September 1992
Los Angeles, California
"Fuck."
Trent Reznor turned off his drum machine and lay his head in his folded arms on the console. He'd been trying for four hours to come up with a new song, and everything sucked today. It felt like he'd been in the studio for forty hours straight instead of four. If he didn't get out of here he was going to throw a fucking synthesizer across the room and those were expensive.
He needed some air. He needed to just go. He'd moved into the Tate mansion for its dark, oppressive vibes, hoping the creepy ambiance would come through on his concept album about descent into depression and drug addiction - a mirror for his own life. It was just swallowing him whole now. He wasn't ready to move out just yet, if only because the acoustics were great for recording - when he could actually record, when his muse wasn't taunting him and things weren't flowing right - but he needed to get the fuck away from here for at least a few hours.
California had a reputation - mostly by people who weren't from California - of being an idyllic paradise of sun and surf. Trent had come here for the music scene and connections, but he didn't love it here, and California's only real redeeming quality was its natural beauty, not that he saw much of it cooped up in the studio, often tripping balls. As he stepped outside he decided he was going to visit the ocean, that the peace of the sky and the waves would be as far away as he could get from the creepy Tate house and still be in the same general area.
The question was where to. Southern California had seemingly countless beaches and not all of them were created equal. A lot of people in the scene dug Santa Monica, but Trent didn't want to go somewhere to look at the water and be surrounded by people with fake tans and plastic surgery who were more concerned with being noticed than noticing the beautiful world right in front of them. Orange County beaches tended to be less crowded, but as Trent was fond of saying, he merely disliked Los Angeles but he fucking hated Orange County: there were two types of people from Orange County, Reaganite-Bushite yuppies with too much money who complained about "illegals" while hiring them to manicure their gardens and babysit their children at slave wages, and punk poseurs who came from that ritzy, conservative background and tried to hide it.
He was willing to put up with the taint of Orange County for a couple hours to see a nice fucking beach, that was for sure. It was one of those days.
Trent decided on Shaw's Cove, a secluded beach that didn't get a huge amount of tourist traffic, mostly because of the huge stone staircase leading down to the beach from the ridiculously tiny parking area. Trent wasn't particularly out of shape - though the drugs weren't exactly helping - and even he was huffing and wheezing a bit by the time he was halfway down the stairs, wondering who the fuck thought it was a bright idea to make this entrance to the beach. Probably someone who moved to Orange County from Los Angeles and wanted to keep all those fucking Barbie wannabes out.
Trent couldn't believe his eyes when he got to the bottom and saw, several meters away, a guy playing harp on the beach. Not one of those little lap harps, but a full-sized, orchestral harp. How the fuck did he get it down the steps without breaking his back.
The guy playing the harp looked ripped, his black T-shirt clinging just right to sculpted pecs and washboard abs, the short sleeves revealing defined biceps and veins in his forearms. He was wearing black BDU-style pants, and between that and his build Trent would have thought military except for the long, long hair. The dude had black hair to the middle of his back.
A face like a supermodel, chiseled, haughty cheekbones, full lips, thick eyebrows, heavy-lashed light grey eyes. A bit of a smoulder.
His voice was as beautiful as the rest of him. He was singing in a rich tenor, and Trent couldn't understand a damn word he was saying - it sounded like he was singing in Finnish, maybe, or singing gibberish like Liz Fraser of Cocteau Twins. In fact that was what Trent was reminded of, a male Liz Fraser, the kind of voice that brought tears to your eyes, you didn't understand what she was saying but your heart knew and that was what Trent felt now, eyes stinging with tears, skin breaking out in gooseflesh, a shiver down his spine, hair standing on end as he listened to the beautiful voice, the melancholy chime of the harp, as sad a song as Trent had ever heard and yet achingly lovely - hope beneath tragedy, carrying the fire.
Jesus Christ. Trent wiped his eyes. He looked at the low tide and the pebbled shore, the cliffs of palm trees, the rock cave, and back at the harpist singing. He pinched himself to make sure he wasn't hallucinating, that this wasn't his mind conjuring some sort of weird trip.
Trent sat and just watched for awhile, feeling sort of like he was intruding, and also feeling like he was meant to come here, like the harpist was putting on a private performance just for him, which of course was crazy. But the harpist showed no sign of being bothered by Trent being there. In fact, he didn't seem to acknowledge Trent at all, lost in his own melodies, singing pain and grief to the waves and being answered with life drowns what you love and then life goes on and you come back to shore again.
When Trent's legs started falling asleep, he had to stretch, and finally get up because stretching wasn't working. It was then that the harpist stopped playing and singing, and turned to look at him. Trent didn't know how to react. He was a famous fucking rock star and yet here he was practically shitting his pants in the presence of someone with amazing talent, a musician greater than his caliber by orders of magnitude.
Trent gave a little wave. Like a fucking Disney Princess in a parade. Trent cringed, not able to believe what the fuck he was doing, waving like that, especially with his goth getup, he looked ridiculous, he felt ridiculous, and he needed to get out of there. So he found himself running up the stone steps, or at least trying to - his legs weren't quite recovered yet and he tripped up the stairs about a dozen or so in. "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK," he yelled, wanting to just throw himself down and die of embarrassment - the wave was bad enough, falling over like this was worse - but he pushed up and kept going, not-quite-running this time but as fast as he could, needing to get away before the hot harpist guy could judge him even more. He was sure he was being judged.
Trent went to an In N Out to drown his sorrows with an Animal Style burger and fries, as if to say "fuck you" to all the fake-tan, Barbie-and-Ken-looking vapid idiots who counted every calorie. He thought that would be the end of it and he planned on just going back to LA and the Tate house to torture himself some more in the studio, but he found himself getting angry with life. Angry at his failure to handle the staircase at Shaw's Cove. Angry that he couldn't make a fucking song today. Angry that he'd come all this way to get out of his head for awhile, to rise up above it, and now he was down in it even more.
"Fuck."
That was how Trent Reznor found himself at a bar, determined to get shit-faced out of his skull, and maybe tomorrow's hangover would be just painful enough to motivate him to get it done and not go through this again. But as he walked into the bar, his eyes caught the piercing light-grey eyes of the harpist dude.
"Oh god." Trent started walking backward towards the door, not thinking - bumping into a patron, who promptly shoved him into another patron, who then threw a punch that dropped him. Trent clung to a stool, clutching his smarting face, and before he could punch the patron back, the harpist guy was right there, standing between them.
"This one's my problem," the harpist guy said, and the big bald dude who punched him walked away. Trent looked up and for the first time he noticed the harpist guy was enormous - the bald guy with the mean right hook had to be six-three or six-four, and the harpist was at least a head taller than that guy.
Trent looked down at the harpist's Doc Martens, preparing himself to get kicked in the teeth, but instead the harpist grabbed Trent and pulled him up, and marched him over to a table in the corner of the bar.
The harpist was nursing a shot of whiskey, and ordered one for Trent. Trent downed his and for a few minutes they just sat in silence, awkwardly staring. Trent was about to order another and the harpist put a hand on his arm. "No."
"What do you mean, no? I've got money."
The harpist looked around and lowered his voice. "I've got something else I think you need."
Trent had a dealer. He had dealers, plural, since he was paranoid. But maybe this guy had something better. "What's your product?"
The harpist snorted. He finished his drink and shook his head. "I mean something else." He put his hand on Trent's knee under the table.
Trent's eyebrows shot up. The harpist was hot and it had been awhile since Trent had been with another guy. But he wasn't sure he wanted to go there with a prostitute. That could get him in trouble with the law and on the news. Trent chuckled. "I'm not paying you for sex, man -"
"Who said anything about paying?" The harpist cocked his head to one side. "I saw the way you looked at me, on the beach. I felt. Whatever it is that's ailing you enough to bring you here, I think I could help, at least tonight."
Trent considered - the way the guy was propositioning him was really weird, but he was intrigued. And it would probably be more pleasant than a hangover. After a few minutes to really think it over, he nodded. "All right."
They got a motel room. Not exactly a roach trap, but not the Ritz, either. Somewhere unknown and boring, where someone wouldn't try to snap a photo for the gossip rags.
Trent didn't know what he was getting into - there was a part of his brain that cautioned about going off with some stranger like this, he could be a mass murderer, for fuck's sake, you could end up dead or eaten but Trent knew living in the Tate house these last several months was fucking with his head and the odds were more on the side that either of them wouldn't be able to get it up, than Trent's dick and some of his fingers in this guy's refrigerator.
Once their clothes were off, it was clear neither of them had trouble getting it up. The guy wasn't just tall but he was hung, sporting a nine inch nail of his own. Trent let out a low whistle, impressed - and a bit intimidated at the thought of that going inside him. Before Trent could ask what the guy was into they were kissing and the guy could kiss, tongue playing with his like a duel, like a dance. Trent's cock stiffened painfully, balls twinging as his hands slid over silken skin covering steely muscles.
When the kiss broke, both of them breathing harder, Trent said, "Hey, what's your name?"
The harpist's lips quirked. "Does it matter?"
"It matters if you don't want me calling out 'hey, you' and 'Harp Dude' during sex."
The harpist threw his head back and laughed - he had one of those toothpaste grins as bright as the sun, even his teeth were nice - and then he said, "Mark."
Something told Trent that wasn't the guy's real name and yet it didn't feel like a lie. Mark it was, then. They kissed again, hard cocks rubbing together, and then Mark shoved Trent onto the bed and fell on him, grinding more insistently as he kissed and licked Trent's neck.
Trent thought for sure Mark was going to want to top because he was taller and bigger, but to his surprise Mark rasped, "You can fuck me."
"You sure?"
Mark nodded.
Trent's cock leapt and pulsed, loving that idea. They had lube, and condoms, but as ready as Trent was to get down he wanted to make sure Mark was ready. Mark's cock was dripping precum, and Trent dove down to taste it, chasing it with his tongue, his hand cupping and gently rubbing Mark's balls as he licked up and down Mark's shaft. With Mark's precum on his tongue, he split Mark like a peach and licked around the rim of his opening. To his surprise and relief Mark tasted clean, a little like vanilla even. Trent went for it, dipping his tongue into Mark's passage and lashing away, enjoying the vanilla musk until Mark was rocking his hips, fucking himself on Trent's tongue, moaning loudly. Trent reached down to stroke himself but had to stop, almost undone just from the sound of Mark moaning.
Trent pulled back to give his jaw a rest and before he could go in for some more ass-eating, Mark rolled onto his stomach and got on all fours, face down, ass up. "Fuck me," Mark commanded. "Now."
Trent rolled on the condom, poured lube into Mark's crack, watching it drip into that puckered hole, wondering if Mark could take it. But then Mark backed his ass up until the tip of his cock was at the hole and Trent threw caution to the wind, pushing inside. Mark grunted - it was definitely tight - but didn't seem to be in pain. When Trent was buried to the hilt he heard himself let out a husky groan, his cock enjoying the tight grip of Mark's ass.
Trent began to thrust, slowly at first, not wanting to hurt him, but then Mark growled and looked over his shoulder and gritted out, "Fuck me hard. I like it rough. ...And so do you."
"Yeah?" Trent grabbed Mark's hips, thrusting faster, harder, their hips slapping together. He didn't know how Mark knew that - maybe it was a lucky guess, an assumption if Mark knew who he was - but Mark was goddamn right. Trent slammed away, rewarded with Mark grunting, groaning, gripping the pillows white-knuckled.
"Harder," Mark rasped. "Pull my hair, spank my ass."
The smack of their hips competed with Mark's moans and Trent panting, gasping for breath as he worked for it, fucking fast and furious, the hardest he'd ever fucked, savage, brutal. He grabbed a handful of Mark's flood of raven-black hair and his free hand slapped one ass cheek, then the other. That firm peach of an ass jiggled only a little when Trent slapped it, but it was still hypnotic. Trent smacked Mark's ass over and over again until it was bright red, pounding viciously at Mark's hole, yanking on his hair.
"Take it," Mark called out. "Take it, fuck me, take what you need, fuck the pain away, till there's nothing left."
Trent pulled Mark's hair even harder. Trent leaned down and began to kiss the back of Mark's neck and then he nibbled at it, sucked at it, bit hard, knowing he would leave bite marks later, but that was the point. Mark's cries got louder and Trent went wild, biting, yanking Mark's hair, slamming away. The rhythm on his cock in the silken heat of Mark wrapped around him brought him closer and closer to the edge until he was right there, trembling, starting to whimper as he felt the pleasure climb to the point of no return. He made himself hold back, needing just a little more, just a little more, needing to stay lost in this place where nothing else mattered but their hot, primal fuck, where Trent felt alive, wild, animal, at home in his body electric instead of dissociated and numb.
He wanted Mark to come with him, wanted to make this good for him, like a reward for the performance that had brought him to tears hours ago, but before he could reach around his body gave in, climax shattering him, howling as he filled the condom with his seed.
He collapsed onto Mark's back, quivering, making embarrassing high-pitched noises as he twitched involuntarily, throbbing and throbbing. Relief gave way to bliss and Trent sighed, laughing at nothing because he felt so damn good. It was like a hit of the best drug known to man, and he was certain he hadn't had more than a single shot of whiskey today.
That would have been the end of it but Mark didn't come yet and Trent felt bad, one-night stand or not, so he rolled Mark onto his back and slid down. He took Mark's cock in his mouth and sucked greedily. As good as his orgasm was - it was enough that the one would have spent him - Trent's cock woke back up, rising to the sound of Mark's breathy moans, the way Mark rolled his hips, gently fucking his mouth, his body so graceful. Trent stroked himself as he sucked, enjoying Mark's long, thick cock almost choking him, but before he could bring himself off Mark's nails dug in his shoulders and Mark let out a long, melismatic moan, shaking as he flooded Trent's mouth with delicious sweet cream, raking his nails down Trent's shoulders and arms hard enough to draw blood. Trent swallowed and licked his lips, savoring Mark's cum. It was like candy. Mark could bottle this stuff and make a fortune.
Trent's cock was rock hard, needing to come again - Mark coming in his mouth, and the sweet sting of Mark's nails in him as he climaxed drove him wild - but the beatific look on Mark's face made Trent want to do something he normally didn't do after sex with one-nighters - cuddle. He slid up next to Mark and let Mark rest on his shoulder, playing with the silky waves of hair - Mark smelled good, like rain - until Mark picked his head back up and kissed him. That kiss got Trent all fired up and he reached down to continue stroking himself. Mark had a better idea, taking Trent's hand away from his cock and wrapping his hand around Trent's cock, guiding it to his own, stroking them together in his vise-like fist. Trent cried out at the feel of Mark's cock rubbing his in that tight grip, and they kissed again and again, the lust taking over. Mark shoved Trent onto his back and reached for the condoms and Trent was sure Mark was going to want to top him now...
...but Mark rolled a condom onto Trent's cock. "Yes?"
"Go for it," Trent said.
Mark straddled Trent's hips and sank down. Then he began to ride. At first he did so slowly but rhythmically, rolling his hips in circles. Trent loved watching his cock glide in and out of Mark's hole, watching Mark work his gorgeous body, muscles rippling as he rocked up and down. Mark started squeezing his inner muscles around Trent's cock as a second rhythm, a pulse here, a pulse there, teasing them both.
He went a little faster, a little harder, until the bed was thumping the wall, and they were both grabbing each other for dear life. Once again they were in that raw, primal place where the only thing that existed was their hot, nasty fuck, rutting fiercely, like they were trying to destroy each other.
Rip me apart and put me back together again.
This time Mark did come, stroking himself, painting Trent's chest and stomach. The sight and sound of Mark climaxing sent Trent over the edge with a roar, his second orgasm harder than the first, spiraling up and up and up. Mark lay down and kissed Trent deeply, rained kisses over his face, took Trent's hand in his, fingers linked.
Trent closed his eyes. The world seemed to stop and for a moment all Trent saw was the sunlight sparkling on the sea, something glowing in the waves like a little light, and that light got bigger and bigger, consuming like a supernova, each pulse of his orgasm stardust like the Big Bang. He floated with the stardust, dead and reborn, and when he woke up Mark was gone. The only evidence that anything had happened at all and this wasn't just some drug trip was the scratches down his arms and the dried cum all over his chest and stomach, which still tasted sweet when he rubbed some off with his fingers and brought them to his lips.
That night Trent slept in his car, feeling too fucked up to drive despite no drugs and only one drink, and woke up to the pink-and-gold sunrise blazing on the ocean. Despite sleeping in his car and the vigorous pounding he'd given last night, he still slept better than he had in ages, and on the drive home his mind's eye replayed the delicious memories...
...and he found himself tapping the rhythm of that second fuck on the steering wheel.
He felt like he'd had a religious experience, like something had washed away in the tide of their cum. He didn't believe in God anymore, but he still felt like last night had been fated in some way and for a brief, shining moment he had touched something divine.
As soon as he got back to the Tate house he went right into the studio and began to compose while the song was coming together in his head, still fresh.
Thanks, Mark.