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HUB 360
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?"
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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.
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... 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.
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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.
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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
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
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?
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?
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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. ]
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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?
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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. ]
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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?
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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. ]
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[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.]
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'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. ]
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--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.
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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. ]
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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.]
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hit.
The way Hancock squirms reads as restless, snarling uncertainty; it just so happens to make his clothing slide up smoother. Unhappy accident, of course. His knees hook and squeeze Nick's shoulders, motions all snared between pushing him away and pulling him closer. He can't do that-- he can't let this shmuck make him lick his boots and like it. He can't let slip how supremely desperate he is for everything that's about to happen.
Bouncing and squealing on beat-cop dick paints a poor picture of a Kingpin, doesn't it. What a devious, below the belt play. A throaty blissed-out groan almost, almost jailbreaks from Hancock's throat at the searing-lewd graze of flesh-warm silicone-blend against the small of his back. He has to bite hard on his own lower lip to keep quiet when the synth's shiny new dick dips between the cheeks of his ass. He's trying so hard to keep the rapture off his face, the ignited anticipation.
He's doing a poor enough job of it before the introduction of lascivious moisture. ]
No-- [ as in, 'No Fucking Way'. The tone is salivating disbelief and just a touch reverent. It's one of those moments where an imitation of realty defies the boundaries of its conception. If Hancock can fuck Nick's mouth so brutal and enduring and fail to suffocate him, then why shouldn't the synth's dick also lubricate on demand?
Being a synth must come with an assortment of shitty circumstances, but damn if the ghoul could not identify a couple of silver linings, too.
Hancock can't fucking think of words. He just feels... wetness, in very delicate places. His knees clasp hard onto Nick's shoulders, pulling him in with a sudden frantic urgency. It makes his frivolous complaining especially transparent; nothing in his tone is actually asking Nick to stop. Instead, it's rage tripping into shame, demand bleaching out, becoming something more like pleading. ]
No, don't. Don't you fucking dare-- stop-- [ 'Don't you dare fucking stop' is an entirely different demand than 'don't you dare' and 'stop'. If this were some kind of nefarious blackmail, the ghoul's indignant grousing could easily read as the former. Maybe it is (it really, really is) and maybe it isn't; the Kingpin seems tangled up in the stupefying force of his own self-destructive appetite for this divine abuse. ]
You can't--You can't-- [ means 'I want you so fucking bad'. It's not the exactly kind of begging it's meant to be; the threats all play too breathless and eager. Damn, Hancock did not expect to be enjoying the benefits of a safe word (safe signal) from this angle of things. He's not even imagining he actually wants Nick to stop-- but he's imagining he has reason to pretend he does, or try to. Which is just good somehow and he's not going to sweat about it. ]
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[Nick's kept a keen ear out for that safeword, but he's not hearing it. What he is hearing is a lot of bitten back complaining, rage from a captured criminal backed into a corner. His own bits make it easier, make it not entirely heinous, as the tip of his dick catches on Hancock's hole. He makes a play of looking threatening as he not so subtly rocks in--but once he has managed to, Nick shows no mercy at all, driving himself to the hilt so hard it makes the table jump.
The sensitivity on this thing isn't an even exchange with his hardware. If he thought he could chit chat with Faraday about optimizing it without spontaneously combusting, he'd contact the guy. But he can't so he won't. As is, this works just fine for Nick and sinking into Hancock is better than he thought it'd be. Good enough that he has to spent a moment just grinding into him before he can even think.
Nick takes a harsh grip on Hancock's hips, a grip tight enough to keep a slimy criminal like him in hand, withdraws and drives right back in with an obscene slap of silicon on flesh. Nick sets a harsh, precise pace, pulling the ghoul into him as much as he drives forward. Each thrust rattles the chains to his cuffs and threatens to send the baton and the lamp to the floor. Nick fucks Hancock like he owes him money which, well, is in line with the overall premise.]
How's it feel, Johnny? [Nick asks with a cruel, smug note, gaze darting down to stare at the obscene swell of his dick, bouncing back against his stomach with every thrust.] Finally getting fucked by the law.
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He's not extremely addicted to sex, but his muscles sure have memory. It somewhat equates to jacking the wrong port; the mechanics don't work for this, but they do. He's not built for nailing like a chick; those 'irises' don't open fast enough. Hancock's body strains to accommodate the sudden intrusion, then swallows it with the yielding downwards drag of ringed muscle forced apart. His insides are hot and close around the synth's dick like a second skin.
He doesn't mean to let out such a heedless cry. Nick drags him to that perfect place where pain and pleasure blur into one pulse pounding entity. It takes all the air out of him; it hurts, he almost, almost crashes into an orgasm carved from the ludicrously delightful humiliation as much as the cock spearing his insides. ]
One. More. Bullet.
[ He can barely get the words out, barely scrape together the venom to make his threat sizzle. He sounds just a hair shy of begging, like he's hanging on by the skin of his teeth. When he catches himself using his knees to pull Nick in he twists, turns his face away and restarts his bratty thrashing in short exhausted bursts. He only pushes Nick away in half-hearted fits, like he can barely remember that he should.
Apparently this Kingpin is a real slut for cop-dick.
(Or, Hancock is incredibly into his Beau.) ]
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Put it on my tab.
[When Nick starts up again, he mostly ignores Hancock's thrashing, hands shift off his hips to grip his thighs. He snaps a few pictures as he slides home--Hancock with his head turned to one side, looking like he'd rather be moaning than seething--the way he arches up as he tries to twist and object--the way his neglected dick drags lines of moisture across his stomach, his shirt. Another few images and Nick reaches to take his chin again, twists his face up, and forces the ghoul to look at him.]
Smile for the camera, Mr. Mayor.
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His face is shockingly warm when Nick's fingers catch his chin. It's a weakness the synth learned quickly to exploit, but it hits so different in this game. He tries to resist it, tries to keep his face turned away and twisted up in a snarl, but the command hits him sideways and it's one of those extremely rare moments of obedience he offers to Nick and only Nick.
He doesn't smile though, but he stares the synth in the eyes, dazed and lifting on a raising tide. Synthesized horror and shame war on his expression (built off a small scrap of real bashfulness) as he realizes his body is about to brutally betray him. Smashing into a brain-melting climax without his dick so much as being touched is-- well, a testament to Nick's skill and dedication, really. Some of the ghoul's hardware kicks out a baseline of savage pleasure (the knot of nerves hidden so wickedly inside of him) but the sum of these sensations is so much more than just that.
It's starting to feel like carnal clockwork; the climax Hancock goes smashing into by the sweet depravity Nick can pack into the silk and velvet of his words.
The sound that comes out of him is dangerously close to a whine. The synth's delightful new mechanics had already made a mess, but with measure and intention. Hancock has neither of those things as his dick spills every ounce of the damning evidence of his obscene enjoyment. It's more of a mess than he usually makes; the wicked convulsions ripple through him again and again and he's still just starring at Nick, silently howling as the payoff of organic climax utterly douses his bliss-twisted face. ]
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He catches a burst of photographs as Hancock comes undone, as he paints himself in his own spend, body rippling and straining with the pleasure of it. It's a beautiful sight, the ghoul blissed out and turned into a sloppy mess. It's definitely not in keeping with the game, but Nick can't quite resist the urge to cup his face and drag his thumb straight through those painted lines, smearing them across Hancock's cheek.]
That's a good look on you.
[It's said too fondly even as Nick aims for neutrality. He's fairly sure the game is up, but that's Hancock's call. He's reluctant to move just yet, his sensors caught in a comfortable state. As he waits for the ghoul's mind to gather itself up, Nick just lazily grinds against him, savoring the heat and tension on his new hardware.]
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It's a motion of fatigue more than anything, but the result is a taut, distinct pull across his parted thighs that adds some delightful, undefinable depth to the casual grind of Nick's silicone-flesh against his insides.
The fondness that breaks their script is well received; Hancock tips his sodden face into the synth's hand and nuzzles against his palm. Might be an end to the charades, might be a brief pause. Might even be that the Kingpin and Beat Cop are secretly in love with each other, who knows? ]Fair [ His winded complaints don't make the distinction much clearer. His teeth are still grinding, his indignity all drowning in reverent disbelief. ] You can just-- you can just keep going-- [ the realization is gut-clenching; just another lazy inward grind and something sends fireworks up the ghoul's still-raw nerves. His spine arches sharp off the table, chains rattling against the bolt. ]
That's--fucking--monstrous
[ Waiting for Hancock to gather is thoughts is going to take a while if Nick's so content just casually impaling him with such inhuman stamina and resilience. ]
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The data from their connection has been steadily eating up more of his processing but, honestly, what really has him going is the texture of come across Hancock's face. Come to think of it (hah), he's not tried this since he'd picked up new systems--Nick swipes some of that spend from Hancock's cheek and slides that fingertip into his mouth, sucking it dry as he rocks into the man beneath him. That is--well, not what he expected, but the details of that flavor lodge themselves in his buffer.
Nick's surprise is evident on his face, but it's just a flicker--his expression moves through it, settling on something a little more appropriate for the role. Smug and superior, Nick pops that finger from his mouth and finally says something.]
What was that? [Nick asks dispassionately as he gradually adopts a new, lazy pace.] Didn't catch that. Want to add something to the record?
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not an ATOM bomb but....
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WILL YOU RP-DATE ME-- sorry, sorry, getting caught up in the mood ROFL~
I MEAN. WE'RE WHAT 500 TAGS DEEP? ARE WE NOT? LMAO
On GOD If it's not 500 yet it will be >:D
IT SURE WILL. BD
*/next week 1000+ tags in like whoops these things do happen LOL
Oh no...what a horrible fate...however will we deal...with massively invested PSL romance....
With Hyper-Fixating, Evidentially LOL */RP Joyfriend at your service*
JOYFRIEND that is a good term. Nick's gonna have to get him some tea.
*/grins in enby LOL also wanna close the scene here?
Yeah we can, this is a good spot.
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