Title: Restricted Freedom
Universe: Tokio Hotel (Real Person Fiction).
Theme/Topic: Total Power Exchange, a close examination.
Characters: Bill and Tom focused.
Warnings/Spoilers: Incest, BDSM, punishment, spanking, total power exchange.
Word Count: WIP - constantly expanding.
Time: WIP - the clock is still ticking, people.
Summary: To both Bill and Tom, control is key; it's how they work together. Bill takes it, without or without permission, over everything from clothes to food to songs to bedtime. Tom gives it, freely and wholehearted to his brother - what Bill thinks is best for him is best; whether it is girls, outfits, where they eat or sleep. How they have sex. He is not Master, he is not Sir. He is Bill, and Tom loves him.
Dedication: Nobody in particular - for a anon kink meme prompt which requested this:
I'd love Tom to be fully mentally under Bill's control.
They'd look outside like we see them, but behind the scenes Bill controls everything in Tom's life and Tom is happy about that. You can choose how far or in which things you want to focus on in this fic, but basically total control over everything (like Tom's looks, clothes, using bathroom, everything). Bill also controls Tom's relationships and sex life (chooses Tom's gf's, random sex partners...) and in their own not-so-platonic relationship. Tom is happy to give all his control to Bill and it makes him feel safe. Sometimes Bill plays with Tom's OCD (messes things up, re-arrange things like Tom's need to color match) and it causes Tom anxiety, but in the end they are really happy together like this.
This is not about an abusive relationship, but very loving and caring one.here for list of distribution places. Previous Chapter can be found here.
Pacing and Hairbrushes
He’s desperate to get out of here, but he knows that if he did decide to run, he’d end up absolutely destroying any chance of getting out of this punishment, he’d end up with an enema every night until he’s twenty, and his bottom would be red enough to light up Amsterdam. All of it.
Two hours ago they arrived at their hotel for tonight, ate dinner in Georg’s room as they tried to unwind a little from the tension of the day and Tom had enjoyed himself, forgotten all about what was about to happen because he was tired and a little hazy from over eating. So when Bill had bid the other two goodnight, Tom had followed in his wake, eagerly awaiting bed and cuddles. Sex might have been off the table for now but cuddles? Never.
Only when he got back to the room, a few minutes behind Bill, he’d not found a turned down bed, and Bill rooting through their suitcases for pyjamas. Instead, he’d found Bill pulling the fucking enema kit out of his suitcase, searching for the tub of Vaseline and the look on his face said it all. Tom wasn’t getting out of it, come hell or high water.
Now, Bill’s in the bathroom, moving stuff around and Tom knows, he fucking knows what’s going to happen and he doesn’t want it - wants no part of what Bill is laying out on the floor. He’s pacing the carpet, reaching out to touch the bathroom door handle before pulling his hand back with a wince and a sigh before he starts another circuit of the room, pacing himself into worry and shakes and stress. He’s earned this, it’s the price he has to pay for disobeying Bill but he can’t stand what’s about to happen.
He’s not sure about the people who get off on it, and believe him, he’s done enough research about them, trying to prove to Bill that ramming litres of warm water up his backside is not worth the pain and aggravation, but he can’t stand them. He hurts, his belly aches, his spine thrums with a dull pain when Bill has him full up tight. He can’t ever seem to breathe or relax and it’s endless. Twenty minutes is tough, an hour is fucking terrible, ninety minutes is at the limit of his endurance normally. If and only if Bill has managed to work him into the right state between drifting and anchored, and he’s been prepared properly can he manage that full hour and a half.
The bathroom door opens.
Bill steps out, wearing a pair of black cotton trousers and one of his old concert t-shirts, and Tom can see flashes of the star on his belly as he moves. “Undress.” The command is spoken quietly but Tom hears the urge to submit to it as well as he ever has done. But he doesn’t want to – he can’t allow himself to submit. Not tonight.
“Please, Bill!” he begs and there’s a moment of silence before Bill steps into the room properly, looking incredulous.
“What did you say?”
“Please. I’ll do ...anything.” He would too - anything to get out of what he knows is coming. “I … I don’t want to Bill - please -”
“Tom.” Bill cuts right across his protests, silencing him with a look. “What’s got into you?”
He shuffles in place, looking anywhere but at Bill because the truth is not one he wants to say because he doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. Once upon a time, he would have obeyed without any hesitation, but he can’t seem to stop himself from being rude and back talking and not doing what he should anymore.
But he’s never tried to get out of it as much as this before.
“Nothing - I just... please, don’t make me, Bill, I don’t want -”
“You’ll do as you’re told.” Bill says, bluntly but his eyes are narrowing and a frown is forming. Tom shakes his head, rubs his hands together. If Bill will just stop, let him explain why, he’s sure that they can work this out - maybe he doesn’t have to take it every three days, because...
“Please, I can’t Bill - I don’t want..”
“You’ll do as you’re bloody well told, Tom.” Bill snaps and it’s loud and unpleasant in the stillness of the room but Tom won’t give up yet. If Bill just listens to him, he can prove his point and then they can just go to bed and snuggle and shit.
But while he’s been talking, Bill’s moved and it’s not in a direction that Tom wanted. At all.
“Come here.” Bill is now standing in front of the dresser chair, pointing at it, paddle brush in hand from the dresser top. “Now, Tom.”
His hands bunch up in his t-shirt, and he moans helplessly. He wasn’t trying to get a spanking; he was just trying to stop what he hated and now he’s made Bill mad with him - what the fuck went wrong...?
He should have just shut up and taken it like a good boy, that’s what went wrong.
“You have ten seconds. If you aren’t here by then, for every second you delay, I’ll add on another ten minutes with the enema. Make your choice.” Bill’s voice is firm and he points at the clock...
Tom reaches up, grabs his dreads and pulls because he can’t decide - he wants so much to obey Bill, to be good and do what he knows is the right thing but he can’t and then Bill says, “Five seconds,” and he curls up in on himself because he doesn’t know what to do anymore.
“That’s ten minutes extra. Twenty minutes. Thirty - Good boy.” Tom is braced over the chair; the decision made for him. He can’t bear the enema for very long but making Bill wait isn’t going to work because then he’ll just end up with it until midnight or something. He’s nowhere near in the right headspace for that.
Bill’s hands reach under his shirt, unfastening his jeans and pulling them down but it’s not a good feeling - Tom can sense the well concealed anger in the short, jerky movements and Bill doesn’t waste any time of making it feel nice. His boxers follow, pushed to his knees and his shirts are folded up to his shoulders, revealing his backside to Bill’s steely gaze. It’s not as bad as going over Bill’s knee - that’s fucking humiliation taken to an art form - but it’s pretty damn close. He has to breathe in a couple of times, brace himself against just the feeling of being exposed at his most vulnerable parts before he feels Bill’s hand on the small of his back.
“Ten for the delay, ten for disobeying me, and ten for backchat.” Thirty. Does he have to - “No counting. But at the end you will thank me.” Ah.
The first crack is never the worst – it’s always the third or fourth, when the pain cuts through the shock of the first two, and Bill’s fucking skilled at making that pain sharp as a fine edged blade. Tom is reduced to tears somewhere around the twenty mark, and by the twenty five mark, he’s in absolute hell; his backside is raw and feels blistered, and the tops of his thighs are practically on fire.
By the time Bill stops, his entire backside throbs in pain and he’s openly crying in place, rocking backwards and forwards from the soreness. It’s nothing like in the fucking stories – he’s never once got off on a spanking and they’d tried – when they were about fifteen, sixteen, they’d tried to see if it turned Tom on but the only thing that got turned on was the waterworks and that wasn’t sexy. For either of them.
So now, it’s punishment not pleasure and Tom tries to breathe through the hitches in his chest and the quiver in his chin. There’s no faster way to quickly and efficiently tear down his barriers because everything else that does the same takes time and equipment – but Bill could be ready to utterly destroy him standing in the middle of the autobahn in rush hour traffic with what he carries in his handbag and Tom heaves a breath as he tries to keep it under control.
“Done.” With that word, Tom knows it’s over - Bill never says it unless it is.
Bill’s hand on his shoulder orders him to turn around, to look at him properly and Tom wipes his eyes with his sleeve as he goes. Everything hurts. His face, his eyes, his bottom, his head - he hates the paddle brush but Bill maintains it’s a good punishment tool.
“What do you say?”
“T-t-thank you, Bill.” His voice is thick and he struggles to get the word out but Bill smiles, and Tom knows that all is almost forgiven. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you are, Tom.” Taking Tom’s hands in his, Bill lifts them to his lips, kisses them gently. “But I had to do it. You shouldn’t be rude to me, or try to get out of a punishment.”
“I- I’m sorry.” Tom hopes that if he keeps saying it, Bill will understand that he means it. Soft fingers stroke his cheeks, brushing away the tears and Tom leans into the touch without thinking.
“You’re forgiven. I punished you, and now that’s behind us.” Bill nods. “But I want you to listen to me next time. If I tell you to do something, you should do it. Immediately.”
“Yes, Bill.” It’s true. He should.
“Now. Bathroom.” Bill’s smile comes back again when Tom groans involuntarily at the thought of what awaits him inside that room and he chucks Tom under his chin. “Just think. If you’d been obedient, you’d have only got an hour. Now you get a full ninety minutes.”
“Bu- Yes, Bill.” The warning hand on his backside tells him he shouldn’t finish that sentence if he wants to sit down tomorrow.
Bill leads him to the bathroom, jeans around his knees and shuts the door softly behind them.