Psych_flashfic challenge #2 Mexico
Author/Artist:papersoflight
Title: Mexico Blue
Challenge:#2 Mexico
Word Count:824
Rating: Hard R or NC-17
Warnings: Slash (homosexual relationship)
Summary: Melancholy, Cervesa, Neon, Sheets transported across the border and Bad Mariachi Music.
"You know what I love about Mexico, Gus?" asked Shawn Spencer, counterfeit psychic and earnest private detective, as he soaked in the sights and sounds of Tijuana.
"Let me guess- the fishing, no wait, the tequila?" Burton Guster, pharmaceutical salesman cum private detective answered his best friend.
Shawn stretched his arms out into T as if he meant to embrace the whole of the street before him. "Everything."
"You know, me too," Gus agreed amiably.
"I know. So," Shawn clapped his hands together in anticipation, "where shall we start?"
"How about we get some beers," Gus answered with exaggerated cheerfulness.
The thing about going to Mexico is that it's a whole 'nother country, which tends to loosen Gus up. Okay, really being in a whole 'nother country tends to make Gus tense about lots of things (getting back through customs without a strip-search, drinking the water, accidentally saying the wrong thing in his less than perfect Spanish and ending up in jail or married or dead). What does tend to loosen Gus up is the cervesa. The problem being that Gus doesn't drink much beer anywhere but in Mexico, so that's why they only ever have sex in Tijuana.
Shawn has tried, really, really tried (you just wouldn't believe how much) to get Gus to relax about his drinking habits, because, come on, it didn't actually make any difference where they were when they did it, home, Mexico, it didn't matter, they were still Shawn and Gus, Gus and Shawn: best friends and partners in everything. But, come hell or high water, Gus would only let Shawn suck him off if they both had a good beer buzz going and Gus only ever got a good beer buzz going if he was south of the border. Period.
The room was cheap and smelly, and there was really bad mariachi music coming through the thin walls, but the sheets were clean because Gus brought the sheets from home. The only light in the room was the irregular visual hissing of a neon sign coming in the window from across the plaza. The light made Gus's skin look a deep blue, as if he were underwater or from the planet Zurdon or some other strange blue-skin making possibility (which Shawn couldn't quite think up because he was busy being licked).
"Oh, yeah. Like that," Shawn whispered in encouragement.
Having the sheets along meant that Gus had thought about them having sex before they got in the car and started driving down the coast, which Shawn took as a good sign. The morning, Shawn noticed that Gus was keeping a spare set of sheets in a plastic bag in the trunk was awesome. He celebrated that little discovery by dragging Gus to the nearest Mexican bar (250 or so miles southeast) and buying him a drink.
Gus was warm and solid beneath him, following his rhythm, adding his own syncopations, whispering his own encouragement to Shawn, "So good, harder- yes- harder."
Gus wasn't blue anymore, most of his body shadowed from the neon by Shawn being above him. Now, Shawn saw Gus more with his skin than with his eyes- feeling the rich brown against him, knowing Gus with his eyes closed anyway. All the details, the things Shawn couldn't not notice, fell away when they were like this, except for Gus. His un-blued skin, his hot, wet mouth welcoming Shawn's, his fingers digging too strongly into Shawn's lower back as he urged him on.
The truth was that neither one of them had had much to drink, but they pretended- just they same way they whispered at least until they couldn’t help getting louder in the heat of things. The whispering was just like the beer consumption rule- they let Gus deny it all later, let Gus go back to being a normal, red-blooded, American guy once they crossed back over the border. Shawn hated whispering. To tell you the truth, as much as he went there, dragged Gus there every chance he got, Shawn kinda hated Mexico.
Gus's cock was hot in Shawn's hand, jumping on its own with each time Shawn pushed into Gus. He'd hardly touched it before Gus wasn't whispering anymore. "God, oh fuck- Shawn, please." And Gus came, his knees squeezing up against the sides of Shawn's ribs, his heels bumping against Shawn's ass. Shawn didn't say anything of substance as he came a few thrusts later, but he did that at the top of his lungs, as well.
Now, the sheets were dirty, but they were supposed to be too drunk to care, so, Shawn pulled out and they spooned close, facing away from the window. Shawn fell asleep listening to the bad mariachi, the slowing sound of Gus's breath, and pondering that third blue-skin making possibility because that one bit of Gus's shoulder was lit by the neon again. Nothing came to mind before sleep pulled him under.
Title: Mexico Blue
Challenge:#2 Mexico
Word Count:824
Rating: Hard R or NC-17
Warnings: Slash (homosexual relationship)
Summary: Melancholy, Cervesa, Neon, Sheets transported across the border and Bad Mariachi Music.
"You know what I love about Mexico, Gus?" asked Shawn Spencer, counterfeit psychic and earnest private detective, as he soaked in the sights and sounds of Tijuana.
"Let me guess- the fishing, no wait, the tequila?" Burton Guster, pharmaceutical salesman cum private detective answered his best friend.
Shawn stretched his arms out into T as if he meant to embrace the whole of the street before him. "Everything."
"You know, me too," Gus agreed amiably.
"I know. So," Shawn clapped his hands together in anticipation, "where shall we start?"
"How about we get some beers," Gus answered with exaggerated cheerfulness.
The thing about going to Mexico is that it's a whole 'nother country, which tends to loosen Gus up. Okay, really being in a whole 'nother country tends to make Gus tense about lots of things (getting back through customs without a strip-search, drinking the water, accidentally saying the wrong thing in his less than perfect Spanish and ending up in jail or married or dead). What does tend to loosen Gus up is the cervesa. The problem being that Gus doesn't drink much beer anywhere but in Mexico, so that's why they only ever have sex in Tijuana.
Shawn has tried, really, really tried (you just wouldn't believe how much) to get Gus to relax about his drinking habits, because, come on, it didn't actually make any difference where they were when they did it, home, Mexico, it didn't matter, they were still Shawn and Gus, Gus and Shawn: best friends and partners in everything. But, come hell or high water, Gus would only let Shawn suck him off if they both had a good beer buzz going and Gus only ever got a good beer buzz going if he was south of the border. Period.
The room was cheap and smelly, and there was really bad mariachi music coming through the thin walls, but the sheets were clean because Gus brought the sheets from home. The only light in the room was the irregular visual hissing of a neon sign coming in the window from across the plaza. The light made Gus's skin look a deep blue, as if he were underwater or from the planet Zurdon or some other strange blue-skin making possibility (which Shawn couldn't quite think up because he was busy being licked).
"Oh, yeah. Like that," Shawn whispered in encouragement.
Having the sheets along meant that Gus had thought about them having sex before they got in the car and started driving down the coast, which Shawn took as a good sign. The morning, Shawn noticed that Gus was keeping a spare set of sheets in a plastic bag in the trunk was awesome. He celebrated that little discovery by dragging Gus to the nearest Mexican bar (250 or so miles southeast) and buying him a drink.
Gus was warm and solid beneath him, following his rhythm, adding his own syncopations, whispering his own encouragement to Shawn, "So good, harder- yes- harder."
Gus wasn't blue anymore, most of his body shadowed from the neon by Shawn being above him. Now, Shawn saw Gus more with his skin than with his eyes- feeling the rich brown against him, knowing Gus with his eyes closed anyway. All the details, the things Shawn couldn't not notice, fell away when they were like this, except for Gus. His un-blued skin, his hot, wet mouth welcoming Shawn's, his fingers digging too strongly into Shawn's lower back as he urged him on.
The truth was that neither one of them had had much to drink, but they pretended- just they same way they whispered at least until they couldn’t help getting louder in the heat of things. The whispering was just like the beer consumption rule- they let Gus deny it all later, let Gus go back to being a normal, red-blooded, American guy once they crossed back over the border. Shawn hated whispering. To tell you the truth, as much as he went there, dragged Gus there every chance he got, Shawn kinda hated Mexico.
Gus's cock was hot in Shawn's hand, jumping on its own with each time Shawn pushed into Gus. He'd hardly touched it before Gus wasn't whispering anymore. "God, oh fuck- Shawn, please." And Gus came, his knees squeezing up against the sides of Shawn's ribs, his heels bumping against Shawn's ass. Shawn didn't say anything of substance as he came a few thrusts later, but he did that at the top of his lungs, as well.
Now, the sheets were dirty, but they were supposed to be too drunk to care, so, Shawn pulled out and they spooned close, facing away from the window. Shawn fell asleep listening to the bad mariachi, the slowing sound of Gus's breath, and pondering that third blue-skin making possibility because that one bit of Gus's shoulder was lit by the neon again. Nothing came to mind before sleep pulled him under.