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didn’t even know you got the midas touch — 4700 words, monkey d. luffy/trafalgar law, porn without plot, pain kink, praise kink, kink discovery.

The third time they wind up in bed, Law realizes that if he doesn’t do something soon he’ll be condemning himself to an endless series of throttled orgasms.

Law needs pain to get off.

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fic scrap, trafalgar law & the heart pirates, 500 words; the hearts get provoked into a bar fight.

“Sit down,” Law repeats, and there’s a dangerous edge in his voice, then, a reminder that he’s given an order, and doesn’t care for being made to give it twice.

“You know what they say, don’t you,” Big Mouth goes on, “if you want to become a Warlord, the fastest way is to let an admiral bend you over.”

The last word is lost under the scrape of a chair over the barroom floor, Shachi standing with such force that the ale in Monet’s tankard sloshes over the edge. His fists are clenched, his face red with anger, and Monet—feeling, in that moment, a deeply kindred spike of rage—sees him reach for his knife.

“Shachi,” Law says, “sit down.”

When she twists to look at him he’s got Shachi pinned with a stare, himself unmoved, still tipping his empty glass with a finger pressed against the rim. Shachi hesitates—his hand pauses over the hilt if his blade—hisses, “Captain.”

“Sit down,” Law repeats, and there’s a dangerous edge in his voice, then, a reminder that he’s given an order, and doesn’t care for being made to give it twice.

Shachi looks like he wants to argue further—looks like he’s the verge of eruption—but just as Monet thinks he’s going to choose mutiny over allowing the insult to slide he sits again, hard, slams his fist down on the table. His breath leaves him in a single, furious exhale, and when he looks up at Law again he’s shaking, the anger vivid in his eyes. “How can you just let him—Captain, you heard what he just said!”

“I am not,” Law growls, “having the lot of you get into it with—a lowball rookie brat,” he could be speaking of something found smeared on the underside of his boot, “over a slur against my fucking character.” His gaze rakes the crew. “Nor do I mean to give him the satisfaction of seeing my crew injured over childish insults. Sit and drink your beer.”

It’s almost enough. His glower undercuts that murderous tension, and Monet sees half a dozen Hearts sink back into their seats, lower their eyes to their drinks.

A moment more, and they might have been defused altogether. But:

Big Mouth’s voice rings out through the bar. “You see that, lads? He won’t even let his mates stand up to us, ’cause then they’d be defending his honor over something that’s true. Everyone’s heard how he likes to keep the heat off his crew, and it’s so easy to keep the admiralty happy . . .”

She knows, with perfect clarity, the exact filthy gesture the man’s hands will make even before he brings his meaty fingers to his mouth and mimes. The insult of it like a slap: anger flashes hot up to her head, her thoughts swallowed by a pounding red, and her talons dig deep into the wood.

It’s too much, too much by far, for the crew.

Even Law’s icy resolve isn’t enough to keep them in their seats. Shachi surges again to his feet, his knife out and flashing, snarling, “Fucker,” and Ikakku is climbing over the table, Uni grabbing for the nearest bottle, Penguin’s shrill voice rising through the sudden swell of sound and motion, “Say that again to our faces, you dog-fucker—”

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fic scrap, trafalgar law, 200 words; law runs across another survivor of flevance.

He sinks to his knees before the old woman, and says, too fast, too harsh, his chest too tight, “That language—that language you were speaking. I heard you, just now, you said—” and he stumbles, then, can’t get out the words he’d heard, not when his tongue has long since forgotten the inflection.

He sinks to his knees before the old woman, and says, too fast, too harsh, his chest too tight, “That language—that language you were speaking. I heard you, just now, you said—” and he stumbles, then, can’t get out the words he’d heard, not when his tongue has long since forgotten the inflection. Sticks instead to the tradesman’s common, trying again, “Something about—snow. About gifts,” and opens his hands towards her, palm-up, grasping for the half-forgotten wisps of his comprehension.

She looks up at him, and in that moment he knows, knows that he’d been right: for as she takes in his face her cloudy eyes widen, and horrified recognition flares in her face.

It’s the look of one who’s seen the Amber Lead before, and knows all that it can do. Of one who can’t rightly believe the sight of someone like Law bearing its trace, still alive, still breathing, so many years since his city fell.

Her right hand rises—reaches, trembling, for his face—and Law manages not to flinch away, not to pull back, himself too overcome to move or speak.

“You,” she says, staring at him. He feels her fingers brush whisper-faint against where a mark like a paint splatter crosses his face. “You’re from the homeland.” She draws a shuddering breath. “You survived.”

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Occam’s Scalpel — 6600 words, donquixote rocinante/trafalgar law, time travel paradox role reversal.

Do not multiply entities without necessity.

(Translation of Скальпель Оккама by Spicebox.)

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fic scrap, byerly vorrutyer & gregor vorbarra, 1100 words, alternate universe – canon divergence

Gregor was sprawled back on the couch, head tipped back. He raised it as By entered, and said, “ ‘A personal matter,’ By, really?”

An ACC missing scene set in a universe where a chance encounter between Gregor and By shortly after TWA results in Gregor acquiring a friend actually his own age! The main unfinished fic takes place mostly in the months after TWA (ft. Aral and Simon having dual heart attacks over Serg’s son hanging around with a Vorrutyer, naturally) but a while back I felt like jotting down this little standalone scene that follows immediately after Dono’s meeting with Gregor in ACC, so since it doesn't go with anything I'm putting it here.

———

Byerly bid Dono and Ivan farewell as they exited onto the steps of the Residence, ostensibly to make his own way to his next engagement, and doubled back inside. He retraced his steps, and—with a slightly irritable acknowledging wave from Gregor’s majordomo—went back inside the chambers they had just left.

Gregor was sprawled back on the couch, head tipped back. He raised it as By entered, and said, “ ‘A personal matter,’ By, really?”

By grimaced, and came around to drop into the same chair he’d occupied earlier. “Donna had me give my word I wouldn’t tell another soul. I wasn’t about to break it.” Even to you, hung unspoken.

“No, I suppose not.” Gregor gave him a bland look; he knew full well how By felt about personal loyalty in circumstances where he could actually give it, rather than being obliged by a higher oath to the Imperium to lie and cheat. By tried not to squirm at the sensation of being transparent. “And how did your cousin come to be prodded into this visit by Ivan, exactly? You must have known I’d want to know about this.”

“If I told Dono that I could get him in to see the Emperor, I’d be kissing my informant career goodbye. His visit here will generate gossip—imagine how it would look without nice, broad-shouldered Ivan for me to hide behind.”

“And your choice of smokescreen had nothing to do with how amusing you’d find it to watch Ivan writhe, I’m sure.”

“Mm, let us say, it was a secondary consideration. Ivan was convenient.” By smirked. “But you should have seen how he lit up at the notion of meeting Donna at the shuttleport. Watching him discover his error was most motivational.”

Gregor snorted. “I can just imagine how he must have taken it.”

“Oh, he was bereft. I hold out hope that I might have the opportunity to console him, as the next-best Vorrutyer available.”

“If you actually manage to lure Ivan into your bed, I don’t want to know about it,” Gregor said, dryly. “Really, By, your taste in men.”

“What, you don’t find him handsome? I know you’re not so stone-cold as all that.” By dipped his eyelashes at him.

Gregor looked vaguely croggled. “I suppose.” His brows drew briefly together, as if he was trying to reevaluate Ivan from a different perspective in his mind’s eye and failing. “He’s just too much my kid cousin, I think. But I’ll wish you luck in your pursuit, if you like.” His gaze sharpened, refocusing on By. “And with your cousin’s bid for the countship, of course. You’re certain your association won’t interfere with your current assignment?”

“I wouldn’t have taken it on, if I didn’t think I’d be able to do it.” By sniffed. He crossed his legs, folding his hands around his knee, and straightened his shoulders. “I couldn’t have told you about Dono, but I don’t lie to you. Sire.”

Gregor looked pained at the formality. “Don’t start,” he said, and By gave way a little, shoulders slumping. “You know perfectly well that this is a sensitive political moment. I—We,” this time it was By who almost winced at the inflection, “need the pipeline you give Us into the Conservatives. If you choose to feed what you learn back to your cousin as well as to me, I won’t stop you. But it would be exceedingly inconvenient if you were to lose Vormoncrief’s tolerance of you.”

“Give me some credit. I’m hardly going to go around announcing my allegiance. As you so kindly point out, blowing my cover would be just as damaging to my efforts to help Dono.”

An opening of Gregor’s hand acknowledged the point. “An additional vote for the Progressives would certainly be very welcome, if he truly manages to pull this off. Also”—Gregor’s mouth quirked up, a little sadly—“it occurs to me that it would give me an excuse to have you at the wedding, if Dono brought you along.”

By became absorbed in flicking a piece of invisible lint off his sleeve. He knew, of course, that Gregor would have liked to be able to invite him properly, placing him in the first circle of witnesses where he belonged. The notion of being so exposed was sufficiently abhorrent that By didn’t feel wistful about missing out on the honor, but … it warmed him, knowing that Gregor wanted him there.

He glanced up at Gregor, and sought refuge in converting the smile trying to escape onto his face into a smirk. “Oh, I’ll look forward to it. I promise to get tastefully drunk in your honor. Though I trust you won’t be around to see it, on account of making your escape to your honeymoon suite.” He raised a curious eyebrow. “Have you slept with her yet? I sincerely hope your wedding night won’t be the first time you take her to bed.”

Gregor shook his head. “You know, I think you’re one of about three people on this planet who’d actually dare to ask me that to my face.” And, when By continued to affect interested silence, “Of course I’ve—of course we have. You don’t really imagine I’d pull a woman into this life without at least making sure that we’re—compatible.”

“In that case, my dear, I hope you’re taking every opportunity to relieve the stress of this sensitive political moment.” By smiled at him, and pushed himself up from his armchair. “And I’d best be getting out of your hair, before your next appointment arrives and ruins my cover for good. I’ll keep you appraised, should Boriz or his cronies drop anything interesting in my ear.”

“Yes, of course.” Gregor rose, too. He escorted By to the door, and added quietly, “Be careful, By.”

By appreciated the polite omission of I hope you know what you’re doing, if only aloud. The look Gregor gave him rather conveyed that part of the message all on its own. “You know I am.”

And what Gregor didn’t know about his intentions wouldn’t hurt him, By trusted. He really couldn’t tell Gregor that he meant to do whatever it took to keep Richars out of the Vorrutyer seat, even if that meant playing dirty. If he did there was a very real chance that Gregor would order him not to, and By couldn’t risk being kneecapped from the outset. Far better to ask forgiveness instead of permission, in this—after Dono was count.

And if Byerly pulled it off smoothly enough, nobody need ever find out about it at all, whatever it ended up being.

On that cheerful thought he gave Gregor a lank parting wave, and slipped back out into the hall.

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Forced Landing — 5000 words, alys vorpatril/byerly vorrutyer.

How Lady Alys Vorpatril and Byerly Vorrutyer started working together.

(Translation of Вынужденная посадка by Duches.)

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walks so bad like it feels so good — 7200 words, gregor vorbarra/byerly vorrutyer, anal hook predicament play. contains collars, leashes, and boot worship.

It was that very uncertainty—the possibility that Gregor might find a means of pushing him into the realm of raw, untested reaction, the kind that By couldn’t predict or control—that made the prospect of tonight so totally hair-raising, exhilaration warring with fright.

In which Byerly gets what he wanted.

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zip me up, it can’t be wrong — 5100 words, gregor vorbarra/byerly vorrutyer, collar kink power play.

It was very fine, but certainly not an accessory. It was a collar, unmistakably functional, and just looking at it made By’s mouth dry.

Byerly gets a gift from the Emperor.

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talk it out, babble on — 3600 words, gregor vorbarra/byerly vorrutyer, kinky phone sex filth.

Gregor’s voice was languid, satisfied, and By imagined him sitting at his big desk in his shirtsleeves, informal at this late hour, cufflinks out on the table. It was a delectable image.

In which Byerly has com sex with the Emperor.

(Sequel to one-way ticket, yeah.)

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unless you play it good and right — 38,000 words, Ivan Vorpatril/Byerly Vorrutyer, post-CVA mutual pining fake dating ft. undercover ImpSec mission at a seaside casino resort.

“Um.” Ivan colored under By’s gaze. He was pretty sure that behind the dark glasses By was staring at him like he’d grown a second head. “It’s just—I usually bring girls here.”

In which there are an undercover surveillance job, an old enemy, and Byerly Vorrutyer’s broken heart.

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one-way ticket, yeah — 8300 words, gregor vorbarra/byerly vorrutyer. kink exploration filth ft. gregor’s serg-related issues (and also his illyan issues, a little).

It was obvious enough what Vorrutyer had been sent for. Illyan—or, more likely, someone else in Gregor’s government, and Gregor could place bets on who—wanted to know whether Gregor preferred boys, and so Illyan had chosen one of his dirty angels to test the theory.

In which Gregor learns more about himself than he’d bargained for.

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silence is golden (you’ve got my hopes up) — 9200 words, ivan vorpatril/byerly vorrutyer. truth drugs/aphrodisiac sex pollen filth + associated complications.

This wasn’t By’s usual flirtation, or even his usual needling. The panic in his eyes had been quite evident by the second sentence, like he knew he was going off-script but just couldn’t stop.

Byerly shows up drugged at Ivan’s flat. Things escalate from there.

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far worse things awaiting man — 3900 words, james bigglesworth & erich von stalhein, gen. vampire triplane bat monster erich von stalhein survives.

Surely the Baron, at least, still flew—and yet from where von Stalhein stood he might have been the last, the rest of Germany’s aces wasted on this single catastrophic assault.

In which Biggles shows up aboard the Attila, and Erich von Stalhein chooses his enemy over his commander. (A rewrite of Chapter 43 of The Bloody Red Baron.)

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About a Cat — 2500 words, byerly vorrutyer, gen (+ implied ivan vorpatril/byerly vorrutyer, at least from byerly’s side).

While waiting for an audience with the emperor, Byerly is drawn into other courtly duties. Written for the prompt: “characters from the canon tell fairy tales to children.”

(Translation of Про кота by Awaiter.)

In which Byerly casts himself as Puss in Boots, Ivan as the Marquis de Carabas, and House Cordonah as, well…

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what keeps us standing in this view — 12300 words, tej arqua vopatril/ivan vorpatril/byerly vorrutyer. post-captain vorpatril’s alliance.

“The Imperium has to honor off-world marriages,” Ivan said. “We’re trying to get people to emigrate to Sergyar, remember? Can’t be scaring off potential colonists by refusing to accept their family ties. We have to have, y’know, a comity doctrine.”

In which the Vorpatrils get married to Byerly Vorrutyer, for better or worse.

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play the cards with spades to start — 2400 words, tej arqua vopatril/ivan vorpatril/byerly vorrutyer. set during captain vorpatril’s alliance, pwp filth + postcoital legal discourse.

They’re doing this on Ivan Xav’s miraculously sturdy dining room table, fortunately sans remnants of dinner.

In which the Vorpatrils attempt to commit adultery.

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The True Story of Byerly Vorrutyer — 16600 words, byerly vorrutyer/simon illyan

A variation on the theme of how and why Byerly was kicked out of his family home, how he wound up working for ImpSec, and how it all turned out. Contemporaneous with The Warrior's Apprentice.

(Translation of Истинная история Байерли Форратьера by eva_s.)