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Here Be Dragons	By : drowsyfantasy Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 2701 -:- 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
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The afternoon sun feels good on his back, despite the lash marks that are there.
Till leans against the wooden door for a moment, turning his face down, smelling the old oak, and then moves away into the garden.
The gardener has been there that past week, because the whole thing smells like fresh-cut grass and he can feel the blades giving way underneath his feet. A few stray blades catch between his toes as he walks across the springy green warmth towards the flowers and hedge maze.
Schneider is laying in the shade of a snowball bush, and Paul is sitting in the branches of a peach tree, eating some of the ripened fruit. The Master doesn’t care much about what happens outside the walls of his home, so long as they don’t stray. And so they enjoy their time in the gardens as much as possible. It means they get a chance to lie in the sun and forget.
Till bitterly only wishes he could forget.
“Hey, Till.” Richard calls, sitting under the peach tree with Olli. He has a lilac branch in his hands. “We were wondering if you would join us.”
Schneider sits up in a shower of white petals, and he sneezes as they tickle his nose. “Phua…” he brushes them out of his hair. The Master seems to like those long, wavy curls, and the first time he attempted to trim them, the ex-drummer got a lashing that made him sleep on his stomach for a month because the wounds kept re-opening. “I heard about this morning.”
Till’s stomach clenches but he sits down to make a little circle with the group. “What did you hear about this morning?”
“That the Bastard is off in Vienna for a month.” They all call him the Bastard behind his back, the Master to his face.
Till relaxes. A tiny bit. “Yes, it’s true. We have the place to ourselves for a little while.”
“It’ll be good to have a reprieve.” Paul tosses him a peach, and the taller man catches it, biting into the ripe, fleshy fruit. Juice runs down his chin and he wipes it with the back of his hand.
“Agreed.” Olli is now lying on his stomach, watching a ladybird crawl up a blade of grass. “I want to spend as much time as possible out here, in the sun, before the fall comes.”
The fall. With the change of season comes a sickening realization that they have been in the Master’s house for six months now. Till feels nauseated again and hands Richard the peach. The younger man bites into it, eagerly. Six months, a lifetime, who cares? They have no clue as to how long they will be punished. Only the Master knows, and their record company. The rest of the world thinks that Rammstein is in the studio, coming up with new songs, away from their friends and loved ones. Even their wives (and girlfriends) and children don’t know.
The Master knows. But he certainly isn’t telling.
Till lays on his back. The grass crunches underneath him, tickling a little at first until he lays still. Richard comes to sit closer, lying beside him, on his front. His hair is growing out, the black dye on the tips now, making him look like he’s frosted in reverse. The Master abhors the dye, so they’re all-natural. He does, however, allow them to shave (even if Schneider can’t cut his hair), so they don’t have to put up with scratchy stubble. The Master doesn’t like to feel it on his groin when they he fucks their throats.
The sun haloes Richard’s face and for a moment, the flower-look reminds Till of the first music video version of Du Riechst So Gut. Then the other man touches the fresh piercing and Till hisses in pain, everything brought back to this very moment, here and now. “Fuck! Don’t touch it!”
“You should take it out.” Richard says, pulling his hand back.
Till grabs the retreating digits, holds them. “I can’t,” he explains, “it’ll heal over if I don’t leave it in, and then the Bastard will have to re-pierce it. You know he will.” Instead, he kisses Richard’s palm and the other man smiles down at him, gentle.
“You always did like a little more pain.”
Till raises an eyebrow. “Not to this extent, and certainly not without benefit. We suffer for art’s sake, Reesh, and this isn’t art.”
“Damned right it’s not.” Richard sighs, placing his free hand over the tattoo on his side. He doesn’t have many tattoos or piercings put in by the Master. Instead, his ankles and wrists – including the one Till is now kissing and soothing with his tongue – are worn raw and red from restraints and manacles, binding him down. Or up. Sometimes he’s left hanging in the air like a piñata, waiting for the Master to spin him around and fuck him. More than once he’s puked on the tiles because the motion sickness gets to him, and that’s always earned him a severe beating afterward.
“Will we recognize ourselves when we get out of here?” Paul asks the air.
Olli shifts. “You mean, if we get out of here.”
“When,” Paul says, with firm reassurance. “When. This can’t last forever. I can’t see it lasting more than a few years, at the very most. The world will start to ask questions. Our families will, at least.”
“I hope so.” Flake comes over. He’s been picking apples in the small orchard. There are peaches, pears, apples and more. No tropical fruits, though, those have to be imported. He settles the fruit in a pile in the centre of their little circle. “I miss my daughter.”
They all miss their loved ones. Till, mouth now tending gently to Richard’s other battered and bruised wrist, thinks of his life before. Before the Bastard. It’s too painful, too painful right now, too raw. Instead he concentrates on the actions of the present, and is rewarded when Richard finally moves to snuggle beside him in the sun, wrapping his free arm around the singer’s barrel chest.
They have instruments. The Master allows them some. They rarely play anymore. At first, they did on a daily basis, fully thinking they’d be free within a week. Not so. Now they play once a month. Till has little reason to sing, but sometimes he finds himself humming in the shower and murmurs the words out loud. He supposes it’s a habit to break.
Richard is attempting to repay Till’s kindness by lapping at his sore nipples. The older man has to admit that despite the pain, that tongue feels good against his flesh. He closes his eyes and lets his friend tend to him, wishing that those little wet touches could heal with magic. Sadly it’s not so, and eventually Richard kisses both piercings and lies beside him again.
“I think we should play tonight. As a bit of a celebration.” Schneider suggests, as they all lie on their backs and stare up at the cloudless blue sky. “You know. Something to cheer us up. We’ve been in a funk lately and it can’t be good.”
“Always the optimist. You and Paul go well together.” Olli chuckles. “But you’re right. It would do us well to have a little music.”
Richard looks over at Till. “Would you be able to sing for us, tonight?”
“Yeah, I think so.” He gathers his breath and nods. “Sophie came by earlier and gave me some painkillers, if anybody is really hurt.”
“She did?” Flake muses. “I thought she would know better…the Bastard will be furious if he finds out. He likes it when we suffer.”
“She must be crazy.” Richard agrees.
“I don’t think so.” Schneider pipes up. “She can’t hear our screaming, but she’s never heard our music. Maybe the Bastard has done this before, and she’s used to just treating his slaves like ordinary people.”
“That would explain why she’s never bothered to ask for an autograph.” Richard shuffles closer to Till, attaching himself like a barnacle. The man is nothing if not possessive. His mouth now roams over the singer’s throat, settling on the dip between his breastbones and laps at the hollow there. It effectively silences both of them, at least for the time being.
Paul and Schneider eventually go off to the orchard. Flake and Olli head back to the mansion, discussing music and dinner. They leave Till and Richard in a world of their own on the lawn, under the lilac trees.
The smell is heady now, in the late afternoon. Till is concerned that his sunscreen may be wearing off by now (he doesn’t want to burn on top of his marks) so he gently sits, tugging Richard into the new shade by the base of the trees.
The younger man goes with him, willingly, climbing into his lap to kiss him, this time on the mouth. Till receives him, warm and eager, leaning back until he’s falling into the grass, the ex-guitarist on top of him.
They were never this intimate before, or at least, very rarely. Stolen kisses here and there, making out mostly on-stage or for some sort of audience. But here, they seek comfort in each other, in the confidence of their relationship, in the loving touches they could share. Mostly because they all crave the warmth of another human being, not the cold steel of the Master.
They’re clumsy. Sometimes they can bring a little lubricant back to their room, but their bodies are violated by the Master so often that they don’t want to engage in sex. Usually their orgasms (stolen as they are) come from mutual touching, soft kisses and hard stroking. They’re learning what makes the other sigh, or scream. But they have to keep fairly quiet, as they don’t want to disturb the others or awaken the servants – the Master knows his slaves have free will and Till doesn’t know how far he’d allow them to go if he knew.
Till isn’t sure if the others have paired off, or even if they’d want to, but he and Richard seem to have a mutual need, and they fill it with each other.
And so, as the cicadas buzz around them in the August heat, the two men come together as one, keeping each other steady in an uncertain sea.
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Here Be Dragons