luther "the big shy one" hargreeves | #00.01 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
obediences) wrote2019-03-09 01:00 am
obediences) wrote2019-03-09 01:00 am
Entry tags:
ic open post & overflow.
Feel free to drop starters or texts or meme links here! COME @ ME
Feel free to drop starters or texts or meme links here! COME @ ME
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The part of them that never changed on coming here, never had another voice to give an opinion to it, because no one mattered anymore who could. Tear any of it apart with the crack of disdain, with a countermand from on high. Never been anyone else, new and flawed and other, to change or taint any of the sheer ease of being everything they've always been, were raised to be, even in moments like this.
Luther relents with almost no argument. There's a fierce kind of delight in watching his whole body stutter mid-sentence, the floundered rut against her thigh, that shows in his expression is nowhere near enough, definitely not what he wanted, what his body strained toward, as she watched him, smile pertly aware and tauntingly unhelpful for that single moment in waiting to be obeyed in action, not just words.
There was no question that she wanted him, and to have her hands all over him, and she would, very soon, but it was the all part she relished demanding, and getting as he tried to bend all of himself, over her, and at the wrong angle, for how tall he was and where gravity was. But he did it anyway, pushing his bottoms off once they were past the point of his thighs and her ability to pretend to be helpful.
He came back down, warmer. Lean muscled legs slotting back between hers, hot and just a little coarse with hair, and it's all so much better than the well-washed softness of the pants. Even with her attention easily clipped toward the place where his erection lay on her skin, pressing in harder against her, like a brand, she wrinkled her nose and gave a scoff at his words flipping it right back on her.
She looked down at her chest, maybe she'd only remembered,
maybe like she was toying with being hypocritical for the sake of it.
The curve of the peach cloth contrast against the dark of her skin. The rise of her breasts overflowing the top, caused by the angle's disregard for gravity and by them, their hands, when she would never wear anything that would make her appear derogare for work. Which was why it wasn't any of her more exciting pieces. Work rarely was. But that was why it was work.
"Fine." In any other context, that one single word would be clear enough warning for half of Gabriel's guard to step several feet back from her and whatever she was about to do to the person in front of her, but here Allison's voice has a peel of something like laughter buried in the high clear note of it. Amused at delayed, demanded, ordered. As though she'd surveyed the land and deigned to give him what he wanted, like the steel clip of his voice didn't bite into her blood, making it race faster.
The angle is still crap, but when would either of them let anything so paltry as that matter. Allison arched her back, with a little contortion, just enough to get her hand in under her back, without actually shifting him, or herself, or sitting up to make it easier. Taking a moment to find which way the hooks were facing, so she could tug it right. Letting her backdrop again as she pulled it down her shoulders.
Tossing it without looking, toward the every direction their clothes must be now, before reaching up to tug him back closer to her. "Better?"
Her smile, a curve that dared, openly, to imply he, and his demand, had started this pause. Not her at all.
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Once she's finally naked and teasingly pulled him back to her, Luther's own mouth curves in a smile as he says, "Much," — and as if to to prove his point, he sinks lower and catches a nipple lightly between his teeth before starting to suckle. Making up for lost time, and making up for the part of her that had been clothed until now.
It's not the single-minded, almost-competitive performance of earlier; he's slower now, as if reacquainting and mapping her body all over again, nevermind that he memorised it long ago. Her soft curves and lean muscle, the angle where he has to prop a knee between hers, the small sound she makes when his tongue swirls around her nipple. How far he has to reach downwards to slide his fingers between her legs; confirming that she's still wet and slick from his earlier efforts, her earlier orgasm.
"Allison," he says, and though he doesn't say anything else, there's still a question packed into that one word, her name, a rising lilt and a tightness in his voice, an unspoken please—
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Luther doesn't plead for anything, and Space would be dead before considering giving that much footing away in a fight, so there is an unmitigated high that comes with getting to hear the solid, firmness of his voice deteriorating at the edges. With just wanting her. Needing her. Like it's a crack down every veneer that he has, every part of who he is, no matter how public or private it is, with her name on it. The one exception that breaks all the rules of every steadfast, unshakable part of him.
"Hmm?" Is a question of a sound, purred somewhere between the back of her mouth and throat, something too aware to be innocent and yet tipped as though to question what his question could possibly be. Perhaps, even as if she was openly toying with whether she could force him to use his words. More words than just her name, before relenting.
But she doesn't expect him to hear it, or answer. None of that matters. Not when at the same second as that sound comes from her, very much on purpose, her fingertips ghost down the length of his cock against her, before looping into a cuff around him, hot and solid and silky all at once, and tightening as she pulls the curl of those fingers on him up much faster the opposite direction.
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By now, they've gotten about as used to it as they can get. As her hand rolls over his cock, it's a test of willpower as it always is for him: Luther consciously pressing his hands into the sofa rather than her skin, his muscles visibly flexing and tightening as his body goes rigid above her. A ragged moan pressed into the skin of Allison's shoulder as her pace quickens. He'd gotten distracted and fallen completely motionless, just weathering the sensation as everything narrowed down to that friction and that pleasure, Number Three effortlessly shattering Number One's focus and concentration with just a few pumps of her hand; he's almost always so high-strung that he's easy to take apart like this, dismantle, unravel.
But after a moment he seems to suddenly remember that he was in the middle of something, too, wasn't he; and so Luther reaches down again to slide his fingers between her legs again, even as his breathing turns rougher and shallower.
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Caustic already-blown nerves one second unexpecting and the next several miles into desperate for more, more, more, fuck that too more of that, getting her even wetter, as Luther pulled desperately away from it, the next second, on instinct learned more than given into. As though his forehead pressing into her shoulder, the line of his nose digging into the ridge of her shoulder bone, doesn't have some of the same force. As he stops himself from one thing, by burying into her with the same force elsewhere.
Her hands don't slow down, once started. Dragging sounds out of his mouth, that bury into her skin, as the fabric of the couch cushion under her goes taut with his grip on it around her, and she wants it to be her. Her skin. Her body. Under those hands. Feeling the full force of this. She's well aware of what Luther's capable of, but she's never turned away from it. Knows that he is capable of broken bones and bodies with something as small as a carelessly throw hand, but she's never feared that.
Relishes this. The pressure digging into her shoulder, his thighs pushing in against hers, the hands threatening to press through the cushion, the desperate shove of his body into her hands, seeking more contact, more friction, more tightness, faster, harder, now. This. The edge between all of the control that the world missed seeing in him every day that she can't, and stripping every shred of it away from him. Because he lets her, because she knows, even without the words, that beyond every learned impulse to protect (her at least), that he wants it, too.
To put it all down. To forget. To be pushed past that line hammered into his head. Careful control carried like a mountain of weight, awareness, never forgetting in every movement of himself he's ever making. She knows how hard he's worked for that, perfected that, but she doesn't want it or need it here. Here, where he's a shuddering collapse of pistoning muscles, and she wants to feel all of it.
The bite of his teeth, the bruising grip of his hands, the bucking of his body.
She's never been afraid of knowing precisely what Luther is, was, always will be. She's just as much reckless abandon as he is steadfast control, and her fingers tighten on him, quicken the pump of them, already riding the high of wanting and taking, the blurring line of a demand for more, more, more of him.
A fixation so briefly, staunchly lost in, she gives a jack-knife of a moan, caught up in her lungs, decked into her teeth, ragged surprise and sharp heat, when his fingers remember what they'd forgotten. Sliding in the slick of her body, the bundle of nerves that makes her body jerk, makes her aware of her own cracking, crackling blurring edges, and how it would, will, take so little to be coming on his fingers all over again after the first time, getting off on the sheer rush of doing all of this to him, of what is still coming, on his touching her while she does this to him.
Almost like a challenge, even when it's not, it makes her turn her cheek, seeking for, moving her arm caught between her body, the couch side, and his own grip on it on that side. But she's nothing if not versatile on the fly when she wants something. Pushing at his shoulder, and tucking her head that way, chin pushing between his head and her skin, saying his name, in a rough whisper, all demand, even when her voice is shattering, breathlessly rushed, "Kiss me. Luther, kiss me."
There's the hazy shade of her own control sliding back from her reach, the one that keeps her own wants, her own ability, in check, has to always be careful, not with her hands, but her words, her emotions, her intentions, when it's becoming all she is. A want, a tumult of nerves, to drag him all the way out with her, where she always is, with him, about him, because of him.
She wants his mouth, wants the focus he's clinging to, wants him not buried half-hidden in her skin, wants all of him here, and he so rarely doesn't give her what she wants, especially when all she wants, has ever really, deeply, mostly wanted -- is him; and all he really wants, deeply most, beyond his perfect burning blurring line -- is her.
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But Luther's belief in her is unshakable, and that feeds right back into the loop that makes her cherish it more, value it more. Because this is him. This is him wanting because he wants, not because she told him to. His teeth nipping at her lip, his tongue licking into her mouth, his fingers plunging into her, her own hand between them and steadily eroding his self-control like walls crumbling down, bricks tumbling with each uncoordinated tremble of his body. They kiss until they have to remember to stop and breathe, gasping for breath, and then just gasping, period.
Finally, Luther's hand settles over hers to tug her away; even a minute pressure is enough to still her movement, loosen her grip at a touch. She's too good at it; after years of experience and practice she knows exactly the angle and speed to get him off, but they've other plans this morning. "If you keep at it, I'm gonna," he starts, but then even now, sprawled naked over her in the middle of their living room sofa, Space can't say it outright. Instead, he settles for: "I need to feel you. Now. All of you."
And there's that unspooling desperation and steel in his voice again, the landslide of need crashing through him, both of them demanding and starving for each other. Because it can't be enough. It can't be enough until he's buried inside her and coming undone and forgetting everything about himself, his strength, forgetting to be careful, leaving his mark on her hips and thighs and anywhere the cameras won't notice.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.)
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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.