Fic: "That Ruthless Gravity, That Foreign Sound", 'Psych', R (Juliet/Lassiter)
Heaven help me, I've written porn about the modern day Doris and Rock.
TITLE: That Ruthless Gravity, That Foreign Sound
FANDOM: Psych, Juliet/Lassiter
RATING: R, or NC-17 for you Americans
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Really, the show would have more of this and less James Roday if it were.
That Ruthless Gravity, That Foreign Sound
Psych-verse, 21st January 2008
---
NOTES: You know what I love? Cliches. And you know what else I love? When partners go undercover and sexy shenanigans occur. I don't write sexy-sexy stuff very often, so this was a surprise for everyone involved, no doubt the characters, too. It's as rough as any proverbial thing you can think of, so don't hold that against me (insert sexy joke here about bodies and holding against etc).
I didn't even think I could think of these two in a situation like this, but with the help of jesshelga and atlashrugged and our commentficcing, things change. Like the weather, but with more heavy petting and Juliet in plastic shoes. That said, any illusions to this scene from a popular television program is unintentional (no, really). Maybe I have a kink.
With thanks to jesshelga for providing beta duties and "more, more, more!" chanting from the sidelines.
---
For Jessie, who's boyfriend is hot.
---
She's got an accent on and a top revealing the type of stuff that would make any man's eyes wide. Blonde baby curls kicked into a ponytail, cowboy boots and a Guess handbag, Lassiter wonders if she'd done this before and why the hell she didn't inform him they were undercover as Mr and Paris Hilton.
"Way to go, O'Hara, the perp's not gonna be lookin' at your face, for sure."
The way he says it is like a concerned father in his mind, but it comes out more as a threat or a you can't do this, junior partner, kiddo, newbie; undercover is for the tough guys. She narrows her eyes and just makes her eyes bigger and bluer and her hand wrap firmer around his forearm.
"Oh, sweetie, we're here to have fun, remember?"
It was all he could do not to run screaming from the hotel, but instead he clenches his jaw and takes the key that unlocked the room he hoped to God had two beds.
---
They're downstairs and fraternizing with the drug dealer with a love of selling cocaine to Santa Barbara's kids. His moll matches Lassiter's, because O'Hara's changed into a short pink number with plastic heels and her breasts moving with every high-pitched giggle.
He's in a suit and shirt that she pulled the button open on before they walked downstairs and, as he's touching base with Vick, he's thinking of how to touch base with his partner and bring her back down to earth.
It's just a part, Carlton, over her shoulder as she leapt into the elevator and he had thoughts he'd not had since the early days of the academy and his combat trainer had been a curvy woman named Sharon.
They're ordering drinks and Lassiter's playing it quiet because O'Hara's doing enough talking for both of them - matching Drug Moll giggle for irritating giggle and still managing to buy their trust with a third round of tequila and thinly veiled requests for drugs.
"Body shots!" Drug Moll screams, and O'Hara claps with glee, her face turning to his and he can see how young she really is. Part of him thinks - and the thought prickles his brain - she's so obviously been around the block to play-pretend this situation so well without hesitating or stuttering and he's suddenly both parts proud and scared.
Although, the thought of her around any block is enough to make the blood rush to his ears, so he mainlines a glass of scotch and tries not to think. But its hard when your junior partner's hand is clutching your thigh and the material's not thick enough to stop the heat.
He wonders what the feeling of lead around his ankles is, but it all calculates into inarticulate fear as his partner watches - with the solemnness of a monk - as the drug-riddled pair they're trying to dupe suck and lick tequila off each other like slugs and he knows they're up next.
O'Hara's watching him now, and the sweat breaks out because at the end of the day he's a professional, and it would be unprofessional to walk away from this scene for fear it'd blow the whole case.
Right? Right.
She's leaning into him, holding the lemon in one hand and placing the other behind his neck. He can't reach her eyes because her breasts are there, and he can feel them rising and falling and the feeling of lead in his ankles flows like fire up into his crotch and he wants to kill Mrs. Jenkins from Health Ed for telling him the ins-and-outs of a situation like this to begin with.
This is not O'Hara. He tries to bask in that thought, and think of the case and California Penal Code X-2768 and his wife telling him it's over. The day he found out he was getting a junior partner and a perky one at that, of Spencer and Guster and of centipedes and baseball statistics and her tongue is on his neck.
Pulling away, he meets her eyes and he knows that look.
Game on.
She licks her wrist without looking away, rubbing it in the salt on the table and pushing it against his neck.
"I like your hair," is what she whispers as he feels her breath like a vampire, a nip of her teeth and his vision goes a little hazy.
"Scull!" screams Drug Moll, and O'Hara pushes the lemon between his teeth, swigs the tequila and pushes her mouth down onto his. The lemon's dropped onto his pants and he's kissing her, breath like sour booze and burritos and perfume like lavenders and peaches and he realises how deliberate this whole thing is.
Her hands are up his thigh, kneading and pressing and working, and he's somehow managed to slip long fingers past the hem of her skirt and his brain is working so far overtime it was out of any company payroll.
Mouth with tongue past teeth, hand splayed across his crotch and he should have jumped but he's managed to place his own digits firmly under one breast and her side and she's biting his lip and making the cutest, deadliest noises he'd ever heard.
Finally the sound of silence breaks and the hotel pulls back into focus and for a moment he sees her break character and wipe her mouth like a greedy child.
He just stares at her, and prays to God she doesn't go anywhere near his lap again.
It's awkward, but only in that way where something strange and fitting has happened and you both want to do it again.
---
They don't get anymore information from the Drug Couple, because they'd disappeared during hers and Lassiter's game of...whatever that was.
Because Juliet O'Hara knew, underneath it all, that she'd been playing a role and a character and she was just out to prove she could do what it took to take this case to the next level, even if that meant having her superior officer knead at her boobs like a pro and touch her inner thighs like he meant business.
He was quiet as they walked back to the room, and she bit her lip before talking.
"So, how do you think it's going?"
Jumping like he'd been shot, he stopped and pointed to the door. "We'd better go in and debrief, O'Hara."
Right.
Debrief.
The room's still and he flicks on a light and she loves how long his hair has gotten. It's combed up at the front like a mini-Elvis, and it's so not him but him and she really doesn't regret volunteering them for undercover duty even though he'd spent a whole week complaining and whinging and trying to get them out of it.
Like he was scared to spend any time alone with her, she snorted, and it was only when he turned to her with such a Lassiter face under such Carlton hair that she realised she'd made the noise out loud.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What, O'Hara?"
"It's just..." She tried to articulate the situation, but it ended in flubbed lines about "worrying about the department" and "you're just scared" and basically "I'm a better, more risk-taking detective!"
The way he watched her made her eyes lid a little, because the light wasn't very bright and she'd had too much tequila (but not enough to ruin her police sensibilities and not enough to not recognise the determined look in Detective Lassiter's eyes as he un-did a couple more buttons on his shirt to show contrasting hair against his white, white shirt).
Juliet didn't know when he found his way behind her, but she could hear him swallowing heavily and his nervousness covered hers like a blanket. Juliet didn't know when her dress was unzipped or why, or when his hands curled around her stomach and pressed her slightly untoned belly and she shuddered, not because of him but the cold and no-one in their right mind would believe her if she tried explain it that way.
"I'm not afraid of what the department would think, O'Hara, I'm here to crack the case."
"Right." His index finger was at the edge of her boring, white underpants, and she looked to the ceiling.
"We're playing characters, here, and I'm good at that. Top of my class at the academy, excelled in vice, best at inventive lying and creative characteristics."
"Uh-huh." Nose up under her ear, fully extended fingers across her stomach and lower, his body pressed against her and she arched back without thinking because they were playing the part.
"Thirty-something couple from New York looking to score. Aim to befriend and," he breathed against her neck, "get closer to the perps."
"Which we did." It didn't sound like her voice, but that was because his hands were now up over her chest and his teeth connected with her neck.
"Young couple in love, high on life and whatever else dopeheads get high on."
"Exactly."
"We didn't, of course, have much time to prepare. I mean, I'm okay at this. I can leave Carlton at home and bring the vice, undercover stuff whenever. But you," she felt him smile and she almost buckled, "you need a little training."
"I did fine in my course."
"But that," he punctuated by unhooking her bra, "didn't cover everything. The real, unscripted improvised bits."
"Right, okay." It was hard to make sense and sentences when long fingers are tracing lines across your nipples and up over the swell of your chest and the air was cold because they'd left a window open to let the breeze in.
This man wasn't who she went to work with, the bridled, pent-up, obtusely obnoxious detective, who now had his hands in places she didn't ever expect and everything sort of went black as she just leant into him and tried her hardest not to make a lot of embarrassing noises.
---
Lassiter wasn't sure what he was doing or why he was doing it, but O'Hara was bucking against him and she had no shirt on and his mind had gone straight into Hard Noised Undercover Cop Man and they were just playing a part.
Where his hands in his partner's pants came into it, he'd never know.
Her face was turned into his neck and her breath was coming quicker and faster as he worked himself up simply at the sight of her closed eyes. Her thighs tightened and she groaned and bit her lip and clawed at his neck and he felt so proud of himself he almost smirked.
Of course, you can't smile when there's a mouth on yours, although he almost smirks at the thought O'Hara's a quick turnaround because she's pulling and tugging and leering at him like it's round two.
His pants are off and he's not actually sure he ever lost the blood that rushed from his ankles, he'd just gotten used to the tingly pain, and she's thrown his shirt onto the floor with the finesse of...well, someone who'd done this before.
"Are there lessons?" she muttered against his teeth, her hands all over his chest and hair and neck and back and shoulders, and he's pushed her onto the bed.
"No. Just experience," and he can't believe he said it, so he shuts himself up by exploring the landscape and working her up again.
When she's open mouthed on his shoulder, he lets her straddle him and they flip the situation from "playing" to "the real freakin' deal" and the change of pressure and the whole sensation almost throws him for a loop.
He likes it this way, her on his lap, watching him and pretending they're playing characters when they're really just acting on something more instinctual. She's soft and full of hazards, lines and new places for him to fit his hands and he kisses her with his eyes closed.
They stretch and shift, clench and he's gone, followed by her quickly and simply after and they fall together on the bed like a fowl that's just born.
"It's eleven o'clock," she says to no-one, and they let the time pass before he calls into Vick and lies when he says nothing has happened.
---
Fin.
---
Well. That was refreshing and not at all distressing.
TITLE: That Ruthless Gravity, That Foreign Sound
FANDOM: Psych, Juliet/Lassiter
RATING: R, or NC-17 for you Americans
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Really, the show would have more of this and less James Roday if it were.
That Ruthless Gravity, That Foreign Sound
Psych-verse, 21st January 2008
---
NOTES: You know what I love? Cliches. And you know what else I love? When partners go undercover and sexy shenanigans occur. I don't write sexy-sexy stuff very often, so this was a surprise for everyone involved, no doubt the characters, too. It's as rough as any proverbial thing you can think of, so don't hold that against me (insert sexy joke here about bodies and holding against etc).
I didn't even think I could think of these two in a situation like this, but with the help of jesshelga and atlashrugged and our commentficcing, things change. Like the weather, but with more heavy petting and Juliet in plastic shoes. That said, any illusions to this scene from a popular television program is unintentional (no, really). Maybe I have a kink.
With thanks to jesshelga for providing beta duties and "more, more, more!" chanting from the sidelines.
---
For Jessie, who's boyfriend is hot.
---
She's got an accent on and a top revealing the type of stuff that would make any man's eyes wide. Blonde baby curls kicked into a ponytail, cowboy boots and a Guess handbag, Lassiter wonders if she'd done this before and why the hell she didn't inform him they were undercover as Mr and Paris Hilton.
"Way to go, O'Hara, the perp's not gonna be lookin' at your face, for sure."
The way he says it is like a concerned father in his mind, but it comes out more as a threat or a you can't do this, junior partner, kiddo, newbie; undercover is for the tough guys. She narrows her eyes and just makes her eyes bigger and bluer and her hand wrap firmer around his forearm.
"Oh, sweetie, we're here to have fun, remember?"
It was all he could do not to run screaming from the hotel, but instead he clenches his jaw and takes the key that unlocked the room he hoped to God had two beds.
---
They're downstairs and fraternizing with the drug dealer with a love of selling cocaine to Santa Barbara's kids. His moll matches Lassiter's, because O'Hara's changed into a short pink number with plastic heels and her breasts moving with every high-pitched giggle.
He's in a suit and shirt that she pulled the button open on before they walked downstairs and, as he's touching base with Vick, he's thinking of how to touch base with his partner and bring her back down to earth.
It's just a part, Carlton, over her shoulder as she leapt into the elevator and he had thoughts he'd not had since the early days of the academy and his combat trainer had been a curvy woman named Sharon.
They're ordering drinks and Lassiter's playing it quiet because O'Hara's doing enough talking for both of them - matching Drug Moll giggle for irritating giggle and still managing to buy their trust with a third round of tequila and thinly veiled requests for drugs.
"Body shots!" Drug Moll screams, and O'Hara claps with glee, her face turning to his and he can see how young she really is. Part of him thinks - and the thought prickles his brain - she's so obviously been around the block to play-pretend this situation so well without hesitating or stuttering and he's suddenly both parts proud and scared.
Although, the thought of her around any block is enough to make the blood rush to his ears, so he mainlines a glass of scotch and tries not to think. But its hard when your junior partner's hand is clutching your thigh and the material's not thick enough to stop the heat.
He wonders what the feeling of lead around his ankles is, but it all calculates into inarticulate fear as his partner watches - with the solemnness of a monk - as the drug-riddled pair they're trying to dupe suck and lick tequila off each other like slugs and he knows they're up next.
O'Hara's watching him now, and the sweat breaks out because at the end of the day he's a professional, and it would be unprofessional to walk away from this scene for fear it'd blow the whole case.
Right? Right.
She's leaning into him, holding the lemon in one hand and placing the other behind his neck. He can't reach her eyes because her breasts are there, and he can feel them rising and falling and the feeling of lead in his ankles flows like fire up into his crotch and he wants to kill Mrs. Jenkins from Health Ed for telling him the ins-and-outs of a situation like this to begin with.
This is not O'Hara. He tries to bask in that thought, and think of the case and California Penal Code X-2768 and his wife telling him it's over. The day he found out he was getting a junior partner and a perky one at that, of Spencer and Guster and of centipedes and baseball statistics and her tongue is on his neck.
Pulling away, he meets her eyes and he knows that look.
Game on.
She licks her wrist without looking away, rubbing it in the salt on the table and pushing it against his neck.
"I like your hair," is what she whispers as he feels her breath like a vampire, a nip of her teeth and his vision goes a little hazy.
"Scull!" screams Drug Moll, and O'Hara pushes the lemon between his teeth, swigs the tequila and pushes her mouth down onto his. The lemon's dropped onto his pants and he's kissing her, breath like sour booze and burritos and perfume like lavenders and peaches and he realises how deliberate this whole thing is.
Her hands are up his thigh, kneading and pressing and working, and he's somehow managed to slip long fingers past the hem of her skirt and his brain is working so far overtime it was out of any company payroll.
Mouth with tongue past teeth, hand splayed across his crotch and he should have jumped but he's managed to place his own digits firmly under one breast and her side and she's biting his lip and making the cutest, deadliest noises he'd ever heard.
Finally the sound of silence breaks and the hotel pulls back into focus and for a moment he sees her break character and wipe her mouth like a greedy child.
He just stares at her, and prays to God she doesn't go anywhere near his lap again.
It's awkward, but only in that way where something strange and fitting has happened and you both want to do it again.
---
They don't get anymore information from the Drug Couple, because they'd disappeared during hers and Lassiter's game of...whatever that was.
Because Juliet O'Hara knew, underneath it all, that she'd been playing a role and a character and she was just out to prove she could do what it took to take this case to the next level, even if that meant having her superior officer knead at her boobs like a pro and touch her inner thighs like he meant business.
He was quiet as they walked back to the room, and she bit her lip before talking.
"So, how do you think it's going?"
Jumping like he'd been shot, he stopped and pointed to the door. "We'd better go in and debrief, O'Hara."
Right.
Debrief.
The room's still and he flicks on a light and she loves how long his hair has gotten. It's combed up at the front like a mini-Elvis, and it's so not him but him and she really doesn't regret volunteering them for undercover duty even though he'd spent a whole week complaining and whinging and trying to get them out of it.
Like he was scared to spend any time alone with her, she snorted, and it was only when he turned to her with such a Lassiter face under such Carlton hair that she realised she'd made the noise out loud.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What, O'Hara?"
"It's just..." She tried to articulate the situation, but it ended in flubbed lines about "worrying about the department" and "you're just scared" and basically "I'm a better, more risk-taking detective!"
The way he watched her made her eyes lid a little, because the light wasn't very bright and she'd had too much tequila (but not enough to ruin her police sensibilities and not enough to not recognise the determined look in Detective Lassiter's eyes as he un-did a couple more buttons on his shirt to show contrasting hair against his white, white shirt).
Juliet didn't know when he found his way behind her, but she could hear him swallowing heavily and his nervousness covered hers like a blanket. Juliet didn't know when her dress was unzipped or why, or when his hands curled around her stomach and pressed her slightly untoned belly and she shuddered, not because of him but the cold and no-one in their right mind would believe her if she tried explain it that way.
"I'm not afraid of what the department would think, O'Hara, I'm here to crack the case."
"Right." His index finger was at the edge of her boring, white underpants, and she looked to the ceiling.
"We're playing characters, here, and I'm good at that. Top of my class at the academy, excelled in vice, best at inventive lying and creative characteristics."
"Uh-huh." Nose up under her ear, fully extended fingers across her stomach and lower, his body pressed against her and she arched back without thinking because they were playing the part.
"Thirty-something couple from New York looking to score. Aim to befriend and," he breathed against her neck, "get closer to the perps."
"Which we did." It didn't sound like her voice, but that was because his hands were now up over her chest and his teeth connected with her neck.
"Young couple in love, high on life and whatever else dopeheads get high on."
"Exactly."
"We didn't, of course, have much time to prepare. I mean, I'm okay at this. I can leave Carlton at home and bring the vice, undercover stuff whenever. But you," she felt him smile and she almost buckled, "you need a little training."
"I did fine in my course."
"But that," he punctuated by unhooking her bra, "didn't cover everything. The real, unscripted improvised bits."
"Right, okay." It was hard to make sense and sentences when long fingers are tracing lines across your nipples and up over the swell of your chest and the air was cold because they'd left a window open to let the breeze in.
This man wasn't who she went to work with, the bridled, pent-up, obtusely obnoxious detective, who now had his hands in places she didn't ever expect and everything sort of went black as she just leant into him and tried her hardest not to make a lot of embarrassing noises.
---
Lassiter wasn't sure what he was doing or why he was doing it, but O'Hara was bucking against him and she had no shirt on and his mind had gone straight into Hard Noised Undercover Cop Man and they were just playing a part.
Where his hands in his partner's pants came into it, he'd never know.
Her face was turned into his neck and her breath was coming quicker and faster as he worked himself up simply at the sight of her closed eyes. Her thighs tightened and she groaned and bit her lip and clawed at his neck and he felt so proud of himself he almost smirked.
Of course, you can't smile when there's a mouth on yours, although he almost smirks at the thought O'Hara's a quick turnaround because she's pulling and tugging and leering at him like it's round two.
His pants are off and he's not actually sure he ever lost the blood that rushed from his ankles, he'd just gotten used to the tingly pain, and she's thrown his shirt onto the floor with the finesse of...well, someone who'd done this before.
"Are there lessons?" she muttered against his teeth, her hands all over his chest and hair and neck and back and shoulders, and he's pushed her onto the bed.
"No. Just experience," and he can't believe he said it, so he shuts himself up by exploring the landscape and working her up again.
When she's open mouthed on his shoulder, he lets her straddle him and they flip the situation from "playing" to "the real freakin' deal" and the change of pressure and the whole sensation almost throws him for a loop.
He likes it this way, her on his lap, watching him and pretending they're playing characters when they're really just acting on something more instinctual. She's soft and full of hazards, lines and new places for him to fit his hands and he kisses her with his eyes closed.
They stretch and shift, clench and he's gone, followed by her quickly and simply after and they fall together on the bed like a fowl that's just born.
"It's eleven o'clock," she says to no-one, and they let the time pass before he calls into Vick and lies when he says nothing has happened.
---
Fin.
---
Well. That was refreshing and not at all distressing.