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Gym	By : cryforthemoon Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 2509 -:- 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-Gym
- 1
Author: Moon_Shine
Pairing: R/T
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not own Rammstein, have never met them and make no money out of this.
Feedback: Is appreciated.

Gym

Richard can’t stop watching. He’s tried everything – watching the TV screens on the walls, turning up his walkman and shutting his eyes, even reading a book. Although he fell off the treadmill when he read that Voldemort was in Quirrel’s head. Maybe reading a book while running really wasn’t that good an idea, although he has promised his daughter that he will read the entire Harry Potter series by Christmas. He knows that he’ll have something else to talk about with her on the phone when he’s touring, and he’s almost ashamed to admit he’s actually enjoying reading about a school of magic, even if the hero does piss him off a bit. Snape is much more his type of person.

They’ve stopped off in a hotel somewhere in America, traveling towards the next performance. He’s not even sure which state they’re in, isn’t even sure of his own name after the monotony of mile after mile of dusty road, but he does know that the hotel has a gym. Till, Schneider and Paul come with him. Olli and Flake have their own form of gymnastics to perform in the privacy of their shared hotel room. Schneider and Paul are also sharing, which leaves Richard with Till, who snores and talks in his sleep.

Richard glances across the room at Paul and Schneider. It’s a better view than the one in front. Schneider is lifting weights; Paul is meant to be doing press ups, but instead he’s staring transfixed at the flexing muscles in Schneider’s arms as he pants with exertion. Richard doesn’t blame him. Schneider’s thighs are gripping the seat as he strains and pulls the handles towards his chest before letting them out again.

But Richard can’t concentrate on running and watching Schneider forever. His eyes are pulled to the front, where the view that he can’t bear to see is. Till is on an exercise bike, his ass shifting in the seat as he pedals to the poppy gym music. It’s crap music, if you can even call it that, but there’s a fast beat that Till is using, and Richard can’t help staring at Till’s ass as it moves in time to an over-sexed girl shrieking about a guy getting her number in a club.

Till’s shirt is soaked with sweat; it’s an old one that he uses just for working out. When asked just how old it is he actually has to think, and usually can’t come up with the answer. The back of his neck shines in the harsh lighting of the gym, and his back shifts from side to side as he pedals. He throws his head back, panting. Richard can only see the back of Till’s head, but he imagines Till’s eyes screwed shut, his mouth open and gasping for more air than he can take into his lungs. Till takes his water bottle and pours some water on his head, shaking his head like a dog as the cold liquid runs down his neck.

Richard follows the trickle of water with his eyes as it mixes with the sweat on Till’s neck and eventually soaks into the sweaty dampness of the shirt. He wishes his treadmill was facing the other way. Richard is fitter than Till – that or he just doesn’t sweat as much as the singer. He sweats in concerts. But that’s under the bright lights, playing the music and the general stresses of performance. Here his T-shirt isn’t even wet at the neckline. Till will be dripping soon, if he carries on at the pace of his furious pedaling.

Till is getting uncomfortable; Richard can tell because he keeps grabbing at his back, trying to scratch away the itch of sweat under clothing. Richard wonders what Till would do if he got off this treadmill, walked over to the exercise bike and offered to scratch the singer’s back for him. Probably an odd look and maybe even a “fuck off”.

Or maybe Till would smile thanks at Richard, and allow Richard to slide his fingers underneath the cotton to caress and scratch the sweaty skin. And maybe Richard, forgetting about Schneider and Paul, would slide his hand down and around to the front. And maybe Till would stop pedaling and open his legs for Richard to gain access to his most sensitive and vulnerable part, that which certifies him as male. And maybe Richard would move his hand in such a way to make Till moan and close his eyes. And maybe Richard would bring Till to orgasm while he licks and nibbles at the sweaty flesh on Till’s face.

But this is just a fantasy. Till would never allow Richard to do something so personal, in fact probably no man would ever be allowed to touch Till in that way.

Richard realizes he has a small problem. Well, he corrects, a good-sized problem. Even Caron never had any problems with that department. He turns up the speed on the treadmill and concentrates on imagining Flake in Snow White’s dress. But it’s not helping. He can’t stop staring at Till. And then Till does the worst thing possible at that moment. He shouts “Fuck!” and rips off his shirt. Paint him green and he’d look like the Incredible Hulk. He throws the now ruined shirt onto the ground by the bike and carries on pedaling like nothing’s happened.

Only something has happened. Richard can now see the expanse of Till’s back as he pounds the bike, all sweat-soaked skin and rippling muscles. And, oh god, the shorts Till is wearing have slipped down slightly and now Richard can see the beginning of the cleft of Till’s ass. Sweat runs in salty trails down the dip of Till’s spine and Richard wants nothing more than to walk over there and lick away the saline paths and follow their trail downwards while jacking Till and himself off.

Richard swears; he can’t concentrate anymore. He pushes the stop button, not bothering to warm down or whatever it is. He just needs to get upstairs to the room, have a shower before Till gets back and have the most furious wank of his life. He gets off and picks up his towel and water bottle, noting with slight amusement that Schneider and Paul are gone.

At the sound of the treadmill ceasing Till stops pedaling and looks around. Richard puts his towel in front of his crotch, not wanting Till to see that he has an erection just from watching him on an exercise bike. Not wanting Till to see anyway.

“Borrow your towel?” Till is standing in front of him, sweat running down his torso, chest heaving from the exertion of the bike. Richard is blank. He can’t think, he can only see the rivulets of sweat running down into Till’s chest hair.
“What?”
“Can I borrow your towel? I forgot one, and I’m dripping here.” Richard is about to hand over his towel when he realizes what it’s covering, and that it doesn’t help one bit that Till is standing right in front of him with a bare, heaving, sweaty chest.
“No. Sorry.”
Till frowns.
“It’s only a towel.”
“Well, I…happen to like this one.”
“Richard, it’s a towel. If you’re worried that I’ll muck it up then I’ll just wash it. It’s only sweat, it’s not like I’m going to give birth on it.”
“But it’s my towel. I’m using it.”
“Oh for – just use one of the hotel towels.” And with that, Till grabs the towel and pulls it out of Richard’s hand.

For a second, Till just stares at Richard’s crotch. Then he slowly raises his eyes to Richard’s. He doesn’t say a word. Richard can’t speak. He’s stuck to the ground, paralyzed by fear. Till slowly rubs the towel over his body, using it to soak up the sweat from his face and torso, his eyes never leaving Richard’s face. Till hangs the towel over his arm.

“How about you and I go up to the room and have a talk?”

Richard just nods. He doesn’t think he can speak. Till picks up the tattered remains of his shirt and walks to the door. Richard follows, willing himself to look only at Till’s head and no further south. It doesn’t help that they have to go up a flight of stairs to get to their floor.

They reach the door. Richard has the key in his pocket. He steps forward and puts the key in the lock, feeling metal grind against metal as he turns his hand. Till reaches past and pushes it open. He walks in, Richard follows. It’s all he can do. He could run, but he’s exhausted and knows that sooner or later he’s going to have to give an explanation.

Till is sitting on the bed. “Why don’t you have a shower? We’ve got plenty of time.” Great, thinks Richard. Wait until I’m clean to beat me up.

He walks into the bathroom and turns on the shower. He looks at himself in the mirror as he gets undressed. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” he mutters angrily at his reflection. He steps into the shower and squeezes some hotel shower gel into his hand. He forgot his sponge. Fuck. He doesn’t notice that he’s left the bathroom door slightly open, doesn’t notice it open wider. He has his back to the door as Till steps into the bathroom.

The shower door is opened suddenly. Richard spins around only to be caught in Till’s powerful arms. Richard looks up at Till.
“I thought you were going to let me shower before beating me to a pulp.”
“Beating you to a pulp. That’s good. I just couldn’t wait any longer for our talk.”

Richard realizes that Till is very naked. And very aroused. And very real. He runs his fingers over Till’s broad chest, drops of sweat replaced by shower spray and soap from Richard’s hands. Till bends his head and rests his lips against Richard’s neck, brushing gently over the jugular.
“This isn’t a game, is it? You’re not going to suddenly start hitting me?”
“I don’t play games.”
Till raises his head and looks at Richard. And suddenly, without Richard realizing that he’s craned his head up or that Till is bending down again, Till has his tongue in Richard’s mouth and is kissing him like he’s better than air. Richard gasps as Till’s hardness rubs against his leg, and he feels his wilted erection come back to life as Till bites and sucks at his neck. Till still has his arms wrapped around Richard, but now he releases Richard to cup his ass and bring them closer together. Richard, incoherent from arousal and shock, reaches his hand down between their bodies and takes hold of Till’s cock. Till moans into Richard’s neck and thrusts into his hand.
“Richard, stop, stop.”
What? Till can’t be backing out now? He rests his head against Richard’s shoulder.
“I don’t want to come like this. I want to fuck you.” He tenses, seeming ashamed of his request.
“Sure.” Richard can’t think of anything better. He turns his back to Till and picks up the hotel shower gel. “Here.”
“Not yet. I want to do something for you first. Turn around.” Richard turns around to face the other man, and finds him on his knees. Till bends forward and Richard moans as the singer’s mouth closes around his cock. Till reaches up for the shower gel in Richard’s hand and coats two of his fingers with it as he bobs in and out of Richard’s groin, swirling his tongue round the tip as his lips slide up and down the shaft. He reaches under Richard’s balls and presses one finger into the most intimate of places. Richard moans at the slight pain of the intrusion, but the pain is taken away by Till taking Richard further into his mouth. Till adds another finger and makes scissoring motions, stretching and loosening Richard; he crooks his finger and hits a spot that makes Richard weak at the knees, throwing his head back and hitting the wet tiles of the shower. Till presses the spot again and Richard orgasms, spilling into Till’s mouth with a shout. Till withdraws and spits into the plughole, grimacing from the taste. He grins up at Richard.

“Ready?”
Richard is more than ready. He’s been hoping for this ever since Till caressed himself on stage in Berlin, and he stared at his guitar because he didn’t want to out himself by staring at Till thrusting into his hand.

Till’s lips on Richard’s jaw bring him back to the present and he slicks Till’s erection with the last of the shower gel. Before he has time to turn around, Till picks Richard up as if he weighs nothing, propping him against the corner of the shower.
“So we’re going to do it this way?”
“Yup. Got a problem?”
“No.”
Richard wraps his legs around Till’s waist and his arms around Till’s neck. He gasps as Till slowly eases into him, trembles as Till joins the shower in raining kisses on his face. Till groans, fully inside Richard, and Richard can see that he longs to thrust. He shifts, communicating to Till that he wants him to move. Till takes the hint and starts to thrust, his cock bumping against Richard’s prostate in a way that makes Richard tremble in Till’s arms. The shower is filled with the sounds of moaning and skin hitting against skin as Till buries himself in Richard over and over again. Panting, Richard kisses any part of Till he can reach, his ear, his chin, his shoulder. Till groans, digging his fingers into Richard’s hips as he comes, pressing his face into Richard’s neck.

Richard can hear Till panting, the sound of water hitting the tiles, and his own heartbeat. He’s paused, suspended. And then Till restarts time by slipping out of Richard and lowering him to the floor of the shower. The water’s gone cold. Till reaches past and turns the shower off. All he can hear now is the two of them breathing. And he’s scared. Scared of what they’ve just done, what they might do, how their friendship will hold, scared of Till seeing this as a quick fuck, scared of hoping that it might mean more. He looks up at Till, who raises a hand to Richard’s face and strokes his knuckles gently down Richard’s cheek. He smiles and kisses Richard gently, this time taking the time to caress his mouth with his lips and tongue, one hand holding Richard’s face, the other wrapping around his waist. Richard pulls back.
“What is this?”
“Hmm?”
“This. Was it a quick fuck, or something more?”
“I don’t know. I’m hoping it meant more to you than ‘a quick fuck’.”
“I think it did. I don’t know.”
“Well, then we don’t know,” murmured Till as he lifted his head to reclaim Richard’s lips. And as he melted into the kiss Richard realised that “don’t know” doesn’t always mean a bad thing.
- 1
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Gym