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shegatsby · 1 year ago

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Hi, how are you? Please don't judge or kill me! Please, I don't condone this kind of behaviour. So, I have a request about Mads Mikkelsen's character Le Chiffre from Casino Royale.

So Female!Reader's father won against Le Chiffre his money at the casino.

To take revenge, Le Chiffre kidnaps Reader to get revenge on her father. Warning:Kidnapping, Non-con.

Please don't kill me, I don't condone this behaviour.!!! <3<3<3

A/N; Thank you for this request I sure had fun writing it ;) It got longer than i expected but hey, who cares. love you all.

Warnings; Kidnapping, smut, minors get the fuck out or else!

The only reason why you followed your father to Montenegro was to unwind from stressful year at the university. He said he had some business to attend to and he offered you a most generous holiday which you didn’t hesitate to indulge in. First few days were relaxing, you joined a yoga class, got several massages, swam in the sea and also at the pool, however, tonight would be the night to switch things up.

Your father said he was going to gamble at a casino, the hotel you stayed in was infamous for its illegal businesses such as gambling. Your father said it could be fun to have you there with him, he liked to show off his intelligent and siren looking daughter and to distract the gamblers.

Your dress was long and red, the fabric was satin, so smooth on your skin, the dress had a slash on your left side, up to your thigh. Hair let loose, red nails and red lips.. you were the walking femme fatal that night.

You entered the room with your dad, a soft 20s music was playing at the casino, yellow lights and dark green chairs, couches made the place look vintage, there were bodyguards at each door.

As you walked together you saw him

He was among his ‘’friends’’ or people he did business with. He was covered in black, which made him look manly and dangerous. His silver watch was shining under the yellow lights, you noticed that he had no ring, could be single. He was laughing at one of their jokes when he lifted his gaze and he saw you entering. His expression changed in a second, the way he looked at you up and down didn’t go unnoticed. His left eye twitched and he looked away, from afar you could see there was something in his left eye, looked like a nasty scar. It made you curious about him, because the way he dressed and held himself showed you that he had men to do the dirty work but maybe, time to time he liked to get his hands dirty… why were you so interested in a man who seemed older than you all of a sudden? You were here to enjoy your holiday and do a trick with our dad. Ever since you hit the age 18 your dad started to take you to casinos when he wanted to gamble, and you came up with this thing where you flirt with other gamblers to distract them, it worked usually because of weak nature of men.

Your father guided you to the bar to get drinks, there was still 20 minutes till the game started so he ordered you something and you gracefully took your place to observe the environment. ‘’Excuse me love, I have to use the restroom.’’ Your father announced and left, you were enjoying your drink and listening to the soft tunes when you felt a presence next to you. You looked up to see your father but you were surprised. That man with the scar was sitting next to you, ‘’Hello.’’ He said looking at you, he wasn’t shy showing his scar, it was infact nasty but you didn’t shy away, you directly looked into his eyes, you innocently smiled, for some strange reason you liked the scar, it suited him perfectly. His plump lips formed into a dangerous smile, ‘’Allow me to accompany you while you wait for your partner.’’ His tone was questioning, he ordered two drinks, ‘’He is my father. Not so smooth are you Mister?’’ he chuckled at your boldness, he extended his hand, ‘’Le Chiffre. And you are?’’

You accepted his hand, he had a strong grip, ‘’Ms. Y/N Y/L/N.’’ he gave a small peck on your hand, predator disguised as a gentleman. ‘’I assume you are here to accompany your father?’’ you took a sip from your cocktail, ‘’Correct. I didn’t want to leave him alone, plus, I’m his lucky charm.’’

‘’Good girl.’’ His eyes never left yours, you wondered if he could see from his scarred eye, of course you didn’t ask. With his comment you could feel heat rising up to your cheeks, thankfully your father came.

‘’Le Chiffre?’’ your father asked in a not so kind matter, ‘’Mr. Y/L/N,’’ he greeted your father with the same icy cold courtesy. ‘’Long time no see.’’ Your father said, ‘’Looking forward to see you at the game with your,’’ he looked at you, ‘’lucky charm.’’ His hand went to his pocket to get his silver inhaler and bid you goodbye. You didn’t understand the tension that they had, maybe it was because of the competitive business life.

Soon the game started, your father’s instructions were simple, wait for Le Chiffre to make a bold move and distract him, it was an old game of yours.

You were like a hawk watching the table from afar, your fingertips circling around the cocktail glass, you saw that it was his turn to make a move and you bolted to your feet. Your heels were making powerful sounds on the marble floor and you saw him looking up as he was shaking the dice in his big palm, your eyes never left his dangerous ones, he wasn’t ready the dice unintentionally fell from his palm, you saw the pure anger written on his perfectly shaped face as you got on the elevator you could hear your father’s victorious laugh.

You didn’t join your father, who was celebrating the big cash he just won. You were in your hotel room, just out of the shower and moisturized. You couldn’t help but think of Le Chiffre, was that money important to him? Did your father and he had a history? You needed a spa night. Since it was late you didn’t mind leaving your hotel room only in a long robe and nothing else, the halls were quiet, no workers around which was strange. You didn’t mind, the spa was at the top floor so you pressed the button and waited, after few floors two men who were dressed in black joined. When you reached the top floor something felt fishy with the situation but you couldn’t turn back to your room now so you decided to stick with the plan. Your steps were quick on the marble floors, you finally saw someone who was attending the spa area and you informed them, they smiled and showed you to one of the cabins. You were alone, thankfully. You just sat and closed your eyes to relax, the steam helped you calm your mind, well, it was too calming and soon you were asleep.

You slowly started to feel your body again, your eyelids felt so heavy but a sudden panic made you open your eyes, you weren’t at the spa, you were at a bedroom.. that wasn’t yours.

As you lifted your body with the help of your shaky hands you heard a voice which was familiar, ‘’Slow down, you are still recovering.’’ Someone, a man, sat on the edge of the bed and you could feel his hand on your small back. You looked up to see him and it was Le Chiffre, but why was he here?

‘’Wh-‘’ your throat was dry, ‘’Here.’’ He offered you a glass of water, you were hesitant but thirst clenched your being so you drank with his help. ‘’Good girl.’’ He said when you drank the whole glass.

You were coming to your senses so you pushed yourself away from him, your back resting on the headboard of the bed, ‘’You might be wondering why you’re here-‘’

‘’Might?!’’ you replied. Cleary not amused, ‘’As you can remember your father won a significant amount of money, thanks to your help, I want that money back.’’

‘’So you kidnapped me?!’’ you could feel anger boiling, ‘’Smart one aren’t you. Until that money is returned you are my-‘’

‘’Hostage.’’ You sarcastically said, ‘’guest.’’ He answered, ‘’It had been 5 hours since you were taken You must be hungry. Come.’’ He extended his hand but you refused, as you quickly stood up you got dizzy so he grabbed your waist, his scent filled your nostrils. He smelled good.

You couldn’t protest because it was hard for you to walk so with his help you left the room. You weren’t at the hotel anymore, it was a mansion. Was this his house? You walked down the stairs, all you could see was an astonishing house with large paintings and furniture. He took you to the dining room where breakfast waiting for you both. Your stomach growled, he chuckled and helped you to your chair. ‘’Why can’t you just win the money back? There is another game tonight.’’ You asked, looking at the breakfast. You had to keep your calm in order to survive because you didn’t know what was he capable of. ‘’I don’t have for another game and I don’t like taking chances.’’

You laughed sarcastically, ‘’Says the man who was gambling last night.’’ You drank the orange juice, it was tasty. ‘’I was going to win. Until I got distracted by a certain beauty.’’ His comment made you blush so you didn’t look at him, ‘’Is it scary to look at me love?’’ he sounded hurt, ‘’I understand if it is the case.’’ You didn’t care about the scar so you looked straight at him, ‘’There we go.’’ He smiled, ‘’Now, finish your breakfast, I have plans for us.’’

You didn’t know his plan but you had to play along, you finished your breakfast as he commanded so, it was delicious anyways and you were almost sure there was no poison. He looked at your finished plate, you could see a small smile forming on his plump lips, they distracted you, ‘’Well done.’’ You noticed that he kept giving you praises, which was your weak spot but he didn’t know.. or did he?

He stood up, extended his big hand, ‘’Shall we?’’

You thought he was going to torture you, lock in his basement, feed you to his dogs but instead he took you on a stream in the mountains, he said he liked to come here, swim and make plans for his business, he said the water calms his nerves and keeps him connected to mother nature. Before you left his mansion a maid came to give you a bag with everything you need, a bathing suit, towels, sunglasses, sunscreen, you name it. Le Chiffre didn’t need changing, he just took off his shirt and jumped into the stream, you thought he wanted to give you privacy so you quickly changed into your bathing suit, it was red, a color he choose but you had no idea. Once you changed you placed one of the towels on the grass and sat, started to put sunscreen on your legs, arms, ‘’Need a hand?’’ you heard his serpent voice, tempting and you looked up to see him, on the edge, his broad arms supporting his body by leaning into the ground, ‘’Yes, thank you.’’ Two can play the games, you thought. The way he jumped up to the shore, his arms and legs flexing did something to your core. You had to exhale the breath you were holding, without a word he sat behind you, put some sunscreen in his palm and started to rub your back. You literally held onto grass under your hands, his calloused hands trying to be gentle but you could sense the certain urge to go deep, and rough.

‘’When I first saw you at the casino,’’ he began, ‘’I thought to myself, I must have this girl somehow.’’ He wasn’t shy at all, ‘’I guess Universe finally decided to give me a break and let me have one good thing.’’ It was obvious that his life was difficult, and seeing you as something good made you blush.

You turned to face him, his eyes were hoping for something, something tangible and you decided.

You leaned in to give him a kiss which he gladly took, his lips were so full and soft, his big hands went to caress your face, as the kiss got heated you followed his movements, he made you lay on your back, your legs invited him by opening. When he bit your neck you moaned, he pulled away, ‘’Did I hurt you?’’ he was out of breath, the genuine curiosity could be seen in his eyes and you almost cried. ‘’No, keep going.’’

He kissed you again, you could feel his hard member between your legs, there was no going back.

His hand went to dip into your wetness and he moaned into your mouth, he pulled away to give kisses to your face and neck, ‘’just how I imagined.’’ He said as he started to rub your clit, your arched your back, his sweet torture was driving you mad. ‘’Do you want this?’’ he looked to see any sort of discomfort on your face but all he found was flushed cheeks, lust written in your eyes, mouth slightly parted. ‘’Yes,’’ you said, ‘’please’’ he grinned.

His fingers pushed the fabric away, he quickly got rid of his short and gave himself few pumps, you couldn’t help but notice how big he was.

He rubbed his tip into your folds, making you whimper, ‘’pleasee’’ you said whining, ‘’Please what, lucky charm?’’ you couldn’t help but moan deeply, ‘’Please fuck me, ever since I saw you last night I wanted you to bend me over and fuck me raw.’’ Well, it wasn’t a lie, he had a strange aura to him.

Your confession startled him at first, Le Chiffre, even though he didn’t want to admit, he had insecurities thanks to the scar on his face, ladies usually went for his colleges, not him. Hearing you openly admit to want him turned him on, he was planning on to be gentle with you but after what you said, that wasn’t an option anymore, he had to have you and keep you all to himself.

Your legs wrapped around him and he inserted himself with one thrust, you screamed in pain at first because it had been a while, ‘’Look at me.’’ He was deep inside you, you could feel his pubic hair tickling your skin. You meet his eyes and he started to move, you knew after this session you would have sore thighs, but you didn’t want him to stop. He stretched you out perfectly, ‘’Open your mouth.’’ And you did, he spit in your mouth, bit your lower lip, gave you multiple hickies.

Your fingers locking in his hair, you’ve never heard a man moan like him before, it made you clench around him again and again. You wetness and the sounds you make was heaven for him, of course he had multiple partners before but they all seemed fake, artificial, on the other hand you were screaming, tears in the corner of your eyes, you looked perfect. He sucked on your clothed nipples, gave them slaps, you were close and each sucking and slapping made you see stars, you liked his roughness. ‘’Come on my cock princess, let me feel it, come on.’’ He knew you were close and his praises pushed you over the edge, he followed behind.

His head fell to the crook of your neck, both of you were breathing heavily, ‘’I can’t let you go, not after this.’’

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seoll3miwrites · 1 month ago

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'Cherry' | Fem!Y/N x Lyutsifer Safin

Masterlist Y/N is working undercover at a Strip Club in Vegas when she encounters Safin meeting with a potential supplier for his newest concoction, usually a top performing agent she suddenly finds herself being unable to tell a lie. (Word Count: 2553)

Warnings: Guns, Blood, Death, Drug usage, Drink spiking (but not by Safin)

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“I said this was a terrible idea...” Y/N said as she adjusted the tight leather dress she’d been forced to wear.

“We just need to get the benefactor’s name; it shouldn’t take much longer.” Q explained as he checked his surveillance gear; he usually didn’t leave London, but Y/N had specifically requested Q join her as she trusted him the most.

“It’s been two weeks, Q...”

“Apparently someone’s booked the VIP booth tonight, so this might be the last night you have to do.”

MI6 had been trailing a possible drug ring that operated in Las Vegas; rumours had spread a drug that completely erases a person's ability to lie, making them more controllable. As one of the youngest female agents, Y/N was assigned to go undercover at one of the target strip clubs and figure out who was funding the operation. They’d found a job at a club called ‘Bunny Girls’ and inserted Y/N in as Cherry, the club’s newest waitress.

“Anyway, you’re running late for your shift, so go go go.” As he spoke, Q pushed her out of the small building he’d been operating from. Once Y/N was outside, she huffed before walking around the corner and entering the club she was undercover at.

"Cherry, just the girl I want to see.” The club owner greeted her as she entered the dressing room, “The VIP booth is booked tonight, so I want all your attention on our big spenders.”

Y/N bat her eyes, taking on the role of Cherry once again. “Sure thing, boss,” she said, earning an appreciative look from the owner. Once he left, she sat down in her chair and started getting ready.

When the club opened an hour later, Y/N had her hair curled and her makeup completed, the glitter on her eyes making them sparkle under the club. Standing, she readjusted her dress one more time before making her way on to the main club floor.

“Hey Cherry!” John, the barman, greeted her as she stepped behind the bar. “You dressed up pretty tonight.”

She repressed the urge to roll her eyes; ever since she’d gone undercover, John had taken every opportunity to shamelessly flirt with her. According to the other girls, he took it as tradition to sleep with all the new starters.

“I’m dressed the same as I usually do, John,” Y/N stated, and she started getting the VIP buckets prepped, filling them with ice.

He simply smiled at her. “I know..." John titled his down as she crouched to pull out the bottles for the ice buckets. “But I think you get hotter every night.”

“Does that line usually work?” She stood back up and started placing the bottle in the buckets.

“Don’t pretend it isn’t working on you.” He leans into her space as he speaks; Y/N backs up slightly.

“I’ve got a job to do so…” As she speaks, she gestures to the two buckets she needed to take to the VIP booth.

"Well, before you go, at least taste test my newest drink.” She sees a shot glass slide across the counter in front of her. “It’s cherry-flavoured.”

Y/N is about to say no; tell him to fuck off with his desperate attempts to seduce her, but instead she just sighs and drinks the shot quickly so she can continue this night without any more problems. He’s right, it does taste like cherries; it’s sweet and a little tart, but Y/N still finds herself enjoying it. Placing the glass down, she turns to John, “Happy now?”

“Very, now go on; we can talk later.” He had a strange look on his face, but Y/N decided to just leave it until later. She walks back out of the bar while carrying the two buckets, heading to the VIP booth.

In the booth are what seems to be two different groups of men, clearly some ‘business’ discussing some type of criminal partnership. One group Y/N recognises as an infamous casino owner and drug dealer in Las Vegas, but the other is an enigma. Her eyes scan the second group; they seem more professional than the first group. The first group greets her with cheers and whistles while they keep their expressions guarded.

Sitting in the middle of the booth are the two leaders of the groups. The first group’s leader is an older man, dressed in what you’d expect a mob boss to dress in. The second is younger but still mature-looking; his face is covered in scarring that reminds Y/N of lighting; it’s eerily beautiful. His blue eyes are calculating as he looks at her; he seems almost amused.

Shaking off his gaze, Y/N retakes her ‘Cherry’ persona: “Hello Gentlemen, welcome to Bunny Girls; I’m Cherry, and I’ll be your waitress this evening; anything you need, just give me a call.” She finishes her introduction with a flirty wink.

The scarred man doesn’t speak to her instead choosing to whisper to his companion, who looks at her. Instead, the other leader turns to her with a leer. “This is why I like this place; they always give us the pretty ones.”

He gestures to the space between him and the scarred man, “Come sit with us, darling.”

Y/N hesitates for a moment and glances at the scarred man subconsciously, who simply gives her a subtle nod. As she moves towards the empty space beside him, her heart beats faster. She feels the man’s gaze on her, causing shivers to spread through her body.

The other man put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her to him, leaning in close. “What’s a pretty thing like you working in a place like this?”

Her body feels hot suddenly, and thinking it’s just from the men's body heat, she ignores it. “Just making sure you lovely gentlemen enjoy your night.” She answers, but a part of her feels compelled to keep speaking; she bites her lip to stop herself.

“Not what I mean, darling,” the man responds, “I mean, how’d a girl like you end up here and not under the arm of some billionaire?”

Without thinking, she blurts out an answer: "Well, I didn’t want to work here, but my boss made me.”

‘Why are you saying this?’ Y/N thinks confused with herself; her mind feels cloudy, and her body starts to loosen. She keeps thinking back to that cherry-flavoured shot she’d drank. ‘Shit… I’ve been drugged.

The scarred man leans back to look at her; his eyes suggest he’s thinking of something. “Interesting…” His voice is deep and hoarse with a thick Russian accent. “And why did he make you work here?”

“We need information on a potential drug ring; the drug currently circulating could compromise The Crown’s security.” She needed to get out of here before she’d kept talking, but she couldn’t move.

He leaned in closer, assessing her carefully. Close enough to smell, she inhaled sharply—florals and something else. Y/N felt out of control; her body wasn’t computing with her mind anymore. He spoke in a low whisper, “And why would a girl like you care about the safety of the crown?”

This was bad; it was clear this man knew Y/N had been drugged. “She’s a goddam spy!” The other man yelled alarm as he pulled his hand away and stood, his men following suit. He pulled out his pistol and aimed it towards her.

The scarred man's smirk widened as he watched the scene play out, the revelation of her identity causing a shift in the room. The other man is now pointing a weapon at her. He remained calm, unmoving. He was amused by the development, intrigued by the young women.

"A spy? How intriguing." He leaned forward, his eyes locking with hers, his voice dripping with a hint of mockery.

"You have quite the nerve, Miss..." He let the question hang in the air, waiting for her response.

“Y/L/N, Y/N Y/L/N.” She said through gritted teeth, still trying to resist the effects of the drugs, forcing her body to stand.

Safin chuckled softly, appreciating her determination. "Miss Y/L/N..." He savoured the way her name rolled off his tongue. "How interesting, a spy from MI6.”

He watched her struggle to stand, her attempts to resist the effects of the drugs in vain. His eyes scanned her figure and the way her body moved uncontrollably. There was something so enticing about the way she was fighting, the way she was losing her composure.

He stood slowly, walking towards her. His voice was low, almost seductive. Y/N was overwhelmed with how this man was able to effect her, but trying to regain her dignity, she held her head high and responded, “You never introduced yourself, sir.”

"Ah, forgive me, where are my manners?” He spoke, standing to move in front of her, his eyes predatory. “I am Doctor Lyutsifer Safin.”

She stepped back from him in fear but froze when she felt the end of the gun. The other man was still aiming towards her. The man she now knew as Safin watched her carefully, “Leave us; we will discuss our business later.” He spoke to the other group, not taking his eyes off the young agent.

The other men left without hesitation, their gazes lingering on Safin and the young agent before they exited the VIP booth. As soon as they were alone, the atmosphere changed drastically. The club around them was still alive—the music, the laughter, the dancing. She could hear the announcer introduce another girl as the crowd cheered. But in their isolated vicinity, it was almost quiet, almost intimate.

He took another step towards her. “You... don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Should I?" She couldn’t move, allowing him to take a mother step forward, their chests almost touching.

He smiled slightly amused by her response, reaching a hand to trace his finger along her jawline, his touch as light as a feather. “You’re the one undercover, spying on my people.”

“I was given a very... limited mission assignment.” She explained, giving up on stopping herself when it was clear nothing could, “We didn’t know who we were looking for.”

His touch became more purposeful, fingertips gliding down her arm, feeling her body shiver under his touch. His eyes roamed over her face, observing her closely. "Who sent you here, Miss Y/L/N?"

“I think you already know," she spoke, trying to hold onto the last piece of information her drugged mind hadn’t given up.

His eyes narrowed slightly, and his hand moved to her waist, pulling her closer. His voice was a whisper; she could feel his breath on her neck. “I want you to say it out loud.”

Y/N clenched her eyes shut, unable to hold back any longer, “I work for MI6.”

She heard Safin hum seemingly pleased with her response. His grip on her waist tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh just a little harder.

He leaned in even closer, his lips almost touching her neck, his breath hot and heavy against her skin.

"Good girl..." he murmured. "Now tell me, are you alone in this operation?”

"I...” she could feel herself speak, about to expose the entire operation, when another dancer, Honey, stepped into the booth. “Cherry, you’re needed at the bar.”

Safin's eyes met those of the dancer. His gaze hardened at the unexpected intrusion, but he let go of Y/N. He took a step back, looking between the two women. "Miss Y/L/N and I are still having our conversation."

Sensing an opportunity to escape, Y/N moved to the entrance of the booth before speaking, “I should go see what they need; it was a pleasure meeting you, Doctor Safin.”

She left before he could react, but instead of going to the bar, she went to the dressing room. Grabbing her bag, she escaped through the backdoors, hoping to reconvene with Q. As she moved through the parking lot, texting Q that she’d been compromised, a voice behind her made her freeze. “Going somewhere?”

As she turned, she came face to face with John, but his face was different from his usual personality. His eyes were dark and narrow as he stared at her. Her hand reached into her grab to grip her gun, and she spoke, “You drugged me.”

John chuckled at her accusation, clearly amused by her realisation. "Drugged you? I was simply making you comfortable.”

“What did you give me?” She asked, thankful the night air was helping to clear her head. “Where did you get it from?”

“A friend of mine hooked me up; it's... experimental, but most of the girls have enjoyed it.” John admitted no longer seeing the need to hide, taking a step forward.

As he began to approach, Y/N pulled her gun from her pocket, aiming at him. “Stay right there!”

John smirked at her, nearly laughing, “Give me a break; you’re just a stripper... what damage could you do?”

“You have no idea." She tried to steady her hand, but it still trembled slightly. She was coming down from the drug, but it’d still be a while.

Josh ignored the gun and began to run towards her, planning to ambush her and knock her down. He nearly reached her when suddenly his body fell and blood sprayed on her face. Y/N looked at her in confusion; she hadn’t fired.

Her eyes looked from her gun down to John's body, breathing heavily from the adrenaline. She looked up from the body and was face-to-face once again with Safin. He was holding a small silenced pistol, the muzzle still smoking.

Y/N shuffles on her feet slightly under his intense stare. He seems allured by the crimson splatter now staining her face, stepping closer, causing her to take a step back. She’s still breathing heavily and tries to catch her breath.

“Most people would thank the person that saved their life.” He spoke as he calmly handed his gun to his second in command.

“I had it handled.”

"Oh, I’m sure you did.” Safin replied almost mockingly.

A car’s horn sounded, causing Y/N to finally turn away from him; just down the road, she recognised the lights of Q’s car. Without speaking again, she sprinted down the street and flung the door open. Throwing her bag in, she was about to jump inside too, but she paused. Turning back for a moment, her eyes once again met the piercing blue of Lyutsifer Safin, and you both knew this wouldn’t be the last encounter.

As Y/N hopped into the car, she ignored Q’s rapid questions and closed her eyes. She sighed as she ran through the last hour through her head; her face was still wet with John’s blood, but she didn’t have the energy to wipe it off. Resting her head on the window, she fell asleep as her friend quickly drove them away from Las Vegas and towards their extraction point.

Safin watched as the car you entered pulled away and quickly raced from the scene; it was only as the car turned the corner did he finally look away. He briefly looked at the body on the ground before he began giving orders to his men. “Get rid of the body,” he stated as he began to walk away, “and find me anything you can on Y/N Y/L/N”.

AN: Part 2 out now!

#lyutsifer safin #x reader #oneshot #lyutsifer safin x reader #no time to die #undercover!reader #safin x reader #smut #Y/N #reader insert #rami malek #rami malek x reader #james bond #mi6 #spectre #fem!reader #safin #spy!reader

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noforkingclue · 7 months ago

Note

Hey I have a James Bond x reader request for you. Everything is up to you but could the reader please say "Back off Bond. Not all of us are classified by the Navy as a friendly port." Please feel free to ignore.

Of course, anon!

Hope you like the fic :)

Title: Flirtations

“Back again Bond,” you said as you folded your eyes and leant back in your chair, “maybe Q was right about you.”

“And what has Q been saying about me?” asked Bond as he slowly walked around your workshop

“I’m surprised you don’t know.”

“Maybe I just want to hear it from you.”

You took a sip of your coffee as you watched Bond inspect the half built gadgets. It was late and you knew you shouldn’t be drinking coffee this late but you needed to stay awake. You were behind on your latest project and you knew Q was expecting it to be finished any day.

“Hey, don’t touch that!” you said

Bond’s hand hovered over a seemingly innocent looking watch. He looked over at you, eyebrows raised and a look of amusement on his face.

“And why not?”

You got up and carefully moved the watch.

“Because it contains explosives.” you explained

“You touched it.”

“But I know how not to set it off. Well,” you grimaced as you slowly put it back down, “most of the time.”

“Most of the time?”

“Well, I might’ve had a little accident… you remember that fire alarm last week.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s just say it wasn’t just a test.”

“Sounds like a fascinating story.”

“Q was pissed. I owed him a lot of Earl Grey for helping me to clear up the mess.”

“Sounds amusing.”

“Not from where I was standing.”

“Maybe you’d like to tell it to me.”

“And when would I have the time to do that?”

“Over dinner.”

“Dinner?” you gave him an incredulous look, “and when would I have the time to go to dinner?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“That is what I said. Does Q know that you’re turning into a parrot.”

“I think he’d be disappointed if I did. He might lose one of his best workers.”

“One of his best? I see his arrogance is rubbing off on you.”

Bond slowly walked towards you and you leant against your desk. It was always entertaining when Bond turned up, especially if he had just come back from a mission. While you never liked seeing all the tech you had worked on being destroyed, seeing Q angry and arguing with the double O agent was always good entertainment. By now Bond was directly in front of you and caged you in against your desk. You were forced to sit on top of it just to try and get some personal space.

“You never answered me about dinner.” he asked

“I think I did.”

“You implied that tonight wasn’t good. But there are plenty of other nights.”

“Back off Bond,” you said teasingly, “Not all of us are classified by the Navy as a friendly port.”

“Hmm,” one of Bond’s hands settled on your waist and began, “that’s not what you were telling me the other night.”

“That was then, Commander.”

“And tonight?”

“Like I said- I’m busy.”

“Tomorrow.”

“You’re not going to give up, are you?”

“No.”

Bond pressed a rough kiss against your lips. You moaned softly and tangled your fingers in his hair. When Bond finally broke the kiss he said,

“I’ll take as a yes.”

“Only if you’re paying.”

#fanfiction #james bond #reader insert #request #james bond x reader

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theknightmarket · 2 years ago

Note

This is like the most random concept to probably ever come to me so out of the blue, you don't have to do it if you don't want to, but also I feel like if anyone could make something interesting out of this it'd be you. (love your fics btw<3)

So like, Illinois, with his whole knock-off Indiana Jones bullshit, with an s/o who's similarly akin to James Bond...….yeah idk either, man- You can come up with whatever action movie plot, or maybe just some domestic fluff with comically abrupt fight scenes sprinkled in cus that's just how chaotic I imagine their life would be. It's entirely up to you. I am very tired rn.

“Berlin, 1996.”

In which Illinois and his partner – in more than one sense – relive their meeting.

TW: cursing, blood, drug use, general mature themes

Pages: 12 – Words: 5,000

[Requests: OPEN]

The distant sizzle of waffle batter on a pan was the first thing you recognised when you woke in your bed. The smell of coffee wafting from the same place was the second, and the third, while a strange sensation to anyone else, was comforting to you. Your dog lapping at your hand that dangled over the side of the bed had you shaking yourself from the fuzzy grip of sleep. It was going to be a long and laborious process considering the amount of work you’d had for the last week, but this was finally a day that you could spend doing whatever you wished – which, right now, looked a lot like following the sweet scent of breakfast into the kitchen.

Moriarty led the way, the beautiful puppy, although actually a six-year-old Belgian Malinois, whom you had adopted a few years back. He had never liked many of your friends, and you trusted his nose enough to follow his advice. Sure, it might have seemed weird to take social cues from a canine, but he hadn’t steered you wrong yet. Whether it was a Russian spy you’d accidentally offered coffee to, or the smuggler who moved in down the road, Moriarty told you when people were off, and that just happened to be most of those you came in contact with. You’d long since given up making connections when the tenth potential acquaintance had turned out to be the head of some mafia you’d never even heard of.

And then imagine your surprise when you finally brought home someone he liked.

And your further surprise when he stayed the night, and then the morning, and then a week, and then a month, a year, and so on, until you should have been asking him for rent. All the while, Moriarty hadn’t made a peep, leaving you to your devices with this new and, for lack of a better term, strange fellow.

“Morning, gorgeous!”

Speak of the devil and he may appear.

That ‘devil’, affectionate, of course, was none other than the infamous Illinois Jones. A man chased by many, found by few, and held onto by only the luckiest of the lot. You were one of these people, aware that you had him in the palm of your hand, and you thanked him routinely in the morning with a kiss on the cheek for staying.

The clock on the oven flashed a sharp 08:41, an unusual time for Illi to be awake at, but you weren’t complaining. Your job was stressful; you were sure that any doctor would tell you to quit immediately with how often your blood pressure spiked, so you treasured these couple of moments when you were given a break. Your partner had an on-and-off relationship with missions, the things he preferred to call adventures, but he had a likewise relationship with the agency itself. He had a habit of running off to foreign lands without permission, looking for trouble and finding it, too. You wouldn’t mind it, had it not been for your unfortunate love of the man that drew you after him, like a dog on a leash. In the meantime, a good rest was well deserved, now that you were back in the comfort of your own home after an unexpected visit to Guyana.

Plus, he looked damn good in boxers and an apron.

You lazily wrapped your arms around his waist, unintentionally distracting him from the food he was preparing, and muttered into his neck, “G’morning.”

“If you want breakfast, you’re gonna have to let me cook, babe,” he laughed, though that didn’t stop him from leaning back into you.

Your only response was a muffled groan. It wasn’t your fault that you were so touchy-feely today. Work took up most of the daylight, and upkeep stole the rest away. The only time you really got together was in the late hours of the night when twilight would draw a sheet of privacy over the two of you and leave you alone. The stars would dance together, fireflies entertained themselves and you could just be together. Forgive yourself if you wanted to savor the minutes.

Alas, you couldn’t stay at Illinois’ side forever. You’d have to come out of hiding eventually, and now was as good a time as any, so you drowsily shuffled towards the front door. The rusted latches groaned with a mere press of your hand, swinging open with an inching pace. Immediately, a gust of dry air trampled past your face, and the faint smell of dust had you sighing more than breathing. It was a classic Louisiana morning, something you haven’t experienced in a long time – not for a lack of breaks. No, although your recent schedule has been clogged, this quant place was a safe house paid for by the agency, meaning it wasn’t only yours to begin with. It was difficult to get used to using the same amenities that a stranger had just a few days ago, in a room that had a tagline of ‘safe’, but you got over it. It just meant that sanitizing every surface was the chore of the first day.

Illinois didn’t have those reservations; the second that he stepped out of the truck, he declared it home, and went on the search for a good cave. He only agreed to come over camping in the wilderness because of the free food. Or, at least, that’s what he said. There was a small part of you that was sure it was because he didn’t want to be alone, you having no chance to agree on tents – and there was a big part of him that knew you were right.

You laughed to yourself, pulling a porch chair into the orange sunlight. Being a safe house, it was surrounded by the thickest stretch of trees in the state and, even further, lakes and rivers that made it looked untouched by human hands. The second day had been spent exploring nature together. Illinois tugged you by your hand through bushes, over boulders, underneath a couple fallen trees, all the way to the perimeter of the land. From atop a small cliff, you could see the start of urbanization, but it was sheltered by a haze of smog and lights. The city stayed alight until well into midnight and beyond, like a dying campfire, only to be fed at the crack of dawn.

A similar flicker of a flame shot into the air in front of you.

The metal of your lighter was calming, the grooves of the ingrained letters basing you in the present. ‘Berlin, 1996’ was written in small italic near the lever, making it unlikely for you to ever resist the temptation of running your fingers over the markings. It made you smile and, from time to time, had the added benefit of you putting the lighter back in your pocket. This was not one of those times, but a grin did spread over your lips, nonetheless.

The flicker met the end of a cigarette, which you promptly pulled towards your mouth when it took the flame. Illinois didn’t like the fact that you smoked, he always said how he wanted to be fit in his 90s, but you weren’t cheering for him when he jumped 20 feet down for the fun of it either. The compromise you came to was that both of you would continue to indulge the devils on your shoulders and could laugh at the other’s funeral if they died first.

In all honesty, it was not a situation that you liked to be in. The constant, looming cloud of loss scared you more than any danger the agency put you in ever could. Nights spent waiting for Illinois to come home, the fear that time would go by, and the sun would rise and set again, and the door wouldn’t open… it was damn-near paralyzing. The only thing that kept you going, ironically enough, was that same man. At least, if you went on the same jobs that he did, you could keep an eye on him. You would know what kind of danger he was in, and you had the chance to stop it. The question was: would you be fast enough?

You took another drag of your cigarette.

“You shouldn’t smoke, y’know.” The porch crackled as Illinois stepped onto the wooden planks. “It’s not good for you.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

A light-hearted chuckle brushed against your ear, accompanied by the click of his boots and humming of cicadas. The deep sound stopped when he swung another chair next to yours. As he came into view, you saw he had replaced his apron with a simple, loose shirt that fell from him like a woman who had fainted in distress. To catch Illinois in a shirt that actually fit him would be to kill the king – impossible and, according to him, a crime punishable by death.

“You know,” he spoke up, “you don’t look like the rumors.”

Your head unconsciously twisted to the side, so that you could see Illinois only slightly better. His own gaze was fixated in the distant spread of trees. Questions as to what he was starting at batted against you, but you settled on making a curious noise, instead.

“When we first met, I thought you’d lied to me. I’d heard all these stories about a suave, collected, expert of a heartbreaker, and then…”

“They were proved incorrect?”

He took in a steady breath. “No. They were proved, uh, very correct. Actually, after hearing about you, I kinda,” he coughed, as though that would transfer his thoughts directly to you and take away the need to say the words, “made some assumptions that were not as correct.”

Illinois prided himself on being right most of the time – and expressed himself as being right all of the time. However, this was one of the only things that he would admit he was wrong about, this being you. The image he had conjured of you was snide and snobby, only in it for themself and with the biggest case of holier-than-thou syndrome he’d ever thought of. Those stories of you driving fancy cars had pushed him into a corner, trapped by a cage of disgust and partial envy. Then, the rumors of how many people you had seduced worked their magic, followed by a notorious habit of smoking and drinking, which designated you, though he perished the thought now, a scumbag.

But when he’d actually met you…

“And I’m, uh, glad they weren’t.”

He swung an arm around your chair, drew rough fingers across your collarbone and directed your jaw into facing him. The light breeze shifted your hair like a lover’s touch, and the yellow sun decorated you like a bespoke artwork. Something he’d steal from a museum if he had to, but, no, he had you sitting right in front of him, with the quirk of an eyebrow and a small smile on your lips. He was lucky, he knew that, and he thanked his lucky stars every time he woke up next to you in sparkling mornings, every time your hands brushed when he pulled you up from a ledge, every time your eyes met from across a ballroom.

The first time that happened was still something he treasured more than any bespoke jewel or painting.

“Let’s get this business started.”

The night was young, the guests were pleasantly tipsy, and you were perched at one of the centre tables, next to three attractive models and the focus of your attention.

At this moment, you and your company were in the Berlin Operetta House, a classic establishment with smoke and liquor running through its veins. You had joined in – for lack of anything better to do while biding your time – and had been seated with these four the last two hours. The women you had no information on, except for what you had observed in the time given, most of which boiled down to being pretty faces for the big guy sitting across from you.

Earnest Whimson, dramatic irony demanding repentance of his parents as he was anything but earnest. He’d made his living on buying and selling anything he could get him tobacco-stained hands on, be it stolen goods, illegal drugs, or people themselves. It was a desolate trade, rotten but protected by the wallets of the people at the top. In those cases, there was only one person the authorities would routinely turn to.

You.

The authorities, the uncorrupted minorities, would plead with your agency for help, and you were the first person on the list. Call it luck or honed skill, you didn’t care. What you did care about was getting the job done in a quick and efficient manner. These places weren’t good to stay in for more than a day, lest you want to gain a certain reputation in all of the sectors. Thus, speed was top billing this night. That, and types like Whimson made it hard to keep your cover with the way he was talking.

Luckily for you, nine o’clock was rearing its head, the lights were dimming and only a few people were left still chatting over their expensive dining. All eyes were directed towards the stage with fervor, those who didn’t know what was happening watching in piqued interest and those who did waiting with bated breath for the real show to begin.

You did know what was happening, you were indeed waiting, but your breaths were slow and steady, like a smooth rock in a brook. The plan was simple; starting at nine, you’d watch Whimson, make friendly banter with him while he bid on whatever items caught his eye. When he inevitably would call out a ludicrous amount of money for a bejeweled crown or statue and the night comes to a close, you’d excuse yourself and make your way to where that thing was located, wait for Whimson, and kindly dispatch the man before anyone could catch wind of what happened. The money he had taken out the few hours before would go to any witnesses, and you’d get back home in time for a smoke and martini.

Simple.

Except your life had to be hard, didn’t it? You couldn’t just have a plan and stick to it, without something going wrong. Why? You didn’t know. If it had to do with karma or just bad luck, you didn’t know. A pity, really, when it would have made it so much easier to fix it if you did. It almost made you laugh, the thought of what a normal, easy mission was like.

And the things that went wrong never stayed the same. In one instance, you’d find your getaway driver with a bullet through his skull – in another, your target was informed of your mission and managed to get away – sometimes, it was just raining.

Right now, the thing that went wrong was something that had never happened before.

That thing being the infamous Illinois Jones.

Not even half an hour into the auction, and yet this man, adorned in an open, off-white shirt and multiple belts, was leaping onto the wooden slats. Your jaw would have been on the ground had it not been for the table, if not for his bravado, then for his stupidity. The artifact Whimson had bid on – go figure, a bejeweled crown – slotted nicely into his hand as he snatched it from its marble pedestal, shocking the woman presenting it into stumbling back. A wink was sent her way, she ran off, and Illinois turned to the audience.

You listened as he spoke. You sat quietly, pretending that you were shocked, when, in reality, you were seething. The boiling of your blood was louder than the whispering of the bidders, and you found yourself restraining the urge to run up there and slap him for ruining your mission. Questions preoccupied your mind while he lectured the guests about the importance of culture and integrity. Why him - why now?! He wasn’t even a part of the agency, he shouldn’t have known about this bid, and yet there he was, like a smug reaper coming to steal your soul into hell. Did he even know you were there? Did it matter to him?

You only noticed Illinois had stopped talking when he swiveled on the heel of his boot, presumably struck a pose, and then stalked off the stage. Everyone was in such a shock that they didn’t stop him, at least, not at first. After a few seconds had passed for people to gain their composures, that was the cue for havoc to befall the room. Illinois had single-handedly converted an organization of logical, fat cats into a daycare for screaming toddlers; suited men pushed themselves away from tables and darted down the hallways, bodyguards unequipped their guns and set about searching for the adventurer, while some of the wives, understandably, stayed to sip on white wine. You would very much join them if it weren’t for Whimson leaning over to his personal bouncer to whisper in his ear.

“Get the street rat.”

You sighed and took a final swig of your drink. Illinois was a menace, sure, but you weren’t willing to let him die for his ignorance. The agency may have applauded you as you returned, but you had maintained something of a moral compass during your work, so you liked to think you wouldn’t let him die like this. As you said, the man was infamous, and infamous people would not find their ends at the hands of a capitalist bastard’s lapdogs.

The clink of your glass against the wooden table did not draw Whimson’s attention, but, if it had, he might have been able to avoid the bullet that wedged itself into his skull. You had aimed for his temple, and you were a brilliant shot. The smoke of your pistol camouflaged itself into the ceiling’s belt of fog. Cigarettes, similar to the one you now pulled out from a pocket to light. This job was not only stressful, it was stress. No mission could be easy, no day could go according to plan, and no panicked mob of refined guests could leave the building in an orderly fashion. People swarmed to the exits at the sound of the gunshot, tripping over one another and abandoning their guests to, presumably, your slaughter.

You took a drag of your cigarette, pressed it between your lips, and gathered the suit jacket that had been on the back of your chair. Movements slow and deliberate, it was a wonder how the guard dogs Whimson had sent to Illinois hadn’t turned around yet to catch you. Good for you, but stupid on their part. Nevertheless, you were out of the manic tide of bidders before they could even realise their owner was slumped against the mahogany, brain matter splayed on his dress shirt.

The sound of clicking dress shoes amidst the cacophony of panic sent leftover guests into hiding, with the thought that anyone that calm in the sea of chaos was in control of the situation, and that anyone who wouldn’t do anything to stop it was not to be messed with. This gave you the perfect path towards your new target. Calling out Illinois’ name was unnecessary, given you could already hear distant shots echoing down the hallways.

And when you came to the end, asking where those gunshots were meant to hit was also unnecessary.

The wall behind Illinois was pepped with holes, like a coral beach, while Whimson’s bodyguards looked relatively unharmed. From your position, it looked like Illinois was doing everything he could to dodge the bullets, and nothing to actually fight back. Putting your cigarette out on a recently polished cabinet, you delved into the fray.

The first man down was yours, with an ornamental vase smashed against his skull, the kind of ones only used for grasping at when someone’s strangling you, but they still worked well to knock him out. Next down was his friend, who charged at you with intent to kill, but a shard of the broken porcelain stuck in his throat sent him to the ground. Blood trickled from the cut like a damaged water fountain, but none of the others paid him mind. Really, how would they ever survive without comradery?

You didn’t know, because they wouldn’t; Illinois, in tandem with your bloodier style, brought a table leg down onto another of the staff, the frail wood cracking the second it touched his head. The man whirled around with fury in his eyes, but those soon rolled back with the force of a punch to his face. You watched on, subtly impressed, though now was no time to ogle. Instead, you could do so after these people had been dispatched.

Strikes to the lower abdomens, blunt-force trauma to their foreheads, and what you hoped were lethal cracks of bone kept everyone wanting to live away from the corridor. You brought one dress shoe down on a woman’s fingers, sighed at the pitiful crunch that was muffled by her scream, and then stood up to assess the situation. One, two, three- four, two were on top of each other, and the one that Illinois was currently bashing against the wall. That made five at the scene.

Six, if you were to include the one that popped a bullet past your thigh. Lousy shot, they barely grazed the clothing, though it was a shame; that outfit had been one of your favorites.

Swiping a hand to your gun, you whirled around to see a particularly bulky bastard rounding the corner you’d come from. Illinois jumped to your side to look at the arrivals and took notice of your weapon in quick fashion. If only he had more trouble with brutalizing that last one, you might have hit the bullseye.

But a pressure on your wrist distracted you enough to miss. With your target swiveling to look at the newly cracked mirror and one end of the corridor swarmed by suited staff members, your night was only getting worse, and you lamented as such while Illinois dragged you down to the only available exit.

Your job required a lot of running – more than the average desk job did, at least – and that was why your legs were able to work on autopilot despite the adrenaline working through your veins that pressured you to be aware of every little thing that crossed your mind. The shattered glass from dropped plates, the swinging of doors as the last party members escaped, the texture of Illinois’ hand that had steadily moved to wrap around your own fingers. He was decorated with callouses and rough patches, war wounds sustained in the battlefield of caves and climbing. They told a story, one that you could have read had you enough time, but, for now, you had to be satisfied with knowing his present – told to you, not by his skin, but by you also experiencing it at his side.

That involved the darting through doors, ducking under pipes, skirting around the staff members who hadn’t gotten the memo. You didn’t even have the chance to ask where Illinois was bringing you, too focused on not slamming straight into a wall. The steady sounds of boots marching behind you, of which you counted six or seven, propelled you forward, like striking a match against a line of gas. You barely felt conscious throughout the run; the rattle of Illinois’ pickup truck went over your head, and the jingle of a bar’s bell hardly registered until you were seated in one of the old bar seats where you came to, a drink in your hand and Illinois staring right at you. Well, not just staring right at you, but also spilling every bad pick-up line in his book.

“I was wondering if you had an extra heart, because mine was just stolen.”

You had half a mind to put your martini down and walk out the door.

“I’m really glad I bought life insurance, because when I saw you, my heart stopped.”

Did he have life insurance?

“You must be a bank loan, because you’ve got my int—”

“Why do you even want that thing, anyway?” you interrupted, vaguely gesturing to the crown peeking out of his satchel with your non-drink hand.

“So, now you’re interested?” he chuckled, but only stopped long enough to order a whiskey before he commented, “The crown of Dos Partom, an old relic from the Mesopotamian era. No idea how it ended up in a bidding war, but, really, it belongs in a museum—” he shot a glance to the side, acting as though he hadn’t been watching you for the past ten minutes, “—that, and the company isn’t bad.”

So, he was the cocky type? You could’ve guessed that from the million stories about his personality, but it was a wonder to see it in action. Sure, you had a habit of using your charisma to get into places you shouldn’t have been, but this? What was he hoping to achieve? You’d already saved his ass from Whimson’s lackeys, and yet there he was, perched on the bar stool next to you, continuing his verbal assault of shoddy lines. Your eyes rolling and your annoyance growing, you twisted in your seat and removed a cigarette from your belt’s pocket. Normally, on mission days, you had five or six, a large step down from when you had days off, and yet this day was taking its toll on your stash.

“You shouldn’t smoke, y’know.”

And so, too, was Illinois taking his toll on your patience.

“It’s not good for you.” Regardless, you continued your strut to the backgarden of the bar. Lucky for you, despite the lateness, the weather had taken pity on you. A gentle breeze carved through the foliage and guided the smoke of your cigarette into the moonlit sky. The growl of cars and humming of lights brought you to lean against the white brick wall and take in the scenery. When you got a moment to yourself, appreciating where you were was the best you could do – because, who knows, you could be dead tomorrow.

You took another drag, and then placed it on your bottom lip as you retrieved your phone. It was just a burner that you took on missions, but it had all the essentials, including the number of your assigned agency representative. The handlers, you called them. You didn’t know the name of yours, but you trusted them with everything about yourself; where you were, who you were with, what you were doing down to the shift of a foot. Right now, you were entrusting them with the simple name of your mission and the promise of it having been finished at your normal quality.

“Berlin, 1996,” you muttered as you typed the letters.

“Keeping a diary there, sweetheart?”

Could you catch a break? Apparently not, you assumed, as the sight of Illinois wrapped around the corner. His hat was off, held in one hand, and both your drinks in the other. You met his eyes, he stared back, and then you removed your glass.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“What do you want?”

Illinois pretended to be shocked, reeling back and pressing his hat to his chest. “Me? Want something? From you?” he gasped, a smirk overthrowing his lips only when you didn’t react. “Not at all.”

“Don’t play dumb, Jones,” you warned.

“I appreciate that you think I play dumb.”

That teasing smile, the glistening eyes, you had to look away before you did anything drastic. Whether that was punching him or kissing him, you didn’t know, but you knew that looked off into the well-trimmed hedges halted the urge. “I know you’re not just a pretty face, what do you want?”

“And I’m pretty?” Another chuckle. “You don’t need to say all that to get me interested.”

“Just—” you took a breath in, “—tell me what you want from me, and then we can part ways. Easy.”

“And what if I don’t want it to be easy?”

Someone inside the bar shouted that it was last call, but neither of you moved to grab your final drinks. Neither of you moved, at all. You stayed still, Illinois stayed still, and the only sound between you was the buzz of moths at the dangling light just a few inches away. Illinois was… he was something else, that was for sure. Either he was going to kill himself, or you were going to kill him yourself. No matter what, you wanted to be there for it.

Reaching out, you pulled a thumb along his jawline and took a sip of your martini out of the other hand. Illinois was too stunned to speak, leaving you the chance to remove your hand, snatch his hat and shove it onto his head in one, fast motion. He made some sort of sound, one that you didn’t catch as you waltzed back into the bar.

Illinois, standing in the porchlight, laughed to himself and followed you inside – and then, in another year, five months and two days, he’d be doing the exact same thing, except, this time, with a golden band around both of your fingers.

[As a Brit myself, and having seen neither James Bond nor Indiana Jones, this was a treat for me! Thank you for requesting! Also, as some of you may have noticed, I have currently closed my requests because exam season is coming up, but I should be back around the end of June. Thank you for sticking with me, and, again, thank you for requesting!]

#markiplier #illinois x reader #illinois #markiplier egos x reader #markiplier egos #fanficiton #theknightmarket #x reader #request #reader insert #oneshot #Indiana jones #James bond

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miercoooles · 2 years ago

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I’m back to my Daniel Craig phase and I’m itching to write a fluff where the reader forces either Benoit Blanc or James Bond to unwind and go on a picnic date under a tree while viewing the sunset then just watch the stars like the hopeless romantic I am.

#james bond x reader #james bond imagines #benoit blanc fanfic #benoit blanc x you #benoit blanc imagines #benoit blanc x reader #james bond x you #007 james bond #james bond x y/n #benoit blanc x y/n #reader insert #fanfiction

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yyutsuu · 2 years ago

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Information + Masterlist

———

I had some trouble with the gmail I previously used, on my previous account, I have successfully figured it out and will continue to post on this account

(Please someone help me how do you work tumblr 😭😭)

Note that there most likely will be some sort of spoiler if you are not up to date with the series

I absolutely adore sherliam and William, so if I currently do not have any requests, expect sherliam or William posts.

(No exceptionally fancy layout because I am not able to figure how Tumblr works 💀💀)

———

Under normal circumstances, I will post once a week, though the amount of days may be shortened or extended by little amounts. That is depending on what I need to get finished during the week, since I usually try to fulfill requests.

I am currently taking requests.

Note that I will not write all requests, depending on the character and scenario (I may ignore a request if I know absolutely nothing about the topic or have not a clue on how to write it), processing time for any request may take up to weeks.

What I will write:

Fluff

Angst

Lime

-Extremely thin chance I will write actual NSFW, maybe a few head cannons-

Character x reader insert

Character x character

Romantic relationship

Platonic relationship

Mostly gender neutral reader

If not requested and involves body parts will mostly be gender neutral

If no detail on gender and involves some type of body part I will go with male

(Will update if I realize I have forgotten anything)

What I will not write:

As said before most likely no NSFW except head cannons

Lime of underage characters (obvious no NSFW)

Usual boundaries (I do not feel like listing them all 💀)

(Will update if I realize I have forgotten anything)

———

Masterlist (characters I will write for):

Sherliam:

William James Moriarty:

Sherlock Holmes:

Albert James Moriarty:

Louis James Moriarty:

Henry Antrim:

Fred Porlock:

Sebastian Moran:

James Bond/Irene Adler:

Von Herder:

Mycroft Holmes:

(If a character who is not present on the list is requested I will most likely accept it and add them)

(Will update if I realize I have forgotten anything)

———

There is barely any mtp content on Tumblr ughh

I love those silly little fellas so much it’s painful

(English is not my first language and it also is not my last, so forgive me for any grammar mistakes)

———

-yyutsuu on Tumblr and Wattpad-

!! Please refrain from reposting my work without permission !!

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alpurrtwhizkersss · 2 years ago

Note

Please write for Q. No one does and it’s so sad

I Love You

Requested By: Anonymous!

Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff

Prompt: None

Author’s Note: this one was actually an OC fic that I’ve taken and converted into an X Reader, so if anything sounds strange or out of context then that’s why lol, but I think it translates pretty well to a self insert, apart from the weird formatting… that’s just a Google Docs-Tumblr issue lol :) hope you enjoy, anon!

Q opened his eyes, the small beams of light from between his curtains hit him like a tiny truck, he groaned and rolled over onto his front, welcoming the darkness of his pillow. Another night of that dream.

That had been the third week in a row in which Q had been subjected to reliving his experience with Y/N in that tiny storage room. It had also been three weeks since the incident had occurred, and Q felt… strange. He still loved Y/N as much as he did before the kiss, only… he wasn’t sure if Y/N felt the same. Trying to read Y/F/N Y/L/N was like trying to read a book upside down while riding a horse… in lava, it was difficult, and Q wasn’t much of a people-person, anyway, which made the whole situation worse. Q sighed, and swung his tired legs over the side of his bed, he glanced down at where Y/N was asleep beside him and took in their features, still fast asleep. He gazed lovingly over their eyes and marvelled at how beautiful their Y/H/C hair falling across their face made them look, and he furrowed his eyebrows.

“You shouldn’t frown, Q… it imprints on you, love.” Q perked up and noticed that Y/N’s eyes were only slightly open, yet still open enough to see the man staring at them, he ducked his head and felt heat flush his cheeks, he didn’t bother to stutter out a reply as he stood to begin to make breakfast.

Y/N let out a quiet sigh at this movement, and got up to follow him, their footsteps padded slowly behind him as they yawned and rubbed their eyes.

“Would you rather have toast or cereal for breakfast?” Q called to them, his voice slightly raspy from lack of use overnight. Y/N walked up behind him and wrapped their arms around his waist, leaning their head on his shoulder and kissing his cheek, Q smiled softly before catching himself, can’t get attached, he thought, you’ll only get hurt, he wriggled out of their grip softly and walked over to the coffee machine to begin preparing his drink.Y/N, as usual, hid their hurt feelings behind an emotionless face. “I’ll have cereal, please.” they spoke, and Q nodded. Y/N made their way over to the breakfast table and smiled as one of Q’s cats rubbed herself against their leg. “Hello, gorgeous girl.” they cooed, kneeling down to stroke the furless fur-baby. “I think Bellamy likes me, Q.” but Q didn’t reply, only continued pouring the milk into their cereal. Y/N narrowed their eyes and stood, staring holes into the back of his head. “Q, did I do something to upset you last night?” they questioned softly, trying to hide the hurt behind their words, Q shrugged and brought their bowl over to the table, “No, you didn’t.” He said simply, and Y/N narrowed their eyes, taking a seat at the table as Q sat on the opposite side, “Then… Why are you acting so withdrawn?”, they asked, eating a spoonful of their cereal, Q suddenly slammed his spoon down on the table, he stared angrily at Y/N.

“Why am I acting withdrawn? You want to know why I– alright, fine! I don’t know how you feel about me, Will, you’re so loving and affectionate with me here, at home, but when we’re at work you… lose that completely! If you want to just be friends, it’s fine, you can tell me, but please, for the love of God, stop leading me in circles.” Q spoke loudly, and Y/N was slightly taken aback. Their eyes searched Q’s, and they found themself unsure of what to say for a moment. Suddenly, their confusion turned to anger, they stood up and stared him down from the other side of the table.

“I can’t believe I’m actually hearing this, oh my God! Q, do you honestly think that I’d act like this with you if I wasn't completely and irrevocably in love with you? I don’t just want to be friends, Q, I want to be loved by you… romantically, I want to do all the stupid, lame things that couples do, like- like going on picnic dates, and dancing to the terrible songs on the radio at 3 in the morning, and cuddling until we fall asleep in each others arms-” Y/N sputtered out, their pace making their words almost unintelligible to anybody if they weren’t listening intently, Q spoke their name softly, his expression changed to a regretful one.

“No, no, it’s my turn to speak, and your turn to listen, Q. The reason I don’t interact with you much at work anymore is because I don’t want to embarrass you! I don’t want to be all weird and couple-y because I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, I don’t want to be too much for you, but I- I want you to love me…”

The silence in the room was deafening, Y/N stared at Q.

“Say something, Q…” they swallowed, their hands clammy and their eyes watering, Q stood up from his seat and slowly walked over to Y/N, he stared them right in the eyes, and kissed them. Y/N grasped at his face immediately, letting tears fall from their eyes as he pulled back. “Does that mean that you like me again?” they spoke softly, their voice raw and shaky, “I’ll always like you. I’ll always love you, actually. You’re my home.” Q replied, smiling softly.

For more stuff like this, you can find my Masterlist here:

#x reader #quartermaster x reader #reader insert #james bond x reader #james bond q #q x reader #james bond #self insert

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secondaxispoint · 2 years ago

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REQUESTS

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Fandoms:

The Last of Us

Supernatural

The Mandalorian

Sherlock

Kingsman

Spider-Man

Dr. Strange

NARCOS

Our Flag Means Death

House M.D.

Good Omens

What We Do in the Shadows

Bond movies (Daniel Craig)

Criminal Minds

Detroit: Become Human

Dream Daddy

Team Fortress 2

Red Dead Redemption 2

(I might be leaving some out by accident)

WHAT I DO WRITE

Male reader x Male character

Gender Neutral reader x Male character

Male Character x Male character

Trans male reader

WHAT I DON’T WRITE

Female reader

Underage

!ncest

Problematic ships

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littlejazzy · 5 months ago

Note

Do you have good recommendations for AgeRe stories? Something really cute and fluffy? (I'm a lonely regressor and I love reading stories about really sweet caregivers.)

I do!! I adore reading agere fics, so here are some recs! I hope you enjoy!!! 💖

Gen:

Decontamination by SailorChibi - Marvel - Baby!Tony and CG!Steve - After a battle, Steve takes care of his baby - (This one is a Classification!AU/Littles are Known!AU... like, one of the very first ones. Very good and fluffy. If you ever read thorough their fics, (tagged NSAP bc agere straight up did not exist as a community yet) you'll start spotting alot of things that other people were/are inspired from.)

Picnic by SailorChibi - Marvel - Baby!Tony, CG!Steve, Middle!Bucky, Toddler!Clint, CG!Coulson, Kiddo!Scott, CG!Sam W., Kiddo!Peter P., CG!Wade, Kid!Wanda, and CG!Vision - All the Avengers have a nice picnic - (classification!au, but a different verse than the previous fic jsyk. this one is suuuuper fluffy and cute and fun <3)

Less than Five by SailorChibi - Daniel Craig's James Bond - Little!Q and CG!Bond - Q regresses smaller than usual; his daddy makes sure he's taken care of - (classification!AU, first of a series. first two fics are pretty fluffy, but the third has some angst, which makes the fluff even sweeter, in my opinion)

coffee makers and bumblebees by orchidsncrake - Daredevil - Little!Matt and CG!Foggy - Matt becomes overstimulated and after an altercation with the office's coffee maker, Foggy is there to make everything better

Small surprises by undergroundrice - Daredevil - Little!Matt and CG!Foggy - Foggy stumbles onto Matt regressing, and together they figure it out

A Second Shot by mylittlestories - MCU - Little!Natasha, Little!Clint, and CG!Coulson - Natasha didn't have much of a childhood. When she sees that having a second one is possible, she wants; Coulson and Clint are happy to make her family :) - (This one is unfinished, but what's there is just so nice I have to include it!!)

Give your Dreams the Wings to Fly by Honey_Dewey - FNAF Movie - Little!Matt and CG!Ness - Mike gets sick at work, but his boyfriend is there to make everything okay

the road to hope and adventures into the unknown (target) by romansprince - Barbie (2023) - Little!Ken, then CG!Barbie and CG!Gloria - Ken has become human... except he's never had a childhood. Sometimes he feels Fuzzy, but that's something he thinks he can keep secret. As he turns out, he can't, but it works out anyway - (Two separate fics that take place in the same universe/series. The first one/set-up is a little angsty, but the second is more fluffy)

Movie Night by mcschnuggles - Heathers - Little!JD and CG!Veronica - JD unexpectedly drops into headspace during a movie night with the rest of the teenagers; Veronica helps him through it - (Modern!AU, Everyone Lives!AU, this one is kinda angsty, but like, it's canon appropriate, lol - also!!! make sure that you check out the author's other works!!!!! lots of agere fics for a large variety of fandoms!!)

Toffee Ticking Time Bomb by GayCheerios - Star Wars - Little!Anakin and CG!Obi-Wan - Obi-Wan has to find his padawan's stuffie before the inevitable temper tantrum ensues - (classification!AU, part of a very nice and good series that, if you enjoy this fic, you should also check out)

Baby's First Bath by CyberToddler - Beetlejuice: The Musical - Toddler!Beetlejuice and CG!Maitlands - The Maitlands give Beetlejuice his very first bath - ( 👉👈 I wrote this one 😖)

Evolution by Cgetbrmj - The Last of Us (TV) - Little!Ellie and CG!Joel - Series that follows each episode of the show, and explores how these characters stumble upon age regression as a coping mechanism and how much they both realize they enjoy it. - (Slowburn agere, as it explores how it develops naturally between both characters. This one DOES contain some angst as it relates to the show, but overall is as fluffy as its setting allows)

Reader-Inserts:

The Doctor's Office by agerefandom (tazia101) - Twilight - Little!Reader and CG!Carlisle - Reader goes to their first check-up in their new town and unexpectedly regresses; thankfully, their doctor is more than understanding - (I can not emphasize enough how much I love this one. Hits all the right buttons, I'm so happy/thankful I found it before I had to establish care w/ a new doctor, it's just- so good)

Sugary Sweet by agerefandom (tazia101) - Twilight - Baby!Reader and CG!Alice and Jasper - A comfy, happy morning with your vampire caregivers - (be sure to check out the writer for more fandoms!! lots of agere fics, including gen and reader!insert!)

little life at the mansion by myworldoffanfiction - X-Men - Little!Reader and CG!X-Men (the main gang lol) - First chapter is a busy yet comfy morning while living at Xavier's Mansion. Second chapter is a fun Summer evening - (this one is sooooo sweet 😭)

Play Pretend by Vinnies_Comfort_Corner - Scream (1996) - Kiddo!Reader, Flip!Stu, and CG!Billy - You and Stu play pretend while waiting for Billy to come home - (if you enjoy this one, make sure you check out their other regression fics!!! there's even one with a petreg puppy!reader!! and other horror media!!)

Red Stained Fingers by CyberToddler - Scream (1996) - Little!Reader, CG!Stu, and CG!Billy - Unorthodox sensory play with diy-ed fake blood, lol - (I also wrote this one 😅 it's sugary sweet, I promise, lol)

#looked through my bookmarks and then realized two facts:#1) lots of the agere fics i like have lots of angst lmao #2)i forget to bookmark things #it's okay tho bc i just looked through my ao3 history 👍#toddler babbles #agere #fandom agere #agere recs #asks

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fairy-writes · 4 months ago

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1600 Followers Event!

Hello everyone! While it wasn’t that long ago that we celebrated 1500, here we are at 1600! Thank you all so much for supporting my silly little blog with my silly little writing! Here’s to hopefully many more!

Anyway! Onto the event! I’m doing a thing where I’ll write a little reader-insert thing (ranging from drabbles to full-on one-shots) based on a character and a prompt that you send me! I have a list of 20 angsty dialogue prompts for you to choose from!

So pick one and a character from one of the fandoms listed, and I’ll write a little blurb or a one-shot based on the request!

Just be warned: I will cross off the prompt once it’s chosen TWICE. That way, I won’t have a million requests for the same prompt.

The event will be open for two weeks starting August 13th and will run to August 25th!

The Rules Are:

All orders are written as character x reader!

Everything is gender neutral reader unless specifically stated otherwise (e.g., you request a female reader)

TWO REQUESTS PER PERSON

Please send them in separately so I can keep track of everything!

Any orders that do not follow the rules will be deleted.

All requests will be tagged under #fairy1.6kfollowers

Prompts:

“I loved you first.” (1/2)

“I was alone.” (0/2)

“I should have been there.” (0/2)

“Don’t leave me. Please.” (1/2)

“I wanted you to fight for me.” (0/2)

“You meant nothing to me.” (1/2)

“Keep breathing, you’re doing great.” (1/2)

“You know, they say crying has all these health benefits.” (1/2)

“Oh, excuse me for freaking out. I only thought you were dead!”

“I can’t find a pulse!” (0/2)

“No, don’t go to sleep. Hey! Eyes open!” (1/2)

“Can you please come and get me?” (1/2)

“Because nobody cares about me!” (0/2)

“You don’t need to do this!” (1/2)

“I thought you were my friend!” (1/2)

“I’m tired… So so tired.” (1/2)

“You don’t have to fight anymore!” (0/2)

“Tell me to stay, and I will be here for as long as you'll have me.” (1/2)

“It’s funny. Nowadays, people always expect a gun, but never a knife.” (1/2)

“Tell me, my Dear, can a heart still be broken even when it stopped beating?” (from The Corpse Bride) (1/2)

I Will Write for the Following People:

Arcane: League of Legends: Viktor, Silco, Jayce Talis, Vander

Bungou Stray Dogs: Nakajima Atsushi, Nakahara Chuuya, Dazai Osamu, Kunikida Doppo, Fukuzawa Yukichi, Saigiku Jouno, Suehiro Tecchou

The Case Study of Vanitas: Vanitas, Noé Archiviste, Roland Fortise

Demon Slayer: All the Hashira, Akaza, Kokushibo, Douma, Kamado Tanjiro (aged up), Agatsuma Zenitsu (aged up), Hashibira Inosuke (aged up)

Doctor Who: The Doctor (9th, 10th, 11th, 12th), Jack Harkness

Fullmetal Alchemist: Roy Mustang, Greed (not Greedling), Alex Louis Armstrong, Edward Elric (post-FMAB), Alphonse Elric (post-FMAB), Ling Yao (post-FMAB)

Grimm (NBC): Nick Burkhardt, Hank Griffin, Sean Renard, Drew Wu, Monroe

Jujutsu Kaisen: Gojo Satoru, Fushiguro Toji, Geto Suguru, Nanami Kento, Itadori Yuuji (aged up), Fushiguro Megumi (aged up)

Kaiju No. 8: Hibino Kafka, Ichikawa Reno, Hoshina Soshiro, Narumi Gen, Furuhashi Iharu

Moriarty the Patriot: William James Moriarty, Albert James Moriarty, Louis James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Fred Porlock, Sebastian Moran, James Bonde

Tokyo Ghoul: Uta, Kaneki Ken, Kirishima Touka, Kirishima Ayato (re: age), Nishio Nishiki, Tsukiyama Shuu

Trigun Stampede: Vash the Stampede, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, Millions Knives

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strawwritesfic · 2 years ago

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Asexual!Q x Female!Reader: Logical Fallacy [Ch. 18]

Summary: Q’s got one hundred and two problems. His girlfriend is, technically speaking, every single one.

Challenge: “102 Things A Guy Should Know About Girls” challenge by Miss Chocobo on Lunaescence Archives.

Ratings/Warnings/Tags: T (foul language; sexual references; asexual!Q; sexual!reader; a running gag about sexual harassment; double standard: sexual harassment, female on male; sexual harassment played for comedy; James Bond & Reader friendship; civilian!reader; artist!reader; complicated family relationships; reader has a really big family; miscommunications; MI6 would not behave this way in reality; set post-Skyfall; joking references made to Bond/Q)

Pairings: Q/Female!Reader; James Bond/Eve Moneypenny

Tag List: @imaginesfire; @rory-cakes

Master List

Rule #18: Don’t say you understand when you don’t. That’s bad.

It didn’t take long to get Bond pulled in. Two days. That was all Q was given to handle the situation on his own. When his time was up, Bond went off. Without his (completely unregulated) bodyguard work, you were left to be dumped at MI6.

This was stressful for all parties involved. No one really wanted an unqualified citizen wandering around the place, but where else could you go? Leaving you to wander the city alone or even just stay at your flat would leave you open to attack, kidnapping, torture.

No one seemed to believe Q when he said he hadn’t told you anything.

He knew that it couldn’t be easy for you either. Not that he'd been able to see much of you. You’d been allowed to send only a brief message to Victoria to let her know you were okay. Other than that? No outside contact. And since there wasn’t anyone to be spared to look after you, you got shoved alone into one of the medical rooms in the cellar.

When Q went to visit you on that third night, he found you sitting eerily calm on the military-style cot there. Eerily, he thought, because your hands were covered in charcoal stains and you didn’t seem to be moving at all.

You looked up as he closed the door behind him, though. He ran a hand self-consciously through his hair. It felt greasy; he was badly in need of a shower. At least you had that luxury available. It would be another sleepless night for Q. No one got to sleep, not at a time like this.

The shadows underneath your eyes told him you hadn’t been sleeping anyway.

“Hey,” you told Q through trembling lips.

To his knowledge, you hadn’t cried, not once through this entire ordeal. But he’d known you long enough that he could tell when it was close. He tried to smile reassuringly as he sat down next to you, but in his current state of disrepair and guilt, he couldn’t manage even that.

“Hello,” he replied.

“How are things topside?”

“They’re…coming along.”

Silence fell, and in it Q could hear the mosquito-like buzzing of the overhead lights. His exhausted mind buzzed along with it, though at the same time he was hyperaware of the fact that you were sitting right next to him, and that the last time he’d seen you had been nearly forty-eight hours ago.

“What have you been drawing?”

He reached unthinkingly for your sketchpad, but you snatched it away and shoved it behind your back.

Q’s eyebrows furrowed. "What’s the matter?”

Your eyes slid away from his and fixed on your bare feet hanging several inches above the tiled floor. “It’s not pretty.”

“Ah.”

Quiet again. He felt his blood rushing through his veins, carrying half-formed thoughts that didn’t help anything. He should say something. This was his fault. But–

“Alton,” you whispered. “I want to go home.”

A rough swallow cleared his throat enough for more words. “I know,” he said in what he hoped was a soothing tone. “We’ll get to go soon. Mr. Bond is an expert in these sorts of situations.”

When you turned back to look at Q, he felt a rush of fear. Your darkened eyes didn’t seem to be looking at him, and your voice cracked at just the wrong place. “I’m scared, Alton.”

Without warning, you pressed yourself against him and began to sob into Q’s shoulder. He didn’t know what to do. You never cried like this. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

But he couldn’t let you go home. He couldn’t let you out. The best he could do was take the short rest period given to him to hug you right back and whisper, “I understand. I know.”

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hannah-the-red-head · 1 year ago

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A Moon Knight Fanfiction…

But, where the Moon Boys are shipped with a Reader that’s Basically Yor Briar from Spy x Family

Who’s also a single mom raising a little girl with telepathic powers and has a dog with the power to see the Future.

Basically, I’m going to write the Moon Knight storyline but it’s reader insert Fanfiction where I ship the Moon boys (Marc, Steven and later Jake) with a single mom!Reader who has the skills, super enhanced strength, speed and flexibility of Yor Briar from Spy x Family.

Why?

BECAUSE I CAN AND WILL!!! *maniacal laughter*

Here’s how this is gonna go:

-Reader or Y/n Briar is a Black Widow turned Single Mom after retiring from S.H.I.E.L.D post Endgame. But in order to secure a better life for not only herself, but her daughter and sweetheart of a big dog, Y/n decided to take on one last mission that has the small group of three moving to London.

-Personality wise, Y/N is soft spoken, polite, kind, sweet and mature. She is innocent when it comes to love, becoming easily flustered and losing control over her own actions. However, when going on missions, her personality does a complete 180, becoming a natural born killer that’s calculated, cold and just plain terrifying.

(A better way to describe Y/n’s mindset is the moment where Yor considered “getting rid of the competition” so Anya can get into Eden College or the times where Yor innocently overreacted to any public display of affection.)

-Appearance wise, Y/N can be whatever the readers imagine, I’m going to be very vague about how I describe her. But she is going to keep her hairstyle (long and kept up) and her outfits are the same as Yor’s in Spy x Family.

-She wears the Thorn Princess dress as her suit and wields stiletto blades as weapons.

-Y/N has the power of a super soldier, the reflexes of Spiderman and Black Panther and the mind of one of the world’s deadliest killers trapped in a petite woman’s body.

-Y/N tries her hardest to hide her secret life from her daughter. But how about you try and hide your association with the Avengers to a curious 6 year old with a overactive imagination.

-Y/n’s daughter, Anya (Full name: Anastasia Wanda Natasha Briar), is a mutant with the power to read minds, easily figures out that her mom is a super spy and that her favorite aunts are Avengers! Waku Waku!~ She reminds you so much of her father, eccentricities and all.

-As for the recent addition to the family, Bond is a big white dog that looks more like a mix between a polar bear and a seal with black mitten paws. Not only is he a big sweetheart, but much like his little master, Bond has the ability to see into the future that only Anya can translate because of her telepathy. He was named after Anya’s favorite super spy (in this case James Bond rather than Bondman.)

-As for the mission, which Nick Fury himself personally asked Y/N to accept, was an investigative one, the target being a mercenary that caught SHIELD’s attention after HYDRA’s infiltration was exposed.

-Unfortunately, the database hadn’t fully retrieved the idenity of the mercenary aside from his current location. Which is where you come in, to find this mercenary and try to recruit him to the New Avengers initiative.

-It’s the kind of mission Y/N can finish in two days, but this mission is proving a bit difficult, especially when said neighbor is so damn charming that Y/N is slowly falling for the sweet insomniac with a love for Egyptology.

#fanfiction #Anya Forger #Bond Forger #Spy x Family #moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #Marvel #reader #character x reader #Moon Knight x Reader #Steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #Reader is one hell of a woman #Layla may or may not become bi at the end of this

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i-know-honey · 7 months ago

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I’m very very glad everyone enjoys Way Laboratories so very much because between the kink-overtoned spy shit and platonic sugar babying I have been completely unable to resist including a whole lot of references to real life government agencies and the early Cold War and generally keeping the whole “ethics of government contracts” stuff towards the top of the page. and the only thing I can really say to explain this incredibly bizarre theme for a fanfic is that I have complex feelings about the positioning of good and evil in the James Bond franchise and I’m a young American leftist who fucking loves NASA and the history of the space program and therefore spends a fuck ton of time thinking about the ethical implications of the impossible-to-disentangle web of American space technology with the privately held military industrial complex. It’s kind of impossible in some ways to think about & engage with the history of nasa without also being forced to contend with the history of Lockheed Martin and its neighbors and I have no good or clean answers on how to reconcile all of that so I guess I just made it a surface theme in a silly fanfic instead and everyone can come for the platonic sugar baby reader insert and stay for the examination of the ethics of the legacy of the early American space program

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noforkingclue · 10 months ago

Note

“Stay still or this will hurt much worse.” for Bond maybe patching him up?

-🐺

Note: requests are currently closed

Of course, hope you like the fic :)

Prompt list: list

Title: Patching Up

James Bond tag list: @mxacegrey

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites, @spngingerbread21, @layazul, @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

“Hey,” you put a hand on Bond’s shoulder and pushed him back down onto the table, “sit back down.”

“I’ll be fine,” Bond said, “I’ve had worse scratches then this.”

“I’d hardly call this a scratch.”

“I’ve patched myself up before. I do not need you to do this.”

“M sent you down here for a reason. Now let me do my job and take your shirt off.”

“There are easier ways of getting me shirtless.” Bond said with a smirk

“Believe me, this is not something I want to do.”

“Then why do it?”

“Because a) M told me to-“

“And b)?”

“It’s my job, whether I like it or not. Now shirt off.”

You turned your back to Bond as you got your equipment ready. Double O agents were always the worst to patch up. They constantly believed that they could do a better job than you. Part of you was tempted just to let them suffer but you knew that would just cause you more grief in the long run.

“Stay still,” you said firmly, “or this will hurt much worse.”

“Then getting stabbed?”

“I thought this was ‘just a scratch’?”

“You’re the professional Doc.”

“Wow that was almost a compliment.”

To your surprise Bond remained silent during the rest of your time patching him up. It was only when you wiping antiseptic on his sewn up wound that he said,

“Finished?”

“Yep. All done. See, wasn’t too bad was it?”

“I’ve had worse.”

“And I’ve patched up worse. Don’t see why M sent you down here.”

Your back was facing Bond so he didn’t see him tense for half a second. He shrugged on his blood stained shirt and got off the table.

“Thanks again, Doc,” he said, “Don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

“Continued to bleed,” you said with a small smile, “I’m the fucking life saver here. Don’t know what you agents would do without me.”

You continued cleaning your equipment and for the first time in his professional career Bond hesitated. He wanted to say something. To thank you properly. Maybe a drink or dinner or-

“Are you ok?” you glanced over at Bond when you realised you hadn’t heard the door shut, “You don’t have another injury I need to look at?”

“No.”

“Then why are you still here?”

You gaze softened when he didn’t reply. It was an expression that Bond wanted to see more often. Maybe it was the fact that he wanted to be the only one to see that look. To be the person you saw when you woke up in the morning.

But he couldn’t say these things.

James Bond couldn’t tell you how much you really meant to him.

“No reason. I’ll see you around, Doc.”

“Hopefully not too soon.” He heard you call as he once again left alone.

#fanfiction #james bond #reader insert #request #james bond x reader

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foreignemotion · 2 years ago

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Lye Soap & Lavender Fields

Summary: Sir Guy of Gisborne has been absent from Locksley for several months; you have only recently joined his household and are yet to meet him. Upon his return, you form a fragile bond, one that only becomes stronger day by day. He returns from Nottingham one night, wounded, and you fulfil your urge to dote on him.

Relationship: Guy of Gisborne/Fem!Reader

Tags: Alternate Universe-Canon Divergence, One Shot, Reader-Insert, Strangers to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, Tending to Wounds, Bathing/Washing, Hair Washing, First Kiss.

Word Count: 7.4k.

Dedicated to: @puggledy-huggledy-is-not-a-pig, @loupsgarou and @emmyspov <3

This fic was also posted on AO3, which you can read here.

Despite being employed at Sir Guy’s estate in Locksley, you had never met him. You’d heard of him, of course, but had not laid eyes on him. He’s in the Holy Land, you were told months ago when you had arrived in Nottinghamshire from London. A woman of your standing would have turned her nose up at being sent to Nottingham, classing it as a demotion from working in the bustling capital.

Not you, however. You enjoyed the countryside, with its golden wheat fields at the turning of autumn and drooping snowdrops in spring. It would be different, of course, but a welcome change. There were enough ghosts in London for a lifetime.

You had arrived in Locksley at the approach of Christmas and the air was bitterly cold when you stepped down from your carriage. Your family wasn’t rich by any means, but your father had been adamant that he would not send his eldest daughter over one-hundred miles, alone, to a household that may not have needed her by the time you arrived there. You had conceded, eventually.

Locksley Manor, in Sir Guy’s absence, was presided over by the housekeeper, James, an elderly gentleman of welcoming disposition. Yes, the manor needed a maid but, he admitted sheepishly, that he was also lacking a personal attendant to the Lord of the Manor. Sir Guy had made an enemy of the women when he’d been living here, and they had fled service when they realised he would not return from his journey to the Holy Land for several months. That made no difference to you. Work was work, regardless of what you were doing or who you served.

And so, the days rolled into weeks and weeks into months. You were in good company at the manor, and the townsfolk of Locksley were endearing enough. You soon learned that the Sheriff, too, was in the Holy Land, as well Marian of Knighton and the legendary Robin Hood. News of the Sheriff’s absurd taxation rates had travelled to London by the time you’d left, as well as Robin Hood’s efforts to give it back to the poor, and you imagined that the town’s good mood had aligned with the absence of their governor. Their lives were far from easy, but they were relaxed and, thus, were you.

It was an unnaturally warm day in February when the news of Sir Guy’s return arrived. You were sweeping the Lord’s bedchambers when James appeared at the doorway, clearing his throat to make his presence known.

“His lordship has sent a notice of his arrival this afternoon.” The man’s hands were trembling, the note in his clasped hands fluttering like a panicked bird. “Could you finish up here and then sweep the hall?”

You nodded in assent, returning to cleaning when the man had disappeared. Although the house was alarmed by this news, you felt calm and collected. You were to meet your employer after two months of unsupervised service, that’s all this was to be. No self-deprecating questions rose unbidden in your head, no fear as to whether Sir Guy would like you or not. Those were girlish questions, for the childish and insecure.

Sweeping Sir Guy’s chambers did not take long for most of the floorspace was taken up by the four-postered bed and then a table with two wooden chairs. It seemed as though he had left in a hurry all those months ago; his papers and clothes had been strewn about the room. Since then, you had organised his manuscripts, folded his shirts and breeches, changed the sheets, and made the bed. It was the least you could do. Satisfied, you left the bedroom and descended the stairs to sweep the manor’s main hall.

The setting sun stretched the shadows long and still Sir Guy made no appearance. The hall was as clean as you could make it with the knowledge that an entourage would soon be traipsing through the manor. You had just set your broom side when a horse’s high-pitched squeal was heard. It was as if the whole town were holding its breath for what came next. Thundering hooves began to shake the ground; the townsfolk let out a shaky exhale and prepared for the worst.

“Come, young lady.” James stretched out his hand, as if she were a cat that needed coaxing from the corner, "Sir Guy shall want to see you.”

The horses came into view as soon as you stepped over the threshold to stand beside your fellow servants. Your hands smoothed over your dress, trying to swipe the dust from it. You would have to do.

A sharp jerk of the lead horse’s reins pulled the creature to a stop; its mouth foamed around the bit after a too-hard ride. The man atop wore a tattered leather coat and matching trousers, but its shine had long been lost. His hair was a tangled mess, shoulder-length black curls strangled around themselves. His nose was strong, as were his jaw and cheekbones. His pale gaze swept over the small crowd, but they didn’t reflect the happiness of homecoming. Instead, they were dull and lifeless. This was a man who, also, had seen too many ghosts in his time.

He swung his leg over his mount, dropping to the ground with a grunt. His features momentarily tightened into a grimace before falling back into passivity. He thrust the reins out to the stableboy, who took them with a shaking hand, before striding forward to push his way through the gathered servants and into the manor.

“Sir Guy,” James called after him, voice wavering, “There’s someone I want to introduce you to. You have a new woman in your employ.”

Guy stopped abruptly, hands curling into fists as he glanced over his shoulder, hair screening his face from view.

“Who is she, then?”

James beckoned you forward, and you dipped into a curtsy on instinct. Guy scoffed through his teeth, and he turned his body to face you completely.

“Do you have a name?”

You nodded and told him. His face did not change, and you were unsure if you had spoken out of turn. You met his gaze and held it. A crease deepened between his eyebrows and his lips pulled back in a snarl.

“She’ll do.”

He turned on his heel and pushed his way into the manor. Your eyebrows were raised in surprise before you could school your face into indifference. No one had claimed Sir Guy was charming, but it did not dampen your shock at learning he far from it.

It was as if Sir Guy had not returned, for he stayed in his bedchamber for the remainder of the afternoon. The manor crackled with tension as if too many logs had been thrown on the hearth. Afternoon bled into dusk. The table was set for dinner, but still the master of the house did not show. You stood to the left of Sir Guy’s chair, wine jug in hand in preparation to pour, until the chilled liquid had turned warm from the warmth of your palms. No one dared clear the table until the evening had darkened completely into night.

“Would you take a plate up for him?” James asked when you, alongside the other servants, had taken the uneaten food to the kitchens.

“Of course,” you said obligingly, “But only if you promise me that it the remaining goose won’t have been eaten without me.”

The housekeeper chuckled and consented, offering you a plate of sliced meats, roast potatoes, carrots, and turnips to take upstairs. Your mouth watered at the sight of such a full platter. With that in one hand and a fresh cup of wine in the other, you exited the kitchen and ascended the stairs.

You paused before the master’s door, taking a breath before intending to make your presence known.

“Sir Guy, I have a plate for you.”

A moment of hesitation, and then you pushed open the thick wooden door. You stopped short just beyond the threshold.

Guy sat hunched over on his bed, shirtless, face in his hands. Newly stitched wounds littered his shoulders and back alongside aged, silver scars. The muscles in those shoulders were tense with the sobs that wracked through him, muffled by the palms of his hands. You stood there for one moment more before finding your voice again.

“Sir Guy, I brought—”

The man’s head snapped up, fixing you to your spot with reddened eyes. His tangled hair hung limp in front of his face, and his lip curled back in that same grimace he first fixed you with that afternoon.

“Get out.”

“But, sir, are you not—”

“Did you not hear? I said leave me be!” His voice, made rough by crying, cracked halfway through.

“I apologise. I shall leave these—”

You caught the instant Guy moved, jerking forward to grab a pottered mug. You only had the sense to duck and cover your head before the mug was dashed against the wall above you. The plate and chalice fell from your hands, clattering to the ground.

You glanced up at Guy from your crouched position, and saw that instead of remorse, his face was painted with enjoyment, a harsh smirk slashed across his features. Now, you saw him as he truly was, a man who lived for retaliation, who lived for a fight, and for glory.

You would not give it to him.

Without speaking, you picked up the ruined food and the now-empty chalice. The wood would stain, but there was little to be done about that now. The ruined pot you would leave, but out of the corner of your eye you spotted Guy’s discarded leather coat. You hoisted that over your shoulder and turned to leave.

“I shall launder this for the morning, my lord.”

Only then did you meet his gaze; the smirk had disappeared, replaced by irritation, confusion, wonderment. You spoke in a tone that invited no criticism.

“You will not do that to me again.”

The next morning was different from any before it. You awoke before dawn, this time after a particularly late night of cleaning and polishing Guy’s leather overcoat, and then set the table for the lord’s breakfast. Once again, you stood to the left side of his chair, ready to be called upon to pour his drink.

Guy was not subtle in his own home. He must have just pulled his boots on because he could be heard through the floorboards. He carried his sword and scabbard in hand as he descended the stairs, passing you by with no more than a glance. The spurs on his boots chimed with each step he took, silencing only he took his seat at the head of the table. He did not look as though he’d slept well. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his hair remained tousled and dull. You approached his side, ready to pour ale into his chalice, when he held up his hand to ward you off.

“I don’t drink ale in the mornings.”

You dipped your head, keeping this in mind for the next morning, and found yourself speaking before you could help yourself.

“Can I get you anything else, Sir Guy?”

“No,” and as if it were an afterthought, “Thank you.”

You dropped back, handing off the ale jug to another servant to await Guy’s next order. He ate quickly, and then announced his departure to Nottingham. Your eyebrows furrowed at this. Could the Sheriff not give Guy more than a night’s rest before returning to service? It seemed absurd to you, to return back from the Holy Land and only be rewarded with one night’s inadequate respite to recover.

“—coat. Where is it?”

You blinked rapidly, returning to the present. Guy was standing before you, looking expectant, yet he did not appear angry at your inattentiveness. With a jolt of panic, you remembered that the overcoat was still folded on the stool at the end of your bed.

“I shall get it for you, just give me one moment.”

“I’ll come with you. Save you the trip back.”

You forewent an answer and led Guy to the servants’ quarters. They were small, admittedly, but most of the staff lived in the village proper. But you, without property or a wealthy family name, had to make do at Locksley Manor. It was fine, more than fine, albeit a little lonely.

Guy’s coat was exactly where you left it. You lifted it by the shoulders, letting it fall to its full length but careful not to let it touch the floor, holding it for the man to shrug into. He stood admiring the leather’s revitalised shine before he put it on, a smirk quirking at the corner of his lips. This one was the opposite of the cruel smile he provided the previous night, and you were, strangely, happy to see it.

“I wanted to speak with you, lady, about last—”

It was your turn to hold up your hands, shaking your head softly.

“A lady I am not,” you scoffed, but the sound of it was not unkind, “And you do not need to explain yourself to me, Sir Guy, but I shall reiterate that you shall not throw pottery at me again.”

The firmness in your voice halted Guy’s next words. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, before closing it again and leaving the way he’d come.

Sir Guy’s good mood soured more and more with each passing day he returned from Nottingham. At first it was excusable; flippant comments were often made after a long day when one had not slept well the night before. But as the days dragged on into weeks, he was becoming unbearable. He did not speak to his servants, but rather shouted at them, causing them to flinch away from him which only provoked him further. At mealtimes, it was much the same. He snapped his fingers at the servants’ and was angered by their so-called incompetency, at the inadequate food, at the too warm wine. Despite it all, he held true to your command, and never aimed his anger at you.

One evening proved to be the spark that provoked wildfire. Guy’s mood was so dour when he returned from Nottingham that you thought it best to avoid him as much as possible. Over the past few weeks, you had formed a fragile bond with the master of Locksley and did not want to compromise it.

When one of the younger servants set Guy’s plate before him, his elbow toppled his goblet of wine. Guy was a blur of movement, on his feet with his fist raised to crack against the boy’s cheekbone. Without thought, you stepped forward and grasped his wrist, your thumb pressing hard against his thundering pulse. His gaze softened, only for a breath, before he yanked his wrist from your grasp and pushed away from the dinner table. You moved to clear away the ruined tablecloth when a deep voice murmured close to your ear. Guy was so close to you that you noticed that he smelled faintly of lavender.

“Not you.”

You turned and followed him up the stairs silently, awaiting his wrath as he shut the bedroom door behind them. You would have been ready if he’d shouted, but instead his voice was a quiet husk.

“Do not embarrass me in front of the servants again.”

“So, I should have let you hit that poor boy?” You shot back, your temper flaring for the first time in your employ, “He did not mean it.”

“He was a fool! I should have taught him a lesson.”

“He learned it the moment the cup fell. You do not need to use violence to earn half-hearted respect.”

“Well, it certainly worked for you, didn’t it?”

At this, you stalled, turning your head to look out of the open window. You crossed your arms over your chest, defensive, your hands clutching the sleeves of your dress.

“I respect you because I care for you, not because I’m afraid of you.” The words came haltingly, your tongue tripping over itself. “I have come to care for you because I see you when you return from Nottingham, and I realise that the Sheriff works you like a dog. I care because I know a man who rode home from the Holy Land and cried the night he returned. I care because I recognise a man who has nowhere to put his anger, who has been beaten and scarred, who picks for any fight he might have a chance of winning. You may not treat us excellently, but that does not mean I cannot care for and respect you.”

Guy openly stared at you, his silence deafening. His eyes wandered over your face, awe capturing his features in reverence.

“You can tell all that?” His words were barely above a whisper.

“Am I incorrect?”

In the silence, you heard Guy’s throat click when he swallowed. You turned your head to see him staring to the middle-distance. His answer was hoarse when it came.

“No.”

“Well, I am neither blind nor stupid, Sir Guy.”

“I did not say—!” Only then did his temper flare, a frustrated sound leaving him before he could finish his sentence. “I did not say that. I only meant… that no one has put my circumstances into words as easily as you.”

You could not deny yourself a small smile at this. Guy saw and matched it. A smile suited him well. His hair was tangled as ever, but his blue eyes were gentle, and his shoulders were relaxed. You could get used to this, you decided.

Spring made way to summer, to crickets playing fiddle in the fields of wild grass, to tall sunflowers shielding you from the sun when you took an evening stroll. Guy’s mood mellowed, the longer hours easing his temper. As the months melted away into March, April, May, you found sprigs of wildflowers on your pillow more days than not. You would wear them in your hair, earning a satisfied smile from Guy when he thought you weren’t looking. He was pleasant enough at mealtimes, if a little begrudging to give compliments to the other servants and although they were wary of Guy’s changed disposition, your fellow servants were happy enough to accept it.

The first time Guy asked for your company, you had been fearful that he had misjudged your affections. You made your way to his chambers after dinner, knocking gently before entering. Guy was removing his new leather doublet, his fingers deftly unhooking the multiple belts across his chest before shrugging the garment off. His black shirt underneath was only loosely tied, exposing more collarbone than you should have thought reasonable. The Sheriff’s return from the Holy Land had obviously lined his coffers well and he had commissioned Guy a new wardrobe. You liked this doublet; it suited him well, accentuating his broad shoulders and trim waist. The leather long-coat you had so lovingly polished a month ago now hung abandoned in his wardrobe.

“Good evening, Sir Guy.” You dipped into a curtsy, earning a soft tut from him.

“Enough of that.” Guy waved his hand to dismiss your action before settling himself at one of two chairs before the low-burning hearth. “Guy is more than fine.”

“If you wish.”

“I do.” He motioned to the chair beside him. “And I also wish for you to join me.”

You could not deny him nor help yourself and, so, took your place by his side. You fiddled with the fabric of your skirt before you found your voice.

“Did you want us to make conversation, or for you to bask in a woman’s presence?”

Guy’s eyebrows pinched, the tendon in his jaw flickering as he stopped himself from spitting out a retort. Instead, he turned his body towards you.

“I wish for us to get to know one another better.”

“And why is that?” You needled him, “I am merely your servant.”

“Because I want to. Is that not enough?”

It was more than enough.

That evening, the words began stiff and unsure of themselves. He asked of your family, your upbringing and was pleasantly surprised to learn that you had roots in York before your father’s move to London.

“The Gisborne name is from Yorkshire,” he said wistfully, “On my father’s side.” Ghosts were flitting across his irises, his mouth pulling downward into a frown. You resisted the urge to place your hand on his forearm.

“What about your mother?”

That was the wrong question to ask, you quickly realised. The persistent crease returned to the space between his eyebrows, and his voice was sombre. “She died when I was sixteen.”

“Guy, I—”

“Do not say you’re sorry.” The hard had edge returned to Guy’s voice. “It was a long time ago.”

Your words died, but one question still prickled in the back of your throat.

“Did your mother have lavender fields?”

Guy’s face went slack, the crease disappearing. His lips were parted in awe and reverent eyes roamed your face. “How did you know that?”

You couldn’t stop the bashful smile that tugged at your lips, and you dropped your head to hide it. You could feel heat creep up your neck and blossom on your cheeks the longer he looked at you.

“It was a guess.” The memory of Guy’s closeness returned to you, and you clasped your hands together to stop yourself from fidgeting with your skirt. “Tell me about your home in France.”

Guy was happy to oblige and reached forward to put another log in the hearth before he started. He told you that he was from central France, the ‘Val de Loire’, where his mother’s garden had been filled with rows of lavender, bordered by manicured, verdant hedges. Different parts of the garden changed with the seasons, hellebores replaced the lavender in the winter to replenish the soil, and wisteria curled up the sides of his family’s châteaux in springtime. He recounted the summers he spent there, of the antics that he and his sister, Isabella, got up to in their youth.

You raised your eyebrows at the mention of her; he had never mentioned that he had siblings.

“Where’s Isabella now?” You asked quietly. The fire had burned low in the time Guy had been speaking. It was your turn to place a log to revive the embers.

“I have not seen her in nearly twenty years,” he admitted, swallowing thickly before continuing, “I sold her to her husband for a fair price. It was either both of us die of hunger, or secure both our futures with one simple transaction. She hated it, detested the husband more so, but I was barely the beginnings of a man, and I did what I thought was best.”

You remained quiet at this revelation. You felt for Isabella, for a young woman forced into a loveless marriage. You felt for Guy, a young man who did not have a better option available to him.

“Do you regret it?” You asked, voice quiet in the space between you.

“Yes,” Guy murmured, “But I would do it again if it meant she’d survive.”

That was all you could ask for, to find that he showed remorse. He was redeemable.

The conversation between you continued long after the sun had set, until the last log had been eaten by the flames and the embers glowed an unenthusiastic amber.

Summer nights belonged to you and Guy. He continued to ask for your company until he no longer had to. You went to him as eagerly as a butterfly to nectar. He would make you smile until your jaw ached, until your cheeks coloured, until laughter drew tears to your eyes.

Smiles came easier to him, too. He lashed out at the other servants less and less, until he hardly did so at all. James drew you aside one afternoon, asking what you had done to change Guy’s attitude. You could not answer him, as you did not know. You could only simply say, “He’s changing.”

The one constant was Nottingham. He would bid farewell to you in the mornings before he rode away, his smile morphing itself into something intensely private, a fondness that had not been there before.

Every evening, Guy would return a little more worn. He would dismount unsteadily, leaning heavily against his horse for a moment. He would hand off the reins to the stableboy, entering the manor with a stiff gait, retreating to his chambers without a word.

One evening, he returned late, and you found him sat on the end of his bed, elbows on his knees, head dropped between his shoulders. Silently, you laid a hand on his shoulder, urging him to shrug out of his doublet. He did so, body weary, fingers clumsily undoing the straps at his chest. His black cotton shirt was stuck to his sweaty back, betraying a day of overexertion by the Sheriff’s command.

“Would you like me to pour you a bath?” Your voice felt loud in the quiet room.

Guy shook his head, bedraggled curls obscuring his face. You contemplated pushing the matter for his sake, but you knew he was as stubborn as a donkey. Instead, you retrieved another from the wardrobe and handed it to him.

“Change,” you said firmly, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Guy looked up at you, blue eyes pleading. His hands twitched, as if he were about to reach for you. You mouthed ‘I promise’ from the door and retreated. You collected a water-filled bucket, a half-used bar of lye soap and a cloth before returning upstairs. Guy had swapped shirts by the time you’d returned, leaving the old one discarded on his bed. He eyed the supplies you’d brought back but still did not speak.

You settled yourself in one of the two chairs, the one you’d both silently agreed as yours, picking up his shirt on the way. You lathered the soap between your hands before dunking it. Guy watched you with barely concealed interest. He shifted, choosing to lay on his back with his head hanging off the end, and closed his eyes. You paid him little mind, focused on the task at hand.

You had just hung the shirt out to dry when Guy, finally, moved to sit in the opposite chair. You picked up his doublet, the leather warm in your hands. You did not dunk it like the shirt as that would crumple and ruin the garment but dipped the cloth and began to clean it that way, concentrating your attention to the clasps and stitches to spy for anything amiss. Guy’s voice cut through your focus.

“Someday, I won’t be under the thumb of any man.”

You dismissed it as tired rambling. Guy often said overindulgent thing when he was tired, daydreaming of his return to France or of his settling down with a wife. This was no different, you thought. The two of you remained in companionable silence for the rest of the evening.

A week passed and Guy went to and returned from Nottingham as usual.

Until he didn’t.

The evening was pleasantly humid, promising rain in a day or two. You had finished washing linens, your arms tired from using the scrubbing board, and was awaiting the tell-tale gallop of Guy’s horse to announce his return. The sun continued its journey towards the horizon, but he did not show. The kitchen staff had prepared one of his favourites, wild duck pie with currants, to celebrate the nearing of summer’s end. They had been so proud of their creation and had purchased the perfect wine to pair it with. Their disappointment was easy to pinpoint when another hour passed without Sir Guy’s return.

Night fell. You lit tapers in Guy’s bedchamber, and it took great effort not to stay and wait for him. No, you told yourself, it would not be right. It was different when Guy was there to invite you or if he were already at home, but you would not allow yourself to indulge, no matter how much you yearned for it.

You returned to your room in the servants’ quarters, a place you were spending less and less time, and readied for bed. It was not late by any means, but you reasoned that an early night would do you good. You lit a taper before undressing, swapping your day clothes for an embroidered, cotton shift, the neckline and hem decorated with autumn leaves. It had been a gift from your mother before your departure to Nottinghamshire. It was these lonely evenings without Guy’s presence that you missed her most.

You settled into bed. The room was quiet, your bed was warm, and it did not take long for you to slip into a fitful sleep.

A hand on your shoulder shook you from sleep. You were awake in an instant, pulled from instantly forgotten dreams, but your body was sluggish. Your name was being said as fervently as one would a prayer. You reached up to your shoulder, grasping the person’s wrist to let them know that you’d heard, when cold fingers clasped your own. The gesture shocked you into complete consciousness. You turned your head to see Guy, light eyes reflecting the low candlelight, his hair brushing your shoulder. Your heart was suddenly pounding. He moved back when you sat up, grimacing.

“What’s wrong?” You asked in the semi-darkness.

“Do you have a needle and thread?” Guy’s voice was low and thick with pain.

“Yes. Are you hurt?”

He stood and began to turn away. You grabbed his hand before he could, imploring him to answer with a look of concern.

He sighed. “Come upstairs.”

You didn’t need further convincing. You flung the covers back, forgetting your state of undress, and rifled around through your belongings. Guy withdrew, his gaze lingering on you before he left. With your sewing box and a cloth in hand, you went to the kitchen to pick up a bucket of water and a block of lye soap before moving to the stairs. Guy had just reached the top, leaning heavily against the banister. You followed.

You pushed the door of his bedchamber open with your shoulder, leading him inside. The tapers you’d lit had burned low and the edges of the room were shrouded in semi-darkness.

“Sit.” You commanded, waving a hand vaguely to suggest he sit in whichever chair he preferred. You readied the fire, arranging the kindling so that it would both catch fast and burn bright. When you held a candle to it, it did just that, flames eagerly licking up the logs. Only then did you turn to Guy, who had settled himself into your chair before the fire, eyes heavy-lidded.

You took the time to look over him in the growing light of the fire. His hair was tangled, and a purple bruise was beginning to bloom on his cheek. His doublet was scuffed and, in some parts, torn. His finely stitched trousers had a wet gash at the thigh. Your eyes widened at this discovery. You returned your gaze to his face and realised he’d been watching you.

“Who did this to do?” Your words were barely audible over the fire’s crackle.

“The Sheriff,” Guy answered lowly. He watched your expression change from shock to anger, your lips curling back from your teeth. He held up a hand to placate you. “He’s dead.”

Your mouth dropped open. “What would drive you to kill him?”

Guy’s jaw tightened. “He threatened Locksley. He threatened you.” You opened your mouth to argue that you were not worth being fought over, but he silenced you with another gesture. “He called you my little leper friend, the leech of Locksley sucking me dry.”

The lewd allusion was not lost on you, making you grimace. You wrung your hands, fidgety with nervous energy. You were glad the Sheriff was dead; if not, you would have ridden to Nottingham yourself to drive a poker through his eye.

“I don’t know how he came to know of my affection for you,” Guy continued, “But he kept trying to turn me against you. I could not, I cannot, and I will not.”

Your breath caught in your chest. Guy lowered his gaze, the fire setting his pale eyes alight. You took two steps to him and took your face in his hands. Immediately, his hands came up to encircle your wrists, holding you to him. His face was cold despite the warmth of the fire.

You leaned forward and pressed the gentlest of kisses between his brows. He melted, an exhale leaving him in a rush.

“You have affection for me?” You asked, lips moving against his skin.

“Yes,” he whispered, reverent, “Yes, yes. How could I not?”

You could not answer him that. You felt immeasurably happy, more so than you had felt in a long time. You could only, in that moment, show it through your actions.

“Let me tend to your leg and pour you a bath.”

Guy nodded, pulling back so that he could roam his eyes over your face again, his lips pulling up into a smirk. There was no contempt in it as there once had been, only adoration.

You helped him undress, taking his doublet from him and hanging it on the back of the other chair. He handed over his armguards before his scabbarded sword; he had never trusted it to you before, and you propped it against the bed gingerly. He stepped from his trousers, wincing when he put all his weight on his wounded leg. He slumped back into the chair in just his shirt and undergarments, and in any other situation you would have revelled in the intimacy of it.

You picked up the soap, scrubbing your hands and dunking them into the pail of water. Satisfied that they were clean enough, you took up your sewing box. You knelt at Guy’s side, adjusting yourself so your shadow didn’t obscure your view of his leg. The stab wound had stopped bleeding, was now only oozing, yet it would not heal on its own without intervention. It was long and deep, made with obvious intent to hurt, or even maim. You exhaled heavily, rifling through your sewing box for a new needle and thread.

“You’re lucky the Sheriff didn’t stab you somewhere more important.”

Guy began to chuckle, but the sound was cut off by a grunt of pain as you sunk the needle into his skin. His hand flew to your shoulder, his thumb pressing harshly against your collarbone. You winced but didn’t move out of his grasp. Sharing a little pain with him was the least you could do. You worked quickly, your free hand grasping his thigh to limit his movement, fearful that his leg would jolt and tear the fragile skin even more.

By the time you’d finished, his face was sheened with sweat, hand shaking where it had released your shoulder. You tied off the thread, your fingertips bloody, before flinging the needle into the fire. You remained knelt beside him, taking his hand from your shoulder, and interlacing your fingers with his.

“Are you alright?” You whispered, reaching up to brush a dark curl from his face.

“Better now,” He murmured, squeezing your hand in response, “Thank you.”

You pressed kisses to his knuckles. You were insatiable, hungry for the warmth of his skin against your own. Only when a log popped from the heat of the fire did you snap from your desire.

“Come,” You said, gently pulling him to his feet, “I’ll ready your bath.”

It took multiple trips to the kitchens to fill the wooden bathtub; by the time you had filled it to your satisfaction, your arms were aching. You had brought in the chair from Guy’s bedroom, upon which he sat as you filled the tub. You waved away his offerings to help, warning him against tearing his stitches. You found, also, that you wanted to do this for him.

“It’s ready for you,” you said, turning your body away so that he could undress fully.

Guy shucked off his shirt and undergarments, stepping into the bath. As he lowered himself into the water, a soft groan pushed past his lips. His eyelids slipped closed, mouth parting in sudden serenity. You watched his body unwind, shoulders dropping, hands unfurling from fists. He was, in that moment, tranquillity incarnate.

He took a breath and sunk below the water. He remained there for several moments, air escaping his lips in a steady stream. You settled the chair beside the bathtub, sitting back just as Guy surfaced. He tugged a hand through his waterlogged curls, hissing with pain when his fingers tangled between the strands. You couldn’t help but snort, earning you a look of mocking contempt from him.

“Is it my nakedness that makes you laugh?” Guy asked, his eyes alight with amusement.

“No,” you replied, “It’s that your hair has been a tangled mess since the day I met you. I’ve always wondered why you never cropped it short.”

“It used to be shorter,” Guy conceded, “It grew out while I was in the Holy Land, and I never found the time to cut it.”

“I like it.” The words were loose before you could rein them in. In a quieter voice, you admitted, “It suits you.”

Guy grinned, then, his teeth bright in the dim room. You returned it without thought; how could you deny him? You allowed yourself to indulge in an urge that had gnawing away at you the longer you’d stayed at Locksley.

“Let me wash your hair.”

His smile fell away and you feared that you had upset him. You gave up ground by averting your gaze. He surprised you, his voice the softest you’d ever heard it.

“Please.”

You swallowed, throat dry. You nodded and told him you’d return in a moment before fleeing to the servant’s quarters to grab a wide-toothed comb. The house was cool, raising goosebumps on your arms; you were happy to return to the warm steam of the bathroom.

“You’ll have to come to the other end of the bath where I can reach you.” Guy was happy to oblige you, manoeuvring himself slowly so that the water didn’t slosh over the edge. He sat with his back to you, arms resting on the tub’s rim.

You’d brought the lye soap in from the bedroom, and now you gathered suds in your hands. You took a steadying breath before you tangled your fingers in Guy’s wet hair. You lathered his scalp, alternating between scrubbing with your fingernails and massaging with your fingertips. His tense muscles relaxed under your hands, his head beginning to tip back in ecstasy.

It pleased you immensely to see him to utterly at ease. There had been so many nights when his temper would spark as easily as dry kindling, when he would not speak a word to you, when he was so tired that he would fall asleep fully clothed. Now, his skin was hot against your hands, and he would occasionally reward you with a hum of satisfaction. You would not have it any other way.

You dipped your hands into the water by Guy’s shoulder, cupping enough to tip over his head to wash the suds out. The action was welcoming repetitive and warmed your hands in the process; it was then that you wished you’d brought a shawl from downstairs.

Once Guy’s hair had been rinsed, you began to tackle it with your comb. You worked from ends to root, taking care not to tug. After every lock that you untangled, you curled it around your finger before letting it fall into place. When he could, Guy watched your hands in his periphery. He was enthralled by your actions, his heart beating hard beneath his sternum. It had been so long since he’d felt loved by another that he had almost forgotten the sensation.

The longer the silence settled between you, questions began to rise up within you like the tide, slow yet inevitable. You allowed yourself to ask one.

“What happened in the Holy Land?”

Guy went still under your hands, and he resisted the urge to tug his head away. In all the months that he’d returned from the Holy Land, no one had asked him about his time there. He’d buried those memories in the sand alongside the woman he’d loved.

“A lot of things.” The answer was begrudging and equally unsatisfactory.

“Tell me, Guy. You returned from that place with too many ghosts in your eyes.”

He took a shaking breath and clasped his hands together beneath the water. He suddenly looked impossibly small.

“I destroyed her. I destroyed everything.”

“Her?”

“Her.”

You pulled the comb through the final lock and set it aside, heart pounding. You waited for Guy to explain further, but he was staring into the shadows of the room, teeth chattering despite the warm water. The woman’s ghost had come to visit him, it seemed.

“What was her name?” You spoke into the unsettled quiet.

He seemed to choke, his tongue working against him. “Marian.”

The puzzle, finally, slotted itself together. Knighton had been quiet for the past few months; you’d been too absorbed in Guy to see it.

“Why did you kill her, Guy?”

The harshness in your tone made him flinch as if you’d struck him.

“I loved her and—”

“And she did not?” The words were rose thorns. “Should I worry for my life, that you may run me through if I don’t love you?”

“No,” Guy whispered, turning himself in the water to face you, “No, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“What makes me different to her? That I can give you affection you crave?” Your fingernails were carving red crescents into your palms.

“You never plucked my heart like a harp. You never kissed me so that another man could escape from Nottingham. You never said you would marry me when your heart was with another. You have never betrayed me.” Guy had pushed himself to his feet, dripping water, body carved in shadow as he loomed over you.

You were livid with him; you could not deny that you loved him. You could not deny that the thought of Marian using Guy for her own gain made your blood boil, made you glad she was dead that she could no longer hurt him. You and Guy were as good and as bad as each another.

“You are different to her,” Guy murmured, his hands reaching up to cradling your face, “And I could not more thankful for it.”

You pushed up on your toes and pressed your lips to his. A groan hummed at the back of his throat, his lips parting to chase your mouth with his own. Your hands came to rest on his hips, stuttering his breath before he found your lips again. He was a man parched, and you were ravenous.

You pulled back, and his head followed without thought. You brought your fingers to his lips, now reddened and swollen, to bring him back to the present. His eyes were pools of ebony when he opened them.

“Stay with me tonight,” he murmured, voice rasping.

“Yes.”

His lopsided smile returned. He stepped from the bath and took your hand in his. The manor had not stirred the entire night, and that did not change now despite the soft laughter between you. The candles in Guy’s bedroom had almost gone out in the time he’d spent in the bath. Now, tiredness seeped into your bones, willing you to get into bed.

Guy had dropped your hand to pull on a loose nightshirt, before pulling back the covers for you. His damp hair would dry at odd angles if he slept on it now, but you did not mind; you would fix it for him if he asked.

You climbed into bed, the sheets finer than any you’d slept on before. Guy was behind you, his warm body pressing against your back. His arm hovered above you, indecision making him hesitate.

“May I?” He asked, his voice so close to your ear that you had to suppress a shudder.

“Please.”

Guy’s arm curled around you, pulling you ever closer; you interlaced your fingers with his.

You watched the candles burn themselves to smoke. As you drifted towards sleep, you remembered that you’d once told yourself you could get used to a life like this. If it were anything like this night, you’d be happy until the end of days.

#scribbles #fanfiction #ao3 #bbc robin hood #guy of gisborne #richard armitage #guy of gisborne/reader #please enjoy!#this took me a month and i'm really happy with it so i hope you are yoo!

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