Stockholm Syndrome


"All my resistance will never be distance enough…"


His eyes are set on the person next to her, but she knows that the intensity of his gaze is meant only for her, single-minded to the point of obsession. She feels undressed and exposed whenever he's focused on her like that, staring without actually looking – she can sense his excitement, almost guess his plans for them.

It concerns her, of course – when has he ever done something that didn't involve her somehow? And, yes, she dreads the moment when he'll finally get her alone (for he will), but she can hardly wait either.

This twisted dance they do – reach and pull away, touch and then dismiss – is wearing her out, keeping on her toes, just as she knows he likes it and as he knows she hates it. But if there's something they can both agree on, it's that there's no other way around it – he will always find her. She'll always say yes.

When it comes to him, she's weak, and she loves and despises this weakness with a passion that fuels her desire and loathing for him all the more.

And when they come together, he overwhelms her senses, her every attempt of finding logic, rhyme or reason to whatever it is they have. He tells her that the candlelight makes her skin glows warmer, colouring it like a ripe mango that he wants to devour in one single bite. She slaps his face just because she can, or maybe because it's easier to try and hurt him then to let him get under her skin.

But he's there, there's no denying it – in every pore, in every heartbeat, in every gush of blood pouring through her system, buried in her bones. She can taste him in her mouth, smell him in her hair, take him between her thighs. And afterwards, she can scrub and rinse and wash, but he never, ever, leaves, and she can't tell whether she's relieved or irritated at her inability to shake him off.

So she scratches, bites, marks and claims him as hers, trying to consume him just as much as he consumes her (every breath, every heartbeat, every second), and it's never enough. The marks and bites fade, the scratches heal, and he remains unclaimed, untouched, unmoved and unaffected, when she's anything but.

It despairs her to the point of tears, though she never sheds even one of them, for she knows, deep down, that if she starts crying over him she'll never stop until she fades and alters, turning liquid, running for the blue sea, dissolving into the streams and currents that form the oceans of this planet.

And not even then would she cease to weep for him.

Still, even with this knowledge engraved into her mind, she can't say no, she can't refuse him any more than she can help crave him and be disgusted for craving this much, sickened by her dependence of him, mortified over the knowledge that, if he had set her free, she still would have stayed.

What's worse, he's aware of her addiction and makes damn sure that his hold over her never fades for as long as she's of use. He wants to break her, wants to reduce her to a whimpering, begging thing, asking for him, for more of this torture, of this lust, of this heartbreak.

He knows she'll never give in, though, and that's what makes him stay.

She fears they're doomed to be like this, testing the other's will, until one of them breaks and they self-destruct. She knows that's where they're headed – how could they be fated for anything but complete annihilation?

But she feels that she'll be his even after she dies, when there's no breath left in her body, even when he gets bored (for he will) and moves on to another conquest, another battle, another lover, even if she will never admit it how much this would destroy and free her.

She hopes that someday, when he's no longer challenged by her, that he'll leave without a second glance, without a warning, just so that she can be sure that he'd never wanted her in the first place, that it was all just a game to him. She also dreams that maybe, years after that, they'll see each other again, and when their eyes meet he'll look at her as if he can't quite place her face – familiar but forgettable, the face of a perfect stranger.

Then maybe, just maybe, this will stop the hunger that she feels for him.


A.N: I'm not so sure about this story - it was written on a will, and I may or may not have the counterpart's POV. Please let me know what you thought of this story, and how would you feel about a little, one-shot sequel. Many thanks goes to the wonderful Lisa, for being a kick-ass beta =)