the-horned-witch

[the-horned-witch]

Redemption

/Patrick Jane x Reader\

Warnings: 18+, religious symbolism, shameless smut, discussions of guilt, minor mention of injury, reader has a name because I can't stand writing y/n, this was written at 4am and the writing is considerably bad

This story works best if you read it with the song playing in the background, trust me on this one

Wordcount: 1k

Mercy had dialed his number without a single thought. She had been working with the CBI for 3 weeks now, three weeks of torture. The young woman wished that it had started in a place of innocence, but that was far from the truth, the blood of more than one person staining her hands though it had been washed off over and over again. For her, it would've been jail or working with the CBI and the solution had been obvious enough.

It could've been easy, it should've been easy. It almost had, if it wasn't for Patrick Jane. Damn Mentalist. He had seen right trough her on the first day, all easy smiles and polite gestures, but he knew who she was and that knowledge had made her life hell. She had told herself that she didn't need saving, that she should turn her mind off and work, but he made it impossible.

At first it was innocent enough, small remarks about her past, about herself, but what started as banter had quickly grown into familiarity. All her life, she had been overlooked, invisible, but Patrick Jane had looked at her just once and seen her in a way no one else had ever managed to. He had never stopped seeing her, not even when she was trying her hardest to go back to beeing just another face in a world full of them.

Three weeks and she had grown to long for his eyes on her. Three weeks and she had started feeling like Judas, stealing glances at the blonde man whenever she could. He was an angel and she was nothing more than someone so lost that it could be considered beyond saving. She had been given a chance, she couldn't betray it by making it complicated. But she had to.

That was why she had called him, the silence in the line sounding static, if silence could be bothered to sound like anything. She'd said his name, quietly like she was a little girl again, her mind drifting to the nights she had spend preying to a god that had never listened to her. Patrick had listened, he always had. So not an hour later, the doorbell rang it's melody trough the melodic silence of her house.

His hair had been damp, the rain outside taking its tool on it, curling a little more than usual. Mercy had always taken note of things like that, so small they would seem irrelevant to anyone but her. Patrick did too, maybe that was why he had seen the way she hesitated as she closed the door behind the two of them. Maybe it was just that his lips had been on hers a little later.

She thought about pulling back, the feeling almost overwhelming her, not because it was rough and intense, but because it was painfully soft. She knew he had sworn to himself that he would not fall for someone until he had caught Red John, the ring on his right hand a omnipresent reminder, but this didn't have to be love. It was more than that. It was understanding, something that pulled at strings that sat deeper than love could ever be.

And for a moment, just a split second in the endless passing of time, his tounge felt like salvation, absolving her of the sins she had committed long before his hands had ever found the softness of her skin or the silk of her sheets. If giving into this, giving in to him, made her a heretic she would gladly be burned at the stake, if it would grant her just one more minute of the sparks that steadily ignited under her skin as the gentleness of his fingertips made her hiss. She would've loved to lie to herself, but she was already burning with a fire that rivaled each and every circle of hell.

Mercy couldn't afford his kindness though, her own hands clasping at the buttons of his shirt, clawing at each one like a dog that missed his owner, until she had finally managed to pull it off completely, the two of them stumbling onto the bed in a hurry as any layer that kept them from seeing the other fell to the ground.

Her hands had reached any and every place they could, by the time that her head came to rest on the pillows and in another world, they would've taken their time to savor each other properly, but in this one that wasn't possible. In this world, he looked at her, those blue eyes shattering any thought of regret, his expression softening as he gave her time to adjust to the feeling of him inside.

It was ironic, that he was the only one that could make her act like this, force her to drop the walls she had build so many years ago like it was nothing. She couldn't have known that he felt like she did the same thing to him. It wasn't long until Patrick's restraint began to fade though, slow movements turning into rough thrusts quicker than expected.

Not that Mercy minded, her nails dragging themselves down his back with a force that could've made Goliath look like the little boy that David was. He didn't even think about the fact that she'd lost control so much that the scratches on his back had left blood under her nails. Was it not also in the nature of all things soft to have some cruelty to them? He wanted her to lose control, he needed her to let go, needed her to stop the treacherous circle of guilt that had held her captive just like his arms held her now. If he was her redemption, she was his absolution. The apple in the garden of eden, just waiting to be bitten.

Mercy wished deeply that this could last forever, but the night was shorter than she had hoped and the sun broke trough the window right along with the moment that Patrick finally broke, letting himself come to lay beside her, one of his hands finding it's way to her own hand and clasping it. They didn't speak. They couldn't ruin this just yet, so the apologetic looks and sharp words would have to wait until later. For now, they held each other tightly, granting themself a few hours of much needed sleep.

[the-horned-witch]

In another world, maybe the two of them could've been more than this, more than a fleeting moment of weakness at 2am. But in this world, she was afraid and he was still wearing the wedding ring of his dead wife.

(Cut out from a The Mentalist fanfiction I've been writing for a while, thought I'd share)