Archive of Our Own

There was something deeply comforting about the Anatomie Studio.

Something that made Q want to be there as often as possible, even though his job didn’t allow him to. Maybe it was the freedom to do what he wanted, to be himself without caring what other people felt – and not just being tolerated for it, but being liked. The studio was his safe haven both from the vanilla world with its conservative, judgemental occupants, and from the BDSM world which, unintentionally, still made him feel like an outsider.

Maybe it was the fact that everyone was welcome and accepted as they were, regardless of their gender, sexuality, or preference. It felt so nice to look around and see all kinds of people being comfortable.

Anatomie was the biggest shibari studio in Britain. It was situated in the most beautiful spage, in an arch under an overground railway, which meant the roof was high up and cupola like. A metal construction – Q wondered if it was made to order or if aerial gymnasts and circuses used them as well – lined the walls and the ceiling, and long, sturdy ropes were hanging off of it every few feet to offer a range of suspension points. The walls were lined with pillows, blankets, bean bags, but also shibari art and books, bamboo sticks that could be used in tying, and some odd piece of furtniture here and there. There was a little tipi-like construction made with a stuffed toy hanging in the middle of it, suspended in a faux shibari knot.

A little kitchen offered drinks, hot and cold, and that kind of tin cups that Q’s grandmother used to have in her house when he was a child were offered to the guests with a selection of sharpies so they could write their name on one and keep it the whole time they were there.

The studio was always packed. Q knew most of the people present thanks to years on the scene, even though he wasn’t there as frequently as he used to be. MI6 did that to a person’s personal life – it tore it to shreds. When he did manage to steal a few hours to go for a rope jam, however, he could confidently say he’d meet people he already knew, as much as newbies that were just starting with the lifestyle, with their big nervous eyes and clumsy fingers.

He tried to avoid getting tied by those. The thing he was told many times was that everyone needed to start somewhere and it would be beneficial for him to be with someone he could guide, just as it would be for the rigger who could practice their ties on him. Q didn’t give a shit about that. He was selfish and unsatisfied and when he could get tied, he wanted it to be proper, the way he liked it.

Tonight, as he looked around the studio, he realized that it might not be as easy. Everyone was already busy, paired up and using the equipment to its full potential, and he was stuck on the beanbags, with a few select friends who weren’t as quick to the party. He liked these people – they were easy to talk to, to relate to, and they knew his submissive side which was a rare thing in his life.

He very early on discovered that people found him cute, like a lost puppy, and adopt him for the night. He supposed his shaggy hair, big eyes, and lithe frame helped that image almost as much as the way he would easily fold into anyone’s lap ten minutes after meeting them for the first time if he liked them. It was just a natural reaction he had to people being nice to him. If they touched him, he would cuddle. If they touched his hair, he would be their to play with. And if they likened him to a pet, he would melt into them with a proud smile.

“Are you still awake?” asked Tiana as he was drifting, lying on his side with his head in her lap, clothed only in a t-shirt and boxers, while her long, pointed nails were scraping his sculp. He just hummed into her stomach, shuffling closer. It was actually his day off and he only managed to go to sleep in the morning hours, so he slept through half of it, but that meant he had all the energy to go whole night. Probably not with Tiana. She was a rope bunny, just like him – a name for a rope bottom that made Q smile every time. But as long as he got to be intimate with someone, he was content, even if he craved more than a bit of sculp massaging.

A few minutes later, he was roused again from where he was listening to the conversation, blissfully not asked to contribute. Tiana told him to move a little as they made space for another rigger and her partner, and Q ended up in the same position, just facing the room. Remembering Tiana’s comment about falling asleep, he opened his eyes, lazily watching the couples strewn all around them. Some were naked, some were half clothed, some fully clothed, all deeply engaged in their scenes. Women were hanging from the construction, their beautiful bodies made even more stunning with the addition to the rope cutting just in the right places, some were on the floor, their riggers tending to them, one or two male subs in the hands of their female riggers… Q watched, trying to find anyone whose style he’d like enough to approach them. He was disappointed that none of his usual partners were there, but not enough to ask anyone to tie him. He was quite content just hanging out with like minded people if that was all he could get from this night.

He closed his eyes again, Tiana’s hands settling on his ribcage, the pressure just enough to be pleasant. Maybe he was a bit tired after all – he spent the last three days working almost non stop, so his body definitely needed some rest. He only realized there was someone else in their little group when he heard a familiar voice.

If Q didn’t know better, he’d say he’s dreaming. That he fell asleep and had a crazy dream where his best and most frustrating agent was in a shibari studio with him – honestly, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d be dreaming about said agent. But Q knew he was awake. He knew so because Tiana’s hands were very real as they started brushing his hair from his face again, and he realized with almost panic raising in his chest that when she did so, the agent would definitely recognize him.

“Tiana,” James Bond said in a way of greeting, and then, intrigued, “And who is this?”

Q opened his eyes and stared up into the blue eyes of none other than Double Oh Seven, Queen’s best international disaster. He was lounging on the mats like a hungry lion, watching him with an amused smirk, dressed only in a t shirt and sweat pants. Q’s mouth watered as he saw Bond’s muscles flex where his hands were braced behind his back.

“Hi James,” Tiana said above Q, her voice suddenly excited. “This is Q, our resident cat,” she joked and Q blushed, which was a sign of how out of ordinary he found the situation, as he was normally absolutely comfortable with being likened to most domestic animals.

“Q,” James repeated. Q suspected Bond was intrigued by why he would use his MI6 issued nickname for this setting – and to be honest, Q wasn’t sure. Anatomie was, after all, a place where he came to escape his day job, but it was also a reminder of who he was, and he was very proud of who he was and what he achieved. He started calling himself that right after his promotion, and just stuck with it. It wasn’t like his real name was a secret, and some people here knew it.

He sat up, dislodging Tiana’s hand, trying to make his eyes less freaked out but probably failing if the mischievous light in Bond’s eyes was any indicator as he watched him.

“James,” he greeted the agent. There were two possible explanations as to why Bond was here – one was that he was stalking Q, which would be a catastrophic scenario for a number of reasons. Second was that Bond was here for his own benefit.

That would be a delicious scenario.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Q reprimanded himself. Even if he is here for pleasure, he will probably want to tie one of the gorgeous women attending the studio. Not you. And no, you can’t order him to do it.

That is if Bond even is a rigger. He might be a bunny, and if that isn’t a sight Q would enjoy almost as much as the opposite.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” Q said, trying to gauge all the information from the older man. Bond sat down, making himself comfortable, trying to stay out of the personal space of the rigger behind him who was happily whipping his sub suspended in the air.

Too late he realized he was also giving Bond a window into his life – implying he was here often enough to know the regulars, or even casual visitors.

“This is my second time,” James offered him an answer.

“So you’re new to this?” Q’s eyebrows shot up. There was little he could imagine Bond not being a pro at. Seeing him learn something, stumbling in the dark, as clumsy as the rest of the novices, was a bizarre image that Q couldn’t even fully grasp.

“I’ve been on the scene for years,” James stopped his futile attempts at imagining him bad at knots. “I used to go to a different studio but I lost a card that would let me in,” his face took on an edge, but not a dangerous one – almost amused, as he looked right into Q’s eyes. “I moved recently and lost some of my possessions in the process.”

Q knew what he was talking about – after Bond’s recent death-faking stunt, his flat got sold and his stuff went into storage. Or at least most of it, if Bond was missing something.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Losing something like that… makes people act as if you were dead.”

The wrinkles around Bond’s eyes got stronger and revealed crows’ feet – the kind only people who smiled a lot would get with age, and it made him impossibly more attractive than he already was. He wasn’t even fully smiling and Q was tempted to sell his soul to him. Bond looked amused and almost proud of the little inside joke. Of Q for making it. It gave him a heady feeling.

“So, Q, what do you do?” the agent asked.

“You mean here or for a living?” Q asked, not sure if Bond was playing a game with him. It wouldn’t be unlike him.

“Both?” Double Oh Seven cocked his head, obviously enjoying this.

Two can play that game, Q thought.

“Well, outside I work in IT,” he said and it was the most brilliant cover of all times if you asked him – half the people on the scene worked in IT and no one ever, ever, asked them about it because no one knew or gave a shit about IT. And if someone did, he could talk about them forever without actually saying who he worked for. “And when I’m here,” he continued, throwing all caution to the wind. “… I like to get tied so tightly I can’t move and let my rigger do whatever they want to me.”

“If that’s not flirting, I’m not black!” Tiana, who was listening in, exclaimed while Bond’s grin widened and he looked Q over like he was actually interested. Q’s hopes blocked his throat like a fist.

“What do you do?” he asked as a form of distraction, because he was sure his cheeks were going red. He could never feel it the way other people could.

“Why, I’m an international spy with a licence to kill,” Bond replied and Q was pretty sure that if he was blushing before, now he was going pale like a wall. “But here I’m just a regular rigger. With the training of a killer.”

OK, first of – Q would get hard if he worked that way. He long ago figured out that not being interested in sex wasn’t just him being lazy or introverted, or anything his mother would claim he was. He simply wasn’t a sexual being. That didn’t mean he didn’t crave physical attention, closeness, intimacy, or that he didn’t appreciate a certain type of people more than others visually. He had his desires, they just didn’t revolve around his genitals. So when Bond – the epitome of alpha male, and Q’s wet dreams’ subject (yes, he had wet dreams, thank you very much, and he did masturbate sometimes, mostly if he was bored) – presented himself as a Dom and mentioned the fact that he was, indeed, very skilled with not just ropes but anything that could kill a man, his blood pumped faster, his heart was doing overtime, and his breathing was picking up. A strange warmth spread in his lower belly.

Bond definitely noticed.

“That is the worst line I’ve ever heard,” Q had to say. “It’s up there with men who claim they’ll kill my boypussy,” and he made air quotes and winced when he said the last word, because it almost physically pained him to do so. James laughed. Q continued. “Besides, if you were a real spy, you would be possibly the worst secret agent on the planet Earth,” he ended with a pointed look.

“Or the best,” Bond countered. “Because no one would ever believe me.”

“No, I’m pretty sure you’d be the worst,” Q didn’t back down. “I’m sorry for anyone who’d be working with you.”

Bond snickered again, a deep sound coming from his diaphragm, while Tiana poked Q in the ribcage so hard he was sure he’d have a bruise, and he squealed and coiled to protect that part of him from further attacks.

“That’s not how you flirt!” she reprimanded him and turned to Bond, talking like she was letting him in on a secret. “He’s not very good at that, but he would love to be yours for tonight,” she then pushed Q so strongly he toppled over on his knees and landed right in front of Bond, bracing himself on his forearms. Q laughed – it was his usual response when he was so high on adrenaline – but as he made a move to straighten up, Bond’s strong, calloused hand landed on the back of his neck, gripping and pushing him down, and Q’s laughter died as his breath rushed out of him. That warm feeling was back.

“Would he?” he heard Bond’s voice above him. Then, closer up, aimed at him: “Would you like that, Q?”

Q shivered, pleased and scared and turned on in a way only he could get – when his whole body responded but his mind wasn’t on anything sexual.

He nodded his head as much as he could in the firm grip, and Bond’s fingers relented in their strength. Q wished they didn’t.

“Alright then,” James let him go and Q straightened up. “Follow me,” he made a move to get up, then stopped himself and, looking back, added, as an afterthought: “You can crawl if you want to.”

Q thought about that for all of two seconds, but then gave in to the signals of his body and did as James told him. He crawled, because he wanted to.

The thing was, Q was many things, one being defiant. Defiant to authorities if their power was abused, defiant to rules if they were stupid, and defiant to the society if it was prudish and righteous. He has embraced who he was a long time ago and learned not to be ashamed for it. And he had a feeling that Bond would appreciate that. Because there was a strength in that – in not caring what others thought, in being true to himself. It was braver than pretending to be a macho man twenty four seven.

He didn’t have to crawl far – the whole studio was covered in fluffy carpets and mats, and there wasn’t much space left. Bond sat down near the wall, on a dark blue mat, and started pulling out bundles of rope from his duffel bag, while watching Q appreciatively as the younger man made his way towards him. Q noticed that the space Bond picked didn’t have a suspension point, which meant that he would either make his own, which would take some time, or he would limit their scene to floor work – and Q didn’t see that as limiting at all. After all, riggers tended to be more physically present if their subs weren’t flying. And as much as Q loved being suspended, he loved being roughed around much more.

“Good boy,” Bond gave him a little smile when Q reached him and knelt, watching him line the bundles of rope one by one next to them.

“So what do you like?” Bond asked, tending to the rope. Q was used to the conversations that were necessary before a scene, even though he wished he had a partner that would just know. There was something thrilling about telling his agent, though, so he toughened it up and thought about a way of putting it into a few concise sentences.

He didn’t say something like ‘to be taken out of my mind, to forget everything around me’ because that would tell his partner about as much as not saying anything. Obviously, he wanted that. Most of subs wanted that. But everyone reached that state in a different way.

“I like it rough,” he said, knowing that Bond would have no problems delivering. It made him shiver with anticipation.

“How rough?” Bond asked. Q realized that for him, rough could have many meanings. He thought about it for a moment

“Detaining a suspect on the run rough,” he said finally. Bond’s smirk showed him he appreciated the effort.

“Anything I should avoid?” he asked. “Any medical conditions?”

“Try not to damage my hands,” Q said and James nodded like that was obvious. Which it probably was. “Bruises are fine, welcomed, actually,” he liked to have a remainder for days afterwards, the longer the better, and bruises were so pretty as they changed colour. “Marks are fine, just not on the neck, those are hard to cover up. Don’t want to have the whole branch asking what happened to me. I don’t think that ‘I fell down the stairs’ would be very convincing.”

Bond snickered. “They would probably think you were kidnapped and Six is covering it up.”

Q nodded with a smile. “Yes, so none of that. I’m a free game when it comes to mild breath play and impact play, but I’m not much of a masochist. And my neck is very sensitive.”

Bond looked up at him with a bit of a hungry expression which flattered Q to no end.

“Can I pull that beautiful mop of hair of yours?” he asked and it sounded like he wanted to do that for a long time.

“You are very welcome to,” Q said, tying not to sound desperate. He totally was.

Before he could start wondering how to position himself for Bond, the agent solved that conundrum himself. One second Q was watching him tug the first bundle of rope’s end free, the next his hand was yanked so hard he toppled over, and then his arms were pulled back and behind his back and his whole body was being pushed into the mat, his face landing on his left cheek and a strong body on his back.

“Good?” Bond’s voice growled above him and Q let out a shuddering breath.

“God, yes,” he huffed and Bond chuckled. Q wouldn’t last ten minutes before falling into subspace if he kept it up at this intensity. Being pinned down like this, with iron strong, muscly arms dictating every his move, knowing that if Bond pushed a bit harder, he could crush him… it was making him pant already. He normally had to wait until the middle of the scene to have that reaction.

“Red if you want to stop, Q,” James reminded him. The colour coding worked best in most events and it was a great tool for when a sub didn’t actually want the scene to stop and have to Dom worry about them, but just wanted to let the Dom know that they needed to take the intensity down – by saying yellow. Of course, most couples didn’t need code words to understand each other, but there was a lot of subs that would provoke their Doms into rougher treatment just because they were brats, and then beg them to stop. Q was in that position many times and he definitely didn’t want the Dom to actually stop. He just loved to beg while being in too much pain to enjoy, knowing it was futile. So sue him.

Bond pressed his wrists together and started tying – tightly enough to bite, but not enough to stop circulation. He was quick about it, which Q appreciated. He wasn’t particularly interested in the ropes. Yes, they were fun to watch in the beginning – the way they all held together on just the one starting knot, and then it was all just fraction and placement – but after some time, he’s seen it all and it became boring. Some subs loved simply the way the rope felt on their body. Q wasn’t one of them. He liked ropes because they restricted him, because they made him vulnerable and completely immobile. That feeling when you want to make a movement you’ve been making your whole life, and you can’t… there’s something so exhilarating about it. At least for Q.

The rope was looped around his forearms, keeping them together, and then around his stomach, practically gluing his arms to his back, with his fingers resting just above his butt. He was quite limber and could hold that position for long without getting cramps.

Bond worked quickly, in surges of movement and strength. He would loop the rope around him, roughly lifting Q’s middle off the ground while his knees and head stayed on the mat, then he’d let him rest while tying the rope at the back, and a moment later he’d yank his whole body to his side to get at his hip. Q had no time to calm down between the sudden changes, every single one leaving him breathless. He was moved around like a ragdoll, and the only sounds he zeroed in was the sound of Bond’s breath. He wasn’t out of breath, but he was definitely huffing more loudly than he normally would be, and Q selfishly wished it was because Bond was getting just as affected by the scene as he was. And the scene was only starting.

Q wasn’t very vocal at the beginning of a scene. He let out little breaths, sometimes they were mixed with a little sound, but most of the time he held back until the time came when holding back just wasn’t an option because all options have been stripped from him. So when Bond’s hand went into his hair and gripped close to the sculp, just there where Q liked it the most, he only let a little breathy whimper leave his mouth, and then as his head was yanked up, all he could do was huff and try to breathe. The pressure was bordering on pain but the little sparks were sending goosebumps down his whole body to his toes.

Bond took his time tying him even though once he was tying, he was quick at it. He would take breaks, about every two lengths. In those breaks, he would make Q understand why James Bond was such a good bed partner.

Obviously, they weren’t having sex, but Q didn’t need genitals in the game to know that Bond knew how to play it. Bond understood him. From the little that Q told him, Bond sculpted his body and filed away every single reaction, and then used it against Q – or, he should say, he used it to drive him mad in the best way. If Q’s breath hitched when Bond’s fingers brushed the inside of his thigh, Bond spent the next five minutes torturing that spot with his fingers, palm, mouth, going from light touches to pinches, from licking to scratching, and Q couldn’t keep from moaning when Bond suddenly bit, making him writhe in delicious pain. It was such a strange sensation – yes, it hurt, but it was also creating pleasure, and the mix was making Q drunk on endorphins.

When his torso and hands were completely bound, Bond suddenly sat up, completely ceasing to touch Q. Q could still feel his body heat and he knew the older man didn’t leave, but he suddenly felt empty and alone, unanchored. He craved the man’s hands on him, the weight of his body, his abs under his fingers as they were squished between them.

It didn’t take long at all for him to start squirming, knowing that Bond was watching, waiting. If he was waiting for this, Q didn’t know. He couldn’t move around much, not when his upper body was completely immobilized, his weight resting on his forehead and his knees, but he tried to show… he didn’t know what. He wasn’t a demanding sub, most of the time he took what was given to him and he only wished his Dom would stumble upon one of his many weak spots and make him see stars. Right now, he was quickly abandoning all rational thought and acting purely on instinct, so demanding anything wouldn’t end up coherent anyways.

When Bond finally touched him, Q was a mess. The agent pulled him upwards and pressed his back to his front, hugging his torso while his thighs surrounded Q’s legs. Q sighed happily and let his head fall back onto James’ shoulder, hearing and feeling his even breathing.

“That’s it, Q,” James’ voice rumbled in his ear. “Relax for me. Good boy.”

The sweet depths of subspace were licking Q’s brain, pulling him in. He felt good, so good. His body was wrapped up tightly and securely, and there was a strong man embracing him, and whatever happened was completely out of Q’s hands. He bared no responsibility. If anything bad happened, it wouldn’t be his fault. It was all in Bond’s hands. Relief washed over him when he realized that, just as it always did.

He was very much present, enjoying every touch, every sensation, but his mind couldn’t focus on anything else, and it didn’t try to. He was no longer the person his minions and supervisors knew. That person was on hold.

Bond was brushing his fingers in between the ropes, where his skin was sensitive, and Q was whimpering, unashamed, unable to stop. When the Dom pinched his nipples, he gave a high pitched whine and turned his head to bury it in Bond’s neck. He smelled so good… and before he knew it, Q was mouthing at the skin there, kissing, lightly biting, feeling drunk on desire to be closer to the man that had him completely in his power.

Bond let him, and continued his sweet torture. Q’s thighs were naked apart from his boxers, untied for the moment, and Bond took advantage of that. His hands started kneading the meatiest part of Q’s body, and Q was reminded again of how delicious pain could feel when the kneading became so firm he was sure there would be bruises there the next day. It left him panting and moaning, and as a coping mechanism he bit James’ neck harder than before and earned himself to be yanked away by the hair. Bond held him like that for a while, squeezing his right thigh near his hip until Q was crying out and spasming, and then the hand from his hair was gone and Q quickly licked the spot he bit, wordlessly apologizing.

Bond kept at it for a long while, obviously enjoying Q’s reactions. After he went to the same spots over again and Q was crying out in pain more than anything else, he abandoned that little game in order to easy Q onto the mat, lying him on his back, and settling in between his spread legs. Q was panting, his heart beating fast, and he opened his eyes after a long time to look at the other man. Whatever Bond saw in his eyes he must have liked, because he gave him a small smile and brushed his hair from his forehead.

“Good?” he asked, and Q could feel the vibrations of his chest. He nodded dreamily, pretty sure that his smile was dopey and stupid, but Bond seemed to like it.

Q didn’t know if he wanted to kiss him, but he was curious what it would be like if Bond did kiss him. Q wasn’t a huge fan of kissing on most occasions, mostly because he seemed to lack the desire most people had, and so the chemical reaction that made people feel good while kissing didn’t cut it for him. Most people were horrible kissers, and he didn’t like people’s faces enough to be that close to them. Women were a bit better than men – they were pretty and their mouths were soft and undemanding, but men were brash and sometimes acted like they wanted to eat his face, which was mostly outputting. Also the taste of some people’s mouths was disgusting. Smokers were the worst. So Q didn’t kiss people often. But Bond… he was curious if he’d like kissing Bond. If Bond was just as good at kissing as he seemed to be at everything else.

But Bond didn’t kiss him – well, he didn’t kiss him on his lips. Instead, he bent down, past Q’s face, and started kissing his neck – and this Q did like. His neck was very sensitive, even a brush of fingers could make him writhe in pleasure, and Bond was unpacking a whole arsenal on him. Lips, teeth, sucking… Q was unabashedly gasping and moaning, not caring who would hear him – it wasn’t like he was the only one anyway.

Between them, a rare thing was happening – Q was getting hard. It was at least a year and a half since he got hard in the presence of another person, and he never actually orgasmed in the hands of someone before. Sometimes, he would feel arousal – it would always faintly be there, just a light touch, when he was subbing, but most of the time it wasn’t enough to make him hard, and sometimes if the Dom touched him, it would be like a bucket of cold water – not just no reaction, but it would pull him back from whatever level of subspace he was reaching, and make him annoyed – at himself, at the Dom, at the fact that he can’t enjoy what everyone else could. Now, however… the combination of deep subspace, Bond’s attention to his neck, and the friction of Bond’s thigh on his crotch… Q thought he could actually have an orgasm.

But before he could enjoy the sensation, Bond was sitting up, taking his body heat and friction with him. Q let out a frustrated sound and opened his eyes to look up at the older man, his breath catching at how imposing and in control he was.

Bond just grinned at him, knowing fully well what Q wanted.

Q was turned to his stomach and before he could use the mat to his advantage, his legs were being lifted by the ankles and he lost any advantage. His legs were tied and then a long, silky strap secured them in the air in a way Q never experienced before – Bond yanked his head up by his hair and braced it against Q’s mouth like a gag. He was completely suspended, resting on his ribs and hips, but everything under and above them was in the air, his head being pulled back by the force of his legs trying to give in to gravity.

“Easy, Q,” James was stroking his back to calm him down because the constant pressure was tiresome. Then, out of nowhere, another pair of hands joined his.

“Watch him for me, will you?” James said and his hands disappeared. Q whimpered in panic and Bond brushed a thumb on his cheek. “I’ll be right back,” he promised. Then, to the person – “If he struggles, relieve the pressure,” and he showed them how by pulling his head back with one hand and pushing his legs closer to it with the other.

The relief was short lived. James got up, letting him struggle again, and walked away, his bare feet making minimal sound.

“That’s it, Q,” he heard the other person say and he realized it was Tiana. “You’re doing so well. James must be so proud of you.”

Warmth spread through Q.

James really was gone for only a little while, but in Q’s position it felt like years. His erection left him completely, which was only good since his dick was squished underneath him and didn’t like it one bit even in its smaller state. Q was never into extreme pain and he guessed that resting his whole weight on his hard penis would breach into that territory.

When James returned, he immediately relieved the pressure and removed the strap altogether. Tiana left and Q was left resting on the mat with James massaging his whole body. He almost melted into the floor.

“Colour?” Bond asked and Q had to think very hard to remember what that meant, what a colour was, and which colour was the good one.

“Green,” he finally remembered. Bond gave him a little kiss to the back of his neck.

“Are you ready for more?” he asked and Q groaned. There was more? How the fuck did he deserve this? Fuck yeah he was ready for more!

He tried to convey that with sound and earned a throaty laugh from the not-so-secret agent.

He started untying him, but Q didn’t have to be disappointed now that he knew it wasn’t the end of the scene. He felt marginally more comfortable when his hands weren’t tied behind him. Bond stretched them before setting them besides him, but Q had no energy to do anything with them, so he just left them there and waited, faintly wondering what was it Bond had up his sleeve.

When he was so relaxed he was almost dozing off, Bond lifted his whole body and sat back agains the wall with him in his lap.

“Falling asleep on me?” he asked, his voice raspy in Q’s ear. Q made a disagreeing sound and nuzzled under his chin.

“I have something that will wake you up,” James said with a dark promise in his tone. Before Q could worry (he didn’t actually worry, he was very content with not worrying), Bond pressed something against his mouth. Q let him, thinking it was just a regular scarf used as a gag. But there was something in it, and when he used his tongue to touch it, he was surprised to taste pure lemon juice.

There was a piece of lemon in the gag, and the scarf was now securely tied around his head.

He made a move to pull away, too late realizing that he couldn’t pull away from this. His second instincts was to raise his hands and take the scarf off, but Bond was quick to catch them.

“Nah-ah, darling,” he said, and the term of endearment made him whimper. His mouth was watering rapidly. “I trust that you will make me proud and keep it in while I warm you up. Can you do that for me?”

Q stared into Bond’s blue eyes for just a second before nodding. God, but the man was good. Really fucking good. The way he knew what to say to manipulate him into doing exactly what he wanted… that was some double oh shit right there.

It turned out that by ‘warm up’ Bond meant he would lay it on Q like there was no tomorrow. He kept Q in his lap while first kneading his arse cheeks appreciatively, his fingers making their way under Q’s boxers and stroking the naked skin there, then hiking the fabric up to expose as much of his cheeks as he could. He ended up almost giving Q a wedgie, but Q liked how that made the fabric tug on his balls.

At first the spanks were almost tender, little pats. They were getting harder and harder with time, and by the time they were strong enough to sting, James would interrupt them with gentle rubbing of the pained areas. Sometimes he would trail feather light fingers up and down Q’s body, making him wonder where he would strike next and what he would do – because sometimes he would pinch him, sometimes slap his buttocks, sometimes his thigh… and the anticipation was exhilarating.

All the while Q was struggling with the lemon in his mouth. The more he struggled, the more his mind was tempted to bite down. His saliva was getting out of hand and there was nowhere for it to go, which meant that if Q didn’t swallow quick enough, it would run down his throat and choke him. It was such a novelty experience, doubled by Bond’s efforts to throw him off with his administrations… and when Q finally thought he was getting the hang of it, when he thought the lemon was completely drained and the taste was only faint, James upped the game by freeing one of his hands and squeezing his throat with it while delivering a series of hard spanks.

Q’s eyes rolled back to his head from the overstimulation. His throat was squeezed just enough to put pressure on his windpipe, but not enough to make it impossible to breathe. His butt was on fire and he was loving it. He didn’t even realize when he started humping Bond’s leg, his erection back.

Bond didn’t let him rub one out, though. Before he could even get a good pace going, he made him kneel on the floor with his front resting on his forearms and his arse high up. Bond even went as far as kicking his knees far apart so there was absolutely no friction on his cock at all.

It was torture and Q loved it.

This time, Bond held no back when he went back to the spanking. Q was crying out with every stroke by the time the last one landed on his undoubtedly red arse. And when it was done, there was nothing he wanted to do more than curl up in a ball and cuddle.

James made his wish come true. He removed the gag with its spent lemon, gently pulled Q up, and kissed him.

And yes. James Bond really knew how to kiss.

After the lemon, James’ mouth was almost sweet. It was hot and skilled and Q wanted to keep kissing him forever. Bond indulged him for a full minute, lazily licking into his mouth, until Q was like putty in his hands. Then he sat, back against the wall again, and made Q sit in his lap, embracing him.

Q was getting cold, everywhere but his butt, which was on fire, and sitting on it wasn’t helping, which he made James aware of by whimpering and fisting his t-shirt in his hands. James just chuckled. But the older man was like a furnace and Q sought that warmth with his whole being. Fortunately, Bond understood, and tried to cover his whole body. Q folded in his lap like a child.

“You were amazing, Q,” James whispered into his ear. “Absolutely bloody amazing.”

Q smiled, tiredly, into Bond’s chest. He wanted to tell Bond that he was the best Dom he’s ever had, that he was beyond words, that it was the best scene he’s ever had… but compliments didn’t come easily to Q, and anyway, Bond didn’t need his ego stroked even more than it already was. He would tell him later, when his head wasn’t swimming in endorphins. He would tell him sensibly. Before he says something he’ll regret.

He rested in Bond’s embrace while the older man stroked his abused muscles with a gentle hand. His body was covered in rope marks and he wondered how many of them would stay for a few days, and if he'd have bruises all over his thighs. Still half in subspace, Q tipped his head up and started kissing Bond’s neck, hoping to somehow convey how much he wanted to thank him. Bond let him, then dipped his head lower and captured Q’s lips in another soft kiss.

They spent at least ten minutes like that. Kissing lazily while Bond cradled Q in his arms, rubbing some warmth into his muscles.

After that, Q dozed off for a while, leaning against Bond’s chest. He woke up to Bond telling him they were being politely kicked out as the studio was closing.

Q let Bond help him to his feet and found that walking was quite tricky. He let James help him with an amused chuckle and he wasn’t even offended that the older man would laugh at him when he caused his clumsiness.

Bond helped him into his trousers and jumper, and they put on their shoes.

“Do you need anything before we leave?” Bond asked quietly. “Water?”

Q shook his head – there was nothing he wanted more than to be in Bond’s arms again, but he supposed that was already moot.

They left together and started walking towards the nearby station, still hidden in the dark alley where the arches were. Q was shivering.

Bond noticed and hugged his shoulders with one hand. Q leaned into him, his feet shuffling, barely able to walk.

“Are you going to be OK?” Bond asked.

No, Q thought. I might have just fucked my life completely by finding out why people would die for you.

“I’m just…” he started instead, trying to kill those thoughts before they would do more damage than a nuclear bomb. “… a bit shaky.”

“Q,” James stopped and made Q turn to face him. “Unlike you, I don’t work office hours. I can go home with you. Or you can go home with me.”

When he saw that Q wasn’t sure, he made a step closer, his forehead almost touching Q’s forehead. “Come on, it’s not like it will be more intimate than what we just had. And you’re risking a subdrop if you aren’t completely out of it yet.”

He gave Q a little kiss. “Why don’t you continue what you started inside? You only did what you wanted to. Don’t stop that now.”

Q sighed. James was right. Damn him.

“Alright,” he gave in. “But I live closer. I hope you’re not allergic to cats.”

James grinned and kissed him again.

“What a bad agent I’d be if I sneezed every time I met a cat,” he joked. Q smiled and they continue down the path and towards the main road.

“Just so you know,” he said when they were reaching the station. “I’m asexual. I haven’t had an orgasm with another person… ever. In my life,” he looked at Bond accusatory. “And you bloody stopped me from having one tonight.”

Bond looked back at him with a dirty grin.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll get one next time.”

Normally, Q would be doubtful, but after that scene… he could believe that James Bond could make that happen.

***