robotdick | 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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[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 He's clearly changed already, so why not drag a few outdated perceptions along with him?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. ]

Stick n Poke

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