someonesaidcake

[someonesaidcake]

Patrick Jane x Teresa Lisbon

Aesthetic || Pilot.

A frog? Well, this makes everything better, doesn't it?

[someonesaidcake]

#the mother fecking tension in this scene owns me

[someonesaidcake]

busy thinking about how bucky barnes deserves the whole entire universe and more

goodnight

[someonesaidcake]

🦉

My partner critiques my fics in memes, I felt this on a very personal level.

[someonesaidcake]

She's a whole mood

so much love for her🥰🥰

[someonesaidcake]

The conversation(s) that they (we) deserved | read on AO3 here

Wild Violets | Episode 7x11

...

“Why are you here, Jane?”

Maybe she needed time and space too.

“Soup.”

He offered a small, almost sheepish smile, one that would have once drawn her own out in return. But not tonight. Tonight, her head was too heavy, her heart too bruised.

“Okay, then. Thank you for the soup.” She gave a limp shrug, her energy nearly spent.

“I know that you’re angry.”

Her laugh came out bitter. “You know everything, do you?” She narrowed her eyes, letting her gaze lock onto his. If he wanted to see her anger, he would have to meet it head-on.

But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away, and neither did she.

“You don’t really know what I am, Jane,” she said, her fingers curling around the edge of the kitchen island behind her, the pressure keeping her steady.

“You’re right, I don’t. So tell me.”

Her head shook, slow and deliberate. She didn’t want to tell him. Not tonight. She didn’t have the strength to peel back the layers of her pain and lay them bare for him to see.

She turned sharply, afraid that if she kept looking at him, her resolve would snap. She could feel his presence behind her, the subtle shift in the air as he stepped closer. Closing her eyes, she swore she could feel his breath warming her neck, dragging memories with it.

I love you.

I’m leaving.

I love you.

The sob escaped her before she could stop it. She felt his fingers brush down her bare arm, the touch leaving tiny flames in its wake.

The wave of emotion hit her, sudden and overwhelming. She needed more than his gentle touch. She needed him. Needed to seize control, to drown in the madness he always brought with him.

She spun around, and he was closer than she expected. Her lips found his with a desperation that made her fingers tremble as they tangled behind his neck.

For a moment, his body was stiff, hesitant, but the tension melted away as his hands slid to her waist. The hem of her jersey lifted under his touch, the cool air grazing her legs. His lips were as greedy as hers, his tongue sweeping past the seam of her mouth. The low, guttural sound that escaped him sent a jolt through her, the only noise beyond their shared, ragged breaths.

Her hands tore his shirt out from his waistband, desperate to feel his skin beneath her fingertips. The heat of his body burned against hers, his soft moans spilling into her mouth until they broke apart, breathless.

He pulled her jersey over her head, his gaze slow and deliberate, drinking her in. It was just like the first time, but now, the adoration in his eyes stung.

She pressed her palm against his chest, the rise and fall of his breath uneven beneath her touch. Once, she would have savoured it, relished the way he looked at her like she was his entire world. Now, it felt hollow. Temporary.

“You left me,” she whispered, her fingers tightening around his shirt. “Again.”

...Read the chapter on AO3...

It's not this scene but can we just appreciate for a moment the way they can't help but stare at each other like this?

[someonesaidcake]

We need to be 100% honest with each other.

—Lisbon, The Mentalist, “White Orchids”

[someonesaidcake]

THE LACK OF PERSONAL SPACE IS INSANE 😮‍💨❤️

[someonesaidcake]

Set between Episode 10 and Episode 11 | Read on AO3

Gold through Fire | His Story

Patrick eased the Airstream to a stop just past the New Mexico border, his hands heavy on the wheel. Exhaustion seeped deep into his bones, his vision blurring into floating pinpricks of light. Seven relentless hours and 500 miles lay behind him, the fuel gauge teetering on empty. He couldn’t go any further tonight.

He’d driven this far for a reason. The flat, unending roads of Texas stretched behind him like a long wound, a cord he’d needed to sever before the weight of her final expression pulled him back. He felt it still, the silent plea in her eyes, like fingers gripping his spine.

His hand raked through his hair, tugging hard at the roots as if the sharp sensation kept reality close. This is real, he told himself. He’d left her.

Wide, green eyes haunted him, their glassy depths fracturing as she’d silently begged him to stay.

Maybe he should have stayed.

Nothing since felt right.

Guilt eagerly wrapped around him, coiling tighter and tighter, like a snake constricting his chest, robbing him of breath with every passing second. A torture he deserved.

The layaway was still, the kind of empty that felt like abandonment, mountains ghosting far off to the west. A modest green sign had welcomed him to New Mexico, its sunburst logo catching the artificial light, but there was no real fanfare. The land spoke louder than any signpost, the ochres and reds of the earth deepened and sagebrush and yucca scattered sparsely across the dry expanse.

But Texas clung to him. Like a fine film coating his skin, it held him accountable for what he’d done.

His steps were sluggish as he moved around the Airstream, the night pressing close around him. Shadows curled in the corners of his vision, his mind playing cruel tricks; her laughter echoing faintly and her scent teasing him in phantom whispers from the walls.

The clock on the wall ticked midnight, its steady rhythm mocking him as he sank into the booth with a bottle of whiskey. The sharp burn of the first drink barely registered, drowned out by the incredulous voices in his head. What the hell are you doing?

But her face was there again, a cruel scar on his memory.

He poured another drink. Then another.

He couldn’t forget.

He deserved to remember her pain.

The whiskey did nothing to dull the piercing edges of the truth. He’d hurt her. He’d broken her heart. And in doing so, he’d smashed his own.

But he hadn’t lied.

He couldn’t stay. Not with the ghosts of too many trains chasing him down every track.

The bottle ran empty long before the guilt did.

Read the rest on AO3

[someonesaidcake]

🤫😉🙃

Smut writers when

[someonesaidcake]

Nails Hair Hips Heels— a Patrick Jane Edit

[someonesaidcake]

the CBI Five being actual children [6/?] ⤷ 1.13 — “Paint It Red”

[someonesaidcake]

I aim for Patrick Jane level of napping

this is quite literally their entire dynamic

[someonesaidcake]

Ngl this moment changed my brain chemistry.

Arrow || Episode 3x20 || 25:40-27:00

[someonesaidcake]

Set between Episode 10 and Episode 11 | Read on AO3

Fool's Gold || Her Story

She set the glass down on the countertop and pulled the water jug from the fridge. The condensation slicked her fingers, cold and clammy, but she barely noticed. The chill couldn’t cut through the haze numbing her senses. It was just water. Just a jug. Just her.

She tilted the jug to pour, but the stream missed the glass entirely, splashing onto the countertop and pooling along the edge. A mess. One more thing to clean. She stared at it for a beat too long, her mind sluggish, before moving to find the paper towels. Her steps felt foreign in her own kitchen, her hand hovering over the sink and darting near the toaster before landing on the roll tucked by the microwave.

She yanked a sheet. It tore jaggedly along the wrong edge. Another. And another. By the time she stopped, seven crumpled pieces lay in her hand, each a testament to her restless frustration. With slow, disconnected movements, she dabbed at the mess, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the countertop.

And then her eyes caught it; the jacket slung over the back of her couch, neatly folded as though mocking her. It sat there, taunting her with the weight of all she hadn’t been. Not enough to make him stay. Not enough to keep him.

Her fist clenched around the damp paper towels, her movements sharp now, scraping at the water as if wiping away the evidence could erase everything. The sudden motion knocked the water jug, sending it crashing to the floor. The sound was startlingly loud, ringing through the silence of her home, but she didn’t flinch.

She crouched, her fingers brushing the jagged shards of glass, before she picked up a piece. The edge bit into her skin, carving a thin line across her fingertip. Blood welled up immediately, a perfect crimson bead rolling along the pad of her finger before spilling over.

She stared at it, her head strangely light, waiting for pain that didn’t come. She pressed the paper towels to the cut, more out of habit than care, but something inside her was shifting. The numbness began to crack, giving way to an ache that wasn’t just sadness, it was anger. Deep and searing.

Before she knew it, the empty glass from the counter was in her hand again. With a sharp breath, she threw it to the floor. It shattered, scattering more shards across the tiles, tiny fragments catching the light and refracting it like jagged stars. She stood in the centre of the wreckage, her boots planted in the middle of the chaos, her chest heaving.

At least now the outside matched the inside.

Read the rest on AO3

[someonesaidcake]

I could write an entire dissertation on this moment.

[someonesaidcake]