I'm about 4 blocks away from the Earth.

Maurice had walked in on Robert and Y/N in Robert’s office when he’d gone to inform Robert of a last minute meeting requested by the Board. Without knocking, Maurice had opened the door to the office and walked right in, finding Robert and Y/N kissing as they stood behind Robert’s desk. Y/N’s arms were around Robert’s neck as Robert’s hands were pressed into her back, keeping her as close as possible, and it was the sound of Maurice’s shouting that had startled them apart.

Squeaking in surprise at the sudden sound of Maurice’s voice, Y/N’s arms dropped from Robert’s neck as she jumped back in surprise, her face immediately flushing a deep red of nervous guilt at her and Robert being caught. She knew Robert hadn’t told Maurice yet that they were seeing each other, and she completely understood why. It wouldn’t matter when he told him; he wouldn’t be happy about it. Not only because of the ideas Maurice would certainly have about the context of their relationship, but, that aside, he also would likely think that Y/N was not a suitable match for Robert, seeing as she didn’t come from money or a family of high influence or status.

Not to mention, he just didn’t want anyone to be happy. He wanted everyone to be as cold and miserable as he was.

As soon as he’d seen his father, Robert had protectively pushed Y/N behind him, not wanting Maurice to direct at Y/N the eruption of shouting and insults that he knew were coming.

After a few moments of going back and forth, Robert had headed through his office and out the door, telling Maurice that they’d continue the discussion in Maurice’s office. Before the door closed, Robert had met Y/N’s eyes and given her a silent look that said, “It’s ok,” and she’d given him a nervous nod in return.

Now, Robert’s patience was running extremely thin, but as soon as Maurice moved on from insulting him to attacking Y/N, he went from angry to furious.

“Is that why you’ve kept her around all this time, hm? She keeps you company whenever you ask for it? I should have known she was nothing but a little slut.”

Robert’s blood boiled and his eyes narrowed in warning at Maurice’s statement. Speaking, his voice was low and steady with barely controlled anger.

“You say another word about her, and you better hope your secretary has 911 on speed dial,” he said.

Looking back at Robert with raised eyebrows, Maurice was momentarily shocked. Robert had never spoken to him like that before. Yes, they argued all the time, but this was the first time Robert had ever threatened him.

Quickly recovering, Maurice spoke again.

“So, what? She’s got you convinced that she’s something special?”

“She is. And you’d know that if you spent even five seconds talking to her instead of yelling at her every chance you get. Then again, the only interest you take in people is how they can benefit you.”

Maurice gave Robert a look of amused yet displeased judgement.

“Oh, that’s rich, considering you’re sleeping with your employee,” was Maurice’s reply.

Robert’s face was dead serious as he replied.

“I’m not just sleeping with her. I love her. I have for a long time. And she loves me; we’re together. And you better get used to the idea, because if you think I’m gonna let you keep me from being happy, you’ve got another thing coming. Just because you’re a miserable jackass doesn’t mean everyone else has to be.”

Looking back at Robert for a moment, Maurice was again surprised by Robert’s declarations. But he still was set on upsetting him.

“You think she actually loves you?” Maurice said with a scoff. “My guess is it’s your bank account she’s in love with.”

“She couldn’t care less about money,” Robert said with a shake of his head.

Maurice just scoffed again.

“You think she actually loves you?” he repeated.

“I do.”

Both of the men surprised by the sudden sound of Y/N’s voice, they stopped arguing and looked over towards the office door. Standing there was Y/N, her expression nervous yet certain as she looked at Maurice and reaffirmed what she’d just said.

“I do love him,” her voice was steady, “and money has nothing to do with it. I love your son, Mr. Fischer, and I’d love him even if he didn’t have a cent to his name.”

You try to remember the latest news about the infamous clan. You've never had much time for gossip about the city's so-called "celebrities."

The man turns his head at the sound of the door, just enough to glance at you. One sharp, appraising look before he faces forward again. You’re just the nurse. It seems like the boss himself has given you the unspoken permission to stay here, even if it feels like a toleration at best. You can roughly imagine what human traits it takes to become the leader of a clan: cold, arrogant, calculating. This man surely has all of those qualities. Though everything about him appears like a red flag, you feel a strange kind of attraction to him, in a way that catches you off guard.

Michael sits propped up in the bed, pale but focused, his face tight with something close to resentment. The other man speaks. His voice is clear, cut from something hard that fits perfectly with the aura that surrounds him.

“You should have seen it coming.”

Michael exhales. “So now it’s my fault.”

“You’re alive. You don’t get to be innocent.”

Michael shifts under the covers, and although he is still visibly in shock, defiance comes through in his response. "It wasn’t my job to–"

"It’s always your job! You're breathing, aren’t you?" the man answers Michael. "Then you’re responsible. Doesn’t matter if the man outside the door had a gun, a badge, or a bloody halo. If someone gets in, it’s on you."

You approach the bed without speaking. You’ve done this many times before, in worse places. The tray rattles faintly as you shift it into place. Michael glances at you, briefly. Then he stares into the emptiness of the room again and listens to his visitor, who reprimands him incessantly.

 “You had people watching you. Still, they walked in like they knew the blueprints.”

The conversation continues as you clean the wound. They don’t even bother to lower their voices. It’s not for your ears, but they don’t care if you hear. Or maybe it is, because the visitor's comments also suggest that the hospital staff might have made a mistake.

The man becomes even clearer in his accusations: “Luca doesn’t take chances. If he walked into this building, someone made it possible.”

Michael doesn’t answer. You can truly grasp how life in crime doesn’t just teach paranoia – it feeds on it.

You sincerely hope not to be drawn into this heated discussion. You blot a streak of dried blood from the edge of the stitches. Fold new gauze. Concentrate. It helps.

Just as you're about to secure the fresh bandage, you glance up.

The visitor watching you. Not openly. But your eyes meet.

And something shifts.

Is this –?

You’re not sure. Not entirely. But your body remembers a different room. A different kind of blood. Years ago. A man on a stretcher, barely conscious, your hands slick from trying to stop what couldn’t be stopped.

You hold his gaze for half a second too long.

But you see nothing but stillness in his face. No recognition. Rather, it seems that something pulled taut behind his eyes, as if your presence has hit some old, invisible wire.

He turns back without speaking. Doesn’t react.

You’re probably wrong that you know each other.

But when he turns back to Michael, his voice has changed. Softer, maybe. You can't say what it is that must have happened inside him, but obviously something is going on.

You secure the bandage without a word and leave the room.

But long after your shift is over, as you cross the threshold of the hospital, something follows you – a feeling you can’t quite name.

***

The next day, your shift is barely underway when you hear footsteps in the corridor outside the nurses' station. Certainly not your colleagues, who are rushing through the corridors. The muffled steps in hospital-typical slippers – they are familiar to you for too long. These footsteps are different. They sound heavy, almost threatening. With eerie determination they unmistakably approach the nurses' station.

You don’t look up right away. You're sorting the morning medication trays, organizing them into neat rows. The cabinet door is open, the air faintly metallic from crushed pills and antiseptic wipes.

“Excuse me.”

You turn.

It’s him.

The man from Michael's room.

He's leaning in the doorway of the nurses' station, his left hand in the pocket of his long, gray coat. It's obviously a typical posture for him, as if he has something to hide or as if he's always ready to shoot. It creeps you out to imagine him always walking around with a gun in his hand like a real gangster. Although like a real gangster isn't quite right here.

You nod. “May I help you?”

“I'm looking for hot water. Thought I could make Michael some tea.”

You blink once. A pot of hot water is always in the hallway. Every visitor passes by the small coffee and tea corner. And every family member who's visited more than twice knows it. You’re certain he knows it too.

Still, you don't let your irritation at his question show and remain polite. "Down the hall on the right. You'll find everything you need there. A herbal tea will surely do Michael good."

“Thank you,” he says.

You nod again. “Of course.”

You resume your work, slowly, humming quietly to yourself, like you often do when you focus on tasks like this.

There’s a pause. You expected him to turn around and leave. Instead, he continues to lean in the door frame. You look up, a little confused. His gaze drifts to the tray on the counter. The pills you’re arranging.

Something seems to be off. His eyes move, just slightly, as if adjusting to a brightness that isn't there. Then they settle on you.

He hesitates. Almost imperceptibly. “What song was that? Just now.”

You don’t answer right away. The question is... strange.

“An old tune,” you say. “I don’t know the name.”

He nods, like he understands. But something flickers across his expression. You see it again. This strange mixture of softness and…freezing?

He clears his throat, looking almost embarrassed. “I just thought I’ve heard it before,” he says. “Anyway. I won’t keep you.”

He steps back.

“Oh,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “Thomas Shelby.”

You look at him.

Tommy.

That was the name of this one wounded soldier in the military hospital in France, back then.

"Y/N," you answer, your head not yet able to process the information.

He gives you the ghost of a smile. Then turns and walks away down the hall.

You watch his back until he disappears through Michael's door.

***

You were right. Something is going on inside him. But he really doesn't seem to remember you. Sure, it was several years ago. Terrible things happened. Often, you couldn't do much for the soldiers; so much was lacking. Only your painkillers were plentiful, and they were strong. They granted many brave soldiers a blissful transition to the afterlife, a consolation for you, who would have liked to do more, albeit a weak one.

The soldier named Tommy was seriously injured back then, and you weren't sure if he wouldn't also walk the blessed path to the afterlife. There were so many injured that summer, the stuffy tent full of pain-filled groans. Your rounds consisted of the same routine: treating wounds, administering painkillers, moving on to the next person whose groans needed to be muffled. But it was never quiet.

It's quite possible that Tommy was so lost in his stupor that he barely noticed you. Just another face, another set of hands. But you lingered by his cot. Dabbing sweat, whispering calmly.

And humming a lulling tune.

That’s it. He doesn’t remember. But his body does. It just needs a small hint that triggers a memory…

A memory that awakens…something in him. Something you can feel stirring between you like static – curious, charged, and far from finished.

Yesterday's bandage change. That was another situation where something suddenly changed inside him. You recap the situation in your mind. The specific smell of the fresh bandages – a standard product in most medical facilities for years, one you would recognize among hundreds of other smells. Not just you – apparently Tommy's subconscious too, if your assumption is correct. At least this characteristic smell has the greatest recognition value. Sterile, clean, a smell that represents care and healing. A smell that can calm an agitated nervous system when unconsciously recalled. Maybe that's why he felt the urge to come back to the hospital – and to you in the nurses' station.

***

Michael's injuries are numerous and severe; he would certainly have to stay for a while longer, especially since his behavior wasn't exactly helping him heal. But every plea to keep his hands off the wounds fell on deaf ears.

His mother is at his side almost daily, and Thomas Shelby – Tommy –, who had been so full of accusations and who continues to seem extremely nervous about the Changretta feud, is also frequently present, often for hours. It is probably less a close connection to Michael than his urge to maintain control of the situation. Because even though there is a new bodyguard outside Michael's room door (and presumably other men around the hospital), he obviously prefers to trust only himself.

He never lets go of his hypervigilance, and whenever he comes into contact with the staff, he is bad-tempered and bossy. Your memories of your time as a nurse during the war – you would have preferred to lock them away in a dark place forever, at least the vast majority. How must the soldiers have felt?

The gang war with Luca Changretta and his men must have put Tommy in a state of constant fear. A deep-rooted fear that only allows him to function – fight or flight. A fear that Tommy Shelby would never let show. The little bit of softness he showed you seems to have vanished. You, too, repeatedly experience his condescending manner, with which he tries to belittle others.

That one time, when you move toward the window in Michael’s room to air out the place. He makes no effort to step aside, not until you politely ask him to.

“Of course. I’d never stand in your way,” he replies with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. But still, he stays just a moment too long before moving away. As if silently marking his territory, with no need to say a word.

Encounters with him feel like he’s testing boundaries…and pushing them, inch by inch.

But it’s more than that. Something in him does seem to remember you – not consciously, that’s for sure, but deeply enough to draw him in. As though he’s circling – chasing? – something familiar without knowing why.

A glance that lingers too long, taking in every inch of you.

Remarks that could be innocent, but certainly aren’t.

His request for you to stay a little longer, “to make sure Michael’s well looked after.”

There’s something almost clingy in it, though never openly affectionate. Always wrapped in a quiet arrogance that makes your skin prickle.

How badly you wish you could reveal yourself, if only to coax his softer side into the light more often. He never says it, but his presence makes one thing very clear: you must never dare speak of the first time you met.

A part of you wants to respond to the vague pull he exerts – but your mind knows better. In your role as the nurse, you're supposed to stay neutral. Anything else would be playing with fire. In general and with regard to the Shelbys in particular.

***

Your colleagues have had enough. Tommy overstays, commands the room like it’s his. So, you volunteer to end it – politely, but firmly.

You knock on Michael’s door and open it just a crack. The two men are sitting next to each other on his bed – silent, like they’ve been keeping each other company without saying a word.

“Visitor’s hour ended twenty minutes ago, Mr. Shelby,” you say, your tone calm but resolute.

“Must’ve lost track of time,” he says, voice cold, gaze still fixed ahead. “Terrible shame, eh?”

It’s clear he has no intention of leaving.

You steady yourself, trying not to let him rattle you. “Time works the same for everyone. Even you.”

He lets himself sink back into Michael’s bed like a man settling onto his couch after a long day’s work, almost casual. That deliberate calm of his, it drives you almost insane. Then, with a slow, exaggerated turn of his head, he looks at you: “I’ve learned this much, Nurse Y/N: If you stay long enough, you get what you want. It’s the same with doors – they open, if you knock long enough. Or kick.”

Is that meant to be a threat or a flirtation?

For a second, the sheer audacity of it almost robs you of speech. But you're not about to let him win this round. If he's threatening, you'll threaten back – just with a smile sharp enough to pass as flirtation.

You match his gaze, refusing to look away. “I've learned something, too. Something you might benefit from.” You pause, just long enough to make sure you have his full attention. “Some doors stay shut for a reason.”

Inwardly, you cheer at your sharp comeback, aimed to throw him off balance.

He huffs something close to a laugh. “Makes it all the more fun, eh?”

In war times, you used to wonder what he might be like when he flirts. What kind of lover hides behind that wounded soldier. He was different then, softer, maybe? You can't quite remember. But France left you broken too, dulled.

His hard, distant demeanor shows flashes of something else, a kind of playful dominance, yes. Maybe this is the only way he is able to handle that kind of risk – a risk greater than everything he risked in France – the risk of being rejected. This way, he could always claim it was never meant that way.

So, you play along – but not without returning fire in his little “threat or flirt” game. Your responses are carefully weighed, as precise as his provocations. If he wants a game, you'll play to win. “Perhaps the real question is why you never try the handle from your side.”

Only after the words have left your mouth do you realize the full weight of their double meaning. Sure, the round goes to you – there’s hardly a more elegant way to call out his overblown dominance.

But isn’t that the point?

Would he need to act this way if he were truly open to others – if he could let someone in, face his fears, process them, learn to trust again?

But you’re not naive.

You know better than to believe in hopeful illusions. His tactics have been honed over years – perfected until they cut deep without drawing blood. Like a dog that bites out of fear, long before it knows whether the hand reaching out is there to harm or to feed.

He doesn’t seem to need long to recover, slipping out of checkmate with infuriating ease. “That tone, Nurse Y/N.” He emphasizes your name in a way that makes you feel as if he's already deep beneath your skin. Or as if he could get there with ease. “Makes me want to misbehave on purpose.”

Michael, who’s been staring out the window the entire time, barely suppresses an eye-roll.

You smooth down the hem of your uniform and fix Mr. Shelby with a look as sharp as the edge of a scalpel. “Mr. Shelby, I must insist that you leave now.”

“What if I don’t?” he asks, without even pretending to play nice. “Will you report me, then?”

You offer no reply. Instead, you press the clipboard silently to your chest and walk out – leaving him to wonder just how to interpret your silence.

***

You close the door, heart hammering. You held your ground, but didn’t win. He’s still there. Still in control. Fortunately, most of your colleagues have already left for the day. One of them is probably still finishing her evening rounds. At least your failure has no audience.

You decide to focus on the weekly inventory restock, hoping the routine task will offer some distraction. When you step into the small supply room at the end of the hallway, a bead of sweat trickles down your forehead. You tell yourself it must be the heat radiating from the boiler room next door, but the excuse feels paper-thin, even as you think it.

The room is crammed with medical supplies of every kind, stacked all the way up to the ceiling. A small stepladder stands in the corner, used to reach the upper shelves. A few cobwebs drift lazily around the exposed lightbulb, which flickers uncertainly overhead.

You're sorting through a box, back turned to the door, when the light suddenly dims. You sigh in frustration, already making a mental note to request a new bulb. It's been flickering all day, and you had hoped it would last just a little longer.

Then you hear the soft click of the door falling shut.

You spin around, startled. Thomas Shelby is standing there. Not in the doorway this time, not leaning in with one foot still outside like earlier. The door is fully closed behind him.

"Mr. Shelby…" you breathe, caught between alarm and – you’re ashamed to admit it to yourself – arousal.

He studies you for a beat, then tilts his head slightly.

"Tell me? What did your supervisor say about my…little breach of protocol?" he asks, voice smooth with mock concern. "Am I about to be dragged off in chains?"

You try to hold his gaze, but your pulse is racing.

He lets a pause stretch, then adds, lower now, "Would you like to see me that way? Bound and…powerless?"

You fight to keep your face neutral, but he doesn't let up.

"Or are you the one who prefers the losing hand?" He steps forward, and the space around you shrinks.

You instinctively lean back, only to feel the edge of a shelf pressing into your spine.

"Mr. Shelby, I didn’t…" you begin, trying to sound firm, trying not to let your voice betray the flutter in your chest.

"Report me?" he finishes for you. "I know. I suppose I wasn’t quite bad enough yet."

There’s something predatory in his tone now, something playful and sharp at once. His presence is overwhelming in the cramped room, and you’re suddenly aware of how far away help would be. If anyone is even left to hear you.

You glance around, eyes searching for something, anything, you could use to create space between you.

He catches it and gives a dry, amused laugh.

"What’s this? You want to stop a Shelby from being a bad boy? After poking the beast?"

The bulb above you sputters again, this time violently, and with a low, electric hum, it dies.

Darkness falls.

Only a few narrow slivers of light slip through the ventilation grates into the small room.

Tommy gasps, the sound sharp and raw, like panic breaking the surface. He nearly stumbles into you, and in a flash, his strong hands close around your throat.

"Don’t move, got it? One sound, and it's over," he hisses in a clipped, military tone.

Darkness. Heat. Claustrophobia.

He’s not here anymore. Not in this room.

The ghosts of the past have taken hold of him.

He’s back at the Somme. Back underground.

And now? You’re not Nurse Y/N. You’re the threat.

A threat that needs to be neutralized.

Just as instinctively as he attacked, you claw at his hands, trying to pry them away from your neck. But they hardly budge. He presses down harder.

"I said keep still. Keep quiet. Makes it easier for both of us," he growls, voice sharp and hostile.

You close your eyes. Try to conserve your last energy.

Instinct.

And then, just as instinctively, you turn your head to the side. Expose the vulnerable skin of your throat to him. Like a beaten she-wolf offering her neck to the alpha, hoping he will spare her. Hoping he won’t go in for the final bite, even though he could.

His face brushes your skin. The scrape of stubble is harsh against the softness there.

He breathes in. Deep. Sudden.

"Fuck," he mutters. The grip on your throat slackens.

You gasp for air. Your lungs burn as air rushes back in, and you feel the raw imprint of his hands on your neck. Your pulse is thundering in your ears, but it is no longer only fear that drives it.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

You keep your eyes closed, just to process what happened. You stopped his fight-or-flight mode again. His nose on your neck, a deep breath...

A floral, familiar scent, laced with innocence.

Your perfume. The one you've worn for years. Even back then. At the Somme.

It hits a place in him no war ever reached. And that's what makes it even more dangerous, although it is calming on the surface. It cuts straight to the bone, bypassing logic, reaching his nervous system to unfold its effect. His instincts are still on fire, but something has shifted. They are no longer turning against you. Not now. Not entirely.

It is as if Tommy collapses into you.

You stumble back but catch yourself on the small stepladder behind you, just enough to keep from falling. Your fingers seize the fabric of his shirt, gripping hard near his chest.

"Shhh," you whisper, trying to soothe him, to calm his wolfish nervous system.

Then, almost desperately, you pull him toward you.

Your lips meet his. Searching. Finding.

The line you’ve so carefully drawn, day after day, has blurred. You have kept your distance, kept your control, held your ground behind professional words and folded hands. But now, here in the dark, with his breath on your skin and your body still trembling beneath the memory of his grip, something breaks.

You feel his chest rise and fall against you, too fast, too shallow. He is still somewhere else, not fully here, caught between past and present, you assume.

You could push him away.

Call for help.

Fight.

But instead, you tilt your face just slightly toward him, not away. Your fingers, still curled against his chest, do not fall away. You stay.

Because you recognize the ache in his touch. The same absence that hollowed out the men who came back. Hunger not just for flesh, but for grounding. For something human. Something soft.

You tell yourself this is for him. To anchor him. To calm him.

But your body, heat-slick and alert, says otherwise.

You’re not just soothing him. You’ve already cracked the door the second you played along instead of shutting him down.

His hand still rests on your neck while his thumb brushes your pulse, slow now, but firm, like he’s reminding you that his gentleness is a choice, not a guarantee. He could tighten again if you push the wrong buttons. You both know it. The game is far away from over.

You gasp at his other hand that slides lower, over fabric, under it, with an aim that leaves no question. He sets the rules, whether you like them or not.

"You remember what I said?" he murmurs.

You let out a questioning sound.

"The losing hand."

His fingers find the slick heat between your thighs.

"Seems to me," he mutters, smug, "you like playing it."

Your breath stutters. "Is that what you think? That giving myself to you makes me weak?"

Tommy growls softly. "No. It makes you mine."

You barely have time to exhale before his lips crash into yours again. The next kiss is deeper, hungrier, as if something in him has finally snapped free.

You can’t deny that you want this. Want him – this broken soldier who became an unpredictable, dangerous criminal. The craving coils low in your belly, tightening with every inch he claims. But something churns inside you at his very last word.

Mine.

Clearly not an invitation. A verdict.

He has responded to gentleness before. The scent of the bandages reminded him of care and healing, which softened his voice when he spoke to Michael. When you hummed a soothing tune, he didn’t lash out; he listened.

And now, in this small supply room, when his trauma surged, it wasn’t logic or commands that brought him back, or rather: stopped him from killing you. It was your perfume. 

You had tools, not weapons, but levers. You had ways to steer him, to anchor him. 

Now, caught in the tide of his possessive need, you ask yourself: Is there still something you can offer that turns this from coercion into something mutual? 

Not overt control; you know better than to reach for that. You want consent, or at least the shape of it. If you can reach him – not the soldier, not the animal, but the man – maybe, just maybe, he’ll meet you in that space between need and choice.

Your conflict is barely hidden, etched into every shift of your body. Your fingers press against his chest, not to push him away, not really, but just to carve out the illusion of choice. Your head tilts, as if defying the inevitability. But your body, traitorous and aching, leans into his.

He reads you, of course, senses your hesitation, and it keeps his guard up. You know that this still makes him dangerous to you. His grip around your neck is firm, not cruel, but certain. You freeze, not out of fear, but awareness. In his world, he didn’t steal control. He reached for it because fear had narrowed his world to instinct. In his heightened state, physically overpowering you is the only language he trusts. Because he never learned how to ask.

If he’s to ease his grip, he must sense that you're not offering yourself out of fear, but because, this time, you want to be touched.

You shift a little and lean into his touch. Then you lift your hand to cover his. Not to push, just to claim a part of it. To say: I see you. You don’t have to hold on so tightly.

He goes still.

His fingers no longer hold; they wait. You close your hand around his for a moment and give it a gentle stroke. Slowly, he loosens his grip.

You reach out to stroke his temples. His hair clings damply to his skin.

“I don’t want to be taken,” you whisper in your trained soothing tone, as you have done so often for your patients – and as you assume it’ll work to calm him as well. “I want to give myself. That’s not weakness, Tommy. That’s trust.”

He stills. You feel the shift in his breathing, the way his body eases just slightly beneath your touch.

“I know sweetheart, I know…,” he pants, biting and sucking the tender flesh of your neck in lustful anticipation. “you’re not weak. You’re just smart enough to know when to surrender.”

You don't answer aloud. But you don't pull away.

He senses it, your unspoken agreement: he may lead, but only for as long as you let him.

“Now be smart again,” he whispers, fingers fumbling with his belt. “Open for me.”

The words hit like an electric current and you feel the heat painfully pooling between your legs, unbearable in its immediacy. You didn’t miss the chance in his voice; it’s edged with heat now. You realize with relief that it’s more temptation than threat, like he’s playfully testing whether your earlier words were bravado or a real invitation.

The darkness sharpens everything, every noise, his intent, your desire to feel what he hasn’t even given yet. You’d never admit aloud how much you like the command laced with bittersweet praise. And how easy it is to obey.

He steps back a little and you hear the soft metallic click as his belt comes undone. He hesitates to move closer. You glimpse him in the faint slats of light slipping through the vent in the door, his fingers are paused at his waistband, his silhouette appears tense with restraint.

Your palm finds his jaw again. Damp, tense, warm. You guide him forward until his hips brush your thighs. You notice that his breath falters differently now, deeper, heavier. Lust, not vigilance. It settles you more than words could.

“Use me, Tommy. Be rough. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

His head drops for a second, forehead resting against yours. There’s heat in the contact. And something else – gratitude, maybe. You both know, you will stay if he respects your boundaries. Then his hands settle on your waist, sliding under the hem of your uniform again, rough fingertips skimming over skin still chilled from fear, pulling down your slip with practiced ease.

“Don’t worry, Y/N. I’ll break you just right.” He lifts you by the hips and pulls you forward on the ladder’s narrow rung until your legs fall open around him. “You’ll thank me for it.”

If this is how his “threat or flirt” game goes on, you’ll love to play it till the end.

His zipper goes next, silent but decisive, and then there’s nothing but his hardness against you – demanding, impossible to ignore.

You gasp as he pushes into you. Not from pain, but from the way it overwhelms: the stretch, the pressure, the sheer size of him forcing you to take more than you thought you could. He stays still, forehead resting on your shoulder, breath warm against your neck. It’s not hesitation. It’s a silent check-in.

You tighten your legs around his hips, and that’s all he needs. His mouth finds yours again, this time with no restraint. It’s not a question anymore. It’s a claim you’ve offered, one he accepts with hunger and something close to reverence. He lets gravity do the rest – his hands guiding your thighs as he tilts his hips and lets your weight slide down onto him. The sudden fullness draws a choked moan from you. It’s deep. Deeper than you imagined.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice strained and reverent all at once. “What a tight little thing you are.”

His thrusts are agonizing slow at first, grinding your spine against the ladder’s frame, like he’s savoring the permission. There’s no escape from the sensation. His body fills your vision, your core, your mind. His size borders on too much, and for a flicker of a second, you’re glad for the shadows. You don’t want to see how much of him is still left outside you.

He knows. Of course he knows. That deliberate pace, his strained breath – he’s done this many times before, and he acts as if he’s addicted to the rhythm and the depth with which he uses your body for his very own pleasure. He knows exactly how to give you too much, then back off just enough to make you beg for it again.

You hadn’t expected tenderness, though. Not from him. Not like this. But it’s there – buried in the precision, the restraint, the way he listens to your body even when you don’t speak.

You can’t suppress a muffled moan into his mouth. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a warning flickers – someone might hear. Your colleague, doing her final rounds before night shift really settles in. The one with the maddeningly squeaky shoes. Right now, you’re grateful for that noise; if she’s still walking, she’s not close.

You try not to make another sound but each thrust punches the air from your lungs, sharp and high. You kiss him deeper, try to smother the sounds in his mouth.

But he doesn’t let you hide.

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bare your throat, to make you loud.

“Let me hear you,” he growls. “Don’t hide those filthy little noises – they’re for me.”

When you finally moan his name, it wrecks him. He groans like he’s been holding back too long – and the rhythm turns sharper. Your thighs begin to tremble from the sheer overstimulation. But there’s no pulling back now. He’s too far gone, chasing a finish he won’t be denied. His grip tightens on your hips and spine, holding you in place like he owns the rhythm – and you with it. Your attempts to wriggle out of his grasp – more of a test than a real intention – he doesn’t register them. Or he deliberately ignores them.

This might be breaking the rules. But God, you want him to.

The metal creaks dangerously under you. You half-laugh, half-moan. “Tommy, careful. We’re going to break this thing.”

“You first,” he growls into your neck, pushing even harder as if it were a challenge for him. “I promised you.”

This fucking stepladder. It gives him the perfect angle – lets gravity do the work as he drives deeper, hips locking yours in place, no room to shift, no escape from the drag and stretch of him. Every thrust is calculated, relentless, each one sharper than the last. He uses your own weight to trap you where he wants you, pinning you there with force and precision – clearly chasing both your undoings.

You’re close. He must feel it.

Then he murmurs against your ear, voice hoarse and thick with something that breaks the last thread of restraint:

“So good for me, love. Letting me in like this. So fucking perfect.”

It shatters you.

Because suddenly, it isn’t just about dominance or hunger. It’s about being wanted. Trusted. Needed.

You break around him, trembling, gasping. He’s not far behind, chasing the high like it’s salvation, a curse dragged from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt, body locking against yours. His mouth finds your shoulder, your neck, like he can’t get close enough. The rhythm breaks, falters, and still, he doesn't let go – of your hips, your breath, the space between you.

After a moment, he shifts, careful now. His hands are gentle as he helps you off the stepladder, steadying your knees. You’re both quiet…the kind of quiet that lingers when something important just passed between two people.

You smooth down your uniform. He does it better, fingers brushing at your collar, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, lips ghosting your temple like a secret. When you carefully open the door, the hallway is still empty.

He gives you one last look, mischief flickering in those impossible blue eyes.

“You were right, Nurse Y/N. Visitor’s hour is long over.” He straightens his jacket, lips twitching with mischief. “Still, can’t say I regret overstaying.”

You keep your face neutral, your steps steady. But inside, you're a coil of nerves and want.

And as you walk in opposite directions, heart still thudding from more than just exertion, you already know you’ll be counting the hours until the next time he shows up – to break the rules again.

***

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Taglist

Jonathan Crane walked into the waiting room of his practice, to retrieve the next client for his appointment. A certain Wade 'Deadpool' Wilson.

As he walked in, he noticed a man sitting there in a black and red superhero suit. He rose a brow as he stepped closer. “Eh...mister Wilson?” The man looked up, narrowing the white egg-shaped forms on his mask that covered his eyes.

“Pool. Dead. Lets do it, doc. Cure me,” he said with a sigh, his shoulders slumping in an exaggarated manner, as he stood up.

“I eh....this way please..” Doctor Crane muttered, not fazed by a strange person in his practice every now and then. This was Gotham after all.

His secretary, a blonde young woman with a large pair of glasses, picked up the phone the moment they walked past her. “Shrink in the box, can I take your disorder?” she asnwered it, as if Jonathan Crane ran a fastfood restaurant. He gasped in horror and his eyes snapped in her direction to tell her off.

“He put me up to it...” she stammered wide-eyed as Deadpool keeled over laughing. “Oh my god, your timing was perfect! Well done, Harls, well done!” he managed to say, once he took the phone receiver from her hands and hung up. He held up his cell phone to show doctor Crane that he was the one calling.

“That was not funny!” Jonathan huffed, glaring at the both of them. “I am shocked you would lend yourself for such shenanigans, miss Quinzell!” The woman averted her eyes, bowing her head to appear contrite but the blush on her cheeks and the small pout around her mouth told Deadpool that this woman was absolutely smitten with the good doctor. Of course, he himself had no clue.

“Yes, very droll. This way,” Jonathan mused, sounding a tad irritated. Deadpool followed him into his office and sat down on one of the couches. “Rich Corinthian leather!” he said approvingly. “The Nolan verse has a lot of 'fuck you' money, huh doctor Crane?”

“Why dont we focus on why you are here, mister Wilson?” Doctor Crane said in a bit of an authorative voice.

“Wow wow wow...I'm here as Deadpool, not as mister Wilson. That's who that judge convicted to follow your little therapy marathon. Deadpool. Not mister Wilson, not Wade, Deadpool,” he stated, making a mocking jazz hands gesture at the mention of therapy.

“And why did the judge convict you to that, mister eh....Deadpool?” Jonathan asked as he leaned back in his chair, a bit too smug for his own good. But this was where he shone, he couldn't resist but to show off, of course.

“I was caught smashturbating in Wayne manor. The butler caught me. It was a whole thing.”

Jonathan stared at him for a few moments, trying to determine if the man in the suit was messing with him or not. He took a deep breath, before asking his next question.

“Very well, lets start at the beginning. How would you describe yourself?”

“Oh well, verbally, but I've also prepared a dance!”

“Will you take this seriously?!” Dr. Crane said in a raised, agitated voice.

Deadpool stood up and paced around. “Oh, so Deadpool has no feelings, huh? He just makes everyone laugh around him so they forget their troubles and his, for that matter!”

Dr. Crane rubbed a hand over his face. “Nobody is laughing, mister Pool,” he said in an exhausted manner.

“You are, on the inside!”

“Just...” he said a little too forceful, then took a deep breath. “Just start opening up to me. Give me something to work with.”

“You sound just like scoutmaster Kevin.”

“Alright enough! You need to stop wasting my time here! I have to write a report for the judge, do you realize that? And if I dont sign off on your sessions, you'll have to do this all over again, with a different therapist!”

“You wont send me to Arkham? Like you usually do?”

“What?” Dr. Crane asked, his voice a little unsteady. Deadpool said nothing, but kept staring at him. The silence stretched and grew more and more uncomfortable.

“W-What do you know about me sending people to Arkham? I assure you, I only do that when its strictly needed.”

“I know that you've been sending people there, so you can smuggle in your self-made toxins. Thats pretty fucking evil! Mental health is nothing to fuck with, doc.”

Jonathan had to gasp for air for a moment, not believing that he was found out by this clown. How did he know?

“Yeah. Stick that up your pipe and smoke it.” Deadpool said with a chuckle.

Dr. Crane stood up and began to pace around. “You must mistake me for someone else, mister Pool, I assure you that all my assesments are proper and-”

“Right, right, prim and proper. Like a boyscout.”

“I think you're projecting. You need to feel like a hero, don't you? So you make up these little scenario's to star in,” the man said, looking a little too smug about his analysis.

“You're a terrible fucking liar, doctor Crane!”

The doctor huffed and tilted his head. “Don't worry, mister Pool. I can fix you. My methods might be unorthodox, but in the end you'll find them helpful. Would you like to see my mask?”

“Well, I showed you mine!” Deadpool replied with a shrug, standing up as well.

Jonathan Crane smirked and opened the drawer of his mask, getting out his burlap sack and pulling it over his head. With a swift move, he grabbed a dose of his fear toxin and smashed the little vile so Deadpool was forced to inhale it.

At the same time, Deadpool grabbed a few viles of drugs from his toolbelt and did the same thing, wich resulted in the both of them breaking down in a desperate sounding laughing fit.

Deadpool slid down the wall and sank to the floor, his long legs stretched in front of him as the drugs now made him hallucinate.

“Heh. I'm much calmer now,” he snorts as doctor Crane growls in frustration. For some reason, he kept falling over when he tried to get up.

As he reached for the knife in the breast pocket of his jacket, a dark figure crashed through the window. It was a tall man, dressed in a bat suit.

“Took your damn sweet time, Batman! DC doesn't do punctuality?” Deadpool scoffs.

“Zip it, Wade. You call this helping?” The vigilante rumbles in his deep, raspy voice, gesturing at how Crane was still completely disoriented.

Pool opens his suit a little and pulls out a recording device. “I got it all on tape, Dracula, settle down. Well...most of it..wait, did you confess or not?” He asks Jonathan, who is doing his best to glare menacingly, while Batman ties his wrists together.

The door is thrown open and blind Al marches inside, finding her way with her guide stick. “WADE! You left me in that waiting room! You said we were gonna get cocaine!”

“It's therapy, Al, to work out our differences. Tell her, doc,” Deadpool states, gesturing at Al as doctor Crane shakily stood up. Batman was pacing around, muttering to himself.

“I'm sorry, doctor Crane isn't in right now, you'll have to make an appointment,” he mumbled, giving them crazy eyes.

“You motherfucker! You told me there'd be cocaine!” Al growled at Wade and hit him in the shins with her stick.

Deadpool exclaimed in pain. “Ouch! It's for healing, Al! So we can get high on life instead! Don't you want to get high on life?

"I pray every day that fire finds your body and finishes the job God didn't have the nuts to do!" Al yells and hits a nearby conch in the wall with her stick as she tries to hit Wade again. The conch moves and reveals a hidden cabinet file, as the wall opens up.

“No!” Jonathan growls but Deadpool grabs him in a choke-hold, while Batman reads the files. A smirk plays around his lips. “Please don't smile, it's not on brand for your character,” Deadpool says, unsettled.

“All of his evil plans and concoctions, documented. We have the proof we need to put him away, for a long time,” Batman rumbles. Deadpool nods as he puts his arm around Batman's shoulder. “All in a days work, eh colleague? All in a days work.” Batman glared. “Don't touch me.

“Yeah, that's fair,” Deadpool nods.

Taglist:

This was the last thing she needed right now, having to deal with him. She’d had the longest day of the longest week she could ever remember, her feet and back were killing her, and she just wanted to go home. But it was only 2:00 pm, and she still had over six hours left on her shift.

“Your favorite patron’s here,” Angie teased her as she saw Y/N trying to hide back in the kitchen.

“Please, please will you handle him this time? I’m begging you, Angie,” Y/N said. “Just this once.”

“Sorry, hun, you drew the short straw when he first started coming in here. You have to deal with him.”

“That was ages ago!” Y/N practically shrieked. “When are you guys gonna let me off the hook?!”

Angie grinned.

“Maybe when he actually starts tipping,” she said. “Which’ll be more likely the faster you get out there, you know.”

“The day he leaves a tip, or even shows the tiniest hint of being a decent human being, will be declared a modern day miracle,” Y/N replied. What she didn’t realize was that she was running her fingers through her hair and adjusting her breasts in her bra as she spoke.

Angie gave her a quizzical brow as she watched her and then responded.

“For someone who hates him so much, you’re going through an awful lot of trouble to gussy yourself up,” she said.

Y/N immediately dropped her hands from her chest.

“What?! No, I’m not!”

“Then your hair and your tits somehow just primped themselves,” Angie smirked with sarcasm.

“Whatever,” Y/N said, rolling her eyes and tightening the apron around her waist. “You and everyone else here can go to hell.”

“Admit it, you secretly like him,” said Angie.

“I like him better than I like you right now,” Y/N countered, “although it’s a pretty close call. You both can kiss my ass.”

“I think he’d probably take you up on that,” Angie smirked again. “You two just need to fuck already and get it over with.”

“I’m walking away now,” Y/N said flippantly over her shoulder as she headed out of the kitchen, Angie laughing behind her.

Walking through the swinging door, Y/N stopped behind the counter and watched him. She was still slightly hidden by the coffee pot station, and she observed with narrowed eyes as he took his wallet out of his back pocket and placed it on the table before taking a seat. He always sat in the same booth, and ever since the very first time he’d come in, she’d had to wait on him.

At first, she’d won the opportunity, having beaten all the other women at a game of rock, paper, scissors. When he’d first come in, they were all climbing over each other to serve him, everyone noticing how good looking and sexy he was. But Y/N had won, and a huge smile was plastered on her face as she made her way over to him. But by the end of his meal, however, her smile was barely hanging on.

The guy was a cocky, condescending, sexist asshole, and he’d soon revealed this within his first few visits. At first, Y/N had thought he was just trying to be funny, or maybe that he was a bit chauvinistic, but just trying to appear smooth. However, after his visits became at least twice a week frequencies, they’d all come to learn he was just an asshole.

After all the other waitresses had taken a turn serving him, they decided that another round of rock, paper, scissors would determine who’d have to deal with him from there on out, and just as fantastically as she’d won the first time around, Y/N had conversely epically lost the second time. She was convinced she was cursed.

Taking a deep breath and grabbing the coffee pot (he always had a cup of coffee), she stepped out from behind the counter and begrudgingly made her way over to his booth, her heart rate increasing slightly, which she convinced herself was because she was already annoyed with him.

Jackson was casually reclined in the booth, sitting back like he owned the place, with a bored and slightly irritated expression on his face. He didn’t have to look around or call any attention to himself; he knew she’d be there in a matter of minutes, and he drummed his fingers on the back of the booth as he waited. And then, as always, he could smell her before he saw her, the enticing, floral, feminine notes of her perfume preceding her, which he always tried to ignore but somehow never could. Unconsciously, he paused drumming his fingers to lift his hand to his head and brush his fingers through his hair before then reaching down and quickly straightening his blazer.

Taking a final deep breath, Y/N approached his table and tried to ignore how sexy he looked as she stopped in front of him. Without bothering to greet him in any way, she simply reached out and grabbed the overturned coffee mug in front of him, flipping it upright and then filling it up. After she finished, she steeled herself and then finally looked at him, raising her brows expectantly, but her expression still of exhausted irritation.

“What do you want?” she asked him with as much enthusiasm as one would have for picking up dog shit. In fact, she’d rather have been doing that right then instead of serving him.

“Paying customers deserve more courtesy than that,” Jackson said to her, his condescending smirk appearing immediately, his blue eyes shining with self-satisfaction.

“Tipping customers deserve courtesy,” Y/N countered with a challenging tilt of her head, “but you deserve something I’m not allowed to say while on the clock.”

Smirking, Jackson arched a brow at her.

“In a bad mood today, sunshine?” he said mockingly.

“I wasn’t until you walked in,” she replied.

“Then I’ve done my job,” Jackson smirked again.

She narrowed her eyes at him then, shoving the coffee mug back towards him with intentionally too much force, causing the hot brown liquid to slosh over the rim and splatter across the tabletop. He could wipe it up himself if he didn’t like the mess, she thought to herself.

“You’ve got ten seconds to tell me what you want, otherwise your plate will contain whatever shit is clogged in the grease trap behind the fryer,” she said to him.

“At least then we’d know you were actually doing your job and cleaning the kitchen. After all, it’s clear your talents are limited to diner-related tasks.” Jackson briefly looked down then and gestured to the coffee she’d spilled on the table before he continued. “Although, clearly, basic competency and coordination aren’t your strong suits, so hopefully that grease trap isn’t too complicated for you.”

At that, Y/N felt about ready to rage slap him.

“Maybe one of the other gals around here can show you how to properly handle women’s work. Then you’d be good for something.”

Her blood boiling, Y/N looked down at him and spoke through gritted teeth.

“What do you want?” she demanded again slowly.

Goddamn her boss for not allowing her to ever refuse him service. Back when Jackson had first started coming there, she’d asked Stu, the owner, if they could tell Jackson that he wasn’t welcome back again. But Stu was nearly as much of a sexist ass as Jackson was, and along with not caring how Jackson made Y/N feel, he also only saw dollar signs.

“A paying customer is a paying customer,” he’d replied, and then he’d ended the conversation.

Sure, Y/N could have made Jackson’s experiences there unfavorable in the hopes that he wouldn’t return, but she’d already done that (and continued to do it), and unfortunately, it hadn’t deterred him. It almost seemed like Jackson got some kind of sick pleasure from tormenting her, and no matter how much lip she gave back to him, how unpleasant she acted, and how much she insulted him, he still kept coming back.

Of course, there was the other resort of spitting in his food or violating it in some way, but no matter how much Jackson tormented her, Y/N couldn’t bring herself to do that. It was too disgusting, not to mention Stu would fire her on the spot if he ever caught her spitting in a customer’s food or purposefully wasting it by intentionally cooking it poorly. And although she was unaware, Jackson had been watching her for long enough to know that she never did anything like that, so he never had to worry about if she'd fucked with his food.

Still waiting for him to reply, Y/N continued to glare at Jackson, and he smirked in amusement at having done such a good job of pissing her off. And now, he thought, why not get her in a little trouble?

“You know, I’m feeling so off put and unwelcome by your attitude that I’d like to speak to your manager,” he said then. “I feel it’s only right he knows what kind of treatment you’re displaying to patrons.”

“Sorry, he’s not here; you just missed him…Jack.”

Y/N smiled to herself as she saw Jackson’s smirk immediately falter. For whatever reason, he hated being called “Jack” instead of “Jackson”, and she guessed it was from a childhood of bullying due to his last name.

She’d discovered it long ago, after his first few visits. Initially, he'd paid with cash those times, but one day, he'd handed her plastic, and when running his debit card through the register, she thanked him for his business after handing him his card, and he’d quickly corrected her.

“Well, thanks for stopping in again,” she’d said. “Have a good night, Jack.”

His face grew dark.

“It’s Jackson,” he said back to her. “Don’t ever call me Jack.”

Then he was out the door before Y/N could say anything more. Puzzled, she looked down absentmindedly at the receipt printing out of the credit card reader, and when she looked at the print, her eyes landed on his last name, and she realized she hadn't made the connection initially.

Rippner. There was her answer; she immediately caught the joke.

Ever since then, she’d occasionally call him Jack just to piss him off, but she hadn’t said it in months. And he called her every condescending pet name in the books, never having actually called her her name. In fact, she wasn’t sure if he even knew her actual name.

But he knew her name, alright. He knew everything about her. Everything.

He knew she’d been a waitress there for three years now, that she was single and lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment, that she baked chocolate chip cookies and called her parents every Sunday night, that she used strawberry scented body wash, and a million other things about her. He’d seen her do everything and knew her daily routines and all her behaviors, including the fact that she masturbated once a week, working at herself with the sexiest little pouts and expressions scrunching up her beautiful face as whiny, desperate little moans escaped her mouth.

He made it a point never to miss watching her when she did that, and he’d never gotten away without a raging hard-on. As he’d follow it up with jerking himself off to what he’d just seen, he’d always come hard with the sound of her moans still echoing in his ears and her pouty face imprinted in his vision as his cum would release with the force of a bullet leaving a gun. He always needed two tissues to clean up from her, and he was never sure if he felt more angry or more satisfied after he finished. After all, he resented the fact that she had the hold on him that she unknowingly did. The one time a different waitress had had to serve him because Y/N had apparently called out sick, Jackson had got up from the booth and left without another word, and then angrily gone home, once again unsure whether he was angrier with her for daring to not be there or himself for being so bothered by her absence.

As Jackson glared up at her after she’d called him Jack, she smiled smugly, despite simultaneously thinking that he looked even sexier when he was angry. And as she noticed in her peripheral how he clenched his fists, she found herself wondering how those hands of his would feel squeezing her thighs or pulling her hair, or how skillful his fingers could be working inside her. As much as she hated to admit it, it was thoughts like those that ran through her mind as she’d bring herself to climax on top of her duvet, and then afterwards, she’d be disgusted with herself for getting off to a man who was such a condescending piece of shit.

As her luck would have it, Stu appeared from the back office just then, revealing that he was in fact still there. Upon seeing him, Jackson’s glare turned into an evil smile, and he spoke again.

“Guess it’s my lucky day; looks like he came back. So, do me a favor and send him over here, otherwise I’ll have to get him myself, and we both know that if I have to do that, you’ll be in even more trouble.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes again, her self-control hanging on by a severely frayed thread.

“If you’re so unhappy with my service, why don’t you just leave?” she asked him. It was the same question she asked him nearly every time he was there.

“Someone’s gotta teach you how to do your job right, sweetheart. I’m doing you a favor and letting you practice on me, although, as usual, you’re failing miserably.”

“I swear to God, Rippner…”

“Are you gonna send him over, or should we just give him your two weeks notice right now?”

Glaring at him again, Y/N spoke a final time before turning away to get Stu. She couldn't afford to lose this job.

“There’s a very special place in hell for people like you,” she said to him lowly, but Jackson just gave her that cunty grin.

As she walked away, his eyes uncontrollably lowered to her ass, and he was immediately reminded of her panties. He knew which ones she’d put on today, and he felt his cock twitch as he thought about the lace-edged cotton and ripping it off her hips.

Y/N watched from behind the counter with her arms crossed over her chest as Jackson spoke to Stu, Jackson pretending to be a perfectly pleasant customer. She could see the phony smile and hear the friendlier tone of voice he'd used the first couple times he'd come in and she'd served him. She almost laughed to herself as she thought about how wrong she'd been when she initially thought he was charming.

After several minutes, Stu turned and walked back over to her, and just before he spoke, Y/N caught the smug smile Jackson was shooting her over Stu's shoulder.

"He just told me that you refused to offer him a menu and that you intentionally spilled coffee all over the table and told him he could clean it up himself, and then that you told him he should get out," Stu was looking at her sternly, Y/N not responding. "I don't care that he's a regular or how many times you've served him, you don't get smart with paying customers like that. Do you hear me?"

"Stu, the guy's playing you," Y/N replied with exasperation. "He's a total asshole. He's just pretending to be nice to get me in trouble."

"Well, if you treated him the way he says you did, then you're lucky I don't fire you right now."

"Stu! He harasses me every time he's here!"

"I don't wanna hear it," Stu held up a hand and stopped her. "Now, I want you to go back over there and apologize to him, and then you're gonna stay after your shift tonight and mop the floors."

"What?! No way!" Y/N cried.

"Well, then you can walk out of here right now just like you told him to do," was Stu's careless reply. "But your name won't be on the schedule anymore."

Internally seething, Y/N took a deep breath and uncrossed her arms.

"Fine," she gritted out.

Stepping out from behind the counter again, Y/N slowly walked towards Jackson's table, holding his eyes and glaring at him the entire time she approached. God damn those eyes of his.

"Hi there," Jackson said with that phony smile as she stopped in front of him. "Feeling a little more chipper now, are we?"

At the sight of his infuriating (gorgeous) smile, Y/N clenched her fists at her sides, and when she opened her mouth, he cut her off.

"Just remember, you owe me an apology, sweetheart, so think very carefully about what you're going to say, unless you want me to talk to your boss again."

But just after Jackson said that, they both turned to look as Stu called out to no one in particular that he was leaving to go to the bank, then he pushed open the door, the bell ringing above it as he exited.

Now her turn to sport a smug smile, Y/N looked back at Jackson and then spoke. This was her chance, and after the week she’d had and the way Jackson had just gotten her in trouble, she decided to finally stoop to his level.

“Looks like your luck has run out,” she said.

Then, before Jackson could respond, Y/N reached out and grabbed the mug of coffee she’d poured for him earlier and lifted it from the table. She grinned even wider as their eyes locked again, and then, after a second’s pause, she tipped the mug in her hand as she held it above him, pouring the hot coffee into his lap and relishing the look on his face as it hit his body and drenched his clothes.

“Fuck!” Jackson shouted the second he felt the hot liquid hit him, and he jumped to get up from the booth, but the entire contents of the mug had already soaked him. Fortunately, it had cooled slightly since when Y/N had first poured it, but it was still very hot, and his entire front was stained and soaked.

“Fuck!” Jackson shouted again as he stepped out of the booth, Y/N watching him with a smugly triumphant smirk. She stepped back a couple feet and had crossed her arms over her chest, continuing to smile as she heard a mix of whispers and sniggers coming from the other patrons and the servers who’d just witnessed what had happened.

After looking down at himself and shaking the dripping liquid from his clothes and hands, Jackson looked up at Y/N with a heated glare.

“You should really be more careful, Jack,” she said after their eyes had met. “Coffee’s hot.”

Narrowing his eyes at her, Jackson still stood there, his clothes still dripping.

“And it looks like it’s time for my break, so I’m not gonna be able to help you clean up,” she continued.

As she said that, Y/N pulled out the towel that was tucked into the waistband of her apron and lifted it between her fingers, tauntingly dangling it in the air.

“Sorry, Jack,” she finished then. “You take care now.”

And with that, Y/N whipped around and walked away, swinging the towel around in the air as she moved and disappearing through the kitchen door as the smug smile remained on her face.

Her smug little smile wouldn’t stay on her face for long, Jackson immediately decided as he huffed out an angry breath. Glaring after her once more, he then walked towards the entrance and stormed out the door, the bell above it sounding out its signature ring as he did.

•.•.•.•.•

As she finished putting the last of the chairs on top of the tables, Y/N briefly looked out the window into the street.

The occasional group of people walked by on the sidewalk, making their way to the local bars as the rest of the daytime businesses they passed had long since shut their doors.

It was dark out now, and the diner had officially closed two hours ago. But as an addition to her punishment of staying after her shift to mop the floors, Stu had designated Y/N as the server who had to wait out the last diners. So rather than running back home for a short break, or sitting in the back and having a quick bite to eat, she'd had to stay up front and finish serving and then cleaning up after the final straggling customers while everyone else had been allowed to go home. At this point, she'd been there longer than twelve hours, and once the customers had finally left and she'd locked the door, she'd then had to take all their plates and cutlery back to the kitchen and wash them by hand before finally being able to put up the chairs and prepare to mop.

Dispensing a glass of soda for herself from the fountain, she momentarily took a break as she sipped on it before then sitting at one of the counter stools and briefly sliding off her shoes. Flexing and pointing her toes as she felt the relief of finally sitting down, she then rolled her neck and stretched her back before reaching for her glass again.

When the diner was like this — empty, quiet, and now only lit up by the lights of the fountain and coffee machines, kitchen lamps, and dessert cooler, it was almost serene. With the exception of tonight, she usually enjoyed closing up by herself because she could relish in the quiet and people watch out the window for a while. But tonight, she was still here because of him, and she almost wished he was there so that she could drench him again as she'd throw her soda in his face, the arrogant, cocky bastard. So unbearably infuriating and sexist and annoying and menacing and hot....no, not hot. Not sexy and somehow still arousing, even though she hated his guts. Of course not.

Stop it, Y/N, she thought to herself. Why are you still thinking about him like that? You hate him. He doesn't turn you on; he infuriates you. You don't enjoy the hint of something sinister that he gives off every time he looks at you with those eyes. You don't want to know what it would feel like to have him forcefully pin you down with one hand as he reached into your panties with the other. That's not what you think about when you get yourself off.

It was the hardest she'd ever tried to deny every thought to herself, and as usual, it wasn't very effective. But she did what she always did and forced herself to think about something else as she slipped her shoes back on and stood from the stool. Untying her apron from her waist, she mindlessly dropped it down onto the countertop and then headed towards the back to retrieve the mop and bucket.

Reaching for the cleaning solution, she uncapped the bottle and poured the measured amount into the bucket before then turning on the spigot beside the floor drain and filling the bucket with water. As the water loudly flowed from the line, she could almost swear she heard the ring of the bell above the entry door sounding from up front, but she knew it was just a phantom sound. It happened often when she was alone, similar to the thought that she'd heard her phone ringing while she was in the shower, only to look at it upon getting out and seeing she had no missed calls. Besides, it was impossible — she'd locked the door behind the last customers. She'd made sure of it, as she wanted to get on with the cleaning and mopping as quickly as possible without the risk of someone else walking in and begging for a quick bite.

Once the bucket was full enough, she sunk the mop inside it and then pushed it out to the main area, struggling, as usual, due to the bum wheel the stupid thing had on it. Looking down in order to try and maneuver the bucket where she wanted it to go, she pushed it back behind the counter to start there first. But as she nearly had it where she wanted it, it rolled awkwardly, causing a small wave of water to slosh over the edge and create an instant puddle around her feet.

"Shit!" she said in frustration as she released the mop handle, and she reached into her back pocket for the rag that she'd tucked there to keep under her feet as she moved throughout the room. Instead using it to sop up the puddle, she bent over and wiped at it, pieces of her hair falling in her face as she did so.

When she'd absorbed as much as she was able to with the rag — which wasn't a lot — she stood back up and tossed it through the kitchen pass-through, hearing it land somewhere on the floor behind her with a wet plop. She then wiped her hands on her jeans and then lifted them to smooth her hair out of her face, and it was when she then turned around and lifted her head that she immediately screamed and jumped backwards, the shock of seeing him sitting at one of the counter stools enough to nearly give her a heart attack.

"Holy fuck!" she cried out as she clutched her chest, the pounding of her heart still rushing through her ears.

"Evening, sunshine," Jackson said to her with the biggest smirk on his face.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" she practically shouted as she looked at him, completely caught off guard. "Where the hell did you come from?! How the fuck did you get in here?!"

Jackson just kept smiling.

"Door was open," he said as he watched her with amusement. "You really ought to lock it when you're here all alone, you know."

No, there was no way it had been unlocked; she distinctly remembered locking it. She shook her head.

"Look, I don't know how you got in here, but if you don't get out right now, I'm calling the cops," she said to him.

"Oh really?" Jackson mocked her as their eyes remained locked. "And tell me how you're going to do that without this."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out her phone, holding it out enough to reveal it but not within a reachable distance for Y/N to grab it, or even try. She narrowed her eyes as she remained braced against the back counter.

"How the hell did you get in here?" she asked him again.

"Like I said, the door was unlocked."

"No, it wasn't," she responded with a shake of her head.

"Doesn't matter," Jackson said as he slipped her phone back in his pocket and leaned forward across the counter. "What matters is that I never got my lunch this afternoon, which means you still owe me a meal, which I have every intention of getting out of you."

"Come back during business hours," she said, silently trying to remember if her keys were under the counter where she usually left them, or still in her purse somewhere in the office. She could make it to her car by going out the back door if she had to. But as she suddenly remembered tossing them in her purse when she'd punched in that morning, she mentally cursed.

"No, now works better for me," Jackson responded. "This way, it's nice and quiet, and I get your full, undivided attention. After all, you still owe me that apology, too. I wanna hear loud and clear as you tell me how sorry you are."

As he said that, Y/N’s heart began pounding even faster. The look in his eyes was making her feel some bizarre combination of terrified and thrilled, and although the logical part of her brain told her she shouldn't challenge him, that she should just somehow get out of there and find a way to call the police, the part of her that wanted to piss him off even further won out.

"The last thing you'll ever get from me is an apology, Jack," she said tauntingly as she straightened herself from the counter. Her eyes were fixed on him with intensity. "So I hate to tell you, but you wasted your time coming here, Jack. And if you don't get out right now, Jack, you're gonna get a repeat of what I did to you this afternoon. Jack."

As she'd been speaking, he'd risen from his stool, staring her down with equal intensity across the counter. With each utterance of his name, his anger grew, matched to the same level with bitter arousal as she spat out his name from that pretty little mouth.

"As simple-minded as we both know you are, I hope for your sake you know when to shut up," came Jackson's response, his voice low with anger. "You're on wafer-thin ice, sunshine."

As she registered his words, she was vaguely aware of the skip of her heart and the tickle of wetness that had suddenly formed in her panties, but she was equally as angry.

"I said get out," she growled at him, but Jackson remained where he stood.

"Tell me you're sorry," he replied.

"Never."

"Last chance."

"Fuck you."

At that, Jackson shifted, and the movement startled her so much that, instinctively, Y/N reached out and picked up the glass of soda she'd been drinking, which was still sitting on the counter between them. Without another thought, she thrusted it forward, throwing the contents at Jackson and once again drenching his front as the liquid flew from the glass.

As he registered what she'd just done, there was a moment of tense silence between them as Jackson looked down and processed his current state. Y/N was momentarily frozen in her spot as she watched him, but as soon as he slowly lifted his head again and looked at her, her heart began to race. The fury in Jackson's eyes unmistakable, there was a brief second of insane tension between them, and then, something snapped, and, dropping the glass, Y/N took off.

Hurling himself over the counter, Jackson reached for her as she dashed away, but he narrowly missed her, and Y/N tore out from behind the counter, darting over the mop bucket as Jackson now stood behind the counter, too. He dashed forward after her, kicking the mop bucket out of the way as she jumped over the remains of the puddle still left on the floor. She'd made it out from behind the counter and then ran for the front door, but in a second, she felt herself slipping, her left foot having landed in another puddle left by the mop bucket, apparently having sloshed more water than she realized when she'd been maneuvering it behind the counter.

She shrieked as she slipped, her left foot sliding and her knee going down as her legs split beneath her and then she hit the floor. She could hear Jackson behind her, and just as she tried to pull her left leg forward and hurriedly get back on her feet, Jackson reached her and bent down, grabbing her ankle and pulling her back, her torso sliding across the floor, and she shrieked again.

Her heart pounding, Y/N rotated her ankle in Jackson's grasp and rolled her body, turning over onto her back as he continued to grip her ankle. She heard him grunting in his efforts to keep his hold on her as she then thrashed around, and when he looked down at her and their eyes met, she gave a final violent shake of her leg, causing his grip on her to slip from her ankle.

His hand was now on the heel of her shoe instead, and Y/N wrenched her leg out of his grasp, her foot slipping from her shoe, which Jackson still held in his hand as she then pulled away. She seized the moment of him being briefly thrown by the loss of his hold on her, and she rolled onto her stomach once again before then pushing herself up and scrambling to her feet, once again running for the front door.

Jackson was right behind her, having quickly recovered from losing his grip on her as she pulled her foot from her shoe. As she got to her feet again, he reached for her once more, but he slipped in the same puddle she had, and he stumbled as she ran for the front door. He managed to remain upright, however, and upon regaining his balance, he saw her quickly look over her shoulder at him before she darted again and shoved open the front door, the bell above it ringing as she ran through it and out into the parking lot.

Charged with fury and a dark desire, Jackson's only goal was catching her, teaching that little bitch a lesson and forcing every last plea and whine out of her that he could. Tearing through the door after her, he saw up ahead by the glow of the street lights that she was running through the parking lot, foregoing the sidewalk and cutting through the alley behind the building next door.

Immediately running after her, Jackson followed the same path she took as he kept his focus on her form up ahead. Every so often, she'd look back over her shoulder to see where he was, and when she did, she slowed down enough to allow more distance between them to close. Of course, Jackson was faster than her, but she'd got a head start, and she picked up her pace again as she turned back from looking at him again.

Her heart pounding and her body pumping with adrenaline, Y/N's only thought was the here and now, looking for anything she could throw in his path to detour him or any sudden shortcut she could take to dash away. As she reached the end of the alley, she saw several large metal trash cans up ahead, and upon reaching them, she blindly grabbed them and hurled them over onto their sides, the cans falling open and rolling behind her as they landed with a bang and created a minor obstacle to the path back out onto the street.

Jackson saw her take the turn to the left, and as he easily jumped over the trash cans she’d knocked over, he ran after her down the sidewalk, her hair flying behind her as she ran. Being at the end of the alley, this area of the road was empty of any other people, the only sounds being each of their pounding footsteps as their feet met the pavement. But she was still missing a shoe, and as she stumbled yet again due to the uneven impact that had caused for her feet, she looked over her shoulder again to see how close he was and if she had the time to take the slightest pause.

Jackson had closed more distance between them due to her stumbling, and as he saw her look back again, he caught the questioning expression on her face as she was clearly debating something. But then they’d reached the busier part of the street, and she suddenly dashed off the sidewalk and into the street, bounding between two parked cars and crossing, narrowly missing being hit by an oncoming car as she ran across, the driver honking their horn and slamming on the brakes.

After barely dodging the oncoming car, Y/N looked behind her again and saw that the driver was still paused in the road, and Jackson had been cut off as the car had slammed on its brakes. Quickly, she reached down and ripped off her other shoe.

Slamming on the hood of the car with his fist, Jackson then rounded the front and followed after her once more, seeing her stand back up from quickly bending over to remove her other shoe.

Y/N looked up again to see Jackson just a few feet away as he ran towards her again, and she turned to keep running, but she tripped slightly on the curb as she stepped back onto the sidewalk, and she doubled over as she tried to catch her footing. As she reached out her free hand to try and steady herself, she felt Jackson’s fingers suddenly curl around her wrist and pull her back towards him, her body slamming against his as he yanked her more tightly in his grip and then their torsos collided. She screamed as she felt him throw her against the body of a car parked along the curb, and as her back slammed against the door, she cried out again in pain.

Every vein in Jackson’s body was pulsing as he wrapped his arms around Y/N and threw her against the car. Her chest was pressed into his and he could feel her lungs heaving as she cried out and then tried to catch her breath. She thrashed around until he pinned her harder against the car, and she was finally forced still momentarily as he then slotted his knee between her legs and grabbed her wrist.

She shouted out again, and she tried to pull her wrist out of his grasp, but to no avail. As she was forced still, she felt Jackson’s knee slot between her thighs, and she tried to ignore the way it created a pleasuring friction against her panties. She felt herself dampening again as she met his eyes and saw how he was looking at her as his chest heaved against hers, and she pictured him lifting her legs and slamming his cock into her with the same force with which he’d pushed her against that car.

Finally getting her still, Jackson looked down at her as his breathing heaved and he grunted as she struggled against him once more. When his knee met the apex of her thighs, he looked at her again and their eyes met, and he couldn’t decide in that moment what he wanted more, to wrap his hand around her neck as he slammed his cock inside her pussy, or force her down onto her knees and shove his cock down her throat.

What he didn’t realize was that she was still holding her shoe in her other hand, which she’d hidden behind her back as she’d been thrown against the car. Thrashing around and shouting once more, Jackson was forced to shift, and when he did, she had enough room to pull her arm out from behind her back. Before he could see it coming, Y/N lifted her arm and whacked her shoe across the side of his head, and Jackson was forced to release her wrist, reacting to the unexpected hit and momentarily retracting from her.

As Jackson pulled away, she leaned forward and hit him again, whacking her shoe against his head once more before then shoving his chest and knocking him back further. Then she slid out from between him and the car and took off again, throwing her shoe to the ground as she did.

Seething with anger now, Jackson quickly recovered and turned as she ran off, immediately chasing after her again as she dashed down the sidewalk. But she was at a disadvantage, as the toll her long day and lack of food had taken on her was catching up with her now, and she was feeling the exhaustion creep up as she panted with each step, feeling herself slowing down as she desperately tried to keep running at the same pace. On a regular day, Jackson would already be faster than her, but especially now, having long since lost her head start, he was right on her tail.

It was obvious that she was slowing down now, and as he kept his eyes on her as she kept running, Jackson could see that she was making her way back to the diner, the two of them having essentially run in a big circle and now poised to end up right back where they started. In the last block, he decided to let her keep the slightest gain on him, because as soon as he had her back inside, her victories would be over.

The diner in sight up ahead, Y/N pushed herself the last block and ran with everything she had. She looked over her shoulder once more and saw Jackson right behind her, close enough that he could just reach out and grab her, but he didn’t. As she finally reached the front door of the diner, she wrenched it open just enough to slip inside, Jackson slamming his shoulder into it as she yanked it closed behind her. Pulling with all her might on the handle, she kept him from pulling it open long enough to lock it, and once she’d turned the lock, she backed a few feet away, panting as she watched him briefly pull on the door. He looked up at her then and their eyes met through the window, but when she then saw him reach into his pocket and pull out a key, her eyes widened in shock as she then realized that that was how he’d gotten in in the first place that night.

He had a key to the diner. How?

Not wasting the time to stand there and watch him open the door, Y/N backed away further and then turned around and ran to the back hallway, trying to decide where to go. She panicked as she saw that Stu had yet again left the huge laundry sacks full of soiled linens in front of the back door, blocking the exit. As she stood there, she heard the distinct sound of the bell above the door ringing, and she knew she was trapped now. Her only possible option would be to somehow get back to the front door and go out that way again. But she’d have to get through the kitchen first.

She could hear Jackson’s footsteps approaching, and she quietly began weaving her way around the huge laundry sacks and then slipping into the kitchen, trying to keep her breathing as quiet as possible.

After watching her for so long, Jackson knew the entire layout of the diner, and he also knew that Stu had left the laundry at the back door as usual. Because of that, he knew Y/N would have no option but to make her way through the kitchen and try to go back to the front door. So rather than follow after her down the back hall, he walked through the main dining area and headed for the swinging door that led into the kitchen, knowing he’d be able to intercept her somewhere on her way through the kitchen.

She realized she no longer heard his footsteps, and as Y/N tiptoed slowly across the tiled floor, she kept looking over her shoulder, unsure if he’d be behind her or in front of her. When she turned her head forward once more as she passed by the dishwashing sink, she accidentally knocked over a huge metal ladle that’s handle had been sticking out over the edge of the counter. As it clanged loudly on the tile as it hit the floor, she gasped and squeezed her eyes shut in a regretful wince as she waited for the sound to stop.

Opening her eyes again, she then quickly slipped off to the side, hiding behind the tall bread racks just in time, as she saw Jackson appear through the doorframe as she tucked herself deeper behind them. Slipping her hand up to her mouth, she tried to muffle the sound of her breathing as her heart pounded, seeing him look around and then step further into the kitchen, passing by her as he went to look back by the walk-in pantry.

As soon as he was out of sight, Y/N slipped out from behind the racks and continued through the kitchen. What she didn’t know was that Jackson knew exactly where she’d been hiding, though, and as soon as she’d stepped back out onto the floor, he turned back around and followed after her.

Now passing by the servers’ station, Y/N was only a few feet away from the swinging door that led out to the dining area. Taking a final calculated step over a wayward crate of drinking glasses, she leaned forward and reached for the door, but just as her hands were about to come in contact with it, she suddenly felt a pair of arms roughly wrap around her waist and violently yank her backward.

She screamed as she felt him grab her, and as her back met his chest and he lifted her feet off the floor, she thrashed around again, kicking her legs and wriggling her torso as Jackson squeezed her so tight she thought she was going to puke. Her arms still momentarily outstretched for the door, she desperately reached for it one more time before Jackson walked them further backwards and then lowered her back to the floor, whipping her around to face him and then shoving her back against the wall, grabbing her wrists and pinning them on either side of her head as he pressed his chest into hers.

“Looks like your luck has run out, sweetheart,” he growled, throwing back at her the words she’d said to him earlier that day. Then before she could respond, he wrenched her away from the wall, throwing her against the counter instead and pinning hers arms once more.

Screaming, Y/N thrashed around in his grip, fighting against him as he squeezed her wrists and pressed his body into hers.

“LET GO OF ME!!!” she screamed, and then forced herself forward, shoving herself against him as Jackson kept hold of her wrists. As he shook her violently, she screamed again, but when she tried to pull her wrists from his grasp, she was unable to, and he just yanked her towards him again, once more whipping them around and shoving her back up against the freezer door.

“You put up a decent fight, sweetheart, I’ll give you that,” he breathed out. “But we both know you’ve got nothing left. And now I want that apology.”

Staring at each other, both their chests were heaving, and after a split second, Y/N narrowed her eyes and then clicked her tongue before puckering her lips and then spitting in his face.

Momentarily pulling back as her spit hit his cheek, Jackson unintentionally loosened his grip on her wrists, and Y/N ducked beneath his arms and made for the door once more. But Jackson recovered too quickly, dragging his sleeve over his cheek to wipe away her little gift as he lunged after her and grabbed her around the waist once again. Grunting as she fought him, he flung her up onto the counter and she cried out as the back of her head hit the shelf above them. Momentarily seeing stars, Y/N briefly stopped resisting him, and Jackson seized the opportunity as her head hung in front of him and her shoulders sagged. Standing between her legs dangling over the counter, he raised his hand and wrapped his fist in her hair, roughly yanking her head back to force her to look up, and she whimpered as he did.

"You don't know when to quit, do you?" he said to her as he shook his head, and her eyes held his.

Still panting, her chest heaving intensely, Y/N narrowed her eyes as she spoke.

"You're a miserable piece of shit," she muttered as she still struggled to catch her breath.

His fury reigniting once more, Jackson released her hair and dragged his hand to her neck instead, wrapping his fingers around her throat and squeezing, hearing the satisfying sound of her breath catching in her throat as she struggled to inhale, her eyes widening briefly.

"And you're even stupider than I thought," he shot back, his grip on her neck slightly tightening, but she could still speak.

"I hate you," Y/N croaked out.

Jackson tightened his grip even more, and he was vaguely aware of his cock twitching in his pants.

"So stupid..." he replied. "Now say it."

He jostled her by her neck as he demanded the apology once more.

"Never," Y/N croaked again.

"Say it."

She narrowed her eyes.

"Fuck you, Jack."

At that, Jackson's veins pulsed, and he felt the familiar combination of anger and arousal that plagued him every time he watched her. As he suddenly pictured her getting herself off, his cock immediately stiffened, and when he looked down to see her nipples hardened beneath her shirt and her eyes briefly dart to his lips, he clenched his jaw and released a humorless scoff before yanking her face to his by her throat.

"Little bitch," he growled, and then he slammed his mouth against hers as he tightened his grip on her neck a final time.

Moaning and then squirming as Jackson's lips landed forcefully on hers, Y/N wasn't sure whether she was more surprised or aroused as she fell forward into him. The anger returned after the initial shock, and after a few seconds of her lips battling with his, she lifted her arms and planted her palms on his chest, shoving him away and feeling his hand fall from her neck, the grip of which had loosened slightly when he'd pulled her to him. But when she forced him away and he backed up a step, their eyes met once more, and there was no denying the hatred-fueled desire that had come to a head between them.

Hurling himself back at her, Jackson fisted her hair again as he crashed their lips together once more, only this time, Y/N accepted him with angry eagerness, moaning again as she kissed him back, gripping his shoulders and sharply sinking her nails into his skin through his jacket.

Jackson hissed at the feel of her nails clenching his shoulders, and he quickly grabbed her wrists and roughly yanked them down, holding her palms against the counter as her legs wrapped around his waist.

He heard her moan again as he thrusted his bulge against her core, and then he released her wrists as she leaned into him and scooted closer to the edge of the counter. He'd never wanted any woman more than he wanted her, and his admission of that to himself only made him angrier, and he violently grabbed her thighs to pull her even closer, squeezing so hard that she tore her mouth from his to cry out in pain.

As she felt Jackson's hands squeeze her with nearly blinding pain, Y/N had to part from his mouth, a high cry escaping her as she did. But instead of recoiling further, she found herself wanting more, and she didn't even know how to process that. So she didn't. All she knew was that she'd never wanted any man more, and she tried to ignore how unbelievably twisted that was as he grabbed her again.

Jackson was practically ready to combust, needing to be inside her, to fuck the sass right out of her, and he quickly reached for her shirt and tore it over her head, Y/N cooperating as she raised her arms to allow him to. As he yanked the straps and cups of her bra down, Y/N simultaneously shoved his jacket off his shoulders and down his arms, then urgently worked at his shirt buttons as he roughly cupped her breasts and kneaded them, being anything but gentle as he pinched her nipples and then lifted his hands to yank her hair again. As her head jerked up at the tug of her hair, their eyes met briefly again, and Jackson's eyes burned with blue fire before he angrily shoved his head into her neck.

Y/N gasped as she felt him immediately bite harsh nip after harsh nip into her neck, and she tore open his shirt and scratched her nails against his bare skin, dragging them across him and leaving raised scratches all over his chest, his skin reddening to the same color as the marks he was leaving on her neck. Once again, she felt him roughly grasp her breasts, and she arched into him as he did, whimpering as he pinched her nipples again and then pulled back from her neck.

"Maybe I can fuck some common sense into you," Jackson growled as he reached down for her waistband and opened her jeans, yanking them down her hips and then moving his hands to his own pants as Y/N shimmied the legs of her jeans down to her ankles. Jackson quickly undid his belt and opened his pants, drawing his painfully hard cock out of his boxers as Y/N watched, feeling her pussy weeping as she eyed his large, stiff cock, which he pumped several times in his hand. Clenching around nothing, she wanted to feel him inside her with pathetic desperation.

"Although, seeing as it's you, I don't have very high hopes for you learning anything," he finished with a growl, and then he moved his hands from his cock to her hip and violently ripped her panties from her body, Y/N crying out briefly again as the way he roughly tore the garment from her hips left a fabric burn across her skin.

Her pussy now exposed — and it was the most luscious, gorgeous pussy he'd ever seen — Jackson released a deep, guttural groan as he saw her slick shining against her pink folds. She was so wet, and he gave her absolutely no prep before he grabbed her hips and pulled her right to the edge of the counter, her ass barely still resting on it as he then fisted himself at her entrance and then slammed his cock inside her so roughly that several metal bowls fell from the shelf above them and crashed loudly onto the floor.

"Ahhhhh!" Y/N cried out in an insane combination of pain and pleasure, her walls instantly enveloping him as Jackson slammed his hips into her. She felt every vein and ridge of his large cock rubbing against her insides, and she clamped down in desperate need as she met his thrust with a jutting out of her own hips. Her head fell back and she planted her palms on the counter to brace herself as Jackson pulled almost all the way out before violently slamming into her again.

He himself was groaning in angry pleasure, her gorgeous, slick pussy so tight and so warm, tugging him every inch of the way each time he pulled out, almost as if she was trying to keep him inside her. As Y/N met Jackson thrust for thrust, he saw her face scrunch up in the same adorably sexy way it did whenever he watched her pleasure herself, except he recognized that it was even more evident than when she touched herself.

"I think you're enjoying this a little too much," Jackson said to her through heavy breaths as he continued to pound into her. "It's pathetic, really."

Shifting her head and meeting his eyes, Y/N was panting as she answered him.

"Fuck you," she stuttered out, unable to think of anything else to say.

Jackson gave her a wicked grin.

"That's apparently what you've wanted all along, isn't it?" he taunted her. "For me to fuck you? That's the only explanation as to why you're acting like such a fucking slut right now." He slammed into her again, so harshly that she had to reach up and grab his shoulders, which he allowed her to do, breathing in her intoxicating scent.

"I hate you," she muttered again as she gripped him, but anything else she was about to say was immediately silenced when Jackson suddenly ran the pad of his thumb over her clit and then not-so-gently rolled it between his fingers as she fell against him at the sensation.

"The feeling's mutual, sweetheart," he bit back as he rolled her clit again, and the sound of the whimper that came from her had his balls tightening and him nearly ready to come.

He rolled her clit again and again, looking down and watching as his cock slid in and out of her and her folds continued to drip with glistening want. She was so exquisitely tight, and he knew that this would not be the last time he fucked her. It may be the first, but it definitely wouldn't be the last.

As he heard her cry out again, he could sense her weakening, and her arms fell from his shoulders as she could barely keep up anymore. Once again, he lifted his free hand to her hair, wrapping it around his fist and yanking her head up to meet his eyes.

"I should really teach you a lesson and not let you come," he said as he gave her an evil smile. "See how much more pathetic you get if I leave you without anything."

At that thought, her brow furrowed in desperation and her walls clamped even more tightly around him. She was fairly certain she'd die if he left her without a release. She just knew she would come harder with him than she ever had before.

"Please, Jackson," she suddenly heard herself begging him in a whiny voice, and she had absolutely no idea where the words had even come from. She would never have allowed herself to beg this asshole for anything in the world, but with his cock inside her and his thumb stroking her clit, the standards she set for herself obviously went out the window.

Upon hearing her whine, Jackson's smile widened into a huge, shit-eating grin, and he slammed into her again with insane force.

"So, this is what it takes to make you know your place, huh?" he said as she whimpered again. "Well, I'll take begging over an apology any day." He then lowered his thumb to her folds again, circling around her clit but avoiding the exact spot, causing Y/N to scrunch her face again with a tiny, desperate squeal.

"Say it again," Jackson growled. "Beg me."

Coherent thoughts were now gone, Y/N instead only registering the insane arousal and the desperate need she had for him to make her come.

"Please, Jackson," she mewled again.

He felt his balls tightening once more.

"Again," he demanded.

"Please! Jackson, please!"

"Still not good enough," he said through labored breath, his hips meeting the inside of her thighs again as her legs wrapped tighter around his waist.

"Please! Please...please...please...please!" Y/N begged with every thrust, panting and shaking as she felt just about ready to fall back against the counter. But at her last plea, he finally made contact with her clit again.

"Again," Jackson demanded a final time, and he leaned forward and harshly bit her neck as he rubbed her clit in repeated circles.

"PLEASE!" Y/N nearly screamed, and then it became an actual scream as she came violently, her entire body shaking as he finished rubbing her out. Jackson then slammed into her in three final thrusts, feeling her arms wrap around his shoulders and falling against her as he exploded inside her with more intensity than he'd ever felt before, shouting out a loud groan. By the time he was finished, he could feel his cum leaking back out of her onto himself, overfilling her, and he was certain he'd never shot a load that big in his entire life.

Without thinking, he reached up and fisted her hair again, tugging her head to meet his lips once more, dominating her mouth with an aggressive, bullying kiss.

They parted then, and for several moments, he remained inside her, both of them panting to catch their breath. But soon, Jackson pulled himself out of her, stepping back and tucking himself back inside his boxers before then re-doing his pants and buttoning his shirt.

Still panting and watching him silently, Y/N was still trying to process everything that had just happened, and when Jackson looked up from his clothes and their eyes met again, she realized she’d never felt simultaneously so satisfied while still wanting more in her entire life. As he reached up and smoothed a hand through his hair, he spoke.

"Who knows, sunshine, you may just be teachable yet," he said mockingly, and then he lifted a hand to her bare thigh and gave it a condescending little pat.

He then headed for the swinging door, Y/N watching after him, and when he spoke a final time, she could only nod in response.

"You close again tomorrow night, don't you?" he asked her, although he already knew she did. And when Jackson saw the affirmation Y/N gave him with a nod of her head, he shot her his trademark smirk.

"Offer to stay late and mop up again, and we'll go for round two after your shift,” he said as he held her eyes. “We'll see how well you receive tomorrow night’s lesson, and if you can prove to me that you learned anything, then maybe I’ll give you another gold star.”

And with that, he walked out of the kitchen and then out the main door, the bell above it, as always, ringing out its signature sound as he did.

@nyxxie-pooh @xsweetcatastrophe @allie131313 @empatheticlove @febris-amatoria

@hannibellector @pawnsong @meister95 @alltoowellbeneaththemangotree @beastofburdenxo

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@vastcapacity @mspookington-blog @teawonderfultea-blog1 @fkmarrycill @sl-newsie

He turns around, finally – pale, severe, elegant in a way that makes you sit up straighter without meaning to. His eyes sweep the room like a scan, not a greeting.

"How many of you," he asks calmly, "would describe yourselves as independent thinkers?"

A few tentative hands rise. He barely glances at them.

"And how many of you imagine yourselves resistant to pressure, persuasion, influence?"

More hands this time. Yours stays down. You're not sure why.

He nods slowly, as if he expected the numbers.

"Interesting," he says, turning back to the board. Below Obedience, he writes a second word:

Delusion.

"You’ll find this course will not ask for your opinions. It will measure your reactions. Your instincts. Your capacity to comply."

He sets the chalk down with deliberate care. Looks out at the room again. Or through it.

"Your comfort is not part of the curriculum. Nor is your sense of moral clarity. If either proves fragile, I suggest you transfer now."

You can feel the shift in the room. The little movements of people sitting straighter or folding their arms. No one leaves.

Crane doesn’t smile. He simply lifts a single folder from his bag, opens it, and begins the lecture.

You barely hear a word of it. You’re too aware of the heat building behind your neck, the texture of the seat beneath you, the strange gravity in your chest. You tell yourself you’re just tired. That it’s the echo in the room or the way his voice barely seems amplified, like he doesn’t need a microphone to fill the space.

You pack your bag slowly when it ends, one notebook page filled with barely legible notes. Someone behind you says, “What the fuck was that?” under their breath, but it only makes you more aware of your own silence.

You tell yourself the rumors are exaggerated.

And you definitely won’t let him get under your skin.

But somehow, the idea of that thirty-person seminar feels less like an opportunity and more like stepping into a locked room – one you’ve already agreed to enter.

***

The next day, you use the gap between two lectures to reconnect with a few fellow students you haven’t spoken to in a while. You have a coffee together in the newly opened cafeteria in the lecture hall building – surprisingly cheap, actually good. It feels good to reestablish a bit of social footing. Afterward, you take a detour past the bulletin board, where people post everything from summer job ads to calls for research participants.

One notice catches your eye immediately:

SEEKING PARTICIPANTS – PSYCH DEPT. STUDY ON FEEDBACK & MOTIVATION

Participants needed for a short experimental study exploring performance patterns under varying conditions of feedback.

Involves basic task completion on a computer (approx. 30–40 min).

All data confidential. No prior preparation required.

Compensation: 4.5 participant hours.

Ideal for students in 2nd–4th semester.

Limited slots available. Participants will be scheduled individually.

You can hardly believe it – students are known to be generous when it comes to offering participant hours, but this one seems to break every rule. Still, that’s not your problem. If one study can knock out half of your remaining required hours, you’re not about to ask too many questions. You snap a picture of the notice and use the train ride home to send an email to the address listed, expressing your interest.

Just a minute later, a reply arrives:

Dear participant,

Thank you for your interest in the ongoing study. We are currently scheduling individual sessions for the coming week. Please find below a selection of available time slots:

Tuesday, 6:45 pm

Wednesday, 7:15 pm

Friday, 7:30 pm

All sessions take place in Room 312 of the East Wing.

Further instructions will be provided upon confirmation.

We look forward to your participation.

Sincerely,

The Research Administration

The late-evening time slots strike you as a little odd, but you assume your fellow students already snatched up the more convenient appointments. You should probably be grateful there’s even one left for you. At least this way you won’t miss any lectures – though, honestly, you wouldn’t have minded skipping a few.

You reply and confirm the Friday slot.

***

The week passes quickly – there’s too much to plan, too much to adjust, and not enough structure yet to catch your breath. By the time Friday evening arrives, you’re already worn thin.

You make your way across campus toward Room 312. Most of your fellow students have long since disappeared, and the staff seems just as eager to start their weekend early. The autumn sun has long set. Fluorescent lights buzz and flicker overhead as you walk through empty corridors.

Only now do you realize – the email hadn’t included a name. Just “The Research Administration.” You try to think who might be running a study like this, but no familiar faces come to mind. Maybe it’s a fellow student? Someone from one of the upper semesters?

You knock on the door and listen. No answer. No footsteps, no chair scraping against linoleum, no movement at all.

You knock again, softer this time.

Still nothing.

So, you press your hand to the handle and try it – it gives. The door creaks open just enough to let out a spill of warm light. You hesitate, then push it open the rest of the way.

A man sits with his back to you, hunched slightly over a laptop. Dark hair, clean shirt, sleeves rolled up. Focused on the screen, unmoving.

“Excuse me, I—” you begin.

“Shhh.”

The sound cuts sharp and immediate.

“You can see I’m working. If I’d wanted you to enter, I would have said so.”

The voice is unmistakable. Cold. Precise.

You freeze.

Of course it’s not another student. Of course it’s him.

Dr. Crane.

Before you can respond, he speaks again.

“Wait outside. You’re too early. I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

He doesn’t turn around.

Embarrassed, you step back into the hallway and sink onto an old wooden chair outside the door. It creaks under your weight and feels as uncomfortable as you do now. Understandably so, after that kind of welcome.

You want to leave.

But Dr. Crane knows you. He’s seen your face in the seminar. If you walk out now, there’ll be questions. He’ll ask why. He’ll look at you in that way that makes it hard to speak at all.

And then there are the research credits. 4.5 hours in one go. You need them.

You decide to apologize properly once he lets you in. Try to reset the tone, get through it, and walk out with a full research credit card – and a story for later, maybe.

After all, you have plans tonight. Drinks at the little bar around the corner. A few of your favorite fellow students. People who talk like people.

You just have to get through this first.

***

At exactly 7:30 a.m. the door opens, as if it were a disciplinary measure to teach you punctuality.

You’re absorbed in your phone and startle visibly.

"Jumping at shadows already, are we?" he remarks, voice laced with mockery rather than concern. It’s not a question; it’s amusement at your expense.

You already know: you’ll be earning every single minute the hard way. But fine. So be it.

"Come in, then. Quietly, if that’s within your capabilities. Leave your research credit card on the table right here. I will sign your participation later. 4.5 hours."

You put the card on the table.

“"If you complete the experiment successfully, of course," he adds, almost casually. “And please sign the short consent form I’ve left on the table. Then we can begin. I would appreciate us working efficiently – it’s getting late.”

You skim the form before signing it, then glance toward him with a questioning look. He gestures vaguely to the chair in front of the monitor.

"Sit here, Miss Y/L/N. You will complete a series of arithmetic tasks – basic, really. Nothing outside the grasp of a reasonably educated adult."

That sting finds its mark. You were diagnosed with dyscalculia back in primary school. Had you known what this was really about, you’d never have signed up. You want to say something. A hesitant breath escapes your lips, but he cuts it off before it forms.

"No. I don’t want to hear about how you ‘struggle with numbers.’ I don’t require your personal history – I require your participation." You're a little shocked at how precisely he anticipated what you were going to say. And how brutal he is under the guise of politeness.

He finally turns to face you, the full force of his gaze falling on you like a dissecting scalpel. There’s no warmth there. Only study. Measurement.

"Behind that mirror—" He tilts his head toward the glass pane embedded in the far wall, "—is a panel of observers. Specialists in motivational learning theory, if you must know. They will monitor your performance in real time. When you make a mistake – and you will – they will discuss about it."

Your throat tightens, but you remain silent.

"They’ll indicate which corrective strategy they believe would best minimize further... miscalculations. I’ll confer with them.” He gestures toward the earbud in his right ear, which you only now notice. At least it's not the kind of outdated equipment the department usually relies on. “Then I’ll implement the selected method with you," he continues.

Your brows begin to furrow, and of course his eyes catch the movement instantly.

"Yes," he says, with a note of impatience, "you’ll be interrupted mid-task. No, it will not be comfortable. That’s rather the point."

You blink at the monitor in front of you, the opening screen already lit with the sterile glow of the test interface. He leans in slightly.

"The goal is simple: optimal performance. Minimum error. Maximum adaptability. If that confuses you, you’re in the wrong building."

He straightens and takes a deliberate step back, then circles behind you. You lose sight of him, but not awareness. His presence just outside your field of vision makes your heart pound harder than the looming math problems ever could.

"Any further questions should be kept to yourself. They won’t make the task easier."

Your fingers hover over the mouse, trembling ever so slightly.

"Begin."

***

The tasks begin deceptively easy, and for a brief moment, your nervous system seems to settle.

But the calm doesn’t last – you should have known better.

As is typical with this kind of trial, the difficulty spikes slightly.

And then—

The first mistake.

A sharp, jarring tone slices through the air, and you flinch before you can stop yourself.

Instant regret floods in – you’re furious with your own reaction. Another opportunity for Dr. Crane to show off in front of you. He doesn’t even bother to stifle a theatrical, derisive snort.

"I’m sor—"

“Shhh,” he cuts you off again, like silencing a disobedient child.

He raises a finger, pointing at the earbud.

“I have to follow the committee’s instructions.”

Crane listens carefully, then deliberately exaggerates each syllable as he informs you about the committee’s suggestion. His voice slows to a crawl, and he stares at you over the top of his clipboard with something between pity and amusement.

“Read. The. Instruction. Carefully,” he says, like you were six years old.

“This is to ensure comprehension,” he adds, calmly.

You read the instruction again, this time out loud, as if that could somehow change the fact that you've never been good at math. He watches you expectantly, but when you fail again to solve the problem correctly, instead of helping, he scribbles something on his clipboard and mutters, "Subject refuses task. Proceeding to next prompt."

Does he not notice your panic, your overwhelm, or is that exactly the point? You don’t buy, not for a second, that a psychiatrist and one of the country’s most renowned fear researchers could overlook your reaction. He’s clearly made a conscious decision to hide any trace of humanity behind clinical professionalism – for whatever reason.

You work through the next few tasks with growing desperation, barely scraping by before the next mistake comes. Again, the unmistakable signal tone sounds, prompting Dr. Crane into action. He listens for a moment, then confirms the committee’s suggestion with a detached nod.

“Of course. As you wish.”

He steps closer to your chair, almost casually resting his hand on your shoulder.

“Explain, Miss Y/L/N,” he says. “What you did wrong.”

His tone carries neither disappointment nor anger, but something far worse: A twisted kind of interest.

You blink. You feel heat rising to your cheeks and try to avoid his unsettlingly focused stare.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Eyes on me. That’s part of the protocol.”

Your gaze snaps to his.

“You wonder what that’s for?” he asks without waiting for your answer. “Neurologically speaking, sustained eye contact activates regions of the brain associated with threat response. But for you, I suspect it’s more than that. It's not just nerves. It’s shame.”

He smiles. Not cruelly, but with the quiet, relentless satisfaction of a man watching a hypothesis confirmed.

You really shouldn’t be surprised that he registers and dissects every single microreaction. It’s what he does. And yet.

Your voice falters, uncertain. You have no idea how you were even supposed to solve that task.

“You said you were willing to learn,” he reminds you, tone still perfectly polite. “I’m simply holding you to that. So, tell me?”

You shake your head and look down, embarrassed.

Dr. Crane listens briefly, then nods toward the mirror.

“Well, Miss Y/L/N. Listen closely. I’m going to explain your little, rather stupid mistake,” he begins, and you want nothing more than to get up and run.

But instead, you nod along with his corrections, pretending like it all suddenly makes perfect sense.

Still, your next attempt doesn’t meet his standards. You give up.

Another note scribbled. A slight shake of the head. That look of silent, educated disapproval.

The next task is nearly identical – and once again, no surprise there – you fail.

He sighs, pushes the chair back just slightly, and stands.

“No. Allow me.”

He begins, calmly and with an air of absolute certainty – as if he's reciting clinical literature rather than humiliating you.

“When an individual in a high-stakes environment repeatedly fails at basic cognitive tasks, we consider several explanations: fatigue, defiance, or attention-seeking behavior. In your case, it’s likely a blend. The error you made suggests compromised executive functioning, particularly in working memory. You’re overloaded – the source, I suspect, is primarily emotional, but certainly also intellectual.”

You're visibly irritated. Something about the way he talks about you instead of to you grates. His so-called scientific explanation, the way he strings his words together – it doesn’t make any real clinical sense. But what do you know? You’re a second-year undergrad.

And did he just insult you?

Did he really just suggest you’re having an emotional breakdown and that you’re stupid?

Of course he notices that something is going on inside you.

“Miss Y/L/N. You don’t seem to be taking this study seriously, do you? Think of my words as feedback – tailored to your performance.”

He consults with the committee again, nodding in their direction.

“Repeat the task,” he instructs smoothly. “This time, under supervision.”

He doesn’t blink as he watches you.

“Observation,” he explains, “naturally increases performance anxiety. But that’s the point. Stress reveals default behaviors. We need to see who you really are when you’re not trying to impress anyone.”

You’re not sure whether that’s a warning or an invitation.

At this point, you’re beginning to wonder if he’s not just ignoring your fear – but intentionally creating it. What kind of study design is this? Shouldn’t it be about increasing your motivation, helping you succeed?

This study is slipping into something else – something more absurd, more surreal – and still…

There’s that look in his eyes. Too serious. Too clinical. It’s all part of the frame. And yet.

You try. You actually try. And somehow, you get to a correct answer.

But just a few tasks later, you mess up again. Your jaw clenches. Tears rise in your eyes.

Dr. Crane straightens the cuffs of his shirt. “It’s just a simple arithmetic task. You’re overreacting. Are you always this emotional under pressure?”

You flinch, and something in him seems to take note.

“Emotional dysregulation interferes with goal-directed behavior. We’re studying that, too,” he says. “Don’t take it personally.”

But it is personal. And he knows it.

He nods once, then looks at you. “The committee suggests a basic stress response check to investigate this further. Get up. Open the top two buttons of your blouse. I need to assess any visible dermal flushing.”

You freeze. “But—"

“For documentation,” he says, quietly. “Nothing you need to be concerned about. We’re studying your physiological response to stress.”

You try to interrupt. “I—I think I want to—”

“Why so agitated?” he interrupts, calm, but even colder now. “Do you really think an ethics committee would approve a study that’s even remotely problematic?”

You say nothing more and open your blouse, your fingers stiff, gaze averted in shame. Why the hell are you going along with this? Hasn’t he already crossed every conceivable line?

But what if he’s right and his study is totally fine?

If you protest now and it turns out to be legitimate, you’ll be the idiot who couldn’t grasp a simple study protocol. You’ll lose your research credit points, and the whole department will know.

You better obey.

He steps closer. With the tips of his fingers, he gently shifts the collar of your blouse aside, then trails them down along your neck, all the way to your upper chest. Far enough from your breasts that no one could call it assault, yet as far as the open fabric permits.

You could swear his sensitive fingertips register each of your rapid heartbeats like a seismograph the aftershocks of an earthquake.

“Interesting. Red patches along the neck and upper chest, about four to five, roughly one inch in diameter…” he murmurs, pulling back to jot something down on his clipboard.

Then he adds, almost casually, as if it were of no consequence that you’re hearing every word: “Elevated heart rate. Clear signs of an acute stress response.”

Everything around you begins to blur, as if the room itself is slipping out of focus. The pounding of your heartbeat grows louder in your ears, until it’s the only sound you can register. Your body no longer obeys you, as if he’s already claimed it, inch by inch.

Then you hear Dr. Crane speak to you again — for the first time, his voice raised. The deliberately polite undertone is gone. “Miss Y/L/N. I said, please proceed with the tasks.”

You still don’t move. You can’t.

He turns away again, murmuring into his earbud.

“Subject is now obstructive. Awaiting committee recommendation... Understood.”

He turns, grips your shoulders with firm but steady hands, and guides you a few steps forward. “Face the wall. Stand up straight. Thirty seconds. No talking.”

You stumble, but then stop, just as he instructed.

“Reorientation protocol,” he clarifies. “Sensory reset. Encourages internal awareness.”

You feel the humiliation, amplified by the sterile silence, the weight of his eyes on your back.

“Your reactions,” he reminds you, “determine the outcome. I’m only following the protocol.”

After thirty seconds, you return to the chair, face burning.

Another mistake. Dr. Crane moves the mouse out of your reach.

“Apology first,” he says, gently. “With eye contact. And a verbal commitment to improve. That’s how we strengthen accountability.”

You hesitate.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Refusal noted.”

He turns slightly away again, murmuring: “Noncompliance persists. Applying corrective stimulus.”

You see his hand raise. Just a small movement toward yours – a quick, firm tap across your knuckles. Not painful. But sharp. Controlled.

“Stimulus-response pairing,” he says, watching your face. “Tactile cueing strengthens behavioral learning.”

You stare at him. Your pulse is still hammering in your ears as you summon every ounce of courage and begin – cautiously, carefully – to question his methods. “Dr. Crane, please…what are you doing? In most experimental setups, we were taught to offer encouragement, not...punishment.”

His answer comes without hesitation, visibly annoyed. “Miss Y/L/N. Once again, so that you too understand. You’re not being punished. You’re being corrected.”

“Dr. Crane. I don’t think I’m the right participant for this... experiment.”

You hadn’t truly believed you’d be able to say the words aloud; and yet here they are. Spoken. Your final hope of extracting yourself from his control without greater damage, even if it means forfeiting the research credit points.

“You’re exactly the right participant, Miss Y/L/N.” He places a hand on the back of your chair. One glance is enough, and you both know he’s not going to let you leave. Whatever he has in mind, he’s not leaving until it’s done – and done to his satisfaction.

“You’re not doubting my expertise, are you? I should warn you – that’s never ended well.”

Your stomach drops.

The pressure is real.

You swallow your protest, mumble an apology, and agree to continue.

But when the next task appears, you don’t even read it. You guess. You want him to stop, if not directly, you must try a more…passive way. You want him to realize that you're no longer participating. You hope that if he believes he can’t use your data, he’ll call it off.

A very naïve thought.

His voice lowers into something softer…and far more dangerous.

“Miss Y/L/N. You can now behave like a sulking little child, but then I will treat you as one. Perhaps that twisted mind of yours wants exactly that. Very well. Just be aware that you can expect a behavioral response from me in line with the protocol.”

He walks over to the table – slowly, deliberately, as if lecturing a class – and picks up your papers.

“I’ve seen your research credit card. You’ve still got a long way to go if you want to complete this degree. It would be quite unfortunate if the card were to be confiscated upon premature termination of this experiment – the very one you’ve just committed to in writing, I might add. Don’t you agree?”

He slips the card into his pocket.

You’re fucked.

“Now. How do you intend to proceed?”

You feel cornered, more so than you already were. Which leaves you with no real choice but to return to your seat in front of the computer. Dr. Crane loads a new set of tasks, clearly even more difficult than the ones you already failed to solve.

“If you want the session to end,” he says, “all you have to do is get it right.”

If he weren’t so menacing, if he weren’t blackmailing you with your academic success, this would almost be laughable. The methods he uses – cold, manipulative – are as theatrical as they are efficient. Unfortunately.

“That’s fair, isn’t it,” he coaxes, his voice smooth, dragging something from you you’re not allowed to refuse. A performative consent.

The next mistake. Another shrill sound of failure. Another "consultation."

“Persistent resistance. New recommendation: mild stimulus increase. Aversion cue.”

He looks at you.

“That means,” he says smoothly, “A light slap. Nothing serious. But somewhere you’ll remember. Bend over the table.”

Gosh, is he really going to…spank you? "You flush hot, then cold – like your body can’t decide how to react.

He leans forward just slightly. “You flinch,” he observes, “like you already know you deserve it.”

You reluctantly do as you’re told. You bend. Fingers pressed against the cold table surface.

“Now that should motivate you,” he says and lifts your skirt. “A little slap on the ass never hurt anyone.”

You tense as he roughly pulls your panties down as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The silence stretches, clinical, electric.

Then the first slap lands, sharp, deliberate, just this side of cruel.

You bite your lip.

The second comes without warning.

And then, suddenly, his voice again, measured, coaxing: “Count them.”

You blink. “What?”

He leans in, calm and chilling. “If you want it to stop, you’ll count. Out loud.”

You hesitate.

Slap.

“Three,” you breathe, before realizing it was only the third.

Another follows, harder. “Four,” you gasp, this time faster.

“Louder,” he says.

“Five.”

“Better.”

Six. Seven.

The heat rises in your skin – and in your chest.

Eight.

It’s not just shame anymore.

It’s something else, too.

Something darker. Unwelcome.

You hate that he knows.

You reach nine.

There’s a pause.

But the silence isn’t relief.

Because now you hear it.

His breath.

Slight.

Irregular.

Behind you.

Your heart stutters.

You know that sound.

And you know he’s standing behind your naked ass. Still. Too still.

You lift your head. Try to glance back over your shoulder, just barely.

That’s when you see it.

His hand.

Not on you.

On himself.

Rhythmically.

You freeze.

The humiliation hits hot and sharp. You try to turn, throat dry, pulse climbing your neck—

But he’s faster.

His hands close around your wrists. Tight. He presses your torso into the table.

“Don’t,” he says.

His voice is low. Unshaken. Entirely in control.

You try to pull back, but he doesn’t let you.

Instead, he leans in close, mouth near your ear. His grip doesn’t loosen. What he just touched – you now feel it on your bare bottom, unmistakable, pulsating.

“You shouldn’t have looked,” he says. “There’s no going back now,” he continues, loosening his grip just enough to make you believe he might let go.

“But don’t worry. I’ll help you lose the rest of yourself.”

He pauses, and you feel the shift in the air behind you, the rustle of fabric, the mechanical click of a hidden latch.

Then you hear it. The scrape of something hard sliding into place.

When he steps into your view, you’re not looking at Dr. Jonathan Crane anymore.

You’re looking at something else entirely.

The mask.

Distorted, inhuman. A stitched grotesque. The hollow sockets fixed on you like they can see things your skin hasn’t even admitted to yet.

Scarecrow.

It’s not just a legend.

“Now,” he says through the mask, voice filtered and wrong, “we’ll get serious.”

You instantly panic, you know, you’re in absolute danger, so you try to move back, anywhere, but he’s already there, he’s everywhere at once.

The mask breathes a soft hiss as it looks down at you without blinking.

And then—

A click.

A hiss.

Thick fog swirling around your head.

Your senses are assaulted by a strong, overpowering smell.

You don’t even realize you’ve inhaled it until it’s too late.

Your vision warps. The room melts and stretches.

The walls lean in. The air thickens.

Your hands tremble violently, but his grip remains cold and steady.

“No,” you whisper, too late, too thin. “Please, what did you do—”

“Relax,” he says, his voice filtered now through something monstrous.

“It’s just a little…chemical perspective shift.”

Your knees give out.

Colors twist behind your eyes.

Something moves in the corner that isn’t there.

The mask splits and multiplies.

Your own breath turns against you, too fast, too loud, too sharp.

You freak out.

You’re not sure when you start screaming. You just know it doesn’t help.

Nothing helps. Nobody helps.

He holds you still.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, “don’t fight it. You're only making it worse.”

His fingers slide under your blouse, greedy, purposeful. You barely register it, mind swallowed by spirals of fear.

He turns you around, slow but firm, guiding your back against the table.

Your legs are too weak to resist.

“Curiosity always has a price.” He brushes your hair back, his fingers almost tender. “Time to pay up.”

You want to shake your head frantically, but your body doesn’t respond like it should.

You're floating in your own body while someone - something - has taken control.

Then you feel him part you.

You try to cry out, but the sound vanishes into static. You’re not sure if it’s still Dr. Crane or if the thing behind the mask has already devoured what was left of him.

But you feel him.

The weight. The push.

The violation.

And all you can do is fall.

Fall through the smoke and terror and the rough burlap scent of the mask.

Until your mind fragments.

Until even the fear begins to feel distant.

Until it no longer matters which part of him this is.

Because all of him is inside you now.

***

You don’t know how long you’ve been gone.

But when you blink, you’re sitting in the chair again – slumped forward, legs weak, arms trembling. The light from the monitor flickers on your skin.

Your panties are tugged halfway up, the seam twisted and fraying at one side. He hasn't even bothered to cover up the traces of whatever he did to you. Apparently, he feels too confident. You feel the damp heat still clinging between your thighs, your own arousal mixed with something else.

His release.

It coats the fabric. Sticky. Shameful. Real.

Your eyes dart around the room, confused.

Disoriented.

You were—

You can’t find the memory’s edge. Just pieces.

The scent of burlap.

A monstrously distorted voice.

Paralysis.

Panic you never felt before.

A scream you think was yours.

Something filling you.

Shattered breaths.

The sound of skin slapping against skin.

You flinch as the door behind you opens.

Footsteps.

Measured. Calm.

He steps beside you like nothing has happened. No mask. No violence. Just the man in the suit.

Dr. Jonathan Crane.

“You are really a very interesting subject to study,” he says, tucking a clipboard under one arm.

He hands you a small slip of paper, like a prescription.

You stare at it.

It’s a date.

A time.

“This will be your next session,” he says evenly.

YOUR NEXT SESSION?

His tone is clinical. Cold. “I expect you’ll be on time.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He doesn’t wait.

"It’s all in the consent form you just signed," he says coolly. "I’ll need longitudinal data from this point forward. So – I’ll see you next week. Your research credit card will be issued once the entire study is complete."

He adds that last part almost lightly, as he ushers you – no, steers you – toward the door.

Then you're out.

You blink at the slip of paper in your hand.

The hallway is empty, washed in sterile neon light.

You're alone.

Your skin still hums with ghost-touch.

You don’t know if you’ll scream.

Or come back.

But your hand doesn’t let go of the note.

***

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***

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By the time she’d gotten back to Cillian’s house late that afternoon, her phone had been dinging repeatedly with so many new emails that she’d temporarily silenced her notifications. But after dropping off the stuff Cillian had to leave behind with her at the hotel, Y/N then locked everything up at his house and headed back to her apartment, and it was once she got there and had settled down onto the sofa that she finally began actually reading some of the articles of speculation about herself and Cillian.

Each one was adorned with several photos of the two of them from various moments throughout the event the night prior, and there was no denying the intimacy between them that the photos had captured. Looking at them all and recalling so many of the moments, Y/N felt a contrasting combination of pleased and embarrassed.

No, it wasn’t the kind of attention or gossip that they’d ever wanted to attract, and no, the “low profile” setting they’d been promised definitely hadn’t been an accurate expectation, but Y/N couldn’t help but feel the warm thrill and happiness at the visual reminders of how close and intimate she and Cillian had gotten. They did look like a couple, and it had certainly felt that way between them. In fact, there were one or two times last night where Y/N had felt the sense that Cillian had been on the verge of kissing her, and that “any moment now” feeling had been crackling between them throughout the entire evening.

But then, upon returning to the hotel and revealing the surprise party for Cillian, it had intensified, and it had felt like the only thing keeping the two of them from finally acting on it was the room full of other people.

But then, Kat had informed her of the photos of she and Cillian that had already been put out into the world, and admittedly, Y/N had panicked. Part of it was just the shock of how quickly their photos and the news of them attending together had spread, but the other part was the worry over the possible awkwardness that all of that would cause. How were they supposed to address it with each other?

The speculation was, of course, that they were together romantically, and Y/N was incredibly anxious about the conversation that she and Cillian would have to have to decide how they were going to address the speculation and the influx of questions and insinuation that would follow.

The alcohol last night had helped her quickly forget about all of that, though, and the last thing Y/N could remember was Kat telling her to sit down and drink some water, and then Darcy approaching her at the bar when she’d gone to help herself to even more to drink. After that, everything was a forgotten blur, and the next thing she knew, she’d been waking up in the giant bed of Cillian’s suite.

Y/N groaned to herself and dropped her phone, covering her face with her hands in repeat mortification as she thought once more about how ridiculous and unprofessional her behavior had been, and also in concern of the countless ways she’d undoubtedly embarrassed herself in front of Cillian and the other remaining party guests by things she’d said or done, but that she couldn’t even remember.

And what now? Clearly, and to her relief, Cillian had been totally cool about the whole thing, assuring her that she shouldn’t feel bad and that he wasn’t upset at all. But that didn’t eliminate the issue of how they were going to move forward.

How were they supposed to address all the media talk now? How were they supposed to behave around each other? What was she supposed to tell people? She herself had already gotten numerous requests for interviews in her email inbox, magazines and TV shows having reached out to her not to discuss Cillian, per se, but to discuss her in regards to Cillian. They wanted to know if their relationship was, in fact, a romantic one, if she was also still his assistant, if this all was just a publicity stunt, and a million other questions. Several publications had even somehow managed to discover Y/N’s brief modeling career prior to becoming a PA, and many of them were asking her to elaborate on that as well, wanting as much info about her as possible. She hadn’t responded to any of the inquiries, of course, but she worried that she may have to in order to make some kind of statement about whatever she and Cillian agreed would be appropriate to say.

With that thought in mind, Y/N was suddenly very relieved that Cillian had left for Liverpool already and that they’d be apart for a little while. That way, at least she wouldn’t have to face him and be around him as she tried to recover from the intense embarrassment all of this was causing, and that she’d at least have a little time to figure out how she should broach all this media attention with him.

But after she’d taken a shower and settled back on the couch with some take-out, her anxiety about the entire situation was soon lessening when her phone dinged with a new email notification. Grabbing it and opening her inbox, she saw that Cillian’s publicist had sent both she and Cillian an email regarding the whole thing.

Hey guys,

So, obviously, press is having a mini field day with all this right now, and while I’ve managed to squash some of it, they’re still gonna do what they do, which is talk all this to death. We’ve already spoken with the staff of the event from last night and expressed our extreme frustration with the less than accurate promise they made about limited media access, and I’ve also managed to get several pending articles pulled, but of course, what’s already done is done.

Y/N, I know you’ve already gotten multiple requests for both yourself and Cillian to give statements or interviews about this, and I know you’ve ignored them for the time being. However, what I want to do is just continue to have you ignore them. Don’t reply to anything.

With you two not having a chance to be seen together over the next week, and then with you guys being away in England for several weeks, I really think a lot of this is gonna blow over. They won’t have any new photos or info to feed off of, and then there will definitely be a very limited amount of invasion while you two are in Liverpool. You may be seen by a handful of paparrazi here and there, but as you know, it’s definitely not gonna be like what it is here. So again, I think the best thing to do is just to ignore all of this and carry on like usual. Feel free to let me know your thoughts, but I think this is gonna be the quickest way to get everyone to leave you guys alone and have this just blow over.

- Miles

After reading Miles’s email, Y/N felt a sense of relief. Just avoiding it all together sounded great to her, and knowing that meant that she and Cillian could just skip talking much about it, too, was a huge relief. She also had the feeling that Cillian would be more than on board with this plan, seeing as he was always all for anything that meant avoiding press and media that caused unwanted attention and an invasion of privacy. He was always more than happy with avoiding it in the first place.

Quickly, Y/N replied to Miles’s email, being certain that Cillian was included in her reply. She wanted him to see her response so that he’d know she wouldn’t be engaging in any media requests.

Hi Miles,

Yeah, I have received several requests, but I’ve just ignored them, and plan to keep doing so. Let us know if there’s anything else we should be aware of. Thanks for your help with navigating this!

- Y/N

As soon as she’d hit the “send” button, Y/N was then hearing the ding of another incoming message, and it looked like Cillian had replied to Miles almost immediately after she had.

Sounds like a plan. Tell ‘em to shove it.

- Cill

Y/N smiled to herself as she read Cillian’s email. Of course that’s all he had to say. Straight and to the point, especially with anything involving the media. She breathed a sigh of relief when she thought about how, once she got to Liverpool next week, they could just continue on as if none of this had happened.

But then she was quickly worrying that that might mean that her and Cillian’s dynamic would change. What if, because of her response to Miles and the decision to ignore everything, their previous dynamic would be no more?

She was still pondering over this when, about an hour later, she got a text message from Cillian, and her heart was pounding as she opened and read it.

CM: FYI that Scout’s mad at you for not coming until next week. We just got to the house, and as soon as he realized you weren’t already here, he looked personally offended.

Upon reading it, Y/N was smiling to herself and then quickly replying, her previous nerves about their dynamic already evaporating.

Y/N: Did you tell him that you told me not to come until next week?

CM: No. I don’t want him mad at ME, too.

Y/N: Glad to know that you have no problem making ME the bad guy.

CM: What was I supposed to do? I can’t have him mad at me for an entire week when I’m here alone with him. I already don’t have YOU around. If HE abandons me, too, then I’ll be all by my lonesome.

Y/N: I didn’t abandon you! You told me not to come until next week!

CM: Horrible idea.

Y/N: You’ll survive. But as soon as I get there, I’m telling Scout the truth.

CM: Fine, be that way.

Y/N: Are you going to be this moody when I get there? 😉

CM: I’m not moody. I reached out to you for comfort, and instead, I’m being scolded. Meanie.

Y/N: I’m sorry, I didn’t know my absence would be so traumatic for the two of you.

CM: Well, it is. So next time I tell you not to come somewhere, don’t listen to me.

Y/N: How about if I just stop listening to you all together?

CM: You = mean

Y/N: Isn’t it, like, 3 a.m. there? I think you’re cranky because you’re tired.

CM: So now I’m moody AND cranky?

Y/N: 🤭🤭🤭

CM: Did you get everything at the house closed up ok?

Y/N: Yeah. You left your Blundstones in the back hallway, though, so I grabbed them. You want me to bring them with me?

CM: Fuck, I knew I forgot something. Yes, please.

Y/N: 👍

CM: Thanks, Meanie.

Y/N: You’re welcome, Cranky. Now get some sleep.

CM: Yes, ma’am. I’ll email you the first couple weeks’ itinerary once they give it to me tomorrow.

Y/N: Sounds good.

CM: Good night, Meanie.

Y/N: Good night, Cranky.

Setting her phone down then, Y/N found it incredibly difficult to let the conversation end there. She was always braver with him when they texted or talked on the phone as opposed to being face to face, and she bit her lip in giddiness as she picked her phone back up and read through her and Cillian’s conversation again. As she then set her phone down once more, she looked across the room to her suitcases that she’d brought up from her storage unit but hadn’t yet packed. As she stared at them, she suddenly missed Cillian even more than she already had in just the approximately twenty hours they’d been apart. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait for the next six days to pass.

Across the Atlantic, in a house on the edge of Liverpool, Cillian was thinking the exact same thing.

•.•.•.•.•

The moment had finally come, and after all the nervousness and anticipation regarding this entire situation, Y/N paused and took a deep breath as she got off the plane, and as she looked around the gate and the terminal out ahead of her, part of her still couldn’t believe she was here.

The last six days had passed what seemed, at times, super fast, and others, very slow.

She’d been communicating a lot with some of the Peaky crew, as well as the representatives for the people scheduled with Cillian for the side commitments Y/N had booked for him while in England. They had to coordinate timing and make sure multiple people’s schedules aligned, and without throwing off the movie’s shooting schedule too much on those particular days. She’d also arranged a short round trip flight and overnight stay for herself and Cillian in London the next week, as he had an interview in the city one afternoon. 

All throughout the week before she’d arrived, Y/N and Cillian had either texted or talked on the phone every day. A few times, it had been to discuss things regarding his schedule and/or the movie and what was going on with all that, but the other times, it had just been to talk, a conversation that started out via text becoming a phone call after a few messages, or just an immediate phone call. The last time they’d spoken voice to voice, it was when Cillian had called her a day and a half before she was supposed to arrive, and Y/N had paused her work on getting the last of her things packed to take a seat on the edge of her bed and talk to him.

“What kind of cereal do you want?” he’d said as soon as she’d picked up, not even bothering to start with a greeting.

“Huh?” Y/N had replied, a confused yet amused smile on her face, as that was not what she’d been expecting to hear him say when she answered the call.

“What kind of cereal do you want?” Cillian repeated. “I’m at the supermarket right now, and I’m picking up some stuff for when you get here.”

Upon hearing that, Y/N’s heart immediately skipped a beat. It sounded so sweet and also oddly domestic coming from him, Y/N taken aback slightly that he was considering her so much as to ask her about her cereal preference. She also giggled at the thought of him standing in the middle of an aisle in a supermarket.

“Are you seriously standing in the middle of the supermarket right now?” Y/N voiced her thoughts. “Has anyone noticed you?”

“No, fortunately, because I’m a quick shopper. So hurry up and tell me what kind of cereal you want, or I’m getting you the downright awful Grape Nuts-type one with the picture of the old lady on the box.”

“No! Not those!” Y/N replied with a laugh. “Just grab me some Frosted Flakes or something. Nothing that advertises enormous amounts of fiber.”

She could hear Cillian chuckle on the other end of the line.

“Got it. What else?”

“You don’t have to buy me stuff,” Y/N replied with a shake of her head, although Cillian couldn’t see her. “I can buy some stuff for myself when I get there.”

“I think you already know what my response to that will be, so either gimme a few more things you like to have around, or I’ll buy you everything marketed towards old ladies, and nothing else.”

Smiling then with another laugh, Y/N went ahead and listed off a handful of other snacks and beverages she liked, most of which Cillian was already aware of, but wanted to know for sure what she’d like to have available to her at the house.

“Don’t get too much stuff,” Y/N said after a bit more conversation. “I wanna pop into the store myself once I’m there and decide on a few other things to get. I was planning on making use of the kitchen while we’re there, if that’s ok with you.”

“Only if you’re cooking for me, as well,” Cillian countered.

“Of course!” Y/N said then. “But I was browsing around online at a business map of the city, and there were a couple of specialty corner shops that look amazing, so I was hoping to drop into those at some point.”

“Which ones?” Cillian asked her.

After Y/N mentioned the names of the shops she’d come across, Cillian was giving a hum of approval.

“So, you’re finally gonna make good on your promise to cook for me?” he said.

“When did I promise to cook for you?” Y/N asked, arching her eyebrow.

“That night way back when I made the steaks and we listened to your playlist. You promised that the next time, you’d be the cook.”

Y/N smiled and felt her heart skip again. She thought about that night often, and she was pleased to know that it was memorable for Cillian as well.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Y/N replied.

“Yep,” came Cillian’s amused answer. “So you better impress me.”

A couple of hours later, Y/N was going through her mental checklist of everything for the trip, and she was nestling Cillian’s Blundstones at the bottom of her larger suitcase before setting her clothes inside. Glancing over at her closet once more, Y/N then hesitated briefly as she scanned the hangers, her eyes landing on a special item.

Carefully stepping over to the closet on the balls of her feet, as if she was afraid someone would hear and see her, Y/N had looked for another moment before timidly reaching out for the specific hanger, again feeling like secrecy was necessary. As she’d pulled the hanger off the bar and brought it closer to her, she was instantly blushing as she’d gently touched the fabric of the item it held.

It was the black lace bodysuit that had been a favorite of hers from her photoshoot with Hannah. Much of the lingerie Y/N had worn that day had been bra and panty separates, but this particular one-piece was, in her opinion, better than any of those sets.

It was extremely feminine and sexy, with beautiful scalloped lace on the chest and torso, and a semi-sheer V of fabric for the lower half. The back was minimal, with thin straps that ran down the shoulder blades to then attach to the wrap-around lace at the waist. Finally, the area that sat just above the hips tapered off into a G-string that left the bottom completely exposed. It was incredibly sexy but sophisticated, and Y/N had felt so sensual and confident when she’d had it on. When Hannah had seen how much Y/N liked the piece, she’d offered to let her keep it, and she’d teased her that she hoped she’d put it to use soon with the certain someone who had inspired Y/N to feel so sexy in the first place. And while a part of Y/N knew that it was silly to keep it, a bigger part of her couldn’t refuse, and the piece had been hanging in her closet ever since.

Looking at it again at that moment, Y/N had blushed once more and again hesitated. Just like at the end of the photoshoot, a part of her knew it was silly — that she wouldn’t be wearing this for the man in question, and nothing like that was likely going to happen between them. However, also just like last time, something inside her hadn’t been able to leave it behind, and it was telling her to bring it along anyway. Although still blushing furiously to herself at the thoughts that were swirling around in her head about Cillian, Y/N had moved back across the room before she could convince herself otherwise, and she removed the bodysuit from the hanger and carefully placed it in her smaller suitcase.

So what if nothing would probably happen between her and Cillian? So what if it’d remain buried in her suitcase and she’d never put it on? It didn’t mean she couldn’t humor herself with the idea. No one else would ever know.

Now, back in the present, Y/N had retrieved her suitcases from the luggage carousel and was pulling her cell phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. Cillian had let her know earlier that he’d be picking her up from the airport, and now that she had reception again, she was opening her messages to text him as they’d planned, letting him know that she was headed out of baggage claim and out to the curbside loading zone, but he’d beaten her to the punch.

CM: Dark green Mini Cooper. S44 WLE

Y/N read the description of the car and the license plate to look for, and then she was swallowing nervously as she felt the butterflies in her stomach. This all felt so intimate, so domestic, and she was trying to calm the butterflies as she wove her way through the other people in the airport. She was recalling every text and phone call she’d had with Cillian over the last week, and was once again in near disbelief of all this.

Making it to the wide automatic doors and stepping through them, Y/N was then out on the sidewalk. Although it was overcast and chilly, she was still momentarily squinting her eyes, the natural outdoor light different from the interior manufactured lighting of the airport. She paused briefly to zip her jacket up all the way, and then was wheeling her suitcases along behind her as she slowly moved and looked around, scanning the dozens of cars that were pulling up and moving along beside the pickup curb.

She didn’t see any sign of the car Cillian had described, but just as she was reaching into her pocket for her phone again, she heard a short, quick blast of a car horn, and when she looked up, she saw a forest green Mini Cooper slowing down along the curb a few yards ahead and gradually inching closer as other cars moved out of the way.

Her pulse rising, Y/N gripped the handles of her suitcases and slowly began to walk towards the car. Even though it was obviously the car Cillian had described, Y/N was still examining the license plate as she got nearer, and when she saw that it matched what Cillian had told her, she was then slouching slightly and tilting her head to try and get a look at the person in the driver’s seat, and then smiling.

Seeing Y/N up ahead, Cillian was immediately grinning as he registered the slightly uncertain look on her face and noticed her overall nervous body language. It was clear that she felt a bit out of sorts, but the sight of her had him so pleased, that he just wanted to get her in the car as soon as possible.

As soon as he got close enough to where he knew she’d notice him, Cillian gave a short blast of the horn and then smiled to himself again as he saw the look on Y/N’s face change from nervous, to cautiously excited. And then he was chuckling to himself as he watched her quickly bend down to see him and verify his license plate. Through the windshield, he gave her a quick wiggle of his fingers in a confirmational greeting, and then once he’d fully pulled up against the curb, he was putting the car in park briefly, then got out and silently walked around to the back of the car.

Y/N understanding that they were making this quick due to all the people around, she saved her greeting and simply wheeled her suitcases to the back of the car where Cillian was opening the trunk. When she got to him, he silently reached over and took the handles of her bags from her, lowering them and then bending down to pick one up. He lifted it into the trunk for her, and then the other, and then closed the trunk door. They each were then walking around the car to their respective sides, Y/N getting into the passenger seat and then turning her head to watch as Cillian got back in the driver’s seat. As soon as he’d closed the door, the two of them were looking at each other, and each of their subdued smiles turned into full-blown grins as their eyes met.

“Hi,” Y/N said to him, and her heart was pounding with giddiness.

“Hi,” Cillian said back to her, unbelievably pleased that she was finally with him again. “How was your flight?”

“Good,” Y/N nodded, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Long, but good. But I’m glad to be on the ground again.”

“I know what you mean,” Cillian said with a nod of his own.

Smiling at him once more, Y/N’s excitement was obvious.

“I can’t believe I’m here,” she said.

Chuckling, Cillian then quickly looked over his shoulder as he put the car in drive again and then began to ease into the flow of cars as he pulled away from the curb.

“Well, you better believe it, because I’ve got a lovesick black lab and box of Frosted Flakes waiting for you back at the house.”

Giggling then, Y/N continued to look at Cillian as he drove, and she had to fight the incredibly strong urge to lean across the armrest and give him a kiss. Instead, she spoke again as she glanced down and looked at his hands on the steering wheel.

“This is so weird,” she said then, and she was shaking her head as Cillian glanced over at her.

“What is?” he asked.

“Being in this car, watching you drive around like it’s nothing out of the ordinary. I think I’ve only seen you drive, like, twice the entire time I’ve known you.”

“That’s because you arrange a car for nearly everything,” Cillian replied with a grin. “It took me ten minutes to convince you to let me drive myself to the store that time I needed batteries for the TV remote.”

Giggling again, Y/N was still looking at him, and when they stopped at a red light, Cillian was fully turning his head to look back at her. But Y/N’s expression was quickly fading from a smile, to one of shocked realization as she glanced up at the top of Cillian’s head and registered the black beanie he was wearing. When she then noticed the partially exposed shorn sides of his head, her eyebrows rose even higher, and then Cillian knew that she’d finally noticed.

“Oh. My. God.” She said slowly.

She was still looking at his head, and when she finally lowered her eyes to Cillian’s, he was giving her a look that was a cross between guilt, and saying “it’s not a big deal.”

Without thinking, Y/N was lifting her hand and reaching across the seats, stopping at Cillian’s head and gently grasping his beanie, then slowly pulling it off him to fully reveal what was beneath. Once her hand was lowered and she set the hat down on her knee, she was slowly shaking her head as she absorbed what she saw.

“You cut your hair already?” she said, still processing the fact.

“I didn’t. Someone else did,” Cillian replied, the slightest smirk of amusement on his face.

“I can’t believe they cut it already,” Y/N said with another slow shake of her head. “I didn’t think they’d do it right away. I wasn’t prepared for this.”

“You???” Cillian said then, his smirk widening. “I’m the one who got the damn cut.”

“I can’t believe they cut it already,” Y/N repeated herself. “This is so sad. The last time I saw you, you still had it longer. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to your gorgeous locks before they sheared ‘em off you. I was not prepared for this.”

At her words, Cillian was laughing out loud and shaking his head, and then he had to turn back to the road as the light changed to green and he stepped on the gas.

“It’s just hair,” he said as they began to move. “It’ll grow back. Thankfully.”

Y/N could hear the slightly resentful tone in Cillian’s voice as he said that, and she was smiling and then turning to look out the window, immediately re-focused to taking in all the sights and surroundings as Cillian drove them through the streets. It still felt so surreal to be there.

“I don’t know why you hate the Tommy cut so much,” Cillian heard Y/N say then, and he saw in his peripheral that she was fishing her phone out of her jacket pocket and then looking down at it to open her camera. She was fiddling with the settings as she continued speaking. “It makes you look even sexier, so you really shouldn’t hate it so much.”

Upon hearing that, Cillian’s pulse quickened, and his own brows were raising in surprise at how easily she’d said that. But when he fully looked over at Y/N, it was clear she wasn’t even aware of what she’d just said, too distracted with fiddling with her phone and then attempting to take a photo of something they drove past to realize her little opinion that she’d shared.

Smiling to himself, Cillian was incredibly tempted to reach out and grab that phone out of Y/N’s hands, and then pull the car over and pull her across the armrest and into his lap. But when they came to another red light and stopped, Y/N was speaking again.

“I’m gonna go ahead and apologize in advance, because I’ll tell you right now that I’m gonna be annoyingly tourist-y this entire trip. You’re gonna regret that I’m here within a day or two.”

Laughing out loud again, Cillian smiled and then replied.

“No regrets,” he said, shaking his head. “But just in case, maybe start bookmarking some early return flights. That way I can ship you back outta here as quick as possible if I want to.”

And then they were both laughing as Y/N playfully threw his beanie back at him in mock offense.

“Ass,” she said jokingly, and then they were both laughing again as the light turned green, allowing them to keep driving, making their way closer to the house with the box of Frosted Flakes in the cupboard, and the lovesick black lab who was waiting eagerly for them, his big wet nose pressed to the window.

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You try to remember the latest news about the infamous clan. You've never had much time for gossip about the city's so-called "celebrities."

The man turns his head at the sound of the door, just enough to glance at you. One sharp, appraising look before he faces forward again. You’re just the nurse. It seems like the boss himself has given you the unspoken permission to stay here, even if it feels like a toleration at best. You can roughly imagine what human traits it takes to become the leader of a clan: cold, arrogant, calculating. This man surely has all of those qualities. Though everything about him appears like a red flag, you feel a strange kind of attraction to him, in a way that catches you off guard.

Michael sits propped up in the bed, pale but focused, his face tight with something close to resentment. The other man speaks. His voice is clear, cut from something hard that fits perfectly with the aura that surrounds him.

“You should have seen it coming.”

Michael exhales. “So now it’s my fault.”

“You’re alive. You don’t get to be innocent.”

Michael shifts under the covers, and although he is still visibly in shock, defiance comes through in his response. "It wasn’t my job to–"

"It’s always your job! You're breathing, aren’t you?" the man answers Michael. "Then you’re responsible. Doesn’t matter if the man outside the door had a gun, a badge, or a bloody halo. If someone gets in, it’s on you."

You approach the bed without speaking. You’ve done this many times before, in worse places. The tray rattles faintly as you shift it into place. Michael glances at you, briefly. Then he stares into the emptiness of the room again and listens to his visitor, who reprimands him incessantly.

 “You had people watching you. Still, they walked in like they knew the blueprints.”

The conversation continues as you clean the wound. They don’t even bother to lower their voices. It’s not for your ears, but they don’t care if you hear. Or maybe it is, because the visitor's comments also suggest that the hospital staff might have made a mistake.

The man becomes even clearer in his accusations: “Luca doesn’t take chances. If he walked into this building, someone made it possible.”

Michael doesn’t answer. You can truly grasp how life in crime doesn’t just teach paranoia – it feeds on it.

You sincerely hope not to be drawn into this heated discussion. You blot a streak of dried blood from the edge of the stitches. Fold new gauze. Concentrate. It helps.

Just as you're about to secure the fresh bandage, you glance up.

The visitor watching you. Not openly. But your eyes meet.

And something shifts.

Is this –?

You’re not sure. Not entirely. But your body remembers a different room. A different kind of blood. Years ago. A man on a stretcher, barely conscious, your hands slick from trying to stop what couldn’t be stopped.

You hold his gaze for half a second too long.

But you see nothing but stillness in his face. No recognition. Rather, it seems that something pulled taut behind his eyes, as if your presence has hit some old, invisible wire.

He turns back without speaking. Doesn’t react.

You’re probably wrong that you know each other.

But when he turns back to Michael, his voice has changed. Softer, maybe. You can't say what it is that must have happened inside him, but obviously something is going on.

You secure the bandage without a word and leave the room.

But long after your shift is over, as you cross the threshold of the hospital, something follows you – a feeling you can’t quite name.

***

The next day, your shift is barely underway when you hear footsteps in the corridor outside the nurses' station. Certainly not your colleagues, who are rushing through the corridors. The muffled steps in hospital-typical slippers – they are familiar to you for too long. These footsteps are different. They sound heavy, almost threatening. With eerie determination they unmistakably approach the nurses' station.

You don’t look up right away. You're sorting the morning medication trays, organizing them into neat rows. The cabinet door is open, the air faintly metallic from crushed pills and antiseptic wipes.

“Excuse me.”

You turn.

It’s him.

The man from Michael's room.

He's leaning in the doorway of the nurses' station, his left hand in the pocket of his long, gray coat. It's obviously a typical posture for him, as if he has something to hide or as if he's always ready to shoot. It creeps you out to imagine him always walking around with a gun in his hand like a real gangster. Although like a real gangster isn't quite right here.

You nod. “May I help you?”

“I'm looking for hot water. Thought I could make Michael some tea.”

You blink once. A pot of hot water is always in the hallway. Every visitor passes by the small coffee and tea corner. And every family member who's visited more than twice knows it. You’re certain he knows it too.

Still, you don't let your irritation at his question show and remain polite. "Down the hall on the right. You'll find everything you need there. A herbal tea will surely do Michael good."

“Thank you,” he says.

You nod again. “Of course.”

You resume your work, slowly, humming quietly to yourself, like you often do when you focus on tasks like this.

There’s a pause. You expected him to turn around and leave. Instead, he continues to lean in the door frame. You look up, a little confused. His gaze drifts to the tray on the counter. The pills you’re arranging.

Something seems to be off. His eyes move, just slightly, as if adjusting to a brightness that isn't there. Then they settle on you.

He hesitates. Almost imperceptibly. “What song was that? Just now.”

You don’t answer right away. The question is... strange.

“An old tune,” you say. “I don’t know the name.”

He nods, like he understands. But something flickers across his expression. You see it again. This strange mixture of softness and…freezing?

He clears his throat, looking almost embarrassed. “I just thought I’ve heard it before,” he says. “Anyway. I won’t keep you.”

He steps back.

“Oh,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “Thomas Shelby.”

You look at him.

Tommy.

That was the name of this one wounded soldier in the military hospital in France, back then.

"Y/N," you answer, your head not yet able to process the information.

He gives you the ghost of a smile. Then turns and walks away down the hall.

You watch his back until he disappears through Michael's door.

***

You were right. Something is going on inside him. But he really doesn't seem to remember you. Sure, it was several years ago. Terrible things happened. Often, you couldn't do much for the soldiers; so much was lacking. Only your painkillers were plentiful, and they were strong. They granted many brave soldiers a blissful transition to the afterlife, a consolation for you, who would have liked to do more, albeit a weak one.

The soldier named Tommy was seriously injured back then, and you weren't sure if he wouldn't also walk the blessed path to the afterlife. There were so many injured that summer, the stuffy tent full of pain-filled groans. Your rounds consisted of the same routine: treating wounds, administering painkillers, moving on to the next person whose groans needed to be muffled. But it was never quiet.

It's quite possible that Tommy was so lost in his stupor that he barely noticed you. Just another face, another set of hands. But you lingered by his cot. Dabbing sweat, whispering calmly.

And humming a lulling tune.

That’s it. He doesn’t remember. But his body does. It just needs a small hint that triggers a memory…

A memory that awakens…something in him. Something you can feel stirring between you like static – curious, charged, and far from finished.

Yesterday's bandage change. That was another situation where something suddenly changed inside him. You recap the situation in your mind. The specific smell of the fresh bandages – a standard product in most medical facilities for years, one you would recognize among hundreds of other smells. Not just you – apparently Tommy's subconscious too, if your assumption is correct. At least this characteristic smell has the greatest recognition value. Sterile, clean, a smell that represents care and healing. A smell that can calm an agitated nervous system when unconsciously recalled. Maybe that's why he felt the urge to come back to the hospital – and to you in the nurses' station.

***

Michael's injuries are numerous and severe; he would certainly have to stay for a while longer, especially since his behavior wasn't exactly helping him heal. But every plea to keep his hands off the wounds fell on deaf ears.

His mother is at his side almost daily, and Thomas Shelby – Tommy –, who had been so full of accusations and who continues to seem extremely nervous about the Changretta feud, is also frequently present, often for hours. It is probably less a close connection to Michael than his urge to maintain control of the situation. Because even though there is a new bodyguard outside Michael's room door (and presumably other men around the hospital), he obviously prefers to trust only himself.

He never lets go of his hypervigilance, and whenever he comes into contact with the staff, he is bad-tempered and bossy. Your memories of your time as a nurse during the war – you would have preferred to lock them away in a dark place forever, at least the vast majority. How must the soldiers have felt?

The gang war with Luca Changretta and his men must have put Tommy in a state of constant fear. A deep-rooted fear that only allows him to function – fight or flight. A fear that Tommy Shelby would never let show. The little bit of softness he showed you seems to have vanished. You, too, repeatedly experience his condescending manner, with which he tries to belittle others.

That one time, when you move toward the window in Michael’s room to air out the place. He makes no effort to step aside, not until you politely ask him to.

“Of course. I’d never stand in your way,” he replies with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. But still, he stays just a moment too long before moving away. As if silently marking his territory, with no need to say a word.

Encounters with him feel like he’s testing boundaries…and pushing them, inch by inch.

But it’s more than that. Something in him does seem to remember you – not consciously, that’s for sure, but deeply enough to draw him in. As though he’s circling – chasing? – something familiar without knowing why.

A glance that lingers too long, taking in every inch of you.

Remarks that could be innocent, but certainly aren’t.

His request for you to stay a little longer, “to make sure Michael’s well looked after.”

There’s something almost clingy in it, though never openly affectionate. Always wrapped in a quiet arrogance that makes your skin prickle.

How badly you wish you could reveal yourself, if only to coax his softer side into the light more often. He never says it, but his presence makes one thing very clear: you must never dare speak of the first time you met.

A part of you wants to respond to the vague pull he exerts – but your mind knows better. In your role as the nurse, you're supposed to stay neutral. Anything else would be playing with fire. In general and with regard to the Shelbys in particular.

***

Your colleagues have had enough. Tommy overstays, commands the room like it’s his. So, you volunteer to end it – politely, but firmly.

You knock on Michael’s door and open it just a crack. The two men are sitting next to each other on his bed – silent, like they’ve been keeping each other company without saying a word.

“Visitor’s hour ended twenty minutes ago, Mr. Shelby,” you say, your tone calm but resolute.

“Must’ve lost track of time,” he says, voice cold, gaze still fixed ahead. “Terrible shame, eh?”

It’s clear he has no intention of leaving.

You steady yourself, trying not to let him rattle you. “Time works the same for everyone. Even you.”

He lets himself sink back into Michael’s bed like a man settling onto his couch after a long day’s work, almost casual. That deliberate calm of his, it drives you almost insane. Then, with a slow, exaggerated turn of his head, he looks at you: “I’ve learned this much, Nurse Y/N: If you stay long enough, you get what you want. It’s the same with doors – they open, if you knock long enough. Or kick.”

Is that meant to be a threat or a flirtation?

For a second, the sheer audacity of it almost robs you of speech. But you're not about to let him win this round. If he's threatening, you'll threaten back – just with a smile sharp enough to pass as flirtation.

You match his gaze, refusing to look away. “I've learned something, too. Something you might benefit from.” You pause, just long enough to make sure you have his full attention. “Some doors stay shut for a reason.”

Inwardly, you cheer at your sharp comeback, aimed to throw him off balance.

He huffs something close to a laugh. “Makes it all the more fun, eh?”

In war times, you used to wonder what he might be like when he flirts. What kind of lover hides behind that wounded soldier. He was different then, softer, maybe? You can't quite remember. But France left you broken too, dulled.

His hard, distant demeanor shows flashes of something else, a kind of playful dominance, yes. Maybe this is the only way he is able to handle that kind of risk – a risk greater than everything he risked in France – the risk of being rejected. This way, he could always claim it was never meant that way.

So, you play along – but not without returning fire in his little “threat or flirt” game. Your responses are carefully weighed, as precise as his provocations. If he wants a game, you'll play to win. “Perhaps the real question is why you never try the handle from your side.”

Only after the words have left your mouth do you realize the full weight of their double meaning. Sure, the round goes to you – there’s hardly a more elegant way to call out his overblown dominance.

But isn’t that the point?

Would he need to act this way if he were truly open to others – if he could let someone in, face his fears, process them, learn to trust again?

But you’re not naive.

You know better than to believe in hopeful illusions. His tactics have been honed over years – perfected until they cut deep without drawing blood. Like a dog that bites out of fear, long before it knows whether the hand reaching out is there to harm or to feed.

He doesn’t seem to need long to recover, slipping out of checkmate with infuriating ease. “That tone, Nurse Y/N.” He emphasizes your name in a way that makes you feel as if he's already deep beneath your skin. Or as if he could get there with ease. “Makes me want to misbehave on purpose.”

Michael, who’s been staring out the window the entire time, barely suppresses an eye-roll.

You smooth down the hem of your uniform and fix Mr. Shelby with a look as sharp as the edge of a scalpel. “Mr. Shelby, I must insist that you leave now.”

“What if I don’t?” he asks, without even pretending to play nice. “Will you report me, then?”

You offer no reply. Instead, you press the clipboard silently to your chest and walk out – leaving him to wonder just how to interpret your silence.

***

You close the door, heart hammering. You held your ground, but didn’t win. He’s still there. Still in control. Fortunately, most of your colleagues have already left for the day. One of them is probably still finishing her evening rounds. At least your failure has no audience.

You decide to focus on the weekly inventory restock, hoping the routine task will offer some distraction. When you step into the small supply room at the end of the hallway, a bead of sweat trickles down your forehead. You tell yourself it must be the heat radiating from the boiler room next door, but the excuse feels paper-thin, even as you think it.

The room is crammed with medical supplies of every kind, stacked all the way up to the ceiling. A small stepladder stands in the corner, used to reach the upper shelves. A few cobwebs drift lazily around the exposed lightbulb, which flickers uncertainly overhead.

You're sorting through a box, back turned to the door, when the light suddenly dims. You sigh in frustration, already making a mental note to request a new bulb. It's been flickering all day, and you had hoped it would last just a little longer.

Then you hear the soft click of the door falling shut.

You spin around, startled. Thomas Shelby is standing there. Not in the doorway this time, not leaning in with one foot still outside like earlier. The door is fully closed behind him.

"Mr. Shelby…" you breathe, caught between alarm and – you’re ashamed to admit it to yourself – arousal.

He studies you for a beat, then tilts his head slightly.

"Tell me? What did your supervisor say about my…little breach of protocol?" he asks, voice smooth with mock concern. "Am I about to be dragged off in chains?"

You try to hold his gaze, but your pulse is racing.

He lets a pause stretch, then adds, lower now, "Would you like to see me that way? Bound and…powerless?"

You fight to keep your face neutral, but he doesn't let up.

"Or are you the one who prefers the losing hand?" He steps forward, and the space around you shrinks.

You instinctively lean back, only to feel the edge of a shelf pressing into your spine.

"Mr. Shelby, I didn’t…" you begin, trying to sound firm, trying not to let your voice betray the flutter in your chest.

"Report me?" he finishes for you. "I know. I suppose I wasn’t quite bad enough yet."

There’s something predatory in his tone now, something playful and sharp at once. His presence is overwhelming in the cramped room, and you’re suddenly aware of how far away help would be. If anyone is even left to hear you.

You glance around, eyes searching for something, anything, you could use to create space between you.

He catches it and gives a dry, amused laugh.

"What’s this? You want to stop a Shelby from being a bad boy? After poking the beast?"

The bulb above you sputters again, this time violently, and with a low, electric hum, it dies.

Darkness falls.

Only a few narrow slivers of light slip through the ventilation grates into the small room.

Tommy gasps, the sound sharp and raw, like panic breaking the surface. He nearly stumbles into you, and in a flash, his strong hands close around your throat.

"Don’t move, got it? One sound, and it's over," he hisses in a clipped, military tone.

Darkness. Heat. Claustrophobia.

He’s not here anymore. Not in this room.

The ghosts of the past have taken hold of him.

He’s back at the Somme. Back underground.

And now? You’re not Nurse Y/N. You’re the threat.

A threat that needs to be neutralized.

Just as instinctively as he attacked, you claw at his hands, trying to pry them away from your neck. But they hardly budge. He presses down harder.

"I said keep still. Keep quiet. Makes it easier for both of us," he growls, voice sharp and hostile.

You close your eyes. Try to conserve your last energy.

Instinct.

And then, just as instinctively, you turn your head to the side. Expose the vulnerable skin of your throat to him. Like a beaten she-wolf offering her neck to the alpha, hoping he will spare her. Hoping he won’t go in for the final bite, even though he could.

His face brushes your skin. The scrape of stubble is harsh against the softness there.

He breathes in. Deep. Sudden.

"Fuck," he mutters. The grip on your throat slackens.

You gasp for air. Your lungs burn as air rushes back in, and you feel the raw imprint of his hands on your neck. Your pulse is thundering in your ears, but it is no longer only fear that drives it.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

You keep your eyes closed, just to process what happened. You stopped his fight-or-flight mode again. His nose on your neck, a deep breath...

A floral, familiar scent, laced with innocence.

Your perfume. The one you've worn for years. Even back then. At the Somme.

It hits a place in him no war ever reached. And that's what makes it even more dangerous, although it is calming on the surface. It cuts straight to the bone, bypassing logic, reaching his nervous system to unfold its effect. His instincts are still on fire, but something has shifted. They are no longer turning against you. Not now. Not entirely.

It is as if Tommy collapses into you.

You stumble back but catch yourself on the small stepladder behind you, just enough to keep from falling. Your fingers seize the fabric of his shirt, gripping hard near his chest.

"Shhh," you whisper, trying to soothe him, to calm his wolfish nervous system.

Then, almost desperately, you pull him toward you.

Your lips meet his. Searching. Finding.

The line you’ve so carefully drawn, day after day, has blurred. You have kept your distance, kept your control, held your ground behind professional words and folded hands. But now, here in the dark, with his breath on your skin and your body still trembling beneath the memory of his grip, something breaks.

You feel his chest rise and fall against you, too fast, too shallow. He is still somewhere else, not fully here, caught between past and present, you assume.

You could push him away.

Call for help.

Fight.

But instead, you tilt your face just slightly toward him, not away. Your fingers, still curled against his chest, do not fall away. You stay.

Because you recognize the ache in his touch. The same absence that hollowed out the men who came back. Hunger not just for flesh, but for grounding. For something human. Something soft.

You tell yourself this is for him. To anchor him. To calm him.

But your body, heat-slick and alert, says otherwise.

You’re not just soothing him. You’ve already cracked the door the second you played along instead of shutting him down.

His hand still rests on your neck while his thumb brushes your pulse, slow now, but firm, like he’s reminding you that his gentleness is a choice, not a guarantee. He could tighten again if you push the wrong buttons. You both know it. The game is far away from over.

You gasp at his other hand that slides lower, over fabric, under it, with an aim that leaves no question. He sets the rules, whether you like them or not.

"You remember what I said?" he murmurs.

You let out a questioning sound.

"The losing hand."

His fingers find the slick heat between your thighs.

"Seems to me," he mutters, smug, "you like playing it."

Your breath stutters. "Is that what you think? That giving myself to you makes me weak?"

Tommy growls softly. "No. It makes you mine."

You barely have time to exhale before his lips crash into yours again. The next kiss is deeper, hungrier, as if something in him has finally snapped free.

You can’t deny that you want this. Want him – this broken soldier who became an unpredictable, dangerous criminal. The craving coils low in your belly, tightening with every inch he claims. But something churns inside you at his very last word.

Mine.

Clearly not an invitation. A verdict.

He has responded to gentleness before. The scent of the bandages reminded him of care and healing, which softened his voice when he spoke to Michael. When you hummed a soothing tune, he didn’t lash out; he listened.

And now, in this small supply room, when his trauma surged, it wasn’t logic or commands that brought him back, or rather: stopped him from killing you. It was your perfume. 

You had tools, not weapons, but levers. You had ways to steer him, to anchor him. 

Now, caught in the tide of his possessive need, you ask yourself: Is there still something you can offer that turns this from coercion into something mutual? 

Not overt control; you know better than to reach for that. You want consent, or at least the shape of it. If you can reach him – not the soldier, not the animal, but the man – maybe, just maybe, he’ll meet you in that space between need and choice.

Your conflict is barely hidden, etched into every shift of your body. Your fingers press against his chest, not to push him away, not really, but just to carve out the illusion of choice. Your head tilts, as if defying the inevitability. But your body, traitorous and aching, leans into his.

He reads you, of course, senses your hesitation, and it keeps his guard up. You know that this still makes him dangerous to you. His grip around your neck is firm, not cruel, but certain. You freeze, not out of fear, but awareness. In his world, he didn’t steal control. He reached for it because fear had narrowed his world to instinct. In his heightened state, physically overpowering you is the only language he trusts. Because he never learned how to ask.

If he’s to ease his grip, he must sense that you're not offering yourself out of fear, but because, this time, you want to be touched.

You shift a little and lean into his touch. Then you lift your hand to cover his. Not to push, just to claim a part of it. To say: I see you. You don’t have to hold on so tightly.

He goes still.

His fingers no longer hold; they wait. You close your hand around his for a moment and give it a gentle stroke. Slowly, he loosens his grip.

You reach out to stroke his temples. His hair clings damply to his skin.

“I don’t want to be taken,” you whisper in your trained soothing tone, as you have done so often for your patients – and as you assume it’ll work to calm him as well. “I want to give myself. That’s not weakness, Tommy. That’s trust.”

He stills. You feel the shift in his breathing, the way his body eases just slightly beneath your touch.

“I know sweetheart, I know…,” he pants, biting and sucking the tender flesh of your neck in lustful anticipation. “you’re not weak. You’re just smart enough to know when to surrender.”

You don't answer aloud. But you don't pull away.

He senses it, your unspoken agreement: he may lead, but only for as long as you let him.

“Now be smart again,” he whispers, fingers fumbling with his belt. “Open for me.”

The words hit like an electric current and you feel the heat painfully pooling between your legs, unbearable in its immediacy. You didn’t miss the chance in his voice; it’s edged with heat now. You realize with relief that it’s more temptation than threat, like he’s playfully testing whether your earlier words were bravado or a real invitation.

The darkness sharpens everything, every noise, his intent, your desire to feel what he hasn’t even given yet. You’d never admit aloud how much you like the command laced with bittersweet praise. And how easy it is to obey.

He steps back a little and you hear the soft metallic click as his belt comes undone. He hesitates to move closer. You glimpse him in the faint slats of light slipping through the vent in the door, his fingers are paused at his waistband, his silhouette appears tense with restraint.

Your palm finds his jaw again. Damp, tense, warm. You guide him forward until his hips brush your thighs. You notice that his breath falters differently now, deeper, heavier. Lust, not vigilance. It settles you more than words could.

“Use me, Tommy. Be rough. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

His head drops for a second, forehead resting against yours. There’s heat in the contact. And something else – gratitude, maybe. You both know, you will stay if he respects your boundaries. Then his hands settle on your waist, sliding under the hem of your uniform again, rough fingertips skimming over skin still chilled from fear, pulling down your slip with practiced ease.

“Don’t worry, Y/N. I’ll break you just right.” He lifts you by the hips and pulls you forward on the ladder’s narrow rung until your legs fall open around him. “You’ll thank me for it.”

If this is how his “threat or flirt” game goes on, you’ll love to play it till the end.

His zipper goes next, silent but decisive, and then there’s nothing but his hardness against you – demanding, impossible to ignore.

You gasp as he pushes into you. Not from pain, but from the way it overwhelms: the stretch, the pressure, the sheer size of him forcing you to take more than you thought you could. He stays still, forehead resting on your shoulder, breath warm against your neck. It’s not hesitation. It’s a silent check-in.

You tighten your legs around his hips, and that’s all he needs. His mouth finds yours again, this time with no restraint. It’s not a question anymore. It’s a claim you’ve offered, one he accepts with hunger and something close to reverence. He lets gravity do the rest – his hands guiding your thighs as he tilts his hips and lets your weight slide down onto him. The sudden fullness draws a choked moan from you. It’s deep. Deeper than you imagined.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice strained and reverent all at once. “What a tight little thing you are.”

His thrusts are agonizing slow at first, grinding your spine against the ladder’s frame, like he’s savoring the permission. There’s no escape from the sensation. His body fills your vision, your core, your mind. His size borders on too much, and for a flicker of a second, you’re glad for the shadows. You don’t want to see how much of him is still left outside you.

He knows. Of course he knows. That deliberate pace, his strained breath – he’s done this many times before, and he acts as if he’s addicted to the rhythm and the depth with which he uses your body for his very own pleasure. He knows exactly how to give you too much, then back off just enough to make you beg for it again.

You hadn’t expected tenderness, though. Not from him. Not like this. But it’s there – buried in the precision, the restraint, the way he listens to your body even when you don’t speak.

You can’t suppress a muffled moan into his mouth. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a warning flickers – someone might hear. Your colleague, doing her final rounds before night shift really settles in. The one with the maddeningly squeaky shoes. Right now, you’re grateful for that noise; if she’s still walking, she’s not close.

You try not to make another sound but each thrust punches the air from your lungs, sharp and high. You kiss him deeper, try to smother the sounds in his mouth.

But he doesn’t let you hide.

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bare your throat, to make you loud.

“Let me hear you,” he growls. “Don’t hide those filthy little noises – they’re for me.”

When you finally moan his name, it wrecks him. He groans like he’s been holding back too long – and the rhythm turns sharper. Your thighs begin to tremble from the sheer overstimulation. But there’s no pulling back now. He’s too far gone, chasing a finish he won’t be denied. His grip tightens on your hips and spine, holding you in place like he owns the rhythm – and you with it. Your attempts to wriggle out of his grasp – more of a test than a real intention – he doesn’t register them. Or he deliberately ignores them.

This might be breaking the rules. But God, you want him to.

The metal creaks dangerously under you. You half-laugh, half-moan. “Tommy, careful. We’re going to break this thing.”

“You first,” he growls into your neck, pushing even harder as if it were a challenge for him. “I promised you.”

This fucking stepladder. It gives him the perfect angle – lets gravity do the work as he drives deeper, hips locking yours in place, no room to shift, no escape from the drag and stretch of him. Every thrust is calculated, relentless, each one sharper than the last. He uses your own weight to trap you where he wants you, pinning you there with force and precision – clearly chasing both your undoings.

You’re close. He must feel it.

Then he murmurs against your ear, voice hoarse and thick with something that breaks the last thread of restraint:

“So good for me, love. Letting me in like this. So fucking perfect.”

It shatters you.

Because suddenly, it isn’t just about dominance or hunger. It’s about being wanted. Trusted. Needed.

You break around him, trembling, gasping. He’s not far behind, chasing the high like it’s salvation, a curse dragged from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt, body locking against yours. His mouth finds your shoulder, your neck, like he can’t get close enough. The rhythm breaks, falters, and still, he doesn't let go – of your hips, your breath, the space between you.

After a moment, he shifts, careful now. His hands are gentle as he helps you off the stepladder, steadying your knees. You’re both quiet…the kind of quiet that lingers when something important just passed between two people.

You smooth down your uniform. He does it better, fingers brushing at your collar, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, lips ghosting your temple like a secret. When you carefully open the door, the hallway is still empty.

He gives you one last look, mischief flickering in those impossible blue eyes.

“You were right, Nurse Y/N. Visitor’s hour is long over.” He straightens his jacket, lips twitching with mischief. “Still, can’t say I regret overstaying.”

You keep your face neutral, your steps steady. But inside, you're a coil of nerves and want.

And as you walk in opposite directions, heart still thudding from more than just exertion, you already know you’ll be counting the hours until the next time he shows up – to break the rules again.

***

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