Even as Allison arches her throat and he finds the particular spot right at the crook of her neck that he knows makes her toes curl (although he's ever, always careful to not nip too hard lest he leave a mark, something that'll need to be especially covered up by the beleaguered makeup artists, that might raise inconveniences for her modeling), part of Luther's mind is already running through the schedule: when exactly does he need to be at the base to run weekend drills with the squad? Not for another couple hours, at least. There's time. There's still time.

"I also don't see coffee," Luther points out, his voice an up-close murmur right next to her, teeth against the shell of her ear. Mock-chiding, sounding for a moment like Number One taking her to task — but even that steeliness is playful, is a recognisable toying with the roles they're already so comfortable with. Her nails dig in harder; that light pinprick of almost-pain doesn't get anywhere near breaking his skin, but it tantalises.

(They can be rougher, in this world. These living weapons already know, long-since, that they won't break.)

"What's the rest of your schedule? Any late-morning replacement shoot?"

He's asking. For reasons.