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He slides palms damp with sweat up the lean arch of thigh presented before him.
“Don’t,” the low growl of Bond’s voice is warning, “do that.” Ah. Memories, then. Q sits back on his heels and smiles primly.
“I have a present for you, 007. The newest thing I’ve whipped up; I thought I’d test it out on you first,” he says. Bond’s lips twitch as well, eyes sharp as Q reaches into his trouser pocket to retrieve the tiny box. It’s difficult; the box is small and flat, and his trousers are mounded, rucked up around his thighs to spread across his lap as he kneels before the chair. They’re tented around his erection, but he doesn’t particularly care to hide it. Bond knows why they’re here—he’s a clever man—and if he hadn’t, he’d find out soon enough. The tiny hinges lift effortlessly, the care he’s put into something so simple is vital. There’s even a tiny biometric combination dial, but only because some modicum of security must needs be present, if only to save Bond embarrassment down the line. It’s dual-coded—not the most secure thing in the world, but it’s just a fluffy bit of jewelry, after all—to his little finger and Bond’s left primary, and he watches his face as he strokes across the little box in what must look like a random pattern.
Inside is a ring, weighted steel. There’s a slender baton beside it, as well as a tiny metal screw. Bond tips his head. “I can’t believe you of all people would have a hole in his cock,” Q says, tracing the sleek line of the jewelry with reverent fingertips.
“It’s called a Prince Albert,” Bond says, his voice teasingly haughty.
“Do you really use it to pin it to the inside of your trousers?” Q asks, reaching to undo the flies before him. Bond’s hands on his own still him, and he looks up at the man. “How wonderfully old-fashioned.”
“I use it to frig my cock and think of you.” Bond’s eyes are piercing, and for a moment it’s like the breath has been knocked from his lungs; when he returns to earth, Bond has opened his trousers and sits peaceful, his cock fat and flushed in an easy grip. A silver ring glints sharp from its head, sudden and striking where it plunges into the frenulum. Bond winks at him and he realizes he’s staring, mouth open and wet and hungry.
“I did opt not to tie you up because I thought it a kindness. Shall I rethink that opinion, 007?” Q asks, busying himself with lifting the bits of metal from the box. “No? Then hands behind your arse before I change my mind, sir.”
Bond obediently tucks his hands behind himself as Q leans forward, slender fingers dancing lightly across his skin as he compares the current jewelry to the ring he’s brought. “This may take some getting used to, 007. You’ll find it has significantly more heft than what you’re used to; do you penetrate yourself?”
“Fingers in the arse?” Bond asks brusquely, voice heavy and dark.
“Nothing so common,” Q says. “Do you tickle this lovely pink thing? Sounding, my man. Do you fuck your cock?”
It’s Bond’s turn to go starry-eyed as he leans back in the chair. “No. I—no.”
“Pity. Lovely thick thing like this seems to be just begging for a round with my Hegars,” Q comments idly, lashes fluttering against his cheek as he sucks at his lip in memory. “What fun.”
When he looks back up, Bond’s pupils are wide. He looks half-drugged; Q would half suspect head trauma. “Get on with it, man,” Bond growls, and Q’s lips quirk.
“In due time. One can’t rush things, you know. And some things are more fun when taken,” he pauses, huffing hot breath over the head of the cock in his hand, “slow.”
“You’ll find I don’t beg under torture, if that’s what you’re looking for,” Bond says.
“Oh, no, Mr. Bond. I don’t expect you to beg,” Q tells him. He’s found the little ball that holds his ring together, and as he speaks he twirls it looser and looser until it falls into his waiting palm. As he works the metal loop back through the flesh of Bond’s cock, a thick drop of precome pushes through the hole in his frenulum. Q’s tongue darts out, quick as anything, and it’s gone; Bond is groaning in his chair. “I expect you to come. Harder than ever in your life, so that the next time you’re touching this gorgeous thing, it’s me you’re thinking of. My hands, my mouth, my tongue. Until I find you at my doorstep again, waiting—waiting for whatever I want to do to you next. And then we’ll really play.”
“Christ,” Bond grunts, and more precome drips across Q’s fingers where they hold him.
“You’re getting messy,” Q says disapprovingly. “Clean it up.” He lifts his hand to Bond’s face, watching patiently as he wraps his lips around the fingers to suck them clean. When they are, when breath is heaving in Q’s narrow chest and he knows precisely what this man’s tongue on his cock will feel like, he draws back, lifting the baton from the box between them. “Do you know where this goes?”
“I’ve some idea,” Bond says wryly.
“I’m going to stuff it up your cock head,” Q says anyway. “And then screw it in. This might hurt a little.”
“You’ll find I’m no stranger to pain,” Bond says, and Q laughs. It’s incongruous, off-putting in the silence of the bunker that’s only broken by their rasping breaths. Q snaps on vinyl gloves, his fingers plastic and alien now as he lifts Bond’s cock, carefully dripping lubricant into the slit.
“One can never be too careful, of course. It isn’t done to give one’s partner an intimate infection,” Q says cautiously. The gel is thick with cold; where his flesh heats it, it runs down his skin to pool in his pubic hair. Q is generous; he’s faintly gleaming by the time he’s satisfied enough to sit back and admire his work. Then he’s lifting the baton, fitting the pointed end inside the slit just so, and watching as the weight of the metal ball at the end slowly drives the silver deep. He’s struck with awe, again, at how much a man can take; Bond’s straining in his chair to keep still, his knuckles white where they grip the seat. “Do you like it?” Q asks, curious.
Bond whimpers. Actually whimpers, and a smile grows across Q’s face. He tweaks the ball between his thumb and forefinger, twisting slowly to listen to the sounds he draws. The wood of the chair creaks; he tastes metal and skin and salt and chlorine when he licks across where the jewelry sits. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, sounding anything but. “That’s not best practice; it’s not sanitary. I couldn’t help it, though—your hole is so flushed and pink. Kissable.” He draws the baton out again, watching through slitted eyes as it sinks in. Bond gasps, air rattling in his chest. “Can I—?” he asks, already sliding the pin from Bond’s cock to suck him deep inside his mouth.
He’s thick, stretching Q’s lips just so. It’s lovely, all this flesh beneath him, trying hard to keep from gripping his hair and fucking his mouth. He takes his time, lingering at the little hole in that taut, stretched triangle of skin, enjoying the bitter tang of precome. When he finally brings himself to open his eyes, Bond is stretched out above him, head thrown back. He wants this man, wants those huge hands on him and this lovely, gorgeous thick cock inside him. He sucks gently at the rim, kissing almost daintily across it until he sits back. His trousers hurt, fabric stretched enough to be painful, folds cutting into his thighs. When he pops the button, the sound is startling, tense, as if the little piece of plastic were near to snapping. Bond’s head snaps up and he stares.
“I want you to fuck me,” Q explains, breathless. The rasp of his zipper is loud between them, and he thinks perhaps Bond doesn’t want this, doesn’t want him. He’s got a reputation as a ladykiller, a reputation he’s rapidly shedding as he nods once, sharp, and follows Q down to the floor. His cardigan is going to pill on the back from friction, but he doesn’t care as Bond presses him into the concrete with his body, already pulling just this side of too rough on his cock and swallowing his embarrassing noises with his mouth. Q whines and Bond just smiles, taunting.
“What happened to slow?” Bond asks, and Q rolls his eyes.
“That was before you were going to stick your cock in me. Now I quite fancy haste.”
“Then you’ll have it,” Bond tells him, teeth bright and keen. “Do you have a condom?”
Q blinks at him. “Of course.”
“Of course,” Bond repeats, leering a bit. “Probably after the first time we met, right? Quartermaster’s always prepared for any possibility.”
“Inevitability,” Q corrects him, smiling, “The moment I saw you I knew I’d have you here someday.”
“Really. Did you wank over me? Stick those pretty little hands into your trousers so tight it’s like they’re painted on? Did you bring yourself off imagining my cock?” Bond asks.
“Oh, all that and more. Here,” he says, offering the thin foil wrapper he’s managed to fish from his pocket. “Get it on and shut up.”
“Bossy,” is all Bond says as he tears the wrapper, slicking the thin sheath over his cock. “Where’s the lube you were using on me earlier?”
“Don’t need it,” Q says breathlessly. “Condom’s lubricated.”
“And if you were a woman, that might be enough,” Bond tells him firmly.
“Don’t. Need. It,” Q insists. “I fingered myself before you showed up.”
Bond’s grin is instant, manic. “More inevitabilities?”
“More like uncontrollable factors. I got…excited. Imagining stuffing things into your cock. If I hadn’t, I’d have soiled my trousers by now.”
“This is you with the edge off?” Bond asks, gesturing to the fine arch of Q’s spine and the squirm of his hips against the floor. “Christ almighty.”
“This is me about to go find another toy to play with if you don’t shut up and get in me, 00,” Q warns, breath hitching as Bond draws his trousers down.
“Impatient,” Bond tuts, slapping a restless thigh. “On your front.”
“I rather think not,” Q replies, coming off of the floor to sit, knees up and wide. His socks cling to narrow, hairy calves, and Bond takes one in each hand to press them wider. Q’s cock is flushed between them, thinner than Bond but long, leaning slightly as it tries to stand lust-drunk.
“Pretty thing.” Bond has him on his back again, legs like butterflies’ wings as he covers Q’s thin body with his own. He lines himself up; there’s a glimmer of lubricant around his hole that makes Bond’s head dizzy. He pushes in.
The sound Q makes is unholy. It sounds like he’s dying, like his whole life is Bond’s cock now; and that’s not far from the truth. Q writhes beneath him like a snake, legs twining around his thighs to bring him close and cling. Bond is solid above him, thick and strong and warm muscle surging as he fucks into his body, and Q can barely do more than gasp open-mouthed against his chest. Bond laughs breathless; fucks harder; grinds his hips into the slender vee of Q’s spread legs until Q makes a quiet, choking sound like he’s swallowed his own tongue and comes between them, hot and sudden and wet. Behind his glasses, Q’s eyes are owlish and dazed as Bond fucks him through it, chuckling at the weak, scrabbling grip of Q’s hands as he tries to push him away in his overstimulation. He’s overhot, sweat stinging his eyes and curls mussed and sticky, but Bond pushes into his slick, open body until his head is swimming with Bond’s musk, his aftershave, the faint odor of sweat-damp wool that clings to him. He rides Q until he’s done, and that’s hotter than anything: lying beneath him, fucked-out and blissful as Bond takes what he wants. Bond bites his knee where it’s over his shoulder now, two rows of tooth-shaped bruises as he comes inside.
Gathering his strength, Q tips them over, pinching the condom shut as he peels it off. Bond’s cock is limp now, lying placid against the tails of his shirt and leaking. Q grins and laps delicately at it, ducking to avoid Bond’s hands as they try to push him away. “Fucking teenagers,” Bond complains.
“Thirty-two,” Q corrects, then carefully lifts Bond’s spent flesh to suck it clean. Bond lies there as he applies more lubricant; the baton slides easily now that the flesh is no longer engorged. It’s a matter of moments before he’s trussed up in metal, the hollow rod in his cock secured by pin and hoop and glittering. “Lovely,” Q sighs. “I expect you to be wearing it next time.”