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

five

Eyes narrowed and skin burning red hot from rage, you're afraid you're going to do something rash. In fact, you have half the mind to throw Peter out and screech at him that you're tired of feeling this way. Your lips pull into a sneer, and you yank your hand towards you— but Peter is cemented to the floor. Unmoving and not at all reacting to your less than sudden change in demeanor.

"What, Peter?"

He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing at your snappy tone and you inhale sharply when he steps closer. Blue eyes search your face for something— what exactly? You're not sure yourself. "You've been acting..different."

You scoff. "And you suddenly care why? I haven't been acting any kind of way, Peter. I'm tired and I don't feel well, can I go to sleep?" Peter's grip tightens to the point you feel your bones shift under your skin. They grind against each other and pain shoots up your arm.

Again, you pull your arm towards your chest and find yourself utterly horrified when his grip tightens even more. It hurts, it hurts so bad and you're so tired of him. Of this back and forth, of being enough and then suddenly not. You're exhausted of being treated as if you're disposable, you wouldn't do that to someone you loved, would you?

Peter's free hand traces your cheek bone gently, and you blame it on muscle memory when you relax swiftly under the sweet almost loving touch he has offered you. It reminds you of better times, of a time when he at least pretended he loved you nearly as much as you loved him. It seems to have been forever ago since you first felt him around you. Such a long time ago and yet it feels like yesterday. As his knuckles continued to stroke your face lightly, you wonder if you knew all of what would happen then— would you have still sought comfort in him?

Please, your wild side cries out. Please let him take us!  The small voice in the back of your head, the one that always knows better— the one that is almost always ignored begs for you to stay strong. To not let this man harm you any longer, that history shouldn't be repeating itself. Your wild side simply screams until it drowns out any other sound but it's frenzied begging.

But you can't, you can't submit to someone who has been hurting you for so long— you reason to yourself, but as he draws ever closer your breath hitches in your throat. His lips ghost yours, and you can practically taste him on your tongue. Molten lava burning it's way down your throat even then it tastes so good. What if you deserved everything he had done? It was punishment, he was just trying to make sure you learned your lesson. Your heart aches, the crack that runs across it's center slowly mending itself when he lowers his face closer.

And then he is upon you, his lips swallowing your breath and his pelvis up against yours. Tears burst from your eyes, you're exhausted and heartbroken and tired but he feels so good when he's like this. When he loves you, when he makes you feel as if you're his world. Peter kisses you roughly, and his hand relaxes it's grip on your wrist and you sigh in bittersweet relief.

That would surely bruise. But who cares? Who cares if he paints you in blues and reds, who cares if he makes your skin a sickly purple hue? For these small moments where he is sweet and just nearly loving, it is worth it. Everything is worth it if he would kiss you like this for a moment longer.

It hurts so bad, you're so pathetic and you know it. But who cares? Who cares if you're crying as he presses himself closer to you? Who cares if you know that Peter is holding back cruel sounds of amusement? You certainly don't, you never will be able to.

You pull away from the kiss, teary eyed and red in the face. "Peter.." You whisper, a lump forming in the back of your throat and regret blossoming in the pit of your stomach instantly. His jaw flexes as he grinds his teeth together under the flesh of his cheeks and your heart melts.

"Yes?" He mutters, his breath fanning across your face as he utters the word. It smells like stale mint, not a bad smell whatsoever— even slightly addictive, especially because it's coming from him.

"I think I won't ever be able to stop loving you.."

His lips split into a knowing smile, and if you knew him any better you'd guess that he was holding back from laughing in your face. Which— wouldn't be the worst reaction he's ever given to one of your common confessions of love.

"Is that so?" Peter muses, chuckling sweetly into the air. His voice mesmerizes and kills you all at the same time, and you lean forward to rest your head on his chest. He lets you, his arms coming down to pull you closer.

You nod somewhat tiredly. "Unfortunately, yes."

Silence encompasses you two, filling the space as his thumbs rub lines into the back of your thin nightgown. The materiel of his shirt wrinkles under your grip, your hand resting just below his beating heart. You can feel it, the pulse of it and it makes you wonder..if this man has a heart, how could he be so awful?

If he looks like an angel, sounds like an angel, then how can he not be? You let a sob rack your body, how could something so pretty be so bad?

You muster up the courage to speak, your chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. "Do you love me?" You whisper, and a part of you wants to ask him to lie. Prolonged silence marches on, and you sigh weakly.

Peter hums, the sound comforting and soft. "What answer will help you sleep tonight?"

You pull back, looking up at him with doe eyes filled to the brim with hurt and something in league with betrayal. "The truth." Peter's blue eyes bore into yours, and your heart shatters at his response.

"Then no, I don't."

You knew it was coming, you always did but actually hearing it from him is another form of heartbreak. But you're strong, you've always been. And so you take a deep breath in and steel your heart, you straighten your back and come to the decision that you can have this for one last heartbreaking time.

"Will you make love to me like you do?"

"Yes, I will."