Frustration, NC17, Tom/Georg
Apr. 2nd, 2009 10:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
steins_storiesTitle: Frustration
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
steinsgrrl
Fandom: Tokio Hotel
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I in no way intend to insinuate that any of the below actually happened. It is simply a piece of written entertainment based on the public personas of real people.
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Adult Content
Summary: Tom has an idea for a story, but it seems he's having a bit of trouble getting it typed out.
Author Note: This was written literally out of frustration because no one would leave me alone when I was writing something else. So I pounded this one out instead. :)
“Fuck!” Tom scowls as Gustav clomps down the stairs, and he clicks the blue button in the upper right corner of the screen, shrinking his document yet again. Resting his elbow next to the keyboard, he cradles his face in his palm.
The drummer passed by, apparently on his way to the kitchen. “What’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem,” Tom grits out through his teeth, “What is it you need?”
Gustav had not stuck around for the guitarist’s answer and was now rummaging noisily through the refrigerator. For a few moments, all Tom could hear was mumbling and then the clatter of silverware hitting the bottom of the empty stainless-steel sink. Gustav re-appeared, now carrying a plate adorned by a thick, turkey and swiss-cheese sandwich.
He glances at Tom again on his way back through the living room, and his eyebrows shoot up at the glare he receives.
“Did you say something?” he garbles from around a mouthful of sandwich.
Tom throws his hands up in frustration. “Nevermind. Forget it. Just…go do something, will you?” He turns back to the computer and maximizes the document, his fingers poised over the keys, waiting for Gustav to vacate the room.
He hears the drummer sigh behind him, a mumbled “Geez!” and then retreating footsteps back up the stairs.
Tom had been sitting at this computer half the afternoon. He had woken up with an idea this morning, something that seemed to be leftover from a dream. The more he lay there and ruminated on it, the more he decided that he had to get it out, write it down. His writing was something not very many people knew about, and it wasn’t something he talked about. Sometimes he would get a thought, a little snippet of something in his head, and the only way he could get rid of it was to pound it out through his fingertips. And this….whatever this was, just wouldn’t go away.
Tom’s frustrations of the day started when he couldn’t find his laptop in the mess that was their living room. Georg’s folded clothes still sat on the couch, where he’d left them after doing laundry. He tried not to knock them on the floor as he dug underneath them, feeling for the hard plastic, and yet he still managed to knock a stack of shirts over. He tried to keep them in the folded stack as he picked them up, but several of them unfolded and fell through his fingers as he lifted them, so he ended up just tossing the whole works back on the couch in a huff.
The laptop was obviously not there. He stood in front of the couch and surveyed the room, pondering where an errant laptop might hide. Every available flat surface seemed to be covered in some sort of food-related mess. Open chip bags with broken pieces of chips spilling out of them, empty pizza boxes, crushed beer cans and plates crusty with leftover pasta sauce all assaulted the eyes and nose of the guitarist, and he decided that after he got this story out, he really had to do something about this all this….shit.
He snapped his fingers as he suddenly remembered where he’d left the silver notebook, and stalked back into his bedroom. Right there next to his bed, corner peeking out from under a pile of yesterday’s dirty clothing, lay the coveted laptop. Tom snatched it up, but as he turned to leave, he stopped in his tracks. He remembered why the laptop was in here.
It was dead. The battery or something, Tom didn’t know. All he knew is the fucking thing wasn’t working and he would have to take it in to be repaired before he would be able to do anything with it. He sank down on the mattress, groaning in irritation, and tossed the notebook across the bed. Now what?
Looking around, as if the small, bare room would inspire him, he wracked his brain to figure out how he would get this tale out of him.
And that’s how he ended up sitting at this old desktop that had been tucked into the corner of the living room. Tom wasn’t sure he’d ever even booted the thing up before, but when it came down to it, it was this or write longhand. THAT wasn’t happening.
An idea is only the start, and that’s pretty much all Tom has. He knows how he wants to write this, knows how he wants it to sound, but it takes a bit of getting his head into it before he can make it sound the way he hopes. Unfortunately, it seems as if every time he gets his head in the right place, every time he feels it, one of the band-mates would come into the room. They don’t even have to talk to him, he just has to feel them there, and it is enough to break his concentration. Tom is about to go mental with frustration.
He blows slowly out through pursed lips, willing his blood pressure down, and closes his eyes. Inside his head, a scenario plays out, and after watching it for a moment, he brings his fingers up and begins to type again. The words start slowly as he searches for the feeling, searches for the voice. Once he hears it, he’s off, and his fingers are pounding like mad, bringing him further and further into ‘the zone’. In no time at all, he’s got four good paragraphs out, and he re-reads them with a smile. He knows exactly where he’s going with this, and his smile grows to a grin as he starts the next sentence.
“Tom!” Bill shrieks from his bedroom, and Tom startles so hard it hurts.
“Fucking hell…” Tom whimpers, and leans back in his chair, his palms covering his eyes, “Yes, Bill?”
“Tom!” The singer must not have heard him, because now not only is he on his way to find Tom, he’s screeching for him even louder.
“Yes! What?!” Tom turns, hoping without hope that Bill will figure out that he doesn’t need Tom’s assistance after all.
No such luck.
“Tom, I can’t find my phone. Have you seen it?” Bill enters the room in a flurry of orange leather and flying black hair, and immediately begins rummaging through the clothes piles that Tom destroyed earlier.
“No, Bill, I haven’t--”
“I looked in my bag, already. Well, I looked in the Prada…” he stops his searching and stares at his brother blankly, “…but I didn’t check the silver Gucci! Thanks, Tom!”
He sweeps out of the room as quickly as he swept in, leaving his older brother staring after him and shaking his head.
Tom looks back at his page, and realizes he’s forgotten where the hell he was going with the last thought on the page. Hopeful to get back to where he was, he scrolls back to the beginning of the narrative, praying that if he re-reads the whole damn thing, he might find that voice that has was drowned out by Bill’s shrill calls.
He’s reading so intently, so desperately, that he doesn’t realize that someone else is behind him until he feels hands drop gently on his shoulders. Immediately he tenses and whines.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
His chair is spun around, and he finds himself facing Georg. A smiling Georg, with a twinkle in his eye. He only just realizes what the bassist is up to as Georg’s lips smash down on his, taking his breath away. Tongues wrestle, teeth clash, and before Tom’s had a chance to invest in it, Georg breaks the kiss, leaving them panting.
Dropping to his knees, Georg pushes Tom’s shirts up to his nipples and grabs one of Tom’s hands, pressing it down on the shirts to anchor them there. He makes short work of Tom’s belt and, with steady hands, opens Tom’s pants.
Tom’s brain has apparently abandoned him, and about the time he wraps his head around the fact that his friend is on his knees in front of him, it occurs to him that there are others in the house. Others who might walk in at any moment. He finds himself shooting glances at the stairs, right up until Georg wraps his hands around Tom’s hardening cock and starts stroking. His eyes roll back and his head falls back against the back of the chair.
A wet heat engulfs the head of his cock, and Tom brings his head up sharply. His eyes wide, he watches his friend, this man he’s known for nearly half his life, gobble down his cock and suck on it like it’s the sweetest candy in the world. His hands rise, seemingly of their own accord, because Tom obviously has no will now, and they hover over Georg’s head.
Tom is completely hard now. Georg grins a little around the dick in his mouth, before closing his eyes, and with a hum, slides his lips down Tom’s entire length until it touches the back of his throat.
Sucking his breath in hard, his hands fall on either side of Georg’s head, and his fingers thread through the silky hair. Holding on to those strands, and that hot mouth are the only things that ground him and convince him that this is not some sort of dream that he will wake from, panting and with his come sticky and warm in his boxers.
Georg lifts his head, releasing Tom’s cock, and looks him right in the eye. Tom’s eyes widen again, this time out of fear. His hands tighten on his friend’s head and he starts to babble.
“Wait, you’re not gonna--”
Flashing a devilish grin, the bassist drops his head again, and a thick moan escapes Tom’s throat as he watches Georg drop a slow line of drool down his twitching cock.
“Oh, Jesus….” he breathes, and nearly loses it completely as Georg engulfs his entire length again, anchoring his lips at the base, before sucking up hard to the head. He feels his tongue swirling at the tender under-side, and he playfully slips the tip into Tom’s slit before slamming Tom’s dick back down his throat.
Georg takes up a brutal pace, bobbing in Tom’s lap, sucking for all he’s worth, and Tom knows he won’t last much longer. His legs are so tense that they are close to cramping, his fingers hurt from grasping at Georg’s hair without pulling it, and he’s just about chewed his lip raw from trying not to make any noise, and yet the hot swirling low in his stomach overrides all of it.
Georg looks up at him, his mouth full of Tom, his green eyes gone dark, and as Tom watches, he pulls Tom’s cock out of his mouth, rasps the flat of his tongue under the head, and whispers.
“Come.”
His lips wrap around him tightly again, that hot tongue swirls over him, and Tom loses it. His legs shake, his belly quivers, and Georg sucks Tom in, until he‘s massaging the base with his lips. Tom’s cry echoes through the room as hot streams hit the back of Georg’s throat.
Eyes drifting closed, he breathes out heavily, his head drops back onto the chair, and he feels Georg suckling on him for the moments before it becomes uncomfortable. Then his jeans are done up for him, and his shirts are lowered. He feels Georg stand up in front of him, and he lifts his head.
He should feel uncomfortable. He should wonder what the hell to say to his best friend that just sucked him off. Instead, Tom finds that he feels nothing but relaxed and has nothing to say but,
“Thank you.”
Georg leans toward him and cups Tom’s cheek in his palm.
“You’re welcome.”
With a smirk and a wink, the bassist is gone.
Tom leans back in his chair, grinning and drumming his fingers on his stomach. He stares at the ceiling for a moment before it hits him. His fingers still and his eyes go wide.
He sits up quickly and moves the mouse to kill the screensaver. He finds where he left off, and Tom begins to type furiously.
Author:
steinsgrrl Fandom: Tokio Hotel
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I in no way intend to insinuate that any of the below actually happened. It is simply a piece of written entertainment based on the public personas of real people.
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Adult Content
Summary: Tom has an idea for a story, but it seems he's having a bit of trouble getting it typed out.
Author Note: This was written literally out of frustration because no one would leave me alone when I was writing something else. So I pounded this one out instead. :)
“Fuck!” Tom scowls as Gustav clomps down the stairs, and he clicks the blue button in the upper right corner of the screen, shrinking his document yet again. Resting his elbow next to the keyboard, he cradles his face in his palm.
The drummer passed by, apparently on his way to the kitchen. “What’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem,” Tom grits out through his teeth, “What is it you need?”
Gustav had not stuck around for the guitarist’s answer and was now rummaging noisily through the refrigerator. For a few moments, all Tom could hear was mumbling and then the clatter of silverware hitting the bottom of the empty stainless-steel sink. Gustav re-appeared, now carrying a plate adorned by a thick, turkey and swiss-cheese sandwich.
He glances at Tom again on his way back through the living room, and his eyebrows shoot up at the glare he receives.
“Did you say something?” he garbles from around a mouthful of sandwich.
Tom throws his hands up in frustration. “Nevermind. Forget it. Just…go do something, will you?” He turns back to the computer and maximizes the document, his fingers poised over the keys, waiting for Gustav to vacate the room.
He hears the drummer sigh behind him, a mumbled “Geez!” and then retreating footsteps back up the stairs.
Tom had been sitting at this computer half the afternoon. He had woken up with an idea this morning, something that seemed to be leftover from a dream. The more he lay there and ruminated on it, the more he decided that he had to get it out, write it down. His writing was something not very many people knew about, and it wasn’t something he talked about. Sometimes he would get a thought, a little snippet of something in his head, and the only way he could get rid of it was to pound it out through his fingertips. And this….whatever this was, just wouldn’t go away.
Tom’s frustrations of the day started when he couldn’t find his laptop in the mess that was their living room. Georg’s folded clothes still sat on the couch, where he’d left them after doing laundry. He tried not to knock them on the floor as he dug underneath them, feeling for the hard plastic, and yet he still managed to knock a stack of shirts over. He tried to keep them in the folded stack as he picked them up, but several of them unfolded and fell through his fingers as he lifted them, so he ended up just tossing the whole works back on the couch in a huff.
The laptop was obviously not there. He stood in front of the couch and surveyed the room, pondering where an errant laptop might hide. Every available flat surface seemed to be covered in some sort of food-related mess. Open chip bags with broken pieces of chips spilling out of them, empty pizza boxes, crushed beer cans and plates crusty with leftover pasta sauce all assaulted the eyes and nose of the guitarist, and he decided that after he got this story out, he really had to do something about this all this….shit.
He snapped his fingers as he suddenly remembered where he’d left the silver notebook, and stalked back into his bedroom. Right there next to his bed, corner peeking out from under a pile of yesterday’s dirty clothing, lay the coveted laptop. Tom snatched it up, but as he turned to leave, he stopped in his tracks. He remembered why the laptop was in here.
It was dead. The battery or something, Tom didn’t know. All he knew is the fucking thing wasn’t working and he would have to take it in to be repaired before he would be able to do anything with it. He sank down on the mattress, groaning in irritation, and tossed the notebook across the bed. Now what?
Looking around, as if the small, bare room would inspire him, he wracked his brain to figure out how he would get this tale out of him.
And that’s how he ended up sitting at this old desktop that had been tucked into the corner of the living room. Tom wasn’t sure he’d ever even booted the thing up before, but when it came down to it, it was this or write longhand. THAT wasn’t happening.
An idea is only the start, and that’s pretty much all Tom has. He knows how he wants to write this, knows how he wants it to sound, but it takes a bit of getting his head into it before he can make it sound the way he hopes. Unfortunately, it seems as if every time he gets his head in the right place, every time he feels it, one of the band-mates would come into the room. They don’t even have to talk to him, he just has to feel them there, and it is enough to break his concentration. Tom is about to go mental with frustration.
He blows slowly out through pursed lips, willing his blood pressure down, and closes his eyes. Inside his head, a scenario plays out, and after watching it for a moment, he brings his fingers up and begins to type again. The words start slowly as he searches for the feeling, searches for the voice. Once he hears it, he’s off, and his fingers are pounding like mad, bringing him further and further into ‘the zone’. In no time at all, he’s got four good paragraphs out, and he re-reads them with a smile. He knows exactly where he’s going with this, and his smile grows to a grin as he starts the next sentence.
“Tom!” Bill shrieks from his bedroom, and Tom startles so hard it hurts.
“Fucking hell…” Tom whimpers, and leans back in his chair, his palms covering his eyes, “Yes, Bill?”
“Tom!” The singer must not have heard him, because now not only is he on his way to find Tom, he’s screeching for him even louder.
“Yes! What?!” Tom turns, hoping without hope that Bill will figure out that he doesn’t need Tom’s assistance after all.
No such luck.
“Tom, I can’t find my phone. Have you seen it?” Bill enters the room in a flurry of orange leather and flying black hair, and immediately begins rummaging through the clothes piles that Tom destroyed earlier.
“No, Bill, I haven’t--”
“I looked in my bag, already. Well, I looked in the Prada…” he stops his searching and stares at his brother blankly, “…but I didn’t check the silver Gucci! Thanks, Tom!”
He sweeps out of the room as quickly as he swept in, leaving his older brother staring after him and shaking his head.
Tom looks back at his page, and realizes he’s forgotten where the hell he was going with the last thought on the page. Hopeful to get back to where he was, he scrolls back to the beginning of the narrative, praying that if he re-reads the whole damn thing, he might find that voice that has was drowned out by Bill’s shrill calls.
He’s reading so intently, so desperately, that he doesn’t realize that someone else is behind him until he feels hands drop gently on his shoulders. Immediately he tenses and whines.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
His chair is spun around, and he finds himself facing Georg. A smiling Georg, with a twinkle in his eye. He only just realizes what the bassist is up to as Georg’s lips smash down on his, taking his breath away. Tongues wrestle, teeth clash, and before Tom’s had a chance to invest in it, Georg breaks the kiss, leaving them panting.
Dropping to his knees, Georg pushes Tom’s shirts up to his nipples and grabs one of Tom’s hands, pressing it down on the shirts to anchor them there. He makes short work of Tom’s belt and, with steady hands, opens Tom’s pants.
Tom’s brain has apparently abandoned him, and about the time he wraps his head around the fact that his friend is on his knees in front of him, it occurs to him that there are others in the house. Others who might walk in at any moment. He finds himself shooting glances at the stairs, right up until Georg wraps his hands around Tom’s hardening cock and starts stroking. His eyes roll back and his head falls back against the back of the chair.
A wet heat engulfs the head of his cock, and Tom brings his head up sharply. His eyes wide, he watches his friend, this man he’s known for nearly half his life, gobble down his cock and suck on it like it’s the sweetest candy in the world. His hands rise, seemingly of their own accord, because Tom obviously has no will now, and they hover over Georg’s head.
Tom is completely hard now. Georg grins a little around the dick in his mouth, before closing his eyes, and with a hum, slides his lips down Tom’s entire length until it touches the back of his throat.
Sucking his breath in hard, his hands fall on either side of Georg’s head, and his fingers thread through the silky hair. Holding on to those strands, and that hot mouth are the only things that ground him and convince him that this is not some sort of dream that he will wake from, panting and with his come sticky and warm in his boxers.
Georg lifts his head, releasing Tom’s cock, and looks him right in the eye. Tom’s eyes widen again, this time out of fear. His hands tighten on his friend’s head and he starts to babble.
“Wait, you’re not gonna--”
Flashing a devilish grin, the bassist drops his head again, and a thick moan escapes Tom’s throat as he watches Georg drop a slow line of drool down his twitching cock.
“Oh, Jesus….” he breathes, and nearly loses it completely as Georg engulfs his entire length again, anchoring his lips at the base, before sucking up hard to the head. He feels his tongue swirling at the tender under-side, and he playfully slips the tip into Tom’s slit before slamming Tom’s dick back down his throat.
Georg takes up a brutal pace, bobbing in Tom’s lap, sucking for all he’s worth, and Tom knows he won’t last much longer. His legs are so tense that they are close to cramping, his fingers hurt from grasping at Georg’s hair without pulling it, and he’s just about chewed his lip raw from trying not to make any noise, and yet the hot swirling low in his stomach overrides all of it.
Georg looks up at him, his mouth full of Tom, his green eyes gone dark, and as Tom watches, he pulls Tom’s cock out of his mouth, rasps the flat of his tongue under the head, and whispers.
“Come.”
His lips wrap around him tightly again, that hot tongue swirls over him, and Tom loses it. His legs shake, his belly quivers, and Georg sucks Tom in, until he‘s massaging the base with his lips. Tom’s cry echoes through the room as hot streams hit the back of Georg’s throat.
Eyes drifting closed, he breathes out heavily, his head drops back onto the chair, and he feels Georg suckling on him for the moments before it becomes uncomfortable. Then his jeans are done up for him, and his shirts are lowered. He feels Georg stand up in front of him, and he lifts his head.
He should feel uncomfortable. He should wonder what the hell to say to his best friend that just sucked him off. Instead, Tom finds that he feels nothing but relaxed and has nothing to say but,
“Thank you.”
Georg leans toward him and cups Tom’s cheek in his palm.
“You’re welcome.”
With a smirk and a wink, the bassist is gone.
Tom leans back in his chair, grinning and drumming his fingers on his stomach. He stares at the ceiling for a moment before it hits him. His fingers still and his eyes go wide.
He sits up quickly and moves the mouse to kill the screensaver. He finds where he left off, and Tom begins to type furiously.
