Rating: M
Author: Mercy
Warnings: Slash, Trigger warnings for minor PTSD
Pairing: Shawn Spencer/Carlton Lassiter
Spoilers: Post-ep for "Gus Walks into a Bank." Minor reference to "Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark" as canonically, Shawn should be living in the old Color Me Mine studio.
Summary: Two confessions. A green skittle.
Beta read by & dedicated to my sister slasher, PsychLassieFan4Ever who pulled me back into the world of fan fiction after a fifteen-year hiatus.
"Skittles Series: Green"
Spencer is sitting on the bed, lithe frame relaxed against the headboard; posture calm, almost demure. A pale green bedsheet is wrapped around him, covering his chest, shielding his nakedness like he's the ingénue of some laugh-tracked cable sitcom. He is the very picture of indifference and like so many facets of the pseudo-psychic's persona it's a façade. A good one, but a façade nonetheless. His eyes are the only giveaway; his expressive blue-green-hazel eyes. They are sharp and focused, betraying an unnerving single-mindedness.
Lassiter glances but won't meet those eyes; can't meet them.
"You're leaving," Spencer prompts, but it isn't a question. Not really. They are the first words either of them has spoken since a broken and breathless 'Shawn' as Spencer's release had triggered Lassiter's own.
Lassiter's answer is to sit in the director's chair near the bed (after moving aside a ceramic dish resplendent with a clearly hand-painted pineapple) and begin lacing his shoes. Left foot first. Then right. His movements are deliberate and clinical. They feel routine. They make sense and right now, he desperately needs something to make sense. There's a single Skittle in the pineapple dish. It's green, slightly misshapen. His shoes are tied and he looks at, past, through the lonely green candy, willing himself to confirm Spencer's assumption.
Lassiter still hasn't met his eyes.
A movement in his peripheral catches his attention and he looks up to see Spencer (Shawn, a voice in the back of his mind whispers) stretching his arms over his head, yawning elaborately. The motion disturbs the sheet and it slips down, revealing skin that Lassiter now knows by touch and taste. He licks his still-swollen lips, blinks, glances up and finally makes eye contact. The younger man has the audacity to raise a knowing eyebrow and smirk and it's that outward arrogance that makes Lassiter find his voice.
"You knew what this was," he sneers, doing his best to project impatience. He doesn't want to have the awkward after-sex conversation; doesn't want to pretend to agree with Shawn when the other man inevitably reminds him that this was just sex.
Lassiter's tone is harsh and dismissive and does a fabulous job of wiping the smirk off Spencer's face. He watches as an impressive combination of hurt, confusion, anger and resignation flashes through those blue-green-hazel eyes before a look of cynical amusement takes its place.
"Did I?" Spencer laughs coldly. "Tell me, detective, was I supposed to figure that out before or after you shoved my dick down your throat?"
A part of himself that Lassiter doesn't like very much enjoys this small victory: coaxing a genuine reaction, genuine anger out of Spencer. Spencer who prances and sidles, touches and flirts; cheerfully defrauding the world.
But his rational mind winces.
Because Spencer (Shawn, that voice reminds him) is right.
Lassiter had arrived at Shawn's door after midnight. Finding the Psych office empty, he'd gone back to the station and rifled through old files until he found a carbon copy for a check he'd been forced to cut the consultants during Chief Vick's maternity leave. Shawn's address had changed since, but it was a starting point and Lassiter was, after all, a detective.
Shawn answers his knock in a light blue t-shirt; dark blue boxer briefs slung low on his hips. He rubs sleep from his eyes, clearly having just woken up despite his ridiculously perfect hair.
"Lassie?" Shawn mumbles, confusion etched all over his face. "Are you OK? What are you doing he-" Lassiter swallows the rest of the question and shocked gasp, forcing his lips against Shawn's while pushing the younger man inside, kicking the door closed behind him and pressing Shawn against the wall. Lassiter expects resistance but gets only stilled surprise and then Shawn's lips are soft, pliant, kissing him back and when Lassiter tongue swipes across them Shawn lets him in. Shawn's hands reach out to grip his suit jacket, but Lassiter grabs his wrists, pinning above the younger man's head. He doesn't know if the low moans in the air are coming from him, Shawn or both of them.
Several long minutes later, Lassiter tears his mouth away from Shawn's and moves it down his jaw, to his to throat, drawing tender flesh into his mouth.
"Lassie?" Shawn asks again, but his question dissolves into a groan as Lassiter nips at the forming bruise he's sucked into Shawn's skin. Before he can stop himself, he's pulled Shawn's shirt over his head and he's kissing and licking his way down Shawn's chest. Dropping to his knees, he presses his cheek against the soft skin of Shawn's belly, his heart thudding as hard now as it was when he watched Shawn dragged into the bank by a gun-wielding captor. 'Could have killed you.' He doesn't voice that, but the thought makes him shudder and he tightens his fingers on Shawn's hip. He's not sure when it happened, when his attraction to Shawn turned from purely physical into… something else. He only knows that Shawn could've died today and Lassiter can't think of anything more unacceptable than that.
He risks a look up to find Shawn staring at him, eyes wide, pupils dilated, his face flushed with arousal and Lassiter realizes he can feel that arousal. Shawn is hard. Shawn is hard for him. Shawn wants him. Lassiter dips down, running his mouth along Shawn's clothed erection and Shawn actually whimpers, freed hands pressed against the wall, swollen lips forming soundless nonsense.
Tracing his fingers along the dark blue elastic, Lassiter waits for Shawn, whose eyes have slipped closed, to look at him again. When he does, Lassiter stills his movements, save the gentle circles his right thumb is rubbing against Shawn's hip.
"Say 'yes'."
Shawn gapes at him and Lassiter can actually read the 'are you kidding me?' in his expression, but he needs to hear it; needs Shawn to say it. He's about to repeat himself when Shawn's hand drops to Lassiter's shoulder, feather light, and slides up and into his hair.
"Yes," he exhales and Lassiter moves, lightning quick, pulling the fabric down and lapping at the head of Shawn's cock, one hand wrapped around the base to keep his new lover from jerking forward. He swipes along the slit, tasting the precome that is salty-sweet and just so fucking Shawn before moving both hands to hold Shawn against the wall and swallowing his length completely.
Above him, Shawn cries out, both hands now in Lassiter's hair, not pulling or guiding but hanging on for dear life and when Lassiter reaches one hand down to stroke the sensitive skin behind Shawn's balls the younger man whimpers again and starts a steady stream of babbling. 'Lassie' and 'Christ' and 'yes, please god yes please don't stop' in breathy succession. His breath is hitching, fingers clenching painfully in Lassiter's hair and Lassiter's entire world is focused on making Shawn fall apart, making Shawn come so that Lassiter can drink him in, reassuring himself that the infuriating man in his mouth is alive and safe and whole.
"Lassie," Shawn breathes, "Lassie, wait, please…"
Lassiter obeys immediately but looks up impatiently. "I want you to come for me," he protests and he doesn't recognize his own voice, full of gravel and longing. He tightens his grip on Shawn's hips. "I need to make you come."
"Oh, you will," Shawn laughs shakily, "but not like this." He tugs on Lassiter's arms, pulling him up until they're level and then leans forward, flicking an earlobe with his tongue. "I want to come with you inside me."
The declaration is hot against Lassiter's ear and he steps back, suddenly self-conscious. Which, considering he's fully dressed and Shawn is naked, hard and needy makes no sense at all, but before he knows what's happening Shawn has pulled him toward the bed, articles of clothing dropping haphazardly in their path. He won't claim that any part of tonight was well thought out, but never in his wildest dreams did he ever believe he'd have Shawn Spencer's hands on him, pulling off his clothes and asking to be fucked.
"Do you have-?"
"Top drawer," Shawn answers, lounging back across the bed, stroking himself lazily. With extreme effort, Lassiter pulls himself away from that sight and digs through the nightstand until he comes up with what he needs. Shaking hands flip open the cap and he slicks his fingers carefully before crawling up between Shawn's spread legs, and capturing his lips, slowly and gently; wanting it to last, knowing that it won't. He teases Shawn's entrance, fingers making slow circles, applying gentle pressure until Shawn unabashedly whines at him.
Lassiter can't help but chuckle into his mouth, "Impatient."
"I've been waiting for years, Lassie," Shawn admits, "forgive me if I'm tired of being patient."
Lassiter rewards that honesty by sliding a finger into Shawn who hums his appreciation against Lassiter's throat. One finger becomes two and then three, rubbing the skin over Shawn's pleasure point and causing the younger man to arch, gasping, against him.
"Lassie," he begs, "pleasepleaseplease."
Shawn is begging, Lassiter realizes. Begging him, begging for him. He grabs a pillow with his free hand and struggles to wedge it under Shawn's hips until his lover takes pity on him and helps. Reaching for the foil packet he fails twice to open it, slick fingers on his dominant hand making him fumble.
"Let me," Shawn whispers and extracts the condom. Still holding the flesh colored circle in one hand, Shawn swipes the thumb of his other over the head of Lassiter's cock, collecting the fluid gathered there and bringing it to his lips while smoothing the condom over the older man's erection in a suspiciously practiced move. Lassiter watches Shawn's eyes flutter closed as he savors the taste.
"Jesus," Lassiter whispers and whatever control he has is gone.
He grabs Shawn's hip with one hand, guides himself with the other and pushes inside into Shawn in one long, slow thrust.
"Christ, Lassie…" Shawn's head is thrown back, chest flushed and beaded with sweat, hands fisting the bedding beside him. "Lassie Lassie Lassie," he moans and in that moment he is the most beautiful thing Lassiter has ever seen. Reaching out he cups Shawn's cheek, running his thumb across the soft skin. Shawn's head turns, lips brushing Lassiter's hand and smiles at him. Those blue-green-hazel eyes are clouded with lust and need and affection that makes Lassiter's breath catch in his throat. It's too much and not enough and everything he's ever wanted and if he believed in happily ever after it would be this – Shawn – for the rest of his life.
Pushing that thought away, he leans down, bracing himself on his forearms and sets up a slow, steady rhythm that has Shawn gasping, his blunt nails scraping up Lassiter's back as he rocks his hips, meeting Lassiter thrust for thrust.
When Lassiter's still-slick fingers circle his erection, Shawn meets his eyes, feverish with lust. "Please," he whispers.
"Please what?" He mouths the words across Shawn's throat, squeezing his dick too gently to give him what he needs.
"You said – god fuck, Lassie," and his hands are everywhere, like he can't touch Lassiter enough. "You said you wanted to make me come."
"Need to," he corrects against Shawn's jaw.
Moving faster than Lassiter would've thought, given his current state, Shawn's hands are in his hair, pulling him down and kissing him roughly and, if Lassiter didn't know better, possessively. Pulling away, Shawn bites at Lassiter's lower lip and meets his eyes.
"Then make me come," he orders and Lassiter complies, pumping Shawn in counterpoint to his thrusts until Shawn is spilling over his hand, Lassiter's name pouring out of him like a prayer and Lassiter lets go, emptying himself into his lover.
"Shawn…" a broken, breathless whisper.
Lassiter breaks out of his reverie and looks back toward Shawn who is regarding him coolly, waiting for an answer Lassiter doesn't have.
"Before or after," Shawn repeats, cocking his head from side to side.
"Couldn't you just 'divine' it," Lassiter baits, complete with air quotes, and he hates himself for giving Shawn an opening to launch into some flailing display.
He hates himself more when Shawn doesn't take it.
"I don't divine," Shawn says quietly. "I observe and interpret." His voice is clear and steady.
Lassiter, who's been looking at his hands since they formed air quotes, raises his eyes back to Shawn's in disbelief. Shawn holds his look, unblinking. There's no defiance in his gaze; no fear, but when Lassiter stands and moves toward him he flinches.
"I'm not-" Lassiter begins, wanting to say something soothing, but his full intentions are unknown even to him. So he says nothing, sits back down and waits.
Encouraged by Lassiter's silence, or maybe just the fact that the detective hasn't pulled out handcuffs and read him his rights, Shawn shifts a bit, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, bedsheet bunched in his lap. Lassiter watches in open fascination as Shawn's eyes dart around the room, looking at everything and nothing, a display Lassiter has seen a hundred times, but never understood until this moment.
This is Shawn… gathering.
"I was just a kid, hell, not even a kid. I was a munchkin, a cub, a hatchling, a pup, a baby goose-"
"Gosling," Lassiter corrects automatically and he knows Shawn's response before the man gives it.
"I've heard it both ways." Shawn's grinning at his toes, but the expression doesn't quite meet those blue-green-hazel eyes. "I see everything," he continues and his toes are wiggling now, but Lassiter refuses to be distracted by how much he wants to suck a toe into his mouth and nibble kiss after kiss up Shawn's toned legs until-
"And I remember everything," Shawn's voice has dropped to whisper but it snaps Lassiter back to reality and he finds himself focused on Shawn's lips and the inexplicably truthful words passing through them. "Henry, dad, figured it out almost before I could talk. The connections I'd make, like my entire environment was a puzzle that I could put together piece by piece until it formed a picture only I could see."
"You have an eidetic memory." Lassiter isn't sure he's said the words out loud until Shawn nods his response. "Henry trained you to – what? Observe and interpret? To be a cop. To be a detective." His only answer is that Shawn doesn't deny it. "You're not psychic."
It's not a question, but Shawn answers anyway; a breathless whispered confession. "No." He's blinking rapidly, hands fisting the bedsheet in his lap. "I tried to tell you, to explain, that first day but-"
"I didn't believe you. Wouldn't have believed you." Lassiter's voice is a low growl and when he gets to his feet and moves toward the bed the not-psychic-but-just-fucking-brilliant man sitting on it turns away, shoulders slumping in what looks like defeat.
Until Lassiter touches him. A solitary finger tracing the stubbled line of Shawn's jaw and Shawn looks up at him, eyes glistening but hopeful. "I didn't see you then," Lassiter murmurs and Shawn presses, nuzzles his cheek into Lassiter's hand.
"And now?" This time it is a question.
"I see you," Lassiter breathes, leaning down to ghost his own confession across Shawn's lips, "and you… astound me."