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sinisterexaggerator · 3 months

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Little Red Dress

Hancock x Fem! Reader | AO3

Summary: You're wearing a little red dress, one that teases and tantalizes Hancock. You're the Mayor of Goodneighbor's prized possession, and it does not bode well for you to tempt him so, especially in public.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ for KNIFE PLAY, Penis in Vagina Sex, Exhibitionism/Public Sex. Kissing, tit sucking, finger sucking, explicit language, PDA, and self-indulgent smut. Basically, I wanted to write something quick and dirty. >D

*Hancock is a little bit rough with you this time, but he would never hurt you.

Word count: 2.2k+

Notes: I've got it bad for Hancock. This is my second time writing for him! Sort of came out of nowhere. Ultimately, it could be interpreted as Hancock x female Sole. It's up to you to decide! Enjoy!

Hancock—he is decidedly more comfortable with public displays of affection than you would have imagined him to be, your throne expressly atop his lap, legs crossed for the sake of modesty in the presence of proper company. Your nights out are spent dolled up, clutched like a trophy by the Mayor of Goodneighbor—his prized possession over caps or chems—and what a lucky girl you are to be his favorite.

Hancock, with eager, explorative hands, hugging you from behind with his chin on your shoulder. His touch is firm, yet gentle, roving over every inch of your smooth skin left bare and assailable, the ghoul fondling your thighs, working higher, higher, skirting your lap to squeeze your waist with often unpredictable, gratifying tenderness.

The man is anything but a mystery; you could read him like an open book if such things still existed, his lustful looks starting a fire between your legs that could just as soon be doused by how wet he can make you with a single glance, a single caress beneath the hem of your little red dress.

It drives him crazy, that dress, John desperate enough to pinch your ass in public—worse than that—whispering dirty little nothings in your ear, forcing you to suppress your giggling as the man himself pretends all is well, conversing with the good people of the Commonwealth.

It's a game. He doesn’t care—he’s into that sort of thing— not above making another man green with envy when it comes to you. Hancock has no trouble in reminding everyone just who you belong to, his favorite pastime sneaking you off to shadowy, secluded corners to fuck you with his eyes while withered fingers glide over tight curves and refined angles, just vague outlines in the dark, though his pupils glow like dwindling embers among black, charred logs, captivating you like a moth toward a flame.

“You wanna get out of here?” he asks in a gravelly, self-assured tone, pulling you close, diggin’ your scent, and he knows you sure as fuck taste damn delicious.

It’s been too long, like chems that wore off; he needs another fix, and he’s willing to take it where he can get it. In fact, railing you in the back room of the Third Rail ain’t soundin’ too shabby right about now—you’re wearin’ a dress, after all—just hike it up.

“No,” you whisper, egging him on, desiring to get a rise out of Hancock in more ways than one. It works, the man leering down at you from beneath the short brim of his tricornered hat. His eyes are glistening, shining like polished marbles, staring into the depths of your soul. It can’t be helped, John’s hard-on riding against your thigh without shame, causing your breath to hitch.

“No?” he presses, his negation laced with arrogance and disbelief. A hidden blade whisks out from decadent, stained sleeves, teasing you with nothing more than a good time. The cool texture of sleek metal grazes your skin, skimming your pulse point. Hancock’s knife trails down the swell of a breast to take a dilatory, lackadaisical dive between your cleavage; it threatens to slice shimmering red fabric in twain.

“I’m going to fuck you either way, sunshine,” he rasps, skinny lips, still so kissable, hovering tantalizingly over your own.

The knife end of his blade drifts along your belly, an expert flick of the ghoul’s wrist twirling it to catch betwixt two dexterous fingers. The hilt disappears up under your skirt; he knows you’re not wearing panties, that bit of cold steel broaching your entrance, sliding into slick, taut confines to penetrate you with ease.

“I-I know,” you offer demurely, a tremor to your voice, Hancock sliding the hilt in and out with delicate, precise strokes. His weapon of choice is carefully wielded, knowing what damage he could cause. He leans in close to your ear, reveling in the awestruck expression you’re sporting; he would stop in a heartbeat should you wish him to, yet you make no move to protest, nor do you plan to.

“Did you take your Rad-X like a good girl?” he asks dissolutely; his breath is warm, the combat knife’s handle slipping out once more to brush against your clit on its way up. The action causes you to dip forward even as you try to keep yourself steady, hands flat to the wall as he holds you in place.

“Yes,” you answer bravely, your tongue moving to kiss your lover with all the passion currently welling up inside your chest; he skirts your attempt, his forefinger pinning your tongue, slithering its way past lips and teeth to delve into the moist cavity of your mouth.

“Of course you did,” he replies, sliding that digit in and out as you hold on, cheeks hollowing to the concave depths of a ghoul’s. You suck his index like it’s his cock; Hancock watches every nuanced movement with a tilt of his head, eventually pinching your cheeks closed with his thumb and middle, pulling his finger loose with a rousing pop.

“I’d say you’re good and ready,” he comments silkily, voice darkening as he holds the knife aloft for your inspection. It’s saturated in your own excess, Hancock licking the handle clean with the flat of his tongue. You watch, enthralled, though you’re sure you’re not the only one seeing this event unfold—the people of Goodneighbor talk—you’re not above being a source of gossip.

“Come on, sister,” he coaxes, pallid fingers curling around the shoulder strap of your gown to tug you forward, still withholding that kiss you so sorely crave.

He drags you by this single strip of fabric, avoiding all other eyes but yours; you see people nudging, whispering, sharing glances, but it only adds fuel to the fire, Hancock ushering you to a lesser used area of the bar.

“But, Hancock, there’s peo—” you begin, the ghoul concealing his knife once more for later use, perhaps, clicking his tongue disrespectfully as he interrupts you mid-sentence.

“—Let ‘em watch,” the mayor of this seedy settlement snaps, escorting you past its nosy denizens to the farthest room, splaying his open palm across the small of your back as he gently drives you forward, directing you toward one particular chair in the process.

“Don’t play coy with me…” he grates, positioning you before a plush red high-back that rests against worn, chipped tile. He prods you with his skinny ribs, prompting you to rest your knee against its seat. You oblige, taking hold of sturdy wood to balance yourself as you feel a sudden draft—Hancock wastes no time in slinking your dress up past the round shape of your ass.

You feel like a cheap whore while at the same time exhilarated beyond measure, bending forward for a more pleasing angle as you glance over your shoulder at the ghoul whose cock is withdrawn, John trailing his mushroom tip along the moist line of your slit.

“But I can’t kiss you like this,” you beg, faced with rock and not Hancock, his idle hand slipping up the front of your risqué little number for his thumb to part pillowy lips, nestling its way in.

“Good girls know patience,” he slyly replies, rubbing soft circles against your already swollen clit. An indecent moan accompanies the insertion of his cock into your tepid core, Hancock beginning to roll forward, thrusting his hips against the meat of your ass as he fucks your pretty cunt from behind.

“Just admit you planned for this,” he hisses, one hand still working you as the other squeezes the fullness of a breast. You are hardly able to contain an audible expression of lust, breaths deep and slow as you attempt to curtail your mounting orgasm.

“You can’t resist me,” you brazenly claim, causing the man to rail against you harder, faster, the small flare of his temper only serving to please you; two fingers tweak a raised nipple as a form of punishment.

“Ought to make you suck me off instead; shut that smart mouth of yours,” he whispers bitingly, though he doesn’t mean a word. His favorite place is buried between your loins, so glossy and warm, like an inviting hug—one he wishes would never end.

“Do it,” you bait, although thoroughly enjoying yourself, John’s ribbed flesh hitting just the right spot, only to be ripped away just as suddenly. He slides out and whirls you around abruptly, causing a momentary sensation of vertigo, afraid you might lose your balance, though his grip is strong and secure.

You’re met with piercing black pupils amidst a sea of the deepest crimson, rivaling the color of dried blood. The mayor is testing you; you don’t back down, holding his gaze with the same intense, quiet ferocity.

“I have a better idea.” A shuffle down below, and he hoists you up with the use of with both sinewy arms, kicking that damned chair out of his way as he slams you back against the wall. You tighten your legs about him with his aid, enclosing his slim waist to lock him in; the ghoul fumbles to reinsert his aching prick inside you before you have time to say another word.

His tongue is in your mouth only briefly; you moan around it, muscles contracting and roiling like the waves of a once vast, unpolluted ocean as he plows you like there’s no tomorrow—and there very well may not be.

His hands are grasping, clawing, hungry, desiring to touch every part of you at the same time, though impossible— it is an infuriating truth he condemns. Hancock’s dick hounds your G-spot; you are no longer able to withhold the lewd noises you wish to make, the ghoul rudely clamping a palm over your mouth to temporarily deaden all sound.

“You’re lucky I don’t just rip this off you,” he grumbles, sucking the salt off your skin, buried in your throat for the purpose—he’s referring to that damnable dress that gets his irradiated blood pumping like nothing else. You manage a smile once he dislodges his hand, cloyingly sweet and meant as mockery, squeezing your thighs tighter to draw him in close.

Your own hands find the flesh of his belly, groping and molesting scar tissue and lean muscle, your pelvic floor flexing unfairly around him. You almost laugh at the visceral reaction that follows, Hancock having bitten down on his own ruined lip.

“You wouldn’t dare,” you insist, knowing just how much John loves you in that dress, loves how good you look in it, your actions pulling a moan from your lover that is like the most heavenly music to your ears.

“Wouldn’t I?” he asks defiantly, a series of quick movements causing you to gasp as he rips clean through the right strap; that pesky blade had reemerged to do his dirty work.

“Hancock!” you protest. The ghoul’s not listening, having loosed your tit for anyone who dare try and interrupt you; John kneads its doughy flesh in the crook of his palm.

“What’s that, sunshine?” he asks derisively, jerking his hips, his neck craning downward as he lifts your breast toward his mouth. He sucks your hardened nipple while pinching the other that has inevitably joined its twin, the single strap left intact not enough to hold it up, or in.

The bastard knows all your erogenous zones, this being but one of them, his patient suckling and the steady pump of his prick sending you over the edge.

You cum, coating his dick in your secretions, this time the ghoul allowing your voice to soar—it’s a pretty song, one he likes to listen to on repeat, and for the moment you don’t care who hears you.

“That’s my girl,” Hancock purrs, having released your breast from his puckered lips to watch the gesticulations of your face mid-throe. Your pleasurable spasming only causes his girth to convulse inside you, filling you full up with his infertile sperm.

Truth be told, it’s one of the benefits, being with a ghoul—no risk of an unwanted pregnancy at the end of the World. Only now, you are left half naked in the middle of a public space, Hancock’s ejaculate beginning to run down your leg.

Like coming down off a spectacular high, Hancock pulls out, stuffs his junk back in his pants, and looks you over.

“What a mess I’ve made,” he teases. You frown outright, though he thinks it’s cute, like you’re pouting or being petulant like a spoiled child—it’s one of the things that tugs on his heartstrings, though you never intend to abuse it.

“What am I supposed to do now?” you whine, “I can’t go out there like—”

“—Hey, here,” Hancock proffers, taking a moment to remove his red frock coat. He gently shifts to stand behind you and slips it over your bare shoulders, assisting in the lift of your arms until you are comfortably sequestered in its warmth.

It fits, covering your naughty bits well enough that you will be able to make it back home to the State House. Hancock seems unable to help himself, a smirk tugging impishly at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” you ask with a hint of attitude, pushing lightly against his chest with the palm of your hand. It’s as if he has a secret not worth keeping, his expression devolving into something a bit more playful.

“Looks good on you,” he affirms, taking up that offending hand to kiss. “But maybe next time you’ll listen to your mayor.”

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