Log in

No account? Create an account

Previous Entry | Next Entry

elynross and astolat organized yuletide 2010. I picked up a pinch-hit for torigates, who requested a fic about The Mentalist with Wayne Rigsby/Grace Van Pelt, and Secret dating means a lot of making out in inconvenient places.

Title: Without the Pleasure of a Scar
Author: voleuse
Fandom: The Mentalist
Pairing: Wayne Rigsby/Grace Van Pelt
Rating: NC-17
Summary: When we swam once I touched you in the water and our bodies remained free.
Notes: Set during early S2. No spoilers.

The stairwell was too obvious, but it was two in the morning and Grace was betting nobody cared that much. That didn't mean she didn't check for cameras before she sent Wayne a text to meet her on the north stairwell between the ninth and tenth floors. She leaned into the pooled shadow under the flight of stairs, and counted. She'd made it to seven hundred and thirty-two when she heard a door clang shut and Wayne's precise and heavy step ringing down towards her.

She toyed with the buckle of her belt. When he swung over the railing to land in front of her, though, her fit of laughter almost distracted her from whipping her belt open. Almost.

He panted as he watched her unzip her pants, his expression smug and surprised at once. "Just like that?" he asked. "I don't know if I can--"

Grace grabbed his tie and yanked him down for a kiss, her mouth open and hot. He moaned against her, but when he clutched the back of her head, she drew back. "If we get called in," she explained, breathless, "my hair should be, you know--"

"Yeah, fine," he said. Then a frown washed over his face. "So how do we do this?"

Grace smiled and pulled his belt and fly open. She shimmied out of her own trousers and panties, pushing them over her hips and down to her knees, to her ankles.

Wayne swallowed, hard. "Okay."

"Condom?" she asked.

He fumbled in his jacket for a second, then fumbled with the foil packet. She took it from his hands, rolled it onto him as he clenched his jaw.

"Now," she demanded, lifting her leg to hitch it against his thigh.

Wayne swayed forward, his breath harsh against her forehead. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I mean, are you ready?"

"Don't flatter yourself," she teased, but she grasped his hand, pressed it between her legs. He made a sound surprisingly like a whimper, and she leaned back against the wall and repeated, "Now."


The 36-hour stakeout in Bakersfield had ended in a stand-off, and Grace felt the french fry grease would never wash off her hands. Lisbon and Jane took off to question the suspect at headquarters, while Cho volunteered to stay for the evidence collection. "It's fine." He nodded at Wayne, though he avoided Grace's eyes, which was weird. "Why don't you two head back? I'll catch a ride with the van."

Wayne clapped Cho on the shoulder, and Grace smiled. "Thanks."

Cho shrugged, turning back to the scene. "You owe me," he called back. "And take it easy."

When they got back to the car, Grace leaned against the driver's side. "You've been awake for twenty hours," she noted.

Wayne smiled, rolling his shoulders as he stretched. "Thanks," he said. "You good for the drive back?"

"Yeah," Grace said, and he slumped into his seat as she drove. She hummed along to the radio for the first hour, sneaking glances at Wayne's profile. In the second hour, he stared snoring, a low drone punctuated by murmurs.

It was, she discovered, cute.

By the third hour, she was starving, so she pulled into the parking lot of an IHOP and nudged Wayne's shoulder. "Come on, sleeping beauty."

He snorted as he woke, his cheeks flushing slightly as he took in their surroundings. "Where are we?"

Grace shrugged. "Past Modesto," she replied. "Want pancakes?"

He twisted in his seat, and she watched the way his eyes flicked from point to point, assessing their surroundings. "Yeah," he said a moment later, "sure."

Grace unbuckled her seat belt, then reached over and unbuckled his. He laughed quietly, his breath ruffling against her hair. She smiled at the third button of his shirt, then tilted her head as he slouched to kiss her. "Mmph," she said, and she contorted herself as she scrambled over the console.

"God," he whispered, and then she kneeled over him, tugging at his belt. He extracted a condom from his wallet and batted her hands away as she tried to take it. He took himself in hand, and she leaned back against the dashboard, wrenching her pants off her hips. Wayne moaned as she bared herself, his hand flexing around his cock.

"Hey," she said, "not without me."

Wayne set his hands on her thighs, slid them upwards to press against her mound. When his thumb circled, then pushed deeper, Grace's hips bucked of their own accord. She slid her hands beneath her blouse, unsnapping her bra and cupping herself. Wayne bit his lip, watching the shadows of her hands beneath her blouse. His free hand traced idle circles on her inner thigh.

She arched into his ministrations, incoherent words spilling from her lips as he plied her with one finger, then two. She pinched her nipples, panting, her body bowing backwards as pleasure clawed its way up her skin, ripping her apart.

As she came, Wayne pulled his fingers from her, clutching her hips and jerking her down, plunging into her as she shattered. "Grace," he grunted, thrusting into her, erratic, deep, and she bit his ear as he shouted his own release.


The IHOP bathroom was clean, if undistinguished. Grace was applying concealer to the hickey on her neck when Wayne nudged the door open with his shoulder.

"Wayne," she hissed.

"Are you alone in there?" he asked.

She nodded, still feeling the sting of taboo as he looked over his shoulder and stepped inside. He slid the flimsy bolt locked. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice low and amused.

"I can't order pancakes by myself," he said, his hands settling against her hips. He dipped his face into her hair and sniffed dramatically.

"Wayne," she protested. "I haven't showered in two days."

"I like this, too," he said, "Real, delicious, Grace," and she giggled as he trailed kisses down the back of her neck.

Then the doorknob rattled and somebody knocked, and she watched with a grin as the reflection of Wayne's face reddened into a genuine blush.


A/N: Title and summary adapted from Michael Ondaatje's The Cinnamon Peeler.

Originally posted here.

Latest Month

November 2018


Powered by LiveJournal.com
Designed by Kenn Wislander