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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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It’s evening and Till finds himself back inside. The nights are getting cooler, earlier, and although it’s not cold (not even close); all the biting insects come out after the sun goes down. And so the friends go inside the mansion and shut the door behind them.
In the small kitchenette, Schneider and Ollie are making something to eat. Till can smell the oven going, and compliments them on the way back to his room. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”
Richard is already there, stretched out on his small bed, passed out in a nap. The singer goes and sits next to him, placing a broad hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Richard, wake up.”
A muffled noise of protest.
“Come on. You don’t want to miss dinner, do you?”
He’s up. With a quick kiss to Till’s palm, Richard passes him, up and out. Shrugging, the older man follows.
They eat quietly in Flake’s shared room, and there are some instruments there. A half-eaten piece of garlic bread hangs out of Paul’s mouth as he tunes up a pair of guitars. Crumbs fall and he catches them before they land on the strings, careful and delicate.
Schneider obviously doesn’t have a full drum kit, and they have no amplifiers, and the keyboard is an upright piano with a few broken keys. Ollie doesn’t even have a proper bass, but they make do. Not long after the food is gone, the boys are washing their hands and doing some warm-ups.
They run through some extra ideas, Flake doing his best on the barely-in-tune piano, and then they start. Till throws in a few suggestions, and then Richard plays an introductory riff that’s unmistakable, and then they follow suit, each picking a song in rotation.
They’re in the middle of Du Hast when Till notices Sophie in the doorway. She has her hands on the wooden frame and her eyes closed, nodding perfectly to the beat.
Till stamps his feet on the floor to get her attention. When she doesn’t notice, he stamps harder, until at last he’s stamping as hard as he can. And then she opens her eyes. She looks surprised to see him, and then she smiles.
She scribbles something on her pad. I could feel your music through the floor. She’s written. In my room above you. Every piece is different. I want to see.
Till invites her in, and she perches on the bed next to Richard, watching his fingers move over the strings. They continue on, and Sophie wanders from instrument to instrument. Till wonders if she can know what it’s supposed to sound like in her head.
Eventually she bids them good-night and leaves again; Till decides that they should stop. His throat is getting sore because he’s out of practice (not to mention the Master makes him scream a lot, and not in a pleasant way). They depart to their separate rooms.
Richard lies on his bed, next to Till, head resting on the singer’s chest, listening to his heart beating. “I wonder what it’s like,” Till remarks, “not to be able to hear anything. To feel and see, but not to have a single note.” He takes Richard’s hand, puts those fingertips on his throat as he speaks. “What does it feel like?”
“I can feel your pulse,” Richard replies, observing. “And when you speak. There’s a buzz here. Sing for me.” Till sings quietly, a little nonsense song, and Richard nods. “I can feel it move when you sing, even more.”
They lie in silence for a few minutes, Richard’s hand sinking down the singer’s body, fingers entwined with Till’s now, as they hold together.
“How’s your chest?” Richard asks quietly. “It doesn’t look so red now as it did this morning.”
“It’s better. The painkillers help on the inside, and there’s some ointment in the bathroom. Would you get it for me?”
Richard gets up, and Till watches the guitarist walk out, gaze lingering on that fine ass for a few seconds before it vanishes out the door. Hmm. Pity it isn’t his.
Till is sitting up when the other man returns, and Richard kneels on the blanket, carefully tending to all the little piercings on the bigger man’s chest. He’s got a plastic glove, to prevent infection, and the ointment is soothing cool on the still-healing holes. The rubbing motion is arousing as well as therapeutic, and Till finds himself cupping the other man’s backside, pulling him in, closer.
Richard nearly topples, but manages to catch himself on the headboard, carefully putting the ointment down before leaning in for a kiss. They kiss once and it is cool, like the ointment.
They kiss again and it is heated, needy, wanting, and Richard braces himself over the singer so he doesn’t rub against the wounds, but Till wants that body contact. The guitarist rubs against his side instead, reaching for the other man’s cock, stroking with his free hand.
“No,” Till says, taking the gloved hand and putting it between his legs. “Use this. Put it inside.”
“But it’ll hurt.” Richard pulls back. The only thing he’s known is the Master, and the Master isn’t known for preparing them.
“It won’t hurt with the ointment if you go slowly.” Till says, wanting to believe it more than anything else right now. “Besides, he didn’t have it this morning, so it doesn’t hurt.”
Richard obeys. Till feels the intrusion, but it’s nothing like the burning from his usual sessions. The other man is gentle, the ointment soothing, and as he adds a second finger, the singer rests back on the bed, lying down again, head in the pillows. He’s swimming in pleasure; Richard’s other hand in his own, together.
“Turn. Turn over.” The younger man’s voice is shaking. Till rolls, slowly rising onto his hands and knees. “Yes.” He feels something bigger pressing against him and he hopes that Richard has dug into the ointment again.
It burns going in, but the ointment cools it, and soon Richard is fucking Till deeply. The bigger man swears he can feel every inch, and hears the ragged breathing of fierce arousal from both of them. In the warmth of the room, they’re both sweating, and Till buries his face in a pillow to mop it from his brow. This changes the angle and he has to close his eyes anyway; he’s seeing stars.
He puts one hand back to touch himself and finds Richard already there; no wonder it felt so good. All it takes is a few more strokes and pumps and he’s gone, he’s flying in molten, golden arcs as Richard yells out behind him, sinking into the singer’s broad back as they fall to the blankets.
The guitarist refuses to pull out or move, merely wrapping his arms around the other man’s barrel chest, and Till feels much more like the horse than the rider. He’ll carry his companion anywhere, for life and for love.
He knows they will be a mess in the morning, but he doesn’t care. All he wants now is sleep.
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Here Be Dragons