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You never intoxicated yourself with the intent of relaxation. In fact, the alcohol reminded you even more of the memories that haunted you, but it also filled you with ballsy courage that you lacked when sober; perhaps that courage, mixed with fear, was why you only sought out Jonathan when you were inebriated.
Jonathan had little tolerance for your drunken ramblings, so visits with him were always brief and only occasionally included more than a quick fuck. He used you for his own pleasure, and you used him for yours. His fear toxin rarely played a part in your excursions, but when they did, ecstasy on your end was short-lived; though Jonathan always seemed to take more pleasure from your screams over anything. Outside of these encounters, your interactions with the Good Doctor were few and far between, only occurring when the two of you had a business meeting together in the Arkham Asylum bi-quarterly faculty get-togethers (the only meetings in which you couldn't avoid each other or skip out on entirely). Jonathan was a man of science; and yes, you respected that, but you also had a shallow level of revulsion toward it.
Even if you were a psychologist as well, you wanted him to talk about something other than the chemical composition of the brain, the science behind fear, or god forbid, the fucking amygdala. Every time he brought up one of these topics during your encounters, you rolled your eyes and promptly tuned him out, focusing more on the feeling of his cock brushing against your walls (which, to be fair, was pretty much all you thought about in those moments, but in the rare moments where you were sober enough to understand what he said, it was a larger effort).
This time, however, you were completely sober, your mind racing with anxiety about actually talking to the elusive and infamous Dr. Jonathan Crane. You, unfortunately, remembered nil about him, the only things you could think of when someone mentioned his name were his eyes, cold, blue, and judging. It was haunting, looking straight into his gaze, but your desires mattered little to him, and you often were forced to make eye contact with him while he fucked you into oblivion. You could barely remember why you were making your way to his office, your heels clicking harshly against the tile flooring as you (anxiously) sauntered to the 3rd ward, where you would potentially meet your doom.
Upon your cautious knock on his door, the lanky, well-dressed doctor greeted you silently, stepping out of your way to allow you into the lion's den. He motions to a plush leather armchair, and while you seat yourself, he begins his spiel.
"So, doctor, I have had doubts about your commitment to me," Jonathan says courteously, sitting in the armchair across from you, the mahogany desk of his separating your bodies, a saving grace for you, an inconvenience for him. "So I called you here to make sure that the nature of our affairs is made clear."
Before you can process what is happening around you, Jonathan has pushed himself out of the armchair and grabbed you by your waist, a yelp escaping your lips. He holds you from behind, your ass pressed against his crotch, and you smirk internally at your benign efforts eliciting such a reaction already. He pushes a kiss to the shell of your ear before whispering. "You're mine," He growls, "And I apologize for not making this clear, doctor, but you're forbidden from seeing anybody else."
Your mind goes back to one week ago, at a Christmas charity that the Wayne foundation hosted in honor of the asylum, the funds from which go to your workplace, but oddly, you never got a raise, new equipment, or even fucking insurance. Nonetheless, you still attended, in a red dress (a rather seductive one, you thought), and began flirting with a cute, blonde politician that you hadn't had sex with, but you sure wanted to. At that moment, you were unaware of Jonathan's piercing gaze on you, but now that the memory replayed within the confines of your mind, you realized you had, effectively, broken the unspoken deal that you had signed with Dr. Crane. You uttered an apology that was interrupted by another one of Jon's threats, one that you could clearly understand due to your lack of intoxication.
"Be a good girl and let me make it clear now that you and I are exclusive to each other." He presses another kiss to your ear, and you nod your consent. Wordlessly, Jonathan pulls down that lovely pencil skirt of yours and crudely shoves your underwear to the side, sliding a finger into your entrance, chuckling at the feeling of wetness.
"Already wet for me, darling?" He coos into your ear, peppering kisses down your neck, pressing his finger deeper at each moan you allow to leave your lips. "This is only for me, correct? You don't feel this for anybody else?" His words, though could be considered sweet in some contexts, are dangerous, daring you to say no, threatening your sanity if you don't comply.
"Yes," You whimper, grinding onto his finger. He retracts his digit and presses it to your lips, giving a satisfied hum when you take it in your mouth and suck, tasting yourself on your tongue.
He removes his hands from your body for a moment, the clink of his belt unbuckling ringing in your ears like a bell. "Bend over the desk," He demands, and you hear the clatter of his belt to the floor, followed by the shuffling of his pants (and assumedly, boxers) dropping. You follow his orders, positioning yourself with your ass in the air, tits on the desk, and arms splayed in front of you. The cool air of the office on your wet heat only makes the incoming threat of Jonathan more alluring, and you clench around nothing at the thought.
Jonathan places his hands on your hips and aligns himself, pressing his cock to your entrance at a torturous pace. The minute the head of his cock slips inside of you, a moan escapes you, and Jonathan's hips stutter at the sudden noise. He presses slowly into you, hands caressing your ass and hips, his breath hitched in his throat. Once he is fully sheathed inside of you, he pauses for a moment, allowing himself to twitch within your walls. "Ready?" He implores, and you nod pathetically, bracing yourself for the violent beating your cunt will succumb to.
His pace is overwhelmingly fast, cock brushing against your g-spot and kissing your cervix with each thrust of his hips. He starts with just using you, his hips rutting against your ass, but quickly turns into him pulling you onto his cock, shaking the desk and its contents with you, sending you into the throes of ecstasy which you had never experienced prior. The sound of skin-on-skin is soon drowned out by the sounds of the items on top of and within his desk moving about, along with your joined moans and grunts, respectively.
"If I haven't made it clear," He pants through thrusts, "You and I are no longer 'casual', as you so crudely phrased it. You. Are. Mine." He growls into your ear, his pace growing sloppy, his orgasm quickly approaching. "Fuck," He curses through clenched teeth, his grip on your hips becoming vice-like. "I'm-"
He's interrupted by the sudden breach of his orgasm, thick ropes of cum lacing your walls and filling every crevice that Jonathan's cock couldn't reach. He lets out one final grunt with a particularly rough thrust, one of which sends you into your own orgasm, stars and black dots lining your vision.
"F-Fuuuuck," You whine, gripping the edge of the desk with white-hot knuckles. Jonathan exits you, a shudder overcoming your entire body. He offers you a handkerchief to wipe his seed and your juices away, and you take it with shaking hands, wiping yourself in the same position the Good Doctor had just fucked you in. You hear the clicking of his belt buckle and the shuffle of fabric as he helps you dress, holding out an arm while you steady yourself.
"Our next session will be at my home, okay? I'll e-mail you the address," Jonathan helps you make your way to his door, pressing a kiss to your nose. "I'll see you, darling."
You swore that you'd never drink before an appointment with Dr. Crane ever again.