Martini (enhypen is 7)🍸

Downtown is abuzz, springtime bringing out lifeforms in their fullest, humans on a leisurely stroll and vampires in their element, nightfall cast to upheave the sluggishness of day, canines bared and timeless beauty arresting. On the way to your destination, a concrete jungle of scaffolding and pets on leashes, you stop at an intersection. Cars zoom, traffic lights ticking down until they turn green again. The road, a blur of cars would usually have your attention, if not for the huge billboard plastered above the pizzeria and jazz bar just ahead. 

Pearl Bite: A bloodless white, a perfect smile. 

Your own faux canines show, tongue run beneath their point as your eyes dazzle at the advert. Specifically, the creator and model for Pearl Bite ─ your one and only boyfriend. 

College sweethearts, Sunghoon describes your romance as a sneaky attack on your behalf, nothing but his passion on his mind, only to be derailed. The brilliance of your smile, the heartiness of your laugh, your endless glow he couldn't shy away from. The next century is meant to build upon his newly-found interest in dentistry, open his own practice with amassed generational wealth and give back to his community. His initial plan only accounts for vampires, at the mercy of many cycled conversations of blood-stained fangs and how there's no vampire-equivalent for teeth-whitening. Then he meets you, unknowingly opens himself up more to the human experience, recognizes how they can differ vastly from his own, yet share so many similarities. 

You're the most selfless person he knows, a long-line of people served before you're last in line. Amongst the juggle of others' needs and aspirations, yours kind of included somewhere, he learns you're a product of everything you've ever loved and suffered from too. In the months passing too quick for his liking - still toeing the line of friendship(ish) - you bare yourself to him in the late night diner you work at. 

The one he walks you home from, drinks the shitty coffee because you've brewed it. The things vampires do for love.

In a dim corner booth, your chin perches on your folded arms, fingers drumming against a table you're yet to clean and are honestly too tired to at this point. It's been non-stop shifts packed into a never-ending semester, and whilst your job's meant to supplement your means of living, it also serves another purpose. 

"I owe my mom everything," you start, the bat of your lashes turning Sunghoon into a statue, knowing what's to come yet unsure. Uncertain how to proceed. "No matter how little we had to our name, she always made sure I was taken care of. That if one of us was happy, it was always me,"

Your nose twitches, eyes glossy with a sigh coming from trembling lips. A vague crack sounds in his chest. 

He wishes his hand had the kind of warmth you'd lean into. 

"Losing her best friend, and in a way, losing me ─ has brought her to her knees," your fingers drum, pupils shaking as you will your tears to only exist before your waterline. "I'm doing as much as I can, but there's only so much to do from across the country. I can't check in on her and the house between lectures, I can't pay for anything medical other than some lousy insurance, I can't transfer that weight to myself,"

"Because at least then, it wouldn't be her burden to bear." 

The welled emotions in your chest demand you to straighten, more space for lungs to expand and when stray tears fall, you can only exhale, elbows propped to the table to wipe them away. Your hand falls to the surface in perfect timing, searing skin meeting a cool, steady palm. You're just as still as him, the thump of your heart felt in Sunghoon's fingertips, all the way through to his ears ringing with its race. Only empathy occupies him, remnants of a life before immortality tethering you two together by more than held hands, the quiet compassion he delivers sticking with you forever. 

Time has since passed, that corner booth a bittersweet memory. In spite of long-carried pain, you and your mom see brighter days ─ graduation, your first adult job, the return of her smile. Depression has a way of mystifying the future ahead of you, the present clouded in miserable, inescapable grey clouds. To push on takes all the more effort, so things start to give ─ sleep, appetite and the wither of everything else. While she's managed to pick herself up by the aid of you and others, your mom still holds a keepsake she'd rather do without. A dimmed smile you're doing your best to help restore. But in a household where annual doctor's trips are rare, the luxury doesn't come easy. And by the time you're examining what other expenses to cut back on, Sunghoon pitches his latest project. 

Pearl Bite, for humans and vampires alike. 

Endless trials, modifications, moulds that have bitten the dust and brave participants that bring his dream into fruition. Only now, his dream accounts for not only you, but your mother. Additional modules and clinicals to fit in the study of human teeth, revitalizing the last part of a past your mother is moving forward from. And when everything's said and done, your mother instinctively cowers from the mirror before she weeps, holding onto Sunghoon with a life force as gratitude soaks into his white coat. In the corner, his eyes find you, the water-lined tears in your eyes like then, now reflecting the kind of appreciation and love he knows is priceless. 

Pearl Bite takes off, his humble practice fighting to accommodate for the onslaught of patients he tries helping. People come from far and wide, all with a story that picks at their nails and prompts reluctance when it comes time for Sunghoon's inspection. Overbites, plaque, shaven-down fangs, blood stains ─ the list goes on. However, their reluctance is all but forgotten once he commits himself to their well-being, a sigh of relief filling his mask before he hands over what feels like a magic mirror, sorrow turning into happiness. One practice isn't enough, not for endless clients, or aspiring dentists with the same aspirations. Multiple dot themselves across the country, his time split between sights he flies to (your stomach still drops whenever both your feet leave the ground). He has a line of products, an alternative solution for those he cannot meet and to no surprise, it takes off. You climb your own career ladder, finding something just as meaningful and building your life together with the man who saved yours and your mother's smile. 

His practice bustles as it always does, a mixture of clients flipping through magazines or sharing stories in the waiting room. To his assistance, you wave, your presence always welcome when your schedules align. In the hall leading to his office, your head nods at more waiting patients, smile brimmed in manner with a glance at the clock. 

It's feeding time. 

A flutter in your chest disturbs the peace you've maintained for the day's majority, current sparked as your palm meets the door handle of his office, shallowly pulled to the side only to let yourself in. No one occupies the dental unit, spotlight tucked away with the space sterilised and clean, its sleek hues of white, grey and muted baby blue burrowing comfort in your chest. Attempts to slow the rabbit Sunghoon hears, a heartbeat so attuned to he forgoes his inventory count and goes to filter back into the main room, surprise alight in his eyes as he's urged back. 

"I didn't know you were coming," his voice carries the sentiment, the half-hearted draw of his inventory's door schemed behind you. 

Innocence brims in your smile nonetheless, arms strung around him as his hands fall to your waist, steady and firm. 

"You forgot your dinner."

"Dinner?" a lone eyebrow raises, the slope of his nose in full view as his head turns to the mini fridge metres away. "I should have enough blood bags for─" 

Your nails rake through his nape hairs once and for all, stepping back before you haul yourself on the counter space he'd been working so diligently on, showcasing the dinner he's seemingly left behind.

You. 

No one would bat an eyelash at the length of your skirt, a conservative length if not for an extra long stride ─ the cross of your legs ─ where skin reveals itself, blemishing with incessant teeth marks, beard burn and a mouth pulling into a disbelieving smile as you reveal yourself to him, making sure to crane your neck enough to hint at the location of his last feed. 

"So," mischief lives in the lines of your smirk, your own canines peeking through in an ask. "Will you finish what you started?" 

With centuries spent living amongst vampires and humans, you'd think Sunghoon would have some know-how. Predict the patterns humans have made of themselves, ingrained in wired DNA passed down from generation to generation. Yet, you always seem to surprise him. Bring the disbelieving and amused laughter out his huffing chest, his proximity drawn closer as his hands staple on either side of your thighs, skirt material bunched in your lap, goosebump-riddled from the arctic temperature of his office. 

His eyes burn with a dial of lust, iris colouring into a wine hue before his pupils swallows the field whole, gaze flickered between your eyes and lips. 

"This is risky," he notes, nosing along your jaw. The instinct to give your neck away wears him down more than you'll know. "Anyone could come in and see us. Hear us," 

He deserts the raised skin trail he's created from slight grazes alone, satisfaction on his lips as he creates space to marvel at the mess you're boiling down to. 

"But that's what gets you off, right?" his fangs show, his grin too amused and cocky to shield them, his head tilted to only emphasis his point. "Just can't keep your pretty moans to yourself." 

Air fills your lungs through a nasal inhale, chest slumping with a gulp audible to your own ears. You'd waltzed in here first, you can't lose control just yet. 

You bring yourself closer to the counter's edge, skirt riding up further to expose hints of lace, knowing it'll do nothing but torment him. Taunt him as his canine and lower teeth toy with an inner piece of his check, restraint tested.

"Come on, you haven't fed in days," he's standing straighter, hands off the counter. He's close enough though, the perfect distance for your leg to hook at his lower back and draw him in, your hand waiting before his length eventually throbs in your palm, your grin a work of sin as you peer up at him with dark magic eyes. "I know you're hungry." 

Control is commanded, and to some extent, Sunghoon submits. Lets you carry out your charade, allows the concept of power to exist in your frame of mind. However, deep down, you both know. Undeterred, Sunghoon lets you palm his growing erection, smirking like it doesn't turn him on. Like he doesn't give your hand one grind, starved for friction. 

His hand raises to outline the shell of your ear with his fingertip, pleased with the shiver erupting down your spine. 

"Funny how blood and sex are so intertwined," he leads, voice husky as his eyes fall to yours again, standing their ground. "For you, especially."

It's meant to be a call out. In some measure, you suffer from its consequences, prickly skin and heated cheeks. However, you've been with Sunghoon long enough to quit playing shy. You plan to spend eternity with him too, it's only natural you reward him with your honesty.

"It's another layer of intimacy," the sweetness of your words juxtapose your actions, palm firm against his shaft as your thumb glides over his tip in sweet, torturous motions, smile stretching at the waver of his breath. You cock your head, a call for attention. "Wouldn't you agree?"

He's close like this now, shuffled to you in a tighter circle of your hooked legs, the column of his throat licked. The grain of stubble against your tongue hums your pleasure into his skin, his own mirrored sound coming when your teeth nibble on the teased skin.

"Hmph," he groans, losing focus. Losing to you. "I do, but my mind can't help but wonder," 

Further words peaks your interest, Sunghoon's hand settling across your neck, face further away as he handles you for his viewing pleasure. His other set of knuckles push his glasses up his nose bridge, chin lifted as he looks at you through low eyes, the quiet but hard thump of your pulse meeting the pad of his thumb.

"If it's the euphoric high you're starved for," Sunghoon's thumb moves over the tender skin, thump gaining traction as you attempt withstanding his complete read of you. "Or maybe it's the slight pain," 

Through the time you've known Sunghoon, you've only ever known him to be humble. No matter what feat he reaches, trait or skill he posses and displays, he'll pretend as if it's not his own. Won't gloat, won't brag ─ except for times like these. 

When he's got you right where he wants, his fangs pinpoint on your skin between the fan of his thumb, your heartbeat the equivalent of being chased. 

You hear his smirk first before you see it, space created again as his eyes cannot be without your sight for too long. 

"Which one is it?"

The hand that'd been palming him arrests the counter's edge, knuckles burning white in an act of self-restraint. Control you're being frayed to abandon, a harsh run of your tongue on the back of your teeth as your other leg hooks behind him, nowhere to hide as your hip roll to meet his, a grind you see chipping away at him.

Pressure adds to the grasp on your neck ─ a test to you too. 

"Wouldn't you like to know." 

Again, that almost incredulous yet amused chuckle meets your ears, this time more mocking as Sunghoon's tongue pokes his inner cheek, his eyes bleeding over with an intensity you've only been anticipating.

"I'll find out either way," one corner of his lip lifts, small but all-knowing. "Spread your legs." 

The last thing you'll do is indulge him, even if your body aches for him in the worst way ─ bone deep, lust sinking in your body like an anchor. You're already pressed against him, the friction of few layers a blessing in disguise for someone as insatiable as you are. This, you can do with. The same can't be said for Sunghoon, who in the questioning look he gives you, your smile extends ─ a slice of heaven and a lot of hell. 

"What's with the attitude?" he chuckles, one last squeeze against the sides of your neck to make you squeak. The departures paves the way for his impatience, enough strength to pry your crossed ankles apart. "Didn't you want this all along? Treated the way you are in my office because you couldn't wait?"

You can't compete against an immortal, his strength bending your body to his will, thighs braced against the arctic counter top. Spread to his liking. 

"Ah, that's why," it's the second time in such little time you've heard him smirk, a more evil moon crescent shape to his eyes as he marvels between your legs. Specifically, the wetness that's soaked through the flimsy fabric. "It's okay, I want you just as much." 

A gentle kiss is pressed to your forehead, because your ego has its' moments, bruising like a peach. You could huff, turn away from the supposed affection he gives you, but he's quicker. A peck to the tip of your nose and happiness in the light chuckle he does afterwards. 

Then, when you're looking at him again, albeit reluctantly, he smiles regardless. Cups your cheeks, holding you as if porcelain and kisses you. Soft and pillowy, lingering to savour the simple press of flesh, a slow and sweet swirl back into desire. Melting in his cold grasp, you move in patterns known to each other, the audacity to start pulling away breathing a snicker between your lips, his smile against your lips after he's chased them, your own introduced moments later. 

He picks you apart in the most delicate way, undoing you with adoring kisses and assured hands, consuming you with every breath he steals, hands of desperation hinging themselves against his arms. Sunghoon kisses you as if it's your last, with deeper meaning coming from the lifetimes he's lived, your bottom lip between his teeth as he tugs gently. 

A move applicable to everyone. Doing its worst to you. 

While other teeth tease, his fangs threaten, a harsher skim against the flesh your breath hitches at, a swipe of his tongue meant to soothe, only to fuel the fire burning in you. 

While his hands no longer cradle your face, he kisses you without fault. Pouring affection into the tender overlap of lips, the only thing you manage to do is lift your hips as his hands tug your panties down your legs, tucked away in his back pocket as a souvenir. If you weren't so dazed, you'd make fun of him, like when you'd felt his cock kick when you'd started kissing, the venture of your tongue making him sigh a stuttered breath. 

Smacked lips and laboured breaths no longer only occupy the office/closet space, abundance of slick lapped up on the span of two fingers, the most piled on Sunghoon's fingertips as they tease your entrance, thumb doing slow circles against your clit. 

Fingers carding through his hair, your breath stutters in his mouth. Whines and huffed whimpers bleed into his kiss-stained lips as his fingers push in with no resistance, welcomed as your walls conform to their shape. He stretches you with the scissors of his fingers, the stretch simmering with a touch of discomfort, grinding down to blooming pleasure as you yield, his fingers 'curl pushed into the spot making you see stars. 

"Think I'll give your thighs a break," Sunghoon whispers, your tongue dipped into the curve of his lips. "All those hickeys and beard burn can't be good for you ─ too much friction," 

"N-not enough," you wail, running feverishly hot and without any care, bucking your hips helplessly. "Want ─ more." 

"I've made you such a greedy thing, haven't I?" he murmurs, humming at all the sounds you reward him with ─ vulnerable moans, sloppy kisses you try giving but it's no use. You're gone, in too deep to realise the moment you'd walked into his office, your fate had been sealed. 

Other points deserve attention, is Sunghoon's thought process as he leaves your lips with one last slow kiss, saliva strung between your quivering lips before he peppers his way down your chin, up the curve of your jaw and stops right below your earlobe. You know where he'll go next and it sends a buzz through your every cell, makes you tremble and shake. And before your brain can catch up to the signs, Sunghoon knows too.

Hears the chaos of your heart, the disarray of your pulse and plays along.

"Haven't even got to your neck and you're leaking all over my fingers," he muses, a peck smacked onto the dipped skin before his teeth catch onto the fleshy part, a fang punctured close to where your lone piercing is. An automatic response is relayed by your body. "Squeezing my fingers for all their worth, huh?"

Lolled to the side, a partial part in purpose but the other because your head's swarmed in haziness, twice its weight from Sunghoon consuming you, his non-beating heart having the decency to not prolong your long-awaited ask. He descends, inches but makes his way with the tread of his teeth down your neck column. 

"What happened to that little attitude of yours, sweet girl?" he asks, the squelch and twitch of your body unearthing a rarity in condescending nature. "Did I fingerfuck it out of you, hm? You wanna be my good girl now?"

You nod hard enough to feel the jumble of your brain, cut up into pieces and free-floating in your zero-gravity headspace. 

"You know nods won't do," he's there. The exact spot he feeds from, and it's maddening. The release of adrenaline, the rabbit chase your heart does, nails scraping into marble. 

He noses along the mark, a momentary pause noting how gone he is for you too, intoxicated at the mere scent of your blood before everything crumbles, his willpower the only thing standing as he pries away, looking you in your eyes as he says, 

"Let me hear you say it, princess." 

"I'll─I'll be good," the words slosh in your mouth, lips pressed to muffle your desperate squeaks. "I just─just let me come please?" 

"I'm no animal," dark laughter licks up your spine, stuck in its slouch as Sunghoon's rhythm picks up, fingertips knocking deepest in you, your jaw pried open in silent surprise. "I couldn't deprive you if I tried." 

"Come on, sweet girl," he comes closer, fresh linen scent engulfing you as a kiss lays upon your temple. "The quicker you let go, the faster you get my cock." 

The quicker he'll feed. 

The mere thought is almost like magic, contracting your walls in an impossible squeeze as the coil in your stomach sizzles at the tips of your toes, shooting up to burst through every avenue ─ every pore ─ of your body. Detonating right in the palm of his hand, he kisses your wails away until they subside, fingers working you until you're twitchy and overly sensitive, glossy eyed yet itching to unbutton his slacks. 

"Impatience will get you hurt," is his later comment, letting you mess with the buckle of his belt, metallic clashes resonating through the room. Dripping more slick onto his office counter. "So rushed when you'll struggle taking me."

The last notch of his zipper sounds louder than the rest, your head snapped in his direction. "Now, that you can't mock me for," 

Your eyes drop down to the heavy bulge imprinting through his briefs and slacks, hoping his eyes follow along. 

"I take your literal monster cock like a champ, thank you." 

"Give or take." 

You kiss your teeth, knowing better but still cursing at him in your head.

"Whatever," your eyes roll, pushing enough of his waistband down to get your hand around his cock. Barely, but it's not of the essence. What is is the need his tip heats with, generous precome beaded in his slit your thumbs runs over. A hiss releases in spite of his efforts, met with the cockiness of your grin. "You're the one who needs me here," 

"Blood bags only taste so good," you drawl, pulling him out to get a better handle of his length. Head ducked to dribble spit on his skin as makeshift lube, enveloped by your palm in a mixture with precome as your hand comes up and twists up his veined shaft. Now it's his turn for braced hands on the counter's edge, his grip strong enough to snap the marble in two. The thought ignites lightning in your stomach. 

Your mouth gets the chance for payback ─ hovering over the shell of his pointed one, a lapsed breath released in the anticipation of your words. The slow, tight jerk of your hand. "And none can get you off, so…" 

A huff of defeat ─ still humoured ─ sounds past your shoulder, Sunghoon's back muscles flexing through the white coat ruffling as he pushes off the table, hair slicked back back as his fingers run through dark strands, his pale features accented with a pretty rosy tint. 

Lips swollen with kisses. Skin glittering in the low light.

"You're annoying," his hands swats away yours, his focal point you as your figure reflects in the honey sweet hue of his eyes. "I love you." 

"Love you t─ah!"

Sunghoon had knocked your knees further apart, lined himself with your entrance and now, starts to slide his length in. Ever since your last orgasm, you'd hinged on his counter for the moment his cock would stretch you out, but even if your eyes blindly followed his shifts, you'd got lost in his confession. The sheer honesty and sincerity brimming in his eyes as he said so, his last words to you before you reconnect again as one. 

A frantic hand jumps to secure yourself on one plane of his shoulder, a sharp inhale sucking in all frigid air of his office into your shaken lungs, the bitten back moan he lets slip flooding the glide of his length, inches sparingly used. Yet the thought of being split open remains alive and well. 

"You're good, you can take it." 

It's one of his sentences that doesn't reek of condescension, the kind of sugary encouragement you can't help but want to do your best for, relying on your practiced methods of breathing and trying to relax. Except to accommodate to his size, you're gripping and adjusting, depleting his ability to be gentle with you. In the adjustments you make, one sentence lurks in the misty halls of his mind as he only gives as much as you can take, a hand and grazed-thumb on your hip to ground you. 

"What I'd do to stuff your hole full of me right now…"

Luckily, he doesn't have to do anything. Living up to your words, the inches continue to disappear, the sorest sight for his centuries-vision filled eyes, shoulders coming down in relief with a mouth ajar. Your hand's over the lower half of your stomach, not exposed by your shirt, but Sunghoon knows. 

You feel him there. 

"Remind me," he huffs, stalling for your adjustment, the stretch as delicious as it is a dance around torture. "You take what like a champ?"

Sunghoon gets a kick out of it, this you already know. Somehow, it still makes your jaw tick, the weight cramped in you, making friends with your lower stomach is colossal, enough for an eye twitch and a sharp head turn in his direction.

"Your cock," every word spoken has a letter with a centre part, the disapproving head shake you do continued as your hips shift, leaking tip grinding up into the spongy spot you keen at. "Now move, before I fuck you." 

Sunghoon's sorely mistaken. Painfully hard, yet he still continues ─ cat and mouse game too good to give up. 

"All bark, no bite," he muses, eyes in false moon crescent, hips pulling back to offload the fill of your entrance. "Leave that to the real vampire, huh?" 

Of course he'd leave you with that. Provide you some relief before he eases back into you again, grin shit-eating but eyes attentive, making sure this is pleasurable for you, to which it becomes. Accommodation is never easy, no matter how frequently you fuck, but he makes every grit of your teeth worth it. Falls into slow deep breaths you unknowingly follow and unwind with, moves his cock in and out at any pace you're comfortable with kisses you through it all, praises seared into the skin his lips meet.

A tempo builds, meek whimpers whispered into the hollow of his neck now barely contained moans. Your arms form a loose circle around his shoulders, the groans and whines he saves for your ears swirling a sickening pit of lust in your stomach.

"If only─hmph," you struggle, nails pressing into the fabric of his coat. "You put your mouth to better, fuck ─ use."

Past your ear, his laugh is bright. "You're bewitched,"

The smack of his pelvis against the back of your thighs teases your own teeth into his shoulder, whimpers releasing instead. 

"Are my fangs all I'm good for?"

Turns out, you have your own timing. Comedic timing, it seems, because when you pry from him, mourning the loss of his cool skin, your eyes peer down between your legs. At the cock he uses with you as priority, a simmered sensation you unwind to, wetness drenching his length as the faint bulge of his tip makes itself known. 

"You're good for other things too."

"Unbelievable," you hear your partner laugh, light and breathy because he's so fine-tuned to the human experience, large hands setting themselves up firm against your hips. "Now, if you will, let me do for what I'm good for."

Like you've always known him to be, he prides himself on his craft, making good of his word as he starts pistoning into you, the grind of his pelvis notching against your clit to make you squeal, his shoulders fastened to as the back of your thighs echo with your indecency. You're choking on moans, trying to keep noise to a minimal, but how can you when your vampire boyfriend knows you best? Knows what angle generates current in your body, what pace has you doubling over, holding him because the building pleasure is too immense for how contained your body feels? Knows when to flip the switch with you, the grounding presence you need or the kind that presses you into the ground. 

"My perfect girl," he murmurs, a soothing hand cascading down the back of your head. "I'll never get over how good you feel." 

He isn't the former for long, sheep's skin shed when your eyes start glossing over, legs hooked round his waist with your toes curled, tears of ecstasy saturating his coat's shoulder. How can he when you're basically offering yourself to him, enough distance created for your hands to support you from behind, neck craned for his taking. 

"Is this what you're into?" he asks, the outline of his body unfair under layers of clothing as his cock stuffs you full. "Do you fantasize about being feed on because you feed off the pleasure and pain?" 

You could consider his question, answer truthfully wherever it lies. However, you're a bit preoccupied. The one or two things he's good for working against you, reducing you to a worthless pile of mush, the same matter made of your brain, melted and spilling out your ears, hearing stifled. 

"Answer me." 

Your throat works, suddenly so dry with a swallow for saliva to quench some thirst, vision fuzzy as you fight off the impending doom. 

Not now, not yet. 

"Yes," you respond. "I'm into it because─" 

He notches himself with a particular force, one you do a withered whimper at, pupils shaking as they blow over your iris' ring. 

"Because it's with you," your hand's on his jaw, holding him firm as you add on. "I have a you fetish." 

"Fuck," there's a hitch in Sunghoon's thrusts, a slight hiccup when he disintegrates at your words, head hung only to come back up with the brightest smile on his face. The one you could spend eternity looking at. "You're such a tease." 

"A pretty, sloppy, needy─" emphasis in his stupidly seductive tone matches with the brute of his thrusts, concentrated and attuned to what'll make you break. "─tease." 

Against your forehead, his own falls, a kiss shared as his low body temperature attempts to dial back yours, the coil in your stomach too hot for you to function.

"Good thing you're close because I am too," he nods, one last kiss before he asks. "Do I have the honours?"

It's one of the easiest yes' you'll utter. 

"Always." 

What you could compare the initial seconds of Sunghoon feeding from you to is a piercing. The clamminess of your palms, an escalated heart rate even if you'd mentally prepared for the moment and eyes incapable of focusing. To gain it back, your only function boils down to managing your breaths as anticipation itches beneath your skin.

Then, it happens. 

A momentary flicker of pain, sharpened enamel piercing through skin and sinking, nestling where no vitals are endangered. It's minor, so minor it's forgotten the second after it's felt, the burst of euphoria incomprehensible. Words fail to explain the phenomenon, amounting to a standard you're on a constant chase for, bewitched as Sunghoon so lovingly puts it, him just the same ─ if not worse off ─ as he shamelessly moans at the taste, the vague waft of blood's metallic scent replaced with the blanket of his linen scent. 

Blood and sex are so intertwined, mentioned previously by Sunghoon. And while he'd said this in response to you, the words ring truest for him, a broken moan vibrating into your skin as his hips start rutting, erratic as he surges towards his orgasm. His priority forever and always, he wedges his hand between your bodies, your clit played with to bring you to a similar pace, something like come coating your walls as you squeeze his cock one last time, a cry from your lips before you come undone. 

Eventually, he relents, having had his fill with a pry he holds your body up for, still dazed from the aphrodisiac-like remedy in his venom to seal your skin together. When the world stops moving in separate circles, you catch sight of his fangs, coated in the rich crimson of your blood, only having the energy for a lazy smile before he sorts you two out. An eventual knock echoes at his door, Sunghoon spitting the last of Pearl Bite toothpaste out his mouth, fangs like brand new as you two feign normalcy. 

Like he hadn't fed from you, or how his vampire-equivalent to come isn't leaking between your crossed thighs. 

Just another day at Sunghoon's practice. 

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That word honest lands like something sharp. You think about the agent call, standing outside the campus café with your hand over your mouth trying not to cry in public, how the first person you called was Pen because you needed someone who would just scream with you for a minute before the practical thoughts arrived. You called Marcus second. You wanted him to scream with you too.

He didn’t scream with you.

“I should go,” you say.

“You’re upset.”

“I’m fine.”

“You always say you’re fine when you’re—”

“Marcus.” You pick up your bag. “I’m breaking up with you.”

The silence that follows is the silence of someone who did not see it coming, which tells you something about how differently the last six months have looked from his side versus yours.

“You’re being dramatic,” he says finally.

“Okay.”

“You’ll feel differently when you’ve calmed down.”

“Maybe,” you say, which is the kindest thing you can offer him right now.

“You’ll come back,” he says, and he says it the way someone states a fact — no cruelty in it, just total certainty — and something about that, more than anything else he’s said, makes you absolutely sure that you won’t.

You close his door quietly behind you. You sit in your car for three minutes in the parking lot. Then you drive to Pen’s, and you sit on her kitchen floor, you let yourself feel it for exactly one hour before you get up and make tea and tell her you’ll be fine and you mean it.

Two weeks later you are doing considerably better, by which you mean you have not thought about Marcus in at least four hours when Pen texts you from outside the rink.

Pen: 4-1 we are WINNING

You’re cross-legged on her couch with a script and a highlighter and approximately no intention of moving because you have an audition callback next week and the Sondheim is not going to learn itself. You send back a string of celebration emojis and go back to your lines.

Twenty minutes later your phone rings. Not Pen — Jake, which is unusual enough that you pick up.

“Hey,” you say. “Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

“We are.” His voice has the particular warmth of someone who’s just won something. “Listen, there’s an after party at the house. Jay and I are heading over now. You coming?”

You open your mouth to say no. You have a callback. You have a script. You are a responsible person with priorities.

“Pen’s already going,” Jake adds.

“She didn’t text me.”

“She probably figured you were studying.”

You look at your highlighter. You look at the script. You think about Marcus’s voice saying you’ll come back with total certainty, and you think about how you have been on this couch for six days straight except for class and rehearsal.

“Who’s Jay?” you say.

“Park Jongseong. Defenseman, plays left side. You’d like him, he’s a menace.” A beat. “Good menace.”

“Text me the address,” you say.

You don’t tell Pen you’re coming. This is partly because you want to surprise her and partly because she will ask why you didn’t just come to the game and you don’t have an answer for that. You pull up to the house and it’s already heaving — lights on every floor, bass you can feel from the driveway, the controlled chaos of a team that’s just won something.

Jake meets you at the door with Jay at his shoulder, who is, as advertised, a menace — tall, sharp-eyed, grinning at you like he already knows something.

“So you’re the theatre friend,” Jay says.

“So you’re the left defenseman,” you say back.

“Jake said you’d have a comeback ready.”

“Jake was right.”

Jay laughs, which you decide means he passes, and Jake hands you a drink and steers you inside and you take a long sip and let the party close around you like water.

This is what you’re good at. This — noise and people and the specific relief of being in a room full of strangers who don’t know anything about you. You talk to everyone.

You make a girl you’ve never met laugh so hard she spills her drink and then feels bad about it and then laughs harder. You debate the zombie apocalypse with two of Jake’s teammates and have opinions so specific they go quiet and stare at you before immediately taking your side. You are three drinks in before you clock that you haven’t thought about Marcus or the callback or any of it in over an hour.

You find Pen in the living room and she makes a noise like she’s been electrocuted. “You’re here—”

“Surprise.”

“Jake said you were studying—”

“I was,” you say. “Then I wasn’t.”

She grabs your face between her hands and looks at you the way she does when she’s deciding if you’re okay and you give her your most convincing everything is fine smile and she squints at you for two seconds and then pulls you into a hug.

“I’m glad you came,” she says.

“Me too,” you say, and mostly mean it.

She gets pulled back toward Jake eventually — he finds her across rooms like he’s got a compass pointed at her, which you find both extremely sweet and a little annoying in the way that genuinely lovely things sometimes are — and you drift toward the makeshift dance floor because someone has finally put on something worth moving to and your body has been sitting still for two weeks.

You dance the way you do everything — fully, unselfconsciously. The drinks have done their job and you’re warm and loose and the bass is good and you stop thinking in words for a while. Someone dances near you and then with you briefly and then peels off, and you don’t mind, you keep moving.

Then there’s a different presence behind you. Larger. Certain of itself.

Hands find your hips and you almost turn around and then you don’t, because whoever this is knows what they’re doing — the grip is confident without being grabby, and they fall into your rhythm immediately, like they’ve been watching long enough to know it. The proximity sends something electric up your spine.

You keep dancing. You let him.

His hands pull you back incrementally and you go, and his mouth drops to the curve of your neck — not kissing, just close, breath warm on your skin — and you think: I know who this is. You’ve felt this specific quality of attention before, at games, across kitchens, in hallways.

You turn around.

Lee Heeseung looks at you like you’re the answer to something he’s been working out all night. Up close he’s a lot — dark-eyed and flushed from the win and the heat of the room, watching you like you’re the only person he can see.

“Captain,” you say.

“Theatre kid,” he says back.

You keep dancing, facing him now, and somewhere in the next song his hand slides from your hip to the small of your back and you let it and he is very beautiful and you have decided, in the specific way you make decisions when you’re four drinks in, that you are going to stop pretending this isn’t interesting.

“You weren’t at the game,” he says, mouth close to your ear.

“No.”

“Jake said you might come to the party.”

“Jake is very persuasive.”

“I’ll tell him that. He’ll be insufferable.”

You laugh and his hand tightens at your back, like your laugh does something to him, and then he pulls back enough to look at you and whatever’s on your face makes something shift in his expression — the easy performance of it dropping for just a second.

“Hey,” he says. Quieter. “You okay?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that.”

“Because you’ve been dancing like you’re trying to outrun something for the last forty minutes.”

You look at him. You’re a performer — you know what it is to be watched by someone who’s actually paying attention, and Heeseung is paying attention, and the accuracy of what he just said lands somewhere under your sternum.

“I broke up with my boyfriend two weeks ago,” you say. Surprised to hear yourself say it.

“Yeah?” Waiting. No particular reaction.

“He said I’d come back.” You hold his gaze. “I’m not going back.”

Heeseung looks at you for a moment. “No. You don’t seem like someone who goes back.”

The song changes. You’re barely dancing anymore. His hand is still at the small of your back and you’re close enough to feel the warmth coming off him.

“Heeseung,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Take me upstairs.”

The room is dim — one lamp in the corner, door shut, the party dropping to a muffled pulse below. He turns to face you and for a second you just look at each other, and then he crosses the space and kisses you.

It’s slow at first. Both hands framing your face, mouth working against yours. You grip the front of his shirt and kiss him back and he makes a low sound against your mouth that you feel in your stomach.

The kiss gets deeper — he tilts your head back and takes the angle he wants and you let him, open for him, tongue sliding against his, messy and warm and real. He pulls back to drag his mouth along your jaw, your throat, and you tip your head to give him room.

“Bed,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says, and walks you back to it.

He sits you on the edge and his hands slide up your sides — slow, deliberate — and stop at your chest. Both of them. Full.

You inhale sharply.

“Fuck,” he breathes, more to himself than you. His thumbs drag over your tits, testing, squeezing, like he’s been thinking about this. “Yeah. I’ve thought about this.”

His grip tightens — not rough, but not gentle either — and then he leans down and kisses you again while his hands work you, thumbs brushing over your nipples through your bra until you arch into him.

“Sensitive?” he murmurs.

You nod.

“Good.”

He pulls your top and bra down and his mouth replaces his hands — warm and open, taking your tit into his mouth, tongue circling your nipple before he sucks, harder than you expected. You gasp, back arching off the mattress. His other hand stays on your other breast, squeezing, rolling your nipple between his fingers, alternating between slow and sharp until you have your hands in his hair and your eyes at the ceiling and absolutely no remaining composure.

“Heeseung—”

“I know,” he says, not looking up. He drags his teeth lightly over your nipple as he pulls away and you shiver. Then he drops to his knees.

He gets your jeans off and pulls you to the edge of the mattress and then his mouth is on your inner thigh and he is in absolutely no hurry. He maps up slowly — open-mouthed, teeth occasionally — and you prop yourself on your elbows and watch him because you are not going to miss this. He glances up and catches you looking and the almost-smile you get is genuinely unfair.

When he finally gets to your pussy it’s without preamble — flat of his tongue, one long stroke, and the breath punches out of you. Then he settles in. He learns you fast: what makes your hips stutter, what makes you grab for him. His tongue works your clit in slow circles and then quick and then slow again, and when he slides two fingers into you and curls them against your walls you make a sound you’re not sorry about.

“There,” you say.

He keeps going there. His mouth stays on your clit and his fingers work that spot and you grab his hair — not directing, just holding on — and you feel it building fast, hot, unstoppable.

“Heeseung—”

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t need you to guide him or recalibrate or any of the things you’ve had to do before — he just reads you and responds and keeps going until your thighs are shaking against his shoulders and you’re coming, your whole body pulling taut and releasing in waves while he works you through every second of it.

He stands, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and you pull him into a kiss before he’s finished moving.

“Your turn,” you say.

You get his shirt off and run your hands over his chest, his stomach. He’s beautiful and he knows it and somehow right now that’s not annoying. You get his jeans down and wrap your hand around his cock and the sharp intake of breath you get is the most satisfying sound you’ve heard all night. You stroke him slowly, watching his face — the composed expression cracking, jaw tight, eyes darker — and you could do this for a while just for that, but you want him inside you and you’re done waiting.

He rolls a condom on and then he’s between your thighs looking down at you, and you look back, and there’s a second of something real and unperformed before he presses into you.

The breath punches out of both of you.

He goes still, and you feel the stretch of him and grab his shoulder on reflex, and he says low, “good?”

“So good,” you say. “Move.”

He starts slow and deep, each thrust deliberate, his hand sliding back up to your chest — gripping your tits like he can’t help it.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “I’m not getting over this.”

He picks up his pace and you feel every stroke of it against your walls and his thumb finds your nipple and works it and the combination makes coherent thought genuinely difficult. He watches your face while he fucks you and you let him look because whatever’s on your face right now is the most honest thing in the room.

He adjusts his angle and hits deeper and your back arches.

“Keep doing that,” you say.

He keeps doing that, harder, his other hand braced to hold you exactly where he wants you, until you cum around him with your nails in his back and he groans at the feeling of it.

You push him onto his back and he goes easy, hands settling at your hips. You sink down onto him and you both exhale. You start moving and his eyes drop to your chest immediately, hands coming up to grip your tits while you ride him, his head tipping back.

“Don’t stop,” he says.

His thumb finds your clit and circles it, perfectly timed with your rhythm, and you don’t last — you cum again with your rhythm breaking and he grips your hips and starts thrusting up into you, chasing it, control slipping.

He flips you without warning. On your stomach, his hand pressing into your lower back, setting the angle.

“Stay,” he says, breath uneven.

You do. And then you push back anyway.

That wrecks him.

“Fuck—” He loses the last of his control, fucking you harder, his voice rough and real and completely unlike the easy composed thing he is everywhere else. He buries himself and comes, body going rigid, and you feel every second of it.

You both go still.

The party thumps somewhere below you. The lamp throws everything amber. He rolls off you and you both lie there and breathe, and then you start laughing — not for any reason, just a release valve, just the sheer absurdity of this night — and after a beat he laughs too, genuine and unguarded, and it makes you like him a little more than you meant to.

“What’s funny,” he says.

“I genuinely don’t know,” you say.

The laughter settles. Ceiling. Quiet.

“How come I’ve never fucked you before?” he says. Conversational.

“I’m more of a relationship girl,” you say. Then you hear yourself say it and something shifts. “Or I was. I’ve been a relationship girl since I was like seventeen and honestly I think that’s the problem. I go from one to the next and I never just — “ you gesture at nothing “— exist. By myself. Without someone who has opinions about my life choices and whether my career is realistic and—” you stop. “Sorry. That was a lot.”

“No,” he says. He’s watching you with that full-beam attention that you’re starting to understand is just how he listens. “Keep going.”

“I just mean I don’t want another relationship right now. I want to have fun. I want to focus on my work and go out and not have to check in with anyone.” You pause. “That probably sounds—”

“Normal?” he says.

“I was going to say selfish.”

“Same thing sometimes.” He’s quiet for a second, easy, unbothered. “So do that.”

“I am,” you say. “I’m doing that.”

“Good.” A beat. Then: “We could help each other out. While you’re doing that.”

You look at him. “No strings?”

“No strings,” he confirms. “You’ve got your thing, I’ve got the season. Neither of us wants anything complicated.”

You look at him for a long moment. He looks back and doesn’t try to sell it, doesn’t push, just lets it sit there as a plain offer, take it or leave it.

You reach for your phone off the nightstand.

Hey, don’t wait up. I’ll see you in the morning x

Pen’s reply comes back in under a minute. A single question mark. You lock your phone and put it face-down and look at Heeseung.

He’s already watching you, and before you can say anything he reaches over and pulls you in by the jaw and kisses you — slow, no urgency, like you’ve got all night, which you do — and you go easily, your hand finding his chest, and that’s the end of the talking.

Being known, really known— was a luxury you hadn’t felt in months. See, people often offer a shallow kind of knowing, in passing conversations, careful dates— but nothing feels as authentic as crashing and burning in someone’s arms until you’re just loose limbs and flesh.

A few months ago— 18 to be exact— someone remembered how you took your coffee; someone knew that every time you were about to say something cruel, you tilted your head ever so slightly. And after that kind of intimacy, everything else felt like surface noise— like bodies that never quite fit the hollow spaces he had left behind.

You had grown used to the ache of it, almost comfortable in its familiarity. Even so, some nights you still woke up reaching for a warmth that wasn’t there, cursing yourself for the weakness.

With that lingering emptiness came the decision to join the study; a well-paid psychological experiment on intimacy and cognition. Six hours. One stranger. Clinical detachment in silk robes and signed consents— maybe it was a way to prove to yourself that you could still be touched without falling apart.

Because what is worse? Never being known again? Or never being felt again, in the fear of it?

You’d found the ad late one sleepless night, scrolling through a discreet forum for research participants. “Seeking emotionally mature adults for a paid study on human connection and decision-making under controlled conditions. Generous compensation. Strict confidentiality.” It felt clinical enough to be safe, intriguing enough to tame the voice in your head that whispered you were only doing this because you were awfully lonely.

You’d hesitated, of course. For days you left the tab open, rereading the description, weighing the risk against the numbness that had settled in your bones since the breakup.

What if the stranger is awful?

What if their hands feel wrong?

What if being touched by someone who doesn’t know you only makes the emptiness louder?

The apprehension sat heavy in your stomach— being touched without being known sounded almost clinical, transactional; skin on skin with no history, no shorthand, no one who understood that you liked your neck kissed softly at first, then harder when you started to tremble. Just a body. A stranger’s hands mapping territory that once belonged to someone else.

And yet, here you were. Because after eighteen months of dating apps and god-awful dinners that led nowhere, the idea of feeling something— even if it was manufactured— felt better than feeling nothing at all.

In the sleek waiting room that felt more like a high-end spa than a laboratory— a calm woman in a white coat greeted you with a smile. “Good afternoon, y/n. I’m Dr. Ellis. You’ll be subject A today.”

“Subject A?” you asked, clearing your throat awkwardly.

All around you— it felt less like the reception area of a research facility and more like the lounge of an impossibly expensive wellness retreat. Soft amber light spilled from recessed fixtures hidden within the ceiling, casting a gentle glow over pale stone floors and curved ivory walls that were so seamless they looked sculpted rather than built. Minimalist furniture sat deliberately spaced apart— cream armchairs, glass tables with no visible joints, and a single arrangement of pristine white orchids that seemed almost too perfect to be real.

There were no reception desks cluttered with paperwork, no ticking clocks, no magazines left on tables; instead, sleek touchscreens were embedded discreetly into the walls, their displays dim until someone approached.

Everything about the space had been designed to soothe, yet its perfection felt strangely unsettling, as though every texture, every light, and every silence had been calcutated long before you arrived.

“It’s simply how we identify participants during the study.” the woman smiled oddly.

“So there’s a Subject B.”

“There is.” she fiddled with some papers, like this was all normal and nothing to be concerned about.

“Am I.. supposed to know who they are?”

“No.”

You considered the situation, what could go wrong, right? It’s not like your life had anything to celebrate, you hadn’t taken any risks in a long long time— and surely this one was undeniably huge but the point still stands.

“Do they know who I am?” you asked.

“No they don’t.” she simply shook her head, “Before we begin, I need you to review and sign these consent forms.”

She slid a tablet across the low table. “The session lasts six hours in a controlled environment. You’ll be paired with another participant— someone we’ve matched based on compatibility metrics. Instructions will appear on a screen, and remember ! You are free to give or withdraw verbal consent at each stage, but full participation is required to receive payment.”

You scanned the dense paragraphs, heart picking up speed. “And… what exactly is the goal of this? The real one, I mean.”

Dr. Ellis folded her hands. “We’re studying how prior emotional experiences influence physiological and psychological responses during guided intimacy. Arousal patterns, decision-making, emotional regulation. It’s part sexology, part attachment research really. Everything is recorded for data purposes— biometrics, audio—but visual privacy is maintained within the room. You’ll wear a silk robe provided and no personal information will be exchanged unless the protocol requires it.”

After a pause, you signed and surprisingly your hand barely trembled. You’d thought about it a lot, it seemed like the right path to take— as controversial as that sounds— you wanted, needed, to feel something.

“Excellent. There’s a changing room just through that door. Remove your clothing, put on the robe, and we’ll proceed once you’re ready y/n.”

You stood in front of the full-length mirror of the changing room for a long moment, letting the robe hang open. Your eyes traced the familiar lines of your body: the curve of your waist, the faint marks time had left, the places his mouth used to worship. He used to kiss right here, you thought, fingertips brushing your hip. Like he was memorizing me.

You closed the robe, tied the belt with deliberate care, and stepped back out.

Dr. Ellis waited with a black silk blindfold. “This is for the transition, it helps reduce pre-session anxiety.” She tied it gently behind your head.

The world went dark, soft and complete all the while her hand rested lightly on your arm as she guided you forward. “Breathe normally. The room is private— audio monitored for consent and safety, but no visual feed inside. You’ll be fine.”

With that lingering emptiness still wrapped around your ribs like smoke, Dr. Ellis guided you forward one last time. The blindfold stayed firmly in place as you were led through a final door. Cool air brushed against your bare legs beneath the silk robe they had given you—thin, luxurious, and far too intimate for what this was supposed to be. You heard the soft click of another door closing behind you, the lock sliding into place with quiet finality.

You stood there, heart thudding slow and heavy, the world reduced to darkness and the faint scent of clean linen and warm skin. “We’ll proceed now,” she said quietly, and then her footsteps retreated. The door clicked shut.

Silence.

You sat there, nervousness making your fingers fiddle with the edge of the robe. The fabric whispered against your thighs as you crossed your legs, uncrossed them, heart hammering. Sensory deprivation made every sound louder: the air circulation, the mechanical click of something locking into place. Then footsteps approached from the opposite side of the room— measured, familiar in weight?

And … that scent— cedar and warm skin, with the faintest trace of the same cologne only he used to wear. You’d recognize it anywhere, god— even in a crowded room, even after all this time. It was all a cruel joke, a stranger wearing his scent like it was the most normal thing ever.

Then, gently, almost carefully, you removed the blindfold from your eyes.

There was no stranger, no unknown— because the man who sat before you, blond hair tousled, ditching his own blindfold— was only a person you knew too well.

Riki. Nishimura Riki.

The man you’d loved for so many years looked… healthy, the same way you’d always remembered him— his posture still effortlessly straight, shoulders broad beneath the silk robe, dyed hair had grown just enough to soften around his forehead, a few loose strands falling carelessly where you knew he’d brush them back without thinking.

Time had sharpened him in beautiful ways— his jaw a little more defined, the lines around his eyes ever so slightly deeper—but none of it was enough to make him unfamiliar.

He was still unmistakably Riki. The kind of face you’d once memorized in every light imaginable, from mornings to nights, now standing only a few feet away as if eighteen months had been nothing more than a badly remembered dream.

And somehow— it turned out that time had done everything except teach your heart who to belong to. You looked at each other the way abandoned homes remember their owners.

It was a peculiar kind of silence really —the kind reserved for funerals, churches, and people who had once known the shape of each other’s souls. No sharp breaths. No widened eyes in shock. No words at all actually. Just the heavy, crushing weight of recognition settling between you like fog.

Somehow, despite everything, the years folded themselves away— and god, it was almost insulting, how quickly it happened. Like someone familiar taking their old seat, you looked at him, he looked back— and there was no anger left. Only evidence that there had once been too much love.

Tears built slowly in your eyes, inevitable, blurring the sharp familiar lines of his jaw, the curse of his mouth.

His own eyes glistened in answer, water gathering there and a single tear tracing down his cheek before he brushed it away wordlessly, almost absentmindedly.

And god… you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

Even if the world had caught fire around you, your gaze remained locked on Riki’s face. The tears that had been building finally slipped free, tracing warm paths down your cheeks, but you made no move to wipe them away. He didn’t either— instead, a small, broken smile curved his lips through the tears— ssad, aching, and so painfully familiar it twisted something deep inside your chest.

It wasn’t a happy smile, it was the kind of smile that carried every quiet moment when he must have wondered the same thing you did: What if we had fought harder?

God, this fucking hurt.

After a long silence, you lifted a trembling hand toward the mirrored wall without breaking eye contact with him. Your voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“There’s been a mistake…”

No response. No voice crackled through a hidden speaker. No footsteps outside the door.

Eventually, the large screen on the far wall lit up with soft white light and an automated, calm female voice filled the room, utterly detached:

“Subject A and Subject B have been paired based on compatibility metrics. You may not leave the room for six hours and you must follow every instruction in sequence. Refusal ends the session and forfeits payment. Verbal consent will be recorded at each escalation. Reiterate consent to proceed.”

The words landed like stones in still water.

You felt your breath hitch— this couldn’t be happening. A bitter, broken laugh almost escaped your throat, but it died before it could form, instead tears kept falling.

Riki’s smile faded slowly, replaced by something else. unguarded; he swallowed hard, jaw tightening, another tear slipping down his cheek and his hands flexed at his sides almost automatically, as if fighting the instinct to reach for you. He gave the smallest nod— barely there—his dark eyes never leaving yours. His voice, when it came, was low and rough, thick with emotion.

“I consent.” It’s almost as if he hadn’t even needed to think about it twice, an instinct, or more-so the lack of a survival one.

In response, you closed your eyes for half a second, overwhelmed. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. When you opened them again, Riki was still watching you with that same devastating patience— the same intensity that had once made you feel like the only person alive.

You didn’t want to leave.

Even after all this, even with the clinical voice echoing in your ears and the weight of eighteen months crashing down in one devastating instant, the thought of walking out felt impossible. Because if you left now— if you said no and ended the session— there was no guarantee you would ever see him again. No guarantee that life would ever grant you this kind of impossible second chance. The universe had already been cruel enough to rip him away once.

What were the odds it would ever align like this again? Zero. None.

You thought about the empty months stretching behind you. The way every new touch from anyone else had felt like a pale imitation— the way you still reached for him in your sleep. Walking out might protect your heart in the short term, but it would condemn you to wondering what if for the rest of your life.

Because of that, staying felt like the only sane choice. Even if it destroyed you, even if it tore open every wound you had tried so desperately to stitch shut. At least here, in this sterile room with its one-way mirrors and biometric sensors, you would have six hours. Six hours of him. Six hours where science itself forced you close enough to breathe the same air, to remember what it felt like to be known.

Strangely enough, the mechanics of it all made the decision feel almost fated— the locked doors, the no-escape clause, the payment dangling like an excuse you could hide behind later. Because of course, you had bills to pay, you had a broken washing machine, and loans to pay off.

It wasn’t my choice, you could tell yourself. The experiment made me stay.

But deep down you knew the truth, so you drew in a shaky breath, eyes still locked on his. “I consent,” you whispered, voice cracking.

The automated voice responded immediately, neutral and efficient: “Consent recorded for both subjects. Stage one will begin in thirty seconds.”

Riki’s gaze softened further, that heartbreaking little smile flickering back to life for just a moment— sad, tender, as if he knew exactly what storm was raging inside you. As if he was fighting the exct same one.

The automated voice returned, slicing through the thick silence: “Stage one: Sit facing each other on the bed, two feet apart.”

Without hesitation, you moved first, your legs felt unsteady as you crossed the short distance to the large bed. The mattress dipped softly under your weight. Riki followed in one smooth motion, settling directly across from you. Exactly two feet.

Close enough to feel him, far enough to not reach.

You looked at each other and in response, his eyes— those dark, familiar eyes—held yours without flinching. You were shaking, you couldn’t stop it— your hands rested on your thighs, fingers curled tightly into the silk robe, trying to anchor yourself.

“Maintain eye contact for ten minutes while answering researcher questions aloud,” the voice instructed.

The first question appeared on the screen. “Describe your history with this person in one sentence.”

Riki went first— ever the bravest; he swallowed hard, throat working visibly and his voice came out hesitant, cracking under the weight of emotion.

“She was my… my first love.”

After a pause, it was your turn— inevitably you’d have to talk, to purge yourself of this unpleasant feeling. But god were you petty…

“He was someone I knew very well. We um… used to date.”

Even then, the words felt like a lie on your tongue, too small to contain the entirety of him. You didn’t date— you felt, and you broke, you crashed hundreds of times with each other like planets colliding— as dramatic as it all sounds. It had been nothing short of a destruction.

But the voice moved on to the next question. “What is your strongest memory of them?”

You spoke first this time, the memory rising unbidden.

“The day we broke up,” you said slowly, voice trembling. “How quiet it got, i guess.”

Riki’s eyes shimmered as hi jaw tightened. When he answered, his voice was barely above a whisper,

“I remember watching her cry because of me.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks again but you didn’t bother wiping them. They were the same that had fallen that night, after what seemed like the hundredth fight.

“What do you still feel when you look at them?”

That cruel voice stripped you bare until suddenly— you were there, saying things you’d never thought you’d say.

“The same thing I feel looking at someone I used to know… I don’t know, familiarity I guess… stuff I thought I outgrew.”

Riki looked surprised, not by your confession— but more by your stability, the way you kept walls all around you, walls he’d teared down long before and you’d quickly rebuilt.

“The happiest part of my life.” he answered.

You wanted to agree; god knew you wanted to, but you couldn’t. Agreeing would mean defeat and defeat would mean you had something to loose. The years you’d spent with Riki had been your happiest too, a lifetime of laughter, pleasure and complicity… but still, that had never been enough.

The questions continued mercilessly, like a vague health questionnaire. “Do you consider this person a part of your past, present, or future?”

“Past,” you said quickly, without giving it a thought.

Riki shook his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours. “I don’t think you can put someone like her in one category.”

Had he thought about it a lot? Had he spent hours staring at the ceiling wondering whether you were a thing of memories, or a constant? Because you had— but that wasn’t something you were ready to admit.

“Do you believe your feelings for this person are resolved?”

“No,” Riki answered immediately.

“Yes.” you said. He wasn’t even offended— because the thing with people who know you existentially, is that they can tell when you’re lying.

Riki knew you, knew how your tongue loved to tell tales, how you couldn’t even help it— that’s just the way you were, way too proud for your own good.

But thankfully, he was honest enough for the both of you.

“What part of your connection with this person do you not miss?”

You swallowed. “Feeling like I had to wait for someone who was always somewhere else.”

Riki’s expression crumpled slightly. “The moments when I made her feel alone.”

“And what part of your connection with this person do you miss the most?”

Too many possibilities tangled in your mind, where to begin? Would you be shameless enough to say you missed the way his hands fit against your cheeks? The way he knew your defence mechanisms like the back of his hand? The way he’d never blamed you for how loud and how inhibited you were?

There were an infinity of things to say— but all that came were grudges.

“The way I used to be before him.”

Riki’s voice softened, letting out a small breathy chuckle, truly amused by your ability to dodge the real questions. “I miss the ordinary things. Just… existing in the same space.”

“Do you believe this person knows you?”

“He used to.”

“Yes,” the man said without hesitation. “Still does.”

Did you though?

“What do you believe they should apologize for?”

“Nothing.” The word left your lips too quickly.

Riki took a shaky breath. “For thinking she had to leave before I could hurt her again.”

“Do you forgive this person?”

You nodded, “yes”

Dr. Ellis’s voice came through the speaker for the first time, gentle but probing. “Do you mean that, y/n ?”

You answered tightly, “I said yes.”

Riki’s gaze was steady, full of sorrow. “I don’t have anything to forgive her for.”

He did— god he did, but he was so good, too good to say it.

“Did your physical response change when you first saw them?”

“No,” you said, but the heart-rate monitor attached to your chest beeped sharply, the line spiking on the screen.

Dr. Ellis spoke again. “Your monitor indicates otherwise.”

Maybe the monitor was right— your heart seemed to be beating out of your chest, but to your credit? It was hot inside that room, and your robe was too tight.

“Then it’s inaccurate,” you muttered, voice tight with frustration.

Riki’s answer? It was simple, “Yes.”

“And were you surprised by your reaction?” the voice prompted.

“No.” you shook your head.

Dr. Ellis asked, “Why?”

“Because I expected it to happen,” you replied, almost absentmindedly brushing a tear from your cheek.

That was a lie, (once again), you hadn’t even expected to be confronted to so many things today, you thought. you were in for a new experience, a way of feeling a little bit.

Instead you were feeling way too damn much.

When it was his turn, Riki answered, “Yes… I thought i was over it.”

The final questions landed like blows. Too much, too precise.

“Do you still love them?”

You didn’t even think about it— maybe if you had you would’ve said the truth, “No.”

Riki’s voice broke completely on his answer. “Yes.”

“If this person asked you to stay, would you?”

“No.”

Your ex lover looked at you for a long moment, eyes glistening. “I don’t know.”

Dr. Ellis prompted gently, “You don’t know?”

“Because I’d want to,” he finished, voice barely holding together.

See, anyone listening could think you were indifferent— cold, but youd spent eighteen months learning how to live without him, not eighteen months learning how to stop feeling. This was more or less your way of removing pieces of yourself before anyone else could touch them, before it could cause damage.

You refused to give the past anything soft to hold onto, because once this was over— once the 6 hours were done, there would be no excuses for you and Riki to be alone in a room dancing around feelings.

“Stage two: Touch only hands and arms. Trace each other’s arms, shoulders, and face. Maintain eye contact. Answer all questions aloud.”

After a long silence, you both moved toward the center of the bed like an evidence, you told yourself it was for the money but in all honesty? You’d die if Nishimura Riki didn’t touch you right now.

As if any sudden motion might shatter the fragile tension holding you together, you sat facing each other, knees almost brushing.

Riki lifted his hands first, palms up in quiet offering and you placed yours over his wordlessly.

The moment your skin met, everything got louder in your head.

Riki’s fingers trembled against yours— the old electricity was instant and terrifying, familiar, dangerous and terribly alive. It raced up your arms like lightning remembering its favorite path home.

Fuck, you thought, breath catching. This is too much.

The screen lit up with yet another invasive question.

“Rate your current arousal 1-10.”

Riki answered first, almst absentmindedly stroking his thumb across your palm.

“Eight,” he murmured. Then, softer, “Maybe nine.”

You swallowed hard, your skin was already burning where he touched you. “Seven,” you whispered.

The heart-rate monitor betrayed you instantly, the line spiking on the distant screen and in turn, the next question appeared.

“Does their touch feel different from strangers?”

You let out a shaky breath, his fingers tracing your palm slowly, carefully, following every line like he was reading a map he had once memorized by heart. There was no adequate answer; of course? obviously? definitely?

All you knew was that you hadn’t felt alive in months and his touch had given you that long-searched feeling.

“Yes,” you admitted, voice barely holding. “It feels… good.”

Riki’s eyes darkened, almost automatically, his fingertips moved to your wrist, tracing the delicate veins there with heartbreaking gentleness— his touch was warm, slightly calloused in the way you remembered, sending shivers racing across your skin.

“It feels like the only touch that’s ever made sense,” he said quietly.

Even then, the sensors were drinking it all in—pulse racing, skin conductance rising, pupils dilating. The room felt smaller; the silk robes suddenly too thin as his fingers continued their journey, slowly gliding up your forearms, tracing the sensitive inner skin with such tenderness it made your chest ache.

You followed, your hands moving to his arms. The muscle you found beneath your palms was warm and solid; yoou traced the veins on his forearms, remembering how you used to fall asleep with your head on this exact spot. God, you’d missed it, and you hated how much you’d missed it.

After a pause, the screen asked again:

“Rate your current arousal 1-10.”

“Nine,” Riki breathed, voice cracking slightly as his hands moved higher, brushing over your shoulders— his thumbs stroked along your collarbones with aching care.

You were trembling harder now. “Eight,” you managed. The lie tasted bitter— it was definitely a twenty.

His hands eventually moved to your face; in one smooth motion, he cupped your cheeks with both palms, thumbs brushing away the fresh tears that had fallen. You did the same, cradling his jaw, feeling the faint stubble beneath your fingertips.

The touch was so intimate, so full of history, that it hurt.

Somehow, despite everything, the electricity between you only grew. Terrifying. Addictive. Making it impossible to let go even for a breaths moment.

Riki’s forehead nearly rested against yours, his breath mingled with your own, “Still you,” he whispered, so softly the microphones might not have caught it. “Even after all this time… still you.”

You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. You simply kept touching him— tracing the line of his jaw, the shell of his ear, the slope of his neck, as if your hands were trying to memorize him all over again before the experiment could take this away too.

The automated voice cut through the charged air again, “Stage three: Remove robes. Kneel facing each other. Kiss only.”

You sat there for a long moment, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest. Riki’s hands were still cradling your face, thumbs brushing slow circles against your skin like he was afraid you might regret thi.

Even then, despite the clinical detachment of the room and the monitors quietly tracking every spike in your pulse, heat pooled low in your belly.

You looked around the room— making sure there were no cameras, or maybe you knew there weren’t any, but you just wanted to take a breath without feeling like the whole world was pressing inside your chest.

With that, you reached for the belt of your robe first, fingers trembling only slightly as you untied it. The silk whispered open, cool air kissing your bare skin and Riki watched you, dark eyes drinking in every inch like a man starved. Almost out of pure unbidden instinct, he mirrored you, shrugging the robe from his shoulders in one motion. The fabric pooled around your knees on the bed, forgotten.

God, he looked exactly the same— broad shoulders, the lean muscle that had always made you feel safe and wild at once, the faint trail of hair leading down from his navel. Your gaze traced lower before you could stop yourself, and heat flooded your cheeks.

You both shifted, kneeling now, facing each other in the center of the large bed. Knees brushing, close enough that the warmth radiating from his body made the air between you feel electric.

Then the voice prompted again: “Begin kissing. Maintain contact. Describe aloud what you missed most about the other’s body.”

It felt so silly— but you’d take anything, to feel his touch again.

Riki leaned in first, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away— but you didn’t. You met him halfway, and the first press of his lips was soft—hesitant, almost reverent, just a brush, warm and familiar, tasting faintly of salt from the tears still dying on both your cheeks.

Eventually your hands found his chest, palms flat against the steady thud of his heart. The kiss deepened gradually, his mouth opening against yours, tongue tracing your lower lip with care. A soft sound escaped you, half sigh, half whimper, and he swallowed it like it belonged to him.

“Describe it,” the voice reminded neutrally.

You pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth, breath mingling. “I missed… your hands. The way they’re big enough to cover so much of me at once.” Your voice cracked, but you kept going, fingers tracing down his arms. “And your mouth. And… and the way you used to kiss me like you were trying to crawl inside my skin.”

He made a low, wrecked sound in his throat and kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, devastating rhythm that made your toes curl. His hands stayed on your face for now, but you could feel the tension in them, the restraint.

Against his will, he broke the kiss just enough to whisper, “You’re so pretty. Still so goddamn pretty it hurts to look at you, my girl—” He froze, eyes widening slightly as the old endearment slipped out. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t— fuck.”

Tears welled up again in both your eyes, mixing into the kiss as your lips met once more. Salty and desperate now, the tenderness fracturing into something raw- you tasted the apology on his tongue, felt the way his breath hitched when your hands slid up to grip his shoulders.

Even so, the kiss didn’t stop— it grew deeper, hungrier, slow drags turning into wet, open-mouthed presses that left you both breathing harder. Your nipples tightened against his chest as you leaned closer, skin on skin for the first time in eighteen months, the contact earth shattering.

Riki’s hands slid into your hair exactly the way they used to— fingers threading through the strands at the nape of your neck, tugging just enough to tilt your head how he wanted. The familiarity of it made your stomach flip as h pulled you impossibly closer, forehead pressed to yours between kisses, breath hot against your swollen lips.

“This is so fucking unfair,” he whispered, voice breaking.

The screen lit up again almost immediately, the automated voice cutting in: “Subject B: Explain why you left.”

Riki stilled against you, hands still tangled in your hair and you felt his heartbeat stutter under your palm. For a long silence, he just breathed with you, eyes closed, lips brushing yours like he was gathering strength.

Oh God. . .

Finally, he spoke, strained, each word pulled out like it cost him something vital. “I left because I was terrified I’d ruin you. Because every time we fought, I saw how much it broke you, and I convinced myself you’d be better off without me fucking it all up again. I thought… if I stayed, I’d only hurt you more. So I ran like a coward. And every single day since, I’ve regretted it.”

You swallowed hard, tears slipping free again, but you didn’t pull away— instead, your fingers traced down his chest slowly, deliberately, finding the spots you knew would make him shiver— nails grazing lightly over his nipples, then lower, following the lines of his abdomen.

In turn, Riki’s hands moved too, one staying in your hair while the other slid down your back, palm warm and possessive against your spine. He knew exactly how to touch you— still. The perfect pressure, the exact rhythm that had always undone you. His fingertips danced along your sides, then lower, cupping your ass and pulling you flush against him so you could feel how hard he already was.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, kissing you deeper, tongue stroking yours with devastating precision. He knew you like no one else ever had— the way a firm tug on your hair made you melt, the way being held tight while you trembled always pushed you closer to the edge.

And you knew him just as well. Your hand slipped between you, wrapping around his cock with a slow stroke that made him groan against your lips, hips jerking forward instinctively. You weren’t even sure if you could— or if you had to follow instructions, but undoubtedly, it would be okay.

Nobody could see what you were doing anyway, how your hand moved on his length, tugging just the way he liked, thumb swiping over his tip like it had countless times before.

Somehow, despite everything, the years apart only made the knowing dangerous,evry touch loaded with memory. Every kiss felt like coming home and setting the house on fire at the same time.

The voice returned, a third wheel in the whole situation : “Stage four: Oral exploration phase. One gives, one receives. Then switch. Maintain eye contact at all times. Verbal consent required to proceed.”

You knelt there, still pressed close to Riki, his cock hard and hot against your stomach, your own arousal slick between your thighs.

After a long silence, he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes fully. “I consent,” he whispered, voice hoarse’ his thumb brushed your lower lip, tender despite everything.

You swallowed hard, heart hammering against your ribs. “I consent,” you managed.

“Excellent. Subject B will give first. Subject A, lie back. Subject B, position yourself between her legs. Begin slowly.”

With that, Riki guided you down onto the bed, the sheets were cool against your overheated skin, a stark contrast to the fire licking through your veins and you lay back, propped slightly on your elbows so you could keep eye contact.

Riki moved with are, settling between your spread thighs, his broad shoulders pushing your legs wider. He looked up at you the entire time, eyes locked on yours.

His hands slid up your inner thighs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there, parting you open for him. You were already wet, embarrassingly so, and the cool air made you shiver.

Riki leaned in slowly, pressing a soft kiss to the crease of your thigh first, then another higher up. His breath ghosted over your core, making your hips twitch.

“Describe what you feel, Subject A,” the voice prompted.

You hated it, you wanted it to shut up so you could focus on his mouth. But it dragged the honesty out of you, things you would’ve never said unprompted.

You bit your lip, “I feel… i feel attraction, like i want him closer.”

Riki’s eyes softened, and then his mouth was on you. A slow, broad lick from your entrance up to your clit, warm and wet and devastatingly familiar until your back arched instinctively, a broken gasp escaping your lips.

“Fuck— Riki…”

“Tell him how it feels,” the voice instructed calmly.

“It feels so good,” you whispered, voice trembling as he licked you again, slower this time, circling your clit with the flat of his tongue. “So… good.”

It made you hate how much you’d missed it. Like your body had never forgotte his.

He moaned against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. With that, he settled in deeper, arms wrapping under your thighs to hold you open, hands gripping your hips.

Riki ate you out like a man starved— long, luxurious strokes of his tongue, savoring every drop of your arousal; he alternated between broad licks that covered your entire pussy and precise flicks right against your swollen clit, sucking gently, then harder.

“Subject B, how does it feel?” the voice cut in.

Riki pulled back just enough to speak, lips shiny with your wetness, “She tastes so good, so sweet and tangy and so fucking addictive. I hate how much I need this— still so fucking perfect for me.” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for leaving you empty like this pretty girl.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks as he dove back in, tongue thrusting inside you now, fucking you with it in shallow, deliberate strokes while his nose nudged your clit. You reached down, fingers threading through his hair, not pulling, just holding on as your own tears started to fall. The overload hit like a wave— love, resentment, all consuming need all crashing together.

Itd be a lie to say the pleasure didn’t build in slow, relentless waves. Riki knew exactly what to do: how to flatten his tongue and drag it up slowly, how to suck your clit into his mouth and hum, how to press two fingers inside you and curl them just right against that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. But he didn’t rush. He drew it out, edging you, pulling back whenever you got too close.

“Subject A, how does this make you feel emotionally?” the voice asked, pushing deeper into the wound.

“It makes me feel known,” you sobbed, hips rolling against his face despite yourself. “Like he still owns every part of me. It hurts— god, it hurts so good because I love him… and… and I fucking resent him and I need him so much it scares me.”

Riki whimpered against your core, the sound muffled and desperate. Tears mixed with your slick on his cheeks. as he licked broader, messier now, devouring you with filthy, wet sounds that filled the room. “My girl… you’re dripping for me. Still so responsive. I missed this pussy so much. Missed making you fall apart on my tongue.”

He didn’t even bother correcting himself this time— that’s what you were at the end of the day, his girl. No matter how far, no matter how close.

The voice continued its relentless probing: “Subject B, does performing this act stir unresolved feelings?”

“Yes,” Riki gasped between long licks, tongue circling your clit relentlessly. “It makes me remember every time I made her come like this and then held her after. It twists the knife because I threw it all away.”

You cried harder, the intimacy almost unbearable— the clinical voice forcing you to confront every sensation, every buried emotion, while Riki’s mouth worshipped you.

Your thighs trembled around his head as he slid three fingers inside you now, pumping slowly, curling, scissoring, stretching you open while his tongue flicked fast and light over your clit.

“Fuck…,” you moaned, voice wrecked. “I’m so close…”

You didn’t want it to end, you were desperate for it to last a lifetime, even as your legs shook.

Riki doubled down, sucking your clit firmly, fingers thrusting deeper, faster. The wet, obscene sounds mixed with your sobs and his muffled apologies. “Come for me, baby— please. Let me have this.”

The orgasm built like a tidal wave, slow and inevitable. He coaxed it, drawing it out for long minutes, edging you right to the brink and then easing back, only to push you higher again. Your fingers tightened in his hair, tears streamed down your face in an incoherent mess.

Love, pain and pleasure braided together so tightly you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

“It’s too much— too deep. I’m gonna —fuck, Riki—”

He moaned encouragement against you and finally let you tip over. The orgasm crashed through you in powerful, rolling waves, your back arched off the bed, thighs clamping around his head as you came hard on his tongue, pulsing around his fingers. He licked you through it, gentler now, savoring every aftershock, murmuring praise and apologies into your soaked flesh.

You lay there panting, tears still falling, as the voice spoke again: “Switch. Subject A will now give. Subject B, lie back.”

God, give a girl a break.

After a long recuperation pause, you moved, limbs shaky. Riki lay back, cock achingly hard and leaking against his stomach and you knelt between his spread legs, eyes locked on his tear-streaked face. He looked wrecked already—beautifully so.

You started slowly, pressing kisses along his inner thighs, nuzzling the crease where leg met hip. His cock twitched in anticipation and you licked a long stripe up the underside, savoring the salty taste of him.

“Subject A, how does it feel,” the voice demanded.

“It feels good” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Bitter because I know exactly how he likes it.”

Riki’s hand came down to cup your cheek, thumb stroking gently even as fresh tears slipped from his eyes. You took him into your mouth gradually —first just the head, swirling your tongue around it, sucking softly; then deeper, inch by inch, until he hit the back of your throat. You hollowed your cheeks and bobbed slowly, one hand stroking what you couldn’t fit.

“Fuck— yes, just like that,” he groaned, hips twitching but staying controlled. “Look at you… baby…”

The voice interrupted: “Subject B, describe the sensations and emotions this evokes.”

“It feels like… fuck— i can’t, s’too much” Riki panted, eyes never leaving yours. “Her tongue is driving me insane— I missed her mouth so fucking much.”

You took him deeper, relaxing your throat, nose brushing his pelvis as you swallowed around him. Tears blurred your vision too— resentment flaring because he left, love swelling because he was here, raw need making you suck him with devotion. You pulled off to breathe, stroking him firmly with a twisting motion while your tongue laved his balls, sucking one into your mouth gently.

It made you feel so powerful and so small at the same time. Like you could ruin him and he could ruin you.

Riki moaned quietly, hand in your hair now, you returned to his cock, sucking harder, faster, but still deliberate— drawing it out. Long, slow bobs interspersed with teasing licks along the vein underneath, paying special attention to the sensitive head.

You knew every spot: the way he liked your hand twisting at the base, the way humming around him made his thighs tense.

Minutes stretched and yes, the voice kept prompting— “Subject B, does receiving this act make you confront why you left?”—forcing words between moans and sobs.

Riki’s answers grew more broken: “I left because I was scared I’d need her forever and fuck it up. Now I know I do.”

Your jaw ached a you poured everything into it— love, anger, longing— sucking him deep, stroking, worshipping. His hips started shallow thrusts, meeting your mouth.

“I’m so close but I don’t want it to stop,” Riki spoke, unprompted this time.

You redoubled your efforts, taking him as deep as possible, swallowing around him, one hand massaging his balls. Long, thorough minutes of wet heat and tight suction until his breathing grew ragged, thighs trembling.

Only when the tension became unbearable did he finally tip over, with your name on his lips and tears in his eyes. He came hard, pulsing thick and hot down your throat and you swallowed every drop, milking him gently through the long, shuddering orgasm, not pulling off until he was spent and oversensitive.

You crawled up his body afterward, both of you crying, clinging.

The voice announced a brief pause for biometric reset, but you stayed tangled together, foreheads pressed, breaths shared, the knife still twisting deep.

The automated voice returned after a brief, “Stage five: Full penetration. Timed pauses enforced. First position: Subject A on top, controlling pace. Answer researcher questions aloud. Consent required.”

Riki’s eyes met yours, dark and desperate. His cock was still hard, slick from your mouth, resting heavy against his stomach.

“I consent,” he rasped.

“I consent,” you echoed.

“Begin.”

You moved first, crawling over him with shaky limbs; straddling his hips, you braced your hands on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. Riki’s hands settled on your thighs, thumbs stroking soothing circles even as fresh tension coiled in his muscles. You reached down, wrapping your fingers around his thick length, stroking him once, twice, lining him up at your entrance.

He didn’t thrust up, he waited, eyes locked on yours, giving you control. Slowly, you sank down.

You didn’t stop until he was at the hilt, so snug where he resided, overwhelming— burning, perfect, familiar. Syllables were left to die in your mouth, falling into the back of your throat as it clogged with a shaky inhale. You sat fully seated, pelvis flush to his, trembling as your walls fluttered and clenched around every inch of him.

“Fuck… Riki,” you whispered.

The voice prompted immediately: “Do you forgive them?”

There it was, the big question. With him so deep inside of you, you couldn’t even tell if your thoughts were real or implanted by the raw pleasure. You thought about it— in the limits of your own imagination— because if you were giving him your body right now, it had to mean something, right?

You rolled your hips experimentally, a slow grind that made stars burst behind your eyes. The drag of his cock inside you, thick and hot and hitting every sensitive spot, stole your vry breath. You rose slightly and sank back down, setting a deliberate, torturous pace.

“That’s right, beautiful… take this cock.. fuck, just like that.. you’re doing so good.” he praised, thrusting up just a tiny bit.

“It feels… so full.” you gasped, tears slipping free again as he throbbed inside.

Riki groaned beneath you, hands sliding up to grip your hips, not guiding yet— just holding. “Do you forgive me?” he asked, voice breaking, echoing the researcher’s question even as the voice waited.

You rode him slower, grinding deep on every downstroke, anger and longing twisting together. Your palm came down on his chest in a sharp slap, not hard enough to truly hurt but enough to sting. “I want to,” you sobbed, rising and sinking again. “I do and I don’t. You left me empty for eighteen months.”

The indecency of the words, the shame coming with them, made you forget the very setting you were in. The pleasure taking over your entire body, submerged in everything Riki gave you until you had no choice but to shake.

He thrust up to meet you on the next drop, deeper, and you moaned loudly. “Mine,” he whispered fiercely, eyes glistening. “Even if you hate me, you’re still mine.”

You clenched around him involuntarily at the possessiveness, and he hissed. “Shh baby, I’m not going anywhere. Give me a little breathing room,” he murmured, voice strained with pleasure.

Tears streamed down your face as you alternated between presses to his chest and leaning down to kiss him like you’d die without his mouth on yours.

“Subject A, rate your emotional state,” the voice demanded mid-thrust.

Oh fuck off.

“I… fuck,” you cried out, bouncing harder. “Riki I need you to fuck me deeper— ah—until I forget you ever left.”

Riki sat up slightly, wrapping one arm around your back to pull you closer, mouth latching onto your nipple as you rode him. He sucked hard, tongue flicking, while his other hand guided your hips in a punishing rhythm. The new angle made him hit that spot inside you relentlessly— pleasure coiling tight and vicious.

The first orgasm built fast and vicious, you thighs shook as you bounced harder.

“Ah, there you go. There’s my baby. Poor thing, it’s okay, you can come,” he murmured, pushing your hair back behind your ear.

You shattered around him with a broken cry, walls pulsing and fluttering wildly as pleasure ripped through you, your nails dug into his chest, tears streaming freely. But the orgasm didn’t stop at waves of clenching— it crashed harder, sudden and wet.

You squirted around his cock for the first time in months, soaking his abdomen and the sheets beneath you in hot, pulsing gushes. The release left you shaking violently, as the pleasure blinded you.

Still, you kept moving, overstimulated and desperate, fucking yourself on his cock like you could erase the past somehow.

Riki sat up, wrapping strong arms around you, mouth latching onto your breast. He sucked hard, tongue flicking your nipple as you rode him faster.

One of his hands slid up to your throat, wrapping gently but firmly, applying just enough pressure to make your head spin in the most delicious way, vision blurring at the edges with overwhelming sensation.

“So fucking good for me… look at you, soaking my cock like this. My perfect girl.”

Riki flipped you suddenly, moving you onto all fours in one smooth motion, he knelt behind you, gripping your hips possessively. He rubbed his slick cock along your folds once, then pushed in deep.

The new angle stole what little air remained in your lungs. He felt even deeper like this— you were going to loose your mind.

Riki started thrusting immediately, possessive strokes that rocked your entire body, one hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back just right, while the other wrapped around your throat from behind, choking you lightly as he fucked you. The combination made your eyes roll back, pleasure so intense it felt like drowning and dying at the same time.

“Mine,” he moaned against your ear, fucking you harder. “Still fucking mine. Such a good girl, taking me so deep.”

You pushed back to meet him, messy and frantic, tears dripping onto the sheets below and hee reached around to rub your clit in tight, relentless circles, never slowing his punishing rhythm.

“Look at you, creaming all over my cock. So fucking pretty when you fall apart like this. My baby— always so perfect.”

“Does this feel like love or just lust?” the voice demanded, reminding you of y the current setting.

You couldn’t even answer, incoherent babbles tumbling out of your pathetic mouth but Riki grabbed your jaw, whispering in your ear, “Answer baby, come on.”

“Both,” you sobbed, voice hoarse “ah, fuck—right there. I’m gonna— fuck—”

Another orgasm tore through you without mercy . Your body convulsed, another rush of wetness flooding out around him as you squirted harder, thighs quaking uncontrollably. Riki’s praise never stopped, filthy and tender all at once. “That’s right, baby… fuck, just like that.. you’re doing so good. Let it all out for me.”

The peak left you shaking, barely holding yourself up on trembling arms, your body gave out completely, collapsing forward. Riki followed you down, chest pressed to your back, still buried deep.

His thrusts grew erratic, desperate, and impossibly deeper. You could feel every twitch and throb of his cock inside you as he chased his own release; hiss breathing turned ragged against your ear, hot and uneven, broken groans vibrating through his chest.

The hand in your hair tightened, the one on your throat loosened into something almost protective as his hips snapped forward one final time, burying himself to the absolute hilt.

Riki came with a shattered, guttural moan of your name, his entire body seizing against yours. Thick, hot pulses of cum flooded deep inside you, each powerful spurt accompanied by a helpless roll of his hips, as if he couldn’t stop trying to push even deeper.

You felt every single jet filling you until it started to leak out around his cock with every tiny after-thrust. His cock twitched and pulsed for long, drawn-out moments, the release seemingly endless as he poured months of pent-up longing into you. His thighs trembled violently against the backs of yours, muscles locked tight, a full-body shudder ripping through him as the pleasure wrung him dry.

“Fuck— baby… still you,” he gasped brokenly against your neck, voice cracking with as the last weak spurts emptied him completely. He stayed buried to the hilt, grinding slowly through the aftershocks, savoring the tight, wet heat of your pussy still fluttering around his oversensitive length.

Fresh tears slipped from his eyes onto your skin as he held you close, body draped over yours like he was afraid you’d regret the second he pulled out.

See… studies show a lot of things, for example that long-term partners can remain neurologically significant long after a breakup. They say it’s often a question of whether unresolved emotional attachment predicts involuntary sexual responsiveness between old partners.

But what it doesn’t say though, is how easily that same attachment can twist into something far more dangerous— how six hours in a sterile room can hook itself so deeply under your skin that it becomes impossible to ever truly pull free again.

The experiment ended exactly on schedule, six short hours later, the doors unlocked. Dr. Ellis’s voice offered neutral congratulations and payment confirmations.

You and Riki dressed in silence, eyes lingering too long, hands brushing with the kind of accidental-on-purpose touch that said everything words couldn’t.

When you finally stepped out into the real world, the city lights felt too bright, the air too cold, the absence of his body against yours already unbearable.

Somehow, that single night cracked you both open wider than the original breakup ever had. But it’s not like you hadn’t expected it just a little bit.

In the weeks that followed, the addiction set in slowly at first, then all at once. You told yourself it was just closure, just one text to check if he got home safely. Just one late-night call because you couldn’t sleep without hearing his voice.

But soon the messages grew longer, the calls stretched into early mornings, and the excuses became paper-thin.

Riki? He was no better.

He started “accidentally” showing up at places he knew you frequented— the cafe where you took your coffee exactly the way he still remembered, the bookstore you loved on quiet afternoons.

Each encounter left you both raw and starving for more and more and more.

Even then, you tried to fight it. You blocked his number once, only to unblock it three hours later when the emptiness felt louder than any self-respect.

He showed up at your door at 2 a.m. one night, eyes hollow, whispering that he just needed to see you. You let him in. That night turned into another desperate, tear-soaked reunion against your hallway wall, his hand around your throat and your nails down his back, both of you chasing that same devastating intensity the experiment had forced upon you.

Undeniably, the codependency only deepened. You became each other’s secret again— sneaking into hotel rooms, fucking in the back of his car like teenagers, meeting in abandoned parking lots just to feel his hands on you. The sex grew darker, more possessive, he’d choke you a little harder, hold you down a little longer, whispering “mine” like a vow and a curse while you cried and came and begged for more— addicted to the way he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him sane.

Months blurred together. You stopped dating other people entirely and so did he.

Friends noticed the change— how distracted you were, how you’d disappear for hours with no explanation. But nothing else filled the void.

The experiment had proven what your heart already knew: no one else would ever jnow your body the way he did. No one else could make you break and sob and feel so painfully alive.

Eventually, the sneaking stopped being enough.

One evening he showed up with a suitcase and the quiet admission that his apartment felt like a tomb without you in it. You let him stay the night, then the week and then… indefinitely.

The dangerous liaison wrapped around both of you like chains you no longer wanted to escape. Fights still happened— ugly, tearful, screaming matches that ended with him fucking you against the nearest surface until the anger melted into desperate “I love you”s and “never leave me again”s.

You were linked now, deeper than before, codependent in the most beautiful and terrifying way.

The study had been meant to observe intimacy, istead, it had created an obsession neither of you could—or wanted—to break.

In the quiet moments after sex, when his cum was still leaking down your thighs and his arms held you like a fragile thing, you sometimes wondered if this was ruin or salvation.

But even then, with his heartbeat steady against your back and his whispered praises in your ear, you knew the truth: you were his, and he was yours.

And that felt like the only kind of knowing worth having