Mistletoe meme

[memespiration]

Huh... There's a mistletoe right above you... That's weird, it's the middle of April. --Well whoops. Looks like you got stuck right under that mistletoe with someone else. And you both can't move until you kiss one another (Of course, not specifying where that kiss needs to happen).

RULES:
»POST with your character and their canon.
»SPECIFY Prefs, if any.
»TAG all the people!

»if you'd really rather avoid the kiss, fee free to replace "kiss" with "tell a secret"!

Comments

[discretionary]

[ 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.

[cyberterrorism]

[ 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. ]

[discretionary]

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. ]

[cyberterrorism]

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?

[discretionary]

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. ]

[cyberterrorism]

[ 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. ]

[discretionary]

[ 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.

[cyberterrorism]

[ 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.

[discretionary]

[ he gives an acknowledging noise, wondering when it turned to this. from them battling words, silva's hand around his cock to him being ordered to strip with silva stuffed in his mouth. m would have a field day with this if she knew and he can practically hear her scolding him for his stupid ego and that should really ruin a lot of things for him but he'll do just as he's told because he's curious. when has being in a compromising position ever stopped that, right?

his hand slides against his thigh as he sits back on his heels, palm curving over his knee and that open annoyance melts into something guarded and-- mean. something in his eyes that promises awful things and not all the good kind. he was a creature of vengeance despite himself and despite every authority figure in his life telling him otherwise and silva made everything so very personal. ]

I didn't know I was taking orders now.

[ he murmurs, wetting his lips slow, eyes never leaving silva's, as alert as a hawk, ]

You first.

[cyberterrorism]

[ silva matches him look for look, the deadness in his eyes flickering with something akin to annoyance, but not enough to dim the crooked edge of a smile, the smallest curve of the lips. ]

You've been taking orders for years. Or have you forgotten who you work for?

[ of course it's personal—it's the most personal thing silva's ever done, something that's taken years to come to fruition. and it's not just about m anymore. no, there are little threads, little connecting pieces that all fit together; aren't there always? it's about bond too, it's about them both, about the brother he never had, the brother who isn't his and never was; the anti-him, the shadow. this isn't just some dalliance in a hotel room, forgotten the next day over a glass of scotch or brandy. silva doesn't do meaningless things. he did away with frivolities a long time ago.

sharply, he watches bond's tongue, the darting pink tip of it as it draws over his bottom lip, his cock twitching noticeably at the image of it. slowly, he brings his hands up to his own waistcoat, beginning to unbutton it in wordless, challenging acquiescence. the biting edge of his shoe presses down hard against bond in sadistic encouragement.

give a little, get. ]

On the bed, James.

[discretionary]

[ not for you, but isn't that obvious. it should be, not that silva could particularly see the line between him and m clearly. james should be more wary of that, but here he is anyway. act first, ask questions later, if ever at all. that attentive, suspicious watching of his own turns into something a little more rapt as silva seems to obey, enough that the press of his shoe unfavorably brings him back from there, sharply and sudden, showing his immediate (painful) discomfort in the noticeably tightening of his jaw, the low, muted, restrained noise that suggests there was something worse there beneath.

and it gives him a little bit of anxiety too, but could you blame him after le chiffre and his particular fixation with his undercarriage so to speak-- definitely not an experience he was willing to roll over to again. carefully, he drops a hand and squeezes silva's ankle-- gently, coaxing (he may have acted differently any other body part, but he was willing to play nice for his cock) and safe enough, he draws back (fingers lingering) to do, finally, as silva asks. it's curiosity, he tells himself, or the dark promise of what could come and how it's unbearably erotic to fuck with guns within arms reach and how he didn't get to do that often enough.

and bond obliges too, careful at first about unbuttoning his own shirt before losing patience and popping off the last few buttons, letting them and the shirt find their way to the floor carelessly. expensive thing, that shirt. these pants, too, this entire suit, but he doesn't care. they're meaningless in the face of silva and what he brings, the things he draws out of bond in turn.

legs canting open casually, the fabric of his slacks pulling taut against his thighs, cock still hard there against his hip, james doesn't think he could possibly look more inviting, ]

I think we've had enough foreplay for today.

[cyberterrorism]

Oh, I don't know. Patience is a virtue, after all.

[ and silva looks at him, all smokey gaze and promise, eyes never leaving his when bond tears the clothing off and tosses it carelessly on the floor. then, they drop—pass over his chest, stomach, cock, admiring and calculating all at once but slowly, languorously, in part to drink his fill and also rub bond the wrong way, so impatient. there's much he'd like to do to bond, and not nearly enough time to do it in, but he doesn't make a move to join him on the bed just yet—just watches, thighs falling open just a bit wider with the memory of bond sitting on them, touching him, the feeling of a hot throat choking around his own cock and the closeness, the thrill of it, heightened now that it's come to a breaking point.

the waistcoat now undone, silva leans forward to slide it off his shoulders, drapes it over the back of the chair, not nearly as careless as bond. his fingers fall then to his dress shirt, button by button, assessing bond's invitation with casual intent. he really is quite a picture; silva's not sure he could have wished for anything better than this, anyone better than this wrecking ball of a killing machine with his legs splayed, cock hard, willing to take it as far as it needs to go. he's grateful, in a way; he's grateful that it's not boring. he would hate to have to kill him so soon. ]

Lie back and touch yourself.

[discretionary]

[ he hesitates a long moment like he's considering refusing, weighing his options, sizing up he man before him. so, he takes it one step at a time, defiant in his own way, not laying down yet but watching him just as intently as a hand casually slips down between his thighs, ducking under the taut pull of his pants to cup over himself. he adjusts carefully, smiles private and smug as he gratuitously feels over the length of himself, hips shifting, urging his pants down and off.

and there he is, james bond, naked as the day he was born, reclining and stretching back languid and lazy though no longer touching himself. he resists the urge to say something impatient and goading, knowing he's fucked either way. literally speaking. maybe he should be more concerned about this but it wasn't the first time the job called for him to take one for queen and country, so to speak. even though saying this was for his job was a stretch. he was distracting him, right? keeping him occupied. he should be thanked.

fingers skirt light down his stomach, over the curve of his belly, the dip of his hip, tracing lazy circles though he still doesn't do it, doesn't just do as he's told, doesn't just soothe his aching cock. ]