Chapter Text
Q woke Sunday morning, or at least, he was reasonably certain it was Sunday morning.
He was naked and clutching a large plush toy.
He frowned at the toy in confusion.
It appeared to be a grey and white creature with enormous floppy ears.
Rabbit.
It was a rabbit.
It was soft.
Soft was comforting.
He buried his face in its fur.
He tried to think.
He was thirsty.
Raoul had drugged him again the night before.
The drug made him thirsty.
Raoul had said that.
He remembered that.
Remembering was good.
(Was it?)
But difficult.
The drug made it hard to think.
Raoul hadn’t said that.
The previous day—Saturday? —probably Saturday, was largely a blur.
When he’d woken on probably Saturday, he hadn’t immediately remembered Raoul. He’d simply known it was a weekend and appreciated that he could stay in bed if he liked.
It hadn’t been until he began to move, to get up, that he realized he was restrained.
Gently, as if he were a patient being cared for and not a prisoner in his own flat.
His hands were in padded restraints, Velcro-ed closed, then the closure covered in tape so that he couldn’t free himself with his teeth. He could move freely, but not grasp.
His body and legs—he was dressed in—he didn’t know what to call the garment, he’d seen it on babies: a blanket-bag-thing with sleeves that an infant couldn’t kick off. He had enough freedom of movement that he could lie comfortably in any position he chose but wouldn’t have been able to walk without tripping. He could probably have crawled; he hadn’t had an opportunity to attempt it.
It was very typical of Raoul to find a way to give him the appearance of freedom of movement while constraining him to near helplessness.
He’d drunk water and once fruit juice from a water bottle with a straw when Raoul offered it.
He wasn’t allowed tea.
He’d had a headache.
Caffeine withdrawal.
Raoul had spoon-fed him like an invalid, porridge and soup and other soft foods.
He’d choked on the first bite, trying to fight before remembering himself.
Raoul had promised not to hurt him as long as Q did what he was told.
Q had recognized the threat behind the words.
“I just woke up. I was confused. Didn’t realize,” he’d said in anxious apology.
“Didn’t realize what?” Raoul had asked with a faint smile.
“What you needed. If I’d forgotten, you needed to remind me to obey the rules. If I haven’t forgotten, then I have no reason to object. I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s been so long.”
Raoul’s smile had broadened in approval.
There’d been sedatives in the food and he’d dozed when Raoul wished him to. He didn’t think he was ever completely unconscious on probably Saturday, but rarely fully conscious.
Raoul had sat on the bed next to him with Q’s laptop and done things Q couldn’t see for much of the day.
Periodically, Raoul would complain about the quantity of text messages that Q received, statuses and updates, and codes to indicate events arrived on his mobile every few minutes.
Q had laughed at him and told him to turn off the mobile if he didn’t like playing quartermaster.
He hoped he wouldn’t regret that later.
He hadn’t worn or even seen his glasses since just after supper Friday when Raoul removed them.
When the sedative began to wear off, Raoul would set aside the laptop and pull Q into his lap to be petted and soothed and drugged once more.
There had been more perfume.
This time Raoul had touched him like he used to.
That had been familiar and predictable.
Q was certain it had been disgraceful how much he’d enjoyed it.
(Disgraceful was exhilarating.)
(That was familiar and predictable too.)
But today.
Sunday.
Probably Sunday.
He didn’t understand the plush toy.
Raoul came in with a bowl of porridge and a water bottle. Q ate and drank dutifully, paying little attention as he did so. He couldn’t stop running his fingers through the fur of the toy he held, petting and clutching. He hadn’t touched or held anything in a day and it was soft and pleasing in his hands.
He’d expected the food to send him into another doze but he remained alert as Raoul removed the dishes and returned to the bedroom.
Then Raoul stood over Q and smiled down at him. “You know how much I enjoy touching you, watching you writhe and beg for me,” said Raoul. “Shall we do that again? And will you be a sweet bird? Let me capture it?”
“Capture it,” Q repeated. He understood the words, but not Raoul’s meaning.
“I’m going to record what I do,” said Raoul. He opened an equipment bag that Q hadn’t seen before and pulled out a video camera and tripod.
Q watched silently as Raoul setup the equipment at a bottom corner of the bed.
It was mostly a blur, but he just could see the tiny light that indicated the camera was on.
Recording.
Q hid his face in the plush rabbit he held.
Raoul sat down on the bed beside Q, his back to the camera. “If you’re good and do what I say, I’ll have a video to watch later. Perhaps we can watch it together.” He began lightly trailing his fingers over Q’s belly and thighs. “Maybe I’ll post it online so anyone can watch you. Hmm? Would you like that?”
Part of what made Raoul’s games so addictive had always been the possibility of discovery. Q hadn’t truly wanted to be caught of course. But imagining just that had been his favorite high since Raoul introduced the idea so many years ago.
Raoul had encouraged him, pushed him to his limits and then past them. Over and over again until Q couldn’t remember what limits meant. And then he’d abruptly disappeared from Q’s life.
This was different.
This was exposure.
This was terrifying.
He had no doubt that Raoul had aimed the camera so that it would show Q’s face if he let go of the toy and that Raoul had positioned himself so that he remained anonymous.
A sex tape didn’t tip the balance any further in Raoul’s favor. Did it?
(Of course it did.)
Q’s body was responding to Raoul’s touch.
Q was well trained after all.
(That was part of what made this feel so good.)
He knew Raoul was observing his response with approval.
(That also was part of what made this feel so good.)
(Q was well trained after all.)
But the camera.
The camera changed things.
A recording changed things.
It wasn’t as if Q could pretend to have any control over the situation, but he could try.
“Please,” he begged. “Not like this.”
Raoul smiled down at him. “What an interesting phrase,” he said with a familiar smile. “’Not like this.’” He rested his hand over Q’s genitals. “Meaning that you want my touch, don’t you? Want to come for me. Just not in this particular way.”
He lightened his touch until Q could barely feel it anymore. Q couldn’t stop himself; he twitched his hips toward the hand touching him seeking more pressure and whimpered. Raoul smiled in satisfaction, pulling his hand back to deny Q the relief he sought.
“It isn’t even,” continued Raoul, “That you wouldn’t be able to come this way. Because you will, won’t you?” He returned to the original pressure and Q groaned in relief. “You would just prefer something not so—public? You’d prefer to work up to it?”
Q nodded. Not trusting himself to speak.
Aroused beyond words.
Ashamed he wanted this.
Mortified that the shame only served to arouse him further.
A neatly constructed spiral that Raoul never failed to lead him down.
What had Raoul called it Friday evening?
That delightful kink of yours.
As if Raoul hadn’t shaped it. Nurtured it. Perhaps even created it.
“That’s unfortunate. Because it is this, or nothing. You decide what you want.” Raoul removed his hand entirely and Q writhed, trying to get contact with something.
He tried to touch himself and Raoul batted his hand away.
He attempted to roll over and rut against the mattress and Raoul stopped him with a hand on his hip.
“I want, please,” said Q, struggling. “Please.”
“Please what?” asked Raoul.
“Please touch me. Please don’t stop,” he squeezed his eyes shut in humiliation, unavoidably aware that every word, every movement was being captured by the camera. There might even be a live feed. “I want to come. Please Raoul?”
“Even if it means coming so that anyone on the internet could see it?” asked Raoul, still holding Q down with one hand, he used his free hand to stroke the inside of Q’s thighs.
Q nodded again, watching Raoul hovering over him.
“I didn’t hear you,” said Raoul. He returned to stroking Q’s cock with the lightest touch possible.
Q could barely feel it; wanted more.
“Please let me come Raoul,” said Q.
“Not good enough,” said Raoul. “You know what I want to hear.”
Q drew a shuddering breath, “I want you to touch me,” he begged, forcing the words out. “I want to come for you. I want to come for you so that anyone on the internet could see it. Please Raoul. Please touch me.”
“Good boy,” purred Raoul as he stroked Q more firmly. “That’s exactly right. You haven’t forgotten your lessons.” He squeezed, hard enough to hurt. Q recoiled at the sensation, lost contact with Raoul’s hand and thrust his hips back toward him again. Raoul laughed with delight. “You’re going to come so hard for me, aren’t you? I remember, back when we first played like this, the things that you claimed not to want were always the things that made you fall apart completely when you finally gave in for me.”
Q, too breathless to answer, simply whimpered and writhed and tried not to think about what was happening.
Raoul did his best to make that impossible, murmuring suggestions of what ‘viewers’ might see and think. How Raoul could collect the comments the video received and send them to Q while he worked. Wouldn’t that be much more interesting than all the boring notifications he got?
Perhaps in the future, they’d take requests; viewers could tell Raoul what to do to Q and they would act it out. Would Q like that?
This was beyond disgraceful, it was humiliating, shameful.
(Exhilarating. Overwhelming. Incredible.)
There was nothing else in the world like Raoul’s games. They were terrific. In both senses of the word.
Q kept his eyes on Raoul and begged for more.
“Excellent, just a bit longer now,” said Raoul after he’d continued for several minutes, adjusting his touch and increasing the pace. “There we are my eager little bird. Come for me now.”
Q shuddered and groaned as he came, writhing against Raoul’s hand. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d come so hard. Then, as soon as Raoul allowed him to move, he turned away from Raoul, curled himself into a ball, and utterly annihilated, burst into breathless tears.
When he quieted, he realized two things, first, that he was clutching the stuffed animal he’d woken up with. Had not, in fact, let go of it since he’d awakened. And second, that Raoul was petting his hair and speaking softly. He buried his face in the rabbit’s fur and lay still until he could understand the words. But the soothing words weren’t English. He rolled over.
Raoul pulled him close and wiped his tears away.
Q felt drained but in a gorgeous, dreamy way. He’d missed this feeling. No amount of fantasizing on his own had ever managed to replicate it.
“¿Estás bé reietó?”
Q nodded. “So good,” he whispered, more tears forming. “I’d forgotten.”
“Forgotten what?” asked Raoul, his eyes intent on Q’s face.
“That you know,” said Q as the tears spilled down his cheeks. “No one knows but you.”
“No one?” asked Raoul, he gently dried Q’s tears once more. “My poor little bird, I should have reclaimed you sooner.”
“Why didn’t you?” whispered Q desolately, hating himself for asking, hating himself for wanting. Painfully aware that the camera was still recording.
Raoul touched his own face, the injured side. “I was afraid reietó, that you wouldn’t look at me the same way, once you saw what they’d done to me.”
“I helped them try to kill you,” said Q. He needed to know what Raoul intended to do about that. There was no safe way to ask, which made this as good a moment as any. “It’s my job.”
“And did well,” said Raoul as he began caressing Q again. Q took that as forgiveness, of a sort. “I imagined, as I made my plans, how you’d respond once you realized it was me.”
“I thought you’d set me up,” said Q, “That you were taunting me. I wanted to beat you, to win. And I thought perhaps I had. Even if you had too.”
“Did I win?” asked Raoul.
“Didn’t you? M is dead. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”
Raoul shrugged. “And you’re mine again,” he said. “Tell me, who do you think won now?”
“You did of course,” said Q. “I should have known better than to think you wouldn’t. You never play games you won’t win.”
“Maybe you won too,” Raoul purred, his hand now on the back of Q’s neck, gently tugging at his hair so that Q looked him in the eye. “At least until they find us out. Have you imagined, what it would be like if they discover me in your flat? Playing these games with you?”
“Yes,” Q whispered, shivering with a mix of anxiety and desire. “Humiliating.”
Raoul nodded encouragingly, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful? There could be a moment where whoever finds you, let’s imagine Agent Bond since he’s already been part of our game, isn’t sure if you’re my captive or my accomplice.” He chuckled with delight and kissed Q’s temple. “Which is fair because by that time, you won’t know either. Won’t that be fun?”
“Yes Raoul,” breathed Q obediently, shivering again. Thinking about it made him lightheaded, as if the oxygen were being pulled out of the room.
“Do you think you could convince him you’re innocent? If he were to find you like this with me? If I were to show him our video?”
“I don’t know,” said Q. Raoul was still holding him by the hair or he’d have hidden his face in the rabbit’s fur again. This was the terror of discovery that had kept him silent all week.
“Or would he assume you’d gotten his precious M killed? Shoot us both without a second thought?” Raoul nodded thoughtfully. “That seems the most likely, doesn’t it reietó?”
“Yes Raoul,” said Q.
Raoul observed him carefully and let go of his hair. “I’ve chased you away, haven’t I.”
Q blinked at Raoul.
“So fascinating,” said Raoul softly. Then added in a lilting tone that expected response, “Isn’t that right, my sweet little bird?”
“Yes Raoul,” Q repeated without changing expression.
“Delightful,” said Raoul with a satisfied smile.