torch 1997

Disclaimer: I don't own the men, the computer, the fish, or the woman mentioned in this story. Also, everyone who's heard/read it agrees that it is not a Mulder/Krycek story. Written for the 500-word challenge, also known as the egg-beater challenge, while sitting on Susie's couch. No egg beater. Those of you who have heard this read out loud: I think I've changed maybe five words. Do not archive this story without permission.

Whipping boy

I don't want him to touch me. That's all. That's why I'm backing off whenever he gets too close, whenever he gives me that strange, opaque, challenging look that I think means he wants something from me. I don't know what. I don't know what he wants, but I know what I want. I want him to — I mean, I don't want him to touch me.

"Stop crowding me, Krycek. Go look at the fish."

"You asked me to look at something on your computer. Not at the fish."

"Just quit breathing down my neck, okay?"

Because it feels like betrayal. A worn-out word for such a cutting sensation. I haven't let anyone touch me since—

And if I could let anyone, it would be her. Those small, strong hands. No one else, it wouldn't be right.

"In your ear? Is that better?"

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"I'm just looking at this stuff you were going to show me, Mulder."

"With your tongue in my ear?"

Everything would be all right if she touched me, I think. Everything would have to be all right, would have to be perfect. Not like this, not this thick shivery shameful feeling that makes me want to scream and break things. I don't want him to touch me, I just want to sit here and be screwed up in peace.

"You know what I'd really like to see."

"Krycek, will you just—"

"Sure I will. God, you're so tense, can't you relax a little? Let's get this off you."

It took a long time before I could even touch myself. I never liked my body that much. Used to enjoy it when other people liked it, sure. But ever since that time... I can only think about her, how she could make everything all right.

"This is some sick fantasy you have?"

"I think all your partners have this fantasy, Mulder. The only thing that could make it better is if you wore your glasses."

"I was just going to show you—"

"Yeah. I can see it."

I don't want him to touch me, don't want his hands there, warm and sure, stroking slowly. Don't want the fuzzy, nauseating heat building up inside, the way it smothers my thoughts. I want to be separate, pure. I don't want anyone to touch me but her.


"Ssh. You need this."


"God, you're so hard. I barely even—"


I don't want him to touch me don't want him to touch don't want I don't want I—


"Admit it, Mulder, you needed that."

"Fuck you."

"On the desk?"

"Leave me alone."

"Mulder. I thought—"

"Go watch the fish, Krycek."

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