by StarWolf
1/29/2005
Title: Onomatopoeia
Author: StarWolf (elendraug at yahoo dot com)
Fandom: Metal Gear Solid
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Uh. I...don't really know. Horror?
Pairing: LiquidxSolid. Almost.
Warnings: Slash, incest, A/U, fuckiness.
Disclaimer: Kojima's, not mine.
Distribution: No archiving.
Summary: Repeat after me.
Author's Notes: For an LJ mgsslash challenge.
Wind from nowhere ruffles through Dave's mussed hair, sending his bandana tickling his unshaven cheek with itches he can't scratch. Above him is a dome of nothing, and it's quarter-til-nowhen by the time the speeches have stopped. Everyone's betrayed everyone else, it seems. Somehow he saw that coming.
Peripheral vision: to the right, Fortune's looking into empty space; to the left, Solidus and Raiden are reveling in mutual hate. A quick glance back and forth yields no results. Where...?
Wary, he lifts his gaze and is greeted with the sight of a revolver aimed at his face.
"I'm sure you can figure out whether or not you should move." Chuckle. Graceful, effortless twists of a skilled hand, and gunmetal's sent spinning. Just like its name, thinks Snake.
Bootsteps on indistinguishable flooring, thunk thunk thunk and he's left with no choice but to look down again. If he were to look up, he'd be at nose-level with--
The firearm clatters to the ground, its noise accompanied by frustrated hissing.
"Goddamnit! Not again, not now--"
Confusion. A moment's pause brings him only slightly closer to understanding, though the formerly (thankfully) forgotten voice holds plenty of unwanted clarity. For now, he'd rather be left wondering; knowledge is the painful beginning of the stressful battle.
"Good to see you again, brother."
Fever-chill trills down his aching back. Was that sarcasm? He hopes so.
Too-true-blue and angry, without or with reason (probably the latter but not in both ways), Liquid-or-Ocelot glares. Smirks. Unties the string holding the ponytail in place (it must be Liquid) and smiles wider; pure indulgence.
Snake tries to wrench away from the (dead!) limb that tightly grips his shoulder, but it's no use -- his own are tied helplessly behind his back. For a moment he wishes his mind was as immobile as his body. He doesn't want to know, doesn't want to think, doesn't want to--
Liquid? Ocelot? He or they advance, staring into and viciously challenging the wavering fearlessness in Dave's eyes.
In one feline (regardless of personality) movement, Solid's been knocked over, wrists bent painfully beneath his twisted spine. Ocelot's atop him but Liquid's the one sneering. Leaning over, his tongue rather appropriately snakes across his brother's jawline, and his mismatched hands slink and slither their way to his neck. Fingers play roughly on scratchy stubble, calloused on one side and sickly-yet-strong on the other.
Dave's unable to cope with the lack of balance. After a minute of shameless skin suckling, however, it doesn't seem to matter quite as much. He curses his breath under it and shuts his eyes against the things he doesn't want to see. Teeth (but not fangs) harshly dig a row of angry marks in his flesh, and if he-they move lower (god if you're there please forbid it oh wait you already have), his skullsuit. Snake snarls, but any intended threat is ludicrous, given the situation.
The hands' grasp tightens dangerously.
It's Ocelot's mustache that grazes his ear, but Liquid's voice that claws at his mind.
can't breathe can't think can't--
"You and I, we're the same..."
CRACK.
"Yet so very different."
