Well, Psych owns these boys, not I, sadly. If I did, Jules would uh... be kind of alone in the canon verse. Well... maybe Gus. I mean, I've got a fair amount of respect towards that ship... But that's getting off topic. Let's get back to the shassie. Shall we? :)
Also, I'm fairly incapable of writing chapters right the first time, so if you catch a mistake (or even just something you think needs clarification) don't hesitate to let me know. It helps me out more than you may realize.
(Serious revisions made as of 2/1/16)
Lassiter had spent a good half hour getting drunk on Spencer's couch. They'd flipped through the channels a few times, Lassiter nursing the tumbler of whiskey Shawn had offered him while Spencer was content to sip down a sparkly, vodka... something. Whatever it was, he'd garnished it with a slice of pineapple and a tiny, pink umbrella. At least the alcohol made it easier to pretend that this wasn't a totally obscene situation to be in.
Shawn fucking Spencer has bought three hours of his time, for him to make Lassiter do as he pleased. Of course, the safety form that he had been anally insistent upon left out any chance for signing any legal documents and non-consensual bodily harm, which he only wrote down because if he-for some unknown reason-decided to punch Spencer, there wouldn't be issues legally. So technically, he was safe.
But praise be to technicalities when it came to Spencer. The man was a loaded confetti canon, ready to shock you with an impromptu rave at any moment. No one was safe from his outrageous behavior. He was unpredictable, an anomaly, obnoxious, clever- and was currently spilling his drink all over himself...
"Spencer, what the hell?"
The man blinked a couple times before actually understanding what it was that Lassiter was referring to. He chuckled with a hic, and nearly spilled his drink again trying to set it down on the table. "I might've had too much."
"You think?" Lassiter grumbled, abandoning his own glass and turning to the side so he could assess the damage. "You need to change your shirt. It's soaked."
"Can I have yours?"
"What? No."
Shawn pouted, crossing his arms over his drink-drenched shirt. He defiantly pressed a little closer until the space between them was starting to reek of sweet alcohol. "Why not?"
"Because you're not five."
"That's not a very good excuse." Shawn grumbled, pouting his lip, "I did pay for your time, you know. I think I deserve a shirt."
"There's an entire closet full of clothes that fit you literally through that door." He grumbled, jerking his head towards Shawn's bedroom. There were only two other rooms in Spencer's tiny apartment, and he'd already used the bathroom, so the assumption that the second one led to a bed wasn't an inaccurate deduction.
"I don't want get up."
"I'll go get it then."
Before he could stand, Shawn looped his arms around Lassie's waist, frowning, "I don't want you to get up either."
Carlton let out an irritated huff, pinching the bridge of his nose and trying to ward off a headache. Taking care of an inebriated Shawn Spencer was the last thing he wanted to do with his spare time. At this rate, he'd start getting migraines before the medical association's appropriate age range actually hit him. His head hurt with the sharp twinge of pain anyhow, and the heavy scent of sugary alcohol not offering any help. "Spencer, you're drunk. Let go and I'll get you a new shirt."
"Don't wanna."
"Let go, Spencer."
Shawn smirked, stuck his tongue out and taunted, "Make me."
And Carlton Lassiter was not a man renowned for his self control.
It was probably a stupid idea to bait a cop into tackling him. Okay, not probably, it most definitely was a bad idea. Even more dumbfound of Carlton to actually go through with it. Of course, it wasn't until after Lassiter had flipped them over on the couch, Shawn's face pressed into the couch with an arm pinned behind his back, that Lassiter actually took a moment to consider Spencer might have done it on purpose.
Like this, the man was practically immobilized, trapped under Lassiter like a cat under the couch. However, it didn't stop the (definitely fake) psychic from smirking, letting out a breath of laughter, and making a stupid innuendo. He did it all the time. It was like his trade mark. No action of his came without it. A little sexual harassment at work, some embarrassing teasing, it seemed to be what made him tick.
"Do you get off on pissing people off Spencer?" Lassiter growled, suddenly a lot more irritated than before.
"Just you, Lassikins."
He scoffed. Of course Shawn was tormenting him on purpose.
Then everything went to hell. The honestly compromising position hadn't been brought to Carlton's attention until Shawn decided to shamelessly grind his ass back against Lassiter's groin. Truthfully, he should have seen it coming. He had Shawn pinned down on the couch, ass in the air like some sort of offering, and in order to hold him there, he had to be real close. Like, body draped over him like a blanket, close.
He was about to pull away, just get the hell outta dodge before it occurred to him that that might have been Spencer's plan. If he initiated a little frottage, Lassiter would wrench back like he was on fire because that's what normal people did damn it. But Shawn Spencer was not normal.
His annoyance was ticking up by the second, and he'd be damned if he would give Shawn the satisfaction of getting away with that, "Nice try, Spencer. I'm not letting you up."
Shawn grinned lazily, rolling his hips and pressing back against Lassiter's crotch again, "Who says I want you to?"
"You're deliberately screwing with me." Lassiter grumbled, matter of fact.
Shawn's smile didn't falter too much as he repeated his movements, brushing back, rolling against, and practically grinding on Lassiter. It would be a lie to say he was completely unaffected by it, but, to be fair, any man who didn't react to someone shamelessly rutting against them was probably a serial killer.
It was proven that most serial killers couldn't get off unless they were killing someone pre-orgasm. That was the only exception he could think of really. Lassiter most certainly wasn't a serial killer, so yeah, he was affected. Sue him.
Whether he wanted to acknowledge Spencer's goading or not, he'd rather play Shawn's game for a while than admit defeat. So he gave a little back. It might have been impulsive, but after all the years of sexual harassment at the office, it was a proud moment for his ego to be the one making Spencer uncomfortable. So he ground back, pressing himself against Spencer with a small grunt.
He hadn't expected such a dirty moan for his efforts.
"Oh god, Lassie, do that again."
Lassiter's second thrust was involuntary. He'd been watching closely for a reaction when he moved, Shawn's legs widened the slightest inch, the pressure against his groin intensifying as Spencer let out such a raw groan... His hips had moved forward on their own accord, and the second thrust was greeted with just as much encouragement.
It suddenly occurred to him that Shawn might actually be enjoying this. Well, shit. He may have completely misread the situation. Spencer was... actually enjoying having Lassiter grind against his ass. Well, any man would feel a prideful jolt to his dick now wouldn't he? It was perfectly normal to react to the compliment. Carlton could chock that up to natural bodily responses, or the heavy influence of the alcohol if he really wanted. He took a gulp of air, suddenly feeling a little tighter in his suit and tie, wanting nothing more than to reach up and loosen it...
Then again, maybe it was just part of Shawn's game. Maybe Lassiter was supposed to pull away thinking it was real, then Shawn would have the upper hand again. Ever the sneaky bastard, Carlton wouldn't put it past him. Embarrass Lassiter until he just walked away-
Then Spencer whined.
Honest to god whined, head tipped back, staring Carlton right in the eye.
Lassiter gulped, forced himself to calm down, assess the situation, like any officer should in moments of peril. He could pull away, but if Shawn really was just screwing with him then he would lose. He could always make sure before backing up. Surely one more experimental thrust couldn't hurt. Just to see if this was Spencer plotting or not, a scientific experiment you could say. For the sake of- call it surveillance.
So he jerked forward, grinding his (suddenly very interested) dick into the curve of Spencer's ass, and eliciting the most wanton of noises. Shit. It was real, one hundred percent real and Lassiter was suddenly hyper aware of Shawn's labored breathing, his clenched fist where Carlton had his arm pinned to his back, the other hand white-knuckling the arm of the couch. It was real. So real.
And Shawn was drunk.
Lassiter pulled back so quick he thought he might give himself whiplash. Shawn practically keening at him only made it worse. Shawn was drunk. He wouldn't be acting like this under normal circumstances. It was obviously the influence of the alcohol encouraging such behavior. He just needed to stop this now, before it got out of hand. "Lassieeeee..." Shawn whimpered, pushing himself up and facing the detective, pupils blown wide under his lidded eyes. "Why'd you stop?"
God he needed to get ahold of himself. He stood from the couch, watching closer than he'd care to admit as Shawn rearranged himself. He didn't change position too much, but he brought both hands in front of him, ass still high in the air, like he was waiting for Lassiter to come back. "You're drunk, Spencer." he managed, a little strangled, suddenly feeling even antsier than before.
"We covered this already." he huffed, "Now can we get back to the whole dry humping me against the couch thing?"
"Jesus Spencer." he cursed, "You're drunk, and you're not yourself."
"I'm me." he retorted with a tone of offence, "I'm just a more fun version of me. Pink wine and vodka aside, party time, all the time kind of man. I am good. So, so good. So very good. Like, pineapple smoothie good. Seriously."
"You're not even making sense anymore. Come here."
Lassiter helped Spencer up and off the couch, baring most of his weight as he practically dragged Shawn to his bedroom. It both helped, and didn't help that Shawn was taking this as acceptance to his invitation for sex. For one, Shawn's eagerness made getting him to the bedroom a little easier, but when he got there he was ambushed by Shawn's lips, latching onto his neck.
"Jesus, Spencer!" he groaned, pulling the man off him and plonking him down on the bed.
He did his best to ignore the way Shawn tried to crawl back, preparing himself for Lassiter to come down and join him after he finished pulling off Shawn's messy shirt. Lassiter did not, however, miss the pointed pout on his lips when instead of lying down with him, he merely tugged the blanket over Shawn's shoulders. "Go to sleep." he ordered, tossing Shawn's sticky shirt to the floor.
"You're leaving?"
"No." Lassiter grumbled, sparing a quickly glance towards his watch, "I'm stuck here for another hour and a half."
"I want you to stay."
"Go to sleep Spencer, before you say something you'll regret." Like how you're not really a psychic. Or why the hell you felt the need to get drunk and seduce me.
"I want you to stay." he repeated, stubbornly trying to sit up, a desperate look on his face.
"I know, I know. Look, I'm staying. See?" Lassiter, as if to prove his point, took a seat on the bed by Shawn's feet, hoping that would appease him enough to at least try and sleep.
He didn't like dealing with drunks, and apparently Shawn was the clingy kind. He only ever got drunk himself on a few occasions, and honestly found it annoying more than anything else. You were vulnerable when drunk. You said things you wouldn't say normally... did things you wouldn't do. Plus, Carlton had been told he himself was a rather grumpy drunk, which honestly that hadn't sat well with him. Personally, he knew from experience that intoxicated people tended to be more erratic, and dealing with a temperamental, stumbling man was just a hassle.
So he didn't get drunk often, and tried to avoid dealing with other intoxicated people whenever he could.
Lassiter resolved to treat this situation like he treated his other encounters with drunks; with kid gloves and as much patience as he could muster. He wouldn't take advantage of Shawn's drunken state. He wouldn't ask questions. He'd just order him to shut up and go to bed, maybe set a glass of water and some painkillers on the bedside table for when he inevitably woke up with a hangover later.
He was in the middle of deciding whether or not to put a bin by the bed in case he threw up when Shawn smiled, brilliantly at him. Like Carlton staying there and staring at him was something amazing in itself. Oh. Yeah. He had been staring at Shawn.
He coughed uncomfortably, "What?"
Shawn's giddy grin didn't falter a bit as Carlton snapped at him. "I'm glad we're friends." he said, the rate of his blinks slowing.
Lassiter thought he might fall off the bed. He stared wide eyed at Shawn for a moment, thinking he must have mistaken something, maybe heard him wrong. There was no way that Shawn Spencer -irritable, annoying, confusing, general pain-in-the-ass Shawn Spencer- considered Lassiter his friend. But Shawn just grinned at him, turned to the side and shut his eyes before pulling the blanket up to his chin.
Jesus.
Why couldn't he have been bid on by the handsy old lady?