Fic: "After Morning (2/3)"
Fandom: Psych
Title: After Morning
Rating: R
Pairing: Lassiter/Shawn
Warnings: A sexually explict scene between two men and slightly angsty themes.
Spoilers: None
Word Count: ~1700
Notes: Smut is for byrons_brain. Keep in mind, this is my very first time writing the big bad smut.
Summary: Shawn decides his birthday isn't so bad anymore and bobble-heads shall forever make him giggle.
Birthday Series - Part 2 of 3
Five things registered in his mind as Shawn entered the world of consciousness. The first was someone gently tracing patterns on his hipbone, slightly calloused fingers making his skin tickle. When he couldn't help shifting his body under the touch and the fingers quit their tracing, number two was his own voice asking the someone "Don't stop?". The third was said someone stiffening behind him in bed. Number four was the fact that...well, that someone was in his bed. (At least, he hoped it was his bed... He was pretty sure it was his bed.) Finally, number five was who said person was. They were kind of out of order, but that's generally how they clicked into place. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he was thinking about the discount on Tuesdays at Tropical Smoothies, and how a HawiianBerry would really hit the spot right about now.
It took some struggling with the sheets, but he was finally able to turn around and was greeted with pretty freaked out blue eyes.
Shawn blinked.
Carlton blinked.
Shawn blinked again.
Carlton blinked again.
And Shawn wasn't sure if they were having a blinking contest or multiple staring contests that just didn't last very long.
"Well, this is the least akward morning after I've ever had."
Carlton stared at him like he was slightly out of his mind. "Least akward?"
"Yeah. I mean, at least I know your name." Shawn flashed him what he hoped was a charming smile. Honestly, he was counting down the seconds before Carlton got up and ran for the hills.
"Well I hope to God you remember my name. You only had nine beers." How the detective managed to sound condescending and still in shock was a mystery to Shawn.
"I only drink like three times a year, so excuse me if I can't hold my liquor like you pickled Irish men." At least Carlton wasn't running away yet.
"What does my being Irish have to do with being able to hold my liquor?" He actually sounded rather indignant, propping himself up on his elbows, and Shawn wondered how many times Carlton's had this discussion.
"Oh come on, you guys invented whiskey."
"So. The Germans invented beer, nobody calls them drunks." Shawn raised an eyebrow, his confusion momentarily making him forget about the pounding behind his eyes.
"Germans didn't invent beer, they're just really good at making it. Not as good as your dear St. Patrick though." It was strange, how easy their bickering came, even in their current...situation.
"Just because I'm Irish does not mean-" Carlton cut himself off with a small groan and let his head fall back on the pillow. Shawn thinks it's because he's finally realized that he's having an argument with a psychic while naked in said psychic's bed. (A scan around the room had confirmed that Shawn was, in fact, in his own bed.)
"We just had our first fight, didn't we? We did! And we're not even going steady yet."
Carlton sighed and got up from the bed, pushing the covers away. "We're not going steady."
"I know. That's what I said." Shawn couldn't suppress the disappointment as Carlton pulled on his boxers.
"No. You said we're not going steady, yet." The detective gathered up his clothes, before turning to look at Shawn. "Uhh..."
He pointed to the door. "Bathroom's right across the hall." Carlton nodded once, then turned to walk out the door while Shawn admired the view.
It was really tempting to just curl back up under the covers and close his eyes, but he knew that wouldn't be fair to Carlton. Then again, it's really not fair to his brain to keep his eyes open like this. Shawn groaned as he tried to get his mind to work properly and remember what happened last night. He was fairly sure they'd had sex; his very soar rear end could attest to that.
Their bodies melded together, and Shawn wasn't sure where he started and Carlton began. He couldn't rightfully call it making love, or even sex. It was pure and simple lust, need, desperation; all from Shawn. Carlton didn't seem to have realized what was going on quite yet, but he figured the detective would catch up with him soon enough. Shawn was nearly clawing at the other man's clothes ("please, Lassiter, please") by the time the lips against his began pressing back, and he wasn't exactly sure how they'd ended up in his bedroom. At the moment, he really didn't mind not knowing.
It wasn't passionate or beautiful; if anything, it was incredibly messy and sloppy. Shawn was well past slightly buzzed, his lips felt practically numb, and it was difficult for him to tell what he was kissing really. Thankfully, Carlton made up for Shawn's lack of coordination, ("I need this, please Lassiter") undressing them both quickly and pushing the covers to the end of the bed. When they were both finally bare and pressed together, it seemed as though a switch flicked on in the other man's brain, as he tried to pull back from Shawn's grip. He'd have none of that 'thinking' stuff now though, and he pulled Carlton back down.
"Don't stop."
Always the sensible one, it was Carlton who remembered the condom and lube before they went too far. It took some rummaging through the night stand, but he finally found them. The other man didn't think to prepare Shawn, and as he pressed into him ("fuck, oh fuck"), the faux psychic thanked God for alcohol while he forced himself to relax. Carlton, forever a detective at heart, didn't miss the way Shawn's face scrunched up in pain. Shawn had to wrap his legs around Carlton's waist to keep him from pulling back out.
"Don't stop."
It was difficult to explain ("please, just please"), and he certainly wasn't going to try while his mouth and brain seemed so out of sync with each other, but he needed this. He's heard people call sex a cure-all before; and he's never believed them before. He was a believer now.
It hurt, more than it normally did with another man because of the lack of preparation. Yet Shawn couldn't force his mouth form the word 'stop' without preceding it with 'don't'. The pain set him on edge, even semi-numb from the beers. It gave him something to focus on though ("more please Carlton"), something besides the quickly fading ache in his chest. The first few thrusts were stuttering, unsure, and Shawn's positive that Carlton's never had sex with another guy before now. Eventually though, Carlton builds up a rhythm. Slow at first, still not wanting to hurt him, Shawn thinks. But when he starts meeting each thrust, panting and moaning, Carlton seems to gain confidence. And the thrusts become deeper, harder, and faster, and Shawn really can't help wondering if he's in heaven or hell.
"Don't stop."
Shawn's really not sure what to call the noise that comes out of his throat when Carlton's cock presses against his sweet spot, but the detective seems to notice that whatever he did was a good thing ("really fucking good, oh god, yes, please, don't stop"), and he angles his thrusts to do it again. And again, and again and ("oh god, don't stop") again. It's not long after that Shawn can't seem to handle the overload of sensations entering his mind; and his legs tighten around Carlton's waist while his muscles tighten around Carlton's cock. He came, panting a mantra ("don't stop, please, don't stop").
A few thrusts later, and Carlton follows Shawn over the edge, his heavy breathing next to Shawn's ear sending chills down his spine. Thankfully, he didn't completely collapse onto Shawn, supporting half his weight on his elbows. He pressed lazy kisses along the side of Shawn's neck and shoulder, and Shawn can't help wondering if he deserves to be in heaven.
"Don't stop."
Coffee: the traditional morning after mediator. Something to stare at so you didn't have to stare at them and something to sip to stall for time.
Shawn downed one cup, then made sure there was another for both of them when Carlton came out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. Shawn thought he looked dressed and refreshed, ready for work despite that it was almost ten in the morning and he'd surely have to call in sick. He took a sip from his cup while Carlton reached for his and waited for the akward silence to be broken by one of them. Evidently, the detective didn't feel up to talking this mid-morning.
"So... Did you have your heterosexual freak out?"
Carlton's eyebrow raised to meet his strong Irish hairline. "My what?"
"You know. The thing where you realize you're obviously not as straight as you thought you were. Then, you like, go through the five stages of mourning while you greive for your heterosexuality."
"...Five stages of mourning?"
"Yeah. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. For some reason, 'straight' guys always mourn the loss of their heterosexuality." Shawn explained, complete with air quotes and all.
Carlton's right eyebrow rose to meet the left. "No... I don't think I've had that yet."
Shawn 'hmm'ed and nodded while he sipped his coffee, and Carlton did the same. He couldn't help thinking that they looked an awful lot like bobble-heads with all the nodding, which really wasn't helping his hang-over. But the thought wouldn't leave his head and soon enough, there was a smile that wouldn't leave his face. Carlton was still looking into his coffee; and still nodding. Shawn snorted into his cup and had to put it back on the table, lest he drop the steaming ceramic. Carlton looked up sharply at the noise and he stared, for a moment, at the sight of Shawn, grin on his face and shoulders shaking. He's sure the detective doesn't know what he's laughing at, but then there's a grin on the other man's face, and the reason for it doesn't seem to matter. Carlton's elbows propped up on the table, he hides his face in his hands while the smile gets bigger, and Shawn sees his shoulders shaking as well.
Once all the tension's been replaced with laughter, they're finally able to stop their giggles and wipe their watering eyes. His ribs hurt, as well as his head, but it's a good pain. He's slightly breathless when Shawn finally manages to ask, "You want something to eat?"
And there's still a smile on Carlton's face when he answers, "Sure."
And Shawn really wasn't expecting Carlton to stand and lean over the table to kiss him. He's still breathless when he says, "Don't stop."
Title: After Morning
Rating: R
Pairing: Lassiter/Shawn
Warnings: A sexually explict scene between two men and slightly angsty themes.
Spoilers: None
Word Count: ~1700
Notes: Smut is for byrons_brain. Keep in mind, this is my very first time writing the big bad smut.
Summary: Shawn decides his birthday isn't so bad anymore and bobble-heads shall forever make him giggle.
Birthday Series - Part 2 of 3
Five things registered in his mind as Shawn entered the world of consciousness. The first was someone gently tracing patterns on his hipbone, slightly calloused fingers making his skin tickle. When he couldn't help shifting his body under the touch and the fingers quit their tracing, number two was his own voice asking the someone "Don't stop?". The third was said someone stiffening behind him in bed. Number four was the fact that...well, that someone was in his bed. (At least, he hoped it was his bed... He was pretty sure it was his bed.) Finally, number five was who said person was. They were kind of out of order, but that's generally how they clicked into place. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he was thinking about the discount on Tuesdays at Tropical Smoothies, and how a HawiianBerry would really hit the spot right about now.
It took some struggling with the sheets, but he was finally able to turn around and was greeted with pretty freaked out blue eyes.
Shawn blinked.
Carlton blinked.
Shawn blinked again.
Carlton blinked again.
And Shawn wasn't sure if they were having a blinking contest or multiple staring contests that just didn't last very long.
"Well, this is the least akward morning after I've ever had."
Carlton stared at him like he was slightly out of his mind. "Least akward?"
"Yeah. I mean, at least I know your name." Shawn flashed him what he hoped was a charming smile. Honestly, he was counting down the seconds before Carlton got up and ran for the hills.
"Well I hope to God you remember my name. You only had nine beers." How the detective managed to sound condescending and still in shock was a mystery to Shawn.
"I only drink like three times a year, so excuse me if I can't hold my liquor like you pickled Irish men." At least Carlton wasn't running away yet.
"What does my being Irish have to do with being able to hold my liquor?" He actually sounded rather indignant, propping himself up on his elbows, and Shawn wondered how many times Carlton's had this discussion.
"Oh come on, you guys invented whiskey."
"So. The Germans invented beer, nobody calls them drunks." Shawn raised an eyebrow, his confusion momentarily making him forget about the pounding behind his eyes.
"Germans didn't invent beer, they're just really good at making it. Not as good as your dear St. Patrick though." It was strange, how easy their bickering came, even in their current...situation.
"Just because I'm Irish does not mean-" Carlton cut himself off with a small groan and let his head fall back on the pillow. Shawn thinks it's because he's finally realized that he's having an argument with a psychic while naked in said psychic's bed. (A scan around the room had confirmed that Shawn was, in fact, in his own bed.)
"We just had our first fight, didn't we? We did! And we're not even going steady yet."
Carlton sighed and got up from the bed, pushing the covers away. "We're not going steady."
"I know. That's what I said." Shawn couldn't suppress the disappointment as Carlton pulled on his boxers.
"No. You said we're not going steady, yet." The detective gathered up his clothes, before turning to look at Shawn. "Uhh..."
He pointed to the door. "Bathroom's right across the hall." Carlton nodded once, then turned to walk out the door while Shawn admired the view.
It was really tempting to just curl back up under the covers and close his eyes, but he knew that wouldn't be fair to Carlton. Then again, it's really not fair to his brain to keep his eyes open like this. Shawn groaned as he tried to get his mind to work properly and remember what happened last night. He was fairly sure they'd had sex; his very soar rear end could attest to that.
Their bodies melded together, and Shawn wasn't sure where he started and Carlton began. He couldn't rightfully call it making love, or even sex. It was pure and simple lust, need, desperation; all from Shawn. Carlton didn't seem to have realized what was going on quite yet, but he figured the detective would catch up with him soon enough. Shawn was nearly clawing at the other man's clothes ("please, Lassiter, please") by the time the lips against his began pressing back, and he wasn't exactly sure how they'd ended up in his bedroom. At the moment, he really didn't mind not knowing.
It wasn't passionate or beautiful; if anything, it was incredibly messy and sloppy. Shawn was well past slightly buzzed, his lips felt practically numb, and it was difficult for him to tell what he was kissing really. Thankfully, Carlton made up for Shawn's lack of coordination, ("I need this, please Lassiter") undressing them both quickly and pushing the covers to the end of the bed. When they were both finally bare and pressed together, it seemed as though a switch flicked on in the other man's brain, as he tried to pull back from Shawn's grip. He'd have none of that 'thinking' stuff now though, and he pulled Carlton back down.
"Don't stop."
Always the sensible one, it was Carlton who remembered the condom and lube before they went too far. It took some rummaging through the night stand, but he finally found them. The other man didn't think to prepare Shawn, and as he pressed into him ("fuck, oh fuck"), the faux psychic thanked God for alcohol while he forced himself to relax. Carlton, forever a detective at heart, didn't miss the way Shawn's face scrunched up in pain. Shawn had to wrap his legs around Carlton's waist to keep him from pulling back out.
"Don't stop."
It was difficult to explain ("please, just please"), and he certainly wasn't going to try while his mouth and brain seemed so out of sync with each other, but he needed this. He's heard people call sex a cure-all before; and he's never believed them before. He was a believer now.
It hurt, more than it normally did with another man because of the lack of preparation. Yet Shawn couldn't force his mouth form the word 'stop' without preceding it with 'don't'. The pain set him on edge, even semi-numb from the beers. It gave him something to focus on though ("more please Carlton"), something besides the quickly fading ache in his chest. The first few thrusts were stuttering, unsure, and Shawn's positive that Carlton's never had sex with another guy before now. Eventually though, Carlton builds up a rhythm. Slow at first, still not wanting to hurt him, Shawn thinks. But when he starts meeting each thrust, panting and moaning, Carlton seems to gain confidence. And the thrusts become deeper, harder, and faster, and Shawn really can't help wondering if he's in heaven or hell.
"Don't stop."
Shawn's really not sure what to call the noise that comes out of his throat when Carlton's cock presses against his sweet spot, but the detective seems to notice that whatever he did was a good thing ("really fucking good, oh god, yes, please, don't stop"), and he angles his thrusts to do it again. And again, and again and ("oh god, don't stop") again. It's not long after that Shawn can't seem to handle the overload of sensations entering his mind; and his legs tighten around Carlton's waist while his muscles tighten around Carlton's cock. He came, panting a mantra ("don't stop, please, don't stop").
A few thrusts later, and Carlton follows Shawn over the edge, his heavy breathing next to Shawn's ear sending chills down his spine. Thankfully, he didn't completely collapse onto Shawn, supporting half his weight on his elbows. He pressed lazy kisses along the side of Shawn's neck and shoulder, and Shawn can't help wondering if he deserves to be in heaven.
"Don't stop."
Coffee: the traditional morning after mediator. Something to stare at so you didn't have to stare at them and something to sip to stall for time.
Shawn downed one cup, then made sure there was another for both of them when Carlton came out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. Shawn thought he looked dressed and refreshed, ready for work despite that it was almost ten in the morning and he'd surely have to call in sick. He took a sip from his cup while Carlton reached for his and waited for the akward silence to be broken by one of them. Evidently, the detective didn't feel up to talking this mid-morning.
"So... Did you have your heterosexual freak out?"
Carlton's eyebrow raised to meet his strong Irish hairline. "My what?"
"You know. The thing where you realize you're obviously not as straight as you thought you were. Then, you like, go through the five stages of mourning while you greive for your heterosexuality."
"...Five stages of mourning?"
"Yeah. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. For some reason, 'straight' guys always mourn the loss of their heterosexuality." Shawn explained, complete with air quotes and all.
Carlton's right eyebrow rose to meet the left. "No... I don't think I've had that yet."
Shawn 'hmm'ed and nodded while he sipped his coffee, and Carlton did the same. He couldn't help thinking that they looked an awful lot like bobble-heads with all the nodding, which really wasn't helping his hang-over. But the thought wouldn't leave his head and soon enough, there was a smile that wouldn't leave his face. Carlton was still looking into his coffee; and still nodding. Shawn snorted into his cup and had to put it back on the table, lest he drop the steaming ceramic. Carlton looked up sharply at the noise and he stared, for a moment, at the sight of Shawn, grin on his face and shoulders shaking. He's sure the detective doesn't know what he's laughing at, but then there's a grin on the other man's face, and the reason for it doesn't seem to matter. Carlton's elbows propped up on the table, he hides his face in his hands while the smile gets bigger, and Shawn sees his shoulders shaking as well.
Once all the tension's been replaced with laughter, they're finally able to stop their giggles and wipe their watering eyes. His ribs hurt, as well as his head, but it's a good pain. He's slightly breathless when Shawn finally manages to ask, "You want something to eat?"
And there's still a smile on Carlton's face when he answers, "Sure."
And Shawn really wasn't expecting Carlton to stand and lean over the table to kiss him. He's still breathless when he says, "Don't stop."