Author's Note: I've gotten a few requests for "other" pairings, as in those not involving the Trifecta (Soap, Ghost, Roach) and I started bouncing a few ideas around. What resulted is basically drabbles composed entirely of smut and held together with semen instead of plot. Yayyy!
GENERAL DISCLAIMER: I really don't own anything in here, except the sheer sexual deviance, the "real" names, and the teeny-little tiny-little timid-little plot bunnies that are more mascots than participants, haha. Character call-signs were ripped directly from Modern Warfare 2. I also totally swiped the idea of Chemo being a drug-user from duvalia. YOU WILL READ HER STORIES AND YOU WILL LOVE THEM!
Dibs on money: Ohhh, I'm a secret angst-monger. Don't let the fluff lie to you, lol. Oh, Mrs. Skipper was a bit out there. Generally cool, but really kind of weird in her own special way. I learned a lot from that class... Mostly how to hide yaoi manga books inside a "normal" book, hidden inside a text book, so she never knew how little attention I was really paying. (I do not condone this kind of behavior. /hypocrisy) lolol. Yeah, that last paragraph was some sort of fun to write, haha.
Reg: I'm sure there will be more Ghost/Roach, because I believe them to be their own brand of canon. I mean, Ghost specifically asked for Roach during the cut scene before the "Loose Ends" mission. ;)
TarTarIcing: How do I feel about Gaz/Price? I don't have a ton of experience with MW1 (only played through completely once, and did piecemeal missions a couple times), but I think it has its own merits... I've tossed the ideas around a few times, looked at the parallels of Price/Gaz and Soap/Ghost, but I haven't gotten around to it yet, lol. I like to find balance between genres for my work. I feel like I'm boxing myself in and becoming too bland with it otherwise. ~_~
PhonyPrincess: See! 141 =/= completely unromantic. :D Hahaaaa.
They could've claimed drunkenness, could've blamed everything on the shots. But they knew the truth. They knew that the alcohol wasn't that strong, and they knew that if even if it were they would still be groping one another in a back alley. They knew that there was really no excuse for them to be rock-hard and rutting against each other behind the bar, behind a stack of crates, trying desperately to keep the noise down.
Toad found his back pressed against the concrete exterior of the building, rough hands under his shirt, down the front of his pants, stroking him, teasing him.
"Fuck, Ian," he moaned. He grabbed hold of Archer's hair and bit into the sniper's neck.
"Watch the fucking teeth, Taylor," the Brit warned.
"Shut the fuck up."
They weren't typically into the public fucking side of things, but the urge struck them, and there was no way they were going to waste their time or erections. Their situation was helped, however, by the pressing presence of a storm; not only would their screams and moans be lost to the wind and thunder, and the pouring rain would keep all other would-be-exhibitionists inside.
Taylor "Toad" Slade soon found himself turned so that his chest was pressed against the concrete wall and frantic fingers were still tugging at the button and zipper on his jeans. He groaned and struggled to help. His jeans and boxers were pulled down to his knees and he bent to better expose himself. The rain brought a chill wind through the alley and he could see his panting breaths appearing as little puffs of steam in front of his face. It was a strange thing to notice, but he knew that there was no avoiding it, not with his training as a spotter… When he heard Archer spit into his hand, he cringed and started to almost regret the situation. It was going to hurt and there was no getting around it. He relaxed as much as possible and choked on a yelp as his partner forced his way inside. His body instinctively tightened around the intrusion and he heard his lover groan.
Ian "Archer" Richards knew being out in the open had turned his spotter on; that much was obvious in the way he tensed and arched before they even really got started. He wrapped one hand around the American's throat, and another around his cock. He stroked the American's solid length and kissed the back of his neck. He worked the spotter, inside and out, dragging moans and screams from him. Their sweat mixed with the water and washed away as soon as it appeared. It was somehow Toad who came first, screaming, bucking, moaning, clenching himself around the cock inside him. It was almost another two minutes later when Archer came with a grunt of his own. They cleaned themselves up the best they could, fixed their clothing, and started their way home.
There is a fine line between being sadomasochistic and thriving on sheer brutality. They called Shane Ambrose "Scarecrow"(1) for his bad habit of doing things without thinking, just like they referred to Andrew Cain as "Robot"(1) for his apparently heartless habits and demeanor. Their relationship should have been called abusive, but it was a different kind of abuse. Bloody knife wounds and split lips were practically foreplay for the two of them. They never had a "tame" fuck session, no long, slow hours of gentle sex and light kisses; they had no time for that. They would kick and hit and bite one another, completely unsatisfied until they drew blood and caused bruises.
A punch, a slap, something heavy thrown, something sharp swung, something blunt cracked… They would claw, hiss, scream. It was difficult for them to figure who would be taken and who would do the taking, as it always depended on who managed to get the upper hand for that particular round.
This particular time, Robot had the advantage quite firmly in his grasp. He was certain he had cracked several of his partner's ribs, and that had helped swing things in his favor. He bit Shane's lower lip, driving his teeth through it, drawing blood. Scarecrow retaliated and bit sharply at his tongue. Robot howled in pain and frustration and landed a solid hit to Shane's jaw. They exchanged a few more blows, but Andrew eventually managed to get him secured, get him tied, keep his hands out of the way.
Even as Cain penetrated his partner, force his way inside, they continued with their brutality against one another, still biting, scratching. The pain and the sight of blood seemed to only heighten their arousal, make them buck against one another faster, made them scream louder, cum harder. The blood and sweat mingled between them and the itching, stinging, burning of the wounds violated the boundaries between pain and pleasure and Scarecrow moaned loudly, winding his legs tightly around Robot's hips, aiming to bruise him somehow.
"Goddammit, Cain. If you ain't gonna gimme my hands back so I can jerk myself, then put a hand on my fucking cock," Ambrose ordered. Andrew bit his chest again, but obligingly stroked Scarecrow's straining erection, causing him to scream louder than he had previously. They worked quickly against one another, knowing that the harder they fucked, sharper they bit, rougher they scratched, the quicker and harder they'd cum.
Robot finished first and Scarecrow nearly screamed in frustration when Andrew stopped moving, stopped stroking.
"Oh, look at Ambrose, completely at my mercy."
"Shut yer damn mouth and fuckin' finish me, you bastard."
Robot laughed at the order, but eventually obliged the man. Once they were both finished, they limped to the bathroom and cleaned the blood and sweat and semen from one another and set to cleaning and bandaging the worst of the wounds they inflicted one another. There were no fleeting kisses or lingering looks between them as Shane pulled his clothes back on and limped out; he was kissed roughly on his way to the door and his ass was slapped on his way out. He winced but continued out, making a promise to himself to get revenge for that the next time they fucked.
Chemo liked drugs. There was no way around it. It was a nice way to lose himself, to unwind, to forget the particulars of whatever he'd been doing before he got the chance to get high. He liked drinking, drugs, partying, fucking, dancing, anything that couldn't be remotely related back to his day job. Any opportunity he can have to be James Adler he takes. That's why they called him Chemo, after all, because he survived drug-levels that should be toxic.
His favorite teammate was Rook, sneaky Irish bastard with hair the color of the bird's feathers. All it took was a bit of shine and you could have Mitchell completely enthralled.
That was how they ended up at a club downtown where sexualities weren't questioned and names were optional. To be honest, James hadn't been planning on having anything to do with Mitch, not that night. He was just looking for a way to blow off steam and had happened to see Rook across the bar. Naturally he had to see what his teammate was doing in a place like this.
On these nights, Chemo preferred downing ecstasy, something to keep the mood going, to feel like nothing could ever be wrong with anything. He said as much to his teammate, who nodded and readily agreed to try some. It was only a few minutes later that they were pressed against each other and dancing with a fervor they didn't know existed.
They ended up back in Rook's apartment, still high, still hard, still wanting to do nothing more than fuck.
They were detached, completely numbed emotionally, concerned only with the physical, and everything physical just felt so damn good. Not even the first almost careless shove into Rook really hurt; they were too far fucking gone for that. There was only pleasure, rushing endorphins, firing synapses. They were caught up in the raging rush of things, caught up in the feeling of it all. It was strictly carnal, heightened by the drugs and the alcohol…
They lost all concept in the passage of time, didn't care anything for how loud they were being or how rough. They were wrapped up in the drugs, both natural and artificial. They continued their climb, focused only on their pleasure, the pleasure of their partner, and they screamed incoherently when their completion crashed down over them. They rode the high out together, trailing light, lingering touches on their partner's skin, sending their already sensitive nerve endings on crazy trips through pleasure. Even when the drugs wore of, they remained close in an amiable silence, had another quick go, and James eventually left with Mitchell's promise that they would be partying again in the future.
(1): Yes, I know there are two 1's. Stole the names from Tinman more or less. Their "tin man" was Wyatt Cain, and their "scarecrow" was Ambrose. So I could claim the names, but I'm not gonna. ^_^