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.
Subspace and Sleep
It takes so long to come back to Bill.
That’s the first thing Tom found out in this relationship, and it’s not changed now. It takes so long to come back around, so fucking long to make sure he’s actually back in the room and with Bill and not somewhere inside his own head, half in and half out of reality that entire afternoons can slip by if he’s not careful.
But it never seems to bother Bill, never seems to worry him, and Tom trusts that. He has to.
Bill sits beside him for all of it though.
Tom feels so tired.
So drained emotionally.
So full physically.
Bill squeezes out the wash cloth again in the bowl of water, and the soft trickling sound makes Tom stir. The sensation of the rough cotton on his belly makes him flinch but Bill murmurs something, a caution, a reminder to be good – something – and Tom sinks back into the pillow softness of his mind.
His belly is hard and he hurts inside, and his sacrum throbs, and his groin is one big ball of pain but it doesn’t matter now. Pain is just another thing to experience, and Tom wallows in it, allowing the waves of electric hurt to come right up to his personal limits and then recede. The cool wash cloth in Bill’s hands moves down to cradle his aching dick and balls, wrapping them in the damp material, and Tom shudders, the sensation causing goose bumps to spread, despite the heat in the rest of his body.
More time passes. A lot of it – Tom must be near the end of his two hours by now, surely – but Bill gives no indication of how near or far Tom is from the finale of this, and Tom won’t ask. Bill will tell him when it’s time. Tom trusts him on that.
He sighs, and lets his mind wander back to reality on its own terms.
“Are you back with me?” Bill dips the cloth again, wrings it out, folds it, places it over Tom’s forehead. His face is hot from all the crying, and Tom relishes the change in temperature the wet cloth brings him.
This time, he thinks he is back in the room. He’s far too ready for this to be over. He can feel every inch of himself, every part of that which is Tom in stark contrast to everything that isn’t him. His mind doesn’t feel crystal clear and sharp but it’s comfortably aware.
Bill’s noticed the change too, the fact that Tom is no longer somewhere deep inside himself actually very clear to an observer. Tom hears him get up, padding across the floor before a door opens somewhere over the other side of the room. A faint sound of splashing follows, and Bill’s disposed of the water in the sink.
The door opens again and that means it’s time to move.
Bill helps him up, the two of them working slowly to ease Tom first to his knees and then to his feet, the enema still making him slow and unsteady. He’s still blindfolded, the darkness a place to retreat to when he’s feeling so emotionally raw and he’s thankful that Bill doesn’t take it away even though he could.
As they make their way to the bathroom, Bill keeps up a constant stream of onesided conversation but the actual words aren’t important. It’s all about the sound, the tone, the way his voice goes up and down as he answers his own questions. Tom’s always been about the pure sound, the colour, the sensations, always focused on the real and the solid – he likes to be connected to things but he doesn’t need to know the technicalities behind it.
“Good boy,” Bill praises and those are two words that Tom is highly attuned to.
He likes hearing it.
On the way to the bathroom this time, Bill doesn’t play with his dick though, or touch the plug, and Tom is grateful for it. He couldn’t take it now – he’s so fragile in this headspace, he might break apart on a hotel room floor. What just happened – that wasn’t shattering. That was a slow break by Bill, letting Tom sink into submission and the softness of subspace, a joint enterprise to move Tom away from wherever he was going into the correct mindset of obedience and discipline.
Shattering is losing it, losing everything, losing absolute control.
It’s not disciplined, it’s not a slow and steady descent that Bill permits through touch or bondage or sex. It’s a crash landing into subspace through exhaustion, and emotional pain, and usually physical trauma as well. It’s even uglier than what just happened now, a trembling mess left behind as Tom retreats to somewhere not even the pain of a wrenched shoulder, or a broken wrist can find him, a place where there’s nothing but warmth and softness, and nothing but him floating along.
Wouldn’t be the first time he’s gone like that and sure as hell, he’ll do it again, but he’s not ready for it today. This time, Bill’s taken him down just far enough that he’s well within subspace, but not so far that he can’t get out again.
He’s still there though now. Even though his hearing is sharper than before, and he can feel the change from carpet to tiles beneath his feet very clearly defined, his mind still feels full of cotton wool, making him slow to think and react.
Inside the bathroom, Bill has disposed of the towels on the floor into the laundry basket some time during Tom’s subspace episode, and the enema kit vanished from the side of the bath tub - Tom can't feel the long hose trailing on the side as he moves past it. On the side, Bill tells him a blue toothbrush sits in a grey mug with a new tube of toothpaste. A bottle of green mouthwash stands beside the cup as well.
The room feels absolutely normal – as though nothing ever happened in here – nothing strange or weird or not normal. Thank God for that, Tom thinks.
“Brace.” Bill murmurs in his ear, and Tom obediently stands still, the backs of his knees not quite touching the toilet. Careful fingers unpick the belt, leaving the straps to dangle around his waist before an arm reaches around him, disconnecting it from the plug, and Bill lifts the material away. Two things are keeping everything inside: the flared based of the plug, and the tight grip Tom’s backside has on it. The second he sits down, that will change.
Bill leaves him on the toilet, taking the harness with him, but Tom waits for the door to click shut behind his brother before he gently pulls the plug out, fumbling to keep hold of it as he sits down on the seat, dropping the plug on the floor next to him.
A second of silence.
Sweet bliss comes like a roaring tide as he finally gets rid of the water inside of him.
The clock above the door ticks away, a steady beat in the calmness of the room but Tom just pants, leaning back and spreading his knees out. He feels so worn out, so exhausted. It’s right down to the bone, to the very edge of his limits, spreading slowly but inexorably through his body.
This is the bit that Bill likes the best. This is the bit that Bill likes the best.
This is the bit that Tom can’t decide if he loves or not.
He loves it right now, in this moment of release when nothing else matters. Afterwards, and just before he dreads it because he’s drained, and washed out, and he feels almost… hollow. Not just of physical mass but in his mind, in his emotions, he just hasn’t got anything else to give, to let go of, to hold onto.
He reaches down, grabs onto his ankles just to make sure. After four years of doing this, Tom’s learnt the procedure inside out and back to front. His spine clicks into place. Bill’s leaving him in peace in here but that’s not how it used to be. Right at the beginning, Tom needed someone in here to remind him of all the steps, to hold onto him when he ended up sobbing in relief, someone to remind him to bend down and bear down one last time before getting up. That last bit is rather important.
But about eighteen months ago, Bill decided that Tom knew what he was doing enough to be left alone in here, being made to deal with it mostly by himself, and so far, it’s okay. It works.
Minutes pass again, and he tries to focus on the reality his senses are feeding back to him as he sits up again. He’s damp with sweat again, everything hurting, everything releasing, everything inside feeling empty and deflated. Even his dick, the sole part of him that hasn’t stopped raging against both the physical confinement of the ring and the mental restriction of being on Restriction all fucking day, has finally subsided, feeling unassuming and soft between his legs.
Bah. He doesn’t feel very masculine now. At least when he had a hard on it looked visually impressive, even if it didn’t feel fine. Bill doesn’t mind either way for his own dick, but that’s because he’s started to tuck, Tom thinks, and soft is the only way to go when he does that. But Tom likes a bit more, a bit better, than being completely limp. He doesn’t always walk around with a hard-on but he doesn’t mind a bit of one, just to make himself feel good. Right now, feeling it go so soft and strange and not the reddened, aggressive thing it used to be, he feels a bit….
Ah, fuck it.
His masculinity was something he used to like, something he used to cultivate almost aggressively because he wanted it. And because he thought he should. This industry – the one Tom’s been trying to break into since he was nine years old – tells him that men behave in certain ways, and boys should aspire to be men. The swagger, the jokes, the big mouth, the tough exterior, it’s all part of a prescribed formula that just needs tweaking through the years and the fame to encourage female fans that little more. But Bill’s pushing into that world of masculinity that Tom’s sheltered in now. That thing on the bathroom floor, calling his dick pretty, and the bit about piercing Tom’s ears, Bill’s encouraging Tom to move in a different direction, especially when combined with everything else that Bill does.
Tom’s not necessarily following in Bill’s wake – Tom doesn’t think he’ll ever wear high heels and the concept of mascara is still one that scares him – but he’s been taken down into a softer place, where everything’s warm, and gentle, and Bill controls just how far the masculinity that Tom hides behind can go.
A year ago, Tom would have absolutely kicked back against what Bill’s been doing to him.
Now, it’s a fact of life. One that he accepts.
He leans back, shifting to get comfortable for this last bit. It’s disgusting and gross and horrible and he hates every part of the enema but this one most of all. On the other hand, he knows the water and the holding and everything about tonight is going to make him feel lighter than air, where going on stage and talking to interviews becomes so easy, so effortless that Bill only has to keep a very loose reign on him.
On the side is a bottle of antibacterial wash in the bowl and Tom knows Bill’s laid out a second plug for him to use – the first one needing to be cleaned in the bowl but it’ll wait until morning.
It’s weird for him to admit he doesn’t even need his sight now to replace this type of plug – he can do it one handed on feeling alone - a little lube from the tube that will stand next to it, a gentle exploratory finger to make sure he's not too sore down there - Bill will want to know if it's too much and Tom's learnt his lesson of lying about that - and that's all, really. Bill knows exactly what Tom has to do, and he trusts Tom to do it right. It’s why he’s left Tom blindfolded.
A knock at the door reminds him it’s time to move, and he sighs. Nothing else is coming out of him now, and he begins the process of cleaning up.
Teeth cleaned, safely wiped down from the sweat and bodily issue but still naked, Tom steps out of the bathroom, closing the door discreetly behind him. Enemas have their downsides, and even Bill has to admit clean up is one of them.
“Follow.” Bill orders him to the centre of the room, and Tom can hear more rustling, the sound of a zip being undone, and he knows what’s coming.
He kneels when Bill tells him too.
The toy Tom put back in when he was in the bathroom is there to protect against any further accidents, and now he wordlessly accepts the leather harness as it’s strapped into place. The base of the plug clips onto the ring in the back of the harness, and now it’s not going anywhere at all. His belly, no longer curved and full, lets the strap fall down to his hips, and Bill sighs. He ends up buckling it one hole more than he did the first time, then two because it still falls down.
Tom needs to eat more.
When do they get the time these days to do that?
“Bed.” Bill pulls him along in his wake, and Tom doesn’t try to struggle, allowing his hand to be held as he’s led to the bed. He’s so ready for sleep. So ready for a break from the pounding he’s subjected his own body to through so much stress and worry these last few weeks. The inside of his own head feels at once too empty, and too full, and he whimpers as Bill leads him straight to bed.
Bill doesn’t dress him tonight and Tom slides between the sheets straight away, the sensation of cool cotton all over him almost too much to bear until he’s taken several deep, calming breaths.
“Shush, Tom,” Bill climbs into bed next to him, and Tom doesn’t reach for the blindfold.
Bill’s made it clear that he’s going to stay this way until morning – reliant on Bill, trusting Bill, obedient to Bill, and that’s nothing that will change. Blindfolds are a very significant key to their relationship, and gradually over the last few months, Bill’s been sneaking them into more and more of their daily lives. When they travel on the bus or in the van, staring down a long ass journey to get to the next venue sometimes Bill hands him an sleeping mask and tells him to shush, and when they’re in a hotel room, sometimes, Bill doesn’t wait for Tom to be ready for sleep or bring out the play bag. He just hands Tom the little bit of fabric, or wraps a silk scarf around his face. His expectation is clear and very absolute.
He leans his head on Bill’s chest, letting the heartbeat under his cheek lull him further into sleep.
Tomorrow’s a new day. There’s a concert, and there’re meet and greets, and interviews and photoshoots, and everything else that comes with their world and their job. Tom’s going to have put his game face on too, after the last few days of being miserable and lacklustre, first from the general prissiness of being caught up in the chastity and then from being on Restriction and being in Bill’s bad books. People will be pushing him to and fro, sending from place to place, across from one side of the city to another and Tom hates so much that the music that he loves comes with such unsettling side effects.
Bill is warm though, his body practically radiating heat for Tom who’s still so cold inside, and he tries to focus on that. Bill’s never lead him wrong, never taken him somewhere where he didn’t need to be and there’s no reason to think that tomorrow will be any different. He’ll be there to hold Tom, to keep him on the right track, to laugh and joke, and love him and Tom’s got to just believe in that, redirecting his thoughts onto it, not the punishment side of it.
Stroking a hand down Tom’s neck, Bill soothes Tom away from the negativity in his mind.
Nine days of this.
He can do it.