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“You need to get laid,” Eve said over dinner. She’d been watching Bond through the entire meal, and apparently saw something in his face that told her more than what he intended.

“Are you offering?” he said, the eyebrow quirk almost entirely by reflex.

“No, and you know it,” she said. It was true, of course; a few well-remembered nights aside, they weren’t particularly suited in the bedroom, and certainly not for his current desires. Eve wouldn’t kneel for anyone. On the other hand, he was now in the novel position of being friends with a woman he’d slept with, and strangely enough, he wanted to keep it that way.

Which is why he allowed her ill-concealed prying into his personal life, and did the occasional prying of his own.

“You know we’d be explosive together,” he said.

“Oh, no,” she said. “Try again. Your heart wasn’t in that one.”

He shook his head and took a sip of his martini. (Not a Vesper. He didn’t drink those unless he wanted the melancholy.)

“So,” Eve said a moment later. “You. A good shag. Are we talking about the way you stare at the scrawny new quartermaster, or not?”

He blinked. “Not,” he said.

“Ah, well,” she said. “It was worth a try. But what is it about him that you’re looking for right now?”

Bond slanted her a glance. “I thought we weren’t talking about it.”

“We’re not.” She tapped her fingers on the table. “However, if you don’t tell me what you want, how can I help you acquire it?”

He frowned. “Eve, love, you’re phenomenal, but I rather doubt I need your help to find a bedmate.”

“I beg to differ.”

At moments like this, he understood why being M’s admin wasn’t actually a demotion for the former field agent. “Fine.” He leaned in and murmured, “Perhaps my tastes have strayed a bit toward the exotic. Can you possibly disagree, that the boy would look fine on his knees?”

“First, that’s hardly a secret, James,” she said, looking as amused as she sounded. “Second, power play is somewhat less exotic than your shaving fetish--”

Your shaving fetish,” he said, correcting her. At her raised eyebrow, he said, “I was more than happy to go along for the ride.”

Eve snorted. “Nonetheless. And yes, everyone in the entire agency with even a smidge of dominance in his or her system wants that boy on his knees.” She looked over his shoulder, her gaze unfocused, for a moment, and then sharpened. “Although you seem to have made your interest known to most of them.”

“Them?” It was his turn to raise an eyebrow.

“Us,” she said with a shrug.

“Yes, well,” he said. “Can’t have him; he’s not interested. I’d still like a boy on his knees. They’re not that hard to come by. I might go to Chains this weekend.”

Eve snorted. “Haven’t been around London much lately, have you?”

“You know where I’ve been as well as I do,” he said.

“Closed a month ago.”

“Oh,” he said. “Then--”

But Eve was already sliding a card across the table that she’d produced from who-knows-where, a black business card with a whip embossed in one corner and an address in small white letters in the opposite corner. “Its replacement,” she said, “although it’s rather nicer than Chains ever was.”

“Hm,” Bond said. He didn’t necessarily want nice; he rather wanted quick and dirty if it wasn’t with Q himself, but he didn’t deny that the idea of clean floors and properly-set-up rooms appealed. He pocketed the card, though. “Been there?” he asked.

“Once or twice,” she said, and the half-smile on her face told him all he needed to know.

*

However, there were still two days until the weekend, which left Bond stalking around MI6, avoiding his office and anything like work.

Frankly, Eve was right: he needed to get laid.

Sure, he’d seduced a Latvian spy during his last mission, but that wasn’t sex; that was work. He wanted to relax, and for that, really, he either needed a familiar partner (currently in short supply) or he needed his partner’s submission.

And by ‘his partner,’ he really meant ‘that mouthy little fucker currently heading up Q branch.’ Ugh.

It had ceased being a faint interest--he was faintly interested in everyone he came into contact with; it was a side effect of his job and his training and his personality--and started heading toward a mild obsession after Q had actually smiled at him for bringing back a radio in one piece.

Which was ridiculous, really. Done in by a smile? Certainly not. He was James Bond, Double-Oh Seven. He could pursue with the best of them, but he didn’t--fixate.

Except, apparently, when he did.

Bond didn’t know if Q was particularly into the kinky side of sex, but by God, he hoped he was. Just the idea of pushing the boy to his knees was making him hard, and as he was currently walking along the corridor toward M’s office to meet Eve for tea, it wasn’t exactly good timing. He ducked into a doorway and stood for a moment, forcing his body back under control.

The knowing smirk that Eve gave him when he appeared in her office grated on his nerves. Well, that decided it: he’d go explore that club tomorrow night.

*

The thirty or so hours before he could go weren’t torture; he’d been tortured, thank you, and this was merely an inconvenience. But he was definitely preoccupied, and resorted to a couple of hours in the shooting range to up his qualification numbers just to waste time.

Bond left Vauxhall Cross a little after 7, which was unconscionably early, but M was off-site and Eve wasn’t going to tattle on him.

(He absolutely didn’t check on Q before he left. Actually, he made a point of avoiding the Q Branch’s department altogether, and had for the last couple days.)

He got to the club around 2200, dressed in a three-piece suit so dark grey that it was almost black, conservatively-cut, with a white shirt and a plain black tie. The sign out front merely had the same stylized whip on it, and the address was lit up, white on black.

He surrendered his ID at the door, or at least an ID he was carrying that had his picture on it, albeit a different name. It would pass all but the most rigorous of inspections, as long as he remembered he was James Winston for the evening. He wasn’t carrying a gun or a knife, and they didn’t ask about exploding pens or specially-encrypted mobile phones, so he walked into the main part of the club a moment later.

It, well, looked like a BDSM club, with low lighting, dark wood, maroon velvet, and leather; couples (and more) of every gender combination sat, lay, or sprawled over most available surfaces. Unattached Doms kept court in one corner, and single subs roamed the room.

Bond headed to the bar first and got himself a scotch on the rocks before heading for the Dom corner. He didn’t know any of the people there--six men and four women--but he recognized their type, like calling to like and all. “May I join you?” he asked, addressing one woman in a black leather corset and pencil-skirt combo. The spike heels on her over-the-knee boots were noticeably higher than any of the other women’s, and it was clear she was the queen bee at the moment.

She gave him an exceedingly bored look and said, “I suppose you might as well.”

“Cheers,” he said, and perched on the arm of the couch. He took a sip of his drink and flicked his gaze around the room.

“What are you looking for?” one of the other men, in leather head to toe, asked him.

“Ugh, it’s probably something hideously tedious, like a pretty little girl to perch on his knee and call him ‘Daddy,’” Queen Bee said. She flicked her fingers in his direction dismissively.

“That has its merits,” Bond said judiciously, “but no, I’ve rather a fondness for boys with tattoos and eyeliner and a particular liking for the single-tail.” All true, a certain coworker notwithstanding.

“Also tedious,” Queen Bee said, but about half the Doms were nodding in agreement. “There’s no shortage of them here, fortunately for you.” Somehow she managed to make it sound utterly dismissive. “As a matter of fact, earlier this evening I thought about playing with one, but I have a no-nipple-rings policy.”

Bond blinked. He couldn’t think of a possible reason for a policy like that, but all right. “And?”

She shrugged. “He’ll wander back through, unless he’s been claimed.”

Well, all right. He raised his glass and said again, “Cheers.”

After watching one of the men pick out a curvy sub with long hair and a leather mini, and one of the women go off with a man in a kilt and an intricate harness, Bond was almost feeling as bored as the Queen Bee. He threw back the last of his scotch, and almost started when Queen Bee nudged him with her toe. “There he is,” she said, tipping her head to one side.

He followed her gaze and saw a slender young man, pale-skinned and dark-haired, leather pants painted on, cuffs around each wrist, and an intricate pattern of tattoos over his bare shoulders and biceps. His hair was sweaty and tousled, his eyes smeared with eyeliner, and--

He’s not wearing his glasses, Bond thought, realizing he was staring.

At Q.

In leather pants. With tattoos, makeup, and nipple rings.

“Excuse me,” Bond said, and Q looked up, startled. “I don’t believe we know each other, but I’d be interested in changing that.” He set down his glass with a click.

In the background, he could her Queen Bee say, “Ugh, that is the worst line imaginable,” but he paid her no mind as Q stared at him for a moment, licking his lips.

Bond pushed up off the couch, putting himself right in front of Q, who was, he noticed dimly, wearing boots with enough of a heel to put him very close to Bond’s own height. A long moment passed, and finally Q responded--with a quirked eyebrow.

Mouthy little bastard, even without saying a word.

“You can call me James,” Bond said.

“If I call you anything at all,” Q said.

“Regardless.” Bond jerked his head toward the back wall. “There are rooms. Can we talk?”

Q looked down briefly, eyes shaded by ridiculous lashes. “With a chaperone,” he said.

“I’ll do it.”

The voice came from Bond’s left, and perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised to realize it was Queen Bee talking. He merely raised an eyebrow and looked at Q, who nodded.

She still looked a little bored, but she stood in one fluid motion and stalked over to the back door, leading them to a small room with a table and two chairs. There was a small stack of paper on top of the table, and Bond pulled it toward him with two fingers. Ah, a checklist and a reminder of the club’s rules. It would be a good place to start the discussion.

A club employee brought in a third chair and disappeared soundlessly, and Bond, Q, and the Queen Bee--whose named turned out to be Regina, fittingly--sat. Bond picked up a pen, grabbed a copy of the contract, and started filling in the blanks. He wrote ‘James’ above ‘Dom,’ and then hesitated, tip of the pen just above the paper. “What shall I call you?” he asked Q.

Q frowned.

“Simon?” Regina said, although it sounded more as if she were trying to get Q’s attention than asking a question.

Simon wasn’t Q’s real name, though--Bond knew that, although he didn’t know which of the four pseudonyms he’d found was the name Q had been born with, if any--but he just waited for Q.

“‘Simon’ is fine for the paper,” Q said finally, “but you can call me ‘boy.’”

“All right.” Bond scribbled in ‘Simon’ above ‘sub.’ He went through the Dom column and ticked off a handful of boxes. Setting the pen on the paper, he slid both over to Q and watched him tick his own boxes.

What a surprise--they largely overlapped, although Bond had never actually fisted a man. He thought he might like to try, though, provided that man--boy--was Q.

Regina looked over the paper and nodded, once, apparently satisfied.

“So,” Bond said, “frame or cross, single-tail to the back, perhaps twelve strokes, warm up with a flogger?”

Q nodded. “Yes, James,” he said. Well-trained, that one. “And another thing.” He met Bond’s eyes easily. “No fucking. I’ll beg for it, beg for your cock, but I don’t want it. I’ll suck you off or you can toss off onto me but no anal penetration.”

Bond swallowed, instantly hard, of course. “No fucking,” he said. Not tonight, anyway, his mind added, traitor that it was. “Condoms for oral sex?”

Q tilted his head to one side, and Bond knew why: as a field agent, he got tested for STIs practically every time he turned around and he was, at last check, perfectly healthy. “No,” Q said after a moment. “I don’t like the way they taste. Provided you’re clean, of course.”

“Perfectly. You have my word on that,” Bond added, mostly to Regina.

“All right,” Regina said. “James, I need to speak to you for a moment.”

Bond nodded and followed her to a different room.

“Two things,” she said, and now she didn’t sound bored at all; she was all business. “First, I cannot allow you to use a whip on a fellow club member without gaining some idea of your abilities, especially since I’m reasonably certain you and Simon have never played before. Second, and relatedly, you and Simon do seem to know each other, so I’m asking: what is your game here?”

As much as he didn’t want to answer her, some portion of his mind acknowledged her as a good Domme, watching out for a sub she wasn’t even involved with, and so he did reply. “We work together.”

“And are you in a position of power over him?”

“No,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “I wouldn’t say we’re equals, exactly, but we’re in very different departments.” True enough, and how exactly did one compare an elite agent with a license to kill with the head of the R & D branch?

“Did you come here looking for him?”

“I did not,” he said. “I came here looking for someone like, certainly, but I don’t suppose my tastes can be faulted.”

Regina actually smiled at the last, red-painted lips spread wide. “No, they cannot, James. However, rest assured that if anything negative comes of this, there will be consequences.”

“And if so, I accept them fully.” He met her gaze squarely. She didn’t know who she was threatening, and she undoubtedly didn’t know that Q had his own set of resources to deal with Bond or, really, anyone else, but he took the warning for what it meant to her.

She nodded once. “All right, then, let’s see you with a whip.”

It only took him about five minutes to convince her that he knew what he was doing, hitting a series of small targets painted on the wall and then wrapping the end of the whip around Regina’s wrist painlessly. “All right, all right, you’re a master,” she said, starting to sound bored again. “I don’t suppose you’d like to give a demonstration, one of these days.”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“Yes, well.” She pulled a case out of her cleavage and handed him a card: black, with the stylized whip in the corner and “Mistress Regina” in large and small caps the center, with a phone number in the bottom corner. “You know what to do. Now go play with your boy.”

“Thank you, Mistress Regina; you’ve been very helpful.”

She gave him an ironic, detached salute and left.

Another anonymous club employee came up to him and said, “Mr. Winston, you and your sub are in room 12 for the evening. Shall I put it on your account?”

“Yes.”

“This way, sir.”

Q was already in room 12, kneeling exactly in the center of the floor, eyes ahead of him, hands behind. Bond sucked in a breath and let it out before he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a click of the latch. He scanned the room briefly; saw the cameras in the corners, not even particularly hidden, and nodded at them.

A painted-black wooden St. Andrew’s Cross dominated one wall; near it was a table full of different size and length single-tail whips, as well as different floggers. A bed behind curtains sat unobtrusively in the corner; a mini fridge, a divan, and a low table formed another distinct area in a different corner. Bond approved of the room, the efficiency of the service, and the selection. He walked around Q slowly, making sure his shoes clicked on the wooden floor.

Q was--beautiful; there was no other word for it. His skin glowed under the incandescent light, throwing the curving black lines of his tattoos--and how had Bond not known he had any?--into stark relief. The same light picked out red and gold highlights in his hair and glinted off the silver of his nipple rings. His lashes were absurdly long, resting on his cheeks, and his lips were shiny as if he’d just licked them. No--he was wearing some sort of gloss. Bond wondered what it would taste like.

Well, he might find out later. Now, though, he had a scene to craft, and Q’s submission to win.

“Stand, boy,” he said, and Q got to his feet. It was a tad unsteady, but he kept his wrists together behind him. “What’s your safeword?”

“Dilithium,” Q said.

Bond raised his eyebrows at him.

“Dilithium, James,” Q amended.

Bond didn’t smile at the safeword itself--sure, he’d watched reruns of Star Trek as a kid, like everyone else--but he did get a splash of heat in his midsection at hearing his first name on Q’s tongue. “Do you need to be bound to the cross, or would you rather hold on to the straps?”

“There are rings on my wrist cuffs,” Q said, “but I would prefer just to hold onto the straps, James.”

“All right,” Bond said, although the image of using the rings on the cuffs was very tempting. “If you let go, I will stop, and we are done.”

Q nodded. “Yes, James.”

“Go to the cross; grab the straps.”

Q did, and Bond watched the muscles in his back and arse, the latter not hidden at all by his leather trousers, as he walked. With a minimum of fuss, Q positioned himself in front of the cross, spreading his feet wide enough apart to balance, looking down at them briefly before he reached up to find the leather straps attached to the top arms of the X. They were loops, and he hooked his wrists through them and held on.

“Very good,” Bond said and walked over to Q and the cross. He ran his fingertips very lightly down Q’s back, from the nape of his neck down to the waistband of his trousers, and then again with more pressure and flat palms. Q had ticked off the box for ‘painplay’ on the checklist, and Bond wanted to dig his fingernails into Q’s perfect skin, wanted to see him bleed, but they hadn’t negotiated for that. He could wait, despite the deep ache in his palms.

He swatted Q’s arse lightly, though, just because he could, and oh, was that satisfying.

Q turned his head to look over his shoulder, but Bond just raised his eyebrows at him and shrugged off his jacket, hanging it over the back of a chair. He dropped his cufflinks into a pocket and rolled his sleeves up a few turns, leaving most of his forearms bare. Walking over to the table with the floggers and whips, he sorted through the floggers on the table, discarding the rabbit-fur and horsehair and one that wasn’t even a full thirty centimeters. “Eyes on the wall, boy,” he said, selecting a suede flogger, medium length and medium density.

“Yes, James,” Q murmured as he turned back to face forward.

Bond didn’t bother asking if Q was ready; if he truly weren’t, he’d safeword out. The click of shoes on the floor was warning enough, and Bond could see that Q knew not to tense in anticipation. He stretched his arm above his head quickly to loosen his shoulder, rolled the handle of the flogger in his hand for a moment, feeling out the weight, and then struck.

The first hit was light, intended as a prelude more than anything. The tails hit Q’s ribs above his waist, spreading a light wash of color over pale skin. Q’s breath hitched a little, but he did not respond otherwise. Bond aimed his second hit at Q’s shoulder, just below the trailing edges of his tattoos; the skin reddened nicely there, too.

The third, fourth, and fifth hits effectively covered most of Q’s upper back with a flush. Bond stopped, inspected his handiwork for a moment, and said, “More, boy?”

“Yes, James, please,” Q said.

Bond took a step to the side; Q’s face was smooth, his eyes closed, and he didn’t look particularly affected by the scene. Well. It was only the warm-up, after all.

Strikes six, seven, and eight fell in rapid succession below Q’s shoulder blades: left, right, left. Nine was against his ribs on the right, and ten on the left. “More?”

“Yes, James, please.”

Q’s voice was a tad less even, and his shoulders were starting to show a slight amount of strain, but he wasn’t anywhere near where Bond wanted him to be yet. Bond stepped forward and dragged the tails up Q’s back from his rear to his shoulders.

Q inhaled sharply, not quite a gasp, and Bond nodded once, to himself. He backed up, considered Q’s back for a moment, and aimed for the flat of his right shoulder blade.

Q let out his breath in a shuddery whoosh, and now, now they were getting somewhere. “Good?” Bond said.

“Yes, James,” Q said.

All right, then. Four more strikes, alternating sides, and Q was starting to pant, his shoulders heaving, a fresh dew of sweat on his skin. Watching the lines of Q’s tattoos ripple as he breathed could possibly become Bond’s new favorite pastime, but he merely ran a hand over Q’s back lightly.

When Q groaned, he asked again, “Good?”

“Yes, good, James.”

“Five more?”

“Yes, please.”

Q’s back was reddened, but he didn’t appear to be in actual pain; if Bond stopped, the boy wouldn’t even bruise. He seemed to be enjoying himself, though, if the tiny thrusting motions of his hips meant anything.

Bond briefly wished he’d stripped off Q’s trousers and bent him over, so he could redden his rear end, but the temptation to fuck him would have been almost too much to bear. It was probably better this way.

(Save something for next time, murmured his brain, and he ignored it.)

Five more hits, evenly spaced, and Bond thought Q was probably ready to take the whip. He smoothed a hand down Q’s back, mostly to feel the boy’s muscles quivering and the heat under his palm. Q made a strangled little sound in the back of his throat, and Bond nearly groaned himself. He’d been hard since he’d taken off his jacket--maybe before that, really: since he saw Q kneeling--but this wasn’t about that, not yet. But soon. Soon, he’d push the boy to his knees.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes, James,” Q said.

Bond stroked Q’s back one more time, and then headed for the table. He sorted through the whips, finding one about two meters long, handle a good diameter for his grip. Cracking it in the air once or twice, he nodded to himself again: the balance and weight were both good.

He returned to Q and cracked the whip in the air a meter or so away from the cross. Q shivered, and Bond cracked the whip again, wrapping the tail around Q’s wrist, and then his other wrist. Q made another one of those strangled little sounds, but didn’t say anything.

“Twelve strokes,” Bond said, moving to the side to position himself for horizontal stripes down Q’s back. “Count.”

“Yes, James.”

Bond took a deep breath and focused on Q’s back, on the point where he wanted to hit. He bent his knees, raised the whip, and let it fly.

It hit Q’s back exactly where he wanted it, leaving a thin red line without cutting the skin just across his shoulder blades. Q gasped and jerked against the straps. “One, James,” Q said a moment later, his voice still under control.

Bond could fix that.

The second strike hit a couple of centimeters below the first, no lighter, on the opposite side of his back, and left a second line to match. “Two, James,” Q said with another gasp.

Three and four continued the pattern, left and then right, each separated by a finger-width. Q counted the third with only a hitch of his breath but then said, “Four, oh, James, please.”

“Please, more?” Bond asked. He was reasonably certain it wasn’t please stop.

“Yes, oh, God, please more.”

Bond leaned forward and ran his fingertips over the welts on Q’s back, feeling the slightly-raised skin, and felt--taller, maybe. Stronger. He resettled his hand on the whip handle, squared his shoulders, and struck.

“Five, oh, God, James.”

“Six, James, please, oh, please.”

“Seven--ah! Oh, James--fuck me.”

By eight, Q was sobbing, tears running down his face and Bond loved it. The boy was exactly where he wanted him, overloaded and so deep in the pain-pleasure that the last four strikes would just be icing on the cake.

“Nine, oh, please, James, God, just fuck me now--table, bed, floor, I don’t care, your choice. It’ll be good, oh, I’ll be good, I know you’ll make it good, make me be good, please, James, please, oh--Ten, thank you, James, so much, that was so good, please, bend me over the chair, please fuck me, it’ll be so--ohhhhhhhh--Eleven--I can’t--James--” His monologue broke off and he hauled in a few deep breaths.

Bond stood back and waited a moment. “Are you ready for the last one, boy?” he asked, his voice rumbling dark in his ears. He knew the answer, of course: it sang in his bones and danced over every inch of his skin. And even if it hadn’t been, the boy’s body was broadcasting it so loudly anyone would be able to tell.

“Yes,” Q sobbed, his response immediate. “Yes, oh, please, James.”

The last stroke hit around the middle of Q’s back, completing the pattern, twelve welts all in a row, alternating right and left. Bond took a moment--a very short one--to admire his work, and then went up to the cross to touch.

The boy’s skin felt hot, almost burning; Bond traced over the stripes and, finding no evidence that he’d broken the skin enough to bleed, smiled briefly in satisfaction. He put his hands on Q’s hips and said, “Drop the straps, boy.”

Q did, and wobbled; Bond’s hands on his hips kept him standing. He was still crying, mostly soundlessly, tears leaking down his face. Bond almost wanted to pull him into his body and keep him there, but first things first. “On your knees,” he said, loosening his grip on Q’s hips.

Q dropped immediately, and laced his fingers behind him, eyes still on the ground.

Bond kept one hand on Q’s head, not entirely sure if he’d topple over or not, and used the other hand to undo his fly, pulling out his cock. “Look up,” he said, and Q did. “Suck.”

Q stretched, touched his lips to the head of Bond’s cock, and then hesitated. “Can I use my hands?”

“Do you need them?”

Q shook his head. “No, James.”

“Then don’t.”

He didn’t; he opened his mouth and swallowed Bond down whole, lips warm and tongue hot as he bobbed his head and sucked.

It didn’t take long to get Bond off; it felt like he’d been hard and on the edge for hours and once he let himself look down and see that yes, it was Q whose mouth he was in, Q who was blowing him--

--well. He tapped the boy on the shoulder and said, “Stop.”

Q did, without question, although he did let out a small disappointed sound.

“Close your eyes, open your mouth.”

He did, and Bond groaned: what a remarkable picture. He’d have it blown up and printed on all the walls in his flat if he could. A few strokes with his hand, and he was coming, all over the boy’s face and throat, a few trails dripping over his tattoos, even a drop or two on his eyelashes.

Bond wiped away the come on Q’s eyelashes with one thumb, and then traced the track of a tear down the side of his face. “You can open your eyes now,” he said. “Do you want to come?”

“Yes, please, James,” Q said, his eyes--blue, very blue--still shaded by his lashes. Tears still leaked out of the corner of his eyes, but he appeared to have settled down some.

Bond knelt on the floor by him and said, “Do you want my hand?”

“Oh, please, James.” Q’s eyes dropped shut as Bond unsnapped his trousers and slid a hand in.

Bond wasn’t surprised to find nothing but warm skin; he closed his fingers around Q’s cock, hard and hot. “Come when you want,” he said, running his thumb along the smooth skin.

Q came almost immediately, spilling over Bond’s hand in a hot rush and collapsing forward to plant his face on Bond’s shoulder. He panted helplessly for a moment or two before going even more boneless against Bond.

Bond managed to keep most of the come off the leather and his own clothing, catching it in his hand. He wiped it off with a handkerchief from his pocket, although next time he’d make Q lick it up. (Next time.) He couldn’t stop the rush of pleasure that went through him as he felt Q shudder a couple times with aftershocks--this boy, wrecked and slumped on his shoulder, was that way because of him.

And why would he want to stop it? This was why he was here, after all, why he’d come to the club, and the fact that it was Q himself was beyond what he’d even thought would happen.

He got his feet under him and hauled both of them up to something approximating standing. The bed was about three meters away, and even though Q was largely dead weight, he was slight; it took no more than a minute to get them there. He pushed the duvet down and let Q curl up on his side.

The boy barely moved as Bond unzipped his boots and took them off; nor did he flinch when Bond cleaned off his face and groin with a tissue from the box beside the bed. Bond wiped himself off briefly and then toed off his shoes before climbing into the bed and wrapping himself around Q’s back. He was gentle, at first, holding himself at a bit of a distance, but Q sighed and pulled Bond’s arm until they were pressed together along the entire lengths of their bodies.

“You were so good,” Bond murmured against Q’s hair, and Q shifted to squeeze his hand.

They’d have to talk about this in a few minutes, obviously; Bond had no intention of letting him get away now that he’d had him. Monday they’d be back to work, as well, and that could pose some difficulties, to say the least. But that was all in the future, and right now, for now, he was content to stay here with his boy.

Q stirred, some time later, and turned his head just enough to speak against Bond’s skin, barely audible. “Don’t think this means you’re getting an exploding pen.”

Bond quirked an eyebrow, even though Q couldn’t see it. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”