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31_days2005-09-01 02:02 am
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-09-01 02:02 am
[Sept. 1] [James Bond] "Before a Storm"
Title: Before a Storm
Day/Theme: Sept 1 - "Here we are"
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond/OFC
Rating: PG-13 for non-graphic lovin'
"Here we are, love," he said, his hand tugging on the stick-shift with practised ease. His eyes were wide and lit up with simple pleasure, his thin mouth curled up into a smile, his body relaxed like a hound after the hunt. It's times like this when I almost forget who he really is.
I remember what I thought when I first saw him, saw those eyes: the color of the sea before a storm. I wish I could take credit for that, but William Goldman wrote it. It's still what I think every time I look at this man beside me. Somewhere, behind those eyes, a storm lurks.
We've all seen it. When I say "we" I mean all of us who dwell on this common ground of James' acquantance, from his nearest and dearest (does he have any?) to the clerk at the drugstore across from his flat. You can tell when the storm starts to brew. His eyelids narrow, like a cat's. His whole form curls up and he waits - poised - I can't help but think he looks a bit like a werewolf, with that lupine hunch in his shoulders and that feral look and the way his hair almost seems to stand on end. Sometimes I half expect him to throw back his head and howl at the moon before bounding off into the forest, in search of fresh blood.
Once I had a dream about him. I remember little of it now, except for the red-headed woman with indistinct features who leaned in close and said, "he's a pirate." I awoke with the phrase still ringing in my ears, wondering what it all meant. But she was right - he was a pirate. Of course she was right. I made her up.
When he's driving his car, he is unquestionably the captain. Commander may be his official title, but he will not suffer anyone else to be in control of his destiny or his vehicle. It's understood that when he proposes a picnic, he'll be driving. Which is what happened on the day I'm remembering.
I say that he always has the upper hand, but that's not strictly true. After the simple picnic of bread and cheese and sausage and good potent wine, he let me push him down onto the blanket and tear at his buttons. To his credit, he didn't even so much as move. Well, his eyes moved - they watched me intently as I pulled at my underwear and fumbled with his zip. They stayed resolutely open and fixed on me even as his teeth clenched and his breath came out in a hiss, the first rushes of pleasure creeping into his brain. I rode him until his eyes went hazy and then I couldn't watch them anymore because my world exploded, and then his harsh, wonderful face was all distorted and trembling with ecstacy. A rare moment of weakness. I cling to it, even now.
It went stale, I suppose. We tired of each other. If he asked me, I'd climb into his bed again, because I couldn't refuse him. Few can. But whatever-it-was-we-had is gone now, thank God it wasn't love or I'd be nursing a broken heart. At least I'll always remember him as he was that sultry afternoon - relaxed - quiet - almost, almost, docile.
As if such a man could be tamed.
Here we are, love.
Day/Theme: Sept 1 - "Here we are"
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond/OFC
Rating: PG-13 for non-graphic lovin'
"Here we are, love," he said, his hand tugging on the stick-shift with practised ease. His eyes were wide and lit up with simple pleasure, his thin mouth curled up into a smile, his body relaxed like a hound after the hunt. It's times like this when I almost forget who he really is.
I remember what I thought when I first saw him, saw those eyes: the color of the sea before a storm. I wish I could take credit for that, but William Goldman wrote it. It's still what I think every time I look at this man beside me. Somewhere, behind those eyes, a storm lurks.
We've all seen it. When I say "we" I mean all of us who dwell on this common ground of James' acquantance, from his nearest and dearest (does he have any?) to the clerk at the drugstore across from his flat. You can tell when the storm starts to brew. His eyelids narrow, like a cat's. His whole form curls up and he waits - poised - I can't help but think he looks a bit like a werewolf, with that lupine hunch in his shoulders and that feral look and the way his hair almost seems to stand on end. Sometimes I half expect him to throw back his head and howl at the moon before bounding off into the forest, in search of fresh blood.
Once I had a dream about him. I remember little of it now, except for the red-headed woman with indistinct features who leaned in close and said, "he's a pirate." I awoke with the phrase still ringing in my ears, wondering what it all meant. But she was right - he was a pirate. Of course she was right. I made her up.
When he's driving his car, he is unquestionably the captain. Commander may be his official title, but he will not suffer anyone else to be in control of his destiny or his vehicle. It's understood that when he proposes a picnic, he'll be driving. Which is what happened on the day I'm remembering.
I say that he always has the upper hand, but that's not strictly true. After the simple picnic of bread and cheese and sausage and good potent wine, he let me push him down onto the blanket and tear at his buttons. To his credit, he didn't even so much as move. Well, his eyes moved - they watched me intently as I pulled at my underwear and fumbled with his zip. They stayed resolutely open and fixed on me even as his teeth clenched and his breath came out in a hiss, the first rushes of pleasure creeping into his brain. I rode him until his eyes went hazy and then I couldn't watch them anymore because my world exploded, and then his harsh, wonderful face was all distorted and trembling with ecstacy. A rare moment of weakness. I cling to it, even now.
It went stale, I suppose. We tired of each other. If he asked me, I'd climb into his bed again, because I couldn't refuse him. Few can. But whatever-it-was-we-had is gone now, thank God it wasn't love or I'd be nursing a broken heart. At least I'll always remember him as he was that sultry afternoon - relaxed - quiet - almost, almost, docile.
As if such a man could be tamed.
Here we are, love.