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"You love it," Bond hissed, into his ear, driving his hips in, a tight grind that corkscrewed his cock in, and made Q see stars.
Q couldn't protest. Couldn't - and maybe it was fortunate he couldn't, with those fingers in his mouth. It was everything it should have been. Everything it could have been, everything he'd fantasized , right down to the man walking into his bathroom and pinning him to the wall.
It was like Bond had read his mind, taken every detail he'd ever thought about, the position, hell, the water temperature, and made it reality.
It would have been perfect.
If Bond hadn't gone rogue precisely four weeks and three days ago, in a blaze of the British High Commission in Calgary, resulting in three dead civilian British Nationals and four agents, one of whom the CCTV had shown Bond deliberately back tracking to retrieve highly confidential information, and then pointedly, calmly, snapping his neck, before turning to look square at the camera.
It had been a challenge, and Q had shoved aside his burgeoning attraction for blank betrayal, before trying to track him down.
But Bond knew him, and knew his stuff, and he had dropped off the map almost immediately.
And right now, his phone was beeping, a little alert to say that the search had pinged on Bond's location.
Too bloody late to do any good whatsoever.
Q would have appreciated the warning ten minutes ago.
Even five.
Not one half a minute before the curtain wrenched open and Bond was slamming him against the wall, a hand cupping his jaw to cushion the impact in a mockery of tenderness and muffle his cries.
"You love it. You want me to fuck you into the wall, till you can't hear anything, but me breathing, my words, against your ear."
Q jerked, at the thrusts pistoning into him, hot tight slide of just not enough slick, and Bond chuckled, low and almost kind, and then he was pulling back, just enough for him to snag the bottle of lubricant that Q kept next to his shampoo because Q was a young hot blooded man with an internet connection and intensive imagination.
Q snarled out a protest, tried to bite the fingers in his mouth even as he spun to slam an elbow into Bond's side - Bond yanked his fingers out from under Q's teeth, hooking the side of his mouth hard, even as he dropped the bottle to catch his elbow and twist his arm up.
Q hissed and Bond reminded him who had the upper hand by slamming Q's head against the shower wall.
"I'm being nice, Q," he said, as Q gasped and went briefly limp as his vision shorted out stars. "And this is how you thank me?"
"Fuck you," Q said. His mouth felt yanked awry, his head hurt, his shoulder was still pinned up high his back. He tensed at the mocking tender kiss on the back of his neck, at his sensitive nape, and felt Bond smirk.
"Of course, my dear Q."
There was the pop of the cap, and then the slick sound of lubricant being spread on skin.
On Bond's cock, of course.
Then Bond's cock pressing in against him, again. Because - because -
And then a slick hand on Q's cock, fast, almost rough, and sure, stroking him and Bond had unerring aim, even if his skill on the range was shot - he hammered into Q's prostate like it was a heart-shot, and jerked at his cock till Q felt stripped, raw, hard and hating it.
He refused. Q didn't want this. Q didn't want it like this, Bond taking him, and fucking him with mock-tenderness, ruining his fantasies, taking every last bit of Q's stupid crush and warping it, tainting it with the real thing, real human skill, playing Q's body with every drag of teeth along his sensitive skin, sensitized with nerves and fear and arousal, fingers playing with his balls, even as his arm was trapped between their bodies, twisted up high and pinned by Bond's chest, hard and rippling with muscles.
He was sobbing when he came, between Bond's hand and Bond's cock, spasming and clenching between them, the sparks blanking his mind, but not enough to feel the painful filthy feeling of everything in ruins around him.
"Why," he croaked, when Bond pulled out, too numbed to even feel Bond finish in him, only able to feel the cooling jizz on his thighs, on his calves.
Why did you do this. To me.
"Step up your game, your hunt is lackadaisal, Q," Bond said, stepping out of the shower. "Aren't you supposed to be the little boy genius of MI6? Come find me."
Then he left the room.
There was a gunshot, and the alert was silent.