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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[ John Hancock has many talents and skills; he is not the least effective Mayor in all of Goodneighbor's history, has enough sense and insanity in equal parts for politics, is good in a fight and can occasionally pick a lock. Plus his staggering knowledge of Chems and budding, amateur (root word: amatore) interest in Robotics-- the ghoul is defiantly one of the more intellectual people churned out by the end of times.

But let's be honest. Half the time, it's a miracle the guy finds both ass-cheeks in his pants.

Nick's inclination for planning and preparation fit perfectly into the gaps and lapses in Hancock's attention and judgement; like puzzle pieces that perfectly interlink, and extend each other's images. Would Hancock have thought through creating such a sweet Inking Spread? Probably not. Is he going to have a blast and do amazing things with it? Absolutely. ]

Holy shit, you got different colors? [ He is already grinning, striding up to the repurposed interrogation table. Today it is a tattoo table, and Hancock is still not regretting his ghoulification in the least, but it's a bit of a bummer that his skin would be such a bitch to ink too. If he wanted something to stick, he'd probably have an easier time priming his resilient hide with scar tissue-- but that's a whole different thing he'll think about later. ]

You always go all out, doncha? This is great-- I'm excited. Gunna Finesse this somethin' fierce. Definitely gotta use this red... [ He picks up the mismatched bottles of ink and inspects them, turning the fluid inside the vials. The red is especially vibrant, the color his coat turns saturated in rain.

An intrusive thought abruptly slaps him upside the head; that the ghoul should slice his own palm open and bleed into the red pigment before he uses it. That's. Sure a thing his brain threw up in starkly vivid imagination. Whew. ]

Like to be prepared when I can.

[Nick shrugs but, as he watches Hancock examine the tools, feels a tiny thrill of pride. Hancock's got that gleam in his eyes that means he's about to do something brilliant or fucking insane and Nick could not be more pleased about that.]

Oh! Right, damn near forgot.

[Nick strips off his coat, on account of not wanting it stained various colors, and fishes through the pockets before draping it over the non-cushioned chair. Triumphant, he holds out the real prize among all this stuff: a working sharpie.]

In case ya wanna sketch first? You did it up nice with the knife, so I don't figure you need to, but--preparedness, and all.

[ And. Brilliant, and fucking insane. Hancock's eyes shine like fire on an oil spill, dancing. He reaches out for the sharpie and it is clear his mind is running a mile a minute. The man has encyclopedias of ideas, but his excitement starts to stain with devious scheming. It's hard to detect, but a keen eye could track the ghoul's gaze as it jumps around; from the sharpie in Nick's hands, to the synth's face, back to the marker, then down Nick's throat. His smile gets a shade hungrier as the ghoul takes the delightful offering and he spins the marker like he would a knife; not just a dexterous spiral, but perhaps a thrilling threat. ]

... Maybe [ There are Unspoken, Devious things packed laden in those sparse two syllables. While he percolates, the ghoul brings himself to the designated artist's seat and loses a moment appreciating the pillow. It's an adorable little stroke of empathy. Not that Hancock has any reason for an especially tender butt or anything. ] Comfy. Alright, so... lemme give ya a quick story time, since you're so enamored with me an' all. C'mere, sit.

[ While he reaches back through the rad-blood-and-chem soaked corridors of his memory, the ghoul takes his time inspecting the assortment of needles Nick had collected. ]

So, dunno if you noticed? I like to fidget. Always have. Back before anyone would give me a knife, it was pens, pencils, sometimes caps. Little toy cars. Shit, whatever I could get my hands on, really. Adults like to confiscate whatever I was makin' a racket with but they usually left my pencils, cuz good luck gettin me to pay attention without at least that much to do.

Anyway, so I got in this habit. Get up, sharpen the pencil, sit down, stab my desk like it owes me money. Just did it cuz it felt good, but I started to notice all the little dots, how they fit together, how they kinda... blend. I dunno, it's hard to describe

So eventually, figured out I could make some pretty fucking sublime desk art with a trillion little stabs. Apparently that's called Stippling. So I was thinkin'... maybe that? For your ink? If you want?

[ Now that he's said 'a trillion little stabs' while checking out these needles, he's... rechecking himself. It had seemed like a sweet idea, inside his head. Personal, well-thought out. But 'a trillion little stabs' eh? Way to sell that one, John. ]

[Nick doesn't so much take a seat as he does lights on the edge of the table. He figured this would be where he'd set up anyway, just so Hancock didn't have to crane his neck to see. Nick nods along as he tells the tale--he remembers. Nick also remembers being one of the people who confiscated some of the more dramatic and dangerous things from him. (The bottle rocket was Nick's least favorite.)

Nick didn't spend much time in the school, though, so seeing Hancock's art in person wasn't something he'd actually done. His suggestion brings an amused grin to Nick's face.]

I'm pretty sure that's the only way to do it, seeing how you can't drag the needle through. Good to know you prefer that, though.

[As far as Nick was aware, this whole process was just going to be dip in ink then stab in leg. Over and over. And over. Until it was all wrapped up. A lot of his awareness of tattoos included some details about people bleeding a lot, or that the pain gets overwhelming, but neither of those are concerns Nick shares. If Hancock wants to get artful and stipple to his heart's content, Nick is on board.]

And that you've got some practice already.

[ Man don't dis the bottle rocket that thing was top tier menace to society material. ]

Ya sure? I know I gotta stab ya either way, but it'd be... more. A lot more. Here, lemme just...

[ Was there some scrap paper on the table, before? There is now. RP Magic. Hancock snatches the accommodating scrap and takes the sharpie in his other hand, un-capping it with his teeth. ]

Check this out

[ Without all the repetitive ink cleaning, this example should run pretty quickly. The first sigil the ghoul creates is merely a simple straight line, about half an inch in length. The shape comes together with a flurry of little stabs, tiny black dots all crowding together to form the hard body of the line.

Repeating this technique twice more, produces a cleanly inked letter H. All in all it had taken maybe two minutes, and the ghoul holds up the paper scrap once he's completed it to show his first example.

Then, he flips the scrap. For a few lengthy seconds his eyes just dart over the empty space and the sharpie in his hand hovers. Then it's another flurry of pen-stabs, but it's different. They're manic, chaotic. The specks of ink seem like grains of sand, flowing with inspired intricacy, suggesting shadows spatters and scraps of filigree. The effect is slap-dash grunge, sophisticated Rorschach patterns that seem to contain new details at every glance. The letter 'H' looks like smoke and sand and pretty motes of ink.

This version takes at least six minutes. The effect is strikingly unique when the ghoul has finally completed the letter. He pats the paper proudly onto Nick's lap and his grin is equally arrogant and sheepish, somehow. ]

That's the difference I was tryin' to get at. Think that second one took... at least twice as long? So uh... guess this is me tryin' not to get too over-zealous with ya for once? Idea looks good on paper, you ain't paper.

[Oddly, watching Hancock take his time, gears in his head turning as he drew, made Nick feel a little better about this. He examines the fancy work and pulls a face as he considers. He's still on board, of course. What's a little more stabbing?]

Might have to go a little slower on my leg so you don't break off a tip by accident, but this looks great.

[Nick isn't sweating the actual tattooing part of the process, not really. If anyone knows how to stab to a particular depth, it's Hancock, and if he wants to stipple it? Well that's just a few more.]

If it's too much, I'll just turn off the sensors. Try not to shred my skin too bad.

[Okay the wink was probably overkill, but wink Nick did. He still isn't sure if Hancock is going to try to draw it first or if he'll just dive in and, in the end, the method doesn't matter so much as the symbolism of it as a reminder. It's not like Nick wears shorts on the regular, nobody but him and Hancock get to enjoy seeing this. (hah)]

Yeah? Ya dig it? [ The ghoul lights up like a damn Christmas tree. ] I know I'm brilliant, don't need the affirmation or nothin'. But I gotta tell ya... it's nice. You'd think I was drawin' dicks all over every damn desk the way some'a those teachers squawked at me. Only some of 'em had dicks. They were subtle, artsy dicks.

[ He understands, quite roughly, the difference of ink-on-paper versus ink-on-skin. Did the ghoul plan to practice his stick-and-poke technique before this point? Plan is... an extremely strong word. Did he get high in proximity to a needle, some ink, and a bunch of mutfruit? Yes that did happen, and fruits were stabbed. ]

Right, right. Call me a moron but sometimes I just plain forget ya can do stuff like that. Turn parts on and off. Not like I'm overly familiar with your machinery or anythin'

[ The wink gets a coy smirk in reply, and the ghoul shakes his head with a whiskey-chuckle. ]

I know how to be gentle, cross my heart. [ ~~Not my fault you make such a pretty face when I hurt you~~ he really owes Nick some proof to that claim. ] Even ended up practicing a bit on accident.

[ Okay... colors. Hancock goes right for the black and red ink, and the three smallest needles of the set. He also pops open a tin of purified water that had been tucked under the table, and adds it to his selected tools. ]

Alright, propriety's gotta go. Drop em and spre-- no wait, just drop 'em.

[Nick was going to have to get that look of excitement and validation framed and hung on the wall. He hasn't seen Hancock look that young since he was that young. And the fact that he practiced ahead of time? That just goes straight to an old synth's heart.

Nick lets out a huff of a laugh as he undoes his belt and steps out of his pants. They get folded and tossed onto the other chair, just like his coat. Now that he's hanging out there, Nick shifts to sit on the table a little more, resting the outside of his thigh against the metal and giving Hancock complete access to the inner section.]

Show me what'chu got, Sweetheart.

Oof... makes my heart skip a beat every time I hear that one. I'm not exactly the type'a ghoul someone thinks of when a guy like you throws out a tag like that. Guess I like the irony, if that's what it is.

[ Sweetheart sounds like a girl with heart shaped earrings, not a historical-cosplay wearing sexy zombie king. Maybe Hancock enjoys that someone still bothers to squint through all the chems and necrosis to see the parts of him that are still so irrevocably good.

The ghoul spends a few moments stretching his back and neck-- he's about to dive into a fugue of focus so spiraling he will likely forget about things like maintaining a basic level of comfort in his muscles. His legs lift and pretzel underneath him and he leans in, smoothing a hand across the inside of Nick's thigh the way an artist brushes the first clean page of a new sketchbook. It's already flawless; the motion is pure reverent gratification. ]

Alright... Lemme see...

[ It's the smallest needle he takes up first, dipping it in an instinctive combination of black ink and water. This particular flavor of kink lands in an odd bitter-sweet spot for the ghoul; the sadist in him lurks and purrs and craves all of Nick's uniquely composed reactions. The compassion in him still has him drawing in a breath the moment the needle breaks into silicone-skin (stretched between the fingers of Hancock's other hand). The thoughtless little punctuating inhale is either meant to encourage Nick to mirror him (subconsciously), or to brace Hancock himself for the bright spark of pain, which is no more logical than the prior nonsense instinct.

An experimental speck of black is soothed with a deliberate brush of the towel, which Hancock had moistened. The sensations shift from damage to elevating, and then a burst of warmth as the ghoul blows away whatever imaginary imperfection.

From his spot hunched against the edge of the table and crowded between Nick's thighs, the ghoul turns his eyes towards his paramour's face and his smile is all silk. ]

How's that feelin'?

[Irony? Nick knows better than to argue in the moment. He doesn't want to cut the legs out from under Hancock's youthful enthusiasm, so he just lets that comment drop away. The ghoul is already stretching out, like he's ready to run a marathon, and Nick is free to just watch him get into his groove.

The brush of Hancock's hand on his thigh kicks up his baseline of sensor data, but he's careful, startlingly so, as he pulls the silicon and punctures it. He doesn't even get far enough down to pierce through, barely grazes the sensor net. He sucks in that breath, probably doesn't realize he's doing it, and Nick just falls into a quiet reverie as he watches him.

Nick's sensors are extremely specific and a bit more abstract than human sense. He can't actually feel breath or the wind, he lacks the hairs to do it. What he's extremely attuned to is temperature, and wind, breath, all that sort of thing comes with little drops in temperature, in humidity, occasionally even in magnetism. Hancock blowing away whatever's left there is more a rush of warm than anything else. It feels like the weight of his wrists or the ambient air in the little cage he's made around Nick's thigh.

He shoots Nick a smooth smile and Nick gives him one back.]

You start already? [Nick asks, despite having literally watched the whole thing.] Didn't feel a thing.

Heh... That's not somethin' a guy usually likes hearin. Anythings sweet off your lips, Slick [ He spares a few more moments to share in that silken smile with his paramour, before his focus flips like a switch and he's back down on his elbows, eyes darting.

He's not nearly as fast with a needle as a marker, pencil, or knife. It's not a travesty if he does actually pierce through Nick's skin; he's got Repair Kits, but the aim is to hit that sweet spot just below the surface and just above his sensors. The surface damage should heal over the ink, leaving the image like it had been part of the original print.

He falls hard into a groove, spreading black and blacker specks like gunpowder-watercolors that don't seem to have any rhyme or reason. By some ~~Stoner~~ Magic it will absolutely emerge as Hancock's name, but the way it's coming together is hard to track and anticipate. Occasionally he'll swap a needle, an ink. Add more, or less water. Swipe down with a that cool towel and follow with a warm breath.

Meticulous is not something Hancock often is, but Meticulous he sure is now. His focus is razor (or rather, needle) sharp and sternly poised; only Nick has his attention, in the way a sculptor cannot possibly ignore his clay. A bomb could go off next to the ghoul and so long as it didn't disturb his inks, needles, or his boyfriend, Hancock could not be less fussed. ]

Yeah... this is definitely the most time I've spent between your legs. That don't seem fair, what with how generous ya are makin me see stars.

[Nick is as entranced watching Hancock as Hancock is with working. A couple hours pass like a flash in the pan--Nick only notices they have because he's got a clock right tickin away in his skull.

It's strange watching how Hancock's brain parses the information, how he separates out forms like he does. The whole image looks like gibberish to Nick, just a haze of dots, but sure enough, as the ghoul works, more order seems to get hauled up out of the chaos. He could watch this all day, but all Nick's planning aside, it's probably not great for his neck to stay hunched like that.

His joke, out of the blue, makes the last few silent hours all the more unusual for the contrast of it. Nick carefully wheezes out a laugh, making sure he doesn't jar his leg in the process.]

Oh yeah, it's a real raw deal. [Nick says with such heavy sarcasm it would be impossible not to notice it.] We have a good time rollin in the hay and all I get is several hours of watching you make art on me. You're really gonna owe me one after this.

[Said in a way that translates directly to: Are you joking? I love this. This is amazing.]

Really, though, I may end up havin you do all of me. This looks smarter than any outfit I own.

Aw, c'mon, it's not... [ that special? But it is, isn't it? Hancock didn't have to pick such a personal style, attach such a special tale to the experience. If all he had been interested in was the claim-staking pleasure of leaving his name in ink, John Hancock could have taken less than half the time to do it.

But he didn't. He gave Nick something extraordinarily individual. A memento with more than one memory folded in, a sigil of the care and attention he wants so willingly to give to his friend-and-love. ]

... Glad ya like it. I, uh... yeah. It's been a while. Aside from the mutfruits I practiced on. Feels good. Especially cuz ya like it. Hm... think... I wanna go in with a bit more red, and just a touch'a white. Really turn the finesse up to maximum, dig? Couple'a highlights gunna make it pop. That's cool, yeah? You still feelin' alright?

[ Just because it's not strictly necessary that he check in with Nick so much, doesn't mean he shouldn't. Empathy shapes the source as much as the target; it does the ghoul's heart well to worry over his companion, even if he's absently forgetting Nick can just shut off his sensors, again. Despite appearances, Nick just registers as 'human' or 'person' and the ghoul's brain is going to liberally apply empathy, as is the custom. ]

Careful now, I've heard 'em say tattoos are addictive. I stay away from that kinda risk. [ Completely, obviously sarcastic and boldly approving.] Gotta be careful I don't create a monster over here...

[...Ha-ha. Ha. ha. ]

[Hancock was still fussing over him which made Nick's attempt to fuss right back all the more difficult.]

Might be too late for me.

[Nick says but, while he employs some humor in that tone, he's dead serious.

Nick had wondered if getting a tattoo would feel like all the rest of the things they engaged in--whether the needles would hit his mesh and just send a bolt of sensation up with every stab. He'd been pretty concerned about needing to turn off his sensor net--but Hancock was too careful. He treated each little series of stabs with considerable forethought and none of them extended down far enough to hit the sensor net, or breech the silicon layer.

Nick hadn't been joking when he said he couldn't feel it, and that was crazy. Sure, he could feel the heat, the coolness of the ink, the pressure when a needle broke the surface and withdrew, but it was no more overwhelming than if someone were drawing a finger up and down his skin.

The real danger, in Nick's case, was that this little detail made his body so much less abstract. He wasn't a collection of parts--that part was his now, it was unique, it was beautiful. It's a strange mental shift to contend with but he knows that he already likes that art more than the bare expanse of silicon it had been before. The idea of doing it to the rest--that is, the rest of him--gave Nick a heady little thrill.]

You do whatever you gotta do, I ain't going anywhere.

[ 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.

[Truly, Nick had no idea how much of an artist Hancock was. The name inscribed on his leg looks amazing, sharpness of letters jumping off of foggy almost watercolor darks. His silicon skin is so translucent that the ink itself almost has light scattering up against it. Every time Nick asks Hancock a favor, he goes so far above and beyond that Nick can hardly comprehend it--he doesn't say anything as Hancock stands up and stretches, just reaches up and grabs the ghoul by the side of his neck.

Nick rises more than he pulls Hancock downward, but the end result is the same gentle kiss.]

You're amazing. [It's a standalone compliment, but also a lateral answer to that rhetorical question. He lets Hancock get carried away because when he does? It's always a lightshow.]

That's officially my favorite piece of art now--really, it's damned impressive.

[Nick's not sure how his skin will behave with ink in it, he's never tried anything like this before--but when he stands everything stays lovely and awe-inspiring. He's not sure if healing is the right way to describe it--maybe curing? But he's going to do his damndest to keep this precisely as it is today.]

I'm going to have to find someone with a motorized gun for this, seeing you hunched over for that long--how's your back?

[ A kiss with such heart catches Hancock off guard for a moment. It's not that the ghoul is not damn proud of himself; he is. That pride in himself was built off a whole lotta assholes not giving him any damn choice in the matter. If he wanted someone to be proud of him, it had to be himself. That suits the ghoul fine enough-- leads him into kindness like feeding starving families, 'lending' (read: giving) caps to those in need, and dishing out that all important Skull and Crossbones Chem to down on thier luck townies. Serving his own passions never failed him, but it didn't always earn him friends, nor praise or respect. ]

Yeah, I know [ His usual broiling arrogance is reduced to a low simmer; he's not bashful, but he is touched. He didn't plan to, didn't think it through, but he gave his partner a very special piece of himself, and that was something he'd never, ever done before. ]

Guess now I can officially call ya One of a Kind, huh? Take that, DiMA. Your little brother's got a John Hancock Original [ Nick's genuine appreciation makes it easier than usual to gloat, like clean high class oil in an engine. ]

Lemme know if you want me to hit it with a Repair Kit, cuz I got em. Ya did say I wasn't hurtin' ya, though. Told ya I can be gentle.

[ At Nick's tender concern the ghoul adapts a more worn in shade of confident carelessness; were he a synth, Hancock would be decades into the habit of auto-closing the warning pop-ups that pinged in his system. ]

Neck's kinda stiff. Guess I could'a moved it once or twice.

[ Turning his head back and forth feels like crackling cereal in his neck. Totally worth it though. Pain's a currency he's used to trading in. ]

[A repair kit? There's a thought. Nick constantly forgets about that high tech wizardry but Hancock has gone out of his way to learn how to make them. They might as well get some use out of it. From how it worked last time, Nick can't imagine it would get rid of the ink in the process.]

You did tell me--[Nick agrees. He'd never doubted Hancock's ability to be gentle, the way he'd swept a finger across Nick's lip that first night in the soda fountain had told Nick all he'd ever need to know about that. But Hancock seemed to doubt it from time to time, so it was worth losing an argument he never had if it reinforced that belief.]--now, what do you say we do a repair kit for me? Get this all sealed up.

Then I try to knock a few of those kinks out of your back. Seems only fair, seeing how you did such a bang up job.

[ Apparently the Hammer Space in Hancock's coat has been tweaked for items beyond chems, because now, it always seems like he's got a Robot Repair Kit in one pocket or another. He finds one after a bit of curious pawing, fishes it out with a flourish. He's typically careful with the point of the syringe, subconsciously running through his little injection ritual as the metal tip breaches silicone.

Didn't seem like there was much 'damage' to heal, but the restorative tech does recognize the need to seal the open 'pours' of Nick's skin. The ink, not actually causing any damage itself, remains untouched.

Hancock's thumb sweeps soothingly across the point of injection; programmed empathy that serves a different purpose than it's design, but a purpose all the same. ]

You wanna give me a message? A real message? Cuz if you wanna mess around, think we're passed euphemisms now

[ Hancock is aware Nick's offer was genuine; his default setting is anarchy imp. Inwardly the offer blooms some warmth in the ghoul's chest; Nick's empathy is always so sweet, Hancock is not accustomed to being fussed over. He takes what he wants because no one ever handed it to him. Nick is... so different from any, every other soul the ghoul has crossed.

But he's starring, isn't he? Like a love-struck dumb-ass. He catches himself doing it and his smile goes wry and diffident. ]

Ya wanna spoil me I sure ain't gunna bitch about it. Where ya want me, Valentine-of-mine?

[Now that Nick's not worried about his tattoo leaking out of his skin, he has a real dose of pep in his step. Hancock seems flabbergasted by the offer and Nick just gives him a plaintive sort of shrug.]

Yeah, a real massage, genuine and not a metaphor for sex. [Nick clarifies as he reaches for his trousers to pull them back on.]

If you want to have sex later, well, I ain't complaining, but after I knock some of the knots out of your back.

C'mon--

[Nick gestures with one hand toward the stairs and then, with a wink, offers up his elbow to Hancock. It's an old timey gesture, one that suits Nick but is extremely out of place here. Still it's the gesture that counts and if Nick's going to lead the ghoul he loves somewhere else for a massage, he's going to do it politely.]

Steel table's fine for me and tattooing, but we got couches and a bed. We can use whichever you prefer.

[ 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

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Stick n Poke

cw: ideas of light self harm, blood

Oooh. Also they really are Autism/ADHD solidarity aren't they?

IT WORKS SO WELL MY HEART ;^;

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less mentally complex tag first!

:D

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AGAIN WITH THE CRITICAL HIT sniffle

Stick n Poke

cw: ideas of light self harm, blood

Oooh. Also they really are Autism/ADHD solidarity aren't they?

IT WORKS SO WELL MY HEART ;^;

c:

Re: c:

no subject

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less mentally complex tag first!

:D

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AGAIN WITH THE CRITICAL HIT *sniffle*

AGAIN WITH THE CRITICAL HIT sniffle