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Key card in the slot. Handle pressed down, door pushed open inwards. Three steps in and the room is as dark as he had left it earlier that evening. There's someone sitting in the living area.
“You’re late.”
Bond flicks the lights on, gun already in hand, but in the new light, he can see it’s just Q lounging on the one-seater by the window. He’s staring at the ceiling and only when Bond takes another step in does Q’s head turn on the armrest to face Bond with a look of bland amusement. Behind Q, the skyline of Barcelona stretches out bright into the dark.
“Fifteen minutes late, in fact. You finished the job at 11:32,” Q continues on and turns his attention back to the ceiling, as if the light fixtures there are infinitely more interesting than anything else in the room. “Time management isn’t really one of your strong points, is it?” He stretches a little then, the line of his neck sharp and bare in the soft suite light. Both his legs are draped lazily over the side of the seat.
“I wasn’t hired to micromanage or keep the time,” is all Bond says smoothly in reply before taking another step, and another, and another. Footfalls that go muted on the carpet and Q hardly stirs, instead blinking up catlike at an invisible patch on the ceiling. “If I was aware I had a guest waiting, maybe I would have finished my drink a little earlier.”
Q is wearing nothing but his glasses and a smile that usually appears only when someone dies.
“No, I don’t think you would have.”
Bond puts the gun away. Says “No,” as well, after a beat. “No, you’re right. I wouldn’t have.”
The toes of Q’s foot brush the top of the carpet when Q casually swings a leg down and the movement bares Q wide open, all pale skin and spread limbs. Naked for the taking. As Bond stays rooted to the spot, Q’s foot trails against the soft fibres, a slim pendulum that oscillates to an unknown time and in the process, the movement makes his cock brush up against his stomach.
In retaliation, Bond turns at the sight. Walks away slowly and makes a show of removing his cuff links to drop in the dish by the door. Each clink the silver makes on fine, painted china is jarringly loud and Bond takes the time to remove his keys, mobile and wallet as well. Each item is arranged next to the other in a straightish line.
“Your attempt at neatness is astounding, but quite redundant at the moment,” Q says evenly from the sitting area when Bond is done and Bond is loosening his bow-tie when he turns at the sound of Q’s voice. Now, Q has a hand on his stiff prick, stroking it languidly from base to head and back down again. “Cease the housekeeping, 007, we have paid people to do that.” A supressed shudder, fingers wrapped loosely around the thickness in the middle. “Why don’t you instead tell me about what your preferred course of action would have been, if you had a…guest…waiting.” Another stroke and precome is beading at the head of Q's cock.
“And I assume this is all hypothetically?”
Q’s laugh is an amused huff and his hand stutters on the downward stroke. Bond is resolutely making his way to the mini bar, Q's eyes trailing after him.
“Hypothetically,” Q agrees. A glass is filled with a shot of whiskey and Bond pours it over cubes of ice, shaking the glass a little to get the cold evened out. “Anything beyond that would be…highly unprofessional.”
“Well then," Bond says thoughtfully. "In this purely hypothetical situation, I would have probably bought myself a drink. Maybe two, if I was feeling like it.” The ice cubes settle noisily when Bond sits himself down in the chair across Q. “And I would have enjoyed it at my leisure, all with the knowing that my guest–“ Bond smiles at Q over the rim of his glass and it's returned two-fold, “– was waiting up here with without a thread of clothing on, his legs spread and prick already in hand.” Bond takes a sip of his drink and it goes down smooth, the way good, single malt does.
“Living up to expectations, I see,” Q says. There’s a flush rising to his cheeks and he stills his hand for a while.
“Depends on whose expectations we’re speaking of here.
“For the record, you hardly touch the bar on mine these days. It’d be nice if you tried a littler harder.”
Another sip and Bond knows that despite the flippant tone, Q is watching everything out of the corner of his eye, from the way Bond is sitting with his legs apart to how the front of Bond's tailored trousers is growing tighter and tighter with every passing moment.
Of course, two can play this game. Once, Bond had even taught it to Q himself.
“And how about today?” Bond brings his glass to rest on the flat plateau of the armrest. “Or is it too early to tell?”
Q is back palming his cock again, settling into an easy pace that makes Bond wonder just how long Q has been hard like this, waiting with his hand on himself. Fifteen, twenty minutes? Thirty?
“Far too early,” Q breathes out. There’s pre-cum gathering on the tip of his prick and Q lightly presses the pad of his thumb into his slit. It comes away slick. “Far too early indeed, 007.”
Bond watches because Q is a splendid performer when he puts his mind to it, be it behind the safety of a firewall or spread open for the taking like a common whore on hotel furniture.
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I like what I see?”
Q has abandoned his previous position for something a little more classic, legs spread as far as they can go and back arched from the sofa just a fraction so that every controlled inhale, every rise of his chest looks more wanton than it should have cause to be.
“I don’t need to ask what I already know.” Eyes closed, Q is touching himself. “Keep your cheap porn lines for a different time, Bond.” One hand works on the base of his cock, another encircling and eventually cupping his balls, rolling them gently.
“Are you implying that there will be another time?” Bond ventures.
“I’m implying that you should shut up and sit still.”
Bond leans back and all the ice in his drink has melted, watering it down to a cold, tasteless concoction that he knocks back in one shot. The base leaves a wet, messy ring on the leather armrest when he sets the glass down again.
“Feisty little tart, aren’t you?” Bond murmurs under his breath. Q must have heard him all the same because he lets out a small sound, moan masked behind a hitch of breath. He’s leaking all over his fingers, but still breathing as even as ever, never mind the fact that he’s trying hard not to writhe on the seat.
“Stellar commentary. Absolutely stellar.” Q’s posh, public school accent is clipped as usual, even if the syllables are a bit on the breathy side. “Nonetheless, I’m sure that mouth of yours can be put to better uses.”
“Such as?” Bond still has his suit blazer on and dress shirt only open to the neck, but he’s hard, aching something awful in his trousers all the same. When his fingers graze against his own erection, it sends a jolt down his spine.
“Don’t be dull, 007. I’m sure you can think of something.”
“Flattering, the standards you hold me to.”
Bond palms himself one more time before standing and it takes nothing more than four steps to reach where Q is debauching himself. When Q next opens his eyes, Bond is kneeling between his legs with hands braced on either of Q’s thighs. Q smiles at this, indulgent.
“Don’t be too sure of yourself just yet, those are hardly lofty standards at any rate. The bag, if you please. By the window.” His eyes slip shut again and Q sighs when Bond makes it a point to grip the soft flesh beneath his hands as he rises.
It’s black and as inconspicuous as things like that can ever be, lying atop a pile of Q’s folded clothes. It also, apparently, has four different settings.
“I didn’t make it, if that was what you wanted to ask.” Q holds his hand out and Bond squeezes lubricant onto his open palm, Q barely looking as he works it over his fingers.
“Good, because I was going to file a complaint with MI6 that you were using office hours to make sex toys for personal pleasure.”
“I’d hardly call it personal when more than one party is clearly involved.”
“Touché.”
Bond settles back onto his haunches and watches, eyes half lidded as Q reaches between his legs and works a finger inside himself. “Fuck,” Q murmurs when he’s in to the first joint. There’s a sheen of sweat from the hollow of his neck right down to the chest, Q’s body trembling from the exertion. “Fuck.”
He doesn’t have to, but Bond holds Q’s legs open all the same, thumb circling the flushed skin of Q’s inner thighs when Q gasps and lets another finger in, fucking himself open, going slow.
“Crook your fingers,” Bond says in a voice just about a murmur. He bends forward, mouth just a hair’s breadth away from the head of Q’s prick. “Do it, come on. I know you can.”
“Of course I fucking can,” Q breathes out and though Bond can’t see it, he can bloody well feel how Q tenses up under his hands, body going rigid as Q curls his fingers deep inside himself.
“Good boy.” A smirk and Bond lowers his mouth over Q, going slow as he takes in inch after inch. Above him, Q lets out a sob as he tries to thrust upwards to meet the warmth of Bond’s mouth. When Bond pulls away, Q’s pupils are blown.
“Just good?” Q asks when he has caught his breath back.
“Still waiting for you to surpass my expectations,” comes the reply. Bond leaves the imprints of his fingers on Q’s skin when they come away. “Keep this up and perhaps you might.”
“Well played,” Q sighs and Bond can only smirk, gently tugging on Q’s hand to ease Q’s fingers out of himself. They slide out easily and Q’s head lolling on the back of the seat at the loss.
“It’s still far too early for you to be saying that.”
Q has his hand wrapped firmly around the base of his cock when Bond pushes the toy in, already slicked with lubricant.
“Good?” Bond can feel his own prick throbbing in his trousers, untouched save for the few times he had pressed his palm against it, rubbing himself through the fabric in a futile attempt to stop the ache.
“If you need to ask me that, you shouldn’t even be doing this.”
For that, Bond sets the toy to its lowest level before making Q take the rest of it in, each remaining inch making Q swear colourfully under his breath. By the time Bond has it seated deep, Q is panting, hand tense around his cock. There’s a glazed look in his eyes and sweat staining the leather he’s pressed up against.
“Still think I shouldn’t be doing this?” Bond asks teasingly. He flicks the flared base of the toy with a finger and Q lets out something that could be a curse or a whimper. “Or do you think I’m suited for something else?”
Q bites his lip. Breathes in slowly, letting out a long exhale. Bond thinks that if he hadn’t seen Q show the same self control while under vastly different and considerably more dangerous circumstances, he would be a bit impressed, but all this does now is give him a rough idea of just how much strain Q is keeping hidden.
“Oh I know well enough what you’re suited for, 007, and it usually involves shooting at people and blowing things up,” Q says slowly when he's fit to speak again. Each word is enunciated perfectly. “Neither of which are quite appropriate at the current moment.”
“Ah, but if it involves blowing people and shooting–“ At this, Q fixes an eye on Bond who just pauses, looking far too pleased with himself. “I suppose you’d prefer if I showed more, told less?” Bond suggests in the face of Q's exasperation. There’s a smile on his face that the devil himself would have been proud of.
“Please, by all means.”
Q's legs fall open a little more and when Bond traces the edges of where the toy ends to where Q’s reddened flesh begins, he can feel the vibrations from deep inside, Q’s hips bucking when he touches the hyper-sensitised skin there.
“If only you could see yourself now, Q.” A delicate twist and the toy kicks up two levels, Q’s eyes widening with a gasp. Bond bats Q’s hand away from his prick. “Without those ridiculous screens and cardigans, getting off–“ He wraps his own hand around Q’s cock and circles the slit with his thumb, pressing down hard enough to feel warm precome leak past the pressure. “–like this.”
Q has his freed hands clawing at the sides of the sofa, body twisting under Bond as his cock aches with the need to be touched more. The moment Bond takes his thumb away and replaces with with a firm lick of his tongue, Q lets out a sharp cry that goes straight to Bond’s own neglected erection in his trousers.
“Please,” Q is saying, over and over. Bond’s head bobs as he swallows Q down once again, Q’s hands trapped and held down firmly under Bond’s.. “Please, god, James, I can’t–“
But Bond knows that Q can, even with the vibrator set to the highest that it can go. A tug has one of Q’s hands crossing his front to join the other and Bond can now hold both with only one of his own.
“You can,” Bond urges when he comes up, lips wet. He presses the insides of Q's wrists closer to each other. “You can and you will.”
“James, god–“
With his free hand, Bond reaches for the toy and twists it, Q’s head thrown back with his throat bared as it moves mercilessly inside him.
“Do you think you can come like this?” Bond is asking as Q lets out a broken sound and Bond pulls the vibrator out halfway, only to slam it back hard into place again. “Without me touching your cock, just doing this–“ And again, again, again, Bond pumping the toy in and out at a relentless pace that leaves Q arching right off the seat itself with a sob, “–to you until it’s too much to bear.”
Q’s glasses might be askew from the thrashing, but his eyes are still whip sharp when he lifts his hips in an effort to try and meet Bond thrust for thrust.
“I–“ Q practically writhes now, muscles clamping down again and again on the broad width of the toy. “James, I can’t, I’m going to come, I can’t–“
Bond shushes Q and the release of pressure on Q's wrists is welcomed, even if Q forgets about it the moment Bond starts palming Q's cock at a steady pace.
“I’m going to come, James I–“
“Look at me.” Q is shaking apart with every stroke, but he meets Bond’s eyes all the same. His breathing is ragged enough to hold more gasps than inhalations. “ Look at me," Bond says again in a low voice, "I want to see you when you come,” and that’s what does it in the end, Q jerking in Bond’s grasp with his balls drawn up tight and heavy, striping the front of Bond’s jacket with thick spurts of come.
“Fuck,” Q breathes out when he’s still winding down from the high. His prick twitches, still too sensitive when Bond gently milks the last dregs of come from him and Q’s body is trying to shy away, not prepared for so much stimulation so soon. “James.” One last small dribble and Bond's hands come away sticky, Q only able to watch bonelessly as Bond slips a dirty finger into his mouth. His cheeks hollow out as he sucks Q's come off that one digit, moving on to the next until the last reemerges with an absolutely filthy sound
“So,” Bond says conversationally. He touches a line of drying come on his suit, rubbing the stickiness between his spit-slicked fingers. “Those expectations of yours. Did I manage to surpass them?”
Q has pushed himself up from the slouch he’s fallen into and is trying to sit straight backed again to catch his breath, but the bulge in Bond’s trousers is making him reconsider.
“You did try quite hard today,” Q allows and reaches down to push Bond's jacket off his shoulders with still-shaky hands.