Rayman (Ramon) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
raycasting) wrote2023-11-13 09:38 pm
raycasting) wrote2023-11-13 09:38 pm(PSL) Normally this is where I'd put lyrics...
...but most of the darksynth genre doesn't use lyrics.
raycasting) wrote2023-11-13 09:38 pm
no subject
Days like today.
Sometimes it's hard to tell just how bad that crack is when they're in the studio. He does his damndest to keep a lid on it. A lot rides on his ability to keep a lid on it, and half the reason he can in the first place is that there's always someone to pass a glance to in order to silently say get a load of this. Somehow, someway, he manages to get through it, but the elevator ride back up drags on as the day weighs on his mind. And while it would be nice to treat the elevator as the place where the mask can slip, other people live in the Estate in the condos on the lower floors, so there's always a chance that someone could walk in.
Rayman rocks back and forth from toe to heel with his hands politely tucked behind the small of his back, ready to give just about anyone a big, warm smile, on the off-chance someone joins the two of them. Once the elevator comes to a full stop at their destination, all bets are off once he crosses the threshold of the elevator doors, as if he walked through curtains into another world. His body posture immediately changes -- slouched forward and brow furrowed, he brings up a finger to tug loose his bowtie as if it had been choking him all day.]
Can you believe this shit?
[He's making a beeline for the bar, as usual. But he's not usually this stompy about it. As he speaks, he's making his way behind the counter.]
"You need to be more cheerful about it!" Lady, we're talking about cancer here!
[If his compatriot is confused for a moment, that would be understandable. He's talking about something that happened after the morning news. Yes, he's been sitting on this all day.]
I can't stand this new producer, acting like she can tell me what I have to do. I've been doing this since she was in diapers. Where does she get off? Cheerful. Fuck's sake.
[The only thing that manages to make him take pause in his tirade is to take a second to choose what he wants to drink tonight. Yeah, tonight's a whisky night. He grabs the bottle off the shelf and puts it on the counter, along with a lowball glass and a couple ice cubes from the machine underneath said counter.]
A new "novel treatment" rolls out every--five? Ten?--years. They're never one-hundred percent. I'm only here to let people know it's an option -- I'm not going to sell them empty promises.
[He pours his own glass, but he doesn't drink from it just yet. As he places the bottle back on the shelf, he casts a glance over his proverbial shoulder to his companion. Only then does the furrow in his brow lighten up.]
Your usual?
[Even though he asks, he's already reaching for the wooden juicer.]
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No, it's Ramon who's struggling with the new arrangement, Dolph's learned, after spending weeks watching his microexpressions while endless screed crosses the teleprompter. In that time, Ramon has likely become uniquely familiar with what an eyeroll looks like on an aviform face. Dolph's hands were tied here. From the beginning, he was annoyed. Gradually though, "annoyed" became something shared, an unexpectedly strong link formed entirely of mutual seething about the world. Even now, conveying it through eye contact seems to relieve his show host-charge some. How fucking strangling it must be to say all those words without believing in the pleasant lie anymore.
Filming is over. Never soon enough, but Dolph glares onward in onerous agreement as he follows a frothing Ramon into his penthouse, used to the routine of this, too. Ramon quoting things from far more hours ago than Dolph has retained prompts some brow-scrunching, maybe, but no questions. Like Ramon, he's going to dissolve. First, his shell of hard-light feathers, then all the backbone in his posture. He drapes himself over a stool and lets his cheek crane against a fist. Even the most brooding ex-soldier needs a break from standing with his arms crossed eventually. War is hell, and so are talk shows.
Truly, the last thing anyone should want to do at the end of such a day is make a drink that involves more than one step. The offer floats across the bar though and Dolph adopts a languid little grin. Once upon a time, he made it a point to turn down the alien's hospitality. Yet, sincerely, not once since he tasted his real, fresh limes imported from only Eden knows where has he been able to say no. ]
Keep spoiling me, and maybe I'll see about having Miss Producer replaced.
[ A moment, a beat, and — Bwzzt! — Dolph softly mimics the sound his facial topography scanner makes. ]
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It wasn't always like this, though. When Dolph's wherewithal to decline drinks finally broke down, all Ramon had in stock was a shitty, lazy-man's margarita mix, but once they got to the bottom of that bottle, it never showed up again. Everything got upgraded as it needed to be replaced: the margarita mix for fresh limes and agave syrup, the Triple Sec for Cointreau, and a top-shelf tequila. Hell, he didn't even own a salt rimmer before.
It shouldn't be surprising. Once Ramon finds something to care about, he goes hard. He's always been like this.]
Hah!
[It's not exactly a knee-slapper but it's a bark of genuine laughter nonetheless.]
I appreciate the offer. But as much as she gets under my skin, she's -- really good at her job. The better the producer is, the less shot-calling I have to do, and that means I can just turn off my brain and go through the motions. So I'll take the micromanagement if it means I also get a well-oiled machine in the process.
[Dolph's been around for long enough to know that the studio has pretty low turnover, which means that this is in reference to something(s) that happened while he was still buying into the lie. If he was miserable having to do that back then, imagine how bad it would be now.]
Besides...the producer is the last line of critical thinking between the truth and the filter. You'd hate it.
[Each ingredient gets added to a shaker and vigorously shook for a few seconds. He lets it sit on the counter while another lime gets sliced into quarters, slit mostly in half, then skated around the rim of the glass. The glass is turned upside down and spun in the salt rimmer, then returned upright to receive the contents of the shaker. Once he puts the lime slice back on the rim, he scoots it over to Dolph in silent declaration that it's done.
Ramon moves as if he's going to step out from the bar, but he only takes a half-step before he stops and stares at his own glass in deep thought. His eyes dart over to the leftover quarters of lime. He raps his fingertips on the counter for a moment...]
...Yeah. Why not? It's Friday.
[He reaches under the bar once more and grabs a can of ginger ale. He pops it open and fills the remaining space of his glass with it, then squeezes a lime wedge into it before dunking the leftover rind unceremoniously into the drink.
This is what counts as Friday drinking now. In the before-times, he used to play this fun game where he would see if he could get to the bottom of the bottle before passing out, all in the name of scratching an itch he couldn't put a name to. But now that he has constant company, it just doesn't hit the same anymore. It's not that shame that keeps him away from it -- although if he gave it some serious thought, it would be kind of embarrassing to conscript Dolph into being his blackout nurse -- but the truth is that, while the itch is still there, it's nowhere near as bad it used to be.
Now he steps out behind the bar. He hops up onto a stool, leaving an empty one between him and Dolph, and unbuttoning his jacket as he settles into his seat. He reaches out for the cigarette dispenser at the end of the counter -- a reach that a normal human wouldn't have been capable of -- and lifts the lid, taking a stick from the display that blossoms outward, along with the lighter sitting below the dispenser.]
So...
[He speaks in time with the snap of his lighter, but doesn't continue until after he lights up, takes a long drag, and kicks his head back to let out a swirling fountain of smoke.
Between the alcohol, the nicotine, the quiet, and the cherished company, he can almost convince himself that all is right in the world. Just one thing left.]
What do you want to do for dinner?
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[ Dolph echoes cooly, already opting out of thinking any further about the esoteric ecosystem of Eden's newsroom. Instead, he simply looks forward to getting a little drunk; that's more entertaining than TV: watching each of those premium ingredients, which he'd have to be a serious boor not to notice were procured just for him, get taken up into the curious anti-gravity of Ramon's hands and turned into finest distillation of his tastes money can buy.
The old margarita mix was fine—hiding out with Alex in the underbelly, most of what they ate, drank, and inhaled was some kind of artificial—but this is better, obviously. Dolph just barely remembers to say thanks. That's something he does now. Then his grip is on the glass. It tastes like a daydream going down. His one organic eye falls shut in order to appreciate the first sip fully. Only once it reaches his stomach does it settle into bittersweetness, but that's a feeling he has to ignore if he's going to keep on living.
He also needs to eat to keep on living. So, dinner — His turn to decide again, huh?
Some nights Dolph is absolutely no help, a brick wall of non-decision deferring to whatever it is Ramon's in the mood for, as the big wig with all the connections. This evening he does have it in him to make a request, though it's an abstract one. ]
Something that'll make us feel like we're far away from here.
[ At this point, Dolph has readjusted his lean to face Ramon, slim fit pants-clad knees crossed in what would be the leg room of the invisible person separating them. His expression is actually pretty pensive. This isn't Dolph just being difficult. ]
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Admittedly, most days Ramon just throws a dart at the phonebook anyway. He's on a first-name basis (well...you know) with every joint that is in delivery radius, and then some -- because obviously they make an exception for Rayman. Even if they don't deliver in the first place.
The sky's the limit.
Dolph's abstract request is refreshing, rather than frustrating. He's actually giving him something to work with, and it presents an interesting puzzle to solve. He completely misses the pensive energy that Dolph is sending his way -- too preoccupied with the assignment.]
Far away...hmm.
[He swirls his own glass as he thinks, causing the ice to clink against the sides like a muted wind chime. The first thing he comes to mind is a literal interpretation of distance, which puts us at...]
Chinese? [Then, almost immediately:] --Ehh, no. There's something too metropolitan about Eden Chinese food.
[It's the same problem American Chinese food had: it's not really Chinese-Chinese food. Okay, it's not necessarily a problem; cheap Chinese food got him through a lot before Eden came around. It really satisfies a certain sort of primal craving sometimes.
He goes back to the mental drawing board. The two of them sit in relative silence as Ramon sips and thinks.
Out of the blue, it hits him.]
Oh, I know! How about phở?
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Oh, no, the noodle bowl that isn't spelled like how it sounds. Right. The first sign that Dolph doesn't think that's quite what's going to do the trick is the sigh that comes out of him. Phở isn't bad. It's the— Well, let's establish some context.
Against all odds, Dolph has come to the shocking revelation that he likes Jade and Pey'j and Bullfrog. And Rayman—even Ramon—after the headbutting it takes to convince Dolph of anything—is someone he doesn't want to see gunned down by the military police. Furthermore, having friends he'd like to keep alive presents a new problem, though the challenge for Dolph isn't the shootout he's here to save Ramon from should someone find out his allegiance. It's maintaining the willpower not to fire the first shot himself.
Point is, this penthouse is cozier than the Supermaxx, but it's no less of a box that's the same every time he returns to it, and he still can't even blow a hole in the wall. ]
Ramon. [ Firmly, frankly. ] Let me rephrase, I need an out of body experience.
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Ramon gives him a slow, languid blink as he draws from his cigarette.
What's with this twenty questions? Now it sounds like Dolph knows exactly what he wants, but he's being coy about it for...whatever odd reason...
Ramon has no choice but to play along and continue to guess what he wants.]
...For dinner?
[What could possibly fit that description other than the first thing that comes to his mind? He seriously doubts Dolph gets that kind of kick out of pigging out like Ramon does. Just look at him, he doesn't look like he's ever met a carbohydrate in his life.]
Suit yourself, man. What's the mood? Uppers, downers, hallucinogenics...?
no subject
[ Tch. ]
Pass.
[ Honestly, fuck Eden for a lot of things, but fuck them for ruining recreational drugs most of all. He could've gone the rest of his life without seeing his CGI ass strung out in that stupid feature film that gets his orgasm face all wrong. According to fascists, trying to feel good means you're out of control.
Dolph grits his teeth in... something, this emotion that wants out of his skin. Alex is no longer alive and breathing to tell him he's understimulated, and it's far from Dolph to say so himself. Taking a deeper swallow of his margarita isn't a fix either.
In an absolutely bratty move, Dolph slithers one seat over and swipes the cigarette out of Ramon's mouth so he can take a long pull for himself and just swim in it for a moment.
Ah. ]
[ It doesn't have the same thick, dominating aroma as cigar smoke, but he's cursed to love it anyway. ]
What else is fun?
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[For a plethora of reasons, and "Laserhawk does, in fact, do drugs, just like Eden claims" is honestly really, really far down the list.
Pass. So it's not drugs. What in the hell else could it be? Far away, out-of-body experience--
Ramon's thoughts are interrupted as Dolph closes the space between them, which strikes him as...odd. Ramon quirks an eyebrow. They have all of the room in the world, why not spread out and use it all?
Then his cigarette gets stolen. Blink and you'll miss it, like Dolph carefully calculated his strike and executed it flawlessly. Ramon vocally startles for two reasons: one, it was fast and unexpected; two, his personal space was unexpectedly invaded. Usually when that happens, nothing good comes out of it.
He didn't need to steal it. Just like space at the bar...there's plenty to go around.
Ramon's eyes dart around Dolph's face. He's fortunate enough to be sitting on the organic side, but it's not really that helpful. He's the exact opposite of Ramon, who, despite all efforts, wears his heart on his sleeves, whereas Dolph has a permanent poker face.
This...is going to take...a while.
You see, Ramon isn't built like humans or hybrids. That tiny little lizard hindbrain build around the drive for reproduction doesn't exist in his skull. If he did, he would have picked up this instantly, or at the very least faster than he is right now.
But instead, he has to think about it. Ramon loves consuming media, always has -- that's why he was trying so hard to get into "the biz", after all. He's watched countless hours of film, and of course that includes a wide spread of romance scenes from subtle to over-the-top. So, in a cerebral kind of way, he knows these shots, this body language, the banter; he takes the numbers and puts them through the formulas he knows. And at the end, once he finishes the calculations...
He doubts himself.
There's no way that's the case. It's impossible. How many times in his life has he been told that he was devoid of sex appeal? How many times has someone -- painfully rare as it was -- turned tail once they realized they were in over their head?
This feels like a setup he's walked into before, when he was younger, still too trusting, achingly desperate to be touched and a hope that someone, eventually, would make an exception for him, until he found comfort in the burn in the back of his palate.
But the thing is...
He trusts Dolph with his life.
He trusts his knowledge of the trope, even through the filter of a lense.
He just doesn't trust the idea that anyone would ever desire him to see it through.]
No...
[Whispered, in awe, as if he were witnessing a truly impressive feat.]
no subject
Only once Ramon's reaction comes full circle does Dolph look any sort of quizzical. ]
No?
[ A tiny twist of vapor trails out of his mouth.
Then, more silence, his inconveniently impenetrable MO.
Then, Dolph removes the cigarette from his lips and offers the filter back to Ramon between two chrome knuckles. He won't wait long, however, before rising and heading over to stretch out on the couch like an entitled house cat. ]
Then don't think about it, order what you want.
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He doesn't even so much as look at it. His eyes are trained on Dolph's face, like flies stuck in a glue trap, desperately searching for any kind of insight that would make sense of this whole thing.
As emotionally constipated as he's learned Dolph to be, Ramon has also learned that he's honest, if blunt, and genuine. He's never had to navigate a conversation with Dolph as it were a chess game, reading between the lines and inferring implications, like every time he has to talk to the Board of Directors. He also rarely, if ever, gets pushed into things that he doesn't want to do -- he's watched first-hand while Sarah pulls teeth trying to get him to follow orders -- so it's not like this is because someone put him up to it.
It still feels like a risk, even while everything is laid out. Dolph, and the rest of the Ghost squad, are the first real friends he's had in decades. It's the first friend group he's ever had. It's not like the manic, screaming, starstruck joy that gets blasted in his face whenever he walks around in public.
Ramon walks into the room and Jade gives him the biggest, warmest smile he thinks someone's ever given him in his life. Pey'j nods approvingly, like a proud father. Bullfrog gives him a thumbs up and says something in French and while Ramon doesn't know what it means, for some reason he still feels the sentiment in his heart. Sarah looks at him like she sees and acknowledges all the hard and dangerous work he's been doing to chip away the decades of damage he's caused. And Dolph...
Dolph puts up with him. He's been exposed to the real Ramon more than anyone else. He's seen every cracked piece of porcelain under the television glitter, the neurotic habits he's picked up since being shoved in his gilded birdcage and made to sing gospel, the things Ramon doesn't want to talk about. Yet he's never outwardly judged or shamed him. They banter, they break bread together, they live together, and now Dolph wants to sleep together.
If this is a pleasant lie too, this is one he doesn't want to wake up from.
So much is riding on this that he couldn't possibly bear to explain. If this ends disastrously, it would hurt more than anything else he could possibly imagine. He'd rather go back to being penniless in America than to trust-fall into Dolph and end up hitting the floor.
All this to say, Dolph has more than ample opportunity to take the cigarette to the couch uninterrupted. When his back is turned, Ramon pulls his heels up onto the stool chair and tucks his hand against the outer edge of the opposite foot. It's his equivalent of holding his knees to his chest. The corners of his eyes burn with tears not thick enough to fall just yet.
The silence is thick and long. Rain starts to patter against the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting stars out of the lights of Eden's skyline. It's supposed to be a pretty bad downpour tonight. Enough time passes that Dolph can get through almost the rest of Ramon's cigarette.
He's spending this time trying to figure out if he should commit to simply letting this pass or if he should go for it. In the end, he decides that, even if there's a risk...his new addiction is love and affection, and with all addictions, the chase of an even bigger high is worth the consequences.
His hand reaches out, slowly and obviously, like approaching an animal that you don't know is dangerous. Careful of the cigarette in play, he cards his fingers through Dolph's dark hair. Even though Ramon is barely half of Dolph's height, his hand is much larger than Dolph's head and it would feel like being touched by a giant, but the tender gesture is still executed with as much dexterity as someone with average-sized hands would be able to do. The only thing "ruining" it is the painfully obvious tremble of fear vibrating against Dolph's scalp.
The rest of his body is still curled up in a defensive position at the bar.]
...You don't know what you're getting into.
[Again with the heart-on-his-sleeves shit. His breathless tremor in his voice reveals the fact that he's on the edge of crying and it would take the smallest nudge to fall off of it.]
The freaky alien biology shit goes all the way down.
no subject
That was messy of him.
Is he so desperate to feel something he's begun to interpret the most basic kindness as interest now? Is that why he fell for a man who gave him up so easily? Alex, everything always comes back to around to Alex. He lives on in a hundred-thousand-million associations, tainting everything from what's right in front of him to his farthest-flung fantasies, because his hands are the last ones he can remember touching him, and even now they still get him to shudder.
...or is it more like they're shuddering, too?
Ramon is trying to get his attention.
No. Dolph snaps out of his own self-deprecating daze, coming abruptly to life and rolling the crown of his head against the big basin that is the palm behind it, cat-like again, showing where his trust lies. No, whatever ugly thing Ramon is at grips with, just no. Dolph isn't going to let him cry. He won't leave him feeling unwanted. That was never his intention. ]
And I'm a killing machine that could malfunction and... oh, yeah, kill you.
[ No one here is a freak unless they both are.
Dolph hooks his fingers into the webbing between Ramon's and tries to see how much of a tug it takes to pull the hand down across the plated side of his skull, where the metal is rooted deeper than muscle, deeper than bone, into his grey matter, even though it may look like just a mask. He makes Ramon feel the cold grooves of his too-jagged cheek, in case he's somehow forgotten that there are two people in this room that the world outside wouldn't consider "normal." Even now, there are alarms flashing at the edges of Dolph's vision to indicate that there's something in proximity to him, as if sitting on this couch were a combat situation. ]
The best dancer I've ever seen was a hybrid. He could make his skin look like any color, look like any pattern, look like it was moving as he was moving. He was beautiful.
[ Dolph had been downright terrified to suddenly be inside that club after Alex, just some kind stranger at that point in time, drug him there out of the elements. He'd never been in such a place before for any reason more personal than a criminal bust. The simultaneous urge of wanting to run away and of wanting to stay so badly had threatened to tear him in half, at least until he found something easy to lose focus in up on stage. ]
But before he started his dancing career, he was made by some drug company wanting a supply of neurotoxin—apparently. [ Heavy pause, punchline. ] Blue-ringed octopus.
[ Finally, Dolph releases Ramon's hand to do as it will whilst leaning down to extinguish the butt of the cigarette in his now-empty margarita glass. ]
Didn't stop me from wondering what he'd be like in bed.
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There was a time, shortly after his "awakening", where this arrangement between the two of them started and had Rayman partially convinced that was the point. Dolph was meant to be the gun pointed at his head while he gave up whatever juicy information was stashed in there. Maybe there was palpable disappointment from the group as they discovered that Rayman was kept in the dark just about as much as anyone else on Eden's streets, and kept too busy to have the time to dig into the piles of sensitive data that was technically available to him at all times.
But it quickly became obvious that Ramon was making his contributions of his own merit, well beyond what merely threatening him could make him cough up. He delivers leads that even Sarah was completely blind to, rather than being told to dig into this-or-that. He couldn't pinpoint exactly when, but the fact that he was now bunked with a war machine became nothing more than background noise by the time they realized Ramon could be trusted to be autonomous.
Dolph doesn't exactly have to force his hand anywhere. A little bit of suggestion is all that's needed to get him to play ball, allowing his hand to be manipulated through space without resistance. Ramon isn't made to feel the cold, unrelenting, chrome-plated approximation of human facial topography, though he is certainly brought there. His fingertips press against the glowing window that carves a permanent undercut into Dolph's hairline; his thumb runs horizontally along the hardened edge of the molded cheekbone; the pad of his palm rests against the transition between organic flesh and unfeeling metal.
It all belongs to Eden, at least as far as the law is concerned.
But so does Rayman's face.
Everything they do -- everything they do together -- is an effort to liberate themselves from the roles and labels Eden wants them to have. Even if, for right now, it's just in sentiment.
So as far as Ramon is concerned, this is Dolph, war machine and all.
He listens intently to his story about the blue ring octopus hybrid. Yeah, he's familiar. Not with this particular dancer, no, but he's recorded a fun little nursery rhyme singing the praises of the medical advances that these particular hybrids contribute to. Which is true! But it conveniently leaves out those that end up dependent on the narcotic painkillers, sometimes to fatal effect.
Mister Dancer made the right decision with his career change.]
So this is just some kind of fetish thing for you, huh?
[Instead of sounding like an accusation, though, there's a giggle of relief in his voice. Maybe a little bit of teasing, too, but the important part is that the edge of crying is no longer in his voice. A little bit of a joke -- at both of their expense.
It's obviously not "just a fetish thing". Human sexuality is an impatient beast. Dolph obviously wouldn't have waited for some random, unimpressive day some months after they started to get to know each other to propose this idea.
Dolph lets go of Ramon's hand and it dutifully returns in a graceful arc back to his side. He unfurls himself from the knot he put himself in so that he can scoot off of the bar stool and, with barely-touched whiskey sour in hand, approaches the couch. Instead of taking a seat on the couch proper, though, he instead sits on the coffee table in front of it, right beside the empty margarita glass, so that he can look directly at Dolph. He slouches forward with intensity and sincerity, eyes locked onto his, invisible elbows resting on invisible knees.]
I'm going to level with you, Dolph: you have your work cut out for you. Most of the notches in my bedpost have NDAs and receipts of payment stapled to each of them. And those that don't are even worse stories. Add to that a lifetime worth of being told that I'm a "freak" at worst, and "highly marketable...to children" at best.
I've come to terms with the fact that I'm a novelty. But no one's ever made me feel sexy. If you want this to mean something, I mean really...mean something, I can't just be desirable. I want to feel irresistable.
Do you think you can do that?
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Face-to-face, however, Ramon could eat him like a shark. Reaching out any part of his body toward him regularly startles Dolph's brain into thinking it's shrunk. This time it's his hand that becomes confusingly petite as, mid-intervention, he coaxes Ramon to lift his head with his pointer finger.
Chin up, the gesture could've said, if Dolph didn't immediately carry on past it to extract Ramon's limp bowtie ribbon from the fold of his shirt collar and throw it on the floor with utter disrespect. The stupid suit's just another symbol of Eden's stranglehold. ]
Do you even like your hair that way?
[ ... ]
[ Is it avoiding the question if Dolph is struggling with how much words are even worth in the first place? His eye briefly breaks contact, weighed down by nuance. ]
I can say that I think I can.
[ People can say anything. It's only what they do that matters, and Dolph is already saying quite a lot by deciding that Ramon's problems are worth his consideration when with anyone else it could have just as easily become a battle of who had it worse. ]
But I'd rather show you, not promise you, since they really don't prove a damn thing.
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He leans into it, literally leans into it, partly because having his head angled up means that he blocks his own vision of Dolph's face with the end of his nose, partly because there's an arm running parallel with his head and obviously this presents an opportunity to get a little bit more of that forbidden fruit of skin contact.
Even if it's only for a blink of a moment before Dolph rids him of his choke collar and throws it on the floor. Good, that's where it belongs. Piece of shit.]
...I used to.
[In the before-Eden times, he used to wear it like that, too. It was pragmatic: it kept the sun out of his eyes and drew more attention to them instead of his giant schnoz. But back then, it was scruffier, fluffier, hand-done in both cutting and styling because he sure as hell couldn't afford for someone else to do it. These days, it's exclusively done by someone else, who uses cement instead of hairspray to lock it down, trims the edges to kill off any split ends as soon as they show up, puts every strand in an orderly place. By now he's not quite sure if he remembers how to do it on his own anymore.
But that's fine. He's not sure he'd want to anyway. Whenever he catches sight of himself on even the slightest reflective surface, he doesn't feel like he's looking at himself anymore. The hair is not the whole thing, but it's a big part of it.
Dolph is making a fantastic point, even if he may or may not realize it in this moment. He could level the entirety of Eden to ash as foreplay and Ramon still wouldn't be feeling it if he looked like this the whole time. This is a two-way street.
Dolph says more than he needs to. An affirmative is all Ramon was expecting. But there's a nuance that Dolph manages to capture that proves they're both on the same page. Actions speak louder than words.
Ramon reaches out and puts a hand on his fleshy shoulder and appears to use it for leverage to stand back up. Maybe it's yet another reminder of just how deceptively large he is as he tilts his head down and presses the end of his nose into the top of Dolph's head and manages to cover more ground than just the crown.]
I'm going to go take a bath and wash off all of this camera vaseline. I'll be right back, so stay put.
[He steps out from between the couch and the coffee table and makes his way to the stairs landing, but comes to a steady stop before he takes the turn past the bannister, as he realizes who he's talking to. He looks back at Dolph with a smirk.]
Or don't.
[With that, he disappears into the hall and heads downstairs to the bathroom. When he gets there, he flips the light switch, locks the door, and then...immediately unlocks the door. Right. Muscle memory.
He approaches the tub and places his glass on the edge of it. It's more like someone's idea of a small, indoor, in-ground pool than a proper tub. It's always running, kept at his ideal temperature, crystal clear water tended to by a state-of-the-art filtration system. All in the name of being able to throw himself in whenever he wants, instead of sitting around waiting for it to fill.
Throw himself in is a bit of an exaggeration. As much as he would like to be able to dump his clothes and swan-dive into it all in one smooth motion like a cartoon character, that is not his reality. He's practically sewn into his suit, so perfectly tailored to his body -- down to the fact that vestigial sleeves have been done away with entirely -- that getting undressed feels more like peeling an orange than shedding clothes.
That doesn't save them from being discarded in a messy, haphazard pile in the end, though. Shirt, jacket, gloves, and shiny shoes, and he kicks it a couple feet off to the side for good measure, leaving Ramon only pale skin and disparate floating body parts, one of which bears the wear and tear of neglect from a lifestyle kept too busy to care about things like eating healthy or exercising regularly.
Jesus. And he wants Dolph to make him feel sexy? Dolph is so far out of his league it's unreal.
Nothing to do about it now, though.
He uses the stairs to ease himself into the hot water and makes a beeline for the waterfall faucet, which is so near-silent that even the rain against the windows makes far much more noise, at least until Ramon puts his head under it. He instantly loses about five inches of height under the deluge, turning the golden blonde into a dishwater blonde as the first defenses of all that hair product start getting broken down. Likewise, so does his makeup: nigh-imperceptible as it might be on camera, make no mistake about it -- there's a lot of it. A thick layer of foundation starts to run, revealing the inconsistently colored, semi-translucent skin underneath that wrinkles at even the slightest facial movement. Eyeliner and mascara draw dark streaks down the transition between his cheeks and his nose.
Ramon sighs the weight of the world out of his lungs as just a head floating on the water's surface.]
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Dolph crosses the tiled distance on bare footfalls, having strategically doffed his usual thick-and-then-some-soled boots in the hallway. He didn't want his arrival to be noticed right away. Somewhere between point A and point B, he offered a challenge to himself to get a glimpse of what it looks like when a man who never has a moment alone has a moment alone. ]
That's a better look for you already. Very baby rebel.
[ Dolph has plenty of thoughts about Ramon without the extra pound of makeup on his face, jokes aside.
The streaking mascara settles into his imperfections more deeply than any shadow. Revealed, finally, is a living being that can think and feel and suffer like the rest of them in this world that Eden wrought, those hard little lines of detail bringing him to a higher definition, into a third dimension where he can co-exist with someone cracked into as many sharp pieces as Dolph Laserhawk. It's not a reason to be repulsed. It's real. In Eden, the things that dare to be scratched up and dull and dirty are so often the only ones that are—real, that is. Everything else is so mass-produced it makes him want to throw up.
Dolph just so happens to be carrying a bottle of sickly sweet rum by the neck, which he wiggles to the tune of "look what I found," as if Ramon doesn't know his own collection from top to bottom. Dolph had some extra time to hand-pick something from it while giving his host a generous head start. Setting the bottle down gingerly, Dolph no sooner takes a step back from the steaming pool of water. What would be more awkward, after all, is if he were to just stand here the whole time letting the humidity turn him sticky with sweat...
When he's walked straight into an opportunity to strip.
Anxiety flutters in Dolph's fingers as they take two fistfuls of the fabric at his waist. The next part, it's a little too important to him that it goes well. No one needs to arch their back quite like that just to get their shirt over their head. No one needs to go flexing all their abdominal muscles like some kind of snake the minute they're exposed to the air. No one isn't Dolph, though, who speeds through the motions of removing exactly two articles of clothing as provocatively as possible, all too eager to show off the parts of himself that are still human, now, this one time he's been given another chance. The question of whether he's more man or machine needn't be asked by someone who can see every inch of himself he has to offer.
In short order, he's standing naked over the bath and not commentating as much on the matter as someone probably should.
It isn't metal, for the record. And if he hears any jokes about it, there'll be hell to pay. ]
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He looks up at Dolph and leans forward to get out of the deluge. He brings a hand out of the water and uses it to push back whatever saturated hair is in his face so he can see better.]
Heh -- thanks.
[It'd be worthwhile to sit around some day, with whatever free time he can strangle out of his schedule, to play around with his own makeup and try to come up with something that makes him feel a little bit like someone else. No, someone him. Someone who will look back at him in the mirror and tell him the truth about when it hurts and the things that actually make him happy.
His attention is drawn to that bottle of rum as soon as Dolph gives it a slosh. Like a pet being summoned with treats, Ramon forgets to chase the running makeup with actual cleanser and instead returns to the edge of the tub to slam back the rest of the whiskey to justify moving on to the rum. When his head comes back down to neutral, Dolph has the hem of his shirt balled up in his hands. And while he doesn't necessarily pick up on the anxiety, he can identify when someone's trying to put on a performance -- while he would avoid staring otherwise, he readily volunteers to be Dolph's enraptured audience.
About that lack of a horny lizard hind-brain...
There's no superhighway shortcut between his eyes and what passes as genitals. There's no such thing as simply taking in the sight of Dolph and letting the hormones take the wheel. It would be incredibly easy for this to do nothing for Ramon...but instead, he chooses to let it turn him on.
Dolph is shaped like the things Ramon likes. He looks like the Grecian statues that captured the fallible humanity of their ancient gods and wartime leaders. The bronze ones, specifically, on account of his skin tone. He looks like athletes at the peak of human and hybrid performance, Olympian standards. Ramon always liked watching the swimmers and gymnasts the most. He looks like wrestlers, bodybuilders, fashion models.
He looks like a comic book superhero.
Only part of Dolph is literal machine, but the rest of him is a machine, too: a highly efficient intertwining of muscular cables over rigid bone, each working and moving together in a flawless execution, even for these little "meaningless" movements that he's doing right now.
He's beautiful, even while he's watching from what most people would consider an "unflattering angle" from down here in the water. Whether or not Ramon's gaze looks any different than someone who gets the privilege of having an autonomous libido is up to Dolph's opinion.
Like Dolph, Ramon adds no additional commentary as he stands nude above him. Instead, he takes the bottle of rum by the neck and backs up into the water, using his free hand to use two fingers to beckon Dolph to come in and get closer. He backs up all the way to the opposite side of the tub, where there's a ledge carved into the wall specifically for the purposes of sitting, and wordlessly pats the inside wall of the tub in invitation to take a seat.]
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If only.
There might still be some merchandise with his face on it waiting to become slag in the bottom of an incinerator somewhere. Not so glamorous nowadays, his claim to fame. Of course, Ramon is aware of that to the fullest feasible extent. He's the one who has to report on it. He's the first to find out what story the board of directors will be spinning next to explain why their favorite cyber-criminal has gone quiet. It was a funny damn day, the time Dolph heard "Laserhawk" combined with the words "severely injured during a special operation carried out by the Niji 6" and "believed to be lying low" while standing five feet from Ramon's camera men.
So he's a hated, wanted man. That's a fact. As he awaits judgment, Dolph's brow belies an intense desire for someone to convince him otherwise, stuck like always at a severe angle as if willing the world to back down, up until Ramon gives him the come hither. His face then settles into something serene by his standards. Much like Ramon was only hoping to hear basic consent earlier, that's where the bar is for Dolph, too. Though—there is satisfaction in being balked at like he belongs in a museum that Dolph could see himself getting used to.
He wades in on long legs that ensure the warm water never quite covers him completely, rolling and rippling against his cleanly shaven crotch. He's never been one to spark conversation. Frankly, he's sure he can rely on Ramon to do that if the silent treatment ever leaves him wanting. The moment Dolph joins Ramon on the ledge, his one heavily-lidded charcoal eye clearly sizes him up, calculating trajectory before he cranes in to press his lips to the corner of Ramon's mouth. What he does with them is butterfly soft and brief by design. ]
You taste like foundation.
[ Of all the things Dolph could have followed that up with, he starts with a rinse. Bath water cupped in Dolph's palm is brought to Ramon's face, and an attentive thumb tries to brush clumps of black pigment away from around his large eyes while the skin is shining wet.
An exercise in futility, perhaps, with the cleanser stranded on the other side of the tub, but the leftover makeup looks like it stings. ]
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He kisses him.
In the first second, Ramon is surprised. In the second second, he realizes that he probably shouldn't be. Show, don't tell. Delicate, tender, chaste, appreciative. It would be tempting for anyone else to say that it was next to nothing, but to Ramon, it means everything. This situation they've found themselves in may have been on the pretense of sex, yet this alone is enough for him to want more -- not necessarily in intensity, but the way it makes him feel cherished and important. Not like how Eden wants him, not like the way his fans want him. No, it's more like the fact that he merely exists makes someone else feel like being on this planet isn't such a lonely experience after all.
Oh no, he thinks to himself. I'm fucked.
In short order, Dolph is rinsing and scrubbing at his face with a bare hand -- Ramon's eye squints closed reflexively, but doesn't lean away from it. Depending on how familiar Dolph is with makeup, he may or may not realize that the effectiveness of just water and elbow grease only results in fool's gold streaks that come off, but hardly make a dent on this long-wear, water-proof beat face.]
You get used to it after a while.
[The taste, the sting, the veneer, the concrete, the polish. He doesn't protest it that much -- it's not an Eden thing. It's just basic camera work, like dodging dead air like bullets and looking into a lens without going cross-eyed.
Part of getting used to it is knowing how to take it off without shearing your face off in the process, though. So while he might not try to pull away, he takes the soonest opportunity to disengage whenever Dolph's thumb leaves his skin. He turns around and puts the bottle of rum on the edge of the tub, well within Dolph's reach, and moves across the water to fetch that cleanser.
In the process, you could pinpoint the exact moment he realizes that he didn't have to get up. As he comes to a sudden, complete stop, his eyebrows raise at nothing in particular. This particular audience doesn't need him to keep up the charade of being easily-digestible for earthlings, who subconsciously fill in the gaps of where his elbows would be as long as he moves his hands within a reasonable radius of his body -- and get weirded out when he doesn't.
Under his breath:] Whatever...
[Habits picked up in the face of oppression die hard.
He commits to the errand as normal, picking up the nondescript opaque pink-bodied pump bottle amongst a handful of others. With his other hand, he grabs one of the folded microfiber cloths from the stack beside the bottles. It's neon green -- or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it used to be, and has since become permanently marred with various makeup stains over years of use. Ramon might be the richest celebrity this side of Eden, but he doesn't live in a hotel with ever-present housekeeping to stock dime-a-dozen scratchy towels on a daily basis. No, this is the kind of thing worth being picky enough to have a collection of long-standing, well-loved favorites.
Ramon returns to Dolph with bottle and cloth in tow. He puts them down on the edge -- again, within his reach -- then grips both of Dolph's shoulders with each hand, as if to balance himself, in the process of coming in closer and settling in to sit on Dolph's lap.
It's close proximity. Really close proximity. Ramon's nose doesn't fit in the space between their faces without having to lean back awkwardly. Instead, he turns his head just enough so that it hovers by Dolph's ear -- on the organic half of his face, just above his mechanical shoulder.
Ramon's torso is surprisingly weighty. Well, surprisingly if you assume that the reason that it manages to float mid-air like it does is because he's weightless. But no -- when he actually gives it up to gravity alone, thirty-someodd pounds (minus whatever water buoyancy accounts for) of soft flesh nestles pretty comfortably on Dolph's thighs. It's a shockingly comfortable lap-sit, to boot: Ramon's rear end is soft, though an inconsistent firmness indicates that there's some kind of pelvis in there, even though it's a far cry from "bony butt" syndrome. Nor are there pesky additional legs that need to be accounted for in the positioning; Ramon simply tucks the four toes of his feet between Dolph's ankles and the bath wall.
There's nothing stopping Dolph from simply looking down through the clear, albeit distorted, water to figure out what's going on down there, but what he can feel against his legs -- or the lack of what he can feel might be all the confirmation he needs. Or, perhaps he's adequately distracted enough by Ramon taking his hands off his shoulders to depress the pump twice into the unfolded washcloth before presenting it to Dolph. Eucalyptus and grapefruit. Ramon smiles.]
Here, try this. It works like magic.
[Yes, he's absolutely offering Dolph the opportunity to get the serotonin drop of using a simple smear to rid him of the last greasy tendrils of a long, hard day of being a cog in the machine.]
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Dolph expects Ramon to do the practical thing though, not haul himself all the way back up. Kissing him? Must have short-circuited him, because he’s never given a shit about Ramon using his “powers” or whatever it's accurate to call them, in his company. That should be even more evident tonight.
Then again, maybe it’s Dolph who's full of shit for assuming a damn thing, because Ramon is ready to match him in confidence when he returns. The grip on his shoulders says enough. “Is this seat taken? It is now” — though in recent memory, he's more used to sending that message and not so much being the recipient. Once, Alex sat in his lap as a joke. And he did have a point. That jerk did look silly holding onto the bar as if he was going to fall on his ass. At the time, Dolph was fine letting Alex clamber back down and go right back to being the bedrock in their relationship. Having something that seemed so solid to curl up against always felt safe. He thought he needed that. Every atom of his confused mix-and-match of a body wanted that.
And it's something that Ramon can’t give him, but maybe it’s not the only thing he’s looking for anymore. Dolph's been having thoughts. He followed them through. Now, there's an ass spread over the most sensitive region of his inner thighs. If his brain didn't think there was something to like about that, he wouldn't be sticking around.
Even so, there’s no skipping the adjustment period when it comes to first time relations with an alien. Appropriately, the cyborg looks like he’s crunching data. That’s essentially what all the new incoming sensations are. And the visual of a headless, limbless, dickless body. Someone worried about coming off too crass might have withheld their gaze. Not Dolph—he can't not study the situation.
He has questions. Who wouldn't? He just isn't planning on asking them. He's adult enough to do his own exploring. Later, once the make-up has been dealt with at the very least. Because of the side Ramon chose to make himself comfortable on, the hand Dolph would have let wander winds up with the beat-up little cloth. He's reluctant to touch him with the metal one. Eden didn't design it with skinship in mind. Their software, on the other hand, incidentally works to to isolate foundation from skin. Ramon misses out on the truly ridiculous scene playing out in Dolph's HUD, as billion-credit tech digitally highlights leftover foundation, lending to the most precise makeup removal job ever. Dolph smirks serenely. ]
You're returning the favor when I'm done.
[ All Dolph is wearing is a subtle ring of kohl, so it isn't much of a threat. Any more than that is waste when he spends all day cloaked, and when the whole idea is that his face won't be livestreamed to the city any time soon.
Come time to switch sides, Dolph practically picks up Ramon's head from underneath to shoo it toward his other shoulder. The cloth is passed into chrome, freeing flesh to go do things with flesh at last. First, Dolph tries wrapping his hand around Ramon's approximate-hip as if supporting him, even if it's the last thing a man who can levitate needs. He's also not shy about giving the soft paunch he finds there a squeeze. What's this?
Not an issue, if Ramon was worried about that. ]
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Dolph is a rare breed. It's a distinctly unshy stare -- Ramon has built up a tolerance to stand strong and not back down from this kind of stare. But he can also tell there's an analytical, unbiased, calculating (but not coldly so) angle to it. Even if he can't see the data crowding Dolph's peripheral vision, he can see the thoughtfulness in his expression and the way his human eye flits from point to point, lingers on some more than others.
Ramon wonders if he's going to say anything. He doesn't. Ramon figures the conversation is inevitable, but he really appreciates the fact that Dolph has the kind of restraint to not make it happen right now. Usually this shit has to be front-loaded well before anything fun gets to happen. But this is spontaneous. Living in the moment. It's nice.
He closes his eyes as Dolph works so diligently on his face. He recedes into his own mind on the tide of booze in his system. Which is weird, because he usually uses it to get out of his mind. The warmth of Dolph's body and the water against his own. The sound of heavy rain pattering against the windows. The soft cloth between his face and meticulous fingers, leaving a smooth creamy eucalyptus and grapefruit in their wake. He can't really tell that there's a procedure to the process, other than the fact that he doesn't have to tell Dolph that he missed a spot.
War machine. Sure. He could also thread a needle with silk.
Ramon is in such tactile bliss that he almost misses what Dolph tells him.]
Gladly.
[In trying to adjust Ramon's head, Dolph will find that it's several magnitudes heavier than his torso. A little bit of resistance is part of that perceived weight, for the second it takes for Ramon to surrender control of his own orbit to Dolph's manipulations. Make no mistake, though, it's still at least twice as heavy as the rest of him, and that's a conservative estimate. He takes back control when it's clear that Dolph has positioned him where he wants him.
The metal hand is different but not detestable. By all means, it should probably feel like it belongs to someone (or something else), but it's still hooked up to the same person that wants to move in the same way. Ramon doesn't know just how much tactile feedback these hands send back to his brain. Whatever it is, he hopes it's pleasant, even if it was built to kill.
He's too preoccupied comparing and contrasting Dolph's right and left hands to immediately notice that the fleshier one has found a perch on his hip, but it becomes impossible to ignore once Dolph takes a handful of neglected paunch.
His eyes shoot open. There's a twinge of self-consciousness that hits him. Usually escorts politely ignore it, and Dolph has the gall to bring attention to it. But...
It doesn't feel like he's being teased, mocked, or maliciously groped.
What, is he into this, too? Jesus, Dolph. There's a real freak under all that stoic cloud that smiles so rarely that it almost feels like an orgasm when he eventually does. Blue-ringed calamari was only an appetizer. The entrée is thoroughly marbled limbless alien steak. Ramon really can just blindly trust-fall into him, huh?
Now that he's been rid of the pastiche on his face, there's nothing to hide the blush that Dolph's manhandling triggers. It's not on his cheeks, though, minimal as they are. Instead, an inconsistently ruddy crescent appears across the bridge of his nose, just in front of his eyes. It feels like a sunburn. Ugh, nevermind, put the makeup back on. The last thing he needs is for Dolph to think that he's some sort of blushing virgin when he really should have earned the title of freak from his own colorful sexual habits and not, you know, the whole alien thing.
Oh well.
Dolph finishes the last of the makeup, which is kind of heartbreaking, but all good things have to come to an end eventually. At least he has a favor to return, which should prove to be just as nice in reverse.
But first...]
Give me a second.
[His grip on Dolph's shoulders gets a little tighter and he bows his head back. And back. And back. And back, until his head is both upside down and submerged underwater. This would have been an erotic and incredible feat for someone actually fully attached to themselves, but...well, to be fair, there's some kind of process he's going through, because the spine of his torso is bending backward as far as it can possibly bend.
Or maybe he's just doing it for the performance. It would be hard to tell from the outside.
Ramon pulls his head back up out of the water and slicks his hair back once again and wipes the last of the cleanser rinse from his face. He takes the washcloth from Dolph and dunks it under the water, too, saturating it and wringing it in a tight spiral once underwater, then again out of the water. With a new pump of cleanser into the rag, he takes to Dolph's face. While he may only need to concern himself with the kohl around his eye, his whole face will get treated with just as much care and attention. As if he would disregard the opportunity to touch every corner and edge of Dolph's long, sharp features with rapt attention. Ramon, too, could thread a needle with silk, even with hands the size of a leg of ham. Massive, but gentle, steady, precise.
He's careful around the seam between flesh and metal. He doesn't really know the rules here, and figures if he's going to do anything that will cause problems, Dolph will let him know before it's too late. He lingers on his lips, as if there were any lipstick to actually take care of, but he's only here for his own purposes, before drawing the cloth down his chin. There's a moment of stillness before he speaks up:]
Would you like me to do your hair, too?
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Poor Ramon is now on the side of Dolph's face where he can't even pretend he isn't being watched. The pupil of one brown eye sits at the corner, basking in the rouge. Beneath the lapping water, Dolph's fingers release the soft fold of skin and fondly pet away any discomfort.
He's speechless by choice when Ramon suddenly performs a bend that would've snapped anyone else. That's because silence amplifies everything. Sensations almost certainly, but imagery, too. It makes it feel like there's more time to take things in, and like he's noticing what he might otherwise not—like muscles contracting to interact with others that don't exist, all as if to produce movement in parts that aren't even attached to them.
Dolph has to admit that he doesn't understand how Ramon works, and so far his hands on approach isn't getting him any closer to figuring it out.
Roles switch. Dolph demonstrates his trust by closing his good eye. After sending a few queries to his system, his other eye powers down as well, temporarily freeing him from an otherwise constant stream of visual information. He then sits in perfect, warm darkness letting his other senses form a fuzzy image of what's being done to him in his mind. He could let it drift, let the hand tending to him become anyone else's he could imagine, but he's better than that. It's still Ramon touching him very gingerly around his cybernetics, like he's afraid he could do more damage than the process of conversion already has. Dolph's lips part underneath the pad of the large finger pressing the damp cloth against them. He senses hesitation, or intrigue, or both, and enables it by slowly exhaling a hot breath into the cooling fibers. ]
Please. It's a bitch by myself.
[ And Dolph does sound desperate, clutching the air with the fingers of his chrome hand to bring attention to just how many articulations there are in each one for strands of hair to get stuck in. His choice has always been to rip half of it out, or settle for being as thorough as he can with one hand.
Or to offload the duty onto a partner.
But it's nicer when they volunteer.
To simplify things, Dolph shifts off the ledge and lowers himself until he's just a head above the water. His arm fully wraps around Ramon for the ride like an anaconda of human muscle, keeping him held tight to his midriff as he makes the move, and then held tight still once he's resettled onto his knees.
It's as if, for Dolph, close isn't close enough. Because it isn't. It's as if he's been out in a blizzard and this moment of contact is what he's clinging to warm himself. Because, in a way, he has and he is. ]
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He sees a chrome hand come up in his peripheral vision, and is the only thing in this room strong enough to pull Ramon's attention away from Dolph's face. He watches as those points of articulation fold into each other. He doesn't intuit it immediately, but he's given just enough pieces to think about it and put it together in a brief second's time.]
--Oh.
[He winces intensely, and his own fingers curl into fists over his thumbs in empathetic pain.]
Ennhhhrrrr.
[He meant for the offer to be a romantic gesture. But now that his attention has been brought to how much of a hassle it is for Dolph, he feels a little bad for not offering it platonically sooner.
That doesn't mean that this instance can't be romantic, though...
He is essentially removed from his (very comfortable!) perch on Dolph's lap when he adjusts himself to get deeper into the water. He can't be arsed to complain, though -- this vice grip of an embrace is quite nice. The only drawback is that it's a gesture he can't return. The best approximation he can do is place his palms on his upper back as their position shifts. Holy shit, even his back is ripped. Has he never noticed before? Or has he just never seen Dolph shirtless for long enough to even see it in the first place? Ramon wants to see more of that, thank you very much.
Dolph clearly isn't intent to let him go even as he settles into place. Now he has no choice but to actually reach across the bath to get his shampoo and conditioner. But before he does that, he reaches for the bottle of rum and takes a quick nip of it before holding it out within reach of Dolph's metal arm, else risk forcing the other to let go of his embrace, in offering. Afterwards, with his hands free, he cups a generous amount of bathwater within his hands and gently pours it over the crown of Dolph's head. Twice.
A single hand is all he needs to reach across the tub and, using a thumb, depresses the plunger on a powder-blue bottle into his awaiting fingers. Tea tree and mint; he likes the brighter scents. Dolph will smell like "Rayman" by the end of this, which is a part of him that most people don't get to experience unless they're lucky enough to work in the studio. One of Eden's better-kept secrets, only by happenstance.
One of the things that are intentional secrets is that their mascot has fingernails. Just another thing that makes him seem more organic and living, instead of plastic and toylike. He likes wearing gloves because they keep his hands warm, but it's a convenient convergence of motivations on Eden's part. In this moment, however, it will be acutely obvious as he drives his thick fingertips and blunt fingernails into Dolph's scalp in a deep, confident massage.
He's a little bit less careful around his cybernetics this time around. From this vantage, he doesn't see exactly where they start and end through his dark hair and the suds, so he only has touch to go by when navigating.
Ramon does a bit of sleight of hand where he spends some time getting Dolph used to the pressure he uses, and eventually starts backing off just enough to bait Dolph into leaning back to seek out the same deep pressure. He will, of course, be duly rewarded when he puts his head exactly where Ramon wants it.
There's a second where Ramon's hands still, and an impossibly large mass presses itself against Dolph's lips.
Ramon isn't really built for the way that humans kiss -- a real, proper, full-mouthed kiss. One has to get to the underside of his head to get to anything that isn't just the corners of his mouth. He has to tilt his head so that he's pointed at the ceiling, and given a bit of an angle to the side so that Dolph's whole face isn't smashed against the underside of Ramon's nose. If he was connected to a neck, this would be impossible at worst and uncomfortable at best, but thankfully it doesn't feel like anything other than kind of ridiculous from a third person's perspective. Even among life on Earth, this kind of kissing is pretty novel to humans, so of course the alien from Dimension X isn't built for it either. Just one of the countless human habits he's spent a lifetime trying to emulate.
He makes the best of it, though.
He still has the same articulation in his mouth as a human at least, so the lip-lock is simultaneously accurate and overwhelming. What covers the entire span of Dolph's mouth is only a fraction of Ramon's. He's obviously practiced this on others -- a conscious, almost surgically accurate execution of not going too far. Not too stiff, not too loose, as he captures Dolph's lower lip between his, adding the slightest touch of suction.]
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Their drink still nearly ends up mixed in the bath once Ramon begins kneading the soap into Dolph's head, causing him to relax dangerously low in the water. How nice it feels is only partially to blame, of course. The second time Ramon's hand starts to seem like it's getting further and further away, Dolph suspects it's no accident, but he continues to chase it back down with little stretches of his neck anyway.
He hums his approval, and this bathroom's acoustics are simply too good for it to be mistaken as anything else. The pores on his back puff up into goosebumps as tingly-yet-pleasant waves pass below the skin. God, he mutters aloud at one point, in a flummoxed way. He doesn't explain and he doesn't stop tensing his muscles, trying to trap the good sensation before it disappears somewhere halfway down his spinal cord. It's not even sexual, not by itself, and not for now. However, the nails digging into his scalp and the fingertips they're attached to can only remind him how broad they are so many times before Dolph fixates on them. He's already expressed his needs, so there's no shame in it.
So, again—Ramon has big hands. Meanwhile, Dolph's in a ritzy hot tub with a cocktail in his stomach and his cock out. What was he ever supposed to do with that information, other than imagine how they would feel doing other things to his body?
The kiss Ramon leans in for is chaste in comparison. How awkward it might look to an observer clearly isn't something Dolph contemplates, either. There isn't a moment where his lips stay still once contact is made. They respond as if on a hair-trigger, eager and more alive than they've ever been just sitting dourly on his saturnine face. Dolph supplies just enough force to let Ramon know that he'll only be in the lead for as long as he doesn't let up. When Ramon does eventually slow to suck sweetly at his lower lip, Dolph pulls away, stretching the skin until it comes free with a popping sound.
Maybe it seems cold at first, but after Dolph takes a deliberate swig of spirits he's on his way back to push a boozy tongue into Ramon's mouth, sweeping the tip over the sensitive endothelium inside to let him know he's there. He forgets to be concerned about what he might find in the mouth of a completely alien species. He's only amazed at the scale of the teeth within as he traces those next, setting himself up to have another series of dirty thoughts.
Suds keep his organic eye closed, but his other socket flashes green for a second, supplying him with a snapshot of... blurry dark beige, which he realizes is Ramon up close.
Heh.
He finishes drawing one last sensual shape with his tongue before he recollects himself to speak. ]
You've spent time perfecting that.
[ Dolph slips on a rare smile to make it clear that he found the last few moments enjoyable ]
More than some human boys.
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Ramon doesn't feel particularly rejected when Dolph first pulls away. All good things have to come to an end, after all, and it's almost a relief that Dolph calls this particular shot because Ramon had only acted on a whim without an exit strategy in mind.
That being said, he's not expecting the re-entry after Dolph supps from the bottle. He mildly startles as his recently-freed mouth ends up with more than it bargained for, even if it's only a garter snake entering a bear cave. But he won't let it throw him off. Ramon captures his tongue between his teeth and lips, just enough to say you're trapped in here forever...or for as long as Dolph wants to stick around and doodle on the walls before pulling back. Turns out that Ramon wasn't holding on as hard as it felt.
It's not possible to simply transfer daydreams and imagination to someone else, but Dolph comes damn near close to pulling it off. Even with his mouth removed from Ramon's, the ghost of his tongue's presence remains, leaving an electric fizzle in its wake. He can fit a lot more than just Dolph's tongue in his mouth...
Oh, fuck.
He can really feel it now. It's just like a high. Dolph has injected himself into his brain chemistry, wedging himself between the synapses of Ramon's neurons and changing how the world feels, even if it looks exactly the same. Dolph will be able to feel the long, slow exhale from the underside of Ramon's nose, warm air barely different from the vapor coming off the bath. His fingers tighten in Dolph's hair, inadvertently pulling it taut in his grip.
He's talking. It's the only thing his senses can fixate on. The sound of his words, the deep monotone melody of his voice, the way it makes the air vibrate against his skin, the smell and taste of too-sweet rum on his breath.
Praise.
Ramon is caught red-handed going too full-bore into something again. His knee-jerk reaction is to get self-conscious, but he really doesn't want to be. He just wants to actively enjoy someone acknowledging his sincerity and hard work for once. The first thing that comes to mind is to self-disparage, and he doesn't manage to stop himself in time.]
You still think of me as a boy?
[Okay, could have been worse. He smirks. It's a rhetorical question. Ramon likes to think that half the reason why Dolph is so conservative with his use of words is because he's too busy observing at any given time, and while Ramon hasn't brought any direct attention to it...well, it'd be hard not to notice, right?
He lets go of Dolph's hair. He backs up, just a little, just enough to get a better view of what he's doing, as he cups water in his hands and gently pours it over his scalp to rinse the shampoo away. It's going to take a few rounds of this to completely rid him of the suds, but he's not going to ask Dolph to dunk if only because he enjoys watching the way it cascades over his sharp facial features, often bringing strands of black hair to momentary life under the current.]
...I wanted to perfect it.
[Maybe he won't be so self-conscious about his sincerity if he just owns up to it.]
I don't think you humans realize that no one in the multiverse does sex quite like you do...even on your own planet. It's the intersection of ritual and self-expression. I wanted to understand it.
[Actually, since we're already here, he might as well get Dolph up to speed on what's going on down there and why.]
I wasn't born. I was made. You know -- kind of like hybrids, but instead of a science experiment, it's an art project. I'm someone's vision...the manifestation of her imagination, hopes, dreams, fears...unconcerned about mistakes and imperfections. That's why I've always been drawn to things of self-expression on Earth. It's kinship. So of course I learned how to do it the way humans do.
[With all of the shampoo washed away, Ramon cups Dolph's jaw with his hand and swipes his thumb across the closed lids of his warmer eye so that he can open it, free of suds.]
Thank God she had the foresight to bless me with just enough to discover the euphoria of orgasm later on in my life.
[He's not being even remotely clinical right now. Not at all like the way he talks about it in the several hundred hours worth of sex ed tapes for a half-dozen different grade levels, from Rayman Explains Your Changing Body to Contraceptive Options with Rayman. In this moment, the real passion he has for this subject material is abundantly clear in his voice. And yet, despite his desire to capture that raw, emotional connection for himself...
...until this very moment, he's only ever been able to enjoy it in the way Eden wants anything to be enjoyed. Scripted. Marketable. Consumable. Profitable.
But he's not thinking about it in those specific terms right now. All he knows is that, while undeniably fun in its own right, it's just a phantom of what he's always wanted. And in the end, if he had to choose between a hundred gorgeous sex workers and the chance to wash Dolph's hair, well...in a way, he already did.]
You already know what I'm talking about. Ritual and self-expression...
[Ramon places his free hand against the middle of Dolph's chest, with the heel of his hand pointed upward and his fingers downward. He slides that hand downward, his fingertips riding up and down every rolling hill of his lean muscle, every inch of the journey given its due admiration in this leisurely Sunday drive down Dolph's midsection.
His head hovers over to the metal side of Dolph's face in the time it takes him to get down to his navel. As he crosses that last stretch of muscle, he comes to a crawling stop right before he gets to the completely hairless base of his cock, resting on flesh sensitive in its own right. Sure, Dolph may be able to take a hell of a licking, but does he have the wherewithal to resist the tickle of a feather-light touch and keep his dick from bobbing with an involuntary twitch of abdominal muscle? Ramon might be tempting it intentionally.
In that lower-register voice that will never be caught on camera, he whispers into the chrome shell that is a rough approximation of an ear:]
Tell me...
Is this part of your regular grooming routine...
...or did you think about me the whole time, hoping I'd say yes?