Title: Meat
Fandom: Psych
Pairing: Shawn/Lassiter
Rating: NC-17 for man-lovin'
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Beef. It's what's for dinner at the annual Santa Barbara Police Department awards dinner.

AN: It's been a while since I've written a fan fic, even longer since I wrote smut, I've never written Psych before, and it's unbetaed, so I apologize in advance for all these transgressions.

Carlton Lassiter blamed it on the Kobe steak.

Any other main dish, and Spencer probably wouldn't have wanted to go to the department's annual awards dinner so badly. And if Spencer hadn't wanted to go so badly, he never would have approached Interim Chief Vick on bended knee, describing in great detail just how helpful he'd been to the Santa Barbara Police Department over the past year. And if he hadn't somehow convinced Vick that he deserved an honorary commendation for his services, Spencer wouldn't have shown up at the dinner in a tuxedo jacket and jeans too tight to be legal. With no Spencer in ass-worshiping jeans, conveniently seated right next to him at his table, Lassiter could have remained sober and the night would have ended it the usual, uneventful manner.

At least, that's the poorly paved line of reasoning Lassiter stumbled along when he woke up hung over and less alone than he would have liked.

Damn Japanese beef, getting him into trouble like this.

The night before started out well enough, all things considered. Spencer arrived a half hour late, causing Lassiter to mistakenly conclude that the idiot flaked and had no intentions of showing up. He spent the first thirty minutes pleasantly chatting with his co-workers and enjoying the first two courses before Spencer made his usual, loud entrance. With the attention of the entire police department solely on him, Spencer made a big show of taking his seat beside Lassiter.

"Sorry I'm late, Lassy! You wouldn't believe the case we got saddled with right at closing time! This hot, little, blond number strolled in, desperate to find her missing Poopsie, who's a miniature pinscher, by the way…"

Lassiter stopped listening as he desperately hailed down their waiter, ordering a double whiskey in the hopes that liquor would make the evening pass a bit faster. Across the table, O'Hara and Vicks shared a smile, causing Lassiter's stomach to twist uncomfortably. Of all the time he saw such a smile on a woman's face, not a one of them turned out well for him.

At least now he knew who was responsible for the seating chart.

Lassiter drank steadily until the main course arrived, while the idiot beside him doodled on his napkin[which was linen, and where he got the small box of crayons Lassiter didn't want to know, rated the "hotness" of the other award recipients, and entertained the other people at the table with embarrassing stories from his childhood. At long last the steak was served, but that didn't shut up Spencer like Lassiter had hoped.

"Will you just look at that piece of meat, Lassy?" Spencer babbled, fawning over the plate placed before him. "Isn't it just perfect? Isn't it just gorgeous? This steak screams sex, it does. Or maybe it's just screaming, considering how rare I ordered it."

Slamming back the last of his third whiskey, Lassiter ground an ice cube between his teeth and cursed the womenfolk and their sick sense of humor. They looked so smug, enjoying Lassiter's fake-psychic-induced pain.

"You should hear what they do to these cows to make them taste this divine," Spencer said quite happily around a mouthful of meat. "The ranchers treat them better than their own families! They feed them beer, give them massages, the whole she-bang. Nothing too good for a Kobe cow!"

"Spencer," growled Lassiter, "is humanly possible for you to shut up for more than two minutes?"

Spencer considered his question, chewing quietly for a moment before swallowing and shaking his head "no."

"I can't help it, Lassy-face. You're not holding up your half of the conversation, so someone's got to do it. Besides, my anecdotes are cheeky and amusing. Who doesn't want to hear them?"

O'Hara and Vick seconded Spencer's opinion, furthering their betrayal. Lassiter brooded over his meal, trying to figure out what he ever did to them to deserve this kind of disloyalty, and ordered another drink.

At long last the evening wrapped up. Everyone said their farewells, headed to their respective homes, and Lassiter intended to do the same. Unfortunately, as he made his unsteady way to his car, Lassiter couldn't help but notice he was being followed.

"What do you want, Spencer?" he ground out, not even turning to face the other man.

"Come on Lassy, you've had too much to drink. I can't possibly let you drive home, not in that state."

"Oh," Lassiter chuckled sarcastically, "and you're going to safely take me home on that death-trap of a motorcycle?"


"I'm not nearly drunk enough to agree to that," he said, turning at last to face the young man.

To his surprise, Lassiter found himself with an armful of helmet and Spencer standing well inside his personal space. The smile Spencer gave him held no sarcasm, not even a hint of teasing, and Lassiter realized he must be drunk as he slid the helmet on with a resigned sigh. Spencer's grin grew, and he found himself kind of liking how it was so child-like, so full of genuine pleasure. Climbing onto the bike behind Spencer, Lassiter tried to keep his grip loose around the other man, but Spencer grabbed his hands and pulled his arms tight around him.

"Wouldn't want you falling off," Spencer said, revving up the engine.

A blur of heat and vibrations and crisp night air, the ride home wasn't nearly as unpleasant as Lassiter expected. Spencer's strong back and confident driving settled him a bit, and Lassiter found himself thinking it had been too long since he'd been this close to another human being. His mellowed mood continued all the way up to his door, Spencer staying close even after they left his bike parked at the curb.

Why Lassiter didn't fight Spencer following him inside, he had no idea. He also couldn't explain why he offered of a nightcap, or why he really wanted Spencer to say yes to the proffered beer; Lassiter spent the entire night desperately wanting to get away from the guy and now he didn't want him to leave. Spencer agreed, but only took a few sips of his beer before setting it aside and drinking down Lassiter's lips instead.

Softer and shyer than Lassiter expected of the other man, the kiss almost drew a moan from him but he held back, sober enough to know this wasn't supposed to be happening and that he wasn't supposed to enjoy kissing another so much. Then Spencer's hands found his biceps, gripping them tight enough to convey just how much he wanted this, and Lassiter couldn't help himself. It really had been too long and those jeans did look good on Spencer. Before he could stop himself, Lassiter wrapped his arms around the other man, possessively pulling them together oh-so-tight and right.

When Spencer slipped a deliciously denim-clad thigh between his own, Lassiter did moan.

The whole experience was so new to him, but that didn't mean it was any less intoxicating. Drawing his lips along Shawn's jaw, Lassiter tasted stubble and sweat on his tongue. His hands slipped under the tuxedo jacket, finding hard pecs instead of soft breast. Spencer's excitement rested heavy against his hip and Lassiter's own answered as he ground against him, panting into Spencer's ear as he teased it with eager teeth.

"Oh Lassy… Oh yeah… Right there…Right… More, more, more," Spencer murmur, his voice breaking when Lassiter grabbed that fine rear and thrust more enthusiastically. While Spencer's incessant babbling only infuriated him earlier in the evening, he now found the man's breathy mantra far too arousing to try and quell it.

"Bed. Now," he managed to gasp, tugging Spencer by his belt loops towards the bedroom. That eager, almost-innocent grin returned and Lassiter growled, devouring it as they tried to walk and make out at the same time.

Stripping frantically, Lassiter didn't care that his clothes fell in a haphazard pile at the foot of his bed; he was too focused on Spencer, who seemed determined to beat him to nudity. Heavy breathing filled the room as they finally managed to escape their clothing and come back together in a pile of flesh and fury on the bed.

"You need to wear tuxes more often," Spencer moan, running his hands all over Lassiter's chest, seeming to revel in the thick hair he found there. "I had a hard-on all night because of you, Carly. Of course, I like you naked even more."

Before Lassiter could respond, Spencer pressed their arousals together and gripped them tight in his hand. Thrusting into the tight tunnel formed by palm and penis, Lassiter bit down on Spencer's shoulder, muffling the scream that he knew would be too high and too needy if he let it out unchecked. The bed creaked and complained as their movements became frantic, each desperate to reach release.

"God, you feel so good," Spencer moaned. "So good… Too good… Oh god… Oh Carly… Oh!"

Spilling across them both, Spencer came hard, unashamed of how his voice cracked and crumbled with his release. Unable to hold back, Lassiter followed, choking out what sounded suspiciously like "Shawn" as he buried his face in the young man's neck. When at last the tremors subsided, Lassiter opened his eyes to meet Spencer's own contented gaze.

He watched, transfixed, as Spencer drew a soiled hand to his mouth and began to lap up their mingled cum. Lassiter knew he should have been disgusted, but Spencer seemed to enjoy the taste so much that he could only feel a hazy sort of pride as the other man licked up his essence so eagerly. Alcohol and orgasm both threatened to pull Lassiter under as he relaxed, boneless and sated for the first time in ages. Vaguely aware of Spencer leaving the bed and then returning with a damp cloth to wipe up their mess, he almost purred as Spencer gently swiped the warm, wet cloth across his still over-sensitive skin. As sleep won out, Lassiter couldn't be sure but he thought he felt a gentle kiss pressed onto his sweat-slick temple and a murmured request that he have sweet dreams.

The inevitable morning after came around, bringing along with it guilt and no small amount of panic. Lassiter lay there, his chest pressed up against Spencer's back in a manner reminiscent of their motorcycle ride the night before, as he tried to keep himself from freaking out. Attempting to take several deep breaths, he couldn't help but inhale the distinct smell of sex and Spencer; even now, without a drop of alcohol in his system, Lassiter found himself liking it a bit too much. He needed to get out of bed right away, before he lost it completely and accidentally woke up Spencer in the process.

As he carefully unwound his arms from around the other man, Spencer shifted, rolling over in his sleep.

"Five more minutes, Carly," mumbled Spencer as he buried his face into Lassiter's chest, squeezing him tight as he snuggled closer. "Just five more minutes."

Lassiter could hear it, the crackle-crash of his will crumbling, and he resignedly relaxed into Spencer's embrace. The fallout could and would come, but for the moment he acquiesced to Spencer's half-conscious request.

Maybe this wouldn't end as badly as he imagined, if Spencer's contented sigh was any indication of the young man's mood.

Maybe things wouldn't end up awkward between the two of them.

Maybe, just maybe, Lassiter wouldn't mind if this happened again.

And maybe steak dinners weren't so bad after all.