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“Shit.” Q stares up the length of the metal plinth ahead, awestruck by the sheer size of it as it disappears into the far distance above him. “Shit, shit. Shit.”
“Q?” Clancy says, and he sounds distraught. “Q?”
“I’m here. Can you hear me?” Q calls back. Clancy makes no sound of confirmation, just huffs a little in fright, and Q presses himself against the plinth as a tremendous stalk comes pounding around the corner past. “Guess that’s a ‘no’.” There’s nothing for it—he’ll just have to scale the sleek height of it and hope that someone notices him at the top. It won’t help that he’s—there’s a pile of fabric the size of a house nearby, and he wriggles into the folds until he finds what he’s looking for: a bedsheet of thin white that he can wrap around himself like a toga, slinging the monogrammed initials over a shoulder before tackling the metal. By his own estimate, he’s just over fifteen centimeters tall. One twelfth scale, roughly—an inch per foot of height, if his quick calculations are correct. Bugger.
He recognises his mistake too far up to slide back down on shaking arms: he can’t get to the top of the desk from this underside, so he pulls himself onto one of the crossbeams and waits for someone to notice. He doesn’t have long to wait.
“—and poof!” Clancy is saying as he approaches again, “He was gone. I’ve killed him, I’m sure.” He sounds miserable. Q tries not to laugh and flaps the handkerchief’s hem in an attempt to draw attention.
“Surely not,” M tells him calmly. “He’ll be around here somewhere.”
“Won’t be hard to find without his pants,” Bond adds, and yes, when Q looks it’s his jersey shorts in the heap as Bond fishes through it.
“Hey!” he calls, indignant. “Stop touching those. They’re private!”
Bond freezes, and for a moment they’re making eye contact, Bond clutching Q’s body-warmed shorts and Q six inches tall. Q goes pink. “Found him,” Bond says finally, reaching over to gingerly lift Q from the bar he’s sitting on. The moment his feet touch the top of the desk, Q turns, kicking at Bond’s fingertips.
“Put my pants down, you bloody giant perv!” It lacks some gravitas coming from someone so tiny, but it works; Bond drops the pants as though they are on fire, leaning in to poke at Q’s tiny body instead.
“What about the law of conservation of mass?” Bond asks. Clancy shrugs helplessly. “He can’t go home; he’ll be eaten by the cat.”
Q flushes. How did Bond know he had a cat? “What do you suggest, then?”
“Clearly he’ll have the rest of the day off work,” Mallory suggests dryly, and Q wants to kick him for talking about him as though he isn’t there. Being tiny’s doing nothing for his patience, he realises ruefully.
“I’ll take him.” And considering Bond’s track record with small, vital pieces of equipment—
“Absolutely not,” Q protests.
“Will you be able to care for him, Double-oh Seven?” Mallory asks, and really—
“Care for me?” Q demands. Like he’s a cat or a child—!
“Of course. We could stop by Hamley’s for clothes, do you think?”
“Ham—!” They’re not listening to him. “Hamley’s!”
“He can’t stay here, obviously. I mean, it’s bad enough that I—I’d never forgive myself if something—” Clancy murmurs.
“Hamley’s!” Q spits, stuck.
“I’ll even use some of that leave time you’re always harping at me about,” Bond offers, and the swears Q thinks are filthy because of course that settles it—Mallory’s getting them both out of the office and technically on holiday, which only sweetens the deal.
::
Bond’s flat is sparse, bare. Of course it looks tremendous from his current point of view, but even now he can see signs that it’s honestly massive, at least compared to his West Brompton bread box—this is how the other half of Chelsea lives, Q thinks sourly as he takes in Bond’s designer-chic home. The biggest spot of color in the room is the string of toy soldiers on the white bag Bond’s put on the table, and frankly, that’s what’s sending him spitting down the length of the countertop.
“The bleeding toy store. You took me to the—” Bond has the gall to laugh at him, and Q can acknowledge that he’s been on this tangent for hours. He’s not pouting.
“Hamley’s is a fine store,” Bond admonishes him gently. “The Queen shops there.”
“I am never speaking to you again.”
“That’ll make things difficult.”
It’s a standoff, then, and as Bond’s so much bigger than him—even on a good day, Bond’s big enough to make Q feel small, for all they’re practically the same height, and today is not a good day—Q lets himself sink into the pile of his handkerchief with a huff. “Fine. Bring me something to wear, then.”
“Well, actually,” Bond starts. The package between his fingers crinkles. Q looks at it and.
“You having a laugh?” It’s simple enough, far too long for him. Pink. “Bond.”
“You’re a bit small for the doll market, Q,” Bond protests. “I had to find something that would work even though the toys are twice the size of you.”
“So you picked a dress,” Q says flatly, poking at the fabric disdainfully when Bond puts it in front of him. “It’s cheap and nasty. My handkerchief has finer fabric.”
“Is that your hankie?” Bond asks, lifting the monogrammed corner that’s slung over his shoulder to peer at it.
“Hey! Don’t undress me!” Q squawks, gripping the slick cotton where it’s slipping. “I don’t even want to see the rest. I’ll just—this will do.”
“I am sorry, Q,” Bond apologises, and really, it’s not like Bond controls the inventory at the city’s toy stores. He’s trying really hard to maintain his indignant fury but instead he finds himself flushing, scooping the fabric tighter around himself.
“It’s nothing to worry about, Double-oh Seven,” he grumbles, and Bond’s smile at that is infectious. He can’t even try to pout.
The rest of the evening is an exercise in almost comical frustration. He feels like Stuart Little with his dinner in a saucer, and he’s still sucking the mess from his fingers when Bond provides a bowl of warm water for bathing. There are smears down his front—chicken tikka happens to even the best of men, he reasons—and Bond’s making pointed eyes at the orange stains. “You’ll be sticky,” Bond prompts.
“I’m not putting on the dress,” is Q’s response, dry as kindling. Bond fishes in his pocket for something, tugging out a clean white square so fine Q can nearly see through it, and when he puts it down there’s a moment when Q strokes the stitching and marvels. He can barely feel it and each stitch is the length of the span of his hand; the fabric itself is still warm from Bond’s pocket and smooth. “You just want me naked on your kitchen table,” he grouses anyway, already peeling off the soiled handkerchief. He’s six inches tall—not the most sexually appealing thing in the world, being the same size as a cock—but he’s flushed from more than the steam coming from the bowl when he steps over the side and slides in. The heat of the water feels like it goes straight to his bones, and he gives a deeply satisfied groan as he sinks into it.
“Alright there, Q?” Bond asks, and Q splashes lazily in confirmation. Bond laughs.
“Soap?” Q asks once he’s finished soaking. The heat’s going to his head faster than usual, he thinks, and he sighs, sweeping his wet hair back. Bond offers a tiny flake on his fingernail, clearly chipped out of a larger block by the crumbs stuck under the nail, and he’s curiously touched. “Thanks, Bond,” he offers, rubbing the chunk of soap over his limbs. “Do my back?” he asks, holding the soap out with both hands for Bond to rub a fingertip over it until it’s slick with suds. The press of Bond’s finger along his back, tracing its way up between his shoulder blades to stroke his trapezius gently is phenomenal, and Q stills, sighing happily at the massage. He’s sweetly dozy when Bond lifts him out of the water, rubs him dry with a flannel, and wraps him gingerly with his own handkerchief.
“Long day?” Bond asks, and Q doesn’t even dignify that with a response, just lets Bond arrange him on the pillow like a cosseted pet and falls asleep.
He wakes to an earthquake. The bed is moving almost enough to nauseate him, and it’s only when Bond groans that he catches on, flushing. He considers going back to sleep, allowing Bond this private moment, but before he can roll over he’s slipping, falling down the length of the pillow to land on Bond’s collarbone with a quiet oof. Above him, miles above for how well he can reach it, Bond’s handkerchief has stuck to the pillow, and he’s. Well. Bond stops fondling himself but doesn’t look at him; there’s nothing that’s not awkward about this situation, including—including the way Q’s cock has gone hard, because now’s the perfect time for his body to remember that it finds Bond really, really fit.
And that’s—is it? enough? A large part of him says that it is, and the rest of him has to agree. He’s squirming under the thin blanket before he can convince himself that this is a horrible idea. Overhead, he can hear Bond murmuring at him fuzzy and indistinct, and it’s easy to ignore it, especially as the heat and smell of Bond’s arousal gets closer, becomes more overwhelming. It’s dark and damp and humid under the blanker until Q wriggles into the pocket of air around Bond’s hard cock. He can feel it in the dark, even though he can’t see it, something monolithic and huge and strange. The thick of the air is pierced; Bond folds back the blanket and he can see, can look at the jut of that fat cock in front of him. Q’s knees wobble and he drops to sit on Bond’s abdomen, the obedient schoolboy awaiting instruction.
“Q?” It strikes Q then that Bond seems nervous, voice hesitant. Shy.
“It looks massive,” he tells Bond. Bond’s abdomen buckles under his feet with quiet laughter.
“Well, you’re nearly the same size, so.”
“I mean I’ve met size queens before, but,” Q continues, and Bond laughs again. “The phrase ‘climb you like a tree’ has never felt so apt.”
Bond is very cautious, cordial even, as he tips the head of his cock down, holding it against his belly with a finger along the frenulum. Q reaches to touch it gingerly, twitching at the rushing hiss of Bond’s sharp breath at the feeling of his palm at the head. Bond’s precome feels thicker than precome usually does, and Q wonders if that’s due to his size or Bond’s arousal; he knows the smell of him is more potent and shivers. He looks at that giant cock and knows precisely what he wants to do.
It’s hot underneath him, the thin skin and soft firmness of it. He’d feel awkward throwing his leg over if Bond didn’t groan like a man dying at the press of him against his cock; once he’s seated, his own little cock nestled in a way that’s strangely sweet in the folds of Bond’s foreskin, Q pulls himself upright, wraps his thighs around, and rocks into it. Bond swears.
There’s not much to hang on to as he squirms along the length of flesh. His fingers in the folds of skin make Bond shift with discomfort and the meaty head is too slick for him to grasp well, for all that he relishes the sensation and Bond’s heartbeat in the thick vein that’s between Q’s legs starts to throb; he skitters his fingers at the edge of the slit already red and hot and gets a double-palmful of unctuous slickness for his troubles. Bond’s fingers are firm against his back—thumb on the ridge of a shoulder—and he rubs himself with Q. Q quivers; he’s never frotted against something so large, something so animal. He lets Bond stroke over his back affectionately, lets him pet his hair until every inch of him is covered with the tacky sensation of drying precome. It’s—he shudders, overcome and surprised by the force of the orgasm that’s sweeping through him. He’s pumping his own tiny mess between them, and it shouldn’t ease the way—it’s only a few sparse drops compared to Bond—but it does, and his toes curl as Bond masturbates with the length of his body. His thighs are locking with the force of his pleasure, and everything’s hot and sticking and slick and sliding.
He’s nearly ready to cry with overstimulation when he finally feels Bond’s skin twitching beneath him, spasms sparkling up the length of his cock and growing in deepness and duration until his abdomen is jerking beneath Q’s feet. Bond stops stroking, and Q can feel it: pulses of something surging beneath the skin he’s riding; he holds on tight and watches, fascinated, as each wave transforms into a jet of come, each twitch of Bond’s bollocks translating up the length of Bond’s cock into a twitch that lifts him a few inches before gingerly lowering him until his feet touch the spasmodic muscles of Bond’s belly again. It lasts forever, aftershocks lingering, and Q does his part to push any dregs out with his whole body until Bond stops him with a gentle hand and he lies panting on Bond’s softening cock.
“That was fun,” he says breathlessly. Bond chuckles. “I’m all over filthy now, though.”
Bond’s fingers are tender as he’s very carefully lifted to the pillow and pressed down; Bond manoeuvers him easily, holds his knees apart with one hand just far enough that a sweet ache sets up in his hips, and. And tongue bathes him. With his tongue, and Q is about to start scolding him for it when Bond laps over his cock and balls, trips down to his arse, then does the whole lot in one sweeping, wet rush that throws him off so neatly he can barely remember English, much less his own name. Bond focuses his attentions.
It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt, anything he’s ever imagined. It should be disgusting, spreading his legs for something so massive and wet, but it’s not—it’s incredible: hot and slick and nubbled with the texture of Bond’s taste buds. Even having come before, he doesn’t last, toes curling and legs twitching under Bond’s touch. Bond doesn’t stop, even when Q shoves with all his might at his fingertips, and Q fast finds himself shaking, squealing, until he’s limp and oversatisfied and Bond finally releases him with a ticklish kiss to his belly.
“I want to kiss you,” Bond tells him quietly, “but you’re too small.” For the first time in hours, Q remembers that he was annoyed with his size. They settle instead with him curled against Bond’s collarbone, nestled in delicately to the curl of bone, and when he wakes in the morning himself again, it’s just the right spot for kissing.