for ltbrownnoser.

[obediences]

lost in time.

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[obediences]

"Strong enough." A simple answer for a simple question. When she trails off, though, Luther finally shifts his gaze off the vehicle, looks at her to the side, and there's the ghost of a smile again. He'd been breaking spines in his teens. "If the body count's necessary, it's necessary," he says, and then his attention swivels back to the potential threat and doesn't go off it.

It's a strange, flexible grey sort of morality that they were raised on. But that's murder, he'd once said to Five in horror, but that was because his brother's targets initially seemed like civilians who hadn't ever done anything, and just had the bad luck to be born at the wrong place and wrong time.

Once you were a direct threat, though? All bets were off.

(Even if you're his little sister.)

The truck gets closer and closer, bumping through potholes, before it finally pulls up. The people aren't hanging out of windows and shooting first, asking questions later — this isn't, in fact, an action movie — but two men hop out of the doors while another stands in the bed of the truck, wary, a rifle on his hip. They're all grizzled, their faces sandworn and heat-blasted. They're further than ten meters away.

"Morning. Didn't think we'd see other people," Luther says, and there's a bristling caution now crackling between the two groups. A long-familiar tension in the air and prickling sense of danger that, he realises, he's missed. That gentle unease of not knowing what to expect, the looming sense of impending violence. It feels like his childhood; it feels like home. His hand flexes at his side, fingers curling.

"You've got a nice haul of supplies," the driver says back. Not even bothering with the pleasantries. The strangers' eyes are hungry, when they settle on the bags in the car — and then on Sarah.

[ltbrownnoser]

Rather than responding to him, Sarah nods to acknowledge that she's heard him and she allows herself the luxury of the relief that prickles around the edges when she knows that he'll kill if he needs to kill. At least they're both on the same page. And, with that in mind, her attention shifts to her weapon, switching it out of Stun mode before redrawing it in preparation. She won't use it unless she feels like she has no choice; it's really more of a Plan C if Plan A of talking and Plan B of fighting fail, but she doesn't put it away. She'd rather them see that she's not fucking around because that might make Plan A a little more successful.

As the men hop out of the truck, Sarah's expression flattens and her chin lifts. She doesn't like very well that there's a rifle on one man's hip as he stands in the bed of the truck like the guard dog he probably is meant to be, but it makes her glad she gave herself a little more distance by switching the Stun mode off, if nothing else.

She's happy to let Luther talk if only because she's aware of the social gender hierarchy of this century and those surrounding. They'll expect Luther to be the one in charge of this pair and bucking that expectation is more likely to raise their hackles. It's hardly worth it.

Her brow creases dubiously in the center when he turns his hungry eyes from their vehicle to her. Sarah's weapon lowers just enough to not be an immediate threat, but not enough to be a hindrance if she needs it with urgency.

"Mmm," she agrees tersely to the sentiment. "You've got a nice vehicle," she points out in the same it'd be a shame if someone were to steal it tone that she's perceived from the stranger. "And now that we've complimented one another's possessions, shall we all be on our way?" That tone is even, but certainly lacking some patience because Sarah hasn't got it. She is itching for a fight but she can compromise the fact that they haven't proven themselves an actual threat, yet.

[obediences]

It's such a quick shift, too: the humble, quiet Luther Hargreeves turning into someone who'll step out in front of Sarah, speak up for the two of them, and take the brunt of the others' attention and focus. Old habits die hard. Number One was raised for this.

"Hmm. No," the driver (also the leader, apparently) says, musingly. "Last we checked, we outnumber you two. Even if you're a big fella. And there's more of us so, ipso facto, we need those supplies more, too."

People should think twice before messing with him: all 6'5" and muscle, even if most of that bulk is still hidden in an oversized coat (Sarah's been mostly unsuccessful at prying it away from him when they're out-of-doors). But the men have guns and so they think they have an edge, not realising who they're facing, either Sarah's capabilities or Luther's. It's been the better part of a decade since the Umbrella Academy was in active operation, and this bedraggled apocalyptic survivor with the five o'clock shadow doesn't look like the child superhero this world grew up knowing.

"You should just keep on driving," Luther says, his voice impossibly even. With the same sort of solid implacable sternness he'd use when he chided Klaus for not paying attention to their breakfast lessons, or Diego for letting his temper get the better of him.

There's a click from the truck, the safety sliding off, and Luther's expression looks briefly pained. He didn't really want to hurt anyone today if they're some of the only survivors left on this godforsaken planet, but—

When needs must.

[ltbrownnoser]

In spite of herself, Sarah huffs a very quiet laugh coupled with a roll of her eyes. Yes, she thinks, thank you, Captain Obvious; we can't count, so that was very helpful of you to point out the numbers. She keeps her mouth shut only because she's not in this alone. She has to compromise so that she and Luther will work well together. As a solo artist, she can strategize on the fly. With a partner she's never had to fight alongside, they can only guess at one another's strategic moves and carefully rework their own to go along with those. Luther is staying calm and appears to be attempting to use his bulk and intimidating tone to try to neutralize the situation before there's much of a situation to neutralize.

But then, while Luther is giving them what Sarah thinks is actually very good advice, she hears a click from the truck. Her eyes dart over to the man standing in the back of it and the fact that he's lifting the rifle to aim at Luther — because Luther is the bigger threat, as far as they can tell. He's huge, of course taking him out will make taking her on easier. They're not wrong about that but they're also not looking at the bigger picture — and that makes Sarah angry. Not because she's particularly attached to Luther, even though she is at this point, but because it's a direct insult to her own capabilities.

Sarah has no such moral qualms about hurting others in this apocalypse. As far as she's concerned, they're a direct threat to her survival, if not by way of killing she and Luther to take their things, then by way of depleting supplies faster when she and Luther need them, too.

In a matter of seconds, before the man in the truck can even finish lifting the rifle to make an attempt to shoot, Sarah's pressed a button on her Vortex Manipulator, spatially jumped into the bed of the truck, drawn on, and killed the stranger soundlessly with the laser at point-blank range with a casual pout on her expression as she turns to the other strangers now cornered between her and Luther. The rifle falls with a clatter to the bed of the truck and she's grateful that it doesn't go off — she admittedly hadn't thought of that possibility.

"Oh no," Sarah says in a patronizing whine, giving the other two men a feigned look of sympathy as she points her weapon at them. "Well...now you don't outnumber us anymore and that damned woman just took over your truck and weapon. What on Earth are you going to use for a leg up, now?"

[obediences]

That flow of battle is so hauntingly familiar for a moment: Sarah's sudden disappearance and reappearance reminds him of Number Five, that speedy little demon all blood and violence, dealing out death where he goes.

"What the fuck," the guy from the passenger seat cries out, immediately losing his cool. "How the hell did she—"

Unfortunately, the driver doesn't listen to her, and reacts on a hairtrigger. Since they're still facing each other, he pulls a handgun on Luther, and Luther has enough time to feels trepidation and alarm — he's durable but he's not wholly impervious to bullets — but he lurches to the side quickly enough that the shot, when it comes, just barely wings him. There's a flicker of pain, and he's pretty sure there'll be blood under the sleeve, but it's just a scrape. Instead, he just barrels forward to the other man (the threat, now he's definitely a threat) and collides with him like a bulldozer. One hand to his throat lifts him up, as easily as if he's lifting a squirming puppy; slams him against the side of the pickup truck, denting the driver's door inwards like a car crash. All the breath is driven out of the man in one gasp, his whole body crumpled against the metal like a ragdoll, stunned and likely some bones broken.

The remaining man jolts, but his gaze is riveted on the end of Sarah's strange laser gun. He's trembling, but he doesn't make a run for it, doesn't try to attack. (This one's smarter, then, in terms of self-preservation.)

"This is such a goddamn waste," Luther growls, and lets go. The other man doesn't even fall to the ground, folded into the door as he is.

Mostly, Luther just sounds annoyed at the fact that someone bothered taking them on, like gunshots and attempted murder are mostly a vast inconvenience. It's a waste of time, effort, and life; it didn't have to go this way, guys!

[ltbrownnoser]

Her gun moves quickly to point in the direction of the man who shoots at Luther, but Luther's faster. She makes a mental note, based on the flicker of pain on his expression, to look at it later when the threat has been cleared and they're safe again. But Luther's handling himself just fine. Honestly, if Sarah didn't have her focus so firmly in place on the third man, the only one with half a brain, as it turns out, she'd be appreciating Luther's show of strength an awful lot more than she's allowing herself to just now.

When Luther vocalizes his frustration and lets go, Sarah snorts in spite of herself. It's a quiet, but clearly amused sound. Come on, how can she not? He's literally folded into the side of the truck from the strength of Luther's hand. He'd be dead in a second if Luther had her set of morals.

"Take his gun," she reminds Luther. "And come get this rifle, yeah? It'll come in handy later. You," she snaps at the brainy guy too scared shitless to test his luck. Sarah lifts the muzzle of the gun just slightly in a jerky gesture meant to move him along. "Be a love and give my collolsal friend a hand? We'll be having the ammunition as well, you see," she tells him.

The man's eyes flicker to the driver of the truck and Sarah rolls her eyes. "Really, darling? Look at him. You really want him to tell you whether or not to listen to the teleporter with the laser gun from the future and the huge guy who shoved him so hard into the side of a truck that he's bloody stuck there like a fly on paper? Come on. Go on then and be a love. Get us the ammo, please and thank you very fucking much."

Again, the man hesitates, but only for a moment.

"I'm watching you," she warns him, taking a step backward to step over the fallen body of her victim. Only when she's certain Luther's got his eye on both does Sarah actually take her focus away from him briefly to hop out of the bed of the truck to assess Luther's damage. "Christ, remind me to stay on your good side, One, yeah?" she asks with a smirk, her gun back to being trained on the passenger of the truck so she can cover Luther's back.

[obediences]

And there's something so simple yet fundamental in that, to being playfully referred to as One in the field again — it hammers on twenty-plus years' worth of lifelong instinct and training, the humming of a sympathetic nerve that tells him that a piece has fallen into place, that something's quite right, that he's doing his job and doing it well. And it might not exactly be the Academy, but in this moment, he feels a bit like Number One again. Dishing out casual violence with a partner at his side who can pick it up as easily as he can put it down; who can kill a threat before it becomes a threat to him.

It feels a bit like home.

"Somehow, even if you didn't, I have the feeling you can take care of yourself just fine," he says, with another one of those rare flickers that she's pretty well-accustomed by now to recognise as humour.

Luther reaches into the door and plucks the handgun away from the driver's crumpled hand (his arm is bent wrong, twisted entirely the wrong way), then steps over to the side of the truck and reaches into the bed to fish out the rifle, sling it over his shoulder. He's tall enough that he can just lean over and grab it. Meanwhile, across from them, the passenger's finally made up his mind and goes to the truck, helps hand over the spare ammo with shaking hands. Now, unlike the beginning of this conversation (conversation or fight, such as it is — it had been over so quickly, blink-and-you'll-miss-it), now all his attention is wired to Sarah instead of the hulking man with the bizarre strength. Because she's even stranger.

"Are you an... alien?"

Behind him, Sarah can see Luther roll his eyes.

[ltbrownnoser]

Is that Luther making another joke? Shit, she loves it when he slips in something like that because those humorous moments are so few and far between for him.
"Ehhhh," she hedges for a moment and then smirks, shrugging. "You're probably not wrong." Sarah's well trained, in any case, thanks to the Agency, but even if she weren't, she's in the twenty-first century with fifty-second-century tech. She's got the advantage.

She keeps her weapon trained on the passenger as he helps Luther retrieve the ammunition and to his question, seeing Luther rolling his eyes, Sarah indulges a similar reaction of her own.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. He's built like a fucking lorry and you're asking me?" she replies. "No, but I'm from the future, so I suppose, for all intents and purposes, I might as well be as far as you're concerned," she adds, rolling her own eyes, now. "Stop asking stupid questions and hurry up so you lot can fuck off before I change my mind about not killing you for the sake of killing you, yeah?"

That's not actually an empty threat. The only reason she hasn't already killed them both is that Luther is here. On her own, they'd have already been dead and she'd have stolen their entire vehicle, supplies, and all. Luther's already ruined the truck but at least they can take the rest of the supplies, in any case.

Sarah looks down at her watch. "I'm not the most patient lass in the universe, mate, so I would really suggest getting a move on so you have time to pry your friend out of the side of the truck before I get bored and shoot you both," she adds, sounding bored already just to make clear to him that she actually means it.

[obediences]

The pair of them watch as the passenger tries to hurry it up, stepping around the dead body of his (friend? compatriot? grudging partner?) as he offloads the supplies as Sarah points them out. He does pause for one moment when he passes around the driver's side door, horrified at the sight.

Watching the scene unfold with a hand on the rifle (not that he needs it, exactly), Luther ruminates. It's possible the driver still won't survive, considering the lack of proper medical care here in the apocalypse. He's vaguely wondering if he should've just snapped the guy's neck; it might've been more merciful.

Well. It's hardly their problem anymore.

After Luther takes the last armful of ammo, the passenger tries to wedge the door open, fails, then has to settle for dragging his groaning comrade into the back of the pickup, then clambering in through the passenger door and driving off while the engine whines. They both watch the dust cloud as it trails off into the distance, keeping an eye open in case any other vehicles come roaring in to avenge the fallen. Nobody else appears, and then he finally seems to exhale and relax, and shoves their new acquisitions into the backseat of their dinky little car.

"So I don't actually mind putting people down if I need to, but— You're from the future. Don't you get antsy about killing people back here? Like what if one of those assholes was your great-great-great-great-great-grandfather?"

It's the standard grandfather paradox; Five would probably have some colourful turns of phrase for why Luther's an idiot and why it isn't actually something worth consideration.

[ltbrownnoser]

Honestly, it's a bit morbid and, if she were a better person, sad to watch the passenger first process and then try to deal with the driver Luther wedged into the side of the truck before he drives off. More often than not, Sarah doesn't feel things like this. When she's in military mode, she compartmentalizes by reflex. this is no real exception except for the pang of frustration at the fact that she feels lied to by the Agency. Earth End has no survivors. Well, she's now met fucking four of them, so...so much for that.

She doesn't realize she's still watching the truck as the dust settles in its wake and it becomes just barely larger than a speck on the horizon until Luther's voice pulls her out of it. Without looking at him, she shrugs. "On a normal mission, maybe," she agrees. "If they're a direct threat to me, then my options are neutralize the threat or let them neutralize me. If I end up taking myself out with them, well. Shit happens, yeah? But there aren't supposed to be survivors and I'm not from New New Earth, anyway. My family came from another planet. There's no Earth-folk in my lineage."

Finally, Sarah looks over at Luther, lifting an eyebrow. "I've never been more attracted to you, by the way," she points out. "You're sexy as fuck when you're in the zone. You know that?" She looks pleasantly surprised at herself. Not because she's attracted; she's been attracted. She's surprised that the spike came when he'd been doing something so violent. Sarah Sanders has no issue with violence, but she'd never really fancied herself the kind of person to be turned on by it. She makes no effort to hide the way she wets her lips and her eyes sweep slowly over him again. "...I think you do know it, actually..." she rasps thoughtfully as her eyes finally reach his face again. "Don't you?"

[obediences]

Hearing about where her family comes from, Luther remarks, bemused: "Really? Then you even are technically an alien, I guess."

This post-fight banter is casual, comfortable... and oddly companionable. In a world where he was only taught to fight, this is the sort of thing he knows and thrives in.

But then Sarah banks left, and Luther suddenly finds himself at sea again. He's still buzzing with remnants of adrenaline thrumming down all his nerves, and her gaze is trawling slow-motion over every inch of him. And where once he'd have recoiled from that close attention, wary of what it means... even Luther, oblivious as he is, can read that that isn't disgust or revulsion glinting in Sarah's eyes. He feels his skin prickling, self-conscious.

Self-conscious for a different reason. A better reason, this time.

"I don't..." he starts, but then stops again, grinding to a halt as soon as he realises what a lie that would be. Because Luther does know it. Battle is always where the Academy has excelled: for most of their active years, four of them had found it joyful, playful, a time and a place to flex their skills and excel, to have fun with it. He's at his best in a fight. He knows what he can offer there, knows what he's supposed to do: the world narrows down and becomes beautifully simple and manageable and, even if it's just for a few minutes, he manages to forget everything else.

So Luther pauses, looks back at her. Feels the ground shifting underfoot and tries to find the right words for a response. This is the part that wasn't covered in the briefings and mission files and parameters; this is the part the Monocle never prepared him for. Anything outside a battle.

But his gaze is steady when it eventually does fix on Sarah, and meets her eye. When he responds, it isn't exactly an answer, but it's the closest thing he can get to a compliment:

"I like the way you handle yourself in a fight."

[ltbrownnoser]

Luther starts to contradict her and Sarah tilts her head slightly, lifting an eyebrow to challenge him to finish out the lie so that she can call it out for what it is. She'd be really surprised if he didn't know. He must.

Instead, he pauses as though taking a mental inventory to try to decide what he wants to say or, perhaps, how he wants to shut her down this time in particular. Sarah, to her credit, shows an uncharacteristic amount of patience. Some part of her is hoping that taking him off guard when he's coming down from an adrenaline high might work in her favour, but if it's going to, then she needs to make sure she doesn't startle the wounded animal hiding in his chest as she approaches it. So she waits. And she smiles, smug and amused all at once.

Sarah's eyes sweep over him again as she takes a few steps toward him. They're tentative in her heart but she's careful to make them look self-assured. "Yeah?" she asks. "Is it the witty banter or the skillful use of future tech and a laser?" she asks playfully. Then, because she's never been good at the long game, she adds, "I'd climb you like a tree right now if I thought you'd let me get away with it, One." Sarah goes with One on purpose because he seems most comfortable in his own skin when he's in Academy mode and she knows that One is what he went by when he'd been a part of it. Manipulative and shameless? Probably, but if it gets her what she wants, Sarah's kind of okay with that.

[obediences]

"How about all the above?" Luther asks; and now it's his turn to look a little surprised at himself, to discover that this cockiness was still lurking somewhere long-buried beneath the surface. Some ancient vestige of Number One re-exerting itself, like muscle memory. Like riding a bike. Spaceboy, the golden child, or at least a version of him.

He can feel his heartbeat ratcheting up, a nervous patter as Sarah steps closer — because the lifeline's shortening and he doesn't know what the hell to do when she gets there. He'd been gently, politely rebuffing her for weeks, but they've had time to get to know each other now. Excesses of time. To sleep in the same room, talk into the low hours, whiling away the days, scavenging together, having each others' back. At a certain point—

At a certain point, maybe keeping yourself trapped in suspension and pushing others away while waiting forever for something impossible, like a fly trapped in amber while everyone else in your life has moved on, is an exercise in futility—

He swallows, once. Still watching her. And it's been years, years since he's dusted off anything near flirtatious banter, but he still remembers being needled and pushing back, once upon a time, and so in the end he falls back on that, half-challenging, half-dare:

"I'm not sure you could even reach."

[ltbrownnoser]

Still more surprises! Sarah's expression reflects that pleasant surprise at his comeback and she grins a moment later. He isn't stepping away as she advances. He isn't giving her excuses or gently trying to put her off. In fact, is he flirting back, finally?

Smirking, Sarah lifts an eyebrow at him. "Challenge accepted," she announces and, just because she can, uses the Vortex Manipulator's ability to spatially jump. He's right; she couldn't reach if she tried on her own, but with a well-planned jump, Sarah's able to get the height she needs and, in addition, gives herself enough of a boost to get her arms circled around his neck, her legs wrapping around his waist to keep her steady.

"Someday, you'll learn not to challenge me unless you mean it," she tells him in a low voice, just this side of raspy with desire. "Apparently, today is not that day." Sarah tilts her head a little and stares at his mouth for a moment before making a show of dragging her gaze back up to meet his eyes. "I hope it takes you a long time to learn the lesson," she adds in a near whisper, leaning in as though to kiss him — because, Christ she's been wanting to for long enough, now, and for once, he's not rebuffing her before she can even get close enough to try — and stops just short of it to give him the opportunity to change his mind and tell her to knock it off.

Sarah wants him; of course she does and has for what feels like an age even though it's only been weeks, but she's also not willing to shoot herself in the foot. At this point, the idea of being alone in this wasteland is the worst thing she can think of and she doesn't want to give him a reason to finally walk away.

[obediences]

For a second time, the jump catches him off-guard — but Luther's reactions are quick enough that when Sarah suddenly reappears in his arms, he catches her easily, hands settling around her to keep her propped up. Although she seems to have more than enough strength herself to hang on unassisted (she wasn't kidding about that pole-dancing). As a testament to his own strength, he doesn't stagger at the sudden added weight of another human being; it's just like she's draped herself around a human statue, unmoving, unflinching.

But he's not quite a statue anymore. His heartbeat feels so loud he's almost amazed she can't hear it. He half-steps backward until his back collides with the sun-warmed side of their car, and Sarah is suddenly so close, right up in his face, and he can see just how blue her eyes are. He hadn't really had a chance to notice before. Luther's fingers fan across her hips, the small of her back; careful with his strength, not digging in lest he accidentally bruise her.

His only memory of something comparable to this is unbearably hazy. He's trying to think back to it for reference, but that evening was blurry with alcohol and shot through with unnamed drugs, and so he can't remember— where does he put his hands, what does he do now? And should he? He shouldn't, this is messy, this might risk this fragile partnership they've built...

But that heady adrenaline's still knocking around in his blood, his pulse, and there's a restless energy in his system that he still needs to banish. (Both their systems, probably.) It's do a hundred push-ups or go for a run around the block or punch his way through a wall or this, and with Sarah's knees tightening around his waist, he's temporarily forgotten what all his reasons were for not doing this.

So he shifts her in his arms, close enough to reach, and he kisses her.

It's hesitant at first: the gesture delicate like stepping out onto thin ice, careful that it won't just shatter and fall apart beneath them at this added pressure to their situation, a changing of the parameters.

[ltbrownnoser]

The fact that he doesn't pull away immediately has Sarah's heartbeat picking up its pace with anticipation. She can feel his massive arm below her, keeping her from slipping in case her thighs don't hold up on their own, and then he's shifting her in his hold. Before she can crack a joke or make some coy remark, he's kissing her and Sarah hums a soft moan of relief against his lips. Weeks of wanting and fucking finally, he's obliging.

She can't help noticing that he's gentle about it, though. Tentative, almost, like he's not sure he ought to be doing this and it's all a bit more intimate than Sarah generally likes to feel with someone. So she doesn't hold back.

Sarah's hands unclasp behind his neck and move into his hair as she deepens the kiss, rolling her hips against his abdomen in an attempt to goad him a little more. Her kiss draws back, just slightly, and her teeth scrape gently over his bottom lip when she sucks on it for a flicker of a moment before breaking it. "It's about fucking time, darling," she says quietly, voice low and husky before she crushes her mouth to his again to pick up where she left off.

[obediences]

The goad is welcome, almost literally a heel driven into his side to press him onwards. A challenge of her own, and so Luther matches it: he echoes her, deepening the kiss as Sarah does. When her hips move against him, he makes a strangled noise of surprise into her mouth at the friction, a grunt that means he has definitely, definitely noticed the close contact. And he's leaning back against the car now, braced enough that he can be distracted, can lose himself in this.

Somewhere, somehow, he'd still had his constant irrational doubts despite Sarah never batting an eye at his appearance, always telling him how fit he looked; it still hadn't felt real until suddenly she's all hands and tongue and teeth, and he realises, Oh. So it is true. She can actually be attracted to him—

About time, she says, and he murmurs, quietly, half to himself in the moment when they break apart for a breath: "You have no idea."

Ten years. So many long lonely pent-up years, and his first time was robbed from him, so this time he's set on feeling and experiencing and remembering it all: the warmth of Sarah's mouth (swearing and all), the near-ticklish sensation of her fingers combing into his short hair, and the strong arch of her thighs as he runs a hand along the denim, pauses for a moment, and then finally cups her ass to haul her closer and get a better grip on her.

He's a quick learner.

[ltbrownnoser]

Feeling him grip her closer, Sarah hums an amused approval into his mouse, rolling her hips again with wanton desire. At the best of times, Sarah's a sexpot, but being alone all the time with a gorgeous hulk of a man who doesn't seem to have any idea just how gorgeous he actually is makes it exponentially worse. Especially given he's spent this whole time rebuffing her. Part of her had started to wonder if he just wasn't attracted to her, but now she thinks, largely, it's just that he must not have believed that she was genuinely interested.

Sarah is strictly non-monogamous but she's not opposed to playing the part if that's what it takes for companionship. Here, there's no one else around anyway, so what's the bloody difference? If he wants to get on board with making this a regular stress reliever, Sarah is all in.

Fingernails rake gently against his scalp before one hand curls behind the back of his neck and Sarah pulls back again for another breath. This time, she presses her forehead to his to force herself to take longer than half a second to breathe before going straight in again.

"Oh, really?" she asks, quiet and breathless as her chest heaves against his and her legs start to quake around him, half from the need to be touched between them and half because she's been using them to hold herself up this whole time even though she can feel him supporting her with his arm. It's a reflex. Men, in her experience, generally enjoy reaping the benefits of as little effort as possible in a sexual encounter. It's why she generally prefers fucking women, but sometimes a girl just needs a giant of a man to plow into her and remind her that sometimes rough is brilliant, too.

The hand that had still been in his hair falls away, then, and she shifts her body just slightly in an attempt to reach for the zipper of his trousers. She comes up a bit short because as much as she love this difference in size, it does mean that her arms are a bit shorter than necessary at the moment given where she's situated herself against him. "Fuck..." she complains, more to herself than to him. "I'm too bloody short."

[obediences]

"Told you so," Luther says, bemused. The sheer logistics of how to reach each other is difficult when Sarah doesn't even come up to his shoulder; as they'd gotten more accustomed to working alongside each other over the past few weeks, he'd noted the fact that she's tiny next to him, more like Vanya rather than Allison— (No, don't think of Allison.) He yanks his thoughts away, reorienting himself back here, in the present, with Sarah.

When he feels her muscles trembling, he turns around and gently deposits her on the hood of the car. It puts her at a decent height where he can step in between her legs, lean in and capture her in another kiss. Normally, this wouldn't be something he'd do in public, and part of him is still trying to stay vaguely aware of their surroundings — but they're in the middle of nowhere and you can see anyone approaching for miles around, like they had earlier, so fuck it. Why not. Public isn't public if the rest of the public is dead.

What eventually becomes apparent, though, is that Luther is oddly all mouth: he kisses hungrily, eagerly, and after a moment pulls slightly away in order to work his way down her jaw, her neck, teeth and tongue against her pulse-point — but all the while, his hands stay braced against the car on either side of her. As if he's still hesitant to touch her, to put his hands all over her.

[ltbrownnoser]

"Shut up," she huffs in equal parts amusement and exasperation as he sets her on the hood of the car. Luther never really struck her as the sex in public type, but she loves it. Then again, maybe this is a good compromise because she gets to feel like she's in public while he's reassured by the fact that there's no one else around.

If she were less in the moment, Sarah might notice sooner that he's not touching her so much as centering himself. His mouth on her is distracting enough for her to miss it for the moment, and her fingers start again in his hair. They're only there momentarily before she remembers what she'd been trying to do in the first place and he's positioned her where the height disparity is less pronounced.

Sarah tilts her head back, exposing her throat to him as Luther makes his way to her neck and her ankles hook behind his back to keep him close. This time, when she reaches between them, she can successfully reach the waistline of his trousers and she huffs a soft sound caught between a moan and a laugh as she starts to unbutton them.

[obediences]

Someday, in another time — a branching timeline, perhaps — Luther Hargreeves might have learned that he actually likes that electric thrill of the illicit. Hiding a relationship right under the eye of the Monocle and the press, seeing how much he can get away with, stealing kisses after a mission. Toying the smallest of rebellions, and just daring the world to catch on. The golden son stepping subtly out of line.

He hasn't had a chance yet, though, to really work out what it is he likes and doesn't like. So, he's taking advantage of it now, and his mind keeps cataloguing everything neatly. An inventory of things he likes: the softness of Sarah's skin; that moan in the back of her throat; her fingernails raking through his short blond hair; the rapid thrum of her pulse under his lips. His alternating licking and sucking and biting at her neck in an attempt to leave a mark, some proof, Luther was here.

When she draws him even closer and starts working at his zipper, she can feel the hard line of his arousal through the fabric; it doesn't take much. But once Sarah manages to get his trousers open and dives a hand in to wrap around him, he jolts, his whole body shuddering around the pleasurable sensation, and he— grips too hard. The metal of the car hood buckles, an imprint of his hands crushed into its outline. A hiss through his teeth. "Sorry," he says, shakily, his whole attention narrowing down to just the warmth of her hand. The perimeter watch is a lost cause.

It's all probably too much, too fast, but Luther is stubborn and in need of something to prove, and therefore set on trying to make this work—

[ltbrownnoser]

Because he doesn't seem to have any abrupt change of heart — hell, she'd half-expected him to given how self-conscious he is about his body. Then again, maybe it's just the upper body, the possibility of which is even more interesting to her, but that's neither here nor there — once Sarah gets the zipper undone, she pushes her hand between his abdomen and the fabric and curls her fingers around the length of him. She doesn't get very far before she feels first Luther and then the car itself shudder beneath her. The latter, she realizes, is less the car shuddering and more that Luther's crushed his handprints into the hood on either side of her.

Grinning, Sarah huffs out a soft laugh and shakes her head at his apology. "Oh, darling, I've barely even gotten started. You flatter me already," she teases playfully as she gives him a tentative stroke. Wait until I'm not stuck on the hood of the car and I can get on my knees, mate, she thinks but keeps herself from saying because she'd rather he get back to kissing her and she doesn't want to inject witty banter just now.

It never occurs to Sarah that there might be more to his reaction or his determination than the fact that he's shy and finally letting himself unwind and enjoy it. If it did, she might've thought this through a bit more and waited at least until they were back in their shelter or...something less harried and out in the open like this.

And, really, she does want Luther to touch her, but if it's been long enough since his last lay that her just touching him has him denting a bloody vehicle, it can wait until he's a little more settled into it. She's significantly more fragile than the car, after all. "Were you trying to give me a hickey?" she asks, grinning a little. "Christ, I haven't had one in a decade; it's been a while. Try harder," she goads him breathlessly, thumb sweeping over the head of his cock on her upstroke and her eyes on his face to gauge the reaction to that with mischievous curiosity.

[obediences]

"Maybe," Luther admits, but there's another small smile lurking on his mouth, and at the challenge, he leans in to lavish her throat with attention again.

The man is hopelessly uptight, tightly-wound like a set of gears that's constantly just a minute away from snapping, and so she can quickly see that he starts coming undone with each languid stroke of her hand. When she rolls her thumb over his cock, his teeth reflexively nip sharper into her neck, grazing harder against the skin. His whole body is bowing forwards and leaning into the touch, and it elicits a low moan from him as he mouths against her throat. He keeps one hand braced against the car, and then the other tentatively reaches for the hem of Sarah's shirt, slides under it, enough for his fingers to reach bare skin—

And his hips judder and when he feels how smooth she is compared to him, he inhales sharply. It's been too long. It's been too long and he's not going to last long and now he's right here, right in the open, rutting against her in public and against the car like some animal—

And just like that, Luther withdraws, catches her hand in his and gently tugs her away from him with an iron-like grip. Something undefinable has shot across his face, a shuttered self-conscious look. He hasn't ever actually taken her hand before: when he glances down, even that touch is enough to see how her hand is dwarfed by his, his fingers oversized, monstrous. He shouldn't be touching her with these hands. Not like this.

(She keeps saying it's okay. And yet. And yet.)

"Sorry," he says, and this time there's less amusement laced into that one word, more panic. Like a deer caught in the headlights, suddenly unsure what to do, where to go. "I— I can't. Shit. Sarah—"

He quickly starts buttoning up his trousers again, and his ears are beet-red in a blush. Mortified. "I'm sorry."

And he can't tell if he's mortified for this almost having happened like this, or for shutting them down so abruptly— or some inexplicable, irrational combination of both.

(The latter. Of course it's the latter.)

[ltbrownnoser]

Another moan, this one a little less inhibited and, therefore, louder, escapes her when she feels Luther's teeth press a little harder against her skin. Her back bows with anticipation when she feels his hand slip up beneath her shirt and Sarah lets out a breathless pant laced with a needy whimper, practically aching for him to finally touch her.

And then, for some unknown reason, leaving her anxious, confused, and obnoxiously wet, he pulls the plug and everything grinds to an abrupt halt, dragging a grunt of indignation from her as he pulls her hand back out of his pants.

"Luther, what the fuck?" she blurts out breathlessly, panting and clawing her free hand's fingers against the hood of the car beside her as if willing that to release the tension. She's torn between angry and hurt because now he's gotten her all worked up and let her get him worked up and now what the bloody fuck is she supposed to do? But he's apologizing and the anger slips away into a passive frustration as Sarah lets her head fall back, exposing her red-marked throat to the sky as she lets out a heavy sigh to catch her breath.

After a moment, Sarah lifts her head again, chest still heaving as she continues to try to settle her breath again. "Don't be," she says, although it does take a conscious effort not to let the offense she's feeling trickle into her voice. Everyone is entitled to revoke their consent, she knows that, but for fuck's sake, he'd seemed just as into it as she was, so why had he?

She wants to ask, but asking would sound more desperate than Sarah ever wants to sound, so she doesn't. She just hops off the roof of the car and tugs down the shorts a little to straighten them out and smooths her hands over her top to straighten that out. ...and steadfastly ignores the uncomfortable wetness between her legs and hopes that it hasn't had a chance to soak into her panties because they're the last clean ones she's got until some of the others dry and, without a dryer, sometimes that takes whole days. "Right, then..." she says and tries not to make it more awkward than it already is. "I guess we should get back, anyway. The sun'll be going down soon."

[obediences]

"Yeah. And, uh, we need to transport the supplies back to the safehouse. And maybe get out of here before anyone else shows up. They might've had friends."

It's all excuses and justifications, really, but Luther uses it anyway in desperation to try and paper over this suddenly-awkward offbeat stiltedness to the scene. It all sounds perfectly rational. Perfectly sensible.

Sensible went out the window the moment he almost fucked her against the hood of a car, though.

Still blushing up a storm, Luther opens the door and hops in, shoulders hunched and hands rigid on the steering wheel while he waits for Sarah to get in beside him. He's still uncomfortably hard and he can sense it, trapped against the fabric and desperately yearning for relief. Maybe it's a good thing the water heater's on-again off-again back home; once they get back, he's drenching himself in a cold shower to try to take care of this. This situation.

He keeps his gaze riveted straight ahead as he drives them back to the house, trying not to look at Sarah (lips swollen from kisses and her hair still mussed, with the mark of his teeth against her neck). It doesn't help, though: he can clearly see through the windshield and see the dent in the hood, his handprints pressed into the metal. He's going to think of that every time he looks at this goddamned car now.

God, this was a mistake.

When they get back to the house and offload the groceries and ammunition (some strange variation of a domestic ritual), they make a brave effort at recapturing some of their easy camaraderie from before, but it's difficult. They're walking circles around the elephant in the room, both of them wired and geared-up and restless (and in Sarah's case, confused). He almost apologises while they're heating up a sad little dinner. Considers trying to explain while she's counting the bullets. Almost blurts it out while he does the dishes and she wanders past.

But he bites down on his words and lets the awkward strained evening go on, instead.