Fic: Reality Won't Hurt Longer than it Should
Reality Won't Hurt Longer than it Should
by riflethrough & miserylovedme
Marshall/Ian. (Gabe/Marshall, Cash/Marshall, Singer/Marshall, Johnson/Marshall.)
NC-17, 26,673 words.
Notes: Title from The Rocket Summer's "Show Me Everything You've Got". Warnings for angst and Singer actually having sex with someone. Yep.
"And I am now a girl," Marshall says slowly. He makes a face. "Well, kind of. Sort of. Physically, anyway. Whatever."
Marshall wakes up a girl.
Luckily, it's a hotel night and early in the morning, so he can sneak into the bathroom, stare at himself for he doesn't know how long. He looks different, not the least of which has to do with the new pair of breasts and startling lack of dick he now has. He sheds all of his clothes and can't for the life of him discern whether his waist always had that slight curve, or whether this is a new thing. Whether his neck was always that slim.
He has breasts.
Someone knocks on the door, says, "Hurry up, I have to take a piss," just as Marshall is thinking, am I still high?
Cash knocks again and Marshall says, "Just wait, dude, jeez." He hurries to put his clothes back on before Cash decides to pick the lock open, the fucker.
He slouches past Cash, shoulders hunched to disguise the new curve of his chest. Cash doesn't give him a second glance, shouldering past and closing the door in Marshall's face.
Singer looks like he just woke up, still yawning and stretching on his bed. Marshall slips back under the covers of his own quickly, pulling the sheets up to his chin.
"Good morning," Singer says, rifling through his bag. He doesn't look up from it.
"Morning."
"You should probably get up. Checkout's in an hour."
"I probably should," Marshall agrees. He chews on his lip, stares at the ceiling. "I kind of need to talk to you guys."
"About what?" He can feel Singer turn to look at him.
"Um." Marshall moves his hand under the covers, brushing over the flat front of his boxers. "I think we should all be together for it. Band meeting, maybe."
"Okay," Singer says slowly. "You're not going to-"
"Nope," Marshall interrupts. "All of you together." He glances at Singer to see him narrowing his eyes, frowning hard. Marshall smiles at him.
"You are freaking me out," Singer mutters, just as Cash comes out of the bathroom.
"Oh man, I know," Cash says. He only has a towel wrapped around his waist. Marshall eyes his [flat] chest, a little enviously. "But have you ever seen Marshall when he's drank a whole bottle of Smirnoff? Freakiest thing ever."
Marshall rolls his eyes. "Shut the fuck up, Cash. I can hold my liquor."
"Of course," Cash agrees, grinning. "Just about as good as Singer can."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Singer asks, hand to his chest as if he were mortally offended.
Marshall rolls his eyes again, climbing off the bed. He snatches up his bag, almost, but not quite, running to the bathroom.
--
Marshall tugs on a hoodie, never mind that it's about ninety-eight degrees outside. Marshall curses and pulls the sleeves up. "Fuck, it's hot," he huffs.
Ian gives him a strange look. "You could take off the hoodie, you know."
Marshall pretends he doesn't hear him, climbing into the van after Johnson. He fans himself a little with his hand, slumping down in the seat. Singer turns around from the passenger's seat, raising his eyebrows at Marshall expectantly. Marshall takes a big breath.
"Okay," Marshall says. "So I'm kind of a girl now."
Ian says, "What?"
And Singer says, "Kind of?"
And Johnson says, "You're weird."
And Cash says, "Tell me something I don't know."
Marshall grits his teeth so he doesn't give in and say what he wants to Cash. He's not going to get sidetracked, get into a pointless argument with him. "I'm serious," he says. "I woke up and I had tits and a vagina."
"Your sense of humor's a little fucked," Ian says, frowning at him. He's turned around in the driver's seat.
Marshall unzips his hoodie, pulling it to either side of his torso. He sits up straight for the first time, shoulders back. He can feel everyone's eyes go to his chest. "I'm serious," he repeats.
"What the fuck," Cash says, "did you stuff toilet paper in your shirt?" He says that, but his eyes widen. Marshall doubts toilet paper could make his chest look like it does right then. His nipples are clearly outlined through the thin material of his shirt. Everyone is still staring at his chest. Marshall frowns and crosses his arms over it. Or he tries to and ends up having to cross them under his breasts.
"What did you do?" Singer asks. He looks vaguely horrified.
"I got an operation while you guys were asleep," Marshall says flatly. "What the fuck do you think I could've done? I just woke up like this."
"Okay, okay," Ian says. "Just calm down."
Marshall sighs, slumping in the seat again. He pulls at the knees of his jeans. Cash's hand snaps out suddenly, reaching between his legs. Marshall shouts in surprise, shoving Cash away hard enough that he has to catch himself on the back of the seat in front of him.
"Shit," Cash says. "Your dick is gone."
"That's what I've been saying," Marshall hisses. His face feels hot; and he’s only a little gratified when Johnson punches Cash in the shoulder, giving him A Look.
"Okay," Singer says, voice a little faint. "Wow, okay. So what should we do?"
"I don't know." Marshall shrugs roughly. He wonders for the first time when this thing is going to wear off. If it's going to wear off. Then he shuts that thought down quickly, thinking, he won't be able to keep his fucking mind straight if he follows that particular train of thought. "I guess I'll just have to wait it out."
Ian catches Marshall's eye in the rear view mirror. "Way to keep a cool head," he says, smiling.
Marshall twists his mouth, says, "There's nothing else I can do."
Singer looks thoughtful. "Hey, maybe you should cool down on the hugs with the fans."
"What, why?"
"Your hugs are kind of legendary," Cash says, nodding. "And they'd probably notice the-" he breaks off, nodding at Marshall's chest. "You know what."
"Right," Marshall says. And I'm the weird one, he thinks.
Ian finally starts the van, driving in the direction of the next city. Cash still aims the occasional perplexed and/or intrigued look his way, but Marshall ignores him. He stares out of the window, watching the trees fly past and seeing nothing. He chews on the tip of his thumb, thoughtful. He's never heard of anyone accidentally, or otherwise, losing their sex. He sighs, thinks he'll just have to make the best of it.
Then he's sitting up in his seat, practically lighting up as an idea comes to him. "Guys, guys," he says excitedly, "you should all have sex with me."
Ian only swerves the van a little.
--
Marshall's band is kind of stupid. "You're kind of stupid," he tells them.
"But you're a guy," Johnson says.
"And I am now a girl," Marshall says slowly. He makes a face. "Well, kind of. Sort of. Physically, anyway. Whatever."
Cash eyes him up and down and Marshall resists the urge to cross his arms or run away. He squints his eyes at Marshall. "You still look like Marshall."
"I am Marshall, dumbass." He rubs a hand across his face, slightly sweaty. He still has on the hoodie, plus two t-shirts. He's probably going to be near to dying on the stage tonight, but he'll have to keep it on if he wants to keep this a secret.
Cash waves a hand, says, "I mean you still pretty much look like a boy."
Singer studies his face. "No, wait. Actually, he looked more like a girl when he was boy. Weird."
"Hey, you're right," Cash says, straightening.
Marshall makes a frustrated sound, throwing his hands in the air. "Whatever, that's not even the point."
They're in the backstage, lounge area of the venue, with about an hour to go before the show starts. God, the guys couldn't seem to get past that one little fact--that Marshall used to have a dick. Couldn't they just help out a friend in need? And seriously, if Marshall isn't supposed to experiment with a new va-jay-jay and tits, he has absolutely no idea what the hell else he can do.
"Okay, sure. I mean I could hook up with, like, a random person." He widens his eyes at them. "But who knows what could happen then? It could be a mass murderer or something."
"Why do you even have to have sex?" Ian asks, voice rising.
"Wouldn't you want to?" Marshal counters.
Cash says, "Yeah, but with other girls." Cash stares off past Marshall's right shoulder. "God, that'd be hot."
"Down boy," Johnson says dryly.
"It could be fun," Marshall says.
Cash leers. "Yeah, but mostly for you." Marshall ignores him.
"So none of you are going to do it?" Marshall asks. "Seriously?"
Ian holds his hands out in front of him. "Kind of gay, here. Minus the 'kind of'."
No one else says anything, avoiding his gaze. "Fine," he says, as he's walking towards the back exit. "Forget I asked."
--
If there’s one thing about the entire situation that Marshall hates-more than sitting down to pee-is that he has to hide.
The first week is nothing but him in a bundle of clothing in sweltering venues, watching the guys in their washed-thin t-shirts jumping around on stage and glaring. He sweats up a fucking storm, almost to the point of heat stroke every single night and has to lay down in the dressing room for about twenty minutes right after he gets off stage.
Cash and Singer still take every given chance to examine his chest when he strips down to his bottom layer and throws himself down on the couch or the floor, depending. He’s sure he’s soaked through and if his tits were on some real girl’s body he’d be staring too. But it’s not some girl, it’s him, and the fact that his shirt is see-through and two of his friends are staring down at him makes him roll onto his stomach and flip them off. Assholes.
Johnson, for the most part, ignores the situation, like nothing’s wrong and Marshall isn’t walking around with a vagina.
Ian, however, brings him water and sometimes crouches down beside him enough to rub the back of his neck and ask him if he’s okay.
Marshall peeks up through his hair and nods. Ian leaves him be but he also keeps the guys away until he’s toweled down and ready to run out to the van to avoid fans.
It’s shitty, but it’s either that or he’s going to have to make some interesting calls to his family.
The hiding sucks, but it’s really not even a choice.
--
On the eighth day Marshall wakes up in the van and feels down between his legs, he sighs and rubs his face further into his pillow. He really, really hopes this goes away soon.
The door opens and Ian’s soft, “Hey,” makes him pick his head up and look. Ian climbs in and pulls the door shut behind him. They’re stopped somewhere but Marshall can’t tell where, and they’re alone. Ian digs into the plastic bag he sets down in front of him and pulls out a roll of elastic fabric, the kind used to wrap a sprained wrist, but wider. He holds it out. “I figured you could bind ‘em or something,” he says, gesturing down at Marshall’s chest and looking earnest.
Marshall is silent a moment before he reaches out and takes what Ian’s offering, rolling it between his hands. It’s a while before Marshall merely licks his dried out lips and says, “Thanks,” because nothing else really comes to mind.
That night Marshall locks himself in the bathroom and strips to the waist but can’t for the life of him figure out how he’s supposed to do this. He holds his shirt up over his chest and opens the door, sticking his head out and calling for Ian.
Cash lets out a gasp and an over-exaggerated, suggestive sound when Ian slips in through the barely-open door. Marshall locks it behind him and says, “I need help.”
Ian’s eyes widen when Marshall tosses his shirt onto the sink but he doesn’t say anything, merely picks up one of the rolls of bandages and places the end to Marshall’s sternum and tells him to hold it. The first few passes of Ian’s fingers over his skin make Marshall’s stomach tighten in a weird way. He ignores it until Ian’s thumb brushes over his nipple and he feels it harden almost instantly. Ian quickly mumbles out an apology and hurries on. He wraps as tightly as he can while still allowing Marshall to breathe and the faint blush fades from his cheeks long before he’s done.
Marshall twists and moves around, even jumping a little to see if it’ll hold before thanking Ian and allowing him to leave. He tries to think about how he’ll be able to actually breathe tonight on stage but all of his thoughts seem to revolve around the feel of Ian’s hands on him.
Marshall gives his body another careful look in the mirror, trailing his hand down his soft stomach and where the trail of hair used to be that lead into his jeans. He follows it, biting his lip as his heart kicks up. He hasn’t done this, hasn’t touched himself or tried to figure out how; he’s been too scared. But he’s still feeling weird and warm from Ian’s skin against his and his fingers come back wet when he tugs them out of his jeans.
He hastily pulls his shirt back on and hopes the guys don’t notice his blush when he steps back out into the room.
--
It’s at the three week mark that Marshall slips up. He’s hot and his back has started to hurt from the binding and he just wants to get naked and flop down on the nearest comfy surface. But they’re at the venue still so he slips away and pulls the bandages from his body until he can breathe again.
He doesn’t bother with a hoodie, he just tugs his shirt back on and heads out the loading door. He’s instantly accosted by fans. There’s a group of them and it’s just him, alone, and it’s not like their fans are insane or anything but Marshall can’t help it that his heart begins to beat wildly. He instantly crosses his arms over his chest and looks back to see if he can bolt inside.
He’s barely gotten out a nervous, “Hey,” to the girl standing less than two feet from him out when the door bangs open again and he thinks, oh thank god, and jerks his head to the side to see Gabe step out with his phone to his ear.
“Oh,” he says, looks down at the sheer panic on Marshall’s face and then he’s all smiles at the girls. “What’s up, ladies?”
Immediately the attention is off of him and Marshall has the chance to turn his back and pull his hoodie on. It’s not the best cover-up but it’s better than the plain white t-shirt he was wearing before. Gabe puts his phone away and takes pictures with everyone; Marshall sticks close to his side when it becomes clear he’s not off the hook yet.
After a few minutes of jokes and laughter and smiles, Gabe pulls Marshall in by an arm around his shoulder and Marshall feels the moment Gabe goes stiff when Marshall’s breasts are pushed up against his side. But Gabe’s poker face doesn’t give. “We’ve got some stuff to do, girls.”
A few disappointed faces look back at them but Gabe pulls Marshall along with him, straight through the group and down the ramp towards the bus. “Goodnight,” Marshall says over his shoulder, waving and smiling as best he can while Gabe’s fingers dig into his upper arm.
“Up,” Gabe says when he lets go to punch in the code on the door and pull it open. Marshall doesn’t argue, he just moves.
Gabe’s hands on his back push him to sit down at the table in the kitchen area before he opens the fridge and pulls out a beer. Marshall waits, knees pressed together hard enough to make his thighs twinge and not looking as Gabe obviously stares down at him.
“Is there some reason your tits were on my side back there?” he finally asks.
Marshall looks up at the question and finds he can’t look away. For the first time since this happened, he feels tears burning at the corners of his eyes; but instead of focusing on that, he reaches for the hem of his hoodie and pulls it up over his head. The soft curve of his chest is obvious and so is Gabe staring at it.
Marshall can feel his face heating but he forces himself to say, “I just woke up like this,” quietly.
Gabe inhales loudly, setting his beer bottle down with a thud. He worries his lip for a while before he asks, “Girl parts?” Marshall nods. “As in vagina?”
Marshall narrows his eyes and grits his teeth a little. “Yeah.”
“You have a vagina?” Gabe sounds a little deadpan.
“Yes!” Marshall snaps, jumping to his feet and heading for the door. He’s sure it’s only going to give Gabe room to make PMS jokes or something, but all Gabe does is reach out and grab his arm.
“Woah, dude, chill.” He pulls Marshall back; but Marshall doesn’t exactly struggle against him. He stands and waits as Gabe looks him up and down. Finally he says, “Is it weird?” Marshall lets his eyes roll and Gabe amends, “Right, stupid.” Then sighs. “Okay so,” he shrugs and looks around. “You wanna play Halo or something?”
--
After that Marshall starts spending a lot more time on Cobra’s bus. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be around his own guys, it’s just that they’re still looking at him like he’s some kind of walking lab experiment and Gabe just wants to listen to Justin Timberlake over the bus sound system and play Xbox with him.
He’s still wrapping his chest up every night, but the moment he’s free from fan obligations, he sneaks out the back and onto the bus to wait for Gabe. Cash is a little obviously jealous when he finds out Marshall knows the code to the door, but he doesn’t bug him for it like Marshall thought he would.
Gabe shows up sweaty and smiling every night. He kisses the top of Marshall’s head before slipping into the bunks to get changed. They order food with the rest of his band but generally wind up sitting in the back lounge alone with an empty pizza box and a few burnt out joints between them.
They never really get around to a lot of drinking but sometimes after a couple beers the feel of Gabe’s fingertips against his own when he passes the joint over makes Marshall’s stomach tight; much the same way Ian’s hands on him had the first night he’d bound his breasts. Close, but not identical.
They talk a lot, before shows, when they don’t feel like getting buzzed and just lay around on the couches on the bus. Marshall learns a lot of really weird shit about Gabe but most of it just makes him laugh. Gabe lapses into Spanish sometimes and Marshall knows enough to figure out when he’s being called senorita. He tosses something at Gabe, which usually ends up with himself in a headlock and Gabe telling him, “Call me papi,” before he lets go.
Overall Gabe’s a little weird but not half as strange as everyone seems to think. Marshall likes spending most of his free time with him and Gabe obviously returns the sentiment.
--
It isn’t until Cash makes some snide remark about Marshall spending so much time with Gabe that he starts to realize just what it must look like.
And then Cash finds the line and crosses it.
“Is sucking dick everything you hoped for and more?”
Marshall punches Cash hard. He nearly folds in half, gasping a little and glaring up at Marshall before Ian interrupts with, “Was that a gay joke?” and suddenly the fight isn’t even about him anymore.
Marshall slams the outside door hard when he storms out. His hand hurts and he’s tired and tonight is a hotel night; there’s a bed waiting for him for the first time in a week and a half and he just wants to be able to take a shower and curl up under clean sheets. But he’ll be damned if he’s going to share with Cash tonight.
He’s still busy fuming when a hand lands on his shoulder and he lets out an oddly high-pitched sound. Marshall’s voice hadn’t changed all that much with the transformation into a woman so it startles him almost as much as it does Gabe.
“Jesus, Marsh, what the hell?” He laughs a little, rubbing his hand over his face. “Sorry about that, I thought you heard me.” Marshall can barely shake his head no let alone say it. Gabe laughs again. “Wow, that was awesome. We hangin’ tonight?”
Marshall finally finds his voice to say, “That movie isn’t gonna watch itself.” There’s some Japanese horror movie Gabe had been given by a fan that he wants to check out and tonight has officially been deemed movie night.
“That’s the spirit,” Gabe says, smiling and tossing his arm over Marshall’s shoulder for the walk to the bus.
--
The movie ends up blowing a whole lot of ass and Marshall wakes up drowsily to a shrill scream from the TV. He blinks a little but doesn’t otherwise move. The bus is quiet and dark but for the movie and Gabe’s heartbeat under his ear. They’re still alone on the bus.
Marshall stretches his legs out a little and tries to focus back on the movie, but he has no idea what’s going on anymore. But he doesn’t sit up or speak, he just sits still and counts the rises and falls of Gabe’s chest underneath him. He knows Gabe’s awake and he’s pretty sure Gabe knows he’s awake to.
It’s hard to ignore the feel of Gabe’s hand on his side, his fingers pushed up under the hem of his shirt, rubbing back and forth over the skin on his hip, but not otherwise moving. Marshall bites his lip until it feels raw and then Gabe hesitantly asks, “Marshall?”
Marshall swallows hard and nods because it feels okay. It’s all right, he’d asked for it from his own band, for the chance to try out his new body but they blew him off. It’s just Gabe.
Gabe doesn’t waste any time slipping his hand further up under Marshall’s shirt and cupping his breast. Marshall gasps at the feel and Gabe squeezes lightly, pinching his nipple gently, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.
Marshall arches up a little and Gabe turns, says, “Alex, here, come on.”
It’s dark and Marshall stumbles a little until he’s standing and then practically falls right over when Gabe grasps his arms and pulls him back down onto his back. Gabe follows immediately, laying half on his side and half on top of Marshall. The couch really isn’t big enough for the both of them like this but Marshall has a fleeting thought that it’ll be easier once Gabe is on top of him. He groans.
Gabe looks up and Marshall thinks he’s blushing so he’s glad that the only light is the flicker of the TV screen. Gabe kisses him then, leaning in and pushing their lips together, soft and wet, his hands both running up Marshall’s stomach to his chest. He squeezes and rubs until Marshall is arching and panting, sucking on his tongue and gasping alternatively. It hurts a little when his nipples tighten, it feels so fucking weird, but he can feel himself getting wet. Really wet. Really fast.
He wonders if that means he’s easy, but then Gabe is pushing his shirt up under his armpits and mouthing at his breasts.
Marshall arches his back, voice strangled when he groans. “Easy,” Gabe mumbles, hot breath ghosting over the damp areas his tongue has been and making Marshall shiver.
It’s a little weird. Not because this is Gabe, but because Gabe’s a guy. Before this, Marshall never had any desire, ever, to touch a man. And suddenly he wakes up with a vagina and it’s practically always picking at the back of his mind. That feels a little fucked up.
He sucks his own lip into his mouth when Gabe begins leaving, what Marshall knows enough to gather are, hickeys along the soft, sensitive underside of one of his breasts. “Watch it,” he grinds out.
Gabe just laughs and Marshall feels that curl of excitement run through him again, spread out through his limbs. He arches again and Gabe’s hands drop down to his waistband. He looks up when Marshall looks down, thumbing the button and raising his eyebrows questioningly.
Marshall swallows, what feels like, his heart and nods.
He doesn’t watch, he can’t, when Gabe tugs his jeans down and breathes a surprised laugh. “Commando is a girl requirement.” Marshall swats the back of his head. “What? I read that somewhere,” he teases.
“Fuck you, you did not,” Marshall gasps, unable to process how he’s thought to say anything that isn’t incoherent jibberish.
Gabe grins and then the next few moments are a complete blur.
Gabe’s hand slides down and then there’s a finger rubbing against him, wet and making a sticky sound that makes Marshall want to blush. But it’s hot, it’s really hot to hear it and feel it and know that it’s Gabe.
A second finger joins the first and Gabe starts a slow, easy rhythm, slipping in and out until Marshall is panting loudly above him.
“Christ, Marshall,” he mumbles. “You’re fucking soaked.”
Marshall just groans again, thighs parting and he feels like he’s pushing down a little, knows he is when he feels Gabe’s breath and shudders. “Please,” he says, but he’s not even sure what he’s asking for.
Gabe seems to, though. He slips his fingers out and up, holding Marshall open and then dragging his tongue up to his clit where he sucks hard.
Marshall convulses up, almost throwing Gabe off of him.
“Easy,” Gabe whispers again, “hold on.” He pets at Marshall’s hip, but that feeling’s back again. It’s weirder, feels wrong that this is happening. Gabe sucks at him, easier this time and that, at least, still feels good, but it’s just…
Marshall worries his lip, biting and holding in his gasps when Gabe switches from tonguing his clit to sucking and pushing his fingers in. He can’t stop thrusting his hips, but his forehead is bunching with tension and a cold sweat is breaking out along his hairline.
It takes him a while to notice that Gabe has stopped and is looking up at him, two fingers buried between his legs. Marshall’s thighs tense instantly but he doesn’t move to push them away. The heavy awkward silence that floats over them now is thick enough that Marshall feels like he can’t even breathe.
Then Gabe mumbles, “Shit,” and pulls his fingers out, sitting up and wiping them on his thigh.
Marshall reaches down and pulls his pants up immediately, tugging his shirt down over his chest and scooting a little bit away from Gabe even as he asks, “Why’d you stop?”
Gabe is clearly hard, straining up against his zipper and eying Marshall like he’s the only thing in the world that turns him on, but he says, “I’m not retarded, dude. You’re not into it.”
Marshall opens his mouth to call bullshit, he’s obviously wet and everything felt great, except for the things in his head. Then he closes his mouth because oh, that’s what Gabe meant.
“Yeah,” Gabe sighs, running his hand over his face. Marshall makes a face but doesn’t say anything. “You should probably go.” And here it is, the part where it gets weird and he and Gabe are going to stop talking and hanging out, and mother fuck Marshall is the biggest fucking idiot. “No, dude, seriously, it’s fine, I’ve just gotta take care of this,” he says. There’s a smile on his face that Marshall can see through the flicks of light on the TV screen; it looks genuine and Gabe is a lot of things but Marshall’s never known him to be a liar.
“I can-” Marshall starts, but Gabe quickly cuts him off with a laugh.
“No, I’m good.”
Marshall is beyond relieved, because he has no idea what he was even going to offer in the first place.
Gabe doesn’t walk him out, but Marshall thinks that’s fair. Luckily no one has come back in the past few minutes and Marshall is able to make it out into the dark parking lot without actually making the Walk of Shame a reality.
Then he notices the van is gone.
He blinks hard and looks around but it doesn’t magically reappear.
“Mother fuckers!” Marshall spits, digging into his pocket for his phone and yanking it out. Ian was the last person he talked to so he just hits the “call” button and waits in angry silence for him to pick up.
There’s laughter in the background and Ian answers with a smile that’s only barely tinged with worry in his voice. “Yeah?”
“Where the fuck are you guys?” Marshall demands.
“At the hotel,” Ian says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Marshall practically stamps his foot. “You left me here?”
“Woah, hey, chill, dude. I thought you talked to Cash, I thought you weren’t coming back tonight.” He can hear Ian sitting up and saying something to someone else. He hears Singer’s muffled response and then another laugh in the background. “Where are you?”
“In the parking lot,” Marshall snaps back. He feels a little hysterical and vulnerable out here. He brings his other arm up to cross over his chest and huddles in on himself.
“I’ll come get you,” Ian says, and at least he’s calm about this. “We’re only like five miles away, I’ll be right there.”
Marshall closes his eyes and feels like crying, but he just shakes his head to himself and says, “Okay,” and “hurry,” before hanging up.
--
Ian pulls up and Marshall tries not to make a big, huffy scene of getting in, tries not to slam the door.
"Sorry," Ian says, pulling out onto the road. "I really thought Cash had talked to you or something."
"Fucking Cash," Marshall mutters. He slouches in the seat and the seatbelt digs into his chest uncomfortably. He tugs at it angrily.
Ian glances at him. "Did something happen?" he asks carefully. His hands are at two and ten on the wheel, his voice light, and everything about him right then screams careful
Marshall turns in his seat, leans back against the door slightly so that he can look straight at Ian. "What are you asking?"
Ian's jaw clenches and Marshall can see the muscles moving there. "You know what."
"No, not really," Marshall says. "So tell me." He can realize, distantly, that he's really being an ass; that he's lashing out at the wrong person, maybe the one person who has made the least big deal out of this whole fiasco. He realizes this, but he sure as hell can't make himself shut up.
Ian's lips part and he breathes out harshly. "Did Gabe fuck something up?"
"No," Marshall says tightly. "Gabe didn't fuck anything up."
Ian's hands loosen around the steering wheel, shoulders slumping a little. He looks tired, despite the fact that he'd sounded somewhat energetic over the phone. And suddenly, Marshall is tired, exhausted, as if it were contagious. He wishes for the millionth time that he could just have his dick back.
"Sorry," Marshall says quietly. "It was just me; I fucked up."
Ian acknowledges the apology with a nod, says, "Do you want to talk about it?" And rather awkwardly, in Marshall's own opinion, like he might be hoping Marshall will say no.
"Not really," Marshall admits. "But thanks."
"Anytime," Ian says, and smiles a little.
Back in the hotel room, everyone is still up, still drinking and partying. There are even people from other bands there and Singer and Cash may be the slightest bit drunk. All Marshall knows is that it's extremely amusing to watch them attempt to shout answers in the forms of questions at an episode of Jeopardy on the television.
Then Cash is leaving Singer to walk towards Marshall's bed where he's laying on his back, arms crossed behind his head. Cash crawls up the bed, eyes big in his face. Marshall just wants to go to sleep, doesn't want to have to deal with anymore bullshit that might fall from Cash's mouth. But there are still unfamiliar people in the room, no one Marshall can take off his binding around.
"I'm sorry, Alex Marshall," he says, and-it's not what Marshall expected. He flops down onto the bed next to Marshall, drink held out carefully in one hand. "I said some fucked up shit. So I'm sorry."
Sometimes, every once in awhile, Cash is hard to resist. Hard to stay mad at. "Whatever," Marshall says, his own way of accepting an apology.
Cash nods a couple times, continues with, "And plus, Ian said he'd throw me down a staircase if I didn't do it, so."
That surprises a bark of laughter from Marshall. There are matching sounds across the room.
"Word of advice, Cash?" Ian says. He throws a crumpled piece of trash at Cash's head. "Don't tell someone that you were forced to apologize to them. Kind of takes away from the sentiment, you know?"
"Word of advice, Ian?" Cash mimics, voice high. "Don't threaten to throw people down staircases, it kinda takes away from your moral high ground." He smiles at Ian sweetly.
--
It hasn't been long enough that Marshall won't wake up some mornings, still half asleep, bladder full, and stumble out of the van and into a bathroom at a rest stop, reaching for something that isn't there. He's annoyed at himself when that happens, cursing under his breath.
And, even sadder he thinks, are the times he'll wake up in the back of the van, warm with fleeting images from a scattered dream, heat between his legs. He'll reach down while the others are still sleeping or driving, quiet as he can be. And he'll always end up frustrated, even more hot and bothered, if that's possible. It's too strange, reaching down there and feeling a clit, too unfamiliar. It makes his face heat, embarrassed, which is just so stupid because this is his body for the moment. It's his own body and he can't even figure out how to get himself off.
He'd never thought he'd ever get to call himself sexually frustrated, but here it is.
Gabe comes up behind him, hands squeezing and thumbs pushing into Marshall's shoulders. Marshall tries not to melt into him. "Oooh, tense," he says, mouth by Marshall's ear.
"You have no idea," Marshall mutters. He slumps sideways, leaning one shoulder against the wall.
"Well, you know I have a suggestion as to what can make you loosen up," Gabe says, voice low, "but we already tried that." Gabe sighs sadly. "Didn't work out."
Gabe's been really cool about Marshall's sort-of-freakout. They hang out and he jokes about it like he does about everything else, but Marshall still never feels like he's being made fun of. He's grateful for that.
He throws an elbow back, catching Gabe in side. "Shut up, you," he says. Gabe makes wounded sounds, probably clutching his side dramatically. Marshall doesn't turn his head back to see, just snorts.
They're backstage, just before The Cab's set to go on. Cash and Singer are a little up and to left of them. They keep looking back at where Marshall and Gabe stand, glancing away quickly when Marshall catches their eye. He cocks an eyebrow in their direction, daring them to say something stupid.
"I think your boys have got an issue with me," Gabe says.
"Well, I know they've got issues," Marshall says. "But I don't really know about any issues with you."
Gabe laughs and Marshall can feel him lean down, his hand falling to Marshall's waist. "I think they might be jealous."
"Yeah, I know at least Cash wants your guys' bus code," Marshall says.
Gabe laughs again, says, "No, no, of you and me hanging all the time."
Marshall turns at that, moving so that his back is against the wall and he can see Gabe's face. "I'm stuck with them in a van for the majority of most days. It's not like they don't see me often."
Gabe huffs a big breath, hand coming up to ruffle Marshall's hair. "Alex Marshall, I know you're not that stupid."
Marshall shoves Gabe away then, calling him an asshole before he goes to run onstage.
--
Marshall sneaks away straight after the show that night and climbs into the back of the van. He knows he's got at least a little over a half hour before anyone might come back. He lays on his back, shoves his jeans down around his knees. He undoes the elastic bandages around his chest, letting the wrapping fall loose and pushing it down. He blows out a big breath, punching the pillow under his head. He's nervous and he knows that's not right, not particularly conducive to getting off.
So he closes his eyes, breathing out again. He thinks of Gabe, of the night on his bus. Marshall's mind may not have been in the right place, but it had still felt good. He recalls the way his nipples had tightened when Gabe rubbed his fingers over them. He slides his own up over his belly, brushing his right nipple. They're even more sensitive, aching from the binding. He takes in careful breaths even though there's no reason to be quiet. He thinks about the warm, sucking kisses Gabe had pressed to the underside of his breasts.
Marshall slides his other hand down, down under the elastic of his boxers. He thinks about Gabe's mouth on him, Gabe's fingers in him. He rubs his fingers over his clit, dipping them down between until they come back wet. He thinks about Ian's fingers brushing against his skin that day, thinks this might, might just work, finally.
Then the van door opens. "Holy shit," Cash says, voice high and faint.
Marshall scrambles to pull down his shirt and pull up his pants at the same time and absolutely fails. He then tries to yank down the shirt, reaching for his jeans.
"Closing the fucking door," he snaps, because Cash is still just standing there, mouth open and hand half-raised in the air.
Cash slams the door closed but not before climbing into the back with Marshall. Marshall pushes himself up and against the back of the bench seat, wrapping his arms around his knees. "I didn't mean for you to come in too, jackass," he says, teeth gritted.
Cash's expression is mostly unreadable and Marshall almost wishes he could tell what Cash was thinking. "Are you okay?"
Marshall is breathing pretty harshly and he has to press his knees together because there's still that fluttery feeling between his legs, and no, Marshall is definitely not okay. He's kind of really fucking embarrassed.
"No," Marshall says, honest. Then, "Can you please fuck off now?"
"Um," Cash says, "how about no?"
"Cash," Marshall starts, practically growling and Cash interrupts him.
"I didn't know you'd been jerking off since you changed," he says loudly. "I mean, I would've thought someone else would take care of stuff like that for you."
Marshall bites the inside of his cheek for a second, then says, low, "Fuck you. You have no idea what Gabe and I get up to."
Cash hums his agreement. "Probably not, but I can guess."
Marshall rubs his hand over his face, shakes his head. "Okay," he says, "okay, first? I've never fucked Gabe. Second? Why the hell do you care so much? Why do you keep bringing it up?"
Cash slumps back against the wall of the van, frowns for the first time. "What do you mean you've never-"
"Exactly what I said," Marshall interrupts. "And answer the question."
Cash frowns harder, mouth twisting. "I guess I, or we, thought you'd, you know. Gone to him, or whatever.
Marshall smiles, remembering what Gabe had said earlier. He almost laughs. "Right. Well you guys had your chance."
Cash seems to ignore that last part, says, "So, do you always look that angry when you're jerking off? I mean, is that a thing?"
Marshall's smile drops. "Shut up."
Cash's face lights up. "Oh god, dude. Please don't tell me you're having trouble jerking your new woman parts off. 'cause, like, if you do, I swear I will laugh myself sick."
"If you so much as giggle, I will fucking stomp on your balls as soon as you fall asleep." Marshall looks at Cash expectantly, seriously, and waits until Cash's expression straightens; waits until he nods. Then he mumbles, "Yeah, I'm kind of having trouble. Doing it."
Cash's mouth twitches and Marshall refuses to believe it's with laughter because then he might just hit Cash where it hurts most and not stop. "I feel sorry for any girls you've fucked."
"Excuse me?" Again, it's not what he expected to hear from Cash.
"If you can't even get your own self off, I'd hate to see what you attempt with other girls." Cash waves a hand over Marshall's form, says, "Well, not this version of yourself. I've gotta say, this really explains why you've so snappy lately."
Marshall feels his face heat once more. "It's different when it's your own fucking vagina."
"I bet," Cash says, grinning.
"Why are you even here?"
"Oh, right," Cash says. "I wanted to change my shirt." Before Marshall can open his mouth, curse Cash out, Cash says, "You know, I could help you out."
"How about no?" Marshall says, mimicking Cash from earlier.
"How about hell yeah?" Cash says. He scoots across the floor of the van, closer to Marshall. He widens his eyes. "I would know how to get your woman parts off."
Marshall huffs, says, "Too bad. I kind of remember bringing this up once before, and guess what? You guys all blew me off."
"That was then, Marsh, this is now. Let the past go," Cash says and punctuates the statement throwing an arm around Marshall's shoulders.
Marshall shoves him off. Or he tries to. Cash grabs onto Marshall's biceps, pulling him over and rolling them. Marshall ends up on his back again, Cash on top of him. Marshall is surprised, blinking up at Cash.
"Let me help you out," Cash says softly, shoving a thigh between Marshall's. Marshall is still a little wet, still a little hot and Cash's thigh is solid, rubbing against him. Marshall can't really help when he tries to push his hips up, get more friction.
Even so, Marshall says, "Get the fuck off me." Cash grins, pushing his thigh forward deliberately and Marshall gasps. Marshall's hands had flown to Cash's shoulders when he'd rolled them and Cash takes one in his, pushes it to the floor beside Marshall's head.
He wraps his fingers around Marshall's wrist, says, "Make me.
And it's weird because other than faint annoyance, Marshall feels kind of good. There is no hesitance, no guilt, or whatever the fuck he'd felt with Gabe on the bus. It's just Cash, here, irritating bastard that he is, and Marshall suddenly remembers why he'd wanted to do this with his own band in the first place.
Marshall spreads his legs a little, allowing Cash to drop between, their hips fitting together. He doesn't tell Cash off; just says, "Kiss me."
That surprises Cash, Marshall can tell by the height of his eyebrows. He curls his hand into a fist, thinking Cash might have just been taking a joke too far, but then Cash presses their lips together, rather clumsily. Their noses bump, and their mouths don't line up. Marshall is about to open his mouth, say something like, oh, you've got skills, when Cash tilts his head to the side and kisses him right.
Okay, Marshall thinks and tilts his chin up. Cash pulls back for a second, licking his lips and then it's even better. Cash traces the seam of his lips with his tongue until Marshall parts them, lets Cash lick inside his mouth. Marshall palms the back of his head, scratches fingers through his short hair.
Cash is warm on top of him and Marshall likes the weight of him against his front. Cash slips a hand up Marshall's shirt, goes to flick one of his nipples, roll it between his fingers. Marshall wraps his arms around Cash's shoulders, little noises escaping his throat every now and then.
He can feel it when Cash grins into the kiss and wonders why. Then Cash is sliding his hand down, bracing himself on his other forearm. He's unbuttoning the front of Marshall's jeans, sliding his hand down the front of Marshall's underwear. He breaks the kiss, arches up under Cash as his fingers rub over Marshall's clit.
Cash rumbles a laugh against his neck, starts pressing open-mouthed kisses there. "Is this for me?" he asks, fingers sliding inside Marshall easily, still wet from earlier.
Marshall fists a hand in Cash's shirt, rasps, "Shut up."
"Fine," Cash huffs, teeth grazing Marshall's neck. He pulls his fingers out of Marshall and Marshall nearly whines at the loss. Cash shoves his shirt up with both hands, bending his head and taking a nipple into his mouth. Marshall moans.
Then Cash is kissing down Marshall's belly, is sitting up to yank his jeans and boxers down, spread Marshall's thighs. He lays down between Marshall's legs, urging him with his hands to bend them up. Cash has to lay weirdly to get between Marshall's legs, not as much space as either of them would like.
Marshall pushes himself up onto his elbows, looking down his body at Cash. "Are you-" he breaks off, dropping his head back as Cash licks at his clit. He flicks his tongue over and over, before pointing it, fucking into Marshall.
"Oh my god," Marshall breathes. He reaches down to twist a hand in Cash's shirt again, stretch it from his neck. Cash uses his fingers, spreading Marshall so that he can lick even deeper. Marshall can feel heat spreading throughout his body, feels like he's going to melt from it. He curls up a little, stomach muscles tensing.
"Oh," Marshall says, breathless, and moans long and loud. He squeezes his thighs around Cash's head, involuntary. Cash doesn't stop licking, even closes his lips over Marshall's clit and sucks hard. He keeps this up and before Marshall knows it, there's another wave of pleasure crashing over him.
Cash crawls up Marshall's body, doesn't even bother to wipe his mouth off before he kisses Marshall hard, almost hard enough to hurt. The kiss is wet, sloppy, and fuck, Marshall can taste himself on Cash tongue, even chases it, licking up into his mouth. He touches his hands to either side of Cash's face, as if he would pull away. Cash grunts a little, straddling his thigh and grinding down.
"Good, right?" Cash asks, just as breathless and Marshall almost rolls his eyes.
"Sure," he says, pushing his thigh up hard, satisfied when Cash buries his face between Marshall's neck and shoulder, letting out a low noise.
Before Cash can think to say anything more, Marshall reaches down, unbuttoning Cash's jeans and slipping his hands inside. He takes Cash's cock in his hand, not before licking his palm. And this, wow, it's almost weird because this is the first time he's touched a dick other than his own in, ever, and the first time he's just touching a dick in too long to count. He strokes up Cash's cock as much as can, finding it a little difficult to move when Cash is still laying on top of him. He makes do with the little bit of space he has since Cash doesn't look like he's going to move anytime soon, mouth open against Marshall's shoulder, just breathing.
Marshall reaches his other hand further down, rolling Cash's balls between his fingers and rubbing his palm over the head of Cash's dick, spreading the wetness there. Cash makes a thin sound, hips jerking into Marshall before he comes, spurting hotly between their bodies. Marshall jerks him through it, until Cash is mumbling into his neck.
Marshall presses his cheek to Cash's head, catches his breath. Cash pulls his head up, kisses Marshall again; it's messy and wet and lazy, like he's got all the time in the world.
Cash rolls off of him, still close enough that their shoulders brush. "That was," he says, and doesn't finish.
"That was," Marshall agrees. Cash frowns a little. Marshall glances down at himself. "Gross," he mutters. He takes one of his t-shirts that's shoved in the corner of the back, wipes his stomach off. Cash grins at that, maybe even leers a little because Marshall hasn't bothered to pull his shirt back down yet. He does so then, not before flipping Cash off.
"We should do this on a bed next time," Cash says, nodding his head.
Marshall screws his face up. "Who said there'd be a next time?"
"Yeah," Cash says, still nodding. "And maybe you can shave your legs before then." Marshall punches his shoulder. They lay in relatively companionable silence for some time and then the van door opens.
Singer and Ian stand before the open back, Johnson behind them. Their mouths drop open.
They've already pulled their clothes back on, righted themselves as much as possible, but he knows what it must look like-Marshall's hair messy and their clothes twisted, Cash's mouth so red, and Marshall may or may not have a bite mark on his neck.
"Hi," Marshall says.
Johnson peers over Ian and Singer's shoulders and his eyes widen. Singer's eyes shift back and forth between them a couple times. Then, "You two. You. What the hell."
Part II
by riflethrough & miserylovedme
Marshall/Ian. (Gabe/Marshall, Cash/Marshall, Singer/Marshall, Johnson/Marshall.)
NC-17, 26,673 words.
Notes: Title from The Rocket Summer's "Show Me Everything You've Got". Warnings for angst and Singer actually having sex with someone. Yep.
"And I am now a girl," Marshall says slowly. He makes a face. "Well, kind of. Sort of. Physically, anyway. Whatever."
Marshall wakes up a girl.
Luckily, it's a hotel night and early in the morning, so he can sneak into the bathroom, stare at himself for he doesn't know how long. He looks different, not the least of which has to do with the new pair of breasts and startling lack of dick he now has. He sheds all of his clothes and can't for the life of him discern whether his waist always had that slight curve, or whether this is a new thing. Whether his neck was always that slim.
He has breasts.
Someone knocks on the door, says, "Hurry up, I have to take a piss," just as Marshall is thinking, am I still high?
Cash knocks again and Marshall says, "Just wait, dude, jeez." He hurries to put his clothes back on before Cash decides to pick the lock open, the fucker.
He slouches past Cash, shoulders hunched to disguise the new curve of his chest. Cash doesn't give him a second glance, shouldering past and closing the door in Marshall's face.
Singer looks like he just woke up, still yawning and stretching on his bed. Marshall slips back under the covers of his own quickly, pulling the sheets up to his chin.
"Good morning," Singer says, rifling through his bag. He doesn't look up from it.
"Morning."
"You should probably get up. Checkout's in an hour."
"I probably should," Marshall agrees. He chews on his lip, stares at the ceiling. "I kind of need to talk to you guys."
"About what?" He can feel Singer turn to look at him.
"Um." Marshall moves his hand under the covers, brushing over the flat front of his boxers. "I think we should all be together for it. Band meeting, maybe."
"Okay," Singer says slowly. "You're not going to-"
"Nope," Marshall interrupts. "All of you together." He glances at Singer to see him narrowing his eyes, frowning hard. Marshall smiles at him.
"You are freaking me out," Singer mutters, just as Cash comes out of the bathroom.
"Oh man, I know," Cash says. He only has a towel wrapped around his waist. Marshall eyes his [flat] chest, a little enviously. "But have you ever seen Marshall when he's drank a whole bottle of Smirnoff? Freakiest thing ever."
Marshall rolls his eyes. "Shut the fuck up, Cash. I can hold my liquor."
"Of course," Cash agrees, grinning. "Just about as good as Singer can."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Singer asks, hand to his chest as if he were mortally offended.
Marshall rolls his eyes again, climbing off the bed. He snatches up his bag, almost, but not quite, running to the bathroom.
--
Marshall tugs on a hoodie, never mind that it's about ninety-eight degrees outside. Marshall curses and pulls the sleeves up. "Fuck, it's hot," he huffs.
Ian gives him a strange look. "You could take off the hoodie, you know."
Marshall pretends he doesn't hear him, climbing into the van after Johnson. He fans himself a little with his hand, slumping down in the seat. Singer turns around from the passenger's seat, raising his eyebrows at Marshall expectantly. Marshall takes a big breath.
"Okay," Marshall says. "So I'm kind of a girl now."
Ian says, "What?"
And Singer says, "Kind of?"
And Johnson says, "You're weird."
And Cash says, "Tell me something I don't know."
Marshall grits his teeth so he doesn't give in and say what he wants to Cash. He's not going to get sidetracked, get into a pointless argument with him. "I'm serious," he says. "I woke up and I had tits and a vagina."
"Your sense of humor's a little fucked," Ian says, frowning at him. He's turned around in the driver's seat.
Marshall unzips his hoodie, pulling it to either side of his torso. He sits up straight for the first time, shoulders back. He can feel everyone's eyes go to his chest. "I'm serious," he repeats.
"What the fuck," Cash says, "did you stuff toilet paper in your shirt?" He says that, but his eyes widen. Marshall doubts toilet paper could make his chest look like it does right then. His nipples are clearly outlined through the thin material of his shirt. Everyone is still staring at his chest. Marshall frowns and crosses his arms over it. Or he tries to and ends up having to cross them under his breasts.
"What did you do?" Singer asks. He looks vaguely horrified.
"I got an operation while you guys were asleep," Marshall says flatly. "What the fuck do you think I could've done? I just woke up like this."
"Okay, okay," Ian says. "Just calm down."
Marshall sighs, slumping in the seat again. He pulls at the knees of his jeans. Cash's hand snaps out suddenly, reaching between his legs. Marshall shouts in surprise, shoving Cash away hard enough that he has to catch himself on the back of the seat in front of him.
"Shit," Cash says. "Your dick is gone."
"That's what I've been saying," Marshall hisses. His face feels hot; and he’s only a little gratified when Johnson punches Cash in the shoulder, giving him A Look.
"Okay," Singer says, voice a little faint. "Wow, okay. So what should we do?"
"I don't know." Marshall shrugs roughly. He wonders for the first time when this thing is going to wear off. If it's going to wear off. Then he shuts that thought down quickly, thinking, he won't be able to keep his fucking mind straight if he follows that particular train of thought. "I guess I'll just have to wait it out."
Ian catches Marshall's eye in the rear view mirror. "Way to keep a cool head," he says, smiling.
Marshall twists his mouth, says, "There's nothing else I can do."
Singer looks thoughtful. "Hey, maybe you should cool down on the hugs with the fans."
"What, why?"
"Your hugs are kind of legendary," Cash says, nodding. "And they'd probably notice the-" he breaks off, nodding at Marshall's chest. "You know what."
"Right," Marshall says. And I'm the weird one, he thinks.
Ian finally starts the van, driving in the direction of the next city. Cash still aims the occasional perplexed and/or intrigued look his way, but Marshall ignores him. He stares out of the window, watching the trees fly past and seeing nothing. He chews on the tip of his thumb, thoughtful. He's never heard of anyone accidentally, or otherwise, losing their sex. He sighs, thinks he'll just have to make the best of it.
Then he's sitting up in his seat, practically lighting up as an idea comes to him. "Guys, guys," he says excitedly, "you should all have sex with me."
Ian only swerves the van a little.
--
Marshall's band is kind of stupid. "You're kind of stupid," he tells them.
"But you're a guy," Johnson says.
"And I am now a girl," Marshall says slowly. He makes a face. "Well, kind of. Sort of. Physically, anyway. Whatever."
Cash eyes him up and down and Marshall resists the urge to cross his arms or run away. He squints his eyes at Marshall. "You still look like Marshall."
"I am Marshall, dumbass." He rubs a hand across his face, slightly sweaty. He still has on the hoodie, plus two t-shirts. He's probably going to be near to dying on the stage tonight, but he'll have to keep it on if he wants to keep this a secret.
Cash waves a hand, says, "I mean you still pretty much look like a boy."
Singer studies his face. "No, wait. Actually, he looked more like a girl when he was boy. Weird."
"Hey, you're right," Cash says, straightening.
Marshall makes a frustrated sound, throwing his hands in the air. "Whatever, that's not even the point."
They're in the backstage, lounge area of the venue, with about an hour to go before the show starts. God, the guys couldn't seem to get past that one little fact--that Marshall used to have a dick. Couldn't they just help out a friend in need? And seriously, if Marshall isn't supposed to experiment with a new va-jay-jay and tits, he has absolutely no idea what the hell else he can do.
"Okay, sure. I mean I could hook up with, like, a random person." He widens his eyes at them. "But who knows what could happen then? It could be a mass murderer or something."
"Why do you even have to have sex?" Ian asks, voice rising.
"Wouldn't you want to?" Marshal counters.
Cash says, "Yeah, but with other girls." Cash stares off past Marshall's right shoulder. "God, that'd be hot."
"Down boy," Johnson says dryly.
"It could be fun," Marshall says.
Cash leers. "Yeah, but mostly for you." Marshall ignores him.
"So none of you are going to do it?" Marshall asks. "Seriously?"
Ian holds his hands out in front of him. "Kind of gay, here. Minus the 'kind of'."
No one else says anything, avoiding his gaze. "Fine," he says, as he's walking towards the back exit. "Forget I asked."
--
If there’s one thing about the entire situation that Marshall hates-more than sitting down to pee-is that he has to hide.
The first week is nothing but him in a bundle of clothing in sweltering venues, watching the guys in their washed-thin t-shirts jumping around on stage and glaring. He sweats up a fucking storm, almost to the point of heat stroke every single night and has to lay down in the dressing room for about twenty minutes right after he gets off stage.
Cash and Singer still take every given chance to examine his chest when he strips down to his bottom layer and throws himself down on the couch or the floor, depending. He’s sure he’s soaked through and if his tits were on some real girl’s body he’d be staring too. But it’s not some girl, it’s him, and the fact that his shirt is see-through and two of his friends are staring down at him makes him roll onto his stomach and flip them off. Assholes.
Johnson, for the most part, ignores the situation, like nothing’s wrong and Marshall isn’t walking around with a vagina.
Ian, however, brings him water and sometimes crouches down beside him enough to rub the back of his neck and ask him if he’s okay.
Marshall peeks up through his hair and nods. Ian leaves him be but he also keeps the guys away until he’s toweled down and ready to run out to the van to avoid fans.
It’s shitty, but it’s either that or he’s going to have to make some interesting calls to his family.
The hiding sucks, but it’s really not even a choice.
--
On the eighth day Marshall wakes up in the van and feels down between his legs, he sighs and rubs his face further into his pillow. He really, really hopes this goes away soon.
The door opens and Ian’s soft, “Hey,” makes him pick his head up and look. Ian climbs in and pulls the door shut behind him. They’re stopped somewhere but Marshall can’t tell where, and they’re alone. Ian digs into the plastic bag he sets down in front of him and pulls out a roll of elastic fabric, the kind used to wrap a sprained wrist, but wider. He holds it out. “I figured you could bind ‘em or something,” he says, gesturing down at Marshall’s chest and looking earnest.
Marshall is silent a moment before he reaches out and takes what Ian’s offering, rolling it between his hands. It’s a while before Marshall merely licks his dried out lips and says, “Thanks,” because nothing else really comes to mind.
That night Marshall locks himself in the bathroom and strips to the waist but can’t for the life of him figure out how he’s supposed to do this. He holds his shirt up over his chest and opens the door, sticking his head out and calling for Ian.
Cash lets out a gasp and an over-exaggerated, suggestive sound when Ian slips in through the barely-open door. Marshall locks it behind him and says, “I need help.”
Ian’s eyes widen when Marshall tosses his shirt onto the sink but he doesn’t say anything, merely picks up one of the rolls of bandages and places the end to Marshall’s sternum and tells him to hold it. The first few passes of Ian’s fingers over his skin make Marshall’s stomach tighten in a weird way. He ignores it until Ian’s thumb brushes over his nipple and he feels it harden almost instantly. Ian quickly mumbles out an apology and hurries on. He wraps as tightly as he can while still allowing Marshall to breathe and the faint blush fades from his cheeks long before he’s done.
Marshall twists and moves around, even jumping a little to see if it’ll hold before thanking Ian and allowing him to leave. He tries to think about how he’ll be able to actually breathe tonight on stage but all of his thoughts seem to revolve around the feel of Ian’s hands on him.
Marshall gives his body another careful look in the mirror, trailing his hand down his soft stomach and where the trail of hair used to be that lead into his jeans. He follows it, biting his lip as his heart kicks up. He hasn’t done this, hasn’t touched himself or tried to figure out how; he’s been too scared. But he’s still feeling weird and warm from Ian’s skin against his and his fingers come back wet when he tugs them out of his jeans.
He hastily pulls his shirt back on and hopes the guys don’t notice his blush when he steps back out into the room.
--
It’s at the three week mark that Marshall slips up. He’s hot and his back has started to hurt from the binding and he just wants to get naked and flop down on the nearest comfy surface. But they’re at the venue still so he slips away and pulls the bandages from his body until he can breathe again.
He doesn’t bother with a hoodie, he just tugs his shirt back on and heads out the loading door. He’s instantly accosted by fans. There’s a group of them and it’s just him, alone, and it’s not like their fans are insane or anything but Marshall can’t help it that his heart begins to beat wildly. He instantly crosses his arms over his chest and looks back to see if he can bolt inside.
He’s barely gotten out a nervous, “Hey,” to the girl standing less than two feet from him out when the door bangs open again and he thinks, oh thank god, and jerks his head to the side to see Gabe step out with his phone to his ear.
“Oh,” he says, looks down at the sheer panic on Marshall’s face and then he’s all smiles at the girls. “What’s up, ladies?”
Immediately the attention is off of him and Marshall has the chance to turn his back and pull his hoodie on. It’s not the best cover-up but it’s better than the plain white t-shirt he was wearing before. Gabe puts his phone away and takes pictures with everyone; Marshall sticks close to his side when it becomes clear he’s not off the hook yet.
After a few minutes of jokes and laughter and smiles, Gabe pulls Marshall in by an arm around his shoulder and Marshall feels the moment Gabe goes stiff when Marshall’s breasts are pushed up against his side. But Gabe’s poker face doesn’t give. “We’ve got some stuff to do, girls.”
A few disappointed faces look back at them but Gabe pulls Marshall along with him, straight through the group and down the ramp towards the bus. “Goodnight,” Marshall says over his shoulder, waving and smiling as best he can while Gabe’s fingers dig into his upper arm.
“Up,” Gabe says when he lets go to punch in the code on the door and pull it open. Marshall doesn’t argue, he just moves.
Gabe’s hands on his back push him to sit down at the table in the kitchen area before he opens the fridge and pulls out a beer. Marshall waits, knees pressed together hard enough to make his thighs twinge and not looking as Gabe obviously stares down at him.
“Is there some reason your tits were on my side back there?” he finally asks.
Marshall looks up at the question and finds he can’t look away. For the first time since this happened, he feels tears burning at the corners of his eyes; but instead of focusing on that, he reaches for the hem of his hoodie and pulls it up over his head. The soft curve of his chest is obvious and so is Gabe staring at it.
Marshall can feel his face heating but he forces himself to say, “I just woke up like this,” quietly.
Gabe inhales loudly, setting his beer bottle down with a thud. He worries his lip for a while before he asks, “Girl parts?” Marshall nods. “As in vagina?”
Marshall narrows his eyes and grits his teeth a little. “Yeah.”
“You have a vagina?” Gabe sounds a little deadpan.
“Yes!” Marshall snaps, jumping to his feet and heading for the door. He’s sure it’s only going to give Gabe room to make PMS jokes or something, but all Gabe does is reach out and grab his arm.
“Woah, dude, chill.” He pulls Marshall back; but Marshall doesn’t exactly struggle against him. He stands and waits as Gabe looks him up and down. Finally he says, “Is it weird?” Marshall lets his eyes roll and Gabe amends, “Right, stupid.” Then sighs. “Okay so,” he shrugs and looks around. “You wanna play Halo or something?”
--
After that Marshall starts spending a lot more time on Cobra’s bus. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be around his own guys, it’s just that they’re still looking at him like he’s some kind of walking lab experiment and Gabe just wants to listen to Justin Timberlake over the bus sound system and play Xbox with him.
He’s still wrapping his chest up every night, but the moment he’s free from fan obligations, he sneaks out the back and onto the bus to wait for Gabe. Cash is a little obviously jealous when he finds out Marshall knows the code to the door, but he doesn’t bug him for it like Marshall thought he would.
Gabe shows up sweaty and smiling every night. He kisses the top of Marshall’s head before slipping into the bunks to get changed. They order food with the rest of his band but generally wind up sitting in the back lounge alone with an empty pizza box and a few burnt out joints between them.
They never really get around to a lot of drinking but sometimes after a couple beers the feel of Gabe’s fingertips against his own when he passes the joint over makes Marshall’s stomach tight; much the same way Ian’s hands on him had the first night he’d bound his breasts. Close, but not identical.
They talk a lot, before shows, when they don’t feel like getting buzzed and just lay around on the couches on the bus. Marshall learns a lot of really weird shit about Gabe but most of it just makes him laugh. Gabe lapses into Spanish sometimes and Marshall knows enough to figure out when he’s being called senorita. He tosses something at Gabe, which usually ends up with himself in a headlock and Gabe telling him, “Call me papi,” before he lets go.
Overall Gabe’s a little weird but not half as strange as everyone seems to think. Marshall likes spending most of his free time with him and Gabe obviously returns the sentiment.
--
It isn’t until Cash makes some snide remark about Marshall spending so much time with Gabe that he starts to realize just what it must look like.
And then Cash finds the line and crosses it.
“Is sucking dick everything you hoped for and more?”
Marshall punches Cash hard. He nearly folds in half, gasping a little and glaring up at Marshall before Ian interrupts with, “Was that a gay joke?” and suddenly the fight isn’t even about him anymore.
Marshall slams the outside door hard when he storms out. His hand hurts and he’s tired and tonight is a hotel night; there’s a bed waiting for him for the first time in a week and a half and he just wants to be able to take a shower and curl up under clean sheets. But he’ll be damned if he’s going to share with Cash tonight.
He’s still busy fuming when a hand lands on his shoulder and he lets out an oddly high-pitched sound. Marshall’s voice hadn’t changed all that much with the transformation into a woman so it startles him almost as much as it does Gabe.
“Jesus, Marsh, what the hell?” He laughs a little, rubbing his hand over his face. “Sorry about that, I thought you heard me.” Marshall can barely shake his head no let alone say it. Gabe laughs again. “Wow, that was awesome. We hangin’ tonight?”
Marshall finally finds his voice to say, “That movie isn’t gonna watch itself.” There’s some Japanese horror movie Gabe had been given by a fan that he wants to check out and tonight has officially been deemed movie night.
“That’s the spirit,” Gabe says, smiling and tossing his arm over Marshall’s shoulder for the walk to the bus.
--
The movie ends up blowing a whole lot of ass and Marshall wakes up drowsily to a shrill scream from the TV. He blinks a little but doesn’t otherwise move. The bus is quiet and dark but for the movie and Gabe’s heartbeat under his ear. They’re still alone on the bus.
Marshall stretches his legs out a little and tries to focus back on the movie, but he has no idea what’s going on anymore. But he doesn’t sit up or speak, he just sits still and counts the rises and falls of Gabe’s chest underneath him. He knows Gabe’s awake and he’s pretty sure Gabe knows he’s awake to.
It’s hard to ignore the feel of Gabe’s hand on his side, his fingers pushed up under the hem of his shirt, rubbing back and forth over the skin on his hip, but not otherwise moving. Marshall bites his lip until it feels raw and then Gabe hesitantly asks, “Marshall?”
Marshall swallows hard and nods because it feels okay. It’s all right, he’d asked for it from his own band, for the chance to try out his new body but they blew him off. It’s just Gabe.
Gabe doesn’t waste any time slipping his hand further up under Marshall’s shirt and cupping his breast. Marshall gasps at the feel and Gabe squeezes lightly, pinching his nipple gently, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.
Marshall arches up a little and Gabe turns, says, “Alex, here, come on.”
It’s dark and Marshall stumbles a little until he’s standing and then practically falls right over when Gabe grasps his arms and pulls him back down onto his back. Gabe follows immediately, laying half on his side and half on top of Marshall. The couch really isn’t big enough for the both of them like this but Marshall has a fleeting thought that it’ll be easier once Gabe is on top of him. He groans.
Gabe looks up and Marshall thinks he’s blushing so he’s glad that the only light is the flicker of the TV screen. Gabe kisses him then, leaning in and pushing their lips together, soft and wet, his hands both running up Marshall’s stomach to his chest. He squeezes and rubs until Marshall is arching and panting, sucking on his tongue and gasping alternatively. It hurts a little when his nipples tighten, it feels so fucking weird, but he can feel himself getting wet. Really wet. Really fast.
He wonders if that means he’s easy, but then Gabe is pushing his shirt up under his armpits and mouthing at his breasts.
Marshall arches his back, voice strangled when he groans. “Easy,” Gabe mumbles, hot breath ghosting over the damp areas his tongue has been and making Marshall shiver.
It’s a little weird. Not because this is Gabe, but because Gabe’s a guy. Before this, Marshall never had any desire, ever, to touch a man. And suddenly he wakes up with a vagina and it’s practically always picking at the back of his mind. That feels a little fucked up.
He sucks his own lip into his mouth when Gabe begins leaving, what Marshall knows enough to gather are, hickeys along the soft, sensitive underside of one of his breasts. “Watch it,” he grinds out.
Gabe just laughs and Marshall feels that curl of excitement run through him again, spread out through his limbs. He arches again and Gabe’s hands drop down to his waistband. He looks up when Marshall looks down, thumbing the button and raising his eyebrows questioningly.
Marshall swallows, what feels like, his heart and nods.
He doesn’t watch, he can’t, when Gabe tugs his jeans down and breathes a surprised laugh. “Commando is a girl requirement.” Marshall swats the back of his head. “What? I read that somewhere,” he teases.
“Fuck you, you did not,” Marshall gasps, unable to process how he’s thought to say anything that isn’t incoherent jibberish.
Gabe grins and then the next few moments are a complete blur.
Gabe’s hand slides down and then there’s a finger rubbing against him, wet and making a sticky sound that makes Marshall want to blush. But it’s hot, it’s really hot to hear it and feel it and know that it’s Gabe.
A second finger joins the first and Gabe starts a slow, easy rhythm, slipping in and out until Marshall is panting loudly above him.
“Christ, Marshall,” he mumbles. “You’re fucking soaked.”
Marshall just groans again, thighs parting and he feels like he’s pushing down a little, knows he is when he feels Gabe’s breath and shudders. “Please,” he says, but he’s not even sure what he’s asking for.
Gabe seems to, though. He slips his fingers out and up, holding Marshall open and then dragging his tongue up to his clit where he sucks hard.
Marshall convulses up, almost throwing Gabe off of him.
“Easy,” Gabe whispers again, “hold on.” He pets at Marshall’s hip, but that feeling’s back again. It’s weirder, feels wrong that this is happening. Gabe sucks at him, easier this time and that, at least, still feels good, but it’s just…
Marshall worries his lip, biting and holding in his gasps when Gabe switches from tonguing his clit to sucking and pushing his fingers in. He can’t stop thrusting his hips, but his forehead is bunching with tension and a cold sweat is breaking out along his hairline.
It takes him a while to notice that Gabe has stopped and is looking up at him, two fingers buried between his legs. Marshall’s thighs tense instantly but he doesn’t move to push them away. The heavy awkward silence that floats over them now is thick enough that Marshall feels like he can’t even breathe.
Then Gabe mumbles, “Shit,” and pulls his fingers out, sitting up and wiping them on his thigh.
Marshall reaches down and pulls his pants up immediately, tugging his shirt down over his chest and scooting a little bit away from Gabe even as he asks, “Why’d you stop?”
Gabe is clearly hard, straining up against his zipper and eying Marshall like he’s the only thing in the world that turns him on, but he says, “I’m not retarded, dude. You’re not into it.”
Marshall opens his mouth to call bullshit, he’s obviously wet and everything felt great, except for the things in his head. Then he closes his mouth because oh, that’s what Gabe meant.
“Yeah,” Gabe sighs, running his hand over his face. Marshall makes a face but doesn’t say anything. “You should probably go.” And here it is, the part where it gets weird and he and Gabe are going to stop talking and hanging out, and mother fuck Marshall is the biggest fucking idiot. “No, dude, seriously, it’s fine, I’ve just gotta take care of this,” he says. There’s a smile on his face that Marshall can see through the flicks of light on the TV screen; it looks genuine and Gabe is a lot of things but Marshall’s never known him to be a liar.
“I can-” Marshall starts, but Gabe quickly cuts him off with a laugh.
“No, I’m good.”
Marshall is beyond relieved, because he has no idea what he was even going to offer in the first place.
Gabe doesn’t walk him out, but Marshall thinks that’s fair. Luckily no one has come back in the past few minutes and Marshall is able to make it out into the dark parking lot without actually making the Walk of Shame a reality.
Then he notices the van is gone.
He blinks hard and looks around but it doesn’t magically reappear.
“Mother fuckers!” Marshall spits, digging into his pocket for his phone and yanking it out. Ian was the last person he talked to so he just hits the “call” button and waits in angry silence for him to pick up.
There’s laughter in the background and Ian answers with a smile that’s only barely tinged with worry in his voice. “Yeah?”
“Where the fuck are you guys?” Marshall demands.
“At the hotel,” Ian says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Marshall practically stamps his foot. “You left me here?”
“Woah, hey, chill, dude. I thought you talked to Cash, I thought you weren’t coming back tonight.” He can hear Ian sitting up and saying something to someone else. He hears Singer’s muffled response and then another laugh in the background. “Where are you?”
“In the parking lot,” Marshall snaps back. He feels a little hysterical and vulnerable out here. He brings his other arm up to cross over his chest and huddles in on himself.
“I’ll come get you,” Ian says, and at least he’s calm about this. “We’re only like five miles away, I’ll be right there.”
Marshall closes his eyes and feels like crying, but he just shakes his head to himself and says, “Okay,” and “hurry,” before hanging up.
--
Ian pulls up and Marshall tries not to make a big, huffy scene of getting in, tries not to slam the door.
"Sorry," Ian says, pulling out onto the road. "I really thought Cash had talked to you or something."
"Fucking Cash," Marshall mutters. He slouches in the seat and the seatbelt digs into his chest uncomfortably. He tugs at it angrily.
Ian glances at him. "Did something happen?" he asks carefully. His hands are at two and ten on the wheel, his voice light, and everything about him right then screams careful
Marshall turns in his seat, leans back against the door slightly so that he can look straight at Ian. "What are you asking?"
Ian's jaw clenches and Marshall can see the muscles moving there. "You know what."
"No, not really," Marshall says. "So tell me." He can realize, distantly, that he's really being an ass; that he's lashing out at the wrong person, maybe the one person who has made the least big deal out of this whole fiasco. He realizes this, but he sure as hell can't make himself shut up.
Ian's lips part and he breathes out harshly. "Did Gabe fuck something up?"
"No," Marshall says tightly. "Gabe didn't fuck anything up."
Ian's hands loosen around the steering wheel, shoulders slumping a little. He looks tired, despite the fact that he'd sounded somewhat energetic over the phone. And suddenly, Marshall is tired, exhausted, as if it were contagious. He wishes for the millionth time that he could just have his dick back.
"Sorry," Marshall says quietly. "It was just me; I fucked up."
Ian acknowledges the apology with a nod, says, "Do you want to talk about it?" And rather awkwardly, in Marshall's own opinion, like he might be hoping Marshall will say no.
"Not really," Marshall admits. "But thanks."
"Anytime," Ian says, and smiles a little.
Back in the hotel room, everyone is still up, still drinking and partying. There are even people from other bands there and Singer and Cash may be the slightest bit drunk. All Marshall knows is that it's extremely amusing to watch them attempt to shout answers in the forms of questions at an episode of Jeopardy on the television.
Then Cash is leaving Singer to walk towards Marshall's bed where he's laying on his back, arms crossed behind his head. Cash crawls up the bed, eyes big in his face. Marshall just wants to go to sleep, doesn't want to have to deal with anymore bullshit that might fall from Cash's mouth. But there are still unfamiliar people in the room, no one Marshall can take off his binding around.
"I'm sorry, Alex Marshall," he says, and-it's not what Marshall expected. He flops down onto the bed next to Marshall, drink held out carefully in one hand. "I said some fucked up shit. So I'm sorry."
Sometimes, every once in awhile, Cash is hard to resist. Hard to stay mad at. "Whatever," Marshall says, his own way of accepting an apology.
Cash nods a couple times, continues with, "And plus, Ian said he'd throw me down a staircase if I didn't do it, so."
That surprises a bark of laughter from Marshall. There are matching sounds across the room.
"Word of advice, Cash?" Ian says. He throws a crumpled piece of trash at Cash's head. "Don't tell someone that you were forced to apologize to them. Kind of takes away from the sentiment, you know?"
"Word of advice, Ian?" Cash mimics, voice high. "Don't threaten to throw people down staircases, it kinda takes away from your moral high ground." He smiles at Ian sweetly.
--
It hasn't been long enough that Marshall won't wake up some mornings, still half asleep, bladder full, and stumble out of the van and into a bathroom at a rest stop, reaching for something that isn't there. He's annoyed at himself when that happens, cursing under his breath.
And, even sadder he thinks, are the times he'll wake up in the back of the van, warm with fleeting images from a scattered dream, heat between his legs. He'll reach down while the others are still sleeping or driving, quiet as he can be. And he'll always end up frustrated, even more hot and bothered, if that's possible. It's too strange, reaching down there and feeling a clit, too unfamiliar. It makes his face heat, embarrassed, which is just so stupid because this is his body for the moment. It's his own body and he can't even figure out how to get himself off.
He'd never thought he'd ever get to call himself sexually frustrated, but here it is.
Gabe comes up behind him, hands squeezing and thumbs pushing into Marshall's shoulders. Marshall tries not to melt into him. "Oooh, tense," he says, mouth by Marshall's ear.
"You have no idea," Marshall mutters. He slumps sideways, leaning one shoulder against the wall.
"Well, you know I have a suggestion as to what can make you loosen up," Gabe says, voice low, "but we already tried that." Gabe sighs sadly. "Didn't work out."
Gabe's been really cool about Marshall's sort-of-freakout. They hang out and he jokes about it like he does about everything else, but Marshall still never feels like he's being made fun of. He's grateful for that.
He throws an elbow back, catching Gabe in side. "Shut up, you," he says. Gabe makes wounded sounds, probably clutching his side dramatically. Marshall doesn't turn his head back to see, just snorts.
They're backstage, just before The Cab's set to go on. Cash and Singer are a little up and to left of them. They keep looking back at where Marshall and Gabe stand, glancing away quickly when Marshall catches their eye. He cocks an eyebrow in their direction, daring them to say something stupid.
"I think your boys have got an issue with me," Gabe says.
"Well, I know they've got issues," Marshall says. "But I don't really know about any issues with you."
Gabe laughs and Marshall can feel him lean down, his hand falling to Marshall's waist. "I think they might be jealous."
"Yeah, I know at least Cash wants your guys' bus code," Marshall says.
Gabe laughs again, says, "No, no, of you and me hanging all the time."
Marshall turns at that, moving so that his back is against the wall and he can see Gabe's face. "I'm stuck with them in a van for the majority of most days. It's not like they don't see me often."
Gabe huffs a big breath, hand coming up to ruffle Marshall's hair. "Alex Marshall, I know you're not that stupid."
Marshall shoves Gabe away then, calling him an asshole before he goes to run onstage.
--
Marshall sneaks away straight after the show that night and climbs into the back of the van. He knows he's got at least a little over a half hour before anyone might come back. He lays on his back, shoves his jeans down around his knees. He undoes the elastic bandages around his chest, letting the wrapping fall loose and pushing it down. He blows out a big breath, punching the pillow under his head. He's nervous and he knows that's not right, not particularly conducive to getting off.
So he closes his eyes, breathing out again. He thinks of Gabe, of the night on his bus. Marshall's mind may not have been in the right place, but it had still felt good. He recalls the way his nipples had tightened when Gabe rubbed his fingers over them. He slides his own up over his belly, brushing his right nipple. They're even more sensitive, aching from the binding. He takes in careful breaths even though there's no reason to be quiet. He thinks about the warm, sucking kisses Gabe had pressed to the underside of his breasts.
Marshall slides his other hand down, down under the elastic of his boxers. He thinks about Gabe's mouth on him, Gabe's fingers in him. He rubs his fingers over his clit, dipping them down between until they come back wet. He thinks about Ian's fingers brushing against his skin that day, thinks this might, might just work, finally.
Then the van door opens. "Holy shit," Cash says, voice high and faint.
Marshall scrambles to pull down his shirt and pull up his pants at the same time and absolutely fails. He then tries to yank down the shirt, reaching for his jeans.
"Closing the fucking door," he snaps, because Cash is still just standing there, mouth open and hand half-raised in the air.
Cash slams the door closed but not before climbing into the back with Marshall. Marshall pushes himself up and against the back of the bench seat, wrapping his arms around his knees. "I didn't mean for you to come in too, jackass," he says, teeth gritted.
Cash's expression is mostly unreadable and Marshall almost wishes he could tell what Cash was thinking. "Are you okay?"
Marshall is breathing pretty harshly and he has to press his knees together because there's still that fluttery feeling between his legs, and no, Marshall is definitely not okay. He's kind of really fucking embarrassed.
"No," Marshall says, honest. Then, "Can you please fuck off now?"
"Um," Cash says, "how about no?"
"Cash," Marshall starts, practically growling and Cash interrupts him.
"I didn't know you'd been jerking off since you changed," he says loudly. "I mean, I would've thought someone else would take care of stuff like that for you."
Marshall bites the inside of his cheek for a second, then says, low, "Fuck you. You have no idea what Gabe and I get up to."
Cash hums his agreement. "Probably not, but I can guess."
Marshall rubs his hand over his face, shakes his head. "Okay," he says, "okay, first? I've never fucked Gabe. Second? Why the hell do you care so much? Why do you keep bringing it up?"
Cash slumps back against the wall of the van, frowns for the first time. "What do you mean you've never-"
"Exactly what I said," Marshall interrupts. "And answer the question."
Cash frowns harder, mouth twisting. "I guess I, or we, thought you'd, you know. Gone to him, or whatever.
Marshall smiles, remembering what Gabe had said earlier. He almost laughs. "Right. Well you guys had your chance."
Cash seems to ignore that last part, says, "So, do you always look that angry when you're jerking off? I mean, is that a thing?"
Marshall's smile drops. "Shut up."
Cash's face lights up. "Oh god, dude. Please don't tell me you're having trouble jerking your new woman parts off. 'cause, like, if you do, I swear I will laugh myself sick."
"If you so much as giggle, I will fucking stomp on your balls as soon as you fall asleep." Marshall looks at Cash expectantly, seriously, and waits until Cash's expression straightens; waits until he nods. Then he mumbles, "Yeah, I'm kind of having trouble. Doing it."
Cash's mouth twitches and Marshall refuses to believe it's with laughter because then he might just hit Cash where it hurts most and not stop. "I feel sorry for any girls you've fucked."
"Excuse me?" Again, it's not what he expected to hear from Cash.
"If you can't even get your own self off, I'd hate to see what you attempt with other girls." Cash waves a hand over Marshall's form, says, "Well, not this version of yourself. I've gotta say, this really explains why you've so snappy lately."
Marshall feels his face heat once more. "It's different when it's your own fucking vagina."
"I bet," Cash says, grinning.
"Why are you even here?"
"Oh, right," Cash says. "I wanted to change my shirt." Before Marshall can open his mouth, curse Cash out, Cash says, "You know, I could help you out."
"How about no?" Marshall says, mimicking Cash from earlier.
"How about hell yeah?" Cash says. He scoots across the floor of the van, closer to Marshall. He widens his eyes. "I would know how to get your woman parts off."
Marshall huffs, says, "Too bad. I kind of remember bringing this up once before, and guess what? You guys all blew me off."
"That was then, Marsh, this is now. Let the past go," Cash says and punctuates the statement throwing an arm around Marshall's shoulders.
Marshall shoves him off. Or he tries to. Cash grabs onto Marshall's biceps, pulling him over and rolling them. Marshall ends up on his back again, Cash on top of him. Marshall is surprised, blinking up at Cash.
"Let me help you out," Cash says softly, shoving a thigh between Marshall's. Marshall is still a little wet, still a little hot and Cash's thigh is solid, rubbing against him. Marshall can't really help when he tries to push his hips up, get more friction.
Even so, Marshall says, "Get the fuck off me." Cash grins, pushing his thigh forward deliberately and Marshall gasps. Marshall's hands had flown to Cash's shoulders when he'd rolled them and Cash takes one in his, pushes it to the floor beside Marshall's head.
He wraps his fingers around Marshall's wrist, says, "Make me.
And it's weird because other than faint annoyance, Marshall feels kind of good. There is no hesitance, no guilt, or whatever the fuck he'd felt with Gabe on the bus. It's just Cash, here, irritating bastard that he is, and Marshall suddenly remembers why he'd wanted to do this with his own band in the first place.
Marshall spreads his legs a little, allowing Cash to drop between, their hips fitting together. He doesn't tell Cash off; just says, "Kiss me."
That surprises Cash, Marshall can tell by the height of his eyebrows. He curls his hand into a fist, thinking Cash might have just been taking a joke too far, but then Cash presses their lips together, rather clumsily. Their noses bump, and their mouths don't line up. Marshall is about to open his mouth, say something like, oh, you've got skills, when Cash tilts his head to the side and kisses him right.
Okay, Marshall thinks and tilts his chin up. Cash pulls back for a second, licking his lips and then it's even better. Cash traces the seam of his lips with his tongue until Marshall parts them, lets Cash lick inside his mouth. Marshall palms the back of his head, scratches fingers through his short hair.
Cash is warm on top of him and Marshall likes the weight of him against his front. Cash slips a hand up Marshall's shirt, goes to flick one of his nipples, roll it between his fingers. Marshall wraps his arms around Cash's shoulders, little noises escaping his throat every now and then.
He can feel it when Cash grins into the kiss and wonders why. Then Cash is sliding his hand down, bracing himself on his other forearm. He's unbuttoning the front of Marshall's jeans, sliding his hand down the front of Marshall's underwear. He breaks the kiss, arches up under Cash as his fingers rub over Marshall's clit.
Cash rumbles a laugh against his neck, starts pressing open-mouthed kisses there. "Is this for me?" he asks, fingers sliding inside Marshall easily, still wet from earlier.
Marshall fists a hand in Cash's shirt, rasps, "Shut up."
"Fine," Cash huffs, teeth grazing Marshall's neck. He pulls his fingers out of Marshall and Marshall nearly whines at the loss. Cash shoves his shirt up with both hands, bending his head and taking a nipple into his mouth. Marshall moans.
Then Cash is kissing down Marshall's belly, is sitting up to yank his jeans and boxers down, spread Marshall's thighs. He lays down between Marshall's legs, urging him with his hands to bend them up. Cash has to lay weirdly to get between Marshall's legs, not as much space as either of them would like.
Marshall pushes himself up onto his elbows, looking down his body at Cash. "Are you-" he breaks off, dropping his head back as Cash licks at his clit. He flicks his tongue over and over, before pointing it, fucking into Marshall.
"Oh my god," Marshall breathes. He reaches down to twist a hand in Cash's shirt again, stretch it from his neck. Cash uses his fingers, spreading Marshall so that he can lick even deeper. Marshall can feel heat spreading throughout his body, feels like he's going to melt from it. He curls up a little, stomach muscles tensing.
"Oh," Marshall says, breathless, and moans long and loud. He squeezes his thighs around Cash's head, involuntary. Cash doesn't stop licking, even closes his lips over Marshall's clit and sucks hard. He keeps this up and before Marshall knows it, there's another wave of pleasure crashing over him.
Cash crawls up Marshall's body, doesn't even bother to wipe his mouth off before he kisses Marshall hard, almost hard enough to hurt. The kiss is wet, sloppy, and fuck, Marshall can taste himself on Cash tongue, even chases it, licking up into his mouth. He touches his hands to either side of Cash's face, as if he would pull away. Cash grunts a little, straddling his thigh and grinding down.
"Good, right?" Cash asks, just as breathless and Marshall almost rolls his eyes.
"Sure," he says, pushing his thigh up hard, satisfied when Cash buries his face between Marshall's neck and shoulder, letting out a low noise.
Before Cash can think to say anything more, Marshall reaches down, unbuttoning Cash's jeans and slipping his hands inside. He takes Cash's cock in his hand, not before licking his palm. And this, wow, it's almost weird because this is the first time he's touched a dick other than his own in, ever, and the first time he's just touching a dick in too long to count. He strokes up Cash's cock as much as can, finding it a little difficult to move when Cash is still laying on top of him. He makes do with the little bit of space he has since Cash doesn't look like he's going to move anytime soon, mouth open against Marshall's shoulder, just breathing.
Marshall reaches his other hand further down, rolling Cash's balls between his fingers and rubbing his palm over the head of Cash's dick, spreading the wetness there. Cash makes a thin sound, hips jerking into Marshall before he comes, spurting hotly between their bodies. Marshall jerks him through it, until Cash is mumbling into his neck.
Marshall presses his cheek to Cash's head, catches his breath. Cash pulls his head up, kisses Marshall again; it's messy and wet and lazy, like he's got all the time in the world.
Cash rolls off of him, still close enough that their shoulders brush. "That was," he says, and doesn't finish.
"That was," Marshall agrees. Cash frowns a little. Marshall glances down at himself. "Gross," he mutters. He takes one of his t-shirts that's shoved in the corner of the back, wipes his stomach off. Cash grins at that, maybe even leers a little because Marshall hasn't bothered to pull his shirt back down yet. He does so then, not before flipping Cash off.
"We should do this on a bed next time," Cash says, nodding his head.
Marshall screws his face up. "Who said there'd be a next time?"
"Yeah," Cash says, still nodding. "And maybe you can shave your legs before then." Marshall punches his shoulder. They lay in relatively companionable silence for some time and then the van door opens.
Singer and Ian stand before the open back, Johnson behind them. Their mouths drop open.
They've already pulled their clothes back on, righted themselves as much as possible, but he knows what it must look like-Marshall's hair messy and their clothes twisted, Cash's mouth so red, and Marshall may or may not have a bite mark on his neck.
"Hi," Marshall says.
Johnson peers over Ian and Singer's shoulders and his eyes widen. Singer's eyes shift back and forth between them a couple times. Then, "You two. You. What the hell."
Part II