trigger_man | OOM: Night Before the Allpocalypse

It's easier this way, as he rolls them. It means when she bends her knee slightly, notching her thigh against his hip, she's pressing against him directly, his face cupped in her hand.

And yet she's still taking things slowly, letting him set the pace. She doesn't want to overwhelm him too suddenly.

For a couple minutes, this is okay, this is enough. Kissing her, feeling the soft brush of her lips on his, tasting her mouth. Slowly, he's remembering how to do this and getting used to having another warm body pressed against his. He rests his hand on her hip, drawing small arcs with her thumb.

No rush, no worries besides that tiny little voice in the back of his mind reminding him that this might be the last night of their lives. He can do this, at least so far.

Inevitably, she breaks away, though she doesn't go very far, turning her cheek against the pillow and hiding a small smile.

"Still okay?" she asks, lifting her hand to touch his face, her thumb tracing the angle of his jawline before smoothing over his cheek.

He turns his head slightly to kiss her cheek. "So far, so good."

Raising his head, he kisses her jaw again, then her throat. "How about we just...see where things go, and if I'm not comfortable, I'll let you go?"

Bad enough he has to be concerned that something's going to trigger a flashback; he doesn't want to kill the mood for her too, by having her worry about it.

"Well, I might not allow you to let go entirely," she murmurs, sighing softly as he kisses down the line of her throat.

"Your bed is super comfy." She smiles, laying back against the pillows again and pullin him down to her. "Take it as slow as you want."

It's a little easier with him leaning over her, and he takes full advantage. Another brief kiss on the lips, and then he moves back down, finding that little dimple at the base of her throat, the small piece of her collarbone that's exposed in the neck of her shirt.

At the moment, it's probably easier to give than receive, and he's more than happy to do so.

His mouth is what relaxes her, warm and gentle on her skin, but it also starts to stir her up again, making it impossible not to respond to the sensations, her eyes drifting shut as a small sigh escapes her.

He finds a slightly ticklish spot along the line of her throat and she laughs, breathless, before running her fingers along the curve of his back, following the hard muscle beneath his shirt.

His mouth curves in a slight smile against her skin. "Ticklish?"

He can see if she's ticklish in other places too; when they'd moved, the bottom hem of her shirt rode up a little, exposing a thin band of skin. Slowly, he moves his hand up from her hip, his thumb moving along the skin just above her waistband.

"A little," she replies, nudging his side with her fingers.

His next touch draws a different laugh from her, one that quickly dissolves into a small gasp as his thumb traces the angle of her hipbone, inches above the waistband of her pants.

"Feel free to tell me if I'm doing this right," Jack says, kissing the side of her neck as he draws small circles on her stomach with his thumb.

"What, you couldn't tell already?" she murmurs, turning her head to catch his mouth with her own, a kiss that feels slow and unhurried in comparison to the others.

And she really doesn't feel inclined to rush.

"Maybe. You're kind of subtle," he says against her lips. "Feel free to give me directions, then."

Though he doesn't seem to need them at the moment, as he slips his hand under her shirt, fingers tracing the bottom of her rib cage.

"I don't think," she whispers, her lips brushing against his on every other syllable, "you need any of those to know where to go."

It's a different kind of sensation that has her squirming, arching underneath his touch.

Jack's not so sure about that.

"Keep it in mind, then," he says, tentatively nibbling at the side of her neck.

First things first.

She crosses her arms down lower over her front, peeling her sweater up and off before she overheats altogether.

Jack's a little surprised when she pulls her sweater over her head but isn't about to complain, even if he's not quite ready to do the same, just yet.

It does give him a lot more to work with, though and as he continues to kiss the side of her neck, his hand moves upward, gently brushing the bottom of her breast.

Of course it's about now that he's starting to think that wearing pajama bottoms to bed perhaps wasn't the best--or at least the most subtle--choice.

In retrospect, it's something of a sudden move, propelling whatever this is much further ahead than he might be ready for, and she debates reaching out for it again to cover herself before the shift of his hand stops that movement altogether.

She's still mostly clothed, at least; his fingers dip along the curve of underwire and black cotton, and she sucks in a quick breath, her own fingertips navigating under the back of his shirt for her to trace patterns and lines over bare skin.

He tenses a little as her hand moves under his shirt and begins to stroke his back; a little, but not much. Her movements are slow and gentle, her hand soft, and that's enough to keep him present, enough to outweigh the knowledge that she man possibly feel some of the scars on his back. Scars that no one--other than a couple doctors--have seen since he got back to the States.

If she feels the scars under her fingertips - the raised differences in his skin, the places that are more ridged - she doesn't react to them, touching them with the same amount of pressure that she does with the smoother expanse of his back.

She's seen the scars before, if only for a brief moment or two, but never felt them beneath her hands, and she tilts her chin down to find his gaze, smiling slowly.

"Still good?" she asks, pressing a kiss to the edge of his mouth.

"Yeah, he says, kissing her lips as his fingers move gently along the skin below her bra. "Just...getting used to this."

"Tell me if there's anything you don't like," she whispers, soft against his mouth.

"I want to know."

"I will, promise," he says, lightly stroking her breast through the fabric using only his fingertips.

She can't help it; reflex has her arching up towards him, into the brush of his fingertips, and she nearly blushes at the unconsciousness of it.

"It's okay," she adds, her fingers snaking around the wrist of that hand to guide it into cupping her breast, her heartbeat quickening slightly as she does so. "I won't break."

"I know you won't," he says, kneading her breast gently, circling his thumb over the hard peak of her nipple.

"I know you won't," he whispers again, as he kisses her lips once more, before slowly kissing his way down her breastbone.

She arches into that touch again, the combination of mouth and hands, and sighs his name as his lips descend over her throat.

"Jack," she whispers - not out of any desire to deter him, only to encourage.

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