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 tightening of Nick's throat draws the ghoul's spine taut, but he's still so wonderfully wrung out that the action is executed with tempered zeal; he lifts half an inch and feels his whole body consumed in a bloom of prickling heat. He can't move quickly, or with sudden bursts of strength. Every movement must be measured with careful intention, and gradually applied. It's a strange satisfying shadow of helplessness; not quite the thing itself, but of the same shape and effect. ]

That's perfect, just like that. God Nick-- could stay like this all damn night. Don't want ya to stop-- [ he can feel the coil of mechanical irises around every single inch of him; he can feel where the pressure slides along the veins so close to the surface of his skin, tapering his thrashing pulse. He wants to buck into the synth's mouth like he's starving for climax but he can't, and the frustration adds rasp and depth to the groan that finally cuts off his torrent of dizzily uttered praise.

It's easier to part his thighs than buck his hips. Easier to fan his fingers over the back of Nick's skull than cling for dear life and the sake of leaving dents. When he finally manages to find language again, it's just Nick's name, and yes, and the occasional distorted collection of sounds that almost, almost sounds like please.

He doesn't even know what he's asking for. He's halfway-mad and pleasure-cooked and his heels are dragging against the synth's back as the onslaught of bliss makes him lethargically writhe. ]

[Nick doesn't have the capacity to spare, but he can't listen to Hancock say his name like a prayer, tangled in semi-wordless pleading, without looking up at him. Hancock is drawn up just so, arms reaching to cradle Nick's head between his thighs, his own head lolling in lazy ecstasy. His heels find purchase on Nick's back again--he's all wrapped up, trying to cradle Nick's head with his whole self. It's beautiful and soft, like that cloud of dots detailing his inner thigh.

Nick's processors can't handle it all--he has to surrender something if he wants to keep going, but he can't. His desire to record all of this supercedes his efforts to draw it out. The pressure against his tight throat is excruciating and perfect, but it's everything else on top that twists Nick's processors into a knot, devouring all his system resources until there's just nothing left. He'd hate to leave Hancock wanting, but Nick can't handle all of it at once--

The synth swallows hard around Hancock and that last flood of data knocks him clear over the edge. Each feed flashes a capacity warning, throws up a rainbow of flags, and then closes, one by one, firing off like fireworks behind his eyes. When his eyes cut out, the last thing Nick can do is groan around the cock in his throat. There's a cathode burst of energy as his capacitors overload and his systems go briefly dark.]

[ The ripple of Nick's throat around his dick drags the ghoul right onto the edge of his own limitations. His whole body strains to arch with strength he's still recovering; he feels like he's floating and sinking and drowning in oxygen. His hands on either side of Nick's head start to twitch and tremble, stuttering in their devoted acolyte's affection.

Hancock knows the tells by now, the sounds Nick's machinery makes, the expression on his face when his own impending climax looms. His toes curl against Nick's back as that perfect-poison shock runs through him, triggering the trick-reaction rejuvenation he'd been in queue for since the completion of that massage. That nerve-soaking shock of green always hits like a drug but this evening, all Nick's careful ministrations have super-charged the effect.

The ghoul's body suddenly feels so light, aside from the weighted palpitations lurking below his navel. The contrast is wild and exhilarating. He'd fling himself off the bed if not for-- you know.

The seconds skitter as Hancock balances precariously on the cusp of his own cliff's edge. The careful restraint starts to feel more and more like a tight-rope walk, like the slightest misplaced thought could send him crashing into the net. Does he-- not want to? He does-- but he's not gunna make a move with his dance partner temporarily clocked out.

Maybe he can just...

Hancock's hands drift soft, like desert sands stirred by the winds. His fingers scoop gently beneath the synth's jaw and lift a fraction of an inch--

--and then the sensations are all cascading; Nick's lips and his tongue and those fucking devious metal irises, all dragging down the ghoul's hypersensitive skin, making him forget that he's supposed to be walking the rope at all. The sound that tears from his throat is a nuanced, pronounced growl that trails through the quiet as Hancock's head lolls dizzily on the duvet.

He's doing his damndest not to bust down the synth's throat while he's on this quick sabbatical, but freeing himself from that too-addictive mouth risks a different indignity; Hancock doubts Nick would appreciate waking up with an obscene mess dripping off his face. It's an idea that threatens to unravel him; the ghoul's prick twitches wantonly inside its exquisite constriction. ]

[Nick's startup is rote by now and this one is as quick and effecient as any. It was a soft reset this time, and Nick takes only a moment or two to boot back up. His body activates gently, without the need for extensive recalibration--a small mercy, given how Hancock is still down his throat. His systems note that discrepency though and all the irises down his esophagus recalibrate, just to make certain they're not zeroed out.

Nick comes back online to himself swallowing around the weight of Hancock's dick and the tail end of a sound drawing up from the ghoul's gut. His eyes open and it's such a sight, Hancock struggling not to spend himself, just at the brink, with hands tilting Nick's jaw up just so. It pulls a lurching, leap of appreciation and affection out of the synth and, in thanks, Nick presses farther, until his nose is buried against Hancock's pelvis and he's fully sheathed inside him.

How long had he been out? Not terribly long if Hancock was still so hard. Nick lingers a moment, eyes locked on Hancock's chin and what shallow angles of the ghoul's face he can make out. With the clarity of reset processing, Nick will happily draw this out as long as he likes, though given the placement of Hancock's hands, soft and careful beneath Nick's jaw, he is probably over that request.]

[ He doesn't expect Nick to swallow upon waking; if Hancock is supposed to be walking a tightrope, now he's just clinging to it with all four limbs locked on the cord, uncertain which way gravity will toss him if he lets go. This time when the ghoul arches his body moves like he's weightless; he arcs sharply off the duvet and his grip is steady-strong at the back of Nick's skull, encouraging more than demanding.

Now he can roll his hips, like his muscles are all brand new, bucking into the synth's mouth where there isn't a micro-fraction of space more for him to sink into.

Hancock is almost too hot-blooded and pleasure-cooked to understand what he wants anymore; some baser instinct wants to chase that shattering oblivion, wants to spill greedy and grinding down Nick's throat, but another part of him is so desperately fixated he wants to bask in this feeling until he forgets everything else. It's a mad and impossible whim of addiction but just thinking about the severity of his hunger is enough to send the ghoul's head thrashing again.

He doesn't know if he wants to ask Nick to break him; he doesn't know if he wants the synth to dangle him here, in rapture so intense it's almost torture. ]

How the hell do you make me feel like this? God damn it Nick... I love you so fucking much, I love you so much--

[ The ghoul's pulse wrapped so tight in Nick's throat betrays the speeding tempo driving him towards his impending crescendo; the last pair of notes waver and hang in the air, tenderly teetering back and forth before the drop-and-swell of the song's completion. ]

[Nick's speechless--would be, even if he could speak. Hancock is holding on desperately, tipping over the edge and kept upright only by Nick holding him there. There's a dark thrill that curls inside him--wonderinf how long he can keep the ghoul like this? Hancock had told him about his stamina--his resiliance--could he keep him hanging here for minutes? Hours?

Maybe--but today has already been a marathon and Nick's not sure he can maintain Hancock at this particular edge. Perhaps that's a task for Valentine, next time they pick up their game--the copsona is less invested than Nick is, harsher, his dominance would serve this purpose far better.

Nick instead pulls back, cheeks hollowed as he draws to the very tip of Hancock's prick. Nick holds there just a moment, considering where he wants the ghoul to spend himself. Hancock's said such beautiful things about him and his voice that, in the end, Nick's decision isn't a surprise. He wraps careful fingers around the shaft of his cock and holds it in place as he pulls off. The head pops free from the sucktion of his mouth audibly, trailing his artificial saliva and the fluid leaking from the head of Hancock's dick as it does.]

Paint me again, love?

[ He can't catch his breath, but he still stops breathing when Nick's mouth pops off the head of his dick. His lungs clench around the dizzy inhale he'd swallowed, heartbeat pummeling his pulse over the ozone in his chest. His head is swimming in delirious dizziness; he doesn't even realize he had lapsed out of English in his animalistic praise.

The sound of Nick's voice finally shifts the gravity.

All the air rushes out of him as Hancock plummets, twisting up in tangles of tearing titillation. That line of fluid strung like a sparkling silver spider's thread between Nick's mouth and Hancock's dick suddenly snaps under the surge of heavier, thicker spurts of fluid. The sounds that simmer in his chest are all savage shredded silk, each tameless tug of his hips drawing out another eager splash against Nick's mouth or his cheek or his nose.

The overindulgent sway of the ghoul's hips starts to drag the softening weight of his dick across Nick's face, smearing the slickness of his bliss across the synth's silicone-skin. ]

You look so damn incredible like that

[ Heavy hands spare not an ounce of worshipping adoration as they cup Nick's face, thumbs tracing up where his cheeks had hollowed so deliciously. The language is still wrong, but the meaning is crystal-clear by the way the ghoul so tenderly holds his paramour by the face. ]

[Nick's starting to pick up which feral growling is just nameless sentiment and which is closer to language. He revels in both as Hancock spends himself across his face, hips rocking and pulling his flagging erection from Nick's cheek to his lips. It's a great angle to watch from, as Hancock tips over into climax, and Nick's eyes are wide open for the whole of it.]

Gorgeous. [Nick compliments, half aware that they're both probably expressing the same thing. Hancock holds his face brush his cheeks and wipe the mess across them.]

How you feeling? Still no kinks?

[In his muscles, Nick means. Hancock had been so good for him, had stayed in place and let himself be pampered, had kept impossibly soft and relaxed about it all. For all he praised Nick, he was just as accommodating, just as giving, and Nick reflected back his adoration. God, they really were just disgustingly in love, weren't they?

If the practice meant anything anymore, Nick would have dropped on one knee, right then. But it doesn't and they were already just as entangled as any married couple. Nick didn't need jewelry, not when he had Hancock's name on him. But it seemed unfair not to offer the exchange, at least. Not as an act of ownership, but as a momento of this feeling. Unfortunately, apart from proposing, Nick's not sure how to make that offer.

He'll have to figure something out, though, because that look on Hancock's face is something he absolutely cannot live without.]

I feel... fucking fantastic

[ It's a closer reflection to how Nick tends to pop up fresh after a proper crash; that little accommodating bolt of radiation erasing the tenderness of Nick's meticulous massage and leaving only the payoff of his efforts. Hancock feels like he could run a million mile marathon if he had the slightest inclination to get off the bed. His indulgent stretch takes him all the way into a seated position, propped up on his elbows. Hancock gazes down as the besotted, bespotted synth's face and they drink from the same chalice of saccharine adoration. ]

Seriously, what's the opposite of a hang over? Feels like I'm a decade younger

[ Habitually, he tries to crack his neck but the muscles don't make a peep. He grins in delighted disbelief, relishing the way he can bend his spine and twist his ribs without the slightest twinge of pain. ]

Think I'm ready for those Lindy lessons about now. Ya make me feel like dancin'

[ Contrasting his statement, the ghoul grips firm at either side of Nick's head and pulls him upwards. Hancock reels his love into a slow heavy kiss, mindless of the mess still trickling off the synth's silicone. While not quite daydreaming matrimony, Hancock is still basking quite happily on the ninth highest cloud in the sky. ]

Really?

[Nick's not opposed to kissing while he's a mess, but he does feel a little reflexive kick of irrational apology. Hancock's drawn him up already and Nick shifts to the side to lie on the bed alongside his rejuvenated partner.

He'd thought Hancock had forgotten about that, figured he'd broach the topic if he found some good records while wandering the Wasteland. But if he's serious, Nick is not above pilfering them out of the jukebox at the soda fountain. He hasn't gone looking, but he's sure a penthouse as swanky as this one has a record player hidden somewhere.

Hancock's not joking about feeling better, Nick can tell, there's a lazy and enthusiastic undercurrent to this kiss. He's more than happy to indulge in just making out, Nick'd never turn that down, but cleaning fluids off silicon is oddly annoying if he allows them to dry, and the silicon on his face doubly so because of the extensive weathering.

He backs out of the kiss, smiling, and with a chuckle.]

Hang on--hang on-- [Nick says and hastily unbuttons and shirks off his shirt. It's a little makeshift but it beats using the duvet by a mile. He hastily swipes the fabric over his face and then tosses the shirt on the nightstand.]

If you're serious I'll dig up some records.

[ Hancock sighs in languid contentment as Nick draws back to shirk his shirt. As someone else with an adapted instinctual avoidance of nudity, the ghoul especially appreciates the ease with which his partner sheds his metaphorical armor. Seeing his bare skin feels so sacred-special, like visiting the lush and lovely overgrown ruins of a temple where only the most devout of pilgrims are welcomed to pray. ]

'Course I'm serious. Been lookin' forward to it since ya offered [ It's a gregarious statement he'd make quite typically; what's abnormal is the amount of genuine sheepishness he allows to filter through. Hancock's got a streak of softness that the whole world tried to crush and failed; sure he's vicious and wild, a reckless radiation-junkie, but it stacks beside his softer nature, as opposed to snuffing it out. He just doesn't show many people; a certain degree of monstrosity is healthy for his image.

But he's safe with Nick. Safe enough to show the synth the secret facets of himself that don't always see the light of day. It's an exhilarating freedom. ]

Yeah, sounds like a plan. Not headin' out now, are ya? I just got ya outta your top

[ Hancock's arms slither fluidly around Nick's bare torso, hands climbing the synth's spine to the back of his neck. His touch is slow, exploratory; his hunger is present but tempered, the tempo gone lazy and indulgent as his fingertips wonder towards unique impossible textures, like the vents for Nick's fans. Eventually, some jolt of mania will end this affectionate haze, but for the moment at least, he is very content as a glutton of cuddles.]

[Nick's too enamored with Hancock's momentary sheepishness to even conjure a snappy response. He just reclines with the ghoul again, leaning into the hands that explore all his covered skin with something akin to reverence. Now it is Nick's turn to take Hancock by the face, and he does, cradling it as he leans in to rest his forehead against his partner's.]

Nah, too far to walk. I just got a tattoo after all.

[A thin excuse at best given that they both hit him with a repair pack and that he hadn't felt it to begin with.

Hancock's hands are a fascinating trail of sensation--residual heat, pressure, the myriad of textures that Nick is beginning to memorize like fingerprints. They travel his spine, the backs of his ribs, and catch the metal rimmed openings of his exhaust ports. They're not spun up now, contented as he is after crashing, but even without being spun up, they constantly blow thin streams of hot air.]

You know--weird to say, but I think you're the only person who's ever touched those. Apart from Faraday, that is, but seein how he installed them it's kind of a requirement. Same with the back of my neck.

[Nick takes a deep breath and lets it out through his nose. Nick's not sure why he strays into candor, but it seems fair, given how earnest their exchanges have been today.]

It's nice--the touchin, just being like this.

Makes it easy to forget I'm a machine and just be a person. So, thanks for that.

[ The ghoul makes a quiet, pleased hum as their foreheads bump, unable to ignore or repress the wash of warmth like tropical waves on white sands. He rollicks in the humid dreamy feeling, soaking up those sweet details of more First Times he's stolen from his dashing darling.

Faraday certainly does not count by default. The metaphors for that are too unsettling to explore. ]

Good to know you're already thinkin'a lookin' after my handiwork. Aside from all those desks I massacred, you're the grand total'a my surviving artist's portfolio.

[ Hancock accepts that genuine honesty with an easy look of balmy beatitude, resting the weight of his cheek more intently against Nick's palm. ]

Hey... how you wanna define you, is all you. But way I figure it? You don't gotta forget you're a machine any more than I gotta forget I'm a ghoul. It's part of who you are, not all of what you are.

Pretty sure you could tell me all about the shady side of bein' a synth, but on the flip of it, I could tell ya just as much about everything I like about ya as is. Ya got eyes like midnight streetlight in the rain and a voice like jet café noir. Ya don't gotta like that part of you that's not human... but I will. I do. Love ya just like this, tinfoil an' all

[Nick listens quietly to Hancock's description and all the pieces that he loves and it has him choked up for a hot second. His expression goes a little anguished at the end, but he's still smiling.]

I--uh, thanks. Again. Just...being a machine is...[How can he explain this in a way that makes sense to a normal person. Or even Hancock.]

I...don't own myself? Not sure that makes a lick of sense but--no part of me is me, it's just a part. And, I know, that gets awful existential when you apply it to organic folk. Or even Gen 3's.

[And here's the crux of his discomfort, why he doesn't like thinking of himself as a machine, as a commodity, a piece of tech:]

But...I'm just hardware. Just a line of software running through a drive someone built. It'd be easy to replace an arm or...wipe me off the drive entirely.

I can't get married to my bits because they're not really...mine. Never were and never will be--well, except for that leg you tattooed. That one's unique now, not just a part--that's a nice change.

[ Hancock listens, slipping into quiet reflection. There's a stubborn tugging in his chest he has to bring to heel; a nagging discomfort, something between panic and irritation diluted, that the ghoul must pin down before it gets away from him. Nick seeing himself that way... it doesn't sit right with Hancock at all, but he has to respect the synth's views and interpretations of himself. Basic respect demands no less, and he has far beyond basic respect for Nick Valentine.

Hancock handles the discrepancy in opinions with tactical calculation, considering it beneath the scope of his own compassion before letting his thoughts cross his lips. ]

Maybe I can't get it, not bein' a synth. But from where I'm sittin... looks to me like you own that body, just by virtue'a livin' in it. I can't think'a Nick Valentine bein' anyone other than you, and I ain't the only one. No one really remembers the smooth-skinned guys we used to be -you don't count, lemme make my point here- but they sure as hell know the people we are now. That perception, those stories people tell when they gather 'round the watering hole... ain't that real, too? The actions you take and the choices ya make... that's how ya get to define who ya are

[ He looks-- sad, hearing Nick refur to himself that way, and there's a spark of temper too. Not directed at Nick, but at whoever made the guy feel like Less Than. Maybe it's too simplistic a view, maybe Hancock is even wrong. But he sees more of what's the same between him and Nick than what is different.

A short huff leaves him and he spears one grasping arm from around Nick's torso to fiercely take him by the side of the jaw. ]

Listen to me. You get the bottom line on you, alright? I'd never take that away from ya. But I gotta tell ya this. I love you. And I don't think I'm crazy enough to fall in love with 'just hardware'. Kills me just a little bit you think'a yourself like that, because I sure as hell don't.

Ink makes ya feel alive, and real? Then I'll cover every inch'a ya. But ya don't need it to be a person. To be yours... or to be mine.

[Hancock's reminders are --well, they're starting to become foundational for Nick. His passion in this almost overrides the spots where he's got the wrong conception and Nick presses against the hand holding his face. He could argue it--he was rebuilt with more parts than he could count--practically the synth of Theseus at this point--but Hancock was coming at it from another angle.

Hancock was viewing him in totality and...from the outside, that made a lot of sense. There was no reason to expect he'd get the nuance of interoperability like Nick had, and even taking that nuance into consideration: Hancock had a point. Even if he was loaded into a toaster, he would still be a person. He would still love the ghoul in front of him. Maybe that was the trick to it--ignoring the parts, working only in totalities.]

You really got a knack for getting through my thick skull. [One day he'll buy it--he's buying it more and more as time goes on--it's just hard to transition to that sort of thinking from his material understanding of his build.] How is it I snagged a guy with so many talents? Artist, poet, actor, politician--and also, apparently, a shrink.

[ In the most loving, good-natured way, Hancock would continue to argue Nick back about the nitty-gritty details of a meat-suit versus a metal one. His own parts are not quite so easy to trade. Losing a limb? Pretty fucking bad... but re-attaching a freshly-lost limb? Not necessarily impossible for a ghoul, where it might be for a plain old human. Swapping smaller parts like fingers and toes doesn't compare exactly to the kind of reconstruction that Nick survived... but there are places the diagrams overlap, sharing patterns and lines if not colors and conception. The kind of chop-shop part swapping than can be done on a robot or a Gen 1 is an extreme version of the smaller repair body-mods a ghoul can manage, and a human can take less reconstruction than that. It's a sliding scale, much like everything else.

For the moment, Hancock can only see Nick from the outside; meaning it's the only perspective he can work off of. It just so happens to work very well to prove his point, even in the places all the details fail to synchronize. When Nick nuzzles affectionately into his hand, it draws the ghoul's smile wider and summons a soft sweep of his leathery thumb across his partner's cheek. Hancock looks smug and victorious, but with a supple undercurrent of satisfied-- relieved adoration.

He can tell that Nick's listened to him, really absorbed what he said and taken it to his core. That uncomfortable tugging in his chest lessens, seamless eyes scanning Nick's face for the little ticks of sincerity he knows to live in the synth's expressions. ]

I'll remind ya every time ya need to hear it. You're my person, Nick. What you're made of is just sweatin' the details. Maybe I'm just an idiot, missin' somethin' big or important, but seems like easy math to me.

[ He supposes it's fair to soak in that indulgent praise; sometimes there's real effort and intention behind the applications of his skills, like the tattoo inside Nick's thigh; but this 'shrink' behavior is also wrapped up in an odd kind of selfishness. It's making Hancock admit to himself exactly how important he thinks Nick is, by reflecting the value he believes Nick should have in himself. ]

Gimme time, I'll get better. One'a these days your gunna see yourself like I do, Valentine-of-mine. I will do my damndest or I will die tryin'

[ He takes the complements like a sunning feline, and rests his head upon the synth's collar. The hand at Nick's cheek skates comfortably down his neck, wondering just aside of tattered edges. He can't even blame lethargy for his greed of this prolonged affection; he's not tired, he could lap Goodneighbor six times without breaking a sweat. But he feels so... content? Is that a thing his brain can recognize? True, placid, centered contentment? Is... he allowed to feel that?]

I mean, I gotta do a lot to off-set the nine-toe thing, don't I? Worth it, for a catch like you

Don't.

[Nick knows it's good humor--hyperbole, if nothing else. That something as inconsequential as a missing toe being a dealbreaker, being enough of a flaw to tacitly endorse them splitting up, was patently ridiculous. It's funny but, right now, it fits the situation like a shoe that's two sizes too small.

That last trip to Far Harbor could have gone different--Faraday could have been missing more parts, Nick could be lacking them now. Either of them could lose something tomorrow. Entertaining that joke, at least right now, felt like tempting fate.]

You don't gotta off-set a thing. [Nick leans in and, saccharine as it might be, presses a kiss against Hancock's forehead. Valentine-of-mine might be his favorite of these nicknames. It was exactly his brand of corny.]

And I guess I don't need to, either, do I?

[ Hancock revels in the extremely sweet gesture; it feels like the perfect underscore to his point. Maybe he's oversimplifying again, but nothing that's 'just hardware' could make his heart sing like this. His hyperbole is a terrible tempter of fate but he's feeling bold and brave, like he could fight the whole world if Nick became the reason to do it. ]

Eey, there's that point I was whittlin'. Almost like I know what I'm talkin' about sometimes

[ That uncomfortable flutter in the ghoul's chest has almost completely inverted; he already feels so energized and light, and now it's all driven behind this radiant sunniness dawning in his core. Again the ghoul has conquered whatever asshole left Nick feeling like more a machine than a person, and he will do it every single time he's gifted the chance. ]

Just keep in mind every time ya insult yourself, your insultin' my fine tastes. Ya don't think I have bad taste, do ya?

[ He doesn't expect to be able to rewrite Nick's entire perception of himself... but if he could add some new data, some new perspectives, to at least stand beside those perceptions and tenderly hold their hands... he will be damn proud of himself. ]

Trick question, by the way. I have fantastic taste, not gunna entertain otherwise.

[ He drives his point with a punctuating kiss upon Nick's collarbone. ]

[Nick huffs a laugh as Hancock poses that rhetorical and then immediately answers it. He's learned better than to comment on the tricorn and tailcoat and Nick's not about to revert on those now. It is a nice framing, setting him up with his own little mental John Hancock to remind him that he has exquisite tastes and not to doubt them.]

You'll hear no argument from me.

[The kiss on his collarbone is a nice counterpoint--it's so odd that he's gotten this comfortable with cuddling. For almost a hundred years he could count the number of folk who willingly touched him in any capacity on one hand. Now, he was casually accustomed to just tangling himself with someone else. He's clearly changed already, so why not drag a few outdated perceptions along with him?

Nick takes a moment to peer down at the ghoul beside him and cocks a brow. Usually, after climax Hancock is mostly an incoherent puddle. This is extremely peppy by comparison. Still, Nick figures he ought to ask:]

You ready to hole up for the night?

[ Could anyone else pull of Historical Cosplay with such finesse and charisma? Probably not, but John Hancock makes it work for him. ]

Smart man. Don't gimme a reason to shut your mouth

[ His typical flirtations are all soft and balmy; there's weight to the threat of them but less hunger for chasing them down. It's getting harder and harder to ignore the sheer emotional contentment he's feeling, and that... to Hancock, almost feels more like a temptation to fate than his hyperbole had been. He doesn't want to lose this-- again. The fear of that grows in equal proportion to his love for Nick.

But fear is just preamble to cowardice and Hancock has no time for that shit. ]

I guess? Feelin' kinda juiced to be honest with ya... but not to keen on movin', either. Guess it's gunna have to be you who folds first here, Slick. Looks like ya caught yourself a cuddler.

Oh no, whatever will I do?

[Nick lamented in absolute deadpan and shifted, weaving an arm under Hancock's back to pull him in closer. Cuddling is, for Nick at least, about as satisfying as foreplay and sex. The sensors that ping under touch don't suddenly stop and wrapping himself in delicate touch, textures and warmth is always the same rush. Cuddling on the soft duvet is hardly something Nick opposes, it just gives him more time to commit the topography of Hancock's skin to memory.]

[ Falling asleep from sheer comfort and contentment hits different than the hard-edged black coconsciousness that Hancock usually resides within. The Wastelands aren't flush with coziness, so if the guy can run himself ragged until a ditch makes a good bed, it just makes everything easier.

This is... something else. He didn't even realize he was falling asleep; the decent wasn't some plummeting gravity, it was like floating in reverse. When had his eyes closed? Only when he cared more to focus on the feelings of Nick's form intertwined with his own, than to keep his lids aloft. When had his breathing gotten so deep and slow, and when had the dim of the room thickened so cozily?

Apparently the ghoul had some witty reply but he doesn't speak it in either language he's wired for; instead it's just sleepy-content, nonsense sounds and a sigh of blissful resignation as he slips off into the best damn sleep of his entire 40-odd years of life.

No Chems, no ragers, no blood-baths. Just Nick and his sweet-smoke words and their delectably comfortable duvet. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Stick n Poke

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Oh man the poetry ;u;

I KNOW the opposing mirrors we make of scenes just ✨✨✨💖💖💖✨✨✨

RIGHT. Sorry for the slowness there, my brain can't words so good yet.

Shush you every tag is precious <3 one, two, ten, it's all gold

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~End?