BY : Rina76
Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Tokio Hotel
Dragon prints: 5140
Disclaimer: I do not know Bill or Tom Kaulitz or any members of Tokio Hotel and this story is a complete work of fiction; it is all made up and not true. I am not making any money from the writing of this story.

TITLE: Captivation


GENRE: Kidnap-fic. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Twincest.

RATING: NC-17 (Controversial themes, abduction, psychological drama, some violence, semi-forced sex acts, slash, M/M, eventual incest. No rape)

PAIRINGS: Tom/Bill, Bill/OMC, Tom/OMC

SUMMARY: A terrified Bill is abducted by someone he believes to be a crazy, obsessed fan. Will Tom be able to save him? Or will he get caught too? And how will their brotherly relationship change because of it.

DISCLAIMER: I do not know Bill and Tom Kaulitz, or any other members of Tokio Hotel and am not making any money from the writing of this story. None of the following actually happened. It is merely fiction, purely all made up for the entertainment of others. If this fic is similar to anyone else's in this fandom, it is not intended. I have not read any other stories with a plot like mine and as far as I know it's original so if you think I'm stealing your ideas, please don't. Any similarities you might find are purely coincidental. Trust me, I hate it when people rip off my plotlines and ideas and would never do it to anynone else on purpose.

COMMENTS: I’m a relatively new fan of TH and Bill & Tom but from the first moment I laid eyes on them, I was hooked! I greatly admire the boys and think they are amazing and talented and am in no way implying that they are anything but just brothers. They’re just both so gorgeous and delicious they make my mind conjure up naughty things. ;) If they ever stumble across this story, I hope they aren’t too offended by it – I believe that they understand what twincest is and have granted that everyone is allowed to have their own fantasies. Well, this is MY fantasy - and I’m sure it’s other people’s too... Huge thanks to Schwaerze for the beta work and German translations! *hugs* 


Chapter 1. Taken

He’s tied to the chair. Not to protect myself from him, as he is only a tiny, skinny kid still in his teens and I’m bigger and so much stronger than him. It’s just to protect him from himself. People will do crazy things when they’re scared and desperate to escape, like smash through walls or jump through windows, suffering severe gashes and slicing through arteries. Not that there are any windows in here. There’s no glass whatsoever and the walls are five-inch thick concrete. The door is solid metal and locked with a password only I know. He won’t be able to get out but he could injure himself trying; ripping off his black-painted nails or bloodying up his hands and I don’t want that. Hence the rope. It’s a silk rope though, so it won’t chafe or ruin his delicately soft skin. I won’t leave it on any longer than is necessary, just until I’m sure he’s sufficiently calm and won’t try anything ridiculous or foolish.

Slowly, he’s coming out of the drugged state of unconsciousness I had put him in. Chloroform is strong shit. That coupled with the tranquiliser I jabbed him in the arm with afterwards knocked him out heavily, like the horse it was originally intended for. As it’s technically an animal drug, I only gave him a small amount, just enough to sedate him and put him to sleep, not kill him. I could have thrown him in the back of my van fully awake and kicking and screaming but I wanted to take him quietly and besides, it would have been unfortunate for Bill to hurt himself fighting me. He’s so thin and fragile he probably would have broken something, like an arm or a few ribs. It was better for him that he was passed out on the floor of the vehicle and didn’t know what was going on. That way he couldn’t freak out during the drive over here. No, he’ll do plenty of that when he wakes up, which is going to happen very soon, judging by the faint moaning issuing from his slender throat. When I first put him in my van, I arranged him on his side on top of a blanket and loosened the studded choker around his neck so his airways were clear and he could get enough oxygen. Though he is sitting upright now I’ve still left the leather collar loose, not wanting him to feel stifled or suffocated upon reawakening. His head is slumped to the side, eyes closed.  

“Bill?” I say gently, crouching next to him and patting his smooth cheek. His scent swirls into my nostrils and I can’t resist leaning in close and breathing it in deeper. He smells delicious – very sweet and young – his unique fragrance a youthful blend of candy, gum, cigarette smoke and perfumed hair-product.

I pat his face again, a little harder. “Bill, can you hear me?”

At my prompting, he groans and swallows weakly, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the skin of his throat. It’s quite a noticeable lump and it amuses me when people not familiar with Tokio Hotel mistakenly think Bill to be female, asking other fans if that lead singer chick has a boyfriend because she’s totally hot. I agree that his face is remarkably feminine but if you look at his neck it definitely isn’t. That’s a guy’s neck and Bill is most definitely a guy. I felt his hard, lean body for myself when I carried him in here and sat him upon the chair. He’s very light for a male of his height, though, and his bones did poke into me in certain spots. I’m not normally a very nurturing, parental type of person but feeling those sharp hips jabbing against me gave me the sudden urge to feed him. And I will. Later on. He won’t last very long in here otherwise. But for now I’m more interested in his reaction when he sees me.

His long false eyelashes begin to flutter and he licks his parched lips, trying to swallow again, affording me a quick glimpse of his tongue-stud. I know his mouth is dry – a side effect of the drugs – and will give him water as soon as I know he’s fully conscious and won’t choke on it.  

Pressing my fingers under his angled jaw line, I check his pulse and, satisfied that he’s going to recover just fine, I get up and take a seat across the table from him, watching my lovely hostage wake up.

His lashes gradually lift and he blinks groggily, raising his head and trying to focus on the room around him. There’s not much to look at in here – just the long rectangular table we’re seated at, a spare metal-leg chair with a padded seat parked adjacent to Bill’s, a stainless steel sink against one concrete wall and beside that, a small fridge where I keep cartons of milk and bottles of spring water. A coffee machine sits on the counter next to the sink but I haven’t brewed any today because I know Bill will only be interested in drinking something cool and refreshing.

Drowsily, the brown-eyed teenager takes in his sparse surroundings, not having spotted me yet. I sit there silently and observe him, the hidden camera in the cornice of the ceiling recording every moment. He tries to move his arms and seems puzzled when he can’t, glancing down at himself and frowning, clumsily looking from side to side, trying to see why he is unable to budge or even shift his numb legs. Even though he’s sleepy, sedated and thoroughly bewildered, Bill is a spectacular sight with his wild lion’s mane of teased, spiky brunette hair with its few platinum-blond streaks for contrast. He has on his usual heavy Halloween-style eye shadow, his circular piercing in place above his right brow. With his black jeans, boots and red leather jacket with tight T-shirt underneath he looks every bit like the young rock-star he is. Only a lot more confused than normal. He swings his head up and freezes when he finally spots me sitting there across the table from him like an elegant black-clad villain, my legs casually crossed at the ankles and one elbow on the arm rest of the chair, propping my chin in my hand. My expression is curious and friendly, a welcoming smile playing on my lips.

Guten Tag, Bill,” I greet him politely and pleasantly. (good afternoon) “How do you feel?”

He looks at me blankly, not knowing who I am, not recognising me. And of course, he wouldn’t. We’ve never met before. We’ve never even talked. I can pinpoint the exact moment he figures out what’s going on and why he can’t move his arms, his breath sucking in with a gasp of horror, his gaze widening in instant fear.

He’s been abducted. And drugged. And his hands are tied behind his back.

I’ve watched a lot of video clips of Bill performing and giving interviews and usually, he is bursting with confidence, charisma and exuberance but right now he’s like a possum that’s been backed into a corner – all huge eyes, twitching limbs and rapidly heaving chest, his breathing quick and shallow. 

“Who…Who are you? What do you want?”

His voice is rough and raspy, much like how it would have been after his throat operation in 2008. Oh, yes. I did my research before I took him. I open my mouth to reply but he is too overcome with fright to even let me answer, the panicked young man jerking against his bonds, his eyes darting frantically around the room.

“Where am I? Where is Tom?” His tone rises in sheer panic and he turns to me in frightened, pleading desperation, struggling unsuccessfully to get out of the chair. “I want to see Tom! Let me go! LET ME GO!”

“I know you’re scared and you have every right to be but I promise I won’t hurt you,” I say calmingly and understandingly, pushing my seat back and standing up. “I will give you a few minutes alone to settle down, and then I will return so I can untie you and you can have a drink of water. We will talk then.”

As if he doesn’t even hear a word I’m saying he continues to fiercely struggle against his restraints, screaming now.

TOM? TOM, HILF MIR! HILFE! ICH BIN HIER!” (Tom? Tom, help me! Help! I’m in here!)

I punch my six-digit password into the keypad on the wall, opening the electronic door-lock. I leave him there calling his brother’s name and yelling for help. Crossing the short distance down the hall, I go to my media room – more like a long narrow booth filled with visual and audio recording equipment - and curl my leanly-muscled form down in a high-backed armchair in front of the flat-screen monitor, which shows in high-definition colour the entire view of the area where Bill is currently being held. From in here I can lock or unlock the door and I can also see everything that’s happening in my absence. The picture comes with surround sound. It’s a little distressing and upsetting hearing Bill scream helplessly for his twin but it’s useless trying to talk to him like this. He needs to calm down first, to think rationally and logically. It’s only then that I have a chance of convincing him that I mean no harm.  

He carries on with his futile fight for freedom, still making hoarse shouts for help. I frown, displeased. If he doesn’t stop that he’s gonna lose his voice entirely and then we won’t be able to speak at all. I give him another minute of privacy, hoping he will settle down on his own. I really don’t want to have to tranquilise him again. I don’t think his crazily-pumping heart could take it.

Not giving up yet, Bill yanks and jerks against his ropes, thrashing about so violently that he overbalances and the chair he’s sitting in tips onto two legs and begins to lean sideways, as if in slow-motion. Realising what he’s done, the kid suddenly quits his yelling, his face filling with a different kind of alarm.

Oh Scheisse,” he mutters, (oh shit) knowing it’s too late to correct his angle, the weight and pull of gravity too strong to oppose. He cringes and braces himself as the chair topples fully over onto its side with a crash, Bill landing heavily on his shoulder and grunting with the impact. He tried to keep his head up as he fell but I suspect he might have hit it. It’s difficult to tell with all that porcupine-quilled hair in the way. And if he did hit the floor, it’s not carpeted and cushiony like the back of my van. It’s tiled and hard as cement.

“Shit,” I curse myself, hastily exiting my media room and rushing back to the one Bill tipped over in, expecting to find him with his skull split like a coconut and blood and brain fluid leaking everywhere. When I get there and shove the door open, he’s lying on his side with the chair, cheek flat to the tiles. He’s not moving.

“Bill? Are you all right?” I worriedly crouch beside him, gingerly shaking his shoulder. My heart starts beating again in relief when he peers up at me, fearful, dizzy and humiliated but otherwise conscious and unhurt.

“You stupid boy,” I scold him, grabbing the back of the chair and roughly hoisting it back up into position, and righting Bill along with it. “What exactly did that silly stunt accomplish? Huh?”

I go to examine him for any injuries but he immediately shies away, drawing a hissing breath between his clenched teeth and anxiously turning his face from me. Forcing him to hold his head still, I sink my fingers into his famously spiked halo of hair (it’s stiff with many, many layers of spray-lacquer) and feel along the side of his cranium, checking my fingertips for blood. There’s none. If he did hit his head, it was only a minor bump.

I step back and glare at him, drawing my slanted brows together disapprovingly. “You could have cracked your skull right open, you know that? You could be dead right now or in a coma. Would it have been worth it?”

He doesn’t answer me, meekly avoiding my eyes. He’s very quiet now; the chair-tumble acting much the same as a smack across the face would have, knocking all the hysteria out of him.   

“Look at me, Bill,” I command; repeating, “Schau mich an.” (look at me)

Timidly, he glances up to meet my challenging gaze.

“Are you calmer now? Hm? Are you going to behave for me? Because if you start yelling and thrashing about again I WILL have to slap you.”

He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me, his pupils still hugely dilated from the tranquiliser, making his irises look black. I know he feels woozy, weak and disoriented and won’t be feeling quite himself for another couple of hours until it wears off. He licks his chapped lips again, trying to moisten them but he doesn’t have much saliva at the moment.

In a kinder tone, I say, “You’re thirsty. Would you like a drink?”

Ja,” he croaks dryly. (yes) “Please.”

I cross to the fridge and bend down to retrieve a clear plastic bottle of water, taking it with me and putting it on the table in front of him. I could hold it up to his mouth so he could sip at it but I sense that a proud, independent young man such as himself wouldn’t like being treated like a baby or bottle-fed with his hands roped behind his back. The door is securely locked and so there’s no need for him to be restrained anymore. He’s completely conscious now and I’m sure he’d much prefer to hold his own water bottle than have me do it for him.

“Okay, I’m going to walk around behind you and release your ropes,” I tell him in a soft, non-threatening manner. “Don’t be afraid. And please, for your own safety, stay in the chair. Your legs won’t be steady enough to stand up yet.”

As I’m a sensitive, thoughtful kidnapper, I don’t pull out a sharp knife to cut the ropes with because that would only start the screams up again and the poor kid is petrified enough as it is. Instead I retrieve a pair of blunt-nosed scissors from a cutlery drawer near the sink and show them to him, so he knows what I’m using behind his back and isn’t freaking out, thinking I’m going to stab him with them. His breath still increases dramatically when he feels me taking hold of his arm and slipping one of the metal blades beneath the ropes. I can feel his pulse pounding underneath his skin, rapidly and erratically, further proof of his terror. Taking care not to cut his pale skin I carefully snip through the bonds binding my captive. In another time and situation, it would be rather erotic having silken ropes wound around Bill’s wrists – maybe with him tied to a bed instead of a chair – but now is not one of those times. There’s nothing erotic or sexy about a spooked nineteen year old boy hyperventilating with fear when I go near him. I don’t want him to be scared of me at all but it will take some time before that happens. Right now Bill doesn’t know me and he certainly doesn’t trust me. And why should he? I haven’t earned it yet. I am aiming to change that eventually.

“There you go. You’re free,” I proclaim, unwinding the last of the snipped ropes and letting them drop to the floor. Making a small sob of relief, Bill slowly brings his aching arms back around to his front, wincing at the soreness in his muscles, not that he has a lot of those, being as thin as he is. He pushes his jacket sleeves up to his elbows so he can rub at his wrists. They’re reddened by him twisting against the rope but not abraded or bleeding. As he’s rubbing the inside of his left wrist, I get a good look at the tattoo inscribed on his inner forearm, the one he got recently. It says: Freiheit '89, which means ‘Freedom ‘89’. It stands for his and Tom’s year of birth. It’s a nice tattoo, all swirly and arty. It wouldn’t surprise me if he designed it himself. I have heard that he’s creative and would like to be a fashion designer if the music career ever comes to an end.

I put the scissors away and slide the bottle of water across the table so it stands in front of my pretty prisoner. Beads of condensation are already gathering upon its chilled plastic surface. Bill glances at it both longingly and distrustfully, as though he really, really wants to drink it but is scared that it’s laced with something nasty.

“It’s okay. This is just spring water,” I inform him. “Look, the lid hasn’t even been cracked yet.” 

Picking up the bottle, I unscrew the top with a clear snapping sound, breaking the plastic seal.


He still doesn’t look convinced so I lift the water to my lips and take a large mouthful to show that it’s harmless. I put the plastic container back onto the table, the level of the contents having dropped visibly to prove I actually did swallow it and that it’s not poisonous or drugged.

“It’s nice and cold,” I offer, pushing the water further towards him before sitting back down in my own seat, giving him space.

He thinks about it for another few seconds before his raging thirst wins, the brunette boy snatching up the bottle and gulping down half of it in one go, stopping to cough and splutter as some of it goes down the wrong way, then greedily draining the rest of it, his throat working as he drinks in noisy gulps.


He nods shortly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Danke.” (thanks)

Him thanking me is unexpected. His mother must have really drilled it into him to be polite at all times, even during instances like his own kidnapping.

“You’re welcome. Are you ready to talk now?”

Leaving the empty bottle on the table, he nods again, taking a shaky, shuddering breath before asking in a whisper, “Are you…Are you going to k-kill me?”

“Of course not. You’re far too young and beautiful.”

 “Oh Gott,” he whimpers in dread, shrinking down in his chair as another terrible alternative crosses his mind. “Please, not that…”

“I’m not going to rape you,” I firmly promise, knowing exactly what he’s thinking. “I’ve never forced anybody without their consent in my life and I won’t start now. That’s not why you are here. If it was, you’d be naked already.”

I make a point of glancing at his fully-clothed figure. “And as you can see for yourself, that’s not the case.”

Through his overwhelming fright, I can see Bill calculating. He’s a smart boy. He’ll consider all the angles and possibilities here. Okay, so he’s been taken by some strange guy and locked in a windowless prison. If I’m not going to murder or sexually assault him, I must be after something else.

“Do you want some kind of ransom? Do you want money? I have money,” he stammers. “I’ll give you everything in my bank account!”

“Thank you for the offer. But I don’t want your money. I’m only interested in you. And your brother.”

“Tom?” His voice, although still coarse and husky from all the earlier screaming, is sounding stronger with each word he utters. “Wo ist mein Bruder? Wo ist Tom?” (Where is my brother? Where is Tom?)

“He’s not here. I only took you. I will contact him when I’m ready. Don’t fret - you will see him again. Just not today.”

Appearing crestfallen, he gazes around the room again. “Where have you taken me?”

“Somewhere private; away from the intruding paparazzi and all your obsessed fangirls.” I motion to our almost clinical surrounds. “This is what I call my ‘conference room’. This is where we will meet to talk, an event that will occur daily until your release.”

What I’m not telling him is that every conversation we have - including this one - will be recorded digitally, so I can play it back later to analyse it and search for underlying clues or to catch little meaningful moments I perhaps might have missed.

“I have a room prepared for you to stay in down the hall. I believe it will be sufficiently comfortable and I will supply all your meals and other requirements. While you are my guest, you will be well taken care of with all your needs catered for.”

I pull a cellophane-wrapped packet from my shirt pocket.

“Would you like a Zigarette?”

He appears surprised by my considerate politeness, quickly nodding before I change my mind. It’s been a few hours since he’s had a smoke and no doubt the withdrawal symptoms are starting to eat at him. I’ve noticed that his hands are shaking (though half of that could be due to nerves and stress) and he keeps clenching his jaws and toying with his tongue piercing, biting it and rolling the metal bar between his teeth as though trying to distract himself from cravings.

Gratefully accepting my offered cigarette and the use of my lighter, he touches the flickering flame to the end of the tobacco stick with trembling fingers, drawing in deeply, his already gaunt cheeks caving in even further. Taking the cig out of his mouth, he exhales a cloud of blue smoke towards the roof, thin shoulders slumping, seeming slightly less stressed for someone who’s just been kidnapped and thrown in a van. He’s still utterly terrified of me and what I might do but at least he’s not screaming now. Even though he has no idea what’s going on or what will happen to him, he’s trying to stay relatively composed and cool-headed and I admire him for that. He’s actually a lot tougher than he first appears.

Taking another much-needed drag of nicotine, he peeks sideways at me. I’m sure he’s a little shocked and bemused by my appearance. I don’t look like your average bad-guy abductor, I’ll grant that. In fact, I look very Asian. Mostly. There is a bit of Swedish heritage in my background which means I ended up with long golden-brown hair (instead of black) and tilted eyes not the dark-chocolate hue of Bill’s as you might expect, but ones the peculiar colour of amber tree sap – like the orangey-yellow stuff the ancient mosquito from Jurassic Park was found in. That coupled with the fact that I can fluently speak and understand German probably has poor Bill all baffled and not knowing what to make of an odd dude like me. But that’s good. I enjoy being a mystery and hard to figure out. It gives me the upper edge.

For the second time now, he questions, “Who ARE you?”

“My name is Koji. I’m a friend. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. I don’t wish to harm you, Bill, and I do apologise for snatching you away in such a sudden and startling manner. I would have asked you to come with me voluntarily but I know you wouldn’t have done so. I have very good reasons for bringing you here, as you will find out.”

“What reasons?”

“It’s not time to tell you yet.”

That’s all I will say for now. I patiently sit there and watch him smoking, while he sits there and watches me in return, warily, noting how I’m dressed in all-black – the best colour for kidnapping as it doesn’t stand out and doesn’t show blood – and how my ponytail drapes over one shoulder, strands of escaped hair drifting around my face, softening the angularity of my Asian features. I could have worn a mask or a balaclava to protect my identity but again, that would only frighten Bill even further. I wish to establish a reasonably trusting relationship between us and that means we need to see each other, face to face and eye to eye.

When Bill has finished his cigarette, he stubs out the butt of it in the metal ashtray on the table and folds his girlish hands in his lap, clearing his throat and waiting nervously to see what I want with him next.

“Let’s go,” I declare, shoving my chair back with a scraping sound and indicating for him to stand. His legs should have all their feeling back and ought to be much steadier now. When he doesn’t get up - remaining seated like some cowering lion-haired extra from the CATS musical - I stalk around the side of the table and grab him by the upper arm, swiftly reefing the boy up out of his seat and letting him know I will not tolerate disobedience while he’s under my roof.

“Just do what I tell you to, Bill, and you’ll have a much easier time in here. I don’t want to get rough with you but I will, if you force me,” I warn him. “Now, come on. I will escort you to your room.”

Keeping hold of his arm (my fingers wrapping almost all the way around his skinny biceps), I open the metal door with the required password and lead him down the dim concrete-walled corridor, a couple of bare bulbs lighting the way. There are entrances at either end – one leading upstairs to the rest of the old, expansive warehouse above and the other leading to an underground garage and back-alley exit. What we’re in now is classified as the basement but it’s large enough to accommodate a small family and has been divided up into several rooms. People used to live down here at one stage but when I bought the place it had been empty and unused for fifteen years. I cleaned it up, brought down some furniture and most importantly, installed security systems and cameras. There is a single door outside on the street where I accept deliveries and there are cameras set up there too, plus a buzzer and intercom so I know who’s calling. Alarms and motion sensors are situated at various points. Nobody can set foot in the warehouse without me knowing about it and the only way down into the secret basement is through a hidden trapdoor which can only be accessed by a Personal Identification Number.

Located along the passageway we’re walking down are five other doors, all locked electronically. One leads into the conference room, one into the media booth, one into my own bedroom and one into the room that will shortly become Bill’s. Having been in the conference room already, the long-haired singer glances curiously at the other doors but doesn’t ask what’s behind them. I wouldn’t tell him anyway. Especially not what’s in the fifth one. That one I’m saving for later.

We shortly reach the entrance to the second vacant bedroom. The door is unlocked and the lights are already switched on for our arrival. Inside, it’s set up like a typical motel with a double bed, closet, couch, coffee table, television, mini-kitchen and bathroom. It’s nothing fancy but it’s clean, warm and cosy and best of all, secure. Bill will be completely safe here. No stalking girl-gangs or hordes of photographers will be able to get in. But he can’t get out either.

Not unless I let him out.

I nudge Bill through the threshold, persuasively pushing him between the shoulder-blades to get him moving. He’s reluctant to go inside but does so anyway, realising it’s the only place he CAN go. Besides, it doesn’t look that scary. It’s not as though it’s a torture chamber with racks of dangerous surgical implements on the walls. It’s just a room. Plain and simple. Just like any other he’s stayed in on tour, except for the lack of windows. Despite that, it is well-ventilated with ducted air-conditioning and heating.  

“Welcome to your new home for the next couple of weeks,” I announce, making a sweeping gesture to our surrounds. “Feel free to make full use of the amenities. Fresh towels and extra sheets and blankets are in the closet, along with a couple of bath robes. I have left some food for you in the fridge. Vegetarian, of course.”

I glance at his noticeably slender frame. “Please eat it. I have provided juice and there’s milk as well, if you wish to make coffee. If you need anything or have any questions, pick up the phone beside the bed. Press the green button and I will answer you. Don’t bother trying to dial out as it won’t work. You can only talk to me.”

I indicate to another locked door set in the wall near the couch. “That leads to an empty storage room beside us. Also not worth trying to get into. There’s nothing in there, just a lot of dust and dried-up rat droppings.”

He’s slowly turning around in a small circle, red leather jacket creaking as he moves, brown gaze flicking over his lodgings as he mutely takes it all in. He’s not talking to me anymore but I know he’s listening to everything I’m saying, keeping half an eye on my whereabouts in case I try to jump on him and attack him. I stay near the door, leaning on the frame with crossed arms and giving him plenty of space.

“I know you’re frightened and confused, Bill, but I swear I am not planning to hurt you,” I inform him softly. “You have nothing to fear from me. I just want to help you. Please try and remember that.”

He finally turns to look at me, his face pale underneath the makeup and eyes drained and dull, the normally vivacious vocalist emotionally and physically fatigued by the day’s unforeseen events. He’s supposed to be on vacation right now, with Tom. He should have spent the afternoon lying on a beach in a pair of flowery shorts, resting and relaxing in the sun, maybe submerging himself in a bubbling hot tub with his twin and sipping on a few fruity cocktails while photographers were hiding in bushes and taking snapshots of them shirtless. Instead, he’s become forcibly separated from his beloved brother and shoved into a sunless concrete jail cell, and he doesn’t understand why this is happening to him, who I am, or why I am holding him here.

“Try to get some sleep, okay?” I advise, feeling sorry for the distressed, exhausted youth. “Tomorrow will be an even bigger day. I will explain everything then. I promise.”

And with that I turn and exit, shutting the steel door behind me with a clang and leaving a distraught Bill Kaulitz alone in his underground chamber.

I return to my media booth and observe him for a while with the help of my concealed ceiling camera. Predictably, he tries the main door and fails to open it. There is a keypad on the wall and he attempts to type in the password to unlock it but gives up after a few tries, knowing it’s useless and that there are literally thousands upon thousands of possible combinations. The chances of him accidentally stumbling across the right one are about the same as him spontaneously growing a pair of wings and being able to fly out of there. He also tries the steel door to the storage room, yanking on the handle, and while it doesn’t have a password, it’s still firmly dead-bolted from the other side and since he doesn’t have a blowtorch, angle grinder or a plasma cutter, he’s not getting in there either.

He tiredly walks around the room, looking up at the roof and seeing the fire sprinkler-system but not spotting the tiny hidden camera-lens in one corner, and then wanders into the bathroom, where the toilet, shower, sink and mirror are. The bedroom camera also peeks into here through the doorway. I do have another digital capturing device located inside the bathroom itself – again in the cornice of the ceiling - but I will only switch that on if I think something of importance is going on in here that I should know about. Otherwise, it stays off. I have no interest in watching this teenager going to the toilet or showering or shaving or picking his pimples. I’m not that much of a perverted freak. I’m more interested in observing his everyday behaviour and how he’s coping with being in here; how he acts, what he does, what he says.

My recording equipment captures everything and as he realises how completely trapped he is Bill mutters to himself in German, mainly cursing and swear words. For such a pretty, delicate-looking boy he knows some very vulgar and crude language.

Apart from checking out his enclosure, the kid doesn’t do much else. He looks in the linen closet and he peeks in the fridge but doesn’t touch the food I left for him. He doesn’t make a coffee or turn on the television or sit on the couch. He doesn’t shower or even brush his teeth; he resignedly walks over to the bed and climbs onto it fully-dressed, curling up on his side into a foetal position, pulling a pillow close to him and hugging it like a teddy bear. He doesn’t even get under the blankets. He starts making some soft, muffled sounds and I turn the volume up so I can hear him.

He’s singing. One of his own songs: Rette Mich. Or in English, Rescue Me.

Komm und rette mich…” he sings sadly and softly, barely above a whisper. “Ich verbrenne innerlich… Komm und rette mich… Ich schaff’s nicht ohne dich…” (Come and rescue me… I burn internally. Come and rescue me, I can’t go on without you…)


He’s basically saying that he can’t go on alone, that he’s burning up inside. Dying. He sounds so lost and lonely, pining for his brother to come and save him. His words trail off and he dissolves into despairing sobs, tears streaking down his screwed-up face and soaking into the pillow he’s clutching to his thin frame. My heart twists. I don’t like seeing this fragile, sensitive nineteen year old in pain or crying so wretchedly and miserably but there’s nothing I can do for him right now that would make him feel any better. He won’t accept comfort from me. Besides, this is part of my strategy. Taking something away from him so he realises how much he needs it.

And then giving it back.

Bill might be miserable now but he will survive the night on his own and soon, he will be with Tom again.


To be continued...

A/N: Thanks for reading so far! We all know what Bill and Tom look like but if you wanna see a pic of Bill's mysterious abductor, go here:    

The original character of Koji and the plotline of this story is copyrighted to me, Rina76, as of February 2011 and anyone stealing him/it will get their ass royally kicked. Thank you! 

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