Breaking and Entering

The night was young in the irradiated hellhole known most prominently as the Capital Wasteland, but its greatest hero was more than ready to drop dead and sleep the next few days away.

John, Lone Wanderer and icon of hope to the people of the wastes, was drunk of his ass. He staggered through the front gates of Megaton on jellied legs, a dull anger in his eyes and a bottle of vodka in his right hand. The Pipboy 3000 fused to his forearm beeped out warnings about his obvious intoxication, but John paid them no heed. He was pissed, and for good reason.

The Lone Wanderer did what came naturally to him and helped whoever he came across on his travels to find his father, asking no rewards and expecting no special treatment. His latest experience, however, was an outright slap to the face. John had gotten Three Dog his satellite dish, saved Reilly’s Rangers, reclaimed the Declaration of Independence, found and lost his father, even joined up with the Brotherhood of Steel to restart Project Purity and woke up two weeks later to tell the tale, but nothing left him feeling betrayed like this.

Amata, his closest friend, more than his closest friend, had kicked him out of Vault 101. After everything he had gone through, he still thought that someday he could go home to the Vault, go home to her. She stomped out that notion with high heels and told him she was sorry it had to be this way. So he left with Fuck Yous at his back and the dirt and grime of the wastes in front of him. Drunk. Angry. Wanting to do something stupid.

The moon chose that moment to peak out from behind a black overcast sky, beam of pale light falling on Craterside Supply. The idea of seeing Moira Brown placated the angry hero; he liked the slightly eccentric woman, she was pretty and actually a good conversationalist when people bothered to listen. He shuffled over the scrap metal catwalks to the front door of the shop, shimmying it open with a slight of hand that had become second nature to him, despite his drunkenness.

The door creaked open and he poked his head in. “Muhrah” he slurred, alcohol making his tongue thick. “Muhrah, I nee sum suppeyes.”

Unfortunately, the only response he got was from Moira’s hired mercenary, who pulled a gun on him as per the ‘Shoot first, ask questions later’ rule of the Capital Wasteland. John was quicker however, and pulled his pistol and shot the man in the fucking face. The merc’s arms and legs exploded along with his head, and a fine red mist filled the air as his torso dropped to the ground like so many bags of hammers. Some part of John’s mind sobered up and he had the decency to start chanting, “Oh shit oh shit oh shit” at the gory spectacle before him. It wasn’t as if John hadn’t blown up his fair share of mercenaries, but this one hadn’t done anything to the young man except throw some casual snark his way. Besides, John didn’t want to be thrown out of Megaton, his home-away-from-home.

The most logical thing to do seemed to be to go check on Moira and make sure she wasn’t freaking out. If she was, he’d just physically hold her mouth shut, forever if he had to. That made perfect sense, perfect sense!

He crept up the steps to the junk seller’s bed with all the grace of a retarded mole rat, but when he came to her bedside the woman still snoozed peacefully. She was sprayed goofily all over the filthy old mattress, still dressed in that pale blue jumpsuit. He realized dimly that this was the first time he had seen Moira with her hair down. The blood red hair formed a halo around her head, and the Lone Wanderer was tempted to reach out and touch it. It was surprisingly soft and clean feeling, but when John pulled his hand away Moira woke with a start.

“Who’s there?!” She yelped, sitting up and clutching her lone blanket against her. Moira’s hair was long enough that it fell past her shoulders, and most of it was in her eyes. That seemed to frighten her more, and she stood up suddenly, tangling herself in her blanket and starting to thrash as a result. The woman stumbled her way to the railing that overlooked the store below, and gasped in horror when she saw the mercenary’s corpse. She shouted, and John clumsily pinned her back to her bed.

“Shh shh shh.” He urged, one hand clamped over her mouth, the other putting a finger in front of his lips. “Muhrah, Muhrah it’s John. It’s me, it’s John.”

The redhead visibly relaxed, but fear still swam in those big green eyes. John felt her lips move against his palm, she was trying to say something, but he couldn’t think. He was too drunk and too full of adrenaline and bubbling emotions to think straight. All he could think about was the fact that he had inadvertently planted himself between her legs when he pinned her, crotches pressed firmly together and her surprisingly large breasts squished against his chest.

John could feel the redhead’s heart thundering in her chest, green eyes looking at him pleadingly. Her hands were still balled up in her blanket, and his free hand traveled up her side to take both her wrists and hold them against the iron headboard. Her breathing quickened against his hand, and he tied a sloppy knot around her wrists and through the bed frame.

Slowly, the Wanderer took his weight off her, allowing his right hand to travel down the center of her chest and seek out her left breast. He gathered the best handful he could through the rough cotton of her jumpsuit, squeezing gently. Moira whimpered quietly against his palm and yanked on her restraints slightly, but the woman seemingly lacked any upper body strength. If that were true though, John wondered how the shop keep managed to stand up straight, as her breasts were each well more than a handful.

He reached between himself and pulled on the woman’s zipper, exposing the white t-shirt she wore underneath the jumpsuit, which John hastily pulled up. Moira’s naked tits swelled into view, seemingly even larger now that they weren’t bound by her RobCo jumpsuit. The sight of them with their pale pink nipples excited him, made him harder than he already was, so much so that his dick throbbed almost painfully in desire. What were they, DDs? He took her left breast again and squeezed it roughly, groping it and stroking it and pinching and pulling on her nipples till they stiffened between his fingers, switching his free hand between the glorious flesh at random intervals. His ministrations must not have been entirely unpleasant, because John could hear Moira groaning her arousal through his hand.

At one point he fed her breast in to his watering mouth, sucking eagerly on her nipples and mauling her breasts with his mouth and tongue. He must’ve truly snapped, John thought, for as far as he was convinced Moira was his now. With that settled, his hand once again snaked down to her zipper, and yanked it down as far as it would go and exposed her virtually hairless cunt, save for one spot of red hair where her lips came together. John could smell her arousal, and when he placed his hand over her trembling pussy he could feel her wetness. He stroked it eagerly, and Moira moaned and arched her back before grinding against his hand.

The hero of the wasteland wasted no time. He plunged a finger into her heat, moving in and out, fucking her with his fingers. The man finally released his grip on her mouth and settled for a loose, but still dominate grasp on her neck, holding the inventor in place while he finger fucked her. His thumb found her clit, and hot little gasps escaped her now with every movement, tugging weakly on her restraints once more in faux-resistance, nothing else mattering for either of them now except the feeling. Her little “Oh, oh, oh!”s filled the room and his ears and his body.

John could wait no more. He all but ripped his cock out of his pants, pointing it straight at Moira’s pretty pussy, rubbing the swollen head against her glistening lips. With one herculean push he shoved his entire length inside her, his heavy balls pressing against her ass. She was so damn tight, was this her first time? She didn’t bleed. That didn’t matter anymore, he was insider her now and he pulled himself out lazily to the tip before plunging back in, Moira’s pussy eating him up. He did it again: pulled out before shoving himself back in, repeating the simple but effective motion over and over again, fucking the bubbly woman with gusto. She wrapped her legs about his waste and locked her feet together, holding him in so that he had to trade the length of his strokes with speed and he wrapped his arms under her back, their motions seeming like a sloppy blur.

After what seemed forever in that heavenly haze the buildup in John’s body was approaching its peak. Their hips mashed together and her big breast smooshed against him and her hard little nipples scratched against his chest through his shirt. It only made sense for him to suddenly claim Moira’s mouth with his own, and she reciprocated in kind, tongues exploring each others’ mouth as they kissed. His strokes were shorter and faster and he couldn’t think and just when he thought was going to die he came, he came inside her and Moira came with him, shaking like an epileptic as orgasm overtook them and their cum mixed inside her and spilled out over their thighs and her ass and various alerts were flashing on his Pipboy and all was right with the world.

When John woke up he was slumped on top of her and off to the side, fortunately not crushing her with his weight. Dawn’s light poured through the slits in the windows. She was still bound and her breasts still hung out, and the smell of sex and death was in the air.

And his head was killing him.

He would have to find a way to explain this all as well, if not the surprise sex then the dead merc still on the store’s floor. There was a broom downstairs…

After an hour or so he had swept the body parts and blood into as neat a pile as he could manage and looked for a rubbish bin and a dust pan. A slight clanking came from above, and John figured it was the sound of Moira stirring from sex induced sleep. He darted upstairs, head pounding with each step, and saw the redhead still struggling with her bondage. When he approached her she stared at him dubiously, but he gave a weak smile and finally unwrapped her blanket from around her wrists.

“Moira, listen” he began, feeling awful all of a sudden, “I’m really sorry about what happened. I –I was drunk and Amata kicked out of the Vault and when I came inside your mercenary pulled a gun on me. I couldn’t stop myself, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to get kicked out of here too, I’m so so sorry.”

Moira suddenly chuckled that unusual chuckle of hers, “Hehe, it’s okay…” Surprisingly, she wore a small smile as she rubbed her wrists. “Sometimes people can’t control themselves, and it’s okay as long as no one gets hurt!” A beat, and then, “Oh, well I guess someone was hurt, but at least it was just one person!” Moira almost floored him with how upbeat she was.

John sat beside her on the bed and Moira shimmied closer to him, smiling at him. He had to grin; they leaned in to kiss and John could only think that even if he couldn’t get back into the Vault, the Capital Wasteland was the only place he wanted to be now.