Work Text:
Q has noticed that on weekend afternoons, Bond likes to be at home. On the sunny ones, he enjoys dragging Q into the shower, where the afternoon light shines in, making Q’s small London bathroom look uncharacteristically tropical. Even on freezing cold days, it seems like the warmest place in the world to be, lit up golden and full of steam.
Sometimes, they do just shower. Bond will wash Q’s hair with slow hands, pressing kisses to his neck and whispering words that seem too precious to exist outside their little paradise. Q will do the same, working calmly through the few seconds of tension in Bond’s shoulders every time.
(You see, James Bond is good at many things, but allowing himself to be taken care of is not one of them.)
But Q’s favourite part of those days is how Bond kisses him afterwards in a long, lazy thanks he can never seem to spell out in words.
That’s only sometimes, though.
Most of the time, they fuck.
On one lovely autumn afternoon, Q finds himself backed against the shower wall at the mercy of a ferocious kiss. It’s a full-body affair that makes his blood turn hot and his knees weaken. He’d been steered into the bathroom the moment he’d finished putting a record on with the intent of savouring his fourth Earl Grey of the day. Even with water coming down fiercely around him, he can still hear the muffled sound of Nina Simone singing about feeling good.
“I’ve been waiting for this all day,” says Bond, voice low and velvety.
As if Q hasn't been crawling out of his skin with that same want.
He and Bond are of a height, but it somehow never matters when they’re like this. Bond feels twice his size. There have been afternoons where Q’s enjoyed that display of strength in this shower, enjoyed Bond lifting him up onto his cock and driving into him, one hand gripping Q’s waist and the other planted securely next to his head. Bond speaking utter filth into his ear as Q gasped, ragged, around the enduring stream of water. Feeling it everywhere, hot and cleansing.
A repeat performance evidently isn’t on Bond’s agenda today. Q only has a moment to throw his hands out in front of him before he’s being turned and pressed up against the wall, his already pebbled nipples brushing against the warming tile. He puffs a delirious breath to the ceiling.
Bond grazes the back of Q’s neck with his teeth. Soon, he’s pressing his hands into Q’s own, interlocking them while he marks Q up — something Q never minds, so long as the plump red marks remain beneath his shirt collar — before sliding them down Q’s arms, his chest, his ribs, and then lower. They pause at Q’s hips, drawing light circles over jutting bone. Q yelps when they wander over a sensitive spot just above his cock. He flinches backwards to avoid it, only to run into the hard length of Bond resting in the crease of his arse.
Overcome, Q turns his head for a kiss, a luscious brush of warm lips underwater. His hair clings to his forehead, and as clean as he is, he feels an absolutely wretched mess.
“Good God, James.”
“I want to taste you,” murmurs Bond. Q’s ever-ticking brain grinds to a momentary halt. Fortunately, he’s always been quick to recover, even with Bond’s cock right where he wants it.
“Well, you won’t hear any objection from me.”
“I never do.”
That makes Q blush. He can only hope the heat of the shower masks it. He tries, in general, not to let on about how much he enjoys this one specific act. Perhaps it’s decades of being haunted by a uniquely British sort of repression, but he’s always found asking for it a bit uncouth, regardless of how much his bed partner might want to hear it. Fortunately, Bond has an exceptional talent for reading people, desires that match Q’s own, and a belligerent urge to please.
He feels Bond drop to his knees behind him, and he has a momentary, utterly unsexy thought about Bond’s bad knee.
“Will you be—”
There’s a wet smack as Bond taps his arse.
“Now, now. Reminding a man of his ageing body just isn’t the done thing when he’s about to stick his tongue in your arse.”
An embarrassed noise makes its way up through Q’s throat, and he hears Bond chuckle. Even so, he takes mercy on Q, squeezing his thigh while he tells him to relax.
“I’ll be fine,” Bond assures. He touches a sensitive spot at the back of Q’s knee, and Q nearly buckles. “You, on the other hand…”
“Oh, piss off.” It’s half-hearted. Bond is right. Not once has Q managed to keep his wits about him when his body is getting played like this.
With a sigh, Q turns his head to glance at their muted, steam-covered reflection in the glass. In it, Q doesn’t look like a whole man. Just as he doesn’t feel like one with water running fast between his thighs and Bond’s breath closing in on him. He looks, fascinated, at the places where the golden light catches his outline; the curve of his hip; the blunt sharpness of his shoulder; the pitched curve of his cock, dripping with water; and the back of his thigh, moving in a straight line down to where Bond’s hands are.
Those hands move up, up, up until Q can feel them spreading his cheeks. The shock of air is shorter here than it would be in a bed, humidity clinging to that already humid ditch. Bond’s fingers linger there for a long time, stroking and kneading until Q pushes back into it. He’s so warm, so close to where Q needs that heat. Breath hovers like a physical touch over that secret crease at the top of Q’s thigh, more targeted and suffocating than the steam gathering around them. All at once, Q wants Bond’s hands there. His teeth, too, and his tongue. Wants to see that soft cleft of skin bruised and worked over in the morning. Wants to feel a different wetness than the stream pummelling his shoulders and turning his skin bright red.
“James, for heaven’s sake—”
“A please wouldn’t go amiss.”
Oh, now that’s unfair. Deeply unfair, considering Bond was the one who started in on this in the first place. I want to taste you, he’d said in that low, husky voice. How was Q ever supposed to exercise patience in response to that?
A too-desperate plea catches in Q’s throat. In the glass, he sees a flash of Bond’s grin. And then, finally, he gets what he wants. The first touch of Bond’s tongue splinters Q with pleasure. His nerves sing, and he does too, letting slip a rather humiliating whimper.
All too soon, Bond is pulling away. Q could sob with frustration.
“You’re lovely, Q. This really is my favourite part of the week.”
Trust Bond to murmur sweet nothings into the least sweet place of all. He keeps at it for a few moments that feel like small eternities, making Q writhe with edginess. He's always been awful at accepting compliments, not least about his cock.
He’s about to tell Bond to just get the hell on with it when he’s interrupted by another one of his own strangled sounds. Bond is licking at him again, every touch of his tongue a lush, broad tease that fits the mood of a lazy afternoon. Q wriggles back into it, impatient, but Bond holds his hips still. It seems he’s intent on taking his time.
There’s so much wetness; the scalding heat of the shower is the least of it. In the tight seam of his arse, the barest hint of stubble on Bond’s cheek makes Q ticklish and sensitive, tingling deliciously where hot water streams in. Bond grips him tighter to hold him still, then licks harder and more precisely around that tight furl. His tongue is a blazing hot point against Q’s rim, where it tries to push in. He’s unsuccessful the first time. Q is too tense with pleasure. His head falls forward onto his arm, and he moans as Bond tries again. There are hands rubbing up and down Q’s thighs, massaging. Fingers catching at the wiry hair on the back of his legs. He imagines the intent is to soothe, but it feels like everything is scorching. Q might faint here like some sort of bloody maiden, and he’ll never live it down. Gasping around a mouthful of water, he can think of nothing else exceptplease, please, please, more.
“All right?” asks Bond. He leans back for a moment, and Q misses his mouth immediately. He can feel the pressure of Bond’s blunt thumb, which is a lovely new pleasure, but it doesn’t compensate for the luxuriant feel of Bond’s tongue.
Once he’s caught his breath again, Q reaches back and guides Bond’s head back into place. Bond smiles against him, right there at the slackening rim of his entrance.
Bond shows no mercy after that. His tongue finally slips inside, plunging and searching relentlessly. And Q meets it over and over. It feels phenomenal. Intense and intimate and somehow, terrifyingly, he cannot get enough. It dawns on him some endless stretch of time later that he’s riding Bond’s face, which is both mortifying and the hottest thing he thinks he’s ever done. Bond clearly has no complaints. He alternates between thrusting his tongue in as far as he can and sucking noisily, groaning enthusiastically all the while as Q’s hand twists in his hair and pulls him forward. Q is flushed with some strange mix of self-consciousness and arousal, and Bond seems to delight in the chorus of soft sounds coming from his mouth. His litany of little ah, ah, ohs that drown out the sound of water.
Given long enough, Q thinks he could come like this, though his patience is thin, and he thinks it’s more likely than not that he’ll combust from all the heat first. Another time, he decides, letting go of Bond’s hair to wrap that hand around his cock. Bond is right there, too, following Q’s lead and entwining his own hand with Q’s to help him get off. The head of his cock bumps over the grooves between their fingers, and it feels—fuck, it's unbelievable. Warm. Wet. Fast Tight.
On and on it goes until Q feels like a coil, tightening and tightening. The vast plane under his skin tingles, and the world narrows to the feeling of Bond licking over his hole and pulling rapidly at his cock. He closes his eyes against it, a white flash of pleasure lighting up behind his eyelids as one particular stroke hits just right. It is dizzying, and wonderful, and quite possibly a little bit frightful to be this far out of his head, but he can’t come down from it. Not before he—shit, Christ.
Somewhere above it all, he hears himself babbling nonsense. A dozen yeses; and there, right there; and please don’t stop; and God, oh, God; and James, James, fucking hell, James.
The vibration of Bond’s responding groan sends him over the edge. The release is a true explosion—swift and brutal. Q’s teeth bite into his unoccupied hand, muffling a long gasp as he comes, pulse after pulse of his spend hitting the shower wall only to disappear under rivulets of water. His hand slips, and he stumbles in place. In the end, Bond is the only thing holding him up. And just as he begins to straighten himself up, to surface from that world of pleasure, Bond hums into him. It sets him alight all over again. The low, intense fire in Q’s gut drives him forward once more, bringing forth a weak spurt of come that clings to their hands. It’s not until Q is writhing on the edge of discomfort that Bond draws back, letting go and moving his kisses from Q’s arse to the curve at the bottom of his spine.
When Q is sure he can move without his legs giving out, he turns around to stare down at a very smug agent.
“Proud of yourself?”
“You might say that,” replies Bond.
He stands with remarkable grace, given the state of his knees. And what a sight it is to see Bond like this—flushed pink from the punishingly hot water with his cock standing to attention, begging for relief. The tip of it shines an enticing reddish-purple to match the darkened red spots on his knees.
Q cannot resist touching. With a trembling hand, he works over the contours of Bond’s abdomen, feeling the way Bond’s breath quickens ever so slightly. It would be imperceptible to anyone not paying attention. But Q, of course, is always paying attention.
When his hand reaches for that beautiful, burly cock, it gets batted away gently. Q rolls his eyes. For as much as he would never deny Q his pleasure, Bond delays his own occasionally in a sort of game Q has no hope of ever understanding. Undoubtedly it’s some test of endurance, some reassurance that James Bond is a pillar of resistance, thank you very much. In fact, he’s the world’s most in-control man.
Or perhaps he only does it because if the whole charade goes on long enough, Q will do almost anything to tear that control apart.
Bond’s eyes bore into Q’s, as if he can read the thoughts in Q’s head. It’s not long before Q once again finds himself backed into the shower wall, the fortunate victim of one of Bond’s insistent, thorough kisses. Bond’s hands tangle in Q’s hair tightly enough to sting beautifully—the appropriate retribution for Q’s earlier demands. As he presses Q further into the tiles, Bond’s hardness meets Q’s softening, spent cock. It’s not up for much in the immediate future but will certainly be up for a challenge later.
In any case, the afternoon light is gone now, and Q’s fingers are turning pruny. It’s time for a change of location.
“Come on,” whispers Bond against his mouth. Somewhere behind Q, he’s turning off the shower taps one-handed. “Let’s continue this somewhere more comfortable, shall we?”
Q gives him one last decadent kiss. "Let's."