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Complications Of The Flesh	By : runningnakedinthepark Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 1264 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- 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.

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Title: Complications Of The Flesh 1/10
Author: Robby a.k.a. Mr. Naked
Rating: NC 17/AU
Pairing: Till/Christoph, mentions of Till/Flake
Disclaimer: Never happened, not real.
Beta: hannelore_k
Author’s note: Based on lisa_thecat’s wonderful “Dirty Story”.

In this story the following songs have been quoted: “The Noose”, by A Perfect Circle; “The Fragile”, “Mr. Self-destruct”, “Something I Can Never Have”, “The Becoming”, “Even Deeper” and “Complications Of The Flesh” by NIN; “Angel” and “Butterfly Caught”, by Massive Attack; “Don’t Come Around” and “Things That Made Me Change” by Macy Gray; “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaak.

I

*With your halo slipping down…*

When it rains, in the nighttime, the city becomes only smudged colors, shapeless shadows and glittering lights doubled by their reflections on the wet dark mirror of the asphalt.

It’s December. It should snow. It shouldn’t be raining. The city is now this bleary image consisting of colored and sparkling spots – that’s what I see through the windshield of my car. I’m driving aimlessly, but I’m searching for something.

Maybe for my inspiration or will to write, whatever that thing was that kept me like glued to the chair with my fingers on the keyboard of my laptop, as I lost count of days and hours, whether it was day or night – I had an idea that needed to be chained to the paper, my books. And, like with a magic number, there were three of them, three books that I wrote before. Three wise men from the East, three witches, third time lucky.

There hasn’t been any fourth attempt. My brain was like drained of any ideas. There have been just some projects I got involved in. But I had the money to support myself; I wasn’t that hungry, young aspiring writer anymore. Sometimes, though, I thought that maybe that was it, the thing that got me working so restlessly, so unstoppable.

In the same time I knew that this was just gibberish. My gift was still there, buried somewhere, gone on vacation in Hawaii, hell knows! And he must have thought the same, since he was still around, like this evening when we met in a bar for a few drinks. Another pretext for him to point out to me that I should start writing again. He - Christian, my publisher, my best friend, and my ex-lover.

No, no, he doesn't say it directly to me. Instead, he would talk about my life. We would talk about my life. It's all about his silences and glances he throws through the thick lenses of his glasses; that's all about him. He doesn't judge. He always claimed that he never makes final judgments of character. He prefers to give people the benefit of doubt. Or, better said, the benefit of his aristocratic indifference. But there’s been no room for indifference between us for a long time now.

I grit my teeth, annoyed. I knew he was right, and that bothered me. I needed to focus. Find some peace. Get organized. Get writing again. I was trying to remind myself of how writing used to be fun. Now it was just a race towards a deadline, towards an end. And I didn’t give a fuck about what end that was. Anymore.

Oh, fuck! Why did I have to think about him now? About all this? All these thoughts keep chasing me like hungry wolves, and I keep running, trying to rid myself of them. I just hop in the car and drive, hoping they will lose my trace as I'm in the comfortable, warm insides of my metal monster that protects me from the misery of the streets I'm cruising on now.

Promiscuity.

That's what he picked on that time. My urge. This urge driving me through these ill-famed streets, filled with whores, pimps, junkies, dealers. A part of me identifies with these dark silhouettes of gray walls, scribbled with graffiti, the sick streetlights, the shadowed corners, the heavy, rusty iron entrance doors. That part that he says will bring me only trouble. That part that gets me to search restlessly. That part of me that loves taking risks. That part of me that said it’s time to go, so I left him there, in the bar, in his ivory tower from where he can emit elaborate conclusions about this world.

When we were together, he lent me some of his precision and calm. He wanted out when I’d proved that I’m still a stray dog at heart and no matter how good I have it, I still need the street where I can get to tame my demons but with no strings attached.

As a friend, he’s more tolerant than he was as a lover.

As a friend, I listened to him more. I yearned to please him. I wanted to behave. Find myself – whatever. Do all those self-help clichés. But inevitably, after a few days of bottled up discontentment and misery and emptiness, I was finding myself getting dressed and going out at night, my steps finding by themselves the same streets I avoided during the day.

Now, I wonder what is he trying to protect? The man he still loves, the friend, or the one who is a part of what brings him the money?

His intelligence fascinated me, his intellect. I assume my complicated ways - that mix between helplessness and self-confidence, between the refinement the education gives to you and that tendency for promiscuity – were what drew him to me.

Promiscuity. There we go, I’m saying it again.

We didn’t actually fight, and I guess I hated him for that. I think I still do. But, one couldn’t fight with him. He would just draw his conclusion, make a decision and inform you about that. Yet, I still could read that sadness in his blue eyes when he was telling me that we couldn’t go on like that, that he wanted me all for himself, and that I couldn’t give him what he wanted, what he needed.

I tried to show myself that I’m not like that. That I can give him what he needs and that I’m not just thinking with my cock, intelligence over matter, and all this philosophical mumbo-jumbo. But finally I had to face it: I can only love him as I can love – in my inconstant, fractured way. He was right – as always.

We turned out to be better at the friendship game. I didn’t get myself somebody else. No one qualified to take Christian’s place. Some cold nights I lay awake regretting horribly not having him in my bed anymore. Some other cold nights, I went cruising for a little bit of pleasure.
Like that night!

*I won’t let you fall apart…*

I didn’t see it coming. It felt like a dagger of light slashing my eyes - the front lights of a car coming toward me. Millions of sparkles of rain droplets intensified the lights.

I pulled on the steering wheel and turned to the right.

“Fuckwit!”

Then – the bam!

“Oh, shit!”

I hoped it was a dog that I hit.

But then – he stood up. Actually, I only assumed it was a he, at the beginning. It was a tall dark silhouette, longish and unruly hair, contoured by the electric light cast from one of the streetlights at a certain distance behind him.

And next – the legs. Long and straight legs. He appeared to wear some boots and some kind of shorts; my glance was stuck on those legs, profiled through that light. Nice, long legs wrapped in fishnets.

He was standing motionless, his palm on the wet metal carcass of my car – I assumed he was staring at me, probably even cussing me, but I couldn’t see his face.

Ungluing my gaze off those legs, I got out of the car.

Was he ok?

He was ok.

He was wearing something without sleeves. In this cold, rainy night! But those legs - he was tall, slim and had those legs…

He mumbled something, spiced with a lot of “fuck”. But he seemed alive.

I finally could take a good look at him. His face seemed to be smudged in make-up, too much black make-up smeared by the rain; his eyes were sparkling, reflecting the streetlights – he must have been wasted.

I asked him to get in the car.

He got in the car with me. Near me. He was indeed wearing some sort of sleeveless t-shirt, fishnets and shorts. In this weather!

I asked him if he needed something.

I wanted to help.

I wanted to take him off the street and nurse his broken wing.

He mumbled something, and then he reached out for my crotch, unzipping my pants. He was one of those street hustlers. And the words he mumbled must have been about his price.

I didn’t push aside his cold and wet hands that found my cock in no time and started caressing it. He leaned over my lap and wrapped his lips – cold and wet too – over the tip of my member. Then, his warm tongue touched the skin. I sighed and reclined better, running my fingers through his hair. He worked on my cock, taking it whole in his mouth, and then just sucking on its tip, he kissed and licked along my member, pumping at the base with his fingers encircling its roundness. He was good at it. So goddamn good!

I moaned and tilted my head; I closed my eyes – the only thing I felt was how he was working on my cock; I could hear the soothing and rhythmical sound of the windshield wipers like a metronome for this moment, my moment with him. I caressed his back slowly; through his wet t-shirt I sensed each movement of his fibers, his muscles, something so intimate, arousing me even more. He had this sturdy scent, not of cheap cosmetics, but of rain, of wet ground, of heated flesh and sweat. I came, long, draining, moaning maybe a bit too loud than it’s allowed.

He straightened his back, licking his lips. I put my cock back in my pants and zipped up, as I was staring at the windshield wipers making their whole round – the effort to rise, then crossing the glass to the maximum point and then all the way back. I didn’t even stop the engine, and the front lights were still on. Someone could have seen us. Also, I didn’t use a rubber and he ate my cum.

He was staying motionless near me, without saying anything. He was waiting for his money.

I turned on the light, and then searched for my wallet. I picked some bills and handed them toward him. That’s when I looked at him. Under that smudged make-up, into those blue, bleary eyes. He wasn’t pretty. He was goddamn gorgeous!

“What’s your name?” I only managed to whisper, putting the bills on his palm.

I was breathless.

He clutched his fingers over the money, pushed the car door open and got out. He closed the door and started walking very fast, very determined.

“Listen!” I shouted, pressing the command for the window to roll down.

I started driving along the sidewalk, and when I got near him I slowed down.

“Hey!” I shouted.

He twisted his head, looking at me through the opened window.

Why the fuck did I need his name after all?

“Never mind,” I mumbled and pressed the gas pedal.

“Christoph!”

Huh?

Two more steps and he was entering one of those badly painted doors of heavy iron. A club.

Christoph.

Maybe it wasn’t even his real name. Why give his real name anyway?

Christoph!
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Complications Of The Flesh