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[obediences]

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[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.