Q couldn’t recall the last time a weight felt so solid, so… perfect in the curve of his tongue. Like it belonged. A fit comparable to nothing else.
“Pwease… Pwease…” Q drew attention back from the memory flitting across his mind. A memory from three weeks ago, kneeling on a cold cellar floor, at the mercy of his captor, gun shoved into his mouth, while Q begged for his life.
“Q…” The memory evaporated around the sound of Bond’s voice, forcing him to re-focus with sharp intent on the hard lines of the body beneath him – his own almost healed – sprawled across fresh white cotton sheets, the worship almost too much to bear, feeling so fragile as he did.
Bond’s control, determined. Q’s response natural, hopeful, strained.
“Fuck,” Bond growled heatedly.
Q exhaled around him in one sudden gush, Bond arching in one smooth move to release seconds later.
There was no weapon the Quartermaster could not wield.