Written because I recognise the icon as one made by my BFFLJ, literati, and because the language thing really works for me. I saw it and my mind went kablooey.
The fic is too big to fit into a comment, so here's the first little snippet to lure you in:
Show Me
The gritty brickwork of the wall is cold and damp under Mulder’s palms, rough against his cheek, but he doesn’t struggle in his captor’s grip, doesn’t push back against the unmistakeable sensation of a gun barrel pressed hard between his shoulder blades.
He waits in silence as his shoulder-holstered SIG, the small Chiefs Special at his ankle and the knife he thought would probably go unnoticed are all located – embarrassingly quickly - and removed by one remorseless, impersonal hand.
"Davno ne vidilis'."1
Even though he can’t understand the words – as the arrogant bastard knows damn well - the sound of that voice sends a ripple of need, of relief, through Mulder’s frame. He grinds his cheek against the wall to keep his first, instinctive response locked tight behind gritted teeth and clenched jaw. Not dead! Not dead!
"Krycek. It’s been a while. What brings you back to my neck of the woods?"
The gun is still drilling a hole just to the left of his spine, but Mulder hardly notices the discomfort, too busy tracking the hand that stole his weapons away so coldly, so efficiently. It’s back now, tracing the curve of his hip, two fingers sliding between the buttons of his shirt to scratch the sensitive skin just below his navel. He shivers.
"Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?"
The gun barrel leaves a stripe of bruised skin as it’s dragged upwards, following the line of his spine up and along his neck until it settles, ice cold and deadly, just beneath his left ear.
"Shhhh."
The top button of his pants is flicked open and the zipper is dragged down, torturously slowly, tooth by tooth, until there’s room enough for the hand to slide inside. And grip. And pull and twist and...
Read the rest here (http://darkhavens.livejournal.com/211761.html)
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timeasmymeasure
"Show Me", NC-17
Date: 2009-03-11 12:42 am (UTC)The fic is too big to fit into a comment, so here's the first little snippet to lure you in:
Show Me
The gritty brickwork of the wall is cold and damp under Mulder’s palms, rough against his cheek, but he doesn’t struggle in his captor’s grip, doesn’t push back against the unmistakeable sensation of a gun barrel pressed hard between his shoulder blades.
He waits in silence as his shoulder-holstered SIG, the small Chiefs Special at his ankle and the knife he thought would probably go unnoticed are all located – embarrassingly quickly - and removed by one remorseless, impersonal hand.
"Davno ne vidilis'."1
Even though he can’t understand the words – as the arrogant bastard knows damn well - the sound of that voice sends a ripple of need, of relief, through Mulder’s frame. He grinds his cheek against the wall to keep his first, instinctive response locked tight behind gritted teeth and clenched jaw. Not dead! Not dead!
"Krycek. It’s been a while. What brings you back to my neck of the woods?"
The gun is still drilling a hole just to the left of his spine, but Mulder hardly notices the discomfort, too busy tracking the hand that stole his weapons away so coldly, so efficiently. It’s back now, tracing the curve of his hip, two fingers sliding between the buttons of his shirt to scratch the sensitive skin just below his navel. He shivers.
"Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?"
The gun barrel leaves a stripe of bruised skin as it’s dragged upwards, following the line of his spine up and along his neck until it settles, ice cold and deadly, just beneath his left ear.
"Shhhh."
The top button of his pants is flicked open and the zipper is dragged down, torturously slowly, tooth by tooth, until there’s room enough for the hand to slide inside. And grip. And pull and twist and...