[ Hancock clicks his tongue and tips his head in friendly, mock-consolation. ]
Addictions a bitch. Lucky I know a guy that can get ya your fix
[ The ghoul passes his paramour a sunny smirk like summer dusk, hanging on before dark. There's already manic flecks of ink all over the ghoul's fingers, more than a few of his nails stained black by over-exuberant dunks into the pigment.
With a generous go ahead, Hancock continues to embellish his designs with a few more splashes of color. He uses the water to dilute the red into a few different intensities, and employs the sharper shades to draw the eye towards the most interesting speckled gilding. The whites go on last; they don't actually sparkle, but they almost seem to, backlit by the blacks and reds beneath like an artsy demure dusting of powdered sugar or cocaine.
When Hancock finally shifts back into his native reality, he rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck. His bones crack in complaint but he looks deeply, exhaustively satisfied. His ink-stained hands brace his own lower back as he stretches, unraveling the shrimp-posture he'd been locked in for the last-- hour, maybe? No, it had felt like a couple of minutes, tops!]
Jesus Nick, why do ya always let me get so carried away? [ It's all sarcastic affection, not an ounce of it a serious complaint. Hancock is smiling softer than before, some mental and emotional drain being the wood on which the fires of his creativity burn. It's a willing trade and it feels splendid, like running a marathon of the mind. ]
But yeah, that's-er done. And I thought ya made my knife-work look professional. Couldn't ask for a better canvas. Guess I might be a little bias, maybe.
less mentally complex tag first!
Addictions a bitch. Lucky I know a guy that can get ya your fix
[ The ghoul passes his paramour a sunny smirk like summer dusk, hanging on before dark. There's already manic flecks of ink all over the ghoul's fingers, more than a few of his nails stained black by over-exuberant dunks into the pigment.
With a generous go ahead, Hancock continues to embellish his designs with a few more splashes of color. He uses the water to dilute the red into a few different intensities, and employs the sharper shades to draw the eye towards the most interesting speckled gilding. The whites go on last; they don't actually sparkle, but they almost seem to, backlit by the blacks and reds beneath like an artsy demure dusting of powdered sugar or cocaine.
When Hancock finally shifts back into his native reality, he rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck. His bones crack in complaint but he looks deeply, exhaustively satisfied. His ink-stained hands brace his own lower back as he stretches, unraveling the shrimp-posture he'd been locked in for the last-- hour, maybe? No, it had felt like a couple of minutes, tops!]
Jesus Nick, why do ya always let me get so carried away? [ It's all sarcastic affection, not an ounce of it a serious complaint. Hancock is smiling softer than before, some mental and emotional drain being the wood on which the fires of his creativity burn. It's a willing trade and it feels splendid, like running a marathon of the mind. ]
But yeah, that's-er done. And I thought ya made my knife-work look professional. Couldn't ask for a better canvas. Guess I might be a little bias, maybe.