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...and all the sinners, [are] saints!	By : runningnakedinthepark Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 2308 -:- 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-Hope I
- 2-Love (Chastity)
- 3-Anger
- 4-Jealousy
- 5-Sloth
- 6-Greed
- 7-Lust
- 8-Gluttony
- 9-Charity
- 10-Vanity
- 11-Hope II
- 2
- 3
- 4
II
Title: …and all the sinners, [are] saints! (2/10)
Author: Mr. Naked
Pairing: Richard/Christoph
Rating: NC17
Summary: Anger
Disclaimer: If it happened for real, let me know.
Archiving: Only with my express permission.
Inspired by “Bullet With Butterfly Wings” - Smashing Pumpkins

II - Anger

“I rode a tank
Held a general’s rank
When the blitzkrieg raged
And the bodies stank”
- The Rolling Stones: “Sympathy For The Devil” -

In spite of my rage, I’m still a rat in a cage…

“No, you’re not the only one, Richard!” He whispered, plain, blunt, his tone emptied of any expression.

But, I want to be the only one. The only one for him!

Fuck this! Fuck this shit!

I need a damn drink, to smother this fire inside me.

I go to the bar looking at the bottles, to choose one.

Am I not enough for him?

Something erupts inside me. I grip the wooden edge of the bar, tug it hard. And hear the glasses, shelves, and bottles crash to the floor.

Why the fuck does he need someone else beside me?

I boot the furniture, battering it mercilessly with my foot. Another sharp sound to tear at my hearing!

The mirrored walls of the bar are broken. Seven years of bad luck! Like I’d give a shit.

My worst luck was to fall for him, for his divine legs, his smiling blue eyes, his boyish face features.
I bet he compares us, me and the other one. I’m the best, god damn it! I don’t have to be compared with anyone!

I reach out for the meaningless objects on the table near me, my hands clawing at them. Like a tidal wave, my arm sweeps them onto the floor. And objects fall one by one, ashtray, vase, papers, keys, and other shit. White papers, like wings torn off an origami bird, float down to the carpet; heavier items just land with a thud when they drop down.

I usually fuck him until it comes out of his nose. I let him fuck me until he can’t move any more. Where the hell does he have energy for more, with someone else?

Fuck him! Fuck them both!

I aim a kick at the keys, which tumble across the floor and hit the wall with a metallic clunk.

He loves sucking my cock, why does he need another one than mine? Is that one better? Am I getting older and he doesn’t like it? For fuck’s sake I’m getting better with age, not uglier, nor with less energy! Why did he have to go for the youngest of the six of us?

My mobile phone squeaks under my heavy step.

I’m the best kisser. That’s what he told me, with his own fucking mouth! If the other one doesn’t kiss better, why the fuck does he need him for?

I throw a fleeting glare around the hotel room.

He said that I have the most wonderful eyes anyone could ever have in this world. He said he just melts when seeing me wearing that damn eyeliner, and when looking at my neat eyebrows too. He was trying to come up with the best words describing the color of my eyes. If he really meant it, why does he want some other man’s eyes to stare at, and lose himself in.

I need a smoke!

Where the fuck are my cigs? I fumble through the sheets on the bed where I’ve seen the pack last.
He used to joke, telling me I’m his ashtray, because that’s what I tasted like when he kissed me. Now he got himself another man’s mouth to taste and compare with mine! Fuck this!

I can’t find it!

My fingers clutch at the sheets and they tear with a hiss as I pull at them.

He used to say he worshipped my skin, licking it, rubbing his cheek against the silky smooth surface. He was claiming he could never get enough caressing it, touching it with his palm, while sneaking his fingers between my thighs, sliding toward my balls. Now he seems not getting enough in general! Is he cumming and sipping his own seed from the other one’s chest, like he does on mine? And, what, my wide and well-built chest isn’t satisfying him anymore? Has he lost his interest in nicely shaped pectorals that now he needs a skinny torso?

I drop the linen on the floor; I kick them madly until they get shoved under the bed.

Oh, fuck how it hurts! It's as if he's stuck a knife in my abdomen, in my beautifully and carefully built up muscles he used to say he adores!

I clench my jaws and look up, to the ceiling. No, I won’t cry for that fucking tramp! No, he’s not worth it, the lying bastard!

I raise my arm, clasping my neck with my fingers, squeezing hard, like trying to tear off the flesh. I incline my head, rocking my body slowly, like a child craving for his mother. All the thoughts and words, said with a smile, whispered or moaned, swirl around inside my head

You’re the best fuck, Richard! You’re my golden boy! I’m addicted to you; I can’t have a day without having you near me! That’s what you said, you lying fuck!

You! Contemptible shit! You!

With my arms out-stretched, I run toward the curtains. Grab them and pull them down. Pull them. Down. Down with you!

Liar!

And this fucking table standing here disdainfully. To spite me! Down with you!

The table flips upside down through the air, then lands crushing glass, my phone again, and other items under its heavy wood.

Fucking traitor! It should be you under my hands, being pushed and pulled. Crushed and crying in pain when you hit the ground. You. To feel my hard fast feet kicking, and then trampling on your body. You, you, you, little shit! You and your fucking lies! Do you lie to him too, like you did to me?

I lift my head. An image moves in the same time with me. I turn my gaze. The mirror on the wall!

I’m shaking, standing still, staring at the motionless lake of sandblasted glass in front of me. My face is glittery, traces of sweat making their way down along my temples, on my forehead and above my upper lip.

Behind me, a tornado ravished the room. My room. Just like I should ravish him. Furniture, fabric, papers, metal, they don’t bleed like he would. They just lay down there, on the floor, collapsed, dead, of no use any more.

Hypnotized, I move towards my image in the mirror.

I’m not the best ever; I’m just another one of them. Of the men he played. What’s the point of my beauty any longer, then? What’s the point of my witty comments or of my passion? Of my eyes that he couldn’t invent words to name their color, of my lips he used to chew, of my hair his fingers used to play while he was moaning with closed eyes, in my arms? What’s the point of anything any more, then?

Dring! Dring!

I twist my head. The land phone.

I inhale, to lower the burning flame consuming my guts. The same guts he has stabbed!

Phone rings again.

I throw a glimpse back at my reflection. I’ll be back with you in a second!

I’m still shaking. I’m walking slowly. I reach my hand and touch the plastic on the receiver. The object seems to be alive, trembling under my touch as it rings again. No, it’s just my imagination, it doesn’t move.

I pick it up.

“Yes?” My hoarse voice.

“Hey, Richard,” I hear that almost whispered tone insinuating itself through all my fibres, making them ring.

I squeeze my eyelids. Fucking traitor! I bite my lip.

“How are you?” He wants to know.

“Uhm… just great!” I tear this rusty whisper from my throat.

“I was thinking of you, you know,” he wants to inform me. “I didn’t want to hurt you. But you wanted to know…”

“I know.”

“…and I wanted to be honest to you.”

“That’s good.”

I hear him inhaling deep.

“You’re still… I was thinking of you and realized how much I crave for you, to see you, to feel you, you know…”

“You saw me just hours ago.” I barely pronounce through my gritted teeth.

Oh, hold me; don’t let him hear how mad I am! Don’t let me burst!

“I know,” he sighs “But only thinking of you turns me on.”

I play absently with the phone's chord.

“You’re a slut,” I whisper, choked.

I grasp firmly the wire in my fist.

His quiet laugh pours through the receiver right into my inner self, moving through my flesh, making me tingle, igniting this sweet torpor in my guts.

“I know, but I’m your slut,” he chuckles.

My lips move independent of my will, cracking a smile.

“Are you alright, Richard?” He asks suddenly.

My foot kicks a bottle on the floor.

Oh, and here are my pack of cigs! I can see them at last!

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask, bending and reaching for the pack.

“You don’t sound like yourself,” he explains.

“I’m all right,” I say, taking a cig out of the pack and lighting it.

“Ok,” he replies. “But I still can improve your mood.”

His simper again, sneaking through to me, warming me.

“I want to be your slut tonight, what do you think about that, Richard?”

I suck the smoke from the cig, passionate, feeling that sudden awakening in my body.

“You horny toad!” I mutter.

And he laughs again, tying me again, re-building my addiction for him. For his scent, for his touch, for his eyes, for his moans.

“So, are you coming?” He asks.

I frown. Yes, I want it. Just one more show. I’m nothing but an animal with all its instincts awaken.

I squeeze my eyelids. What will I get for all my pain? Just the illusion that I’m the chosen one. But I’ll fake it, for one more time; I’ll be the caring patient lover he likes me to be.

I bow my head, ashamed of my own weakness, for giving in to him, for allowing him to lure and tempt me again. I can’t be saved.

“I’m on my way,” I whisper, exhausted.

I put the receiver back in the telephone’s hook.

I stand up and walk slowly to the door. I open it and step out. When I’m about to close the door, my glance spots the mirror again. Among its silvery waters, my face floats, my black spiked hair, my neat eyebrows, my still ferocious look in the green water of my irises.

Despite of my rage, I’m still a rat in a cage. And he’s my trap.

To be continued...
- 2
- 3
- 4
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...and all the sinners, [are] saints!