The Code for Love (J/A) (Standalone)
This fic is rated: P for Porny
Fandom: James Bond: Goldeneye
Characters/Pairing: James/Alec
Summary: Alec wants some comfort, James obliges.
Warnings: Two men have sex. With each other. (Duh, much?)
Angsty. Also plotless. Hey, it’s angst, it’s pwp -- it’s awp? (Does such a thing really exist? I guess it must!)
Word Count: 825
Feedback: yes, please!
X-Posted: were_lemur, forengland
Disclaimer: I don't own James Bond. I don't own Alec Trevelyan either (alas), nor any other characters mentioned in this fic. James, Alec, etc. are all property of Ian Fleming and MGM. I'm just playing with them for a while. Not making any money, don't have any money, please don't sue!
Even in bed, Alec speaks in code.
“Fuck me,” he whispers. In the dark, James can only make out a silhouette, but his voice is harsh with pain. “Go slow.”
Separately, they might be instructions, but together, James knows, they are a plea; he wants to be held, comforted, though he will not tell James why.
Sometimes, James wishes he dared ask. Wishes he dared turn Alec toward him, hold him and look into his eyes, and demand to know what’s wrong. But he has no right, no claim on Alec.
So instead, he rolls against Alec’s back, slides an arm around his waist and then feels his way down. When he wraps his hand around Alec’s cock, Alec shudders and lets out a sigh. His head tips back against James’s shoulder.
What would Alec do if I just held him? James wonders. But his hand is already moving of its own volition, stroking Alec’s cock, bringing it to attention. He nibbles at the nape of Alec’s neck, then pulls back. Alec gasps “Don’t -- ” but James is stroking his back before he can complete the protest. He feels the scars beneath his fingertips; the history of Alec’s life. The history of their lives together.
How many times had he almost lost Alec? How many close calls?
How many almosts do we have left?
If he thinks too much about that, he will go mad.
Instead, he rolls away -- just for a moment -- and snatches the bottle of lube from his nightstand. Squeezes out a good dollop and hold it in his hand to warm it, before he goes to work.
After so long together, he knows Alec’s body, his reactions. They are good at being fast; snatched moments might be all they have, and they know how to take advantage of them. If he wants to, he can be inside Alec in less than two minutes.
If he wants to, he can take hours -- teasing, tormenting, making Alec beg to be fucked. But Alec wants comfort, not the slow, loving cruelty of denial. So James takes the middle course; slow, gentle, but purposeful, until he slides into Alec, deep into the center of that tight heat, feeling as well as hearing Alec moan in response. He wraps his arms around Alec, holds him tight, because suddenly he’s shaking like he’s about to fly apart.
“Hey,” James whispers. He wants to say more, but he doesn’t dare. Slowly, slowly Alec stops shaking. One hand comes up, to grasp James’s wrist. “Please,” he whispers.
“Please what?” James asks; it’s equal chances whether Alec wants to be fucked or left alone.
The silence stretches between them, fills the room -- and then snaps. “Fuck me, James,” Alec whispers.
It’s not an invitation that needs repeating. James shifts his weight, pulls out -- and then thrusts back in, slowly, gently. The silhouette that is Alec throws back his head. James kisses the arched neck, nibbles on the corded muscles.
He starts to move one hand down toward Alec’s cock, but the hand on his wrist stops the movement. “Just like that,” Alec whispers. “Let me worry about me.”
James bites back the impulse to confess how worried he really is. Instead, he concentrates on the sex; the thrusting, the heat, the need that starts at his cock and spreads up into his belly, his hips, urging him on. He has to fight to keep from going too fast; his body wants to roll Alec all the way over on his stomach, brace himself, and pound into him. Instead, he controls himself, keeping the thrusts deep, but slow. Until finally, finally, he hears Alec mumble, “Oh God, oh God -- ”
His control breaks then; he tightens his grasp on Alec and just thrusts. Not that Alec is complaining; his body is bowstring-tight and he’s matching James’s thrusts with his own. James hears him moan something intelligible -- something that might have been ‘love’ if they had been different people -- and his body jerks in the way James knows oh so well.
James thrusts once, twice, three more times, and then he feels his own body jerking. He clings to Alec, clutches at him in the maelstrom, bites down on his shoulder and tastes blood. The world narrows down to Alec; Alec surrounding him, hot and tight. Alec in his arms, warm and strong. Alec clutching his wrist, frightened and desperate.
When the world finally stops exploding, Alec is still there. For the moment; any minute he will remember that they are supposed to be friends, partners, and only incidentally fucking; that they spend the night at each others’ apartments only for the sake of convenience. Any minute, Alec will roll away, back to whatever solitary hell he’d woken in.
“I don’t know about you,” James says, “But I’m too tired even to move.”
Alec sighs, and relaxes into his arms. “Me, too.”
Fandom: James Bond: Goldeneye
Characters/Pairing: James/Alec
Summary: Alec wants some comfort, James obliges.
Warnings: Two men have sex. With each other. (Duh, much?)
Angsty. Also plotless. Hey, it’s angst, it’s pwp -- it’s awp? (Does such a thing really exist? I guess it must!)
Word Count: 825
Feedback: yes, please!
X-Posted: were_lemur, forengland
Disclaimer: I don't own James Bond. I don't own Alec Trevelyan either (alas), nor any other characters mentioned in this fic. James, Alec, etc. are all property of Ian Fleming and MGM. I'm just playing with them for a while. Not making any money, don't have any money, please don't sue!
Even in bed, Alec speaks in code.
“Fuck me,” he whispers. In the dark, James can only make out a silhouette, but his voice is harsh with pain. “Go slow.”
Separately, they might be instructions, but together, James knows, they are a plea; he wants to be held, comforted, though he will not tell James why.
Sometimes, James wishes he dared ask. Wishes he dared turn Alec toward him, hold him and look into his eyes, and demand to know what’s wrong. But he has no right, no claim on Alec.
So instead, he rolls against Alec’s back, slides an arm around his waist and then feels his way down. When he wraps his hand around Alec’s cock, Alec shudders and lets out a sigh. His head tips back against James’s shoulder.
What would Alec do if I just held him? James wonders. But his hand is already moving of its own volition, stroking Alec’s cock, bringing it to attention. He nibbles at the nape of Alec’s neck, then pulls back. Alec gasps “Don’t -- ” but James is stroking his back before he can complete the protest. He feels the scars beneath his fingertips; the history of Alec’s life. The history of their lives together.
How many times had he almost lost Alec? How many close calls?
How many almosts do we have left?
If he thinks too much about that, he will go mad.
Instead, he rolls away -- just for a moment -- and snatches the bottle of lube from his nightstand. Squeezes out a good dollop and hold it in his hand to warm it, before he goes to work.
After so long together, he knows Alec’s body, his reactions. They are good at being fast; snatched moments might be all they have, and they know how to take advantage of them. If he wants to, he can be inside Alec in less than two minutes.
If he wants to, he can take hours -- teasing, tormenting, making Alec beg to be fucked. But Alec wants comfort, not the slow, loving cruelty of denial. So James takes the middle course; slow, gentle, but purposeful, until he slides into Alec, deep into the center of that tight heat, feeling as well as hearing Alec moan in response. He wraps his arms around Alec, holds him tight, because suddenly he’s shaking like he’s about to fly apart.
“Hey,” James whispers. He wants to say more, but he doesn’t dare. Slowly, slowly Alec stops shaking. One hand comes up, to grasp James’s wrist. “Please,” he whispers.
“Please what?” James asks; it’s equal chances whether Alec wants to be fucked or left alone.
The silence stretches between them, fills the room -- and then snaps. “Fuck me, James,” Alec whispers.
It’s not an invitation that needs repeating. James shifts his weight, pulls out -- and then thrusts back in, slowly, gently. The silhouette that is Alec throws back his head. James kisses the arched neck, nibbles on the corded muscles.
He starts to move one hand down toward Alec’s cock, but the hand on his wrist stops the movement. “Just like that,” Alec whispers. “Let me worry about me.”
James bites back the impulse to confess how worried he really is. Instead, he concentrates on the sex; the thrusting, the heat, the need that starts at his cock and spreads up into his belly, his hips, urging him on. He has to fight to keep from going too fast; his body wants to roll Alec all the way over on his stomach, brace himself, and pound into him. Instead, he controls himself, keeping the thrusts deep, but slow. Until finally, finally, he hears Alec mumble, “Oh God, oh God -- ”
His control breaks then; he tightens his grasp on Alec and just thrusts. Not that Alec is complaining; his body is bowstring-tight and he’s matching James’s thrusts with his own. James hears him moan something intelligible -- something that might have been ‘love’ if they had been different people -- and his body jerks in the way James knows oh so well.
James thrusts once, twice, three more times, and then he feels his own body jerking. He clings to Alec, clutches at him in the maelstrom, bites down on his shoulder and tastes blood. The world narrows down to Alec; Alec surrounding him, hot and tight. Alec in his arms, warm and strong. Alec clutching his wrist, frightened and desperate.
When the world finally stops exploding, Alec is still there. For the moment; any minute he will remember that they are supposed to be friends, partners, and only incidentally fucking; that they spend the night at each others’ apartments only for the sake of convenience. Any minute, Alec will roll away, back to whatever solitary hell he’d woken in.
“I don’t know about you,” James says, “But I’m too tired even to move.”
Alec sighs, and relaxes into his arms. “Me, too.”