[ONE-SHOT] It's just a pose - James Bond/Q (ENG)
Title: It's just a pose
Author: sevenswells
Beta: recrudescence saves the day! Thank you so much darling!
Rating: NC-17, 80% pure filth, 20% snarky banter
Fandom/Pairing: Skyfall, James Bond/Q
Warnings: Daddy!kink roleplay (which implies incest, underage and dubcon roleplay, but still between consenting adults), breathplay
Summary: "What are you going to call me?"
"'Daddy', I think, if it's all right with you."
Comments: I sort of dared myself to write it, see how dirty I can get. I guess I found the answer to that, and it is: very. Go, me!
The title comes from the song "My Heart Belongs To Daddy" as sung by Ella Fitzgerald, because I'm tacky like that (sorry!).
Word count: 2 257 w.
Also available on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/604396
"What are you going to call me?"
"'Daddy', I think, if it's all right with you."
"Funny."
"What is?"
"I thought you were more the 'Father' or 'Papa' type."
"Ha bloody ha. Pot, kettle, Bond."
*****
"Do you think less of me now?"
"I know sexual kinks, Q. I've been around."
"You're giving me that look."
"What look?"
"The look where you've drawn the wrong conclusions from the inadequate sampling of all the broken women you've fucked. The look where you think this kink, in particular, must stem from some trauma in my childhood."
"I was never one for cheap psychology, you know that."
"Let me clear the issue: it doesn't."
"I believe you."
"Good."
*****
"What am I going to call you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well I can't possibly call you 'Q', now can I?"
"Why on earth not?"
"It's not very... nevermind."
"Call me 'son' or 'boy' if it helps you get in the mood."
"How about a name...?"
"Call me Winston."
"You don't look like a Winston."
"That's because I'm not. I was joking, don't call me that. Honestly, Bond, my real name isn't even classified information. You can access my file any time you want; just look it up, for god's sake."
"Now, where would be the fun in that?"
*****
Bond opens the door to the vision of a naked boy fingering himself on his bed. The boy tenses in surprise when he sees Bond, his face flushing with guilt and shame after he recognizes him. He makes a small abortive movement to withdraw the digits from his hole that's glistening with lubricant, then seems to think better of it and just pushes them deeper inside, panting when they are sucked in past the second knuckle.
"Daddy," whispers the boy at the end of a whine, not breaking eye contact with Bond. His beauty makes Bond's heart ache, makes him yearn to hold him. The boy is so petite, scrawny really, Bond could break him in two, swallow him whole. The boy's cock, leaking untouched against the taut stretch of his belly, is proportioned like the rest of him -- Bond could probably hold it inside his mouth, balls and all, and let it melt under his tongue like candy. These thoughts provoke a dark roiling in his loins, tug at some deep-seated cruelty in him, and he hates himself for it.
In three strides, Bond is by the bed and he yanks the boy's hand by the wrist, momentarily sickened by the squelching sound it produces.
"What are you doing?" Bond growls, crushing the bird-boned wrist in his grip. The boy flinches, kicks a bit as his arsehole has had no time to adapt to the sudden emptiness. He tries and fails to sit up, legs skidding across the bed sheets like those of a newborn colt.
"I'm sorry, Daddy, please," he babbles, hanging onto Bond's arm with his free hand to hoist himself up. Now he doesn't quite meet Bond's eye. "I-I was th-thinking about you, I couldn't stop myself, I want... Please, Daddy, please fuh-... F-fuck me. Please. I want you to..."
"No," Bond barks.
"Why? Why won't you? I'll be good. I'll be so good, please, I won't tell anyone, I want to make you feel --"
"Stop!" Bond shakes him like a rag doll, as though that could get some sense in him. "Stop it right now, you don't mean that!"
"I do. I love you, Daddy," he pleads, eyes wide and tenderly green. "I don't want anyone else, please. I need you."
Reverently, he kisses Bond's knuckles curled around his wrist, wet, sucking kisses. A shudder runs through Bond's body as his cock fills and hardens in his trousers.
"No," he repeats after a pause, softer. "I'm not going to fuck you."
The boy lets out a cry of dismay.
"One finger. That's all you're going to get."
He looks up at Bond in disbelief. Bond makes his voice more sensible, compromising.
"You're going to fuck yourself on one of my fingers, nothing more."
The boy bites his lower lip and pretends to consider for a second, then nods. Bond releases his hold on him, and the boy's hands immediately go to rest lightly on Bond's nape, like a lover's. Bond places a hand under the boy's pelvis and the other behind his back for support (god, he can feel the bones of his ribcage, and the temptation of crushing them surges -- such frailty, it would be so easy). Then he transfers his weight on one knee against the mattress as he settles the lower half of the boy's body further down the bed. The boy quickly clings to Bond's shoulders as he lets himself be manipulated, bringing his chest closer to Bond's so there's less space between them, but the position is straining his arm muscles to the point where he's trembling slightly. Touched, Bond places a chaste kiss the boy's forehead while his middle finger goes to find his opening between his arse cheeks and sinks easily into slippery heat.
"Well, well, it went right in," Bond praises against the boy's curls, clumped together with sweat. "Dirty little bitch."
A moan escapes the boy, maybe more due to the insult than Bond's finger's rough intrusion inside his loosened hole.
"Go on, take what you need from your daddy," Bond coaxes. "Move your cunt on my finger."
Again, his words work their magic, if the loud gasp tumbling from those sinful lips and the crimson that spreads in splotches across the boy's chest are anything to go by. The boy flattens his feet on the mattress, raises his hips and proceeds to do as he's told, but soon it's obvious that the angle is wrong and there's neither enough force nor enough friction. He's growing visibly frustrated, and Bond is not helping, keeping his finger barely tense enough inside of him. No matter how much the boy writhes, thrashes about, clenches his muscles around the finger to suck it in and release it (a delicious sensation Bond wishes he could feel around his cock, but that is out of the question), eventually he realizes he won't get satisfaction from this.
As soon as Bond feels the boy's dominant hand making a move away from his shoulder, he growls menacingly, "No."
The boy startles and leaves his hand in its place.
"You don't get to touch yourself," Bond says.
The answering wail doesn't sway him one bit.
"More, then," the boy begs. "Daddy, please. More."
"No," Bond says again.
A hint of panic crosses the boy's expressive face, contorting his features, and Bond's cruelty sharpens some more. Although it's obvious he's fighting them, tears of frustration start to well in the boy's eyes. With renewed fury, he rocks his pelvis back and forth and tries to chase his release again, to no avail. Bond decides to play with him, this time: he withdraws his finger a little when the boy bears down so there's even less friction, moves it around erratically inside of his body so that, from time to time, it grazes just so at the spot where the boy wants it most. When it happens, the boy's cries sound like they are wrenched from him, going higher and higher with desperation each time. At some point, Bond even adds the hint of second finger teasing at the rim, just barely the tip, making it appear accidental, but somehow the boy knows and tips over into complete meltdown, crying in earnest now. He's shaking with sobs and from the burn that he must feel in his arms, in his whole body overflowing with tension.
"All right, all right," Bond whispers, cock throbbing while he's licking away at the constant stream of tears on the boy's cheeks. "There, daddy's gonna take care of you, shh, shh."
He adds in the second finger, which makes the boy cry harder, seemingly with relief as he can't stop repeating "thank you" and "yes, daddy, yes" in between hiccups. Feeling merciful, Bond crooks his two fingers inside, catching the small nub of the boy's sweet spot in between them, then sets to rubbing in small but firm circles. This gets the boy arching and unable to sustain the half-suspended position anymore: his arms snap like wires and he falls back on the bed while at the same time he pushes on his feet, raising his hips demandingly to meet Bond's fingers. His moans become sweet and musical as Bond keeps the motion steady inside of his body. When Bond's thumb pushes against his perineum, the boy comes undone, his mouth forming a perfect blood-red "o" and his eyes shut so tight that the last few teardrops that still cling there squeeze out of his lashes.
Bond gathers the boy in his arms, a malleable wreck covered in his own come, still jerking from the aftershocks of orgasm, and he comforts him, kissing his temple and chin and eyelids, tasting salt from sweat and tears.
"I need you to do something for me, darling boy," Bond says through the gasps of the boy trying to catch his breath back. His fingers curl firmly around the boy's nape (so delicate, like a stalk, it could break with a simple twist) as he rises to his knees in order to unzip and take his cock out with his free hand, giving the shaft a squeeze before coating the lips right in front of it with a trail of precome. The touch of those wet lips and their exquisite trembling against the tip of his cock has Bond hissing, even more so when the boy speaks out, adding light puffs of breath to the sensation:
"Daddy, I c-can't. It's too big. I've never... It's too big."
"Calm down, silly boy, you can. Daddy will show you. First, the head, you can do that, can't you? Hold it with your hand... open your mouth... there, all right, there you go... Good. Yes. Good. Go on now, suck. Yes, my boy, yes. You're so good. Daddy loves you. Daddy loves to fuck your mouth."
The boy was right, Bond's cock is too big for his mouth and even though Bond keeps his thrusts short, each push and pull brings out a gush of drool at the sides because the boy just can't swallow around his mouthful. Fresh tears start to form at the corners of his eyes and on an out stroke, the boy takes the opportunity to fight against Bond's hold, pushing Bond's hipbones further away with feeble fists. As soon as Bond lets him have a little leeway, he whips his head to the side, freeing his mouth with a loud gasp, then pants heavily as though he just escaped drowning.
"Daddy please no I can't breathe," he lets out in a rush.
It's probably not a lie, seeing as snot is running abundantly out of his nostrils.
"Just a little more," Bond says, caressing the underside of the boy's jaw. "Can you do that for me? Come on now, boy. There. A little more."
Guiding the boy's head by the chin, he pushes his cock between those delightful lips again, further and further until the head of it hits the boy's soft palate, then he's moving again, small thrusts deep inside the boy's throat, using it like a fucktoy. More than the mouth pleasuring him, though, what really gets Bond going are the boy's imploring eyes looking up to him. His hold over this vulnerable creature makes him feel like a beast, a monster unleashed and he gets drunk on that power -- Bond could choke him with his cock and there would be nothing the boy could do. There they are, he feels them, the sweet contractions of the boy's throat fighting against death, and almost with regret, he pulls out just as he's about to come, leaving the boy coughing violently, face purple with lack of air. Bond brutally seizes him by the hair, paying no attention to his desperate wheezes and pumps his cock without finesse over the boy's wide open mouth: it merely takes a few more tugs before Bond is climaxing with a grunt, maybe he shouts out a name, and string after string of come lands over the boy's hair, his nose, and across his tongue.
*****
"You don't look like my father. It's not because of that."
"I'm curious to know why, then."
"It's about trust. Enough with the sarcastic chuckle, Bond, you think it makes you suave but it doesn't, you prick. I know you scared yourself during the scene, but it doesn't change the fact that I still trust you."
"You got off on the idea of me killing you."
"True, but I got off even more on the idea that you keep these impulses on a tight leash. Mmh. Oh, look at that, I've just made myself hard again. I don't actually want to die, you know. I have still have a lot of work ahead of me. Care for another round? We'll make it vanilla, this time, if you prefer, I don't want to kill you either."
"Yes, I see now that my worries were hugely misplaced. You're the real threat."
"Fuck me. Now. And scream my name again."
"'Winston'?"
"I will punch you in the balls. The name you looked up because apparently you are a disgusting romantic."
"Found out, not looked up, and only to avoid embarrassment."
"How sweet."
"You're actually looking for a spanking, aren't you?"
"Now there's an idea..."
Author: sevenswells
Beta: recrudescence saves the day! Thank you so much darling!
Rating: NC-17, 80% pure filth, 20% snarky banter
Fandom/Pairing: Skyfall, James Bond/Q
Warnings: Daddy!kink roleplay (which implies incest, underage and dubcon roleplay, but still between consenting adults), breathplay
Summary: "What are you going to call me?"
"'Daddy', I think, if it's all right with you."
Comments: I sort of dared myself to write it, see how dirty I can get. I guess I found the answer to that, and it is: very. Go, me!
The title comes from the song "My Heart Belongs To Daddy" as sung by Ella Fitzgerald, because I'm tacky like that (sorry!).
Word count: 2 257 w.
Also available on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/604396
"What are you going to call me?"
"'Daddy', I think, if it's all right with you."
"Funny."
"What is?"
"I thought you were more the 'Father' or 'Papa' type."
"Ha bloody ha. Pot, kettle, Bond."
*****
"Do you think less of me now?"
"I know sexual kinks, Q. I've been around."
"You're giving me that look."
"What look?"
"The look where you've drawn the wrong conclusions from the inadequate sampling of all the broken women you've fucked. The look where you think this kink, in particular, must stem from some trauma in my childhood."
"I was never one for cheap psychology, you know that."
"Let me clear the issue: it doesn't."
"I believe you."
"Good."
*****
"What am I going to call you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well I can't possibly call you 'Q', now can I?"
"Why on earth not?"
"It's not very... nevermind."
"Call me 'son' or 'boy' if it helps you get in the mood."
"How about a name...?"
"Call me Winston."
"You don't look like a Winston."
"That's because I'm not. I was joking, don't call me that. Honestly, Bond, my real name isn't even classified information. You can access my file any time you want; just look it up, for god's sake."
"Now, where would be the fun in that?"
*****
Bond opens the door to the vision of a naked boy fingering himself on his bed. The boy tenses in surprise when he sees Bond, his face flushing with guilt and shame after he recognizes him. He makes a small abortive movement to withdraw the digits from his hole that's glistening with lubricant, then seems to think better of it and just pushes them deeper inside, panting when they are sucked in past the second knuckle.
"Daddy," whispers the boy at the end of a whine, not breaking eye contact with Bond. His beauty makes Bond's heart ache, makes him yearn to hold him. The boy is so petite, scrawny really, Bond could break him in two, swallow him whole. The boy's cock, leaking untouched against the taut stretch of his belly, is proportioned like the rest of him -- Bond could probably hold it inside his mouth, balls and all, and let it melt under his tongue like candy. These thoughts provoke a dark roiling in his loins, tug at some deep-seated cruelty in him, and he hates himself for it.
In three strides, Bond is by the bed and he yanks the boy's hand by the wrist, momentarily sickened by the squelching sound it produces.
"What are you doing?" Bond growls, crushing the bird-boned wrist in his grip. The boy flinches, kicks a bit as his arsehole has had no time to adapt to the sudden emptiness. He tries and fails to sit up, legs skidding across the bed sheets like those of a newborn colt.
"I'm sorry, Daddy, please," he babbles, hanging onto Bond's arm with his free hand to hoist himself up. Now he doesn't quite meet Bond's eye. "I-I was th-thinking about you, I couldn't stop myself, I want... Please, Daddy, please fuh-... F-fuck me. Please. I want you to..."
"No," Bond barks.
"Why? Why won't you? I'll be good. I'll be so good, please, I won't tell anyone, I want to make you feel --"
"Stop!" Bond shakes him like a rag doll, as though that could get some sense in him. "Stop it right now, you don't mean that!"
"I do. I love you, Daddy," he pleads, eyes wide and tenderly green. "I don't want anyone else, please. I need you."
Reverently, he kisses Bond's knuckles curled around his wrist, wet, sucking kisses. A shudder runs through Bond's body as his cock fills and hardens in his trousers.
"No," he repeats after a pause, softer. "I'm not going to fuck you."
The boy lets out a cry of dismay.
"One finger. That's all you're going to get."
He looks up at Bond in disbelief. Bond makes his voice more sensible, compromising.
"You're going to fuck yourself on one of my fingers, nothing more."
The boy bites his lower lip and pretends to consider for a second, then nods. Bond releases his hold on him, and the boy's hands immediately go to rest lightly on Bond's nape, like a lover's. Bond places a hand under the boy's pelvis and the other behind his back for support (god, he can feel the bones of his ribcage, and the temptation of crushing them surges -- such frailty, it would be so easy). Then he transfers his weight on one knee against the mattress as he settles the lower half of the boy's body further down the bed. The boy quickly clings to Bond's shoulders as he lets himself be manipulated, bringing his chest closer to Bond's so there's less space between them, but the position is straining his arm muscles to the point where he's trembling slightly. Touched, Bond places a chaste kiss the boy's forehead while his middle finger goes to find his opening between his arse cheeks and sinks easily into slippery heat.
"Well, well, it went right in," Bond praises against the boy's curls, clumped together with sweat. "Dirty little bitch."
A moan escapes the boy, maybe more due to the insult than Bond's finger's rough intrusion inside his loosened hole.
"Go on, take what you need from your daddy," Bond coaxes. "Move your cunt on my finger."
Again, his words work their magic, if the loud gasp tumbling from those sinful lips and the crimson that spreads in splotches across the boy's chest are anything to go by. The boy flattens his feet on the mattress, raises his hips and proceeds to do as he's told, but soon it's obvious that the angle is wrong and there's neither enough force nor enough friction. He's growing visibly frustrated, and Bond is not helping, keeping his finger barely tense enough inside of him. No matter how much the boy writhes, thrashes about, clenches his muscles around the finger to suck it in and release it (a delicious sensation Bond wishes he could feel around his cock, but that is out of the question), eventually he realizes he won't get satisfaction from this.
As soon as Bond feels the boy's dominant hand making a move away from his shoulder, he growls menacingly, "No."
The boy startles and leaves his hand in its place.
"You don't get to touch yourself," Bond says.
The answering wail doesn't sway him one bit.
"More, then," the boy begs. "Daddy, please. More."
"No," Bond says again.
A hint of panic crosses the boy's expressive face, contorting his features, and Bond's cruelty sharpens some more. Although it's obvious he's fighting them, tears of frustration start to well in the boy's eyes. With renewed fury, he rocks his pelvis back and forth and tries to chase his release again, to no avail. Bond decides to play with him, this time: he withdraws his finger a little when the boy bears down so there's even less friction, moves it around erratically inside of his body so that, from time to time, it grazes just so at the spot where the boy wants it most. When it happens, the boy's cries sound like they are wrenched from him, going higher and higher with desperation each time. At some point, Bond even adds the hint of second finger teasing at the rim, just barely the tip, making it appear accidental, but somehow the boy knows and tips over into complete meltdown, crying in earnest now. He's shaking with sobs and from the burn that he must feel in his arms, in his whole body overflowing with tension.
"All right, all right," Bond whispers, cock throbbing while he's licking away at the constant stream of tears on the boy's cheeks. "There, daddy's gonna take care of you, shh, shh."
He adds in the second finger, which makes the boy cry harder, seemingly with relief as he can't stop repeating "thank you" and "yes, daddy, yes" in between hiccups. Feeling merciful, Bond crooks his two fingers inside, catching the small nub of the boy's sweet spot in between them, then sets to rubbing in small but firm circles. This gets the boy arching and unable to sustain the half-suspended position anymore: his arms snap like wires and he falls back on the bed while at the same time he pushes on his feet, raising his hips demandingly to meet Bond's fingers. His moans become sweet and musical as Bond keeps the motion steady inside of his body. When Bond's thumb pushes against his perineum, the boy comes undone, his mouth forming a perfect blood-red "o" and his eyes shut so tight that the last few teardrops that still cling there squeeze out of his lashes.
Bond gathers the boy in his arms, a malleable wreck covered in his own come, still jerking from the aftershocks of orgasm, and he comforts him, kissing his temple and chin and eyelids, tasting salt from sweat and tears.
"I need you to do something for me, darling boy," Bond says through the gasps of the boy trying to catch his breath back. His fingers curl firmly around the boy's nape (so delicate, like a stalk, it could break with a simple twist) as he rises to his knees in order to unzip and take his cock out with his free hand, giving the shaft a squeeze before coating the lips right in front of it with a trail of precome. The touch of those wet lips and their exquisite trembling against the tip of his cock has Bond hissing, even more so when the boy speaks out, adding light puffs of breath to the sensation:
"Daddy, I c-can't. It's too big. I've never... It's too big."
"Calm down, silly boy, you can. Daddy will show you. First, the head, you can do that, can't you? Hold it with your hand... open your mouth... there, all right, there you go... Good. Yes. Good. Go on now, suck. Yes, my boy, yes. You're so good. Daddy loves you. Daddy loves to fuck your mouth."
The boy was right, Bond's cock is too big for his mouth and even though Bond keeps his thrusts short, each push and pull brings out a gush of drool at the sides because the boy just can't swallow around his mouthful. Fresh tears start to form at the corners of his eyes and on an out stroke, the boy takes the opportunity to fight against Bond's hold, pushing Bond's hipbones further away with feeble fists. As soon as Bond lets him have a little leeway, he whips his head to the side, freeing his mouth with a loud gasp, then pants heavily as though he just escaped drowning.
"Daddy please no I can't breathe," he lets out in a rush.
It's probably not a lie, seeing as snot is running abundantly out of his nostrils.
"Just a little more," Bond says, caressing the underside of the boy's jaw. "Can you do that for me? Come on now, boy. There. A little more."
Guiding the boy's head by the chin, he pushes his cock between those delightful lips again, further and further until the head of it hits the boy's soft palate, then he's moving again, small thrusts deep inside the boy's throat, using it like a fucktoy. More than the mouth pleasuring him, though, what really gets Bond going are the boy's imploring eyes looking up to him. His hold over this vulnerable creature makes him feel like a beast, a monster unleashed and he gets drunk on that power -- Bond could choke him with his cock and there would be nothing the boy could do. There they are, he feels them, the sweet contractions of the boy's throat fighting against death, and almost with regret, he pulls out just as he's about to come, leaving the boy coughing violently, face purple with lack of air. Bond brutally seizes him by the hair, paying no attention to his desperate wheezes and pumps his cock without finesse over the boy's wide open mouth: it merely takes a few more tugs before Bond is climaxing with a grunt, maybe he shouts out a name, and string after string of come lands over the boy's hair, his nose, and across his tongue.
*****
"You don't look like my father. It's not because of that."
"I'm curious to know why, then."
"It's about trust. Enough with the sarcastic chuckle, Bond, you think it makes you suave but it doesn't, you prick. I know you scared yourself during the scene, but it doesn't change the fact that I still trust you."
"You got off on the idea of me killing you."
"True, but I got off even more on the idea that you keep these impulses on a tight leash. Mmh. Oh, look at that, I've just made myself hard again. I don't actually want to die, you know. I have still have a lot of work ahead of me. Care for another round? We'll make it vanilla, this time, if you prefer, I don't want to kill you either."
"Yes, I see now that my worries were hugely misplaced. You're the real threat."
"Fuck me. Now. And scream my name again."
"'Winston'?"
"I will punch you in the balls. The name you looked up because apparently you are a disgusting romantic."
"Found out, not looked up, and only to avoid embarrassment."
"How sweet."
"You're actually looking for a spanking, aren't you?"
"Now there's an idea..."