We sure are in for a show tonight

We'll shoot the generals on our own side

Wed, 30 Apr 2008 08:38:15 GMT

Title: We'll shoot the generals on our own side
Author: Telis (theaerosolkid)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Brendon/Audrey
Summary: The universe tends towards disorder.
Word Count: 995
Disclaimer: Fake, fake, fake.
A/N: Thanks to withoutmaps for the beta.

always.

Brendon falls in love with Audrey because she is who she is, but she isn't who she is, either.

She's a paradox wrapped up in a mystery, and Brendon never really liked puzzles, but he's willing to make an exception.

i've come to take you home.

The first time he kissed her she tasted like thick lipstick and fiery rum; it was Halloween.

"Ready for some ultraviolence?" Her eyes were gleaming when she asked him.

"A little of the in-out, in-out," was all he could think to say.

She hadn't said anything, just laughed, and after the awkward silence that followed, "Twigg Violence. Not ultra. Twigg."

"Huh?"

"Twigg Violence, that's me," she said, pointing her thumbs at herself, letting her mostly-empty cup clatter to the floor, ice cubes tumbling like dice.

It's an art form, getting your hair to fall in your eyes just so. Brendon knows this, has watched Ryan learn it, and is still captivated. He supposes that's what makes it an art worth mastering.

once upon a time.

There was this one little heart she always drew, curling and spiking in on itself. She'd draw it over and over and over again, on her knees during the winter. Brendon wondered whether she'd still draw it in the summer. He couldn't find any pictures of hearts on her knees.

"You should get it inked," he told her once, fingertips tracing the gold Sharpie lines.

"I don't want any tattoos," she said.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because that way they can't identify my body when I'm killed in a gang war," she said matter-of-factly.

"Why are gangs going to kill you?" Genuine curiosity.

"There's always a reason," she said airily.

a map and not a timeline.

When Jac breaks up with Ryan (cheater cheater pussy eater, Audrey calls him, that's what she calls Ryan when Jac figures it out, and Brendon is left somewhat speechless in the wake of her, though that's nothing new), Brendon sits with him while Ryan practices drawing gnarled trees over his face.

"You should probably break up with Audrey pretty soon," Ryan says, and Brendon can't choke back his laugh.

"What?"

"Well," Ryan says, "it's going to be awkward. So. You should probably break up with her. Before she can break up with you."

"I'm not breaking up with my girlfriend because you can't keep your dick in your pants," Brendon says angrily.

Ryan tilts his head in a way. It looks like he's arching his brow, but he isn't. He's just. Looking at Brendon in a certain way, and that's what makes Brendon the odd man out in this mess -- he can't summon a whole monologue from a flicker of his eyelashes.

"You're not in love with her," Ryan says.

"Like you'd know," Brendon says. "Talk to me when you're sane again."

here be dragons (and other monstrous beasts).

"I don't want any tattoos, ever," Audrey says quietly one night while he's wrapped up behind her.

"I know," Brendon says.

"I don't want to have to be one thing forever," Audrey says. She's barely even speaking at this point. Her words are more breath than force, and Brendon wonders if that makes them more or less real. "I want to always be able to stand up and leave myself behind."

"How come?" Brendon asks.

Audrey twists in his arms, touches the soft curve of his mouth. "Call it an escape clause."

"But why?" he presses.

Her eyes dip closed, and she breathes in deeply. "I don't know," she says, and Brendon believes her.

The next night he sleeps in the lounge alongside Ryan, instead; waiting for her to follow.

except for me to be with you.

"I want to be the one to glue you back up," Brendon slurs one night when they're both sloppy and sleepy.

"Nothing to fix," Audrey insists.

"You're broke," Brendon says.

"No, I have that shoot next week, they'll pay me," Audrey says, and Brendon knows she's doing it on purpose. Being that way.

"Not what I meant," Brendon says, and Audrey rolls her shoulders, forces her breathing to level out. She's asleep because she says she is.

entropic flux.

In the end, they fall apart because Things Fall Apart. It happens; it is a constant of the universe.

"The universe tends towards chaos," she'd tell him when she mixed drinks. She never stirred, just waited for the combination to happen on its own.

"Physics gets me hot, you know that," he'd say, and she'd let him leave it at that.

"One day I'll fly away," she'd sing, in the middle of the night, quietly.

He'd interrupt, "Why not today?" and wait for her to answer; she never did, because Audrey was and remains the master of selective conversations. You could talk to her about mascara and in her mind it'd be a discussion of mob mentality.

the reverse of alchemy.

He said, "I can't handle you like this."

She heard, "I'm better than you."

She said, "I can try if you can try."

He heard, "There's nothing wrong with me."

Eyewitness accounts are variable in their reliability.

you were the last good thing i ever saw.

"I said you weren't in love with her," Ryan says when they crumble.

"What's love got to do with it, baby?" Brendon asks and lets Ryan tuck him into bed.

eighty years, with luck, or even less.

In the very distant future:

"I wrote a song for you."

"I know." Her hair will be plain and almost-natural, a bit too much red in her auburn, a bit too sharp in its style. Her piercings will be removed but the scars are still visible in certain light.

"Ryan thinks it's about him," Brendon will say.

"Ryan didn't really change, then," Audrey will say. "It's a good lullaby, what you wrote. I like it."

"I'm glad," Brendon will say.

"Nobody knows me here," Audrey will say, flick at the band on her left ring finger.

"You got what you wanted, then," Brendon will say.

"You still found me," and it's not an accusation. He can hear that now.

"Always do."

Distraction

Thu, 10 Apr 2008 09:24:11 GMT

Title: Distraction
Author: Telis (theaerosolkid)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Marshall/Cash
Summary: Cash Colligan is not having a good day. Warning: fisting.
Word Count: 2308
Disclaimer: Fake, fake, fake.
A/N: Thanks to notshybutsly for the beta and warmingweather for kickin' my ass into gear.

*

Cash Colligan is not having a good day.

Driving from San Diego to Sacramento was never going to be fun, to begin with; starting in the middle of the fucking night after a show is even less so.

Small tours are all he knows, anyway, but there's a difference between a tour with a bus and a tour with a van, because, as Cash has learned, even if you're not actually on the bus, you can sometimes steal a bunk for some real sleep. Failing that, the lounge. Failing that, there's the kitchenette. A refrigerator sounds like an unbearable luxury at the moment.

*

Cheer the fuck up, Marshall mouthed at him, his back to the crowd while they played "Take My Hand". Cash stuck his tongue out and shoved his way to the edge of the stage, pulling a ridiculous face for the flash-flash-flash of digital photography before sliding back and making another at Marshall.

Marshall sighed and spun his guitar around to his back, edging his way to the keyboard, keeping his eyes on Cash the whole time.

*

The show was. Cash doesn't want to think about the show. It was short, and they'd gone on before they were meant to (fucking Charlotte, just -- fucking Charlotte), which sucked because Cash had been looking forward to Orangevale. But now there's family all over the place, and fans with big wide hopeful grins and cameras, and he'd really prefer to not have to smile right now. So he gives up and just grimaces for the few shots. The shyer fans are leaving him alone tonight, which is a small blessing. Or, it is until Cash realizes that they're leaving him alone because it's blatantly obvious that he doesn't want to talk to anyone. At all. Possibly not ever again.

It takes Singer's family forever to leave. Seriously, forever. Jes is passed out in the front seat by the time they've gotten everything ready to go. Cash was annoyed by the eight hours to Northern California, and is even less excited to drive seventeen hours to Colorado Springs, but them's the breaks, he guesses. Whatever.

Marshall's still tapping away on his fucking computer when they start driving away, Danny and Singer sprawled in the back and Ian taking up all of the front bench, which means that, yeah, Cash is stuck with Marshall and nothing to lie against. Marshall and the stupid glow of his laptop, keys backlit. Cash isn't even sure why he's on the fucking computer at this point, they're driving so it's not like he has wireless access. He has to be typing emails ahead of time or something ridiculous like that.

"We're getting a hotel room tonight," Marshall says, slightly over-loud with his headphones still playing.

"No, we're not," Cash says automatically.

"Yes, we are. Singer's family booked rooms for us just outside Reno," Marshall says. "Four rooms. Jes gets her own. Danny and Johnson in one, Singer and Ian, and you and me."

"Oh," Cash says.

"We'll be there in, like, forty minutes. So."

"Okay," Cash says dumbly.

*

Still, stopping means that they'll have to drive more in the morning and Cash really hates driving during the day. He didn't always, but being on tour has spoiled him for driving during the day. Day-driving means sun, means more traffic, means cops are harder to spot, means more activity in the van. Even when everyone's awake, it's still better, driving at night. Easier.

If anybody had bothered to ask Cash he would have said that he just wanted to fucking get the drive over with. But nobody did bother to ask him, of course, so he's stuck with what they've decided.

Part of him recognizes that it was actually really nice of Singer's family to do, to get rooms for them, and if he were in a good mood, yeah, he might appreciate the gesture, but right now he just wants to be left entirely alone to wallow a little bit. Whatever.

*

Normally Cash would go straight for the shower (oh, man, a nice hot shower sounds really awesome right now) but Marshall beats him to the bathroom, of fucking course, so he bounces on both the beds and picks the softer one.

Marshall comes out of the bathroom quickly, stripped down to just boxer briefs. Cash makes to get up, but Marshall blocks him, holding his gaze steadily.

Oh. He wants that tonight.

Too fucking bad, Cash thinks, because 'not in the mood' has never really been more applicable.

"I'm taking a shower," Cash says, dodging around. Marshall doesn't let him get by.

"You might want to wait," he says lightly.

"For?" Cash snarks.

"Just -- come on, I have a plan," Marshall says.

"No," Cash says. "I'm tired."

Marshall makes a frustrated little noise. "Seriously. Trust me."

"Tell me what you're gonna do," Cash demands.

"Let's start with rimming and see where we go," Marshall says.

Cheater. Cash is a total and complete sucker for oral action of any sort. The first time Marshall had hauled his legs up and licked between his cheeks, the shock had almost eclipsed the pleasure of it, but -- well, not really. Cash is pretty sure that he wouldn't have consented to the actual assfucking if it hadn't been for the rimming, because, yeah.

"Fine," Cash says after a pause, and strips quickly, efficiently. Marshall kisses him, tries to make him go slowly, but Cash pulls away and lies face-down on the bed. He's on the other bed, the one he picked for Marshall, because even if Marshall's going to lick his asshole, Cash is still going to get the better bed. Marshall sighs and kneels between his spread legs, spreading his cheeks before dropping his head and getting right to it, licking a long firm line from behind Cash's balls. Cash doesn't give Marshall the satisfaction of squirming.

Marshall keeps licking, deliberate passes of his tongue pressing right up at Cash's hole, and it's in no way enough, not at all. Cash grunts, and Marshall points his tongue, dipping inside just a little, more when Cash pushes back into it. He pushes his mouth right between Cash's cheeks, breath coming slow and hot in between licking, not enough pressure, not fast enough, not at all.

Cash bites his lip but can't stifle another grunt, and Marshall starts tongue-fucking him with dirty little slurping noises, thumbs rubbing slow and soothing at the small of Cash's back. Cash doesn't want to be comforted. He wants to come, and then he wants to take a shower and make Marshall sleep in the dirty bed.

"Want to try something," Marshall says, and Cash stops rubbing his hips against the bed.

"What?" he asks.

"Fisting," Marshall says, and Cash can hear the smile in his voice, but he can hear the seriousness.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Cash asks. "You're not putting your hand in my ass. Not fucking happening."

"Well, not the whole thing right away," Marshall says dryly.

"Not the whole thing at all," Cash says emphatically.

"I'll go slow. Tell me if you want to stop, and I will, and I'll just jerk you off or whatever," Marshall says. "You don't have to."

"No shit I don't have to," Cash tells him, but he stops and considers.

Marshall waits, patiently.

"Fine," Cash says. "Fine. But you'd better have a fucking ton of lube."

"We're covered," Marshall assures him.

Cash sucks in a deep breath and pulls himself up, turning to glance at Marshall. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"In theory," Marshall says with a shrug. "If you don't like it, we'll stop."

"Yeah," Cash says.

"You should lie on your back, get a pillow under your hips, and hold your legs up," Marshall instructs. Cash does all this while Marshall gets up to bring a bottle of lube from his bag. He takes a deep breath.

Marshall squeezes lube onto his fingers, rubbing slightly to warm them before stroking the tip of one over Cash's asshole, already slick from spit. He pushes in slowly, sinks the second one easily. Cash had tensed up a bit, but he's calmer now. Marshall's watching his fingers work in and out of Cash's body intently.

He takes a deep breath, tries to relax.

"You look good like this," Marshall says softly. He withdraws his fingers with a quiet squelch, and gets more lube on them before working three in. It's a stretch, now, but not more than Cash can take. He hasn't actually been fucked since before this tour started, when they were taking time off, back in Vegas.

"You sound like a cheap porn actor," Cash says.

"You'd know," Marshall says, and keeps the same maddeningly slow pace. He keeps going until it feels like nothing at all, the slide of three fingers. Cash sucks in a deep breath, flexes the fingers gripping his thighs.

"You can. Another," Cash says, and that's a little. Weird. Because four fingers is more than he's ever taken, more than he's ever wanted.

Marshall withdraws his hand and takes longer this time to lube up his fingers, getting them messy and slick. Cash bites his lip, takes another deep breath as Marshall gets his fingers back inside, one at a time. There's a brief pause before the fourth worms its way in, and Cash sighs, trying to stay relaxed.

"Okay?"

"S'a lot," Cash admits. "Fuck." He doesn't want Marshall to stop, though. The stretch burns, but it's good to focus on. It's nothing he can't handle, anyway, and how are they going to make this work if he can't take four fingers? In any case, he can. Marshall's fingers are pretty slender, anyway. His hands are, too. It's not a big deal.

Marshall drizzles lube onto the ridge of his knuckles, rotating his wrist to get the underside of his palm, and Cash steels himself as Marshall hesitates slightly before he pushes forward, pressing the ridge of his knuckles, slightly folded, past the tight ring of muscle.

It hurts, more than a little, more than the slight stinging background annoyance of four fingers (four whole fingers), but it's not unmanageable. Cash blows out a breath he hadn't known he was holding in.

"Good?" Marshall asks.

"Yeah," Cash admits. "Fuck. Yeah, actually. Yeah. Just -- move, or. Yeah."

Cash can't really make sense out of what he was saying, but Marshall seems to manage just fine, turning his hand inside Cash's body, spreading his fingers slightly. Slowly the burn fades, or doesn't; but it changes to something that feels good in and of itself as opposed to feeling good despite the pain.

Marshall pulls his whole hand away, and it feels like a loss, like a drop in his belly, but Cash waits patiently while Marshall gets more lube over his whole hand, and okay, his whole and entire hand, what the fuck.

"You sure?" Marshall asks, and Cash can only nod, focused on the glistening skin of Marshall's hand.

One finger, two fingers, three, four, pushing all the way past the knuckles, withdrawing slightly -- and there's his thumb, edging inside, just a little.

"Fuck," Cash gasps, and Marshall pushes forward, with his hand, and then, with a quick rush, he's inside, completely, sheathed in Cash's body.

"Jesus," Marshall says, and Cash kind of agrees. It's -- he's so fucking full, entirely, stretched around Marshall's hand, fingers pulled into a fist inside, knuckles wide and hard.

Cash tries to open his mouth to tell Marshall to jerk him off already, but he can't, he has to concentrate on keeping his legs spread and up, so that Marshall can keep rolling his wrist like that, can keep nudging his fist up and back down again, and fuck. How -- how is this even possible?

Marshall rubs the thumb of his free hand over the head of Cash's dick, smearing pre-come, and Cash is not going to last long at all, not a fucking hope. Marshall starts stroking his cock, his hand stilling inside Cash's ass, but the fullness is just enough that when Marshall's palm scrapes over the head, he arches, barely managing to hold onto his legs, and comes all over Marshall's hand and his stomach.

He's panting, lying there sweaty and dazed, and Marshall works his hand out with a sound that Cash can kind of register as filthy and disgusting.

"Still want that shower?" Marshall asks.

"Fuck you," Cash mumbles. He's exhausted, now, in the way that he usually is after shows, the way he hadn't realized he was before -- before Marshall decided it was a good idea to put his whole fucking hand in Cash's ass, what the actual fuck.

"I'll be right back," Marshall says, and Cash gropes for his shirt on the floor, uses it to wipe the worst of the mess from his ass and stomach.

"Stop jerking off and bring me my sweats," he calls out, surprised at the hoarseness in his voice.

Marshall doesn't answer. Asshole.

Cash is halfway to sleep by the time Marshall gets out, flushed and clearly sated. He finds Cash's sweatpants for him and tosses them onto the bed while he shrugs into gym shorts and a tanktop. Marshall offers him a hand and pulls him to his feet, guiding him to the other bed. They crawl under the covers, and Marshall tucks his nose into the crook of Cash's shoulder.

"Feel better?" he asks.

"Yeah," Cash says drowsily.

*

Ready to fall

Sat, 08 Mar 2008 21:30:52 GMT

Title: Ready to fall
Author: Telis (theaerosolkid)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jon/Brendon
Summary:Truckstops and Statelines: “No,” Jon said, when they asked him the first time.
Word Count: 2393
Disclaimer: Fake, fake, fake.
A/N: For notshybutsly. Thanks to disarm_d for the beta and to warmingweather for being my sounding board. ♥

*

“No,” Jon said, when they asked him the first time.

*

“I don’t know why he’d say no,” Brendon said, staring at his feet.

Ryan waved his hand impatiently. “That doesn’t matter. We have a headlining tour coming up. We need to figure out what the fuck we’re doing.”

“Anyone else come to mind?” Spencer asked. “I guess. Brendon could play bass. And instead of a cello player, we could get a sessions guy to do guitar. Or something.”

“No, that’s not going to work, we need the fucking cello,” Ryan said.

The stress level in this room is way too ridiculous, Brendon thought, and didn’t say anything for the rest of the band meeting.

*

“Hi,” Brendon said, sitting down next to Jon.

Jon had a tendency to drift away from a party in progress. He’d grow bored with the proceedings after a few hours, after he’d gotten a decent buzz going, and he’d wander somewhere not too far away. Just removed enough that he wasn’t part of the action, really, but that he could still observe. Jon liked watching. He didn’t usually take pictures when other people were drunker than he was, for which Brendon was fervently grateful.

“Hey,” Jon said easily, still daydreaming, still watching.

“The tour was over, we survived,” Brendon sing-songed, almost under his breath, and felt stupid, sitting on dew-damp grass and singing blink-182.

Jon chuckled but didn’t say anything.

I am such a fucking spaz, Brendon thought, flopping to his back and watching the stars spin. He rolled his head to the side and focused on the red plastic cup held loosely in Jon’s hand, resting against the ground.

“Is there a reason you don’t want to come on tour with us?” Brendon asked the red plastic cup.

“Yep,” Jon said. He didn’t say anything else.

“Okay,” Brendon said, and lurched to his feet. He managed to take a few steps before the ground did a nifty twirling maneuver and tripped him up. “Ow.”

“You okay?” Jon asked.

“Sure am,” Brendon said brightly, voice muffled by his forearm.

“You gonna puke?”

“Don’t think so,” Brendon said. He considered for a minute. “Maybe. I dunno. I have my iPod with me. Do you have headphones?”

Jon leaned back, shimmied a hand into his front pocket and withdrew a pair of black earphones. He tucked one into his ear, handed the other to Brendon, who fumbled for it before managing to get it set loosely in his ear. He wriggled, worming a hand into his pocket, and finally got them plugged in.

“You pick,” Brendon said, nudging the iPod in Jon’s direction.

“I think this is Ryan’s,” Jon said, spinning his fingers round the dial.

“Might be,” Brendon said unconcernedly.

Jon laughed softly. He picked the Nightmare soundtrack.

“’Twas a long, long time ago,” Brendon recited along with the music. Jon lay down next to him, close, so the wire between them was slack.

“You’ll be okay without me,” he said, midway through Jack’s Lament. Brendon stopped humming along.

“Be better with you, though,” he said. “Is it William? Are you afraid he’ll think we’re stealing you or something?”

“Nah,” Jon said.

“College? Are you worried that you won’t go back?” Brendon pressed on.

“I know that I won’t,” Jon said calmly.

“Are you gonna tell me, ever?” Brendon asked plaintively. He might have whined a little. Maybe.

“Nope,” Jon said. He didn’t sound smug. He didn’t sound like anything.

“I want to know,” Brendon said.

“It’s good to want things,” Jon said.

*

Brendon didn’t remember walking back to the bus, but he must have, because he woke up in the back lounge, curled in a tight ball. There was a newly-familiar throbbing at his temples, and his mouth tasted disgusting. He stumbled to his feet and wandered to the kitchenette.

“You killed my iPod’s battery,” Ryan said right away, scowling at him.

“Cry me a river,” Brendon said, reaching for a mug and the coffeepot.

“We need to have another meeting today,” Ryan said. “About who’s going to take over for bass.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brendon said. He wrapped his hands around his mug, breathed in the thick scent of fresh coffee. It was better than drinking the stuff, sometimes.

“How’s your voice, you think?” Ryan asked carefully. It was his way of asking, Did you puke last night?

“No problem, bossman,” Brendon said, closing his eyes.

“Great,” Ryan said. “Think of replacement bassists while you’re not listening to my iPod this afternoon.”

I know just as many people as you do, Brendon thought. And then, unkindly: You’re probably the reason, you uptight asshole.

*

“Fancy meeting you here,” Brendon slurred out, dropping to his knees beside Jon on the grass outside another nondescript house party. They all blended together after a while.

“Say hello to Mr. Ground,” Jon said, putting gentle pressure on the back of Brendon’s neck. He tipped forwards, face-down.

“That was mean,” Brendon said.

“Sorry,” Jon said, unrepentantly. Brendon could hear the grin in his voice.

“Ehh, no sweat.”

“Thanks,” Jon said. He nudged Brendon over to his side, lay down next to him. “You cold?”

“Kinda,” Brendon admitted.

“Here,” Jon said, shucking off his hoodie and laying it over Brendon.

“Thanks,” Brendon mumbled. “Think I drank too much.”

“S’okay,” Jon said. “I forgive you.”

“Not worried about you,” Brendon said darkly.

Jon snorted.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving us,” Brendon said, eyes trying to flutter closed.

“Technically, you guys are leaving us,” Jon said with a smile.

“You know what I mean. You’ve been playing with us. Now we’ve gotta figure something else out.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon said. He sounded it.

“I hope you do have a good reason,” Brendon breathed. He closed his eyes, trying to stop feeling like he was on a rickety Tilt-a-Whirl. Closing his eyes only made it worse. Funny that he spent his time chasing this feeling, and once he had it, all he wanted to do was sober up.

“I have a really good reason,” Jon said quietly.

“Okay,” Brendon said.

*

Brendon started awake. The sky looked lighter. He still felt drunk. He glanced to his side, saw Jon stretched out on his back.

“Hey there,” he said. He sounded like he was speaking more clearly. Jon looked over at him and smiled.

“It speaks!”

“It lives,” Brendon said cheerfully. “I am not hungover yet, most likely because I think I’m still drunk.”

“An accomplishment,” Jon conceded.

“You could tell me why right now,” Brendon said. Jon didn’t bother to play coy, which Brendon sort of appreciated. Being witty was rough when your brain was sloshing around in your skull.

“You’re not going to let that go, are you?” Jon asked.

“I have your phone number. I know where you live,” Brendon said, wiggling his fingers at Jon. “More importantly, I am the youngest in a family of five, and I have ways of making you talk.”

“So far you’ve been spectacularly unsuccessful,” Jon pointed out.

“So far I have only tried while I’ve been embarrassingly drunk,” Brendon said. “Seriously, do not escalate this war with me. You’ll lose. It’ll be humiliating, I promise.”

“I think I’m prepared to deal with that,” Jon said, rubbing his jaw.

“You aren’t,” Brendon said. “I’m very sure you aren’t.”

“It’s a good reason,” Jon said, mostly to himself.

“I’m sure it is,” Brendon coaxed. He sat up, crawled closer to Jon. There wasn’t much noise coming from the house, now that he took a moment to listen. It must be pretty late, Brendon thought, or is it pretty early? Jon was looking up at Brendon with something unreadable in his eyes. Brendon bit his lip. Jon’s eyes followed the action, and Brendon felt a heady rush of -- something. Power, maybe; possibly something more like influence. It was a strange feeling, the thought that something as silly as biting his lip could make someone pay attention to him. Pay a specific kind of attention to him.

“Is Ryan the reason?” he asked quietly. Jon shook his head. Brendon leaned in closer. “Spencer, is he?” Jon shook his head again, the gesture more minute this time. Brendon licked his lip, not trying to be -- not trying to whatever -- but just to get some moisture on his chapped lips. He tilted his chin up, trying to angle his awful breath away from Jon’s face. Jon’s gaze shifted from his mouth to his throat, to where Brendon felt certain that the hammering of his pulse was visible.

A look of intense concentration came over Jon’s face, and he leaned upwards, as though he couldn’t help it. Brendon stayed still. Jon closed his eyes and dropped his head back to the ground. Brendon inched closer, brow knit with confusion. Brendon took a deep breath, and when he did, Jon’s eyes opened again. He was looking up at Brendon’s mouth again. Brendon tucked his chin down and bent his head, pressed his mouth softly to Jon’s.

Jon made a noise below him, something in between a moan and a grunt; harsh, guttural, and his hands came up to cup Brendon’s hips, tug him atop his body. Brendon squeaked but went with it, sprawled over Jon, all awkward limbs and fumbling hands. He settled when Jon bit his bottom lip, though, when Jon’s hands tightened around his hips, just enough pressure to calm him.

Brendon couldn’t taste much, his mouth felt stale from too much beer and that poorly-timed nap, but Jon seemed content enough, licking up into his mouth. Brendon moaned quietly into Jon’s mouth, and, working on instinct, rolled to his back, pulling Jon over him. Jon went willingly enough, and pressed his weight down easily, enough weight so that Brendon felt comfortably smothered. It was a feeling he savoured. He broke from Jon’s mouth, and the world started spinning again. It was more pleasant this time. Jon’s breath was coming cold and measured, slow; right against his.

“Your breath is cold,” Brendon said inanely.

“The iceman cometh,” Jon intoned. Brendon chuckled and kept his eyes closed, but tilted his head, baring the smooth column of his throat. Jon’s breath hitched, then, just a little, and he kissed Brendon’s throat carefully. Brendon hummed, arched up into it. He still felt loose and pliant, his favourite thing about drinking, the way he could slither. He knew it probably looked a lot less graceful than it felt, but Brendon never really felt graceful, so. It was hard to think with Jon’s tongue slowly lapping at his skin. Jon felt so cold up against him, how had he never noticed that before?

“You’re so cold,” Brendon said. It was hard to talk, too, when Jon started sucking, a little harder.

“You’re warming me up,” Jon told him, and, yes, his mouth was feeling warmer against Brendon’s skin.

“Oh, good,” Brendon sighed. The world keeps spinning, he thought, and then realized, oh, well, I’d rather it spin than not, really.

*

When he woke up again, he still didn’t have a hangover. He figured he’d probably have a hickey, though. It seemed like a more than fair trade. Brendon sat up, and smacked his head on the top of his bunk.

“Ow,” he told the empty space. Its silence was not reassuring. He rolled out of his bunk, landing on Spencer.

“Ow,” Spencer said with feeling.

“Sorry!” Brendon yipped. “Didn’t know you were there!”

“Look, next time,” Spencer suggested dryly.

“D’you know where Jon is?” Brendon asked. Spencer shrugged. Brendon decided that this was probably a good thing. His breath was terrible. He should shower.

*

“You have officially been avoiding me,” Brendon called out to Jon as he made his way across the lawn. The ground was refusing to stay put, but Brendon was managing to remain upright. He considered it an omen, indicating further victories in the near future.

Jon didn’t protest the accusation.

“Did I puke on you or something last night?” Brendon asked. “I’m really sorry if I did.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Jon murmured. He didn’t look up from his hands. Brendon fumbled his way into a sitting position next to Jon.

“If you’re not going to look at me, you could at least tell me why you won’t go on tour with us,” Brendon said. Jon sighed. “If you want.”

“Do you remember last night?” Jon asked.

“Sloppy makeouts, yep,” Brendon said. “I think I might’ve passed out on you? I don’t know. Yeah, I think I passed out on you. Did you drag me back to the bus? Thanks, by the way. Also, I didn’t have a hangover when I woke up. Your kisses are magic.”

“Something like that,” Jon said.

“I’m not going to be weird and clingy,” Brendon said suddenly.

“Okay.”

“I mean, if you don’t want me to be,” he said, rushing the words. Jon sighed again.

“I don’t know what I want,” Jon said moodily. He took a sip from the cup in his hand.

“I wonder when red plastic cups became the official party cups,” Brendon said, apropos of absolutely nothing. Jon looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Well, I do,” Brendon insisted.

“You’re going to hate me so much,” Jon muttered. Brendon scooted closer. Jon finally looked at him, really looked at him, and he lifted a hand to press it to Brendon’s throat. Brendon shuddered, which probably wasn’t entirely due to the distinct lack of heat in Jon’s hands.

“Jon?”

“You don’t remember last night?” Jon asked, intent.

“I said I did,” Brendon said. “I remember making out with you, I told you.”

“No,” Jon said, sounding frustrated. “Not that.”

“What, then?” Brendon asked. Jon’s other hand let his cup go, let it spill over the grass and roll away. Lucky it tipped the other way, Brendon thought, you’re lucky it didn’t spill all over you, it’s a few days till laundry, yet.

Jon reached over and wrapped his fingers around Brendon’s wrist, drew it up to his mouth. He pressed a soft kiss to the skin, over the pattern of veins. Brendon frowned a bit, but he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t very drunk. Not really. Jon kept kissing his wrist, started sucking gently. Brendon closed his eyes, going pliant in Jon’s hands. The hand at his neck was starting to warm up, the heat from Brendon’s pulse transferring to Jon.

His eyes snapped open when he felt a sharp flare of pain at his wrist, and as soon as he tensed, Jon pulled away, leaving a pair of tiny, neat puncture marks, right there on Brendon’s wrist.

I am clearly very drunk, actually, Brendon thought, and he looked up at Jon to tell him so, and when he did, he saw a smear of blood at Jon’s mouth. His fingers came up, slowly as though through water.

“You...?” he trailed off. Jon’s lips parted, showing his teeth, his canines lengthened, sharpened. “I don’t -- what?”

“I told you I had a good reason,” Jon said thickly, and Brendon stayed very, very still.

Wishing

Thu, 21 Feb 2008 05:41:22 GMT

Title: Wishing
Author: Telis (theaerosolkid)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Cash/Brendon
Summary: There is such a thing as asking for too much.
Word Count: 4,469
Disclaimer: Fake, fake, fake.
A/N: Sex pollen fic. Blame disarm_d! (Also, thanks for the beta <3)

*

There is such a thing as asking for too much.

Cash sometimes tries not to be, but he's a superstitious kind of guy -- he tosses salt over his shoulder, he jumps over sidewalk cracks, he knocks on wood, he does all that stuff. He wishes on dumb things like eleven-eleven and significant street names, but he'll also wish on things like shooting stars, as lame and stupid as that sounds. Cash figures some people have Jesus, some people have Allah, some people have the Torah, some people have their own gods, and some people don't have anything at all, but he's got a list of things that are his own little talismans.

*

Getting the record deal to begin with, that was a lot. Like. A lot. When it started looking like it wasn't an impossibility, when Brendon slung his arm around Cash's shoulders and pulled him in close for a reassuring hug, Cash maybe started freaking out, very, very quietly.

They were outside, in Ryan's backyard, and it was spring and pretty warm already. Brendon was just as excited as the rest of them, Ryan maybe a little standoffish, Jon maybe a little big-brotherish, Spencer maybe a little bossy, but Brendon, he was right there with the rest of them, jumping for joy.

"Hey," Brendon said breathlessly after tackling him for the millionth time, "hey, you've got an eyelash, here, make a wish." He poked at Cash's face until he managed to get the stray eyelash to stick to his finger.

Cash hadn't wished on eyelashes since he was a little kid, but Brendon was earnest and he was offering and as far as Cash is concerned, you should never turn down a chance for a free wish, so he pressed his forefinger to Brendon's and let his eyes slip shut, and when Brendon said, "One, two, three, wish," the first thing that Cash thought, instead of record deal was you; horrified, he jerked his finger away.

He'd gotten the eyelash but his heart didn't stop pounding -- which wish, which wish, which wish?

*

Then, of course the record deal goes through and Cash figures that means that you really can correct yourself when you're making wishes.

He wonders if this means he doesn't get Brendon.

Probably, it does.

Part of the magic of wishing is that, unlike other safeguards like heads-up pennies, it will only work if you use it sparingly. If you wish for everything, Cash figured out when he was younger, then you get nothing at all. You have to be careful about what you wish for, not necessarily because you might get it, but because you might not get anything at all. You have to be selective.

*

Cash sometimes spends the night at Brendon's, because Brendon hates sleeping alone. Not in a weird way, Cash rushes to say when Ian starts snickering, but he just. Doesn't like being alone in a house or an apartment or whatever, and Shane's got a girlfriend with her own place, so he'll sometimes stay over with his girlfriend instead of in the condo he shares with Brendon.

These nights, Cash will come over early, usually before Shane leaves, and they'll all watch a movie, and Shane will leave halfway through or so, and Brendon and Cash will keep watching movies until it's late enough that Cash can justify staying over at Brendon's.

"Hey," Brendon says sleepily one night, when they're mostly done watching all four Die Hard movies, end-to-end. "I'm gonna just sleep in here, okay?"

"Uh-huh," Cash mumbles. He fumbles for the Xbox remote, manages to get it to shut off. The room goes darker, then, and Cash rolls to his side. He's sprawled out on the floor, but it's warm, it's summer in the desert, so it's not like he'll freeze or anything. He can hear Brendon's snuffling sleepy breaths from where he's curled on the couch.

With the room darker and the television on its countdown to turn itself off, Cash finds himself much more alert. "Fuck," he mumbles, because there's nothing worse than being the only person awake at someone else's house. There's nothing he feels like he can do. Except try to sleep.

Brendon mumbles something, then falls silent. Cash sighs a few times, then gives up and crawls to the oversized armchair on the other side of the room and burrows under the extra hoodie Brendon tossed onto the chair earlier. He doesn't mean to smell it or anything, that would be weird, but he kind of can't help it, and yeah, it smells like Brendon. He squeezes his eyes shut and shrugs into the hoodie after a moment of contemplation.

"Brendon," he whispers. He doesn't want to wake Brendon up, exactly, just sort of nudge him to the point of being coherent if he's not quite asleep yet. But there's no response, even though it's really not late at all. Cash glances at his watch, tilts it to catch the light from the window. It's barely even one am. "Pathetic, Urie," he whispers, and climbs to his feet.

The only thing Cash can think to do at this point is to wander outside, take a walk. He doesn't lock the door behind him, because God alone knows where Brendon's hidden his keys now, and anyway, it's a nice part of town. Kind of. Whatever. Brendon's lived in worse. Cash makes his way across the lawn, barefoot and dismayed, finding that the damp grass is serving only to shock him further awake. He sighs again, and then heads right back to the front door. He can just sit in the chair and wait for sleep to take him, then. It's not like he has anything to do in the morning. He can take his time.

Cash settles down into the armchair, feet tucked up under himself to warm them, thinking belatedly that getting Brendon's furniture wet and kind of dirty might not be the nicest thing, but whatever. It's just a chair. He can't seem to get his eyes to actually close, though, which is annoying. He's very aware of Brendon's presence, and has a stupid urge to go curl up on the couch with him, only that's just. Not a good idea. There are lines that you really shouldn't cross. He's been lucky enough. He's been given enough. Still, Cash can't help the compulsive glance down to his watch, and when the display says 1:11, he bites his lip and wishes, just to himself, I wish I could.

*

When Cash wakes up, he's not sure how long he's been asleep. It's still dark outside, so it can't be all that early.

Normally, Cash jerks awake quickly, instantly sharp and ready, but right now it's not working like that, it's like he's wading through a muddy river, looking for cognizance. It comes, slowly, and everything looks fuzzy. He clears his throat, swallows hard a few times, and it works, he's a little more awake. Which was stupid, because how he's just going to have to fall asleep again. It'll probably take longer this time, because he already feels like he's twitching with energy. Like he could go play three shows then run a fucking marathon. He takes a deep breath, tries to tell his body to sleep, but it's not working.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he grunts, rubbing at his eyes. He's acutely aware of the hoodie he's still wearing, how it smells so strongly of Brendon -- more strongly than it did when he first put it on, which is weird, because it should smell less like him, now that Cash has been sleeping in it for a few hours.

Brendon is still out cold, except for the part where he doesn't look cold at all. Brendon sweats a lot normally, but Cash never noticed that he apparently sweats in his sleep. His forehead looks damp, and so does his upper lip. Against his own better judgment, Cash makes his way to the couch, crouching on the floor right next to it, and tugs the sleeve of the hoodie over his right hand, and leans in to wipe gently at Brendon's skin. Brendon leans into it, still asleep, but he shifts up into the rustle of fabric across his face, and then suddenly it's like Cash is can't escape how good he smells, like he's got his face buried in Brendon's shirt, it's that strong. He can't hold back the harsh little whimper of longing when Brendon moves closer; he's still asleep, but that's not making it any easier. Cash bites his lip, hard, tries to shock himself out of whatever daze he's in, but that doesn't work, it just makes him think about biting Brendon's lip. Cash closes his eyes, and without thinking at all, dips his head down and kisses Brendon, softly.

It takes a moment, but Brendon stirs beneath him, a muffled, "Wha --", and then Cash is just kissing him harder, licking at Brendon's lip before taking it between his teeth and biting gently. Brendon groans, sleepily, and moves away.

Or tries to. Cash kind of climbs up onto the couch and presses his weight over Brendon, and Cash isn't a big guy, but Brendon is tiny, so he's got him pretty well pinned. Brendon squirms under him, and Cash moans into his mouth, desperate, grinding down against him.

"Cash -- " Brendon's gasping out, and Cash reluctantly moves away, meaning to let Brendon talk, meaning to pull himself away and stop this, but it's not going to work, because Brendon tosses his head back, probably to clear it; the action exposes the smooth skin of his throat and Cash groans out loud and fixes his mouth to the curve of Brendon's neck, kissing and sucking. Brendon kind of stutters and jerks against him, but doesn't try to shove him away. "What -- what the -- ?" and his voice is rough with sleep, and it's not like Cash really has any defense against that, so he just keeps grinding down against Brendon, pushing his cock against Brendon's sharp skinny hip and oh God, he's so hard, so fucking close already, and Brendon's not helping, wriggling like that underneath him, breath coming quickly and he smells so fucking good and Cash is so, so fucked, because he won't stop moving like that, and maybe he's trying to push Cash away, but he's not doing a very good job of it, and every movement of his hips rubs right up against Cash's cock, and even though jeans and boxers it feels fucking amazing and Cash just can't stop sinking his teeth into Brendon's skin and coming with a low grunt, bucking against Brendon.

"Fuck, oh, God," Cash whispers, and his mouth is still just right there at Brendon's skin, and he can't -- can't stop kissing, can't stop nipping at the skin, and he's probably giving Brendon one hell of a hickey right now, but he can't be bothered to stop because Brendon just smells so good, he's right there, and Cash just came right in his pants, but he feels like he's just so hard again already, undeniably so, and he goes right back to rolling his hips down against Brendon.

"Cash, are you?" Brendon asks, and he might be pushing Cash away for real now.

"Fine, I'm fine, I just -- " Cash tries, but it's no good, he just wants to keep moving, keep friction, it feels too good, surrounded like this by Brendon's scent, so he keeps with it, trailing his mouth up to meet Brendon's. He dips his tongue inside, sucks on Brendon's lip, grinds his hips against Brendon's, hard, and Brendon's hand comes up to stroke through his hair, and that's just -- too much, too much, and Cash comes again, already, fuck.

While he's trying to catch his breath, Brendon stops moving, just goes still. Cash can feel that he's hard, which -- isn't the worst discovery, actually.

Actually.

He's still breathing hard, still trying to come down, but there's a slow curling in the pit of his belly, and slithers to the floor again, on his knees, reaching for Brendon's jeans, unbuttoning then unzipping, jerking them down clumsily, tugging on Brendon's underwear until his legs are trapped by fabric bunched around his knees. Brendon doesn't seem to be complaining, though, arching up into it. One of Cash's hands comes up to cup Brendon's hip, pushing him down to the couch before ducking his head and wrapping his hand around Brendon's cock, guiding it to his mouth.

It's all he can think, with the first rush of pre-come against his tongue, just Yes, God, hearing Brendon whimper and feeling him thrust up into Cash's mouth. He sucks hard, taking as much as he can. It's not enough, not as much as he wants, really, but Brendon gasps and bucks his hips, so maybe he's doing all right. Cash hasn't really had much experience in this specific area, this specific cocksucking area.

He pulls back, licks at the head then sucks his way back down, farther this time. Brendon's hands come up to rest on his skull, his fingers thread through Cash's hair, and he shudders, because it's -- overwhelming, really, everything all together like this and Cash drops his free hand to his crotch, fumbles his jeans open and gets his hand inside his boxers and starts stroking himself. He's not terribly good at double-tasking in the best of situations, and right now he kind of stops moving his head, but manages to at least keep sucking so Brendon can thrust up into his mouth. It's working well enough, they manage something like a rhythm, and Brendon's making these noises, little whimpering groans, and it's absurdly hot, and it shouldn't be, but it makes Cash moan around his mouthful of cock, and Brendon stutters out a cry and comes in his mouth.

Cash doesn't manage to swallow it all, he's too focused on jerking himself because he's just so close, but he tries to get as much of it as he can. Some of Brendon's come dribbles down his chin, and he swipes at it with the back of his free hand, and sort of absentmindedly licks at it, and then, right there, that's enough to push him over the edge again.

His orgasm crashes over him with an intensity he's not prepared for, and he curls in on himself, stroking his way through it. He's still sparking his way through aftershocks when he thinks to glance up, to chance a look at Brendon's face.

Brendon's watching him with wide eyes like he's not quite sure what to believe.

"Hi," Cash says, clearing his throat.

"Hey," Brendon says uncertainly. "Uh, shower?"

*

Keeping his hands to himself while Brendon is bent over the tub, reaching to turn the shower on is one of the hardest things Cash has ever done, because Brendon shucked off his clothes as soon as they got into the bathroom, and Cash is left standing and staring kind of dumbly at the line of his back, the curve of his ass. Brendon doesn't turn back to face him before climbing into the shower, and Cash hurries to get naked and get in there with him, because that's really a lot of skin, and there's some sort of implicit permission kind of deal that seems to be going on right now.

Brendon allows himself to be manhandled back against the shower wall and kissed, but when Cash slips a hand down the line of his hip, he pulls back.

"Dude," he gasps.

"Sorry," Cash says, blinking hard. Still, that really is a lot of skin, and it's sort of irresistible, the forming bruise on Brendon's neck. He covers it again with his mouth and flicks his tongue softly. Brendon sighs contentedly and leaves him to it. Cash still can't seem to get control of himself, he's feeling the curling stirrings of arousal in his belly again and he groans against Brendon.

"Seriously?" Brendon asks, but seems pretty happy about it. He drops to his knees more quickly and gracefully than Cash would have thought possible, and noses at Cash's cock, humming appreciatively. "Okay?"

"Uh," Cash manages as Brendon sucks him in. He just goes down, taking Cash nearly all the way, and he curses because that feels so much better than anything should, really. Brendon wraps one hand around his cock, wet and firm, and Cash thrusts into it. Brendon takes him easily enough, and nothing could really have prepared him for this, nothing could've gotten him used the the idea of Brendon Urie sucking his cock like it's a privilege to do so.

He's not going to last long at all, even after already coming three times, because the sensation's a lot, the sucking, the heat of the water pounding his shoulders, the fact that it's Brendon on his knees, eyes closed and cheeks hollowed. He grunts in warning, and Brendon just hums and sucks harder until Cash is moaning and coming, and he just swallows neatly, like it's nothing at all. He sucks more softly when Cash is coming down, and presses a soft kiss to his hipbone before rising.

"Um," Cash says, and Brendon chuckles before kissing him again.

They stay like that, under the water, hands drifting lazily until Brendon pulls back to kiss his way across Cash's jawline, and he looks ridiculously appealing, damp and slick and Cash realizes with a sinking feeling that he's suddenly, desperately hard. Again.

"Are you okay?" Brendon asks when Cash whimpers. He's so, so over-stimulated right now, it's like he can feel every little drop of water on his chest and shoulders, feel the trickles running down his back and oh, God, if he doesn't come again soon, he's going to die.

"Y -- no," Cash groans, twisting his hips, searching for friction. "God, I need to fuck you." He regrets it as soon as he closes his mouth, when he hears Brendon's sharp inhale. "Sorry, fuck, I don't know, I just -- fuck."

"Did you take something?" Brendon asks, low and urgent.

"No," Cash says, frustrated beyond belief. His hands are gripping Brendon's hips hard enough to bruise, digging into his flesh, but Brendon doesn't seem to mind.

"Cash," he says, serious, and Cash shakes his head fervently. "Okay, all right," Brendon says then, mostly to himself, and he reaches above his head for conditioner, squirts some into his hand and pries Cash's hand away from his body before working their fingers together, getting Cash's fingers slick.

"Yeah," Cash breathes, and slides his fingers along Brendon's ass, creeping towards his hole, rubbing with just one before sinking in. He's trying to go as slowly as possible, but it's just not easy, not with Brendon making the same soft little noises, and they're so close, Cash's cock is -- again -- lined up so perfectly against Brendon's hip, and that's so good, he can't stop thrusting against him, in time with his rough strokes in Brendon's ass. He pushes another two fingers in at once, and Brendon gasps at the sensation, tense with pleasure, and that just pushes their hips together harder, and Cash just can't stop himself from stuttering to climax again.

"Did you?" Brendon pants, and Cash nods, but when his eyes open he sees Brendon's collarbone and the line of it is compelling, little droplets of water decorating his skin, and Cash whimpers before leaning down to suck at him, nibbling as gently as he can bring himself to. His fingers are still in Brendon's ass, stretching and rubbing, and Brendon's hips are circling against the pressure, and, hey, Cash is hard again, God, how is this even possible? He pushes Brendon around, presses him to the tiled shower wall and gets his cock right up, sliding along the crack of Brendon's ass, and Brendon pushes back into it.

"God," Cash gasps, and pushes in quickly. Brendon groans, and Cash hopes he's okay, because he can barely think right now, much less ask if Brendon's okay. The way he's squirming back on Cash's cock seems to indicate as much, so Cash doesn't hesitate any longer before pulling nearly all the way out and fucking back into him.

There's absolutely no grace to his movements now, no chance of it; he's too fucking desperate to get some relief at this point. He sinks his teeth into Brendon's shoulder as he pushes in again, roughly, fucking Brendon hard and completely without finesse. Brendon groans, tries to work back against him, but the rhythm is too irregular. Brendon's groaning out nonsense words, not making any sense at all, and Cash takes that as a good sign. His hips are really moving on their own, now, he's pounding into Brendon with almost bruising force, but Brendon just weathers the onslaught, guides one of Cash's hands to his cock. He keeps his own hand wrapped around Cash's so that they're jerking him off together. Cash worms his hand away and gets it over Brendon's, and Brendon whimpers. Cash squeezes harder and thrusts harder, and right when Brendon tips his head back and shudders with release, he clenches down around Cash's cock, and he comes, too, again, too much.

They sink to the shower floor in a boneless heap, and Brendon just barely manages to turn the water off as they fall.

"Better?" Brendon asks, breathless, and Cash grunts. It is, and it isn't; he can tell that in a few minutes he'll want more, more of Brendon, but right now he's just feeling so raw, like every nerve ending has been sanded down and left bare.

"I don't know what -- " he tries, but he has no energy left for speech.

"Yeah," Brendon says, and when they start shivering, he stumbles to his feet and pulls Cash up with him.

*

Cash has no idea how they manage to make it to Brendon's bedroom or how he even manages to get dressed. Brendon seems to have figured out that physical contact is probably not the best idea right now.

"Did someone drug you or something?" Brendon asks. His brow is furrowed with concern.

"Can't've," Cash mumbles. He's as far as possible from Brendon right now, on the other side of the room, crouched and leaning against the wall, and it's still not far enough. He wants to push Brendon down to the bed and fuck him until they both can't breathe.

"We should probably get you to a doctor or something," Brendon says. He was nice enough to put a shirt and pants on, but even freshly-showered, Cash can smell him from right across the room and wants to do something about it, badly.

"I dunno," Cash says tiredly. He might actually be able to sleep, now.

Brendon comes closer, kneels down, and nope, no sleep for Cash. Not if his dick has anything to say about it. Brendon glances down and does a double take. "Again? Seriously?"

"Yes," Cash snaps, and Brendon shakes his head before tugging the loaned sweatpants down and licking up the length of Cash's cock. It's too much right now, he's still twitching but he's also mercilessly hard, and as much as he loves this feeling, Brendon's mouth working over him hot and insistent, he's really just too fucked to enjoy it. He fucks up into Brendon's mouth, and Brendon takes him just as easily as before, and it takes longer this time for him to finish, but he barely notices the time, too busy whimpering, ready for this to be over already.

Brendon keeps sucking, keeps taking Cash's erratic thrusts, and finally, finally, he's coming, and although the relief is blindingly sweet, he still feels like like someone punched him in his stomach.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Cash gasps.

"Don't -- " Brendon says throatily, and that pulls an interested twitch from Cash's cock, oh God, not yet, not again, but he gets away quickly enough, hovering nervously in the doorway.

Cash is suddenly exhausted, beyond all possible reason, surprised at his sudden weariness despite what he's just put his body through. He collapses on the floor, breathing heavily, and Brendon keeps his distance.

"You're gonna hate me," Cash mumbles, closing his eyes, waiting for the next onslaught of terrifying arousal.

"No," he thinks he hears Brendon say softly, but his ears are ringing, he's shivering, he's overheated and sweaty and feels disgusting.

*

When Cash wakes up, the first thing he notices is how sore he is. He groans, stumbles to his feet. Brendon's nowhere in sight, which is good, although Cash thinks he's probably back to normal by now.

"Hey," he hears Brendon call. Light is streaming in through the windows. Cash blinks and tries to shake his head.

"Time?" he rasps.

"Little after ten," Brendon says, approaching the doorway again. "I just let you sleep, figured it'd be better if I just, you know. Left you alone."

"Yeah," Cash says, and reaches up to scrub vigorously at his scalp. "Fuck. Shane back?"

"No, he's gone all day. You look like you're feeling better," Brendon says carefully.

"Yeah," Cash says again. Silence. "I'm, um. Really sorry about that."

Brendon waves him off. "Don't be."

"I just. I kind of. Took advantage of you," Cash mumbles, looking away.

"Don't worry about it," Brendon says, his voice oddly level.

"Are you gonna tell anyone?" Cash asks, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Of course not, Jesus," Brendon says. He's frowning. "You should still probably see a doctor, though."

"I guess," Cash says.

"Seriously, I know you're, like, obviously better, but I'm worried, man."

"I'll be fine," Cash says immediately. "Thanks for. You know. Putting up with me."

"Yeah, seriously, stop fucking worrying about it," Brendon says emphatically.

"I don't want this to, like, make it weird," Cash says, gesturing between them. "Can we just. Go back to the way we were? I swear to God, I'll go to a doctor or something if we can just. Forget this ever happened. Like. Ever."

"Is that what you want?" Brendon asks. Cash takes a moment with that one. Brendon has a way of asking questions like there's a right or wrong answer, and often what you think is the right answer is, in fact, the exact opposite. Cash takes a deep breath, decides he'll take his chance with the truth. It can't really get any worse than it already is.

"Not really."

Brendon is right there, then, and God, that's a relief, having him close but without the shuddering, frenzied desire of last night. "God, you're a fucking idiot. Why didn't you just ask, you moron?"

"I did, kind of," Cash tries, but Brendon just leans in and kisses him.

*