Fanfiction -- my first in MGS!
Okay. Hi. *waves* I'm the new girl. Tell me if I'm breaking any rules here or anything, 'kay? :)

Title: Saturday Night
Pairing: Snake/Otacon. Sort of.
Rating: NC-17
A/N: We all have our own routines.



Turn off all the lights.

Close the bedroom door.

Lay the item on the pillow.

Check.

Hal lays himself down, nestling the back of his head into the soft fabric, the item so close beside him he can smell it. Oh, Jesus, it still smells of him. Even after all this time in Hal’s bottom drawer, it still smells just. Like. Him.

His musk. His sweat; his unique scent. His…his aura. His being. His soul, lying next to Hal, sharing the same pillow.

Hal shudders and tugs at his slowly filling cock through his trousers. It’s almost like having him right there. Right beside him. Hal grips himself harder and let his hips thrust upwards once from the unexpected, hot imagery that puts in his head.

Experimentally, he lets his eyes do a sweep over his lower body. It isn’t something he often does: look at himself. But, maybe, if he imagines that white hand cupping and squeezing him like that isn’t his own. Lets himself get caught up in the fantasy…

…But, no. That never works. Hal’s hand is far too pale, and far too small. It doesn’t even remotely resemble his hand. Strong, firm, dark, large, masterful. Oh, god. Hal’s far too pale, far too small hand delves down under the waistband of the pants, to stroke and fondle without a barrier to hinder.

He’s making tiny little whimpering noises now, and it’s amazing how embarrassing that is, and even more amazing how he won’t stop making them. After all, what does it matter? It’s only him here.

No. Not only him.

They’re here together. If Hal closes his eyes, they’re here together. If Hal closes his eyes, the hand on his erection isn’t his own.

“Oh, oh, please…”

The hand obliges and squeezes hard, roughly. It isn’t calloused enough, but Hal refuses to let that ruin the fantasy.

God, how embarrassing. A couple of minutes and he is already nearing the edge. Thank god he isn’t here. Damn, what a loser. Can’t even last five minutes.

“Shit.” Hal chokes out, his hand speeding up despite his head’s attempt at rationalising that it’ll be over even sooner if he doesn’t get it under control. Make it last.

As he climbs higher and higher, his voice rises in volume and, finally, Hal stuffs the item in his mouth: muffles his cries, savours the faint leftover taste of dried sweat that has seeped into the fabric.

When he orgasms, his body jerks violently, thrashes on the bed, he bunches the quilt in his free hand. And as he comes back down, his hips still gently thrusting up into the hand still softly stroking, he feels the afterglow aura fading already.

He pulls a sticky hand away and rubs the ejaculate between his fingers disdainfully. It’s not Dave’s hand. Not by any stretch of the imagination. It never could be his.

What a pathetic mess you are, Hal.

Jerking off to the smell and taste of his best friend’s stolen bandana.

Hal opens his eyes and tucks the long strip of cloth back into the bottom drawer. Until next Saturday.

~~~

Dave closes his eyes. Lets his instinct guide him. In, out. In, out. The wet sound of slapping flesh works in his favour -- it’s almost loud enough to override those little grunts and whimpers coming from the one below him. Too high-pitched. Too womanly.

He slides his hand to slip her jeans down her legs a little further, getting purchase on her thighs. So soft, so slim. Lovely. Silk under his fingertips. Dave drives in harder and she moans her approval.

Unexpectedly, she pushes back against him, impaling herself further. A loud groan wells up in Dave’s throat only to be strangled before birth at the accompanying squeal from the woman. She is too loud, and too wrong. This is all wrong.

Unaware of any bad feelings, the woman pushes back again. Another squeal, and this time it dislodges Dave’s hands and sends them down into a small nest of pubic hair. Her breath is harsher now, and she twists up. Dave knows that she wants him to touch her clitoris. Bring her off quicker.

He can’t do it.

Before, fucking her from behind seemed to be doing the trick, but now the fantasy is being overtaken by the reality. To reach down to grasp at a cock he realises with a shock won’t be there. It’s too much. This isn’t what he wants. He doesn’t want a woman.

“Oh, fuck me. Fuck me.” She is breathless and desperate. Overcome with need, wild and unrestrained.

When did that stop being enough?

“So good.” She makes high, whining noises between sentences. “Oh, baby. You fuck so good.”

Dave winces. Any lingering enthusiasm he had for this is officially snuffed out. Hal would never say anything like that. Even caught up in the moment. …Fuck. This isn’t working.

Gritting his teeth, figuratively and literally, Dave pushes himself into her harder and faster, tries to switch his brain off, just feel the tight suction around his dick and not think about how Hal’s hole would be so much tighter.

Hal’s voice would be so much deeper. His words so much more innocent. His dick would be hard and dripping and there, and Dave would actually be feeling something other than a mild thrill as he reached orgasm, spilling into the condom and being left with nothing but numbness.

The woman waits for Dave to pull out, before buttoning up her jeans and turning to wink at him. She hasn’t come, but she doesn’t seem too bothered. Probably never expected too much from an unkempt, shady, drunk man she picked up in a seedy bar and fucked in the alleyway beside it.

“Call me.” She hands him a piece of paper with her number on it, and sashays out into the dim light of the streetlamps. She is walking slightly bowlegged now.

Dave waits until she is out of sight before crumpling the paper in his fist and letting it drop to the floor.

He opens his eyes and takes a deep breath as he pulls his pants up, then heads out of the alley. Until next Saturday.


--End--