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“On your knees. Head down; I want that arse high and spread for me,” Bond says, already loosening his tie as Q clambers onto the bed. Q’s already down to his singlet, skin pale and creamy and not at all hidden by the washed-out, faded white of the stretched fabric. Bond can see the dark, sparse hair on his chest through the nearly-transparent fabric; when he braces his palms on the mattress by his head, it slips up to pool around his armpits and reveal every inch of paper-white skin. There’s a line of hair that curls down from his navel to surround his cock; he’s surprisingly groomed. Bond slicks his thumb inside his lower lip before tracing over the hairless perineum to his arsehole, watching Q shiver. ”You shave?”
“Wax,” Q corrects him, and Bond can’t stop the wince that forms.
“Are you normally hairy?” he asks, absently toying with the wrinkled furl and watching Q’s mouth work soundlessly against the sheets.
“Do you like hairy?” Q manages, and Bond thinks that if he can still manage sass, he’s not working hard enough. The tip of his thumb eases inside and Q’s eyes squinch shut. He licks his upper lip, tongue catching on the bed linens, and Bond smiles.
“Sometimes. Are you very hairy?” he asks, watching Q’s face.
“A yeti,” Q confirms, and Bond laughs.
“Do you get embarrassed about it? You must do, to wax it all away,” Bond muses as he works his thumb in to the first knuckle.
“Some partners have commented,” Q acknowledges. It draws a sting; Bond shoves deep to chase away the phantom touch of another man.
“Don’t do it for a while. I want to see you as you really are,” he suggests, watching his palm flex as he works.
Q pulls a face. ”It’ll itch,” he protests, shifting on his knees to open himself up further. Bond smacks his arse to still him.
“Do it anyway. It’ll be interesting to see you squirm and know you’re doing it for me.”
“You’d better appreciate it,” Q threatens breathily as he rocks back onto Bond’s hand.
“I think I will,” Bond tells him. His thumb comes out; Q makes a soft, unhappy sound and Bond presses him back with one hand, sliding up to press between his shoulder blades as he leans over to fish in the drawer for lube. He works the bottle open with his free hand; the sticky smacking sound draws a sigh from Q, his lashes dark against his cheek as his mouth opens wet and red. Bond goes in, two fingers to the second knuckle before Q has the presence of mind to whimper. Bond presses harder against his back; Q’s cheek presses harder into the mattress and his fingers curl toward his mouth.
“Please,” Q says. It’s pretty.
“Please what?” Bond asks.
“Just please.”
“Please what? Please put my fingers in your arse? Play with you until you can’t stand it anymore? Touch you until you’re begging for my cock, until you’re so hard you’re dripping, until you’re gagging for it and you can’t think, can’t move, can’t breathe?”
“Yes,” Q gasps.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, all of it.” Bond grins at that. Q’s tight; he drives his fingers in until his palm slaps against his arse and Q whines, high and thin. His hole is red and tender-looking, and Bond imagines he could do with a bit more lube, but neither of them cares about that in the face of the thick, dirty noises he’s pulling from Q’s body. His hand presses harder on Q’s back—he can hear the vertebrae popping as he presses his weight into it—and Q’s breath goes ragged and thin, but he moans around the pressure when Bond twists his wrist, dragging his knuckles along the rim from the inside before drawing them out. The delicate skin shrivels back, closing around nothing, and Q sobs into the sheets as he arches his back, pleading.
“Or shall I lick you out instead?” Bond asks and gets a full-body shudder for his troubles. ”You like that?” he asks. Q looks shy, nodding his face into the bed. ”Stick my tongue so far inside you, taste you deep and dirty and wrong until you shake apart; I could fuck you with it; you could ride my face. Christ.” The muffled sound Q makes is encouraging. Bond laughs again. Q’s thighs are trembling when he leans over him, fingers still deep inside. Bond’s breath puffs the tiny curls around Q’s ear as he murmurs sweet and low: “Do you think you could come from it? Just my tongue, my lips, my mouth as I eat your arse? Could you come without touching your pretty little cock? No hands, no touching. Let’s find out, shall we?” Q’s nod is frantic. ”Hold yourself open,” Bond instructs, and Q balances on the curve of his jaw and the thin line of his shoulders as he reaches back with both hands.
He’s lovely, skin pale and pinked where blood is making him sensitive. His hole twitches, and Bond imagines he can see his heartbeat in the flushed skin. Where his hands—nails neat and manicured, surprisingly clean for someone who works building gadgets all day—press into his skin he leaves white, bloodless indents; when he shifts, those indents pink dark and bruised. Bond sucks thoughtfully at his fingertips when he draws them out, and Q watches with dark eyes. ”Have you been a good boy?” Bond asks impulsively.
“Oh, the best.” Q’s voice cracks as Bond lays the flat of his tongue across him, slick and wet from balls to the top of the crease of his arse. Bond bites there, where the skin is thin over a bundle of nerves that spark and spit at the feel of teeth digging in. He works his way back to the hole that’s still twitching, working his lip against the rim before laving wide and sloppy against him again. Q moans. His voice is sharp and desperate.
Bond’s palm slaps against Q’s thigh and he squirms. It’s not hard but it’s startling, and Q’s breath catches, dragging out long and slow as Bond works him with the tip of his tongue, not going inside but maddeningly tracing the edge with a sweet-slick delicate touch. It’s not enough; his knees slide on the bedding as he tries to lean into it before Bond spanks him again in warning.
“Stay still or I’ll have to tie you,” Bond says, lips slipping across Q’s skin.
“Maybe next time,” Q replies, laughing.
“Promise?” Bond murmurs and Q’s laugh breaks off into a guttural groan. ”Maybe next time we’ll start out tying you up—I’ll fuck you with my fingers until you’re desperate for it—do you like toys? I’d like to tape a vibrator to your cock and watch you cry.”
“Use your mouth for something useful,” Q manages once he’s got his breath back. Bond’s hands go still; he bites hard at Q’s arse and leaves him keening before pressing thick, wet kisses at Q’s arsehole until he’s weak and kittenish.
“I’ll show you useful,” Bond mutters before dragging his teeth against the edge, raising pink lines in his wake that bring Q to his elbows. ”Face down,” Bond reminds him, and refuses to continue until Q can force the tension from his shoulders, piling himself meekly against the mattress. He’s impossibly hard now, throbbing and wet and sticky, and Bond trips a finger along the underside, startling them both when Q goes stiff and still, coming loud and twitchy into the sheet with a cry.
Bond’s a hair’s breadth away from coming, himself, at the sight; he considers a condom for the dulling sensation but he wants. He wants so badly, wants to see Q’s pale-flushed skin spattered and decorated; he squeezes his balls and remembers a dark, abandoned factory until he’s got himself under control, and then he’s slick with precome and lube and pushing in, weight braced on his hands on Q’s thin shoulders as he pins him down. Q breathes out weakly, air pressed from his lungs as Bond fucks into him. He hasn’t even gone fully soft yet before Bond is fucking into him hard enough to shake the bed; if this were anything other than an expensive hotel, the headboard would be banging. As it is, Bond’s planning his smug looks to the neighbors—Q is screaming fit to wake the dead.
It’s not long before he can feel his balls drawing up, tight and hot and throbbing like a live wire strung between his belly and his cock, plucked and played by each little sound escaping Q’s mouth as he wails into the bed. His lashes are wet, fingers shaking and damp as he sucks at them and the bed sheet indiscriminately, his eyes shut tight against the pleasure that threatens to blind him. Bond shoves in hard, managing barely a few more thrusts before he loses his rhythm, jerking into an orgasm that leaves him dazed and breathless. He’s slumped over Q’s back, blinking into the room’s discreet lighting, trying to catch his breath. Q makes a sound of protest when he pulls out; already there’s a drip of wet that follows, and he tugs Q’s leg up to see better.
Q makes a soft sound of discontent, but his eyes glitter. He’s half-hard against his belly again when Bond touches his arse, carefully smearing the come into the skin as it leaks. Q’s ears flush a pretty red when those fingers dip inside, easy when he’s as fucked-out and loose as he is, and part so Bond can look inside. Bond presses them in slow, mindful of the lingering soreness, and coaxes the mess out, his fingers covered in lube and his own come as he fingers Q slowly.
“Mother of God.” His voice is reverent; the blasphemy tingles on Q’s skin as Bond hitches his leg over a shoulder to get a better look. ”You’re soaked. Lube and come—you’re absolutely dripping. Can you hear it?” Bond asks, stirring into Q until the air is thick with squelching. ”You look so dirty.”
“You didn’t wear a condom,” Q accuses weakly, covering his face with a flustered hand.
“No,” Bond says. ”I didn’t.” He toys with Q’s hole a bit more, loosely curling his finger inside to stroke the rim inside and out. ”You’re so loose.”
“—your cock,” Q manages, and that delicious, embarrassed flush is creeping down the back of his neck now, pinking his skin in a wave.
“Is it big?” Bond asks casually, and Q’s timid nod sends a pulse of arousal through him. He can’t get it up now—much too soon for that, and he’s not a young man anymore, besides—but he tucks Q’s shyness away for later perusal and focuses on the task at hand. ”The load I’ve put in you,” he hums, satisfied, and watches as more drips between his fingers to the rapidly-forming wet spot on the bed. Q is rutting into the sheets, much more than half-hard now, and Bond grins to himself. He puffs a breath across sensitive skin and admires the way Q draws into himself, pulling away to tuck his knees higher against his chest. His arse bobs in the air, and Bond considers how flexible Q is as he folds himself double.
“What are you—?” Q whimpers, a small sound so vulnerable that it makes Bond wish he could get hard again, when he licks at the trickle that escapes when he draws his fingers out. ”Oh, don’t.”
“Don’t?” Bond asks, pulling back to rub at Q with his thumb again.
“It’s—” That virginal flush goes deeper, lower, sweeter.
“Mm, but isn’t that why it’s so fun?” Bond muses aloud. He enjoys the gasp and whine when he presses his lips to Q again and licks into him, tasting come and slick and Q, dark and heady and wonderful. Q writhes on the bed, curling until he’s low enough to press his cock into the sheets; Bond stretches a palm beneath him and gets a handful of come for his trouble. He slicks it along Q’s hip and Q gives him a nasty look.
Q pulls away when he tries for a kiss—“I know where that mouth has been”—and Bond chuckles, trapping him in the cage of his arms to press kisses all over his face before licking into his open, gasping mouth. They’re still tangled together, limbs weak and shaking with the aftershocks, when Bond tangles his fingers in Q’s curls. He’s looking forward to showing the Quartermaster a few new toys.