bakerstreet | Mistletoe meme

[ 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. ]

[ it's not that silva doesn't want this—james bond is a very attractive man, and raoul silva likes attractive men (and attractive women)—but the same game could be played without the sexual element, over conversation, computers, anything. this is just one more facet, one more dance across a chessboard, with heat and mouths and hips and sweat.

silva thinks he'd probably hate it if it weren't some kind of game. much has become dull to him since hong kong, but james bond has always remained a point of interest, if not always physical interest. they play off each other, they fit and repel and attract like magnets. silva knows one thing above all others; it's that men are weak for sex, weak for the promise of pleasure, including him; james is famous for it.

which is why silva frowns when bond's mouth misses his, that breath at his jaw, almost bored. his hand curls and squeezes, draws bond half-out of his trousers, begins to jack him slowly, in even, firm strokes—shifting in the chair as he gets hard, jaw tensing. he takes advantage of bond's turned head, leaning in to his ear, drawing the lobe in between his false upper teeth, and real lower ones—pressing a dry kiss to the junction of jaw and neck. ]

Doesn't it get so repetitive, [ he murmurs against the shell of bond's ear, palm sliding slicking against his cock, ] When you take orders from her. There might have been something about it, once. But she'll only betray you in the end. You'll end up just. Like. Me.

[ he refrains a more pleased exhale, seeing the small rise it drew from silva (in more ways than one) and begins to tilt his hips to the movement of his hand before he begins to speak-- it's like he doesn't let himself catch it at first, repeating the words in his head with a frown. repetitive, getting handjobs, oh no-- but that's not where this is going at all. he's done worse, however, than this. he's had to listen to her directly scold him as he was knuckle deep in what he considered a new lead (debatable, he knows). ]

Well-- At least I can count on better dental.

[ rude, and openly so and he can't help mimicking him now, laughing low and easy against his jaw, rolling his hips into the movement of his hand. ]

[ he leans back with a private smile, all lips and no teeth. it's poor compensation for cold, irritated eyes, but mention of anything m did to him inevitably hits home. as much as silva wishes he could control himself when it comes to her, he can't help the reaction—and can't help, in adjunct retaliation, to dig his fingernails into bond's skull and wrench him back again. ]

You do have a marvelous mouth. [ he seems to consider the mouth in question, still moving his other hand languidly—slowing down, his touch becoming lighter, more infuriating. after a patronising—(fond? no, threatening)—moment of sizing bond up, appraising his face, the cock in his hand, silva makes a small hm, as if deciding what could be done about that. ]

I would put it to good use.

[ delicately, he uncurls his fingers, and settles both hands on bond's thighs, looking first at the pink jut of his cock, and then up into bond's eyes. then he slaps both thighs sharply—not enough to dislodge bond from his lap, but enough to get his point across. a sigh, and: ]

On your knees, please, James.

[ ah, a nerve hit. it's dangerous, losing your cool, and both of them know that; it shows weakness, exposes the threads needed to unravel everything. it was no secret m was his weakness, too, but this-- yes, good. he remains obediently still in silva's hold, painful as it was, minding to not show an ounce of frustration or discomfort as he teased his cock.

and then it's done, for then. the eye of the storm, that strange calm between what was and what was to come and it was strangely exciting. he rolls the tension out of his shoulders and shifts without complaint, unashamed of himself as he maneuvers down between silva's knees. it's only there that he gives him a look, an almost piteous one, like he thinks silva needs this to prove something. like still, he controls the situation even if he was the one now taking commands.

whether he actually does think it or not, who knows and the ache he feels there between his thighs is a little unbearable. bond was never patient when it came to getting off, but here he is, not touching himself but rather touching silva, hands soothing up his inner thighs, cupping there where they meet his hips and doing absolutely nothing to actually touch or free him. ]

I didn't bring it up, you know.

[ amusement crinkles his eyes and he bows his back just so, to lean forward, closer, ]

You should work on your pillow talk.

[ to some extent, silva can see the gears cranking away behind bond's skull, understanding the why behind the actions (because it's familiar, almost). but as much as he would like to claim otherwise, james bond is of such interest to silva not because he can spot the similarities, but because the differences are unpredictable. silva likes to be kept on his toes. excitement is always so fleeting, when it comes. and when it leaves—it's never with a bang. but the middle, the meat of it...

holding bond's gaze, the look in silva's eyes almost becomes soft, mirroring the piteous look—but not without a hint of enjoyment. he smooths a hand over bond's hair, tracing the lines of his neck and skull, drifting a thumb over his ear, his cheekbone. the pads of his fingers rub idly against the nape of bond's neck, warming the skin; his own hips lift up a little to meet bond's hands, his slacks taut against his erection. ]

Not good enough for you?

[ then, slowly, inexorably, silva draws bond forward until his mouth is flush with his groin. he lets out a soft noise of appreciation, enjoying the feeling; one of his feet, clad in an expensive leather, nudges forward between bond's thighs to press teasingly against his cock—a constant, cool pressure. ]

No--

[ he's grateful his face can't be seen like this, feeling (and looking) a little disgruntled at his face being unceremoniously brought to (though honestly, he thinks, what did he expect); it's the nudge against his dick that does it for him, that unexpected touch a little cold and curious. a muted shiver crawls up his spine, makes him roll his shoulders as he gives in, just a little.

that little bit being mouthing against him there through his pants, tongue nudging the shape of him there (larger than he anticipated, well then) with a disapproving noise and against his better judgment, he rocks his hips slow against his shoe. it's strange, because it's not entirely pleasant. leather isn't particular forgiving and the angles of his shoe doesn't lend itself to the shape of a cock and still, maybe because it's so informal, so strange, it just works.

the only thing he gives him really is a shuddered exhale, right there against him, fingers curling into the hem of his pants impatiently. ]

Mmm. [ he smiles, eyes crinkling, dimples showing, all-too aware of the parody inherent in his next words: ] Good boy, very good.

[ silva continues to stroke bond's head and neck, sliding to his shoulders once or twice, feeling the muscles there, firm and shifting beneath his palm. he can feel the give-take pressure against his foot, and he presses back in a regular, gentle rhythm. indeed, he can almost feel the heat of bond's cock through the sole of his shoe, and it sends a residual shiver up through his legs and spine—and he grins then, sending a pleased look to the ceiling, relishing the movement of bond's mouth against his clothed cock.

then, he withdraws his hands and begins to undo the button and zip on his trousers, fingers brushing against the rough planes of bond's face as he frees himself perfunctorily. silva gives himself a few pumps to relieve some of the pressure, leaning forward, before tracing a faux-sentimental line over james' bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. ]

I'm curious, [ he says, blinking magnanimously. ] How good do you think you are?

Better than you've had.

[ he purrs in turn, almost playful. it was a big boast considering he didn't do this regularly enough to really claim that, but a little experience and determination have always gone a long way for him. he darts his tongue to taste his thumb before brushing silva's hands away, no longer waiting for an invitation, grasping him himself, hand twisting to expose the underside of his cock. a throaty noise catches, muffled as his mouth meets him, tasting from root to tip, happy to make a show of swiping his tongue slow along the rim, up with pressure against the frenulum; without much else pretense, he ducks forward to take him fully, just a shallow bob, once, twice and then right down until his mouth meets the side of his hand, his curled fingers, squeezing tight. ]

[ a dark, throaty hum escapes his mouth as bond takes him down, his eyes going half-lidded to watch, fisting a hand in bond's short hair, tilting his hips. bond is good at this—perhaps not as good as sévérine, but then again, she's had most of her life to perfect the skill—but bond's enthusiasm, his resolution, his mouth more than makes up for any clumsiness. silva's breath leaves him in a quiet whisper as he caresses bond's hollowed cheek with the backs of his knuckles, watching his own cock disappear behind those lips and into the hot, wet cavern of james' talented mouth, a parody of affection and kindness.

it's a beautiful sight, seeing him on his knees, and silva murmurs his approval, those fingers finding the back of bond's neck again—and, after a moment, unceremoniously shoving him forward even further, eliciting another sharp inhale through the nose. ]

No hands, [ he chides, his grip iron against bond's skull. ]

[ he had almost convinced himself to not expect it, what with what he had managed before and those tender little touches but maybe those are exactly what gave it away. still, james bond, as adept as he is, is not perfect and even anticipating warily that he may have to swallow more than he can chew (ha ha), he gags against his cock, inhales sharply through his nose, eyes watering suddenly, a damning involuntary reaction. likewise, he tries to lift, to alleviate but silva's hold is merciless and he forces his throat open instead with a muffled noise somewhere between distressed and irritated.

his hand drops away then, gripping his thigh blindly, squeezing and maybe in an effort to recover that misstep, to prove something to assuage his aching pride, he exhales and swallows him whole, drawing him deep into his throat, stopping only when his nose nestle against his navel. this isn't a particularly well traveled talent of bond's, though and his constitution for it won't last as long as his stubbornness would like and he huffs a breath there through his nose before suctioning hard, throat flexing as he tries to draw himself back up, flushed and visibly annoyed. ]

Mmn.

[ he can feel bond's throat spasm, can feel the slick slide of it around his cock, the gag reflex—the muscles in his thighs tense with it, in his stomach and forearms; he lets out a dark groan and rolls his hips, fucks into bond's throat once before allowing him to pull back, scraping a nail along his nape as he goes. the look on bond's face is the cherry on top, and the corner of silva's mouth pulls up in amusement, even as his eyes droop further, the pupils blown wide. ]

That's better.

[ he nudges against bond's cock with his shoe, almost contemplatively, traces his inner thighs with the slim, pointed toe. ]

Take these off. The shirt, as well.

Mistletoe meme

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)