Work Text:
Tap. Click. Scratch.
Scratch. Click. Tap.
Again and again, this cadence assaults Ocelot’s ears. Until he’s turning around in the seat, removing his headset to snarl quietly. “Unless you’re going to start taking notes in Morse Code, would you knock it off?”
The pen scratches more harshly against the paper, thick with ink and spite. Taunting him.
“How long does it take to write four lines, Miller?” Its God knows what hour, Snake’s been radio silent for a while (probably catching some sleep in a safe spot with DD carefully on guard) and if he hears that scratching one more time.
“Do another line if it’s bothering you so much” Kaz hisses defiantly, staring down at the paper Ocelot knows damned well he can barely see. “Some of us are working here.”
“Yes, I wear the headset for aesthetic purposes only.” Ocelot drawls, tired. “I told you before I can-“
He dodges the pen chucked at his ear, the attempted attack going wide and off-kilter dramatically. It’s not even close. His lip twitches as it falls to the ground with a short ‘clatter’ of plastic.
“Read the numbers out to you.” Ocelot finishes, undeterred. The answering growl the excuse Ocelot takes to rise from his chair, wheels scraping against the floor and taking the two steps next to Kaz’s desk, kicking the leg of his own chair to spin him halfway around.
“Fuck off, Ocelot.” Making no attempt to shove him back. He bends, low, and plucks the glasses straight from his nose. “If you won’t let me read to you, then let them out to play.”
Black ink rises and sparks below his skin, starting its web-like crawl across Kaz’s face. Ocelot has yet to tire of watching it happen. Watch them spring to life and create something new and sharp with their host. Bringing bright purple life to the rims of his clouded irises, tiny gold flecks near invisible and interspersed with lightly glowing blue.
“Hello darlings.” Ocelot purrs, running a fingertip down the deepest line from the corner of his left eye, all the way down to the jaw.
“Fucking hell, shut up.” Kaz croaks. “Must you be so weird all the time?”
“Must you pretend you don’t like it every time?” Tapping the desk, using the same leg to spin Kaz back round to finish his paperwork. “Go on, then, Commander. Finish your pretty little number sorting.” Heading for the doorway. Ignoring the grumbling squeak (Kaz vehemently denies he squeaks, but Ocelot has recordings) as he departs.
They’re confined to the comms office until Snake returns, since missions change on a dime. (And at the behest of Snake’s whims). But Kaz is putting his accounting work off to the ‘done’ pile by the time he’s stepping back inside. Tiny little purple and black embers dancing around the short stack, some flicking between notebook pages to feed information to their ornery host.
One of the trails finds its way to the door, Ocelot extending his hand to let them crawl up his arm, greeting them casually. They circle his neck, predictably. Check to make sure the marking remains, and flutter back in a small cloud to rest back with Kaz.
“All in working order.” Sliding elegantly to the floor in front of Kaz’s chair, holding out a cigarette, gripped in red leather. “Go on.”
Kaz sighs, fond, despite himself; fumbles for a lighter and ignites the tip. Lines of black pulsing gently, languidly, against his face. Ocelot flips the newly lit cigarette around, reaches up enough to slide the end between his lips, watch Kaz take a long drag while he holds it steady.
“Think they’ll tolerate a shave?” Noting the overgrown hair around his chin that he sees Kaz scratching periodically throughout the day.
“They’ll manage” Ocelot rising to his feet, leaving the cigarette between his lips, making for the shaving kit. “Got water?”
“What do you take me for?” Tapping the bowl of hot water he’d brought back with him. Only schmucks came unprepared.
He’s still smoking idly when Ocelot begins rubbing shaving cream against his jaw, down his neck, leather-clad hands and fingers catching at minute cuts and scrapes.
Beneath, the parasites rise to the sensation; Ocelot can feel them moving below his fingertips.
A deep, radiating sigh emits from Kaz, cracking his neck when he leans back and pillows his head against Ocelot’s stomach. Eyes closed to avoid the overhead lights.
“Cozy?” Plucking the cigarette from rosy lips, takes it between his own, slightly off to the side.
“Mm. Don’t slit my throat” Aware of the light flick of the straight razor being freed from it’s folded over position.
“Don’t test me, then.” Airy and light, slightly teasing and a little more dangerous than it would be from anyone else. Kaz shivers when he feels those warm fingers loosening his tie, unbuttoning his shirt collar. For a moment, Ocelot indulges and caresses his bared throat through the worn tips of his gloves. Until he retreats, only to follow up with the lightly scratchy fabric of a towel, draped over the skin he’s not shaving.
“Or do, could be fun.”
“Like you need any excuse for fun.” Scent of smoke and shaving cream, recently oiled and sharpened blade all mingling beneath Kaz’s nose, creating a myriad of scents that congest and caress.
Tenses when the blade sits at his jaw, the parasites briefly rising to the metal, pulling back and away only when Kaz clicks his tongue, feels Ocelot bending over his own face, nose to nose.
His fingers slip into the foam-covered skin, slide to the clean space around his lips, force them to part just so.
Smoke fills his sinuses, down his mouth, Ocelot bending lower, lower, until he’s expelling some of the cigarette smoke into waiting mouth. Kaz inhaling on instinct and quick reflex; shivering when in the same moment Ocelot drags the blade up. A slow, barely-there touch that nevertheless makes him tremble in his seat.
For a moment, there’s the slow drag of Ocelot retreating to inhale anew, bend and share more smoke. On the third, he seals their mouths together, holds the blade taught and teases Kaz’s tongue with his own, forcing him to relax further, sink into the depths of sensation and feeling, rather than pain and annoyance.
True to form, irritability ebbs away when Ocelot pulls back, drags the blade back up, and let’s the butt fall to the floor below.
“That’s littering.” Kaz’s voice hoarse when he speaks, soothed by smoke. Rough hands and sharp scrapes.
“For shame, going to write me up, Commander?”
He leans into the blade, black lines illuminating the foam to a light smoky grey. “Absolutely, make you bend over and pick it back up, walk it all the way to the bin.”
Ocelot has an odd laugh, one that changes with the moment. It can be both humoured and cruel. Now, it’s slight and amused, like the tiny chuckle he’ll have when something’s genuinely pleased him. All facet’s aligned in a way he appreciates.
Against the slide of the blade, there’s tiny little crackles. Sparklers of sensation that they relax into, Kaz’s head more firmly plastered to the strong-if slight-torso.
Ocelot’s been humming, periodically. Nonsense tunes of nothing that calm him, continue to meld his pain away. When he draws his other hand down to wrap about the back of the neck and give a squeeze, Kaz moans deep and gratified, letting him work each and every stubborn knot free.
“Shit.” Muttering quietly, eyelids fluttering. Another hum, pleased, as Ocelot sets the blade aside, wipes it clean.
He’s wearing perfume, Kaz notes. A slightly flowery scent with an underlying spritz of something more citrus. Odd combination, but pleasant. Newly bare faced, he removes the towel but motions for Kaz to stand. He does, lets him remove the trench coat, undo the gun holster, set it aside. It clatters gently against the radio table.
Ocelot seems to be considering something, gestures to the table, “Bend over a little? Rest your hand against it, flat."
“Your come-on need some work” Kaz snorts but complies. Only to let out an undignified whine when Ocelot brings a gloved hand around his front, taunts the fingertips to Kaz’s teeth. He bites, uses the momentum to pull the glove free, let it drop to the table. Does the same to other and sighs.
Not given much time to consider it before Ocelot moves that hand behind him again, pushes against his shoulder, near the cuts just before flesh ends, and digs. He massages carefully, methodically, works tension and phantom pains away that leaves Kaz shaking and trembling against the table’s support. Hissing through his teeth and pretending he’s not being reduced to human soup against clever, but well-positioned fingers. His shirt’s no barrier to the movement; no guard against the muscles being worked and kneaded.
Another hand moves to his lower back, deep into the spine, where the near-punishing massage continues; forces tension and pain to be little more than afterthoughts.
Stops only when Kaz wheezes weakly, hand sliding against the table. Ocelot straightens, uses a deceptively gentle grip to turn him back around, rest his back against the table. Face him.
Begins to put him back together. Re-buttons his collar, re-ties his tie, fits the holster back on. Presses gentle kisses to parasite webs as they begin to retreat. Finally, he slides Kaz’s glasses back over his nose, and taps the bridge with a fingertip. Can’t help a little fluffing of blonde strands, tugging at the beret he’d never taken off.
“There, I think we’ll get a few hours out of you yet” Cheery and undeterred, making sure to push all Kaz’s pens just slightly to the left as Kaz slips back into his chair, reaches for the headset.
Ocelot does the same, pulling his gloves back on, whistling beneath his teeth. And doesn’t touch the cigarette butt trapped under the wheel of his chair. Kaz’s pen does not scratch or scrape.