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The Terrible broom Cabinet Fic	By : varenoea Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 1840 -:- 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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Okay, baby.

To put it in your words. But I guess you’re going to be a lot more verbal than I was yesterday.
I feel like I can see us from above in my head. He, naked and spread and crouched on the big chair like a frightened spider, me getting out of my shirt and pulling my pants down. It’s a deliciously violent picture. It hurts to see it, after all I never wanted anything like this to happen, but it feels so necessary.

I hook my arms under his knees and spread his legs as far as possible. That’s going to be necessary too, or else I won’t fit between his thighs at all.

His face is open with fear, mouth, nose, eyes; and he has even forgotten to swallow. But he obediently shuts up and tries to focus on getting this over with.

For a moment, as I see him this way, I’m really not in the mood, and the idea of fucking him raw tastes stale. But then I force myself.

No lube or preparation as I enter him, and he groans. I press his body down with my own and enjoy the feeling of squeezing him until his bones creak. He continues groaning as if in death throes, like he’s fighting for his breath, trying hard not to scream. His body stiffens, and he tightens up. I hit him hard in the face.

“Don’t try that on me!” I hiss. “You relax right now!”

His breath comes in ragged little sobs, and his eyes are wide open as if opening his eyes would help easing all problematic orifices in question as well. I see tears. And I don’t know if he feels like I did, but I feel he should.

“Please…”

I ram into him, hard, all at once. “Shut up. Shut up, you piece of filth!” I shout at him, maddened by the pain it caused in my dick.

His cry is somewhat strangled. I grab his hips forcefully and pull them down so I have easier access, crush him under me once more and start to fuck him roughly. I try not to care about anything around me. There are things I would like to do better. It’s not turning me on to rape somebody. But after a while the friction around my cock is enough to distract me.

I can’t think of anything erotic, not even of a woman. All I feel is revenge and hate as I come, and I pull out thoughtlessly and want to get up.

As I do, he slumps forward and sags against my chest. I realise that he has passed out.
“Flake. Stop playing dead”, I say harshly, but he doesn’t move.

I carefully lift one eyelid. The iris is hardly visible, turned towards the brain. He is really unconscious. I feel betrayed. How much of the suffering was spared for him? When did he lose conscience?

His breath goes flat, and he whimpers as I pick him um. Sure, I could just leave him there. But somehow I feel guilty too now. I’m no better than he is. I’m a rapist too.

I put him down on the couch and cover him up with a blanket. He shouldn’t be able to say that I treated him worse than he treated me.

I also go to the bathroom and get some painkillers, after considering that he used lube at least, and I didn’t. So he’ll be much more sore than I was, I reckon. Will he?

I get a book and start to read. I’m disturbed when I hear a painful moan from the couch. Flake blinks. He is pale as a ceiling and he seems to be too weak to sit up on his elbows. At least he doesn’t try to. His face has started to swell in places where I’ve hit him, purple marks on his jaw, the left side of his face almost completely covered in blood from his nose. Probably he has a concussion.

“How are you?” I do my best to sound scornful, but then… now he is only a very hurt little boy. I felt what he looks like now.

“Not good”, he whispers, not daring a more cheeky answer. “Oh my God. I’m sorry, Till. I’m so sorry.”

I feel a lump in my throat. “If you feel like saying you wish that this never happened, you’re not the only one. But remember, it was you who started this… shit.”

“I know”, he whispers. “I said I’m sorry. I knew that it must have been horrible for you, but… not this horrible.”

I can’t help but sit down on the side of the couch. He is hurt so badly he should probably be in hospital, but all he worries about are apologies.

“Now you know what it’s like”, I say harshly.

He looks down and nods. “Yes”, he says, “now I know.”

And he breaks out in tears. The lump in my throat is getting bigger. I pick him up, rock him against my shoulder and start to cry too, my face buried against his neck.
************************************************************************************************

“You don’t look good.”

“You’re not exactly a beauty either.”

“I mean you really don’t look good”, says he and sits on the arm of the sofa, looking down at me with a troubled face. “In the last weeks. You’ve lost some weight.”

“Oh my god. Terrible.”

“You look like you don’t sleep much. I’m worried about you.” Flake sighs.

“I’m not feeling too good”, I admit, swallowing the poisonous answer away from the tip of my tongue.

“Neither me.” Flake tries a weak smile, and as I look up and look at him, really look at him for the first time in five weeks, I realise that he looks grey and unhealthy too. That’s the least thing he deserves. But I don’t want to see him like this. It makes my actions look no better than his.

And I hate to be on the same level as he. I hate him. I do not only hate him for assaulting me physically. It’s embarrassing and humiliating, it’s going to haunt me – but I can live with it. I can handle it (reason - wise) as something that just… happened and doesn’t say a thing about me as a human being; with a certain pride I can even say it didn’t wreck me or affect me any other than physically.

But that would be lying to myself. I hate him even more for the way he manipulated my mind. I used to be dead sure that a man couldn’t turn me on, and he has proved me wrong. No, I don’t mean that he forced me to come. That doesn’t count. He has woken up something. The stuff I used to do with men for fun (snogging, groping, mock-buggering just for the show) now seem to make a whole new sense. Suddenly there is REALLY something… violent, darkish and erotic about it. Maybe it has just never occurred to me before that it COULD be more than just nonsense. Maybe it was subconscious all the time. Did I just suppress those homoerotic tendencies? And live them out in a mock form? Did I just not WANT it to be true that I could be turned on by men? And therefore lock the possibility up so securely that it really WASN’T true? Am I really bisexual? Have I always been? Did he make me?

Am I analysing too much?

All I know is, in retrospective, I liked to fuck him.

And I hate him for making me so deeply insecure about the whole image I had of myself. For messing up my whole sexuality. Am I a masochist? Or sadist? Or both? Did I like to be buggered? Did I ask him of all people to play the “bend over” part because I have always felt turned on by him? Did he always turn me on and my subconscious chose him for the part because I secretly hated him subconsciously for turning me on?

All I know is, I need someone to talk to. And I can’t talk to anybody about this.

Flake looks down regretfully and swallows. “I’d like to ask you to talk to me”, he says, “if you would like to. I mean, if you need to…. talk about this. I don’t know, of course. I don’t want to impose myself…maybe you don’t want to talk to me at all….”

I look down. “What about you?”

“What?” For a moment he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

“Do you need someone to talk?” I try to sound as tough as possible. Not weak and hesitant, like I feel.

He opens his mouth, closes it, then starts again. “I’d like to.” That’s all.

“Then let’s go.” I get up.

“To my place? Or yours?” When he realises what he sounds like, he shakes his head, grinning in despair. “I mean…”

“Mine”, I say.

“Fine”, he beams and grabs my hand to pull me out into the grey-pink sunset at the parking – lot.
************************************************************************************************

On the trip home, we talk and talk and talk, and we still go on in the kitchen, while we eat filled rolls, when we change for the living- room because the sofa is more comfortable. I don’t even remember what we were talking about. I know it was a blur of feelings, his, mine, all messed up, and in between we screamed and at some points broke out in tears or started to thrash one another.

At some point, we fell off the couch, beating around mercilessly; and suddenly we remained on the floor, his skinny body under me and unable to come up again by himself. That’s the moment when I realise that I’ve got a boner. And it’s pressing into his leg.

“You won’t”, he hesitantly whispered after several seconds of just staring, “you won’t…. will you? I mean… I… please. Don’t do that again.”

This hits me. I get up. “Nope.” My throat hurts inside as if I had swallowed sandpaper. “We’re even.”

He gets up too and licks his lips nervously. “If you should ever go to bed with me again”, he asks, “then… what would you expect from me?”

“I don’t know”, I say, trying to think. My throat is still raw, but….not only with hurt. My heart is beating harder (so it feels). He has just made the offer to do it again. And I want to. I want to and I don’t want to. I could find out if I’m really excited by a man. If I’m not, my life would be easier. And if I am (it suddenly strikes me as terribly simple) – then what? Then I would be bi. And so – fucking WHAT?

“I don’t know”, I say, shaking my head lightly. “Respect. Yes. That would do.”

He looks at me very sternly but soft, then takes my hand again and pulls me toward the bedroom.

We get undressed, suddenly we’re in my bed, snogging, and I feel his naked body pressed against mine. Then we really do it. We talk on, we cry, scream, accuse and get more and more quiet gradually until we’re firmly tangled into one another, with just enough room to jerk each other off. Sticky, firm warmth in my arms, gasping and biting my lips while he comes, I come and we’re glued together with sweat and semen. Not a position to spend much time in, I know, but all we can do now is fall asleep and not give a damn.

************************************************************************************************
When he is spread out on the bed, face down, with me on top of him, moaning softly with every slow but determined thrust into the warm slick moisture between us, and his hand is clamped into mine – that’s when I know that we’ve made it.

We’ve finally made it. It was him who hurt me, but he was also the only one I could talk to. The only one whom I could trust on that. Who could help me feel a little better by and by. Before I realised it, I needed him more and more. It’s not love, I presume. It’s just needing. He needs me too. We’re both too deep in this tangle to want to do without one another. He listened, I listened to him, we fucked, I fucked all my rage into him, and he would do his part in return, screaming, beating, defending, getting over his guilt and getting me over my inferiority.

It didn’t work quickly. It took months. Nearly years. But now all that is left inside me is peace. All that I can find when I rummage my feelings for him is sincere affection and thankfulness that he was there. It might sound brainwashed. But humans are strange. If I’m happy now, why shouldn’t I be? Should I run around with a grudge that feels way out of date? This was more than I could hope to get. If you think I should have done it differently, please don’t let me know.

Because I don’t care.
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The Terrible broom Cabinet Fic