May I Have Some More

by Jane Davitt

A/N Written for this prompt in the Psych Kink Meme 2.0: Prompt: Lassiter's always hot and bothered by Shawn's put-downs and jokes at his expense, what Shawn doesn't know is that he likes it--feels something at being called out on his failures.

"And then, of course, along came Lassie, timing all wrong as usual, though I've got to say I loved the way he kicked in a swing door that wasn't even locked, fought back, and won, and boom! we lose Reynolds." Spencer sketches an explosion with his hands, a grin curling his lips, his eyes fixed on Carlton's face. Carlton can feel his cheeks heating, feel the familiar surge of helpless arousal as Spencer does what he does best and belittles Carlton in front of, well, just about everyone. The crowd of people around Carlton's desk titter, hanging on Spencer's every word, and yes, there's anger buried deep because this is his station, his desk, his fucking co-workers and Spencer's supposed to be the outsider looking in, not Carlton, but it can't surface when he's this turned on.

He makes a sound, throat-caught, desperate, and sees Spencer's eyes narrow speculatively.

"I'm sorry, Head Detective Lassiter," Spencer says politely. "Would you like to tell them how you screwed up the stakeout and the naughty men got away in their boat? I'd hate to miss anything, like the way the little old lady on the pier tripped you up with her cane because she thought you were on the run from the cops. What was it she said about your villainous face and scary frown?"

"Mr. Spencer!" Chief Vick joins the group before Carlton can reply and he feels a twinge of disappointment, not relief. He can't stand, his cock throbbing out a plea for more, erect, lashed rigid by every lightly contemptuous word from Spencer's lips. "Please refrain from criticizing my officers and get off Detective Lassiter's desk. The stakeout might have had less productive results than we'd hoped for, but Reynolds is still out there and until he's found, I want less chit-chat and more investigating. With O'Hara off sick, and Diaz on personal leave we're shorthanded." Her gaze sweeps across the small group and it disperses before she's finished saying "Is that clear?" and gone by the time she turns on her heel and stalks away.

She's good at administering a smack-down and Carlton's grown to appreciate her, but there's something about the way Spencer twists the knife that gets to him more.

Left alone with Spencer, Carlton takes a deep breath and summons up a glare and a few breathless, growled words. "Are we done here?"

Spencer slides off Carlton's desk and does it so that he ends up standing next to Carlton who edges his chair closer in, shielding his only too obvious hard-on from Spencer's downward gaze.

"Yeah," Spencer says after a long moment. "I guess. Sorry if I gave you a hard time there."

The pun is delivered so casually that it takes Carlton a moment to register what Spencer's said, and when he does he's left speechless, gaping until he realizes that he's reading too much into a common phrase. Spencer hadn't meant it, didn't know -- couldn't know. No one knows. Hell, even Carlton doesn't often admit to himself just how much he gets off on being corrected, instructed, disciplined by a firm hand and a scathing, merciless flow of abuse. He'd blame it on his mother and the nuns if he didn't know it was just the way he was.

Only Spencer's ever made humiliating him into a weird hobby, a game, but just because he's smiling and relaxed when he does it, not scowling, white-lipped with anger, doesn't stop it from stinging and smarting just right.

Spencer raises his eyebrows. "What, no witty comeback? Do I have to tell you what to say? Do both sides of the conversation? You're hard work, Lassikins."

There's the slightest of pauses between 'hard' and 'work' and Carlton swallows.

"Spencer --" It's more a plea than a snarl. Anyone looking -- and Guster's hovering ten yards away, staring at his watch every few seconds, his foot tapping -- won't see anything much but Carlton's conscious of being the focus of Spencer's attention in a way that he's never been before. He can almost hear the click of pieces falling into place as Spencer works things out -- or maybe that's just wishful thinking because Spencer's not a mind reader.

"Let me see," Spencer says, his lips pursed in reflection. "I know! How about you say, "I'm so sorry for not listening to you when you told me to wait two minutes because Reynolds always comes out for coffee at eleven sharp." Say it."

"What?" He's scarlet now, drenched in heat. He puts up his hand and tugs at his collar so that he can suck in a breath.

"Too long? Not apologetic enough?" Spencer taps his lips with one finger and then turns his head. "Gus! The little boy's room is that way if you need to pee."

Guster stops twitching like a racehorse waiting to run and scowls before calling over, "Shawn, I'm late for my rounds. I'm leaving. Right now. Make your own way home."

Spencer raises a hand in a careless farewell and then Carlton's pinned by his gaze again. Around them, the room's emptying as people go in search of lunch. They're not alone, but they're out of earshot of anyone left at their desk.

"So, where were we?" Spencer nods. "Okay, I've got it. "Spencer, you were right and I was wrong, totally, completely, head up my ass wrong and I'm very, very sorry. Please forgive me."

"If you think I'm saying --" Carlton shakes his head and stares down at the papers on his desk. His fingers are flexing on his thighs, forming tight fists, then relaxing, and his lips are barely moving, shaping the words silently, each one turning the screw on his arousal. God, he wants to fall to his knees right here and say them, bend forward and lick Spencer's beat-up sneakers in contrition because Spencer's right and he really fucked things up by rushing.

Spencer leans in closer, his breath tickling Carlton's ear, his ass back on Carlton's desk. The wood will be warm when he slides off it and Lassiter will brush his fingers over it and feel them tingle. "Say you're sorry," Spencer whispers. "You know you've been bad, Lassie. You know you screwed up. You can't concentrate you're so busy kicking yourself and that won't catch him."

Carlton twists his head around and Spencer's right there, so close. It's like looking at the sun. He wants to flinch and bask at the same time. "I --" The words stick in his throat.

"You deserve to be kicked," Spencer says. "You let your ego get in the way. Didn't you?"

Carlton nods his agreement, surrendering to the certainty in Spencer's voice. Nodding. He can do that. His head's heavy, full of too many thoughts. It's raising it again that's difficult.

"You deserved to get laughed at, didn't you?"

There's a killing gentleness about Spencer's voice now. It's almost dreamy but there's an edge to it, too, slicing away at Carlton's defenses.

Dumbly, numbly, he nods again.

"Say it," Spencer says and Carlton's trapped, aching cock throbs in response to the cool command. For a man who dresses like his age ends in 'teen', Spencer's brimful of assertiveness. "Tell me what I want to hear, Lassie, that's a good boy."

Carlton's staring at Spencer without really looking, his eyes wide, unblinking, his emotions chaotic, but that has him focusing on Spencer's expression. There's a taut anticipation in the green eyes, a tension around the lips, but no amusement. This isn't a joke. Spencer's playing with him, yes, but he's using Carlton's rules -- for now.

"I'm sorry," he says and as soon as the word slips out some of the weight lifts. He's mumbling, blushing, his nails digging into his palms, his cock screaming for a touch it won't get, not here, but he says what Spencer wants to hear. "I screwed up. I'm sorry. I should have listened to you. I'm sorry."

Spencer nods. "Nice!" he says brightly and for a moment, Carlton thinks he was wrong, this was just a joke -- oh God, is Spencer taping this, is he -- "But let's try that one more time, and this time use my name. I want you to know who you're groveling to."

"I'm not --" Carlton begins, the protest automatic and a lie, but Spencer nods slowly, and whatever else he's been about to say remains crowded in his throat.

"Yes, you are, Lassie. You've been a bad little puppy and misbehaved, we all know that, but if you're very good now I'll come over tonight and rub your nose in it some more." Carlton whimpers, mostly in his head, sincerely scared that he's going to come right here at his desk, shame himself beyond redemption. The fear is real but it's close to being the final spur, too. "But first we've got to find Reynolds and you're not going to be any use to me until we move past this, so tell me again and this time say it nice and clear, no mumbling."

Carlton looks around. No one is close to them, and Spencer's angled his body to protect Carlton from being visible to anyone looking over. He could reach down, adjust himself…God he needs to after that promise Spencer just made. He can't allow himself to picture what Spencer's capable of once they're alone, not here, but fragments flash through his head, himself kneeling, eyes down, stripped naked in front of Spencer, mocking, derisive words dripping down on him. Maybe Spencer would -- oh God, a newspaper, rolled up tightly, smacking his ass as he pushes it up obediently, thrust between his teeth for him to hold as Spencer continues to berate him…

"Naughty boy. Hands on the desk, Carlton," Spencer says calmly. "I think we both know you don't get to touch anyone, including yourself. Right?"

Carlton spreads his fingers out on his desk, the dry rustle of papers loud in the silence between them as he nods.

"Use your words, Carlton," Spencer says implacably and Carlton closes his eyes, groaning at the blatant display of the strength of will he's sensed beneath the frothy nonsense for so long now.

"I don't get to touch," he repeats.

"Because you're a bad boy," Spencer prompts.

"I don't get to touch myself, or you, because I'm a bad boy…Shawn," Carlton says, making his surrender as abject as he can -- he can do better, he can do more, but not here, oh God, why is this happening here? -- and hears each word ringing in his ears. He's light, floating.

Spencer sighs and there's such relief in the sigh that Carlton smiles even though he knows he's going to be begging for release later, hurting, humiliated, broken by a man he trusts to do the job right.

"You're going to be a troublemaker," Spencer says sadly, "In corridors." Carlton, confused, opens his mouth to assure Spencer that no, he'll be good, so obedient, will try so hard, when he sees the glint in Spencer's eyes and swallows.

"It's 'incorrigible', Spencer, and get your ass off my desk. We've got work to do."

Spencer sniffs. "I've heard it both ways."

And it's all back to normal, even Carlton's dick is settling back down, but through the hours that follow, Spencer's never far away and Carlton's only been home for thirty minutes, just long enough to shower, when Spencer walks in without knocking and sneers at him.

"Want me to go through the number of ways you were a total waste of space today, Lassie?"

He falls to his knees, needs to be there, loves that Spencer stays at the other end of the room so that when Spencer snaps his fingers, he's got a long way to crawl.

He waits until he's staring down at Spencer's feet to whisper, "Tell me. Please."

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