(PSL) Normally this is where I'd put lyrics...

[raycasting]

...but most of the darksynth genre doesn't use lyrics.

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[cyberhunk]

[ And so Eden's make-believe turns to muck. Appropriate.

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. ]

[raycasting]

[This was the most strategic thing for Dolph to do. In a vulnerable, slightly keyed-up state that Ramon is, it wouldn't have taken much to startle him. It's like he teleports in while Ramon's eyes are closed, only announcing his presence with his even-toned voice. He would've heard the footfalls if he didn't have his head under the water.

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.]

[cyberhunk]

[ A superhero.

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. ]

[raycasting]

[As unlikely as it might seem, Ramon likes the kind of silence that Dolph tends to bring to the table. Sure, he might have always been an extrovert, a people-person through and through, and Rayman wears the title of socialite as easily as a bodily function...his days are full of chatter, noise, discourse. And yeah, he contributes a lot to it himself, and it's not even because he has to, but because he wants to. He used to think he hated the quiet...before Dolph came into his life. Now the quiet has a warm body associated with it, and it's become the highlight of his day, even when it results in weird miscommunications like Ramon thinking Dolph wants drugs for dinner. Imperfections like that aside, he's the walking embodiment of show, don't tell, and that means so much in a world where ceaseless chatter is used as Eden's currency.

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.]

[cyberhunk]

[ No faces will be subjected to shearing. Dolph lets up the second he senses the gesture’s accomplished what he wanted it to, which was gently reminding Ramon he still needs to scrub off the last twelve plus fucking hours. While they’re here, they will be getting clean. After that, no matter what they decide to do, things will be more pleasant for them both.

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. ]

[raycasting]

[Being stared at is a much too complicated affair for Ramon to say that he either hates it or likes it as a blanket statement. He's used to it, for better or for worse, either because he's a mascot on camera or a freak in the wild. He's received a lifetime of leering and he knows the difference between all of them: the free admission to the three-ring circus, the observer of a trainwreck, the child with boundless curiosity, the innocently curious who doesn't want to get caught in the act.

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?

[cyberhunk]

[ Dolph used to play a game at bars. It made spending nights there slightly less of a bore while the rest of his squad drank themselves stupid. The goal of said game was pretty simple, in that there was only one. He'd seek out men who gave off an aura of single bachelor and try to make them blush in as few words as possible. Blondes always seemed to "lose" the fastest, and maybe that played into why he fancied them so much.

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. ]

[raycasting]

[Does this make Ramon his biggest blonde loser yet? Blushing at zero words. Hah, take that, unknown competition! You'll never get a lower score than that. By the time Dolph opens (and reactivates) his eyes again, the blush has faded, leaving only a ghost in its wake.

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.]

[cyberhunk]

[ Well—Dolph has the rum now. Blind as he is without his visual center online, the way his fingers tink-tink-tink! against the glass lets him know what's in his multi-million credit grip, not to mention he could hear Ramon sucking down the contents seconds beforehand. He huffs softly. He has to when he thinks about how many Eden corpos would loose their minds if the public ever laid eyes on this scene. Their biggest bounty head schmoozing it up with their poster boy while their technological masterpiece serves as a cupholder.

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.

[raycasting]

[For a split second, Ramon thinks that Dolph is trying to claim the lead. Dolph would notice a brief tic of hesitation while Ramon tries to decide whether or not to hand it over, but ultimately decides to stand his ground. They're meeting each other on the same level, and Ramon isn't in the mood to go into this on the back foot.

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?