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

[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. ]