Summary: You and Peter Ballard wear the same white uniform, walk the same sterile halls, answer to the same man. On paper, you're equals. In reality, you can't stand each other..
Warnings: Angst / Smut / No aftercare / Unhealthy coping mechanisms / injury during sexual activity / Author does not endorse characters' actions / Bad ending / Blood / Unresolved ending / Slow-burn.
A/N: I do not endorse characters' actions in this One-shot. Please refrain from reading this if you aren't pleased with the warnings.
You learn quickly at Hawkins Lab that grudges don't fade.
They sharpen.
You and Peter Ballard wear the same white uniform, walk the same sterile halls, answer to the same man. On paper, you're equals. In reality, you can't stand each other.
Peter is too gentle.
Too soft with the subjects.
You watch him in the Rainbow Room, kneeling beside one of the children, voice low and steady as he guides them through their exercises. His hand rests lightly on the child's shoulder, grounding, calming. He smiles like this place hasn't hollowed him out already.
It makes your jaw tighten.
You don't see compassion. You see weakness. A crack in the system Papa built, one he trusted you to protect.
So you excuse yourself.
You tell yourself it's protocol. That Dr. Brenner deserves to know when an orderly crosses the line. You find Dr. Martin Brenner where he always is, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp and unblinking. You speak calmly. Precisely. You mention Peter's behavior, the physical contact, the tone. You let the implication hang in the air.
Papa doesn't ask questions.
He never does.
Hours later, you pass by one of the lower rooms and hear it.
The sharp snap of electricity.
Peter's voice, strained, breathless, cutting off mid-sound.
You stop just long enough to look through the observation window.
His hair is damp with sweat, curls plastered to his forehead. The taser fires again and his body arches violently, a broken sound tearing out of him before he can stop it.
This isn't discipline.
This is punishment.
His eyes are glassy when they finally find the window. Find you.
For a split second, hope sparks there , weak, desperate. Like he still believes you're capable of stepping in. Like he thinks there's some line you wouldn't cross.
You let him see your face fully.
The satisfaction.
The cold pride.
The complete absence of remorse.
Something inside him collapses.
The taser fires again and he screams this time, no restraint left, throat raw, dignity shredded. You watch every shudder, every failed attempt to pull against the restraints. You memorize it. This is the price of thinking you're better than the rest of you.
This is what happens to people who pretend this place can be softened.
You feel tall. Clean. Correct.
When you finally turn away, you don't rush. You don't look back. His screams fade behind the thick walls, swallowed by the lab like they were always meant to be.
You did your job.
If anything, there's a quiet satisfaction settling in your chest. A sense of balance restored. This place survives on obedience, not kindness, and Peter Ballard forgot that.
You straighten your uniform and walk away, footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving him behind with Papa's lessons and the consequences of forgetting his place.
In Hawkins Lab, empathy is a liability.
And you've never been careless enough to carry it.
You don't linger outside the room.
There’s no need.
You've already seen enough , the way Peter's body jerks against the restraints, the way the sound cuts off when the current hits just right. That image settles neatly in your mind, filing itself away like everything else in this place.
You walk away with steady steps.
Your chest feels light. Cleansed. The irritation that's been gnawing at you for weeks finally goes quiet. For the first time in a long while, the lab feels orderly again. Balanced.
You did what Papa expects.
And more importantly . . . you did it well.
Other orderlies pass you in the corridor. None of them ask questions. None of them need to. In Hawkins Lab, silence is its own kind of approval. You keep your expression neutral, your posture relaxed, as if nothing worth remembering happened tonight.
But inside, there's a slow, private satisfaction.
Peter Ballard made a mistake.
And you corrected it.
When your shift ends, you return to your quarters. The door seals behind you with a familiar hiss. You remove your uniform carefully, folding it just right, hands unhurried. There's no shaking in your fingers. No second thoughts creeping in.
You wash your hands.
The water runs warm. Steady. It carries nothing away because there's nothing you want gone.
When you finally lie down, the bed welcomes you easily. Your body sinks into the thin mattress, muscles loosening. You stare at the ceiling for a moment, replaying the evening , not the screams, not the pain, but the moment before. The certainty. The control.
Your eyes close without resistance.
Sleep comes fast.
Deep.
Undisturbed.
Earned.
And somewhere far below, behind locked doors and thick walls, Peter Ballard learns what happens when someone forgets how this place works.
You dream of nothing at all.
Morning comes without ceremony.
The lights in your quarters snap on at the same programmed time as always, sterile and unforgiving. You rise easily, body rested, mind clear. Whatever happened yesterday has already been filed away where it belongs.
You dress. Button by button. Correct. Unremarkable.
Another day at Hawkins Lab.
The corridors feel quieter than usual as you walk them, though you know that's impossible. The lab never truly sleeps. Still, there's a faint sense of pressure in the air, like something held just beneath the surface.
When you reach the Rainbow Room, the door is already open.
Peter Ballard stands inside.
He's positioned near the observation window again, posture straight, hands folded neatly behind him. If not for the faint shadows under his eyes, you might think nothing had changed at all. No visible marks. No signs of yesterday's correction.
Papa sees improvement, not damage.
Peter turns as you enter.
"Good morning," he says.
His voice is the same, soft, polite, carefully neutral. No edge. No bitterness. It's almost convincing.
Almost.
You return the greeting with the same professional calm. The two of you take your places, standing on opposite sides of the room like always. The children are brought in shortly after, their chatter filling the space, bright and discordant against the tension you feel crawling up your spine.
Peter follows protocol to the letter.
He gives instructions clearly. Keeps his distance. Doesn't kneel, Doesn't touch, Doesn't soften his tone more than necessary. He is, by every measurable standard, the perfect orderly.
That should satisfy you.
Instead, you find yourself watching him.
Not because he's doing anything wrong, because he isn't. Because every movement feels deliberate. Every pause calculated. Like he's constantly aware of where you are, even when he isn't looking.
At one point, a subject hesitates during an exercise. Their breathing stutters, eyes darting around the room.
You wait for Peter to intervene.
He doesn't.
He looks to you instead.
Just briefly. Just long enough to acknowledge that the decision is yours.
The power settles into your chest, familiar and heavy. You step in, correcting the subject with practiced efficiency. The exercise continues. Order restored.
When you straighten, Peter's gaze lingers on you, not approving, not resentful. Simply attentive.
As if you're being studied.
The session ends without incident. Papa never appears. No alarms. No raised voices. The room empties again, leaving behind only the hum of the lights and the smell of disinfectant.
Peter gathers his things.
Before he leaves, he pauses at the door.
"Routine will resume tomorrow," he says calmly, not quite looking at you. "Papa values consistency."
You nod. Of course he does.
Peter exits without another word.
You're left alone in the Rainbow Room, surrounded by painted rainbows and empty chairs, feeling the faint, unwelcome awareness that something has shifted.
Not broken.
Shifted.
You still have control. You remind yourself of that as you turn out the lights and step back into the corridor.
But somewhere deep down, a quiet certainty settles in:
Peter Ballard is paying attention now.
And he's very, very patient.
The days settle into a pattern.
Routine, Papa would call it. Structure. Control.
You and Peter are assigned together more often than before. Not officially , nothing is written down , but somehow your schedules align. Rainbow Room shifts overlap. Corridor checks intersect. You begin to recognize the sound of his footsteps without meaning to.
He never speaks unless necessary.
When he does, it's brief. Courteous. Carefully neutral.
"Subject is ready."
"Papa requested compliance."
"Understood."
It's infuriating.
You catch yourself waiting for cracks , for bitterness, for resentment, for something you can point to and justify what you did. But Peter gives you nothing. He follows orders precisely. Keeps his distance. Keeps his hands to himself.
Too much to himself.
Sometimes, when the Rainbow Room is full, you feel it , the way his attention drifts, not to the children, but to you. Not openly. Not enough to accuse him of anything. Just a presence at the edge of your awareness.
Watching.
You tell yourself it's paranoia. That you're projecting. That you're still in control.
Then one afternoon, Papa keeps you late.
The lab empties gradually, orderlies peeling away one by one. By the time you finish filing reports, the corridors are nearly silent. The lights dim to their evening cycle, casting long shadows across the floors.
You turn a corner and nearly collide with Peter.
He stops immediately. Steps back. Hands visible.
"Sorry," he says, automatically.
The word feels rehearsed.
You hadn't heard him approach. That alone irritates you. You study his face , calm, unreadable, eyes lowered just enough to be respectful.
"You’re off shift," you say.
"So are you."
A simple observation. Not a challenge.
The silence stretches. The hum of the lights presses in around you. For a moment, neither of you moves.
Then Peter shifts , just slightly , and you notice something off. The faint stiffness in his posture. The way one shoulder doesn't quite settle right. Evidence of yesterday and the day before that, hidden but not gone.
You feel something twist in your chest.
Not guilt.
Curiosity.
"You should be more careful," you say, tone even. "Papa doesn’t like mistakes."
Peter looks at you then.
Really looks.
His expression doesn't change, but his eyes sharpen ,attentive, intent, unsettlingly focused. Like you've said something interesting, not threatening.
"I know," he replies. "I won't make them again."
There's no resentment in his voice.
No submission either.
Just certainty.
The moment stretches too long. You're suddenly aware of how close he is , not touching, not invading your space, but near enough that you can feel the heat of him, the quiet restraint coiled beneath his stillness.
Then footsteps echo down the corridor.
Peter steps away immediately. Distance restored. Mask back in place.
"Good night," he says politely, and walks past you without another glance.
You stand there longer than necessary, pulse steady but alert, replaying the exchange in your mind. You tell yourself you're imagining things. That he's harmless now. That you broke whatever needed breaking.
But that night, when you try to sleep, it doesn't come as easily.
Your thoughts circle back , not to the chair, not to the punishment, but to the way he looked at you. The calm. The control. The absence of fear.
You close your eyes eventually, but rest doesn't follow.
And somewhere else in the lab, behind locked doors and careful routines, Peter Ballard lies awake too , quiet, compliant, waiting.
Nothing has happened yet.
But something is moving.
....
It starts small.
A note left where it shouldn't be.
You find it tucked beneath your clipboard after a Rainbow Room session, folded once, clean and precise. No handwriting flourish. No emotion.
Lower level. Storage wing. After lights-out.
No name.
There doesn't need to be one.
You stare at it longer than necessary. Your first instinct is to report it , to take it straight to Papa, just like before. That reflex still lives in you, sharp and ready.
But something else rises instead.
A need.
Control only matters when it's tested.
You don't tell anyone.
That night, the lab feels different. Quieter. The corridors dim further as you descend, each level stripping away more noise, more oversight. The basement smells faintly of metal and old disinfectant, less used, less watched.
You find him exactly where he said he'd be.
Peter stands near a row of storage cages, hands clasped behind his back, posture calm. The low lighting casts shadows across his face, hollowing his eyes. He looks… thinner somehow. Sharper.
He turns when he hears you.
"I wasn't sure you'd come,"he says softly.
Not surprised. Not relieved. Just observant.
You don't bother pretending. "You shouldn't have asked."
A pause.
"I didn't," Peter replies. "I suggested."
That irritates you more than it should.
You step closer, stopping just out of arm's reach. "If this is some attempt to—"
"I know it was you."
The words are quiet. Matter-of-fact.
They land anyway.
Your expression doesnt change. You've learned better than that. "You're making assumptions."
Peter tilts his head slightly, studying you. Not angry. Curious.
"You knew exactly what Papa would hear," he says. "You knew how to phrase it. You didn't lie." A faint pause. "You didn't have to."
Something sharp twists in your chest.
"You crossed a line," you snap. "This place survives because people follow rules."
"And you?" he asks gently. "You follow them because you believe in them?"
That hits closer than you expect.
You wanted to say 'These rules were applied for our safety.'
Instead what came out was:
You scoff. "I follow them because I understand them."
Peter steps closer now , slow, deliberate. He still doesn't touch you.
"So do I," he says. "I just learned too late what happens when you pretend the rules don't hurt."
Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating.
"You think you're special?" you say, bitterness seeping through despite yourself. "You think your suffering means more than anyone else's down here?"
"No," Peter answers immediately. "I think it means something different."
You laugh , sharp, humorless. "You have no idea what I've endured."
Peter's gaze darkens, not with rage but recognition. "Then tell me."
The invitation is worse than an accusation.
You feel it then , the anger you've kept neatly contained, the resentment, the fear you never named. The way Papa's approval feels like oxygen. The way control is the only thing that keeps you from drowning.
"You don't get to psychoanalyze me," you hiss.
"I'm not," Peter says. "I'm listening."
That's when it breaks.
Words spill out before you can stop them , sharp, cruel, defensive. You throw his punishment back in his face. Tell him he deserved it. Tell him weakness gets people killed here. Tell him kindness is a lie they sell children before they break them.
Peter doesn't interrupt.
When you finish, breathing hard, he speaks quietly.
"You think reporting me made you safe," he says. "It didn't."
Your stomach tightens.
"It just told me exactly who you are."
For the first time, there's something unmistakable in his voice.
Not anger.
Intent.
"You're right," Peter continues. "I can't do anything. Not yet." His eyes hold yours, unwavering. "But now I know where to look."
The silence after is unbearable.
Footsteps echo faintly above , distant, harmless, a reminder of how thin the walls are. Peter steps back, restoring distance, composure settling over him like a second skin.
"You should go," he says calmly. "If Papa finds you here, he'll ask questions."
You hesitate , just for a moment.
Then you turn and leave, heart pounding, mind racing.
Behind you, Peter remains in the basement, alone, having confirmed what he needed to know.
The war between you is no longer imagined.
It's personal.
And it's only just begun.
It doesn't end in the basement.
It festers.
After that night, something ugly and electric takes root between you. Every shared shift hums with it , unspoken, unresolved. You start noticing things you shouldn't: the way Peter's jaw tightens when Papa enters, the way his hands curl and uncurl when he stands too still. The way his gaze drags over you for half a second longer than professional.
You tell yourself it's vigilance.
It isn't.
It's hunger.
The lab becomes a cage you're both trapped in, circling each other inside it. When your paths cross, words turn sharp. Small corrections become pointed. Neutral statements carry teeth.
One evening, it finally snaps.
You're both assigned to inventory in the lower levels ,an excuse, you realize too late. The door seals behind you with a dull metallic thunk, cutting off the rest of the lab.
You turn on him immediately.
"You planned this."
Peter doesn't deny it.
"You came anyway."
That's the problem. That's always been the problem.
"You wanted to corner me?" you spit. "Say it to my face?"
"I already did," he says quietly. "You're the one who ran."
That hits like a shove.
You step into his space. "Careful."
His breath ghosts your cheek when he answers. "Or what?"
Something inside you fractures.
You shove him.
Harder than necessary.
Peter stumbles back into a metal shelf, the sound ringing out sharp and loud. For a split second, you think he'll stop there, obedient, restrained, corrected.
He doesn't.
He lunges.
The impact knocks the air from your lungs as you slam into the wall. His hand grips your uniform, fist twisted in the fabric like he might tear it free. You snarl, swinging blindly, knuckles connecting with his jaw.
He doesn't cry out.
His smile tighten not kind, not soft. Ruined. Desperate.
You don't remember who hits first after that.
Only the mess of it. Bodies colliding. Breath ripping in and out of your chest. His elbow catches you in the ribs; you retaliate, driving him back again. Something clatters to the floor. Something else breaks.
You taste blood.
So does he.
Peter wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at the red there like it confirms something he's been denying. When he looks at you again, his eyes are wild , not furious, not afraid.
Starving.
"You did this to me," he says hoarsely.
You laugh, breathless, unhinged. "You were broken long before me."
He surges forward again, but this time it isn’t just violence. He pins you, forearm braced beside your head, bodies pressed too close to pretend this is only a fight. Your heart slams against your ribs; his does the same, you can feel it.
For one unbearable second, neither of you moves.
You could kiss him.
You could kill him.
The realization makes your hands shake.
"You hate me," you whisper.
Peter's voice is wrecked when he answers. "I think about you more than I should."
That's worse than a confession.
You wrench free, shoving him back with all the force you have. He stumbles, catches himself, chest heaving. The room feels smaller now. Hotter.
This is past control. Past Papa. Past rules.
Footsteps echo somewhere above.
Reality crashes back in.
Peter straightens slowly, blood drying at the corner of his mouth, eyes still locked on you. "This doesn't end here," he says. Not a threat. A promise.
You smooth your uniform with trembling hands, swallowing the want clawing up your throat. "No," you agree coldly. "It doesnt."
You leave first.
Later, alone, you stare at the bruises blooming under your clothes and feel something twisted coil tighter in your chest.
You dont want forgiveness.
You don't want safety.
You want him angry.
You want him close.
You want him ruined the way you already are.
And Peter Ballard?
He wants the same thing.
Just not yet.
It's late.
Too late for protocol. Too late for excuses.
You're half‑asleep when the knock comes , sharp, deliberate, quiet enough not to carry. Not a mistake. Not an accident.
You sit up immediately.
Another knock. Slower this time.
You don't ask who it is.
When you open the door, Peter Ballard stands there.
No clipboard. No badge. No careful distance.
His hair is still damp, curls undone, shadows carved deep under his eyes. There's a split lip you don't remember giving him , healing wrong, like everything else about him now. He looks… stripped down. Exposed in a way he never allows himself to be.
"You shouldn't be here," you whisper.
"I know."
He steps inside anyway.
The door shuts behind him with a soft click that sounds louder than it should. The room feels instantly smaller, air thick and charged. You don't move. Neither does he.
For a long moment, you just stare at each other.
This close, you can see it , control stretched thin to the breaking point. His hands are clenched so tight his knuckles have gone white.
"You're bleeding," you say, because you don't know what else to say.
Peter huffs a quiet, humorless laugh. "So are you."
You hadn't noticed. There's dried blood at your collarbone, from where you scraped yourself earlier , or where he did. You can't remember.
"That basement,"you start.
"I can't stop thinking about you," he interrupts.
The honesty is brutal. It knocks the breath from your lungs.
"You hate me."
"Yes."
He steps closer.
"And I still came."
You don't back away.
"You came to what," you ask, voice unsteady. "Finish it?"
Peter's gaze drops to your mouth. Then to your throat. Then back to your eyes.
"I came because if I don't touch you." he says quietly, "i am going to lose my mind..."
That should scare you.
Instead, it makes your pulse spike.
You shove him , not hard enough to hurt, not soft enough to be gentle. His back hits the wall with a dull thud. He exhales sharply, more sound than breath, eyes flashing.
"Say it," you demand. "Say you want me."
Peter's control finally snaps.
He grabs you , rough, desperate , fingers digging into your sides like he needs to anchor himself. You gasp as he pulls you in, foreheads knocking together, breath mingling.
"I shoudn't" he murmurs against your skin. "I really shouldn't."
"But you do," you whisper.
His mouth crashes to you,not a kiss, more like a claim , teeth scraping, breath hot. It hurts just enough to make you gasp. Your hands fist in his shirt, nails biting into his back.
This isn't tender.
This isn't safe.
This is two damaged people colliding.
You shove him back onto the narrow bed. He goes willingly, eyes dark, chest heaving. When you straddle him, his hands shake as they slide up your thighs , hesitant for half a second before gripping hard.
"Look at me," you order.
He does.
There's blood on his mouth again. Maybe yours. You don't know. You don't care.
"You ruined me," he says hoarsely.
You lean down until your lips brush his ear. "Good."
Whatever happens next is messy. Painful. Want-driven. It's not something either of you will be able to name later without lying.
The world narrows to breath and heat and hands that don’t know how to be gentle anymore.
Before you can think , before you can fight , his lips are on yours.
Hard. Relentless. Possessive.
Not gentle. Not hesitant. Not polite.
Your body jolts. You want to pull away. You should pull away. But you can't. Not immediately. Not when the heat of him is crushing into you, the taste of him raw and sharp, the pull of his mouth demanding attention like it’s a weapon and you’re defenseless.
Your hands lift automatically. They grip him , his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you can hold without thinking. He presses closer, body taut and controlled, and somehow that only makes it worse. The pressure, the intensity, the need is almost unbearable.
It's over almost as suddenly as it started.
Peter steps back, chest heaving slightly, eyes locked on yours. Nothing else. No words. Nothing except that charged silence between you.
You're trembling. Your fingers still linger on him, as if letting go would break something. Your heart is racing, hammering in your ribs.
And he… leaves. Just like that.
No explanation. No warning. No apology. Just his shadow sliding past you, down the hall, disappearing toward his dorm.
You stand there, frozen. Breath shallow. Pulse wild.
"What… just… happened?" you whisper to yourself, voice barely audible over the hum of the lights.
The room feels smaller now. Hotter. The air heavier. Your hands itch where his lips touched yours, a lingering spark that burns without leaving a mark.
You sink back into your bed, knees trembling, mind racing.
You don't know if you want to punch him. Cry. Or beg him to do it again.
All you know is: Peter Ballard just kissed you.
And something inside you already knows it won't be the last time.
Outside, the lab hums on.
Inside, something breaks that can't be fixed.
You slammed your hand against your face, the sudden impact a mix of frustration and disbelief.
Your fingers scraped down your cheek as if trying to drag the weight of your thoughts off your skull, and for a moment, your hand lingered there, trembling slightly.
Then you let it fall, useless and empty, before turning slowly and letting your face crash into the bed. You stayed there for a long second, staring into the fabric, feeling the anger behind your eyes and the restless chaos that refused to settle...
When you finally lie down, the bed welcomes you easily. Your body sinks into the thin mattress, muscles loosening.
You simply take in the comfort of the mattress and finally sleep. . .
the fluorescent lights of the dorm slowly fades out..
...
You wake to the blare of an alarm, the fluorescent lights of the dorm too bright as you stumble out of bed.
You head for the restroom, glancing at your reflection, hoping you wouldn’t look too bad—especially after what happened the night before.
You didn't look bad. No!
In fact, when you really looked at yourself in the mirror, you were struck with horror.
You looked horrible.
Papa wouldn't appreciate that. Especially not in-front of the experiments.
The morning routine is familiar, mechanical, change, dress, mask, until you're the polished, unruffled image of a Hawkins Lab orderly.
You grumble under your breath.
You head to your assigned workplace, the Rainbow Room, and take in your surroundings as you arrive. Along the way, you come across Peter Ballard.
He looks… okay. Surprisingly okay, considering how brutally beaten he was the day before. The thought lingers for a moment before you shrug it off and move to your assigned position.
From there, you watch the subjects as they play, draw, and demonstrate their telekinetic abilities. Laughter and quiet concentration fill the room, but your mind keeps drifting back to yesterday's session with Peter Ballard.
You release a quiet huff, clear your throat, and lower your gaze to the floor, forcing yourself to refocus on the present.
Peter Ballard was, in fact, aware of you—and of how often your attention drifted. He noticed the way you seemed to zone out, your gaze unfocused, your thoughts clearly elsewhere.
When your eyes finally met his, he looked away almost immediately.
'Damn.' he thought.
He hadn't meant to get caught staring. He told himself it didn't matter, that it was nothing more than idle observation, but the brief moment lingered longer than it should have. He shifted his attention back to the room, to the quiet hum of activity around him, though his focus wasn't entirely there anymore.
No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, the awareness remained, unsettling, persistent, and impossible to fully shake.
The rest of the session passed in a blur.
By the time the room finally emptied, the day was already wearing thin.
You were holding Eleven's folder, assigned to match her birth information with the previous papers. As you flipped through the documents, a small sticky note caught your eye.
You squinted, then quickly snatched it up.
'Basement — no later than lights out.'
There was no name, as usual. There never was. Still, you knew exactly who it was from.
A familiar tension settled in your chest as you folded the note and slipped it away. Whatever he was planning this time, you were determined to find out.
In the basement, you came across Peter Ballard, his back turned as he stood near the far end of the room. For a moment, you hesitated.
Then you cleared your throat.
He turned around, and your eyes met his.
The dim light caught his expression as recognition flickered across his face. The air between you felt suddenly heavier, charged with something unspoken, as neither of you moved to speak right away.
'What is it so important you have to say, that you woke me up from my sleep.' Is what you wanted to say.
Instead you said..
Nothing.
You both stared at each other, neither daring to break the silence...
The awkward stillness hung heavy, the air thick with something unidentifiable. . .something that made your chest tighten and your throat dry. His eyes were fixed on you, yet not really on you: they were caught in the memory of last night, a memory that neither of you had dared to speak aloud.
Every fleeting movement, the twitch of a finger, the shift of weight, the shallow intake of breath, seemed amplified, loaded with unspoken words and unanswered questions..
For a moment, it felt as if time itself had paused, leaving just the two of you suspended in a fragile, uneasy tension.
You both stared at each other, neither daring to break the silence. The air was thick, heavy, almost like it was pressing down on your chest. Peter's eyes didn't just meet yours—they pinned you, measuring, calculating, as if weighing every choice you’d ever made.
"You came," he said, quiet, deliberate. Not surprised. Not angry. Just… observant.
"I'm not here for you," you replied, though your voice cracked slightly under the tension.
You were in-fact here for him.
Peter's lips curved into that slow, controlled smirk that made your stomach twist. "Is that so? Funny… it doesn't feel like it."
The silence stretched, taut, until you snapped. Your fist shot forward before you even thought, and he moved, calm, precise, almost lazy in his speed. . .but caught your wrist, twisting your arm behind your back.
"Careful," he murmured, voice low, almost amused. "You really don't want to start this."
"I don't scare that easily," you snapped, elbowing him in the ribs. He grunted, staggered slightly, then straightened with that infuriating composure, hand brushing the impact off like it barely mattered.
"You're reckless," he said, circling you slowly, predatorily, like he could sense your hesitation. "And reckless is… entertaining. For now."
"Entertaining, huh?" you growled, shoving him back. "I'll show you entertaining."
He moved with unnerving precision, sidestepping, catching your next strike with ease, then grabbing your shoulders and pushing you against a metal table. You hissed as your shoulder scraped the edge, but swung back, managing a hard jab to his chest. He stepped back just enough to avoid the full impact.
"Pathetic" he said, voice calm, cold, almost approving. "But I like it when you fight back. Shows… character."
You lunged again, fists flying, and the basement erupted into a tense, sharp dance of push and pull, attack and counterattack. He was fast, moving like he'd predicted your every move, teasing, mocking, yet never losing control. You hit, you parried, you dodged, but he matched every move, precise, cold, infuriating.
A hard punch grazed your cheek, and heat blossomed across your skin. You staggered back, tasting copper, your lip had split. You hissed, wiping at it, and swung again, catching him in the jaw. He flinched, and you could see a shadow forming under his eye. Victory flashed, brief and sweet.
"You've got spirit." he said, low, dangerous. "But spirit… isn’t enough."
"I'll see about that," you hissed, circling, fists ready.
He lunged suddenly, catching you with a push that sent you sprawling against a stack of crates. You knocked over a few boxes, the clatter echoing through the basement, and your shoulder scraped against the concrete. He stepped closer, slow, measured, grabbing your arm to steady you, but you yanked free, swinging your elbow into his ribs. He grunted, more from surprise than pain, and pressed a hand to the spot.
The fight escalated. Your fists left bruises along his chest and shoulder. His strikes landed along your arms, ribs, and cheek. One particularly hard jab grazed your eye, swelling the skin around it into a dark bloom. You blinked through the sting, refusing to give him the satisfaction of slowing down.
"You're reckless," he murmured again, voice cold, sharp, almost approving in a terrifying way. "But I can respect that."
"And you're insufferable," you snapped, ducking under a wild punch and connecting a solid blow to his jaw. He stumbled back slightly, smirk fading for the first time, but only for a moment.
You collided again, shoulder to shoulder, both panting, bruised, battered. Your split lip burned, your cheek throbbed, your ribs screamed from impacts, but neither of you let up.
Peter walked towards you, slow, deliberate, predatorily calm, eyes glittering. "You're stronger than I thought," he said softly. "Annoyingly… strong."
"I've only just begun," you spat back, wiping blood from your lip and swinging again.
The basement was chaos: metal scraping, bodies colliding, groans, hissing, shoves. Neither of you were holding back, bruises forming, swelling and tenderness spreading over your skin. The fight was messy, tense, violent, but also… electric. Every glance, every touch, every push carried more than just anger.
And even as your vision blurred slightly from swelling and the sting of blood in your mouth, the heat between you, the dangerous, charged tension, was impossible to ignore.
You both stood there, chests heaving, bruised and bloodied from the fight. The basement was silent except for your ragged breathing.
His eyes lingered on your split lip, your black eye, the way your chest rose and fell. For a heartbeat, the fight, and everything it meant. Dropped away, leaving something hotter, darker, dangerous, unspoken.
"You're… stubborn," he murmured, voice low, calm, but there was an edge to it now, something more personal, more electric than before.
"And you're… insufferable," you muttered, brushing a strand of hair from your face, daring him to close the distance.
He didn't move away. Instead, he stepped closer, slow, deliberate, letting the tension stretch until it felt unbearable. The smell of metal, sweat, and adrenaline hung in the air. Every inch between you pulsed with anticipation, the kind that made your heart pound and your pulse spike.
"You fight like a storm," he said quietly, almost admiringly. "And yet… you're still standing here. Unbroken."
Your fists itched, but it wasn’t anger anymore, it was something else entirely. Something that tangled with the fight, the heat, the adrenaline, and refused to be named.
Peter's hand hovered closer, a fraction too close, daring you to react. And for the first time, the rivalry, the anger, the punches, the pain, wasn't what held you in place. Something else had taken over.
The basement felt smaller, tighter. Every movement, every glance, every shallow breath was electric. And somewhere in the quiet, bruised, messy aftermath of the fight, the line between pain, rage, and desire blurred completely...
The basement hums with the buzz of flickering fluorescents, casting jagged shadows across the concrete. The scent of copper hangs thick—your lip is split, his knuckles are raw, and neither of you remembers who swung first.
Peter wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning. "Still standing? Surprising."
You wipe the blood dripping on your chin."Fuck you."
His laugh is low, dangerous. He steps closer, boots scuffing against damp concrete. One hand fists in your hair, the other pins your wrist to the wall. Your pulse thrums where his thumb presses into it.
"Say it again," he murmurs, breath hot against your bruised jaw.
You're panting, knuckles split from where they'd collided with Peter's ribs. His hand is still tangled in your scalp, grip tight enough to make your scalp sting, but neither of you moves to strike again. His lower lip is swollen, a bead of blood welling where your teeth caught him earlier. You watch it drip, transfixed.
He licks it away, eyes locked on yours. Then he scoffs low, jagged. "You hit like a lab rat with something to prove."
"Fuck you," you rasp, but there's no heat left in it. Your thighs ache where his knee had pinned you earlier. His thumb drags over your bruised jaw, smearing blood.
The kiss is sudden. Brutal. His mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and copper and the sharp tang of shared violence. You bite back just as hard, nails digging into his shoulders, but his hands are already wrenching your shirt up, calloused fingers scraping over your ribs.
He tears it off you. The fabric gives with a rip.
His tongue licks into your mouth, slow at first, teasing the sting of your split lip. Before he deepens it, claiming every inch of space like he's still trying to win. Your back arches off the wall, hands gripping his torn shirt to drag him closer.
He groans against your lips, fingers tightening in your hair. "Fuck—"
The kiss is filthy. Wet. His tongue strokes yours in slow, deliberate drags before he bites down, just enough to make you gasp. He swallows the sound, hips pressing forward.
"Still hate me?" he murmurs against your mouth, breath ragged.
You dig your nails into his shoulders. Harder.
His hands slide down your waist—rough—fingers pressing into the bruises he left earlier just to hear your sharp inhale. "That hurt?" he taunts, lips dragging along your jaw. "Good."
You respond by biting his lower lip, hard enough to taste fresh blood. He growls, grip tightening as his other hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat. His teeth graze the pulse point beneath your ear before sinking in—claiming. You arch against him with a gasp, and he drinks it in, sucking dark marks into your skin like he's mapping every place he's ruined you.
No gentleness. No hesitation. His knee slots between your thighs, pressing up just enough to make you grind down on reflex.
"Still fucking hate you," you pant, even as your legs lock around his hips.
He huffs—hot and wicked against your mouth—before kissing you again, tongue sliding against yours in a filthy mimicry of whats coming next.
The fluorescent lights flicker above, casting jagged shadows across Peter's face, your bruises staining his skin like war paint. He's breathing hard, lips swollen from where you bit him earlier, blood smeared across his chin.
His hands are on you before you can retaliate, fingers bruising your hips as he slams you back against the wall. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, but you don't get a second to recover—his mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and tongue, kissing you like he's trying to ruin you.
And fuck, maybe he is.
You bite down hard on his lip, tasting copper, but he just grins, fingers tightening in your hair. "Still got fight in you?" he rasps, breath hot against your mouth. "Good."
Then his knee is between your thighs, pressing up—hard, and you choke back a gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
"Fuck you," you spit, but your hips rock against him anyway, chasing the friction like some desperate, pathetic thing.
He laughs—low, cruel—before yanking your legs around his waist. "You first."
...
Clothes dont come off—they're destroyed.
Your nails rake down his chest in retaliation, leaving angry red lines in their wake, but he doesn't even flinch—just pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other working at his belt.
"Thought you hated me," he murmurs, dragging his teeth along your throat.
You buck against him, teeth gritted. "I do."
His grin is sharp, dangerous. "Then why are you wet?"
You dont get a chance to answer—his fingers are between your legs, rough and unforgiving, and your back arches off the wall with a gasp.
He doesn’t tease. Doesn't prepare you. Just shoves two fingers in, hard, and watches your face twist with pleasure-pain.
"Fuck—" You bite down on his shoulder to muffle the noise, but he wants it—wants you loud.
"Don't." His fingers curl deeper, thumb pressing cruel circles against your clit. "I wanna hear you break."
You do—a ragged moan tearing from your throat as he scissors his fingers, stretching you, hurting you just right. Your thighs tremble, nails clawing at his arms, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn't let you stop.
And then—his cock replaces his fingers.
No warning. No gentleness. Just a brutal thrust that steals the air from your lungs, his hips slamming into yours with enough force to bruise. You cry out, back scraping against the concrete wall, but he doesn't slow—just grips your waist and fucks you like he's still trying to win the fight.
"Peter—!"
His name is a snarl on your lips, half-plea, half-curse, but he only growls in response, biting at your neck as he drives into you harder. "Say it again."
You cant answer. Cant think. Your vision whites out as the coil in your stomach snaps, orgasm ripping through you like a live wire. He doesnt stop. . .just fucks you through it, his own release slamming into him moments later with a groan against your spine.
Then—silence.
His grip slackens. His breath evens out. And when he pulls away, it's with the same cold detachment as before.
His breath is still ragged against your neck when his hands tighten again—like he's not done. Like he cant be done.
"You think one fuck's enough?" His voice is rough, dripping with condescension as his fingers trail down your spine, pressing into the bruises he left earlier. "Pathetic."
Before you can shove him off, lifting you clean off the wall and slamming you onto a nearby lab table. Cold metal bites into your back, tools clattering to the floor as he yanks your legs over his shoulders.
"You're gonna take it again," he murmurs, dragging his cock through your mess of spend and slick, "and you're gonna fucking thank me."
You barely have time to snarl before he's thrusting back in—deeper this time, meaner—his hips grinding in tight circles just to hear you break. Your nails carve into his forearms, but he doesn't flinch, just fucks into you like he's trying to rewrite your DNA.
His stamina is inhuman. Every roll of his hips is calculated, torturous, stretching you right to the edge before pulling back, only to slam again with enough force to make your teeth rattle.
"Look at you," he taunts, gripping your chin so you're forced to meet his gaze. "So desperate for it. Disgusting."
You spit something vicious at him, but it dissolves into a moan as his thumb finds your clit, rubbing harsh, irregular patterns until you're squirming.
"Come again." Its not a request. It's a command.
And God help you, you obey.
Your orgasm crashes over you like a fucking tidal wave, violent enough to blur your vision—but Peter doesnt stop. Doesn't even slow. He just watches, rapt, as you unravel beneath him, fucking you straight through your oversensitivity until you're sobbing.
"One more," he growls, bending to lick a stripe up your throat
Your body is trembling, oversensitive and wrung out, but Peter's hunger is insatiable. His hands roam your spent flesh, pinching and biting as if marking his territory anew.
"You're not done," he growls, flipping you onto your stomach with brutal efficiency. His palm smacks down on your ass once, twice, leaving stinging welts in its wake before he drags you up onto your knees.
You barely have time to register the shift before he's slamming back into you from behind, his cock still rock-hard despite the two rounds prior. The angle is deeper ,filthier, his pelvis grinding against you with every thrust.
His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back so you're forced to arch into him. "Say it," he demands, voice ragged with exertion. "Tell me who you belong to."
You bite your tongue, refusing to give him the satisfaction—until his fingers find your throat, squeezing just enough to make stars burst behind your eyelids.
"Mine," he snarls into your ear. "Say it, or I'll ruin you for anyone else."
The threat is electric, sending another shudder through you despite your exhaustion. His hips stutter, losing rhythm as his own climax closes, but he doesn't let go, doesn't slow, until he's spilling inside you with a guttural groan.
Only then does his grip slacken, his body collapsing over yours in a mess of sweat and ragged breath.
But there's no tenderness. No apology.
Just the silent understanding that this isn't over.
And it never will be.
...
The silence is heavier than his body still pressed against you—hot skin, labored breaths, the drip of sweat between your shoulder blades.
Peter pulls out with a low, satisfied noise, hissing through his teeth as he steps back. He doesn't offer a hand. Doesn't glance down at the mess between your thighs or the tremors still wracking your legs.
Instead, he wipes himself off with the torn remains of your shirt, tossing it to the concrete with a wet slap.
You don't dignify that with a response—just shove upright, wincing as your muscles scream in protest. Your clothes are ruined, your skin mottled with bite marks and fingerprints, but the worst part?
He looks untouched.
Perfectly composed except for the flush on his neck, the slight ruffle of his hair. Like you were just a momentary distraction. A stress ball.
Peter watches you stagger for the door, lips quirking.
"Next time," he calls after you, voice dripping with mock sweetness, "Maybe stop being a stubborn bitch."
The door slams behind you.
He didn't check up on you.
The fights scene was inspired by a movie called: Deliver Us from Evil.