Archive of Our Own

The room was hot, air heavy, the windows fogged and smoke flowing around, biting into Marshall's palates whenever he tried to take a breath. DMX was thrumming through the several speakers divided out all over the area, with the bass vibrating and pulsating in the walls. As indistinct as the feeling was, Dre could even feel the beat boom in the floor beneath his feet. Dre had his neck against the backrest of the red leather sofa on which the two of them had sprawled out, his head tipped back and eyes closed. Dre notices his leg bouncing, digs his heel into the carpet to stop it and takes a deep breath through his nose. He shifts slightly to relieve the tension that had built up in his spine from sitting in the same position for too long. He wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. The after-parties attended for the Anger Management Tour this week had been about five too many for his taste, given that it was only friday. 

The movement earns him a displeased grumble from the blonde draped over his thighs. Dre peeks one eye open to look down at the pout forming on Marshall’s face. A grin tugs at Dre’s lips. He tilts his head to the side and leans forward slightly, gazing down at the man laying in his lap. "What?"

Marshall had his head on the armrest, his torso folded across Dre’s thighs, causing his lower back to arch off of them slightly, but he didn’t mind. Marshall’s legs were positioned at the opposite end of the couch, one of them bent at the knee, his Nike’s digging into the fabric, while the other was dangling off the sofa uselessly. 

Marshall stretches his arms out over his head and lets a highly exaggerated, dramatic sigh fall from his lips as he looks up to meet Dre’s eyes. "Stop bein’ so stressy, you makin’ me feel on edge."

A scoff, yet no offense audible. "You on edge cause I moved my knee to the right?"

"Nah, it’s the negative energy radiating off of you, baby." Marshall averts his gaze from the older man, breaking eye contact and looking up at the ceiling as if he was impressed by the golden plates spread across it. He presses his lips together to hide his amusement and pretends to study the chandelier in the middle of the room. 

Dre clicks his tongue at the smug smile framing the white boy’s face. Marshall tried being low-key about it, but he sucked at hiding his blissful self-satisfaction.

"Negative energy, yeah?" The older rapper leans forward a little further until his face appears in Marshall's view. He scrunches his eyebrows up and peers down at him from above. “Well, baby, how did ya figure that?” The arm that Dre had wrapped around Marshall's waist to keep him from falling off his lap tenses a little, muscles straining. Marshall meets Dre’s eyes again and the dark haired man smiles, all white teeth and newly bought grillz flashing in the red and blue LED lights. The strong hand placed on Marshall’s side skims under Marshall's white shirt. He didn’t go far, but he pressed down slightly, fingers brushing against bare skin. The goosebumps forming beneath Dre’s fingertips made the larger man bite his own cheek for a split second.

The well-pleased smile on the blonde’s lips hadn’t faltered yet, and he raises one of his hands up to pinch Dre’s bicep lightly — quickly — in a manner that wouldn’t allow anybody else in the room to see that it happened. "You’re really fuckin’ apprehensive of rivals, y’know that?"

Dre’s eyebrows start scrunching up again. In confusion, this time. "You gotta put that dictionary of yours away."

Marshall rolls his blue eyes and huffs before he opens his mouth again, doing his best impression of Dre’s voice. "Jealousy, like 'big boss' shit. Big - 'don’t look at what’s mine' - shit."

Dre pulls his face back slightly to put more distance between himself and the younger man. He lifts his head and looks around in order to force awareness of his surroundings back on himself, much to his disliking. He had tried to push that awareness away while he’d kept his eyes closed earlier.

"You listenin’ to me?" The higher pitched, soft voice chimes in the producer’s ears again, "how much‘a that Cali of yours did you smoke?" Silence. "Dre, for real?"

Marshall can see Dre smile and stifle a snort from where he was laying in his lap, but the older man was still facing to the front, facing away from him: observing. The hand resting under Marshall's shirt suddenly travels up further, stroking along his skin, sliding up to his ribs until the blonde’s shirt gave way, following the movement of Dre‘s wrist. Marshall involuntarily shudders as the cooler air around them meets with the exposed skin of his stomach.

Dre was staring at the opposite end of the room — past their other friends doing something irrational in the middle of it — looking over to the other sofa placed there. Marshall digs one of his elbows into the cushion to prop himself up a little more. He curiously follows Dre’s gaze and meets Fifty’s eyes, already boring into his own from where he was sat with Ryan. Marshall maintains eye contact with Curtis, only breaking it shortly to make sure Ryan was staring at them as well. Marshall smiles, not at Curtis, just in general. At Dre’s blatant jealousy, perhaps. "This’ the root of your negative energy, Andre?"

The older man tilts his head to the side slightly and squints his eyes at Fifty. "The fuck are they even fuckin’ starin’ at, huh?" He mumbled the question more to himself than anything, "this shit’s entertaining ‘em or somethin’? Us sittin’ around? Do I have cum on my face, or what?"

Marshall snorts and feels the larger man’s thumb press into the skin beneath his navel. "They’re probably just buzzed out, starin’ at anything, y’know."

Dre shakes his head and lets out a dry, short chuckle. "Yeah, for sure." He leans back a little further again, resuming his previous position as he presses his spine into the backrest of the couch more firmly. He rests his head back on it, jaw clenched, all the while never breaking eye contact with Curtis. Or Ryan. Marshall couldn’t determine who of the two he was specifically glaring at. He didn’t care. 

"They been lookin’ at you like that way before they lit up their first blunt. They’ve been doing that fuckin’ thing where their eyes look like they’re ‘bout to pop out of their skull ever since you came off stage." Dre paused to bite his own tongue. "Fuckin’ bitches— fucking Fifty, always fucking touching you and the way he keeps talkin’ and talkin’ just to flatter the shit out of you." Dre pauses again and Marshall chooses to look up at him, letting his head fall back on the armrest again. "He’s doin’ all that like he doesn’t know you’re fucking taken."

"Stop saying the f-word that much, baby." Marshall fondly gazes at Dre’s side profile before the older man turns his head to give the white boy his death stare. Marshall grins. "Ayo, just sayin’. Am I a bad influence?"

A scowl, half hearted. "That’s your takeaway from this?"

"No." Marshall's tone gets more serious and Dre's thumb stops pressing into his stomach on cue. 

Marshall knew he couldn't blame Dre for feeling pissed off. Marshall has been aware for a while, that the presumed platonic admiration Curtis has for him, was in fact not just platonic. It was more than the expected, natural appreciation anybody has for their mentor. He knew Curtis has had a crush on him, about ever since the two of them had met. Fifty told him, which had shocked him to his core. Dre being into guys had been surprising enough to him. Fifty had even told Dre, to 'clear the air', a while back when Marshall and Dre had decided to go full official in front of their friends. Curtis had known long before that, given the fact he had walked in on them way too many times. Proof had been in on it for a while too, since Marshall couldn’t keep a single secret from DeShaun, even if he tried. 

Anyhow, Marshall knew Fifty would never actually pull a move on him as long as he was with somebody. Curtis respected both of them, and he respected Dre even more ever since the two of them had a punch-up over something unnecessary: one of the few punch-up’s he’s lost. Marshall had been too fucking high on percs to remember what it was about the next day — passed out in the next room — and Dre refused to tell him. Which pissed Marshall off to an indefinite extent, but they’ve had too many senseless fights about this already. Nevertheless, he was sure: Curtis valued the friendship with both of his mentors more than the hard-on for Marshall hiding in his pants. 

"No, that ain’t my takeaway from this." Marshall picks up where he left off and carries on with his answer. “I know you got a problem with Fifty soft-soapin’ and sweet-talkin’ me or whatever, and I get it, I get it.” Marshall places one of his hands on Dre's free arm — the one that wasn't attached to his waist and resting on the couch beside him. He traces the protruding vein leading down to his hand with his fingers, scraping along the dark skin with his nails ever so slightly. "y’know, back when you dumped Nicole and she just kept being up your ass and callin’ and messagin’ you all the time?" Marshall moves his hand up, gripping onto Dre’s bicep fully this time. "like, that one time she showed up at the studio just so you’d see she was crying— like, I really thought I had’ta murder you, because I couldn’t fuckin’ understand why you were bein’ as nice to her as you was, instead of simply cussin’ her out or forcing her to leave."

Dre’s scowl softens, turning into a frown. "So?"

"So, I mean— I do get it now." Marshall made sure to look back into Dre’s umber eyes, tried not to stutter over his words too much, tried not to blush at holding eye contact for so long. Dre was the only person who could make him feel like a worked up bitch, but he would never tell him that. "you couldn’t just cuss her out, cause you didn’t hate her. Cause she was still your friend, ya know? Cause it just feels stupid to hurt people’s feelings, right?"

Dre snorts at that and Marshall grins but continues. "Right, so, same as you, I cannot be mean to Fifty, aight? He’s not gonna try anything. Just let him be at peace with his delusions." Marshall closes his mouth, presses his fingers into the strong muscle beneath his hand, then opens it again to add: "ain’t nobody gonna take me from you."

Dre sighs, and Marshall can see his adam’s apple move up and down as he swallows. “Ain’t nobody gonna be able to take you from me either, even if they ever grew fuckin’ balls and tried.” His voice was lower now, softer. Dre’s tone was so genuine it made Marshall’s cheeks flush in bright pink, and he internally cursed at his weak spot for possessiveness. A weak spot Dre knew how to hit. "all I wanna do, is make sure they know not to fuckin’ eat off another man’s plate just ‘cause they hungry."

Marshall’s heart flutters at the incredibly cheesy statement. When did he get like this? This’d be real bad publicity, at least his contested 'gangster' title would suffer from it. 

Dre’s hand curls around his ribs again, protectively, digging into his bones almost painfully and Marshall’s breath hitches. He mentally congratulates himself for the defensive state he was able to get Dre into, as senseless as it was. He also was a secret fan of drama and jealousy — he wasn’t particularly proud of it, no, but well. The sex was even better and Marshall was plenty entertained. That was just a part of his nature. Though, he wouldn’t ever tell that to Dre, either.

"I don’t let myself be eaten, y’know. Like, I bite, you know that." Marshall swiftly lets go of Dre’s upper arm and uses both of his hands to push himself off the cushions. He sits up so that he’s face to face with his boyfriend. He smiles, exposing his front teeth as Dre’s sparkling eyes never leave his own. He tilts his chin up, their lips only separated by mere centimeters. "I choose who I wanna be eaten by." His tone is gentle, quiet. "And I only wanna be eaten by you, Andre."

Dre’s hands slide down to circle his waist again, holding onto the younger rapper’s smaller frame with both of his hands now. "Only me?" Marshall could hear a familiar strain in the larger man’s voice. He wonders if Fifty and Royce were still staring at them and feels his guts twist. An awfully pleasant feeling. Something he should think about, later. This wasn’t the time.

"Only you. Always you." Marshall whispers now, his voice almost drowned out completely by the laughter and music around them. "and— y’know— you ruined me for anybody else, anyways."

The blonde watched Dre’s pupils dilate, could see his jaw unclench. "Baby, I think you the one who ruined me," the older rapper muses in a soft tone, his charcoal eyes never leaving blue, "I’m fuckin’ obsessed wit’chu, I swear— I get like, withdrawal symptoms and shit when I ain’t around you for more than a week."

Dre sneaks both of his hands underneath Marshall’s shirt now, making his pale skin heat up beneath his palms — still holding eye contact — warmth radiating off him through his gaze. "Got me fucked up worse than coke had me that one time, Em."

Marshall tilts his head to the side and smiles, lifts one of his hands to cup the back of Dre’s neck, nails slightly digging into his buzzed, dark hair. "Next time I see you with white shit up your nose, that better be me," he pushes Dre’s head a little closer to his own, plants a few small kisses along the shell of his ear, "ya know— like, imma stick my tongue up your nostrils and lick it outta there until only I remain."

Dre breaks into a giggle and moves his hands further up Marshall’s body, rubbing circles into his lower back and brushing over his skin in patterns. "You’re a fucking dumb-ass," Dre mutters and grins, hands sliding back to dig into his sides, "you fuckin’ vermin, my nose is absolutely off-limits."

"Aight, then my throat is off-limits as of today, too," the smaller rapper fakes a stern voice, "had me wearin’ this big-ass hoodie on stage in the middle of july—nah, got me wearin’ them all the fucking time, cause you jus’ don’t get the principle of paparazzi up my ass."

Dre glances at his most recent work of art — a dark purple bruise right beneath the sharp L of Marshall’s jaw. Now that Marshall had changed into a t-shirt he was able to really appreciate it. His grin only widens as he pulls Marshall closer again, slightly twisting his body in the process. "Right, cause I gotta show ‘em you’re off the market," he leans forward slightly, their lips brushing against each other, breathing his next words right into the blonde’s mouth, "gotta show a motherfucker like Fifty that you’re mine."

A surprised, muffled sound escapes Marshall’s throat as Dre’s long tongue pushes his pink lips open for him to lick inside slowly. Dre was almost always kissing him like he had all the time in the world: biting along the younger’s mouth like he was dealt a five star meal, savouring the way he tastes, swallowing every breathy sound getting stuck in Marshall’s throat whenever he let his tongue run over the roof of his mouth. Right now, Dre wasn’t really kissing him any differently than he usually was, but Marshall could still feel impatience in the way he moved. 

One of Dre’s hands lets go of Marshall's waist and moves over to massage Marshall’s upper thigh — the shorter man’s legs still positioned sideways on Dre’s lap. The producer’s breath hitches when Marshall decides to run his tongue over Dre’s teeth and bite at his lower lip, silently asking for something. 

Dre presses his fingers into the blonde’s thigh more firmly, kneading the soft flesh and feeling up the strong muscles hiding underneath Marshall’s grey, baggy sweatpants. The fabric between them annoyed him to death. Dre pulls off Marshall’s lips for a second, coming to the conclusion that the pair of sweatpants was even more over-sized than what he usually wore. "You wearin’ my fucking pants?"

Marshall snickers and uses his free hand to reach up and fidget with one of the tiny hoops in his ears, adjusting the clasps. "Took you that long to notice?"

"Boy, and you ain’t even ask me?" Dre pinches his inner thigh in mock irritation and Marshall hisses. "The nerve you got."

"You’re wearin’ my shit, too!" Marshall lets go of his earring to point at Dre’s Gucci sweatshirt. 

Dre closes his eyes, takes a deep breath to delay his answer, making it as suspenseful as possible. "Bitch," he pauses — just for the fun of it — and opens his eyes again, "bitch, you gifted this to me."

Marshall smiles and shrugs. "You’re lucky you look so awfully good in it, or I’d steal it back." He slings both of his arms around Dre’s neck and presses one of his thumbs into the sweet spot below Dre’s ear, mentally complimenting himself at the way the older rapper’s eyes flutter closed again. "I should shop for you more often, baby."

"Yeah, why don’t you," Dre sounds almost affronted, "you gonna be richer than me in like a month anyways if ya album keeps sellin’ like this."

Marshall grins, making a 'ka-ching' sound with his mouth in response and pointing a finger at Dre childishly. "Ya made me rich, Doc."

"You’re very open for bribery, huh," Dre stares at the finger pointed at him in terror, like it’s a loaded gun, "that’s why ya chose me, ain’t it?"

Marshall’s smile softens and he searches for Dre’s gaze again. "Yes." No. He swings his arms back around Dre’s neck to pull him in, tilts his own head, but halts in his movements just a mere breath away from the larger man’s plump, dark lips, "so what?" Marshall kisses him then, gently and without hurry. He pulls back slowly before Dre gets a chance to change the pace, beaming internally when Dre follows him. 

He cups the back of Dre’s neck with both of his hands, pressing his thumbs back into the veins in his neck, voice hushed and low, "kinda feel like leaving."

Dre lets out a genuine laugh and squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing over his temples with one hand. "Man, me too, like fucking finally."

Marshall bites his own tongue and leans forward to whisper something into Dre’s ear, feeling like a stupid kid sharing an immature secret again, "you know, weed jus’ really fuckin’ makes me horny as fuck, you know— that’s why I rarely smoke it."

Dre raises an eyebrow at that and lightly elbows him in the side — scoffs at Marshall’s overdone 'ow' — before whispering back: "I dunno, we’ve fucked high like four times this week, baby." A smirk graces Dre’s handsome face.

"I was high on that other shit, bitch," Marshall shoves Dre’s head back slightly, trying to distract him from noticing the heat rushing to his cheeks. He makes a move to get up, letting one of his legs fall off the couch and hit the ornamental carpet again, "c’mon old man, let’s get a move-on."

"Mhm," Dre ignores the remark and hums in satisfaction, letting go of the Blonde’s thighs and stretching his arms out over his head, "… so move, bitch."

Marshall snickers, lifts both of his legs off Dre’s thighs and turns sideways, planting both of them on the floor. He glances down at his untied shoelaces and huffs. He had tripped over them during his performance on stage earlier, but was caught by DeShaun’s firm grip around his collar — thanks to his best friend’s attentive nature. 

At the memory, Marshall remembers to look back up and focus on the room in front of him, scanning and seeking to meet Proof's gaze. He finds his friend’s alert eyes without effort — knows them better than anything — and feels his heart swell at DeShaun’s usual way of behaving. His best friend was always looking out for him, ever since they were teens, studying Marshall’s face every once in a while to search for any sign of discomfort or trouble. Whenever Marshall would catch him watching, guarding, he’d feel overwhelmed by how much DeShaun cared. He didn’t deserve him, but he also knew that (unrelated to his own, personally estimated worth) he couldn’t ever live without him. Not a single day. 

They would use sign language sometimes, when the music was too loud and when there was too much distance between their bodies. Like right now. 

DeShaun clamps his burning joint between his lips, so he can use both hands. He brings both of them up, makes two fists and opens them downward, signaling the simple word 'leave?' as a question.

Marshall amusedly watches a piece of ash snap off Proof’s joint and land on his tan skin, causing him to flinch. Marshall brings a hand up — presses all his fingertips together to create an o-shape, then presses his pinkie and ring finger against his palm and brings his other fingers up. He signs the word 'okay.' Short for 'I'm okay' Tells his best friend that everything’s good in the most simple, unmistakable way possible. 

Proof smiles at that, relieved, and goes to wipe the ashes off his tattooed arm. He takes a drag of his weed and then nods his head towards Dre, pressing two fingers to his head and flicking them in his direction to say his goodbye. 

Dre smiles back at him, more fond of DeShaun’s cautious character, than feeling offended by it. "He still don’t trust me?" Dre asks anyway while waving back at Marshall’s best friend, his tone far off being serious.

The younger rapper leans down to tie his shoelaces and shakes his head, the corners of his lips turned up. "Nah, baby, it’s myself he’s trynna protect me from."

He sits back up and reaches over to give Dre’s muscular thigh an urgent squeeze. "Aight, let’s go."

Dre nods and watches Marshall stand up. Marshall's blonde hair glitters in the red light, his pale skin shimmering in the same color, freckles dancing over his cheeks and down underneath his shirt. Dre’s eyes shine in their own brightness, whenever he’s looking at him. 

He glances down, notices Marshall’s fingers twitching, his eyes moving around as if he was suddenly nervous. Dre knows he hated crowds. Everybody here was a friend of their friend’s, or a friend of their own — everybody here was put in the picture of Marshall and Dre’s relationship, and also legally bound not to tell anything to anyone, or the press. At least that’s what Paul had promised Marshall. So he shouldn’t worry too much, yet he always ended up doing so. Dre knew him. 

Before getting up himself, Dre grabs Marshall's wrist and pulls it toward him, pressing his fingers into the skin right above his boyfriend’s 'slit me' tattoo. He smirks up at Marshall’s offended, impatient expression — ignores it and brings the wrist to his lips to plant a soft kiss on the inked skin.

"Ey," Marshall pulls his hand away from Dre’s grip and rubs his tattooed wrist. He looks down to hide his face, suddenly feeling self conscious about it. Dre clicks his tongue, his expression still as soft and gentle as a moment ago. He rises off the couch, steps closer to the blonde and puts his hand around Marshall’s chin. He tilts his head up to make him face him again. Marshall scowls and Dre smiles.

"Don’t be shy in front’a me."

"Not shy," Marshall looks him in the eye, sincerity in his gaze, "just don’t want or need you to worry about anything, right now."

Dre takes a deep inhale and nods again — understanding — strokes over Marshall’s bottom lip with his thumb and then lets go of him. "Ain’t worried," he slings an arm around Marshall’s shoulders and pulls him along with him as he starts making his way towards the exit, "just makin’ sure you know that I would gladly worry, when you need me to. Will always be your bouncer."

"Mhm." Marshall walks with him, stays close to his side. "Not gonna kill myself any time soon, baby."

The larger man laughs softly, ignores somebody yelling his name from the stairway beside them, and ignores the actual worry creeping up his spine. "And imma make sure’a that, sweetheart."

The blonde gingerly smiles at him, wiggles out of Dre’s arm and laces their hands together, instead. "Whatever makes ya happy."

Dre leans toward him and presses his lips to his temple. He whispers, "you make me happy."

Marshall lifts his head, feels his heartbeat pounding against his chest a little too harshly. He can see small wrinkles forming around Dre’s eyes, caused by his blinding smile. The younger rapper stops in the middle of the loft's hallway, stands on his tiptoes and plants a kiss on the taller man’s lips. "I love you," he whispers against his lips — the smile on Dre’s face only getting wider. He gives the big hand around his own a squeeze. "Now stop bein’ so sickly-sweet, please, it’s suffocating."

"Never," Dre muses and follows Marshall, who’s roughly tugging him forwards by his arm, "you gotta make me."

"Y’know damn well I could make you do a shit ton a’things, if I wanted to," still pulling Dre along with him, Marshall moves through the hallway, totally not focused on the conversation anymore but doing his best to push past the people standing around as fast as possible. He felt way too hot and too watched, and he was still very much horny, on top of it all. 

"And what d’you wanna make me do?" Dre almost trips over his own feet at another brutal yank on his arm from the smaller man in front of him. He stumbles along behind him amusedly, dapping some guys up with his free hand to say goodbye as he passes them. 

"I’m gonna make you fuck me when we’re outta here, for starters," Marshall replies in a humorless voice — shoots a glare at a girl who snapped her head around at his words. 

Dre huffs. "You ain’t gotta make me do that."

They finally reach the big, wooden door that leads into the entrance hall. The blonde pushes it open, a relieved groan leaving his lips as soon as he steps out into the open lobby, thankful to inhale less dense air and be surrounded by less people. 

Dre takes the lead before Marshall has the chance to rush in the wrong direction, which often happens when he’s stoned. He drags Marshall through the golden frame around the automatic doors, shoves him into the empty elevator and presses the ground floor button far more times than necessary. He waits impatiently for the doors to close, shudders when two tattooed arms sneak around his waist from behind and carefully slide under his sweatshirt. He catches sight of a lobby boy speeding towards the elevator doors, tries to ignore Marshall’s fingers wandering further down, one of his thumbs tracing the hair underneath his navel. 

"Baby." Dre whispers warningly. A random lobby boy was under no legal obligation to keep his mouth shut. 

The smaller man shows no interest in stopping what he’s doing and instead moves his hands down again until his fingers are brushing over the waistband of Dre’s boxers. Dre feels short of breath, sees the doors closing in slow-motion, sees the lobby boy’s hand reaching out to try and slip in between the elevator’s doors. A millisecond before his hand reaches the gap in between the doors, they close, and the elevator announces it’s departure with a loud 'ding'.

Dre sighs in relief and tips his head back, feeling pissed off at Marshall behaving like a brat. 

The number on the digital display drops to 57, and Dre prays no one will get in. He hated these tall ass skyscrapers. 

"What’chu do that for?" His words come out angry, but he gives into the appeal and slightly leans back against his boyfriend’s smaller frame. 

Dre can feel shoulders bump into his back, assumes that Marshall is shrugging. The blonde’s voice is light, and playful, like he couldn’t care less. "I jus’ knew he wouldn’t reach the door, is all."

The number drops to 52. Dre puts a hand on top of Marshall's, which had moved too far down into his boxers, and pulls it back up. He feels Marshall chuckle against his spine, the sound bright and airy. Dre smirks and laces his fingers into the pale hand he’s holding, presses their intertwined hands against his chest and turns his head towards his boyfriend. "He could’a still seen us," he scrunches up his eyebrows to appear mad, "thought you worried too much, but apparently the opposite’s goin’ on. You sure you’re feelin’ alright?"

"They can see us all they want," Marshall presses his free hand into Dre’s abs more firmly, squeezes his face into the space between Dre’s shoulder blades. His words come out muffled by the fabric, and he almost sounds as if he was slurring. Dre wonders if this was the weed speaking or his pre-fucking-haze taking ahold of him, which was a real thing, "wish you’d fuck me in front’a the whole fuckin’ world."

Dre swallows and glances at the display showing the floor they were on. Floor 48. Great. 

"One day, baby," Dre hums. He turns around in Marshall's grip and lets go of his hand. Marshall wraps both of his arms around Dre's stomach again — face to face — pulls him a little closer and smiles up at him. Dre places a hand on Marshall's cheekbone and strokes over the thin skin with his thumb. "How ‘bout we start with Fifty? I’d really love to do that."

The younger rapper grins stupidly. "Fuckin’ in front’a Fifty?” He shakes his head. "He’d die, legit."

Another glance back. 42. 

The tension falls from Dre’s face and he gives his boyfriend a crooked smile, edging on dangerous. Marshall takes a look at the grillz on his teeth again, wanting Dre‘s teeth to dig into his skin more than anything, right now. Dre opens his mouth again, voice lower, "so what?"

"Don’t kill him." Marshall commands sternly, as if Dre was genuinely planning to. 

Dre stops caressing his boyfriend’s freckled cheek, then places both of his hands on the tattooed arms around his stomach and grabs Marshall's wrists. He pulls them away from his body and takes a step forward to push Marshall against the wall, then presses both of his wrists down on either side of his head. Marshall grins again. 

"If he behaves, I won‘t have to," Dre murmurs, leaning down to press his lips onto the sensitive skin of the younger’s pale throat, "but there should be disciplining for people who misbehave, right?"

Marshall feels the words vibrate against his throat, more than he hears them. He loved when Dre got cliché. 

He lets his head fall back and slam against the steel of the elevator a little too hard, when Dre sinks his teeth into the already existing hickey beneath his jaw. "Yeah," Marshall breathes and winces, wrists twitching in Dre’s grip as he draws back to lick down his throat a little further. He presses his nose into the crook of Marshall’s neck, inhaling his scent. Marshall had intentionally put on that fragrance that always drove Dre crazy — the drugstore one, funnily enough. Dre starts sucking a bruise into the spot then, slowly, while pressing his thumbs into the pulse points on his bony wrists. 

Marshall lets out an embarrassing whine and feels Dre smile against his skin. He nervously lets his eyes flicker over to the digital display. Floor 31.

Dre pulls off his throat with a wet sound once he’s satisfied with the purple mark, a string of spit connected to his lips. "Yeah?" He repeats Marshall’s words and moves Marshall’s wrists to rest above his head, so he can hold them down with one hand. He squeezes them, lowers his free hand and grabs Marshall’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. He tilts the blonde’s head to the side — this way and that — just to toy with him. "So what are we gonna do about’chu then, hm?"

He moves his thumb up and presses it against Marshall's lower lip, pulls it down slightly, watches in awe as Marshall opens his mouth to let it slip inside. The blonde starts flicking his tongue around his thumb, instead of answering Dre's question. 

"Ya misbehave all the time, don’t you think?" Dre’s smile almost makes Marshall feel nauseous. 

The younger rapper pants through his nose, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. His wrists strain against Dre’s tight hold around them, so Dre presses down harder. Marshall’s eyes flutter shut, before he’s forcing them open again to check the display once more. 25.

"Wish I could’a shown ‘em who you belong to right then and there," the larger man leans down again to continue his journey along his throat, leaving wet kisses behind, "but ya don’t wanna make Fifty feel bad, do you?"

Marshall shakes his head, starts panting harder, breath coming in shorter. "No?" Dre asks, his tone condescending. Marshall’s legs shift around a bit, feeling weak at the knees suddenly. He accidentally bites down on Dre’s thumb and groans through his teeth when Dre decides to press their hips together firmly, their clothed erections rubbing against each other. "No, you want to make him feel bad? Or no, you wanna make Fifty feel good?"

Marshall shoots his boyfriend a glare, who’s still wearing that conceited smile of his. Dre takes his thumb out of Marshall’s mouth and sneaks a hand into the younger’s sweatpants. He grabs his ass possessively and softly kneads into the flesh, revelling in the breathy moan leaving the smaller man’s lips. 

"No," Marshall tries opening his mouth again, lips wet with spit, his voice coming out thin and airy, "jus’ wanna make you feel good, baby."

"I know." Dre’s breath has gotten more shallow, too. He pants and swallows when he sees Marshall’s eyes roll back just a touch as they start to grind against each other’s bodies. He can feel Marshall’s hard dick rock against his own, the friction of the fabric almost burning their skin. 

The elevator suddenly slows down. They reach floor 13 and the elevator chimes. Dre sees the panic bloom on Marshall’s face, his pupils dilating, eyes widening and mouth falling open even further. "Andre."

Dre almost instantly loosens his grip around Marshall’s wrists and lets them drop down to rest at his sides again. He pulls his hand out of Marshall’s pants — hears the doors opening behind him — shuffles around awkwardly and then takes a step to the side. He leans back against the wall next to the spot Marshall had frozen into, and tries to appear as casual and relaxed as possible. 

It had to look quite moronic, though, because Marshall’s startled face was breaking into a wild grin. 

The doors open, and a hotel guest steps inside with his suitcase. He’s old, wearing a tuxedo and a gray beard on his face, so he probably had no idea who either of them was. He greets them with a nod of his head and turns around to face the doors again. 

The elevator starts moving down again, and Marshall turns his head to look at Dre. His boyfriend has his hands clasped behind his back to suggest complete innocence, and Marshall notices his foot tapping on the floor in impatience. He stifles a snort and Dre snaps his head towards him, as well as the old man in front of them.

He ignores them both and tips his head up, staring at the mirrored ceiling and pressing his lips together to keep quiet.

They finally reach ground level. The elevator chimes again, and Marshall feels as if it’s the sound of salvation. 

They rush out of the doors as soon as the guest leaves, speeding through the huge lobby and then making an exit into the parking garage. 

The two stumble over to Dre's parked, dark blue low-rider. As soon as Dre unlocks the car, Marshall practically gets shoved into the passenger seat. A pained huff hitches out of his throat as his back is slammed into the brown leather and he shoots Dre a glare. The larger man mumbles an almost inaudible 'sorry' and jogs around the hood, pulls the driver’s door open and gets in himself. They both slam their doors shut almost simultaneously. Dre turns the key in the ignition, and the radio starts playing. Marshall lifts his feet and places them on the dashboard to get comfortable, happy that Mr. Rosenberg wasn’t around to yell about how he should show some manners. Dre glances over at his shoes, and then raises an eyebrow at his boyfriend. 

"I keep my Nike’s clean." Marshall says spitefully. These were his beloved Air Max 95, after all. 

Dre rolls his eyes and smiles. "Sure, baby." He puts a hand on the back of the passenger seat and turns his head, looking over his shoulder. He puts the car in reverse to get out of the parking lot, keeps backing up and then switches the gear to start driving.

Marshall reaches underneath his legs to open the glove compartment box, blindly rummaging around. 

Dre takes a turn and steps on the break, waits for the garage’s gates to open. "What’chu lookin’ for, darling?"

"Grinder."

"There’s two in there," Dre pauses as the barricades have lifted up fully, and steps on the gas again. He navigates the car out of the parkade and moves up onto the main road. "What do you—?"

Dre stops talking again when he feels Marshall wordlessly reach into the pocket of his baggy jeans, fishing around for something and then pulling out Dre’s bag of weed. Dre stops at a red light and looks over at the blonde — grinder and papers in one hand and his weed in the other. Dre smirks. "You rollin’ up again?"

Marshall smiles to himself and pulls a few buds from the bag. "I like smokin’ with you." He didn’t mention that he also liked how nice Dre looked doing it. 

"I gotta drive, Em."

Marshall looks at him incredulously. Dre smoked while driving all the fucking time. "I’ll even hold it for you, bitch."

Dre giggles. "Aight, that’s sweet."

Marshall shakes his head and slumps back further into the leather seat. He stretches his arm out and reaches over to turn up the volume as a song by N.W.A comes on the radio. Dre takes one hand off the steering wheel and tries to pry Marshall's hand away from the buttons. Marshall remains stubborn and brutally swats his hand away, clicking his teeth. 

Dre's verse on the track starts playing, and Dre groans, burying his head in the steering wheel for a second. Marshall grins and pokes a finger into his boyfriend’s bicep. "What, you always get to listen when I'm recordin’ my music, but soon as I hear any of your stuff you go all red-faced?" Marshall snickers at Dre’s pained expression, "you’re so cute, Andre."

"Shut up, Marshall," Dre spits — mainly using his government name when he’s pissed — stubbornly staring at the road ahead, "you’re lucky I love you."

Marshall’s eyes sparkle at his words and his grin widens. He places his hand on Dre’s arm again and caresses his skin in reassurance. "I love ya too, baby," he lets go of his arm and gets back to his task. He fills up the grinder and starts crushing the plant into tiny pieces. He bobs his head along with the beat, listens to Dre’s voice coming out of the speakers in admiration. He could’ve never imagined he’d listen to N.W.A in Dre’s car — his boyfriend’s car — back when he looped all their songs on his walkman. He opens his mouth again, and adds: "And I love this track. Always did."

He catches Dre’s soft smile in the corner of his eyes. He feels his heart swell when Dre reaches over to place his hand on Marshall’s elevated thigh. He softly digs his fingers into the soft flesh, and keeps his hand there. 

Marshall takes one of the pre-rolled tips out of the package, and pulls out a paper as well. Mango flavored. He snorts. Dre was so fucking gay sometimes, for real. 

He opens the grinder, is briefly terrified when they drive over a bumper and looks down onto his lap to see if any of the weed had spilled out. All good. He takes the paper between two of his fingers and tilts the grinder to the side, carefully pouring everything into the paper until the weed was piled up in a straight line.  Marshall momentarily gets distracted by Dre’s hand moving upwards, gripping his inner thigh tightly and making shapes with his thumb. 

He glances over at Dre for a second — obviously not wanting to leave his weed out of sight for too long — and notices his clenched jaw, sees him biting his own cheek. They needed to get to their hotel quickly or they’d probably make a record of the highest number of times anyone has had sex in a car, ever. 

Marshall continues his work, his leg slightly twitching when Dre’s hand continues moving towards his crotch. The blonde tries ignoring him, presses the tip into the paper and rolls the joint between his fingers for a while. Then he sticks his tongue out and brings the remaining paper to his mouth. He closes his eyes and moistens the edges of the paper with his tongue, licking the ends and then squeezing it shut to glue it together. 

He throws all the stuff laying on his lap back into the glove compartment box and holds up his built joint proudly. He leans over and waves it in front of Dre’s face to tell him he’s done. 

Dre grins and leans forward, pretending to try and bite the thing. Marshall quickly pulls his hand away in terror. "Ey, quit that shit!"

Dre hums happily and presses his fingers into Marshall’s thigh more firmly again. "Light it up, baby."

Marshall rolls his tinted window down a bit, but not too much, careful to avoid being seen by paparazzi. Los Angeles was a terrible place to hide a relationship.

"How long ‘till we there?" Marshall asks, while reaching into Dre’s jeans again and fidgeting for his lighter.

"Twelve," Dre answers absentmindedly, leaning forward a little to look at the billboard next to the road more closely. He flashes Marshall a grin, "dat’s you, babyboy."

Marshall rolls his eyes at the pet name and looks to the side, gazing up at the 'Eminem Show' advertisement displayed on the big screens. He scrunches his nose and looks back at the joint in his hand. "Hate bein’ so loved and famous."

Dre snorts. "You’re definitely one of those things."

Marshall brings the flame up to his joint and waits until it catches fire. "Loved?" Marshall asks as he puts his lips around the tip, takes a deep drag and keeps it in his throat before inhaling it. He closes his eyes, sinks further into his seat at the feeling and opens his mouth again to let the smoke flow out. He almost coughs but stops himself, too embarrassed about weed being the drug he has most problems digesting. He was capable of swallowing a dozen pills just fine. 

He feels the smoke sting in his chest and smiles. "You love me, don’t you?"

"More than anything," Dre promises and stops at another red light, with a bunch of cars queuing up in front of him. After hours traffic. "Gimme one," he demands, squeezing Marshall’s thigh. 

Marshall takes another push and lowers his legs, putting them down on the floor — well mannered. He places one hand on the ledge below the gearshift, props himself up on it and leans over. Dre follows him with his eyes, two fingers tapping on the steering wheel, waiting. Marshall grabs Dre’s face and turns his head towards him. He’s kept the smoke inside his mouth all the while, leans in and presses their lips together. He opens his mouth, keeps Dre close, and blows the smoke into his mouth. 

Dre hums, inhales it happily, lifts Marshall’s chin up a little more with his thumb to have better access. He pulls off Marshall’s lips to exhale the smoke again and puffs it right into his face, obviously knowing how much he hates that. The younger rapper blinks his eyes at the burn and scowls at him.

Dre grins and strokes over the soft skin on Marshall’s chin. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he whispers softly. 

Marshall falls back into his own seat, as much as he wanted to climb into Dre’s lap right now. "My pleasure." He brings the burning joint to his lips again, turns his head and catches Dre staring at him like he’s something sacred. But maybe his reddened eyes just played into that impression, too. A shy smile tugs at the corners of Marshall’s lips. "What?"

Dre locks eyes with him and smiles. "You’re real pretty, you know that?"

Marshall feels himself blush. "Don’t say that, man."

Dre’s expression grows smug. "Why?" he coos, "you too cool to be beautiful?"

"No, but when you say that, I wanna sleep wit’chu," Marshall counters, "like, immediately." 

They are being pulled out of their thoughtful argument when a car honks at them from behind. Dre jolts and forces himself to look back straight ahead, sees the traffic lights back on green and a huge gap between them and the cars in front of them. He steps on the gas and speeds forward, shoots Marshall a glare as if it was his fault.

Marshall chuckles quietly, takes a hit and then hands the joint over to Dre. 

They continue their ride home sharing the smoke, passing it back and forth, touching each other, but not touching each other too much. Looking at each other, but not for too long. 

After a slightly longer drive through the crowded traffic, Dre turns into the flood-lighted driveway of the five-star hotel they were staying at. Some Beverly Hills type of shit. He pulls into his assigned parking space and turns off the engine. 

Marshall has almost melted into his seat by now, brain mushy and the muscles in his body liquified, but as he looks over at Dre he remembers what he’d initially wanted to do. Dre is already halfway out of his seat when Marshall finds the strength to reach for the door handle. He’s just about to push the handle down himself when his arm is pulled forward, due to Dre tearing the door open from the outside. By the next second Dre's hand is on his arm, the blue door slams shut behind him and he’s being yanked out of the car on wobbly legs. His head is spinning a bit as he’s being dragged along, but he’s grinning, trying his best to keep his balance. 

Dre tugs him through the back entrance and pushes Marshall into an elevator for the second time that night. 

Marshall’s elbow bumps against the metallic wall and he lets out a dramatic cry. Dre gives a half-suppressed laugh and apologizes dutifully, wrapping his arms around Marshall from behind as soon as the elevator starts moving up. This time they luckily didn’t have to go up sixty floors. 

Marshall leans back into the embrace contentedly, lets his head fall back and rest on Dre’s shoulder. He breathes in his natural warm scent, the smell of amber, his cologne and the burnt weed lingering on the fabric of his sweater. 

He carefully turns his head to the side and plants a soft kiss beneath Dre’s jaw, where he could reach. 

Dre pulls Marshall even closer at that, curls his hands around his ribs. Before he gets the chance to plan his next move the elevator chimes, and Marshall is the one to drag him out of it. They clumsily move to their suite, and Marshall feels like his libido hasn’t been this high ever since he was a teenager, or back when he took his first round of ecstasy. Marshall pulls the hotel card from Dre’s pocket and impatiently squashes it against the sensor until the lock clicks. 

A mere second later he’s being pressed up against the wall of their entrance hall. He’s letting the card slip from his fingers and drop to the floor without wasting a single thought on it, as he slings both arms around Dre’s neck. Their lips meet in a bruising kiss, all teeth clashing and tongues battling. A deep groan vibrates in Dre’s chest as Marshall licks over the roof of his mouth and digs his fingers into his scalp. He quickly slams the door shut with one arm, and their kiss only breaks for a second when Dre reaches down to grab Marshall under his thighs. He lifts him up easily and guides him to wrap those strong legs around his waist.

A surprised sound hitches out of the younger rapper’s throat as he’s being hauled up, and he crosses his legs behind Dre’s waist to stabilize himself. His whole body feels like jelly beneath Dre’s palms. "Wait—" Marshall sputters, but cuts himself off with his own moan when Dre roughly thrusts against his dick. They are already half-hard in their wake, basically have been ever since they sat down next to each other at that party. God forbid they ever acted like adults. 

"What, baby?" The larger man’s voice is thick and low, the type that makes Marshall’s knees feel even weaker.

"Nevermind," Marshall whispers, hands digging into Dre’s shoulders more firmly, "fuckin’ weed— can’t feel my fuckin’ legs."

Dre grins, presses his pelvis up against Marshall’s again and takes in the smaller man’s stifled gasp. "Ain’t that the plan, Em?"

Marshall rolls his blue eyes before they flutter shut as he grinds back against Dre’s own hard-on, panting at the thick length rubbing against his own. "Shut up," he rakes his nails up Dre’s neck, digs them into his buzzed head and pulls him in for a kiss again. 

"Fuck—" Dre breathes into Marshall’s mouth and jerks his hips forward harder. Marshall whines and uses his calves to pull Dre’s hips closer. His boyfriend’s string of curses into his gasping mouth encourages him to grind back against Dre’s dick harder. 

"God, Marshall," Dre pants through clenched teeth, eyes rolling just a little. He kisses him hard again, knocks his blonde head back against the wall in the process. "You always so fuckin’ needy."

"Need you," Marshall breathes the words into Dre’s ear, cheek pressed against the side of Dre’s head, his voice light and edging on a whine. Dre swallows harshly and tips his head back, hisses a senseless curse into the air when Marshall sticks his tongue out and slowly licks over the shell of his ear. Dre tightens his grip around Marshall’s thighs, raising him up a little more in the process, before he yanks him off the wall. 

He starts moving towards the huge bedroom, while  Marshall makes his task more difficult in the meantime by engaging him in another deep kiss. Half blind, preoccupied with Marshall's tongue in his mouth and his hands frantically grabbing at his shoulders, the walk over to the bed was challenging enough. This white boy never fucking held still. And on top of that, much to Dre’s fortune, the white boy’s army of sneakers was scattered all over the suite. He tripped over a pair of them and stumbled forward, but caught his balance before they both hit the floor. 

Marshall breathlessly laughs into his mouth, whispers an apology against his lips before kissing into each corner of them. Dre swears at him, aggressively kicks Marshall's shoes to the side, and then throws him onto the mattress sideways — in a relatively heartless way. 

The blonde grunts at the rough treatment as his back hits the cushions. His leg immediately lifts up to try and kick Dre with the back of his foot as a rejoinder. Dre captures his ankle before it hits him, squeezing it lightly in his firm grip and clicking his tongue in disdain. "Nuh-uh, boy," he loosens his grip and slowly slides the hand up Marshall’s calf, still standing beside the bed, his knees digging into the blackwood, "you need some scolding, Slim. Always have ya shit layin’ around fuckin’ everywhere."

Marshall sheepishly grins at the words waiting to come out of his own mouth. "Lyin’ ass, ya love me when I’m messy."

Dre pinches his calf at the cheap joke, then slides his hand up further to his knee. "Just when I’m the one messin’ you up, rabbit."

Marshall lifts up his other leg as well and impatiently wraps it around Dre’s waist, digging the heel of his shoe into his spine to urge him forwards. Dre bends down a little, places both of his hands on Marshall’s thighs to keep himself steady. Marshall’s second leg wraps itself around Dre’s waist, too, locking him in between his legs. The larger man shivers as he looks down into the blue eyes staring up at him, unswerving, pupils dilated and veins bloodshot from the smoking. "Mess me up."

The demand makes Dre grin. And it’s one he will gladly obey. He climbs onto the king sized bed, knees placed on the mattress. Dre manhandles Marshall into position until his head is resting on the pillows, his ankles still locked behind his back. "Mhm, y’want that?" he digs his hands into the sheets on either side of Marshall’s blonde head and leans down, faces close enough to feel each other’s breath on their skin, "maybe Suge was right when he called’chu a little bitch?" There’s no spite to Dre’s words. Marshall knows Dre had wanted to kill Suge right then and there, when it happened. 

As far as Marshall knows, he’s still planning to. 

Marshall flips him off anyway, sticking his middle finger right into the face hovering above his own. Dre closes his eyes in exasperation. "Suge was sayin’ that you’re lettin’ yo head get twisted by a little bitch. He was practically dissin’ you for bein’ stupid enough to fuck your protégé." Marshall gives his boyfriend a cheeky grin, "I ain’t took no offense in that."

"Only reason I took offense in that is ‘cause he got it wrong," Dre leans down and gives the earring in Marshall’s ear a playful tug with his teeth, "ya my little bitch, before anythin’. Nobody else gon’ call you that."

Marshall vividly remembers the day Suge came by that award show and tried to get him killed. He almost laughs at the memory. Marshall remembers the way Dre was barricading him, guarding him like an attack dog. He remembers how he stood up to Suge, the way all of his words were laced with venom, the way his eyes were burning with rage. Marshall was hiding behind him all the while, like he was weak or fragile, but he didn’t care about his pride at that moment. He was neither weak nor fragile, but that wasn't the point he had to prove that night. Dre doing that for him proved that he wasn't just fucking his protégé. He would’ve been ready to pull his gun for Marshall, right then and there. But luckily Suge didn’t have the guts to go further at that time, taking off with the men he sent to strong-arm Marshall after making sure to call them both a faggot. 

Whatever.

His boyfriend’s possessiveness was one of the many qualities that Marshall fell for. Being called his bitch was strangely fulfilling, even though he’d sock every other motherfucker across the face for it. Dre could call him whatever he wanted, if it meant he belonged to him. 

Marshall just stares up at Dre for a few moments. He slides up a hand to grip the back of his neck and pull him into a kiss again, but Dre avoids his lips and leans down to kiss along his jaw instead. The blonde lets out an annoyed huff at getting his will denied, squeezing the skin of Dre’s neck more tightly in an attempt to pull him up again. Dre pays no attention to him, just makes a dismissive sound and trails down further with his lips before settling on his throat. Marshall’s eyes flutter shut on their own accord when Dre starts lapping at the spot with his tongue, teeth pinching his skin, drawing a hiss out of the smaller man. 

His entire body jerks up and he lets out a broken moan when Dre bites down harshly and starts sucking yet another bruise into the pale skin. He squeezes his eyes shut, the grip on the back of Dre’s neck tightening again — this time to try and get him closer, instead of pulling him away. "Dre—" his breath is coming in quicker, his chest rising and falling more rapidly. Dre gives an appreciative hum against Marshall’s skin at the half-done plea. He really wanted to hear him beg tonight. 

"Dre, I swear— Ah—," Marshall's voice barely comes out louder than a whisper, while he tries his best to swallow down the humiliating whimper stuck in his throat, "I got a show tomorrow."

Dre pulls off his throat with a wet pop, a string of spit connected to his lips as he smiles down at the excessive amount of purple bruises Marshall’s skin was covered in. "Mhm," he reaches down to take a hold of Marshall’s white tee, starts pulling up the fabric until his chest is exposed, goosebumps spreading on the pale skin. He continues planting kisses on his body, moving down along his sternum, fingers slightly digging into Marshall's protruding ribs, "I know ya love lyin’ about all the bitches you’re fuckin’, so just keep doin’ that in front’a the cameras, babydoll."

"Stop talkin’, man," Marshall takes in a sharp breath of air at the tingling sensation. He unhooks his ankles behind Dre’s back and lowers one leg to stab his knee into Dre’s stomach, "you’re the bad liar, here."

Dre looks up at him from where he’s currently pressing a kiss into his navel, pupils swallowing up the warm brown in the dim light. "When I talk about fucking a bitch I ain’t lyin’," he muses, his smug face almost belittling. 

Marshall opens his mouth to counterattack, but Dre shuts him up early when he raises his hand and points a finger at Marshall’s shirt. "Get that shit off," he gives the order while hooking his thumbs into the waistband of Marshall’s underwear. 

The younger rapper complies. He grabs his shirt and pulls it off his body without sitting up, arching his back a bit to get out of the fabric more easily. He throws it onto the floor and then props himself up on his elbows, taking a better look at what his boyfriend was doing between his legs. 

Dre is busy leaving small hickies across his lower abdomen, teeth grazing over the sharp v of his pelvis.

He pulls Marshall’s pants down bit by bit, kissing over every new inch of skin exposed to him. Marshall takes heavy, focused breaths through his nose — watching. One of his legs is slightly trembling in anticipation, bent at the knee next to Dre’s head. He was even more keyed up whenever he was high. 

Dre reaches down, squeezes the back of his thigh to stop the trembling and hold him still. His other hand continues pulling his pants and boxers down, and Marshall’s jaw clenches when his hard dick meets cool air. He obligingly lifts his hips, allowing Dre to pull them past the swell of his ass. Dre stops there though, instead of undressing him completely, and blows a puff of hot air onto his dick. 

Marshall breathes in sharply through clenched teeth and his leg twitches again, yet this time his freedom of movement was restricted by the waistband digging into his thighs. Dre chuckles softly and leans down, slowly licking up the length in front of him and swirling his tongue around the reddened head a few times. The younger man starts panting, fingers digging into the bedsheets, instinctively spreading his legs as far as his pants would allow. Dre presses down on Marshall’s hipbone with his hand to keep him steady, before putting his lips around the leaking tip of his dick. 

Marshall throws his head back and a soft groan pushes through his lips, as he lets his head dangle between his shoulder blades. He gulps harshly and his hips buck up against Dre’s firm grip when he swallows his length down further. "Mmmh— fuck—" he gasps and jerks his head up again, gazing down at the larger man through heavy eyelids. He reaches down and runs his fingers over Dre’s buzzed hair, unsure whether he wanted to pull him off his dick or encourage him. 

"Dre—" he begs for something untold again. A desperate whine spills out as Dre hums around his cock, the vibration of it coursing up his spine, heat rushing right back down into his guts. Dre moves his head up and down, works it deeper into his mouth until he’s got his nose pressed against Marshall’s stomach. The blonde lets out a broken shout when his tip meets the back of his throat. "Shit, Dre— don’t—" he cuts himself off as Dre swallows around his length, his voice climbing right up into a desperate cry, hands smacking into the mattress in distress. He gasps and his legs start trembling again. "Dre, if you don’t stop—" Dre swallows around him again. "Fuck— I’m gonna come—"

The larger man gives in then, slowly pulling back with a soft chuckle. He glides his lips back to the head of Marshall’s dick and looks up at him as he flicks his tongue out to lap at the precum dripping off his length.

Marshall whimpers, clutching the bedsheets between two tight fists as he tries to get his breathing back under control. "Son of a bitch." He breathes the insult out on a long exhale. 

Dre pulls off his cock completely then, drool and precum dripping down his chin, white teeth flashing him a self-satisfied grin. "What, baby? Want me to stop?" he sits up on his knees, then pulls Marshall’s pants down completely along with his boxers, sliding his shoes off his feet as well, "what’chu need, sweetheart?" He drops his clothes to the floor, leaving him bare with the exception of Marshall’s mismatched socks. One of them belonging to Dre. 

Marshall’s chest is still rising and falling double quick, and he shoots his boyfriend a half-hearted glare. Being this hard for this long did a number on his temper. "Get your fucking clothes off, first of all." His voice wavers a little, despite him trying to sound as authoritative as possible, "second of all, quit messin’ around and fuck me stupid."

Dre grins. "But ya wanted to be messed up, Em," he sits back on his knees and slowly peels off his sweatshirt. He almost drops it to the floor — catches Marshall raising an eyebrow at him — and then remembers he can’t ever treat stuff his boyfriend gifted to him like that. A clear instruction he had been given, and he didn’t really wanna deal with the consequences. This white boy could slap you into oblivion with the back of his hand. Dre knew, speaking from experience. He avoided getting into arguments with him at all costs.

So, he duly throws the Gucci sweatshirt onto the armchair next to the bedside table, instead, and checks Marshall’s face again to see if he’s happy. He was. He was visibly appreciating Dre’s exposed chest, on top of that.  

Dre climbs back on top of him then, draping himself over his nude body — Marshall seemingly being buried by Dre’s vastly larger frame towering above him. Dre presses his big hand onto the pale chest beneath him and pushes the blonde back down against the mattress, having him lay flat on his back again. "I’ll gladly fuck you stupid tho, baby." 

Marshall takes a shaky inhale through his nose and reaches down, fingers latching onto the zipper of Dre’s jeans. Dre indulges him for a moment, placing both hands on his sides and sliding them down to rest on his hips. Just as Marshall is about to unzip his pants, Dre grabs his waist and flips him over in one motion. 

Marshall pants at the sudden shift, as Dre turns him onto his stomach and pushes him up onto his knees. He tries lifting up onto his elbows, but his chest collapses down onto the sheets again when Dre grabs his hips and pulls him back a little more. He face-plants onto the mattress with a muffled groan as the larger man shoves his clothed erection up against Marshall’s bare ass, the fabric burning his sensitive skin. The blonde turns his head to the side to breathe, an amused chuckle ringing in his ears from behind him. "Fuck you." He rests his tattooed arms on either side of his head in defeat. 

"Nah," Dre slides his hands down, running them over his thighs before moving back up to knead his ass, "sorry, you ain’t doin’ shit tonight, baby— you can punish me tomorrow."

He thrusts up against Marshall’s ass again, and the younger man stifles a moan by burying his face in the blanket, his back arching at the feeling. 

"Mh-mh." Dre sharply slaps his ass, before digging his fingers back into the flesh more harshly, "none’a that."

Marshall gasps, his head shooting back up instinctively at the stinging pain. Dre presses his fingernails into his skin and spreads his cheeks a little, thumbs stretching out to trace his entrance. Marshall swallows past a breathy whimper as he presses the side of his face into the cushions and pushes his hips back into the touch. "C’mon—"

"Be a little patient, will ya?" Dre murmurs, the smile in his voice audible, making Marshall whisper an insult into the pillow beneath him. "Jesus, baby—" Dre’s voice tightens as he hooks both of his thumbs into the soft hole, stretching it apart just a little, "you still so loose."

Marshall’s mind gets sidetracked in the memory of the events earlier this day, around five in the morning, given they had to show up at the venue at eight, already. Dre wouldn’t let him have his own, warm shower by himself — which had pissed him off enough already, cause he really needed to be left alone this early in the morning. Especially considering the sore head he’d been dealt with from all the ecstasy he’d popped last night. Dre had been happy to contribute to the soreness in his head, when he joined Marshall in the shower five minutes later, complaining about how there was only one fucking shower and how he hated the golden tiles. Midway through, for no apparent reason, Dre chose to keep him pressed against those exact tiles and finger him open, torturously slowly — which had pissed Marshall off even worse. And he wouldn’t even let him fucking come, no, he pulled back when Marshall got close and continued shampooing his head. Dre’s face got reacquainted with the back of Marshall’s hand this morning, actually, as soon as Marshall had dressed up, back on his energy, like a cat on hot bricks. Dre swore he could feel his cheek burn where Marshall had slapped him for hours. 

Marshall’s head snaps back into the present when Dre roughly shoves two long fingers inside of him and he chokes on a high-pitched moan as a painful sting crawls up his spine. He was not at all loose enough for Dre to be acting like this. Dre chuckles once, drags his fingers back slowly and spreads them apart to stretch out at his rim. Marshall winces, his torso sinking lower onto the bed to try and get away from the dreadful teasing. 

"Nuh-uh," Dre takes his fingers out to slap his ass again, another whimper leaking out of the blonde’s mouth as his pale skin turns red. Dre spits into his own hand and rubs his fingers together, immediately thrusting the slick digits back into the soft hole. He hits Marshall’s sweet spot with exact precision, making him keen and hike his hips back up in an attempt to repeat the action. "Hm, ya like that?" Dre smirks and pulls his fingers back again, starts scissoring them inside the tight heat, purposefully avoiding his prostate. 

Marshall just groans in distress and brings his closed fist down onto the pillows above his head, trying to get some tension out. "If you pull that shit you pulled this morning again— Oh, god—" he cuts himself off with a strangled whimper as his boyfriend adds a third finger, "I will kill you, Dre, I fuckin’ will—"

Dre coos at him. "You lyin’," - Not true. He thrusts his fingers in and out more forcefully, brushing over Marshall’s prostate ever so often. Marshall starts writhing around on the sheets beneath him, his back arching deeper every time Dre’s thumb strokes over his perineum. He adds a fourth finger and Marshall sobs. "You love this." - Maybe. 

Dre bends down, planting a kiss on the top of Marshall’s spine before leaning down to whisper into his ear, voice low and dark, "love watching you fall apart," he kisses his ear, bites it when Marshall buries his face back into the pillows to muffle his sounds, "love that I’m the only one who can see you like dis— the only one who can do this to you."

Marshall moans weakly and swivels his hips back against Dre’s fingers, trying to get them even deeper. He raises his head from where he had buried it in his arms, panting hard and whining on the exhales, "you just doin’ it best—"

Dre shuts him up by pressing his face down into the pillow with a firm hand on the back of his head, while spreading his fingers apart and pushing them against Marshall’s prostate relentlessly — Marshall must’ve hit a vulnerable spot with that statement. Dre was one jealous bitch. 

The blonde desperately cries into the fabric and claws at the bedsheets, kicking his leg up before ramming his foot back into the mattress with a loud groan. The mixture of pain and pleasure was intoxicating. This had to be even better than drugs.

Dre lets out a cruel chuckle, slides his hand down to rest at the back of his neck instead, but presses down just as hard. “Nobody’s doin’ this, ever, nobody but me, ya hear?” he keeps pinning him down, presses his thumb into his spine, allows Marshall to turn his head to breathe, "but ya can’t help bein’ a slut, huh? Always need somebody to fuck you just right — anybody." Marshall gasps for air, his breathing edging on hysterical with the way Dre kept hitting that spot, over and over again. Dre leans down again, his lips so close to Marshall’s ear he could feel his voice. "Just a dumb, fuckin’ bitch."

Marshall squeezes his eyes shut at that, Dre’s breath tickling in his ear, a full-body-shiver running through him at his mean words. "Fuck," he mewls into the pillowcase and feels a familiar heat pool in his stomach, again. "Dre— fuck, I can’t—"

Dre breathes hard and deep through his nose — his boyfriend’s desperate sounds really got to him. He turns his hand so that the widest part of it breached Marshall’s entrance, stops him from throwing his head back with the firm grip around his neck, and listens to the beautiful scream falling from his lips. Or rather sinful. 

He knows it’s too late when Marshall’s legs start giving out. He leans back, holding him up on his knees by slinging an arm around his waist. He feels Marshall clench around his digits, gasping and moaning uncontrollably, and that’s when he knows for sure. He watches in awe as Marshall topples over the edge, body seizing beneath him as he comes all over the satin sheets. His hips try bucking forward but Dre keeps him right where he is, has Marshall fighting for his breath and babbling Dre’s name into his fist. 

Dre stops thrusting his fingers into him, but keeps all four of them pressed against his prostate, massaging the spot firmly. 

"Holy fuck, fuck—" Marshall sobs again, feels some of his cum splatter onto his own stomach. Dre continuously abusing his prostate was milking him for all he had, "shit— I told you, I fuckin’ can’t—"

Dre pants behind him, loosens his grip on his waist to rub a soothing pattern into his spine. "God, baby— look at’chu," he starts pulling his hand back as the waves of Marshall’s orgasm slowly begin dying out, "all you needed was my fingers, huh."

Marshall pants into the pillow with closed eyes, struggling hard to catch his breath, tattooed arms laying around lifelessly above his head. "All I needed was your fuckin’ dick, you punk-ass fuckin’ bitch." There he was again. Shady, or maybe his usual post-orgasm-hostility. 

Dre’s fingers slip from his hole as it clenches around nothing a few times, swollen red and thoroughly fucked open. "You’ll get dick, baby, don’t’chu worry ‘bout a thing." Dre takes a shaky inhale and reaches into his back-pockets, fidgeting for the bottle of lube he always carried around. This wasn't some new thing. Dre really liked forcing a bunch of back-to-back orgasms out of him, and he’d done it multiple times before. Marshall would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t like it just as much — yeah, maybe he liked it even more.

As already sorted out, Marshall had high libido. Dre can’t even remember how they managed to stay off of each other’s bodies for the beginning months after their first meeting. They didn’t manage to keep that up for very long, obviously. That must’ve been bound to happen, Dre almost knew from the get-go. At that time he just didn’t expect he’d fall in love with the blonde this badly. He was still scared shitless of the extent to which his feelings have taken. That hadn’t been a part of his initial plan.

Marshall just mumbles an incoherent string of words into the pillows, his energy still at a low, his legs feeling like liquid and the high flowing back into his head. He heaves a needed breath and bends his arm back, flipping Dre off and eliciting a giggle from him. Dre smacks Marshall’s hand away and throws it back to rest at his sides. "Why you so mean, Em?" Marshall can’t see his face, but he knows he’s pouting. 

A tired smile tugs at his lips. "There’s a fine line between love and hatred, baby," Marshall lifts his head up to look at him over his shoulder, "you ‘bout to fall off that line, Andre."

Dre grins at him. "In which direction?"

"Off the bed, if you don’t get on with this."

Dre snorts and grabs him by the waist, flipping him over to lay on his back again. "So bossy, ain’t you," Dre plants his hands on either side of Marshall’s head, icy blue eyes staring daggers up at him, "you was raised wrong." 

Marshall involuntarily breaks into a grin at that statement. Yeah, right. Define wrong. "I wasn’t raised at all."

Dre smiles softly and leans down, placing a set of small kisses along his jaw. "I know." He presses his lips to Marshall’s temple, before tilting his head down and capturing the blonde’s mouth in a gentle kiss. Marshall’s eyes flutter shut and he feels his heart swell, the slow pace of Dre’s lips moving against his own making him feel giddy. He whimpers through his nose when Dre snakes a hand up Marshall’s freckled chest to pinch one of his nipples. He feels the blood rushing back into his limbs, waking him up, surging right back down into his cock. Dre could really play him like a fiddle. 

The larger man grunts when Marshall lightly bites at his lower lip and pushes his tongue inside his mouth, while reaching down to blindly fumble for the zipper of his pants again. This time, Dre lets him do what he needs to do, breathing in shakily as Marshall pulls his dick out of his boxers. In virtue of the fun he’s had by making Marshall come on his fingers, he almost forgot how painfully hard he’s been all this time. He groans into the younger’s mouth as his fingers wrap themselves around the thick base of his length. 

Marshall slides his hand up, jerking him slow a couple of times before dragging his thumb through his leaking tip. Dre pulls off his mouth to hiss a curse into the air, his eyes shut tight. Marshall smirks up at him and brings his hand back up, licking Dre’s pre-cum off his thumb while spreading his knees apart a little more. Dre’s pupils dilate as he watches him, gazing down between them for a second to find Marshall’s dick half-hard already. He looks back up to find the younger’s eyes locked onto his own. "We waitin’ for anythin’?" Marshall cranes his head back a little and grins, still maintaining eye contact, "want me to call my Momma? Order some food? Sign you an autograph?"

Dre scoffs. "Want you to shut up." He forces himself to look away from his captivating eyes and leans back, removing his hands from the mattress and placing them on his narrow waist. Dre loved how soft Marshall’s build and his features were, and how perfectly they went with his strength, despite that. He loved how he could see his toned muscles flexing whenever he was fucking him so hard he couldn’t breathe, how he could feel them tighten beneath his palms whenever he was touching him just right. Marshall was enthralling in the way that he embodied his feminine side, but how his masculinity still took the crown, never suffering from it one bit. 

Dre keeps him waiting another minute and bends his head down. He lets his tongue run over his stomach, slowly licking off some of the cum sticking to his skin. He laps at the 'rot in pieces' tattoo beneath his navel and kisses over the inked skin that consigns his ex-wife to the grave. Marshall sucks in a breath at a light bite from Dre’s teeth, his stomach caving in. He knew exactly what this gesture spelled out: possession. Dre was jealous enough at Kim’s name taking up space on Marshall’s skin, instead of his.

Marshall gently kicks his knee into Dre’s shoulder when he doesn’t retaliate, his growing hard-on becoming more of an issue for him once again. This man had him feeling weak. "Enough."

Dre smiles against his skin and nods, biting into the soft flesh one more time before straightening back up. "Sorry," he pulls Marshall down the mattress a little further and wraps his hands around his strong thighs, "I’ll reward your patience."

"I got none." Marshall complains, but feels hot arousal drench his body as Dre presses his thighs towards his own chest, spreading him open and exposing his quivering hole. Dre lets go of one of his legs to snap the cap off the bottle of lube he’d prepared. The lid clanks around on the wooden floor, and the larger man settles on keeping Marshall’s thighs pinned to his chest with one hand, gripping him under both knees. Marshall’s chest starts rising and falling more rapidly, fingers clutching at the sheets in anticipation. 

He didn’t expect Dre to press the bottle of lube right against his gaping entrance, and gasps frantically as Dre chooses to squeeze more than half of the liquid into him. "Shit—"

Dre keeps his twitching legs still, filling him up with lube until he can see some of the fluid leaking out of him, smiling smugly. "So wet for me, baby," he coats his dick in some of the leftover liquid as if that was still necessary, his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling, before carelessly dropping the bottle down onto the floor. His hand joins the one holding Marshall’s thighs down again, and the head of his cock catches onto Marshall’s rim as he plants his knees onto the mattress more firmly. Marshall chokes on a whine and feels his throat closing in, the slippery liquid leaking out of him making him blush fiercely. 

Dre breathes in deep, feels the self-restraint he’d shown this night fade away with each passing second. "Gonna have you beggin’."

He grabs the blonde under his thighs with purpose, pulls him down even more until Marshall’s ass was resting against his lower abdomen. Marshall is panting below him, eyebrows scrunched up in a plea and hands twisting in the bedsheets. Dre gazes down into the blue eyes staring up at him, his own eyes hooded and heavy with need. He squeezes his hands around Marshall’s thighs harder, and the blonde lets out a quiet, high-pitched whimper. "Dre, come on," he says his prayer, every vowel drawn out to accentuate his impatience. 

The larger man throws one of the younger’s pale legs over his shoulder. With his ankle positioned next to Dre’s head, the blonde starts bending his knee a little to dig the heel of his foot into Dre’s shoulder, urging his body forwards. The blunt tip of Dre's dick rubs over his hole in the process again, making his breath hitch and stop his antics. Dre groans and secures one of his hands around the calf pressed against his chest. He moves his other hand up to grip the inside of his knee, digging his fingers into the white skin harshly, red fingerprints blossoming beneath his hand.

Marshall winces as Dre presses his leg down even further, up until the back of his thigh was resting flat against his own chest. He felt almost bent in half, with Dre pinning his body down firmly and most of his weight shifted onto the arm he was using to keep him spread open. 

"Gonna fuck you till ya scream, baby," Dre rasps and pushes the thick head of his cock against Marshall’s entrance, pressing up against it until Marshall opened up for his length. "Fuck— been thinking about this the whole fuckin’ night, Em." He guides his dick inside, and Marshall starts writhing beneath him immediately, his stomach tensing up and a distressed groan vibrating in his throat. Dre was so fucking big. He still remembers the first time they’ve fucked and how he had felt every last bit of air being punched out of him at the feeling. He still wonders how the fuck he survived that, but Marshall had his preferences — Dre happened to be his preference. 

The first inches of his dick slip inside, and Marshall's legs twitch again, the one propped up on Dre’s shoulder bumping into his ear. Dre grins and playfully pinches the pale calf as a counter, yet he remains concentrated on the task ahead. Marshall felt a laugh bubble up inside of him — looking at Dre's mad focused face — but as soon as his stomach tensed up he choked on a gasp instead, feeling his boyfriend’s dick press up against his skin more firmly. Dre takes a sharp inhale through his nose at the feeling of Marshall clenching around his length as the younger lets out a breathy moan of his own.

The older man is panting hard, suppressing his own groans as he sinks into Marshall’s pliant body inch by inch. "Shit, Em, still so fuckin’ tight."

Marshall's jaw falls open in a silent scream when Dre yanks him a little closer again, slightly lifting his hips off the mattress, and the moan on his lips is quickly replaced by a wail as Dre involuntarily sinks in six inches all at once. "Fuck! Ah— God—fuckfuckfuck," Marshall was babbling, strings of curses turning more and more incoherent as the younger rapper's pitch got more breathy and thin with every sound. 

"Shh, baby, sorry," Dre presses his fingers into Marshall’s calf again, as a silent apology, this time around. 

Marshall could feel Dre's length throb hotly inside of him, could see how hard he was trying not to thrust up into him too soon. He finally lets the hoarse groan that had gotten stuck in his throat out, as Dre's dick brushes against his prostate, just before it starts pressing into it. 

Marshall’s continued curses dissolve into a strangled sob as the pressure increases, pushing and pushing,  working the rest of his dick inside of Marshall. He couldn’t hear his own voice over the blood pounding in his ears. He felt a seething heat spread everywhere in his body, felt like his guts and lungs were burning up, felt like he couldn’t take a full breath anymore. Sweat was dancing along his temples, running down into his bleached hair, accompanied by a tear or two. He’d do anything for Dre if he promised to never stop fucking him like this. 

"Love splittin’ you open on my dick," Dre tips his head back at the breathy sounds spilling out of his boyfriend, his own voice just as thick and tight. He swallows around a groan as he pulls out just a little to push back in further, "wish all these bitches were still here right now," Dre’s face breaks into a dazed grin at his boyfriend’s relieved moan, when his pelvis finally meets the back of Marshall’s thighs, "wish they could hear you when you’re like this— shit, I’d show ‘em who you fuckin’ belong to."

Marshall pries his squeezed-shut eyes open again to look up at Dre’s face. He feels his breath hitch, and feels his own face flush at the larger man’s flawless, lazy smile, dark eyes glittering in the orange light of the bedside lamp. He wants to reach up and trace his full lips with his fingers, wants to run his thumb over his sharper canines and kiss the dark circles under his eyes. His chest swells with something he doesn’t like thinking about, so he lets himself feel it, instead. 

He chooses to let one of his hands wander upwards — latching onto Dre’s shoulder first, then sneaking it behind his neck and running his nails along the sensitive skin there in the process. Dre leans down a little further on instinct at the intimate gesture, ducks his head lower in compliance and closes his eyes. The hand clutching at the inside of Marshall’s knee begins sliding down to the back of his thigh, relieving some pressure, thumb rubbing into his skin in soothing patterns. 

Marshall arches his neck a bit, pulls Dre down towards him and presses their lips together in a demanding kiss. Dre hums into his mouth, grip going softer as his hands move up and down Marshall’s muscular legs. Marshall digs his nails into Dre's scalp a little harder, scrapes them over his buzzed head, knows exactly how to touch him in order to get what he wants. 

Dre softly moans into his mouth, eyebrows turned up slightly, and Marshall wishes he could save the impure sound inside of a box and open it whenever he needed a reason to sin. Pushed on by the blonde’s way of toying with him, Dre starts demanding control and slips his tongue inside Marshall's mouth fully. He licks along his teeth, bites down on his lips, their kissing wet and messy, and just what they need. Dre continues kissing him at a torturously slow pace, while driving into him even deeper as he presses down on the smaller man’s body with his own weight. Marshall's thighs open up further instinctively, the new angle making him whimper and angle his pelvis upwards a little more, trying to get his boyfriend as close and deep as possible. 

Marshall whines into the kiss, voice thin and desperate. He felt borderline on edge already, but given he came once already, given he was this fucking high and given Dre was keeping his hard dick lodged solid against his prostate, he was going crazy in every sense of the word. He felt entirely filled up, his inner walls squeezing around the thick girth inside of him and making his higher reasoning slip away, turning him into a braindead bitch. His own dick was laying against his tattooed stomach, flushed red and steadily leaking pre-cum onto his own skin. 

Dre withdraws from the kiss and leans back, having trouble to release himself from Marshall's grip around his neck, but unfortunately he had to. Marshall's arms fall back to rest on either side of his head, his hands opening and closing in agitation. "So goddamn beautiful," Dre murmurs to himself, his deep voice making Marshall’s heart flutter, "wish you could see yourself."

Marshall was perfectly fine with seeing Dre in front of him, to be honest. He opens his mouth to try and tell him, but the only sound that leaves his throat is a soft, coarse groan. 

Dre gets the message and settles back on his knees. He plants a gentle kiss on the ankle resting on his shoulder before pulling out almost all the way and thrusting back in harshly. A throaty moan is punched out of the blonde's chest, one hand flying up to latch onto the headboard and dig his nails into the blackwood. Dre softly groans, the tight heat squeezing around him making his eyes roll back into his head. He breathes deep before pulling out again and setting a brutal pace, loud slaps reverberating in the air each time his pelvis connects with Marshall’s ass. Marshall turns into a writhing mess beneath him, his mouth falling open and eyes fluttering shut, his bicep flexing where he grips onto the headboard, and strangled moans falling off his lips with each hard push deep into his guts. 

Marshall’s muscles were pulled taught, contracting every time Dre's dick punched down into his prostate. "Ah— fuck," his head thrashes around on the pillows, his other hand twisting and pulling at the sheets, "harder—"

The excessive amounts of lube Dre had used on him gave a wet slide, the liquid squelching between them, gushing out of his dripping hole whenever Dre drove into him. The wet sounds made Marshall’s face heat up and flush in bright pink, sending the same heat up his ears and down his insides. Marshall always felt as if he had to beg God to restore his dignity after he let Dre fuck him. When their affair started Marshall would always hook up with a girl the next day to boost his ego. There weren’t enough prayers to make amends for all of his sins, though. 

Dre follows Marshall's instruction and picks up his pace. He’s panting heavily above the smaller man, deep groans escaping him as he watches his dick disappear into Marshall's body, over and over again. 

"God— baby," he looks up to peer at his boyfriend’s face, skin glowing red and lips swollen, sweat running down his temples and along his throat, "always takin’ me so fuckin’ well— look so beautiful all spread out on my dick."

Marshall wasn’t feeling as articulate as Dre, mouth hanging open uselessly, his desperate sounds not ceasing once. He gasps with every thrust inside, whines at every slow drag of the thick length against his walls. "Dre—" he chokes out his name, almost starts hiccuping when Dre slows his thrusts, just to put twice the force into them, "I’m not gonna— fuck— not gonna last—"

The grip around Marshall’s milky legs tightens as Dre leans back a little more, fingernails digging deep into the skin. "Want me to try and get three out of you?"

Marshall closes his eyes and shakes his head, mouthing the word 'No' as another strangled whimper leaks out of him. Dre grins darkly and settles on a harsh grind, the head of his cock constantly pressing deep into his sweet spot. Marshall lets out a long, raspy groan, his hand slipping off the headboard with how much sweat had gathered on his palms. He pulls his knees further towards his own chest in desperate display, the slow roll of Dre’s hips driving him crazy, turning his brain into mush. 

"Shit—" Dre hisses as he fixes his gaze on Marshall’s body again. His hand clutching the leg resting on his shoulder starts lowering it down to wrap it around his waist. Marshall does his best to help him and wraps his other leg around his middle as well, locking his feet behind his back. "So fuckin’ deep, Em." Dre rasps into the air, more to himself than anything. 

Marshall opens his eyes again and follows Dre’s gaze, staring down at the bulge in his stomach that the other's dick was pushing forward. He pants and lets his head fall to the side, feels tears prickling in his eyes as Dre grinds impossibly deeper inside of him. Marshall feels the head of his cock move against his abdominal wall and smacks his hand into the headboard in distress. 

Dre lowers his hand to press down on the outline of his dick, the pressure making Marshall’s back arch clean off the mattress. Another deep groan gets stuck halfway in Marshall’s throat, and he whines on the exhale. "Fuck, man," he croaks, voice hoarse and raspy. Dre whispers a curse to himself before moving his hand away, sliding it up his stomach, across his chest: settling on his throat. 

"You gonna come for me, baby?" He leans down a little, wrapping his hand around Marshall’s throat firmly. "Let the other guests here know what I do to ya." Marshall’s breath hitches and one hand flies down to grab onto Dre’s forearm holding him down. He nods weakly and tries opening his mouth, but his voice won’t come out with the way Dre is squeezing his airway. The larger man grins and glances down at his pink lips, drool running down his chin. He presses his thumb down onto Marshall’s windpipe more strongly and bends down, indulging the blonde in another bruising kiss. He groans into Marshall’s mouth as the change in angle allowed him to get even deeper, while Marshall scratches down his back, now in reach, and squeezes his legs tight around Dre’s waist. 

Dre breaks off the kiss and lets up on Marshall’s throat, watches red marks bloom right where his fingers had been. He groans at the sight of it and feels his guts twist, breathing deep to stop himself from coming right then. "Fuck yes—" he straightens back up and slides his hands along Marshall’s thighs clinging onto him, "—you’re fucking mine."

That’s all of a warning he gets before Dre suddenly pulls out completely, lube spilling out of his abused hole. As soon as he opens his mouth to cuss Dre out, his boyfriend pushes back inside harshly, making him throw his head back with a pained cry. "Jesus— holy shit, fuck—” he can’t stop his embarrassing sounds, panting so hard he feels his lungs burning up, "more." Dre grunts and doubles down on his thrusts, captivated by the helpless moans spilling out of his boyfriend, spurred on by watching him fall apart beneath him. 

"Yeah, let me hear you, baby," Dre was panting hard, shoving his dick into his boyfriend with all the energy he had left inside of him. He tips his head back and groans when Marshall clenches around his girth, feels his legs starting to tremble in his grip, his voice getting higher in pitch every time he buries himself inside, down to the hilt. 

"Fuuuuuck," Marshall sobs in between moans, his voice climbing right up into a high-pitched cry. He whimpers weakly as his prostate gets assaulted, clutching at the sheets even harder as every harsh thrust moves him further up the mattress. His eyelids are heavy and his vision is blurry, a mixture of tears and the drugs in his system. He only notices he’s crying when he tastes salt on his lips. "Dre— Dre, I’m gonna— holy fuck, fuck— don’t stop, please—"

A raspy groan leaves Dre’s lips at the sight, as he yanks Marshall back down a little. Marshall’s jaw falls open again, but the sound won’t come out, only a silent scream. He twists his fingers in the bedsheets, feels the muscles in his stomach pulling tight, feels a full-body shiver tear through him and his legs start shaking. His toes curl behind Dre’s back as he gasps into the heavy air, his face contorted into an expression akin to pain from the intense pleasure he feels, jaw slack, brows furrowed, and eyes closed. Dre shudders at the familiar reaction, the same heat cursing through his own limbs. 

"Come for me," Dre commands hoarsely, and that’s all Marshall needed to break.

Dre watches in wonder as Marshall’s body seizes on the sheets beneath him for the second time that night, head thrown back into the pillows, back arched as streams of cum spew all over his chest. His hips buck up wildly, hole squeezing around Dre’s length and making the older man rasp out a guttural groan. He continues fucking Marshall through his orgasm, making him come harder than in recent memory, revelling in the broken whimpers that rise up to his ears. "Fuck, yeah, baby— so fucking good for me— fuck—" his thrusts become increasingly more erratic, mouth hanging open as he watches the shameless act that seemingly wouldn’t stop. Marshall’s dick was still pumping out cum, and his shaky voice was slowly completely dying out in his throat. 

Marshall moans weakly as Dre keeps pounding into him, overstimulation settling into his guts as his prostate was ploughed into over and over again. He nearly sobs at the intensity, opening his eyes again to beg Dre with a look. Dre looks straight into Marshall’s reddened, blown-out eyes, swollen from crying and cheeks tear-stained. 

The look in Marshall’s eyes finally sends Dre over the edge as he pushes in deep and then stops dead in his movements, dick lodged far down in his guts. He moans loudy as he’s coming deep inside of him, rope after rope of cum spilling out into the tight heat. "Shit, that’s it, baby— hoooly shit—"

Marshall lets his eyes fall shut again, completely worn out, and whines at the feeling of cum being pumped into him. Dre rides out the waves of his orgasm, almost feels like passing out when he sees his release leak out of the blonde. He smooths his hand up Marshall’s stomach and presses down, watches more cum gush out of his hole and swallows harshly. He lets up when Marshall whines in annoyance, leans down to plant a kiss on his sternum and then slowly starts pulling out. 

Marshall lifts up onto his elbows with all the energy left in him, gazing down between them and gasping softly when Dre’s softening dick slips out of his abused hole. He unlocks his ankles behind Dre’s back and lets his legs drop back down onto the mattress, occasional aftershocks making his body spasm. "God," he sighs and pauses to take a deep, very needed breath, "what the fuck, Andre."

Dre is still breathing hard, a shaky giggle escaping him. "Yeah," he strokes over Marshall’s thighs, softly kneads into the tired muscles with his fingers, "what the fuck, Marshall?"

The blonde lets himself flop back onto the mattress again, stretching his arms out like a starfish and closing his eyes. The rise and fall of his chest slowly starts returning to normal. "Tha’was nice," he slurs, barely awake, the massage of his legs doing nothing to help his state. 

Dre chuckles and stretches out over him, kissing his forehead, his jaw, each tear stained cheek and his pointy nose. Marshall’s face scrunches up and he grumbles something unintelligible. 

Dre pulls back and gently smiles down at his half-asleep form. "Want me to clean you up, sunshine?"

"Mhm," Marshall hums, and Dre is sure he can see his consciousness slip away with each passing second. 

He rolls his eyes in amusement and lifts himself off his body again, his legs slightly protesting as he makes a move to stand up. He shuffles into the bathroom, grabs a fresh towel and soaks it with warm water. When he gets back to the bed, Marshall's position hasn't changed one bit, still laying down like a dead corpse. He stifles a laugh and kneels down next to him on the mattress. He wipes over his chest and stomach, lingering on the 'rot in pieces' tattoo longer than needed, once again. 

As if he could wipe it off. 

He gently lifts his legs up to clean up around his ass as well, picking up all of the stray semen and his own cum that had spilled out. He spreads his thighs apart just a little and wiggles two fingers into him, barely met with any resistance with how loose he’s fucked him. Marshall grunts above him, but Dre focuses on his task. "Shh, you’ll thank me," he reassures him, scooping out some of the leftover cum with his fingers so Marshall wouldn’t feel like a sticky bitch, or complain like a bitchy bitch tomorrow morning. He wipes his hand on the towel when he’s done and then throws it across the room, past the open bathroom door. 

He sighs and drops down into the soft mattress next to his boyfriend. He turns Marshall onto his side, ignores another complaining grunt from him, and then cuddles up to him from behind. He pulls up the blanket and then wraps both arms around him. He slings them across his stomach and chest, pulls him close and buries his nose in the sweaty crook of his neck. He bathes Marshall’s neck in his hot breath, plants a gentle kiss on top of his spine and mumbles an 'I love you' into the skin. 

Marshall barely registers it, and he doesn’t have the strength to say it back. Instead he lifts his hand to place it on top of Dre’s arm holding onto his waist and gives it a light squeeze. Dre smiles against his skin and closes his eyes then, the same exhaustion pulling him into darkness soon after.

When Marshall wakes up, he’s alone in bed. He woke up that morning once already, but it had still been dark outside then, so he didn’t bother. He turns over, rolls back and forth a bit until he notices the empty space on his side. Unwillingly, he blinks his eyes open and stares into the warm light that the morning sun was casting into their room through thin curtains. He hears the sound of something being spat out, and turns around on his other side to look into the bathroom. Dre was currently busy rinsing his mouth, putting his toothbrush back into the cup that stood by the sink. Marshall smirks at the sight. Dre probably woke up with the taste of dick on his tongue. Deservedly.

Dre turns around to pick up a fresh towel and notices Marshall watching him. He smiles and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Good morning, sweetheart."

"Morning." Marshall mumbles, his voice still rough and deep, like it always was when he woke up, or when he spent the night screaming too much. Which either happened when he went to raves to get fucked up to the point his body was more sweat than flesh, or when he had fantastic sex. The combination was kind of cool, too. But Dre doesn't do raves.

Dre smirks and turns his back on him again. "M’ gonna shower real quick," he looks over his shoulder to flash him a smile, "care to join me?"

Marshall gives him a tired grin and rolls back onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillows again, voice muffled by the fabric. "I don’t need no shower."

Dre snorts, "ya smell like dick, but whatever." 

Marshall smiles into the pillow. "The crowd can’t smell me, man."

Dre closes the door, shouting his answer through the wall. "Luckily!"

Marshall sighs and decides to try and get up, too, after a while. This was going to be a long ass day. He sits up, feels a painful twinge in his lower back and an uncomfortable tension pull at the muscles in his legs. He utters an insult to himself and then stands up, feels his knees buckling but catches himself before he drops to the floor. Performing would go amazing today. He carefully waddles over to their shared closet and pulls out a pair of boxers and his Adidas sweatpants. 

He puts them on and scuffles through the bedroom, as he listens to the water starting to run and the shower being turned on in the next room. He opens the glass door that leads to their balcony, steps outside for a minute to let the orange light of the morning sun hit his face. He closes his eyes and breathes deep, shifts around on his feet a bit before lurching back inside. He steps over to the TV and picks up the remote, skipping through every channel to search for something entertaining. He settles on the one that broadcasts a replay of an american football match. The Detroit Lions weren’t playing, but whatever — at least that meant he wouldn’t have to get angry about anything. He paces around the room again, the game’s host's ecstatic voice blaring from the screen as Marshall searches for something. 

He crouches down next to the suitcase he still hadn’t fully unpacked yet, and reaches into it’s side pockets. He rummages around a bit before he pulls out the pack of menthol cigarettes he bought at the airport, even though he rarely ever smoked. Maybe the California air made him crave this.

He hears Dre’s muffled voice hum a strange melody to himself, seeping through the bathroom’s walls. He smiles and puts a cigarette behind his ear, then throws the package back onto the bed. The water turns off and he can make out the sound of Dre stepping out of the shower, onto the tiled floor. The bathroom door opens and a dripping wet face peeks around the corner of the doorframe. "Em, can you get me my bathrobe?"

Marshall grins at his stupid face and moves back onto the balcony, where Dre had put his bathrobe out to dry yesterday. He grabs it and throws it across the room. Dre catches it with one hand and mumbles a 'thank you, baby', before his head disappears behind the corner again. 

Marshall leaves the balcony’s door agape to let some fresh air inside, glances at the TV once, and then grabs a lighter from Dre’s jeans still laying around on the floor. He shuffles over to the bathroom, steam flowing out of the open door, while Dre is busy drying his head with a towel. Dre catches Marshall's figure approaching him through the reflection in the mirror. He glances at the cigarette stuck behind his ear, as he shakes his head to get the water out of his own. 

"Ain’t these fuckin’ menthols the ones your stepdad used to smoke all the time?" Dre asks as he looks into the mirror more closely and examines his hair, "that fucking faggot bitchass."

Marshall leans against the doorframe, lighting up his cigarette and watching Dre through his reflection. "Don't talk about my stepdad with your dick out."

Dre rolls his eyes and ties his bathrobe’s straps around his waist. He leans closer to the mirror and stares at the dark, purple spot beneath the hinge of his jaw. "When the fuck did you do this?"

Marshall chuckles and blows the smoke out of his mouth. "Earlier, while you was sleepin’," he gingerly tilts his head to the side and smiles at Dre’s reflection glaring at him, "you’re a deep sleeper, you know. That one time I was drunk as shit when I came home and you was sleeping on my side of the bed, so I had’ta move you myself." He takes another push and exhales the smoke again. "But’chu didn’t even notice. Not when I was dragging you across the mattress, and not even when I started singin’ a song right into your face to get on your nerves."

Dre turns around and crosses his arms above his chest, leaning back against the sink. "Maybe I looked like I was sleepin’, but I did hear that, boy," he clicks his tongue, "that was Nancy Sinatra, am I right?"

Marshall snickers again. "My baby shot me doooown," he chants, the exact tune he’d sung back then. He pauses the melody to pout at his boyfriend, sulkily. "And why didn’t ya tell me how great my singing was, if you were awake that whole time?"

Dre smiles and steps closer to Marshall, arms still crossed. "Your voice just lulled me back to sleep so fast, baby," he stops in front of the smaller man and reaches down to steal the cigarette balancing between his lips, "like milk and honey bein’ poured into my ears."

The corners of Marshall’s lips tug upwards again, as he watches Dre take a push and blow the smoke down into his face. He blinks up at him, tries his best not to get seduced by Dre simply smoking a fucking cigarette. "Yeah? Want me to sing for you more often?"

"I do," Dre flashes him a smile and then sticks the cigarette back between Marshall’s parted lips, "I like your voice best when you’re singin’ or screamin’."

Marshall lets the cig dangle off his mouth and dumbly stares up at the larger man, feeling a blush creep up into his cheeks. He crosses his arms across his chest, too, to assert power. "Want me to scream into your face to lull you to sleep?"

Dre breaks into a giggle and leans down to press a kiss to the blonde’s forehead. "I’m begging you to please never do that."

Marshall definitely would.