Chapters: 4/? Fandom: James Bond (Craig Movies) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James Bond/Q Characters: James Bond, Q (James Bond) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Porn With Plot, Anal Sex, Object Insertion, Inappropriate Use of Q Branch Tech, POV James Bond, POV Q (James Bond), James Bond Is a Good Spy, Q is a good boyfriend Summary:

Boring missions make for unmanageable double-0 boyfriends. Q is determined not to let Bond destroy any more of their belongings via adrenaline-fueled reunion sex, so he sets a challenge to wear Bond out—both physically and mentally: a sexy chase through London. Q had better be prepared when Bond finally catches up with him!

Chapters 3 and 4 up now. 

Two more chapters just posted! We hope you’re enjoying this sexy romp through London!

And my last 007 Fest post for 2023…Christmas in July.

MI6 Squad texting headcanons

I can’t believe I almost forgot to post this headcanon I’ve had since June!

Mallory texts pretty slow. He’s more used to emails and misses the tactile response of his faithful blackberry. If he does text, he will keep it short and use military shortenings. He’s not trying to be down with the lingo, he just texts like it’s a telegram and he pays by the character.

Eve and Bill type without looking, fingers flying over the screen to type because they both spend so much of thier time on the phone organsing anyhting and everyting. Eve tried swipe texting once, but sometimes she would go too fast for it to register she’d started a new word and then it was all gibberish. Bill can also be found texting from his tablet one-handed.

Q uses swipe text on his phone, but sighs in frustration every time it fails to recognise a word of jargon or a complex word. It’s hopeless with foreign languages and it just can’t seem to learn that a shortening of a word has a different connotation that the full word. So he most often actually types on his computer where he is fastest and has programs set up which send messages to phones without the system knowing any different.

Bond hates texting. He always presses the wrong keys on these tiny keyboards. His nokia was fine goddammit. Plus, texting can’t accurately convey tone. So he instead sends audio messages. Not voice to text, no, just audio clips. No chance he will be misinterpretted when he tells M he’s going to abandon him in the mountains of Scotland in the middle of Feburary for the terrible intel he was given on this mission which resulted in him wading through the sewers of Uruguay.

No glasses Q xD

They’re both dangerous, but then so is the world. It’s full of sharp smiles and sweet smelling bait, and it’s always, always hungry.

Bond isolates himself because he’s old and weary and tired of scrubbing until he’s raw to get the blood off. He refuses to acknowledge that a run of bad luck doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s cursed.

Q takes precautions because he’s insatiable and curious and cannot stand being told what to do when it comes to his own safety and security. He thinks life is like currency; useless if all you’re going to do is hoard it.

I'm sorry I did you dirty. i'll do better

00QAD heacanon

Alex was saved in the nick of time, but still had to leave, and being angry at the people and the system ended up dropping off the radar and turning his skills to trying to find information to expose the corrupt and nefarious deeds of the government. But Danny, believing he was gone set out on his own mission of revenge, learning to code, and getting swept up into 6 as a way of keeping him "silent" and "under control". But he still has a purpose he keeps hidden, planning to rise through the ranks and get access to everything he can, and he eventually gets promoted to the Quartermaster position.

As Q, he finds himself pitted against an unknown hacker that is trying to crack his system, and they end up testing each other repeatedly, the hacker trying to gain access, and q-branch trying to track him down, until Q think he's found an opening and the hacker expresses his anger at being torn from the one he loved, from the life he could and should have had, and he won't stop until the government pays... and the gears are turning.... Q finds a way to reach out and offer an alliance, not yet realising who it is

For @dartier​‘s prompt of “Outer Space” and the MI6 Cafe Prompt Exchange’s prompt of “Space AU”. I initially wrote a horribly angsty ficlet wherein Q has to watch Bond die, then deleted it and wrote this instead. Is there a German word for dodging a bullet that you yourself fired? LOL

･ ･ ･ ✧ ☆ ✧ ･ ･ ･ ✧ ☆ ✧ ･ ･ ･ ✧ ☆ ✧ ･ ･ ･

“Let me in, Bond!” the engineer demands, slamming a hand against the hatch for emphasis. Unfortunately it just underscores his powerless position as the impact sends him floating away from the hull, flailing in awkward frustration until the straps keeping him attached snap tight and bring him yo-yo-ing back.

“For the last time, Q, no.” Bond sighs, weary from repeating himself, resigned to finally dying in the little spacecraft that had flown him in and out of so many dangerous situations before, and one hundred percent committed to making certain he doesn’t take the engineer with him. The Astra’s core is steadily decomposing, more than halfway to collapsing, imploding, and then exploding. He needs to get well away from the space station with its thousands upon thousands of souls, but first there’s one particularly stubborn boffin-barnacle that he needs to pry off the hull.

“Go back to the station,” Bond repeats. “Please.”

“Come out here and make me,” Q replies mulishly, and the pilot can’t help but chuckle. Of course they’re going to spend their last moments together sniping at each other. He’d love to indulge in a few more minutes of banter but time is running short.

Unfortunately Q seems to realize it too, because he switches from desperate pleading to even more desperate action.

“Stubborn arse,” the engineer mutters, then lights up with sudden realization. “Actually, I’ll make you! Ha!” Q grabs something off his belt and starts fiddling while it Bond frowns and tries to get a better look at what he’s doing through the small viewing port. It looks like he’s trying to stab something with a multi-tool.

“Q, what are you doing?”

Creating a hole in his exo suit, apparently. There’s a terrifying hiss, a misty plume rushing from the engineer’s left glove, and a startled yelp as Q starts twirling at the end of his tethers. Bond’s moving before he can think through their options, rushing through his ship and getting dressed for the great and terrible outdoors.

“Can you plug it?!” he yells, shoving himself into his own exo suit so hastily that he loses a bit of skin against the seals. They’re too far from the station for Q to fly back without running out of air, even if his maneuverability wasn’t critically compromised. Bond needs to get him inside or he’ll die before the craft even has a chance to obliterate them.

“I um…I think I made the hole bigger than I should have.” Q’s laugh is thin and shaky over the comms.

“Just hold on! I’m coming!”

“Oh dear. Oh this is not ideal.”

Bond swears as he clamps his helmet down and forces himself to slow down enough to get the airlock passcode correct on the first try. Q is not dying because Bond fat-fingered the door code.

They might still die in a core meltdown, but he’ll worry about that later.

Happily his rescue operation goes smoothly, even if nothing else today has, and in less than two minutes Bond has his engineer safe in his arms, waiting for the airlock to repressurize.

“Can’t believe you fell for that,” Q remarks, wriggling slightly to get out of the embrace.

“What,” Bond says flatly, and then sees the tiny oxygen canister that Q is waggling with a perfectly intact glove. The cheeky little bastard gets his helmet off and smiles such a smug little smile that Bond is seized with the urge to smack it right off. (With his mouth. And a bit of teeth.)

“Door please,” Q says, tapping at the interior passageway. Bond thinks about threatening to open the outer door instead, but they really don’t have time for mucking about.

“Q, I’ve already tried everything I can think of.”

“Yes, but you haven’t tried everything I can think of,” Q replies. “Chop chop, Commander. We don’t have all day.”

And oh, Bond is going to spank this little brat. Later. When the core is stable and the engines are purring again, when they’re well away from the station and its politics and protocols, and they have all the time in the universe.

On the Table

Q refuses every invitation flat out. On the other hand, he never actually tells Bond to stop asking him out on dates, and to the double-oh that’s as good as a mission jacket personally handed to him by M.

After five weeks of his very best seduction efforts, the double-oh manages to wear Q down to the point where he at least agrees to a dinner date as Bond’s prize should he win a wager between the two of them. But as the one challenged, the Quartermaster insists that he be the one to choose the game.

“I didn’t throw my glove at you and challenge you to pistols at dawn,” Bond protests, not wanting to give up such a large advantage without at least a token struggle.

“Funny you should say that,” the young man replies, and picks up one of the handguns lying on the workbench.

Q outshoots him. With a Walther PPK, no less. And when Bond demands best of three, Q graciously acquiesces and then proceeds to outshoot him with his right hand only, and then his left. The smile that Q bestows upon him as he departs the range - leaving Bond to clean up their weapons and brass and the shattered remnants of his pride - is a pleasant consolation prize.

Afterwards, Bond finds an empty shower cubicle and gets himself off in record time, choking on steam and the sharp scent of cordite that lingers on the hand he’s got curled against the cold tiles.

He tracks his Quartermaster down the next day and hands him a poker chip, and watches in amusement as Q fiddles with it for a moment, searching for a seal or clasp or some other such thing before looking up at him in puzzlement.

“Something to cash in, when you decide on your prize,” Bond explains. He hopes the chip isn’t destined for the bin, and is pleased when it finds a home in Q’s pencil drawer instead.

Q wins a second chip off of Bond at the sniper range. He brings 008 of all people with him to serve as his spotter, and Bond wastes a few minutes narrowing his eyes over this unexpected choice. When all is said and done, Q’s paper target has a ragged circle punched out of dead center, nearly perfect except for one bullet hole that’s slightly off-center, just a smidgen low and to the right. It makes the hole look a bit like a certain letter of the alphabet, capitalized, and Bond absolutely does not allow himself to ask whether it was done deliberately or not. To add insult to injury, Q and Enfield drive off together, with Colin making noises about a lovely little lunch spot that’s on the way to Q’s.

Bond leaves an appointment card to the timed three-gun tactical obstacle course on Q’s desk next. The Quartermaster has taken his time with every shot Bond’s seen him fire thus far; settling into textbook stances, smoothing out his breathing, painstakingly dialing in his aim. Accuracy factors heavily into the final score of the obstacle course, but 007 is betting that needing to run from cover to cover and change weapons and stances will work in his favor.

Despite Bond taking it upon himself to decide the details, the Quartermaster obligingly shows up at the appointed time and starts strapping himself into the required protective gear with an adorable little pout of concentration. Bond cheats a little by helping him with some of the buckles, tugging a little harder than necessary, standing a lot closer than needful. He’s pleased with the flush and slight uptick in breathing rate, and stacks the deck a little higher by going first, hoping that Q is watching as Bond saunters away with an extra flex and roll at the shoulders and hips.

Q’s aim is still near perfect but his time is abysmal in comparison to his agent’s, and Bond is very, very pleased with himself until Q simply hands him back one of his poker chips.

Bond gets back the second poker chip on the private racetrack that Six uses to test its vehicles. But before he can try to win a dinner date next, Q ambushes him three times in quick succession.

First, in the office space that Bond shares with the other double-ohs, with a Scrabble board tucked neatly under one arm.

Second, while Bond is working some post-mission stiffness out of his back in one of the fitness rooms, with two handheld devices loaded with a customized version of a popular block-stacking game.

And third, in a “Name that Meme” contest unfortunately-suspiciously-conveniently being kicked off by the analysts in TSS when he comes ‘round to pick up his mission kit.

Q is an outrageous cheat, and in possession of three poker chips.

It becomes a thing.

(to be continued, probably, hopefully, eventually)

Papavas

Another snippet from the “A Family of Orphans” series.

- ✧ ☆ ✧ -

Instead of being adopted by the upper crust, Q ended up the nucleus of a scattering of wolves, surrounded by them but also drawing them together into a pack.

The bulk of Operations and Administration had been able to reserve judgment - or be reserved and judgmental - all they’d liked, and wait for the new Quartermaster to prove himself. They’d started him back at ‘that jumped-up little naif-nobody-nerd’ with no stepping stones of old money or name, or connections with such to bridge the handicaps of his age and appearance and awkwardness. They’d been content to sit back and wait for monthly and quarterly reports with encouraging graphs, and for budget numbers to back up the presentations and promises. Field had been given no such grace period; they’d had to immediately put their lives in Q’s slender hands and hope that he had a good grip.

He did.

He sent them out and guided them through and brought them back, over and over, time after time, cashing out their hope with faith. If they slipped he told them to watch where they stepped, then presented them with boots featuring smart soles that adjusted from sticky-smooth rubber to inch-deep lugs depending on the terrain. If they were blinded he guided their steps, and threw himself into sourcing more accurate maps and geological surveys and blueprints. And when nothing went sideways, he stayed up nights inventing and imagining and innovating, in the hopes that the next mission would go just as smoothly.

The field agents noticed, because of course they did.

Checking gear back in became more of an event than it had been under the previous Quartermaster. The double-ohs especially, with their higher security clearances, made a point of manipulating meetings and scouting out schedules to ensure that Q himself was there for the hand-off. And where before they’d bragged amongst themselves about narrow escapes and thrilling chases, now their competitive chit-chat revolved around describing whatever smiles or laughs or friendly banter they’d been able to tease from the young man.

“I win all the points,” 004 declared one day, texting her victory into the group chat that wasn’t supposed to exist, to ensure that even the agents not at hand knew about her (most recent) claim to supremacy. “In fact, they are no longer called points; they are now Papavas. I made him laugh so hard he snorted, and then he just laughed harder. Someday I will make that boy cry, and I will wear his pretty little tears on a necklace.”

Currying the Quartermaster’s favor also had them bringing back souvenirs outside of their official mission objectives; tech that looked interesting, information that had belonged to persons of interest, and tins of tea from all over the world. 008 carved out a bit of individuality for himself by splashing out on regional wines and spirits for his Quartermaster in a subtle brag on his ability to complete missions ahead of schedule and under the radar, leaving him time to leisurely browse local shops and then come home without having to duck, roll, and dive.

006, not exactly known for his quiet exits, found a different route to the Quartermaster’s heart. He took advantage of being benched by Medical and began sauntering into Q branch every afternoon with a bakery bag dangling from his cast. He bribed his way past suspicious support staff with boxes of chocolates, and bought himself a few minutes of the Quartermaster’s attention with caffeine and patisserie. On good days, he even managed to talk the department head into taking a proper fifteen minute break in which to appreciate the baked goody of the day. 006 cluttered up the group chat with brief clips of filthy-sounding moans, and refused to reveal which pastry had generated 20120624_184702.mp4 despite some rather creative threats and shameless bribes.

The novelty of seeing MI6’s deadliest agents prowling into Q Branch like cats proudly bringing home mice and lizards and frantically flapping baby birds soon wore off. The wary, wide-eyed looks from analysts and technicians and engineers evolved into brief, bored glances or welcoming smiles and nods - especially if the agent was carrying a large pink bakery box - and if Q was missing, directions for tracking him down were called out.

“He’s in lab four. Here, you’ll need these ear protectors.”

“I think he’s decompressing with Miss Moneypenny. Take him some sugar, please; he’s been in meetings all morning.”

“Oh thank God. He’s in his office, refusing to leave until he finishes decrypting the files from Myanmar even though M said it could wait. Kidnap him and feed him, please, and don’t bring him back until he’s slept at least five hours?”

Because while Q had adopted the field agents, Q Branch had adopted their new leader. They’d watched as he’d thrown himself entirely into his new role, demanding dedication and excellence from them, but from himself most of all. He hadn’t attempted to micromanage or throw shallow platitudes around, in fact he’d seemed not to know how to manage them at all. Instead he’d done his charmingly awkward best to get to know their strengths and passions, and assigned or re-assigned them to tasks that promised the greatest engagement and therefore efficiency. And when they saw him trying to shelter the double-ohs under his spindly wings, they instinctively got arms around him themselves.

Q’s Outfits

This is what Q equips himself with when he goes to clean out Bond’s flat. The socks are his favorite socks because they always cheer him up. Except today.

This is what Q wears to fly to where Bond is apparently not dead and yet content to just let everyone think he got blown up. The notebook is full of reminders about things Q wants to yell at Bond once he tracks the bastard down.

This is Q’s outfit for when Bond has finally graduated occupational and physical therapy, regained most of his memories, and takes Q on a fishing trip. Q finds out that a “fishing trip” is like a nice country drive where you - oops - temporarily run out of gas in a nice secluded lay by. He is okay with this.

String on Pin

A double-drabble to get some Spectre feels out.

- ✧ ☆ ✧ -

“Imagine that your heart is a grenade, and when you fall in love with someone, you tie a string to the pin and loop the other end ‘round that special someone. Several times, if you’re devoted. Tight, if you’re possessive. If they want to knock you back, they untangle themselves. If they do it poorly, they snap it and leave you with a shorter string, some frayed ends. And if you’re really unfortunate, they don’t even notice because they never bothered to look - really look - your way, and one day their gaze catches on a pretty blonde standing on the other side of a bridge and they just…walk away, string on pin.”

After that analogy, what can he say? That he didn’t know? She’s right; he never bothered to look. He’s got natural talent, extensive training, and years of experience in reading people. If he’d thought to check, he could hardly have failed to notice. The cherry atop all this damning bourbon is that Q himself cannot dissemble worth a damn. If it was anyone else, Bond would refuse to believe that anything but willful avoidance could have resulted in not noticing that he’d held Q’s heart in his hands.

Scavenger Hunt #17

Make a James Bond poster featuring a landmark in your town that could feature in a Bond film.

(You know, I was originally going to say this was a sequel to Moonraker, but decided to not to. If nothing else, consider it a No Time to Die Fix It.)