The Unmentionable Deeds of Farin Urlaub
The Unmentionable Deeds of Farin Urlaub
Rating: light R
Length: ~1300
Feedback: is love!
Summary: Bela's odd taste in unterwear. Obsessed Farin. Sammy's idea. Thong fic, baby.
FARIN URLAUB’S UNMENTIONABLE DEEDS
He’d been wondering ever since he’d seen Bela in one of those ridiculously tight stage suits for the first time.
After all those years with him, of course he knew that Bela’s favourite underwear was generally no underwear, that hadn’t changed since the days they’d been twenty and living together, when the only thing Bela wore on some days was a studded leather bracelet, and maybe a stray sock or other. During that time, Farin had become a master of inconspicuous staring, if not an accomplished Zen Buddhist. Who, after all, except a Zen master, could stay calm and collected around naked, lazy Bela? Farin, to his eternal shame, couldn’t, but over time he’d perfected several methods to at least appear unfazed. Which wasn’t as easy as it sounded, considering that when he blushed, the red extended all the way from his hairline to his chest. It was good thing Bela was rarely naked in public, because at the Max shoot with the porno boots years later, Farin’s make up artist had almost had a cardiac arrest from having to constantly layer more foundation on Farin’s face and neck. Embarrassing.
Especially the first day of the tour when Bela had just gotten That Ring. That was when all his practice failed him and he’d frozen, mouth gaping and eyes flicking from That Ring to Bela’s grinning face and back down. Jesus.
That had also been the first time in a very long time he’d picked up a groupie from some bar, something female and curvy and not at all like Bela, and even though she was pretty enough and he sort of did like the general idea of boobs once in a while (because Farin Urlaub wasn’t gay for sure, no sir!), all he’d been able to think about was Bela’s pierced cock while he was fucking her. At least she’d gotten what she wanted, he supposed.
Farin knew from own experience that you couldn’t wear underwear under tight leather, because it would show, and that wasn’t pretty even by his low clothing standards for himself. Even though back then, with all the belts Bela used to wear, you probably wouldn’t have seen the lines anyway because they had pretty much covered all of his skinny, adorable and most of all blindingly white ass.
His dilemma with the velvet suits was - something kind of showed. But only something, and in all the wrong places, and in a way that only confused him even more. Not that he got to look at Bela’s ass that much during the times when he was in the suits, because he only wore them on stage and that was when Bela spent time ogling Farin’s butt (or so Farin liked to imagine) and not the other way ‘round.
He really hadn’t seen Bela out of his clothes in a long time.
So Farin started scheming, in the back of his head, almost too embarrassed even in front of himself of the idea. He could probably just have walked up to his best friend and asked him straight-out, although that would’ve been a little weird, even for them.
Or on stage, as a joke.
Or he could walk to Bela’s flat in the rain without an umbrella, arrive there dripping, ask for some clothes to change into, and while he was alone in Bela’s bedroom, rifle through the underwear drawer.
Or he could buy Bela a cat for his birthday, and a plane ticket to somewhere, and offer to look after the cat, which would have gotten him a key and lots of excuses to sneak around through the flat and look for odd underwear. (Although, knowing Bela, he would probably trip over some kind or other of unwashed underwear sooner or later - or get attacked by it!)
Or he could try to have Bela abducted by aliens or zombies or something, with the option for him to escape but not before he was in the middle of Siberia, from where he could wander to the outcrops of the Koh-e baba mountains of Afghanistan and become one of the rebels there and herd sheep for the time it took for Farin to break into his flat and find his underwear drawer, after which he would of course rescue Bela from the people with silly tea cosies on their heads and be his knight in shining armour forever. Maybe.
The fates, even if Farin didn’t believe in them, had the band on a break before he could go through with one of his more or less elaborate plans, and he went on a holiday and finished his second solo album and went on another holiday and managed to mostly not think about Bela and his weird, partly-showing-through-velvet-suits underwear, except when he did and found himself staring out of the window or at the tiled floor or at the desert, guitar forgotten on his lap and one hand already half down his pants. And there he’d been, thinking that jerking off to the thought of Bela’s dick piercing was pathetic.
He was kind of disappointed that Bela wore normal pants and a button-down shirt for the New Year’s concert, because that seemed to signify the end of the velvet suits. And as ridiculous and tacky as they were, they were still kind of awesome and Farin found he’d actually liked the silly things. His underwear obsession seemed done in, too. Sigh.
With all those throwbacks, he almost didn’t notice when, during the work on the new album (maybe they were finally going to call this one ‘Cause of Death: Penis in Brain’. Maybe.), Bela was wearing a particularly low-slung favourite pair of jeans. Low-slung was the wrong word because that sounded stylish, but to be honest, they were more old and baggy and ratty and had a bunch of holes in them, but Bela seemed to love them and they did look rather comfortable.
It was the hottest day yet of their recording session, and even with all the windows open when they weren’t actually recording, it was unbearable for most of them. Rod didn’t seem to mind too much, the crazy Chilean, but then he wore a full suit during concerts, too. However, everyone else, which was Bela and Farin right now because the techies had gone to fetch pizza, had stripped off their shirts and socks and rolled up the legs of their pants and was trying to catch a breeze at the open window.
And when Bela was leaning out of the window as far as possible and not paying attention to his pants, Farin discovered the solution to many of his sleepless nights, and it was so simple he could have kicked himself in the head. And here he’d always thought that the ridiculous leopard jock strap for the Spendierhosen photo shoot had been a joke.
Thongs. And in today’s case, silver, glittery thongs. Peeking out from under Bela’s jeans like two tacky eyebrows, and suddenly, Farin couldn’t help himself anymore.
He hooked a finger under the one side, dragged it up, and let it snap down with a tremendous smack that reddened Bela’s tan skin. Beautiful.
The anticipated ‘you bastard!’ squeak and hilarity came, but from Rod, who was over on the couch laughing hysterically. And Farin couldn’t have cared less, because all of a sudden, he had his arms full of sweaty, half-naked Bela furiously kissing him and when they had to gasp for breath, whispering fiercely in his ear: ‘We get home tonight, and I’ll have you do that again until I’m raw. Resistance is futile, my friend.’
Heh. Heh. Heh.
Rating: light R
Length: ~1300
Feedback: is love!
Summary: Bela's odd taste in unterwear. Obsessed Farin. Sammy's idea. Thong fic, baby.
FARIN URLAUB’S UNMENTIONABLE DEEDS
He’d been wondering ever since he’d seen Bela in one of those ridiculously tight stage suits for the first time.
After all those years with him, of course he knew that Bela’s favourite underwear was generally no underwear, that hadn’t changed since the days they’d been twenty and living together, when the only thing Bela wore on some days was a studded leather bracelet, and maybe a stray sock or other. During that time, Farin had become a master of inconspicuous staring, if not an accomplished Zen Buddhist. Who, after all, except a Zen master, could stay calm and collected around naked, lazy Bela? Farin, to his eternal shame, couldn’t, but over time he’d perfected several methods to at least appear unfazed. Which wasn’t as easy as it sounded, considering that when he blushed, the red extended all the way from his hairline to his chest. It was good thing Bela was rarely naked in public, because at the Max shoot with the porno boots years later, Farin’s make up artist had almost had a cardiac arrest from having to constantly layer more foundation on Farin’s face and neck. Embarrassing.
Especially the first day of the tour when Bela had just gotten That Ring. That was when all his practice failed him and he’d frozen, mouth gaping and eyes flicking from That Ring to Bela’s grinning face and back down. Jesus.
That had also been the first time in a very long time he’d picked up a groupie from some bar, something female and curvy and not at all like Bela, and even though she was pretty enough and he sort of did like the general idea of boobs once in a while (because Farin Urlaub wasn’t gay for sure, no sir!), all he’d been able to think about was Bela’s pierced cock while he was fucking her. At least she’d gotten what she wanted, he supposed.
Farin knew from own experience that you couldn’t wear underwear under tight leather, because it would show, and that wasn’t pretty even by his low clothing standards for himself. Even though back then, with all the belts Bela used to wear, you probably wouldn’t have seen the lines anyway because they had pretty much covered all of his skinny, adorable and most of all blindingly white ass.
His dilemma with the velvet suits was - something kind of showed. But only something, and in all the wrong places, and in a way that only confused him even more. Not that he got to look at Bela’s ass that much during the times when he was in the suits, because he only wore them on stage and that was when Bela spent time ogling Farin’s butt (or so Farin liked to imagine) and not the other way ‘round.
He really hadn’t seen Bela out of his clothes in a long time.
So Farin started scheming, in the back of his head, almost too embarrassed even in front of himself of the idea. He could probably just have walked up to his best friend and asked him straight-out, although that would’ve been a little weird, even for them.
Or on stage, as a joke.
Or he could walk to Bela’s flat in the rain without an umbrella, arrive there dripping, ask for some clothes to change into, and while he was alone in Bela’s bedroom, rifle through the underwear drawer.
Or he could buy Bela a cat for his birthday, and a plane ticket to somewhere, and offer to look after the cat, which would have gotten him a key and lots of excuses to sneak around through the flat and look for odd underwear. (Although, knowing Bela, he would probably trip over some kind or other of unwashed underwear sooner or later - or get attacked by it!)
Or he could try to have Bela abducted by aliens or zombies or something, with the option for him to escape but not before he was in the middle of Siberia, from where he could wander to the outcrops of the Koh-e baba mountains of Afghanistan and become one of the rebels there and herd sheep for the time it took for Farin to break into his flat and find his underwear drawer, after which he would of course rescue Bela from the people with silly tea cosies on their heads and be his knight in shining armour forever. Maybe.
The fates, even if Farin didn’t believe in them, had the band on a break before he could go through with one of his more or less elaborate plans, and he went on a holiday and finished his second solo album and went on another holiday and managed to mostly not think about Bela and his weird, partly-showing-through-velvet-suits underwear, except when he did and found himself staring out of the window or at the tiled floor or at the desert, guitar forgotten on his lap and one hand already half down his pants. And there he’d been, thinking that jerking off to the thought of Bela’s dick piercing was pathetic.
He was kind of disappointed that Bela wore normal pants and a button-down shirt for the New Year’s concert, because that seemed to signify the end of the velvet suits. And as ridiculous and tacky as they were, they were still kind of awesome and Farin found he’d actually liked the silly things. His underwear obsession seemed done in, too. Sigh.
With all those throwbacks, he almost didn’t notice when, during the work on the new album (maybe they were finally going to call this one ‘Cause of Death: Penis in Brain’. Maybe.), Bela was wearing a particularly low-slung favourite pair of jeans. Low-slung was the wrong word because that sounded stylish, but to be honest, they were more old and baggy and ratty and had a bunch of holes in them, but Bela seemed to love them and they did look rather comfortable.
It was the hottest day yet of their recording session, and even with all the windows open when they weren’t actually recording, it was unbearable for most of them. Rod didn’t seem to mind too much, the crazy Chilean, but then he wore a full suit during concerts, too. However, everyone else, which was Bela and Farin right now because the techies had gone to fetch pizza, had stripped off their shirts and socks and rolled up the legs of their pants and was trying to catch a breeze at the open window.
And when Bela was leaning out of the window as far as possible and not paying attention to his pants, Farin discovered the solution to many of his sleepless nights, and it was so simple he could have kicked himself in the head. And here he’d always thought that the ridiculous leopard jock strap for the Spendierhosen photo shoot had been a joke.
Thongs. And in today’s case, silver, glittery thongs. Peeking out from under Bela’s jeans like two tacky eyebrows, and suddenly, Farin couldn’t help himself anymore.
He hooked a finger under the one side, dragged it up, and let it snap down with a tremendous smack that reddened Bela’s tan skin. Beautiful.
The anticipated ‘you bastard!’ squeak and hilarity came, but from Rod, who was over on the couch laughing hysterically. And Farin couldn’t have cared less, because all of a sudden, he had his arms full of sweaty, half-naked Bela furiously kissing him and when they had to gasp for breath, whispering fiercely in his ear: ‘We get home tonight, and I’ll have you do that again until I’m raw. Resistance is futile, my friend.’
Heh. Heh. Heh.