You did it again. Talked back. Confronted him. No. Flat out antagonised him.
You find yourself doing that a lot, recently. Provoking his anger. His aggressive outbursts. And sure enough he's got you collared and pinned, back to a wall, his slightly doughy overweight pressing down on you.
You've been starving for physical contact for weeks but ever since that poor bitch forced a drug-addled coitus interruptus on you you're downright desperate for some – any – kind of touch. Even if it's just Gene Hunt on the verge of clobbering you senseless.
And now that you've got it your treacherous body is popping a boner on it.
You groan in frustration and even before the sound is out you know it's the wrong one. It's gonna be misinterpreted for what it really is and Hunt is gonna-
Drop you.
Like a hot potato.
Back off and almost wrench his office door from its hinges as he steam-rolls out.
He leaves you trembling, heart racing, and the loss of even this twisted form of intimacy hurts so much it makes your eyes water. You contemplate giving in to it. Going down on your knees and crying like a baby. Having a proper old hysteric fit. If you're mad that's perfectly in character. If you've gone back in time a hysteric fit is long overdue. And if this is all nothing but a comatose nightmare it doesn't matter, one way or the other.
Just as you're about to buckle the door crashes open again.
´Why?`
You don't have the energy to come up with a smug lie.
´Because my world is falling apart and you're the only solid thing in it.`
He scoffs.
Next thing he's gonna call you poof. Or Glenda. Or Nancy.
´Sissy.`
God, the man is so predictable.
Only he isn't, because instead of leaving you standing there for good he closes the distance between you until he's almost as near as he was before.
´You want solid?` he growls. ´I give you solid.`
And then his hand is on you. Rough, almost brutal. The pain is clearly on the wrong side of pleasure but you still pray for him to open your fly. Take you for real. Skin on skin.
Of course he doesn't. So you push into whatever your get, let the unhealthy ache drag you away, drag you down, until you come so hard your vision blurs.
He's almost gone again before you're coherent enough to deliver your why.
He bares his teeth and you couldn't tell whether it's a grin or a threat if your life depended on it.
´Can't ´ave me men roaming me streets with no blood'n their brains, can I.`
You're sorely tempted to ask how he can have Ray on the loose then. But for once you keep your mouth shut.