Allison's heart is somewhere in her throat, shot upward toward the top of her head, when Luther's hands find her skin.
Slides across it large, and long, and with no sign of anything like uncertainty in touching her any longer. Like a dam gone and broken entirely from the first crack. Until he's stopping to laugh, stopping to have to lift her, and she's only narrowly not hitting his chest with her hand, mostly because she's got one of them knotted in his tie again, and she'd have to stop longer than it takes to just those seconds.
Longer than wrapping her legs around his waist, and an arm around his neck, hand on the muscles of his upper back, than pulling him right back too disastrously close. Just as gone, and just as aware she is gone. That as much as either of them laugh and lie and play tug-a-war with who is in control, and who has lost it entirely every time any door closes, that there's only an inch of even her own smoking in the remains of this.
This thing. This want. When Allison hasn't in her whole life had to want something longer than the requesting of someone to give it to her. (Aside from her father's regard, respect, affection.) But this. This thing, where Luther's lips brush her skin, rough and soft all at once, and her heart hammers a slamming, deafening, roar at the nearness, at the offer, at the promise. This is a thing that having only makes the wanting even greater. Drags a small, unfair sound out of her mouth, against his cheek, lips tracking the edge of his jaw that she can reach.
When here and now and even the bed are all things that logically should not populate into her head, and the fourth one is even worse. If she were one for blushing, it would have crept up her throat for that one. Because these rooms and their layouts are so perfectly set up, so a single swing of any door down the hallway gives a clear view of the room in question. They all do. Just like their Father likes. Just like their Mother makes a careful sweep of all the area of when she checks on them.
Except that hers has one small thing, one no one else's does the same way: that alcove.
The one she hadn't hidden in any part of it changing. That had edges and corners she spent childhood nights of covered from view, curled up near the window of with a cup and a string in her hand, whispering through the night. And maybe she hates hiding, hates that it's the urge, but when she pulls back for a second (lips shiny and pinked from friction, gaze crossing his face too fast, before she's leaning in to kiss him, a little harder for the fluke of a faint actual frustration) she may hate the rules, and sometimes their Dad's standoffishness, but she never hates Luther. Only.
Only wants more of him. Which is just an endless cascading thing when he's like this. Again. Finally.
"Back." That with a hand thrown above her shoulder and in the right direction, even when she's not looking that direction, and her weight is not something she's even thinking of, as her hands are starting to peel back the jacket that had been under her hands. Him and his far too many layers of his uniform that still existed, especially when her bare skin still felt burned everywhere he’d touched it.
no subject
Slides across it large, and long, and with no sign of anything like uncertainty in touching her any longer. Like a dam gone and broken entirely from the first crack. Until he's stopping to laugh, stopping to have to lift her, and she's only narrowly not hitting his chest with her hand, mostly because she's got one of them knotted in his tie again, and she'd have to stop longer than it takes to just those seconds.
Longer than wrapping her legs around his waist, and an arm around his neck, hand on the muscles of his upper back, than pulling him right back too disastrously close. Just as gone, and just as aware she is gone. That as much as either of them laugh and lie and play tug-a-war with who is in control, and who has lost it entirely every time any door closes, that there's only an inch of even her own smoking in the remains of this.
This thing. This want. When Allison hasn't in her whole life had to want something longer than the requesting of someone to give it to her. (Aside from her father's regard, respect, affection.) But this. This thing, where Luther's lips brush her skin, rough and soft all at once, and her heart hammers a slamming, deafening, roar at the nearness, at the offer, at the promise. This is a thing that having only makes the wanting even greater. Drags a small, unfair sound out of her mouth, against his cheek, lips tracking the edge of his jaw that she can reach.
When here and now and even the bed are all things that logically should not populate into her head, and the fourth one is even worse. If she were one for blushing, it would have crept up her throat for that one. Because these rooms and their layouts are so perfectly set up, so a single swing of any door down the hallway gives a clear view of the room in question. They all do. Just like their Father likes. Just like their Mother makes a careful sweep of all the area of when she checks on them.
Except that hers has one small thing, one no one else's does the same way: that alcove.
The one she hadn't hidden in any part of it changing. That had edges and corners she spent childhood nights of covered from view, curled up near the window of with a cup and a string in her hand, whispering through the night. And maybe she hates hiding, hates that it's the urge, but when she pulls back for a second (lips shiny and pinked from friction, gaze crossing his face too fast, before she's leaning in to kiss him, a little harder for the fluke of a faint actual frustration) she may hate the rules, and sometimes their Dad's standoffishness, but she never hates Luther. Only.
Only wants more of him. Which is just an endless cascading thing when he's like this. Again. Finally.
"Back." That with a hand thrown above her shoulder and in the right direction, even when she's not looking that direction, and her weight is not something she's even thinking of, as her hands are starting to peel back the jacket that had been under her hands. Him and his far too many layers of his uniform that still existed, especially when her bare skin still felt burned everywhere he’d touched it.