trigger_man | OOM: Night Before the Allpocalypse

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.

He's pretty sure he can figure out the meaning behind that single word from the way it's said.

He dots kisses across her skin, strokes and kneads with his hand, trying not to think too hard or worry too much and just let his instincts lead.

"I think it's about time this came off. You?" he asks, moving his hand from her breast to tug her bra strap off her shoulders.

"If you say so," she slyly replies, shrugging her shoulder when he tugs the strap down over it.

Inevitably, she has to reach behind her back to unfasten the clasp, and as she pulls it down, she averts her gaze, suddenly feeling more exposed now than ever.

"Hey," Jack says, kissing the corner of her mouth. "You okay with this?"

"It's okay," she promises, fighting back the heat in her cheeks even as she turns her head to catch his lips directly.

"It's been a while for me, too."

"We don't have to go any farther than you want, either," he says with a soft smile.

"You've gotten pretty far already, Jack," she teases, rolling them over to sprawl out over him, cupping his face in one hand.

"You sure you want to turn back now?"

"No, but that doesn't mean we have to." He kisses her again, running his fingers along her ribcage. "Just remember that."

Picking up where he left off, he starts to kiss his way back down her breastbone.

The drinks have that heady effect on her system, but not enough to cloud her judgment. She's very aware of what he's doing in the moment, her hands lightly running over his arms before one gently nudges through his hair, soft and encouraging.

"I'll try, but you're being very distracting," she sighs.

"Good." Distraction is something they both need, tonight.

He skates his hand across her skin, until he can cup the curve of her breast in his palm, his thumb arcing over the nipple. At the same time, his mouth moves lower, lower, until he takes her other nipple into his mouth and sucks it gently.

Between mouth and fingers, his touch there is like a direct line to the place between her legs, making her tremble in answer and arch reflexively, her fingertips briefly digging into his shoulder before she wills herself to relax.

"Sorry," she murmurs. "Feels really good."

"Good," he says, and means it. He wants it to feel good for her, and it helps to know that he hasn't reverted to a fumbling teenager.

Besides, it's pretty good for him, too, as is becoming more physically apparent every minute. It's been a really long time since he's had that reaction, with the feelings of arousal that come with it.

She smiles, mostly to herself - but the expression is still fairly apparent if he happens to look up at this point.

A part of her enjoys knowing she's having this effect on him too. Her own skin feels flushed, her breathing coming a little quicker as she runs her hands over him, tilting her chin to find his mouth in another kiss.

He can feel as much as hear every breath she takes, and it's that as well as a hundred other little noises--the rustle of clothing, the light rasp of skin in skin as she moves her hands on him, the sound of their lips meeting--that are getting more aroused than he's felt in a long time. She's not the only one feeling a little out of breath.

He shifts on his knees, straddling one of her legs so he can reach her mouth for another kiss, thumb flicking across her nipple again, circling it.

She's got both hands under the back of his shirt now, but reduces her touch to little more than a soft ghosting of palms, her fingertips forming light pressure points as she feels the hard line of his shoulders for herself.

The fabric of the shirt bunches at her wrists and she withdraws to find the hem, giving it a small tug in silent request.

He feels the tug on the hem of his shirt, feels an answering tug of nervousness in the pit of his stomach and for a moment, the the ease of his movements falters.

He's not sure he's ready for this, but then he's pretty sure that he never will be; that no matter how long he waits, this will never be easy. Exposing himself by choice for that first time will always be a Big Step, but he hates the fear more than the step itself. He doesn't want to live in the prison in his head any longer, and he doesn't want to spend what might be the last night of his life shackled by it.

He pulls back just far enough that he can pull his shirt over his head and toss it on the bed, exposing his scars in the light of the lamp. There are burns--chemical, thermal, electrical--in irregular-shaped patches on his chest. There are cuts, some straight, some ragged. Not all of them are from China; there are some cuts and even a couple bullet wounds that are much older.

For as much as he doesn't want his experiences to bind him any longer, though, he can't quite meet Beckett's eyes once his shirt is off.

She remembers the first glance she'd gotten - purely accidental, but it hadn't been any less of a surprise, remnants of torture starkly contrasting the normal tones of his skin. Those scars are no less obvious now, but she's expecting them this time, prepared for them. She isn't going to shy away from looking at them, touching them. The man beneath is stronger than the exterior, and she won't hesitate in proving that to him.

She sits up when he does, pushing her weight up on one hand. Her gaze finds his before it's averted and then drops, her fingertips finding the long lines of an old knife wound as she tips her head down, pressing a kiss to the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder, her lips moving as her hand does, light and careful.

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