trigger_man | OOM: Night Before the Allpocalypse

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.

He can feel goosebumps break out on his skin as she draws her finger along one of his scars, as her lips brush the skin between his neck and shoulder.

There's still that tight knot of nervousness in his stomach, though he isn't even sure what he should be so nervous about. He knows, logically, that Beckett wouldn't be likely to recoil in horror; she's had a brief glimpse of his scars before, and she's a cop for fuck's sake. She sure as hell isn't some shrinking violet.

Maybe it was nervousness at his reaction, not hers. Nervous at willingly exposing himself to that kind of vulnerability, when it had been deeply ingrained in him that clothes were a kind of armor. That when he was no longer in China and had some kind of control over who could see him, much less touch him, it had been important to not allow himself to be that vulnerable again.

But even as he can still feel that knot in his stomach, he also feels a kind of pleasure and comfort, a warmth stealing through him, at feeling Beckett's gentle touch. He leans into it, resting his head against hers, one hand snaking through her hair and holding her close.

She's still responsive, skin long-starved and hungry for touch, and she doesn't fight the whimper as it comes, coaxed out through the tangle of his hand in her hair, his fingertips light and soothing against her scalp. His skin is warm under her lips, her own hand, and she nuzzles her cheek against his when he tilts his head closer, the hand that isn't occupied sliding around his waist until she has him cradled with that arm, leaving her other hand free to touch and explore.

Her fingertips find the muddled edges of a burn scar and graze over the surface, focusing less on the way it feels different from the rest of his skin and more on how it's a part of him now, the same way any of her scars are a part of her. Her lips, meanwhile, find the faint circle of a bullet wound, applying the softest amount of pressure in that kiss, one that lingers briefly before she pulls back, her hand sliding up to cup the back of his neck, drawing in to let her forehead nudge against his.

"Still good?" she whispers, her voice slightly husky. Her fingers are itching for more, but she refrains, curling them in against his hip.

He can't actually feel her touching some of his scars; the tissue damage is too deep, the nerve endings damaged or destroyed. But he can feel the heat of her skin radiating on his, knows what she's doing, and feels it deep down.

He nods, angling his head so he can kiss the outer shell of her ear.

"Yeah, still good."

"Good," she whispers, turning her head to find his mouth with her own in another slow kiss, swiveling her body over his to stretch out across the bed.

"Then maybe you won't mind a little lower, either," she murmurs, crawling down and picking up where she's left off, her mouth nipping at his abdomen.

"Maybe," he says, feeling...a little more tense as he lies back and watches her kiss her way down his stomach.

His chest and back aren't the only places he has scars and no one--no one, not even the doctors at CTU--have seen the ones lower down.

But he's trying not to think about that, trying not to get ahead of himself. Just focus on the moment right now; the touch of her lips on his skin, the soft brush of her hair on his stomach.

If she feels him tense under her lips, she does her best to soothe the feeling, taking her time and moving slowly, keeping the touch of her lips light and even.

As she slides her way back up to him, her mouth gently brushing over his, she lifts a hand up along the inside of his thigh, caressing higher but not just there yet. Not until she knows she can.

He can feel her hand creeping up his thigh through the material of his sweatpants, and while part of him wants her to keep going, there's part of him already remembering the last time someone touched him there. Remembering the prison infirmary, someone examining him after another round with an electric baton or hot poker, making sure there wasn't any real damage, or nothing that would prevent them from continuing another day.

He's not sure if it's her touch in general or her hand specifically, if the contact was with her lips or mouth, whether he would be having a different reaction.

It's only Beckett, you're fine, he thinks, repeating it over and over in his head. Concentrate on right now, not back then. It's working...kind of.

She breathes softly against his lips, nipping at the upper before flicking her tongue against the lower, her fingertips skimming the waistband of the sweatpants.

"If it helps," she murmurs, "you can touch me, too."

It might; at the very least it might serve as a distraction, and even if he gets too uncomfortable he can make sure things are good for her, at least.

He doesn't answer in words, as he's too busy capturing her mouth with his, tugging on her lower lip with his teeth. Instead, he lets his hands do the answering, slowly moving them down her belly to the closure at the waistband of her pants.

She gasps at the gentle pull on her lip, the contact harsh but not jarring, just enough for her to feel it in more places than one as she kisses him back.

She'll lift her hips to help him, once he's done with the button and the zipper; for now, she lets her hands gently move over his shoulders and arms, enjoying the feel of hard muscle under her fingertips.

He only fumbles with the button and zipper for a moment, before he can finally push her pants off her hips.

He can feel his hand shake a little as he skims it over the thin fabric covering the curve of her behind, over her hip, her thigh. Slowly, he moves up her inner thigh, relishing the softness of her skin until his fingers brush the damp fabric at the apex of her legs.

She's more exposed, more bare than she can remember being in a long time, but she doesn't shy away under his touch, her hands gently cupping his face as she leads him into a gentle kiss, promising and tender.

Her thighs part with a whisper of fabric and a soft wordless murmur against his mouth, and when she reaches down to touch him again, her fingertips mimic his, brushing up his inner thigh until she can feel him through the cotton of the sweats.

He tenses again as she touches him, fighting that instinctual urge to pull away. Instead he gives her a nudge to roll on her back. Maybe it will be easier, if she's not looming over him. He hopes so, at least, because behind that instinctual reaction that he can't quite resist, he really doesn't want to stop.

She rolls when he coaxes her, stretching out onto that side of the bed with a small accompanying shiver at the lack of body heat. It's not cold in the room by any means, but she can't help the goosebumps that rise on her skin.

"Is this better?" she murmurs, grinning up at him.

"A bit, yeah," he says softly, giving her a small smile before leaning in to kiss her again. Now that he can move away if he needs to, he can feel the knot deep in his stomach beginning to loosen.

Once they're settled, he glides his hand down her abdomen again, over her hip to the juncture of her thighs. His touch feather-soft at first, he starts to stroke her through the material of her panties as moves his kisses to her throat.

She swallows visibly, the next sound lost there as her eyes slowly fall shut, giving herself the freedom to focus in without the distraction of sight, concentrating solely on the touch of his hand, his lips, both drawing that fire within her to new heights.

"Jack," she breathes, a quiet utterance of his name, a hitch in breath punctuating the single word as the brush of fingers between her thighs sends her trembling.

He doesn't need to ask her if what he's doing works for her; he can feel as much as hear the hitch in her breath, feel the shiver that goes through her.

He begins to stroke a little harder, slowly moving elastic and fabric aside until he can dip his fingers between her folds.

Her breath catches again - once, then a second time when he parts the fabric away from her skin to touch her - and her hand clutches at his bicep, gently squeezing.

If anything, the anticipation has only made her need for him more obvious, and she blushes at the fact that he can feel it for himself now, whimpering through her gasps.

She's not the only one whose breath is catching in their throat; every whimper, every movement of her hips under his hand makes him more and more aroused. He'd forgotten how this felt, the deep burn of pure want deep inside.

His mouth moves lower, over her collarbone, over the curve of her breasts. He takes the nipple in his mouth, sucking gently, as he finds the hard bead of her clitoris, slowly circling it with his thumb.

She feels like she needs to do more, wants to do more, but then he brings his mouth low to her breast and all coherent thought leaves her brain for a moment as she gives in, to everything she's feeling.

There's nothing hasty or rushed about this. He takes his time, and she wills herself to lay back, to enjoy it, even if every instinct she has is screaming for more.

He drags his teeth against her nipple, flicks it with his tongue, as his hand strokes up and down her slick folds. He circles her clit for a moment, before moving away, not wanting to push her too high too quickly.

He has no problem concentrating on her for now; he wants her to give in, to hear her gasp and moan. Wants to give her all the pleasure he can.

He teases her for another minute before his fingers find her entrance. As his thumb rubs her clitoris, he slowly pushes one finger inside her.

Her response is another gasp, a quiet moan, and her fingers slide up along his back into the short strands of his hair, gently massaging his scalp.

It's been a long time, a long damn time, but there's no resistance at the nudge of his finger when it slides in slick, her arousal making it more than easy as she clutches at him, his name falling from her lips in a near-whine.

He starts to stroke in and out of the wet warmth of her, first one finger, then two, and he can feel the heat building in his groin as he moves. His hand feels rough against her softness and he tries not to rub too hard, trying to judge what's a pleasant friction and what's too rough for her most sensitive spots.

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