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Oral Fixation

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Bond liked it best when Q would take him in his mouth; that brilliant, articulate, endlessly fascinating mouth turned entirely to his pleasure. He had absolutely no excuse. There were certainly better things that mouth should be doing, but Bond pursued it anyway. Not in spite of – but partly, at least, because of. Bond always had had a weakness for brains, for power, for quiet and careful command. And to be able to focus that perfect storm on himself for a time, well. He definitely had a weakness for Q. More than a weakness, truth be told.

Bond would wander into Q branch, nonchalantly nod at Q and whichever of his minions he was hectoring at the time, and stroll languidly into Q’s private office. The minions had learned to make no remark. It was a kindness born of their fond regard; Q was an exceptionally poor liar.

Perhaps a dozen minutes later – occasionally more, sometimes much less – Q would follow, shutting and locking the door behind him, already removing his glasses as he turned.

Bond would be leaning against the wall, wishing idly he still smoked. Or he would be slouched in Q’s office chair, tapping a pen against his teeth, thinking of what he was going to do to Q’s perfect mouth. Once, memorably, Q had found him kneeling and waiting: shirtless, eyes closed, half hard. These workplace meetings were fast, efficient. Leisurely lovemaking was an uncommon luxury; the men knew to take their pleasure when they could. Today, though, a long day and a longer week were nearly done, and Bond was sprawled messily across the corner settee looking crumpled, looking vexed.

Q took one look, drew a breath, and went to him, schooling his reflexive smirk into patience. Bond was made for the field, not for the office. But parts of him, impossibly – miraculously – seemed to have been made for Q, as well.

“Make them send me out,” Bond sighed, reaching out and drawing Q towards him. “This desk duty will be the absolute death of me.”

Q rolled his eyes, pushed his hands through Bond’s short hair, pulling his head gently back to look up at him. “Drama queen. It’s only been 8 days, and I don’t have a quarter of the influence you assume.”

Bond snorted, unconvinced. “Then entertain me, Q. Salvage this travesty of a day, will you?”

“Ah. I doubt I’m entertainment enough to satisfy a bored 00-agent,” Q said lightly.

“Modesty? Very becoming. You know perfectly well what you are, and entertainment doesn’t even begin scratch the surface.” Bond rubbed his face against Q’s belly. He was learning Q; had very quickly discovered that his usual suave lines would be met with gales of laughter. And so, he simply continued, “Still, allow me to rephrase: I’m desperate for you. Hands, mouth, arse, I don’t care, I’m mad for all of you. Just please, please, please make me come.”

Q relented, hid his grin in Bond’s hair as he bent to kiss his forehead. It was no secret between them that he craved these assignations as much as Bond did himself. If Q embodied intelligent command, Bond was action made manifest, and that was a heady thing indeed. Six months deep into their unexpected liaison, and neither man could seem to get enough.

Bond pulled back from Q’s grasp, settled still further into the settee as Q knelt between his open legs. Their eyes locked. Bond felt something twist in his chest, something bigger, somehow, than desire. Still so wary, he edged it away for later. Later.

Q licked his lips, coyly, and Bond dropped his head, groaned. Q laughed. “Alright, James. Alright.”

He stroked his hands lightly up and down Bond’s thighs, feeling muscles coiled tightly under the expensive wool trousers. Bond flexed impatiently. Suddenly, Q grabbed at Bond’s belt, yanking him up and forward, and pressing his face into Bond’s lap. He paused, gathering himself. Drew back slightly, clever fingers making short work of buckle and flies. In an instant, Q was in, nuzzling deeply around Bond’s hardening cock, seeking damp heat and musk. He inhaled sharply, his own arousal rising as Bond’s hands came up to tangle in his curls, caressing, very carefully not pulling. Bond was the most physically potent man he had ever seen – ever even imagined – and to have caught him so profoundly in this web of mutual desire, it was the most powerful Q had felt in his life.

Nuzzles progressed at speed to kisses, to little licks, to less-than-gentle laving. With the flat of his tongue, Q swept up Bond’s cock from root to tip, again and again, now pausing to ghost breaths over the head, now tracing teeth delicately up over straining veins. Oh, the teeth. Q knew James’ cock, knew every silken inch of it, and loved it as his own. The slight, sharp scrape of teeth had an electrifying effect upon Bond, who hissed and bucked up into Q’s mouth, as much as his binding clothing allowed.

Pain deferred. Trust given. They danced their dance.

“You devil,” Bond whispered. Q could only grunt in response as he concentrated on repeating the effect. Took the head of Bond’s cock gently, so gently, between his front teeth, and slid it in and out, in and out, no suction, just wet, hard, hot, a hint of sharpness tracing each subtle contour. Bond groaned deeply; brought a hand to his face and covered his eyes. “Please, Q. Darling. Please.”

At once, Q swallowed him down to the hilt, sucking deeply before gripping the base of his cock between his teeth, drawing a shuddering whine from the man under him. “Christ, Q. Jesus fucking Christ.”

Q hummed, sucked up and down again, over and over.

“Just like that, love. Oh, just… Don’t stop.” For long minutes, the only sound in the room was breathing: one man's careful and measured, the other's panting and desperate.

But gradually, Q allowed his rhythm to slow, brought his hands up to Bond’s trousers and forced them down, eventually pulling off his cock to remove them completely. Bond groaned, thrust his fingers into Q’s wild locks and pulled him roughly in for a kiss, deep and long. The things Bond couldn’t say, couldn’t even bring himself to think, were the very same thing his body couldn’t conceal – not from this man, not now. Q was trembling and breathless when they broke apart. Bond was so strong; so terrifyingly brittle. Q ached with tenderness. “I’ll make you come, James. I’ll take good care of you.”

“You always do, Q,” Bond replied, kissing him again.

Finally, Q sank back to the floor, and in a single graceful motion hitched Bond’s naked legs over his shoulders as he took Bond’s straining cock in his hand. “I want all of you in my mouth. All of you,” he murmured. He wanted to consume him. His hand took up a punishing rhythm on Bond’s cock, while he nosed his way in, further down, licking trails around testicles, perineum, and below.

Pressing Bond’s legs even higher, Q’s clever tongue wormed its way down, exploring that sublime cleft, burrowing ever deeper, while his hand continued to work Bond’s cock. He dove, he basked, he luxuriated; Q adored being so buried, so surrounded by his lover, seeing, smelling, feeling only him. His quiet sighs of appreciation were barely audible, but Bond heard. Heard, and remembered, and locked tight away. At last, Q’s tongue reached the tight pucker of dark flesh, the door inside, and without hesitation it delved, it massaged, it laved. It worshiped.

With eyes closed, he pushed his tongue ever deeper as drops of precome began to fall from the straining cock in his fist. Bond swore, extravagantly, and Q felt his body tense all around him, legs gripping his shoulders, hands in his hair, back beginning to arch. Quickly, he licked back up to Bond’s cock and took it deeply in his mouth. Bond cried out, and Q felt him begin to pulse. Ropes of salt and bitter-sweet filled his mouth; Bond shuddered and shook, Q swallowed. And again.

Q felt Bond’s strangled gasps all the way to his marrow. He shivered. Rock hard, himself, and still fully clothed. Laid his head again in Bond’s lap, as they breathed together.

Quite often, in their office encounters, Bond would barely have to touch him to reciprocate; sometimes Q wouldn’t even want to come, himself. “The tension is useful,” he would say. Or: “I like the anticipation more. I’ll be thinking about you for the rest of the day.” Bond could be a right lazy bastard sometimes, and he did not object, for which Q was eminently grateful.

Finally, Bond stirred. Pulled Q up into his lap and settled him snugly against his chest. Snuffled into his hair, sighing contentedly. “Christ. I do enjoy your hair.” His hands dropped lower, suggestively. “Can I…?”

“Yes, please. Any plans for tomorrow morning? Because I want you in my bed. I’d like you to fuck me slowly, for absolutely ages, until we both come screaming, and sleep all the rest of the day to make up for it. I want to think about it every second until then. Yes?”

“God, yes.”

And then Bond would sit back, gazing fondly at the feverish bundle of activity that had already moved to the desk beside him, scanning the emailed briefs and updates that had come in while his attention had been elsewhere. Quickly, always very quickly, Q would press a warm kiss to Bond’s mouth, another to a minute scar on his temple, and head back out to the control room, unconsciously licking his lips.

And if his eyes were a little brighter, his cheeks slightly flushed, wheels turning subtly, brilliantly faster, well, no one was so gauche as to dwell on the reason.