fic: closer to drowning
closer to drowning
Cash/Marshall
NC-17
Notes: I should probably warn for not realness. And, uh, sex pollen. Thanks to both warmingweather for the handholding and belladonnalin for the amazing beta.
There's a girl smoking just outside the venue, dark hair and she's pretty, short and just enough curve for Cash, just right. She gives him a cigarette when he asks, even lights it for him, and listens when he talks, tells her about the last city and how he loves Vegas, the lights and all the fake shine.
He trails off and after a minute, after his cigarette is gone and he can't actually think of a reason to stay, Cash says, "Thanks," and she nods, almost smiles.
Johnson is looking for him when he gets inside and Singer is a touch frantic because it's Vegas and this is more than just a show, it's home and they're not the very first band this time. Cash forgets all about the girl, forgets about her pierced lip and dark eyes. He forgets about cigarettes and long hair. Cash focuses on playing, his fingers moving over the strings, finding the right beats.
*
He's still playing the last song in his head when they get off, going over the notes he fucked up and trying to count them out in his head.
There were a lot of them too, notes that Cash has never missed before and ones he always has trouble with. It’s the ones so easy, so incredibly simple that someone who’d never played before could hit, those are the ones that drive him crazy.
Cash is trying not to focus on the way he feels just slightly off, not quite right. Between the plague that he’s just finally getting over and the accident, Cash doesn't have any patience for not feeling perfectly fine. So he ignores the way he sort of feels like throwing up, the way he's got a headache forming just behind his eyes and still…Cash tries really hard to ignore the fact that he's hard.
They all make mistakes. There was that one time when Singer actually forgot the words, completely blanked. Or when Marshall skipped the bridge of one song, the look on his face completely priceless. They all fuck up and it's not a big deal, but then Cash doesn't stop going through the notes until he runs into Marshall, startles at the shock of Marshall's shoulder pressing against his.
"Huh?" Cash says and blinks. Marshall just shrugs and smiles, all bright eyes and stupid grin. He doesn't shove Cash back like he normally might, doesn't do anything but roll his eyes, cross his arms over his chest. Marshall looks pleased, the lines of his body relaxed. After a second, after Ian yells, "Marshall, hey!" he slides past Cash.
Or he tries to.
"I. Hey, could you-" Cash says and he knows he isn't actually making sense. But, really, the way he wants to press up against Marshall , the way he wants to touch bare skin and revel in the soft, warm touch of Marshall, that doesn't make all that much sense either.
"You okay?" Marshall asks, his face maybe a little concerned, but then he only stops smiling when Cash's hand curls around his hip. He sort of huffs then, says, a soft warning, "Cash, come on."
But Cash can't actually make himself let go, can't even help the way he's suddenly crowding Marshall back toward the wall. He's crowding up close, right up into Marshall's space, and Cash can see the exact moment Marshall realizes he's hard, the way his eyes sort of widen and then close, just for a second.
"Cash," he grits out and it's that tone, the one Marshall uses when Cash is being a douche.
He doesn't look mad, not yet, but Cash knows it's coming. It's in his tone, the one that always ends up with Marshall, flushed and angry, breathing hard. The one that leads to him pushing at Cash, trying to bruise and hurt. Even as his fingers curl into the skin at Marshall's waist, as his mouth presses lightly against the skin at Marshall's jaw, Cash can tell Marshall is going to push him away.
"Marsh, Marshall," Cash mutters and he feels Marshall stiffen, feels the way his hands, now at his sides, flex.
Cash grinds once, his hips twitching and trying to find a rhythm, the perfect friction, and Marshall's mouth falls open, just a little. Cash has done this before, but he knows, he’s pretty sure, Marshall probably hasn’t.
"Please, just." Cash's hips find a rhythm and Marshall hasn't left yet, he hasn’t pushed Cash away. His eyes are fluttering shut and his mouth is going slack. Cash wants to kiss him, bite at his lips and feel that mouth, Marshall's mouth, hot and slick, against his own. Marshall’s mouth on his dick. Cash closes his eyes and he groans.
"Fuck," Marshall says and Cash thinks he probably wasn't supposed to hear, not with the way Marshall says it quiet, with the way he blushes after, going faintly red.
"Oh, hey. I'm going to, I'm gonna kiss you now," Cash says, doesn't wait for Marshall's response. He kisses Marshall hard, teeth jammed into Marshall's lips, and Marshall still isn't pushing him away. He isn't doing anything at all, his hands still at his sides, and Cash wants him moving, wants him making noises. Cash wants him hard, wants Marshall pressing back into him, moving with him.
"Cash," Marshall says. His voice is strained and Cash wants to kiss him again. He wants more and Marshall is close; Cash can tell he's close to breaking, his shoulders tense, his mouth red.
"Come on, come on," Cash mutters, his mouth so close to skin that he can practically taste Marshall.
"We're like," and Marshall sort of makes this gesture with his hands, one that Cash doesn't pay attention to at all because it ends with Marshall's hands on his arms and Marshall's mouth on his. Cash doesn't pay attention to anything beyond Marshall's tongue, slick against his, and Marshall's dick, hard at his hip.
And then. Then Marshall's hips are moving too, setting the pace a little faster, a little harder, and it's not like Cash can't keep up, not even that he doesn't want to. He knows the way Marshall works, melodies and bass lines, and it’s not even hard to shift that sort of knowledge. Cash has no problem reading the beats and pauses in Marshall’s movements. He licks into Marshall's mouth and meets every thrust, every single twitch of Marshall's hips. Cash smiles, grunts, when Marshall's thigh presses against his dick.
It's almost perfect, just enough pressure that Cash's orgasm is starting to burn through him, his hips meeting Marshall's and they are, they're pretty much out in the open. Right in the hallway and Cash doesn't actually care that anybody can see, that anybody can walk past.
He's got his hands on Marshall's hips, digging into the skin, and Cash kisses Marshall, hard, one last time before he's coming.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Marshall says, his head tipped back against the wall. He's still hard, his hips moving a little restlessly, and his lips are swollen and red. He looks amazing and Cash is still sort of mid-afterglow, post-whatever, but also. He's still hard, not super-urgent hard, but he wants to get off, can't believe he wants to get off still.
Cash bites lightly at Marshall's exposed skin on the line of his neck, and says, "Hey, come on. Let's. Let's take care of that." And Marshall doesn't exactly scowl at him, but he totally glares.
He also goes with Cash, lets Cash herd him toward the bathroom and doesn't even make sure it's the one with the lock that actually works. Marshall doesn’t protest when Cash herds him into the bathroom, shuts the door behind them.
But then he's pushing at Cash's shoulder, trying to urge him to his knees, and even with his back against the wall, Marshall is insistent.
"Dude," Cash says and Marshall looks at him, eyes narrowed. Cash wants to push him against the wall, fuck into his mouth and see how Marshall's eyes narrow then. He feels like…Cash feels like he needs to come, againrightnow, and he wants an extreme lack of clothes, a bed. He wants more skin and Marshall's fingers, hands, on him.
"Cash," Marshall says and that's really all he has to say, his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulders hunched. Cash drops to his knees, one hand on his own thigh and the other just above Marshall's knee.
And Cash is so hard that it's starting to hurt and he needs to come again, but he just presses the heel of his hand against his dick, trying to ease some of the pressure. With his hand still on his own dick, Cash tugs at Marshall's jeans, gets them undone, and then he's mouthing at Marshall's dick through the fabric of his boxers.
"Fuck, come on," Marshall says and he sounds impatient, like he's going to come now, like he wants Cash's mouth on him.
Cash has done this before too, has gone down on a dude, but this, this is Marshall, not just some dude. This is Marshall thrusting shallowly into his mouth and Marshall's fingers wrapped around the back of Cash’s neck.
It's Marshall's dick in his mouth and Cash pulls away only long enough to lick his palm, to get it wet enough for his own dick.
He sucks Marshall back in, palms his own dick and it's only a matter of seconds, a matter of Marshall's hands on his skin and Marshall's voice in his ears, before Cash is coming again.
"Did you…" Marshall starts, his words lost because he's coming, coming undone, and Cash tries to catch all of it. Tries to catch the look on Marshall's face and the way his fingernails go slightly blunt on Cash's skin. Cash tries to swallow too, doesn't quite catch all of that.
And when he's done, when Cash can lean back just enough so that Marshall's dick falls out of his mouth, his lower lip is still wet. Cash touches the spot with his tongue, tastes Marshall, can't believe he's still fucking hard.
Cash groans, manages to do up his jeans and crawl back a little, get away from Marshall enough that he might be able to think. But the only thing going through his head is a chorus of fucks, a heavy spike of lust, want, need, every time Marshall shifts or makes a sound.
"Hey. Cash."
Cash doesn't reply, sucks his lower lip into his mouth and groans at the taste of Marshall still lingering on his lip. He hears Marshall zipping up his pants, hears the rustling of clothes, and can't deny the way he wants to pull them right back off, unsettle and mess them up. He can't deny the way he still wants Marshall, especially not with how his dick is still hard, with how he's finding it difficult to stay there, on the floor, and not crawl back over to Marshall.
Before Marshall can say anything else, before Marshall can touch him, Cash gets up and just. Runs.
Of course, there's not a whole lot of places he can go, not many options. It's Vegas, but he can't go too far, can't go wandering around in the middle of the show without letting anyone know. He settles on the van.
Cash is curled up in the back row when Marshall knocks on the door, yells, "Fucker, let me in!" and doesn't actually stop knocking until Cash crawls over the seat to open the door. Even though Cash hasn't jerked off, is still painfully hard, he doesn't blush or scowl or do anything when Marshall looks at him and says, "Jesus Christ, Cash, seriously?"
He doesn't scowl or blush, but he does turn around and crawl back to his spot.
"I can't," Cash says when it's clear Marshall isn't going anywhere. He curls in on himself and says, "I can't get it to stop."
"Huh," is all Marshall says.
"Oh, fuck you," Cash says and Marshall pushes at him, prods Cash until he's sitting up.
"Help me out a little bit, would you?" Marshall says and Cash obeys, sits still long enough that it's only a little bit of a surprise when Marshall slides into his lap.
Cash groans, can't fucking help it when Marshall's pressing down against him, when Marshall's fingers scritch over his head, blunt fingernails against his short hair. A shiver goes through him, his skin ultra-sensitive, and Marshall is right there, isn't going anywhere.
He kisses Cash lightly, sort of hesitant, and Cash's back arches, his mouth straining for Marshall's. And he must look desperate enough, stretched to the brink, because Marshall laughs, just a short burst of sound that only makes Cash want him more. Makes him want Marshall's mouth and Marshall's hands and. Marshall's dick, pressing into his.
Which, huh. He kind of has.
Marshall is sort of amazing, Cash thinks vaguely, sort of completely amazing and Cash, well it doesn't take long for him to come again, not with Marshall pressed up close, Marshall's mouth on his. Even though it's awkward, not enough room to move, Cash comes unbelievably fast, just pushes himself into Marshall and comes.
Cash is still hard when he falls asleep, Marshall tucked up next to him, and they should probably be inside, talking to fans and taking pictures. Instead, Cash is hard, his dick pressed against Marshall's back, and he still needs to come again when he finally drops off.
*
Cash wakes up and they're halfway to Tucson, Marshall sitting up front next to Johnson while Ian and Singer argue about something on the bench in front of him. He's got to pee, bladder full, and it takes him a second, one whole second, to realize he isn't hard.
He still feels a little off; he feels like he’s got a decent hangover, his head fuzzy and his mouth dry.
“When’s the next stop?” Cash asks, his voice rough, and it doesn’t even carry to the very front. Marshall doesn’t turn around until Ian says, “Ten minutes, maybe.” It’s a question, aimed at Johnson who doesn’t even turn around.
But Marshall looks back at him and he just smiles, says, “About time, asshole.”
Cash/Marshall
NC-17
Notes: I should probably warn for not realness. And, uh, sex pollen. Thanks to both warmingweather for the handholding and belladonnalin for the amazing beta.
There's a girl smoking just outside the venue, dark hair and she's pretty, short and just enough curve for Cash, just right. She gives him a cigarette when he asks, even lights it for him, and listens when he talks, tells her about the last city and how he loves Vegas, the lights and all the fake shine.
He trails off and after a minute, after his cigarette is gone and he can't actually think of a reason to stay, Cash says, "Thanks," and she nods, almost smiles.
Johnson is looking for him when he gets inside and Singer is a touch frantic because it's Vegas and this is more than just a show, it's home and they're not the very first band this time. Cash forgets all about the girl, forgets about her pierced lip and dark eyes. He forgets about cigarettes and long hair. Cash focuses on playing, his fingers moving over the strings, finding the right beats.
*
He's still playing the last song in his head when they get off, going over the notes he fucked up and trying to count them out in his head.
There were a lot of them too, notes that Cash has never missed before and ones he always has trouble with. It’s the ones so easy, so incredibly simple that someone who’d never played before could hit, those are the ones that drive him crazy.
Cash is trying not to focus on the way he feels just slightly off, not quite right. Between the plague that he’s just finally getting over and the accident, Cash doesn't have any patience for not feeling perfectly fine. So he ignores the way he sort of feels like throwing up, the way he's got a headache forming just behind his eyes and still…Cash tries really hard to ignore the fact that he's hard.
They all make mistakes. There was that one time when Singer actually forgot the words, completely blanked. Or when Marshall skipped the bridge of one song, the look on his face completely priceless. They all fuck up and it's not a big deal, but then Cash doesn't stop going through the notes until he runs into Marshall, startles at the shock of Marshall's shoulder pressing against his.
"Huh?" Cash says and blinks. Marshall just shrugs and smiles, all bright eyes and stupid grin. He doesn't shove Cash back like he normally might, doesn't do anything but roll his eyes, cross his arms over his chest. Marshall looks pleased, the lines of his body relaxed. After a second, after Ian yells, "Marshall, hey!" he slides past Cash.
Or he tries to.
"I. Hey, could you-" Cash says and he knows he isn't actually making sense. But, really, the way he wants to press up against Marshall , the way he wants to touch bare skin and revel in the soft, warm touch of Marshall, that doesn't make all that much sense either.
"You okay?" Marshall asks, his face maybe a little concerned, but then he only stops smiling when Cash's hand curls around his hip. He sort of huffs then, says, a soft warning, "Cash, come on."
But Cash can't actually make himself let go, can't even help the way he's suddenly crowding Marshall back toward the wall. He's crowding up close, right up into Marshall's space, and Cash can see the exact moment Marshall realizes he's hard, the way his eyes sort of widen and then close, just for a second.
"Cash," he grits out and it's that tone, the one Marshall uses when Cash is being a douche.
He doesn't look mad, not yet, but Cash knows it's coming. It's in his tone, the one that always ends up with Marshall, flushed and angry, breathing hard. The one that leads to him pushing at Cash, trying to bruise and hurt. Even as his fingers curl into the skin at Marshall's waist, as his mouth presses lightly against the skin at Marshall's jaw, Cash can tell Marshall is going to push him away.
"Marsh, Marshall," Cash mutters and he feels Marshall stiffen, feels the way his hands, now at his sides, flex.
Cash grinds once, his hips twitching and trying to find a rhythm, the perfect friction, and Marshall's mouth falls open, just a little. Cash has done this before, but he knows, he’s pretty sure, Marshall probably hasn’t.
"Please, just." Cash's hips find a rhythm and Marshall hasn't left yet, he hasn’t pushed Cash away. His eyes are fluttering shut and his mouth is going slack. Cash wants to kiss him, bite at his lips and feel that mouth, Marshall's mouth, hot and slick, against his own. Marshall’s mouth on his dick. Cash closes his eyes and he groans.
"Fuck," Marshall says and Cash thinks he probably wasn't supposed to hear, not with the way Marshall says it quiet, with the way he blushes after, going faintly red.
"Oh, hey. I'm going to, I'm gonna kiss you now," Cash says, doesn't wait for Marshall's response. He kisses Marshall hard, teeth jammed into Marshall's lips, and Marshall still isn't pushing him away. He isn't doing anything at all, his hands still at his sides, and Cash wants him moving, wants him making noises. Cash wants him hard, wants Marshall pressing back into him, moving with him.
"Cash," Marshall says. His voice is strained and Cash wants to kiss him again. He wants more and Marshall is close; Cash can tell he's close to breaking, his shoulders tense, his mouth red.
"Come on, come on," Cash mutters, his mouth so close to skin that he can practically taste Marshall.
"We're like," and Marshall sort of makes this gesture with his hands, one that Cash doesn't pay attention to at all because it ends with Marshall's hands on his arms and Marshall's mouth on his. Cash doesn't pay attention to anything beyond Marshall's tongue, slick against his, and Marshall's dick, hard at his hip.
And then. Then Marshall's hips are moving too, setting the pace a little faster, a little harder, and it's not like Cash can't keep up, not even that he doesn't want to. He knows the way Marshall works, melodies and bass lines, and it’s not even hard to shift that sort of knowledge. Cash has no problem reading the beats and pauses in Marshall’s movements. He licks into Marshall's mouth and meets every thrust, every single twitch of Marshall's hips. Cash smiles, grunts, when Marshall's thigh presses against his dick.
It's almost perfect, just enough pressure that Cash's orgasm is starting to burn through him, his hips meeting Marshall's and they are, they're pretty much out in the open. Right in the hallway and Cash doesn't actually care that anybody can see, that anybody can walk past.
He's got his hands on Marshall's hips, digging into the skin, and Cash kisses Marshall, hard, one last time before he's coming.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Marshall says, his head tipped back against the wall. He's still hard, his hips moving a little restlessly, and his lips are swollen and red. He looks amazing and Cash is still sort of mid-afterglow, post-whatever, but also. He's still hard, not super-urgent hard, but he wants to get off, can't believe he wants to get off still.
Cash bites lightly at Marshall's exposed skin on the line of his neck, and says, "Hey, come on. Let's. Let's take care of that." And Marshall doesn't exactly scowl at him, but he totally glares.
He also goes with Cash, lets Cash herd him toward the bathroom and doesn't even make sure it's the one with the lock that actually works. Marshall doesn’t protest when Cash herds him into the bathroom, shuts the door behind them.
But then he's pushing at Cash's shoulder, trying to urge him to his knees, and even with his back against the wall, Marshall is insistent.
"Dude," Cash says and Marshall looks at him, eyes narrowed. Cash wants to push him against the wall, fuck into his mouth and see how Marshall's eyes narrow then. He feels like…Cash feels like he needs to come, againrightnow, and he wants an extreme lack of clothes, a bed. He wants more skin and Marshall's fingers, hands, on him.
"Cash," Marshall says and that's really all he has to say, his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulders hunched. Cash drops to his knees, one hand on his own thigh and the other just above Marshall's knee.
And Cash is so hard that it's starting to hurt and he needs to come again, but he just presses the heel of his hand against his dick, trying to ease some of the pressure. With his hand still on his own dick, Cash tugs at Marshall's jeans, gets them undone, and then he's mouthing at Marshall's dick through the fabric of his boxers.
"Fuck, come on," Marshall says and he sounds impatient, like he's going to come now, like he wants Cash's mouth on him.
Cash has done this before too, has gone down on a dude, but this, this is Marshall, not just some dude. This is Marshall thrusting shallowly into his mouth and Marshall's fingers wrapped around the back of Cash’s neck.
It's Marshall's dick in his mouth and Cash pulls away only long enough to lick his palm, to get it wet enough for his own dick.
He sucks Marshall back in, palms his own dick and it's only a matter of seconds, a matter of Marshall's hands on his skin and Marshall's voice in his ears, before Cash is coming again.
"Did you…" Marshall starts, his words lost because he's coming, coming undone, and Cash tries to catch all of it. Tries to catch the look on Marshall's face and the way his fingernails go slightly blunt on Cash's skin. Cash tries to swallow too, doesn't quite catch all of that.
And when he's done, when Cash can lean back just enough so that Marshall's dick falls out of his mouth, his lower lip is still wet. Cash touches the spot with his tongue, tastes Marshall, can't believe he's still fucking hard.
Cash groans, manages to do up his jeans and crawl back a little, get away from Marshall enough that he might be able to think. But the only thing going through his head is a chorus of fucks, a heavy spike of lust, want, need, every time Marshall shifts or makes a sound.
"Hey. Cash."
Cash doesn't reply, sucks his lower lip into his mouth and groans at the taste of Marshall still lingering on his lip. He hears Marshall zipping up his pants, hears the rustling of clothes, and can't deny the way he wants to pull them right back off, unsettle and mess them up. He can't deny the way he still wants Marshall, especially not with how his dick is still hard, with how he's finding it difficult to stay there, on the floor, and not crawl back over to Marshall.
Before Marshall can say anything else, before Marshall can touch him, Cash gets up and just. Runs.
Of course, there's not a whole lot of places he can go, not many options. It's Vegas, but he can't go too far, can't go wandering around in the middle of the show without letting anyone know. He settles on the van.
Cash is curled up in the back row when Marshall knocks on the door, yells, "Fucker, let me in!" and doesn't actually stop knocking until Cash crawls over the seat to open the door. Even though Cash hasn't jerked off, is still painfully hard, he doesn't blush or scowl or do anything when Marshall looks at him and says, "Jesus Christ, Cash, seriously?"
He doesn't scowl or blush, but he does turn around and crawl back to his spot.
"I can't," Cash says when it's clear Marshall isn't going anywhere. He curls in on himself and says, "I can't get it to stop."
"Huh," is all Marshall says.
"Oh, fuck you," Cash says and Marshall pushes at him, prods Cash until he's sitting up.
"Help me out a little bit, would you?" Marshall says and Cash obeys, sits still long enough that it's only a little bit of a surprise when Marshall slides into his lap.
Cash groans, can't fucking help it when Marshall's pressing down against him, when Marshall's fingers scritch over his head, blunt fingernails against his short hair. A shiver goes through him, his skin ultra-sensitive, and Marshall is right there, isn't going anywhere.
He kisses Cash lightly, sort of hesitant, and Cash's back arches, his mouth straining for Marshall's. And he must look desperate enough, stretched to the brink, because Marshall laughs, just a short burst of sound that only makes Cash want him more. Makes him want Marshall's mouth and Marshall's hands and. Marshall's dick, pressing into his.
Which, huh. He kind of has.
Marshall is sort of amazing, Cash thinks vaguely, sort of completely amazing and Cash, well it doesn't take long for him to come again, not with Marshall pressed up close, Marshall's mouth on his. Even though it's awkward, not enough room to move, Cash comes unbelievably fast, just pushes himself into Marshall and comes.
Cash is still hard when he falls asleep, Marshall tucked up next to him, and they should probably be inside, talking to fans and taking pictures. Instead, Cash is hard, his dick pressed against Marshall's back, and he still needs to come again when he finally drops off.
*
Cash wakes up and they're halfway to Tucson, Marshall sitting up front next to Johnson while Ian and Singer argue about something on the bench in front of him. He's got to pee, bladder full, and it takes him a second, one whole second, to realize he isn't hard.
He still feels a little off; he feels like he’s got a decent hangover, his head fuzzy and his mouth dry.
“When’s the next stop?” Cash asks, his voice rough, and it doesn’t even carry to the very front. Marshall doesn’t turn around until Ian says, “Ten minutes, maybe.” It’s a question, aimed at Johnson who doesn’t even turn around.
But Marshall looks back at him and he just smiles, says, “About time, asshole.”