Current mood:

uncomfortable

bond!fic
Title: Shards.
Author: Jess.
Rating: NC-17.
Fandom: Bond (Casino Royale).
Pairing(s)/character(s): Bond/OMC.
Notes: Set not long post-movie. Thanks for mandysbitch for the beta <3.

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Bond is presently getting his cock sucked by one of M’s boys in her office bathroom, but not even the startling juxtaposition of the cold tiles against the back of his head and the heat of the mouth on his cock can quiet his mind.

He thinks of Africa. On his first mission back, not reinstated because M never accepted his resignation, just back. It was continuous sweltering heat in the finest bungalow the tiny emerging nation had to offer, as five star as it got, without air-conditioning or anything else that would normally be found in an any-star motel. Bond remembers everything uncomfortable about the bare bones place, tasting sweat and breathing dust. Sent to assassinate a coup leader, a British man who couldn’t seem to stop himself meddling in the small nation’s affairs. A diplomatic minefield and potential death sentence in every move Bond made.

Standard, really.

The man had bodyguards, closer to a small army than the minimal team Bond had been briefed about, and all better trained than they should have been. The crucial choice between stealth and killing terribly easy once Bond could see the whites of their eyes, and he felt himself slide back into killing as easy as well oiled wheels on a familiar track. The slaughter had been like being unbound, muscles stretching, blood pounding uncomfortably fast. It was all smell and burn, anger and rapture.

The boy sucks hard, licks down Bond’s cock. The boy goes down again and again and Bond licks his upper lip, the salt sweat is rich and real and only a step away from the metallic tang of blood. The red mist, easily breathed in when it’s blown out from close by wounds; point blank at the chest the easiest, neck the bloodiest, ruined skull the messiest.

Perhaps he’ll ask the boy out tonight, afterwards. Licks his lips again.

He’s got an itch. The thought of a gun in his hand twitches his fingers, the thought of calming, heavy orders running over him and through him, consuming his mind, shutting out everything else until they are played out perfectly.

When M finds out about this one, (and she will, he never bothers with the cameras for this sort of thing, he usually gives them a nod she’s sure to pick up on. It’s only polite), he will be told not to use M’s personal things again. “Bond,” she will say after he’s smiled and leered and turned away, “I will assign you, when I’m good and ready, to what I deem appropriate.”

So, he could send the boy back to work after a few days, all his or perhaps broken… no, just bend him a little, flex him so he splinters and send him back to M with his tail between his legs. A message.

Of what?

Get some less easily corrupted staff.

If he doesn’t get something particularly hard (bloody) after sending the boy back to M, well.

He will just have to try harder. That woman who does M’s filing is certainly appealing. It seemed all M’s personal staff were.

The boy, Bond notes, is not much younger than him, but his light blonde boyish hair, cushy desk job, and the way he smiles at Bond like he’s not at all afraid, it all adds up to make Bond think ‘boy’ every time he looks at him. The boy wears a soft, perfect, muted gold wedding band on his finger that Bond likes the look of as it flutters across Bond’s stomach under his unbuttoned shirt.

He looks down to see his cock sliding through those soft lips, and groans, slightly.

He will really have to find out the boy’s name. Asking M would certainly work best. Bond laughs, a little, at the idea of her well hidden frustration.

But it could backfire, and M could assign him to something full of long hours of surveillance and talks and negotiation, and fuck. He smacked his head lightly against the tiles that were no longer cold.

God, he needs to stop.

Bond puts his hand down around his spit slick cock and the boy moves back to the head and works with his tongue while Bond strokes and wets his palm warmly.

“Harder,” Bond says. His wet palm makes contact with the wall with a slap, and the jolt of it sends another throb through his dick. His hand is freezing on the wall, and the boy simultaneously sucks warm and harder. He pulls out with a wet pop, saliva briefly keeping the boy connected to Bond, and then the boy comes forward to meet him, cold lipped where icy air-conditioning has frozen the wetness on them, cooling and sending slick to raw looking and dry.

Bond pulls back again, and jerks off languidly above those lovely, hungry lips for a moment. He lets his spare hand roam his lower belly and chest occasionally, skates it over a nipple, then urgently scratches down and grips pubic hair. Bond’s other hand stills itself on his cock, starts again, slow, gentle, then speeds and grips harder, pauses at the head until he grimaces, teasing himself painfully. His teeth chatter and his eyes map the room, glancing away from the upturned face below him for a few beats. The closeness of orgasm shakes his legs a little.

Bond’s eyelids flutter closed, in his head he feels the intimate silencing grip of his hand over an enemy mouth, and in reality his hand shifts on his dick. He feels the jerk, in memory, and hears the thudhissblip of his gun’s silencer, the splatter and the knowledge of the red misting blood and brain that’ll end up in his nostrils, across his face and through his hair, the smell, the saliva wet slackening of the dead mouth against his palm.

With each stroke pleasure builds franticly around memory and red under closed eyes. Slick sounds resonate over the bathroom’s tiled walls. Bond’s hips snap forward, back bowed and every line and muscle is taught, stands out, his open shirt falls away even further as everything but the back of his head leaves the wall behind him, his body defined artfully.

All of Bond is in Africa with hand wet by dieing lips, and the sickening pleasure of a man’s last breath against his palm, the still hot but rapidly cooling puff of air that is death as close as you can get to death and not worry about coming back, and Bond climaxes. His come hits the face of the man on his knees, body warm on sex-hot skin. Come lands on the boy’s upturned face. His cock-sucker lips part prettily to taste it as it hits his lips, a deliberate hard swipe of tongue follows quickly. The boy shuffles a tiny bit closer, roughly aligning his mouth to Bond’s dick. An extra jolt of pleasure runs through Bond, that jerks his hips and his cock again and the last drop hits the boy’s bared chest and the parted collar of his shirt. Bond breathlessly spits curses. Full and empty he reaches out and drifts a finger over the boy’s now glistening clean lips. It’s apparently not enough and the boy runs fingers over his chest and sucks them clean. His fingers shine wetly.

Wet fingers and wet lips wet hair death horrified expression wet air air air can’t… no she… god damn it.

Bond cracks his head against the tiles, hard, and breathes deep, sucks down the death in his head, the sex in the air. He breathes out the relaxation of orgasm. It drenches his bones like thick, slow sliding syrup.

He thinks about returning the favour. Turnabout is fair play, but fair play isn’t really Bond’s thing.

Bond reads the boy’s upturned face, in it bright eyes and wet lips that the boy touches reverently, and sees that he’ll have this one as long as he wants.

He’s glad, he’d rather not suck the boy’s dick, and keep instead the taste of blood on his palette. He swallows and tastes something bitter with it, he doesn’t acknowledge it as guilt or fear, he feels neither, and what for if he did?

What does that make me? Bond wonders to himself. He’s still leaning against the wall but coming back to himself, when the muted clack-clack of M’s sensible heels sounds outside in her office.

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