Allison stands up on the sofa until she's towering over him and Luther has to tip his head backwards to look up at her and meet her eye; an angle he's not accustomed to, since it's usually him looking down on everyone. Allison's hands braced against his shoulders, a smirk on his mouth that nobody else in the world gets to see. When Luther rises to his feet, his hands slide up the back of Allison's calves, her thighs, to settle on her hips. They're of a height now, and so it's easy for him to just reach over and pluck her off her feet, whisking her off the sofa and into his arms like a newlywed. He barely seems to notice; it's like lifting a feather.

"Less talk, more action. Got it," he says, as if she's just critiqued his mission style. Luther's usually patient enough, but when she gets demanding like this — needy like this — it's like she's flared a match to life, stoking it higher, and he can feel that heat and urgency simmering hotter as Allison's hand fists in the neck of his loose t-shirt.

And so. Too impatient to carry her all the way back to that sleepy bedroom, Luther just crosses around the couch instead, drops Allison back on it with an ungraceful oomph; except that now he's on the right side of it and his body's pressing over her, easier to reach all of her, easier to drag at the edge of her shirt.