#but in a kidnapped/tortuer x victim way

[writeousposting]

took a writing prompt a ran w it.. havent finished, but here's the wip for now, since ive not posted anything writing yet on here.

Wip under the cut.

It was a shining day, the sun blaring down on the people of Yokohama, not quite blistering, but not gently in any way. A seemingly perfect day for Osamu.

Warmness was always her favourite; it reminded her of home. The agency.

Speaking of; she was heading there from her dorm! She was a bit (very) late, but it was a routine, at this point! Though, she was sure that Kunikida would be angry. She was a bit later than usual, to his defence.

As if on a cue, to save her from her demise of work, a strangely familiar portal opened beneath her. Strange, she could have sworn her ability nullified other’s.

It usually did! Not at the touch of the ability itself, though, hence the portal, she reasoned. Not giving herself a second to think about what to do, she clumsily fell through said portal, the yellowish glistening exterior encasing her, almost gently.

Weird.

Though, she had no time to linger and consider the feeling, as she was quickly thrown out of it, head pounding as she realised her eyes had somehow slid shut.

As she opened the lids that encased the balls inset in her skull, once thing become apparent;

She collapsed! And her head hurt! One weird thing right into another! (Though, they were likely connected.) It didn’t take long for the uncomfortable pounding of her head to lighten to a mild headache, and for her to realise she had been kidnapped.

How unfortunate.. Perhaps it was a beautiful woman willing to commit double suicide with her? (Not that she actually cared about beautiful women.)

Though… As she glanced around the place she woke in, she came to the quick realisation that it was important to get going and start figuring out on how to get out of the.. Cage she was in. She blinked. A Cage. And not just a cage, a dog crate. A roomy one, she fit it easily, but it was still built for a dog.

A wretched mutt of a creature, she thought. Thankfully for her, no dog seemed to be in sight or had been in the crate for at least some time.

Speaking of sight, a quick sweep of the room revealed a particular lack of it. There was only one, small lamp atop the crate she was being held in, just enough for her to see herself and just barely outside the crate, and not much farther.

Attempting to push herself forward, against the cage’s door, makes her deathy aware that a collar is tied tightly around her throat and bound to the bars at the back of the cage, straining at her neck as she leans towards the entrance.

The collar tightened. She leaned back towards where it was tied to evade any possible choking.

She was even chained up like a dog.

This had to of been on purpose, she thought bitterly. Someone she knew was doing this.

But who?

As if given a cue, a soft creaking of a door at the top of what Osamu assumes is stairs leading down to the - assumed - cellar she was stuck in echo’s out into her ears. She held her breath as steps slowly approached, stairs audibly straining under the weight of her captor.

She stared expectingly, waiting. It was only one set of footsteps, she could do a one v one.

However, whatever she was expecting was false - not that she knew what she was expecting - as Fyodor, the Russian terrorist, is who steps out of the dark, flicking the lights on to give the brunette a better line of sight at the rat of a man.

”Dostoevsky,” she seethed, a cough violently pushing its way out of her throat. Probably from the stale air and dust of the cellar, she thought, internal monologue bitter in every sense of the word, even the dissatisfying taste of a salty meal lingered on her tongue at the sight of the man.

Said man snickered, approaching the cage with an amused glint in his eyes. Her hands gripped a leash, pink in colour, tight enough his knuckles turned white.

The Russian bent down to the entrance of the cage, opening it slowly, movement methodical, practised, purposeful.

Osamu couldn't help but scowl disapprovingly. She had been captured by a rat, she thought angrily. She would never live this down.

Another amused noise escaped the Russian’s throat. His pale limps reached out, and Osamu quickly backed as far into the cage as she could, like a feral animal backing from the touch of a vet.

As much as she detested the cage, the crate, she despised that man even more. He could barely be considered a man at all, in her eyes. (not that she was better).

The being before her returned the sneer, before his expression returned to a neutral one. A tingle of pride shot through Osamu as that small, VERY small, victory.

However, that single moment of distraction is what got her attached to the leash in the monster’s hands and unlatched from the crate.

She would have been thankful for that, if it were not Dostoevsky at the other end of the leash.

If it were Chuuya, maybe she wouldn't mind, but the girl wasn't here, and instead that thing was, she spat to herself, mentally, of course. (she would never admit to preferring Chuuya over anyone. Over her dead fucking body).

She would crudely snapped from her thoughts as Dostoevsky harshly tugged at the leash, beckoning the detective out of the crate. With a tense sigh, Osamu followed, crawling out of the crate (if only it were large enough to stand in, she mused), and stood once she exited.

Apparently that was the wrong thing to do, as the person before her quickly shoved her to the ground, quite rudely, might she add, without a word.

A quiet yelp escaped her mouth despite herself. Her face flushed a beat red.

Dostoevsky’s lips curled upwards at the corners, “Dogs don’t stand on two legs, yknow,” she spoke smoothly, voice almost comforting at the way it sounded.

Osamu quickly slapped herself to take the thought out of her mind. Dostoevsky was not comforting, no. That was worse than admitting Chuuya was someone she valued! (which she wasn't).

It took a moment for the brunette to realise that she had been called a dog.

Well, that would explain the crate, she thought, glancing at it bitterly. She detested everything ‘dog’. And rat. But mostly dog.

Shaking her mind clear, she glared up at Dostoevsky, who seemed to be observing her with amusement.

”What,” Osama barked out, holding back a snarl. That would be too dog-like.

”Nothing,” she insisted, shaking her head gently, “Just waiting for you to be ready to go upstairs,” he added on, somehow graceful as he stood in a dirty wet cellar.

Of which Osamu was on the floor of. Pushing aside her pride, she nodded solemnly, “I’m ready,” she sighed out.

A smile graced Fyodor’s lips, “Then let’s go.” he began to walk, hand still harshly gripping the poor leash that had been latched to her via the collar unfortunately bound to her throat.

Recounting the crude way she had been shoved to the ground when standing, Osamu opted to crawl, on her hand and knees.

If she got dirty, she could simply clean it once she got out of whatever game Dostoevsky was plotting.

After a small struggle against the stairs, Osamu was lead to a living room, a large one, at that.

She supposes that the Russian was rich, which would explain the large living spaces as well as the well-executed décor.

"Stay," was the only word that left Dostoevsky's lips as he led Osamu to sit beside the couch, not on the couch, but beside it.

Osamu supposes that the man was taking the 'dog' thing overly serious. Fyodor would disappear into the kitchen, giving Osamu a chance to inspect her surroundings.

It was nice, like.. Really nice. It was old-fashioned, sure, but it was big, bigger than the Russian alone needed, thats for sure.

Osamu was stationed right beside the couch, a large piece of furniture that looked like it would squeak if you sat on it. She doubted Fyodor used it anyway, it looked way too shiny for that, almost new.

So did the coffee table, actually. The glass in the middle of it glittering brightly at Osamu. If she peered at it from above, she could probably see herself in the reflection of it! The wood was nicely furnished as well, a nice deep burgundy colour seeped into it from the finish.

She rarely cared about furniture, but she had little else to do than inspect it. And it was strange, there was a bottom compartment to the table, like most of it’s kind do, but nothing was on it aside from a single book and some candles, neatly stacked around each other.

“Neat freak,” she would mutter to herself, letting her gaze scan across the room for something. What she was looking for, exactly? She wasn't sure. A way out, perhaps?

There was a fire place. A nice brick one, too, real, unlike most nowadays, being fake flames pushed onto a heater. She supposes she can give Fyodor that, at least. There was a picture atop it, like some old manors used to do with the head of the house; but this wasnt a portrait. It was.. Well, maybe a portrait, but it was a dog. A brown one with brown eyes and bandages wrapped around it.

It looks like her as a dog. A shiver sent down her spine at that thought.

It had to of been a coincidence, right?

Right?

…

She wasnt allotted any more time to ponder over the coincidences of the picture, as Dostoevsky waltzed back into the room, a confident timbre to his posture, amused. Entertained, even.

End of WIP.