001/ peter ballard | one shots

cruel

The hard concrete at your back, the blades of your shoulder pressed into it, is cold and seeps through your gown. The heat from your body is radiating off of you like a furnace as if his fingers between your legs were hot pokers that were sparking small flames in your insides until an inferno has started up and you feel like every organ and bone in your body is being melted down to something plabable; like the play-doh the children play with in the rainbow room.

The wire to your morality vacant and lacking a pulse. Sometimes you wondered if there was something wrong with it, that moral part of your brain that everyone has for basic human survival. "Sometimes it gets crossed with another wire, an evil one" Papa had said. Looking at you with about as much interest as he does when he's ordering the group of you to throw each other across the room, upon your asking of what made someone bad. Cruel.

The answer had done little to make you run off of the beaten path you currently walked along. It hadn't made that moral wire in your brain go off and rethink this. Rethink meeting him in closets. Rethink using your powers to turn afternoon sneaks into nightly rendezvous between your bed sheets; his hand pressed to your mouth, his deep grunts of "You don't know how to be quiet do you? Pathetic" in your ear. A smirk on his lips when you looked up at him and gave him those pleading eyes, the ones with tears at your ducts and devotion filled in them like a hornets nest ready to be opened and released onto the world.

It's where his interests lie with you.

You were a hornets nest he kept kicking until you were nothing but a carcass of something made to be strong, to house something that was supposed to give life. And now all you do is take it away, for him. But wasn't that your purpose here? To be used for what you have, for what you were. The only difference between him and Papa was that you were in love with him. Devoted.

When you did something bad, made others bleed for fun, on accident, because you went too far, were too powerful; Peter never scolded. Never reprimanded. He filled that whole of shame in you, that morality with something thick and suffocating, something that felt more like home than this sterile hell you were born in.

So why should you feel bad when his fingers are between your legs, or his tongue? Those moral feelings of how wrong it is to let him mold and shape your molten insides that he's burned into his perfect killing machine to help him with his vision: had no home inside of you.

The wires of power and devotion—lust—wrapping around any good wire you had until it was strangled and all you had left was the bad, the evil that Peter kissed, sucked, and fucked in and out of you.

His fingers inside of you right now is the only kind of good you want, need. His thumb rubbing hard strokes into your clit, forearm resting on the wall beside your head. His scowl is deep, his lips red and raw from how hard he had kissed you—from the teeth you had bit into his bottom lip to silent your moans, so no one would hear through the door as he fucked you with his fingers.

"Here I thought you knew how to listen to directions." You can trace the annoyance in his voice right back to the girl in the infirmary right now. Body twisted in pain, heart still beating. The weakling he encouraged you to end the suffering of—one of many he's asked you to take care of for him.

"I did." You say in puffs, your jaw going slack for half a second when you feel the curl of one of his fingers and it makes your fists ball at your sides, your legs shaking. "She–I–"

His free hand is at the back of your neck squeezing the muscle there, making you look directly at him, a wince of pain replacing your stuttering and getting lost in the mixture of pleasure between your thighs. "She's still alive. She's still suffering, even more now that you've broken her bones." The blue of his irises are dark, like a sea you're drowning in. The casting shadow of his scowl making them appear almost black. "You didn't listen to directions," the up tick of the corner of his mouth only makes your stomach sink lower. Leaning his face close to your lips, enough to have your eyes straining to look up at his height, "and now you don't get to cum."

The whine you let out is a mix of frustration and anguish at words, and the stretch of him adding a third finger inside of you—something you could take, pleaded for when you couldn't have the stretch of his cock. But as his fingers press up and move faster, quicker, the squelch of your wetness louder than your ragged gasps from trying to keep quiet. The pressure of his thumb still moving against your clit so good that you know this has nothing to do with your pleasure, this is a punishment.

You didn't follow orders and now he wants to see if you even know how to; don't come, don't come, don't come.

Peter thinking you were anything less than his devoted disciple was the only thing that could bring you to tears. Not his cruelty, not the bloodshed he's helped paint your hands with. He was your only weakness, and the only thing that could make you possess any grotesque human condition; love.

And he knows it, brings a smile to his face. Loved using it against you in and out of your bed; teasing you until you were so sickly weak for him to touch you—to fuck you, "you look so beautiful when you have that pathetic look on your face" he'd confess into your ear as he fucked you from behind; "this is the way you were meant to look, covered in their blood, beautiful" he'd declare as he ran his fingers over the dried blood on your tits as he thrusted into you.

He loved your love for him. Just as he loved your power. He could use it. Consume it.

What he didn't love was good. It only caused disappointment and that's what you have done. Disappointed him. The girl was still alive and you were being punished for it.

"I'm," you swallow, whimper. "I'm sorry, please."

His grin is dark, demented, dead. "Begging only makes it worse." He presses his lips to your forehead, whispers against it. "Focus. Because if you cum, you won't for a week."

"Please," You can feel your walls throbbing, clenching, swelling around his fingers. That low ache in your belly that feels more like a death sentence right now than it usually does when Peter's touching you like this.

"You haven't shown me you've earned it. I think you've forgotten our purpose here." There's no pity in his eyes as he runs his nose down the bridge of yours, pulling back to grin down at you. "Good girls don't get to cum."

1234 words