Hot Villains & Mind Games

The moment his gaze lifts to you, it drops again just as quickly. Without a word, he resumes scanning the stack of papers on his desk, flipping through them at an agonizingly calm pace before jotting something down with a casual flick of his pen.

Your fists clench. Fury claws up your spine.

With a single swipe of your hand, you knock the papers off the desk. They flutter to the floor in a scattered mess.

Nothing. No reaction.

Not a single flinch, not even a scolding glance. Just a slight, almost amused twitch at the corner of his lips.

It enrages you even more because he is purposefully ignoring your fury. “Don’t you dare patronize me, Mr. Shelby. You know why I’m here.”

His blue eyes flicker with something unreadable—curiosity, perhaps. He takes another slow drag of his cigarette before tapping the ash into a crystal tray. “Why don’t you enlighten me, sweetheart?”

You slam your palms onto the desk. “Your factory. The women. I warned you, didn’t I? I told you that the conditions were unsafe, that the fumes from the dye vats would make them sick, but you ignored me. And now?” Your voice rises with fury. “Three of them collapsed today. One of them—Margaret Cole—she’s barely breathing.”

Thomas Shelby leans back slightly in his chair, his cold blue eyes scanning you like you’re an amusement on an otherwise uneventful morning.

“And?” His voice is smooth, detached. “I assume the others called in sick?”

“Of course, they did! Or at least, they tried.” Your fingers dig into the wood of his desk. “Until your foreman cornered them. Until they were pressed against the wall, his hands on their thighs, his breath in their faces. Are you telling me you knew nothing about this?”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Unruly women sometimes need a reminder of where they stand.”

Something inside you snaps. You lean closer, your breath uneven. “They need what? Are you fucking kidding me, Mr. Shelby? They have every right to fight for themselves! No man has the right to touch a woman against her will! And you know this and don't stop it. You should be ashamed of yourself! Women’s lives mean nothing to you, do they? As long as they keep working, keep making you money—”

His lips curl at the corner. “You sound quite emotional.”

Your stomach tightens. “Excuse me?”

He tilts his head slightly, feigning concern. “Women. Always so... dramatic.” His voice is soft, deliberate. Cruel. “A few sick girls, an appropriate punishment for refusing to work, and suddenly, you’re storming in here like a bloody hurricane.” He exhales smoke again, slow and steady. “Hysterical.”

Your vision blurs with rage.

“You smug, misogynistic—”

"Shut the fuck up!" he cuts you off, his voice sharp yet eerily controlled. “So, this isn´t about men and women, this is about me, eh?”

Your hand moves before you can think. The slap cracks through the air, your palm colliding hard against his cheek.

You immediately regret it the moment you touch him.

Not out of fear—but because you know that’s exactly what he wanted.

His misogynistic, self-important arrogance had baited you into losing control. And now, you’ve given him exactly what he was waiting for.

Thomas Shelby doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t curse. He doesn’t even touch his face. In one swift motion, he’s out of his chair, pressing forward, his body pinning yours against the desk. His hands grip your wrists, forcing them back against the wood.

“You think that was wise?” he hisses.

Your breath hitches. His grip is strong, unyielding, his chest barely an inch from yours.

“Let me go.”

His lips twitch. “No.”

You try to regain composure. “You have no right to touch me. I am the official representative of the Women’s Union, and you—”

His unbearably smug laugh cuts you off.

“And I,” he leans in slightly, “am Thomas Shelby.”

As if that alone settles the matter.

“You hate me, don’t you?” His breath is warm against your skin, his voice taunting. “I can see it in your eyes.”

You glare up at him, your chest heaving. “More than anything.”

He hums, tilting his head as if considering. Then, slowly, he leans closer, until his lips nearly graze your ear.

“Then prove it.”

A pulse of something wicked coils in your stomach. If you could move, you would. You would strike him again. Harder. Drive your knee between his legs, bite into his skin, rake your nails across his face until he bled.

But you can’t.

He’s too strong. Your struggle against him is useless. His grip tightens just enough to painfully remind you of exactly who he is—Thomas Shelby, the man who bends Birmingham to his will.

Maybe that’s exactly what settles the matter.

And yet...

Your breath shudders as he presses you harder against the desk, his thigh slipping between yours. You should push him away. You should scream at him, fight him.

But you don’t.

Instead, you arch against the bulge in his crotch.

The smirk that ghosts over his lips is nothing short of victorious. “That’s what I thought.”

Your nails dig into his arms. “Go to hell.”

He chuckles darkly. “Sweetheart, I am hell.”

And then his mouth is on yours, warmer and more pleasant than you like.

It isn’t a kiss—it’s a battle. Teeth clash, tongues fight for dominance. It’s all heat and fire, pent-up rage exploding into something neither of you can control.

His hands are rough as they roam your body, his fingers curling into the fabric of your skirt before yanking it up. You gasp against his lips, but he swallows the sound, his grip bruising, demanding.

You shouldn’t want this.

But you do.

God help you, you do.

His fingers trace up your thigh, slow, teasing, making you squirm beneath him. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs against your neck.

“Shut up.”

His teeth scrape against your skin, and a sharp gasp leaves your lips.

“Make me.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him growl against your throat.

And then, in one skilled and forceful motion, he has you turned around, bent over the desk. His hands press against your hips, keeping you firmly in place.

“I should ruin you, as you deserve it” he mutters, his desire hard to deny. “Take you apart piece by piece until you can’t even remember why you hate me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, your breath ragged. “Then do it.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

The world narrows to nothing but sensation.

The hard press of his body against yours. The sharp intake of his breath as he moves inside you. The way your fingers dig into the wood, desperate for something—anything—to hold on to.

He takes what he wants.

And you let him.

The room is filled with harsh breaths, muffled moans, the sharp slap of skin against skin. Every movement is a fight—a challenge, a test of wills. You push back against him, refusing to surrender completely—but it’s futile. Every single thrust reminds you that he has already won. That no matter how much you fight, your body betrays you, melting into his control.

And then—just as you think you can’t take any more—he grips your hair, yanking your head back so his lips hover over your ear.

"Who wins now, sweetheart?" he taunts, his fingers sliding between your folds, circling your clit with relentless precision.

A desperate moan escapes you.

You bite your lip, too late to mask the sound, too lost to resist.

But it doesn’t matter.

You both already know.

Because when the tension finally snaps, and you can no longer avoid the inevitable, you don’t hold back the cry of his name.

And that’s victory enough.

When it’s over, the room is silent except for your ragged breaths.

Tommy leans over you, his lips ghosting over your shoulder, still not letting you go. His hands are possessive on your hips, his body pressed against yours as if daring you to move first.

You swallow hard.

“This doesn’t mean—”

“I know.” His voice is lazy, satisfied. Amused. “You still hate me.”

You do.

You really do.

But you can't deny that you already crave the next fight—ready to lose again... ***

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.

@jbrownta @mythicalcowboyatheart @shelbybabysblog @simpfortoomanymen @moonbeamott @gothic-chinadoll @weaponizedvirtue @ashibairo @darkdaydreamer @kristinecharmm @thehanes22

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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***

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.

***

***

Taglist

You

You’ve just finished your first year at university, and you’re spending your summer break doing what you’ve always dreamed of: seeing the world. Ireland had always called to you – the jagged coastlines, the lush, impossibly green hills, the salt-laced wind and the honesty in the way people speak. With a bulky backpack and no set plan, you’re hopping from hostel to hostel, couch surfing here and there, letting the country carry you wherever it wants.

A sudden downpour catches you between stops, and you're grateful when your search for shelter leads you to the Mutton Lane Inn.

Soaked to the bone, your shirt clinging cold and damp to your skin, you push open the weather-beaten wooden door. It squeaks like an old man’s knees.

The warmth hits you like a wave: heavy pub air thick with the smell of spilt beer, wet coats, and too many people packed into too small a space. And yet – it’s a blessing.

You shrug off your overstuffed backpack at the bar and wriggle your arms out of your drenched jacket. Maybe there’s a radiator somewhere to hang it over before you move on. It’s busy, and you grab the only free stool at the bar to catch your breath.

The bartender is focused on pulling a pint, his hand steady as he sets it down in front of the man to your right. Then he turns to you with a smirk and a voice as warm and scratchy as the pub walls. “Well now, love – made of sugar, are ya? How about an Irish Coffee to warm you up?”

“John, the second a woman shows up in this place, you're all sweetness and charm,” the man with the fresh pint chimes in, tone teasing.

“I wish you'd be that nice to me once in a while.”

John smirks, drying off a glass.

“Come on, Cill. You can handle a little tough love now and then.”

You can feel the man’s curious gaze on you – not awkward, just quietly observant. You glance back for a moment and manage a faint smile, polite, nothing more. Still, it makes you self-conscious. Soaked to the skin, mascara likely washed away by the rain, your shirt clinging a little tighter than you’d planned; no wonder he’s looking.

How sweet…no gloss, no posing… somehow, she looks like the most honest thing I’ve seen in months…

You accept the Irish Coffee with a grateful nod, then dig your small microfiber towel out of your backpack and slip off toward the restroom, the man’s eyes still lingering on your back.

She probably has no idea how fucking good she looks. I hope she doesn’t dry off too fast. I just… can’t stop staring. That ass—fuck. Get a grip, man! Look into her eyes when she comes back!

***

The place is old – the paint on the walls cracked, the mirror clouded, and the radiator under the window so thick with layers of paint its original shape is barely visible. You drape your jacket over it anyway. No one’s going to steal it here – you're probably the only woman in the entire pub tonight.

The mirror in the old bathroom doesn’t show much, and honestly, you don’t care. A place like this, tucked away in the suburbs of Cork, probably doesn’t see many women under fifty, let alone anyone who’d judge you for a bit of rain. Your mascara has already washed away; nothing looks smeared or messy, just…bare. You towel off your hair and warm your numb fingers a little under the rickety hand dryer.

***

When you step back into the bar, a few heads turn. Nothing rude, just mild curiosity. You’re young, clearly not from around here, and slightly out of place. But no one says anything, and you let yourself enjoy the quiet attention for what it is. When you slide back onto your barstool, a warm, steaming glass already waits for you. Irish Coffee, creamy and strong. You take a cautious sip of the whipped cream and let out a long, relieved breath. What a day. You’ve earned this indulgence, even if it’s a little expensive for a backpacker’s budget.

I wonder what she looks like without the shirt clinging to her? I want to slowly pull it over her head and suck on her nipples…and then... Christ, what the hell am I thinking? I’m a grown man, sitting next to a sweet girl, and my mind’s gone completely feral?

The whiskey hits fast. There’s no stinginess in a place like this, and your empty stomach doesn’t help. The warmth that spreads through you is almost too good.

“Delicious, isn’t it?” the man to your right says again, his tone casual, unbiasedly friendly now.

“Decades of experience,” John mutters from behind the bar as he bends to refill the fridge with soft drinks, joints creaking in protest.

Oh god. Please don’t let her think I’m just some creepy old bastard who won’t let her enjoy her drink in peace!

You glance right, ready to give another polite nod – and that’s when it hits you. Really hits you.

You blink once. Twice.

And somehow manage not to let your jaw drop.

Cillian Murphy. Cillian fucking Murphy!

Right there. Sitting next to you like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You’ve been a Peaky Blinders fan for years – how didn’t you recognize him immediately?

Maybe it’s the longer hair. The softer edges. The fact that he doesn’t seem to want to be recognized. But still – it’s him.

You sip again, this time slower, and give him a small smile. “Yeah. Exactly what I needed after a day like this.”

I don’t even know her name. But I can barely stop imagining how she feels, how she tastes… Should’ve gotten myself off earlier. Fucking idiot move.

“Cillian,” he offers, voice polite, almost overly so, extending a hand.

You take it, grip steady despite the sudden rush in your chest.

That touch—fuck. It's been too long since something that simple made me feel like this.

“Y/N,” you reply. “Nice to meet you.” You smile at him, light and unassuming, and lift your Irish Coffee in a quiet toast. You are going to need more than one strong drink to stay calm tonight.

Not even a flicker of recognition… Am I losing my face? Or maybe she knows and just doesn’t give a damn. Christ. That’d be a first.

“How do you say it again in Ireland? I can never remember,” you say, steering the conversation elsewhere.

“Oh, we say S-l-á-i-n-t-e,” he answers with a crooked grin. “It’s pronounced slawn-cha.”

He smiles wider when he sees your puzzled expression, and the creases around his eyes deepen, warm and unmistakably real.

He looks different than he does in Peaky Blinders. Better, in a way. Like a good wine that’s had time to mellow, not spoil. Maybe he’s had something done, just slightly, the kind of quiet adjustment people in his world consider maintenance. You doubt it was his idea. Showbiz is showbiz. He always struck you as pragmatic. Someone who does what the job demands. And that’s kind of...endearing. If he’d been obsessed with perfection, he would have traded his long-time wife for some Hollywood model years ago. The fact that he never did says more about his character than any interview ever could.

Anyway, you stick to your little “stranger in a bar” act, partly out of courtesy, partly to avoid being read as a silly fan girl.

“Sláinte,” you repeat, awkwardly but earnestly.

He laughs. So do you.

If she had the slightest idea what she’s doing to me… She’d run. And maybe she should. She’s so much younger, and even if she wanted this… it’s too much. She’d be far too…innocent for the filth I crave. But fuck, I want her under me, push her open like a secret and tear her apart. Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with me? I haven’t thought like this in years. And here I sit, pretending to be a gentleman. Like I’m not dying to hear the sounds she’d make when I finally sink into her.

“To bad weather and unexpected company,” he toasts, smile flickering into something a little too charming for a stranger in a bar who just met you.

You’re a little taken aback by how quickly he warms to you – and he notices right away.

Fuck! What did I just say? Am I stupid?

“God, that sounded like a line from a bad rom-com. Ignore me.”

Damn, that’s so exciting…is Cillian fucking Murphy really flirting with you? That self-deprecating charm of his…he could say the dumbest thing and still somehow make it sound like poetry.

He lifts his pint again, taking a long pull and that’s when you notice it:

No wedding ring.

You’re almost sure he used to wear it. Always. At least in public. Odd. And... interesting.

You let that detail slide, choosing instead to meet his eyes with a smile that tells him you’re still here, still listening. “Too late. Now I’m curious what the next line would’ve been,” you answer.

Okay… maybe she’s not as…innocent as she looks. She’s not a teenager anymore. Probably knows her way around by now… Wonder what kind of guys she fucks. HOW she fucks.

“Oh, it involved bad poetry and worse intentions. Trust me, you’re better off not knowing.” He says it with a low, amused drawl, eyes steady on yours, just long enough to make you wonder exactly how bad the intentions were.

If she would ever go for someone older? Oh, let’s hope she would… Gosh, why the fuck am I thinking so much about this age gap? I’ve never chased youth for the sake of it. I like women who’ve lived. Who bite back. Men who use age to overpower? Pathetic. But her? She seems to be so ageless in her mind. Maybe she doesn’t care at all about age?

“You know,” he says after a pause, leaning on the bar with a relaxed slouch, “I was told Mercury’s in retrograde… or whatever excuse people use for clumsy flirting.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. He is flirting indeed. You decide not to let it show. Not yet. Instead, you pivot the conversation just enough to let him think it’s still innocent. “Wait. Are you that kind of person who is seriously into astrology?”

Wait, what? She dodges the obvious line and still manages to make my trousers feel too tight. Who even is this girl? If this is just her being polite, I’m fucked. But if it’s not… Please, don’t let me just be the “harmless older guy” to her, the one she laughs about later. The one who gets banished to the friendzone the second he makes a move.

He smirks. “Only when I need someone else to blame for my bad decisions.”

You laugh – openly this time – and it’s the kind of sound that turns heads. “God, you’re not serious, right? That stuff is basically cosmic Mad Libs for emotionally overwhelmed people.”

His brows rise. “Mad Libs?”

“I mean those Mad Libs games we used to play as kids. Fill-in-the-blank nonsense that somehow still feels personal. It’s all cognitive bias. Cold reading, confirmation bias, projection... People want patterns. Meaning. Astrology gives it to them without asking for anything in return.” You take the last sip of your Irish Coffee, eyes glinting. “It’s the ultimate emotional shortcut.”

His lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something. But he doesn’t. He just watches you.

She’s so educated and enjoyable. Not the flashy kind. Doesn’t try to impress – no leaning in, no fluttering lashes. Just… effortless. And that’s what kills me. Most women perform. She doesn’t. And that brain of hers? Fuck, that’s the real danger.

“Sorry,” you say, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m studying psychology, kind of obsessed with it lately, I sometimes get carried away. At least, it makes me ruin fun things.”

“No,” he says quickly. “That wasn’t... No. That was awesome.”

Don’t lay it on too thick… Then again, none of this is fake. She’s sexy, smart, confident. How the fuck am I supposed to resist that?

You laugh again, a bit shy now. Now he's really laying it on a bit thick. But his words go down like a treat.

Fuck, I can’t help myself…she’s too gorgeous, too tempting… I wonder if she’d let me cum on her face? Swallow? No. Stop. Not now. Not with her.   If she'd let herself be fucked in the ass…imagine the tightness and the friction...coming inside her... Jesus. Get a grip. You’re spiraling.   Maybe none of her lovers have been naughty enough… I could show her…  Stop it, before she sees it in your eyes. Shit. Shit. Shit!  What the hell is my brain doing? Just thinking this way about her feels like…harassment. Christ, I need to snap out of it. Don’t picture it. Don’t go there. One more second and she’ll see how hard I am...

He tips his glass toward you, seems a little out of sorts. “So, you don’t believe in fate, then?”

“I believe in patterns,” you reply. “And chemistry.” After a brief pause, you add: ”Not just neural. The other kind, too.”

Jesus. If she keeps saying words like that in that voice, I’m going to have to shift in my seat. She knows. She fucking knows. She’s playing me…testing if I’m man enough to handle her. I would love to spank her naughty little ass for that.

 “Dangerous thing, chemistry. Can blow up in your face if you’re not careful.” He lifts a brow, trying to keep the tone light, as if it was a joke. But the way his gaze settles on your collarbone, then lower, it doesn’t feel like banter…it feels like a test. Or an invitation.

I know what I wanna see in your face, girl…aaaah, I must stop myself…

He doesn’t just look. He studies. Traces your outline with a gaze that feels like intent, so precise that it’s impossible to ignore. Like he’s already memorized the blueprint of everything he plans to do to you, anticipating the way you’ll taste when he finally gets his mouth where he’s been imagining it.

“Only if you add the wrong ingredients,” you counter, your eyes catching his with just enough edge to remind him what not to touch. “Some elements just… react well together. No matter how volatile.”

 Fuck. That mouth. With my cock inside… And how she just put me in place without words. I should say something safe, something to reset this whole thing… Hell no, I don’t want to! I want to find out how to cross that line... I want her to make the next move… or give me a reason to…

Cillian leans in just slightly, enough that his voice lowers. “You talk like you’ve done…a few experiments.”

The conversation is slipping, more and more. It coils heat in places you’ve been trying not to think about – and part of you suspects he’s been waiting for that shift. To make you feel it first, so he has permission to follow.

You shrug. “Enough to know when something’s… worth testing.”

Alright. She’s playing this smart. But she’s in.

“Speaking of testing – can I get you a beer?” he asks, seemingly casual. “Was about to order one anyway. You really should try the draught here. It’s the only reason half of Cork still comes.”

A smooth pivot. Too smooth. And a mock-offended huff from behind the bar – just enough to make you both smirk.

He’s cooling the heat he just stoked. Why?

Is he about to pull back because he’s going home to his wife? Isn’t he supposed to be like twenty years married? Maybe he still wears his wedding ring, just not here. Just not tonight. Maybe he keeps certain truths out of the spotlight, private in the way real things often are.

You're not sure what’s missing in the story, but something is.

Still… he’s here. And so are you. And he’s looking at you like you’re not just decoration.

So, you decide to let it play out. Whatever this is.

You grin and nod, heat rising in your throat as you meet his eyes again. What do you have to lose? “Sure. I trust your taste.” Maybe he just wants to get you drunk? For whatever reason…you hope he’s not that silly and push the thought aside…

Cillian signals John, who slides two fresh pints over, no questions asked.

You watch him closely. He’s so fucking magnetic. Your shirt may be rain-drenched, but have to admit to yourself that it’s not the only thing damp anymore. And as much as you’re soaking up the attention, something in you recoils at the thought of being just another backpacker he flirts with while his wife waits at home.

“Careful,” Cillian says, nudging the glass toward you, “the second one always talks louder than the first.”

You laugh softly. “Then let’s hope it has something interesting to say.”

Oh, you start to love the game you are playing.

You’re circling something shared, something unnamed. He won’t say it, unless you do. And you’re not quite ready to give him that win.

You like this thrill of the moment just too much, the not-knowing, the slow burn, the quiet dare in every glance. But a part of you already aches to find out what comes after the restraint slips.

He taps his glass against yours again. “To science,” he says, mock serious. “And slightly improved flirting techniques.”

Okay, no risk, no fun. If she bites, even a little, I’ll know she’s curious. If she laughs it off, no harm done. I have to get her with me somehow… Not by offering her one drink after another. That’d be dull. She won’t fall for it anyway. No, I want her sharp. I want her to offer herself. God, I need her pussy around me, wanna make her scream my name… Fuck. Not here. Not like this.  Don’t let her see what you’re thinking.

He’s already been bolder than you had expected. Still, you are pretty sure he’d never come right out and say it. He’d never be crude enough to ask if you wanted to fuck him. Like Tommy Shelby in Peaky Blinders did – dry voice, zero hesitation, as if the answer had never been in doubt.

You rewatched that scene more times than you'd admit.

Almost came undone each time.

But this isn’t Tommy. This is Cillian Murphy.

Charming. Disarming. Devastatingly attractive, yes, but in the end? A nice guy. Polite. A gentleman.

And yet—

You wish he’d drop the act. Just for a second.

Ask you, without flinching, if you’re wet from the way he’s been talking to you.

If you want to go home with him and prove it.

“Flirting?” you ask, lifting your glass again. “Is this the Irish way of being friendly?”

He smiles. “Only when we want to be misunderstood on purpose.”

Your laugh escapes before you can stop it. It’s soft, a little too close to something else.

Cillian watches you for a beat longer, then glances toward the hallway at the back. “Excuse me a moment,” he murmurs.

He rises without a sound, the kind of movement that feels planned, not casual, like if he doesn’t get away now, he might say something he wouldn’t be able to take back.

I needed a second…just to breathe. She’s sharp. Steady. Looks me in the eye like she’s trying to read what I won’t say. She’s so fucking…intriguing. So. Say it. No lines. No pretense. “Would you come with me?”

“Don’t worry,” comes John’s voice from the other side of the bar, low and just for you. “He’s decent.”

You glance up. The older man doesn’t look at you directly, just wipes down a clean glass like it needed doing.

“Bit quiet these days, but that’s no bad thing,” he continues, casual as ever. “Pretty sure he’s grateful for some company. It’s been… quieter still since his wife left.”

You blink. John says it like it’s nothing, just one more fact in a long line of barroom trivia. But it settles somewhere between your ribs and starts to warm.

Then the old man grins faintly. “Though I’ll say this…he always did have a thing for clever women.”

You try not to smile, but you fail.

You see him returning through the hallway, jacketless now, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. Your pulse quickens again, faster than before.

He meets your eyes just as you open your mouth, and—

“Actually—”

“I was going to—”

You both stop. A shared breath. Then you laugh. Not nervously. Not politely. Just… delighted. He grins back, a little crooked.

“I was going to say something wildly inappropriate,” he admits, voice lower now.

“But you might beat me to it.”

You lean your elbow on the bar, chin tilted in mock consideration.

“That depends. How wildly are we talking?”

He looks at your mouth, then shakes his head once, lightly, like someone surrendering.

“It’s getting late,” he says, as if it’s the beginning of a casual sentence. “And I was wondering… if you already had a place to stay tonight.”

You let your smile deepen just enough to tip the meaning. “That’s a very reasonable and not at all inappropriate question.”

He leans in then, close enough that his lips almost brush the shell of your ear. “That wasn’t the whole question, though. Because if not… “

Oh god. He’s not actually—

Is he really asking what you think he’s asking?

Your pulse kicks against your ribs.

You swallow, barely breathing. “What then?”

“I want you with me.”

In his bed.

In my bed. Naked. Hands above your head. My mouth between your thighs. Telling me how long you’ve been waiting for someone to ruin you properly. And no one around to hear the way you beg.

"And if I said yes, what would you do to me?" To see how it turns out, you toss the question like a coin.

"Do to you?" His blinking is a mocking sign of surprise. As if the entire conversation weren't already humming with suggestion.

“I mean – come on. At least you’ve been undressing me with your eyes all night. Thought you’d never get to the point.”

That mouth. She got me. How bold she is...damn, that’s so fucking…appealing. I could take her right here. Tell her! Go ahead!

“Oh, I wasn’t just undressing you,” he counters with a slow grin. “I was…” He leans in just enough to drag the words across your skin. “…making plans.“

The heat that’s been simmering low in your belly spikes suddenly. Your thighs shift beneath the barstool; it’s instinct, not decision.

“Is this the Irish version of foreplay?” you tease with a grin, as if you haven’t already decided to play along.

“I don’t care what you call it,” He shifts his knee, so that it brushes yours beneath the bar as if by chance, then stays there. “As long as you’re wet by the end of it.”

“I already am.”

“Then come with me.”

He watches you.

Not with hesitation, exactly.

More like he’s calculating the last variable before letting go of whatever’s holding him back.

Then he asks, almost sheepish: “You didn’t recognize me, did you?”

You lift a brow. “Oh, I did,” you say casually, like it never needed to be said.

That makes him pause, just for a second.

“But you didn’t say anything.”

You set your glass down, steady. “Yeah, what was I supposed to say?”

Then, after a beat, as if it only just occurred to you to explain:

“Didn’t feel the need to bring it up. Would’ve ruined the fun.”

You shrug.

“Besides, I didn’t stay for your name.” Your knee nudges his, slow and sure, like a yes spelled out in pressure. “I stayed for the way you’ve been looking at me all night.”

“You’re sure?”

“Shut up and find out.”

Gosh, I know why I wanted her the moment we met.

Gosh, you wanted him the moment you met. He’s so dangerously fuckable, no matter who he is.

***

Outside, the air bites cooler against your skin, but you barely feel it.

He closes the space between you in three quiet steps, one hand bracketing your jaw, the other finding your hip like it’s always known where to land.

Then his mouth is on yours, warm and hungry, tasting of all the plans you’ve both been circling without saying.

You kiss him back and it feels like you’ve been waiting for this exact sensation.

Not fame.

Not fantasy.

Just him.

***

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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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