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As Long As the Wheels Are Turning

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Marshall's "new" car isn't new.

It isn't fast or cool or interesting. It's not even Marshall's car, really. It's Marilyn and Edgar's old station wagon, sold to their only biological son at a price carefully set to avoid overburdening him with debt while at the same time satisfying everyone's requirements for the preservation of personal dignity and responsibility. A transaction motivated by the sort of family dynamics Dash, as far as he can remember, has never been a part of and isn't interested in trying to understand.

Aside from the fact that it isn't cursed or haunted, there's nothing about this car that's in any way remotely attractive.

In fact, Dash should be embarrassed to be fucking a man who drives a station wagon.

He thinks about saying as much, then considers that right now they're parked in a secluded spot near the Eerie woods, both of them in Marshall's back seat doing what comes naturally to any two people in lust, and decides he's got better things to do than lose an argument.

Besides, there is something about the car that's kind of doing it for Dash.

He can't explain it to either one of them and doesn't bother to try. Instead, he shoves Marshall down and climbs on top of him, pressing another kiss to his swollen lips as he fumbles for the bottom of his shirt.

The station wagon was once big enough to transport the Tellers' entire nuclear family with its two-point-five-counting-Simon children, so the back seat is not the tightest space in which Dash and Marshall have ever done this. They have some of the routine down already. Still, it takes a certain amount of cooperation and Dash nearly getting a face full of Marshall's elbow before they finally succeed in getting his shirt over his head.

Dash has somewhat more success and only manages to bang his arm against the roof once in his hurry to remove his own.

Then they're pressed together, body to body, heartbeat to frantic heartbeat.

Marshall Teller, new owner of the world's least attractive car, has no business being this gorgeous. He looks half-debauched already: eyes wide, hair in utter disarray, sweat-soaked skin—now marked by Dash's lips and fingertips and by one minor accident involving the parking brake—glistening in the moonlight.

He's shaking.

Dash pulls him closer, pressing lips to shivering flesh, tasting him, breathing him in, running marked hands over sensitive skin.

Each touch earns another shudder.

Each rough kiss is welcomed, Marshall responding in kind as Dash forces his way past his lips and explores.

They find their rhythm quickly. Dash gets a hand between Marshall's legs, eliciting a desperate moan. He moves, holding him closer still while stroking the hard length of him through the fabric he's still wearing.

In the memories Dash has of this car, this is as far as he's ever been allowed to go. This is the part where Marshall stops him, they sit up, straighten clothes, and try to avoid acknowledging each other until Marshall's okay to drive again.

This time, though, Marshall only clings to him as Dash undoes his belt and slips a hand under his waistband, urging him on with wordless cries, letting him take what he wants.

Something about having his name on the title seems to have erased any scruples Marshall used to have about going all the way in the car, even here, parked in the semi-open, where anybody or anything could stumble across them.

Maybe this is Marshall's way of claiming ownership.

There's a part of Dash that wants to stop this now, just to prove he can. To prove that Marshall fucking Teller, writhing underneath him, has no power over him whatsoever.

He doesn't stop.

As fun as it is to imagine the look on Marshall's face if he did, Dash knows what he wants.

He unbuttons Marshall's pants and fumbles for his zipper. He gets everything undone, then gives his lover a swat on the thigh. Marshall lift his hips at this wordless command, allowing Dash to slide pants and boxers down and off.

And Dash, a little too eager and a little too enthralled with the view, pulls at the fabric a little too hard and slams his elbow into the car door behind him with enough force to make his entire arm go numb. The sensation startles him into sitting up enough to smack his head on the roof.

"Fuck!"

The shouted curse seems to snap Marshall out of whatever haze he's in. He sits halfway up, blinking and wiping hair out of his eyes "You okay?" The words come out in a whispered rasp.

"Fine," Dash mutters, rubbing the back of his head and trying to shake some sensation back into his arm. "Fuck!" he mutters again, this time cursing himself.

"We…" Marshall clears his throat and tries again in something resembling his normal voice. "We could go somewhere else."

Going somewhere else is the last thing Dash wants. For reasons he can't explain to himself, he needs them to finish this right here and now.

He crowds against Marshall, grabbing his wrists and pinning them together above his head with one hand. With the other, he reaches past him and slams down the door lock.

Marshall makes a small cry of surprise but offers no resistance.

"We're not going anywhere," Dash growls into his ear, punctuating it with a hard nip to the lobe. For a split second, he thinks Marshall's about to fight him, but the movement is only another semi-violent shudder.

Dash keeps him pinned as he sits up just enough to reach into his pocket for the last thing he stole from his lover before they really got going. He dangles it in front of his face, laughing.

Marshall's keyring. With Marshall's car keys.

Marshall's eyes widen. He twists in Dash's grip and glances down reflexively to make sure the key to the Evidence Locker is still there, shining against the bare skin of his chest.

"How?" he asks, a note of righteous indignation creeping into his voice. "I made sure—"

Dash smirks. "I have my talents. And you're getting fucked right here."

The pulse in Marshall's wrists speeds up. There are limits to how much he can move right now, even if Dash releases him. Aside from being in a confined space and held down by Dash's weight, he's trapped by the fact that his pants are still somewhere around his knees.

Still, Dash is surprised when Marshall puts up only a token struggle. He doesn't even try to follow with his eyes as Dash secrets the keys away again. Instead he closes his eyelids and tilts his head to one side with a muttered, "I fucking hate you."

It's a gesture of complete and utter surrender.

Dash laughs and sucks a mark into the exposed skin of his neck as a reward.

"You're getting fucked right here," he repeats, relishing the way Marshall squirms against him. "I'm going to take you in every way I can think of in every part of this car. Then if we've got time," he adds, almost conversationally, "I'm going to bring you out in the open and bend you over the hood."

That last is an activity he thinks he might save for later, for the light of day, when it's warmer. He imagines taking Marshall over the car in mid-afternoon, his nemesis-slash-lover clenching around him, begging him to hurry, desire warring with fear of being discovered by someone respectable. The idea sends something like electricity straight to Dash's cock.

He's not the only one affected. He can tell by Marshall's pained expression and the way his hips thrust upward, even as Dash can tell he's fighting not to react.

"I'm going to ruin this car for you," he whispers into Marshall's ear. "I'm going to overwrite every wholesome memory you have of it. I'm going to make sure you'll never be able to get behind the wheel again without thinking about all the ways I'm going to defile you tonight. Every time you chauffeur your smarter half to your latest weirdness investigation. Every time you take your friends to the movies. Every time you run an errand for your mom. Every single time you drive past the Eerie city limits, you'll remember how you begged me to use you."

A small moan escapes Marshall's lips as he moves against Dash again. "Fucking hate you," he repeats, low and breathless.

Dash releases his wrists and shifts away. Marshall's eyes fly open and for a moment, his expression is all shock and disappointment.

"Get 'em off," Dash says, with a nod toward Marshall's pants. "And spread."

Marshall obeys, managing to kick Dash lightly only once in the process of getting fully undressed. He spreads his legs then, moving to let Dash settle between them.

Dash is still partially clothed against Marshall's nakedness. It's not comfortable, with his own erection straining against the front of his jeans. Still, he relishes the small feeling of control it gives him. He's not quite finished tormenting Marshall yet.

And then Marshall's hands are in his hair, drawing him down. Dash allows this. He lets Marshall caress him, kiss him, rut up against him, enjoying the feel of him hot and firm and needy beneath his hands.

If there's one thing he understands less than his own desire for the man in his arms, it's why Marshall wants him back. Why Dash of all people is the only he's one ever let touch him this way. There's nothing Dash has ever done in what he remembers of his short, selfish life that's earned him the right to this kind of intimacy. The right to be Marshall Teller's first, and so far only, lover.

Still, he'll take whatever he's allowed for as long as he's allowed it.

He lets Marshall initiate one last desperate kiss, then decides he's had enough and pins him back down again.

"You're going to remember me until this thing is rusting in the junkyard," Dash continues. "One day, you're going to be driving down the highway, your favorite song on the radio, your favorite person riding shotgun, and the memory of me inside you is gonna come on so strong you'll have to pull over until you get control of yourself. Got it?"

It's a command that barely disguises a plea Dash recognizes too late. One the's been making this whole time.

Remember this.

Remember me.

Remember me because one day I'm not going to have you anymore.

Remember me because one day I might forget me again, and I need one of us to remember.

Marshall doesn't call him on it. Instead, he opens his eyes to meet Dash's full on, holding himself as still as he can despite the way his body is trembling.

Dash can't read his expression, and for a split second he worries he's gone too far.

Then Marshall smiles. "Better make it memorable, then."

Dash caresses his cheek, then traces the outline of his lips.

"As long as this thing's running, Slick," he vows. "You'll remember."

In his short life, Dash has made more than his fair share of promises he has no intention of keeping.

On this one, though, he makes good.