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The Mentalist: Possession
Title: Possession
Fandom: The Mentalist
Pairing: Lisbon/Jane
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Oh so very very not mine. Not at all. No.
Warnings: Consensual sadomasochism.
Summary: Lisbon knows what Jane needs.
Author's Notes: Originally written for The Mentalist Kink Meme in response to mswyrr's brilliant prompt "Femdom!Lisbon, likes to top from the bottom and/or let fucking go of having to be in control all the time sub!Jane."
Possession
Jane shuts the door while Lisbon stands with arms crossed, waiting. And when he turns to her he's even smiling a little: defiant, mocking, something like a dare. But he doesn't touch her, doesn't come to her; he's following the rules with his body at least, challenging her with his deliberate passivity.
It's unfair, she thinks, how beautiful he is, and how he uses it. The thought keeps her voice flat, harsh. "Get on your knees."
"Yes, ma'am." Instant, eager obedience.
He's still smiling, looking up at her expectantly as she steps towards him. This is still a game to him, playacting, like everything else. Not real yet. She waits.
He can't. "Tell me how to please you, Ma'am," he says. Pleading and prompting. "I want to please you..."
She doesn't give him any warning, doesn't touch him first, doesn't smile back, doesn't speak, just slaps him across the face, as hard as she can. The crack of her palm against his cheek and his indrawn breath are loud in the silence.
"You don't get to tell me what to do," she snaps, holding his jaw, forcing his chin up so she can watch the mark of her hand bloom on his face.
"Yes, Ma'am," he whispers, his smile gone now, eyes wide, lips parted (so pretty.) "I'm sorry." He's there now, and she's there with him, he is hers, and in his great shuddering sigh she can hear both their relief.
"I have to punish you for that," she says softly, and his eyes drop shut. "Look at me. Do you understand why you need to be punished?"
"Yes," he breathes, then hurriedly, "Yes, Ma'am. Please punish me...please, I deserve it. God, I need you to..."
He always needs it, craves it, and they both know why. A wave of tenderness washes over her, surprising her. It always does surprise her, the way he puts himself into her hands, into her power. Only like this, only here does she ever get to glimpse this part of him: the Jane that hurts, that wants to be broken open.
She smiles.
"Get up," she says.
She wraps her hand around his throat and drags him to his feet. Maintains the hold long enough so that he feels, knows that even his breath is hers now, his life. He doesn't even try to gasp for air; he never does. Just stills under her hand, his gaze gone distant, expression slack. At peace.
She lets him go and covers his mouth with hers, breathing her own breath into him like she is saving him, claiming him, bringing him back. It takes a moment for him to return to her, return the kiss. When he does she pulls away a fraction; he follows, seeking her lips blindly, and she denies him until he waits again, mouth open to her, receptive. Then she kisses him again, catching his lower lip between her teeth. He makes a little noise in his throat, a keening moan.
"Give me your hands," she says against his mouth.
He presents them, wrists together. She cuffs him with the efficiency of long practice; he drops his gaze to watch.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, and she laughs.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he says, little-boy-meek, and bows his head as she leads him to the bedroom.
Once there, she pushes him forward onto the bed. With his wrists bound he can’t properly catch himself and he ends up on his knees and forearms, his ass in the air. A pleasant sight, only he’s still clothed.
“Damn it,” she mutters. With the cuffs, it won’t be easy to get that crisp white shirt off him, and she wants his skin, wants him bare to her.
He cranes his neck to look around at her, grinning. “I was wondering about that.”
“Quiet, you.” Christ, it’s hard to keep him down there.
“Sorry, Ma’am.”
She turns back from the boudoir, where she has her toys laid out and ready, and he falters and pales when he sees what she’s holding. Before he can protest she’s pushing the ball gag into his mouth. Grabbing a handful of blond curls, she yanks his head back and says, lips close at his ear,
“No, you’re not.”
She lets the knife in her other hand play across his exposed throat. His Adam’s apple jerks as he tries to swallow, hampered by the gag. The small helpless noise he makes tells her that he’s hers once more, sends a rush of heat through her.
“You don’t say anything you don’t mean to, Patrick, and we both know it.”
One sharp movement, and the knife slices easily through his shirt, the edge brushing his skin without breaking it. She turns the blade, caressing his lean-muscled back with the flat, pushing aside the tatters of the shirt.
“You want this,” she tells him, conversationally. “You wanted to give me an excuse to hurt you.”
He nods, his whimper both affirmation and plea, his breathing quickening.
“You manipulative little bitch.” Her tone is half-affectionate, half-disgusted; she straightens, setting aside the knife, and goes to unfasten his belt, unzipping his pants and pulling them down around his knees. He’s hard; his cock jerks as her fingers brush against it through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs, and he moans.
“Hm. I guess punishment isn’t the only thing you want, after all.”
A half-shake of his head. He’s practically vibrating now with the tension of anticipation.
“But it is what you'll get,” she says, and lays the first strike of the flogger across his shoulder blades.
He arches and cries out in pain and surprise; she gentles him a little, stroking the tails down his spine, deciding where to strike him next.
“You lied to me earlier.” She uses the flogger to push his legs a bit further apart. “You said you wanted to please me. But we both know this is for you.” Her next blow falls across the backs of his thighs. “You can’t punish yourself enough, and so you come to me.”
But that’s not the whole truth either; she does enjoy this, falling into a rhythm, a trance of motion, the blows falling faster now, spurred by his wordless cries as she watches his skin grow pink and warm. By the time she stops, her arm’s a little sore and his limbs are shaking, his moans like little sobs through the gag.
“Had enough?”
He doesn’t immediately respond, which is an answer in itself. His eyes are wide and blank; she reaches up and removes the gag. “Patrick,” she says softly, calling him back from wherever he’s gone. “You can rest now. Come here…”
He collapses forward, then curls into himself on his side against her. He’s still trembling; she strokes his hair, his face. He does this every time, disappearing deep inside himself to some place she can’t reach, and every time it scares her a little.
After a minute or so, his eyes flutter shut and his breathing lengthens, his pulse slowing. “Thank you,” he says into her thigh, half-slurring, “…Ma’am.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, amused. “But I hope you don’t think you’re done.” As she speaks she’s pulling his pants the rest of the way off, followed by his boxers. When she unlocks the cuffs and pulls the remains of his shirt from his wrists he makes a small bereft noise that tugs at her heart.
She rolls him over onto his back then, covering his body with hers, holding his arms over his head and kissing him deeply. But she’s lost him a little; she can tell by the way he kisses her back.
“Hey,” she says. “You’re thinking again.”
“Sorry,” he mutters, going still. “Can’t help it.”
She rears back slightly, pinning both his wrists with one hand, grabbing his jaw with the other. “Look at me,” she orders him, as before, and when he does, she slaps him again, a bit more lightly than the first time but enough to sting. “I said, you’re not done.” And she grinds herself against his cock, feeling him harden again, his focus snapping back to her.
“Please…” It’s funny how his normally hyper-articulate persona dissolves in submission into monosyllables and strangled half-sentences.
“Oh yes, you want that, don’t you?” She moves again and his hips buck, straining towards her.
“Yes, Ma’am.” The words seem to take some effort, dragged out of him by sheer force of will.
She releases him and rolls away just long enough to strip her own slacks and panties off, because oh sweet Jesus she wants it too, is soaking wet already. On him and pinning him again, she says, rocking against him, “You don’t get to come until I say so.”
“Oh, God,” he gasps out, and she sinks down onto him, slowly at first, then increasing her speed, her turn to get a little lost now as she focuses on her own pleasure, on the sensation of him inside her, beneath her.
She comes unexpectedly fast and hard; recovering herself, she pauses on him, and he moans, thrusting upwards, desperate for his own release.
“Say it,” she commands, and his eyes blink open; mouth slack, pupils blown, it takes him several seconds before he seems to remember language at all.
“Please,” he says, writhing under her. “God, Teresa, please let me come…”
“Come, then,” and she starts to move, just one thrust, up and down, before he’s done, his eyes rolling back in his head as he empties himself into her.
* * *
Afterwards, they lie boneless together, his head pillowed on her stomach, her fingers tangling idly in his hair.
Later, she will, without comment, watch him assemble himself again into The Amazing Patrick Jane. She knows him well enough to know that he needs that flawless control over himself and his surroundings as much as he needs to sometimes let it go.
Tomorrow they will be coworkers again, interrogating suspects, solving cases, and arguing over who gets to drive. She’ll roll her eyes at his antics and he’ll cheerfully undermine her authority. He’ll take an extra-long nap on the couch, and she’ll ignore it if he seems to move a little more stiffly than usual.
Right now, though, she doesn’t quite know what they are.
Somehow, that doesn’t seem to matter much.
Fandom: The Mentalist
Pairing: Lisbon/Jane
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Oh so very very not mine. Not at all. No.
Warnings: Consensual sadomasochism.
Summary: Lisbon knows what Jane needs.
Author's Notes: Originally written for The Mentalist Kink Meme in response to mswyrr's brilliant prompt "Femdom!Lisbon, likes to top from the bottom and/or let fucking go of having to be in control all the time sub!Jane."
Possession
Jane shuts the door while Lisbon stands with arms crossed, waiting. And when he turns to her he's even smiling a little: defiant, mocking, something like a dare. But he doesn't touch her, doesn't come to her; he's following the rules with his body at least, challenging her with his deliberate passivity.
It's unfair, she thinks, how beautiful he is, and how he uses it. The thought keeps her voice flat, harsh. "Get on your knees."
"Yes, ma'am." Instant, eager obedience.
He's still smiling, looking up at her expectantly as she steps towards him. This is still a game to him, playacting, like everything else. Not real yet. She waits.
He can't. "Tell me how to please you, Ma'am," he says. Pleading and prompting. "I want to please you..."
She doesn't give him any warning, doesn't touch him first, doesn't smile back, doesn't speak, just slaps him across the face, as hard as she can. The crack of her palm against his cheek and his indrawn breath are loud in the silence.
"You don't get to tell me what to do," she snaps, holding his jaw, forcing his chin up so she can watch the mark of her hand bloom on his face.
"Yes, Ma'am," he whispers, his smile gone now, eyes wide, lips parted (so pretty.) "I'm sorry." He's there now, and she's there with him, he is hers, and in his great shuddering sigh she can hear both their relief.
"I have to punish you for that," she says softly, and his eyes drop shut. "Look at me. Do you understand why you need to be punished?"
"Yes," he breathes, then hurriedly, "Yes, Ma'am. Please punish me...please, I deserve it. God, I need you to..."
He always needs it, craves it, and they both know why. A wave of tenderness washes over her, surprising her. It always does surprise her, the way he puts himself into her hands, into her power. Only like this, only here does she ever get to glimpse this part of him: the Jane that hurts, that wants to be broken open.
She smiles.
"Get up," she says.
She wraps her hand around his throat and drags him to his feet. Maintains the hold long enough so that he feels, knows that even his breath is hers now, his life. He doesn't even try to gasp for air; he never does. Just stills under her hand, his gaze gone distant, expression slack. At peace.
She lets him go and covers his mouth with hers, breathing her own breath into him like she is saving him, claiming him, bringing him back. It takes a moment for him to return to her, return the kiss. When he does she pulls away a fraction; he follows, seeking her lips blindly, and she denies him until he waits again, mouth open to her, receptive. Then she kisses him again, catching his lower lip between her teeth. He makes a little noise in his throat, a keening moan.
"Give me your hands," she says against his mouth.
He presents them, wrists together. She cuffs him with the efficiency of long practice; he drops his gaze to watch.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, and she laughs.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he says, little-boy-meek, and bows his head as she leads him to the bedroom.
Once there, she pushes him forward onto the bed. With his wrists bound he can’t properly catch himself and he ends up on his knees and forearms, his ass in the air. A pleasant sight, only he’s still clothed.
“Damn it,” she mutters. With the cuffs, it won’t be easy to get that crisp white shirt off him, and she wants his skin, wants him bare to her.
He cranes his neck to look around at her, grinning. “I was wondering about that.”
“Quiet, you.” Christ, it’s hard to keep him down there.
“Sorry, Ma’am.”
She turns back from the boudoir, where she has her toys laid out and ready, and he falters and pales when he sees what she’s holding. Before he can protest she’s pushing the ball gag into his mouth. Grabbing a handful of blond curls, she yanks his head back and says, lips close at his ear,
“No, you’re not.”
She lets the knife in her other hand play across his exposed throat. His Adam’s apple jerks as he tries to swallow, hampered by the gag. The small helpless noise he makes tells her that he’s hers once more, sends a rush of heat through her.
“You don’t say anything you don’t mean to, Patrick, and we both know it.”
One sharp movement, and the knife slices easily through his shirt, the edge brushing his skin without breaking it. She turns the blade, caressing his lean-muscled back with the flat, pushing aside the tatters of the shirt.
“You want this,” she tells him, conversationally. “You wanted to give me an excuse to hurt you.”
He nods, his whimper both affirmation and plea, his breathing quickening.
“You manipulative little bitch.” Her tone is half-affectionate, half-disgusted; she straightens, setting aside the knife, and goes to unfasten his belt, unzipping his pants and pulling them down around his knees. He’s hard; his cock jerks as her fingers brush against it through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs, and he moans.
“Hm. I guess punishment isn’t the only thing you want, after all.”
A half-shake of his head. He’s practically vibrating now with the tension of anticipation.
“But it is what you'll get,” she says, and lays the first strike of the flogger across his shoulder blades.
He arches and cries out in pain and surprise; she gentles him a little, stroking the tails down his spine, deciding where to strike him next.
“You lied to me earlier.” She uses the flogger to push his legs a bit further apart. “You said you wanted to please me. But we both know this is for you.” Her next blow falls across the backs of his thighs. “You can’t punish yourself enough, and so you come to me.”
But that’s not the whole truth either; she does enjoy this, falling into a rhythm, a trance of motion, the blows falling faster now, spurred by his wordless cries as she watches his skin grow pink and warm. By the time she stops, her arm’s a little sore and his limbs are shaking, his moans like little sobs through the gag.
“Had enough?”
He doesn’t immediately respond, which is an answer in itself. His eyes are wide and blank; she reaches up and removes the gag. “Patrick,” she says softly, calling him back from wherever he’s gone. “You can rest now. Come here…”
He collapses forward, then curls into himself on his side against her. He’s still trembling; she strokes his hair, his face. He does this every time, disappearing deep inside himself to some place she can’t reach, and every time it scares her a little.
After a minute or so, his eyes flutter shut and his breathing lengthens, his pulse slowing. “Thank you,” he says into her thigh, half-slurring, “…Ma’am.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, amused. “But I hope you don’t think you’re done.” As she speaks she’s pulling his pants the rest of the way off, followed by his boxers. When she unlocks the cuffs and pulls the remains of his shirt from his wrists he makes a small bereft noise that tugs at her heart.
She rolls him over onto his back then, covering his body with hers, holding his arms over his head and kissing him deeply. But she’s lost him a little; she can tell by the way he kisses her back.
“Hey,” she says. “You’re thinking again.”
“Sorry,” he mutters, going still. “Can’t help it.”
She rears back slightly, pinning both his wrists with one hand, grabbing his jaw with the other. “Look at me,” she orders him, as before, and when he does, she slaps him again, a bit more lightly than the first time but enough to sting. “I said, you’re not done.” And she grinds herself against his cock, feeling him harden again, his focus snapping back to her.
“Please…” It’s funny how his normally hyper-articulate persona dissolves in submission into monosyllables and strangled half-sentences.
“Oh yes, you want that, don’t you?” She moves again and his hips buck, straining towards her.
“Yes, Ma’am.” The words seem to take some effort, dragged out of him by sheer force of will.
She releases him and rolls away just long enough to strip her own slacks and panties off, because oh sweet Jesus she wants it too, is soaking wet already. On him and pinning him again, she says, rocking against him, “You don’t get to come until I say so.”
“Oh, God,” he gasps out, and she sinks down onto him, slowly at first, then increasing her speed, her turn to get a little lost now as she focuses on her own pleasure, on the sensation of him inside her, beneath her.
She comes unexpectedly fast and hard; recovering herself, she pauses on him, and he moans, thrusting upwards, desperate for his own release.
“Say it,” she commands, and his eyes blink open; mouth slack, pupils blown, it takes him several seconds before he seems to remember language at all.
“Please,” he says, writhing under her. “God, Teresa, please let me come…”
“Come, then,” and she starts to move, just one thrust, up and down, before he’s done, his eyes rolling back in his head as he empties himself into her.
* * *
Afterwards, they lie boneless together, his head pillowed on her stomach, her fingers tangling idly in his hair.
Later, she will, without comment, watch him assemble himself again into The Amazing Patrick Jane. She knows him well enough to know that he needs that flawless control over himself and his surroundings as much as he needs to sometimes let it go.
Tomorrow they will be coworkers again, interrogating suspects, solving cases, and arguing over who gets to drive. She’ll roll her eyes at his antics and he’ll cheerfully undermine her authority. He’ll take an extra-long nap on the couch, and she’ll ignore it if he seems to move a little more stiffly than usual.
Right now, though, she doesn’t quite know what they are.
Somehow, that doesn’t seem to matter much.