Characters: Andreas, Bill Kaulitz, David Jost, Georg Listing, Gustav Schafer, OMC, Simone Trumper, Tom Kaulitz
Pairing: Bill/Tom, Bill/OMC, Bill/Andi, Tom/OMC
Category: AU, Angst, Drama, Twincest
Words (in chapter): 5459
Warning: Abuse, Adult Content, Bondage, Cross Dressing, Heavy Kink, Humiliation, Incest, Minor Character Death, Non-Con/Rape, Pedophilia, Uder-Age Erotica, Violence, WIP
Summary: Simone receives mysterious videotapes in the mail of her twins. How will the family deal with the content of the tapes, and will they all survive the aftermath?
Note: By far my darkest fic EVER. This story stemmed from one lyric in the song Liar, Liar by The Used. I've never written anything with this type of content before.
Tom stepped out of the hot shower and grabbed a towel off a shelf behind the toilet. He wrapped the plush cotton around his waist and tucked it securely. Pausing in front of the mirror on his way toward the door, he wiped the fog off with a hand towel that always hung on a small hook on the wall, next to the sink. Tom’s reflection blinked at him from the mirror. He twisted his body so that his back was showing to the mirror. Craning his neck to look behind him, trying to examine the scars marring his back, he counted: five, nine, twenty; to Tom it might as well have been a million. He gave up the count but continued staring at his torn up back, scrutinizing the other scars from blades, fingernails, whips. His back was a ruin of scarred flesh.
His eyelids dropped closed and he inhaled deeply, turning to face the mirror full on, again. It didn’t help anyone or anything to dwell on something as mundane as the marks zigzagging across his skin. Tom made sure to hold the edge of his towel as he left the sultry bathroom and walked barefoot to his bedroom. He stopped in the middle of the room when he noticed Bill huddled against the far wall, under the window that led to a small terrace, wearing only a small pair of boxers and an old t-shirt. Bill was shivering, biting the nails of his left hand, and whispering to himself. His eyes were glossed over and he was staring out of the window, rocking back and forth. Tom noticed something small glint between Bill’s fingers; Tom’s knife.
Bill looked up at Tom, eyes devoid of any emotion. It seemed as if Bill’s personality had seeped out of the deep gashes on his inner thigh, dripping onto the white carpet in ruby tears. Tom held his shock inside and crossed the room quickly. Dropping down to his knees next to Bill, he gently took the knife from his brother’s fingers and tossed it out of reach. Bill was completely passive and unmoving as Tom used a piece of the towel wrapped around his hips to dab at the cuts. “God, Bill...”
Never flinching from the attention Tom was giving to his thigh, Bill kept mumbling quietly. Tom wanted to get their mother, but he knew if he did, there’d be more questions and he didn’t think Bill could take them at the moment. Besides, Tom had a growing fury towards their mother. She should have seen all that was wrong with her kids, in Tom’s opinion. There should have been something done sooner.
Tom wiped at the blood, staining the edge of the towel as he cleaned his brother up as best he could. They’d both been doing so well since their dad had died. Bill hadn’t harmed himself, or staved himself, since his death. Tom bit at the inside of his cheek as he examined the deep wounds. He didn’t think they’d need stitches, but it was going to be a few days before they’d heal. Bill looked up from watching Tom’s hands on his thigh when Tom told him he’d need some bandages. He nodded once and turned his gaze back to the window. “Tomi, I’m not like that. I’m not, I swear I’m not.”
Bill was mumbling more to himself than to Tom, and Tom had to strain and lean closer into him to understand what he was saying. The words sunk into Tom’s mind and he connected the dots. Bill thought he was like their father. Tom grabbed Bill’s chin and forced him to look back at his face. Tom knew, and he informed Bill he’d never thought he was like the wretched man that had fathered them and then tortured them. Bill blinked back tears and swallowed twice before jerking his chin out of Tom’s grip.
Trying to get the bleeding to stop, Tom applied more pressure to Bill’s thigh. A hiss of breath slipped through Bill’s teeth and he looked down at the stinging injury. Tom was using the only thing available, his towel, and it left half of his own thigh uncovered. Bill’s eyes were drawn to the exposed skin and he felt sick for staring at the tiny droplets of water that still clung to his twin’s flesh. He blinked in rapid succession and moved his eyes so Tom’s body wasn’t in his line of vision. Instead, he received Tom’s long fingers cupping his thigh with a piece of the towel being the only thing keeping their skin from connecting. Bill’s entire body jerked away from Tom’s fingers around his leg. Bile was rising in his throat as thoughts and images plagued his mind. So many times those hands had caressed him. The long, calloused fingers had done things to his body that tantalized his senses and sent his nerves soaring. Bill’s eyes widened, anxiety finally hitting him.
Shoving Tom’s hand away from him, he scrambled up, using the wall for leverage. His thigh ached and blood pulsed from the torn skin as soon as he stood. Tom sat back on his heels in confusion. “Bill?”
Bill looked at Tom’s face and felt the vomit threatening to come up. He shook his head and ran from the room, blood still trickling down his bare leg. Tom watched him go, wondering what, exactly, had just happened.
Tucking the blood-stained towel more securely around his hips, Tom stood up straight. He knew Bill had trouble allowing any kind of touching to pass between them ever since the abuse had started, but, Tom wasn’t touching Bill. He’d simply been trying to clean up the mess Bill had made of his thigh.
Realising that watching the video with Bill was probably what set Bill off made a bout of anger wash over Tom. He slammed his fist into the wall that Bill had just been leaning against. His knuckles cracked as his fist moved through the sheetrock. Pieces of the wall crumbled under the impact and white dust coated his fingers. Grinding his teeth, he dug a pair of boxers out of his dresser then walked into the big closet they shared.
A black t-shirt was the nearest article of clothing in the closet and Tom yanked it off its hanger. He threw the shirt over his head and dropped the towel to the floor. After pulling on his boxers roughly, his legs folded beneath him and his body dropped to the floor, choking on his own air. He tried to control his breathing, counting breaths in and out, focusing on the pattern of paint on the wall behind Bill’s clothes on the other side of the closet. Nothing was working; nothing was taking the pain out of his heart, or slowing his breathing.
Holding his head in his hands, on his knees with his legs folded beneath him, he rocked like Bill had been doing a few moments ago. The rest of the memory he had cut off earlier was invading. It was vining through the cracks in the barriers he’d put up around the more fragile pieces of his mind. He was powerless to stop it from replaying itself in his mind. The memory burst through his mental walls, exploding the walls into millions of fallen pieces. The more Tom fought the images of the memory, the more vivid they became, until it was like he was back in that time, back in the actual event, experiencing the feelings and emotions. Tom gasped and bit his lip, splicing it open; he licked at the metallic fluid.
His eyes were no longer seeing the clothes in the closet. The vision before him swirled and tilted, bringing his own haunting back to him. Switching positions on the floor, he moved backwards until his back was flat against his side of the closet wall. He sat with his legs crossed, banging his head against the wall behind him, as the memory forced him to remember things he had no desire to remember. It was the rest of the images he’d pushed out of his mind while sitting under the old oak in his backyard. It was the time he realized how dangerous it was for Bill every time he was alone with their dad.
Tom followed his father into the make-shift porn studio, glumly, clutching the strap of his backpack tightly in his right hand. He watched his feet move one in front of the other, counting the cracks in the old pavement. It was helping calm his insides and send his body on auto-pilot. Deep breaths, in and out, in and out were helping keep his mind from thinking about what was sure to happen once the two were behind closed doors.
Bill and Tom never knew where their father had gotten this secluded warehouse. It was just always a part of the abuse. The twins suspected their dad owned the building, but they couldn’t be sure, and neither one wanted to ask their mother. The first time they’d been filmed together, it had been at this very place, and their dad had never mentioned how he had acquired an entire warehouse that he decided to use for pornographic purposes.
The ramshackled old building was located about fifteen minutes outside of their town. In order to get there, you had to take a twisting, turning, two-lane road that never failed to make Bill carsick. The outside of the building was plain brown brick, and looked two stories. It was really only one big room with an extremely high ceiling. The inside contained nothing but the bed, night-stand, and camera. There used to be a table with two chairs, but for some reason or another, their dad had removed the items from the warehouse.
They entered the building and Tom let his bag fall off his shoulder. He held it in his right hand and walked to the bed silently. Setting the bag on the floor next to the bed, he sat on the edge, fingering the hem of his t-shirt. Tom flinched when his dad sat down next to him, grinning from ear to ear. He explained that there wouldn’t be a video made since Bill wasn’t present.
Tom grimaced as his dad’s palm cupped his thigh. The thick hand rubbed up Tom’s thigh as the older man pressed rough, chapped lips against his throat. Swallowing down his nausea, Tom sat on his hands to keep from striking out at his dad. No matter what the evil man tried to make him believe, Tom knew that this was not okay. His dad’s lips moved higher, nibbling his ear, blowing moist breath against his skin. It took everything inside of Tom not to give a visible reaction when he heard his dad whisper into his ear. He wanted to feel Tom’s hot mouth around him.
Tom bit on the sides of his tongue to keep from saying a smart remark back to his father when his father casually mentioned he would have preferred Bill, but since Tom was here, he’d have to make do. Nodding numbly when his dad told him to get on his knees and suck his cock, Tom slid off the bed, the pressure of his dad’s hand on his lower back aiding him. He was very thankful that Bill was off with Andi, even if this is what he had to endure in his absence. At least it wasn’t Bill being forced to go down on their sick father.
Staring at the railing of the bed through the space between his dad’s legs, he listened to the sigh of fabric as his dad maneuvered his jeans down enough to wrap fingers around his half-erect penis. Tom raised his eyes to his dad’s crotch. His jaw flexed as he fought the urge to run, or be sick, in his dad’s lap. He closed his eyes, wishing he was anywhere but here.
“Touch it,” his father mumbled, reaching out for Tom’s shoulder. He pulled Tom forward, situating him between his legs. Tom reached out and shuddered in queasiness when his fingers touched the warm flesh of his father. His dad’s raspy voice, thick and full of lust, filled his ears, hold it, play with it. With his trembling hand moving up and down mechanically, Tom stared at the floor under him.
Trying his hardest to block out the breathing and grunting noises coming from his father, Tom thought about Bill. Were there ever times when Bill was alone with their dad? Tom prayed harder than he ever had that Bill had never been alone and at the mercy of their deranged father. Bill had never mentioned if he had, but then again, Tom hadn’t mentioned his alone time, either.
Tom’s attention was brought back from Bill and his prayers when his dad’s fingers curled around his own. He looked up, and the man told him he wanted to fuck Tom’s mouth. How could his own father want that from him? It was so fucking twisted, but Tom complied and leant forward, coming up onto his knees between his dad’s legs. Tom wasn’t moving quick enough for his father, and he cringed as his dad grabbed a handful of his hair, directing his face closer to the man’s groin. The musk of his father filled his nostrils and Tom tried to stop himself from breathing.
The grip in his hair tightened, painfully, and Tom opened his mouth just enough to fit the hardened tip of his dad’s dick past his lips and teeth. He tried to keep from breathing at all, but after a minute or two his lungs started burning and he had to take in some air. The mouthful of air turned to scent in his sinus and he could smell the foul stench of his father’s arousal. He squeezed his eyes shut as tight as they would go. The revulsion was climbing his throat. He wanted to spit and gag and pour acid onto his tongue to rid himself of the taste. All the while, his perverted dad was panting and lifting his hips, tangling his fingers deeper into Tom’s dreadlocks. He was sending breathy praises into the air, head thrown back, hand guiding Tom’s head up and down. “So wet, Tom, good boy.”
Every time his head was pushed forward, forcing his mouth to swallow nearly all of his dad’s member, he would gag, eyes watering. Tom kept his mouth open and tried to refrain from moving it, letting saliva just drip down his chin and all over. He tried to keep his mouth just a hollow area for his father to fuck. The fingers of Tom’s left hand were wrapped loosely around the base of his dad’s dick. His other hand was clenched into a fist, nails cutting into his palm. He was going to be sick soon, he felt it.
His dad started guiding his head faster, his grip almost ripping hair from Tom’s head. His hips lifted from the mattress, shoving himself as far as he could go into his son’s mouth. Tom could feel the head of his dad’s dick hitting the back of his throat. He thought about homework, friends, music, Bill. Tears stung at the back of his eyes, but he refused them permission to run down his cheeks. He would not let this man break him.
Grunting, his dad shot his sick pleasure into Tom’s mouth, the thick wetness sliding down the walls of his throat. Tom finally gagged hard enough to bring the vomit he’d been suppressing up. He coughed as puke filled his mouth, bringing his father’s semen back up with it. Tom tried to pull away quick enough to prevent throwing up on his own body, or asphyxiating. The afterglow of orgasm for his father was cut short when he realized Tom was moments from spewing on him. He shoved Tom away roughly so that the mess hit the floor instead of landing on either of them.
Yelling at Tom, his dad stood from the bed and pulled his jeans back up, buckling them into place. Tom was on his hands and knees heaving and spitting. A hand touched his shoulder and rubbed up his neck to his dreads. For a split second, Tom thought his dad was going to comfort him. He almost wanted to laugh at himself for thinking such an absurd thing, as his head was yanked up at an awkward angle so that he was still on all fours, but was forced to look up at his dad standing over him. Spit and traces of puke dribbled down Tom’s chin. With wide eyes and the smell of vomit sour in his nose, he glared at his dad in defiance as he spoke low in Tom’s face. He taunted Tom for throwing up, calling him pathetic and weak. Tom swiped at his chin and remained silent, shaking inside with fear and anger. He knew he wasn’t weak or pathetic.
Getting no reaction from his son made him even more angry. He spit in Tom’s face and let go of his hair, pushing him down at the same time. The push contained just enough pressure that Tom lost his balance. His left hand jutted to the side and through his vomit, causing him to slip and end with his chest on the floor. Stomach swirling and head aching, Tom sensed things were about to go from bad to worse. He tried to steady himself back on all fours. The sight of chunks on his new hoody caused another wave of nausea to hit him.
Tom’s body jerked when the steel toe of his dad’s work-boot connected with his ribs. Tom cried out in agony. The burning in his lungs returned bringing coughs with it. He groaned, wondering if the ribs were broken; it hurt to take in even a little bit of air. Another kick was received, this time by his thigh, and he yelped. Tom fell to his side, curling into the fetal position, trying to protect as much of his body as he could manage. He hugged his knees to his chest and held tightly. The thought that his dad had actually been aiming for something more delicate than his thigh crossed his mind.
His dad loomed above him and cursed at him. Tom smiled, despite the pain in his chest. His father was insulting everything about him, and it amused Tom for some strange reason. As if Tom would actually care that his father thought he gave terrible oral sex. As if Tom had even been trying to make it good. Catching the trace of a smile on Tom’s lips, his dad drew back and kicked his son in the shin. Tom screamed, something cracked in his leg, he was sure of it. Ignoring the mess he was lying in, Tom tightened the hold around his knees. His body felt like one giant bruise.
Crouching down, Tom’s dad brought his face close to his son’s, invading his space. Tom flinched a bit, scared he was going to be hit again. The smell of puke, from the carpet by Tom’s head, mixed with the scent of cigarettes and alcohol coming from his father’s breath. His dad fisted a chunk of Tom’s dreads, pulling Tom’s face closer so that their noses were almost touching. Specks of spit hit Tom’s face as his father growled at him, saying Bill would have been better. Bill would have deep throated and swallowed every last bit of his father’s essence. Grinning wickedly while speaking low in Tom’s face, his father had a far off look in his eyes, like he was imagining just what it would have felt like to have had Bill’s mouth, instead of Tom’s, engulfing him.
Tom saw red, losing all concentration for self-preservation and managed to launch himself into his father, from his lying position. The crash sent his dad back, Tom landing on top. His fist flew into his father’s jaw, knocking his head to the side. Un-phased by the punch, he stood, lifting Tom by the waist as he did so. Tin was tossed to the floor like a rag-doll, his father cursing at him, during the process.
Tom braced himself as best he could when he hit the ground, but he was bracing for more kicks, and wasn‘t prepared for the thick fingers of his dad’s hands to wrap around his throat in a crushing grip. The fingers dug into the skin, squeezing the tendons and muscles like a vice. Tom clawed at the strong hands as all the air in his body was pushed out of him. He panicked; he couldn’t breathe in or out. His head was swirling, stars were starting to make visuals in his eyes. Kicking and scratching at his dad’s arms failed him. His dad was too strong, too powerful, and Tom couldn’t stop him. Tom felt as if he was about to die; his vision was turning black. Fog snaked into his mind and the sound of laughter was the only noise in his ears as he lost consciousness.
Tom woke some time later, cold and alone, his emesis caked onto his clothing. He brushed at the dried bits and some flaked off, but most stayed embedded in the fabric. Standing on shaky legs, he grabbed his backpack and left the warehouse. The trek back to his house was going to be a long one, and he really hoped he could make it. His body felt like it had been run over and it still made him wince every time he took a breath of air.
About an hour later, surrounded by evening shades of purple, Tom walked up the drive to his house. The first thing he noticed was that his dad’s car wasn’t parked in front. Relief flooded around him and he entered the house, only a little hesitant. He didn’t want to encounter his mother, or Bill, and have to explain the mess he was.
Bypassing the family room to his right, where he caught sight of his mother watching television, he went through the kitchen to the room he shared with Bill. The room had used to be the garage, but his parents had turned it into a bedroom for the twins when they wanted an office in the main part of the house. Tom was thankful that Bill wasn’t in the room, and grabbed some of his clothes. He walked through the room and directly into the bathroom that had been installed into the bedroom. He piled the clothes he was stripping off into a ball next to the bathtub intent on burning them as soon as possible.
Tom reached passed the dark shower curtain and turned the tap on full hot. Sitting naked on the edge of the tub he looked at his chest, as steam filled the bathroom. Grotesque purple, yellow, and green tones covered his ribcage. He touched the tips of his fingers to his ribs and hissed. He tried to determine if anything was broken by gingerly fingering each rib. It didn’t feel as if anything was protruding or out of place. The small touches sent jolts of agony through his chest and every time he pressed too hard, he flinched. He hoped he didn’t need medical attention of any sort, because he knew he wasn’t going to get any.
Trying to gauge how much air he could get into his lungs, he took a deep breath. It threw him into a coughing fit almost immediately, doubling him over in pain. Tom took shallow breaths and calmed his body. He got up from his position on the edge of the tub and stepped into the scalding shower.
His skin burned red under the assault of hot water, forcing Tom to turn on some cold. The water wasn’t burning him anymore, but it was still turning his skin pink every where. He grabbed his washcloth that was hanging on a small metal rack on the shower wall. Lathering the cotton with some of Bill’s scented body wash, he scrubbed at his skin. He tried to scour away the feel of his dad’s flesh in his mouth, hands on his skin. Tom scrubbed so much and so long that by the time he was done, his skin was raw and bleeding in some areas.
Turning off the tap, he stepped out of the shower into steam-filled room. His bare feet sunk into the plush carpet of the floormat that was in front of the tub. He grabbed his towel from the rack across from the toilet and wrapped it around his chest and body. Shivering, though not from cold, he reached for his clothes that were on the back of the toilet.
His throat was aching, swallowing making it ache worse. Tom paused in front of the mirror to see if there were visible marks from being choked. Deep finger-shaped bruises covered the entire area of his neck from jaw bone to collar bone. He stretched his head to the right and leaned into the mirror to get a better look at the injuries. The bruises on his chest were worse, but these were the ones people would see, and he had no idea how he was going to cover them, or what he would say when someone asked. He traced the edges of the deep red marks; he hated his father.
He met his own eyes and wanted to sob to release some of his inner turmoil. Gritting his teeth he held the tears at bay. His lip was swollen, and split open, but he had no idea why. Running his thumb across the cut, Tom set his clothes on the counter next to the sink. He un-tucked his towel and threw it at the mirror, body still wet.
He grabbed his boxers from the counter and spun away from the mirror. He couldn’t stand looking at his beat up reflection any longer. Tom wiggled and tugged the boxers up his wet legs. After adjusting the now damp material against his skin, he reached behind him blindly searching for his shirt. His fingers closed around the oversize garment and he pulled it over his head. Last were his jeans, which gave a good fight against his moist skin.
Once fully dressed, he snatched the ball of dirty clothes up and carried them with him into the bedroom. Bill was sitting on his bed, drawing. Their eyes met for a second, as Tom opened the bathroom door, and Bill’s widened at the sight of Tom’s injuries. Tom lowered his to the ball of clothes in his arms and walked from the doorway to the trashcan, that was in the far corner of their bedroom, with his head down. He shoved the clothes into the bin and tied the bag shut tightly. All the while, Bill was silently watching his every move from the bed he was perched on.
Bill had noticed the finger imprints on Tom’s neck and wanted to ask what had happened. He was afraid to ask because ever since they were little Tom had been getting into tussles over bill. The marks all over Tom’s neck were terrible, but Bill didn’t want to know if they were caused because Tom had been defending him, once again. Tom turned from the trash bin to see Bill sitting on the bed, legs folded under him, with his eyes still glued to Tom.
“Fight,” Tom offered, lowering his gaze to his nails as he spoke. Bill nodded, and timidly asked who the fight had been with. Tom shrugged at him crossing the room to his own bed. He wanted to protect Bill from the knowledge that their father had done the damage, but he didn’t want to blame someone else, either. So, he remained silent and refused Bill a name. It didn’t matter, he said, it was over.
Tom pulled his fleece throw over his body and up to his chin. Closing his eyes, he tried to block out the feeling of Bill still staring at him, wanting a better answer. Bill spoke Tom’s name the same time as a knock at their door was heard. The stared at each other, and after a moment, Bill announced permission for whomever was behind the door to enter. Bill twisted in his bed to watch his mother enter.
Simone took one look at Tom’s swollen lip and marched over to the edge of his bed. He held the blanket firmly under his chin, not wanting her to see the extent of the marks. She touched his cheek and turned his face from side to side. “What happened?” She demanded with not much sympathy for her torn-up son.
Tom blamed nameless kids from school, knowing he could get away with saying it to his mother. For about a year, he’d been getting into more and more trouble at school. For this or that reason the twins kept getting detention or expelled from school. Their stories never really added up with what the school would tell Simone. She didn’t know who to believe anymore, and she was getting notes sent home about truancy issues. If her boys were lying to her about being in school, were they lying about why they were fighting in school?
She let go of Tom’s chin to rest her hands on her hips, announcing the boys would not be returning to school the following day. At their protest she held up her hands in two different directions, one at Tom, the other Bill. She didn’t want their excuses or protests. Tired of the fights and bullies, Bill in tears all the time and Tom always covered in blood, she made the worst decision for the fate of her boys.
Never questioning why Bill and Tom were begging to remain in school, she stood firm on the decision that it would be better for the entire family if the boys didn’t return to school. Neither her, nor their father, had the time to deal with the truancy, and the boys had already proven they couldn’t be trusted to stay out of trouble. Bill was almost hysterical, pleading to stay in school, Tom didn’t mean it, they’d fix things. They’d apologise, if only she’d allow them to stay in school.
Shaking her head, Simone denied their requests and left their small bedroom. Her mind was made up, dinner was ready if they wanted to eat, and there would be no more discussion about the issue. Tears dripped from Bill’s lashes to land wetly on his shirt. He huddled around himself on his bed sending scathing looks in Tom’s direction. Tom ducked his head and pulled the blanket tighter around his body. Their mother was making a grave mistake and she had no idea.
Tom sat on the floor of his closet with his teeth clenched so hard that he thought his jaw might have locked. He stood to yank jeans up his legs. A scream bubbled up his chest, through his throat, and past his lips. He threw his fist into the nearest wall, bruising his knuckles for a second time in one day. The closet walls shook from the impact and the hangers on their racks jangled together loudly. Their father was dead and, yet, they were still being tormented by him. Bill was still being sent through the ringer because of him.
Tom grabbed his shoes from the shelf in the closet and sat on the edge of his bed to put them on. The hand that had slammed through two walls hurt as his fingers worked extra hard at tying his shoes. He wiggled his fingers to make sure nothing was broken. Snatching his hoody off the hook on the back of their door, he left their room, making sure to shut the door behind him.
Needing air and maybe a little bit of a mental break, he hollered for Bill with no response. He paused at the foot of the stairs that led to their attic to listen again. Still no answer. Betting Bill was up there, in his safe spot, Tom race to the top, taking the stairs two at a time. Throwing open the door, he spotted Bill on the floor, curled up with the blanket their mother had made them when they were born.
Tom moved slowly, walking toward his brother, and kneeled by Bill’s head. He touched Bill’s hair softly and asked if Bill wanted to go with him to the only safe haven they’d ever had. Georg and Gustav’s. Bill shifted his body and nuzzled into Tom’s hand. He wanted to go.