TITLE: The Red and the Black
AUTHOR: Halrloprillalar (prillalar@geocities.com) ARCHIVE: SWA-L & Archive/X if deemed appropriate. Elsewhere by permission. Email forwarding is OK.
RATING: R for M/M stuff.
SPOILERS: SW: None (Pre-TPM). XF: Piper Maru/Apocrypha. SUMMARY: Darth Maul/Alex Krycek. Double your pleasure when bad boys collide.
FEEDBACK: Yes, any and all comments welcome. DISCLAIMER: Krycek belongs to CC, 1013, and Fox. Maul belongs to George Lucas and Lucasfilm. The Watcher belongs to Marvel Comics. I do not profit in any monetary way by this story, though I hope to have some nice dreams.
MORE FIC: http://members.tripod.com/~prillalar/fic/fic.html AMBIANCE: Bryan Adams. "I gotta be the tattoo on your skin."

August 1999

For my sweet Sergeeva. I still can't believe we talked about this.


"He was like a fist -- tight and brutal and crude, a fist in a tight leather glove that gave him a horribly fascinating eroticism." -- Sergeeva, on Darth Maul



by Halrloprillalar <prillalar@geocities.com>


I am the Watcher. For millennia, I have observed and recorded history as it unfolds your planet Earth. But there are other Earths in other realities where fate has taken a different path. Those too I observe and the insight gained serves me well. On your Earth, the shadowy agent Alex Krycek is trapped inside a building of steel and concrete, left to languish and die by the alien that had inhabited his body. If he could have looked through the veils of fate as I do, he would have known the answer to this question: What if Darth Maul had rescued Krycek from the missile silo?


I was rising from the depths, a few thoughts back in my head, a few senses returning to me. For instance, the sense that all the fluid in my body was dripping out of my face. Like I had the worst head cold known to man. But that probably wasn't it.

I could see a bit now and the goo oozing out of me was black and oily, slick and bitter in my mouth, a little metallic. And the more I expelled, the better I felt. So far, I was up to "like shit."

Where was I? On top of something -- metal. High. Cold. Alone. Except for a pair of boots. What the hell? I couldn't raise my head to follow them up, couldn't talk yet. A gloved hand reached towards me and the oil was sucked out of me, sucked off the chilly metal I was kneeling on. It pooled in that palm, black on black. Then the fist closed and it was gone. Not even a puff of smoke. Impressive.

Now I looked up, slid my gaze over black boots, black pants, black gloves -- a gentleman spy, like myself, or a goth maybe -- black tunic, black robe, and holy shit! Jagged swathes of red and black covered his face like gashes. Yellow eyes, rimmed in red, stabbed at me. He pulled back his hood. His head was crowned with horns. I was afraid. It was the smart thing to be.

Still, it doesn't do to *look* too afraid, even if you are. So I stood, as smoothly as I was able. I had a good four or five inches on him. It didn't really help. In a way it was oddly relieving. When bad boy meets bad boy, there's a certain amount of jockeying for position, for dominance -- posing, display, that sort of thing. Here, there was no question that this...man? whatever...was the baddest fucking badass motherfucker in the whole fucking universe. So I didn't need to worry about it.

Dying, though, that I still had to worry about. And the horrible aftertaste of the oil. And the fact that he was also phenomenally, wildly, electrically sexy. My God. So, I stood there, afraid, dry-mouthed, and intensely curious as to whether he was black and red all over or just specific places and which places they were.

Maybe a little posing was still in order. I was glad I'd worn my favourite jeans. Had he picked me up somewhere? I still couldn't remember how I'd gotten here in the first place. I just had to be careful and I'd land on my feet, like always. Or maybe on my back with my feet in the air. It doesn't pay to be too fussy.

"Hey," I said. "Thanks for getting rid of the oil." I looked him right in the eye, gave him just a shade of attitude.

"Were you working with the creature?" His voice slid through me, low and deadly, like a knife so sharp you don't know you've been cut until you walk away and leave parts of yourself behind.

I almost forgot to answer the question. The creature? The oil... "No, it was using me." This was getting to be serious mental overload. And damned freaky. I was finding it hard to concentrate.

His eyes narrowed and he stepped towards me, gripping my shoulder with hard fingers. Only my survival instinct prevented me from leaning in and going for his neck. Going for his neck in the best possible way, of course.

He pushed me. I pushed back. His eyes widened and he looked -- maybe, just maybe -- impressed. Because I shoved him? Realisation came to me like, oh, like something crawling around just under my skin. We hadn't moved. He'd been pushing at my mind. Double freaky.


I guess I'd passed, though, because he stepped back and turned away. His cloak swirled beautifully and I wished I could carry something like that off myself. But he was getting away and I couldn't let that happen. I have an instinct for deciding which opportunities to take and which to leave. He was the Red Letter Seizable Day I'd been waiting for all of my life. "Wait!"

Then he had my throat in one hand and a crackling red weapon in the other, holding it up near my face. It smelled hot, probably singeing my hair. I didn't even see him move. "Why?" His breath was colder than I'd expected.

Certain death is such a turn on. "I thought we could work together." His hip was against my leg and I flexed my thigh.

"What can you do?"

Pick locks, retrieve information, kill men, arm and diffuse bombs, start insurrections, make good coffee. I licked my lips. "I'll show you."

I waited there between life and death for a moment, then the red blade hissed away and he released me. I smiled down at him -- this little pouty smirk thing I do -- then slid down him, onto my knees. He let me.

Panic almost got the best of me for a second. I still hadn't quite grasped the "possibly an alien" angle and it didn't occur to me until I was already on my way way down that he could be, uh, differently hung. But I fumbled with his clothing anyway and he helped me and if he wasn't entirely human, well, he was close enough for government work.

Of course I'm good at everything I do, but I have a special talent for fellatio. If I sucked a man, he was mine. Useful for my profession. And it helped that I enjoyed it. So did they.

He certainly did. He kept on hand on my shoulder, just at the base of my neck and I wasn't under any illusions. One wrong move and I'd be sorry. So I concentrated on making the right moves. I was really in the groove and it made me happy. Plus this was taking that bitter oily aftertaste away.

There was no red on his skin that I could see, only deep black, like soft leather. He tasted different than anyone I'd gone down on, kind of spicy, not quite sweet -- salted liquorice, maybe. Hmm, Indian liquorice -- jequirity beans, red and black and poisonous and aphrodisiac. That was him. When he came, fingers digging into my muscle, I felt his focus go and was pleased to know I could have killed him in that instant. I swallowed instead. He tasted like more.

Standing again, I looked at him and ran a hand through my hair. Usually, that was all it took, but this guy was still a danger. Then the corners of his mouth turned up, like the tortured ghost of a murdered smile. It made my knees weak. "Come with me," he said and walked towards his ship, which was sitting at sort of an angle on the metal surface.

His spaceship. That's what it looked like. The door opened up and I could see it was filled with a red light. I grabbed my leather jacket -- good, the vodka was still in the pocket. He stopped on the ramp and looked back at me, waiting.

Was I ready to slip the surly bonds of Earth? To boldly fucking go? Hell, yes. I was up for strange new worlds and new life and new civilisations. I walked into the red glow and the door clanged shut behind me.

Besides, I *had* to see what he looked like naked.


So, if the black parts of Darth Maul taste like liquorice, what do the red parts taste like? Flavours and feedback to prillalar@geocities.com