robotdick | Stick n Poke

Stick n Poke

[Nick was the one who went out and acquired everything for this little art project. A trip to diamond city got him the needles, ground down by the machinist there. After a chat with a few friends in the railroad, he managed to drum up some information on various inks. Thankfully, seeing how he did't have actual skin, he didn't have to account much for whether any given pigment was toxic. Hard to leech poison into his blood without having blood. Overall, he gathers up a few sets of needles and combs, and about ten color choices. He has no idea what Hancock will want to do with his name, but Nick's giving him choices.

Is he nervous about getting it done, yeah, is it because he doesn't want a tattoo or because he doesn't want Hancock's name? No, not at all. It's just very...rebellious, conceptually, and Nick the former had Opinions about the type of people who sported tattoos. Most of those opinions are irrelevant in The Wasteland, but they're still there every time he thinks about it.

When Hancock shows up, Nick's got all the gathered items spread out on that interrogation table. It's the only piece of furniture that wouldn't get stained, ergo it's ideal. One of the two chairs has a makeshift cushion on it, clearly for Hancock since Nick didn't exactly suffer when stuck in one position for a long time. There's even a towel draped over the back of the chair for wiping away extra ink. Nick feels extremely prepared and fairly nervous when he welcomes the ghoul in.]

I wasn't sure what you'd feel like doing. [Nick admits when they're by the table.] So I just snatched up whatever I could get my hands on.

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[ The wink and offer of Nick's arm together kick up something playful in the ghoul and he chuckles, bending one knee while tucking the other leg behind himself, boot-toes to the ground. He completes the dramatized curtsey action by grasping his coat and flaring out the fabric, but he looks more like a cobra than a coquette.

Then Hancock loops his arm through Nick's with a sprightly smirk, falling into step beside him as they depart the impromptu tattoo studio. ]

Mm... think bed's higher off the floor than the couch. Probably easier on your torque-y bits

[ They transverse the comfortable, ill-defined space between here and there. Cozy moments quickly carry them back to Nick's posh flat. ]

Ya don't gotta fuss ya know, I've had worse pains in the... neck. Givin' me a real taste for your sweetness, watch I don't start callin' you Sugar

[Nick heads for the bedroom, mostly just because it beat hovering over the side of the couch, and couldn't help the smile that Hancock's demuring and flirting put on his face. Nick's expression is happy but thoughtful as they finally reach their destination. He pauses and considers Hancock's face for a beat before asking:]

That somethin' you'd really do, or you just joshing me? Calling me Sugar? [Nick looked skeptical as he gestured to the bed. He'd left his coat at the table, but he still slipped out of his shoes in the bedroom, mostly because he could.]

Cause I get the feeling it is--something you'd really do, I mean. [Nick extends the moment by taking the time to undo his cuffs and roll up his shirtsleeves.] But now you got me wondering--that an ironic sort of endearment?

[It's a roundabout way to bring them back to that throwaway comment from hours earlier. It doesn't sit right with Nick that Hancock thinks he's being ironic and, while Nick's hardly the smooth talker Hancock is, he's had quite a while to think on how to discuss it.]

Dunno, your guess is as good as mine

[ Hancock answers without a moment of reflection, attention split on varying tasks as he regards the bed. Removing clothing around Nick becomes easier every time he does it, but it won't ever be something that's completely careless. For all his efforts and instincts to avoid serious emotional investment, his clothes sure hold a high spot on his priorities. Fasten your identity to anything and it becomes equally important.

Massages work better without a bulky coat in the way though, so off it goes, tossed upon an accommodating chair. His shirt is thinner, especially sans ruffles on the back, so he opts to leave it, at least for this hot second.

Hancock does opt to kick off his boots before climbing onto the bed proper, though. It's probably only Nick Valentine who gets to see John Hancock cut to the height of John McDonough on the semi-regular, or at all.

Nick keeps chatting on, and Hancock starts to get the feeling is whittling a point.]

For you? Nah, no irony there. You're an actual Sweetheart, got 'rescued damsels' on your resume and everything? Most'a what you do is for other people? Not like... [ Someone who's mouth waters staring too long at cinnamon throat scars? Someone so readily, eagerly sadistic? Someone who has been self destructing in slow motion for decades on end?

Hold on, let's change gears.]

If you're tryin' to sing my praises, I'm all for that music. Already know the tune, mind ya...

[ It's his charisma that activates to form this deflection; clearly, the ghoul's arrogance means he doesn't need someone else to affirm his sheer awesomeness. He knows it without a shadow of a doubt. Right?

... Right? ]

[Nick listens as Hancock comes around to the point and deftly evades it. He can't quite escape what Nick's saying, he's too clever to pretend he doesn't get it, but the arrogance is a smooth transition. Lets him separate the things that don't jive with him into bluster. It's a sophisticated way to avoid answering with anything honest, just more proof of how effortlessly sharp the ghoul is.

Unfortunately for Hancock, the lynchpin to that little evasive manuever is one Nick knows all too well: sincerity. The synth waits for him to finish, waits for that smooth, braggart look that always accompanies his preening, and clucks his tongue.]

You know you're the gentlest person I've ever met?

[That's a crazy statement to make, but Nick's not joking.]

Sure, you get violent, you're dangerous as a junkyard dog, but it's always intentional.

[It's why that interlude in Far Harbor spooked him so badly. John Hancock is about making his own choices, choosing who he is, and that was yanked out from under him by Nick's demands and radiation. Every other time he's seen Hancock lose his cool, indulge in violence, it's either been measured lunacy that Nick could have stopped--or something he'd held off on until permission was granted. He's mercurial, sure, and gentleness and kindness don't always go hand in hand, but Hancock is careful with people in a way that most aren't--in a way that Nick sometimes struggles with, even.]

Can't say I've ever met anybody who consciously chooses what they're about, every moment, every day--except you.

Sweetheart.

[... Okay, no. That's not how this is supposed to go. For a split second the ghoul feels like he's been sucker punched; he twists around to squint incredulously at Nick, not quite like he's been insulted. His mental schematics all struggle to realign with the synth's sincerity; the perfect antimatter to destroy his deflection.

Damn, this guy is too good. ]

The hell'd you just call me? [ He sounds questioning of Nick's sanity but still friendly and adoring. ] You sure that ink didn't somehow leak into your main processing? I ain't...

[ But Nick keeps talking-- and Nick Talking is something he's used to heating him up, right? So why is this different? Why does it make him feel like he's falling down the stairs? Disorientated, happy? Thrilled, afraid? No, not afraid, he doesn't do that unless-- cornered? Is that it? But crowded in by something... good?

A lot of that other stuff he says vibes pretty decently with the rhetoric Hancock already accepts about himself; it makes the initial claim easier to swallow. Objectively... yeah, walking himself through it, Hancock does gentle things. He helps people but also hurts people and that all feels kind of... selfish, regardless? Self gratifying? But he can't help being that, can he? No more than Nick can help being a Synth.

Why is everything he fiddles with in his coat, on the chair. Maybe this is part of why he doesn't like taking off his coat. Now what's he supposed to do with his hands? His fingers start to strum restlessly over the duvet. He may as well be wearing a huge neon sign that says 'processing'. ]

... Guess you're entitled to your weird interpretation'a the term

[Nick's never really seen an organic drops frames (Evaris doesn't count for reasons) but Hancock came damn close to emulating it as he stared, incredulous and fundamentally confused as Nick explained. In the end, Hancock surprises him and doesn't argue it, just...quietly accepting his definition. Sure, he looks confused as hell, like he's slipping on ice and can't get his footing, but he might be starting to see that Nick not being ironic.

Nick lets him stew in it a moment or two and then, because he loves the ghoul, throws him a familiar lifeline. He's not about to let him wander back into bragging and self depricating humor, so Nick opts instead for treading close to salacious.]

You don't think I let just anybody rough me up, do ya?

[Nick rarely let anyone see beneath his coat, let alone his torso or skin. And with every other person, save Ellie and Piper, Nick rarely offered so much as a handshake. (Normally the other people were happy enough not to touch him, so it was an equitable mutual distate.) With Hancock, well--Nick moves to sit on the bed, near where the ghoul is picking at the duvet.]

I knew from day one of this--thing we got--that I could trust you. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I tap out and it's done. That's rare...and also why I haven't--uh, tapped out that is.

[Nick was tentatively comfortable expanding his horizons and confident that while Hancock might suggest something wild, he'd never press it if Nick resisted. Knowing that made it easier to be comfortable with new debauchery, even the extremes. Because at the end of the day, Hancock would put him back together just the same as Nick would do for him.]

You really want me massaging you through a shirt? [Nick was curious but not particularly opposed, despite the way he eyed the fabric. Jokingly, he adds:] Five hours of partial nudity turned you into me, huh?

Guess not... you got more common sense than that...

[ The Trust of Nick Valentine is not a weightless thing; sometimes its easier seeing your own value through someone else's eyes. He glances to the side as Nick sits next to him, falling into that familiar motion of bumping shoulders in affection. He lapses into quiet listening, running over Nick's words in his mind, rechecking the math. ]

Yeah, basic understanding of consent ain't-- [ but he clips himself short, catching the impulse for self-depreciation as it manifests. Okay, okay. Nick is trying to communicate something important here, something dear to him. Hancock shuts himself up and listens some more.

The teasing actually causes the ghoul to kiss his teeth, but it's a short and sweet sound compared to the way he can make it drag and drawl when he's inclined. He's smirking when he says:]

Always takes a little extra to get me outta my clothing, as one guy with that penchant to another, I figure ya get it

[ It's more honesty in an answer than someone else would win, a straightforward explanation as one can get from a guy with such a silver tongue. The ghoul goes popping buttons though, shrugging off the age-worn fabric. ]

But you ain't just anyone, Nick. Don't know much, I sure as hell know that.

[ aaaand now Nick is getting a crumpled shirt flung into his face. ]

[Nick leans away, trying to avoid the shirt, but catches it in the face regardless. His expression goes amused bordering on playful, but the look in his lamplight eyes tells the whole story--he can say he doesn't do irony 'till he's blue in the face, but sincerity hit harder. Riskier, of course, but worlds more effective than a normal conversation.]

Yeah, apparently I'm your laundry guy. [His tone is irreverant, or as irreverant as Nick gets, and in a rare show of casual ease, Nick just tosses the crumpled shirt behind him onto the floor.]

Alright, lie down for me and let me get to work already.

The real reason I gave you this place revealed; I couldn't figure out the washer and dryer [ He's absolutely just being an imp now, falling back into a more comfortable, practiced script. He did appreciate the sincerity though, as much as it befuddled his senses and left him feeling like he'd slipped on black ice. Can those things also feel good, in a way?

Thoughts he needs more drugs for, to be honest.

But drugs are not on the bed, and on the bed is where he is, so he's just going to have to take a loving massage from his boyfriend as consolation, poor king zombie. The man characteristically lounges, cat-like, Kingpin-akin, and lays on his stomach with his arms boxed beneath his head. Laying as such, he can twist his gaze to Nick behind him, for no other reason than casual observation. ]

All yours, Valentine-of-mine. Do your worst [ an affectionate, demure invitation. ]

[Nick huffs a laugh and moves to straddle the back of Hancock's legs. His hands settle at the base of Hancock's spine, silicon smooth against the textured expanse. Nick aligns his thumbs on either side of the dip of his spine and sweeps them both up the ghoul's back. Even accounting for the texture of his skin, Nick can feel the tension and tight spots. Nick hums, tone noncommittal, and then swaps to using the heels of his hands.

With the heels of his hands, Nick can put broad, solid pressure against the knots along his spine. The first hard press of his hands up from Hancock's lower back to his neck pops the ghoul's spine like a zipper. Nick feels, remarkably, like he's rolling out dough and, with that main pressure abated, the synth starts working on the muscles of his upper back.]

[ Hancock can't help but shoot a libertine smirk over his shoulder as Nick sits on the backs of his legs. It's more contact than strictly necessary but if anyone can get away with that kind of thing, it's his boyfriend. The ghoul lets it play and gets extra comfortable on the comforter, spreading out like a puddle.

A sigh flows out of him as those firm palm-heels roll up his back, crinkling the knots in his muscles. It's definitely a pleasurable sensation, but of a different sort than the carnal variety Hancock is so used to feeling from the hands of his partner. More Sweet, less Heat. Also, he did not know his spine could make noises like that. ]

Mmm... gunna turn me into a man'a god, all prayers that your temptin' outta me

[ Hancock stretches his shoulders beneath the kneading pressure along his upper back, sighing in extreme contentment. ]

You're a Detective, why? You could make a killin' doing this to folk... and instead, you're all mine... fate's so unfair [ it is not an actual complaint in the least.]

Yeah, yeah--[Nick rolls his eyes even as he presses down sharply between Hancock's shoulderblades and pops something tight in his back. The ghoul has been slouching since before he could walk and now Nick's trying to fix the lot of it. He may be a machine, but even then--]

Bein a detective's got better hours. [It absolutely does not. Nick just can't come up with a clever deflection for that compliment--complaint? Compli-ain't?]

Also I get a hat and a gun.

[Nick tries to be firm while Hancock's still melting into a relaxed puddle. He doesn't want his touch too featherlight, not considering how rarely the ghoul has his back exposed. Nick's own skin beneath the clothes is far too sensitive, just by disuse. Hancock's balancing that out a bit, but it's still a transition and, as he said, this is something they share.

After a few minutes knocking the big swaths of tightness down, Nick moves on to the little knots. Hard to tell what's stress and what's just on account of being a ghoul, but Nick goes systematically from his neck toward his sacrum. It doesn't hurt that the synth enjoys just...having the freedom to touch, or just mapping Hancock's skin.]

Not sure how that tracks, seein' as you set your own hours

[ Somehow Hancock still has the presence of mind for some ribbing, via poking holes in Nick's imaginary job complaints. Seems like the proper amount of pain in the ass to be, considering the guy got a whole damn tattoo without breaking a sweat. Not that it's an option. Still! ]

Also ya got a hat and a gun now, doncha? I'm not seein' a whole lotta solid evidence here... think we could'a found your new calling, if I wasn't so damn happy to have you all to myself

[ Accidentally a bit of a loaded statement; he doesn't mean anything substantial by it. Not beyond this moment in time... he likes the idea of staking a claim (obviously, Mr. Tattoo Artist over here) but also, he believes too much in personal freedom to mean anything restrictive by his jesting claim (or even, his more serious affections).

The skin of his back doesn't get much sun but it's not the most explosive expanse of nerves mapped across his body. All in all it seems as though his neck carries the most tension from where he had bunched his shoulders, as well as his lower-back, from the way he'd pretzeled his legs beneath him for the duration of that tattoo. ]

Better cut this shit out Nick [ The Exact Opposite, he means, all drawling affection. ] gunna get me so strung up I'm not gunna know what to do without ya... [ The words roll out on a contented sigh as the ghoul's eyes lightly settle shut. He's not sleeping-- not even sleepy, thank you! He's just terribly relaxed at the center of Nick's attention. ]

Good think I don't plan on going anywhere.

[It's an equally loaded response, but true, and said with besotted, put upon affectation. Hancock's neck is the worst--well, no, his lower back and ass are the worst but Nick's not sure he can get the ghoul to allow that without this turning into sex. He's not opposed, but Nick's mother henning hasn't been satisfied just yet.

So, Nick leans over and works on his shoulders and neck, fingers digging into the tender spots where the scapulas slide and in the parts where the trapezius cards into the back muscles. He's not the most skilled massues but what Nick lacks in finesse he compensates for by not tiring out. His hands can't get fatigued and they don't vary in pressure or speed unless he's doing it, so like everything else, he can just keep going as long as it takes.

Doesn't take much brainpower, though, so it's real easy to fall into a daydream laden daze. Hancock's a contented puddle under his fingers and Nick's doing his damndest to keep him that way. He's tempted to rib Hancock back, keep that little exchange going, but the quiet is nice.]

[ Hancock absolutely understands there must be downsides and trauma accompanying being the type of Synth that Nick is, and living the type of life he had. It's a very happy coincidence that Hancock keeps finding all the silver linings, the best bits where the synth just so happens to outstrip organics by a mile, or ten. He's probably gunna jinx himself by entertaining the thought ~~No Hancock don't do it~~ but having a synth boyfriend is the absolute best; really, he's just not seeing a downside here. ]

I don't think I know a cuss sacred enough for this feeling

[ His murmur is just a little pleasure-slurred. He doesn't mind the quiet, he's just inclined to chatter, especially when he's happy. And happy he most certainly is. It's not the type of pleasure Hancock usually chases... healthy pleasure, where's the fun in that? Well, the fun is here, apparently. ]

You... you are officially Too Good. For Me, For This, For the whole damn town. Imm'a make a damn civic holiday in honor'a this backrub

[ You've seen Burrito Ghoul, now you have Puddle Ghoul. ]

[Nick's pretty fond of Hancock's chatter, it's a good metric to gauge both the situation and how he's actually doing. The less sensical it is, the better Hancock is, which means right now he's on cloud nine, babbling away into the pillows as Nick knocks the tension out of him.]

Masseuse Mondays. [Nick supplies with a lopsided smirk as he shifts down Hancock's back. Turns out, almost all of the knots were stress and not just a result of ghoulification. Which was great, theoretically, but kicked Nick's anal retentive attention to detail up to eleven. Hancock's back is now like a tangled set of Christmas lights to him and he intends to get these goddamn knots out and everything in order come hell or high water.

(This aggressively bullheaded single-mindedness is what makes Nick a great detective and a questionable massage therapist.)]

Can follow it up with Tattoo Tuesdays. [Now Nick's just joining in on the nonsense, chattering back like call and response as he moves down. Hopefully by the time he reaches the knots he actually has to work out along Hancock's thighs and backside and across his sacrum and hips, the ghoul will be too blissed out to provide running lascivious commentary. (Again, not because Nick is opposed, he just really wants to finish.)]

Yes, good, perfect. You should be my new PR guy actually-- you're good with slogans. Fahrenheit's the best at what she does but she needs to take about three bottles'a chill pills.

[ He must be feeling silly, slinging out imaginary job offers as such. Usually it's an effect that takes some kind of chem... well, oxytocin is technically a chemical. Now, a human might get tender under such constant, not-quite-obsessive-compulsive-kneading, but Hancock is a ghoul, a masochist, and has about 40-odd years of knots in his muscles so he's gunna lay there and take every ounce of delicious punishment. He's already on the bed, moving be damned. If Nick wants him to jelly-limbed and jubilant to jump right into sex, he's doing a fantastic job.]

So then... do we do Wasted Wednesdays or Thirsty Thursdays? Wedding Wednesdays? Theater Thursdays? What goes better after a massage and a tattoo? [... the types of conversations you have with stoners who are not even high. Probably contributes that his back feels like butter, now. A sudden, intrusive thought:]

--Jesus did you find an extra vertebrae hidden in there somewhere?

Hard to say, never finished that medical annex course.

[Nick replies offhandedly as he starts on Hancock's lower back and--damn it all.]

This is going to bother the hell out of me--hold still.

[He knows, he just knows this Christmas light tangle is going to be in every part of Hancock and he can put off some of it but, legs, buttocks, back are all directly connected. So, in as no-nonsense a way as possible he takes one of Hancock's thighs and presses firmly at the center, where the two large muscles meet below his hips, just at the swell of his ass. Naturally, there are about a dozen little knots and tangles and each one he pulls snags something to his hip and sacrum.

Nick, deadly serious at the moment, presses firmly into the meat of Hancock's leg and ass, working those out with the heels of his hands until they're smooth as silk. It's lucky Hancock is a ghoul, this would be swollen and excruciating for anyone else.]

Hell's bell's man you some kinda--? What's the word I'm looking for? [ This is Old World Knowledge. They don't have These Things anymore, not really, but Hancock read a ton of comics and comics are all printed pre-apocalypse. They reference things that don't exist anymore, but Hancock's got little glimpses of the knowledge. ] Chee-roh-prak-tore? [ chiropractor? When you read a word but never hear it spoken.

It's a weirdly satisfying pain, like when you slap a mosquito-bite to fade the itch. When the ache dulls from his unnaturally tough tendons and muscles they feel-- better? But, sore? Is this true catharsis?

Hancock is so very, very tempted to make some terrible joke about Nick groping his butt; the mind is willing, but the flesh is-- putty, really. Plus he's pretty dead certain from the tone of Nick's fussing that this is one million percent business, for the moment. Guy's on a damn mission, here. Like he's wracking up a score card. Hancock's chuckle is all gooey but charmed and sated-sore.]

Ain't no extra points for completion, ya know. Not unless ya really want 'em

[Nick, in withering deadpan:]

I'm not about to half-ass half of your ass, pal.

[And as if that isn't the strangest thing he's ever said, Nick continues as he works, with the slight aura of a man being questioned about how he's going about repairing a car. He does relax a bit when it becomes apparent that Hancock isn't about to start trying to embarrass him about this. It'd be child's play to get him flustered right now and he really does want to do a good, and complete job.

Hancock just spent something like five hours tattooing him. A thorough massage is the literal least Nick can do.]

And no, not a chiropractor either.

Used to go to one--er, that is Nick the former. Given how everyone's always on my back about everything, it's not all that surprising.

[ Hancock lapses into a few throaty chuckles. The things outta this guy's mouth, sometimes. How those words crossed his tongue and his face stayed straight, Hancock cannot imagine. Gotta be some kind of super power. ]

Don't half-ass much at all, do ya? Love that about ya... put your whole damn heart n' soul into everything ya do.

[ He's being rather complementary but it's a difficult inclination to resist when Nick is lavishing on the affectionate attention with such meticulousness. Not only do the unique compositions of their bodies fit together (a synth's relentlessness, a ghoul's resilience) but their personality schematics also link like puzzle pieces; Nick's driven desire for completion of his mother-henning, and Hancock's willingness to lay here and bask. ]

Makes sense, guy havin' human-type muscles an' all. Ever think it's funny that both you and me got recollections of smoother skinned proto-selves? Not the kinda thing a lotta folk just get, feel me?

[Hancock's musing actually brings Nick up short and his massaging pauses a moment as all his processing turns that thought over. That...hadn't ever occurred to him. Nick, as a concept, both is and isn't him, so there wasn't the same dynamic there...but, even accounting for that, Hancock is right. The material reality of their situations is...by every metric that really matters, identical.

What a wild thought.

As Nick gets back to it and, in doing so, inches closer to being done, he offers a thoughtful hum.]

Now I know this going well, you only get existential when you're feelin' good. [Said fondly.

As for Nick's obsessive need to complete things to the best of his ability, well, he's starting to wonder if that isn't hard baked into him. Part of his skeleton, as it were. Nick the human was dogged as a cop, but he didn't have the driving need to really finish everything.

It's so strange to realize what parts of himself are his alone and Hancock just keeps adding to that pile, either though offhand comments or tattoos.

But before Nick realizes it, he's finally finished untangling that box of metaphorical Christmas lights. Hancock's skin is too heavy and textured to really see the tenderness of a heavy massage, but he does seem to have a little more color to him.]

Alright, done. I miss anything?

Mm-Hm... not just any guy gets me feelin all philosophical... you and me sure make somethin' special together [ said with just as much fondness; apparently the massage is so good it even loosened the ghoul's tongue, as well; shaking free more flagrant affection in his tone than typically jailbreaks his heart.

By the time Nick is finished, Hancock's body can't quite make sense of what happened to it. He's used to having one foot in pleasure and the other in pain, a master of riding the temperance of sensation-- but he's never felt anything exactly like this before. Partial massages are fairly standard foreplay but it takes a certain mad-hat dedication (a certain degree of selflessness) to complete a full body massage without getting sidetracked, or worn out. ]

Mm'I supposed to feel like I got no bones left?

[ All it's going to take is the tiniest atom of radiation to activate his unnatural healing ability, and the ghoul will be bouncing around like a brand new slinky on cocaine. For the moment his body still feels raw and confused, hot-without-heat, like an ice-cube freezing in reverse. ]

You can... go and stick a fork in me now... Mmphmmn...

[ He tempts fate with an experimental little stretch and... nothing cracks? Nothing at all? Nothing even crinkles? He goes boneless again but not before turning his eyes back to Nick, attempting to school an incredulous squint over his wildly warm and devoted smile. ]

Ya actually killed me, didn't ya? No way my body actually feels like this. This is my brain makin' peace [ He's jesting again, endearment overflowing as thrusts himself onto his side and reaches out to grab Nick's wrist, lightly pulling him onto the bed. ] C'mere, I'll show ya what ya missed Sunshine~

[Is there satisfaction greater than the look of surprise on Hancock's face when none of his joints creak and crack? Maybe, but this is pretty good contender for the top spot. The incredulous squint of devotion was pretty solid too.

Hancock tugs him down and Nick goes along without anything resembling resistance. The synth drops onto his side, lopsided smile stretched wide. They've literally spent the last six or seven hours together, touching the whole time, and somehow it only begrudgingly counts as enough. Hancock was turning him into a sap.

(Okay, fine. He was a sap long before Hancock, but the ghoul sure is bringing out the strongest of those urges.)]

That's a new one. [Sunshine? Not really the first thing he'd have gone with, given how his whole vibe is called Noir, but he's not about to argue with Hancock about it. He's a little worried that the ghoul might be sore, but that thought passes as quickly as it arrives--Hancock's a glutton for pain, post-massage tenderness doesn't come close to rising to that bar. Still, Nick being Nick, he can't help the vaguely warning look he levels at the ghoul.]

Don't go messing up all my hard work. [Is what he goes with, by way of mother henning, before leaning in and catching his mouth for a kiss.]

Nope, that actually came from Mr. Mayor. Know my acting is fantastic, but secretly? Guy's actually me

[ 'Mornin Sunshine', he had said. Maybe the tag was kind of slanted ironically, around Nick's entire vibe. But actually, the synth just makes Hancock feel stupid-happy, so on the other hand, perhaps the nickname is both sincere and ironic at once? Ironic from Mayor Johnny, sincere from Hancock.

It stops mattering so much when Nick is beside him and kissing him, and Hancock can twine his jelly-limbs around the synth's torso and bask in his gratifying proximity. He had warned Nick, hadn't he? That the guy would get sick of him? Seems like Nick is determined to win that bet though, to prove him wrong; the detective's indulgence extends far and beyond the intricate efforts of his massage technique. ]

Mmm... so I'm supposed to what, just lay here...? Gunna have to move eventually...

[ A jesting complaint, because Hancock does not want to move one single inch. He keeps shifting to tuck his head against Nick's collar but, at the very last moment, deciding to steal another brush-stroke of a kiss. ]

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AGAIN WITH THE CRITICAL HIT *sniffle*

Nick used sincereity, it was super effective! This is very sappy.

IT IS */right in the feels*

The juxtaposition here. We did it again. A++ work. Sorry for short :x

I KNOW honestly how are we so amazing? No worries! Pacing sometimes, amirite?

Hmmm hope this works. :\b

👍👍👍

my sleepy is showing I think

looks lovely from this angle but if your bed is callin ya... (mine is lol)

Swapping from Kellogg to this surprisingly tricky.

the way I inwardly cackled writing this

LMAO The healthy kind, I love it.

:D

This is the most OCD massage I have ever written and it is sending me.

we've been calling ourselves out this whole time no worries dude 🤣🤣🤣

Please enjoy this absurd statement.

This RP has some GOLDEN quotes for real

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AGAIN WITH THE CRITICAL HIT sniffle

IT IS /right in the feels