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Shawn Spencer sighs exaggeratedly, consecutively slamming five brimming Diet Cokes onto the serving tray before Jules dutifully pushes it towards the lovely ladies giggling behind the counter.
They're the last ones left inside the greasy fast food restaurant; they'd graciously slunk in ten minutes before closing time, and they're currently making enough noise to give Gus seventeen and a half migraines.
But his best friend isn't here; he's lounging in his stupid, expensive apartment watching a five-hour marathon of classic films that Shawn may have just forgotten to record for himself. If he asks to watch it at Gus's house, he'll just get another unneeded reminder of one of the many perks of having a real job versus working a night shift at this slimy hellhole of sorority chicks and whiny grade schoolers. He's got an interview lined up next week to work as a Hot Topic sales clerk, but he can't imagine that'll be much better, unless your definition of 'better' is having to show up to work with ten dollars worth of drugstore eyeliner streaked across your face and the entire Fall Out Boy discography fully memorised.
This place has Jules, though, who's nice enough, even if she's overtly resistant to Shawn's methods of flirtation. She listens to his late night rants about the ending of Pretty In Pink without complaint, for one, which is something.
He mulls over flirting with four out of five of the sorority girls - the fifth is clearly more interested in Jules, with the way she's shooting heated but fleeting glances at her chest in the same way he's done thousands of time. He decides against it - he wants them out of there as soon as possible so that he and Juliet can lock the shitty place up and head their separate ways.
Besides, it's not like he can pick up girls in his current state. To put it simply, it's about time he took a long shower; he can feel his creased uniform sticking uncomfortably to his chest with sweat and he's certain there's more french fry grease in his hair than hair wax at this point. It doesn't help that he's barely slept in the past two weeks and it's not doing much for the darkened shadows that've creeped their ways underneath his eyes.
The bustiest and loudest of the group bursts out laughing and suggests that they go get wasted at Jimmy's house, whoever that is. Her friends stand up and quickly slurp down their iced Diet Cokes, neon pink lipstick clinging frostily to the clear plastic straws.
"Have a nice day," Shawn says, flashing them one of his signature grins that've melted the hearts of many-a-girl.
They're out of the place faster than they came in, a bustling mess of platinum hair and loud giggles.
"They left their shit on the table," Jules sighs, and Shawn mock-gasps.
"Hooligans."
He's too tired even to make a long winded joke, which is a new low for him, and he gets a concerned Juliet Look™ shot in his direction.
He gives her a wide smile in return, but his typical brand of mischief doesn't glint in his eyes like usual, and she merely purses her lips and walks across the empty restaurant to the abandoned table, heels clicking against the linoleum.
Juliet gingerly sweeps the empty paper cups onto their signature red plastic tray before dumping the contents into the trash bin and dusting her hands off.
"You look like hell."
"Thanks," Shawn says, deadpan, and Juliet senses he's too tired to carry on his conversational bravado, which he's grateful for.
They don't speak again until closing time, and by then it's just shortened farewells and best wishes before parting into the inky night.
It's hard to ride a motorcycle when you're exhausted, he soon realises, and he's nearly fallen asleep upon his bike at least thrice by the time he's reached his apartment complex.
He walks drearily into the elevator, punching blindly at the buttons and not even glancing at the gleaming floor number before stepping out and making his way to his door.
He's just about to dig through his pockets for his house key when he realises it's already shoved into the lock - stupidly left there on accident when he'd left this afternoon, he'd wager.
Shawn doesn't think much of it, turning the doorknob and slamming the keyring onto the kitchen counter, not even flicking on the lightswitch before stumbling into the bathroom and twisting the knob in the shower to the hottest temperature.
He strips, discarding his uniform onto the tiled floor and stepping into the shower.
He closes his eyes, semi-rinsing the product from his hair before reaching for his trusty Axe shampoo - the kind Gus makes fun of him for using. It's not there; it's somehow been replaced with a lavender-and-melon scented body wash that looks like it came from the hellish, cloying depths of Bath and Body Works, and it's not until Shawn gives the bathroom a second sweeping glance that he panics.
It's certainly like him to make clumsy errors, especially when he's working a deadend job the likes of this one, but this is more than just a misplaced object or a forgotten appointment - he's actually so exhausted that he's accidentally broken into someone's house. He prays to every deity in existence that his father never finds out about this hapless scenario.
Just as he switches off the water and decides on the best way carefully sneak his way out of this poor stranger's apartment, someone unexpectedly bursts into the bathroom and slams him against the tiled wall of the shower, pinning hard enough to bruise his shoulders. Shawn's inner level of extreme panic has immediately skyrocketed from a 4.5 to well above a ten, and he starts babbling nervously in an attempt to not die.
"Ah, hi," Shawn says conversationally, staring down so he can get a good look at the stranger, who's looking more than a little pissed off. "This is really kind of sudden, you know. I usually take men out on a semi-formal dinner date before I pin them naked against the wall of my shower, but to each his own, I guess."
"What are you doing in my shower?" the stranger growls.
"Hardly a romantic greeting, but you tried your best." Shawn beams. "Gold star. Nay, a smiley face sticker. You look like you need more happiness in your life. I'm Shawn Spencer, by the way. Enthusiast of joy, and dinner dates, and any and all Disney Channel original movies."
"What. Are. You-"
"Okay, fine, ah, how do I put this...I accidentally broke into your apartment."
"How do you accidentally break into someone's apartment?" the man says, looking more confused than pissed off at this point, and Shawn has to admit he's got kind of an endearing expression plastered over his face.
"Well," Shawn says. "I'm kind of tired, for one."
The guy doesn't laugh.
"I am the Head Detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department, and I would advise you to-"
Shawn winces; he's reminded of his father, but he makes a joke anyway, because if anything, the mood needs a bit of lightening up.
"Whoa, whoa, Head Detective? What kind of a Head Detective forgets to take his key out of the lock? I mean, I'm a pathetic civilian myself, so I figured it was just my stupid mistake, but wow."
"Shit," the man mutters, and he looks more angry at himself than Shawn, which is a bit of a plus.
He's not exactly pinning him against the wall anymore; those calloused hands are merely resting slack against his shoulders, and Shawn desperately wants them to move all of a sudden, to trail over the rest of his body. He can practically Gus mocking him - "You haven't gotten any for so long that you want to feel up the guy whose apartment you broke into?"
"Anyway," Shawn says, slipping into his storytelling voice, shoving whatever panic he has left into the depths of his being. "I was coming home all exhausted-like from my long night at work and it seems I slipped up and got off on the wrong floor, and thus went into the wrong apartment, and hithertherefore into the wrong shower."
"Hithertherefore isn't a word," the Head Detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department says, but he drops his hands to his sides, leaving the two of them standing awkwardly in the shower, in much closer vicinity than should be allowed.
He's sort of attractive, in a strange way, with that bright blue gaze and a sharp jawline that Shawn desperately wants to mouth over.
"So," Shawn says, letting his eyes rake slowly over the man's figure in a way that should be obvious to just about anyone, especially a trained officer. "What's your name, Head Detective?"
He winks, the kind of wink that often gets drinks tossed in his face, and it's sure to prove an interesting reaction whatever the situation.
The man sputters, stomping out of his own shower and roughly tugging a fancy holiday towel from the rack before shoving it into Shawn's arms.
"Lassiter," he chokes out, after Shawn's wrapped the towel around his waist. "Carlton Lassiter."
"Lassiter," Shawn says slowly, his face breaking into a grin - he's caught the other man's blush at him testing out the word. "Can I call you Lassie?"
"You can call me Head Detective Carlton Lassiter."
"I will if you make me," Shawn breathes, letting a moan slip out - an overexaggerated move even for him, but this guy seems dense as all get out.
Lassie raises an eyebrow and Shawn feels himself shiver at the steely look that's scraping over his toned abdomen, and ever-so-slightly flickering down to the trail of hair that disappears beneath the obnoxious reindeer print towel.
An idea flashes into his head. It's a stupid move; one that'll either get him laid or in deep trouble, but he's come this far, and it's not like him to give up at this point.
"Can I finish my shower?" Shawn murmurs. "Wouldn't wanna kick an unclean ragamuffin such as myself into the streets, and especially in such indecent attire? Protect and serve, isn't that right, Lassie?"
"I don't think you understand the meaning of protect and serve," Lassiter scowls.
"Why don't you show me, then?"
"For one, officers of the law don't condone breaking and entering."
"Is that so?" Shawn says. "What about bribery and solicitation?"
"What do you mean by that, exactly?"
"I think you know exactly what I mean," Shawn says, and he meets Carlton's eyes before deliberately dropping the towel to the bathroom floor.
He suddenly finds himself pinned against the wall once more, but in an entirely different sort of way. It's a bit difficult to grope his way across the tile to switch on the water (he does intend to finish his shower, after all) when there's a skilled tongue licking possessively into his mouth.
"I'm still dressed, idiot," Lassiter mutters angrily into his neck, and Shawn chuckles, watching him tear off his half-soaked shirt and toss it haphazardly onto the floor along with the Christmas themed towel.
Shawn's half hard by the time Carlton's pants are off, and he's rewarded with a slick hand stroking over his cock and teeth biting hard across his collarbone.
"I still need to," He's cut off by a loud moan slipping out from his own lips. "Wash my hair."
"I'll do it for you while you suck me off," Lassiter growls into his ear, and Shawn gasps.
"God, yes, Lassie," he whispers, dropping to his knees and kissing those taut, muscled thighs.
Any other time, he'd leave a smattering dark bruises over the pale inner corners of those thighs, but he wants Lassie's cock in his mouth immediately; he's honestly wanted it badly since he first met the other man's eyes mere minutes ago.
He's a fair size, big enough that Shawn's already fantasising about enthusiastically riding him later, but not so big that he's horribly intimidated by the thought of deepthroating him - which he certainly intends to do at some point if not now. He loves the idea of his voice going hoarse for days from his throat being fucked hard, and it's only when Lassiter grunts impatiently that he doesn't have to imagine - the object of his fleeting fantasies is hard and waiting before his eyes.
Shawn sucks about half of his length into his mouth, roughly stroking the remaining inches with his hand, and he swears he hasn't focused this hard on anything since those goddamn "How many hats?" games from his hellish blur of a childhood. It really has been a while since he last got some, because the feeling of a cock is heavy and nearly unfamiliar in his mouth, and he's gotten sloppier than usual. Maybe it's the rush of the situation getting to his head. but if his skill level has dropped in the past few months, Lassiter doesn't seem to mind, he's moaning so loud it echoes over the sound of the water.
"You gonna wash my hair or what?" Shawn mumbles, the words vibrating against Lassie's cock, and he goes deeper, the full length nearly inside his mouth already.
He hears the sound of a shampoo bottle opening and pulls back to suck on the head, mostly so that he can check what brand it is.
"It's not a two-in-one, is it? I'm gonna need conditioner too; this hairstyle takes a lot of upkeep, y'know."
He remembers that Lassie's never even seen his everyday hairdo in the first place, which seems weird to him all of a sudden.
"Yes, it's a two-in-one," Lassiter says, rolling his eyes and massaging the cheap soap into Shawn's hair until it foams.
"Jesus, Lassie," Shawn sighs, flicking his tongue deftly in a way that makes the other man hiss suddenly. "You'll spend money on overpriced body wash but your budget can't handle buying separate bottles of hair product."
"Shut up," Lassiter says, digging one hand into Shawn hair and roughly tugging him forward until he's nearly deepthroated his entire length.
He has the nerve to laugh around a nearly-choking mouthful of cock, and he lets Lassiter's erection drop from his mouth, barely brushing his cheekbone.
"You wanna fuck my mouth, Lassie?"
He watches the man visibly swallow before he nods, an embarrassed flush rising over his neck.
"Excellent," Shawn grins, and sucks the entirety of Lassiter's cock into his mouth.
It takes a while for them to get into a suitable rhythm; at first Lassiter's thrusts are blandly weak and then dangerously quick and clumsy, resulting in far too many grazes of teeth. Finally they've reached somewhere in between, with Shawn's mouth perfectly hollowed and Lassiter's cock fucking straight into his throat, and he's suddenly more grateful than ever that he has no gag reflex - something Lassie's certainly making use of.
It's kind of disheartening that they've given up on washing his hair, he can smell the cheapness of the lemon scented soap and it's streaking over Lassiter's muscled thighs.
He's hard without even touching himself, just from the feeling of Lassiter's cock sliding deep into his throat, and he desperately wants to get off, but he's more focused on the task at hand.
"I'm gonna," Lassiter mutters, an unfinished phrase that's easy enough to finish if you've got any sort of an imagination, as if Shawn can't already tell with the way his hips are stuttering needily.
Shawn sucks him hard, humming as Lassiter thrusts once, twice, and comes hard with a soft moan. He swallows thickly, sort of secretly wishing that he'd taken it in the face, but there's always time for that later.
He stands up, the first thought on his mind to rinse the pathetic excuse for a hair product out of his hair, but he feels a strong arm loop around his waist, reaching for his cock. He catches Lassiter's wrist with one hand and carefully washes the soap out with his other.
"You haven't come yet," Lassiter says quietly, and Shawn twists around, meeting his eyes sharply.
"What if I wanna come with your cock in my ass, Lass, how 'bout that?"
"Not here," Lassiter breathes.
"What, afraid I'm gonna slip?" Shawn says teasingly. "Way to protect and serve, Head Detective."
Lassiter leans in, breath ghosting hotly over Shawn's ear. "Because once I fuck you into the sheets, you won't be able to stand."
"Oh," Shawn gasps, his breath catching, and he switches off the water. "Oh, please."
They're in Lassiter's bedroom in what should be written down as record time, Shawn's hair still dripping wet over the cleanly pressed pillows and both their mouths sliding together heatedly.
"Do you have," Shawn moans, thrusting against Lassiter's cock - he's almost fully hard again already, which should honestly be impossible, but he's not complaining. "Lube."
"Nightstand," Lassiter gasps into his mouth, and Shawn rolls over and tugs open the top drawer, only to find a revolver.
"There's a fucking gun in here, Lassie," Shawn says, giggling even as soft, wet kisses trail over his shoulder.
"I'm a detective," Lassiter defends himself. "I've got three guns in this room of my apartment alone."
"What?" Shawn laughs, as if he hadn't discovered the hidden locations of the other two on his way in.
"Just," Lassiter sighs, his voice clipped, but he decides not to argue given their current situation. "Check the second drawer."
Shawn leans down and tugs the tube of lubricant from the bottom drawer of the nightstand, tossing it onto the bed.
"Your bed's so nice," he says, laying back and stretching luxuriously. "I wanna sleep here forever."
Lassiter raises his eyebrows and Shawn immediately looks guilty, as if he wishes he hadn't said that.
"Not like that, I mean. This is a one time thing, of course."
"Of course," Lassiter echoes, and there's a bit of a silence before Shawn grins and picks up the lube.
"So, how do you want me."
"Ah," Lassiter says, blushing slightly, because he's honestly not sure what would be best.
"How's this?" Shawn says, and spreads his legs lewdly, gently stroking his cock back to full hardness.
"Don't touch yourself," Lassiter feels himself say, sharper than he'd meant to, and Shawn smirks.
"Bossy. Gonna handcuff me, officer?"
He actually considers it for a brief second before casting the thought aside for a later fantasy.
"No," he says, uncapping the lube and pouring a good amount onto his fingers and waiting for it to warm up slightly before starting.
It shouldn't feel good at the first press of his index finger, but Shawn moans anyway at the mere concept of being fingered by the gorgeous Head Detective.
God, if he'd have known that this was how his night was going to end up, he would've stretched himself beforehand, but he braces through the initial sting and focuses on what's to come.
"Another one," he pleads once he's sufficiently prepared, the words slipping out in a needier tone than he'd intended.
Lassiter nods before adding a second finger and Shawn practically writhes on the bed; it hurts, of course, but it's fucking incredible all the same. Lassie's hands are big, and his fingers are rough, and Jesus, he's never even considered that he'd be into this sort of thing, but it's kind of hot that he fires guns with the very same fingers that are twisting into his tight hole.
It's starting to feel better now, and when Lassiter adds more lube and presses deeper, brushing against that spot, his hips twitch and he sighs softly.
"Yeah, Lassie," Shawn groans in encouragement, and he feels those fingers stretch him wide as he splays his legs farther.
"Okay, I'm good, I'm ready."
"You sure?" Lassiter says and Shawn nods, shifting onto his knees and wincing at how slick it feels between his legs.
"Oh, fuck," he whispers. "Protection."
"Are you clean?" Lassiter asks, and Shawn nods earnestly. "I am too, but if you don't trust me enough, I've got some-"
"God, no," Shawn says, and he's aching for it by now. "Want you to fuck me raw, Lass."
"Okay," Lassiter says, because he doesn't know what else to say in response to that, and Shawn kisses him hard before pouring an excessive amount of lube into his hand and slicking up his cock.
"Can I ride you?" he says, pleading softly into Lassiter's collarbone as he strokes him hard, and he nods.
Shawn moves over his lap, lining himself up with his cock and slowly pressing down, hissing softly.
"Are you okay?"
"'S fine."
In a minute or so he's fully seated on his lap, pupils blown and his dark gaze directly meeting Lassiter's as he slowly slides up and sinks back down onto his cock, biting his lip. Soon he's moving faster, moaning softly and kissing over his jawbone.
"Oh, fuck, Lassie, you're thick, so fucking good, ah."
"Fuck," Lassiter hisses, and he thrusts up sharply, slamming hard into his prostate. "Who the hell even talks like that in real life?"
"Me," Shawn says. "I talk like that because this feels fucking fantastic, oh my God, La-a-ssie."
He somehow translates a single word into a drawn out string of moans and Lassiter swears again.
"Then what the hell kind of a person are you?"
"Shawn Spencer," Shawn gasps out, practically bouncing on his cock now. "Enthusiast of joy, and dinner dates, and any and all Disney Channel original movies, remember?"
"Do you ever shut up?" He accentuates each word with a sharp thrust, and Shawn moans theatrically upon each one.
"I do if someone's inclined to convince me." "
How's this for convincing?" Lassiter says, and he pushes him back onto the bed, switching positions effortlessly until Spencer's flat on his back and he's sliding hard into his ass.
Shawn fists the white sheets in his hands like he's in a goddamn porno - hell, maybe he has been, what does Carlton know?
In moments he's reduced to a wordless mess of breathy gasps and uncalculated moans, free of all theatricality.
He's obviously close to coming, precum streaking over the bed, and his thighs are trembling like he's doing his best to hold back.
"Mm, Lassie, I wanna," Shawn says, reaching for his own cock and pumping it fast, and in a stroke of inspiration, Lassiter snatches up his wrist, pins it above his head and fucking stops.
"What was that you said earlier?" he whispers into Shawn's neck, and relishes when he hears him whimper softly. "You'd call me by my full title if I could make you?"
"Move," Spencer begs. "Please, fucking move, Lassie."
"What's that?" Lassiter says, pulling out and sliding back in at a heartbreakingly slow pace.
"Fuck, Lassie, I need to-"
"Tell me what you need, Spencer," Lassiter says hotly into his ear, teeth grazing over the lobe as he fucks him languidly.
Shawn blushes, which is goddamn ridiculously, considering he's done much more embarrassing things in the past half hour than beg to be fucked, but the rosy flush that rises in his cheeks is considerably adorable nevertheless.
"Head Detective Carlton Lassiter, kindly fuck me into the sheets," he chokes out, and Lassiter actually smiles.
"Gladly." He slams into him roughly, and it barely takes any time at all before Shawn's practically moaning until his throat is raw and hoarse.
"Lassie," he breathes, forgoing titles, but Lassiter's too far gone to care, and then there's cum flecked wetly over both their chests, streaked prettily over that toned abdomen, and it's not long before he's coming too. He breathes heavily, waiting for both of them to slip into afterglow, and once he pulls out, Shawn's already half sunken into a state of post-coital drowsiness.
"We need to clean up," he says, because that's the logical response when you've got a good amount of cum spread over your chest, and across your bed, and inside of your partner's ass, but Shawn just makes a nonverbal sound of complaint and tugs him close.
"In the morning," he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of his neck, and for once, Lassiter succumbs to impractical advice.
-
Lassiter wakes up to the smell of something annoyingly and unusually sweet, and it's not until he blinks his eyes open and finds himself lying in his mess of a bed that he remembers sleeping with one Shawn Spencer.
He searches his dresser for some acceptable form of clothing, and trudges into the kitchen in sweatpants to find Shawn making waffles in his kitchen, wearing nothing but an excessive amount of hair gel and one of Lassiter's best dress shirts.
"Morning, Lassie," Shawn beams. "I'm making pineapple waffles."
"Why are you still in my apartment?"
"Because I'm hungry. Hungry for waffles. And candy corn. Did you know you had an entire unopened bag of candy corn stashed into the depths of your pantry?"
"No," Lassiter says.
"Well, you don't anymore," Shawn hums, and he opens up the waffle maker that Lassiter had forgotten he'd even owned and slides a waffle onto a paper plate.
"Here you go, Lassifras. Breakfast."
"Don't call me that," Lassiter mumbles, but he takes the plate anyway.
"I thought we agreed that if you're gonna insist I call you something, you're going to have to be more convincing than that."
"Think you're up to be convinced?" Lassiter says, raising an eyebrow in a challenge.
"Absolutely," Shawn says, smirking widely.
Lassiter never knew waffle batter could be so versatile in its uses.