Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

Kitten	By : runningnakedinthepark Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 1377 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Rammstein. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Kitten
- 1
Title: Kitten
Author: Mr Naked
Pairing: Till/Richard
Rating: NC 17
Summary: read it to know what's it about!
Disclaimer: My bets are that it isn't true, but, well, who knows for real?
Author's notes: Thanks and flowers go to my beta Ketene. Also, I was inspired by Gabriel Garcia Marquez's works and by Massive Attack's song “Angel” in writing this fic.

Kitten

Thoughts are like whispers inside your head. My head, actually, since I’m the one thinking them.

And now I’m alone and thinking. Sometimes I wish I could think that way - in whispers - so that I wouldn’t know what was going on in my mind. Sometimes my thoughts are like a pack of hungry wolves, escaping their leashes and running wild, dragging me after them insanely fast, so fast I can’t even catch my breath. And they take me, swirling and twirling me like a bug caught in a tornado, the tornado of this heat, like a fire burning each fiber of me. The
longing. It’s as if each cell of my being is tearing itself apart, spreading as if to absorb – a huge octopus reaching out its tentacles in a futile search of you.

I turn my head.

It feels as if I’m holding a living being. Warm. It’s as if a veil is covering my flesh, my body. I can sense it only as a contrast against the coolness of the walls, the tiles. The icy, smooth tiles. Inside me, this devil ready to devour, a beast struggling and hitting its body against the walls of its cage. That cage is my body, my slightly quivering body. Yes, it is happening again – I close my eyes and my brain starts functioning as if it were yours. I begin to wonder what
would you think of or see in a certain thing. This is my way of thinking of you. I remember how I miss you, and I try to bring you here. I suck my tongue in remembrance of you. And nothing else matters! As the real world around me dissolves and disappears inch by inch.

I miss your hand; I bring your touch, through my hand. Your touch over my skin. My hungry skin. I miss your words; I bring back your words with my voice, whispering them against the coolness of the wall. I close my eyes, and I bring the image of you under my eyelids, I bring the world of us together with your touch and your words. I open then the doors to all those millions of questions, all of whys and how and how come, that my boiling and restless brain keeps on
chewing on, turning and tossing them on all their sides, frustrated that it can’t find an answer, any answer, just as my body is so aching, craving for that touch.

Oh yes, this heat makes us all feel as if we’re slowly losing our minds!

It made me wonder, it still does, why couldn’t you let an ocean part us? We’re not in the same country anymore, I’m here and you’re all the way down there, in the South, the South of this continent, but I am still wondering why did you have to choose someone from there, why not Europe? Yes, why? It was too much of a punishment, it was turning against you, it was too far, too far fetched, because I dared to think that I could live and do more outside our little group
of six. It hurt you, but I guess it hurt you even more to know I was so far, far away. So it was a subconscious decision somehow, right?

At least we are on the same strand of earth now, so when I get like this, like now, when it is so hot that I feel myself melting under my own skin, my own skin feels like a thick and heavy winter coat on my flesh, while my flesh feels like burning on my bones, and this sweat (oh, how you said you enjoyed the scent of sweaty men!), making me all sticky and slippery, this sweat that I feel pouring like rivulets all along my body, over to my cock and my balls making them hang so low, I can bare this thought in the back of my mind, there's this slight chance.

I could get on the plane, in a spur of the moment, I have the passport, I don’t need visa to get in that country, and the money; oh, yes, señor, please straighten your seat, we are landing, yes, we are, my little eager heart tells me while pounding like mad; we are into this green corner of Paradise where you are hiding, in that big house, such a big house, with bird in cages (Why birds, why bird cages? Because they have to be there, it couldn't be otherwise.), with
the scent of living green wood, but only you in there, in that house, waiting for me, even if you pretend you’re not surprised at all, but all you did all those days, you were only waiting for me, even when you were with her, only with her, holding her and making her moan and scream your name on a high pitched, yet roughened by her heavy breathing, yes, Till, yes!; even then, you knew that I was to show up at your door. Yes, we are, after all, living on the same continent now. Thank God for planes!

It was more than just me going on with that side project, it was all your pack of feelings that felt torn down and trampled underfoot by me, by my words and the things I did, but that time you didn’t do anything; you just let me go my way, knowing there will come a day when I will feel like I am drying inside, dying, bit by bit, bouncing between insanity and the mature man I’m supposed to be, the only thing meant to temper me being to sit in a plane on the way to your
place while inside my head all my thoughts keep spinning over and over again, like chanting a magical Mantra: “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you...”

And my thoughts keep going on and on, and you know it, of course you know it, otherwise you wouldn’t be waiting for me like this, the worn out t-shirt, the baggy pants, your three-day-old stubble, all that negligence that you know I hate on anyone; I always hated it, but I’ve always made one exception – you. For some reason I’ve found it more than charming, actually a turn on, the smell of sweat and cigarettes, sometimes alcohol, the old and discolored house clothes on
you, there was always something very appealing, but only in your case, of course I wouldn’t have looked at another guy if he’d been like that.

With all this heat, though, I think of you as rather sitting on the edge of your bed, naked, and I would just kneel behind your bare back, I’d push your head forward, as I would start kissing the back of your neck, you know, where are all those little hairs that feel like a brush under the touch of my fingers caressing you, along those lines the flesh on your throat does, even if I know that others might find it disgusting, like they’d be turned off by the signs that you are aging, the gray hair, the deepening of the wrinkles on your skin.
But, well, I’ve always thought they look great on you!

The idea of a man aging isn’t great, you know what I am trying to say, like you always did; I think you always knew exactly what was going into my mind, but you were leaving me to delve into my own millions of doubts, just to see me tossing and turning and never finding my peace, even if you said that it is my nature, that I was like a flame, restless, sometimes extremely good, but always having an implicit dose of danger, and one day, that day, you decided it was
time you should stop to play with the fire; but even you couldn’t stop for good, because risking is addictive, and that’s why you’re staying on that bed, a covered-in-white-sheets bed, waiting for me to show up.

And I am dizzy, it feels like every particle of me is about to explode, but I need you, and you got me exactly where you wanted me to be, to feel that knot inside my chest, to feel as if this claw is grabbing my insides, squeezes them and spins them, and I am almost breathless, I am almost sick; it’s that moment when I start to enjoy things I would find otherwise painful, humiliating, you know, when you want to open yourself, more and more, as if you’re expanding all
your being, and it’s all so intense, one touch can set me off, while, in the same time, I need pain, the tensing of the fibers on your arms, yes, you’re strong, you give me pain, and it’s all spinning in my head, isn’t it?, like that chanting, that swirl of the entire world like a tornado sucking me into it, as I would barely hear your voice pronouncing my name, like a magic formula – “Richard”. And I would only submit to you, because I need to feel it, the sturdiness of your flesh, those hard muscles moving under the layer of your skin, and it's in my palm, as I'm wrapped in your scent, it's all over me so that I feel each flexing and each quiver of your fibers, but I wouldn’t have to tell you, you would know, because you always
knew, back then, in that short time we’ve been like that together, you knew it, I was close, like now, and I would feel your lips covering my mouth so I would groan and moan under your kiss, so others in the next rooms wouldn’t know about you and I. About those fractured moments. About this. About what these harsh gasps meant.

And then, we were waiting. My sweaty forehead against your sweaty forehead. My sweaty forehead against the cold tiles, now.

My lips would hurt, swollen, from being bitten. Your kisses. My teeth, this time. Bit my own lips so others outside wouldn't hear. That's one of the reasons. Sometimes, though, it's only to satisfy this craving for the pain. We were lying there drained, together. We'd feel ourselves heavy and sticky - whales landed on a beach!

Now, you must be lying in your bed with white sheets, in that jungle, in that country. My hands unfold, setting my own flesh free; my muscles are a bit sore, now. I could get there easily, to you, if I could get myself together and get into a plane. I mean, if I'd set my mind to it. But, until then, I have to catch my breath, clean myself, and wash these sticky hands. Yes, I’ve always made you laugh with my obsession for being clean and looking neat. And you’ve always been
the exception. The not-neat-at-all guy. You know I loved that about you. Now, after I've cleaned this shit off my hands, I'll have a smoke while taking you, your country with the jungle, your white-sheets bed and three day’s stubble and locking them all in those dark corners of my mind. Then I stand up and get back to my life.

I dry my hands with a towel, and step outside the bathroom. I turn off the light but I still hesitate while my hand rests on the doorknob. They say God kills a kitten each time one masturbates.

I grin devilishly at that thought and close the door. Carefully, so nothing, no image of you, no unanswered question of mine, no trace of pain, none of them would escape and follow me into my real world.

I'm not so fond of cats anyway.

~The End~
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Kitten