[Like piecing together a puzzle, the consistencies in what Tseng says and what he's said before align into a picture. Not a clear one, and not one that's always easy to parse, but one with structure and foundations — with predictability. He'd said before, the subordinate is the one with the power; for all that he might not be ready or comfortable with applying that label to himself, it's clear in Tseng's approach that it holds true from his perspective. He doesn't talk like a kennelmaster putting a hound through its paces on a course. He makes it sound like — like he's waiting for instructions.
Boundaries, limits. Mission parameters. Somehow, the thought of assigning Tseng a mission to make him feel good is both humorous and reassuring, for all that he might not like the specific baggage that the two of them might carry into those connotations.]
You could still put your hands on me. On my throat. That part I like — I think I would like.
[What's difficult is that he knows other things he could count among that number, too, but shaping them properly and putting them into words and making himself understood is...less easy than he might have expected otherwise.]
I like it when you touch me without asking.
[Oh. Oh, wait a minute — oh.]
If you knew what I liked, would you do it more often?
no subject
Boundaries, limits. Mission parameters. Somehow, the thought of assigning Tseng a mission to make him feel good is both humorous and reassuring, for all that he might not like the specific baggage that the two of them might carry into those connotations.]
You could still put your hands on me. On my throat. That part I like — I think I would like.
[What's difficult is that he knows other things he could count among that number, too, but shaping them properly and putting them into words and making himself understood is...less easy than he might have expected otherwise.]
I like it when you touch me without asking.
[Oh. Oh, wait a minute — oh.]
If you knew what I liked, would you do it more often?