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Impulsion

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It comes in the post and Q tears into the brown paper parcel like a creature starved, ripping cardboard with his fingers and finally—shamefully—his keys when it won’t open for him.  The packaging is discreet, just as promised.  The label is innocuous; it has his name, or at least the fake name he has the flat registered to, and it doesn’t follow it with “—is a sodding great perv-o”, which is more of a relief than he’d have thought it would be.  Then he’s through the thick, corrugated paper and the styrofoam beans and the strip of air bladders that’s intended to protect—

The box is small.  Larger than he’s expected.  Light enough he doubts there’s anything inside.  Heavy enough he can’t budge it with his shaking fingers.  The anticipation is killing him.  So is the fear.  He lifts the flap on the red and black box and there it is, snugged in its vacuformed plastic nest.

It’s.  The curves of it are.  His fingers wriggle over the sleek skin of the device, shaking with nerves and anticipation.  It looks elegant, sleek, and if he didn’t know that it was a—the nerves get the best of him and he shoves the toy under his pillow, turns on the telly, watches a few reruns of Top Gear on Dave and then considers catching the exact same ones on Dave Ja Vu before turning off the screen with a decisive click of the remote.  He’s being ridiculous.

Q fishes the device—the sex toy, he makes himself think, even if he can’t come closer to saying it aloud than mouthing the words as he touches it—from under the pillow.  It really is lovely, and he thinks that a casual observer might be forgiven for thinking it a piece of modern art.  It’s also—he gulps, weighing the heft of it in his hands.  He promised—though what sort of boyfr—partn—lover? he settles for lover—what sort of lover makes his—paramour? Q chokes on the words again, because this thing they have isn’t writ in words; it’s writ in sunlit afternoons in bed counting Bond’s eyelashes while he pretends to work on his tablet; it’s writ in hands on his ribs in the moonlight; it’s writ in the tiny, devastated droop of Bond’s lip each time they kiss at the front door to his flat because one of them is off to save the world again—but who makes someone promise to buy a sex toy to amuse themselves while they’re gone?  He’s feeling petulant.  Q leaves it on the nightstand among the cords of his headphones and next to the wireless mouse he’s been gutting, and in the morning he’s forgot all about it.

And it’s his own fault, really, because he does know that his nightstand is where projects go to die and that everything that he places there will be instantly rendered invisible to him, but when Bond comes back, after he’s greeted him at the door in his apron like a nuclear housewife—never mind that it’s a welding apron—and after they’ve tumbled into bed together, laughing and affectionate and fond, and after Bond’s brought him to a toe-curling orgasm and come hot across the skin of his lower back, and after Q’s let Bond lick his skin clean like a lazy cat and followed the trails of his tongue with a damp flannel that’s slightly chilled with the cool evening’s air, after, when he’s lying flushed and sated under the weight of Bond’s arm, Bond reaches across him and picks it up.  It.  The sex toy.  Q flushes a deep, mortified pink.

“What’s this, then?” Bond asks, turning the toy over in his hands.

“Oh, it’s just—” Q tells him, waving his hand in a way that doesn’t come across as half as casual as he means it to.  “A thing.”

“Well,” Bond agrees with a laugh.  “I’d gathered that much.  What does it do?”  And when Q goes a deeper, hotter red, Bond’s laugh turns delighted.  “Is it—?  Did you use it?  While I was gone?  What does it do?”

Because it’s not readily available, Q knows.  It’s not intuitive, but he’s watched enough videos—“I,” he starts, then coughs.  Starts again: “I didn’t.  Actually.  While you were away.”  And Bond’s face drops a bit at that, but how does Q explain that the idea actually frightened him?  That he’d been excited enough watching the videos and reading the testimonials with his hand in his pants but frozen up at the thought of—?  Bond turns it over in his hands again.  “I thought we’d.  Do it together?”

They toy looks deceptively small between Bond’s fingers.  He hooks them through the loops at the base, makes a thrusting motion by rocking his wrist, and Q stills him with a gentle hand.  “That’s not how it works.”

He’s done his research, watched the videos and read blogs and even the instructions sheet that’s still wadded up under the bed where he kicked it in a fit of frustration.  It’s simple.  It’s incredibly simple.  “Show me, then?” Bond asks against the skin of his throat, and Q shivers as the sweat on his skin cools.  He nods.

He’s still lubed from their hello earlier, still slick enough that when he plants his feet on the duvet it’s easy to rock his hips up and ease it in.  Bond spots him a pillow beneath his arse, and as he sinks back against it Q can feel the moment the toy finds the right spot like the click of a part snapping into the place where it belongs.  He takes a deep breath and shudders when he releases it.

“Now?” Bond asks, intrigued.

“We wait.  Ten minutes, by popular assessment.”  Because he’s done his research, but actually having the thing in him is making him dizzy.  “It’s called an aneros, the way moving stairs are called an escalator or a clasp locker is called a zipper: when a company comes along that perfects something, their name becomes the item.  This one is made by Aneros—it’s called the Eupho.”  He feels perfectly ridiculous speaking about it with the red and black toy shoved up his arse; when he breathes in, he clenches around it, and—!

Q’s eyes squeeze shut.  He can feel his hips trying to tip away from the pressure, but there’s nowhere to go; he can hear himself making low keening sounds and his fingers clench on the pillowcase beneath his arse as if he could tear through it.  His cock is still lolling sleepily along the crease of his left thigh, but it’s drooling.  He’s going to make a dreadful mess, he realises, because that’s what this thing does: it’s going to milk him through at least one orgasm.  He’s going to come.  A fine trembling sets up in his limbs as he clenches around it, each sucking kiss of his muscles around the toy’s thick shaft dragging it in, nudging it firmly against his prostate until he’s having trouble catching his breath and Bond’s sitting wide-eyed beside him,, watching as he writhes.

The first full wave of pleasure is tidal, larger than anything he’s ever felt before, large enough to sweep him away like so much fluff, and then he’s twitching, spasming around himself because his body won’t stop clenching, releasing, clenching, releasing, dragging the toy across his prostate with unerring, deadly accuracy.  He’s laughing, he realises, chuckling low in his throat with a voice that’s almost clucking, and he flails, grabs Bond’s hand and clings.  Bond’s watching with open wonder as the dry orgasm brushes over him and leaves him thrumming in its wake.

“God,” Bond mutters with the eyes of the devout.  “My god.”

Q’s still chuckling weakly when he shifts his leg and it starts again, merciless and devastating and total.  He isn’t expecting it, not really—customer reviews can be a bit enthusiastic, and who could ever expect this?—as the moments stretch out like treacle, thick and cloyingly sweet, overwhelmingly so.  That shaking sets up in his knees again and he wobbles, because it’s not fading.  The feeling’s not fading, and another dry orgasm clenches its dirty, come-slick fingers around his guts, yanking and tugging until he’s making high, broken sounds.  It squeezes him tight, loosening long enough for him to sob for air but never fully letting go, and he slides into the third with a rattling sob that shakes him wholly.  His arse is still pulsing, still driving the toy inside of him until he’s no longer sure he can call these dry orgasms as the pool of precome slips down the side of his abdomen, soaking into the duvet.  There’s so much of it; he’s sticky and slick and overheating, and there’s the start of a cramp in the thighs that are locked taut and juddering with the force of his body’s hesitant, rocking thrusts.  Time has melted away from him and he’s a syrupy ball of orgasms, wadded and left on the bed to suffer his pleasure.

Bond’s hand on his belly jolts him out of it, fingers gentle on his quaking abdomen.  At first, Q doesn’t know what he’s doing, and then Bond’s thumb brushes the head of his cock and he doesn’t care—this orgasm’s fuller, deeper, like he’s being turned inside out through his cock, and he can feel his mind shutting down methodically behind the shattering roll of sensation.  When he reboots, it feels like it’s minutes later; there’s a lake of come across his body and the toy is lying in it innocuous and innocent as if it had not just ripped his bollocks out and jangled them for loose change.  Everything is sore—not just his arse and his cock and his balls but his back, too, and his abs and the tendons in his throat.  Bond combs his fingers through Q’s hair tenderly.

“Got it all out?” Bond asks, and Q grimaces.  A shower, definitely, but he’s got the strong impression that if he stood now his legs would go out from beneath him like Bambi on ice.

“Christ.”  It’s all he can say and it sounds weak; his voice is strained and he wonders how loudly he was screaming.

“I’ll say.”  Bond touches the toy and Q’s stomach jumps beneath his fingertips reflexively.

“How many?” Q asks, because he’s curious.

“Hard to say.  At least four; probably more.  Long.  Plentiful,” Bond adds, lifting the by-now-cold flannel to scoop away the worst of the mess.

“I feel absolutely hollow inside,” Q breathes.

“How the hell did you find—internet research,” Bond answers his own question with a rueful smile.  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t attempt it on your own.  I’d have come home to a Q-shaped jelly.”

“’S what you’ve got now,” Q agrees.  Bond’s thigh is warm by his head and he flumps his way over to press his face to it.  “A smelly, come-scented Q jelly.”

“My favorite kind.  That thing was bloody intimidating.  I’m frightened of it.”

“You should be,” Q murmurs into Bond’s leg.  “We’re running away together.  We’re going to be very happy, once I regain mobility from the waist down.”

Bond doesn’t say anything, just strokes Q’s sweaty head.

“Missed you,” he confesses to the wool under him.  Bond’s hand stills, then continues until he falls asleep. Q can hear his smile.