(Note from the Swiss Witch: There is no rating on this piece or any sort of header at all. Kiddies, this NC-17 Slash. If you aren't 18, get out of here NOW.)
(A note regarding the title: "Autarchy" is defined in my copy of Merriam-Webster as "national economic self-sufficiency and independence." What does this have to do with the X-Files? For that matter, what does the X-Files have to do with national economic self-sufficiency and independence? For that matter, what this story have to do with either of those things?)
Terrestrial Autarchy
by Digital Anodyne
Reviewed by the Anti-Glinda Wicked Witch
(Note: My copy of Merriam-Webster
defines "anodyne" as something that soothes or relieves pain.
The story that follows, alas, has the
opposite effect.)
I don't know what I can claim this event to or what to
perceive from this; but I feel as
if what I understand in what is supposed to be human emotions, is a preformatted lie. (In
other words, if we the readers have some adverse
reaction to reading this story, then it's little more than subliminal
conditioning, eh?) We are what we are,
we are free to leave our bound (that's
"boundaries," isn't it?), leave our barriers.
It only took the hand of
rage and violation for me. (insert comma, not period)
Agent Fox Mulder, FBI to see
society's hidden agenda of control. ("Now
you know why so many folks paid to see 'Armageddon'!")
"Bring him in."
The man of mysterious grandeur spoke his words which graced
its ("words"
is plural, and the correct possessive pronound is "their") way through
the cold silence. (Stop me before I
start making cracks about dark and stormy nights.)
A room cold and black (why are these
dark rooms always so cold? Don't
they have radiators?); only to be accompanied by the smoke of a
freshly lit cigarette. They placed me in a solitary metallic char (I
didn't know metal could burn)
to rest my already beaten body and soul. ("They made
listen to the 'Bridges of Madison
County' audio book! Oooooooh, my
poor tummy!") My eyes
wandered across this cell which they have placed me here for God
knows what. (Because they're mean people, and they
don't like you. Hey, it's
your own fault for not getting your verb tenses right.)
Each thought of what could
go wrong (don't even ask; just read the rest of the
story to find out) sprinted
(wearing Air Jordans, no less!) through my spine (the
brain is located in the skull, not the spine), just as the cold metal
throne (your butt's warming that throne, isn't it?)
I reside naked upon.
("Reside"? Don't you mean
"recline"?)
Footsteps, accompanied by the silent sealing of my fate (here
we go, anthropomorphizing verbs!), echoed throughout this room (if
the sealing is silent, it cannot make any noises, let alone echo throughout the
room). A light from above
shone a fair luminous ("fair" and
"luminous" are adjectives, not nouns); not to (you
mean "too," dontcha?) harsh for my already sore eyes.
(Reading this story will do that to you.)
"You wish no to cooperate (Do you mean "not"?) Agent Mulder. What is your problem? Can you not see we have what you need (i.e., some asprin)? What you truly want. The Truth (this "Truth" must be important if it's capitalized)?"
"Fuck you."
A simple 'Fuck You' (double quotes, double quotes) was all that I could scratch from my weaned body. ("Weaned"?!? I take it that the word our writer is looking for is "weakened.") What else could I do? Fight? Fight what, the Future (another important thing, since it's capitalized!)? There is no future here. (C'mon, is this "future" important or not?) I struggle all my life in search of 'How' and 'Why' (not to mention a set of double quotes). There is no answer; only failure (to use a comma instead of a semicolon). My spirit is weakened in it (i.e., "its") struggle, but I must press on. (Must you?)
"Is that what you really want Agent Mulder. Hmm Hmm
Hmm." ("I thought
your taste ran toward classier stuff. . .like 'Baywatch Nights' and Limp
Bizkit.")
The mysterious man's smoke blew across my body (unless he's purposefully standing over Mulder and exhaling smoke all over him, I think "drifted" is a better word) as he whispered his deadly words (yup, watch out for them deadly woids! Them woids can kill ya!). His satanic little grumble of a laugh (as he twirled his handlebar mustashe, swished his black cape, and stuck in a comma where it didn't belong), put my mind in fear. Fear (insert comma before "Fear") coupled with the smoke and ash of my future (you are talking about three things: fear, smoke, and ash. "Coupled" is the wrong word here), was (ahem, "were") only the beginning of my torture. The mysterious smoking man took one last drag of his patented Morley's (he invented Morleys? Is that why they are "patented"?) which follow him faithfully (but should not be anthropomorphized and should not have an apostrophe), wherever he choose (ahem. . .shouldn't that be "chooses" or "chose") to roam. He then walked slowly around my position. (Where did I misplace that position anyway?) My voice began to enter a tremored pant (you can't speak and pant at the same time). Soft and defined.. Screams of 'why' (are there single quotes here) flittered and echoed in throughout my skull (must've caused some headaches). My heart rate began to increase, the blood was flowing, and the tension was rising.
"Remember Alex Kryczech, Agent Mulder? (No
I don't. Who's Alex
Kryczech?) No need to Answer.. Well your wish will be granted not
by myself; but from your admirer (who no doubt
knows to use a colon and not a semicolon here).
Agent Mulder, it was a pleasure watching you suffer through your years
of endless toil (Um, excuse me, but years have
beginnings and ends; they are not
"endless"). I find it quite erotic, in how you can keep your stamina and endurance at such a high level. Kryczech enjoys
the same." (Maybe
some back issues of Penthouse would be more your cup of tea.)
This all said with a wink and a smile, into the shadows he
disappeared, and in his place was
one man which (erm, that's "whom") I
truly have a passion for. Alexander
Kryczech. (As
opposed to his long-lost cousin, Alexander
Kryslovakia.) The only lust we share is pure hate and disgust (for
beta-free fanfic); and now this Russian prick is here to fuck me ("is"
or "was"? The verb
tenses are going haywire here).
Kryczech greeted my presence with a friendly Russian kiss (as
opposed to a Swedish or Tanzanian
kiss?) upon my cheek, couple (i.e.,
"coupled") by (you
mean "with") a punch to my stomach.
(That Kryczech sounds like such a hopeless romantic. Why haven't I seen him in any XF episodes?)
"Vdats endaņia Mulder."; Kryczech muttered with
a smile. (Translation: "Hey, I didn't come up with this ridiculous plot, so
let's just make the best of a bad
situation.")
"I love it when you talk in Russian, you little Fuck.
Does it work when you need to get
some pussy? ("Well, yes," Kryczech replied.
"My little kitty cat
Natasha only understands Russian, so that's how I can call her
inside.") Oh I'm sorry, word on the street is you like ass
instead." ("Yes, I
think donkeys are cute!" Kryczech said.
"So what?") Why not? I had to keep
the situation alive and hearty. (Couldn't you
let it die a natural death?) Anger
is what fueled his and my fire; the only common bond between us. (Well,
that and a secret fondness for collecting Pokemon cards.) seeing
the hate in his eyes (he
always gets that way when authors forget to capitalize), was
what turned me on. Except his desire to hate me, was to satisfy his pure
lust for me. (Were the two previous sentences
supposed to be sentences or sentence
fragments?) What happened next, my mind was not ready or willing to go
forward. (And after reading this far, you probably
understand why.) The societal programming which (i.e.,
"that") molded me into the 'straight and narrow' male, left me no protection; no defense in what I
should do. (Hint:
Pick up a dictionary, Strunk & White, and the Chicago Manual of Style.)
Like a virgin prancing naked and alone, I had no idea what to feel or
expect (except, perhaps, a quick arrest for indecent
exposure, which is what happens when virgins prance around naked and alone).
I could only wish for this moment in time to become a void. A void forever. (You
and me both.)
"Good Mulder, that's what I want to hear. I've waited for to long to do this. ("Now we're gonna go on the Coney Island Cyclone!") Your little Bitch Dan (Dan? Who's Dan? Please don't anyone mention AD Wanda Skinner, please) can't help you either; its only me and you now.("We don't even have an apostrophe in 'its'!") Your (i.e., "you're") going to feel how it should be Mulder."
"Are you and your tiny little cock going to make me
feel like less of a man?" ("Hey,
don't talk nasty about my pet rooster!" Kryczech
retorted.)
Fuel the fire. I can't help it. Fuel the fire. (Considering
how "dark and cold" this
room is supposed to be, I'm surprised he didn't think of this sooner.)
Kryczech stared devilishly into my eyes, and smiled. He
knew I wouldn't be so smug in a few
moments. Kryczech decided to skip the cat and mouse
play, and shed his attire. my heart entered in a fury. (Your
heart entered his attire? Better check that Kool-Aid you just drank.) My teeth
began to chatter. Oh God, Why? Why oh God? God wasn't here now. (He
left to use the men's room, that's
why.) I was alone, alone to endure the lust of a man
whom I truly hated. Our bond of fury and angst was about to become
stronger as the passed on by. (*What*
passed on by? Mulder's kidney
stones?)
Kryczech began to slide his hands slowly and charmingly (how
do you slide your hands
charmingly?) across my body. This alien visitor (Krycek
is really a black oil critter?!?),
invading my domain, sparked a natural response of fear. Fear for only a moment.
Kryczech began to blow his warm breath across
my body; progressively across my body; progressively approaching a
heavy rhythmic pant (you mean he just came in
from jogging? Must've been sweaty!).
He then dragged my weak body from the metallic throne, a lay
me to rest upon the even colder marble floor (perhaps
they need to invest in wall-to-wall carpeting and a nice fireplace).
His bare, thin, body began to uncoil and sprawl itself upon
my own (Kryczech's not a black oil alien after
all--he's a snake!). I shivered
from not only the coldness but fear also. A man of equal proportions lay
upon my own (lay upon your own proportions?),
caressing every crevice of body ("Finally, a man
who thinks my acne is sexy!"). Slowly and surely I
began to become calm. Was my weakness of my mind, body and spirit (a
sentence fragment, perhaps)? Or was this the response I should be
feeling. (If that
feeling is dismay, the answer is yes.)
Kryczech noticed this change in my emotions, and saw this
as an advantage to attack me when
my senses were down. (That's "defenses,"
not "senses.") He
began to skip the common foreplay (what kind of
foreplay is supposed to be
"common," anyhow?), and began to press harder into his erotic
pantry of torture (Kryczech reaches into said pantry,
mumbling, "I knew I had that
'Showgirls' director's cut in here somewhere!").. Cautiously he let
his tongue slip over and around my chest, licking the tips of my nipples. He then motioned to tongue my neck, my ears and my face. (Okay,
he's not an oilien or a snake. .
.he's a little puppy dog!)
I whispered a reluctant 'No.' as he motioned to get me
further aroused. I was beginning to
enjoy this torture. (At least someone here is having
fun.) Going beyond all my morals and teachings, I began to enjoy
this madness.. ("Yeah, bad fanfic is way cool!
Say, who's this Marissa Picard I keep hearing about?
She sounds hot!")
"That's right, Mulder.. Relax and this will go at more
leisurely pace." (No
no no! Please!
End this story now! PLEASE!)
As Kryczech ran his hands through my tousled hair with one hand; he began to stroke my cock with the other, into a perky arousal ("Gidget Does Dallas". . .I can see it now). My voice tremorred (uh, you mean "trembled," I imagine) in laboured pants, begging for more and more. I was truly finding pleasure in this chaos. (You're a masochist, that's why.) What I did next shocked not only my rapist, but myself. I grabbed for Kryczech's free hand, and placed it upon my now fully erect penis. (OK, waaaaaiiiiit a minute! Kryczech is already stroking your member--into a "perky arousal," no less. Why does he need *two* hands? It's not like he's milking a cow!) Our eyes met in an engagement of lust. I had fully succumbed to this Alien nature, set so taboo by modern society.. We gazed into each other's eyes for a good while, a sort of sexual agreement. A teasing between two individual's who had shared an unknown lust for each other.
Our lips met simultaneously in a warm sexual embrace. (Lips embracing?) I couldn't withstand the burn of his vapid tongue lashing against mine. (Um. . .how does a tongue burn? And shouldn't the correct term be "rapid"?) My solemn 'No' turned into a evangelical 'Yes'. ("Yeeeeesssir! HALLELUJAH! The Lord has come! Oh dear Lord, if I pray hard enough, will you make this fanfic come to a premature end?") The slow climb to passion, awakening into a fury of emotions (none of them good). The tremors in my voice quickly turned into orgasmic moans of pleasure. I wished for me and more (you only wished for *yourself*?). Kryczech seemed to understand my mumbling body language (since when does body language make any sound at all?), and began on his way to please me further. Soon enough, I found the warmth of his mouth massaging soft exteriors of my firms cock ("Look--someone's licking the San Diego Chicken! Ewwwwww--GROSS!"). Dear God, could this be the ultimate pleasure, which we are not meant to perceive and endure. (Dear God, could this sentence need a question mark at the end?) Most likely it has to be.. Kryczech seemed to know every secret my body withheld. (And he'll sell them all to the Weekly World News if you aren't careful.) His tongue coupled with the groping motions across my cock truly sent me into a new realm of ecstasy. (OK, Krycek--oops, I mean, KRYCZECH--is whacking Mulder off with both hands while tongue-kissing him. Why do I imagine him to be in a rather awkward position?) My moans became openly louder and louder. Dear God. Was I about to reach my climax in the arms of another man? (Dear God. What kind of slash fanfic story has the main character asking such a question? Don't the slashfic love bunnies just flop into bed without worrying about these things?) Kryczech soon answered that question with his motioning for me to lie upon my stomach. (By now, he probably had carpal tunnel syndrome and a sore tongue.) This was the moment. The moment of true alienation. (Actually, that moment came and went long ago.) The tenseness which encompassed me at first, returned unwilling.
"Relax Fox. Just Relax.. " purred Kryczech. ("We're
almost done with this tale. After
that, we can read 'War and Peace' to each other.")
He slowly motioned his fingers ("C'mon
fingers--move!") towards my ass; probing with his index finger in a
slow rhythmic motion. Kryczech continued
to purr with his sensual voice (OK, now he's a
kittycat. . .no, Krycek's a
changeling. . .no, he's a Founder! ARGH!),
for me to relax and enjoy the ride. ("We've got a sick
bag just in case.") Why shouldn't I, my body had succumbed to this alien sense of erotica this far, why
stop? (I could explain why, but it would take about
an hour.) Besides it seemed that Kryczech seemed to know every bit about
my sexual desires (especially
after I loaned him some of my porn tapes). His aphroditic (note:
"aphroditic" is not mentioned anywhere in my copy of Merriam-Webster)
fingers feeling the insides of my
ass, eased my tension once again, back into the realm of orgasmic erotic. (Meanwhile,
your reviewer descends into the realm of gastric dyspeptic.)
Kryczech switched from the pleasure of one finger, to two (considering all the quarters that Mulder's plonked down for the magic fingers in hotel beds across America, that's kid stuff). . . His index finger and middle finger heightened my sense of liberation. My moans turned to both screams of pain (understandable) and glory (not so understandable). Sweet glory and pure, sweet, aphroditic pleasure. He continued this motion for what seemed an eternity, occasionally licking my ass cheeks, and breathing his hot breath upon my asshole. My body began to tremble in orgasmic delight. I could feel my body at the verge of explosion (that's what happens when you mix Pop Rocks and Coke), but my dominator had finished his erotic torture (reality check: the story isn't over yet). One final chapter of lust remained.
My body instinctually knew the procedure required for this motion (namely, run to bathroom, bend over toilet, and heave). A wicked smile (so many evil, devilish, and wicked smiles. Doesn't anyone have nice, friendly smiles in this story?) came across Kryczech's face as my ass lay perched high in the air (why does this passage remind me of Cartman's pet cat from "Cat Orgy"?), ready to be fucked. Kryczech soon mounted my rear posterior (gee, and I always thought that one's posterior was in front) and began his ryhmtimic dance of pleasure ("How could I know that Kryczech actually knew the Lambada?"). At first I felt pain and disgust. (and these feelings just continued to grow) My swaying confused emotions, wanted to take over the pleasure of this situation, (mixed metaphor alert! mixed metaphor alert!) but I forced it ("emotions" is plural, not singular) not too (not too tart, not too sweet. . .wasn't that a ginger ale commercial?). I squeezed my ass tighter and tighter upon his each and every fuck, sending both of us into a fury of orgasmic pandemonium.
The tighter I squeezed, the harder he fucked. (If Mulder's squeezing tighter, wouldn't it be more difficult for Kryczech to. . .oh, forget it) Harder and tighter, was the only motion ("harder" and "tighter" are adjectives, not motions) which continued for the rest of our sexual encounter. Our screams of delight (are you sure they weren't screams of pain?) echoed and reverb around the room in an whirlwind infinite cycle (news flash: whirlwinds don't spin forever). The angst, fury, lust, and sexual confusion was (were) the climax (climaxes) of this sexual encounter.
I lay in disarray wondering is this what life deals out for all of us. To expect the unexpected, to rely upon an unknown and hidden faith (that most fanfic authors have at least some rudimentary writing skills. . .or at least a spellchecker)? Is this the truth I seek for eternally and restlessly (i.e., "restlessly for eternity"), or is this the autarchy which God has hidden from us? Confusion beeches (that's "beseeches," and you're mixing metaphors again) my thought once again, sending me into a cycle of wanton disgust and questioning of what is and what not. This is the only truth. The knowledge of not knowing (grammar, spelling, punctuation, or how to spell characters' names), and the will to receive our terrestrial autarchy.
Ratings
Evilness rating:
5
Who ARE these people?:
4 The characters all spell their names differently, and Mulder's partner
seems to have had a sex change.
I Speech Goodly:
5
Your average high school
English teacher would suffer a burst blood
vessel in the brain if he or she attempted to correct all the errors in
this tale.
I R a Gud Speler:
5
I was only going to give this
story a 4, but Kryczech's "ryhmtimic dance
of pleasure" pushed the rating up to a 5.
GAK-o-Tron:
1
Let's be fair: a dopey
rape-cum-seduction story is hardly schmoop-worthy.
Laziness Quotient:
5
Any more sentences where
"cold" and "dark" go together and I'll go
postal.
Mary Sue Quotient:
0
Well, this story has one
thing going for it.
Death to Clones:
4
Too many lurid descriptions
of hot slash sex that seem to have been mentioned before.
And your point was. . .?:
5
The point still has nothing
to do with national economic independence.
But then, national economic independence wouldn't make an interesting
fanfic. Still, it would've been more palatable.
Wild
Card:
So what *is* this hidden knowledge that is covered up by society's programming? I still can't figure it out. Oh yeah, I know: Most men secretly long to be raped by other men so they can indulge their lust. There are similar rape fic stories in Trek fandom; they usually center around some Trek lady getting violated (there was one particularly unpleasant Kira/Dukat story that I recall). What sort of reaction would this tale have gotten if *Scully* was the one getting raped?
