HUB 360

[robotdick]

This merry little haunt wasn't familiar to Nick, but the address was correct, for what it was worth. There weren't many buildings with penthouses intact, but Hancock had told him to show up here, so here he was. Honestly, as he came up the stairs, Nick wasn't entirely certain what to expect.

Was it a stash house? No, Hancock and he had a tentative understanding about chems. Nick didn't comment and Hancock didn't do them right in front of him if he could help it. It was about the best the synth could hope for, and a fair improvement on their previous arrangement of: nothing.

Was it a new settlement? Bit of a stretch but Evaris did have ecclectic moods.

Maybe he...Nick came up blank. He didn't have a clue or a chance in hell of divining one, so he shouldn't waste the breath (figurative) trying to hash it out. He just stuffed his hands in his pockets, kept his revolver at the ready in case this locale wasn't secure yet, and trudged up more flights of stairs than he cared to count.

At the top he stepped out of the stairwell and through time. One second he was in the Commonwealth and the next he was standing on fine plush carpet in Boston, MA. This place was an absolute time warp, like walking into a photograph, and Nick was entirely thrown as he let the door behind him close and cautiously wandered in.

No turrets...so that was a start.

Cameras? Didn't spot one, didn't see any mics either but he was sure there were a few. This place had electricity and...was that hum an airconditioner?

"Where the hell am I?"

Comments

[chem_break]

The Noir Penthouse is all that and a bag of chips, dig? The place had been sealed Not Quite Vault Tight for-- hell, longer than Hancock can remember. Once in a while, like clockwork, folks would try to bust in; but there was always somewhere more assessible to crash, especially when one wise guy or another started laying old mattresses on the street.

Three Guesses who eventually came long and popped the cork (cracked the puzzle) on this place? Yeah that's not important right now.

The first moment those elevator doors swished open so smooth, the Ghoul already had Designs. Schemes, even. If 'show off sweet new real-estate because it's so rad' can be called those things. That's the patron thought anyway, never-mind all the smaller ones that run in subconscious neurons underneath. Nope, there's definitely no hidden agenda here.

Okay, maybe he does wanna neck the guy a little, but nothing more.

... Not like The Noir Penthouse has office space, or anything. No, it does have a huge empty floor. Not like it could be an office, or like...

Okay back on track here.

"Hey Nick!" The Ghoul calls from across the apartment. Since Nick took the stairs, they're now on the second floor, featuring the flashiest amenities in the whole building. It's all chic greys and blacks, blue neon edging lights and a full set of furniture that looks pristine save for the dust. Hancock comes striding through the center of the space, a large lavish Livingroom, just a touch of extra zeal to his typically exuberant smile.

"You finally made it! Get a'load'a this place, huh? Ain't it wild?" he's caught a bit awkwardly between wanting to show off everything at once and-- well, basking in the mildly awed look on Nick's face.

[robotdick]

There's nothing "mildly" about how awed Nick is, he's absolutely gobsmacked. This place is equal parts swank and pristine. The furniture is atomic modern, the wall clock is a style they used to have at the station, the lights are Frank Lloyd Wright with high end blue neon trim. There's a conversation pit--but the doubly swanky kind recessed into hardwood floors.

Nick's staring and when his gaze lands on Hancock he stares for a long time, very hard. He's not locked up, though, if his steadily more thoughtful expression is anything to go by.

"Either this is what a synth having an aneurysm feels like, and I'm hallucinating," Nick says carefully as he walks into the room. He feels like his shoes are going to scuff the floors--and they actually might. "Or I am way under-dressed for this party."

It's bizarre. Jarring. Fascinating. Downright gorgeous. There's probably a fucking wine cellar tucked in some corner.

"I used to think the Vaults were weird, being as pre-war as they are, but this--" Nick lets his gaze wander before falling back on Hancock again. He's still blown away. "You find it like this? Or did you become a master carpenter when I wasn't lookin?"

SORRY you don't have to match my script/prose I'm just odd

[chem_break]

[ Hancock already got through all his jaw-slacking awe over the Penthouse out of time. He's glad for the chance to play it cool, slide his hands into his pockets and let his gaze tick over the old awed Synth like he's the most impressive thing in this whole place. It's feeling like a better and better idea to have called Nick over, if just to see him feature such a starkly human showcase of reactions. ]

Hey, zero outta three ain't bad [ his grin isn't quite smug; maybe indulgent. He's caught between the inclination to slide up into Nick's shadow and scamper off towards the kitchen to show it off-- because he's never seen anything so unworldly modern-immaculate. Instead his fingers strum and fidget and-- watch him cleverly about to Cheat The System.]

Yeah, more or less. There was like... eh, less then ten dead guys. Some round-about security shit, somethin' about an AI hijacking a Robot on the logs... [ he waves a hand, flippant. Then fishes into his pocket for drumroll a pack of smokes. The look he gives Nick is nothing short of cheeky as he pops the unnaturally crisp package open and pulls a thick pale cylinder out with a flick of his wrist.

Fires do burn on more than just wood. Hancock sets the smoke between his smirking lips. ]

Yeah I'm pickin' up Robotics before Carpentry at this point, looks like. Light me, would ya?

You're golden no worries

[robotdick]

[Watching Hancock fish...what looks like a brand new pack of Lucky Strikes out of his pocket and pull one out is almos as surreal as the room they're in. He looks delighed, borderline smug and, given the shock of this penthouse, he's earned it. His sass is smoothly delivered and Nick can't help the slight tug at his lip.

And...place like this? All alone? There may as well be someone playing a baby grand in the corner for all the class in here. With all this, who is he to refuse?]

That so?

[He asks as he starts across the room. If his outfit weren't worn through like an old shoe, and if he weren't an even older amalgam of spare parts, he'd be fairly in keeping with their surroundings. Hancock stands out but Nick doubts that he'd have it any other way.

He stops in front of the ghoul and pulls a book of matches from his shirt pocket. The ease with which he breaks one off, one handed, and recloses the book is a testament to how much he smokes. It takes two hands to light it and, after striking it, he obligingly holds the flame up to the end of that pristine cigarette with its fancy gold filter.]

How's that going?

[chem_break]

[ There's just something so smooth about an addict's thoughtless muscle memory. Hancock's just going to be silently pleased with himself for finding a note they can vibe on together, with this. Not like he also wouldn't gladly get smashed with the guy, if Nick could actually drink drinks. Hancock's nothing if not resourceful, and endlessly devoted to finding where he can bend over the rules. ]

Pending Review [ The amount of sheer Charisma he can inject into the objectively dull statement is quite staggering to behold. He could get away with a saucy wink, but he doesn't need to, his voice does all the heavy lifting. Then the Ghoul leans in to catch the match's flame and inhale, the pulled oxygen makes the fire jump and brighten. His unblinking eyes look like black mirrors.

He takes a long drag-- the smoke feels and tastes different, but it still burns, scratches the itch, and nicotine is not something his body is completely desensitized to, either.

Hancock lets the cigarette slide to one one side of his mouth and changes the press of his lips so he can exhale a neat stream of smoke angled to the ground. It's all muscle memory too; same steps, different music. ]

Thanks. Remind me to leave one'a my backup lighters in your coat some time. We keep catchin' each other with our asses out, eventually, someone's gunna end up sore [ In regards. To The. Not having a Lighter. Thing. Obviously. Why is Hancock like this? ]

[robotdick]

[Nick's brow goes up as his smooth response. For a moment or two, it doesn't even register as sass, it feels like it fits in this penthouse, like Hancock is the original owner of the place. And here, a moment ago, Nick was just thinking he stood out against the swanky interior, like he clashed. Turns out he stands out for entirely separate reasons.

Hancock smokes that vintage cigarette like they were put there for him and Nick knows one of his fans is about to kick on. He clears his throat to cover the sound and then gestures to the ceiling vaguely.]

You going to give me a tour of the place, or do I have to summon Jeeves?

[chem_break]

[ His Town, his Penthouse. That's Logic. Not that he's not willing to pass the deed to The Right Guy. But that's coming on a little strong, right? So yeah, he's stick to plain showing off for now.

Is he hearing a fan, or does he just want to? Hancock draws his own hand up slow, not a quite a sauntering motion, and takes the filter of the smoke between two fingers; this time when he exhales all of the smoke flows down over his mouth. ]

You wanna puff first? [ Not like his fingers are deliberately low on the filter, or anything.]

[robotdick]

[That fan better stay just a quiet hum, but Nick doubts it will with Hancock so self-assured. The offer has Nick's eyes darting from Hancock's mouth to the cigarette in hand.

Objectively, Nick knows there's no reason for him to smoke. He does it as a fixation, an automatic movement that his limbs fall in to. That it humanizes him and makes him feel more whole is a byproduct. He doesn't feel a need to smoke like someone with real lungs might.

But he is also not about to turn down an offer like that.]

Sure.

[Nick, notably, does not make any move to take that cigarette with his hands and just returns his lamplight gaze back to Hancock's face.]

[chem_break]

[ Aw, Nick. Those are just Typical Mechanics of Addiction. Organics just got actual lungs in the package, too. Maybe that's a point the Ghoul is making-- or rather, having a hell of a time with. Different, but the same.

Despite all the necrosis, Hanock's fingers are just as dexterous as his mouth. He still takes his time in turning the not-too-delicate cylinder around his fingers, pointing the smoldering cherry towards his own savoring smirk, and offering Nick the filter.

His hand dips forward, does %90 of the work, stops just shy of salvaging any real friction against Nick's mouth. ]

Lucky for you, I like the taste'a smoke

[robotdick]

[They've done this a couple times since their trip to the soda fountain. This heavy, meaningful sort of flirting. Nick's a sucker for it, even if he might not look it in the moment, and Hancock is getting alarmingly good at it. There's nothing to say to that last line and Nick can't hide the sound of the second fan kicking on.

He makes no comment as he leans that last bare span and catches the cigarette. His lips glance over Hancock's fingers and that is an excellent little thrill to go along with the breath he draws.

Nick is in no hurry, but once he has a breath he stands back upright and resettles his hands in his pockets, looking all the world like the noir character he fancies himself to be. It's a second or two before Nick exhales and he does it in a thin, trickling stream that curls up to the ceiling. The fully in-tact, paneled ceiling.

A guy could get used to this--being pampered in a place like this. He nearly says so but thinks better of it--the weight of the pause is exactly the kind he likes.]

[chem_break]

[ There's the fan. Hancock's a quick learner about things that win his fixation, and while he doesn't verbally tease Nick about it, he doesn't need to. The glint off his grin and tiny, reactive twitch of his fingers just against Nick's mouth paints up plenty a smug reaction.

He lets out a slow, sated breath. The way his own teeth chew his lip, thoughtful-like, as he watches Nick inhale seem to imply some heady recollections.

He doesn't quite say 'Good boy'.

Doesn't need to. ]

Don't you look cozy. Careful, I'll ya a taste for the High Life

[ He makes half a lazy gesture to the swanky surroundings, meanwhile stealing back his own cig and setting it at the corner of his mouth. He snickers at his own awful pun, shoulders slack, and looks up at Nick from under the brim of his hat. Enjoying, lounging in the height difference between them.]

You're the guest, aincha'? Tell me what ya wanna see first.

[robotdick]

[The extra smugness, that little bit of self satisfaction, really completes the picture here. Nick's first instinct is to keep playing the game, the back and forth is so satisfying, and Hancock and smugness aren't exactly rare together. But...fundamentally, he's got a choice to make here. Either he has Hancock show him around, they banter back and forth through the other rooms, and he risks that they end up indisposed somewhere more utilitarian than this....or.]

Place like this has to have an impressive master. [Nick says and he manages to make it sound casual, like this is an every-day conversation between two associates. He can't quite keep up the facade after that sentence, though, not with Hancock staring up at him luxuriating in the moment, commanding the room.

It's a bit of a dance after that, as Nick gives in to the romanticism of this absurd, impossible place. Nick breaks eye contact first and reaches up to rest his skeletal hand against his neck, fingers curled around the back of it. If he had hair, he'd be playing at fixing it.] I'd--uh--love to see the bedroom.

[chem_break]

[ What can he say? The Ghoul likes to give Nick Choices and watch his processor tick. He would be down for a slower burn, too-- trading riskier flirts while trekking through the rooms. Moving from a simmer to a boil.

But damn if it ain't gratifying when Nick Valentine takes the shorter route to the bedroom, no euphemism required. Nice to know he can get the guy's blood up so easy... especially without the actual blood part. ]

Sweet-talker [ He all but purrs the accusation, once again a panther personified. He lingers in their shared smoke a moment longer before rolling back-- but not without taking Nick's tie in a firm grasp along the way. ]

C'mon, bed's this way [ He pulls that tie like a leash, taking them both through the main area, through an open set of glass-and-metal doors, to the master bedroom. ]

Look, modern amenities n' shit

[ Getting a bit bolder now, he uses that unrelenting grip on Nick's tie to steer his back, not too rough, against the doorframe. ]

Whacha think? [ is his raspy goad. ]

Interrogation - Good Cop/Sexy Cop

[robotdick]

[Nick's repurposed his upstairs room, moved in a security table he pulled out of the Boston P.D.'s holding rooms. It's a relic, as is the spotlamp he's got hooked up and placed on it, but it paints a surprisingly accurate image of what detainment was like back in the day. Nick had offered to replace the fixed cuffs with something a little less official, but Hancock had assured him that the old double locks would work just fine. They were heavier duty than the pair Nick carried with him, had longer chain on them too. They didn't seem particularly alluring to the synth but something in them seemed to get the ghoul interested.

He'd taken a few other things on his little shopping trip: the corkboards, at least the salvageable ones, detainment benches in processing, and he had planned on pulling the bars and benches from the drunk tank, but those required a few more tools than he'd had on hand. Some of it was expressly for this, like the table, but the majority was for work. Good Neighbor was largely peaceful but, before he'd moved in, the standard way to address grievances was good old fashioned stabbing. He didn't like to ruffle feathers in passing, but now that he was in the roost a slight shift in policy was in order.

So, here he is, with Hancock seated in a metal chair, hands cuffed, tethered to the recessed divot in the center of the table and secured with a welded bolt. With the lights off, rooms in Nick's place were dark. With that one spot on, everything was high contrast, including the file he'd set up just for this. That might have been going overboard, admittedly, but Hancock had wanted realism.

Still, Nick wonders if he's missed the point of this exercise.

The scene wasn't one that he generally thought exuded sexiness, but Nick was a sucker for Hancock. The ghoul probably could have talked him into a french maid outfit if he did it while they were goin' at it, so getting Nick to set all this up wasn't too much of a stretch. When he throws down the file onto the table, lets the "evidence" fall out so the perp can see it, Nick's pretty sure he's lost him to distraction the way he cranes his neck to read the rap sheet he conjured up.

Definitely overboard.]

Alright, Johnny, I've got you dead to rights.

[Nick announced, leaning into the circle of light and slamming his hands on the cool steel table.]

Your pal, Jimmy--yeah, ol' Jimmy the Snitch--turned on you faster than you can say plea bargain. I know all about the embezzling, the racketeering, the funds siphoned from your campaign--it's all here.

Give me one good reason I shouldn't throw you behind bars and lose the key.

[chem_break]

You know, usually I slap a guy for usin' my first name

[ This has got to be one of Hancock's Greatest Ideas of All Time. The ghoul had always been able to see a kinky shade to the whole Cop Shtick; the sexy dusters, digging deep into the dirtiest parts of society, handcuffs. All valid points on the list. Carnal Escepades on the table with Nick meant the suggestion of some kind of roleplay was inevitable.

What Hancock did not expect was to be so graciously, whole-heartedly appeased.

The ghoul does lose some time (some Criminal Cold Composure) when that rap sheet hits the table because-- really? What's on that thing? Is it more than zeros and ones? The attention to detail on this guy is absolutely Nuts and Bananas. It's weird and wonderful and Hancock feels a swell of overwhelming affection for Nick sweep over him like a riptide. He manages to keep the obscenely obvious love-struck grin off of his face though, the only flicker showing through his 'character' being a sharp saucy wink-- but hey, maybe he's just trying to egg the copper on.

... Damn, he actually knows a Jimmy, too.

Fucking Jimmy, nerve on that guy, after he brought him a turkey for Thanksgiving and everything! Guy's fish-food for sure. Hancock paints himself up with a flashfire of rage and then lets it starve off. The slack of the chain means it's only a little awkward to sit back far enough and prop his bootheel on the table. Discretely, Hancock's boot lands next to the rap-sheet as opposed to ontop of it. He kinda wants to keep that thing. Maybe stick it on his wall. The cutest damn thing he's ever seen.

It's a bit difficult to take a slack posture with his wrists bound up, but the ghoul manages. His chair is tipped onto its back legs only, the taut line of metal links keeping him from falling backward.

His eyes rake from Nick's face to his toes and back again. He looks bored (he's really not) by twitch at the corner of his mouth, sounds it by the way he lazily kisses his teeth. He draws the rude hissing noise over a few long moments, pursing his lips to extend the moist drag of the sound and ending with a sharp click of his tongue. ]

So... lemme get this straight. You think that you, and your cute little file, got a chance in hell of takin' me down? This is my town, kid. You can't touch me. But I dare ya to try.

[robotdick]

[Okay, maybe Nick does see the sexy appeal of this, the way Hancock gives him the most insufferably confident responses. Watching him kick back is an exercise in keeping his professional glower on. In another life, Hancock could have been a real good actor--or a kingpin, though Nick prefers to imagine the former. Right now, it's almost easy to forget that Hancock hasn't ever been old-style arrested, what with how well he's playing this.

Makes Nick's immersion easier to maintain. Nick lets out a huff and pushes off from the table, standing back in the darkness out of the spotlight. His eyes give him away, glowing like they do, but he imagines neither of them mind that little oddity.

He'd been pondering if he should attempt Good-Cop-Bad-Cop, but seeing how he didn't have a partner, it wasn't the best approach. Nick Valentine the original hadn't been an especially violent officer, but he remembers a few who were. Real pieces of work, those guys, and Nick falls into his best impersonation as he strikes a match in the dark and lights up a cigarette.

When he steps back in, he rests the hand holding the cigarette on the corner of the table and then flips open the file.]

Nobody's untouchable, not me, and certainly not you.

[Nick scrolls the list with his finger, cigarette smoldering away in his hand as he does. When he finds what he wants on that list (arbitrarily selected) he pulls the printout from the file and tosses it in Hancock's lap. Then he takes a drag from that cigarette and puts it out against the side of Hancock's boot. (He'll polish it out later.)

The page he's tossed at him is just a page or two from the ledger of town funds, tracks the taxes he pulls in from who, who's late, nothing especially nefarious. Except, of course, the entries Nick inserted into it making it look like he was sending the lot to some offshore account in the Caymans.]

Remember that reporter? The one who "jumped" off a bridge? Well I sure do. Had a lot of interesting data on her PC.

Don't suppose you know whose account that is, hm, Mr Mayor?

[Nick leans in, then, until the lamp is throwing light behind him and his arms are settled across the center of the table, casual as.]

I had it frozen this morning.

[chem_break]

[ Maybe the ghoul's acting only seems so polished because it's so easy for him to play a freaking menace. He keeps up the bored and disinterested mask-- or tries his best, but his eyes keep following Nick as he swims through the dark. The flash of just his eyes is-- way sexier than Hancock would have guessed, but it's probably part of the thrill of the game. Yeah, the ghoul asked for Sex but also for Play, and he can't help but be absolutely charmed by how much (dare he apply the term) zeal the synth pours into this whole thing for him.

... Ah, yes. His off-shore accounts. Clumsy of him to leave those records just laying out in the open, on his personal computer, in his office, password protected.

The look he turns on Nick is a steely calculating glare. Okay, copper. You got something. He almost, almost looks like he's about to settle back into surly, impudent nonchalance... but Nick leans in, all done up in dramatic lighting, and gives Hancock something to run with.

The ghoul moves frightfully fast when he's so inclined. One quick motion has he foot back on the ground and he surges forward with a rasping roar, allowing the pull of the chains to stop him barely an inch in front of Nick's face. ]

Don't touch my shit, Valentine. Your pretty face only gets ya so much slack. This is a sweet date an' all, but you're pushin' your luck.

[robotdick]

[He's channeling his best dirty cop, then, when he pushes up on his arms and gets right up in Hancock's face, furious and steely. He grabs the ghoul's shirt, wraps his fist in the ruffles at his neck and lifts him up just a little, straining the cuffs.]

I'll touch whatever I want, Johnny.

[The name is snarled and Nick drops him and shoves him back hard enough to put him on his ass in that chair. It yanks the chains taut, that whole motion, and it takes everything in Nick not to make sure Hancock's alright. This only works, though, if he rushes him, so Nick does.

He rounds the steel table and, out of his pocket, pulls a collapsing baton. It snaps open under the spotlight, goes from a handheld to almost two feet of locked steel. He brings that right up, jams the handle up, under Hancock's chin into the softer flesh there, and seethes.]

Your lawyers and cronies aren't here to help you. Not today. You're a snake, but you aren't going to slither your way out of this one, pal.

[Nick leans in close, enough that he could tilt his head and catch Hancock's mouth. His expression is all fury, all smug danger, the best approximation he can do of one of those pissant beat cops who liked to brutalize college kids.]

There's no more fall guys, no more plea deals. Just you. Me. And the confession you're about to write.

[chem_break]

[ To Nick's credit it is incredibly difficult to keep the snarl on his face when the synth keeps twisting his name like that. It's not the first time Nick has made him secretly glad for the fact that blush does not show very well on ghoul skin. There's just the slightest tingle across Hancock's face but he's confident it's completely invisible. Damn, Nick is way too good at this.

The observation dazzles under the interrogation light as Hancock swings back, instinctively catching his balance against the strain of the cuffs. The pull softens his fall into the chair and he is absolutely fine, just working to keep the grin of giddy thrill off of his face. He misses that snarling proximity but a moment later Nick is back, rounding on him, and the ghoul's heartbeat starts to accelerate. The snap of that baton goes right through his nerves to their tips, a heady thrill that has his mind racing as his imagination spins too many Possibilities per moment.

The grind of the baton's handle against his chin, with Nick almost close enough to taste... Hancock steels himself against the impulse to lean in and catch Nick's mouth. He wants to, badly. It shows for a split second, then his teeth grind and he pulls in a breath, realigning his focus.

Really, Nick's given him so much great material to work with. There's a lot Hancock could say, but there's also a certain level of deviance in silence. He fills a few seconds to the brim; a smirk bares his teeth and his tongue traces lazily down a naked canine. ]

You're all talk, Valentine. You got peanuts unless I write you a love letter [ Hancock's voice becomes a simmering, raspy whisper. ] And I don't see how a sweet, good guy like you is gunna convince me to do that. [ God, does he want to just grab Nick and-- his hands reel uselessly against the cuffs, conveniently restrained. ]

the second hand embarassment I got off this was 4REAL

[robotdick]

[Nick keeps that look of utter contempt and disdain on his face, tilts Hancock's head higher with the end of that baton, and sniffs as his scowl shifts to something contemplative. He plays it cool and tries his damndest to sell this part because, of everything, this is so far outside his wheelhouse he's not sure how to--

Go big or go home, right?]

You got a smart mouth on you.

[Nick's crowding his space and doesn't back off for an instant. A sharp kick knocks the chair out from under the ghoul and Nick pulls back on the baton, freeing Hancock up to tumble all of a foot and a half to the floor. He's glad this is in his place and not a station--wood floors have more give than concrete.

Okay--he can do this.]

Maybe it's time to put that to better use.

[He sets the baton on the table and makes a show of it, looming like a shadow in front of the spotlight, as he undoes the button on his waistband. He drags the zipper down real slow, and, god he hopes this install looks good. He just--this is a surprise but Hancock will be excited right? His fans are already kicking on--

How he keeps a straight face as he pulls his brand new dick out of his pants, Nick has no idea. It's a small fucking miracle.]

Seems to me that you don't understand the position you're in, Johnny. It's you who's got to convince me not to crack that skull of yours and throw you in the river.

And given what a piece of shit you are, it's going to take some real work.

DICKS, man XD

[chem_break]

[ It's only because Hancock is so intensely focused on his partner that the chair coming out from under him catches the ghoul off guard. He stifles the second half of his gasp as his legs struggle to get beneath him and catch himself against the floor. He's taken harsher punishment throwing himself out of bed-- but somehow the superficially rough treatment is more than enough to get his blood pumping, warm.

Hancock feels buzzed, elated; like they've spent this time plain old necking, instead of all the fun and games. ]

Oh yeah? And what are you... [ The way his voice fades out when Nick goes for his waistband is probably built off of genuine befuddlement. On his knees as he is, Hancock had been giving the mental side-eye to that devious baton. His heartbeat jumps up into his throat for a few seconds and he does not lose, but he fumbles his cool.

Oh. Oh. That's... that's definitely new. All the moisture leaves Hancock's mouth and for a few brief moments, he feels completely stupefied. That... that is a really nice dick, did they make that in a fac-- oh wait. When he looks up at Nick's face his eyes are probably the widest the Synth has ever seen them. He looks stunned-- and before he can even think to smother the impulse, Hancock's tongue snakes out to slake the dryness off his lips.

Composure Resetting in three, two, and one...

His eyes narrow into jet shards. ]

You wouldn't. And I'm gonna put one extra bullet in you for every time you keep sayin' my name like that. Fucking disrespectful.

[ There's less volume to his growling but no less venom. There is definitely heat coming off of his face now, and his pulse is invading every inch of his body at once. Thankfully the ghoul has a lot of practice in keeping up a bluff. He's got an excellent poker face, but damn if Nick isn't putting it to the test. ]

Lmao rite?

[robotdick]

[Okay, that went well. The shock on Hancock's face was well worth the way he revealed his new hardware. Nick hadn't been sure until right now and now? With that color on the ghoul's face? Now Nick had confidence about it.

It's easier to keep up his contempt now that his nerves are settled and Nick really falls into the scene. The fingers of his left hand loop casually around his cock and squeeze once before sliding toward the tip. Nick had whipped it out soft but it is fully capable of getting hard and he makes a show of that.

The show is just for Hancock, though, because Nick ignores everything his left hand is doing. Instead, he reaches for that baton again. He doesn't brandish it, he slots it between the chains of Hancock's cuffs and twists it, eating up every inch of slack it offered, forcing Hancock up to either stand hunched or dangle with his knees barely on the ground.

When Nick talks it's with that newfound confidence. His voice is a low, drawling curse, like he'd rather spit than talk with the likes of him.]

I haven't even started disrespecting you.

[Jamming the baton into the divot is easy enough, it keeps the chains tight, and frees up his good hand to snap out and take Hancock by the jaw. He holds him just a touch too tight and lets his disgusted gaze rake over his face.]

So I'm gonna give you one last chance. You gonna confess, or does this get ugly?

[chem_break]

[ The ghoul does a completely awful job sustaining any sense of disinterest when Nick demonstrates the realism of his new hardware. His gaze drags along with the synth's stroking fingers, and Hancock has to focus on not bending to the impulse to eagerly moisten his lips. He wants to, and the restraint is written in the low burn of his glare.

How dare this lawman make John Fucking Hancock feel like this?

But damn if he doesn't dig it, right into the marrow of his bones; the degradation in Nick's tone blends into his warm blood, a highly effective aphrodisiac. Nick has barely touched him, and the ghoul finds himself extremely conscious of his blood flow. Practice and concentration are not typically poor companions-- Hancock doesn't often get an obscene boner, all of the sudden and out of the blue.

But watching Nick's brand new hardware boot up-- that does things to the ghoul. His blood feels like it boils all at once, head suddenly swimming in dizziness as everything flows downwards. The delectable looming threat of the baton splits Hancock's attention, and his gaze jumps back and forth, helplessly enticed.

He opts to stand (to the best of his ability, bent) when Nick reels back the slack of the chain. God, he's gunna have to just-- make it illegal to put actual criminals in here, or something. This is his favorite room now. At least until he's spent enough to want for the duvet, again. His mind hangs of the term 'disrespect' and creates all kinds of colorful definitions.

... Yeah, okay. Now Hancock is definitely, obscenely aroused. There's no way to deny it, so he's just going to have to play it shameless. ]

Got me shakin' in my boots, copper. They train you up to bark so loud? Dunno if ya can tell, but you ain't scarin' me. Gunna have to work a little harder if ya wanna make me sweat.

[ But he's already sweating, already sure that with Nick's hand clamped on his jaw, the synth can feel the quick demanding throb of his pulse. ]

[robotdick]

[Nick nods as Hancock regains his character even though he's clearly sporting evidence of how affected he is. Nick, or rather his character, lets his contemptuous gaze rake down until it lands on the swell of Hancock's trapped dick, tenting his trousers and almost touching Nick's thigh. Nick sucks his tongue and then, in a demonstration of his new liquid coolant system, spits in disgust on the floor by Hancock's feet.]

No...I certainly ain't scaring you.

[Nick cedes in the way that all officers cede a point while crafting a trap, waiting for the criminal to blunder into it so they can crack down, and skulls if applicable. He's still close enough that he can feel Hancock's breath on his face. His expression goes wicked and dark, his lopsided smile pulls into a cruel grin.]

What's a matter, can't resist my pretty face anymore?

[Nick's hand shifts from Hancock's chin to the front of his shirt, pulling him a step to the side and turning him away from the table. The cuffs hold, pin his arms up above his head, and Nick's really happy with the picture here. He drags a heavy hand down Hancock's front and snags his waistband wholesale, wrapping fingers under it and hauling his hips forward.]

I'm sure all your little buddies will be interested in how you got out of cuffs this time, right? When I've got a sheet on you a mile wide?

[chem_break]

[ Okay what evil fucking genius thought up a system of synth mechanics that meant giving them a (pulse-pounding, blood-baking) equivalent to saliva? Nick's mouth is already a marvel of science and mind-melting oral sex, guy does not need lubricant too. Only holy fuck yes. Hancock's gaze tracks the distained smear of liquid to the floor and he fails to repress the instinct to swallow. He feels Nick's eyes graze down his body and settle between his legs like the muzzle of a gun.

He wants to raise for that bait, but his instincts falter; for a second he's not sure where the upper hand is, how to keep aloof and above this fucking pissant cop. He opts for a moment of calculating silence, which is the most conservative move Kingpin Hancock has made so far. ]

So maybe I got a thing for cuffs. Don't go jerking yourself off about-- oh wait, too late

[ Of course Hancock trusts Nick, so it's easy to let the guy man-handle him, drag him around and drop him how he likes. It plays like the ghoul thinks he's invincible though, like the synth's hands on him anywhere don't make him lose time. It's everything he can do not to arch into the heavy touch that rolls down his front, to wrap his legs around Nick and haul him close enough for friction. The way he has to bite down on his eagerness against the disgust in Nick's drawl lives in his nerves and under his skin, a perfect chemical-electrical rapture. ]

Your point? I'm the god damn King of The World. No one's gunna think twice about a guy like me walkin' outta here. The hell you think you're gettin' at? [ This time, he's less bored. Like it's personal now. There's a low-burning heat to his temper and an odd kind of intimacy to the sting of his glare.

On the ropes might be an overstatement, but not by much. ]