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It starts simply enough.
~
“Does she like long walks at sunset or is she more of a ‘fuck me against a wall’ girl?” Bond breathes quietly into the mic, following the glimpse of crimson silk flitting its way through the dark bar.
“Already have my crawlers working on it, hang on a second. We can’t all matchmake when we’re multitasking.”
“As if you don’t already have her shoe size and Amazon Wish List.”
“Right.” Q’s voice is all business now. “She’s not into sunsets, she--oh.”
“Oh? That’s helpful.” Bond sprints for a moment to catch up to her; she definitely knows the ropes here, a huge, sprawling complex of levels.
“More of a ‘fuck-me-against-a-wall’ thing, I’m thinking.” There’s faint amusement coloring Q’s voice.
“Mmm, is that an invitation?” The words slip out reflexively before Bond has a chance to think about them.
There’s a slight pause, then Q’s voice, amused in his ear. “If it’s an invitation, you’ll know it. So, the girl. She’s into--”
Oh, crap. Bond lowers his voice. “Stop. She’s right here.” His voice comes out serious now, focused. “Miscalculation.”
Q is silent. That’s one of the things Bond appreciates about him, that even though it kind of seems like he never stops talking, he can read the situation and shut up when he should.
There’s the required flirting, the smoothness of silk over her knee under Bond’s hand, the invitation to her room. Excellent. Only, he’s supposed to be overwhelming her with lust and nothing’s exactly doing it right now. He’s very, very good, but since this didn’t involve any conversation, he hasn’t had a chance to put her into a category for what she’d--
“Leather. Leather, smelling it, feeling it, wearing it.” Q’s voice, barely there, in his ear.
Bond already knows there’s nothing in the room that will help, and he doesn’t exactly have the Leather Daddy shop on call, so--
“Belt,” Q breathes in his ear. “Maybe. Slide it over her.”
Bond inhales hard, heat curling strong at the base of his spine. He slides his belt out of its loops, makes it seem like an accident, the first brush of leather on her face. Her pupils dilate -- not that he ever doubted Q for an instant; he’s never been wrong -- so he cocks his head like he’s discovering something new about her, then slides it down over the silk of her dress. Her nipples peak through the thin fabric so he keeps going.
Q can probably hear her breathing, can definitely hear her moans.
It’s something Bond has grown to ignore over the years, the reality that someone’s often listening in when he’s fucking. It’s standard practice to leave the mic on, the earpiece in, if there’s any way to do it. Plus, these days they’re almost built in, virtually invisible to the naked eye.
If a spy got embarrassed by the idea of someone listening in while they fuck, or take a shit, or tell outrageous lies, they wouldn’t be in the business. It’s just part of the deal. For their part, the people who listen in don’t talk about it: it’s a hard and fast rule. Unwritten, but all the more powerful for that.
Bond got good at tuning out the audience a very long time ago. He doesn’t even think about it: does what he needs to do, gets a good orgasm if he’s lucky, gets the information or coordinates or piece of paper, whatever. Moves on.
For some reason, though, he’s aware of Q. Listening, while he drags the belt over the woman’s pussy, thighs, breasts, then lets her bite it while he licks her out. He can’t hear him breathing, but. He’s there. When Bond lets himself finally come, buried inside her (swathed in a special agency-issued condom guaranteed to prevent all known diseases), his brain flashes him a picture: Q, hunched over listening, dark curls falling into his eyes.
Ridiculous.
~
It happens again when he’s in Dubai tracking a kingpin. The only link they have is gorgeous, with long dark hair and a willowy build despite her years. There’s a language barrier so he can’t find out much about her. She’s rich, though, and a society lady as much as there is such a thing here, so Q’s got to have stuff on her.
“Already on it,” Q murmurs in Bond’ ear.
Bond kisses her neck, her breasts, slides his fingers down through her curls, but she’s not responding. She’s about to stop this, to get up and walk out and then he’ll have to start over again with someone else. Only there isn’t anyone else.
“Got it, into her journal. Just a second.Okay, here we go.” Bond hears him swallow. “Flip her over, she likes.”
Q hesitates for a microsecond. He never hesitates; Bond feels momentarily breathless.
“Her arse,” Q adds, voice sliding over Bond like honey. “Play, not just. Everything.”
Bond feels the corner of his mouth quirk up. He wants to tease Q right now about this being the thing he’s embarrassed about. Not the advice on killing a man with a piece of medieval parchment or hacking the largest bank in the world’s records via fantasy computer game or directions on rigging a plane to fly into a mountain so it looks like an accident or overthrowing a Middle Eastern President.
The amusement evaporates when Q adds, silky in his ear, “Rimming, if you. Do that.”
Bond can’t respond out loud, but Q can get his answer through her breathing, her moans; in any language it’s clear what Bond is doing.
“Should I--?” Bond asks, condom on, hand stroking on the curve of her spine, dark hair falling all around her on the pillow. He’s asking her -- she speaks that much English -- but Q answers at the same time as she does: “Yes, in the--” Bond gasps and bends over her, mouths at the silky skin of her shoulders, eases into her until she’s begging for more, harder. Bond is probably imagining things, thinking that the silence in his ear is any different from all the usual silences; it’s protocol of course to remain quiet at times like this.
He reaches under her and finds her clit, bites gently at her back when she arches. There’s a bitten-off sound almost like a gasp in his ear that hits Bond’s spine like electricity. He comes helplessly, mouthing at the dark hair that’s gotten stuck in his mouth.
He gets the data.
~
The mark is a man this time. That hasn’t happened yet with Q as his handler.
It’s happening now. He’s tall and muscled, younger than Bond. His brother controls the security codes for the biggest terrorist organization in Europe.
“There’s no other way?” Bond asks lightly.
“No. Nothing else.” Q bites off the words. He sounds uncharacteristically on-edge.
“Fine.” Bond approaches the man, puts a subtle grace into his walk, cocks his head a fraction of an inch to the side. He takes a careful breath, murmurs. “Suggestions?” They both know he’s got about five minutes to work with.
“Data’s coming up right. Now.”
Bond approaches the man, sits on the stool next to him.
“He’s a top, exclusively. No time for that even if you--Well. Loves making men kneel in corners of, say, bathrooms. Where people can see. Blowjobs of course. Bond, you don’t need to--”
Bond starts a conversation with the mark, cutting Q off. He has him in the bathroom in two minutes. He hates to ruin his suit, but the man’s seriously into this public thing and the ‘making the other bloke feel ashamed’ thing, so he slides down onto his knees, acts like it’s humiliating the shit out of him. His attention must slip, musing on how many doses of the experimental anti-STD drug he’s going to take the minute he gets this bugger’s cock out of his mouth.
“Bond, focus.” Q’s voice, sliding warm through him.
Sure enough, the mark is starting to lose interest; Bond has only a couple of seconds left before the guy walks away instead of--
“That’s better,” Q says.
The man’s foot slides up the front of Bond’s crotch through his pants. “You’re hot for this, aren’t you?”
No, Bond isn’t. “Help,” he says in the way that triggers the subvocalization mic: it’s a new thing but since it’s Q’s own design it will work.
“Excellent, it works while sucking cock, something we didn’t get around to testing yet.” Q’s voice is level, but there’s a laugh hidden in it. “So. Help. Okay, I’m going to assume it’s not a problem it’s a man, based on your files. Maybe the kneeling? Only no, I think you’d do it for the right person, might even like being pushed down, thinking about what it looks like, James Bond kneeling for some man, hungry for it.” He cuts himself off like his words got ahead of him. Bond makes a noise like moaning around the cock in his throat.
“That’s right, take it, greedy, you’re just a hole for my cock, you want it any way you can get it, even here where anyone can see you...”
The thug’s voice goes on like that, but thank god, Q’s voice comes back, a bit breathless: “That’s not it, though, that’s not. Quite. It’s all that power, coiled at one’s feet, voluntarily given, it’s--”
Bond gasps and the thug yells, then hits him, a hard backhand to the face. “Suck it, slut, should I gag your mouth open so you---”
Bond is one second from killing the cunt. It’s not that he doesn’t like a bit of violence sometimes, but it’s got to be something he asks for, something--
Q’s voice stops Bond even as he readies his leg muscles to spring. “I know you suck cock like you do everything else; precise, deadly. You might like giving it all up for someone, doing what someone told you, but it would be because you wanted to, at every moment.” Warmth curls up Bond’ spine, relaxes his throat. Q’s whispering now. ”And that would just. Make it better. And you would love it. Feel it now, a cock in your mouth, you’re kneeling, it’s so hot.” Bond floats on it, lets desire curl into his toes, his fingers, takes the cock deeper and swallows around it.
“That’s... yeah, that’s...” The big man he’s kneeling in front of gasps, starts to come.
Bond is going to choke, but there’s the voice: “And you’d swallow, all of it, it might even make you come, that very act, taking it all.” Bond’s vision goes white and he curls over his painfully hard cock, biting his own cheek to bring him back from the brink, because he is not going to come in front of this arsehole.
It works. He gets what he needs. The codes get them in before the organization takes down most of the government in one carefully-planned blow.
~
“So.” Q purses his mouth and appears extremely involved in the schematics on the screen in front of him. “Things got a bit. Out of hand.” He darts a quick glance at Bond’s face, then turns away again.
“Rather.” Bond fiddles with the new weapon Q’s made him. It looks like a wallet but has a polymer that interacts with a particular pattern of Bond’s fingers to create a deadly poison. He glances at Q’s long, capable fingers, blurred in speed on a keyboard. Fingers that made this weapon. That even now are orchestrating a bomb threat at an embassy. On skin, would they feel any different from any other fingers?
“You’re staring.” Q’s voice has that tinge of amusement that settles warm in Bond’s belly.
“Right.” Bond smiles and shakes his head.
~
Bond tosses in the sheets. It’s a sticky, horrifically hot South Asian night. No air conditioning because of where he has to stay. Can’t sleep. Hasn’t slept for. He counts. Fuck. “How many days can I go before I start hallucinating, did we say?”
Q doesn’t laugh in his ear like he should. Instead his voice gets that intense timbre that only happens when Bond comes close to something or someone very dangerous. “You are in a nest of vipers. Surrounded on all sides by bodyguards, assassins. Cut off from all aid, land, sea or air. You must sleep while you have this window while they are all at the ‘Gathering’.” Bond can hear the sardonic air quotes in Q’s voice. This cult has lots of capitalized special ceremonies, intermixed with the child prostitution, drug trade and murder.
“Already took all the drugs I can.”
“I could.” Q cuts himself off, uncharacteristically.
Bond doesn’t say anything.
“Never mind.”
Q is silent after that, while Bond tosses and turns some more. He’d tried masturbating in the shower, before, but nothing worked. He traces the length of his cock with a fingertip. It could be Q’s finger, long and pale. Competent. “Yes,” he says into the mic. “If you.”
There’s no hesitation, just Q’s voice, assured as always. “You’re touching yourself now?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I think--” There’s rustling, like Q has moved around to get comfortable. “I think a light, gentle tease to start, your whole hand though. It’s your right hand, of course.”
“Of--Of course,” Bond half-laughs, voice tight.
“That’s better already.” Q’s voice goes slightly husky. “Now a bit harder. And your other hand -- you’re on hands-free right, yes -- your left hand, ease it down to hold your balls. You like that? Of course you like that, who wouldn’t, the question is, how hard.”
Bond is kind of floating on Q’s voice, heat building, rock hard. He’s having to pant a bit for air.
“Good,” Q says, voice low and intimate in Bond’ ear. “Are your legs spreading yet?”
Bond grunts.
“It’s a reflex and it would--” Q swallows audibly, “it would be hot for--to know you’d done that, that someone was watching, could see you all spread out on the sheets.” There’s more rustling. His voice is still, well, Q-like: still authoritative and calm, but there’s an edge that’s only there when Bond is facing mortal peril.
“Harder now, faster. Are you wet at all? I think you are, just a bit; grab some of that and spread it. Let your left hand slide down behind your balls. You like a finger there? Just a bit inside you, make you squirm and sweat? I think so." He lowers his voice to a whisper: “Actually, I know so, don’t I, James?”
Bond makes a sound that isn’t words, heat racing up his spine.
“I know you can do it, get yourself off, hard and fast, go on.”
It’s like Qs voice is in his head, pulling out the threads of Bond’s desires. The room around him, the past, the future, fade out, until it’s only his voice, sparking on his skin, inside him. He comes in a flurry of white heat, arched over himself, two fingers jammed as far up inside himself as he can manage.
It takes a long time to come down, until the aftershocks don’t rock him.
“Sleep now,” Q says, slightly breathless. “Sleep.”
After four hours of sleep like death, Bond retrieves all the details from their network, kills the crazy leader and finds the one way out of the viper’s nest.
~
When Bond shows up in HQ, Q holds out a hand with a small mic on it.”This one’s subvocalization is far more efficient and its life has been doubled by use of a new power augmentation routine I wrote.” He’s wearing a new cardigan, dark green-blue with large buttons.
“Good to see you, too,” Bond says.
“Yes, right.” Q shoves his glasses up higher on his face where they’ve slipped down.
Bond resists a random impulse to push his curls out of his eyes as well. Then, an impulse to yell. He’s angry, even while he realizes it’s nonsensical. It makes him mean. “So, the things you tell me to do, are they actually what you want?” he asks, voice low. “Don’t people usually default to what they want done to them?”
Q blinks. “If you think I can’t top you, you’re stupider than I’ve thought.”
“That’s not.” Bond shakes his head. “That’s not an answer.”
Q frowns. “Given that I’m in the top of the top percentile of intelligence, do you honestly think there is any experience I wouldn’t appreciate, for knowledge alone, let alone any other enjoyment I might derive?”
Bond stares at him. “You might... derive.”
“Still not an invitation,” Q says, meeting Bond’s eyes.
“But you’re considering it,” Bond says.
Q tips his head to the side. “Must need my head examined.”
“Club, join it.”
~
The next mission goes bad. Really bad. There’s not much chance Bond’s going to survive long enough to escape, much less to be rescued. If they can even find him.
He’s bleeding out on the floor of the dungeon they threw him in when this round ended. Next time they’ll start cutting things off, he knows.
“Tell me a story?” he whispers, hoping the subdermal mic is still functional somehow.
Q breathes out. “It’s still working.” The relief in his voice is tangible, warm where Bond is cold.
“You’re a genius, what did you expect?” Bond tries to sound cutting, but it’s ruined by a coughing spell. Two ribs are definitely broken, maybe three. Hopefully they haven’t actually punctured a lung yet.
“Once upon a time,” Q says.
Bond is quiet.
“Once upon a time, there was an arrogant prince who was turned into a beast...” The voice is low and soothing. Bond floats in and out of consciousness.
“Bond!”
Someone is yelling at him. He doesn’t want to get up. Can’t he just sleep for once?
“James,” Q says in his ear. “We’re there. But we need a distraction. Otherwise you’ll be dead before we can get to you.”
“Sleep,” Bond says petulantly.
“No,” Q says urgently, more urgently than Bond has ever heard him say anything. “No. Listen, you have to get up, distract them. Scream, use the poison in your pinkie, whatever.”
“But I’m tired,” Bond says.
Q hisses at him -- hisses! “Listen, Bond. I’m inviting you. I told you I would be clear. This is an invitation. So get your arse up.” Again, urgency like he’s never heard.
“Fine,” Bond says, levering himself slowly up. “But I’m topping. Wear the blue.”
~~
Bond is in the hospital for three days, then on enforced rest in his apartment for another five. By the end of it, he’s half-mad with restlessness. His bell rings the second to the last day. It’s Q, who Bond has not seen or heard from since that first day, when he met the helicopter with Bond’s semi-lifeless body in it.
Q’s wearing the dark, greenish-blue cardigan, buttoned almost to the top. He looks -- possibly, it’s hard for even Bond to tell -- nervous. He doesn’t meet Bond’s eyes. “I didn’t know with absolute certainty if you actually meant--” His hair is a mess, curls all over the place. His glasses...
Bond strides toward him, raises a finger to those glasses, strokes it along the rim. “These make me crazy,” he murmurs. “And this.” He runs his hand up the buttons of the cardigan.
“Hmph,” Q says.
“And most especially this,” Bond says, running a finger over Q’s lips. “Clever, clever mouth.”
“It certainly has benefited you, my mouth.” Q says, then takes a breath. “I think it’s time for some reciprocation.”
Bond shivers.
“I think,” Q says softly, “that you should kneel down right here and suck me. Just like this. I’m leaving the cardigan and glasses on.”
Bond shoves him against the door, which shuts it with a bang, and drops to his knees.
Q opens his fly. His hands are trembling slightly. Bond takes them, gently, and puts them on his head. Q’s fingers flex and then grasp. Bond can imagine what they look like and it’s--
“Think of what this looks like,” Q says. “The deadly spy kneeling to suck the cock of a young--ah--right at the door, he loves it, kneeling at his feet, wants to choke on, choke on cock and--ohh.” He groans as Bond takes him all the way down, then slides his hands around to cup his arse through his jeans. Q’s rock hard and bigger than Bond had guessed, nest of dark hair and strong muscles in his thighs.
Bond pulls off, uses his strength to pin Q to the wall with his forearms on thighs and chest. “I’m going to make you nonverbal. Get you so you can’t, any more, can’t talk. Or I’m going to make you keep talking, make you talk and if you stop, I’ll stop.”
Q pants above him, sheen of perspiration already showing on his face, glasses sliding down. “Well, you had better decide which it is,” he manages.
“Right. Talking, for now. Keep talking or it stops. Later. Later we’ll try getting you to stop talking.” He rakes Q’s body with his eyes. “I can think of a few ways.”
Q groans and smacks his head back against the door.
~ ~
Later, Q looks at Bond for a long moment, then rolls purposefully over onto his stomach. They’ve somehow made it to the bed. He’s still got the cardigan on and his shirt under it, but no trousers or pants. He looks back at Bond over his shoulder, hair falling in his eyes, glasses still -- amazingly -- on. “I want you to fuck me now.” It’s his mic-voice. “I want it, come on Bond.”
Bond hesitates. He’s not sure why. He crawls up to Q and lies down on his side to face him, wraps his fingers around his glasses. “Not for this,” he says. “This is--”
Q’s forehead wrinkles. “What?”
“This is just us.” Bond doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say, what he wants. He just knows this is different.
Fortunately Q is actually a genius. “It’s always just us,” he whispers.
Bond thinks about what it would mean, if he were to, whatever, see someone. What they’d have to accept as part of the job.
Q is a fucking actual massive genius.
Bond smiles and slips the glasses off of Q’s face, puts them down gently next to the bed. He slides his hands into Q’s hair, then kisses him. Kisses him and kisses him, until they’re both panting and frantic.
“Let’s keep the cardigan, though,” Q moans.
Bond shivers. “Yes, let’s,” he says, sliding his hands under it and the shirt underneath, rucking them up to Q’s nipples, so he looks debauched. He licks a path down, swirling his tongue on Q’s skin, down, down, to his belly, across to the top of his thighs, down the crease and then back up and around his hip.
Q sighs and reaches around and down to stroke Bond’s head, fingers that make deadly devices and deadlier programs stroking gentle patterns.
“Do it,” Q says. “Keep him on his belly. Lick his balls from behind, lick and --” he groans when Bond licks behind his balls, then further back, sliding his hands up under the cardigan and finding his nipples unerringly, teasing them.
“You can, he likes it a little rough sometimes, you can--”
Bond twists his fingers on Q’s nipples and licks into him at the same time. Q moans.
“Just us,” Bond pants, shoving Qs knees under him and a finger inside him, carefully, carefully, lots of lube.
“He wants it hard--I want it hard,” Q corrects.
Bond obliges when he has Q ready; the bed rocks with every thrust. He keeps Q right on the edge forever, glancing over his prostate only every few thrusts.
“Cruel,” Q says, muscles rippling as he rocks back against Bond.
“Yes,” Bond says, hand sliding on Q’s cock, not enough pressure to really get him anywhere.
“It was you every time,” Bond whispers into the skin of Q’s shoulder, tightening his hand around him. Q curls in on himself and comes, shuddering and clenching down on Bond. It tips Bond over the edge and he comes blindingly hard, open mouth pressed to Q’s neck, one hand lodged in Q’s curls and one clenched in the cardigan.
~
Even later, morning actually -- pale slivers of light are coming in through Bond’s cheap blinds -- it’s Bond under Q, spread out on his back, legs wrapped like a vise around Q’s hips while Q fucks into him precisely, with surprising strength. Normally Bond isn’t too fond of this position for this -- it’s too vulnerable, too open. The mark can see Bond’s face. He’s good but he’s not so good he never slips and lets his preoccupation show.
He’s not preoccupied now. It’s fucking amazing. He lifts his fingers to Q’s mouth, traces it softly.
Q’s eyebrow quirks. “More?”
Bond doesn’t say anything.
“Of course you want more... greedy. Greedy for cock, greedy to be told what to do. So I want you to lie there and take it. Just, lie still and take it.”
Bond shudders.
Q smiles. “Oh, I think you can do much better than that.” He tips his head to the side, assessing. “Grab on to the frame with your hands,” he directs, indicating the head board. “Go on.”
Bond complies, reaching up and back behind him.
Q’s eyes darken.
Bond shivers.
“Don’t let go,” Q says, silky. “I know you won’t, because you love it, me telling you what to do, and you’re greedy for this. I could tie you but it’s better this way, you having to hold on, doing it because I told you to.”
Bond does it, holds on through a thorough fucking, through Q, surprisingly and thrillingly rough, biting bruises into his chest and upper arms. Bond is arching and gasping for air, begging to be fucked harder, more. It’s slick between their bodies now. Q’s temples are dark with sweat.
“Without me touching you,” Q rasps when they’re both moaning, so close. “I want you to come on my cock. I know you will. Just on my cock, you need it, you need--”
Bond rocks up with the power of his orgasm, toes curling and legs clamping around Q. Q groans and fucks even harder into Bond, relentess, then follows with his own orgasm, his head rocking back as he arches and comes.
He collapses onto a hand, then down onto an elbow, head hanging, gasping for breath.
Bond kisses the top of his head without thinking.
Q lifts his face and leans down and kisses Bond’s eyelids, eyebrows, the corners of his mouth, then his lips. “You can let go now,” he whispers.
Bond laughs, rusty sounding -- he’s almost forgotten his hands are still clenched around his headboard. I'll bet you have a bed frame perfect for this," Bond says.
“I pride myself on my attention to detail." A half smile lifts up the corner of Q's mouth.
“Which has saved my life on more than one occasion.” Bond stretches as Q pulls out, then carefully pulls the condom off and pads toward the bathroom.
For a moment when he returns, it looks like Q is hesitating. His eyes dart toward his clothes, scattered on the floor.
Bond swallows. “You invited me,” he says. “So it’s only fair now I’m inviting you. To stay. If you want.”
Q crawls in next to him and allows himself to be pulled into an almost-cuddle. He’s a bit stiff, but as the minutes go by he relaxes, bit by bit. “Now that’s not so bad, is it?” Bond murmurs.
“Whoever heard of a deadly international spy who likes to cuddle?” Q mutters.
“It’s not as weird as a nerdy boy genius who likes to order people around.”
“Sometimes.”
“Yes, sometimes likes to order people around, and sometimes likes to be fucked within an inch of his life by an extremely macho--”
Q sighs, loud and expressively. “I knew you’d be insufferable.”
~~
“Bond,” Q murmurs in his ear, in a voice Bond has come to associate with late-night confidences. “Bond, you get that I understand that you have to--With other people.”
Bond breathes out the lungful of air he didn’t realize he was holding. It’s imperative he obtain access to the woman currently chatting him up at the luxury restaurant he’s in at the top of a skyscraper in Tokyo. Of course Q knows that James will have to continue -- how could he not, they even had a sort-of conversation about it -- but at the last minute James had had a niggle of concern. It wouldn’t have stopped him of course, but. “I--Good,” he subvocalizes.
“Excellent,” Q says crisply. “Now, as to the details, she likes -- oh my -- she honestly likes pegging best, but will settle for oral in a pinch it seems.”
Bond really doesn’t want to consider how Q gets all his information. It’s better that way.
“Oral then, I suppose?” he asks quietly when the lady retires to the restroom for a moment.
“Oh, I think not,” Q says, voice curling dark and smoky. “I think that would be a disservice to Her Majesty’s government. If the lady likes giving it rough to gentlemen, far be it from James Bond to deny her. Am I not correct, James?”
Bond swallows, half-hard already in his trousers. “Always, Q. Always.”
~ ~ End ~~