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In the Office

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“Into my office. Now, if you please,” Gareth said to Q, frowning in the same way that he always frowned when he reprimanded his people. It was important to be consistent, if only for the late night cameras.

Q stalked into M’s office, stiff as a cat’s whisker, his lips pressed together in apparent distress.

Gareth followed him, closed the door, and turned on the blue light outside his office, signaling that he wasn’t to be disturbed.

The moment the blue light was on, Q was backing him against the door, crowding him without touching him, his eyes already dark with want. His tongue darted out and licked across his lips. “Color?” he asked, glancing around at the office before letting his gaze linger on Gareth’s face.   

Gareth’s shoulder blades sank into the leather upholstery on the door behind him. In front of him, the trappings of his professional power loomed in the dim light of the desk lamp that Q must have flicked on: the dark walls with their built-in bookshelves, the HMS Victory hanging between the closed curtains, the leather chairs for visitors, and finally the antique wooden desk—the throne at the end of the throne room, a bastion of British authority.

Gareth couldn’t wait to dirty it all up.

“Green,” he said to Q, half-hard already.

God, he was getting a tent in the same chalk stripe trousers he wore to decide the fates of lives, of nations. He was completely fucked if the press ever got wind of this. Fortunately, he was doing this with Q, which afforded him the assurance that the fucking would always be enjoyably literal rather than metaphorical: Q never left evidence behind.

“Stay,” Q told him, pressing Gareth’s shoulders back against the door to make sure he got the message.

Gareth’s stomach swooped, like it always did in the beginning, as he watched Q walk the length of his office. A part of him ached to catch up to Q and show him just who could stand a lesson in staying still. Q would like that too—but that wasn’t why they were here.

He stayed. He could be good.

Q ran his fingers over the leather back of the visitor’s chair facing M’s desk, looking thoughtful. He did the same thing with the desk itself, one of his pale hands sliding across the empty surface, cleared of clutter just before Q had entered. Touching. Owning. Then he looked up, met Gareth’s eyes, and smoothed his palm across the back of M’s chair. “This will do nicely, I think,” he said. He sat down. In M’s chair.

Gareth’s breath caught in his throat. His hand twitched toward his cock before he remembered that Q hadn’t told him to move; he pressed his hand back against the door.

Q caught the movement and nodded his approval. “Off to a promising start,” he said, his voice already a little deeper. He gestured at the chair in front of the desk. “Sit down, please, so we can begin.”

The office felt as wide as a football pitch as he crossed it beneath Q’s gaze. He sat down in what was usually Q’s chair—or the chair of anyone else who’d been called in to be debriefed or chastised. Gareth swallowed. His own chair—M’s chair—had wheels. This one didn’t. Now he was pinned down, stuck where Q had put him.

“Get your cock out,” Q said, smirking as he eyed the bulge in Gareth’s trousers.

Cock out. In his office. Jesus. Gareth couldn’t help it—he glanced at the door, glanced at the curtains. Still closed. Okay. His hands trembled as they unbuttoned and unzipped and exposed. He looked up at Q for instruction.

“Get yourself hard,” Q said. “Slowly.”

The cool office air pricked at Gareth’s exposed skin, so that it was a relief to grasp his half-hard cock in the warmth of his hand. All of his senses zeroed in on his cock as he worked, slow and teasing, the drag from his winter-dry skin not at all like his usual efficient routine. He rediscovered the teasing stutter of the calluses on his fingers, the way a certain twist of the wrist could prolong pleasure instead of speeding him to completion.

He hardened.

Q watched, staring without shame, and Gareth watched him back, watched the pleased quirk of Q’s mouth, the flush rising in Q’s cheeks, the way Q reclined in M’s chair with his thighs spread wide as he palmed himself through his checked trousers.

Q licked his lips; Gareth’s toes curled in his polished black derbies.

“You’re doing so well,” Q said. “You love being good for me, don’t you?”

A dribble of precome seeped out of Gareth’s slit, showing just how right Q was. Gareth slicked his palm with it, flushing at the knowing glint in Q’s eyes, and groaned as he smoothed it over his cock. Sparks gathered low in his belly.

“Cup your balls now,” Q said. “No, keep it on—you can reach in there if you want it badly enough.”

Gareth stopped in the act of tugging his trousers down, the fingers of the hand he wasn’t jerking himself with tangled in his waistband.

“Well?” Q arched his eyebrows.

It wouldn’t do to make him wait. Gareth swallowed. “Yes, sir,” he said.

Q’s cock twitched in his trousers and his eyes grew dark. “Good,” he said. “Now get on with it.”

With some difficulty, Gareth wriggled his hand into his pants and twisted his hips until he could reach underneath and cup himself. His breath caught in his throat as his fingers curved around his balls; they were sensitive.

“Rock on them,” Q said, the slightest smirk on his face. “Keep touching yourself.”

“Oh, god.” The words slipped out without Gareth’s permission and his grip on his cock tightened. This wasn’t even a proper fuck, it was—

“Go on,” Q said, his voice a little softer. Encouraging. “I want to see you. Color?”

See me in my office humping my hands like a bitch in heat, in my office rutting my balls into my palm like someone who can’t get an arse, see me in my office coming in my pants, IN MY OFFICE—

“Green,” Gareth said, dry-mouthed. Q had the best ideas.

Gareth started to rock. It took a few moments to find a rhythm between the rolling of his hips and the pull of his hand on his cock, but once he did—heat jolted through him, precome sliding down his fingers and slicking his cock as his balls tightened. He quickened his pace, waiting for Q to object.

Q caught his glance and said, breathless, “Yes, keep going, fuck—” and waved him on with his free hand. His other hand was tucked into his trousers, rubbing and squeezing as he watched.

Gareth jounced himself even faster, feeling the heat build and roll through him with every impact of his bollocks against the soft-hard-scratchy cup of his callused hand, with every slide of his fingers around his cock and each electrifying twist around the head. The sound of his panting filled the room. His wrists ached and his trousers creaked at the seams, but he couldn’t stop. His muscles tensed. His fingers and toes curled as each jolt of pleasure drove him close, closer—

He lightened his grip on his cock, caressing delicately, and the sweet knife’s edge of denial tipped him over, started the epicenter of a shockwave blooming at the base of his spine. He threw his head back, a moan starting low in the base of his throat…

“I said keep going. I didn’t say you could come,” Q said, his voice cracking through the room like a bullet, his face stern.

Gareth’s mouth dropped open. “I’m—” he protested, his eyes wide, still rocking, still chasing that final wave of pleasure, a wave whose crest had begun to drift as soon as he’d caught sight of Q’s disapproval.

Q smiled thinly, every inch the unimpressed superior. “Must I come over there to stop you, or can you manage it yourself?”

Oh fuck. Gareth nearly popped right there, nearly spilled all over his chalkstripe suit. For an instant, he was trapped between two futures:

He could have the satisfaction of orgasm followed by a delicious punishment, maybe being shoved in his sodden pants over this chair, this chair which was for recalcitrant subordinates, and being made to watch while Q came without any help from him; maybe something else, something new that Q’s devious brain had planned out for just this situation.

Or he could do as Q told him and reap the rewards of Q’s satisfaction.   

Gareth whined in the back of his throat and squeezed his bollocks hard. He cursed and whimpered with the pain of it, but it took him out of the danger zone.

He was going to be good for Q. He was.

Q stood, straightened his glasses, and walked over to him. He should have looked ridiculous in his work cardigan and tented trousers, some of his bird’s nest hair sweat-stuck to his temples, but imperiousness rolled off of him in a wave of heat, and Gareth welcomed it like someone coming in from the cold.

“Good choice,” Q said, standing behind him and carding his fingers through Gareth’s hair. “You’re doing so well.”  

Gareth leaned his head against Q’s belly, rubbed his cheek against the soft cardigan, and closed his eyes. He’d have to recomb his hair, but what a luxury, to have someone be gentle with him. To have Q be gentle with him—and in his office!

After a quiet minute of Gareth pressing his eyes into Q’s cardigan, smelling Q’s smell, and feeling Q’s fingers scratching pleasantly along his scalp, Q patted his shoulder and pulled away a little.

Gareth whined, following the cardigan with his cheek for as long as he could without moving from his chair.

Q chuckled. “Here’s another choice,” he said. “Do you want to come now, in this chair? Or would you rather come later, over your desk?”

Gareth’s heart rate, which had calmed, abruptly sped up again. “Desk,” he said immediately. “Desk, please, sir.” He looked up at Q.

Q leaned down and snogged him until they were both panting for breath. “Excellent choice,” he said, pulling away. “Shall we get started?”

Gareth, his cock already coming back to life, sat straight-backed in his chair and waited for Q’s instructions.

“Stand up,” Q said. “Take off your suit jacket and fold it over the back of the chair. I want your pants and trousers on the floor, but you can keep your shirt on. Go over to the desk and prepare yourself for me.” He pulled a packet of lube out of his trouser pocket and slipped it into the breast pocket of Gareth’s shirt. “Off you trot,” he said, and settled himself back into his chair behind M’s desk, where he pressed his fingers together and generally looked expectant.    

Gareth took a deep breath, removed his clothes as instructed, and tried not to trip over his pants while he approached the desk. Logistically, Q had presented him with a quandary: where to start fucking himself? Q had removed the most nerve-wracking option: the one that involved Gareth facing his bare head-of-MI6 arse to the secure but wooden door that theoretically anyone could break into if they were sufficiently motivated. However, that left a few positions up for grabs.

He could kneel on all fours at Q’s feet. He could lean over the desk from the side, tease Q with the silhouette of his preparations but not the explicit sight of them.

Or he could do what he was doing now: he could swing himself onto the desk one leg after the other, get on his hands and knees, and widen his legs as far as they could go, giving Q a close-up view of the arse he’d be fucking.

“Very nice,” Q said approvingly. He ran his hands down Gareth’s back and clutched at his arse, squeezing possessively. He nipped at Gareth’s left buttock, kissed it, and caught it in a sucking, stinging kiss that was definitely going to leave a mark. Q’s hands spread Gareth’s cheeks wide, exposing his hole to the cool air of the office, and Q’s mouth began to travel, biting and licking its way across Gareth’s arse, and his warm wet tongue got nearer and nearer to Gareth’s entrance.

Q lingered at the tingling base of Gareth’s spine to leave another mark, so close to where Gareth most wanted him that he could have screamed. He did moan, and he let his hips rut into the air just to feel Q’s strong fingers hold him firmly in place. “Please,” he said, because Q usually rewarded pleases. Because Gareth could always say please to Q, even here.

Q’s hum thrummed through the thin skin over his spine. His hot breath ghosted lower, his wet tongue licked its way down…and he stopped. “Oh dear,” he said. “Do you know, I can’t taste any lube at all down here? I think I’d better sit back down; wouldn’t want to distract you from your task.”

Gareth felt Q’s toothy grin against his skin before Q pulled away. From the muffled sound of the chair moving behind him, Q had leaned back. Waiting.

Waiting for Gareth to open himself up in MI6’s most executive office, while he was on his hands and knees on MI6’s most important desk.

At the thought, a hot drip of precome splatted onto the hardwood beneath him.

Come on his desk. Jesus.

He couldn’t wait to drip some lube on it too. He fumbled for the packet, ripped it open, and squeezed the lube onto his fingers.

Normally he was a bit perfunctory about opening himself up, but Q hadn’t said to be quick.  He smeared the lube liberally around and inside his hole; it dripped obscenely between his legs. With one buttock pulled to the side, ensuring Q had an excellent view, Gareth began to tease himself.

He explored the just-there give when he dipped the tip of a thumb, a finger, a knuckle into the puckered muscle, occasionally pausing to caress his balls and perineum. Q’s hums and appreciative commentary accompanied him, and the increasing eagerness in Q’s voice told him when it was time to finally add a whole finger, to enjoy the way the fading sting of entry led to warmth and familiar-strange openness as he slipped it in and out of himself.  

“Another one,” Q finally ordered.

Gareth ducked his head as if to hide his smile at Q’s impatience.

Q smacked his arse lightly. “Cheeky,” he said.

In reply, Gareth gave himself two fingers and directed them straight to that sweet spot inside that made him gasp whenever he brushed against it.  

“That’s it,” Q said, low and rough. “Fuck yourself on your fingers, show me how much you want them.”

Gareth thrust his fingers into the hot, tight clutch of himself, setting a slow, deliberate pace that started with a methodical stretch at his entrance and rolled his fingers in so they just grazed his prostate, sending a teasing, tingling jolt up his spine and through his cock. It wasn’t long before he loosened and shoved in a third finger, wasn’t long before he was jerking his hips back, chasing his own hand, increasingly desperate for more-more-more but denying himself because—

Because Q was saying how beautiful he was, so hungry for it and so willing to tease himself, to finger himself until he was gaping and ready for a good fuck but willing to wait until Q gave it to him.

Because Q hadn’t said he could come yet.

Because there were more drips of precome on the gleaming polished surface of M’s desk, and how much messier could he make it before the night was over? How much messier could Q make him?

Just as Gareth’s knees and supporting hand were really starting to protest the desk’s hardwood surface, Q gripped Gareth’s wrist and drew his lube-wet fingers away from his arse.

“Wipe your hand on your belly beneath your shirt and stand up behind the desk,” Q said. He gave Gareth’s rump a fond squeeze before sliding his chair back and standing up himself.

Gareth’s joints might have popped a little as he clambered down from the desk, but the urgent heat between his thighs largely blotted out his other bodily sensibilities. Behind him, he heard the rustling sounds of Q undressing, tempting him to look around. Instead Gareth leaned over, widened his legs, and stretched his arms until the tips of his fingers curled over the far edge of the desk. The near edge bit into his pelvis, and his cock ached, trapped between his belly and the unyielding wood.

Q had asked, when they’d discussed this exact scenario days ago, if Gareth would want to use a towel or his suit jacket or something to make things more comfortable. Gareth had declined. He wanted to go to work tomorrow and know that beneath the laptop and the stacks of papers needing his signature was the very space where Q had laid him out and fucked him. Being M came with a few perks and a lot of responsibility; being Gareth came with this.

Q pressed his hand to the back of Gareth’s neck and squeezed, startling muscles that Gareth hadn’t even known were tense into looseness. “You look so good, Gareth,” he said. He ran a single, solitary fingertip down Gareth’s spine, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

Gareth shivered, waiting.

Q’s body covered his, his chest and belly warm against Gareth’s back, his hips rocking against Gareth’s in a tiny back-and-forth motion, as though once he really touched Gareth he couldn’t help but move. Q rubbed his cock into the crease of Gareth’s arse, his hips moving more deliberately now, and Gareth’s breath caught behind his teeth.

They were doing this. Q was going to fuck him in his own office, over his own desk.  

“Color?” Q asked. The tip of his cock nudged at Gareth’s opening, retreated, and nudged again playfully.

“Green,” Gareth said, bracing himself.

“Hmm?” Q asked, smiling into his shoulder. His cock teased at Gareth’s opening, only to pull out again.

“Green!” Gareth said, widening his legs as much as he could, just to be clear.

“Sorry, what was that?” Q fucked in this time, a quick little in-and-out rut that made Gareth growl and clench to try to keep him in.

“Green!” Gareth said. “Green, green, green, motherfucking gree—”

Q abruptly pushed in, and while Gareth was gasping and bearing down and generally getting pinned on Q’s cock, Q said, “Really, you didn’t need to say it so many times.”

“You absolute fucker,” Gareth mumbled into the desk. He started rocking his hips back.

Q bit into the sensitive spot between his shoulders. “Yes, I am,” he said, and pulled out only to fuck back in again, setting a slow, deliberate pace. “Fucking you,” he said. “Having you over your own desk. You like that, hmm? Getting fucked in your own office, letting someone take charge of you for once, telling you what to do and when to come.” He punctuated his remarks with a hard grind against Gareth’s prostate.

Gareth made a sound that definitely wasn’t a mewl and arched against him.

“Ask me if you can come,” Q said.

Gareth swallowed. “Can I come?” he asked, though he knew what the answer would be.

“No,” Q said, panting against his back.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Gareth mumbled, shoving back against him. Sparks surged from Gareth’s balls to the tips of his fingers and toes, and his cock, crushed against the desk, tried valiantly to twitch with interest.

“Good man,” Q said, and started fucking faster, his balls slapping against Gareth’s perineum, his hips snapping Gareth’s into the hard edge of the desk, his cock grazing Gareth’s prostate often enough to keep Gareth rising on his toes to meet every thrust.

The slick, wet sounds of their buggery echoed in the empty office, a crescendo of pleasure that no one outside would be able to hear; M’s soundproofed office would protect this secret as it had protected so many others. Gareth felt his orgasm begin to build again, heat simmering under his skin while his thighs bunched in preparation.

Q’s rhythm began to falter, his strokes roughened, and his breath came hot and heavy against Gareth’s back as he sought out that perfect—

“Fuck!” Q cried out, and pulled out, and Gareth felt hot stripes of come splashing against his arse.

Gareth shuddered, empty and wet and aching with need. Surely Q would give him a reach-around.

“Lie down on the desk, belly-down,” Q said instead.

Gareth blinked and stood up straight, rolling the ache out of his shoulders.

Q flicked his arse. “Now, if you please.” But he sat down in his chair again and couldn’t mask the pleasant, post-orgasmic lassitude in his voice, so Gareth took his time crawling onto the desk. He luxuriated in the disgusting stickiness of the drips of lube and precome as they rubbed into his shirt and his belly and groin. The desk wasn’t big enough for all of him lying down, of course, so he ended up with his knees pulled up to his sides and his head pillowed on his crossed arms, his feet dangling off the opposite edge.

“Excellent,” Q said, scooting up to the desk in his rolling chair. “You may now come.”

“Oh, I may, may I?” Gareth asked.

“Yes,” Q said. He rubbed a soothing hand over Gareth’s arse before delving back into his hole with two fingers. As soon as he ran into the sweet bump of Gareth’s prostate, he started to rub. “There now,” he said while hot sparks condensed in Gareth’s groin and his thighs began to tremble. “You have me, and you have the desk. I think that’s quite enough to be getting off with, don’t you?”   

The desk. Oh fuck.

As if to illustrate the concept, Q’s free hand pushed down on his arse, pressing his cock deliciously against the wood.

“Fucking—” Gareth said.

“Humping, rather,” Q said, with a firmer nudge at Gareth’s prostate that jerked his hips against the desk almost without his permission.

It was a bitterly hard surface to fuck, but the friction against his cock felt fantastic.

“Rutting,” Q continued, while Gareth began to shift his arse with more purpose, fucking back onto Q’s talented fingers and forward against the desk in a fantastic, frustrating cycle. “You like this too, don’t you, dirtying yourself up in your own office, flopping around in your own mess, using your own desk for mindless pleasure? Go on, take it, take what you need, I want to see you come—”

Rutting into his desk, he was fucking his desk, Q was finger-fucking him on his desk, he was going to come on his desk, he was, he was almost—

Q grazed his prostate with infuriating lightness at the same time as he planted his nails on Gareth’s neck and scratched his way down his back.

Gareth cried out, his hips stuttering as pleasure surged through him, the wave finally cresting, hot come jerking out of his cock and slicking his belly and the desk beneath him in equal measures.

“Look at you,” Q said fondly, and pet over Gareth’s bald spot and through his hair. “I love you like this. You’re so good for me.”

Gareth sighed contentedly.

Q dressed and let him lie there in his own filth for a lovely minute before urging Gareth back into his own clothes. They got to work with antibacterial wipes, set the desk and chairs and Gareth’s hair back to rights, and trooped out of the office as innocent as could be, with Q looking properly chastised as per their scenario at the beginning and Gareth grateful that the cameras couldn’t pick up the smell of the come he hadn’t wiped off. Then they went home.

The next day, M walked into his office and got right to business. But every so often, when he was alone, he caressed the edge of the desk where Q had fucked him and smiled to himself.