Word Count: 671 words.
Notes: Shawn/Lassiter. Written for porn battle!
Summary: Shawn is an authority on weird and wonderful things, the kinds of things no one else ever pays attention to, because they're too busy leading frenetic and purposeful lives.
Shawn knows the whole first act of Sixteen Candles verbatim. He knows twenty-three recipes that list pineapple as one of the ingredients and twelve of them are cocktails. Shawn is an authority on weird and wonderful things, the kinds of things no one else ever pays attention to, because they're too busy leading frenetic and purposeful lives. Things that are important and trivial, simple and complex.
But this --- this is new.
It's not the kinky sex. He's no stranger to the cuffs around his wrists, holding him fixed against the rails of the headboard, angled up with a pillow under his back. Shawn once did the nasty in one of those connecting corridor places from the airplane to the airport (long story: he was a flight attendant for weeks of training and three flights and one time the plane had been delayed. Okay, not that long.) This is mild, as far as kink goes. There's been no hot wax, crisp application of a whip, or use of pornonyms like "Skittles Laceless" and "Max Penetratus". Lassiter hasn't even succumbed to dirty talk.
It's not the vulnerability. He may not make a big song and dance about it, but Shawn's aware of his weaknesses. He isn't infallible. And whilst he's naked, legs splayed open, laid bare for Lassie to ravage, he knows he could say the word and end this. The word is "antidisestablishmentarianism", because he likes the way it rolls off his tongue.
It's strange, but he cares more about this than he's ever cared about having sex before. And he knows he's being just a little bit deadly serious for no good reason, but this is all about trust. He trusts Lassiter and Lassiter trusts him enough to want to do this with him.
Shawn presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth and tries not to whimper as Lassiter's hand skims across his abdomen and over his hip. There are calluses on the trigger finger and thumb, Shawn saw them before and can feel them now as they stroke over his cock. He gasps when those fingers wrap around him, can't stop himself. He doesn't close his eyes. He watches as Lassiter gives a small smile, gazing up at him almost coquettishly. There's a bead of sweat slowly rolling down Lassiter's forehead, a lock of hair gone astray.
Shawn's diverted by Lassiter bending down and licking the inside of his thigh, the stubble along his jaw rasping against sensitive skin. Swallows thickly as that tongue slides up the side of his cock. And if he hadn't already been hard, that would have done it. Lassiter's tormenting him with measured and lingering flicks of his tongue, is pinning Shawn's legs to the bed with his bodyweight. Shawn can hardly move, wants to buck up, needs to grab hold of Lassiter's hair and shove his cock into that no doubt amazing mouth. But he's not the one in charge.
"You really do hate me, don't you?" Shawn whines, writhing as much as his restraints will allow. He's getting hotter and more and more desperate. Lassiter gives him a blinding grin, one that Shawn's seen all of twice before, and takes the tip of Shawn's cock in his mouth in one fluid motion.
Shawn doesn't even bother to contain the moan of surprise and gratification that emerges from low in his chest. He keens as Lassiter sucks hard, grits his teeth as he pulls off and then wraps his lips around again. He shakes, the muscles in his legs cording, as he gazes at the bobbing of Lassiter's head.
It doesn't take long for Shawn to come, every muscle in his body tensing and pulse rushing at two thousand miles a minute. His pride is battered when he realises he's just proved he has very little stamina. Well, it would be if he could bring himself to care. He can't do much at all and is only dimly aware of Lassiter shifting on the bed and the plastic snap of a cap.
Alternative link: In a Compromising Position, Psych, Lassiter/Shawn, for the prompt: authority, NC-17