Categories > Movies > James Bond
Moscow, 1985
The drizzle in the evening light looks like tiny diamonds falling from the sky, breaking into a million sparkling pieces as soon as they hit the ground. The puddles at his feet, however, mean nothing to the dark figure waiting in the shadows. The sound of footsteps approaching jolts him out of his reverie, and he turns, hand on the gun at his hip.
'I wouldn't try that if I were you, Mister Bond.'
Cold steel is pressed against his temple, and he freezes, never moving his hand away from the gun. Raindrops mix with pearls of sweat, forming on his forehead and trickling down, clinging to his eyebrows.
'Ya top'ko.' [Russian - 'I am alone']
'Aren't we all, James?'
A sigh-- of relief, of exasperation. Of anticipation. The gun is removed, cold steel replaced with burning flesh. Hot breath against his skin, sending shivers down his spine. Making him weak.
'Is all this really necessary, Alec?'
'Is there anything that turns you on more... than danger?'
Hands move down his body, calm, composed, but not without a certain urge to them. Lean fingers crawling under the rim of his shirt, exposing his naked midriff. Exploring, imploring. And finally, those lips on his, pushing his head back against the wall, tongue thrust in aggressively. Hands roaming.
'Some people have champagne and satin sheets...' James starts when he remembers how to breathe. 'How come we have rain and dark alleys?'
'You know,' Alec hisses, 'what your problem is? You talk too much.'
He takes his cue, sliding down until his knees hit the wet cobblestones. It doesn't matter that the ground is cold and wet-- he's already soaked to the bone.
There's a pattern to this, an almost familiar push-and-pull: each testing the other's limits with the intention to go over and beyond them. In the field, they work together; in this, they are each other's opponent, bodies and minds clashing in a battle of wills.
Alec's hand in James' hair first tightens, then goes slack as he comes. He brings James off with quick, punishing strokes while James buries his face in Alec's shoulder, teeth raising angry red welts on the tender skin there.
When they break apart, Alec is grinning. 'The things we do for England, James.'
James can't help but laugh. In the space of a second they're back to being friends and comrades, the rivalry that colours their sexual encounters forgotten for the moment.
'Yes,' he replies. 'For England.'
The drizzle in the evening light looks like tiny diamonds falling from the sky, breaking into a million sparkling pieces as soon as they hit the ground. The puddles at his feet, however, mean nothing to the dark figure waiting in the shadows. The sound of footsteps approaching jolts him out of his reverie, and he turns, hand on the gun at his hip.
'I wouldn't try that if I were you, Mister Bond.'
Cold steel is pressed against his temple, and he freezes, never moving his hand away from the gun. Raindrops mix with pearls of sweat, forming on his forehead and trickling down, clinging to his eyebrows.
'Ya top'ko.' [Russian - 'I am alone']
'Aren't we all, James?'
A sigh-- of relief, of exasperation. Of anticipation. The gun is removed, cold steel replaced with burning flesh. Hot breath against his skin, sending shivers down his spine. Making him weak.
'Is all this really necessary, Alec?'
'Is there anything that turns you on more... than danger?'
Hands move down his body, calm, composed, but not without a certain urge to them. Lean fingers crawling under the rim of his shirt, exposing his naked midriff. Exploring, imploring. And finally, those lips on his, pushing his head back against the wall, tongue thrust in aggressively. Hands roaming.
'Some people have champagne and satin sheets...' James starts when he remembers how to breathe. 'How come we have rain and dark alleys?'
'You know,' Alec hisses, 'what your problem is? You talk too much.'
He takes his cue, sliding down until his knees hit the wet cobblestones. It doesn't matter that the ground is cold and wet-- he's already soaked to the bone.
There's a pattern to this, an almost familiar push-and-pull: each testing the other's limits with the intention to go over and beyond them. In the field, they work together; in this, they are each other's opponent, bodies and minds clashing in a battle of wills.
Alec's hand in James' hair first tightens, then goes slack as he comes. He brings James off with quick, punishing strokes while James buries his face in Alec's shoulder, teeth raising angry red welts on the tender skin there.
When they break apart, Alec is grinning. 'The things we do for England, James.'
James can't help but laugh. In the space of a second they're back to being friends and comrades, the rivalry that colours their sexual encounters forgotten for the moment.
'Yes,' he replies. 'For England.'
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