Fanfiction: Sky High, Ground Not In Sight
Title: Sky High, Ground Not in Sight
Pairings/Characters: Mary/Marshall
Rating: Adult, NC-17. Plot, what plot? Ain’t got no stinkin’ plot!
Author rambling: This story is SO not my fault! firthgal quoted during her “Iris Doesn’t Live Here Anymore” commentary:
"So you think an invitation to the mile high club is old fashioned?" Then, kingzgurl commented: There totally needs to be an
out-take of M/M making out between (she inserts one picture of Mary/Marshall on the sidewalk, followed by a second picture)
And while these two blessed hens are commenting about a making out scene on the
sidewalk-I’m still back with ‘the invitation to the mile high club’ ----and just like that,
these two Muses are off the mark.
Sky High, Ground Not in Sight
“The mile high club?” she snipped sidelong at him. “I can’t believe he offered right in front of me and I can’t believe you said, ‘Thanks, but no thanks’ so politely! Jesus, Marshall, you’ve been hit on by a gay man and you didn’t even blink?”
The individual in question didn’t look away from the newspaper. He shrugged, indifferently.
“It’s not like I haven’t been hit on before,” he said. “I’m in good shape and I’m friendly to everyone. I look them right in the eyes and it gets … mistaken, sometimes.”
“That’s what you get for being so damn friendly.” She crossed her arms.
“Yeah,” he said smugly. “I get offers to join the mile high club.”
“Jackass.”
“Let me read.”
Silence for ten minutes; nearly long enough for him to get through the metro section.
“I can get you in the club,” she popped into his train of thought.
Trainwreck.
But he never let it reach his hands-they stayed completely still on the paper. He turned his head just enough to eye her.
“What did you say?”
“Out of the seat, mister.” She unlocked her lap belt, snared him by a wrist, and excused herself into the isle. His paper fluttered, landed half on the chair, half on the cabin floor. “Come on.”
“Mary-” he hissed-whispered, but her grip was as fierce as any handcuff and he knew this crazy blonde … knew she was perfectly capable of a scene right in the aisle somewhere over Western Arizona at 35,000 feet.
He followed, brain still on pause. She waited until the stewardess turned to get coffee for another passenger, and then she unlatched the door to the bathroom, shoved him inside and shut it behind her. Marshall ended up against the sink, which was only small enough to wash one hand at a time. Mary was giggling against his back because he was trying to back up and there was no back up of any kind in this closet sized room.
“Are you insane? Open the door!” he said.
“Are you insane?” she said back. “Turn around.”
Which is how they ended up face to face and then had to grab hold of each other because the airplane hit an air pocket and the floor fell out from under them slightly.
“You are insane,” he clarified. Her hair smelled like shampoo and she was all heat and adrenalin in his arms.
“Certified. I even come with warning labels.” She was working on his belt and had her fingers on the top button of his jeans when she looked up again. “You’re not going to scream about your virtue if I jump you into the mile high club, are you?”
“Depends on how you … jump me,” he managed. He had a finger at her neckline, felt thumb-fingered trying to juggle his brain, his body, and the buttons of her blouse.
She wasn’t thumb-fingered at all with his jeans and shorts and then she had a handful of Marshall and he was sucking air, depressurized.
“Nice engine,” she quipped, humored, her butt pressed against the locked door. His expression was borderline insensate.
“Goes with … my airplane … pajamas,” he eventually muttered. He was on the fourth button of her blouse and that was enough to expose her bra and the swell of her breasts.
And then there they were, Marshall unable to bend to even kiss her breasts and Mary unable to bend to even blow him. There was no question about using the counter-there wasn’t any. He was laughing nearly silently, hands smoothing around the lace edge of her bra, and she was also laughing nearly silently, with her hands running the length of him.
“Poor planning on someone’s part,” he remarked dryly. He worked her bra straps down enough to spill her breasts into his hands. “Christ, you’re lovely.”
“Yeah, the damned airlines for making these bathrooms so small that you can’t even,” she paused, distracted by the flick of his fingers across her nipples, “can’t even get it on at … 35,000 feet.”
“And going 560 miles per hour,” he added.
He was sure there were sink marks on his butt by now and he gave up trying to reach her breasts, settled on kissing her instead. She was intense and ferocious in kissing as with everything else and they forgot that they were standing half naked in the airplane bathroom for a few minutes.
“I have an idea,” she muttered while he was nibbling a line along her jaw. “You sit down on the toilet and I’ll straddle you.”
“Good plan, but did you bring a condom in here or did you not think that far ahead?”
“You don’t have a handful of condoms in your wallet?”
“Just how would that look, me going off with my partner to California with six condoms in my wallet?”
“A plan for a good time,” she quipped back. “And here I thought you were such a boy scout.”
“Boy scout enough,” he grumbled. “I do have a condom, but I can’t reach my pants now.”
Which is how Mary ended up scrunched awkwardly down with a hand getting in his pants pocket. He sat down on the commode to give her more room and another air pocket jostled her practically into his lap. He appreciated the pilot’s help, but complained about her orientation in landing, which earned him a slap somewhere around knee level.
“You know,” he said conversationally while she was going through his wallet. “You probably could just blow me now. If that’s, uh, what you wanted instead of...” He gestured at the wallet.
“Yeah, and get airsick, and bang my knees with every jolt of the plane, get strangled by you with every jolt of the plane, not to mention the fact that if you throw your head back when you finish, you’ll smack yourself senseless if I don’t get my hands around your neck to stop you beforehand.” That was a long speech even for Mary and she grinned like a fiend when she came up with the condom. “Besides, why should you be the only one initiated into the mile high club today?”
“I suppose you’ll want a t-shirt to commemorate the occasion?” he inquired mildly. The spontaneity of this encounter was skyrocketing his pulse.
“Damn straight. And you’ve got to sign it, so it’s authentic.”
She was busy rolling the condom on and he was helping, but four hands on a condom in a jouncing plane was like a rodeo on a merry-go-round and Marshall settled for just keeping his pubic hair from getting caught in the latex. Her hands were cool and he was so roused he was ready to take off like a rocket-and she still had her pants on, which he pointed out rather alarmed.
She kissed him, sloppily, because the airplane shifted her at the last instant and he caught her face in his hands, held her long enough for a properly scorching one. He had never had a girl kick out of shoes, slide out of slacks and panties so fast for him in his life. Perhaps he was only altitude sick.
She settled onto him gingerly, because the plane was in motion and she wasn’t quite physically ready, even if her brain had been ready halfway down the isle and ten minutes ago. He groaned very softly and resisted the instinct to surge up into her. There was a knock on the door before she had completely engulfed him and they both swore the exact same word at the same time.
“I’m sick. Use the other one,” she said rather strangled.
“You do sound sick,” he rasped into her face. “You’d better not throw up on me.”
She was giggling against his chest and the movement communicated itself straight to his groin. He shifted; spread his knees trying to get leverage to move, found himself trapped with the walls pressed tight on either side.
“This,” he said resignedly, “is going to be difficult.”
“Interesting. Novel. A challenge.” She leaned back, pulled her blouse off and threw her bra in the sink. It fit inside perfectly. “Always good to try new things, Marshall.”
“Well I can’t move, so the ‘giddy up’ has all got to come from you,” he said, humored, his hands tracing the curves of her breasts. He had his mouth on a nipple, felt her squirm deliciously, and he put his hands on her hips, guiding that rocking glide that felt so wonderful.
Then there was no more talking, because time was short and so was his endurance in this exotic spontaneous encounter. So was hers, as he discovered. She put one hand around the back of his neck, dropped her other fingers to her privates, and then she was bucking against him earnestly seeking her own pleasure, as pornographic as any lewd entertainer in any club he had accidentally wandered into.
He felt her tighten, then loosen, her body opening to his as she hit the peak-and he watched her, that fluid bliss of expression, the hazy half-closed eyes-found himself stranded in that intolerable place of abject need and inability to get there. There was a sound at the back of each breath that he couldn’t stifle.
“Help me get the angles right for you, because Christ this is tight,” she was saying.
“Yeah,” he managed, but it was debatable if he was commenting on the same thing she was. He rocked her pelvis in his hands, felt the delicious friction take hold of him. “Like this. Just, like … this.”
“Faster?” she asked.
“No.” His voice was higher, pitch getting beyond his ability to control. “Just-just-just-”
“Shhh.” And she kissed him to halt the involuntary stuttering that was taking him down.
She could feel the energy in him pick up, the straining through his shoulders and back, all the way to his hips, arching, desperate and unable to move. She added an extra roll to the very end of each pelvic thrust, heard a strangled sound in the back of his throat-then his grip went hard, grinding her against him … and if she hadn’t locked both her hands around his neck, he would have knocked a hole through the bathroom wall as he threw his head back.
The airplane was doing 560 miles an hour, but she was fairly certain that Marshall was doing 66,000 before he crashed. She let him slump against the back wall to recover while she got dressed. She slicked the condom off of him and tossed it, washed him with a wet paper towel that made him swear and sidle his feet, still coming back from wherever she had flung him. They were both dressed when the next impatient knock sounded on the door and Mary opened it so abruptly that the man standing outside stepped back.
“Excuse me,” she said and strode right past him. “Plumbing problems. I had to have some help.”
He looked at Marshall. Marshall looked back.
“So,” he said, eyes sly. “Did you fix the plumbing?”
“Nope,” said Marshall. “I’m not a plumber.” Then he leaned conspiratorially. “But she is.”
“What did you tell that man?” she asked him after he was seated and buckled.
Nonchalant. “That I was a plumber. I suppose you still want a T-shirt?”
“Yep. Dated and autographed.”
“Do I get one, too?”
“Hell no,” she shot back. “People will think I’m a slut.” She eyed him with that same insane look. “No one will believe you’re one … but I know better.”
“Only for you.” He was sleepily reclined in his seat, paper carelessly folded in his lap. “You know how Marshall just lives to slut.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She saw the steward that had hit on him coming back down the isle. She took Marshall’s right hand in her left, laced their fingers. Said softly, dangerously, because her companion was already asleep. “Only for me.”
July 17, 2008
Pairings/Characters: Mary/Marshall
Rating: Adult, NC-17. Plot, what plot? Ain’t got no stinkin’ plot!
Author rambling: This story is SO not my fault! firthgal quoted during her “Iris Doesn’t Live Here Anymore” commentary:
"So you think an invitation to the mile high club is old fashioned?" Then, kingzgurl commented: There totally needs to be an
out-take of M/M making out between (she inserts one picture of Mary/Marshall on the sidewalk, followed by a second picture)
And while these two blessed hens are commenting about a making out scene on the
sidewalk-I’m still back with ‘the invitation to the mile high club’ ----and just like that,
these two Muses are off the mark.
Sky High, Ground Not in Sight
“The mile high club?” she snipped sidelong at him. “I can’t believe he offered right in front of me and I can’t believe you said, ‘Thanks, but no thanks’ so politely! Jesus, Marshall, you’ve been hit on by a gay man and you didn’t even blink?”
The individual in question didn’t look away from the newspaper. He shrugged, indifferently.
“It’s not like I haven’t been hit on before,” he said. “I’m in good shape and I’m friendly to everyone. I look them right in the eyes and it gets … mistaken, sometimes.”
“That’s what you get for being so damn friendly.” She crossed her arms.
“Yeah,” he said smugly. “I get offers to join the mile high club.”
“Jackass.”
“Let me read.”
Silence for ten minutes; nearly long enough for him to get through the metro section.
“I can get you in the club,” she popped into his train of thought.
Trainwreck.
But he never let it reach his hands-they stayed completely still on the paper. He turned his head just enough to eye her.
“What did you say?”
“Out of the seat, mister.” She unlocked her lap belt, snared him by a wrist, and excused herself into the isle. His paper fluttered, landed half on the chair, half on the cabin floor. “Come on.”
“Mary-” he hissed-whispered, but her grip was as fierce as any handcuff and he knew this crazy blonde … knew she was perfectly capable of a scene right in the aisle somewhere over Western Arizona at 35,000 feet.
He followed, brain still on pause. She waited until the stewardess turned to get coffee for another passenger, and then she unlatched the door to the bathroom, shoved him inside and shut it behind her. Marshall ended up against the sink, which was only small enough to wash one hand at a time. Mary was giggling against his back because he was trying to back up and there was no back up of any kind in this closet sized room.
“Are you insane? Open the door!” he said.
“Are you insane?” she said back. “Turn around.”
Which is how they ended up face to face and then had to grab hold of each other because the airplane hit an air pocket and the floor fell out from under them slightly.
“You are insane,” he clarified. Her hair smelled like shampoo and she was all heat and adrenalin in his arms.
“Certified. I even come with warning labels.” She was working on his belt and had her fingers on the top button of his jeans when she looked up again. “You’re not going to scream about your virtue if I jump you into the mile high club, are you?”
“Depends on how you … jump me,” he managed. He had a finger at her neckline, felt thumb-fingered trying to juggle his brain, his body, and the buttons of her blouse.
She wasn’t thumb-fingered at all with his jeans and shorts and then she had a handful of Marshall and he was sucking air, depressurized.
“Nice engine,” she quipped, humored, her butt pressed against the locked door. His expression was borderline insensate.
“Goes with … my airplane … pajamas,” he eventually muttered. He was on the fourth button of her blouse and that was enough to expose her bra and the swell of her breasts.
And then there they were, Marshall unable to bend to even kiss her breasts and Mary unable to bend to even blow him. There was no question about using the counter-there wasn’t any. He was laughing nearly silently, hands smoothing around the lace edge of her bra, and she was also laughing nearly silently, with her hands running the length of him.
“Poor planning on someone’s part,” he remarked dryly. He worked her bra straps down enough to spill her breasts into his hands. “Christ, you’re lovely.”
“Yeah, the damned airlines for making these bathrooms so small that you can’t even,” she paused, distracted by the flick of his fingers across her nipples, “can’t even get it on at … 35,000 feet.”
“And going 560 miles per hour,” he added.
He was sure there were sink marks on his butt by now and he gave up trying to reach her breasts, settled on kissing her instead. She was intense and ferocious in kissing as with everything else and they forgot that they were standing half naked in the airplane bathroom for a few minutes.
“I have an idea,” she muttered while he was nibbling a line along her jaw. “You sit down on the toilet and I’ll straddle you.”
“Good plan, but did you bring a condom in here or did you not think that far ahead?”
“You don’t have a handful of condoms in your wallet?”
“Just how would that look, me going off with my partner to California with six condoms in my wallet?”
“A plan for a good time,” she quipped back. “And here I thought you were such a boy scout.”
“Boy scout enough,” he grumbled. “I do have a condom, but I can’t reach my pants now.”
Which is how Mary ended up scrunched awkwardly down with a hand getting in his pants pocket. He sat down on the commode to give her more room and another air pocket jostled her practically into his lap. He appreciated the pilot’s help, but complained about her orientation in landing, which earned him a slap somewhere around knee level.
“You know,” he said conversationally while she was going through his wallet. “You probably could just blow me now. If that’s, uh, what you wanted instead of...” He gestured at the wallet.
“Yeah, and get airsick, and bang my knees with every jolt of the plane, get strangled by you with every jolt of the plane, not to mention the fact that if you throw your head back when you finish, you’ll smack yourself senseless if I don’t get my hands around your neck to stop you beforehand.” That was a long speech even for Mary and she grinned like a fiend when she came up with the condom. “Besides, why should you be the only one initiated into the mile high club today?”
“I suppose you’ll want a t-shirt to commemorate the occasion?” he inquired mildly. The spontaneity of this encounter was skyrocketing his pulse.
“Damn straight. And you’ve got to sign it, so it’s authentic.”
She was busy rolling the condom on and he was helping, but four hands on a condom in a jouncing plane was like a rodeo on a merry-go-round and Marshall settled for just keeping his pubic hair from getting caught in the latex. Her hands were cool and he was so roused he was ready to take off like a rocket-and she still had her pants on, which he pointed out rather alarmed.
She kissed him, sloppily, because the airplane shifted her at the last instant and he caught her face in his hands, held her long enough for a properly scorching one. He had never had a girl kick out of shoes, slide out of slacks and panties so fast for him in his life. Perhaps he was only altitude sick.
She settled onto him gingerly, because the plane was in motion and she wasn’t quite physically ready, even if her brain had been ready halfway down the isle and ten minutes ago. He groaned very softly and resisted the instinct to surge up into her. There was a knock on the door before she had completely engulfed him and they both swore the exact same word at the same time.
“I’m sick. Use the other one,” she said rather strangled.
“You do sound sick,” he rasped into her face. “You’d better not throw up on me.”
She was giggling against his chest and the movement communicated itself straight to his groin. He shifted; spread his knees trying to get leverage to move, found himself trapped with the walls pressed tight on either side.
“This,” he said resignedly, “is going to be difficult.”
“Interesting. Novel. A challenge.” She leaned back, pulled her blouse off and threw her bra in the sink. It fit inside perfectly. “Always good to try new things, Marshall.”
“Well I can’t move, so the ‘giddy up’ has all got to come from you,” he said, humored, his hands tracing the curves of her breasts. He had his mouth on a nipple, felt her squirm deliciously, and he put his hands on her hips, guiding that rocking glide that felt so wonderful.
Then there was no more talking, because time was short and so was his endurance in this exotic spontaneous encounter. So was hers, as he discovered. She put one hand around the back of his neck, dropped her other fingers to her privates, and then she was bucking against him earnestly seeking her own pleasure, as pornographic as any lewd entertainer in any club he had accidentally wandered into.
He felt her tighten, then loosen, her body opening to his as she hit the peak-and he watched her, that fluid bliss of expression, the hazy half-closed eyes-found himself stranded in that intolerable place of abject need and inability to get there. There was a sound at the back of each breath that he couldn’t stifle.
“Help me get the angles right for you, because Christ this is tight,” she was saying.
“Yeah,” he managed, but it was debatable if he was commenting on the same thing she was. He rocked her pelvis in his hands, felt the delicious friction take hold of him. “Like this. Just, like … this.”
“Faster?” she asked.
“No.” His voice was higher, pitch getting beyond his ability to control. “Just-just-just-”
“Shhh.” And she kissed him to halt the involuntary stuttering that was taking him down.
She could feel the energy in him pick up, the straining through his shoulders and back, all the way to his hips, arching, desperate and unable to move. She added an extra roll to the very end of each pelvic thrust, heard a strangled sound in the back of his throat-then his grip went hard, grinding her against him … and if she hadn’t locked both her hands around his neck, he would have knocked a hole through the bathroom wall as he threw his head back.
The airplane was doing 560 miles an hour, but she was fairly certain that Marshall was doing 66,000 before he crashed. She let him slump against the back wall to recover while she got dressed. She slicked the condom off of him and tossed it, washed him with a wet paper towel that made him swear and sidle his feet, still coming back from wherever she had flung him. They were both dressed when the next impatient knock sounded on the door and Mary opened it so abruptly that the man standing outside stepped back.
“Excuse me,” she said and strode right past him. “Plumbing problems. I had to have some help.”
He looked at Marshall. Marshall looked back.
“So,” he said, eyes sly. “Did you fix the plumbing?”
“Nope,” said Marshall. “I’m not a plumber.” Then he leaned conspiratorially. “But she is.”
“What did you tell that man?” she asked him after he was seated and buckled.
Nonchalant. “That I was a plumber. I suppose you still want a T-shirt?”
“Yep. Dated and autographed.”
“Do I get one, too?”
“Hell no,” she shot back. “People will think I’m a slut.” She eyed him with that same insane look. “No one will believe you’re one … but I know better.”
“Only for you.” He was sleepily reclined in his seat, paper carelessly folded in his lap. “You know how Marshall just lives to slut.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She saw the steward that had hit on him coming back down the isle. She took Marshall’s right hand in her left, laced their fingers. Said softly, dangerously, because her companion was already asleep. “Only for me.”
July 17, 2008