#i was gonna maybe do something with. femininity. self-expression. retrospection.
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metalheadkells · 3 years ago
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wrote this thing this morning and im just gonna post it w/out thinking abt it tbh here u go 
“I just need a hug?” Marshall enunciates slowly, reading the messy pink text on Kells’ barely-a-shirt and raising his eyebrows. 
“Thought you’d never ask,” Kells says, willfully misinterpreting him and spreading his arms wide, making his crop top travel another inch up his midriff.
“Can’t you ever dress normal?” Marshall asks, ignoring him.
“No,” Kells says, predictably making a face at the word, and manhandles Marshall into an embrace anyway, the sweet scent of his cologne overwhelming from up close. So much about Kells is incongruously sweet - the new bubblegum-pink shade of his hair, the glitzy assortment of pearls and hearts and Swarovski around his neck, the way his earrings chime in rhythm with Marshall’s thrusts when he fucks him, the gentle press of his long fingers against Marshall’s bare stomach when he kisses him. 
“Where’re you goin’ dressed up like this, anyway?” Marshall knows his possessiveness is obvious in his voice, but he needs to release the question. 
“Album release party,” Kells says into the side of Marshall’s neck, making him shiver. “I told you.” 
It’s deeply, inexpressibly unfair - that Kells is a walking temptation, young and lithe and eternally hungry for attention, that he is always surrounded by people willing and able to indulge his most destructive vices and massage his ego while doing it. Because Marshall, in comparison, is rock-steady. He keeps to himself, and dresses for himself, and is long past the point of desiring validation from strangers with rotten ulterior motives. 
“I won’t let anyone touch me,” Kells murmurs, reading his mind. Unfortunately for Marshall, he’s getting better at that every day. 
“Impossible,” Marshall says, doing his best not to snarl it. He’s watched Kells perform before; seen so many disembodied hands groping for his waist when he dipped tantalizingly close to the edge of the stage, bare-chested and glistening with sweat, waistband of his pants cutting dangerously past his hips. He half-remembers being in similar situations himself when he was young and at the peak of his fame, excessively self-medicated to help him break up the churning claustrophobia that threatened to interrupt the thunder and lightning cracking across his chest. Letting people look their fill, touch their fill, and in select cases; fuck their fill; was part of the deal. 
“I’ll come right back after I’m done,” Kells insists, sibilant. “There’s only you.” 
It’s like Kells is roleplaying, sometimes, soothing the burn of Marshall’s unfeasible wants with decorative words. Usually, Marshall plays along, draping himself in the warmth of the fantasy. He’s too unbalanced for that tonight, a sort of thorny yearning scratching up his throat. 
“Just get the fuck out of my face before I trap you here.” 
Kells gazes down at him, blushing a soft shade of pink that matches his hair, smiling unrepentantly. “I fuckin’ love you like this,” he says, biting his lip, smile spreading even wider. 
Marshall just sucks in a sharp breath, feeling his anger stretch and settle into his bones. 
“Jesus,” Kells says, muffling a giddy laugh between his fingers, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Don’t look at me like that. Gettin’ me all worked up and shit.” He shakes his head again, and raises Marshall’s wrist to his face to check the time on his watch, before saying, “I seriously gotta go. I’m already late.” 
He kisses Marshall’s knuckles, and then his forehead, and repeats, “Only you,” as if such a flimsy promise can possibly stand a chance against the discontentment ripping at Marshall’s heart once he is alone again. 
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