#enemy at the gates | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

youvebeenlivingfictional · 2 years

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Enemy at the Gates

Pairing: James Bond x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only. Minors interacting with this work will be blocked.

Notes: Hi look I finished it weeeeeeeee. Not beta-read. Reread several times and will probably spot 87 typos once I hit post. Length: 9.3K

Warnings: Enemies to begrudging allies to lovers; cursing; angst; canon-typical violence;canon-typical injury; an emotionally & physically abusive villain—non-sexual choking, backhanding, derogatory language. This is a small part of the story, but it is in there.; Explicit sexual content - beach sex, public sex, oral sex (female receiving), fingering, piv, unprotected sex

Summary: Klaus Reiniger is a stocky man of medium height—a brown-haired, black-eyed barrel with legs. On the outset, he may not be the most intimidating person in the world, but you know better. You’ve seen him lie, cheat, steal. You’ve seen him kill. He’s hardly the kindest man to work for, but you’ve made your bed in his home, and now you have to lie in it.

You’ve seen it happen time and time again. You know one day, it’ll happen to you.

As soon as you fall out of favor, you’ll be discarded as hastily as the rest, and another brought up in your place. Your days are spent tottering on the highest of heels, walking a tripwire a millimeter thick. It’s precarious; it’s dangerous.

And the day that James Bond walks into your life, you know that it’s over.

“You’re new.”

“I’m visiting.”

“What for?”

“Business…And pleasure.” The man gives you a sultry smile, one that makes your stomach twist in excitement and worry. You regret starting the conversation already.

“More one than the other, I should think.”

“Which do you think?” He asks, leaning close to you against the bar, “More business or pleasure?”

You sweep his face—the warm, thin smile; the bright blue eyes; the well-groomed blonde hair. You don’t dare let yourself appreciate his broad, dripping torso, or the way his bathing suit is clinging to his thighs. You’d gotten a good enough look as it was when he’d come onto the beach from his swim.

“...I’m sure that’s none of my business,” You answer crisply, turning to face the bartender. You expect that to be the end of the conversation, but instead, the man shifts closer to you.

“Have you been here long?” He asks.

“A while.”

“What keeps you here?”

There’s the fact that if you leave, you won’t make it far. There’s the fact that no one makes it out of Reiniger’s web without being drawn back in, in servitude, or in death.

“The climate,” You answer dryly before taking up your drink.

“Perhaps you could show me around.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’d appreciate the help.”

“There are designated guides to the island. You’d do better employing one of them.”

“Something tells me I’d get a truer sense of the place from you.”

You turn to the man, planning to snap at him, but you spot someone behind him—one of Reiniger’s men trying to catch your attention.

“Excuse me,” You murmur, making to step around the man. Before you can get far, he reaches out, catching hold of your wrist. It makes you freeze in your step, your gaze dropping to his hand. You’ve been touched like this before, but never gently. His thumb sweeps over the inside of your wrist as his eyes search your face.

“I didn’t catch your name,” He says.

“I didn’t throw it.” You twist your wrist out of his grip and stride away from him, determined not to look back and meet the gaze of the man you're certain is staring you down.

Klaus Reiniger is a stocky man of medium height—a brown-haired, black-eyed barrel with legs. On the outset, he may not be the most intimidating person in the world, but you know better. You’ve seen him lie, cheat, steal. You’ve seen him kill. He’s hardly the kindest man to work for, but you’ve made your bed in his home, and now you have to lie in it.

Any hope that you have of avoiding the stranger in the time that follows your first meeting at the bar is entirely in vain. You feel nothing but irritation and anxiety at the sight of the panther-like blonde sitting across from you at Reiniger’s dinner table. You’re careful not to meet his eye, or to hold it too long if you catch it by accident. You don’t know what the man could’ve possibly said or done to get into Reiniger’s good graces so quickly.

But they chat and tease and laugh like they’re old friends, like this stranger hasn’t simply walked into your lives this afternoon. You think, for just a moment, that maybe they do know one another, but Reiniger is asking the man about his work, his free time. The man’s answers flow as easily as the wine does. He says that he’s an independent defense contractor (see: mercenary), dishonorably discharged from the Royal Air Force just before he was due to retire (through no fault of his own, of course).

“Darling,” Reiniger finally shifts his attention away from his new best friend, turning to you. “Would you have a room prepared for our guest?”

You stopper your protests—that neither of you really know who this man is; that he’s already got a room at the resort not too far away—but you simply give a short, demure nod and answer, “Of course,” Softly.

You resist the urge to snoop through the stranger’s things, but only just. The maids are still tidying up the room, and while you’d love to look through his suitcase, you know that they’re watching you closely. You resent it a bit, but you can’t really blame them—any move against you could bolster them in the eyes of your mutual employer, and Klaus Reiniger is as feared as he is with good reason.

You lean in the doorway to the balcony, peering out over the rapidly darkening sky. There’s a warm breeze brushing across your face, carrying the salt of the sea air with it. You relax in quiet for just a moment. You let yourself close your eyes, and draw in a deep, steadying breath.

“I was told this one was mine,” You hear, and it shatters your calm. Your shoulders go rigid, eyes popping open at the sound of his voice. You turn to look at him, face primly set.

“It is,” You nod. You point to one end of the room, “The bathroom is through there,” You point to the other end, “And the temperature control is over there. I’d recommend closing the balcony doors in the evening, as it can get particularly chilly in here. Of course, you’re welcome to do as you please. If you want to run a hot shower or bath, turn the water on and let it run for a few minutes. It takes some time for it to heat up.”

“You seem awfully familiar with it.”

You could let the comment go—you should let it go, and not dare entertain any conversation with this man. But there’s something disarming about how bright his gaze is, how piercing and sharp.

“This room used to be mine,” You admit.

“I hope I haven’t put you out.”

“No, not at all—”

“I wouldn’t mind sharing, of course.”

That damned twist to his lips is back. Your stomach flips with the implication, but you glare slightly.

“I haven’t occupied this room for some time.”

“We could change that.”

You don’t hide your eye roll, instead striding past him. You don’t get far enough; your arm brushes his as you go.

“Goodnight, Mr. Bond.”

You don’t sleep well. You don’t hear the floorboards outside of the room creak the night before, as you previously had when others had stayed nearby, and had taken the opportunity to look around when the house was assumed asleep. You spend the night tossing and turning uncomfortably, peering out of your window, and trying not to think about the enviable balcony in Bond’s room. You’ve no real right to miss it; you haven’t resided in that room in months. But then, there hasn’t been anyone else in there until now—you’ve been able to wander in as you please. Now, in the brief time that you spent in the room, preparing it for—you don’t even know who—you’ve begun to prickle with concern and irritation.

Whoever this man is, whatever he’s after, it can’t be anything good.

You haven't gotten this far or lived this long by letting your guard down with every damn imbecile that did his best to cozy up with your sometime lover and boss.

Tit for tat, you tell yourself.

Whatever this man is up to—whatever he’s trying to get out of Reiniger—you must be able to try and get something from him as well. You won’t stoop to crawling into Bond’s bed, hoping he’ll murmur the odd secret or so between honeyed words and truly forgettable sweet nothings. You used to employ that method. You used to pass your body carelessly off into the hands of anyone trying to get their hands on Reiniger’s methods, his secrets.

That had been before you’d truly understood what he did. That was before you’d recognized the fact that you’d fallen into bed with one of the most foul, nefariously ambitious people on the planet. Once you’d gotten what you needed—just enough information to get the interloper off of the island, let alone consigned to a harsher sentence—you'd taken what you had to your employer. You’d risen up through the ranks that way, and unseated his previous confidant and favorite.

You’re glad to be no longer be the focus of Reiniger’s more lustful attentions, though he does still sometimes grace you with a peck on your cheek for all that you do. He prefers to reach for the younger, more naïve of the women that work on the resort and the island. You’ve seen too much; you know too much. And as much as you’d like to believe otherwise, the blood of some of his enemies is as much on your hands as it is on his.

It seems that this James Bond is likely next on Reiniger’s chopping block—but he won’t make it there unless you find something good on him.

There’s nothing that you can find about him online, which is suspicious in and of itself. What kind of person in this day and age has absolutely no digital footprint? No social media, no public email address. Even Reiniger has an instagram, an account once used to flaunt what was then newly acquired wealth. As he’d grown in power—as his competitors had fallen to his expertise or advances—he’d ceased to use it in the same manner. But the point still stands: even Reiniger has one. This man, this James Bond, this smirking, winking, blond-haired-blue-eyed-wanna-be-underwear model—has absolutely no digital presence.

You know that that’s not enough, though. Reiniger would, if anything, see this as a mark in the man’s favor, to a commitment to privacy.

You don’t know what time Reiniger and Bond left that morning; you don’t know how long they’ll be gone for. But that doesn’t stop you from kicking off your shoes to avoid making a sound, slipping on a pair of black gloves to keep from leaving fingerprints, and padding, barefoot, into his room. You close it silently behind yourself, peering around the room.

You’d expect to find the bed rumpled from being slept in, but it’s made neatly; you could bounce a quarter on it, the sheets are pulled so tight. You huff a soft laugh as you think that perhaps the man could give Reiniger’s housestaff a point or two. You move over to the suitcase in the corner, crouching down and opening it. You sift through the contents—a few shirts, some pants, underwear—a notebook (empty), three pens (black ink), and a pair of what appear to be reading glasses. You lift them to peer through the lenses, wince at the prescription, and then examine the rims, the screws, and the arms. Nothing.

You carefully replace everything where you’d found it before you rezip the suitcase and straighten up. You glance toward the door, stomach twisting with worry. The longer you’re in there, the more your nerves kick up. Anxiety is worming its way through your system; your heart is leaping at the sound of any thumps or bumps from the other side of the door.

You finally take nervous, hurried steps over to the bathroom. You peer inside, eyeing the toiletries. Nothing seems out of the ordinary— Your heart leaps into your throat at the sound of a creaking floorboard just down the hall. The footsteps are coming closer. Then, you vaguely recognize the timbre of Bond’s voice. You hurry over to the balcony, unlatching the doors and ducking outside. You push them shut behind yourself, tucking yourself against the wall just as you hear the door to the room open. You chance a glance through the space between the window and curtain. You can just see the silhouette of the man pass the balcony doors, hear a grumble of, “That’s not enough information, Q—”

You peer over the edge of the balcony nervously. You’re a ways up. You glance around, eyeing the drain pipe before you let your eyes raise to the roof. It’s far closer than the ground—and you think you may be able to reach it from the balcony railing. You look into the room again. You can just barely make out the shadow of Bond pacing back in from the bathroom, and you hurry onto the wide railing of the balcony. You hiss a nervous breath as you wobble just a little bit, peering down at your uneven footing before looking skyward. You reach up with one hand carefully, and the roof is just out of reach. You’re going to have to jump for it.

You pull in a shaky little breath and screw up your courage before you give a little wobbly jump on the railing, fingers hardly brushing the edge of the roof. You cast your gaze nervously toward the window before you hop again. Your gloved fingers scrabble against the edge of the roof. You struggle for purchase, hardly managing to pull yourself up and over. You hear the balcony doors thrown open below you, and you roll more deeply onto the roof before you hold your breath. There’s a moment of silence, and all you can hear is the vicious thudding of your own heart in your chest, the rustle of the leaves through the nearby trees, and the lapping of waves on the beach nearby.

You let yourself relax when you hear nothing else, sitting up and pulling the gloves off of your hands. You’re just standing and tucking the gloves away when the roof door is slammed open. You lift your head, and have to school your stricken expression when you see James Bond standing in the doorway. His gaze lands on you in an instant, and it’s a moment of staring at one another before his lips curl into a small smile.

“Getting some sun?” He asks, eyes sweeping your sweatpants, t-shirt, and bare feet. You shrug a shoulder, heading for the doorway.

“Some air,” You correct. You begin to slide past Bond, but he steps in your way before you can. You keep your gaze set steadily on his shoulder, your fingers curled into nervous fists in your pockets.

“Do you mind?” You ask stiffly.

“What brings you up here?”

“I already told you.”

“I’m a little more interested in the truth.”

“I don’t know why you think I’d lie to you.” You force yourself to look at him properly as you say so, and hold his gaze stubbornly. Where a teasing smile has been ever present on his lips since you met him, he has all of the welcoming nature of a brick wall now. His eyes are narrowed and cold. The air feels close and hot as you stare one another down.

“Do you come up here often?” He asks.

“No.”

“Why now?”

“I missed the view.”

Now Bond’s lip curls with a smile, but it’s a rude one.

“Why don’t we go look at it together?” He offers.

“No, thank you.”

“Did you get enough of it from my balcony, then?”

Your curdles swoops with fear, but you force yourself to keep a calm face.

“You mean the balcony,” You correct. “This is not your home Mr. Bond.”

“And how long has it been your home?”

“Excuse me?”

“What brought you here?”

“...Who wouldn’t want to live in paradise?”

“Those that are well-aware of the lizard behind the curtain.”

“Don’t you mean ‘wizard’?”

“Do I?”

You glare a touch before you finally leave, pushing past Bond on your way.

You spend the rest of the day avoiding him for as long as you possibly can—you oversee the intake of provisions that you’d typically leave to one of the underlings; you check on an incident at the resort involving a drunk, rowdy customer and a security guard, something that you would typically leave to one of Reiniger’s goons.

Truth be told, sometimes you feel that you are one of his goons, but in a far prettier package.

The table is laid with three place settings; the chef has finished the meal, and is waiting impatiently to serve. You and James Bond have been sitting in stony silence for the last ten minutes. He stands it far better than you do; he repositions himself in his seat, leans back, peers through the window, leans forward, picks at a shrimp fork, prods at the tablecloth, eyes you, leans back again as he tosses the fork aside.

You shift in your seat a little bit, crossing your legs and peering around the room. You’ve no real reason to; you know each inch of it.

“Ma’am.”

You turn your head at the mumble, and reach out, taking hold of the slip of paper proffered to you. You take hold of it, unfolding it and scanning it. Your lips press together in irritation, unable to help the change in your expression.

“Bad news?” Bond asks.

Your gaze flickers to his before you look down at the note again.

“Mr. Reiniger is in the meeting. He’s unable to get away, and he apologizes.”

Bond nods slowly, gaze dropping to the table. You begin to stand, but Bond orders, “Sit.”

You do as he says on instinct, and your body goes hot with embarrassment. His brow quirks, intrigued.

“I thought we were here to have dinner,” He adds.

“You’re welcome to stay and eat if you so choose.”

“You won’t eat with me?” He tips his head to the side like a confused puppy. It would be a sweet look if you didn’t want to slap him so badly.

“Do you always need minding, like a toddler?” You bat back.

He smirks, and you want to hate it—you know you should hate it more.

“I’d appreciate your company.”

How many times must he have said that before? How many people must he have lured in using those exact words? You consider, then turn toward the attendant in the doorway.

“Tell the chef that he may serve.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And take this place setting,” You wave toward Reiniger’s place at the head of the table.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” You murmur as it’s taken away. You keep your eyes studiously on your plate for a few moments—and then look up sharply when you hear the scraping of Bond’s chair pushed back. You watch as he plucks up his utensils, dropping them cacophonously onto his plate before he rounds the long table. You watch him set his plate and utensils down beside your place setting. You turn back to your dish, arching a brow.

“Was the air obstructing your view of me somehow?” You ask scathingly.

“You didn’t seem particularly interested in looking at me. I thought it may be easier for me to sit just here—Keep either of us from straining our voices.”

“Just our necks?” You ask, turning to look at him. He sweeps your face with a smile.

“If you so choose.”

The waitstaff seem as confused by Bond’s new seat as you are, and you shoot them warning little looks every time they linger over setting down a dish or pouring wine.

“How long have you been working for Reiniger?” Bond asks.

“A while.”

“How long is a while?”

“A long while.”

“Could you give me an approximate number?”

“Do you really need one?” You ask, pointedly stabbing at some vegetables on your plate. “I’m sure whoever gathers your information must’ve had something good on me.” You realize it’s a mistake to ask—especially when he presses:

“Who says anyone gathers information for me?”

Your mind has flashed back to his voice, his warning of, That’s not enough information, Q—

You’d’ve had to be around his room during that call for you to know anything. You’ve tripped into a trap of your own making.

“Independent as you say you are, no one like you works alone entirely,” You fib. It’s not completely untrue. Bond grunts thoughtfully, though he doesn’t confirm it.

“I couldn’t dig up much on you,” He admits after a moment. You have to keep yourself from smiling.

“That’s nice to hear, I suppose.”

“We’ve been able to unearth aliases, fake passports, fake documents—work visas, W2s, a social security card from America.”

“Oh?”

“And all of those aliases—all those names with your face—”

“Mm?”

“Are all reported as being dead.”

“What can I say? Sometimes a girl needs a break. I didn’t want anyone to come looking for me. Faking your own death is a sure way of ensuring no one comes after you.”

You feel him turn in his seat to look at you.

“It’s a good job that you’ve done, covering your tracks,” He says.

“You’ve done a good job of covering yours.”

“You’ve looked?”

“Of course.”

“I’m blushing.”

You turn to look at him as if to confirm, though you’re sure he won’t really go red—but you can’t help your small smile at his tease. His brows jump at the sight. You’re careful not to linger on it for too long—you don’t want him to get used to this.

“How’d you come to be on the island?” He asks. Your eyes dart to the attendant coming to refill your wine. You don’t know what their expressions are—ones of warning, or intrigue as they wait for a molehill that they can make into a mountain for your boss.

“We’re done here,” You announce before pushing your chair back and taking your wine. “We’re going for a walk.”

“So?” He plies.

You’re far enough away from the house; you’ve hardly spoken since making your way down to the beach. The sun is just beginning to sink in the horizon. You peer out over the water, drawing in a deep breath.

“I needed work,” You say simply, “And Klaus wanted someone around, a new little…Spy that he could train as he liked.”

“You’ve managed to maneuver multiple…lives, aliases—unprotected. He seems to have done his job.”

“I did that all before I met him.”

“What did he promise you?”

A new life. A new chance. Money, security, comfort.

“Happiness,” You tell him.

“And did you get it?”

It takes you a moment to consider that. You have a new life. You’ve taken your chance. You have money, you have comfort. But you do not have security. Life with Klaus Reiniger is one spent jogging on quicksand.

“Somewhat,” You finally admit before glancing toward him again. “And you? What business brings you here?”

“I think you can guess.”

It’s an admission, but not as clear-cut as you’d like it to be. Your stomach flips with it; you think, for a few seconds, that you may be sick. But you push that down, turning to look ahead of the two of you as your steps slow. It shouldn’t be such a surprise; you’ve suspected it from the stat.

“Shall I make myself more clear?” Bond tacks on.

“I think it’s better if you don’t. When Reiniger eventually kills me, it’s better if I know as little about your true intentions as possible.”

“Why would you say that?”

For the first time since you’ve known him, concern colors Bond’s tone. You laugh softly, shaking your head.

“Neither of us are that naïve, Bond.”

“Do you feel unsafe?”

“Oh, please.”

When his hand closes around your wrist this time, you don't draw away, though you know you should.

He dips his head into your field of vision, searching you for—what? Nerves? A flinch?

“Your life doesn’t have to be like this,” He says.

You want to laugh at that, too, but Bond’s hand slipping down to twine his fingers in your makes you go quiet for a few moments.

“If it’s not like this, after my time here,” You nod back toward the house, “It’ll be over.”

“We can keep you safe.”

“Who’s we? I thought you worked alone.”

Bond’s mouth closes, pressing into a tight, thin line. You shake your head a little, lowering your head.

“Whoever you work for, whatever you do, whatever you want—there is no way out of this for me. I know that.” The admission is painful; your throat goes tight and dry with it.

“Does he still have your loyalty?”

“I cannot leave this—”

“That is not what I asked.”

It’s your turn to go stubbornly quiet. You turn your head away from him, mumbling, “I’d like to go back now.”

He loosens his grip on you carefully, once he seems to realize that you’re not going to run screaming down the beach. You turn away from him, reaching down and picking your skirt up just a touch to keep it from being brushed by the waves creeping up the beach.

It’s another restless night—another night of standing at your window, peering boredly over the town, knowing full-well that Bond has the advantage of looking out over the beach.

The hair on the back of your neck is raised when you hear the creak of the floorboards, and a knock on your door. You watch the crack under the door for a few moments, eyeing the outline of two feet. You wait for them to move, to go away. They merely shift from foot to foot before you get another knock. You walk toward your door slowly, chest fluttering with nerves as you reach out and pull the door open.

He doesn’t say a word as he brushes past you into the room. You know that you shouldn’t shut the door, but you do. For a few moments, neither of you speak. You just lean against the door and watch as he drifts around the room, taking in your few personal effects, the odd polaroid, the odd chachki. When he turns back to you, he sweeps your sleep attire: a set of satin pajamas in your favorite color.

“What are you doing?” You ask. Bond doesn't answer; he just takes a few steps closer.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” You add more softly.

“Then tell me to go.”

Bond stops in front of you, watching you closely. You swallow thickly, your throat feeling thick and tight as he watches you.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” You repeat.

“You want me here.”

“Are you asking or telling?”

“Tell me to go.”

It was quiet between the two of you for a few moments. When Bond raises his hand, you slap it away. He catches hold of your wrist, twisting you and pressing your wrist behind your back. You whimpered, quieting a more pained cry as he shoves you up against the wall. You push an irritated sigh through your nose before you reach back, slapping and scratching at his side. Bond grunts at the touch.

Rather than taking hold of your other wrist, he slides his hand around your throat. You immediately go quiet and still, breath heaving, pushing in and out of your nose testily. You’ve been in this position before, but never with this man. You don’t know what he’ll do—you don’t know what he’s willing to do.

“Are you going to kill me, Mr. Bond?” You whisper.

“You’re not who I’m after.”

“Then why—”

“I’m going to make you a deal,” Bond speaks low in your ear. “You’re going to help me get the information that I need on your boss.”

“Or what?”

“Or when I get what I need, I will feed you to his goddamn sharks.” Bond’s grip slipped from your wrist before he took hold of your shoulder, whirling you around and shoving you back against the wall harshly. Your head whacks against the door frame, and you bite your lip to keep from crying out in pain.

“Hundreds of people are going to die—the blood of every single one of them will be on your hands unless you do exactly as I say. Do you understand?” Bond’s eyes bore deeply into yours as he crowds impossibly closer, his chest pressing tightly to yours. “If you’re certain Reiniger will be your end, you may as well do something for the good while you still can.”

You consider him for a moment in irritated silence. Of all of the things you thought Bond may come into your room for, this was the least of them. You consider all of the things that you know Reiniger to be—a bastard, a rat, a tyrant, a murderer. You’ve caught whiffs of his plans in the last few months, but never anything so concrete. Maybe you’d know more if you hadn’t been so willfully ignorant.

Bond loosens his grip on you, taking a step back and giving you a warning gaze before slipping back into the hall.

Every shared glance with Bond now feels at once thrilling and wicked. He’s still quick to smirk, to wink. You’re still quick to keep your expression neutral, to avert your eyes. Whatever happens, until Bond can make his move, Reiniger can't know.

–

“Did you enjoy yourself last night?”

You frown a touch, glancing toward Reiniger curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“I heard you spent some quality time with our guest while I was…Detained with other matters.”

“We ate together.”

“And took a walk?”

“Just down the beach and back.”

“What did you discuss?”

“Very little.”

Reiniger moves with the speed of his shifting moods. One moment, he’s beside you at the table. The next, he’s standing above you, his hand clasped around your throat. You draw in a thin gasp, eyes widening as you peer up at him. Your hands grasp the arms of the chair, knowing that whatever this punishment is will only worsen if you fight. It doesn’t stop you from scrabbling, digging the varnish up with your nails as you try in vain to draw in a deeper breath.

“If you think,” Reiniger seethes, “That you can just push me aside and run into the arms of this newcomer, you are sorely mistaken.”

You shake your head in short, aborted movements, as much as you possibly can.

“I…Don’t…Trust—” You manage weakly.

“Trust what?” Reiniger presses, hand tightening around your throat.

“Him—” You squeak out. Reiniger rips his hand away so quickly that one of his rings scratches harshly against your skin. You suck in air greedily, bowing over the table as you try to regain your composure. Reiniger sinks down beside you, scrubbing a shaking hand over the lower half of his face. His dark, nervous eyes dart over your face—over the scratch, and the irritation along your neck from the pressure.

“...You’re looking out for me,” He murmurs. “You always look out for me.” He takes hold of your hand, drawing it to his lips and pressing a dry kiss to the back. You have to fight from drawing away from him, reeling back and giving him a slap. You just nod a little, and curl your other hand into a fist out of his sight.

He leans in then, pressing another kiss to the side of your head. Your eyes squeeze shut, against the prickle of fearful tears.

“You speak to him, them,” Reiniger murmurs against your temple. “You ask your questions. You learn his purpose.” He leans back, grasping your chin and holding your face steady. “And you tell me his truth.”

You nod, murmuring your false promise in a broken voice.

Where the others have hardly noted your injuries, wary, but used to the abuse that you all receive and Reiniger’s hands, Bond seems concerned. He doesn’t act alarmed, per se. When he opens the door to find you standing there, his smirk disappears. He grasps your wrist, drawing you into his room and shoving the door shut. Your shoulder’s tense at the sound of the slam; you’re certain it’ll ruffle feathers, maybe work its way back to the boss.

Bond’s eyes seem to catalog your wounds—the scratch, the blooming darkness along your throat. And before he can ask, or pry, or guess, you ask,

“What is it that you want me to do?”

It starts with little things—pictures of files, notes, printed photographs. Reiniger keeps meticulous track of all of his dealings. Bond gives you a burner phone, swears up and down that his technical assistant will wipe the video of you going into the room where the records are kept. You dress in black and cover your face regardless, wary of Bond’s inability to fulfill his end of the bargain.

You pass the phone off to him in an empty hall, bumping into him roughly and slipping the phone into his pocket. Before you can get far, Bond catches hold of your wrist, eyes searching your face.

“May I see you later?” He murmurs. You’re certain it’s for show, in case anyone is listening in. You nod a little bit, drawing back. Bond holds you steady, however, and mouths, Wardrobe. Then he lets go, turning and walking away. You frown after him before you go on your way, blood bubbling with nerves. Wardrobe? What on earth did that mean?

When you reach your room, you look around your things for anything that may be out of place. When you find nothing, you go over to your wardrobe. You open it slowly, crouching down to see if there’s anyone inside. There are no feet there. You straighten up, beginning to rifle through outfit after outfit after outfit. Finally, you find a dress with a note pinned to it. You unpin the note, frowning as you read it:

The cave at the end of the beach—12:30

After midnight? Jeez, he would be seeing you later. You huff softly, glancing up at the dress it was pinned to. You’re almost certain you’ll have dinner with Reiniger and Bond later. You take a step back, gripping the skirt and drawing the dress into the light a little. It has been some time since you wore this—and why would he pin the note to this dress if he didn’t want to see you in it?

The thought sends a thrill through you, and you smile a little bit, drawing the dress out. It’s silly, really—you’re in danger, and the thought of a man wanting to see you is making you smile. It’s not ideal, obviously. In another life, maybe you’d know him differently. Maybe you’d meet on a beach, or in a bar. Maybe the acquaintance would be a short, enjoyable one.

But that isn’t your life, and you won’t be able to wish yourself into a new one, no matter how badly you want to. You’ve tried before.

The way Bond watches you that evening doesn’t escape your notice. It doesn’t escape Reiniger’s, either. You force yourself to excuse yourself early, citing a few additional responsibilities that you have to see to. You make it a point to lean over Reiniger and drop a tender kiss to his lips. He grins in turn, sliding his hand covetously over your ass and thigh before he allows you to leave.

It’s a long wait for midnight. You busy yourself with menial tasks—cleaning your room, neatening the front entryway and sitting room. You manage to stay out of Reiniger’s way.

Around midnight, you slip out of the back door, taking the path down to the beach. You grip the skirt of your dress, lifting it out of the path of the lapping waves, wetting your feet on the way to the cave. You reach it a touch early, and your heart leaps into your throat as you hear someone clear their throat.

It’s a moment before Bond steps out of the shadows.

You let out the breath that you’d drawn in nervously, shaking your head.

“You’re early,” You grumble.

“So are you. Did anyone see you?”

“No.”

You look around as your eyes adjust to the darkness. You haven’t spent much time in the cave. It’s sectioned off from the main beach, the walls high, with an arched ceiling above you. There’s a small hole in the top, and you can just make out the stars through the pouring of moonlight. You lower the hem of your skirt, walking deeper into the cave to join Bond.

“Why did you want to see me?”

“To thank you for the information that you’ve collected.”

“And?”

“And,” Bond smiles just a touch at your impatience, “To offer you your way out.”

“My way out,” You repeat blandly. “I don’t have a way out.”

“You can, with me.”

“That’s a precious sentiment.”

Bond’s brows raise at your nonchalance. “You really don’t believe me, do you.”

“I’ve no reason to.”

“Take a leap of faith.”

You laugh scornfully. “The last time I did, it wound me up here. Try another strategy.”

Bond takes a few slow steps toward you. You keep carefully still, fingers bunching in the fabric of your dress. Bond’s eyes drop to your hands, lips pulling into a small smile as he stops in front of you.

“I'm surprised you wore it,” He murmurs, sliding his finger under one of the straps.

“It was an interesting choice.”

“It looks far better on you than I thought it would.”

Your gaze drops to where his shirt is opened, revealing his throat, and a bit of his chest. You can feel your skin heating as his knuckles trail along your arm.

“You shouldn’t—watch me,” You warn softly. “Reiniger will only let you get away with it for so long.”

“I’ll look as I please.”

You shake your head, eyes slipping shut, gut twisting with concern.

“He won’t take it out on you.”

Bond’s fingers slow along your arm. He turns his hand, sliding his fingertips along the back of your hand. The touch trails down to smooth along your palm. It’s gentle, and a little ticklish. You can’t help but smile a little, fingers twitching. Bond takes a step closer. You don’t see it, but you feel it. You feel the push of his breath against your cheek, the whisper of his chest against yours. You feel the way his hand curls around yours, intertwining your fingers almost lazily.

“That man,” He murmurs, “Is never going to lay a hand on you again.”

“You can’t stop him, Bond. No one can.”

Bond’s other hand raises to your cheek, and you find yourself flinching. Bond stills for just a moment, then strokes his fingers along the apple of your cheek, tracing from your jaw to your neck. You shiver as he tracks the path with his lips, ghosting along the tender skin.

“We will,” He promises.

You can’t help the whimper that escapes you. It isn’t fear that sparks the noise.

It’s hope.

Bond lifts his chin, catching your lips in a desperate kiss. You sway into him, hooking your arm around his shoulders to try and steady yourself. Bond grips you in kind, untangling your hands to wrap his arms around your waist. You draw your fingers through his hair, groaning softly. You suck in a stunned gasp as Bond turns the two of you a touch, beginning to lower you to the ground. You flounder, reaching back and resting your hand on the sand to steady yourself.

Bond settles over you just a moment later. His hands bunch up the fabric of your skirt, shoving it up around your waist. You let your thighs splay, smoothing your hands down his neck and over the breadth of his shoulders. Bond’s kisses drift lower, passing along your clavicle. You reach down, yanking down the bodice of your dress and exposing your breasts. He groans, lowering his head. He raises a hand, gripping your breast and giving it a squeeze before drawing it between his lips. You whine, letting your head roll back against the sand as he laves your tit with his tongue. He draws away with a dirty sucking sound, turning to give your other breast the same treatment.

You shift against him, squeezing his hips with your knees and pressing your hips up against his. Bond slides his other hand from your thigh to cup your cunt through your underwear. A whine slips past your lips as you push down against the press and heat of his questing fingers.

Bond lifts his head as he slides down your front, muscling his shoulders between your spread legs.

“How long has it been, hmm?” He murmurs, smoothing his hands along your inner thighs. “How long has it been since someone touched you like this?”

You swallow thickly, nervously, and shake your head a little.

“I don’t know,” You breathe. Bond tuts softly, lowering his gaze. He pushes your underwear aside with one hand, teasing your lips with the other.

“So wet,” He murmurs. “Is it all for me?” He leans, lips brushing your mound tenderly as you nod. You reach down, hesitantly sliding your hand through his hair. Bond’s smile widens a touch, his pink, devilish tongue poking out and swiping over your clit. You’d jump at the contact if you hadn’t seen it coming. Bond gives you another sweet, teasing stroke before he lets his eyes slide closed. He gives your pussy another, broader lap. You sigh softly, cunt fluttering as you hone in on the hot, wet heat that he lavishes you with.

The swipe of his tongue dips lower, licking sweetly along your cunt. He groans as he tastes you, and your thighs twitch at the sensation, the way the sound seems to shake through you. He takes hold of your thighs, pushing them up and tipping your ass up off of the sand. Bond’s hands are vices around your calves, holding you in place as he laps and laves your pussy. He turns his head a touch from side to side, brushing his stubble-roughened cheeks and chin along your tender pussy lips.

Your grip tightens on his hair, giving it a tug. Bond hums at the sharp sting, lifting his head and lapping broadly along your lips. He circles his tongue along your clit as he slides a hand from your calf. He trails it down to your thigh, smoothing his fingertips along your cunt. He eases one in, then another before you can really adjust to them. You loose a stunned moan, your cunt tightening and squeezing around his fingers. You tip your head up, stunned, and catch Bond’s lips pulling into an open-mouthed grin, his tongue working you over still.

You let your head fall back again, your hips tipping into his touch, lightly pushing back on the grip he still has on your calf. Bond’s fingers twist and curl, making your thighs shake as he eases in a third finger. You shiver, squirming against the sand as Bond dips his tongue around his fingers, lapping at your slick as he coaxes it out.

“James, please,” You whimper, lowering one of your legs to push at his waistband. “Please.”

He doesn’t leave you begging long. Bond leans back, getting a good look at your cunt as he gently eases his fingers back out. He lowers your other calf to the sand as he reaches down to undo the fastening on his belt. His fingers slip just a touch, sticky and slippery from your juices. It takes another moment or so before he can ease his cock out.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, eyeing where he pumps his hardened dick, slicking himself with what’s left on his fingers. Bond rests a hand on the sand by your side, leaning closer and teasing the head of his cock along your slit. You reach up, sliding your hands along his shoulders. Your palms catch a touch against the fabric of his shirt, and you let your fingers drift to what of his chest is exposed. You trail your nails along his throat, down along his pecs. You can feel him watching your face as your touch begins to drift beneath his shirt.

You’re set to undo one of his buttons when he shoves his hips harshly, seating himself in one thrust. The suddenness of his movement knocks the air out of you, pushing you a little harshly up the sand. Your eyes roll back into your head as you adjust to the feeling of him. He curls over you, sucking wetly at one of your nipples as your cunt squeezes around him. He drops warm, wet kisses along your shoulder and neck, one by one by one, until he’s covering your mouth with his again.

You should take that kiss as a warning shot. You realize that too late. You damn near bite Bond’s tongue off as he shifts his hips, drawing his cock out until the head is just catching at your opening. Then he begins to roll his hips, fucking you with a languid unhurriedness. You swallow one another’s grunts, whines, and moans, lips connected as his hips grind into yours. You rock back a touch, lifting your hips with each thrust, even as he bears down over you. Shielded by his body, under the cover of night, you think the sand could swallow the two of you, cover you over and keep you safe.

Bond breaks your kiss with a ragged moan, leaning back to peer down at your greedy cunt. He laps at his thumb with his tongue before he lowers it to your sensitive, tingling clit. Your mouth works wordlessly, a whimper catching in your throat as he swirls your bud in short, tight circles.

“James,” You breathe, nails digging vicious little half-moons into his forearm. “James—Oh.” You let your eyes slide shut as the coiling feeling in your belly tightens. He urges you on in a warm murmur, thrusts quickening as his fingers swipe through your slick pussy. He moves his them over your clit in swift swipes, quick enough to make your thighs quiver. You raise a hand to cover your mouth, desperate to quiet some of your moans as you tumble over the edge.

Bond’s ministrations don’t slow until you shove his hand away from your throbbing clit. Before you can sink into the feeling rolling through you, Bond’s arm hooks around your lower back. He draws you up, leaning back and settling you in his lap. You sink onto his cock slowly, whimpering as your knees sink into the sand on either side of his thighs. Bond presses his face into the crook of your neck, moaning and sucking as you begin to bounce on his cock.

“That’s it,” He urges, sliding his hands down to grip your ass. He gives you a squeeze, then a soft slap, and another when you squeal at the impact. Your nipples are sensitive, hardening with the roughened sensation of being crushed against his shirt. You gasp softly as you feel Bond’s fingers snake down to your quivering cunt, stroking along where you're stretched around him.

You begin to ride him harder, adjusting to your position, ignoring the pain and strain of your thighs. You gasp softly as he curls his fingers in the sandy, rumpled fabric of your dress, using the grip to draw you more sharply down onto his length.

You have a single growled moan against your skin to warn you before his cock twitches, spilling into you. You manage a stunted moan at the feeling, cunt pulsing around him as his hips twitch. The two of you come down slowly, focusing on the sound of one another’s breath, and the crashing of waves echoing through the cave. James lifts his head, sucking a gentle kiss to your jaw before he takes your earlobe between his teeth. You can’t help but giggle as he swirls his tongue against it, then gives it a gentle tug.

He starts to lean you back, and you tense, murmuring, “Wait.” He stills, and you hurriedly add, “Don’t—Not yet. Please?”

You don’t want him to let go, the ache in your thighs be damned. You feel as if once he does, the beach will be flooded with Reiniger’s men, ready to drag you two to separate corners of the Earth. But Bond just curls his arms around your back, steadying you in his lap, and pressing gentle kisses to your skin until you’re ready to let go.

Your way out.

It’s a shiny trophy for your cooperation. But it’s not so cut and dry. You have one more thing to retrieve for Bond: access to Reiniger’s office.

That one is hardly as easy to obtain as pictures of files. Reiniger’s office is heavily guarded, constantly under lock and key, and has video cameras inside and out.

Bond tells you that he only needs a clean way in.

You need a distraction, something drastic that can draw the guards away from the area when Bond needs it.

You tell him that it was an accident. And accident, or lie, or whatever it is, Reiniger shows you no mercy. He backhands you so hard that it sends you sprawling back, nearly hitting your head on the counter on the way down. He calls you a stupid, silly bitch, scolds you for nearly setting the house on fire.

It wasn’t as bad as all that, mind, but it wasn’t good, either—the area around the stove, and the stove itself, are now scorched, pitch-black from flame. You just sit still, as if not moving will confuse Reiniger, as if he won’t be able to see you if you don’t move. You bear out your scolding in silence, and mumble your apologies, and promise to be better.

The staff watches on. As Reiniger leaves and you look up, you find Bond watching, too.

“I’m sorry,” He murmurs.

“For what?”

James shakes his head a little, focus set on where he’s wrapping ice cubes in a washcloth.

“I told you I wouldn’t let him touch you again.”

You shrug blandly, honing on the fabric of his pants as you sit on the closed lid of the toilet in his bathroom. He crouches in front of you and cups your cheek, steadying your face as he gently presses the ice-filled washcloth to your bruised cheek. You do your best to only wince a little, relaxing as the cool pressure calms the sting. You raise a hand, gently covering Bond’s with your own.

“Did you get what you needed?” You mumble.

“Yes.”

“Then it was worth it.”

He gently smooths his thumb over your cheek, sighing softly.

“Anything that puts you in harm’s way is not worth it.”

“Big talk coming from a man that slammed me into a wall days ago.”

James’ lips press into a thin line at the reminder. You reach up, gently tweaking his cheek. It makes him smile, though it seems to be in spite of himself. The mirth disappears as his phone rings.

“Go on,” You urge, taking hold of the washcloth and keeping it against your cheek. You watch James straighten, walking back into his room to where the cellphone is sitting. He eyes the screen, plucks it up. You watch him closely, taking in the shift and play of his shoulders beneath his loose button down. He glances back at you a time or two throughout the murmured conversation, nodding a touch before returning to what he’s discussing. When he hangs up, he takes slow, careful steps back toward you.

You don’t plan on asking who it was, what it was about. But when Bond says, “Can you be ready tonight?” Your heart lodges itself in your throat.

Take only what you need is what he tells you. What you need. You spend the evening locked in your room, sorting through your clothes, your knick-knacks, your books, your documents. There are some things, like books, that are replaceable. There are some pieces of clothing that have been with you long before you came to the island. You decide to leave them. This start will be fresher than the others.

You take your most basic clothes, and a few of the more expensive items to sell—bags, mostly, and shoes. They’re hardly used, and could fetch a pretty penny. You line the hem of one of your dresses with your jewelry, stapling diamond earrings, emerald necklaces, ruby rings and hide them away. You fill the jewelry box with pebbles, so if anyone picks it up rather than simply opening it, it’ll feel as if there are still things inside.

You cram everything you have for your new life, everything you need, into an old leather backpack.

Two knocks at midnight. That’s what Bond tells you to listen for.

You listen for them with bated breath. Your heart stills with the creak of each step, the murmur of each passing voice in the hall.

Midnight comes and goes.

One in the morning comes and goes.

Your belly floods with dread, certain that something has gone wrong. You force yourself to calm whenever the fear wells up, but it seems unlike Bond to be so late.

When a knock comes at two in the morning, you leap to answer it, not waiting for another.

It’s a mistake.

The struggle between you and Reiniger is worse than ever before. Where you typically force yourself still in these interactions, you bite and scratch, and yowl like a wounded animal. You kick, and scream, and scream until your throat is raw. Reiniger manages to get his hands around your throat, and he leans all of his weight against you. Your feet scrabble desperately against the floor; your head goes hot, and feels as if it’s swelling like a balloon—

You stare up at Reiniger’s face, hands scratching and tearing at his hands and wrists and face, desperate to tear him away.

And then a speedy, stunning pop cracks through the room. Reiniger’s furious expression smooths, stunned, and blood begins to pour from a hole in his forehead. You can’t scream. His hands are still clasped around your neck. But you give another wrenching shove, and he keels over, off of you.

You cough roughly, and begin to scramble back as you register someone coming toward you.

“It’s alright,” The voice murmurs, “You’re alright.”

You swallow roughly, managing a weak, “What took you so long?” As Bond takes hold of your hand, hauling you off of the floor.

“Where’s your bag?” He asks, looking around. You point to it, and he takes hold of it, hauling it over his shoulder.

“We have to go—now.”

“What did take you so long?” You pry. Your voice is still rough, hoarse from the struggle, and your screaming. You feel James glance down at you, his hand smoothing over your shoulder.

“I was…Detained.”

You glance up at him before setting your eyes on the private plane’s seat in front of you.

“Where will I go?”

“London, first, to sort what happened with MI6.”

“MI6?” You repeat, stunned. James hums in the affirmative.

“Then where?” You ask.

“...I don’t know. They’ll take care of you. Give you a new identity, set you up with…A home, an apartment. Work.”

You nod a little bit, head heavy with fatigue.

“I’ve never liked starting over,” You admit.

“Really?”

“Nn-nn. Too much to change. Adjusting to a new name, a new home, a new...Identity.”

“You joined Reiniger because you wanted happiness,” James reminds you. He turns his head, brushing his lips along your forehead. “What do you want now?”

You think about it for a moment. You consider the tumult of the last few days, the rising anxiety of the last few years. You don’t know what your happiness looks like anymore, but you know that you want what you haven’t had in years.

“Peace.”

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#James Bond x Reader #James Bond x You #James Bond/Reader #James Bond/You #James Bond fic #James Bond imagine #Enemy at the Gates

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