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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[ 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. ]

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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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