OOM: Night Before the Allpocalypse

[trigger_man]

 It's quieter in the upstairs hallway, and there's less evidence of impending disaster up here. It's almost enough to allow you to forget what's going on downstairs, or to write it off.

Almost. Not quite.

Jack turns to Beckett as they reach his room.  "You want to come in for one more drink?"

He doesn't want to say it out loud, but there's a part of him that doesn't want to be alone just yet.

Comments

[fanofthegenre]

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.

[trigger_man]

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.

[fanofthegenre]

"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.

[trigger_man]

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

[fanofthegenre]

"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."

[trigger_man]

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

[fanofthegenre]

"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?"

[trigger_man]

"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.

[fanofthegenre]

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.

[trigger_man]

"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.

[fanofthegenre]

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."

[trigger_man]

"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.

[fanofthegenre]

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.

[trigger_man]

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.

[fanofthegenre]

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.

[trigger_man]

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.

[fanofthegenre]

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.

[trigger_man]

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.

[fanofthegenre]

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.

[trigger_man]

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."

[fanofthegenre]

"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.

[trigger_man]

"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.

[fanofthegenre]

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.

[trigger_man]

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.

[fanofthegenre]

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."