Distraction
Title: Distraction
Author: Telis (theaerosolkid)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Marshall/Cash
Summary: Cash Colligan is not having a good day. Warning: fisting.
Word Count: 2308
Disclaimer: Fake, fake, fake.
A/N: Thanks to notshybutsly for the beta and warmingweather for kickin' my ass into gear.
*
Cash Colligan is not having a good day.
Driving from San Diego to Sacramento was never going to be fun, to begin with; starting in the middle of the fucking night after a show is even less so.
Small tours are all he knows, anyway, but there's a difference between a tour with a bus and a tour with a van, because, as Cash has learned, even if you're not actually on the bus, you can sometimes steal a bunk for some real sleep. Failing that, the lounge. Failing that, there's the kitchenette. A refrigerator sounds like an unbearable luxury at the moment.
*
Cheer the fuck up, Marshall mouthed at him, his back to the crowd while they played "Take My Hand". Cash stuck his tongue out and shoved his way to the edge of the stage, pulling a ridiculous face for the flash-flash-flash of digital photography before sliding back and making another at Marshall.
Marshall sighed and spun his guitar around to his back, edging his way to the keyboard, keeping his eyes on Cash the whole time.
*
The show was. Cash doesn't want to think about the show. It was short, and they'd gone on before they were meant to (fucking Charlotte, just -- fucking Charlotte), which sucked because Cash had been looking forward to Orangevale. But now there's family all over the place, and fans with big wide hopeful grins and cameras, and he'd really prefer to not have to smile right now. So he gives up and just grimaces for the few shots. The shyer fans are leaving him alone tonight, which is a small blessing. Or, it is until Cash realizes that they're leaving him alone because it's blatantly obvious that he doesn't want to talk to anyone. At all. Possibly not ever again.
It takes Singer's family forever to leave. Seriously, forever. Jes is passed out in the front seat by the time they've gotten everything ready to go. Cash was annoyed by the eight hours to Northern California, and is even less excited to drive seventeen hours to Colorado Springs, but them's the breaks, he guesses. Whatever.
Marshall's still tapping away on his fucking computer when they start driving away, Danny and Singer sprawled in the back and Ian taking up all of the front bench, which means that, yeah, Cash is stuck with Marshall and nothing to lie against. Marshall and the stupid glow of his laptop, keys backlit. Cash isn't even sure why he's on the fucking computer at this point, they're driving so it's not like he has wireless access. He has to be typing emails ahead of time or something ridiculous like that.
"We're getting a hotel room tonight," Marshall says, slightly over-loud with his headphones still playing.
"No, we're not," Cash says automatically.
"Yes, we are. Singer's family booked rooms for us just outside Reno," Marshall says. "Four rooms. Jes gets her own. Danny and Johnson in one, Singer and Ian, and you and me."
"Oh," Cash says.
"We'll be there in, like, forty minutes. So."
"Okay," Cash says dumbly.
*
Still, stopping means that they'll have to drive more in the morning and Cash really hates driving during the day. He didn't always, but being on tour has spoiled him for driving during the day. Day-driving means sun, means more traffic, means cops are harder to spot, means more activity in the van. Even when everyone's awake, it's still better, driving at night. Easier.
If anybody had bothered to ask Cash he would have said that he just wanted to fucking get the drive over with. But nobody did bother to ask him, of course, so he's stuck with what they've decided.
Part of him recognizes that it was actually really nice of Singer's family to do, to get rooms for them, and if he were in a good mood, yeah, he might appreciate the gesture, but right now he just wants to be left entirely alone to wallow a little bit. Whatever.
*
Normally Cash would go straight for the shower (oh, man, a nice hot shower sounds really awesome right now) but Marshall beats him to the bathroom, of fucking course, so he bounces on both the beds and picks the softer one.
Marshall comes out of the bathroom quickly, stripped down to just boxer briefs. Cash makes to get up, but Marshall blocks him, holding his gaze steadily.
Oh. He wants that tonight.
Too fucking bad, Cash thinks, because 'not in the mood' has never really been more applicable.
"I'm taking a shower," Cash says, dodging around. Marshall doesn't let him get by.
"You might want to wait," he says lightly.
"For?" Cash snarks.
"Just -- come on, I have a plan," Marshall says.
"No," Cash says. "I'm tired."
Marshall makes a frustrated little noise. "Seriously. Trust me."
"Tell me what you're gonna do," Cash demands.
"Let's start with rimming and see where we go," Marshall says.
Cheater. Cash is a total and complete sucker for oral action of any sort. The first time Marshall had hauled his legs up and licked between his cheeks, the shock had almost eclipsed the pleasure of it, but -- well, not really. Cash is pretty sure that he wouldn't have consented to the actual assfucking if it hadn't been for the rimming, because, yeah.
"Fine," Cash says after a pause, and strips quickly, efficiently. Marshall kisses him, tries to make him go slowly, but Cash pulls away and lies face-down on the bed. He's on the other bed, the one he picked for Marshall, because even if Marshall's going to lick his asshole, Cash is still going to get the better bed. Marshall sighs and kneels between his spread legs, spreading his cheeks before dropping his head and getting right to it, licking a long firm line from behind Cash's balls. Cash doesn't give Marshall the satisfaction of squirming.
Marshall keeps licking, deliberate passes of his tongue pressing right up at Cash's hole, and it's in no way enough, not at all. Cash grunts, and Marshall points his tongue, dipping inside just a little, more when Cash pushes back into it. He pushes his mouth right between Cash's cheeks, breath coming slow and hot in between licking, not enough pressure, not fast enough, not at all.
Cash bites his lip but can't stifle another grunt, and Marshall starts tongue-fucking him with dirty little slurping noises, thumbs rubbing slow and soothing at the small of Cash's back. Cash doesn't want to be comforted. He wants to come, and then he wants to take a shower and make Marshall sleep in the dirty bed.
"Want to try something," Marshall says, and Cash stops rubbing his hips against the bed.
"What?" he asks.
"Fisting," Marshall says, and Cash can hear the smile in his voice, but he can hear the seriousness.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Cash asks. "You're not putting your hand in my ass. Not fucking happening."
"Well, not the whole thing right away," Marshall says dryly.
"Not the whole thing at all," Cash says emphatically.
"I'll go slow. Tell me if you want to stop, and I will, and I'll just jerk you off or whatever," Marshall says. "You don't have to."
"No shit I don't have to," Cash tells him, but he stops and considers.
Marshall waits, patiently.
"Fine," Cash says. "Fine. But you'd better have a fucking ton of lube."
"We're covered," Marshall assures him.
Cash sucks in a deep breath and pulls himself up, turning to glance at Marshall. "Do you know what you're doing?"
"In theory," Marshall says with a shrug. "If you don't like it, we'll stop."
"Yeah," Cash says.
"You should lie on your back, get a pillow under your hips, and hold your legs up," Marshall instructs. Cash does all this while Marshall gets up to bring a bottle of lube from his bag. He takes a deep breath.
Marshall squeezes lube onto his fingers, rubbing slightly to warm them before stroking the tip of one over Cash's asshole, already slick from spit. He pushes in slowly, sinks the second one easily. Cash had tensed up a bit, but he's calmer now. Marshall's watching his fingers work in and out of Cash's body intently.
He takes a deep breath, tries to relax.
"You look good like this," Marshall says softly. He withdraws his fingers with a quiet squelch, and gets more lube on them before working three in. It's a stretch, now, but not more than Cash can take. He hasn't actually been fucked since before this tour started, when they were taking time off, back in Vegas.
"You sound like a cheap porn actor," Cash says.
"You'd know," Marshall says, and keeps the same maddeningly slow pace. He keeps going until it feels like nothing at all, the slide of three fingers. Cash sucks in a deep breath, flexes the fingers gripping his thighs.
"You can. Another," Cash says, and that's a little. Weird. Because four fingers is more than he's ever taken, more than he's ever wanted.
Marshall withdraws his hand and takes longer this time to lube up his fingers, getting them messy and slick. Cash bites his lip, takes another deep breath as Marshall gets his fingers back inside, one at a time. There's a brief pause before the fourth worms its way in, and Cash sighs, trying to stay relaxed.
"Okay?"
"S'a lot," Cash admits. "Fuck." He doesn't want Marshall to stop, though. The stretch burns, but it's good to focus on. It's nothing he can't handle, anyway, and how are they going to make this work if he can't take four fingers? In any case, he can. Marshall's fingers are pretty slender, anyway. His hands are, too. It's not a big deal.
Marshall drizzles lube onto the ridge of his knuckles, rotating his wrist to get the underside of his palm, and Cash steels himself as Marshall hesitates slightly before he pushes forward, pressing the ridge of his knuckles, slightly folded, past the tight ring of muscle.
It hurts, more than a little, more than the slight stinging background annoyance of four fingers (four whole fingers), but it's not unmanageable. Cash blows out a breath he hadn't known he was holding in.
"Good?" Marshall asks.
"Yeah," Cash admits. "Fuck. Yeah, actually. Yeah. Just -- move, or. Yeah."
Cash can't really make sense out of what he was saying, but Marshall seems to manage just fine, turning his hand inside Cash's body, spreading his fingers slightly. Slowly the burn fades, or doesn't; but it changes to something that feels good in and of itself as opposed to feeling good despite the pain.
Marshall pulls his whole hand away, and it feels like a loss, like a drop in his belly, but Cash waits patiently while Marshall gets more lube over his whole hand, and okay, his whole and entire hand, what the fuck.
"You sure?" Marshall asks, and Cash can only nod, focused on the glistening skin of Marshall's hand.
One finger, two fingers, three, four, pushing all the way past the knuckles, withdrawing slightly -- and there's his thumb, edging inside, just a little.
"Fuck," Cash gasps, and Marshall pushes forward, with his hand, and then, with a quick rush, he's inside, completely, sheathed in Cash's body.
"Jesus," Marshall says, and Cash kind of agrees. It's -- he's so fucking full, entirely, stretched around Marshall's hand, fingers pulled into a fist inside, knuckles wide and hard.
Cash tries to open his mouth to tell Marshall to jerk him off already, but he can't, he has to concentrate on keeping his legs spread and up, so that Marshall can keep rolling his wrist like that, can keep nudging his fist up and back down again, and fuck. How -- how is this even possible?
Marshall rubs the thumb of his free hand over the head of Cash's dick, smearing pre-come, and Cash is not going to last long at all, not a fucking hope. Marshall starts stroking his cock, his hand stilling inside Cash's ass, but the fullness is just enough that when Marshall's palm scrapes over the head, he arches, barely managing to hold onto his legs, and comes all over Marshall's hand and his stomach.
He's panting, lying there sweaty and dazed, and Marshall works his hand out with a sound that Cash can kind of register as filthy and disgusting.
"Still want that shower?" Marshall asks.
"Fuck you," Cash mumbles. He's exhausted, now, in the way that he usually is after shows, the way he hadn't realized he was before -- before Marshall decided it was a good idea to put his whole fucking hand in Cash's ass, what the actual fuck.
"I'll be right back," Marshall says, and Cash gropes for his shirt on the floor, uses it to wipe the worst of the mess from his ass and stomach.
"Stop jerking off and bring me my sweats," he calls out, surprised at the hoarseness in his voice.
Marshall doesn't answer. Asshole.
Cash is halfway to sleep by the time Marshall gets out, flushed and clearly sated. He finds Cash's sweatpants for him and tosses them onto the bed while he shrugs into gym shorts and a tanktop. Marshall offers him a hand and pulls him to his feet, guiding him to the other bed. They crawl under the covers, and Marshall tucks his nose into the crook of Cash's shoulder.
"Feel better?" he asks.
"Yeah," Cash says drowsily.
*
Author: Telis (theaerosolkid)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Marshall/Cash
Summary: Cash Colligan is not having a good day. Warning: fisting.
Word Count: 2308
Disclaimer: Fake, fake, fake.
A/N: Thanks to notshybutsly for the beta and warmingweather for kickin' my ass into gear.
*
Cash Colligan is not having a good day.
Driving from San Diego to Sacramento was never going to be fun, to begin with; starting in the middle of the fucking night after a show is even less so.
Small tours are all he knows, anyway, but there's a difference between a tour with a bus and a tour with a van, because, as Cash has learned, even if you're not actually on the bus, you can sometimes steal a bunk for some real sleep. Failing that, the lounge. Failing that, there's the kitchenette. A refrigerator sounds like an unbearable luxury at the moment.
*
Cheer the fuck up, Marshall mouthed at him, his back to the crowd while they played "Take My Hand". Cash stuck his tongue out and shoved his way to the edge of the stage, pulling a ridiculous face for the flash-flash-flash of digital photography before sliding back and making another at Marshall.
Marshall sighed and spun his guitar around to his back, edging his way to the keyboard, keeping his eyes on Cash the whole time.
*
The show was. Cash doesn't want to think about the show. It was short, and they'd gone on before they were meant to (fucking Charlotte, just -- fucking Charlotte), which sucked because Cash had been looking forward to Orangevale. But now there's family all over the place, and fans with big wide hopeful grins and cameras, and he'd really prefer to not have to smile right now. So he gives up and just grimaces for the few shots. The shyer fans are leaving him alone tonight, which is a small blessing. Or, it is until Cash realizes that they're leaving him alone because it's blatantly obvious that he doesn't want to talk to anyone. At all. Possibly not ever again.
It takes Singer's family forever to leave. Seriously, forever. Jes is passed out in the front seat by the time they've gotten everything ready to go. Cash was annoyed by the eight hours to Northern California, and is even less excited to drive seventeen hours to Colorado Springs, but them's the breaks, he guesses. Whatever.
Marshall's still tapping away on his fucking computer when they start driving away, Danny and Singer sprawled in the back and Ian taking up all of the front bench, which means that, yeah, Cash is stuck with Marshall and nothing to lie against. Marshall and the stupid glow of his laptop, keys backlit. Cash isn't even sure why he's on the fucking computer at this point, they're driving so it's not like he has wireless access. He has to be typing emails ahead of time or something ridiculous like that.
"We're getting a hotel room tonight," Marshall says, slightly over-loud with his headphones still playing.
"No, we're not," Cash says automatically.
"Yes, we are. Singer's family booked rooms for us just outside Reno," Marshall says. "Four rooms. Jes gets her own. Danny and Johnson in one, Singer and Ian, and you and me."
"Oh," Cash says.
"We'll be there in, like, forty minutes. So."
"Okay," Cash says dumbly.
*
Still, stopping means that they'll have to drive more in the morning and Cash really hates driving during the day. He didn't always, but being on tour has spoiled him for driving during the day. Day-driving means sun, means more traffic, means cops are harder to spot, means more activity in the van. Even when everyone's awake, it's still better, driving at night. Easier.
If anybody had bothered to ask Cash he would have said that he just wanted to fucking get the drive over with. But nobody did bother to ask him, of course, so he's stuck with what they've decided.
Part of him recognizes that it was actually really nice of Singer's family to do, to get rooms for them, and if he were in a good mood, yeah, he might appreciate the gesture, but right now he just wants to be left entirely alone to wallow a little bit. Whatever.
*
Normally Cash would go straight for the shower (oh, man, a nice hot shower sounds really awesome right now) but Marshall beats him to the bathroom, of fucking course, so he bounces on both the beds and picks the softer one.
Marshall comes out of the bathroom quickly, stripped down to just boxer briefs. Cash makes to get up, but Marshall blocks him, holding his gaze steadily.
Oh. He wants that tonight.
Too fucking bad, Cash thinks, because 'not in the mood' has never really been more applicable.
"I'm taking a shower," Cash says, dodging around. Marshall doesn't let him get by.
"You might want to wait," he says lightly.
"For?" Cash snarks.
"Just -- come on, I have a plan," Marshall says.
"No," Cash says. "I'm tired."
Marshall makes a frustrated little noise. "Seriously. Trust me."
"Tell me what you're gonna do," Cash demands.
"Let's start with rimming and see where we go," Marshall says.
Cheater. Cash is a total and complete sucker for oral action of any sort. The first time Marshall had hauled his legs up and licked between his cheeks, the shock had almost eclipsed the pleasure of it, but -- well, not really. Cash is pretty sure that he wouldn't have consented to the actual assfucking if it hadn't been for the rimming, because, yeah.
"Fine," Cash says after a pause, and strips quickly, efficiently. Marshall kisses him, tries to make him go slowly, but Cash pulls away and lies face-down on the bed. He's on the other bed, the one he picked for Marshall, because even if Marshall's going to lick his asshole, Cash is still going to get the better bed. Marshall sighs and kneels between his spread legs, spreading his cheeks before dropping his head and getting right to it, licking a long firm line from behind Cash's balls. Cash doesn't give Marshall the satisfaction of squirming.
Marshall keeps licking, deliberate passes of his tongue pressing right up at Cash's hole, and it's in no way enough, not at all. Cash grunts, and Marshall points his tongue, dipping inside just a little, more when Cash pushes back into it. He pushes his mouth right between Cash's cheeks, breath coming slow and hot in between licking, not enough pressure, not fast enough, not at all.
Cash bites his lip but can't stifle another grunt, and Marshall starts tongue-fucking him with dirty little slurping noises, thumbs rubbing slow and soothing at the small of Cash's back. Cash doesn't want to be comforted. He wants to come, and then he wants to take a shower and make Marshall sleep in the dirty bed.
"Want to try something," Marshall says, and Cash stops rubbing his hips against the bed.
"What?" he asks.
"Fisting," Marshall says, and Cash can hear the smile in his voice, but he can hear the seriousness.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Cash asks. "You're not putting your hand in my ass. Not fucking happening."
"Well, not the whole thing right away," Marshall says dryly.
"Not the whole thing at all," Cash says emphatically.
"I'll go slow. Tell me if you want to stop, and I will, and I'll just jerk you off or whatever," Marshall says. "You don't have to."
"No shit I don't have to," Cash tells him, but he stops and considers.
Marshall waits, patiently.
"Fine," Cash says. "Fine. But you'd better have a fucking ton of lube."
"We're covered," Marshall assures him.
Cash sucks in a deep breath and pulls himself up, turning to glance at Marshall. "Do you know what you're doing?"
"In theory," Marshall says with a shrug. "If you don't like it, we'll stop."
"Yeah," Cash says.
"You should lie on your back, get a pillow under your hips, and hold your legs up," Marshall instructs. Cash does all this while Marshall gets up to bring a bottle of lube from his bag. He takes a deep breath.
Marshall squeezes lube onto his fingers, rubbing slightly to warm them before stroking the tip of one over Cash's asshole, already slick from spit. He pushes in slowly, sinks the second one easily. Cash had tensed up a bit, but he's calmer now. Marshall's watching his fingers work in and out of Cash's body intently.
He takes a deep breath, tries to relax.
"You look good like this," Marshall says softly. He withdraws his fingers with a quiet squelch, and gets more lube on them before working three in. It's a stretch, now, but not more than Cash can take. He hasn't actually been fucked since before this tour started, when they were taking time off, back in Vegas.
"You sound like a cheap porn actor," Cash says.
"You'd know," Marshall says, and keeps the same maddeningly slow pace. He keeps going until it feels like nothing at all, the slide of three fingers. Cash sucks in a deep breath, flexes the fingers gripping his thighs.
"You can. Another," Cash says, and that's a little. Weird. Because four fingers is more than he's ever taken, more than he's ever wanted.
Marshall withdraws his hand and takes longer this time to lube up his fingers, getting them messy and slick. Cash bites his lip, takes another deep breath as Marshall gets his fingers back inside, one at a time. There's a brief pause before the fourth worms its way in, and Cash sighs, trying to stay relaxed.
"Okay?"
"S'a lot," Cash admits. "Fuck." He doesn't want Marshall to stop, though. The stretch burns, but it's good to focus on. It's nothing he can't handle, anyway, and how are they going to make this work if he can't take four fingers? In any case, he can. Marshall's fingers are pretty slender, anyway. His hands are, too. It's not a big deal.
Marshall drizzles lube onto the ridge of his knuckles, rotating his wrist to get the underside of his palm, and Cash steels himself as Marshall hesitates slightly before he pushes forward, pressing the ridge of his knuckles, slightly folded, past the tight ring of muscle.
It hurts, more than a little, more than the slight stinging background annoyance of four fingers (four whole fingers), but it's not unmanageable. Cash blows out a breath he hadn't known he was holding in.
"Good?" Marshall asks.
"Yeah," Cash admits. "Fuck. Yeah, actually. Yeah. Just -- move, or. Yeah."
Cash can't really make sense out of what he was saying, but Marshall seems to manage just fine, turning his hand inside Cash's body, spreading his fingers slightly. Slowly the burn fades, or doesn't; but it changes to something that feels good in and of itself as opposed to feeling good despite the pain.
Marshall pulls his whole hand away, and it feels like a loss, like a drop in his belly, but Cash waits patiently while Marshall gets more lube over his whole hand, and okay, his whole and entire hand, what the fuck.
"You sure?" Marshall asks, and Cash can only nod, focused on the glistening skin of Marshall's hand.
One finger, two fingers, three, four, pushing all the way past the knuckles, withdrawing slightly -- and there's his thumb, edging inside, just a little.
"Fuck," Cash gasps, and Marshall pushes forward, with his hand, and then, with a quick rush, he's inside, completely, sheathed in Cash's body.
"Jesus," Marshall says, and Cash kind of agrees. It's -- he's so fucking full, entirely, stretched around Marshall's hand, fingers pulled into a fist inside, knuckles wide and hard.
Cash tries to open his mouth to tell Marshall to jerk him off already, but he can't, he has to concentrate on keeping his legs spread and up, so that Marshall can keep rolling his wrist like that, can keep nudging his fist up and back down again, and fuck. How -- how is this even possible?
Marshall rubs the thumb of his free hand over the head of Cash's dick, smearing pre-come, and Cash is not going to last long at all, not a fucking hope. Marshall starts stroking his cock, his hand stilling inside Cash's ass, but the fullness is just enough that when Marshall's palm scrapes over the head, he arches, barely managing to hold onto his legs, and comes all over Marshall's hand and his stomach.
He's panting, lying there sweaty and dazed, and Marshall works his hand out with a sound that Cash can kind of register as filthy and disgusting.
"Still want that shower?" Marshall asks.
"Fuck you," Cash mumbles. He's exhausted, now, in the way that he usually is after shows, the way he hadn't realized he was before -- before Marshall decided it was a good idea to put his whole fucking hand in Cash's ass, what the actual fuck.
"I'll be right back," Marshall says, and Cash gropes for his shirt on the floor, uses it to wipe the worst of the mess from his ass and stomach.
"Stop jerking off and bring me my sweats," he calls out, surprised at the hoarseness in his voice.
Marshall doesn't answer. Asshole.
Cash is halfway to sleep by the time Marshall gets out, flushed and clearly sated. He finds Cash's sweatpants for him and tosses them onto the bed while he shrugs into gym shorts and a tanktop. Marshall offers him a hand and pulls him to his feet, guiding him to the other bed. They crawl under the covers, and Marshall tucks his nose into the crook of Cash's shoulder.
"Feel better?" he asks.
"Yeah," Cash says drowsily.
*