Racing shadows in the moonlight - a Bond/Q fic for sevenswells
I'm reposting this little piece of work here, a gift for the amazing sevenswells for her birthday, said amazing person who made me fall for this pairing. And I saw Skyfall yesterday and absolutely loved it, brilliant James Bond, and I love Daniel Craig even more.
It’s a mess of black curls, lips and whispers that Bond can never get enough of-addicting, compulsive, like the pounding, throbbing pain in his arm and leg- because there’s something annoyingly lovely in Q’s quirks and manners; it rubs Bond the wrong way, most of the time, but god, how much he does like taking the calm eccentricity of the young man apart, breaking all the tiny pieces of perfection and smooth, slick lines of those emotionless features.
He likes covering Q with kisses that are never gentle, always rough and on their way to scrapping away the skin underneath his lips, just like sandpaper would, and the noises, whimpers or moans Bond gets never cease to twist his guts in funny and exquisite ways, ways he can’t explain and definitely doesn’t care about-it’s just a story of enjoying himself, no matter what, after a particularly tough mission, and Q never says no, anyway.
The scent of blood that lingered on his scrapped back -both Q’s and his mission’s angry, red marks-eventually fades through the quiet darkness of the room, and it’s the sweat that covers it; little drops rolling down his spine as he thrusts harder, leaning down to suck at Q’s neck that’s already covered in multiples bruises, some of them already turning into a dark, blueish purple.
The younger man’s legs wrap quickly around Bond’s waist and it’s infuriating, intoxicating-some sort of sweet pain or torture, long limbs held tightly around him, pressing harder, allowing them to be closer, slick skin against the other and teeth grazing and tongues fighting-infuriating indeed, Bond thinks, and he bites at Q’s shoulder.
“I’ll get through your flesh and bones, believe me,” he whispers, hot, against the pale skin that’s slowly reddening.
It’s a mess of black curls, lips and whispers that Bond can never get enough of-addicting, compulsive, like the pounding, throbbing pain in his arm and leg- because there’s something annoyingly lovely in Q’s quirks and manners; it rubs Bond the wrong way, most of the time, but god, how much he does like taking the calm eccentricity of the young man apart, breaking all the tiny pieces of perfection and smooth, slick lines of those emotionless features.
He likes covering Q with kisses that are never gentle, always rough and on their way to scrapping away the skin underneath his lips, just like sandpaper would, and the noises, whimpers or moans Bond gets never cease to twist his guts in funny and exquisite ways, ways he can’t explain and definitely doesn’t care about-it’s just a story of enjoying himself, no matter what, after a particularly tough mission, and Q never says no, anyway.
The scent of blood that lingered on his scrapped back -both Q’s and his mission’s angry, red marks-eventually fades through the quiet darkness of the room, and it’s the sweat that covers it; little drops rolling down his spine as he thrusts harder, leaning down to suck at Q’s neck that’s already covered in multiples bruises, some of them already turning into a dark, blueish purple.
The younger man’s legs wrap quickly around Bond’s waist and it’s infuriating, intoxicating-some sort of sweet pain or torture, long limbs held tightly around him, pressing harder, allowing them to be closer, slick skin against the other and teeth grazing and tongues fighting-infuriating indeed, Bond thinks, and he bites at Q’s shoulder.
“I’ll get through your flesh and bones, believe me,” he whispers, hot, against the pale skin that’s slowly reddening.