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A Casual Conversation
[It turns out, to Nick's chagrin, that programming a whole new VR sensory interface isn't quite as easy as hacking into a high security terminal. It requires a wealth of creative thinking that Nick, in particular, doesn't excel at. Ever since the conversation came up, though, Nick's has had the idea of trying out a new body mod, and maybe doubling each other for the fun of it, taking up considerable real-estate in the back of his head.
Surprisingly, though, after enlisting Dr. Amari to assist him with bits of the programming, Nick's interest in this little project shifted a bit to the left. Sure, he wanted to indulge in new sensation, wanted to see what it was like to be human, to play catcher, to maybe have a duplicate self (or partner) available, but the deeper he got into the code, the more other aspects started to shine.
To get duplicates working, for instance, required being able to clone perception. Nick could do that, given how he had backup files of himself on hand, but how was he supposed to do that with a human? Amari could give him baselines for real living people so Nick could blend the experience for himself, but...could he run a human through the opposite? Filter them through his experience? Turned out, accomplishing both of those was about the same level of pain in the ass and Nick, well, he was intrigued.
Hancock had waded through his busted old memories like he was walking in the park, had rolled through synth perception like he was taking in a lightshow. Nick was sure he could handle this--it wasn't going to be as deep or foundational, not as abstract, and that ought to make it easier, right?
It would be...very different. Hancock would probably agree to do it, both because he was usually game for radical shifts in mental faculties and...because it would be Nick doing the asking.
Nick wasn't sure, however, that he should ask.
Nick, well, he wasn't exactly the best gague of what was and was not addictive. He hadn't even had an ID to assuage until pretty recently, but even before he'd had an ID, he'd gotten hooked on the rush of crashing. After a hundred years without more than the stray dance here and there, Hancock had him utterly invested, enough that he'd already gotten one body mod and was eyeing a second. It was a little self-absorbed to think that his experience was so superior, but Nick practically ran on worry. What if his own climax actually was that much more of an endorphin hit? It could be risky business running someone else through that, especially someone with an addictive personality.
Although, by that same token, it could be risky running himself through an accurate template of the organic perception. Not just running through the vague amalgam of records on hand, but through a modern, accurate set of guidelines. That...could be complicated...but Nick was designed to absorb templates, to install and remove stuff like that. That gave him a leg up...right?
He was still mulling over the ethical concerns in this whole shindig when he finally finished the coding suite. Once he had, Nick came to the conclusion that, ultimately, the decision about whether Hancock should or should not do something wasn't his to make. Just because it was an option on the menu didn't mean he'd choose to use it, and even if he did port his perception through Nick's experience, Hancock was a better judge of what he could handle than Nick could ever be. Hancock trusted him to tap out if it was too much and Nick just had to do the same.
He was relieved to settle the unexpected, impromptu ethical dilema so easily. Unfortunately, Nick was still stuck with another material complication. How in the hell did he just...bring this up in casual conversation?]
How is it that I manage to get a call for every runaway pet in the wasteland?
[Nick is exhausted (insofar as he can be). The last few errands they'd run (routing a few raiders, delivering a package, rescuing a cat from a tree and returning it to its owner) had been unusually grueling. The first rule of the wasteland was a constant, they got sidetracked every few steps, but the sidetracking didn't usually lead to more sidetracking. As is, Nick is glad to see Goodneighbor in the distance.
He's even more glad that he no longer has to carry a livid pampered house-cat through supermutant territory.]
Surprisingly, though, after enlisting Dr. Amari to assist him with bits of the programming, Nick's interest in this little project shifted a bit to the left. Sure, he wanted to indulge in new sensation, wanted to see what it was like to be human, to play catcher, to maybe have a duplicate self (or partner) available, but the deeper he got into the code, the more other aspects started to shine.
To get duplicates working, for instance, required being able to clone perception. Nick could do that, given how he had backup files of himself on hand, but how was he supposed to do that with a human? Amari could give him baselines for real living people so Nick could blend the experience for himself, but...could he run a human through the opposite? Filter them through his experience? Turned out, accomplishing both of those was about the same level of pain in the ass and Nick, well, he was intrigued.
Hancock had waded through his busted old memories like he was walking in the park, had rolled through synth perception like he was taking in a lightshow. Nick was sure he could handle this--it wasn't going to be as deep or foundational, not as abstract, and that ought to make it easier, right?
It would be...very different. Hancock would probably agree to do it, both because he was usually game for radical shifts in mental faculties and...because it would be Nick doing the asking.
Nick wasn't sure, however, that he should ask.
Nick, well, he wasn't exactly the best gague of what was and was not addictive. He hadn't even had an ID to assuage until pretty recently, but even before he'd had an ID, he'd gotten hooked on the rush of crashing. After a hundred years without more than the stray dance here and there, Hancock had him utterly invested, enough that he'd already gotten one body mod and was eyeing a second. It was a little self-absorbed to think that his experience was so superior, but Nick practically ran on worry. What if his own climax actually was that much more of an endorphin hit? It could be risky business running someone else through that, especially someone with an addictive personality.
Although, by that same token, it could be risky running himself through an accurate template of the organic perception. Not just running through the vague amalgam of records on hand, but through a modern, accurate set of guidelines. That...could be complicated...but Nick was designed to absorb templates, to install and remove stuff like that. That gave him a leg up...right?
He was still mulling over the ethical concerns in this whole shindig when he finally finished the coding suite. Once he had, Nick came to the conclusion that, ultimately, the decision about whether Hancock should or should not do something wasn't his to make. Just because it was an option on the menu didn't mean he'd choose to use it, and even if he did port his perception through Nick's experience, Hancock was a better judge of what he could handle than Nick could ever be. Hancock trusted him to tap out if it was too much and Nick just had to do the same.
He was relieved to settle the unexpected, impromptu ethical dilema so easily. Unfortunately, Nick was still stuck with another material complication. How in the hell did he just...bring this up in casual conversation?]
How is it that I manage to get a call for every runaway pet in the wasteland?
[Nick is exhausted (insofar as he can be). The last few errands they'd run (routing a few raiders, delivering a package, rescuing a cat from a tree and returning it to its owner) had been unusually grueling. The first rule of the wasteland was a constant, they got sidetracked every few steps, but the sidetracking didn't usually lead to more sidetracking. As is, Nick is glad to see Goodneighbor in the distance.
He's even more glad that he no longer has to carry a livid pampered house-cat through supermutant territory.]
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Hancock returns, already dousing his fingers, and Nick decides he doesn't care--if he wants to paint him up and lick it off, if he plans on using it as lubricant, if he plans on sticking those fingers in Nick's mouth and having him lick them off? There's not a single instance he can conjure where the answer wouldn't be: yes, please. Nick, therefore, attempts to keep his trap shut as he watches the strands of amber honey stretch between Hancock's fingers like the world's most promising treat.
Firefly behind him barely seems to notice he's carrying anybody and meanders to the couch. He sits down like Hancock usually does, a whole body flop, but this time that little bounce as the couch springs him back up has him rutting against all the sensitive spots that Nick didn't know about. The hell--nobody told him the space behind balls was such a lightshow, or that balls themselves weren't half bad. He's been missing a lot of data for the last hundred years.
Nick would complain about it, but now that Id is seated and, as Hancock is wont, slouching back against the couch, Nick can drape himself back. He ends up with his hands on the glowing arms on either side, holding on as if he had any say in whether he was put down or not, and relaxes back against the hard hot chest and the traditional ruffles of Hancock's outfit. The new arrangement manages to tilt his hips just a little more, and Nick only groans because it's damn cold in here.]
I must be gettin predictable if you knew honey was going to be in the fridge.
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That upwards bounce off the couch cushion is ridden with a little extra gusto; it is always a pleasure to have Nick in his lap but there is something uniquely satisfying about feeling him just slightly smaller, so much softer, and scented to wake his monster's most carnal cravings. The ghoul's mouth waters beneath his black velvet growl as, in his idle moments awaiting his 'brother', his tongue finds Nick's pulse point aside his throat and deliberately traces that thrumming artery beneath his skin. ]
Didn't I ask ya put it in the fridge? I meant to-- dunno, gone into the Chem Ether, that memory. Doesn't matter--
Seein' as how this is your first time and all? I'll take a second to warm it up for ya
[ It's a fun, whimsical shade of irony to turn that line on Nick's new Human-Sona (quite obviously and apparently Adult) from such an objectively young appearing face. Hancock always plays Brat far too easily but this face suits the gambit better than usual; the simple circular motions of spreading the golden slickness across his digits is impossibly lurid, adding depth, detail and depravity to his promising threat. There is a Cheshire panther quality to his grin as he approaches the couch, casually stalking, and looms above Nick like a small god of golden lurid lunar lunacy. ]
Whatever am I gunna do while I wait?
[ He's already lowering himself to his knees-- a position he could hypothetically hold a lot longer now, thanks to that plush rug. His cheek grazes the inside of Nick's thigh and his skin feels impossibly soft and cool by comparison to that of the emerald beast-ghoul behind them, who is still too tenderly nipping those nubile love-bites down Nick's neck and holding him around the waist with exuberant ferocity.
The young man's eyes are all malachite mischief while he deliberately moistens his lips with a sweep of his pierced tongue. ]
Open to requests
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Yeah? Well, if you're taking requests--
[As a synth, Nick's voice only distorted through artifacting. He ultimately sounded the same regardless of what was happening. Human Nick is not afforded that level of aloof disengagement and his tone is wanting, pleading even as he tries to say something suave. This body has no poker face at all.]
You want to do a taste test? Tell me if I still taste like vanilla?
[Nick has no idea that Hancock has been thinking the same thing, it is just the most obtuse and polite way to ask for head that Nick can conjure up.]
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I do [ The slighter aspect purrs between a falsely shy fan of (clean) fingers across his face. His honeyed hand hovers humid just above Nick's balls and the warmed fluid sheds a few slick shinning drops across the velvet-soft skin below. ]
Now it's my turn to feel predictable... I really vibe that I wanna suck you off that bad? Tch... Good thing I'm kinda beyond shame at this point, might almost be insulted...
[ He's absolutely teasing, serene yet serpentine smirk suspended beneath moss-agate eyes ringed in gold lashes. For all his desire to tease and draw out the act, Nick's pleading undoes him; the blonde youth surges forward and seals his lips around the turgid tip of Nick's cock. His gratified groan plays in almost eerie stereo, from between Nick's legs and behind his back, while the new iteration of the familiar taste and texture flood Hancock's cleaved senses.
It's a challenge for Super Ego to keep groaning out his near-delirious bliss the more he takes inside his mouth (softer than it should be, a smaller tighter space with a single metal stud) but it's not a problem for the Glowing One; his growls shift towards silken and his dick jumps eagerly between Nick's thighs, nudging the soft honeyed flesh there while his animalistic vocals strike the air. ]
Christ Nick-- love havin you in my mouth-- hands in my hair, now c'mon-- hold onto me tight
[ An effortlessly powerful hand takes Nick by the wrist and leads his palm down toward the teen's tousled tresses; the ghoul's firm guidance encourages Nick's fingers to tangle into the tawny threads and pull less than gently. ]
Don't let him keep teasin' ya... g'won now, fuck his smug, sweet, smart-mouth; can tell ya exactly how bad he's dyin' to choke on your cock, Slick
[ In some strange twisted split of cognition, that humid malachite glare shot from between Nick's knees is underscored with a bright miasma of candy apple blush. ]
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His hand is placed on Hancock's soft tawny head and the other joins it immediately, of it's own volition. His fingers card in, tangled themselves, and he grips hard pulling them taut against his scalp. Nick's caution is still somewhere in the wind as he pulls Hancock forward, pushing the rest of the way into his mouth and forcing himself into his throat.
The groan that leaves him is pure sin and satisfaction--Nick's own cock was not nearly this sensitive, not in the same way--this one has a mainline up his spine and into the center of his brain. Every thought, every emotion is filtered around and through the hot, aching spike of needy pleasure that shoots through him. How in the hell does anyone get anything done with one of these?
Nick manages to force his eyes open, to stare down at Hancock and his grip slackens just so, but that blush across his face is another thrill and Nick is moving on automatic as he pulls Hancock's head back and then pulls him down again.]
You feel amazing--
[Not the most original line to choke out, but Nick manages it as he sets a slow, but unrelenting pace. He pulls the blonde all the way down himself, and then all the way back, reveling in the feeling, eyes half-lidded and almost glassy. Nick may be the one doing the face-fucking, but his pleasure is already written all over his face.]
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The sensation of matched hands in his hair feels oddly askew for a moment, aside that Hancock has been bald for the last decade or so, and set against the comfortable grooves of expectations born off habit. Hancock likes the strange inhuman divide of Nick's real (synth? physical) hands-- the dangerous strength matched with a lack of sensory-reading of his skeletal-robotic hand, and the contrasting (charmingly worn-in, like a beloved book) organic imitation that is the other.
But as far as Virtual Realities go? This one's absolutely a keeper. Hancock can definitely see himself wanting to revisit the feeling of (this) human Nick's flesh and blood hands weaving into his hair and using the grip to control exactly how greedily he fucks his face. The blonde on his knees shuffles forward as he's pulled, bracing his hands on the inside of Nick's thighs and becoming utterly compliant to the hands (Nick's, and one of Firefly's) hauling him by the hair; he looks dazed, blitzed, fucking high as an astronaut on acid but it's all nectarous oxytocin blowing out his pupils and making slim shinning jade rings out of what's left of his irises. His lips are flushed and lurid-moist like the flesh inside a split strawberry as they seal at the hilt of Nick's cock; smears of saliva slide off his skin like sparkles off a diamond as those fucked-flushed lips get dragged back.
Nick could say anything to him like this-- the corniest line, said a thousand times before, but it would still be special and unique, done in the way only Nick Valentine would do for John Hancock; so the statement sends out swarms of infatuated butterflies to twist up the ghoul's (the teen's) gut regardless. The Glowing One's grin veers towards sweet because the blonde can't exactly smile. ]
So do you
[ This time when the glowing ghoul's girth grinds upwards against the clenched inlet between Nick's cheeks the crown of his dick is absurdly slick. It's honey-- warmed into a drizzly consistency and spread generously by a hand slipped discretely between Nick's legs. Said digits are still honey-slick while they navigate blind on pleasure-drunken motions, feeling the space behind Nick's balls and further back still to the circle of cinched muscle he can span (again, again, and again) with the too-soft pad of his finger.
Behind Nick, the waves of heat thrown by the bucking bull of a ghoul seem to match with his heart beat, and they are getting faster. The orchestra of sensation encapsulates rapture in this very moment, even preceding the climactic crescendo; the sound of Nick's heartbeat, the scent of his skin and his sweat and blood-- it hits carnivorous inclinations that somehow make his dick hard and his mouth water and it feels safe enough to just enjoy the buzz when it's all VR anyway. ]
Probably goes without sayin' darlin, but ya gotta -relax- for me. [ Hot breath rolls against Nick's throat from behind like scorching wind off the Glowing Sea but the sophisticated program weeds out the perception of pain, making it feel like a balmy dragging kiss of summer. ]
I ain't rushin' ya... but I'm dyin' to know, as the programmer an' all, what exactly ya thought bein' inside you should feel like
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He's not exactly expecting the honeyed finger, but only insofar as Nick is not expecting anything in particular. Warmed to body heat, the honey is smooth, thick, and just a little cloying, tugging his organic skin as Hancock's finger sails over it. At first, Nick's not sure he knows how to comply--relax? As he's fucking into Super Ego's pretty rosy mouth? With Id behind him and Hancock piloting them both like he'd done it all his life?
Nick's head drops back, eyes closed, and rests against the ghoul's shoulder. The move lets him really surrender himself to the push and pull of their combined hands, to drag Hancock against him without distraction, and fully exposes the length of his neck.]
I'm tryin--and--I--I don't know it's--it was--I tried for authentic--
[He doesn't really have a template for relaxation, or for what his own human interior ought to feel like, and even if he did...he's not exactly himself at the moment. Nick blows out a long breath and makes himself slow--it takes focus to willingly relax muscles he's never had before. After a beat or two, he manages, but it's tennuous. When Nick lets those muscles soften, Hancock's honeyed fingers slip inside. They're too soft, too smooth, and the warmed honey sands off all the rough edges that might've been.
The way he feels now was cobbled together through a few hundred experiences by as many patients of Dr. Amari. He wants to shake each and every one of their hands because even that slight pressure, that breaching finger, is a glorious bath of sensation. It's so different from how his own programs overwhelm him--Nick tenses against the intrusion for a moment but breathes and releases again.
His pace has slowed with his distraction, but Nick's cock is still throbbing with his heartbeat, hot and heavy where it's buried in the tightness of Hancock's throat. He's not sure what climax in this body will look or feel like, though--and as much as he wants to lose himself in this, spitroasting isn't exactly his only fantasy. So, reluctantly, as Nick drags Hancock back, he pulls him off entirely.
The cold air in the faux-apartment almost stings when it hits his spit-slicked dick. He grimaces and finally, finally manages to crack an eye and look down--his voice has more gravel than a trainyard as he marshalls all of his wits and asks an important question:]
Will you be disappointed if I want to paint that pretty face?
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Nick's heartbeat is like impossible ethereal music; the blood under his skin calls out the carnivore Hancock wears on his face like a mask and makes it him, makes his mouth water and his teeth itch and his dick tap insistently at the point those smooth human fingers disappear inside Nick. ]
You're doin' just fine, takes a little practice, like figurin' out how to fold your tongue. Att'a boy, ya got it, and -fuck- if ya don't feel perfect inside
[ A pair of appressed digits splay deliberately inside of Nick, testing the yield of his flesh against the pleasurable pressure leveraged around the invasion. His fingers slide free, frictionless as Nick draws the eager aspect back and away from indulging his oral fixation, and the teen makes a hybrid sound of quietly frustrated disappointment that is much closer to a whine than a snarl.
The question instantly softens (sorry, stiffens) the blow; desire makes his mossy eyes gleam glassy while he licks his slack lips; he's shaking his head 'no'-- no, he would not be disappointed, and than shuffling up close beneath Nick's cock while he holds out his tongue in obscene invitation. ]
Paint me up, pretty boy-- wanna see how much of a mess you'll make for me
[ Hancock will probably never find the heart to actually refuse Nick an orgasm-- or a crash, or whatever the approximation of the day is. Not unless that's explicitly the name of the time. He's too hedonistic (too near to tantric) to even fathom refusal for such a gorgeous request. ]
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Nick draws one hand free from Hancock's hair--by habit it is his good one--and with a familiarity he shouldn't have, wraps it around his own prick. The motion is easy, intrinsic to all the memories Nick pulled from, and Nick barely has to spare it any thought.
Jerking himself is a much different experience like this, and it feeds that bone-deep winding feeling of urgency and aching pleasure. The hand in Hancock's hair pulls tighter and tilts his head back as Nick's stroking becomes uncoordinated and nearly frantic. He's closer than he thought and it takes only a few seconds before he stumbles headlong into his climax.
Nick's whole body goes taut, straining against how he is spread open in Id's lap, and Nick wrings his cock mercilessly as it jerks and spills a rope of spend across Hancock's face. The first is a surprise, it hits him across a cheek, but Nick, even in his haze of pleasure, manages to aim the next few.
By the end of it, when he can squeeze nothing else from his tender cock, Nick is out of breath and lax on Id's lap. His hand releases Hancock's golden haphazard locks and gingerly slides down his neck to cup the back of his head. He holds him softly as he drinks down ragged breaths, expression afloat in endorphins and besotted as the day is long.]
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Behind him, effortlessly powerful arms close and cling around Nick's ribs while the ghoul slides his humid cheek against his paramour's; his investment his his partner's pleasure, his high degree of empathy all feed his ability to ride a smaller crest of rapture along side Nick. The ghoul growls wicked black velvet bliss, the sound cuts jaggedly into a groan and his steely sex salaciously salivates, smearing sinful slickness in sensual circles around and just into that temptingly tender honeyed hollow of flesh.
Not akin to an orgasm, but a searing spike of pleasure regardless, that leaves both aspects trembling with Nick while he paints up the pretty boy pearly. Hancock wants to watch from every available angle so only one malachite eye shuts (out of necessity) leaving his worshipful gaze unbroken while the dollops of mess loving laze down his face.
His smile goes just as sweetly smitten (on the faces of both aspects, even) as that tender touch comes to cradle the back of his head. Super Ego tips his head and nuzzles his sodden cheek against the inside of Nick's arm; Firefly's pleasure-ridden clinging becomes more deliberately possessive, almost demanding--
But the softest whisper of clinking chains (and a stern look shot from his youngest counterpart) smothers that chemical fire before it can rage. Instead Id makes a sound between a growl and a groan and restlessly bites Nick's shoulder (exactly where, in another digital adventure, it had once bled so deliciously for him) with enough force for bruises, but not near enough for blood. ]
You, heel.
[ Firefly's only response is a quiet, simmering growl against Nick's skin. The heat coming off of him, in waves linked to his pulse, is not quite enough to make him steam in the coolness so consistently and considerately matched by the AI assisted air conditioning (or, the approximation of it). ]
Don't mind him-- you tell me what's next, Slick. You down for an encore or an intermission? Don't like to assume on behalf'a my better half. Er, third? I dunno, I hate fractions, don't check my math
short because headache but I had to tag
That growl that chases it has him shivering--and it's definitely the growl, not the air conditioning.]
I can see why you get the way you do. [Nick drawls with a slow, blissed out sort of laze. He considers that question (as best he can with hard teeth clamped across his neck). Does he want a break? He feels...sleepy. He's not used to the feeling at all, let alone in this situation, and he rebels against it a little. No thank you, he's not about to take a nap in the middle of this perfect series of moments.
Nick's lopsided smile pulls up across his face and he brings his hand around so he can sweep his thumb over the apple of Hancock's rosy cheek. It smears the mess around in a delightful way.]
Honestly, I'm pretty sure I can't get more relaxed than right now. That is to say: yeah, I'm good to keep goin'.
Sweet as that mouth is--and it is--I'm damned curious about the rest of this. Besides, I'd like to see the look on these faces when you come.
Quality not quantity <3
Even if the way he shivers (and sweats and breathes) makes the ghoul hungry in the marrow of his bones; he's housebroken, he can wait, despite the feral inclination to bite.
He's so very glad he doesn't have to, though. ]
Yeah? Lookin forward to flippin the coin some time, seein how things feel under your... uh, silicone. A Trip for another night though, I'm havin' way too much fun like this
[ He gazes adoringly up at Nick and nuzzles into the affectionate stroke to his cheek, just as though the motion doesn't drag the lurid moisture across his smooth skin. The texture feels fantastically different without all the grooves and ridges of ghoulish skin, without the lack of sensitivity that naturally follows such wasteland-rough resilience. ]
Well then, encore it is
[ As the blonde bombshell purrs the ghoul grabs for Nick's hips and applies just the correct amount of torque to tweak the angle at which he presses against that resilient ringed muscle. The pressure builds for staggering seconds until finally all at once there's yield, and a rush of silken suffocating heat as a few fair fractions of Firefly's sizable dick are swallowed into Nick's sweet and softly searing insides. ]
Godamn Christ you feel like sweet fucking perfection inside [ The glowing grip on Nick's hips quakes with poorly repressed strength, already biting down brutally enough for embedding pretty hand-shaped bruises. His thick impossibly hot prick twitches against the restriction of Nick's insides, a direct injection of radiant heat to the rythm of Hancock's pulse, as another few inches are lanced deliberately inward. ]
Doin so good Nicky, almost there
[ The blonde young man tenderly praises his paramour as he staggers to his feet on far more enthusiasm than grace; he stands, towers above his seated skewered fiancé and tangles his smooth slender arms around his neck. Fine fingers tangle into Nick's hair as Hancock kisses him hard and hungry, devouring any sound out of the other man's throat while one sharp upward thrust finally sheathes him completely.
There's no language at all to the animalistic howl that pours from behind Nick like a column of dry black smoke funneled down his bitten-bruised throat.]
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Firefly has him held tight as he slides, inch by inch, into Nick and his gasping, noisy response is swallowed by cum flavored kissing and the feel of a metal stud. Hancock swallows the gut-deep groan that rolls out of Nick and, for a moment, he's seated fully in the cradle of Firefly's lap.
Recieving like this is so different from taking it down his throat. He has so little control over those muscles and reflexes, and grinding down against Firefly, into the pull of his broad, overlarge hands, stirs up that deep, molten pleasure at the base of his spine.
This is what that beautiful agony feels like for humans. Nick is awestruck, kissing with the distracted motions of a man remembering how to breathe. Every movement and twitch sends sparks up his spine--he can think of very little else beyond the feeling of that almost searing cock speared into him. It feels like this aspect of Hancock has run him through, like he's pressing against the underside of his ribs, waiting and eager to punch all the air out of him. Nick's spent cock gives a valiant, raw twitch and begins its slow attempt at a second ascent.
He can't speak, which is just fine--he can't think so he'd just make a fool of himself anyway. Instead his hands settle on Super Ego's hips, drawing him as close as he can, pinning himself on both sides, and kisses back ferociously, despite the building whine in the back of his throat. His mind is just a mantra of 'I love you' on a loop.]
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(Nick is always so eager for his teeth.)
There's a steady primal pulse at the point they're connected, and Hancock's not sure whose heartbeat exactly he's feeling; Firefly's thumbs trace soft little circles on Nick's bruising hips as he lifts the limber human and sinks down into the couch, pulling free of that honeyed hold until only the head of his dick remains inside. The chill in the air is stunted by the starkly human heat left clinging to Hancock's dick, but the ghoul is still shivering just slightly as he hauls Nick down against a greedily indulgent upward buck. The pleasure buckles him, has him splayed on the couch and arching off of it while the wicked rapture storms in his chest and breaks free in black thunderous growls.
For Blondie, the taste of those carnal sounds that surge up from the core of Nick is another delightfully addictive pleasure on his plate; trading that flavor for the faintly-vanilla spend drizzled across his mouth is yet another force driving the drumbeat between his legs. The young man follows the rhythm of their kiss, smirking against Nick's mouth while the pleasure makes him distracted and clumsy, groaning in heady appreciation when Nick finds his ferocity in focus.
Hancock can feel the relentless affection pouring off Nick's every breath and move, just as real and radiant as Id's emerald glow. It makes breaking from that kiss impossible to fathom; the blonde moves where Nick pulls him, resisting just enough to leave a scrap of space between them for one wandering hand. He catches Nick's lips with his teeth, brushes hungrily with his lips, invades with a pierced tongue-- all the while blindly fumbling his own clothing, the button and zipper of jeans he actually hasn't worn in an age, and then tugging off and throwing aside his black and red Awesomely Astounding t-shirt.
A humid sigh of relief pours against Nick's mouth while the young man finally fishes his eagerly stiff dick from his briefs; the cold air is not nearly as uncomfortable as needlessly tight jeans. ]
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Nick doesn't expect Firefly is going to have a lot of restraint here, not now that he's made himself comfortable, now that they both know how snugly Nick fits around him. The ghoul surprises him, a bit, by keeping it to shallow, grinding thrusts, setting up a pace that Nick can try to work with. He can't bounce on his lap with quite as much enthusiasm as he'd like--not and keep his mouth on Blondie's.]
Fuck-- [Nick breathes.] I sure hope this is how it feels for you--damn--
[Nick's hair, once perfectly coifed, is all askew, his face is a mix of ruddy and besotted, and he shifts his hands to hold either side of Blondie's face, cupping his cheeks as tenderly as he can manage while Firefly slowly stokes the heat spreading through him.]
This is so good, sweetheart--you're so talented--picked this up like breathing--
[The praise is a jumble of thoughts and about the best Nick can do, it spills out of him between increasingly uncoordinated kissing. Hancock is giving him precisely what he imagined and Nick is so grateful he isn't sure how to express it. His good hand shifts, follows along Hancock's arm and wraps around his hand, pressing it against his cock, squeezing both.]
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Think your VR programming is on point-- from what I'm feelin, and that sweet blissed out look on your face? Pretty sure ya nailed it.
[ It's a ludicrous indulgence to get to watch Nick reach true sympathetic understanding in real time for how wild he can drive his fiancé doing exactly this to him. The compliment to his flexible mental state earns a gruff scrap of a chuckle as the blonde young man nuzzles into Nick's (good, though they're both the same) hand before it absconds. ]
Heh, blame the Chems for my flexible mental state [ a smooth red-silk groan interrupts as Nick's hand finds his freed prick, squeezing fingers met with a zealous buck of hips. ] ---Mmmm, maybe, my wild imagination helps a bit [ A small intimate tidbit, murmured at half volume against Nick's mouth; an admission he wouldn't have passed to anyone else, because only Nick knows all the little dominos that tip into that faction of Hancock. ]
Awww, cute as damn cupcakes, you two [ Being tagged with a food item pet name from a mutant flesh-eater hits Super Ego... funny. It's hard to get too caught up in defining the odd stomach flip because as the ghoul purrs one hand abandons Nick's hip, climbs his spine, and tangles into his tousled locks. He's bothering to repress less and less of his strength as he twists Nick's hair around his fingers and bends him at the waist, aligning the man's kiss-swollen mouth just across Blondie's belly button, and the treasure trail of tawny wisps descending the slope to his dick.
With Nick bent deliciously in half Firefly finally swaps depth for speed; those slower penetrating lances become quick relentless rapier jabs. ]
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Nick releases Blondie's prick and abruptly grasps his hips--not for leverage so much as to stabilize himself. He gasps at the sudden speed and ferocity of ghoul behind him and it takes him a moment to shake a few thoughts free. The pull on his hair is a dull perpetual pain with sparks of sharpness littered throughout--there are places inside him that are already aching but Nick can't quite tell if those are pain or pleasure or if there's a meaningful distinction here.
His eyes drift closed and a humid breath fans across Blondie's pelvis before Nick shifts forward and mouths down along that trail. His lips find the base of Blondie's cock before long and he mouths wetly along it until he can finally, eagerly take it into this different mouth. His grip on Blondie's hips loosens and Nick attempts, as he usually does, to swallow all of his love down in one pass. His muscles cooperate with this order--but the burning in his lungs is new. Between that and Firefly punching the air out of him with stacatto thrusting, Nick's lightheaded by the first good bob along Hancock's length.
He'd never imagined it could be this perfect.]
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The ancient scotch groan that pours against his bare navel has the blonde man suddenly sinking into a shockingly deep lagoon of lurid felicity; it feels too good, enough that it's almost odd, and Hancock does not quite manage a choked curious utterance--]
Hey-- [ But Nick's mouth keeps sinking and Hancock can only quietly marvel at how deliciously obscene it feels to have remnant smears of saliva marking the trail of his mouth. Blondie's attempt at speech dissolves into a throaty heedless groan as the base of his dick is laved with the deliberate attentions Nick's lips and tongue. A tremor crawls up his faintly arched spine as his prick twitches in keen impatience. By some miracle of sheer will, Blondie's hands remain steady enough to execute the command motions; he snaps a photo just as Nick swallows him, his gravelly groan salaciously satisfied with his excellent timing. ]
Mmph-- -fuck-, gunna have to add that one to my personal collection. You're too fuckin' gorgeous drivin that face pretty boy, 'specially when you're suckin' me off
[ His smooth smoky praise savors its own shamelessness. It does make sense that Nick's skills as a cunning linguist (or whatever) transfer into this body to an extent, but it still feels like Hancock is getting unfairly spoiled by his fiancé's expertise here. He figures those organic lungs will start kicking for air pretty quick-- but that just makes Nick's eagerness for the experience all the sweeter.
With another stroke of that eerie synchronized elegance, Hancock rearranges his hands; Firefly takes Nick by the beautifully bruised hips, Blondie locks both fists in the detective's debauched hair, and they match each other's rhythms as effortlessly as a pair of reflections. One bucks his hips, the other recedes, and the motions pass back and forth through that vicious visceral trade off with Nick literally caught between them for the ride. ]
Godamn... Can't decide-- which way bein inside you like this is better
Might have to try a couple rounds, a couple performances, to really get a feel
[ The aspects groan together, move together as they push inward and completely sheath each steely sex to the hilt; either opposing point of breach is lasciviously stuffed as much as physically (digitally) possible. ]
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He has no comparison for the raw, unforgiving fucking that Firefly is providing--the heat across his back, spearing into him, clutching at his hips--all of it is melting his human brain a bit. He can barely think and, frankly, doesn't want to make the attempt--being fucked dumb is overwhelming and Nick wants to bask. As such, Blondie's face-fucking is answered with a little less finesse than Nick normally employs--oh he is trying to swallow him down like he's water and Nick's dying of thirst, but convincing organic bits to cooperate is a trick compared to his normal arrangement.
Firefly's words blaze across the back of his eye-lids as the two shift tempo and sink into him at the same time. Firefly's cock manages to drag all its texture along his shiny new organic prostate and the sound Nick makes (albeit muffled by the cock in his throat) is absolutely filthy. His expression is pure agonizing delight, his hands cling to Hancock's hips, try to pull him deeper down his throat.
Nick's feeling lightheaded and his vision, if he deigned to open his eyes, would be spotty and drifting. His lungs are absolutely burning, but this sensation is so sweet he has to savor it for as many seconds as he can. Unbeknownst to Nick, nude and bent over, spitroasted as he is, his aching cock is hard once more and dripping onto the simulated carpet by the couch.
Each touch of praise, each new arrangement, Nick's floating--Hancock could ask him for anything in this moment and get his cooperation.]
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Hancock can feel the way the muscles of Nick's throat struggle to match his devotion to the task; his empathy allows him to vividly imagine the burning building inside Nick's lungs and set that urgent sensation among the rest of the adoring assault on his senses. He knows that need for breath gnawing against the carnal greed to inflict such searing pleasures; he drags them both through a few more seconds without air, holding his breath in kind with thoughtless empathy as he watches the agonized stupefied bliss play across those prettily human features. ]
Lovin' the enthusiasm, sweet as honey-- but don't forget to breathe, now
[ Blondie purrs while his fingers coil in Nick's hair, and mirror the man's motion from earlier that evening; he pulls Nick back and hisses softly as the cold open air replaces the closed hot silk suction of Nick's mouth. ]
Take a breath love, last thing I want is you passin out on me
[ his sweetly attentive fawning is met with a hand on his own hilt, steering his saliva-slick dick to trace the space inside Nick's open lips. Meanwhile, Firefly flattens himself against the couch, adjusting the leverage of his thrusts to aim for the chords that produced such a deliciously filthy sound. His brutal bucking gets swapped again for a shallow, searing inward grind once he finds his target, once he hears that unbidden obscene bliss break out his vocal chords.
And as if that siege on his senses is somehow insufficient, Blondie's dick taps heavily at the side of Nick's face, blatantly teasing. ]
Bet that feels better, huh? You ready for more now, darlin? C'mon... ask me real pretty
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Firefly isn't helping with that.
The shift in his attention is quick and keen, just like his aim, and while the change in tempo gives Nick more room to breathe, the first grinding thrust against the target punches all the air out of him. Nick gapes silently, fingers going tight on Hancock's hips, and a trembling shiver ricochets up and then down his spine. Another thrust has him seeing stars but the only sound Firefly gets is a wheezing whine. The third is payday--the ghoul hits just right and Nick lets out a crooning, debauched sound--]
Fuck--I--
[He wants more, wants his throat filled again, but asking pretty? He can do that--he thinks. Nick swallows, almost choking on another groan because Firefly hasn't (and won't) let up.]
Please?
[That's all Nick manages for a moment, as distracted as he is, but he marshalls up his reserves to try again. When a real sentence forms on his tongue, it comes out gravelly and wrecked, torn in half by the ragged pleasure carving into him and the suffocating interlude with Hancock's dick down his throat. Synth Nick can't sound like he smokes a pack a day, even though he nearly does, but right now the human edition sure has that burned out rasp to it.]
Just can't get enough of you, sweetheart.
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Hancock doesn't expect more than a word, or two-- and Nick makes the most out of the limited language his unraveling thoughts can provide; that 'please' is so damn pretty on his fucked-raw mouth, Hancock could hear it over and over-- but Nick offers him even more, his heavenly hoarse voice demonstrating delirious devotion, tacking on that sweet pet name that always makes Hancock's heart skip a beat. ]
Ya had me at 'please', Slick
[ comes the warm red velvet praise as a hand swoops adoringly across Nick's cheek, and his mouth is all at once lanced with an over-eager thrust. The sound out of Blondie's mouth is rough and breathless by the measure of his voice but still too smooth and smokeless-- alchemizing it with the debauched animal growl pouring down Nick's spine (from the glowing ghoul draped panting over him from behind) is exactly the math behind Hancock's pleasured howls.]
Christ-- you are so fuckin' addictive, ya know that? Like this--
--all soft and flesh that makes my mouth water--
--in Classic Synth Style
--a godamn fucking machine--
Hell even when I dream about ya-- Always so damn irresistible-- Fuck, I-I can't--
I can't get enough either, never, ever enough of ya--
[ They find a rhythm and rapidly fray it as the words start to divide between them-- when one speaks the other dissolves into heady panting, gasping and growling as they design to follow a sturdy back and forth beat, one invasion met with a twin recession, back and forth, again and again, until Blondie buckles and drops himself onto the coffee table. He can't quite keep standing, but the seated position allows him the lurid indulgence of spreading his thighs as he bucks into Nick's mouth. ]
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Hancock's words are split between hearing and seeing, like flashes of color behind his eyes and most of them drift over him without his noticing. The ones that don't catch him right between the ribs. Hancock dreams about him? That seems so absurdly personal--and that tracks, given Nick doesn't dream at all--
The rythym is fraying and Nick is seeing stars. Nick's not used to being tired, let alone exhausted, but he can feel it creeping up his bones. He moves with Hancock, insofar as he can, and the frantic storm of sensation consumes as much of his scarce air as the activity. The heat in him (not just Firefly) is coiled up tight and despite the lack of attention his new organic cock has had, Nick's treading water--he's right there, lungs burning, fingers sore from gripping into Hancock's hips, legs turned to jelly by Firefly's impossible pace and power. He's ready to come crashing down but the one thought rattling around in his skull is that he really, really wants to take them along.
He can hold out.
Until Hancock trips the light fantastic, at least.]
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On the other hand, how could it feel to have the fanged Gen 3's expertise and compliance in unraveling his often cocky ghoul paramour? Nick can't exactly rally one aspect against the other here-- not unless Hancock chooses to play into it, which is fun but different than pitting a completely different predator against him.
And on the other other hand, Nick could always try that Duplicate filter on himself if an accomplice in Hancock's undoing is his aim.
The possibilities swim in the ether of his humid swampy subconscious, glimpses and wisps of thought that don't quite break through the intensity of the moment. Nick doesn't have to tread that dark water long, lungs burning as his new sense of exhaustion creeps in; Hancock's not sure if it feels like falling or flying, either way he's panting like he's fending off a wicked overheating, chasing Nick to that inevitable edge, that brink of bliss that shatters the air. His attention is cleaved mercilessly between Firefly and Blondie, between impossibly organic orifices so diligently and devotedly devouring him. Nick's loosing grace and finesse but his desperation is climbing, a bitten down urgency that builds in his blood and Hancock gets to watch while he steers them both off this cliff's edge and it is fucking perfect. ]
Godamn Christ Nick--
[ Firefly is the first to bolt upright and then bend his broad torso across Nick's back, breathing hard against the base of his neck while one hand swaps its grip, and settles for leverage on that bitten-bruised shoulder. The split grasp allows him a more brutal pull as he tows Nick back into every further frantic thrust; Firefly's pulse played against Nick's insides by pace of the heatwaves he sheds is racing. ]
You are so fuckin' beautiful and you're all mine-- mine-- mine
[ A scalpel sharp gasp cuts down Blondie's throat as his toes curl against Nick's shoulders and his spine archs off the coffee table. The quaking parted thighs and fingers in Nick's hair almost imply that that's how he'll greet his finale, but at the last moment the prone aspects bolts up and draws Nick back by the hair. It's Firefly who snarls at the sting of that cold air while the sultry moss-eyed man murmurs on an oxytocin high:]
Tongue out, Slick Nick. Give me a real pretty face to make a mess of
[ Firefly roars into the icy air (bright clouds of steam tinged green by his radiance) as his nails drag down Nick's back, trailing pretty red rivets as the ghoul finally trips those fan-fucking-tastic lights.
And Hancock proceeds to make a terrible, beautiful mess of his fiancé.
Firefly's movements drive his sweltering seed deeper with each thrashing thrust, while Blondie rings himself out all over Nick's face, kindly returning the favor from earlier that evening. His hazy jungle grass eyes are glued to his paramour's expression as he deliberately aims each lurid burst of liquid; he slathers Nick's mouth, his cheek, his hair as he rides out those wicked riptides. ]
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He's obedient, opens his mouth and tips his head back into that grip, but the moan that reverberates up through him is obscene. Nick trembles, back arching as he spends himself over the digital clone of their rug. He stares up at Blondie throughout, face the picture of bliss and devotion as he makes a mess of the floor and gets his face painted all at once. He doesn't have the wherewithal to lean into or away from any of the mess, just takes the stripes of warm ejaculate as they come.
Firefly digs furrows along his back, bright and painful ones as he fills Nick up and fucks the whole mess deeper at once. The sounds of him are impossibly loud in this quiet room and each drag across his oversensitive core is shuddering, beautiful agony. The room isn't quite cool enough to see Nick's labored, racing breath, but it's close. His cock gives a final, feeble jerk as he spends himself dry and Nick, well, all he can manage is a lopsided smile.]
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HOW DID THIS TAG ESCAPE ME WTF */ROLLS*
LMAO it happens to the best of us.
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