Ward is one of those bastards that thrive on a minimum of 4 hours of sleep.
He's also one of those bastards that wake up in the middle of the night with an ax in his chest and a screwdriver in his head. Wounds never heal, worse when you can't sleep through the pain.
The only remedy that treats him the best is the soft pressure of skin against skin, embraced in someone's arms. An ironic response to night terrors where the pressure suffocated him in abominable fear.
It's a sick remedy, taunting his loneliness. Something that doesn't feel good when you're drowning in tears. Something that will never feel good when all your life you've been forced to be strictly independent.
Tonight -this morning actually- was a particularly violent one. This was one of the ones where the hands were connected to a face that smiled sickly down at him. Cooed words in his ears, traced rough lips against his skin, pulling and tugging on any and all fat that may be draped upon his body. Ward couldn't move away or say a thing.
The scratch tan, gray, white quilted was somehow wrapped around his body that didn't allow movement but allowed him to be touched. Only cries and moans could come out of his mouth despite the disgust boiling in his stomach.
The same disgust that found itself in the toilet bowl moments after Ward came flying out of the bed. As he wretched and sobbed into the toilet, the same words and feelings of the dream haunted him.
"Such a pretty little boy. My good boy likes that, huh? Moan for me, make sure I know it," It was a voice everyone knew. One people looked up to. Listened to. Including Ward. Even after all these years.
"You always make me feel so good, Warren. You know I love you. You make me feel so good I could only love you," Everything hurt, always. Even after he decided to take pleasure in the act. Even after he moved hundreds of miles away from the touch and that horrid quilt that always reinforced what he felt.
He didn't love Ward. Even when Ward made him 'feel so good'.
When only spit strung out of his mouth, he still held his stance over the ceramic bowl, clutching the sides as he caught his breath and maybe his mind. Who is he kidding? There was no saving his mind at this stance.
He needed someone there. He couldn't sit in his own silence.
"N-Noel?" It was weak, only echoing in the bowl back in his ears, "Noel?" But everything except his own heavy breathing.
Shit.
She was out of town with Andy at her cousin's wedding. She wouldn't be back until the afternoon of this day. Which, in result, left Ward all alone in the house with the desperate need to touch. Pressure.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuuck!" Ward screamed in fury, slapping his hand on the tile floor over and over again until the pain hurt like in the dreams.
"My good little boy. Always makes me feel so special. I love you, pretty boy, do you love me too?" Sobs racked Ward's bodies once again. He couldn't hear anything but his tears and the dirty words he had whispered to Ward late at night.
"If you don't make me feel good, boy, then how am I supposed to know you love me? How will I know to love you too," He's worthless. If he can produce then what is his worth in the world? What's the point of living if you can't make someone happy?
"Stop! Stop! Stoooop!" He shoved his palms into his eyes, hoping to focus on the pain of pushed retinas over the chuckle he always had if he wasn't lying about how he felt towards Ward.
"You can't say anything, good boy, or they'll steal me away and I won't be able to love you. You want me to love you, right?... Then we have to keep this between, pretty boy."
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Praying Under Pressure
Teen FictionElliot Fernandez is a man who has only ever done whatever expects of him. So when he hits his wit's end, he gathers all his courage and moved across the country for his Masters degree. But mostly to take control of his passive position. A move he al...
