(no subject)
This is the other story I wrote for Porn Battle IX. This one is Eerie, Indiana, and also slashy and porny. So, y know, don't say I didn't warn you.
Disclaimer - I do not own these characters, or the media from which they originated. If I did that media would not have been canceled as the show was going form good fun, to "OMG, did you see what they did there!"
Typical
Marshall Teller/Dash X, skill
Typical
There are times that Marshall really, really wants to kill Dash.
Times when he is absolutely certain that Dash was created fully formed out of the weirdness that is Eerie’s signature, simply to create havoc, chaos, mischief, and to otherwise fuck with Marshall’s life. This includes, but is not limited to, all the times that Dash has left Marshall to die, sold Marshall down the river for his own (rather insignificant) profit, and every time Dash ever said anything that made Simon get that look on his face. The one that said he wasn’t good enough at hunting weirdness to be Marshall’s partner, or some ridiculous thing like that.
It’s a skill really. To always be in the center of any and every weird thing going, and to even occasionally be the one steering them through their wild and crazy paths until the end.
But skill set, and crazy, vaguely sociopathic tendencies aside; none of that (except for hurting Simon, and Marshall is totally going to kick his ass for that next chance he gets) compares to Dash finding sex pollen and distributing it throughout town. In brownies of all things! Marshall had woken up that morning, gone to the kitchen, and backed out again in a hurry. He was never going to be able to look at his parents or peanut butter in quite the same way again.
The worst thing of course, is not finding and destroying the pollen (well, plant really, but sex plant sounds like some kind of factory with assembly lines, and then his brain kind of shuts down in self defense) is not terribly difficult, nor is wiping out the main supply of brownies. Mr. Radford had been doing a roaring business with them at the World “O” Stuff, but had disposed of them with his normal good humor once Marshall had haltingly explained the situation. He wasn’t sure how long it’d take him to look Radford in the eye again either. The man had seemed extraordinarily amused by the situation and had had to be stopped three separate times in the middle of what Marshall is terrified was a “birds and the bees” speech with an Eerie-flavored twist.
However, none of that compares with the sinking feeling Marshall gets at finding Dash X, in the middle of one Eerie’s most notorious and, he can’t help thinking rather smugly, newly ghost-free haunted houses. Coat off, feet on a coffee table, looking completely unperturbed by Marshall’s rather hurried entrance. With half a brownie in his hand, and crumbs at the corners of his mouth.
This is bad.
“Hey, Mars.” Dash grins at him and gets leisurely to his feet. “You’re late.”
Dash moves around the table, and Marshall follows his instinct to back away, which works great until his back hits a wall after about two steps. He decides to rely on his tried and true method when confronting weirdness, talk. Fast.
“What are you talking about!? And do you have any idea just how screwed up this town can get? I’ve seen things that no sixteen year old should even know abo-” He is cut off by Dash shoving something into his mouth. His throat acting independently of his brain swallows automatically. Marshall can taste chocolate and something else, something spicy lingering on his tongue, and oh this is so very, very bad.
Dash is smiling and standing close enough that Marshall can feel the heat radiating off of him. He can feel his limbs, tense in preparation for the inevitable fight, loosen in a wave, and he notices that Dash’s eyes are wide and dark and fixed directly on his.
“There now, doesn’t that feel better?” Marshall feels each word as a breath against his lips, and he elects to answer by drawing Dash in to him and capturing the shorter boy’s lips with his own.
If he’d ever considered kissing Dash (and he absolutely has not, dreams are unconscious and don’t count and that logic has kept him going for a full year now, so just shut right up) he’d have thought that anything they did would be harsh, just this side of brutal, all their many issues coming out in a clash of lips instead of words. This is gentle, he’s thorough but Dash’s neck is tense under his hand, and Marshall wants more than anything for that to be different, he wants Dash loose and graceful and confident. He wants Dash.
Dash, contrary bastard that he is, doesn’t stand for that. He presses his lips warm, and firm, and undeniable against Marshall’s, until Marshall gives in and presses back, meets him pressure for pressure. Until Marshall opens his mouth to the tongue Dash flicks against his lips, until Marshall slides his own tongue into Dash’s mouth, tastes him, feels them move against each other.
Dash pulls back just enough to angle his head at Marshall’s neck, licking and kissing his way from one side to the other lingering at places that make Marshall moan, or shudder. Marshall’s hands slide down Dash’s back and then back up, taking his shirts along for the ride.
He pushes Dash back far enough to pull his shirts up and off, and then his own as well. The two of them stand there, studying each other for a moment Marshall simultaneously dislikes the sharp outline of Dash’s ribs against his skin, and wants to trace each one with his tongue just to see how loudly it’ll make Dash moan.
He reaches, and Dash comes easily. Dash’s skin is hot, and liquid smooth, and Marshall can’t get enough of feeling it under his fingers. His hands are large and dark against the pale, pale skin of Dash’s chest and Marshall likes the way they look. His fingertips brush a nipple and Dash suck in a sharp breath. Marshall eyes fly up to his face, Dash’s eyes are closed and he’s caught his bottom lip between his teeth. Marshall cups his face and Dash’s eyes open. They are darker than ever, and slightly unfocused, and Marshall can’t not kiss him.
This kiss is not gentle. Dash’s hands are in his hair, pulling tight and a little painful against his scalp; and Marshall’s hand are all over, his nails are marking path along Dash’s back, his fingers are tweaking Dash’s nipples, his teeth on are on Dash’s neck, his ear, anywhere they can reach. He can feel Dash’s hands on him as well, his back, his chest, his nipples, and oh God! does that feel good! His back is against the wall and his hips are rocking up into Dash’s and, oh Christ, Dash is hard and it’s good it’s so, so good. Everything is bright and hot and Marshall feels himself shatter, feels Dash shuddering in his arms, and he thinks he might just lie down someplace quiet and die for a little while.
He feels Dash shift away from him, and the cold of the room hits him square in the chest. He opens his eyes to find Dash heading for the stairs on the other side of the room. Marshall is uncomfortably aware of the dampness in his jeans, and the fact that he rode his bike over here to yell at Dash for getting the whole town hopped up on an apparently very effective aphrodisiac.
Dash is halfway up the stairs, and Marshall is beginning to look for his shirt, when Dash’s voice calls back, “ The effects are supposed to lower inhibitions, and last at least seven hours. There’s a bed and a bunch of other interesting stuff I snagged from the World “O” Stuff up there waiting. You comin’ or not?”
Dash doesn’t stop climbing the stairs. And isn’t that just fucking typical.
Marshall looks at the newly recovered shirt in his hands, and at Dash’s coat laid out on the couch. He looks at the door, and thinks of his parents and peanut butter, and movie sets and bribes, and Simon’s face. Then he thinks about pale skin, and dark eyes, and the taste of chocolate and something spicy.
He drops his shirt on the couch on his way past.
Disclaimer - I do not own these characters, or the media from which they originated. If I did that media would not have been canceled as the show was going form good fun, to "OMG, did you see what they did there!"
Typical
Marshall Teller/Dash X, skill
Typical
There are times that Marshall really, really wants to kill Dash.
Times when he is absolutely certain that Dash was created fully formed out of the weirdness that is Eerie’s signature, simply to create havoc, chaos, mischief, and to otherwise fuck with Marshall’s life. This includes, but is not limited to, all the times that Dash has left Marshall to die, sold Marshall down the river for his own (rather insignificant) profit, and every time Dash ever said anything that made Simon get that look on his face. The one that said he wasn’t good enough at hunting weirdness to be Marshall’s partner, or some ridiculous thing like that.
It’s a skill really. To always be in the center of any and every weird thing going, and to even occasionally be the one steering them through their wild and crazy paths until the end.
But skill set, and crazy, vaguely sociopathic tendencies aside; none of that (except for hurting Simon, and Marshall is totally going to kick his ass for that next chance he gets) compares to Dash finding sex pollen and distributing it throughout town. In brownies of all things! Marshall had woken up that morning, gone to the kitchen, and backed out again in a hurry. He was never going to be able to look at his parents or peanut butter in quite the same way again.
The worst thing of course, is not finding and destroying the pollen (well, plant really, but sex plant sounds like some kind of factory with assembly lines, and then his brain kind of shuts down in self defense) is not terribly difficult, nor is wiping out the main supply of brownies. Mr. Radford had been doing a roaring business with them at the World “O” Stuff, but had disposed of them with his normal good humor once Marshall had haltingly explained the situation. He wasn’t sure how long it’d take him to look Radford in the eye again either. The man had seemed extraordinarily amused by the situation and had had to be stopped three separate times in the middle of what Marshall is terrified was a “birds and the bees” speech with an Eerie-flavored twist.
However, none of that compares with the sinking feeling Marshall gets at finding Dash X, in the middle of one Eerie’s most notorious and, he can’t help thinking rather smugly, newly ghost-free haunted houses. Coat off, feet on a coffee table, looking completely unperturbed by Marshall’s rather hurried entrance. With half a brownie in his hand, and crumbs at the corners of his mouth.
This is bad.
“Hey, Mars.” Dash grins at him and gets leisurely to his feet. “You’re late.”
Dash moves around the table, and Marshall follows his instinct to back away, which works great until his back hits a wall after about two steps. He decides to rely on his tried and true method when confronting weirdness, talk. Fast.
“What are you talking about!? And do you have any idea just how screwed up this town can get? I’ve seen things that no sixteen year old should even know abo-” He is cut off by Dash shoving something into his mouth. His throat acting independently of his brain swallows automatically. Marshall can taste chocolate and something else, something spicy lingering on his tongue, and oh this is so very, very bad.
Dash is smiling and standing close enough that Marshall can feel the heat radiating off of him. He can feel his limbs, tense in preparation for the inevitable fight, loosen in a wave, and he notices that Dash’s eyes are wide and dark and fixed directly on his.
“There now, doesn’t that feel better?” Marshall feels each word as a breath against his lips, and he elects to answer by drawing Dash in to him and capturing the shorter boy’s lips with his own.
If he’d ever considered kissing Dash (and he absolutely has not, dreams are unconscious and don’t count and that logic has kept him going for a full year now, so just shut right up) he’d have thought that anything they did would be harsh, just this side of brutal, all their many issues coming out in a clash of lips instead of words. This is gentle, he’s thorough but Dash’s neck is tense under his hand, and Marshall wants more than anything for that to be different, he wants Dash loose and graceful and confident. He wants Dash.
Dash, contrary bastard that he is, doesn’t stand for that. He presses his lips warm, and firm, and undeniable against Marshall’s, until Marshall gives in and presses back, meets him pressure for pressure. Until Marshall opens his mouth to the tongue Dash flicks against his lips, until Marshall slides his own tongue into Dash’s mouth, tastes him, feels them move against each other.
Dash pulls back just enough to angle his head at Marshall’s neck, licking and kissing his way from one side to the other lingering at places that make Marshall moan, or shudder. Marshall’s hands slide down Dash’s back and then back up, taking his shirts along for the ride.
He pushes Dash back far enough to pull his shirts up and off, and then his own as well. The two of them stand there, studying each other for a moment Marshall simultaneously dislikes the sharp outline of Dash’s ribs against his skin, and wants to trace each one with his tongue just to see how loudly it’ll make Dash moan.
He reaches, and Dash comes easily. Dash’s skin is hot, and liquid smooth, and Marshall can’t get enough of feeling it under his fingers. His hands are large and dark against the pale, pale skin of Dash’s chest and Marshall likes the way they look. His fingertips brush a nipple and Dash suck in a sharp breath. Marshall eyes fly up to his face, Dash’s eyes are closed and he’s caught his bottom lip between his teeth. Marshall cups his face and Dash’s eyes open. They are darker than ever, and slightly unfocused, and Marshall can’t not kiss him.
This kiss is not gentle. Dash’s hands are in his hair, pulling tight and a little painful against his scalp; and Marshall’s hand are all over, his nails are marking path along Dash’s back, his fingers are tweaking Dash’s nipples, his teeth on are on Dash’s neck, his ear, anywhere they can reach. He can feel Dash’s hands on him as well, his back, his chest, his nipples, and oh God! does that feel good! His back is against the wall and his hips are rocking up into Dash’s and, oh Christ, Dash is hard and it’s good it’s so, so good. Everything is bright and hot and Marshall feels himself shatter, feels Dash shuddering in his arms, and he thinks he might just lie down someplace quiet and die for a little while.
He feels Dash shift away from him, and the cold of the room hits him square in the chest. He opens his eyes to find Dash heading for the stairs on the other side of the room. Marshall is uncomfortably aware of the dampness in his jeans, and the fact that he rode his bike over here to yell at Dash for getting the whole town hopped up on an apparently very effective aphrodisiac.
Dash is halfway up the stairs, and Marshall is beginning to look for his shirt, when Dash’s voice calls back, “ The effects are supposed to lower inhibitions, and last at least seven hours. There’s a bed and a bunch of other interesting stuff I snagged from the World “O” Stuff up there waiting. You comin’ or not?”
Dash doesn’t stop climbing the stairs. And isn’t that just fucking typical.
Marshall looks at the newly recovered shirt in his hands, and at Dash’s coat laid out on the couch. He looks at the door, and thinks of his parents and peanut butter, and movie sets and bribes, and Simon’s face. Then he thinks about pale skin, and dark eyes, and the taste of chocolate and something spicy.
He drops his shirt on the couch on his way past.