#ofc: vivian liu

[tessa-quayle]

007fest 2019: OC day

In which I shamelessly promote Dr Vivian Liu, friend to Q and Moneypenny and Bond (Craig), and lover to M.

Headcanon for Dr Liu: American surgeon turned political operative/MI-6 consultant.  Helping to rebuild the US and UK and world post their 21st century wave of fascism.  She has no more fucks to give.  Except a few for M.  ;) 

Headcanon for Gareth Mallory/M in relation to her: he is a older than she is, but not obscenely so (by several years).  he is drawn by her smarts, humor, and passion.  he fancies himself a forward thinking man, but learns new things (about himself and the world and women) daily when confronted with her feminism and painfully checks his implicit biases.  they enjoy a long-term commitment and share a love of travel and snark (especially snark on Bond).  they never marry, but this is not a bad thing.

Created by the talented @jomiddlemarch

read 16 stories by her here on AO3

read 8 stories by yours truly here on AO3

THANKS 007FEST FOR BEING SO INCLUSIVE!  xo 

[tessa-quayle]

thanks for the lovely drabble, @jomiddlemarch :)

a little spin with M and an OFC with mentions of Q, 007, and Moneypenny

@teamcivilian @teammbranch

Tender only to one

“Q needs to stop making cow eyes at James. That’s not going to happen,” Vivian said quietly. No one else would have heard her, she’d made sure of that, but she hadn’t whispered. She hadn’t spoken in a way to try and turn him on, so he couldn’t blame her for it.

“Cow eyes?” Gareth repeated.

“Don’t you know that expression? Moony? Is that better?” she said, then took a sip from her mug. Her throat was long and lovely when she swallowed, whether it was a crockery mug or a champagne flute she drank from. Whether she held a piece of painted china in her hand or his cock, her dark eyes always just as beautiful.

“I suppose. You think it’s unrequited?” Gareth asked, watching her squint, wishing to take the pins from her carefully arranged hair to see if all fall down, black against the white silk of her blouse. It wasn’t so dark in the bed they shared, in the candlelight or at dawn; then, he saw other colors, rich and warm, lively as flames.

“I think James can’t allow it. That’s not quite the same,” she said.

“Can’t—or won’t?” Gareth said.

“Splitting hairs now, are we? You know him better than I do, after all,” Vivian said.

“He loved Vesper very much. Losing her—it broke him,” Gareth said. He hadn’t even liked the man but he couldn’t help pitying him when he’d seen him afterwards. He’d never see a man with eyes so blue, so dead. With eyes that wished so much for death and a mouth that wouldn’t let him stop consuming whatever came his way. It was around then that Moneypenny had taken to single malt Scotch.

“I think Q likes to fix broken things. And James knows it,” Vivian said. “What would it mean to be mended?”

“Indeed,” Gareth said, musing. And thanking the Queen’s English he could say a word like Indeed and not end the conversation but make it clear she might.

“How English you are! I forget sometimes,” she laughed. Not loud enough to attract the attention of either man across the room.

“I’m meant to believe you forget anything? Ever?” Gareth said.

“You’re meant to pretend. If I want you to,” she said, finally coquettish. It was rare for her to be so flirtatious. She was usually all subtlety, all shadow and delicious, intoxicating nuance. Until she decided to cut.

“Your wish, madam, is my command,” he said.

“Oh, if only that were true!” she sighed. It would take him all night to decide what she meant. What she wanted. At least, unlike Q, he had a chance to discover it. And he knew, already, she wanted him to.

For @tessa-quayle. 

[mi6-cafe]

It’s Supportive Sunday!

Supportive Sunday is a day when we encourage you to support someone in the fandom!

There are lots of ways to do that:

Kudos something that you like 

A short comment (”Loved this!” or “Extra kudos!”)

A more detailed comment (”X made me laugh out loud!”)

Make a rec post

Send a creator a short anon ask about their work! (”What inspired X?”)

Send a reader who’s commented a short anon ask showing your appreciation! (”Your comments make my day!”)

As part of Supportive Sundays, we’re also highlighting three randomly chosen fics and a piece of art on AO3 that don’t have any comments:

00Q: Adjust as Needed, by viklikesfic (v_angelique). Summary: This was part of a pile of 00Q disability-and-kink fics I just found randomly sitting in my Google Drive. Enjoy a Q that is both badass and realistic about his energy needs.CW: Brief unsolicited groping by an intoxicated stranger. (Dom/sub, multiple sclerosis, BAMF Q, finger sucking.) 

Rare pair: Omne Trium Perfectum, by middlemarch. Summary: One, two, three.  (Romance, established relationship. Gareth Mallory/Dr. Vivian Liu (an OFC.)) 

Gen: Enough, by TheGoodDoctor. Summary: Caretaking is fun. Maths is weird. (An AU where James, Eve, Q, and Bill are little kids, and Gareth is their beleaguered babysitter.)  

Art: When We Met, by Dassandre. Summary: This photo collage is inspired by the series Fool Me Once by Boffin 1710 and AsheTarasovich. 

[tessa-quayle]

Praise song for every hand-lettered sign

happy thanksgiving!  

below is a gift fic for the awesome @merger-she-wrote - grateful for her friendship and for encouraging me to get on this site - ha!

also thankful for @jomiddlemarch who made this drabble readable and whose own writing is unparalleled

the title is from the poem “Praise Song for the Day” by Elizabeth Alexander (read at Barack Obama’s 2009 Presidential inauguration)

other notes and the same drabble can be read on AO3

_____

Julia pulled the knit hat over her ears, pearly pink with cold and matching the worn wool.  Leaning against the marble column, she blew into each icy fist and watched her breath waft in the cold November air before gripping her camera to twist off the 35mm lens.  As she reached into her square leather bag to exchange the lens, fingering the chrome of the 50mm, she felt a heavy warmth against her leg.  

She looked down and spotted Silver - the First Cat - her deep purr reverberating through her dense body and into Julia’s jeans.  Silver’s stubby white paws peeked out from the lush coat of grey fur, her lifted tail a plume.  Before Julia could put away her gear to scoop up the cat, a baritone voice boomed from a distance.

“Poehler!”  She saw a figure in a reflective running vest, long tights, shorts, and a tattered t-shirt waving happily at her.  From a distance, two large men trailed behind in black tracksuits like shadows.  He slowed to a jog as he neared, winced presumably at his left knee, its orthopedic deficits minutely chronicled in the Post, even meriting occasional mentions in the Grey Lady.

He regarded her inquisitively, panting: “What’re you doing here?”  

Silver sauntered over to him, stretching herself against the taut curve of his muscled calf.   He swiftly crouched down to hug the cat, his long fingers stroking her downy chest and she licked the base of his thumb.  Julia instinctively raised the camera to her face, clicking at the image of the president kneeling by his cuddly pet, his tousled salt and pepper hair, the ends darkened wet with sweat, filling the frame, a perfect shot.

“I just wanted to check out the lighting before the ceremony,” Julia replied casually, tucking her camera into the bag.  The pardon of the Thanksgiving turkey was scheduled later that day.   A plump turkey would be trotted out, its rainbow-painted snood drooping and darting beady eyes oblivious to its fate and circumstance.

“The kids are excited about this event,” he stood up, hands on his waist, and flashed her a wide grin that made him impossibly young to be the leader of the free world.  “I hope you’re coming to dinner tonight.”

“Yes,” afraid of sounding a bit too eager, she quickly added: “Official duty and all.”

“Aw come on, it’s not just official business.  It’s Thanksgiving!” he insisted. “You gotta stay for dessert.  I convinced the kitchen staff to let me make my famous pecan bourbon pie.  With pecans from El Paso.”

“You had me at bourbon,” Julia smiled, warmed by the prospect of the rich dessert, bourbon a dark gold in a heavy tumbler, the light in the President’s dark eyes.

***

Vivian watched Gareth bring her coffee and a thick, mysterious-looking rectangular packet.  He had gotten up early that morning to check the downstairs mailbox she neglected and was already half dressed for work, a buttoned white collared shirt neatly tucked into dark navy trousers, his jacket and tie in the bedroom still hanging from her mirror.  “DO NOT BEND” in block print was red-stamped on the manila and black wavy stripes filled the upper corner.  She slowly sliced the side of the envelope with a brass letter opener, fashioned like a fang, and peeled away the bubble wrap, popping as it revealed a card and framed photograph.

Vivian chuckled softly at the curlicue scrawl inked on the card.  

“Vivi -

When we set out to fuck the patriarchy, we didn’t mean for you to take it literally.  

You are sorely missed.  When are you coming home?  Will we ever meet Old British Dude?

Enclosed is a picture from inauguration.  It needs to occupy a spot on your piano.  

Happy Thanksgiving (and yes, the WH turkey lived to gobble another day),

Jules”

She failed to suppress a giggle as Gareth leaned over to study the picture more closely: Vivian in a sparkling royal blue gown with a plunging neckline and a tall, boyishly handsome man in a smart tux in black tie. His arm was draped around her, his large hand grasping the side of her bare shoulder, matching incandescent smiles beaming into the camera.  

He cocked his head to the side and muttered, “That’s quite a dress.  I didn’t realize you were such close friends with the President.”

“I’m not - Julia is. She’s the lead White House photographer and took this at one of the inaugural balls.”

Gareth countered: “So he just seeks out pretty voters on the day he’s sworn in? What does his wife have to say about that?”  

“Oh stop,” she bristled, carefully expanding the velvety easel behind the photograph, letting it stand on the table top.  “He’s just generous with his time. Though I did work my ass off for his campaign.  And a few good friends are now in the administration.   Marisa heads the Department of Justice.  And Amy - another Amy - she’s the first psychiatrist to be Surgeon General.”

“Is his cabinet all women?”

“Mostly,” she replied, folding her arms, slightly irritated at his tone.  “No one says anything when cabinets are majority men.”  

“You’re blushing,” Gareth said, smiling at her.

“What?”  Vivian feigned surprise and felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

“You adore him.”

“I adore his policies,” she huffed. “You don’t get it.  You can’t imagine how … appealing it is when someone champions your right to control your own body.  And when someone stands up for the voiceless and most marginalized in our society.”

“You Americans always want to fall in love with your politicians.”

“That’s rich, coming from someone who probably fantasized about Thatcher.”

“That’s brutal, even for you,” Gareth shot back.

“Brutal?  Or politically incorrect?”  Vivian winked, finally taking the cup of coffee meant for her from his hands, and enjoying a long sip.

[tessa-quayle]

Whirling in the dark universe

many thanks to @jomiddlemarch for the combined prompts and the edits.  notes (and the same drabble) can be found on AO3.

___________________________________

Gareth spent minutes staring at the ceiling before realizing it wasn’t his bedroom. In the kitchen, a coffee grinder buzzed and a metal filter tapped against the sink.  An automatic pour-over whirred.  A few gurgles were followed by a long hiss.  Two slate Heath mugs lined the counter, ready to be filled.  

    As he reached for the nightstand in search of his watch, he found his tie wrapped around his wrist in a loosened knot, a distant cousin to the double Englishman’s.  He smiled recalling the night before.  She had left him at the curb.  Hours later, he showed up at her door.  She tied him to her kitchen chair: one hand twisting the silk around his wrists and the other unzipping his pants.  He wanted to ask where the fuck did you learn how to do this, but remembered she’d spent years one-handedly stitching up ragged flesh with catgut and nylon.  He twisted in surrender, and struggled to sit still as she knelt before him.

  You don’t have to, it’s okay

I want to, if you want it

I do, but -

Then shhhhh (shhh, baby)

Vivian, in black rimmed glasses and a faded Yale t-shirt barely covering the top of her thighs, walked to the edge of the bed and handed him his cup of coffee.

“Thank you.”

She studied him as he sipped.  “I think my grandmother would’ve liked you.”

“What do you mean?”

She smiled conspiratorially. “She called 1997 ‘the Handover.’”

***

She recalled her grandmother sniping in Cantonese at the aunts and uncles.  Is it a reunification or a handover?  We move from one oppressor to another.  Vivian’s childhood summers were spent roaming the malls and parks in Burnaby and West Van with her cousins.  Each year, her grandmother teased her about her accented Mandarin.  Before every road trip back on I-5 near the border, they’d have dim sum in a strip mall where cars in the lot packed like mahjong tiles across felt.  They had to shout over the table of billowed pork buns, spiraled-top soup dumplings, sheets of white rice noodles stuffed with pink-orange shrimp; no one thought anything of the noise.  Carts carrying stacked bamboo steamers crowded the aisles, every waiter’s black trousers shiny with wear.  Vivian liked best the first pour of the fragrant jasmine tea and was careful not to swallow the verdigris specks at the bottom of the amber water.  Once, the wait staff had forgotten to refill the pot; oversteeped, the tea turned brown and bitter.  She learned to love chrysanthemum tea her grandmother preferred - bright yellow white petals that blossomed under hot water and resembled miniature sunflowers, the sap only turning cold with time.  

***

He groaned and rolled his eyes: “I’m not like that.”

“I know you don’t mean to be,” she leaned down and kissed his forehead.  

***

(the night before)

This is bullshit, Vivian sputtered to herself.  Standing beneath the red awning, she had just walked out of Rules.  Lanzhou was city blocks away and suddenly she craved hand-shaven noodles.   She debated whether to march the quarter mile in her spiked stilettos; on a better night, she’d have packed flats into a tote snagged at that last medical conference in Brussels.

The door swung open and Gareth stepped beside her, his fingers grazing her elbow: “Vivian, why’re you leaving so soon?”  

“We had a really long day with Q,” she replied, picking an easy excuse, “I’m exhausted, I need to go to bed.”

“It’s 8:30.”

“I’m an old lady.”

Gareth, slightly annoyed, demanded: “What happened in there?  Why won’t you tell me the truth?”

***

Moneypenny looked on sympathetically as Vivian neared a confrontation with a dense MI6 agent.  

So where are you from?  

The States.  

Oh yes yes, but you know, where are you really from?  

California.  

What I mean is -

She interrupted him and enunciated evenly: Palo Alto, Ca-li-for-ni-a.  He blinked, barely able to recognize the sarcasm in her voice.   She glared into the old-fashioned before throwing the rest of it back, the ice cold against her lip. It stung. She slammed down the glass and tossed an oversized tip onto the bar.   Gareth huddled at a table with Q and she felt relieved he’d been spared being a witness to her rage.  As she stomped toward the exit on the gold-swirled patterned carpet, she heard a faint ni hao from a corner.  She felt the urge to maim someone.  She darkly imagined herself with a scalpel, the power gathering in the center of her palm, where Gareth thought it was romantic to press a kiss.

***

She couldn’t help but fume: “Because you’ll never get it.  You all had an entire Empire built on the backs of others and still can’t expand your definition of what a fucking Westerner looks like.”

Shaking with anger, she turned to the street and raised a hand in the air, the satin clutch gripped in the other fist, the Burberry Gibbsmoore coat draped heavy over her forearm.  Cabs snaked through the narrow road, none of them for hire.  

He looked at her, bewildered: “Won’t you at least tell me what happened?  I don’t understand.”

She shook her head, “I’m sorry.  Not now, maybe later.”

Defeated, Gareth offered: “Fine, well, at least - at least let me get you a car.  Let me take you home.”

[tessa-quayle]

The Writing’s on the Wall

thank you to @jomiddlemarch for 1) the prompt, 2) the wonderful edits (that rescued this drabble) and insightful advice, and 3) creating such a fun OFC in Vivian.  :)  thanks for inspiring me to take a spin with these characters.

rated R.

__________________________________

She was tired.  It was midnight.  Out in the hallway, the custodian pushed along a wheeled bin, its muffled rumble providing equal parts comfort and discomfort: a reminder she was not alone and the uneasy idea of another human being tasked with taking out her trash. She finally heard his footsteps fade, and a door slammed shut. There was freedom in solitude.

Kicking off her heels, Vivian rolled off her stockings, balled them up, threw them into a corner.  The glow from her laptop screen dimly lit the tiny office.  She found an Alec Guinness reading of TS Eliot’s Four Quartets, turned up the volume, and turned back to typing away furiously.  

The hard, fast tapping of the keyboard was interrupted by a loud chuckle.

“God, woman, how many words a minute can you type?”  Mallory stood at the door, his shoulder against the frame.

“Is someone in search of a secretary?”

He winked: “You filled that position last week, remember?”  He looked around and then at her expectantly: “May I come in?”

“Of course,” she replied, finding his formality curious.  And welcome.

“It’s spartan,” he said, surveying the books leaning like dominoes on the half empty shelf where a scented candle and a coffee mug collected dust.  No medical texts, just fiction.  

“Well, I was crossing an ocean, I had to pack light.”    

He leaned against her desk.  

“Careful,” she warned lightly.  “This isn’t as nice and sturdy as yours.  If you lean on it too hard, you could break it.”  

She held his glance steadily, sure of what she’d made him remember. During their first encounter, she’d tugged his tie toward her so that his head bowed and she tiptoed to meet his lips, kissing him hard until his mouth was swollen.  She let him bend her over the desk, putting her arms out along the cool, dark mahogany as he moved against her.  When he came, he reached for her hand curling her fingers under his.  She thought of his weight pressing her down, that sense of vital power, controlled, intoxicating, and she remembered wanting time to stand still.  

This was his first time in her office, her space.  Vivian watched as he fingered the spines of the novels, pulled them out and flipped them over to scan the back summaries.  Soft queries yielding simple answers.   This was not an interrogation; and yet, she felt unprepared by this rifling through thoughts.  An unannounced inspection – to what end exactly?  She was unnerved.  She felt more exposed now than in the moments he’d knelt before her, his hands circling her hips - he’d nipped her inner thigh, leaving a mark.  A shudder, a grip.  Looking up, he’d spied the rise of her chest.  He murmured a word she couldn’t understand, an answer she hadn’t thought of.

“Where is that?”  He pointed to a panoramic photo hanging on the wall behind her.  A wooden dock split a turquoise sea and stretched into the orange red horizon.  

“Tulum.”  She shrugged, rubbed her eyes.  “I know, it looks like a scene out of a motivational poster.  I borrowed a friend’s Leica and could only use it as a point and shoot.  Really - the picture takes itself with a fancy camera.”  

He grinned: “Maybe when this case is done, you can take me there.”

“I wish you wouldn’t…” muttered Vivian.  

She reddened and the room suddenly felt hot. She shifted in her chair, rolling it forward.  In the beginning, she had thought they’d be done when the case was done.  And now, she wished her feelings could be neatly compartmentalized, contained within borders squiggled on a map.  A foolish wish - hope was expectation was disappointment.  

Guinness’ baritone rang through the tinny computer speakers:

….human kind

Cannot bear very much reality

Time past and time future

What might have been and what has been

Point to one end, which is always present

Mallory gazed at her, confused, his eyes darkening.   “You wish I wouldn’t … what?”

“Never mind, sorry, it’s nothing.  I guess - I guess we’ll see.”  And offered a smile instead of an answer.

[jomiddlemarch]

Reblogging to share a moodboard I made for Vivian, a while ago but still a keeper:

007fest: original characters day

Original Female Character: Dr Vivian Liu (let’s pretend she’ll be played by the lovely Lucy Liu)

OFC created by the wonderfully creative and talented @jomiddlemarch

concept: Dr Liu is an American surgeon turned political operative who joins MI6 and makes good trouble (and naughty trouble) with Gareth Mallory

there are 17 stories about her on AO3.   check these out and if you have time, read here as well

(hi @teamcivilian and @teammbranch)

a ficlet created just for the 007fest (AO3 version here):

sprawling on a pin 

The two men spent the morning across from one another at a large chrome desk in the middle of Q’s workshop.  The wall behind them was a blue screen of flickering light, flashing text, and fluorescent lines like the shimmering fish in an aquarium.   M found the exposed beams and open space - where one could spy an entire room of agents furiously tapping away at their laptops - almost disorderly, the lack of containment a sort of chaos.  He leaned back into his chair.

Q took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, squinting.  His unruly chestnut curls covered his furrowed brows.   

“I need your advice, M.”

“On what?”

“I’m thinking - for 007’s next mission - to switch from the Omega Seamaster to the Moonwatch.  Do you think he’d mind?”

“If it’s the Moonwatch with the sapphire, he won’t even notice,” M said with wry amusement, winking, “your special friend is not the most utilitarian.”

“Special friend?” Q asked, the lilt in his tone a strain to keep from sounding too incredulous.

“You know what I mean,” M sighed and rolled his eyes.  “It is what it is.  Enjoy your youth!  Before your hair thins and you end up like me.  Prufrock is a warning, not a love song.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” mumbled the younger man, “but never mind.  Before you go - remember you’re meeting that American surgeon today - the one who’s joining us on this case.”

“Oh?”  M stood up to gather his belongings and stuffed several files into his worn leather briefcase.  It was better suited to aging, its patina only growing richer and more appealing, unlike the image he saw in the mirror every morning.  “When is he arriving?”

“She,” Q corrected him, the sharp emphasis in his voice startling them both, “She’s with Moneypenny now and they should be coming by soon.”

M tightened his jaw.  He felt slightly chastened and irritable with it.  Before he could fret over whether Q would reveal this slip of bias and to whom, he heard Moneypenny’s infectious laugh becoming more vivid as the two women approached.  M looked up and his eyes grew wide; he found himself straightening his knees to recover his posture.

Moneypenny beamed a smile at M and gestured to the lithe, dark-haired woman beside her: “M, I want you to meet Dr Liu.”

“Please - call me Vivian. Unless I should pick a letter—I’m fond of L, for obvious reasons.”

She stretched out her forearm toward him for a handshake, her skin soft against his, but a firm grip, assured.  They stood close enough so that he could breathe in her fragrance, a hint of jasmine and vetiver.  Her brown eyes were warm but incisive, her cheekbones high yet not severe, her face delicate as a Renaissance painting and with a keen intelligence animating her.   Wrapped in a power red sheath dress, Vivian seemed to fill the room with an arresting air. When she stepped back and let go, he was suddenly aware of how much he had been staring.

“Mallory,” he blurted, “Gareth Mallory.”

She arched an eyebrow at his reply, her full lower lip curving into a knowing grin.  Bloody hell, he thought.  He winced at how derivative he must have sounded.  He had meant to introduce himself as Gareth, and just Gareth, and imagined her head on his chest, whispering his name.

“A pleasure,” she said, the laughter in her tone along with appraisal.  He felt pinned by her gaze. He had a new and acute sympathy for butterflies.

[tessa-quayle]

modest 007fest masterpost

really enjoyed everyone’s creative endeavors in my first 007fest with @teamcivilian - thanks for including me!

i don’t have much in terms of a master list, but did write up a short fic for OFC day -  read it here on AO3

to recap, Dr Vivian Liu is a character created by @jomiddlemarch and between the two of us, there are 21 stories about her on AO3 involving Gareth Mallory.  the 007fest creations spurred us to get Q and Bond and Moneypenny into our fanfic, too.  

do yourself a favor and read the 14 good ones here on AO3 ;)

not a recipe per se, but thought this alcohol-free tea liquor created by an excellent teamaker in my city deserved some acknowledgement.  it’s called (007) Olympia Royale.