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Entry tags:
Between Light and Darkness (1/1)
Title: Between Light and Darkness
Fandom: Metal Gear Solid
Pairing: Big Boss/ Solid Snake
Rating: NC-17
Summary: An unwitting newcomer discovers that appearances can be deceiving. Set Pre MG1.
A/N: This is a horror-humor hybrid fic, if you will. There are also allusions to other works of horror, kudos if you can spot them.
It all starts innocently enough.
You help a new recruit pick up a few papers he dropped in the hallway. For some odd reason, he’s drawn to you, and starts following you around. Maybe he’s just lonely and looking for a friend his own age. At first, the attention is flattering. Soon it starts to feels smothering, and you wish he’d just go away. But he doesn’t, and keeps hounding you. The irony of this organization being called Foxhound is not lost on you. If you ignore him, perhaps he will leave you alone.
The ploy works for a while, until he comes to hand in a report and walks in on you having sex with your commanding officer—a man nearly forty years your senior. All because you forgot to lock the fucking door behind you. You were in such a euphoric daze you didn’t even notice him come in until Big Boss stopped moving against you long enough for you to look up.
He left quietly enough, but not before seeing you in that…compromising situation.
Maybe the little shit will tell everyone about your relationship with Big Boss. Maybe he won’t. But you certainly can’t take that chance, can you?
…You also need to get him back for Big Boss handing your ass to you after you were discovered. It was already humiliating enough to have the crap beaten out of you by your CO (who has told you time and time again to lock the goddamn door), but even more so when you were buck naked, and being intimate with said CO only short moments ago. You tried to apologize, but those apologies are too little too late. It’s hard to talk when your jaw feels broken, your nose is a bloody mess, and your eyes will later blacken from well-placed sucker punches. Yet after that altercation, you still can’t bring yourself to hate him. He’s still your hero. And your role model.
And he fucks like he invented fucking.
But you fled from his office, barely remembering to haphazardly throw on your clothes (which seemed to come off so easily at the start, probably because you weren’t the one to remove them.) As you left, you saw Big Boss readjusting his eyepatch, which slipped to the side, exposing his ruined eye. He snaps it softly when it is back in place. You’d like to believe that he has a tendency to pluck at it when he strategizes, but he’s just fiddling absently with it.
--
You run into that damned recruit later on in the day, eating by himself in the mess hall. A quick survey of the surroundings. No one. Good. You pretend to play buddy-buddy with him for a bit, drawing him out of his little tortoise shell. He takes the bait, slowly revealing more details about himself, but nothing incriminating that you can blackmail him with. So you hit with your main objective: asking him not to tell anyone about what he saw in that office earlier.
He seems to consider your offer for a moment, then agrees; on one condition. You brace yourself, knowing what’s coming.
He wants you to sleep with him.
It’s irritating to know that people think you’re easy, especially when you’ve had goings-on with your commander.
You play the defensive, helpless card. And refuse.
He insists. After all, you do it with Big Boss. What difference does it make?
(There’s a world of difference. You look up to him. And respect him. For all the qualities that this snot-nosed brat in front of you has none of.)
You pretend to stammer and look close to tears. He presses closer, thinking he has a chance with you. Just as you plan to sucker punch him in the gut for daring to be this close, Big Boss walks by, as if on cue.
He glances your way, and your eyes catch his imploringly: help me. Despite your silent plea, he turns away as if you just jeopardized your masculinity with such a request, leaving you stranded to mollify this insistent worm’s demands on your own. Fortunately, said worm has also seen Big Boss, whom you think moonlights as a cock-blocking robot developed in a secret government lab.
Well, that’s not quite true. He certainly makes an exception for himself.
At any rate, the lowly creature attempting to force himself upon you stops, likely the result of a wilting erection in the presence of Big Boss. (You wonder about the irony in that, since you’re usually the polar opposite.) He nods righteously, telling you to think about what he has said and trying to look suave as he saunters away. In another setting, perhaps he would impress some female peacocks.
You’re not female, and you’re definitely not a peacock.
Peacocks are also known for their radically paltry amounts of grey matter.
You, on the other hand, have an IQ of 180 and are fluent in six different languages. Perhaps the time has come to demonstrate that your brain is just as capable an asset as your posterior.
--
After dinner, you seek him out actively. Again, he is totally alone—most likely the product of being an unfamiliar entity and having not made acquaintances yet, much less friends. This could work to your advantage. You sit beside him, and exchange niceties. Just as you ponder how to delicately broach the earlier subject matter, he cuts all pretenses, and asks if you have reconsidered his offer. Brusqueness is not a quality you appreciate. However, he has allowed you the opportunity to segue into your real intent.
You glance downwards, almost embarrassedly. Yes. You’ll do it.
He gapes unseeingly for a moment. Really?
Yes. (Reduction to monosyllabic replies is the only way you can hide your contempt from him.)
He questions why you’re willing to go to such lengths to protect this secret. In a clumsy manner, he also prods a nerve with his next question: if you’re doing this to cover for a commander, who, upon seeing you being taken advantage of, turned a blind eye.
Ping. The nerve reverberates painfully.
You can feel the fine filaments of anger thread through you, irritation at this induction of metaphoric neuralgia.
Yes, you repeat. Then—in a random outburst of emotion, you tell him no, it’s because after that incident, Big Boss has dropped you like a rock and you’re just so lonely now with no one to…talk to.
A quick glance through the hands over your face. From his sympathetic expression, you can tell he has bitten the bait. You will keep the trap hidden until it is too late for the bird to scream when it is caught.
He enthusiastically suggests meeting later in the night, to talk.
To talk. Of course. As if you haven’t heard that before from a more skilled wordsmith. Who summons you to his office for talks which culminate in you sprawled out on his desk with your legs spread apart.
You agree quickly, before the bitterness can overtake you, and suggest a meeting place in the woods just outside the Foxhound base. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. A small hope lingers at the back of your mind, that he won’t question your suggestion of meeting in such a secluded place. With blatant eagerness, he agrees to the time and place you have set. It sickens you to know that you are forced to play a charade with this patronizing man, who will expose your secret or further blackmail you with it as soon as this exchange of sexual favors for his silence is complete. Flowers of rage bloom behind your eyes, but your outward composure would garner you top honors at the next film festival.
--
That night, he comes to the prearranged meeting spot, as unassuming as an overworked horse being sent to the glue factory. You wait in the shadows as you hear him approach, hoping he will stumble upon a tree root and thus give you the upper hand. The tree gods are not with you, however, and he even spots you crouched among the foliage, coming closer and closer towards you.
With a powerful lunge, you tackle him to the ground and punch him in the face. Despite you being more experienced and quicker in your reflexes, he quickly overpowers you with brute strength, and soon you are the one pinned underneath, caked with dirt, having your face punched in. He smiles ruthlessly, saying he thought something like this might happen, as he wrenches your arm behind your back and stifles your shouts with his hand clamped tightly over your mouth.
…Shit. You knew you should have spent more time listening to Big Boss during your private CQC lessons instead of worrying if you had enough time left after to fuck.
As you struggle against your biological restraints, he rams a knee into your spine, hard, pinning the arm he wrenched back in place, all the while muffling your screams. With his free hand, he fumbles clumsily with your belt buckle for a moment, before thinking better of it and simply yanking your pants down. As if scalded by the friction, the sides of your hips blaze an angry defensive red. The rustle of rough cloth from his side exposes his intent to violate you in the most nasty, brutish way possible and you only hope the duration will be short. Big Boss had the decency to at least loosen you up with his fingers or a little spit, but you will find no mercy here.
He lifts the imposing knee from your spine, releasing his hold on you (all the better to grab your buttocks with), and falls upon you like a sack of old potatoes.
No, this is not how you envisioned this night to unfold. You would lure him to this place and beat him within an inch of his life, maintaining his silence under threat of more of the same. Instead, here you are, having endured your second beating of the day, with humiliation to follow soon after. All that remains to top off this day is a cup of tea and some biscuits you can dunk while you laugh it off.
The vision plays out so realistically that, for a distant and detached moment, you don’t even realize your tea chuckles are actually screams, not of your own violation, but of pain; that the gentle steam tendrils of tea warming your face are actually those of hot blood; and that would-be ravishers have generally fallen upon you with more gusto than a sack of old potatoes.
Suddenly, it occurs to you that this would-be ravisher is now writhing on the ground beside you, hands thrown up feebly to defend himself from a spade hurtling through the air.
A spade. How quaint.
The screams to stop begin to fade, but the unknown assailant swings the spade down again and again, with ferocity unlike any you have ever seen before. With each swing, you hear the rationale behind the refusal to stop—something about having promises to keep and miles to go before—The solid connection the spade makes with flesh causes you to cringe, and you decide that now-now- would be a fabulous time to make like your codename and slither away, out of sight, out of danger. What you manage in reality is a pathetic sort of agitated wiggle that takes you nowhere, and instead, elicits a low chuckle from the shadow wielding the garden implement of doom.
Clearly in no mood to defile you now, but with every intention of survival, the younger man pulls out a knife from his boot and rushes at the spade-wielder in this moment of distraction. There is a sickening, wet noise, like that of a knife being plunged into a melon, followed by a desperate howl cut short by the briefest of snaps. The last detail you remember is the crimson effervescence winding a rivulet down the corner of his mouth, as his body slides to the ground.
The unknown assailant steps into the wan moonlight and you notice his hair and clothes are in disarray from the fight, and he is covered with dirt and blood. You find this strangely appealing, in an odd sort of way. As he wipes the sweat from his brow and shakes it from his hand, he pithily remarks that for the soldier lying on the ground, his inability to follow through on missions has led to early dismissal from Foxhound.
You have always admired the wry wit of your commander.
He picks up the spade he dropped in order to perform his finishing move, and makes a motion as if to dig a hole. However, his hand slips uselessly off the handle and he winces, which is when you notice that his palm is wet with blood, slashed open with the new recruit’s knife.
I’ll do it, you offer. You’re hurt.
He flinches at the last word, as if annoyed at the mere suggestion of possessing the capability to feel pain, and tells you to stay back. Then, slowly and painstakingly, he digs the burial hole by himself, despite the blood dripping down the sides of the spade, staining the once vibrant wood a dark shade of vermillion. You’d like to imagine that he’s doing this so your hands aren’t stained by this ordeal. That your soul remains untainted. But it’s too late—your tainted flesh already knows the pleasure of carnal compulsion, a madness surpassed only by murder.
At last, he pats down the dirt above the fresh grave. With a frown, he pats it down a little harder. Perhaps there is a certain mound of dirt that refuses to roll over and
(die)
flatten, because Big Boss is now striking the ground harder and harder in a frenzy as more blood flies from his hand, bringing his arms over his head for more momentum. You catch a snippet of his incomprehensible mumbling
—miles to go before he sleeps—
and in an act of pure benevolence or sheer stupidity, run to embrace him from behind, telling him it is enough. Enough.
He elbows you away roughly and as you stumble backwards, turns the spade on you, his arms over his head, the spade poised to strike and for an instant, you stare at each other, breathing hard; you, wide-eyed and terrified at this side of the man you thought you knew, and he, eyes bloodshot and emanating dangerous intent.
In the next instant, Big Boss drops the spade at your feet and suddenly, he seems like a seasoned retiree, tired of life and exhausted by his existence.
He reaches towards you, taking your face into his bloodstained hands, as he covers your mouth with his. You try to push him away, saying that his wounds should be tended to first, but he waves it off as if wounds are of no consequence, and whispers that only you can ease them for him now. With amazing dexterity, he undresses you with his uninjured hand as you lick at the blood coming from the gash in his other.
Just as you are about to straddle him, he places a dissuading hand on your chest and inquires what the first thing you should do if you were back in his office is.
You hesitate, but not for long. To lock the door, of course.
Good boy, he replies, allowing you to continue your descent
(into depravity)
onto him, as he cradles your face in his hands again. This time you do not resist. His thumbs smear bloody marks under your eyes, like war paint, but you know it is for a more fundamental reason.
He is marking you as his own.
Do you love? he whispers.
Sì, e…You pause to find a more fitting phrase, not in the language of love, but of time immemorial. Amor verus aeternus est.
Far across the reach, where the night is forever and the hour is none, there is a brief, keening sound, not unlike the haunting cry of a loon.
And the woods are silent once more.
Fandom: Metal Gear Solid
Pairing: Big Boss/ Solid Snake
Rating: NC-17
Summary: An unwitting newcomer discovers that appearances can be deceiving. Set Pre MG1.
A/N: This is a horror-humor hybrid fic, if you will. There are also allusions to other works of horror, kudos if you can spot them.
It all starts innocently enough.
You help a new recruit pick up a few papers he dropped in the hallway. For some odd reason, he’s drawn to you, and starts following you around. Maybe he’s just lonely and looking for a friend his own age. At first, the attention is flattering. Soon it starts to feels smothering, and you wish he’d just go away. But he doesn’t, and keeps hounding you. The irony of this organization being called Foxhound is not lost on you. If you ignore him, perhaps he will leave you alone.
The ploy works for a while, until he comes to hand in a report and walks in on you having sex with your commanding officer—a man nearly forty years your senior. All because you forgot to lock the fucking door behind you. You were in such a euphoric daze you didn’t even notice him come in until Big Boss stopped moving against you long enough for you to look up.
He left quietly enough, but not before seeing you in that…compromising situation.
Maybe the little shit will tell everyone about your relationship with Big Boss. Maybe he won’t. But you certainly can’t take that chance, can you?
…You also need to get him back for Big Boss handing your ass to you after you were discovered. It was already humiliating enough to have the crap beaten out of you by your CO (who has told you time and time again to lock the goddamn door), but even more so when you were buck naked, and being intimate with said CO only short moments ago. You tried to apologize, but those apologies are too little too late. It’s hard to talk when your jaw feels broken, your nose is a bloody mess, and your eyes will later blacken from well-placed sucker punches. Yet after that altercation, you still can’t bring yourself to hate him. He’s still your hero. And your role model.
And he fucks like he invented fucking.
But you fled from his office, barely remembering to haphazardly throw on your clothes (which seemed to come off so easily at the start, probably because you weren’t the one to remove them.) As you left, you saw Big Boss readjusting his eyepatch, which slipped to the side, exposing his ruined eye. He snaps it softly when it is back in place. You’d like to believe that he has a tendency to pluck at it when he strategizes, but he’s just fiddling absently with it.
--
You run into that damned recruit later on in the day, eating by himself in the mess hall. A quick survey of the surroundings. No one. Good. You pretend to play buddy-buddy with him for a bit, drawing him out of his little tortoise shell. He takes the bait, slowly revealing more details about himself, but nothing incriminating that you can blackmail him with. So you hit with your main objective: asking him not to tell anyone about what he saw in that office earlier.
He seems to consider your offer for a moment, then agrees; on one condition. You brace yourself, knowing what’s coming.
He wants you to sleep with him.
It’s irritating to know that people think you’re easy, especially when you’ve had goings-on with your commander.
You play the defensive, helpless card. And refuse.
He insists. After all, you do it with Big Boss. What difference does it make?
(There’s a world of difference. You look up to him. And respect him. For all the qualities that this snot-nosed brat in front of you has none of.)
You pretend to stammer and look close to tears. He presses closer, thinking he has a chance with you. Just as you plan to sucker punch him in the gut for daring to be this close, Big Boss walks by, as if on cue.
He glances your way, and your eyes catch his imploringly: help me. Despite your silent plea, he turns away as if you just jeopardized your masculinity with such a request, leaving you stranded to mollify this insistent worm’s demands on your own. Fortunately, said worm has also seen Big Boss, whom you think moonlights as a cock-blocking robot developed in a secret government lab.
Well, that’s not quite true. He certainly makes an exception for himself.
At any rate, the lowly creature attempting to force himself upon you stops, likely the result of a wilting erection in the presence of Big Boss. (You wonder about the irony in that, since you’re usually the polar opposite.) He nods righteously, telling you to think about what he has said and trying to look suave as he saunters away. In another setting, perhaps he would impress some female peacocks.
You’re not female, and you’re definitely not a peacock.
Peacocks are also known for their radically paltry amounts of grey matter.
You, on the other hand, have an IQ of 180 and are fluent in six different languages. Perhaps the time has come to demonstrate that your brain is just as capable an asset as your posterior.
--
After dinner, you seek him out actively. Again, he is totally alone—most likely the product of being an unfamiliar entity and having not made acquaintances yet, much less friends. This could work to your advantage. You sit beside him, and exchange niceties. Just as you ponder how to delicately broach the earlier subject matter, he cuts all pretenses, and asks if you have reconsidered his offer. Brusqueness is not a quality you appreciate. However, he has allowed you the opportunity to segue into your real intent.
You glance downwards, almost embarrassedly. Yes. You’ll do it.
He gapes unseeingly for a moment. Really?
Yes. (Reduction to monosyllabic replies is the only way you can hide your contempt from him.)
He questions why you’re willing to go to such lengths to protect this secret. In a clumsy manner, he also prods a nerve with his next question: if you’re doing this to cover for a commander, who, upon seeing you being taken advantage of, turned a blind eye.
Ping. The nerve reverberates painfully.
You can feel the fine filaments of anger thread through you, irritation at this induction of metaphoric neuralgia.
Yes, you repeat. Then—in a random outburst of emotion, you tell him no, it’s because after that incident, Big Boss has dropped you like a rock and you’re just so lonely now with no one to…talk to.
A quick glance through the hands over your face. From his sympathetic expression, you can tell he has bitten the bait. You will keep the trap hidden until it is too late for the bird to scream when it is caught.
He enthusiastically suggests meeting later in the night, to talk.
To talk. Of course. As if you haven’t heard that before from a more skilled wordsmith. Who summons you to his office for talks which culminate in you sprawled out on his desk with your legs spread apart.
You agree quickly, before the bitterness can overtake you, and suggest a meeting place in the woods just outside the Foxhound base. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. A small hope lingers at the back of your mind, that he won’t question your suggestion of meeting in such a secluded place. With blatant eagerness, he agrees to the time and place you have set. It sickens you to know that you are forced to play a charade with this patronizing man, who will expose your secret or further blackmail you with it as soon as this exchange of sexual favors for his silence is complete. Flowers of rage bloom behind your eyes, but your outward composure would garner you top honors at the next film festival.
--
That night, he comes to the prearranged meeting spot, as unassuming as an overworked horse being sent to the glue factory. You wait in the shadows as you hear him approach, hoping he will stumble upon a tree root and thus give you the upper hand. The tree gods are not with you, however, and he even spots you crouched among the foliage, coming closer and closer towards you.
With a powerful lunge, you tackle him to the ground and punch him in the face. Despite you being more experienced and quicker in your reflexes, he quickly overpowers you with brute strength, and soon you are the one pinned underneath, caked with dirt, having your face punched in. He smiles ruthlessly, saying he thought something like this might happen, as he wrenches your arm behind your back and stifles your shouts with his hand clamped tightly over your mouth.
…Shit. You knew you should have spent more time listening to Big Boss during your private CQC lessons instead of worrying if you had enough time left after to fuck.
As you struggle against your biological restraints, he rams a knee into your spine, hard, pinning the arm he wrenched back in place, all the while muffling your screams. With his free hand, he fumbles clumsily with your belt buckle for a moment, before thinking better of it and simply yanking your pants down. As if scalded by the friction, the sides of your hips blaze an angry defensive red. The rustle of rough cloth from his side exposes his intent to violate you in the most nasty, brutish way possible and you only hope the duration will be short. Big Boss had the decency to at least loosen you up with his fingers or a little spit, but you will find no mercy here.
He lifts the imposing knee from your spine, releasing his hold on you (all the better to grab your buttocks with), and falls upon you like a sack of old potatoes.
No, this is not how you envisioned this night to unfold. You would lure him to this place and beat him within an inch of his life, maintaining his silence under threat of more of the same. Instead, here you are, having endured your second beating of the day, with humiliation to follow soon after. All that remains to top off this day is a cup of tea and some biscuits you can dunk while you laugh it off.
The vision plays out so realistically that, for a distant and detached moment, you don’t even realize your tea chuckles are actually screams, not of your own violation, but of pain; that the gentle steam tendrils of tea warming your face are actually those of hot blood; and that would-be ravishers have generally fallen upon you with more gusto than a sack of old potatoes.
Suddenly, it occurs to you that this would-be ravisher is now writhing on the ground beside you, hands thrown up feebly to defend himself from a spade hurtling through the air.
A spade. How quaint.
The screams to stop begin to fade, but the unknown assailant swings the spade down again and again, with ferocity unlike any you have ever seen before. With each swing, you hear the rationale behind the refusal to stop—something about having promises to keep and miles to go before—The solid connection the spade makes with flesh causes you to cringe, and you decide that now-now- would be a fabulous time to make like your codename and slither away, out of sight, out of danger. What you manage in reality is a pathetic sort of agitated wiggle that takes you nowhere, and instead, elicits a low chuckle from the shadow wielding the garden implement of doom.
Clearly in no mood to defile you now, but with every intention of survival, the younger man pulls out a knife from his boot and rushes at the spade-wielder in this moment of distraction. There is a sickening, wet noise, like that of a knife being plunged into a melon, followed by a desperate howl cut short by the briefest of snaps. The last detail you remember is the crimson effervescence winding a rivulet down the corner of his mouth, as his body slides to the ground.
The unknown assailant steps into the wan moonlight and you notice his hair and clothes are in disarray from the fight, and he is covered with dirt and blood. You find this strangely appealing, in an odd sort of way. As he wipes the sweat from his brow and shakes it from his hand, he pithily remarks that for the soldier lying on the ground, his inability to follow through on missions has led to early dismissal from Foxhound.
You have always admired the wry wit of your commander.
He picks up the spade he dropped in order to perform his finishing move, and makes a motion as if to dig a hole. However, his hand slips uselessly off the handle and he winces, which is when you notice that his palm is wet with blood, slashed open with the new recruit’s knife.
I’ll do it, you offer. You’re hurt.
He flinches at the last word, as if annoyed at the mere suggestion of possessing the capability to feel pain, and tells you to stay back. Then, slowly and painstakingly, he digs the burial hole by himself, despite the blood dripping down the sides of the spade, staining the once vibrant wood a dark shade of vermillion. You’d like to imagine that he’s doing this so your hands aren’t stained by this ordeal. That your soul remains untainted. But it’s too late—your tainted flesh already knows the pleasure of carnal compulsion, a madness surpassed only by murder.
At last, he pats down the dirt above the fresh grave. With a frown, he pats it down a little harder. Perhaps there is a certain mound of dirt that refuses to roll over and
(die)
flatten, because Big Boss is now striking the ground harder and harder in a frenzy as more blood flies from his hand, bringing his arms over his head for more momentum. You catch a snippet of his incomprehensible mumbling
—miles to go before he sleeps—
and in an act of pure benevolence or sheer stupidity, run to embrace him from behind, telling him it is enough. Enough.
He elbows you away roughly and as you stumble backwards, turns the spade on you, his arms over his head, the spade poised to strike and for an instant, you stare at each other, breathing hard; you, wide-eyed and terrified at this side of the man you thought you knew, and he, eyes bloodshot and emanating dangerous intent.
In the next instant, Big Boss drops the spade at your feet and suddenly, he seems like a seasoned retiree, tired of life and exhausted by his existence.
He reaches towards you, taking your face into his bloodstained hands, as he covers your mouth with his. You try to push him away, saying that his wounds should be tended to first, but he waves it off as if wounds are of no consequence, and whispers that only you can ease them for him now. With amazing dexterity, he undresses you with his uninjured hand as you lick at the blood coming from the gash in his other.
Just as you are about to straddle him, he places a dissuading hand on your chest and inquires what the first thing you should do if you were back in his office is.
You hesitate, but not for long. To lock the door, of course.
Good boy, he replies, allowing you to continue your descent
(into depravity)
onto him, as he cradles your face in his hands again. This time you do not resist. His thumbs smear bloody marks under your eyes, like war paint, but you know it is for a more fundamental reason.
He is marking you as his own.
Do you love? he whispers.
Sì, e…You pause to find a more fitting phrase, not in the language of love, but of time immemorial. Amor verus aeternus est.
Far across the reach, where the night is forever and the hour is none, there is a brief, keening sound, not unlike the haunting cry of a loon.
And the woods are silent once more.