She's been talking to him more and more. Buying him a drink every day. But the attention makes him nervous and he clams up. Always suspects her, thinks there's got to be some hidden motive. One day, she gets tired and cuts to the chase. She wants to know what he's like, in this state, even though she's already memorized every bit of his body.

She drags him to the storeroom without anyone noticing, holding him by the sleeve and ignoring the stuttered protests and questions coming out of him. She pulls the door down and locks it, turns to face him with an unreadable expression.

"What're you-" She clamps a hand around his neck and shoves him back against the shelves, unzipping his jumpsuit with her other hand. He tenses, gasps and hisses at the contact, then quickly slurs out "I-want-to-fuck-you-in-the-ear-until-I-feel-your-brains." She tries not to frown, knowing that's not how this will end up.

Their lips meet.

It's frantic, not cautious, but it's still very Simon. Very panicked. Tight and forceful at first, then full of clicking teeth and chewed lips.

Their meetings become frequent. He cums far too quickly the first three or four times.

She can't decide which one she prefers. Things had been brilliant, physically, with his other self, but always so cryptic and stressful. Any exchange of words brought on nothing but more frustration and confusion. But this, the animalistic nature of it and the sense of knowledge and control she has, this feels better right now. Simple. An outlet. What she needs. She wants to be the one manipulating him for a change.

Since he can't remember anything due to her power, she figures it's only fair to let him film it. She buys him a tripod.

He likes to bite. A bit too much, actually, to the point where he draws blood half of the time. Once he's inside her, there are no sloppy poorly-aimed kisses like with everyone else she's been with. He sinks his teeth into her shoulder and stays there, breathing hot and hard through his nose. His hands remain on either her hips or her shoulders, and she finds she never has to give him any directions. No "faster," "harder," none of that. It's rough, yes, but it always is when she uses her power. She wonders exactly when the turning point in the future is, when her power stops and they can properly "make love." Not that she's complaining about the current situation. He always satisfies her now, and after so much practice, he never cums before she does.

When she's on top, and he can't bite, she discovers he likes to have his hair pulled instead. He grits his teeth and stares up at her, tries hard not to close his eyes from enjoyable pain. She leaves hickeys all down his ghostly pale chest, claiming her territory.

Yet every time she takes her hands off him afterwards, it's always the same: the glowing look in his half-lidded blue eyes is immediately replaced by alarm, his jaw clenches, he trembles and panics and hurries to find his clothes, looks down at the scratchmarks and all the burst blood vessels beneath his skin, then stares at her wordlessly. She guesses he's hoping for a report card, but all he ever gets from her is a pleased smirk. They're still not very good at talking.

He goes home and watches the recordings in the darkness of his room with noise-canceling headphones. He doesn't blink. He doesn't know whether to feel proud or sick. Whether to touch himself or throw up. Maybe both. He winces when he fastforwards and sees them fucking on his kitchen counter. She seems to be enjoying herself, and he just wishes he could remember. He wonders if all this sexual experience will translate, if he were ever to be with someone else. Or would he still feel like a virgin, like he always has and still does? It's quite unfair, but those thoughts make him feel ungrateful and nauseous so he pushes them away.

He's surprised to watch her actually let him piss on her tits once.