Chapter Text
Could you whisper in my ear
The things you wanna feel
I'd give you anythin'
To feel it comin'
Do you wake up on your own
And wonder where you are?
You live with all your faults
I wanna wake up where you are
I won't say anything at all
So why don't you slide
“Slide” - The Goo Goo Dolls
00Q00Q00Q
If there were MI6 records to be held, the current Quartermaster would hold most of them.
Youngest person to ever hold the position of Quartermaster?
Check (Thirty-four, beating out the previous record holder who had been forty-three.)
Quartermaster with the most number of authorised internal patents in history?
Check (One hundred and thirteen, with five others pending.)
The most formally well-educated Quartermaster (whose degrees in computer science, mathematics, and English literature were unfortunately not permitted to see the light of day for obvious security reasons) to ever be in charge of Q-Branch?
Triple check.
The Quartermaster with the best head of hair?
Obviously.
He also was MI6’s only Quartermaster with the secondary gender “O” next to his (redacted) name.
With careful maintenance, Q had always been able to pass for a Beta, and that had gotten him far in life. Even now, as Quartermaster, he presented that way, and would continue to do so until he left his position, either by route of retirement or death.
It wasn’t shame so much as the desire for privacy that had Q protecting his Omega status so carefully. After all, there had been strides in the past fifty-odd years for Omegas to rise to such positions without hiring bias or discrimination. Omegas had gotten the right to vote and own property long ago, attend university, live on their own, work even when mated, and make choices about their bodies and unborn children. But it was all rather new (what with some of the old guard not yet having died yet), and there were still fields that were heavily biased towards Alphas and Betas, some administrations believing Omegas too delicate or sensitive to be capable of certain work.
That was another reason why he chose to present as he did: to ensure that he kept the respect of his agents and those under him. Only a handful of people were privy to his secret: Mallory, of course, and Tanner, the Chief of Staff, as well as some of the high-ranking staff in Medical. Q took care of his natural scent with medication, scent blockers, and other methods of suppression to keep up the illusion that he had no secondary gender. It seemed to be working; no one was none the wiser to his subterfuge, even his most discerning agents with some of the best Alpha senses in the organisation.
Even Mallory had been fooled, which he admitted to when he called Q into his office after M's passing. Just as M had been, Mallory made it clear that he was fine with Q choosing to conceal this part of himself from those under his command. In fact, after that meeting, Mallory never again brought up the subject of gender, seeming the sort of person who only cared that the job got done, regardless of biology.
In some ways, Mallory was very much like her, the old M.
Q remembered it like it was yesterday, the day M had called him to her office right after the attacks on Six that had killed old Boothroyd and five other members of Q-Branch. It had been a whirlwind affair signing him on to the suddenly vacant and much-needed position of Quartermaster, but before she handed him the pen, she looked him right in the eyes and said:
“I don’t care what you are: Alpha, Beta, or Omega, but I need to know if you’re serious about staying on with Six for the long haul. You’ll be married to England, your children will be all of her citizens. Can you assure me that you can do this, at least until we’ve recovered from this mess?”
“You don’t have to worry, M,” he’d said, taking the pen without hesitating, “there’s nothing like that for me now, or in the future.”
That had been two years ago, perhaps one of the last sit down conversations he had had with her before she died. And he hadn’t lied. There had been nothing like that for him then, and there would be nothing like that now. There would be no mate, no children, not for him.
Not ever.
00Q00Q00Q
Q’s alarm went off at precisely 5:10 every morning.
That didn’t necessarily mean he got up at 5:10, but he did do his best. The dark and cold winter mornings did not make it any easier to crawl out of a warm and comfortable bed, nor did Q’s hectic work schedule as of late. It seemed the moment he laid down, his alarm was harassing him out of bed, cutting into any meaningful rest he might have been able to get had he been able to sleep until, say, noon.
That particular morning was no exception, and though he would have rather hit the snooze for another two hours, he didn’t have the luxury of lazing about if he wanted to be washed and dressed and out the door to catch the early train before it got too crowded.
Dragging himself up out of bed, Q went to the bathroom to relieve himself, then into the kitchen to make some tea. Gadget and Gizmo, his two overly-fed tabbies, meowed insistently from between his feet as he put the kettle on.
“Okay, okay, I’m getting it. Calm down,” Q told them.
While waiting on the water to boil, Q put food in their respective bowls and checked their automatic water fountain to make sure it was still full. Then he took care of their litter boxes, bagging the waste and putting it by the front door so he didn’t forget to take it out.
The kettle beeped, and Q pulled down a mug and a teabag from the cabinet. While letting it steep, Q poured out his dose of medicine from the seven-day pill keeper he kept on the counter. Vitamins and hormones in various shapes and sizes rested in his palm, gone in a single, well-practised swallow with some tap water. He then chased away the synthetic taste with tea, and returned to the bathroom to shower.
Undressing, Q made the mistake of meeting his own eyes in the mirror, which made him take pause to look at himself more closely: pale skin, dark circles under his eyes, and the jut of his cheeks made him seem gaunt and sickly. He appeared much older than his thirty-four years, and although Q had never considered himself handsome, he felt overwhelmingly melancholy at how tired and grave he looked.
Turning to the side, critical eyes swept over the flat lines of his body. There were no alluring curves to him, none of that tantalising bit of plump that Omegas often had to advertise their fertility. He often wished he had just a little bit of softness, something to make him more desirable, but then hated himself for allowing the whims of his biology and societal pressures to make him feel less worthy of attention.
Still, Q mused, a little bit of softness wouldn’t hurt. He traced a finger over the jut of his hipbone, up along the white surgical scar across his stomach, and then jerked it away. He turned his head from the mirror, not wanting to look at his reflection, at the part of him that was most appalling, and instead hurried to wash and then dress.
He had work to do.
00Q00Q00Q
When he arrived at Six, his division felt hectic with activity. Nothing had gone wrong, but a lot of assignments on at once always made for a busy day. And it seemed that wasn’t the only thing Q had to worry about, if the Double-Oh agent sauntering his way was any indication.
“Double-Oh-Seven,” Q said in greeting, as he accepted files from one minion and signed off on the firewall testing numbers on a tablet presented by another.
Everything was within range, though he did see a number that could be better. They would have to circle back to see what they could do about that.
“Q,” Bond said, following along behind him as Q made way for his office.
“How was Zagreb?” he asked, accepting another file folder handed to him as he passed.
They were the official R&D numbers for his upcoming committee meeting. They had real results to show this time to shut up those pencil pushers in Accounting. Maybe they would actually get the budget they were promised instead of having to trade favours with MI5 for resources.
“Chilly.”
Q hummed, reading the stats at the top as they walked.
“And the mission?” he asked, using his shoulder to nudge open his office door.
“Weren’t you observing?”
“A little bit more on my mind than babysitting you, Double-Oh-Seven. I thought you could handle it on your own.”
“I did,” Bond said, sounding a little grumpy.
Q had to hide a smirk. Alphas always got a little tetchy when they didn’t get enough attention, and Bond was no exception.
“Good. I presume the equipment is back intact, then?”
“Not exactly.”
Q dropped his files and his bag onto his desk with a sigh. Already, he felt a headache forming behind his eyes. He might be young, yes, but he didn’t have the stamina to put up with this kind of bullshit indefinitely.
“If you’re not going to take care of the tech, you’ll not be getting any more from this department,” Q said.
“Thought I’d get you something better,” Bond said.
“Better than my own tech?”
Q turned, and Bond had his hand outstretched. A small zip drive rested in his open palm. Bond’s hands were large, scarred, and had strangled the life out of more people than Q could count on all of his fingers and toes. The thought of it--of Bond’s hands round his own throat--was terrifying, but also a little exhilarating. Perhaps Q needed to get out more.
“What is it?” he asked, not ready to bite yet.
“Nicked it from a locked safe in the boot of Nassar’s car.”
Oh, now that was tempting. Majid Nassar was one of the big players. He had contacts all over the world looking to purchase illegal arms and munitions. Rumour had it that he had cornered the international market when it came to nuclear weapons, specifically uranium and beryllium. Q tried not to seem too interested, but he could tell from Bond’s grin that he didn’t quite manage nonchalance. Two years and Bond already knew too much about his facial expressions. Q would have to do better.
“Need I remind you that this was supposed to be a surveillance mission only?”
“I did. I surveyed him putting his computer in the boot of his car before meeting with his date for the evening,” Bond explained, “and if his driver and personal detail happened to fall asleep on the job, it was all rather convenient.”
Q couldn’t approve of the behaviour, because it did go against mission protocol, but if they did find valuable data on the drive. Well.
“Convenient,” Q agreed, and Bond dropped the drive into his hand obediently. “I’ll take a look to see if there’s anything of value, but don’t think this gives you a pass on returning equipment in the future.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Q,” Bond purred, and then was gone before Q could say anything else.
Oh, and that purr and grin routine of his never seemed to get old. Q didn’t consider himself one to woo easily, but Bond could make his face look rather nice when he tried not being annoying.
00Q00Q00Q
A few days later, Q was up to his ears in projects.
He had two agents out on assignment, a budgeting issue in TSS, and an investigation underway into less-than-ideal numbers from the firewall testing. On top of it, he had been asked to accompany Mallory to a meeting tomorrow with the higher ups from the PM’s office, which meant an uncomfortable two hours sitting in a room with a bunch of top-notch Alpha arseholes who thought their cocks were a gift to mankind and liked to pretend that Omegas were second-class citizens.
With his fingers in every metaphorical pie and over two thousand emails to answer, Q was exhausted by that evening, but had no choice but to carry on. Perhaps he’d look into cloning, just for the hell of it. Or, to save money on the budget, a decent administrative assistant so he could get some much-needed sleep.
He was so preoccupied with work that he didn’t notice the late hour, nor person who had silently snuck into his office.
“Find anything you like on that drive?”
Q nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Bond’s voice. When he looked up, the man was suddenly right there in front of him, sitting in his guest chair like he owned it.
“Christ, you need a bell,” Q grumbled.
“Did I scare you?” Bond asked, looking delighted at the prospect.
“If you’re going to be an arse, get out of my office.”
But Bond came round and leaned his hip against the side of Q’s desk looking carefree-as-you-please.
“You could apologise for nearly giving me a coronary,” Q said.
“Sorry,” Bond said, not at all apologetic.
That much was obvious, as he was still grinning his Cheshire-cat grin. He was also entertaining himself by poking at the takeaway container on Q’s desk, opening up to reveal the full order of noodles that he’d been too busy to touch. At the sight, Q’s stomach gave a weak growl. When he looked at the time, Q shouldn’t have been surprised.
“Late dinner?” Bond asked.
“Something like that.”
Bond sniffed.
“It’s cold.”
“It’s fine. Do you need something?”
“The drive?”
Q pulled himself out of his eighteen other trains of thought and went searching for the appropriate window on his workstation. They had opened the drive in a sandbox and disabled most of the malware before it could corrupt the data. With the decryption programme they ran, they were still attempting matching data points to make it readable for human eyes, so it was a bit of a tedious process.
“The encryption was garbage. Almost like they wanted us to have the intel.”
Bond leaned closer than necessary to see his screen, but Q allowed it. He smelled of musk and heat, overwhelmingly Alpha. Some might think he was out of his mind, letting an Alpha get so close to him, regardless of his gender. Q wouldn’t lie, but there was a little thrill in it, having an Alpha so close to him, to his neck. And he smelled good, so good that it almost put Q in a softer mood, one where he would be more willing to let Bond do as he pleased. But Q quashed his biology. So what if Bond smelled good? All Alphas smelled good. It was just another distracting side-effect of having a secondary gender to begin with, not something unique to Bond. Still, he had to fight the urge to bare his throat; thinking how often he was annoyed with Bond helped him tamper down on that biological reflex.
“And?”
“Still parsing through it now. Financial records, mostly, but not enough to incriminate anyone. At least they were clever enough to be careful in that regard... “ Q said, and then indicated a separate window of some of the recovered data. “We think we might also have an appointment book of some kind. If we’re right, it could be a very roster of associates.”
“Oh, now that’s fun,” Bond purred, his breath warm, stirring Q’s hair.
Q felt an ache of want in the pit of his belly, but he pushed it aside, with everything else.
“I’ll let you know what I find out. Still a lot of data to analyse.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it,” Bond said, but he went to the sofa instead of leaving Q’s office, like he was going to camp out there until there was more intel.
“It’s not going to get done tonight,” Q told him.
“I know,” Bond said, as he he stretched out on the couch.
Q did his very best to not watch him in the space between his monitors as all of his long, Alpha limbs claimed the available space. Q focused back on his screens, so that he didn’t think about what it would be like to be another thing that Bond claimed…
Yes, he definitely needed to get out more. Maybe call one of those numbers in the burner phone he kept at home for this very reason.
“You’re distracted,” Bond said, almost sing-song.
“You’re distracting,” Q grumbled.
“I’m not bothering you. I’m sitting quietly.”
“You’re breathing.”
Bond was up and off the couch in an instant, expression like a cat that cornered a canary.
“You’re annoyed.”
“I’m tired,” Q said, before he could stop himself.
It wasn’t a lie. He was tired, and had been for days now. But he was also restless. He wanted a good shag and a long bath and a few days to sleep it all off, but Q wasn’t about to get any of those things in the near future. Bond’s grin disappeared, turning into a frown. If Q didn’t know better, he would think Bond was actually concerned.
“You should go home, then.”
“Too much to do,” Q replied
“You’ll burn out if you keep this up.”
That was rich, coming from Bond, who had absolutely no regard for his health or personal safety. Or the health and personal safety of others, for that matter.
“Don’t you have something else you should be doing?”
The grin came back in full force.
“Annoying my Quartermaster, of course. I blocked out the time on my calendar and everything.”
Q resisted groaning, not about to give Bond what he so obviously wanted. It was a childish game, one that Q would sometimes engage in just to break up the monotony and aggravation of his stressful days. But he honestly had too much to do and not enough energy to play with MI6’s most dangerous Alpha.
“Well, you’ve done it. Bugger off early won’t you? Some of us have work to do.”
Surprisingly, Bond did as he asked, and Q took a moment to reel from the shock of it. Bond doing what he asked? It had to be a miracle. But he had no sooner gotten back to work when Bond reappeared in the doorway, a steaming mug in his hand.
Without a word, he came and set the mug down on Q’s desk, then disappeared without uttering so much as a farewell. Very strange, Q mused, as he picked up the cup. It was Earl Grey. The first sip told him it was two sugars, just a dash of cream. Just the way he liked it.
Very strange indeed.
00Q00Q00Q
A week later, Q had survived his hellish meeting with the Alpha-cock club, had most of his agents back in the country, the budget fixed for TSS, and the numbers on the firewall testing back within acceptable limits.
He also had a headache that wouldn’t quite leave him, but Q did his best to keep on. After all, there was an endless list of things to get done. And he might actually get them done with Double-Oh-Seven out of his hair.
Bond had left for a mission in Curaçao a few days prior, to do what he did best: honeypotting. Apparently one of the biggest drug cartels in the Netherlands (yes, that was correct, even Q had been shocked to hear of such a thing) had been using the island as a way to smuggle drugs from South America. The CIA had wanted the collar, because allegedly the same drug cartel was moving product into the States through Mexico, but the agency had apparently stepped on Zoetermeer’s toes, and in retaliation, the Netherlands had requested assistance from MI6. It was a rather unusual situation, but Q didn’t pay much mind to it, as it seemed like a routine enough mission that would not need his expertise or interference.
That, and the fact, that he hated when Bond went on honeypot assignments. It was hard enough to resist Bond’s assets on a normal day, but even more so after Q had been listening to him have very satisfying sex for days on end. Q wasn’t prudish, but it had been hard to look Bond in the eyes after his last honeypot, when Q had listened to the Alpha take a very willing Omega through an unexpected heat. On very lonely, cold nights, Q sometimes let himself imagine what it would have been like to be in her place.
“Jealous?” Moneypenny asked, one afternoon, when things were calm enough that Q could step away for a few minutes to have lunch with her in her office.
“Of what?”
She raised her eyebrows at Q. Moneypenny had to be one of the most discerning agents he knew, her Alpha senses even more honed than those of the Double-Ohs that he worked with. She not only had top-notch senses, but could also read people like open books, even when those people strived to be books that were locked and kept on high shelves away from others. Often, Q thought she knew his secret, but Moneypenny, properly British, never brought it up.
“Of Bond’s target.”
Q fought a blush, and stabbed at his salad with more aggression than necessary. He tried not to think of Ms. Velasquez with her sun-kissed skin, long dark hair, and appealing curves. Anyone would struggle to resist her, and Bond would certainly be doing the opposite.
“I am not jealous of anyone, especially Bond’s target. She has to be in the same room with him for more than five minutes. I pity her.”
Moneypenny grinned.
“It’s totally fine to admit. Everyone’s thought about it.”
“About what?”
“Shagging Bond.”
“I haven’t,” Q said.
Eve’s grin turned sharp.
“Liar.”
A bit of heat climbed up along his throat. Of course Eve could catch him in a lie.
“Fine,” Q conceded, “maybe once. Or twice. But I do try to be professional.”
Moneypenny shrugged.
“I shagged him,” she said, “in Macau.”
Q knew this, as did most everyone, but no one brought it up out of courtesy.
“Yes,” Q said, keeping his tone neutral.
Eve leaned across the table. Her eyes were playful, but Q knew that she could find at least fourteen ways to kill him in that moment using only the few items on her desk. Honestly, she was wasted in the office. She’d make some Double-Ohs run for their money, Bond included.
“You want to ask.”
Q did want to ask, because the porn he’d seen of Alpha/Alpha seemed too incredible to be real, but Eve was his friend and Bond was technically his subordinate, which meant that all of it was absolutely none of his business.
“It’s between you two,” Q said.
Moneypenny gave him a smile that was almost sweet. Q had no idea if it was genuine or not, but he liked the way it looked on her all the same. More friendly, less like she could kill him with her stapler.
“You’re the only one who hasn’t ever pried.”
“I’m a big believer in kissing and not telling.”
Eve laughed.
“You’re cute,” she said.
Q blushed, hurriedly looking for something to do with his hands, so he set out to cleaning up the mess from their lunches. His salad, still mostly untouched, he packed away. He’d try to eat it later, maybe, if he remembered. His appetite had been nonexistent as of late.
“You know, this is the first honeypot Bond’s done in a while,” Eve said conversationally.
Q tried to focus on getting their rubbish into the bin without making a mess, but he was watching Moneypenny out of the corner of his eye. She seemed to be focused on her nails--long, red, and sharp enough to draw blood--but then Q realised that she was actually looking at him.
“Sure,” Q replied, just as conversationally.
He honestly wasn’t sure what Eve was getting at.
“Almost like he’s...not been taking them as of late,” Moneypenny continued, “unless he had to.”
“Okay,” Q said, still very lost.
“Almost as if he...has his eyes on someone. You know, someone he might like to have a relationship with?”
“Sounds fake, but okay,” Q laughed.
James Bond, essentially MI6’s playboy, looking to settle into a serious, monogamous relationship? Q thought he’d be dead before he lived to see that day.
“Maybe not as far-fetched as you think,” Eve said, with an air of mystery.
Q blinked. It couldn’t be.
“Wait. You mean...you and Bond? In a serious thing?”
Honestly, Q hadn’t seen it coming, but if there was any power couple to be had, it would have been Moneypenny and Bond. He only felt a little jealous, for a fleeting second, at the prospect of knowing more people who had found happiness and a potential mate. But Eve’s face told a very different story. She looked as if Q had handed her something disgusting on a plate and asked her to eat it.
“What? No! Not me!”
“Oh…?” Q asked, back to where he started, not understanding.
Eve almost looked annoyed.
“For someone so smart, you’re an idiot.”
Q frowned at her obvious aggravation with him, which was very new, as they usually got on rather well. He immediately felt frustrated with the situation, like there were parts of the meta he was missing. Sort of like walking into a class thinking it was maths but discovering, fifteen minutes it, that is was actually advanced Latin.
“I love you too, Moneypants,” he said, just as Mallory came in through the door in a rush.
Excusing himself so that Moneypenny could attend to Mallory’s laundry list of needs (Eve mouthing at him that she would come find him later), Q picked up the remains of his barely-touched lunch and went back to his branch.
It was only later, while working through a particular block of difficult code, that Q wondered if Eve might have been talking about him. But just as quickly as the thought came, he dismissed it. As if someone like Bond--an Alpha like Bond--would ever look at him twice in that sort of way. Maybe once, out of curiosity, as some did, but not twice.
No one ever looked at him twice.
00Q00Q00Q
The more Q told himself he wasn’t about to start thinking about James Bond in anything other than a completely work-related capacity, the more he thought about it.
He’d entertained the thought every now and then, of course, because Bond was terribly good-looking in that traditionally Alpha way. Q wasn’t sure if it was his Omega biology or actual sexual preference, but he was drawn to men who looked like Bond: large hands, broad shoulders, that little bit of distinguished grey. And Bond did have a nice face (when Q didn’t want to punch it, of course). Lined, yes, but handsome in that rugged, experienced way that Q liked much more than he wanted to admit.
And Bond could be sweet, in his own way. Sometimes he left gifts of food and drink, other times broken equipment or bombs. Q much preferred the former, as the latter was just annoying (and sometimes dangerous) though he couldn’t truly be angry with Bond about either. It was sort of like having a cat that would either bring offerings of toys or dead things. He couldn’t berate the bad behaviour, because it might negate the good behaviour and then he’d get nothing at all.
Q sighed.
So he had a little crush. What was the harm in that? It wasn’t like anything would come of a little bit of harmless fantasising, right?
And he didn’t have the luxury of thinking too hard on it, as his work never ceased. It seemed that the moment Q thought the branch had gained some stability, another problem arose. They had suffered a major equipment malfunction mid-week when the cooling racks had failed and their servers overheated, bringing Q branch down for about four hours until they could get emergency replacements installed. They were still investigating to make sure it had truly been an accident and not sabotage (Q was leaning towards accident, what with their inability to keep the rats away from their wiring) and to make sure nothing had been stolen when they’d been offline. The PM was also asking questions about a mission from months ago that Double-Oh-Nine had botched up, and there were whispers that there might be a hearing on it if the answers weren’t to their satisfaction. On top of all of that, Q also had the task of figuring out just how he’d gotten such an insane number of bruises on his right arm and shoulder. It looked like he’d been struck by a bloody car.
At least Bond wasn’t underfoot for all of this, lounging away in some private resort in Willemstad, so Q could carry on without any distractions.
But one night, he took pity on the evening tech who had been listening to Bond shag away for three nights straight, and took over. He figured he’d monitor while catching up on some paperwork, just to make sure that Bond didn’t get shot (as he had been in the past while honeypotting, surprisingly) or do something irreparably stupid.
Long ago, Q had learned to tune out all non-mission-related noise, only focusing on the conversation when he heard things that might be useful. At least, he was that way with most of his agents, whom he didn’t possibly have a very infantismile crush on.
So, of course, Q wasn’t able to entirely miss the way Bond spoke to this woman in rolling Spanish, somehow even more suave than usual with the words all sounding like poetry. It was like being stroked slowly with silk, lulling, intoxicating. Q actually did have to work very hard to focus on the numbers in front of him.
The romantic language became sparse over dinner as they ate and drank, then took a quiet walk on the beach. Bond must have been persuasive in a way that wasn’t with words, because she started telling him all kinds of things that her husband did to her: how he used her, forced heats on her so that he could breed her. How she snuck birth control pills to keep from getting pregnant. How she wanted out but couldn’t find anyone who would help her get away.
It was rather maudlin, which is what Q said when he handed the reins back over to his tech.
“Keep an eye on this. It sounds… almost too good to be true,” Q said.
Even with all of the work he had, Q kept tabs himself, over the next week, in between his meetings and stand-ups and other tasks. It all seemed to be going in the direction they needed, Bond apparently getting closer to the true weaknesses of the cartel, all while engaging in seemingly mind-blowing sex. The woman went wild when Bond fucked her, their coupling frequent, rapid, and wet. She would utter all sorts of prayers in rapid Spanish while Bond said filthy things in her ear, all proud Alpha-things about filling her with so much seed that she would get pregnant, that she would be heavy with his pups, and that had her going wild.
For Q, it just made him...well. He wasn’t exactly sure. Restless, for certain, as Bond’s honeypot missions always made him (there was only so much moaning one could listen to before becoming affected themselves) but also...something else. Jealousy, perhaps. But at what? The coupling itself? Or the promise of children? He honestly couldn’t say.
Whatever it was, listening to Bond have at it day and night wasn’t helping.
So that night, he rewarded himself by going home a little early. Instead of giving in to his exhaustion and sleeping right away, Q washed and dressed, putting on a new scent that was just for going out, for luring someone to bed for the evening. Q wanted something new, not one of the names already in his phone, so he went out smelling of fresh citrus, a fruit ready to be picked: ripe and ready.
There was a bar not far from his flat that he sometimes frequented, and it wasn’t long before a suitable Alpha propositioned him. He was handsome--blond, broad, with big hands that looked like they could break him in half, all which sent a shivery thrill through him--though a little boring, but Q didn’t hold it against him. After all, neither of them were looking for conversation.
They went back to the Alpha’s flat and had sex with the lights off. Q preferred it that way, losing himself in the feeling of being fucked hard and fast. It hurt, a little, because there hadn’t been enough foreplay to get Q slick enough, but the pain eased into a pleasurable burn by the end of it.
Q came first, the Alpha almost immediately after, and Q had to bite into the pillow to keep quiet when the growing knot was pulled out of him before it became too engorged to remove. The sudden emptiness had Q wanting to weep, but he managed to cover it up with a forced sound of pleasure. The Alpha removed the condom, stroking himself into another, weaker orgasm that spattered across Q’s backside. In his post-orgasmic haze, Q found himself idly wished they wouldn’t have used a condom, just so he could feel a fleeting bit of warmth inside him instead of the spend cooling on his skin.
When he’d finished, the Alpha lay down on the bed next to him. They hadn’t kissed, and the Alpha did not seem intent on doing so now. There wasn’t even any of the affectionate nuzzling afterward, the bit that both Alphas and Omegas couldn’t resist after a coupling. Q wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t disappointed. He had at least hoped, after, that he’d receive a brief moment of pure, biological affection.
But his Alpha seemed ready to sleep, his body nowhere near Q’s, telling him that their brief encounter had concluded. Maybe he was like this with every Omega he picked up in a bar, looking lonely and desperate for a good fucking. Or maybe he smelled the scent beneath the fake perfume that Q had put on, the sweetness giving way to something a little sour, acidic.
Rotten.
“That was fun,” Q said, as he got up to dress.
He was still covered in the Alpha’s come. It had turned tacky on his skin, forming damp spots in his clothes as he pulled them on.
“Another time?” the Alpha asked sleepily.
Maybe he meant it, maybe he didn’t, but Q handed his burner phone over anyway.
“Sure,” Q said.
After getting the number, Q showed himself out, walking back to his own flat smelling of a rushed and unsatisfying coupling. Q supposed he felt better, less restless, for certain, but not entirely satiated.
When he arrived home, he locked his cats out of the bedroom for some privacy and went for the toy in the bottom of his dresser: a giant silicone cock with a thick knot at the base. He was already stretched out and slick, so it didn’t take much to work the dildo into him, to rock back into it until it he was at the knot that he couldn’t quite take. It bordered on painful, but he felt full, which is what he wanted.
Q let himself fantasise, despite knowing how inappropriate it was, about Bond. It wasn’t even all of him at once, just pieces: his muscled arms round him, big hands on his hips, fingers splayed out over his ribs, the press of that sharp grin of his against his shoulder, the way he said Q so softly at night when it was just the two of them. The memory of how Bond sounded when he fucked that woman also helped, the way he panted into her ear, said all of those things with his voice hoarse and breathy. What would it be like to have Bond behind him, making those sounds of pleasure in his ear? Letting out that sweet moan when he released?
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Q panted, as he came.
He lay there, for just a moment afterward, still clenching around the toy in him, pretending it was Bond, knotted, inside him. What would it be like to have his weight atop him, his heat? That feeling of utter bliss and contentment of being chosen and adored? Would he kiss him, just so, at that place where Alphas claimed their mates?
His bedroom door rattled, followed by plaintive meows, tearing Q from his vulnerable little fantasy. He realised there were tears on his cheeks and he hurriedly wiped them away.
“Oh, hush, you’re not going to die,” Q said to his feline companions on the other side of the door.
With shaking limbs, he cleaned up: took another shower, threw his clothes in the laundry, changed the sheets, put on clean pyjamas. He should have felt better, but didn’t. Instead, he felt even more disappointed. Empty. Lonely.
Q clutched at the scar across his lower belly, the reminder of what had been taken from him. Just twenty years old and in so much pain that they’d been forced to do the full job: uterus, ovaries, every bit of him that would have been able to give life. Everything that marked him as an Omega had been harvested from him, scraped out to leave nothing but hollowness behind. It wasn’t so much that he could never have children, but rather, that no Alpha would ever look at him--choose him--for a mate. And why would they? When there was nothing for Q to offer?
Gadget nudged his leg, purring, until Q leaned down to pick him up.
“You and your brother are the only ones for me,” Q said, petting him.
He went into the kitchen and ate chocolate ice cream from the carton, which helped, just a little bit, with the empty feeling. Then he went to bed and tried to sleep.
He lay there for some time in the dark, his hand outstretched into the expanse of bed beside him. The loneliness was so overwhelming that Q could almost taste it. He considered for a moment, letting his little fantasy continue: imagining Bond lying next to him in bed, soft at the edges with sleep, a smile, just so, at the corners of his mouth. But just as quickly as it came, Q chased it away, gripping at the cold sheets.
Q couldn’t imagine Bond looking at him like that, because then he’d get hopeful the next time Bond came in with his flirtatious little quips and one-liners. The truth was that Bond would never look at him that way, never lie in bed with him, never kiss him. No one would. And the sooner he stopped fantasising about someone coming to him like that--holding him, kissing him, maybe even just once saying they loved him--the sooner he could move on with his life: quietly doing his work, paying his mortgage, being the unassuming, undesirable head of Q-Branch until he died.
There were much worse things, after all, than being unloved.
But Q couldn’t think of any right at that moment, and, allowing himself a moment for self-pity in the privacy of his own home, turned his face into his pillow and cried himself to sleep.