[ His lips stay parted, this time. There are more obvious physical signs that he's fighting for breath past that pressure on his throat. The trembling of his chest, the force with which it moves - he's still hiding the force with which his lungs are pumping, seeking sufficient oxygen, but poorly. There's a flush in his face, too, a redness in his cheeks. His fingertips push against Wash's skin. His head twists to the side, very slightly - a motion that drags the back of his neck against the rough bark, as he seeks a bit of sharp physical pain to complement the dull ache.

He feels ecstatic already. Floating, suffused. Aroused, too - because there's something intensely arousing about this, that even though he'd said this wasn't sexual he finds himself speaking - half flirting, half taunting and provoking, inviting more - ]

Imagine what else...this lung capacity could do. There are services that a man...who can hold his breath...can provide.

[ Though it's a little hard to hear himself. There's a pleasant buzzing in his ears. ]