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Captivation	By : Rina76 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Tokio Hotel Views: 6307 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
A/N: Thank you so much to Darius and RussianDoll for their reviews! Yes, this is quite different to my other stories but I’m really enjoying working on this one. ^^ And I’m so thrilled that you can see the scenes so easily, RussianDoll. I tend to use a lot of details in my work exactly for that reason. Reading a good fic should be just as easy as watching TV to visualise and I’m so happy it is like that for you! I like plot too. ;) Thank you again and I hope you enjoy part two as much as you did the first!

……………

Chapter 2. Resistance.

Bill cries himself to a fitful sleep in his new prison cell. Cigarettes at hand and a pot of strong coffee beside me, I prepare to smoke and sip away the hours, intending to observe the nineteen year old musician for most of the night. As his captor and guardian, it’s my duty to make sure he’ll be all right. I’m certain he will be. His survival instinct is strong and I don’t think he will do anything drastic. Just to be on the safe side, I haven’t left anything in the room that he could use to commit suicide with - no razor blades or glass or any other sharp objects, not even a shoelace he could wrap around his own neck. If he somehow figures out a novel way to kill himself, I’ll be in there stopping him before he can do it. I won’t let him self-harm or attempt his own life. But I am confident that won’t occur. He doesn’t want to die. He just wants to see Tom. Since I offered him that ray of hope earlier, it will keep him going and keep him wanting to live.

He’s left the lights on, afraid of being in the dark alone, and is still cuddling the pillow for comfort. The heavy makeup around his eyes has run like black tears, smearing onto the cotton pillowcase beneath his cheek. He looks unhappy, even as he’s sleeping. He’s lying on top of the made-up bed clad only in the clothes he came in here with and I’m tempted to sneak into the room and put a blanket over his huddled figure, maybe gently brush the hair back out of his face, but I don’t want to accidentally wake him or scare him any more than is necessary. He needs to rest so I leave him be.

After a while, Bill wakes up with a jerky start, looking around in bewilderment as if wondering where he is, and then starts to cry again when he remembers, sounding tiny, helpless, frightened and desolate, like a little child who’s lost in the woods at night. He seems so small and defenceless and lonesome, curling up into a ball as though to protect himself from monsters. He even whimpers Tom’s name at one point. Through the LCD screen I’m watching him with, I can feel Bill longing for his twin and it’s hurting him badly that they’re apart. I’m sure it’s hurting Tom too. Hours ago, the older Kaulitz teen would have found the broken bracelet of Bill’s that I deliberately left behind for him on the ground outside the entrance of some public restrooms in a park. That’s where I stole Bill from, slipping my hand over his mouth and dragging him away behind a row of trees while Tom was busy inside taking a piss. Bill had been occupied smoking and sending a text on his phone at the same time and didn’t see or hear me skulking up soundlessly behind him. He didn’t even have time to scream; the chloroform kicked in that quickly.

No doubt Tom would have already had a major freak-out and called the police regarding Bill’s disappearance but I’m not worried. The authorities receive hundreds of missing person cases a week and unless they have some concrete evidence to go on they technically can’t do much about it at this stage. A snapped bracelet doesn’t really prove anything or provide any links to me or my whereabouts. The fact that Bill is still a teenager, and the lead singer in a famous pop-rock band, probably doesn’t weigh in his favour either. The cops would most likely assume he’s gone on a drinking/drug binge and has passed out naked in some hotel room with one of his slutty fans. Not that I believe good-boy Bill would ever do such a thing but the police don’t know him like I do. They won’t get serious about the investigation until he’s been absent for a few days. I contact Tom well before then. In fact, I call him right after Bill falls asleep again.

I have confiscated the younger twin’s phone. It’s been lying on my desk in the media room, switched off so it’s not emitting a tell-tale signal, and when I turn it on and check it, there are dozens of missed calls and messages on it, mainly from Tom asking where he is, pleading for Bill to call him as soon he can and let him know what the hell is going on.

After only one ring, Tom’s frantic voice comes on the line. “Bill? Bist du das? Wo bist du?” (Is that you? Where are you?)

“No, Tom. It’s not him.”

Switching to English, he asks carefully and cautiously, “Who is this?”

Bypassing his question, I inquire, “Are you alone? Is anyone listening in on this conversation?”

“No. Nobody’s here.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

“Put Bill on. I want to talk to him.”

“You don’t give the orders around here,” is my cold reply. “I do. I’m the person who’s got your brother and if you want to see him again, you’ll do what I tell you to.”

“Is he okay? What have you done to him?”

“Nothing. He hasn’t been harmed. He’s lying on a bed right now, trying to sleep.” In a musing tone, I add, “I think he misses you very much. He keeps waking up and crying.”

Tom gives a strangled sound that seems very much like a sob. “You... filthy fucking... Schwein...” he chokes out angrily, calling me basically the worst insult in the German language, akin to a lowlife bastard pig. Only nastier.

“You wanna talk to your twin Bruder, Tommy? Be waiting by the phone tomorrow at noon. Do not alert police to this call, or to the one you expect tomorrow. If anyone asks where Bill is, say that he went to visit a girlfriend and forget to notify you. If they won’t buy that, make something up,” I instruct. “Tell everyone who enquires that he’s okay and not to worry anymore. Do not repeat what I’ve just told you. But especially do NOT tell the cops or you will never hear Bill’s voice again. Do you understand me?”

Silence. Heavy, laboured breathing on the other end of the line. Then a curt, “Fine.”

His tone changing to a low growl, Tom continues, “But if you hurt him, you son of a bitch, I will hunt you down and cut your cock off with a butcher’s knife, YOU SICK SADISTIC FUCK!!”

I hang up on him, turn the phone off and toss it aside. It’s rude to shout and call people names without really knowing them. I’m not sick and I’m not sadistic. But if I’m not some warped sex offender, then why did I abduct pretty little Bill Kaulitz and lock him in a room with cameras? Because I have a plan. A plan to change Bill’s life forever.

And it most definitely involves Tom.

When Bill has somewhat settled into a fretful pattern of sleep, I retire as well, heading to my room just down the hall from Bill’s, having one last cigarette before stretching out on my bed and snatching a few hours slumber. I don’t need much rest to get by. I don’t need much of anything to get by. Just a purpose in life.

I leave the camera running for the remainder of the night and after the sun has risen, I get up and check the footage to see if anything happened but Bill didn’t do anything much, just more crying and sleeping in sporadic cycles, plus one trip to the bathroom. I do my regular morning workout of stretches, push-ups, leg-lifts and stomach crunches, and then I quickly shower and change into grey and white camouflaged cargo pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, something casual that doesn’t make me look like a kidnapper or a bad guy. I pull my long damp hair back at the nape of my neck and secure it with an elastic band, keeping it out of my way. I whip up a protein shake and drain it for my breakfast before ordering something more substantial for Bill. I’m alerted to its arrival by the buzzer and through the intercom I tell the guy outside on the street to wait for me. Going past Bill’s room, I jog up the stairs and exit the basement, crossing the dusty floor of the warehouse to meet the delivery driver, opening the side door and paying in cash for the food. I never use credit cards. They can be traced.

I go back downstairs and seal the hidden trapdoor behind me, carrying my package. What’s inside it smells hot and tempting, loaded with sugar and tasty calories. However, I don’t need to gain any weight. Bill does. Not wanting to open the door to his room unannounced, I dial through to his room, watching his reaction on-screen in the media booth. He jumps with alarm when the phone rings, the kid already wide awake and sitting on the bed with his knees pulled up to his chest, slender arms wrapped around his equally slender legs. He stares at the ringing device like it’s some kind of bomb about to go off. I patiently let it ring. Bill eventually picks it up, hesitantly reaching for the telephone on the bedside table and holding the handpiece to his ear in an overly-cautious manner.

“H-hello?”

“Guten Morgen, Bill.” (Good morning) In a friendly tone, I advise, “I will be bringing you some breakfast in about two minutes. Just wanted to let you know, okay?”

He glances at the metal door but it’s not unlocked yet. He doesn’t say anything more, just replaces the phone into its cradle, still staring at it. Predictably, he hastily picks it up again and tries to contact someone, dialling numbers with the black-painted tip of his index finger, but all he hears on the other end is a constant engaged signal. I had informed him that he couldn’t dial out but he still seems disappointed anyway.

When I punch in my password and swing the door to his room open, Bill is perched on the edge of the bed but he quickly stands up when I enter, instantly on defensive alert.

“Don’t worry, I won’t stay. I’m just here to drop this off,” I assure him, placing a cappuccino in a disposable cup onto a small square table near the kitchen area, along with a paper bag containing his freshly-cooked waffles and some plastic cutlery.

“How are you doing?” I query. “You holding up all right?”

I don’t ask him if he slept well because I know he didn’t. Nobody likes being asked stupid questions.

“I’m fine,” he replies stiffly, staying as far away from me as possible. He hasn’t showered and is still wearing his makeup, although it’s more smudged and worn than it was yesterday, most of it having been cried off already, the smudged black shadow around his eyes leaving him looking a bit like a hung-over panda. His fake lashes must have come unstuck and fallen off sometime during the night but his natural ones are still plenty long and lush enough for a boy. Amazingly, lying on a pillow and all that tossing and turning hasn’t ruined the palm-tree effect of his hair, which is still spiked up in all directions. If anything, it looks even wilder and crazier. There is the faint shadow of stubble on his upper lip, proving that despite his girlish looks, he really is male.

“You should shower and shave after you eat,” I suggest, pulling out one of the two chairs situated at the table and indicating for him to sit down. He doesn’t budge, watching me with a guarded gaze to make sure I don’t come any closer.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” I say graciously, knowing that he won’t take a single bite if I’m there. “If there’s anything else you need, please let me know.”

He doesn’t thank me, just watches silently as I walk to the entrance and depart, sealing the door behind me. Back in my observation booth, I find him at the kitchen table, lifting the plastic lid off the cappuccino and sniffing it suspiciously before setting it back down again, untouched. He does the same thing to the waffles, peering at them inside their cardboard carton, the thick latticed sheets of crispy batter drenched in maple syrup and fresh cream, which has melted into an enticing mess, filling all the tiny square pockets with creamy, sticky sweetness. They’re still hot and steaming and must smell scrumptious but he disregards them, leaving them on the table along with the cappuccino to grow cold. At the waste of perfectly good food, I click my tongue disapprovingly to myself. He doesn’t take my advice and shower either, instead preferring to pace the floor with a distinctly irate expression appearing on his face, his annoyance and irritation growing by the minute. He huffs and grumbles and swears to himself, clearly not happy about being caged up like an animal in a zoo, cut off from the outside world and being told when to eat and when to sleep or bathe. I can just imagine the thoughts going through his head right now.

Don’t I realise how important and famous he is?? He’s Bill fucking Kaulitz - big-shot singer of Tokio Hotel, worshipped by thousands, if not millions of adoring fans around the world. He’s got his own agents, managers, minders and personal assistants. He’s got websites, awards, voice-acting roles in films and his own merchandise and is worth shit-loads of money. How DARE I treat him this way!

He must be getting quite heated up in his ire because he brusquely strips off his red leather jacket and hurls it across the room with a growl. With his scowling brows, gritted jaw and flared nostrils, he looks like he wants to rip my face off with his bare hands and gouge my eyes out with his fingernails.

Curious to see if this snarling black leopard has any real claws, I decide to go back to visit Bill, only I don’t warn him this time. I just unlock the door and step right in like I own the place. Which I do. He whirls around and glares at me, flat chest swelling with a furious intake of breath.

“What?” he snaps, clenching his fingers into tight fists. “What the fuck do you want?”

Yesterday he was afraid of me and was weak and trembling in my presence but today his fear has been overridden by anger and outrage. I’ve seen it before. It’s a self-protective mechanism. If he’s angry, he won’t feel the terror and if he doesn’t feel the terror it doesn’t make him feel as helpless. Of course he’s still scared of me as any sensible person would be in his situation but now he’s not showing it and is acting defiant, his infuriated dark brown eyes simmering like boiling chocolate, hot enough to scald. He is one pissed off German citizen and isn’t shy about letting me know it. I don’t respond to his ill-temper. I’m rather tolerant of other people’s bad moods. To a point, anyway.

I signal towards the forgotten food. “Why won’t you eat?”

“I’m not hungry.” Bill’s reply is flat and abrupt.

“You must be. You didn’t even have any dinner.”

“Are you deaf? I said: I’m not hungry!”

“There’s no need to be obnoxious. I’m just concerned for your welfare.”

He actually snorts and rolls his eyes. “Welfare. Right. What a joke.”

“Please sit down at the table, Bill,” I request nicely. “I bought you that food and I would like you to finish it all.”

“No,” he declares, obstinately lifting his chin. “I will not.”

I calmly gaze at him. “Do you remember what I said last night? About how much easier it will be for you in here if you just do as you’re told?”

“Screw you,” he retorts rudely. “You don’t own me and I don’t have to do anything you say. Go fuck yourself.”

His petulant remarks remind me of just how immature and adolescent he really is. I’m only ten years older than him but it may as well be a century. When I was his age I wasn’t anywhere near as troublesome. I was a good kid and always listened to and respected my elders. Dealing with insolent teenagers these days must be hell for parents. I don’t know how they do it. There are so many different manuals around on how to bring up and discipline children, all without having to resort to physical punishment because apparently now you can get charged for smacking your own kids even when they’re being horrid little trolls. Fortunately, I’m not Bill’s father. I don’t have to follow any ridiculous soft-touch parenting manuals and I certainly don’t have an issue with resorting to threats or using mild violence in order to get him to obey me. After all, I had explained what the consequences would be if he didn’t behave.

“You want to be forced? No problem.”

Without further pointless conversing, I march over to him in a few fast strides. Realising that pissing me off is not a wise thing to do, he gulps, spins around and makes a run for it, attempting to flee into the bathroom for safety but I catch him by the wrist, gripping hard enough to grind bones together. Hissing, he tries to yank his arm away but my grip is too firm. He goes to scratch me with those dangerously long nails of his but I fend him off as easily as swatting away flies. He has no other option but to stumble after me as I’m dragging his skinny ass back to the kitchen and forcing him into a chair.

“Sit down and stay down,” I command, pushing him by the shoulders menacingly. This time he listens. While he’s sitting there rubbing his wrist and glaring daggers at me, I pull up the second chair and sit right next to him, tilting my head at my wilful yet lovely captive. You know, he actually looks terribly cute when he’s mad. He tenses at my closeness, his eyes going that little bit wider. He doesn’t trust me at all but is courageously holding his ground, deciding not to break or cringe in front of me.

“You have to eat something, Bill,” I tell him in concern. “Besides the fact that you’re too thin, I need you to keep your energy levels up. You’re going to be tested and challenged over the next few days and I need you to be strong. I don’t want you fainting on me or getting sick.”

“Tested?” He frowns in uneasiness. “How?”

“You’ll see,” I predict enigmatically. “But I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it. If you can handle the pressures of fame, of bitchy jealous gossiping, nasty rumours and fake friends, if you can cope with the gruelling regime of travelling, touring and performing and if you can deal with stalkers and five hundred screaming girls trying to tear your clothes off whenever you appear in public then I think you can take what I’ve got in mind for you.”

He just stares at me, wondering what the hell I’m planning.

“But you must eat.” I point to the now cold syrup-soaked waffles on the table. “And don’t tell me you don’t like these because I’ve seen you devour two plates of them in one go.”

“How do you know that?” he demands, his eyes narrowing. “Have you been spying on me? Following me?”

“I prefer to call it ‘researching’. I had to find out what your likes and dislikes were, if you had any medical conditions or allergies. For example, if you were allergic to nuts, I didn’t want to inadvertently feed you them and have you go into anaphylactic shock and die.”

“I’m not allergic to nuts.”

“I know that. It’s apples. I also know you don’t like chocolate and that you don’t eat meat. I know you like noodles, pasta and pizza and all those rich, greasy foods. And I know you have a very, very sweet tooth and candy is your favourite thing ever.”

His gaze narrows even further. “Exactly how long have you been ‘researching’ me?”

“Long enough. But honestly, Bill, most of this information is freely available on fan websites,” I remind him. “I was just checking to make sure it was correct. So please, eat your breakfast before I lose my patience.”

He still refuses, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair, all but pouting in deliberate disobedience.

“Listen to me, you stubborn little shit,” I order in a firmer, more authoritative tone, shooting forward and grasping his chin, digging in with my fingers so he can’t turn his face away from me. “I don’t care if you think you’re some kind of superstar. Down here you’re not a celebrity. You’re just my captive and I DO in fact own you. I’m in charge of your entire world now and you are going to eat when I tell you to, even if I have to pry your jaws apart and shove it right down your throat.”

I break off a crispy piece of waffle pastry with my other hand and hold it right in front of him.

“Now open your fucking mouth or I will open it for you.”

Finally recognising by my strict tone that I mean business and that I am not a man to be messed with, Bill grudgingly does what I tell him to, parting his lips so I can slip the broken-off bit of fried batter in. He tentatively begins to chew, glowering at me hatefully as if I’m making him consume something vile or toxic.

“Oh, quit looking at me like that,” I say in impatience. “It’s not rat poison. Believe me, if I wanted to kill you, I’d just snap your scrawny neck.”

Swallowing, he returns boldly, “So, why don’t you?”

“Because I’m not a murderer. Besides, I’m beginning to enjoy your company. Though I’d enjoy it a lot more if you lost that diva attitude,” I finish in a sardonic mutter. “Enough talking now. Eat.”

Loosening my grip on his chin, I feed him the waffles, piece by piece, dipping each bit into the maple syrup and cream mixture as I go to soak it up. It must be degrading to him, being hand fed in such a manner but he keeps his gaze locked on mine while I’m doing this, refusing to glance down in shame, the slim songwriter openly defying me with his smoky stare. I’m quietly impressed. A lot of people can’t look at my eyes for long. Asians don’t usually have light, yellowy irises like mine and with my black pupils standing out like two punctuation marks it means other members of the general public can find them eerie or unsettling, as though it’s not natural or demonic, like it creeps them out. Not Bill, though. He doesn’t give a damn what colour my eyes are. He’s just pissy with me because I’m bossing him around.

Well, he better get used to it. I’m a damn bossy prick when I wanna be.

Finally, he swallows the last of the waffles I’ve been feeding him, the point of his tongue sweeping out and catching crumbs at the corner of his mouth.

“There. That wasn’t so difficult, was it, Bill?”

He just shoots me a dirty look. I unthinkingly lick the maple syrup off the pad of my thumb before noticing that some of it has run down my index finger. I glance at it and then I look at Bill’s moist lips. I simply cannot resist. With a smirk, I hold it out to him.

“Suck this off.” I add warningly, “And don’t you dare bite me like a sulky child or I’ll smack you like one.”

I can see him thinking about disobeying but he decides it’s no use fighting me so he reluctantly opens his mouth and I slip my fingertip in.

“Good boy,” I say in a softer tone, pushing my finger in further. His mouth is warm and wet, the surface of his tongue smooth except for the small round ball in the middle of the pierced muscle. It must have stung like hell getting that put in, especially since he was only like, twelve or thirteen. My mom wouldn’t have allowed me to get a simple earring at that age, let alone a barbell through my tongue or a ring through my eyebrow or lip. He must have a very cool mother. She raised an awesome pair of sons.

One of those sons is sitting at a table next to me at this very moment, obediently sucking on my finger, and he continues to do so until the spilled syrup is all gone.

“Very good boy,” I reward him, my voice lowering to a pleased purr as I slowly slide my finger out from his lips, very aware of the erotically suggestive nature of what I’m making him do. Can you blame me? He’s got a gorgeous mouth and anyone else in my position would be doing exactly the same thing.

Since there’s a lot of leftover syrup in the waffle carton I repeat the process, scooping up more of the maple and cream mixture and offering it to Bill again, sensing that I’m making some progress with him and that he’s beginning to become more compliant and co-operative. I’m starting to tame him. He unresistingly takes my finger in again and sucks it clean, swirling his studded tongue around, while I’m getting more than a little turned on by this. He’s an incredibly pretty boy and I’d be lying to say I didn’t find him alluring. Those plush, pouty lips. Those dark, sultry, velvet-brown eyes and lengthy lashes...Yes. Tremendously alluring indeed. But as I told him upfront – he’s not here to be my sex toy. I’m not going to abuse him and I’m certainly not going to assault him, either sexually or physically. All I want is for him to obey me and do what I tell him to and there will be no need for me to get rough with him. And it seems he’s starting to understand that.

I’m distracted by the moist, heated feel of his mouth and enjoying the sight of his delicious pink lips around my finger so it is quite a jolt when he suddenly bites down on it, making me jerk in surprise and hiss in pain. I yank my hand away, studying it. He’s bitten hard enough to draw blood.

“You little bitch!” I exclaim, snapping my focus back to the boy in the chair, his gaze flaring with triumph that he managed to pay me back for the force-feeding.

Bad idea.

I told Bill what would happen if he bit me and yet he still did it anyway so I follow through with my threat and stand up to angrily and sharply slap him across the face. It was only meant to be a mere slap that would throw his head to the side and make him feel appropriately chastised but I unintentionally strike him so powerfully that it’s more like a punch and his light figure gets knocked right out of the chair, Bill sprawling to the floor and landing on his ribs and hip with a yelp of fright. While I stare at what I’ve done in disbelief, he cowers there, lying on his side and not even attempting to get up.

“Fuck,” I mutter guiltily, a terrible wave of remorse slicing through me. Kneeling beside him, I reach for his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

He doesn’t answer me, just flinches away from my touch, his left arm coming up protectively, baring his inner-forearm tattoo. His hands are shaking badly. There is a smear of blood on his lip and tears are welling in his eyes. He is struggling not to cry, his face crumpling up and his humiliated gaze avoiding mine, his bravery broken by my harsh blow.

“Fuck,” I grit out again, still angry but now with myself. I don’t like seeing Bill this way - weak and tearful and defeated. I’d much rather he was rude and rebellious and fiery. I’d rather have him swearing at me than crying. Seeing him trembling and terrified on the floor at my feet just makes me feel cruel and I hate feeling like that. I know I’m intimidating and domineering but I’m not a total and complete bastard. I don’t get off on hurting young boys and when I took Bill it was not my plan to do something like this. I hadn’t intended to hit the poor guy so hard but the shock of his bite and the mingled pain and fury that automatically flooded me meant that I forgot my own strength for a moment. I kept telling him I wasn’t going to hurt him and what did I just do? All but punched him to the ground, like a bigger high-school bully. I mean, he’s just a KID for God’s sakes. I ought to be ashamed of myself.

And, believe me, I am. I feel like the biggest asshole in the world right now.

“I’m sorry.” My voice is quiet and deeply regretful. “I shouldn’t have done that. Forgive me.”

He doesn’t reply, just gives a pitiful whimper, still shielding his face with his arm. This is the second time he’s fallen onto the floor but at least there’s carpet in here so his landing would have been more cushioned than the one in the tiled conference room.

“Come on. The floor is no place for you. Let’s get you up,” I recommend sympathetically. Slipping my hand under his elbow, I help him off the ground, being extra-gentle so I don’t break anything or hurt him even further. He’s a tall young man - over 6 feet - but I’m slightly taller than him. Also a lot stronger. Unlike Bill, I actually train my body and have muscle. Apart from his height he really is a petite, twig-like little thing with a tiny waist, bony shoulders and thin arms and legs. His collarbones stand out like a couple of gnawed-on chicken-wings. I must make sure I don’t forget my strength again because I could cause a lot of damage to this frail creature if I’m not careful.

“How are your ribs?” I probe, gently running one hand down along his side, over his T-shirt. “Does this hurt?”

He shakes his head morosely, keeping his eyes lowered, shunning my inquiring gaze. I softly press on his hip, the one he landed on.

“What about here?”

Another head-shake. He might not feel it now but I bet in the morning he will have a big, sore black bruise right there. He’s got no padding on his hips whatsoever. All out of resistance, the slim nineteen year old stands there silently and passively while I cup his chin and inspect his fragile face for injuries. He seems fine, apart from the red slap-mark on his pale skin (which will probably end up bruising as well) and bleeding mouth. He must have cut the inside of his cheek on a tooth, probably a canine because they’re the sharpest. I should know. Ask my finger.

Bill remains still and submissive when I wipe the blood off his plump bottom lip with my sleeve. Sensibly, he does not try to take a chunk out of my flesh again.

“I really am sorry for hitting you, Bill,” I apologise again. “But if you want me to be nice, you have to stop doing stupid, reckless things, like biting me. I’ll treat you with respect if you do the same for me. Do we have a deal?”

His only reply is a forlorn sniffle.

Since I have him under control, even if it is only temporarily, I take Bill by the arm and lead him to the bathroom doorway.

“I think you should shower now. Wash all that old makeup off your face. It’ll make you feel better. And wash your hair too,” I prompt, wanting to see Bill in his natural state, without the heavy paints and powders and hairspray. I know that under all that stage-show junk, he’s still a beautiful boy and I want to be able to touch his smooth skin without having oily foundation smear on my fingertips and I would like to stroke his dark hair and feel it soft and silken, not stiff and teased up as if he’s gotten an electric shock, as it’s styled now.

“That’s not a request,” I state, shoving his unmoving figure through the entrance. “That’s an order. Don’t come out until you’re clean.”

Following that, I shut the door on Bill to give him some privacy but I wait outside just to make sure he’s doing what he’s supposed to. I can hear the shower running but after a few minutes I get suspicious by the unchanging sound of water pattering on tiles and decide to peek in. I can see through the steam billowing around the room that Bill is not in the shower cubicle. He’s not even undressed. He is waiting right by the door and as soon as I open it far enough to see what he’s up to, he makes a dash for freedom. Being so skinny, he slips out through the gap between me and the door like a crafty, cunning rat, dashing out of the room, down the hallway and bolting for the stairs. He sprints up them two steps at a time, moving pretty fast for a lanky, non-athletic guy, quickly reaching the door at the top of the stairs and yanking and pulling on the handle. It doesn’t budge. As I come down the corridor and start to advance on him, he swears under his breath, madly pressing buttons at random on the keypad set in the wall, hoping by some miracle he’ll press the right ones and make it unlock. With each try, the red light on the bottom of the keypad blinks twice, denying him entry. He might have spent all day hitting those buttons but I swiftly ascend the stairs and grab him by the hips, putting a stop to that time-wasting nonsense. He is wearing a studded belt and I firmly grip the waist of his jeans with both hands, dragging him back down from the door. He desperately clings to the handle, his T-shirt riding up and pants slipping down slightly, exposing his lower back and the star tattoo near his hip. He struggles and kicks, cursing at me in guttural German but his words sound frantic and pleading, as if he knows he can’t get away or beat me.

I am simply too strong for him and he can feel it.

It is thrilling, having that slender body wriggling and bucking in my firm grip, and I am starting to get considerably aroused as I’m restraining him but I have excellent willpower and so I don’t do anything sexual or force myself upon him, just toss his struggling figure over my shoulder and cart him back down the stairs, unaffected by the harmless blows he’s raining down upon my back and the sharp, stinging tugs on my scalp as he rips at my ponytail like a spitting baby wildcat.

“Don’t pull my hair,” I reprimand, whacking him warningly on the pert little backside and making him gasp and stiffen in both outrage and terror. Hefting him off my shoulder like a bag of hay, I set him back onto the floor. After I let him go, he hurriedly yanks his T-shirt down, covering up that tantalising hip-tattoo and taut tummy, scuttling back against the wall in cringing fear. Evidently, he still thinks I’m a rapist. Sighing, I pull the elastic band from my messed-up hair, smoothing it back neatly with both hands before binding it into the long rope I prefer to wear it in. While I’m doing that, Bill stands there uncertainly, wondering why I haven’t assaulted him yet. He’s very aware that I could have thrown him to the floor, torn his pants off and been on top of him - and inside him - by now but I haven’t done any such thing.

I release another sigh of patience and plant my hands onto my hips. “Listen. I’m not going to attack you. I’ve told you that already. I’m here to improve your life, not wreck it.”

After I say that he appears quite perplexed, not comprehending my motives. It’s as though he can’t believe I’m capable of being kind or lenient. But as I’ve already proven, I am very capable of kindness. And I’ll prove it again. I’m not even going to punish him for his escape attempt.

“I know why you keep fighting me, Bill, and I admire that about you, but I’ve won countless martial arts championships over the years and unless you’re a black belt in Taekwondo, you’ve got no chance of beating me. Furthermore, that door and all the other doors down here are locked with a password which you will never be able to figure out no matter how many hours you spend trying. Now, are you going to stop this unproductive behaviour and just do what I ask you to?” I conclude with one eyebrow raised.

“My brother will be looking for me,” he bursts out randomly, sounding shaky and desperate. “He will come and find me.”

“Not without me giving him directions, he won’t. Your twin bond isn’t that damn close,” I drawl mockingly.

“He will find me. He will,” he repeats in an empty-eyed whisper, hugging himself and shivering against the wall, looking as though he’s clinging to his last shreds of hope. Or sanity.

Softening towards this poor traumatised teenager, I offer, “Would you like to talk to Tom today?”

His gaze jerks up to mine straight away, his hollow eyes filling with a rush of expectation and anticipation. “You’d let me?”

“Of course. I’m just as interested in helping him as I am you. Would you like me to tell him where you are? Would you like him down here with you?”

Mixed expressions flit over Bill’s face as he contemplates Tom joining him in this basement, which is essentially an inescapable prison, no matter how cosy it might be. One part of him intensely wants his twin here with him and the other part, the protective part, doesn’t want Tom anywhere near this dungeon and certainly nowhere near a psycho kidnapper like me. I’m not sure what Bill is more afraid of; spending another night underground and alone, or having his brother around for company but putting him in danger as well. He’s torn between wanting Tom there and wanting to protect him.

“Tell you what,” I suggest. “You just be good for me and take a shower and I’ll let you talk to your brother when you get out, okay?”

“You...you promise?” he questions hopefully, his voice and face brightening with optimism.

“I give you my word,” I say sincerely and seriously. After all, I haven’t lied to him yet. He must believe me because he nods compliantly and heads back into his room and over to the shower, which is still running. I follow him. He stops in front of the cubicle and glances down at the bathmat.

“I’m not undressing in front of you,” he announces, his defiance returning. This pleases me. This is how I like Bill Kaulitz to be. I like him with a bit of courage in his character, a bit of tartness in his tone and a bit of steel in his spine. I’d much rather see this than have him sobbing on the floor.

“I understand,” I relent, giving a small respectful bow. “I will be back in twenty minutes to see you and then we’ll make that phone call.”

I turn around, exiting the room so he can disrobe. As tempting as it is to see his tattooed body naked, I am not going to spy on him in the shower. I need him to trust me a little and leaving him alone in the bathroom is one way to begin the process.

I meant what I said to Bill, though. I am quite keen to meet this dreadlocked, similarly handsome twin brother of his and will bring him down here to be with Bill. Once Tom walks through that door he’ll be my prisoner too. I’m curious to see how he’ll react when he sees his missing sibling again; how tight he will hug Bill, if Tom will lovingly pet Bill’s hair or kiss his cheek, if Bill will cry with relief and cling to him. They may already be close but after a few more days, when I’m done with them and have finished playing my games, they’ll be much, much closer...
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Captivation