Title: Quick and Angry
Rating: M
Warnings: Explicit M/M sex. Angry sex, self-hatred. Not happy times!
A/N: Yeah… I dunno… I kind of had a hard time getting this one out. Kind of short and sweet. Well, not sweet, kind of angry and self-loathing. Don't really know where this came from.
James Bond flirted with everyone. Everyone. He was kind of like a real life Captain Jack Harkness. Man, woman, young, old, alien, house plant, it didn't matter. Q knew this. But he let his hopes get up every time those striking eyes and fitted suit waltzed into Q-branch. Every time they exchanged equipment and he felt those calloused fingertips linger.
The man was bloody gorgeous. And the bastard knew it. He caught Q staring at his arse on more than one occasion, and just smirked his smug little grin. Q would splutter and look down, and on one memorable occasion dropped his weapons prototype where it shattered on the floor into pieces around his converse-clad feet. He didn't dare look up to see the look on Bond's arrogant face.
Q reflected on these thoughts as he lay in bed, ridiculously hard, cock leaking, hand moving lightning fast and wrestling out a quick and unsatisfying orgasm. He lay spent and somehow angry at the same time, feeling his muscles relax while his gut burned. The bastard was even ruining his wanks. Somehow this had become his nightly routine of anger at Bond, aching desire, and self-hatred.
Yet there he was, the next day, pushing off projects to work on the stupid exploding pen he'd promised Bond. And why? Was he hoping he would notice him? Wishing he was the one who'd be special enough to catch his attention? Wanting to be the one to change the infamous womanizer? He knew he was kidding himself, but he couldn't seem to stop the wishful thinking or his bodily responses whenever the man came near.
He finished the pen. He kind of hated himself as he leapt to grab his mobile to text Bond. And he hated himself more as he stared at the little screen waiting for a response. Ten minutes. Ten minutes to wait around for that insufferable man, and feel bad about himself. Ten minutes until he saw Bond flirt with Sarah outside his office while he watched. Ten minutes to let his blood boil and his cock stiffen.
Bond was pleased with the pen. Very pleased. Q recognized that glint in the fierce blue eyes. The glint of the hunter closing in on his prey. The look before he descended on his mark. Before he pounced. When he turned his electric gaze on Q, he felt his pulse skyrocket and his stomach tighten. And when Bond sidled up to his side and murmured his appreciation into his ear, breath tickling and hot, Q had to close his eyes. Bond inquired about Q's evening plans, and he wanted so badly to say he couldn't. To say he was busy. But of course he stammered out his address. Then Bond left, leaving him hard and panting.
Looking through the peephole hours later, Q saw Bond's angular face and prominent ears. He let the man shift for just a moment, prolonging the inevitable and berating himself for being so weak before letting him in. Bond didn't even wait until he'd been offered a drink. He was on Q, licking against his neck, pushing him up against the wall, sliding a leg in-between his thighs. Q could only gasp against his neck and think to himself how terrible of an idea this truly was.
Q knew it would be dirty, and quick, and angry (at least on his part). And he knew Bond would not stick around and fluff his pillow, and put his arms around him, and make him tea in the morning. But he did it anyway. Because how could he not? He wanted Bond so badly that it ached, and if this is what he had to settle for, so be it.
Q let Bond slide his tongue down his neck. He let him unbutton his shirt and pull it off of him roughly. He let him push down on his shoulders until he was on his knees. When Bond pushed his trousers off his own hips and his cock sprang free, Q salivated. And when Bond's hands pulled roughly at his head Q was annoyed but opened his mouth and took in the long cock as Bond thrust greedily forward, running his tongue along the length, swallowing it down.
Bond groaned and closed his eyes beautifully, and Q felt a sort of pride spring up in his chest at the deep sound. He had caused that sound. He had caused that pleasure on his face. Bond's fingers fisted in his hair, holding him tightly as he thrust shallowly. Q hated it, hated being imprisoned while Bond used his mouth, hated how he was still mostly clothed and straining against his pants painfully. Q breathed through his nose, feeling it being pressed against Bond's belly with each thrust, feeling his throat closing on the thick cock while his eyes watered with the pressure and pain.
Abruptly, Bond pulled out of Q's mouth and Q hung there in the air, momentarily dazed. Then he was turned around and pushed against the wall, his glasses pressed awkwardly to his face, Bond shoving his pants around his ankles and pressing a slicked up finger against his arse. Q struggled to push his legs apart but was constrained by his clothing that was still partially on. As Bond pressed his fingers inside, Q growled against the wall, shutting his eyes tightly, enjoying the violation and the bruising hands holding him upright. He didn't want him to touch him long. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted to hate Bond. Like how he hated himself right now.
"Now, Bond. Fuck me now," Q ground out in a voice he hardly recognized, pushing his hips backward and then forward again, feeling the pressure on his own cock change as he pressed into the wall, and the fingers inside him wriggle and pull out.
"I knew you'd be a slut for my cock," Bond whispered darkly in Q's ear, and Q just moaned, attempting to spread his legs further but unable to. Without further pretense Bond lined his cock up and thrust into Q's tight arse, forced to go slowly due to the incredible tightness of the muscles squeezing around him. Bond bit Q's neck and shoulders as he eased in, running his hands over Q's arms and wrists, holding him against the wall. The slow slide burned and Q loved it, feeling his entire body pressed against roughly, and feeling Bond completely around him everywhere. His mind was blissfully blank except for the burning sensation of being filled by that thick cock.
Bond made it in all the way, his body molding against Q's, his breath tickling Q's cheek hotly. Bond kissed him under the chin and then sucked a bruise there as his hips began to make shallow thrusts, grinding Q into the wall. Q pushed himself backward in time with each thrust, feeling his arse rubbing against Bond, and his cock rubbing harshly against the wall. As Bond increased his speed, Q remained still, letting the rough feelings wash over him. His mind had turned into only the points of contact between their bodies, the sharp snapping of hips, the way Bond's fingers dug into his wrist, how the sweat slicked between his back and Bond's front, and the way Bond's cock filled and lifted him upward and forward.
As he scraped across the wall, he thought to himself that he deserved this. He deserved to be used, and fucked, and taken. He deserved the rough friction on his cock. That was all he would get from Bond. That was all he deserved to get. And when Bond brought his fingers forward and pressed them into his mouth with a one word command, Q sucked on them hard. His whole body was at Bond's mercy and he could feel the orgasm trembling out of him with that knowledge, feeling incredibly ragged and scraped over glass as his body convulsed and his come spilled out and dripped down his tastefully painted wall. He felt his muscles squeezing against the cock that was hammering inside of him, and he heard Bond's increased grunts and felt the contractions as the man came inside of him.
Bond fucked him hard, his hands grabbing onto Q's hips now, pulling him away from the wall slightly so he could get inside as deep as possible as he chased his orgasm. Q braced his hands against the wall, his entire body feeling raw and limp. Bond came slowly to a halt, finishing with one punctuating thrust and holding himself inside Q's body. Q squeezed his muscles just to hear Bond grunt, and he felt a weak smile play at his lips. He rested his forehead against the wall and when Bond pulled out and slapped him on the arse he stayed still, unable to move, feeling the come seeping out onto his thighs and feeling thoroughly debauched. His chest heaved as he fought to control his breathing and his emotions, knowing that his whole front was a mixture of semen and red marks, and knowing that Bond was the one who had reduced him to such a trembling mess.
Bond didn't stay long afterward. Q knew he wouldn't. As he showered alone, he ran his hands idly over the angry red marks on his wrist, and the bruise marks imprinted into his hips by those strong fingers. He wondered if he would do it again, let Bond fuck him and then leave like it was nothing. But he knew the answer to that. Of course he would. And he hated himself for it. He turned on the cold water and let it run over himself until he was numb, inside and out.