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James was working with the new Quartermaster - only known as Q, now and forever more - when it happened. It was only a flash of something, a color, but it was enough to catch his attention and then keep it as he tried to figure it out. It was infuriating.

And James was very unhappy that his focus was so easily diverted. Had been easily diverted since this new Q came on to the scene.

He should not be so...the word eluded him. What Q was eluded him. It was a new sensation, one he wasn't sure he liked or wanted to have repeat. was something about Q that left him wondering and pondering.

Like right now. And when Q bent again, there it was. That intense flash of color. And James zeroed in on it, breath catching. It was a strap, thin and red and holding to his hip tightly, only peeking out between the large sweater vest and the pressed gray pants. Red.

After that, the rest of the meeting was slightly dazed and partially forgotton. A dangerous thing for him, surely, but unavoidable at this point.

Days later, head back on and thoughts firmly grounded, he went to Q, asking about the slight catch in the chamber of his issued weapon. Seeing Q sitting hunched over his desk, band of red, red, cherry red glued to his hip and sweater riding up and slacks unbelted so they gaped and...his mouth fell open and his words failed him. He tried to clear his throat noiselessly, but was sure there was a small burst of sound because the young curly-haired Quartermaster sat up, looking over his shoulder and hiding that stretch of red viciously with that normal, boring tan and brown jumper of his.

"Yes? 007?"

He couldn't help himself and swallowed, opening his mouth but unable to articulate any one thought. He snapped his jaw together, gritting it so he wouldn't lean in and pull away that hideous knitted monstrosity and trace his fingers along that stripe of color on that pale skin.

"Bond?" Q said softly. "James? What's wrong?"

Flexing his jaw, he turned on his heel, stalking out the door and leaning back against the wall, gulping air that he very much needed since it seemed he had stopped doing that a while ago. He knew that he was probably being recorded, but...but, that color against that gorgeous flesh with that surprisingly gorgeous man, he was floundering and unable to do anything about it.

Or, well, he could, but then Q would hate him. Hate him and would never respect him.

It took a month before he was able to see Q again, voice in his ear, glitching gun in his hand, and a crazy bastard selling information that needed to be stopped. He came in, limping, arm in a shirt sling cobbled together, and various bleeding sores on his face, his lips, and the side of his head and ear.

And, half-dead, bleeding, nearly asleep on his feet, he stilled stuttered at the incredulous sight of rich blood red plastered to pale skin that was teasing him under a blue and gray jumper borrowed from the depths of hell to hide his silent torment. He blacked out some time after that, hearing screams and shouts for medical.

When he had finally woken up, Q was sitting beside his gurney with a standing drip hooked to an IV in his arm, laptop in hand. Moneypenny was walking in with a cup of steaming coffee, dark circles under her eyes causing a pang in his chest. Circles, it seemed, mirrored on Q's face.

"You two should sleep," he rasped brokenly. There was a quiet scramble as Q nearly dropped his laptop and Moneypenny startled enough to jolt her coffee before Q set aside his machine and took a cup with a straw set in it, the bent end held to his lips. "Much better, thank you," James muttered lowly, eyes already drooping. Q brushed a hand over his own, checking the bandages, Bond guessed as he slid back under.

When he finally woke up enough to see M there, the man was giving him a disapproving face and shaking his head. "James, can you not come back half dead?" Bond smiled a little, the fire in his eyes plainly saying 'Not a chance' all while making him seem so much stronger than he was. 007 Had a presence with that fire, it made him larger than life and a horror for their enemies. "Stop worrying my Quartmasters, Double-O Seven. It is not fair to them."

M left after patting 007 on the shoulder that wasn't damaged and strolled out just as Q came back in, coffee in hand and hands shaking. Bond felt a brow raise and looked at the young man.

"Sleep, Q. It will still be there when you wake up," he chided from his prone position. The young Quartermaster started not unlike Moneypenny, only he spilled all of his coffee down his front, cursing at the hot liquid and quickly shedding the now soaked jumper and even his shirt, keeping only the small black ribbed tank. It fell short of the waistband of his slacks, also black today, and bared a wide band of blue. Disappointment filled James at the vision - not red or any form of red and what a waste and a terrible pity - but he still gave his firm stare, the young man sighing and slumping into his chair, large and leather and rather opulent. Quite comfortable looking.

"You had better be right, Bond," he muttered as he leaned back, lifting his legs and slanting undignified but obviously comfortable as he finally dozed off.

It took three weeks before Bond was allowed to even use a gun, much less return to the field as an active agent. In that time, he came to the conclusion that Q was watching him. Very closely. So Bond had visited every day this past week and no anomaly or red somethings were visible and that suspicious glint started to wane. And this time, when he walked in, gun in need of general matinence, something he had been forbidden after that last time, he was able to smile at his Quartermaster confidently. There was no red today to work against him, he was sure. Or...

Well, he had been, until Q had bent well over, sweater riding up and slacks sliding down and revealing a long crimson stripe. His breath stuttered in his lungs and he had to cough to regain any semblance of calm. Didn't work. He fisted his hands that desperately wanted to grab and hold on. It at least hid the shaking that had started immediately. 

"James, come this way," Q called as if from a distance and James, docile and muddled, followed. 

In the weapons cache, Q beckoned him in, closed the door, and bolted it. If James was worried for his life, he might have be able to snap out of his fugue. As it was, he felt entirely safe if not entirely thrilled in the presence of this new Q, which possibly led to the issues he was currently dealing with. 


The blue-eyed man looked up, eyes widening at the sight of Q having removed his jumper and undershirt, his gray ribbed tank bunched under his arms as he unzipped his pants. James couldn't help that his eyes followed the zip, the slow reveal of red. Red. Delicious, sensual, sexual, blood pumping RED

"What are you doing, Q?" he breathed out, wondering and worried as he back away, hands behind his back to keep away, because if he touched that wonderful red, he was going to hurt this new and fragile relationship with his Quartermaster, someone he respected and did infact enjoy working for. 

Those green, green eyes, dangerous in their guile, looked at him through lenses, capturing his attention about half as much as that red and leaving him floundering. "I have been observing you for quite some time and this is becoming ridiculous, Double-O Seven. You have got to get this out of your system or you will do nothing but be distracted. Here and in the field." 

James felt his jaw drop a little before his vision clouded with anger bordering on rage. "That doesn't mean I will just fuck you!" he snarled, backing away further. "I respect you and your job and I will not have you blaming me for this issue! Alright, I have a problem, but this is not the way to solve it, DAMN IT, Q, STOP THAT!" 

The brunet had been advancing, dropping his tank into a puddle and all but nude, that RED band of men's bikini underwear keeping his eyes bouncing from there to those green eyes and back to RED. He stopped, hand coming out to pluck at a button on James' shirt, the fabric sliding off of it easily enough. "James Bond," he rasped, loosing another pearl button, "you have been a pain in my arse since day one. That does not, however, stop you from effectively being one of the most handsome men I have ever seen or interacted with." Brown curls tumbled softly around a pale face and framing green eyes and pink lips. "And I very intensely do want to shag you. If this is the only way I'll get my chance, then so be it." 

James opened his mouth again, tilted his head and closed it before speaking. "All you will ever have to do is ask, Q." He looked into green eyes and slowly let his hands from behind him, grabbing a wrist that toyed so coyly with his buttons, holding on to a soft, clean-shaven cheek with his other. "And," he leaned in now, not hiding his reaction to Q in those underwear, as he was, soft and angular and not a muscular creature with tight, tight flesh and unyeilding mass but male all the same, "wear any pair of red underthings you want. I want to do unspeakable, dangerous, horridly wonderful things to you when you wear that color. I want to slide each and every pair you own down your hips with my teeth and make you whimper and beg and cry for me. I want it all, Q...but I will not take it without permission. I am a bastard, but I have my honor, tattered and worn though it is." 

The young brunet man was shivering and giving a wonderful impression of a kicked puppy, biting his lip a deeper pink, blood flooding his now swollen bottom lip that Bond desperately wanted to taste. 

"I'm going to kiss you now," James stated, leaning in and capturing those lips when the young Quartermaster never made a protest. They groaned, James deep and trembling with it in his chest, Q whimpering and high. Agile fingers rushed to his buttons, undoing and spreading his shirt in record time. Pianist fingers spread wide, stroking from pectorals to abdominals and along the line of his finely tailored trousers before flicking the button open. James's hands went to Q's sides, brushing fingers along ribs and softly defined abs to wide hip bones that were being lovingly caressed by that red. That red. The red that had been teasing him for months and leaving him edgy and wanting even after wanking or fucking another nameless, faceless woman or - seldom as it was - man. The younger man responded like fire in his hands, every article of clothing being pulled on as desperation settled over wide, thin shoulders. Taking pity on him, the blue-eyed man let his top layers drop off his shoulders with a shrug, the coat most likely becoming irrepairably lined and wrinkled in the heap it was in. Soon he was shucking his pants, toeing off his shoes and socks and standing proud in boxer briefs of charcoal-black. Q stepped back enough to see, hissing his appreciation all the while scratching and clawing at his own briefs. 

James stopped him, holding his hands before putting them on his hips, mirroring the position he had put Q in, thumbs rubbing hip bones and catching under the thin hip band. "I am going to kneel. When I do, I am going to remove your briefs with my teeth and tongue. Then, I am going to suck on your cock until you are desperate for anything I give you before I start to prepare you for taking my cock. I will use my mouth, my fingers, and my tongue. At that point, I will use the lube in my trouser pocket to slick you perfectly before using what little is left on my cock and then fucking you standing up. Does this suit you?" 

Q made a strangled noise, hands scrambling and tightening on Bond's hips, eyes wide, pupils blown. "Oh...oh god, James..." 

Figuring that to be his permission, the spy knelt, taking his time in licking and tugging on the skin tight fabric, nuzzling thighs and hip bones and mouthing all over. By now the brunet was trembling, only the hands on his legs keeping him upright, his own hands coming down to hold onto James's shoulders. A long swipe of his tongue followed by the pull of one hip strap had him inhaling on a gasp. The next one had him biting his lip and groaning. trading sides, playing back and forth, soon only the front covered the hard cock of the Quartermaster, making him hiss in pleasure pain when it bounced free to slap against his stomach. A nibbling, sucking, licking mouth soon attached to it and it was all he could do to remember he was standing. 

That was before Bond took his cock in his mouth, sucking and humming the anthem of their Queen and making his eyes roll back in his head and his hips thrust of their own violation. Before long, Bond was bobbing his head, Q letting out small desperate sounds as his hands fisted on flesh. Then...then Bond pulled off and he was getting on to furious before he was spun, pushed forward to touch to wall, catching himself or be crushed and his legs being spread. That talented mouth was back on him in a flash, only not in the same place and he would complain except he wasn't even sure he was breathing and holymotherofEngland, "James, James, James!

He'd forgotten about this after the first .02 seconds Bond had put his mouth on Q's cock, but now that part about his mouth, his fingers, and his tongue came rushing back, leaving him panting and flushed and doing an embarrassing keening noise. Then that mouth, those fingers, and that tongue were doing their damndest to make him cum without anything on his cock, mouth and teeth and lips biting and sucking before sticking that long tongue inside and lapping and humming, longer fingers using the saliva to coat their way and scissor and curl and move, tips pressing into his prostrate without hesitation and making him cry out, possibly scream, he wasn't sure because there was thunder in his ears and choking breaths in his throat. 

The glorious torture was ended soon enough, cooler gelled fingers pressing in along side the first two, stretching him wide and leaving him a wreck, mouth hanging open in the hopes of sucking in more air. 

"I do not seem to have a condom," James murmured into his ear. He shivered, whimpering as the stabbing on his prostrate lessened. "I will not come inside you without your permission, Q. Let me know now so that I can pull back." 

Oh god what that thick husky rich voice does to his cock...! "I-if you p-pull away, s-s-so he-help me, J-JAMES, I will hurt y-you!" he bit out, stuttering and breath hitching and ass pressing into a naked cock that was slippery and making him groan. 

"So be it," he rumbled against Q's neck, licking a wide stripe before biting down and thrusting, cock held as he pushed strongly and steadily against his ass. With a muted, wet pop, James was inside, hot thick dick splitting him wide and forcing a pornographic sound from his chest and throat like a release of lightning in the dark. It was a slow smooth, dangerously addictive glide that made him growl, pushing back until long fingered hands grabbed his hips, holding him so still it literally hurt to not move. 


There was a chuckle, breath hot and wet against his neck before it was kissed and then that hedonistic sex god was moving. Ooooh, bloody fuck was he moving, making Q bounce on his cock, forcing him to move before dragging him up, a hand cupping his neck, another teasing his hip and cock base and making him loose his mind. But at this angle, at this specific angle, James was able to hit his prostrate again and again and again and there was nothing left of him for a while, just mad, manic sex

And when James finally grabbed his neglected cock, the agent only had a few moments to pump him before he was coming, eyes whiting out and unseeing, body jerking harshly. Bond jerked against his shoulder, breathing hard and he mouthed his neck and shoulder, sucking and licking and biting. ""

"Do it," he breathed lowly, more a whisper than a sound and he felt this hardened, jaded, delicious man shudder as he finally came himself, warmth spreading out inside and making the brunet sigh. 

They stood, weak and lazy against each other for a while, holding tight to one another and letting their breath and strength return. When they did pull away, Q grimaced at the mess to himself and his briefs, still caught around his thighs. Bond leaned down, pulled those briefs off while helping Q keep balance, and held them possessively, eying the younger man equally so. "I do believe...I am..." he breathed deeply, the scent of their sex still high, "that I am...ruined." 

Q felt a wicked grin stretch his face wide.

The moment held for a moment before loud beating was heard and an irritated M's voice along the lines of, "ARE YOU TWO BLOODY WELL DONE YET? QUIT BUGGERING AND OPEN THE DAMNED DOOR!" 

Q took one look at James, the handsome agent following suit before they both burst into laughter. 

They were banned from the room for a week. Then visiting the loo together for a month. THEN the private offices. 

Q never did retrieve his briefs. 

Chapter Text

The sheets were a rich, pinked ivory. So pale as to have no color at all, but just enough of a hint, just enough to keep it from being that starkly bleached white. It was ... comforting, speaking of times past and your mother when you were young, long lovely fingers knitting your gloves and scarf because she liked making you things with her own hands. With as tired and sore and manipulated past your incredible endurance as you were, successful mission or not, you were in need of something absolutely comforting. Two week leave was all you had to pull your metal facilities back in order and do what you do best: Spy. 

It might not be enough this time. 

Q, however, was not one to allow you to wallow, coming to you dressed in working slacks and a royal blue shirt tucked in, hair a wild riot of curls, and a rich ivory throw in his hands to bundle you up. In mere moments, you were on the bed, nude and bandaged, clean from a too hot shower and stitched back by the wonderful man that tried his best for you. Not only that, but you felt sluggish and worn and easily able to sleep with him guarding your back. You haven't slept that deeply in years. 



When James came to, he looked to the gentle rustling sound, noticing Q standing there and arranging items on a tray, items he couldn't see. He was a bit apprehensive, but not enough to actually worry about it. He hissed when he tried to move, muscles stiff and unkind in their state of deep rest. The brown hair man turned, lifting a brow as he strolled to the bedside, admonishment flowing gently. "Really, James. Rest, you imbecile, or will I have to tie you down?" 

Those words had the super spy twitching, his groin taking an interest in the idea even if he hurt like the devil all over. The groan, however, was from pain, not pleasure, as a lot of little things pulled and tugged and burned. There was a sigh as something settled heavily on the nightstand, a large tub of ointment, topical bruise and muscle treatment. Strong, soft, oddly calloused fingers pulled on him, tipping the spy to his side before making him comfortable on his stomach. If not the for smell of wool and ozone and that specific sandalwood cologne Q wore, James would have come around swinging. As it was, he allowed the man-handling and sighed into the pillow, content to doze as Q went about checking his bandages and the four gun shot wounds he brought home as a self present for messing up spectacularly at the last moment. 

"You are as tense as a wire, Double-O. I can't do anything at all. At this rate, your stitches will rip," was the quiet complaint. 

He snorted, the agent curling his arms around his pillow. "Can't help you there, Q. I was used as a bloody punching bag before I kicked in a few heads. This tends to be the result of such actions." 

The sheet was ripped down, James now exposed more than just above his waist line. He would have complained but it would be useless. Q was a determined and dangerous man, really. While he didn't do exploding pens, he did do tasers, needles, and other lethal yet over-looked weapons. The most lethal were his own two hands, the hands that were opening the topical jar and then smearing it on his back from shoulder to the dip in his spine. He groaned when said hands also started kneading his muscles, making everything hurt before it felt better. Good God, the man was a genius with his hands. Pressure points were hit then released, James giving wordless sounds of encouragement, whimpering silently when the young Q found the bone deep bruising over his ribs before sighing in quiet relief as it stopped making it painful to breathe. Down his spine, up his sides, deep into his muscles and completely comforting. There was no expectation here, someone demanding of him afterwards, a chase, a problem, an issue only human intuition could resolve. 

Soft, firm hands started on his feet after leaving his back bereft, the floating feeling growing as pressure point after pressure point was enticed into bending to Q's formidable will. Waking up hours later to a rich broth and fresh bread was extremely pleasant, eating it by himself more so. 

This went on for two days, Q nursing him with quiet touches and soft admonishments that were laced with steel and full of curiosity and fascination. He never voiced his questions, though. Not about the mission or the wounds or why it went so badly. He never asked permission, either, making James into something of a living medical doll, flipping him around, checking his health and soothing his wounds. 

And, more than once, calming night terrors that would have him waking on silent screams. 

It is the third day before Bond realizes a trend: Q wears royal blue shirts and all of the furniture and draperies are ivory or creme. Even the wood is whitewashed and bleached of color, showing a precarious balance of something intangible. 

On the fourth day, the broth changed to more solid foods, still delicate, still easy but more all the same. On this day, he was rubbed down from collar to hip, thigh to foot. Q ignored his bodily reaction, sending him into a deep sleep that was only interrupted when the younger man woke him for his meal and then laid him back to bed. Waking up to a quiet, dark room later that night, he turned his head to view the young Quatermaster, glasses neatly folded on the bedside table and body lax on the sheets as he shared the bed with bond, sprawled loosely and comfortably across his part of the linens. A long thin body pillow split the bed in half, pressed in against James' side and along Q's back as he curled into the silk soft throw. Blinking brought about the morning, a small fog lifting, one James hadn't even noticed, body too hurt to understand, mind too tired to parse together the world at large. 

"I see you're feeling better, James," mentioned Q, smoothing back the slightly too long hair. Rough stubble caught  on skin as the young man rubbed down his face, tracing it and teasing stress from the brow and eyes and mouth. Gently tracing the neck and ears, eyes watching the reactions of the best spy in the British agency allow said actions with little more than a sigh and closed eyes.

Complete trust. 

Five days and already James held this Q in complete trust. It was a novel experience, warm and intoxicating, strange and dangerous. Forgotten. Old. New. Different. Q wasn't some last minute lover, a romp without passion, a way to slake a deep lust for more than sex, but a completely different, dangerously sentimental reason. This was a feeling of the deepest intimacy that he had ever felt, outside of being held as a child, comforted and cared for. In this, he was not the dominant partner, the one in control. 

In truth, he was frightened. 

What if he got used to being treated so ... wanted? Carefully? Lovingly? What if he became used to it and it was taken from him? What if something happened? Would people be able to see them on the street and know they are not just friends, not just lovers or co-workers or partners, but something more? Would that put Q in danger? He knew it would, something churning in his gut like a ball of barbed wire before long, thin, delicately strong fingers covered his eyes, forcing them closed. Another lay on his chest, over his heart, warm and almost hot, soft but strong, calm and dangerous. 

"Stop thinking, James," was murmured in a commanding, deeper tone, one he had only heard a few times, usually when the world was crashing down and only Q could hold it up. "Stop imagining. I am here and I will not allow it to happen." 

"But what if it happens to you?" was his response, something deep inside trembling. 

A long, lean, warm body sat beside him, royal blue silk shirt gaping at the waist and allowing skin-to-skin contact. "I am far more terrifying in person than on the computer, and I am a very, very dangerous man with something electronic in my hands. Think of how that translates, hm?" 

It was much too much of a relief, that inner something stilling, uncoiling and relaxing, stretching out like a great feline. Warm breath washed by his ear as Q shifted, turning, silk brushing skin, flesh touching in one long strip. "I will protect you, James. That includes protecting myself for you, too." 

Soft as silk lips brushed his temple. If this is what he had forgotten, had missed in all these years in service to the Queen, because he had never tried to remember ... he was alright with it now. He sighed out, relaxing so thoroughly, everything felt as if it were made of soft clay. He mad been molded and hardened into a spy that didn't care enough. Had been shaped and burned into something not whole, chips and cracks and fine lines running the length of him. That had been when the Agency and the job had shaped him. This time, he felt the difference as Q unmade him and then returned him to himself, only this time, without the burned and singed edges, without the cracks and chips and faint lines threatening to turn into chasms that would break at the slightest provocation. Loving hands recreating him while not asking him to change, not at the slightest. 

It felt like home