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Fic: 200 Rose Petals an Hour. (subtitle: me & missp spend too much time on craigslist)
If you do not like this story, take it up with management -- I have no problem blaming ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
misspamela. She said, "Shawn and Gus hooker au!" and I said, "5 sentences?" and she said, "Okay!" so I wrote her 1300 words of Gus and Shawn not-quite-hooker not-really-au.
And then she said, "Post it to the internet or I'm telling," and I said, "Give me until next week to work on it," and she said, "Okay," and then she told the internet.
So. This will be my Valentine to you, friendslist. It's not as awesome as a Psych hooker story would be if MissP wrote it herself, and it's not beta read, but I also make Valentine's cards out of newspaper and glitter glue so, you know, that's pretty much in line with how I roll.
♥ ♥ ♥
Title: 200 Rose Petals an Hour
Author:giddygeek
Pairing: Shawn/Gus, Psych
Notes: 1600 words (what, I worked on it a LITTLE)
At first, Gus says no.
Actually, he says, "Oh, hell no," and marches away. He ignores Shawn as well as he can, considering that Shawn is practically stepping on his heels, he's walking so close as he talks and talks -- and then he is on Gus' heels, and Gus trips and almost goes down. Shawn is saying, "The kittens, Gus, think of the kittens," while he catches Gus' shoulder and keeps him upright, then warm hands pat him down for injuries while Gus slaps at his them as they wander and says, "Okay! Okay! All right!"
Shawn lets him go and steps back, beaming. "I knew you'd come through for me, Guster."
Gus cracks his neck and straightens his tie. "For the kittens, Shawn. You did say there were kittens, didn't you? Shawn? Shawn! If you're lying to me about the kittens -- "
*
Gus officially hates pantyhose. He hated them before, it was true, when it took him ten minutes and plenty of graceless fumbling to get them off a woman, but now. Now, the pantyhose are too warm on his too bare legs, and he hates them. It. Whatever pantyhose qualify as.
To make the situation worse, his short skirt is riding up sideways, how does it even do that? His scalp itches under the wig, and the red hair tumbling over his shoulders smells like musky perfume and smoke. The lipstick on his mouth feels gummy and tastes like wax.
And Shawn won't stop touching his legs.
"Stop it!" he snaps, edging sideways again. He totters on his heels.
"Dude, you shaved." Shawn cops another feel, and Gus hits him with his little red purse until Shawn yelps and ducks away, grinning, arms covering his head. Shawn's arms are bare and hairy, as are his legs, and he hadn't even bothered to get a wig that looked real, or a dress that didn't look like it came right off a drag queen.
Shawn's dress probably did come right off a drag queen. Shawn has that kind of charm.
"Unlike you, I have some respect," Gus says, tucking his little bag back under his arm. "It's not always bon-bons and trips to Vegas and, and selling massages for rose petals on Craigslist, you know, Shawn. This is a complicated career choice."
"Dude." Shawn throws out his arms. Gus looks disapprovingly at the hair under his arms, only partially concealed by the lime green, strapless satin Shawn's wearing. The only credit Gus can give Shawn on this one is for his bright red finger and toenails; professional job, Gus would bet. Shawn's useless at toes.
He's also laughing, like Gus taking this seriously is the funniest thing that ever happened. "Gus. Dude. We're pretending to be hookers on a street corner in Santa Barbara at eight on a school night. Talk to me about being the guy, that guy who cleans up elephant poo in the zoo, and then -- or, ooh, one of those guys on the crab boats; now that is a complicated career choice -- "
"Professional sex worker," Gus says.
Shawn tilts his head. "Gus, I think that's the first time I've ever heard you use that word!"
"Don't be an idiot, I say 'professional' all the time," Gus says, rolling his eyes. "Not hookers. Professional sex workers. Honestly, Shawn!"
"No, no, I got it," Shawn says, eyes wide. "And you're right. I should be taking this more seriously." He nods, stands straighter, carefully shifts his lime green satin until the front is a little less toward the side, and studies the few people passing them in the intersection with great interest.
No one even gawks back at him. It's that kind of intersection.
"Thank you, Shawn," Gus says, and for a couple minutes they just stand there, quiet, watching. Gus eyes every car that slows with a mixture of excitement and trepidation; this could be their guy, that could be their guy, their guy --
"Ooh, ooh, Shawn," Gus says, pointing to a black van with a dude behind the wheel who, if you looked up 'creepy' in the dictionary, would have his mugshot right there in the definition. "Shawn. That guy. Is that guy our guy? Because he looks like he could be our guy -- Shawn?"
"Hmm, what?" Shawn says, looking up from where he'd been checking out Gus' legs again. "Our guy? Huh. No. I guess I forgot to mention, he's not gonna show tonight."
Gus takes a couple steps towards the guy in the van. "What do you mean, he's not gonna show tonight -- I think he's showing right now!"
"Yeah, no, not him." Shawn says, shaking his head. "He's an undercover guy. He's probably going to try to arrest us for soliciting. I maybe didn't clear this with Jules and Lassie." He takes off his wig and waves at the guy, shouts, "Hey Tony!" and the guy waves back, then peels out, leaving burning rubber in his wake.
Gus stares, and behind him Shawn says, "Hey, you wanna go get some ice cream? Or, ooh, maybe we could bring a movie back to your place. Do you still have some of that cake you made? Because I could really go for some sweet, sweet cake. At your place. Let's go."
Gus turns on him, slowly. "Shawn."
Shawn looks innocent. "Yeah, buddy?"
"Our guy isn't going to show tonight?" Gus feels the urge to murder rising. "How do you know that? No, forget the how; when did you know that? Because if it was before I got my feet into these shoes, I swear I will kill you. I swear -- "
Shawn does not seem cowed. He puts his wig back on, brushes his bangs out of his face and tosses his hair like a Farrah Fawcett in a 1970s photoshoot. "Yeah, Jules called me right before we got here. They totally got the guy already. They didn't even wait for me to make my reveal, can you believe that? And he couldn't wait to confess once they'd dropped my kitten bomb on him. I mean, who would, that was some seriously hardcore evidence!"
Gus closes his eyes. He counts to ten. He counts to twenty. When he opens his eyes again, there's Shawn; horribly dressed, beaming, and totally, irrepressibly, delighted by himself, his life, and Gus.
"I will maim you," Gus promises, taking a step forward. Shawn dances backwards out of his reach, laughing, light on his feet like he bounces around in four inch heels every day of his life. Gus lunges for him, hands stretched right out for his throat, and trips over his own stilettos.
Shawn catches him for the second time that day. This time, the hands that start roaming once Gus isn't in danger of landing on his head are warm on Gus' bare skin; he touches Gus' smooth legs, his back, even ghosting slowly over the curve of his ass, rough fingers catching on cream-colored silk.
"Maim," Gus says, but without a lot of sincerity because actually, actually, maybe, and then Shawn grins at him and says, "These legs were just too good to waste, Guster," while touching Gus' thigh and okay, all right, fine.
Gus wraps his hand around Shawn's arm and drags him off while using him for balance; Shawn clicks along beside him as steady on his feet as ever. "Okay, fine," Gus says. "Ice cream at my place. But you're buying."
Shawn shakes Gus' hand loose and slides his strong, bare arm around Gus' waist. "You bet I am, buddy," he says. "How much for the night?"
"More than you can afford," Gus sniffs, looking at him sideways.
Shawn's hand wanders down Gus' hip, fingers tickling and teasing and rucking up the silk, seemingly aimless, but Shawn knows exactly what he's doing. "Phish Food?"
Gus considers the offer, and Shawn's wandering hand, and the empty, disgusting, private alley where they'd parked the car before wobbling out to the corner. "Phish Food and Cherry Garcia," he says.
"Sold," Shawn says, and he's still grinning when Gus pushes him back against the wall and kisses him, but not for long. Pretty soon he's just kissing and panting and mumbling a little, incoherently, and Gus thinks that's a fair trade; he likes that just fine.
*
Shawn buys Phish Food every day until Gus' legs stop itching.
"It's only fair, since you got the most enjoyment out of it," Gus says, while he's eating the last pint.
"Yeah, about that. Did I tell you about the thing with the nurses?" Shawn says, as wide-eyed and innocent as a dude can be while he's ogling another dude's legs. "Because there's a thing. With nurses. In short skirts. We should investigate."
"No," Gus says, licking his spoon.
Shawn's eyes get even wider, and darker. "Did I mention the defenseless bunny rabbits we'd be saving?"
"Bunny rabbits?" Gus says, hesitating with the last spoonful of ice cream inches from his mouth. "Not fluffy ones? With floppy ears? Tell me it's not fluffy bunnies with floppy ears."
"I can't tell you that, Gus. It would be a lie. It's fluffy bunnies with floppy ears, and little pink noses," Shawn says, solemnly.
"Okay," Gus says. "We'll take the case. But I want to use the real stethescope this time. And no medical tape. That stuff leaves a film, Shawn. A nasty, cruddy film that's impossible to get off. Last time I had goop on my wrists for -- "
"Gus. Gus, I totally understand your concerns, and am willing to offer a compromise. You can use the tape on me this time," Shawn says, generous.
Gus eats the last of his ice cream, considers Shawn's offer, and says, "Oh, well, in that case. Let's go solve this thing."
And that is exactly what they do.
THE END. \o/
misspamela. She said, "Shawn and Gus hooker au!" and I said, "5 sentences?" and she said, "Okay!" so I wrote her 1300 words of Gus and Shawn not-quite-hooker not-really-au. And then she said, "Post it to the internet or I'm telling," and I said, "Give me until next week to work on it," and she said, "Okay," and then she told the internet.
So. This will be my Valentine to you, friendslist. It's not as awesome as a Psych hooker story would be if MissP wrote it herself, and it's not beta read, but I also make Valentine's cards out of newspaper and glitter glue so, you know, that's pretty much in line with how I roll.
♥ ♥ ♥
Title: 200 Rose Petals an Hour
Author:
giddygeekPairing: Shawn/Gus, Psych
Notes: 1600 words (what, I worked on it a LITTLE)
At first, Gus says no.
Actually, he says, "Oh, hell no," and marches away. He ignores Shawn as well as he can, considering that Shawn is practically stepping on his heels, he's walking so close as he talks and talks -- and then he is on Gus' heels, and Gus trips and almost goes down. Shawn is saying, "The kittens, Gus, think of the kittens," while he catches Gus' shoulder and keeps him upright, then warm hands pat him down for injuries while Gus slaps at his them as they wander and says, "Okay! Okay! All right!"
Shawn lets him go and steps back, beaming. "I knew you'd come through for me, Guster."
Gus cracks his neck and straightens his tie. "For the kittens, Shawn. You did say there were kittens, didn't you? Shawn? Shawn! If you're lying to me about the kittens -- "
*
Gus officially hates pantyhose. He hated them before, it was true, when it took him ten minutes and plenty of graceless fumbling to get them off a woman, but now. Now, the pantyhose are too warm on his too bare legs, and he hates them. It. Whatever pantyhose qualify as.
To make the situation worse, his short skirt is riding up sideways, how does it even do that? His scalp itches under the wig, and the red hair tumbling over his shoulders smells like musky perfume and smoke. The lipstick on his mouth feels gummy and tastes like wax.
And Shawn won't stop touching his legs.
"Stop it!" he snaps, edging sideways again. He totters on his heels.
"Dude, you shaved." Shawn cops another feel, and Gus hits him with his little red purse until Shawn yelps and ducks away, grinning, arms covering his head. Shawn's arms are bare and hairy, as are his legs, and he hadn't even bothered to get a wig that looked real, or a dress that didn't look like it came right off a drag queen.
Shawn's dress probably did come right off a drag queen. Shawn has that kind of charm.
"Unlike you, I have some respect," Gus says, tucking his little bag back under his arm. "It's not always bon-bons and trips to Vegas and, and selling massages for rose petals on Craigslist, you know, Shawn. This is a complicated career choice."
"Dude." Shawn throws out his arms. Gus looks disapprovingly at the hair under his arms, only partially concealed by the lime green, strapless satin Shawn's wearing. The only credit Gus can give Shawn on this one is for his bright red finger and toenails; professional job, Gus would bet. Shawn's useless at toes.
He's also laughing, like Gus taking this seriously is the funniest thing that ever happened. "Gus. Dude. We're pretending to be hookers on a street corner in Santa Barbara at eight on a school night. Talk to me about being the guy, that guy who cleans up elephant poo in the zoo, and then -- or, ooh, one of those guys on the crab boats; now that is a complicated career choice -- "
"Professional sex worker," Gus says.
Shawn tilts his head. "Gus, I think that's the first time I've ever heard you use that word!"
"Don't be an idiot, I say 'professional' all the time," Gus says, rolling his eyes. "Not hookers. Professional sex workers. Honestly, Shawn!"
"No, no, I got it," Shawn says, eyes wide. "And you're right. I should be taking this more seriously." He nods, stands straighter, carefully shifts his lime green satin until the front is a little less toward the side, and studies the few people passing them in the intersection with great interest.
No one even gawks back at him. It's that kind of intersection.
"Thank you, Shawn," Gus says, and for a couple minutes they just stand there, quiet, watching. Gus eyes every car that slows with a mixture of excitement and trepidation; this could be their guy, that could be their guy, their guy --
"Ooh, ooh, Shawn," Gus says, pointing to a black van with a dude behind the wheel who, if you looked up 'creepy' in the dictionary, would have his mugshot right there in the definition. "Shawn. That guy. Is that guy our guy? Because he looks like he could be our guy -- Shawn?"
"Hmm, what?" Shawn says, looking up from where he'd been checking out Gus' legs again. "Our guy? Huh. No. I guess I forgot to mention, he's not gonna show tonight."
Gus takes a couple steps towards the guy in the van. "What do you mean, he's not gonna show tonight -- I think he's showing right now!"
"Yeah, no, not him." Shawn says, shaking his head. "He's an undercover guy. He's probably going to try to arrest us for soliciting. I maybe didn't clear this with Jules and Lassie." He takes off his wig and waves at the guy, shouts, "Hey Tony!" and the guy waves back, then peels out, leaving burning rubber in his wake.
Gus stares, and behind him Shawn says, "Hey, you wanna go get some ice cream? Or, ooh, maybe we could bring a movie back to your place. Do you still have some of that cake you made? Because I could really go for some sweet, sweet cake. At your place. Let's go."
Gus turns on him, slowly. "Shawn."
Shawn looks innocent. "Yeah, buddy?"
"Our guy isn't going to show tonight?" Gus feels the urge to murder rising. "How do you know that? No, forget the how; when did you know that? Because if it was before I got my feet into these shoes, I swear I will kill you. I swear -- "
Shawn does not seem cowed. He puts his wig back on, brushes his bangs out of his face and tosses his hair like a Farrah Fawcett in a 1970s photoshoot. "Yeah, Jules called me right before we got here. They totally got the guy already. They didn't even wait for me to make my reveal, can you believe that? And he couldn't wait to confess once they'd dropped my kitten bomb on him. I mean, who would, that was some seriously hardcore evidence!"
Gus closes his eyes. He counts to ten. He counts to twenty. When he opens his eyes again, there's Shawn; horribly dressed, beaming, and totally, irrepressibly, delighted by himself, his life, and Gus.
"I will maim you," Gus promises, taking a step forward. Shawn dances backwards out of his reach, laughing, light on his feet like he bounces around in four inch heels every day of his life. Gus lunges for him, hands stretched right out for his throat, and trips over his own stilettos.
Shawn catches him for the second time that day. This time, the hands that start roaming once Gus isn't in danger of landing on his head are warm on Gus' bare skin; he touches Gus' smooth legs, his back, even ghosting slowly over the curve of his ass, rough fingers catching on cream-colored silk.
"Maim," Gus says, but without a lot of sincerity because actually, actually, maybe, and then Shawn grins at him and says, "These legs were just too good to waste, Guster," while touching Gus' thigh and okay, all right, fine.
Gus wraps his hand around Shawn's arm and drags him off while using him for balance; Shawn clicks along beside him as steady on his feet as ever. "Okay, fine," Gus says. "Ice cream at my place. But you're buying."
Shawn shakes Gus' hand loose and slides his strong, bare arm around Gus' waist. "You bet I am, buddy," he says. "How much for the night?"
"More than you can afford," Gus sniffs, looking at him sideways.
Shawn's hand wanders down Gus' hip, fingers tickling and teasing and rucking up the silk, seemingly aimless, but Shawn knows exactly what he's doing. "Phish Food?"
Gus considers the offer, and Shawn's wandering hand, and the empty, disgusting, private alley where they'd parked the car before wobbling out to the corner. "Phish Food and Cherry Garcia," he says.
"Sold," Shawn says, and he's still grinning when Gus pushes him back against the wall and kisses him, but not for long. Pretty soon he's just kissing and panting and mumbling a little, incoherently, and Gus thinks that's a fair trade; he likes that just fine.
*
Shawn buys Phish Food every day until Gus' legs stop itching.
"It's only fair, since you got the most enjoyment out of it," Gus says, while he's eating the last pint.
"Yeah, about that. Did I tell you about the thing with the nurses?" Shawn says, as wide-eyed and innocent as a dude can be while he's ogling another dude's legs. "Because there's a thing. With nurses. In short skirts. We should investigate."
"No," Gus says, licking his spoon.
Shawn's eyes get even wider, and darker. "Did I mention the defenseless bunny rabbits we'd be saving?"
"Bunny rabbits?" Gus says, hesitating with the last spoonful of ice cream inches from his mouth. "Not fluffy ones? With floppy ears? Tell me it's not fluffy bunnies with floppy ears."
"I can't tell you that, Gus. It would be a lie. It's fluffy bunnies with floppy ears, and little pink noses," Shawn says, solemnly.
"Okay," Gus says. "We'll take the case. But I want to use the real stethescope this time. And no medical tape. That stuff leaves a film, Shawn. A nasty, cruddy film that's impossible to get off. Last time I had goop on my wrists for -- "
"Gus. Gus, I totally understand your concerns, and am willing to offer a compromise. You can use the tape on me this time," Shawn says, generous.
Gus eats the last of his ice cream, considers Shawn's offer, and says, "Oh, well, in that case. Let's go solve this thing."
And that is exactly what they do.
THE END. \o/
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p.s. - you have an extra / in your italics tag in the second paragraph
edited for tag abuse
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GIDDY. GIDDY I ♥ YOU.
(also them. boooooooyfriends.)
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I also find you totally charming. ♥ ♥ ♥ *grins*
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*smooch*
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