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(What he really was doing there was anybody's guess.
Introspection wasn't part of the job description, even on a supposedly free Saturday night, so Bond didn't bother; he used the time taking in the surroundings. Bored, on the loose, with nary a scratch on him after the latest mission, he had found his way into Q's neighbourhood; Eve's parting words, upon having surrendered the address info, had been, 'you owe me, Bond!' He did, for a lot of things, and thought it would be interesting to see when and how she would collect.
The new Quartermaster was shacking up in a terraced house in a quite old and a very nice part of London. It was the usual fare, brown brick exterior, individual stairs leading to each house, and Q had the end terrace. Of course he did. He probably had a cat, too, and a gearless bicycle in the hallway, and an old fashioned vinyl record player for hipster-ish gatherings and at least one room dedicated to all sorts of gadgets and machinery that didn't even bear thinking about. Bond was half-convinced that Q was something of a machine himself; the working hours were ludicrous, for one, and he seemed to exist on tea.
Bond had an unhurried cigarette while standing on the stairs leading to Q's front door, thinking about nothing in particular – although maybe he was thinking about Q. About whether he would be home on a Saturday night, or entertaining guests, getting wasted, or high, or laid somewhere else.)
Q opened the door himself after a minute or two, but who was counting – Bond had half expected some sort of automated device that ran a face scan and opened the door, or didn't, accordingly (and would have been interested in finding out whether his mug awarded him entry) –, peering into the semi-darkness with a very suspicious frown on his face (Bond really had nothing to do with the outdoor light being out of order). Taking pity on Q, he took the necessary step forward for the light from inside the house to fall on him.
Q's posture relaxed a bit, but not all the way.
“Bond.”
Acknowledgement and admonishment rolled into one, and Bond couldn't help smirking.
“Q,” he replied, half-mockingly.
“It's half eleven. Your social call couldn't have waited?”
“I know what time it is, Q.”
That wasn't an answer really, but Bond didn't have any other answer to give. He hadn't consciously thought about what he would do if Q were home; there would surely be something to drink, and some sort of sarcastic banter that passed for conversation, and Bond wasn't quite fooled by the eyesores that Q called his clothes; he knew a fine bone structure when he saw one, and hiding behind a hideous pair of glasses was the oldest trick in the book.
Besides, Q had expressed some sort of interest, before.
It was dim, and the light was coming from behind Q's head, but Bond could make out the light playing with his glasses and with his – lips when he abruptly turned around on his heel and went back inside. Bond followed with some amusement, and took in the floor plan with a glance out of a habit; the stairs to the upper floor were directly across the entry, the kitchen was on the back, and an airy, spacious living room on the right.
There was an opened laptop on the coffee table along with a working light, a tiny screwdriver, and miscellaneous screws and other parts strewn across the table top, suggesting that he had likely interrupted Q's tinkering.
“The offer for tea was three weeks ago,” Q said pointedly, but went to the kitchen anyway to put the kettle on. Bond's eyes followed his movements, amused. The 'offer for tea' had hinted at a lot more than just a shared cuppa after weeks of downright innuendo; for such a scrawny boffin, the new Q had quite the mouth on him.
“I would've made it earlier, but I've been away,” Bond said. “On business.”
The Quartermaster apparently didn't care much for lights, because there were just some LEDs installed in the kitchen ceiling that lent little light elsewhere but the stove and the tabletop directly underneath, and Bond was thus still slightly standing in the shadows in the doorway. Q turned to face him and bit his lips, and Bond was quite taken aback by the Quartermaster's striking colouring. No man had the right to lips that red, and eyes that green.
“I know all about your business,” Q said as he joined Bond in the hallway, leaning his hip on the door frame. He stood perhaps an inch and a half shorter now since he was wearing socks and Bond still had his shoes on. “Both the sort that goes in the mission report and the sort that doesn't.”
“You wound me, Q. What have I left out?”
Q gave him a droll look and said, “You were there, Bond, I hardly need to recount your escapades to you. Seems to me you're rather forgetting the fact that I am too, as long as the comms are open.” He paused and pursed his mouth. “Half the branch, actually, if you're on the speakers.”
Q had been listening, then; he'd thought as much, although he hadn't bothered to verify. Bond tried to look innocent.
“I've been told to keep them open while out in the field.”
Q shrugged and half-smiled, suddenly quite attractive, and the smile drew Bond's eye irresistibly to his mouth, and he was moving before conscious thought could intervene. Q stood his ground, blinking only a little more rapidly when Bond came to stand closer. He twitched a bit when Bond's thumb came to rest on his lower lip, rubbing a little, and then came away a bit sticky and slightly fruity-smelling. Q's face flushed warmly, but he didn't drop his gaze, nor did he pull away.
So this was the Quartermaster's Saturday night that he'd interrupted; he hadn't seen this one coming. Bond pouted in appreciation.
“Lip gloss,” he said aloud. “You're wearing lip gloss. May I?”
Q nodded, and Bond carefully took off his glasses, and placed them on the nearby set of drawers. There was just enough light to make out Q's eyes staring right back at him, almost like daring him to mock, or ridicule. Q stilled further when Bond's hand stroked down the side of his face, smooth and free of stubble, the skin warm.
“You heard the mark sucking me off,” Bond stated. That piece of information – his business – hadn't been included in the mission report. “Over the comms.”
“Yes, I --” Q stopped speaking as Bond's thumb again, a bit obsessively, came to smear at his lips, catching slightly on the stickiness.
“You would've preferred it was you,” Bond said, and stared, transfixed, at the way the lip gloss stained the skin around Q's mouth. “You wanted those to be your lips around my cock, and not hers.”
Q was frozen to the spot, barely breathing, his lips parting a bit more to allow the tip of Bond's thumb to slip inside his mouth, and to push boldly in, forcing him to open his mouth wider.
“This is a bit unsanitary,” he said, mouth half-full of Bond's thumb, the usual clear diction somewhat muffled, and the comment ended in a slight squeak as Bond pulled him closer, and Bond's crotch was pressed against his thigh, hard already and getting harder. “Christ, Bond, yes.”
His lips closed around Bond's thumb, carefully at first and then more tightly, and he started to suck, his cheeks hollowing prettily, and his eyelashes fluttered just enough to sear the image of him into Bond's long term memory.
The electric kettle went off in the kitchen, and almost as if he'd been waiting for it, Q's knees gave, and he slid down Bond's body to his knees with a thud. Bond was still wearing his coat, and his shoes, and neither bothered with the niceties of putting them away and getting more comfortable, because Q was busy opening his belt and the zipper of his trousers, and tugging them down Bond's thighs, quickly followed by his pants.
Q took him in hand, and rubbed the tip of Bond's cock across his parted lips, breathing in his scent through his mouth, and without further delay slipped his mouth over it, tongue curling gorgeously around the tip. Bond, almost without thinking, placed a hand in Q's hair; his fingers twisted around the strands and pulled, enough to make Q just this side of uncomfortable; his other hand came to cradle the underside of his jaw, thumb again reaching to pull at his lip – a seemingly endless fascination.
“What else do you like besides lip gloss?” Bond asked, but clearly wasn't expecting an answer. “Fuck, Q.”
Q sucked hard, his head bobbing, his knees still smarting a bit from the impact, lips stretched around Bond's girth, glistening in the scant light from not just the lip gloss but Bond's precum and his own spit, and Bond stared down at him, knowing that Q couldn't make out his expression due to the lack of light and glasses, but needing to see Q's face and the answering need reflected there.
Q was looking up at him, his eyes wide and slightly unfocused, but aware, and aroused, and there, flushed from his hairline to the neck. Bond was struck with the need to see him like this in bed, on his back with his thighs spread and his narrow ankles crossing at the small of Bond’s back, the beautiful mouth preoccupied with something other than sarcastic retorts, the genius brain scrambled to the point it was little more than a network of synapses firing off bursts of pleasure.
Q brought his hands to rest lightly on top of Bond's thighs, letting him thrust at will, and bloody fuck those drab earth-toned cardigans and grandfather trousers didn't even begin to hint at his preferences; the seemingly straight-laced Quartermaster was asking to get face-fucked. Unhindered, Bond pushed farther in, feeling the strain in Q's jaw against his hand, and the fact that Q didn't protest, or even flinch, spurred him on.
One of Q’s hands dropped down to his own lap, and Bond jerked as Q sighed and moaned around his cock, ostensibly touching himself through his trousers; Bond imagined him bunching a hand into his crotch, coming from the pressure alone, lips stretched and jaw aching; Bond had to look away, and then close his eyes. He wanted to prolong it, he wanted to watch and feel this gorgeous mouth working on him, pleasuring him as long as possible, he wanted his dick in Q’s throat, muffling and thrusting, he imagined Q’s finely boned face covered in streaks of white come, his mouth gasping for air while Bond took the money shot all over his cheeks, and his ruby red mouth.
Q allowed him to slide in all the way, again and again, and Bond's smirk returned for the briefest of moments – of course you wouldn't have a gag reflex – before it was wiped right off, because Q froze, his hips jerking a little, and made a little whimpering sound at the back of his throat that was currently being battered by Bond's cock, and he couldn't even get a polite warning out before he came, squeezing his eyes shut and grunting, because Q kept sucking him through his orgasm.
Q kept suckling on him gently, his lips hot and slick and swollen, and Bond's heart hammered in his chest not unlike after a thorough physical test, and finally pulled out of Q's mouth. He didn't try to resist the urge to rub the tip on Q's lips, much like before going in, and shivered as Q's tongue came out for a final lick, somehow filthy and kitten-ish, and Bond shivered and his stomach clenched at the look of utter contentment on Q’s face.
Q rose gracefully, if a bit unsteadily, like a young woodland fawn, and picked up his glasses, putting them on without a word. He appeared a bit rumpled, hair pulled this way and that, and had such a freshly shagged look about him that Bond to swallow. He looked flushed, and a bit uncertain, and it was such an odd look on him – at work, the man was self-assurance personified – that Bond was thrown for a moment, and then just as quick decided he didn't want to see that look again.
"You’re fucking beautiful, you know that," Bond said, to wipe all the rest of the uncertainty off of Q’s face. He looked down at Q’s mouth pointedly, his own mouth curling into a lopsided smile. "Absolutely gorgeous.”
Q's face softened, and he nodded a little. “I need to get changed. Don't go anywhere.”
“Wait just a second,” Bond said on impulse, and pulled Q into him by his wrist, the hold not all that tight. Q looked at him, slightly out of breath and a bit wary as to his intentions, and closed his eyes when Bond leaned in for a kiss.
He tasted of tea, and cherry – the damned lip gloss – and salt, and chlorine, and Bond licked into his mouth, swallowing Q's groans. Q was the first one to pull back, and he said, with an apologetic wince, “I do need to get changed. Sorry. Just a sec.”
“So what else do you like?” Bond called out after him, smirk now fully back in place as Q hurried upstairs. He shook his head in amusement, and tucked himself in, wincing at the stickiness and entertaining the thought of asking to use Q's shower.
He had to wait for a full two minutes for Q to return, and he spent this time not in introspection, but rather in quiet amusement, exhaling slowly through his mouth; he hadn't exactly come over for a blowjob, and he hadn't remembered the offer for tea, and it would've felt awfully much like conscience kicking in if not for the fact how Q had looked, and had wanted it, and that fucking lip gloss on his already perfectly formed mouth --
He shrugged off his coat and folded it over a kitchen chair's backrest, taking a look around the house. It was cosy and airy, and there were no house pets around – probably for the best considering the Quartermaster's working hours –, although there were some potted plants strewn here and there in various states of hydration, and to Bond's approval the music system looked unpretentious, and the collection of music even less so (although he was surprised it wasn't all digital, stored on an external hard drive – or maybe it was).
He turned around when Q came back; he had switched into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair still in absolute disarray, sticking up rather gorgeously from the top of his head. He was so fucking lean, though, much thinner than Bond had thought, and his hands clenched with the desire to touch.
“On a Saturday night when you're home all alone, what else do you like?” Bond continued as if the conversation had continued uninterrupted.
Q gave him a sharp look as if detecting him for any signs of mockery, and then leaned in for a kiss. His lips were clean of make up now, and Bond caught a faint whiff of mint toothpaste, and was leaning in before he realised what he was doing. Q half-smiled, again, and Bond was almost willing to let it drop.
“Not lingerie, if that's what you're thinking.” Q went to the kitchen and started to make tea. “I really don't need to make my waist any smaller. And lace tickles and is just ugh. I hate shaving.”
“No?” Bond asked, because it was important now, and very carefully, mindful of the fact that Q was pouring hot water into two mugs, placed his hands on Q's bony hips, and insinuated himself into his personal territory. It was oddly easy, considering that they worked together, and Q's actual work largely consisted of making up ways of keeping him alive. He watched Q's nimble fingers measure the tea into two strainers, and recalled feeling those fingers on him, seeing those fingers on his keyboard. “I doubt it's wigs. Your hair would give any old wig a complete run for its money.”
“Keep pushing, and you won't find out,” Q said, but he didn't sound miffed. Instead, he pushed his backside back against Bond's crotch, doing a teasing little grind. Bond buried his face in Q's nape, earning himself a quiet little squeak. “It's not a big deal, really. Every now and then I just -- I just feel like it. It's not all that kinky as far as kinky goes, so you might be disappointed.”
Bond snorted. “Unless you have an actual dungeon in your cellar I'm not going to go running, Q.”
Q suddenly tensed and Bond did too, until he realised that Q was having him on.
“No dungeon. And no wigs. Would you like a little hint?”
He didn't seem to be in any bit of a hurry, rubbing his bony arse against Bond's awakening cock, and Bond had to wonder what beast he had just unleashed, and why the Quartermaster hadn't come with a warning sign.
“Spit it out, then.”
“That's not what you said.”
The snark was returning. Bond smirked and bit down on his nape, not all that lightly. Q's breath hitched, and his voice sounded a bit hoarser when he said, “Ow. All right. I always wished I was just a little bit taller.”
Q wasn't short, as such, and Bond's mind went straight back to the aforementioned lingerie, although it had already been ruled out. Q in a pair of stockings, though... Bond pouted. That was food for thought. He mouthed along Q's nape to the hairline, tasting just the faintest tang of sweat.
“If you were taller, it would be easier to fuck you standing up, like this.”
He hadn't exactly meant to say that out loud, but Q didn't seem to mind.
“Mm-hmm.” Q said, dreamily. “If I magically grew, say, four inches, it would make the world of a difference, wouldn't it?”
The words were rife with implication, and Bond stilled, cock still firmly planted against Q's backside (the boffin hadn't bothered with underwear by the feel of it, the absolute minx) while his brain fired up mental images too quick to follow. Q in a pair of black stilettos, slim calves curving gorgeously, his arse brought to a very convenient height.
“Heels, Q?”
And fucking hell, that hopeful, dry rasp hadn't been there before. Q turned to look at him over his shoulder, now smirking himself.
“Heels, Bond.”
finish