fandom: The Shield belongs to Shawn Ryan and FX. I'm just a fan, not making any money.
warnings: slaaaash of the nasty hothothot Lem/Shane variety. Wee spoiler for S02.
notes: Hahahaha. Nobody else writes this pairing, so naturally I had to write meh own smut. Wrote it quickly as a sort of style practice, so it's not that hot or great. I had lots of fun anyway. Some sentences don't work at all and I abuse the word 'cracked'.
Shane gets hard every time they make a successful bust. The throb begins in his neck, colors his skin red until Vic slaps him on the arm and makes a stupid joke about rednecks. His throat closes up, his pupils dilate. He can see all this in the mirror of The Barn's only working toilet. Shane slaps his left hand on his neck, presses down and down and squeezes hard muscle between his fingers until the throb moves in rolling waves down his body. He leans his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, curls his other hand around the lip of the sink.
His breath leaves a sheen of white mist on the glass.
Lem bangs open the door and bursts in. His limbs are tense with the restless energy he builds up on stakeouts and during long waits at the station. Shane remembers seeing him pace the length of the hospital's waiting room from corner to corner to corner to corner, pushing his restless hands through his spiked blond hair as they waited for news about Vic's condition. Shane remembers grabbing at Lem's belt loop to make the man sit down. He reeked of sweat and electricity.
Like he does now. Shane looks up, startled, and for a tiny moment, he throbs, God, right there, when he sees Lem's bare arms and the slope of his chest through his t-shirt. Lem once told him that he was an adrenaline junkie. Shane can still see his flashing smile, the way his tongue flicked out to wet cracked lips. Lem's just standing there in a daze, his eyes fixed on the beads of sweat in Shane's hairline.
Shane breaks the silence, his voice cracking, "What's up, man?" and Lem looks at him like he's never seen him before. Shane loosens his grip on the porcelain, starts rubbing the back of his neck in a continuous motion, back and forth and back and forth and why is Lem still looking?
"You jonesin' for somethin', Shane?" Lem's usual nasal whine makes the ache in Shane's flat stomach throb and throb. Shane turns on the faucet, bends over to splash his face with cold water. Lem leans against the doorjamb, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans.
Shane's voice is still cracked like the porcelain of the sink. "You know how it gets, right?" nervous laughter, water dripping down Shane's forehead and chin and back into the stream rushing from the faucet, "You're on the job, and you collar someone and then it's kinda... You know," more nervous laughter, and Shane twists the tap closed, rubs at his face over and over and over and feels his neck and throat redden all over again, "There's the fight and it's kinda... kinda like you're fucking." The last word comes out low and rough and then the lock on the door snicks shut and Lem's moving.
God yes Lem's thigh is pressing against the center of the throbbing ache, his hands fumbling for Shane's belt and pushing him backwards until his head hits the cracked plaster of the wall. Lem's tongue is heavy and hot and slick in Shane's mouth, his lips moving and then he's smiling. Lem tastes like caffeine and energy and electricity.
Shane's belt falls to the floor with an echoing clink, and then Lem's hands are opening the buttons on his jeans, easing down the zipper over the bulge. Shane's eyes are closed, the palms of his hands splayed over Lem's chest, thumbs pressing against hard nipples. Lem's hands are rough, the pads of his fingers calloused and they sting on Shane's skin because of all the blowback and sulphur and the tar of the road where Lem went down and fuck he really doesn't need to think about that now.
Shane pushes back, pushes, pushes his hands into Lem's hair and grips and pulls until the man gets it, and then Lem's sliding down and oh yeah there we go. Shane cocks his hips forward, tilts his head back, unseeing eyes counting the hairline fractures in the roof, then the splinters in the wood of the stall walls. His hands smoothe back and forward over Lem's skull, the strands of his hair tickling the sensitive skin between Shane's fingers. His chest heaves, and his world narrows down to heat and suction and the delicious noise of Lem's lips popping up off his dick and then he's coming and bites down on his own fingers to keep quiet.
Lem climbs back up his body, fingers brushing greedily against flat, hard muscle and then he's leaning against Shane's chest and jacking off. Shane pushes his thigh between Lem's and the man makes a desperate sound and comes all over Shane's black jeans.
They rest there for a while. Lem pushes his head against Shane's shoulder and the side of his jaw like a satistified cat. His hair tickles Shane's ear. Shane lets his back relax against the wall, and for a fleeting moment the warm weight of Lem's body feels comforting.
Shane breathes out and then in.