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On the back of Q’s neck is a sensitive little spot. It doesn’t look any different than the rest of Q’s pale smooth skin but James knows just how it makes Q shudder, how Q cries out when James bites him, just there, sucking a dark bruise into the skin, marking him while Q shakes and clutches onto James’s biceps with nerveless fingers.
It’s an entertaining diversion to see all the ways he can manage to shut Q’s smart mouth, so one day when he’s stuck at MI6 for the day waiting for debriefing, he stands next to Q, bent intense and focused over his computer with his glasses slid halfway down his nose, and runs his thumb casually under Q’s collar and over the little patch of skin underneath Q’s hairline.
Q’s long fingers only pause for a tiny moment on the keyboard before continuing on but James can feel underneath his fingertips the delicate tremor run through Q. He leaves his hand there for a moment, rubbing his fingers against the skin, watching the way the back of Q’s neck flushes pink.
Q licks his lips, a nervous gesture, and James’s gaze is drawn to the sweet fullness of his spit-slick lower lip.
“Demonstration is over, 007,” he says, slight snap to his voice, and straightens. His eyes dart around the room like a nervous bird. No one’s watching as James pinches the skin between two fingers. Q lets out a little breath and puts a foot of space between them.
“You’ve a meeting with Mummy,” he says. “Wouldn’t want to be late.”
James lets the corner of his mouth curl up, just a hair. No witty rejoinder, then; a rare occurrence. Q presses his lips together into an unhappy white line as James turns to leave.
He knows that Q will pay him back, eventually. His fault, really, for underestimating the little bastard.
He’s in Buenos Aires on what was supposed to be relatively routine reconnaissance but then bullets are whizzing by his head and five different people are shouting at him through the mic in his ear as he ducks behind a pillar in the market square. At least four men are shooting at him and he’s alone, the rest of the team halfway across the city, at least fifteen minutes away.
The chatter in his mic has died down into orderly barked instructions when Q speaks into his ear.
“I’ve been thinking, 007,” he says, as light and conversational as though he’s reading from a menu, “about how much I want you to fuck me.”
“Christ,” he hisses. A bullet embeds itself in the stone next to his head.
“You know,” Q continues, as if James hadn’t spoken, “it hurts when you first push in, even when you’ve got me desperate and begging you for it like a slut. You’re so—“ And then, “Oh, no, just monitoring 007.” There’s indistinct chatter and the soft sound of Q’s laughter. “Yes, he seems all right. He can wait for the pickup.” It sounds like Moneypenny on the other side of the conversation and James grinds his teeth together as she laughs faintly in the background. “Yes, he’s made quite a mess, so why don't you make him sweat it out a little.”
James peers around the pillar, fires a few half-hearted rounds at one of the men hiding behind an overturned car. The bullets glance off the driver’s side window. A bead of sweat drips into his eye and he blinks it away furiously.
“So big. You’re huge, 007.” Q continues as if he’d never stopped. “You always shove with no finesse at all, so selfish, and it hurts but I never want you to stop and I know you won’t, anyway, you’ll keep going even if I beg, won’t let up til you’re so far in my ass that I can feel your cock in my throat.”
“For God’s sake, Q,” he says, desperately. “There are men shooting at me.”
“Two-bit gangsters,” Q says. “I’m sure you can handle yourself even while you’re thinking about your dick in my tight little ass. I think I’d like for you to tie me down, next time.”
James lets out a noise that is absolutely not a groan.
“I always love when you hold me down, you know, 007. When you’ve got my face pressed into a pillow and your hand on my back, fucking me, pushing me up the bed, and you won’t let me move—just using me, making me take it, take it and love it, come screaming from it.”
“Oh my God,” James says passionately, and drops one of the terrorists with a headshot.
“Are you hard?” Q asks. James ejects the empty clip and reloads in one smooth motion.
“I’m always hard when I’ve got a gun in my hand, Q.”
Q sighs, sounding put-upon and disappointed. “Not an answer, 007.”
James swears. “Yes,” he growls, low and intense. His gun is hot in is hands, recoil rocking him back as he fires another round out into the square. “Yes, I’m bloody hard for you, you snotty little idiot.” Q makes a self-satisfied noise into the mic.
“Oh good, your back-up has arrived,” Q says, and disconnects. James stares ahead unseeing, cock pulsing in his slacks, as the jeep pulls into his line of vision.
When he gets back to MI6 he drags Q into a dark unused interview room and fucks him against the wall, Q’s long legs wrapped around his waist, ass clenching tight and hot around his cock as James uses his grip on the sweet flesh of Q’s hips to pull him down.
“Truce,” he pants into the sharp delicate jut of Q’s collarbone, damp with sweat. “Truce.” Q’s breathless laugh breaks off into a moan when James pushes, twists his hips so that his dick drags along the inside of Q’s body, stretching him wide, making him gasp like he can’t get enough air.
“As long—“ He cuts off with a shuddering sigh as James wraps his free hand around Q’s cock, flushed pretty and red. “Long as you’ve learned your lesson, James.”
James has done no such thing, but he makes a non-committal grunt anyway, and then he nails Q against the wall, fucks him hard til Q comes with a bitten-off cry.
“Truce, then,” Q agrees, red-faced and happy, and James comes with a heartfelt groan. He presses a kiss to the corner of Q’s smiling mouth, already planning his next move.
Q won’t know what hit him.