This is a "SURPRISE"-story- this morning I woke up and thought: well, I guess I will write something new this weekend… then I surprised myself and started this multichapter. I know where this story is going, but I haven't written more than this chapter at the moment, so I can't guarantee that I'll update every day. But: I will NEVER leave a story unfinished, so… trust me.
This is (if I remember correctly) my first multichapter where there's sex in the first chapter, and it doesn't get much tamer- this story is definitely M, and it has a lot of angst… AAAAANNND: quite a bit of action. I guess it will be about 6 chapters long, but I can't say for sure yet.
Tell me what you think about it!
Disclaimer: I don't own "The Mentalist" and I don't make money from fan fiction.
Love through the Coldest Days
„Alcohol is for the weak," his father had always told him, „as soon as your mind is impaired, you have lost."
Patrick Jane chuckled humorlessly and took another generous swig from the bottle, the amber-colored liquid burning all the way down his throat.
Tears were prickling in his eyes, but he could analyze the situation with hardly any emotional uproar at all, as if he were nothing but a specimen under his own microscope.
The subject's eyes keep oozing liquid. The subject is suffering.
He groaned, his head already swimming with the effect of too much alcohol, too much sadness. Fuck his mind. Fuck his dad. He didn't need any of this.
Just once, he needed the obliviousness of delirium. But that was a lie. He needed it a lot lately- this was just the first time he had decided to indulge.
He had spent the day with Loralei, making flowery declarations of the strange connection he felt with her, portraying the guy who's shocked by the depths of his own feelings to perfection- for the woman who had helped his family's killer. He shuddered in disgust. He could tell she was intrigued- of course. She was a vain peacock, a woman who liked to listen to compliments. That she believed to have cracked the shell around his heart made her soft, mellow, the sharpness gone from her face.
He couldn't even find her attractive any longer, he just felt nauseous, maybe that was what had him drinking now- everything that made him throw up brought relief these days. He was disgusted by himself, disgusted by all the lies he told, a deceiver, a cheater.
"If you're up for revenge, you can't let people see what's in your heart."
He didn't let them see. He'd always been strong and calm, and his deception had never bothered him. Every single lie had made him stronger, had shown that they couldn't get to him, couldn't touch him. No one bested Patrick Jane. It had been his one pride in a world full of shame.
Then Serious Crimes' fearless leader had come along, casually, and maybe his mistake had been that at first, he hadn't suspected her to be any kind of danger. Senior special agent Teresa Lisbon.
She had seemed so harmless, prim and proper, like a governess or schoolteacher in tough. She'd been fun, because it had been so easy to play her. He'd overlooked his own fascination with her because he'd been arrogant.
He gulped down more of the burning brandy, it was expensive stuff, and beneath all the scorching it tasted faintly sweet.
He thought of agent Lisbon and closed his eyes.
Part of him would have liked to let her see the state he was in. Sleep on her couch so she absolutely couldn't avoid finding him, reeking of alcohol and despair. She would brush her hands through his hair, scold him softly for putting himself in danger, feed him and pet him and make sure he slept.
He sighed. She would touch him. And didn't even he, a wormlike, miserable excuse for a human being deserve this touch?
He shuddered softly, the sensation felt almost like a sob, he didn't care. More alcohol, the feeling of nausea and dizziness got stronger. He pulled the dustbin close, better safe than sorry.
He slowly rubbed his hand over his stomach, even the soft cotton of his shirt chafing his uber-sensitive skin. Just once, he wanted to enjoy being touched. Wanted to have sex without the feeling that it was nothing but hard work, nothing but wrong. So far he'd kissed a cold-blooded killer who had attracted him just because he knew he couldn't have her- he wouldn't have gone near Erica Flynn if she had been available, her manipulative, immoral personality repelled him, but she had seemed like a safe experiment, a flirt that was fun and wouldn't be followed by emotions he didn't want.
But it hadn't felt good. Not as good as it had with his wife.
Sex with Loralei had been nothing but… work. Slave labor. He'd been surprised that he'd been able to find release, relieved that bio-feedback even worked in a situation like that. His body did what he wanted. It had almost been harder to fake sleep all night afterwards, to play the happy, lovesick fool next morning. To eat her eggs. When all he'd wanted was to empty his stomach into the toilet bowl- after an hour-long, scorching shower.
Wooing Loralei Martins was hell. But it was his only chance. If she didn't believe that she'd affected him, that the mysterious connection she thought they still had was something she could build upon, he had no way of getting her to talk.
So he had to do it. He shrugged. Had to do it.
Why was he suffering from his own lies all of a sudden?
It was all Teresa Lisbon's fault.
Pain lashed through him whenever he thought her name. Just once. Please.
One night in her arms. One night of true, honest pleasure. Learning what she felt like, how it felt like to be inside her.
He shivered. Once. It was all he wanted.
Another swig of alcohol brought his nausea to full bloom, and he almost welcomed the telltale clenching of his empty stomach, bowing over the dustbin while the dry heaves wrecked his body. He threw up some bile and amber liquid, he hadn't eaten in a while.
He lay in the darkness afterwards for a while, shivers coursing through his body, the longing so strong it felt like a fever.
Just one night. He would give everything for that. His whole miserable existence.
Xxxxxxxxxxx
He looked small and ill on her couch, the thin blanket covering him up to his chin.
Teresa Lisbon sighed deeply, worry for him like an old friend she had almost missed. There you are again. Haven't been away that long, have you?
She took another, thicker blanket out of the sideboard and covered him with it. She hesitated a second, before she drove her fingers through his hair, warm, fluffy curls, silky soft against her skin.
He moaned, and she raked her fingernails over his scalp, his slightly squirming movements doing strange things to her equilibrium.
"Still nauseous?" she asked softly, careful that he wouldn't be hurt by the volume of her voice, "I warn you, if you throw up on my couch, I have to paddle your sorry backside!"
He chuckled softly, his eyes huge and lost, her heart ached for him.
"You have a paddle?" he rasped.
She glared at him, but could feel the hint of a smile on her features.
"Trust me, you don't want to find out!"
He smiled and closed his eyes. The worrying came back like a tempest, driving through her insides full force. She fluffed his hair some more.
"Dammit, Patrick Jane," she whispered, "what am I going to do with you? You don't plan on making this a habit, do you?"
He opened his eyes again and looked at her. She couldn't change it- even if he behaved like an asshole, he was still her ray of sunshine. She grinned secretly at her own sappiness. Obviously, old age was catching up with her.
She could see shame in his cautious gaze and knew he thought of her father. Yeah. She had, too.
"Nah," he said, "I don't even like alcohol all that much, I swear. I just got… carried away last night. I was so… sad."
"Why, Jane?" she asked gently, "What made you so sad you got completely wasted?"
He looked away, and she felt the usual pang of defeat piercing her heart. He wouldn't tell her, she knew. She swallowed the hurt like a big girl, it was just not worth it. The pout got her nowhere, so she wouldn't bother.
"It's okay," she said, "later. So, what about the nausea?"
"Has passed." He replied slowly.
She nodded.
"Do you want some food? I have two donuts from Marie's, do you want some?"
Jane looked doubtful, but she wasn't about to give up.
"Trust me," she said, "you'll actually feel better after you ate something."
She picked the paper bag with the donuts from her desk and returned to his side, squatting down in front of the couch. She broke off a small piece of cake and handed it to him, sighing when he pressed his lips into a firm line and shook his head. She gently pressed the piece of donut against his mouth.
"Here," she said, "you'll feel better."
He took the bite from her fingers, his soft lips brushing her skin, and a jolt of sheer electricity raced through her veins. She could barely contain the shudder.
He chewed carefully, and she tousled his hair, unable to take her freaking hands off him.
A kiss would have been so easy. A gentle brush of her lips against his cheek, just a peck, like the ones good friends shared. But she knew she couldn't indulge. Because she didn't feel like a friend to him.
She closed her eyes and watched the painful swirl of emotions inside her, jealousy, worries, the bitter longing of unrequited love. She was used to it, it wasn't dangerous any longer, didn't threaten to suffocate her. If anybody knew how to live with chronic sadness, it was her. Her tough shell was fine, protecting insides so soft a breath could turn them to mush. The combination made her good, made her human, so she had stopped wishing to be different. Those were the assets she had. She could only work with them, and hell, she did. Every damn day.
She opened her eyes again and managed a smile.
"More?" she asked, and he shook his head firmly.
Lisbon nodded and got up, but when she was about to turn her back on him, she heard his voice, and when she turned, he was sitting upright.
"It's Loralei," he said, "I know you've been listening in."
She had promised not to. But it was futile to lie to him, she knew it. So she just nodded. It didn't matter anyway.
"I lie, Lisbon." He whispered. "Nothing of what I say to her is true. A deep connection? Confused feelings? My guilty attraction towards her? Lies. But I have to stroke her ego to gain her trust, it's the only way. Damn, the thought that I have let her touch…"
The sudden lurch of his stomach obviously caught him by surprise, but Lisbon saw his face paling just in time and held Marie's paper bag beneath his head. She stroked his hair while he emptied the meager contents of his stomach onto the remaining donuts. So much for breakfast.
"Damn," he cursed softly, "upset stomach- I'm usually not squeamish about selling my body for the good cause."
"And don't I know that…" she sighed, brushing her fingertips over his ghastly pale face.
"Admit it," he chuckled weakly, "you love the thought of Loralei making me throw up, don't you?"
She grinned back, shrugging.
"I don't think too much about her."
"Liar." He smiled.
So easy. A brush of lips. She needed it. But she swallowed the want, the longing, tossing the paper bag into her dustbin instead.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I'll buy new donuts."
"Forget the donuts." She said quietly.
She stood in front of her desk now, heard the faint sounds of him getting up. He came up behind her, closer, closer, and she had to force herself to take a breath, another one. Her skin was tingling all over.
She felt his fingers brush through her hair.
"You're so beautiful." He whispered, and the statement came down between them like a flood gate.
The words took a meaning they'd never had before, and she couldn't snort his compliment away, her tongue heavy, paralyzed.
"Just once," he continued, "just one night I want to have sex and actually feel it. Make it mean something. You're the woman closest to me, Lisbon. So… I would… I really want…"
She felt him pushing away from her, taking some tentative steps towards the door.
"Oh god," he said, "spoken out loud it sounds even more awful than in my mind. I'm… I'm sorry Lisbon. That was demeaning, forget I said anything. I would never use you in that way. I'm… I'm so sorry. Blame it on the hangover, yes?"
She heard him walking out of the door, his steps slow, insecure. Tears were running down her face, and like always, he took a tiny piece of her with him.
She could understand that he wanted to be touched by someone who wouldn't hurt him, wanted to feel safe just once. But she couldn't give him that, could she? Couldn't give him a few nights of casual sex, not even one night, one time. Her feelings blazed inside her blood like a solid wall of flames. No way could she ignore them. If she came close to him, she would bleed.
How brave was she? Could she do this, for him?
He'd said he wasn't squeamish about giving his body. What about her?
A touch of heaven, and then turn her back on it? The right to touch him, and then return it with a smile?
She spent the rest of the afternoon brooding, not getting a single scrap of work done.
It was already dark when she found herself surrounded by silence, the bull pen deserted, Jim waving at her on his round.
Lisbon got up slowly and with a heavy sigh, she made up her mind.
The attic was as quiet as the rest of the building, but when she approached Jane's little realm, she heard the telltale sound of a teacup rattling on its saucer.
"Lisbon," he said as soon as she had opened the door, not even needing to look at her to tell who it was, "you want a cup of tea? I made a pot. You came to talk, huh? Well, I must say I'm glad you're still talking to me…"
She stayed silent, just stared at his back. At least she could touch him, just this once.
When he turned, almost in slow-motion, she knew that he understood.
His eyes were wide, his lips trembling slightly. He shook his head, over and over again, until she stepped closer and put her fingers against his mouth to still him. She could feel his lips softly moving against her skin. He was kissing her fingertips.
She knew he didn't love her. Maybe he would never be able to love again. But suddenly, all that didn't matter. She could accept being hurt, for him.
She took her hand away and pressed her lips on his instead, licking over his shivering skin, gently pushing her tongue into his mouth.
And when his clean, masculine taste exploded inside of her, she could imagine what it would feel like to get burnt by this.
The pain horrible, crippling. And still acceptable to her.
Xxxxxxxxxx
She tasted like caramel and sunshine, and she smelled so good his senses were soaring with delight. He took his sweet time, refused to get rushed, pushing his nose against her neck, into her hair, showering her skin with kisses.
She was small, he'd always known that, but this time he paused to really feel her, the delicate bones in her tiny frame, the way she had to go on tiptoe to match their heights. He lifted her a little and felt his erection swell against her stomach without him struggling for it. He got hard just because it felt so good, and gratitude made him shake all over.
She pushed her tiny hands between their bodies and rubbed his aching length, using just the right amount of pressure to make him squirm, measuring his dimensions through his pants, increasing his arousal until his hard-on was growing out of his waistband. She unbuckled his belt and pulled his zipper down, relieving the strain on his swollen hardness. She rubbed her fingers over the tip, spreading the leaking moisture, making him slick for her ministrations.
When she started to wrap her fist around him, it felt so good he knew he wouldn't last a minute this way. He gently unclenched her hand and started to undress her, all care and slowness lost when her own hands started to reveal more and more of his naked skin, fingernails scratching over his chest, his back, arousal like a fiery lash, his hips twitching with the urge to get closer.
Her hands slid beneath his underwear, clutching his buttocks, and he moaned for all he was worth. She pushed his pants and boxers down, slowly going down on her knees. His breath caught in his throat.
She toed her shoes off and got rid of her jeans and panties, kneeling completely naked in front of him, her green eyes huge and breath-taking on her beautiful face. She was perfect. And he was hurting her so much. He knew he could never give her a happily ever after, couldn't love her the way she deserved, the way she loved him- unconditionally, soul-deep, all-encompassing.
It felt like being bathed in a warm surf, soft waves prickling on his skin, and when her mouth touched his cock, every thought drained from his mind and he let go, let go of everything, became a mess of emotions to honor her sacrifice.
Just this once, he would exist inside her touch, her kiss, drink her love for him even though he couldn't repay it. He swallowed the shame because she deserved more, deserved that he gave up control for her. He could do it. This was Teresa Lisbon, his rock, his sword, the only true friend he had. His biggest treasure. Invaluable.
She traced the pulsating vein on his length with her tongue before she sucked his glans into her mouth, the slurping noises driving him insane. She squeezed at him with her lips and swallowed him deeper, he felt himself sliding over her tongue, his noises getting loud and desperate. His hips jerked, but he didn't thrust, didn't take control, forced himself to simply take what she gave him.
His knees buckled when he felt the tip of his erection glide down her throat, he'd never felt something like this before, but she didn't gag, just angled her head and let him push deeper. The sound he made was something between a gasp and a wail, and when she swallowed, the ripples of her muscles almost made him come.
He knew he wouldn't be able to fight the climax, not as open and vulnerable as he felt right now, so he simply gave in, threw his head back and savored every sensation, every jolt of magic pleasure. Deep groans escaped his parted lips while she sucked him, the motions of her mouth stealing the rest of his sanity.
Her fingernails dug into the backs of his thighs and he came like a volcano, hot seed erupting down her throat, and the way she swallowed his seed without hesitating, drinking it like the most delicious of fluids, made him lose it completely. The climax involved his whole body, stomach muscles clenching until they ached, more and more semen spilling between her lips.
She encouraged the rocking motions of his hips by releasing his cock halfway, only to swallow him back down, again, again, milking him for every drop of juice he could spend.
He collapsed on his makeshift bed when he had finished, his still semi-hard length sliding from her mouth, and he felt her small hands against his legs, pulling off his shoes, pants, boxers. She even took off his socks, and her warm fingers felt sexy on his bare toes, a place where he hadn't been touched in ages. He grunted softly, keeping his eyes firmly closed.
The cool night air caressed his hot skin, he was naked all over, and her fingers drew patterns on his body, tracing the contours of his muscles, making them twitch beneath her touch.
When she skimmed his erection, he felt himself harden again, the lust for her swelling into something huge, almost monstrous. He let it devour him, slightly lifting his hips to encourage her. Whatever she wanted to do to him, he would accept the gift, so grateful tears sprang to his eyes.
He whispered her name into the night like a spell, banning the fear and the loneliness.
As long as she stayed with him, he was free.
She straddled his hips and he noticed that he was completely passive, but she didn't seem to mind, his hardness all she needed. She raised her hips, and the view was breath-taking, his cool superior ready to take him, swallow him like nothing but a tasty snack. He loved it, let his hands slide over her firm, pert breasts, the slim waist, muscular hips. Her buttocks were tight beneath his fingers, she was lean and strong, her muscles rippling under her smooth, pale skin.
She lifted his cock and guided him to her entrance. He forced air into his lungs, and she sat down on him, impaling herself on his huge length. She was tight, much tighter than he had thought she'd be, and he gasped from the intense friction, her core engulfing his hardness like a second skin.
Her groan was low and sexy, damn, she was so, so beautiful, why had he never really taken the time to look at her? He'd always taken her for granted, and she deserved so much more. More than he could give, as he well realized.
He swallowed the hurtful thoughts and concentrated on her instead, lifting his hips, slowly thrusting into her. She leaned forward, pushing her hands against his shoulders. She looked into his eyes, and he saw emotions run through the green, glowing pools that scared him. She was stronger than anyone he knew. Nobody would have done for him what she did right now.
She started to ride him, her movements thorough and sure, and only minutes later he was squirming with ecstasy, the sensations so intense he finally sat up, clutching her slim torso, burying his face against her breasts while he grabbed her hips, slowly guiding her up and down his length. He was so hard it hurt, and her squeezing walls around his cock hurt him more, hurt him so good he wanted to scream, pleasure, pain, all mingling inside him until he felt like bursting, he picked up speed and she did, too, riding him harder, faster, his hips thrusting upwards, his arousal so strong he felt helpless and raw.
He exploded in a rush of fiery stars the second he felt her coming, her sheath convulsing in the throes of orgasm, forcing his own release out of him. God, so TIGHT, she was strangling him, his seed bursting into her in sharp, copious jets, he could feel every single ream all over his hard length.
He filled her up, pressing his hips against hers, making her take every ounce of semen, his lips kissing the smooth skin between her breasts, releasing his shuddering moans against her flesh.
He felt the sweet aftershocks of her climax around his softening member, bone-deep satisfaction flowing through his system like soothing balm.
It had never been that perfect, that pure, and for the first time in years he felt tired enough to sleep, really sleep, the cleansing, dreamless slumber he was craving so much.
She lifted her hips, and her snug flesh resisted his retreat, trying to hold him inside. He groaned heavily. She pushed at his upper body and he sank down onto the pillow, a contented sigh wrenched from his lips.
He noticed that she simply lay down on top of him, her head resting on his chest. Her slight weight was no strain at all, and he gladly wrapped her into his arms, the world around him already fading, a distant echo.
She kissed his lips, a sweet goodnight he sucked deep into his soul, and sleep claimed him before another thought could enter his mind.
TBC
