Fic: Love is a Waiting Game (Bond/Q, Skyfall, NC-17)
Title: Love is a Waiting Game
Author/Artist:
sail_aweigh/sail_aweigh
Pairing: Bond/Q
Rating: NC-17
Warnings buttplugs, dildos, dirty talk
Complete
Summary: Bond and Q are keeping count; Bond adds one to his side of the tally sheet.
Word count: 2689
Author's notes: Written for feels_like_fire. It's all her fault. Beta-ed by the fantastic circ_bamboo.
007 settled behind the sights of his rifle, the stock nestled snug against his shoulder. His vision honed in on the target despite the shivers rolling up his back. He flexed his glutes, tightening them around the intruding butt plug his lover had requested he wear for the mission. It wasn't the first time Q had asked him to wear one, keeping him prepared and open for their nights together. Bond enjoyed the feeling of being stretched, the challenge of holding the plug in place despite the physical rigor of his work. Q didn't demand his obedience, but the reward for holding one in all day could be quite satisfying. His lover had a knack for anal play that Bond would have never guessed when he first met the quartermaster with the floppy hair and nerd glasses. In the past six months they had started a collection of plugs in different sizes, shapes and materials. This was the first one, though, that vibrated.
Bond resisted acknowledging the distraction and the partial erection the vibrations helped maintain. He was uncomfortably aware that his sweating palm made his grip on the rifle less than secure. The increasing frequency of the vibrations in his arse made it hard to concentrate.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath.
"Later," came the response in his ear piece. "You seem rather excited, my dear. Have you tried monitoring your heart rate with that new timepiece?"
Bond quit breathing at the implications revealed by that question. Buggering Q. He should have known when he'd received the watch for Christmas that it was more than what it looked like. Nothing that came out of Q's laboratories bore any resemblance to what Bond was used to. Nothing exploded anymore, nothing could be taken for granted that it was intended to be used against an enemy. What Q's tech could do was much, much more devious, as he'd learned with the Walther PPK he'd tuned biometrically to his hand before the debacle at Skyfall.
He loosened his grip on the rifle stock, but kept the target in his sights. Emile Javert was dining alone on the balcony of a fourth arrondissement pied-à-terre, a single bodyguard-cum-manservant standing vigil inside the open portes-fenêtre. The leader of the terrorist cell was going nowhere until Javert finished eating.
"Q, my dear fellow, is there something about my new watch that is pertinent to the mission?" he asked.
"To all your missions, James. You're a vital asset; MI6 wants to make sure its investment is maintained at peak physical health. It's a sensor that records your heart rate, pulse, body temperature, physical arousal level--"
"Arousal level, you little pervert," growled Bond. "That's not even a need-to-know. What bearing does that have on my missions? I presume that was your idea." He straightened up from the tripod his rifle rested on, but didn't turn away from the window. Javert appeared to be fastidiously picking at a salad. He had his own chef; what he could find to pick over when the menu was set to his pallette, Bond couldn't imagine. He just hoped the man choked on it and saved him a bullet; he'd live with the disappointment.
"Tsk, tsk, James. This is all to maintain your well-being, you know. I derive nothing from this, while you reap all the...benefits." Q's voice dipped lower at the last word.
Bond felt the vibrations in his arse intensify as the little hitch in Q's voice made his pulse pick up speed. "You've tied those readings into the vibrator, haven't you?"
"Oh, yes. I've monitored your missions before," said Q. The breathy chuckle in Bond's ears almost made him blush. Almost. There wasn't much that could make him lose countenance; not even Silva's taunting could manage that.
Bond kept his gaze on the balcony across the way. Javert had moved on to his second course; a pale green soup that the man pecked delicately from his spoon, his lips pursing after each hummingbird-sized sip. Checking the location of the bodyguard, Bond saw that he was in the same position as before.
"Then you are quite aware of everything that happens when I'm assigned a termination," Bond said, testing his theory out loud.
"Every second of them, darling. You're quite the virile hunter."
Bond's erection, which had started flagging when he'd stepped away from his rifle, rose to attention once more. He'd show the little shit just how virile he was. He bent back down to the sight of his rifle, bringing the crosshairs directly on target.
"My, my, James. The readings took a steep jump just now. How is the little toy performing?"
A faint beeping sound came through Bond's earpiece. He realized it was keeping time with his heartbeat. Q must have turned the sound of his monitoring equipment on for Bond's benefit--meaning, he was not at MI6 headquarters, but in their own flat. This scene was taking a different direction than he'd originally accounted for.
"Q, my dear fellow, I believe you are going to be deriving as much benefit from this toy as I am; perhaps more. Have you made yourself comfortable in the lounge or the bedroom?" Bond rested his cheek against the rifle stock, making minute adjustments to his sights. Javert was pushing away a plate of small white beans sprinkled with greens and what looked like beets. If Bond were his chef, he'd have quit in exasperation by now. Or strangled the man; something he'd find much more satisfying. Bullets could be too quick for some crimes. At least Javert's finicky tastes were giving him time to mentally reconfigure his exit strategy based on Q's as-yet, unspoken scenario. Not that it needed elucidation at this point. Bond wasn't a mind reader, but he was becoming more familiar with the games, or gamesmanship, they had been participating in since the day they met.
A breathy laugh came through his earpiece. "Very good detective work, James. Even if I have to leave a few breadcrumbs now and then." Bond could hear the rustling of cloth and a few stifled sighs on the other end of the connection.
"You've already got those revolting Yummy Sushi pyjama bottoms tangled around your knees, haven't you?" Bond reached down and gave his erection a squeeze through his trousers; the vibrations in his arse sped up accordingly. The timing on this was going to be very precarious. It would also task his dexterity to the utmost. Firing the rifle one-handed wasn't a possibility, so he'd need to be able to climax without touching himself if he could help it. He couldn't blow this operation all to hell for a long-distance slap and tickle. Regardless, it was his self-control that was at stake here and Q would find out that even with his little games and toys to distract him, Bond was the master of self-control.
A giggle followed by a deep breath released in a shaky moan gave Bond every indication that Q was, indeed, well into his part of the scenario. Another moan and Q's voice quavered a little with his response: "Not the Yummy Sushi, the Tron jimjams." This time a small grunt communicated itself through the earpiece. Oh, Bond recognized this sound.
"Which dildo are you using, you filthy little wretch?" Bond hoped it was the blown glass one, veined in purple and pink. The thought of it slicked up and reaming out that pale, skinny arse on Q had him hard than anything the vibrator could do to him. Bond wouldn't have chosen that particular dildo if he'd been shopping on his own, but once it was in their inventory he'd discovered that the texture and its thermal characteristics turned Q on more than any variety of molded plastic did.
There was a lengthy pause before Q answered, "Ohhh. You know which one."
"Are you on your back, like a good little slut?" Bond bit his lip; he was having a hard time keeping his hips from jerking in time to the whimpers coming through his earpiece. His sight on Javert, though, didn't waver. The man was now cutting--no, more in the nature of dissecting--the small fowl on his plate: legs disarticulated, breast filleted open, stuffing being summarily discarded by being flicked off the plate and onto the tile flooring of the balcony. Pretentious wanker.
"Mmmm, on my side. Easier to watch my monitor and imagine you gritting your teeth in frustration." Q gave a giggle. He was seriously underestimating Bond, though.
"Oh, no, my dear boy. I am far from frustrated. Wager: I come before you. Wouldn't want to miss the target and ruin the mission, though, would I? Just think, I won't be able to touch myself much, so your little toy better be able to take me through my paces." Bond squeezed hard around the vibrator, letting the feelings flow up his spine and through his pelvis. He tensed and released his abdomen, the muscles jerking his cock up and down against the fly of his chinos through his briefs.
"James. Bloody hell." Q was breathing through his nose; probably biting his lip hard. Bond imagined it, pink and puffy. Pyjamas askew, arse presented, his hair mussed and looking totally wrecked, the imaginary Q in his mind looked thoroughly debauched. It was nothing more than the little bugger deserved for setting this up.
Still keeping his eye on the balcony across the way, Bond reached down and gave his balls a brief squeeze through the front of his trousers while he tuned in to the sounds coming through his earpiece. Q's panting hitched, every indrawn breath stopping for a longer amount of time with a high-pitched 'oh'. The succulent sounds drowned out the pounding Bond's heartbeat in his own ears. It was all he could do to keep from stripping off and joining Q on the floor, wallowing in the feelings of the objects in their arses and their own hands, joined in pleasure across the miles. Christ, he better not blow this mission for the little tart. He was going to have to end this, now, before their precisely-drawn plans were blown all to hell and back.
"I'm going to count down from ten, dear boy. Are you ready to lose your wager?" Bond's cheeks creased in a smirk he wished Q could see. The one that he knew angered his current pseudo-antagonist, who called it 'patronizing'.
"I, oh, don't believe, oh, you, James. You're never, oh, that quick; you've never lost, oh, control like that in bed." Bond heard sheets rustling in the background. He was willing to make another wager that Q was desperately working both hands at his arse and his cock. At least he had the advantage of the vibrator; something was to be said for hands-off pleasuring.
His sight on the target unwavering, Bond laid his hand against his cock in his trousers, palming it roughly. He wasn't thrilled with coming in his pants like a creeper at a playground, but this was, in a manner of speaking, a war he and Q had started months ago in the British National Museum and there would probably never be a winner declared, but he could win this battle.
"But control works both way, my dear fellow. I just haven't chosen to lose control that quickly before. You should consider this an honor. You drive me mad at times, but you'll never get to see it. Yet. Ten." Bond moved his hand back to the rifle stock, the loss of physical contact on his cock brought the vibrations from the toy in his arse to the fore. Counting down, he let the waves of pleasure continue to build without trying to dampen them as before.
"You bloody bastard," gasped Q. "Big man, always in charge, in control. Let me show you how little you have."
"Thr--," Bond gasped as the vibrations in his arse abruptly stopped. "You little shit." He bit his lip viciously, focusing everything on maintaining his current level of arousal. In desperation, he reached down to grasp his cock tightly. Q was cheating; by damn, he would, too. All's fair in love and war.
Across the way, Javert had finally moved on to a sweet course. Bond needed to finish this up; he knew the menu for Javert's lunch and while it included a sweet, then a savory to end with, he couldn't count on the finicky eater to actually finish the entire meal as planned.
"Two." Bond bit out. The low-level waves of pleasure that had been building since he'd realized Q's simultaneous participation in this exercise in self-control started to peak. He clamped down hard on the buttplug and squeezed the head of his cock, repeatedly rubbing his thumb over the ridge of the corona. Almost there.
"Fuck you, James. I bloody hate you." Q's voice quivered, possibly not all in pleasure, but not all in hate, either.
"One." Eyes wide open, staring through the sight of his rifle, Bond let it all go. His orgasm roared up his spine and through his ears, drowning out the sound of Q whimpering on his own end of the line. His cock jerked under his hand, emptying into his briefs and leaving a wet patch on the front of his trousers.
Bond hoped Q bit through his lip in frustration. Thought he was a crafty devil, but it didn't take graduating university with first class honors to outsmart him. Q was a sensualist; pleasingly responsive in bed to a degree Bond hadn't encountered in very many of his liaisons. Bond might actually tell him that when he got back to London. He did deserve a bit of an award for setting himself up for failure.
Even through the distraction of his release, Bond had kept his rifle trained on Javert. Now, while he watched, the bodyguard brought in the final course. Once it was placed in front of the terrorist, the bodyguard retreated into the depths of the apartment, unlike all the other times when he'd stood just inside the window casement. With no time left to delay, the culmination of Bond's mission was imminent.
"Our target has finally reached the savory course, love. Would you like to savor your own finish?" Bond wiped his hand on his trouser leg, bringing it up under the rifle stock. "I'll give you another countdown; this one to a happy ending for everyone."
"Bleeding Christ, James. Must you make such terrible puns at a time like this?" The exasperation in Q's voice came clearly through the communication device. "How am I supposed to come when you're making me laugh?" A breathy groan on the other side belied the complaint. Bond grinned.
"No time to discuss the merits of laughter in bed, right now, dear chap. Now why don't you put that pretty cock of yours through its paces and start counting down from ten, again." Bond watched Javert place a sliver of cheese in his mouth, laying it on his tongue and closing his lips over it, jaws remaining still as he let the flavor of the cheese diffuse over his tastebuds. After a few seconds, he picked up his wine and took a small sip before repeating the ritual. Bond counted down with each small piece of cheese.
By the time he reached three, the whimpers coming from the other side of the channel were non-stop. Bond could hear the slapping of Q's hand on his cock, the slick sound generating a renewed warmth in his groin that he tamped down ruthlessly. Time to finish this off.
"Two. When I get home, I'm going to take that dildo and make you suck it for me like a schoolboy with a lolly." A string of oh-oh-ohs filled his ears. As the spaces between them stretched out longer and longer, Bond slowly brought pressure to bear on the trigger of the rifle. Holding his breath, he let the last number slip past his lips with a slow breath out as Javert brought his hand carrying the last slice of cheese to his open mouth.
"One."
May also be found at AO3
Author/Artist:
sail_aweigh/sail_aweigh
Pairing: Bond/Q
Rating: NC-17
Warnings buttplugs, dildos, dirty talk
Complete
Summary: Bond and Q are keeping count; Bond adds one to his side of the tally sheet.
Word count: 2689
Author's notes: Written for feels_like_fire. It's all her fault. Beta-ed by the fantastic circ_bamboo.
007 settled behind the sights of his rifle, the stock nestled snug against his shoulder. His vision honed in on the target despite the shivers rolling up his back. He flexed his glutes, tightening them around the intruding butt plug his lover had requested he wear for the mission. It wasn't the first time Q had asked him to wear one, keeping him prepared and open for their nights together. Bond enjoyed the feeling of being stretched, the challenge of holding the plug in place despite the physical rigor of his work. Q didn't demand his obedience, but the reward for holding one in all day could be quite satisfying. His lover had a knack for anal play that Bond would have never guessed when he first met the quartermaster with the floppy hair and nerd glasses. In the past six months they had started a collection of plugs in different sizes, shapes and materials. This was the first one, though, that vibrated.
Bond resisted acknowledging the distraction and the partial erection the vibrations helped maintain. He was uncomfortably aware that his sweating palm made his grip on the rifle less than secure. The increasing frequency of the vibrations in his arse made it hard to concentrate.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath.
"Later," came the response in his ear piece. "You seem rather excited, my dear. Have you tried monitoring your heart rate with that new timepiece?"
Bond quit breathing at the implications revealed by that question. Buggering Q. He should have known when he'd received the watch for Christmas that it was more than what it looked like. Nothing that came out of Q's laboratories bore any resemblance to what Bond was used to. Nothing exploded anymore, nothing could be taken for granted that it was intended to be used against an enemy. What Q's tech could do was much, much more devious, as he'd learned with the Walther PPK he'd tuned biometrically to his hand before the debacle at Skyfall.
He loosened his grip on the rifle stock, but kept the target in his sights. Emile Javert was dining alone on the balcony of a fourth arrondissement pied-à-terre, a single bodyguard-cum-manservant standing vigil inside the open portes-fenêtre. The leader of the terrorist cell was going nowhere until Javert finished eating.
"Q, my dear fellow, is there something about my new watch that is pertinent to the mission?" he asked.
"To all your missions, James. You're a vital asset; MI6 wants to make sure its investment is maintained at peak physical health. It's a sensor that records your heart rate, pulse, body temperature, physical arousal level--"
"Arousal level, you little pervert," growled Bond. "That's not even a need-to-know. What bearing does that have on my missions? I presume that was your idea." He straightened up from the tripod his rifle rested on, but didn't turn away from the window. Javert appeared to be fastidiously picking at a salad. He had his own chef; what he could find to pick over when the menu was set to his pallette, Bond couldn't imagine. He just hoped the man choked on it and saved him a bullet; he'd live with the disappointment.
"Tsk, tsk, James. This is all to maintain your well-being, you know. I derive nothing from this, while you reap all the...benefits." Q's voice dipped lower at the last word.
Bond felt the vibrations in his arse intensify as the little hitch in Q's voice made his pulse pick up speed. "You've tied those readings into the vibrator, haven't you?"
"Oh, yes. I've monitored your missions before," said Q. The breathy chuckle in Bond's ears almost made him blush. Almost. There wasn't much that could make him lose countenance; not even Silva's taunting could manage that.
Bond kept his gaze on the balcony across the way. Javert had moved on to his second course; a pale green soup that the man pecked delicately from his spoon, his lips pursing after each hummingbird-sized sip. Checking the location of the bodyguard, Bond saw that he was in the same position as before.
"Then you are quite aware of everything that happens when I'm assigned a termination," Bond said, testing his theory out loud.
"Every second of them, darling. You're quite the virile hunter."
Bond's erection, which had started flagging when he'd stepped away from his rifle, rose to attention once more. He'd show the little shit just how virile he was. He bent back down to the sight of his rifle, bringing the crosshairs directly on target.
"My, my, James. The readings took a steep jump just now. How is the little toy performing?"
A faint beeping sound came through Bond's earpiece. He realized it was keeping time with his heartbeat. Q must have turned the sound of his monitoring equipment on for Bond's benefit--meaning, he was not at MI6 headquarters, but in their own flat. This scene was taking a different direction than he'd originally accounted for.
"Q, my dear fellow, I believe you are going to be deriving as much benefit from this toy as I am; perhaps more. Have you made yourself comfortable in the lounge or the bedroom?" Bond rested his cheek against the rifle stock, making minute adjustments to his sights. Javert was pushing away a plate of small white beans sprinkled with greens and what looked like beets. If Bond were his chef, he'd have quit in exasperation by now. Or strangled the man; something he'd find much more satisfying. Bullets could be too quick for some crimes. At least Javert's finicky tastes were giving him time to mentally reconfigure his exit strategy based on Q's as-yet, unspoken scenario. Not that it needed elucidation at this point. Bond wasn't a mind reader, but he was becoming more familiar with the games, or gamesmanship, they had been participating in since the day they met.
A breathy laugh came through his earpiece. "Very good detective work, James. Even if I have to leave a few breadcrumbs now and then." Bond could hear the rustling of cloth and a few stifled sighs on the other end of the connection.
"You've already got those revolting Yummy Sushi pyjama bottoms tangled around your knees, haven't you?" Bond reached down and gave his erection a squeeze through his trousers; the vibrations in his arse sped up accordingly. The timing on this was going to be very precarious. It would also task his dexterity to the utmost. Firing the rifle one-handed wasn't a possibility, so he'd need to be able to climax without touching himself if he could help it. He couldn't blow this operation all to hell for a long-distance slap and tickle. Regardless, it was his self-control that was at stake here and Q would find out that even with his little games and toys to distract him, Bond was the master of self-control.
A giggle followed by a deep breath released in a shaky moan gave Bond every indication that Q was, indeed, well into his part of the scenario. Another moan and Q's voice quavered a little with his response: "Not the Yummy Sushi, the Tron jimjams." This time a small grunt communicated itself through the earpiece. Oh, Bond recognized this sound.
"Which dildo are you using, you filthy little wretch?" Bond hoped it was the blown glass one, veined in purple and pink. The thought of it slicked up and reaming out that pale, skinny arse on Q had him hard than anything the vibrator could do to him. Bond wouldn't have chosen that particular dildo if he'd been shopping on his own, but once it was in their inventory he'd discovered that the texture and its thermal characteristics turned Q on more than any variety of molded plastic did.
There was a lengthy pause before Q answered, "Ohhh. You know which one."
"Are you on your back, like a good little slut?" Bond bit his lip; he was having a hard time keeping his hips from jerking in time to the whimpers coming through his earpiece. His sight on Javert, though, didn't waver. The man was now cutting--no, more in the nature of dissecting--the small fowl on his plate: legs disarticulated, breast filleted open, stuffing being summarily discarded by being flicked off the plate and onto the tile flooring of the balcony. Pretentious wanker.
"Mmmm, on my side. Easier to watch my monitor and imagine you gritting your teeth in frustration." Q gave a giggle. He was seriously underestimating Bond, though.
"Oh, no, my dear boy. I am far from frustrated. Wager: I come before you. Wouldn't want to miss the target and ruin the mission, though, would I? Just think, I won't be able to touch myself much, so your little toy better be able to take me through my paces." Bond squeezed hard around the vibrator, letting the feelings flow up his spine and through his pelvis. He tensed and released his abdomen, the muscles jerking his cock up and down against the fly of his chinos through his briefs.
"James. Bloody hell." Q was breathing through his nose; probably biting his lip hard. Bond imagined it, pink and puffy. Pyjamas askew, arse presented, his hair mussed and looking totally wrecked, the imaginary Q in his mind looked thoroughly debauched. It was nothing more than the little bugger deserved for setting this up.
Still keeping his eye on the balcony across the way, Bond reached down and gave his balls a brief squeeze through the front of his trousers while he tuned in to the sounds coming through his earpiece. Q's panting hitched, every indrawn breath stopping for a longer amount of time with a high-pitched 'oh'. The succulent sounds drowned out the pounding Bond's heartbeat in his own ears. It was all he could do to keep from stripping off and joining Q on the floor, wallowing in the feelings of the objects in their arses and their own hands, joined in pleasure across the miles. Christ, he better not blow this mission for the little tart. He was going to have to end this, now, before their precisely-drawn plans were blown all to hell and back.
"I'm going to count down from ten, dear boy. Are you ready to lose your wager?" Bond's cheeks creased in a smirk he wished Q could see. The one that he knew angered his current pseudo-antagonist, who called it 'patronizing'.
"I, oh, don't believe, oh, you, James. You're never, oh, that quick; you've never lost, oh, control like that in bed." Bond heard sheets rustling in the background. He was willing to make another wager that Q was desperately working both hands at his arse and his cock. At least he had the advantage of the vibrator; something was to be said for hands-off pleasuring.
His sight on the target unwavering, Bond laid his hand against his cock in his trousers, palming it roughly. He wasn't thrilled with coming in his pants like a creeper at a playground, but this was, in a manner of speaking, a war he and Q had started months ago in the British National Museum and there would probably never be a winner declared, but he could win this battle.
"But control works both way, my dear fellow. I just haven't chosen to lose control that quickly before. You should consider this an honor. You drive me mad at times, but you'll never get to see it. Yet. Ten." Bond moved his hand back to the rifle stock, the loss of physical contact on his cock brought the vibrations from the toy in his arse to the fore. Counting down, he let the waves of pleasure continue to build without trying to dampen them as before.
"You bloody bastard," gasped Q. "Big man, always in charge, in control. Let me show you how little you have."
"Thr--," Bond gasped as the vibrations in his arse abruptly stopped. "You little shit." He bit his lip viciously, focusing everything on maintaining his current level of arousal. In desperation, he reached down to grasp his cock tightly. Q was cheating; by damn, he would, too. All's fair in love and war.
Across the way, Javert had finally moved on to a sweet course. Bond needed to finish this up; he knew the menu for Javert's lunch and while it included a sweet, then a savory to end with, he couldn't count on the finicky eater to actually finish the entire meal as planned.
"Two." Bond bit out. The low-level waves of pleasure that had been building since he'd realized Q's simultaneous participation in this exercise in self-control started to peak. He clamped down hard on the buttplug and squeezed the head of his cock, repeatedly rubbing his thumb over the ridge of the corona. Almost there.
"Fuck you, James. I bloody hate you." Q's voice quivered, possibly not all in pleasure, but not all in hate, either.
"One." Eyes wide open, staring through the sight of his rifle, Bond let it all go. His orgasm roared up his spine and through his ears, drowning out the sound of Q whimpering on his own end of the line. His cock jerked under his hand, emptying into his briefs and leaving a wet patch on the front of his trousers.
Bond hoped Q bit through his lip in frustration. Thought he was a crafty devil, but it didn't take graduating university with first class honors to outsmart him. Q was a sensualist; pleasingly responsive in bed to a degree Bond hadn't encountered in very many of his liaisons. Bond might actually tell him that when he got back to London. He did deserve a bit of an award for setting himself up for failure.
Even through the distraction of his release, Bond had kept his rifle trained on Javert. Now, while he watched, the bodyguard brought in the final course. Once it was placed in front of the terrorist, the bodyguard retreated into the depths of the apartment, unlike all the other times when he'd stood just inside the window casement. With no time left to delay, the culmination of Bond's mission was imminent.
"Our target has finally reached the savory course, love. Would you like to savor your own finish?" Bond wiped his hand on his trouser leg, bringing it up under the rifle stock. "I'll give you another countdown; this one to a happy ending for everyone."
"Bleeding Christ, James. Must you make such terrible puns at a time like this?" The exasperation in Q's voice came clearly through the communication device. "How am I supposed to come when you're making me laugh?" A breathy groan on the other side belied the complaint. Bond grinned.
"No time to discuss the merits of laughter in bed, right now, dear chap. Now why don't you put that pretty cock of yours through its paces and start counting down from ten, again." Bond watched Javert place a sliver of cheese in his mouth, laying it on his tongue and closing his lips over it, jaws remaining still as he let the flavor of the cheese diffuse over his tastebuds. After a few seconds, he picked up his wine and took a small sip before repeating the ritual. Bond counted down with each small piece of cheese.
By the time he reached three, the whimpers coming from the other side of the channel were non-stop. Bond could hear the slapping of Q's hand on his cock, the slick sound generating a renewed warmth in his groin that he tamped down ruthlessly. Time to finish this off.
"Two. When I get home, I'm going to take that dildo and make you suck it for me like a schoolboy with a lolly." A string of oh-oh-ohs filled his ears. As the spaces between them stretched out longer and longer, Bond slowly brought pressure to bear on the trigger of the rifle. Holding his breath, he let the last number slip past his lips with a slow breath out as Javert brought his hand carrying the last slice of cheese to his open mouth.
"One."
May also be found at AO3