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

four

You often found yourself mumbling under your breath, your face resting in your hands. Your desk had become a prison, tying you down to your work until it became an after thought. The whirlwind of your emotions had become faded, and you were often faced with the opportunity of a higher position because of how amazing your work had been lately.

All times, you turned Brenner down.

Your work had become less of a job and more of a mundane task you had perfected. You were flawless, and you could dare say you envied Peter in your line of work now. Dr. Brenner was not only pleased with how much pages of reports he was getting, but how all of them were well organized and neat.

You felt you had become less of a human and more of a robot. Completely docile and lacking of all those intense emotions that left you wrapped up like a pretty present for your torturer, Peter. You had begun to daydream more often, drifting away into your own world as your pen drifted across the paper in a frenzy. It helped you cope with the mass amount of stress and heartache you had buried so deep down inside you it seemed as if it never existed. Your mother would laugh at you now, as you were always the one telling her not to work herself to death— but here you are looking as if you had one foot in the grave.

In the world you had created for yourself in your head, you and Peter were living happily. He loved you unconditionally, and he never put his hands on you in anyway that would be considered harmful. And soon, your fantasy world began to melt and bleed into your real world. Peter had grown sweet, and loving. His touches kind and doused in burning passion. The heat you two shared was unmatched by a flame, and in your sheets you made the most beautiful kinds of messes. It helped you ignore your feelings and ignite a dulling fire inside of your soul. That fire ate at your conciseness, forcing you to acknowledge all the rotten parts of Peter you had grown to embrace. You felt more awake than you ever had in your whole life.

Everything was almost perfect now.

Almost.

You had begun to grow restless and relentless when it came to Peter's plans, pushing and pressing him in anyway you could to get him to spill anything— something for you to cling onto. He had formed a plan, but that's all you knew. He told you of nothing besides you and him escaping with Eleven. It sounded amazing, finally leaving this place after all these years. But you had begun to regain your eyesight, no longer blinded by love and there was so much Peter had been secretive about. You wanted— no, needed to know his plans this time.

It just didn't sit right with you that he would change the subject every time you brought it up, and if you tried to push you would be silenced by a quick crack to the side of your face. Somehow you never ever had bruises to show for his harsh treatment. Peter had not changed at all, but you had. The nightmares that plagued you had become more and more frequent as you began to buzz around Peter like a gnat. An annoying fly buzzing in his ear— a bug needing to be crushed.

Despite this, you still found yourself curled up into his side lovingly at night anyway. Just like right now, as you listen to the clock hands go by and run your hands through his hair. You hold him impossibly close, your chest rising and falling shakily as you fight the urge to sleep.

Of course you fail, and like the nights before you wake up with your chest heaving. Throwing the sheets off of yourself and pushing Peter aside as you struggle to get to your feet. You don't remember what the dream was about this time, but whatever it was— it has you bent over the toilet. Emptying the content of your stomach— which would be the small amount of lunch you ate- into the toilet.

Dry-heaving until you were sure nothing else would come up, you fell back onto your rump— your hands shaking as you hold your face in your hands. You're sweating, you note to yourself, your nightgown sticking annoyingly to your clammy skin as you try to calm yourself.

Another wave of nausea hits you, and you fly to the toilet. Your head hangs over the bowl as your hands clutch the sides of it so tight you're afraid you'll hear the ceramic crack under the pressure of your fingertips. Once your stomach is completely empty it squeezes tightly, forcing you to dry heave once again. Nothing else is coming up, and yet you stay there.

Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, the nausea fades. Dulling enough for you to flush and lean against the cold bathroom wall, it feels beyond good on your flustered skin. It doesn't take long for you to compose yourself enough to pay attention to the world around you. Peter stands in the doorway, arms crossed as he leans against the only way out of the small bathroom.

His blue eyes are inspecting you, and you know he's more curious than he is worried about you. His tongue flickers out to wipe across his top lip, and your eyes unconsciously follow the movement before meeting the unrelenting stare. Peter quirks his head, and you can almost smell it off of him. The fascination and amusement at your current disheveled state.

"What's wrong?" He asks, a faint ghost of a smile playing at his lips as he patiently awaits your answer. The bathroom feels tight, as if the walls are closing in on you— Peter's distasteful gaze isn't helping. It makes everything worse, leaving you pressing yourself into the wall to get as far away from him in such a cramped space. You come to the conclusion the nightmare was about Peter, and you finally decide to snap your eyes away from his.

Immediately your heart seems to stop snapping so harshly in your chest, and you let out a loud shaking sigh. You rest your head in your hands, grumbling about how shit you feel before realizing you may want to answer Peter's question. Your gaze shifts to his from behind the cracks of where your fingers spread, and you breathe through your mouth. "Nightmare." Is all you manage to mumble out before taking note that the floor was less than comfortable.

You stand, hugging your arms tightly to yourself as you try and squeeze past Peter. You make it an inch out of the door before his fingers close around your wrist. You jerk to a stop, your whole entire mind seeming to slow as your eyes narrow at his hand keeping you in place.

"Let go."

"No, I don't think I will."

Here we fucking go.