Dirt Cellars and Rescue Missions, Psych FanFic
Master Fic List
TITLE: Dirt Cellars and Rescue Missions
RATING: PG/PG-13ish
WORD COUNT: ~750
CHARACTERS: Shawn/Carlton (established), Juliet
WARNINGS: A bored Shawn. Does that require a warning? I think there's a bad word or two, as well.
SUMMARY: For psychflashfic's Challenge #18: What are you wearing? Shawn gets kidnapped. Carlton takes his wardrobe a little seriously.
AO3 Link
Disclaimer: I own nothing but a ridiculous imagination.
Author's Note: I'm in the middle of a long bout of Writer's Block, so I'm actually surprised I managed to write this one. It was written very quickly and probably suffers from lack of a beta. I amused myself with it, anyway.
Also, I think I have a Lassiter/clothing kink. And I'm not even exactly sure what that means...
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Six hours, if Shawn’s internal clock was running right (which it usually was). Six hours since Crazy Psycho Murderer number 317 had grabbed him off the street (not even the street overprotective Lassiepants had ordered warned him to stay away from!) and thrown him into a freakin’ dirt cellar. (A dirt cellar? Really? Who even used those anymore!?)
Shawn was bored out of his totally awesome mind. Dirt cellars, after all, weren’t exactly known for their entertainment value. He’d managed to get out of the way-too-easy knot tied around his wrists in about five seconds and had been sitting, waiting impatiently, for the past five hours and fifty-five…fifty-six seconds. His head pounded periodically from the initial blow to his head, but the ache had eased up slightly since he’d lost interest in poking at the lump on the back of his skull.
The only apparent exit was a heavy wooden door at the top of a small set of stairs. (Shawn had spent fifteen minutes half-heartedly kicking at it to no avail.) The battery-powered lantern Shawn had found on the bottom step was starting to dim.
“C’mon Lassie,” he muttered. However boring a dimly lit cellar may be (which was pretty damn boring, as far as Shawn was concerned), Shawn really didn’t want to be stripped of the ability to make shadow puppets at will.
The imprisoned psychic jumped at the sound of a gunshot from somewhere above him. He stood as he heard the muffled voices shouting above him, trying to decide if any of them sounded familiar. Either this was his rescue, finally arrived, or Crazy Psycho Murderer number 318 was competing for the rights to hold him hostage (knowing the way his luck had been running lately, Shawn wasn’t discounting either possibility). The cellar door was wrenched upward and Shawn groaned as the sudden flood of sunlight renewed the throb in his head.
“Jules?” he said in surprise as a familiar blonde head peeked in.
“Found him!” she called over her shoulder as Shawn took a step toward his freedom.
“Man Jules, I am so about to kiss you!” he declared with a grin as he scrambled up the rickety stairs. He grabbed her around the waist and planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek.
A familiar growled, “Spencer,” came from Shawn’s left, making him grin again as he let go of Juliet to turn toward his other (and, really, his most) favorite detective. His mouth dropped open and his eyes widened as he took in the lanky form swathed in…camouflage? Carlton Lassiter had shown up to save the day (Shawn’s day, at least) looking like a member of some sort of backwoods militia. A glance at Lassiter’s face showed Shawn the man had even smudged his face with dirt (it didn’t do much to reduce the glare the male detective was aiming his way).
“What are you wearing?!” Shawn exclaimed in mock horror as his eyes briefly traveled south again, admiring the way Lassiter fit (very nicely) into a pair of cargo pants. He focused his attention back on Lassiter’s face, smudges and all, in time to see the detective tense up in what was usually preparation for a shouting match (in which Lassiter would do the shouting and Shawn would attempt to diffuse the situation with inappropriate humor spoken in a completely rational tone).
“It’s pretty hot,” Shawn waited to add just to watch Lassiter’s expression falter. Shawn shot a look at Juliet who blushed slightly even as she smirked and pointedly turned her back on the two men. Seizing the moment, Shawn launched himself at Carlton, grabbing onto fistfuls of browns and greens to better attack the taller man’s lips. It took a moment, but soon Lassiter was responding, his arms wrapping around Shawn’s torso to pull him in closer. Shawn hummed happily, tasting the sweat on Carlton’s upper lip, the dirt on his chin. Dragging in a deep breath, Shawn pulled back a long moment later. He and Lassiter blinked dumbly at each other for a second.
“If you’re done playing Chuck Norris in Missing in Action can we please go home now?” Shawn rasped. He couldn’t resist giving Lassiter another, much briefer, kiss on the mouth. “I’ve been very, very bored.” He grinned wickedly at the way the other man jumped when he grabbed firmly onto his ass.
“O’Hara!” Lassiter croaked out. He cleared his throat and pulled back a bit from Shawn to take his keys out of his pocket. “Get the car!”
/end
TITLE: Dirt Cellars and Rescue Missions
RATING: PG/PG-13ish
WORD COUNT: ~750
CHARACTERS: Shawn/Carlton (established), Juliet
WARNINGS: A bored Shawn. Does that require a warning? I think there's a bad word or two, as well.
SUMMARY: For psychflashfic's Challenge #18: What are you wearing? Shawn gets kidnapped. Carlton takes his wardrobe a little seriously.
AO3 Link
Disclaimer: I own nothing but a ridiculous imagination.
Author's Note: I'm in the middle of a long bout of Writer's Block, so I'm actually surprised I managed to write this one. It was written very quickly and probably suffers from lack of a beta. I amused myself with it, anyway.
Also, I think I have a Lassiter/clothing kink. And I'm not even exactly sure what that means...
-----------------------------
Six hours, if Shawn’s internal clock was running right (which it usually was). Six hours since Crazy Psycho Murderer number 317 had grabbed him off the street (not even the street overprotective Lassiepants had ordered warned him to stay away from!) and thrown him into a freakin’ dirt cellar. (A dirt cellar? Really? Who even used those anymore!?)
Shawn was bored out of his totally awesome mind. Dirt cellars, after all, weren’t exactly known for their entertainment value. He’d managed to get out of the way-too-easy knot tied around his wrists in about five seconds and had been sitting, waiting impatiently, for the past five hours and fifty-five…fifty-six seconds. His head pounded periodically from the initial blow to his head, but the ache had eased up slightly since he’d lost interest in poking at the lump on the back of his skull.
The only apparent exit was a heavy wooden door at the top of a small set of stairs. (Shawn had spent fifteen minutes half-heartedly kicking at it to no avail.) The battery-powered lantern Shawn had found on the bottom step was starting to dim.
“C’mon Lassie,” he muttered. However boring a dimly lit cellar may be (which was pretty damn boring, as far as Shawn was concerned), Shawn really didn’t want to be stripped of the ability to make shadow puppets at will.
The imprisoned psychic jumped at the sound of a gunshot from somewhere above him. He stood as he heard the muffled voices shouting above him, trying to decide if any of them sounded familiar. Either this was his rescue, finally arrived, or Crazy Psycho Murderer number 318 was competing for the rights to hold him hostage (knowing the way his luck had been running lately, Shawn wasn’t discounting either possibility). The cellar door was wrenched upward and Shawn groaned as the sudden flood of sunlight renewed the throb in his head.
“Jules?” he said in surprise as a familiar blonde head peeked in.
“Found him!” she called over her shoulder as Shawn took a step toward his freedom.
“Man Jules, I am so about to kiss you!” he declared with a grin as he scrambled up the rickety stairs. He grabbed her around the waist and planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek.
A familiar growled, “Spencer,” came from Shawn’s left, making him grin again as he let go of Juliet to turn toward his other (and, really, his most) favorite detective. His mouth dropped open and his eyes widened as he took in the lanky form swathed in…camouflage? Carlton Lassiter had shown up to save the day (Shawn’s day, at least) looking like a member of some sort of backwoods militia. A glance at Lassiter’s face showed Shawn the man had even smudged his face with dirt (it didn’t do much to reduce the glare the male detective was aiming his way).
“What are you wearing?!” Shawn exclaimed in mock horror as his eyes briefly traveled south again, admiring the way Lassiter fit (very nicely) into a pair of cargo pants. He focused his attention back on Lassiter’s face, smudges and all, in time to see the detective tense up in what was usually preparation for a shouting match (in which Lassiter would do the shouting and Shawn would attempt to diffuse the situation with inappropriate humor spoken in a completely rational tone).
“It’s pretty hot,” Shawn waited to add just to watch Lassiter’s expression falter. Shawn shot a look at Juliet who blushed slightly even as she smirked and pointedly turned her back on the two men. Seizing the moment, Shawn launched himself at Carlton, grabbing onto fistfuls of browns and greens to better attack the taller man’s lips. It took a moment, but soon Lassiter was responding, his arms wrapping around Shawn’s torso to pull him in closer. Shawn hummed happily, tasting the sweat on Carlton’s upper lip, the dirt on his chin. Dragging in a deep breath, Shawn pulled back a long moment later. He and Lassiter blinked dumbly at each other for a second.
“If you’re done playing Chuck Norris in Missing in Action can we please go home now?” Shawn rasped. He couldn’t resist giving Lassiter another, much briefer, kiss on the mouth. “I’ve been very, very bored.” He grinned wickedly at the way the other man jumped when he grabbed firmly onto his ass.
“O’Hara!” Lassiter croaked out. He cleared his throat and pulled back a bit from Shawn to take his keys out of his pocket. “Get the car!”
/end