Chapter Text
Tossing and turning, desperate for sleep to finally claim his overactive mind. James tried over and over to find any morsel of restfulness in the stupid bunk. It was little more than a double decker cot. Little more than the worst place to sleep. Not only because it wasn’t comfortable, but because he knew that right below him lies that idiot blond. Fucking Monroe. All James really knew about him was that he was a rather fake looking blond with a slightly darker beard, pretty blue eyes, solid fists of the kind that had passion in every hit, his arms were thicker than James’, and he was an agonizing couple centimeters taller. All that aside. As former Aircrew he wasn’t exactly used to sleeping in shitty accommodations. He hated cots. He hated the stupid blond man.
An exacerbated sigh sounded from the bunk below him. James was ready to fight him again. He would tear him to shreds. Really show him who is boss. Sure, James was new here and all of it only happened because of the Iceland shitshow. Despite how much it sucked, the nerve agent, being on the brink of hypothermia the whole time, losing the asset, and all that. It was pretty epic to blow it all up. He not only saved the day, he also defied the odds in the ultimate gamble. He had gotten quite the thrill out of telling off who he now knew as Moneypenny. No one told James Bond what to do.
No one told James Bond what to do, including the absolute wanker laying beneath him. James hoped he was still awake. That his own restless attempts at sleep had kept Monroe awake.
James’ bruised knuckles itched to feel Monroe’s face beneath them once again. The feeling of colliding with his stupidly perfect looking face. Feeling the coarse hairs of his beard as James stuck his jaw. It barely giving in, Monroe knew what he was doing. He had to know how much that bothered James too. Something about his blasé attitude was as if he took one look at James and immediately thought that he could have any kind of authority over him. James was going to prove him very, very wrong. Whatever it took, James Bond would show that stupidly nonchalant blond that he was to be respected either as an equal, or that Monroe could go fuck himself seven ways till Sunday.
As much as possible James tried to run through different scenarios for tomorrow’s challenge. Greenway had assigned Cressida and Monroe to bring him “up to speed.” And, sure, James was a grown man he could admit he would need training. But everyone acted like he somehow couldn’t do it in his allotted six months. God, he could just imagine what Monroe thought about James having less training than he did. He probably felt so smug. So superior. He was going to prove it was a false sense of superiority. James was going to show him. The thought echoed in his head. Over and over and over again.
I’m going to show you, you bleach blond wanker.
Jolting in his bed, James was ready in a heart beat as he felt something poke his back through the cot. What the fuck did Monroe think he was doing. James knew he had a long day tomorrow, but Malta was a hot, humid hell to fall asleep in. and his brain wouldn’t shut up about that piece of shit, Monroe. He grumbled to himself, turning over once again. Sleep appeared out of reach. Far away and unrealistic. Like Monroe thought himself above James.
Better. More Trained. Further ahead
Monroe was going to eat his words. He was going to–James knew it was the lack of sleep, the jetlag, those baby Blues staring at him as he dodged another blow. He knew, he fucking knew. But his brain wouldn’t let him escape the picture he had painted of Monroe. His own hell. His very own personally created hell, straight from his brain. He groaned. Turning onto his back. The ceiling was stone. Everything here was stone because it was some kind of old fortification. Stating the obvious somehow didn’t make him sleepier. So he stopped.
Another poke to his back and James had to take a deep breath not to toss himself out of the bunk. That fucker. He hissed a quiet “what!?” into the dark. He didn’t want to wake the others. Another poke, this time he had the audacity to run his finger down his back. Right over his spine.
Practically vaulting out of bed, James launched for Monroe. Grabbing his arm which lay atop the thin blanket. James Straddled him as he grabbed his throat. He pressed into his thick, virile neck, feeling Monroe’s pulse spike. Still it was painfully calm. James could barely see in the darkness. The look in Monroe’s eyes was bright as hellfire. He wanted trouble. As James looked at Monroe trying to gauge his next move, Monroe smiled. It caught James completely off guard. The split second allowed for Monroe to grab James’ wrist with such force James lost his grip. Monroe wrapped James’ own arm around his neck, effectively putting James in a self-inflicted headlock.
James was laying with his legs astride Monroe and his torso twisted painfully as he was maneuvered half onto his back. The hand he had been using to pin Monroe’s wrist had been turned so that James’ arms were being pulled in either direction. The knee that was to the side he got flipped onto dig painfully into the cot at an angle it probably shouldn’t be in for too long.
He knew he couldn’t, or rather shouldn’t, start a full on fight right here in the sleep hall. James would be waking everyone and jeopardizing everything. He wanted to be a Double-O. And yet letting Monroe win again? It wasn’t even on the table as an option. Monroe tightened his hold, making James gasp. It wasn’t the pain. It was the proximity, the fact that he got overpowered so easily. It made James’ blood boil. White hot anger flowed through his veins. If Monroe thought he could have any kind of authority over James. He was dead wrong, and James would prove it.
Struggling to get free from Monroe’s hold, James’ mind raced with options. He was grasping at straws. Anything to give him an out. Anything that would let him get the upper hand. The plan he quickly arrived at had to not only be unexpected on the part of Monroe. It had to be quick, quiet, and executed perfectly. James didn’t doubt himself. The concept of self-doubt wasn’t in his emotional vocabulary.
“Let go of me.” His words were sharp and laced with a subtle hint of a plan. James hoped that Monroe wouldn’t pick up on it. At the same time he tapped at Monroe’s wrist. He had tapped out, but that didn’t mean they were done. It only meant he had lulled the idiot blond into a false sense of security. Discipline be damned. James needed to show Monroe who was boss. No matter the morality of combat.
“Giving up so easy? Hmm?” James hated his voice. Hated the teasing hum. Few had gotten under his skin like Monroe. He wouldn’t let him stay there for long though. James would sooner slice him out from under his skin than let him fester there.
“I need a piss.”
Monroe let go of him, letting James fall off of the bottom bunk onto the stone floor. He quickly got up and glared daggers at Monroe. He was going to show that slightly taller bastard who was boss.
Walking out of the bed hall he didn’t look back. He was heading for the bathrooms. The most crucial part of his plan was coming up. It all hinged on how controlled Monroe really was. James would bet that Monroe couldn’t resist an opportunity to “prove himself.” It all hinged on the idiot blond, and James hated that it did.
The mirror’s reflection showed an exhausted James, he had eye bags and his short hair was disheveled from tossing and turning against his pillow for so long. He looked tired, and yet under that layer of exhaustion he saw the fire in his eyes. He had a plan and he was going to prove himself. It lit up in his blue eyes, smirking at his own reflection. He fucking got this. Closing a stall door at the end of the line up of stalls, James went into the very first one. Putting his feet up and crouching on top of the toilet so that Monroe couldn’t see him. Now he had to wait for the idiot blond to join him.
The bathrooms were far enough away that it wouldn’t wake others when the inevitable commotion started.
C’mon Blondie, follow me.
The door opened. Show time. James waited for Monroe to walk past his stall and open the furthest away one. James saw those stupid adidas slides pass the stall he was in, the sound of them against the almost nicotine yellow tile flooring was grating. Carefully he lowered himself so that he could exit the stall and surprise the idiot blond. A knock sounded on the last stall.
“Taking a while in there, James.”
Kicking the door to the stall he was in open, James rushed Monroe. Jumping onto his back in an adrenaline filled haze, James got him in a choke hold. There was something immensely satisfying about depriving Monroe of one of the most basic criteria for life. The sounds he made as he gasped for air was like music to James’ ears. A satiating symphony of distress. James had never really taken pleasure in the physical suffering of others. But Blondie? That was something else. His raspy gasps made James’ head spin.
“Sorry, was I taking too long for you?” James mocked in the same second as Monroe, who in turn smashed his back, and by extension James, into the tiled wall. He did not let go of the headlock, but his momentary loss of composure as the air was knocked out of him allowed for Monroe to get a breath in. His face was turning red, and James couldn’t help but bathe in the sight of it. It was so, so beautiful. In a twisted, revenge sort of way, obviously. Not in a sexy way, no, not at all.
Monroe jabbed his elbow into James’ flank, hitting him right in the ribs. James did not let go of him. He was determined to teach him a lesson. No one tells James Bond what to do. Monroe was not an authority figure over James. He tapped out and James hesitated for just a second longer. His discipline gone with the layers of anger coursing through his veins. The endorphins and adrenaline lifted him up to cloud-nine levels of ecstasy.
James let Monroe go, watching as he stumbled forward, heaving. He had over done it. James knew he had just fucked up his chances of joining the Double-O’s. What the fuck had he done?! Was he really less in control than a playground bully? An uncomfortable feeling loomed deep in his gut. Regret? Was he already grieving what his future could have looked like? James didn’t dare confront what he realized was probably some kind of attraction. He wasn’t attracted to Blondie, he was a man. James Bond didn’t like men. He liked women. Blonde, blue eyed ones at that. With legs for days and a small waist. He was a ladies man.
He could, and would, keep denying the unmistakable white hot pull of attraction deep in his abdomen. It made his head swim when he heard him gasping for breath. He could feel the floor start to sway under him as his inner world slowly crumbled. His inner monologue wasn’t very helpful in sorting anything out for him. All he heard was how he was borderline panicking. James Bond didn’t panic. James Bond wasn’t gay… he couldn’t be. It would be a security risk, a possibility for blackmail. His brain grasped at straws.
“What the fuck is your problem!?” Monroe said loud enough for it to have a kick to it but not loud enough to be heard further away than right outside the door of the bathroom. James looked up at him, saw his mind eating him alive as he realized he wanted to take a bite out of Monroe. To devour him whole, to have him be part of James. When they locked eyes James saw Monroe seeing him. He didn’t know how much he saw of James Bond as an actual person. But there was a certain recognition. A brief acknowledgment before his gaze hardened.
“You fucking cunt!” Monroe spit vitriol at James as he charged and grappled him. James was in no state to properly disarm his attack. He collided with the floor. The back of his head smashing into the pale yellow tiles, concerningly hard. He felt woozy, unsure, and completely out of his element. It was his element, or rather it was going to be when he got his six months of training done. All he managed was to get his legs wrapped around Monroe’s waist as he had moved to straddle him.
This is just Iceland minus the hypothermia.
Putting his arms up to protect his face, he dodged a couple blows as he used his arms and the movement of his core to dodge out the range of fire. Monroe and James were in an embarrassingly compromising position. Basically missionary with James’ legs in front of Monroe’s, whose thighs pressed against James' haunches. He felt a bit like a pretzel, again. The heat emanated from where their bodies rubbed against each other was maddening. He was dodging blows and taking them on the cheek with his usual amount of bravado when he couldn’t escape in time.
In a moment of foresight and tactical decision making, James bucked his hips. Monroe lost balance and only just caught himself on his elbow. He was hovering right above James’ face. He could feel his hot breaths as he panted. Screwing his eyes shut James decided he would never look at Monroe’s gorgeous eyes again. They were so painfully blue, he was so blond, his legs were long too. James couldn’t fucking handle this. He could feel his confident exterior breaking down. Everything James wanted people to see was being carelessly and effectively demolished by Monroe. Who was technically little more than a Blond stranger. James couldn’t stop thinking about his annoyingly bleach blond hair.
Bucking his hips again he tried to get Monroe off of him. It resulted in him attempting to grapple him and effectively just grinding his hips against Monroe. He could die from embarrassment right this second. It felt heavenly. James hardened as Monroe spoke through heavy breathing.
“You fucking pervert.” He grabbed James’ jaw and made him look in his direction. James was still fisting Monroe’s shirt where he had tried to overpower him. “Fucking look at me!”
James didn’t open his eyes. He was never one for giving in to orders. “Problems with authority” was what M had read from his file. He didn’t have a problem with authority, authority had a problem with him. So he wouldn’t open his eyes, no way. Monroe would have to pry them open. And if he did, James would look away. His face was all scrunched up from the mere thought of looking at Monroe. James knew that as soon as he did. As soon as those baby blue eyes were on his, he would kiss him. He needed to taste him, to feel his scruff against his face.
His hips bucked involuntarily as he thought about overpowering Monroe. The feeling of Monroe’s big hands on him, trying to fend him off. James choked on a breath when Monroe met his grind with one of his own. He was hard too. This couldn’t be happening. If they did anything that would be gay. James Bond wasn’t gay.
“Get the fuck off of me, now!” James exclaimed. It was too loud, he realized it was too loud. Someone must have heard it. What would they think of him if they found him pinned under Monroe. Cracking his eyes open a tiny bit, just enough to peer down, making sure to not look at Monroe’s face, he tried to think. To analyze how to best get out of the situation.
“Why are you hard then?” The question didn’t have as much malice behind it as James thought it would. It was teasing, sure. But it almost sounded honest too. “Look at me, James, I’ll let you go if you do.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” He was running over the odds of Monroe being serious. They didn’t look good. As in, James knew it would escalate. He wanted it to. He wanted Monroe all over him. He wanted to taste him, for fuck’s sake. How had this derailed so fast? There was always the chance that Monroe was going to get off of him, it was too big a chance. James didn’t want Monroe off, he wanted him to get off. But that would mean following his orders. His question could have been honest in the way that he was disgusted. He was probably just trying to win the fight, to get James to tap out. To admit defeat. James would rather die.
Trailing his hand down from its position on Monroe’s shoulder, James felt along his flank. His defined and straining lats along the side of his ribs. His abdomen. All the while he had Monroe by the scuff of his neck. Fingers partially on his nape and digging into the fabric of his shirt collar. They were both breathing more evenly now, being highly trained and capable they didn’t need long to have their heart rates level out. Still, Monroe’s breath hitched when James trailed his hand down, down, down until he felt how their cocks were fully hard and pressing against each other.
James felt light headed as his cock started to throb at the thought of how close they were. He peaked down again, down to where he was feeling his erection pressed into Monroe’s matching hard cock. He made sure to only squint, if Monroe saw he was looking… James couldn’t live with himself. That was not a possibility. If he looked into those blue eyes this would all be very, very real. He didn’t actually have plausible deniability as it stood, but he told himself he did. It was less personal this way.
Never get involved on an interpersonal level. That’s definitely a spy rule. It had to be. If any of the movies James had watched about spies was based even loosely in reality. Which he doubted. Then this was a very bad idea. A bad idea that felt so perfect, and wrong simultaneously.
Everything felt so much more intense with his eyes closed. He could feel the soft breath of Monroe against his face. His warm cock against his own. Monroe’s muscly thighs against the backsF of his own. James knew that Monroe’s big hand and beefy forearm was right next to his head. He was composed enough to not shudder at the thought, and yet he couldn't help the twitch of his cock. The bathroom was eerily quiet, nothing but their breathing. James couldn’t hold on to sanity and rationale much longer.
“I fucking hate you.” Monroe hissed. Why? This was his idea. It had started because that blond idiot had been messing with him. And what? He was mad at the mess he created?
Of course there was another horrifying possibility. James realized that Monroe could be into this and the fact that James didn’t play along was angering him. They were both painfully hard. They could both feel the pulsing of the other. The realization hit James like ice cold water. He was suffocated by it. His sweat ran cold. It was almost like being back in the Icelandic waters. James had to do something to establish dominance again.
“Why are you hard then?” He mimicked Monroe’s earlier comment. But it came out weak and dripping with lust. James didn’t know how much longer he could hold himself back from crashing their lips together. He wanted Monroe all over him, he wanted to be inside Monroe to show him who was in charge. He wanted Monroe. He yearned for him. He pined. He lusted. He desired. He craved in the most natural and visceral way.
It was all happening so fast, they had just met hours earlier. And yet the more James thought back to their first fight. The one he had lost. The more he realized just how badly his need for revenge was masked desire. It didn’t change the fact that James Bond wasn’t gay. He liked women who were tall, blonde, blue eyed, and who knew what they wanted. The key word there was women. He felt his facial muscles betray him. He was showing distress. Before he could course correct, Monroe leaned closer and ground into his hand which was still by their lions.
James wanted to scream, to beg, for what? He didn’t know what or why, but he knew he wanted Monroe. And then it clicked for him, his lust addled brain switching him onto the course of relief. Of gratification. This was the odds, the odds of not getting caught. The gamble of something so forbidden. He didn’t have to give in to Monroe. He could take control and show him to not cross James again. He started to rub their cocks together, it wasn’t gay because there were at least four layers of fabric between them. Like winning against the odds, James felt the relief wash over him. He was drowning in how good it felt. He needed this, respite from the ache in his throbbing cock.
Monroe groaned out as James started moving his hand along them. He matched James’ movements with shallow thrusts. How something so good, so reliving existed and somehow previously unknown to James was beyond him. It was like jerking off for the first time after figuring out a good technique, and subsequent first good orgasm. He was high on it, higher than any runner’s high he had ever experienced. Higher than he was when he was on the brink of death in Iceland. He needed more, more, more. He could drown in this feeling and die happy.
No woman had ever made him feel like this. The shock of that made him open his eyes. There, mere centimeters from his face with their noses almost touching, was Monroe. His baby blue eyes heavily lidded, looking down at James. In an excellent use of free will according to his gratification hungry brain, James grabbed the back of Monroe’s head. His buzz cut short and stubbly against his finger tips. The same second that James’ hand had come to dig into the back of Monroe’s head, he leaned down to meet James.
Their noses smushed together, and James closed his eyes again. No one moved initially, their lips closed and pressed against each other, teeth pushed hard against the inside of their respective lips. It was a childish kiss, a peck where neither of them pulled away. James didn’t want to make the first move, it would be gay if he did. Until he thought about it. It was a split second line of reasoning. Something, something, ancient Rome and being a top. Thank you brain, what an exceptional line of reasoning!
James moved to open his mouth, claiming more of Monroe’s. His beard was rough against his chin, and would occasionally rub the scar on his check in the wrong way. Sending a needle prick feeling through the scar tissue. James did not care. James felt like he was the first man on the moon. High above earth, uncaring of what anyone else thought, did, or cared about. He was on the fucking moon! Monroe grabbed at the back of James’ head with the arm he wasn’t holding himself up with. They grunted in unison as James tightened his hold.
Fuck, he’s so thick… What if he is bigger than me? The thought was both horribly emasculating and extremely hot at the same time. His hips stuttered in his grasp. Their teeth continued to clash against one another. They had taken the fist fight to second base. James erratically began jerking their cocks where they rubbed against each other. This was a definite improvement to just having a tight grip around them. It felt so good, James could have exploded from the relief it gave to the slowly building pressure in his gut. He was embarrassingly close already. Blaming it on the rush of the fight, James fought hard to hold back his building orgasm.
“Fuck, fuck… oh, shite…” He let out in between their heated kissing. Their make out session was just as aggressive as they had been when fighting. Each battling for dominance over the other. Monroe’s grip in James’ short hair was deliciously tight, it hurt just the right amount. James had to stifle a whimper as Monroe bit his lower lip. James got back at Monroe immediately after he let go, biting and sucking Monroe’s lower lip into his mouth. The amount of teeth involved in the messy kiss would have been diabolical if it was a blow job. Luckily it was just the hottest kiss James had ever had in all his twenty-six years on earth.
The idea of making Monroe submit to him, and take his cock down his throat, haunted him. It had popped into his mind, and James knew it would stay and grow like a deadly cancer if he didn’t act on it. He was so fucking close, aching for his release. But he couldn't come before Monroe had. He had to show superiority. As James felt Monroe’s spit slick, swollen lips against his own, the idea of Monroe sucking him off became so dangerously pressing he nearly commanded him to do it.
“Let me fucking feel you.” Monroe’s voice was slick with desire as he panted against James’ open mouth. James didn’t really know what he meant. His orgasm was too close for his brain to work properly, but the idea of feeling sounded good, intense too. He liked it. He let out a drawn out hum of agreement.
Monroe ripped James’ hand away from their clothed cocks, his grip had been vice-like. The lack of stimulation ripped a whine from deep in James’ gut. His eyes went wide at once, staring into Monroe’s baby blue eyes. Luckily Blondie turned his eyes away to shuffle his cock out of his shorts. James was about the preen under his perceived victory over Monroe who hadn’t been able to look him in the eyes. When he realized Monroe hadn’t been wearing underwear this whole time. Did that make this more gay?
“Why the fuck are you free-balling, Blondie?” James asked with a mix of awe and confusion. It was actually kind of hot, that they had been so close. He probably should have asked why Monroe was getting his dick out. “You are really a dumb blond if you think you’re going to put that in me.” he huffed in annoyance before Monroe could defend himself on the first question.
“You couldn’t handle my cock anyway, Baby.” Monroe said the pet name with such sarcasm, and faux endearment. A glass of molasses would have gone down easier than the saccharine tone he had said it in. It made James’ blood boil, firstly because Monroe knew exactly how to push his buttons, and lastly because he found it strangely charming. Not in the “oooh, marry me, handsome!” way that women would put on when they fawned over Bond. No, it was an irritating, grating sort of charm. The dangerous kind. The kind that would change you as a person.
To be loved is to be changed, that’s pure bullshit. I don’t need to be changed to be loved. And I don't need love from this piece of shite.
Being pulled from his train of thought, James didn’t know how to react when Monroe pulled down his shorts and grabbed his dick. That had to be gay. James Bond wasn’t–Monroe gave him a couple solid tugs, smearing his embarrassing amount of precum with his own; James was in heaven his whole body shook when Monroe thumbed his slit to collect the pre. Monroe’s big manly hands were miles above what any woman had ever done in the hand job department. He knew exactly how much pressure to apply and how far back to pull his foreskin. Not enough that it hurt, just enough that James nearly came. James had to bite his lip to keep any amount of focus intact. He was so close, he could feel the cup about to run over.
“Ahh, fuck. I’m gonna fucking cum if you–you.” James shut his mouth before he could embarrass himself further. The worst part was he knew how much of a kick Monroe must have gotten out of his horny whining. Bond hadn’t been that whiny and vocal since he lost his V-card. Monroe smirked. It was a stupid smirk. “You look like an idiot when you do that with your mouth.”
“You can’t resist what this mouth can do.” He grinned and it was somehow worse. Finally Monroe let go of James’ cock. James nearly sighed in delight that he could breathe, and yet he loathed the loss of Monroe’s touch. His stupid and seemingly never ending barge of incendiary comments and quick witted quips was incredibly frustrating. He was about to firmly encourage Monroe to perhaps, maybe, possibly suck his dick. Which for the record would be for science, so, not for gay reasons. It was partly selfish interest in finally nutting, and on the other hand: just to see if Monroe knew what he was doing. He hadn't Struck James as someone who actually knew what to do with a dick down their throat.
Looking up at Monroe, James noticed how disheveled he was. He was panting and his breathing was heavy and hot against James’ face, though he had backed up a bit to get a grip on their cocks. The contact of another warm, precum slick dick against his own made James wonder if doing gay things was actually that bad. Sure he wasn’t gay, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t enjoy the touch of another man. As soon as Monroe started stroking them in sync James’ hand flew to hold onto the opposite side where Monroe’s large hands didn’t quite reach. Their fingers overlapped and interlaced as they stroked their cocks together, against each other. James would never admit to it, but his “James Bond isn’t gay” thing was actively being torn to shreds. Along with his crumbling self-control.
Monroe was panting and cursing up a storm parallel to James’ face. Right into his ear. The tight coil in James’ gut was drawing Impossibly tight, he was so, so painfully close to his climax. Adjusting his hold on Monroe’s cock. Which did seem to be a bit longer than his own, sadly it was incredibly hot, James thumbed his head right along the sensitive slit.
It happened, Monroe came first. He blew his load all over both their T-shirts and James’ own cock. It was hot. It was really hot actually. The way he groaned like some kind of bull as he shuddered. His movements became jerky and erratic. What James hadn’t expected was Monroe quite openly, right into his ear in fact, grunting a drawn out “James, fuck!” as soon as he heard his name. Moaned openly and unabashedly by a man. A man he hated no less. James’ hand came down over Monroe’s mouth from where it had roughly cupped the back of his head.
“Shut up.”
He had managed to hide the shock and fear in his voice. No one could know that Lennox Monroe had moaned his name. It might feel good to do borderline gay things. But he was just exploring a bit. Surely there was space in today’s world for a twenty-six year old to have a clandestine, gay rendezvous with the guy he had tried to beat up and now hated, right? James quickly agreed with himself, because anything to the contrary would be… uncomfortable. With the shock of hearing his name be moaned, the tight coil in his gut had unwound a bit. They had stopped rutting against each other like horny teenagers too. All in all it looked like even after all this James would leave high and dry. He was too tightly wound mentally to let that happen. High on the situation James sternly said:
“I didn’t cum yet. And whose fault is that?” he was shifting the blame, fully deflecting any and all personal fault. He had been the one to hold off, not wanting to come first. Now that he didn’t climax? Well it was a tragedy he would blame on Monroe.
“You were holding back the whole time,” Monroe cockily pointed out under James' palm. He was not wrong, which only served to make James want to show him he didn’t actually have power over him. That whatever power trip Monroe was on, was not inline with objective reality.
James grabbed the sides of Monroe’s face hard, stubble rough against the pads of his fingers, and maneuvered it so they were face to face again. Shaking his jaw James cooed at how spent Monroe looked. It was late, yes, but they both knew sleep was no object for a future Double-O spy. Sleep deprivation simply could not get in the way of work. Nothing could get in the way of work. He looked fucked out, eyes half lidded and mouth open. He had his attitude, but not as much physical resistance. James was working overtime mentally trying to figure out Monroe. What made the blond tick?
He was hostile towards James, but too intelligent for it to be cockiness. He didn’t show the same hostility towards others. So James was special. He chose his attitude targets carefully. And yet James got all of it in the short time he had been here. James had taken part in making him cum, and yet he was still on the receiving end. Why? He couldn’t figure it out while his balls ached for release, he was definitely still missing key pieces for the puzzle of Monroe's mind.
“Show me what that mouth does, Monroe.”
He smiled, he fucking smiled despite James’ hold on his jaw. For good measure James squeezed his core with his legs where they were wrapped around his middle. Nothing like a little pain as incentive to obey. Fear did the trick too, Bond knew that. Pulling Monroe back by pressing him down into a seated position with his legs, James let go of his face. Sitting back on his haunches, Monroe tucked himself back into his shorts. James made quick work of putting Monroe in a Triangle Choke position while he was distracted. Monroe just grabbed above James’ knees and pressed hard against them with his fingers, mimicking a bite.
“Get to fucking work, you bastard.” James twitched his still hard cock making it jerk a little to the side. He could tell Monroe was about to say something utterly ridiculous, so he grabbed his hands to get them off of his thighs. The grabbing Monroe had been doing, hurt like a bitch. It ended up rather unfortunate, because now they were holding hands as James had Monroe in a triangle choke. Romantic, James’ thoughts helpfully contributed. It wasn’t romantic, there was nothing remotely romantic about the situation. Yes, they were looking each other in the eyes as Monroe was about to suck his dick, and yes they were holding hands. But it can't be romantic if you despise each other.
“C’mon, Blondie, it's not going to suck itself, is it now?”
His frustration with Monroe was festering and spreading like a cancer. He needed his relief now. If he had to use a little force, well then he’s sure Monroe wouldn't mind. Especially considering how he was looking at James’ cock right in front of his face. Hungry like a starved man. His blasé nature was hiding it decently, but James had more and more insight into how Blondie ticked. He had managed to hide his reaction to James’ nickname for him so far. Perhaps he should try “Marilyn” next time, all James wanted out of him was the slightest visible crack in his façade. His balls were sore with neglect. James had been brought to the mountain top only to tumble down the side he climbed up.
“You can’t do anything right, can you–” James barely contained the groan that tore its way out of his diaphragm. Monroe had spit on his cock, and immediately taken it into his mouth. He hadn’t gone deep yet, and it was quite obvious to James that Monroe was no professional. Initially it was the shock and the sudden warmth that had made him groan. It didn’t take long for Monroe to step up his game. Wrapping his lips around his teeth to guard James from toothy head. Worse than no head under normal circumstances. This wasn’t exactly normal circumstances, and yet Monroe was behaving. The spitting on his dick was rather degrading and unnecessary. And yet his cock had twitched at the sight and feeling of it. James would definitely not be replaying that moment, any moment from this encounter, in his head when he needed stress relief.
“So you do know how to follow orders, Marilyn Monroe?” he couldn’t help but tease. He got a death glare in return. James didn’t have time to deal with Monroe’s attitude anymore. The suction that he was proving was exquisite. “I’m going to take my turn at busting, now.”
Using his legs, James face fucked Monroe. Hard, fast, and sloppy. It was good, good enough at least. It was obvious that his previous held control was gone now that James was picking up the pace. Gagging, Monroe’s eyes watered, the sight alone was enough to look anywhere but at the hot, enticing mess he had denigrated Monroe to. Somehow, along the way their fingers had become laced even more intimately together. Neither let go. Both held tighter, Monroe as he was losing valuable air, and James as his orgasm approached at break-neck speed.
“God. Fuck. Take it, you bastard!”
James’ whole body went slack and pliable as he ran its course through his nervous system. It was mind-numbing. Pure ecstasy, unlike few other orgasms James just lay in a puddle on the floor. Blissed out and drained. Monroe was coughing and gagging as he sat back on his haunches. James met Monroe’s baby blue eye. They were staring down at him with something indecipherable behind them.
Monroe leaned over James body, thick, manly, warm hands on his thighs. And then he spat James’ own cum out, right onto James’ T-shirt. He smiled a winning smile and got up. After a brief moment where they simply looked at each other. Monroe trying to get rid of a kink in his neck. The scene involved too much winching, and James was about to complain. Opening his mouth before closing it when Monroe offered a hand to him.
Effortlessly, Monroe pulled James off of the floor and into a standing position. He gave James a onceover and then left him there. James would have complained, but he too had done the disappearing act after sex. He looked at himself in the mirror. Blissed out with a T-shirt covered in both their loads, James was a mess. Stripping his shirt off he threw it in the trash. His chest was sticky where the cum and spit mixture had seeped through onto his skin. He was marked by Monroe now. Dogs piss on things to claim their territory. James knew how he felt when he came into Monroe's mouth. He had spit it out. But there was no neglecting a claim like that. They had marked each other now. No escape from the facts.