I actually did shoot Hancock in his ass in the middle of a fight so hard that he dropped down because he lost all his health. I did give him an energy shot because I felt so bad for him lol.
I also did actually lose his main canon outfit so he's now forced to travel around in that Mad Max Tom of Finland leather outfit while wearing a tricorn lol.
Notes: We're ending the month on some really strong candidates, folks, and John's always such a thrill to write for. He's the open-minded sort of freaky, but he's also really sweet and supportive, so I think he'd be a really great partner to explore kink play with. Also, Fallout 4 gave me a knife "thing", so this has been a long time coming. Hope you like it.
Knives had never been a particular interest of yours. Though they came with the same amount of intrigue that was attached to all things that could potentially kill someone, you'd always been more partial to weapons that kept you more than an arm's length away from whatever you were fighting. You'd never particularly understood defaulting to such an intimate style of fighting...until you met John.
The artful way that he handled and fought with his favorite knife burrowed into your brain like an insidious parasite, haunting you in your dreams and leaving you with a hot ache in your chest when you awoke. Any time he fiddled with it, which was often, you caught yourself staring. Eventually, he started catching you staring, too. He was quick to start teasing you about it, but something about the way you reacted seemed to tip him off that your admiration may have had less-than-innocent motivations.
That was when the real teasing started.
After a long night of socializing and partying at the Third Rail, the two of you had wandered back to the room you shared at the State House, hand in hand, and had collapsed onto the couch in front of the fire. You'd kicked your boots and shoes off, feet thrown up into his lap as he fiddled with his knife, his whole body cast in the orange glow from the flames. Watching him flip the blade back and forth, the meticulously sharpened glinting as it caught the sunlight, made you tighten your thighs.
The thin ghoul caught your eye for a moment and grinned wickedly.
"What're you doing there?" you asked, trying to cover your tracks and squirming as you failed.
"Mm. I think you know what I'm doing." he said, giving the thing another flip and watching as your eyes followed. His own had that gloss they took on after he'd had a few drinks.
Blushing hotly, you pulled yourself up into a cross-legged position and leaned against his side.
"Don't be mean." you said, looking near, but not at, his smirking face.
He held the blade up closer to your face, analyzing the deep, steadying breath you took as you stared at the thing. Your hand began to sneak up his thigh, hesitantly dancing its way up towards his crotch.
You weren’t fully confident in initiating this kind of contact quite yet, much to your chagrin. When John touched you with intention, there was no mistaking what he was looking for—confident strokes along your thighs, your sides, along your chest. Passionate but firm kisses, the way his hands would gently guide yours to where he wanted them when you were uncertain. You knew he worried about frightening you, or stirring up bad memories, or physically hurting you. Often, you could feel him holding back.
His confidence and experience intimidated you somewhat, only contributing to the problem. The small handful of times you had attempted to move things along yourself, you'd slid up alongside him or clattered into his lap, lacking the finesse you had in most other things you did. Your hands shook, and you found it agonizing to make eye contact with him for more than a fleeting moment as you tried to stroke his chest or his arms in the same bold, confident way he would stroke yours. Though your strokes always came across as more of a series of gentle pets given by trembling hands, John was very good at picking up on what you were trying to do, kissing you gently and encouraging you to lean into him further.
Your breaths mingled together in the dim light of the fire for a quiet moment before his lips set to pressing a beeline along your neck, down your shoulder, fingers coming to grab at your waist, tugging you up onto your feet and spinning you to face the bed. A shiver ran down your spine as you arched your back against him, goosebumps breaking out along your neck and arms when the curve of your ass brushed his length, earning a hiss from him. The sounds he made as he explored you with his lips were electric to your ears, zapping your spine and making you squirm against him, brushing him more.
As his lips found your thrumming pulse point and latched on, his hands fanned across your rib cage, splaying across the expanse of your soft skin as they smoothed down your sides, caressing you as they came to rest on your hips. They slid forward slowly, toying at your groin and groping at your thighs as he ground himself against your ass.
Distracted by the feeling of his mouth’s bruising attentions, you didn’t notice him slowly working his hand down your torso and into your pants. You let out a sharp gasp once more when the rough pads of his fingers brushed the rather prominent damp spot he found, making you blush and wriggle against him.
"Geez, what a freak." he teased, nibbling at your earlobe as his hips bucked.
You made to playfully pull away, tittering in embarrassment, but he didn't take kindly to it. The hand that remained on your hip gripped you rather harshly, pulling your ass flush with his body once more and sending your heart racing as you felt a quiet growl rip from his chest, rumbling against your back. Your head spun as his hand quickly and roughly made its way back into your pants, fingers immediately brushing your most sensitive spot, causing you to mewl in response.
You were slightly taken aback at his behavior; he didn't typically allow himself to be this rough with you when he'd been partying, afraid that he'd lose control over himself. Head swimming with how much you liked his strong grip, his insistent pulling, you leaned further into him as his tense body radiated predatory energy. There was a throbbing between your legs as his fingers just barely brushed over you once more.
You jumped a little when you felt John’s teeth graze the crest of your shoulder, recalling the possessive, painful way he’d sunk his teeth into the flesh near there the last time he'd gotten this aggressive with you in bed.
Your body clenched around nothing at the memory.
You let out a whimper when he did it again, this time matching the brushing of his teeth over you neck with the brushing of his fingers over your now achingly swollen flesh. You wavered, righting yourself on your feet after a moment, his hands never pausing. Again and again, his digits slicked across you, just barely making contact, enough to give you a slight taste of what he could do.
His fingers against you were just barely moving, but they were more than accomplishing what he was setting out to do, leaving you leaning more and more of your weight against him as your legs became weaker and shakier and your back arched, pushing your hips closer to his hand. But you wouldn’t be able to stay that way for long, as your legs increasingly threatened to give out on you with each twitch and half-stroke of his sinewy hand against you.
That threat jumped much closer when he gave you a sudden but firm pinch, stroking his fingers much more firmly with a quiet grunt. The grip of his other hand on you tightened noticeably, the fabric of your salvaged shirt bunching under his palm.
“John.” you whimpered in response, leaning fully against him for support as your greedy hips ground down on his hand. His cock pulsed against you, and he squeezed you against him even tighter, crushing some of the breath out of your lungs as a deep, low growl vibrated from his chest.
“Say it again.” he hummed against your throat, his fingers moving to pinch you once more.
“John!”
His name came even louder from your lips this time, sharper and higher as you stumbled back, your knees finally buckling. He caught you easily, steadying both of you before firmly guiding you forward, shepherding you across the rug to the nearby bed until your shins met the edge of the bed frame.
The sound of the knife from his hip ripping through the back of your shirt hissed through the air as John steadied the thin material in his hand, slicing through the whole thing in a single move and leaving you wrestling yourself out of your bottoms, leaving you standing naked before him. The fire snapped and hissed quietly in the background, buried beneath the duet of your harsh breaths mingling. Your nipples, already peaked from your rapidly growing arousal, hardened even further at the lick of the cool air.
A shudder ran up your spine as his hands made their way down your sides, squeezing the softness he found along the way, until they came to rest on your hips. He turned you to face him so quickly you were barely able to keep up, wobbling in his arms as a nervous, heady giggle bubbled forth from your lips. You cast your eyes up towards his face, drinking in the sinister set of his mouth that was rather unexpected. His eyes conveyed more than all of his face combined, however, and at that moment, they burned with a lust that made your stomach flip.
Quickly, John encouraged you down onto the bed, and you slid up towards the middle on your rear, the blanket bunching up behind you and falling to the floor. You smirked at him teasingly, flaunting your nudity as he stripped out of his own clothes, dropping them in a pile with what remained of your shirt. He crawled toward you with intent, lean and deadly. You weren't sure when the knife had turned back up in his hand, but suddenly it was there, glinting as it moved, quick and fluid.
There was a pop as he plunged the blade deep into the center of the old mattress, the fabric puckering around the puncture as it gave way.
"Aww." you pouted as you looked between him and the knife. "All done?"
"Not even close. Come here." he encouraged, moving up onto his knees. Carefully, you crawled to him, the knife handle at your hip as you stopped in front of him. He leaned down to kiss you again, hand disappearing between your thighs to touch you again, stroking and petting until you were a huffing, begging mess.
"Need you to fuck me." you muttered against his lips between caresses, and you could feel them twist into a grin in response.
"Oh, I'm gonna. This way." he said, tugging you a few more inches to the side until you were hovering over the worn grip of his knife.
For a brief flash, your eyes met his, undoubtedly conveying an unspoken question.
Is it safe?
John gave the thing a firm tug to demonstrate that it was securely lodged in place, even bobbing his weight as he gripped the handle, a sly grin on his face as he did. It made you giggle, and you felt the bit of anxiety that had pricked at you dissipate.
"Go on." he said, hands guiding you to the spot.
You wrapped your arms around his neck and carefully lowered yourself down, your face tucked under his chin. The handle of the knife didn't fill you as satisfyingly as his cock did, but feeling of the firm wood grip splitting you open made you moan nonetheless. He rumbled out a growl at the sight of you sinking down all the way onto it, a bend in his waist so you could keep your arms wrapped around him as you started to wriggle.
John was back to touching you again, finger pads dancing over your nipples and around your navel, the tickling sensation sending pinpricks across your skin. His free hand curled around the mass of your ass, encouraging you back up.
"C'mon." he said as you followed his guidance. "You said you wanted to be fucked."
You let out a whining huff in protest, but kept moving, bouncing yourself up and down on the handle the same way you'd move on top of him. He let out a low whistle at the sight, and you felt your face heat up, your eyes falling to the bed. His rough fingers moved under your chin to lift your face, giving you a reassuring little smile before kissing you again.
While you were distracted by his tongue wrestling with yours, he resumed stroking between your legs, making you buck towards him and cry out, pulling up so high that you slid free of the knife handle.
"Mm-mm." he chastised, strong arms guiding you right back down. "You're gonna cum while I fuck you or you're not gonna cum at all."
You could only grunt through the overstimulated tears that had sprung to your eyes, your heavy head lolling into the crook of his shoulder as all your energy was focused on keeping your hips moving, on keeping his fingers where you wanted them as you edged closer and closer to your orgasm. The hand that wasn't strumming at you threaded into your hair, holding you firmly against his chest. Your lover's lips and teeth were skimming at your ear, and his warm breath tickling across it was just enough sensation to send you clenching around the knife. You huffed and whined his name against his chest, slumping as you twitched with head-spinning pleasure as he continued to touch you.
Once you could no longer hold yourself up, you lifted yourself off of the handle and flopped back onto the bed, mindful of the knife's placement as you tossed yourself down. John crawled up after you, coming to rest at your hip. When you could finally open your eyes again, you watched him grip the thing firmly and wrest it from its place in the mattress, a fair amount of strength put into the gesture. It made your heart race.
Holding the knife carefully by the blade, he ran his tongue along the back of the handle, not breaking eye contact with you as he did. You giggled, scandalized, face hot.
"If you're gonna get yours, you should probably get up here." you said, a heavy yawn chasing the words. You were exhausted, and could feel the warm haze of sleep coming down on you.
The ghoul beside you twisted to place the knife aside before lying down beside you, nestling up beside you and throwing his arm across your sweaty body. You could feel his erection pressing into your hip.
"I can wait." he said, smoothing your wild hair. "You seem like you could use some rest."
You grinned, reaching down to grip at him and sending him hissing.
"You sure you can wait?" you teased.
John reached out and gave your nipple a pinch, sending you rolling onto your side, and spooned up behind you. He settled his cock into the cleft of your ass, and a new pool of heat started up between your legs. You sucked your lip between your teeth as he gave you a few sweet kisses on the shoulder.
"Don't you worry about that." he said, tugging the discarded blanket up over both of your bodies. "It's not going anywhere."
John McDonough who was just like his mama. The same sand-blond hair and blue-grey eyes, like the sky over a storm-thrown sea. Voices scratched by ocean breeze, and a dimple in the left cheek. The same straight nose and thin lips and cheekbones as sharp as glass. Wit like a fishhook, piercing right into the target and holding tight, reeling you in till you can't help but being bewitched. The same tightening of their brow and slight down turn of their lips when they're confused or thinking hard, and the same toothy smile and shining eyes when they grace you with a laugh.
Martha McDonough who was just like her mama. Simmering anger inside at the world, at it's inhabitants, at herself. But so much bone deep tiredness, heavy like sea salt collecting on every inch of that damn shack she could never escape. Torn to shred by grief and stitched back together again through sheer fucking will so many times she's a quilt of what she once was.
Grief for her eldest. How sick he had been, always crying, always hungry, always needing. And she had only so much, and she had been so alone for most of it. And even when he grew and the sickness died, and the hunger was replaced by a newer, emptier hunger that hollowed him out and drove him to staring off into the distance, dreaming of all the things she could never give him. She thinks that when the sickness died it took pieces of him with it, and wonders if he grieves those pieces of himself. Not that he would ever tell her. She could never understand, he says.
Grief for her husband, who did all he could to provide for his family, even if it meant he never got to see them. A man who had worked every day of his life and didn't know what it was like to not feel hungry. A man so stalwart and yet also more of a mirage then a man. She thinks to herself of everything they had been when they started, the soul deep love, all long eye contact and kissing the tips of her fingers and late night whispering of promises. And now, whenever he leaves for another job she wonders if he had ever really been there at all. Once she tries to wonder how it feels for him, to never see his wife or sons, but she isn't strong enough to carry his grief too, not when she has her sons and this god-forsaken shack to take care of.
Grief for his youngest, who she didn't really want but she had thought just maybe the pull of another son, another child, would bring her husband home for good this time. A son who looks just like her, and by the day acts more and more like her. She wishes he was more like his father, terribly and invasively it plagues her. He's too smart, too witty, to charming. She knows he's going to get himself into far too much trouble for his own good. She sees her son's future as he stares up at her with a familiar storm of eagerness and curiosity in his eyes, that being her son will be the death of him. She tries to love him, she really does, but it's so very hard to love yourself.
In my mind I can picture the shack. Wood so old it's grey, the floor, ceiling, walls all the same. An old, paisley couch, so worn it nearly looks one flat green. Thrown over the back, a quilt made by Martha, stained with old brown blood on the edges from her shit sewing skills and raising two boys with more restlessness then they know what to do with. A jar of sea glass in the window, framed by sun-bleached curtains. The only mirror in the house has been broken since before Patrick brought it home as a gift for her. The whole place is covered in a fine layer of salt, and if you were to return there the salt would have consumed all the memories until it was unrecognizable. The kind of place you could go a hundred times but the second you leave you don't remember it anymore, for your own good. You really shouldn't take the sadness with you when you leave.
I can picture Martha too. Her soul is the color blue, dulled by time and coated in dust. More grey then blue, though the edges of it cling to her like ocean water digging it's fingers into a rocky shore, dragging itself back up with every high tide even though it knows it will slip back down sooner then worth the effort.
