that perfect pressure that will send her over the edge. "Oh, god, yes, there!"
Deacon flicks his tongue light and rapid over her clit as he crooks his fingers inside of her, the tips of them brushing just the right spot to make her see stars behind her tightly shut eyes. He has to hold her hips steady with his free hand when she starts to buck against him, and after a few more firm circles of his tongue around her clit, she unravels with a wild scream.
Dancer coming is a fucking spectacle to behold, an alignment of the stars, it's order and chaos and the duality of human nature all coming together at once in her seizing hips, and for that brief, devastating moment, everything seems to make sense in the world. He feels her legs tense up over his shoulders as her whole body goes rigid with her release. The velvety walls of her sex clamp down tight around his fingers while he strokes her through it, and he keeps his mouth closed over her clit, tongue working her diligently until she whimpers and shoves him away with her foot, trembling with lingering aftershocks of pleasure.
Deacon swipes the back of his arm over his mouth and grins triumphantly down at her. Some of her curls cling dark brown and damp with sweat to her face as she catches her breath. He lazily kisses his way back up her body, giving her time to recover. His mouth finds a taut, erect nipple and he swipes his tongue over it once, twice, until she grips the back of his neck to hold him closer. Then he uses his teeth feather-light, grazing the blunt edge along her skin with the faintest amount of pressure. He feels her leg slide up and bend around his waist, and his cock brushes over her weeping sex, making him shudder at the scorching heat.
Dancer smiles right before he kisses her, he can feel the curve in her lips under his, and when he prods against her, she sighs in pleasure. "Deacon," she breathes gratefully, with anticipation, and kisses his jaw, his chin, the side of his mouth. The shades are starting to slip down his nose, so she pushes them back up, gazing at her reflection in the black lenses and wondering what his eyes look like behind them. She hopes one day she'll get to find out. For now, the weight of him on top of her and his mouth blazing a trail of heat over her breasts is more than lovely enough. "Please."
With an easy smile, he teases the head of his cock over her sensitive folds, watching her shiver at the touch. "Ready for me, huh?" He brushes his knuckles gingerly over her and groans at the wetness that coats his skin. "God, Jill, you really are. I won't make you wait, gorgeous." He palms himself and makes one last stroke down her sex with his cock before sliding slowly in. With his elbow braced over her head, all he can see when he pushes into her is the play of relief across her face, features softening into a blissful smile. Her coal-dark eyes shine bright under heavy lids, teeth flashing white between her lips.
"Oh, god!" Dancer cries, clinging to his shoulders when he's seated fully inside of her. Her nails drag down his arms, and she nods her head frantically. "Yes, yes, please, keep going," she urges him in a hushed voice.
"Fuck, I'll never stop," he laughs, a scrape of frantic pleasure edging the sound. He cradles her hip in his hand and starts a languid rhythm, sliding out and driving slowly back in, deep and thorough. "Christ, you're so good."
She rolls her head to the side and latches onto his bicep with her mouth, sucking lightly at his skin and pulling a groan from deep in his chest. Her bite loosens around a gasp when he bucks instinctively into her. He shifts one of his knees higher, coaxing her leg up over his shoulder. The angle slips him deeper inside of her, and the slick, snug grip of her sex around his cock is almost too divine for words. He can think of a few off the top of his head, but they're pretty weak. Heavenly, marvelous, a real-life-fucking miracle - the words'll come later. All there is right now is the feel of her around him and her gasping, high-pitched moans ringing loudly off the metal walls above them.
"Deacon!" She lets her head fall back against the mattress, haloed by the wild mane of her brunette curls.
His hand hunts over her leg to her sex, finding her clit beneath the pad of his thumb. "Goddamn, Jill, you're the best fuckin' thing I've ever felt."
A flash of amusement passes over her face and she pants out a breathy laugh.
"Scout's honor," he murmurs with a smirk, nipping at her throat. He rolls his hips in deep, even thrusts and strokes his tongue over her pulse point, short of breath and nearing delirious with pleasure.
She splays a hand out against his stomach to feel his muscles move as he fucks her, voicing a moan of approval low in her throat. "Fuck, Deacon - ah, god you're gonna make me come."
"That was the plan," he grits out, too fucked-out and focused to pull off the humor, but she laughs anyways, sounding just as shattered. His thumb is still stroking circles over her clit, and her walls pulse erratically around him, body arching up in anticipation. Her head shakes back and forth, hips almost thrashing as she teeters on the edge. "Come on, Dancer. I believe in you, champ."
After another frenzied laugh, her face screws up and suddenly she's coming beneath him, one leg hooked around his waist, heel digging into his ass. Her sex clenches deliciously snug around his cock, and he hisses in pleasure at the sweet, perfect resistance every time he thrusts back in. It's almost enough to push him over the edge, and he grinds his teeth against the building tension.
Dancer comes down gasping and quivering, planting messy kisses over his jaw until she finds his mouth. Her tongue sweeps lazily over his before she pulls away, panting for breath. She winks up at him and rolls over onto her stomach, lifting onto all fours.
Deacon wets his lips as he runs a hand over the soft curves of her ass, landing a light slap onto one round cheek and smirking when she hums in approval. Vault-Tec may have fulfilled its civic duty of completely fucking over hundreds of thousands of people, and he knows she paid a higher price than most for it, but right now he's damn glad they froze Jill Carver and her phenomenal body. He sidles up behind her and eases his cock back into the warm grasp of her sex, palming her hip in one of his hands. She tosses her hair back, filling the room with her throaty, sensual moans.
"Deacon," she whimpers again, and it sounds so right when she does, "oh, fuck, Deacon!"
He drives his cock faster into her slick heat, toeing the line of orgasm, his hips and core tensed and trembling. "Shit, shit, fuck," he gasps and pulls out, taking himself into his hand and coming in spurts over her back and thighs with a tremendous groan.
Dancer grinds her ass back against his cock, his knuckles brushing her skin as he pumps himself through the last few aftershocks of his climax. When the heat and tingles of ecstasy finally fade from his body, he slumps back onto his ass and splays out over the floor, moaning in relief at the cool metal against his overheated skin.
"Jesus," Dancer croaks, collapsing onto the mattress. After a quiet moment of just their labored breathing, he hears her laugh. "I haven't come like that in centuries."
He snorts with half-hearted laughter. "Not bad, Dancer. I still say stick to your day job."
"Blowing heads off is gonna be hard when I can't feel my legs." She pauses. "So is dancing, come to think of it. You fucked me out of all my talents."
"Well, I just discovered several other things you're good at. Give me ten minutes and you can show me again."
"Cute. Come clean me up first, then maybe we'll talk round two."
Deacon rolls onto his feet and dresses himself with lazy, sluggish movements, still somewhat dazed. He wets a towel in the water tank outside and wipes Dancer clean, running his hands over the sinewy, lean muscle of her back.
She reaches into her pack and retrieves a pack of cigarettes, offering one to him as he flops down onto the mattress beside her.
"And a cigarette afterwards," he remarks with a warm smile. "Gotta love that pre-war hospitality."
"Comes with cuddling, too, if you want it," she offers casually, watching him out of her peripheral vision. "I know you're not the hugging type."
"There's a difference between hugs and post-coitus cuddling. I'm emotionally repressed, not heartless."
"Now who's talking semantics?"
"Ah, ya got me there, Dancer. Hoisted on my own petard."
This time it's Dancer who lights his cigarette, kissing the edge of his jaw. "Thanks, Dee."
"Hey, what're partners for?" He holds an arm out and pats the mattress beside him with a wiggle of his brow, and she curls up against his side with a smile. "Y'know, if not for spectacular sex."
"Only about a thousand other useful things," she laughs. "But we're adding that one to the list."
Deacon grins around his cigarette, tracing his index finger down the side of her face. "You in the spotlight, me in the shadows . . . look out, world."
Dancer's smile stirs some neglected part of him, buried deep and hidden beneath years and years of repression. She leans up and kisses him softly, warm and soft in the curl of his arm, and for one brief, devastating moment, everything seems to make sense in the world.