Bond/Q 'Post Op'
"Ahhhh…" Q sighs and stretches, a languid lithe lump partially comprised of sleepy hazel-coloured eyes blinking blindly at the wash of light reflecting on Bond's flat's bland taupe-painted walls, and a head full of wildly mussed dark hair, with the remainder of the naked pale length of him sprawled haphazardly down the bed. He's slightly tacky still with excess semen and there are a few faint bruises scattered about—mainly hips and throat—but on the whole, he feels rather brilliant and it shows: a daft smile greets the morning. "Ummmm…"
The form beside Q shifts and an arm snakes lightning-quick across Q's exposed belly. Bond grunts softly, rolling sideways, and draws Q's gangly limbs back against his again, making certain to entangle at least a few of them inextricably and muttering something mostly unintelligible and likely very much snarky , the growl muffled by Q's blotch-ridden neck. The movement of 007's lips is tickly, the rasp of his faint morning stubble produces a pleasantly rough sensation, grounding Q, and his eyes pop fully open. He rolls them at Bond's possessiveness. "Mmmm. You know, I don't normally do this," he chides. He doesn't means to say—excepting , oh hell, he says it: "But you're special." Straight out, this proclamation. As he abso-fucking-lutely shouldn't ought. "To me. Ah…ah!"
He doesn't, normally. Utter declarations to his lovers, as his lovers have been few and far between and mostly rubbish. Bond has proven to perfectly 'anti-rubbish' (if there even is such a term), at least in that area, most decisively, but that's still no excuse, Q is certain, for gushing like a starry-eyed fool about something as silly as what he's personally feeling.
"Oh, shit, shit, shit." Bond tenses in response, but only for a fractional moment; he relaxes immediatley, making that animal noise of satisfaction right by Q's ear again and tightening his octopus-hold upon bits of Q's being. Q blushes, a hot tide climbing up his exposed chest and shoulders, inexorably flooding his face with hot colour. "Oh, god, 007! Was that too much?" he blurts out, vastly ashamed of his own post-coital behaviour. It behooves to make amends, he knows, and instantly. 007 and he are involved, certainly, but by no means are they an 'item'. At least, not an acknowledged one. "I'm—I'm actually acting clingy—shit, sorry!" Q angles his chin away sharply and stares intently at the unremarkable watercolour gracing one wall of Bond's bedroom. Or, rather, he stares as best as he's able without his specs. As he recalls it, those were last located on the floor on Bond's side the bed and he hasn't a hope of retrieving them anytime soon; Bond weighs a tonne, what with all that muscle mass. "Sorry, sorry," he gasps before clamping his lips shut upon any further idiocies that might emerge from his unruly tongue. 'That was stupid."
"Q," Bond rouses himself finally to employ the Queen's English. "Q, shut it. 'M'sleeping. Sleep. It's a lie-in. Have one."
"No. This. This 'having a lie-in', it's all stupid." Without his specs his vision is more than little bit blurry. "It's—it's not what I ever do!" Q thrashes about inelegantly, gripping art his bedmate blindly, feeling driven to explain—to excuse. "Sheer indulgence." He blinks again after having allowed sufficient polite time for his bedmate to reply, perhaps to agree wholeheartedly with Q's summation; Bond doesn't. Doesn't even crack one blue eye open; he may as well be the lump Q was upon first awakening. "Oi!" Q sniffs, abruptly miffed. "You could bother yourself to answer me, 007." His lover can be stubbornly silent at times and Q is none too happy to be experiencing an emotional break of sorts in a vacuum. "All I'm saying is." He takes a deep breath, resolved, and glares across the shared pillow at Bond's half-hidden profile. "It's a bit of a waste, don't you think? Of a morning."
"Waste what?" Bond at last deigns to lift his chin minutely and breathes into Q's ear, a treacle dark rumble of amusement. "Our precious time? A decent cuddle? Where's the waste, Q? I must confess I don't see it."
"Yes, that," Q replies, but meditatively. Calm is seeping back into his veins now that Bond's deigned to talk to him; he's not sleepy again but he could be, if allowed—which is the inherent problem. "It's time. My time, yours. Follow?" He twitches fretfully when Bond rears up suddenly, throwing more than half the weight of his well-defined and quite solid torso over top of Q's narrower chest, effectively pinning him into the mattress. "Oof! Stop that," he begs, arching his spine against the unexpected pressure. "It's not as though I'm going anywhere anyway, James. You needn't trap me."
"No," Bond smirks—or rather, Q knows he's smirking; he just can't see it, what with Bond busily tucking his head under Q's elevated chin. The brush of stubble against Q's sensitive skin continue to be incredibly pleasant. Q sighs inaudibly at his own sheer folly. "You're not, are you."
That's not a question at all but more of a statement, as if Bond is the current director of the universe and therefore in charge of every foreseeable move Q might make, now and later, in bed and out. Thus, has already decided that Q is his well-deserved captive, actually, and thereby will stay put until Bond allows it to go otherwise. Q grits his back teeth together at the realization. "And I'm not trapping anything—nor any one—who doesn't see fit to be present in the first place…Q."
For a long moment a silence falls between them. Q watches Bond's blond-grey pelt as if it might suddenly decide to reveal the secrets of this particular, peculiar universe; it does not. Instead the weight of 007's bulk eases almost imperceptibly until it transforms to a thing of ease, of comfort. He sighs yet again, resigned.
"Tea, though," Q remarks, a moment later, having endured the nibbling to his nape with what he believes is a great lot of fucking sangfroid. He prides himself for it, his carefully garnered composure. "Would be spot on, right about now." He slides his gaze to regard Bond with some little amount of cautious hope. If Q is to be Bond's prisoner du jour, perhaps he'll be so courteous as to treat him properly? "Tea, and perhaps toast. Wheat, if you have it." For it seems he's bloody starving; they've been shagging all night and when not shagging, dozing, and before that it had been art least a full twenty-four hours since Q's last meal. "And maybe the loo. You've left me rather a mess, 007. I feel filthy."
"No wheat, Italian," Bond patiently advises him between additional nibbles. "Nothing laid in; I've not been here in weeks, remember?" Very distracting, they are, those teeth, scraping; Q shudders. "But, by all means," his lover adds kindly, "go and make yourself some, whelp." His parted lips brush teasingly over Q's chin, just tasting the remnants of their last, most recent snog, all the smears dried upon Q's skin along with the faintest sheen of perspiration and ejaculate. The feel leaves Q with a lingering urge to scrub a fist across his own mouth, an act he can't manage, as Bond is a thorough arse and hasn't allowed Q the use of his own hands. "If you want it so badly," Bond says, voice rising slightly over Q's inarticulate grumble. "Which you don't," he smiles, pressing a hot thigh against Q's firming cock, "really. And no—I don't think I can, sorry. The wheat it is, Q. If that's what you desire."
"I hardly can, can I? You don't have it." Q purses his lips, and thinks about putting them to better use by pouting, but it's far too late for that puerile tactic as Bond already has taken them again, and exactly as he likes: contained by heated pressure. "Mmphh! Bond!"
"Whinger," Bond observes, withdrawing slightly. One of his many hands squeezes at Q's dick, firming it further by contact. "You should be properly knackered, you know? Not craving toast." Bond has the temerity to observe when he's finally let Q have his tongue back. "Not tea, either, nor the lav. I thought you admitted I'd quite wrung you dry, earlier? In the shower. You claimed you weren't planning on so much as twitching a finger for centuries. What happened with that, Q?"
"I, ah," Q gulps, abruptly recalling his rather sweeping statement of but an hour previous. It is true; he was rendered brilliantly boneless and complacent at the time. It appears his idiot admissions of his state are now catching up to him with a vengeance. "Bond, erm…? Uh."
"Not like you, Quartermaster." 007 props himself up on his elbows and stares down at Q's features, individually examining them and making a great deal of making it obvious he's doing so. Satisfaction glints in the startling blue of his eyes as he observes the cherried condition of Q's lips, the palest shade of the flush gracing Q's cheekbones, the general air of his Quartermaster's willingness to carry on with whatever 007 had in mind, particularly if it was prurient, judged purely on basis of a set of raised nipples and a stretch of goosepimpling skin.
"Did you forget already?" Bond asks of Q, ever so innocently. "Huh. I shall be forced to remind you, then. Toast!" he scoffs, the intriguing wrinkles at the corners of his eyes increasing as presents Q with a highly disarming smile. "Over shagging? I think not, Q. Let's work on those priorities of yours, shall we?"
"Yes, please. Do attend to thos—oh!" Q sighs his willing resignation, all thoughts of tea-and-toast fleeing as Bond sets his agile tongue against one peaked nipple and presses down, quite hard. Q's nipples are nearly as sensitive as his leaky slit; he arches his back into it and feels the instant run of heat rising up all down his shivering flesh. "Do. D-Do your worst, 007," he stutters, barely coherent. "Oh, p-please demonstrate. Salutary l-lesson—ah, yeah? That! There-there-there, yessss-oh!"
"Maybe," 007 teases, suddenly ceasing his pernicious attentions. "I will. Or…mayhap…not. You've not been very cooperative this morning, dearest."
What? He wasn't! Q thinks furiously. Oh—wait. Perhaps he was, a bit.
"There you are," Bond responds to whatever it si Q is positive is written all across his unguarded face, which is likely any number of things, many conflicting: shame, desire, lust, love—yearning? "Good boy."
Q squeaks—a tiny gasping noise, barely audible—when Bond grins at him a little more widely than before, relenting, and licks first the one nipple and then the other as if they were the most delicious things on the planet. "Oh, god! God, James—that!" His jaw falls slack when Bond continues on down the subtle indent driving into his ribcage, licking hot and wet and strong, and all the while smiling secretively. "Oh, yes, that, please that, oh—ah!" Q knows, intellectually, that Bond is taking a great deal of pleasure in his none-too-gradual descent into general mindlessness but he really doesn't mind it, much—oh, not so much, not at all!
"Oh, please," he croons, irritation and famishment long since fled, and grasps desperately at Bond's short blond-grey hairs and then his wonderfully sticking-out ears when Bond pauses overlong at Q's navel. "Please. Don't. Stop." If Q were to ever master mind-control techniques, he is absolutely certain that 007 would be his first—and possibly sole—target. "That."
"Hmm," Bond says, lifting his head to meet Q's gaze. Q's lashes tangle together as he blinks, the puzzlement he's feeling over Bond's abrupt cease-fire apparent. "But that's not the target, Q."
"Wh—what?"
"I thought it was obvious. Q."
Bond's expression is alarmingly bland, yes, but that doesn't hide that fucking irritating twinkle, the one he always seems to be sporting whenever he and Q spend any amount of decent time in one another's company.
"What's obvious?" Q, sadly, isn't able to muster up much a glare to give him in return, so he contents himself with mindless repetition.
"What, then?" he pleads when Bond remains stubbornly obdurate, apparently waiting for Q to twig it. "You're meant to be fucking me, 007! Get on with it!" Or perhaps it would be better to call what's he's doing as a sort of flat-out whinging, as a child would do, denied a treat. "Go on, finish what you've started!" Q thinks it's rather clear he'd thought the goal was to get off in a mutually pleasing manner; he's not the child here, nor is Bond, supposedly. But…on the other hand, as Q is well aware, Bond is a past master at foreplay, after all. "Why're you even stopping?"
"I'm not," Bond grins and employs his bloody strong forearms to lift himself completely off Q's tensed figure. He hangs in the air for a second, hovering over Q like some sort of great raptor. His gaze, however, is warm indeed; Q can't help but grin stupidly up at it. "Just taking it slowly, that's all. You deserve a little rest, some pampering, Q. I mean you to have it."
It's the great ramping down of him that really finalizes Q's doom; when all of Q is covered over, literally overtaken by 007, well, that's it, then. He's the one whose toast here, in this current circumstance, and he may as well go along with Bond's whim-of-the-moment, no matter how illogical or incomprehensible.
"Oh, James," Q hums, fluttering his lashes quite deliberately. As this is a game they often play, the two of them, and immensely enjoyable. "James…"
"That's it."
"My James."
"The very one."
"Right, then. Fuck me," Q continues, narrow of eye and quite determined to make it very clear to his tormentor. "Fuck me, take me, up my fucking arse; make me yours—shag the bloody sh—"
"Oh, gladly."
Still…it's not so bad. Q muses, an inchoate amount of time and activity having passed and Bond dead asleep again, the great git.
Well. Right, then. Q can't bring himself to honestly admit he's actually irate with the situation. Indeed, he feels as if he is learning something very useful, if not exactly those much-desired but largely mythical mind-control techniques, and Bond appears to be happy enough to go about the proper tutoring of him. For morning cuddles are not so easy, not most times. Not for Q, accustomed as he is to engineering a great deal of damage whilst still clad in his ratty and very elderly pajamas, but James is proving rather enormously helpful, settling Q into this new groove. Surprisingly so, for a self-admitted killing machine, dedicated solely to Q & C.
Or not, either, for a gentleman who proudly displays a battered china bulldog on his bedside table. The man's a creampuff, apparently. And Q is the lucky recipient of all that sweet, smarmy goodness. It may be highly saccharine but it's also highly efficient.
All in all, Q concludes, just before he, too, dozes off, smeared with yet more drying bodily fluids, he and Bond have achieved a very successful approach to tackling the pesky (and sometimes highly self-destructive) aftermaths of their individual post-operations debriefings.
Further, M approves, at least tacitly. Nothing else can quite explain adequately Q's sudden increase of 'Special Tours' on his work ledger, can it? Although they are labeled—rather incredibly deceptively, Q sneers, snidely, considering these days, nights and mornings amount to naught more than a grandiose accumulation of his own 'personal hols'—as 'Post-Op'.
Really! It's a bit much to swallow, how the people's hard-earned taxes are accounted for, but it's surely an improvement over Q's continually having to replace 007's standard kit, isn't it.