FIC: Swimming Down (Bond/Q)
Nov. 29th, 2012 07:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
linndechirTitle: Swimming Down
Fandom: James Bond – Skyfall
Pairing: Bond/Q
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2269
Warnings: none
Summary: As much as Q likes having Bond with him, he really wishes that Bond didn't insist on dealing with his insomnia by waking him up in the middle of the night. Bond tries to make up for the inconvenience.
The system's defences came down one by one under the quick work of his fingers on the keyboard, making their way through the code as easily as a swimmer swam through calm water, finding loopholes that were barely even there; it was so easy, really, it was what he did best –
Warm hands sneaked under his shirt and ran over his chest, and that was all wrong, as wrong as the scratch of stubble against his throat; not now, he was almost through, had almost cracked the uncrackable, he knew that he was only minutes away from getting what he wanted when teeth nipped lightly at his skin –
He opened his eyes to find himself in almost complete darkness, blinked in confusion after the bright light of his computer screen. His first instinct was to go for his glasses, but he doubted that he'd see any better with them, so he aborted the movement. In the darkness of his bedroom he could barely make out the bulky shape next to him, let alone read the expression in eyes he knew to be the most startling blue, but which looked black in the darkness.
“You just interrupted a very pleasant dream, 007,” Q said dryly, or as dryly as he could manage with sleep still clouding his mind.
“Mhm.” The low sound, hummed against Q's throat, didn't sound very apologetic. Q tipped back his head to bare his throat without thinking much about it, just enjoying the warmth of Bond's lips. When they played their games – which was most of the time when they were alone – he didn't let Bond touch him all that much, but tied him up or merely ordered him to keep his hands to himself, and it was almost easy to forget how good Bond was at this when left to his own devices. The man could melt people under his hands and lips, and Q didn't see why he shouldn't enjoy it every now and then. Especially if he got woken up for it in the middle of the night.
“I couldn't sleep,” Bond said after a while. His body was curled up against Q's, like an overgrown cat that wasn't aware it didn't fit on its owner's lap. Q petted Bond's neck absent-mindedly, smiled when he felt more than heard the low rumble in Bond's chest.
“Your insomnia is rather worrying.” Q kept his voice neutral, indifferent almost, his genuine concern confined to the gentle touch of his fingers on Bond's skin. They rarely shared a bed once they were done, but even so Q knew how irregular Bond's sleeping pattern was, that he usually stayed awake to the point of complete physical exhaustion before his mind allowed him to rest. Bond chuckled, his hands still rubbing warm circles on Q's chest, his head resting against Q's shoulder.
“That's rich, coming from you. You basically live in your office, and when you do go home you keep working on your laptop.” Bond's hand slid lower, thumb pressing against the jut of Q's hipbone. Q felt oddly reminded of that time he had debriefed Bond on the functioning of his new phone over the earpiece while Bond had been seducing a mark. “I'm under the impression that you literally never sleep.”
“Cleaning up your mess is a full-time job,” Q replied testily. For all that he liked to drag Bond's pain and flaws out into the open, he didn't take kindly to Bond doing the same to him. Theirs was not an equal relationship, it couldn't be, not as long as Q still had the slightest doubt that 007 wasn't really taking him seriously. He cursed his mind for going into overdrive only minutes after waking up. Fortunately Bond distracted him, his hand dipping lower to run thick fingers over Q's thighs, scratching lightly at the dried come on them. Had they really fallen asleep without even cleaning up? Q frowned a little, but last night had been very … intense. No wonder Bond was behaving like a sated, lazy lion rather than a predator about to rip out his prey's throat.
“I like it when you don't clean up my mess,” Bond drawled in that low, seductive voice that didn't even work on Q, and Q had still no idea how the hell Bond could say something so ridiculous and still not turn him off for the rest of the night. His job was really ruining his sex life if he was that easy these days.
“For all that you accuse me of still having spots,” Q said icily, just as a reminder that he didn't melt under Bond's hands and lips and that damn voice, “you're the one who insists on behaving like a 12-year-old boy.”
Bond smirked, and Q tightened his grip on Bond's neck. An instinctive moment of tension before Bond went slack under his grasp. He groaned, seemed surprised every time at the strength of Q's fingers. Probably the most well-trained muscles in his body, Q thought wryly, for what it was worth.
“How about -” Another kiss on Q's throat, and still that voice, that goddamn voice that was quiet and rough and enticing at the same time, a thousand promises of pleasure condensed into a few growled syllables. “- I make up for waking you?”
“You mean on top of waking me up, you're going to keep me awake? When I call you my pet, it's not meant as an invitation to behave like a spoilt house cat.” But it was hard to sound cross with Bond's fingernails raking up his thigh, the touch becoming gentler when he cupped Q's balls in his palm – and, really, knowing how easily those hands could kill, how often they had already killed, shouldn't make this more arousing. Bond didn't reply, only sat up and moved down a little, and Q wasn't entirely sure what Bond was about to do until he felt the rasp of stubble against his stomach, and then the warm, wet heat of Bond's mouth as his lips wrapped around Q's cock. Q groaned, hand tightening on Bond's neck to keep him in place, and his hips jerked up.
It was slow, and sloppy, and immensely satisfying in that way that only lazy morning blowjobs are, waking up with a warm mouth on one's cock without having to do anything for it, and the last time Q had been able to enjoy that had been during his failed attempts at having a relationship, back in university. In the darkness of the room he was acutely aware of every touch, every groan and hum and swallow, every second turning into minutes of lazy pleasure, and he was really not sure how much time passed before he spent himself into Bond's mouth, shivering as Bond swallowed around him. Q found himself pulled into strong arms, pressed against the broad expanse of Bond's chest, and allowed himself to relax against him. It was so completely unlike what they usually did, when Q was always careful to stay in control and make Bond squirm before he even allowed himself to think about his own pleasure, but he felt too warm and tingly in his chest to mind.
“You don't even like doing that,” Q mumbled when he trusted his voice again. He was still petting Bond's neck, and as infuriating as Bond's smug grin was, Q couldn't bring himself to be angry at him for interrupting his sleep.
“I like what it does to you,” Bond said simply, and that was really all there was. Q had been a bit miffed at first about Bond's dislike for blowing him, had suspected some sort of macho reasoning behind it, until Bond had admitted that he disliked doing women the same favour just as much, that the only reason he ever did it was because he liked to see people lose control. But that was the difference between Bond's conquests and this, that Bond usually didn't do things he disliked with Q. For all his fascination with Bond's skills, Q didn't want the charmer, the seducer, the artist who played his partners like finely tuned instruments and who always seemed more interested in the music of their moans than in his own pleasure. It was vanity rather than selflessness, a desperate need to make people feel good rather than kill them, for once, and Q didn't like to indulge Bond in his cheap distractions.
“This is not about doing me favours,” Q said, and he couldn't keep the fond exasperation out of his voice. Bond didn't argue for once, didn't reply with a quip, and that was already more honesty than Q got from him most of the time. Bond was quiet for a while, his hands resting loosely on Q's back, and Q realised that Bond was still completely relaxed, completely at ease, not in that usual predatory mood, when he just hunted his victims down, got what he wanted, and then fled from them as soon as possible.
“It wasn't,” he replied, and his voice was too raw for a lie. Q bit back his smile, but he believed him. Felt like he knew Bond better in the dark than in the light of day, because Bond's body language and his voice were easier to read than those ice-blue eyes and the cold smirk that never gave anything away. Bond could never fool him, especially not when they were alone; Q knew him too well for the lies to work, but 007 was too damn good at turning himself into a mirror, a cold surface made of nothing but ice that hid everything underneath, and Q found that it was so much easier to see Bond without seeing him. For all that they barely talked during those nights, they had grown far more comfortable around each other over the past months. The fact that Bond was still here, that he still held Q rather than get up and leave, was already more than Q would ever have expected from him.
“Thank you, my pet,” he said against Bond's chest, gave a happy little laugh when Bond's arms tightened around him. Bond didn't seem to want anything else, even swatted Q's hand aside when Q reached down between them. So Q stayed still, listened to the steady heartbeat in Bond's chest, slow and heavy – the man really was back in prime physical condition a few months after his return from the grave. Listened as it slowed down even more, as Bond's caresses became sporadic until his hand finally stilled on Q's neck. Q glanced up at him and found Bond's eyes closed. He allowed himself to grin at the rather childish thought that Bond had the strangest way of making himself sleepy.
As Q lay in the dark, as awake now as Bond had been earlier, he wondered what the hell this was turning into. He had used to dream about having a proper relationship, something like what his eldest brother had – a loved one to come home to, who would cook dinner and say “how was your day, darling?”, who would kiss him and feel sorry for him when work had been stressful, and maybe at some point a kid or two to hug him and call him dad. But he rarely thought about it for more than a few moments. Truth be told, he was hardly ever home for dinner, he wouldn't be allowed to talk about most of his work anyway, he hated when people felt sorry for him, he wasn't very good with children, and on top of everything else he had never met anyone whom he would have wanted to see every single day of his life. So it didn't really bother him that his job was his life, that his work hours hardly gave him the time to go out and date someone.
He had come to terms with having only one-night-stands, sometimes several-night-stands, some of them more satisfying than others, and all completely meaningless. It had been enough for him, until he started sleeping with Bond and other men began to pale in comparison. Until Bond stayed over more and more often or asked Q to stay, and their non-committal affair started to turn into something more, or maybe just something else, something it had no business being.
Maybe it should bother him that instead of a sensible relationship he got a government-trained killer, a finely honed weapon, a raw soul that could only keep functioning as required if it wasn't allowed to heal too much. An insomniac who broke into his flat at the oddest hours, a gambler who dragged Q to casinos and expensive restaurants, an alcoholic who was obnoxiously cheerful about almost getting himself killed on every second mission, who flirted shamelessly with Q and teased him and still got down on his knees with a leash around his neck as soon as they were alone, who let Q break him down and see all his scars; and maybe, maybe one day Q would be able to show him his. On nights like this, with Bond sleeping in his bed as if he belonged there, it didn't seem as impossible as it should.
Because no matter what he might have wanted if he were someone else, this was what he had. And unless he wanted to turn Bond away, he really didn't have much of a choice but to keep going.
Fandom: James Bond – Skyfall
Pairing: Bond/Q
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2269
Warnings: none
Summary: As much as Q likes having Bond with him, he really wishes that Bond didn't insist on dealing with his insomnia by waking him up in the middle of the night. Bond tries to make up for the inconvenience.
The system's defences came down one by one under the quick work of his fingers on the keyboard, making their way through the code as easily as a swimmer swam through calm water, finding loopholes that were barely even there; it was so easy, really, it was what he did best –
Warm hands sneaked under his shirt and ran over his chest, and that was all wrong, as wrong as the scratch of stubble against his throat; not now, he was almost through, had almost cracked the uncrackable, he knew that he was only minutes away from getting what he wanted when teeth nipped lightly at his skin –
He opened his eyes to find himself in almost complete darkness, blinked in confusion after the bright light of his computer screen. His first instinct was to go for his glasses, but he doubted that he'd see any better with them, so he aborted the movement. In the darkness of his bedroom he could barely make out the bulky shape next to him, let alone read the expression in eyes he knew to be the most startling blue, but which looked black in the darkness.
“You just interrupted a very pleasant dream, 007,” Q said dryly, or as dryly as he could manage with sleep still clouding his mind.
“Mhm.” The low sound, hummed against Q's throat, didn't sound very apologetic. Q tipped back his head to bare his throat without thinking much about it, just enjoying the warmth of Bond's lips. When they played their games – which was most of the time when they were alone – he didn't let Bond touch him all that much, but tied him up or merely ordered him to keep his hands to himself, and it was almost easy to forget how good Bond was at this when left to his own devices. The man could melt people under his hands and lips, and Q didn't see why he shouldn't enjoy it every now and then. Especially if he got woken up for it in the middle of the night.
“I couldn't sleep,” Bond said after a while. His body was curled up against Q's, like an overgrown cat that wasn't aware it didn't fit on its owner's lap. Q petted Bond's neck absent-mindedly, smiled when he felt more than heard the low rumble in Bond's chest.
“Your insomnia is rather worrying.” Q kept his voice neutral, indifferent almost, his genuine concern confined to the gentle touch of his fingers on Bond's skin. They rarely shared a bed once they were done, but even so Q knew how irregular Bond's sleeping pattern was, that he usually stayed awake to the point of complete physical exhaustion before his mind allowed him to rest. Bond chuckled, his hands still rubbing warm circles on Q's chest, his head resting against Q's shoulder.
“That's rich, coming from you. You basically live in your office, and when you do go home you keep working on your laptop.” Bond's hand slid lower, thumb pressing against the jut of Q's hipbone. Q felt oddly reminded of that time he had debriefed Bond on the functioning of his new phone over the earpiece while Bond had been seducing a mark. “I'm under the impression that you literally never sleep.”
“Cleaning up your mess is a full-time job,” Q replied testily. For all that he liked to drag Bond's pain and flaws out into the open, he didn't take kindly to Bond doing the same to him. Theirs was not an equal relationship, it couldn't be, not as long as Q still had the slightest doubt that 007 wasn't really taking him seriously. He cursed his mind for going into overdrive only minutes after waking up. Fortunately Bond distracted him, his hand dipping lower to run thick fingers over Q's thighs, scratching lightly at the dried come on them. Had they really fallen asleep without even cleaning up? Q frowned a little, but last night had been very … intense. No wonder Bond was behaving like a sated, lazy lion rather than a predator about to rip out his prey's throat.
“I like it when you don't clean up my mess,” Bond drawled in that low, seductive voice that didn't even work on Q, and Q had still no idea how the hell Bond could say something so ridiculous and still not turn him off for the rest of the night. His job was really ruining his sex life if he was that easy these days.
“For all that you accuse me of still having spots,” Q said icily, just as a reminder that he didn't melt under Bond's hands and lips and that damn voice, “you're the one who insists on behaving like a 12-year-old boy.”
Bond smirked, and Q tightened his grip on Bond's neck. An instinctive moment of tension before Bond went slack under his grasp. He groaned, seemed surprised every time at the strength of Q's fingers. Probably the most well-trained muscles in his body, Q thought wryly, for what it was worth.
“How about -” Another kiss on Q's throat, and still that voice, that goddamn voice that was quiet and rough and enticing at the same time, a thousand promises of pleasure condensed into a few growled syllables. “- I make up for waking you?”
“You mean on top of waking me up, you're going to keep me awake? When I call you my pet, it's not meant as an invitation to behave like a spoilt house cat.” But it was hard to sound cross with Bond's fingernails raking up his thigh, the touch becoming gentler when he cupped Q's balls in his palm – and, really, knowing how easily those hands could kill, how often they had already killed, shouldn't make this more arousing. Bond didn't reply, only sat up and moved down a little, and Q wasn't entirely sure what Bond was about to do until he felt the rasp of stubble against his stomach, and then the warm, wet heat of Bond's mouth as his lips wrapped around Q's cock. Q groaned, hand tightening on Bond's neck to keep him in place, and his hips jerked up.
It was slow, and sloppy, and immensely satisfying in that way that only lazy morning blowjobs are, waking up with a warm mouth on one's cock without having to do anything for it, and the last time Q had been able to enjoy that had been during his failed attempts at having a relationship, back in university. In the darkness of the room he was acutely aware of every touch, every groan and hum and swallow, every second turning into minutes of lazy pleasure, and he was really not sure how much time passed before he spent himself into Bond's mouth, shivering as Bond swallowed around him. Q found himself pulled into strong arms, pressed against the broad expanse of Bond's chest, and allowed himself to relax against him. It was so completely unlike what they usually did, when Q was always careful to stay in control and make Bond squirm before he even allowed himself to think about his own pleasure, but he felt too warm and tingly in his chest to mind.
“You don't even like doing that,” Q mumbled when he trusted his voice again. He was still petting Bond's neck, and as infuriating as Bond's smug grin was, Q couldn't bring himself to be angry at him for interrupting his sleep.
“I like what it does to you,” Bond said simply, and that was really all there was. Q had been a bit miffed at first about Bond's dislike for blowing him, had suspected some sort of macho reasoning behind it, until Bond had admitted that he disliked doing women the same favour just as much, that the only reason he ever did it was because he liked to see people lose control. But that was the difference between Bond's conquests and this, that Bond usually didn't do things he disliked with Q. For all his fascination with Bond's skills, Q didn't want the charmer, the seducer, the artist who played his partners like finely tuned instruments and who always seemed more interested in the music of their moans than in his own pleasure. It was vanity rather than selflessness, a desperate need to make people feel good rather than kill them, for once, and Q didn't like to indulge Bond in his cheap distractions.
“This is not about doing me favours,” Q said, and he couldn't keep the fond exasperation out of his voice. Bond didn't argue for once, didn't reply with a quip, and that was already more honesty than Q got from him most of the time. Bond was quiet for a while, his hands resting loosely on Q's back, and Q realised that Bond was still completely relaxed, completely at ease, not in that usual predatory mood, when he just hunted his victims down, got what he wanted, and then fled from them as soon as possible.
“It wasn't,” he replied, and his voice was too raw for a lie. Q bit back his smile, but he believed him. Felt like he knew Bond better in the dark than in the light of day, because Bond's body language and his voice were easier to read than those ice-blue eyes and the cold smirk that never gave anything away. Bond could never fool him, especially not when they were alone; Q knew him too well for the lies to work, but 007 was too damn good at turning himself into a mirror, a cold surface made of nothing but ice that hid everything underneath, and Q found that it was so much easier to see Bond without seeing him. For all that they barely talked during those nights, they had grown far more comfortable around each other over the past months. The fact that Bond was still here, that he still held Q rather than get up and leave, was already more than Q would ever have expected from him.
“Thank you, my pet,” he said against Bond's chest, gave a happy little laugh when Bond's arms tightened around him. Bond didn't seem to want anything else, even swatted Q's hand aside when Q reached down between them. So Q stayed still, listened to the steady heartbeat in Bond's chest, slow and heavy – the man really was back in prime physical condition a few months after his return from the grave. Listened as it slowed down even more, as Bond's caresses became sporadic until his hand finally stilled on Q's neck. Q glanced up at him and found Bond's eyes closed. He allowed himself to grin at the rather childish thought that Bond had the strangest way of making himself sleepy.
As Q lay in the dark, as awake now as Bond had been earlier, he wondered what the hell this was turning into. He had used to dream about having a proper relationship, something like what his eldest brother had – a loved one to come home to, who would cook dinner and say “how was your day, darling?”, who would kiss him and feel sorry for him when work had been stressful, and maybe at some point a kid or two to hug him and call him dad. But he rarely thought about it for more than a few moments. Truth be told, he was hardly ever home for dinner, he wouldn't be allowed to talk about most of his work anyway, he hated when people felt sorry for him, he wasn't very good with children, and on top of everything else he had never met anyone whom he would have wanted to see every single day of his life. So it didn't really bother him that his job was his life, that his work hours hardly gave him the time to go out and date someone.
He had come to terms with having only one-night-stands, sometimes several-night-stands, some of them more satisfying than others, and all completely meaningless. It had been enough for him, until he started sleeping with Bond and other men began to pale in comparison. Until Bond stayed over more and more often or asked Q to stay, and their non-committal affair started to turn into something more, or maybe just something else, something it had no business being.
Maybe it should bother him that instead of a sensible relationship he got a government-trained killer, a finely honed weapon, a raw soul that could only keep functioning as required if it wasn't allowed to heal too much. An insomniac who broke into his flat at the oddest hours, a gambler who dragged Q to casinos and expensive restaurants, an alcoholic who was obnoxiously cheerful about almost getting himself killed on every second mission, who flirted shamelessly with Q and teased him and still got down on his knees with a leash around his neck as soon as they were alone, who let Q break him down and see all his scars; and maybe, maybe one day Q would be able to show him his. On nights like this, with Bond sleeping in his bed as if he belonged there, it didn't seem as impossible as it should.
Because no matter what he might have wanted if he were someone else, this was what he had. And unless he wanted to turn Bond away, he really didn't have much of a choice but to keep going.
