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janedavitt Aug. 26th, 2010 10:09 pm)
janedavitt Aug. 26th, 2010 10:09 pm)Title Close Encounters: Interlude One
Authorjanedavitt
Web page Jane's Stories
Pairing Carlton/Shawn
Rating NC17
Length 1400 words
Spoilers None
Warnings Contains a brief reference to a dub-con enounter in Shawn's past.
A/N Let's pretend that I'm not making this up as I go along. I decided to have short interludes between the parts giving Shawn's POV. So this is the first of them.
Interlude One
Shawn watched Lassiter walk -- stalk -- away, peeking through the blinds at a stiff back and a thrust-out chin. There was a scowl, too. He couldn't see the chin or the scowl from this angle, but they had to be there -- everyone Lassiter passed took one look at him and flinched.
He wasn't quite sure why Lassie was pissed off, even less certain why he was letting him walk away. He'd hoped that they'd spend a little longer together than, hmm, thirty-seven minutes. As dates went, it was a short one. Not his record, no, that honor was still held by Rhonda Halliwell who'd taken one bite of her pineapple and pineapple pizza (it hadn't caught on, which amazed Shawn to this day) discovered a deathly allergy to yellow fruits and thrown up right there at the table. Twelve minutes. He'd noted the time even as he leaned to the left to avoid the splatter.
Maybe Lassie thought that he was bearing a mark of shame, a scarlet 'S' for 'Sexy' or something. Or he still didn't believe Shawn's assurances that his suit and shirt would pass any just-been-pressed test out there.
Okay, that was a lie. Lassiter's shirt did have a certain slept-in look to it and his pants lacked the knife-edge crease down the center of each that they'd had when Lassiter walked into Shawn's web, known to those not of the arachnid persuasion as the Psych office, headquarters of all that was cool in good old Santa Barbara. His jacket, though, there was nothing wrong with that at all. Overall, even quickly dwindling to a dot on the horizon Lassie looked good. Hot, in fact, exuding the steamy appeal of a man who'd just gotten to come with a grunt and a sigh, his dick tucked neatly inside another man's mouth.
Blow jobs were tidy. It figured that Lassiter would like them, even if he had seemed surprisingly fussy for a man getting his mind blown along with his dick. Teeth scrapes didn't hurt that much, did they? It wasn't like he'd been trying to bite down, after all, he'd just gotten a little enthusiastic when it'd all come together -- the sounds Lassie was making, shocked whimpers, muttered curses; the smooth skin of Lassie's hips and ass, so different from the wiry cloud of hair around his dick, and the smell of another man's balls and sweaty skin, intense, secret smells that he'd breathed in and shuddered over. The taste had been something else again, the novelty value outweighed by the sheer rush of lust it'd evoked. How could clean skin taste so deliciously dirty?
Shawn spared a moment to think about what Lassie had been hiding inside his woefully dull boxers (navy blue shorts lacking any form of decoration, not even a polka dot pattern or some frisky puppies). Headrush time. Wow. Shawn opened his mouth and wiggled his jaw just to check it still could move that way. The thought of what had rounded his mouth, choked him so perfectly, being driven hard up his ass was simultaneously terrifying and what he wanted for every birthday, Christmas, and Happy Psychic Day. Which fell on every day in the week beginning with a 'T', except in leap years, when it changed to the 'S' days.
He closed his eyes now that there wasn't anything left to see of Lassiter, even if he'd broken out the binoculars, and sat slumped in a chair, the darkness giving him room to think.
Lassie had figured out that he was the first man Shawn had known carnally, if they weren't counting -- no, they really weren't counting him. Shawn grimaced at the memory. Rank locker room stink and something he'd thought he'd wanted -- all those jock muscles, all that glamour saying his name in a shaken growl -- turning into a panicked rush for the door. He'd nearly made it, too… Saying he was sorry for being a prick tease on his knees, mouth open wide, had saved him some bruises and cost him some dignity. He'd thrown up afterward, brushed his teeth until he'd been spitting red, and then jerked off over a reworked memory of it, when it'd happened the way it should have, for years.
Shawn still wasn't really sure what had given him away to Lassiter, though. Lassie, who'd spent a year exploring the joys of man on man hot loving with his roommate and emerged a more rounded, confident person as a result.
Okay, that was stretching it. This was Lassie, after all, a man whose insecurities had issues, who didn't even seem to realize that he was weird and got oddly hurt when it was pointed out to him by, well, Shawn mostly. Yet also a man who knew that blow jobs ideally didn't involve gagging, drool, and pained yelps. Freaky. Lassiter was the Mariana Trench; who knew?
Shawn sighed and snuggled deeper into his chair, sorting through recent events. Lassie's hands in his hair, guiding him, holding him still, refusing to let Shawn bite off more than he could chew. Lassie fucking his mouth with a caution that had held no hesitancy and then, when Shawn had gotten the hang of what to do with all that spit and his tongue, with a rising urgency.
It'd all gotten blurry toward the end, but Shawn had heard his name attached to a lot of guttural groans and felt Lassiter's hands tighten around his skull before the moment when Lassie had --
"Lassie came in my mouth," he said aloud, wonderingly, incredulously. It still didn't seem real, but the corners of his mouth felt stretched raw, his jaw ached, and the back of his throat held an echo of the taste of Carlton Lassiter's come, faint, acrid, addictive.
He wanted to taste it again, a fresh flood of it spurting, jolting into his mouth, with Lassiter's ass rock hard under his hands as Lassie's muscles locked, frozen in ecstasy. He wanted…
Okay, just why had he let Lassie walk out with nothing more than a muttered, "Mention this to anyone and I swear I will lock you up and lose the key," when what Lassie should have said was, "I'm not done with you yet. You're coming home with me, Spencer."
And he would have followed him, close on his heels, because Lassiter hadn't just zipped up and walked out. He'd taken Shawn in hand first, jerking him off with a sure and steady grip, staring into Shawn's eyes even when Shawn had closed them (he could tell Lassie hadn't looked away because he'd peeked), not looking down at what his hand was doing, his arm thrown around Shawn's shoulders, holding him up.
Shawn had clutched and clawed at Lassiter's shoulders, mewling out exhortations that'd ranged from the desperate to the demanding. Lassiter had ignored them all and done it his way, from start to Shawn's finish, working Shawn's dick in a silent passion, blue eyes glittering, his breath harsh and hot against Shawn's face.
Shawn had come in a messy flourish all over Lassiter's hand and stomach, gasping for words and breath, still gasping when Lassiter had kissed him, pulling him close for it, so that Shawn could feel the heat of Lassiter's skin through the cooling skim of come.
He'd watched Lassiter disappear into the small rest room to clean up, watched him dress, fling out the threat that wasn't up to his usual standards, watched him leave.
That was a lot of passivity for one evening.
Shawn opened his eyes.
He knew where Lassie lived. Why was he still sitting here?
He was halfway to the door when he remembered that he was still mostly naked, one leg into his jeans when it occurred to him that Lassiter had been walking away from where he'd left his car.
Shawn reviewed the possible options in that direction and sighed as they narrowed to one. Peachy.
One date and he'd driven Lassie to drink.
Part Five
Author
janedavittWeb page Jane's Stories
Pairing Carlton/Shawn
Rating NC17
Length 1400 words
Spoilers None
Warnings Contains a brief reference to a dub-con enounter in Shawn's past.
A/N Let's pretend that I'm not making this up as I go along. I decided to have short interludes between the parts giving Shawn's POV. So this is the first of them.
Interlude One
Shawn watched Lassiter walk -- stalk -- away, peeking through the blinds at a stiff back and a thrust-out chin. There was a scowl, too. He couldn't see the chin or the scowl from this angle, but they had to be there -- everyone Lassiter passed took one look at him and flinched.
He wasn't quite sure why Lassie was pissed off, even less certain why he was letting him walk away. He'd hoped that they'd spend a little longer together than, hmm, thirty-seven minutes. As dates went, it was a short one. Not his record, no, that honor was still held by Rhonda Halliwell who'd taken one bite of her pineapple and pineapple pizza (it hadn't caught on, which amazed Shawn to this day) discovered a deathly allergy to yellow fruits and thrown up right there at the table. Twelve minutes. He'd noted the time even as he leaned to the left to avoid the splatter.
Maybe Lassie thought that he was bearing a mark of shame, a scarlet 'S' for 'Sexy' or something. Or he still didn't believe Shawn's assurances that his suit and shirt would pass any just-been-pressed test out there.
Okay, that was a lie. Lassiter's shirt did have a certain slept-in look to it and his pants lacked the knife-edge crease down the center of each that they'd had when Lassiter walked into Shawn's web, known to those not of the arachnid persuasion as the Psych office, headquarters of all that was cool in good old Santa Barbara. His jacket, though, there was nothing wrong with that at all. Overall, even quickly dwindling to a dot on the horizon Lassie looked good. Hot, in fact, exuding the steamy appeal of a man who'd just gotten to come with a grunt and a sigh, his dick tucked neatly inside another man's mouth.
Blow jobs were tidy. It figured that Lassiter would like them, even if he had seemed surprisingly fussy for a man getting his mind blown along with his dick. Teeth scrapes didn't hurt that much, did they? It wasn't like he'd been trying to bite down, after all, he'd just gotten a little enthusiastic when it'd all come together -- the sounds Lassie was making, shocked whimpers, muttered curses; the smooth skin of Lassie's hips and ass, so different from the wiry cloud of hair around his dick, and the smell of another man's balls and sweaty skin, intense, secret smells that he'd breathed in and shuddered over. The taste had been something else again, the novelty value outweighed by the sheer rush of lust it'd evoked. How could clean skin taste so deliciously dirty?
Shawn spared a moment to think about what Lassie had been hiding inside his woefully dull boxers (navy blue shorts lacking any form of decoration, not even a polka dot pattern or some frisky puppies). Headrush time. Wow. Shawn opened his mouth and wiggled his jaw just to check it still could move that way. The thought of what had rounded his mouth, choked him so perfectly, being driven hard up his ass was simultaneously terrifying and what he wanted for every birthday, Christmas, and Happy Psychic Day. Which fell on every day in the week beginning with a 'T', except in leap years, when it changed to the 'S' days.
He closed his eyes now that there wasn't anything left to see of Lassiter, even if he'd broken out the binoculars, and sat slumped in a chair, the darkness giving him room to think.
Lassie had figured out that he was the first man Shawn had known carnally, if they weren't counting -- no, they really weren't counting him. Shawn grimaced at the memory. Rank locker room stink and something he'd thought he'd wanted -- all those jock muscles, all that glamour saying his name in a shaken growl -- turning into a panicked rush for the door. He'd nearly made it, too… Saying he was sorry for being a prick tease on his knees, mouth open wide, had saved him some bruises and cost him some dignity. He'd thrown up afterward, brushed his teeth until he'd been spitting red, and then jerked off over a reworked memory of it, when it'd happened the way it should have, for years.
Shawn still wasn't really sure what had given him away to Lassiter, though. Lassie, who'd spent a year exploring the joys of man on man hot loving with his roommate and emerged a more rounded, confident person as a result.
Okay, that was stretching it. This was Lassie, after all, a man whose insecurities had issues, who didn't even seem to realize that he was weird and got oddly hurt when it was pointed out to him by, well, Shawn mostly. Yet also a man who knew that blow jobs ideally didn't involve gagging, drool, and pained yelps. Freaky. Lassiter was the Mariana Trench; who knew?
Shawn sighed and snuggled deeper into his chair, sorting through recent events. Lassie's hands in his hair, guiding him, holding him still, refusing to let Shawn bite off more than he could chew. Lassie fucking his mouth with a caution that had held no hesitancy and then, when Shawn had gotten the hang of what to do with all that spit and his tongue, with a rising urgency.
It'd all gotten blurry toward the end, but Shawn had heard his name attached to a lot of guttural groans and felt Lassiter's hands tighten around his skull before the moment when Lassie had --
"Lassie came in my mouth," he said aloud, wonderingly, incredulously. It still didn't seem real, but the corners of his mouth felt stretched raw, his jaw ached, and the back of his throat held an echo of the taste of Carlton Lassiter's come, faint, acrid, addictive.
He wanted to taste it again, a fresh flood of it spurting, jolting into his mouth, with Lassiter's ass rock hard under his hands as Lassie's muscles locked, frozen in ecstasy. He wanted…
Okay, just why had he let Lassie walk out with nothing more than a muttered, "Mention this to anyone and I swear I will lock you up and lose the key," when what Lassie should have said was, "I'm not done with you yet. You're coming home with me, Spencer."
And he would have followed him, close on his heels, because Lassiter hadn't just zipped up and walked out. He'd taken Shawn in hand first, jerking him off with a sure and steady grip, staring into Shawn's eyes even when Shawn had closed them (he could tell Lassie hadn't looked away because he'd peeked), not looking down at what his hand was doing, his arm thrown around Shawn's shoulders, holding him up.
Shawn had clutched and clawed at Lassiter's shoulders, mewling out exhortations that'd ranged from the desperate to the demanding. Lassiter had ignored them all and done it his way, from start to Shawn's finish, working Shawn's dick in a silent passion, blue eyes glittering, his breath harsh and hot against Shawn's face.
Shawn had come in a messy flourish all over Lassiter's hand and stomach, gasping for words and breath, still gasping when Lassiter had kissed him, pulling him close for it, so that Shawn could feel the heat of Lassiter's skin through the cooling skim of come.
He'd watched Lassiter disappear into the small rest room to clean up, watched him dress, fling out the threat that wasn't up to his usual standards, watched him leave.
That was a lot of passivity for one evening.
Shawn opened his eyes.
He knew where Lassie lived. Why was he still sitting here?
He was halfway to the door when he remembered that he was still mostly naked, one leg into his jeans when it occurred to him that Lassiter had been walking away from where he'd left his car.
Shawn reviewed the possible options in that direction and sighed as they narrowed to one. Peachy.
One date and he'd driven Lassie to drink.
Part Five
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