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The Last Word

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Bond rarely thinks too hard about his sexuality. It's another weapon in his arsenal, and despite his reputation he uses it more for the Crown's benefit than his own. He'll concede that he pulls it out of his toolbox more often than is strictly necessary, but sex inspires confidence on both sides and Bond would argue that a satisfying encounter improves his work.

This mission had been different. It had been about diamond smuggling, at first, with Bond playing the buyer, but Victor Tavares had plied him with smiles and small touches and flattering confessions that Bond saw through but did nothing to discourage. Men had wanted him before and Bond had indulged the most desperate, the ones that would offer up anything to impress him, their submission and their secrets.

Tavares, as it turned out, was not desperate.

Tavares liked ropes and riding crops and a challenge. Bond had feigned enthusiasm until he realized he wasn't, until the sound of the floorboards creaking behind him as he spread himself over the bed became enough to turn him hard. Back in London he glowers at the nurse who spreads salve on his ropeburned wrists (the official report lists those as battle wounds), escapes from Medical as soon as possible, and sinks into a rum-sotted sleep that he wakes from again and again, erect and aching, grasping for the fading grip of a hand at the back of his neck, the tip of a cock pressed against him from behind.

James Bond isn't desperate either, he tells himself.

After procrastinating for almost a week he finally reports for his meeting with Q. It won't go well - he had managed to plant three bugs throughout Tavares's penthouse, but he'd been forced to ditch the radio and lapel camera and earpiece, and during his escape his brand-new Walther had been mangled by a trash compactor.

At the sight of the ruined gun, Q raises one eyebrow and says, "Seems you were in over your head this time," and attitude from the kid is the last thing Bond needs right now.

"I think anyone who got involved with Mr. Tavares would be in over their head," he replies dully, biting down on the impulse to rise to the bait.

Q stares for a long moment. His index finger circles the gun's empty trigger guard. "He was - exacting, wasn't he?"

The adjective is precise and dangerous, a hidden blade. There's a lurking touch of approval that makes the embers in Bond's gut flare. "Don't tell me you admire him."

Q shrugs with one shoulder. "Not really. He's not the sort who forms any kind of desirable attachments, and he often trusts the wrong people. But in his own little world he has amassed impressive power." He glances at Bond out of the corners of his eyes and his mouth quirks. "And he certainly had you jumping at his command, which I've never quite achieved."

The little smirk, the gloating insinuation, none of this is new - but this time the barbs latch under Bond's skin and some dark coiled emotion strikes back like a snake. Oh, he wants to sink his teeth into the kid, wants him off his guard, wants the kid to be as sore as he is. Before reason can warn him off he seizes Q and shoves him facedown over the desk and smacks his arse with an open palm.

Q's hands fly out and he braces them against the desk as though he's going to push back, but he doesn't. He's tense from head to foot and the hairs are standing on the nape of his neck but he doesn't resist, and Bond spanks him again.

"I'm glad I could help you feel superior while I bent over for Queen and Country."

"It sounded like it wasn't a total loss for you," Q digs, and Bond hits him hard enough to draw a yelp.

It takes a few more strokes for Bond to find a rhythm that jerks Q against the desk. After a minute he falters and Q's hips rock anyway; he's rubbing himself against the furniture much the same way Bond had when -

"You're not supposed to enjoy it," Bond snarls, and he's not sure which of them he's talking to.

"Sorry," Q says, in a tone that conveys exactly how not sorry he is.

When Bond reaches around for his belt Q lifts his hips helpfully, shifts his weight so Bond can take his pants down smoothly. They're both hard and Bond burns to know how far he could push, but for the moment he concentrates on spanking some color into Q's arse.

Soon a stroke sends a twinge through Bond's hand and he takes a step back. His blood pounds in his ears and his throat and his cock. Q's skin is flushed pink and warm to the touch; Bond runs a hand over one cheek and trails a finger experimentally into the cleft, presses ever so slightly against Q's entrance.

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Q asks suspiciously.

The answer's no, actually - Bond has been aware of this act for a long time, but he'd never considered it until Tavares had spread his legs and shook him apart from the inside, gasping and cursing into the duvet.

Q sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose like an irritated schoolteacher. "There's Vaseline in the outer office, in one of the plastic drawers on the far wall." He flutters a hand at the door and Bond goes.

Before he even returns to the desk he has two fingers slicked up, and he may be a little too eager - "Slowly," Q orders, and Bond obeys. Once inside he realizes that he has no idea what this is supposed to feel like from the penetrating end. He gropes blindly, hoping for a flash of inspiration.

Q makes a noise that's probably laughter, and Bond spanks him one more time. "Be helpful or be quiet."

"You're not quite there, move a little -" Then Q's breath catches in his teeth. "There you are."

Bond massages the same spot over and over again and watches Q's head bow and his thighs tremble and doesn't think of Tavares at all - he's reached the threshold where nothing matters but pleasure, his other hand freeing his cock and stroking in time with Q's ragged breathing, nudging them both right up to the edge - Q's up on the balls of his feet, and then his head snaps back and his muscles clench and tiny lights swim and settle in front of Bond's eyes.

Bond spins away from him and leans on the desk, gripping the sharp edge until his fingers deaden. Q lets his forehead drop against the desktop and his spine fall into a more natural curve. They pant, hard, then slower, then slowly, and then the room is silent.

The desk creaks as Q levers himself upright. Bond cleans up with a tissue and tucks himself back into his trousers with shaking hands. To his left he can hear Q doing the same, more efficiently, the rustle of fabric and the clink of his belt, the smooth slide of leather through his belt loops. When Bond finally turns his head Q looks remarkably put together, and if not for his mussed fringe and a red mark where his glasses bit into the side of his nose this might never have happened.

Q raises his eyebrows. "Feel better?"

Bond exhales, lets the last of the adrenaline and tension and anger go. After a moment he nods, half-surprised.

"Good." Q settles himself in his desk chair, carefully but without any outward discomfort, and turns it toward his computer screen. "I'll expect you on the firing range next Wednesday to test your new gun."

"Could be sooner than that," Bond mutters.

Q pivots his chair just far enough to look Bond in the eye. "Don't push your luck."

But there's a tiny smile glinting in his face, and against his better judgment Bond smiles back.