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Beneath a blanket of steam, his tattooed shoulders flexed. The movement diverted streams of water down his back. His fingers worked through his black hair, spreading suds everywhere.

"In or out, Reznor?"

The single green eye peeking through the shower curtain blinked. He thought he'd been stealthy, but apparently not. Sighing, Trent pulled the curtain back a little farther.

"I can't get in. I'm dressed," he muttered, eyeing the curve of Marilyn's ass.

"Then fuck off and let me finish," the latter chuckled.

He turned his shoulders, revealing his inked chest and soft tummy. Trent grinned and craned his neck, trying for a full frontal view. Marilyn flicked his fingers at the intruder, spraying him with water.

"Get lost. The quicker I get done, the quicker we can go to this thing, and the quicker I can take you home."

The suggestion of an after-party for two brought a smile to both of their faces. Trent disappeared without whining. It was a miracle.

Marilyn ran his soapy hands over his body, sighing at the soothing heat of the shower. It had been a long time since he'd been able to relax completely. He thought, years ago, that leaving the conflict of his old life behind would be best. But he had unknowingly also given up the vibrance and authenticity he needed to thrive. Now after so long, he felt like he had balance again.

The last of the water gurgled down the drain. Before stepping out, Marilyn peeked out suspiciously. The room was empty and quiet, but there was an energy in the air.

"Don't you have something better to do?" he called out in an impatient tone.

A soft shuffle confirmed that his puppy had been spying and was slinking away. Marilyn chuckled to himself. He couldn't blame Trent for acting like a sex-starved kid. Their rekindling had awakened that part of him, too. The shameless hunger between them hadn't aged a day.

Dry and dressed, Marilyn made his way to the bedroom. He flopped into the chair at the vanity and glared into the mirror. Using the sultry, dark expression as a guide, he added layers of white and blue, black and burgundy.

When he leaned back, satisfied, he noticed his scruffy, strong-jawed audience. Reznor was leaning against the doorframe, watching intently. He was dressed down in a t-shirt and jeans, thumbs hooked at his waistband.

"Are you done primping, sweetheart?" he asked lovingly.

Marilyn narrowed his eyes and grinned. Trent would pay for that remark, and they both would enjoy it. He stood and smoothed his button-down shirt.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," he sighed. "One birthday event was more than enough."

Trent put his hands on the taller man's shoulders and gave a small smile. His hands moved up his neck to reach the ends of his hair. He bit his lower lip, knowing full well the effect that the gesture had.

"I promise, it'll be worth it. Just like old times."

Marilyn hummed and leaned down, taking Trent's lips with his. That soft mouth could make anything worth it. He bit down just a little, catching Trent's tongue. The sweet whine he needed reached his ears. His body twitched. He knew he had to stop before he couldn't.

"Where are we even going?" he asked, stepping back.

"Not far."

Trent turned and headed down the hall. Marilyn took a moment to adjust himself before following. He kicked himself for agreeing to another party, even though it had seemed important to Trent. He could've declined, and they could've been in bed already.

Marilyn made his way down the hall, turned into the living room and stopped. Trent was standing against the wall, holding an open beer. He curled his finger and Marilyn followed with a quizzical look, through a side door and down a flight of stairs, into darkness.

"I thought we were going out?" Marilyn asked, feeling along the wall toward the sound of Trent's boots.

"I said 'birthday party,' not 'out,'" Trent replied, anticipation obvious in his voice.

A light clicked on and Marilyn thought he'd stepped back more than 20 years. In the center of the room was a heavy walnut St. Andrew's cross with a red bow perched on top. It was perfect, just like the one they'd loved before.

He ran his broad hand over the wood grain toward the center and felt something rough. There, near the intersection, were their initials. It wasn't just like their cross. It was their cross.

"Fuck, Trent, did you have this the whole time?"


Marilyn turned to face him, perched on the edge of a queen-size bed with restraints at the four corners. His eyes wandered. There was the bench across the foot of the bed, the table a few feet away displaying Trent's collection of toys, the coatrack that held collars and leashes. It was their room, reassembled.

"Do you like it?"

Marilyn crossed the room quickly and pulled Trent into a deep kiss. Their tongues fought and danced. Trent groped at his pants, stroking his hardening length through the fabric.

"Let me show you how much I like it."

Those dovey green eyes went wide. Trent pulled his shirt over his head and shed his boots and pants. He was so eager to be small and vulnerable. Marilyn hauled him to the cross and buckled him in place, spread out and quivering.

Trent held his breath, his back and shoulders flexing. He could hear Manson taking his time, picking up toys and putting them back. The wait was excruciating. Finally a rough finger traced his spine, making him shiver.

"You've been looking forward to this, haven't you, sweetheart?" Marilyn rumbled into his ear. "Watching me, thinking about these leather straps?"

"Yes, Mr. Manson," Trent whispered, the words as easy and right as they had ever been.

A bare hand came down hard and he yelped. More blows followed, a stinging spanking that left poor Trent red and straining against the cross. Marilyn kneaded his burning ass, chuckling at the moans and sighs that filled the room.

"Still such a slut for a little pain, aren't you?"

Trent hummed in agreement. It wasn't the response his dominant wanted. A heavy leather strap landed across the small of his back.

"What do you say, slut?"

"Th-thank you, Mr. Manson."

"Good boy."

Marilyn reached around his quivering body to palm at Trent's hardness. The steady friction on his cock was interrupted by another strike of the belt. Trent thanked him and moaned. He melted into Marilyn's hand for a moment, until the next crack of leather on his back.

After several strikes, the belt clattered to the floor and Trent dared to lift his eyes. Marilyn took him by the chin with one hand, the other swirling over his leaking head. A breathy moan parted his lips in time to accept two slick, salty fingers. He lapped at them, sucking gently, grateful.

Marilyn took his hand back, giving a light slap to Trent's cheek as he did. He stepped around the cross. Trent watched him push his dark hair away from his face. His eyes were intense and his mouth stern. He cracked his knuckles and Trent shuddered.


"Shut up. I've barely touched you," Marilyn scoffed, slowly beginning to unbutton his shirt.

Trent watched, mesmerized, as that pale skin came back into view. Marilyn let his shirt hang open, giving a glimpse of the tattoos his lover yearned to taste. He leaned in, close enough for Trent to feel his breath.

"What should I do with you while I have you here?" he purred. "Put a bit in your mouth and clamp your nipples? Milk your cum from you and wipe it on those pretty lips? Carve my name into this soft flesh?"

Marilyn pinched Trent's stomach to accent his words. The submissive grunted and pulled against the cross. He shook his head in feigned distress. His cock, pointing proudly to his navel, told the truth. He wanted the abuse, the humiliation, the electricity that only Marilyn could give.

"Maybe," he whispered, his lips brushing Trent's ear, "I should just take my pleasure, fuck you raw and leave you here, dripping and unsatisfied."

"Please, Mr. Manson..." Trent's voice was thick.

"Please what?"

Marilyn pulled away and moved out of sight. Trent waited to feel his hands. Nothing. For a moment, his heart fluttered. Surely he wouldn't actually leave.

"Please, sir, don't go... T-touch me... please..."

Two fingers, slick with lube, found Trent's entrance. He moaned at the sensation and tossed his head back. Gradually, Marilyn worked them into him, thrusting and curling them. Trent whined when they disappeared. He was ready for more.

He didn't have to wait long. Marilyn let out a breathy growl as he entered, squeezing Trent's shoulder tightly. He waited a moment, running one hand over Trent's chest and laying a wet, open-mouthed kiss on his neck. His open shirt and pants pressed and scraped against tender beaten skin. Trent's panting urgency was incredible.

"Thank you, Mr. Manson."

Marilyn began to thrust, taking long, firm strokes. The cuffs at Trent's wrists rattled. He whimpered and gasped at the delicious stretch. Marilyn rolled his hips just right, hitting that spot that sent up a shower of sparks with every stroke. Trent could barely breathe, his beautiful squeaks spurring his master to fuck him deeply.

With an aggressive grunt, Marilyn covered Trent's mouth with one hand. The other brushed over his nipples and down his stomach. Trent's cock throbbed and dripped in anticipation. Instead of indulging him, Marilyn gripped his middle tightly and fucked into him faster and rougher.

"My pretty little slut," he groaned between thrusts, "strapped down and helpless, mine to use... mine to fuck... mine to ruin..."

Trent moaned desperately against his fingers. He could feel the heat building quickly. He knew he would cum soon, whether Marilyn touched his cock or not. Every plunge was perfect, bringing him to the edge. He raised on his toes, hoping to alter the angle just enough, to delay his climax. A sharp pinch on his sensitive nipple reminded him who was in charge.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Please, Mr. Manson," Trent begged, his voice garbled. "I'm gonna cum..."

"You'll do what I fucking tell you to do," Marilyn hissed. "You'll cum when I make you cum."

He seemed determined to make it happen, driving into Trent's heat that much harder. A bead of sweat fell down the submissive's neck and he caught it with his tongue. The taste was intoxicating. He couldn't resist biting down, drawing breathy moans from both of them.

Trent was nearly delirious from pleasure and pain. A few more vicious thrusts and he tipped over the edge. The entire cross seemed to jerk as he came, spilling onto his stomach and the floor. His high-pitched whines mixed with broken words of gratitude.

Marilyn dug his fingertips into Trent's shoulder and bottomed out. He made a sound like gravel in a meat grinder. He crushed his face into the sweaty shoulder beneath him and filled Trent's clenching heat. The room went grey and slowly came back.

"Thank you, Mr. Manson," Trent repeated in a choked voice. "Thank you."

"Fuck..." Marilyn said under his breath.

He withdrew and unlocked the cuffs that held Trent in place. The two stumbled toward the bed, nearly legless. Trent flopped on to his back and started to chuckle. Marilyn held him close. Their breathing slowed together.

"Are you ok?"

The question was appropriate, but the fact that it came from Trent made them both laugh. Marilyn couldn't deny that he was shaking. He'd used muscles he'd forgotten about.

"I'm perfect," he sighed. "You wore me out, sweetheart. Are you?"

Trent hummed and nuzzled into Marilyn's shoulder. A silly grin spread across his face. He smelled like sweat and sex. It reminded him of late nights in the studio, of a time when they were both living in bold colors. They had a second chance at that passion, now that they'd outgrown the drama and rivalry. He knew that neither would let it go.

"I'm gonna need a shower," Trent muttered.

Marilyn ran his fingers over his stomach, threatening to restart the fun.

"Can I watch?" he whispered. "It is my birthday..."