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]

[ Hancock will absolutely recover the energy to be a typical pain in the ass, menace to society in short order. If Nick ever feels like making him heel though, now he understands now. Hard for the Ghoul to be eyeballs deep in some kind of trouble when he's feeling more inclined for a quick nap on his Not Boyfriend's bed. ]

Ah-ah-ah. You already signed the lease. No Take backs. [ He's already got the stats back for ribbing, it seems, lazy as his demeanor still is. ] You're stuck with me now, Slick. Sorry to tell ya.

[ Mmph... where is his hat. Hancock's eyes are tired of neon underlighting. He can't actually be assed to move around too much though, just settling for slinging a bare forearm across his eyes and laying slack like the odd arm-bend is perfectly comfortable and natural. ]

Uh-huh. Looks like your new Landlord's thought'a everything. How the hell'd you get so lucky?

[robotdick]

Slept with the guy.

[Nick answers without missing a beat. The terminal is kicking him back with written passwords and, since he already plans on uploading to it regardless, Nick just cuts out the middleman. He disconnects a wire in his skeletal arm and it goes slack. Casual as anything he plugs that wire right into the side of the terminal and lets it run. His background processing is more than enough to crack low end tech like a personal computer. The screen blanks and all his code is printed to it as he flies through the registry and reorganizes things to his liking.

The fact that this method hacking also lets him turn in his new office chair and leer at Hancock is not lost on him.]

Turns out he likes dancing and rust martinis, wild right?

[chem_break]

Nice. Classic move.

[ He hears that Nick is doing... things. Clicking, clocking, fussing. He's curious, but he doesn't quite peel his arm off of face for a peek. The inclination to do so just gets gently set aside; has any bed in his entire life ever been this comfortable? ]

Sounds like a sucker. Take 'im for all he's worth.

[ He still smiles, beneath the awkward sling of his arm, oblivious to Nick's leering. A subconscious stretch has him unfurl his toes and absently rub his foot against the duvet.]

'Specially if it means ya take me dancing again, heh.

[robotdick]

I'll see if I can't get him to help me tow a jukebox in here. Then we can dance all we want.

[Nick watches him stretch out, just like the large cat Nick always compares him to, toes spread against the soft blanket. Behind him, the terminal clicks away, hard drives clicking as they spin up and record the data Nick's dumping into them. In the background of it all, the sounds of a washing machine cycle going underscores the moment making the synth feel like he must be hallucinating.

This place went, in one afternoon, from a staggering novelty to feeling so domestic, so homey that if he were capable of it, he'd be choking up. He's not sure what the hell he did to deserve this, but he's not about to start complaining now.

Behind him the terminal beeps as the files finish copying over. He logs out without looking and retrieves his cable from the small computer. It's a bit of a bitch to put this particular cable back in, but it's the only one with slack so he doesn't have a lot of options unless he wasn't to fish one out of his leg. (He does not.) He gets it on the second try, as usual, and goes back to watching Hancock.]

You know that's the cover blanket right? The sheets are probably nicer.

[chem_break]

Radio's probably lighter, but yeah, make the guy work for it

[ It's... undeniably comfortable, listening to the chatter of oddly domestic white noise. Hancock doesn't even have a frame of reference for that, for this-- but he likes it, this easy-breezy chill. This coupled, affectionate safety. He doesn't care much to figure out the schematics of it-- is it Nick, this place, the satisfaction of two orgasms in less than an hour?

Doesn't matter. Hancock usually doesn't feel this kind of chill unless it's chemically induced. He's doing the stubborn thing-- not wanting to sleep because it feels so good being here, awake, trading friendly banter and soaking in the insane thread count. ]

Eh? But it's so soft just layin' on it like this...?

[ Since he's employing one of his arms as a sleeping mask, it's the free hand that goes blindly groping about the duvet for an edge to catch and grab. Blanket size doesn't often square up with bed size in his rough experiences; you just can't match blankets to bed-size post-apocalypse. Except when you apparently can.

Hancock finds the edge of the blanket at the edge of the bed-- pulling it on means getting off of it though, and that's a pretty tall order. Instead, after a bit of lazy pulling and rolling, he's become a Ghoul Blanket Burrito. ]

... Yeah this works.

Do we call it for interrogation?

[robotdick]

[Nick watches the whole blind, lazily gymnastic maneuver. Hancock pulls it off one-handed, largely because he refuses to lower the other arm and just grab the damn duvet. He ends up swathed in the whole thing and, honestly, Nick can't find it in him to complain. If he wrinkles it, Nick can throw it in the wash.

The synth turns back after that and tap a few keys on the keyboard. The white lights go out and the blue fade down. He feels like he's in another world.

It's going to take him ages to get used to this place.

But, while Hancock is curled up, presumably sleeping, Nick goes wandering through the rooms of his new home. Taking a tour in the dark while trying not to wake someone was, frankly, more Nick's speed than an open house.]

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. ]

[robotdick]

[Nick's chuckle at that answer is to release his own dick and use that hand to grab one of the Kingpin Mayor's thighs. His grip has all the hard, unforgiving promise of that baton jamed into the table above Hancock's hands. Nick hefts that thigh up and rocks down, presses the small of Hancock's back against the edge of the table as his own prick grinds hard against the one trapped in his flag-belted pants.]

Oh yeah? And if I get the DA to drop all charges, across the board? Well...that's just you being untouchable, isn't it?

[The glare Hancock's got on him is legitimate enough that Nick is, at once, marveling at his commitment to the role, and inspired to double down on his own. A flip of his thumb has the top of those trousers undone, a yank has the flag untied and draped on either side of that open fly. Nick doesn't touch him, though, and pulls back as he hoists that other thigh.

He's strong enough to make a show of it, if Hancock wants to thrash and threaten. This moment, though, is perfect and Nick snaps an image of the scene before him. Ever since he got these new eyes, that function has a sound. Soft but akin to that polaroid that fascinated Hancock so. Nick could turn it off, but he doesn't. Not today.]

Certainly not because you're in bed with the law, right?

[chem_break]

[ That friction is insidious. Hancock is clenching his teeth into his tongue, gripping onto the pain to brace him against the surge of heady felicity that floods his senses. For half a second his head rolls back on his neck, his eyes don't quite flutter. He snarls because it masks the groan that wants to bubble up his throat. ]

Fuck you. You... you don't have the pull for that

[ He sounds almost, almost certain. Who actually knows about the mysterious power structure of this imaginary criminal justice system? That telling, completely aesthetic camera-click makes delightful, palpitating knots of his insides. The ghoul's thighs strain, caught in conflicted-indecision. He wants to roll against every inward press, but that's terribly undignified for the type of high class criminal he's playing, isn't it? ]

... nhg. Didn't exactly wine and dine me, didja? Not like I signed up for... whatever the hell you think you're doin' to me

[ On the ropes is no longer and overstatement. It's a terrible card to play, because his body immediately calls his own bluff. Hancock is riled up, safety off, cocked and ready to ride. There is absolutely no way anyone would believe he was not absolutely getting off on this. The taut strain of his dick is just one piece of the picture-- the desperation is threatening to poison his expression, pry his legs open, buck his hips. ]

You play that card? Gunna look like The Law's in Bed with Me, not the other way around. [ The bluff could pass, if Nick could only hear the cocky streak in Hancock's voice and not see what a state he has him in. ]

[robotdick]

You willing to stake your reputation on that?

[Nick taunts and gamely resists the urge to get deeper into the organizational mechanics of their fictional corrupt local government. Hancock is absolutely into this--Nick was skeptical but he's having a hard time not getting swept up in the enthusiasm. Irrationally, he wants to make this kingpin beg. He rolls his hips forward and grinds against the base of Hancock's dick again, all the while wearing the smuggest look he can possibly conjure.]

Cause I'm not sure you are.

[Nick continues and releases Hancock's thighs. He braces on one hand and reaches up, yanking the baton free with the other. The slack in the chains unwinds but it's a lateral exchange. Nick flattens that baton across Hancock's neck, just atop his adam's apple, and lets it dig in.]

After all, what politician lets himself get railed by a beat-cop? Look at you: you're pathetic, already hot and bothered, almost begging for it.

You gonna be this confident when I'm balls deep with you bent in half?

[A colorful exaggeration. He didn't get balls installed, they seemed cumbersome.]

[chem_break]

[ That unforgiving grind of finely sculpted hardware is mind-melting at only this bare minimum level of engagement; not like Hancock isn't intimately familiar with all the fun that can be had with dicks involved, but Nick's managed pretty spectacularly so far, without. This kind of feels like cheating-- like the best player in the game just removed his handicap settings. Like if Hancock's not careful he's going to trip over oblivion way too quickly. That's embarrassing... no, humiliating, but in a pretend-real way that makes his pulse drop down into his gut. ]

'Let's' is pretty liberal, bub. [ It's a move he enjoys continuing to fumble. A bluff he's barely holding because he wants to do everything at once with this impossible-tech sex toy. He wants to ride Nick raw and swallow him down and feel exactly what happens when he trips into that special shade of crash. Does the silicone-flesh jerk and strain? Is there another, needed-not-needed routing of his fluid-cooling track through the build? Will Nick make his own mess or will he just bend the ghoul in half so he paints himself pretty? ]

Goddamn-- you-- you don't wanna do that [ Hancock is very loyally following his script, but it's very hard to mask the way his tone says 'I really want you to do that' ] Guy like me? You don't know where I've been. Probably got all kinds'a diseases...

[ So let's recap, shall we? That baton Hancock had been so enticed by is now digging deliciously into his throat. He's blood-hot, bone-hard, and devoting far too much focus to not allowing his senses to sink too deep into this delicious disgrace.

He can't let this smartass Nobody win the power trip over how bad Hancock wants to be obliterated-- fucked into the table until he's raw and pleading and puddy for this damn dirty cop. ]

[robotdick]

I know exactly where you've been--[Nick growls, fury flashing as he presses a little harder with that baton, cuts off air for a few moments as he speaks. His own character falters a little here as he mentally times how long he can keep Hancock from breathing, but the savagery is really working for both of them.]

--Sashaying around town like you run the place. Living the high life in every mobster's house-party, every high society fundraiser, every birthday on a yacht, all on taxpayer money. With nobody the wiser, or nobody living, at least.

[Nick is half pulling this out of air, half just dragging it from thing he's imagined Hancock doing as he parades around Nick's penthouse in their off hours. It's in keeping with the setup, even though it skews the stakes a little. Whatever--Nick could ignore slight rounding errors in elaborate fantasy scenarios. (He can and will, goddamnit.) Hancock looks ready to tap out and dare him to try but Nick wants the banter to carry through, so he doesn't give the ghoul a chance.

Growing accustomed to not having his skeletal hand has been a trick, he's burned himself more than a few times without thinking. The main positive, however, is the new feedback. Now he has two hands that aren't likely to crush or injure and that just makes his life so much simpler, especially at times like this.

Nick leans back all at once, and slams that baton onto the table. The furniture doesn't jump, but only by dint of how absurdly heavy it is. His new good hand wraps mercilessly around the base of Hancock's prick and the other, freed of the baton, proceeds to deliver on his promise and fold the ghoul in half. He hefts that calf up until it's propped on his shoulder, splaying his legs and putting his genitals on full, obscene display, right in the spotlight.

Nick's not entirely sure about this part--he knows that Hancock is flexible in theory, he certainly cracked more than a few jokes about it--he's not sure how flexible he is in reality. This isn't too deep a bend yet and one leg ought to be easier than both, but Nick is still gradual in his movements. He covers the caution with a patronizing sneer and a low hum as he crowds back in and looms.

Hancock's bathed in the harsh spotlight and Nick is just outside of it, even as he leans in. He snaps another picture and that performative camera noise goes off again.]

You've been fucking us all for years--I'm going to return the favor and plaster that sweet, sneering, pathetic face on the front page of every rag on this coast.

[chem_break]

[... Okay, listen. It's not that Hancock expected Nick to be bad at this, per say; he did not expect nat twenties all across the board. He's gonna have to do something extremely extravagant and over the top to spoil the synth in fair exchange, not that it's being asked of him. He doesn't feel that it is, he wants to give as much heart to synth as he's being given. Sex isn't something extremely uncommon for the ghoul-- but having so much fun during the fact? The draw-out? Slow burn, leisurely indulgence Nick keeps dishing? It calls for something drastic and Hancock is going to figure it out, when he can think outside of this little game they got going.

His Kingpin Persona falters, or perhaps he's just starting to sweat. That's a good angle, dirty in a way that makes him feel his blood rush down like a tide. Solid stakes and perfect continuity are low, low down on his priority list here; Nick could say anything, add any new branch to this wild story they've got going and Hancock would just roll with it.

He's already crunching imaginary numbers, trying to gauge the risk and reward of buying out Nick's boss. His Mayorly Stash Accounts have been frozen after all, so it might not be on the table. Alternate strategy; depart the guy from a few of his fingers until his loyalties swap to the King. ]

Now who thinks he's untouchable? You think I don't know where to cut ya, kid?

[ He doesn't get much more of a chance to bluff, with no air to articulate with. He has to pour all the steaming contempt into his expression-- but his veneer is already cracking. The ridges of his brow struggle to keep turned down, to mask the tortured euphoria that's ripping up his nerves like live wires.

When he growls it's with that loaded articulation he sometimes adopts, almost like in some shade of reality there ought to be subtitles. He's saying something-- but he's not, not really. It plays like a threat and a promise, hungry and demanding and full of temerity.

It's a hard gambit to hold when Nick dolls him up under the spotlight like that and creates another link in a chain of blackmail. His expression wars between livid and lush lust-- and just one hard liquor shot of shame. Shit. This is the moment the Kingpin is starting to realize he may actually be in trouble.

The Reality of what Nick is going to do with him steals Hancock's breath as effectively as the press of that baton had done. Hancock's a far fucking cry from a virgin, but playing catcher is not an extremely common position for him to take. That doesn't do a single thing to sate his hunger for it. He wants Nick to wreck him and it's so, so difficult not to swing his other leg up, hook onto Nick's hip, and pull him close.

He's no damn gymnast, but his joints and ligaments are sturdy and not completely unaccustomed to this bend. If Nick wanted, a guiding hand would be all it takes to get both the ghoul's knees over his shoulders. ]

You --fuck-- can't-- you wouldn't, you-- [ another cuss in the tongue of the ferals ] I swear to god you're gonna fucking regret this! [ It's the kind of desperate, lashing anger that boils up when defeat looms. It's undercut by the burn of how badly Hancock wants everything, all of this, the brutal dirty-bliss of being railed but also every absurd little detail. He starts to trash, an impressive show for using such a tiny fraction of his real strength-- and it's a convenient way to disguise the eagerness in the movement of his hips. ]

[robotdick]

[Everything about how Hancock just threatened him said that no, he would not be regretting this. Those cursing growls, feral and ghoulish, made Nick press in just a touch more, made his grin stretch just a touch wider. Then Hancock's thrashing--it's for show, they both know it, and Nick makes another risky move. He really hope's he's reading this situation right.]

Shaddup-- [Nick snarls and spares one of his hands. He cracks Hancock with the back of it, right across the face. The force he uses isn't anything near what either of them can exert. It's on par with that thrashing, he figures, but Nick doesn't often slap people around. He wasn't sure how to judge the severity of that move. He rolls through it, however, and immediately hitches up Hancock's other leg, dragging it up over his shoulder and crowding the ghoul against table.]

I've heard enough of your bullshit to last a lifetime.

[Nick hitches his trousers down, leaving them drawn halfway down his thighs. When he drags his cock down Hancock's lower back, and along his ass, Nick can't quite manage to keep entirely in character. He drops a frame or two as he maps it all, his fans kicking up at the idea of what he's about to initiate. His new cock can't come, he doesn't have the plumbing for that, but it can certainly make a mess of things.

It had been the machinist who suggested that upgrade and Nick had spent an excruciatingly embarassing hour discussing the subject with her--his cock could get hard via simple hydraulics, but his hydraulics ran on coolant and machine oil. He wasn't about to pump the thing full of either of those. Given his latent masochism, that sounded like an express ticket to a bad time. She suggested he fill those hydraulics with secondary lubricant then, with a simple one way valve, he could squeeze some out as needed. Or, like now, to make a mess of his partner.

Nick had waited for the ground to swallow him up when he gave her the go ahead on that one. He was too old fashioned for this nonsense, but he hoped Hancock would enjoy it. Here and now, he's glad he suffered that particular gauntlet because there is really something to this whole making a mess on the person beneath him.]