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babyflorencee · 1 month ago

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Stockholm Syndrome

Part two: The room

Links: Part three | MASTERLIST

Harry Styles x fem!Reader

I woke up with a sharp gasp, the kind that shatters the quiet stillness of sleep and drags you back to reality with a violent force. My body jolted, in a cold sweat as I swallowed hard against the dryness in my throat. My body trembling as though I'd just been pulled from the deepest part of some waking nightmare. For a split second, I thought I was still dreaming—still trapped in the suffocating fog of that nightmare that I really didn't want to remember. My eyes shot open, and everything felt wrong—too dark, too quiet, too still.

But the air didn't feel like the dream. It was thick, like something heavy had settled in the room and refused to leave. I could taste it—a strange mix of mildew and damp earth. The stench of decay, not fresh, but old. Old things, abandoned things. I blinked, trying to clear the fog from my mind, but nothing felt right. My hands were cold. Too cold.

I tried to move, but my wrists were caught. I was chained—strapped to the bed frame by heavy, rusted links of metal.

The realization hit like a freight train, slamming into my chest, pushing the air from my lungs in one sickening rush. I gasped again, this time not in fear, but in that awful, hollow ache that comes from the knowledge of being utterly defensless, powerless. The chains clinked when I yanked at them, the sound sharp and grating against the silence of the room. The room.

The room.

But it didn't feel like a room. Not really. It felt more like a cage. Like I was a prisoner.

I forced my eyes to open, and what I saw made my skin crawl. It wasn't just the chains—though they were the most immediate, glaring reminder of my new reality—but it was everything around me. The walls were cracked and uneven, like they'd been forgotten by time, layered with peeling, dark blue paint that clung to the surfaces in ragged strips. There were no windows, not a single crack or sliver of light from the outside world. Just darkness, wrapped tightly around me like a shroud.

A weak, flickering light bulb hung from the ceiling by a frayed wire, casting shadows that seemed to move, bending and stretching unnaturally in the corners. The air was stale, like it hadn't been disturbed in years, and I could feel the dust coating my skin, sticking to the sweat that had gathered there in the panic of my awakening. The mattress beneath me was thin, worn, and sagging in places where it had been used one too many times, a pale beige color stained dark at the edges, like something had soaked into it. The sheets were nothing more than ragged, faded strips of blue and white fabric, tattered at the edges like they'd been torn off something once beautiful and now broken.

This wasn't a dream. This was real. This was my reality now.

For a moment, my mind wandered, trying to piece things together, trying to find a logical reason, some explanation for why I was here—some way to undo what had already been done. But the harder I thought, the more everything seemed to blur. I could barely remember the last few hours, let alone how I got here. Or why I was there.

I had been walking, right? No, I had been running. Running from something, No... from someone. Him. The alleyway. His voice. The rag. My vision began to spin, and my head throbbed, an awful reminder that I was still dizzy from whatever had been used to knock me unconscious.

The bedframe creaked beneath me as I struggled to sit up, the chains pulling taut, scraping against the rusty metal with a sickening screech. My body was shaking—an involuntary response to fear, to the overwhelming weight of what I now understood. I had been taken. No. I had been claimed.

I tugged at the chains again, my heart pounding, my skin slick with sweat, but the rusted metal didn't give.

I was trapped.

I screamed. The sound echoed, but it felt wrong. The walls seemed to swallow it, to pull the words from my mouth and twist them until they were almost unrecognizable. I screamed again, louder this time, the sound desperate, but it felt... empty. Almost hollow.

No one was going to come to my rescue.

I knew that now. I just knew it.

The darkness pressed in tighter, suffocating me, and I tried to breathe, but the air felt thicker now. Why had I done this to myself? Why had I taken that shortcut? Why did this have to happen to me?

"Help me!" I screamed. A high, desperate sound that felt wrong in my throat. It bounced off the walls and echoed back at me, almost...taunting me. But no one answered. No one came.

"Help," I gasped, but this time the word scraped across my throat like broken glass. "Please. Somebody... help me. Please." I didn't know who I was screaming for. But I didn't care. I just needed someone. Anyone.

But the silence that followed was worse than the darkness itself. The longer I sat there, chained to this filthy bed, the more the weight of everything crushed me. The more my mind twisted, and I began to doubt my own reality. Was I even real? Was this even real? Or was I still in the alley? Was I still in my apartment gasping, desperately for air, still losing myself to whatever it was that had taken me?

I closed my eyes, my thoughts racing, my pulse screaming in my ears.

And then I heard it—footsteps, slow and deliberate, coming from somewhere upstairs. They didn't sound like someone in a hurry. They sounded like someone who had all the time in the world. Someone who didn't care about the screams of a girl chained to a bed in a forgotten room.

I froze, and my heartbeat became louder, as the footsteps grew quicker. Louder. He was coming.

I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready to face him again. I wasn't ready to see him.

But I didn't have a choice.

The door creaked open, and my stomach dropped. I didn't need to be able to see to know it was him. I could feel it—his presence. A cold, suffocating presence that filled the space like smoke.

"Stop," he said, his voice low, muffled by the thick air between us. He stood in the doorway, barely more than a silhouette at first, but as he walked closer to me, I could make out the shape of him—tall, broad-shouldered, the outline of his face hard and unreadable. His green eyes, though, they were the worst part. Dark. Cold. Watchful. Like he was studying me, examining me, as if I were nothing more but a game to him. A sick, twisted game.

I froze, my chest tight, my mouth dry.

"Stop making noise," he added, his tone almost casual, as though he were speaking to someone who should know better.

I had never wanted to scream louder in my life.

I jerked against the chains again, this time pulling at them with an anger I hadn't known I was even capable of. "Let me out of here! Let me go!"

"You're making noise." His voice had that edge to it, as though my panic was an inconvenience. "I thought I told you to stop making noise. To be silent."

He didn't move. He just watched me, the look in his eyes unreadable, like a puzzle I couldn't quite figure out. And maybe I didn't want to. No. I know I didn't want to.

I choked back a sob, as tears streamed down my face.

"You're really making this harder than it needs to be," he said with a sigh, almost as though he were disappointed in me. He kept walking towards me until he reached the foot of the bed, the sound of his boots dragging on the floor like a slow death march made my heart beat quicker, louder. His face came into full view—rough, handsome in a way that made my skin crawl. His lips twitched, as though he were considering something.

He took a few steps closer, and for the briefest moment, I thought he might reach out, touch me, maybe even comfort me in some sick, twisted way. But I could see it in his eyes before he even moved—he didn't want to comfort me. He wanted to control me. To break me down, piece by piece until there was nothing left.

"Please, just let me go," I begged, my voice breaking under the weight of my words. "Please... I'll do anything. I won't tell anyone, I swear to god. Just let me go."

He crouched down beside the bed, his gaze never leaving mine. "You don't understand, do you?" His voice was calm now, too calm, like he was speaking to a child who couldn't grasp the simple truths. "You're here because you belong here. This is where you're supposed to be. This is where I want you to be."

I recoiled at the words, the coldness in his voice seeping into my bones like poison. The room—the cage—was closing in around me.

"No. Please. I'm not supposed to be here. I don't belong here. Please..."

He walked to the side of the bed, hovering over me, before his hand shot out with shocking speed, gripping my chin, forcing my head to tilt up. To look in his eyes. I could smell him now—sharp, clean, like he was wearing an expensive cologne. He was too close, too real, and I wanted to scream again, but my throat was too tight.

His grip tightened, not enough to leave a mark, just enough to hurt, just enough to remind me who was in control.

"You'll understand," he said, voice low and cold, "soon enough."

But I didn't want to understand. I didn't want to learn.

But deep down, I knew that I had to.

And that scared me more than anything.

I thrashed against the chains again, the metal scraping against the bed frame, desperately. "Let me go!" I cried, my voice broken with fear. "Please... please, just let me go!"

I tried to pull my legs beneath me, to push myself up, but the chains were too strong, too tight. I could barely move. I was trapped.

He didn't move at first. His gaze softened, but it was the kind of softness that made me want to scream even louder, because I knew it wasn't because he cared. It was just the way he liked to pretend. As if he could make it look like he was trying to comfort me, when he in reality he was just savoring the fear in my eyes.

His eyes moved over me with an almost clinical detachment, as though I was something he was observing.

"Shh," he said, loosening his grip on my chin as he stood up. His boots dragging along the floor, the sound loud in the heavy silence. "Please, don't make this worse than it has to be."

"Worse?" I could barely get the words out through my sobs. "Worse? What the hell are you going to do me? What do you want from me?"

His lips twisted into something almost like a smile. But it wasn't warm. It wasn't comforting. It wasn't friendly. It was almost as if my suffering amused him. And it probably—definitely— did.

"You're still upset, I see," he said, sitting down beside me. I could smell the metallic tang of sweat on him.

"No..." I whispered through a trembling breath. "Please just get away from me." My voice cracked, and the sound of my own desperation only made the tears fall harder.

He leaned down closer to me, his eyes never leaving mine. "I'm doing this for you, sweetheart. You're here because I need you here. You're not gonna understand it right now, but you will. You will, soon enough. I promise. You're mine now, whether you like It or not... it's true. I won't let anyone take you away from me. You belong to me now."

The way he said it made my skin crawl. There was no care in his voice—only something cold and insistent, like a force of nature that couldn't be stopped.

I pulled against the chains, my body trembling. "No, no, please. I'm not—"

"Don't make me tell you again," he said, his voice low, the anger now barely controlled. His hand shot out, gripping my chin with a force that made me flinch. He tilted my head to the side, his eyes piercing into mine, his breath hot against my skin.

"Don't make me hurt you, y/n," he said, my name falling from his lips like a curse. "Please. I don't want to hurt you. Don't make me hurt you," He cooed.

His tone terrified me more than anything else. He was pretending. Pretending to care when he was the one who'd put me here. He didn't care about me. He couldn't.

"Please," I whispered, my body shaking, my heart hammering in my chest. "Please... I don't want to be here. I just want to go home. I just want to be free."

But he didn't listen. Not that I really expected him to anyway.

"Home?" His lips curled into a tight smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "This is home now, sweetheart. This is where you'll be. With me."

I recoiled at the word, like it was a knife scraping against my soul. His grip on my chin tightened slightly, just enough to hurt, just enough to remind me that he was in charge. That I was his.

One of his hands reached up to my cheek, gently caressing it before brushing my hair away from my face, his breath hot against my ear. "You're not going anywhere. Not without me at least." He leaned in, pressing a small, possessive kiss to my cheek. Causing disgust to take over.

I turned my head away from him, wishing that my hands were free so I could shove him as far away from me as possible. And then—without warning—his face darkened, the mask slipping, and all at once, his anger snapped. All of a sudden I felt a sharp pain hit my cheek as I looked up, realizing that he had hit me.

"Goddamn it! I didn't want to hurt you but you left me no choice. You need to learn to stop fighting me!"

He stood up quickly, grabbing my arms, pinning me against the bed with a violence that stole my breath away. The chains rattled violently, and I gasped for air, my body shaking, my heart slamming against my ribs.

"I told you, don't make this worse. You'll learn to stop fighting me. You'll learn your place." His voice was like thunder now, loud and heavy.

I tried to fight him, to move but his grip on me was unrelenting. He shoved me harder against the bed frame, causing me to wince in pain.

The coldness in his eyes—the disinterest, the calculation—was the final thing that broke me. The quiet rage in him was worse than anything I could've imagined. It wasn't anger—it was possession.

And then, in that moment, I understood. He was right. I didn't get it. But I would.

I would learn. I would learn what he wanted from me. What he needed. And somehow, I feared that I would learn to need him too. To want him in ways I that I shouldn't.

And that thought, more than anything, terrified me.

I squeezed my eyes shut, the tears falling faster now, each one heavier than the last. What had I done?

What had I become?

#harry styles x reader #harry styles #dark!harry styles #harry syles x you #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #one direction #stockholm syndrome

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babyflorencee · 1 month ago

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Stockholm Syndrome

Part one: The shortcut

Links: MASTERLIST

Harry Styles x fem!Reader

I didn't plan to take the alleyway.

It's funny how you don't think about those small decisions—the ones that seem so inconsequential at the time, the ones that only later reveal their consequences, like ghosts you never saw until they begin to whisper in your ear.

But there I was, walking down a narrow alley, my pink dress fluttering behind me, as my gold heels click sharply against the wet pavement. The night had already unfolded into something softer, quieter. The city felt drunk on its own silence, like it was holding its breath for something it didn't want to acknowledge. I felt the silence press against me, as if the world was closing in, wrapping me up in a tight, suffocating, endless, embrace. Everything that felt familiar just hours ago now feels unreal, like a bad dream, the kind that stays with you even after you wake up.

It was 3:00 a.m., the kind of hour where everything feels both impossible and inevitable.

I had been with my friends—loud and recklessly laughing like we didn't have a care in the world. And in that moment we didn't. Music blaring. Shots that burned a little too hot and a little too fast, but felt good none the less. A few good dances. But somewhere between the last tequila shot and my steps out the bar door, it stopped being fun. The laughter from my girls, the shrieks of excitement, now seemed so faint and hollow like the taste of the cheap wine that was sitting on my tongue. It had all seemed to blur into something unrecognizable. Like I had stepped off a cliff and found myself falling into a space that wasn't quite mine anymore.

I should've just taken the main road.

I had told myself that. But my mind was clouded, the alcohol still tickling the back of my throat, making everything feel distant and unreal. I just wanted to go home. I missed the quietness of my apartment, the soft sheets of my bed, the soothing comfort of just being alone.

But the alleyway—it was a shortcut.

The air was heavy. Damp, even for a late-night breeze. It carried a smell of wet concrete mixed with something more metallic and old, almost like rust or iron. Or blood. It made my stomach churn a little, but I tried not to let it show. I pulled my coat tighter around my shoulders, as if it would keep the night breeze from touching me.

My heels clicked with every step, in a sharp, staccato rhythm, like the sound of a clock ticking down the minutes. Each step echoing off the walls of buildings that loomed like silent witnesses, their windows staring down at me in judgment of my decisions. For a split second, I wondered if anyone else could hear it. If anyone else was listening.

But it was late. The streets were empty. And no one was around.

And I didn't look back. I didn't want to look back.

I had learned long ago that you don't look behind you when you're already walking forward. But that's when it starts, doesn't it? That prickling sensation, the one that creeps under your skin and tells you that you're not alone.

And I felt it.

Not like a passing thought, or like a fleeting worry that can be dismissed. No, this was something that weighed me down. Something that I was aware of, something just beyond the corner of my vision.

I slowed my pace, but only for a moment. There's something about the silence of the night that makes your senses sharper, makes you question everything around you. I glanced over my shoulder, just a quick look I thought, but yet, nothing.

Nothing but the stretch of empty asphalt and the walls of the alley.

I laughed to myself, it was a little shaky, a little hollow. But it was just my mind playing tricks on me. Nothing else.

"You're just being paranoid, y/n." The words came out dry, almost as if they were meant to convince myself that the street was indeed empty. "It's just the wine. That's all."

But the feeling didn't go away. It only deepened.

And as I turned back, I could feel it again. That weird, heavy feeling. Something was wrong. I didn't know what, but I could feel someone's gaze on my skin, even if I couldn't see it. I knew it was there. I tried to ignore it.

But I couldn't.

I couldn't ignore that uneasy feeling that was burning inside of me. My heart started to thud, slowly but heavily, like something was crawling under my skin. I took another step, then another. Then I began to walk faster. I wasn't in a hurry or anything, but something inside of me was screaming at me to get the hell out of there. The noise of my heels picking up, the sound growing louder and louder, as if I were trying to outrun the discomfort that was settling in my stomach. But no matter how fast I walked, no matter how hard I tried to push the feeling back, it followed me.

And then—there it was again. A sound. Just one. A footstep. Light. Almost too soft to be real. But it was there, like someone was stepping on a twig, just behind me.

I froze.

I couldn't stop myself from looking behind me again.

There, just at the edge of my vision, a shape emerged—slight, but it was there. A man—I think— standing a few paces behind, walking with a slow, measured pace, almost like he was trying to give me space.

But space isn't comforting when you don't know who it is that's giving it to you.

The air between us felt thick, like something just waiting to be caught.

I quickened my steps again, trying to breathe past the tightness in my chest, trying to dismiss it. It was just someone on a late-night stroll. Or maybe it was a man wanting to go to the nearest pub to drown out his sorrows. Or maybe he was just heading in the same direction as me.

That's what I told myself. That's what I wanted to believe.

But the footsteps behind me kept their rhythm, matching mine. Each step falling into sync with mine, like they were wired to keep pace.

It felt like I was being stalked by the darkness itself.

I reached the end of the alley, where the world opened up into the glow of streetlights. The security of the building was just ahead, the front door waiting for me.

Almost there. Just a few more steps. Just a little farther.

I could see the front door of my building from here, the lights beaming from the lobby just ahead. I was almost home. I was almost safe.

I reached for the door handle, the cold metal biting into my palm, and I shoved the door open with more force than I intended to. The building's lobby greeted me with its usual quiet— but safe, familiar feeling.

The security guard didn't even look up from his phone. Clearly unaware of my presence. Or maybe he was just ignoring it.

I'm fine now. I'm safe.

But I didn't feel fine. And I definitely didn't feel safe. And I just couldn't shake the feeling that I was still being watched. That something was still following me, even in here.

I made my way toward the elevator, running now, pressing the button so hard I thought the glass would crack. When the doors opened, I stepped inside, pressing myself into the corner, feeling the walls close in around me.

You're safe now. There's nothing to worry about.

But I couldn't make my body relax. It was like I was trapped in a place between sleep and waking, where things aren't quite real but they aren't exactly an illusion either.

The elevator hummed as it climbed, but the sound didn't soothe me. It just made the seconds stretch longer, feeling like minutes.

I tried to steady my breathing, but I felt like I couldn't. My chest was tight. My body was still too aware of that presence—his presence.

The doors slid open as I reached my floor, and I stepped out, walking quickly toward my apartment. I told myself it was over. I am home now. Safe. But if that's the case, then why do I feel so afraid?

I unlocked the door, stepping inside, and closing it behind me. Making sure that I locked both of the locks on my door. The normal, yet familiar quietness of my apartment surrounded me like a warm blanket. I dropped my purse on the counter, my shoes beside it, before walking towards my bedroom.

I should've felt relieved. But I didn't. I couldn't.

Just as I stepped into my room, something froze me in my place, a chill creeping over me as the blood drained from my face, leaving me pale as if I'd seen a ghost.

My balcony door.

It was wide open.

I don't remember leaving it open. In fact, I know I didn't. I always made sure to close it. I always made sure to double-check it before I left. Always. But tonight...I must've forgotten. I must've.

Or maybe it was the doing of the wind, just the draft that the air carried in.

But either way it was wide open now, the curtains billowing in the breeze.

But I didn't move. Not at first at least.

The night outside was still. The air thick, almost as if it had been holding its breath.

But as I stepped closer to the door, my body stiffened. The faintest sound came from the hallway behind me, the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

Getting closer, and closer, and closer.

My stomach dropped. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I just stood there, frozen, my body refusing to obey my mind.

I slowly turned around, my eyes scanning my surroundings. But nothing.

But as I turned back around, I heard it again. Closer this time.

My pulse quickened, my mouth going dry.

And that's when I heard it. A voice.

Low. Drawling. Barely above a whisper.

"I saw you earlier," it murmured. I didn't turn around, but I could feel the words. They slid down my spine like silk dipped in something more... dangerous. "With your friends. You looked stunning." he breathed out, his voice a slow, velvet drawl, heavy with something darker than desire itself.

I don't dare move.

I don't dare breathe.

As a chill spread through me, cold and deep, like something had reached into my chest and frozen the blood in my veins. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, like they could feel him before I could.

I couldn't make myself turn around. My body refused to obey me, even though I knew he was standing behind me. But then again, did I even want to?

"That dress," he went on, his voice curling around each word like it was secret for only my ears to hear, and maybe—probably— it was. "It makes you look like you're caught in the middle of a dream. A dream that's almost too perfect, too beautiful to be real."

He was standing close enough now that I could feel the heat of his body against my own, there was a darkness that clung to him, threading its way into the air between us.

"It glitters on you like you're caught in the middle of some kind of spell. Makes you look like something ethereal, something more than just human. Like you're made of light, and y/n I'm drawn to it. Almost like a craving." he said, his words teasing, but with something darker beneath the surface.

I hadn't even told him my name. And the way he said it, almost in a possessive way. Like he owned that name. Or even that he owned me.

The words curled around me like smoke, thick and suffocating, each one laced with an invitation that I didn't want to accept. His breath was warm against my neck, and the world shrank around me until all I could hear was the thud of my own heartbeat.

"I want you to be mine now, I need you to be mine," he whispered, his voice barely audible, almost like it was a promise and a warning, all in one breath.

The words fell heavy, but with a strange, unholy sweetness. They wrapped around me, tighter than anything I've ever felt. As if they were choking me with something that felt like hunger, something that pulls at me from the inside. I felt them sink into me, deeper than I ever wanted them to.

And for the first time, I didn't know if I wanted to fight or give in.

Even after a moment, his breath still lingered on my neck, warm and thick, as if it were made to burn into me, to keep me from moving, from thinking, from fighting, from resisting.

My body was frozen, but my mind was scrambling, wild with thoughts I couldn't quite catch, like wisps of smoke that were slipping through my fingers. I couldn't tear my eyes from the door. The wide, open balcony door—just a few feet away from the outside.

"I'm sorry, but I told you," he whispered, the words teasing now, as if we were no longer strangers. "I need you to be mine." His voice slithered around me, a soft, seductive pull. I couldn't help but wonder: was I already his? Was this what it meant to belong? To feel wanted? To be needed?

I couldn't breathe. The weight of the air pressed against my lungs, thick and unyielding, the walls of my apartment suddenly feeling so small, so claustrophobic.

And then I felt it—his hand, so cool against the back of my neck, his fingers brushing my hair away gently, almost tenderly, before he pressed something soft and cold against my face.

The scent hit me first—a sharp, chemical bitterness, like something that didn't belong in the world I knew. Something like medicine. Like poison.

I tried to pull away, to scream, to fight, but the air around me went heavier, thicker. It wasn't just the rag anymore—it was the whole room, as if it were closing in on me, folding in on itself, suffocating me. The walls felt closer, the shadows darker, as if they were creeping toward me. My lungs burned. And I couldn't breathe. I didn't want to breathe. My chest felt too tight, too small for the panic that was filling it, and still, the world blurred at the edges, slipping out of focus. My heart thudded against my ribs, a frantic beat that didn't match the calmness laced in his voice.

I gasped, but it was a weak sound, a breath that barely made it past my throat. My limbs—why wouldn't they move? My body felt heavy, slow, like it was no longer mine to command. The rag pressed harder against my nose, the sickly bitter smell seeping into my lungs, coating my throat as a sharp scent coated my tongue. It tasted like metal, like something old and disgusting, and it clawed at my throat, begging to be released.

I tried to pull away once again, but my muscles betrayed me, refusing to answer the frantic commands my brain was sending. The rag was cold. But it wasn't just cold, it felt wrong, like something foreign invading my body, invading my thoughts. I couldn't think straight. The world was slipping—no, falling—away from me.

"You might not remember this, y/n," he murmured, almost soothingly, as his other hand gripped my shoulder, keeping me still, anchoring me put. "But you'll never forget me, I promise. And you're not going to want to."

What does that mean? What does he mean?

I don't know if I'm screaming anymore. I don't even know if I can. My head is spinning. My body is numb. My thoughts are a blur of fragmented images—of the alley, the streetlights, the man behind me, his touch, the rag, and... the door. My balcony door. It wasn't open when I came in. Was it? Was it?

The air feels colder, though. The chill from the night is creeping in around me, seeping through my clothes. But that's not what's cold. It's the feeling. The feeling that I'm no longer in control. The feeling that I'm slipping away from myself.

I struggled against him, against the weight of his arms, against the weight of the darkness pressing down on me, slowly trying to consume me. But my limbs felt numb.

My mouth was dry. My head spun in lazy, uneven circles. My knees buckled, and I felt his arms catch me, steadying me with a strength that was too calm, too sure for someone who had no right to be near me. He held me close, and I could feel his body heat through my clothes—like fire, but not warmth. It was a dangerous kind of heat.

The air around me felt too suffocating, and I was drowning in it. The more I tried to fight, the more I felt my body betraying me. My vision was slipping—swirling, spinning—like the whole room had turned into liquid, everything blurring into a dream—no, a nightmare that I couldn't escape. No. Please, no. I wanted to scream, but the words stayed lodged in my throat, tangled with the darkness crawling over me.

The edges of the room blur, bend, distort. I know I should move, I should do something, but my body refuses to listen. My feet feel rooted to the floor, and the walls seem to press in around me, their sharp angles becoming soft curves, like the room itself is closing in, folding around me. The faintest sound, a creaking of the floorboards behind me, echoes in my skull, but everything is distant, muffled, like I'm underwater. His voice, still low and whispering in my ear, is the only thing that feels real.

"Just breathe, baby. Just breathe," he cooed, his voice wrapping around me like a soft, cruel lullaby that I didn't want to hear, its sweetness making my skin crawl. "You're safe now. You're mine now. And I won't let anything happen to you." The words were thick with something darker, something I couldn't quite name. He wanted me to breathe, wanted me to take in the poison that was slowly sinking into my lungs, and I could feel myself weakening with every ragged breath I tried to take.

I try to, but the air... it's wrong. Each breath feels like I'm drowning in it, filling my lungs with something dark, something toxic. I can taste it in the back of my throat. It coats my tongue, sticks to the roof of my mouth. My stomach churns, but I can't even make myself gag. My body won't respond.

I could hear him, but the words were now fading. The world was fading. Everything was stretching thin. The air tasted like it had turned to ash, and I couldn't tell if I was hearing him anymore or if it was just my mind echoing back his words to me. The room was now blurred, the edges of reality bleeding into one another like watercolor.

"You're mine now," he whispered, his voice sinking deeper, darker, wrapping itself around me like a noose. "You're mine." It was a promise. It was a command. It was all I could hear.

I try to call out, try to say something—anything—but my voice is just a rasp, a faint whisper against the storm in my head. My body is betraying me. My limbs feel like they belong to someone else, someone I don't recognize. Who am I anymore?

I should fight. I know that. I should try to run, do anything to get away from him, but my body betrays me. I try to push him away, but my hands are sluggish, like I'm moving underwater. It's all happening too slowly. I can't make sense of it, of what's happening, of the way the world around me is sliding—no, melting—into something that feels like nothing at all. Like I'm falling, but there's nowhere to fall. Like I'm being swallowed by the night, by the silence, by this strange, suffocating fog that's stopping my thoughts.

And then there was nothing. The world stilled. The room went quiet.

But I didn't let myself drift. I couldn't. Not yet at least. Not until I knew what he'd do to me. What he wanted from me.

With the last bit of energy that I could muster up I fought against the heaviness in my limbs, against the pull of darkness closing in on me. But that was no use. Everything seemed to stop. As it had become too much—too much to hold on to. I was losing my grip. I knew I was.

It's too much. I can't breathe. I can't think. The world is fading, and I'm sinking into it, deeper and deeper, like I'm falling into a void.

And then, there's nothing.

Nothing but the dark. Nothing but his voice, his hands, his presence wrapping around me, smothering me, holding me down, until all I can feel is the weight of him,m the weight of surrendering.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice soothing, almost affectionate, but there's a something to it now, a finality. The words hang in the air almost like a trap. But I can't tell for sure.

I felt the unrelenting darkness take over, as the world slipped away entirely. A quiet, suffocating weight filled the space where reality had been, and I let go, not by choice, but because there was no other option. I didn't know where I ended and the darkness began.

I gave in.

"You're mine now," he whispers once again, and the words are an inevitability. A claim that is final, no matter what I do. It doesn't matter if I scream, if I fight, if I beg for help, for mercy. There is no escape.

I give in.

I have to.

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