hello vonnie
cherry valley forever
Misplaced Lens Cap
No title available
i don't do bad sauce passes
Show & Tell
Love Begins
Product Placement
izzy's playlists!
wallacepolsom
Acquired Stardust
blake kathryn
almost home
Andulka
tannertan36
KIROKAZE
pixel skylines
ojovivo
Discoholic 🪩
if i look back, i am lost
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Australia
seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from Pakistan
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from Canada
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Indonesia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Iceland
@ilyrox
𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 @ilyrox
🀣 𝐚𝐢𝐛 ᭄᭡ ͏ ͏ ͏
chishiya shuntaro ‧₊˚ ⋅❀
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ (nsfw) chishiya headcanons
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ cat boy chishiya (nsfw)
arisu ryohei ‧₊˚ ⋅❀
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ (nsfw) arisu headcanons/drabble
other characters ‧₊˚ ⋅❀
nothing here yet. awaiting to be written
Requests/Guide Lines!
ask, be specific and please make sure you specify reader. i find it really endearing to check upon my in-progress fics, don’t be shy and flood my inbox. since i’m currently working one one, it may take so time. please be patient.
extremely open-minded, if you want to go above atrocious i absolutely can. but i still have boundaries and morals!
automatic no!- my reader is always afab, gender not always specified. i will not write for amab or anything in relation (ftm, mtf, m! reader, etc.) i’m sorry this is personal preference and what i’m vaguely acknowledged upon. i will not write pedophilia, underage-sex, nor ageplay! I will not write incest in any dynamic form, not including stepcest. i will absolutely not write bestiality, not including petplay.i will not write scat, nor watersports. i will not write oc inserts. i will not write ships.
yes?- i’m comfortable with dark content/dead dove. which may consist of: weapon play! noncon! mental illness/suicide themes! violence/body horror! religious undertones! smut, fluff, angst. i will write: wlw, mlw. degenerate or not everyone is welcome here.
i have some others coming up. i have a multitude of ideas for different medias.🤭
i think there is a huge maturity issue in the fanfiction community. below are some things i'd like to address.
minors in adult spaces you are not 'mature' for you age if you cannot follow a simple boundary. if you lie about your age, you are also endangering the adults you contact, it's not just about your safety. just because you yourself are comfortable or going through puberty and need to get off, it does not mean you should interact and cross a very explicit boundary. this also brings me to mdni blogs who pick and choose specific minors just because "they write good smut" or "they're almost 18 anyway". if you have a boundary, then enforce it. you are making the 'mdni' label seem like a joke. don't call yourself 'mdni' if you're not.
disregard on kink etiquette there is a difference between writing dark content and normalizing real, dangerous situations. do not interpret real life cases of abuse as inspiration for your fanfics. i remember some time ago, there was someone requesting about elvis presley and his history with a minor. also, if you are into unusual things and someone is against it, it's so easy to not interact. do not step over people's boundaries just because you feel like they have more morals than you. nobody cares what you're into as long as you keep it in your own space, it doesn't harm anyone, and you don't force it onto others.
talking behind people's backs i see no issue with shittalking as long as it's something you would say to the person upfront or have no intentions to interact with the person. to mock, belittle, and 'drag' someone behind their back is, honestly, strange. most of you are above middle school age, act like it. the issue is not with shittalking, but with pretending you are above it and do it.
whining about interactions it's okay if you're frustrated that a post isn't doing well, it's okay to post about it. readers these days on tumblr need to be reminded that to keep the fanfiction ecosystem alive, you should reblog. however! posting stuff like "omg, i'm gonna quit if i don't get 100+ likes" or "all of you better like rn" just makes you look odd. write for yourself or you always get burnt out.
sympathy baiting no, you cannot have bpd nor any cluster b disorder if you are under 18 unless you have an explicit diagnosis from a professional. no, you cannot post smut as a minor just because you were groomed and normalize sexual content. no, you cannot jump into adult spaces just because you're 'mature for your age'. no, adults are not the bad guys for setting boundaries. no, mental illness isn't a silly label to put in your bio for extra points.
trauma dumping without asking we are not your therapists, we are not licensed, and no one on here wants to play babysitter to someone at risk of self destructive behavior. if you need help, then seek it irl. if you cannot, then advocate for yourself. you will not get better by being a whiny bitch about it on tumblr. you will not get better if you complain about things in your control to stop.
if you do not have the maturity for at least most of these, you should not have a mdni blog (if applicable) nor be on the internet at all.
very excited to watch another season of beautiful women and some random niggas they found at a gas station
they litr asked us to be nice before posting their shots lmao 😩
just a friendly reminder you can’t call a fic x reader and then
A) describe the reader’s appearance in detail
B) give the reader a faceclaim / use pictures of random Pinterest women as the “reader” in a SMAU
C) give the reader a name
D) assign the reader a specific ethnic or cultural background unless requested
E) write the “reader” so specifically that they’re basically an OC
If you wanted to do the above then the story should have been x original character and not x reader.
Starting med school and somehow developing a likeness towards medplay was not in my plans
real
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾
a/n: i haven’t posted something like this since November, please spare me. might be ooc
cw: NSFW! AFAB Reader! Human-Animal Hybrid! Heat Cycles/Sexual Maturity! Scent Kink! Breeding Kink! Somno! Oral (F)
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Whose life has been easy since taking residence in your home. You reassure him that he’s not a freeloader, although he feels a constant need to do housework—which he never actually does. When you’re at home, your cat is never far from you. Whether you’re in the kitchen, at your desk, in the bedroom, or even the bathroom, you won’t get a moment of privacy. He doesn’t quite understand personal space and gets confused when you try to shoo him out of the shower, but he’s doing his best. His persistent presence is both a comfort and a challenge. No matter where you go, he’s there, quietly claiming your attention, turning everyday moments into a shared ritual of affection. It’s endearing, to have one so devoted to you.
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Who acts like your praise isn’t something he actively seeks. It’s any look of approval, contentment, or admiration that he quietly searches for. He doesn’t demand it loudly, but there’s a subtle hunger in his eyes whenever someone acknowledges his efforts or presence. It’s as if these small moments of recognition fuel his confidence and give him a sense of belonging, even if he tries to mask it with indifference.
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Whose keen smell makes him unbelievably jealous. His capacities of scent are highly developed so he can smell when someone else (especially other male hybrids) have been in close proximity, always when you come back from the store or work he will pounce on you purring... only for his purrs to stop abruptly when he smells the scent of another man on you.
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Who has his own needs that often sync up with yours. Unfortunately the problem with sexual maturity in male hybrids is that they’re almost always in heat.
nsfw under!
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Who loves slow lazy breeding. The intimate and provocative nature of continuously fucking you till you’re leaking is what is appealing to him. He enjoys the sound of your sopping cunt as you struggle to take in his swollen cock. It’s so endearing to watch his thick cum drip out of your abused pussy.
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Who either wakes you up by lying on your chest, or eating you out in the morning. When he’s obedient, his reward is the taste between your thighs and there’s nothing else in the world he’d prefer over that. In routine like fashion he gropes your panties-clad mound and leans his face in to purr against the thin fabric. He knows how much you savor it, how much you love feeling the vibrations moving from your pussy to your belly, making your whole body tremble in pleasure. He glances up at you from below the blanket just to see your face flushing and your eyelashes flutter. He buries his face back in your swollen pussy before you’re even fully awake, a lewd moan slips from your shaky lips. Your body spasms violently and your head rolls back as you cum on his slightly abrasive tongue. He keeps on licking you through your orgasm, sucking every drop of your sweet juices until you're so overstimulated that you can't keep still for one second. He's chuckling at his point, dark brown eyes crinkling in both amusement and adoration, his arms leaves your trembling thighs to wrap around your waist, while he breathes on your quaking cunt. At first you believe its wrong—why would you let your own pet take advantage of you? Although this question started dissipating when you started returning the favor.
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Who is absolutely the best kitty! That is, until he gets needy. He tries his best to keep his composure. Really, with all certainty he does! But the entire house smells like you, which makes everything ten times more difficult. Even when he tries to calm himself by stuffing his head in your pillow, he could still smell your sweet scent! His cock always gets really hard, so painfully hard. So the best solution is to hump your pillows until this heat passed.
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Who quietly begs you to help him one night, the throbbing being unbearable.
"You want me to make you feel better?”
His ears perk up almost instantly and his eyes light up with your words. "Mhm, please yes—yes please…” He kitten licks at your neck and his hips rut closer to yours.
He didn’t last more than a few minutes rutting against your ass, softly whining as he whispered how good it felt. He kneads at your soft belly as he ruts into you like he would never obtain the opportunity to again, refusing to acknowledge that he’s going feral over his owner. But he can’t help it when you’re sucking him back in with every thrust, forcing his cock to twitch and jerk between your soft thighs. He can’t believe how perfect you are for him, like you were made to satiate his hunger.
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Who despises his persistent, dependent, and clingy nature when in heat. It exposes something vulnerable, a cold contrast to his listless reserved personality. It’s something exposed, raw, feels real to acknowledge and feels even better to take care of.
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾
a/n: i haven’t posted something like this since November, please spare me. might be ooc
cw: NSFW! AFAB Reader! Human-Animal Hybrid! Heat Cycles/Sexual Maturity! Scent Kink! Breeding Kink! Somno! Oral (F)
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Whose life has been easy since taking residence in your home. You reassure him that he’s not a freeloader, although he feels a constant need to do housework—which he never actually does. When you’re at home, your cat is never far from you. Whether you’re in the kitchen, at your desk, in the bedroom, or even the bathroom, you won’t get a moment of privacy. He doesn’t quite understand personal space and gets confused when you try to shoo him out of the shower, but he’s doing his best. His persistent presence is both a comfort and a challenge. No matter where you go, he’s there, quietly claiming your attention, turning everyday moments into a shared ritual of affection. It’s endearing, to have one so devoted to you.
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Who acts like your praise isn’t something he actively seeks. It’s any look of approval, contentment, or admiration that he quietly searches for. He doesn’t demand it loudly, but there’s a subtle hunger in his eyes whenever someone acknowledges his efforts or presence. It’s as if these small moments of recognition fuel his confidence and give him a sense of belonging, even if he tries to mask it with indifference.
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Whose keen smell makes him unbelievably jealous. His capacities of scent are highly developed so he can smell when someone else (especially other male hybrids) have been in close proximity, always when you come back from the store or work he will pounce on you purring... only for his purrs to stop abruptly when he smells the scent of another man on you.
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Who has his own needs that often sync up with yours. Unfortunately the problem with sexual maturity in male hybrids is that they’re almost always in heat.
nsfw under!
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Who loves slow lazy breeding. The intimate and provocative nature of continuously fucking you till you’re leaking is what is appealing to him. He enjoys the sound of your sopping cunt as you struggle to take in his swollen cock. It’s so endearing to watch his thick cum drip out of your abused pussy.
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Who either wakes you up by lying on your chest, or eating you out in the morning. When he’s obedient, his reward is the taste between your thighs and there’s nothing else in the world he’d prefer over that. In routine like fashion he gropes your panties-clad mound and leans his face in to purr against the thin fabric. He knows how much you savor it, how much you love feeling the vibrations moving from your pussy to your belly, making your whole body tremble in pleasure. He glances up at you from below the blanket just to see your face flushing and your eyelashes flutter. He buries his face back in your swollen pussy before you’re even fully awake, a lewd moan slips from your shaky lips. Your body spasms violently and your head rolls back as you cum on his slightly abrasive tongue. He keeps on licking you through your orgasm, sucking every drop of your sweet juices until you're so overstimulated that you can't keep still for one second. He's chuckling at his point, dark brown eyes crinkling in both amusement and adoration, his arms leaves your trembling thighs to wrap around your waist, while he breathes on your quaking cunt. At first you believe its wrong—why would you let your own pet take advantage of you? Although this question started dissipating when you started returning the favor.
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Who is absolutely the best kitty! That is, until he gets needy. He tries his best to keep his composure. Really, with all certainty he does! But the entire house smells like you, which makes everything ten times more difficult. Even when he tries to calm himself by stuffing his head in your pillow, he could still smell your sweet scent! His cock always gets really hard, so painfully hard. So the best solution is to hump your pillows until this heat passed.
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Who quietly begs you to help him one night, the throbbing being unbearable.
"You want me to make you feel better?”
His ears perk up almost instantly and his eyes light up with your words. "Mhm, please yes—yes please…” He kitten licks at your neck and his hips rut closer to yours.
He didn’t last more than a few minutes rutting against your ass, softly whining as he whispered how good it felt. He kneads at your soft belly as he ruts into you like he would never obtain the opportunity to again, refusing to acknowledge that he’s going feral over his owner. But he can’t help it when you’re sucking him back in with every thrust, forcing his cock to twitch and jerk between your soft thighs. He can’t believe how perfect you are for him, like you were made to satiate his hunger.
CatBoy Chishiya! 🐾 Who despises his persistent, dependent, and clingy nature when in heat. It exposes something vulnerable, a cold contrast to his listless reserved personality. It’s something exposed, raw, feels real to acknowledge and feels even better to take care of.
No One Gets Out Clean
Niragi x AFAB! Reader
Word count: 13.5k
Summary: You cross paths with Niragi, the same scrawny boy you bullied years ago.
Warnings: Non-Con, graphic violence, humiliation, explicit language, mention of severe bullying, rough kissing, broken bones, face punching, humiliation, bondage, choking, explicit language, Niragi is His Own Warning, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
Author's Notes: This was written a really while back, and I'm aware that this fandom died ages ago (but it's never too late).
The rain never stopped.
A thin mist enveloped the pavement, slick and oily that shimmered faintly under the flickering light of the dim alley lamp. The air was suffused with an earthy aroma, the damp scent of saturated asphalt mingling with the acrid tang of cigarette smoke and an overpowering hint of cheap hair gel, creating a heavy curtain of stale odor that clung to the surroundings.
You stood in the center of it all, your fingers tightly clutching a battered baseball, its leather surface worn and cracked, rough against your skin. In front of you stood trembled Niragi, a mess of oversized glasses and bony limbs wrapped in a school uniform that barely fit him. His spindly arms hugged his body tightly, as if that could keep him safe from the collision that was sure to come. But it wouldn't matter, when the ball hits, it's still going to hurt like hell. Around you, laughter erupted raucously that reverberated off the damp walls, punctuated by the occasional bursts of colorful, carefree swearing. It was impossible not to liken the group to a pack of feral dogs barking.
"Come on, don't be a pussy," you sneered, rolling the baseball in your hand. "You don't want us to feed you rice with urine like the last time, do you?"
It was a game. He was the target. The chalk outline behind him, hastily drawn on the weathered brick wall of the dimly lit alley made it all the more real. Each spot marked—head, glasses, arms folded at sickening angles—was a new body part. As you glanced down at the black and furious flowers of bruise on his flesh, each one meant that they were crawling their way to a ruthless finish.
One of your friends casually draped an arm around your shoulder. "You gonna throw or what? I'm just three points away from winning," he snickered.
"Oh, I'm throwing." You replied with a smirk, your heart racing with the thrill of competition.
Feeling the weight of the ball in your hand, its textured surface grounding you in the moment. You released it, and it hurtled through the air with a sharp whoosh, striking Niragi squarely against his temple, the satisfying thud echoing in the air. He doubled over, involuntarily throwing his shoulders forward to cover his head. Despite the impact, he choked back the tears that wished to run.
"Aww, hold still, nerd," your voice jeered, and the next one flew—hitting his shoulder.
It should've been fun, it always was. Yet, this time was different. He's staring at you—his pitch-black, seemingly emotionless eyes are ablaze with a fierce intensity that makes you step back.
You were faltered, but it was only for a second. You tensed up and cracked your wrist, throwing the ball soaring once more. The world around you faded away, focusing on that singular pursuit of triumph.
Ah, the good old days.
"I'm sorry but your card has been declined. Would you like to use another form of payment?"
You slumped behind the counter, barely looking up as the customer in front of you shuffled through their change. The monotony of the convenience store was suffocating. The register beeped, the AC rattled in its vent, and the same generic pop song played for the third time in an hour. Out of boredom, you glanced up at the fluorescent lights overhead, flickering every now and then like they were deciding whether to finally die.
You used to be somebody. Once upon a time, people used to know your name. You were popular. Teachers let you slide on homework because of your sharp tongue, you got invited to every party, always had someone hanging off your arm. Look at her. She's so cool. I wish I was her. The queen of a world that felt so small now.
But the moment you stepped off the graduation stage, your life unraveled. There's no more automatic popularity or beauty contest bullshit. Your parents stopped pretending you were special. Your so-called friends scattered to college, careers, better things.
And you?
You were left behind.
You tried to hold on, at first, act like it didn't bother you. But life outside of school didn't give a damn about how many people used to worship you. You bounced from dead-end job to dead-end job, caroused late nights in dirty bars where nobody ever knew your name, slept in a shoebox apartment whose walls were as thin as paper while your neighbor's TV blaring late at night. The only calls on your phone were from recruiting phones you never returned, spam emails, and one unread text message from your mom that just said: Are you eating well?
(...You weren't.)
The real world had chewed you up and spat you out. Now here you were standing at the counter, mindlessly tugging on the flaking label of a bottle of tea. Your boss had reamed you out for slouching on shift earlier, but it was hard to look interested when your soul had left years ago.
"Yo, did you see the new guy?"
You blinked, turning to the two idiots you worked with—gaunt Mustache Guy and bleached-blond Takuya, who never stopped chewing gum. They were both grinning toward you as if they had just pulled off a brilliant joke.
Mustache Guy jabbed a thumb toward the back of the store, where a lanky kid was stocking shelves. "Dude jumped when I said hi. What a loser."
You barely batted an eyelash until you looked. The new recruit was standing uncomfortably, fingers nervously fidgeting with a shaky stack of brightly-colored instant noodle cups. You were aware that he was listening acutely to their words, his eyes darting back and forth.
Years ago, you might've laughed along.
"Yeah?" You turned away.
Takuya snorted. "Bet he still wets the bed."
Your fingers tapped rhythmically against the cool surface of the counter. Something about the kid's darting eyes, the way he flinched at the sharpness of their voices, as if each word were a physical blow, stirred up something you'd long buried.
Not my problem.
You dropped your gaze back to the counter. A heavy sigh escaped your lips—what's the point of trying to intervene? You were either the one laughing, or the one getting laughed at. Even now, echoes of the laughter still fill your thoughts, you still hesitate to ponder what happened to people after. After the laughter died down. After the bruises faded. After high school ended, the world moved on, and people stopped caring about who was cool and who wasn't.
You barely registered the ground shaking beneath you, the security mirrors above quivered perilously, reflecting broken shards of fluorescent light that sent erratic beams dancing across the tiled floor. Shelves rattled ominously, their contents teetering on the brink of collapse.
"What the hell?" Your coworker swore.
With every passing second, the tremors intensified, reverberating through the building like a relentless freight train. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered intermittently, casting fleeting shadows that twisted and writhed along the aisles. Cans tumbled from the shelves in a cacophony of metallic clangs, scattering across the floor while snack bags burst free from their confines, a riot of colorful packaging spilling like confetti.
"Earthquake?" someone yelled. Over you, the world disintegrated into anarchy; you heard someone's terror shriek rang out through the air, followed by a sharp, booming crash that was echoed warningly through the store. And before sense could catch up with you, you swooped under the counter, fists pounding over your ears.
Then—
Silence.
For what was forever, you remained crouched in the dark. Counting the tick of the clock, waiting for the next shiver or sirens. But there was nothing. Slowly, you uncrossed your fingers from your ears. The shop, moments before, a dozen had been there, was empty. The humming refrigerators and the whirring overhead lights are off. Customers disappeared, even that guy who had been hiding with you under the counter—vanished.
Your fingers trembled as you crawled out, the automatic doors were wide open, leading to the street that looked uncanny. You stumbled to your feet, swallowing hard. "Hello?"
No answer.
The city was still.
You stepped out. Not a single honking horn pierced the air, nor was there any rumble of voices to break the stillness. There were no cars on the streets—not even the reassuring hum of traffic. You patrolled the streets for hours. At first, you hoped to spot someone down the street. But street after street, there was nothing. It felt like stepping into the backrooms of reality, as the whole world had glitched, and you were the only thing left running.
You should be panicking; instead, you found yourself adjusting. Maybe it was a shock or it was just easier to cope. Either way, when you spotted a gleaming Porsche with the keys still in the ignition, you climbed in without hesitation. The engine purred to life under your fingers. The city was your personal racetrack now without cops to pull you over, so you sped down the highway, weaving between empty lanes, wind rushing through the open windows. The speedometer ticked higher and higher.
For a moment, it almost felt normal. If you just ignored the silence long enough, the world might snap back into place.
At some point, you ditched the car and broke into a luxury mall. You strutted through the high-end boutiques, slipping into a designer dress with a price tag higher than your monthly rent. You only encountered someone else once, a solitary figure hurriedly crossing your path. In an impulsive moment, you called out to him, curiosity overcome by the thrill of finding another soul in this city. "Hey! What the hell is going on? Where is everyone?"
He glanced your way momentarily, but rather than responding, he simply continued walking as though you were not even there. It wasn't until the sun began to dip below the horizon, the city transformed under the night sky. In the distance, the glowing billboards flickered back to life.
[Welcome players. The game will commence in a moment.]
The underground parking lot reeked of gasoline and rust. You're not sure why you were even in this place. You had simply followed the arrow from the billboard, which pointed you to this only illuminated building.
A single flickering lightbulb cast weak yellow light across the cracked pavement, where a crowd of people huddled together. Some were standing in the corner, some were pacing in frantic circles, others were demanding answers from the blank, unfeeling monitors in the center of the room. You don't think approaching any of them is a good idea.
You stood near the back, clutching the electronic device tightly in your hand. It resembled a phone, but you doubted that it actually was one. The moment the rules flashed onto the screen of the monitor, and you knew exactly what kind of nightmare you were in.
GAME: "Hunter's Eclipse"
Difficulty: Seven of Spades
Rule: Survive until dawn. If caught, immediate elimination.
You strain to catch the panicked murmurs swirling around the dimly lit room, but their urgency fades into the background as your focus sharpens on the device you retrieved from the entrance. Its sleek surface glimmers under the flickering fluorescent lights, a single poker card appears.
Someone pushed past you, racing toward the monitor.
"Wh-What the hell does that mean?! Survive until dawn?! That's five hours!"
Another person screamed, backing away from the metal gates. "This has to be a joke! There has to be a way out!"
A heavy clang reverberated through the stillness of the parking lot, sent a ripple of unease through the gathered crowd. From the shadows emerged the first hunter, a colossal figure that seemed almost mechanical in the way it moved. Each step it took was marked by a metallic whir, its eyes—if they could truly be called eyes—castinga glowbeneath the flickering emergency lights overhead. The muzzle of its rifle glinted ominously as it lifted the weapon, scanning the crowd.
BANG.
A man crumpled, a fresh bullet hole in his skull.
The heavy doors around you slammed shut with a resounding finality, the sound vibrating through the cold, concrete walls. The lights overhead flickered erratically, and the sound of mechanical grinding echoed from deep within the garage.
You didn't pause to contemplate your next move. Adrenaline surged through your veins; you ran. You weren't concerned about who just got shot; their fates were irrelevant to you. All that mattered was escaping the encroaching terror, the primal instinct to survive overriding any sense of empathy. Whatever happened next, it wouldn't be you who became the next victim.
Every hour, a new hunter emerged. Their red targeting lights scanned the dark, some were armed with rifles, others with knives, some with nothing but their bare hands. Your legs burned as you sprinted through the dimly lit maze of parked cars. More gunshots rang out behind you, along with the sound of bodies hitting the ground.
You weren't dreaming. This was real.
You vaulted over a low hood, diving behind an SUV just as a bullet whizzed past, its impact sending a shower of concrete debris scattering beside you. The smell of burnt metal and blood thickened the air. So you crawled down, pressing yourself against the cool surface under a car. You heard someone sobbing nearby, trying desperately to muffle the sound.
A woman.
She wasn't going to make it.
A shadow loomed over the other side of the car. The mechanical whir of shifting gears sent ice down your spine, the hunter was close.
Your fingers clenched into fists. You had nothing to fight with. No weapons. No plan. Just your own instincts and the sick, twisting feeling in your gut telling you to move.
So you did.
You lunged forward, grabbing a discarded metal pipe from the ground and swung. The pipe connected with the hunter's arm in a dull clang, and the impact barely made it flinch. For a split second, you stared into its face. There were no expression, just a cold, emotionless machine.
It lifted the rifle.
You bolted.
The woman behind you wasn't as fast. The gun fired, and her splatter of blood hit the pavement behind you, warm against your skin. You feel like you're going to throw up, but you don't look back.
Only a handful of survivors remained by the time the final hour approached.
You leaned against a concrete pillar, breath coming in sharp gasps. Your arms ached, your lungs burned, sweat clung to your skin, mixing with dust and grime, the taste of iron thick on your tongue. A BEEP rang through the parking lot, and the gates unlocked.
The game had finally come to an end, you let out a breath you didn't even realize you'd been holding. The atmosphere around you shifted dramatically, from the shadows and debris of your surroundings, a handful of other survivors slowly emerged. There were only four of them, though you didn't take a moment to examine who had survived; you were too lost in your own thoughts. But then your gaze dropped.
The survivors... They all had wristbands.
You looked down at your own arm. Nothing.
Why only them?
You looked at them again. None of them seemed to notice, or maybe they were too exhausted to care. Your mind raced with questions as you scanned their faces, wondering what separated you from them. But before you could think too much about it, you sensed that unmistakable feeling when someone was watching you.
So you turned. At first, he was just a silhouette beneath the emergency lights. He stood tall and lean, his long black hair was pulled into a half-up bun. Silver piercings glimmered subtly in the dim light, drawing attention to his features—an eyebrow and nose studs, the tongue piercing glinted when he dragged it through his teeth. His giraffe-print shirt hung loose, the first few buttons undone. A gun rested lazily against his shoulder, contrasting sharply with his laid-back attire.
You met his eyes. Something about him sent a deep, instinctive chill down your spine. It felt like being dissected under a microscope; he was peeling your skin layer by layer with nothing but a look. You squinted, trying to place where you had seen him before. It has to be somewhere.
His gaze never wavered, and a slow, deliberate smirk curled onto his lips.
Leave.
The word thundered through your skull.
A shiver crawled down your back.
You didn't know why, but every instinct screamed at you to leave.
Because somehow you just knew.
That man wanted you dead.
_
"Well, shit."
Your legs ache from walking miles just to find food. Your arms ached from dragging yourself up crumbling fire escapes, searching for shelter. Your stomach ached from hunger that never seemed to end.
You lived in a house that wasn't yours. A narrow, abandoned house, the walls once painted in fading hues, now bore the scars from peeling paint. The windows were cracked, the floors coated in dust. You used to complain about your tiny apartment back in the real world, that place would be a fucking paradise now. This house had no electricity, neither running water, only the barest protection from the outside world. It had been so long since you had a proper shower that your hair was coated in dirt, and your skin felt sticky with whatever got on it. In the first few weeks, you got lucky. Convenience stores still had supplies, but then the scavengers came, and everything was picked clean.
Back in high school, you used to have warm showers, clean clothes, and a soft bed. Used to be the kind of person who threw away food because you "didn't feel like eating it." Now, you ate whatever you could find—crushed protein bars, expired instant noodles, a half-rotten apple you found in a store. Sometimes, you have to go days without eating and curl up in the corner of the room, pressing your knees to your chest, trying to ignore the boiling emptiness in your stomach.
It got bad enough that you thought about breaking into a better house or finding a group, but you had seen what groups did to outsiders. One time, you found a corpse dumped in the middle of a street with fresh stab wounds. Someone had fought over food. But you hadn't stuck around to find out more.
You kept your flashlight close, but the batteries were dying. The light flickered weakly, casting thin shadows across the warped wooden planks. You thought about home. Your dad's voice used to scold you for not cleaning your room, the smell of food your mom cooks in the kitchen, and your stupid brother laughed at some dumb video on his phone. Were they even looking for you? Did they miss you? Or was you just... gone?
Some part of you wanted to believe they would be devastated. But another part of you whispered, why would they be?
You weren't a good daughter.
You weren't a good sister.
You weren't a good person, either.
Maybe this place, this hell you were rotting in, was exactly what you deserved. But you didn't want to die.
Even though you might be a bully, tormentor, or whatever they call it. You never were a murderer. You always reassured yourself that after every game you won, people were killed for you to live; it's the games that took their lives. You never killed because you could; you only did what you needed to, right?
So when the next game announcement played on the billboard, you picked yourself up and went.
Entering the venue, you kept your gaze low, avoiding the wary glances of those around you. The air carried a chill as you made your way through yet another cavernous parking garage, cold concrete walls loomed and rusted beams crisscrossed overhead. A thick layer of dust clung to everything, people shuffled around, whispering, shifting nervously under the weak emergency lights, but you barely cared at this point.
Only one thing caught your attention. A man stood near the front, surrounded by a small group of people. His robe is woven with a vibrant tapestry of colors, hung around him like a royal cloak, billowing slightly as he moved. He was smiling, chatting like this was a social event, not a death game.
But that wasn't what made you stare; it was the wristbands. You recognized them immediately; they were the same as the ones from your first game, a gnawing sense of unease digging into your mind. You glanced around. The man who had stared at you last time—he wasn't here. You should have felt relieved.
You didn't.
GAME: "Perfect Aim"
Difficulty: Four of Diamonds
Rule: Each player will take turns hitting a designated target. The further the distance, the higher the score. Players who missed the target or scored the lowest will be eliminated.
As the final words of the rules faded into silence, a groaning metal door at the far end of the warehouse groaned open. You barely heard what's going on around you. All you could hear was the past rushing back, hitting you like a punch to the gut.
Your hands quivered uncontrollably, and you hastily stuffed them deep into your pockets, a desperate attempt to stifle the rising tide of memories Don't think about it. Don't think about it.
Ahead, more chalk outlines marred the brick wall, different numbers scrawled over the arms, the legs, and the chest. Flurries of numbers were scrawled over their limbs and torsos like morbid tally marks. Gripping the baseball in your palms, your fingers trembled violently, the solid object somehow grounding you amidst the chaos. The first targets popped up; they are holograms, flickering figures made of neon-blue light. The shapes were frozen in poses of fear, arms shielding their faces.
Just like—
Just like Niragi.
A whistle blew, and someone threw first. A hard thunk as a baseball struck a target's shoulder, and the scoreboard updated.
Your fingers curled around the baseball, alright, you didn't have a choice. You took a determined step forward, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. With a quick flick of your wrist, you launched the ball with precision. It soared through the air in perfect, sharp arcs, striking the neon figure's ribcage with a sharp, resounding beep that echoed like a gunshot in the tense atmosphere. Years of playing that game in high school must've trained you for this moment.
More throws. More hits. Some players panicked, missing their shots, dropping their balls.
One by one, they were eliminated.
By the end of the round, you reveled in the satisfaction of hitting the highest scoring zones with effortless ease. But beneath that triumph, you hated the whole experience. Every time the ball left your hands, every time you scored another perfect hit, all you could hear was Niragi's muffled grunts, the sound of baseballs slamming into his temple. All you could see was his face, twisted with pain, but he never cried.
The warehouse game left behind the stench of blood, but you didn't notice anymore. You have survived; that was all that mattered.
And that's when Hatter approached. He exuded effortless confidence as he strode toward you like he already owned the space between you both.
"You're impressive," he said, his voice laced with amusement.
You didn't respond immediately, choosing instead to scrutinize him, every inch of his demeanor and expression. Compliments had always been like double-edged swords here, beautiful on the surface yet always sharpened with hidden motives. But instead of prolonging the silence, he glanced around the dimly lit warehouse, surveying the scattered remnants of discarded crates and remaining players.
"You're alone, aren't you?" he observed.
"...So what?" You cross your arms.
He chuckled softly, the sound rich and inviting, somehow managing to break through your guarded exterior. "It's a waste. Someone like you shouldn't be scraping by like a rat." He spread his arms wide. "Consider coming with us?"
"Who's us?"
"We call it The Beach."
You stared at him, waiting.
"A utopia, in this world of chaos." He smiled, pleased by your silence. "The way it works is simple. Everyone here is working together to collect the playing cards. When we win all of them, one person will return to the previous world."
"And then?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.
Hatter's smile widened. "Then we start again."
A cycle. A never-ending game.
It was a trickle of hope, just enough to keep people moving, just enough to keep them desperate. And yet, despite the futility, wasn't that still better than wandering these empty streets alone, starving, waiting for the next game to kill you?
"What's the catch?" You frowned.
"Smart girl. There are rules, of course." Hatter raised a hand, ticking them off with his fingers. "One, everyone must wear swimsuits."
"What?"
"It prevents people from hiding weapons," he explained. "We value safety at The Beach."
Bullshit.
"Two, any playing cards you win belong to The Beach. You turn them in once you return."
Your fingers twitched. That one was more dangerous.
"And three," Hatter's eyes darkened slightly, "death to all traitors."
Hatter tilted his head, watching you closely. "Aside from that, you're free to do whatever you like. Drink, party, have sex. We're not slavers, we're a family. You just have to play your part."
You sighed wearisome, weighing your options, the thought of a slow, miserable death in the streets gnawed at your mind. Or this—this dubious offer. It was possible that it was merely another trap, designed to ensnare you further. Maybe you should run away; however, you couldn't shake the dread of how much longer you could survive alone.
—But when it came down to it, what choice did you truly have?
_
You watched the passing city through the car window. The night air is humid, an unsettling silence envelops the deserted streets, and abandoned belongings lay scattered. At some point, you stopped wondering where everyone had gone.
The car rumbled along cracked roads, its tires kicking up dust. The inside smelled like cigarette smoke and sweat, the kind of scent that clung to the skin and wouldn't wash off. Sitting in the cramped backseat with two others, no one spoke.
The first thing you noticed was the sound of music, laughter, and the distant crash of waves. The Beach loomed ahead, a massive, luxurious hotel rising from the darkness, its neon lights flickering against the dark sky. You also noticed a gathering of people waiting at the entrance. Some stood with arms crossed, while others lounged languidly by the gates, cigarettes dangling from their fingers, the glow of embers pulsing like tiny stars. They seemed at ease, yet a subtle tension thrummed beneath their relaxed exteriors.
You barely had time to step out before you felt that same gaze.
It bored into you, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
He stood near the front, gun resting lazily against his shoulder just like the last time. Silver glinted from his piercings, and light from the hotel cast sharp shadows over his face, making the smirk on his lips look carved in stone. Before you could react, you felt Hatter's hand press firmly against your back.
"Everyone, this is our newcomer," Hatter nudged you forward. The pat on your back leaves you uncertain whether to feel comforted or threatened by it.
The moment you emerged from the car, something about Niragi's posture shifted; an almost predatory tension rippled through him. And for the briefest second—his face seems to crack. It was barely a twitch of his jaw. His fingers tightened around the gun, knuckles whitening before he forced his grip to relax. But just as swiftly as it had appeared, it vanished, replaced by a smirk that curled playfully onto his lips.
"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" he said, eyes boring into yours, "Why don't you tell us all your name?"
You hesitated, something about him felt familiar. But from where? But there was no point in lying, he might simply want to acknowledge the newcomer. Right?
So you answered.
And the moment your name left your lips, you noticed his grip on the gun transition from a playful tease into a rigid, almost painful clench, the sound of creaking metal filling the charged air. The shift might have been subtle to others, but to you, it was a threshold crossed.
Hatter's still smiling, one of his guys, a muscular man with short hair and a light goatee placed a hand on Niragi's shoulder (you later learned that his name is Aguni) — He murmured something under his breath.
"Not now."
Niragi scoffed, rolling his eyes before turning away, but not before shooting you one last, lingering look. Everyone around seemed to recognize something you didn't. You could feel it; the way their gazes fixed on you and the man. Was it surprise mixed with a hint of pity? But why, why did they feel sorry for you? What was it that made them look at you that way?
The moment he walked past you, he leaned in. Just enough for only you to hear:
"Found you."
By the time you turned, he was already gone, blending back into the crowd.
It was your first day, the music thumped in hypnotic beats, the pool shimmered under the neon lights, reflecting bodies moving in a chaotic, hedonistic blur. People danced, drank, and laughed—completely absorbed in the illusion of paradise.
You sat at the edge of the pool, shifted your gaze to the people around you, watching them through half-lidded eyes. Your fingers are absently tracing the edges of your wristband. You should be enjoying this, it was everything you used to thrive in.
Once, you had been the center of it all. And now it makes the ache you feel gradually get worse. As if something was pushing and pulling inside of your skull somehow, messing around internally, poking and prodding in places that should have remained untouched.
It was years ago. The rooftop party was loud, the city lights stretching endlessly in every direction. You stood at the center, your presence magnetic, your laughter sharp. A cigarette dangled between your fingers, though you barely took a drag. Someone offered you a drink, and you took it without looking, attention flicking between the people who mattered. Your friends were in their element—girls whispered behind their hands and giggled. While the guys laughed loudly, aggressively shoving each other around.
It was your first time meeting Nigari. He always seemed to hunch at the edge of the party, seeking refuge within the confines of his worn backpack, which was frayed at the edges and adorned with a few colorful patches. Lately, your friends would often pull him into their activities, treating him like an ever-present companion in their spontaneous games and laughter. Though you didn't really notice him back then.
"I dare you," Your friend nudged you, her voice lowered to a teasing whisper.
You arched a brow. "Dare me what?"
"Go talk to him."
"Oh, come on." A smirk curled onto your lips as you flicked the cigarette away. "That's too easy."
You sauntered toward Niragi, feeling the eyes of your friends on your back. Nigragi startled when you slid into the seat beside him, eyes darting to the crowd before settling on you with suspicion.
"What?" he muttered, voice small.
You smiled sweetly. "You look lonely, Suguru."
He stiffened. "I'm not."
"You should loosen up." You leaned in, letting the scent of your intoxicating perfume wrap around him. "You're always so tense."
"I'm fine."
You let your fingers drift, just slightly, brushing the fabric of his sleeve. Which is not quite touching, just enough to make him nervous.
"You're cute, you know," you said, voice honeyed. "I've always thought so."
His ears burned red, his hands gripping his backpack tighter. You could feel your friends watching; they leaned in closer, eager for the punchline. Waiting for you to do what you always did.
You let the silence stretch, let the moment sink into his bones, he shifted awkwardly as he waited for your next move. You could have easily stepped back, chosen to leave him to his own discomfort, simply walk away.
But instead, an infectious laughter erupted from your lips.
And before you knew it, your friends joined in.
Niragi went still. His fingers clenched around the straps of his bag, the skin stretched taut over his knuckles, which turned a ghostly white. But he turned away.
Back to the present, your grip tightened on the wristband, try to ignore the ugly and hot twists in your gut. Except you couldn't. Just across the shimmering expanse of the pool, the militants prowled. The joyous laughter and animated chatter of sunbathers replaced by hushed whispers and sidelong glances as the crowd instinctively recoiled. A group of men sauntered along the far side of the pool deck, weapons casually over their shoulders, yet every movement they made radiated an unmistakable air of menace. They are The Beach's so-called enforcers.
Putting the drink down, you pushed yourself upright and melded into the throng of bodies, settled onto a worn-out couch, surrounded by half-drunk strangers. If you just kept to the facelessness of it all, no one would...
"You know Niragi?"
—would notice you.
You turned around.
A strikingly beautiful woman stood beside you, one hand gracefully rested on the back of a chair, her long dreadlocks elegantly swept into a high ponytail that cascaded down her back. She wore a bikini top and jeans that hugged her figure just right.
You raised one eyebrow, confused. "Me?"
"You know him?" the woman repeated, her hand absentmindedly twisting and tugging at her dreadlocks. "Niragi, you know, the guy with all the piercings? Someone said he'd been acting strange since you arrived last night."
A cold feeling wrapped around your chest, squeezing tight. That name—it had been years since you last heard it.
No. No, it couldn't possibly be.
The woman smirked. "So you do know him." She pulled out the chair, straddling it with an easy confidence. "I'm Kuina."
"I think you've got the wrong person." You forced your expression to be neutral.
"Oh yeah?" Kuina chuckled. "Then why'd you flinch when I said his name?".
Damn.
You snorted, leaning back in your seat. "Maybe I misheard you."
"Uh-huh. Well, if you did know him, I'd say you're quite unlucky." She tilted her head toward the militants. "He's not exactly the picture of sanity. While we hit the brakes, he would be the one to slam on the accelerator at full speed. I'm curious about what happened in the past that could have fucked him up so badly."
Out of instinct, you turned your head, your gaze gliding across the your gaze sweeping across the motley crew.
And there he was, unmistakable. He reclined in a battered, dented chair near the entrance of The Beach, one long leg draped over the other, fingers lazily tapping against the stock of his rifle like he had all the time in the world. The glint of a piercing on his tongue flickered against his sharp teeth, momentarily flashing against the sharp light as he erupted into laughter at a joke shared by the burly man sitting beside him.
"...Which one?" you asked anyway, trying to mask over your rising unease, attempting to sound indifferent, even casual in your curiosity.
Kuina, following your line of sight, pointed with a hint of reluctance. "Him."
The figure you wished—no, hoped—was someone else.
You stared at him, attempting to weave together the fragments of what once was and what now stood before you, but the pieces refused to align. Niragi had been a loser, a constant target that you and your friends used as a punching bag for your adolescent frustrations. This man was nothing like that, he's the kind of presence that even you high school would've been afraid.
But the longer you stared, the more your brain started filling in the blanks. The oversized glasses that once slipped down his nose had vanished, along with the frailness that marked his youth. Yet, beneath the hardened façade, the structure of his face was unmistakably familiar—the slight downturn of his mouth, the angularity of his cheekbones, and the piercing shape of his eyes—were the same.
You swallowed hard. "...That's Niragi?"
"Yeah," Kuina said. "That's Niragi Suguru."
Suguru.
Niragi Suguru.
Kuina leaned in, and softly spoke. "He's crazy as hell. If you see him smiling, run in the other direction."
The once-awkward, sniveling kid you mercilessly threw baseballs at, was now one of Aguni's right-hand men, second-in-command of the Beach's militants. Kuina kept talking, listing off all the reasons why Niragi was someone to avoid at all costs, but her voice began to blur into a muffled hum in the back of your mind.
Because Niragi is making his way toward you.
He was oblivious to your presence for the moment, but awareness ignited your survival instincts before you could fully process your thoughts or the gathering dread; you blurted out, "I need a drink."
With a swift movement, you rose from your seat, urgently stepping away from Kuina, the conversation forgotten.
"What hap-"
You didn't hear the rest. "Later."
And turned sharply into the crowd.
The clammy sweat on your palms betrayed your fear, you walked fast, heart pounding, every muscle in your body screaming at you to run. But you shouldn't, it would attract attention. Someone drunkenly bumps into you, and you don't care. You continued to walk. You ducked between people, weaving through the mass of bodies, heading toward the nearest exit, and had no choice but to turn away when you almost came face-to-face with another militant member on patrol.
In the hall, the air is thick with heat, the scent of sweat and alcohol clinging to your skin. The music had died down, but small pockets of revelers still lurked in the corners—drunk, high, or simply just standing there looking depressed. You slip through corridors, avoiding attention. It's been hours since you saw Niragi, and you've done everything in your power to stay invisible. Your room doesn't sound like a safe place right now, since you just came, he can easily track down the newest member. Your brain scrambled for a way out. Options: Fight? Stupid. Run? Impossible. Talk? ...Maybe.
But it didn't matter.
You had known, deep down, in the sick pit of your stomach, that he wouldn't let you disappear. You barely had time to register the smell of smoke and gunpowder before you heard his taunting voice rung.
"Well. Running away? That's no fun."
And now, standing in the dim hallway near the storage rooms, you realize you finally have to face the consequences of the past.
Niragi leaned against the cool, rough surface of the wall at the end of the dimly lit hallway, one foot casually crossed over the other. The rifle slung loosely at his side glinted dully under the flickering overhead lights, his men flanked him, forming a tight-knit trio. The faint sound of distant voices echoed down the corridor, but Niragi remained undisturbed.
"Just trying to get some air," you forced your voice out.
His smirk widened, but his fingers tightened around his gun.
"Air, huh?" He pushed off the wall, taking slow, deliberate steps toward you. "And here I thought you were avoiding me."
You fought the instinct to retreat, standing your ground despite the rising tension in the air. Don't show weakness. Don't show weakness.
His men moved too, spreading out. Effectively cut off every possible escape route,
You weakly scoff. "And you are?"
"Oh?" he cocks his head. "You don't remember me?"
You should've lied. Should've said, " No, never seen you before in my life". Should've laughed it off, walked away, anything.
But instead, you hesitated. And in that single, tiny moment—he knew.
"Ah, so you do remember."
That sick, twisted irony. You felt like you were seventeen again, standing on that rooftop, looking down at a scrawny, awkward Niragi, your laughter sharp, your power absolute. Now, the roles were reversed; you're the one against the wall.
You hardly straighten yourself. "What do you want?"
"Oh, come on," he stepped closer. "Didn't recognize me? Can't blame ya. I changed a little."
"A little," you repeated.
"Though I didn't expect to see you here," He chuckled, the sound almost pleasant, if you didn't know better. "Imagine my surprise when you introduced yourself. I almost thought I misheard—of all the holes in the world to crawl into, you chose mine."
"I... didn't expect to see you here," you said coolly.
"I gotta say," he mused, a sharp, ugly laugh bubbling up from his chest, "What happened to the bitch who used to run the school?"
You lifted your chin. "What happened to the loser who used to huddle in the bathroom for lunch?"
His men exchanged uneasy glances. One of them muttered something under his breath, but you didn't catch it, and frankly, you didn't care.
"It makes me wonder..." he took another step, and you finally moved back. You instinctively recoiled, suddenly your limbs felt... paralyzed, as if they weren't there. "Does it ever cross that thick skull of yours? About what you did?"
You could easily shake your head, feigning ignorance, but deep down, both of you knew the truth. You thought about it all the time. Every time you see a kid getting mocked at work, every time you watched someone flinch away, small and powerless. Every time you woke up in this godforsaken hellhole and realized the universe had finally flipped the script.
You took a deep breath. "You lived, didn't you? Get over it."
In a blur, he moved.
He wasn't fast, not really. But he was too close—so when he lifted his gun and jammed the barrel under your chin, tilting your head up. You had nowhere to go, the ice-cold steel burned against your skin.
"Indeed," he purred, his breath hot against your ear and smelling of smoke. "I did more than live."
For a second, neither of you moved.
The air between you crackled, charged with too much history, too much violence left unsaid. You've been in an earthquake. Don't know if this was even close to how they are, but the ground definitely felt like it opened up and ate you alive.
Finally, Niragi chuckled, a low, pleased sound. Just as easily as he had closed the distance, he pulled back, and his men followed. The gun dropped back to his side, like it had never been a threat in the first place. You swallowed, forcing your heart to slow down. Your legs are shaking by the adrenaline rush.
He didn't miss it. He watched the slight tremor in your legs with a look of pure, satisfied hunger. With a slow, mocking wink, he turned to leave:
"Room 402. Don't make me come looking for you."
_
The Beach never sleep.
Even as the party waned, the low murmur of voices, the distant bass of music, and the occasional burst of laughter still echoed through the halls.
The wind whipped against your back, tugging at your bikini like greedy fingers. From up here, The Beach looked like a mirage, bright lights, muffled laughter, stuck in the illusion of a utopia. You tightened your grip on the frigid railing, your fingers sinking into the unforgiving metal. But standing on this balcony, trapped between Niragi and the open air, you could feel the rot beneath the surface.
Behind you, blocking the only exit, stood three armed men.
And in front of you, leaning lazily against the balcony railing, was Niragi.
The rifle was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't make you feel any safer. He smelled of cigarettes and smoke, the metallic tang of old blood still clinging to his skin. There was something sickly sweet beneath it, maybe the remnants of liquor, or just the way danger itself seemed to perfume the air around him.
"Glad you could make it," he grinned, teeth bared as he lit a cigarette. The ember flared, casting sharp shadows over his face. "I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."
When he stopped you earlier, forcing you to confront him while his men closed in, you knew the rules. This wasn't high school, where you could simply brush past someone and carry on with your day. The Beach ran on power, and he held the cards. His men's stony glares and threatening stances underscored his authority.
"You gave me much of a choice?"
He exhaled a trail of smoke, laughing low in his throat. "No," he admitted easily.
You hated this, he was dragging this out, he could have killed you already—could have put a gun to your head, beat the shit out of you or anything to get back at you for what you did in high school. Instead, he's playing with you as if it's a cat-and-mouse game.
"Relax," Niragi said. "You look like you're waiting to be executed."
You shot him a sharp glare, the tension in your shoulders refusing to ease. "I didn't realize we were friends now."
He beamed with an unmistakable glee, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Oh, we're not," he said unapologetically. With a casual wave of his hand, he gestured to the empty seat across from him, the chair slightly askew. "Sit."
One of his men—a broad, stocky guy with a scar on his forehead—stepped forward to remind you that leaving wasn't an option. So you clenched your jaw and lowered yourself into the chair.
He took another slow drag of his cigarette before flicking the ashes into an empty glass. "It's kinda poetic, don't you think?" he reflects. "In high school, I couldn't even get you to look at me. And now, here you are."
You rolled your eyes in exasperation. "Good for you, Niragi."
"What, no more 'Suguru?'" He chuckled.
"Doesn't suit you."
He hummed, contemplating your words as he took another drag. "Yeah, I guess it doesn't." He flicked the ash off the tip, watching as the glowing embers drifted down to the glass below, tiny sparks fading before they even touched the surface. "Tables turned. It's a real tragedy, huh?"
"You think I care about that?" You scoffed.
He tilted his head. "You don't?"
"I don't."
His smirk widened. "Then why is your tail showing?"
Your fingers curled into your palms . Niragi was like a sharpened blade, expertly skilled at pinpointing the softest spots to twist and torment until the pain seeped through your defenses. You steeled yourself, unwilling to let him win. But your dad used to say dogs, even snarling ones, always tuck their tails between their legs when cornered—a clear sign of fear.
It's all a bluff in the end.
"High school is over," you said flatly. "Whatever happened, it doesn't matter anymore."
For a moment, his eyes flickered with a pale, almost ghostly light before he snuffed it out. "Oh, but it is an issue. It’s the entire issue."
You felt the irritation bubbling up, drowning out the fear. You steeled your posture and looked him dead in the eye. "Jesus, Niragi. Give it a rest and just tell me what you want already."
He allowed a slow grin to creep across his face, feigning contemplation as he teased, "What do I want?" he cooed, his tone dripping with mockery. "What a load of question."
In an instant, he was on his feet, closing the distance between you with a swift, graceful motion that left you momentarily off-guarded.
Before you could react, he reached out, his hands gripping the arms of your chair with an intensity that made your heart race. Leaning down, his face was a mere breath away from yours, his gaze piercing and unwavering. The world around you faded, leaving only the charged silence that hung between your breaths. You never seen his rage, but you can sensed it smoldering just by an inch of the surface like a snake coiled to strike.
"You never answered my question from earlier."
You could feel his men watching you now, waiting to see how you would react. A cold, creeping feeling slid down you, from head to toe.
Careful.
Be fucking careful.
You licked your lips, struggling for the right words. "What do you mean?"
"You know exactly what the fuck I mean." His fingers dug into the chair, his grip tightening.
The air suddenly felt excessively heavy.
Then, he let out another laugh, shaking his head, exhaling smoke through his nose.
"Fuck," he muttered. "Look at you. You’re not so big without a crowd behind you, are you?"
Your mouth opened, but the voice caught in your throat. "Niragi—"
He cut you off. "No, no, let's talk about it," he insisted, his expression both intense and earnest. As he spoke, his hand gradually extended toward your wrist, his grip was deceptively light at first—a mere brush of fingertips against your skin—but then it tightened, a sudden pull that yanked you forward with surprising force, the legs of your chair scraping against the polished marble floor with an unwelcome screech.
"You're not stupid," he continued, "You used to have so much to say when I was the one on the floor. Where’s that loud mouth now?"
You did, you just didn't want to face it.
"Tell me, did you ever think about what happened to me after you were done having your fun?"
"Niragi—"
"No, answer the fucking question,"
The men behind you shifted uneasily, readied for action. Everything went silent, letting the blood in your ears deafen you, roaring and filling your senses with ringing. It left a bad taste in your mouth, bile rising in your throat. Even as your brain screamed at you to get out of there, yet, you couldn't.
"I was just a kid," you said. "We both were."
The moment the words left your lips, you regretted them. Because Niragi laughed. This time it was a horrible, jagged thing, and when it died, his expression twisted into something ugly. For a long, terrifying minute, he finally wiped a hand down his face, shaking his head.
"Holy shit, that's really it, huh? That's what you're gonna go with?"
You stayed silent.
"You made my life a living hell. Do you have any fucking idea what it was like?"
You felt an urge to recoil, a primal instinct to yank yourself away and scrub his unsettling touch from your skin. But you couldn't pull back.
In that moment, the air in your lungs suddenly felt like wet concrete. A sharp, rhythmic thudding started behind your ribs, vibrating up into your jaw until your teeth ached. The world tilted, the edges of your vision fraying into static. You tried to swallow, but your throat had closed tight, leaving you to watch him through a haze that made your skin feel several sizes too small.
Was it guilt? Was it fear? Or were you regretting the fact that you had been caught in the web of your own making, stripped of the pride you had so carefully constructed?
In the end, you blinked the tears threatening to spill away, tearing your gaze from his. No.
No, you didn't want to hear it.
You didn't want to know.
But Niragi kept talking.
"Do you have any idea every day, every second, you had to walk around knowing that she and her little pack of jackals were waiting to sink their fucking teeth in?" he continued, voice trembling with fury. "To have people waiting at your desk every fucking morning just to remind you that you don't matter? To hear your name get passed around like a goddamn joke—every fucking day because she fucking could?"
Something maniac, even feral, crept into his words.
"To get beat to the ground again and again and fucking laughed at? You think I didn't go home every day and stare at the walls, wondering why I even fucking existed?"
You flinched.
He saw it.
And he fucking loved it.
"I think about it all the time," he let out a bitter chuckle. "How many times I wanted to fucking end it. And you?" He drawled, his easy smile reappeared. "You would've laughed. Wouldn't you?"
And in a jiff, you made a grave mistake.
"I didn't force you to be weak."
You didn't mean it, of course; recklessness was never your intention, you knew you were better than that. But the words were already there, already waiting. You struggled to convince yourself that it was merely the remnants of past arrogance is still subconsciously slipping through.
His fingers twitched, in an instant, without uttering a single word, he seized you by the throat, his grip like iron. As the unforgiving railing dug into the small of your back, a sharp gasp escaped your lips. Your hands instinctively shot behind you, fingers wrapping around the cold, rusted bars as your balance tipped.
"Ngh—let me go, you son of a bitch—"
You flail immediately as he cuts off your oxygen. You can't breathe. You can't fucking breathe. The world around you contracted under the pressure, and the sound of your pulse pounding desperately in your ears.
Your lungs burned, and your vision darkened. Ink, swallowing you whole. Everything flickered like a dying flame.
"What's wrong?" he spat in your face, "Not so fun when you're the one with your back against the wall, huh?"
His face was too close now.
Below, the drop stretched out like a dark abyss, its unfathomable depth yawned open, vast and endless. The distant waves crashed rhythmically against the shore, so far removed from your immediate peril that it felt insignificant. You could almost hear the insistent whisper of the wind urging you closer to the edge, where a single hard push—just one ruthless shove—could send you toppling over.
"Ohhh," he breathed, pressing down. Letting the metal bite into your skin. "Oh, this is perfect."
Your body rebelled, panic flaring, your other hand snapping up to claw at his wrist. Nails bit into his skin, but he didn't even flinch. Didn't even acknowledge the way you were twisting, kicking, your lungs already screaming.
"You feel that?" He nudged you—just slightly. Your other hand curled around the railing so hard it hurt. "One little push." The wind roared past your ears, stealing your breath, pulling at you as gravity itself had turned against you. "And you'd be gone."
A sick joy burned in his eyes, the same way you used to look at him. You hated how much he had changed—hated the way you had to reckon with it.
You gritted your teeth. "Fuck. You."
He hummed, fingers barely pushed against your collarbone. "How brave," he cooed, his tongue flicking out in a taunting, serpent-like gesture. "But I think I'm over the talking phase. I’d much rather just watch the light go out of those eyes, wouldn't you?"
With the last bit of strength you had left, you raised your hand and aimed at his piercings, planning to rip them off. He dodged it, and at that moment his hand loosened—just a little bit, then you swung.
Your fist collided with his face, a crack of knuckles against bone.
He backed off. For a fleeting moment, everything went silent.
Rough, calloused hands seized your arms, twisting them painfully behind your back. You fought against his men's grip, muscles straining, but they held you firm, dragging you forward before you could even throw another punch. Your knees threatened to buckle under the weight of their hold, but you willed yourself to stand tall, trying to steady your hands, shaking violently at your sides.
Niragi staggered back slightly, fingers grazing the split on his lip. He slowly lifted his gaze to meet yours, crimson pooled at the corner of his mouth. Yet to your surprise, a disturbing smile broke across his face.
"You really haven't changed, have you?" Before you could fully process his expression, his fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back to keep you in place. The searing pain shot through your scalp like electric currents, grounding you in the moment as you struggled to maintain your resolve despite the threat of his menacing demeanor.
"Normally, you'd be dead for that." He touched his lip, smearing the blood with his thumb.
Then he tilted his head, considering something. For a while, there's only the faint noises you assumed must be from the crowds partying and your own labored breathing.
Finally, he waved a hand.
The men let go.
Your hairline finally loosened, as if a ton of iron had been lifted off your head. You hit the ground harder than you expected, and the taste of bitterness filled your mouth.
"Then what are you waiting for, Niragi?" you snapped. "But we both know if you kill me, you’ll have nothing left to blame your shitty life on. So either shoot or shut up."
Niragi didn't react the way he was supposed to. There was no biting taunt ready to roll off his tongue, and certainly no flicker of triump igniting his eyes. Instead, his expression remained eerily neutral.
Which was wrong.
You knew he was angry. The atmosphere around you thickened, becoming suffocatingly heavy, as if an unseen force was pressing down relentlessly on your chest. Each heartbeat slamming against your ribs, reverberating with something you couldn't name, worse than rage. His silence suffocated you, more stifling than any grip he might have imposed.
"But killing you would be too easy," Niragi crouched in front of you, close enough that the blood trickling from his split lip dripped onto the floor between you both. He didn't wipe it away. "I don't want you dead. I’d much rather drag you under. I’m going to sink my hooks in until you’ve fallen just as far as I have."
You didn't know what was going on until he yanked your wrist again. Now you tried to pull away, but you couldn't escape his grip. You should have been able to do it. But this time, he wasn't holding back. He was like a stone statue, nothing changed no matter how much you pulled. His free hand lifted, and for one awful tick, you thought he was going to grab your hair again, force your head back, maybe spit another insult in your face.
But instead, his fingers brushed your jaw, a featherlight touch. Then a slow, deliberate stroke along your cheek that it's felt wrong; goosebumps rose under his touch. Something unfamiliar clawed its way up your throat.
"Y'know," he mused, sticking out his tongue once more, the silver glint of his piercing catching the light. "I was gonna let you walk out of here. Just let you sit in that little pit of regret."
Your breathing is still rapid.
"But now," His voice dipped. "I think I wanna hear you say it."
"Say. What."
His grip tightened slightly, just enough to send a sharp warning through your wrist.
"Say you're sorry."
The world around you faded into static.
A hundred memories cascaded over me in a torrent, overwhelming and chaotic—joyful laughter reverberating through crowded hallways, the sharp crack of a baseball colliding with skin, the way Niragi would avert his gaze, his head lowered whenever he faced you.
No.
No.
You refused.
You try to push yourself away as hard as you can, your bare feet sliding across the floor.
"Go fuck yourself."
Wrong answer.
The punch came so fast you barely saw it.
Bone met flesh with a sickening crack, pain exploding across your face in white-hot shards. Your head snapped sideways, the impact shaking your brain like a struck bell. Blood rushed to your nose, warm and metallic, filling your mouth before you even registered what had happened.
Your knees buckled the moment Niragi let go; you crumpled to the ground. Cold stone met your hands and knees as the world spun, vision blurring at the edges. You pressed on your bloody nose as you struggled to process the pain, you tasted iron. Somewhere above you, you heard him and his men's laughter. Like being held underwater crashing down on your head laughing laughing laughing at you under.
So this is what your own medicine tastes like.
"Say you're sorry."
Something hard and heavy slammed into the base of your spine, instantly forcing you to the ground.
You instinctively tried to push up, but his boot sank deeper. Your fingers curled into fists against the cold floor, a sick parody of submission. And you—
You broke into actual tears.
Burned hot in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks before you could stop them. You squeezed your eyes shut, but the tremors racking your body betrayed you.
A predator who had lost her teeth.
A queen whose crown had been stripped away.
"Oh, don't do that," he feigned disappointment, resting his forearms on his thigh. "Crying already? If you think this is 'bad,' you clearly haven't been paying attention to how much I’ve learned from you."
A hollow, broken sound escaped your throat. You bit down on it hard, but it didn't stop the way your body pathetically shook; you barely see straight, and each movement makes the dizziness worse.
"You're gonna do it eventually," he drawled, almost sweetly. "So why drag it out?"
He lifted his foot, allowing you a brief gasp of air—before his fingers snatched the front of your shirt and yanked you up. Your feet left the ground, for a split second, you weren't touching anything. The only thing holding you up was Niragi's grip. Then he begins to walk, dragging you behind him.
Your bare feet scraped against the stone, skidding and slipping as you stumbled to keep up, but it didn't matter. He was stronger, and you barely had the strength to fight back anymore. You weren't even a person in his grip. Just a rag doll, limp and useless to defend itself.
He pulled you back into the bedroom, it is much bigger than yours. The bed in front of you is almost three times your size. Your stomach lurched ahead, and it's then that your toe bumped against the threshold on the floor.
"Wait, wait," The words tumble out of you like water.
You felt increasingly nauseous as you realized what he was up to. Has this always been in the back of his mind? Ever since that first night The Beach took you in, and his hatred toward you simply given him a reason to do so?
If you could, you would scream for help. But you're fully aware, no one here would dare to cross his line.
He roughly threw you on the bed. Everything happened too fast, the first thing you realized was your head hitting the headboard, along with a sharp pain that shot through your senses. You might have broken a rib or two without the mattress, but that wasn't the most important.
"Please don't," your voice cracked as you started sobbing uncontrollably. Your face was smeared by blood dripping from your nose, which was a long, thick red line, barely diluted by the heavy night.
"Really?" He lets out an exaggerated sigh and pins you against the bed by your arms. "You're getting soft. You used to be so much more creative than this."
And then he was on top of you, cupping your face. Before you could brace yourself, his mouth crashed into yours with enough force to bruise. "Why are you refusing me?" he spat before placing another forceful kiss on your lips. You tasted blood and your own salty tears; his tongue raked over yours, piercing clicks against your teeth.
He bit your lips until they bled, you tried to spit them away. Then he bit your neck hollow, then the now over-sensitive skin just below your clavicle like a hungry beast tearing at its purest form. With each new spot, there was another bloody tooth mark. His hand slipped under your bikini – And that was exactly when the panic set in.
You violently thrashed against his hold, your limbs flailing as you kicked out in desperation, convinced that you had made contact. The adrenaline surged through you, driving your movements into chaotic bursts, you don't even know what you are doing.
He, on the other hand, just let out a tsk like you were a child throwing a tantrum.
"My, my... you’re putting up a fight, aren't you?"
His grip was iron, fingers pressing into your wrist like a man testing the strength of a branch before snapping it. You grit your teeth, jerking again. But it was useless. His weight pinned you down, his strength overwhelming yours completely.
He stopped.
The shift in the movement was sudden, one second he was yanking you around like a ragdoll, and the next he was utterly still. He let the atmosphere become strangely silent before continuing.
"How about we save you the trouble and just break it right now?"
The words slid out soft and slow, as if he was asking if you wanted sugar in your tea.
You tried to pull your hand back instinctively—It's already too late.
His grip tightened.
His other hand reached up, brushing his knuckles against your temple in a mockingly gentle touch, before pressing a slow, lingering kiss against the same spot. Your skin feels like there are thousands of bugs crawling under.
You didn't notice his fingers moved. They curled around yours slowly, and he savors the moment. His thumb stroked over your knuckles, almost like he was holding your hand. Then, he started bending your pinky backward.
A warning stretch. A slow, awful pull.
Then pressure.
CRACK.
Sharp pain rushes to your brain.
A strangled, gasping noise tore from your throat, your vision whited out momentarily. Very quickly, the dull pain shot up your arm in jagged waves, nerves screaming as if something had been set on fire beneath your skin. You barely registered the way your breath hitched by the adrenaline pumping through your body, your chest locking up as a shudder racked through you. Don't scream. Don't scream.
"Ohhh, tough girl," Niragi watched your face closely. His fingers twisted your ruined pinky slightly, making you flinch. "Holding it in, huh?"
Your teeth sank into your tongue.
"Don't worry." His hand slid down your forearm, fingers tracing over the exposed skin of your inner elbow. "You won't be quiet for long."
Before you could react, he dropped his weight onto your arm. Directly onto your elbow joint.
CRACK.
An agonizing, searing pain coursed through your limb, akin to lightning splitting you open from the inside out. Your body convulsed uncontrollably, a raw cry tearing from your throat before you could stifle it. Your screams echoed through the air, primal and guttural, the sound reminiscent of a wild animal in the grip of excruciating torment. The intensity of the pain left you reeling, your body arching and contorting as the lightning-like agony coursed through your nerve.
You lay limp on the bed, breath punching out of your lungs in a strangled sob. The unbearable pain was everywhere, crawling up your shoulder like fire burning your nerves alive. Your arm felt wrong, like it wasn't even yours anymore. Your fingers twitched, but you couldn't move them properly. A sick, unnatural looseness had taken over your elbow. You pressed your good hand to your arm as if that could somehow hold it together. The pain didn't stop—just kept spiraling outward, sending deep, sharp pulses through your whole body.
"Yeahhh, that one got you, huh?"
Somewhere above you, Niragi clicked his tongue. He gazed at you with an intensity that felt almost palpable. You bet he has fantasized about this moment for years, probably imagined you begging. Crying. Groveling. To lose every last shred of superiority you once held over him.
You heard his men walk into the room before you felt them.
Hands.
More of them.
Grabbing your legs. Pinning them down, binding them.
Ropes bit into your skin as they worked fast, yanking knots tight around your ankles. You tried to wrestle, but every movement sent another vicious jolt of pain through your shattered arm. Your breath came in rapid gasps, words spilling out in choked curses. At this, Niragi merely used his free hands to pin down your thighs.
And he waited until your body is exhausted, too exhausted to flail or fight him. Not that it did you any good, with a broken arm. And with him on your body, weighing you down. When you cease to do more than squirm pitifully against the bed, and your panting has gone from crying to merely heaving. It didn't take long for your body to feel foreign; it wasn't put together correctly anymore.
He smiled down at you, signals the men to leave the room. You watched their backs as they closed the door. You're not looking at Niragi anymore—you can't—preferring to keep your eyes shut, your lids swollen from all the tears. He leaned closer, and you can feel something soaked caressing your bare shoulder.
A hot wet tongue licked over your collarbone, leaving a line of drool on your skin. Niragi hummed, and it was the most horrible sound you had ever heard. He started tracing his tongue around your body, through each of your curves, as if describing your shape, and you feel disgusted; dull sparks explode from where he violated you.
"Did you ever think you'd see me like this?"
He took his time, starting at your bikini and pulling it aside. Then he moved to wrap his arm around you and grabbed your waist. You tried to squeeze your thighs together, but two fingers were already slipping under your bikini. He found your clit, and roughly pushed in. You're dry. It hurts. But he said nothing when your breath catched in your throat and you let out a pained wheeze.
You shrank into yourself, your hand trailing up, fingers threading into his hair before you could stop yourself from trying to push him away. The throbbing pain was the worst at the back of your skull, growing more painful every time he thrust, curled his fingers, or did anything. You knew you were going to come, but you didn't know how to handle the anxious twisting and coiling and blazing of pleasure as it stoked up to a feverish storm inside of you.
"Did you ever imagine the loser you bullied would be the one touching you like this?"
He pulls his fingers out, and there's relief for a minute, until you feel his thumb rubbing your slit.
"Fuck, it gets me even harder knowing you hate this."
He snatched your bikini off, stripping you down like a rat. You whimpered in your throat. Yet, he still had that damn stupid giraffe-print shirt on. The sight made you angry, somewhere deep inside. The pounding in your chest gave way to a righteous flush.
Shame.
His other hand slowly slid down between your tightly closed thighs, adjusting your hips, and he wiped away the blood and sweat, and dirt from the ground that clung to your skin. His lower pressed against you, and you turned your head away when you heard the rustling of fabric, not wanting to face what was rubbing against your bottom.
Without warning, his cock slammed straight inside you, your walls clenched, a feeble attempt to push him out; and then spasm when he plunges deeper. Before you could get used to it, he moved roughly, rocking your body up and down. You pressed your lips together, stopping yourself from making any disgusting sounds. Your toes curl, your body struggling to keep up with all the sensations. Too much, everything, everything—the bruising sound of his hips against yours, the tight warmth of the blood that had been flowing all this time overwhelmed you.
You threw your head back, and stared at the clock hanging. The ticking filled the silence. You could count the time, follow the rhythm, let it pull you away from here. Away from now.
It was hard to do that, though. One of his hand held you, the other gripped your waist; he dug his thumb into your waist and jerked you back against him every time you swayed from his batterings. His cock pushed into you—over and over again, in flow with the clock ticking. Occasionally, you felt his thumb at your stretched clit, rubbing slow, languid circles.
Tick. One... two... three... Wait. Was it three?
You started again. One... two... three... four... No, it was three.
Tick, tick, tick. It didn't matter anymore, but you kept counting. Each second bled into the next, stretching and warping, dissolving into nothing. Maybe if you listened hard enough, let the numbers pile up, you could disappear between them.
His nails were digging into your flesh, hard enough that blood might've flowed down. Instead of numbing your mind, everything seemed hotter, sharper, and more intense than ever. You could feel your veins hammer beneath your skin, your walls tightening around his cock while he, clothing still intact, pants only pulled down halfway, pounds inside you. "You know," he groaned, pushing deeper. "The moment I saw you at that game... every night... I always imagined to fuck you senseless on this mattress. I hate you, I hate everything you stand for, every fibre of your being. "
You tried to snap back, be anything but this broken thing beneath him. But all that came out was a stuttering attempt to make sense of anything of value. In an effort to calm yourself, you reached toward him, gripping his shirt, but that only seemed to spur him to tighten his grip on you.
You didn't know how long this would last. Tears ran down your cheeks, they were cold.
"—Now say it."
He moved his arm and squeezed your broken arm. Another terrible pain shot through, sending your overstimulated nerves into a frenzy. You gasped, desperately parted your lips to take a breath.
Right at that instant, he pressed two fingers between your teeth, preventing you from closing your mouth. You swore to God that you used all your strength to bite down, the disgusting metallic taste of his blood was rushing straight back into your mouth, but he didn't seem to feel the pain at all.
"Tell me you're sorry. You don't want to have two bum arms in your next game, don't you?" he held your broken arm and pressed his warm lips against them. Those very fingers, now quaking under his touch, used to throw baseballs at him with youthful abandon. How absurd that is, for an action so gentle to be filled with so much hatred?
You imagined brushing your teeth a thousand times and never forgetting his disgusting feeling. Instead, you could only moan like a cheap whore, the saliva on your tongue dripping down your chin.
"I—"
Your voice broke.
A slow, simmering shame crept in like a festering wound. You're not some regretful saint, nor an irredeemable monster. You're a product of the system you thrived in, and now that the system has flipped, you're forced to face the consequences in the most brutal way possible.
"Come on, now," Niragi scornfully looked at you struggling. "Don't be stubborn."
There's a hand moved to your back, keeping you in place while the pacing kept increasing. You stiffened, your hips jerking unsteadily against him, your inner walls clamping down like a vice as a fresh flush of slick dripped out around his cock. You fixated on the clock hanging ominously above, its hands moving with an excruciating slowness that only deepened your sense of despair. You just wanted it to be over. All you ever wanted was for it to be over.
The warm, moist sensation of his tongue tracing the jagged edges of your bleeding, raw wounds pulled you sharply back to reality. The tongue-piercing rub on your skin, making its way to your neck and leaving behind a cold, wet stripe across your skin. He then stopped at your bleeding lips and brushed his tongue over them lightly.
"This is your last chance."
He brought his other hand down, pressing force on your good arm.
You shook your head, and without saying anything, he roughly slammed his hips into you once more, causing you to shriek. You choked on every word by the stench of blood, breaking apart as he buried deeper.
"...I- I'm sorry."
The words came out so much smaller than you wanted them to.
As soon as you finished speaking, you felt his pacing increase. Niragi thrust in and out relentlessly, increasing the pain and torment. You felt being torn in two—your body protested the assault; your eyes were watery, the pain wouldn't go away, thumping in time with your heartbeat. Your lips and nose were bleeding, and for every few breaths, a cold pain hit your arm.
You didn't know how long it had been until it was over. His hands wrapped around you and pulled you closer, your thighs trying to open and close around him in a panic. And with another thrust, your insides tightened around his cock, filling you with something hot, thick, and disgusting. Some of it dripped down your thighs, staining your skin. You wanted to throw up, even though it wasn't in your mouth.
After that, you think about birth control. About breaking into a pharmacy to get a pack of pills. You wanted to go to the bathroom and wash everything inside you with hot water. You wanted to drink pure alcohol to remove the taste of his blood from your mouth. You wanted to find an aid kit to treat the wounds on your body.
However, now, everything was silent. Or almost silent. Just your breaths and the noise somewhere on the wall, the soft ticking of a clock. The muffled sounds outside, but perhaps that was just what was rushing into your ears.
You were sticky and wet all over, from blood to sweat to cum, it was impossible to ignore another sickening feeling in the back of your throat, and you couldn't keep your eyes open. Fucked out, used to the very limit.
But he wasn't done.
"Look here," Niragi coaxes, his fingers lifted, gripping your chin. His voice dipped lower. "Look at me."
You didn't need to be told thrice. You squinted against the light, trying to find the strength, blinking away the blur of exhaustion and tears.
When your sight steadied, you found his face hovering just inches from yours; he's on top of you, panting as he looked at you with widened eyes. You instantly kept your eyes down, but you could feel him watching. The weight of his gaze pressed down on you, heavier than the pain searing through your broken arm.
He didn't laugh, didn't sneer, didn't gloat like you thought he would.
That was wrong.
Because this—this was supposed to be the moment he won. He had you exactly where he wanted you. On his bed. Underneath him. Shattered. You'd given him what he wanted. So why did it feel like something was still missing?
Finally, he moved.
"To be honest, I thought this would feel better." His forehead dipped forward, pressing against yours, his exhale fanned against your lips.
But you didn't miss it, there was no satisfaction in his eyes. It wasn't enough. Even after all of this—it wasn't enough.
"You should've fought harder."
The silence stretches. The weight of his touch lingers, his fingers, still smeared with blood—your blood, his blood—trail absently down your bruised cheek, over swollen lids. As if he's searching for something, but without conviction now.
His other hand ghosts over your dislocated arm. The way your body trembled doesn't escape his notice. His smirk twitches back into place, yet it feels off, lacking authenticity. It reminds you of when you slipped into your old high school party dress, the fabric straining uncomfortably against your frame. You didn't dare breathe when his fingers dug in, tilting your head slightly. The look in his eyes changed, determined now.
Like he's wondering if breaking you wasn't enough. Maybe he needs to grind you down further. Maybe he needs to see what's left underneath. Until there's nothing left of you.
"You should've made me hate you more."
Then he let out a breathy, humorless laugh.
That was it.
That was the problem.
He was disappointed, and that scared you more than anything.
Because even he didn't know why.
Because even after everything, something inside him still wanted more.
But you were so tired.
Before everything went black, the clock's rhythm faltered.
Then silence.
How r u doing bby hows life rn
hii queen,
i’ve finally returned back to tumblr fully after a few months, primarily due to the fact I was severely depressed even being active online was too much. it’s been an immense amount of hospitalization, appointments, and diagnoses. although it’s giving me a surge of creativity and motivation through these hardships which I find incredibly beautiful. With that I’m still continuing my fic, work and classes just overwhelmed me. I really appreciate anyone checking up on me, thank you. How have you been this spring?
your writing style is so delictable i’m completely envious of it. i was wondering if you can possibly write a dark fiction where the reader is part of denver’s department investigating the disappearances of several kids, and she’s just too close to solving it. so in retaliation, the grabber abducts her and holds her captive as his own personal ‘toy’. make him rlly mean and condescending. i have faith in you, all ur works are just perfect.
On the case
A/N: I’ve been chillin thank you for the request sorry it took so long life got in the way
The stale, recycled air of the Denver PD precinct was a perfume you’d grown accustomed to, a cocktail of stale coffee, cheap printer ink, and the faint, metallic tang of desperation. For six months, it had been your entire world. Six months since the first kid vanished, Billy Showalter. Then Griffin, then Vance, then Bruce. The city was holding its breath, and you were the one drowning in the lack of it. Your desk was a fortress of case files, crime scene photos, and inter-departmental memos, a paper mausoleum for the missing. You were Detective (Y/N) (L/N), and this case was eating you alive from the inside out.
Your partner, Detective Miller, a gruff, old-timer who’d seen it all and was tired of seeing it again, slapped a fresh stack of reports on your desk. "Another dead end, (L/N). We’ve interviewed every friend, every relative, every teacher. We’re chasing a ghost."
You didn't look up, your eyes glued to the city map pinned to your corkboard. A grid of streets, a web of potential horror. "We're missing something, Miller. There’s a pattern, a geographic one. The disappearances, they’re like ripples in a pond. They all radiate from a central point."
You’d spent weeks with a cartographer, a GIS specialist, and a profiler, cross-referencing abduction sites with last known locations, bus routes, and hangouts. And you’d found it. A blind spot. A quiet, unassuming suburban neighborhood on the edge of North Denver that had somehow escaped the net. No witnesses had mentioned it. No suspects lived there. It was a void in the data, and your gut screamed that the void was where the monster lived.
"I'm going in," you said, standing up and grabbing your jacket.
Miller sighed, rubbing his temples. "Going in where? Door to door? That's a needle in a haystack. You need a warrant, probable cause."
"I've got a hunch," you countered, your voice tight with conviction. "And a hunch is all I've got. I'll just be asking questions, feeling things out. No one needs to know I'm zeroing in on them. I'll be friendly, concerned. A canvasser for neighborhood watch."
It was a flimsy plan, reckless and bordering on insubordination. But the faces of the missing boys were burned into your eyelids, a constant, silent accusation. You couldn't sleep. You couldn’t eat. You could only hunt.
The neighborhood was exactly as you’d pictured it: a slice of American pie with a rotten core. Manicured lawns, pristine white picket fences, minivans in driveways. It was too perfect, too quiet. It was the kind of place where secrets festered in the basements. You started on one end of the street, your badge tucked away, a friendly, practiced smile plastered on your face. You were just a concerned citizen, gathering support for a community safety initiative. Most people were polite but dismissive, eager to close the door on your carefully rehearsed speech.
Then you reached the last house on the block. 425 North Genevieve Street. It was a modest, well-kept ranch-style home, the lawn a little too green, the curtains a little too perfect. A black van, the kind plumbers or electricians use, was parked in the driveway. It was clean, almost suspiciously so. Your cop-sense, the primal instinct that had kept you alive on the streets for a decade, started screaming.
You knocked on the door. It was opened almost instantly by a man who made your smile falter for a fraction of a second. He was handsome, in a clean-cut, almost theatrical way. Dark hair, neatly combed, and a pair of intense, dark eyes that seemed to see right through you. He wore a simple button-down shirt and slacks, but there was an air about him, a calculated stillness that was deeply unsettling. He was holding a black magician’s wand, idly tapping it against his palm.
"Can I help you?" he asked. His voice was smooth, melodic, the kind of voice that could sell you a bridge you didn't want.
You recovered instantly, your smile snapping back into place. "Hi, sir. My name is Sarah. I'm with the Denver Neighborhood Watch Alliance. We're just going door to door in the area, talking to residents about recent… concerns."
His eyes flickered, a micro-expression of something you couldn't quite read annoyance? Curiosity? "Concerns?" he repeated, his head tilting slightly.
"Yes," you said, launching into your pitch. "There have been some reports of suspicious activity in the general vicinity, and we're encouraging everyone to be a little more vigilant. To lock their doors, keep an eye on the kids in the neighborhood."
"A noble cause," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. It didn't reach his eyes. "Please, come in. Out of this dreadful wind."
It was the last thing you expected, and a warning bell went off in your head. Never go inside. But refusing would seem odd. It would blow your cover. And you were so close. You could feel it.
"Thank you," you said, stepping inside.
The house was immaculate. Too clean. It smelled faintly of lemon polish and something else, something chemical and sterile. The furniture was dated but meticulously cared for. On a small table by the door was a flier for a birthday party.
Your blood ran cold.
"Can I offer you some lemonade, Sarah?" he asked, his voice laced with a cloying sweetness.
"No, thank you, I'm fine," you said, your eyes scanning the room, your mind cataloging every detail. "I won't take up much of your time."
"Nonsense," he said, moving towards the kitchen. "It's a hot day. And I insist."
He turned his back, and that was your chance. While he was occupied, you needed to see more. You took a few steps towards the hallway that led deeper into the house. There was a door under the stairs, the classic basement entrance. It was painted white, just like the trim, but you noticed the lock. It was a heavyduty deadbolt, the kind you’d see on a warehouse door, not a suburban home. It was new, the fresh paint around its edges a stark giveaway.
Your heart was hammering against your ribs. This was it. This was the place.
"Here we are," he said, returning with a tall glass of lemonade. He held it out to you.
You had to take it. To refuse would be an admission. You wrapped your fingers around the cold, sweating glass. "Thank you, Mr…?"
"Shaw," he said smoothly. "Albert Shaw. And it's my pleasure. I care deeply about this community. About its children." His eyes bore into yours, and you felt a profound, primal sense of danger, like a mouse that had just realized it was in the parlor of a cat.
You took a sip of the lemonade. It was too sweet, cloying, with a strange, bitter aftertaste. Almost instantly, you felt a wave of dizziness wash over you. The room began to tilt, the edges of your vision blurring.
"What…" you started, but the word was thick, slurred. Your limbs felt heavy, leaden. The glass slipped from your fingers, shattering on the hardwood floor.
Albert Shaw didn't even flinch. He just watched you, a look of calm, clinical interest on his face. "It's a special recipe," he said, his voice seeming to come from a great distance. "A little something to help you relax. You look so tense, Detective."
He knew. He knew from the moment you knocked on his door. The whole thing had been a trap, and you had walked right into it.
Your legs gave out, and you collapsed to the floor. The last thing you saw before the darkness took you was his face, leaning over you, a triumphant, terrifying smile on his lips. "Welcome home," he whispered.
You woke up to a world of concrete and cold. The air was damp, thick with the smell of mildew, rust, and something else, something coppery and familiar that you couldn't quite place. Your head was throbbing, a dull, persistent ache that radiated from the base of your skull. You were lying on a thin, filthy mattress on a concrete floor. Your hands were bound behind your back with rough, scratchy rope that bit into your wrists. Your badge, your gun, your phone all gone.
Panic, cold and sharp, seized you. You forced it down, burying it under years of training and discipline. Assess. Observe. Survive.
The room was a basement. A single, bare lightbulb hung from a frayed cord overhead, casting long, dancing shadows. The walls were lined with shelves, cluttered with an assortment of junk: old paint cans, broken tools, stacks of yellowed newspapers. But your eyes were drawn to the floor. Littered across the concrete were small, seemingly random objects. A dirty baseball. A pair of glasses with a cracked lens. A single, tattered sneaker.
A black sneaker, with a distinctive orange swoosh.
Bruce Yamada's sneaker. You remembered it from his file. His mother had tearfully described it to you, the last thing she’d seen him wearing.
The reality of your situation crashed down on you with the force of a physical blow. You weren't just a prisoner. You were in the Grabber's lair. You were in his trophy room.
The sound of footsteps on wooden stairs made your heart leap into your throat. The basement door creaked open, and a slice of light from the floor above cut through the gloom. A silhouette descended, and then he was there, standing over you.
Albert Shaw. He had changed out of his slacks and button down shirt into a pair of worn jeans and a black t-shirt. He looked different down here, stripped of his suburban-dad camouflage. This was the predator, unmasked.
"Good morning, Detective (Y/N) (L/N)," he said, his voice dripping with a condescending amusement. "Or is it evening? It's so easy to lose track of time down here."
The sound of your name, your full name, from his lips was a jolt of pure terror. He knew. He knew everything.
You said nothing, just stared up at him, your face a mask of defiance. You would not give him the satisfaction of seeing your fear.
He chuckled, a low, grating sound. "Feeling quiet? That's fine. I enjoy a silent audience. I have to admit, I've seen you on the news. You're very photogenic. All that passion, that fire. The reporters eat it up. 'Fierce Detective (L/N) Won't Rest.' It's quite the performance."
He crouched down, his face inches from yours. His eyes were dark, fathomless pools of malice. "You're a very clever girl. I'll give you that. Closer than anyone else. But you see what being clever gets you? It gets you… noticed."
He stood up and began to pace, a caged animal in his own private zoo. "I have to admit, I was impressed. Your little geographic profiling? Brilliant. Truly. But you made one critical mistake." He stopped pacing and pointed a finger at you, his voice suddenly rising, laced with a sudden, white hot rage. "You thought you were the hunter! You thought you could just waltz into my neighborhood, into my home, and poke around? You arrogant, stupid bitch!"
The sudden shift was jarring, his calm demeanor shattering like glass. He kicked a stack of paint cans, sending them clattering to the floor. The noise echoed in the small, concrete space, making you flinch.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" he screamed, his face contorted with fury. "Do you have any idea how careful I am? How meticulous? And you just… you just strolled in here with your fake smile and your stupid questions! You could have ruined everything! Everything!"
He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He glared at you, his eyes burning with a maniacal intensity. For a moment, you thought he was going to kill you right then and there.
But then, as quickly as it came, the rage subsided. He took a deep, shuddering breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the fire was gone, replaced by a chilling, calm resolve. He walked over to the workbench, his movements slow and deliberate, and picked up a roll of duct tape.
"But it's alright," he said, his voice now soft, almost soothing, a stark contrast to his previous outburst. "It's alright now. Because you're here. And I can fix this. I can fix you." He ripped off a long strip of tape with a loud, menacing tear. "First things first. We can't have you screaming. My brother, Max, is upstairs. He's such a light sleeper. And we wouldn't want to disturb him, would we?"
He knelt down, his face a mask of serene concentration. "Open wide, (Y/N)."
You clenched your jaw shut, a final, futile act of rebellion.
He sighed, a sound of profound, paternal disappointment. "Always so difficult. It's the thing I admired most about you on TV, and it's the thing that's going to cause you the most pain."
He grabbed your jaw, his fingers digging into the pressure points, forcing your mouth open. He pressed the duct tape over your lips, the adhesive pulling at your skin, sealing your screams inside. The world was suddenly muffled, your own breathing loud and ragged in your ears.
"There now," he said, admiring his handiwork, his voice calm and gentle once more. "Perfect. All better."
He then moved down to your feet, untying your shoes and pulling them off. He ran a hand over your sock clad foot, a strangely intimate, violating gesture. Then he pulled out a length of chain and a padlock. He wrapped the chain around your ankle, securing it to a heavy iron ring bolted to the concrete floor.
He stood up, dusting off his hands as if he'd just completed a minor household chore. "Comfortable? No? Good." He looked down at you, his head tilted, a look of intense, unnerving curiosity on his face. "You know, I've been watching you, (Y/N). On the news. Reading the papers. You're so fierce. So determined. I wonder what that fire looks like when it's broken. I wonder what sounds you make when you're not in control."
He crouched down one last time, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't worry. We're going to find out. Together."
He turned and walked back up the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the suffocating silence. The door at the top of the stairs creaked open, then slammed shut, plunging you into near-total darkness, the single bare bulb your only star. You were alone with the ghosts of the boys who had come before you, their silent, scattered possessions a chilling testament to your fate. And in the suffocating darkness, the true horror began to set in. This wasn't just about being captured. This was about being owned. And Albert Shaw was a master of his domain.
Time became a meaningless concept in the basement. There was only the oppressive darkness, broken by the harsh glare of the single bulb when Albert deigned to turn it on. There was the gnawing hunger in your stomach and the persistent, bone deep cold. There was the chafing of the rope on your wrists and the heavy, cold weight of the chain on your ankle.
He came and went at irregular intervals. Sometimes hours would pass, sometimes what felt like a full day. He never brought you food. He only brought you a small, metal cup of water, which he would hold to your lips, his eyes watching you with an unnerving, clinical intensity as you drank. It was a small act of mercy that was entirely for his own benefit. He didn't want his new toy breaking too soon.
His visits were a twisted form of theater, a rollercoaster of his volatile moods. He would swing from a calm, almost fatherly demeanor to explosive, unpredictable rage in the blink of an eye. One moment he'd be sitting on the bottom step, talking to you in a soft, reasonable voice about the philosophical nature of order, and the next he'd be on his feet, pacing and screaming, kicking at the junk on the shelves, his face purple with fury over some perceived slight, some memory of a disobedient child.
"You think you're so smart, don't you, (Y/N)?" he'd snarl, his voice a low growl. "Sitting there with your judgmental silence. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking you're better than me. But you're not! You're just like all the rest! A filthy, disobedient little thing that needs to be taught a lesson!"
Then, as suddenly as it began, the storm would pass. He would stop, take a deep breath, and his whole posture would change. The rage would drain away, replaced by a chilling, sorrowful calm. "I'm sorry, my dear," he'd say, his voice soft, contrite. "I don't mean to yell. It's just… you make me so… passionate. You bring out such strong emotions in me. It's because you're special. Truly special."
He would sit on the edge of your mattress then, his presence a heavy, suffocating weight. He would analyze your police work, pointing out flaws in your logic with a smug, professorial air. "You were so close, (Y/N). But you were looking for a monster in the shadows, when you should have been looking for the man next door. The friendly magician. The helpful neighbor. That's the real magic, isn't it? Misdirection."
You tried to fight him. In the beginning, you screamed behind the tape, you thrashed against your bonds, you glared at him with every ounce of hatred you could muster. But he fed off your defiance. It was the very thing he wanted to break.
After what you guessed was three days, the hunger became a physical presence, a hollow, aching void that consumed your thoughts. Your body felt weak, your muscles trembling with exertion. Your defiance was starting to crumble, eroded by the slow, creeping starvation and the relentless assault on your psyche.
It was during one of these moments of weakness that he decided to change the game. He came down the stairs, not with his usual calm demeanor, but with a frantic, nervous energy. He was pacing, wringing his hands.
"Max is asking questions," he muttered, more to himself than to you. "He heard something. He's getting suspicious. I can't have him coming down here. I can't."
He stopped and looked at you, his eyes wild. "This is your fault. You and your… noise. Your presence here is a complication. A risk."
He strode over to you, his face twisted in a mask of fury. "You see what you do? You bring chaos! You bring disorder into my home!" He ripped the duct tape from your mouth. The pain was sharp and immediate, but the sudden ability to draw a full, unrestricted breath was overwhelming.
"Please," you rasped, your throat raw and dry. "Please, just let me go. I won't say anything. I swear."
His face contorted again, a fresh wave of rage crashing over him. "LET YOU GO?" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "YOU BELONG TO ME! YOU'RE MINE! YOU STUPID, UNGRATEFUL CUNT!" He grabbed a handful of your hair, yanking your head back. "I'll show you what happens when you try to leave. I'll show you what happens when you disobey me!"
He forced his mouth onto yours, a brutal, punishing kiss that tasted of his rage and your own blood. He tore at your clothes, his movements clumsy and violent, driven by a furious need to dominate. The fabric ripped, the sound a final, brutal punctuation mark to your dignity.
He didn't bother with any more pretense. He forced your legs apart, his body a heavy, suffocating weight. He entered you in one, brutal, unprepared thrust. The pain was blinding, a white hot agony that tore a scream from your throat. It wasn't just a physical violation it was a spiritual annihilation. He was not just raping your body he was raping your identity, your past, your future. He was taking the fierce, independent detective and reducing her to a whimpering, broken thing.
"That's it," he grunted, his hips moving in a punishing rhythm. "Take it. This is all you are now. A hole. A toy. My toy."
He held you down, his hands pinning your wrists, his body a cage. You closed your eyes, trying to dissociate, to go somewhere else in your mind. But he wouldn't let you.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice harsh. When you didn't respond, he slapped you, the sharp crack of his hand against your cheek shocking you back to the horrific reality. "I said, look at me, (Y/N)!"
You opened your eyes, and the sheer, unadulterated evil you saw in his gaze was more terrifying than any physical pain. He was enjoying this. He was reveling in your destruction.
"You see?" he panted, his pace quickening. "This is where you belong. Under me. Taking what I give you. This is your purpose."
He finished with a deep, guttural groan, his body shuddering with release. He collapsed on top of you for a moment, a dead weight of ownership and disgust. Then he pushed himself up, casually tucking himself back into his trousers.
He looked down at you, at your torn clothes, your bruised body, the tears and blood mingling on your thighs. For a moment, he just stared, his chest heaving. Then, the rage seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a strange, sorrowful calm.
He knelt down, his touch surprisingly gentle as he brushed a strand of hair from your sweaty forehead. "Oh, my sweet girl," he whispered, his voice soft, soothing, a terrifying contrast to the violence of moments before. "Look what you made me do. Look at the mess you've made." He sighed, a sound of profound regret. "It's alright now. It's over. We're clean."
He stood up and walked to the workbench, returning with a damp cloth. He gently cleaned the blood from your thighs, his touch meticulous, almost reverent. "There now," he murmured. "All better. We just have to be more careful, don't we? We have to learn to be good."
He didn't bother to cover you. He just turned and walked up the stairs, leaving you naked, shivering, and broken on the cold concrete floor. The sound of the door locking was the final, damning note in your symphony of despair. The whiplash from his rage to his tenderness was more confusing, more damaging than the violence itself. It was a poison designed to make you question your own reality. And it was working.
The rapes were not a one time event. They became a ritual, a regular part of his volatile visits. He would come down the stairs, and you would know. The look in his eyes would change, the mask of the calm, collected captor would slip, and the predator would emerge. Sometimes he would talk to you while he did it, his voice a twisted mix of degradation and a bizarre, possessive affection. He'd tell you that you were his favorite, that you were special, that the others had been disobedient, but you… you had potential. Other times, he would be silent, his movements brutal and efficient, a purely physical act of domination.
With each violation, a piece of you died. The detective, the woman, the fighter they all chipped away, eroded by the relentless onslaught of his cruelty. But something else was happening, something more insidious and terrifying. The hunger, the isolation, the constant, unyielding psychological warfare it was doing something to your mind.
He started to change his tactics. The rapes were still brutal, but they were sometimes followed by moments of strange, twisted kindness. He would bring you a piece of bread after, a meager offering that your starving body craved. He would gently clean your wounds, his touch surprisingly soft. He would talk to you, not about his crimes, but about himself. About his childhood, about his difficult relationship with his father, about his love of magic.
"I never wanted to be like this," he confided in you one evening, his voice quiet, almost vulnerable. He was sitting on the edge of your mattress, stroking your hair. "But the world… it's such a messy, chaotic place. Someone has to bring order. Someone has to clean up the mess."
He was gaslighting you, manipulating you, weaving a new reality around you. He wasn't a monster; he was a victim of circumstance. He wasn't raping you; he was teaching you, connecting with you. He wasn't starving you; he was testing you, making you stronger.
And the most horrifying part of all was that a part of you was starting to believe him. Your mind, desperate for any kind of logic, any kind of meaning in the madness, was beginning to accept his narrative. It was a survival mechanism. If he was your savior, not your captor, then this wasn't hell. It was a trial. And if you could just pass the trial, you would be saved.
You started to crave his visits, not for the sex, but for the human contact. For the sound of your name on his lips. For the piece of bread he might bring. You started to anticipate his moods, to learn what would please him and what would anger him. You stopped fighting. You stopped resisting. You became pliant. Obedient.
One day, he came down the stairs and found you quietly sitting on your mattress, your hands folded in your lap. You looked up at him, your eyes clear, no longer filled with defiance or hatred, but with a quiet, unnerving acceptance.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, surprised. "Well now," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Look at you. My little dove. You're finally learning."
He walked over and crouched in front of you. He didn't touch you, not yet. He just looked at you, his eyes filled with a terrifying, possessive pride.
"You're so much more beautiful like this," he whispered. "So calm. So… mine."
He reached out and gently stroked your cheek. You didn't flinch. You leaned into his touch, a small, involuntary gesture of a starving animal seeking warmth.
He laughed, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph. "I knew it," he breathed. "I knew you were the one. The perfect one. You understand me, don't you, (Y/N)?"
You looked into his eyes, the eyes of the man who had raped you, starved you, and broken you, and you whispered, the word feeling both alien and true, "Yes."
In that moment, the last vestige of Detective (Y/N) (L/N) died. And in her place was something new, something broken, something terrifyingly loyal. She was Albert Shaw's greatest magic trick. He had made a cop disappear and replaced her with a toy. And she, in her own shattered, desperate way, was grateful. The cage had become her home, and the monster had become her god.
I think I’m in love with you
Halfway completed with the Arisu fic. That took me an eternity, oml.
Happyy belated valentines!! Last two parts won't take as long, promise :^)
Preludes: one | two CH 1: part one | part two | part three
This is so um 😻😻😻
Is anything in the works???
yesss, i’m currently writing a long one of arisu. i was planning to work on it this week but yesterday I got in a car collision, how unfortunate. so the publish date may be pushed a little bit. take care. 🤍
This may be really niche but I am ready to take EmKai to tumblr - If no one else is gonna do a timeline post then I’ll do it my mf self.
my tumblr and ao3 are between me and God only
