weaponwithoutpurpose

weaponwithoutpurpose

voice . text . video . action

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From:

handleyourshit

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.

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

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.

From:

handleyourshit

"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.

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

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?"

From:

handleyourshit

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?

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

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.

From:

handleyourshit

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?"

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

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?"

From:

handleyourshit

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?"

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

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."

From:

handleyourshit

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.

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

"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.

From:

handleyourshit

"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.

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

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.

From:

handleyourshit

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."

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

"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.

From:

handleyourshit

He says that, then doesn't say something else, then fidgets. Her eyes trail over him - beautiful, a body she desires and a body she can trust because she can see mapped in front of her every step he's taken in his life - and she tilts her head to consider.

"Tell me what you're thinking?" she bids him as she comes around in front again. "You can say no."

The sound of laces being pulled - the soft thump of boots hitting the floor somewhere out of the way.

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

He shakes his head, eyes still closed. "I know I can." That's important, he thinks, to say. He does flinch at the sound of the thump, out of sight, but it's almost involuntary; he doesn't seem to notice.

"It ain't that. It's - I never cared about what I looked like before. Just - seems like a lie when you like looking at me, even though I know it's not."

From:

handleyourshit

"That's what I like," she answers, reaching forward to lay her palm across his chest. Over his heart.

She leaves it there as she carefully insinuates herself into the space in front of him, uses her other hand to move first one of his, then the other, back up to her hips. Even blind he'll notice that there's much more skin available to him now: she's still wearing her pants, but her shirt is gone.

"People who only care about what they look like are nice to look at, but there's nothing underneath. You're... you, Jacob. You're the man you are, no more, no less," she murmurs as she slides across his lap, letting him steady her, letting body heat collect between them where they touch and where they don't.

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

He draws her in as soon as he can touch, but doesn't dare move his hand to explore any more than what she's given him now.

"Don't know how to be anyone else," he tells her, raising his head up towards her voice. "You're a goddamn goddess to me sometimes, you know. Like you fell right out of a real good dream I had once." He shifts underneath her, wanting more but enjoying where they're at right now.

From:

handleyourshit

She settles, legs hooked outside his, and for a moment she's glad for the willing blindfold, too; she has no idea what her face is doing when he says that, and for a moment she doesn't know how to even respond. She doesn't have to, though, and she gives herself the time to kiss his collarbone, a scar on his shoulder, the center of his chest. To reach up and pull her fingers through his hair again, unobstructed by the blindfold this time.

"I'm just me," she finally says, like a helpless shrug. "Same as you."

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

"No, I mean it," he says, his fingers lightly pressing against the skin more freely this time. "You blew me off the last time I said it but it's the same now."

He keeps his chin tilted back, his chest tight against him.

From:

handleyourshit

"Because like you said - feels like a lie," she manages.

Rosita Espinosa, you are damn near perfection.

"It's the kind of shit people usually say to me when they want me to ignore something else. Like that they're thinking of someone else."

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

"Yeah, well, I ain't thinking of anyone else. Just you, Ro. And you - fuck, you do so much for me, you know." He taps his fingers against her skin, obeying the rules, even now, because this doesn't feel any less intimate than sex.

"Maybe you don't know."

From:

handleyourshit

She's torn. She didn't mean to lead them to this in particular, but she wasn't completely clueless, was she? She knew the direction she was headed in. She knew the hunch she had.

"You can touch," she stalls, releasing his hands back to whatever he wants to do with them, anyway. Tipping her hips forward anyway, seating them more closely together.

"I'm just me. Same as you," is what she ends up repeating, because that, too, is true.