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Paint	By : cryforthemoon Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 2058 -:- 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-Paint
- 2-Part Two
- 3-Three
- 4-Part Four
- 5-Part Five
- 6-Six
- 2
- 3
- 4
Disclaimer – I don’t own the band, and have never met them. I do not intend any maliciousness or nastiness towards Rammstein. I make no money out of this.

Notes: Thank you for the reviews, it's great to know how I'm doing!

Olli’s reaching out for me, his face twisted in a leering smile. “Come here, didn’t you like it? I have so much to teach you…” He’s got his arms around my waist, holding me against him. I’m struggling against his grip, my head pressed against him so I can hear the faint beating of his heart. He grabs my wrists in one hand and unzips his fly with the other. He pushes me down onto my knees, his cock staring me in the face. “Suck it. Now.” I turn my head to the side, but he grabs my chin and forces my mouth onto his shaft. He begins to thrust into my mouth, holding my head in an iron grip. I can hear his heartbeat even louder, and he’s saying my name, “Flake…Flake…”

“FLAKE!”

There’s someone at the door. Banging very loudly on it. Oh god, my head. I open my eyes and harsh sunlight intrudes. Fuck. What’s the time? What’s the day? I sit up and instantly regret it. Ugh. My mouth tastes awful. Somehow I manage to call out a weak “Who’s there?”

“Flake? It’s me, Paul. Open up!”

Not Paul. Anyone but him. I stumble to my feet, nearly tripping over the vodka bottle and swearing at the small puddle of vodka on the floor. Somehow I make my way to the door with a blinding headache. I need some painkillers; I don’t need to be answering the door to Paul. Especially when I feel like and probably look like shit. My hand scrapes along the wood for purchase on the door handle, and I open the door. Paul’s standing there, his fist raised to knock again. His eyes widen when he sees me. Two things suddenly become very clear to me – one, I’m covered in scratches, and two, I’m not wearing anything.
“What the fuck happened to you? And why are you naked?”
I turn away, not wanting him to see any more of the damage I’ve done to myself. “Come in, I’ll just get some clothes on,” I mumble, “make yourself at home.”
I get into my bedroom; find some trousers, underwear and a shirt. I wince as I pull the shirt over my head. The place where the love bite was throbs as I move the muscles. “Ow…” I murmur.

I come out of the bedroom to find Paul sitting on the sofa, looking at the puddle of vodka with a puzzled, slightly sad face. He picks up the bottle and sets it upright on the small table at the side of the sofa. He looks up at me.

“What happened to you? Where’d you get all the scratches from?”

I don’t reply. I don’t know what to say. My head’s still throbbing. I walk into the kitchen and find some paracetamol in one of the drawers. I swallow two dry, I can’t be bothered to get a glass for some water. I walk back into the living room, gulping a little. He’s still sitting there, now gently spinning the bottle on the table. I sit down next to him. I want to throw myself into his arms and sob out what’s happened to me, what Olli did, why I’ve drunk nearly a whole bottle of vodka in one night. I’m going to have to explain that.
“It’s not like you to drink this much at once,” Paul says, giving the bottle a rest and looking at me, “you don’t drink that much any more.” His face is worried, the skin between his eyes furrowed in concern. I want to run my finger down the crease, to smooth it out. Damn, he’s talking again and I’m staring at his wrinkles.

“You hardly ever walk around naked. Have you suddenly taken up naturism?”

“No, I…can’t really explain…” I manage, choking on the words that I really want to say.

“No, Flake, I’m not letting you clam up. Something’s happened, now what is it?”

“Nothing!” I get up quickly and walk into the kitchen. “Do you want coffee? I’m making coffee,” I call back, fiddling with the tap, turning on the water to drown out the roaring in my ears.

“And another thing. What was this doing on the floor?” I turn around, kettle in hand. He’s leaning against the doorway, holding the paintbrush. My knees tremble, the kettle starts shaking. I see Olli’s hand snaking around my own to take the paintbrush and throw it to the floor, I feel his tongue on my ear again, I can smell the drying paint as I pull on Olli’s erection. I can’t stand, I’m sinking to the floor, where’s the kettle gone? There’s someone breathing quickly, my heart’s beating so hard it’s going to burst out of my chest, I’m going to be sick, it’s too hot, oh god help me oh god whose voice is that oh god HELP ME OH GOD –
“Flake!” A sharp pain on the side of my face, blinding white light, hands gripping my shoulders, who are you, get off me, help me! Another slap and I jerk, suddenly seeing Paul’s eyes, clear blue eyes that bore into my own and anchor me to him. I become aware that the hands on my shoulders are his, rubbing the skin in small circles through my shirt. How is he face level with me? Oh, I’m sitting on the floor. Well, more sprawled on it. Paul’s kneeling in front of me, his hands kneading my shoulders gently, his knees touching my leg.
“Breathe, Christian.” The familiarity of the name I dislike makes me concentrate on breathing slower. Paul breathes with me, in, out, his breath smooth and slow on my face. I realize just how close we are, and how his hands are stroking up and down my arms. Paul puts one of his hands on my cheek. His palm is warm and dry, and I feel how cold my face is.
“What happened there?”

I can’t answer. It’s too stupid to have a panic attack over something so small. I look away and the paintbrush, lying on the floor of the kitchen next to Paul, catches my eye. I squeeze my eyes shut, there’s a lump in my throat. No, I can’t cry, not in front of Paul. I bite my lip, look up at the ceiling, but it’s no use. My vision is blurring again, and I feel a tear drop out of my eye and run slowly down my cheek.
“Christian?”
“Paul, I – ” my words are cut off by a sob. And now I’m crying properly, and somehow my face is buried in Paul’s jacket, and his hands are rubbing gently across my back. I clutch the denim in my hands, sobbing out mangled words about Olli and what he did to me. To me most of it didn’t make any sense, but I could feel Paul’s back tensing against my fingers and his hands running more and more slowly over my back, comforting me until I stop crying and just breathe against him. Eventually I pull away, sniffling slightly, and look up at him. His face is contorted with shock and anger.

“That bastard,” he growls, taking out his mobile. He dials a number and speaks. “Till? You need to get over to Flake’s. Now. I don’t care, something’s happened. I’ll tell you when you get here.” He hangs up and looks at me. “How about some coffee?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. “Go and sit down, I’ll make it.”

“Second cupboard from the left.” I whisper. He nods, giving me his arm to help me up.

My legs still feel weak as I wobble into the sitting room and gratefully collapse in the sofa.

I hear the kettle boiling, spoons clinking, Paul humming as he moves around my kitchen. What time is it? I look at the clock. Five thirty. I was out for a long time. Paul appears at the doorway of the kitchen holding two mugs. “I put some sugar in yours, thought you probably need it.”
I smile gratefully as he hands me my coffee and sits down next to me, sinking into the soft sofa. I take a sniff at the coffee. It smells sweet and strong, and I take a sip. Paul must notice my face because he chuckles.
“I put in cream instead of milk. Is it okay?”
I nod, savouring the sweetness and the taste of cream mixed with coffee. I’m just about to take another sip when someone knocks on the door. Paul puts down his coffee next to the vodka bottle. “I’ll get it.”

It’s Till. He comes into my apartment, looking curiously at Paul and I. “Why’d you call me?”
“Something happened last night with Flake and Olli.”
I get up; not wanting to hear Paul tell Till what Olli did to me. I go into the kitchen with my coffee, staring out of the window above the sink, trying to block out Paul’s words and Till’s questioning growls. I wonder if Till would like coffee. I don’t bother to ask, it gives me something to do while they talk. I’m just putting in the cream when Paul calls me to come back in. I go in and find the two of them sitting on the sofa, Till scowling. He looks up at me and his scowl lessens.
“I thought you might like some coffee.” I hold the mug out, but he doesn’t take it.
“Olli molested you. Want me to beat him up?” He looks perfectly serious. I consider. It would be good to see Olli pulverised. But what good would it do? I shake my head.
“No, but next time we tour can we change the performance of Mein Teil? Something involving Olli instead.” Till chuckles and accepts the coffee. “Good idea.”

Paul pats the bit of sofa next to him. It looks very small. I swallow and sit down, my thigh pressing against his. He puts his arm around my shoulders and draws me into him. “If I were you, I’d want a cuddle. Come here.” My head drops onto his shoulder as he shifts closer to me. His hand is stroking my hair, and I actually forget myself and nuzzle into his chest. He’s taken off his jacket and is just wearing a T-shirt. He smells clean and slightly of cologne. I can feel the rise and fall of his chest and his breath tickles across my cheek.
There’s a shift in the sofa as Till gets up. “Guys, I’ll see you tomorrow. I need to do a few things. Flake, thanks for the coffee.” He pats me awkwardly on the shoulder. “Keep safe.”
“I’ll make sure he does,” answers Paul.
“See you tomorrow.”
“Bye.” I manage softly. I close my eyes and smile as I feel Paul rub strands of my hair between his fingers. The door opens and closes.
“I’m glad Till believed me,” I murmur against Paul’s chest.
“We both know you wouldn’t make something like this up. You’re a truthful person, Flake. Do you have any idea why he might have done it?”
I breathe slowly, trying to keep calm. Paul’s hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently, helps me to focus and answer.
“He said…he wanted to ‘teach’ me. He found out I liked…someone and was offering to show me how to do things that I only really want to do with this person.”
“And I’m guessing this other person is a man?”
I nod against his chest, embarrassed.
“Do any of us know him?”
“He’s in the band.” I tense, scared of what he might say. He doesn’t say anything for a while, just massages my shoulder gently.
“Who is it?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?” I feel his hand stop squeezing. “It’s not me, is it?”
I nod, scared that he’s going to push me off him, hit me, storm out. He does none of these things. Instead he starts to stroke my upper arm, shoulder to elbow then back up.
“Where did Olli kiss you?”
I sit up and turn my back to him, pulling down the collar of my shirt so he can see the area where the love bite was. “Here.” His fingers brush gently against the nape of my neck, trailing around until they touch the bite.
“That belongs to me now. Where else?”
A memory of a hot tongue pushing in my ear floats up. I push it away and turn to face him. “My ear.”
He brushes his thumb over the lobe, index finger stroking up around the shell, eyes completely focussed on mine. “That’s mine.” He says it so finitely, as though it truly is his possession and not my own body part. Not that I’m complaining. It feels nice to be partly owned, especially by Paul.
“My waist.” A memory flashes up at Paul sliding his arm around my waist, but his arm is different, shorter with more muscles. The memory goes as quickly as it appears when Paul’s fingers press gently against my back. He’s a lot closer than I remember him being.
“This…is mine,” he says, his breathing slow across my face.

I want to kiss him. I raise my hand and gently touch his face. His cheek is slightly stubbly, the skin soft and warm. I brush my fingers over the lines near his eyes and he smiles. I can touch the smile, lips smooth and slightly damp against my fingertips, teeth white and gleaming in the artificial light of the lamp near us. He catches my hand with his and gently kisses each fingertip, worshipping my fingers. I close my eyes, feeling his lips trail over my palm, stopping with a kiss and a touch of his tongue at my wrist. I feel a warm breeze against my mouth and I open my eyes. Paul’s face is up close to mine, his eyes fixated on my lips. He speaks softly, gently. “May I kiss you?” I answer by inclining my head, and he bends forward, only by an inch or so, to catch my lips with his. The kiss is delicate, his warm lips brushing against mine. I reach out to his mouth with my tongue, silently requesting entrance. He opens his mouth, never breaking the kiss. He tastes spicy and sweet from the coffee, his tongue wet and flexible against my own. His arm is still around my waist, his hand gently bunching the material on my back, his other hand coming to rest at the back of my neck. I nervously slide my own arm around his waist, my other hand still cupping his face.

Paul breaks the kiss slowly, nibbling my lips softly and placing little kisses on my cheeks. “Mine,” he murmurs against my face. I smile.
“I should go, we have an early start tomorrow.” I follow him to the door, grateful that he doesn’t want to go any further. I don’t think I could do it, at least not tonight.
“See you tomorrow at the studio.” My voice crackles in the air between us. He plants a kiss on my nose. “Tomorrow.”
I stand at the door for a few minutes after he goes. I feel warm and comfortable. I yawn. He’s right, we do have an early start tomorrow.

That night, instead of nightmares about Olli, I have warm, fuzzy dreams about Paul and coffee-flavoured kisses.
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