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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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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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This is just one of those drastically unfair advantages that comes with being what Nick is. He gets to wreck his ghoul beyond the boundaries of biologically determined stamina. Even Nick The Original couldn't fuck like a machine with the constraints and demand that follow flesh and bone. And Hancock certainly seems here for the performance. ]
I said, I hope you like the taste'a that [ The synth's committed dispassionate drawl inspires the return of the Kingpin's snarling, but it's a far cry from all the venom he started this encounter with. His Poker Face is stained, after all. He cannot believe Nick just did that-- can't repress the sudden demanding desire to taste his own flavor in a profoundly penetrating kiss. He bites back the urge to lean forward against the chains but he can't quite cut how his gaze hangs so hungry on the synth's mouth. ]
Just keep... diggin' your grave... [ Fireworks, again. Hancock's eyes screw shut and his whole body jerks, cruel blood-flow engorging sensitive veins. This time the light show drags through the dark and his spine stays bent, body wound tight. His head thrashes back and forth in stubborn refusal, not so much of what Nick's doing, but of the too-eager way his body is so ready to soak up the assault and comply. ]
Can't fuckin believe... the audacity on you... Thinkin' you deserve much, much worse than bullets, Val.
[ It would be a much more effective bluff if the ghoul's quivering legs were not devoting what little strength they could muster to encouraging every leisurely inward stab. ]
Nah... think I'm gunna make you burn so hot you'll wish I killed you
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[Nick thinks it's irrationally lovely how Hancock looks, oversensitive and thrashing as he fucks into him with lazy abandon. His dedication to the game makes a thrill run through the synth, gets him a little more invested in it and...frankly, he'd already been a bit excessive. Nick grabs that leg at his hip and hikes it up pinning it at his waist. He runs his tongue over his fingertip in a lewd show of self-satisfaction and then picks up the baton at the edge of the table.
He can lean back, now, and he does. It makes his thrusts less jarring but certainly helps him hit that tangle of nerse that have Hancock jumping like a live-wire. With that baton, prodding under the ghoul's chin digging into his throat from afar, is so easy he barely has to think about it.
At this angle, it's not the most damning photo he can take, but it catches Hancock stretched out and the file behind him, spilled across the table into the circle of a spotlight. It's a lovely momento of tonight and Nick snaps a image. He might have to print that one off and put it frame by the bed.]
Look at you. Writhing, begging for it. I keep this up, you'll be painting your face again real fast.
[Nick's dirtbag cop voice is weirdly easy to maintain as he drops it a register and plasters a wicked grin on his face.]
All that talk about how pretty I am--I think you let me catch you. Think maybe you were aching for it.
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shamelesslyshamefully gets him off.The shift in angle that allows Nick to inflict such a violent pleasure is executively evil; the ghoul's grasp on himself is already so poorly splintered. His dignity's already shot, and bleeding. No need to make it a pin-cushion. ]
I'm not-- I'm not fuckin' beggin you, I'm not-- [ His rage is shorting out under an overload of desperation. He sounds like he's pleading, even his the words claim denial. ] I won't-- you can't-- you're not gunna make me-- [ The language center in his brain glitches as he's slipped back into that snarling tongue. He keep shaking his head and rattling the cuffs and bending like a bow. Then abruptly neural pathways swap, and the ghoul's animal growls cut into English mid sentence. ]--shut your fucking mouth you self-righteous jackass! You're wrong, you're wrong, you're-- I didn't, I wouldn't, I--
[ The helplessly blissed-out cry that clashes against his clenched teeth his quite contrary. His knees grip the synth harder, hauling him forward on every inward thrust; an obscene slapping sound punctuates each zealously accepted lunge inward. His greedy motions whisper confessions he's still trying to deny; how much he adores every single second of this. ]
Val--Please--shut the fuck up-- [ Because really and truly, the synth gets under Hancock's skin the most by the wonderfully wicked things he says. And those (probably true) accusations, murmured so low and smug, are certainly no exception. It broke the virgin 'please' off his lips, in a moment of heightened fever. Frustrated, humiliated, oxidizing and aching, the ghoul turns his head away and teeters, trembling, over another drop into oblivion. ]
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[Nick's whole attention is on Hancock. He's enjoying the feel of fucking him, quite a lot, but that broken off please, the pounding of his pulse, and all the little details have Nick closer to tipping over that edge than anything. His hand shifts off Hancock's leg and, just for the feel of it, he draws fingertips along his persistently ignored cock. The feel of that, the way it makes the ghoul's muscles jump, has him dropping frames as he tries to capture it all.
Nick supposes he's a voyeur at heart, or he would, if he weren't so totally entranced by the show Hancock was putting on. (Both real and fictitious.) He wants nothing more than to knock the ghoul for another loop, to watch as he unravels, feel him do it while buried deep in him--but most of all he wants to feel the way his cock jerks as he comes. Nick's touch is light, largely out of an overabundance of caution, but he wraps his whole hand around Hancock's prick and strokes in slow duet with his thrusting.]
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Nick does go mercifully quiet, saving The Mayor the sweet-burning disgrace of a second orgasm without the slightest touch to his neglected cock. The trade off is brutal though, the physical touch triggering a different set of nerves to light and sing. He's out of the pan and into the fire but it doesn't matter because it's what he asked for-- this is all what he asked for and that thought throbs through him like the toll of a bell, vibrating.
A second crash is typically rougher than the first; Hancock's already raw and shattered, with nothing left in him to fight or repress the severity of this blissful assault on his senses. He thrashes harder, arches tighter, roars and cries out until his voice is failing, flickering to nothing but rasping breath.
There shouldn't be more payoff than the first round, but there is. Blame Nick's (Val's?) smart mouth for that one. The first climax had indeed made a mess but this time it's especially obscene, burst after moist burst painting the ghoul's gasping mouth and screwed shut eyes. He looks like he's taken far more than two rounds of bliss to the face by the time the last warm wet drops are wrung from his dick and spatter across his soiled skin.
Even when he goes boneless against the table, he's still breathing like there's not enough oxygen. He can't hold on anymore; his legs slide off of Nick's shoulders, only able to rest at a slack spread, still half-bent. It's as far gone, mind blown, fucked-stupid as he's ever been, but he's got no words to say so and he can hardly believe Nick brought him here, to this place of utter rapture.
The payback is going to have to be very, very sweet. ]
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He'd checked with the mechanist, during that bout of excruciating personaly conversation, and made sure there was a dead man's switch on his new junk. He didn't fancy the idea of himself dropping into a heap while sporting a leaking erection so: cut power meant cut hydraulics.
When Nick follows Hancock his new parts behave comparably to the old ones (albeit with less clattering metal on metal sounds and a somewhat smoother descent). He goes still, eyes blanking as his systems reboot. His grip, both the delicate on Hancock's dick and the hard one holding the baton, goes slack and both his arms and posture slump. His new generation legs last longer than the previous ones, they're better balanced. But Nick takes a while to spin back up, unlike his series 3 relatives. When they finally buckle, his softening dick slips out of Hancock and Nick falls into a loose heap at the side of the table.
Sure it looks dramatic and all that, collapsing always does, but Nick could not be happier with how this went--once he's rebooted, he'll be the cat who ate the canary. Absolutely insufferable in his delight.]
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That dead man's switch is a brilliant stroke of mercy. All the air abandons him when Nick Powers Downs, the ceaseless stabbing recedes and the ghoul's insides can finally recalibrate and stop overloading his nerves with pyrotechnics in fantastical explosions of color.
Hancock is fairly sure that it's his own legs creaking like that as he finally, tentatively corrects his posture to the best of his ability. His feet find the ground by the miracle guidance of gravity, and little by little, the severity of his breathlessness ebbs. Usually, resilience akin to the undead means Hancock can recover some level of-- something, while Nick cycles into reset mode. Even if his wrists weren't still shackled, Hancock cannot see it in himself to move one damn inch. If anything, the cuffs are keeping him off of the floor.
Ah-ha, there's that half a flicker of... not shame, but Jesus H. Christ, he kinda got into that didn't he? Real riled up? Bashfulness is probably a more accurate term. Shame implies regret.
Aaaand...
He's over it. Yup. No more Bashful feeling. (He's over it, god damn it. Also he needs to wash his... everything.)]
Nick [ his voice is absolutely trashed ] Hope ya... get up soon... I got an itch
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The old synth is a little distracted by the new feedback, but he pulls it together. He hasn't felt this refreshed and clear since he woke up in Acadia (well, much more clear than that, but it's a reboot thing). Hancock still looks absolutely fucked out, filthy and dangling from the table, wrists still--Oh, right.]
Remind me to leave the keys on the table next time, Doll.
[He has to fish around his various pockets for a moment before he locates them, jangling in his back trouser pocket, and starts uncuffing his thoroughly debauched boyfriend.]
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Unless he's about to observe the floor come right up under him. The ghoul's feet catch the ground but his knees go 'nope' and immediately fold. Exhausted, sweaty hands grab at Nick's arms just beneath the shoulders. ]
Oh shit there's the gravity...
[ Catch your boyfriend, Nick. ]
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Woah! Hey, I gotcha--
[And he does. It's awkward, shifting one arm under Hancock's and the other under his knees, but Nick manages to sweep him up into an easier carrying position. Hancock is a loose and limbless as Nick after a good crash and, for some reason, that just fills the synth with extreme satisfaction.]
Nice of you to try to join me on the floor, but I think we can probably crash somewhere more comfortable.
[Nick sures up his grip and starts for the stairs down to the main level of his fancy penthouse. His pants sag but that belt had been mostly for show. He still has a set of suspenders holding the waistband up, and he's glad for that even if it feels a bit silly to have his newest addition swinging in the breeze as he heads down a floor.
He's tempted to drop Hancock right onto bed but, given the mess across both of them, Nick opts for a different route. He turns on the lights with one of his elbows and the blue trim ticks on with a hum of neon. With just a touch of illumination, it's an easy walk to the bedroom but once he's through the door, he veers off to one side and heads for the bathroom. He hasn't had much call to try the absurd tub in this place, but given the state of him, dipping Hancock in hot water before depositing him between the sheets seems like a solid idea.]
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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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