When a young, methodical FBI specialist is embedded with Lisbon’s team, the friction with Patrick Jane is instantaneous. He views your federal protocols as a fragile shield for your youth; you view his confidence and charm as a dangerous distraction. But as the case deepens, the biting remarks begin to feel less like insults and more like a dare, where the only thing left to dissect is each other.
Contains: smut, fluff, comfort, age gap ( +/- 10 years), enemies (?) to lovers, forced proximity , angst
Sumary: It was supposed to be a boring desk job, but between Jane’s cryptic tests and his paper-folding habits, she’s starting to realize that "babysitting" is just a fancy word for joining the circus.
Word Count: 1.9 k
Warnings: None, just fluff, fluff, and more fluff... and really, really bad jokes. Based on that one scene of the Elvis stain. Third person narrator but she doesn't have a name (it could be you, my love). A/N and taglist at the end!
<<<The 'Patrick Jane' Materlist
“Wow. There’s a stain on the ceiling that looks like Elvis, but today it looks more like a... basset hound.”
Patrick Jane had a small, persistent habit of thinking out loud—mostly when he assumed he was alone, or when no one was actually listening. Sometimes, he simply pointed things out because a detail struck him, regardless of whether it was appropriate or even relevant. It was all part of his 'charm.'
He was currently sprawled across the camel-colored leather sofa in the bullpen, a piece of furniture he’d claimed as his sovereign territory since his first day at the CBI. He was, for all intents and purposes, alone—except for the new agent tucked away at a desk she was forced to share with Van Pelt until a proper space opened up.
By default, she had been tasked with 'Jane-duty.' Her job was to ensure he didn’t pull any stunts while the rest of the team was in the field, spring a trap for a prime suspect in their current case.
She let out a long, jagged sigh. It was the third time this week she’d been benched to watch him. And while she didn't exactly hate the man, she wanted to be out there, in the heat of the action, not buried under a mountain of paperwork with a man who, despite her silent prayers, seemingly didn't know how to shut up.
"And?" she asked, not even bothering to look up. Her voice was flat, draped in boredom.
Jane turned to her, looking genuinely offended as he propped himself up on one elbow. "And? What do you mean, 'and'? You can't treat such a delicate matter with a simple 'and'."
She exhaled. Here we go again.
"It’s just a stain, Jane. I don't see the problem."
"The problem is that it isn't just a stain; we’re talking about the King of Rock and Roll here," he said, falling back onto the sofa. He studied the no-longer-Elvis shape with intense concentration before adding, "Besides, it’s not just that he’s gone—it’s about what his departure signifies."
She frowned, finally turning to face him. "I don’t follow."
Patrick offered a satisfied smile, his eyes sparkling now that he’d successfully baited her into the conversation. He watched her from the comfort of his perch on the sofa.
"Well, you see... it’s not just about the change in appearance. It’s a personality test. If you see Elvis, it means you have a messiah complex and a secret addiction to sequins. If you see a basset hound... well, then you’re emotionally constipated."
She tried to make sense of the consultant’s words, finding herself significantly more confused than she had been five seconds ago.
"Let me see if I’ve got this straight," she began. "You’re telling me that because you see a dog today instead of Elvis... it means you’re practically dead inside?"
Patrick’s smile widened, clearly entertained by the agent’s confusion.
"Ah! The rookie is a quick study. But no—it means you are practically dead inside."
She faltered, completely lost. She opened her mouth as if to ask something, then snapped it shut in resignation, realizing her best bet was to avoid falling into the mental traps of the man on the sofa.
Suddenly, Jane sat up, breaking the silence. "Come now, you’re a state agent! You should be paying more attention. You know as well as I do that the devil is in the details."
She let out a scoff. "I’m a state agent, exactly—not a psychic." She glanced up at the ceiling where the supposed Elvis-stain lived—a ketchup smudge that, to this day, remained a bureaucratic mystery—, then back at the sofa where Jane sat. An idea flickered in her mind. "Besides, hasn't it occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, someone might have moved your couch?"
"Moved my couch?!" Patrick exclaimed, looking at her with a horrified expression, as if she’d just grown a third head. "I’ll have you know this couch has been in the exact same spot for two years. In fact, I named her: Betsy."
She fought back a smile. "Well, I think Betsy is cheating on you. Why don’t you move her about three inches to the left? I bet you’ll have your Elvis back before you can even say... 'Presley.'"
She met his gaze with a defiant, confident smirk. Jane arched his brows, suppressing a smile that threatened to break through, secretly impressed by the girl's quick wit.
He wasn't going to say it out loud, of course.
"So, you think you're quite clever, don't you, rookie?" He narrowed his eyes at her. "I hate to disappoint you, but Betsy has been faithful to me all this time. And you doubt her because of... what? Three inches?"
She rolled her eyes. "Just listen to me. I know what I’m talking about."
It was his turn to falter. She looked so certain that he found himself doubting his own argument—and Jane never doubted himself. "And you’re sure this will bring him back?" he asked, purely skeptical.
She propped an elbow on her desk, resting her chin in her hand. "Humor me, will you? Just move Betsy."
Resigned, Patrick stood up and shifted the sofa exactly three inches in the direction she’d pointed out.
"There. Now what?"
She let out a mock scoff. "Now what? Lie down, genius. Elvis has entered the building."
He settled back onto the leather, squinting at his favorite spot on the ceiling once more. "Oh! Well, look at that. The King has returned." The smile suddenly vanished, replaced by a frown as he lifted his head just enough to catch her eye. "Wait. How did you know the sofa needed moving?"
She was already buried back in her paperwork when she answered, "It’s all about perspective. Besides, you said it yourself: the devil is in the details."
Patrick fell silent for a moment, thoughtful. It was rare to meet someone so observant. Not on his level, of course—no one was, in his mind—but someone who noticed things others missed. Like the fact that Betsy needed to move three inches.
He studied the young agent’s face: the way she moved with a slow, heavy exhaustion, the spark in her eyes, and how the midday sun streaming into the bullpen forced her to squint.
"Huh..." he drifted off, turning fully toward her, his gaze never wavering. "But you see, the problem with Elvis is that I’m no longer sure I even like him."
The agent let her head drop onto the desk with a little thud at Jane's indecisiveness, her forehead hitting the cold wood with a guttural groan of irritation.
God, this man's more stubborn than a mule.
"Would you be so kind to remind me again why I’m stuck here with you instead of out there with the team?"
"Because you’re the rookie, and Lisbon operates under the tragic delusion that I require a babysitter." Patrick shrugged nonchalantly. "Personally, I prefer to think of you as my protégée." He sat up abruptly, rising to his feet and drifting toward her desk. He plucked a stray piece of paper from the floor and began to fold it. "Besides, someone has to fetch my tea and marvel at my… eccentricities, after all"
She sighed again, the sound muffled by the wood of the desk. "Great. I went from state agent to babysitter and waitress. Fantastic..." she muttered sarcastically. She was exhausted, and truth be told, she felt pushed aside. She got along with the others, sure, but she was still the 'new girl,' the 'rookie,' the 'beginner.'
She knew integration wouldn't be easy, but it had been two months and she felt like she’d contributed nothing to the cases beyond case rehearsals and analyzing dusty files from the dark ages that even her boss's boss would never bother to read. She knew she could do more—that she’d be more useful out in the field than rotting behind a desk. She was beyond frustrated.
Then, she felt a light tap on her hair.
She lifted her head, finding herself face-to-face with a small, delicately folded origami swan. She took it between her fingers with a tentative touch, as if it were made of glass, tracing the tiny beak with her index finger. A small smile, nearly imperceptible, flickered across her face, cracking the facade of irritation she’d been wearing.
Patrick noticed. Because he never missed a thing. Not a single detail.
He caught that tiny slip of a smile on her weary face. He saw the way her gaze softened at the sight of the little bird. He noted how, somehow, that one small gesture had caused her shoulders to finally drop.
He had to summon every ounce of self-control to keep from pointing out the shift in her posture. He simply smiled, watching as she placed the swan on her desk next to a pipe-cleaner flower—another of his creations from his idle moments between cases.
He’d realized she kept everything he gave her. It started with the first thing: an anonymous beaded bracelet, a chaotic mess of colors and shapes that she’d hung from her backpack zipper like a lucky charm, wearing a smile very much like the one on her face right now.
Since that day, making her smile like that had become his personal mission.
Which brings us back to the paper swan.
"Looks like I managed to make the grump smile," he said with a smirk, looking a bit smug and deeply satisfied with himself for having accomplished his mission for the day.
"I’m not a grump," she protested. "I just detest being the new hire." She let out a long breath before adding under her breath, "I’d be much more useful out there than in here."
A lightbulb seemed to go off in Patrick’s head as he practically jumped to his feet.
"Well then, what are we waiting for?" he exclaimed, his tone far too upbeat and his smile far too wide—and attractive—for her liking. He began striding toward the office exit.
"Wait, what? No!" She stood up so fast she sent her chair toppling over, racing to stand in front of him with her arms stretched and block the door. "No, no, no. We are not going anywhere. The boss told me—"
"Yes, yes, I know, but I don't care. You said it yourself: you’re more useful out there. So, let's go." He sidestepped her, heading straight for the elevator. When he realized she wasn't following, he called back, "Are you coming or what?"
She watched him go, half-incredulous and half-terrified of what the consultant was about to do. Because with him, you never truly knew.
At that moment, she felt she only had two choices:
Option one, call Lisbon to warn her that the devil was off his leash and wash her hands of the whole mess.
Or option two, follow the very charming but very impulsive mentalist to try to minimize the blast radius of the walking nuclear bomb that he is.
I don’t think I need to tell you which one she picked.
"Dammit, Jane..." she muttered to the empty air before anxiously rushing after him. This man is going to get me fired one of these days.
Jane couldn't help the private smile that touched his lips when he heard her hurried footsteps behind him. He knew she was worried; he knew she thought her job was on the line. But he also knew he’d be the one taking the fall later, happily claiming all the blame. He didn't mind. It was worth it.
Anything to keep her happy.
But that’s something the great Patrick Jane would never, ever, admit.
A/N: Damn, I'm on fire, haha. I've noticed there are not a lot of fics for Patrick Jane, so I decided to write one. This is my first time writing any type of comedy (if you can call it that way), so bear with me... please? As always, this was originally written in spanish so I just translated it. Let me know what you think and also if you want to be on the taglist. I hope you enjoyed it.
No sofas were harmed (or cheated on) in the making of this fic.
Peace out, bitches! 8)
My obsession with this man is not healthy, because I have read every single thing about him, and surprisingly there's TOO LITTLE for the kind of men he is, like come on, there's a bunch of people ogling him in every TikTok edit, so how's possible i cannot find more things to obsess with about him!
So, I decided I will create some (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
dividers by @angeliicide
contains: smut, teasing, squirting, eating out
enjoy!
The perfect way of being mean is to make you squirt in his fingers after a long day of work
Jane likes to pound you from behind while he waits for his tea to be ready
He loves eating you out while he fingers your pssy
The only way to keep his mouth shut is to sit on it, and he will gladly comply
He can be a big eater, if you let him of course
After a good ride make sure to make a mess on Jane, he will love it
Dont be shy, ask for any request you may have!
Take care cookie, and i hope to see you soon (˶ > ₃ < ˶)
a/n: wow another written in an evening frenzy unedited patrick jane x reader fic has hit the me blog. inspired by that one whump post i reblogged a bit ago and also my unending love of hurt comfort. enjoy y'all ♥️
- - -
It's all gone to shit.
That's an understatment.
You peel your eyes open. Shift your weight every so slowly. Your joints scream in protest. Everything aches. You can feel the splinters of wood on your palms from your attempts at escaping. They're needles to your nerves, pinpricks of white hot pain under your skin; a reminder of pain. Of sensation. Of being alive.
There's that, at least.
Oh, and the gunshot wound in your shoulder that's still bleeding.
You try not to think about if you'll be alive for much longer.
Your head is pounding. Trying to remember the Before of when you were in this room is difficult. Every pathway to any kind of memory slips through your fingers like grains of sand. You have fragments. Laughter. Kind blue-grey eyes. Fiery orange hair. Some kind of mission. They blur, meld together like some kind of dream, of a life before this dark room and the cold air of the night. It's so hard to remember when all you have right now is the rustling of the leaves and the moon.
You shift your weight again. You have no restraints, but the weight of exhaustion are chains enough. The moon's light shines translucent through the curtains. If you could just move them and get your bearings...
You move to get up, face the window - big mistake - you put too much weight on your shoulder and barely manage to stop yourself from falling face-first into the floor. Your world explodes - it's a kaleidoscope of pain that lances up your shoulder and turns every thought in your mind into fog.
You're still reeling until a voice cuts through that haze.
"Hey. If you get in trouble, comm me."
"When am I ever in trouble, Jane?"
Jane. His face flashes behind your closed eyelids. Kind, downturned, blue-grey eyes. Curly blonde hair. Crumpled suit. Warm smile. A gentle touch on your shoulder before you pocketed your walkie-talkie.
You open your eyes - your walkie talkie. He doesn't know where I am.
That lights a small, flickering fire in your chest. You crawl, closer and closer to the window. You raise your hand and grip the bottom of a curtain, wrinkling the floral pattern. Just a bit of -
The curtains part, just slightly. The moon's silvery light - it almost blinds you - peeks through the gap in the curtains and slices through the dusty air. It clears a path, spilling onto cardboard boxes and plastic-covered furniture, leading you right to your walkie-talkie. Something releases in your chest, stokes the flames of hope.
Thrown across the room in a scuffle. You must have sent a message, some kind of cry for help, but you're so alone that you're not sure.
"Oh, never," Jane says. His smile flickers. Serious. "But unexpected occurrences, and all that. You're going in there on your own. Never hurts to be too prepared."
"If there is such a thing." You remember smiling back. "You worried about me, Jane?"
"Eh," he drawls, waves his hand. But stops to look at you - really look at you. "You know that already."
You didn't. You don't think you realized.
The walkie-talkie is so, so slippery in your hands. Fingers trembling, you manage to press down on the button to talk - but your mind is unravelling, the air so cold, only one name manages to tumble out of your shivering lips.
"P-Patrick."
Patrick. Not Jane. Patrick. Like calling him by his name will bring him to you like magic. You're desperate enough to believe it.
You let go of the button - nothing. The sound of the static blends into the faint sound of leaves rustling somewhere outside. The rushing, crackling, silence.
You try again. Fingers slick with blood, you try again. "Patrick," you croak, hoping and hoping that it's him on the other end, that he can hear you at all. Who knows where his walkie talkie even is. It might be tucked at the bottom of a drawer at the CBI, spouting pleas to an empty room as the rest of the team goes looking for you.
They must be looking for you. They have to be. Especially him.
Because the alternative is that they've given up and that can't be true because Patrick Jane would never abandon you.
"Please," you whisper into the reciever. You're not sure if it even picks up. "Patrick-"
There's a breath of your name. Soft, and then louder as it crackles through the speaker of the walkie-talkie.
"...there? Please tell me you're there."
Jane's doesn't often call you by your name, but that doesn't mean he hasn't tried. It doesn't make the way his voice wraps around the syllable of your name sound any less heavenly.
"Say something," he says, his voice low and more serious than you've ever heard before. This is rare, for Jane. "Say something so I know you're alive. I need-"
"I'm here," you groan. You slump onto the floor. There are still needles under your skin and blood pouring out of your shoulder and you feel so fucking cold but you can hear Jane; somehow it all fades into the background. It's just you and him. When you speak again, your voice is thin. "I don't know where I am."
"I know, and I'm coming to get you," Jane replies, without any hesitation. I'm coming to get you. Not we. "Just stay with me."
You lean your head against the wall. Try to breathe. Watch the dust dance in the one beam of moonlight you have. "Okay. I'll try."
"You called me Patrick," Jane says. He's trying to keep his voice light, you can tell. "I'm always trying to get you to call me Patrick. If you wanted to get my attention you didn't have to go and get kidnapped, you know."
"Desperate times... desperate measures," you mumble. The pain really has taken a backseat, the fog rolling in instead. "You called me by my name."
"Desperate times," Jane - no, Patrick - mirrors. His voice is shaking. You want so badly to reach out, to hold him, but he's so far away. Everything is. "Talk to me. Whatever you remember."
It isn't much. "Got shot," you say dully, dimly nothing how the trickle of blood from your shoulder has stopped feeling warm. "Threw me. Hit my head maybe. Hurts. You helped me with that one time."
You can hear the smile in Patrick's voice. "I did. You put your head in my lap."
Impossibly, you manage a chuckle. "Made me do it. Coercion."
"Coercion with good results," he hums.
It's easy to pretend you're back there, on his couch at the CBI, your head in his lap, one of his hands in your hair and the other in yours. Falling asleep looking up at him with his sad, searching blue eyes, that seem to go as deep as the ocean does. Currents carrying you away into deeper and deeper waters. Away from here, and into the deep of his arms instead.
Another call of your name. Sharper this time. Like a plea.
"Talk to me," you hear Jane say. Already so distant, still at the shore. "Don't leave. I'm almost there, don't let go - listen to me, okay? Listen to me."
You're miles away. But Patrick's voice still carries, somehow, over the waves, over the swell of the water that threatens to pull you under.
"I want you to stay with me," he says, his breath quick, voice trembling like you've never heard it before. "Not just awake, but here. With me."
Always, you want to tell him, before you drown under the weight of all your pain.
The distant sound of a car pulling into a driveway. Raised voices. You're sinking.
Until someone drags you out of the water and into the cold night air. Dark hair and green eyes and a soft voice fill your vision, press two fingers to your neck. Lisbon. Her eyes are blown wide, mouth murmuring apologies as she holds you and props you up against the wall.
"In here!" she calls, and you're glad it's her, but where -
Patrick appears from behind her. Falls to his knees beside you. He's shaking and you want to hold him and he's right there - but you can't move. You're still bouyant, floating just on the surface. All you can do is breathe. Ignore the chill creeping onto your skin and seeping into your bones.
"Paramedics are minutes away," Lisbon says, putting a hand on Patrick's shoulder. He's frozen staring at you. "She's going to be okay if you can keep her awake until they get here."
That's when he blinks, as if he's waking up. He creeps closer to you, and suddenly scoops you into his arms. You're getting blood onto his suit. He doesn't seem to care as he wraps his arms around you, letting you lay against his shoulder.
"Hi," Patrick says cooly. Smiles down at you, radiant. As if nothing is wrong. Just like that night in the station. "I missed you."
"Since when?" you croak, and he chuckles, hangs his head low. When he lifts it to look at you, his eyes are brimming with tears.
Patrick doesn't answer the question. Instead he brushes his lips against your forehead as the sirens get closer and closer. "I told you to stay, right?" he whispers, rests his head against your forehead. "I - care about you. I want to keep caring about you. Those good enough reasons to stay?"
It's as good a reason as any, you think, because you care about him too.
(Patrick doesn't let you go until the paramedics arrive, and even when you're allowed to finally sink under and rest, he refuses to let go of your hand. And when you wake, the world blurry still, the first thing you see clearly is his smile.)
Summary: Jane is bored. He craves drama, mystery, and maybe a nice cup of tea. In search of at least one of these things, he knocks on the door of one the CBI’s IT specialists, curious to see if they could be of use for a case. Or at least entertaining enough to keep him occupied until Lisbon isn't mad at him anymore. His unfortunate victim, on the other hand, just wants to get through the work day without the commentary of an overly confident consultant.
Warnings: bad writing :p (english isn't my first language and this is also my first ever fic so be kind pls), not much else to be honest, IT job inaccuracies (I made it all up so I'd honestly be more surprised if it turns out to be accurate lol)
Note: sorryyy forgot to tag @cafekitsune for the dividers!
Part 2 here!
And here’s another mini fic!
Reblogs and comments appreciated!
The CBI’s IT department wasn’t anything particularly impressive. A few identical offices for the small team of technicians. Well, calling them offices might be a bit too generous. An overgrown carpet of cables, boxes of hard drives, dusty monitors, and mugs of stale coffee, all stuffed into a bigger than average storage closet...
To many this doesn’t seem like an ideal workspace, but in practice it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. The IT specialists are nice folk, they keep to themselves, mainly due to the heavy workload, but most are friendly. They’re used to their spaces, having tailored them to their individual needs over time, and that particular part of the building is quiet, away from the drama of the bullpen and interrogation rooms.
But as always, peace never lasts when a certain consultant is around.
Patrick had always been curious about the room at the far end of the second floor hallway. He had known what was behind that door in theory but, Jane being Jane, he couldn’t stop himself for knocking on it. After all, what better way to improve department collaboration than get to know other CBI employees? (In reality, Lisbon had put him in time out for offending a witness and he was painfully bored).
A chair creaks behind the door and the clacking of computer keys stops.
…
“Come in,” you call out, silently praying you’re not about to get handed an box of tapes to digitize or some other convoluted task to add to your never ending to-do list.
The door creaks open and you look up, frowning when you recognize the person stepping in.
“Can I help you?”
“Hm? Oh, yes,” Jane re-centers his attention towards you, turning away from the rusty metal shelving that had caught his attention when he opened the door, “This isn’t very safe. Too many things on it. It looks like it could buckle any minute and drown you in a sea of cables and unlabeled…computer parts, or whatever you store in these boxes.”
You glance at the shelf then back at him, unfazed by his warning.
“That's rich coming from the guy who keeps intentionally causing complete and utter chaos to solve cases,” you reply, humming in thought.
He shrugs, “It works.”
You shake your head, already feeling your headache worsening.
"So...why are you here, Jane? Computer acting up?" you say, leaning back in your chair.
He shakes his head, turning to take another look at the organized chaos in your office, picking up random objects to examine them. "Just curious," he replies, "and bored. Lisbon is mad because I called a well-connected suspect a 'pompous fool'." He inspects a box of files, tracing them with his finger.
You frown in disbelief. Is this guy being serious?...
Well, no point in wasting any more time trying to figure him out, you're already drowning in work and you're not exactly in the mood to entertain a random coworker you barely ever talk to.
Sighing, you turn back to your monitor and resume typing, dismissing him "Look, I'm sorry you're so painfully bored but I have work to do and I can't afford to be distracted right now."
He turns to face you with a grin, brows raised. "Oh busy, huh? Well, what are you working on? I know a thing or two about computers, 'main frames' and all that, maybe I can help."
It's hard to pinpoint exactly, but something about his smile makes it hard to believe him.
"Really?" you reply, clearly unconvinced, "The great Patrick Jane is secretly a tech nerd?"
He shrugs "Nope, I'm useless around technology. By choice, mostly. I'm not a fan of all these fancy gadgets," he grimaces in distaste, "too unpredictable."
Patrick steps closer to your desk and, confused, you instinctively look up.
"But, you seem like you could use some company. Working alone in a badly ventilated storage room without any natural light can't be good for you," he continues, fingers drumming against the wooden desk.
You can't find it in you to fight him, already bled dry by all the overtime you had to do recently after another team had presented you with a dozen damaged hard drives you had to recover 'important evidence' from. (Said evidence turned out to be hours and hours of amateur bird-watching footage. And, of course, you still had to watch every second to make sure the suspect hadn't murdered someone between pointing out a blue bird and zooming in on a kingfisher).
Maybe a bit of mischief wouldn't be so bad after that.
Your exasperated sigh seems to be the only answer he needs as he straightens up with a smile that's so painfully wide and bright, you can't stop your own lips from tilting upwards.
Patrick extends a hand to help you stand from the desk chair you'd practically merged with, and pulls you towards the door, already planning out your little adventure, "There's a great bakery a couple of blocks down the road-"
...
Thank you for reading! This is the first fic I've ever written so it's definitely not the best, and I honestly didn't know how to end it so I decided to leave it kind of open
I wanted to do more with the premise of this fic but couldn't figure out where I wanted to take it so I might pick this back up at some point later when I've gotten more comfortable with writing
Would appreciate any constructive feedback you may have, please be kind still :))
a/n: yes it doesnt involve so much talking because i cringe. sue me.
-oh, you're doing soo good love- a muffled moan is heard from you, as patrick moves deeply inside of you.
you swore you never ever felt so complete like in that second - that second where patrick inserts all of his manhood into you. and again. and again.
every inch of him fitting perfectly inside of you, and he swore, he swore that the feeling of your gummy walls wrapping him tight was the closest experience to heaven he'll ever had.
but the thing about patrick in the morning, he doesn't just pound relentlessly into you (as almost always), he humours himself to take his sweet time to make you feel good. later, your co-workers will find you walking funny. but good.
-no.. no. love- cmmon, look at me. wanna see your pretty face- patrick says, grabbing you by your chin. and that moment, every morning, when you just cant take it anymore and your sleepy, swollen eyes because of the crying of the craving for his cock, he swears he has never been happier.
he swears that too when he's kissing you. or when he's making love to you. or when he's cooking for you... yeah, anyway, everytime he gets to see you satisfied.
-yeah, that's it, that's my baby, that's my love-.
another thing about patrick is that he sweet talks to you through it. and not just through sex, but in makeout sessions, when you're working, and gosh, even cooking something you don't know how to, he's just there to make sure you know how great you're doing.
and sometimes that's just too much, like right now.
as your orgasm builds, and that familiar feeling in your lower belly appears, you manage to mumble (or moan?, you're not very conscious about it) "coming".
and that's when he feels it, although he loves the build up, he loves a tiiiny little bit more the result.
as your orgasm hits, and your foot feel numb (doesn't your whole body feel like it?) you watch him come too, which is probably the hottest thing in the world, and only you have the luck to appreciate it!
you don't have too much time for the aftercare (which he loooves because he gets to kiss every single spot of your body) since in half an hour you two love birds should be in the office, but you two have time for a shower together... in which for some reason you always end up having to do a double-wash.
so, patrick needs you, like truly, because once he has you in his life as a routine, he thinks its over for him. so his morning routine must contain you. and sex (with you). and a shower (with you). and a tea, duhhh!
