[ID: Schematic of the "Toussaint" diamond necklace by Cartier, as shown in the 2018 movie Ocean's Eight.]
Twice Stolen, Once Pieced - Chapter 1: The Ex-Con.
M, Straw Hat hijinks + Sanji/Nami (mostly in the background, but I couldn't help myself), heist/comedy/friendship, Ocean's Eight AU.
Luffy's got a plan: crash the Marines' fanciest gala, lift the Star of Alabasta right off Princess Vivi's neck, and vanish before anyone notices. Eight pirates. One shot. The Great Powers won't know what hit them.
Bait and Switch
Thief AU | NC17 | Gortash/Valerin
AO3 + Valerin Ref
Being caught in the Archduke’s private chambers by the man himself was not Val’s idea of a Good Time.
(aka the one where Valerin had no idea Gortash’s sex game was this strong and gets dicked down 6 ways to Sunday. I have no excuse, this is just silliness and filth)
“What are you doing?”
Being caught in the Archduke’s private chambers by the man himself was not Val’s idea of a Good Time.
Leant against the ornate sprawl of a writing desk, he rights his center of gravity as subtly as he can, mind racing. The man in question steps further into the room, letting the door click shut behind him. His brow darkens, his lips pulled down into a frown. Val supposes he can’t begrudge Gortash his ire, considering he’d just been sitting on an array of schematics and missives that - if the state seals and official stamps are anything to go by - are highly sensitive.
Hidden by his hip, the repeater spell continues to scratch out the detailed plans of the bomb he’s been contracted to steal.
Val opens his mouth, unsure what excuse is going to fall out of it. To his surprise, Gortash stops him with a wave of a hand.
“Ah,” he rumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Naoise’s replacement.”
Adorned in his silks and jewels, it’s easy to underestimate Enver Gortash. Locked in a room with him, one wrong step away from being outed as an intruder, Val is acutely aware of the strong tendon of his neck, the brawn of the chest peaking out from the cut of his shirt. Swallowing, he lets his hand fall casually to his side, where a letter opener lies in reach.
“Yep. Naoise’s replacement. That’s me.”
Gods above, he might as well just wear a sign. The problem is, Gortash has taken him off guard. He wasn’t supposed to be back yet - he wasn’t supposed to be back at all. As far as Val’s intel had been concerned, the archduke was away at a trade meeting for the week.
Clearly not.
“I told Amira not to bother.”
Amira. Amira Amira Amira. Why does he know that name?
Humming sympathetically, Val glances around the room. Should he be grabbing a rag? Sweeping the floor? If Naoise is his chamber maid, he can only hope Gortash doesn’t pay attention to his leggings and shirt, which are distinctly inappropriate for the job.
Or maybe not. What the hell does Val know? He hasn’t even seen the staff. Or has he? He can’t remember. Fuck.
Gortash sighs, startling Val with the humanness of the sound. Looking closer, he realizes just how tired the other man looks. He’s only ever seen Gortash on posters or from far away, addressing the public from on high. He’s handsome, that much is true, but there are dark circles under his eyes and lines bracketing his mouth. His hair looks like he’s run his fingers through it more than once.
Val chances a peak at the plans being scribbled down out of sight. Still going. Damn.
“Do…you want me to leave?” He contemplates the pros and cons of just ditching the job. There’s obviously a rat, and the pay is good but not worth his life. Not to mention Gortash has seen his face, and though he may not always stand out, his tattoos are distinct, and his scar right there across his cheek and nose.
Still. He’s nearly done. Just a little longer.
Gortash wanders towards a side bar laden with drinks and pours himself a glass of something dark and red, “No. Knowing Amira, I’ve already paid for you anyway.”
“Right.” Gods, he hopes Naoise isn’t a bard. Val can’t hold a tune for shit.
(What are the odds of a man like Enver Gortash needing someone to sing him a lullaby before bed, anyway? Slim right? Fuck Val hopes their slim.)
“Have you eaten?”
What?
“What?” To Val’s dismay, Gortash begins unhooking the intricate gauntlets he always seems to wear, revealing strong, veined forearms. And uh, that’s. Well.
Raising a brow, Gortash nods towards a platter of fruit and cheese that looks surprisingly fresh. Val swallows, distracted by the way his jaw works as he pops a grape in his mouth and chews, “Help yourself.”
“I’m good.” He’s not. He’s really, really not.
Clearing his throat, Val opens his mouth, ready to damn the whole endeavor and take his leave, but finds the wind knocked out of him when he finds Gortash casually undoing his belt. He’s reading yet another scroll, this one laid out on a different table, and doesn’t seem to realize the mental crisis Val is sinking into.
Vaguely, Val wonders if he knocked his head when he was trying to break in. He’s probably drooling on Gortash’s stupidly expensive carpet right at this very moment, stuck in some fever dream. Except his face feels warm and his pulse is rabbiting in his veins, making him feel horribly awake.
Enver Gortash is many things to many people. Archduke. Figurehead. Self important prick. It’s easy to forget he’s also a man.
Val stares, lips parted, at the breadth of his shoulders beneath the decorative coat when he shucks it off. In a testament to the obscenity of his wealth, he tosses it without care over a chair. He’s not overly tall, but he is thick, a broad, fighter’s body, almost inelegant in its blunt sinew.
He’s not prepared for the casual way Gortash undoes his shirt, nor the hot clench low in his stomach at the sight of the thick muscle of his chest and the swath of dark hair. Even through his shirt, his bicep flexes when he brings his goblet up.
Fucking hell.
He feels caught by whatever expression he wears when Gortash glances over, for it's enough for the other man to pause mid-sip, his eyes suddenly curious. When he lowers the goblet, his mouth is wine wet, and no, nope. Val needs to leave. He needs to leave right now.
“You’re not the usual type Amira sends,” Gortash murmurs, that too sharp gaze looking right through him.
“I’m not?” Val latches onto the lifeline, perking up, “I’m not. You’re right, I’ll let her know. She’ll send someone better.”
Before he can scoot far enough away from the desk to make for the door, Gortash chuckles, closing in on him, “That wasn’t a complaint.”
“It wasn’t?” The question wavers when the other man reaches out, fingertips brushing his throat where his pulse throbs.
“No,” The fingers trail down, splaying out over his collar bone, “What’s your name?”
He’ll never, ever be able to explain why he answers honestly, “Val.”
“Ah. Short for?”
“Valerin.”
Distantly, a hysterical voice pipes up that at least Gortash will know what name to put on the arrest record when this all goes to hell. In the present, Val licks his lips, caught by the way the other man follows the motion.
“Valerin,” He repeats, and Val isn’t sure why the sound of it makes his breath shudder. He’s almost glad for the smirk it earns him, which lets annoyance edge out some of his haze, “All I meant was that she’s never sent a man before.”
“A man?”
“Mhm,” Despite the fizz of attraction coursing through him like warm champagne, he’s still startled when a thumb sweeps over his bottom lip.
The gold piece drops.
Holy shit.
“Is uh - is that a problem?” Val genuinely can’t tell what he wants the answer to be. He thinks it might be exactly what Gortash gives him, which is a heavy lidded once over and soft, “No.”
Hot, vivid embarrassment flushes through him, followed swiftly by something needier. Shifting uncomfortably, pinned back against the desk by the body heat the other is giving off, he lets his legs fall open when Gortash steps forward, pushing between them. The hand that had been at his neck slides up to his hair, those bare fingers fisting tightly.
Gortash studies his expression thoughtfully, “Okay?”
It’s so oddly thoughtful that Val is once more rendered speechless. Who knew a megalomaniac would appreciate consent? From his would-be prostitute, at that. (And who knew Val would be so into that? Fuck.)
Swallowing, Val has a moment to wonder if he’s really going to commit to the ruse enough to blow an archduke in his own rooms before a glance down at the heavy outline of Gortash’s cock helps him confirm that yes, yes he is. And he’s not even going to be mad about it. Val might not be able to hold a tune but this? This he can do.
“Yeah,” He breathes, “Okay.”
This time, he lets himself touch, a shy skim of fingers along the torso framed by an open shirt. He’s rewarded with a clench of muscle and the sudden realization that they're both hard. Sinking to his knees, Val frames strong hips with his hands, trapped between the desk and the man before him. Encouraged by the quiet ‘good’ and the light tug of his hair, he presses his mouth to the place where skin meets fabric. He scrapes his teeth there, even as he begins to unlace what he can.
Everything is bright and frantic. His heartbeat, his vision, his skin.
The weight of the other’s cock when he pulls it out, heavy and hot, makes his lashes flutter. He’s intimidatingly thick, long enough to choke and already hard as steel. Val doesn’t waste any time, parting his lips around the fat head. He sucks, soft and testing, earning a rush of salt on his tongue.
“Fuck,” Gortash’s hiss, forced from between clenched teeth, triggers a shiver down his spine. He responds by relaxing his jaw, letting him deeper. It’s messy, wet from his saliva and the other’s precum, and painful. Val likes that.
He likes the jump of Gortash’s hips when he hollows his cheeks, the way his abdomen tightens as he draws back, tongue flat to the underside, and the ache of the stretch. Fisting what he can’t fit, Val hums, losing time to the rhythm and musk. When Gortash begins thrusting, shallow at first, he lets him, opening wider for the smooth, hot slide edging towards his throat.
He’s overwhelmed. Moreover, to his absolute shock, so is the other man. When he chances a glance up, lashes damp, Gortash is leant over him, one hand braced to the desk and the other caught still in his hair. Val groans, nails digging into a strong thigh. Baring his teeth, Gortash tugs him closer, fucking into his throat with a sudden, hard push.
His gagging only seems to spur the other on, who keeps sinking in, and whose long, luxurious groan makes Val’s own cock ache. Eventually, he’s given enough leeway to heave in a breath, desperate, lifesaving, before he himself is dragging Gortash back down his throat with hands on his hips and parted lips. He’s a mess, mouth greedy and wet, but his mind is light. Even when Gortash begins a steady rhythm, one that’s going to wreck his voice for days, Val floats, digging nails into the firm swell of his ass to suck him deeper, harder. He slips one hand free just enough to cup between the other’s legs, rolling his balls
And that’s all it takes. The first spurt of cum startles him, slicked down his throat in a rush he almost doesn’t have to swallow, before Gortash pulls back to coat his swollen lips. In a daze, Val struggles to catch his breath, dizzy and desperately aroused.
Hands beneath his arms hoist him up and before he can even finish being surprised, they’re kissing. He makes a wounded sound, mouth sore and hot, that Gortash licks from inside him, teeth tugging at his already abused lower lip. Shuddering, Val tries to press closer, desperate. His blood is burning, his body vibrating with need.
Gortash shoves away with a snarl, using the bruising grip he has on Val’s arm to shove him towards the bed, “Get undressed.”
And oh. His voice is dark and rough, gravel caught in velvet. Fuck.
Val stumbles forward, clumsily doing as told.
The bed is already turned down, the sheets cool on his feverish skin. He has a brief moment to appreciate the vision of Gortash fully nude - strong muscle and coarse hair, thick cock and big hands - before he’s flipped onto his stomach. His breath rushes out in surprise, then sucks back in when the other man settles between his legs, hands cupped beneath the swell of his ass to spread his cheeks.
“Fuck, look at you.”
What little blood Val has left in his brain opens his mouth to retort, only for it to turn into a yelp at the hot, flat swipe of a tongue over his rim. He rocks back, knees pushing out. Gortash chuckles, sucking a wet kiss against the tight furl of muscle, “Do you think I can make you come like this?” He asks, dark and soft, “Let’s find out.”
–
Nearly an hour later, Val sobs into the sheets as Gortash slides another finger into him, smooth and deep. His stomach is sticky with release but his cock is still hard, each thrust against his prostate pushing out another drool of precum. He’d barely finished his last orgasm before Gortash had replaced his mouth with clever fingers. He takes advantage now, opening him up. It’s maddening, a tease of pressure and stretch. A glance over his shoulder finds Gortash watching the way his body sucks in his fingers, slick from oil and soft from the attention.
Val hisses, sore dick throbbing. Dark eyes jump to his own, taking in his cheek pressed to the mattress and his teeth bared sharp. The look darkens, the other’s lips parting, before a sharp slap cracks into Val’s ass. Jolting, jaw knocked loose in pleasure, Val presses his forehead to the bed.
“Please, enough, fuck, just fuck me, please,” He’s babbling, he knows it but he can’t stop it. To his relief, that seems to be what Gortash was waiting for, as he slips his fingers free and soon the blunt, wide head of his cock is notched against Val’s rim.
Even with the prep, even with the post-orgasm lassitude turning him pliant, it’s a stretch. Val sighs and then squirms, knuckles growing white in their grip on the sheets. His own voice flares between them, a litany of hurt, hungry sounds, spilled into the air. The responding groan, rough and low, when Gortash finally sinks to the hilt, robs Val of any coherent thought. Tomorrow, he’ll have bruises on his waist in the shape of the other man’s hands. He pulls him back, each thrust a blunt force pleasure. His whole body lights up, sensitive.
This time, his orgasm is violent, wrenched from deep between his hips.
–
Spread on his back, with his legs draped over strong arms and his body nearly bent double, Val snarls, “How the fuck are you so good at this?”
The chuckle Gortash gives is breathless, strained beneath the power of his thrusts. He hooks a hand beneath one of Val’s knees, opening him further. Despite himself, Val arches, clenching down at the pleasure of the new angle.
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe you’re just easy?”
Now it’s Val’s turn to laugh, a little hysterically, even as he knocks the hands from him enough to link his ankles behind the other’s back, “I’m really, really not.”
Gortash’s gaze goes sharp at the admittance, his thrusts stuttering. Val isn’t sure how many times they’ve come, only knows he feels wet and full and that each heavy press of the other’s cock inside of him is loud and messy.
When strong hands slide over his throat, pressing into his windpipe, he adds another one to the list, even as his vision darkens and breath stills.
–
“You’re a menace.”
Val raises a brow, hips circling down, “Seriously? I’m the menace?”
This time, Gortash is the one on his back, his neck strained and teeth clenched as Val rides him. He’s not sure he can come again, but the pleasure is still bright and sharp, each nudge to his prostate making him wonder if he might try anyway.
A slide of thumb over one of his nipples makes him sigh, sore and bitten as they are. He has beard burn on his thighs, his ass, and fingerprints turning dusky blue on his hips. Smirking down at the other man beneath him, he touches his own marks, teeth imprints in a strong shoulder, nail welts down his chest.
Gortash watches him back with a heavy, predatory gaze. He’s only a little surprised when those hands lock onto his waist, holding him still as the other man braces his feet and begins thrusting up.
He is, however, absolutely astounded when, a few minutes later, another orgasm rips through him with the force of a hurricane.
–
Val pays for his cheek eventually, when Gortash holds him down and eats him out until he cries. For long, drugging minutes, he licks his own cum from Val’s sore, puffy entrance, merciless.
He’s so sensitive his legs jump, body coiling away as if electrocuted. Gortash croons softly, mocking, and fucks his tongue into the tender, hot clench of muscle.
Val returns the favor, after nearly passing out, by letting the other straddle his face, mouth knocked loose obediently.
“Fuck, you love this.” It’s not a question, and Val couldn’t answer anyway, not with the way Gortash is feeding his cock into his mouth. The weight is smooth on his tongue, perfect and heavy. He only comes to when a final few spurts hit his chin and cheeks, aware suddenly of the burn of his throat and the exhausted tremble of his body.
More gently than he expected, Gortash helps him away from the wet spot and slants his mouth over his. The kiss is deep and tired, obnoxiously good. Val hums, unabashedly hooking his arm around Gortash’s neck to bring him down onto the bed with him. To his surprise, the other complies, blanketing his larger body over Val’s.
The last thing Val’s aware of are fingers in his hair and the low, throbbing ache of his muscles.
–
Daylight is burgeoning through the windows when Val cracks open a tired eye. The room is still and quiet, a sanctuary of rest.
His panic is immediate.
Trying to sit up, he hisses, every part of him strained and sore. Normally, he’d consider that a sign of a night well spent, but considering he’s still in the private chambers of the man he’s supposed to be stealing from, Val can only scrub a hand down his face.
Carefully, so as not to disturb the figure laying silent beside him, Val creeps from the bed.
And immediately collapses onto the ground as his knees buckle.
“Fuck.”
Despite himself, he throws a glare to the sleeping man at fault for his woe. He flushes despite the fact no one is there to see him, deeply aware of how slick he still is with Gortash’s seed.
It takes an embarrassing amount of time to get to his feet and even more to collect his clothes and the replicated bomb plans. There’s no way in all the hells he’s going to try climbing back out of the window, so Val’s just going to hope that it’s early enough that only minimal staff abounds.
He casts a final glance to the bed as he passes. In sleep, Gortash is unsettlingly boyish. His face is relaxed, eyelashes a dark smudge on his cheek. Against his better judgement, Val finds himself brushing a lock of hair from the other man’s brow. He flutters a brief, final touch to a stubbled jaw, enjoying the coarseness, and takes his leave.
–
“You did what?”
Val winces, folding his arm defensively, “Careful, Astarion. You’re starting to screech.”
His best friend and one of Baldur’s Gate’s rising magistrates spins from his pacing, shoving an accusing finger at him. “Scree- Valerin, you idiot! You can’t just steal from the archduke.”
“I can’t?”
As it’s been a week since he left Gortash’s room and no guards have come breaking down his door, Val thinks he probably can.
“He’ll have our heads.”
"I doubt it," At Astarion's incredulous look, he shrugs, "In the grand scheme of things, a silly bomb isn't that important."
And it isn't. Short though his glimpse may have been of the other documents, he'd seen enough to know that Gortash had bigger, more intricate plans in play. Ever astute, Astarion narrows his eyes. He gives Val a probing once over, stopping at the fading bruise barely visible through his tattoo.
"What aren't you telling me?"
Coughing into his fist, Val looks away, hating that he can feel his face heat, "Nothing."
"No?" There's very little more annoying than Astarion when he's worked out a secret. Even benign, nonpolitical ones. Val might actually have to kill him, "So you have no idea why the archduke has been swanning around all week looking like he's been mauled by a bear?"
"Nope." Val pops the 'p', ignoring the nervous thump of his own pulse, "Can't say that I do."
“Really,” Astarion drawls, expression flat, “None at all?”
“Not even a little,” And if Val takes that moment to beat a hasty retreat, knocking a stack of scrolls off Astarion’s desk as he goes, well.
Astarion has no one to blame but himself.
-
No one tell Val that all Naoise does is make them tea and take down actual dictation, he'll never recover.
Three years since the betrayal that tore their team apart and put Sirius Black in prison, James Potter is looking to settle the score — and make off with the score of a lifetime.
“So,” he hears a voice coming in through his earpiece: James, his brother and literal partner in crime. “Has anyone told you how great you look when you’re brooding like that. Just stunning, really. You might want to hurry it up though. We have a train to catch after this and we don’t have all night.”
Sirius rolls his eyes and leans back from the ledge. He hooks his legs over the windowsill and pushes his back down to lay horizontally in mid-air. He sees James below him on the other side of the street, leaning casually on a motorcycle in his perfectly tailored Italian jacket.
James would really rather be caught dead than go on a job in anything less than fucking Armani. Though he might settle for Dolce if the need ever called for it.
Their eyes meet for a moment, and Sirius discreetly rubs his middle finger behind his ear so that James will see. James immediately returns the gesture.
Or basically Four Rise of the Brave Tangled Dragons AU where they all exist in each other's universe.
How to Train Your Dragon AU: Hiccup entrusts his secret of Toothless with the only people on Berk he trusts; his friends: Rapunzel, daughter of the village healer. Merida, a training shieldmaiden and the only teen that doesn’t pick on Hiccup. And Jack Frost, a young shepherd boy that guards the flock, or what’s left of it.
Tangled AU: Determined to see the lanterns for her 18th birthday, Rapunzel makes a deal with a trio of thieves: Hiccup the Blacksmith, Merida the Archer, and Jack Frost, the Trickster.
Brave AU: When the four clans joined together, an unlikely friendship was forged between the children of the clans; Princess Merida of Clan DunBroch. Prince Hiccup of Clan Dingwall. Princess Rapunzel of Clan Macintosh. Prince Jackson of Clan MacGuffin.
Rise of the Guardians AU: For 300 years, Jack Frost was unseen by the mortal world, his only friends were other young seasonal spirits like him; Hiccup the Autumn Spirit, Rapunzel the Spring Spirit, & Merida the Summer Spirit.
Being gifted a Red Notice by the InterPol after stealing a piece of rock worth more than 300 million dollars wasn't exactly the anniversary gift they hoped for, until they decided it was.
OR
In which Klaus and Caroline commit, what is now widely being referred to as The Crime of the Century, by pulling off the most stunningly complicated heist in criminal history in a bid to lift the priceless Moonstone, an invaluable artifact from the Early Norse civilization that is now in the possession of the two most prolific thieves of the 21st century.
When the trail of clues they deliberately left behind, in hopes of future entertainment from the InterPol is discovered on the eve of their fifth wedding anniversary, they are both, needless to say, notably irked at the prospect of starting their game of cat and mouse ahead of schedule.
Weathering numerous grumbling comments and just as many strongly worded complaints from his grumpy wife and not to mention many many placating kisses later, Klaus convinces his partner in crime and in marriage that this minor change in schedule is but a slight inconvenience that can be resolved with a single jet ride to their private island off the coast of the Caribbean— Their own little piece of paradise where they will not only spend their days and nights celebrating the anniversary of their union, undisturbed and undetected, but also have plenty of time to decide precisely how revenge must be exacted for this audacious little disruption from their friends at the InterPol.
Caroline, even before she fastens her seat belt on their jet, already has a very specific painting in mind. It’s perfect for their next Mark. She’ll be sure to let Enzo know that they will be heading to Russia next, as soon as their celebrations in the Caribbean are over.
After all, there’s a painting at the Hermitage with the name Mr. and Mrs. Forbes on it.
Mostly doodles of the criminals AU of Rus’ and my sona’s official meeting which I think went as well as it would have! — (click for better quality!) buy me a coffee?
