(I believe in silly sex with Hancock)
"Next time," you murmured, out of breath with your head against his chest, "we're skippin' the circus act."
"Speak for yourself." Hancock shifted beneath your weight into a more comfortable position. "I thought it added character."
Like c'mon now. Shirt gets stuck over your head? Can't untie that stupid sash around his hips? Headbutting on accident? Kicking that fucker while trying to wiggle your pants off?
And don't even get me started on his laugh.
The man would be just as much amused as he was in love with this other side of you. Nobody was perfect—he sure as hell wasn’t—so why should the sex have to be?