Work Text:
He’s fucked.
Figuratively, not literally. Unfortunately.
That’s part of the problem, if he could call it that. And he probably shouldn’t - because it’s not her fault. Just his.
It was a rookie move, falling for his traveling companion. Should have kept it just professional - strictly business. No ‘get to know you’s, no inside jokes.
But he had never been the professional type. Not his style.
And somewhere along the way - between getting the shit kicked out of them, the close calls, the long miles of barren road - something had started to grow. Curling around his ribs and filling his guts up like ripe tarberries.
Letting it grow and flourish.
Unable to shake it.
It hadn’t been long before he had known something was up.
That it was something besides that urge to get away from it all, to wander, that kept him sticking with her.
That along the way, the idea of this stranger having his back became comforting. That he knew he had hers - even if he half-thinks she have a death wish, with the way she rushs into things half-cocked.
He can’t understand, but he tries. The bits he’s gleaned from late nights - passing the bottle of whisky back and forth even though it makes her grimace. The pieces of her past that have slowly been revealed, forming a half-completed picture.
It’s enough to make his blood boil, that scorching feeling of vengeance curling in his chest, eating up his insides. It’s been a long time since he felt that way - making him think back to the night where he had stained his hands with all that red.
He’d do it again, for her.
It’s that realization made him think that just maybe - he cares.
And not just in a friendly kind of way.
He thinks it began in the middle of a firefight.
Bullet whizzing past their heads. A nest of raiders flowing out from a jutting wreck of scaffolding they had missed.
Several downed already, lost among the ruins. A souped-up pistol in her hand, as the other shielded shrapnel from a hand-made grenade.
Missing the two that snuck up, flanking them.
He had taken one down. A nasty shot to the gut, the Raider gurlging as his legs gave out. Her shot going wide - he can still remember the look on her face as she reached for the gun on her back.
The other Raider taking the moment to bowl him over, a padded shoulder to the chest. Knocking them both against a piece of metal fencing that creaked under their weight - his shotgun clattering to the pavement.
An arm pressed against his throat, choking him - as the other fumbled for a knife. Ironic, he thought, that he’d be gutted, after all he’s done.
But she had swooped down. Fingers twisted around the barrel and forestock of her rifle. Bringing it down on the raiders head like it was a louisville slugger, snarling like she herself had gone feral.
Her hand, warm in his as she hauled him up, the other splaying across his chest. Face streaked with grease and splattered with blood but in that moment, she was the prettiest thing he had ever seen.
“Thanks, sunshine.” He had murmured.
Her smile had been small, as she pressed the gun back into his hand, “Can’t have you getting stabbed. I’d miss that mouth of yours.”
Such a small thing - her own joke. The way he filled the space with chatter on the road. But he’d been smitten.
He had been good looking, before. He wasn’t half-bad now. Charisma could get you a long way, and his silver tongue hadn’t rotted like the rest of him.
Charming words - flirty and sometimes filthy - slid easily from him in the heat of battle, the wind-down after. When he was feeling good about things, the words coming without thought.
Choking on them, when she turned to give him a look - embarrassed, sometimes. So goddamn cute and flustered, it made him want to do it more.
Other times - a look, that was soft and lingering.
“Yeah?”
Almost a challenge in the way she said it.
He could never follow it up.
Follow through.
Because back home, it wasn’t an issue. A rejection meant nothing other than a soft blow to his ego. Brushed off with a hit of a favorite indulgence, finding company in another.
But here - it had a weight. It could ruin something he truly has enjoyed. Throwing in with her had been one of the best decisions he had made. He couldn’t fuck that up. Not this time.
So he swallowed his words - before she was racing off, and he was following at her heels. Off to trouble that could be their last, and here he was - that clever tongue tied in a knot.
That’s when he knew that he had it bad.
Bad enough that out of the two of them, he had been the one peering up at the sky overhead. Where the muted hazy grey was rolling into a sickly green, rain starting to drop down. A rumble of thunder.
The first to suggest stopping at the next place they could, as the spaces between the raindrops started to dwindle.
“We can make it.” She had shrugged, as his jog slowed to a walk.
Catching her arm at the elbow, gesturing with the muzzle of his shotgun to the side.
“Not if you don’t want to end up like me, sister.”
Ignoring - but not missing - the chastising look she shot him. His head tilting towards the roof that looms just over the ridge.
An old diner - rusting chrome and shattered windows, but it would do. Well past soaked by the time they scrambled over the hill and down. Grateful to find that it was abandoned.
Picked over, for sure - but as long as there was a roof over their heads, he hadn’t cared. Combing through junk was her thing, anyways. He was just the pack mule.
Now - he’s multi-tasking. Trying not to think about what he’s thinking about.
About her changing in the room behind him. Peeling the patchwork raider gear off her curves. All that soft, smooth skin underneath.
Distracting himself by eyeing the radroach that is skittering across the pavement outside the front door - just out of range of his shotgun.
Because of course, out of everything in the wasteland, that was the thing she was scared of. Not super mutants, not even the pack of mirelucks that had them cornered, just the week before.
A goddamn bug.
He laughs, a soft hushed thing. Catching himself with a grimace.
Because, like he said.
He’s fucked.
The rain that patters overhead would be calming - if it had been 200 years ago, and not dripping with radiation.
She shivers, draping the tattered pants and worn shirt over the back of two rotting, wooden chairs - a makeshift drying rack. Missing that insulated warmth of her Vault Suit, trading it back at Sanctuary for worn clothes - old and salvaged Raider gear.
It had become hard to blend in, in all that blue.
It had made sense at the time, but in the dark and chilly backroom, she finds herself regretting it. Thinking that next time - she’ll pack it with her.
Trying to find the dampest parts of the packed gear to lay out, next. Lining up the bedroll next to the glow of the lantern.
Don’t need any more must or mold than there already was.
Pawing through her bag afterwards, coming up with something to pass for dinner. A can of cram, their only good fork wedged between two knuckles. A sweet roll split in two - the sticky crumbs clinging to her fingers as she nudged the door open.
Feeling vulnerable in the faded undergarments she wore underneath. Dreading facing him, not because of what he’ll say - that part, she is actually curious to hear.
She’d given up on the idea of modesty long ago. Traveling on the road and through the dirt and blood and grime will do that.
It was almost freeing.
No. It’s because - it makes her hope. Makes her think that dressing down might actually get him to notice her, in a way that’s more than the surface-level, flirty conversation she’s seen him have with dozens of people.
In the old world, maybe she’d wear a dress for him. Something red and cut low in the front - bare arms and legs.
Now, it’s faded cotton and vulnerability.
A “I can trust you like this” and a “Maybe if you like it, it will make me brave enough to ask.”
Rejection dressed like this would sting, surely. Even if it’s her fault, for having a crush on someone who doesn’t see her that way.
Her eyes linger on his back, where he stands watch. Where he hadn’t heard her open the door just yet, drifting to the other side of the counter to watch the rumbling, green storm roll in.
The tin clatters on the counter, drawing his attention. A flicker of lightning illuminating his profile as he turns, eyes widening.
Hancock’s eyes drop automatically. Quickly and then a slow drag - it’s like watching him after she’s taken a hit of Psycho.
Dark and glittering under her own careful watch, before they’re snapping back up, and he’s blinking.
Pulling himself back.
“Is that dinner?” He asks, clearing his throat when the words come out rough and low.
Her face falls, just for an instant. A small smile replacing it, as she scoops up the tin of cram before tossing it his way. He catches it neatly - popping the lid open, plucking the fork from her fingers.
She should have known better.
Hancock was just a flirt, never taking her bait. It was a good thing, she thought. Honorable, despite the grey that’s soaked into both of their moral codes.
He digs the fork in, breaking off a piece of the preserved meat. Handing the first bite to her, unable to help another quick look as he lowers himself to one of the stools that curves around the diner countertop.
Not that he hasn’t seen her before. Never quite this bare - but close enough, from the quick times they’ve had to change clothes.
It didn’t mean anything.
“So uh, what’s with the getup?” Hancock can’t resist asking, his tone deceptively light, “Or should I say, lack thereof?
“Clothes are soaked,” She snorts around the mouthful, trying to sound disinterested, “Besides, you’re always telling me it’s not good to let the rads soak in.”
He’s curious now, catching that slight edge. Not usually so defensive - that expression she makes when she’s flustered. It makes him want to nudge at it, poke at that little crack.
“Hey, you don’t hear me complain’, sister.” Hancock grins, taking the fork back, “That’s a real good look for you.”
Always a joke.
Her eyes roll as she sits down on the stool to his left, her knee knocking against his. The halves of sweet roll balanced on the curling, discarded tin, for after.
They share the makeshift dinner. Passing the fork back and forth, trying not to think about how easy it feels to be like this.
Companionable silence, beneath the rumbling, dark green sky. Tucked away and sheltered from the storm.
She stares out across the wasteland, lost in thought. Moving on to other things, already planning for the morning. If there’s any stops they need to make on the way back to Sanctuary.
While his eyes wander - a sideways glance that drifts down her form greedily, only to shift away when her own lift.
A breeze cuts through the building where windows once lived, making her shiver. Arms moving from the countertop to wrap around a bare middle, curling in on herself.
“You cold, sunshine?” He asks with concern, bringing her back.
She hadn’t noticed, but now she does. The chill starting to sink in, now that she’s not moving, not covered in the layers and padded armor.
Goosebumps raise on her skin. Arms crossing tighter across her chest, as her lips part to answer.
But Hancock is already shrugging off his maroon frock, swiveling in his seat to swing it around her shoulders.
She rarely seen him without it. Fuck, he even sleeps in the damn thing - a prized possession, if he ever had one.
“Thanks.” The word is layered with sincerity, as she pulls it close around her, the high collar brushing her cheek.
Warmer already. The inside is soft against her skin, the fabric worn and stained and smelling like him.
Silence lingers for a moment, as they stare at the darkening sky. The heavy blanket of rain that still patters on the rooftop, a slow drip down to the tile floor on the other side of the room.
"Hope this lets up by morning," She says as she leans, warmer now - elbows pressing into the stained laminate counter.
Eyes out of focus, thoughts already running off without her. "Stop by Sanctuary, pick up some things for Tenpines. Haven't been there in a bit, been wondering how they've been holding up."
He mirrors her - feeling bare without his coat. A heavy lean on his left elbow, the swivel of the chair bumping his knee against hers, "’m sure they're fine. Gotta be better off than they were before."
A smirk crosses his features, a glance from the corner of his eye, "'Sides, not every day you get saved by the fearless leader of the Minutemen. That oughta keep 'em going for a while."
There's a groan as she slumps, the heels of her hands pressing into her eyes. Garvey's enthusiasm and her recent promotion to General a source of embarrassment, even if she bore the weight of it well.
"Yes, the fearless leader," She mocks, her head turning his way. Pushing herself up, her arms spreading wide, "If only they could see me now."
And they might not be able to, but he can.
Not just the soft expanse of her skin, peeking out from beneath his coat. The hollow of her throat, the curve of her breast and the strain of her tits against worn fabric that will be forever seared into his mind.
Not only just that, though. That something that he can see inside her - that was there when he had decided to leave Goodneighbor. That lingers with him, tethering them together as he follows at her side. And yes, he does stretch the truth - who doesn’t? He wouldn’t make half as many deals, otherwise.
But he’s isn’t, now.
She is unaware of the thoughts that tumble through his mind, quick as old snapshots. A curling amber film strip, tucked into a canister.
Instead, there’s a roll of her eyes as her comment of "really, only you could pull this coat off" lands on ears that had been muted, in the way his mind drifts. How the low pooling of warmth in his belly turns sharp and cramps, at the thought of Preston Garvey spending time in such company. Like this - without him.
"I wouldn’t say that." He hears himself saying. Voice a little lower, raspier, than usual.
Maybe it's bravery. Maybe it's him finally seeing her intent - maybe it's the moment where he's realizing that after tonight, she's no longer just his again.
His eyes drag over her again, slower this time. And he lets her catch them.
"From here, things are looking pretty good."
She stills, eyes rounding. A swivel of her chair until knee-to-knee becomes thigh-to-thigh- something akin to hope slipping into her tone.
“Yeah?”
He reaches - fingers tracing the collar of his coat, thumb rubbing against the hollow of her throat.
“I’d say so.” Hancock tells her, “Look like a goddamn dream, if I’m being honest.”
She’s tired of waiting. She’s done enough of it. Eyes on his as her chin tilts up, just hovering.
He’s tired, too.
With a lean, he takes the offering. Ruined lips press against soft ones. Ones that part for him, a soft sound at the greedy dart and swipe of his tongue, until she’s meeting him.
She’s sweet - he can taste the sugar on her tongue, melding with the taste of her. Fingers press against his chest, where his heart hammers. Sliding over lithe shoulders until they’re wrapping around, pulling him closer.
He’s stronger than he looks. The seat squeaks when he leans, his palms tracing her waist, her hips. Tucking beneath her thighs - right against the curve of her ass as Hancock lifts his hips, taking her with him.
She moves, his name a soft sound in her throat. Letting him lead, letting him ease her onto the edge of the counter. A sense of relief and hope floods through her, dripping down to settle warm and wanting between the thighs that spread open so he can step between them.
His cock swells, where it’s trapped inside his pants. Easing the ache with a roll of his hips, pressing himself against the thin fabric covering her core. The breath she inhales in response is shaky. Another soft sound, so different than the assured tone he’s used to.
He wants to hear it again.
It’s easy to set the pace - the pointed press of his hips. Her hand finding his, drawing it up to her breast. Letting him cup her, the soft weight. Letting him press his thumb against that tight peak, catch it between his fingers until she’s gasping against his grinning mouth.
Her mouth drops, catching his chin. The tip of a tongue between parted lips press against his cheek, warmth breath against his jaw making him growl.
“Please-” She’s murmuring, against his skin. Against muscle and sinew, as his own lips follow.
Fingers biting into his skin, as his teeth graze her jaw. Her head tilting back, baring her throat to him, as her hips rock to meet his. Eyes fluttering shut as her chest heaves, as his other hand curls against the curve of her hip, keeping her close.
His tongue peeks out, dragging against sweat and rain-dewed skin. A groan rattles in his throat, his own voice distant and rasping.
“Fuck, I need to taste you.” He can feel her moan, against his lips at his words, “Lean back for me, doll.”
She’s soft, pliable. Unwinding herself from him as she obeys, only for those hazy eyes to open - meeting his beetle-black ones.
“Wait,” She’s protesting, hands slipping to press flat against on his chest. A sudden realization - shoulder curling back so his coat slides off it, “Let me take this off.”
“Leave it.” Hancock’s head lifts to kiss her again, his hand curling around the back of her neck.
She huffs against his mouth, before it turns into a sigh. His tongue brushing against her lower lip, before she pulls back again.
Not wanting to forget her train of thought.
“What if I make a mess on your coat?”
He groans at that, the hand on her hip drifting lower. Cupping her over the thin piece of fabric, fingers pressing down.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” He husks, “I’d fuckin’ love that. Never gonna take it off.”
It makes her scoff, cheeks burning, “You never do, anyways. You-”
He shuts her up with his fingers - tugging at the elastic waistband, pulling them down until she’s bare. Letting her kick them off, before he’s pushing her back against the counter.
Arching over her soft form as his mouth wanders, his hips grinding against hers. Teeth nipping at her throat, lips brushing where her heartbeat flutters. Clever fingers tracing the seam of her sex, brushing over soft lips - teasing.
She’s so fucking wet, he can feel how his fingers glide over her skin. How it smears on her thighs, as they spread wider for him.
“What do you want?”
It makes her sigh - that voice, so low and rasping - and she’s clenching around nothing already.
“You,” She’s unable to help but whine, “Please, you-”
His laugh is rough, a rattling chuckle in his throat, “You have me, sunshine.”
Middle finger parting her, teasing at her entrance, the calloused pad of his thumb circling around the bud of her clit. Sinking into the wet heat as she groans, starting a slow pump of his textured finger.
Pressing deep with a slow thrust. Another, and then another, until she’s taking a second. Stretching her wide, as her fingers twist in his stained shirt. Grasping for his shoulders as her hips buck into his touch.
“Should say how do you want it?” The kiss he presses against her throat is almost reverent, “Because I don’t think I have it in me to go slow right now.”
“Slow, later.,” She moans, as his fingers press deep, “Need you.”
He grins, “Love how you think, sweetheart.”
Hancock’s head ducks, moving down to her collarbone, then lower. She’s already reaching to tug the cups of her bra down, baring the curves of her breasts to him.
“Fuckin’ beautiful.” He hums, fingers brushing over the soft weight again, cupping one in his hand. Still fucking her open with the other, curling and stroking until she’s panting.
Tongue peeking out to flatten, and then drag across the tight peak of her nipple. Her hands grasping for him again, as there’s the briefest pinch of teeth.
“Hancock.” She grits out, a swivel of her hips against his, grinding into his fingers.
His own rocking against the back of his hand, where he’s hard and aching. Never thinking he’d know what it’s like to have his partner begging like this.
He wants to hear more. Every little sound she makes, as his mouth moves lower. Licking wet stripes against her stomach and abdomen.
Until he’s plunking down on the padded chrome stool he’s been straddling. Gazing at where she’s wrapped around his glossy fingers.
Watching how she twitches and bucks and gasps when his thumb swipes across her clit, his name on parted lips again.
“Love hearin’ you say my name like that.” He purrs, “Can’t wait to hear how it sounds when you come.”
Leaning forward, inhaling her scent before his tongue swipes above his fingers. Her hips leave the countertop, the moan loud as he laughs - his other hand pressing flat against her stomach.
Holding her down, as he teases her again. Short, pointed licks against her throbbing clit. Her cunt is as sweet as her mouth, his own groan caught in his throat as his tongue dips inside her.
Mourning all the nights he could have spent like this. Spending the time as evening turns to night, then again as night turns to dawn. Drowning in the taste of her instead of clenching his teeth until his jaw aches, as he tries to keep quiet. Dreaming of this.
He leans back, just enough to press a wet kiss against her clit. The soft suck a sharp contrast with the texture of his rough fingers as he fucks her open.
She was right - it’s messy. Dripping down the curve of her thighs, the damp stain mixing with others on his weathered coat.
Everything is so dry, in the wasteland. Dirt roads and dead trees. He relishes in the wet suck of her cunt, how it’s this way right now because of him.
His cheeks hollow, a swirl of his tongue before he’s adding to it. Leaning back to let his spit drip down, his thumb dragging it across the tight bud.
She’s whimpering. It’s been ages since she’s had anyone - the low throb in her belly swiftly building.
In the before - she thinks she’d be embarrassed to be splayed out like this. Stripped near-bare on the counter of a diner, thighs spread wide as his fingers pump into her aching cunt.
But he eats her like a meal, left hand moving from her belly. Wrapping around a thigh to tug her closer, hiking it over a shoulder.
Groaning into her pussy as his tongue flicks against her clit, smearing slick across his chin. Pressing closer, unhindered by the usual curve of cartridge and flesh as he molds himself against her.
“Hancock.” His name is a sharp gasp, as she clenches around him. Breath held in her throat as she watched with half-lidded eyes.
Focused on the tight string that winds with each careful curl of his fingers. He slips in a third and she all but sobs, chasing her pleasure with a needy rock of her hips.
Chanting him name as it curls low in her belly.
“Hancock. Hancock-”
And then, the prettiest of all.
“John. Fuck, John, I’m going to come-”
It’s goddamn music to his metaphorical ears. Better than that - better than the sing of gunfire in his favor, of the sweet rush and hum of that first hit of Jet.
He watches through those dark eyes as she falls apart. Her cry loud in the empty diner, as she’s struck - the livewire crackle of her orgasm ripping through her.
Better than she can ever remember. Thighs squeeze around his neck but it only makes him moan - breath hot against her cunt as his fingers continue to pump. And his tongue dips to taste her, slipping between knuckles.
The pleasure throbs - the stained ceiling spinning, looking like the clouded stars high above them to her hazy mind.
A disbelieving and dazed laugh caught in her throat as his mouth moves. Pressing against her mound, the sensitive curve where thigh meets hip.
It’s only then that she’s unhooking her thighs - a heat blazing in her cheeks at the brazenness. Too caught up in the moment to see herself - splayed out across the countertop, heels digging into his spine.
But she does see him - the need etched across his face under the tip of his hat, the wet shine against his lips and chin. Deadly in a new kind of way, mixing with the prowess he shows on the battlefield.
There’s another low throb, deep inside her. The lithe way he moves, rising - a hand planting next to her hip, the other working the heavy buckle open.
She meets him - pushing herself up. A hand coming to cup him, feeling the hard length that strains against his trousers. Tasting herself on his tongue when her head ducks to kiss him, swallowing his groan as her fingers palm and squeeze.
“Drivin’ me crazy, sunshine.” His voice is like gravel, as he works at the zipper - her fingers slipping past to wrap around hot skin, “Enough to make a ghoul go feral, you know that?”
Her smile is pretty - pleasure-drunk, and he hasn’t even fucked her yet. Her hand soft and warm where she eases him out, the brush of her thumb over the head making his cock throb.
“Me too. I need you.” She begs, and he knows it’s more than that just that.
That it’s not just fucking, right now. That a line has been crossed, that they’ll never be able to not want this again. More than ready to tumble over into the unknown, together.
“My mouth wasn’t enough?” Hancock grins. Fully intending to have her every way she’ll let him. Unable to resist making her squirm.
The look she gives him makes him chuckle - the gentle pull of her fist, the little frown. The way her thighs spread again, aiming the flushed tip of his cock over slick skin. Against the tight nub of her clit as she shivers, lips parting with a gasp.
“Hancock, don’t tease-” Some of that bite is back, desperate. Not begging but it’s close, as her hips lift against him again.
“I’ll give you anything you want.” He promises, “Just like hearing you say it. Come on, sweetheart.”
It’s hard to hold himself back, when she’s notching him against her opening. His hands sliding to her hips, liking the way his fingers sink into her skin.
How it dents around his calloused ones, soft as the rest of her.
“Fuck me.” Her eyes are on his, watching where they drag from his fingers to her pussy. Watching how his chest heaves beneath his vest, where his chest peeks from loosened buttons.
“I need you in me. I need you to fuck me, I want to come on your cock-”
“Fuck.” He groans, and then his hips are snapping forward. Feeling the tight, warm squeeze as he buries himself in her, as she cries out at the intrusion.
“Goddamn, sunshine.” He has to hold himself there for a moment, hilted inside her. Feeling the way she clenches down around him, fingers mirroring it where they wrap in his shirt.
Almost sharing a breath as he inches out, only to press deep again. Again, and then again - until there’s the slick slap, the creak of the floorboards beneath his heavy boots as his feet spread wider.
It’s better than his fingers. He’s deeper, filling her completely, stealing her breath. Those hands tugging at her hips, urging her to meet each thrust, as he picks up speed.
Hearing the changes in her pretty sounds - the gasps and the scrape of fingernails against his skin. Spearing her on his cock, where she can feel the worn and rough ridges gliding against a spot that has been sighing.
But, he wants more. Wants her like before - splayed out. At his mercy, in a way that he knows she’d only do for him. Knowing that she trusts him - wondering if he would be worried that the thought makes his cock jerk inside her.
“Give me your hands.” He rasps - and slowly, her finger uncurl from the edge of the counter, the vice-like grip on his shirt.
Hancock grasps at her wrists, joining them together with one of his own. Pushing her back, dragging them above her head and pressing them down hard against the countertop.
Arching over her as his eyes sweep over soft curves and bare skin. His coat spread out beneath her, the worn red so pretty next to her skin. Better than his best fantasy, and he’s already thinking about a next time.
The choked out “oh!” she makes with the next rock of his hips shoots straight to his cock - knowing full-well she could break free if she wanted.
Instead, she lets him take.
Giving up the control as he ruts into her, spearing his cock deep again and again. Trying to meet the messy swipe of his fingertips that drifted down to press against the bundle of nerves - her pleasure in his hands.
“Look good like this, sunshine.” His eyes drag over her breasts, still shining from his tongue.
“Real fuckin’ good.”
Down to where her thighs tighten around his hips, arching into him, “Should keep you like this all the time. Just in my coat. Wear it better than I do.”
A sharp edge to his voice, one that fuels the aching pressure that builds and builds. Her head thunks back against the laminate counter, eyes falling shut.
The words starting slow, growing louder, then running together.
“Feels so good-”
“Hancock don’t stop. Oh my god-”
There’s an electricity in the air that has nothing to do with the storm. His hand biting into her wrists so hard that it hurts, but the pain only loops into her mounting pleasure.
It’s different than his dalliances before.
Before, it had filled his time. Finding someone to spend the night with a couple times a week, enjoying the shared company with another.
That frequency dwindling after they joined up, though he hadn’t been the type to stop. He just no longer had the time, that same desire.
Finding that he no longer focused on chasing his own pleasure. His interest shifting - until there was only one face that drifts through his mind, in the stolen moments at night when his hand slipped beneath his trousers.
Embracing the crave of a new kind of addiction, the urge hooking its claws into his brain.
“Say my name again.” He tells her, feeling his own release winding and tightening. Trying to stave it off, as he tries to think about anything else, “Fuckin’ scream it for me.”
Her eyes are on his when she says it.
“John.”
First soft, and then pitching up - louder.
And in the moment, he’s just John. The John before and the John now, man and ghoul and so focused on the circle of his fingers, on her cries.
It’s too much - all she can do is lean into it. Never realizing how much she’d like letting go for him, knowing that just like in the Wasteland, he had her.
Always liking his quips and rasping tone but never experiencing it like this - honey-sweet and hungry.
Learning so quickly what she likes - how quick he was to adjust the angle, the slick swirl of his fingers.
His name is on her lips again as he brings her over the brink. More like a prayer this time, her body stringing taut beneath him, eyes wide. Mouth rounding on a high gasp as the pleasure shudders through her, radiating up her spine and down her limbs.
Seeming to reach across from where they’re joined, that steady rhythm stuttering as she flutters tight and warm around him.
“Fuck. Fuck, sunshine. You feel so fucking good, gonna make me come-” His teeth grit, a silent question.
Her answer coming in the way her thighs tighten around him. Keeping him pressed deep inside her, until his thrusts turn short and sloppy.
“Oh, fuck yes.” His grin is closer to a snarl, “Thank you-”
His fingers bite into her hip. Her name hissed through clenched teeth as the pressure builds, before spilling over.
As his hips rut until he’s pressed as deep as he can, a choked groan as he comes. His cock twitching with each throb of his orgasm, as he fills her. Emptying himself into her heat - until she’s milked him dry. Until he slows, leaving himself buried, deep and warm.
His eyes drop, as he comes back down. Where she’s watching, just as hungry as he was.
Leaving them staring at each other. His back arched over where his hand has slipped. Loosening on her wrist, until her fingers has twined with his.
There’s no going back.
His cock hangs heavy between his thighs. It’s night - dark now, but the flickering of lightning following the peals of thunder cast green shadows over her body. Eyes drifting up to where the rain patters on the metal roof.
A languid exhale, breathing out the smoke from the cigarette he fished out of the coat pocket. Dangling between two fingers, the cherry gleaming in the dim light.
Then back down, to where she still rests - beautifully drowsy and limp-limbed. Thighs still parted, where she gleams with him.
He’s certain he’ll be dripping into those clothes of hers for days.
It does something to him, an interested twitch from his cock. Stepping closer to fit himself back between those thighs, where they close to bracket his hips again.
“Didn’t you say somethin’ ‘bout slow, later?” Hancock asks, his hand petting down a hip, thumb brushing against her skin.
Stubbing the rest of his smoke out on the counter, letting it fall to the tile below.
Her smile is sweet as she pushes herself up. No use leaving while the storm raged on - and she’s pretty sure the bedroll was well on its way to dry by now.
Fingers catch on the collar of his ruffled shirt, starting to push it from his shoulders. His own hands tugging at her, until he pressed snug against her again.
“Mm. Is it later, now?” She asks - as more of him is a bared - her hands running across rough skin.
Hancock grins.
“I sure as hell hope so.”