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lost in time.

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"I can move forward," Luther says, a decision that comes to him quicker than he'd have expected. He's hopelessly hard and turned on enough that it outweighs the fear this time, and he wants to see what might happen next, what else he could do or she could do. A flicker of that innate competitiveness that does come out sometimes, this urge to impress and to not ever back down from an issued challenge. (And, oh, Sarah Sanders is a challenge. A kind he hasn't tackled in his life.)

But her next question, though. He pauses to think that one over, chin propped against her ribs, in a contemplative silence that shows he's truly having to ponder it.

"That, uh. Depends on what exactly you've got in mind. Daring-wise." Luther tries to think of options, possibilities, but his mind is drawing an awful blank as he tries to imagine what a planet-hopping time-traveller who sleeps with aliens thousands of years in the future might classify as daring. He hadn't even looked at Diego's magazines for inspiration, back in the day; Luther had been prim about it, had threatened to report it to their father. With this huge gap in his experience now-looming, Luther might be regretting it right about now.

Still. Unexpectedly, he couldn't have asked for a better partner to steer him through it; he leans back up again to kiss Sarah's jaw, nip at her earlobe.

"Tell me what to do next."

Translation, Sarah thinks ruefully, not very, not just yet. That's all right, come to think of it. Forever in a wasteland is an awfully long time to fill, so they've got loads of time to get there.

Women are always more amenable than men are, in Sarah's experience, toward cunnilingus but they always seem a little less averse after Sarah takes the fellatio bullet. It probably isn't fair for her to project those experiences onto him but the reflex is too strong to do anything but. He could stay sitting up and she could just dip down, she reckons, but the angle would make it much harder to look back up at him with bedroom eyes and his cock in her mouth and that's nearly universally appreciated by the men she's been with; that aesthetic must give them some sort of power trip or something, a bit like the way she feels when someone looks up at her with their face between her legs. Besides, she secretly enjoys the power trip that comes from the way they almost always start to unravel a little under that wanton gaze.

There's something that tugs at her stomach a little when Luther's kissing her jaw; nipping her earlobe, and asking to be told what to do. She can't actually decide whether that tug is pleasant or not. It's like her body can't decide whether that turns her on or makes her worry that this is all a little too intimate for her personal comfort all of a sudden.

Sarah decides to ignore it. If it's intimate, it's only because she's letting it be; that's on her, not him, and that means she can change it.

She moves a little abruptly, getting off the bed only long enough to wiggle out of her panties before climbing back on again, settled on her knees in front of him so that her head is at the same height, just about, as his. Her knees are spread a few inches, parting her thighs above them. She considers turning the request back on him and asking what he wants to do. Then, she realizes, that'll be relinquishing control and she doesn't want to do that, either. "Touch me. With your hands. I know you don't like them, but I do, darling," she purrs, walking on her knees — waddling, more like — a little bit closer to him so that she can wrap her fingers around his erection again, going back to stroking him. This time, she's using a bit more pressure in her grip and a bit more speed with her stroke. "And when you think you're ready, I want you to pick me up and sit me in your lap so I can fuck you proper."

It's like peeling back the layers of his own psyche and learning new things about himself every moment; at her words, Luther himself is half-surprised to realise how much a part of him thrills at the prospect of getting fucked rather than being the one to do the fucking. That giving up of control; letting someone else call the shots; not having to lead for once in his life, with the trust and faith that came with turning himself over into someone else's authority.

Never too late to learn how you tick, he supposes.

When Sarah sidles further forward, now buck-naked to his still half-dressed self, there's another appreciative grunt in the back of his throat when she speeds up her touch, and he finds himself having to concentrate. Not too soon. Don't lose it too soon and ruin it for her, for fuck's sake.

Luther's hands float a few inches off her bare skin at first, hesitating, like there's an inverted magnet between them and he can't bring himself to close the rest of that distance, but then he eventually follows through. Sliding down the curve of her hips, her thighs, charting an exquisite path down her body. He's discovering just how toned Sarah is, her muscles taut beneath his hands; not like his big brutish muscle, but she's lean the way of a dancer, an acrobat. His thumb brushes against the divot of her belly button, then slides down to trace the line of her inner thigh, temporarily skipping where he actually wants to go. Where he's afraid to go.

"Touch you," he says, a roughness in his voice as he repeats the instruction (the order) for confirmation. "Between your legs. Right?"

It's not lost on Sarah that Luther hesitates to actually touch her, his hands hovering a few inches from her body for a moment before he pushes himself. Her eyes slip shut and she lets a soft but languid moan out when he finally does move his hands over her. He's so self-conscious about the size and texture and color of them, she reckons, but she can't see the color in the dark and the size and texture are the exact things she likes about them.

Letting out a soft breath, Sarah's jaw relaxes just barely slackened, her mouth remaining open to allow the regular, subsequent exhalations carry the melodic tone of pleasure.

"Everywhere, Luther," she pants out, catching her bottom lip between her teeth again for a flicker before she moans softly again just in response to hearing that roughness in his voice. "I'll show you where," she promises, although she makes no effort just yet to guide him. What she means is that she'll adjust him to hit the right spot once he's ventured there on his own. Sarah is all for telling him what to do, but actually putting his hands on her or actually moving one of his hands between her legs feels like a step past where they ought to be.

For her part, to slow it down for him so that he doesn't end up blowing his load before they've even really started — not that Sarah would care if he did, but she reckons it would put him off sex again for a while if she lets that happen — she stops stroking him briefly, moving her hand to his massive chest, fingers splayed out over his skin and clawing slightly under the touch of his exploratory hands.

Her hands migrate to his chest and the skin visible around the undershirt clinging to his massive frame (of course he hadn't gone shirtless for bed; he'd still hung onto some kind of modesty, even today). But as her fingers dig into the crumpled fabric, she rucks it up, sliding the material to reveal more of Luther's stomach and chest. He's built impossibly solid: corded with muscle and covered in jagged scars. The skin is still rough and thick, but it seems like the hairiness mainly seems to kick in around his pecs, shoulders, and arms.

Everywhere, she says. So, he resumes his tentative exploration, and he takes his time even with the parts that aren't inherently sexual: his left hand squeezes her buttock with an easy handful, but his other hand trails down the angle of Sarah's knee, the turn of her calves, just marveling at the fact that he can touch her and that this is happening. (For a fleeting moment he thinks of the box of Twister sitting in the manor basement, and he huffs a small laugh.)

And then. His left hand's at the small of her back, gently holding her in place (or perhaps holding himself in place, anchoring himself in this bed). Luther finally, delicately, slips his hand between her legs and one over-large finger slips between her folds; just the one is around the size of two regular fingers, and he starts studiously trying to find the right angle to rub, the right spot to hit.

"Jeez," he breathes (a mite old-fashioned as ever) as she leans forward into his hand, leaning more of her weight against his chest. His heartbeat's a dull hollow pounding that seems to be running through his whole body, throbbing in his dick at the sound of every little noise that he manages to wrench out of her. "You really— weren't kidding about being wet."

The tease of his curious hands moving over her body, momentarily pointedly ignoring the wet, hot ache between her legs only has her practically soaking with anticipation by the time he finally reaches her. Hissing in a breath through her teeth, Sarah drops her head back and a loud, uninhibited moan drags itself from her throat.

"No, I bloody wasn't," she agrees breathlessly, reaching her free hand down to guide his finger to her entrance. "There, if you want to make me come," she says before guiding him to her clit. "Here, if you want to make me crazy when you make me come," she tells him bluntly.

At that, she finally lets her hand fall away from his chest, fingers curling around his erection again, stroking with the same pace she'd given up moments before, picking up that rhythm as though she hadn't ever put it down to begin with.

Under his touch, Sarah mewls his name needily; grips his wrist as he touches her because she doesn't know what else to do with it at the moment and she'd rather just leave it where it is than try to figure out something else. Her body bows closer to him; she strokes him a little faster but a little less smoothly. It's been rather a while since she's been touched like this and she's been missing it, quite frankly. It's especially nice with his oversized hands if she's being honest. He'd probably never believe her if she said it but now he's ruined her for anyone else if she can ever get them out of here. She's forever going to be stuck with toys or other species with bigger bodies because she can't see herself appreciating the delicate fingers of a full-blooded human again. Not when she's needy like this.

It's a conclusion he'd never have considered or reached or even dreamed of, alone: that rather than being disgusting or off-putting, his changed body might even be better in some unexpected ways. That the thickness of his fingers can bring even more pleasure, be even more satisfying for her. She's sopping wet and slick, and so he's realising with dawning satisfaction: Oh. He did this. The sheer physical confirmation of it sends another jarring of warmth through him, a deep and contented pride.

"Crazy it is," Luther says, a low murmur, and with her hands guiding him he's able to find her clit and run his finger over it, steadily stroking Sarah into this messy haze. He's a quick and eager learner, apparently: once he's rolled the pad of his finger over her clit and heard the answering mewl that comes out of her, he dedicates himself to it even more fully, before he switches gears and slowly, experimentally presses in a finger up to the first knuckle. Crooks it into her, rocks his hand in and out of her, with her own fingers clamped around his wrist and helping him. His movements are still slower compared to her more erratic ones, but Luther's head eventually tips backwards to look up at the ceiling, drawing in a shaky breath that turns into a low moan, barrel-chest rumbling beneath her. He's quiet in bed, apparently — or at least tries to be, tries to keep some semblance of composure, but now he's starting to come apart beneath her expert hands.

"Sarah," his voice is ragged around her name. "I'm not gonna..."

His free hand at the small of her back hauls her even closer to him, just enough to maneuver her further into his lap. As promised.

"Sorry. Not gonna last. If you keep that up."

Where Luther is reserved in his pleasure — if she didn't know any better from his body language and the incredible, heavy stiffness in her hand, she'd think he wasn't enjoying himself at all for the near silence — Sarah is uninhibited entirely. When she feels a moan bubbling up, she lets it out. There are sighs and groans; cries of his name that ricochet off the walls as she rocks wantonly against his hand. Sarah's body shudders and trembles as he draws her to a climax a moment before pulling her closer and warning that he's not going to last.

Sarah's still shaking when she shifts herself against him, giving herself pause to compose herself at least a little. Sweat beads at her forehead and down her spine and her small chest heaves as she tries to catch her breath.

"Are you ready, then?" she asks breathlessly, wetting her lips and shifting herself upward enough as she lines him up with her center. She doesn't — can't — wait for a response before lowering herself; impaling herself on Luther, breath catching and hitching as he sinks into her. Sarah's flush against him, her muscles tightening needily around him in several quick squeeze-and-release movements before another full-body shudder racks through her, shaking off the last of the previous climax's aftershocks. Sarah is composed again, her eyes connecting with his and waiting for some indication that it's all right with him for her to start moving again.

Sarah's hands move to hold Luther's face, drawing him down to her, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth before whispering, "I've had mine; let's get you yours, shall we, love?"

It's another small and unexpected holdover from all his years at the Academy, learning to clamp down on any untoward noises. Any late-night hormonal reaching for himself meant being quiet and silent in his bed, and hoping no one else in the house overheard, just brief snatches of minutes stolen before the monitoring cameras kicked in. Here, though, there's finally no one else to see or listen or overhear: just the darkness of their room, the sound of their breaths and the occasional moan.

And then Sarah sinks down on him before he can even gasp out a Yeah. She plunges down and bottoms out and that new, unfamiliar, unremembered sensation makes his breath catch in his chest, his whole body trembling like a vibrating bowstring. His hands reflexively tighten on her hips, her thighs, briefly forgetting himself and probably pressing hard enough into the skin to bruise. Luther's whole body is wound up and muscles taut, feeling like he's holding in his breath; he manages to make himself exhale slowly, savouring the sensation, dizzied as she kisses him again. She's so slick and hot and tight that he can barely even think straight, but he eventually manages to answer her: "Yes, ma'am."

Luther's face is close enough to hers now that she can catch a surprisingly boyish glint in his eye, a smile against her mouth, his voice all gruff and so very American to her cheeky Britishisms.

And then, still overwhelmed, his tongue trips over itself and tumbles loose something else, a bit of profanity that he doesn't usually let slip: "Fuck. You feel so good."

Sarah feels a wave of pleasure rock through her, shuddering her body when Luther tightens his hold. The flinch on her expression doesn't match the erotic glee she finds in that little snatch of pain. He'll leave marks, she thinks. Not the kind he wants, but all the same. Sarah likes it rough and a little bit of pain never killed anyone.

Yes, ma'am, he says and Sarah rocks her hips in place, grinding against his lap as she grins. That grin only broadens when she hears a cuss slip from Luther's lips unexpectedly. "So do you, my darling. I know you don't think so," she starts, using her pole dance-sculpted thigh muscles to lift herself not completely off of him, but nearly. She goes on as she lowers herself back onto him, starting a slow but steady rhythm of bouncing in his lap, her fingernails digging into the leathery skin of his shoulders to steady herself, "but bigger is bloody better."

There are a million other things she'd love to be doing to him just now, but her body — and, arguably, his — are too needy for the full release and they have all the time in the world.

Another loud, languid moan escapes Sarah when she starts to pick up her pace. Neither of them will probably last terribly long if she keeps up this trajectory, but part of her doesn't care. "Oh, fuck..."

Sarah arches her back, letting a hand fall away from Luther's shoulder to settle on the mattress beside her. It creates an angle with her body that, for him, will make her feel tighter and, for her, will make it easier for him to reach her. "Touch me, touch me, touch me," she gasps, rolling her hips slightly. It interrupts the rhythm but only for a second. "Like before," she clarifies breathlessly, her eyes closing as she wills her focus to tunnel vision itself around the sensation of Luther inside her.

The slide of sweat-slick skin between them, the sound of their bodies slamming together, the heat of her — it's all so, so much better than his hand, and why in god's name had he held her at bay for so long?

Sarah's athletic enough that she can ride him easily, her thighs straddling his larger ones as she grinds down on him again and again. Touch me she commands, and this time, his hands are everywhere, palming what he can reach of her breasts as she bucks over him and leans backward, and then sliding back down to where they're joined and where she's rocking against him, to thumb her clit again. For his (functionally) first time, having her on top is better: this way, he's a bit less worried about accidentally breaking the bed.

And there's something in seeing that stoic man finally unravel: Luther's hips are moving slightly and rolling to meet her movement, his back now against the headboard of the bed and his own head tipped back, fingertips still digging into her hips. (The marks of him will be all over her by morning, as surely as he'd pressed his handprints into that car hood.)

All iron self-control is steadily banished with each time Sarah sinks down on him, a heat building and coiling low in his abdomen, until Luther's suddenly cursing and swearing and his hips snapping upward as he comes and as his mind whites out in pleasant nothingness: for just a moment, finally managing to forget the apocalypse, their marooning in time, their scrabble for survival, all of it, all of it.

It's a beautiful blur — as sex so often is for Sarah, someone with more notches in her belt than a belt could ever wish to actually accommodate — but Sarah rides the waves of pleasure with relish. She can feel him pressing bruises into her, all over her body, with his too-strong grip and his large hands, but some part of her welcomes that.

As expected, once they both really let loose, it takes neither of them very long to reach their climax, Luther first and Sarah on his heels.

Breathless and sated, Sarah straightens her back again to stretch and then leans unashamedly against him; feels him starting to go flaccid within her but can't be bothered to move to free him at the moment. Not her best work, but perhaps her best given the vanilla context of their escapades by comparison to the way she normally carries on when she's having at someone. Sarah reckons that they'll get there. She can't imagine that he'll decide he never wants to touch her again after this.

"Oh, mate..." she pants, grinning slightly against this chest before tilting her chin back so that she can look up at him. "We're going to have to do that a lot more often, moving forward, yeah?"

Honestly, it's impressive enough that Luther's lasted as long as he did — likely a testament to his absolute stubborness and strength of will, his ability to weather pain seeming to translate to hanging on through pleasure, too. Mostly. He's slumped back against the headboard now while Sarah's sprawled over him like he's a human mattress, her small body stretched across his broad chest. He's breathing shallowly, feeling wrung-out and pleasantly sated like he's been running for miles; he grins back down at her a little goofily, one huge arm draped over the small of her back.

Because she's right: now that they've crossed that boundary, you can't unring that bell. He can't unthink Sarah naked and writhing over him, the taste of her mouth. Why had he waited so long? God, he's an idiot.

"We are," he says. "I'd— I'd like that."

After all: they have so much time to kill, right? And somehow, miraculously, he's wound up stuck with someone who he actually clicks with, even complete opposites as they are. Someone who can break down those walls and drag him out through them.

"Thanks for, uh. Being patient with me."

Humming a laugh through her smile, Sarah closes her eyes and lays her head back down on his massive chest. His arm feels heavy and comforting slung over the small of her back and his solidity beneath her makes it feel safe to be a little bit vulnerable. Inherently, she is, not just because she's nude and he's mostly not, but because she's not really a cuddler after sex. Sarah just gets the impression that he is and between that and catching her breath again, this seems to kill two birds with one stone.

"Believe me, it was worth it, my darling," Sarah assures him, opening her eyes again and tilting her head so that she can look back up at him once more. "Feel a bit better now that we've knocked several weeks worth of sexual tension out of the way, finally?" she asks, a playful lilt slipping into her words.

There are more questions she wants to ask, like does he finally believe that she's attracted to him or is he just so glad to have finally gotten laid that he's willing to let himself pretend that she is whether he believes it to be true or not? Sarah doesn't ask. She does, however, shimmy her way up his body, moaning a soft pout of upset when she can feel him, soft and spent, slip out of her as she does so.

Sarah kisses him, long and slow, and when she pulls back, she looks him in the eye, a small smile tugging up the corners of her mouth. "Aren't you glad I'm incorrigible?" she asks, that little smile turning into a mischievous smirk.

He snorts, a ripple of small laughter beneath her. With anyone else, this position might have gotten uncomfortable eventually, his arm other going to sleep beneath her — but to Luther, Sarah's weight on him is nothing, and so it's oddly comfortable.

(The only other time this had happened and he'd woken up in bed with someone else, he'd fled the bed as soon as he could. Until now, he hadn't even known he was a cuddler.)

"You're a pain in my ass," he says, but there's a fond warmth in his voice. The fact that Luther grew up with six siblings-slash-teammates means he's accustomed to them taking the piss out of each other, teasing being the language of choice between all the Academy. If Luther's able to drop that too-serious, too-formal facade — the well-behaved camera-ready man with bland, polite responses for the press — in order to make fun of someone, it means he's finally feeling at ease with them.

"But yeah, I'm glad. I don't hate this." His head tilts, trying to get a better look at her. And as if it wasn't enough that they're wrapped up in each other in this too-small bed, all of her already sprawled over all of him, he's absentmindedly running a finger down the line of her arm; relishing that physical closeness, while they're still in it.

"Y'know... I think you're actually more stubborn than I am? Which my brothers probably would've said was impossible."

A soft huff of amusement escapes her and Sarah nods. "Well, that feeling is mutual, Number One," she points out playfully. And he had been, in his own way. She still likes him, though, on the whole. Luther makes good company most of the time and they do work well together, as they've found out. But does he do things that annoy her to her very core? Yes, absolutely, as she imagines she does him.

She lets herself laugh in full when he says he doesn't hate this. "Oy, you've got a bit of room for improvement with the pillow talk, my love," she tells him. "And I reckon I'm more stubborn than most people. It's probably because I'm so bloody small; I have to pack a really big punch to make up for it, yeah?" she says, only half-joking.

Sarah can't really put a finger on what it is that makes her realize just how intimate this really is, but it feels like too much all of a sudden. Luther is averse to being seen; Sarah's averse to feeling too much.

With that, Sarah finally pushes herself up again, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed as she reaches for her clothes on the floor, what little she'd been wearing when she'd joined him over here. Not that she intends to put them back on — he's opened that door and Sarah's not going to let him close it again; she likes nudity an awful lot more than she likes wearing clothes — but to give herself something to do. "Now that we've scratched the surface, we'll have to get a little more experimental next time, yeah?"

It isn't necessarily that she wants to be away from him or go back to her side of the room; hell, she isn't even opposed to having another go when he's rested enough to get it up again. She just doesn't want it to feel as intimate as it actually is. She'd rather let herself continue to live under the illusion that this is just another conquest, it just so happens to be one she'll be able to repeat since it's not as though either of them has other options on the table. She likes Luther, she cares about Luther, and she really enjoys fucking Luther, but there does need to be that invisible line in the sand that allows her to still feel like she has some freedom and this isn't going to fall into something willfully monogamous as opposed to monogamous in the absence of anything else.

Stretching her arms over her head, Sarah looks back at Luther. "D'you reckon you might want to go again tonight or should I let you take the rest of the night to recharge?" she asks, grinning.

He's not attuned enough yet to the intricacies here to follow those abrupt changes of heart, those fleeting moments where she gets subtly uncomfortable; Sarah's good at hiding it, and he can't see anything more or less in it than someone just getting restless after being too long in one position.

(Klaus' voice, a teasing echo of a memory in the back of his head: Now you're gonna have to marry her!

But he knows better. Knows this is a thing of convenience, has to be, is likely a stopgap until the status quo changes and gets them out of here, and that he can't — shouldn't? — expect more from her. Luther's likely more monogamous than not, considering his heart and attraction having been tied down to just one person for all his life until now... but it's hard to tell whether that's by nature or for lack of opportunity. Even he can't really say.)

Once she's rolled off him, Luther goes about fastidiously tucking himself back into his boxers, although he does concede in pulling off the undershirt, then squirming out of his jeans and tossing the pants out of the way, making himself more comfortable in the heat. His legs look more normal compared to the rest of him, too, all that long leggy height a glimmer of what he used to look like.

And he glances down at himself, as if assessing whether or not he's up for another go. But it's like Sarah's just issued another dare, and say this for Luther Hargreeves, but: he can almost never turn down a dare.

"Give me a few, we'll see what we can get up to," he says with a smile that almost, almost looks like a smirk.

They've both got time to make up for.

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