[Author's Note: Sorry this update is so late! Smut always takes longer, and in combination with real life demands and some writer's block this one was a bit of a struggle. Thanks for sticking with it, and enjoy the complete smuttiness!]
"James," Q purred, running his hands up the taut muscles of Bond's triceps and forearms to where his fingers wrapped under the edge of the headboard. Bond groaned, flexing his body, seeking the pressure of Q's weight on his aching erection, but Q stubbornly rode out the movement, still straddling Bond's upper thighs. "Don't let go," Q admonished, a twinkle of mischief in his eye.
"You could just tie me," Bond growled.
Q sat back, his grey-green eyes suddenly serious. 'No," he said emphatically. He paused the teasing movements of his fingers up and down Bond's chest, tilting his head as he searched Bond's face. "Unless..." He hesitated, his brow furrowed. "Is that something you want?"
Bond swallowed. "No," he admitted. He would grit his teeth and tolerate it if that was what Q needed or enjoyed, but it was an occupational hazard — Bond had been captured and tortured so frequently that the erotic potential of being restrained was absolutely nil.
Q nodded, the sharp focus in his expression easing. "I thought not, which means you are an idiot for even suggesting it," he rebuked crisply.
Bond opened his mouth, likely to protest, and immediately forgot what he planned to say as Q captured his lips in a soft, swift kiss, his bare belly brushing teasingly over Bond's rigid length.
"Besides," Q said, straightening up with the mischievous glint back in his eyes. "I quite like the idea of testing your self-restraint."
"Imp," Bond grumbled, rolling his hips again. Q's exceptional arse — clad only in the softest of pajama bottoms — was nestled firmly just a few inches from where Bond wanted it most, and it was driving Bond crazy.
Q hummed thoughtfully, tracing his hands across Bond's chest once again. Bond watched Q's brilliant eyes take in every scar. He could practically see Q mentally matching each one to the relevant incident from Bond's history in his file, but Q said nothing. He simply rubbed his fingers over the bullet wounds, tracing the knife scars with the back of his thumbnail. With his soft pink mouth, he tenderly licked and nipped at random marks and divots of which Bond himself had forgotten the origin. Each touch was gentle and soothing, as if Q were placing his own mark over the evidence of past pain, eradicating the dark memories with every warm touch.
It made Bond feel...adored. Cherished, even. Having Q's rapt attention, that intense focus, devoted entirely to his body. Bond felt the joy of it humming underneath his skin, sensitizing him to every brush of Q's deft fingertips.
"You're beautiful," Q breathed against the skin of Bond's collarbone. Bond hadn't even realized that he had closed his eyes until he snapped them open again at Q's words. It was no easy flattery, Q's voice had been hoarse with sincerity. He met Bond's startled eyes and his cheeks flushed pinker, as if he hadn't meant to say it out loud.
Q shrugged self-consciously, thin shoulders dappled by the warm morning sunlight. "I have trouble believing, sometimes, that you're actually...here." He rested his palm over Bond's heart as if seeking proof of his existence, his eyes focused on some distant point as he felt the thumping beat through the skin of his palm.
Bond wanted to delve both hands into that riot of Q's hair and devour him, but he had promised not to touch. His fingers tightened on the headboard again, and he swallowed thickly. "I'm here," he said.
Q's eyes focused again and he smiled, soft and warm. He slid further down Bond's torso, licking at the mark of Moneypenny's bullet across his ribs. Bond tried to smother his groan, watching that pink tongue trace over his skin, so close to where his cock strained and leaked against his belly.
Q's hand slid further down. Bond saw a shadow of pain pass over Q's face as he warmly cupped Bond's bollocks, and knew he was thinking of what Le Chiffre had done.
"It's fine, Q," he found himself saying. "It's...Christ, it's so good," he rasped nonsensically as Q's long fingers caressed and massaged, chasing the painful memory away with pure sensation.
Finally, finally, Q slid his hand up, caressing Bond's cock in a long sensuous stroke from root to tip. Bond bucked reflexively into the touch, his breath rasping in his chest.
A shaft of sunlight lit Q's eyes, lightening them to a pale clear celadon as he straddled Bond's thighs again, pinning him to the bed. Q's arousal was obvious in this position, the soft cotton of his pajama bottoms hiding nothing. It made Bond shudder, a jolt of pure lust sizzling through him from his fingers to his toes, to know that Q had become so hard simply from touching him. Bond wanted to touch him back, wanted to trace the length of Q's cock where it distended the threadbare cotton, and his knuckles whitened with the pressure of holding back.
"Please," he said instead, his voice gone gravelly with lust. Q's breath was quick and shallow now as well. As Bond watched, rapt, Q ran his pale fingers up Bond's cock again, this time circling his thumb on the head, spreading the slickness he discovered there. Bond cried out with pleasure, his head falling back, his arms straining. He opened his eyes just in time to see Q suck that thumb into his pink mouth, his face serenely contemplative as he tasted Bond.
"Oh, bloody fuck," Bond growled. Q probably wasn't even trying to be seductive and he was absolutely wrecking Bond — turning him inside out, making him writhe and beg for those beautiful hands on his body again. Bond knew he wasn't going to last much longer, and god, he needed more.
"Q — I want to see you."
Q seemed to hesitate, shy about baring himself to Bond in the full morning sunlight.
"Please," Bond said again. It should be humbling to beg like this but he was too far gone to care. If he couldn't touch Q he needed to see him, needed to feel that slender body naked against him.
The desperation in Bond's voice seemed to dispel Q's uncertainty. He slid off the bed in one fluid motion, hesitating for just a moment before skimming his pajama bottoms off his body to puddle on the floor. His eyelashes dipped down, shading his eyes behind the slightly-fogged lenses of his glasses as Bond's gaze hungrily roamed his body.
There was something so entirely, erotically naked about Q. The people Bond was used to fucking all treated their bodies as tools — tanned and plucked, toned and surgically sculpted, displayed with pride as someone might display a Breitlinger watch or an Hermes bag.
Q seemed to treat his body as something slightly unfamiliar to him — awkward and somewhat surprising. The way he revealed it — slowly, shyly — made Bond crave every part of it. The long, pale limbs, the narrow-ribbed chest, the slight softness of his belly. Just the sight of the trail of soft, dark hair leading from Q's navel had Bond gritting his teeth, his very fingers tingling with helpless arousal.
Seeing Q stand naked in the pale wash of morning sunlight made something twist in Bond's chest, a paroxysm of feeling so intense that it physically hurt. Q's pale skin was warmed to the barest gold by the soft sunlight, the darkness of a mole drawing Bond's eye down the graceful sweep of his neck to his chest. Bond's eye skimmed down to Q's cock, dusky and stiff, standing up from the thatch of dark hair. Q's hand moved nervously as if to cover himself, and the vulnerability of it sent another pang straight to Bond's heart. Q was completely without artifice; everything he felt could be read in his face and body.
"Don't do that," Bond said gently. "You're gorgeous."
Q's eyes darted up to Bond's, as if gauging his sincerity, and widened at what he seemed to see there. His hand fell away, his chest swelling as he inhaled sharply. "James," he said on a broken breath.
"Come here," Bond growled, the headboard creaking as his hands clenched with the frustrated need to grab Q and pull him closer.
Q tumbled back onto the bed, pressing his body the length of Bond's, his eager mouth capturing Bond's lips in a deep, clinging kiss. Both of them gasped as Q slotted his cock in next to Bond's, instinctively rolling his hips.
"Q," Bond groaned, planting one foot on the mattress so he could press back. They strained against each other, Bond's mind shorting out with pleasure as Q writhed above him. It was so good and yet just short of enough, and after a few moments Bond felt Q's teeth sharp against his shoulder as Q gritted out a plaintive noise against his sweaty skin.
"Lube," Bond managed breathlessly. "Please, love. Slick up and then hold us both." Q rutted against Bond a few more frantic times and then he was diving for the side table, impatient fingers fumbling on the bottle.
He slicked his hand and then settled on Bond again somewhat uncertainly, propped up on one elbow, hair falling forward over his flushed forehead as he looked down at them both. "Like thi — oh, Jesus," he said as he closed his fingers around them both.
The noise Bond made would have been embarrassing if he could be arsed to care, low and guttural and needy. He moved with Q, both of them pushing into the circle of Q's fist, and bloody hell that was so good that Bond was dangerously close to the edge already.
He threw his head back, drinking in every sensation — the rich warm smell of Q's skin, the huff of his breath against Bond's neck, the slender body flexing and straining above him. Q's grip was just right, the combined friction of his fingers and his cock visceral and filthy, and Bond had to look down again, watching them both push slickly through Q's long pale fingers.
Bond pulled his eyes back up to Q's face. He looked utterly abandoned — his cheeks flushed pink, fringe stuck damply to his forehead, mouth gasping open as he heaved mindlessly against Bond.
"Christ," Bond said. "Fuck, Q, come on, come on..."
Q was so close, Bond could tell. He was biting his lip, making anguished little smothered sounds with every push of his body. "Let it go, love," Bond said roughly. "Christ, I want to hear you...let me hear you..."
Q's movements stuttered as he froze for a moment, his whole body shaking with tension. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, shaking his head frantically. "I can't," he whispered, his voice sounding suddenly panicked. "I'm sorry..."
Oh, fuck. "It's okay, Q. It's okay, I'm sorry. Don't stop, love, please don't stop..."
Q's head bowed in relief, his movements resuming as he nuzzled gratefully into Bond's neck. Bond strained against him, pressing his lips wherever he could reach, drowning in a confusion of remorse and tenderness and incendiary lust.
Q was gasping against Bond's skin, making desperate broken noises that Bond felt more than heard.
"Come on, Q," he rasped. "I've got you. Fucking Christ...gorgeous..."
As Bond watched Q's head lifted. His eyes flew open, wide and shocked. A low, anguished moan escaped his gritted teeth, and then his hips jerked wildly, warmth pulsing over them both.
"Oh, Jesus Christ, that's it. That's lovely," Bond gritted out, unable to tear his eyes from Q's expression as Q convulsed over him, face suffused with utter bliss. Finally Q's movements slowed, his breath gasping in his chest as he fell to the side.
"James," he said, his voice slurred with pleasure, his body still shaking with intermittent tremors.
Bond wanted more than anything to wrap his arms around Q, to gather him in close and hold him there forever. But he didn't dare, and so he gripped the bottom of the headboard so tightly that it cut shallowly into his palm, his heart throbbing. His voice was the only outlet for what he was feeling, the words raspy with the emotion that was choking him. "Q," he found himself repeating helplessly, both endearment and entreaty. "Q."
Q shivered once more, and then his slippery hand tightened on Bond's cock again, stroking firm and quick. The shock of it threw Bond headlong into his own orgasm, bucking and writhing, release searing through him in endless shuddering pulses, shaking him down to his very bones.
By the time his mind cleared Q had crawled back on top of him in a soft warm heap, careless of the mess between them.
Bond pried his hands off the headboard, fingers stinging as blood rushed back in, strained shoulders protesting. He tangled his hands in the sheets, not sure if he could touch Q. As if reading his uncertainty, Q reached down his arms, snagging both of Bond's hands and pulling them up to rest on his back.
Bond sighed in contentment, running his hands up and down Q's spine, enjoying the boneless weight of him. Q arched up into his touch for a moment, flexing his spine, and then seemed to melt, his body fitting into every angle and curve of Bond's own frame.
"Cat," Bond accused with amusement as Q hummed contentedly into his neck. Bond's hand wandered down to Q's arse, giving it a fond squeeze and smiling at Q's little squeak of surprise.
Q merely snuggled in impossibly closer. They lay quietly as the sweat dried on their bodies, Bond listening to the thump of his own heart and basking in the warmth of the sunlight and the even warmer sensation of Q pressed the length of his body. Christ, but Q turned him inside out like no one else. This feeling of closeness — of simple, unadulterated happiness — was something Bond had never experienced. It made him want to grab hold of it with both hands, afraid that it could slip away at any moment.
After awhile Q twitched a few times and then made a little snuffling, snoring noise. Bond smiled. Q needed more sleep, he had been up for almost thirty hours straight over the last few days. Bond was realizing more and more what it took to have Q in his ear, whenever he needed him, regardless of how long his mission lasted. When an operative was in danger, Q worked himself to exhaustion until the mission was complete.
With a pang of regret Bond held Q tightly and then gently rolled Q to the side, managing to peel their bodies apart without waking him. As much as he would love to close his eyes again and fall asleep with the warmth of Q on top of him, Q might wake badly.
The thought brought to mind Q's panicked reaction when Bond had asked to hear him come, and Bond's quiet contentment faded instantly. Christ, he was an idiot for even mentioning it. Of course after years of furtive wanks in the Offender's Institution Q would be conditioned to silence, but Bond hadn't put it together until it was too late. He shook his head, furious with himself for missing it. Even when he was trying to be careful, there were still minefields everywhere.
Bond looked down at Q. He looked utterly debauched — the thick dark waves of his hair in chaos, his lips kiss-swollen, his cheeks rubbed red with stubble-burn. The press of his face into the pillow had pulled his glasses askew, his body sprawled pale and naked across the sheets.
Looking at him, Bond resolved to be better, smarter. Q's issues were considerable, as were Bond's, but what they had was worth any amount of effort. With that thought he gave in to the urge to briefly smooth that riotous hair, before pulling the duvet gently up to cover Q, and padded to the shower.
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