#q fic

[oogabooqga]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

hello masses 

It finally happened, I finally finished a fic!!

I hope you guys won't kill me with hammers if its bad /lh

anyway hope y'all enjoy 

[nerd6log]

How many of youse would read a fanfiction about Brian Quinn (Q from Impractical Jokers)?

Uh, asking for a friend 🫣

[quynnyah]

happy valentine’s day and huntlow hearts exchange day! this fic was written for  websbian on twitter, who requested a huntlow soulmate au.  

[theboardwalkbody]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Fandom: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Q (Star Trek)/Reader Characters: Reader, You, Q (Star Trek)

Additional Tags: Fluff, fluff fluff fluff fluff, inspired by my daydreams, genderless reader, No gendered terms for reader, gender neutral reader

Series: Part 4 of Maladaptive Daydreams

Summary:

Once Q had discovered your need for ambient sounds to help you fall asleep he had made it a priority to provide you with the real deal rather than just an artificial recreation of the sounds played through cheap speakers next to your bed.

[wickswham]

Q feels like he’s been catapulted into the past. He stands still in the center of the sparse train platform like a deer frozen in the woods. For a second he’s eight again, waiting for the train from London to bring his father home.

Chapter 3 of Like We're Still Dead is here. Please read and tell me it doesn't suck lmao

[yespolkadotkitty]

Improper Attire, pt 2

Part I here

Your breaths were loud in the stillness of Q Branch, only the whirr and hum of servers and computers to keep your heartbeats company. 

You flattened your palms and slid them up Q’s chest, then let your fingers skim over his shoulders and sink into that wavy tangle of hair. Chocolate-dark, you often dreamt about the silky feel of it between your fingers, the way it fell into his eyes when he eased down between your thighs, putting that sharp tongue to good use, making your body bow.

He broke the kiss and stroked his hands down your body, bringing you flush against him as he started to explore the tender skin of your neck, nipping gently at the sensitive skin and then laving the tiny hurts.

When you’d first met, you hadn’t paid too much attention to the genius Quartermaster; youngest the MI6 had ever recruited. Then, over time, you’d listened to him, really listened, to his sharp tongue, his lightning-quick mind, always working overtime under that insane, shaggy hair, green eyes alert behind the glasses he was never without. He was funny, acerbic, thoughtful. Obsessed with tea. Often had his arms wrist-deep in the shell of a computer whilst guiding a 00 through an exploding building in Kabul whilst also thinking about last night’s expert-level Sudoku puzzle in the daily paper.

And then before you knew it, you were noticing things about him. The curve of his jaw. The scent of him, tea and the faint tang of gunpowder and fresh soap. The way his eyes lit just so in the early evening light from the big Q Branch windows. You noticed more and more until want for him curled into every corner of your being.

It had come to a head for you one evening at the firing range. You’d come for some thinking time, to practice with your weapon, just in case - an MI6 employee could never be too careful. Q had been there, ear protectors in place, stance just so, death in his eyes and his finger on the trigger, gripping the Walther with cool precision. That had been it for you.

You arched your neck to give him better access and he turned you, subtly but swiftly, backing you into the desk by the door. You stopped when you bumped gently into it and Q hummed in approval, busy hands starting on the buttons of your smart blouse. One button, then another and another. You breathed him in as he worked diligently, the scent of almond and bergamot intoxicating and somehow, the scent of home.

His knuckles brushed your bare skin; the lace of your bra. You obliged him as he eased the parted fabric down your arms and let it whisper to the floor, unmissed. 

“Exquisite,” he murmured, reaching around to unclasp your bra, and then it, too, joined your blouse at your feet. Q cupped your breasts reverently and bent his head to lavish attention on them. You scooped your hands through his tousled hair. At times like this you wondered how many other people he’d done this with, but those sort of thoughts were dangerous, and you didn’t entertain them for long.

As he pleasured you, his tongue warm and wet, his mouth sweet and diligent, you shoved the grey cardigan off his shoulders where it pooled at his elbows. He murmured his approval as you turned your attention to the shirt, popping one button after another. Your bodies must look like a tangle of arms and clothes and hands and sighs, you thought, happily.

“Q.”

He stopped his ministrations, straightened.

“That’s better.” You pushed the cardigan, shirt and loose tie off his body, exposing his lean, lithe form. An arrow of tourmaline hair led down below his belt. “More.”

He obliged you. The sound of the leather sliding through the metal catch of his belt was loud between you. You stilled his hands. “Let me.”

A smile kicked up one corner of his mouth, soft from your kisses, as you undid his belt all the way, letting his trousers pool at his feet. He wore plain black boxers, serviceable, not intended to seduce, but you were seduced all the same.

No matter how many times you did this, you’d never get tired of seeing him like this, stripped bare, all the coldness and detachment he deployed as Quartermaster peeled back. You knew what it cost him not to react to the sound of a 00’s last breaths as he communicated with them, knew why he was often so brisk and businesslike. But you’d scaled his walls all the same, and now you were behind them, you were never going back.

You looped your arms around his neck and pulled him back into a kiss, sighing into his mouth as his hands spread over your back, touching, claiming. His palms were warm as they skated down your sides, hiking your skirt up. “Turn around,” he murmured against your lips, and you did so with one last tug on the glorious fall of his hair. 

You gazed down at your hands spread on the smooth walnut desk, hearing the rustle of a condom; Q’s quiet breathing. He put those clever fingers to work at your entrance, first easing your underwear down to your knees and then finding you wet and ready. He stroked you in slow circles, and you watched his hand move between your legs. Every part of you tingled, and you felt him hot and heavy against the small of your back. Your skirt was rucked up around your waist; what a picture you must make. You couldn’t bring yourself to care. 

“Now?” he asked into your shoulder, ejecting just enough of a stern, Quartermaster tone that you bucked against his hand, waves of pleasure making your back arch. 

“Now,” you agreed, and he filled you in one smooth thrust, dragging a groan from his lips. You loved those sounds from him. Q was the poster boy for British reserve, but with you, like this, he let go, and it was unendingly beautiful.

He braced his hands on the desk, his arms bracketing yours as he built a steady rhythm, fucking you slowly, perfectly. You pushed your hips back into his, drawing a gasp from deep in his throat. You savoured it. He groaned your name as he thrusts became more erratic, and you freed a hand to touch yourself just above where he filled you, your body undulating against his. You shattered around him just as he stilled, pressing his lips to the curve of your shoulder, emptying himself inside you.

You both sagged after the little aftershocks rocked you. Q kissed the side of your neck, murmuring something unintelligible.

After, he disposed of the condom, you both sorted your clothes out, casting furtive glances at each other. You watched Q’s hands button up his smart shirt, watched him loop his tie around.

“Maybe I’ll put that tie to better use, next time.”

His hand slipped, and you smiled. He wanted there to be a next time.

“Q?”

“Hmmm?” He came past you to pick up his mug, dropped a kiss on your lips. He still tasted of bergamot and smoky tannins.

The phone in the main room of Q Branch rang, shrill, loud in the silence. It would be M, you knew. And just like that, your interlude was over. Until the next time you burned the midnight oil.

Thanks so much to my beta, @hopelessromanticspoonie​ x

[pillowprincesslexa]

hi plz direct me to the priest/sex addict fic

http://archiveofourown.org/works/6107536/chapters/14887630

this one :)

[1x20]

what are your headcanons regarding Q and cats? Does he have any? did they come to him on their own? Like, they knew he was a cat person who needed a cat-shaped friend?

oOOOOOOOOOOH I LOVE Q SO MUCH

anyway q headcanons!

he adopted the second cat but the first one was one that just kept showing up on his doorstep because he made the mistake of feeding it one time and then he decided to keep it

both of his cats are girls and he named them after ada lovelace (the first programmer ever) and grace hopper (who revolutionized coding)

he made tons of gadgets for them to play with and an automatic feed-thingy but he prefers to do it himself anyway

ada is very grumpy and prefers to stay under the furniture but grace keeps bumping her head against his legs and wants to cuddle with him all the time

sometimes he facetimes with them if he can’t make it home in order to keep them from feeling lonely

(sorry i’m bad at headcanons BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THESE ANYWAY)