Sometimes, Bond hated his work. Not the killing or maiming of an enemy–he could find that part disturbingly easy and even satisfying. No, it was the collateral damage he more often than not had to inflict on innocents and bystanders.

After he had made sure that Silva and his goons understood their new place, he had made it back to his cell. Belatedly, he realised that he had other worries than Silva and his goons. The young man who had trailed Silva, clearly, he was just seen as his property and named accordingly; Q, like, as if Silva had sixteen other bitches before him? Bond shook his head. Sometimes, these macho rituals were too ridiculous and meaningless, even for him. With a wry smile he took the stairs up to his cell, expecting 'Q' to be waiting for him.

He was–kind of. Sunken in the middle of the small room, clearly passed out from sheer panic. Bond had seen Q's reaction when he won the fight. While he had to put on a good show of brutality and sadism to discourage anybody else from challenging him, Bond was well aware how it must have looked for someone like Q, who was utterly dependent on the 'protection' from whoever was the leader.

Looking around the empty corridors, Bond closed the door and knelt down in front of Q. His glasses were a bit askew, but he seemed unharmed. Gently holding his head, he felt Q's pulse as it quickened when he regained consciousness. With a deep sigh, Q nuzzled into Bond's hand, still unaware of his surroundings. The violent jerk back against the wall came as soon as Q had opened his eyes and recognised Bond. Nothing unexpected there, and Bond tried to calm him by asking how he felt.

Bond perceived the shift in Q's demeanour when panic became relief as soon as he looked at the small box in his hand. It might be nothing important, but Bond instinctively put on his killer persona, freaking Q out once more. This time, however, Q seemed determined to face whatever Bond would make him endure. That change was profound, as Q transformed himself in front of Bond. Now, the panicked young man stood, resolved and steadfast, ready to face the world and its cruelty. A survivor.

Bond glanced at the box on the cell floor. He would have to check through its contents later. For now, he had to show Q that life as a bitch could hold a few perks of its own.

He commanded him to strip, expecting and receiving a nice little show of firm muscles on a lean body revealed slowly and enticingly to him. The black mop of hair stood in stark contrast to the marble-like skin, a few fading bruises still visible as a reminder from his latest owner. Turning Q around while examining him closely, Bond could find no tattoos or other permanent markings. It left Bond with a strange feeling, as if he had saved Q from a fate worse than–well, worse than what he already had experienced.

He turned Q towards the sink, which Bond had filled with water. Telling him to lean forward on the basin and spreading his legs, Bond could see how Q expected anything but the soft, wet flannel which he used to clean Q slowly and thoroughly. A visible shiver ran through the slender body and Bond grinned when he heard the small sounds Q elicited, seemingly unable to suppress his appreciation of Bond's ministrations.

Satisfied with the result of his efforts, Bond proceeded to lead a pliant Q to the lower bunk, turning him on his back and taking off his glasses. Q lifted a hand as if to stop Bond, but aborted the motion midair with a resigned look in his eyes. Without hesitation, Bond leaned in to kiss Q. It was meant as a reward, but Q flinched before he could stop himself, now looking wide eyed at Bond, breathing fast. Bond drew back a bit, frowning. How long had Q been in this hell hole of a prison? Being used and abused by the other inmates?

Bond leaned closer again, this time keeping eye contact and clearly telegraphing his intent to kiss Q. He was aware of his position, bend over Q, arms resting on each side of his body, crowding him. Also, while Q was stark naked, Bond was still fully dressed. He wanted to avoid right out raping Q, but if he had to, he would force Q to have sex with him. Anything else would compromise his mission at this point.

The first touch of their lips was soft, as Bond tried to soothe Q, humming appreciatively when he reciprocated the kiss, even parted his lips for Bond. Licking and brushing along Q's mouth, Bond continued the gentle caresses down Q's neck, leaving a small trail of saliva and goose bumps in its wake. Lavishing Q's nipples, sucking on each in turn, his tongue played with the small, hardened nubs. With a lick at Q's navel, Bond leaned back, divesting himself from his trousers and pants. Then he took two small satchels from his pocket, ripping one open and spreading its content over his free hand. Lying down beside Q, he reached for his hand and squeezed it slightly. Q had closed his eyes, but tightened his grip in response. With a small smile, Bond kissed Q's belly, then licked down along the path of black, curly hair.

Now, a new kind of tenseness made its appearance. The small sounds from Q became louder, his heaving for air was in harmony with Bond's lips finding their new target. He nuzzled through coarse pubic hair, and found Q's cock hard, its tip glistening with precome. Q was writhing on the sheet, his free hand clutching the rough material, as if trying and spectacularly failing to rein in his arousal. Transfixed, Bond watched every move, catalogued every hitch of breath, purposeful edging Q closer to his climax without pushing him over. Q was whimpering, bucking his hips, as Bond sucked in Q's balls, his lubed fingers brushing along his perineum down towards Q's hole.

Q pushed back against Bond's fingers, when his first digit teased along the pucker. Bond was patient, even as he felt the muscles relax easily, opening up for Bond's explorations. Q sucked in a sharp breath, when Bond brushed over a half healed injury. Bond stopped moving, one finger deep inside Q, and Q's cock sucked halfway into Bond's mouth.

"Please," was all Q managed to whispered, his body trembling, begging for Bond to continue.

And so Bond did. Avoiding the wound, working Q open, relishing the moans when he flicked his fingers along his prostate. He held Q in limbo, a knife's edge away from coming. Q responded beautifully, open and sincere in his need.

Still, Bond was aware of the coercion, he was subjecting Q to.

When he finally sat back and prepared himself, painfully hard by now, Q sobbed, holding on to his hand. Bond shushed him, quietly reassuring him with few words and small touches. Rolling on the condom with one hand, Bond pressed the last lube out of the first satchel, then pushed in. Slowly, even as Q pushed back, spreading his legs further, Bond began to move, easing in, watching for any signs of discomfort. Q began pleading, moving his hand towards his groin but like before abandoning the move half way. Buried deep inside Q, Bond held on to Q's hand, before taking the other as well, pointedly moving both their hands toward Q's straining cock. Now, Bond was breathing hard, holding his own need for release back.

He pressed Q's hand around Q's cock, then his own hand around Q's. Thrusting into Q, simultaneously shoving their hands along Q's cock, it took mere seconds, before both of them climaxed; Q desperately turning his head into the pillow, muffling his shout of release, as Bond came with a quiet groan, tumbling down beside Q, his arm draped around him and holding him close through the last shivers of their orgasms.

When he regained his breath, Q was sound asleep, his features relaxed and at peace. Bond smiled, pressed a chaste kiss to Q's temple, then got up to clean both of them.

He was still just in his shirt, when he pulled the blanket over Q, tucking him in safely. Then, he turned back to the box, beginning to rummage through its contents, eventually finding a clothed item at the bottom of it. When he took it, Q sat up, searching and finding his glasses. Putting them on, he looked at Bond, the fear back in his eyes.

"No!"