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

[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. ]

[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?