NCIS:LA
This came to me driving home from work late, late one night. I have no idea why the smut muse gave it to me, she is a kamikaze. She attacks and then leaves me to clean up the mess.
This is an NCIS Los Angeles fanfic, Deeks centered.
Before you click on the cut Please. Read the Following Points
This is NOT a fluffy piece, that’s why it’s posted here and not at ff.net.
Some parts could be triggers.
There is some sexual violence in it and some graphic reluctant heterosexual sex that borders on rape.
It’s NOT a finished piece; I’m posting it here to keep it safe in case my computer crashes again. When it is complete you can find it posted at the WWOMB archive.
I don’t mind feedback on works in progress like this one. Constructive criticism is always welcome but if you flame me just ‘cause you don’t like it, or it offends you, you can kiss my toes.
I Do Not
in any way, shape or form, condone or encourage the kind of actions taken by the characters.
If you read it and it makes you vomit or cry, don’t blame me, I warned you it’s not bunnies and angels.
Interested in being a beta for this? Please let me know.
They’d surprised her in the apartment. She was crouched over the body, examining the bullet wounds in Paul Brunner’s back when they silently surrounded her.
"Put your hands up." Callen told her, he Sam kept their guns trained on the woman as she slowly stood.
She did as they said, her eyes flickering around the apartment, searching for a way out.
"Forget about it," Callen cocked an eyebrow, "there’s no way you can get past us."
She tried anyway.
Furniture shattered, glass broke, holes were knocked in the plaster and they finally pinned her to the concrete just outside the back door.
Sam twisted her arms behind her back while Callen slapped on the handcuffs. She managed to get free from the cuffs twice before they got her to the car. They put her in the backseat facedown with her left hand cuffed to her right ankle and her right hand cuffed to the back of the driver’s seat.
She was easy to remove from the car but getting her into the boathouse took nearly fifteen minutes.
San kicked the door open and shoved her inside, Callen limped in behind him.
Kensi and Deeks looked up at the commotion.
Kensi tried to repress a smile, the guys looked like they’d been dragged backward through an obstacle course but their prisoner didn’t have a hair out of place.
Marty snorted, set his cup carefully in the counter. "Be safe, strip her down to nothing and keep her hands cuffed where you can see them." he told Sam and G as they pushed their captive toward the interrogation room.
Deeks hands shook as he poured coffee in his cup. He set the coffee pot back on the warmer with exaggerated care.
"What’s wrong?" Kensi asked.
"What makes you think something is wrong?" he asked tapping the plastic shaker against the rim of his cup.
"You just poured half a container of salt into your coffee." she took the cup and the nearly empty salt shaker out of his hands and set them in the sink.
He arched an eyebrow and tried to smile, "Maybe today, this is how I like my coffee."
Kensi didn’t buy the attitude, "You know her." she said.
"We’ve… met." Marty hedged.
"Does she even speak English?" Callen complained, wincing, as they came back into the main room.
"Yes," said Marty, "and Dutch, German, Russian, French, Italian and some eastern European dialects."
"How do you know?" Sam groaned, twisting his head and making his neck crack loudly, "She whisper sweet nothings in your ear?"
"She’s what they call a data miner. Not minor, miner as in she digs up information." He rubbed the back of his neck, "and she only whispers the information to the people who pay her to get it for them."
He poured another cup of coffee and sat at the table, leaning back in the chair with his eyes closed.
"Her name is Doamna Červená, it’s not her real name but that’s what she goes by. If you need information from someone and they won’t tell you what you want to know, you call this guy in St. Louis who calls someone who calls someone and eventually she calls you. You tell her who, where and what and she calls back with the information. Her fee starts at $50,000."
"And people just tell her what she wants to know?"
Marty sat forward, hands curled around his cup, "Eventually. She guarantees results within twenty-four hours of target acquisition and she’s only failed once."
"Who did she fail with?"
"A guy named Max Gentry."
"Your Max Gentry?"
"Yeah. She’s one of the things that made Max into the asshole that he is."
"In less than two hours Max told her everything he knew."
"Everything?"
"Everything. Unfortunately he didn’t know the one thing she wanted to know."
"So she knows who you are?"
"Yeah."
"We have to do something with her, as long as she…"
"She won’t tell anyone."
"Are you kidding, she’s tells people secrets for money."
"We have an agreement I don’t tell and she won’t tell."
"What happened?"
"A guy named Al Pearlman hired her to get some information from Max."
"Al "The Ax" Pearlman hired her? I though he was the kind of guy to just beat the info out of someone."
"He likes to cultivate that reputation, but he just asks the questions, she does the persuading."
"We need to find that kid and find him fast." said Sam.
Callen got to his feet, "She’s going to have to tell us where he is, then."
"She’ll never tell you, not Kensi either." Deeks shook his head, "She knows you can’t hurt her, won’t hurt her. She knows Max though…" his laugh was pained.
"She knows he’ll hurt her without remorse. I can’t do it but Max… Max can." Deeks hung his head, said softly, "Max can."
"But…" Kensi protested.
Deeks face contorted with anger, "If you want the information this is the only way!" he shouted.
He stalked back into the interview room and slammed the shades closed.
Deeks face filled the screen as he stepped in front of the camera and turned it off; Kensi shuddered at the wild look in his eyes.
There was silence for several minutes. Then sound of blows striking bare flesh echoed in the quiet. Something heavy crashed against the walls and then the window, the floors seemed to rock with violence that was going on in the closed room.
There were no cries, no screams, and no sound of voices at all and that made the brutality seem that much worse.
When he walked in she unlatched the last cuff and dropped it on the table with a self satisfied smirk,
She was wearing her usual demure dress -- dark colored cotton with a high neckline, long sleeves and a hem that just brushed the tops of her boot covered feet. He knew that the dress could be reversed to a bright color, the sleeves pulled off and the long skirt dramatically shortened changing the entire outfit into that of a world wise party girl in mere seconds.
The waist length ponytail was clipped to her shoulder length hair and he’d been on the receiving end of the whip that it concealed.
"This is different." she said in her perfect French accent, "Non, mon ami?"
He crossed his arms and glared at her.
"You learned a few things from me at our last meeting, hast du?" Her German accent was impeccable.
He walked around her, looking her up and down and not speaking.
"Ah, evet" she said in Turkish, "you have learned the first rule; let the target do all the talking."
He stepped closer to her and looked into her eyes. His hands fisted in the neckline of her dress and he tore it apart, the buttons popping and bouncing across the room.
His eyes never left hers as he tossed the shredded garment aside and left her standing in her thong and strapless bra.
"Molto buona," she said with a rich Italian accent. "The target should feel shamed and helpless."
"You have no shame," he reached behind her and withdrew the flat blades hidden under the back of her bra.
"And you aren't helpless," he tossed the blades behind him and slid his hands into her panties withdrawing a mini dart gun and a roll of steel needles, "yet."
He unsnapped the bra and it made a clattering sound as he dropped it, still staring into her eyes.
"Establish dominance," she murmured sliding her lips across his jaw and switched to Romanian. "Fara violenta."
He brought his knee up between her legs and she closed her eyes.
He traced the bruise forming on her jaw and she leaned into the touch.
"Vi ste propustili me." she moaned in Serbian.
His thumb traced the outline of her lips and she opened her mouth to taste his skin.
"You think you can undo me..." she purred in Norwegian, " Jeg tror ikke at du kan."
He drove a fist into her stomach and she doubled over with a soft gasp. She straightened, smiling. The look she gave him was one of a playful dare.
He punched her again and again; raining blows on her soft flesh. He was careful not to hit her in the face. That would have been a stupid and dangerous thing to do. If he marked her face, she would kill him without hesitating.
He hit her with his fists, the sides of his hands, and backhanded slaps that resounded in the enclosed space. She goaded him with her silence; it made the rage that much easier to build. She taunted him with her smirking lips, the twist of her torso that made her breasts jut out at him.
He grabbed the offered flesh, crushing it, kneading it with his hands and she threw back her head, striking the wood hard enough to make the wall shake.
He crushed her against the wall with his body, pinning her there and the heat between them spread. He savaged her neck, shoulders and breasts with his teeth while his hands crushed and clawed her hips, buttocks and thighs. Her breathy gasps and groans sent a guilty thrill down his spine to his crotch.
When she didn’t move he threw her against the wall, then shoved her to the window, rattling the glass with the force. His fingers dug into the skin of her cheeks, forcing her mouth open. He kissed her hard, invading her mouth with his tongue.
He bit her lips and tongue and then slammed her head against the glass again and again. She didn’t resist.
He pulled back, gauging how far he would have to take it before she would speak.
A slight smile graced her lips; she ran her tongue over the cut and swelling flesh of her mouth.
Not far enough yet, obviously.
He spun her around and threw her against the table, forcing her down on it. With his left hand squeezing her neck, his right found the scar on her left thigh and he dug his fingers deep into the small, shallow depression, pressing hard enough he could feel the bone sliding under his fingers.
He bent down and hissed into her ear. "I DID THIS."
"I! Did! This!" he pressed harder with both hands and now she began to fight back. Her teeth grazed his wrist and she bucked under his weight as he settled between her legs.
He tried not to remember the last time he’d seen her like this.
Her hair had been wild, loose and she tossed her head to keep it out of her face. The ebony strands lay like black silk ribbons across her bare shoulders and breasts. Her eyes were wide, pupils pinpoints of darkness.
Her mouth was open, lips painted scarlet with blood, his and hers. The blood dripped on his face as he lay under her, too exhausted to move.
She had moved between his legs, rubbing against him and despite the pain, the exhaustion, he felt himself growing aroused.
She mounted him, rode him slowly. She leaned over and took one of the silver rods that had pinned up her hair and dragged the sharp point of his across his bare stomach.
He arched and she threw back her head and ground down on him. The steel moved across his chest and up to his left arm. The point slowly, excruciatingly penetrated his bicep and he screamed, bucking against the pain.
His hands scrabbled on the wood of the table and his fingers found the other steel pin. He clenched it in his fist, lifted it and droved into her left thigh.
Her scream was one of pleasure, not pain, her nails raked across his chest as she rode him, heedless of the steel lodged into her femur.
He howled as he came, straining and bucking under her as she continued to grind against him until she reached her climax.
Her bloody smile was the last thing he saw as his vision slowly shrank to a point of grey and then to nothing as he slipped into unconsciousness.
She gritted her teeth, baring them at him, hissing and growling like a wild beast.
"You want it?" he asked, thrusting his hips against hers, "Tell me where Brunner’s son is."
She laughed; breathing so hard that blood from her mouth misted his face.
He ripped apart the thin fabric of her thong panty, and then pressed against her so she could feel the heat that radiated from him.
Her eyes closed to slits and she sighed with pleasure.
"Tell me." he whispered.
She sat up, wrapping her legs around him. He pinned her arms behind her back, not wanting her to rake her long, sharp nails over him.
"Tell me." he thrust against her and her teeth clamped hard on his shoulder.
He groaned, she hadn’t broken the skin, but there would be a colorful bruise there tomorrow.
She laughed softly, "Give me what I want and I’ll tell you." she wriggled against him and his jeans became unbearably tight.
He released her hands and took a step back. She reached out and unbuttoned his pants, the zipper made a sharp buzzing sound as she freed him from the constrictive cloth.
His jeans and underwear puddled around his ankles and she pulled him forward, guiding him inside her.
When he was deep inside her, she locked her legs around him, crossing her ankles across his ass.
"Look at me." she said.
Shamed, he didn’t want to and she slapped him hard, leaving a red imprint of her hand on his face.
"Look at me, lover." she commanded.
He locked eyes with her, determined to look only at her eyes. His hands settled on her hips and she smiled as he dug his nails into her soft skin.
"You remember." she moaned and used her strong legs to set him into a rhythmic in and out.
She laid her hands flat against his chest, occasionally she clawed at him and he thrust harder into her.
"That’s it." she purred. "You know how I like it."
Her nails bit into his chest, the tears that slipped down his cheeks were not from the pain as he increased the speed of his thrusts.
She smiled and licked the tears away then her head dropped back as she climaxed with a shudder.
She kept him pinned inside her, against her sweating flesh as she whispered to him, everything he wanted to know.
When she finally released him, he turned his back to her and pulled his clothes on.
"I don’t know if they’ll let you go." he said with a slight stutter.
"I’ll leave when I feel like it." she said, brushing her bare foot across his jean covered buttocks.
He shuddered and moved toward the door.
"You can question me again later, if you’re up to it." she teased.
Deeks opened the door, stumbled out into the hall and slammed the panel behind him.
And when, after long minutes the fury finally stopped, it seemed as though only death might be left in the room.
The door opened slowly and Marty staggered out, there was blood on his hands and on his mouth. He looked worn out, sweat dripped from his hair.
Kensi helped him to one of the chairs and he laid his head on the table.
"She was hired by a man named Kakios Tzavaras. She is supposed to meet him at a storage facility in Pomona. Tzavaras was to ask the questions while she does the persuading." Deeks said.
"He wanted her to ask Brunner who the mole was in his Rome operation." Marty sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face, smearing the blood. "Brunner was dead when she got to the apartment; she didn’t have time to call Tzavaras and tell him before you showed up."
"What about the kid?" asked Sam.
"She didn’t see him, the screen in the bedroom was loose though, and she figures Brunner lowered him out the window before he was killed."
"Does she know who killed Brunner?"
"She has an idea."
"Did she say who?"
"No and she won’t. This is one thing she takes seriously and she won’t share that info but she will go after him as soon as she can."
"Not if she’s locked up, she won’t."