It took me ages but here you are! I had started a gobblepot piece but I wasn't vibing with it so, I scrapped the whole thing and went for 00Silva - I hope you like it!
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
"You've changed"
"You wish"
"I'm serious"
Raoul turned around, a freshly bleached eyebrow arched up as if to challenge Bond to keep defying him "Me too" he might have been tamed, forced back once again in the bowels of MI6 but that didn't mean that he had changed - only torture had managed to break him and put him back together all wrong.
Or right.
It really was just a matter of perspective.
When the other man didn't say anything - just stared at him with those imperscrutabile, icy blue eyes of his that made him wonder if someone had ever wanted to take them as a trophy to be put on display - Raoul turned his back on him, focused once again on the screen in front of him, one finger tapping on the desk as he contemplated the lines of code. It was elegant - it had always been but even an enfant prodige such as the young Quartermaster dear old Mummy had handpicked for her ranks needed refinement: genius could go only so far without experience and growth supporting it.
His hacking feat had taught the boy the lesson rather efficiently, if anyone asked Raoul.
Though, if anyone truly asked him, he would probably admit that his aim hadn't exactly been to teach.
"You don't want to admit it because you're resentful" James insisted, stepping forward until he stood by the other's side - so close that Silva could have easily whipped out the knife James knew he always carried around and buried it amidst his ribs "And stubborn"
"You're the last man in this place who can lecture me on being either of those things" they had always been more alike than what was comfortable for Double-Oh Seven to admit.
"Or maybe you just can't see it yet, how much you've changed" James observed, ignoring the veiled provocation as he stepped closer until the hem on the other's jacket was brushing his own. Silva still favoured the casual but still elegant tailoring that he had sported in his island, breathy fabrics cut to allow for freedom of movement rather than to adhere to the body like a second skin - it made him wonder whether something darker and more tightly fitting would look just wrong on the other man or compliment his figure.
It also made him wonder when exactly he had started to think about Raoul Silva in such a way.
Fandom: James Bond
Genre: Drama/Romance (burdgeoning)
Characters: Lyutsifer Safin, Madeleine Swann
Rating: M/E
Warnings: Mildly dubious consent ft. assertive shower sex. Also witness my first attempt to emulate Ian Fleming’s prose directly???
Summary: "It was a rare instance where he could let his guard down; or so one would think."
NOTE: Deleted scene for Insult to Injury that was too spicy to make the cut. Takes place directly after Chapter Four.
Translations are in the notes at the end. If there's a mistake somewhere, feel free to bring it to my attention; I'm admittedly more fluent in Spanish than French.
He had left Swann asleep and the door ajar. Upon his return she could be heard conversing quietly on the phone, presumably with White. At a glance she had thrown her shirt back on and her posture was tense. As he was still waiting for a verdict, Safin went to take a shower.
The body wash smelt artificial, some lemony concoction, but the bar soap was workable. He let the warm water rush over him and his mind go blank.
It was a rare instance where he could let his guard down; or so one would think.
He did not hear Swann come in after him. He only saw the door move and the indistinct shape in motion against the fogged glass. Safin made himself very still. He waited until he determined the gait and build were in fact Swann's.
Now, Safin knew she'd been carrying a handgun in her bag when she was first collected from the clinic in Paris. He knew also that she had expressed a fair amount of contempt towards him up until several days ago. Either she fancied herself an assassin or she was simply vying for a second go. Regardless of her intent, there were three bathrooms in the house and no justifiable reason for her to be in here.
Still, he did not move until the figure drew close enough to be recognisable. Then he opened the door and looked down at the blue eyes. Her hands were empty. He did not request a motive. She had made herself clear. He let her step into the stall alongside him without further acknowledgement. The new proximity left enough room to manoeuvre as in a holding cell. The light threw her features into relief; soft, unmarred, like a fawn that had recently grown into its body, devoid of justifiable fear and instead given way to an arrogant complacency that often occurs within captivity.
She took up the body wash and paid him no mind while she lathered her skin, rinsed off. Safin took note of her nudity but did not linger on the idea, assessing the figure as one that lacked an appreciation of its mortality. The jet-stream of the water hissed around them like blood in the ears.
Initially, she'd seemed a bit more demure. Now she turned to him with a challenging light in the blue eyes. She closed the distance in a step and touched his face. Well, he thought, why not? One marred hand fell to rest on her spine and the other curled loose on the back of her head in contemplation.
Then the hand on her spine went to her buttocks and he hauled her completely to his breast. Swann sucked in a breath. The skin smelt like artificial lemon. There was nowhere for her to go but she didn't seem particularly concerned. The golden hair was wet and had a pleasant weight to it in-hand.
Really, he only needed his wrist.
He worked over the sinuous body in his arms with quiet, pointed efficiency. Once she was suitably engrossed he parted her legs. With the other hand, he made a fist in her hair and tugged her head up to bare the white throat. Swann rolled her hips to meet him, gasping sharply. He squeezed her hair in acknowledgement, or some vestige of affection.
He could feel her pulse fluttering against his fingers and considered once more the subject of her mortality. He turned so the nape of her neck was away from the falling water. Swann was anchored by the heels and one hand on his neck. He felt the other hand sleight on his hip and kissed her taciturn mouth. Swann groaned, turned away. He asked: what, Madeleine?
She caught him in her fist and pumped once. With a muted groan, like laughter but not quite the same, he took that arm, put it around his waist, crushed her to the wall and fucked her with his hand until she was shaking.
Then all at once he stopped. Swann gasped, trembling, unsated. Steam flooded his lungs. He looked down at her in consideration. Then it was the same as before, starting and stopping, watching her writhe between lineoleum and his wrist, not helpless but indignant. It was not for lack of want but to see how much she could take before she understood what he was up to.
She got very quiet. The eyes fluttered, wide without terror and the blonde hair hung lank around the face.
By the third impediment she'd had enough. Her brows knitted, her face screwed up. She reared back and hissed: Va te faire foutre.
He dragged his mouth down her throat, at her breasts. She was perhaps trembling more from the effort of her affront than desire alone. He continued until he was on his knees and she put her hand to the back of his neck with a longing behind the eyes.
So he went to her. Madeleine surged forth, gasping, slick off herself. He felt the pulse flutter wildly against his mouth like a heartbeat. He turned his head and opened her up.
The moan resounded, hushed. All the tension was in her fist on his nape and trembling legs.
The first go with her had been an educated risk for the sake of the job. This was not so different.
Swann tugged at his hair once and rasped: Venez ici.
So he went up to her and made good on his teasing. It was a vicious finish that left them both discombobulated but he didn't show. The hiss of the shower came back to him first as did the pinpricks of water on his skin. Swann's coquettish smile did not escape his attention. He did not return the sentiment.
Va te faire foutre - "Screw you/Fuck off."
Venez ici - "Come here." (informal?)
Summary: It's been six months since the events of Skyfall, and James is finding it hard to move on after the death of Olivia. However, he comes to realise; not everything is as it seems...
I've had this general idea for a few months now, and tonight, it finally decided to piece itself together. :D
I remember you from Venice, it was you crying on the steps. 00Q 🌼
Bond froze mid-stride, the blood rushing from his face as the words sunk in.
“It was you, wasn’t it? I tried to give you a bottle of water and you nearly took off my arm,” Q continued. “I thought you were a first responder shook up by the accident--the woman drowned in the elevator. Funny how we met so many years ago, and now look at us. I don’t remember seeing that operation in your dossier, though. Was she your mark?”
“No,” Bond said. His voice cracked.
“But you knew her,” Q said. Something uneasy lurked behind his words, but Bond couldn’t think what it meant. His pulse drummed in his ears, drowning out all else. “It wasn’t an operation, was it?”
Bond swallowed. He couldn’t turn to face Q were he stood behind him at his desk, unperturbed by the memories he had just dug up. Bond closed his eyes and saw the canal water rippling in the sun, blinding him, and underneath it, the metal cage of the elevator, opened too late.
“Bond?” Q asked. “Is something the matter?”
send me a sentence and I’ll write (approximately) the next five!
Prompt? Yes? I always love some 00Q so. Long weekend after being too long at work. No angst if possible? Thank you <3
Thank you so much for sending in such a sweet and soft request, writing this was immensely cathartic <3
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
***
Q looked down at their bags, going over his mental checklist to make sure they had packed everything; they would be gone only for the weekend and even if they forgot something they could survive without it but still, Q would rather not realise in the middle of Scotland highlands that he had forgotten his laptop charger or his spare glasses.
“Cats are in the car”
Q leaned into the arms around his waist, tilting his head to the side so that he could smile up at James “Thank you. How did it go?” wrestling the cats in their carriers always tended to be a bloody business; he wouldn’t have put any of them through the ordeal for such short stays if the cats hadn’t loved Skyfall Lodge but they did - much to James’ chagrin who ended up taking upon himself the duty of getting the little beasts ready for travelling.
“Let’s just say that I survived, hmm?” the agent hummed against Q’s forehead, kissing it tenderly.
He didn’t know when Skyfall had become their go-to relaxing retreat for when they couldn’t afford to fuck off and out of England for at least a week. They could have easily bought a chalet in the Cotswolds or Cornwall, somewhere they could make new and fresh memories without the ghosts of the past haunting them. For crying out loud, Skyfall hadn’t even been fully renovated yet: while the fire damage to the structure had been repaired, most of the rooms were still barren and inhospitable - if not downright inhabitable - despite the fact that almost two years had already passed from Silva’s attack upon his ancestral home. Q was partly to be blamed for it: the younger man had been strangely adamant about the fact that they should personally see to the refurbishing of the stately house - together. Clearly, it was rare enough that they managed to get day offs or holidays at the same time and that had meant that the renovations proceeded at a snail’s pace.
Sometimes James wondered about whether Q had intentionally slowed the process down to give him time to process the change - it didn’t sound so far-fetched, not when he knew the other man so well: seldomly Q left something to chance, he usually always had a reason for doing things in a certain way.
Sometimes James wondered about whether Q was right, if that had been his intention: watching his home burn up in the night had bothered him more than he had ever thought it would; realising that there were things that had been lost forever in the fire - family mementos, traces of what his parents had liked enough to purchase - had hurt even more and maybe, if Q hadn’t encouraged him to restore the house, he would have left it in ruins as a temple to his grief.
“Ready to go?”
“Yeah, go sit in the car”
Q had given up on pointing out that he could help carry the bags: if James wanted to do all the heavy lifting, he wasn’t going to complain one bit about it. He checked on the cats, cooing reassuringly at them (he knew better than putting his fingers through the carries grates, though: it wouldn’t be the first time they swept at him because they were irritated) and then he took his place on the passenger seat, his phone and a two well-loved furniture catalogues in his lap “Did you lock the door?”
James snorted at the question as he shut the door and put the car into gear “Who do you take me for?”
“A human being and not an infallible machine?”
Such a playful retort shouldn’t have made James feel as warm as it did: he rationally knew that Q didn’t see him as a monster, no matter the fact that he was frequently exposed to the very worst part of him whenever he was out in the field, but it just felt good to be reminded of it out aloud from time to time.
Fandom: James Bond
Genre: Drama/Humor
Characters: Lyutsifer Safin, Madeleine Swann
Rating: PG/K+
Warnings: None, really.
Summary: "On the train to Oslo, Madeleine is feeling pretty restless; Safin does his best to be charitable."
Takes place right after Chapter Five of Insult to Injury. This was cute to write but a bit too directionless to keep in. (Besides, I don't think Safin would throw out a name in front of people he doesn't recognize!) So I've made another deleted scene-fic.
"It's curious. I really don't know one thing about you."
"It's not your job to know."
"Well, perhaps your name would be a good start."
"I've already given you a name." She scowled at him. He said, "What more do you need?"
Madeleine scoffed and feigned interest in the window. Time was spent in the wordlessness that comes out of having a million urgent questions but no good way to disguise one's true intent. The smooth chug of the train had a strange, somnambulant quality. Safin could not allow himself to be affected. He scanned the aisles for any visual change but found none.
"Wait, don't tell me—are you seriously implying that you have one name?" Madeleine smirked. "Is this how you sign all of your sanctions, just, Safin?"
"If it helps you sleep, yes."
"Hah." She glanced out the window again. "You are impossible."
She went quiet after that. The man in the aisle behind them had not moved an inch. There was a good enough chance he was listening. Madeleine glanced up from the window as though trying to divine what else had his attention besides the latent threat. Safin did not acknowledge this in the hopes she would finally settle.
She said, "Well it isn't very good for a secret identity. You would stand out more with one name."
She wouldn't be able to keep her wits about her if she wore herself down. Perhaps it would be more prudent to simply let Madeleine talk herself into a state of exhaustion, all the while letting her think she was saying more than she was. Prudent, but not easier. For all intents and purposes it was as though she were drunk again. When No 1 first gave him the assignment to protect No 8's most valuable investment, this was not what he had been imagining.
"What makes you think I'm going to tell you anything?" he asked tersely.
"I never said you would."
Safin came back to the point of contention. There was no sense in getting hung-up over her curiosity. He had brought that trouble upon himself from the moment he had decided to engage with her directly. Killing her was a last resort and completely out of the question right now. If he wanted to save face he should be doing everything he could to earn her trust—he had already identified the vulnerabilities. He would turn the oversight to his advantage.
"Lyutsifer," he said after a pause. He did not look up from the general direction of the man in the aisle. There was no immediate reaction from either party.
Then Madeleine proved him wrong again: "Sorry?"
"Lyutsifer Safin."
"Yes, and I am sure you've gone by Beelzebub as well."
"Do you even know what it means?"
"Light bringer." Madeleine looked rather patronised. "If you want to be technical, it would be "bringing light", derived from the Latin lux, 'light' and ferre, 'to bring'." He shot her a glance out of the corner of his eye.
"And?"
Madeleine frowned slightly, trying to dredge up something she had memorised for the sake of camouflage and not thought about in a few years. "The name originally referred to the morning star, Venus. It only became associated with Satan because of other literature, such as the Divine Comedy by Dante and Paradise Lost by John Milton. The idea also underlies the proverbial phrase 'as proud as Lucifer.'"
"I can see your time at Oxford was well-spent."
The look of indignation on her face was almost worth the effort expended prodding at her brain. "In case you have forgotten, I am working off of..."
She trailed off. At last, Safin thought, she was going to take the hint. He returned his attention to the train-car door and ran through the itinerary one more time. Roughly five hours left from here to their destination. With any luck there would be no complications. If Madeleine were out of the picture for a little while he could perhaps afford to get up and start a conversation with their tracker. But if the situation necessitated, well, he was armed and he was confident she would be ready to deal with that possibility.
"Three!" Madeleine said, snapping him halfway out of thought. He did not give her his full attention but he tensed somewhat. "Three hours of sleep, no thanks to you. So if you didn't want the history lesson, do not ask for clarification next time."
He shrugged. "It makes no difference to me what you talk about, as long as you don't make my job any more difficult." He glanced over at her. "Which you haven't."
She blinked slowly. Then she seemed to remember she was supposed to be disgruntled. "Well, I would be happy to sleep if I felt it would be safer in any way."
"You don't feel safe?" She was still glowering at him. "Well," he muttered, "I don't blame you." Safin held his tongue, waiting for the tension to abate. It did not, and so he said, "You didn't even ask what my surname meant."
"I thought you wanted me to go to sleep," she hissed.
"Yes. But we have established that you don't feel safe around me." He held her gaze, very cold.
"I never said it was around you."
"Hm?"
Her shoulders stiffened, her jaw went tight. "But you have already done enough to make me think I should reconsider telling you more than I have."
"I see."
She looked like she wanted to argue but she was too tired to do much else. She slumped back in her seat.
There didn't really seem to be time for anything. No time to get used to the changes, no time to take a breath, no time to grieve. Bill had been on war footing since the explosion at Vauxhall Cross and nothing seemed to slow down.
It was close to one am when he finally closed the war book and tucked it back in the locked drawer of his desk. One day he figured it might be good to scan it, digitize it. But there was something about doing it this way that felt right. Holding on to the old fashioned for as long as he could.
When he got the lift and inside he hesitated. One floor would take him down to the street, and he could be on his way home. But something told him to do the exact opposite.
Which was how he found himself walking into Q Branch, not at all surprised to know it wasn't completely empty.
"You know if anyone else would have found you here, you might be fussed at."
