Bond/Q for treacle_tartlet 'Bloody Big Ship'
Q's feeling dangerous, in the way that one feels omnipotent after a fantastic rush, in the manner one revels in one's own brilliancy after a near-miss, or a great victory, or a coupe pulled off perfectly. And there's this one bloke to blame for it, so Q rolls over the rumpled tangle of bedding and bites him.
Fondly.
"Bloody old battleship," he teases. "You didn't say you were still fully commissioned, Bond."
The broad bare chest beneath his cheek shivers slightly when Q lays his head comfortably upon it, rumbling with a subterranean chuckle.
"That was damned impressive, I must admit." Q licks his swollen lips, aware he's perilously near to drooling all over Bond's dark button of a nipple. He resists the urge to casually suck at it, but it's a close thing. "For an old dog."
"And you didn't say you were trigger-happy, Quartermaster," Bond replies, ruffling a lazy hand through Q's hair, stroking him as if Q were naught more than a stray cat. Q has the curious urge to purr, though. "I admire your youthful vigour. Tell me, how soon can you manage that again?"
"But it's only because it's you, Bond," Q blurts out, ignoring Bond's query into his recovery period completely—and oh god, is he actually admitting this aloud? And to Bond? "Just like your gun, I'm keyed to you."
Yes, apparently he is, and that's a very bad place to go, really. Q shudders at his own idiocy even while his lips move. "To your touch—only to yours."
"…Oh," Bond remarks, and for instant the warm and steady rise and fall of chest beneath Q's cheekbone ceases to move; Bond stills completely, even to the trickle of fingertips caressing Q's super-sensitive scalp.
Q scrunches up his nose, draws his dark brows together and scowls at his own stupidity, instinctively burrowing his face into Bond's skin, and curling his lanky length over and across Bond's body, tucking into a tight foetal ball of misery.
Now he's gone and torn it. Sticking his own damned foot in his own damned mouth, Q thinks, inwardly choking on the panicky bubble rising up his throat. Now it'll end, and he's only just begun to get accustomed.
"Damn!" he whispers, feeling incredibly pathetic, and hopes Bond doesn't hear. "I'm so stupid!"
It's been a very long while in the making, this encounter, this particular afterglow. Months of prickly awareness at Q's nape whenever he sees Bond at HQ, weeks on end of speculating over whether the glances Bond bestows upon him are significant—or not. And Q all through, teetering on the edge of simply leaping into and grabbing at what surely must be a chance at a shag of a lifetime, but what will also likely be his own Waterloo. As Bond will likely shag Q, oh, yes, but a shag is not an instant ticket to Bond's heart, either.
Q knows Bond has a heart, of course; it's of a certainty. No one who would go to the lengths Bond had gone for old M could continue in Q's view as being reduced to a simple killing machine, a soulless agent provocateur. Maybe on paper, or perhaps going solely by the numbers, a silly-arse fool could be misled into believing 007 had outlived his purpose, that he'd had become as redundant as that great whopping hunk of metal they'd both viewed, oh so long ago, the great ship being towed away to a dreadfully mundane end in the painted rays of a glorious sunset. Q was never a fool, though, and he absolutely never was so naïve as to rely only on the obvious programming.
Months on end, then, of interaction between he and Bond, and every passing encounter all spiced with a heady rush of want and lust on Q's part and the growing possibility his untoward desiring of a co-worker was not unrequited. Which inevitably, logically led to sticky, furtive spit-soaked hand-to-cock action. And resulted in Q wanking both furiously and fiercely triumphant at the bitter end of every 007 mission, usually in the lavatory of his very own Q Department, just because he couldn't manage to belt up and hold it back till he was returned to the privacy of his flat. This, this cascading of pure want and stabbing yearning, and soon enough it was happening every single bloody time, clockwork after Bond returned for his usual ritual of debrief, casually dropping off the bits-and-pieces of whatever Q equipped him with, going out.
Q groans, defeated. It's been building up, it has, this nebulous but fiery feeling within him, the same emotion that seems to permeates his very bones when he sees Bond, or even thinks of him, and now its endangered. So precarious, this little ball of warm fuzzy hope Q's been secretly hoarding, quietly nurturing, and now it's sure to be shattered.
"Oh, gawd, I'm so sorry," he mutters into Bond's skin, and notes in passing that Bond's breathing normally again, though the heart thudding loudly into Q's flattened ear might've picked up its pace a bit. Q blinks back some unwanted moisture gathering on his lashes. "Stupid of me; that was so stupid." Of course Bond's pulse has sped up; no doubt he's anticipating his own flight in just a moment, and is busy thinking up polite methods of extracting his very fit person from the clutches of a suddenly too-clingy Quartermaster. "Forget I said that, will you please? Bond? Just delete it—I never meant to."
Q hadn't, really.
"Heh," Q hears, or perhaps it's more he feels it, the drawl of Bond's voice. "Not even remotely, Q."
"Er, what?" Startled, Q jerks his flushed face out of Bond's sweaty armpit, where he'd tucked it, and stares into the electric blue gaze of the virile specimen who only moments before has gone and fucked Q straight into the land of tattling, chattering idiocy. "What's that, Bond? What're you saying?"
"There you are."
It is absolutely improbable that Bond is smiling at Q; no, Bond's actually grinning at him, as if Q had just handed over to the craggy, sexy, perniciously devastating old fart one of Q's own 'special' inventions, the sort he designs and builds when it's too late to be early and too quiet in the fastnesses of Q Branch to endure his own thoughts any more. So, say a pair of 'Q-improved' jet boots, or a perhaps a wafer-thin music player that doubles as a safe-cracking device instead of Q's heart, which is a soppy, sad piece of work, and something Bond cannot possibly ever dream of wanting. "There you are," Bond says again, and the hand still entangled in Q's hair slips to the base of his neck and compels Q down and forward. "Now, come here. Idiot boy."
"Gah?" Q is fairly positive his brain actually shatters. The tongue slinking round his own struck-still one is swift and sure, and a gaped-lipped mouth, strong and elastic seals off all hope of any oxygen leaking through and jump-starting Q's frozen mind. "Umm…"
"Like this, shift over," Bond orders Q, and Q finds himself scrambling atop Bond's spread thighs, and nearly toppling into an ungainly heap off them when he loses his balance because his head's spinning too fast for any sort of actual cognitive function to occur. "That's it. Right there; good boy."
One strong firm thrust and Q's arsehole is breached once more, and it's still slick with Bond's leftovers from the first time.
"Wha-what? I d-don't!" Q stutters, stupefied. "Gnnnghargh!" he adds when the prick invading him slots right up against his prostate. "M-Melting!" Q yelps, and gives up on all thoughts of lingering shame, and useless pointless fear of sudden abandonment, and even the filthy tatters of his own pride. "Oh, please, yes, Bond! Fuck me!"
Dangerous, what? Being the desired dish for an old lion, becoming the tasty morsel the lion happens to want next to devour. Dangerously empowering, rather: Q's desirable. Nonetheless?
"Bond? Arrgh, Bond!" Q exclaims, breathless, wincing slightly as Bond's hands grip at Q at hip and shoulder and bear him down just as Bond's pelvis rises up. "Hah-Haha-haa! Bond! What are you even—?"
"Bit obvious, isn't it?" Bond bites out, between exhilarating plunges in and out of Q's fluttering, intensely and acutely Bond-attuned arsehole. "Takes two," he goes on, putting his back into it. "To. Tango, Q."
"Oh, god, oh! R-Rather!" Q babbles, having absolutely no idea of what he's saying, but saying it anyway. "I wasn't—ah! I wasn't mistaken, then?"
"Not. At. All."
Christ, but Bond's a smarmy git when he wants to be, and arrogant as fuckall, but he's admitting things that Q would've given not only his eyeteeth but his own private laptop to learn of, months ago.
"I!" Q gasps, quite overcome. "I hate you!"
Because Q's happy; suddenly he's so fucking ecstatic and pleased with the world and everyone in it, and Q himself has just risen in his own estimation from the depths of just-manked-it-all up black despair to the elevated sun-gilded reaches of a young and powerful demi-god.
"And—and! I do love you, I so love you," he whimpers, when Bond rolls them both over, just like that, deftly containing the flail of Q's wildly jerking legs and somehow managing to not only keep his cock up Q's bum but also to continue on pumping out-in, in-out, like bloody fucking magic. "Oh, fuck me for a lark, but how I love you, Bond! Kill me now!"
"Not hardly," Bond mutters darkly, a dire grimness fleeting across his face; the grimace appearing for an nth of a moment and then just as soon gone away again. "Unless it's by shagging you to death, Q. Now shut your trap and let me have at you."
"But…oh, Bond!" Even Q's mental absorption rate is barely adequate to handle processing the changes in his own highly compromised emotional circumstances. "You already do. You have me—you've had me, ages ago. Didn't you—d-didn't you realize?"
"Yes, but shh! Hell, Q, just be quiet," Bond growls. "Can you even do that? Now's not exactly the moment."
"But you do, you do," Q whines fretfully, writhing under Bond's hands, his nipping teeth, his great fucking rod of a cock reaming. "What you do to me, Bond! It's illegal!"
Fortunately, Q's body has a much better grip on events than his dizzy mind does—or his unguarded tongue. He tilts his hips and spreads his knees as far apart as they can go, not even questioning instinct, and opens himself up to his unlikely lover as wide as he can possible manage. The results are immediate—a canny Bond presses his new and greater physical advantage—and starkly sensual. Q moans, blinking stray curls of dampish hair out of his eyelashes, the better to watch as Bond fucks him into eternity. The better to appreciate.
"Oh, you so do…ack!" Q still has to say, because he's a stubborn little wanker, and it bears repeating. "Hhhngh!"
"That's better," Bond grunts, and kisses Q hard, grinding down and rotating his hips as he goes, till Q feels as though he's both floating and also utterly flattened into the mattress—a wonky state he finds he's loving, profoundly. "And shut it, I said. You talk too damned much, Quartermaster."
"—'Kay!" Q nods frantically. "Yes, please. Yes! Fuck!"
"Good boy. Oh, very good."
Q could care less about Bond's possible patronizing. It probably was nothing of the sort anyway, that little smirk, in passing—Bond's got a healthy respect for Q now—and besides that, Q feels he's all become one great throb, the whole of his existence transformed into one giant clench-and-release of matter and muscle, vein and tendon, packed to bursting with want and love, lust and need, structured 'round a shaky framework of bone and cartilage.
It's fantastic, it's brilliant, it is actually endless, a boundless sea. However, in a matter of real time elapsing, sloppy seconds sex with Bond requires very little from start to finish. At least for Q.
"Bond, Bond, B-Bond!" Q begins to chant, when his bollocks are so full he imagines woozily they're fit to bursting, and the pressure growing in leaps and bounds in his shaken-not stirred, courtesy 007, innards and arse reaches a nearly unbearable proportion. Q's gone nuclear; he knows it. "Please, please, plea—ahh!"
Through the haze and white-hot heat of his own cock practically exploding, spattering ejaculate all up his perspiring chest and even to the arch of his throat as he arches and screams, Q hears Bond panting. He reverberates to the thud-thud-thud of Bond's pulse and the flex and strain of his lover's legs and arms and heaving chest, scrambling round and above him. And Q feels Bond's amazing dick, rammed so far up Q's arse he could swear the salty goo leaking from the tip clogs up his hastily swallowing gullet.
It strikes Q that if he could but take Bond into himself in every possible way, with every orifice, even his pores, he'd die a happy man. Happier still if he could but keep Bond there, lodged inside him.
Bond comes with a shout, an inarticulate roar. It's wonderful. Purely awe-inspiring, and Q subsides into a formless, boneless heap of mute-struck, completely spent human male, content to be crushed by one arm against Bond's sweaty rib cage and held fast there, perhaps indefinitely.
He's got his nose burrowed back into the whiffy, hairy dark of Bond's armpit when Bond at last stirs.
"Right, then." Bond sounds entirely too sensible; Q flinches. "That's good, but there's more." For all that's just gone on before, for all the too-kind words Bond has just said to Q, it was probably only exactly what 007 does when stuck with people who insist on confessing passionately to him. "We should talk, I think."
"Oh, no," Q whispers. "Not yet, just not just yet. Please—a moment more?"
Q can't bear it to end, for all his hopes to fly away free, and having just had Bond doesn't help the situation, not a bit of it. It's too sad, all of it. Sad!
"I'm just…I'm just savouring it, that's all," he pleads on, miserably, making sure to keep his head down, to not look up and be forced to confront a 007 already moved on. "The moment. And I didn't mean it, not a word, I swear to you—"
"Bloody little fool!" Bond exclaims, and Q is hauled summarily up and over Bond's torso once more, and his stubbornly ducking chin is caught up between two hard fingers and a thumbprint Q's actually manage to memorize, some time back. "You're not much for listening, either, are you? All talk, talk, talk."
Q gapes. He tries not to, naturally enough, but he fails, even so. "Huh?"
"This." Bond ably balances Q across his hips by virtue of bringing up his kneecaps and clamping them hard into Q's waist. He jabs an accusing fingertip first at himself and then toward Q, the press of it landing dead centre of Q's chest, right at heart level. "Is a mutual thing. Do you understand that, Q? Must I repeat myself endlessly? You're not at all thick, pet."
"What?"
"Bloody hell," Bond groans, rolling his eyes at Q's dumbfounded state in a very speaking manner. "Maybe you are, when it comes down to some things."
"…Meh? Me?"
"Well," Bond shrugs, handing Q a little pinch to his shaking thigh. "At least I can look forward to convincing you; there is that."
"Ngh?"
"And." And here the cantankerous old sod, the gorgeous and reprehensible cad Q's gone and fallen arse-over-teakettle for, is returned again to that blasted teasing tone. Q reels where he sits and feels a little as though his own DNA's just been hacked; it's that insanely disruptive to Q's system, that fond 007-flavoured drawl. "It's comforting to know you don't always have a leg up on me, Quartermaster."
Q is so far at sea, mentally, it's only just acres and acres of sky-blue gaze filling his eyes and thus his brain, but at least it's a warm bath for his sore heart—and maybe even a wish come true. He blinks down at Bond, and opens his mouth. His lips hurt; they'e been bitten on, by both his own teeth and Bond's: doesn't matter.
"…?" Q doesn't say, as he actually can't manage to say anything, not even remotely. "…?!"
"And it's a 'yes', to finally answer your first question," Bond carries on, eyes twinkling at Q in a manner that should be outlawed instantly, given what effects such twinkles had on Q's jolting heart. "Still fully commissioned, cheers. No need for the paying off pennant, Q."
"No, what?" Q blinks rapidly, and realizes abruptly he's nearly recovered, even though the shock's been monumental. "Stop with that, 007. You go too far."
"...Do I?"
But an agent—any agent, be it Q Branch or a Double 'O', doesn't matter—thinks superbly fast on his or her feet, and while Q is aware he'll be chewing this whole experience over in his head for some time to come, he's sure as shite in a position to recognize a bloody brilliant thing when he sees one.
"Right, then," he replies, and maybe his voice cracks a bit, and maybe it doesn't, either. He'll never tell, but it is true he's returned to feeling rather marvelously dangerous. "Carry on, Bond. Show me—show me your big guns."
Bond grins up at him.
"With pleasure."