Chapter Text
The worst part about sharing a wall with James Bond wasn’t his music or his recitations or even when he reread the more difficult sections of books out loud over and over, trying to understand them.
It was the girls.
And this wasn’t jealousy talking, Monroe could bag any bird he wanted without breaking a sweat. He wasn’t hard up to find one. He could’ve brought home any of the same girls Bond had, really. He just didn’t bother. Training left him more sore than Bond ever seemed to be, and he valued a good night’s sleep so he could go in and crush the rest of the recruits again, and again.
No, it was listening to the girl make that sound for the third—no, fourth—time. Every time. Either they were all trying really hard to make Bond feel good about himself or he really was that good in bed. Judging by the rhythm Monroe could hear through the wall… he was really that good.
There’d be a lull, probably catching their breath. Monroe would hear a muffled giggle at something Bond did or said and the bed would suddenly squeak a little faster as if in retaliation and that would cut her laugh off and it’d dissolve into something sinful. Something Monroe wanted to hear more of. Not because of her. It was never about her.
Not even the first time Monroe had tossed and turned, his headphones not blocking out the noise enough, and he’d finally sighed and slipped his hand into his shorts. He’d tried to lie to himself. It was late and he was tired and he’d convinced himself there was no harm in jacking off to it. It was just sex.
But unfortunately for his active imagination, he’d gotten enough looks at Bond’s smug face to imagine exactly what he looked like when he made her laugh like that and moan his name seconds after. How Bond was probably grinning up at her with his face between her legs, shiny, spit slick lips and a flush running up and down his freckled skin. How the bed protested when the weight shifted and she must’ve dropped her head back to let out another soft fuck, yes— how Bond’s face was probably hard and focused as he gripped her hips and buried himself inside her over and over until she gasped—god, yes, there it is.
And he never stopped there. He never just stopped there.
Listening to the girl’s moans build again, Monroe had his free hand on the inside of his thigh, spreading his own legs wider, other hand working himself faster, matching Bond’s pace now, thrusting hard into his fist the second time he heard the girl’s voice rise and break as she came again. He still wasn’t thinking about her. Not when he slipped his hand further between his legs, fingers sliding through the spit dripping down his balls, and pushing them against his hole.
He’d only ever done one finger before, for the hell of it, but the more times he had to listen to his flatmate screwing another girl from the pub, the more he pushed. It was three tonight. Enough for Bond to work with, if he’d wanted to. All he’d have to do is nudge against him and he’d slip right in—hopefully.
Monroe had seen him half hard in the showers before and it wasn’t intimidating. Nothing to scoff at, but not outrageous by any means. That and the flush over his skin and the sweat dripping down his back… Post training adrenaline looked goddamn good on Bond. He likely looked about the same in bed.
By the time the girl was panting and telling him he could finish—which was the most telling part of it all—Monroe was shaking. He heard Bond’s voice crack, the slap of skin get faster, and Monroe’s hand flew over his cock, trying to chase it, fingers buried deep, his own lips betraying him, mouthing silently, James, oh, fuck James—
Then Bond’s rattling bed suddenly slowed to a stop.
And Monroe’s ears rang as he came hard, spilling hot and sticky over his own fingers.
James would always give the girl about five minutes before helping her find the front door. And by the time his bedroom door closed again, Monroe would have already tossed his ruined shirt back into the laundry, popped his headphones back in, and tried hard not to think about fucking James Bond.