You and your boyfriend couldn’t be any more different — that was what your friends told you, at least, and they told you often. And from an outsider’s perspective, you knew that it seemed to be true: what could a skinny, pale technological genius who had probably never lifted anything heavier than a book in his life have anything to do with you, a textbook cool, confident secret agent who just so happened to be a failure with anything more advanced than a calculator? Certainly you’d have nothing in common, nothing to talk about, nothing to do in your spare time other than fulfill the roles of a human supercomputer quartermaster and his dumb muscle girlfriend.
Well. You wouldn’t go into detail about the mushy stuff — but you would definitely argue that you had at least one physical activity in common, one you were more than happy to pursue as often as you possibly could.
Pervert that you were, that was the first thing that popped into your mind as you ushered Q into your room at the inn you’d be staying in for the night. You’d finished your mission and Q had met you on location for a brief and rare getaway, even humoring you by letting you choose accommodations for the evening — in this case, a thoroughly snowed-in rustic lodge, whereas he perhaps might have preferred something a touch more posh. But you deserved a reward after your hard work, and dealing with a few interloping mice was hardly more difficult than you having to put up with a few henchmen who had been thrown your way just a few hours earlier.
“It’s not as bad as I thought it’d be,” he conceded as he stepped into the room, setting his things down onto a nearby armchair. “Quite cozy. Though I’m not sure they have Wi-Fi here…”
You snorted, closing the door behind him and making sure to lock it. “Oh, no… You might just have to spend some quality one-on-one time with your willing, sexy girlfriend.”
“Sex” the most emphasized part there. Again — you were somewhat of a pervert. Because while your female colleagues might drool over the ultra-built and muscular likes of well-known agents, you were eagerly waiting to get a fire started so that Q could gradually shed his layers. Though there was something in the way he was practically swallowed up by his three layers of clothing that incited a great fondness in you; a fondness for your slender, cool boyfriend. You were just glad you held such a monopoly over his affections… Fortunately, there weren’t many women who touched his division with a 10-foot pole except the ones already in it, so at least your competition for him was slim.
“I thought I might surprise you,” he said, giving you a sly smile. “I confess, I had this room prepped ahead of time…”
“With what?” you asked, your heart giving a little jolt of excitement. This was a rare present; you hadn’t expected him to be so thoughtful as to prepare something special for you. What could it be? Champagne and roses hidden somewhere? Or maybe something tailored to his skills. He could make a watch that could explode, so surely he could build you something that could give you several explosive orgasms, right? Perhaps M wouldn’t green light that…
“Wait right here — I’ll show you. Something to… distract us for a few hours, eh?”
Oh, God. It was true. Q was going to turn the tables and seduce you. Though it never grew old to come to him in your slinkiest lingerie and make him stammer and stutter as he all but dropped whatever he was holding, it was refreshing for him to do roughly the same to you, and you quivered in anticipation up until the point when he reappeared with a triumphant look on his face, and — an unopened box of Scrabble in his hands.
“They really came through,” he announced, a glimmer in his eyes as he delicately removed the plastic wrap from the box. “It was on such short notice, too. I wasn’t sure if it was too difficult of a request…”
“You had this room outfitted with Scrabble?” you cried, wondering if you were watching your chances for an oversexed evening sinking into the ground. Well — perhaps that was just your luck, choosing an inn in the middle of nowhere during a particularly snowy evening to spend your time. You had chosen the location specifically so there would be nowhere for him to go and nothing for you to do, and Q, genius that he was, invented something out of thin air.
“Are you surprised? It’s not too unusual. How do you think we get agents those guns hidden in the potted plants?”
You scoffed, pointing at something on the ground. “Can I assume that was a special touch of yours, too?”
Bemused, Q looked down to find a bearskin rug placed rather romantically on the floor in front of the fireplace. A streak of red crossed his face and he cleared his throat, so easily thrown off-guard by sexual suggestion; you were relieved that he’d never crossed paths with a honey pot or else he’d have been toast. “I — I suppose that might, erm, be part of the usual décor…”
So you went and lit a fire as he set up the game. Begrudgingly, you accepted your fate; at least you’d improve your vocabulary, and there were worse things to happen, even when Q could easily outclass you in an argument by using big words you’d never heard of. The two of you stripped down a bit and settled down onto the floor — onto the bearskin rug, to be precise — and began.
The anecdote about Polish troops charging at German tanks on horseback — that was pretty much how it felt for you to go up against Q in a game of Scrabble. Within fifteen minutes he’d gotten a word so esoteric you wondered if he was making it up, and after an hour his points had tripled yours and he was preparing a second game. Had it been anyone but him, you would have been a typical American after a game of Monopoly and chucked the board across the room in frustration, but he was so fucking cute when he knew he had a good word planned — he had a tell, adjusting his glasses and smoothing his hair down when he formulated the perfect strategy — and of course you humored him by being masochistic enough to continue on for another linguistic beatdown.
The things you did for love, honestly.
Q adjusted his glasses and smoothed his hair down right as you thought about it, and you sighed, bracing for impact. He told you, “I’ve got a word here to describe you perfectly,” and though you thought it would be something appropriate like idiot or sap he spelled out, QUALITY.
“Oh…!” It was an incredibly G-rated thing, and yet you couldn’t help but get a bit red as you read it, pleased. God, he was the best man in the history of men. “And look! It begins with Q, too…”
“I’m relieved that your reading comprehension is as impeccable as ever, my dear… Now — that’s quite a bit of points, and with my placement I believe it’s tripled, too…”
But you had forgotten about points — you saw a good opportunity to turn the atmosphere of the game around a bit. With a hum you took three letters and piggybacked off of his word. Yours, much less eloquent, was TITS.
“Something that describes you as well,” you noted, folding your arms victoriously. “Or rather, something you enjoy particularly.”
“Th-That’s ridiculous,” he put in quickly, fumbling for his own letters. “I… It’s irrational to have preferences like that, and quite childish, might I add…”
“Mhmm, you’re right; it’s irrational to think of it like preferences. Because you enjoy both tits and ass equally.”
Your words, though normal where you came from, were nevertheless laced with rough sexuality to the Englishman who spent his days in front of a computer and he swallowed sharply. “I’m — is that a proper word for Scrabble, do you think?”
“Oh, don’t be so dirty, Q. I could be talking about the titbirds. Those are still around, right?”
Your distractions must have been getting to him, because his next entry was only somewhat flawless. You continued your scheme, and your next word was the quite crude COCK.
“I…” He adjusted his glasses again, this time with more nervousness than confidence. “Now that, I’m not sure is a proper word…”
“Are you sure? I’m already badly losing, honey. Can’t you give it to little old me?” And to strengthen your argument you leaned forward and pressed a not-so-chaste kiss to his mouth before pulling back, leaving him momentarily breathless as he struggled to make sense of the letters in front of him.
You had him: he was down to five-letter words. He spelled out CRUDE next, which you might have taken as a hint, but you didn’t care; you used his word again to spell out FUCK before giving him a less-than-subtle look. His jaw went a little slack and he seemed to freeze up a bit, giving you an opening to lean forward and return your mouth to its rightful place against his.
You got your wish; the Scrabble board was totally forgotten, its tiles spilled across the rug. You kicked them away as best you could, not wanting to roll around the floor and get the corner of one stuck into your back, as was your luck. The scene was set, and your usual positions resumed: you on top of him, grinding against him with a sort of vicious relish, waking him up in more ways than one on the slow, snowy evening.
Another might have preferred removing a lover’s glasses before the ritual continued, but you preferred him with them on. Mostly because you liked the physical manifestation of you wrecking his stuffy British sensibilities when you managed to rattle him around so much that they were knocked askew. He accepted your preferences and did his best to keep them on straight as you hastily unclothed him with one hand and removed your own with the other.
“Just so you know,” he groaned through gritted teeth between kisses, “I definitely won that time.”
You couldn’t bring yourself to even pause at that. “Mhmm.”
“By at least t-triple the points, might I add?”
You considered that as you finally unbuckled his pants and ripped them down. “I don’t doubt it, honey…”
“Don’t think that me… ah… giving into — physical temptation — means I’ve forgotten…” You decided to stop this egregious reminder by settling down on his cock. “Oh, my.”
“One day, I’ll get a proper, righteous expletive out of you. At least, not ‘shit.” But it didn’t slow you up at all — in fact you seemed to be even more enthused than usual. Shit. The atmosphere of it all was making you insatiable: the crackling fireplace, the soft fur beneath your knees, the exotic untouched snowy wonderland outside your window, the antique furniture that surrounded you. You wondered if you’d just end up devouring him before the night was over.
The first few times you’d slept together, he’d been so paralyzed with fear that you had feared you were slowly killing him; perhaps he had been self-conscious about himself and his body, given the fact that you were accustomed to hanging out with men built like James Bond, including James Bond. With a twinge of poignancy you realized that he seemed so capable now, almost cool in his composure as he lay beneath you. He wasn’t — outgrowing you, was he? You had seen a disturbing lack of competition for him when you’d first pursued him, but perhaps he was becoming more popular as his reputation within the agency grew. Almost concerned over your holdings over him you rode him faster, with an overwhelming desire to possess, to own, just as you felt so utterly possessed by him.
You didn’t know, of course, that he was transfixed by the way the amber glow of the fireplace dappled your skin, cast patterns on your naked breasts and slanting shadows across the debauched expression on your face, and was just concentrating to make sure he didn’t come after three minutes; therefore your sudden wave of possessiveness was making it very, very difficult for him. To distract himself he groaned and lifted himself up a bit, fighting back against your overpowering lust, tweaking one of your erect nipples with his fingers.
You often joked that he must be good with his fingers, given his job, and he proved himself more than capable time and time again. Arching your back and pressing yourself closer to his hand, you hissed, “Told you they were your favorite.”
“Hmm.” Now that he had lasted for much longer than he would have expected, he gave in to lust with relief, holding you close that he was snug as could be against your chest. With a muffled sigh he admitted, “I believe you might have a point there.”
Watching him get close was making you do the same; you gradually increased the speed, the depth, until you were certain no one existed in the world — or at least, in that inn — except the two of you, and as such you felt it more than appropriate to cry out, as you were wont to do, “Q, a-ah, Q, oh… Q…!” And when you reached climax your body locked up and you said his name, the name he had told you after you had known him as only a letter for over three months.
It would be impossible for the poor man to continue, so he didn’t, letting his apex meet with yours at an incredibly agreeable locale. You stayed on top of him for five, six, seven seconds before you felt your thighs wobble and you collapsed; you would have rather liked to do so on top of him but feared accidentally smothering him between the breasts he so enjoyed and instead you fell over to the side, snuggling your face into the rug. Pure, white streaks of undulating starlight seemed to be going through you, and all of those poetic splendors, and you briefly wondered why you didn’t just give up spying in general just to occupy yourself with this on the daily with him.
“Well,” you decided, summoning the remainder of your energy to flip around and scooter nearer towards him. “I will admit to briefly forgetting about potential neighbors there.”
Q grinned, adjusting his askew glasses. “I’m sure they rather think you’re extremely fond of a particular letter of the alphabet.”
You smiled, stretching out languidly like a cat and lounging in multiple afterglows. The fire seemed at once too hot and a blessing against the sweat cooling on your skin. You wondered if it was possible to just sleep in cozy contentment on the rug in front of it, even though you had a perfectly good, if not a bit musty, bed a ways away that you had actually paid for.
“Have you worked up an appetite?” you asked, reluctantly moving from your warm spot on the rug, knowing that if you didn’t you’d likely stay there forever and M would probably not be pleased to hear you’d be quitting your post because of a particularly good post-coital laziness. “I could get us some food delivered up.”
“You know something? I’ve had a craving for — pancakes, for the last couple of days.” Q gave you an innocent look. “You think they can make them vegan, here?”
You snorted softly, bending down briefly to give his mussed hair a good rustle. “If they can get a brand-new box of Scrabble here from orders on high, I’m sure they could mix together some of your freak pancakes.”
Surprisingly, they actually could. The two of you waited for them beneath the covers of the bed, deciding that perhaps it’d be worth it to give the bearskin rug a good rest after its hard work supporting your fucking bodies. You lay in a warm, fond silence, perhaps dreading returning back to London and responsibilities; when you heard footsteps sound down the hall and a knock on the door, you stood to go and get it, to get your boyfriend some sort of breakfast in bed.
“No, wait,” Q joked, stretching. “Could be an assassin. You never know. You’ve got to be careful.”
In all seriousness, you would actually take anyone who even dared to threaten your boyfriend and beat them to death with your bare hands and a variety of other objects if given the chance, so there was really no danger there; but you laughed anyway, rationalizing that saying such a thing was probably not the sexiest thing to hear. (Or was it?) “I’ll check it out. You stay there.”
You loosened your robe a bit and opened the door, smiling at the employee holding the tray of dinner. He had his mouth opened a bit to present the food to you but the words got stuck in his throat when he looked at you; his jaw went even more slack when you reached forward to take the tray and your robe fell open a little more to reveal a generous expanse of feminine flesh. You laughed and his eyes snapped away, his face reddening with embarrassment, and he hastily excused himself and fled.
You closed the door and turned back to Q, shrugging as you brought the food over. “Not much of a professional, I’d say. I’m not even naked.”
“Hmm. I recall you having the same effect on me, actually, and more than once.”
“That’s because I wanted you to like me. For someone such a genius, you were a bit of an idiot, it took you so long to figure it out.”
“Oho, an idiot? Should we review that you couldn’t win against me once in a game of words?”
“Should we review that I only play in the first place because I like you so much? Strike two, for being a bit of an idiot.”
“Hey — ”
You stopped him with a fond kiss and set the tray down on the nightstand, straddling him as you separated your respective meals. “Now, I can’t remember — did the toast come with your food, or mine?”
When he didn’t respond you looked down at him, bemused, but received no response; only when you sat back a bit onto his lap did you realize that your faux-seduction of the inn employee had an appropriate effect on him as well.
“Oh, Q,” you sighed, settling down onto him and grinding a bit against it. “The food might get cold.”
He seemed to genuinely ponder that, but not for long. “Ah,” he decided, squirming a bit underneath you, “bugger the food.”
Well. It perhaps wouldn’t be a kosher board game answer, but as expletives go, it was a good start.