It'll Last Longer
It'll Last Longer
Cash/Marshall; 910 words; pg-13 for stupidity and cussin' and kissin'
disclaimer: we're just two stupid kids who don't really have enough time on their hands but still find enough to do this.
worldonstringer : I do, however, want fic where the other guys give Marshall and Cash shit for their little gaymo camera seshes
ahomegirlslife : they really got cozy whenever cash would wanna make videos, i think it was probably because marshall was the only one who put up with him for it
worldonstringer : also in this fic Cash would have the brilliant idea that because of this, they should make a sextape.
"Not like, a fullblown real life gay sextape, dude, don' look at me like that. Just like. Makin' out. We could sell that shit. Girls eat it up."
"Cash? Cash. Lay off the hard drugs, bro, for real."
"Hey, dude, you're hot, I'm hot, our girlfriends are a couple thousand miles away... dude, I'll even text Arielle, I bet you twenty bucks she won't give a shit as long as we let her watch the vid."
"You're such a wanker, dude, shut up," and Marshall turns away, because they're in the back cuddling at Cash's request. (Marshall had agreed even though it meant he was at risk of waking up with Cash's morning wood pressed up to his ass.)
If Cash is one thing, though, he's stubborn (see: he got Marshall to agree to snuggle in the first place), and he wriggles back into Marshall's space, wraps an arm around his ribs and looks up at him adoringly, bats his eyelashes. "Dude, dude, this is such a good idea though. Seriously. Making out, how can you turn this down?"
"I swear to god, Cash, if you don't shut your mouth about it already I won't even begin to think of thinking about it." Marshall is a bit tense at first, under Cash's arm, but it's whatever. It's just Cash being Cash, really, and Marshall can't stop that. And deep down it's actually kind of endearing, kind of the reason this, whatever they have going on, started in the first place.
"My mouth's not half as good when it's shut," Cash says, licks his lips and smirks at Marshall, but he snuggles back down, apparently letting it drop. Until his arm drops significantly to stretch over Marshall's waist. The palm of his hand smoothes over Marshall's hip, and it's close to be dangerous. Close.
Marshall doesn't say anything about it, just rolls his shoulders and shoots Cash a glance that he probably won't get. Cash is like a kid in that regard-- how he won't catch eyerolls from Singer, or takes his sweet ass time to understand what Johnson elbowing him straight to the ribs means. Marshall rolls with it.
Cash lays quiet, eyes fixed somewhere on the ceiling, making shapes out of the stains in the fabric. His hand on Marshall's hip is restless, fingers tapping, rubbing, punctuating an unfamiliar rhythm. "Why won't Arielle have phone sex with me?" he says, finally, voice pettish and whiny.
Marshall exhales through his mouth, loud and with a side of hard eye rolling, and looks up himself. "I'm not Arielle, why would I know?" And it's-- okay, maybe he's lying a bit, but just for Cash's sake and wellbeing, because with child-like understanding comes a child-like ability to be offended.
"She says I sound like even more of an asshole over the phone," Cash pouts, swings his leg over Marshall's and exhales haughtily.
It's past the point where Marshall would complain about personal space, so he adjusts to Cash's leg tangled in his, shifts just a little for the sake of comfort. "I don't know, dude. If you say shit like 'ride that dick' over the phone I think it's a bit tough for people to encourage even dirtier stuff you may come up with."
"I have never said 'ride that dick', Alex Marshall, I can't believe you would think I lack that much class." Cash sounds absolutely insulted, but his mouth is quirked in a half-smile, and he glances at Marshall briefly. "I am so much more subtle than that. I don't know where you got your ideas on phone sex from, but obviously you had a poor teacher."
"You're crude, bro, don't give me that." Marshall turns again, actually looks at Cash this time with a no-bullshit face. (He's maybe making the exact phrase up, but the sentiment is still there, in Cash's way of being.)
Cash stares up at Marshall, pouting and eyes wide and innocent, and when he kisses him Marshall doesn't pull away. Cash doesn't even try to use tongue the first three seconds, just to prove he's not a total jerk.
For those first three seconds Marshall's eyes are open, long enough for him to roll them again and produce a mixture of a huff and a sigh into Cash's mouth when the wet warmth of his tongue straight up pushes into Marshall's mouth, making a scene in the cramped back of the van. Their mouths make obnoxious wet sounds, and for a moment Marshall worries that someone will wake up and throw a pillow at them.
Cash licks thoroughly through Marshall's mouth, bites his lips and sucks on his tongue until Marshall kisses back equally hard, and then pulls back, smug. "So," he says. "When can we film it? 'cause we need good lighting if we plan on makin' some dollas out of this one, Marshy baby."
"I really hate you," Marshall tells him, eyebrows up high and a blank expression on his face again. Except for how it's kind of tarnished, the mean effect fucked up because his hair is ruffled from turning around on someone's pillow so much, and his mouth puffy, and his chin wet and sloppy. He catches Cash's mouth before he can talk again, lifts a hand to his chin and holds him still. Fuck Cash and his stupid ideas.
“ Tha’s what I’m talkin’ bout, baby,” Cash says, mumbled between their mouths as he smiles into the kiss, messy.