Work Text:
Bond flicks the fabric; it doesn’t so much sway as writhe, folding itself over Q’s hip and thigh again like a living thing before falling heavy against the curve of his arse again. “Beautiful,” Bond says. Q huffs.
“If you’re just going to take the piss—” Q starts.
“Now, when you said you had something to show me,” Bond says. His grin is obnoxious; Q pulls himself up self-consciously, wrapping an arm around his chest to clutch at his other elbow.
“Yes, laugh it up. This is your one and only chance, because if you ever mention this again, I will shoot you. Now we can pretend this never happened and go back to our regularly scheduled routine of snog, grope, fuck,” Q mumbles, flushing.
“Q,” Bond says.
“No, you’ve had your fun. I’ve been put back in my place—” Q’s building toward a proper rant, but his posture says otherwise, thin and curling. The humiliated flush is fetching.
“My fun? You think my fun is making you feel poorly for sharing this with me?” Bond asks. His tone is disapproving, face set in a frown. “I’m not teasing; the things this thing does for your arse—it ought to be criminal.”
“You’re,” Q says, dropping off. His blush deepens and he bites his lip. “Also. Too, I mean: I like it, too. The way it feels and. And. The way it moves. On my legs,” he clarifies. It’s got the breath of Sunday confession, secret and profane.
“That’s that settled,” Bond says firmly. Q nods.
“I even put on,” Q starts, but stops just as quick. His fingers tangle in the pleats; before he can regret it, he flips the fabric up and lets it fall again. Bond blinks, hard. “I’m wearing. Well, they go with the rest, don’t they? Knickers.”
Yes. Bond’s mouth goes dry. “They do,” he says carefully, because he can enjoy the way the skirt hangs on Q’s hips, the way the pleats fold over the tops of his thighs and frame his arse in such a pleasing, pretty way, but that glimpse, that flicker of silk—he smiles and doesn’t care that it’s all sharp and hungry. Q peers at him through the thick plastic of his glasses and suddenly the awkwardness is forgotten. Q’s hand drops to his wrist, coquettish, and Bond’s grin stretches. “Show me again,” he demands.
“I don’t think I should,” Q says, as if he’s suddenly gone shy. As if he’s suddenly become the teenage girl in her school dress, and Bond sees for the first time the knee socks sliding down knobby legs. He’s in stocking feet—standing four feet ten in one sock, Bond remembers incongruously—and he shifts, uneasy with the scrutiny.
“Come on, pretty thing.” It’s not quite wheedling, gruffer and rougher than that, needful and already aching. “Lift up your skirts for me. I want a look.”
“Good girls won’t,” Q tells him. It sounds like he’s reminding himself.
“Just a peek,” Bond coaxes. Q’s fingers are clenching in the thick folds of his skirt; Bond smiles and falls to a knee. The fine hairs on Q’s thighs lift when he wraps his palms around them, just under the hem and plucking with his thumbs.
“A peek,” Q says in a rush. He’s scarlet, flushing into the hollow behind his knees and pinking up pretty and lush; he bites his lip and stares down with stardust eyes. “Just—?”
“Just,” Bond agrees, eyes trapped as the hem creeps up. “Unless.”
“Unless?” The hem is higher now, just the edge of lace peeking from beneath it. Bond can feel the heat against his face as he watches breathless.
“Oh, yes,” he says with a sigh. “Unless.”
Q’s hard, knickers stretched over his cock in an appealing lump that Bond leans in to nuzzle sweetly. They’re white, of course, simple and practical and cut high on the hips. They’d be almost unisex if it weren’t for the twee little curl of lace cutting into Q’s skin. They’re too tight—he can see it in the transparent sheen of the fabric, in the straining seams and ruddy stripes left behind by the elastic—Q breathes sharp, sucking in air and shifting back; Bond follows, pulls Q closer, laps at the fabric until Q drops the skirt around his head and clutches through it with both hands.
“What,” Q asks, knees locking until he feels weak. “What are you—?”
Bond only hums in satisfaction, mouthing the silk happily. He can taste Q on them, not just the sweat and sex but the scent of his washing powder—he’s washed them at home, a thought that warms Bond through because it’s so very Q—and the lingering traces of soap. “You taste incredible.”
“Thank you,” Q says, but his laugh is strained. “I’m so pleased to meet with your approval.”
Bond grins against the fabric. There’s a spot the size of his open mouth that’s rapidly going wet and clinging; he puffs a breath on it and watches Q’s hips jerk. Bond presses a soothing kiss to the spot, a kiss that gradually deepens and heats until he’s sucking the salt of Q’s arousal from the fabric and Q is huddled over his head, voice cracked and pleading. The skirt is obnoxious now, hanging over his head; Q is making desperate, broken sounds that Bond wants—needs, really, at all costs—to see. His hand fumbles; he won’t take his mouth from Q’s cock as he reaches for the zip and wiggles it down. It won’t come off. The hook and eye part like a shot, scraping snarled red lines down Q’s hip; Q freezes, crushes Bond’s face to his cock, and falls apart.
“Oh, God,” Q gasps. It’s benediction, plea and prayer; his thighs draw tight and curl around Bond’s ears as he dangles from the edge, pleasure taut and lingering in his muscles as the wet spot spreads in pulses, oozes up and out until Bond’s dragging come from the fabric and Q’s belly with his lips. “Oh,” he says. His eyes are clenched behind his glasses; he sounds almost conversational.
Bond makes is thirty seconds, admiring the sweat in Q’s curls and the knot of his brow as it slowly, slowly unfolds and becomes beatific. Then he manhandles Q, fingers under his shoulder and his arse and ungentle as he flips him, undoes his fly, and smears his bare cock against Q’s arse, grunting. Q sighs into it, spreads his legs and grinds back; when Bond presses further he can feel the cooling slick-sticky spot at the front of the knickers. Q closes his thighs obligingly, trapping him there against the fabric and Bond bites kisses along his spine.
It’s the shift in balance that tips him off. Somewhere along the way, Bond’s eyes have drifted shut. They lurch forward, left, and Bond blinks down at Q, who’s rubbing himself through the front of his knickers like a girl frigging her clit, his long fingers scrubbing enthusiastic circles along the head of his cock. Bond bumps them with his own cock and nips at Q’s ear when Q makes a grab for him instead.
“Oh, my darling little creature,” Bond murmurs, hand dipping down to guide Q back to where he’d been. “Come on, touch—just here,” he sighs, pressing Q’s fingertips into the silk until Q whines. “Right here. Touch. Play with yourself, pretty thing, and show me how much you like it here in your filthy, sloppy pants. I want to see you come screaming and know you did it to yourself because of me.”
Q’s breath is sobbing now, his arm rocking his whole body as he pets and strokes and rubs; his thighs clench and Bond freezes, unwilling to thrust for fear of coming. Q’s fingers claw at Bond’s leg, his arm, anywhere he can reach. Bond turns him again, taking in his flushed face and the sodden pile he’s made of himself; it takes barely three strokes before he’s aiming, adding to the streaky mess between Q’s legs. Q’s eyes go wide.
The sound Q makes, deep and guttural, tugs at Bond’s cock like an invisible fist. Q barely manages to shove a hand into his pants and cling, holding on desperately as he rockets into an orgasm that looks nearly painful. He trembles, frozen limbs thawing until he can put one shaking foot to the floor and then another, until he’s standing coltish-wary clinging to the edge of the desk and regarding Bond with an awfully suspicious eye to have been the one to have lured Bond into the room with the express purpose of displaying his careworn knickers.
“Mallory’s going to kill me,” Q says finally. Bond cocks his head. “You weren’t supposed to be so overcome that you leaned me against my desk and blew me under it.”
“What did you think would happen? You’d reveal your hidden penchant for dressing up like a public school girl and I’d just say, ‘Well that’s spiffing’?” Bond asks.
Q has the grace to flush. “We are literally down the hall from my bed. I think I came on state secrets. You are not invited over to my flat again, Double-oh-Seven.”
“Then you’ll just have to wear these to work,” Bond says with a lazy smile, tracing his fingers over the white silk. Q frowns.