bakerstreet | Mistletoe meme

Likewise.

[ it's mild and polite enough, a smile turning the corners of his lips that is half mocking, half amused. it's his eyes though, intent and focused, absolutely predatory. a rat-eating-rat eying another rat. it really was an apt analogy, wasn't it?

and it was fair. silva, considering everything, looked dapper enough. he was blending, he was charming, and bond had the notion that if things were different, he might actually find silva good company. funny how things turn out. ]

I'm sure you're not just here for the drink.

[ he waves the bartender to bring another for his guest, ]

Watered down shite, but it'll do the trick.

[ silva downs the rest of his champagne in order to make room for bond's generous unspoken gesture, and sets the glass on the bartop with a tiny clink. his fingers remain loosely circled around the stem, faux-relaxed. the flirty grin drops slowly from his face.

he can see why bond is m's favourite. all tightly coiled, like a whip, ready to snap into action at a moment's notice. those eyes. what fervor and discipline.

well, for a given definition of 'discipline', silva muses. went a bit off the rails, didn't he. for a while. naughty, naughty.

his head tilts in mock curiousity. ]

No, but I suppose that's obvious.

[ glaringly. considering he'd seen fit to show himself in the first place. ]

And neither— [ he pauses, ] are you. Business? Pleasure? Both?

Both if I can help it.

[ it's not flirting but-- maybe it's flirting. he feels like he has the right after that intimate little session back on silva's island. he turns more toward him then and the space between them feels so little though they look like any other pair having a casual conversation at a party, ]

I'm guessing your answer would be the same. [ the corners of his eyes crinkle just so with amusement and he practically purrs in that low timbre of his, ] Maybe we can please each other.

[ like tell him why you're here, for one. ]

[ don't lie to yourself, james. it's straight-up flirting. ]

Ooh, Mr Bond. So forward.

[ the grin returns, full-force—a winsome gash of a smile that lights up his eyes, widening them with lavish reaction, teeth bared. are they to play that game, then? he likes that game.

though bond had moved forward, silva ups the stakes: one of his hands comes to rest hotly on bond's chest, utterly coy, and yet unmistakeably predatory—like he's about to dig in with claws. it's no longer casual conversation; nor even would it appear respectable, not when silva's dispensing with all pretense of personal space. ]

You want to know why I'm here?

[ it's almost like he can read your mind, isn't it. everyone always has to know. ]

[ he doesn't refuse him, neither moves toward or away, just simply accepts the touch for what it is. he half dares himself to return it, just a little brush of fingers against silva's wrist, the crook of his arm, but he knows he has an advantage (even just slightly) by refraining. his smile widens. ]

Of course.

[ silva blinks slowly, dropping his eyes to bond's throat. familiar. tempting. too easy.

they flick back up, the pads of his forefingers pressing against fabric. his eyes go dark. he echoes, in syrupy-sinister delight: ]

How much?

[ his laugh is low and lazy, casual-- friendly, even, considering and when the bartender brings silva's drink, he slides it closer as an offering, gives him a curious, challenging look, ]

Name your price.

[ almost disappointedly, he uses the hand that had been touching bond to withdraw his phone from own his breast pocket—while uncurling his other from the stem of the empty flute, brushing against bond's knuckles as he claims the new drink.

he holds the mobile up. one of the last messages is on the viewscreen: I could say please x

silva's gaze darts to it. ]

Oh, nothing terribly out of order.

Just one of those.

[ he considers the text carefully, ]

I could. [ but i wouldn't mean it, he wants to add but if anyone is capable of torturing one of those out of him, he has no doubt it's silva. instead, he presses, watching him still in that same predatory way, ] Come closer.

[ come closer, said the spider to the fly.

silva leans forward. he stops when his mouth's a scant inch from bond's, in his air, his face. in his mind, he sees razor teeth tearing into the soft flesh of those lips and jaw, leaving gouges, like streaks of cyanide; he could kiss this other rat bloody and then make him wear a shot glass on his skull, shoot him dead, but not before sucking the red from his teeth. and chuckling.

coulda, woulda, shoulda. well. there's time for that later. ]

I should mention, [ he purrs, suddenly, ] that if you try to kill me here, there will be no end to the consequences.

[ he resists the urge to reach out with his tongue and lick his warning into bond's mouth; caveats first, and all that. tedious. ]

But... I don't think you're going to be that predictable.

Hardly.

[ he says low, like the thought of being predictable was insulting. but he doesn't move, no, doesn't move a damn inch, just keeps his gaze there close and intimate, so very focused. and then it drops and when it does, his hand is rising easy to straighten silva's lapels, fingers curling into the fabric to pull him even closer as he tilts, cheeks brushing just a scant second as he speaks against his ear like it's a dirty little secret just for the pair of them. ]

Maybe somewhere more private?

[ remove the threat, isolate, act alone. it's something that was pounded into his head from day one and he's not too unaware to know that silva may know exactly what he's doing because he was taught the same. ]

[ silva lets out a breathy little hum, a considering noise, as his eyes slip shut—relishing the soft gust of breath over his ear, the one that stirs his hair and murmurs something about privacy. ]

Hmmm. [ he chuckles, like bond's just told him a very dirty joke. and it is, in a way. a joke. ] I don't think so.

[ silva draws back, just a little. enough for bond to see the expression on his face—it's subtle, but there. (do you think i'm stupid?)

james bond's charm is legendary, but silva's read his file. and the other file, as well. once you're a double-oh, you never truly leave the service, not until you're dead; even if you wanted to die. even if, for all intents and purposes, you are dead. you simply can't leave it behind. why try? ]

I thought you liked to put on a show, James.

[ and with that, silva's hand leaves his drink untouched. slowly, he slides it around bond's waist, behind his no doubt very expensive dinner jacket, and pulls until the tops of their thighs touch. ]

[ it's true, what he said to silva before, that that nor this was his first time. the first time seducing a man had been for work, the second time for pleasure, the rest-- why label things. none particularly stood out in his mind and he was sure for as formidable as silva was, that wouldn't change things and still, there's a thrum in him, power responding to power, the challenge laid and set and he felt ready to accept on a deeply egotistical level.

perhaps a lesser man would be intimidated or perhaps put off by the public display, but not bond. he's adaptable, easy, and just as much is the sliding of his hotel room key into silva's inner coat pocket. ]

Only one way to find out.

[ a smile warms his eyes before he pulls away completely, moving through the crowd untouched like some sort of specter. he doesn't look back but he does linger there at the elevators, wondering, checking that clever little watch q had given him not but a few days ago. funny how these things work out. ]

[ when bond moves away, silva wastes no time retreating. there had been stares, of course, but it was nothing if not normal behaviour at a party like this; two respectable-looking gentlemen with a vat of sexual overtones between them, speaking close and private, one leaving without the other—but leaving a promise of more to come. so stereotypically familiar, but it's that promise, it's bond's room key and his lovely smile that seals the deal. silva smirks blankly into thin air before he's up and away, moving easily through the throng of people until they part like water for him.

it's with jaunty steps that he walks to the stairs, not the elevator, passing his vantage point where he'd hidden a steyr m9-a1 and a supressor. he jogs one floor up, catches the lift in the far wall opposite, purposefully avoiding bond until absolutely necessary. no effort is made to hide his weapon; he screws the suppressor on while the floors ding past, knowing instinctively that he won't be interrupted (the party isn't due to end for at least another two hours). his other hand goes to his pocket, where bond's key is still warm; silva's fingers casually rub against the metal until the lift doors open, warming it up further.

(it's not as though he plans to use the gun, but you can never be too careful. even with rigged cctv and hacked security cameras, there's always something that could possibly go wrong, and silva knows not to underestimate james. besides, this does make things a little more fun.)

he keys into bond's room easily, slips inside and into the dark. silva sits down in a chair facing the bed, the gun laid gently over his knees, and waits. shouldn't be too long; he hadn't spared any time, but then again, bond can be very fast. ]

[ likewise, bond took the short ride up to prepare himself, the gun at the small of his back light and efficient, an advanced version of the one q had initially grafted for him, fit to his palm. there were more treats hidden here and there, little things, a thing like a gun that fitted to his wrist and extended to use with the right gesture (archaic, he said, innovative, q said), a canister of some assailing spray or mist (he didn't listen then) that he's sure will harm him just about as much (though he'd argue his willpower would refuse it alone) and the usual-- clips, tracker, ear piece.

ah, yes. ear piece.

he draws it out, preferring to leave this one to himself and as the doors open up, he deftly drops it between the crack of the floor and the elevator, letting it swiftly drop to it's technological death. he had more important things to deal with now, thank you. clear and alert, fueled by adrenaline, he decides to take his time, to make his approach less predictable, carefully leading the door open into nothing, rather than just his body. and as he suspected, they both had considered this possibility. at least here, elevated and away from the main crowd, should it come to it, he could have him again.

so to speak. he lingers there, in the doorway, watching so raptly, so closely, every muscle under that pressed, posh suit taut and waiting for action, ]

I didn't think you'd come.

[ it's lightly said, casual, calm-- challenging. an open gun was quite the declaration, after all. ]

[ the briefest flash of teeth in the dark says everything the innuendo doesn't have to. ]

Oh, James, [ silva says, as if admonishing a small child. ] I haven't yet.

[ one of his fingers rubs lightly against the trigger guard, overtly sexual, if bond's looking. it's meant to unsettle, not encourage, but he's aware the routine won't work on bond—not like it does on insecure, laced-up boys with sweat at their collars. silva's eyes don't leave his, assessing as calmly as bond seems to be doing. with his other hand, he casually motions towards the bed, offering the only other seat in the room to the only other occupant. ]

You must be tired from all that tedious mingling. Why don't you sit down, hm?

[ he does raise a brow at the suggestion, watching openly between his hand and his face, something distantly curious there. his vices were practically an open book for anyone, especially silva, to take advantage of and while alcohol was likely the largest of them all, restraint here is tempting to lose. he wouldn't call himself addicted to sex so much as addicted to pleasure and that came in many forms. he didn't need one of m's psychiatrists telling him that but considering his life, he figured it was the least he deserved, being pleasured.

this would not be pleasure. in the basest sense, maybe, but not truly and still here he is, moving to the bed as indicated, casually unbuttoning his his jacket in the fluid motion between standing and sitting. his pants pull taught against his thighs and thoughtlessly (or perhaps just as much to play the game), he presses a hand down the length of one, setting there above his knee. he knows silva remembers the way they feel, his larger hands practically consuming them in that brief but memorable moment. and then he gestures with both hands, as if to say, here i am. ]

Sorry it's not a suite. I hadn't intended to stay.

Not a problem, of course. We won't be very long. [ he holds up the gun, pinching it between forefinger and thumb, and lays it gently within arm's reach on the chair-side table, under the dim lamp. clunk. ]

And we won't need this.

[ you see, james? neutral ground. except that it clearly isn't, the gun is still clearly there, pointed at bond—silva has only to reach over and snatch it up. it's reinforcement, a threat, insurance. his gaze darts up playfully, his hands returning lightly to his own thighs, an conscious mirror to bond's movements; he shifts until his legs open, feet spaced evenly on the sensible carpet, altogether the image of a serene, generous benefactor.

he does remember, and there bond is. ]

I am interested— [ he pauses, head tilting in a parody of thought. ] —fascinated by your, shall we say, psychological... idiosyncrasies? An addict never truly recovers. Even now you jumped at the chance to experience a thrill, at the risk of your life, just because I made a few [ he waves a hand ] overtures.

Death must have been so dull for you. I don't know how you managed.

[ if he has a dry retort (and he always does), he reserves it for now in favor of scrutinizing him, giving just a grunt to suggest he heard him as he reaches back inside his jacket to draw out the gun he had tucked away, tossing it aside just as unceremoniously. it doesn't stop there, though. he draws that canister of some clever gas q has worked up and sets it to the floor, nudging it away with his foot. he pushes himself up with a heavy sigh then, his dress jacket sliding off his shoulders in one motion and dropping, ]

It was what it was.

[ like that explains everything, but it's true. day in, day out, restless, just fucking and drinking like that might settle him into contentment but it never did and it still doesn't. the gun anchored to his arm is pulled off a little more impatiently and makes a distressing noise when it falls, like he might have compromised it but he doesn't seem to care, just unbuttoning the ends of his sleeves now to loosen them as he approaches.

look at him, bare as the day he was born, so to speak. a violent man with only his hands and yet when he's close, he doesn't stop, no, but moves to his thighs, careful and gracefully, then over, settling himself right there in his lap with a curious look. his hands drop, so very casually pulling his tie loose, the fabric pliant under his hands. ]

Who says this is a thrill anyway?

[ silva's doe-eyed, tranquil expression darkens as bond approaches. it's almost predictable, almost—but he hadn't expected bond to make the first move, even if he's aware bond prefers to use sex (or alcohol) to settle upheaval, to rise to a challenge. then again, the man has a positively heuristic methodology, doesn't he. continuous one-ups until he ends up on top, king of the world, looking down from on high like some angel of destruction sent from m's private army.

still, he lets bond fiddle with his shirt, his tie, watching him with razor scrutiny, blinking in slow, unsmiling appraisal. though bond had kicked his weapons away, this new move—a respectable attempt at seduction, silva muses—also puts him within reach of the steyr m9-a1. clever james, always so quick on the uptake.

after a moment, his large hands move to settle on bond's waist, thumbs rubbing in slow circles against his hips. then, inexorably, they tighten, firm and uncompromising, and drag him down until his ass is snug against silva's groin. ]

I do. You wouldn't be touching me if you had nothing to lose. [ and nothing to gain. ]

[ he reacts bodily to the touch; this was as much a part of the job as anything else and it wouldn't be the first time he'd put on a show of himself for the sake of it. his back arches just slightly, eyes cast down, half lidded with some unsaid pleasure, wetting his lips slow and distracted. and then he's drawn down and his eyes dart up to catch silva's, to lock him with that aware, focused look. it's as if to say careful, careful. ]

You say that like I've ever had anything to lose.

[ truth be told, not many men could manhandle him and there is a prospect of that that amuses him, but he draws his knees in and squeezes his hips instead, casually rolling his his own against silva's as if he's allowing it, doing it of his own accord and not because silva could have it whether james wanted to give it or not. he draws the tie off him like a whip, sharp and fast, purring his words low and easy in contrast, ]

Why did you come here tonight?

[ compared to silva, bond is a small and compact man, all muscle and mind and whip-coiled reflexes. he fits easily underneath silva's hands, the cradle of his hips, the line of bared throat stretching above him, dipping into a broad chest, all warm skin—he remembers, remembers tracing bond's collarbone, his jugular, the angular jut of his jaw. ]

Now, now. [ silva's hips roll to meet bond's, an indulgent smile curling his lips. one hand travels from a hip to bond's crotch, the heel of his hand resting gently against the seam and pressing, just there, warm but unmoving. ] You haven't earned that yet.

[ so earn it. ]

[ oh, for fucks sake. he restrains the eyeroll he desperately wants to let loose and shifts easy against his hand. he'd be a fool not to think his body would react but that doesn't mean he has to, not yet. instead, he takes this moment to pull his shirt open forcefully, buttons popping one by one until he can shirk it off, leaving it a heap at silva's feet. he ducks forward then, mouth just missing his, skirting instead against the rise of that artificial cheek, lips grazing his ear as a hand drops to coat silva's, to hold it against him as he doesn't roll but thrusts himself against his palm, ]

Please.

[ his voice is all gravel and desire, low and rough against him, an indulgent little groan following, lost against his hair. ]

[ the word technically means nothing; bond begging means nothing, and this isn't begging. it's only a word, and silva knows how fleeting and immaterial those can be. not like lines of code on a computer screen, where one wrong placement can cause catastrophic failure—or success. silva doesn't place much emphasis on words, not when there's so much more between him and bond than mere pleasantries.

still, he had asked, and bond had given. deserves a reward, yes?

the husk to bond's voice goes straight to his cock, and silva lets out a breath through his noise, eyes up at the ceiling. like this is a hardship. his hips roll again, finding friction, heat, and he begins to rub bond's cock with his palm, fingers sliding against the outline, smoothing over the wrinkles in his trousers. his other hand reaches up to hook on the back of bond's neck, threading through the short crop of hair—before digging in and yanking him back.

the answer comes at the hollow of bond's throat, silva's lips brushing against his skin like a whisper of a kiss, drifting up to his adam's apple. ]

You're a very popular man, James. [ it's a growl, a promise. ] I like to know my competition.

[ deft fingers find the button and zip, sliding into bond's trousers, curling around him and squeezing. ]

[ he jerks, just slightly at the hold, his turn to eye the ceiling before his eyes squeeze shut, offering a lingering, low groan. why not, he thinks, he's already relinquished his most valuable asset, trusted something very precious to him to someone he couldn't trust as far as he could throw him (well, that was debatable, he could probably throw him a fair few feet). he's never been a waiting participant, however, and the implication that silva is getting exactly what he wants rubs him the wrong way, so to speak.

james soaks it up though, weak to a hand on his cock. it was true, many things silva had said and that were known about him and he realizes that frankly, it's been so long since he was at odds sexually with someone-- that he didn't lead the situation-- that he realizes a solution doesn't immediately appear and that in some awful way, not having control in any respect was doing something for him, something that went straight to his cock.

abruptly he pulls forward against the hold, despite whatever pain that would bring, thighs squeezing his hips once more, knees digging painfully into the chair's sides. it brought some reality back, gave him just a note of awareness and he wastes it all immediately in a game that would not work in his favor, ducking forward as if to kiss silva but tilting away last minute, arms curling lazy around his shoulders. and suddenly it's very casual, james bond with a hand on his cock, sighing boredly against his enemy's jaw, like maybe he planned it all along. ]

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