Chapter Text
It had been a long, hard run. Ambushed by Legionary assassins on the outskirts of Fiend territory, by the time they arrived back in Freeside their stimpaks were a thing of the past and all the shops were closed, even the Wrangler. The unusual silence of the town heralded a freak electrical storm, great indigo thunderheads rolling across the Mojave in a weird arid blackout.
The King's House of Impersonation opened its doors to Rex's bark and the Courier's knock. The generally harmless and well-intentioned gang made room for the Courier, who was a well-known visitor, and her merry band of gun-toting strays. The King himself made an appearance, emerging from the upper floors to greet Red warmly, taking her hands in both of his as if greeting an old friend. Red smiled broadly, eyes slitting like a cat's in bemusement at seeing a favored companion. Adjusting his red beret, Boone scowled and stomped upstairs to the room he had been assigned.
The sniper's head hit the mattress in the darkness of his room. There were plenty of rooms to spare in the large building, and Boone had received one to himself, which he divined was next to the King's room when he ran into the gang leader in the worn hallway lit by yellowing fluorescent lights.
"Evening, soldier boy." The King greeted cordially before stepping through his own doorway. Boone made no response save a nod, unable to gauge whether there was an intended insult in the greeting. He thought not.
He lay on his back in the oversized bed, rifle cleaned, loaded and lying beside him, a lethal wife to replace the lost one. He stared at the ceiling, the warped tiles almost fading into the blackness of unconsciousness when he heard voices in the room beyond. The King's room. Almost against his will, his sniper ears perked up, listening in.
The tones murmured softly, and he could make out nothing of what was said. But the low, lilting drawl was obviously the King, and he had a female visitor. Only a moment had passed before her tone and cadence identified her as the Courier. Boone's gut twisted, and he scowled. What was she doing with him at this hour?
A long silence answered his straining ears, abandoning even the pretense of restraint as he eavesdropped with impunity. But he heard nothing, or almost nothing, for several moments - till the rustle of fabric and creak of springs punctuated the silence. He gritted his teeth, feeling as if a throwing spear had lanced through his chest. A low male chuckle, followed by a murmur that turned up at the end, like a question. The Courier's throaty giggle, a laugh he had never heard from her before, made him flush and grip his rifle, hastily setting it down again lest he do something foolish. Stay frosty, Boone. The sniper admonished himself, even as he listened to the thunk of boots, weapons and armor dropping to the floor.
He rolled over onto his stomach, raising his arms over his head in an attempt to muffle the sounds, since apparently the Wasteland was virtually devoid of pillows. But the attempt did nothing, and he felt his heart begin to pound, pulse throbbing heavily through him as he listened to her.
The King was more or less silent, at first - apparently an attentive lover, the Courier's sighing whimpers became audible well before his own lower, subtler sounds of pleasure. Boone found himself suddenly rock-hard and trying like hell to keep from thrusting into the mattress, and he rolled over onto his back again with a groan, deliberately not looking down.
The change in position made it even easier to hear, however, and after several tortuous minutes had ticked by he could no longer resist the urge to bring his hand down to the snap of his NCR khakis. He drew the zipper down, shutting his eyes tightly as if that could conceal the knowledge of what he was doing, and wrapped his hand around his rigid cock. "Fuck!" He hissed, pumping slowly. A pearly gleam at the head slicked over his palm and fingers and made the motion faster, rougher. His free hand fisted in the worn blanket that lay beneath him. Through the thin wall, the sound of flesh against flesh grew faster, and the Courier's quiet moans turned to needy, breathless keening.
It had been a long time. Release of any sort was not a thing that Boone prescribed to often, intending instead to white-knuckle his way through the remainder of the Legion army until he dropped of exhaustion or a bullet in the desert somewhere. He was unprepared for how erotic it would be to hear their fearless leader, receiving a good and proper pounding from another man. Sweat stood out on his brow, kindled in the mingling fires of fury, jealousy, and lust. He thrust into his hand, head tilting back as he teetered on the edge of climax, and heard Red's triumphant, "Fuck, yes!" Biting down on his fist to stifle a groan - a courtesy the King did not extend - Boone came like a freight train. Hot jets of semen splattered his bare chest and for a long moment he was too exhausted and delirious with relief to give a thought to disgust, or finding a towel.
As it turned out, the Wasteland was also virtually devoid of towels.
"Fuck everything." He muttered, when the evidence of his indiscretion was cleaned up and he'd dressed himself. Grabbing his rifle, he pulled on his beret and stormed out of the building and into the night. The storm, despite dire expectations, had blown harmlessly past and missed Freeside entirely.