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Q was writing a new program to help him hack Sanguinetti, deeply immersed, when a pair of manacles descended and clamped around his wrists. Then he was being yanked up by the chain between them and dragged away. Towards the interrogation rooms. They were magic-repressing cuffs, etched the whole way round with the appropriate runes. Fuck. Fuck! Oh gods. They found out.
It was Dominic Greene that was pulling him along he then realized, though it didn’t much matter. When they reached the second barren cement room, Greene shoved him onto the ground. He caught himself, but almost before he landed he was already being kicked in the side and onto his back, then again near his hip, then in the leg, then his other side. Bit much, he thought deliriously. Finally he was hauled to his feet again and shoved into the metal chair bolted into the cement. These fucking rooms had always unnerved him; he stayed away from them as much as he could. And now Q was getting tied to the chair in one. He struggled, but three separate men all put their hands on him at once, so the skinny boffin of course couldn’t get away. They attached the short chain between his cuffs to one of the bars on the underside of the chair, so his wrists couldn’t move away from the edge of it, while another man wrapped two thick buckled straps around Q’s torso and the back of the chair and pulled them tight. They even zip-tied his ankles to each leg of the chair, which was definitely unnecessary and just psychological. It worked though. He was fully immobile, with six angry mob bosses staring at him. Q was shaking and breathing hard, and they hadn’t even said anything yet.
Thorne stepped up. “So. A little birdie told us something rather interesting.” ‘Little birdie’? Seriously? “Apparently we have one more witch in our midst than we thought.” Bryn Irving, their sanctioned witch, was nowhere to be found. It was strange, now that he thought about it, that she wasn’t there. It was pretty stupid to attack him, knowing he’s a witch, without Irving there to save their arses if Q had fought back. But I didn’t, Q thought miserably, so it doesn’t matter anyways.
The only other boss Q even sort of liked was James Bond. Bond was there, he was pretty sure. He’d caught the man’s stupid bespoke suit off in the corner while he was getting kicked. Q sort of wished he could see him now. He’d trust Bond to be merciful just a bit more than any of the others… Though Q’s seen his ruthlessness too, actually.
Thorne prodded, “Anything to say for yourself, little traitor?”
“I never—” Q tried to protest at the word ‘traitor’.
“Why else would you keep such a thing secret?! For ten months ? Hm? It’s not an insignificant detail, you know.”
Q knew. He knew, and maybe he should’ve told them, but with Silva on his tail he’d needed to disappear—as a witch at least—and he needed there to be no chance of the man hearing rumors about a genius hacker who was also a witch. Besides, he didn’t know how much he could really trust them, and Irving had the Wiccan stuff perfectly handled, and he was plenty of use to them just as a hacker, and… Would any of this convince them?
He tried to explain, “I was on the run. I needed there to be no way to find me, and hackers who are witches are sort of uncommon—”. He sounded meek and nervous even to his own ears, so it wasn’t that surprising they were unconvinced.
Greene slapped him, hard. It stung like a motherfucker. “ Bullshit . As if you’re not a good enough hacker to cover your own tracks. You’re planning something, little Q—” What?? Q understood their anger, but what did they even think he was trying to do ? “—And you’ll pay for it.” He pulled out a fucking knife, and even the other mobsters reacted and raised their hands, as if to stop him.
Then Bond spoke up. “Let’s slow down here.” He had a voice that demanded to be listened to, and all the others stopped and looked at him. “I understand this is a bit scary, to realize one of our own has been deceiving us and has much more power than we thought,” as Bond talked he walked out from behind Q to stand to his left, “But I can assure you this isn’t as bad as it seems… I have known that Q was a witch for several months. I informed Irving as well, as soon as I realized, and we have been keeping an eye on it.”
… What?? Wait. He already knew ? They both did??
Several assorted cries of surprise and outrage followed his statement. Half of the bosses looked both relieved and a little annoyed, and the other half looked angry.
Dominic Greene in particular looked a little murderous…
Bond handled it though, making convincing arguments about he and Bryn having dealt with the security threat already, and how there was no evidence Q was planning anything—and plenty of evidence that they needed him as their tech expert.
So finally Fairbanks untied him, and all the men watched warily as Bond took off his cuffs.
——
A long half hour after getting dragged off, he walked back to his desk, freed from the chair and probably not about to be murdered for having lied to the fucking mob that he works for for months. Thanks to one James Bond, he was pretty damn sure.
Bond was there with him; it was late now and almost felt like a normal night since they’re the only ones still puttering about in the low-lit back offices.
They were grabbing up their stuff, and Bond came over for his tablet that was somehow left on the corner of Q’s desk, so they were in close proximity when Q saw the other man freeze in the corner of his eye. He didn’t stop moving or look over though, something in his subconscious deciding that he’s not a threat.
Then Q did go still—when Bond’s hand cupped the far side of his jaw and turned his face towards Bond’s.
They met eyes, and Q should’ve been expecting a threat, but he didn’t not and it wasn’t—
James thumbed at Q’s split lip as he pushed his palm into the bruise on his jaw, and said in a voice deeper than he’s ever heard from him, “You look good roughed up.”
Bond stared a moment longer then pulled away and went for his tablet again.
Q stood there, and his first thought was what the fuck and his second thought was wait come back.
So, he stepped forward and inserted himself so he was between Bond and the desk. Bond was gorgeous; with icy-blue eyes and chiseled features. His expensive and perfectly-fit charcoal suit completed the impression of absolute composure. They met eyes again and Bond maintained that same intense expression. “Fuck me,” Q told him, perfectly steady, and Bond’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly for a moment, but then he was giving Q a skeptical look.
“Will you regret this tomorrow?” Bond asked.
It was more than just a casual question, Q knew, and Bond was probably thinking Is this just perverse gratitude and adrenaline/shock, and Do you even like sex, and This better not make working together weird. Q let out a breath and took the question seriously.
He reached up as he thought though, slowly running his hands up Bond’s shoulders, then rested them flat. Q idly kneaded a little at the back of his shoulders and furrowed his brow at how ridiculously tight they were. Almost zero give. Bond huffed a laugh at his reaction, and Q supposed that tension was inevitable when one was a top player in a criminal organization. When one was the only top player who had half a brain , he thought wryly…
Q turned back to the matter at hand and tipped his head back, closing his eyes. “This isn’t the first time,” he finally answered, and squinted his eyes open a little just to see Bond’s reaction. His eyebrows indeed raised in intrigue, with a look in his eyes that said ‘ go on, please’ . “I’ve been… Turned on by you before,” Q continued. Thinking about the time Bond threatened his life when he was concerned Q would defect. Q should probably dissect all of this later.
James’ eyebrows climbed higher and he processed for a long second.
Then Bond nodded, apparently satisfied that he wouldn’t somehow be taking advantage of Q. “Alright.”
With that, Bond surged forward and slammed Q against the low desk, making him bend backwards a little—enough that Q had to cling to the other man not to fall—and it was just the right kind of uncomfortable. Bond kissed him hard with a hand in his hair, and undid a few of the buttons on Q’s shirt, then yanked Q’s head back, putting him even more off balance and making his hips bump against Bond’s. Bond started kissing down his throat, pulling back for a second—“Fuck, look at you,”—before leaning back in to bite hard at the skin over his clavicle. Without releasing the bite, the hand Bond has on his hip yanked the waistline of his trousers down just a bit so he could grab at Q’s hip bone and dig his thumb in hard.
It was so fast that Q’s heart was already pounding. What a great idea.
James releases the bite, hooked two fingers in the back of Q’s shirt collar and pulled down enough that he had to let go and fall back onto the desk. His head landed on the corner of that tablet and he laughed, a little giddy. Bond looked at Q questioningly and he reached up to move the tablet and shove it to the other side of the desk. Bond smirked.
Then Bond fucking ripped the rest of the buttons on Q’s shirt open, which was ridiculous and unnecessary, but the laugh Bond seemed to be holding in clues him in that he at least knew it.
Bond roughly pulled the shirt off the rest of the way and stared at Q’s torso. He was lean with a little bit of muscle, but Bond was probably more so looking at the several big bruises forming there. They were mostly just red now, a hint of purple, but—
“These will turn into such pretty colors...” Bond mused. Jesus. James saw his reaction, and winced a little.
“Little fucked up, isn’t it? But if I were still worried you were going to get murdered it wouldn’t be nearly as fun,” he informed Q. Bond was worried about him. That’s nice.
“But you’re going to be just fine, so… Although I do wish they were bruises I’d put on you instead. In a different sort of setting.” That was a lovely thought, and Q definitely wanted to do that as soon as these bruises had healed. Bond brushed his hand down Q’s torso, “These will still look good on you though. Gorgeous thing that you are...” Fuck but that got Q’s blood pumping.
Bond leaned down and kissed him, dirty and dominating. Then he pushed down on the bruise above Q’s left hip, making an aching but sharp pain light up there. “ Mmph, ” he said into the kiss, wincing. Bond smirked a little, and yeah it was kind of hot to let the other man hurt him. Then he palmed over Q’s dick and pushed into a different bruise at the same time. The ‘mmph’ this time was half pain and half pleasure.
“Not so bad, is it?” Bond purred .
“Fuck me,” Q rasped without thinking. Bond looked as surprised as Q, but nodded. He finally undressed, efficiently stripping off each part of his suit and tossing them on the concrete floor. Q followed suit and shed his trousers.
Then Bond pushed away from the table, dragging Q by the wrist over to the couch and wrestling him down onto it.
He took off his black briefs while Q slipped off his pants, still on the couch, then Bond was back on top of him where he belonged. Bond held himself up with his palm on Q’s chest, pushing him down, and gazed at Q for a moment, then lowered to his forearm to kiss and bite at Q’s throat. Part of Bond’s arm was on top of a bruise, his other hand raked nails down Q’s side as he gave him a hickey—his split lip even started bleeding again at some point—and all of the points of pain combined to make Q’s body sing. For his part, Q reached up and just settled his hands around Bond’s waist and let him do as he pleases. ‘As he pleases’ apparently meant moving without warning from sucking on Q’s neck to his right nipple. Q shouted in surprise, and buckled up, to which Bond responded by shoving him back down with a hand on his clavicle. Then that hand moved to Q’s hair and fisted in the back of it, and Bond’s right knee came up to pin him across his stomach, stopping him from bucking up very far the next time. James kept sucking and licking at his nipples for a minute or two until he was satisfied. At this point Q was a little worried he wouldn’t last long when Bond finally fucked him.
Bond finally stopped and looked up at Q. Questioningly.
“Uh,” Q saud, gasping.
Bond huffed a laugh. “I’d still like to fuck you, if you’re up for it.”
“Uhhm.”
“Or I could blow you,” Bond proposed.
Gods. He gave it some thought. “I’m up for it,” he reassured Bond.
Bond smiled, “Very well then.” Smug prick.
James got up and walked over to his suit, and why was Q surprised that James Bond had lube and a condom in his fucking suit pockets ? Bond grabbed both and walked back, and as Q lay there naked and blushing and Bond stalked over fully nude, through their fucking office , it hit him exactly what they were doing. Something fucking risky, certainly, and if any of the others walked in they’d assume Bond had just vouched for Q because they were fucking—that Q was his boytoy or something—and he’d be in trouble all over again. It was risky for plenty of other reasons too, but luckily Bond was back to the couch before Q could think about them.
He settled in between Q’s legs, and Q obligingly bent his knees and tilted them open. Bond lubed up his fingers and pushed one into him. He started out fingering Q efficiently but steadily, but Q was having none of that and told him so.
“Harder, you prick, c’mon.”
Bond smiled, pleased. “Alright.” James did pick up the pace, finally giving Q the rough treatment he was hoping for. Bond thankfully didn’t really hurt him with it, but he did go back to pushing on bruises in the meantime—firmly running his hand over them and making Q twitch when he hit the worst parts—and back to fucking ravishing Q’s mouth. It was lovely, and Q’s mind didn’t start to wander like it usually did for this part, he just stayed in the moment and enjoyed it—Bond was fantastically skilled at both fingering and kissing, so it was no surprise really. Shortly after Bond slipped in a second finger he brushed up against Q’s prostate, and after all this buildup, the sensation hit him harder than usual; Q moaned and jolted, almost biting Bond’s tongue a little. James pushed him down again and kept going, until Q was just a gasping mess of pain and pleasure.
“Please,” he eventually gasped. “Fuck me. I’m ready, do it, do it already.” Q sounded wrecked.
James must’ve been getting eager too because he obliged immediately and without teasing, lifting Q’s legs and setting them on his shoulders, and finally, finally sinking down into him. They both groaned, and Bond swore under his breath. He was fucking huge, and feeling so full was an incredible relief. Bond stayed still for a second, thankfully, then started up a steady rhythm of rolling thrusts. Q rose up to meet him. There. They both simultaneously sighed in relief, which Bond huffed at.
Bond still hadn’t even touched Q’s dick, which Q had almost been able to forget in favor of everything else. Now he was getting desperate though, and reached down to take himself in hand, but Bond rather unsurprisingly didn't let him, the arsehole, grabbing his wrist and pinning it to the couch. Q groaned, a little annoyed. He gave James a glare, who just smirked. After a moment though Bond let go of Q’s wrist and took Q in hand himself instead, matching the rhythm of their thrusts.
Then it was perfect, and Q let himself sink into it, a smooth push and pull that built and built until he was whimpering just a little ; high breathy things that were slipping out entirely against his will. Q and Bond maintained eye contact for almost all of it. It was heady, to stare straight back at Bond as he fucked Q, and Bond was clearly affected too, pupils blown wide, and groaning whenever Q clenched at a touch to his prostate.
Bond leaned down, folding Q in half, and started mouthing at Q’s throat, the other side from the hickey he left. He didn’t bite, like Q had been expecting, and didn’t suck very hard, just pressed open-mouthed, almost sweet kisses to Q’s neck. It was nice actually, a good contrast to all the roughness.
Q was definitely getting close. It sounds like Bond was too, his rhythm even starting to falter. Then he straightened back up and changed his angle to hit Q’s prostate every time, and it only took a few more thrusts before Q came hard enough that he blacked out entirely. When he came to, Bond was still on top of him, head bowed, and still panting. He must’ve come too.
“...Bond?” he said after a few moments, breathing hard.
“Yeah… Fuck,” he said, laughing a little, then pushed up and off of him, wincing. James didn’t go far though, just settled onto his side with a hand placed possessively on Q’s waist.
They just lay there and breathed for a minute, then Q did a complicated little spell to clean them up. Bond watched him, curious. He could probably see that it was complicated, and maybe even guess that it was pretty advanced. It was a bit of an intentional showing of Q’s cards, though he wasn’t sure why he did it. It felt good though, to be able to do magic in front of someone else after so many months of hiding it.
Bond stayed silent, and traced a finger over one of his bruises. He’d actually been pretty careful not to put pressure on them when settling next to Q. “Bryn could heal these for you,” he pointed out.
Q shook his head.
Bond looked at him, faintly surprised.
“I don't like to heal—…” Gods, this was hard to explain.
But Bond seemed to understand, strangely enough. “Makes you feel... more alive?”
He nodded. That was exactly it.
“I’m the same.” Oh. Huh. “Fucks with your psyche, to never feel pain.”
Q agreed. That’s why he… Well. That’s sort of why this had started in the first place.
Then Bond added, slyly, “Besides, we have to see how those colors turn out.”
Excellent point.
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