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There is a bandaged cut across his stomach, slowly purpling bruises, bleeding cuts showing crimson across his thighs.
It makes him more perfect somehow.
Le Chiffre watches the others lock the door, leaving him alone with Bond, nude, tied to a chair.
It isn't his strongest moment.
"You've taken good care of your body. Such a waste."
Bond doesn't respond, but that doesn't matter.
The rope's thick, and he's done this before, the weights at the end heavy, devastating.
And he laughs. He laughs and laughs as Le Chiffre beats him, tortures him, and Bond is still laughing even as he bruises. It's not enough to tear, not enough to bleed, but it would be so easy to slip to let irrevocable damage occur as the man continues to laugh.
La Chiffre grits his teeth and reminds himself that he needs the money, the key to which is stored inside this man's brain more than he needs him to hurt. More than he needs to make this man feel anything like the agony he's caused.
Valenka's arm, outstretched. The sword, so close. Blood on his lip, tears of it down his face.
Closer to danger than he'd been in years.
La Chiffre stands, wipes his mouth, goes to the wall, trying to block out Bond's laughter.
He turns back around, striking out again. Enough to be destructive this time.
Bond's laughter stops for a moment and that was nearly enough to give La Chiffre his control back
But not quite.
He kicks over the chair, exposing bare skin, red and welted thighs and balls, a flaccid cock and bruised ass.
He opens a knife, the click enough to make Bond's laughter quiet for a moment. He revels "I'll feed you what you seem not to value."
He draws the knife over Bond's balls, enough to make the man scream again, trying to cover it with a laugh, even while a thin red line of blood showed, not quite enough to drip on the cold concrete floor.
"Not yet." He decides, slicing where Bond's thigh was exposed between the sides of the chair.
It bleeds deeper and he smirks, tuning Bond out, listening to his body instead of the words he raises as a weapon.
Focuses on the blood.
It seems all he can see sometimes is blood.
He unbuckles his belt and registers Bond's laughter stopping for a moment, realizing.
Then he was back, distancing himself.
"I don't think I'm up for this contest," Bond laughs "Bit cold in here, you know."
La Chiffre smiles. " I hadn't noticed."
He slices a line onto Bond's calf, stuck in the air from the way he was tied to the chair, ankles to the legs of the chair.
He slides his fingers into the blood, wetting his fingers with it. Red, and hot. Clumping in the fine blond hairs on Bond's legs.
He slides the bloody hand around his cock, slicking it, ineffectively.
It is meant to scare Bond.
It doesn't.
"It looks like your girlfriend's on the rag. You know that? When you think she's done and then you pull out and it looks like..well."
La Chiffre kicks the chair, making it roll slightly onto Bond's arm before he rights himself with a gasp. La Chiffre kneels in the space created by the four chair legs. He gathers more blood from the cut on Bond's thigh, dripping now, and he presses two fingers quickly into him.
Bond starts laughing again, a wheezy, pained sound. "But. I didn't even wash. Five minutes for an enema."
He giggles and La Chiffre slaps him. "The code."
"What, you think I really shoved it up my ass? I thought you were Albanian, not French."
This strikes Bond as the height of hilarity.
La Chiffre grabs Bond's bruised, welt testicles in a strong, bloody hand.
He squeezes.
Twists.
Bond screams, then howls with laughter. "Do you want me to call you sir, too? Yes, sir, no, sir, oh, more sir?"
La Chiffre growls, taking his cock and rubbing Bond's blood on it before shoving his cock into Bond's body brutally. It's meant to hurt and Bond howls with the pain of it, screams. Laughs.
"Six numbers, James, and this. Can. Stop."
He almost doesn't want Bond to give up the numbers. Not quickly anyway. Not when he can feel the pain arching through Bond's body, the tightness.
The control he has over the bound, bloody, bruised man.
Complete control.
"Oh, you can't be done already," Bond turns his head to the side, trying to keep a laughing tone even while his fingers clench in their bonds, even as his body tightens, trying to repel the invader, while his brain screams at his body to relax, to ride out the agony.
La Chiffre reaches up to slap him, hard, red mark stinging Bond's face as he thrusts hard, hips pressing brutally into the bruises he created on Bond's body. Relishing the pain he causes. Hoping it's too much.
"I need. The. Code. Or I will cut your cock off and shove it on your mouth to suck while I fuck you until you bleed. And then I'll let you die, bloody and violated on this floor. And your record will show "Raped to death in the line of duty." What an epitaph."
He'll do it anyway. He'll get the code, then finish off inside of Bond's body before killing him. Spit on the body. Why not cover it in his fluids. He'll be untouchable.
Bond has stopped laughing, but he keeps his eyes focused on La Chiffre's face, blue eyes blazing hatred, disgust, while the other man fucks him, face beginning to contort with orgasm as the door opens again.
Both men turn their heads to the door, but only La Chiffre has a chance to say anything, knows of anything to say, before the bullet enters his skull and even the first word is aborted.
His body is still joined to Bond's when the corpse collapses over Bond.
The shooter kicked the body, then pulls it free of Bond, cock still hard, and Bond remembers nothing else. Nothing until the hospital and pain opens his eyes again.