Sugar, at the console.
Still handcuffed. Still collared. Still leaking. Now covered in Nano's squirt, her hair damp with it, her skin glistening under the laboratory light.
She looked at them.
At his back.
At Nano's face over his shoulder — the demolished, glassy, flushed expression of a woman who had said she would kill him and was currently kissing him with every available surface of her mouth.
Sugar looked at the collar on her own neck.
At the handcuffs on her wrists.
At the forty-six hours and thirty-seven minutes on the suppressor monitor.
That no longer applied to him.
That now applied to her.
She exhaled.
Looked at the ceiling.
"I hate you," she said.
To the ceiling.
To the laboratory.
To the forty-three screens.
His voice came from across the room, muffled against Nano's mouth:
"No you don't... atleast your pussy don't."
"Mmmf— Hnnnghh~!!"
Nano cried as he stayed buried.
