Fandom: The Mentalist
Word Count: 319
Summary: He needs this, as much as she does. J/L
Written for tromana, as a holiday fic!
The minute her feet touch the threshold of room nineteen and she closes the door behind her, his hands are already working her from her striped collared shirt.
She says nothing, while he pins her against the white door and presses his own mouth against hers; their kiss isn’t gentle or soft or even feathery—their kiss is savage and raw and without voracious invitation, as her firm breasts press against his clothed chest and her hands remain completely still.
She knows she can touch him with her fingertips, or run her hands through his hair, and allow whatever is happening between the both of them to become something more, but she won’t.
It would go against everything in their unspoken agreement, and their agreement is the reason he doesn’t take his time undressing her, or allow for his hands to explore every inch of her alabaster skin.
It’s also the reason she continuously finds herself in one seedy motel after another with him, and why she tolerates his domineering abrasiveness.
He needs this, as much as she does.
Until Red John is dead, they will continue this endless pattern—the quick texts, the disgusting motels, the bruises, the meaningless sex, and how he leaves her when they are finished without a single word.
Until Red John is dead, neither can allow themselves to feel something akin to attraction—for the consequences are way too high, and neither of them can afford yet another personal loss.
He grips her wrist tightly, and she knows she will be bruised tomorrow.
It’s a good thing they can both wear long-sleeved clothing items without question, because she is sure that nobody would understand how everything they do is considered “surviving” or “coping”.
Yes, she thinks as he hastily pushes her atop the lone bed and straddles her hips, this is dangerous for us both.
Because, even she loses control sometimes.