#nefarious activities

Thinking about a reader that struggles with love that’s all-encompassing.

Maybe you’ve been deprived of it and are fascinated by the concept—or the reverse, you’re spoiled rotten, no a foreign concept to you. Either way, you’re greedy. Looking upon human features with a sense of sonder isn’t enough. You need to touch them, crush them, own them. Squeeze the color out of their eyes and suck the melanocytes out of their skin.

A reader who knows that the average 250-pound hog will yield 150,000 calories’ worth of meat. A reader who knows this varies based on the pig. A reader who also knows that, essentially, humans are long pigs, similar enough to swap organs.

It’s natural to you that you’re drawn to men in the military. They’re the biggest, the baddest. The strongest—taking one down would be like a hominid versus a mammoth. The challenge excites you. And everything about them is documented well, from their muscle mass to their blood type. The government’s finest pigs, and you get to pick.

-

SIMON “GHOST” RILEY

Your love for him makes you feel awful.

It’s unfortunate that you met him. He’s lived an animal existence already—knows what it’s like for greedy things to pick and pick. There are scars on his body and nicks in his ears. He pads around like some sad dog. Not aimlessly, but like he believes he should be somewhere worse. Like he’s grateful for the nothing he’s gotten.

You think the universe has a sick sense of humor. You wonder if he lived as a lamb once and was butchered. And then was brought back to be human and butchered again. And again. Mentally, then physically, metal hooks cozy in his ribs. You wonder if you’re just fate for him. Because of this, you remain delicate.

He’s quiet company. So are you. You appreciate it. It lets you mull over him. Your favorite part of him is his eyes, you think. Feline almond made sultry by the paint smeared across his lids. Pretty, two matching voids, both framed by eyelashes more luscious than your own. You like the contrast; golden hairs, black iris. His gaze is sharp. You can tell where he’s looking even if you can’t see his pupils.

That’s a part you’d miss if you decided to devour him: his alertness. It must be hell for him, but it’s a wonder for you. His eyes eternally flick, scan. There’s an intelligence they’d miss if they glazed over. If they unfocused forever.

Your growth is proportionate to his. At first, it’s silent lunches spent together–revelment in and acclimation to a new source of heat nearby. If he grunts, so do you. If he speaks, so do you. You wonder if he’ll tire of you, interpret your mimicry of him as mockery. He doesn’t. If anything, he appreciates the space. You’re inoffensive.

Seeing his petals open only makes you hungrier. He’s quite talkative with those he’s close to. He’s goofy, too–something easy to miss under his deadpan delivery. When he fucks with you, it makes you greedy. Saliva pools under your tongue. He’d be warm, you think. Fit for a stew. Something that steams as high as the tea you both shared in your silence. Hardy, spiced. You pretend to hate his dad jokes.

When you lunge at him, it’s because he let you touch him. That was an unspoken rule for months–you didn’t touch him. He hovered in your space, tantalizingly close, casting a shadow over you, but he was off-limits. Not until he gave you the okay.

It was while you sat beside him on his bed, watching him craft a new mask. Another period of silence. Those were rarer these days, but still happened. You were happy to listen to his breathing, to observe the dexterity of his long, weathered fingers. He had gotten tangibly better at stitching. They were less visible. Straighter; neater. You would joke about it, but you were too comfortable.

You leaned in too close. You could blame it on his weight tugging you in his direction like a gravitational pull. You could also blame it on your peace-softened limbs, bones boiled down to jelly. Either way, your arm brushed his. You could tell it did because he tensed the microsecond before he felt the fabric of your long-sleeve.

You were ready to apologize. Fully prepared for him to kick you out, to ban you from the one place he found safe. You couldn’t conceptualize your punishment. It was a rule you had never broken before, not even by accident.

Your mouth opened and he silenced you. The roundness of your eyes and the way you gathered your body was sorry enough.

“‘S fine.” He muttered, but he stopped sewing. The needle sat frozen between his fingers, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. You cleared your throat.

“Could I, then…?” You were greedy. You were pushing your luck. “Just your shoulder, I mean.”

“Said it’s fine.” He huffed.

Your touch was light, experimental. Like he was a fragile bird that you got to hold. He didn’t tense as much because he expected you. You promised the shoulder, but your hand moved lower. Away from the dip of his collarbone to the expanse of his bicep. It was thick–your fingers, spread as they were, couldn’t wrap around it. You trailed lower, lower, lower still, until it was his wrist you were threatening. His hand had moved away from his lap. It rested on the bed, available to you.

Down a hand, he bundles the needle in the mask and casts it aside. “Pettin’ me like I’m a dog.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted?” Your voice betrays the grin on your face.

You don’t even care to look up. You’re too engrossed in this. He runs hot, infernal against your fingertips. He’s pale enough for you to be able to trace his veins, so you do–trailing blue until you reach the leather of his palms.

“I hear that if you can see an ‘M’ on your palm, it means you’ll get married someday.”

“Yeah? You see one?”

“Yeah. And I feel sorry for the lass.”

He chuckles at that. It’s a low rumble, probably the closest he can get to a giggle. You like it. It makes you feel starved. With two of your own, you lift his limp hand. It’s heavy. Veins roll down his palms like lightning bolts.

You don’t know if you can handle this. His flesh is a temptation to you. He doesn’t understand that you want to score him and roast him over an open flame. You want him to be part of you forever. You think it’s beautiful, what male grasshoppers do to satisfy their mates. The idea of his body fueling your own is euphoric.

The attack is abrupt. You’re staring into the webbing between his fingers, then your teeth are in it. Specifically at his thumb where there’s a bit of extra skin. You clench your jaw as hard as you can muster, and to your surprise, he hisses. He’s human, but he didn’t strike you as one to show pain.

His blood trickles into your mouth. It isn’t much, as you didn’t clamp down on a hotspot. It’s thick and savory and rich to you. You groan and flex your jaw, chewing on him, urging more blood to eke out.

His hand tangles in your hair. It’s the roughest thing he’s ever done to you. The pain in your scalp is excruciating enough to loosen your jaw.

The noise you make when he forces you away from him is inhuman. Like a wounded animal, like a parasite detached from its host. Your eyes are misty. You’ve been caught. You don’t know how to explain that this is what love means to you. There’s no other method for you to cope. You want every piece of him that’s still intact.

“Please, S-”

“Easy, love.” He catches you before his name spills like his blood from your mouth. It’s gathered at the edge of your bottom lip. He didn’t bleed that much; it’s mixed with your spit. You’re drooling.

“I just need-” You grit your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. His wounded hand is moving. It cups and swallows the lower half of your face. His other hand remains in your hair, but it loosens.

This is a messy affair. He’s rubbing blood on you. His thumb, pad already slick with your spit, slides past your lips. He taps his nail against your teeth. The gates open. You allow him to slide his thumb over your tongue slowly. There’s a salty taste to him.

“Shoulda told me this ‘s what you needed.” He grunts. His thumb doesn’t stop moving, not even when your teeth pinch at him. This bite doesn’t seem to affect him. Either his fingers are less sensitive or you simply caught him off guard the last time. You gurgle.

He continues until his thumb hooks and a wave of nausea washes over you. You release his thumb, if not for a moment, and nearly choke on your spit.

“Careful.” He warns. “This better?”

In your valiant battle against vomiting, you push more saliva out of your mouth. It slips like molasses down to your chin. You try to bite again and manage. But when the pressure is too much, his massive thumb hooks again. This time, you do gag.

It’s torture. You can taste him, you can nip him, but you can’t gnaw on him. A tear rolls down your cheek.

“We can do this for as long as you like.” Simon purrs. He’s petting your hair, now, soothing you. You’re like a disobedient puppy to him.

You should be angry, but you honestly feel relieved. He knows how to handle you. He sees your sickness and treats you with the best medicine that he can think of. Your teeth grind—you feel thick skin shifting over bone. His tongue clicks.