Jacob Seed

She touches him finally and he feels a pleasant shudder fall along his back. Oh - he's in trouble, he thinks, and he doesn't want to be anywhere else.

He raises his hand, just slightly, then stops himself before returning it down to its original position.

"Yeah? What do you like?"

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You care about the people you care about.

...I've argued against freeing slaves because I didn't know them and it was a waste of time, Jacob. I'm not going to give you a slap on the wrist for ethical inconsistency.

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Maybe I just want to talk this shit out with someone I trust.

How do people stand to give a shit about every person they see?

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She doesn't reprimand him when he moves his hand, but she does stop moving herself entirely until he's replaced it.

"Good," she praises, affectionate, and goes back to tugging the bottom of his shirt free.

"I like this. Getting to call the shots, the challenge of making it good." She indulges in tracing the muscles of his arms, follows one all the way down to put his left hand back up on her hip again.

"But I've got a sub streak, too," she admits, sliding one of her legs over his, front to front.

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It is criminal the way he responds to that praise. She says 'good' and he's absolute putty in her hands. He wasn't comfortable before; now he's loose and alert, eager to please.

He squeezes her hip gently in response, leaning back in quiet and delightful agony.

"Yeah? Where do you hide it?" he teases lightly.

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"Somewhere safe," she breathes, pleased by what she sees. Pleased that her hunch was right, and knowing she has to be so, so careful here.

She slides the inside of her thigh right down the outside of his, changing her mind from her original thought to straddle his lap, letting his hand trail where it will as she sinks down to her knees between his feet.

"It's not for everyone, after all." She drapes one arm across his lap, setting her chin on it, and guiding his hand over to kiss his palm before bringing it to her cheek.

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He can sense the shape of her based on those touches. He's memorized her face, the way she feels under his touch, and he uses that now to imagine. She slides down and he sits up, brishing his fingers along soft skin when she lets him touch her again.

"No, it ain't. Gotta do it right, I guess. What do you like about it?"

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[Immediately, his mind goes to Wyll and Karlach. How do they manage to be....like that?]

I think they're raised that way. And it's something to do with a sense of...I don't know, some justice existing in the world. Doing unto others and all that nonsense.

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The position itself is, of course, suggestive; so often, sex is the easiest - or perhaps just most common - form of intimacy, but she doesn't reach for his belt buckle, doesn't reach for his zipper even if her fingers do idly trace his inseam from time to time. She leans her face into his touch, and she leans against his leg, and she lets his touch wander uncurbed.

"Submission in this context can't be forced. It can only be gifted, and it can be taken away at a word." Somewhere in her circling outside of his perception, she let her hair down from its ponytail and it hangs loose around her shoulders now. "So if I've given someone that control over me, I feel safe with them. I know they'll take care of me. I trust them not to hurt me."

And those are all things that are markedly absent from her life at present, aren't they?

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He can feel her hair by his fingers and he trails idly around the back of her neck, testing boundaries as much as he is simply enjoying the warmth and pressure of her against him.

"There anyone you trust that much?" he asks because he knows the answer is no for the Barge but - he doesn't know who she had at home other than the one asshole she mentioned.

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The Golden Rule. It comes up everywhere at home. Not surprised you have it, too.

You think it's nonsense?

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I think it's a good way to be taken advantage of.

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She slides her hand up, underneath his shirt, finding the skin of his abdomen to trace nonsense patterns on with her fingertips.

"There was once," she admits. She reaches back and puts her hand over his, not pulling his away, but halting the forward motion where it is. "Might be again. You applying?"

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He doesn't push any farther, choosing instead to return back to her cheek. "Thinking about it," he says honestly. "Think I'd make the cut?"

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She smiles, murmurs "Good" again into the heel of his hand when she turns her head to kiss it, and then leans back out of reach on her way back to her feet.

"I think I wouldn't have said anything if I didn't think you would. More? Or did I make my point?"

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He lets his hands fall back to his lap.

"You made your point," he says, in a half daze, a little delirious with it. There's nothing in the room now, save her. Nothing in his world matters more right now. "But you can make it as much as you want."

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She hums softly, considering. She lets her boots sound on the floor, strolling back around behind him again.

"Close your eyes for me," she decides. She gives him a moment to comply, and then she's reaching for the knot she tied with the blindfold. "Keep them closed until I say. Can you do that?"

She pulls the shirt away, drops it to the floor. Her hands slide down the front of his shoulders from where she's standing, finding their way under his shirt, nails crooking into his skin without digging in at all.

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Maybe so.

Fuck.

I'll still see you tonight. I might go for a run or something first. After I see Norton.

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"Yeah," he answers, and his eyes are shut when she takes the blindfold off. He straightens under her touch, the sensation almost too much in the best way.

"Do I get my hands back?" he asks to keep himself sane.

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"Nope," she answers, popping the consonant just a bit, pulling her nails back up to his shoulders.

"Leave them right where they are. Just like that," she fills in when she steps back, makes no effort to hide the rustle of fabric again somewhere behind him.

The next time she touches him, it's her mouth on the side of his neck, her tongue hot and warm and her lips sealing to suck too gently to bruise, but intently nonetheless.

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All right.

Take care, Jacob.

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It feels so passive to be this way, to do this, to experience and not give.

"Cruel," he teases, keeping alert for what she's doing or where she might go next.

But then her mouth is on him and he grips the fabric of his trousers, squeezing his eyes shut. Nevertheless, he leans into her slightly, a soft moan escaping his lips.

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Oh, she likes that. She likes that a lot, and instead of responding right away, she keeps doing what she's doing while her hands slide back down his front to find the bottom of his shirt to work it up as far as she can without him lifting his arms to help.

"Would it be crueller if I just wanted to look at you?" she asks, head still bent close enough that the ends of her hair brush his newly bared skin, and she blows softly over the wet spot she just left, cooling what she heated.

"Finish taking care of that shirt for me, will you?" she asks, trailing back around in front of him. "It's obstructing my view."

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"Yeah, it would," he answers with absolutely no opposition in his tone.

This is actual trust, he tells himself. A small drop of it, at least, to dilute the small voice in his head telling him that this is all just some sort of prank.

He slides off his fatigues and the t-shirt next, letting them fall to the floor. He bites back a self-depricating comment, scratching a nervous itch on his elbow before he lays his hands on his thighs again.

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