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        ❛ hey, so  -----  don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t smell like a local. ❜   a brief pause as the corners of his mouth tug into a small grin.   ❛ to be fair, though, i don’t think we have Eau de Dust out here. ❜   //   @mercyshot

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     lays down a lil’ starter call.

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No one knows me or loves me completely. I have only myself.

Simone de Beauvoir  (via wordsnquotes)

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@ the fandom:  where’s all my hancock/deacon content?  huh?  why y’all gotta be disappointing me like this?

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Deacon had an identity crisis right before my very eyes

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Current mood: Pessimistic Deacon (￢_￢;)

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just deacon leaning against a wall

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new tag dump.

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❛ we’re great.  we're frickin’ fantastic.  songs will be written about our sheer awesome-osity. ❜  //  originally est. november 2015.  written by cole.

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As a man that made a lifestyle out of lies and deceit, Deacon could tell when he was being bullshitted-- and Hancock was practically spoon-feeding him.  The mayor was a fairly honest person that didn’t hold back, whether it be with words or personal information, but everyone had their secrets.  Deacon just happened to be more keen to them, having kept plenty stored up himself. 

            ❛ Guess I’m just not the open, no-holds-barred type.  Not a big fan of             letting people in.  People who don’t hide anything are boring.  It’s like             reading the last page of a book -- there’s nothing left to learn.  And if             I’m bein’ honest? You don’t particularly seem like the boring type. ❜

                 “TALKIN’  ass  sums  YOU  up better than anythin’ can;  but  hey,                          the bullshit that comes outta your mouth?    Stinks just as bad.”  

At least Deacon could keep  up  with him.  Hancock didn’t mince words, and his sarcasm carried hard on his tongue  –  a supplement to whatever blunt statement could be pulled out from his throat. And with Deacon, there were  many  a bold statement to be applied.  Every  FUCKING  word that left those lips aggravated Hancock like an old rash.  (  and hey, while he was  at it,  Deacon even looked the  PART.  )  

                        “Yeah   –   SURE.   ‘Least everyone can see what  I  got t’offer.                         I  ain’t  hidin’ underneath  anything.  But I don’t think that’s a                          concept  you  CAN GET.”

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@facechanging.

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ღ HMM!! HMM

             Send ღ for a first kiss between our muses.

                     THESE  are not the kisses of  happy people.  

Hancock’s teeth  LINGER  where they land;  all the sharp - edged  corners  of Deacon’s skin,  where he can keep them  marked;  each nip the shadow of what he  WAS  and  COULD  be   –   because there is honesty in knowing what you are,  and Hancock thinks if he  IMPRESSES that upon Deacon, then it might just  get through  with the same subtlety and  WEIGHT  as a sledgehammer through a skull.  

He avoids the mouth,  here,  even when they’re both already  half out of their skins  (  Deacon always in his;  Hancock never.  )  because he doesn’t think he wants to know what a  LIAR’S  tongue tastes like;  because he’s gotten too many  licks  from ones  like  that.  But  DEACON’S  hands are the ones that get to him  first  –  both on what’s left of Hancock’s cheeks,  a touch that burns like perdition,  burns like  liesmith’s,  and Hancock freezes up on Deacon’s waist.  Freezes up against him. Freezes up against the wall.  Freezes up.  

It has to be one of those things that’s getting them  both going   –    something  HE  might like, or something he thought would be funny;  just to see the look on Hancock’s face when his head turns and tilts and  presses,  soft skin to rough skin.  LIAR  to  TRUTHSAYER;  subtle to blunt.  Hancock digs his fingertips into Deacon’s skin again, knots a fist at the base of that white t - shirt to pull it  up. 

Show me what you are,  the movement says.  I need to see what the fuck is underneath all of this.  

Deacon kisses first;  Hancock introduces tongue  –  if this is a game that Deacon wants to play with him, then he’s  ALL FOR IT,   but he won’t play the  pussy shit  that’s going on  NOW.   No tongued kisses aren’t reserved for people like them.  Not reserved for what they’ve both got going on,  RIGHT NOW.  He ain’t interested in exploring that with someone like  this.  

These are not the kisses of  HAPPY PEOPLE. 

Hancock bites  hard  on Deacon’s bottom lip,   like he wants to swallow him whole.

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           ❛ A talking ass? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think the word you’re looking            for there is flatulence. The big boom. And if you wanna be crude-- a fart. ❜ He knew damn well what Hancock meant, but if there was one thing that Deacon  couldn’t help, it was being a smart-ass.  His constant lying wasn’t the only thing that had become a defense mechanism over the years; he’d also delved deep into using sarcasm as a way of coping, of distancing himself from any criticism  that he might’ve received.  This was no different.  But he wasn’t about to allow  himself to be one-upped by a cheeky, rotting corpse that looked like he just  stepped out of a Revolutionary War reenactment.             ❛ Still, I think I’m more concerned with how you interpreted what I said as             me being interested in you. And besides, I usually like ‘em with a little             more meat on their bones.  And by ‘meat’, I mean ‘skin’. ❜

                “EYES.  Up.  Here.  Know I got the whole  noseless  thing goin’                       for me.  I ain’t  NEEDIN’  a distraction from it.  ‘Sides;  you and                       distracted  –  ‘specially by anythin’ on  ME?  I don’t wanna be                       hearin’ it outta you.”  

At least they both had that going for them;  that lack of care over the comments that others might have had for them in regards to their appearance.  For Hancock,  what he appeared now was what he  wanted  to be.  At last  –   after years and months of looking into his reflection and seeing nothing but his mistakes and  COWARDICE   refracted backwards  –  he settled into his skin.  COMFORTABLY. 

More than what he could say for  Deacon.  Everywhere Hancock turned, it was someone new  –  some new face to emulate, some identity to  slide on  like a fur coat. The thought of it made him  uncomfortable.  He’d freely admit that;  wondering how easy it must have been for Deacon to be anyone he wanted  –  forget the  TRUE SELF.  Maybe Hancock even felt jealous.  Just a little, of how  easy  it seemed for Deacon.

                      “Ain’t interested in people that  shit  from the same place they                       TALK,  y’get me?”

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          ❛ Nothing says ‘Christmas cheer’ like a skull at the top’a the tree, right?           Hey, y’know... maybe -- just maybe -- we could find some fishing string           or something and make tinsel.  Those old pre-war books are full of all           kinds of artsy-fartsy shit.  Can’t be that hard, right? ❜

                ❝ A supermutant skull? Yeesh! Maybe, if you’re gonna help                 me make the ornaments. Can’t be that hard ta melt down s-                 ome glass n’ shape it inta a ball. Maybe. We could probably                 hunt through some houses, too, see if they’ve got a box full a’                 old Christmas shit we can use. ❞

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            ❛ Low blow, my man.  Hittin’ below the belt there. ❜ Comments about his appearance seemed to roll off his shoulders like rain,  but Deacon’s constant surgeries weren’t just to maintain anonymity-- he simply liked being someone else.  It helped him forget, if only for a while,  helped him become a new person with a new life and a new history to construct.  And the best part?  People believed him.  And those that didn’t, still didn’t know what the truth was.  He was, in every sense, an enigma.             ❛ But hey, I got all kinds’a wigs if you wanna borrow one sometime.             Might distract from that, uh, hole. Where your nose should be.  ❜

               IF  Hancock were talking to anyone else,  with  few  exceptions,  he                    might have laughed.  But as it so happened,  he was talking with Deacon;                    Deacon,  whose motives and realities and  person  couldn’t exactly be                    discerned,  and yet who was as  TRANSPARENT  to Hancock as a broken                    window.  Which was what happened,  sometimes,  when someone as  BLUNT                     as himself met someone as  facetious  as Deacon  was.  

   “Hey,  trust me.  I’ve seen about as much of you as I WANNA see,    you  feel  me? You ain’t exactly the sorta guy that I’d  like  to hang    with.  Liars?  They ain’t really my style.”

                    As for that jab about his face…

   “At least I can pull the  BALD  look off better than  you,  huh?”

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I relate to Deacon so much it hurts, honestly. He lies constantly, even about things that literally just do not matter. He lies because he is terrified of the truth. He has created an identity in his mind that is just about the complete opposite of his past self. He is so deep in his own lies that its most likely jarring for him to look in the mirror. I can absolutely understand getting a face change or maybe 10. Having to face that monster ever time you look in the mirror, knowing what he’s done, must be a fucking bloody battle for him. He probably wishes he was a synth, too. That his memories weren’t real, that he wasn’t really the monster he sees himself as. If he were a synth he could disconnect from the truth and not have to face it ever again. He’s such a complex and underrated character. He’s incredibly well written and complex and I think he needs a lot more love and understanding.