ic open post & overflow.

[obediences]

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[numberthree]

There's nothing patient or coy about this kiss when Luther obeys.

It's like an attack, from both sides, and she doesn't even know how little time it takes, between the assault of his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, and his hand, the both of them so familiar with all the things they like, what their bodies most crave and respond to best, before she is coming again. A little less overwhelmed by it than the first time, but moaning into his mouth, fingernails digging into his skin, desperation and delight all tangled up in the force of him, taste of him, the lingering taste of herself still there, in his mouth, on his tongue.

Her vision is only a little dazed when he shifts and his forehead is pushing into hers, words spilling out, and she loves that little thing, too. The way he still can't say it, even years later, when they can count the number of years they've been doing this better than the countless times they have done it. So many times it's not even a question of whether, or how, or if. Her mouth doesn't even try to fight that stupid endearing hook that takes to that one part of it. The word he just skipped over entirely.

That it's there, even in the gasping breaths.
In among the strength, and the steel.

Every part of him, seen. Wanted.
Possessively kept. Only hers.

It's not like she was ever going to do anything but agree (this morning, at least), but she's nodding, even as he's saying it, flickers of warmth still making the world a little languid even as it's fading fast for as even better release. For the thought of him, buried deep in her, making that part of her body clutch, all the muscles tightening, in search of the phantom image, remembrance, the not there yet stretching fullness.

Her hand between them, loose and complainant, as fast he'd been at her demand, at the touch of his hand over it, shifts, even as the rest of her is, too. Finding the right spot. Where her body needs to be shifted for them to line up right. Eyes half-lidded caught up on the feeling more than any ability to see, the way his dick slides slick and slippery, fast, against the wetness of her folds on contact.

Her lungs forgetting to breathe, even as she pushes him down to the right stop, her hips already giving into a small instinctive jut forward, pushing the top of his head further into her than her attempt to just line them up right.

[obediences]

She gets them at just the right angle for Luther to push forward, plunging himself inside her, lost in the sensation of wet heat and pressure and her knee tightening on his hip as she pulls him even closer; until he's bottoming out and kissing her again, his mouth turning sloppy and desperate. A helpless moan ripples out from him, swallowed up by the kiss. The man coming increasingly untethered, all awareness narrowing down to this, just this, the slick warmth of Allison around him and clenching harder, pulling him closer. It's his whole world. This sofa, this living room, her naked heaving body spread out underneath him, this new-found land. Right now, she's the only thing that matters.

They'd been separated for so many years, before — a literal brick wall between them, windows, curfews, rules, the long expanse of the breakfast table. Living in their own little world, lost in each other and in whatever they could have of each other. Living off scraps. Every small innocent touch doled out with delicacy and subtlety, something carved out between the lines.

Nowadays, they get to shatter all those lines and boundaries. They can finally be as close as it's possible to get, methodically taking each other apart in the privacy of their shared home: Luther filling her up, Allison's nails sinking into the meat of his shoulder as she hangs on, as he starts to settle back into a rolling rhythm, fucking her into the couch cushions with each snap of his hips. His mouth is still on hers, a hand catching her thigh to drag her against him and drive himself deeper. His fingers dig in too hard into her skin; there'll be bruises on her thigh come tomorrow, the imprint of Luther's hands all over her.

[numberthree]

There's never been anything small about Luther Hargreeves, and this has always been part of that list, even if it's only a list Allison has, and one she's never in her life had, needed, or wanted comparison on. When everything drills down suddenly to the slide of pressure, friction, all of her body wrenching, muscles whining with small zings that are less pain and more just the confusion of the sudden fast stretch, to make room, more room, muscles tightening around him rather than releasing at first, as all she can do is hold on, heels digging hard into the couch under her feet.

Fingers digging into his side, right above one hip, the only distance she'd even managed to get her guiding hand to before, and the other half looped around him, pressing into a shoulder, not caring in the slightest. She couldn't truly hurt him like this if she were trying, and there's nothing in her left to think through the overwhelming sensation of heat, and heaviness, and the burst of pleasure, punch-snapping through her whole body, up her spine like a bell, when he slams all the way in.

It's a haze that shifts into some order, as Luther starts kissing her, breaking on it, skittered focus, and even aim, but she can't even complain. She's no better. She doesn't care. Not when she's wrapping a leg around his waist, and he starts going for it, without any necessary lead up. They've already had all the lead up they could need for this morning, for it being like this. The only need left is caught between the uncontrollable whimper than creeps up her throat every time he's pulled almost out and the moans, caught in the air, his mouth, his cheek, neck, shoulder, every time he slams back into her only harder, only faster.

They're seamless, with no need for direction, so well accustomed to every bit of this, to each other, in every shade, they come to it. His hands on her body, and the way nothing in her recoils even slightly, when they dig in, lighting a level of visceral pain into consistent flares of pleasure, as those hands can pull her whole body down harder onto him, against the impaling force of him pushing in, than potentially every muscle in her body trying.

Not that that, or the fact she'll feel every bit of it later, stops every muscle in her body from trying, from the constancy of meeting every thrust. Her whole body, the network of well-honed muscles tearing between the drive toward every promise of oblivion and the moments the only control she has, is holding on, inside her skin, as she writhes under him, skin beading with sweat, thigh pressing, and heels digging into him only now.

[obediences]

When he mouths at her neck now, teeth grazing her skin, he can taste the sweet-saltiness of her sweat. When he rocks forward, she shifts up to meet him on each thrust. When his fingers dig into her flesh, her nails sink in harder in return until they finally break through enough to scrape him raw, a few faint scratches dug into his shoulder that only heightens the pleasure with how it balances against that slight sting of pain. Compared to their slow, sedate leadup earlier, it's finally fast and rough now, greedy, seizing hold of one another in any way possible; they're in that mind-numb, nerves-shot phase where if the doorbell or phone rang right this moment, the intruder would quite literally wind up dead for interrupting. Nothing exists outside of this room, outside of the taste of Allison's sweat, the pebbling of her nipples as she arches up to plaster her body against his, the hard lines of Luther's chest and stomach and hips rippling over her as he pushes in.

And all that electric pleasure is coiling lower and lower and tighter and tighter, finally finding satisfaction after all the patient buildup of his tongue between her legs and then her hand around his cock. Luther barrels toward like a man on a mission, pistoning into her. They've christened this house pretty much everywhere over the years — in the bed, the shower, against the wall, on the kitchen counter, one time on the stairs when they'd come stumbling home covered in dust and debris and their own dried blood and had barely gotten in the door before they'd started ripping each others' uniforms off — but really, the where and the how doesn't matter. Never has.

Just this: the fact that it's her, Allison making those noises beneath him, the only one he's ever wanted to drive over the edge like this, the only one to do likewise to him, as her heel digs into him and she half-rises off the cushions and Luther's rhythm is turning erratic, that iron self-control slipping, everything collapsing in on the tight, close sensation where their bodies meet.

And then, at last, it's all just blissfully empty: one last shuddering wave of pleasure wracking through him and one last thrust, his kiss missing her mouth and landing against her jaw instead, the tendons standing out in his arms where he's propped himself up, as he finally comes and it all goes a little faint around the edges, hazy and blurry with pleasure.

[numberthree]

Everything is the mad dizzying rush. The constancy of Luther slamming himself into her, harder and faster and deeper, and even when there is the low graded complain of her bones at the impact and the knowledge the concussive force of him, especially as he stops trying to hold himself back from the ledge, stops doing anything but aiming for the end, will hurt later, she doesn't care. There's a blistering bright edge that it feeds into every time, lighting up her nerves, dipping her straight into the electric current of it, pain and pleasure, fingers locked, turning her veins into promising flames.

A paltry detail signed away over a decade ago for Luther;
having, wanting, getting every single bit of Luther.
It's all a testimony to exactly what she wants.

None of it matters, nothing matters at all, outside of these few feet of space, and gasping breaths and grabbing hands. The way their bodies know what they need most more their minds as Luther's precision slips more and more. His thrust turning manic, driven, single-minded beyond any other focus. Desperation masquerading as grim determination, everything whittling down to the place where their bodies meet over, and over, and over again.

They've been doing this for so long; it's easy to judge, easy to gauge, years into it, when Luther starts slipping more, more, more, fingers digging into her hips, teeth threatening against her neck, body turn more furious unstoppable machine, and it will be soon. When to push her hand between them, and start winding hard, tight circles with her middle finger against her clit, raw-sensitive, and strung up like she's touching a firecracker, between the two of them, that makes her body push only more into him, and sends her skittering even harder right into that perfect, cresting heat.

It's not at the same second, but it's not all that long right after, forcing her eyes opening, loving watching the moment Luther suddenly goes almost pitch silent still, practically vibrating with that force finally bigger and stronger than even his mind can martial, before he's shuddering with it, the next second, eyes half rolling back, lost utterly in the sensation rolling over him, as his cock spasms, emptying inside of her. He's momentarily lost to it, his face slack and open, and it's perfect.

Allison's mind is glazed, aftershocks in waves still trembling through her muscles, warm and white, when she tugs him down from the arms still propping up any part of him. Inches of space become outcast entirely. Dragging the mountain of him closer, down on to her, all warm, damp skin and heavy inert bones, collapsing like a house blown apart, wreckage only measurable in tonnage. It's impressive to no one in the room, Allison can still want anything more, even when she couldn't make her brain pull together a cohesive thought no less sentence.

It's visceral and physical, and almost childish in a way. But it's only him, always him, everything him, every way, every time. He is the only gravity in the universe left holding her to the couch, to time, to her bones, and any part of her still being substantial at all. Sighing contented against his skin, when he does give in, somewhere in the mix of still not even having her breathing back near normal.

[obediences]

He rides out the orgasm with that last loss of control: hands grasping and tightening, Allison gasping as she nudges herself the rest of the way, drags herself to yet another climax in order to join him in being absolutely, positively, delightfully drained.

Luther's gone boneless like a ragdoll collapsing on top of her as Allison pulls him to her, the weight of him driving the breath out of her lungs with a little oof and then a shared laugh; it's hard to tell whether it started in the rumble of his chest or in hers. He's sprawled over her, with a fist buried in the cushions and a bare foot dangling off the bottom of the couch — he's still too tall for this — and his chin against her shoulder, their bodies aligned, all long lines sprawled languorously. Still inside her for now, satisfied and sated and sweaty.

The urgency's gone out of the room like a fire finally banked and ebbing, making way for a pleasantly tired stillness: the kind of loose relaxation that pretty much nobody ever sees from either of them, all tension and wariness temporarily banished. The eye of a storm. A hunger finally appeased, leaving them naked and content.

"Just let me know if I'm crushing you. There's not a lot of space," Luther says muzzily, bemused, fond. If they were in bed, they'd be able to lie more adjacent to each other, maybe with her arm draped over the deep barrel of his chest; considering the narrowness of the sofa, though, they've been turned into a sprawl of entangled limbs, with Luther resting right on top of her, with as much bare skin against bare skin as possible. He relishes all of this: the blazing radiant warmth of their bodies, the softness of her curves beneath him, the smell of sex in the air, the slight stickiness of drying sweat across both their bodies, the companionable angle of his arm half-curled around her. As if they still can't let go, even now, still can't accept the barest inch of distance being imposed between them. They're still wedged together, and he'll have to pull out in a second and they'll have to go clean up—

But not just yet.

Right now, still buzzing from the stimulation and brain still pleasantly whited-out from orgasm with nothing more coherent to think than I like the smell of the shampoo she used today, Luther is perfectly happy to just lie here for a little while longer.

[numberthree]

Allison can't for the life of her care about the couch, or the air, or the world, or anything, anything, anything, that isn't the way her peel of laughter, all earned delight and overly blurry satisfaction, and how her face tucks against the side of his head and shoulder, all damp with sticky sweat, as his words become basically just another vibration, like his laughter, through the chamber of his chest moving directly into her skin.

She might be boneless still, but Luther is anything but weightless, and yet it's overwhelmingly pleasant to have him be the only world, consuming her air, her skin, gravity. It's not like she could ever put it into words any morehow than never trying to explain or defend how she exists with almost perfect clarity of knowing who and what she is in the second her fist connects with someone's face. Or the second their eyes turn smokey white.

This, too. Just as much. With Luther's too-long limbs and teasing mouth, letting her get away with it, in this too-small space, what rarely happens with him having more than enough bed to choose falling more to the side of her than on her (years of training, of control, of not being afraid of her being hurt in the field, of her being easily broken by anyone or anything, but not wanting to be the one hurting, or even inconveniencing, her), and Allison gets to enjoy that rareness of it.

The heavyweight of him defining her bones and the cushions beneath her, more she could never lift, would have to roll, that is all that filling up her mind with the pleasant arrogance and wholly simple delight. Making it hard to focus on things like how he's gone soft inside her, or that she's going to need another shower, they both will, and whatever comes next.

Next isn't important. Only Luther,
everywhere, everything, around her
is important right now.

That she gets to stay there a little longer, her face in against his shoulder and neck. To just let the vibrated rumble that pretends she's even thinking about, and not that her brain barely has enough cohesion to afford thinking more than yes and good and: "Mmm. Never."

Is it possible to tell if she means 'she'll never tell him when he starts crushing her,' or that she'll 'never in her life given in and announce something is getting the better of her,' or if 'she's never going to let him move away even so ever again?' Not entirely, but maybe it doesn't need to. It's all of them. It's everything, it's more, and it's nothing. She's never had to be logical about the way the magnet of her entire existence fit into him, and for this few seconds, she can just get lost in it, just be this part of her, of him, of them.

[obediences]

"Oh, never?" Luther repeats, bemused, pretending to take Allison at face value and in absolute seriousness, even as he, too, is savouring this position, the skin-to-skin warmth of it, the fact that they're still as close as it's physically possible to be and the rest of the world has absolutely no claim here, and hasn't called them back to it yet. He shifts a little, rests more of his weight against the back of the couch cushions. One of his arms has wound up sprawled under her neck like a pillow, her lips against his throat as she refuses to let him go.

"That might present some challenges. We'd starve to death on this couch. A shitty way to go."

It's stupid. The joke is so very silly and stupid and his sense of humour runs cheesy like this sometimes. (Almost as if, if you look at these two monsters and tilt your head and squint: perhaps there's two softer creatures underneath, all vulnerable edges around each other, and the potential to be something else— but they're not. Not here. Not this time. This time, they're the only ones who ever get to see this side of it, this pared-down tenderness and all the walls dropped.)

[numberthree]

Allison is not surprised at all Luther decides to find a way to move less than a minute, maybe two, later. There's a sound of consternation frowned into his skin, but it's nothing like real either. She does understand, and the last thing she wants is him stuck thinking about that when he could just not be thinking. But he was trained never not to be thinking about it since they were kids.

She shifts a little, too, at least the part of her she can. Rolling her head a little against the bar of his arm under her neck and the pillow beyond that, looking at him again. "I'd say we could resort to cannibalism, but I'm too cute to go that way, and you like me too much to give me an undeservingly ugly casket viewing for my corpse."

As though that alone would be the reason he wouldn't kill her.

It's not a thought she likes even now. Too pragmatic, too much her father and her father's teaching drilled into them deeper than instinct, his ruthless pitting of all of them against each other, even if it only glances her mind, like a butterfly wing.

What would happen.

How apocalyptic is anyone ever managed to turn them against each other, at their worst, somehow. She could dissolve him into dust, erase him from ever having existed in the first place, with a whisper. But with the smallest, unexpected, still-trusting lead, he could easily knock her head right off, crush her windpipe and spine to that same dust with barely more than the same amount of force as the pressure of the hands that touched her now.