Chapter Text
saddled on the small of his spine, ocelot looks the cowboy he masquerades as, boots still pressed into the trim of big boss's bed. beneath him, boss is monolithic and strong, the hills of his wide shoulders dipping to the bar of his stiff spine. he's riddled with narrow, pink-grey scars, pinched marks upon the tapestry of his sun-worn skin that told the story of countless battles. adam recognizes the score of his own bullet, one that had grazed naked snake's back just as he ducked beneath a protruding boulder those decades beforehand. now, it was naught but a memory in the form of a subtle trench. another encircling his flank was likely from shrapnel, a third filmy and taut from an encroaching flame.
but the ones adamska causes himself are his favorite, his most cherished. john only grunts when the press of his cold soviet issue hunting blade finds the nape of his neck, nonplussed. adam draws it's threatening teeth across the valley of boss's heavy shoulders, opening a thin fishline of blood across one powerful rhomboid muscle. the ruby droplets that well to it's surface remind ocelot of tiny crimson stones, or fresh roe.
he's paradoxically gentle when he smooths his bare thumb over the incision and smears the blood in an appraising arc, muddying john's freshly showered scent. the coppery spill is minute, and not enough. it's lurid, stirring, and infantile. ocelot's breath hitches and stutters. he passes the bar of boss's spine, curling the knife at a deft angle. the mean tip splits flesh and fiber, the laceration he makes practiced and considerably deeper than the first. this merits a warm sound ocelot finds utterly delicious, somewhere between moan and grit of pain. the width of the ensuing wound and the waterline of blood sends a wet, aching pulse right to adam's core, stirring fingers in his belly. boss is so gorgeous like this, rose petal red under ocelot's steel kisses.
a third mark splits big boss's flank, where soft fat gathered just above the hill of a buttock obscured under boss's belt and fatigues. blood wets his coarse, dark hairs, trailing the shape of john's musculature to the gravity point of his spine.
by the time adam's done, he's soaked a tarry spot into the groin of his pants, trembling with delight, shallow jumps of the abdomen enunciating the arc of his ribs. he palms the messy canvas of his work, gripping at boss's firm shoulder to keep himself from slipping his wet cunt over any friction form he can find. surely, john could feel just how desperate he was through the barriers between them. big boss is a garden field of scarlet roses and flaking arches, some lacerations wider and deeper than others, all familiar pains.
' adam, ' he gruffs, the sound half swallowed by the mattress beneath them. ' give me the knife. your turn. '
ocelot, ever obedient, obliges. the caretaker in him wants to smooth a cool rag down boss's back, wick up the shed ichor, attentive and kind. he wants to staunch the dribbling flow, disinfect the love marks, rub him with numbing agents and give him a few swigs of sour bourbon. he wants to thread a needle through the deeper marks, knit the rent flesh whole, bite off the sewing wire with his teeth. he wants to take care of him.
but he knew better. the masochist in adam wants john's teeth in his neck, hands bruising his little waist purple before he'd acquiesce the blade.
adam rolls onto his back. boss grips the knife between his teeth, rucking his shirt up to trace his porcelain skin. he presses a hard thumb into the seam of ocelot's abdomen where his womb sat, trailing the field of fine platinum hairs until he finds the protruding bulb of his clit, hard and eager at the apex of his sweet cunt. big boss chuckles, swirling the pad underside to tease at the cleft of him. the knife passes into his unoccupied hand, and ocelot only notices it when the cool steel presses against the forefront of his throat. the idle sighs still to a deathly silence, adam's lips parting around nothing. boss only nicks his kitten, a little red sliver easily passed off as a slip of the hand mid-shave, relishing in the way his narrow chest rises and collapses but a moment later. it was as f he'd been given permission to exist again, to breathe.
' good boy. ' boss hums, hiking the blade to the tail of ocelot's tank top. he slits it straight up the center, leaving only frayed thread hanging between the rifts like cotton guts. his smile settles somewhere between warm affection, and a predators grimace. ocelot says nothing. he only squirms, just enough to remind boss of the position of his other hand. john delivers an open-handed slap to the side of ocelot's inner thigh, hard enough to leave pink half-there impression and little more. the cry that punches from adam is sweet and pitchy, all the more indicative of his amounting need, and waning patience.
' th--.. thank you, sir. ' ocelot swallows his whines. john awards him with a kiss, leaning over his willowy frame to press softly at his throat (the subtle pang of blood and burned in sweat excites him more than he could possibly say, sends a hard throb right through the underside of his stiffening cock).
ocelot is so beautiful, even like this. hell, especially like this. it almost sickened boss, sometimes: he liked sullying pretty things, bruising fruits, muddying waters, yet nothing he did ever seemed to soil adamska forever. he liked that. ocelot was obedient, brilliant, sharp, quick, adaptable, and oh so gorgeous. a pretty boy on his lap was always a good day, but one he trusted? one that would always come back, always warm his bed, always clean his wounds, always lay down for him? that was different. that was special.
in his own way, snake was sure he loved ocelot, and that meant no one else could.
it's easy to split a mark across his belly, then, trailing the contours of his muscle, as sparse as it was. ocelot's groan ruptures through the spaces between his teeth, held precariously until the sting heightens into a clenching ache.
boss drags his chin to adam's abdomen, wetting his beard with the red before mouthing at his wound, like some kind of vampire. (the fleeting thought makes the hair on his neck stiffen. he's seen nosferatu and dracula in his youth, and they'd scared the utter hell out of him. something about the pseudo cannibalism of it all wrapped up in the skin of a man made his stomach churn.)
boss sinks his free hand over adam's groin, tracing the outline of his pretty pussy through his slacks. it provokes the reaction he wanted; messy and red and sticking together like a child's home project, ocelot whimpers, ' boss--john--please, please--Я хочу тебя. Я принадлежу тебе. ' in a rare display of dominance, ocelot leans forward, taking boss by the side of the jaw. he presses his thumb incessantly into the space beneath his lower lip, opposite hand guiding the knife to the apex of his breast bone. one good plunge would land the tip into his heart.
' трахни меня. '