There’s a marvellous entity in cyberspace who is sometimes known as Petite Etoile, sometimes LondonSpook, and probably lives under an array of other aliases. Her mind is a glorious and terrifying place. She writes fanfics and slash, and I felt compelled to do a copy-and-paste job with the latest, as it’s just too beautiful not to share.

Scars:

Ros gives a feline stretch and watches as the scars on her back ripple in the changing room mirror. They appear to be words, dancing across the page which is her skin. They tell a story and she can’t help but think of him. She can’t help but smile. Ros has never held the same views on love as everyone else. She always thought of love as a constant test; she pushed herself, and she pushed others until they reached breaking point. If they survived, then she could love him.

Stockholm syndrome, that’s what they called it.

Only this time it had happened in reverse. After six weeks of withstanding the beatings and abuse, her torturer had fallen for her. She had thrown down the gauntlet; the test had begun. His devotion wasn’t gentle; it was spasms of unbearable pain and pleasure culminating in an arena of insurmountable bliss. He understood her and she, him. There were days when he’d whip her for hours; she would say nothing, just let her eyes roll back in pure euphoria.

She’d been held captive for three months, when they both realised that neither one of them was going to break. It was then that she decided to love him. The only thing better than the cruel metal hand of the whip, was his own. His own nails clawing down the raw flesh of her back, deepening the welts and the cuts. His sweat burning her as it mingled with her congealing blood. They understood each other better than anyone else had done in their entire lives.

In the fourth month, they rescue her and she can see the horror written clearly in their eyes as she kisses him gently, before shooting him through the temple with his own gun. Her skin burns only this time it is from the warm water they are gently pouring over her. The Service had wanted him alive, and Ros knows she is in for the longest debrief of her life. Ros also knows that she did the right thing; he was not made to be broken, he was made to break.

Ros sighs softly as she pulls her shirt over her head. It’d had been eight years since then and she’d never found a more worthy adversary since. When Adam saw the scars he was indignant that anyone could hurt her in such a way. She didn’t dare tell him that she had liked it. She thinks she probably knew then that she could never love Adam; care deeply- almost painfully for him, yes, but never love. She sits down at her desk and pulls up his file, her eyes tracing the contours of his face. She pulls up her psych file at the time and lets out a soft laugh. It hadn’t been Stockholm Syndrome for her; he’d merely passed her test. He’d passed her test, so she had to love him; there was no question about that. It was fact. How does that saying go again?

Ah, yes.

Love hurts.