fic - snake is naked
Quickie for fireholly. 800 words, cheesecake, no srs bsns here.
Title: Glass Act
Pairing: Naomi/Snake
Rating: R
Summary: WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO HAVE A HATECRUSH ON SNAKE'S BUTT. Striptease, CFNM.
She asked if he required that there be a man present. He looked at her dismissively, and pulled off his ripped parka.
"Ah, a little forward, aren't you?"
"You're the one who wants me naked, doc." She thought he sounded resigned to his situation, and supposed that like all men he had to joke in the face of powerlessness. He kept his eyes on her as he dropped two layers of shirts. She pretended he was doing no such thing. No need to adjust her labcoat, no point reconsidering the cut of her skirt. She stepped around him to pick up her clipboard. Her scrutiny may as well have the touch of professional interest. Something to see, in the hope that he'd see nothing more. She watched him with one eye only. Bare light bleached his shoulders. The mound of clothes on the floor stank of dog hair and sweat and motor oil, things that didn't enter her sterile world.
She thought back on all those nights she'd spent alone in her study, analysing surveillance and memorising stolen records, hating pictures of him. She closed her eyes for a second and saw all the video-feeds unravelling in spirals; a younger Snake, a killer, a puppet with a gun. How could he? How dare he exist, now she had finally found him?
He turned away from her, a hand fisted at the base of his vest.
He raised it deliberately slowly, showing ridges of muscle an inch at a time, his feet turning him steadily toward her in a half-circle. She watched dispassionately as he offered the sight of his bared abs to her, and the lower curves of his chest - inviting her to bite. She could have wanted to. She could have reached through the unrealness between them and touched whatever he gave her, could have felt animal lust for his body, if only she didn't know what he had done with it.
What he was showing to her was a weapon, nothing more.
His head dropped and clumped locks of his hair fell down from his neck, and he raised both arms over his head, looked right at her as he lowered them, his wide hands spreading, dropping another revoltingly normal piece of his fugitive life on the deck of the submarine, right at her feet. She glanced down at her clipboard and wrote the colour of his nipples in the space for the colour of his eyes.
He was motionless for several seconds. She looked up again and found his eyes running over her again, past the tinted glass of her, looking for less than was there. She would give it to him, gladly. She offered a very coy smile, and showed him the tip of her tongue. "Please continue."
He gave her a smirk and a slight tilt of his head, like he was doing what she was doing, measuring this space in degrees and distance and proportions of exposed skin. He hooked his thumbs into his belt-loops like a jean commercial and leaned back a little, his back flexing slowly, one hand sneaking down to his fly. He unhooked the button, pushed the zip down with the web of his thumb, and she thought of a slide retracting or a syringe filling up, just a thing ready to show its hate to the world, half-cocked.
He turned his profile to her again, and shrugged off his pants in one economical movement. There was another thermal layer underneath, which made her feel strangely cheated, for all it clung tight to his calves and his thighs and -
He twisted, and looked over his shoulder at her as he pulled down the last remaining barrier between her eyes and him, and she smiled sweetly as their eyes met, feeling like her face was pressed against that inner window. She fought to recall that sage thing that Ocelot had tried to tell her, about it being engraving - beauty - that turned a gun into a collector's item, something she'd told him was bullshit because beauty was purely a weapon itself. A steel-jawed trap for her eyes.
He bent at the waist, sliding his underclothes down to his feet. She let him hear her sighing. She hated every curve, every valley between every taut muscle. He kicked his clothes aside and put his hands to his head, raking his fingers through tangled hair, staring a challenge from his eyes to hers. "So aren't you meant to search me now?"
She felt cold pinpricks pressing at her chest, radial, a brittle fracture. She pressed her lips together and walked a slow circle around him, digging her eyes into each crevice in turn, never touching him, never coming close. This, she told herself, is the weapon that killed my brother.
Frankie had been one to admire weapons. He found beauty in their spare elegance. She could admit the same.
"So am I clean?" he asked her, as she walked her third circle.
"Yes," she replied, feeling herself stumble over the affirmative. She pressed her clipboard close to cover the wound. "Why don't you have a seat while I ready your shots?"
Title: Glass Act
Pairing: Naomi/Snake
Rating: R
Summary: WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO HAVE A HATECRUSH ON SNAKE'S BUTT. Striptease, CFNM.
She asked if he required that there be a man present. He looked at her dismissively, and pulled off his ripped parka.
"Ah, a little forward, aren't you?"
"You're the one who wants me naked, doc." She thought he sounded resigned to his situation, and supposed that like all men he had to joke in the face of powerlessness. He kept his eyes on her as he dropped two layers of shirts. She pretended he was doing no such thing. No need to adjust her labcoat, no point reconsidering the cut of her skirt. She stepped around him to pick up her clipboard. Her scrutiny may as well have the touch of professional interest. Something to see, in the hope that he'd see nothing more. She watched him with one eye only. Bare light bleached his shoulders. The mound of clothes on the floor stank of dog hair and sweat and motor oil, things that didn't enter her sterile world.
She thought back on all those nights she'd spent alone in her study, analysing surveillance and memorising stolen records, hating pictures of him. She closed her eyes for a second and saw all the video-feeds unravelling in spirals; a younger Snake, a killer, a puppet with a gun. How could he? How dare he exist, now she had finally found him?
He turned away from her, a hand fisted at the base of his vest.
He raised it deliberately slowly, showing ridges of muscle an inch at a time, his feet turning him steadily toward her in a half-circle. She watched dispassionately as he offered the sight of his bared abs to her, and the lower curves of his chest - inviting her to bite. She could have wanted to. She could have reached through the unrealness between them and touched whatever he gave her, could have felt animal lust for his body, if only she didn't know what he had done with it.
What he was showing to her was a weapon, nothing more.
His head dropped and clumped locks of his hair fell down from his neck, and he raised both arms over his head, looked right at her as he lowered them, his wide hands spreading, dropping another revoltingly normal piece of his fugitive life on the deck of the submarine, right at her feet. She glanced down at her clipboard and wrote the colour of his nipples in the space for the colour of his eyes.
He was motionless for several seconds. She looked up again and found his eyes running over her again, past the tinted glass of her, looking for less than was there. She would give it to him, gladly. She offered a very coy smile, and showed him the tip of her tongue. "Please continue."
He gave her a smirk and a slight tilt of his head, like he was doing what she was doing, measuring this space in degrees and distance and proportions of exposed skin. He hooked his thumbs into his belt-loops like a jean commercial and leaned back a little, his back flexing slowly, one hand sneaking down to his fly. He unhooked the button, pushed the zip down with the web of his thumb, and she thought of a slide retracting or a syringe filling up, just a thing ready to show its hate to the world, half-cocked.
He turned his profile to her again, and shrugged off his pants in one economical movement. There was another thermal layer underneath, which made her feel strangely cheated, for all it clung tight to his calves and his thighs and -
He twisted, and looked over his shoulder at her as he pulled down the last remaining barrier between her eyes and him, and she smiled sweetly as their eyes met, feeling like her face was pressed against that inner window. She fought to recall that sage thing that Ocelot had tried to tell her, about it being engraving - beauty - that turned a gun into a collector's item, something she'd told him was bullshit because beauty was purely a weapon itself. A steel-jawed trap for her eyes.
He bent at the waist, sliding his underclothes down to his feet. She let him hear her sighing. She hated every curve, every valley between every taut muscle. He kicked his clothes aside and put his hands to his head, raking his fingers through tangled hair, staring a challenge from his eyes to hers. "So aren't you meant to search me now?"
She felt cold pinpricks pressing at her chest, radial, a brittle fracture. She pressed her lips together and walked a slow circle around him, digging her eyes into each crevice in turn, never touching him, never coming close. This, she told herself, is the weapon that killed my brother.
Frankie had been one to admire weapons. He found beauty in their spare elegance. She could admit the same.
"So am I clean?" he asked her, as she walked her third circle.
"Yes," she replied, feeling herself stumble over the affirmative. She pressed her clipboard close to cover the wound. "Why don't you have a seat while I ready your shots?"