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They’d found each other after everything that happened in Operation: Snake Eater. Snake had thought that’d he’d managed to run far enough, fast enough, so that nobody would ever be able to get a hold of him ever again. He wanted nothing from the American government anymore, especially after everything they’d put him through. They’d betrayed his trust, stolen his mentor from him and the world, and sent him on a wild goose chase for money.
That’s all it ever came down to, wasn’t it? Money.
Snake was angry, disillusioned, distrustful of the world. Which is why, when Ocelot had appeared on his doorstep one morning, almost a year after they’d last seen each other, he threw him to the floor and demanded to know who’d sent him.
Little did he know that three weeks later he’d be waking up in his cabin to the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen...
He opened his eye and looked to the clock happily ticking away on the bedside table. 7 am. So much for a lie in.
He swung his legs out of the bed and stretched, his stomach giving a growl as the pleasant smell of fried bacon wafted through his nostrils. He stood, scratched.
Looking around him, he took in the aftermath of the night before. Spurred boots, one near the door to the room, one closer to the bed; red scarf flung over the headboard; jacket hanging off the foot of the bed.
He pulled on a pair of black boxers, slipped his feet into his slippers, and made his way to the kitchen.
He’d already growled out a “mornin’” before he stopped in his tracks and took in the sight before him. Ocelot’s back was red and angry with scratches, his neck was covered with nearly black hickies. Snake’s eye lingered on him for a second more before he took his seat at the small wooden table. He admired the dip in his back that disappeared, teasingly, into his trousers; the small bows about his waist and neck letting Snake know that he was wearing the apron. He hummed in approval.
Ocelot turned his head to look at Snake, face angry. But then when didn’t he look angry? He glared for a second, before returning his attention to frying breakfast.
Snake didn’t know what he’d done wrong, and frankly he was still too sleepy to care, but he’d obviously pissed the other man off. Which wasn’t exactly a difficult task. He grumbled.
A plate was unceremoniously plopped on the table in front of him, clattering loudly. On it was two pieces of bacon, two sausages, a tomato and a fried egg... sunny side up.
“Eat,” was all that was said before he was gone again, walking to the sink to start washing up.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.
“Already have,” was the curt response.
Snake wolfed down his breakfast a little too eagerly, before he lent back in his chair, a long sigh escaping him. “Okay, I’ll bite. What have I done now?”
A pan clanged against the metal sink as Ocelot dropped it. He spun around, the white apron twirling with him. He had suds on his hands.
Cute.
“I can’t put on a shirt,” was the cryptic answer.
Snake, as oblivious as usual, parroted “can’t put on a shirt?”
Ocelot huffed, crossing his arms, and leaned backward against the counter. “You were...” he paused, trying to find the right word, “...overzealous.”
Snake clocked on, grabbed a cigar and lighter from across the table. He lit it, took a long, deep breath in from it and paused, leaning back once more in the chair. He eyed Ocelot and exhaled. “Seemed to enjoy it last night.”
Ocelot straightened, puffing up, as if he were a cat with its hackles raised. His ears burned red. “That is not the point,” he spat.
Snake closed his eye, taking another drag from the cigar and humming. “I think it is.”
Ocelot launched forward, grabbing Snake by the hair and bearing his teeth at him. “You filthy-” he couldn’t finish his sentence before Snake blew smoke in his face and he was coughing, grip falling from his hair. Not the most threatening of actions.
“Turn around,” Snake commanded gruffly.
“How dare you-”
“Adam.”
He twitched at the name, the blush creeping down to grace his high cheekbones with a lovely pink colour. He tutted, but complied.
Snake hummed in acknowledgement, taking another drag from his cigar. He stood, wordlessly, and walked to the bedroom, Ocelot eyeing him all the time.
When he returned he was without his cigar, but instead with a bottle of antiseptic. He took his seat again, and patted his thigh. “Sit.”
Ocelot looked like he was about to protest, but Snake’s gaze was firm, demanding. So he sat, back to Snake, on his left thigh.
Snake popped open the antiseptic and smeared some on his fingers. “It’s cold,” he grumbled, before pressing his fingers against one of the scratches on Ocelot’s back. Said man arched away from the touch, hissing. But his head whipped around to give Snake a death glare when he called him a baby.
A few minutes passed, Snake carefully working the antiseptic over the many, many scratches across Ocelot’s back. He listened to the small noises that the man on his leg made. The hisses that gave way to gasps, the grunts that gave way to mewls. And it wasn’t long before Ocelot was shifting on him, grinding his hips down, seeking friction on his clothed, hardening cock. He was breathless, moaning Snake’s name, unabashedly rocking his against his thigh.
Snake pressed his fingers into one of the more impressive scratches on his back and Ocelot keened, curling forward and thrusting down.
“You really get off on this, huh?” Snake asked, a chuckle bubbling deep in his chest.
“Fuck you,” Ocelot whispered, still moving his hips.
Snake hummed, amused at the poor comeback. He stood without warning, Ocelot scrabbling to stay on his feet.
Again, he was about to protest, but instead looked down and saw the outline of Snake’s half hard cock straining against the fabric of his boxers. His eyes flicked back up to Snake’s face, the toothy grin that bloomed there.
They kissed hungrily, hands caressing, feet moving them toward the bedroom. There was laughter in the air by the time they reached the bed, naked and hot.
They could get used to this...
If the world allowed it.