Work Text:
Q stood in front of the containment cell’s door for long, quiet minutes as he thought about his latest assignment. He hadn’t been asked to perform a task like this in years – not since his days running with American spec ops in the Middle East – and he needed time to step back into the skin of his former self.
He tightened his fist around the thick hemp rope in his hands, and the familiar, bristly fibres triggered his sense memory as much as the breathing exercises. Soon, keywords of the mission parameters were snapping like whip cracks in his consciousness.
Subdue. Control. Dominate.
Q smirked as he pressed his palm against the cold gel of the biometric scanner. Bond had no idea who he was up against, and Q could use that to his advantage. The poor man had no idea what was coming.
The door made no noise as it unlocked, opened, and closed behind Q. His bare feet and form-fitting clothes, ones that didn’t rustle as he moved, allowed him to slip in silently, and he took a moment to observe. The containment cell was white and heavily padded from floor to ceiling. Q, having helped design it, knew that it was as much a sensory deprivation box as any room without water could be. It was perfect.
As was the prone man in the middle of it.
Bond was unconscious – hopefully knocked out rather than drugged - and naked. Q strode over and crouched next to him, cataloguing Bond’s resting breathing rate, the involuntary tics of his muscles, the marred state of his skin. Q’s fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and touch, to physically catalogue, but it was an urge easily pushed aside. There was plenty of time later. What he really needed was for Bond to wake up.
Q hadn’t brought in much when he came in, having only the pockets of his trousers and cardigan available, but he didn’t need much. Safety shears, a blindfold, oil, and a Wartenberg wheel were the extent of it. Looking down at the unconscious agent on the floor, he almost wished he had smelling salts.
But no, he thought, observing the steel cuffs carefully trapping Bond’s wrists in front of his body. They wouldn’t have summoned him unless Bond was about to come out of it. M wouldn’t waste his time like that.
Indeed, Q had just started unwrapping the rope when Bond stirred. It was a barely-there whisper of movement that Q wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking for it. The suppression of instinctual urges to fight, move, escape made Q grin. He knew that Bond, like most agents, wouldn’t consider himself in any way submissive; all 00’s were chosen precisely because of their Alpha complexes. But experience taught Q that agents in this programme were, in fact, much more submissive than they realised. Most of the current agents were the former M’s foot soldiers, specifically selected because they needed her to guide them, to give them rules and reason and purpose, to make them obey.
Bond just needed to realise that for himself.
“It’s alright, 007,” Q said in a low, even voice. “You’re not in danger.”
Bond opened his eyes at that, tracking Q with a slow but clear gaze. Not drugged, then. Perfect.
“Not in danger,” Bond repeated, lifting his head from the floor to peer at the rope in Q’s hands. “Training exercise?” he asked, eyes flickering to take in Q’s civilian clothes, the featureless room, the red LED that meant a locked door was the only exit.
Q didn’t confirm simply because the phrase, training exercise, when one was bound and in a white soundproof room usually meant pain and torture. That wasn’t the point of this exercise, quite the opposite in fact, and Q didn’t want Bond tense with expectation.
“Do you need help standing?” Q asked, meeting Bond’s eyes. He wasn’t expecting Bond to say yes, so he just stood from his crouch as Bond rolled his eyes. Bond was on his feet only a few moments later, standing expectantly in the middle of the room with his hands in front of him. Q pulled the key from his front trouser pocket and released them, the chink of metal cuffs loud in the otherwise silent room.
“Stay there,” Q ordered before turning his back to walk to the door. He didn’t think Bond would attack him, but he kept aware of Bond’s movements anyway. He knew Bond was fast and deadly, but Q wasn’t worried. He was faster. Not that he wanted to put that supposition to the test — this wasn’t about strength, after all.
Q unlocked and opened the door, then threw the cuffs and the key outside. He didn’t need Bond to be distracted by them, always on the periphery and ready for use.
When he turned back, Bond was watching curiously but dispassionately, completely comfortable in his nudity. Much to Q’s pleasure, he hadn’t moved a millimeter.
“You don’t exactly fit the profile of my usual trainer,” Bond said with a smirk as Q came back to stand in front of him. Bond’s eyes raked Q’s lithe frame in obvious assessment, and Q suppressed a chuckle.
“You’re the one without clothes, and you’re trying to make me feel naked?” Q asked, raising an eyebrow.
Bond stepped forward, smirk turning predatory. “I can do more than just make you feel naked.”
“Not today,” Q said, reaching up with his free hand to tap lightly on Bond’s breastbone. “From what I understand, you don’t have much familiarity with people like me, so I’m going to be tolerant of errors in behaviour for today.”
Bond quirked his head at the implication that this would happen more than once, but didn’t ask.
Q smiled. “The rules are simple. Your job is to only do what I say. Speaking isn’t forbidden — in fact, it’s essential to the process — but only when you have a question about, or objection to, something I’m doing.”
“I’m allowed to object?” Bond asked in obvious surprise.
“Absolutely. Whether I find your objection valid or not is another question entirely, of course,” Q replied with a shrug. He bent to place the coils of rope on the floor, then straightened with one of the shorter lengths in his hand. “Lace your fingers together and place your hands behind your head.”
“And that never ends badly,” Bond said sardonically, though he did as he was asked.
“Trust me, Bond,” Q said as he shook the rope free of its coil, keeping a hold of the middle loop as he kneeled. “This will not end badly.”
“But only if I cooperate, I suppose,” Bond chuckled, giving a slight shake of his head. “Don’t they give you some sort of tutorial on how to approach these sort of situations? For instance, how not to sound like every arsehole we’ve ever been captured by?”
“Actually, that’s a good idea,” Q laughed as he wrapped the folded rope around Bond’s waist, bringing the loop to rest just under Bond’s navel. “How Not to be a Stereotype Bad Guy 101.” He shook the free ends of the rope free, then threaded them through the loop. “Any other suggestions for such a course?”
Bond sucked in a breath, stomach muscles clenching slightly as Q pulled the rope snug. “I’d say no cigarette hanging carelessly out of the corner of your mouth, but you don’t strike me as a smoker.”
“Not anymore,” Q conceded. He pulled the rope down over Bond’s right hip and wrapped it under the right half Bond’s arse, following the curve. Then he pulled the rope back up, through the crease of where Bond’s inner thigh met his groin. Bond’s easy stance tightened as the rope brushed his balls, but Q continued without pause. He brought the rope to the top of Bond’s right thigh, crossing it over the first line before wrapping it behind Bond’s back.
“Q —” Bond started, swallowing hard enough for it to just be audible.
“What else should be in the course?” Q asked as he pulled the rope down through the left crease of Bond’s inner thigh. He ignored the way Bond’s cock twitched, whether it was because of the sensual drag of rope over his skin or because his cock was being framed by it. Q finished the first part of the hip harness by bringing the ends of the rope back to the front, looping it under the length resting on Bond’s abdomen.
“No black suits,” Bond said, voice just slightly rougher. “Another one you don’t have to worry about.”
“Black really isn’t my colour,” Q agreed, starting on the second wrap. He threaded the rope under, then over, the first section over Bond’s hip, creating a thick weave. Then he pulled it through the crease of his inner thigh again and around Bond’s back to repeat the weave on the other side. “And I do like colour in my wardrobe. Even if it has to be muted to comply with MI6’s dress standards.”
Bond made a noise in his throat that may have been agreement, or something else entirely. Q dragged the rope through the front center part of the harness again, this time letting the free ends draw across Bond’s cock slowly as he wove. Bond didn’t make a noise or flex a muscle, but Q was familiar with the stillness that meant he was focusing on the faint pleasure of it.
“What else?” Q asked again, working faster now. He was quick to repeat his wraps and weaves, the harness forming quickly and beautifully. Bond had bent his head to watch Q, fascinated as the hemp rope turned into a complex-looking, strong series of knots that rested under his navel and over the tops of his thighs.
“That’s very decorative,” Bond remarked, though he didn’t sound quite as scornful as Q suspected Bond wanted to. He hid a smirk as he finished and tied off the ends over Bond’s left hip.
“It’s stronger than it looks,” Q suggested, barely resisting the urge to grab the harness and pull. He’d used this particular harness to suspend and move partners into all sorts of delightful positions in the past, but Bond wasn’t ready for that. Not yet, anyway. Though he’d given up the game of teasing Q, he was still too curious to allow himself to succumb to sensation.
“Strong, I don’t doubt. But it isn’t constricting at all. What’s the point?”
Q didn’t respond, but pulled another length of rope free from the coils next to him. He found the centre, folded it in half, then looped rope a couple times around Bond’s right calf, securing it with a French bowline knot when he was done. He left the several feet of free ends on the floor, then gathered a second length and repeated the tie on the left calf.
Resisting the urge to stroke Bond’s legs, Q tapped gently on the outside of Bond’s knee. “Kneel.”
After barely a moment of hesitation, Bond complied. Q suspected both the fact that he hadn’t himself got up yet, and that he was still behind Bond, was what made it easy for Bond to do as asked. He wasn’t giving up power to Q. Not yet, anyway.
With a smile, Q stood, walked around in front of Bond, then kneeled in front of him again. “Raise up a bit.”
Again, Bond complied easily, though this time Q could see the questioning look on his face. Q ignored it, however, and pulled the free ends on the left up and around, working quickly to secure Bond’s thigh to his calf, pulling the knots snug. Then he wrapped the last length around the taut line between calf and thigh. Once, he’d attended a Rope Dojo with Midori, and smirked as he thought about the bondage expert’s words of wisdom: Wrappy, wrappy, strokey, strokey, stiffy, stiffy. He pulled the rope over and around again and again, stroking it to keep the coils tight, until he’d formed a stiff hemp spreader bar. It wouldn’t force Bond to keep himself slightly elevated in his kneel, but it would certainly remind him that Q had asked him to stay in that position. For men like Bond, it was the will to obey, not the tools used to try and force it, that kept them obedient.
Bond didn’t move as Q tucked the ends in and moved to the other side to repeat the process.
Bond was uncharacteristically silent as Q worked, though it was too early to tell whether it was because of curiosity or something else. Something better. Bond didn’t close his eyes or look away, but watched Q’s hands expressionlessly. Q knew better than anyone that a blank expression meant its wearer was hiding intense feeling, but he didn’t have a read, yet, on which feeling Bond was hiding.
“That’s definitely a little more constricting,” Bond commented dryly, meeting Q’s eyes.
“But you could still employ a hundred different techniques to try and kill me right as you are now,” Q finished for him.
“Try?” Bond asked, raising an eyebrow.
With a smirk, Q pulled the longest piece of rope free from what remained of the original coil. He took a deep breath as he shook it out, once again finding the centre and folding it in half.
“Nervous?” Bond asked.
Q repressed a laugh. He was indeed steadying himself, but not for the reasons Bond assumed. On one hand, he was about to touch the wrists of an assassin with known trauma issues. On the other, Q’s excitement was rising slowly and steadily inside him as he watched Bond’s skin slowly succumb to Q’s rope. The knots were beautiful over Bond’s sun-kissed body, and Bond’s stillness and compliance were beyond seductive.
Normally, Q would only loop the rope around his sub’s wrist once, tie a handcuff knot, and keep going. But this was 007. He lifted the rope and glanced between it and Bond’s forearms, thinking.
It didn’t take long for Bond to catch on. “Q,” he interrupted after a moment. “As much fun as this has been —”
The urge to stop Bond’s descent into trying to take back control was what prompted Q to move. He wrapped the rope loosely around Bond’s neck, ignoring Bond as he stiffened. He tied a knot at the base of Bond’s throat, then looked up to meet his eyes.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he promised firmly. “But you need to let me do this.”
“If I had a five-pence,” Bond muttered, squeezing his hands into fists. Then he loosened them again and sighed. “Not the strangest training exercise I’ve ever participated in, but it’s getting there.”
This time, Q didn’t laugh. He tapped on the underside of Bond’s arms, and Bond lifted them obligingly. Q stretched his arms around Bond to wrap the rope under and behind, crossing the ends over Bond’s spine before bringing the ends back to Bond’s chest. Bond’s body relaxed again as Q gave a hard tug, proving that the knot at his throat wouldn’t allow the loop around his neck to tighten and choke him.
All that was left was the arm binder — a simple series of loops and knots that Q could have tied within moments if he wanted to. But this — the final constriction — was always Q’s favorite part, the moment when his partner ceased to be his own, autonomous person and became Q’s to do with as he pleased.
As such, Q went slowly. He took hold of the two lines of rope dangling over Bond’s breastbone and tied a slow, careful slip knot. He worked two wide loops free and pulled them down. Much to his surprise, Bond pulled his arms together and willingly threaded his arms through. Q felt his heart rate pick up slightly in delight, but was careful to avoid showing it. He pulled the loops snugly over Bond’s well-endowed upper arms, suppressing a shudder at the thought of the marks that would soon be welted into the skin under the hemp. Then he moved onto the next set.
No matter how carefully and slowly Q tied the knots, it was still over too quickly. By the time he’d reached Bond’s wrists, he’d tied five knots down Bond’s arms and had only one left for his modified dragonfly sleeve to be complete.
“Palms up,” he demanded quietly, eyes on Bond’s hands. Bond twisted his arms in the little bit of slack he had, not speaking, presumably watching Q. Q wasn’t watching Bond’s face, however. He slipped the last set of loops around Bond’s wrists. He pulled the rope snug and held it, unable to look away from the barely visible, steady pulse of the veins there. Finally unable to resist the impulse to show appreciation, Q stroked lightly with his thumb, feeling as Bond’s pulse sped slightly.
Fuck, Q thought as he pulled his hands away. Bond was supposed to be the one being seduced, and yet Q was the one having a lapse in his ability to control himself.
Mentally shaking it off, he took the free end and wove it through the left thigh’s loops, and pulled it back to Bond’s wrist and looped again, tucking in the end when he was done. Then he did the same with the other side.
Done. Done. Q sucked in a breath and pushed back, standing to admire his work. The ropes were evenly spaced and secured, tight enough to sink into Bond’s skin but not tight enough to cause damage. The marks were going to be gorgeous.
Bond was fucking gorgeous.
Whether it was the lack of anything else to focus on, or because Bond was finally allowing himself to sink into the beginning of subspace, Bond didn’t lift his head. His breathing was slow and steady and he held himself in place, slightly raised on his knees, while Q admired him. He hadn’t allowed his hands to curl back into fists, so his palms were still up in a gesture that look almost like supplication. Q couldn’t see if Bond was hard — his arms blocked the view — but it didn’t matter. This wasn’t about sex.
Q suppressed the urge to tell Bond that he was beautiful, or perfect, or even just good. As much as he wanted to praise Bond’s obedience, he knew better. He suspected that such a declaration would have the opposite of the intended effect by reminding Bond that he wasn’t in power. To a man like Bond, the words would probably even seem placating or condescending.
“I’m going to work your nervous system a little bit now,” Q said instead, keeping his voice low and quiet as he walked around to kneel behind Bond. He pulled the oil from his cardigan pocket and set it on the floor. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just going to investigate the effects of soft and hard sensations on your skin.”
“Pain versus pleasure?” Bond asked. Though the faintest inflection of wryness coloured Bond’s voice, it was low and rough in a way that made Q shiver. He had to stop for a moment to push his hand flat against the fly of his trousers, trying to get his reaction, his erection, under control. He knew he could have Bond right now, if he wanted him. He could push him flat against the padded floor and fuck him senseless, make him come while screaming in pleasure. But Q, yet again, had to remind himself that sex wasn’t the point at all. It was about trust and authority.
Subdue. Control. Dominate.
“I’m not going to cause you pain,” Q finally replied as he pulled his cardigan off. “I’m not going to test your limits.” Your physical ones, anyway, he silently added. “But if you get overwhelmed, tell me.”
Bond hummed in a way that might have been a scoff if he were anywhere else. “You won’t overwhelm me.”
Too late, Q thought, smirking, admiring the beautiful curve of the spine before him. The benefit of keeping Bond’s arms in front of him was that it left most of Bond’s back free to do with as Q wished. Anxious to get started, Q poured a generous amount of oil on his hands and slowly started to massage Bond’s back. Q wasn’t just a master at torturing (in his former life) and typing (in his current life) — he took great pride in his ability to manipulate bodies into melting with pleasure.
Not that that was what Q was going for here. Whether Q had managed to tap into Bond’s submissive mindset or not, he knew that a man like him would quickly get bored with predictable pleasure. Q was going to keep Bond’s body and mind occupied by ramping up and down in a spiky pattern of sensation. It would keep Bond focused on his body and Q’s total control over him.
Bond had just begun to sink onto his heels, despite the rope spreader bars, when Q took his hands off Bond’s skin. He wiped his hands on his trousers and pulled the Wartenberg wheel out of his back pocket.
The first touch of steel spikes to glistening skin had Bond arching and groaning. Q wasn’t even pressing hard enough for the spikes to bite, but the contrast to Q’s earlier soft touch must have felt intense. He rolled the wheel first up Bond’s left side then down the right, keeping the pressure light enough so that it wouldn’t mark. By the time the wheel reached the top of the hip harness, Bond was back up in an arch, straining against the rope that held his thighs and calves together.
The second time Q rolled the pinwheel up Bond’s back, he stayed close to — though not quite touching — Bond’s spine. He pressed harder this time, enough to leave faint indentations, and Bond arched so hard against his restraints that the skin around them whitened. Q leaned in closer and looked around to catch a glimpse of Bond’s face as he rolled the wheel back down and was utterly unsurprised to see Bond’s mouth open in a silent cry.
The third and final round of the wheel traced directly over Bond’s spine, up and down the stretch of bone and muscle quickly and without any more pressure. A curse escaped Bond’s open, panting mouth as he shuddered hard. When Q finished tracing the path down to the incredibly sensitive skin over Bond’s tailbone, he couldn’t help but drop the wheel and press a hand to the base of Bond’s throat. He tipped Bond’s head back, pulling Bond’s body back against him. He noted with pleasure that Bond’s eyes were squeezed shut, and pressed his lips to Bond’s temple.
“Good, James,” he murmured quietly. “Very good.”
Bond didn’t respond, eyes still shut and body arched, and Q released him slowly back into a kneeling position.
The next round of massage was slower but deeper and just a bit less gentle. Bond didn’t speak or move at all except how Q directed him, all but putty in Q’s talented hands. Q included Bond’s flanks and arse in his approach this time, keeping his touch firm and nonsexual. Bond sighed as Q’s hands explored and prepared Bond’s body, and didn’t tense again when Q stopped.
This time, when Q brought the pinwheel to rest on Bond’s skin, he pressed hard enough to leave vivid impressions. Bond cried out as Q rolled it down from shoulder to the top curve of his arse, once again arching hard against his restraints. He didn’t seem to be trying to get away from the wheel, however, and Q inwardly crowed in victory. The wheel required real trust in the partner wielding it, because it felt much more dangerous at low pressures than it actually was. Q knew that, to Bond, it felt like the spikes could break through the skin at any moment, causing enough damage to draw blood and leave wounds that wouldn’t heal for days.
This time, Q didn’t roll it over the spine, but followed the contour of the ropes that formed the hip harness. He kept it to the outside, over hips and the top of thighs, then down around the bottom curve of his arse. Q knew about the horrible cock and ball torture that had been visited on Bond in the past so kept the wheel far away from his groin. Bond shivered and moaned and pulled against his harnesses but didn’t object once. His cock was hard and straining up against his stomach, leaking on the hemp of the harness there, but even if he wanted to thrust forward, he couldn’t.
It was ridiculously hot and unbelievably tempting, but Q had exceptional self control. He kept moving the wheel around Bond’s responsive skin until he could feel the constant trembling that meant that Bond was getting too close to the edge. When Q pulled away, he dropped the wheel loud enough for it to make a soft noise against the padding before picking up the oil again.
Q continued the cycle of sensation play until he knew Bond was too close to being overwhelmed. He lost track of time, so caught up in Bond’s responses that he had no idea how long they’d been at it. He brought Bond down carefully and slowly, massaging away the last tingles of the wheel before he pulled Bond back against him, resting back to chest until Bond’s breathing evened back out.
“James,” Q finally said, quiet voice still enough of a shock in the former silence that Bond jerked against him in surprise. “I’m going to free you from your restraints now. I’d rather cut them away, but if you don’t want shears near your body now, I can untie you instead.”
Bond took a shuddering breath and shook his head. “Shears,” he replied, voice cracked and broken. “Shears are fine.”
With a nod, Q pulled out the shears out of his pocket and proceeded to cut Bond free slowly. He massaged wrists, arms, and shoulders gently, without oil, as they were released. The thigh and calf ties were next, and, finally, the hip harness. Bond unfurled easily, one muscle at a time, until he was a boneless heap stretching languidly on the padded floor. Q shoved the remnants of the rope away quickly, keeping one hand on Bond’s body at all times, staring with deep satisfaction at the rope marks.
Long moments passed before Bond finally spoke up. “Q,” he started, opening his eyes for the first time in what may very well have felt like hours. “I’m still not sure…”
Q let him trail off before he responded. “Shall I fetch your clothes?”
Bond rolled his head to meet Q’s gaze, his expression foggy but sated despite the hard-on still jutting from the blond curls between his legs. “Then what?”
“Then you’re free to go.”
“Go,” Bond repeated softly.
“You responded perfectly,” Q assured Bond, smiling softly. “Well done.”
Bond’s responding smile was genuine but slightly confused. He rolled to his feet, his steadiness reassuring Q that they could leave without any nasty after-effects. Q stood with a grin, then gathered his tools and cardigan. He walked over to the door, opened it, and picked up the garment bag laying on the floor. He brought it back inside the room and handed it over.
“Thank you, James. Have a good evening.”
Bond raised an eyebrow but accepted the garment bag. “You’re not going to stay?”
“I’m sure I’ll see you again soon,” Q answered, smiling confidently. And he would, he knew as he left the room.
The former M had been Bond’s anchor before she died — the person Bond gravitated back to whenever he needed reassurance of his place in the world. Their connection was commanding officer and soldier, but there was also an almost familial tie there as well: maternal figure and orphan. She was his home base, the flat he would break into when he needed a moment to recover.
The new MI6, the new M, held no such tie for Bond. There was no one left for him to rely on, to trust with his brokenness. At least, there hadn’t been, Q thought with a grin. It wouldn’t be long until Bond started to crave a session just like the one they just had, and Q knew the agent wouldn’t approach him at headquarters. All Q had to do now was disable the more lethal countermeasures of his security system and wait.
Fortunately, Q was a very patient man.