x-files
the Gift of an Enemy by Sylvia. Strange body-jumping aliens enter into negotiations with Mulder, and leaves him with the gift of an enemy, that is, Krycek. Mulder is then sent out on a case-file, and Krycek has to follow. My second favorite X-Files story.
Mulder dropped to the floor and rolled for the cover of the nearby easy chair, gun in hand. How could he have been so credulous! All it took was a girl who recited some phrases she'd been taught by a master manipulator and liar and Mulder was ready to drop everything, sign on the dotted line in his own blood, and go UFO-watching.
Krycek hadn't moved a muscle when Mulder came up and propped his arms on a scuffed arm-rest, aiming the gun squarely between the bastard's eyes.
There was something odd about this. Krycek looked as though he were on drugs-he was collapsed into a corner of the sofa, staring off at the ceiling behind Mulder, his face slack and his breathing shallow.
Mulder straightened slowly and reached up to snap on the light. Krycek didn't react.
Keeping the gun trained unwaveringly on the spot just above the root of his enemy's nose, Mulder moved closer until he was standing directly in front of the other man. Krycek was wearing the remains of what might have been a very expensive suit once-it was hard to be certain since it was little more than a crumpled mass of wrinkles and stains now.
His eyes didn't focus-not on Mulder, not on the gun, not on anything. They were all pupil, seeming huge and much too dark in the pallid face. His features were covered by a thin, unhealthy-looking sheen of sweat.
"Please indicate if it is acceptable," the girl said from two yards away.
Blood, Love and Rhetoric by Sleeps with Coyotes. The angst, my sweet, the angst... Though it doesn't really hit you unless you've already read it, like. My guilty X-Files love.
"Fuck you," he forced himself to say.
The gun disappeared, but Mulder didn't have time to appreciate it. Krycek was straightening, dragging Mulder up to a sitting position, before landing a blow that spun Mulder to the floor. "No, Mulder, fuck you," Krycek grated softly and yanked him up again. There was a burning tug in his hair as Krycek fisted his hand in it, tilting his face up sharply. "This is what you want? This is what you get," Krycek informed him coldly, his glittering eyes blank, hooded. "And I know you want it. Just look at you."
Mulder was on his knees, legs braced wide apart of their own volition, his hands clenched helplessly at his sides. Habit, instinct, need. Krycek took a step closer, his leg between Mulder's thighs, forcing Mulder's head completely back. "Someone trained you up good for me, didn't they? And you're just a dog in heat, aren't you, Fox?" Krycek smiled tightly. "Why don't you show me," he purred, dragging Mulder's cheek over his thigh, using Mulder's hair for a handle. "Show me how much you want it."
Cadenza by Terma99. Mulder and Scully are shipped off to investigate strange doings around a violin virtuouso. Very well written, in a this author knows what they're writing about sort of way. Interesting original character, which is a good thing, considering he's the other part of the romantic pairing in this, and this is slash, so Mulder's the, uh, first part? *sighs* The story's a lot smarter than I am, honest.
You have something for him to sign?" he asked, amused to
see that she was holding an opened rehearsal schedule in her
hand.
"No," she replied, looking innocently up at him as she stuffed
it in her coat pocket.
In a few minutes the artist emerged through the double
doors. He passed his case and coat off to his manager and
began to graciously greet his admirers and sign autographs.
No wonder Scully was so anxious to take this case, the man
was as strikingly handsome as his photographs. Impeccably
dressed in pressed linen, lean build, not too tall--he favored
the Russian half of his heritage with a lighter complexion
accented with short dark wavy hair that displayed his Jewish
side. How'd he manage to escape 'the nose?' Mulder
wondered somewhat enviously. The agents lagged in the back
until the children and parents dispersed. Scully pulled her
badge instead of the program for him.
"Mr. Segulyev, we're Agents Scully and Mulder, FBI."
He raised his head in recognition. "You got here fast," he said
in a clear American voice. For some reason Mulder assumed
he'd speak with an accent. He *looked* like he should speak
with an accent.
"It's our understanding Agent Dillmont contacted you
yesterday, informing you we would be assisting on this latest
case. We have questions for you..."
"Can we meet somewhere? I'd rather not do this here," he
said in a hushed tone, subtly gesturing to the SF Symphony
members beginning to exit through the doors past them.
"Certainly."
They followed him down the stairs to his waiting car and
driver, double parked against the curb. Segulyev set his hand
against the roof over the opened rear door as he turned to
address them. "I don't really know what else I'm supposed to
tell you," he said. "I've given all the information I have to the
SFPD and Agent Dillmont."
"We're not here to investigate the Philadelphia incident,"
Mulder clarified. "We're here to find out why you told the
Philly papers this was somehow family-related."
The younger man smiled incredulously. "You're kidding. You
mean that garbage they ran about my 'curse?'"
"Are you saying you were misquoted?"
"No, just something I wish I hadn't mentioned in mixed
company," he said, ducking into the long black car and
gripping the door handle. "I'll be having dinner at New Joe's
at Geary and Mason if you care to join me." He shut the door,
leaving them in stunned reflection against the tinted windows
as the car pulled away.
"He was certainly in a hurry," Scully said, somewhat insulted.
"Maybe you can still get that autograph over dinner," Mulder
said, nudging his partner's elbow as they started back toward
the garage.
Ghosts by Torch. Do I even need to say anything? Glorious. The number one.
I don't know how much time has passed when I realize I'm still staring at him and he's still staring at me, and I want him so badly I think I'm going to die. He holds a gun to my head and all I can think of is how much I want to kiss him. No, I haven't quite been myself lately, why do you ask? I know I'm shifting forward, I seem to have no control over my muscles any more.
Abruptly he steps away, lowers the gun. He looks at me, seems about to say something, changes his mind. Finally he says, "All right, damn it," and leaves the room. I blink. He just walked out and left me alone here? Come to think of it, he hasn't even checked if I have a weapon.
I do, of course. I may be insane, but I'm not *stupid*. Standing there in the middle of the room I watch the annoying screen saver; Captain Hook has been chased by the crocodile three times by the time he returns. I guess the Fates knew I was coming. Damn those ladies anyway, they've had it in for me my whole life.
He holds something out to me. It's a beer can. There's another one in his hand. He hasn't hit me, he's offering me a beer... I'm not the only one who's lost it, apparently. "Why *aren't* you trying to kill me?" I ask. "Or at least beating me up for some obscure piece of information?"
"I'm trying to be subtle," he says. "I'll get you drunk and you'll tell me everything."
"I hate to tell you, but one can of Miller Lite isn't going to do the trick." I look at the beer can, then at him, and I swear he almost blushes. He takes it from me, opens it, hands it back. Smiling a little, I drink. American beer. The things we do for--
"Why are you here?" he asks abruptly, as if hoping the shock will make me choke on the beer and die.
smallville
The answer's simpler than one word, more complex than a thousand, and Clark could just pick him up and drag him out, taking to the sky. He's right. His life's worth less than nothing. Identities don't matter here at all.
"Just you." A wary shift that's pure him, though. He's never seen that before, the way the elegant head ducks. "What will it take?"
Clark doesn't expect the grin--a flash of curdled sweetness, an eighteen year old, fucked-up kid looking at him over a basketball, an even more fucked-up almost-son twisting beneath his body with bullets so close Clark could feel the air shudder as they passed.
Too-long blond hair and brilliant eyes are all that's left, but that's enough.
"All you have to do is ask."
When I was Born for the Seventh Time by Zahra. I need my Lex more fucked up than he is on the show. This delivers.
Sometimes there are exceptions.
This particular list is written on the kitchen table in permanent marker.
This isn't Lex's apartment.
A Bend in the Fence by Ingrid. ...'Cause, all right, sometimes sweetness does it for me as well. Tiny Lex and his mom visiting Smallville.
Lex examined them closely. "I don't even know what those are."
Lillian laughed and hugged her son close, with an arm around his shoulders. "They're forget-me-nots. Myosotis arvensis."
"Oh, those are weeds." Lex frowned. "Not fair."
"Weeds? Why, they're not weeds. They're the flowers you give to someone you'll love eternally." Lillian shook off the last bits of clinging dirt and broke the stems off above the roots, before pressing the bunch into her son's hand. "No matter what."
“Malfoy?”
“Well, that’s torn it,” Blaise said crossly in the silence.
Malfoy eventually seemed to get over his shock, and gave Harry a bright and extremely pleasant smile.
Which was when Harry remembered that Malfoy had been swigging doctored drinks.
“My, what a surprise,” he drawled, running a negligent hand through his hair. Harry noticed that his nails were painted silver. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m straight and I’m here nonsexually with my cousin,” Harry said promptly.
“Fancy,” said Malfoy, and his eyes were caught by something over Harry’s shoulder. Harry recognised the suddenly glazed look in them as the look of someone who had been blindsided by the pants.
“And this is my cousin,” he said wearily, preparing for the Great Mockery.
“Wow, Harry,” Dudley said in his ear. “You work fast, don’t you? What a pair. God, look at the blond!”
Harry numbly accepted the Bacardi Breezer, wondering if he’d feel better if he was drunk.
Dudley still had his eyes on the graceful line of Malfoy’s throat and – well, the graceful line of Malfoy’s everything, Harry supposed - and he said in awed tones, “Mmm, pretty,” which wasn’t something Harry had ever wanted to hear about Draco Malfoy’s anything.
“Are you straight?” Malfoy inquired suddenly.
“Yes,” Harry said in fear and with all the vehemence he could summon up.
Malfoy beamed. “What a coincidence,” he said. “Me too.”
“Oh God, not another one,” Dudley said.
Blaise made an exasperated noise. “No you’re not, Draco.”
“Am too,” Malfoy asserted.
“Draco, you were just dancing onstage and being smeared with glitter as a drag queen licked your bellybutton!”
Fastlane
Domestic by sa. What the title says.
Van shuffled to the kitchen, scratching his stomach and opening his mouth wide for a yawn. He could smell the coffee brewing, and thanked god that they'd invested in a timed coffee maker. He poured himself a cup, leaning against the counter and inhaling the smell. Pure Columbian, another perk of their world.
If he was very quiet, he could hear Deaq wrestling with the sheets. The guy hated getting up in the morning, like nothing else. Half the time he'd limp to the breakfast table, bitching and moaning about how it was too damn early, that only worms and paperboys got up at this hour. Van just humored him, let him talk it off until the smell of coffee finally hit and Deaq asked him casually if maybe Van could make some pancakes.
This morning, though, Van poured a cup of coffee and grabbed a muffin before heading back to the bedroom. He found Deaq with a pillow over his head, giving a muffled moan. Something to do with "fucking sun," "fucking alarm" and "ooh, coffee." Deaq sat up, ignoring Van's amused look, and drank down the coffee vigorously, his gulps audible from across the room. Van grinned into the closet, where he was figuring out what to wear, murmuring to himself, "I never figured out how you can slurp down coffee that would burn off my tongue." He avoided Deaq's glare from the bed, sliding into the bathroom.
A minute later he called back into the bedroom. "Did you clean the bathroom yesterday, man?"
Deaq padded into the small room, moving his body behind Van's to align them. "Why? The tile shinier than usual?"
Van smirked over his shoulder. "Nah. The toilet's fucking gorgeous, though."
Deaq rolled his eyes, sliding a hand across Van's waist to pull him close. "Yeah, man, sure. I wasted my Sunday bringing out the Scrubbing Bubbles."
Van shrugged. "Hey, your kink, not mine. I'm just saying--"
Oh, I know I say that to all of them--you've heard me often enough--but for once I actually mean it. Trapper, I've loved you over and above the call of friendship, and I'm sorry I never had the guts to tell you in person.
No Ewan, of course.
But that kid is watching him again.
Orli shifts, arches a little, stretches himself a little, doesn't look at the kid, spins the yo-yo.
Dom watches from the opposite side of the street, wondering how the older boy manages to play with a bloody yo-yo and still radiate that come-fuck-me glow, even from where Dom stands. He's been watching the yo-yo (and its owner)'s progression for several months now, on and off, and more intensely in the last weeks, and almost non-stop in the last three days. Dom smoothes both hands down the front of his shirt, looking down at himself.
He should've dressed differently than he usually does, he thinks angrily, chiding himself. Looking over at the boy across the street, in his loose but ass-hugging jeans and tissue-thin white tee, Dom's pretty sure he won't make that great an impression in baggy pants and his ratty tank top. He tugs at the beaded necklaces around his neck, plays with the rings on his fingers. The look is all wrong, he's sure of it. But he thinks maybe the boy with the yo-yo - gorgeous, sex on legs, looking every bit the part - will show him.
Dom exhales shakily and throws a last look over his shoulder, at the safe, familiar side of the street. Then he steps onto the wet pavement and crosses. The sound of plastic hitting flesh intermittently grows louder as he approaches the whore. Whore? Rentboy? He's not sure.
I have probably recced all these before, but what's wrong with re-reccing something this good?
Alex Krycek was sitting on his sofa.
"Jesus, Mulder, who twisted your chain?" Alex's eyes narrowed, but something shifted in those beautiful eyes, and Krycek's whole manner changed. "Is this what you wanted, Mulder?" he demanded, moving his thigh again, nudging Mulder's balls this time. "In the airport? On that fucking balcony? Huh, Mulder?" Each question punctuated with another rub against his straining cock, and Mulder felt his hips buck up shamefully on the last, anticipating the rough caress. No, no, no...
Time and a World Away by jenn. And it's perhaps very telling that I've been wanting this kind of fic for ages. A fucked-up-ness worthy of Mulder and Krycek. Clark finds Lucas, they deal, Lex is hot on their trail.
He spits on the ground, and Clark can see the traces of living blood laced through it. Closing his eyes, Clark takes a deep breath. "My life's worth less than the air we're breathing. Tell me what you want."
Lex normally doesn't make lists.
"All right, smartie," she groused. She searched around, until spying a patch of wildflowers near the fence, blue and tiny. "Try these on for size," she challenged, pulling a bunch up from the loose soil.
harry potter
Dancing Queen by Maya. Just. Ha!
There, leaning suddenly against Blaise’s shoulder, was Draco Malfoy, pristine blond hair a rumpled mess, eyes shining oddly, wearing skintight white jeans and a silver, clinging shirt which was still riding high on his stomach, showing an awful lot of pale flesh and the remnants of silver glitter.
the world needs more fastlane fic. Subtle Hint.
M*A*S*H
Various Versions by Am-Chau Yarkona. Hawkeye tries to write a letter to Trapper after having missed his departure by ten minutes. Four versions of the same letter, from stark honesty to what was mailed.
It's been tough out here--hell, it still is--but you made it a little easier. You've been my best friend, and more. I know the `more' never came to much of anything beyond a few nights of drunken sex when neither of us had managed to pick up a nurse of the totally opposite gender (and that one time when we just wanted to shock Frank). I just thought you should know it did actually mean something--a lot--to me, even if you'd prefer to forget it.
lotr rps
Shimmer and Flicker by various authors. Hooker Au. Weirdly appealing. Orlando teaches Dominic.
Orli reaches into his pocket, fishes around for that last tab of E as he spins the yo-yo away again. Fuck, he sighs to himself, remembering that he already took the last tab. He wonders if Ewan is about, and looks up hopefully as if Ewan will appear magically just because Orli wants him.
jane austen
Scandalous by Linda Marie. Mr. Dracy and Mr. Bingley converse. Too short for me to quote.
due south
identikit by M. Fae Glasgow. Sex and heart break all into one. Fraser goes to Kowalski to be seen. Online-readable pdf file. and in Outage by the same author Fraser and Kowalski get to go undercover as a gay couple. Amusing, if not exactly ground breaking.