Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

Ffft	By : beautifulliar Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Nine Inch Nails Views: 1662 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Nine Inch Nails. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Ffft

The Prussian-blue carpet whispered under Trent’s boots. A set of double-doors, their paint so rich it made Trent think of the icing on wedding cake, waited for him to arrive—one foot coming to a stop, then the other—before them. The suite number, set into a gilded ornamental plaque, hung discretely to the side of the doors, and at the center of the plaque was a button in the same almost-edible creamy white as the doors.

The button gave under Trent’s finger. There was no chime or buzzer, at least not leaking out to this side of the doors, to let him know the button worked. A hotel like this, though, he felt he could trust they kept the place in good shape, especially up here on the nosebleed floors.

There was a muffled click, and the doors parted noiselessly, opening wide enough to frame David, dressed in dark slacks and a taupe sweater. The first thing he said to Trent was, “I’m afraid I have to apologize.” He moved aside, extending his hand toward the suite’s foyer.

Trent, his fingers pushed into his front pockets, followed the direction of the hand.

“I’m terribly sorry about this,” David was saying.

Trent turned when he reached the center of the foyer and raised his eyebrow.

“You know how bloody business is—” David turned from closing the doors. He took a deep breath, then let it out. “Always getting in the fucking way. They called, you see, just before you rang the door. A meeting—at this time of night! I need to change—” He gestured beyond the foyer, and Trent expected him to say have a seat, I’ll just be a moment . He said instead, “I have to run out of here at—” flipping his wrist to look at his watch “—Oh damn. Damn.” He glanced across the living room, then at Trent, then said, “At least we can talk for a few minutes while I get ready, if you don’t mind?”

“No—it’s fine.” With his fingers still pushed down into his pockets, he followed David. If he was piecing this together right, he suddenly had his evening free, which was halfway a relief—he wasn’t real up on his poetry or German art.

“This bloody—you can’t have a life on the road, can you?” David swept open the door to the master bedroom, gesturing for Trent to enter.

Trent stepped past him, into the room. “No, not much of one,” he said, letting his gaze light upon the dresser (its polished wooden surface gleaming and empty), the nightstand (a brown leather glasses case beside the clock), a couple of upholstered chairs in front of a wall of drawn curtains—a great view behind those, no doubt.

David, walking into the room, seemed to be watching him look the place over—it felt like it, at least. He looked over at David, who turned, putting his back to Trent, and took a few steps back, putting him nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with Trent. “What do you think they were thinking?” he asked with a nod of his chin at the painting hanging on the wall opposite the bed.

“Well…”

David turned his eyes toward him.

“…it’s not something I would have picked out,” Trent finished. He slipped his hand out of his pocket to push hair out of his face.

“Well.” David stepped forward and turned to face Trent, putting himself between Trent and the garish painting. “We’ve talked about music a time or two, haven’t we?” As he spoke, he lifted a foot so that he could slip off his shoe—narrow, black, stylish, understated. Not something Trent would have in his own closet. “But I don’t think I’ve told you I’m a fan of your videos.” He set his stocking foot back down and straightened, one shoe hanging toe-down from two of his fingers. He lifted his other foot.

Trent’s attention was, oddly and almost distractingly, on David’s thin black dress sock, undoubtedly foot-warm, supporting his weight on the carpet which was a darker version of taupe than David’s sweater. He brought his face up. “I really liked Labrynth—”

“This isn’t a game of compliment tennis.” David stood, his shoes together now, dangling from one hand, his stocking feet on carpet. “You’re not required to shoot one back for every one I lob over. In fact, it’s difficult to have a conversation if you do.”

Trent felt a smile play at his mouth—a nervous reaction, but it’d do. “Sorry—go on.”

“Good.” A light came back across David’s face. “Have a seat—” He held his hand out, palm up, toward the bed.

Trent started to demur, but David, smiling, perfectly friendly and gracious, turned his palm down, pressed his fingertips to Trent’s chest—and shoved. Quite forcefully for such a small move.

Trent’s eyebrows—and his curiosity—went up. He let himself fall back, and—just in case he was reading this conversation right, this conversations of actions more than words—he let himself sprawl more than sit, propping himself on his hands. His knees splayed apart.

He watched, with one eyebrow still raised, as David bent to set his shoes down, neatly no doubt, beside the bed.

David straightened. His fingers, long and thin, moved with a graceful confidence to his belt, where they unfastened the buckle in quick, practiced movements—entrancing Trent as David spoke. “Closer was something original and unexpected. Cut right through all that big-titted-woman-throwing-her-hair-around-on-a-car-hood crap that videos had become.”

Trent dragged his gaze upward to find David watching him. The look there made Trent’s mouth soften.

As David’s fingers drew the black belt from around his waist, the only sound Trent could hear was leather sliding against wool. It sounded like a long, slow exhale.

His eyes followed the belt. He felt he should be coming up with something to say in response to David’s statement, but since everything that bobbed to mind was lame—lamer even than “I really liked Labrynth”—he thought instead of belts, how you could trap a pair of wrists in one, or crack it in the air—or against bare skin. His fingertips curled against the bedding.

David wound each end of the leather belt slowly around his fists.

Trent wondered what the look on David’s face was now, but his eyes were fixed on the belt—belt, David, belt, David: which to focus on? The belt moved, suddenly, closer to him.

He sensed rather than saw David plant a knee on the bed. What he saw was the belt moving yet closer, the length of it taut between David’s fists. He watched it come at him, half a foot at a time, until it was too close to watch, and then waited, watching nothing, until the leather touched, then pushed flat and hard against his throat. Hard, yet supple—and warm.

It didn’t stop just because it had met with his neck.

He sank slowly back onto his elbows, and the belt goaded him back further still. David set his other knee on the bed and came forward so that his face hovered an arm’s length above Trent’s. An errant lock of hair slipped forward, pointing down toward Trent.

David’s mouth was open just enough to expose the tip of his tongue just behind his lower teeth.

When Trent swallowed, when his Adam’s apple fought for space against the belt, the swallow finished with a short, near-silent gasp. Still on his elbows, he let his head fall back so that he was looking at the ceiling, so that his hair slid toward the bed, but still the belt seemed to want more. It pressed….

He moved his elbows out from under him. His shoulders brushed the bed, then came to rest on it. He stopped looking at the ceiling and looked at David instead, eye to eye, David’s face closer than it had been a moment ago.

“Have I got your attention?” David asked. His fists, with the belt ends wrapped in them, pressed into the bed on either side of Trent’s neck.

Trent swallowed against the leather strap again. He brought his hands up, then lay them, palms up, fingers loosely curled, beside his shoulders. “Ah, you could say that….”

David, smiling, watched him.

Trent’s eyes slipped closed for a second. Two of his fingers twitched, wanting to tighten into fists—but he didn’t want to come across as that wound up this quickly. Pulling his eyes open, he watched David watch him and wondered what the gears that turned behind those eyes looked like. Wondered if the belt could be even just a little tighter….

Slowly, he lifted a hand, his thumb and one finger crookedly outstretched. He touched David’s throat, just below his jaw.

David leaned down, a little closer; his fists press harder into the bed; the belt can and did become just a little tighter. Trent fought to keep his eyelids from sliding down again in some fucked-up feeling of pleasure—or his eyes from rolling up with it. He canted his hips, then flattened his hand against the side of David’s neck, waiting, watching.

David’s face moved closer yet. His lips parted just the littlest bit. Trent’s focus moved from David’s mouth—and the secret, pink tip of his tongue just above his lower teeth—to his eyes, one a perfect blue, the other odd, the pupil too large, the iris tinged brown—and back to his mouth. He made as if to lift his head and close the distance between their mouths, but of course the belt…. Its edge dug against his neck.

His fingers tried to curl into a fist again.

He settled back, breathing out, watching. Waiting. Swallowing.

His fingertips rubbed the side of David’s neck; he wanted to pull David down on him. His face was so close that his breath skated over the tip of Trent’s nose. He let his hand fall back to the bed, palm up, fingers curled—giving in. Giving over. Ready to play it any way David wanted to. Justdamnitdosomething. He sighed with impatience. David made another slight move—a feint—and Trent, trying to make it more than a feint, jerked his head up again, and felt the belt again, firm and unmoving against his throat. He dug the heel of his boot against the bed and lifted his hips instead—and they got no satisfaction either.

He closed his eyes and licked the corners of his mouth.

David’s cologne had closed around him, dark and rich and holding some exotic yet aloof promise.

Stretching his arms over his head, he breathed out with the smallest groan of frustration—it ended with another fruitless lifting of his hips.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No, I’m fine,” he said with his eyes still closed. The words felt thick at the back of his throat, like blackstrap molasses.

“Would you like me,” David asked, one of his fists pulling to the side just a little, pulling the belt even more firmly against Trent’s throat, “to make you uncomfortable?”

Trent’s eyes blinked open. The gleam in David’s eye caught his breath, but it was David’s smile that made him laugh. It finished with another wanting, needing exhale breaking free of his throat.

David, slipped forward, as though, again, for a kiss finally—and stopped short, again, mere inches out of reach. Grinning.

“Fuck,” Trent breathed, then pushed his head against the mattress to make room to swallow. When he opened his eyes again, it was in time to see what David’s face looked like—serene—just before a kiss. David’s lips brushed against his—and then were gone.

“Ah, fuck,” he whispered, his chin lifted, his fingers clenching. Surrounded by David’s cologne. By David’s low chuckle.

There came a second or two of silence as David looked down at him.

Staring back was uncomfortable. Trent’s gaze flitted to David’s mouth, to his right ear. He turned his hands and brought them, lightly, against the sides of David’s arms, then moved them slowly upward, the fibers of the sweater a light tickle against his skin. “This is actually why you invited me up here, isn’t it?” Trent asked. He shifted his shoulders, making himself—somewhat—more comfortable. “Not to talk about fucking videos.”

“If you’d rather talk about ‘fucking’ videos….” Then he said, “Actually, this wasn’t the plan, exactly.”

Trent would have liked to have seen the plan, exactly.

“Circumstances, unfortunately, have forced more of a rush on this than I would have liked….”

Some rush—all of this and hardly any clothes off, hardly anything at all, except frustration. And longing.

“What?” Trent asked. “Was it now or never?”

David gave that low laugh again. “It was getting that way. Wait to long and ffft! there goes the backbone to do it.”

“Do what?” It came out thickly, like that blackstrap molasses again.

“All of it.” The words came out in a tone that sent a warm, unhinged feeling into Trent’s gut. David’s eyes closed—and then he pressed his mouth against Trent’s. Trent didn’t know whether to attack greedily or follow David’s lead. He knew what he wanted--and so he went with David’s lead, letting his lips part softly, letting his mouth open. The unhinged feeling struck again at the flicker of David’s tongue against his lower lip. He met it, and teased it lightly with the tip of his own tongue. He felt David’s mouth shift into a smile against his—

The bedside phone trilled so sharply that Trent’s muscles jerked.

David pulled his head up and looked at it.

“Damn.”

Then: “Hold on,” and his hands were already moving, rearranging.

Trent felt a pang at the thought of the belt coming away—but David’s fingers were quick and deft, and the belt did no such thing—in fact, when David put his feet on the floor and stood to answer the phone—it was on its fourth ring—he had in his hand a length of belt, which he gave a short, quick tug to.

Trent, collared by a loop of the belt, rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled alongside David, up the bed toward the phone. The belt was snug around his throat, but not too.

In the middle of the fifth ring, David picked up. “Hello?… I’m just out of the shower— Well it will have to wait— Fifteen minutes at the very least, twenty, twenty-five to be more— I can’t very well come up to the restaurant in a towel, dripping wet, can I?”

Trent, disinterested in the phone call, put his palm against David’s trouser leg. He glanced up to see if David was watching—he wasn’t. Slowly, he moved his hand upward.

“Yes, well, consider more notice next time, won’t you? I’ll be down in twenty, twenty-five minutes—I have faith that you can keep them entertained that long, right? Right.”

At “Twenty minutes,” Trent’s hand stole across to the front of David’s trousers. Rather than bust right in—though it was tempting with David on the phone—he pressed his hand against the hard ridge under the fabric. He heard David set the phone back in its cradle.

The belt jerked teasingly against his neck; he looked up and smiled at David’s smirk. Still on his knees on the bed, he ran his cheek over the ridge in David’s trousers, slowly, twisting his head, feeling the shape of what David had hidden inside against his chin, his jaw, his nose.

“Well.” David stepped back. “I don’t just have to be satiated in twenty minutes, you know; I have to look like I’ve just spent twenty minutes putting myself together. So, we had better get this moving along.” He slowly turned another loop of the belt around his hand, drawing Trent by the neck across the space between the bed and his hand—and changing Trent’s center of balance.

His shifted his knees; his thigh muscles tightened. He grasped David’s hips for support—and never stopped looking up at him.

David slipped his hand against Trent’s face, and Trent turned into a jungle cat, the tamed panther, licking and kissing David’s long fingers.

“Come on,” David said, with a light tug on the leash.

Trent hopped down from the bed and followed on hands and knees, awkwardly (certainly more awkwardly than a panther). They came around the bed and out to the open space in front of the unfortunate painting.

When David stopped, Trent stopped. He sat back with his hands on his knees. Waiting.

As deftly as he’d removed his belt, David unfastened his trousers. His fly spread into a V, revealing silk underneath. As the trousers slid away from David’s hips, Trent pushed his face forward, nuzzling the silk warmed by body heat. He opened his mouth and ran his tongue against the silk, exploring the lines and curves of what the silk tried to cover.

Not knowing whether he’d be stopped or not, but willing to try, Trent touched the tips of his fingers to David’s skin, just above the waistband of his silk boxers. David’s skin felt taut, as did the muscles underneath. Using his fingertips, he peeled away the waistband, far enough to get his fingers underneath. Carefully, he started to pull the cloth away.

He’d straightened to do this, pulled his face away from David. When he made a move, mouth open, tongue on the verge of sliding out to taste, David jerked lightly on the belt.

Trent looked up without lifting his chin. And he didn’t let the pull on the belt stop him from drawing David’s underwear down his thighs.

Still watching David’s face, he placed his hands, flat, against David’s hips, then moved them upward, under David’s sweater. It was hot under there, too. Hot everywhere. His mouth was dry. He swallowed—

The trill of the phone set his teeth on edge. He groaned and pressed his forehead against David’s hip.

“I’ll have their balls,” David said, the words clipped and short. With a ‘stay here’ hand to Trent’s head, he dropped the end of the belt, dragged up his shorts and trousers, and strode to the bedside table. “Yes.”

Trent leaned over his own lap and put his head on the carpet, the heels of his hands pressed against his closed eyes. He gritted his teeth as he listened to David saying, “No, absolutely not. You’re not coming up— No, we will not do that. I will be down— You cannot— No— Bollocks.”

Trent turned his face and peered up.

David glared at the telephone receiver in his hand. “They’re coming up.”

Trent realized he was moving his hands across the carpet, its fibers giving him tactile feedback, giving him some way of expending a small amount of frustration. He pressed his forehead back against the back of his hand and said to the floor, “I should go.”

There was enough of a pause for Trent to hope to hear otherwise; instead he heard the light, plastic thunk of the receiver being replaced on its hook, and then David’s voice: “Yes. You should go.”

Trent pushed himself up, onto hands and knees. The tail of the belt dangled toward the floor. Shit. He gritted his teeth again as he sat back on his heels and pulled the belt loose.

He stood. Held out his arm, the belt laid across his hand, its ends dangling.

David accepted it.

He met David’s eyes. “Well…it was fun.”

“Yes.” David nodded. Their eyes still held contact, until the door bell chimed, and David said, just audibly, “Ffft.”

There goes the backbone. The only other thing they said to each other that night was “good night”, distractedly, as Trent made his way past David’s more staid and stuffy guests. Puffy men in gray suits, sharp angled women in sharp-angled fashions.

German poetry, Trent told himself, hitting his fist against his thigh as he walked toward the elevator. Or was it German art.

Whatever.

Inside, he jabbed his floor number and dropped his shoulders against the back wall, fingers thrust into his pockets. The car swept him noiselessly back down to where he belonged.

Outside of a room he hoped was the right one—fucking numbers started to blur in your head after just two weeks out on a tour—he rapped on the door, then leaned against its jamb. The TV was cracked up on the other side of the walls. He was about to bang again when the door flew open—and Robin was brought up short by someone standing so damned close to the opening door.

“What’s up?” he asked, glancing into the hall behind Trent. Seeing nobody, he focused on Trent.

“You busy?” Trent asked.

“Just watching pay per view and drinking my life away.”

Trent absently—or maybe it was distractedly—scratched at the strike plate in the jamb with his fingernail.

“You wanna do something?” Robin asked.

“Uhm.” He looked up, eyebrows drawn together.

Robin raised his.

“…you got a belt?”

"Is this for heroin or or sex or both?"

"Heh. Let's start with either one and see where it goes." He pushed off the door jamb and headed into the cacophony of an action movie, into a room that was darkened and clothing-strewn so as to feel like cave. Into someplace known. Ffft, indeed.

The door slammed closed behind him.

~fin~
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