Lifes Fucked.. So Find Things That Make It Better

Side blog/ multi-fandom

[aurguries]

vacancies

pairing: james bond x reader author's note: bond girlies rise up‼️‼️‼️ when i tell you i devoured this game, it would be an understatement (it was soooo goood and patrick gibson as james bond was just chef's kiss 👌). i've always wanted to write something for the fandom (fun fact, the title comes from an unfinished work of mine for daniel craig's bond a few years back and it just worked so well with this piece too), and so here's my contribution!! 🫡 some context: this takes place four years after the events of 007 first light, and james is 30 in this (and desk-bound for reasons to be explored 👀) anyhoo, enjoy!!

The desk job that comes at thirty is but the inevitable end of a sequence of events that began ten months ago in a remote desert compound somewhere south of Afghanistan.

His application for transfer — reviewed, then reluctantly approved (Bond? Desk job? He’d sooner blow up the desk than sit at it! — Clearly, Iceland’s not been forgotten).

It isn’t so awful, being back in London indefinitely (this is what he tells himself). London means stability (it’s been a good run, nearly five years, which is more than most agents can say), London means routine (he gets to decorate his desk, how exhilarating).

The flat sits somewhere in an upscale part of the city, nestled between a manicured park and a luxurious townhouse. Nice place, not much excitement.

James lets himself in, his days of playing guest now far behind. It’s come to a point where he practically lives here now. Leaves for work and returns here. Stocks up on groceries here — like in this instance — armed with bags from the corner shop (it’s all terribly domestic).

He kicks the door shut behind him. 

The sound of bare feet against wooden flooring.

Your face, a constant these days.

“Oh, you bought groceries.”

An easy smile your way. He can’t help it.

“Told you I’d get them.”

And of course, London also means you. 

London means he gets to be available, dependable (he tries, he really does) for you. It means being there in all the ordinary ways you’ve no doubt grown used to. Bit hard to make it for anything if he’s off gallivanting around the globe.

Besides, he owes you this much. 

He drifts into the kitchen, busies himself with unpacking at the counter. 

The space is familiar. Intimate. Has been for a while. 

Even before.

The dinners here, he was fondest of (almost always spent with discreet glances your way, because even then, he has always found you lovely — and back then, a line never to be crossed) — all hazy laughter, conversations that sometimes went nowhere, an endless flow of drinks (table’s only occupied by two now). Even his rare, short stays in the city at the time were sometimes passed in the guest room here instead of the flat he’d been given (an echo of his early days with Cressida and Monroe, the three of them under one roof). And then there was that Christmas he’d spent here, the best parts of which he’d memorised — your cheeks, flushed from all the wine, the sheer delight that lit up your face when he’d handed you your present, the playful, insistent pleas for him to play something on the piano, the card game he’d won in a three-player game. 

“How was work today?”

You had followed him into the kitchen.

Yes, how was work today?

Aside from the petty theft he committed in the pantry (a sandwich, belonging to one Basil from accounting — said so on the label) and the coffee machine he broke entirely by accident (the latest casualty of a desk-bound existence — Moneypenny touched it last, mate. I’m just saying), it went … quite alright, actually. Reports filed on time (for once), an entire meeting endured (this time without contemplating various routes of escape — he’s identified three so far), and emails tactfully navigated (License not to reply?). 

Nothing too shabby. Far cry from his days out in Antarctica, hanging off the edge of a cliff at minus thirty degrees, or defibrillating himself in a car park outside a Montenegrin casino, but he manages.

“Oh, you know it goes,” he says, reaching into one of the bags. “Paperwork, staplers, post-its, the usual thrills. It’s all quite fascinating.”

“Exciting day then, I take it?” 

The corner of his mouth quirks up slightly.

“That’s certainly one word for it.”

He continues unpacking. You peek at the half-empty bags.

“You bought a lot this time.”

“Enough to survive a siege, really.”

“That’s reassuring.”

He carries on.

“Thought I’d do a bit of doomsday prep.”

Tips out the last bag, checks it once, then folds and sets it aside.

“There,” he says. “Crisis averted.”

The small smile on your face is reward enough.

He moves around the kitchen now, sets everything aside with a habitual ease honed from years of having been in here — though only recently, in such a manner. 

Still feels treacherous at times.

Cereal goes into the cabinet.

“And you?”

“Hmm?”

“What’d you do today?”

A subtle glance in your direction (How are you, really?) just in time to see you look away. 

“Nothing much.”

“Nothing much? That sounds … suspiciously vague.”

“Just did some tidying up.”

He looks over.

“Sounds productive.” 

Somewhere outside, a dog barks. 

“Went through some old boxes.”

His hands still for a fraction of a second, recovers almost immediately.

“The ones in the guest room?” 

Tea goes next to the coffee beans.

“Sure, James. The ones in there.”

Jesus. 

The groceries, now forgotten as the words slip out.

“You alright?”

A slight shrug. Your voice, smaller now.

“They’re just things that need sorting through.”

Things. Is that what you’ve taken to calling them now?

“Right,” he says quietly.

A strained pause.

“You don’t have to rush it.”

“They’re just things,” you repeat.

“You haven’t touched them since —”

“The room needed clearing out,” comes your abrupt response. 

And now … 

Silence upon silence upon silence.

You stand rigid beside the counter, gaze absent, fixed on somewhere beyond the kitchen entirely, suddenly seeming so impossibly far away.

He slowly crosses over.

Hesitates, then carefully reaches for you. Lowers his voice. 

“Listen,” he says. “If you need the room cleared out, I can help.”

No answer.

He studies you.

A thumb gently runs across your wrist. 

“You don’t have to do this all by yourself, you know.”

His touch lingers. 

“Just say the word.”

Nothing seems to register with you. He follows your gaze to a carton of milk that sits amongst the scattered contents on the counter. 

“This isn’t the right one either,” you finally say.

It takes a moment to remember what you’re referring to.

“I’ll figure it out,” he murmurs.

“It’s been months.”

“Then tell me which one’s the right one and I’ll go get it,” he tries.

You pull your hand away.

“I told you, I don’t know which one’s the right one. I didn't do the grocery shopping.”

He sees it in your eyes sometimes. 

Now. 

Why him? Why not you?

James thinks of that Afghan compound. 

Double-O-One — Edmund — by the time he found him — bloodied, battered, broken.

Monroe was bad.

This was something else entirely.

Ugly. Violent. Slow. 

Closed casket. Your face gave nothing away.

Took him nearly four months to track down those responsible. By then, it’d hardly even mattered.

It wasn’t the first time they’d been sent out as dual assets. Only ever for exceptionally high-risk operations. The kind that required two operatives — and rarely returned both. But they’d done it before. More than once. 

It should have gone right.

He had everything to lose — a wedding just months away, a life already set in place, a future that included you. 

Why him? Why not you?

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Doesn’t feel enough. Probably never will. 

“I’ve upset you.”

A faint smile. 

“A lot upsets me these days.”

He reaches for you again after a moment, threads his fingers through yours.

“Tell you what. How about we both go down to the corner shop this Sunday and pick one out together?” 

The corner of his mouth lifts.

“My treat.”

You huff out a small laugh that abruptly turns fragile.

“God — I’m the one who should be sorry, James.”

He gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

“What for?”

“For keeping you here, for —” 

“Letting me mummify from boredom?”

Another laugh. Better this time.

“For being utterly ridiculous about the milk.”

“Oh, I don’t know. The brand of milk one prefers is a serious business, or so I’m told.”

Another squeeze.

“No harm done. Happy to be of service.”

A beat. 

Your gaze wanders off again, smile slipping. 

He reaches for your cheek, draws you back before you can drift away completely.

“How are you holding up?” he murmurs. “Really?”

The question lingers. 

Something in your expression falters.

“Just one of those days,” you manage at last.

He nods, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Been through a few.”

A long pause settles.

Your eyes flicker up to his.

He recognises that look. No words needed.

Perhaps the only comfort he has left to offer you.

James leans in, mouth finding yours.

One kiss, then another.

And another.

And just like that — if only for a moment, he forgets too.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Goodboy || James Bond ||

A/n: James is so adorable in this game.

The room still smelled faintly of expensive cologne, gunpowder lingering from earlier in the evening, and your perfume that soaked into the sheets. Rain tapped softly against the windows of the London flat while the city glowed gold beyond the curtains.

You were asleep beside him, tangled in silk sheets, your face half-buried into your pillow. One bare leg was thrown over James’s thigh, warm and soft, your breathing slow and deep. Completely unaware.

Which was unfortunate for him.

Because James Bond had just woken up to death staring him directly in the face.

Very large death.

Very furry death.

Atlas stood on the bed like some ancient guardian beast from mythology, towering over James with heavy paws planted beside his ribs, one paw digging into his side. The massive dog’s head hovered inches from Bond’s face, hot breath washing over his skin while thick drool dangled from his jaw.

James didn’t move, the dog didn’t move either. The only sound was the slow, low rumble vibrating in Atlas’s chest.

Bond had been shot at in Istanbul. Tortured in North Korea. Nearly blown apart in Venice.

None of those moments had prepared him for waking up naked with a military-trained attack dog contemplating murder above him.

Slowly, very slowly, James turned his head toward the nightstand where his watch rested.

Atlas’s eyes followed instantly, as if knowing what the man was trying to do.The dog lifted one enormous paw and smacked the watch clean off the table and it hit the floor with a loud clatter.

James blinked once.

Then Atlas placed that same paw directly over Bond’s wrist.

Possessive.

Warning, its claws digging into his wrist as the dog then lowered his giant head until his nose brushed the side of James’s neck, breathing heavily against his skin. James could practically hear the animal thinking.

Hurt my master and I’ll bury you in the garden.

For the first time in years, James Bond genuinely considered the possibility that this was how he died.

Not in an explosion.

Not in a firefight.

Not while saving the world.

No.

It's gonna wind up ending him being killed naked in bed by a jealous dog named Atlas.

His eyes flicked toward you desperately and of course you remained completely unconscious.

“Darling,” James said carefully, not moving anything except his mouth, “your dog appears to be assessing whether I’m edible.”

Atlas growled.

“Right. Fair enough.”

The dog’s nose grazed his throat again.

James froze so completely he could have passed for a corpse already.

Then your sleepy voice drifted through the room, a hum leaving your lips. “Hmmm...Atlas…”

Immediately the dog’s ears perked.

You didn’t even open your eyes. “Come here, baby…”

And just like that, the monstrous beast hopped off the bed with a happy huff.

The jingling of his collar echoed through the room as he trotted around the side of the bed, tail wagging.

James remained perfectly still for a full five seconds. Then he slowly sat up, staring at the dog in disbelief while Atlas shoved his massive head under your hand affectionately.

You cracked one eye open sleepily. Your hair was a mess, lips swollen from the night before, silk sheets barely covering your curvaceous body as you blinked at him innocently.

“What’s wrong?”

James stared at you in disbelief. “Your dog threatened my life.”

Atlas sneezed.

You frowned softly, still half asleep. “No he didn’t...he's a sweet heart.”

The dog immediately placed his chin on your stomach and stared directly at Bond.

James narrowed his eyes. “He absolutely did...he's absolutely isn't.”

Atlas gave one low warning grumble.

Bond pointed at him. “See? There it is again.”

You just laughed tiredly and pulled Atlas closer. “He’s protective.”

“Protective?” James repeated. “That animal looked at me like I was an intruder in his marriage.”

Atlas’s tail thumped proudly against the mattress.

James sighed deeply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Wonderful. I’m in a relationship with both of you now.” His back hit the matress.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Thinking about a fic for James:

When he and the reader have settled down, they are married with a few kids and a few more pets.

The man just wants to fuck his beautiful wife but either the kids or the pets interrupt the two.

Jame's drops the kids off at Reader's parent's house.

The two finally have sex

And Jame's is just lying in bed with his wife and is just like.

"I miss the little ones."

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝐌𝐲 𝐀𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥 || 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝 ||

A/n: How James met his wife~

James Bond first noticed you because you nearly made him miss a surveillance target.

He had been sitting at a café in Venice, watching a suspected arms broker across a crowded square while pretending to enjoy an espresso that had long since gone cold. The mission was straightforward, which usually meant something would go wrong eventually. What he hadn’t anticipated was an American tourist barreling into him while carrying a camera, three shopping bags, and enough enthusiasm to power an entire city.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry!”

Coffee splashed across the front of his suit, you stared at the damage in horror asJames stared at you.

Then, to his complete confusion, you pulled a crumpled twenty-euro note from your pocket and offered it to him.

“For emotional damages.”

It was one of the strangest apologies he’d ever received.

It would not be the last.

Over the next several days, you appeared with alarming frequency. James saw you taking photographs of pigeons. He saw you following a street cat through three separate neighborhoods because, according to you, the cat looked “like a distinguished gentleman.” He saw you somehow get invited into the home of an elderly Italian woman despite speaking almost no Italian whatsoever. By the end of that afternoon, the woman was feeding you homemade pasta and introducing you to her grandchildren while you smiled as though you’d known them for years.

The truly terrifying part was that none of it seemed unusual to you.

James initially suspected you were CIA.

Then he overheard you spending twenty minutes debating whether a souvenir would fit in your suitcase.

The CIA theory died immediately.

You were simply a tourist.An unbelievably friendly, hopelessly distracting tourist.

Unfortunately, you also had the worst timing imaginable.

One afternoon James was pursuing the very criminal he’d been sent to track. The man spotted him and broke into a run through the crowded Venetian streets. James followed immediately, weaving through tourists and market stalls as the gap between them slowly narrowed. Another minute and the chase would have been over.

Then the suspect collided directly with you.

Your gelato flew one direction.

The suspect stumbled another.

You windmilled your arms in surprise and accidentally shoved him.

It wasn’t a hard shove.

It wasn’t even intentional.

Unfortunately, the suspect happened to be standing beside a canal.

The man toppled backward, disappeared over the edge, and struck his head on a support beam during the fall.

The resulting silence was deafening.

You slowly stepped toward the water and peered over the edge. “He’s fine, right?”

James looked into the canal, turned to look at you then back into the canal. “No.”

"Oh poo."

The next few hours involved police officers, witness statements, and several apologies from you directed toward practically everyone in sight. When MI6 learned what had happened, M’s response was surprisingly simple.

“Please make sure the American doesn’t get arrested.”

James had spent years serving his country.

Never once had he imagined his duties would include supervising an accidental tourist homicide.

Yet that was exactly what happened.

The longer he spent around you, the more bewildering you became. You befriended bakers, fishermen, shop owners, and entire families. You joined a cooking class after accidentally wandering into the wrong building and somehow ended the afternoon with three new recipes and an invitation to a wedding. You could not walk past a dog without stopping. You photographed cats like they were celebrities. You treated every stranger like a potential friend. The photo's on your camera proved it, everyone loved you.

And somehow, despite himself, James began looking forward to seeing you.

It happened gradually.

He started wondering what ridiculous thing you’d do next.

He found himself listening when you talked.

He laughed more.

Smiled more.

Worried more.

The realization was deeply irritating.

Then one morning he watched you board a train and leave. The station felt strangely quiet afterward.

James informed himself that this was a good thing, he realized that his life could finally return to normal.

Then several days later he found himself staring at a particularly fat pigeon and wondering if you would have taken its photograph.

That was when he realized he might have a problem. The problem became considerably worse when you suddenly reappeared in London.

James had been enjoying a peaceful afternoon at a café when your voice rang out behind him.

“HI!”

He lowered his newspaper and nearly choked on his tea

You stood there smiling as though crossing paths in another country entirely was the most normal thing in the world.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

You looked confused. “In London?”

“Yes.”

“Oh!! I’m backpacking across Europe.” You said it like that explained everything.

“It does not explain everything.”

“It kind of does.”

Then you informed him that driving eight hours in Texas was normal and James spent the next ten minutes questioning whether Americans understood geography.

From that point onward, you seemed determined to insert yourself back into his life.

One afternoon you spotted the fattest bulldog James had ever seen.

You gasped so dramatically that half the street turned to look. “BYE!”

Before he could react, you abandoned him , chair scrapping entirely and sprinted toward the dog as you waved the man down. “WAIT! LET ME TAKE A PICTURE OF YOUR DOG!”

James spent the next twenty minutes standing beside a stranger while you conducted what could only be described as a professional photoshoot. The bulldog’s owner proudly displayed hundreds of photographs. You examined every single one.

James should have been annoyed.Instead, he found himself smiling.

The truly dangerous moment came months later.

The two of you were sitting beside the Thames when you casually mentioned that your trip was ending.

“I should probably head home soon.”

James frowned. “Home?”

You nodded. “I can’t travel forever. I don’t have unlimited money.”

The idea hit him much harder than expected.

You were leaving.

Not moving to another city.

Not boarding another train.

Leaving.

Returning to America.

Returning to your State.

Returning to a life where he wasn’t included.

You stood and smiled warmly, gaze softened as you held your hand out.“It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Bond.”

James felt panic unlike anything a gunfight had ever inspired. “You’re welcome to stay with me.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

You stared.

He stared back.

For a long moment neither of you spoke.

Then your smile softened. “You don’t want me to leave.”

James hated how easily you’d figured it out, that was the worst part because you were right.

A year passed.

Somehow, somewhere between transatlantic flights and late-night phone calls, the two of you became inseparable.

Then came the day he finally flew home with you.

Your family lived in Texas, which James had already learned was approximately the size of several European countries combined. The moment your parents’ house came into view, your excitement became impossible to contain.

James had met world leaders.

Terrorists.

Royalty.

Assassins.

But for the first time in years, he felt nervous. You, meanwhile, looked delighted.

The front door burst open before you even reached it.

You threw your arms wide and announced at maximum volume, “COME MEET MY HANDSOME BRITISH BOYFRIEND!”

The house exploded into chaos.

Family members appeared from every direction. Dogs barked. Someone shouted. Someone else started crying. Your mother immediately declared James handsome while your father stared at him like he was attempting to solve a complicated puzzle.

James stood there surrounded by loud voices, warm smiles, and enough affection to make him slightly dizzy.

Then he looked at you.

You were laughing.

Happy.

Home.

And looking at him like you’d never doubted he’d be standing beside you.

Years earlier, he’d thought you were simply a tourist he’d never see again.

A strange American who chased pigeons and accidentally killed an arms dealer.

Instead, you’d become the person he called first.

The person he missed most.

The person he loved.

As you slipped your hand into his and pulled him deeper into the house to meet yet another relative, James realized something that would have horrified the younger version of himself.

He couldn’t imagine his life without you anymore.

And for the first time in a very long time, that thought didn’t frighten him at all. It felt like coming home.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

A Second Chance || James Bond ||

A/n: Part 2? Im not good with angst....I crave happy endings.

James woke with a violent gasp.

For one horrifying second, he didn’t know where he was.

His heart hammered against his ribs. His lungs burned. The nightmare still clung to him like smoke, refusing to let go.

He could still see it.

The blood.

The panic.

Your body growing colder in his arms.

Your smile as you asked if pigeons went to heaven.

Years of grief.

Years of drinking.

Years of missions that got more reckless with every passing day.

Then finally seeing you again at the end.Watching you hold out your hand.

Hearing you tell him heaven had pigeons.

The dream had felt so real.

Too real.

James sat upright in bed, breathing hard as sweat dampened the back of his shirt.

The room was dark except for the faint glow of the bedside clock.

Slowly reality returned.

His apartment.

His bedroom.

His life.

A soft sound from the hallway made his head snap toward the door, then it opened.

And there you were.

Alive.

Perfectly, wonderfully alive.

Sleep still clung to your features as you shuffled into the room carrying a glass of water. Your hair was messy from bed, your oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder as you blinked against the dim light.

You looked entirely too normal for someone who had just been dead moments ago in his nightmare.

You yawned.

James was moving before he even realized it.

The mattress dipped as he crossed it in two strides and wrapped his arms around you.The water in the glass nearly sloshed over the side.

“James?”

His grip tightened.

You made a small noise of surprise as he buried his face against your shoulder.

The scent of your shampoo.

The warmth of your skin.

The steady beat of your heart beneath his hand.

All of it was real.

All of it.

“Hmm…” you mumbled sleepily. “Something wrong?”

James closed his eyes, he couldn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he simply held you tighter.

The calendar hanging beside the dresser caught his attention.

His stomach dropped.

Today’s date.

The date from the dream.

The date you’d died.

The date he’d planned to ask you to marry him.

The date he’d spent years mourning in a future that thankfully didn’t exist.

His fingers curled against your back.

A second chance.

That’s what this felt like.

A second chance he hadn’t earned but it was something that he was going to take.

You shifted slightly in his arms. “James?”

He kissed the top of your head. “No.”

The lie came easily.It always had.But this time it wasn’t to protect himself.

It was because there was no possible way to explain that he’d just lived an entire lifetime without you.

That he’d watched you die.

That he’d spent years trying to follow you.

Instead he just held you, held you in silence as wanted to make sure that you'd never disappear, then finally he spoke.

“I think I’d rather stay in today.”

You blinked slowly.

Confused.

“I thought you wanted to go out.”

He had.

Dinner reservations.

A ring hidden in his jacket.

Plans he’d spent weeks arranging.

In the nightmare, it had ended with blood on a sidewalk.

In reality?Suddenly none of it mattered.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

You studied him for a moment before shrugging peering up at him. “Hmm…okay.”

Trusting him without question.Just as you always did.The realization made his chest ache.

You set the water down and allowed him to guide you back toward bed.

A few moments later you were tucked against his side beneath the blankets.

James refused to let go.

One arm remained wrapped around your waist while his fingers lazily traced up and down your spine.

The simple movement grounded him.Kept the nightmare where it belonged.

Far away.

“James.”

“Hmm?”

Your voice was already drifting with sleep again, your fingers clutching his shirt. “Do you think pigeons go to heaven?”

For a second he froze.Then a laugh threatened to escape.

Not because the question was ridiculous.Though it absolutely was.

But because you had asked him that exact same thing.

In the dream.

In the nightmare.

In the future that would never happen, that he would make sure to not happen.

James looked down.

Your eyes were already closed.

Half asleep.

Completely unaware that you’d just shattered his heart all over again.

His hand moved to cup the back of your head.

“I believe they do."

The answer came easily.Because somewhere in another life, you’d convinced him they did.

A tiny smile appeared on your face.

“Hmm." You snuggled closer. “That’s good.”

Within seconds your breathing evened out.Fast asleep once more.

James remained awake.

Watching you.

Listening to every breath.

Feeling every rise and fall of your chest.

The ring hidden in his dresser suddenly felt very important.

Tomorrow.

He would ask tomorrow.

Not because he was afraid.

Not because he was rushing.

But because after dreaming of an entire lifetime without you, James Bond had discovered something terrifying.

There wasn’t a single day on earth he wanted to waste.

Pulling you closer, he pressed a kiss against your forehead.

Then, for the first time all night, he finally allowed himself to relax.

Because you were here.

Alive.

Warm.

Safe in his arms.

And somewhere, James thought with a faint smile, heaven probably did have pigeons.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

James Bond finding out that his girlfriend keeps a brick in his purse because she was about to get mugged.

James: You keep a Brick...in your purse?

Reader: ya huh.

James: A brick....where did you even find a brick?

Reader: on the street

James:....

Reader: I need to defend myself somehow, you weren't here and it's not like I can just shoot the guy...customs took my gun.

James: Right...never change love.

Reader: Okay 🥰

[multi-fandom-imagine]

🕷️Spider || James Bond ||

A/n: Jame's realizes he need's to keep you on a leash.

James Bond had ignored seventeen calls from M, three increasingly irritated messages from Q, and one voicemail that consisted entirely of Moneypenny sighing dramatically before hanging up.

None of them mattered.

You had been kidnapped and as far as James was concerned, MI6 could survive a few hours without him. The criminal organization responsible for taking you, however, was about to discover exactly why giving a 00 a personal reason to come after you was considered a catastrophic life decision.

The guards outside the compound had already learned that lesson.

Unfortunately for James, he was still making his way through the cliffside fortress when the woman responsible for your kidnapping decided it was time for a dramatic villain speech.

You stood chained to a steel post near the edge of a rocky overlook, one wrist secured above your head. The villain paced in front of you, black dress fluttering in the ocean wind as waves crashed against the cliffs below.

“Once I kill you,” she declared smugly, “Bond will be no more. He will suffer knowing he failed to protect the woman he loves.”

You nodded politely. “Mm-hmm.”

“His grief will destroy him.”

“Probably.”

“And then I shall dismantle everything he has ever built.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

The woman narrowed her eyes.

You were about to say something else when movement caught your attention.

A spider.

A very large spider.

Your entire focus immediately shifted.

The villain was still talking about revenge and world domination when you blinked once, reached over with your free hand, and carefully grabbed the spider.

“SPIDER!”

The villain stopped mid-sentence. “…What?”

She turned slowly toward you just as James slipped through a nearby doorway, pistol drawn and murder very clearly on his mind.

From his position, he saw the villain standing near the cliff. He then saw you holding something and he saw the expression of absolute excitement on your face.

“Spider…?” the villain repeated.

“YEET!” You launched the spider directly at her.

The spider sailed through the air like a tiny eight-legged missile then landed squarely on her face.

The villain shrieked.

Not screamed.

Shrieked.

The kind of sound that suggested years of carefully maintained dignity had just been obliterated.

She slapped at her face, stumbled backward, and began flailing wildly.

“Oh my God! GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!”

The spider immediately abandoned ship and leapt away.

The villain, however, did not.One of her heels snapped.Her arms pinwheeled and for one brief, glorious moment she hovered on the edge of the cliff.

Then gravity took over.

Her scream faded into the distance.

A second later came a distant splash.

Silence settled over the cliffside.

You blinked.

James blinked.

Somewhere far away, a seagull made a confused noise.

Finally James lowered his pistol. “…Did that just happen?”

“I think so.”

He walked over and unlocked your handcuffs while staring at the cliff edge. The silence lasted another few seconds before he looked down at you.

“You killed her.”

You immediately shook your head. “Technically gravity killed her.”

James closed his eyes.

You could actually see him processing the sentence.

Then he sighed the deep, exhausted sigh of a man who had spent years fighting international terrorists only to fall in love with an American woman whose survival strategy apparently involved weaponized spiders.

Without another word, he pulled you against his chest.The moment his arms wrapped around you, the tension drained from his body.

You felt him kiss the top of your head.

Then he groaned. “Please don’t tell anyone about the spider.”

You leaned back just enough to stare at him in disbelief. “James.”

His expression already suggested regret.

“That spider saved my life.”

“It did not save your life.”

“It absolutely did.”

“You threw it.”

“And look how effective it was.”

James glanced toward the cliff, you had a point.A terrible, ridiculous point.

He looked back down at you and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You are the only person I know who could survive a kidnapping because of an arachnid.”

You beamed proudly.

The distant sound of incoming MI6 helicopters echoed across the water and James immediately looked annoyed.

“Wonderful. They’re here.”

“You gonna tell them what happened?”

“No.”

“What if they ask?”

“I’m saying she slipped.”

You gasped. “James Bond. Are you suggesting we lie to the British government?”

“I am.”

You considered this seriously before nodding.

“Okay.”

James stared at you. “You agreed to that far too quickly.”

“Well, the spider deserves privacy.”

For the first time since finding you, James laughed.A genuine laugh.The kind he only ever seemed to manage around you. Then he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and guided you back toward the exit.

Behind them, somewhere in the darkness, the heroic spider continued its journey, blissfully unaware that it had just defeated an international criminal organization.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Reader wants to have sex in Jame's Aston Martin

James does not want to have sex in the Aston Martin.

The Aston Martin is to cramped.

....

You two have sex in the Aston Martin.

James has come to realize he can not say no to you

The first time you brought it up, James nearly choked on his drink.

You were comfortably curled up in his lap in the sitting room of your London flat, looking entirely too pleased with yourself as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“James.”

“Hm?” he murmured, glancing down from the report he had been pretending to read.

Your smile widened. “I wanna have sex in your fancy car.”

James blinked. “Pardon?”

“The Aston.”

“The Aston Martin.”

“Yeah, that one!"

His expression immediately became one of deep concern. ".....You want to what?”

"Fuck..." You nodded enthusiastically. “In the car.”

“The vehicle?”

“That’s usually where car sex happens.”

James stared at you.

You stared back.

“Absolutely not.” James said quickly placing the report down.

Your grin somehow got bigger.

Three days later, James Bond found himself questioning every life decision that had brought him to this exact moment.

Including becoming attached to a cheerful American woman who apparently viewed common sense as an optional guideline.

Because somehow, someway....He had said yes.

The Aston Martin DB5 sat parked safely inside a private garage.

And James was currently sitting behind the wheel afterward, staring blankly through the windshield while you slept peacefully against his chest beneath his jacket.

You looked completely content.

Completely relaxed.

Like you hadn’t just talked Britain’s most dangerous spy into something he’d sworn he would never do.

James slowly rubbed a hand down his face closing his eyes for a moment. “I cannot believe this happened.”

You made a sleepy little noise against his shoulder.

“I cannot believe I just defiled this car.”

Another sleepy hum.

The DB5 had survived gunfights.

Explosions.

High-speed pursuits.

International criminals.

And yet somehow the greatest threat to its dignity had been a five-foot-three American with a devastating smile.

James looked down at you.

You were very obviously awake. Your shoulders were shaking suspiciously.

“You are not asleep.”

Silence...

“Darling.”

Silence.

“I can feel how smug you are.”

A tiny snort escaped you.

James closed his eyes. “There it is.”

You finally lifted your head, looking entirely unrepentant. “It was a good idea.”

“It was not.."

“It was.”

“It absolutely was not.”

You beamed. “You’re smiling.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

James hated the fact that you were right. The corner of his mouth had betrayed him.

Because despite the ridiculousness of the situation, despite the fact that he was currently sitting in a garage having an existential crisis over a car he’d spent years caring for....You looked happy.

And James had discovered a dangerous truth about himself.

One that every enemy he’d ever faced would have loved to know.

He could resist torture.

He could resist interrogation.

He could resist temptation.

But apparently he could not resist you.

Not when you looked at him with those hopeful eyes.Not when you climbed into his lap.Not when you smiled and asked for something completely absurd.

You were his one weakness.

James sighed heavily. “You realize this means you’re impossible."

You immediately brightened. “So if I asked for another impossible thing—”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“I don’t need to.”

“What if it is reasonable?”

“It won’t be....I know it won't be."

You giggled and snuggled closer.

James wrapped an arm around you automatically, pressing a kiss against your hair.

A moment later your voice floated up. “I love you.”

The words hit him with the same force they always did.

His expression softened instantly. “I know.”

You poked his chest. “You’re supposed to say it back.”

James looked down at you, completely trapped and entirely aware of it. “I love you too.”

Your victorious smile returned.

And that was when James realized he’d made a terrible mistake.

Because that smile meant you had already thought of another impossible request.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.~”

James groaned.

The Aston Martin remained silent.Even it seemed to know there was absolutely no saving him now.

[veiledbulletz]

『 ⌗ 01 — JAMES BOND , 007 FIRST LIGHT 』

𑣲 saturday, 04:00am. 《 not proof-read i'm sleepy ash 》

ᚑ      ᚑ you haven't slept properly for these past few days. you're pretty much aware that you missed most of the moonlit nights by forcing yourself to stay awake, instead of getting your deserved rest.

james noticed. of course he would. he always does whenever it comes to you. it's always, always so obvious enough even though you made some attempts to make up any sort of excuse, which obviously doesn't work on him.

he did consider of scolding you for it, telling you that you shouldn't sacrifice your very much needed slumber even for a job. or worse, whenever he is away on a mission and clearly missing from home, you would've do it again and again while being unbothered.

simply because he isn't there at home with you. no one else to reprimand your stubborn self.

but today is different. he got a week off, at least— that's what he's informed with, and he's determined to make you fix your horrible sleeping schedule which is a clearly obvious behaviour by now.

"sweetheart, come to bed."

"james, i can't, i—" you tried to refuse while your eyes are already in a swollen-ish state, shaking your head slightly but it didn't last when he ultimately, and swiftly lifts you into a bridal style to bed, earning a surprised squeal from you.

"i won't accept any refusal from you, love. you've been sitting there for hours."

"the bed is starting to get cold without you."

every words that you wanted to speak out as a reply dies down in your throat, beginning to feel guilty as james settles you properly next to him, pulling you closer to the natural warmth he seemed to provide as always.

he never once lets go of his hold around you, planting a kiss atop of your forehead and gently run his thumb along your features— whichever he could reach.

and when he stopped just near where your eyes are, he tenderly attempts to soothe the swollen spot around it; where at this point your eyes has shut on its own from his touch alone.

dear god, you're genuinely, utterly exhausted. he has every right to be mad and scold you for whenever he wants to, and he truly did.

but not for long, no. he couldn't stay annoyed at you no matter how much he wants to at times.

he fears he loves you a little too much. he couldn't even contain the small chuckle from escaping past his lips upon witnessing the sight of you, already falling into your needed slumber just within a few seconds.

with a final peck upon your cheeks, your forehead, and even your nose, he murmurs a simple 'rest well, darling' closely for your hearing only.

even when you failed to realize it as much due to your current state.

— ⌗ veiledbulletz, june '26. dividers ; feimingo

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Saved || James Bond ||

A/n: So I am taking a lot of creative liberties with this one since the fic will play out a lot differently than the actual game.

*Spoilers*

The Grand Carpathian Hotel was beautiful in the way that rich people always insisted beautiful things should be. Crystal chandeliers hung from impossibly high ceilings, expensive paintings stared judgmentally from the walls, and hundreds of people had gathered for what was apparently one of the most prestigious chess tournaments in Europe.

You hated it.

After three hours of pretending to care about tiny wooden pieces being moved across a board, you had reached your limit.

Adventure was calling.

Unfortunately, adventure apparently lived in the basement.

You had wandered through a maze of hallways, accidentally ignored two “Employees Only” signs, gotten mildly lost, and somehow ended up in the hotel’s enormous wine cellar.

Rows upon rows of ancient bottles stretched into the darkness. At first, you thought you’d stumbled into something exciting.

Then you realized you had.

Because twenty feet away, a tall blond man was standing over another man who was clutching a bloody stab wound in his side.

The injured man was slumped against a wine rack, breathing hard.

The blond man had a knife and he looked very much like he intended to finish the job.

For exactly one second, you froze.Then your American survival instincts kicked in.

“Oh my God!”

Before your brain could stop you, you launched yourself forward.

The blond man barely had time to register what was happening before a five-foot-something tourist crashed into his back like an angry squirrel.

“What the—”

You wrapped both arms around his neck.Unfortunately, he was much larger than you and much stronger than you.

The man grabbed your wrist and immediately threw you off.

You landed hard on the stone floor and scooted backward as fast as your legs could carry you, heels off, dress scrunched up.

The assassin stalked toward you. "Stupid American,” he sneered. “You’ll just be another girl who went missing.”

"First off all rude!! You don't even know me?!"

The assassin contiued to stalk closer as your back hit the rack of wine bottles.

You immediately held up both hands. “Wait! Wait! Wait!”

The man paused.

You pointed at him. “You can’t kill me.”

His eyebrow twitched. “What?”

“You can’t kill me.”

Something about your confidence actually made him hesitate, the blond man narrowed his eyes as you. "And why is that?”

You reached into your purse. "Because I have a gun.”

The confusion on his face was almost comical.

“Wha—”

The pistol appeared.

You fired.

The shot echoed through the cellar like a cannon.

The blond man’s expression transformed from confusion to shock before he collapsed sideways between two wine racks.

Silence followed.

A bottle rolled somewhere in the darkness.

You stared at the gun for a moment. "Huh.”Then you looked toward the injured man.

He was blinking at you.

You were blinking at him.

Finally, he managed, “That was a good shot.”

A smile immediately spread across your face as you puffed out your chest waving the pistol around in the air. "Thanks. My dad owns a ranch.”

The man stared.

You stared back.

Neither of you seemed sure why that had been your response. Shaking yourself free of the moment, you hurried over and dropped to your knees beside him.

“Oh wow, that’s a lot of blood.”

The man looked down. “Yes.”

“Right.” You immediately pressed your hands against his wound.

He hissed through his teeth.

“Sorry!”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. You’re bleeding.”

“That’s generally how stab wounds work.”

You looked up.

Despite the circumstances, the injured man actually seemed amused.

“You know,” he said through a grimace, “this isn’t how I expected today to go.”

“Tell me about it. I thought I was going to spend the afternoon watching old men move chess pieces.”

A sudden burst of footsteps echoed through the cellar.

Fast.

Urgent.

He was clearly expecting the worst.His gun was already drawn.His eyes immediately found the body on the floor.

The injured man’s expression changed instantly and relief flashed across his face.

A second later a dark-haired man rounded the corner at a sprint.

Then the blood.

Then Monroe.

And finally.

You.

James Bond came to a complete stop.For several seconds nobody spoke.

You recognized him immediately, of course you did.You had somehow been running into him across Europe for nearly three months.

Venice.

Prague.

Vienna.

Budapest.

Every time you turned around, there he was.

The annoyingly handsome British man who always looked mildly concerned whenever you appeared.

Now he looked outright horrified.

“Monroe!” Bond crossed the room in seconds and dropped beside his friend.

Monroe gave him a tired nod. “Still alive.”

Bond checked the wound before looking toward the dead assassin.

Then his gaze shifted to you.

Blood covered your hands. You were holding pressure on Monroe’s side.

The gun sat beside your purse.

Bond’s eyes widened. "You.”

You smiled brightly. "Me!!.”

“What happened?"

You stared at him, unimpressed. "You are welcome.”

Monroe actually laughed despite the pain.Bond looked like he was developing a headache.

“You shot him?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Technically?”

“Well, first I jumped on him.”

Bond closed his eyes.

Of course you had.

Monroe sounded entirely too entertained. “She did.”

Bond opened his eyes again. "You jumped on an assassin?”

“He was stabbing people.” You stated that it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Monroe was already stabbed.”

“Exactly.” You pointed at Jame's, blood getting flicked on his face.

Jame's flinched closing his eyes for a moment.“You could have been killed.”

You considered that. “Huh.”

“That’s your response?”

“Well, I’m not dead.”

Monroe laughed again.Bond shot him a look and Monroe ignored it.

The recruit seemed thoroughly entertained by the entire situation.

Bond looked back at you. “Why are you here?”

You immediately pointed toward the ceiling. “If you wanted to know, I wandered away from the boring chess match.”

Bond stared. “You wandered away.”

“Yes.."

“Into a restricted wine cellar.”

“Also yes.”

“You found an assassin.”

“Correct.”

“You jumped on him.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And then shot him.”

You thought about it. “That about sums it up.”

For a moment Bond simply looked at you. Then he looked toward the ceiling as though silently asking the universe why this kept happening.

Behind him, Monroe was openly grinning now.

“You know,” Monroe said, wincing slightly, “I think she just saved my life.”

Bond let out a long sigh because unfortunately, Monroe was right. The realization only made him stare at you harder.

You smiled sweetly. “...I'm not hearing a thank you~.”

And somehow that made the headache worse.

For a moment, the only sound in the wine cellar was the distant dripping of water somewhere between the stone walls.

James stared at you.

You stared back.

Monroe watched the exchange with the sort of fascination normally reserved for train wrecks.

Finally, James spoke. “I am trying to wrap my head around this.” He gestured vaguely in your direction as though the motion might somehow explain you. “You wandered into a restricted area.”

You pointed at him. "I can say the same to you, Mr. Fake Car Driver.”

James immediately ignored that comment. Mostly because he didn’t particularly want Monroe hearing about the fact that you’d somehow figured out his cover story had been in fact nonsense.

Instead, he pressed forward.

“You leapt on a dangerous criminal.”

“Correct.”

“Then you shot him.”

“Also correct.”

His eye twitched. “Where did you even get a gun?”

Your expression brightened immediately. “Oh. I found it.”

The silence that followed was profound. Monroe slowly looked up from where he was sitting against the wine rack.

James blinked once. “You found a gun.”

“Yup.”

“Where?”

You pointed casually toward the ceiling.

“In a hotel room.”

James felt something inside his soul leave his body.

Monroe actually choked.

“A hotel room?” James repeated slowly.

“Yeah.”

“What hotel room?”

“The hotel room.”

“There are hundreds of hotel rooms in this building."

You nodded. “Exactly.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It was one of those fancy rooms.”

James closed his eyes.

Every answer somehow created three new questions. When he opened them again, you were still smiling.

Monroe was trying very hard not to laugh.

James pointed toward the pistol lying beside your purse.

“Are you telling me you found that weapon in a random hotel room?”

“Well, not random.”

“How is it not random?”

“The door was unlocked...I thought it was my room."

Monroe burst out laughing. The movement immediately made him clutch his side. "Ow.”

James wasn’t even sure where to begin with that statement. “You found a firearm in your room.”

“Yep.”

“And your first thought wasn’t to contact hotel security?”

“Well, I was going to.”

James narrowed his eyes. “You were?”

“Eventually.”

“Eventually...."

“After breakfast.....maybe...if I remembered."

Monroe’s shoulders started shaking again.

James shot him a look.

His friend looked entirely too entertained for a man who had nearly been murdered ten minutes earlier.

James returned his attention to you. “You simply kept the gun?”

You looked confused. “Well, I wasn’t going to leave it there.”

“Why not?”

“What if a child found it?”

James stared.

That was somehow reasonable. The problem was everything surrounding it.

“So instead, you put it in your purse.”

“Exactly.”

“Without knowing if it was loaded.”

“I checked.”

That made both men pause.

“You checked?” James asked.

You nodded. “Of course.....I'm not an idiot."

Monroe blinked. "You know how to check a firearm?”

“Sure..."

James was beginning to suspect your cheerful tourist act was hiding significantly more than it appeared. “You said your father owns a ranch.”

“He does.”

“A ranch where people regularly carry firearms?”

You nodded. “Pretty normal where I’m from....do you not have mountain lions, wolves and other things that attack live stock?"

That explained some things.

Not all of them.

But some.

James let out a long breath still trying to process it all. “Let me understand this properly.”

“Oh good. Because I think we’re finally getting somewhere.”

“You found a gun in your hotel room.”

“Correct.”

“You checked it.”

“Correct.”

“You put it in your purse.”

“Correct.”

“You wandered into a restricted area.”

“Correct.”

“You encountered an assassin.”

“Correct.”

“You attacked him.”

You thought for a second. “That part wasn’t very well planned.”

“No,” James agreed immediately. “It was not.”

“And then I shot him.”

“Yes.”

You smiled. “And now we’re caught up.”

Monroe covered his face with one hand. James looked like he wanted to do the same. Instead, he stared at you for several long seconds before finally asking the question that had been bothering him the most.

“Why would you jump on him?”

The answer came instantly.

“Because he was trying to kill your friend....I mean I could have grabbed a wine bottle and hucked it but I didn't trust myself."

James froze.

The simplicity of it caught him off guard.

You shrugged. “Also, I didn’t know who either of you were. I just saw somebody getting stabbed.”

For the first time since entering the cellar, your smile softened.

“It seemed mean not to help....like how can I not step in."

The words hung in the air.

Monroe looked away.

James found himself unexpectedly speechless. Because to you, apparently, there had been no calculation.

No weighing of risks.No concern for your own safety. You had simply seen someone in danger and acted.

It was reckless.

Completely insane.

Dangerously stupid.

And somehow James found that infinitely more unsettling than finding you covered in blood holding a gun.

After a moment, Monroe broke the silence. “For what it’s worth,” he said dryly, “I appreciate the attempted rescue.”

You beamed. “You’re welcome.”

Monroe nodded. “Next time, though?”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe don’t jump on the assassin first.”

You considered that. “That’s fair.”

James pinched the bridge of his nose. Unfortunately, he had a feeling there would absolutely be a next time.

[veiledbulletz]

『 ⌗ 02 — JAMES BOND , 007 FIRST LIGHT 』

𑣲 sunday, 02:00am. 《 begone period cramps 💔 》

ᚑ      ᚑ the universe must've planned their own version of grudge against you.

because you needed a proper explanation as to why you're finally having your monthly period once you're awakened from your slumber, and the sun outside already decides to be so unforgiving and merciless through the gaps of the curtains.

the mere thought of going out to simply enjoy a stroll or anything akin to it already makes you feel both displeased and irritated at the same time.

you couldn't imagine the heat as one chooses to go out there and trying to enjoy their life underneath the sun.

like, no. you can't. even your mood seemed to be quite unstable and strange every so often within a span of minutes.

james spawned out of nowhere near the doorway sometime; you didn't even notice nor bothered as much, already sauntering towards your direction with his usual jacket already being taken off, leaving him in a plain white t-shirt— his signature smirk already on full display upon the mere sight of you.

though it falls short once he notices your current expression and the way you seemed to be clutching your stomach every so often, which made him actually realize what is going on.

slowly, he approaches you by sitting on the edge of your shared bed, a little more concerned than per usual as he gently places his hand over your arm, leaning forward just so he could look at you more.

"darling, are you alright?"

his simple question was instantly met with a shake of your head, proving his point further.

it didn't take long before he momentarily moves away from you— ensuring everything has been adjusted. the air conditioner, the curtains, and even goes out of his way to make you an oversized glass of your favorite drink, before returning back to where you were.

you didn't waste any more time to grab onto his hand afterwards, much to his surprise at the suddeness of it all; squeezing it with your own with any energy you have left, pouting with a look that clearly tells 'please don't leave me again', ignoring the drink for a moment there because you genuinely just needed his presence close to you.

with a rather fond sigh, james places the glass atop of the nightstand, positioned himself just as you needed him to be— so cozily near to you.

one of his hands secures its hold on you, yet not to the point of suffocation, while the other lifted your shirt slightly just so he could rub your stomach with the palm of his hand, attempting to ease the pain you're experiencing.

a low hum escaped from you, beginning to shut your eyes as you nuzzled your head into his chest comfortably. all of a sudden, nothing truly bothered you anymore like before.

an amused, yet adoring grin is plastered upon his charming features, continuing the tender motion while his gaze never once leave you, wanting nothing more but to at least, alleviate some of the cramps or whatever you needed him to do.

— ⌗ veiledbulletz, june '26. dividers ; feimingo

[multi-fandom-imagine]

An Angel and A 00 || James Bond ||

A/n: James Bond Smut that go requests! Reader is an Angel / works for Charlie in the Townsend Agency.

May have a second part if anyone wants it.

The resort glittered like something out of a dream—golden lights strung along palm trees, the distant hush of waves against the shore, and the kind of luxury that made everything feel just a little unreal.

James Bond...No...it was St. John Smythe tonight—fit into it seamlessly.

White t-shirt, loose beneath an open Hawaiian shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest ease without ever quite losing that sharp edge beneath it. A glass of something expensive rested in his hand, but his attention.

Was entirely on you.

You had caught his eye hours ago.

Light fabric brushing your skin with every movement, effortless, sun-warmed, dangerous in the way you smiled too easily at him. The kind of woman men underestimated.

James didn’t.

Not for a second.

“American,” he had noted earlier, voice smooth as he leaned against the bar beside you.

You had smiled, slow and knowing. “British.”

“Unfortunately,” he replied.

“Mm,” you hummed, sipping your drink. “You don’t sound sorry.”

“I rarely am.”

And that had been the start of it.

Hours of it.

Glances that lingered too long. Conversations that danced around truth without ever touching it. Questions asked like flirting but sharpened beneath the surface.

What brings you here?

Vacation.

Business?

Something like that.

Neither of you believed the other.

Which only made it more interesting.

Now, the infinity pool stretched out before you,dark water reflecting the night sky, the edge blending seamlessly into the ocean beyond.

His villa.

Private.

Quiet.

Dangerous.

“You followed me,” you said lightly, stepping into the water, the coolness a sharp contrast to the heat that had been building all evening.

“I invited you,” he corrected, setting his drink aside before slipping in after you.

The water barely rippled around him.

You turned slightly, watching him approach, your lips curving faintly. “You flirt like a man with an agenda.”

“And you don’t?” he countered smoothly.

Touché.

You smiled, stepping back just enough to make him follow.

He did.

Of course he did.

The water lapped softly around you as the distance closed, your bodies finally within reach. The tension that had been building all day snapped into something tangible, something heavier.

“Tell me something honest,” you said softly.

He tilted his head slightly. “That would ruin the fun.”

You stepped closer anyway. “Try me.”

His gaze dropped, slow, deliberate, taking you in like he had been wanting to do all evening.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said quietly.

“Since when?” you asked, your fingers moved to his chest.

“Since you tried to lie to me at the bar.”

You laughed softly. “You started it.”

“Did I?”

The water shifted between you, your fingers gliding down his chest. “Constantly,” you murmured.

That was it.

The last thread snapped.

His hand came to your waist, firm, pulling you flush against him, the water doing nothing to hide the heat of his body, the way his cock was already hard against you.

Your breath caught, though a smile tugged at your lips. “Careful,” you whispered.

“Not tonight,” he said.

His lips found yours, deeper than before, no more teasing, no more distance. Your fingers dug into his skin, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened, your body reacting instantly.

You shifted, instinct taking over as you pushed him back just enough to guide him toward the edge of the pool, your hands firm now, confident.

He let you.

That was the dangerous part.

James Bond never let anyone take control.

But he was letting you.

For now.

“You’re bold,” he murmured against your lips.

“You like it,” you shot back softly.

“I do.”

You didn’t give him time to say more. Your hands slid down, guiding him as you moved, lifting yourself just enough to sink down onto him in one smooth motion.

Your breath broke instantly, your head tipping back slightly as you adjusted, your pussy tightening around his cock as the water shifted around you both.

James exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on your hips. “…Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

You smiled faintly, breath uneven. “Thought you liked bold.”

“I do,” he said immediately.

His hands steadied you, grounding you as you began to move slow at first, testing, feeling the way he reacted beneath you.

And he did react.

His head dipped slightly, his control slipping just enough for you to notice.

“You’re watching me too closely,” you teased.

“Occupational hazard,” he replied, voice lower now.

Your hips rolled again, slower, deeper, drawing a sharp breath from him that he didn’t quite manage to hide.

“Businessman?” you asked lightly.

“Something like that.”

You laughed softly, your hands sliding to his shoulders as you picked up your pace just slightly, the water rippling around you with each movement.

“Liar,” you murmured.

His grip tightened. “Takes one to know one.”

That made you pause, just for a second.Long enough to feel the weight of it.Then you smiled again, softer this time.

“Maybe.”

Your movements didn’t stop.

If anything, they deepened, your rhythm more certain now, your body responding to every shift, every reaction he gave you.

His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer, his forehead brushing yours as his breathing grew less controlled. "You’re trouble,” he murmured.

“You followed me,” you reminded him.

“And I don’t regret it.”

Your lips brushed his again, softer now, even as your body kept moving, the tension building steadily between you.

The villa was quieter now.

The ocean still whispered just beyond the glass walls, the soft glow of the pool lights casting reflections across the room but inside, everything felt warmer. Closer. Charged in a different way.

You barely had time to steady yourself after the pool before James was moving again.

“Come here,” he murmured, voice lower now, roughened from earlier.

Before you could answer, his hands were on you—lifting you effortlessly, like it was nothing. A soft sound left you as your arms instinctively wrapped around his shoulders, your legs curling around his waist as he carried you inside.

“You don’t waste time, do you?” you breathed, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

“I’ve already wasted enough tonight,” he replied.

His tone wasn’t teasing.It was decided.

The bed met your back a second later, soft sheets a stark contrast to the cool water from before but you didn’t stay there long. Not with the way he hovered over you, not with the way his hands moved, already guiding you, already pulling you back into him.

“James—” you started, but it broke into a breath as he shifted, positioning you over him, his hands firm on your hips.

“Go on,” he murmured.

There was something in his voice, something that made your pulse jump.

You didn’t hesitate.Your hands braced lightly against his chest as you sank down onto him again, slower this time, your breath catching as your pussy tightened around his cock, the sensation pulling a sharp exhale from him.

“…Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, his head tipping back slightly against the pillows.

You smiled faintly, breath uneven as you adjusted, your hands sliding along his chest, feeling the tension beneath his skin.

“You alright there, Mr. Smythe?” you teased softly.

His eyes flicked open immediately at that sharp, dark, aware.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re starting to sound like you know more than you should.”

You tilted your head slightly, lips curving. “Maybe I do.”

That earned you a look.But his hands tightened on your hips again before he could question it further.

“Move,” he said quietly.

You did.Slow at first, rolling your hips carefully, testing the rhythm, the way he reacted beneath you. His grip tightened instantly, guiding you, controlling the pace even while letting you stay on top.

“There,” he murmured, voice lower now. “Like that.”

Your breath hitched, your fingers curling slightly against him as you followed his lead, your movements growing more certain, more fluid.

“You like control,” you noted softly.

“I like this,” he corrected.

His hands pressed more firmly against your hips, guiding you deeper, steadier, the rhythm building between you. The shift pulled a sharper breath from you, your head dipping slightly as your body responded faster.

“John—”

“Don’t stop,” he said immediately.

Your lips parted in a soft breath, your pace picking up just slightly, the tension building again, quicker this time. His hands slid up your sides, then back down, never losing contact, always grounding, always guiding.

Your long hair fell forward with each movement, brushing against his chest, your face, the soft strands catching against your lips as your breathing grew uneven.

James noticed, of course he did.

His hand slid up suddenly, fingers threading into your hair before tugging it gently, pulling your head back just enough to expose your throat, your breath catching sharply at the sudden shift.

“There you are,” he murmured.

Your hands gripped his shoulders, your body reacting instantly, the new angle making everything feel deeper, sharper.

“John—” you breathed, your voice breaking slightly.

“I’ve got you,” he said, softer now.

His other hand returned to your hip, steadying you as he guided your movements again, his control slipping just enough for you to feel it in the way his grip tightened, the way his breathing grew heavier beneath you.

“You’re trouble,” he muttered.

“You didn’t seem to mind,” you managed, though your voice wavered.

“I don’t,” he said immediately.

Your pace faltered for half a second at that but his hand tightened in your hair again, not harsh, just enough to keep you with him.

“Stay with me,” he murmured.

You nodded faintly, your movements returning, deeper now, more certain, the tension building fast between you both.

Closer.

Every movement pulled another reaction from him, quieter than yours but no less intense. His jaw tightened, his grip firm, his control slipping in small, telling ways.

“You’re—” he started, then cut himself off with a sharp exhale.

You leaned forward slightly, your forehead brushing his as your pace stuttered. “What?”

“…Dangerous,” he finished.

You smiled faintly, breathless. “Takes one to know one.”

A quiet huff left him, almost a laugh but it didn’t last long.

Not with the way the tension coiled tighter, sharper, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that was no longer careful, no longer restrained.

Your breath broke first.

His followed not long after.

His hand tightened at your hip, pulling you down fully, holding you there as the rhythm faltered, then slowed, his forehead pressing to yours as both of you steadied as his grip tightened, his breath catching sharply as he followed right after you, his body going rigid beneath you for a brief moment before he exhaled, low and rough, his head dropping forward.

Warmth spread between you as he released inside you, his hold on you firm, grounding, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go yet.

For a second, neither of you moved. Then your strength gave out, your body slumping forward against him, your cheek pressed to his shoulder, your breathing uneven.

“Fuck,” you murmured weakly.

A quiet huff of a laugh left him, softer than anything he’d given you all night.

“…That,” he said, voice low but steadier now, his hand sliding slowly up your back, “was worth the trip.”

You smiled faintly against his skin, too tired to argue.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Just breath.

Just heat.

Just the quiet understanding that this, this wasn’t simple anymore.

Not after that.

Not after the way you both moved.

“…You’re not just on vacation,” he said finally, voice quieter now.

You stilled slightly.

Then smiled, faint and knowing. "Neither are you.”

His eyes flicked up to yours again and just a little more dangerous than before.

The bathroom was filled with steam, soft, warm, curling up from the bath as you sank deeper into it, muscles loose, head tipped back against the edge.

You should’ve been relaxing. Instead, you were staring at the phone in your hand.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

On the other end, Bosley sounded entirely too calm for the chaos he’d just dropped on you. “I’m not kidding. The target is in Vietnam, luxury resort, billionaire cover—”

“Yeah, I know that part,” you cut in, rubbing your face with one hand. “What I don’t know is why you’re telling me now that MI6 is involved.”

A pause.

“…Because,” Bosley said slowly, “we just confirmed their agent on-site.”

Your stomach dropped. “…Who?”

Another pause.

“James Bond.”

You went completely still. The water sloshed slightly as you sat up, eyes wide.

“…You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

Your mouth opened.

Closed.

Then opened again.

“…The British guy?” you asked weakly. “At the bar? The.... the Hawaiian shirt—”

“Yes,” Bosley said flatly. “That would be him.”

You stared straight ahead. “…I just had sex with James Bond.”

“Congratulations,” Bosley deadpanned. “Now Focus.”

Meanwhile.

James was lying back against the pillows, one arm behind his head, the other holding his phone loosely as he stared up at the ceiling.

For once…

He looked less composed than usual. “…Say that again,” he said slowly.

On the other end, Moneypenny sighed. “The Townsend Agency is on-site, James.”

His jaw tightened. “…And?”

“And,” she continued, far too calmly, “one of their top Angels checked in under a civilian alias this morning."

He sat up slightly. “…Name.”

There was a pause and then she told him.

James froze. “…You’re certain?” he asked.

“Positive.”

His gaze flicked toward the bathroom door, the faint sound of water still audible through it.

“…You’re telling me,” he said slowly, “that the woman currently in my bath—”

“Is not just a tourist,” Moneypenny finished. “Yes.”

James leaned back again, exhaling through his nose. “…Of course she is.”

“You didn’t notice?” she asked, amused.

He huffed quietly. “I noticed she was lying.”

“…And still slept with her.”

“That,” he said smoothly, “is hardly a disqualifier.”

Moneypenny laughed softly. “Try not to get yourself killed, James.”

“No promises...."

The line went dead.

You stepped out of the bath, towel wrapped around you, still processing.

James Bond.

James Bond.

“Unbelievable…” you muttered, dragging a hand through your damp hair.

You reached for the door at the exact same moment he did.

It opened.

You both froze.

For a solid two seconds, neither of you said a word.

Then

“You’re MI6.”

“You’re an Angel.”

You both blinked.

“…Oh my God,” you said, half horrified, half laughing. “You’re James Bond.”

“And you,” he replied, far too calm for someone in the same situation, “are significantly more dangerous than advertised.”

You stared at him.

He stared at you.

You both started laughing.

Actually laughing.

“Are you kidding me?” you said, pointing at him. “All that flirting—”

“You started it,” he cut in.

“I did not!”

“You absolutely did.”

“You were the one leaning at the bar like you owned the place—”

“I often do.” James puffed out his chest.

You let out a breathless laugh, dragging a hand down your face. “I slept with my competition.”

“Is that what we are?” he asked, one brow lifting.

You paused. “…Technically?”

He hummed, considering that. “…Unfortunate.”

You snorted. “That’s one way to put it.” Your gaze then flicked to him, to really looked at him now.

Not just the man.

The agent.

And his gaze did the same.

Assessing.

Understanding.

“…So,” you said slowly, crossing your arms. “What now?”

James tilted his head slightly. “Well,” he said, voice smooth again but softer now, more aware, “normally I’d say we compare notes.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

His gaze dropped just for a second then lifted again, something dangerously familiar flickering there.

“…But given recent events,” he continued, “I imagine that might complicate things.”

Your lips twitched. “Might?”

He stepped a little closer, hand grasping your chin gently, "I don’t suppose you’re willing to go again,” he said lightly.

“…Round three then?” you teased.

James paused then huffed a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You are going to be a problem,” he muttered.

You grinned. “Yeah,” you said. “But you liked me before you knew.”

His gaze met yours again and that didn’t change as his arm then wove around your hips gripping the towel. “…I still do,” he admitted.

"Good."

[veiledbulletz]

『 ⌗ 03 — JAMES BOND , 007 FIRST LIGHT 』

𑣲 tuesday, 03:26pm 《 this tweet inspired me 》

ᚑ      ᚑ "james, stop stealing my food from the fridge!"

"well, technically, it's 'our' food since we share the same living space." james replied with such nonchalance to cressida, which earns a displeased side-eye glare from monroe.

"no."

"try to actually cook or buy your own food."

james simply ignored the two— his signature smirk returning within a second when he begin to notice your arrival within the room, seemingly carrying two cutely packaged meals, happily walking toward his direction.

"and what do we have here?"

"oh." you lifted the meals up with such a joyful expression, the bits of the scent manages to waft through the air. "just something to eat."

"and i bought some extra, in case if you haven't eaten."

james accepted one of the extra meals with such ease as you handed it to him; his smirk soon being replaced with a knowing smile as monroe and cressida stares straight at you in unison, to which you returned with genuine bewilderment.

"what..?"

cressida crosses her arms, appearing to be a tad bit amused than per usual. "you're going to spoil him if you keep doing that."

"well.."

you scratched the back of your head, "i assumed you and monroe probably didn't like this specific type of meal, so—"

"ah, another reason proven as to why you're my favourite."

oh?

your eyes widened ever so slightly upon hearing james' sudden remark, clearly catching you by pure surprise.

monroe scoffs under his breath, saying between the lines of 'we didn't ask for your input' and 'ass'; grabbing a can of drink from the fridge before shutting it a little louder than intended, walking away afterward with a small, occasional grumble.

cressida on the other hand, however, hasn't allowed her amused expression to leave her face even once, shaking her head a bit as her eyes are still on you and james.

with gradual yet calculated movements, james saunters closer to where you are, lowering his voice and leaning slightly closer to you.

"come on," he gently grabs onto your elbow, beginning to lead you towards somewhere else within the safehouse. "i know a spot."

and while all that is happening, you remained a tad bit perplexed by the whole situation, much to james' own personal enjoyment, mixing together with one that could be considered as sheer endearment.

— ⌗ veiledbulletz, june '26. dividers ; feimingo

[multi-fandom-imagine]

🪱Worm Love 🪱 || James Bond ||

A/n: James Bond would in fact love you as a worm.

James Bond had faced armed terrorists, rogue agents, international assassins, and more near-death experiences than any sane person should survive.

None of them had prepared him for this conversation.

You were curled up beside him on the sofa, stealing half of his blanket while a movie played forgotten in the background. One moment everything had been peaceful.

Then you had spoken.

“James.”

“Hm?”

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

James slowly lowered his phone then turned to look at you. "…What?”

You blinked at him with complete sincerity. "If I was a worm.”

“A worm.”

“Yes.”

He stared.

You stared back.

Somewhere outside, a car passed.

James was beginning to suspect he preferred being shot at. “What kind of worm?” he finally asked.

Your face lit up immediately. “So you would?”

“No, love. I’m gathering intelligence.”

You gasped dramatically. "James Bond! Are you saying different worms get different levels of love?”

“Obviously.”

“Wow.”

“Earthworm?” he continued. “Reasonably useful. Helps the soil.”

You pointed at him triumphantly.b“So you would love me.”

James sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“You didn’t answer.”

He turned his phone off, placed it away and gave you the same look he reserved for particularly irritating villains.

“If you became a worm, I would locate the world’s leading scientists and determine how you became a worm.”

Your grin widened. “That’s not an answer.”

“I wasn’t finished.”

“Go on.”

“I would then spend an unreasonable amount of money attempting to turn you back into a human.”

You leaned closer. “But would you still love me?”

James looked at you for a long moment.The ridiculous thing was that you were genuinely waiting for an answer.

Not because you doubted him.Just because you enjoyed tormenting him.

“You know,” he said slowly, “most people’s partners ask normal questions.”

“That’s boring.”

“Normal couples discuss dinner.”

“We discussed dinner.”

“You asked if pigeons go to heaven during dinner.”

“That’s a valid question.”

James pinched the bridge of his nose.

You scooted closer until your shoulder bumped his.

“James.”

“What.”

“The worm thing.”

He let out a long breath. Then he reached over, wrapped an arm around your waist, and pulled you against his side.

“Yes.”

Your eyes brightened. “Yes?”

“Yes, I would still love you if you were a worm.”

You immediately cheered in victory. “I KNEW IT.”

“However,” James continued, “I would keep you in a very expensive terrarium.”

Your mouth dropped open. “A terrarium?”

“The finest terrarium money can buy.”

“James!”

“You’d have fresh soil.”

“James!”

“Climate control.”

“JAMES!”

He was trying and failing not to smile.

You crossed your arms dramatically. “I can’t believe you’d put me in a tank.”

“I can’t believe I’ve had this conversation.”

“You’d visit me though?”

“Every day.”

You softened immediately. “Really?”

“Really.”

You smiled.

James felt his chest tighten in that familiar way it always did when you looked at him like that.

Then you ruined the moment. “What if you were a worm..like I think we'd be a cute worm couple?”

James groaned. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

You were already laughing and despite every instinct telling him otherwise, James found himself laughing too. Because after all the danger, chaos, and madness that filled his life, sitting on a sofa arguing about hypothetical worms with the woman he loved was somehow one of the happiest moments he’d ever had.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

• Incorrect 007 First Light Quotes •

A/n: This is all you're gonna get from me until tomorrow 🤣

Reader: I wish I could block people in real life.

Moneypenny: Restraining order

James Bond: Murder

Reader: Hey James, what are you eating?

James Bond: A family sized bag of sweets.

Reader: James that's not family sized....that's regular sized....

James Bond:Everything is family sized when you dont have a family.

Reader: *whispering* James...nOo

James Bond: • • •_-• - / ... - •_• •_• -.-

Reader: What is that

James Bond: Remorse Code.

Reader: I am even angery now.

James Bond: :(

Reader: *With their child*

Lennox Monroe: *Eating in the McDonald's play area*

Random child: *staring at him*

Lennox Monroe: McFuck you looking at.

M: WHOEVER CAUSED THIS MESS IS GOING TO-

Reader: It was me...

M: ...Is going to be forgiven because everyone deserves a second chance.

James Bond: What the hell?!

Cressida: Why are you on the floor?

James Bond: I’m depressed.

James Bond: Also I was shot, can you get Reader, please.

Reader: Wow, it’s a barren featureless wasteland out there isn’t it?

John Greenway: … Reader, try turning the map around.

James Bond: You’re mad at me.

Reader: I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.

James Bond: Oh, come on. Everyone knows that’s worse

James Bond: Don’t worry darling, you’ve got everything you need to defeat them.

Reader: The power to believe in myself?

James Bond: No, a Gun.

James Bond: Shot them.

Reader: Here you are, Q. Nice hot cup of tea.

Q: …It’s cold.

Reader: Nice cup of tea.

Q: It’s horrible.

Reader: Cup of tea.

Q: I’m not even sure it is tea.

Reader: Cup.

James Bond: How much sleep did you get?

Reader: Eight.

Cressida: Hours?

Reader: Minutes. God! Monroe, would you shut the fuck up?

Lennox Monroe: *Checking his phone* What the fuck? I didn’t even say anything.

Moneypenny: Did you really have to shot him?

Reader: You weren't there, you didn't hear what he said to me.

Moneypenny: And what did he say?

Reader: "What are you gonna do? Shot me?"

James Bond, nodding: That's fair.

Moneypennny: NO!

Reader: What's a word thats a mix between 'sad' and 'mad'?

Cressida: Disgruntled, miserable, desolated-

James Bond: Smad

[dementeddiva]

It was just a cane, why did no one just push past it? Honestly this was my thought during every episode of Shadow and Bone.

Blockade

Kaz Brekker does not raise his voice.

That’s part of the problem.

The office is too small for the amount of pride currently crammed into it.

You’re done.

“Fine,” you snap, throwing your hands up. “Then do it your way. Again.”

You turn toward the door.

Tap.

The sound is soft. Wood against frame. But it lands like a gunshot.

His cane slides neatly across the doorway before you can reach it. Not touching you. Never touching you. Just there. A barrier drawn with quiet precision.

You stop.

You stare at it.

Then at him.

Kaz stands to the side, gloved hand holding lightly on the polished crow's head handle. Expression unreadable. Dark eyes sharp as broken glass.

You mutter, exasperated, “Why does that work?”

He tilts his head slightly. “Because you haven’t decided to push it away.”

The infuriating thing? He’s right.

The cane is not heavy. Not threatening. It’s just… him. A line in the sand. And some stubborn part of you refuses to cross it.

You turn back to him slowly.

“This isn’t about strategy,” you press. “This is about you refusing to trust anyone else to handle it.”

“I trust you,” he says calmly.

You bark a humorless laugh. “You don’t trust anyone. You calculate them.”

A flicker. Barely there. You’ve hit something real.

“If I didn’t trust you,” he says evenly, “you wouldn’t be here.”

“That’s not trust. That’s utility.”

“And you don’t enjoy being useful?”

The words are precise. Sharp.

You step closer despite yourself. “I enjoy being more than a piece on your board.”

Silence stretches. Heavy. Honest.

His gaze drops for a fraction of a second—not backing down but.... calculating something new.

“You think I don’t know the difference?” he asks quietly.

There it is. Not volume. Not anger.

Soft, wrapped in barbed wire.

You shake your head, frustrated beyond words. “One of these days,” you say, softer now but firm, “that’s not gonna work anymore.”

His brow arches slightly. “What won’t?”

You gesture at the cane. The blocking. The quiet command.

“This.”

A pause.

Then, almost imperceptibly, he shifts his weight and lowers the cane from the doorway.

The path is clear.

“You’re still here,” he observes.

You hate that he’s right again.

“Don’t push it,” you mutter.

A ghost of a smirk touches his mouth. Not victory. Not quite.

“Noted.”

The argument doesn’t end cleanly. It never does with Kaz. It evolves. It becomes negotiation instead of battle. You don’t win. He doesn’t either.

But when you leave the office this time, the cane doesn’t stop you.

And somewhere in that small, quiet change, the balance shifts—just enough.

Kaz Brekker builds his power on control. The interesting thing about control is that it only works as long as people agree to it. The day you truly step over that cane will be the day he has to choose between strategy… and you.

That’s the sort of choice even Dirtyhands can’t calculate perfectly.

[heliads]

Hi Lisa. I hope you’re well. Can I request a Kaz x female reader one-shot? Reader and Kaz were childhood friends and were recruited by Pekka at the same time. When they reached their teen years, they started dating. During the events of the show, they’re in an established long-term relationship. She’s the only one his touch aversion doesn’t apply to. She’s not a grisha, but she knows how to fight. Kaz doesn’t show affection in public because he has a reputation to uphold 

'Setting Traps, Taking Hands' - Kaz Brekker x Reader

masterlist

It’s dark out when Kaz Brekker finally comes in from the rain.

He’s been out late doing you don’t know what; scheming, maybe, plotting somewhere in the city, stalking some poor fool who’ll be dead or penniless before the week is up. Most of the rain has shook itself from his coat by the time he makes his way up the twisting nest of stairs of the Slat, but a few beads linger on the edges, falling from their distended perch on his hemline as he strides brusquely into his office and shuts the door behind him.

It’s not until the coat is off and hung up, the hat cast aside, and the weight of his body and troubles jointly planted on the chair at his desk does Kaz finally start to shed some of that outer armor. You can watch his shoulders relax microscopically and the furrow in his brow consider unfolding, the longer he sits without an audience.

Well, not counting you. Kaz doesn’t say anything when he comes inside his office, barely acknowledges your presence in the slightest, but his eyes slide slowly up to you at last, once he’s had a moment to breathe.

You take this as your cue and glance over from your chair by the window. “Long day?”

“Neverending,” Kaz affirms, but his gaze isn’t as hard as it was before. It fastens on you intently, but not pressingly. You can feel him mentally cataloging every detail of your appearance, gauging the state of things from the rumple of your clothes, the droop of your collar.

“I’ve been fine,” you assure him, and he leans back slightly in his chair, mollified, even if his gaze doesn’t leave you yet. “Just a bit worn out, that’s all.”

“Who isn’t?” Kaz asks darkly. Finally, he tears his eyes from you long enough to pull his stack of ledgers from a locked drawer in his desk. They sit on the scuffed wood in front of him, demanding his time and careful review as they always do.

Usually, Kaz is content to sink himself into the numbers and favors collected for hours, but this evening, he hesitates. Instead, his hands fold, and he picks idly at the stitching of the leather gloves cloaking his fingers.

“Did you go to the docks like I asked?” He says without preamble.

You nod. Inej had heard whispers of new ships coming in from Ravka of all places, bearing either gifts or guests worth thrice their weight in kruge. News like that required investigation, so Kaz had sent the person he knew wouldn’t mess it up; you.

“Two ships. The first one is men, rich sons of high-level military commanders escaping the front lines. They’re here to keep watch over the family fortunes while their fathers siphon funds from the towns they protect. We’ll need to watch the markets for a bit, they’ll be either reactivating old accounts or setting up new ones to handle this kind of money.”

Kaz leans forward, intrigued. “And the second ship?”

You allow yourself a faint smile. “Goods from back home. Luxury items.”

Kaz huffs a quiet laugh. “They were stupid enough to bring that over here?”

“No one’s supposed to know about it,” you smirk. “On the papers, it just says they’re ferrying some old farmers’ tools and assorted merchandise from a bankrupt business. Last time I checked, though, rusting equipment and excess product didn’t require armed guards that never left the ship. I think they’ve even got a few Grisha on board.”

Kaz arches a dark brow. “A thing like that will require a visit. It’s important to keep in touch ith one’s new neighbors, you know.”

You grin. “I do.”

You can sense the gears of Kaz’s brain clicking into place, scheming up a plan to liberate the ships of their precious cargo before the other gangs of the Barrel get a chance. The new arrivals to Ketterdam have been astonishingly tight-lipped; you assume they’ve been paying out tremendous amounts of bribes to keep their arrival a secret. That only elevates the reward of getting a job like this right. The more someone’s willing to pay to cover their tracks, the bigger the bank they’re trying to hide.

It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve set on a job like this with Kaz. He’s notorious for quick getaways and cut purses, and the legend doesn’t disappoint. There’s a reason no one seems able to get rid of the dark-handed thief with the cane; despite the apparent physical weakness, he’s too damn good at what he does. Attempt to bury him and he’ll have your whole order in coffins; steal from him, and it’s your coffers that will run dry before a fortnight is up. Kaz is the sharpest thorn in Ketterdam’s whole garden of rogues. When he sets his mind to something, no matter who else is in the ring, he ends up winning.

Part of that winning comes from his mind, the unique ability to tell when something is a lost cause or a done deal, or whether something matters so much that he’ll take it on anyway, odds be damned. He does this for his friends, his Crows. He’s done it for you.

That’s why you’re able to look at him now and know instinctively that Kaz is going to take this job on. It’s why you’re even able to be here at all, lounging in your seat by the window, watching the rain streak by the dark streets outside when so many desperate thieves in this city would give their left arm for Kaz to so much as know their names. Kaz knows much more than your name, he knows everything about you. And you, unlike most people in the Barrel, know quite a lot about him.

“We’ll need to move on the ships soon,” Kaz mutters, “Before they decide to take their valuables to a less frequently robbed harbor.”

You nod. “Who’s in on the job?”

Kaz taps his fingers reflexively on the table before him. “The usual seven. You, Inej, Jesper. Wylan and Nina and Matthias for good measure. We shouldn’t need anyone else.”

You allow yourself a small smile. “When do we?”

Kaz meets your eyes; something almost like a half smile quirks his lips. “It’s important to keep one’s inner circle narrow, Y/N. All it takes is one stranger poking around where they shouldn’t for your whole operation to be sold out.”

“I know,” you agree solemnly, “That’s why I only tell you my secrets, except when Inej overhears.”

“You should be able to tell when she’s there or isn’t,” Kaz chastises, though his tone is light. “You’ve known her long enough.”

This is true. “I can tell, most of the time,” you admit. “For instance, she isn’t here right now.”

Kaz doesn’t have to glance at the window to agree with you. “No, she’s downstairs with the rest, probably keeping an eye on things. It’s quite busy down there. All the rats have come in to seek shelter from the storm.”

As if on cue, a large crashing sound bursts forth downstairs, echoing up the twisting staircase to reach your door. The muffled whispers of conversation halt for a moment, then pick up again, twice as loud as before.

You shoot Kaz a glance. “Somehow, I don’t think Inej was responsible for that.”

Kaz’s lips purse. “Would you take a look? I wouldn’t want any lingering damage. We run a clean house.”

Clean isn’t the word you’d describe to use anything in the Barrel, let alone the base office of one of Ketterdam’s most dangerous gangs, but you know what he means. You pull yourself up and out of your comfortable chair, heading quietly to the door to check out the disturbance. Although he’d asked you to go, Kaz still looks at you as you walk past, his eyes silent but unshakable.

You pause at the door, somehow unable to leave without saying something to address the quiet look on his face. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“I know,” Kaz says gruffly, and turns resolutely to his papers.

You slip from his office, closing the door securely behind you before beginning the long trek down the stairs. You must have made this climb a thousand times in your life, and know the traits of this staircase by heart. There are the loose screws, the squeaking steps, the crack in one of the slats from where Kaz slammed the end of his cane against it on a particularly troublesome night. Everything here, you know. Everything here, you’ve already seen.

After all, you’ve been in this place about as long as Kaz. You met him when you were quite young, freshly betrayed by a man named Callum Nelles and desperate for payback. You had been searching the Barrel for any sign of the foul man who’d taken your labor in promise of big rewards that had never come. After days of begging for information on how to locate the man, you’d met Kaz, who had revealed Callum actually went by a different name, Pekka Rollins, and the scheme he’d run on you was one he’d run many times before.

Kaz had offered you a chance to get revenge on Pekka in exchange for you enlisting in his gang. You’d been wary to trust anyone in the Barrel after how easy it had been for Pekka to trick you the first time, but ultimately your desire to get Rollins back won out and you agreed to Kaz’s proposal. You’d been one of his first hires, chosen because he knew he could rely on your sentiments towards Pekka Rollins to run the same way as his. As time went on, it became apparent that the two of you had similar viewpoints not just on Pekka but everything; the way the Barrel gangs interacted with each other, how to build your profits and empire, and how to tell at a glance if a member of the Dregs would sell you out or watch your back. People joked that the two of you were two sides of the same coin, how even when separated from each other you would make the exact same decisions time and time again.

That was years ago. Now, you and Kaz– you’re different than you were at the start, more than friends, something sacred that you’ve barely dared to name. At times, it feels as if being bold enough to label Kaz your boyfriend would be taunting the gods themselves, and you’ve accumulated enough curses and ill will from the people you’ve tricked for you to be wary of risks. Everyone close to you understands what’s going on, why Kaz lets you be close and no one else. That’s enough for you.

All of this you turn over in your head as you head down the creaking stairs of the Slat to the ground floor, where, true to Kaz’s prediction, you find many Dregs all crammed together, shaking rain from their hair or boots as they continue to drift inside. You search the crowd until you find Inej and Jesper talking to someone in a corner of the room, and head their way.

“What’s the ruckus?” You ask when you reach them.

Jesper groans. “This idiot had a bit too much to drink at the Crow Club and tripped over a table. Broke its leg in the middle of a rather spectacular fall.”

You turn from Jesper to give the offending Dreg a stony look. You’ve known this man, Bas Koning, for a few months now, one of the relatively newer hires. He’s a bit of a loose cannon, but both you and Kaz were under the impression that his other skills would make up for it. You suppose only time will tell if you were right. To his right, pieces of a small end table litter the ground, the cause of the crashing sound you’d heard from upstairs.

“That true, Bas?” You ask.

Bas, currently sitting on the ground nursing a sore leg from his fall, nods gloomily. “‘S my mistake, Y/N. Won’t happen again.”

Inej and Jesper turn to you in unison, waiting for your judgment. You represent Kaz here, you set the line for how much a new hire can get away with in the sanctity of the Slat. “Of course it won’t happen again,” you tell Bas, not exactly soothingly but with a very even tone, “You’re going to go buy us a new table to make up for it, and clean up this mess while you’re at it.”

Bas casts a despairing look at the door. “Right now? Can I wait until the rain slows down?”

Your eyes flash. “That wasn’t a question, Bas.”

You keep your words simple, but even Bas can gauge your sharp tone, and he quickly scrambles to his feet. “Of course, Y/N. I’m on it.”

“I appreciate that,” you say, smiling coldly, which frightens Bas even more than the risk of your outright anger, and he hurries off to do your bidding.

Jesper snorts. “Look at him run. You’ve terrified him.”

Inej nods. “Well played, Y/N.”

You lift a shoulder. “We can’t keep sloppy people this close without keeping them in check every now and again. Besides, that table has been on its last legs for months now. At least now we get new furniture out of the bargain.”

Jesper snorts. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you put that table close to the door on purpose so something like this would happen.”

You tilt your head to the side, the picture of innocence. “Good thing you know better, then, right, Jesper?”

His mouth drops open in realization at the same time that Inej lets out a quiet laugh. “She’s been waiting for an opportunity like this for weeks now. All it takes is one Dreg off their balance and they’d cause a scene. Then you know who’s a liability. Like I said, well played.”

“Thank you, Inej,” you say, smiling. “I’m glad you picked up on it.”

Jesper shakes his head in disbelief. “You people with your schemes. It’s exhausting to keep up with. Say,” he says, brightening up again, “How about you stay down here with us for a bit, have a drink or two? It’s positively merry down here with everyone together.”

It’s a tempting offer. The atmosphere down on the ground floor of the Slat is jubilant, celebrating another season of growing profits with minimal losses. You think about the friends around you right now, the temptation of a good drink and a night of laughter, versus the quiet, dark office upstairs, with a boy who’s more machination than man. For most, the choice is obvious, and you find that it is for you, too.

Kaz looks up when you slip inside the office. “You came back,” he says.

“I did,” you return. “I had places I wanted to be.”

The ghost of a satisfied smile slips across his face. You go to return to your seat, but you realize that your chair has moved from the window to right beside Kaz’s desk. He keeps his eyes on the ledgers in front of him, a study of ignorance on this change, but you smile anyway and sit down next to him. Kaz relaxes fractionally when you don’t comment on the relocation, his shoulders losing their pinched height.

“Who triggered your little trap downstairs?” He asks.

“Bas,” you answer. “I’ve sent him out to fetch us a new table.”

Kaz nods. “As I suspected. He’s getting a touch wild nowadays. Thinks that just because he’s with us, he can do anything.”

“I know,” you say. “That’s why I’ve sent someone to follow him. Hopefully, he goes straight to pick up a new piece and comes back right away, but if he deviates, we’ll know.”

Kaz’s eyes flick to you. “Clever.”

You lift a shoulder. “I try.”

“You succeed,” Kaz says. Anyone else in the Dregs would be stunned to hear Dirtyhands of all people give out a compliment so easily, but they’ve never known the two of you half as well as they think, anyways.

Kaz leans back in his seat, then seems to make up his mind and carefully pulls off his gloves, one at a time, depositing them close by on his desk just in case. One hand returns to the pen he’s been using to track his progress through the ledgers, but the other drifts towards you, coming to a stop just barely brushing your hand. He pauses for a moment, taking a raggedy breath as if to steady himself, then flexes his hand so his fingers are just resting on yours. He’s tense at first, but relaxes in the end, and as he goes back to his ledgers, the corners of his mouth prick up just a little. You don’t know that anyone else in the Barrel has seen Kaz like this, quiet and peaceful. It’s a sight you cherish, tonight and on many nights to come. Outside, the rain lashes the windows, but the two of you talk into the night, and all is well in the Slat.

requested by @thornyrose463, i hope you enjoy!

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