⛓ • we'll never have sex ;; peter ballard ;; ❤︎

eleven

You want to die. That's all you can think as you move from day to day as a husk, a corpse with a soul trapped inside against its will. Now, don't get this wrong— it's not as if you truly didn't want to live. No, that's not it.

You just needed this to end, the constant feeling of eyes on you. Of hands digging into your hips and his scent only to turn around and see nobody. To see nothing you hint of your tormenter.

Your heart wrenched in your chest, and you were so very overly aware of the way your whole body ached with exhaustion.

The nightmares have only gotten worse, and you know you're slowly going insane as you sit in your office, tapping your pen against your desk at a constant rhythm. It distracts you and keeps you alert at the same time.

There is no way in hell you will survive this place any longer if your mind keeps this up. You think back to three days ago, and how after you kicked Peter out of your room you saw him not too long after.

He had muttered something about you being an annoyingly resilient little thing. And you know that's not true. You're anything but resilient, you can bend but eventually you will snap.

You always seem to. It's as if it's in your blood to give way to pressure, to break, to shatter.

Peter has been talking to you recently, in small whispers when you pass each other in the hall, or when you're by Eleven's side trying to soothe her. He whispers how he missed when you were so weak and dependent on him, and how your struggle is futile.

You hate the way you don't get angry, you hate the way you know he's right.

You keep your eyes on the clock, monitoring the tick of its hands and how they move. You repeat in your head that once the hands stop moving, you're dreaming. That's what you tell yourself to keep your mind busy.

You cross your legs, your eyes trailing back down to the papers on your desk when suddenly you can't move your upper half, your arms, torso and everything up going stiff

You uncross your legs, planting your feet on the ground as your heart rate picks up. You don't move, too scared to make any small gesture. Heart rate increasing, you bite your lip.

You bite it so hard that you taste pennies in your mouth, it's blood you conclude as pain follows the familiar flavor of crimson on your tongue.

You feel hands barely ghosting over your form, tugging your hair past your shoulders and you feel it cascade down your back. Your hands pull into fists and you want so desperately to jerk away when you feel something alike to a sigh hit your neck.

Holding your breath, your eyes slowly trail up to the clock— however before you can even look at the pitiful thing- your head is slammed against your desk.

Your nose immediately erupts in pain, and the scream you let out is anything but a scream and you come to realize you cannot talk. You cant speak- it's as if your vocal cords have been cut. You panic, your hands twitching as you try to move them to your throat and yet they won't move.

You stay there, against your desk and blood dripping from your nose for awhile. Wanting to scream, to run, to move— to do anything. The feeling of weight on your spine making you nervous.

You don't know how much time has passed, but then you're regaining feeling in your body and you snap up and away from your desk as fast as you can— your chair falling back at the harshness of your movements.

One of your hands cups your throat and feels for your pulse, and the other touches your nose softly. Withdrawing just as fast as it's placed with a drawn out hiss. Tears prick your eyes as you touch around your nose bridge again, the sting somehow grounding you.

You cant stay in this room or you'll go insane.

You aggressively pull the door open, covering your nose with one hand and keeping your head tilted down all the while. Your strides are long and fast paced, and when you bump into someone you let out a half hearted sorry and try to keep on your way.

Key word, try.

Your hand is yanked upwards, and towards the person you just accidentally shoulder checked. Of course it's Peter and when you try to get away his grip tightens to a painful degree. His tongue swipes over his lip, you notice that at the top of his lips, there's a small line of red.

You say nothing, not that you would of gotten the chance to because he's already nagging you. Spilling like a shook up soda as he speaks fast and quickly, question after question becoming overwhelming.

"What happened, my bunny?"

"Can I help?"

"Why aren't you looking at me?"

"In quite the hurry, aren't we?"

And then his hand is moving the one held firmly over your nose, and in your panicked and yet also dazed state you tense and yet don't move. Even when alarms go off in your head, screaming at you to remove yourself from this man's orbit.

"Oh dear..are you alright, angel?" You hate how you melt, and you blame it on the aching of your bones and the soreness of your heart. You blame the need for comfort, you blame the fact that you're scared and alone. That you're tired of this, that you just want to be held and as Peter swiftly pulls you into his arms you feel as if the weight on your chest is gone. The eyes boring into the back of your head disappear, and you greedily lap up all of his attention.

"I'll protect you, nothing can hurt you as long as you give yourself to me."

Peter's hands cup you gently to him, and you snap. You blame it on a normal human response as you crack under the pressure of everything. You cry, bawling your eyes out into his chest as you sputter out some nonsense about being scared. About your office, a force, needing him to protect you, needing him.

And if you weren't so naive, you would've known this was a set up. Would've perhaps noticed the smile of triumph that takes over his seemingly innocent face. In the end, he's won. He always does, doesn't he?