Work Text:
What do I love about you?
It’s not the way you look at me, with those giant orbs that reflect nothing but your own light. They never seem to dim, never stay closed except when you’re sleeping with your head resting on my shoulder, curled up in my arms. Like traps—once you fall in, there’s no escape. No, I don’t love your eyes.
Starting from your face to your head, I don’t love your hair either. Disheveled, endlessly curling into dead ends that tangle in my fingers, pulling me away from my work. How it sometimes cascades over your shoulders like an unstoppable flood, or how it stops short, never quite reaching your neck. Carrying that peculiar animal scent I’ve grown used to. No, I don’t love your hair.
Your neck, your skin—tough and hard to pierce. But your neck has been kind to my fangs when I’ve torn into it, hidden beneath that collar I’ve secretly removed so many times. The warmth of your blood on my tongue, a secret I’d seal again under that metal band so no one else would know. You’re always so cooperative in giving it to me, yet I must refuse. No, I don’t love your neck.
Your torso, covered in nearly sun-kissed skin, softened by my own gifts. Even though it’s shaped this way because of me, I can’t seem to bring myself to look at it for too long. It holds stories, but none are etched into your body—no scars, only a few moles. I can’t read it the way I’d like to, nor mark it as you once asked. No, I don’t love your body.
Your hands and feet tell a similar story, your sharp nails leaving marks on my desk when you play, waiting for me to stop ignoring you as I work. They’re rough, even when you handle things with such care to avoid damage. That roughness is part of who you are—your claws betray you. No, I don’t love your hands or feet.
Your legs, long and ever-changing. One day they’re like any woman’s, then they shift into the elegance of hooves, seemingly untouched by wear. But I know your fierceness. The way you strike the ground, announcing your presence, that sound against the metal floor unmistakable as you approach my office. You walk aimlessly yet look as sure as anyone. I wonder where they’ll take you. No, I don’t love your legs.
But maybe I forgot the most important part: your lips, your tongue, your teeth, your saliva. It’s impossible to forget a voice etched into my ears—insistent, direct, even malicious. Your words don’t flow; they fall, shattering on the ground where I must gather the pieces to understand them. I’ll never forget the way you confessed to me for the first time, a moment so striking, yet it sounded like a tale spun from your stupid books. No, I don’t love your mouth.
Now, I just stare at the screen of an old computer. It’s been exactly one hour and forty-three minutes of doing nothing but filling these pages with mediocre honesty. It’s also been two months and three weeks since you were transferred from this site. The Ethics Committee holds our case, investigating and reprimanding those who knew and those who covered for us.
I’d say I feel bad for that lifeless fly, Akal. I’d also say I feel glad Samuel’s being sanctioned for not revealing our insignificant affair sooner. But even I have to admit the bastard was good at his job, as were the rest of us.
It was stupid—something I should’ve learned to avoid after so many years of experience. It was fun, almost innocent, if you ignore ethics and the other’s feelings. And yet, here I am, almost reclining in my chair, staring at that gift you gave me—the bracelet the color of your eyes, engraved with our names.
Maybe I regret not keeping yours when we had our last conversation. Who knows where it is now, if not in some trash bin.
I’m still convinced I never loved you the way you loved me, but it’s one in the afternoon, and I already miss your company.