It's the mention of safewords that hits him and makes things feel a little bit awkward. Fran pauses a moment, quiet as he looks down at his tea. And the thing is, that he absolutely wants what Julian is offering, it flushes his cheekbones a little, puts a shiver in his shoulders. But he's not moving yet, either.
It's when Julian says if you don't want to do this that Francis realizes he's being quiet, and he flushes, looks at the man in a way that's all silent apology.
"I want it. I do, I really do. It's just.. safewords aren't safe for me." He admits it, shy and a little bit awkward as slender fingers shift the way that he holds the mug. "So it's not about not wanting to," he admits a little bit sheepishly, uncertain.
"I was modeling for some of the Galleria exhibits. And there was this one-- a friend of mine happened to be in the crowd. He volunteered before they could pick someone, because he could tell I wasn't okay. But I couldn't. I had a safeword and I never used it because I couldn't tell I was in over my head until he made it better." There's something in how he talks, a soft sort of affection that edges his words.
"So I just- I don't know if I can," he admits softly, shoulders curled in tight as he looks down at his tea. "I mean, I've never liked them. But I always thought it was that they don't make sense." He shakes his head, brushes fingers through his hair and tries to not feel guilty about it.
"For me, I just.. I guess I trust the people I play with to pay attention, and I trust their judgement better than my own. But I also trust that if I say stop, or anything that communicates genuine distress, that will matter, whether or not I remember to say blueberry-tangerine."
no subject
It's when Julian says if you don't want to do this that Francis realizes he's being quiet, and he flushes, looks at the man in a way that's all silent apology.
"I want it. I do, I really do. It's just.. safewords aren't safe for me." He admits it, shy and a little bit awkward as slender fingers shift the way that he holds the mug. "So it's not about not wanting to," he admits a little bit sheepishly, uncertain.
"I was modeling for some of the Galleria exhibits. And there was this one-- a friend of mine happened to be in the crowd. He volunteered before they could pick someone, because he could tell I wasn't okay. But I couldn't. I had a safeword and I never used it because I couldn't tell I was in over my head until he made it better." There's something in how he talks, a soft sort of affection that edges his words.
"So I just- I don't know if I can," he admits softly, shoulders curled in tight as he looks down at his tea. "I mean, I've never liked them. But I always thought it was that they don't make sense." He shakes his head, brushes fingers through his hair and tries to not feel guilty about it.
"For me, I just.. I guess I trust the people I play with to pay attention, and I trust their judgement better than my own. But I also trust that if I say stop, or anything that communicates genuine distress, that will matter, whether or not I remember to say blueberry-tangerine."