Breathe Like Me
So maybe he cared what those fuckers thought. Nah, he was glad they fucking kicked him out of the game. Now he could take care of shit that actually meant something to him. Whole afternoon was free now, and the rest of the day was going to go according to his rules, not some dumb ass MTV Celebrity softball coordinator asshole who actually thought that Eminem would shave his dick, strap his balls up and give a fuck. The only excuse for him agreeing in the first place, must have been some crack he smoked, or something.
MTV celebrity softball? What the fuck brain damaged bitch thought it was a good idea to get a bunch of pop idols with huge ass egos together and give 'em big sticks to swing? That was some lame shit. Now, Celebrity Rap teams would have thrown down some damage that would have brought some ratings in, and been pretty fucking entertaining at the same time. Plus then, he wouldn't have felt like he'd wasted three hours of his life.
Oh, he'd tried to do what he could to get the lame asses sparking, pumping out there like they weren't a bunch of chickens with no dicks--mooning Justin Timberlake, fake jacking off in Chris Kirkpatrick's direction. Yeah, it earned him a now Em, this is for charity, and aired during family viewing hours speech from the Coordinator's assistant. Assistant! Cause that fucker was too scared to come over and tell Marshall himself. Little bitch.
So, he'd decided to sneak that shit in, go all covert and hit 'em when they didn't expect him to. Yeah, he knew how to play that game because Kim was all about that. She was a loud bitch, and buck wild when she got pissed, but she'd always started out with the sneaky mind games first. So subtle, sometimes it had taken days for him to realize what game was up, and by that time she'd graduated to full out smacking him upside his head. Oh yeah, Kim had taught him all about that, so he'd felt pretty confident that he could get some shit started before anyone realized what was up.
He didn't remember what had prompted him to zero in on Dominic Monaghan, Elijah Wood's faggot boyfriend, (co-star, suck toy...whatever it was called.) But he had remembered what a little bitch that one acted like at the 8 Mile premeire, like he just knew that Marshall had been so stoned that he'd let an equally wasted Elijah suck his dick.
Please. That hadn't meant anything, it was just some crazy shit that went down because they had both been so fucking out of their minds. There was no way Monaghan could have known about that, so the bitchiness must have been just a natural tendency. After all the other bullshit that afternoon, maybe that had just been the fucking straw for Marshall. Whatever, he hadn't had time to analyze it.
So, a couple of accidental tossing of bats too close to where Dominic stood--maybe one or two unintentional shoulder bumps that no one else saw, and that little bitch took the bait so, so easily. Monaghan had actually thrown his glove down...thrown it on the ground like a damn girl (fucking prima donna) and had then demanded to know what the problem was.
And it had been so easy for Marshall to throw his hands innocently up in the air, say sorry, man. There's just a lot of people up in here. No room. Didn't mean nothing at all. People of course had assumed that Marshall was doing something, but they couldn't prove it without any actual evidence. So that left a lingering doubt for everyone else, that turned to seething conviction for Monaghan when Marshall kept playing him.
It might have been Elijah's frowns that egged it on further, making Marshall raise the stakes slightly each time he did something. The frown, and the disappointment it conveyed that shouldn't have meant shit, but had for some bizarre reason he hadn't been able to figure out, did. Plus, the glares from Dominic in the outfield had been fucking hilarious.
So, that was probably what Marshall's problem had boiled down to-he'd just been having such a good time screwing with Monaghan, but also getting pissed at Elijah for going along with his pussy friend. Like maybe Elijah could have cut Marshall some slack, since he'd given him a blowjob for Christ sake, and could have quit treating him like the same asshole thug everyone else did. It had just been fun, a way to pass the time at a lame thing like that shit. It wasn't the fucking World War III everyone had made it out to be.
So because of that, an edge of anger crept into the spirit of the competition. Marshall hit a couple of line drives to that little pussy Monaghan...well, five or six to his head intentionally (And could Marshall help it if that little bitch Monaghan can't catch a ball if he had two of them attached underneath his dick?) and the referees had pulled Marshall out of the game since they had their evidence now-and wasn't he bad, and weren't things going to be so much friendlier now.
It was all good though, because he hadn't been jacked up for standing out there shaking his ass to the cameras anymore anyway. At that point, he'd been tempted just to walk out there on the field and pop both those motherfucker hobbit boys right in the mouth. But he hadn't. Good for him. He was a bigger person. It had gotten lame and boring as far as he was concerned anyway. So fuck 'em all, and he'd remember not to participate in shit like this in the future because it was wacked. Plain and simple.
The locker room is empty since there are still four more innings. Marshall picks up a bat. It feels good in his hand as he takes a couple of experimental swings, and he tries to see how close he can get to the locker without hitting it.
He feels wired, bouncing from the ball of one foot to the other, dancing as he continues swinging-one left handed--two right,--two left--one right. A muffled thump behind a door across the room startles him and he turns around with bat raised defensively. What the fuck is that, a closet? Probably some tabloid sleaze in there trying to get a picture to sell. Well, see what he can sell with his head busted open.
Marshall hooks the door with a toe, nudges it open wider, and steps through with bat held high. "The fuck you think you're doing?"
He feels a little paranoid when he sees a bag on the floor, obviously having fallen off the shelf, balls rolling haphazardly across the floor until they line up against the wall. He can't stop a quick chortle, "Damn, need to settle down. You gettin crazy." He tosses the bat on the floor in the corner of the equipment closet, and turns to get his shit and get the fuck out of there. He's not as alone as he thinks.
"What the hell did you think you were doing out there?"
And here's just the pussy he's just been thinking of. Dominic tries to fill the doorway with a little bit of menace, arms braced one on either side of the door jam. Marshall tries not to focus over Dominic's shoulder, where he can see Elijah loitering with a concerned expression. And hell no, he's not going to take more of that here, he's done for today.
"You've got a problem with me?" Monaghan is all restrained fury.
Isn't this what he's wanted all afternoon? Marshall's mental swagger is only too obvious; filter long destroyed from having to defend every word, every action. He's happy to beef with this one, even though there's no sport in it- like smackin down a yappin' ankle biter. "Don't be coming up in here trying to spark, bitch. You a broken down nag, I'm straight out the gate."
Dominic shakes his head as he starts swaying forward and backward in the threshold. Shoulders and biceps flex on his slim frame, muscles popping up all the way down to his forearms and above his wrists. "Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. Half the time, I don't know what you're on about."
"I don't got beef with you. I just think you're the weak spot in the outfield, and I'm always in it to win it." He throws a smirk in at the end of the sentence, just to see what kind of reaction he gets. Dominic's spine stiffens; chin comes up. Heh.
"I think it has something more to do with you being a homophobic asshole," Dominic hisses furiously, eyes flashing.
"Not that tired shit again, pull something a little more creative out of your ass."
Dominic points a finger in emphasis. "I don't have to prove shit to anyone, and especially not to you. All you are is an image."
This is a familiar refrain to Marshall. This conversation is starting to get boring without the beating he's envisioned. He whips out standard answer number 42: "Here you come, talkin' shit about people you don't even know. What you know about me? Dick."
Dominic's voice rises in true anger, and it echoes in the room. "Yeah, I know about your dick, being sucked." There's a soft gasp from Elijah that makes Dominic's lips thin out as he realizes what he's just said.
Marshall's attention is immediately drawn to Elijah whose eyes are frozen in astonished embarrassment. Fucker. Marshall can't explain why he feels like popping Dominic for real this time, but it's finally it's out in the open, which is a lot better than dancing around it like they have been. "By your bitch boyfriend," Marshall barks out, and he feels like shit for saying it when Elijah flinches, but he's all pissed and defensive again. For someone who's supposed to love his boyfriend, that shit's cold. Bitch deserves to get slapped down.
"That's right. Who is a MAN. Is that why you pulled that shit? You're trying to stake some claim?" A red flush creeps over Dominic's face, and he takes a step closer.
Marshall meets him, and they're staring eye-to-eye, fists clenched at their sides as they see who'll be the one to throw the first punch. "Fuck you. You don't know me."
A man, that's the heart of this problem, but he doesn't need this one lecturing him about it.
"I know you're a questionable father with no talent."
No. No. No. That's it. He'll kill this bitch with no problem. Instinctively rushing him, grabbing a handful of Dominic's shirt, Marshall uses all of his weight to throw them both back against the lockers. He would really like to just shove Dominic's head against the metal until his eyes roll back in his head. "I know you just did not fucking say that, you pussy."
A hand reaches between them, rests on his arm, and halts him. He tracks the length of wrist and forearm, up to shoulders and blue eyes. Elijah's concerned expression has a strange effect; it calms him. Which is weird since in the last fifteen minutes, he's been alternately prepared to beat the fuck out of him, and protect his feelings.
"He was just kidding," Elijah promises with a smile, looking directly into Marshall's eyes, and pushing slightly at the arm that holds Dominic in an attempt to get Marshall to loosen his grip. Elijah swivels his head, gives a quick glance to Dominic, and a low, "get out of here before he really does beat the shit out of you." before turning back.
"Trying to save your boyfriend?" Wood really does have the longest eyelashes Marshall has ever seen, which is an incredibly stupid detail to fixate on at this time.
Elijah laughs easily, "Just avoiding a potentially pointless situation." and bends his elbow, swinging his body between Marshall and Dominic, insinuating himself as a shield between their violence. Apparently not afraid to initiate intense stares with enraged rappers.
"Or maybe you're interrupting an important male ritual, and I'll turn on you and rip you to shreds?"
He nods seriously, but the dimples give him away. "I'm not worried, there's a tranquilizer gun trained on you right now."
"Heh, yeah." Tranquilizer gun? Maybe hypnotism, because the fight's leaving Marshall and he feels like an idiot for trying to protect Elijah. What does he care what they say to each other. Marshall loosens his grip, gives one obligatory shake. He lets go entirely, slaps his palm against the metal next to Dominic's adam's apple and rests his weight against the smooth surface.
So yeah, Marshall's just going to let it go, and it seems like an appropriate time to try and joke his way out of this crazy ass situation. "I don't wanna be drugged and thrown into the back of a truck again. I hate that shit."
"Right." Elijah tilts his head, keeping his gaze on Marshall, and says to the air behind him, "Get out of here Dominic. I'll call you tomorrow."
There's an indignant reply from behind him. "Elijah!"
"Seriously, I don't think I can hold him back much longer." Elijah raises his other hand, places his palm lightly against Marshall's chest, not even trying to exert any pressure.
"The hell I will." Monaghan shoots back angrily.
"Dominic. You don't want to get into this right here. I'll call you tomorrow."
Several seconds of tense silence, precede Monaghan striding angrily out the door. There are a few muttered, words that sound suspiciously like shit, and fuck, then a door slamming.
"Well, he caved like a bitch." Marshall drawls as soon as they're alone.
"And you wouldn't have, right?"
He doesn't know what it is about that devious little grin that makes him answer sharply. "I wouldn't let my boyfriend grope another man and then throw me off like a used condom." And now he's sounding as jealous as Dominic, which just proves he's out of his mind.
"I've heard that about you. So you'd rough me up? Show me who wears the pants, or who tells me if I get to wear them or not?"
"I wouldn't let you..." Marshall stops mid sentence. This kind of possessiveness is usually reserved for cheating ex wives, and it's disturbing to recognize it here. He's not going to go all crazy and shit. "You're not mine. So there's not gonna be any discussion about pants or lack of em."
Either Wood's oblivious to the psychological mess he's prodding here, or he has an enormous amount of confidence in his ability to talk his way out of a violent situation. "Yeah? Well at least you've brought up the safe sex issue."
"You are so..." He's starting to feel some sympathy for Monaghan. He can't even find a word to finish the sentence.
The muscles in Elijah's chest and shoulders shift as he bends his arm and leans in closer. Whisper-soft puffs of cool air as he snuffles, inhales and exhales Marshall's scent in the lessened space between them before suggesting, "Cute? Sexy? Hot?"
"Insane. Suicidal. Barking up the wrong tree."
" You really cling to that persona of denial," Wood says, just like he's figured out the therapy for 30 years of being fucked up, a self satisfied little smile playing on his mouth.
Marshall doesn't understand how Elijah can do that. Start this flirtatious banter like he just expects everyone to be so charmed. Doesn't he know that a lot of guys would leave him bleeding on the floor? Didn't his boyfriend just storm out of here in a rage and he's flirting like nothing ever happened. "So you broke this up to save your boyfriend, or to analyze me?" Marshall's very curious to hear the answer.
"Actually, I wanted to feel your manly bicep." Elijah confesses as he does just that with his hand stroking slowly, and a devastatingly fuck me expression on his face.
It would be infuriating to have to put up with this all the time, but something about those giddy dimples and bright eyes just draws him in, and he doesn't know what the hell is going on anymore. He should have either punched him by now, or walked out, but he's still here and having this weird obsession about seeing where this leads. It just seems too easy for Marshall to emulate the confidence, as if this isn't the most fucked up thing he's ever done. "I got a lot of other manly parts."
"I know."
"Yeah." He shouldn't have said that, because his dick's got phantom cock sucking flashbacks, and has a complete mind of it's own now. He's not supposed to be standing here with flashbacks of Elijah kneeling in front of him with glistening drops of cum at the corner of his mouth. And he definitely shouldn't be standing here wanting to fuck another man into the metal door behind him.
"Well, let's start at the top and work our way down." There's no tentative approach. Elijah seals their lips together and kisses Marshall openly, wet and raw as he reaches to rub his hand over the rapper's genitals. Like he has to immediately raise the arousal level to a certain point where reason and doubt are low priorities.
There's no alcohol or weed to explain why Marshall sucks on Elijah's tongue when it enters his mouth, why he can't breathe. There's just another man exploring the roof of his mouth with an intimacy that has no business existing, period. There's just a hot, sweet ache that start at the base of his cock and spirals up his spine, ending in white flashes that explode in his brain. There's just the hazy dread in his heart because he knows that whatever this is, it changes everything. But mostly, there's Elijah, and his tongue, and two hard cocks that need some kind of release.
Damn, one kiss and he's lost all sanity, left with a need to be buried in something tight... with sweat rolling between his shoulder blades, until someone calls out to their mother or God.
Fingers stroking him through nylon, and he's about to rethink the fact that he doesn't believe in maternity or deity, and be the first bitch to start begging. This is just stupid as fuck, and he should be busting ass, pushing this one off of him. Instead, he says," I can't do this. I don't want reporters crawling up my ass over this." Because that seems like a reasonable excuse.
So reasonable as Elijah presses his nose against Marshall's face, scrapes his front teeth around a cheekbone. "Come with me. I've got a car outside."
"Go where?"
They are so incredibly close, flat, hard muscles as a chest and a shoulder bump together, as a forearm and a hip meet briefly, when a wrist pushes deeper between Marshall's thighs to wrap around his cock. "I live very close. It's private. No one will see us." The material of Marshall's warm up pants is slippery. It takes several fumbling attempts for Elijah to get a proper grip, and squeeze gently as he assures, "We don't have to do anything you don't want to. We can just drink a beer, or smoke some pot. Whatever you want."
"I want everything to be simple--very clear-very black and white." And this is starting to feel like a finger painting that's all fucked up."
"You don't have to do anything. Just relax, and let me worry. Come on." Every word is whispered enticingly into Marshall's neck, breath stirring the tiny, fine hairs there.
Oh so stupid. "Alright."
(end part 1)
It is close.
They slip from the car, into the darkness of the enclosed garage. He doesn't know why, maybe his brain is confusing this with a date, but Marshall reaches out as they're standing at the door and puts his hand on Elijah's shoulder. There's no protest, just careful silence, and Marshall slips his palm across between nape and spine, curves around Elijah's arm and pulls him closer. His shoulder collides gently with Marshall's chest, and he holds very still when Marshall gently closes teeth around his earlobe briefly, then asks, "You live alone?"
"I do. My mom actually owns the property, and I live in the guesthouse here." A slight tilt of the head positions Elijah for further nibbling, exposing his neck if that should also prove a lure.
"You're mom lives here!" He doesn't really mean for that to sound as panicked as it does. That's weird isn't it, living with your mom at his age? Marshall knows there's nothing in hell that would keep he and Debbie peacefully cohabitating.
Elijah grabs Marshall's arm when he tries to jump away. "It's okay, really. She doesn't disturb me when I have guests."
"You don't have anything that you need to do, or to take care of?" Marshall really wants him to remember some appointment, or date, or the fact that his mom's coming down to wash his underwear, because then they can both back out of this easily.
"There's nothing until tomorrow afternoon." Elijah turns to face the rapper and bites at his clavicleplayfully. "You could stay tonight. If you want to." He looks up through lashes as if trying to gaugewhat the reaction to the invitation will be.
"I don't think that's a good idea. In fact..."
"Shh, no." Elijah pulls gently on his hand, backing them towards the door behind. "You don't have to stay allnight. Just a few hours. It's not such a big thing."
Marshall allows himself to be led into a room with a sunken floor and a piano screened in by huge-ass, spikey leaved trees in big pots. Old movie posters are framed on the wall, and a mirror hangs over a bar along one wall. There's a glass front cabinet that's filled with comic book action figures near one of the windows, and a low, cherry-red couch occupies the center of the room, with a black lacquered coffee table sitting in front of it.
"Fuck, this is cool." Marshall gapes at everything, momentarily forgetting his earlier intention to leave.
"You can help yourself to anything," Elijah offers, gesturing to the neat collection of bottles lining the shelf behind the bar.
"Yeah, that's the shit." Marshall wanders over andselects a bottle, takes off the cap and pulls a long swallow directly from it.
Elijah laughs. "I have glasses." When Marshall answers by taking another swig, Elijah just shakes his head and approaches the bar. He leans over, and snags a clear plastic bag from underneath. "You want to smoke some?"
Marshall lowers the bottle. "It's okay?" he asks, feeling nervous about a parent in the vicinity, and decides he's sixteen years old again-worried about getting caught. Not that he didn't always steal his drugs straight from Debbie's stash anyway. At Elijah's confident nod,Marshall decides-what the hell-and follows his host over to the couch. He sits down on the red cushions and is a little surprised when Elijah plops down on the table facing him.
The bag is filled with dried green leaves.
That's his weed? Just pathetic. "No, dog. We ain't gonna smoke that shake. That shit won't even get you high." Marshall will have to take charge of this situation; he sets the bottle on the end of the table, leans back, and thrusts his pelvis forward so he can get a hand in his pocket. He fishes a small metal tin out in his hand. "We need some chronic if we gonna do this right."
"Chronic?" Elijah asks in confusion.
Marshall nods. "Dre's weed."
Now his host gets it. "Oh, like before. At the premiere."
He better not be blushing. Marshall opens the tin and separates a sticky bud. He positions it on the edge of a paper, spreads it out for the entire length and proceeds to roll it into a cigarette. "Yeah, who sold you that crap? Can't get stoned offa shake." He licks the edge of the paper and twists it to bond the seal. "You'd think a movie star would get a decent fucking drug connection."
More laughter. "I guess that's why I need you, to introduce me to the protocols of America's drug culture."
"Damn straight." Marshall spies a lighter in a basket of condoms on the table and picks it up. His brain sends up a warning flag as that information surges through÷abasket of condoms-he squashes it quickly. When the blunt flares to life, he tosses it back. After a deep inhalation, he hands it to his host. "There ya go."
Elijah takes a hit, and passes it back. He holds it in for half a minute, then ends up coughing. He's not usedto the potency, but he does better than at the premiere.
Marshall takes a larger hit, knowing he'll have to take the majority of this joint, or the kid's gonna be majorly fucked up. Of course, that ended well for him last time. When he sees Elijah's okay from the last turn, he hands the joint back. "I'm serious. This place is fucking amazing. It's like a goddamn James Bond bachelor pad, or something. You're mom's real cool, huh?"
Elijah giggles as he hands the blunt back. "Yeah, she's great. I'm glad you like it." He blinks and shows a lot of teeth when he continues, "And I'm glad you agreed to come over."
Marshall licks his lips and sucks at the end of the paper. The smoke makes him close his eyes briefly, but when he lowers the blunt, he keeps it because Hobbit boy is starting to look pretty wasted.
By Marshall's next hit, Elijah seems content not to be included. He's picked up a tube of something out of the basket where the lighter came from, and seems fascinated by it, turning it over as if to read the printing, and snapping the cap open and closed.
"You do this a lot?" Marshall asks, watching every move closely. The kid is very graceful, even with those skinny fingers and stubby nails. The blunt's getting toasted, so Marshall stubs it out in an ashtray, then sits back
"Get stoned?" Elijah guesses, looking up from the sparkly yellow tube.
"Bring people that you barely know into your home and fuck them." Marshall settles back into the cushion,wondering why he sounds so accusatory. What the fuck does he care what some little twink slut does with his life?
Elijah squeezes the tube, and a line of glittery gel squirts onto his index finger. "Well, we haven't evendone that yet, but, no. Not generally." He leans forward and swipes the glitter across Marshall's cheekbone.
Marshall turns his face away. "Don't put that shit on me."
Elijah shrugs and flings the tube behind him. It hits the table, but slides across the surface and goes over the edge. He doesn't seem too concerned about it, and wipes the sparkly stuff off of his finger onto his sweats.
Perversely, Marshall asks, "So, you just stay in and suck Dominic's dick?"
Elijah's eyes narrow, and he bites his lip. "Sometimes he sucks mine. Why is this such an issue?"
"It's not my issue. I'm just wondering if you're getting off on seeing your boyfriend all jealous, or if you're looking for a replacement."
"Look Em," Elijah says in a voice that's a cross between stoned and sarcastic, and is actually sexy as hell. "I don't want to marry you, or move you in. It's simple, really. I just want to fuck you." He says the last as he moves and straddles Marshall, sliding his knees to either side of the rapper's hips and widening the spread until their groins meet.
The contact is erotic, and Marshall's hard, harder than he should be with another man rubbing his dick against him. He thinks he might faint when Elijah bows his back, twisting and arching as he whips his shirt over his head. Golden skin coats Elijah's rib cage, he's been out in the sun. Not a lot, but certainly long enough to toast bare skin and build a layer of muscle. Probably doing something athletically graceful.
Yeah, Marshall can see that. It wouldn't be something brutal where you were ahead if you could damage other people÷drop them to the ground, kick them, hit em with a stick. No, it would be something that required stillness, balance. There would be some essence of timing, and patience as you waited for the exact right time. Elijah poised in waiting, tense physically, but very calm and centered.
Elijah laughs softly at Marshall's intense concentration on his torso. "You can take your shirt off too."
Marshall follows suit after some prodding, thankful he's been working out. He wonders what Elijah sees, what he thinks. Marshall's shaped his body into the image of strength he's used to seeing÷a body that's made for offense, and Marshall's intrigued by an aesthetic he's never considered before. Elijah runs fingers over the various tattoos, Hailie's face and name, his epitaph to Kim. The chapters of Marshall's life are no secret; he wears them proudly because every second he's lived has made him what he is today.
"Get a tattoo about me," Elijah teases as he drags his fingers over Marshall's nipples, then traces 'Rot In Pieces' over his stomach.
"What? 'You never met a cocksucker as good as him.'?"
Elijah twists an areola between his thumb and forefinger, making Marshall jump. "Maybe...'Elijah slept here'."
Marshall closes his eyes and holds his breath when Elijah shifts his weight, rises partially, and unintentionally rubs his cock against the rapper's stomach while trying to reposition his legs. "I'm not going to suck you off," Marshall declares.
"It's okay, I don't require that." The contour of every rib is explored by Elijah's questing fingers. "You look exactly like I imagined you would. No, better." To prove it, he licks a stripe down the column of Marshall's neck with the curled tip of his tongue.
"You are nothing like I've ever imagined," Marshall confesses with a shudder.
Elijah answers with an amused snort and leans in to kiss him with a quick, darting tongue that flicks around the outline of Marshall's lips, presses against his teeth, and finally stabs into his mouth. He reaches for Marshall's hands, and brings them around behind him.
It seems much too easy to grab onto Elijah's hips and rock him forward, and much easier to repeat it until Marshall achieves a rhythm that brings them grinding balls to cock over and over again until he thinks he may come at any moment.
Maybe they are close, because Elijah struggles to stand up, bending over to keep their lips touching, using his tongue against Marshall again as he slides his sweats and boxers off of his hips and down his legs, and steps out of them.
Elijah then turns his attention to the rapper, tugging his pants down to his knees also, but leaves them there. As he pulls away, he says, "I'm not even going to take these off, then you can tell yourself that I tricked you,and you're not really a dirty little faggot."
"I didn't..."
"I know." Elijah looks down and reaches for Marshall's swollen dick. It plumps up even more with friction from his palm, so he experiments with several different speeds and tensions.
Marshall protests when the hand abandons him because Elijah scrabbles to get something out of the basket on the table. Marshall only notices a jumble of blue and red squares and a white cap sticking from between knuckles. Elijah tosses everything onto the couch next to them, and starts kissing Marshall frantically, whispering in between, "Now, don't freak out. Just trust me."
And thats when his host tears a packet, and lays a disc of latex over the tip of Marshall's dick, slides it down an inch or so. Elijah then bends over, conforms his mouth into a circle, and uses his lips to roll the condom down over the quivering shaft. He has to use both hands in prayer on either side when he reaches the point that he can't swallow anymore.
Marshall thinks he might die, because he doesn't remember ever seeing something so blatantly nasty, and it's hotter than fuck. It's too soon to rate though, because Elijah then picks up the white cap and the tube of lube it was attached to. He squirts out globs of jelly that slide down Marshall's cock like some kind of clear cum. Marshall has no idea why he doesn't ejaculate right that instant, because it feels like the skin of his prick is four times too small and squeezing the motherfucking life out of him.
Elijah remains focused though, he squirms back into position straddling Marshall's lap, swings his knees out, and slowly impales himself on his rigid dick, a little at a time.
"Oh my fucking Jesus Christ," Marshall moans, grabbing the pillows at each armrest. He's really going to fucking die, if this keeps up. He's starting to feel dizzy as Elijah thrusts harder, seconds pass by.
"Shut up..." Elijah grunts around the tightening of his stomach muscles, and thighs as he raises himself and comes back down again "...you little bitch."
"Who's the bitch? I swear to God you're hiding a pussy down there somewhere." Marshall gasps, and his dick explodes as the words leave his mouth. Elijah also ejaculates, and it splatters just at the midpoint of Marshall's nipples.
"See, easy." Elijah coughs into Marshall's neck as he collapses against the rapper.
Marshall's not ready to shower with another man. No.
His host must instinctively know that, because Elijah points him to a bathroom and hands him a fluffy, dark cotton towel, and then Marshall's standing in an unfamiliar shower, wondering what the fuck just happened. Slathering soap across his chest is a rote behavior that he clings to, because it gives him something to do besides replay his actions over and over again in his mind. Just don't analyze it, chalk it up to the weed.
When he emerges, towel drying wet hair with a vigorous scrub, Elijah steps over and takes over. Fingers massaging his scalp, then sliding the towel down to rest around Marshall's neck, and Elijah says, "I'm going to take a shower, then I can make us something to eat...if you want to stay. Or, I can drive you back to your car?"
"I'll stay." He squashes down that flutter of apprehension in his stomach.
Elijah's pleased smile speaks volumes.. "I'll only be a minute. Amuse yourself."
Yeah, okay. He'll do that.
It's not too hard to find the kitchen, and he pulls out some eggs and a carton of milk, deciding to make some scrambled eggs. Hailey loves scrambled eggs, he makes them for her practically every morning when she's at his place. Whoa. No.
An omelet it is then.
He slides the food out of the pan and onto a plate as Elijah walks through the door, sniffing appreciatively. "Mom, he can cook too."
Marshall jumps guiltily, even though he knows they're alone. "Shit, dog. Don't scare me like that."
Elijah laughs as he walks over and takes two forks out of a drawer. "Don't be so nervous. I won't get grounded if she finds you here." He hands one of the utensils to Marshall and starts cutting into the omelet right off the plate in Marshall's hand. "Mmm...good."
This is the weirdest date Marshall's ever had. He's never shared eggs with a fuck in the kitchen afterwards.
"You know," Elijah says around a mouthful of eggs. "My Two Towers premiere is coming up. Will you come?" he doesn't look up, just keeps shoveling food into his mouth.
"As your date?" Marshall asks sarcastically, needing a little emotional space to process why he's feeling the desire to start kissing him again.
Elijah looks up, brows raised in amusement, and swallows. "Well, I didn't suggest it because I didn't think you'd say yes. Maybe you could just come and wave to me, or glare. Whatever you want."
He could do that. But no weed this time, he's gotta cut down on that shit. "Yeah, I'll show."