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Her skin is sweet and smooth. This is the third or fourth time they’ve ended up in a pile together—Bond’s bed this time, and should he really be surprised that it’s this bacchanal pile of pillows and wide enough to fit half a rugby team at once?—and he’s got his nose nestled against her throat, almost huffing the mix of sweat and her perfume and the citron skin crème he bought her for Christmas. He tastes, just a flicker of his tongue against her, and she laughs breathlessly. Bond gives him a contemplative look.
“Have you had a woman before, Q?” he asks, and Q flushes all over.
“Should Moneypenny be insulted? Or does it really not count when you’re with a man at the same time?” Q asks, grinning at Moneypenny’s halfhearted swat. “I always figured that was a line to trick straight boys into bed.”
“You’ve never fucked her,” Bond clarifies, except no, it doesn’t really make anything clearer, just makes a lot of things less clear and a little more sticky.
“Q’s gay, though,” Moneypenny adds, and her brow is knitting together like she’s trying to parse out the meaning, and oh. No, that’s not good at all.
“Bond,” Q says, tone warning.
“You know, I thought so, too,” Bond continues, brushing Q’s glare aside. “But he’s definitely interested.”
“That’s enough, Bond,” Q says, even though he knows he’s the only one listening to himself now. Bond’s like a terrier with a rat in its teeth, and he’s perked Moneypenny’s thirst for information. Between the two of them, they’ll suss it out, and he’s got no desire to be here when they do. He fishes absently for his pants in the sheets, but there are miles of bed to search. Swearing under his breath, he realizes he’ll have to go without if he wants to beat an inquiry; his trousers chafe where he’s still sensitive, but he’s already in the kitchen toeing on his shoes by the time they make it out after him.
If the situation were more conventional, if the thing they’re doing were a relationship, Bond would kiss his forehead and talk him down from the anxious way he’s squirming against the counter and pretending to be calm. As it is, Moneypenny presses her lips to his shoulder and Bond gives him a fondle that leaves him twitching with nothing to hide it, and the way they’re moving tells him exactly what’s going to happen when he walks out of the door. He’d wonder if he’ll be invited back, but Moneypenny smiles.
“Off to see a man about a thing?” she asks, and he smiles at the old joke.
“Too sore for a wank,” he tells her ruefully, and he wants to palm her bottom the way he usually does when they’re parting for the night, the few times the three of them haven’t snuggled into each other and slept deep, but Bond’s watching, and he’s irritated.
“I’ll find out eventually,” Bond tells him in lieu of a goodbye, and Q’s eyes narrow.
“Good for you,” he says back.
His pants turn up inside his locked desk drawer the next day, laundered and pressed—pressed! And Q knows it’s not affectation, knows Bond presses his own shorts and just thought he’d do Q’s while he was at it. Q throws his head back with a melodramatic groan and wonders why he ever traded in his lonely bachelor life for this odd thing he has with Bond and Moneypenny, though the memories are enough to make his cock mumble sleepily before he makes himself change the subject—and pinned with a note: Bond wants to meet him for lunch. Q decides he’ll go since Moneypenny’s busy helping Tanner pick the entry-levels, poor, blighted things that they are; no one ever tells them that if they get picked up, it’s the photo from their first badge that goes on their work ID, which is how Q’s ended up with a photo that looks like he’s been attacked by a bottle of hair gel, though in his defense he’d been trying to make an effort with the contacts and the ruthless eradication of every flyaway curl that had peeked its head up. On the down side, there’s not a single security guard on the payroll who didn’t stop him on their first day; he takes pride in the fact that he no longer looks like his awkward uni self, but isn’t that part of the problem?
He knows what’s attractive to women. Has done, despite being with men exclusively—Moneypenny aside—for the past ten years. And Moneypenny is the only blip in that, the only lady in over a decade willing to look past the thick plastic specs and weedy frame, and he knows that while she’d suck his cock with Bond looking on, it’s still a little surprising to her that she has. They’d had a drunken girls’ night giggle about it after sharing Bond, and it was not the sort of drunken girls’ night that had ended in Katy Perry songs and making out. He’s a dorky, shy little boffin and yes, he appreciates…but he doesn’t dare hope or fool himself.
Not that he tells this to Bond. Any of it. So at lunch he says so, firmly, and spends the rest of the break pushing his food around on his plate until he’s mercifully called back by R because the junior techs have set the labs on fire. Again. And he expects that to be the last of it, except with Bond, it’s not. He should know better: it’s never over until Bond decides it’s over.
Moneypenny sits on the edge of the bed in sweet white pants and a vest she must have stolen from Bond—or, rather, looking at the expression on Bond’s face, one part hope, one part mischief, and two parts that “look what I did!” look that a cat gives you when it leaves a decapitated rat on your pillow, he imagines she’s been styled—her face a twist of confused reassurance. Q sighs.
“Is this okay?” she asks, glancing between them. Bond looks at him, and Q has to smile.
“Yes. I should be used to you two plotting against me, yes?” he asks with a hum, sitting down next to her. Bond’s bed again, easily large enough that he could sit away, give her space, but he lines his thigh next to hers, the heat from her skin enough to make him squirm. “It’s okay.”
Moneypenny’s—Eve’s—not stupid; it takes her barely a second to connect the dots, and Q can hear them clicking away as they snap into place for her. She tips her head and he expects a kiss, can feel his chest getting tight because oh, God, he’s not ready for this, but she’s his best friend for a reason, curling against his side to rest her cheek on his shoulder instead. “You know I’d never hurt you, Quipao.”
“That’s the name of a Chinese dress,” he protests mildly, and she smiles against his skin.
“I wouldn’t.”
“I know.” He does. She lets him set the pace, kissing her forehead and then her brow before she tilts up to catch his lips on hers, the kiss slow and hot and electric. He struggles with himself a moment, eyes wide and beseeching as he looks at Bond. Bond gives him an encouraging wave and mimics the universal sign for groping her breasts. Moneypenny’s eyes slit open and she pulls back, laughing.
“Don’t take advice from him. He’ll steer you wrong every time,” she says, and Q laughs at the frown Bond gives her.
“Didn’t hear you complaining the other night,” he says. “With your thighs around my ears, though, I’m not surprised. And you screaming fit to wake the dead.”
“Are you going to sulk now?” Q asks, and Bond shoots him a wounded look.
“Okay, yes,” Moneypenny says, and Q blinks at her breathless tone, “you can teach him how to eat pussy.” Heat steals over him at that; he bites his lip and expects laughter, but Bond’s mouth is hot on his ear.
“Is that something you’d like, Q?” Bond asks as he nibbles. “Lay her down, spread her open, make her come on your tongue?”
“Moneyp—” Q starts, strangled.
“Oh,” she coos, leaning back against the blankets. She’s as wet as he is hard and he swallows, eyes stuck to the hard points of her nipples against the vest and the dark slick of her knickers. “It is, isn’t it? Something you’d like.”
“Yes,” he says. “Please.”
Bond touches her with gentle fingers, and Q watches fascinated as she writhes. “Let’s start with breasts first,” Bond says, guiding the vest up until Moneypenny lifts her arms and he can pull it over her head. Q wraps his palm around her left, imitating Bond’s touch on her right, and she arches her back with a happy sound. “You’re doing great, Q,” Bond says, and Q rolls his eyes but watches, rapt, as Bond drags his tongue across her skin. He repeats the action on his side and watches her shiver, breaking out into gooseflesh.
“You’re going to teach him bad habits, Double-oh-seven,” Moneypenny gasps, twisting against the bed to press against them. “Teasing’s rude, Quatrain.”
“Am I a poem now?” Q murmurs against her skin, grazing it with his lips.
“A bloody e. e. cummings piece of work,” she agrees.
“I like the thrill of under me you quite so new,” Q quotes at her, and he’s rewarded with a breathy little thrust of her hips.
“Love poetry,” Bond says, voice pitched low. “The sign of a misspent youth.”
“The sign of someone who spent most of his years in uni with his cock in his fist,” Q admits, nipping against Moneypenny’s skin, leaving tiny bites in his wake.
“Put it down as interpersonal relations on your CV,” Bond suggests, and Q huffs.
“Have to be two people for interpersonal, yeah?” he says, and tries to will Bond to understand just how very much he doesn’t want to talk about it. “And does that make this ‘experience performing in front of an audience’?”
“No, this is ‘about to lose his chance to fuck his lady friend if he doesn’t stop being mouthy and get back to it’,” Eve corrects a little peevishly. Grateful for the change in subject, Q smiles at her before leaning over to take her nipple in his mouth. Eve arches into him and Bond backs away, observing his technique. When it’s standing stiff beneath his tongue, Bond draws him up for a searing kiss, eyes bruise-dark.
“Jealous, Double-oh-seven?” Q says against his mouth with a sly smile.
“Very,” Bond confesses. “Of both of you.”
“Why don’t you show him how to—?” Eve suggests, curling her spine away from the bed to grind her hips into the mattress. Bond grins in a way that usually means something’s about to explode.
One of the things he appreciates about Bond is his size; compared to Bond, Q sometimes feels like an adolescent. It used to make him jealous, but the curl of Bond’s hands on his body has assuaged that. Now Bond cups his hand and drags it down the flat planes of Moneypenny’s stomach, beneath her knickers and through her pubic hair to the sweltering wet of her cunt. Bond strokes between his fingers, guiding, and this is familiar—they’ve done this before, fingering her together to prepare her for Bond’s cock—but this time it’s different. This time it’s his cock they’re stretching her for. He feels a little bit like he might hyperventilate, but she’s making such sweet noises beneath them and Bond is grinding slowly against his hip.
“This is her clit,” Bond says, voice low and coaxing as he leads Q to the firm, hooded ridge at the apex. She gasps, bumping her hips against their hands when Q explores, feeling for the edges and rubbing the deep root of it where it disappears into her body. “She likes this. Try—” he takes Q’s fingers already damp and a little bit sticky “—tapping, just here at the end. Eve’s a girl who likes a little bit of direct stimulation; otherwise I’d tell you to be gentle.” Monepenny laughs, but it’s more a snarl that twists into a whine when he follows instructions, carefully tapping with one finger. It’s an odd sensation, an interesting texture, and he swirls the pad down to toy with the delicately pleated hood pressed back by her arousal. His skin feels tacky; it’s instinct that has him slipping down to drag through her wet to ease the friction.
“Good,” Bond purrs. Moneypenny makes a choked sound of agreement.
And it’s instinct that has him bring that wet to his tongue, has him tasting her in tiny fractions until he can’t see the irises of her eyes anymore for the pupils and Bond is murmuring loving swears low in his ear. “Christ, the two of you are going to kill me,” Bond says against his shoulder as Moneypenny whimpers beneath them. Q dips his head and tucks his forehead against her pubic bone and smells, openmouthed and wanting. “Good Christ,” Bond gasps.
“Can I?” Q asks. “Can I really?” She spreads for him.
He’s not sure where to start, so he dives in: the flat of his tongue in the center and curling up, and when he pulls the rounded edges along the exposed head of her clit she makes a broken sound that feels like a punch to the gut. He repeats it and she follows his mouth as it moves away. When he comes up for air, he gasps, “Okay?”
“Oh god,” Moneypenny responds absently.
“More than,” Bond says for her, gently nudging Q to the side to slick the tip of his tongue along the same path. “Try this,” he suggests, then repeats the motion, adding a flick to the end that brings gooseflesh to the inside of Moneypenny’s thighs. Q repeats the motion and she sighs. “Good,” Bond praises. He hikes one of her thighs over his shoulder; Q follows and they both fit, only just, in the wings of her legs like a pinned butterfly. She doesn’t seem to care about the manhandling, just tangles her fingers in Q’s hair and brings him in close enough that his nose bumps against her clit. He lets her, rubbing indiscriminately; she smells incredible, and by the time self-consciousness catches up to the fact that he’s nuzzling her cunt like a cat in heat, Bond is watching with dark, interested eyes. “Go on.”
“Help me? I don’t know—,” Q says helplessly, and Bond grins.
With his tongue on her clit, his face is smashed between her thighs; there’s not much room for the two of them, but Bond makes it work and suddenly he can feel Bond as his second, tongue tracing along the edge of his own in an intimate, strange kiss. Bond laps at his lips, licks at her folds nearby, even bites tenderly at the edge of one of her labia with a mouth that’s more lip than tooth, then pulls away. “Try sucking,” Bond suggests helpfully, and yes. Q can do this, has sucked enough cock to—he sinks in again, sealing his lips around to draw at her clit. It’s not the same as—not nearly the same, but she’s making breathy, broken sounds and clenching her fists in his hair; Bond bumps him over just enough to press two fingers in and Moneypenny melts into the bed. He sucks as she keens and writhes, and he only realizes she’s come when the fingers in his hair begin to hurt and Bond laughs breathlessly, pulling him away from her.
“God,” she manages. She’s all swollen and shining; Q brushes the back of his hand against his mouth almost shy and Bond beams at him.
“Fun?” he asks, and Q nods. Bond licks into the corner of his mouth and sits back, smug. “Delicious. Did you want—?” he asks, and Q’s heart skips a beat at the condom he’s holding.
“You don’t have to,” Moneypenny tells him, pinching hard enough at Bond’s thigh that he yelps, and Q can see it’s going to be an impressive bruise. “You’ve had a lot of firsts today.”
“I’d like to,” Q says, and he finds that yes, he really, really would. She smiles at him and hands him the packet, and no one laughs when he fumbles with the condom, carefully pinching the tip as he rolls it over a cock so hard his hands tremble when they brush it. “I’m going to make a fool of myself in a few seconds,” he says ruefully.
“You’re going to have a lot of fun,” Bond corrects, sidling up behind him to coax him into the best position. He pauses, and Q can feel his breath on the back of his neck. “I’d like to—while you do. If I may. If you’d like that, too,” Bond suggests. He’s hard, the head nudging into the small of Q’s back, and Q shivers, spreading his thighs as he kneels to sink lower, open, onto the bed.
“Yeah.”
“Yes?” Bond asks against his skin.
“Yes.”
Then he’s easing in, slow enough to keep from setting himself off but she’s so wet, aftershocks from her orgasm still rippling and tugging at him as he sinks deep and stills, waiting for Bond to catch up. He doesn’t want to dawdle; Bond rubs at his hole with wet fingers and he can barely tolerate the familiar slick of lube on his skin. He aches, hot and already full, and Bond fingers him perfunctorily—he’s still loose from their round early this morning—before he starts in with his cock and Q has to clench his fingers in the bedsheets to keep from coming already. The sting of it helps a little. Bond adds more lube, pulls out slow and presses in, and the crush of his hips against Q’s arse grind him into Moneypenny’s spread legs in a way that leaves him already shaking and swimmy.
“Slow, please,” he gasps, and Bond is obedient, rolling his hips in a glide that makes Q’s eyes roll back with pleasure. “Gonna come.”
No one says, “Already?”. No one laughs or taunts him for his lack of stamina. Bond bumps him up briskly once, twice, then slows, changing his pace until Q is sure he’ll lose his mind; Moneypenny coos and pets his hair, crushes him to her chest and murmurs filthy encouraging words into his ear.
“Come on, darling. Come on. Come for me, sweet boy,” she whispers, milking him with her cunt as Bond rocks him deep inside her. “It’s going to feel so good, Q. Come on.” Bond grunts, presses him hard enough that he can feel her hipbones grinding against his own, rolls them in tight circles that make her sigh. It’s the moment Bond lifts his thigh where he kneels over her, changing the angle to a twist that tips the first domino—Q cries, arms shaking as he empties himself into her body. Bond makes it a bare few thrusts after, jostling them both as Moneypenny strokes his curls and brushes at his still-tingling skin, before collapsing to the side.
“Goodness,”Moneypenny says, pleased and sated. She’s efficient, stripping away latex to bundle in tissue and bin. “My two boys.”
When they’re all cleaned up, piled in the center of Bond’s bed, Bond strokes along his shoulder idly and Moneypenny gives him an impish smile. “Did you have fun today, Quaalude?” she asks softly over Bond’s chest.
“Am I a drug now?” Q asks back, grinning.
“Always were,” Bond says.