Title: Show Me
Fandom: Pairing: X-Files, Mulder/Krycek
Rating: NC-17 for graphic sex
Archive: Ask first, but I'll probably say yes
Concrit: Please. If you spot a typo or grammar snafu, feel free to tell me in comments.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Warnings/Squicks: Sex at gunpoint (not non-con)
Summary: It’s been a while.
Notes: Written for andrea_deer's prompt of X-Files, Mulder/Krycek, speaking Russian, at comment_fic, helped along by image prompt #011 at slashtheimage (see below), which reminded me so much of Krycek: drowning in black oil and despair. Lastly, dedicated to literati, who can be entirely blamed for this because she created the M/K icon that caught my eye and made me read the prompt in the first place. :P
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.
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…
And though it all, Krycek is muttering in his ear – harsh jangles of consonants broken up with sips of sweet, soft sibilance; every syllable racing like fire over Mulder’s raw, exposed nerves.
It’s been a while, but he can still pick out a few broken phrases, solitary words he half-recognizes, half-remembers.
"Požalujsta."2 One of Krycek’s favourite words whenever he had Mulder at his mercy and pinned against a wall, a bed, the floor – they weren’t choosy. He’d whisper it as he fucked his way inside, taking the less-than-authentic struggles and broken gasps for the permission they were. "Please."
"Pakažite mne, pakažite mne."3 This, always this, when he was tied down, splayed out under Krycek’s watchful eyes and playful, teasing fingers. When he was trying to hold himself together, trying not break, to beg and plead, he’d hear this, whispered over and over, in time with Krycek’s rhythmic thrusts. "Show me, show me."
The words get faster, blurring into a mindless blanket of sound-sensation-sex as Mulder’s orgasm rips through him, sharp like razor wire and shattered glass.
He’s still clinging to the wall, by sheer willpower and blunt fingernails, when his pants are shoved frantically down past his knees. Spent, yet hungry for more, he lets himself be bent and pulled about, angled and adjusted, opened up and slicked until he’s spread and ready. But he’s never prepared, not really, for the stretch and burn of it. He never remembers until too late the sensation – overwhelming, undeniable – of being penetrated, of being filled. Owned.
His whole body is bowing beneath the force of Krycek’s thrusts. He locks his knees and his elbows, thinks for a moment and then locks his jaw too. He can’t let the words escape, not after going so long without even a goddamn postcard or phone call; no sign that he was still alive, still out there somewhere. It’s not much to hold onto, but it’s his, and he’s damned if he’ll share it again this easily.
Mulder's cock is hard again and leaking; painting sticky wet kisses on his belly each time Krycek slams home. The lack of friction, traction, grip – any damn contact at all, please and thank you, Jesus – is driving him slowly insane, but he doesn’t dare try and reach down to take care of it himself.
Krycek’s never let him get away with that, not once, and he’s obviously still the same controlling bastard he always was, back when they were doing this on a semi-regular basis. But that’s not why he doesn’t try, it’s really not. He just needs both hands on the wall to support them. If he tries to shift his weight, they’ll end up sprawled in the muck and garbage spread across the cracked and crumbling alleyway floor. He’s not about to do anything to end this thing - whatever it is – any sooner than it has to.
As though Krycek can hear his thoughts – and isn’t that a terrifying idea that’s going to keep him awake when the paranoia pendulum swings back to bugfuck crazy again – he reaches down and takes hold of Mulder’s cock, stripping it fast and ruthless as his thrusts grow even wilder.
If his arms give out now, Mulder realizes, he’ll smash his nose to pulp against the brickwork he’s been staring at all this time, but he doubts if even that amount of pain would slow him down this close to orgasm.
And then Krycek is coming inside him, somehow managing to find the co-ordination necessary to bring Mulder off while his cock is still twitching, buried deep in Mulder’s ass.
Mulder might have been impressed, if he wasn’t so damned angry and exhausted, relieved and confused. Instead, he lowers his face back to the wall and lets the cool, damp stone leech out the worst of his fury. He breathes out his frustration in ragged gasps as Krycek zips his pants and neatly tucks his shirt in, and then does the same to Mulder, both flesh and fake fingertips unbearably gentle on over-sensitized flesh.
Eventually, his SIG is back in place, tucked up underneath his armpit; the knife is riding loosely in his inside jacket pocket. A gentle touch on the ball of his ankle lets him know that the Chiefs Special is back where it should be once more.
He keeps staring at the wall.
"Izvinite, tovarisch."4 Dry lips sear a kiss into the nape of Mulder’s neck. "S dniom roždenija."5
He keeps staring at the wall as Krycek’s retreating footsteps echo hollowly off the surrounding buildings. When the echoes fade away, he knows Krycek’s reached the sidewalk, is about to disappear into the anonymity of the crowded city.
He’s pushing away from the wall when he hears one final phrase tossed back at him.
Wait, that’s not…
Mulder turns, but he’s too late; Krycek has already vanished from view. He wracks his brain trying to recapture those last words; not the usual ‘See you next time,’ 'Do svidanija,'7 but…
"See you tomorrow."
Translations and pronunciations culled from various sources online. Apologies for any inaccuracies. Corrections welcome! (Please!)
1Davno ne vidilis' – Long time no see
2Požalujsta – Please
3Pakažite mne – Show me
4Izvinite, tovarisch – I’m sorry, comrade
5S dniom roždenija – Happy birthday
6Do zavtra – See you tomorrow
7Do svidanija – See you next time
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Image originally found here.