Storytelling gone haywire
All right... this probably needs an explanation.
Fig. 1
Some of these lines are canon, others I made up. See if you can tell them apart, heh.
These characters both fascinate me and crack me up by their interaction. In what short time I've spent in the MGS fandom, I've picked up on a few, er, phenomena pertaining to Ocelot. All of them originated in the actual games, but it seems they've become the stuff of legend since being let out into the open. If I had to make a list of them, they'd be:
Ocelot's acquired taste for torture;
his constant drive to impress Big Boss (see also "That was some fancy shooting");
the supposedly insightful "Why didn't Ocelot take advantage when Big Boss was tied up in MGS3?" question;
Ocelot's infamous cockblock, bullet-block, you-name-it-block when it comes to Big Boss;
and the skill in deception Ocelot profits from later in his life, which he probably didn't learn overnight. (Although, with him, you never know.)
It was a matter of time, really, before I looked at those things and went, "Time to reflect!" And so this happened.
Title: Define Torture
Pairing: Big Boss/Ocelot (Metal Gear Solid)
Rating: NSFW
Summary: It's one thing to be captured on the battlefield, quite another to wind up in a makeshift torture chamber at the hands of your unreasonably attached ex-rival who can't make up his mind about the procedure. 80% serious, 20% crack.
Word Count: ~2,300
Notes: Contains a kind of "Easter eggs" in terms of phrasing, as I clearly have the Voice of Godjima lodged somewhere in my subconscious. Set between Snake Eater and the San Hieronymo Takeover. Location classified.
Warnings: Unclear consent, mild violence (you know, just the quintessential amount), GUN-TWIRLING. :P
Disclaimer: Metal Gear Solid belongs to Hideo Kojima & Konami. I make no profit and intend no copyright infringement.
Define Torture
“I did say we would meet again.”
His first realization - and a relief, too - was that no serious injury had been done to him. The second was less uplifting: there were ropes tied around his wrists, unconnected, each stretching his arm in a different direction to hold him upright. A perfect torture position, he suspected immediately; he tried to move his arms about, but it was no use. Not to mention he knew that voice, and just its association with the current arrangement caused him to grumble, “No way...”
“What's the matter, Snake? Big Boss? Although I prefer John, personally.”
It was Ocelot. He had his set of guns all right, spinning them in an indulgent fashion that was downright irritating to look at, especially for a man with his range of movement severely restricted. “Snake's fine,” the prisoner replied.
“All right, Snake,” was Ocelot's answer with a hint of a smile playing about his mouth. He was now approaching in careful slow steps, his hands still a dizzying swirl of motion. “It's just the two of us again.” He tilted his head, surveying Snake through narrowed eyes, his signature red beret contrasting sharply with the dungeon's insipid grey.
“Still wearing that thing? Went better with your old outfit, I'm afraid.” Not that Ocelot wasn't sporting a fine uniform this time, even if slightly less ostentatious than the one Snake had first seen him in during that godforsaken mission. Where exactly did his allegiances lie now?
As if intercepting his train of thought, Ocelot allowed his hands to grind to a halt, leaving his gun-toys hanging off whatever finger they happened to be on when momentum wore off. “I'm here on no mission.”
“Not a mission? Why the ropes and weapons, then?”
For a second, Ocelot seemed almost ashamed. Then he shrugged and dropped his revolvers to the floor; they landed with a couple sinister clicks. Another step brought him to less than a metre within Snake's vicinity.
“Careful you don't ruin your immaculate uniform if you don't stay right where you are,” Snake said in a tone of mock-concern. “I'd hate to bear the weight of such an atrocity for the rest of my life, Adamska.”
For a second it looked as if Ocelot were about to burst out laughing, but soon his countenance regained its businesslike smoothness as he deliberately moved even closer. “I appreciate your concern,” he all but purred, and Snake fought the urge to scoff at the ridiculous resemblance this proud officer momentarily had to his codename. But his amusement faded as soon as Ocelot raised his hand towards that cap of his, a strange glint in his eyes. “I'm grateful for your advice, as you know,” he glanced at the discarded revolvers, “since it has proven useful before. So, you don't like my choice of accessory?” With a kind of near-reverence, he bared his head in front of Snake. “I'd better put it someplace you don't have to look at it, then.” With that, he settled the beret on top of Snake's head.
“Ocelot!”
“I hope that's better,” the officer rejoined. Snake knew before anything else had a chance to happen that these petty jokes were barely the start - nothing would shock him anymore about this clearly obsessive, conceited, dangerous gunslinger of a major. Nothing, that is, until Ocelot fell to his knees before him with a fixed stare and an assurance, “As for my uniform, I promise it won't be the principal focus of the next few minutes. Relax and forget about it.”
And Ocelot's fingers were on his belt. The button of his trousers, then the zipper, pulled down, further in, and Snake felt the other's breath on the just exposed skin. For his part, Snake could only gasp when Ocelot's breath became lips, lips became tongue, tongue became a slide further in. He was soon channelling Ocelot's advice to relax, if quite in spite of himself. This wasn't about norms or expectations; there was nothing that could disqualify Ocelot's temporary hold on him, the reality of their touch. They were no different from each other here. There was no contradiction.
He could struggle all he wanted against the bonds, but it was no use - he could barely tell the difference between the ropes locked around his wrists and the iron grip Ocelot kept on him. There would be bruises on his hips for certain. In grudging acquiescence, Snake felt the rising heat, could already tell he would not last long. He gave a few more half-hearted shoves at the ropes he was quickly losing consciousness of, tried to shake himself free...
There was silence.
When he looked down, Ocelot was staring at him with a self-satisfied little grin. His fly was still undone, and a fresh mess to boot. Snake could feel his heart rate returning to normal, which didn't help much with the fact that his entire body was sensitive - strung up, literally and sarcastically. He could all but hear Ocelot say it.
Still smirking, Ocelot rocked back and forth on his heels, no doubt uncomfortable but betraying not the slightest trace of it. Once a seemingly uncontrolled - carefully orchestrated, of course - swing forward almost caused him to land face-first in Snake's crotch, and he faked a last-minute grab on to Snake's legs to prevent such gracelessness. Lips brushing against the pubic hair, he whispered with a vengeance, “Sucks not to be in control, doesn't it, Big Boss?”
The only reason Snake didn't knee him in the face was his own intense disorientation. Come to think of it, how long had it been since he had last drunk? He had indeed been trained to survive, but under the present circumstances, dehydration was far from a welcome option. He needed to keep his wits about him, if nothing else. Passing out would hardly qualify.
Not that Ocelot cared. Pulling away a fraction, he ran his hands up Snake's thighs, hips, abdomen, chest, standing up himself as he went. He stepped back as if to admire his handiwork. Snake stood there sagging in his bonds, quietly contemplating how scathing a one-eyed glare he could produce.
“Don't tell me that's left you speechless,” Ocelot remarked nonchalantly.
Finally coming to, Snake shook his head in defiance, “You wish.”
It seemed that Ocelot had predicted the retort, for he showed no sign of being offended by the other's ever-sharp tongue. Instead, he approached Snake again, but this time his tread didn't stop where it had before. Snake gave an involuntary twitch as Ocelot glided over behind him. The first and vital battlefield rule was to keep the enemy in his sights; having someone like Ocelot pressed to his back while his own hands were tied, his trousers unzipped and his eyesight reduced to half its former scope was positively the most incriminating situation Snake could imagine himself in. And as far as eyesight was concerned...
“I'm sorry,” Ocelot breathed, gently sliding his palm over Snake's good eye.
He still had his fucking gloves on, the bastard. Fine leather. Snake did his utmost not to betray his apprehension, but he'd bet money on Ocelot's horribly improving ability to read him. Unless he assumed Snake was the type to enjoy this, in which he'd be fatally mistaken.
“You don't seem to be protesting much,” said Ocelot with disturbing clairvoyance. The guy had an uncanny knack for getting to him, Snake had to give him that.
“That's because I'm no whining rookie.”
Snake felt Ocelot's hand cramp, and then his vision - or what was left of it, anyway - was unobstructed again. Well, this was entertaining. “Why the conviction I meant you, Adamska?” he asked with false sincerity. If he was going to get abused by an officer with a hard-on and an unsettling penchant for drawn-out torture, he might as well have a laugh himself.
The only strange thing was that Ocelot didn't seem very keen on the abuse. He unquestionably had the upper hand and wasn't putting it to more use than pressing Snake's body to his with it. They both knew what Ocelot wanted, so what was with all these reservations?
“Right, it would be so easy that way, John. Leave you tied up and have my way with you.” Disengaging himself, Ocelot moved to the side, slowly returning to stand before the prisoner again. There was only the barest tremor of hesitation when he kissed Snake on the mouth, lips closed. He leant his forehead against Snake's briefly, drawing a sharp breath as he did so. Snake tensed instinctively. If seeing Ocelot stride towards him juggling two guns had made a daunting picture, then this opaque reluctance took the tension to another level entirely.
The lull lasted for just several seconds, though. Ocelot raised his gaze again, then cast it down - and with curt, impersonal movements began to button up Snake's trousers. His fingers were infinitely clumsier than Snake remembered them ever handling a weapon.
“Surprised?” Ocelot nearly snarled. His voice was steadily rising even as he reached into Snake's command vest to steal the captive's knife. “You're standing there, wondering why I don't indulge the rest of my sick urges and get it over with, like there was no respect between us. Torture--” he slashed with the knife above their heads, cutting one of the ropes in half, “or mindless rape, where's the difference?” The remaining rope was sliced; Snake's right arm painfully resumed its natural position. But he stood stock-still as Ocelot continued: “Could be you or some anonymous recruit kid who's too intimidated to fight back. Suppose that's why I bother? That's how I want it? What kind of man do you think I am?”
They faced each other across scarce centimetres. Then it dawned on Snake he could finally move again, and he acted as impulse commanded.
He grabbed Ocelot by the shoulders and kissed him.
In an instant he'd forced his way past the other's lips, wholly on account of shock value. He wasn't sure what he was doing until Ocelot recovered enough to respond. Snake spread his fingers on Ocelot's back, crushing them both together, only half-aware Ocelot was doing the same. The kiss was utter chaos. For a pair of highly effective killers, they were far from coordinated in this whatever was even going on.
Snake pulled away and there was no doubt about it: he could see it plain as day in the major's feverish gaze, Ocelot's untold attraction to him. With confirmation, Snake realized he was quite above feigning surprise or putting up a token show of revulsion. In a way, it was flattering someone of Ocelot's skill and arrogance idolized him so shamelessly. Moreover, it was Ocelot whose expression was one of undisguised shellshock, as though he didn't believe the past few minutes had actually happened.
It was a pity when the moment broke.
Taking Ocelot completely off guard, Snake seized him by the now rumpled uniform and forced him several steps backwards, walking with certainty himself to compensate for Ocelot's unsteady fumbling. At last they made it to the lockers by the far wall; Ocelot's back collided with the surface with a thud as Snake unscrupulously rammed him against it. Ocelot gave a ragged yelp at the impact, clearly caught between enjoyment and confusion. Snake's movements, ingrained with training to be as familiar as the appendages dealing them, ran ahead of his mind when he struck once more and twisted Ocelot around, face to door with the locker they stood against.
“Dammit!”
He grasped both of Ocelot's wrists and pinned them down on either side of the man's head; he spread Ocelot's feet apart with his boots. Unmindful of propriety or any of the burning contact sensation, Snake used this all to press himself closer. He had Ocelot effectively trapped.
Their breath came hard and unsynchronized, adding to all the awkwardness. They were both sweaty, encased in sticky fabric; every seam, button or buckle digging into the flesh beneath with heightened urgency. Snake had to try his best not to lean his head on the back of Ocelot's moist neck as he spoke, “You cut those bonds rather than take full advantage, even though you obviously wanted to. You prefer free will to coercion with those you respect. Does you credit.” He loosened his hold temporarily, only to spin Ocelot around again, bringing their faces together. It was evident the man was shaken, otherwise he would never have been so unresisting to Snake's CQC.
In fact, shaken was a slight understatement. Ocelot's eyes were still glazed, his normally pale skin flushed with random reddish stains; he apparently suffered from the inelegant sort of blushing. His breathing had not calmed - on the contrary, his whole body resembled a coiled spring in desperate need of releasing. Or a bomb seconds before detonation.
Snake straightened up. “You keep getting better.” Confident Ocelot wouldn't escape in the upcoming few seconds, he reached for the beret still perched on his head like some sort of territory marker. “But there's still something you should take to heart if you ever hope to have your way.” He returned the cap to Ocelot, settling it on his head where it belonged. “Integrity isn't always rewarded.”
*
Snake's footsteps faded in the distance. The room still smelt of him - or merely of the situation, but that made little difference to Ocelot as he stood by the locker just where Snake had left him. His sweaty, smelly clothes were cooling against his cramped chest, his belly, crotch and thighs; everywhere John had touched there was thin air. Why, ruined was precisely the word. With a pang of humiliation, Ocelot defied shivering. Was he never going to best this man? He should have kept him restrained - he would have - if that was any way to fight Big Boss. Frustrated, infuriated, Ocelot let his back slide down the dampened locker door.
“You filthy American...” he tried, not meaning it.