“We’re conjoined. I’m curious whether either of us can survive separation.”
-
“I don’t know if I can save myself. Maybe that’s just fine.”
-
“This is all I ever wanted for you, Q. For both of us.”
“It’s beautiful.”
00Q Hannibal AU! – By azure7539arts
Prompt taken from 007 Fest Anonymous Prompt Exchange (x): Hannibal 00q AU please - Don't you think that Q would make a wonderful Will Graham? (except that he hoards cats instead of dogs)
IT IS OFFICIALLY JULY 01, 2017, HERE. LET THE 007 FEST COMMENCE!
P.S.: If you are a fan of both the 00Q and Hannigram ship, but are unable to recognize the content of this fanart, then I have failed XD
In which Q is the mysterious, cybernetic wizard who has been the talk of the town ever since he arrived in his hideous, mismatched of a floating castle, and Bond, of course, is intrigued.
Obsession and Other Forms of Primal Therapy — sheila_snow
Everyone has a weakness. Everyone has some sort of obsession. Unfortunately for James Bond, Raoul Silva is rather well versed in both.
► The characterization of Silva in this is stark, intriguing, and entirely memorable. You can’t but fall into his snare; he is charming, humorous, but entirely off his rocker at the same time. His dynamic with Bond is nicely handled and written.
(There is a sequel to this, which is being written right now. If you love this story, please also check out its sibling: There Falls No Shadow)
Dead Reckoning — sheila_snow
Tiago Rodriguez is MI6's most successful field agent, but then, he has a gift that gives him an edge. At least, he thought it did. Unfortunately, Fate has Her own agenda, and She has a truly appalling sense of humour.
► Another great read from @sheilasnow, much shorter than Obsession, but no less well-written. An interesting role reversal that goes for both Silva and Bond. The charged tension between them is still there, but tinged with something else entirely, a different spice for a different story.
Memory, Hither Come — onawingandaswear
There’s a bound manuscript in the drawer where a bible should be, littered with edits and indecipherable shorthand notations. The title page declares boldly: 'Casino Royale'. Bond starts reading.
► The story, and how it is written, will have your head reeling as it looks for clues and hints from start to finish. What’s more to say?
For the 007 Games’s Prompt Table 009 Trope Reversal, which can be found here.
Warnings: None.
► Other fills for the prompt table: (1) - (2) - (3) - (4) - (5) - (6) - (7) - (8)
– Short fill under the cut –
“Target acquired,” he said over the comms, trying to stop his hand from twitching up to touch the earpiece snuggled comfortably in the canal of his ear. He wasn’t an amateur, and he certainly wasn’t going to act like one.
“Excellent, sir,” Q replied, his voice entirely calm, and calming, in a way that made Mallory wonder if this was exactly the sort of energy that the young Quartermaster wanted the agents he handled to feed off in a way to lower their chances of doing anything rash.
“You may want to turn your body a little, angling it toward her,” a second voice chimed in, low and gruff with a hint of impatience. Bond. “Makes your body gesture more open.” A pause. “Sir.”
“007,” Q said, his voice a hint of warning, or perhaps a suggestion to back off, since this was mostly his jurisdiction.
“Just giving him suggestions, Q. Doesn’t hurt.”
Then Q said something else following it that Mallory couldn’t quite make out, although he thought it was something along the line: you’re just crossed you’re not out there in the field also.
“Not helping,” Mallory muttered, but did as Bond said whilst exchanging a bit of a glance and a smile toward their target—Margaret. It seemed to have worked, because Margaret smiled back with a quick quirk of her lips before sitting down onto the stool just a bit away from where he was at the bar.
“I think you should buy her a drink, Sir,” it was Bond again.
“No, Sir,” Q amended quickly. “According to her files, she’s a bit conservative, so it’s best if you talk to her first.”
“She also goes to the firing range twice a week, Q. She’s also has adventurous streaks in her.”
“Yes, but if you notice, Bond, that she goes alone. This means it will be better if you use a milder approach first. And you wonder why some of the women end up trying to kill you.”
Mallory bit the inside of his cheek at that last retort, but more or less kept his composure as he straightened up, and cleared his throat, which seemed to wake the arguing two men up.
After a bit more of that same squabble, they did manage to come to a conclusion: “Please proceed to talk to her first, Sir,” Q said, voice unperturbed as ever, like he and Bond hadn’t just had a lover’s spat.
“Right,” Mallory muttered under his breath as he sipped on his whisky. “We are going to have a talk about you two when I get back.”
And with that, he stood up, smoothed out his suit, and went on his way.
For the 007 Games’s Prompt Table 009 Trope Reversal, which can be found here.
Warnings: BDSM.
Rating: Explicit
► Other fills for the prompt table: (1) - (2) - (3) - (4) - (5) - (6) - (7)
– Short fill under the cut –
It was one of those missions that always seemed to nearly smother the light out of him, whatever was left of his humanity that nestled in the bottom of his proverbial heart—which was true he supposed. How could a man like him, whose hands had soaked in the warm blood of many, innocent or otherwise, possess a real heart?
Hazards of the job, he would normally say.
He didn’t care, he would normally think.
He shouldn’t care, he would normally tell himself.
But it was one of those days, one of those missions, and the ricocheting aftermath of that explosions—smokes, fires, columns of miasma of burnt flesh—was still ringing too loudly in his head to ignore.
It felt like the contents of his head were sloshing, dislodged from where they should be. And maybe they were... hard to say.
And so he messaged Q, simple and straightforward:
I’m home. – J
I’ll be waiting. – J
That was how they did it, normally. Q would understand, and while he would never stop feeling just the tiniest pang of guilt for requesting something like this, he would always try to remember what Q reminded him time and again: “I’ve got you. Stop worrying for now.”
The important thing here, above all else, was that he believed Q when he said that. And nothing else mattered.
-
When Q arrived home, early that night, Bond was kneeling at the end of the bed, knees spread and shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind his back, and head bowed, showing off his perfect physique and the fading bruises and cuts that littered his body.
He would have made the perfect picture of a submissive, if it hadn’t been for the apparent line of tension in his muscles, in the way he was barely holding himself in position.
Q sighed, setting the messenger back down silently. He knew the last mission had been difficult for Bond, knew what the man was now expecting from him.
He approached Bond with even paces, easy and loose finesse, and stopped just short of an inch away, the charged energy between them already palpable.
Hand up, his fingers wrapped delicately around Bond’s chin and felt the strong bones of a finely chiseled jaw. He tilted Bond’s face up and kissed him hungrily, more teeth than lips as he sucked and bit, prodded and pushed, until he finally wrestled the dominance away from the man, sighing when that mouth opened up in compliance to him and his tongue.
He tasted Bond thoroughly, careful so as to make sure the only places where they touched were limited down to their kissing lips and his fingers pressing more and more into Bond’s chin.
They broke apart with a wet pop, both gasping a little for air, and Q saw he had sufficiently aroused Bond enough, if his darkening eyes and hard on were anything to go by.
“Safeword?” he inquired, a step he refused to skip.
“Skyfall,” Bond grunted, seeming somewhat impatient, as was wont of his nature.
Q hummed, nodded, and took a step back.
Yes, he knew what the man was expecting him, and he would deliver it. Just not in the usual arrangement.
“Lie back down now,” he instructed, voice low but soft.
Bond did so, but immediately became quizzical when Q just simply handed him the bottle of lube.
“Stretch yourself for me,” he continued, and when Bond looked like he might protested, added, “You gave yourself to me for the whole evening already. And besides, if you don’t like it, please don’t hesitate to use your safeword. That’s what it’s for, after all." He had no intention of depriving Bond of his sense of safety and security, had never done so even during the throes of their cresting pleasures. Hence, the trust they shared.
Bond watched him, a look Q met back squarely, before nodded and did as asked, any lingering hesitation dissipating quickly as he squirted lube onto his fingers, reached down, and preached his pucker without so much as a second of preamble. And just like that, he worked his way into himself, finger pushing in and out of his own hole, under Q’s undivided attention, green eyes watching every move, observing every twitch of muscles, every hitch of breath, and tucking them away in a mental drawer that belonged to Bond and Bond only.
“Very good,” Q said after some time, relieved that the words came out as steady and detached as he wanted them to as he approached to stop Bond from fucking himself on his own fingers—not when there was a better way to do it.
He kissed Bond gently on the lips and ghosted another on over the rabbiting pulse point in the man’s neck, a reward, and withdrew, reaching for the toy he had had laid out there probably without Bond’s express notice or detection has the man had been too busy angling his fingers to brush over his prostate just now.
Coating the butt plug with more lube, he guided the toy to Bond’s entrance and slid it in, drinking in the way the man’s back arched off the bed, mouth drawing in a sharp gasp.
“Q—” Bond began, but when he looked down and saw how the brunette was evenly looking right back at him, one eyebrow raised, whatever words that were left died on his lips.
“Good.” Q actually smiled, and his smile widened with a devilish tilt to it when he turned the toy on its second vibrating mode and Bond gasped. “Time for a bit of dinner then.”
At Bond’s incredulous look, he chuckled. “Come along now. I’m serious.”
Warning: Implied abuse and non-con (nothing graphic is shown, only implications), slightly strong language, ambiguity.
–Short fill below the cut–
The first time he saw him was on a dark night, obscured with the cold, creeping air of accumulated mist and smog. No stars to speak of; not with all this light pollution.
The party was in full swing, and most of everyone whom he knew had already been picked and brought away.
He stepped out of that corner he had been standing at for a particularly long time, and approached, looking ill at ease. Probably a first-timer, then; he decided. Or someone who knew what they were doing, but still could not get over the shame or guilt or whatever bullshit they made up in their heads. Guilty pleasure, as it was—literally and figuratively—for these sort of people.
He was a white male, which surprised him a little, but he recovered from it quickly enough. It wasn't unheard of anyway; they—his 'colleagues' and himself—had had first-hand accounts of seeing white men and women around these events before, though not often, once they were either bored of 'new' and 'exotic' catches, or they were looking for familiar faces amidst a foreign place. To be honest, to him, he had never seen the appeal in that sort of things. A fuck was just a fuck; why turned it into a fetish, then, in turn, demean the very people whom you were fucking?
If they could run, they would have already.
His gait was swift, succinct movements, like someone who was used to doing everything the efficient ways, disliking round-about routes and wasting unnecessary energy. And something about this made his senses hum, his veins thrumming just a little, that old, dusty, beaten down spark of excitement... There was something more to it as well, something lurking behind shadows that veiled the crevices of his mind that he couldn't place.
However, he pushed that sensation away for the time being, considering that he was only a few strides away now.
He was busy working out whether this was the type of person that liked taking charge or the other way around, when someone grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him off a little to the side. His only saving grace was that his footing was firm—otherwise, he would've fallen flat on his face.
"There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you!" A woman slurred, she smelled drunk even before she had opened her mouth to speak. No regulars by all means, but he had seen her around enough to know her face. "Oh look at you." Her hand brushed over the still fading bruises around his neck, and he pulled sharply away, just enough so he wouldn't shake her off completely. "Sorry. Can't do that, can I? I forgot."
"It's of no trouble, ma'am," he replied, lips curling into an unfeeling smile as she placed the keys into his hand. "Shall we go then?"
His eyes flickered up to where the stranger from before was, pausing when he felt those eyes upon him, the intensity enough to almost seem out of place. But, instead of diverting to another 'server,' he continued on his path until they were face to face, the proximity generating opportunities for a whiff of his scent, which lingered and dissipated in a second.
Something seized inside of him; the tracking device welded to his ankle suddenly grew even heavier than normal.
"Next time," he said, the low timbre strangely familiar as it rang inside his eardrums.
And with that, he retreated.
-
The second time he saw him was a week later, the bruises on him were just fading, the swellings finally having gone down. You have a good healing system, he coworkers would tell him, those usually take so, so long to heal. And he didn't know whether he should take it as a compliment or not.
(His guts recoiled anyway, seething with a near phantom-like anger that served no one any good.
If anything, he supposed it could be considered as a vantage point—it took less time for him to get back on his feet after the beatings they gave him every time he tried to escape.)
"We meet again," he said this time. The light in the room was low, eye-itching, as it cast a shade of dark red all over the interior, like blood.
(And he always tried to escape whenever he had the chance.)
He nodded once, never a man with a lot of words, and began to strip off his clothes before receiving a quiet "don't." It stopped him.
"Pardon?" He raised an eyebrow.
The steel determination in his eyes somehow eased the beast that had been growling, ready to pounce, in the back of his mind since the moment he first woke up and found himself wound up here in this goddamn brothel with a splitting headache and no recollection about anything whatsoever. No name, no nothing.
That was months ago already.
"I can tell that your memory is somehow impaired. That much is obvious," he said, the fringe of his dark, tousled curls just shy of brushing over impossibly green eyes. "But your name is James Bond. You have no reason to believe me, but I am here to help you escape."
-
End.
-
(Prompt taken from MI6 Cafe’s 007 Fest Prompt Tables, Trope Reversal Prompt Table 009, which can be found here.)
For the 007 Games’s Prompt Table 009 Trope Reversal, which can be found here.
Prompt: Musician Bond
Warnings: None.
► Other fills for the prompt table: (1) - (2) - (3) - (4) - (5)
– Short fill under the cut –
The sound of pencil scratching on paper was familiar and comforting in a way that coming home finally after a long time spent away felt like. Black graphite embedded itself onto white paper, filling up blank spaces between hard straight lines by adding gentle patterns of curves to them.
He sat, the smoke of cigarette, white and transparent, curling and nestling against his skin, for the first time in a long time unhurried to get a melody out of his mind and transfer it onto the music sheets. In some instinctive ways, he just knew that it would be all right even if he didn’t write down all the notes this time, hand unable to keep up with the speed of his mind.
Beside him, Q shifted, curling closer to gravitate toward the closest source of warmth, snuggling in unconsciously, dark, tousled curls sprawling messily and effortlessly beautiful, arranging themselves in a natural chaotic but sensual way that was Q and Q alone.
Bond smiled as his fingers carded gently through the soft curls, thumb brushing gently over the rise of that sharp cheekbone. Yes, it would be all right even if he couldn’t manifest the tune in his head in time to make it tangible enough in his grasp.
The muse of his inspiration was right here by his side, after all.
Lovely and beautiful and the most solid thing he felt he had ever had in his life.
For the 007 Games’s Prompt Table 009 Trope Reversal, which can be found here.
Prompt: Tech Wiz M
Warnings: None.
► Other fills for the prompt table: (1) - (2) - (3) - (4)
– Short fill under the cut –
Keeping up with the thrumming pace of MI6 has its perks, but the problem that worries her most will always be the troublesome Double-O agents, because when they are not causing mayhem in foreign lands, they are a menace back at home, and their curious-cat nature is part of the reason why they are initially hired and trained for the job anyway.
Not that she is complaining, but there are certain limits to everything, and whilst their prying, inquisitive habits are useful in the field, she doesn’t appreciate it when said habits are turned upon her.
There are only a handful of people who have the balls to do that, hacking into her laptop, or trying to at any rate, and Bond is one of them.
If they for one second, however, think that she will make it easy for that, that she will allow the confidential files at her fingertips to be so exposed and vulnerable, then they are wrong. Whilst Q-Branch really does need a push to shove it into the modern day of rapidly developing technology and cyber security, she can manage just fine on her own thank you very much. There is a reason why she sometimes prefers the methods of self-teaching, and although it may take longer, depending on certain variables, she does pick up more handy and… say, rather dirty tricks as she goes.
And now, sitting in her study, she watches as Bond, bored from his mandatory one week of rest, snoops his way into the system—using her username and password.
He is good, she’ll give him that, but if he really thinks that he is seeing anything more than what she is letting him see then he is dead wrong.
Not many, and she dares say possibly no one other than her own husband, are aware of this particular set of skills on her part, and that is how it should be.
She closes her laptop and stands, noting that it is time to ship Bond back out into the field before he starts coming down onto the techies just to terrorize them again.
