#and you're like but JANE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cambria-writes · 6 months ago

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welcome to the very final chapter of honey and the hatchet! 🎉 it quite literally took eight whole entire years to get here, but i finally made it!

big thank you to everyone who's stuck around, read and flooded my notes with likes and shares this story around. i cannot express in any language i know how significant and meaningful that is.

for those who might be wondering, i used these photos of a suite at the macarthur to kind of situate myself.

...also sorry for kind of maybe edging you at the end there lol anyways enjoy!

pairing: patrick jane x named reader/ofc word count: 4,883 rating: A for adult content, MDNI warnings: smut, wearing, i know nothing about opera, PiV, unprotected sex, mild dom/sub, sir kink, neck grabbing but no choking, hair pulling if you squint, mentions of planned murders, relatively minor injuries (jane might have a cracked rib it's probably find), confession, the L word, this was not proofread and i'm almost sorry, please let me know if I should take anything else!

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𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕹𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖙𝖊𝖊𝖓: ℭ𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔷𝔞

Several Months Later

An opera house. A fucking opera house is where you end up spending Christmas Eve. It’s not something that a lot of people would get upset about, normally, and you know this. That’s why you’ve schooled your face into an expression that’s more rich, entitled boredom than resentful impatience.

But you’re in a box for a fancy show, wearing a dress that definitely costs more just to look at than your apartment likely does in a whole calendar year, and there’s free alcohol. Not that you’ve been indulging up until now, but it’s nice to know that there’s expensive, free booze for when you will be able to pay attention to literally anything else.

Right now, your eyes are half-heartedly trailing around the stage, eventually halting at the Sopranist singing her heart out. You can’t make out the lyrics at all—never could, with how broad and loud the voices are in operatic compositions, nevermind the insane acoustics of this place—but the sound of the song feels appropriate. A slow build that keeps on building despite several fake-outs that make you believe you’re finally out of this eternal musical waiting.

Conveniently, it’s when the Sopranist pauses for a quick breath that you hear it. The drag of a foot against an old velvet rug. You whip your fan open and feign interest in the elaborate emotional display the singer is putting on. You’re not worried; you know you look like every other bored twenty-something in this place.

Patrick had personally made sure of that.

“Enjoying yourself?” A woman asks, her deep, airy voice drifting around you as she moves to sit down to your left, French accent heavy in her words. She flips open a small hand fan with a short “thwap” before turning her attention to you.

Madame Jonquière is someone whose gaze feels heavy. Patrick hadn’t told you much about her. Just that she was at Stonewall and that he owed her a favour. Didn’t mention what the favour was for, and you didn’t bother prying any further. Madame Joncquière’s eyes go down to your hands for a second before meeting yours again. She smiles politely and inclines her head expectantly. You realize you haven’t answered yet.

“Sorry, yes,” you reply quickly. Clear your throat before looking back at the stage. “I can’t understand most of it but it sounds lovely. Thank you for letting me accompany you tonight.”

Madame Joncquière swings open a hand fan with a muted ‘fwap’ before fanning herself. “Oh no, thank you for your presence tonight!” she exclaims quietly, leaning forward closer to you. You grin and leave over. “No one ever wants to come to the opera house with me anymore. They all think it’s boring!”

You laugh quietly along with her. Madame Joncquière leans back into her chair and fixes her gaze to the stage. You appreciate the space she’s leaving you. Despite the fact that she knows damn well that you’re here to make sure she doesn’t get assassinated, she seems to be taking everything in good stride.

You watch his back as he carefully pours a drink out of a shaker. You have no idea what prompted him to pick you up at 11:30AM for cocktail hour. On a Wednesday. In the empty, closed bar of some man who happened to also owe him a favour. You hadn’t expected an explanation. But Patrick had kept silent the whole car ride. It hadn’t been uncomfortable, but the whole time you can’t help but feel like you’re being psychologically edged. You can only refrain from asking the slew of questions floating in your head for so long.

A highball glass filled with some strange red-purple liquid swirling enticingly inside it. The colours almost make the ice look like it’s sparkling. You’re dazzled for a second before looking up at Patrick.

“One Purple Haze for our esteemed guest,” he says, dramatically, with a flourish and a bow. You laugh quietly before picking up the highball. Hold the glass up to the light to watch the colours mingle.

“It’s definitely nice to look at.” Distracted, you don’t notice Patrick walking out from behind the island to stand behind you. You don’t flinch when his cold hands part your hair to slide down your neck and rest on your shoulders. “Am I really expected to drink this before lunch? I haven’t even had breakfast.”

“I did tell you to get up early last night,” Patrick says, voice low, by your ear. “Sounds like someone snoozed their alarm four too many times.”

You don’t answer. You instead try to see how quickly you can down the purple haze that was handed to you. Hoping to maybe inherit some of its own haze. You only stop when you’ve gulped down half.

“It’s a bad one, by the way,” Patrick adds, pressing a soft kiss at your temple before moving away. He sits on the stool next to you, slotting his knees between yours. “You’re supposed to pour the liqueur last to let it settle at the bottom. It isn’t supposed to swirl like that.”

You hum in understanding a look at the glass in the light again. “Shame, it looks nice this way.” Bring the glass back to your mouth for another sip. “Why am I getting a lesson in mixology today?”

“You’re going to the opera,” he starts, and you chug the rest of the drink before bracing yourself for another briefing. “And I’m going to need you to remember to order this, and how it’s supposed to be made.”

You frown. “Okay, so if I get it and it’s well made that means… what?”

Patrick smirks. Your stomach flips, entirely unaided by his hands running up your thighs. “It means I might have gotten… held up.”

“And this is… bad?”

Patrick hums and leans in, brushes his nose against your jaw. “If you consider first degree murder ‘bad’ then yes, it would be quite bad.”

You scoff at the blazé tone he takes, but it’s half-hearted. His fingers are working their way up your loose shorts toward your hips.

“It might be a bad idea to sip at something that might have been poisoned.”

Ah, so this was it.

Patrick hadn’t kept you in the loop for the entirety of this particular… situation. Not only because Madame J had gone to see him directly rather than the CBI, for reasons that hadn’t been obvious at the time, but because this seemed to be a personal slight. You’d kindly asked to be kept at an arm’s length for it all; solving murders had been one thing, but actively trying to prevent one felt beyond you.

You put your hands over his to halt their movement. Patrick immediately pulled back, brows furrowed in concern.

“I feel like too much hinges on me here,” you say quietly, pointedly staring at your knees. You can see the veins starting to honeycomb on your hands. Your fingertips feel cold and stiff.

“You don’t have to,” Patrick answers, just as quietly, pulling one of his hands back to run down your face, brushing your cheekbone with his thumb. “I can bully Rigsby into it.”

You can’t help but laugh a little. He’d probably love the chance to go out at the opera with someone who also wants to be there.

“How long do I have to think about it?”

“Only until Saturday,” Patrick answers, and you can hear the apology in his voice. The last-minute nature of this annoys you–it only gives you three days, including today, to decide whether or not you want to be the final hurdle.

“I’ll sleep on it and let you know tomorrow.”

The evening goes well enough. You still can’t understand much of what’s being sung, but you enjoy the performance. The drama and emotion in the acting, while singing, is something that’s at least legitimately interesting to watch.

You occasionally look over the audience as well. Your perch from the box gives you a fantastic vantage point to see most everyone in the hall. The hairs at the back of your neck have been raising every now and then. Same feeling as you get being observed in the dark. But every time you try to scan the crowd, everyone’s either facing the stage or canted forward in somnolence.

You hear a knock at the door of your box before the door opens. This is it, you think. You’d ordered drinks just as you were coming back from the intermission. You take a quick look at the dainty gold watch Patrick had wrapped around your wrist earlier in the evening. It’s been… fifteen minutes. Which seems like an awful long time to prepare a purple haze and a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.

You don’t bother turning at all until you hear the serving tray being gently placed on the table between you and Madame J. You note, with no small amount of relief, that your purple haze muddled to absolute fuck and back. Perfectly safe to drink then.

Your server speaks up just as you notice, reaching for your glass, that there’s quite a spill on the tray.

“Au plaisir, mesdames.”

A thrill runs up your spine. Madame Joncquière looks up while you slowly wrap your fingers around the cool glass. She almost makes a joyful exclamation, but seems to stop halfway through taking in a breath for you. Keep your eyes on your drink while you listen to retreating footsteps, muted on carpet, until you hear the door open and close again.

Madame J’s hand lands softly on your shoulder to give it a squeeze.

“How wonderful of Monsieur Jane to come look in on us himself!” she says to you, barely above a whisper. “Shall we cheers to that then, chérie?”

Your heart still thrums in your chest from the thrill of it all. You raise your glass along with her, but just before knocking it against Madame J’s, you draw your hands back.

“Would you mind indulging me?” you ask quietly, trying to control the smirk threatening to take over your expression.

Madame Joncquière clearly sees the scheming glint in your eyes and doesn’t hide her grin. It’s toothy, like a fox. And you feel like a peer, having caught a rabbit dead to rights.

“Absolument! What would you like?” She leans in closer over the small end table between you.

You carefully move to grab her wine glass and press your glass to her palm. She beams and immediately gets your meaning. You link arms together, giggling quietly as you try not to spill your respective drinks.

“Cheers to yet another wonderful night on this train wreck of a planet,” you say, tilting the wine glass to clink against the highball.

“I’ll drink to that!”

No sooner has the wine touched your lips, you hear a small commotion in the audience. Not enough to interrupt the show, but not something that won’t be noticed.

The wine is bitter and sour on your tongue and you don’t bother to school your expression into something tame. Madam J laughs quietly behind her fan and offers your drink back. You hastily hand her back her awful wine and nurse your significantly sweeter cocktail.

The rest of the evening is blessedly uneventful. Patrick doesn’t make another appearance, but you don’t expect him to. You were surprised that he showed up personally in the first place. At the end of the show, after having another attendant–a real one, this time–slips you both back into your coats. Opens the door and thanks you for your patronage and only closes the door behind you once you’re most of the way down the hallway. Madame J links your arms together as you walk, chittering away about the singers’ performance.

Once you reach the lobby, excuses herself for a moment to make a phone call. You make your way over to a plush lounge chair by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and take a seat. It’s fairly early, for a Sunday evening, so you pass the time people watching. Your phone vibrates in your coat pocket just as you see Madame Joncquière making her way over to you. Quickly look at your phone notification.

‘Have her drop you off here,’ followed by an address and a room number. You don’t have time to respond back and ask where the fuck that is before Madame J extends her hand out to you.

“I’ve been instructed to provide transportation for you, chère,” she says as you accept her hand to stand. “You’re alright to give my driver your address, yes?”

Your body doesn’t seem to know if it should be excited or apprehensive. You acquiesce to Madame J after a second. Once you do actually enter her car–a vintage Cadillac with the classic wings–and let the driver know where to drop you off, she practically begins vibrating in her seat next to you.

“Oh, please, you have to tell me who you’re meeting there!” she says, eagerly reaching for and grabbing your hands. The question must be written on your face because she laughs giddily. “Ma belle, the MacArthur is a veritable oasis in Sacramento. If you’re going there and you don’t know this, someone is very eager to make sure you enjoy yourself.”

This time the excitement wins over; you can feel your face heating up and you’re not entirely sure what your face is doing. You struggle to come up with something to say to that–what do you say to that?--but Madame Joncquière giggles some more and pats your thigh.

“So it’s Monsieur Jane, after all? What a man. I wonder who he conned into letting him stay there tonight.”

“Probably someone else who owes him a favour,” you mutter. Your cheeks hurt from trying not to smile too widely.

“That would be a pretty sizeable favour to cash in on for leisure.” Her tone says she’s just thinking out loud, but you think you understand what Madame J’s trying to say.

Awful big favour to cash in on one woman. Must be a special one.

You try not to think too much about it.

The general manager meets you at the car. You wouldn’t have known he was the general manager if Madame Joncquière hadn’t turned into a gossipy 14 year old girl at the sight of him exiting the hotel doors. He opens the car door for you and helps you out with a hand.

“Lovely to have you, Ms Benraft. I’m Stephen Crawford, General Manager,” he introduces himself, taking a moment to lean forward to address Madam J. “Always a pleasure, Madame. Your friend will be in good hands with us.”

“Always a pleasure, Monsieur Crawford. Have a wonderful night, chérie,” she finishes while addressing you, tossing a wink. “À la prochaine!”

The general manager understands his cue to close the door, and the Cadillac slowly pulls away.

You’re guided through the main building, where Stephen explains the history of the hotel and its various accommodations, all of which go into one ear and out the other. You’re taking directly to your lodgings, and the general manager assures you that all amenities have been accounted for, including a late dinner and, in his words, “a small wardrobe in anticipation of whatever you would find comfortable”.

You’re starting to understand why Madame Joncquière reacted the way that she did. Patrick has treated you to luxuries before–dinners, various events, even a trip out of the country–but none of it felt quite this… decadent. Almost overindulgent, actually.

It truly feels like being spoiled rotten, and you’re still not sure how you feel about it.

Stephen hands you a very intricate key and steps back to wish you a good night, and that the front desk is available 24/7 should there ever be anything you need. You thank him and wait until he’s out of sight before turning back to the door.

Your blood feels like it’s effervescing in your veins.

You consider knocking first, but decide to just let yourself into the room. You’re expected, after all, so it shouldn’t really matter, right?

The first thing you notice is the fireplace. Then, the plush chairs, then the bed, then the bay window. The lighting is dim; only two lamps lit and the faint glow from the electric fireplace. The last thing you register is the sound of a shower running.

You carefully close the door behind you and shrug your coat off, throw it in the direct of one of the chairs to your right. Walking further in, you spot a desk in a took to the left of the door with a chair conveniently pulled out. You carefully sit down to remove your shoes. Beautiful as they are and however aesthetically pleasant it was to have them match your dress, you’re happy to have them off. Carefully massage the soles of your feet, rotate your ankles, before leaning back in the chair.

This is lovely. You almost feel like you’re in one of those secluded little getaway suites in Bali or something. The vibes certainly match, even if late December weather is a bit too chilly. If you actually just let yourself enjoy everything for a second, and stop worrying about what it cost, this is just very nice.

Maybe you’re starting to feel a little less spoiled and a little more pampered.

You’ve half dozed off by the time you feel warm hands on your shoulders. You sleepily hum, content, and sit up a little straighter. Stifle a yawn behind your hand and hear Patrick chuckle behind you.

“Have fun?”

You groan as you stretch. “Mm, would’ve been more fun withou–”

You cut yourself off after turning around and actually lay eyes on Patrick’s face. His lower lip is split on his left, and there’s a cut above the brow on the same side that you immediately know was from getting decked in the face. There’s also a disconcertingly large bruise on his left side, above his ribs, and you can’t fathom what would have caused that.

“Oh my–shit, are you okay? What happened?”

You get halfway to standing up before Patrick gently presses you back down onto the chair. “Nothing too bad, I promise,” he answers, almost cajoling. Well, he’s breathing fine, from what you can see and hear. And he doesn’t seem like someone who got stabbed, you don’t think.

You still let the fingers of your left hand glide over the bruise. Patrick does a decent enough job to hide the wince, but it’s still there.

“Can I at least know what caused this one?” “Fire extinguisher.”

The words take a second to sink in before you start laughing. The image in your mind is absolutely far more cartoonish than what actually happened, for sure, but after an entire night of holding your breath, you can feel the tension start draining from your shoulders.

You turn back to face away from Patrick, and he resumes kneading the stress out of your traps and your neck. Thumbs dig into your neck on either side of your spine. It feels heavenly. Your breath catches when a shudder runs up your spine. There’s a heat that flares at the base of your spine when you feel his fingers gently wrap and brace against the sides of your throat.

“You did well tonight,” Patrick whispers into your hair. Takes a moment to brush your hair away before pressing a soft kiss to the back of your neck.

You temper the rising, bubbling pride. “I didn’t even have to do anything.”

You can feel his laughter at the back of your neck. Hands slide down your arms before you feel him resting his forehead on your shoulder.

“Switching your drinks was a clever idea.” You feel Patrick pulling away, squeak in surprise when he grabs the sides of the chair to spin you around. Crouches in front of your–and only now do you realize that he’s only got a towel around his waist, which parts dangerously wide as he lowers himself. “Made it a lot easier to catch our guy.”

Whatever tension in our shoulders Patrick hasn’t been able to dispel and disperse with his hands just… vanished. It had been a relief, initially, to know that Madame was safe and sound and not at risk of dying a slow, horrible, poisoned death. For the past 48 hours, it’s been a struggle to reign in your mind. You could barely sleep at night just for trying to distract yourself from what would happen if you didn’t pay well enough attention.

Patrick runs his hands over your thighs, up to your hips, tapping twice with his thumbs.

“I’m here,” you say airily, shaking off your thoughts to look Patrick in the eyes. “Just basked in the fact that it’s over now.” Lift a hand up to his face and gently smoothing your thumb below the cut at his brow. “Starting to wonder if I should have been worrying about you this whole time, instead.”

“Probably should have,” Patrick shrugs, and there’s a thrill that runs through you when you think, Of course I should have, of course you’d be getting yourself in some kind of mess.

He doesn’t say anything else when he stands back up and extends a hand out to help you to your feet. You feel silly for it, but you giggle when he makes you twirl, puling you back in with a hand at your waist.

“Love the dress,” Patrick says, dipping in for a peck on the lips. “Where’d you get it?”

You scoff to compensate for the blood rushing to your face. “Some absolute scamp made me wear it tonight.”

Leading you into a slow, gentle sway by the fireplace, he puts on a show of looking offended. You laugh lightly at the exaggeration, but clear your throat once his expression settles.

“I suppose the scamp should take it back, then,” he answers, voice low as the hand that held yours skips over ribs and moves up your back.

You tilt your head when he begins to place opened-mouthed kisses down your neck. You let him pull your zipper down but otherwise don’t help him. Not that he needs much help; once the zipper stops, nearly at the very bottom of your spine, the top of your dress simply crumples away, taking the rest down with it.

Patrick takes a moment to pull back, hands smoothing down your upper arms as he takes a look at you. There’s a very self-content smirk on his face when he takes stock of the lacey, racy lingerie you’re wearing. A hand reaches down and tugs at your garter before letting it snap back into place.

God, the way he looks at you with such open, raw hunger continues to do things to you that you hadn’t known anyone was capable of. Until him.

“Even happier to see someone can follow instructions,” Patrick comments, sounding every part like the cat that got the cream. Both hands both over your hips, up your ribs, thumbs tracing the underside of your breasts.

Patrick leans in, lips barely brushing against yours. “Think you can keep following instructions?”

You sigh shakily at his tone. “Yes, sir.”

You can feel his chest vibrate with his rumble of appreciation. He doesn’t speak when he tugs you along to bed. Doesn’t need to tell you what to do when he sits, tossing the towel from his waist in the general direction of the sitting area, leaning against the headboard. You dutifully install yourself on his lap, slowly settling your weight over his thighs.

With two hands firmly on your rear, Patrick pulls you in as close as he can. Thrusts his hips up as he does so. Just the heat of his erection, throbbing against your damp underwear, has you moaning behind tightly sealed lips.

“That’s it,” Patrick encourages when you begin to rut against him without prompting. “Take what you want, I’ll give you the rest.” The rest of his sentence is almost unintelligible as he takes turns between kissing and nipping at your breasts. The bra is a pathetic excuse for fabric, and you understand why he had you wear this particular set; it almost feels as though there’s nothing at all between your skin and the wet heat of his mouth.

It doesn’t take long before you have to brace yourself against Patrick’s shoulders, and soon after that you find yourself whining as you toss your head back. The friction and heat are both wonderful in their own respect, but the angle is wrong, and it’s not nearly enough.

You’re ravenous, and Patrick is a meal that loves to hold himself out of reach just a bit past long enough.

“Use your words,” he breathes into your collarbones, one hand moving us to massage at one of your breasts while the other moves lower. Down past the delicate lace waist of your panties, thumb teasing around your clit.

“Fuck,” you choke out, unable to keep yourself from grinding down harder and faster in the hopes that something will change.

“Not quite enough words,” Patrick quips, and you growl, annoyed. Bring your head back forward and do your best to maintain eye contact.

It still feels embarrassing, even now. To say it out loud.

You’re learning to accept that… maybe you’re just. A little bit into that.

“Please, sir,” you start, clearing your throat and swallowing thickly. “I would very much like you to fuck me, please.”

Patrick practically purrs, satisfied. This part, too, is well rehearsed. You muster just enough self control to raise your hips. Enough room so he can pull his cock forward. Enough for you to gather saliva in your mouth and let it dribble down. Over Patrick’s hand, and over his cock.

He groans with the feeling of it as you exhaled in something you think might be awe. His eyes are close and head tilted back. He looks debauched, you think, but not quite enough.

“Can I–can I touch, sir?” you pants, hands already raised by the sides of his head.

“Can’t say no when you ask so nicely,” he breathes out. You immediately run your hands through his hair, digging your fingertips into his scalp. He moans, a drawn-out thing that has your cunt clenching in a desperate way.

A shudder like electricity shoots through you when you feel Patrick simply pulling aside the gusset of your underwear before lining himself up with your entrance. He takes a second–during which you whine in complaint–to get a hand at the back of your head, fisting the hair there just enough to get your attention. Look down at him with impatient, hooded eyes.

“You’ll forgive the terrible timing,” he starts, sounding about as breathless as you’re sure you currently do. “But there’s been something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“You’re right,” you groan, leaning your head forward to rest against his. “It’s terrible ti–”

Your sentence is blissfully interrupting when Patrick thrusts up into you. Not quite hilting himself, but damn well near it. You’re not sure what you would call the sound that cracked its way out of your throat. He groans in unison with you, and you’re not sure who’d trying to pull who in closer.

“Fuck,” Patrick breathes out, one hand guiding your hips to slowly move against him, the other smoothing the hair at the back of your head. “I love you.”

You keen, a quick, sharp pitched sound. Push yourself just far away to look him in the eyes. Takes him a second to build enough composure back off to raise his head and look at you straight on.

He’s been unguarded before, sure, but not like this. There’s something swirling in your chest and low in your abdomen. Something heavy, heady.

“Christ,” you exhale, lifting your hips before slamming them back down. Your sharp inhale catches in your throat and Patrick bites back another groan. “Worst timing. Other women would question your motives.”

“Mmh, good thing you aren’t any other woman.” The end of his sentence is punctuated by a particularly sharp thrust upward. You can feel the tip of his cock just brushing against your cervix, and the jolt it sends through has you grinding down back in turn.

Patrick winds his arms around your back and presses your against his chest. You feel him bracing his feet against the mattress, immediately move to grab the edge tof he headboard. Feel him chuckle under you, flinch when you feel teeth against one of your nipples through the sparse lace.

“Fortunate that I love you too, then.”

You don’t get to properly register the sound you hear bubbling up from the back of Patrick’s throat before he thrusts back up into you. Sets a pace that might’ve been brutal, but even in the haze of oxytocin in your brain you can recognize that this is relief.

A man that’s been alone and snarling at and against the world for so many years just… just told you he loves you.

When you feel a hand make its way around your throat, you take the cue.

It’s a tomorrow problem.

Tonight you can just feel, and bask in several jobs well done.

Tag List

@fucklife-or-me @mamacakeishereforfun @newavenger @yearningforsappho @natsukee @piper570 @rikuisthesweetestboy @berry-blink @wandabillywrites @leftovers-and-headrubs @pauphs @gamingfeline @racoonkitty @dogmatic255

#honey and the hatchet #the mentalist fanfiction #patrick jane x reader #patrick jane x original female character #patrick jane x ofc #patrick jane smut #this has been so long coming #genuinely thank you to everyone who's offered any kind of support #special shoutout to everyone who's liked all the updates #even when you have no fucking idea what the mentalist is lmao #you're some real fuckin MVPs thank you

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