Title: First Time
Pairing: Bond/Silva
Note: The decidedly awkward and gay moment in Skyfall brought this on. I still don't own. Bond's POV.
I twist a bit in the chair, feel the coarse rope tighten against my wrists, and relax just a bit. I'm more than well aware of the men surrounding me, their automatic weapons trained on my person. I wish I could say I'm nervous, scared even, but I'm not. I've been here before. Well…the chair is a lovely spin. But the armed guards, the crazed madman? It's all old hat.
But when Silva slowly undoes the top button on my shirt, I'm thrown through a loop. The madmen aren't supposed to make any moves that could be misconstrued as a pass at me. The women? Sure. But the men? He's supposed to just want me dead.
My breath clenches in my throat as I feel his fingertips touching feather soft against my skin. I'm uncertain, but my training kicks in. I smirk at him, as if I'm more than willing to travel down this road. But my ears are straining to hear the sound of copter blades.
"And you're desperately trying to remember your training right now." Silva is leering at me, no doubt now, as his fingers move to my neck. I try to regulate my breathing, slow my pulse. I don't want to let him know I'm distressed. He's taking us off a well-written road of what bad guys and good guys do. Any cock up now might bloody well kill me.
"Who says this is my first time." The words slip out of my mouth, darting past my numb lips frozen in a smug expression. I can feel my stomach curl itself into knots. He runs his hands over my thighs, and I'm hard pressed not to tense up. I don't want him thinking I'm flexing.
And we're caught in this dangerous in-between place. He's leering at me, I'm smirking at him, and his hands are on my legs. Me being tied to this fucking chair doesn't really help. I wish I had stayed dead.
There's this look in his eyes, like he could consume me, own me, and it's off putting to say the least. But we're in that dead place still, waiting for yet another move to be made, like a demented chess game. I barely catch the flex of his legs before he moves, and I have mere milliseconds to brace myself.
His lips are hard and chapped as they press against mine. I can feel my stomach coiling and churning hard. Bile and acid bites hard at the back of my throat, and I swallow it down. I can feel his hands skimming along my sides, and my suit does nothing to keep the feeling from transferring to my skin. It's like a million spiders crawling over me, and I don't like it.
When Silva finally pulls back, I can feel his breath on my lips, hot and damp and unwelcomed. I feel his hands skate along my hands and wrists, slowly untying the rope. And then I'm free, but I don't move my hands to the front. If I do, I'm pretty sure I'll punch him in the face. And then this whole thing will go tits up, and MI6 will find me dead instead of alive with Silva in custody. And that's not how this plays out.
His eyes are dark as he continues to leer at me before finally stepping back, and I breathe in deep. I can still taste him, smell him, feel him. And I need a bath. I don't want to have any part of him lingering on me.
But I'll play his game. And I'll play it better than he ever imagined I could, than he ever could himself. I'll be the last rat standing.
