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A Bad, Bad Idea (but a fucking amazing time)

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It was Marlowe's idea.

She's been planning to spend some time out with Juliet, and since she won't be in the house for a night, she insisted that Carlton let Shawn stay the night rather than let him bum on Woody's couch.

"You can be nice to him for one day," is what she told him at his indignance, tutting as though he were a child. "The break-up was really hard on him. And if you let him hang out with you, that'll keep him from bothering me and Juliet."

That last bit was what drove him to wholeheartedly agreeing, as it offered a way for Carlton to rationalize the whole thing.

Still, he waits until it's nearly time for him to go home to finally press down on Shawn's contact in his phone, and coughs awkwardly when it picks up.

"Lassie! What's wrong, you need help with your game of solitaire? The black nine can go on the red ten—"

"Spencerhow the hell did you know I was—?"

Before Shawn can say something about being psychic or the "spirits" being a fan of all card games, Carlton stands up from his desk and twists around to see him sitting across the station, holding his own phone to his ear and grinning.

At which Carlton sighs and growls out, "Spencer, get over here," before hanging up.

"Have you just been hanging out in the station all day?" he asks suspiciously once Shawn's in front of him.

"I had a feeling you were going to need me. You know, a psychic feeling," he adds, putting a finger to his temple and giving him a smirk.

After recent events it's become hard for Carlton to hold onto his doubt about Shawn's psychic ability, but that doesn't mean he's happy about it in this sort of context. So he rolls his eyes.

"Anyway. I, uh—"

"You want to invite me over," Shawn supplies.

"Marlowe wanted me to." He doesn't bother asking how he knew. He does, however, wonder if Shawn has simply been waiting around to hear it from Carlton's mouth this whole time, rather than come up on his own. "But yes, I'm inviting you over so you can have a place to sleep because I'm not actually evil. That, and my wife insisted. Happy?"

Very, it seems. Shawn can barely even contain his grin.

"Oh man, a sleepover, this is great—we can get our drink on, watch some movies, paint each other's nails, have a pillow-fight..."

"Painting nails, no; movies, sure—if they're Clint Eastwood films; pillow-fights... maybe. And drinks—yeah, that actually sounds good. As long as you're paying."

In his attempt to appear mostly disapproving of the whole sleepover thing, Carlton immediately shuts down his computer, grabs his jacket, and heads towards the door.

But as Shawn follows him, he can tell the guy is just trying way too hard not to enjoy himself. He can always tell. Sometimes from his not-so-spiritual observation skills, and sometimes the same way he knew about tonight's situation (that is, Marlowe told Jules and Jules told him).

Right as they get into his car, Shawn turns and tells him, finger to temple, "Don't you fret, Lassie, the spirits tell me we're gonna have a great time tonight."

It's met with the head detective holding back an obvious smile and slamming his foot on the gas.


They make a stop at a liquor store for Shawn to rush in and buy the alcohol that's going to make this sleepover—no, goddamnit, this is not a sleepover, we are grown menmuch easier for the both of them. Mostly for Carlton. He comes out with a large case of Mike's Hard under one arm and two bottles in the other.

"Cotton-candy flavored vodka, for me," he announces as he opens the passenger door, pulling the bottle out of the bag for a moment, "and for you, Jameson whiskey. Of course we can share, but I thought you'd like something a little personal."

Carlton raises his eyebrows and leans over to check the bag, pleasantly surprised. "Oh. Jameson is my favorite."

He can feel a blush creeping on his face as Shawn smiles warmly and simply says, "I know."

The rest of the drive back to his place feels vaguely awkward. Well, for Carlton. He feels an inexplicable urge to make conversation, despite how much he's always telling Shawn that silence is a virtue. Meanwhile Shawn's doing fine without talking, just staring out the window and clutching the bottles to his chest.

Carlton wonders if he's being quiet because he's upset about Juliet, at then he feels bad. God, now I have to say something.

"You know, um. Shawn... When Victoria left me, I kind of spiraled. It was bad. You were—well, you were technically there for part of it, so you know. I was delusional, and—just. Try not to go in that direction, okay?"

When he glances over to the passenger's seat to make sure he didn't get too personal in vain, he finds Shawn leaning against the window, fist against his cheek, and a tiny smile blooming on his face.

"Aaawwwww... you're worried about me," he sings.

What a jackass, I should have known he'd do this.

"Shut up, Spencer."

"That's so sweet, Lassie, oh my god. For the record, though, I wasn't thinking about Juliet just now—I was wondering how they're going to wrap up the last season of The Office. I figure they have to bring Michael back at some point, you know, and Jim and Pam are married with children but since the show's ending don't they need another, bigger conclusion? Angela and Dwight ending up together is no question, they're both so terrible they couldn't possibly be with anyone else. And then there's Oscar, is he going to end up happy with a husband? Somehow I can't see him and the Senator working out—"

Shawn sees Lassie glaring at him through the rear-view mirror and shuts up. He's done enough riling him up for now. Maybe.

"Thanks," he adds in all seriousness, placing a grateful hand on Carlton's arm for a moment.

The edge of his mouth twitches in response and Shawn takes that as a you're welcome.

"Though on a one-to-ten scale I'd have to rate your speech as a six at best—could have had a little more detail, definitely more compassion, maybe an 'I love you' mixed in there—"

"I will kick you right out of this car and onto the highway."

"Fair enough."


It's pretty dark when they finally get to Carlton's place, which for Shawn means it's the perfect time to start a movie and go rummaging through the cabinets.

"What gives, Lassie, do you not eat popcorn?"

"Not really. More importantly, do you not have basic manners?"

Shawn pokes his head out of the kitchen for a moment to smirk and say a witty "Define 'basic.'" before immediately returning to his pillaging.

"Do you have any movie food?"

Carlton sighs. "There's chips on top of the fridge."

"If it makes noise when you eat it, it's not movie food. C'mon Lassie, it's Theatre 105."

"You mean 101."

"I've heard it both ways."

After a few seconds the repeated slamming of cabinet doors stops, and Shawn comes to the conclusion: "Okay, we're gonna have to make a popcorn run."

God dammit, and Carlton was just about to sit down. "You can't be serious."

"And you can't possibly expect me to watch a movie without popcorn. Besides, if we're drinking without food, then we'll get too drunk, and—"

"Fine." If only to shut him up.

And that's how they end up not only taking a trip down the road for some gas station popcorn, but also further down to grab some burgers in a diner because, why not, they might as well eat dinner while they're out.

It's nice, having a civilized meal together for once. So nice that Shawn can't help but push it a little further and order a single chocolate shake, two straws.

"What did you do that for?" Carlton practically growls when the waitress leaves, a knowing smile on her face. "Now she's going to think—"

"Oh, you care too much about what people think," Shawn tuts. "I'm not gonna finish a whole shake, and I thought you might want some."

It's thoughtful, but still annoying. He decides not to argue any further since it won't get him anywhere good. At the very least, he refuses to drink out of the shake at the same time that Shawn does, no matter how tempting of a cliche it is.

He then insists on leaving almost as soon as they finish eating, if only to avoid the looks they're getting. Like they're a couple. Shawn is no doubt enjoying himself and this game he's playing, but at this point all Carlton wants to do is get drunk.

Which is exactly what he starts to do the moment they're back at his apartment. While Shawn immediately heads to the couch and tries to figure out how the remote works, Carlton opens up the whiskey and takes a swig, relishing the burn.

"Onto the hard stuff right away? Oh, Lassie. I'm sorry I ever mistook you for a man who didn't know how to party."

At once, Shawn's on his feet again, walking over to face him and grab the whiskey bottle right out of his hands before Carlton can say a word, and then taking a drink of it as well.

"It's only fair that we're equally as buzzed," he explains, pushing the bottle back into Carlton's hands. Perhaps letting his own hands linger for a little too long. "Anyway. How the fuck does your TV work?"

The DVD player is set up in less than a minute, and Shawn spends several times as long picking out a couple movies for them to watch from Carlton's extensive collection of crime films. While he does that, Carlton drinks several more mouthfuls of that whiskey and, at Shawn's request, puts some popcorn in the microwave.

He ends up picking out Reservoir Dogs—not a Clint Eastwood film, but still good. Carlton's fine with that.

Well, initially. But soon he realizes how manytimes Shawn must have seen Reservoir Dogs because he won't shut up throughout the movie, he keeps feeling the need to point out obscure behind-the-scenes facts he knows about the actors, and especially all of Tarantino's hallmarks.

Granted, Carlton Lassiter is not-so-secretly a movie buff himself, and he likes to tell people facts he knows about his favorite films, but the alcohol is slurring his memory. Not for Shawn, apparently. He's not drinking any less—in fact, he's drinking more, and yet he still remembers so much. How can he possibly remember so much?

One thing the alcohol is doing to Shawn is making him scoot unabashedly closer and closer to his host. Every time Carlton shushes him, rather than shutting up altogether he simply spews his movie knowledge a little quieter, thus requiring him to move closer so he can be heard. And each time Carlton shoves him away, but after a point—partially because of the alcohol—he just stops caring.

Well. Until they're thigh-to-thigh and Shawn starts whispering about the homoerotic subtext between Orange and White, leaning into him and giggling into his shoulder, at which Carlton feels something heavy in his chest and pushes him away. Not nearly as harsh as before, though. And then he hands him the bowl of popcorn, encouraging him to sober up a little.

If Carlton is one (admittable) thing by the time the movie is over, it's frustrated. Shawn is grabbing for the other movie he picked out—Million Dollar Baby, but the DVD case is pulled out of his grip before he can stand up.

"You know what, I want you to pick out a movie you haven't seen," Carlton tells him, replacing Million Dollar Baby and drunkenly leaning against the movie shelf. "I don't need you ruining my favorites for me."

If he was being honest, though, it's moreso because he just wants to see Shawn's reaction to something he's seeing for the first time. He wants to have the upper hand, if only while watching a damn movie.

So Shawn gets up, a bit wobbly on his feet (damn, how many drinks has he had), and squints harshly at the selection in front of him before picking one out and showing it to Carlton.

"Pink Cadillac? Seriously, you've never seen Pink Cadillac."

Shawn shrugs, and his head is so fuzzy at this point that he doesn't realize how long he holds it or how ridiculous he looks. "Ev'ryone said—told me not to watch it..."

Offended, Carlton immediately assumes a defensive stance. "It—okay, okay yeah it had bad reception from critics but what the fuck do they know, hah? You're gonna like it, I swear. C'mon."

He proceeds to put one arm on Shawn's back and lead him to the couch, and then put Pink Cadillac in the DVD player. When he turns back around, Shawn is grabbing for the cotton-candy vodka to take a quick drink, and then he immediately hands it out to him.

Carlton smiles and takes it from him, chugging possibly a bit too much before he lets himself fall on the cushion right next to him.

He hasn't seen Pink Cadillac in a while, so he's excited. Shawn, not so much. He genuinely seems not to like it at all, which is even more frustrating than having the guy talk through an entire movie. Of course, he's still managing to do that, too. Except this time it's mostly criticism and drunk teasing, and dammit, even while nearly wasted Shawn is managing to press all of his buttons.

He's also pretty much drinking them dry, and it's all Carlton can do to try to save some of the alcohol for himself while Shawn seems to be making sure that they'll be out by the end of this movie.

Naturally, Shawn has to eventually rush to the bathroom to avoid ruining Carlton's couch. While he's there, he takes a mental note of the kind of shampoo his friend uses. Just in case it's useful later (if he can even remember it later).

When he comes back, the movie hasn't been paused—Carlton's decided this piece of art has simply been wasted on Shawn and there's nothing he can do about it—and Shawn doesn't even sit down with him, but rather sprawls out long-ways across the couch with no mind to the fact that there's someone else on it.

Carlton takes a moment to register Shawn half-tripping and falling over his lap, and when he does, it takes him another several moments to remember that he's supposed to care.

"Ugh, Spencer..." Reeling a bit, he just aimlessly swats at the guy's back. It does nothing. "C'mon, get off," he grumbles, a little more loudly. Shawn shifts a little, pressing his face into the couch, but otherwise doesn't move.

Vaguely determined to get him to sit up, and without thinking, Carlton smacks Shawn hard on the ass. Maybe a little too hard, retrospectively. Because beneath him, Shawn lets out an unholy noise.

Not a yelp of pain—more high-pitched. More indecent. More like he liked it.

His face and chest flush as he stares down at Shawn, waiting for him to roll off, or at least say something. But he just stays where he is.

Carlton's curiosity gets the better of him, and he brings his hand down again, harder this time.

Again, Shawn whines, slightly deeper, turning his face more towards the cushion.

Faster than before, Carlton does it again. And there it is again, that noise, and holy shit he's really enjoying this. Both of them are.

And that's where his thinking stops. Again and again, he lifts his hand into the air and drives it down against Shawn's clothed ass, harder and harder even as his hand starts stinging. Carlton doesn't realize exactly when, but soon enough he's pressing down on Shawn's back with his left hand to keep him from arching up too much as he spanks him with his right, because fuck he's getting so into this. And his whines get louder and louder, closer to sobs, to the point that Carlton starts going slower, giving him a little reprieve and softly groping his ass between spanks, admiring it...

God. He's sweating. And his chest is so hot he feels like he might burst, and he doesn't even know what he's doing right now but he just keeps going, relishing the noises Shawn is making like it's goddamn music... And he can feel something hard against his leg. Nearly touching the hardness in his own pants, even.

It feels like the only reasonable thing to do next, and Carlton is just drunk enough that he can't rationalize against it, not with his face this hot and his head swimming so much—he jerks his legs out from underneath Shawn's, one right after the other, and shifts to hover over him instead. It's so fast, and the friction is just so much—Shawn gasps and arches up into him before Carlton even drags his erection down into his ass.

For the first time that night he's the one who moans, louder and dirtier than he has in a while. Jesus fuck, Carlton forgot how great this could feel, just rutting into the cleft of someone's ass, drunk and horny and having waited way too damn long to finally touch a certain person like this...

Though he's still not thinking. Mostly. He's thrusting over the cleft of Shawn's ass and pressing against him, chest to back, mouth to neck, nothing but hot breath and groans between them.

And then he has no choice but to think a little because the alcohol is draining from his system and he's really seeing Shawn now—he can see all the bruises he's peppered on the man's neck, and the way his shoulders are straining, and the half of his flushed face that he's not pressing directly into the couch... But it doesn't bother him. Either he's still too drunk or he's just in too deep to back out, but he likes this. And he can feel exactly how much Shawn likes this, with how much his ass is arching into Carlton's cock. Fuck, he can hear him, every few thrusts or so, a sharp whine of Lassie, fuck, Lass, Carlton-Daddy-

Oh God, that last one makes him unwittingly thrust so hard and so suddenly that he's caught off guard by his own arousal. One hand is immediately in Shawn's hair, fingers threading through too fast and pulling his head back, forcing a strangled moan out of him.

"Daddy, huh?" he growls, straight into Shawn's ear, making him moan even more.

Part of him, right on the edge of his subconscious mind, wonders if Shawn psychically figured out his secret kinks, since he's the last person Carlton would have expected to like being in that role.

Yeah, fuck, call me Daddy, he thinks, half-expecting Shawn to simply hear his clouded thoughts as he bites a chain of bruises wherever he can.

Pink Cadillac is still blaring on the TV across the room, but Carlton can barely hear it. He's too focused on the man underneath him, how good he feels and how amazing he sounds, not even calling him his name as this point but just Daddy, as he must have realized how much he loves it.

"Please," Shawn starts gasping soon after, almost as though he's in pain. "Daddy, please-"

"Please what?" Carlton breathes into his neck, pulling him back by the hair again.

"Fuck me..."

Shawn's had too much, he needs it, he needs his pants off, and he knows Carlton needs his pants off—

But that's the moment that sobers him up far too much. That's the moment it becomes too real, and Carlton's hips stop rocking, and it takes all of his willpower, but he still manages to pry himself away.

"I—no. Shit. No, Spencer, god, I can't. Oh god, I want... no. I'm married. Fuck, I gotta—"

With as much grace as he can—that is to say, no grace at all—Carlton steps off the couch entirely and heads toward the kitchen.

Which leaves Shawn still on his stomach, far less drunk than Carlton thinks he is and extremely confused and disappointed.

"Wha—what? Fuck, Lassie, you can't just—"

He nearly trips getting off the couch to follow him to the kitchen, where he finds him splashing water from the sink into his face. Rather than stopping in his tracks, he pulls him away from the counter and forces him to face him.

"What the hell, Lassie? You can't just leave a guy like this, I'm—"

Carlton doesn't even allow him to gesture down to the painful erection he obviously still has—he grabs Shawn by the wrists and shakes his head, grimacing.

"I—no, Shawn. Spencer. No. I can't. I can't fill this hole for you—you miss her, I get it, you're hurting, I get it, fuck, I really get hurting, Spencer, but I can't let you use me as this... this fix-it, or... I can't help you this way. You're not gonna use me like this."

He tries to shove him away by the arms then, but Shawn reaches out and grabs his shirt and pulls himself indefinitely closer. Carlton can see it in the way his face contorts, almost as though to match him... he's hurting even more now.

"N-no... no, Lass—Carlton, I'm not... I'm not using you. God, I swear, no, I—you're the only one who can do this for me, I need—"

You need to get fucked until you don't feel anything else, I know, god, I know.

"There's plenty of other guys out there who could fuck you," he tells him, trying not to look him straight in the eyes, yet not trying hard enough to pull away. He can't tell whether it's the alcohol doing this to him at this point.

"No, there aren't," Shawn insists, clutching at his chest and pulling him even closer—and ripping out a few chest hairs in the process. "God, you don't—I'm not fucking using you, Lassie, I like you, I've always liked you, I've always thought... I wanted—"

Carlton doesn't know if he would have preferred Shawn to actually be trying to use him in this moment. What he does know is that it's painful to hear, to know—God, he could have had him all this time. If circumstances had been different, if he hadn't gone through so much denial, if one of them had just said something...

The one problem with having feelings for Shawn Spencer is that there only ever seemed to be two possible conclusions:

Shawn is a psychic, and he knows, and the fact that he hasn't said anything means he doesn't reciprocate.

Shawn doesn't know, which means he is not a psychic. Which also makes him a liar.

Somehow, Carlton never thought of a third option: Shawn has always known and was simply waiting for him.

After so much silence and eye-searching (what Carlton assumes is Shawn sensing his thoughts), Shawn takes a chance and surges forward to kiss him. And this time, he has no desire to push him away, but instead pulls him in, as close as possible, so close that their mouths aren't even open but they're moaning anyway. His chest is burning and his head is clouded again, and if he could take a moment to step aside he would know that he's hardly drunk at all anymore but god. He wants this so bad.

But then his mind sort of does step aside, and Carlton pulls away once more. Only slightly this time, though, just enough that he can speak.

"Hnn—n-no, this is a bad idea. I got over you a long time ago."

"We both know that's not true," Shawn breathes against his lips. Then he kisses him again, just for a moment, nipping at his bottom lip and drawing him further in. Fuck, of course he knows. he always knows.

"You love Juliet now," he tries, weakly. "You'll regret this."

"I love you, too." God. "I won't, I want this, just one night, please—"

Carlton can barely contain himself anymore. He just can't bear to think about this, so he doesn't—he doesn't think at all, and he slams Shawn up against the counter and kisses him much harder than they were before.

"What do you want?" He doesn't know where that part of his voice came from, but he feels it deep in his chest.

Shawn says it again, somehow even more filthy than when he was trapped between Carlton's body and the couch:

"Fuck me."

In a moment's notice Shawn's feet are off the ground, and Carlton's carrying him by the ass to his bedroom—the bedroom that he and Marlowe share, but he can't think about that right now—and they bump into a thing or two along the way, but it doesn't matter. What's another couple bruises compared to all the marks they're going to have tomorrow.

People are going to ask questions, Carlton thinks as he presses Shawn into his bed and furiously marks up his neck. It's going to be obvious. Juliet will wonder who the hell fucked him.

He doesn't care. He can't bring himself to care, or to be anything but proud that he's the one doing this. That while Juliet was stupid enough to let this guy go, Shawn chose him.

Of course he has to tell Shawn that if he leaves any marks, he'll kill him, because he simply can't risk Marlowe seeing. Luckily, he understands.

(He wants to let him, though. God, he really wants to.)

Shawn doesn't get on his stomach this time. He wouldn't mind it, but Carlton makes no move to turn him over. He wouldn't admit it out loud—not even after everything that's been said—but he just wants. He needs to see Shawn's face.

He doesn't feel the need to ask if Shawn's ever even been fucked before—he doesn't need to be psychic to tell. Carlton knows the type. When they act the way Shawn's been acting tonight, that is.

(If he did ask, Shawn would tell him it's been a couple years since his last time with a man, but Juliet used to peg him sometimes.)

Carlton gets completely hard again just from hearing the sounds Shawn makes while being fingered—it's all he can do to wait. And when he does finally slide into him, fuck, he can't tell if he's in predator mode or if he's about to cry. Then he hears a faint moan of daddy and automatically knows it's the former.

He thinks of the first year or so that Shawn worked cases as a psychic with him, and all the theatrics he would pull during his visions, and all the indecent noises he used to make—he used to wonder if Spencer had been doing that on purpose, just to tease him. Because hell if it didn't make him want nothing more than to pin him down and be the cause of those noises...

And now he is. Shawn's heels are digging into his back and Carlton has him pinned down by the shoulders as he fucks him into the mattress, encouraged by every moan and sob of "Daddy" and just as much, as it turns out, his actual name.

At some point he shifts and he has one hand on the bed and the other around Shawn's neck—he had a vague feeling Shawn would like it. And he was right. He really likes it.

"Oh fuckDaddy—"

He tightens his hand a bit and responds almost affectionately. "Yeah, baby?"

Shawn whines—no, moans, deep and from the back of his throat, and clutches at his back so hard there's no way it won't leave marks. But that's far from Carlton's mind at the moment.

Just a few more hard thrusts and holy shit, Shawn's already coming. Just from Carlton's voice and the hand around his throat.

As he sobs through it, Carlton thinks he hears a strangled "I love you," but he isn't sure. He doesn't dwell on it. He just rides it out until he comes as well, choking Shawn probably a little too much in the process—to the point that when it's over, he needs to go get a glass of water from the sink that they left running in the kitchen.

The aftermath is surreal. Shawn comes back to the room, and Carlton doesn't protest it. He kisses him again, like they're a couple, like this is their bed, and it should feel wrong... but it doesn't. Not in the moment, when they're living out how things could have been.

Shawn can't find it in him to miss Juliet right now, at least. He will in the morning, when he has to leave, of course. But it won't be as bad. Maybe he won't even remember it all, but he'll be left a little more numb regardless.

Carlton, on the other hand, is too ready to forget. Just so it won't cause him more pain, and so he won't feel the need for closure in the future.

"Y' can't sleep in here," he eventually mumbles, pushing Shawn away gently. He's too tired to sit up, he can't let him fall asleep with him in here, naked, where Marlowe would find them. "...Sorry."

Shawn's upset, but he understands. He grabs his clothes and shimmies back into his boxers before passing out on the couch, the lights still on and the home screen of Pink Cadillac still on the TV screen.


In the morning, when a slightly hungover Marlowe gets home, she chastises him for making poor Shawn sleep on the couch.

Shawn guarantees her it's fine, he doesn't even completely remember what led up to it last night anyway. Carlton says the same.

(Both of them are lying. Mostly.)