Finn likes what Marshall Lee does to him.
What Marshall Lee does with his fingers, with his hands, with his lips and most especially with his tongue. Finn likes it when Marshall Lee comes up behind him and presses against his neck. He likes feeling the prick of the vampire king's fangs on his throat, hot breath on his bare skin. When Marshall Lee is around, his skin is always bare.
That's one of their rules.
They have seven rules, and Finn has faithfully followed every single one of them. Marshall Lee likes to break them, but Finn likes that he likes to break them.
Finn likes it when Marshall Lee knocks at his bedroom window.
A sharp rap against the glass brings a smile to the human's face, without fail. He sits up in bed, all thoughts of sleep instantly banished. It doesn't matter how tired he is; when Marshall Lee comes to call, Finn is up immediately.
He opens the bedroom window and the vampire king floats inside. He's always wearing his plaid shirt and his super-tight jeans, and he's always looking at Finn with that same barely-controlled lust. His fangs glint in the faint light as he drifts over to the bed, still looking at Finn. Finn likes the way Marshall Lee looks at him.
Usually, at this point, the vampire king reminds him of the rules: "Take them off."
He's talking about Finn's underwear, all he wears to bed these days. It's easier, really, for when Marshall Lee comes around. Finn, because he's a good boy, does as he's told. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his tighty-whities and banishes them to the floor of his bedroom. He steps out of them, one step at a time. Marshall Lee's small grin widens. He drinks in Finn's body. Narrow hips, broad shoulders, well-toned from years of adventuring. Callused hands, sun-freckled milky skin and a faint trace of hair leading from his belly button down. He still has a trace of puppy fat on his cheeks.
Finn reaches up to undo the ties of his hat (he still sleeps in that, too-he honest to glob loves that hat) but Marshall Lee drifts over and places his green hand on Finn's. "Leave it on."
Seventeen-year-old Finn faces thousand-year-old-plus Marshall and returns the grin.
Marshall Lee leans down and kisses Finn. Finn stands still, letting Marshall kiss him. It isn't gentle, it isn't passive; Marshall is writing a contract with Finn as he kisses him, is reinforcing their rules and promising to uphold them. They separate, and then Marshall affixes his signature and seal with a second, impossibly light kiss.
"Good boy," Marshall says.
Finn grins again.
Marshall floats back over to the bed and begins to undo his plaid shirt. Finn follows, excited and flushed. He likes this part, too: first, off comes the shirt, which Marshall tosses over his shoulder and ends up somewhere on the other side of the room; next, the shoes, which Marshall lets drop onto the bed; then the pants, which he unbuttons and unzips so excruciatingly slowly that Finn thinks he might explode; finally, Marshall is left floating there in just his underwear, which looks a bit too big on him.
And for good reason, Finn realises: they're Finn's.
He shouldn't be as thrilled by that as he is, but that's what Marshall Lee does to him. Unlike Finn's broad, muscled body, Marshall's is simply slender. There's nothing on him at all, not an ounce of fat, no trace of hair and no definition. Just miles and miles of faintly green skin, smooth and unblemished except for the bite mark at his neck.
"Cute undies," Finn says, unable to resist.
Marshall Lee shoots him a look, and his long tongue flicks over his green lips. "I didn't say you could speak."
Finn blushes a furious red: that's one of their rules, too.
Marshall floats down to retrieve his jeans. "I guess if you're not going to play by the rules, I should just get dressed and go..."
"No, no, no!" Finn protests, before clapping his hands over his mouth.
Marshall smiles wickedly. He looks Finn up and down. "Oh," he says slowly, as though tasting the sound. "The things I'm going to do to you."