[The mention of breathplay, oddly, makes something sharp and cold drop into the pit of his stomach — unpleasant, or at least that's the easiest immediate explanation. But he could brush aside the unpleasantness just as easily, could lift his chin and bear up and endure something like that, and that's what makes him sit with it a little further, a little quieter, thinking and thinking about the idea of limits.
He thinks about Tseng's fingers wrapped in black leather, caressing his throat like the handle of a gun. That's...attractive, and prompts an involuntarily shiver that he catalogues without letting himself read too much into it. He thinks about Tseng over him to do it, crowding him in, close enough to steal all the air between them because Rufus wasn't using it himself. That's...compelling, too.
But then he thinks of force on his neck, of darkness at the edges of his vision, of struggling and kicking while the world turned blurred and narrow around him, and...
He takes a deeper breath than he expects to. Lets it out again, slow.
Tseng likes breathplay. He's not sure if he does. And maybe he would, maybe he could, but he's not — sure.]
I think I wouldn't mind watching you do that. To someone.
I don't think I want you to do it to me.
[Strange, how hard that was, and then suddenly it wasn't.]
Are you afraid of hurting me?
[Tseng's turn to field the possibility of a difficult, uncomfortable truth, now.]
no subject
He thinks about Tseng's fingers wrapped in black leather, caressing his throat like the handle of a gun. That's...attractive, and prompts an involuntarily shiver that he catalogues without letting himself read too much into it. He thinks about Tseng over him to do it, crowding him in, close enough to steal all the air between them because Rufus wasn't using it himself. That's...compelling, too.
But then he thinks of force on his neck, of darkness at the edges of his vision, of struggling and kicking while the world turned blurred and narrow around him, and...
He takes a deeper breath than he expects to. Lets it out again, slow.
Tseng likes breathplay. He's not sure if he does. And maybe he would, maybe he could, but he's not — sure.]
I think I wouldn't mind watching you do that. To someone.
I don't think I want you to do it to me.
[Strange, how hard that was, and then suddenly it wasn't.]
Are you afraid of hurting me?
[Tseng's turn to field the possibility of a difficult, uncomfortable truth, now.]