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Even at night, long after the vendors have closed and the people have gone to bed, Diamond City has an air of pretentiousness about it. It lingers like the sweet smell of wet earth underfoot. Hancock doesn’t miss the settlement, not after what his brother did to the ghouls. But that was a lifetime ago. He only has one reason to return to the Great Green Jewel, and that is to pay the synth detective a visit.
Hancock wears his cowl low, keeps inky eyes focussed on the path, walks with conviction. The less attention he can garner from security the better. Light filters through the red drapes of Power Noodles and floods the market centre in a soft crimson hue. Takahashi tends to a lone diner. Security meander in their rounds, the repetitive thud of their boots accompanied by the splash of the puddles they traipse through. Hancock is thankful Fahrenheit insisted he have his soles repaired. Nothing beats the feeling of dry socks in a wet Commonwealth.
The path leads Hancock through the markets and around a corner. Then another sharp turn. Its dark in the alley, almost oppressive. Pink neon flickers ahead. A beacon in the darkness. Like a moth to a flame Hancock is drawn closer. The heart pierced by Cupid’s arrow is garish in its design, but Valentine insists the novelty draws business. Hancock pauses, searches through his pockets until scarred fingers find the Jet inhaler. He gives it a shake. Only a few hits left, and now one less. He takes moment to enjoy the bitter, earthy aerosol. The chem trickles through his body, warming him. Like a hug from the inside. The few colours around him don’t saturate, nor does the world around him slow and blur at the edges, but the single hit is enough to sate the craving.
Entering the detective agency, he lowers his cowl. The office is lit by a single incandescent bulb. It smells of old cigarettes and the floral perfume Ellie wears too heavily. Relief washes through him. Another successful journey. No need to worry about getting home. Not yet. Although, Hancock won’t admit to Valentine that he takes a certain thrill in going undetected by the guards.
“You’re late,” the detective tells him.
Hancock turns with a smile. Valentine has one shoulder leaning into the wall. Yellow optics burn through the shadows of the fedora sitting low upon his head. A cigarette dangles between metal fingers, smoke encircling the synthetic man. The trademark patched coat of his is missing and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.
Hancock tugs the cowl off his head. Drops it carelessly to the concrete floor. “Super mutants,” he replies. The big green uglies have been wandering too close to Goodneighbor recently. A nightmare for the Watch. He begins working at the mismatched buttons of his wasteland coat. Most are too big for their buttonholes and require extra force to squeeze through.
An incredulous ha. “I thought you knew how to fight. Those mutants give you a run for your money?” Valentine remains in his place, damaged features smirking in jest. He takes a long drag from the cigarette.
Hancock’s mouth forms a thin line. The ghoul is tired and worn. Mayoral duties are taking their toll. Some days he thinks that if he knew how much work went into keeping a town afloat, he would have given the job to someone else. “Super mutants are easy. It’s the paperwork I can’t handle,” he replies, voice resigned. A smile tugs at the corners of his scarred lips, an attempt to conceal his weariness with humour.
The last button finally comes free. Hancock shrugs the coat from his shoulders and slings it over the chair by Ellie’s desk. They don’t normally talk about work. Not when they meet like this. Business and pleasure should be separate. Work adds tension. Kills the mood. But they’re only human – at least relatively so – and their needs extend beyond the physical. Sometimes they need a moment to be grounded. To share in the realities of their lives.
Valentine pulls away from the wall. Comes to stand beside the ghoul, and leans back into Ellie’s desk. He gestures for Hancock to join him and offers the cigarette as an incentive. Hancock complies, sinking against the hard edge of the desk. He takes a long drag. The smoke tickles his throat and the tobacco is stale, but the old nicotine still gives him a buzz.
“You need to get anything out of your system?” Valentine’s tone is soft and sincere. He makes his lifetime of detective work known. Picks up on the subtlest of body language. Notices the faintest shifts in vocal tone.
He is particularly good at reading Hancock.
Hancock considers the half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. He’d love to rant about trade deals and business proposals. But the feeling of Valentine’s intact hand sliding over his nape relaxes him. It’s all he needs right now. So he grins softly and shakes his head. Takes another drag on the cigarette. Valentine’s metallic hand moves up to pluck it from Hancock’s mouth. A cool metal thumb traces his lower lip and artificial fingers tighten around the back of his neck.
“I think you need to take a break from your mayoral duties.” Valentine’s voice sends a tingle through his spine. The synth breaks away. Just for a moment, to crush the cigarette into the ashtray on the desk.
Valentine’s intact hand clasps at the base of Hancock’s skull to draw him in closer. Valentine catches Hancock’s mouth in his own. The synth’s lips are always surprisingly soft; the Institute did well in that respect. He tastes like polymer and cigarettes. Hancock melts, moans softly into Valentine. A rush through his abdomen. Warmth spreads into his thighs. Valentine’s exposed metal hand grabs at Hancock’s waist, jerks his narrow hips in to meet his own. Hancock’s hands grasp over the synth’s rigid back. The ghoul seizes the opportunity to roll his pelvis into him. Trousers feel tighter with each stroke. The zipper rubs, but it’s not so unpleasant.
Valentine releases him. A rush of air escapes Hancock’s mouth and his lips tingle. He reaches for Valentine, scarred and nimble fingers trailing the length of pilled suspenders. Inner mechanics whir faster. Valentine looks dotingly upon Hancock as the ghoul works the buttons of his shirt. It’s not long before they are both tugging the shirt down over manmade arms, leaving the synth in his trousers, suspenders hanging loosely at his sides, fedora keeping its rightful place atop his head. The synth is a sight to behold; a body of ruined polymer and bare wirings, but with a heart of alloyed gold.
Hancock’s arms are grabbed once more. Clutched with inhuman strength, he is pulled in close for another deep kiss. An artificial hand snakes its way around the small of Hancock’s back. Tugs his tucked shirt out from the flag belt at his hips. Valentine doesn’t even bother unbuttoning Hancock’s shirt, merely pulls it up and over his head. Casts it to the ground. Heat radiates from the synth’s body, mechanics firing as they mimic human physiological responses.
A blast of air strikes Hancock’s burning, swelling lips as teeth move to graze over his jawline. His head tilts back, relinquishing his throat to Valentine’s nibbling mouth. Valentine’s tongue flicks over his bounding pulse. Electricity soars down Hancock’s spine, as if transferred from the synth.
Strong hands spin Hancock around. Shove his arms out in front so that he may brace himself against Ellie’s cool, metal desk. Hancock cries out. Something vaguely resembling an oh god. Valentine grinds against him from behind. Wiry fingertips rake over the back of his shoulders. Dig into every striation of scarred flesh. Teeth nip and tease at his nape.
“Fuck…” Hancock groans. Eyes squeeze shut. His body shivers and shudders under Valentine’s rough hands. This, this is grounding. Hancock always preferred to fuck away his problems.
“Is this what you want, Mayor Hancock?” Valentine husks. Artificial fingertips roll over a disfigured nipple. “To be relieved of your duties?”
Yes. Yes.
Hancock’s groin burns and throbs in the confines of his trousers. He nods, gasps out that yes. He knows what the detective wants to hear. He braces against the desk. Fingers curl and claw to keep his body in place as he submits to Valentine’s unrelenting hands. The synth bites down into his shoulder. He hisses. Throws his head back only to feel fingertips abrading over his throat. Solid fingers find his mouth. Drag at his lower lip before one curious digit probes inwards. Hancock catches it with his tongue. Sucks and slurps while the synth groans softly into the curve of his neck.
The finger is withdrawn with a slick pop. Valentine backs off from the ghoul. Hancock lets up. Leans back into Valentine’s durable body to allow the synth’s wandering hands to slither down his abdomen. They find the flag tied at his narrow hips. Hancock reaches up to stroke and clasp at Valentine’s neck, tilts his head to allow the synth to resume nibbling at the remnant framework of his ear. A couple of tugs on the material and the knot is loose. The tattered flag falls to Hancock’s feet. Valentine’s hand slides further, cups the swelling in Hancock’s pants. He grips lightly before stroking downwards and releasing. Hancock rasps, yearns. The sensation is fleeting.
“Tease…” he breathes, eyes half lidded, one hand still gripping the base of the synth’s skull.
Valentine chuckles in his ear. A teasing heh, at last followed by the sound of a zipper. The synth’s dexterous hands push down Hancock’s trousers and they crumble around his ankles. Metallic phalanges ghost over his aching cock while a smooth palm settles upon his hip. Valentine holds him tightly and bends him forward. Hancock braces once more against the desk. Licks his lips. Bites them. Closes his eyes and listens to the light scuff of Valentine’s Oxfords as the synth lowers himself to his knees.
Hands slide down over Hancock’s ass, thumbs sinking into the delicate creases where cheek meets thigh. His insides roll like lava. Spread wide, Hancock is exposed to the prying mouth of the synth. Valentine’s tongue flicks and rolls over him. Sends a shudder through his body. Knees buckle and he leans further over the desk. Each nerve ending fires in rapid succession, igniting his body. Hancock gasps and shudders as the synth’s face presses deeper. Hands squeeze his ass cheeks, tongue working up and down at a torturous pace. The ghoul rocks back into Valentine with a breathy moan, allows his lower back to curve, presenting and inviting. His invitation is accepted and he feels the detective’s tongue probing inwards. Hancock cries out, eyes rolling backwards, body rocking in a desperate need to be tongue-fucked harder. Hot precum trickles down his throbbing cock. The ghoul opens his eyes briefly enough to glimpse viscous droplets on Ellie’s desk.
“Nick…” he begs, pressing harder, willing the tongue deeper.
The synth says nothing. Merely moans into his ass, the vibrations heightening his arousal. Hancock is straining now, cock aching and ass tingling. Valentine dines on him with shameless enthusiasm. Thumbs massage thrillingly close to his perineum. The ghoul’s head droops. His vision blurs, the dim office now little more than a sweeping mottle of greys and browns. Valentine’s tongue continues delving deeper into his yearning ass.
Soon, Valentine lightens his strokes. Loosens his grip from Hancock’s cheeks. Hancock stands still, panting and throbbing, hormones dulling the ache in his shoulders and wrists from bracing himself for so long. He focuses on the scratches and dints in the table. Fingers run along his cleft and he quivers. Valentine rises to stand behind him, the fabric of his trousers rustling softly. An intact hand traces Hancock’s lower back and around his hip, teasing over his abdomen. The detective keeps the ghoul in place with his metallic hand, firmly planted over his over hip. Hancock pulses in anticipation as Valentine strokes painfully close to his base. And in an instant the hand sweeps away, leaving Hancock to whimper.
Valentine presses into Hancock’s back, body warm and electric. He flicks his tongue over the ghoul’s ear. Fingers vie to enter his mouth and Hancock complies, curling his tongue and coating artificial digits in hot saliva. Valentine thrusts two fingers in and out between Hancock’s lips, momentarily burying his face into his neck and losing himself into the ghoul. Saliva smears over Hancock’s chin as he moans softly around the fingers.
Apparently no longer able to contain himself, the synth moves rapidly, withdrawing his fingers and breaking contact with the ghoul. More rustling of trousers as he searches through his pockets. The enticing click of a tube being opened. Hancock bites his lip. Sets his hands back down on the desk and focuses on ragged breath. Rolls and sways his hips invitingly and supresses the peaking need to stroke himself. The anticipation is killing him.
Valentine’s metallic hand forces his shoulder lower. Hancock’s hands slide out further and he is back in his former position, braced over the desk, ass primed. The ghoul licks his lips, body flushing. Lube-slicked fingers trace down his cleft and circle the nerves. Valentine strokes him firmly, teasing his outer edges. Hancock bites back a moan. It turns guttural as a finger presses inwards into his longing ass and he greedily presses back to take Valentine’s digit.
The synth is quick to start a pace. A slow pace, so that Hancock might feel every inch of his slick finger. Hancock quivers around his length; knees buckling under long, drawn-out strokes. He adjusts his weight over one shoulder, freeing up a hand to reach down and afford himself some relief from the heat in his groin. With his palm the ghoul smears dribbling precum over the head of his cock. Spreads it down the scarred ridges of his shaft. A gasp of relief slips from his mouth when he tightens his hand around himself, pumping up and down in long strokes to match the synth’s finger-fuck.
“C’mon Nick,” Hancock breaths, arching his back like a dog in heat. “Fuck me like you mean it.”
The synth is holding Hancock’s shoulder so tightly that pins and needles are beginning to spread down his arm. For a moment, Valentine speeds up. Rolls his wrist so as to reach and caress the bundle of nerves deep inside the ghoul. Then he slows. There’s an increase in pressure and a mild, pleasurable burning sensation. Two fingers sink into Hancock’s ass and resume the long, teasing strokes. With each thrust, Valentine rolls over the nerve bundle, eliciting a deep wave of pleasure that ripples through Hancock’s body. The ghoul is almost breathless. Skin prickles as he begins to crumble helplessly at Valentine’s mercy.
Hancock is pushed further into the desk. He allows himself to slip to his forearm as Valentine sets a new rhythm. Stroking his hard cock, he tries to follow that rhythm. The heat in his thighs condenses. Back arches to the point of strain. Hancock moans and begs for more. Slick fingers roll in and out, metallic hand ensuring the ghoul remains in his position. His cock throbs in his palm and Hancock speeds up, head dropping again, lips partially open. He whimpers, muscles tensing.
The heat finally spills over. Hancock’s vision goes white and his muscles quake. Shockwaves cascade through his core. His body bucks, arm struggling to keep him propped up. Valentine’s fingers speed up and he clenches around them. Hancock milks himself as time slows and his vision darkens. Blood pounds though his ears and the ghoul releases a final, jagged gasp.
As Hancock’s vision returns, he straightens up. Tries to catch his breath. Valentine’s arms sweep around him and pull him in tight. He closes his eyes as the synth kisses around his ear and nuzzles into his neck.
“Tell Ellie I’m sorry about her desk,” Hancock says with a sated grin.