SIMON HENRIKSSON (𝘉𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘝𝘦𝘳.)

Darkness, that was the last thing you remembered as you drifted off to sleep. Now, as your senses clawed their way back to consciousness, a deep, pulsing ache throbbed behind your eyes. A low groan escaped your lips, rough and involuntary, as your eyelids fluttered open. Cold. That was the first thing you registered. Not just the chill in the air, but something more, like an emptiness, a sterile wrongness. And the smell — damp, and stale. What the…? You could’ve sworn you were just in bed.

Instinctively, you went to move, but soon discovered that you literally couldn't. Your body tensed as a horrible realization set in — your arms wouldn't budge. Something rough dug into your wrists. Your breath caught, heart lurching in your chest. With a panicked twist, you glanced over your shoulder and saw it: thick rope biting into the skin of your wrists, tethering you to a single iron pole that rose from the cracked concrete floor to the ceiling above. A rush of adrenaline surged. Your eyes darted around the space, wide and fearful.

This sure as hell wasn't your room.

You were in a basement, from what it looked like. The concrete walls were stained with age and neglect, and a single, crooked lightbulb hung above, flickering with an unsteady hum. It bathed the room in a dim yellow glow, casting shadows across the walls. You struggled against the restraints, twisting your wrists, testing the give of the rope. But, it held fast. Shit. Questions raced through your mind. Why were you here? And more importantly, WHO brought you to this place?

Well, by the sudden sound of keys jingling and the door knob being turned, it looks like your latter question was about to be answered. Dread settled in your chest as you braced yourself for whoever might be on the other side.

It creaked open slowly, and your breath hitched. You weren’t sure what you were expecting, maybe a towering, intimidating man with tattoos — but it wasn’t that at all. Standing there was a boy about your age, he looked to be average height. He wore a grey hoodie, jeans, and sneakers. He might have seemed normal, if not for the dark blood staining his clothes.

He shut the door behind him with a soft click, slipping the keys into his pocket before taking a step toward where you sat on the floor. A low, raspy chuckle slipped from his throat, the sound jarring against the tense silence that had settled over the room. “l-look…who’s…fuh..finally…awakeee…” he rasped, a creepy grin slowly stretching across his lips. He stepped forward again, and the flickering light above cast his face fully into view.

Your eyes widened. His face was streaked with blood too, but that wasn’t the worst of it. His eyes… they weren’t right. No color. Just empty black voids, staring straight into your soul, with pupils bit too big to be considered natural. It only amplified the horror of his already unsettling appearance. So, this is the guy that kidnapped you? Fan-fucking-tastic. He’s ugly as hell too, but you kept that part to yourself.

His head tilted to the side in a mockingly curious way, clearly picking up on your unease. There’s no way he didn't notice, it radiated from every inch of your body. You flinched as he suddenly lunged forward, stumbling onto his knees in front of you. Reflexively, you pressed your back harder against the pole behind you, trying to put any distance you could between you both. His breathing quickened, turning into shallow, uneven pants as he just stared, eyes unblinking.

“fffinally…you’re…all…mm..mine…” he croaked out softly, voice ragged and trembling, as if speaking took effort. One gloved hand reached out and brushed over your cheek with trembling fingers, trailing slowly down to your neck in a disturbingly tender caress. You jerked, trying to avoid the unwanted contact. Okay, what the fuck was he do—?

A choked noise escaped you as his hand suddenly wrapped around your throat, interrupting your thoughts. His grip wasn't tight enough to completely cut off air, but it was enough to make breathing difficult and panic bloom in your chest. Then came the cold, unmistakable press of metal against your temple. You didn’t even notice he was armed. “d-duh..don’t…mmmove…away…” he growled, pressing the barrel harder against the side of your skull, his voice filled with threat.

That was all it took to make you comply. You had no plans of getting shot today, or ever, for that matter. So, you stayed still. He seemed satisfied with your obedience. “good…pet…” he murmured, voice dropping to a low purr. His hand stayed on your neck, though his grip eased slightly. You thought he might put the weapon away now that you'd stopped resisting, but instead, you felt it trail lower. Sliding down to your jawline. A fresh jolt of fear bolted through you. He paused there, letting the tension stretch unbearably. Slowly, the gun shifted again, coming to rest against your parted lips. Then, before you could fully process what was happening, the barrel was in your mouth. The abruptness of it drew a startled, muffled sound from within your throat. You didn't dare try to resist. One wrong move, and he could end your life right then and there.

You inhaled sharply through your nose, pure, raw terror in your eyes as you locked your gaze on him. He only smiled in response, and then, to your shock and horror, he began to rock the gun back and forth with a deliberate slowness, the tip pressing against the back of your throat with each motion. It was meant to be sensual, a twisted imitation of a cock sliding in and out of your mouth. You heard a weird, squeaked moan escape him, his eyes fixated on your lips. Getting lost in whatever fantasy that consumed his mind at the moment. “mmm…fuuuck…suh..so…cute…”