[ Hancock finds himself quite enjoying the way Nick leans back under the press of that heel; it looks damn good. Photograph worthy, and the ghoul feels the itch to find that polaroid camera a little later to take a couple shots. His dagger-thin heel on Nick's chest, his throat, his cheek... leathered fingers spin that plastic tube around and around, venting the energy shock provided by his colorful imaginings.
It's as though Nick highjacks manual breathing control from his ghoulfriend by the motion of his drifting hand; Hancock breaths in for every ascended inch, holds when the hand stills, breaths out when it drifts away. God damn it. He finally stops spinning that tube and pops it open. Drugs now, thank you. He doesn't have his lighter, sans his Coat of Many Things, so he'll wait for Nick to finish talking before he asks for his matches.
But Nick is taking his time (adorably) fumbling his point, so Hancock leans in with the drunken-grace of a charmed snake and reaches into the breast pocket inside Nick's coat. He lingers in that increased proximity more than he needs to, letting his hand rest inside the synth's coat as Nick starts to talk about baseball metaphors. Hancock still gets to enjoy towering above Nick so long as he's perched on the table, which works wonderfully for him.
He resists the impulse to rib Nick in such a vulnerable moment, biting back the urge to wonder aloud how those Yankees might feel about Nick fumbling their metaphors. Instead he keeps busy completing the theft of those matches, sitting back, and popping whatever smokeable monstrosity the Vaultie considers a part favor out of its tube.
The struck match lights the moment Hancock catches the meaning behind all Nick's delightful subterfuge; the reflection of the flame is not the only light in his black mirror eyes. Well now. That is a thought, isn't it? Only through sheer practice can Hancock not drop his smoke (tastes like tabaco, cannabis with a touch of bubble hash) when the wild grin splits his mouth. He looks utterly at home dressed in coils of smoke, a blighted dragon so very pleased by this clumsy offering.
He really was just about to jump in with a life line, but wouldn't ya know it, Nick finally manages to spit out his bottom-line. ...Heh. ]
Well now, that sounds like a hell of'a way to pass a weekend. Guess I can see the hesitance with so many... colorful options on the table.
But I gotta tell ya up front. Ya never, ever leave me wanting. You wanna try a new dance I'm here for it, but I ain't exactly board'a what we got goin' already.
[ Comfortable habit leads him to take a punishing inhale. His words ride on steeds of smoke as he continues ] Thought'a your mouth? Gets my blood so hot already... on the other hand, love to hear all the sounds you'd make stuffed full'a me without anythin' blockin that pretty sinin' voice'a yours
no subject
It's as though Nick highjacks manual breathing control from his ghoulfriend by the motion of his drifting hand; Hancock breaths in for every ascended inch, holds when the hand stills, breaths out when it drifts away. God damn it. He finally stops spinning that tube and pops it open. Drugs now, thank you. He doesn't have his lighter, sans his Coat of Many Things, so he'll wait for Nick to finish talking before he asks for his matches.
But Nick is taking his time (adorably) fumbling his point, so Hancock leans in with the drunken-grace of a charmed snake and reaches into the breast pocket inside Nick's coat. He lingers in that increased proximity more than he needs to, letting his hand rest inside the synth's coat as Nick starts to talk about baseball metaphors. Hancock still gets to enjoy towering above Nick so long as he's perched on the table, which works wonderfully for him.
He resists the impulse to rib Nick in such a vulnerable moment, biting back the urge to wonder aloud how those Yankees might feel about Nick fumbling their metaphors. Instead he keeps busy completing the theft of those matches, sitting back, and popping whatever smokeable monstrosity the Vaultie considers a part favor out of its tube.
The struck match lights the moment Hancock catches the meaning behind all Nick's delightful subterfuge; the reflection of the flame is not the only light in his black mirror eyes. Well now. That is a thought, isn't it? Only through sheer practice can Hancock not drop his smoke (tastes like tabaco, cannabis with a touch of bubble hash) when the wild grin splits his mouth. He looks utterly at home dressed in coils of smoke, a blighted dragon so very pleased by this clumsy offering.
He really was just about to jump in with a life line, but wouldn't ya know it, Nick finally manages to spit out his bottom-line. ...Heh. ]
Well now, that sounds like a hell of'a way to pass a weekend. Guess I can see the hesitance with so many... colorful options on the table.
But I gotta tell ya up front. Ya never, ever leave me wanting. You wanna try a new dance I'm here for it, but I ain't exactly board'a what we got goin' already.
[ Comfortable habit leads him to take a punishing inhale. His words ride on steeds of smoke as he continues ] Thought'a your mouth? Gets my blood so hot already... on the other hand, love to hear all the sounds you'd make stuffed full'a me without anythin' blockin that pretty sinin' voice'a yours