When the door slams open, Ocelot is standing on its threshold, hair disheveled, breath short, his face red from running. He moves his eyes through the room, wandering from the bag of doctor tools sitting on John's desk, to the nurse kneeled next to it, then stopping on John himself, who sits in front of her, wincing as she runs a needle through the open wound in his arm.
“You’re hurt,” Ocelot says.
John doesn’t answer. He winces again when the nurse pierces back into his skin, forcing her to straighten back his arm and roll her eyes to the ceiling. He whispers something, but she just shakes her head. “You can trust me, I’ve done this before,” John says louder.
“I’ve seen the fine job you have done before,” the nurse says, lowering the needle again just as John takes it between his fingers and out of her hands. Snorting, she straightens herself up, throwing all the medicals tools back in her bag and a roll of bandage on John’s lap.
“Sure he has done it before,” she mutters, passing Ocelot on her way to the door. “Doesn’t mean he has done it right.”
Ocelot shrinks his shoulders imperceptibly as she walks by, only relaxing again when the door clicks close behind him. Then, he raises his back taller, pumps his chest, lifts his hands up in a flamboyant gesture and says, “So even the great Big Boss fucks up sometimes!”
He scoffs, looking sideways for John’s reaction, but John ignores him and keep stitching his arm himself, gnashing his teeth as he pulls on the thread.
Ocelot’s eyes narrow in annoyance. He walks toward him, his theatrical display of surprise starting once again. “Wasn’t this supposed to be an easy infiltration, John?” He lowers his voice, imitating John’s dismissive tone, “‘Just a couple of documents, I’ll be back in two days. They won’t even notice I was there’, you said. Well, John, it’s been five days and I’m pretty sure they noticed.”
“There were complications,” John mutters, holding the end of the bandage roll with his teeth as he unwraps it over his arm.
“There are always complications, John. I thought they called you ‘Big’ for your ability to breeze past them.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
“With a two days delay and a knife wound in your arm!” Ocelot says, lowering his head at John’s level, letting his words land directly on his face.
John tucks the loose end of the bandage around his arm, then raises his gaze to finally meet Ocelot’s eyes.
“You are getting slow, John. Old.” Ocelot grins. “There’s maybe still a couple of years left before I’ll have to spoon-feed you applesauce, but your reflexes are not what they used to b—”
The last letter is lost in a scream.
John has suddenly grabbed him by his shoulders, pulled him up and then slammed him face down on the desk, papers and stationery fly all over the floor. "They are still better than yours," he says.
Ocelot squirms, his head still spinning from being turned around so fast. He tries to grab his nose to regain balance, but he finds both his arms blocked: John is pinning one of them on his back, twisting the elbow just enough for it to be painful to move; the other one is tucked under him, blocked under his own weight and John’s pressure. He lifts his leg to kick him away, but John is faster and stops him with his knee. Cursing in frustration, Ocelot groans at John’s laugh. He spins his head sideway to snarl at him, then notices the box cutter that has landed inches from his face, just next to the fallen pen holder.
"Try it and I'm breaking your arm," John says.
"Did I ever care?" Ocelot wiggles his body, trying to pull his arm out from under him.
"I’ll break your wrist, then, if you don’t stop."
Ocelot scoffs, his arm sliding further out, “Empty threats won’t—”
“Try me, Ocelot,” John interrupts him. “I’m a trained soldier, I act on impulse.”
With a last push, Ocelot’s hands finally jerks out from under him, dashing toward the cutter; it stops midair for a brief second before drooping lifeless over the table.
"It always has to be a fight with you, huh?" John grunts.
"How else am I supposed to have fun?"
"You could try relaxing sometimes," John says. He leans forward, brushing Ocelot’s scarf aside with his chin to land a kiss on the nape of his neck.
Caught by surprise, Ocelot moans, immediately trying to cover the sound by slapping his free hand over his mouth. "I am relaxed, J—"he starts between his open fingers, but squeezes them together again as John’s thumb presses in the middle of his back, sending chills of pleasure along his nerves. "I don’t understand why—" His voice is cut once more as the finger moves to trace his spine, making him arch toward John’s mouth, that is now nibbling on the soft skin on his neck.
John’s answer is lost in his mumbling. He slides one hand over Ocelot’s collar, throwing his scarf away, unbuttoning his jacket then tucking his hand inside his shirt; he follows the line of his arm and shoulder back to his neck, then follows the lines of his collarbones down to one of nipples, enjoying Ocelot’s moans as he pinches and twists it.
Ocelot’s legs are shaking. His dick is pushing harder against the desk, his erection growing with each of John’s movements, and John’s own cock is rocking against his ass, sliding along the cleft between his buttcheeks, guiding him in the same motion as his crotch rubs against the wooden surface he is pressed on. His skin is burning, his head light. He bites his fingers, briefly regaining focus but then losing it again when John’s teeth sink in his neck. John’s thumb is now pushing between his shoulderblades, and Ocelot is moaning again with each push.
“John,” he calls him softly.
John doesn’t answer. He slides a hand down Ocelot’s hip, following his stomach to the belt holding his jacket close, fumbling to open it.
“John—” Ocelot calls him again, louder, and again there is no answer. He has thrown Ocelot’s belt to the side, making it fall unceremoniously on the floor and has now untucked the shirt from his pants, sliding a hand under it and past his hips, tracing the lines of his muscles before moving down his navel to follow the light path of hair down to his groin. He runs his thumb on the brim of his boxers, follows his hipbones down his inner thighs, then rises again palming his crotch, ruffling his pubes with his thumb as the softness of his belly grows harder under his finger and his hand slides to wrap around his c—
“Goddammit, John!” This time Ocelot yells. He flips around so quickly he sends John staggering back.
“What?” John asks, breathing heavily, his voice even deeper than usual. He runs his forearm across his mouth to clean it of his own saliva.
Ocelot frowns. He pins his hands on the desk, lifting himself up again as he glares at John, his clothes all disheveled, his hair all ruffled. Panting. There is red on cheeks, his parted lips trembling along his ragged breathing. When he opens his mouth to speak, he finds his voice failing him, and his expression turns even angrier, a low, growling noise rising from his throat.
“I see.” John laughs. He walks back to him, ignoring Ocelot’s cold stare to cup his cheeks in his hands. They burn hot from embarrassment on his skin. He traces his cheekbones with his thumb and drags him forward in a kiss.
Ocelot’s lips open on their own as his tongue slides between them. The tension in their bodies melts. Soon, Ocelot takes control of the kiss, moving his hands around John’s waist to push him closer as his legs straddle him. “I was worried,” he says, pulling away for air. “About you.”
“Worried, huh?” John says, running his thumb across Ocelot’s lips to them from their spit. “And here I thought you ran all the way to my office because… because you had forgotten your cowboy hat or something.”
“You are shit at sarcasm.” Ocelot’s lips curve upward at their corner, despite the coldness of his tone. “Your timing is awful." He slides his hands off John’s side, lowering himself on the desk again and raising his legs to nudge his foot against John’s arm as if asking him to remove his boots.
“They look good on you, though,” Ocelot says, as the first one lands on the floor with a thump.
His eyes rolling to the ceiling, John throws the other boot away then moves to fumble with his belt. “I see you are not worried anymore,” he says. He slides his pants down just as Ocelot kicks his down on the floor.
“I was right about that being a knife wound, wasn’t I?” Ocelot asks, taking off his gloves to feel John’s skin as he traces the lines of the bandage with his fingers. Other scars mark his skin, some as new as the now covered one. “How deep is it?”
John shakes his head. “This isn't the right moment for—”
“Is there a better one?”
“Maybe when I’m not trying to keep my dick hard.”
“What about my dick, John?” Ocelot chuckles at John's groaning. He stretches over the desk, twisting his body around to reach inside the drawer for a bottle that he promptly launches over to John, before turning to him again. He looks at John squeezing the lube over his fingers, tapping idly his foot in midair as he studies him, thinking.
“Are all those combat wounds or did they manage to capture you?” he asks eventually.
John’s hand pushes on his chest to lie him flat on the desk again. “Not trying to get inspiration, are you?”
“If that’s torture, John, it’s a shitty job,” Ocelot says, his naked legs spread open to allow him between them. “The pattern is all wrong. Too random.” He continues, ignoring John’s grunting. “You see, there are specific patterns you need to follow if you want to maximize—” his voice breaks. John’s lubed fingers is sliding down his erection, tracing the soft skin between his balls to reach his opening. “—both the physical and psychological damage. You cannot just cut—”
All his muscles tense as John’s index pries him open.
“Stop talking or I swear I’m leaving you like this.”
Ocelot chuckles. He wraps his arms around John’s neck, lowering him closer so that his mouth is on his ear. “I thought you liked torture, John,” he says, pushing himself down on the finger inside him. “Isn’t that what you always do to me, being so fucking slow?”
“Gentle,” John grunts, “not slow.”
Ocelot chuckles. He scans each world clearly, making sure John can feel his hot breath crawling inside his ear, “I like when I can feel it the day after.”
“I like when you can walk day after,” John says, but slides another finger next to the one already inside. Ocelot arches his back further with a low moan, and grabs John’s hair to haul himself on them.
John’s hand moves around his neck, tracing its lines with the thumb, pressing down on his windpipe and cutting his breath just enough for Ocelot’s voice to increase in pitch, his already leaking cock bumping on his stomach with each single movement.
“For God’s sake, John, just fuck me!” Ocelot growls.
Shaking his head again, John takes his fingers out, placing the head of his cock in their place; slowly, he squeezes his own ass forward, gently prying Ocelot’s entrance open. His hands travel along Ocelot’s inner thighs just as he lifts his legs to wrap them around him, sliding his feet against John’s tense muscles. There is a smirk on his face when, without warning, he tightens his grasp, forcing John’s erection suddenly inside him.
“Dammit, Ocelot—” John moans. He bites his lips, almost considering pulling out again and leaving him there. When Ocelot starts moving on him, however, the thought clears his mind and he launches himself forward again, pinning Ocelot’s arms down on the table as he rams in him with all his strength. There is a twisted smile on Ocelot’s face between his moaning and panting, his face all red, his sounds more and more high pitched as John thrusts inside him — eyes closed — sinking his fingers in his wrists.
“John!” Ocelot calls him, his voice pleading and broken. He twists his elbow out, trying to get John to let him go, but John is not paying attention and his weight and strength combined are too much for Ocelot to fight. “John, my wrists!” he calls again. “You’re hurting me.”
Mumbling apologies, John moves his hands to his shoulder using it to push him against his erection. Groaning, Ocelot massages his wrists, then braces on the desk again. John’s other hand moves to his cock, stroking its head with his thumb, then teasing the round opening at the top, spreading the precum along the length to help his strokes grow sleeker.
“Fuck,” Ocelot curses. John’s fingers are digging in his shoulder, and the strokes on his cock, perfectly timed with John's cock hitting deeper and deeper inside him, move too fast for him, clouding his head and cutting his breath. "Fuck, John," he says again, bringing his hand back to his mouth, biting his fingers to keep himself from coming too early. "Slow down!”
He doesn’t. Moaning and cursing, Ocelot's back arches away from the desk as his teeth dig further in his fingers and he tries to distract him from his building climax. His brain feels light, he cannot control it anymore. John's thumb is still teasing the head of his cock, and his hips are mindlessly thrusting towards it. Cursing again, he digs his nail in John's forearms as he comes over himself and John's own hand. His orgasm is quick, but sharp and when he is done his nails have moved to bite into the wood he is laying onto, his own voice still echoing in his ears.
Without slowing down, John moves his cum-covered hand on Ocelot’s jaw, prying his mouth open and sliding his fingers inside. Ocelot’s tongue twirls around them, licking the semen off it; then he sucks deeper on them, making obscene noises as he calls his name over and over again. Panting, John sinks his teeth in Ocelot’s neck, grabbing his shoulders with all his strength to push him down his cock to come inside him, growling against his skin as Ocelot squeezes his ass along with each squirt.
Slowly, John slides his head down to rest on Ocelot’s stomach. He closes his eyes, allowing the rhythm of their painting to lull him in his daze. Under him, Ocelot’s muscles start to relax, his legs slide down the desk, brushing against John’s as they dangle down idly.
“You hurt me.” Ocelot pouts, twisting his arm around to make the blood flow again.
Still out of breath, John rises to give him a puzzled look, “I thought you liked it rough.”
A low moan of pleasure rises from Ocelot’s throat as he squeezes his shoulder and pain spreads through his body. “I wasn’t complaining.”
Perplexed, John shakes his head once more, but there’s a smile on his face as he leans in to kiss him, their mouths opening and closing along with the gentle rhythm of their tongues.
“Ouch,” John cries suddenly. He pulls back on instinct, but finds his bottom lip caught between Ocelot’s teeth. When he looks at him, he finds him smirking, staring at him in the eyes, the skin between his eyebrows slightly furrowed as if he was trying to keep his eyebrows from scrunching together.
“Don’t get hurt next time,” he says.
John scoffs, then laughs. He reaches on the desk again, grabbing a napkin to clean his cum-covered hand, then rummages in the drawer for his cigar and lighter.
Annoyed, Ocelot waves towards the door. “Those things reek, go smoke outside!”
“It’s my office,” John says a bit hurt, but when he finds them he simply lifts his pants up and waddles away, pushing the cigar between his teeth.
Now alone, Ocelot leans backs again. The paper cutter is still lying inches from his face, while the pen holder has rolled all the way to the border of the desk. He flicks it forward with his finger, giggling as it falls down on the floor. Around him, documents are still neatly piled, the ones that John had just brought back stacked on top, unopened, uncensored. He is not allowed to read them, of course, but then, he thinks as he grabs the first folder, John had to be pretty dense to leave them within his reach if he didn’t want him to have a look.
He pulls on folder up, slides his hands on its cover. As he tucks his finger inside to open it, however, he finds himself hesitating. He stares at it for some time, tapping his feet in midair again, lost in thoughts. Then, without looking, he throws it back on top of the pile.
For once, it didn’t seem the right time to betray John’s trust.