Luther's hand shifts, and his pinky loops into, around hers. Before she can even take a breath and wonder if she'd gone too far, it guts itself on surprise, heady and hard and fast, tripping up her thoughts and leaving her staring at their littlest fingers—the warm brown of her skin and the bright peach of his: perfectly trimmed nails and creme pages under most of the rest of his hand.
She shouldn't. She knows she shouldn't. This is already.
But Allison Hargreeves is so bad at listening to should and shouldn't. She knows she's her father's bane in ways that Klaus will never get close to because where Klaus rebels in his nasty habits, he still hides out of fear, whereas she strides forward all bold daring, ready to kiss her consequences. She moves her hand, not quite unlinking them, but enough they aren't tight. Enough that the tip of her pinky -- not quite the best or most graceful of choices, but that this is happening at all -- can be used to trace so very lightly down the inner skin of Luther's own pinky.
Her mouth pressed a rueful line, and she's not sure her head is quite attached when she answers Luther's choice of off-beat topic. "I hate it." Both of them. The matching colors and these paler acceptable ones. "I'd rather it was pink. Or neon green. Maybe bright red." The barest beat and her fingertip slid into the smallest corner of his palm, only the smallest whisper of her mind forever keeping in check that the pale shade on her nails doesn't wobble or change for the ferocity of pointless want. "Something he'd hate."
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She shouldn't. She knows she shouldn't. This is already.
But Allison Hargreeves is so bad at listening to should and shouldn't. She knows she's her father's bane in ways that Klaus will never get close to because where Klaus rebels in his nasty habits, he still hides out of fear, whereas she strides forward all bold daring, ready to kiss her consequences. She moves her hand, not quite unlinking them, but enough they aren't tight. Enough that the tip of her pinky -- not quite the best or most graceful of choices, but that this is happening at all -- can be used to trace so very lightly down the inner skin of Luther's own pinky.
Her mouth pressed a rueful line, and she's not sure her head is quite attached when she answers Luther's choice of off-beat topic. "I hate it." Both of them. The matching colors and these paler acceptable ones. "I'd rather it was pink. Or neon green. Maybe bright red." The barest beat and her fingertip slid into the smallest corner of his palm, only the smallest whisper of her mind forever keeping in check that the pale shade on her nails doesn't wobble or change for the ferocity of pointless want. "Something he'd hate."