okay so if you need more veggies/fruit, protein or fibre (bc most people do NOT eat enough) in your diet but you struggle to do so, hear me out:
look up recipes (especially snack recipes) that are child/toddler/baby-friendly
i can guarantee there is a woman with a cooking blog out there who has found away to pack a bunch of vegetables into a surprisingly delicious little snack for her kids. this process has never failed me when i feel like i am not eating enough fruits and veggies. my entire flat is eating spinach muffins at the moment, which doesn’t sounding particularly appealing to most people and yet somehow. they’re delicious.
UPDATE: I happened to have all the ingredients for the spinach muffins on this list and made them today, and folks, they're GOOD. They have a very nice mild flavor and don't actually taste like spinach at all
Pairing: Luke Danes x Disabled!Reader
Summary: You're having one of those days. Luke helps you through it—with warm water, soft words, and the kind of love that never asks you to pretend you're okay.
Tags: disabled!reader, fibromyalgia, depictions of chronic pain, pain day, reader is touched-starved and exhausted, luke is ridiculously gentle, hurt/comfort, luke's love language is quiet devotion, bath fic of sorts, some emotional vulnerability, fluffy but grounded in pain, domestic tenderness, slow and careful undressing, sensory overwhelm, reader struggling to exist in their body, luke never flinches, safe touch, steaming bath as sanctuary, reader feels real with him, holding space for pain without trying to fix it, no use of y/n
Word count: 4.3k words
You don't hear him come in at first. The door creaks open, soft against the late autumn hush, and your body doesn't flinch. Can't. You're sprawled across the worn settee in the front room, limbs heavy with that familiar, mean sort of ache that clings like wet wool to your bones. Muscles locked, breath shallow. It's one of those days where pain clutches at your joints and sinew with a possessive grip, where even the weight of your own skin feels too loud. Every blink feels like a decision. Every breath, a negotiation. Even thinking takes effort—like wading through honey, your mind thick with fatigue and fog. You haven't moved in hours, and the stillness isn't restful—it's suffocating.
Luke doesn't speak. He doesn't have to. You know it's him by the rhythm of his boots on the hardwood floor—measured, steady, a heartbeat you trust more than your own sometimes. You've memorised that sound. The grounding certainty of it. He pauses in the doorway, eyes skimming over you. His cap is tugged low, the shadow of his stubble catching in the warm lamplight, and there's a soft furrow between his brows that only deepens when he sees the way your fingers tremble against the throw blanket. His gaze lingers, not with worry exactly, but with the weight of knowing. Of understanding, even if he can't feel it himself.
Still, he says nothing. Just breathes out once through his nose, then turns and disappears down the hall. No questions. No fuss. Just action. The kind of quiet, wordless presence that's never invasive but always attuned, like he's learned to listen without needing sound. He knows the rhythm of your pain days now—knows when to stay, when to step away, when to do the small things that hold you together at the seams.
You listen to the quiet choreography of him moving through your house—his house, really, but he never says it like that. Water pipes rattle faintly. The groan of old plumbing. A cupboard opened, a glass bottle uncorked. The soft metallic clink of the bathtub taps turning. Then the scent wafts back to you, curling through the hallway like a promise: eucalyptus, sharp and clean and almost medicinal, layered with something subtler—lavender, maybe. Or mint. Something green. Something that tells you he remembered. Something that tells you you're not alone in this. He could have thrown in anything. But he chose what helps. What you've told him calms the fire behind your eyes.
The scent gathers in the air, layering over the ache like a balm. You close your eyes, letting it hold you up while the pain does its best to drag you under. There's always a moment in the day, especially on days like this, where you feel like you might dissolve into it. Like you're made of glass and pressure and time. Brittle, invisible, disjointed. A museum piece that no one remembers how to care for. But then Luke reappears, and the fragile pieces knit together again. Just enough.
By the time he returns, you've managed to sit up. Barely. Your spine protests the motion with firework flares of tension, each vertebrae thrumming like an overtuned violin. Your legs dangle over the edge of the couch, feet barely brushing the floor. Your hands tremble as they rest in your lap, knuckles white with effort. Luke crouches in front of you, knee popping with a quiet crack, and his hands are warm where they touch your knees. Solid. Sure. A tether. He doesn't fill the silence with false comfort. He just meets your gaze, steady and patient.
"Bath's ready," he murmurs, voice thick with gravel and dusk. His thumb rubs a slow circle over your kneecap, calloused and careful. The scent of steam clings to his clothes now, mingling with the ever-present traces of coffee and sawdust. It feels like home. Like safety.
You nod, though it takes a moment. You're already half-embarrassed by the way your body refuses to play nice, how every motion feels like a choreographed failure. But Luke—Luke never looks at you like you're fragile. He just looks at you like you're real. And right now, real means pain, and exhaustion, and the thousand small violences your nerves have committed against you all day. He sees all of it. Doesn't look away. He never does. And that unflinching presence makes something sharp in you soften.
His hands move to the hem of your shirt, pausing. Waiting.
"Okay?"
You nod again. This time slower. Words feel like lead in your mouth. But the nod is enough.
He lifts the fabric gently, inch by inch, his fingers grazing your sides with a kind of reverent caution, like you're made of glass spun too thin. You wince as the shirt passes over your shoulders—an ache bursts in the joint there, like someone struck a match under your skin—but Luke just hums softly and slows down even more. When the shirt's free, he folds it and sets it aside—of course he does, always so precise—and then reaches for the waistband of your trousers. No rush. No tension. Just patience stitched into every motion.
You try to help him—out of habit more than anything—but even that small shift sends a flare of pain up your spine and across your hips. Your breath hitches.
"I've got it. Don't worry," he says again, softer this time. Almost like a promise. His fingers skim your skin like falling leaves, gentle and unhurried. No shame, no awkwardness, just care. Care like ritual, like something sacred. He doesn't flinch from the rawness of you, doesn't try to fix it, only eases what he can. That's the kind of man he is.
There's something in his voice—low, quiet, but full. Not pity. Never pity. Just this steady current of care that wraps around you without demand or expectation. The kind of care that never asks you to smile through it or pretend you're fine. He presses a kiss to your temple, slow and lingering, the kind that sinks right through skin and into marrow. Your eyes flutter shut. For a moment, you forget the pain. Just a moment.
When he helps you to your feet, his arms bracket your waist like scaffolding. You lean into him, grateful and aching. He smells like coffee and flannel, the kind of warmth that settles in your lungs and makes you feel a little more human. One foot lifts, the other follows, and you're moving, gently, painfully, toward the bathroom that's become a sanctuary on days like this. Each step is a conversation between your body and the floor, and Luke's arm never leaves your back. He steadies you without pulling. Supports you without leading.
The bathroom is full of steam. It curls against the mirror, blurs the edges of everything until the world feels soft again. The clawfoot tub waits beneath a ribbon of lamplight, the water tinted pale green and shimmering with oils. There's a folded towel on the radiator, your favourite robe hanging on the back of the door. A glass of water on the sink. A small stool in the corner with a fresh bar of soap. Luke's fingerprints are all over the details—the quiet kind of love that doesn't shout, just arranges everything so it's easier for you to breathe.
Luke steadies you as you step in, one foot at a time, his hands never straying, never letting go until you're submerged up to your shoulders. His grip lingers at your elbow until the very last second. Then he kneels beside the tub, close but not crowding, like he's still holding you in some invisible way.
The heat hits you like a prayer.
Muscles begin to unclench, not all at once but in hesitant, grateful waves. You feel like a crumpled sheet finally being smoothed out. Like all the sharp edges are being softened, rounded down by warmth. Your head tips back against the rim, breath escaping in a long, shuddering exhale. The pain doesn't vanish, but it shifts. It becomes bearable. It gives you a little space to exist inside your skin again. To exist as more than the pain. To feel like something closer to yourself, whoever that is beneath the flares and fog.
The water laps softly against the porcelain as you settle, eyelids heavy. You don't realise how tightly you've been clenching your jaw until you feel it slacken. There's a silence in the room now, thick with steam and something tender. The world has narrowed to this: warm water, soft light, and Luke.
You open your eyes and find him still there, crouched beside the tub, watching you with that same quiet intensity. His hands rest on his thighs. His cap is off now, hair mussed from where he ran a hand through it. His eyes are tired, a little red at the edges, but they never leave yours. It's not obligation that keeps him there. It's something deeper.
"Better?"
You nod. Mouth too full of feeling to form words. Your throat tightens, not from pain this time, but from the sheer, searing tenderness of it all. Something inside you aches in a different way—a softer way. A way that feels like gratitude.
He smiles, just a little, and reaches for the washcloth. Dips it in the water. Wrings it out. The fabric is warm as he drags it over your shoulder, slow and mindful. He moves it down your arm, across your collarbone. Each motion careful, deliberate, full of quiet devotion.
"Good. Just relax. I've got you."
When you close your eyes again, you feel nothing but warmth—water, Luke's touch, the steadiness of him in a world that too often makes your body feel like it's working against you. The ache is still there, of course, nestled deep in muscle and bone, humming beneath the surface, but it's no longer winning. Not while he's here. Not while his presence anchors you like bedrock beneath shifting tides. He's like gravity, quiet but constant, holding you in place while the rest of you threatens to unravel. And it's not just the physical relief—it's the emotional scaffolding he builds around you without fanfare. Silent but strong.
He trails the washcloth down your other arm, slow and silent, before dipping it again into the water. The scent of eucalyptus rises with the steam, wrapping around you like a second skin. It curls into your lungs and unwinds the knot at the centre of your chest, coaxing tension loose one stubborn fibre at a time. The fragrance mingles with the warmth until you feel like you're being swaddled in something bigger than comfort—something closer to devotion. It's like you've been submerged in something elemental, something healing.
"I should've been home sooner," Luke murmurs, his voice low, like he's afraid of breaking the peace between you. His thumb brushes over your wrist as he speaks, gentle and grounding. "You looked done the second I walked in."
"You always do this when it matters." Your eyes stay closed, but the corners of your lips twitch upward. "You've got weirdly perfect timing."
He lets out a soft huff of breath—his version of a laugh. "Yeah, well. Timing's easy when you're paying attention."
You open your eyes, blinking at the ceiling, watching the lamplight dance faintly across the plaster as steam curls into soft shapes above you. For a moment, you let yourself drift. You're suspended between pain and comfort, suspended in Luke. There's a kind of magic in the moment, slow and unassuming, like it doesn't even know how rare it is.
"I hate this part of me," you admit, voice thin. "I hate what it does to my life. I hate that you have to… do all this."
Luke sets the washcloth down on the edge of the tub and leans in, arms folded against the porcelain. His face is close to yours now, his expression steady but not hard. He never looks away, never makes you feel like you need to tidy your feelings up before offering them. His eyes hold the kind of patience that feels earned, like he's already sat through every storm and decided you'd always be worth it.
"You think I have to do this?"
You look at him. Swallow. "Don't you?"
"No," he says simply. "I get to. There's a difference."
You shake your head, but he doesn't let you turn away. His hand finds yours in the water, lacing your fingers together. The heat of the bath makes your bones feel hollow and weightless, but his grip grounds you. You feel anchored in that touch, like it's the only thing keeping you from drifting away completely.
"I mean it," he says. "You think I'd be somewhere else right now? Doing something else? When I could be here with you?"
You close your eyes again, not from pain this time, but from the sharp, sudden heat of emotion that blooms in your chest. Your throat aches with it. It's like your body doesn't quite know how to hold love this steady.
"Still," you whisper. "I'm not easy to… be with. Not like this. Not when I'm like this."
He lifts your hand from the water, presses his lips to your knuckles, still damp and warm. His breath lingers on your skin. His mouth soft against the backs of your fingers, like a vow without words. He kisses them again, slower this time.
"You're easier to love than you think."
Silence settles again. Not awkward. Just full. Full of all the things you can't say but he seems to know anyway. The kind of silence that holds rather than weighs. He picks the washcloth back up and resumes where he left off, brushing it gently along your throat, across your collarbone, down toward your chest. He doesn't rush. There's no hesitation in his touch, no awkwardness, no discomfort. Just the quiet, practiced intimacy of someone who's learned your pain and chosen to stay anyway. His thumb smooths down your sternum, following the cloth, like a quiet prayer. He bathes you like it's a language. One you both speak fluently.
"You want your hair washed?" he asks after a while, his voice softer now.
You nod slowly. "If you don't mind."
"Don't say that like you're asking a favour." He's already reaching for the plastic jug on the floor, testing the water temperature in it. "Tilt your head back for me."
You do, and he supports your neck with one hand as he pours with the other, warm water running through your hair, soothing the tight, sore muscles at your scalp. You sigh, and his hand adjusts automatically to keep your head steady. His other hand moves in slow circles, working the shampoo through each strand with gentle fingertips, and it's so careful, so considered, that tears prick the corners of your eyes again. You blink them away before they fall.
"I used the one you like," he murmurs as he works. "The one that smells like rosemary and honey."
You breathe in. He's right. The scent rises around you, familiar and grounding, a memory of better days and quiet mornings where the world didn't feel so sharp. Mornings when pain hadn't yet set in, and you could pretend, for a little while, that it never would.
"You're ridiculous," you say softly.
"Yeah?" His voice carries the barest smile. "Why?"
"Because you always remember every tiny thing."
Luke shrugs, his fingers still moving through your hair. "Not tiny to me."
There's a long pause. The kind that feels like a conversation in itself. His hands keep moving, slow and sure, until every knot, every tangle, every tender place is met with quiet patience. Then he cups water in his hands and carefully rinses away the suds, shielding your eyes with his palm. He's so gentle it almost makes you ache in a new way.
"I don't know what I did to deserve you," you say, voice thick.
"You got through another day," he replies, rinsing the suds away with care. "That's enough."
He strokes your hair back, his hand lingering at the nape of your neck. He doesn't try to say more. Doesn't try to fix the feelings. Just meets them where they live and stays beside them. The tub cradles your body, and Luke cradles everything else—the broken edges, the fear, the anger, the stubborn will to keep moving through the pain. He doesn't try to erase it. He just stays. And that's the thing. He always stays.
You don't speak for a while. You just breathe, and Luke breathes with you. Every time you shift, he adjusts. Every time your muscles tense, his hand finds yours. You soak in the water until your limbs begin to float, light and almost pain-free for the first time all day. It's not gone, but it's dulled, made distant by heat and presence and love. A lullaby of steam and stillness. You feel your heartbeat slowing to match the quiet rhythm of his.
"You want me to stay while you soak a little longer?" he asks eventually, quiet as a whisper.
You nod without opening your eyes. The steam has kissed your face, softened your thoughts, and Luke's voice is the only thing that feels real right now.
"Okay," he says. "I'll be right here."
And he is. He settles beside the tub, arms on his knees, cap resting in his lap. He doesn't touch his phone. Doesn't look away. He watches the curve of your shoulder above the waterline, listens to the slow rise and fall of your breath. Every so often, he dips his hand into the water and lets his fingers brush your arm—just to remind you he's still there. You don't have to ask.
Minutes pass. Maybe longer. You lose track of time in the warmth, in the hush, in Luke.
By the time you step out of the tub, your limbs are jelly-soft and pliable, the fatigue blooming behind your eyes less jagged, more drowsy. Every joint feels a little looser, every breath a little deeper, and your skin hums from the lingering heat. It's not relief, not completely, but it's the closest thing you've felt to peace all day. Your muscles carry that delicious, aching looseness that only comes from heat and safety. Luke wraps you in a towel without a word, the plush cotton warm from where he's laid it on the radiator. He takes his time—always does—tucking the corners around your shoulders, rubbing gentle circles over your arms to coax the last of the chill from your skin. His touch is steady, reverent, like he's tucking something sacred into place. Like you're something precious, something fragile and strong all at once.
"You okay to stand for a bit?" he murmurs, eyes flicking to yours, one hand at your back, the other ready to catch you.
"Yeah," you breathe. "Just… slow."
"Slow's fine."
He steadies you, patient and silent, guiding you out of the steamy cocoon of the bathroom and into the bedroom, where the lights are low and the covers already turned down. A soft glow from the bedside lamp pools across the duvet, and the room feels like a quiet exhale. The air smells like lavender and soap, tinged with the eucalyptus from the bath, and the bedding is faintly warmed from the heated blanket he'd switched on earlier without saying a word. The windows are fogged from the lingering steam, and outside, the faint sounds of Stars Hollow settling in for the night—distant wind, the occasional car passing, maybe even the hoot of an owl—fade into a muffled hush.
He helps you dress—soft pyjamas he fetched earlier from the drawer, already warmed against his chest. The shirt is worn cotton, the bottoms flannel, familiar and gentle on your skin. He doesn't rush, doesn't flinch at the winces you can't quite hide when your hips protest bending, or when your shoulder twinges as you tug on the top. He just works around it, kneeling in front of you as he eases the fabric over your legs, murmuring soothing things under his breath like you're not supposed to hear them. Things like, "Almost done," and, "I've got you," and, "Take your time." Every movement is gentle, unhurried, imbued with something deeper than obligation. Something like devotion.
"You don't have to do this part," you whisper, somewhere between a protest and a confession. The words are quiet, barely formed. You look at your lap, the feeling of vulnerability thick in your throat.
Luke looks up, hands stilling just above your knee. "I know. I want to."
That's it. That's always it. He makes it simple. Easier to believe. He never asks you to justify your need.
Once you're bundled in your clean softness, he helps you into bed, lifting the blanket as you ease down onto the mattress. He tucks it around you with the same care he used in the bathroom, smoothing the edges like he's sealing in warmth, sealing you in safety. He even folds down the top corner and brushes your hair gently off your face. The warmth greets you like an old friend, and the tension you didn't realise you were still holding leaks out of your bones. You sink into the mattress with a sigh that sounds like surrender. Like gratitude. Like letting go.
Luke clicks the lamp off, then climbs in behind you. The bed dips under his weight, the familiar creak of the frame a reassurance. His arm slides around your waist, and his palm settles low on your stomach—broad, steady, warm. Just pressure and presence. Just him. The heat of his body seeps into yours, wrapping around your spine like something medicinal. Like something sacred. His fingers press a little deeper, and it's like he's trying to offer relief through sheer will. He rubs slow, soothing circles, not to fix anything, but just to be there. Just to be part of the moment with you.
You close your eyes.
"Y'alright?" he murmurs into your hair.
"Mmhmm." You nestle closer, curling in on yourself and into him at the same time. "Feels good. You feel good."
He hums. Presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. "You're beautiful like this."
You smile, tired and small. "Like what?"
"Like now." His thumb rubs slow circles into the soft cotton of your pyjama top. "Heavy-limbed. Quiet. Still here."
You turn your head, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. "Still here?"
He nods, nose brushing yours. "Even after everything. Even with everything."
The ache in your chest isn't pain this time. It's something tenderer, warmer. He isn't praising your strength. He isn't romanticising the hurt. He's honouring your presence. Your reality. The version of you that's hurting and healing and human. The version that doesn't need to be anything more than what you are, right now.
You press your forehead to his, eyes fluttering shut. "You're gonna make me cry."
Luke chuckles, low and rough. "It's alright. I've got tissues."
You laugh, and it feels fragile but whole. Then you sigh and settle again, back to his chest, letting his arm curl tighter around you. His legs tangle with yours beneath the sheets, just enough to make you feel held, not confined. Every part of his body says, I'm not going anywhere. He breathes slowly, deeply, like he's inviting your body to do the same.
There's nothing charged in his touch. Nothing asking. Nothing urgent. Just care. Just love in its quietest form. It's not about sex tonight—it's about being seen. Being held. Being safe in someone else's arms without having to earn it. It's about trust. About being allowed to unravel, to let go, to not perform wellness for someone else's comfort. It's about being allowed to simply be.
He gives you that without hesitation. And tonight, that's everything.
You lie there for a long while like that, the quiet between you like a blanket of its own. His hand never strays, just rests there, warm and solid over your abdomen, his fingers occasionally tracing soothing, aimless patterns through the cotton. He breathes slow and even. You match it instinctively. You feel yourself syncing to him, your body relaxing into his rhythm, his safety. Every moment stretches in softness, like time has decided to pause and give you this—just this.
His voice comes again, softer than before. "You don't have to pretend with me. You never have to pretend."
"I know," you whisper. And you do. It's the most important thing. The permission to be unguarded, to let your edges show.
"Even when it's hard."
"Especially then."
He kisses your hair. Just once. Just enough. You feel it like a promise. The kind that doesn't need to be spoken aloud to be trusted.
"Love you," you murmur, already half-asleep.
"Love you too," he answers, voice steady, sure. "So much."
And he stays, even after your breathing evens out, even when sleep takes you completely. His hand stays right there, resting soft and warm where it can reach you, where it can reassure you in the dark. His other hand smooths your hair once more, and then he just holds you.
He doesn't move. Doesn't check the time. Doesn't shift away when you twitch or murmur in your sleep. He's present in every sense of the word. Steady and unwavering. The quiet kind of love that never demands, never startles, just is. The kind of love that asks nothing and offers everything.
Well, it may have taken a small eternity, but as promised: the final instalment of this strange Mahone saga I never intended to be a series. As previously stated, this is a bit of a dark turn, so please mind the tags and proceed with caution.
Part 1
Summary: You remain trapped in Mahone's orbit as he unravels around the vengeance he's sought for so long. Tensions rise, and break... violently.
Warnings: Canon-typical violence (like, as appeared on TV), afab reader, fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex, choking, degradation, knifeplay, reckless waving around of a gun, debatably under-negotiated kink... does my flight-of-fancy over-writing count as a warning? Probably.
Word Count: 5k (I got carried away).
----------------
A few days after your tragic interruption…
—
Your questionable life choices were far from the forefront of your mind as the team got lost in the hunt for the next cardholder. Your sexual frustration falls to the wayside as you become lost in the hunt again, planning the attack on Krantz’ car. You ridiculed him for it, but you supposed you were like Alex in that way– chasing down the Company brought out a primal instinct in you, your focus narrowed and eyes set solely on the prize. Whether that was for the “good” you were doing, or simple violent revenge… well, if the outcome’s all the same, does it really matter?
Unfortunately, violent revenge was also not in the cards for you just yet, as that greasy untrustworthy rat had sold you all out, and now Sucre was bleeding and gasping for breath on your workroom table. You lingered at the edge of the room, buzzing with energy and, admittedly, with worry for the man who had become your friend through forced proximity over the last several months. He was dependable and reliable, less conniving than the rest of them (Alex’s piercing eyes flashed through your mind at this, sending a shiver through you), and you really did not want him dead. So you stood there, wanting to help but unwilling to bother Sarah as she worked, making yourself available in case you were needed.
Michael burst into the room from God-knows-where, Lincoln on his heels. “We have Glenn’s location. Let’s go. Sarah, stay with Sucre.” He glanced at Sucre once, composure breaking open to reveal the pain and worry etched deep into his features, before turning towards the door.
No questions asked, no hesitation, you followed. Back to the hunt.
Broad daylight and a coastal breeze don’t seem like the right weather to watch someone bleed out. Regardless, homicide waits for no man.
Glenn was screaming and snivelling, writhing on the concrete and clutching at his leg where the denim was stained red with the consequences of his own actions. You briefly considered stomping in his windpipe, but your mind was quickly drawn to more important matters as you watched Alex subdue Wyatt Mathewson, the man who killed his son. Alex wasn’t prone to violence, never yelled, but ever since you’d met him he seemed like a bow strung too tight and you didn’t know when he’d snap. In a way, this is what drew you to him. He was brilliant, sure, and magnetic, but the danger is what sparked the fire burning slowly in your chest. He had snapped today. Alex subdued Mathewson quickly, a violent strike from behind bringing the larger man to his knees. Lincoln had to pull him off. You knew they needed Mathewson, but some dark part of you wanted more than anything to let him keep going, to see what would happen if he came fully undone. Standing by in the alley, entranced by his display of violence, you realized that fire might grow out of control someday and burn you alive from the inside. You should probably unpack that, but it’s a matter for another day. You stepped on Glenn Rowland’s shattered knee as you passed, relishing in the wet crunch and his agonized whimper. That’s a matter for another day, too.
—
Unsurprisingly, Alex had gone completely off the fucking deep end. Michael had taken Lincoln and Bellick to work on tunnelling under Scylla after briefing you and Sarah on the plan for how to deal with Wyatt. “After you get what you need for the phone call… give him to Mahone.” Michael said this with a kind of solemnity that told you he had made up his mind and that he was not happy about it. He looked at you when he spoke next. “Keep an eye on him.”
What the fuck? You thought, unsure if that statement actually held additional weight or if you were reading into it after days of fried nerves and mishandled sexual frustration. Instead, you nodded once and turned on your heel to see what the so-beloved Don Self needed to make this happen. You were met with a steely blue gaze so sharp and cold it made your breath catch. Alex was leaning heavily against a beam, partially enshrouded in shadows. He was clutching at the metal like it was the only thing keeping him afloat, and even from a distance his breathing was shallow and ragged. Pulled in by his orbit, you inched towards him, a satellite crashing into re-entry. Burning up in the atmosphere wouldn’t be so bad, if it was with him.
You had mused a million times about the intensity of his stare, squirmed under his investigative eye, but none of that compared to the way he was looking at you now. He was seeing you but not fully present, and there was a touch of depravity in his features that was as alluring as it was unsettling. As you approached, he shifted his gaze from you to somewhere in the middle distance, though his breath caught in a way that told you he recognized you. You weren’t sure what to say. “Sarah is going in to talk to him now.” No response or sign he acknowledged you. “She should get what she needs and then he’s all y- and then you’re up.” Still nothing.
Antagonizing him felt like a terrible idea, yet… “What, are you not up to the challenge?” He still didn’t respond, though something flashed across his face that seemed more familiar, less twisted. More… for you. Getting the sense that you were walking the razor’s edge, you chose to keep pushing. You reached out a hand, and as soon as it brushed his shoulder the tension broke. He whirled on you, your arms in his vise grip, your back hitting the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of you, rough concrete digging into your back, your arms, your head, his hands on your arms with bruising strength, and the adrenaline that coursed through you felt like home. His ragged breathing never changed, but you were close enough now that his exhales were so coarse they sounded nearly animalistic. Christ, you were so fucked. His hands left your arms– you somewhat mourned the loss of the pressure– and roamed up your body, ghosting both hands over your throat. You could feel him shaking.
There’s a difference between the way that someone shakes when they’re scared or upset and the way that someone shakes when they’re running full of adrenaline and losing control over themselves. The way Alex’s hands shook against your throat right now was pure adrenaline, and you know you should be scared. Despite the manic look in his eyes and the predatorial way he had you caged against the wall, you couldn’t bring yourself to fear him, at least not in the self-preservation-instinct sense of the word. One of his hands landed at the base of your throat, and the other slammed into the wall so hard it made you flinch. He lowered his head into the crook of your neck and he was so close you could physically feel his jaw clenching and unclenching. And then he was gone. His warmth faded as he stalked off, and you were left a little shaken, a lot turned on, and deeply troubled.
—
Sitting on the cold metal of the workroom table, fiddling with your switchblade, you couldn’t help but recall just a few days ago when you’d pushed a much more put-together Alex to his breaking point. Now, you watched as he unraveled even further in that storage closet, paper-thin composure barely disguising the force of nature beneath. You know how they say you can’t peel your eyes away from a train wreck? You couldn’t hear what he was saying from the distance, but you could see him rocking from heel to toe, fiddling with what looked like a car battery. He kept dragging a rough hand across his face, through his hair. You wondered if anyone else noticed that.
This was pretty fucked up, even for you. Bordering on debauched, even. You knew this was a grandstand of vengeance for him, a pivotal moment of grief for his son… but your sick fascination only grew as he shouted with his hand around Wyatt Mathewson’s throat. Desire coiled in slow tendrils that started in your belly and threatened to swallow your heart. Alex jammed the needle into Mathewson’s fingertip and the resultant scream echoed through the warehouse. You knew his nervous system was going into overdrive. Waves of white-hot pain would be mixing beautifully with a feverish swing between hot and cold. This might be going to a dark place. Fuck it, why not? What would you do if the person who hurt you most in the world was sitting there in front of you, bloody-faced with a cocky smile?
It was you who’d given Alex the idea to use the heart monitor and car battery, you think. You weren’t stuck on this deep-cover fugitive task force because of your sunshiney disposition, after all.
Michael was considering contingencies in case the Scuderi card heist went south and Lincoln had quite matter-of-factly suggested beating the information out of him. Sarah, ever the pacifist, was opposed. “Besides,” she’d said, “The human body doesn’t handle pain well. He’d just go into shock, his heart slows down, his brain can’t keep up, and he’d stop feeling anything.” Sarah had a far-off look in her eyes when she said this, like she was battling between her Hippocratic Oath and memories she’d rather keep buried–
Alex drove the needle deeper. Mathewson’s ragged cry sounded familiar.
– “You can shock him back to lucidity,” You had added offhandedly, inspecting your nails.
“What?” The incredulity came from Michael and Sarah in unison.
“Literally shock, like with a defibrillator. It might kill him, but might bring him back long enough to give us what we need. Brings the pain back too. There’s workarounds.”
That suggestion had been received with mixed reviews. Clearly, you mused, it rang true for someone. Two sides of the same depraved, blood-soaked coin. Alex was holding a phone out, now. Pam, probably. A fleeting yet ugly pang of guilt and jealousy twisted in your chest, and it was almost enough to snap you from this fugue. Almost.
Alex snapped his phone shut and hauled a shaking Mathewson to his feet. You watched, a voyeur from your steel perch, as he bound the cinderblock to Mathewson’s wrists and forced him out the door to the warehouse. It occurred to you to make yourself scarce after he’d sent Self and Sarah away, but as you went to slide off the table, he turned and you’d exchanged a chilling glance. He was as vacant as he was predatory, and one look said more than words could convey. This is me, written in gunmetal blue. Do you still like what you see?
Curiosity may have killed the cat, but something sick inside you needed to see this finished. This in mind, and still scorching from his gaze, you trailed from a distance as he marched Mathewson to the edge of the dock at gunpoint. Alex held the gun laxly, elbow bent and grip loose. It was just an insurance policy, and too quick of an end. Too merciful after everything. Mercy has no footing here, and God has no jurisdiction over this dark corner of Miami.
You leaned against the cool siding of the warehouse, hands behind your back. Squinting against the glare, you watched as Mathewson began to speak. You watched as Alex sent him to a watery grave. Drowning seemed a fitting death for a child murderer. You hoped he died afraid.
Alex looked out over the water for a long time, and you slipped back inside as that ragged breathing began to even out into long, heaving sighs.
Back in the shade of the warehouse, you ran a hand through your hair and let out a shaky breath. Your other hand had a bruising grip on your switchblade, still closed, but the hard edges pressing into your palm grounded you. It wasn’t your kill, yet you felt some sort of catharsis all the same. It wasn’t long before Alex stormed back into the room, heavy footfalls echoing the pounding of your heart. He scanned the room, searching with the same intensity you’d grown to find familiar, before he found you. He cleared the room in a few long strides and despite your fatal attraction, you found yourself backing up until he overtook you as the backs of your thighs rested against the metal table. For a long moment, he said nothing, didn’t touch you, just stared. The vacancy had dissipated and he was all focus again, but colder and sharper than ever before. You shivered. He was still holding the gun.
“You…” He began, but trailed off. His eyes flickered all over, roaming up and down your body, the floor, the table, back to you again. He raised his right hand as if to run it through his hair, his constant nervous habit, but instead he scratched his head with the barrel. You couldn’t help but notice the safety still off and his finger hovering just above the trigger. Maybe there were still a few lines left uncrossed.
You met his gaze levelly and reached for his free hand, still wrought by faint tremors of adrenaline. His knuckles were split and scabbed over, but fresher blood still shone crimson on his fingers. “Coming to me with literal blood on your hands… kind of poetic, isn’t it?” Your voice came out more crooning than you expected as you brought his hand up in between your faces, studying it with wide and pious eyes. Without breaking eye contact, you licked slowly up his palm and closed your mouth around his index and middle fingers. Alex’s breath caught in his throat. Salt and copper danced on your palate. You circled your tongue around and his eyes clouded with conflict, while his dilating pupils betrayed an unmistakable lust. “I’m not scared of you.”
He laughed drily at this. It came out broken like a barking cough, derision overriding amusement. “Really?,” he said, voice hoarse and tone disbelieving.
You withdrew his fingers from your mouth and licked your teeth. “It probably says more about me than it does about you.” Always quick to quip back, even with a gun between you and your homicidal fuck-buddy.
He set the gun down on the table beside you with a heavy thud. Safety still off. “You,” he began again, grasping your wrist, “just watched me kill a man, and you’re still acting like a fucking slut for me?” He pried open your fist with surprising ease and took the switchblade from you. The world tilted a little on its axis, dynamic shifting. You flexed your hand, noticing the white indents from how tightly you had been clutching the knife. He flicked the blade open, and in your rapt attention you let go of his wrist.
Free from your grasp, Alex snaked his hand around your head and grabbed a thick handful of your hair at the base of your scalp. He jerked your head back and you hissed at the pain and pleasure combined. It was the first time he’d really touched you since he left you aching in his makeshift room. Cold steel interrupted the heat coursing through you as the flat of the blade grazed your cheekbone. You grew very still, never breaking eye contact lest the moment fade away with it. He traced down your cheek and flicked the knife over the edge of your jaw, touch still featherlight but hard enough to feel the cutting edge graze your skin. You exhaled a shuddering breath as the blade dragged down your throat. You really should be scared now, but instead your whole body was humming with electricity and warmth was pooling between your thighs.
Fueled by reckless abandon, you grabbed his wrist and held the blade against your throat, keeping him still while you shifted to sit on the table. You slid back and twisted your free hand in the front of his shirt, pulling him to stand between your legs. The expression on his face was indescribable, some combination of shock, lust and entrancement that mirrored how you’d been feeling for days. You pressed the knife harder into your own throat, tilting your head to bare your neck to him, and sighed as the edge bit into your skin. Still not hard enough to draw blood. You made a mental note to sharpen that before it needed to be used more… practically… and wrapped your ankles around his back to pull him closer to your hips. You tugged at his shirt and angled your face up towards him, so close now you could feel Alex’s panting breath. His mouth was just slightly open and you could see a crack in his lips from the hit he’d taken earlier that day. The stillness felt out of place, trapped in your violent reverie. You both paused for a moment, savouring the quiet in the eye of the hurricane.
“You’re a real fucked up girl,” he breathed, “you know that?”
The collision of your kiss was like the breaking of a wave. It was far from slow or sweet, a clashing of tongues and teeth and words left unspoken. Alex’s hand tightened in your hair and he bit your lip harshly. Was the blood in your mouth from your split lip or his? You gasped and he capitalized on the opportunity, tongue forcing its way into your mouth. Your hand left his wrist and moved to tangle in his hair, carelessly tugging him closer. Alex’s grip slackened a little as he was distracted, and his hand dropped so the tip of the knife pressed into your chest between your collarbones. You tightened your legs to bring him closer and let out an involuntary whine as your hips crashed together. He groaned, rocking his hips against you and jerking your head to the side with his grip on your hair. He broke the kiss; the loss of contact was disappointing for a moment before he kissed down your neck, making you whimper as teeth grazed at your skin.
Alex released his tight grasp on your hair and circled his hand back around to your throat. Seeming to remember the knife in his hand, he angled it so the tip pressed harder into your sternum. “You really like this, don’t you?” His tone was condescending in that intoxicatingly dominant way you’d seen before, but his eyes were inquisitive. You had a nasty habit of letting actions speak louder than words, but you knew by now what he wanted, so you forced yourself to answer.
“Yes.” Simple, not your most eloquent, but gets the point across. Hand still on your throat, he pushed you back until you let go of him and rested on your elbows, and the knife dragged down, down, catching against the neckline of your shirt. Your chest heaved as he pressed down, a soft rip as your shirt was shredded in two. You lost yourself in the shadow of Alex’s broad frame as he bent down to kiss and bite roughly at your neck. The weight of his body against yours pushed the flat of the switchblade into your chest, and the combined sensation of cool steel and hot breath made you shiver. His thumb traced up and down the front of your throat and you groaned, delirious with pleasure and overwhelm. Using your throat as leverage, he pushed himself back upright and made quick work of the button on your pants as you shifted your hips to help slide them down. His hands wandered your body, one dragging the knife lightly down your abdomen and the other palming your breast over your bra. The blade left a tingling sensation in its wake, and you gasped as he slid it over your hip bone and down to your inner thigh.
Alex’s other hand left your breast and traced down your body. He brushed his thumb over your underwear, finally providing the friction you so desperately needed. You rolled your hips against his hand, whining, and he paused. He slid the knife back up to rest parallel to your jaw, and whatever remained of your self-preservation instinct made you freeze. “Stay fucking still.”
The low noise that came from your throat must have been a sufficient acknowledgement of his instructions, because he moved to push your underwear to the side and dragged two fingers across your entrance. “What a fucking whore. You’ve been like this for days, haven’t you, sweetheart?”
You squeezed your eyes shut and nodded, before remembering your words. “Yes, yes, Jesus.” It was a broken attempt at speech, but it was enough. Alex huffed something akin to a laugh, and in one smooth motion he slid two fingers inside you while moving the blade to slip under the middle of your bra and flicked it up, cutting it off completely. You gasped, equally due to the chill and the sudden intrusion, and instinctively moved to cover yourself. Alex flicked your hand away with ease. “Don’t get shy on me now.” The condescension in his tone broke you down even further, rough voice flooding your veins like heroin.
You huffed in indignance. “You gonna replace that?”
“Always so mouthy.” He curled his fingers, reaching the spot that made your vision blur, and you tossed your head back against the table with a loud moan. “That’s more like it. Good fucking girl.” He continued to work you with his fingers, thumb brushing gentle circles against your clit, and you resisted the urge to squirm again lest you end your sexual escapades with a slit throat.
You were rapidly approaching orgasm, tension coiling in your core, and his pace was relentless. “Fuck, Alex, please,” you cried, arching your back as best as you could atop the table and under the knife.
“I know. Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how bad you’ve wanted this.” The tension snapped like a bowstring, your orgasm washing over you as you screamed his name, praying that the team was still far afield. Faintly, in the back of your mind, you remembered why they’d really left, but the guilt you should have felt was overshadowed by lust and pleasure.
Your vision cleared as you rode out the aftershocks against Alex’s hand, but he never stopped moving. Fingers working relentlessly, he brought you quickly to the fine line between pleasure and pain. You raised your head to look at him, neck unstable and chest heaving. He locked eyes with you, and to your immense surprise, sank to his knees. He pulled you to the edge of the table, one strong arm around your hip and across your stomach to hold you down. You watched in amazement– he should look subjugated before you like this, but he maintained a sharp grip on the switchblade, the point digging into your hipbone and reminding you who was really in control. You should probably be in pain, but the sting was the only thing grounding you to reality.
Never ceasing the motion of his fingers, you moaned as he licked at your clit, slow patient circles that made your legs shake uncontrollably. You reached for his head, but held in place by the threat of the knife, grabbed at his wrist instead, only driving the blade in harder. The combined pressure of Alex’s ceaseless tongue and fingers brought you back to the edge with surprising speed. “Fuck, Alex, please don’t stop, fucking please–” you sobbed out. He hummed against you, some kind of permission, and the vibration was enough to tilt you over the edge into another devastating orgasm. Your vision went white, then dark, then slowly regained focus as you came apart in his grasp.
He stood slowly and withdrew his fingers from your pussy, bracing himself on the table with the hand holding the knife as he brought his fingers to your mouth. As if it was second nature, you opened your mouth and took his fingers into them, dutifully licking up the taste of your own arousal. You wondered dazedly if you could still taste Mathewson’s blood underneath your own come. You stared at each other, hazy eyes meeting steely ones, and you still had no goddamned clue what he was thinking. Once again: if the outcome’s all the same… does it really matter?
“You’re so pretty all broken like this.”
You pulled your head back, releasing his fingers. A string of saliva connected you two for a brief moment. You smiled coyly. “Been wanting this for a while.”
“No kidding.” He kissed you again, still full of fervor and devoid of tenderness. His hand wandered down your back, nails tracing lightly against your sweat-slicked skin. Your tongue wandered his mouth, wet and sloppy, before he broke the kiss suddenly. He studied you for a moment, cool and unreadable as ever, before he looped his arm around your lower back to slide you off the table.
Your legs trembled violently beneath you, his steady hands the only thing stopping you from sinking to the floor. “What are you–”
Alex spun you around before you could finish your sentence, forcing you down by the back of your neck until you lay against the table, the cool steel jarring against your bare breasts. There was a brief break in contact, and you rested most of your weight against the surface to stop the shaking in your legs. Somewhere over your shoulder you could hear the metallic clink of a belt. The head of his cock brushed against your clit slowly, and again, and again… “Quit fucking teasing.” You snapped over your shoulder.
“I like you better when you’re not talking.” He slammed into you with one thrust, giving you no time to adjust. The stretch made you hiss in pain, but it quickly turned into a moan as you grew accustomed to the fullness. One hand tangled in your hair, the other holding the knife in front of your face. The glint of steel caught your eye, your distorted reflection looking back at you with a cloudy and fucked-out expression. Alex pulled you up by your hair, arching your back up off the table, and brought the knife to your throat. You closed your eyes and sighed in satisfaction as he began to move, setting a brutal pace. If you thought he was rough last time, it was nothing compared to this. He fucked you hard and fast, hips crashing together as you rocked back to meet his thrusts. The air in the room was heavy with sex and visceral sounds of skin slapping skin.
Alex’s chest was pressed to your back now, and you found yourself enjoying the contact more than you’d care to admit. For days now, even including all of this, he’d been almost clinical, making minimal contact like he was afraid to corrupt you with his touch. Now, though, his broad frame weighing down on you made something click into place. His length was bruising, hitting spots that made your eyes roll back in your head. You clawed at his forearm, digging your nails into his skin with no regard for whether it hurt. Alex’s head fell into the crook of your shoulder, but the muffled groans and mumbles of your name were just audible enough to make you shiver. Your legs were shaking again, his grip the only thing keeping you upright. “Alex, fuck, I can’t, oh–” your words were coming more as chants between broken breaths. It was a fervor akin to religious psychosis, you thought, but isn’t that apropos somehow? Your hands clawed on the table and Alex’s arm, tension building again in a way that felt like it’d kill you.
Alex’s hips began to stutter; he was close too. It took whatever shreds of resolve you had left to form a sentence. “Alex– ah– come inside me. Don’t stop– I can take it– Please.” It wasn’t long before you came for the third time, your body like a shorted breaker, sparking in time with his thrusts. Alex spilled into you shortly thereafter, teeth buried in your shoulder in a way that felt oddly claiming.
Exhausted and spent, you both slumped forward, your hands hitting the table to stabilize you. Cum ran down your leg as he withdrew. Alex’s grip slackened on your hair but he panted into your shoulder for a moment before he stood up, pulling up his pants and straightening out his clothes. A chill washed over you and the sudden awareness of your nudity gave you the strength to pick up your pants from the ground. Your hip stung badly as the adrenaline faded, and your hand came away crimson when you touched it. Some perverted part of you hoped that it would scar into a permanent reminder of what you’d done.
You glanced at the tattered remains of your bra and t-shirt and shot Alex a pointed glare. Wordlessly, he slipped his own shirt over his head and handed it to you. You turned away when you took it, some combination of shame and confusion, before he said your name. It was pure reflex that let you catch the (now closed) switchblade arcing through the air. The weight of it felt familiar in your hand, yet tainted now by a deep irony. He stalked away without saying anything else, without touching you, before you’d even looked at the shirt.
It was stained red with Wyatt Mathewson’s blood.
You picked up the gun, lying forgotten on the table, and clicked the safety back on.
God, you needed a fucking cigarette.
---------------
Notes: Well. That's all, folks... how are we feeling? Please let me know if you liked it LOL.
she met him once, ten months ago. she runs up to him, trusts him to take care of her and her sister, remembers his jokes, and says nice things about him —SAYS, as in present tense, as in it’s a recurrent thing. mel king you're down baaaaaad
they should make a version of socializing that doesn’t make you feel like you’re still the weird 12 year old kid that doesn’t know why she’s not normal like the other kids
There’s something so interesting in Amy giving up the driver’s seat to Whitaker when she’s the one picking him up. On the surface level it’s very Traditional Gender Roles that Amy can drive her own truck but only if The Man isn’t there, but there’s also the subtext of Dennis’s subtle martyrdom that he’s getting off a 15 hour shift and the person picking him up is making him drive and I don’t think it’s intentional for either of the characters here but it’s interesting to see Dennis kind of slot into this traditional masculine role to his own detriment when he’s clearly pretty insecure about his masculinity at work given his awkward interactions with Ahmad and Antoine earlier in the season and with Langdon later on. It makes me wonder how much of him playing farmhouse with Amy is about affirming he can still be the person he was raised to be.
the fact that FEMALE FRIENDSHIP is what loosened Mel up...Mel's braid came undone at the hands of a friend, she let loose thanks to the invitation of a friend, she was able to be free in the company of a friend--
To me both seasons of the Pitt so far have been about Santos having the worst shift a person can possibly have and when her tank is empty and her walls of sacasm have been pulverized she looks around and finds the person that desperately needs something and gives it. A roof for Whitaker. A fun night out for Mel. In one fell swoop she won the loyalty and friendship of the nicest, kindest people in the ER, and then she goes home, looks in the mirror, and thinks i am evil, i am unlovable
