Breaking Him In

Please Let Me Go

So this is my writing entry for the contest SinpaiCasanova has going on right now. There will be a few more chapters and I know there's no way I'll be able to finish all of them within the deadline on Wensday, so this chapter and probably the second is what I'm going to be initially bringing to the table for this until I finish the rest. Even through the last two chapters will be the more interesting ones 😂. Once again I wrote a lot more then I ment, and the ending probably went to crap because it was one in the morning and I was falling asleep. I haven't editied this but I will get to that soon, I hope you enjoy this, but before we begin . . .

Warnings: Nonconsentual sexual themes, kidnapping, pedophilia?, implied mental illnesses, crying, light violence, blood, mature themes, ect.

Total Word Count: 10529
I know, I need to stop with the long as hell freaking chapters.

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In one of the many buildings that occupied space within the city of Angels, the famed Los Angeles itself, was a small room hidden away by the deteriorating walls of the home that looked as though it hadn't been touched in years by anyone other than drug dealers, even with the cracked shingling and peeling exterior walls the sun had no chance of shedding any sort of light into one of the rooms even if it were to rise to its highest, as the basement location kept it secluded and cold, the only underground window covered by black curtains that had been sealed to the wall with concrete screws. So when stunning oceanic blues groggily began to open and close as their owner started to stir awake, his lithe teenage body covered by nothing but a thin sheet that was meant to be laid on instead of covered with, the old ratted material obviously meant for a child as the only reason it was covering his legs was the ball-like position he had curled into in his state of unconsciousness, there was nothing to protect him from the biting cold that instantly enveloped him in it's icy hands when he had gained enough of his senses to look around. And even in the pitch black darkness filling the space he could tell that he wasn't in any room he had ever seen before, it was with the realization that he didn't know where he was, that he was in a bed that wasn't his own in the dark that caused his stomach to drop into the clutches of pure fear while panic began to creep upon him. He shoved himself up on his arms and flipped around so he could press his back against the freezing cold headboard made of old metal, his hands felt around the wall behind him in between the spaces in the black bars, his fingertips only touching the cold concrete that was only a few degrees warmer than the headboard that felt as though it was sticking to his back. His breathing quickly picked up as that panic finally settled within him, overpowering any rational thought that his mind was trying to supply him with to calm down, if the room had even the slightest bit of light he would have been able to see his breath swirling in front of him as mist from the low temperature; the sudden emotional change from the blissful state of sleep to this terror was enough to bring tears to his eyes, the liquid building along his waterline rather fast, sending drops of water spilling down his cheeks that left trails on the dirt that had accumulated along his skin in the time he had been asleep.

"What the fuck!? You can't toy with my heart strings like this you stupid son of a bitch!!" The shout was loud enough to get noise complaints from the apartment’s neighbors, and considering there was a large strew of cursing strung out in the words and the couple next door were overly anti-cussing (which had been made quite clear early on considering the shout came from an apartment filled with an Irish family and they got one of these complaints within the first week living in the location) he would more than likely get an extra upset talking to when the teen's parents returned the next morning and had to deal with the angry pair. As soon as the sentences had left his pink lips he got a reply, just as loud as the original shout, from the kitchen where an older man somewhere around his late twenties poked his head out of to send him a glare, the twitch of his artificially dyed pink mustache showing that he was fighting off a smile, a large bowl of popcorn visible in his hands as he stepped past the living room's threshold, moving over to the couch so he could plop down next to the Irish teen and playfully flick his forehead as he scolded him.