We Meet Again, Mr Bond....
Title: For Your Eyes Only
Pairings: BB/Zero
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1297
Warnings: Implied dubcon
Summary: What can you do when the spy won't talk? Torture, of course. But Zero has very different methods...
(Inspired by this drawing by fattycakes)
There were times, Zero thought, when even the most robust of film clichés seemed terribly exciting.
For example. There was, in his darkened basement, a spy tied to a chair. His hands were bound with his own bandana; his necktie had been forced between his lips and secured at the back of his head. Polite, gentlemanly attempts to coerce the spy into talking had failed, and therefore Zero had thought it entirely appropriate to punish him. Just a little. Loosen his lips somewhat.
Zero approached the man slowly, hands clasped behind his back.
"Your obstinance is impressive," he said. The chair was in the centre of the room. Above them, a bare lightbulb hung on a wire, emitting a jaundiced glow. "But ultimately futile. You see, Mr Bond, I know your weaknesses. I have studied them at length."
He leaned down, his face parallel with his captive's; was that fear glinting in the depths of his lone eye? The prospect delighted him. Perhaps just a trick of the light, perhaps good, old-fashioned defiance. It didn't matter. It would not last.
"I'll make you wish you had talked when I gave you the chance," he said, unable to disguise the glee in his voice. Yes, he would punish the spy for his insouciance. He drew back, walked a long, slow circuit around the chair. The spy tracked his movements with one half-lidded eye. The dim light cast sharp black shadows beneath his cheekbones. His hair fell around his face in snarled knots; between his wild mane and his unkempt beard, he could not have looked any less like the sharp-dressed, silver-tongued man Zero had seen previously.
Good. Men in suits tended to be dreadfully boring.
Zero reached out with both hands and unzipped his captive's fly.
There was no response; the spy stared up at him impassively. He had anticipated his move. Damn. Zero frowned. His long fingers were splayed against the man's thighs, the smooth silk of his trousers cool against his skin.
Stage two, then, faster than anticipated.
“Very well, Mr Bond.”
(He seemed to flinch a little at the name. Of course he would. To be compared to such an illustrious example of his trade, and to live up to it, was quite a feat.)
Zero parted the spy's legs with little resistance.
One hand reached into the slit where the zip had been. He felt the man tense, then, his thigh muscles hard beneath his fingers, and fought back a smirk.
“Make the slightest sound,” Zero said conversationally, as he grasped the man's cock, already half-hard, “and I will prolong the torture until you can bear it no longer. We can do this the easy way...or the hard way.”
He thought he'd give the man time to savour the cliché, but the heat of him was proving impossible to resist. He slowly sank to his knees. The ground was cold, so hard beneath him. Undignified, to be on one's knees like this, but so be it.
Zero's tongue traced the length of the spy's cock, one slow, tentative motion; the gasp was barely audible, but he heard it, a low sound in the silence. He would let that one go. No sense in spoiling the fun so soon.
He looked up. The spy stared at him, this well-dressed Englishman positioned so shamelessly between his legs, with an expression of barely-concealed panic. A single bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, glistening in the weak light. Zero smiled. So he wasn't completely unflappable.
His hands caressed the bare shaft. Gentle pressure, so light as to almost go unnoticed, but he knew it wouldn't; the blood thrummed beneath his fingertips. His thumb travelled higher, moving in torturously slow circles. The man's thighs tightened around him, a subtle weight against his ribcage; he heard his breathing quicken, muffled against the damp silk tie.
Zero took it as his cue to begin stage three.
He leaned forward. He felt the spy tense, unnerved by this sudden motion. The chair creaked uncertainly under their combined weight. Zero's hands rested on the man's hips, drawing him closer, lifting him off the chair and into his waiting mouth. The shudder that followed was so delicious, so utterly perfect that it took all of Zero's concentration to continue.
The spy's teeth clamped hard on the gag. Zero could imagine him, so horribly conflicted, wanting to enjoy this most exquisite torture but fighting, struggling, feeling disgusted and angry at himself for each wave of pleasure. Zero's fingers buried themselves in the taut muscles of the man's thighs, easing him closer, deeper, seeking to swallow him whole. Beneath the shuddering rhythm, the scent of fear and confused arousal, Zero was distantly aware of his own erection. An inevitability; there was no better aphrodisiac than domination of the enemy.
Zero considered himself intuitive. He knew things about men that they themselves had not yet realised. This man was no exception; he was so careful, so controlled, and yet Zero knew, from the slightest twitch of his jaw, or the angle of his hips whether to suck, or caress, to interrupt the careful rhythm, if only for a second. Each change of pace elicited the desired effect. It was a skill they hadn't taught in the SAS, this intuition; you learned through experience, through listening to every sudden intake of breath.
The spy gave a sudden muffled cry.
Disappointing. He had hoped for better.
Zero looked up, slowly drew the man's cock from his mouth.
“Remember what I told you about sound, Mr Bond?”
The man's muscles were tense to the point of snapping, the rise and fall of his chest unbearably fast. His breath came in quick, hissing little gasps through the gag. He stared unblinkingly at Zero, imploring him to end this. Or perhaps, imploring him to continue. The ambiguity of it delighted him.
“I said we could do this the easy way, depending on your level of co-operation.”
No, that was a pleading look. Begging him to go back, to carry on.
“You knew there would be consequences.” Firm, like a schoolteacher. Zero relaxed his grip, letting the man fall back into the chair; the disappointment on his face could be mistaken for nothing else. He reached out one hand, pulling the tie from his captive's mouth. “Talk, Mr Bond. I assure you, I can do worse things.”
It took the man a moment to catch his breath.
“Mr Bond?” he said. “You have some...weird fantasies.”
Zero smirked. “I've heard stranger, Jack, I can assure you.”
“I'm sure.” His face was beaded with sweat; his hair clung damply to his forehead. “Wouldn't this be the point where Bond breaks free, and takes his revenge?”
He looked pleased at himself. He should be; it was one of Zero's pet subjects, and he had not expected Jack to indulge him this way. “Typically, yes,” Zero said, watching as Jack extricated his hands from their bindings. “There would normally be a moment of great tension, in which Bond looks very much as if he's done for. He escapes, in dramatic fashion.”
“We can skip the dramatic escape.” The tuxedo jacket fell to the floor, followed in quick succession by trousers and shirt. “Then what happens?”
“Well, Bond returns in order to mete out justice.”
“And this justice. It can be in any form Bond chooses?”
“Presumably, yes.”
This time, Jack smirked. His naked body seemed stark in the low light, the hard angles and firm, smooth planes highlighted. “That's good,” he said, approaching Zero slowly, deliberately; suddenly, he seemed imbued with a gleeful arrogance that had never been Jack's forte, but somehow fit him beautifully. “Because I have some ideas I'd like to run past you.”
Pairings: BB/Zero
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1297
Warnings: Implied dubcon
Summary: What can you do when the spy won't talk? Torture, of course. But Zero has very different methods...
(Inspired by this drawing by fattycakes)
There were times, Zero thought, when even the most robust of film clichés seemed terribly exciting.
For example. There was, in his darkened basement, a spy tied to a chair. His hands were bound with his own bandana; his necktie had been forced between his lips and secured at the back of his head. Polite, gentlemanly attempts to coerce the spy into talking had failed, and therefore Zero had thought it entirely appropriate to punish him. Just a little. Loosen his lips somewhat.
Zero approached the man slowly, hands clasped behind his back.
"Your obstinance is impressive," he said. The chair was in the centre of the room. Above them, a bare lightbulb hung on a wire, emitting a jaundiced glow. "But ultimately futile. You see, Mr Bond, I know your weaknesses. I have studied them at length."
He leaned down, his face parallel with his captive's; was that fear glinting in the depths of his lone eye? The prospect delighted him. Perhaps just a trick of the light, perhaps good, old-fashioned defiance. It didn't matter. It would not last.
"I'll make you wish you had talked when I gave you the chance," he said, unable to disguise the glee in his voice. Yes, he would punish the spy for his insouciance. He drew back, walked a long, slow circuit around the chair. The spy tracked his movements with one half-lidded eye. The dim light cast sharp black shadows beneath his cheekbones. His hair fell around his face in snarled knots; between his wild mane and his unkempt beard, he could not have looked any less like the sharp-dressed, silver-tongued man Zero had seen previously.
Good. Men in suits tended to be dreadfully boring.
Zero reached out with both hands and unzipped his captive's fly.
There was no response; the spy stared up at him impassively. He had anticipated his move. Damn. Zero frowned. His long fingers were splayed against the man's thighs, the smooth silk of his trousers cool against his skin.
Stage two, then, faster than anticipated.
“Very well, Mr Bond.”
(He seemed to flinch a little at the name. Of course he would. To be compared to such an illustrious example of his trade, and to live up to it, was quite a feat.)
Zero parted the spy's legs with little resistance.
One hand reached into the slit where the zip had been. He felt the man tense, then, his thigh muscles hard beneath his fingers, and fought back a smirk.
“Make the slightest sound,” Zero said conversationally, as he grasped the man's cock, already half-hard, “and I will prolong the torture until you can bear it no longer. We can do this the easy way...or the hard way.”
He thought he'd give the man time to savour the cliché, but the heat of him was proving impossible to resist. He slowly sank to his knees. The ground was cold, so hard beneath him. Undignified, to be on one's knees like this, but so be it.
Zero's tongue traced the length of the spy's cock, one slow, tentative motion; the gasp was barely audible, but he heard it, a low sound in the silence. He would let that one go. No sense in spoiling the fun so soon.
He looked up. The spy stared at him, this well-dressed Englishman positioned so shamelessly between his legs, with an expression of barely-concealed panic. A single bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, glistening in the weak light. Zero smiled. So he wasn't completely unflappable.
His hands caressed the bare shaft. Gentle pressure, so light as to almost go unnoticed, but he knew it wouldn't; the blood thrummed beneath his fingertips. His thumb travelled higher, moving in torturously slow circles. The man's thighs tightened around him, a subtle weight against his ribcage; he heard his breathing quicken, muffled against the damp silk tie.
Zero took it as his cue to begin stage three.
He leaned forward. He felt the spy tense, unnerved by this sudden motion. The chair creaked uncertainly under their combined weight. Zero's hands rested on the man's hips, drawing him closer, lifting him off the chair and into his waiting mouth. The shudder that followed was so delicious, so utterly perfect that it took all of Zero's concentration to continue.
The spy's teeth clamped hard on the gag. Zero could imagine him, so horribly conflicted, wanting to enjoy this most exquisite torture but fighting, struggling, feeling disgusted and angry at himself for each wave of pleasure. Zero's fingers buried themselves in the taut muscles of the man's thighs, easing him closer, deeper, seeking to swallow him whole. Beneath the shuddering rhythm, the scent of fear and confused arousal, Zero was distantly aware of his own erection. An inevitability; there was no better aphrodisiac than domination of the enemy.
Zero considered himself intuitive. He knew things about men that they themselves had not yet realised. This man was no exception; he was so careful, so controlled, and yet Zero knew, from the slightest twitch of his jaw, or the angle of his hips whether to suck, or caress, to interrupt the careful rhythm, if only for a second. Each change of pace elicited the desired effect. It was a skill they hadn't taught in the SAS, this intuition; you learned through experience, through listening to every sudden intake of breath.
The spy gave a sudden muffled cry.
Disappointing. He had hoped for better.
Zero looked up, slowly drew the man's cock from his mouth.
“Remember what I told you about sound, Mr Bond?”
The man's muscles were tense to the point of snapping, the rise and fall of his chest unbearably fast. His breath came in quick, hissing little gasps through the gag. He stared unblinkingly at Zero, imploring him to end this. Or perhaps, imploring him to continue. The ambiguity of it delighted him.
“I said we could do this the easy way, depending on your level of co-operation.”
No, that was a pleading look. Begging him to go back, to carry on.
“You knew there would be consequences.” Firm, like a schoolteacher. Zero relaxed his grip, letting the man fall back into the chair; the disappointment on his face could be mistaken for nothing else. He reached out one hand, pulling the tie from his captive's mouth. “Talk, Mr Bond. I assure you, I can do worse things.”
It took the man a moment to catch his breath.
“Mr Bond?” he said. “You have some...weird fantasies.”
Zero smirked. “I've heard stranger, Jack, I can assure you.”
“I'm sure.” His face was beaded with sweat; his hair clung damply to his forehead. “Wouldn't this be the point where Bond breaks free, and takes his revenge?”
He looked pleased at himself. He should be; it was one of Zero's pet subjects, and he had not expected Jack to indulge him this way. “Typically, yes,” Zero said, watching as Jack extricated his hands from their bindings. “There would normally be a moment of great tension, in which Bond looks very much as if he's done for. He escapes, in dramatic fashion.”
“We can skip the dramatic escape.” The tuxedo jacket fell to the floor, followed in quick succession by trousers and shirt. “Then what happens?”
“Well, Bond returns in order to mete out justice.”
“And this justice. It can be in any form Bond chooses?”
“Presumably, yes.”
This time, Jack smirked. His naked body seemed stark in the low light, the hard angles and firm, smooth planes highlighted. “That's good,” he said, approaching Zero slowly, deliberately; suddenly, he seemed imbued with a gleeful arrogance that had never been Jack's forte, but somehow fit him beautifully. “Because I have some ideas I'd like to run past you.”