Don't freak when you see things have disappeared. I'm in the process of rewriting so it flows better due to my 9 month break messing things up. I apologize for the wait and confusion, and promise the new versions will very much make it up to you; I just don't want to deal with the clusterfuck that it was before, so I deleted the old versions. I know that means losing my views and my reviews, and while I love and appreciate you for them all, I'd rather have well written work posted than a bunch of hits for work I think is shit. I can do better, and you deserve better. The first eleven are up now; look for the new Chapter Thirteen soon. You can also find me on AO3 under the same pen name.

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

Tell It to My Heart

*This chapter takes place after season 3 episode 8: Gus Walks Into A Bank

** The accompanying songs are Tell It to My Heart by Taylor Dayne

Carlton froze, thoughts of rebuffing Spencer racing through his mind so fast he couldn't be sure they'd been there at all. But having never experienced sensation so intensely in his life, he gave in, desperate to capture the feeling and urging the psychic to explore freely, his moans muffled by the other man's mouth.

Every lick, every nibble, every brush of Spencer's hand against his skin.

It was overwhelming; intoxicating.

Carlton shivered, unable to tell whether Spencer's touch or the effects of the alcohol were to blame. It didn't really matter though - not when his skin sizzled where the man caressed. Not when his heart felt like it was about to beat right out of his chest.

It scared the ever-loving crap out of him.

"Wait. Wait, stop -" he panted, breaking away and trying to collect himself. "We can't do this."

"Why not?" Spencer whispered, pressing a kiss against the cop's jaw before taking a step back, a small frown upon his face.

Carlton batted him away as he attempted another, hissing, "We're in a bar bathroom with our colleagues less than fifty feet from us for fucks sake!"

"Note how you didn't say because you don't want to," Shawn taunted, cocking a mocking eyebrow as he continued. "You're growing, Lassie; I'm so proud of you!"

Carlton scowled.

"Just consider it an adventure – nobody's coming in with your back against the door," the psychic said, sliding close enough that Carlton felt the heat radiate off him, rendering the detective temporarily brain-dead. Shawn continued with a chuckle. "You know you wanna..."

The sound brought the cop back into his body and Carlton's brow furrowed harder, as if it's depth could strengthen his denial.

"I just wanna make you feel good, Lassie," Spencer said, smirking as he looked Carlton in the eye, wrapping his hand around the man's neck. It created a vulnerable moment the cop wasn't sure he was comfortable with, and a chill of exhilaration rushed up his spine. "What's gonna make you feel good right now?"

"Leaving," Carlton replied, trying to keep his expression grim and failing, tiny shocks sending signals to his already confused brain.

Carlton didn't want to go. It was the last think he wanted to do, as a matter of fact.

Which was exactly why he should do it.

"Good night, Spencer."

The psychic laughed again, louder this time, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Well, that's just silly and also not going to happen," he said, smug.

Carlton sighed, his head dropping slightly. This night is never going to end.

"Why don't you worry about yourself for once instead of worrying about what others think, Lassiepants?" the psychic continued, taking him off guard, nosy little bastard that he was.

Head snapping up at the inquiry, he looked at the younger man, a question in his eyes as he began to contemplate;

Horrible nickname aside, why didn't he worry about himself instead of what others thought? Aggravating though he was, he hated to admit that Spencer might be on to something.

Carlton had experienced what he had thought was a fairly eventful life thus far. But upon hearing Spencer's words, he realized that he couldn't honestly say he'd been in control for any of it. Spending the entirety of his existence worrying about what everybody else thought, he had done what everyone else felt best for him. Which, he supposed, wasn't living so much as it was simply existing. And it was only since meeting the man in front of him that he realized the enormous difference between the two.

He'd always been a problem solver and proud of that fact, but if ever he'd had the opportunity to follow someone else's direction, Carlton was there, letting them make the big decisions instead of stepping in to take control himself - first his mother, then his ex-wife. It hit him then, that it was possible he had been holding on to Victoria so tightly not out of love, but out of fear.

But… what would he be without someone there to guide him?

To tell him what to do; what he should do?

Who he should be?

Without that, who was he?

And what of this man in front of him, taunting him with traces of the truth?

This man, offering of himself in a way that no one had ever offered Carlton before?

Would one night of unbridled passion really ruin everything?

His brain told him yes while his body screamed no, his senses practically begging him to let go and give into feeling instead. Had he not earned the right to turn his brain off and enjoy the evening, come what may?

Even if what may was him?

Body pressed against body, Spencer held him down, looking like he relished the rare chance to switch roles. Clearly oblivious to the thoughts racing through his mind, the psychic stared into Carlton's eyes, hazel orbs pinning him in place, hands against the wall on either side of the detective's head to cage him in.

Carlton's breath quickened, and he felt Spencer's heart beat against his own, picking up pace.

"You need this. When's the last time you had anyone take control of your desires, Carlton?"

Carlton.

He swallowed.

Spencer had said his name – Spencer never used his name. The man had a dozen pet names for him, but very rarely did he use the cop's given one. It sobered him a little, forcing him to realize that the answer to Shawn's question was probably 'never.'

"So again, I ask," the fake started, lifting Carlton's chin so they were face-to-face. The brush of the psychic's lips against his own left him light-headed. Whatever blood not already pooled in his groin surging there, he shivered with nervous anticipation, the warm breath of the other man ghosting across his skin and turning it to gooseflesh.

"What's gonna make you feel good right now, Lass?"

Time stood still as Carlton imagined what he wanted to do.

What he wanted the other man to do to him.

He saw a world where Spencer showed off exactly how useful that mouth of his was; one with a lock on the bathroom door. A world with no consequences, or one where he felt free enough to act out his deepest desires, no hiding in a bathroom required.

He felt himself flush as he pictured their sweat slicked skin pressed together in the most dangerous of ways. It would never happen here, but his body ached with the possibility that it could.

That this wasn't the first time he had considered it.

His hand shook.

Unable to meet Spencer's inquisitive gaze, he ran his thumb along the man's lower lip, the faint blush spreading from his ears to his face. Shawn caught the appendage in his teeth and drew it into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the tip as he applied gentle suction, unconsciously mimicking the actions his imaginary-self had just performed.

Oh God.

Carlton wanted Shawn so bad it hurt.

He had never needed anything more.

And in that moment, he didn't give a damn about the repercussions.

"Get on your knees, Spencer," the detective breathed, steadying himself as he said words he swore he'd never.

Shawn grinned.

Carlton couldn't believe he was doing this, but he thrust his hand though the psychic's hair anyhow. Smiling a determined smile, he cupped Shawn by the back of the head to guide him.

"Do it now."

It was beyond anything Shawn could have ever imagined.

Even better, Lassiter had demanded it! That had to mean something, right?

Amazed at the turn their night had taken, Shawn was willing to do pretty much anything Lassie asked for at this point, so long as it meant keeping the man here.

With him.

Preferably in various stages of naked.

So, he wasn't going to waste any more time thinking about it, he decided, knowing it could twist in his mind forever if he let it. It was what it was, and he latched onto Lassie's words -

Get on your knees, Spencer.

words that made his head spin and heart beat and blood pound;

Do it now.

words that made him feel like a virginal schoolboy about to suck his first cock in the back of some vintage Camaro;

Get on your knees, Spencer.

and he shivered, the thrill of acceptance even better than the thrill of the chase.

Do it now.

"Yes, sir," Shawn said, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

Unbuckling Lassiter's pants, he kissed the detective slowly, sensually, sexually before breaking away to oblige and lowering himself to the tiled floor. His heart skipped a beat upon freeing the man from his polyester prison, and eager to get down to business and wanting to show Lassie exactly how wonderful his world could be before changed his mind, Shawn licked his lips, reveling in the anticipation and struggling to believe his luck.

True, it had been awhile since he had last nob-gobbled, but that didn't matter much to Shawn, certain enthusiasm would make up for any skill he lacked. Though he briefly wondered if his gag-reflex was going to be a problem, it wasn't long before he remembered the fist-clench trick he used to suppress it with back in his deep-throating days of ol', chortling at the memory when he did.

He'd had to do something other than Gus's sister while Gus was away at college, after all.

Lassie cleared his throat, bringing the psychic back to the task at hand, something Shawn never thought he'd see, let alone experience. And now that it was in hand, he could only stare, his fingers finally wrapped around Carlton's slightly curved and absolutely delicious-looking cock.

Enraptured by the idea of what was to come and having imagined this moment increasingly often over the past few months, Shawn was curious as to what the man would taste like.

Dying to know how Lassie would feel at the back of his throat.

The texture of Lassiter's skin against his tongue.

The look the cop would wear when he was finally pushed over the edge.

Shawn was nearly beside himself in his need to find out. But he also needed to be certain Lassie was on board, really on board, and so he paused, looking up. They had both been drinking, after all, and no matter how badly he wanted this, it wasn't going to happen if he wasn't certain.

"Lassie, you're sure you want me to do this? You don't have to if you don't -"

Lassiter interrupted him with an exasperated groan.

"I'm still waiting for you to prove you can do something useful with your mouth, Spencer."

Shawn smiled wider as the cop continued, rolling his eyes.

"Just suck my cock already, would you?"

Carlton felt like he was drowning in sensation.

He was drunk on it; the world surreal, his heart pounded in his chest to the beat of the muted music, the cold steel of the door handle pressing against his spine, the intensity in his groin growing as the charlatan moved his mouth with expert technique. The warm, wet feeling of Spencer's throat constricting around him drove Carlton mad and he thrust his hands into Shawn's hair so he wouldn't fall over, ignoring the man's muffled moan of protest as his grip tightened into a fist.

He was close, so close, and if the pseudo-psychic moaned again, he was going to lose it completely.

Sensing him teetering, Shawn did exactly that, somehow smiling up at him with mouth full.

"Fuck!" the detective growled, his body tensing and jaw clenching as the entirety of his being exploded out of his cock. He said it again, groaning; breathless, he looked down, his eyes glazed over with bliss - a look that changed to surprise when Spencer swallowed.

Incredibly grateful for the burnished steel supporting his weight, Carlton felt boneless, curious as to how his legs were keeping him upright. Wrapped in the warmth of his post-coital glow, he didn't want to move - wasn't even sure he could - but as Shawn wiped his mouth and began to stand, the door shifted behind him.

McNab's voice filtered through.

"Guys, you in there?"

Panic rose like bile in his throat, his bliss gone like the wind.

Shit.

"Quick, in a stall," Shawn whispered as he shoved Carlton toward the larger of the two, aware getting caught was the last thing the detective needed right now. "Pretend you're sick."

Carlton didn't need to pretend. He fell to his knees in front of the toilet, shame washing over him as he tucked himself in, nausea settling deep. The tequila rolled around in his gut like a cat high on nip, and as reality came crashing down around him, he thought he might hurl for real.

What have I done?!

This changed everything.

He didn't want things to change; he was barely capable of dealing with things as is!

But his body didn't care, and his stomach turned to lead. As McNab shoved his head through the door to ask if all was okay, Carlton's brain rushed to reconnect to his body and he gagged, the enormity of the evening overtaking him. Shaking, he left Spencer to deal with the mess they had created, curling into a ball as he chastised himself.

Sweet Lady Justice. What the hell did I just do?

"Hey, guys. You've been gone awhile. Everything okay?" the junior officer asked, his shoulder propping the door open, leaking the sound of the real world into the room.

Shawn glanced at Lassiter hunched over the john, a worried look flashing across his face. The cop was either putting on a hell of a show or something was seriously wrong. Either way, he knew he needed to get Buzz out of here, fast.

"Lassie's feeling sick," he replied, his mind latching onto the obvious explanation. And it was true, he knew. But why Lassie was feeling sick was the important question. "He and José got a little too friendly, if you know what I mean."

"José?" the young cop asked, confused.

Shawn nodded, a grave look upon his face as he explained. "Cuervo."

"Ahh, the tequila!" Buzz exclaimed, stepping into the room to offer his assistance. "Well, does he need anything? Is there anything I can -"

Lassiter growled from the stall, sounding more animal than man.

"Leave."

Buzz's brow furrowed, and Shawn could tell the man was worried.

"Are you sure? I could -"

"Just go, dammit!" Lassiter shouted.

Buzz flinched.

"It's okay, Buzz," Shawn insisted, directing the helpful man toward the exit, his brow slightly furrowed. "He's just cranky cause he's a got a feel-bad. I got this; you go back to the table. He just needs some time."

"Okaaaay," Buzz said, still a little unsure. "Want me to tell the gang what's up?"

Shawn chuckled at McNab's choice of words.

Nothing was up.

Well, not anymore...

"Sure, buddy. Thanks. We'll be out in a little bit."

And they would.

Just as soon as Shawn figured out what the hell was going on.