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]

[ Hancock finds himself quite enjoying the way Nick leans back under the press of that heel; it looks damn good. Photograph worthy, and the ghoul feels the itch to find that polaroid camera a little later to take a couple shots. His dagger-thin heel on Nick's chest, his throat, his cheek... leathered fingers spin that plastic tube around and around, venting the energy shock provided by his colorful imaginings.

It's as though Nick highjacks manual breathing control from his ghoulfriend by the motion of his drifting hand; Hancock breaths in for every ascended inch, holds when the hand stills, breaths out when it drifts away. God damn it. He finally stops spinning that tube and pops it open. Drugs now, thank you. He doesn't have his lighter, sans his Coat of Many Things, so he'll wait for Nick to finish talking before he asks for his matches.

But Nick is taking his time (adorably) fumbling his point, so Hancock leans in with the drunken-grace of a charmed snake and reaches into the breast pocket inside Nick's coat. He lingers in that increased proximity more than he needs to, letting his hand rest inside the synth's coat as Nick starts to talk about baseball metaphors. Hancock still gets to enjoy towering above Nick so long as he's perched on the table, which works wonderfully for him.

He resists the impulse to rib Nick in such a vulnerable moment, biting back the urge to wonder aloud how those Yankees might feel about Nick fumbling their metaphors. Instead he keeps busy completing the theft of those matches, sitting back, and popping whatever smokeable monstrosity the Vaultie considers a part favor out of its tube.

The struck match lights the moment Hancock catches the meaning behind all Nick's delightful subterfuge; the reflection of the flame is not the only light in his black mirror eyes. Well now. That is a thought, isn't it? Only through sheer practice can Hancock not drop his smoke (tastes like tabaco, cannabis with a touch of bubble hash) when the wild grin splits his mouth. He looks utterly at home dressed in coils of smoke, a blighted dragon so very pleased by this clumsy offering.

He really was just about to jump in with a life line, but wouldn't ya know it, Nick finally manages to spit out his bottom-line. ...Heh. ]

Well now, that sounds like a hell of'a way to pass a weekend. Guess I can see the hesitance with so many... colorful options on the table.

But I gotta tell ya up front. Ya never, ever leave me wanting. You wanna try a new dance I'm here for it, but I ain't exactly board'a what we got goin' already.

[ Comfortable habit leads him to take a punishing inhale. His words ride on steeds of smoke as he continues ] Thought'a your mouth? Gets my blood so hot already... on the other hand, love to hear all the sounds you'd make stuffed full'a me without anythin' blockin that pretty sinin' voice'a yours

[robotdick]

[Hancock doesn't give him hell about it, and for that Nick's grateful. It's a passing fancy and seems to have caught the ghoul's imagination as well. Nick hadn't considered that he'd be making noise but his imagination was running a little to the left of Hancock's. It's part and parcel of being present with two different Ids, he supposes. (Or, at least, that's what he's going to blame that crazy fantasy on.)]

Oh yeah? [Nick asks as he finds the nerve to pick his head up off Hancock's shin. He huffs another silent laugh and his fingers get back to work, undoing that delicate strap.]

I--uh--Hadn't really thought about that.

[Hancock is all legs and dripping red sequins, flashing in the dreamy light. The smoke curls around him in thin tendrils, a haze like fog on water, and catch the rays the disco ball throws off. Nick can't help but be entranced by the sight. The strap on that other shoe goes slack and lets his good hand wander again, sliding casually back and forth across Hancock's shin. He's not going to take the thing off his chest, but he's still holding the shoe whenever Hancock decides he's had enough.]

You wanna make me sing?

[chem_break]

You were thinkin' about gettin' reamed without somethin' jammin' your windpipe and didn't figure I'd take full advantage of the opportunity? Heh, now I'm curious... what were ya thinkin' about, explicitly?

[ The strap has gone loose but the heel is snug enough on Hancock's foot not to slide off without a freeing tug; he gets the sense Nick is enjoying the dramatic change in footwear too, and is suddenly inspired to lift his one adorned foot and all too gently catch Nick's jaw with the coal-shard point of the toe. The hand drifting along his shin has him feeling surprisingly warm beneath his skin; it's a subtle tease of friction, but his nerves seem to catch every passed pour and touched texture the synth's fingers graze. Ghouls can't quite get goosebumps, but a tenuous tremble trips down his spine as he tips Nick's face upwards, bringing their gazes together. ]

All night long, Sunshine. All. Night. Long.

[ His grin is full of pitch promise as he guides the tip of his shoe down the side of Nick's throat, narrowly avoiding a tattered edge along the way. ]

Ya know, ya got a pretty poor idea'a my stamina with how good ya always wreck me, I'd love the chance to return the favor

[ ... his brain is starting to feel like it's blooming, like a flower. Huh. Var wasn't supposed to stick anything too hard hitting into his party favors. Somehow these vivid ideas are just drifting to him like they're riding the disco lights, and he catches himself talking without explicitly deciding to share the notion ]

Think I'm really likin' the idea'a you, on your back, howling my name till ya can't find the line between words and sounds. Wonder if I could leave ya soundin' like ya spent the whole night screamin' for me... pretty gratifying fantasy, I gotta say

[robotdick]

That trip through your head got me thinkin in multiples. I wasn't uh figuring my mouth'd be free.

[Nick admits and while it's not a cagey admission, per se, it does kind of sound it with his head tipped back by the point of that shoe. Damned if Nick isn't loving that footwear more and more--he's never wanted someone to step on him, but a voice in the back of his head (Kellogg) is demanding he add that to the list of latent fantasies.]

It's a pipe dream, of course, but--uh--I'm fond of it.

[That shoe drags down his neck, point grazing across his silicon, and Nick's whole being is focused on that one spot. He swallows as it passes over his adam's apple, and again as it dips at the pit of his neck.]

Not sure I'll sound as pretty at the end of the night as you, not unless you like static, but I don't object to finding out.

[chem_break]

Oh, yeah, seein' the math on that notion, now. Not sure how you're thinkin' it's so outta reach though... we got The Memory Den, with a sweet high tech upgrade. If ya wanna do the dance digital, hm... could maybe see about doubling my avatar, depending on how hard I wanna tempt the fates

[ Considering how spectacularly leaving an impression of himself in the database had worked, last time. The delicate pointed toe-tip of Hancock's heel traces lower, from the middle of Nick's collar down the center of his chest; the ghoul presses a little harder with his foot this time, pinning Nick playful-rough against the chair. ]

Ya wanna try again in Real Time, pretty sure we can find a guy that wants ya just as crazy bad as I do

[ He tips his head to denote the direction of his gaze, behind them at the cinnamon synth having way too much fun with his single-man performance. It's almost like he feels Hancock looking, because those gilt and green eyes dart over to Nick and Hancock as he strums his base, fills the air with the black-velvet vibrations, and happens to be singing the line: 'Does Your God Believe In You?'

... Listening to his set list a little more closely might grant a bit of insight to his topsy-turvy mental state; it's bonus content, not a requirement. Like everything else Evaris does, he's doing this most of all because he Wants to. ]

Assuming Connie isn't gunna jump in again and ruin the mood. Guess he doesn't gotta now, one foot in the door, and one... foot in the.... door

And hey, you let me like what I like. I said yes to gettin' hitched, didn't I? Don't insult my fine taste in men

[robotdick]

Wouldn't dream of it. [Questioning his taste in men, that is.]

[The proposal of the Vaultie doesn't go unnoticed adn Nick, well, finds he's surprisingly alright with that. He gives it a beat of thought and then offers up a dreamy sort of smirk.]

Gonna have to see a man about a bodymod, I guess.

[That shoe has him pinned like a bug to a board and the bass is vibrating against the back of his teeth and Hancock agreed--accepted--his proposal. Nick couldn't possibly be having a better night. He leans into the pressure of that foot, just a bit, and his hands return to Hancock's ankle, feeling him up more than helping undress him.]

I'd ask if you want to move this party somewhere private but, well, it mostly is.

[Nick lets his eyes rove, drawing down from that hat and the curling smoke, down his paramour's face, and to the delicate curves of sequined fabric. It's stretched across his midsection and then pools out again in a silky waterfall of crimson. Nick's never had a dream exactly, but he figures this is what they must feel like.

This time, when his hands wander, his skeletal one moves up the underside of that leg. It's ostensibly holding it up, cold metal against the back of his knee and then the back of his thigh. His silicon hand brushes up his shin and stops right at the edge of that fabric again. As though any of this could be deemed apporpriate just because of that one barrier.]

I tell you how gorgeous you look tonight?

[chem_break]

A man? Hold on-- that mean another Far Harbor trip? If ya need Faraday, let's call his ass here

[ Nick had mentioned his first bodymod came at the hands of was installed curtesy of Ms. Mechanist, though far be it from him to pick the parlor here. He just... does not want to go to Far Harbor, again. He absolutely will if Nick is going, but separately, he would feel less genuine stress taking a stroll through The Commonwealth; plenty deadly on a typical Tuesday but they both live here and don't die on the regular. Far Harbor... has a stink on it.

Those thoughts all dissolve, a sandcastle sieged by a sudden crashing crest of seawater, as Nick leans against the press of his heel, effectively egging the ghoul into a more dominant press in reply. His expression says how good Nick looks under the ball of his foot and that sharp black heel; a savoring scotch snicker underscores his heady enjoyment and he purrs: ]

Criminal how good ya look like this... gunna have'ta snap a couple pictures one'a these days since you're so keen on bein' underneath my heel. Guess if ya feel like sneakin off now, I could grab a camera on the way

[ He looks like fire breather while he inhales that smoke, eyes pitch and unblinking despite the silver coils caught under his hat. That surprisingly cool hand under his leg shouldn't send such a vivid shiver through him, nor should the shift threaten to knock him onto his back-- but Hancock is actually a lot higher than he thinks he is.

He catches himself on one elbow, narrowly missing his plate as Nick lifts his leg; the motion hadn't been nearly jarring enough to do that and-- and why is the room rocking just so? This feels like joint-- maybe 60? Not... one. He tries to stare incredulously at the mystery smoke still between his lips, but he cannot do that without crossing his eyes, so instead he just squeezes them shut. ]

I could hear it again

[ He still manages a silk-smooth reply, through a stretched and crooked smile. His eyes crack open, narrow tourmaline shards, as he watches Nick like the lights just surged around them. That gentle prickling across his skin accompanies another ripple of heat from his toes to his head. Alright, what's with this hyped sensitivity? He's more curious than seriously worried-- he's sure Evaris wouldn't poison them, even recreationally. He actually Un-poisoned them, technically.

He could sit up, really and truly... but he kind of. Likes where he is? Half-spread on the table like a dessert, one leg hauled up by the back of his knee, with Nick looming between his legs and watching him heat up like nursing coals into a flame. ]

You keep that up for long and this dress is gunna get uncomfortably tight

[ His whole heart isn't in this amused, shorn-satin complaint; it actually feels like it's beating below his stomach. ]

[robotdick]

Well, good thing I agreed to help you take it off, huh?

[Hancock draped back on the table in a pool of red sequins is perfect. Nick's so in love tonight that it's consuming him, he's just drifting on it, and Hancock is drifting on the coils of smoke that dissipate around them. He could stay in this moment forever, comfortably, but time doesn't work that way.

He finally, finally pulls Hancock's last shoe off with one gradual, gentle tug and his chest misses the sharp point of contact almost instantly. The second shoe is set on the table, if only because he's not about to bend while he's got ahold of Hancock's leg. Once his hands are free, Nick bends forward, presses a kiss against the inside of Hancock's knee, and shoots him (for Nick) an absolutely filthy grin.]

What do you say to a little more dancing? [Nick asks, even as he has his cheek against Hancock's lifted leg. It would be absurdly easy for him to shift that leg over his shoulder, to dip his head and push that dress up, but he draws out the suspense as best he can.]

Or we could call it a night?

[chem_break]

Uhh...

[ Is the magnitude of verbal grace that Hancock manages in reply to Nick's invitation to dance; his skin is still pleasantly sizzling inside his knee, a ghost impression of that kiss living in the tips of his nerves. That speck of grit in Nick's blue velvet grin runs through the ghoul like an electric shock and knocks his pulse a few inches lower beneath his gut. Okay, words Hancock, language. ]

Dancin'... you talkin' actual dancin'...? Or... [ He really should have a million different clever ways to say what he's saying, but his tolerance is deviously shot to hell and he is fucking blitzed. Cloud 9? Cloud 900, more like. He feels like he's floating on steam, somehow weightless and heavy at once, the thrum of that base hitting him like warm summer rain as Nick's cheek slides against the inside of his leg. ]

Gunna have to... define the logistics of 'callin it a night' for me, too... Think I'm too blitzed to follow a euphemism right now [ His voice has gone dusky, his eyes at half mast. ] That, and your mouths got my imagination runnin so, so damn hot. What's the option that translates to 'dear god please don't stop'? I'm goin' with that one

[ Hancock's free leg slides an extra inch apart along the table's ledge, and the knee hooked on Nick's hand drifts in the opposite direction; not a subtle invitation, but too demure a motion to classify as a demand; it toes the line of gentle encouragement. His pulse has drifted low enough that those sequins are getting a bit snug, but there isn't enough slack in the fabric (or blood surged southward, yet) to lewdly tent his silhouette.

The slow hiss that slithers from his teeth as he parts his thighs suggests he somewhat feels the sequins strain across his stirring sex, however. Why he's so acutely aware of the lush ruby drag across his navel is weird and beyond him right now, a back-burnered observation as he watches Nick's eyes like a love-drunk moth instinctually magnetized to the light. ]

[robotdick]

[Watching Hancock stumble over the double entendre has Nick grinning wildly. Whatever he'd smoked had hit the ghoul much harder than expected and Nick could nearly see the gears grinding in his head as he tried to follow the plot. Hancock realized he was higher than expected shortly after asking and meandered his way through a request, one that was backed up by the nemure shift of his legs to make space for Nick.

Space Nick eagerly moves into.]

Don't stop? I think I can manage that.

[Nick is acutely aware of the Vaultie behind him, providing bass and vocals for his own enjoyment. Evaris won't mind this, at least Nick figures he won't, and the synth's attention zeroes entirely on Hancock, blitzed out and offered up for him.

Nick shifts and, disappointingly, stands up. It's a requirement to push back the chair, though, and he doesn't remain standing for very long. He drops to one knee, like he'd planned on doing while offering up that ring, and with the ease of a man putting on a scarf he drapes Hancock's leg over one shoulder. In the dim, dreamy light, his eyes seem brighter than usual and Hancock's are reflecting a sea of dancing light.

Finally, Nick's fingers dip under the ruby sequins and follow the familiar lines of Hancock's legs. The dress is tight at his hips, too much for Nick to press his hands higher, but the constriction everywhere else is enthralling to look at. Watching that starry fabric move as he feels up his fiancee is almost as beautiful as the floating, blissed expression on Hancock's face.]

[chem_break]

[ That after twilight promise, those oil-fire street-light eyes, and the motion of Nick invading that sparse little cede of space all siege Hancock's perception, hijacking every sense and forcefully steering them to crash upon his stunning paramour-- his new fiancée.

Aside, neither the band nor the DJ are the least bit appalled; Evaris had not expected a show for a show, but he realized long before he (they) finished decorating the party floor that it was, at the very least, a possibility. Such a lovely branch of possibility to find himself hanging on. The biohazard beryl glow from his mutated eye looks especially striking in the decorative dim as he watches his companions tangle. ]

Not gunna leave me with my heart on my sleeve, are ya? Get back here

[ He teases, a mockery of a complaint and a demand, too overflowing with overt affection and genuine rose-tinted rapture. He knows Nick isn't going anywhere, he's back before Hancock can finish his playful griping anyway. His knee grips hard on the frame of Nick's shoulder, pulls him closer while his eager impatience earns a little slack on the lead. ]

Sure do like to take your time, doncha?

[ With Nick down on one knee the ghoul feels a bit better about bending the elbow propping him up, lowering himself so he's not quite flat on his back. ]

Not doin' anythin' ungentlemanly, like tryin' to get me to beg, are ya? Already said 'please' and everything...

[ His skin is especially warm to the touch, his pulse speeding to the chemicals soaking his brain and the sensations charging his nerves with living electricity; the biochemical bliss is utterly unreal; the ghoul suddenly has to close his eyes because he'd been staring so intently he neglected to blink.

A sigh that is almost a groan rushes out of him like a flurry of wishful dandelion fluff; he flattens further against the table, reaching up to his mouth to pluck free the (not quite finished) spliff to extinguish it against the side of his punch-cup. He's getting the distinct impression he's going to forget he's holding fire in his mouth and it would kill the mood if something went up in smoke.

Besides, how the hell is he even this blazed? He's not a friggin green horn.

That's gotta be why the sequins got so tight so quick, right? The drugs? That slightest bit of extra slack in the fabric gained from Nick pushing up the dress is both kind and cruel in allowing a little extra bloodflow; Hancock hisses softly as his turgid dick creates an obscene silhouette below his navel, the pressure-sensation causing his bare toes to twitch and a sheered second of heated wriggling. ]

I get that you're enjoyin' the view... patience ain't exactly my strong suit ya know...?

[ Good natured, heady teasing as Hancock uses his flattened position to arch his hips off the table; he adores that Nick puts so much heart into winding him up, it's written all over the silk and satin, lust and love of his expression. ]

[robotdick]

[Admittedly, Nick is taking his sweet time, really soaking in the ambiance, making a high def recording for his own archives. This is such a beautiful scene, Hancock very nearly squirming under his attention, toes curling as his dick swells and presses up against the underside of those ruby sequins. He'd be a fool not to appreciate this all for a moment--but his paramour is complaining and Nick chuckles.]

You in a hurry?

[In Nick's experience, patience and care are two things Hancock exerts considerable effort ensuring. Doing so without complaint, however, is something the synth rarely witnesses. He's not immune to the request though, the dreamy, throaty rasp has Nick snared and he can do very little but oblige.

Nick leans in and, over the taut fabric of that skirt, mouths along the shape of Hancock's prick. The residual moisture from that drink of punch is enough to dampen that sequinned fabric, to make his movements unusually humid and really highlight the heat of his mouth. His hands wander, smoothing over anything they can reasonably manage, until he finally sets them low on Hancock's hips and tugs the ghoul to the very edge of the table with only Nick's shoulder and hands as support. Luckily, his hands and shoulder are rock solid and unwavering.

Once he's had his fill of mouthing along the shape of his cock, Nick uses his teeth and nose to pull that dress up the final few inches and free him from the confines of his slinky skirt. His cock is heavy and painted with dreamy flecks of light; it's just as pretty as the rest of Hancock. Nick could take a few moments, enjoy it, but he's not unsympathetic to Hancock's neediness. He flattens his tongue along the underside of it, pulling root to tip, and then swallows it down like he was built for it.

The constellations of data that spring up are like music, the haze of surreal, romantic light, and the brilliance of sequins winking in and out of the dark. He'll do this hundreds, thousands more times, and will enjoy each instance as much as the first. The new record, this entry in his registry, springs to life and fills with every detail all at once--his pulse, the texture of his skin, the variable heat, weight, and hardness. Every little aspect is another progression of rising chords topped with a twinkling flash of detail, of too much data and a dropped frame or two. Nick can't exactly moan around his cock, but he gives it the old college try once he has Hancock as far down his throat as he'll go.]

[chem_break]

N-not a hurry, exactly... [ Fuck it, gravity is not making sense like it should; Hancock abandons the intent to keep himself propped, fully flattening on his back so he can reach for the back of Nick's head. His fingers slide along the familiar path as Nick leans in and paints his atypically moist tongue along the obscene bulge below his paramour's navel. Hancock is constantly marveled by how these familiar carnal sensations always play so fresh and new on his nerves when it's Nick who's the Maestro of his baritone bliss. He's not a damn teenager, he can usually manage his blood-flow about as well as his liquor; some concentration, some focused breathing...

But Nick forever cranks his chain with such unrelenting severity, that despite being in the later half of his forties, he practically does feel like a horny teenager all over again; seriously, where is the self control?

It's out the window and on fire on the street below as Nick's too hot, too addictive mouth keeps up the near worshipful friction through the fabric. The ghoul's hips arch again, and again, pushing his pulsing flesh against that teasing mouth. His growl is shadow soft and stretched like a black dusk's silhouette; it breaks to a trembling note of vocals as Nick suddenly hauls him towards the edge of the table. His knee locks again on the synth's shoulder with surprising strength, hinting Hancock is fumbling his own restraint slightly. But they're both built to take the brunt of each other's brutish designs; he can't hurt Nick unless he's really trying, and vice versa.

It feels so good in his bones to grasp at the back of Nick's skull just as hard as he wants to, especially as that pressure gives and his dick stands lewdly in the light-specks. His lips crack open, tongue darting out to spread too little moisture across his skin as he pants through his mouth like an animal in heat.

His spine bends off the tablecloth and his hands bite at the back of Nick's skull and neck when he finally feels the delightfully wicked drag of the synth's tongue with nothing between them; a red velvet groan gets knocked from his chest when Nick so expertly swallows him, sheaths Hancock's dick in those impossibly rapturous metallic irises. Hancock's gone feverish but Nick is still hotter inside.

It would almost be a shame the synth's vocals end up so smothered if the vibrations weren't painted (in a generously heavy coat) directly against Hancock's skin. He'd love to hear it, loves to feel it, and his toes curl tightly as he grinds, a few shallow bucks of his hips, where there isn't another fraction of an inch to sink in. ]

That's it love, take it all in

[ His encouragement is all rough edged, uncut smokey quartz, riddled with thread-like veins of need and demand intertwined. ]

So fuckin' good, so hot inside, I'm burnin' up

[ Absolutely not a complaint. ]

[robotdick]

[Hancock's fingers fit perfectly over the spaces where those indents once were, where some shadow of them still remains, and Nick holds him deep in his throat for one lovely, long moment. He falls into the motions, the familiarity, like sweeping Hancock into a dance. It's the same exchange here, leading and following in equal measure, heart racing and perpetual awareness of his partner sinking into every rivet.

Nick pulls a vacuum as he moves back, lips sealed tight around Hancock's length, and then releases it when only the crown of his cock remains. His tongue laves attention on the head of his dick, tracing it like he's trying to recall the precise shape, and then he seals his lips and sinks down again, swallowing him to the hilt.

The way he sits along Nick's throat, the way he fits so snugly, has Nick seeing stars. Every time that rush of data draws him in, rises up, and overwhelms him, but he striggles against it for as long as he can, just to have a little bit more of this closeness. This is perfect, far better than fireworks, and Nick wouldn't trade it for anything.

Hancock's praise settles across Nick's sensor net like a warm blanket, like a haze of endorphins, and Nick is eager to please, picking up his pace, swallowing once he has Hancock all the way down, anything for another mote of adoration from his fiancee. In the background, the strumming of that bass keeps Nick in time, like a metronome, and runs along his sensors as surely as a low current.]

[chem_break]

[ Every moment is impossibly divine; being sheathed in Nick's throat is perfect, the suction flowing down his shaft is perfect, the circular trace of the synth's too-warm tongue around the turgid tip of Hancock's dick is fucking perfect. ]

That's it-- Christ Nick, lemme feel that tongue again, nice n' slow, gunna make me fuckin' lose it--

[ Language Processing crashes and burns as Nick moves again, swallows him again, and Hancock arches sharp off the table as a cry breaks on the damn of his clenched teeth and stars dazzle behind his closed eyes. When they crack open the ghoul's gaze is thrown behind them by the bend of his spine.

For a split second he catches sight of Var, who has flicked off the accompanying recordings and moved himself to the edge of the performance area; he's sitting comfortably upon the lip of the stage, strumming his base in skillful freestyle, drawing off the beat and rhythm of the show he's being treated to. He does not miss that Nick's pace is matched to his chords, and he slows and speeds them in artful composition to see what effect, if any, the variant background music will have. His grin is subtle but so, so hungry as he provides his unique musical accompaniment.

He catches Hancock's eyes for that fractured moment he's looking, and shoots the spread ghoul a libertine wink, cutting the gold from his green-glow gaze. Hancock's heart kicks a little harder against his ribcage, his fingers tightening on the back of Nick's skull as his cock twitches against the insides of his throat. The synth's motions gain speed and momentum, and Hancock's knees bend and his thighs part as far as his muscles can strain in greedy, not quite needy encouragement. He pulls Nick in by the shoulders, by the back of the neck, spearing himself into the synth's throat with each jut of his hips.

His heavy gaze swings back to lock on Nick's mouth, and then up to his eyes in search of that blissfully agonized expression his fiancée wears whenever Hancock fucks his face with such greedy gusto. One fever-warm hand slips down, the pad of Hancock's thumb tracing adoration across the synth's stretched bottom lip. ]

Never, ever get enough of ya... don't want ya to stop, don't want ya to end me too soon either... keep me close, would ya? Right on the razor's edge

[robotdick]

[Nick is aching to draw this out, so that request is one he can gladly meet. He slows, savoring the slide, the gradual rising and ebbing pressure in hsi throat. He obliges his paramour, taking luxuriant moments when he draws up, tracing his crown with his tongue, licking eagerly at the veins along the underside of his shaft. The shift in beat, in tempo, goes entirely unregistered--Nick moves with Evaris's bass thoughtlessly, speeding and slowing with the chords as they're played.

Keeping Hancock on the razor's edge is a challenge, or it would be if Nick weren't drowning in a sweetly agonizing avalanche of Hancock related data. It fills his eyes, his ears, and dances behind his eyelids when he closes them. The data flits by in bursts--the speed of Hancock's heart, the shift of heat and blood with his pulse, the fine tremors in his thighs, and the tension of his hands at the back of Nick's skull, all are tracked meticulously until Nick's nearly overwhelmed.

Then Hancock's thumb is sweeping reverently across his stretched lower lip.

That motion, the tenderness in it even when they are in the throes, gets Nick every time. His blissfully agonized expression is on full display as he revels in sensation of his thumb over stretched silicon. He wants nothing more than to have Hancock fuck his face, but he can modulate, can roll with this new plan, this new tempo. Somehow, the slowing down like this, makes this act almost unbearably intimate, delicate and fragile in a way that they usually aren't. The data is like a rainbow whorl behind his eyes as he takes his paramour apart with the gentle, persistent motions of his tongue and the embrace of his throat.]

[chem_break]

[ The rushing surge across his senses shifts from white waters to golden honey, trickling; it was a whim of greed to plead to slow the tempo, so the shades of tremulant intimate ecstasy he finds are a delightful and staggering surprise. His knees clench tight around Nick's shoulders when the synth's tongue paints those precious-ponderous circles around the crown of Hancock's dick; it seems more and more like a weakness of his, throwing the ghoul into tsunami waves of bliss for each bare inch of friction laved upon the sensitive sweet spot.

That throbbing baseline slows deliberately as well, muddying the true source of the tempo; is Nick matching the beat, or is Evaris matching the pace he observes? Hancock can't place the distinction, can barely feel the table at his back for all that sweet-slow friction devouring him whole. His eyes are locked on his paramour's, his expression so saccharine with delirious devotion that those nuanced growls, repeating the same composition of sound, over and over to his love, must absolutely translate to Nick's name.

English is failing him entirely but he's still damn near chanting Nick's praises to the deliberate drum beat (baseline) of the synth's ministrations, all in soft samite snarls and blissy-baritone bellows.

There's definitely a cliff's edge looming on the ghoul's dreamy peripheral, but Nick's taking him to it one agonizing inch at a time. He doesn't even need to signal when the momentum gets threatening, when he feels that pleasure-burn flare up like a sunspot; Nick seems to know, to feel it under Hancock's skin as much as the ghoul himself can; he doesn't need the words that are failing him so terribly, Nick can read the throes of his rapture like words on a page.

A handy skill, when the ghoul is murmuring feverishly about how very fucking close he is to busting, how much he's aching in his bones, how much he desperately loves Nick, deliriously loves how he burns him up, and none of it has any words. Hancock's humid hand cups the side of Nick's face, clumsy-gentle, while he bites his own bottom lip from the strain of holding himself to this deliciously torturous languidness. Id is having a full on war with his very own self over wanting to sustain this sluggish greed and wanting to fuck Nick's face with all the strength and vigor he can manage until he's to wrecked and raw to move. ]

[robotdick]

[That hand on his face, brushing over the livewire edges on his jaw, has Nick moaning again and this time without the weight of Hancock's prick on his tongue. Nick barely hears himself, his sensors are far more interested in the compliments and affirmations that drip from Hancock's mouth like the sequins on that dress. Nick's breath across his cock is hot, as is his mouth when he mouths down the length of him again.

This is such a dreamy, wonderful day, so many of his wants came true that it seems unfair to leverage Hancock for another, but Nick turns his eyes up at his love's and wonders if maybe, this once, he can keep the plush, warm embrace of this moment going even as they reach crescendo. He's not sure, he feels like he's being held in tension, that even he might snap and succumb to the casual brutality they both crave, but it's worth a try.]

You ready to come for me, gorgeous?

[Nick's voice sounds the same as it always does, but just slightly misaligned, deeper, rougher than usual. The intrusion into his throat tends to jar his voicebox. It resets itself when the rest of him does, but he hasn't hit that peak. Nick stares up at Hancock and, in a lurid move that is bolder than he is usually wont, he keeps his gaze as he slowly drags his tongue from his base to tip--doing his best to tease Hancock into spending himself when the head of his cock is pressed against his lips.]

[chem_break]

[ Oh yeah, when Hancock has a better grip on his own faculties, he's going to have to work harder to hear his love vocalize; hearing him talk always heats Hancock's blood, but hearing him moan is a whole new breed of bliss. Instantly greedy for the sound, Hancock repeats the motion that set it playing with half the speed and twice the deliberation. His clumsy, clammy fingertips seek those stumbled across edges again, slide in slow adoring circles when he finds a naked circuit and the mild electrical sting joins the rest of the rapture ripping down his nerves. ]

For you-- for you-- gunna come-- so hard-- for you

[ It's a real pity that that one person here who could translate, isn't. Evaris would absolutely oblige, pouring his translations against Nick's ear in a dusky whisper, but he hasn't been explicitly invited, so he'll stay where he is and provide siren-sensual musical accompaniment and an audience laden with carnivorous, carnal appreciation. He does get to enjoy knowing the language Hancock is speaking-- babbling, pleading, unraveling between his grinding teeth.

Hancock manages a shaky nod that devolves into a few slow thrashes of his head. One hand jumps up to his own mouth because he's startled by the volume and pitch of the sounds that try to break out of him. His eyes are so impossibly wide, like polished disks of jet stone as he holds Nick's gaze and watches his tongue trace purposefully upwards.

He can feel himself tipping, feel the gravity flip around him like he's not sure if he's going to fall or fly. His fingers coil and clamp at the back of Nick's skull, his crescendo's cry crashing initially against his palm as his gaze remains locked on his love's. He watches Nick watching him, as is peripherally aware of being otherwise watched, as well.

Orgasms are typically good for a burst of free dopamine and passing the time, but they don't often rock his very foundations like this. The tremors climb into him slowly, steadily, running their claws through him and settling into his muscles as the rush runs through his dick and he spills. Thick heavy dollops of warm whiteish liquid paint Nick's mouth and his face; burst after burst streaming steady from Hancock's dick as his hand falls from his mouth, and he lets his voice, rising into a raptured roar, strike the open air like a thunderclap. ]

[robotdick]

[That shaky nod, the pressure of his hand over his mouth, the expression on his face, Nick's in heaven. He can see just how affected his love is, how adoring, and it settles hot and heavy in his chest. He watches Hancock shake apart, gripping hard, hanging onto him as he cries out. He paints Nick's face with pearls of white that, in this lighting, almost vanish against Nick's silicon.

Nick holds his gaze until he spends himself and for that brief interlude he turns his adoration on the prick pressed against his face. Generally, he doesn't get to see this, doesn't get to witness the way his cock almost flexes as he spends himself. Nick's mouth is half open and, in another rare turn, he gets to taste him. The new data, the clumsy press of fingers against his edges, shorting his thoughts, all of it has Nick moaning again, low and satisfied.

As Hancock's orgasm comes to a slow, Nick leans forward, chasing the sinking rise of his dick, and cleans him off with reverent swipes of his tongue. The fact that his face is a mess, that he will have to launder this suit jacket, that he must seem desperately needy for the weight of Hancock's length in his mouth--none of those even occur to him in the moment.

He's still moving to the slow thrum of bass and his luxuriating movements take on a worshipful bent. He kisses the base of Hancock's dick, the slope of his pelvis, the insides of his thighs, any inch of skin that he finds and feels may be bereft of attention. He could do this--what was it Hancock said?--All night long? He could manage that, at the minimum.]

[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. ]