Dancin until dawn.

[robotdick]

[The hardest part about keeping a secret is the waiting around. Nick's better at surprises and delayed gratification than most, but even he's having a hard time keeping a lid on this one. It takes planning, though, setting up a really romantic evening, even one as juvenile and silly as this. Thankfully, between Ellie and the Vaultie's pack-rat tendencies, Nick's managed to set up something genuinely pretty nice.

Nick had thought about clearing out the upstairs, but the odds of Hancock just wandering up there were too high. Instead, he cleared out the floor below theirs and went to work. The decorations were top notch, he'd figured out how to get SNOW to play music down here. Had set up spotlights, metallic streamers, the whole nine yards.

No high school prom had ever looked more prom-like. Vaultie had even provided balloons.

He had the whole thing sewed up, prom, romantic food, he even wore the nice outfit that the Vaultie had given him. All he required now was Hancock.

Nick tried to remain inconspicuous as he meandered through the Old Statehouse, but he was dressed to the nines. The look Farenheit gave him was longsuffering, but she didn't say anything otherwise. When he finally got to Hancock's door--he knocked and adjusted his tie.]

Comments

[chem_break]

[ It feels like the table rushes up under Hancock's back for the safety of something to crash on whilst he blissfully plummets through his cresting carnal felicity. The crawling tempo of this crash means he has just enough sense of self to keep his eyes open as he spills the signature of his blissful bust, watches the white ink spatter and slide into translucent, almost invisible streaks down Nick's pale silvery silicone.

Suddenly he's flat on his back and submerged in the darkness of clenched eyes that serves only to heighten one sense whilst cutting another. His chest is heaving, lifting and falling in sharp stabs while his heart hammers like he'd been sprinting a mile. Each of them are seldom as helpless as when they allow each other to take their paramour apart exactly like this. The way Hancock's knee grips on Nick's shoulders loses a few degrees of strength; trades a demanding lock for a dizzy cling.

So submerged as he is in those sweetly suffocating aftershocks, Hancock doesn't get to see Nick enjoy the taste of him but he sure understands what the savoring in the synth's moans is keyed to. The ghoul's punctured rapture takes the steel from his sex but the chemicals in his blood are stubborn; his dick softens against the reverent sweep of Nick's tongue but not completely; the blood beneath his skin is so hot it almost seems to effervesce inside his veins.

Those worshipful kisses spread across him like an oasis unfurling, like a burst of virgin river through a sun-scorched desert. Hancock's rapid breathing stutters to slow but remains a shallow pant; his legs hang open and he stubbornly swallows the inclination to whimper, but Nick's mouth keeps bumping the notif, making him snuff the sound again and again until his throat his clogged with quiet unpolished grunts.

He never quite expects Nick to be finished after one crescendo; that's an organic trapping, one that can be dodged with enough stamina and/or chems, but as the ghoul has come to understand (... hah) existing as a synth is a whole different kettle of cake, or whatever.

This time when he groans it's barely English, just 'Nick' stretched out like a gossamer streamer through the thrumming music. Low lyrical whistles interject the base-pulse here and there, adding some depth and variance to the somehow salacious freestyle. It's really too bad the Vaultie must adhere to the cord plugging his base into the amp, that leash will only take him so far. But he's not keen on moving without an explicit invitation, that he's not exactly sitting around waiting for. Show for a show is a good deal to him, he's happy enough to watch. Let the love birds coo over each other, they deserve the indulgence. ]

[robotdick]

[Hancock's litany of sounds, of cloying near-whimpers, is sweet music to Nick. The ghoul flexes this way, tenses there, leans that way as Nick's mouth systematically travels over all the skin he can reach. Normally, he'd be quite careful to avoid the spaces that might be too much, but today he indulges in the map making. Hancock is draped back across the table, boneless and floating, and Nick wants nothing more than to drag the ghoul into his lap and hold him close.

There's actually nothing stopping him there--well, except maybe for the fact that he's kneeling. Nick recifies both of these inadequacies at the same time. He rises as he withdraws his skeletal hand from beneath that ruby fabric, bends over his new fiancee as he tucks that hand beneath the long, relaxed line of his spine, and then lifts him as easy as anything. Nick draws him against his chest and gracefully retakes his seat, Hancock astride his lap. His mouth immediately begins mapping the exposed expanse of Hancock's clavicle and shoulders, like he can't wait to try another spot.

Then it's Nick's turn to spot Evaris, seated on the lip of the stage and plucking his bass. He holds the Vaultie's gaze, over Hancock's shoulder, and his dragging lips curl in amusement. He will have to thank him for all the help, truly, but for now Nick offers him a (relatively cheeky) wink before letting his eyes fall closed again as he works.]

[chem_break]

[ The ghoul's quick gasp when he's lifted is more a thing of blunt surprise than the sensitized shallow sips of air he'd been taking under the ministrations of those reverent lips; gravity spins around him again but this time it's because he's actually moving; the upwards shift pulls some of the dizziness out of his head as Nick arranges Hancock into his lap; the ghoul's arms tumble clumsily around his fiancée's shoulders, one hand splayed across the pane of his shoulder-blade while the other weaves up the back of Nick's neck. Their foreheads bump by sheer accident of momentum and Hancock's grin gets a jolt of lackadaisical liveliness. His chuckle is rasping, breathless jubilation.

The renewed rhythm of revelry across his shoulder collarbone has Hancock blissfully cussing beneath his breath, turning his head to offer up as much bare skin as he can. He leans into Nick's chest, twines his arms tighter around his frame with a sharp pulsing note of possession, whilst a stunted sated snarl stumbles from his parted lips. ]

Someone's got a pretty damn voracious apatite tonight...

[ Language processing seems to have recovered, for the moment, as Hancock smears that humid whisper of praise against Nick's ear and follows with a somewhat clumsy brush of his tongue and the clip of his teeth. He's perfectly aware that he's the one who encouraged such longevity here, but his playful teasing is just a vehicle for tattered, tremulant praise. ]

Keep goin' Sunshine... can't hear myself think... feels fuckin' perfect... [ a dizzy growl as the searing pleasure jostles free another carnal whim to tumble off his lips ] Damn, I want ya to mark me up so bad... only thing that sticks to my hide for long is scars

[ The last bit is a hissed confession, garnished with a wisp of superficial regret about the resilient state of his skin.

Meanwhile, that quietly passed wink tickles Evaris' fancy like nothing else so far and earns a playful procession of chords in response; seems like Music is yet another language this amalgam of an ancient being knows; the notes communicate amusement and lust as present, gentle and glittering as those sanguine sequins.

For little more than his own amusement the cinnamon synth starts up some silk-and-leather vocals, this time merely underscored with the thrum of his instrument. The effect is a simplified sound that is no less striking than with a chorus of accompaniment. 'Maybe there's a fever, burning on the inside, waiting for the demons, to come and lick the tears dry...' his rendition slows the tempo just so, allows him to pour more velvet-jet into his voice; he's absolutely showing off, because he's got to do something fun if he's up there with only himself to amuse. ]

[robotdick]

[Voracious? Is he? Nick hadn't considered but...he does find himself wanting. He wanted so badly for Hancock to say yes, and he did, and a pang of that early hunger lingers still. He wants to devour him, to make this moment real--as real as he can.

Hancock's next request is spoken so wistfully, so prettily, and Nick wants to oblige him. That new lick of music meets Nick's strange, wanting, eager mood and he can't help himself. He places a slow, openmouthed kiss against the corner of Hancock's jaw. He travels down, lips and mouth chasing along his neck, and when he reaches his shoulder, Nick exhales a breath across the skin before bending forward and biting down hard.

His teeth are mimicry, just pieces of metal designed to look like human teeth. They don't have the superficial functions of them, but they get the job done well enough. Nick's teeth aren't sharp enough to penetrate ghoulish skin, but what he lacks in cutting capability he more than makes up for with bite strength.]

[chem_break]

[ That biting kiss to his jaw has Hancock turning his head again, offering himself up with such eagerness that couldn't possibly exist without the undercurrent of trust he's build for his paramour; the ghoul is never not a glutton for pleasure but there's something particular about tonight, something about being spoiled with such devotion, being blissfully drown in such severity of romance. His defenses are all shot and shorn, all he has left for Nick is greed treading eagerness while he struggles and fails to piece himself back together after that first fierce fall through oblivion.

Hancock's voice spikes into a startled savoring shout as Nick bites down hard on his shoulder; the rapture and agony are both equally apparent in the sounds he makes, in the way he clings to Nick and squirms in his lap. ]

Uh-huh, just like that, wanna wear your bite-marks like your name

[ His masochism turns up the heat in his gut from a lazy simmer to a rising boil. ]

Only fair, right? Ya wanna wife me up, doncha? Stake your claim Slick, come on, give me something that'll turn heads even -more- than my pretty new wedding ring

[ His eagerness to taste the sting of pain on the coattails of such foundation-rocking tenderness is underscored by the restless, thoughtless way he squirms in Nick's lap; were the synth an organic (or impossible to distinguish, like a Gen 3) such friction constantly scraped against his lap could prove incredibly distracting; Hancock is not actively trying to be, his motions are all just the gleeful backlash of too much carnal pleasure venting off of him like steam. ]

[robotdick]

[Nick isn't shy about the pressure he exerts on Hancock's shoulder, then along his clavicle. He trails hard bites interspersed with humid, open kisses, encouraging every busted cappilary beneath the ghoul's skin to rise up as a brilliant bruise. It mostly doesn't work, his skin is too durable for that, but there are places where the dips and divots turn almost black in the dreamy light.

Nick runs the span of his shoulders, all across his chest, eager to give Hancock a necklace of marks if he can. Hancock's squirming, however, meets the requisite contact necessary to trigger his own hardware. It isn't long before Nick's trapped cock is pressed up against the back of Hancock's thigh and while he's not expressly sensitive there, the sensation of being hard in his trousers, with Hancock in his lap, is entirely new and so it soaks more of his processing than he expects.

By the time he's reached Hancock's other shoulder, Nick has used his good hand to draw Hancock in tight against his stomach, to fit his pinned length in the dip between his cheeks. Nick grinds up against him and pulls him down, enabling such wonderful sensation, and he finds he just has to kiss his fiancee again.

His mouth slants across Hancock's hard, biting and tasting with that building feverish voracity. Nick's finding it shockingly easy to lose himself in this obsessive need for everything and he has to wonder if his new programming has a hand in that.]

[chem_break]

[ Those deliciously daring bites draw out reverent scraps of ghoulish language; praise and just a hint of pleading woven into the rasping sounds as Hancock tips his head back and bends like a drawn bow, offering up his flesh as a canvas for that peppering of blackish bitemarks. His expression exists in that lawless no man's land between euphoria and acrid affliction; the contrast heightens each sensation against its own inversion, drowning out everything but the present moment in time beneath a wicked flash flood of feeling. ]

--love how fuckin' sweet ya make it hurt, I always, always want ya to--

[ A blip of English cuts through his guttural growling, and someone aside cannot help but observe again what a shame it is that Nick can't catch the explicit, obscene language behind every utterance. Burnt bronze fingers leverage the tremolo arm (the wang bar) of his bass, spreading the vibrations of his notes through the air like honey into hot tea.

The vibrations slide through Hancock like languid ripples while he realizes, somewhere in his haze, that he's triggered Nick's hardware without explicit intent. There's no space left in his cognition for even a wisp of sheepishness about that fact; and he is still aware (somehow) that there are more delicate areas to send Nick stumbling towards the perfect kind of crash. So his greedy inclination to grind against that temptingly trapped install is coupled with his hands slotting along either side of Nick's jaw. His leathered thumbs venerate the edges he finds there in slow sacred circles.

The ghoul's knees just barely catch the edge of Nick's chair as he's pulled, allowing him to sit up in keen accommodation and shift into that puzzle-perfect position. His hips roll down as Nick grinds up and the heady frictions paints a promise of carnal felicity carved even deeper into his flesh. A tremble tears through Hancock's entire body; his cheeks clench and press around that restrained intrusion.

The starving kiss smothers his ghoulish growls and brings back the thrum of his wordless, rough-wavering voice. His jailbroken moans crash against Nick's mouth like storm-driven waves on a rocky shoreline, helpless to do anything but crest and break on the rocks. The winds howl, the tempo speeds, the hunger possessing them both builds itself into a feral frenzy as the ghoul returns that kiss with fever and fire.

His teeth catch Nick's lips, covetous suction draws the synth's tongue into the humid clutch of his mouth. Hancock draws his ivories down the wonder of mechanics that paints him up in so much delirious felicity; his mouth waters as he sucks Nick's tongue with the silent simmering suggestion that the motion could be applied elsewhere. ]

[robotdick]

[Hancock kisses back, just as hungry as Nick, and it's a beautiful clash. He grinds back and Nick sees a hundred flags crop up about all manner of stimuli and readings. But then Hancock's hands are cupping his face in a way that would be tender if not for how his fingers fan across every ragged edge of his silicon. They connect a dozen circuits, throw another hundred flags, and Nick gasps against Hancock's mouth. Hancock, naturally, takes it as invitation and devours Nick teeth and tongue and sounds all at once.

Nick finds, as light dances behind his eyes, as his capacitors suffer uneven discharges, that he wants nothing more than to let Hancock devour him.

Nick's skeletal hand grips tight against Hancock's back and the other moves off his hip and insinuates it's way between them. His trousers aren't terribly difficult to undo, even blind, even distracted, but convincing himself to pull his new hardware out rather than just enjoy the pressure against it is a challenge. He manages and, once he's got it free, Nick uses his good hand to gather himself and Hancock's recently spent dick into a squeezing, sloppy grasp.]

[chem_break]

[ Hancock's the type to chase pleasure itself more than the apex of it specifically; too many trips plummeting through chaos as bliss will end the game, and he never wants to end a good game, as much as the (generous) limits of his body will eventually trump his desires. So he's pleased to linger in this and any moment, not hooked on chasing some particular brink to fling himself off of. He'll sit here simmering, grinding in Nick's lap and connecting circuits across his cheeks and jaw with his fingertips, soak up the subtle shocks while he devours Nick's mouth until he's about to suffocate.

The gasp Nick knocks out of him by the coil of his fingers bring them together is what finally shatters that ravenous kiss; it reminds him how badly he needs to breath, has him gasping against Nick's mouth while his hips roll his steadily stiffening prick into the synth's stroking fingers and friendly-firm hardware. ]

Mmmm, -fuck- [ the eloquence of the throes; Hancock sways back a small fraction, just enough that he can focus his black-mirror eyes on Nick's lamp-light gaze while the lurid smile curves his kiss-swollen lips. ] Make it nice'n wet, would ya? Wanna see ya make a mess of us

[ A difficult request for an organic male to fill with half as much ease as a synth with function-specific installs. Hancock understands the drawbacks of existing synthetic, but damn if he doesn't feel the sweet, sweet perks, too. With a hand biting the back of Nick's neck, Hancock leans in again so the unabashed swipe his tongue can precede the growl he spills against Nick's ear. ]

Please [ It's a predatory purr under the fleece of a request, a heady demand in sheep beggar's clothing. ]

[robotdick]

[Hancock rocks back just far enough that the hanging lights above manage to illuminate his front, their cocks in Nick's hand. The sequins throw sparkling ruby light and Hancock's dark eyes reflect his face back at him. Nick would do just about anything he asked in this moment and the hand that wraps around the back of his neck is a new, bright point of contact in the constellation of feeling.]

For you? Anything.

[Nick rumbles in response and twists his wrist, grinding the heel of his good hand against his own hardware. He pulls them both, one long, tight stroke, and clear lubricant bubbles messily from the tip of his cock. By the time Nick's hand reaches their tips, he's squeezed out enough that his fingers are covered and some is dripping onto the floor between them. It makes the slide back down frictionless and perfect--Nick can feel every inch of texture, every throb of his pulse as it refills his cock--Nick can't help but groan as the flags dance behind his eyes.

He sets a liesurely, tight, thorough pace (still in time with Evaris's strumming) and each completed stroke has Nick placing another biting kiss on his paramour. On the lips, on the chin, on the slope of his jaw, anywhere he can reach is fair game for another attempted mark.]

[chem_break]

[ Nick's purring affirmation readily encourages Hancock to sit back just enough to watch the libertine water works; he keeps his hand locked on the back of Nick's neck like an anchor, bending them both so their gazes careen upon the lusciously lewd display. ]

Christ on a Deathclaw that is... -ludicrously- unfair [ His complaint is not actually that, but searing staggeringly aroused awe.

As a comic reader, Hancock has crossed the occasional illustrated porno strip-- and those are a whole different wheelhouse than your daddy's typical porno mag. Like most comics, he always recognized the streak of fantasy, the sheer charm of Unreality leveraged as a story telling device-- or shameless kink pandering.

But now his reality is suddenly surreal; feverishly, deliriously, insanely unreal and it has his head spinning and his heart hammering; this forehead bumps Nick's and remains rested there, for a few heavy beats like the support sustains his balance. When he draws back again its by the need to stare; his eyes are glued to how the dancing disco lights pour down the slick lubricant coating his skin, his head full of the sounds of frictionless wetness. ]

Seriously... dia-fucking-bolical... ya feel like... would ya enjoy if I... had a taste...?

[ He's not exactly eager to leave the lavish attention of Nick's mouth on his jaw or on his throat, nor abandon those devilishly deep kisses, but... it's a new curiosity, kicking around his head. Nick's hardware isn't exactly alike the organic counterpart, but people have a good time blowing plastic for kicks, and Nick would get to watch and listen alongside the physical sensations Hancock's mouth would provide.

He's not exactly nervous about asking; he's just uncertain if Nick would actually enjoy the activity like this; synth-ness aside, different strokes for different folks. ]

[robotdick]

[Nick hangs on Hancock's every word when they are in flagrante delicto and today is certainly no exception...but he seems to drop a frame or two at that question. He stills a moment, while he's forced to run it back, and then pauses his journey to taste all of Hancock's skin. He doesn't pull back so much as rock his forehead against the ghouls, tipping his head away just far enough to look at him.

Of the myriad of reactions Nick could have what he ends up wearing is a look of polite befuddlement. It really doesn't sync well with their current activities, but it is deeply and honestly Nick. He stares at Hancock and, eventually, when his mind catches up he remembers how to speak.]

You...want to--[It's confusing but Nick supposes it tracks. He enjoys swallowing Hancock's dick so much he nearly never turns down the opportunity. It follows that maybe Hancock might want to try the reverse...it just...never occurred to him that he would want to. It doesn't do anything particular for Nick, fellating his fingers would garner the same response, but Hancock wants to know if he'd...enjoy it?

He tries to imagine it and his fans kick up just a little hotter at the image he conjures up. Nick's nodding before he speaks again.]

I--uh--fuck, yeah I think I'd like to see that. Are you sure you...want to?

The lubricant is technically edible, insofar as it shouldn't make a person sick, but I don't know...er...how it tastes? I--uh--if it's terrible--I mean I don't need something like that, but just imagining it is a treat--if I tasted disgusting I don't think I could live that one down.

[He's rambling, hedging every unknown angle and spiralling a bit as he does. The lubricant is explicitly nontoxic, not that toxic would matter what with Hancock being a ghoul and all, but he has no idea what the flavor of it might be. What if it's flavorless, but it tastes like the interior of his hardware? What if it's awful or like chewing on a piece of scrap? Goddamn, that would be worse than toxic.]

[chem_break]

[ That curiously befuddled look is met with an expression of sheepish hunger; he definitely wouldn't fault Nick the refusal if he wasn't feeling for the somewhat tangential activity, if there is a finish line to cross here. But he's not (metaphorically) bending over backwards for Nick here, he wants to try it, the desire lives in the dark of his eyes and the throb of his dick so slick and frictionless against the synth's. ]

I do [ His purr is all red velvet and whipped-fluffy sheepishness; Nick's befuddled expression doesn't feel like a clash here to him; his fiancée is equally awkward and debonair, charming and adorable even whilst missing a step in the dance; he stumbles with grace, and Hancock loves that about him, finds his grin shifting into a smile as Nick takes his time to walk through the notion and make sure he's got it right. The ghoul is fairly certain the idea gets a pass when he hears those fans kick on, but he doesn't quite drop off Nick's lap as eagerly as he wants to.]

I do [ He repeats the answer to Nick's explicit question, this time dragging the words languidly across a purr far more salacious and simmering than the last, sans a scrap of sheepishness; they are engaged after all, it's a fair phrase to leverage against the man who proposed.

Nick goes on speaking (rambling) and that has his ghoul-fiancée chuckling raspy and nodding his light-headed agreement. It's a fair point, he supposes, but one easily enough solved. Casually as he pleases, Hancock borrows the sopping hand wrapped deliciously-strict around them; he deliberately peels Nick's fingers free, a sigh flooding the narrow jungle-humid air between them as the pleasing pressure ebbs. ]

Easy enough to solve that mystery, ain't it?

[ Hancock keeps Nick's gaze in a brazen stare as he draws up the synth's good hand between them. His tongue creeps across his lips, top and then bottom, and the veins of light through the demure dimness just so happen to catch the glint on his teeth as he does; the ghoul's mouth is watering as he slides a single digit past his lips and, ever the curious un-practicing carnivore, laves Nick's finger with his tongue.

The initial look on his face is disbelief-- then befuddlement much like Nick's own, and then confusion and surprise. The second swipe of his tongue, drawing in another slick digit, is more to confirm his curiosity and check his senses are in order, but the motion plays with greedy enjoyment as the undercurrent regardless. Hancock's lips seal around Nick's fingers as he draws back, a hum both scrutinizing and sensual vibrating against his silicone-skin.

The suction around those slick digits causes them to come free with a lewd pop. ]

Holy shit...[ Absolutely tickled, grinning disbelief ] Ya know... I probably could guessed, come to think of it. Bein' blitzed just helped me recognize the flavor, but from the chemistry side'a my brain? Already could'a told ya the most commonly produced flavor chemical before the war... was Vanillin

[robotdick]

[Nick watches with something between concern and fascination as Hancock takes his good hand and so prettily telegraphs what he intends to do. The expression that dawns on his face after his tongue slides up Nick's index finger is--well, not initially encouraging--but then he goes for the middle finger and the sensation of being wrapped in Hancock's lips, with his tongue sliding across his sensors, is just this side of overwhelming. Nick makes a strangled sort of sound as he hums and then pulls them out with a lewd pop.]

W-what? [Nick must have heard that wrong. He blinks.] Vanillin. As in Vanilla? Fake. Vanilla.

[Bit on the nose, there, but he can't contest it. If he had that hand free he would be scratching at the back of his neck in polite discomfort/embarassment. Hancock has that hand in tow, though, for however long he wants it, so Nick just grimaces.]

I guess that's better then the other options. [Nick cedes.]

I uh, you...good with Vanilla?

[chem_break]

[ God does he adore being the one to make Nick sing like this. ]

S'in real Vanilla too, about %2 per volume, but yeah. What's in your reserve probably came from a lab.

[ It's such an easy shot to take, but the questions prompts an utterly impish grin. ]

Do -I- like vanilla?

[ He simply must pose the question like a tease, the circumstances are too perfect; the dark chocolate and brandy chuckle that flows through his throat is laden with quietly craven desire. As he speaks, the ghoul shifts from Nick's lap and lowers himself to the floor; one knee down, and then the other. ] Sex? Not often-- but the flavor? Hn... Think I'm about to develop a real sweet-tooth

[ He keeps his gaze on Nick's as he slides his cheek against that stiff sodden silicone installment, nuzzling close with his eyes half-lidded and his breath pouring shallow through his parted lips like a tropical sea licks the white sands of its beaches. He fits so perfectly between the synth's knees, and his hands sweep up to smooth apart Nick's thighs. ]

Dunno if your sensors work like my nervous system... but it always feels better with your legs open. Makes for a real pretty veiw, too...

[ Satisfied with the spread of Nick's thighs the ghoul reaches for Nick's metallic hand and places it where his skull meets the back of his neck. ]

Ready to try somethin new, my Sunshine?

[robotdick]

[Just watching Hancock sink to his knees in that dress has Nick holding his breath. His chuckle shot through the synth like a bolt, but this sight is--well--he hopes he looks this good when they're positions are reversed. Hancock eases his legs apart and Nick obliges--thebrush of breath and his face rubbing along that span of sensor net--

It's a wild feeling and given how Nick percieves things, that's saying something. While it's not more sensitive or less sensitive than the rest of him, he doesn't actually have motor control over his dick. It almost feels like being bound up unable to move and it's a bit jarring. All the sensation imparted to him through his hardware is the direct result of what the ghoul in front of him wants.

That's what does it for Nick--Hancock wants him to feel this, to enjoy himself, and he's the conductor of this orchestral session.]

Maybe I can show you some time.

[Now that he's been in Nick's skull through memory, the concept is proven. He can probably show Hancock what it's like, what this feels like, in VR. But he can't think far enough ahead to even begin conceptualizing that. His whole world is zeroed in on Hancock. He places Nick's skeletal hand at the base of his skull and Nick almost wants to object--

But Hancock knows full well that Nick doesn't get sensory feedback from that hand. He trusts him and he's leaving Nick's good hand available. Nick cradles the back of Hancock's head--it's a familiar angle made unfamiliar and the way his lamplight eyes dance in short jumps speaks volumes about how devoted he is to this experience.]

With you? Always.

[chem_break]

[ There is a very particular shade of pleasure to pushing Nick's legs apart and watching him yield; Hancock is going to have to find an excuses for the licentious move more often. ]

Yeah? I'd be down for a Den dive, definitely.

[ The starts to ponder about the possibility of a virtual hardware swap; how would it feel for Hancock to ride the synthetic experience while Nick tries on an organic console? The thought runs tangentially around the back of his head while his focus sharpens its claws in preparation. He's got Tasks at hand that demand all of his mental faculties, no matter how delightful the dalliance dares be.

He wants to leave Nick's undamaged hand free for wandering his whims; particularly Hancock digs a smoke during oral intimacy but Nick hasn't done this before, a free hand to explore is the least Hancock can orchestrate here. He trusts Nick completely, and he's durable (shamelessly masochistic, too) so the brunt strength of that skeletal hand is just fine-- enticing, in fact, but that's a small selfish streak through his utterly staggering altruism, here.

(As though this entire ordeal isn't positively self satisfying) ]

Good man... Ready up

[ He speaks so slow it's utterly obscene and the words drip off his mouth like honey and smoke. He draws inward with the inevitability of the tide high on the moon's gravity. His gaze fuses to Nick's with the devoted inertia of sand becoming glass, melted by the moment. His tongue slides past his lips for the pleasure of the display and cradles the crown of Nick's hardware just as though he is exactly organic. His breath rushes out hot through his lips as the tactile sensation of weight on his tongue joins the oddly pleasant flavor it spawns.

Hancock has never forgotten his fiancée's proclivity for romance, so even here, he takes his time. He can't swallow Nick down with such brutal efficiency as the synth employs on him anyway, but in the moment, he doesn't seem in a hurry to try. Instead he keeps watching Nick's eyes as his tongue traces deliberate, delicate, devious spirals. The ghoul's eyes get lidded as one hand smooths down the inside of Nick's thigh, while the other twines with subtle deliberation around the hilt of Nick's cock.

His gaze does not even flicker as he cants his head, craning his neck to slide his mouth against the side of Nick's steely shaft; he drags his humid kissed-plush lips down the slope of sexually stylized silicone, tip to root, and follows the path back up with a desirous sweep of his tongue.

It cannot be contested; Hancock is absolutely enjoying himself between Nick's knees. ]

[robotdick]

[Nick had already cottoned on to the fact that watching this, the theater of it, was half the point. He didn't expect to be so absolutely fixated. He holds Hancock's gaze and, all at once, forgets to breathe--all his focus is on the touch of his tongue, the sweep of his hands. Hancock pampers him, moving slowly, delicately, as though his hardware were organic and just as hyper-sensitive.

The gesture, the romance of that, treating him like a regular Joe, hits Nick right through the heart. His slack jawed expression goes amazed and fond but (for the moment) he keeps his hand to himself.]

Damn--you look so good like this--

[This is certainly a new experience, that's for sure, and it has a whole host of new reactions to go with it. The live wires in his neck short the grid on connections that shouldn't be, sparks of violent flashing sensation--but this, this is something else entirely.

It may be projection, a sort of phantom sensation, but Nick watches and every time Hancock swirls his tongue around the tip of his dick, the sight has him dropping a frame or two. His whole sensor net is straining to pick up every point of contact, regardless of how slight, and the struggle to pull data from that one set of sensors has him operating at a backlog. Each process, each draw call, each update has to queue up and bottleneck through that single section of grid and Nick's thoughts grind to a needy churning trickle. It feels like he's wading through taffy--everything is sweet, soft, and makes him feel clumsy and slow. His limbs feel impossibly heavy and, for a spell, he forgets that he even has them.

Ironically, if he'd just made this particular appendage more sensitive than the silicon around it, it might've been able to keep up with the demands for data. It wouldn't be able to throttle him down and pin him in place quite as effectively. Nick would marvel at that, but he literally has no room for anything in his brain but Hancock right now.]

[chem_break]

[ Hancock replies to that murmur of praise with a serpentine smirk and a pleased satiny hum that plays almost too well into that luxuriating, languid bass-line. The vibrations ride his reverent tongue on an upward slide and his lips seal around the tip in a cheeky approximation of a kiss. He understands exactly why Nick is almost always absolutely eager for this activity; the ghoul is simmering in salacious ecstasy between Nick's legs, fighting down his own eagerness to show Nick the same zeal the synth so readily shows him.

The heady desire parts his lips and Hancock's eyes finally shut as the seal of his mouth slides down a few inches; it's a shame to lose such beautified visuals but his other senses light up in compensation; taste and texture and audio delight all surge and siege his perception and the ghoul's expression creases in struggling concentration. His fingers drift upwards to meet the seal of his mouth, and Hancock sets a searing-slow pace between stroking and suction. His fingers slide, his cheeks hollow, his tongue follows through several slick spirals inside his mouth.

He passes languid moments like this; they stack into leaning, sweating minutes before the ghoul suffers that streak of daring; his own impatience catches up with him, and suddenly his fingers sink downwards and the seal of his mouth follows.

Still not quite synth-efficient, Hancock must pause when the pressure hits the back of his throat. It's been a hot minute since he's done this, the muscle memory is snoozing on him. That soft growl is thing of mild frustration as much as sweet savoring; he shifts his weight, bare knees on the floor, and one hand drifts around Nick's hip and settles there as a supportive brace.

He wishes he could speak, could tell Nick how much he's enjoying himself, but his expression is all he has to translate the notion; that, and the rumbling groans that dam up against the hardware he's not quite choking on. ]

[robotdick]

[Nick can barely process this all. This activity is a beautiful amalgam of what they do and he's not sure how to parse it out--the feeling of kissing Hancock, moulding their mouths together, is echoed in that swirling tongue and the heat of his mouth--but Nick's never filled his mouth like this. The hand around his base, stabilizing him, isn't unlike the grabbing hands and clutching grip they usually use--but with this appendage, the feeling of Hancock squeezing out lubricant, pulling and tugging, is so different.

Without meaning to, Nick's skeletal hand shifts a few degrees and clutches the back of Hancock's head more tightly than he should. As he sinks down and Nick can feel the back of his throat, the growling that resounds up him, it's a whole new baseline. He lets out a low, slog groan as he tries to catch up with these sensations. He's starting to throw errors, but not the usual kind.

His cognition is littered with notifications of non-responsive programs. The threads of them, left too long in limbo waiting for an update from his hardware, sieze up and start anew, sometimes before he's even managed to close their failed instances. In short: this is rapidly eating away at his available memory and Nick's fans and breathing pick up as he tries to vent the additional heat.

He didn't think he could come the way organic people could--overwhelmed by sensation, spilling over that edge--but Hancock's proving that false with every moment. And of course he is. If anyone could figure out a way to crash Nick while touching such a reserved amount of his sensors, of him, it would be Hancock.]

Damn--[Nick breathes and his good hand finally smooths across Hancock's cheek and then, experimentally, wraps under his chin. He can feel himself sheathed in Hancock's mouth, pushing his jaw apart, and that causes a hiccup in his thoughts.]--This is--you're amazing. This is fantastic, I never imagined--

[He interrupts himself with another groan as a dozen threads reinstance and he's knocked that much closer to a crash.]

[chem_break]

[ The pressure of Nick's skeletal hand at the back of his skull and neck folds the most tender ache into Hancock's resilient muscles; a ghoulish masochist can be hard to please but a synth's strength does just fine; Nick could be rougher, much rougher if the throes hit him that way, though Hancock does quite enjoy his gentler touch, as well. That small superficial spark of pain adds tremor to his muffled groans, tweaks the pitch higher and sends his brow ridges folding and floating in sweetly savored masochism.

Nick doesn't heat up like an organic, but he sure heats up. The sounds of his breathing and fans struggling to vent off that heat shouldn't be as bone-deep satisfying as it is, like the ghoul has some kind of natural instinct to chase the uniquely-Nick sound.

And as utterly gratifying as this activity is, it becomes even better when Nick starts to speak. Hancock's eyes crack open, slits of black diamond and watch the synth as he strokes his cheek. The simple, pure affirmation runs through Hancock's veins like a spark chasing down lines of gunpowder.

He cant's speak, but his expression briefly gloats; yes he is amazing, yes this his fantastic, how good of you to notice. His chuckle is really just a crumpled knot of vibrations that never clears his throat. He didn't expect to be able to make Nick crash like this, but that doesn't mean he won't try. Those sounds he's making, voicebox just barely askew, hit Hancock like a sudden rad rainstorm; they burns in his bones, they charge and enthrall and empower him. Newly inspired, steadily stubborn, Hancock shoots his lover an absolutely devious stare.

He reaches for Nick's good hand and guides his fingers from his chin to his throat; the intent press of leathered digits insists Nick keep his hands in place for whatever trick he's about to pull. It takes concentration and sheer force of will, but it's not like he's never done this before.

He swallows and sways forward in the same moment-- he almost chokes, he feels his throat muscles seize but he focuses , relaxes, calms the instinctual kick of panic when his air supply gets cut. He concentrates on unwinding the tension in his jaw, and this time when he swallows and sways it's a smooth intrusion.

And just in case Nick's hardware alone doesn't register enough sensation, the synth should get to feel from the pads of fingers, his dick slide down and sleeved in Hancock's throat. It's damn difficult to actually moan with such a present invasion, but Hancock gives it the old college try. ]

[robotdick]

[Nick's damn near startled when Hancock chokes on that first attempt--the second, when he finds himself pressed down his throat, when he can feel himself through the column of the ghoul's neck, he can't process it at all. Hancock lets out a strangled moan and Nick can feel the aborted vibrations of his vocal chords. It's--he's got nothing.

There is literally not one damn thing he can actively compare this to and while he's searching his templates for anything to use as a baseline, all his processing is stacking up, putting him deeper and deeper into processing debt. It's only a few seconds between when Nick blanks and when he abandons the search for a template and arrives back in the moment--but a few seconds to a computer is quite a long time.

Nick comes back to himself only to find three quarters of his processing threads are stalled out and on fire (metaphorically). He has the capacity to stay in the moment, but only just, and he makes a punched out sound that skips across his voicebox at a strange metallic angle. He's overloaded--he can't remember ever being overloaded like this--this too is entirely new.

Nick's left eye gives a valiant flicker before clicking off but the synth only remains put, good hand falling reverently across Hancock's stuffed throat. He's about an inch from either an overheat or a crash and he's not sure which is going to happen first--either way, what a wild ride.]

[chem_break]

[ It's lucky that Hancock's eyes are open to catch that telling snuff of the light behind Nick's left eye; he knows that's an impending overheat, maybe not something he should actively avoid (considering the circumstances) but something he definitely wants to handle carefully; he needs to breathe anyway, but there's still some stubborn reluctance in the high priority need to recede. It feels unfathomably fantastic to be skewered like this; and it's not like Hancock has never sucked a dick before but everything he does with Nick always ends up feeling so special, so unsurpassed by anything he's ever done before.

A symphony of sensation in painted across Nick's steely hardware as Hancock sways back; his tongue, lips, and teeth all drag in variant levels of worshipping pressure, sped by his haste to steal back the heat of his own body before it becomes-- maybe not Too Much (Too Much, in the best way, is kind of the whole point), but potentially problematic.

The same lurid pop that freed Nick's fingers from the ghoul's mouth punctures the air as his prick slides free; a slick cable of saliva traces a prurient arc between Hancock's mouth and the object of his obsessive oral worship, broken like a spider's thread while he purses his lips and blows a cooled stream of breath across Nick's cock. ]

Got that safe word if it's too much for ya, love

[A tender reminder all wrapped in feral felicity; his voice is especially hoarse, tattered more from the salacious squeeze against his voice-box than all the smoke he steadily sips on the regular. ]

Hn... looks like you're about to crash so damn hard for me... come on Slick, almost there, wanna watch you come undone

[ Caught between carnal entrancement and the caution he's learned, Hancock cannot help but lean in and graze his cheek against that wonderfully wicked install with all the heat and hunger he has for his paramour alight in his adoring eyes. ]

[robotdick]

[That punched out sound has a reverse version as Nick sucks down a deep breath to try and cool his processors. Hancock pulls off of him, teeth and tongue and lips all drawing off of him at once. He's overwhelmed but as Hancock backs off of him, Nick still doesn't have the wherewithall to tap out.

The teasing in that hoarse voice is what undoes him in the end. Nick watches Hancock rub his cheek on the length of him one last time and the last of his memory is eaten up. Nick doesn't quite crash, not like normal, this time he more overloads. There's too much vying for attention and all the stalled out processes trip across his mind in a cascade of individual little discharges. It's almost a glittery sensation, like the look of that dress or the dancing lights from the disco ball. It leaves Nick with enough processing to moan in fractured electronic bliss and to spill the remaining resevoir of lubricant as he's tipped over the edge.

With a sensation like a cathode monitor being suddenly shut off, and the accompanying burst of radiation, Nick crashes. Both his eyes go dark, his limbs go slack, and he slumps back in his chair like a limp marionette. There's actually a not insignificant plume of steam rising from his open mouth as he goes dark--the overheated remnants of that sip of punch he took.]

[chem_break]

[ Nick's utterly blissed out crooning doesn't need musical accompaniment to sizzle down Hancock's every nerve, but it has the back up and it's just extra finesse and overkill. The sound alone is enough to curl Hancock's bare toes, the tremor it sends through him treading the waters of tantric satisfaction. His whole body shivers as Nick drops into his chair like a ragdoll and for a split second his eyes snap open in near stupefied surprise.

He is familiar with how Nick's hardware works, but he'd guessed incorrectly that his fiancée had already emptied his tanks. The sheer generosity of lurid liquid slicking the side of his face has Hancock pleasure-drunk, has him tip his head to catch a burst of vanilla on his tongue.

That lick of familiar radiation is the ghoul's affirmation of time well spent and skill well applied; he's wrecked Nick so perfectly, he's even surprised with himself; he did not expect such a light show, and now he's thinking he's going to have to invest a little (a lot) more time and attention between Nick's legs. The score is so skewed-- he's gotta even out these unflattering numbers.

Hancock is by now accustomed to the variant lag in restarting that keeps Nick unconscious; he's starting to find it kind of cute, the blunt black-out like an overzealous sedative, sort of like Nick passed out working at his desk-- only synths don't quite do that, so the effect gets achieved with mind-blowing sex.

What dire circomstance, what ever will Hancock do?

For the moment, he lets his head rest heavy against Nick's thigh, in no hurry to vacate his position. His knees are aching absently but his head is spinning like he'd been dancing, the severity of his unsated arousal creating all kinds of grit and glitter across his senses. The floor feels fiercely cold under his shins but he still feels hot, in so little fabric but unable to evade the summer drum beat between his legs. His sequins are sugared-slick, Nick's mess and his own (sans a second orgasm but still leaking lewd, good thing they have in-house laundry) but the slinky dress is all he's wearing, and he isn't exactly alone.

The Vaultie has never seen Hancock in no little, nor had he seen Nick crash outside a few borrowed memories from his resident king of greed. He really is going to have to thank his companions for the one of a kind entertainment, it's absolutely worth the ache in his fingers and the rasp in his throat. He quiets for the moment, sits still, and promptly flattens onto his back on the stage like he'd just run a mile. That was certainly... stimulating. ]

Y'alright over there? [ Hancock croaks as he casts his gaze towards the splayed Gen 3, who replies with closed eyes, a crooked grin, and a few strummed chords]

Bet my fingers don't hurt half as much as your knees