Chapter Text
As Q stepped through the door, his eyes were greeted by sparse but elegant lines, windows that gave a view like he’d never seen, and rooms that worked with the expanses of glass to create an illusion of space. “My own flat,” Q murmured, almost childishly proud to have picked the place out for himself. He could hardly remember the last time he’d had his own space, much less place, but somehow it was even nicer to know that MI6 trusted him enough to live on his own without an MI6 agent watching him.
Said MI6 agent was there, too, easing down a few of Q’s bags before joshing, “If you were so tired of living with me, you could have just said so.”
Q tore his eyes away from the bits of furniture that had been moved in just yesterday, looking at Bond even though he’d clearly heard the laughter in the man’s affronted tone. “You know it’s-nmmphff!” Q started to soothe only to be cut off by 007’s mouth, artfully applied to swallowing Q’s words and any sounds following that. Q stumbled back, unconsciously aware that Bond would keep him from tripping, until his back was pressed against the broad pillar that made the central hub of the apartment. Although Q’s mind had stuttered from the surprise, he regained himself enough to kiss back – kissing 007 on a semi-regular basis had given him at least enough practice to do that, knowing what the other man liked – and finally disengaged, panting. “Well then, I’m glad to see you’re not too broken up about my moving out,” he breathlessly observed.
Hands splayed on the off-white wall by Q’s shoulders, Bond grinned wickedly, clearly proud of himself and not afraid to show it. “I’m more worried that you’ll dislike how often a trained assassin is now going to be breaking into your flat,” the agent mused as if this were a great conundrum, then lowered his head in to press open-mouthed kisses to the side of the Quartermaster’s pale neck and jaw.
Pulling in an involuntary gasp as teeth scraped lightly at his jawline, Q braced his hands on 007’s shoulders without pushing him away in the slightest. “Normal people,” he felt he had to note, before he got too distracted…which always happened rather quickly with James, “just ask for a key.”
“Normal people,” replied Bond in the same cadence, but maybe with more derision behind his flippant tone, “are boring.” He enunciated this fact by finding the soft spot behind Q’s ear and sucking at it, pulling a mewled inhale from his partner – a delicious sound that only encouraged James. “Tell me if I’m going too fast, Q,” he toned down the sex in his voice enough to murmur in all frankness, once again showing that rare gentle side that he seemed to save purely for Q.
A month had gone by since that final ‘Silva incident,’ and Q had gotten quite a bit of dating/interpersonal experience with his lethal boyfriend since then. He’d found out that 007 was extremely tactile, perhaps something drawn over from his work, in which you either wanted the people around you to be far enough away that you could shoot them without them touching you, or close enough that you knew what every inch of them was doing. For someone who was borderline touch-starved like Q, it was a bit of a shocking change of pace, but Bond was smart enough to tone it down to levels that wouldn’t spook his Quartermaster. Those levels had been…exceptionally enjoyable, once Q got his brain back together to think it over. Still, he appreciated Bond’s patience and consideration.
But now that Q had a flat of his own, was the Undisputed Overlord of Q-branch, and barely even resembled the addicted, sickly mess he’d arrived at MI6 in, he was more than ready for less patience and consideration.
“And what…” He gasped in a little breath as 007’s hot exhale filled his ear, trapped there as the larger man pinioned his head between both of his hands like a dove he’d caught and didn’t want to ever release. “…What if I think you’re not going fast enough?” the Quartermaster finally managed to breathe out while the exact meaning of his words got caught somewhere between his brain and his tongue – lost in the sweet fog that Bond always filled his head with. The man was a drug. But a good one.
Right now, the man had frozen, moving only enough to ease his head fractionally back. He still had Q’s head between his hands, and the space between his face and Q’s could only be measured in hairs’ breadths, but now his eyes were narrowed slightly as if he couldn’t tell whether he had a present on his hands or a live bomb. “Repeat that one more time, Q,” he said, voice containing a small vibration, holding something in by chains that were already quivering, “Humor me.”
“I said,” Q halted and took a deep breath, squirming a little because he was fairly sure that he was blushing now. It was discomfiting just how hard it was to avoid Bond’s eyes when the man was this close, frowny and intense. “I said, in summation,” he stumbled along.
“That you’d like to go a bit faster?”
“That I’d possibly like you to fuck me in my own flat. Since I now have my own flat, that is,” Q finally got the words to fall out of his mouth in an ungainly but unrepentant mess. He stood and met Bond’s eyes after that, unsure whether it would be appropriate or not to look stubborn right now. Once he really got a good solid look at Bond’s expression, however, he mostly tried to just remember how to breathe, because the sky-pale blue eyes had turned a dark, dirty cobalt as the pupils tried to blot out the color like an eclipse.
“I suddenly am having new and wonderful feelings towards your new flat,” Bond stated in a voice closer to a growl, and then he had his mouth firmly on Q’s and was moving his hands to somewhere more productive than on either side of his jaw. Q inhaled sharply as 007 had his shirt untucked with speed that had to be illegal, allowing scarred, calloused hands to slip under the material and cradle the small of Q’s back without anything in the way. It was nothing beyond what they’d done before already, but what sent electric charges skittering up Q’s spine were the little things that said this was something more – the hungrier taste of Bond’s teeth against his lower lip, the scratch and slide of his fingertips against the lean lines of Q’s back as he tickled at the curves of his lowest ribs. This was James being unleashed slowly, Q realized, and instead of balking at the idea, he shivered and dared to kiss back. He was probably playing with fire, but damn if he didn’t enjoy the heat. 007 groaned at the returning press of Q’s lips, as if Q’s skills – which paled in comparison to Bond’s in this category, if only because of the bulk of experience the agent had – were pure artistry.
“You kiss like a shot of whiskey,” Bond said suddenly, his voice a husky slide of breath. Sometimes Q wondered if the man was a mind-reader in his spare time, or if he was just that good at reading faces.
“Hm?” Q replied back intelligently as he struggled to think of something better to say. It got harder as 007 pulled him forward, still pressing him back with kisses until Q’s skull gently bumped the wall while his hips and stomach were hugged possessively closer – the sudden friction just about knocked words right out of his head. Q perhaps kissed like a surprising little shot of whiskey, but Bond was like a bullet wound: direct, efficient, coming on with a shot of endorphins that could hide any pain he inadvertently caused. Maybe guns didn’t ever mean to destroy – maybe they just had a sucker-punch sort of love, and no other way to get their point across.
Thoughts fragmenting around the edges and mind’s-eye filled with images of 007, so perfectly at home and poised with a gun in his hands as if he’d been carved that way forever, Q reached out blindly, fisting his hands in Bond’s jacket. He was going to suffocate from these kisses, but it would be a happy way to go if he brought 007 down with him. He began to push at the layer of clothing, and 007 obliged by removing his arms just long enough for them to slide loose, while his mouth stayed stubbornly attached to Q’s, lapping at his lips and tongue. The black, expensive material puddled on the floor like a forgotten scrap. “Your turn, Q,” Bond rumbled against Q’s cheekbone, letting both of them breathe a second, “Pick an article of clothing to lose.”
“If I take off a sock,” Q found himself giggling helplessly, testing out the feel of 007’s muscles through his white silk shirt, “is that constituted as cheating?”
“Depends,” was the returning chuckle, low and delighted like coffee, “Does this game have rules?” To prove his point, Bond ducked his head down against Q’s neck, mouthing at skin before testing it with ever-bolder bites, the kind that could leave wonderful marks for everyone to see. Each added bit of pressure sent sparks skittering through Q’s nerve-endings.
“Shirt,” he stuttered out, determined to have his say in things while his mouth still worked, “Only fair: you lost your jacket, so I-”
Bond cut him off with another low roll of pleased laughter, his hands again catching the edge of Q’s shirt – both layers, actually, because the man had been trained to cheat to achieve his objectives – and pushing them upwards. Quite on purpose, his hands skated up every inch of Q’s skin he could find along the way, flowing over flanks and ribs and then shoulders and lithe arms. Q just about lost his glasses along the way, but within seconds he was standing naked from the waist up, panting and leaning against the wall while hungry blue eyes watched him from a pace away. Purposefully, Bond tossed Q’s discarded clothing on top of his. “You can tell me to stop, Q,” he reminded, one pale brow rising.
“If you dare stop now, I’m going to give you nothing but water-guns and cheap walkie-talkies for the rest of your miserable life!” Q threatened, stabbing at the middle of 007’s broad chest with a finger. Then he stepped forward, taking advantage of the moment of control, and bent his attention to Bond’s shirt. “Now, let’s see about these buttons…”
It should have been humiliating to have someone laughing at him so much in a sexual encounter, but somehow, every time 007’s chest vibrated with those rumbles of amusement, it only made the heat in Q’s core drop lower and deeper. The fact that the chuckles were usually followed by heated kisses helped a lot. Right now, intent on distracting Q from the buttons, Bond was leaning his head in to nibble at the shell of Q’s left ear. When Q batted at him, 007 merely put his hands into play. Q wasn’t in a habit of being unclothed very often, so Bond made good use of the opportunity, exploring each sparse line and sharp angle as if he’d never seen it before – he was distracting as a blond-haired demon, and twice as enticing, especially once Q got that damned shirt unbuttoned.
Bond was cut. Athleticism like this didn’t come from working out in a gym, and that kind of muscle definition only came from constantly running and fighting to survive – or to kill. Always a bit awed that he had a person like this for a partner, Q paused to splay his hands on firm pectoral muscles, although a press of teeth to his shoulder galvanized him again. “Off,” he commanded, shoving at the shirt imperiously, “off off off.”
“No one warned me that you were such a bossy thing,” 007 pretended to complain, but he obligingly disengaged enough to slip the white fabric off his arms, leaving him once again on par with Q – all skin from the hips up.
“It’s an acquired trait. Dealing with you 00-agents forces one to become bossy,” Q informed him dryly. He liked the way 007’s eyes lit with challenge.
A flick of his eyes took in how Q’s breath had picked up. Seeing also the unconscious dart of his tongue to wet his lips, 007 waded forward again, this time steering Q back and around the wall. The bedroom was just visible around the way. “How about I be the bossy one for a bit?” he said in a maddeningly musing tone, as if he’d just thought of the idea. As if walking backwards weren’t hard enough, Q had to contend with sporadic, distracting kisses from Bond as he went. Thankfully, the agent was considerate enough – and strong enough – to keep the Quartermaster upright and smoothly moving by keeping a firm grip on his elbows. Q barely felt the half-open door to the bedroom swing the rest of the way open against his back because 007 was whispering rough-voiced things in his ear, “Tell you what to do, hold you so that you feel everything, get inside you so you can’t imagine what it was like before me…”
It was not so much the words as the unstoppable noise of them, the tide rushing in, the heat that gave Q just the faintest taste of what sex would be like with the man already tipping him onto the sheets. The bed had somehow come up behind his knees without warning, and Q yipped a little in surprise, which only made Bond smirk as he climbed up after him. The agent was a continued surprise in how agile he could be for a man of his size and heavy musculature, and he was over Q in moments. Both of them lay on the bed, breathing faster, pupils blown, and pants definitely beginning to feel a bit tight. Bond didn’t help that at all as he settled his weight between Q’s compliant legs, withholding some of his weight by leaning on his elbows while trailing kisses up the smaller man’s sternum. The weight of 007’s stomach pressing down against Q’s groin was definitely some definition of madness. “This okay, Q?” Bond asked, somewhere between playful and utterly serious.
Q didn’t know what to do with his hands. His legs he’d given up on – they were shifting uneasily on the bed, wanting to push up and gain purchase on the blankets that had probably been put in place by Eve when she’d agreed to situate his things (he’d argued that he could set up his own flat, but with that woman, arguing was useless). Bond’s weight had him pinned however, from the hips down, while Q’s hands fluttered uncertainly over his forearms, biceps, shoulders, and neck. “More than all right,” he finally agreed when he realized that 007 wasn’t going to go anywhere – or go any further – without explicit consent. “Now, if you’d move up here so that I can keep kissing you, that would be even more all right…” Q’s mouth tipped up at the corners.
Bond’s did the same, although the grin was a lot more mischievous. “How about I take our trousers off first? Then I’ll come up there and kiss you thoroughly, I promise,” the man said as smoothly as velvet, and Q could only stare at him. Thankfully, that was taken as consent, and Bond pushed himself back up and onto his heels, kneeling up between Q’s thighs to begin toying slowly with his own belt.
“Such a showman,” Q tried to laugh, but his mouth had gone dry, and 007 was definitely grinning with lazy smugness at him. The belt was undone now, at least, but the agent spared a moment to graze his blunt fingernails down his own stomach before remembering the zip still existed. The view was marvelous.
“I haven’t begun to show you anything yet,” Bond assured him in a voice that had dropped to a low rumble, right before he lost interest in taking his time and just shucked the offending piece of clothing. In only his pants now, it was obvious to Q just how aroused Bond was, and he tried not to be intimidated by that.
It helped that 007 almost immediately came forward again, hovering over him on hands and knees and pulling the insecurity right out of Q as he attached himself to his mouth. The kiss was slow and languid, although still containing that phoenix heat. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” 007 murmured without fully taking his lips away, so the words existed half in Q’s mouth and half in his.
A hot flush of happiness curled up behind Q’s sternum, and he wriggled. “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he got the words out. He wanted more friction, a reflexive desire as natural as the need to breathe, but it abated a bit as Bond’s rough palm grazed over a nipple distractingly.
Pulling back a bit, warm blue eyes smiled down at Q’s. “Worth the wait,” 007 assured him, then proceeded to make the bed a clothing-free zone, Q hurriedly helping as his own arousal became nearly unbearable.
Q was too much of a thinker. It was something that destroyed his sleep, ruined most of his quiet time, and generally caused him to…well…overthink things. More than once after going out of his head with desire for the impressive looking agent in front of him, the hacker had been interrupted by his brain micro-managing the encounter and filling his head with overeager worries. Now, as he lay propped on his elbows, completely unclothed for the first time with James…with anyone…he could already feel his thoughts starting to speed up, and they’d start awakening his insecurities any moment. Already he was comparing the slim, lean lines of his own pale body to Bond’s athletic, handsome frame with its scars adding character against the golden tan. “Kiss me?” Q asked, and it was a tiny bit of a plea. When had his voice become so uncertain?
In fact, Bond had been assessing the differences between them as well, but it had been with an appreciative eye. Now, however, those pale eyes flicked up to Q, and it took only a split second for them to deduce the encroaching insecurity on the hacker’s face. Q was new at this, but just because Bond was practiced at sex didn’t mean he was unaware of the moment of vulnerability that came with baring yourself physically – and emotionally – to a partner. Without hesitation or anything but an acquiescing nod, Bond once again leaned over Q, pressing in for a close-mouthed kiss that was built to convey tenderness. As Q relaxed, reminded that this was James and that James had stayed by his side even when things had gotten dark and dangerous, Bond opened his mouth a bit more, deepening the kiss. Careful application of his lips and tongue got Q to let him in. While Q was mewling happily into the kiss, 007 slowly lowered his body, bare skin coming into contact with bare skin, and Q really groaned when Bond’s full weight settled between his thighs. Q broke the kiss inadvertently, mouth opening in a little gasp of breath as his head rocked back. Smiling proudly, 007 just watched, one finger tracing the long lines of Q’s neck as it was arched. “Enjoying yourself so far?” he couldn’t help but tease.
Just as Q was about to answer, 007 shifted himself – just barely – but the movement still sent sparks of sensation as their bodies touched in new and rather delightful ways. Q’s words became another moan, and he gripped the bedsheets. “You bloody monster, you,” he eventually growled a bit breathlessly, before tipping his head to look at Bond again, revealing hazel eyes that were almost entirely swallowed with dark pupils, showing his take on this more eloquently than words.
Kissing the tip of Q’s nose impishly, Bond relented to grind his hips down a bit, the friction working wonderfully for him as well. While both of them got accustomed to the skin-on-skin contact and panted, Bond murmured, “Hm. Well, sorry to break the moment, but we’ll need lube if we’re to go much further.”
“I’d check the bedside drawer,” Q surprised him by supplying. The smaller man already looked debauched, one arm thrown over his head, fisting in nothing as he arched his back. It was like poetry to see, and Bond pushed up just enough to watch the lean, artistic lines of his Quartermaster’s torso stretch. “Eve not only insisted that I was incapable of decorating my own flat, but insinuated that I couldn’t properly handle my own love-life. She heavily implied that she’d left a few helpful things by the bedside,” Q elaborated with a blush.
Bond had to laugh, a bark of surprised joviality before he got up. It didn’t take a genius to know that Q’s eyes were on him as the agent stood up and moved, following the strong, muscular lines of the backs of his thighs and arse. “Remind me to thank Moneypenny. Profusely,” 007 said cheerfully as he returned to the bed with a container of lube – as promised – in his hand. He immediately hooked his free hand behind Q’s neck to pull him up into a fierce kiss, letting out a low and growling purr as Q’s hands wrapped up around his nape in return, long fingers sliding along the tendons of his neck before scratching at short blond hair. Q’s hands had a wonderful habit of dancing about and wandering when his brain was disconnected by a good kiss, and James was eager to see what they’d do when Q’s brain was similarly disconnected by a good fuck.
Breaking the kiss and pushing Q back down again, Bond said one last time, because he saw too much subterfuge and questionable morals in his work, “Say stop, and I stop.”
Instead of getting annoying by the continued halting, Q’s eyes softened just a bit. “I know,” he hummed, and that was all the permission James needed.
Q was still nervous. Supremely so. It showed in the sharpness of his kisses as he nipped his way into them, the way his muscles quivered and twitched, the way he seemed to fight between the desire to touch Bond everywhere and hide everything of himself. He still had scars on the crooks of his elbows from all the needles that had lanced into them, and would probably always look slightly underfed and overworked (at least so long as he threw himself into the job of Quartermaster of MI6), even though MI6 had given him a clean bill of health. None of those things constituted traditional beauty and Q clearly knew it, but 007 was more than happy to make it clear that he found the dark-haired man perfect.
Dribbling some lube onto one hand, Bond set himself to the task of distracting Q. There was so much skin to touch, but with one hand wrapped just above the jutting curve of Q’s hipbone, Bond kissed the inside of one bent knee. Blue eyes met hazel ones as Q watched him with hesitant eagerness, unable not to squeak and fidget as 007’s slick fingers touched him more intimately than they had before. “Just relax, Q,” Bond murmured, eyes taking apart Q’s expressions like puzzles, as intense as if he were on a mission. As he slipped his fingertips down between Q’s arse-cheeks, the agent leaned forward for another kiss, patiently removing the hesitation and replacing it with lust again. Just as he was teasing against the hacker’s opening, Bond relocated his mouth to suckle at a nipple, triumph surging in his blood as Q gasped and arched again. While Q was blissed out, cock straining and hard again, Bond pressed a finger into him, gentle and careful. Usually, 007 took what he wanted, but for once he was with someone who knew him for who he was – someone he genuinely cared about.
For that, James was willing to go slowly. This would be a good memory Q would not swiftly forget…
“You’re gorgeous like this, Q,” Bond praised, kissing the hollow of the bespectacled man’s throat. Bond’s mouth quirked up fondly at the corner as Q’s hands wandered again, finding the hand 007 now had braced on the bed next to Q’s hip; dexterous fingers ran up and down the corded power of Bond’s forearm while Q’s eyes fluttered open and closed a moment. It took a bit for Q to focus, but just as he started to frown a bit at the addition of a second finger, 007 turned his attention to Q’s other nipple, teasing the hardened nub with tongue and teeth until he had Q thoroughly distracted again. His own arousal getting maddening, Bond added a third finger and this time paused to let Q adjust, watching him between peppering kisses on the smaller man’s face, neck, and chest. “Too much?”
Q just shook his head, although his brow was slow to smooth out. His legs moved restlessly, shifting further up on the bed, and 007 soothed him by switching his free hand to Q’s thigh. He stroked along the length of it from hip to knee and back again. “I…I’m good,” Q finally muddled the words together, remembering himself belatedly. It looked like he was recalling his mind from somewhere far away. “It’s just…different.”
“Different good?” Bond asked, while reaching up to Q’s head. He paused a moment for permission, then removed Q’s glasses. Now he had the Quartermaster blinking up at him shortsightedly, and it was enough to make him groan with frustrated lust all on its own. He wanted to be in Q now, but it wasn’t worth the chance of hurting him.
Fortunately, the answer was accompanied by a little, open-mouthed gasp, “Definitely good. Don’t stop.” Q wriggled his hips to make his point. His ribs flared beneath his skin as he dragged in a breath and adjusted his body against the bedsheets – his skin looking almost ivory against the chocolate brown colors that Moneypenny had chosen. “God, stop stopping!”
“Bossy and greedy,” chided the larger man, but he more than happily acquiesced. Like a card-player hiding his best tricks until the game was really set, he turned his hand and pressed against the inside walls of Q’s opening – immediately rubbing against something that made Q cry out in a high whine. That only encouraged Bond to do it again, while working his fingers in and out slowly, watching Q come undone.
“Yes…yes. Whatever…whatever that was…yes to that,” Q panted nearly inarticulately, grasping blindly with his hands. 007 liked Q’s hands – loved them, in fact, just as much as he loved Q’s guileless looks and dry humor – and immediately lay down between Q’s legs again, letting the smaller man rut up against him while still fucking him with his fingers. Q’s thigh squeezed around James' middle while the muscles inside of him clenched against his fingers, but 007 really hummed in approval when Q’s skillful, genius hands started touching him, petting all over. Sometimes he wondered if Q saw with his fingertips, touching like a darting glance, painting and outlining the broad expanse of Bond’s shoulders, tracing the muscular curvature of his right bicep where it was next to Q’s side and propping him up, before trying and failing to get a hold on 007’s hair. Q wasn’t even aware of it, eyes closed as his senses tried to take in all of the new sensations, until he felt 007’s lips press against one of his wrists. When Q’s eyes turned to him, Bond slipped his fingers free – Q whined in disapproval until 007 relocated his hands to Q’s cock, a steady pull creating a gasp that 007 immediately swallowed in a kiss. He knew he was overwhelming Q, but the sight of the hacker so high on something that was utterly natural (as opposed to a drug poisoning his system) was like water to a man lost in the desert. Bond was greedy for it.
It took a bit of work (especially with so much of his attention focused on Q, on kissing him and stroking him), but 007 got a pillow up under his partner’s hips, arranging him without much effort. Usually, a 00-agent’s physique served the purpose of being stronger and faster than an opponent, but in sexual situations it definitely had its perks when they needed to move their bedmate to a more comfortable position. Q was just cogent enough to notice, and Bond felt his heart-rate pick up with anticipation where he had one hand cupped against the side of the Quartermaster’s neck. “More…” Q pulled back from his mouth to demand, “Now. And if you call me bossy one more time…”
The panted threat made something warm and possessive uncurl more and more in 007’s chest. He ceased his skilled administrations on Q’s cock only to line his own up, running his free hand up and down Q’s side just to feel the smooth skin and graceful bones. “Wouldn’t…dream of it,” Bond replied blithely, but his easy tone broke as he started pushing into Q’s tight heat, just the head of his cock breaching the ring of muscles. Both he and Q were lost for a minute, muscles quivering and tightening, but Q didn’t seem to be hurt – quite the opposite. His eyes had fluttered as he’d moaned, and his heels pressed against the curve of Bond’s arse where they’d wrapped around him.
“Oh god…” the strangled words escaped Q’s throat.
Bond just grinned and pulled back before nudging in deeper, beginning to create a rhythm of slowly deepening thrusts. “I’ll be your god,” he promised without an ounce of humility to his name, then leaned over to conquer Q’s mouth hungrily, circling his hips until Q groaned into his mouth and Bond was fully seated inside of him.
Silence reigned except for their panting. Q’s eyes had rolled back to show the whites, this new experience already tipping him over the edge, and 007 could see how close he was to already coming. To be honest, despite his own wealth of experience in all manner of sex, 007 was close, too, but it had everything to do with the partner he was with. Quality always trumped quantity, and 007 spared a moment to stroke sweat-damp hair back from Q’s face – a loving gesture before lust took hold again. “Say my name, Q,” he pleaded just because he wanted to, just because he could. The agent nuzzled in close and lapped up beads of salty sweat from where they’d pooled at the hollow of Q’s throat. “Say my name like it’s the only thing you know.”
Q had been shuddering, minute quivers of muscle all over him as his body tried and failed to decide what it wanted to do right now. Everything was already at a peak of sensation. 007’s words centered him, though, and it took no effort at all before he was breathing out, “James…James…please, yes.” It was hard to tell whether he was pleading or simply voicing a delirious sort of pleasure, but it was a call to action that 007 would never be strong enough to ignore.
“Anything,” 007 answered as if giving an oath. If it was an oath of allegiance, he’d given it long ago, a pledge of loyalty that he owed only to England and to Q. No one else could have it. Pulling out only to slide right back in, 007 groaned at the heady feel of Q all around him – Q was under him, too, and now reached up his hands to stroke 007’s bent head, mindless little petting motions that were somehow just as erotic as kisses. 007 thrust again, this time picking up the pace, bracing Q against each impact with strong hands latching into his trim waist. James kept close the whole time, if only to hear each jerked breath and to feel Q’s hands all over him. Each muscle was traced by deft fingers, each rib and edge of bone mapped out and approved of by Q’s touch, which was a counterpoint to the veracity of their lovemaking. When Q finally came – helped along by only a few strokes of Bond’s hand to his weeping cock – 007 immediately wrapped him close, for a moment holding himself back just to feel the utter ecstasy of Q’s clenching and shuddering all around him. He couldn’t hold out, though, and soon was coming as well, arms under Q’s back hauling the hacker close to him so both could hear the whining gasps of the other in their ears.
When the white haze of pleasure faded, it found James with Q pulled up into his lap, Bond's cock still deep inside of in him while the last tremors faded. Pressed willingly against 007’s chest, Q’s panting breaths were already being painted like steam between his neck and left shoulder. “That was…” Q shook his head, muscles already starting to go lax as he came down from ecstasy into bliss. “I don’t have a word for that.”
“If you did…” Bond was panting, too, eyes closed and body more relaxed than it had been in ages…possibly years. “…Would it be a good word?”
“A very good word,” Q agreed without hesitation, nodding into 007’s shoulder before tensing his legs and lifting up from Bond’s thighs. Both of them hissed a bit as they parted, feeling the absence of the other like puzzle pieces missing. Because Q looked like he just wanted to curl up into a happy puddle, 007 gladly took up the chore of cleaning them off before curling up at Q’s back and pulling the blankets up over both of them. He thought that Q had actually fallen asleep until one ankle slid back to wrap around his, a silent indicator that he valued the closeness. In mute response, Bond wrapped himself closer, one arm curling around Q’s stomach and petting the smooth, flat muscles. Q was still breathing fast, coming down from the high, but seemed to be taking immense comfort in the fact that he was doing so with someone he trusted – and loved – nearly tattooed to his back.
“Bond?”
“Hm?”
“I don’t have to buy another new flat for us to do this again, do I?”
“I hope you’re joking,” Bond chortled, squeezing Q closer until he was grinding against Q’s arse – more of a joking threat than anything else, as neither of them had recovered from the first round yet. Peppering openmouthed kisses up the back of Q’s neck until the hacker giggled back and halfheartedly squirmed, 007 said with as much sincerity as he possessed, “All you have to do is be here, and we can do this again. Repeatedly. Until I can’t see or walk straight and you won’t forget me for a week.”
Still chuckling softly both at Bond’s teasing kisses and his admittedly sexy threats, Q snorted back, “And if you bring back one more kit with more than half of its contents destroyed, you won’t forget me for a week!”
“Are you making threats, Quartermaster?”
Q twisted around in his arms until they were facing each other. With his hair mussed and eyes still rather lidded with enjoyable weariness, Q’s foreboding face was more adorable than anything else, but Bond still sucked in a breath and twisted reflexively as Q deftly tweaked one of his nipples. “I will beat you with a stick, yes,” Q clarified his threat fearlessly, although he was already failing to hide a smirk. To perhaps avoid Bond’s roguish returning grin, Q wriggled back around again, resuming his position as 007’s ‘little spoon’. He relaxed as if to sleep, content beneath the covers and wrapped in James’s blanketing heat. “But I will still have sex with you until your eyes cross,” he relented, and Bond had to kiss him then. That was the only answer to that.
Bond decided he rather liked Q’s new flat.
~^~