quick!fic; CAB BABIES! <3
i saw you through the haze
ian crawford x alex marshall
nc17
disclaimer: don't own, don't know, never happened. no profit is being made.
summary: pot smoking and touchy-feely boys clearly leads to sexytimes!
authornote: because i'm hoping that if i finish something it'll inspire me to finish other things! i started writing this a few hours ago and just couldn't get it out of my head. now i'm going to sleep. not beta-read. sorry if there are glaring grammatical errors. i read through it another few times and it seems to be all right. of course, it's entirely possible that i missed something, so if you see any glaring errors please don't hesitate to point them out.
“Hey, hey,” Ian mumbles, and laughs a little into his hand. “Dude, your face.”
Marshalls rolls his eyes and takes a deep drag off the pipe. He holds it in for a brief second before exhaling, grinning slow and amused, and jerking his head toward Ian. “What? Is beautiful? Is the most awe-inspiring face you’ve ever seen?”
Ian waves a hand at him and giggles, leaning against Marshall’s shoulder. “You look so high,” he crows. Marshall has to bite his lip to keep from smiling, and even then the corners of his mouth turn up.
“Do not,” he mumbles back, half-heartedly throwing his weight against the point where his shoulder touches Ian’s.
“Yes,” Ian replies, slinging an arm around Marshall’s shoulders. “You really, really do.”
Marshall snorts and leans in, laughing, the lighter and pipe lay beside him, forgotten on the hotel room floor. They sit against one another for a long moment, giggling quietly while MTV blares in the background, and Marshall thinks that the guys were so stupid to go to some dumb party and miss this. It was a long-ass day and Marshall was driving for six straight hours and he’s been ready to just chill and smoke and sleep since before they even got on-stage.
He and Ian are rooming together because they were the only two of the five that opted to stay in for the evening and relax rather than run themselves ragged trying to get into some groupie’s pants. The girls throwing the party weren’t even that hot, okay? Marshall would much rather be here with Ian, laughing at something ridiculous that the announcer says.
“Oh man,” Ian breathes happily. His arm is down behind Marshall’s back instead of around his shoulders, bare skin of his wrist occasionally brushing against the sliver of skin above Marshall’s pants when he moves. “This is the life, right?” he grins, and tilts his head onto Marshall’s shoulders.
“Yeah, man,” Marshall agrees and leans his head down so it’s resting atop Ian’s. The guitarist’s mop of curls tickles his chin and Marshall giggles. “We’re like rock stars now, dude.”
“We are rockstars,” Ian responds absently. He’s flicking his thumb over the little strip of flesh at Marshall’s back, and the skin is surprisingly smooth beneath the calloused pad of his finger. He isn’t really sure why he’s noticing it, except that weed makes him horny, but still. It’s Marshall.
“Ian,” Marshall says, and his voice is pointed and purposeful like it’s the second or third time he’s said it. Ian jumps and flushes a little when he realizes that he’d been staring at Marshall’s tanned skin. “You want to watch a movie or something?”
Ian nods. “Yeah, sure. We should whip out the Cheetos too,” he states, standing up to ruffle through his duffel bag before flopping down on his bed. The comforter’s white, but he really couldn’t care less. Cheetos are basically the shit and Ian’s going to eat them and not even feel bad about the orange fingerprints he’ll undoubtedly leave all over everything because they’re fucking delicious.
He says as much to Marshall, who’s loading the portable DVD player he dragged up with him from the van, and Marshall laughs.
He runs and jumps onto the bed - and Ian punches him in the shoulder for doing so - and stuffs his hand into the bag of Cheetos.
“The fuck, Marsh?” Ian asks around a mouthful of orange crumbs. Marshall grins and jams a few of the Cheetos into his own mouth before responding.
“You were the one who wouldn’t shut up about Cheetos,” he teases, and Ian rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath about mooching, good for nothing best friends.
They sit in relative silence while the movie starts, each grabbing at the Cheetos every few moments. Ian glances over around the time when Jesse and Chester are headed to the twins’ house, and he finds his gaze locked on Marshall yet again.
It’s totally not his fault though; not with Marshall sucking on his fingers obscenely like that. He swirls his tongue around the tip of his finger, getting at some of the orange dust that’s more reluctant to go, and tiny pinpricks of heat dance up the back of Ian’s neck. He swallows, thick, and pulls his eyes away as Marshall looks over.
“What, dude?” Marshall asks. Ian shakes his head.
“Nothing,” he answers as coolly as possible. He’s starting to wonder if maybe that weed was laced with something because while his subconscious has thought of Marshall as fairly attractive in the past - Ian can’t be blamed for his dreams, he really doesn’t have much to do with them - he’s never actively been interested in his best friend. Not like that, anyway.
Another few moments pass, and Ian finds himself looking over again. He’ll admit that he’s sort of curious to see if he still finds Marshall enticing or if it was just some kind of fluke.
Marshall’s got his eyes fixed on the screen, teeth digging into his soft lower lip, hair falling over his face. Ian tenses just a little and his breath hitches, causing Marshall to glance over. When his eyes meet Ian’s, they widen in what might be realization; Ian isn’t really sure, as his head snaps back toward the screen immediately.
“Hey,” Marshall says, scooting over so that his shoulder brushes Ian’s. Ian ignores him, just purses his lips into a line and keeps his traitor eyes on the television.
“Ian, hey,” Marshall repeats, this time purposely nudging Ian’s shoulder with his own. “Look at me, man.”
Ian rolls his eyes and tries not to sound too strained when he says, “I don’t want to talk about it, Marsh.”
Marshall grins - and Ian totally will never admit that he knows what it fucking sounds like when Marshall’s happy - and chirps, “That’s too bad, because I want to talk about it.”
Ian maybe ducks his head a little, because yes he’s six years old, thanks, and mumbles, “Please can we not?”
“You think I’m hot,” Marshall continues, as though Ian hadn’t even spoken. “You want into my pants so hard dude.”
“Shut up,” Ian grinds out, wishing that he wasn’t still feeling kind of sluggish and turned on from a weird combination of pot and Marshall’s proximity. Following instructions has never really been Marshall’s strong suit, though, so he keeps talking.
“Seriously, I haven’t seen anyone blush like that since Singer saw Justin Timberlake at the VMA’s - ” Marshall starts, but Ian cuts him off, shoving Marshall over and growling at him to shut up already. Marshall laughs and grabs Ian’s wrist, pulling him over too. Ian’s chin bumps into his shoulder and Marshall winces a little bit because that probably hurt. Ian grimaces but he doesn’t try to move away, just rubs absently at his chin and looks down at Marshall. He’s not exactly lying on top of Marshall, but his arm is very blatantly splayed across Marshall’s chest, and Marshall can feel the warmth radiating from Ian’s skin all along his right side.
“Hi,” he says, quietly, smiling. He’s been watching Ian for a long, long time now. And it isn’t that Marshall’s gay, not really. He doesn’t think he is, anyway, because most of the other dudes he sees don’t do it for him but Ian is something else.
“Hey,” Ian replies, voice low. Marshall can feel Ian’s breath on his cheek and he shivers a bit, Ian’s thumb slipping gently up the side of his face, catching briefly on his lip. “Can I?” Ian asks, his fingers sliding into Marshall’s hair.
Marshall doesn’t answer because he doesn’t need to. He leans up and presses his mouth to Ian’s and can’t stop a moan from rising back in his throat because fucking finally, Jesus, he’s waited long enough. Ian tastes sweet and musky, like pot, and there’s something underneath it. Something even more organic, the core taste of Ian, Marshall supposes.
They kiss, lips to lips, for a few seconds before Ian’s tongue flicks tentatively at the seam of Marshall’s mouth. Marshall smiles and parts his lips, and Ian leans down, kissing Marshall slow and hot. He shifts so that he’s on top of Marshall, one thigh between Marshall’s legs, hands on either side of Marshall’s head, one tugging at Marshall’s hair while the other clings to Marshall’s hip.
If he were a little bit more sober, Marshall might be embarrassed about how fast he gets hard, but he’s all tingly from the weed and this is Ian lying on top of him and how can anyone really expect him to be unaffected in the face of his fantasy, seriously?
“Fuck,” Marshall groans, and he rolls his hips upward before he can stop himself. He’s ready to start apologizing, to beg Ian not to run, but he ends up not having anything to worry about. Ian makes a soft keening noise and pushes his hips down to meet Marshall’s.
Marshall has his hands loosely resting on Ian’s hips, and he leans up to kiss the other boy more, losing himself in the slippery-hot feel of Ian’s tongue against his own, his fingers disappearing up underneath Ian’s shirt, dancing along the bare, warm expanse of Ian’s back.
Pulling away to catch his breath, lips still brushing Ian’s when he speaks, Marshall murmurs, “Can I take this off? Please?”
Ian stares, eyes dark, and nods. Marshall grins and tugs at the hem of Ian’s shirt, pulling it up over Ian’s head and tossing it off the bed.
His eyes glance over every dip and curve and angle and plane of Ian’s bare chest, and Marshall pushes just enough to roll them over, so that he’s on top. He studies Ian for a moment longer, until Ian starts to squirm uncomfortably underneath him, and then he leans in and nips at the dip of Ian’s collarbone. Ian’s fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of Marshall’s neck, and Marshall presses his smile to Ian’s sternum, dragging his tongue down the smooth skin therein. He tries not to be too delighted at the way Ian shivers beneath him, but he fails pretty spectacularly.
He kisses down Ian’s stomach, tongue swirling playfully at Ian’s bellybutton. He pauses for a moment, mystified at the tension of Ian’s abdomen under his fingers, the way the muscles quiver at his touch.
“Alex,” Ian murmurs, and Marshall grins. He moves so that he’s face-to-face with Ian again, his thumbs sliding purposefully past the waistband of Ian’s jeans and boxers.
“Ian,” he answers, voice just barely teasing, before capturing Ian’s mouth with his own once more. Ian puts everything he can into it, both his hands in Marshall’s hair. He’s trying not to think about the way Marshall’s fingertips drag against his skin when he arches his hips up.
“I’m taking your pants off,” Marshall breathes against Ian’s cheek, and Ian valiantly doesn’t shake. He just slides his left hand up Marshall’s spine and says, “Okay,” into Marshall’s shoulder.
Marshall makes quick work of his jeans, tugging Ian’s boxers with them and tossing the whole pile of clothes off the side of the bed. It should be awkward, Marshall still fully clothed while Ian is laying there, naked underneath him, but it isn’t. Ian is propped up on his elbows, and he’s watching Marshall from heavy-lidded eyes. His lips are red and just barely swollen from making out. Marshall’s staring at his pale, pale face and suddenly wonders what it would look like if they’d been making out on a day when Marshall hadn’t shaved just that morning, if Ian’s face would be tinged pink. He takes his time drawing his eyes over every available expanse of Ian’s body, licking his lips when his gaze flickers over Ian’s cock.
Marshall leans in to kiss the slight curve of Ian’s hip, moving down Ian’s thigh with feather-light brushes of his lips. He breathes over the head of Ian’s cock, pausing and licking his lips before running his tongue over the head.
“Fuck,” Ian whispers, and lets his head fall back on the mattress, baring the pale arch of his neck, hands fisting in the sheets so he doesn’t grab Marshall’s hair.
Marshall mouths at the head of his cock for a few seconds, sucking gently and testing the territory out. It’s nowhere near as gross as he would have expected. It’s not bad tasting or anything, just kind of weird. He pulls off and spits into his hand before he goes back down, wrapping his lips around Ian’s cock and taking it further into his mouth, wrapping his palm around the rest.
Ian makes an unintelligible noise that he hopes is somewhere near, “Holy shit, Marshall,” but he guesses is probably closer to, “Nnguhh.” Marshall’s mouth is wet and warm and his tongue is pressing up against the underside of Ian’s dick. And if Ian leans up just a little bit he can see Marshall, hair falling over his face, lips stretched around his cock and it’s probably the hottest thing Ian’s ever seen if he’s being honest.
Marshall sucks, alternating short and long, and swirls his tongue around the head of Ian’s dick. Ian groans and very nearly bucks up into Marshall’s mouth. By some miracle he manages to restrain himself, but he knows that tingling he feels building up in the base of his spine.
“Marsh,” he murmurs, reaching down to pull Marshall up, “I’m gonna…fuck, man.”
Marshall takes the hint and follows Ian’s hands up. For the briefest of seconds Ian internally bemoans the lack of Marshall’s mouth, but then Marshall’s kissing him again and it’s really, really not so bad because he can feel Marshall’s arousal through the thin pajama bottoms he’s wearing.
Ian tugs at the drawstrings on Marshall’s pants.
“You should probably get rid of these,” he whispers into Marshall’s mouth. Marshall smirks and sits back, shimmying out of his pants - that he wasn’t wearing boxers with, Ian notes - and tossing his shirt in a random direction.
When he lays back down he’s completely naked, and Ian drinks it all in happily. Their eyes meet for a few seconds and they just grin at one another before Marshall leans down and rolls his hips experimentally.
Feeling Marshall’s cock rub against his own is nothing and everything that Ian ever imagined. It feels good in a way that nothing has before and before he really knows it, Ian finds himself rutting up against Marshall, his hands wrapped around Marshall’s hips so hard it must hurt.
It’s okay, though, because, Marshall has one hand wound in Ian’s hair, the other curled against Ian’s bicep, his thigh between Ian’s legs while their erections slide against each other. Marshall presses down harder, his chest sliding against Ian’s, and Ian crushes their mouths together. Their teeth collide, but neither boy is bothered enough by it to stop. They merely shift a little, tongues delving into each other's mouths, fingers making angry red marks down bare contours of skin.
“Oh, God, fuck,” Marshall groans, and he bites into Ian’s shoulder.
Ian arches his hips up against Marshall harder, faster, almost desperate. He’s practically panting by this point, and he’s pretty sure that Marshall is too even though he can’t see Marshall’s face anymore. He can feel his orgasm building, white hot at the base of spine. He reaches a hand in between the both of them and wraps it around Marshall’s erection, squeezing and twisting his wrist. Marshall groans and his thrusting becomes erratic and then he’s coming, all over his own stomach and Ian’s stomach and Ian’s hands. It hits Ian’s cock, warm and wet, and Ian bites his lip and falls over the edge of his own climax.
Marshall has collapsed, boneless, on top of him, and while it’s kind of sticky - or it will be soon enough, anyway - Ian just can’t bring himself to care. It reeks like sex, and if he breathes in deep he can smell Marshall’s cologne, the spicy-cool scent of Marshall’s skin underneath it.
“Shit,” Marshall mumbles, and Ian laughs, wiping his hand on the comforter. He would be more concerned about dirtying the bed, but really, he doesn’t think they’re going to have a problem sharing a sleeping space after this.
“I know,” he chuckles in response. They stay like that for a few more minutes before Ian starts softly complaining about how Marshall’s crushing him.
Marshall just huffs and pushes himself up on his elbows. “Big baby,” he mocks, leaning in to press a kiss against Ian’s mouth once more. He drags his teeth over Ian’s lower lip when he pulls back and Ian, much to his embarrassment, whimpers.
And Marshall is just sitting there, grinning at him, and Ian knows his cheeks are probably pink but he’s smiling too. And while this wasn’t exactly what he had in mind when he’d agreed to stay behind with Marshall, he can’t say he’s disappointed because he’s so, so not.
“If this is what happens, I think we should smoke more,” Marshall jokes, and Ian smirks and lightly punches Marshall’s shoulder.
“Oh, totally,” he shoots back, and then leans his head back to look toward the bathroom door. “I think I’m going to take a shower,” he announces.
Marshall’s grin grows. “You want to share?” he asks, adding solemnly, “It’s the environmentally friendly thing to do.”
Ian flat out laughs while Marshall stands up, making a face at the come all over his stomach. It’s gross, but still kind of hot and he isn’t sure how to feel about it.
“Of course,” Ian says lightly. “We have to watch out for the environment, after all.” He heads off toward the bathroom with Marshall close behind.
ian crawford x alex marshall
nc17
disclaimer: don't own, don't know, never happened. no profit is being made.
summary: pot smoking and touchy-feely boys clearly leads to sexytimes!
authornote: because i'm hoping that if i finish something it'll inspire me to finish other things! i started writing this a few hours ago and just couldn't get it out of my head. now i'm going to sleep. not beta-read. sorry if there are glaring grammatical errors. i read through it another few times and it seems to be all right. of course, it's entirely possible that i missed something, so if you see any glaring errors please don't hesitate to point them out.
“Hey, hey,” Ian mumbles, and laughs a little into his hand. “Dude, your face.”
Marshalls rolls his eyes and takes a deep drag off the pipe. He holds it in for a brief second before exhaling, grinning slow and amused, and jerking his head toward Ian. “What? Is beautiful? Is the most awe-inspiring face you’ve ever seen?”
Ian waves a hand at him and giggles, leaning against Marshall’s shoulder. “You look so high,” he crows. Marshall has to bite his lip to keep from smiling, and even then the corners of his mouth turn up.
“Do not,” he mumbles back, half-heartedly throwing his weight against the point where his shoulder touches Ian’s.
“Yes,” Ian replies, slinging an arm around Marshall’s shoulders. “You really, really do.”
Marshall snorts and leans in, laughing, the lighter and pipe lay beside him, forgotten on the hotel room floor. They sit against one another for a long moment, giggling quietly while MTV blares in the background, and Marshall thinks that the guys were so stupid to go to some dumb party and miss this. It was a long-ass day and Marshall was driving for six straight hours and he’s been ready to just chill and smoke and sleep since before they even got on-stage.
He and Ian are rooming together because they were the only two of the five that opted to stay in for the evening and relax rather than run themselves ragged trying to get into some groupie’s pants. The girls throwing the party weren’t even that hot, okay? Marshall would much rather be here with Ian, laughing at something ridiculous that the announcer says.
“Oh man,” Ian breathes happily. His arm is down behind Marshall’s back instead of around his shoulders, bare skin of his wrist occasionally brushing against the sliver of skin above Marshall’s pants when he moves. “This is the life, right?” he grins, and tilts his head onto Marshall’s shoulders.
“Yeah, man,” Marshall agrees and leans his head down so it’s resting atop Ian’s. The guitarist’s mop of curls tickles his chin and Marshall giggles. “We’re like rock stars now, dude.”
“We are rockstars,” Ian responds absently. He’s flicking his thumb over the little strip of flesh at Marshall’s back, and the skin is surprisingly smooth beneath the calloused pad of his finger. He isn’t really sure why he’s noticing it, except that weed makes him horny, but still. It’s Marshall.
“Ian,” Marshall says, and his voice is pointed and purposeful like it’s the second or third time he’s said it. Ian jumps and flushes a little when he realizes that he’d been staring at Marshall’s tanned skin. “You want to watch a movie or something?”
Ian nods. “Yeah, sure. We should whip out the Cheetos too,” he states, standing up to ruffle through his duffel bag before flopping down on his bed. The comforter’s white, but he really couldn’t care less. Cheetos are basically the shit and Ian’s going to eat them and not even feel bad about the orange fingerprints he’ll undoubtedly leave all over everything because they’re fucking delicious.
He says as much to Marshall, who’s loading the portable DVD player he dragged up with him from the van, and Marshall laughs.
He runs and jumps onto the bed - and Ian punches him in the shoulder for doing so - and stuffs his hand into the bag of Cheetos.
“The fuck, Marsh?” Ian asks around a mouthful of orange crumbs. Marshall grins and jams a few of the Cheetos into his own mouth before responding.
“You were the one who wouldn’t shut up about Cheetos,” he teases, and Ian rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath about mooching, good for nothing best friends.
They sit in relative silence while the movie starts, each grabbing at the Cheetos every few moments. Ian glances over around the time when Jesse and Chester are headed to the twins’ house, and he finds his gaze locked on Marshall yet again.
It’s totally not his fault though; not with Marshall sucking on his fingers obscenely like that. He swirls his tongue around the tip of his finger, getting at some of the orange dust that’s more reluctant to go, and tiny pinpricks of heat dance up the back of Ian’s neck. He swallows, thick, and pulls his eyes away as Marshall looks over.
“What, dude?” Marshall asks. Ian shakes his head.
“Nothing,” he answers as coolly as possible. He’s starting to wonder if maybe that weed was laced with something because while his subconscious has thought of Marshall as fairly attractive in the past - Ian can’t be blamed for his dreams, he really doesn’t have much to do with them - he’s never actively been interested in his best friend. Not like that, anyway.
Another few moments pass, and Ian finds himself looking over again. He’ll admit that he’s sort of curious to see if he still finds Marshall enticing or if it was just some kind of fluke.
Marshall’s got his eyes fixed on the screen, teeth digging into his soft lower lip, hair falling over his face. Ian tenses just a little and his breath hitches, causing Marshall to glance over. When his eyes meet Ian’s, they widen in what might be realization; Ian isn’t really sure, as his head snaps back toward the screen immediately.
“Hey,” Marshall says, scooting over so that his shoulder brushes Ian’s. Ian ignores him, just purses his lips into a line and keeps his traitor eyes on the television.
“Ian, hey,” Marshall repeats, this time purposely nudging Ian’s shoulder with his own. “Look at me, man.”
Ian rolls his eyes and tries not to sound too strained when he says, “I don’t want to talk about it, Marsh.”
Marshall grins - and Ian totally will never admit that he knows what it fucking sounds like when Marshall’s happy - and chirps, “That’s too bad, because I want to talk about it.”
Ian maybe ducks his head a little, because yes he’s six years old, thanks, and mumbles, “Please can we not?”
“You think I’m hot,” Marshall continues, as though Ian hadn’t even spoken. “You want into my pants so hard dude.”
“Shut up,” Ian grinds out, wishing that he wasn’t still feeling kind of sluggish and turned on from a weird combination of pot and Marshall’s proximity. Following instructions has never really been Marshall’s strong suit, though, so he keeps talking.
“Seriously, I haven’t seen anyone blush like that since Singer saw Justin Timberlake at the VMA’s - ” Marshall starts, but Ian cuts him off, shoving Marshall over and growling at him to shut up already. Marshall laughs and grabs Ian’s wrist, pulling him over too. Ian’s chin bumps into his shoulder and Marshall winces a little bit because that probably hurt. Ian grimaces but he doesn’t try to move away, just rubs absently at his chin and looks down at Marshall. He’s not exactly lying on top of Marshall, but his arm is very blatantly splayed across Marshall’s chest, and Marshall can feel the warmth radiating from Ian’s skin all along his right side.
“Hi,” he says, quietly, smiling. He’s been watching Ian for a long, long time now. And it isn’t that Marshall’s gay, not really. He doesn’t think he is, anyway, because most of the other dudes he sees don’t do it for him but Ian is something else.
“Hey,” Ian replies, voice low. Marshall can feel Ian’s breath on his cheek and he shivers a bit, Ian’s thumb slipping gently up the side of his face, catching briefly on his lip. “Can I?” Ian asks, his fingers sliding into Marshall’s hair.
Marshall doesn’t answer because he doesn’t need to. He leans up and presses his mouth to Ian’s and can’t stop a moan from rising back in his throat because fucking finally, Jesus, he’s waited long enough. Ian tastes sweet and musky, like pot, and there’s something underneath it. Something even more organic, the core taste of Ian, Marshall supposes.
They kiss, lips to lips, for a few seconds before Ian’s tongue flicks tentatively at the seam of Marshall’s mouth. Marshall smiles and parts his lips, and Ian leans down, kissing Marshall slow and hot. He shifts so that he’s on top of Marshall, one thigh between Marshall’s legs, hands on either side of Marshall’s head, one tugging at Marshall’s hair while the other clings to Marshall’s hip.
If he were a little bit more sober, Marshall might be embarrassed about how fast he gets hard, but he’s all tingly from the weed and this is Ian lying on top of him and how can anyone really expect him to be unaffected in the face of his fantasy, seriously?
“Fuck,” Marshall groans, and he rolls his hips upward before he can stop himself. He’s ready to start apologizing, to beg Ian not to run, but he ends up not having anything to worry about. Ian makes a soft keening noise and pushes his hips down to meet Marshall’s.
Marshall has his hands loosely resting on Ian’s hips, and he leans up to kiss the other boy more, losing himself in the slippery-hot feel of Ian’s tongue against his own, his fingers disappearing up underneath Ian’s shirt, dancing along the bare, warm expanse of Ian’s back.
Pulling away to catch his breath, lips still brushing Ian’s when he speaks, Marshall murmurs, “Can I take this off? Please?”
Ian stares, eyes dark, and nods. Marshall grins and tugs at the hem of Ian’s shirt, pulling it up over Ian’s head and tossing it off the bed.
His eyes glance over every dip and curve and angle and plane of Ian’s bare chest, and Marshall pushes just enough to roll them over, so that he’s on top. He studies Ian for a moment longer, until Ian starts to squirm uncomfortably underneath him, and then he leans in and nips at the dip of Ian’s collarbone. Ian’s fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of Marshall’s neck, and Marshall presses his smile to Ian’s sternum, dragging his tongue down the smooth skin therein. He tries not to be too delighted at the way Ian shivers beneath him, but he fails pretty spectacularly.
He kisses down Ian’s stomach, tongue swirling playfully at Ian’s bellybutton. He pauses for a moment, mystified at the tension of Ian’s abdomen under his fingers, the way the muscles quiver at his touch.
“Alex,” Ian murmurs, and Marshall grins. He moves so that he’s face-to-face with Ian again, his thumbs sliding purposefully past the waistband of Ian’s jeans and boxers.
“Ian,” he answers, voice just barely teasing, before capturing Ian’s mouth with his own once more. Ian puts everything he can into it, both his hands in Marshall’s hair. He’s trying not to think about the way Marshall’s fingertips drag against his skin when he arches his hips up.
“I’m taking your pants off,” Marshall breathes against Ian’s cheek, and Ian valiantly doesn’t shake. He just slides his left hand up Marshall’s spine and says, “Okay,” into Marshall’s shoulder.
Marshall makes quick work of his jeans, tugging Ian’s boxers with them and tossing the whole pile of clothes off the side of the bed. It should be awkward, Marshall still fully clothed while Ian is laying there, naked underneath him, but it isn’t. Ian is propped up on his elbows, and he’s watching Marshall from heavy-lidded eyes. His lips are red and just barely swollen from making out. Marshall’s staring at his pale, pale face and suddenly wonders what it would look like if they’d been making out on a day when Marshall hadn’t shaved just that morning, if Ian’s face would be tinged pink. He takes his time drawing his eyes over every available expanse of Ian’s body, licking his lips when his gaze flickers over Ian’s cock.
Marshall leans in to kiss the slight curve of Ian’s hip, moving down Ian’s thigh with feather-light brushes of his lips. He breathes over the head of Ian’s cock, pausing and licking his lips before running his tongue over the head.
“Fuck,” Ian whispers, and lets his head fall back on the mattress, baring the pale arch of his neck, hands fisting in the sheets so he doesn’t grab Marshall’s hair.
Marshall mouths at the head of his cock for a few seconds, sucking gently and testing the territory out. It’s nowhere near as gross as he would have expected. It’s not bad tasting or anything, just kind of weird. He pulls off and spits into his hand before he goes back down, wrapping his lips around Ian’s cock and taking it further into his mouth, wrapping his palm around the rest.
Ian makes an unintelligible noise that he hopes is somewhere near, “Holy shit, Marshall,” but he guesses is probably closer to, “Nnguhh.” Marshall’s mouth is wet and warm and his tongue is pressing up against the underside of Ian’s dick. And if Ian leans up just a little bit he can see Marshall, hair falling over his face, lips stretched around his cock and it’s probably the hottest thing Ian’s ever seen if he’s being honest.
Marshall sucks, alternating short and long, and swirls his tongue around the head of Ian’s dick. Ian groans and very nearly bucks up into Marshall’s mouth. By some miracle he manages to restrain himself, but he knows that tingling he feels building up in the base of his spine.
“Marsh,” he murmurs, reaching down to pull Marshall up, “I’m gonna…fuck, man.”
Marshall takes the hint and follows Ian’s hands up. For the briefest of seconds Ian internally bemoans the lack of Marshall’s mouth, but then Marshall’s kissing him again and it’s really, really not so bad because he can feel Marshall’s arousal through the thin pajama bottoms he’s wearing.
Ian tugs at the drawstrings on Marshall’s pants.
“You should probably get rid of these,” he whispers into Marshall’s mouth. Marshall smirks and sits back, shimmying out of his pants - that he wasn’t wearing boxers with, Ian notes - and tossing his shirt in a random direction.
When he lays back down he’s completely naked, and Ian drinks it all in happily. Their eyes meet for a few seconds and they just grin at one another before Marshall leans down and rolls his hips experimentally.
Feeling Marshall’s cock rub against his own is nothing and everything that Ian ever imagined. It feels good in a way that nothing has before and before he really knows it, Ian finds himself rutting up against Marshall, his hands wrapped around Marshall’s hips so hard it must hurt.
It’s okay, though, because, Marshall has one hand wound in Ian’s hair, the other curled against Ian’s bicep, his thigh between Ian’s legs while their erections slide against each other. Marshall presses down harder, his chest sliding against Ian’s, and Ian crushes their mouths together. Their teeth collide, but neither boy is bothered enough by it to stop. They merely shift a little, tongues delving into each other's mouths, fingers making angry red marks down bare contours of skin.
“Oh, God, fuck,” Marshall groans, and he bites into Ian’s shoulder.
Ian arches his hips up against Marshall harder, faster, almost desperate. He’s practically panting by this point, and he’s pretty sure that Marshall is too even though he can’t see Marshall’s face anymore. He can feel his orgasm building, white hot at the base of spine. He reaches a hand in between the both of them and wraps it around Marshall’s erection, squeezing and twisting his wrist. Marshall groans and his thrusting becomes erratic and then he’s coming, all over his own stomach and Ian’s stomach and Ian’s hands. It hits Ian’s cock, warm and wet, and Ian bites his lip and falls over the edge of his own climax.
Marshall has collapsed, boneless, on top of him, and while it’s kind of sticky - or it will be soon enough, anyway - Ian just can’t bring himself to care. It reeks like sex, and if he breathes in deep he can smell Marshall’s cologne, the spicy-cool scent of Marshall’s skin underneath it.
“Shit,” Marshall mumbles, and Ian laughs, wiping his hand on the comforter. He would be more concerned about dirtying the bed, but really, he doesn’t think they’re going to have a problem sharing a sleeping space after this.
“I know,” he chuckles in response. They stay like that for a few more minutes before Ian starts softly complaining about how Marshall’s crushing him.
Marshall just huffs and pushes himself up on his elbows. “Big baby,” he mocks, leaning in to press a kiss against Ian’s mouth once more. He drags his teeth over Ian’s lower lip when he pulls back and Ian, much to his embarrassment, whimpers.
And Marshall is just sitting there, grinning at him, and Ian knows his cheeks are probably pink but he’s smiling too. And while this wasn’t exactly what he had in mind when he’d agreed to stay behind with Marshall, he can’t say he’s disappointed because he’s so, so not.
“If this is what happens, I think we should smoke more,” Marshall jokes, and Ian smirks and lightly punches Marshall’s shoulder.
“Oh, totally,” he shoots back, and then leans his head back to look toward the bathroom door. “I think I’m going to take a shower,” he announces.
Marshall’s grin grows. “You want to share?” he asks, adding solemnly, “It’s the environmentally friendly thing to do.”
Ian flat out laughs while Marshall stands up, making a face at the come all over his stomach. It’s gross, but still kind of hot and he isn’t sure how to feel about it.
“Of course,” Ian says lightly. “We have to watch out for the environment, after all.” He heads off toward the bathroom with Marshall close behind.