5 acts meme
how the 5 acts meme works
- Post a list of your five favourite kinks/acts or themes in your journal. At the bottom, add what fandoms/pairings you're interested in.
- Comment to the master post with a link to your post.
- Read other people's lists here.
- Post comment-fic based off of other people's interests.
( my 5 acts )
- Post a list of your five favourite kinks/acts or themes in your journal. At the bottom, add what fandoms/pairings you're interested in.
- Comment to the master post with a link to your post.
- Read other people's lists here.
- Post comment-fic based off of other people's interests.
( my 5 acts )
Actually I'm pretty sure I almost managed to cheat my way through all five acts in one fic, I'm really proud of myself.
Q sat by the window and pretended to be looking through his notes, but his eyes kept wandering to the bathroom, the large two-winged door that was wide open for no good reason other than Bond being a show-off, and anyway what kind of a hotel had bathrooms that were larger than most people's living rooms, with just as absurdly large doors? Right, the kind of hotel that James Bond stayed in, and Q in this case, because his fear of flying unfortunately couldn't save him from being sent to Paris to help Bond on a mission that would require a bit more technological know-how than England's finest had.
He wondered if Bond had done it on purpose - looked up when Q's train arrived in Paris and made sure he was in the bathroom just around the time Q would come to the hotel. He had opened the door of the suite with nothing but a small towel wrapped around his hips, had invited Q to get himself a drink from the minibar while Bond was getting ready; after all they weren't in a hurry. And then he went back to the bathroom and didn't close the door. Q wanted to be annoyed by him, by the pretentious hotel suite, by the ridiculous fact that Bond used a cutthroat razor like some Victorian dandy, but instead he could only stare at the perfectly shaped muscles of Bond's back, at his chest in the mirror, at abs that most agents half Bond's age could only dream of.
Bond wasn't built like some pretty underwear model, his muscles were toned for a purpose and not just for looks, but if anything that only made them more beautiful to Q's eyes, Q who appreciated functionality over design. Bond's skin was anything but flawless, and the bright light in the bathroom was too unforgiving to hide any of the countless scars that covered Bond's body, thin white lines from cuts, knotty scars from bullet wounds or worse, welts on his back that could only have been caused by torture, angry blue bruises on his shoulders that still reminded of his last mission, not even a week ago. In the mirror Q could see a lighter bruise on Bond's throat, almost faded already, and Q was fairly sure that one had a more pleasant origin, caused by a woman's teeth rather than a man's fists.
The sight made Q feel uncomfortably skinny, too small for the broad chair he was sitting on, too narrow, too soft, too frail. It brought back the discomfort of his teenage years, of standing in locker rooms at school surrounded by boys his age who seemed twice as strong, of getting shoved around and laughed at. It hadn't left any emotional scars, not really. Getting bullied was the price most people of his intelligence paid for their genius, and it was a price well worth paying. Not to mention that having two elder brothers had always protected him from the worst - two elder brothers who were built just like Bond, broad and strong, real men, not frail boys who looked like they had never made it out of puberty. Two elder brothers who served with distinction in the military, just like their father and his father before him, while Q had known better than to consider such a path even in his wildest dreams, knowing that his frail body wouldn't even make it through the initial health tests.
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He had got used to that long ago. His job helped, being among people who valued and respected him for what he could do, and rationally Q knew that his brain was more valuable than the most capable soldier in the world. There was a reason MI-6 risked Bond's life without a second thought, while they didn't let Q go anywhere without a few bodyguards shadowing him (he pretended not to notice, but he wasn't an idiot). Of course, that also had something to do with the fact that Bond could actually take care of himself in a dangerous situation, but that wasn't the point. But no matter how irrational it was, it still stung, seeing Bond's perfectly honed body, the scars and wounds he had accumulated in years of service, a service that would always be seen as greater and more valuable than Q's. He wondered what it was like, being Bond. Having the same unshakeable trust in his body that Q had in his mind. Not ever deciding not to do something just because it sounded too dangerous. Feeling people's eyes follow him wherever he went, not because he was pretty, but because he was everything a man was supposed to be.
Q scoffed at himself for such a vulgar and old-fashioned thought, as if a man's worth was truly determined by how easily he could kill and how quickly he could get a woman on her back with her legs spread. It was ridiculous. Bond with his deadly skills and his macho charm was nothing but a relict from times before wars were won on computers, by men like Q. Nothing about Bond was to be envied.
Bond strolled out of the bathroom with the confident grace of a tiger, so sure that there would never be a threat he couldn't handle. Q's eyes followed him again - if Bond thought getting dressed in front of Q was appropriate behaviour, then there was really no reason why Q shouldn't stare, not that he actually imagined he could make Bond uncomfortable. Bond pretended not to notice, but when he finally turned away from the large closet - dressed in grey suit trousers now, the white shirt only half-buttoned - he was smirking a little.
“Mind giving me a hand, Q?” His tone was casual, and Q was about to ask what he wanted when Bond raised his hand to show him the cufflinks. Q sighed, put his laptop aside - after locking it, never too careful - and went over to him.
“I would have thought you would at least be capable of getting dressed on your own, 007,” Q said, but he was more annoyed by the general situation than by Bond's request, and he didn't have Bond ask twice before he took the cufflinks from his hand.
“I am, when I have to.” Bond smiled, that roguish charming smile that wasn't even trying to look genuine. Q scoffed and refused to meet his eyes, looked down at his hands to get this done as fast as possible. He didn't need to be so close to Bond right after seeing him naked, close enough to feel Bond's breath ghosting over his hair, close enough to smell his aftershave - probably something absurdly expensive, although it did smell nice. Bond's wrists were broad and strong, and feeling them under his fingers made Q acutely aware of how frail his own were, how easily Bond could just snap them, and what good would Q's genius intellect do him then? Bond's skin was still warm from the shower, and when Q closed the second cufflink, he allowed himself to let his thumb linger on Bond's wrist, pressed tight enough against the thin skin to feel his pulse, slow and steady, a heartbeat as powerful and regular as a machine, not like that weak muscle in Q's chest that felt like it was about to explode every time he had to run to catch the tube.
He knew he was taking too long, knew he should pull back and step away already, but before he could he felt Bond's other hand on his chin, gently forcing his head upwards until Q met Bond's eyes. He wasn't even all that handsome, Q thought. Rather ugly, come to think of it, if not for those startling, bright blue eyes. But he didn't have to be handsome, not when his fingertips on Q's chin were enough to turn a vague feeling of attraction into one of pure want, not when those eyes looked at him with the confidence of a man who had reduced countless partners to nothing but helpless moans and pleas for more.
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Bond didn't say anything, but he cocked his head just a bit to the side, angled it as if to kiss Q, and while part of Q was oddly curious to find out if Bond would actually go through with the motion, if his professionalism wouldn't win out in the end, he was worried that his own resolve might not last once he felt Bond's lips on his own. He wanted him, but he would have him on his own terms. He wasn't going to be seduced like a brainless beauty in a casino, he wasn't going to swoon in Bond's arms as if he had never been kissed before. He might look like a shy boy just waiting to get ravished by a big strong man, and he would be lying if he said he never enjoyed that fantasy himself, but he was certainly not going to give James Bond of all people the satisfaction of seeing him like that.
Q wrapped his fingers around Bond's wrist, as tightly as he could, and although Q doubted that he actually hurt the man, Bond did pull back a little, his brow furrowed in surprise. Q could feel Bond's pulse quickening just a little under his fingertips, and the surprise on Bond's face turned into a look of fascination, as if he had seen something he hadn't quite expected, not from Q. Of course, with Bond one could never be sure how much of his expresssions was genuine and how much was merely careful manipulation, but even so, he held still. Didn't move even when Q's other hand came up to button Bond's shirt ever so slowly, and between every two buttons he let his finger trail over Bond's chest, pressing down just enough for his fingernail to leave a thin red line on pale skin. He stopped at the topmost button, considered for a second to grab the tie Bond had already laid out, but he doubted that his tie knot would live up to Bond's standards. So instead he simply curled his fingers into Bond's braces, pulled him just an inch closer - and when Bond leant in to try to kiss him again, the movement more sudden, more determined this time, Q flattened his hand against Bond's chest, a firm pressure that would certainly never stop Bond if he didn't want to be stopped, but which was still steady enough to make a point. And then, before Bond's almost pathological need to push against every resistance he met could kick in -
“Don't be ridiculous, Bond.”
Q let go of his wrist even as Bond's eyes widened a little in surprise, and he stepped back quickly. For a second he thought that Bond would go after him, always the hunter who couldn't take no for an answer, but then he realised that the dumbfounded look on Bond's face had to be genuine. Q decided to go a step further, looked him up and down with with an expression that was just on this side of contempt, and turned away. Turned his back on Bond.
“Do get dressed, 007. I don't think Monsieur Collin appreciates tardiness.”
As Q walked back to his travelling bag to fetch the equipment he had brought for Bond - a new phone, a gun, and a watch with a few custom-made improvements - he could feel Bond's eyes following him, and still Bond was silent, as if he was too busy processing what had just happened to come up with a retort.
Maybe, Q thought, savouring his victory, maybe this was what being Bond felt like.
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My friends are usually concerned for one second to make sure I'm not seriously hurt, and then they laugh hysterically. ;)
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Your friends sounds like they've got the right idea. I was at work when I took my prat fall today though so it was mostly just the security dude earnestly asking me if I wanted to write it down in the 'accident book', presumably, y'know, in case I want to sue the company for my incredible personal injury.
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Security dude clearly has the right idea of how to deal with stuff like that.
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