Title: Joker, Jack, Queen
Author: AnubisLM
Email: AnubisLM@aol.com
Category: M/K
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: We are not who we are.
Spoilers: Nothing too recent. Post Tunguska/Terma.
Distribution: Information wants to be free.
Summary: Paybacks are a bitch.
Feedback will only encourage such behaviour-- AnubisLM@aol.com
Joker, Jack, Queen
By AnubisLM
I liked this town, glittering facade as fake as the tits on showgirls. I could hide here awhile
with the rest of the liars, knowing that my story diminished against stories told cocktail
waitresses.
It was just after eleven and the nighttime world of the casino was just starting to wake up.
The tourists, gorged with the flashing lights and the $7.99 buffets, had limped off to bed.
The high rollers with their flashy expensive suits and their flashy expensive girls were
coming out of their coffins to look for fresh blood. The night-shift dealers and hostesses
were on the floor, sleek in their uniforms with faces as hard friendly as any professional
whore's.
I looked at my watch, the Rolex with someone else's initials engraved on the back, and bet
myself how early Mulder was going to be. If he's interested, the King of Late Days and
Nights can show up early. Fifty bucks if he showed up at eleven-fifteen. I already had
the fifty in my pocket so it was a win/win proposition. So was my little plan. But he didn't
need to know that. Finishing my beer, I avoided looking in the mirror behind the bar.
There was no point in preening my mutilated beauty. I smoked another cancer-stick and
sucked at the dry skin on my lower lip and thought about Chap Stick.
Sure enough, the USS Mulder made it into port at full steam, striding through the maze of
slots, gold lights, chrome jungle, all adrenaline-ruffled and sparking with fury. In a suit
he must have used for pajamas, and dark with after-five, he was a mirage of palms and
cool water in the desert.
"Krycek, you fucking bastard!"
The smooth Mulder charm at work, he grabbed my shirt and shoved me up against the bar,
my back barking the fake wood veneer. The bartender looked up for a second and decided
not to do anything.
"Where's Scully?"
His breath, burning my face, smelled like bubble gum.
"Don't fuck with the dealer, he's got all the cards," I warned.
Twisting free, I straightened my shirt and ran my good hand through my hair.
"Where's Scully?" he repeated through teeth.
"And I should just tell you so you can rescue her? Buy a clue."
Behind his eyes, thoughts tumbled.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Buy me a drink."
His twenty covered his tequila, my beer, and a lousy tip, and I watched him take a sullen
sip before he deigned to speak.
"The meter's running. What the fuck do you want?" he asked.
I gave him a dry-lipped smile.
"The nubile Agent Scully is unharmed - at this point in time. I can return her to your tender
care as part of a fairly simple transaction."
The glare was that of a guard dog behind a chain link fence.
"Which is?"
"You get Scully back after I fuck you."
Oh it was a good thing to see the bewildered fury cascade over his face, like the same guard
dog getting a snoutfull of Mace.
"No."
"I've got her packed with enough gelignite that there won't be enough of her to do a DNA
test on. Of course civilians are going to die when the bomb goes off, but that's an
acceptable loss for you."
"You fucker."
"That's general idea, yes."
Tossing back the rest of his tequila, he waved at the bartender for another.
"I'll call the local field office."
"Remote detonator, dead man's switch if I don't defuse her by eight tomorrow morning,
and a few other safeguards that the bomb geeks at the Bureau have wet dreams over."
"Is this some new humiliation your keepers planned?"
"No. This is personal."
He was sick behind his eyes, but the tequila went down his throat without incident.
Liquid courage.
By the time we hit the elevator, there were eight shots of Cuervo in Mulder and he was
loose-limbed and bright-eyed. I could have pretended that it was enthusiasm, but the
brightness burned hate. It's a thin line, after all. I unlocked the door on the blandness of
the hotel room, the theme decor having evaporated at the elevator, and gestured him to
enter, which he did as if there was raw sewage on the carpet.
"No suite?" he sniped and went to the window to hover.
"Your guns, please."
Out of the waist and ankle holsters they came, mechanical cocks of death, and I locked
them in the room's safe, left the key on top.
"You killed my father."
"And they took my arm because of you"
"If thy arm offendeth thee-"
"I will kill her." I reminded him in the closest thing to a calm voice I had, but my legs were
shaking with the potent mixture of wanting his skin and wanting his blood.
"Take off your clothes." Crossing good arm over bad, I swallowed and waited.
Ripping at the fabric like it was burning his skin, he stripped with furious, jerky
movements, throwing clothes to the floor in the most non-erotic fashion possible. Finally
he was naked in his lanky-limbed, spare, and bare charm. The pale lines and patches of
scar tissue didn't compare to the Jackson Pollock painting my skin had become, but it was
still an impressive collection stretched over the frame of his bone and muscle. Wreathed in
red-brown hair, his cock was singularly disinterested in the situation. Well, we'd have to
wait and see about that.
"Get on your knees and suck my cock."
The fleshy reality of my order broke a fissure in the cold Scully-like disdain he was
maintaining and a wave of trembling raced across his skin, horseflesh tormented by flies.
"No."
The prosthesis slammed into the side of his face. He half spun and went to the floor,
licking blood from his eternally bruised lips.
"Don't annoy me, Mulder."
"I allegedly give great head," he snarled, "but only to women."
"You've gotten blow-jobs. Reverse-engineer."
"It's better to receive than to give."
I hit him again and it finally made an impression.
The muscles in his haunches were shaking as he dragged himself to his knees and slid
across the carpet covered with mental broken glass. Breathing hard, he scrabbled at the fly
of my pants, managed to break the seal and decant me from the prison of cloth. An air
conditioned breeze made me hiss as he started cross-eyed at my upright prick. If Mulder
had ever noticed at an FBI urinal that I hadn't been circumcised he might have wondered if
I hadn't been "Born in the USA" after all.
"Do it," I said around the dryness in my mouth.
Clammy fingers touched my foreskin, raising the short hairs on the back if my neck like
my cock. I was hotter and harder than I had ever been inches away from that pretty mouth
of his. He touched my dick, moving the loose skin back and forth, his expression vaguely
disgusted, vaguely curious. Finally he peeled the cap back from the hard red head and ran
a curious finger over the weeping eye of my cock. I caught my breath and tried not to
shudder. At the rate that things were going, I'd come all over his strangely handsome face
in half a minute.
"Open your mouth."
He did and I aimed myself between his blood-rouged lips. He swayed on his knees and
unconsciously steadied himself against my leg. I groaned and pushed into the hot wetness
of his mouth. So good. So fucking good.
At least his claims were true - the man did not know how to suck cock. So much for my
theory that he'd been someone's gayboy at Oxford. Mulder's homo-virginity made the
sensation of his mouth on my cock that much sweeter. I began to sweat underneath my
clothes and I guided his head back and forth to my rhythm. Fox Mulder's mouth on my
dick, breathing into my arm, holding my leg for support. Helpless on his knees in front of
me and there wasn't a gun in sight. If he killed me afterwards I could die a happy man.
I was going to come.
And I did come, groaning from my guts as knife pleasure ripped loose from my balls and
poured sharp and hard into his mouth. Spurting hot and hard, my bones steel wire and the
orgasm sparking along the length of my dick and my entire body. My brain fused for
beautiful seconds and my legs started to give way as I pulsed and throbbed the last of my
come into him. I wobbled back too the bed, leaving Mulder on his hands and knees,
gagging.
While I panted on the bed, he stumbled to the bathroom and a moment later I heard the non-
erotic sound of retching. When I could finally move again, I stuffed my dick back into my
pants and stomped after him. What a way to ruin a perfectly good moment. I sincerely
doubted that he puked after he ate Scully, the bitch would have shot him dead long ago.
Mulder was crouched over the john, his ass a wondrous sight to behold, spitting out the
rest of my jism along with the tequila and whatever coffee he'd had on the plane. He
looked up at me with hate-thick eyes and flushed the toilet.
"Bastard," he muttered and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
I wet a washcloth and handed it to him.
"Brush your teeth while you're at it."
He glowered at me.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked.
"Because I can."
The truth would have snapped him like a dry stick.
I dropped the washcloth onto his leg and went back to the bedroom.
I kicked off my shoes and sat down on the bed to begin the tiresome process of one-handed
undressing. Stripping down to my boxers, I rubbed the chafed skin under the harness.
No matter how long I wore the damn thing, it never got comfortable, as if the tingling in
the ghost hand and arm wasn't enough to remind me. I was now one of many one-armed
bandits. Shove it in me and watch me spin - if you're lucky I'll come all over you.
I shut off the light and opened the curtains to see the glittering lights below and around in
the desert night. The good neon had all decamped downtown to a safe tourist attraction
outside the tamest strip club in the world. Tigers are more beautiful in the wild where you
could be eaten, not on stage at the Mirage with Sigfried and Roy's rhinestone feline drag
show. Suddenly I was tired, and feeling something that might have been guilt if I' d been
capable of it. I prided myself on my moral flexibility so guilt was not an option. Call it
regret that Mulder hadn't been a more willing partner. Then again, the night was just
getting to the age of consent, so it might just be jet lag.
I lay down on the bed and listened to water running.
Finally, Mulder made his way into the bedroom like a dragonfly deprived of a wing and
took his naked an insectoid self next to the bed. He was looking at the harness and plastic
of the prosthesis. Whole body bastard. I could smell my skin burning when they put the
edge of the axe against the ragged edges that had been my upper arm, I could see my living
hand lying halfway across the room, the fingers twitching against the palm like a chicken
running blind while its head lay in the basket. At least the guillotine killed you - this was
death by extremities. And Mulder should have been there too, having the fucking yokels
making it impossible for him to scratch his ass and drink beer at the same time too. He
should have had the same short, sharp shock as me. I shouldn't have been alone. Our
amputated arms should have been holding hands there on the dirty floor of the shack in the
woods beyond the gulag.
God, I hated him.
Off the bed, nearly levitating, I caught him like a puppy by the back of the neck and forced
him to his knees on the floor. I'd killed so many people that way, and I shoved him face-
first onto the bed, my plastic hand wrapped in his hair and making him wince as I prodded
and pulled him into position like I was moving a side of beef. I had to grab my cock and
pump it hard and fast in a brutal hand-fuck until I was hard again. Maybe I was too
chicken shit to lop off one of his limbs but at least I could ream his ass and let Mulder walk
around with the knowledge that I'd had him. That should be punishment enough.
I spit on my fingers and rubbed the saliva into his asshole - lube was too far away in the
bedside table and too civilized right then. He squirmed against the mattress when I finally
moved into position. As I finally guided my rock-hard cock into the hole of his asscheeks,
he jerked and choked like I was shoving a hot poker up his ass. I struggled past the
spasamed muscles and finally sank my shaft down to the hilt in the tight, dry grip of his
asshole. My sweat dripped onto his back, blended and ran into the bedspread. I grabbed
his hips with good and bad hands and pumped into him again, he choked obscenities into
the mattress as I worked up a good rhythm, pounding my hate and my dick deep inside
him. The bad news for Mulder was that once I'd been blown I could last and last and last.
He grew slick around me as tender tissues tore and bled. I pumped harder, losing myself
in the sensation of his body and the fact that I was finally giving it to Mulder. Fox
Mulder. Uptight sanctimonious golden boy Mulder was whining underneath me like a
frightened and hurt baby.
My live fingers were as white as the fake ones against the hot red of his skin. Hard and
deep I was fucking him, feeling my breath in my chest breathing with Mulder, as far and
as deep as I could go. And I fucked him long and hard and rough until the come-pressure
built up in my brain and shot lavalike down the length of my spine and pulsed, shot, and
jetted into him like a firehose of molten acid. I think I shouted when I came, know I made
some noise before all that remained was the deep throbbing aftermath and I toppled onto
the hard table of his back.
Lying there, coated with sweat like suntan oil, listening to a duet of rasping breath, I finally
rolled over to the mattress, to stare at the ceiling and listen to my heart beat La Vida Loca in
my chest.
Moments passed, the digital bedside clock counted them off. Mulder finally rose, and
walked to the bathroom, refusing to look at me. I heard the door lock and the water started
running again. A vestigial remnant of the pity-sector of my brain sent out a message and
was told to shut the fuck up by the rest of my mind. A full half-hour passed while I
decided that Mulder really wasn't going to come out of the bathroom after all. I dressed,
unlocked the safe, and opened the closet door the rest of the way to retrieve the small
camcorder.
I wasn't really sure if I wanted to keep the tape or not. Somehow, fucking Mulder hadn't
been quite what I had expected - I hadn't quite expected to feel so. . . bad afterwards.
The tape lay there in my hand, my real hand, as tainted as the rest of me, infected with
whatever he carried with him.
I tossed the tape on the bed and left, locking the door behind me.
I was crossing the cavernous lobby with my hands in my jacket pockets when I saw the
familiar flame-brand of her hair scurrying across the marble floor as fast as her little legs
could carry her. It looked like Agent Scully had gotten the e-mail after all and was, as
usual, rushing to save Mulder's ass. Only it was a little late for that.
I wondered what he was going to tell her.
End
*****************************
"We are not who we are..."
AnubisLM@aol.com
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