With her bag packed and over her shoulder, it's hard not to tug him out the door and rush them along to his cabin.
"Good." It also helps to know how secretive she needs to be.
"I don't know how things works here, with you being a warden, and me not being, and I don't want to get you in trouble. If people even care about that stuff? So just- however you want to do this." A pause. "But if it's up to me I don't want to pretend, I don't want to not be able to dance with you at parties."
He hadn't actually thought about that at all, maybe because he just barely thinks of her as an inmate, and he does have to pause for a second. His first instinct is to say fuck anyone who cares, too, but being an asshole to everyone else on the ship hadn't worked out well for him when he'd first gotten here, and it probably won't now. His brow furrows. Would they really have a problem with it? Jesus.
"I don't want to pretend, either," he decides -- or makes plain, really, because he already knew that much. "But maybe, um... lemme talk to some people, see what we'd be, like, in for and all. Okay? Is that cool?"
"I can live with that," she agrees. Right now she'd be content to live with a lot of things as long as she gets all of this, too. "I might tell my friend, but not your name or anything. Just...you know. That I'm happy."
"Yeah." He brings the back of her hand up to press his lips to it with fierce affection. He doesn't want to put her through too many compromises, but he already knows -- he's sure she already knows -- that between his demons and her demons, there will be some big ones somewhere. He's grateful that she's taking the initial hurdles well. He's relieved, if still sort of shocked in the depths of his soul, that he's still making her happy.
"Maybe say it's a warden -- see what she says," he suggests. "Test things out."
He lets go of her hand as they walk out the door, but it doesn't take him long to realize that the halls are basically deserted with everyone still upstairs. By the time they get to the elevator, his fingers are twined with hers, and he leans in for a kiss once the doors are shut. "No mistletoe," he mutters against her lips.
Annie realizes now that she has never had anyone kiss her hand, that with all the soft affection her packmates had given her they weren't like this. And to be fair, she was never this clear-eyed about how much she wants it with anyone before this. Her love has always been deep, but it was always hazy.
"I'll tell you what she says," she murmurs, pink in the ears, delighted.
The elevator, though, she knows the elevator. She wonders what he'd think if he knew how often she'd let her mind drift between these doors, back to a Herculean effort on her part to maintain boundaries. "D'you know what I wanted to do with you in here? Had nothing to do with mistletoe," she croons, and kisses him deeper.
"I think I've got some idea," he murmurs when they part again, his hands falling to her hips. He knows what he'd wanted, and he remembers the look in her eye well enough. She'd looked like she was barely restraining herself from begging to be pinned against the wall; the memory of it sends a shiver down his spine.
If this was any other time but their first, his hand would already be on the STOP button. Instead, he kisses her again, then ducks his head to kiss along her neck, a hint of a smirk on his lips that can just be felt. "But do you wanna show me now, or later...?"
She tips her head back and moans in a quiet, breathless way to let him know that the question is in no way fair.
"The only reason I'm saying later is 'cause I'm not going to rush this and people pounding on the elevator would kill my mood." She has a scar on her throat, and when he gets close to it her grip on him tightens. She's anticipating it panicking her, but it doesn't. Not as badly as she'd feared, anyway, not with how gentle his lips are on her skin.
"Do you think we'll make it all the way to your bed?"
"I'll do my best..." he rumbles against her skin, but he's genuinely not promising anything. His place is much bigger than Elizabeth's, and the bed is allll the way at the end.
He does at least reluctantly break away when the elevator doors open so they can make it as far as his cabin. His door probably isn't what most people would pick out for him: highly polished and fitted with brass and iron trim, it looks like it belongs to an upper-middle-class suburbanite more than a former drug kingpin. The cabin inside is much the same: a huge, high-ceilinged front room with a fireplace, a staircase branching off to lead to what looks like at least part of an entire house.
"Bedroom's upstairs," Jesse confirms as he closes the door behind them and turns to reach for her once more. There's almost no furniture in this foyer room, but what is there -- a weirdly shabby futon and some chairs for the massive entertainment center at the end -- at least looks comfortable.
Annie has only been in a place this nice once in her life. It had been among the worst experiences of her life, and at first it reminds her that yeah. Jesse made his money the same way.
(Not the same way, though, she remembers, relieved all over again by his assurance that he would not have let her brothers die and he would not have traded her life around.)
She sees that futon and grins, presses against him again, kisses him like he's asked her to wait a year for what she wants.
"Silly," she purrs, "why would you put your bed so far away from me?"
She works her hands under his shirt. Wherever they end up, that shirt won't be coming with them.
He answers with something between a laugh and a moan, stealing a quick, hungry kiss before he actually replies: "Really bad planning?" He sheds his leather jacket and lets it fall with a heavy thump to the floor, hesitates -- but only briefly -- before he helps her get his shirt off.
He might hesitate longer if he didn't know she's already seen the rest of him. There are the tattoos, of course, front and back -- but there are also more scars, not as readily visible as the ones on his face, but easily found by touch. They seem to be mostly clustered around the base of his ribs and his kidneys, as if something had hit his stomach and back repeatedly.
Annie's fingers don't hitch when she touches his scars. She glides her hands as eagerly over them as she does the smooth muscles of his back, his chest. She has seen them before; it helps.
Besides, she has her own that she's hoping he remembers and won't linger on. Hers are ugly, badly keloided scars at her hip, the back of one thigh, her ribs right beside one breast, and of course the one on her neck. She doesn't know what gave Jesse his; except for the one on her leg, hers are very clearly from dogs.
She doesn't let go of him, even when she takes a step back into the room. "Pick a number, one two or three," she urges him breathlessly.
It's a good distraction from the fact that this is the first time he's been touched this way as himself since the pit -- the first time he's felt hands on those angry ridges of scar tissue and known, with the painful clarity of still-recent memory, what put them there. He moves with her, holding her close, and closes his eyes briefly, letting her warmth and her heat both envelop him.
He finds a smile there. "Um-- three," he tries cluelessly. He runs his hands up and down her sides, similarly unflinching when he runs up against the scar on her ribs. "What do I win?"
Annie wanders around in a bikini and considers that a good compromise for the fact she'd really rather be naked; she's used to people seeing her scars. She isn't used to someone she wants to stay with noticing them. Somehow, the distinction draws a shiver and she lifts up onto her tiptoes, kisses him slowly until she isn't thinking about pain at all anymore.
"The bed," she murmurs smartly against his lips. "Number one was the elevator, and that's so far it makes the bed feel close."
She slips a hand down into his and leads him--half running, laughing--up the stairs.
He doesn't laugh, but he damn well near sprints, and as soon they hit the top of the stairs and the open door to the bedroom he catches her around the waist and pulls her to him for an electric, hungry, full-body kiss, the kind that molds their bodies together and leaves sparks everywhere they touch.
Given how rarely she dresses up and how beautiful she looks tonight, he could probably stand to be gentler with her dress, but right now all he's thinking is that she usually wears clothes with more obvious points of entry. He puts off looking for the zipper after all of one second and just scoops her up dress and all, his hands beneath her thighs, pulling her legs around his waist so he can carry her -- cracking a grin now, maybe even a laugh -- to the bed.
Annie loves this dress, and if Jesse had been any easier to pursue she might have protested. As it is, she doesn't even notice, and when he sets her on the bed she arches up and strips it off in one go, then uses her legs to pull Jesse to her.
She realizes then she's never heard him laugh before, not when he was himself.
Even Jesse can only be so dour at a time like this. He's had sex that wasn't actually any fun before, but let it not be that way with Annie. Not stunning, sweet, stubborn, imperfect Annie, who grabs him while he's still wrangling his last sock and gets a real laugh this time in return, whose scarred neck he eagerly returns his attentions to as he leans over her.
She deserves -- fuck it, they both do, or at least she deserves and he needs -- a few moments of real, actual release; the kind that takes another person to get.
She keeps her legs around him, not the way she would if she feared he might leave; more like the way she would if she had fantasized about this exact position a few times before.
The first time he'd touched her scar she'd gone a little stiff, shivered a little. It's entirely different now, feeling the brush of his beard and the warmth of his mouth, and she moans quietly. She slips both hands between them, one stroking him, one stroking herself.
He shudders, his breath hitching hot against her throat. Despite all the angst it had caused, it's probably a good thing they slept together the first time, and not only because it's eventually brought them back here: it's been long enough since he was last touched that between the physical need and the emotional weight of it, he might not otherwise make it very far into this. As it is, the sensation is intense enough to catch him by surprise.
He shifts his weight to one arm, his other hand running down her body to join hers between her legs. "Show me something you like," he suggests in a whisper, his lips moving over her jaw.
She almost says This, and just that, because otherwise it's breaking this into smaller pieces: she likes the way her feet feel running along the backs of his calves, she likes the way she can tip her head back to let him have her jaw, her throat, ever vulnerable part of her. She likes that she isn't afraid of the weight of him on her.
But then she guides his hand, shows him that if he moves his fingers just so, she will gasp and arch her back ever so slightly. She'll do that every time, more eagerly the more his touch curves to fit her.
"Like that," she whispers, her free hand kneading helplessly against his back. "Keep doing that, just like that-"
Just like that, she says, and she will discover before long that he is very, very good at taking orders. That he likes taking orders, when they're her orders.
He smiles at this one and does just as he's told, his normally fidgeting fingers moving steady for her. "Like that?" he breathes, though he's making his way back to her lips, and he captures them before she can answer properly.
When she realizes, it will settle something inside of her, like the edges of two cracks shifting down against each other to make one surface. Annie isn't much like other wolf girls, but one thing they all have is a pleasure in being heard, in being with someone who would do what she says just for her pleasure. It's what allows her to turn around and help lead, help patch the holes that life has carved into her packmates.
"Tell me what you like," she pleads softly, like knowing what he craves is what she needs to be able to finish, even with the way her hips are writhing against his hand and her breathing has turned sharp, desperate.
"I want you to ride me," he murmurs into her ear without much hesitation, like that's been on the top of his list for a while. He doesn't know why, but he knows there's something about a woman getting on top, taking charge, giving directions, that drives him crazy. Maybe that's one of the reasons he's so drawn to Annie: he's always been able to sense the strength in her, the part of her that's known exactly what she wanted all along and refused to back down from it, and the other side of her appeals to the other side of him that needs someone to take care of.
Not that he's thinking about it that coherently right now. Right now, he's just trying to pick the best out of all the things he's fantasized about with her. "I want to taste you," he adds breathlessly, his eyes glittering when he looks down at her.
Annie is perfectly capable of silent sex, of keeping even her breathing hushed. But she's not bothering with that now, not when she's spent so much time thinking about this. She responds to his requests with a gasp and a low sound, and realizes as much as she'd already wanted him, the way he's looking down at her now is so much better.
And he's listening to her, which gives her the freedom to be very blunt about what she needs.
"Do it," she urges, kisses him, "Keep fingering me but taste me, and then I'm going to ride you till you collapse."
He's good with the blunt. He loves the blunt. He practically growls in response to it, kissing her hungrily in turn -- although he keeps it brief so he can get to actually carrying out the order. He has to stop touching her for a moment to readjust, but he traces a line of equally hungry kisses over her skin as he moves down her body to settle between her legs.
He groans when he first tastes her, instantly intoxicated. There's nothing tentative about his movements, no hesitation other than a split-second of silent prayer; he used to be really good at this, he knows, and he can only pray that he's still got it even if he's rusty. He knows she'd forgive him, knows she knows it's been a while, but he doesn't want to need forgiveness -- he wants to earn her presence here in his bed. He sets to earnestly, fingers and lips and tongue moving in eager sync.
She'll reflect later, when her head isn't buzzing with stimulation, that there are very few things that can make her feel more wanted than this. She scrapes her nails lightly over his scalp, and she tries very hard not to cry out too loud.
She ends up biting her fist and her arm and the pillow, and still Jesse will get a litany of praise and pleading and coaxing, and she claps a hand over her mouth to smother anything louder.
One of her legs has wrapped around him, pulling him insistently closer and then keeping him with her while she shivers with release.
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"Good." It also helps to know how secretive she needs to be.
"I don't know how things works here, with you being a warden, and me not being, and I don't want to get you in trouble. If people even care about that stuff? So just- however you want to do this." A pause. "But if it's up to me I don't want to pretend, I don't want to not be able to dance with you at parties."
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"I don't want to pretend, either," he decides -- or makes plain, really, because he already knew that much. "But maybe, um... lemme talk to some people, see what we'd be, like, in for and all. Okay? Is that cool?"
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She slips her hand in his. "Okay?"
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"Maybe say it's a warden -- see what she says," he suggests. "Test things out."
He lets go of her hand as they walk out the door, but it doesn't take him long to realize that the halls are basically deserted with everyone still upstairs. By the time they get to the elevator, his fingers are twined with hers, and he leans in for a kiss once the doors are shut. "No mistletoe," he mutters against her lips.
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"I'll tell you what she says," she murmurs, pink in the ears, delighted.
The elevator, though, she knows the elevator. She wonders what he'd think if he knew how often she'd let her mind drift between these doors, back to a Herculean effort on her part to maintain boundaries. "D'you know what I wanted to do with you in here? Had nothing to do with mistletoe," she croons, and kisses him deeper.
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If this was any other time but their first, his hand would already be on the STOP button. Instead, he kisses her again, then ducks his head to kiss along her neck, a hint of a smirk on his lips that can just be felt. "But do you wanna show me now, or later...?"
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"The only reason I'm saying later is 'cause I'm not going to rush this and people pounding on the elevator would kill my mood." She has a scar on her throat, and when he gets close to it her grip on him tightens. She's anticipating it panicking her, but it doesn't. Not as badly as she'd feared, anyway, not with how gentle his lips are on her skin.
"Do you think we'll make it all the way to your bed?"
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He does at least reluctantly break away when the elevator doors open so they can make it as far as his cabin. His door probably isn't what most people would pick out for him: highly polished and fitted with brass and iron trim, it looks like it belongs to an upper-middle-class suburbanite more than a former drug kingpin. The cabin inside is much the same: a huge, high-ceilinged front room with a fireplace, a staircase branching off to lead to what looks like at least part of an entire house.
"Bedroom's upstairs," Jesse confirms as he closes the door behind them and turns to reach for her once more. There's almost no furniture in this foyer room, but what is there -- a weirdly shabby futon and some chairs for the massive entertainment center at the end -- at least looks comfortable.
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his money the same way.
(Not the same way, though, she remembers, relieved all over again by his assurance that he would not have let her brothers die and he would not have traded her life around.)
She sees that futon and grins, presses against him again, kisses him like he's asked her to wait a year for what she wants.
"Silly," she purrs, "why would you put your bed so far away from me?"
She works her hands under his shirt. Wherever they end up, that shirt won't be coming with them.
cw implication of torture
He might hesitate longer if he didn't know she's already seen the rest of him. There are the tattoos, of course, front and back -- but there are also more scars, not as readily visible as the ones on his face, but easily found by touch. They seem to be mostly clustered around the base of his ribs and his kidneys, as if something had hit his stomach and back repeatedly.
cw implication of torture
Besides, she has her own that she's hoping he remembers and won't linger on. Hers are ugly, badly keloided scars at her hip, the back of one thigh, her ribs right beside one breast, and of course the one on her neck. She doesn't know what gave Jesse his; except for the one on her leg, hers are very clearly from dogs.
She doesn't let go of him, even when she takes a step back into the room. "Pick a number, one two or three," she urges him breathlessly.
cw implication of torture
He finds a smile there. "Um-- three," he tries cluelessly. He runs his hands up and down her sides, similarly unflinching when he runs up against the scar on her ribs. "What do I win?"
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"The bed," she murmurs smartly against his lips. "Number one was the elevator, and that's so far it makes the bed feel close."
She slips a hand down into his and leads him--half running, laughing--up the stairs.
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Given how rarely she dresses up and how beautiful she looks tonight, he could probably stand to be gentler with her dress, but right now all he's thinking is that she usually wears clothes with more obvious points of entry. He puts off looking for the zipper after all of one second and just scoops her up dress and all, his hands beneath her thighs, pulling her legs around his waist so he can carry her -- cracking a grin now, maybe even a laugh -- to the bed.
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She realizes then she's never heard him laugh before, not when he was himself.
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She deserves -- fuck it, they both do, or at least she deserves and he needs -- a few moments of real, actual release; the kind that takes another person to get.
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The first time he'd touched her scar she'd gone a little stiff, shivered a little. It's entirely different now, feeling the brush of his beard and the warmth of his mouth, and she moans quietly. She slips both hands between them, one stroking him, one stroking herself.
oh right this got nsfw a minute ago
He shifts his weight to one arm, his other hand running down her body to join hers between her legs. "Show me something you like," he suggests in a whisper, his lips moving over her jaw.
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But then she guides his hand, shows him that if he moves his fingers just so, she will gasp and arch her back ever so slightly. She'll do that every time, more eagerly the more his touch curves to fit her.
"Like that," she whispers, her free hand kneading helplessly against his back. "Keep doing that, just like that-"
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He smiles at this one and does just as he's told, his normally fidgeting fingers moving steady for her. "Like that?" he breathes, though he's making his way back to her lips, and he captures them before she can answer properly.
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"Tell me what you like," she pleads softly, like knowing what he craves is what she needs to be able to finish, even with the way her hips are writhing against his hand and her breathing has turned sharp, desperate.
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Not that he's thinking about it that coherently right now. Right now, he's just trying to pick the best out of all the things he's fantasized about with her. "I want to taste you," he adds breathlessly, his eyes glittering when he looks down at her.
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And he's listening to her, which gives her the freedom to be very blunt about what she needs.
"Do it," she urges, kisses him, "Keep fingering me but taste me, and then I'm going to ride you till you collapse."
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He groans when he first tastes her, instantly intoxicated. There's nothing tentative about his movements, no hesitation other than a split-second of silent prayer; he used to be really good at this, he knows, and he can only pray that he's still got it even if he's rusty. He knows she'd forgive him, knows she knows it's been a while, but he doesn't want to need forgiveness -- he wants to earn her presence here in his bed. He sets to earnestly, fingers and lips and tongue moving in eager sync.
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She ends up biting her fist and her arm and the pillow, and still Jesse will get a litany of praise and pleading and coaxing, and she claps a hand over her mouth to smother anything louder.
One of her legs has wrapped around him, pulling him insistently closer and then keeping him with her while she shivers with release.
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