[Nick goes back with the pressure of that shoe like he was made for it, sitting straight then back against his chair. That sight, Hancock propped like that, the pressure of his shoe against his chest, the long line of his legs and the dramatic shadows occluding the spaces where the dreamy prom lighting doesn't touch. If Nick weren't already in love, he'd be in love.
The sidelong glance at the Vaultie, still serenading a crowd of two, doesn't escape him. The last time Nick had welcomed this sort of thing had been when Kellogg busted out. That whole debacle could have soured just about anybody on the idea of a voyeur or a third in their experience, but it hadn't soured Nick. Now, after finding out the Vaultie and him had more in common than he thought, Nick was less concerned about his presence.
He doesn't even glance back as his hands move to cradle Hancock's leg. His good one goes to the strap but, as before, Nick takes his sweet time undoing it. The whole time, his love-struck gaze is stuck on Hancock. (It's not that he doesn't have bedroom eyes, it's that his bedroom eyes also happen to be goo-goo eyes generally.)]
Fine by me.
[Nick doesn't object in the slightest. He enjoys towering over his tiny fiancee, but he also enjoyed being towered over by Id. That answer comes fast--the answer to his earlier question however, that one kicks Nick into full tilt embarassment. It's one thing to proclaim his love, to serenade him, to even get physical with a witness, but he still stumbles over the propriety of any given subject. He doesn't have a barometer for this one so he errs on the side of silting and cautious.]
It was--ah--an idea that got put in my head. In part of my head at least. Seemed like a dangerous play at the time, it was kind of a tense moment, but the idea of it was alright.
That is to say--er--hm.
The--uh--baseball metaphors aren't really my forte, so I might be using them wrong. It was about the disparity between how much pitching I get to do and how much catching I do not. I was thinkin it's really not all that different from my...well...usual...preference of ingress.
Goddamnit all. [Nick can't blush but his fans are kicked up and he ducks his head forward in defeat, pressing his forehead against Hancock's shin as he tries to recover some of his misplaced dignity. He sounds amused but helplessly defeated by what he's trying to express when he continues. Help him out here, love, he's floundering.]
Figured I could try out a way to--that is--uh--get fucked. Properly. Not just my face.
no subject
The sidelong glance at the Vaultie, still serenading a crowd of two, doesn't escape him. The last time Nick had welcomed this sort of thing had been when Kellogg busted out. That whole debacle could have soured just about anybody on the idea of a voyeur or a third in their experience, but it hadn't soured Nick. Now, after finding out the Vaultie and him had more in common than he thought, Nick was less concerned about his presence.
He doesn't even glance back as his hands move to cradle Hancock's leg. His good one goes to the strap but, as before, Nick takes his sweet time undoing it. The whole time, his love-struck gaze is stuck on Hancock. (It's not that he doesn't have bedroom eyes, it's that his bedroom eyes also happen to be goo-goo eyes generally.)]
Fine by me.
[Nick doesn't object in the slightest. He enjoys towering over his tiny fiancee, but he also enjoyed being towered over by Id. That answer comes fast--the answer to his earlier question however, that one kicks Nick into full tilt embarassment. It's one thing to proclaim his love, to serenade him, to even get physical with a witness, but he still stumbles over the propriety of any given subject. He doesn't have a barometer for this one so he errs on the side of silting and cautious.]
It was--ah--an idea that got put in my head. In part of my head at least. Seemed like a dangerous play at the time, it was kind of a tense moment, but the idea of it was alright.
That is to say--er--hm.
The--uh--baseball metaphors aren't really my forte, so I might be using them wrong. It was about the disparity between how much pitching I get to do and how much catching I do not. I was thinkin it's really not all that different from my...well...usual...preference of ingress.
Goddamnit all. [Nick can't blush but his fans are kicked up and he ducks his head forward in defeat, pressing his forehead against Hancock's shin as he tries to recover some of his misplaced dignity. He sounds amused but helplessly defeated by what he's trying to express when he continues. Help him out here, love, he's floundering.]
Figured I could try out a way to--that is--uh--get fucked. Properly. Not just my face.