samanthahirr

[samanthahirr]

The coldest blood runs through my veins, you know my name

I haven't drawn much Bond, and I should really change that.

illustration by me

[samanthahirr]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: James Bond (Craig Movies) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: James Bond/Q Characters: James Bond, Q (James Bond) Additional Tags: Skyfall (2012) Fix-It, M | Olivia Mansfield Lives, Paperwork, POV Q (James Bond), Pre-Relationship 

Summary: What if help arrived in time at the chapel? (An M-lives fix-it for Skyfall.)

In the aftermath, Q struggles to describe the night's events in professional terms.

Written for @mi6-cafe’s 007 Fest 2025, specifically for Scavenger Hunt item #7 (write a short Bond fic and then have a partner re-write it). Here is my remix of @kitten-kin‘s new M-lives fic, written for Mansfield-Day!

HAPPY MANSFIELD-DAY TO ALL WHO CELEBRATE!

[samanthahirr]

bastard sounds great in an irish accent. if an irish person calls you a 'daft bastard' it just feels right

the welsh have the monopoly on things ending in hell. fuckin hell and bloody hell hit different in a welsh accent. its like music to my ears

the scots have piss and shite for sure. "its pishin it doon out there" "this is a load of shite" absolute poetry

if i may speak for the english i think we do penis related words very well. dickhead, knobhead, twat, etc.

and for all the shit we give them, you gotta admit that no one can deliver a 'goddamn' quite like an american. theres a certain weight to it that you just cant achieve in other accents. when an american says goddamn you know shit just got real

[samanthahirr]

[samanthahirr]

[Image ID: a meme with a very small grey kitten sitting on a bed, in front of a laptop. Caption reads "i love my puter. my emails from ao3 are there" /end]

[samanthahirr]

Here's my snippet for WIP Wednesday! This is an excerpt from a Skyfall fix-it fic I'll post tomorrow for Station Phoenix's Mansfield-Day celebration, titled "Skyfall: Quartermaster's After Action Report." It's a re-write of a brand new fic written by @kitten-kin (Scavenger Hunt #7), and asks "What if help arrived in time at the Skyfall chapel?"

Incident Report: Approaching the scene by air, the entirety of the lodge was on fire, with evidence of a pitched battle. There was no visible activity on the surrounding grounds. I directed the helicopter toward the chapel, the only still-standing structure, to search for survivors.  “Too fucking late” was the thought ringing through Q’s head as they landed. Bond’s ancestral home was blazing like a goddamned Gävle Goat, and it was directly and irrefutably Q’s fault. He’d been so focused on coding those breadcrumbs for Silva to follow, he hadn’t spared a thought for mustering backup until Silva had an insurmountable head start. The helicopter and support team Q requisitioned (with a falsified signature from M, which he'd swiftly erased) arrived at Skyfall Lodge more than an hour after the madman and his squadron of mercenaries and attack helicopters descended on the place. More than enough time to burn Bond’s home, kill a lone agent and M, and flee the scene. Even before exiting the helicopter, Q was certain that Bond—and MI6—had lost this particular fight. And all that was left was to take stock of the bloody aftermath.

It’s WIP Wednesday!

Post a line or three from a current WIP, and then tag @mi6-cafe so we can find and reblog it!

OR you can reblog this post with your WIP excerpt!

All ships, fandoms, and WIPs are welcome.

[samanthahirr]

New Work & Cryptic Comms Reveal

I shouldn't be surprised people guessed this was mine, but I'm rather proud of it. It's my first time writing a 5+1 and the longest one-shot I've ever written!

Want a bit of a spoiler? Keep reading.

I've always know that pole dancing can be an incredible workout, but I didn't realize how much of an art form it can be and how it doesn't have to include the hells. Take Alex Hart, for example.

[samanthahirr]

Scavenger hunt #30

Create a title and summary for a Bond fic that you don't actually intend to write. This is permission to create a WIP for the sole purpose of abandoning it!

Title: The One (That Got Away)

Summary: Q has never been kidnapped. In fact, he’s done his very best to avoid such a fate by having all sorts of safety protocols in place and not taking the Tube when it’s too early or too late to safely do so. He even has a couple of changes of clothes and a comfortable sofa in his office so that he can stay at Six for a time if need be. So whenever an agent gets especially cocky about their (more often than not) mission gone pear-shaped, Q just shakes his head and dryly tells them that at least he’s never been kidnapped.

What happens when the agents get to talking one day and decide that one of them really ought to relieve Q of his trump card, and all eyes turn to Bond? (Well: a lot of mischief, plenty of chaos, and a heartfelt confession, but that’s not even half of it.)

[samanthahirr]

"I don't know!"

[samanthahirr]

the horrors persist but my friends write beautiful fanfic

[samanthahirr]

Hello fictional man, you badly need therapy. Unfortunately, what I'll be giving you instead is men and more feelings.

[samanthahirr]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: James Bond (Craig Movies) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James Bond/Q, Della Leiter/Felix Leiter Characters: James Bond, Felix Leiter (James Bond), Della Leiter Additional Tags: Pre-Slash, Past James Bond/Madeleine Swann, SPECTRE (2015) Fix-It, Pining 

Summary: After taking down SPECTRE and blowing up his happily-ever-after with Madeleine, James Bond has spent the first month of his retirement avoiding introspection and any-and-all future plans. Until a much-needed visit with friends helps him figure out what—and who—he actually wants for himself.

My anonymous fic for @mi6-cafe​‘s Cryptic Comms challenge has been revealed! Did you guess it was mine??? This was written for a game-of-telephone challenge, so be sure to check out the work that inspired mine and the work my fic inspired in turn!

[samanthahirr]

007 may have saved the day and the mission and perhaps even the world, but it ended up being a concierge at the Andean Grand Hotel who saved the girl. Keeping staff noses out of guest business was the general order of the day at most five star hotels, but something in Fields’s manner, voice, or perhaps the unusual note she left for Bond - Run - must have made the concierge just uneasy enough to want to bend the rules a bit.

Housekeeping was sent on a stakeout, classism keeping them invisible as they moved from room to room on Bond’s floor. As soon as the unregistered guests departed, the staff moved in, and soon enough emergency services and law enforcement were on the way while the most nightmare-inducing attempt at CPR was made.

The concierge took leave for three months to recover.

Miss Fields took much longer. In point of fact, she was released from Medical after eight months, but would suffer the consequences of being made to inhale and ingest motor oil for the rest of her life. Bond took the news less gracefully than he’d taken literal bullets. Death was terrible and absolute and yet also offered a clean break; a fixed point from which to begin healing and forgetting and moving on. This was a mark he’d left that there was no erasing, no mending. The brain damage was permanent. The strain on her cardiovascular system would likely shorten her natural lifespan.

How could one person even begin to pay off such a debt? It was impossible.

Though of course, “impossible” had never stopped Bond trying before. Why start now?

At first he visited with flowers, smiles, gentle jokes and flirtations. He popped by dutifully once a week when he was off-mission and stayed for at least twenty minutes. As her assessments made her prognosis clearer, he visited more frequently. He stopped buying flowers and got her a little pot of ivy instead. Wining and dining was also out. Instead he started bringing in drinks and treats that followed - barely - the guidelines that the doctors had outlined for him. Salt was encouraged; her sodium levels were low. No alcohol, and nothing too fatty; her heart couldn’t bear any additional strain. Not too much sugar either, though fruits high in antioxidants were acceptable. He began researching goji berries.

He called in old favors and bought some new ones, and soon had a regular route taking him through various restaurants and patisseries in London. Her favorite was a dark chocolate, pecan, and blueberry confection molded into the shape of a strawberry, topped off with a pistachio-flavored biscuit stem and leaf dusted with gold. Jacques charged Bond fifteen pounds for each one, and also billed him an extra thousand for being so annoying about dairy fats and sugar, terrorizing his staff, and making his best chocolatier fall in love with him. Bond paid up, and also bribed Medical to make sure Miss Fields got one of these tiny treasures every day for dessert as a reward for bearing up under the rest of her physician-mandated exercises and restrictions.

Her memories of Bolivia were lost, never to return. A mercy, despite the confusion and frustration the gap created. Bond didn’t even try to tell himself that the pleasure of their hours together could offset the horror of her last moments in that country. New memories could be made, but they very often scattered the moment she became distracted by something else. Bond bought her a notebook and helped fill it by acting as her secretary, jotting down a brief history to fill in the gap that existed in her memories, and explaining to her why she woke up every morning in an unfamiliar room.

As she regained some of her strength and stability, Miss Fields began to fight with him, especially if his visit coincided with her perusal of the notebook. It happened often, since the covers were printed in her own hand, front and back, with her name and instructions to read it.

She wanted him to forgive himself and go back to his own life. She still had enough self-respect to not want any relationships based on guilt or pity, thank you very much Mister Bond. She had family and friends, unlike some people, and did not need his assistance. If he wanted to do penance she had a favorite charity that she could direct him to.

They had these discussions repeatedly, because she kept forgetting she’d had them.

By the time Medical began to make noises about the discharge process and living arrangements, she’d actually worn him down without realizing it. During his last visit before her sister came to take her home, he slipped her notebook into his jacket, then dropped a kiss to her forehead.

“It’s been a pleasure, Miss Fields.”

[samanthahirr]

STOP! before you decide you are irretrievably doomed, try one of the following options:

transition

bdsm

iron supplements

[samanthahirr]

[samanthahirr]

Normalize leaving unhinged comments on ao3 fics you like. I'm tired of being the only one brave enough to write "I am chewing on this fic" in the comment section. Be weird. Authors will love you for it

[samanthahirr]

“Parker, how’s my exit looking?” “Wide open, boss!”

Gina Castillo’s feline accomplice “Parker” reports from the convention center's loading dock that the pre-planned escape route is all clear. With her exit strategy in place, Gina begins her infiltration of JELLYFISH Con….

For @mi6-cafe's 007 Fest 2025, Scavenger Hunt item #71, “Show us your pet helping with your Station adventures.”