The air was humid in the room where Ocelot stood, shirtless, his muscles gleaming in the bright light of the window at his side. Big Boss wasn't there to watch him, as he was getting groceries in Zanzibar Land, so he practiced alone. The gun in his hand, sleek and warm to the touch, the grip sweaty with it's companion's wear, stirred the air, whirring translucently like a tambourine in a Kiss Cover music video. He would do a trick, and sometimes he would even pose. Most of the time he would follow people around as he juggled his guns, but at night, he would simply adore them.
"I think that's enough for today," he said, giving the gun one last whirl and gently sliding it into it's holster once again. He patted it in lighted satisfaction, "I'm sure you're tired, too."
He took off his belt and laid it unto his desk, and began to walk out of the door, then, stopping only to glance back at his revolver with a gentle eye, a small curl of the lips.
As the guns were holstered, they seemed to have been placed at angles opposite to each other. One was bent slightly towards the wall, but the gun central to Ocelot's use, that of which he had used today, was aimed squarely at the other's ammunition bank. Minutes passed, and from seemingly no disturbance, a shot went off, and the left-hand revolver flew off of the table, broken, into the wastebasket.
It was hours later that Ocelot returned to his loves, back from herding child soldiers around Strut B with a horse and a whip.
As he opened the door, there was already a tense feeling in the air, a dull quiet. He took some cautious steps forwards and realized fully what was amiss.
He fingered through the wastebasket, and realized what had been done.
"How-" he looked to his primary muse, "Revolver?"
The gun was now out of it's holster, leaning on an ashtray with a Russian cigarette burning at the butt.
"You know that it wasn't that way, Revolver, I only used her for the symmetricality! It was only to boost efficiency!"
Revolver was quiet, and only the string of smoke rising up from the tray moved.
Ocelot paused in horror.
"You- you want me to what?" his gaze drifted to the broken revolver, on it's last legs with it's barrel bent out of shape. He slowly reached for it.
"Where you said?"
After a pause Ocelot placed it carefully onto the desk by the alarm clock, it's barrel facing the bed.
"O-okay, Revolver, I'll do what you say…"
He picked up the gun and kept it facing to him, and he sat himself onto the soft bedding. From a fanny pack strapped to his side he unzipped. "Six shots, huh?" he said partly to himself. He loaded the revolver with all the rounds it could hold.
Ocelot hesitated at his next command, and though he didn't realize it, his face was hot with blood, as if his whole body was filled to the brim with it. Timidly he let his small tongue slip from his mouth, and gently he ran it across the edges of the extractor rod.
The gun jerked in his hands and he felt a flourish of fear and delight, his pulse was letting off great bursts of this newfound blood and the heat he felt had started to travel all over his body; his stomach began to feel as if bullets were ricocheting off of all the walls of his interior. He was excited now along with his keeper, listening to circus music in his head as he imagined lustily juggling a single colt action army.
He looked to the damaged gun at his desk, it's nearly pleading self in the pain of envy, and he smiled. It will die slowly tonight, he thought.
This time with more energy, his tongue came over the mouth of the gun and worked all the way around it in a whirlpool of saliva, he came down nearly to the chamber of the gun and began to work his way up again, flicking the end of his tongue against the hard metal.
He came back to the top, lubricating the muzzle fully, and tasting it's flavors. Then, with the very tip of his tasting appendage, he shoved it into the hole of the gun and twisted it inside, allowing the gun to buck in pleasure and agony.
He pulled out his tongue and wiped his wet lips, "You liked it like that, didn't you?"
He came down again, now allowing the full barrel into his mouth, and bobbed his head up and down to the rhythm of Major Ocelot's theme in MGS3. His thumb lightly caressed the trigger, and tentatively, it would almost shiver.
"Tell me when it's going to happen," he whispered, and came back to his duty.
He could almost feel the barrel swell inside of his mouth, he knew what was to come.
"Please… I want to taste it." said Ocelot.
He pumped his head up and down the sleek barrel of his firearm, knowing the pressure in between his cheeks, and inside of him he felt the payload he so dreamt for, the hot lead striking against his hard palate… in the speed of the situation you could nearly hear the ocelot call one last time.
The body was found that morning, with no murder weapon, but an Ocelot, and the brains thoroughly fucked out of him.