Work Text:
Bond doesn’t do ornate, or fussy. Nor does he care a fig for the elegance of an ogee.
Yet when he beds his lover on a Spring afternoon in Marseilles, he does so in a bed that had once been carved for a king, on satin sheets that slide across their skin with the whisper of warm tongue. It’s drowsy pleasure, drunk on a languid kiss that still tastes of good scotch and too much want.
Q doesn’t do ornate, he doesn’t do fussy.
Yet when the curve of his stomach arcs taught against Bond’s belly and his thighs part wide to ease his lover inside, he stops still for a moment to savour that small sigh. It is the gentlest sound Q has ever heard James make, a sound that belies everything the world would say about this man. A sound that deserves to be moaned in a bed carved for a king, into the mouth of the lover who saved his life.
Q sucks that sigh deep into his lungs and rocks them both towards a smooth, slow oblivion. When James comes, it’s Q who is the loud one, riding hard until they are both spent.
They don’t do ornate or fussy, yet every year they will come back to Marseilles in the Spring, until they buy the bed.
