( it's funny, really, to look at it objectively--to try to look at it objectively, when most of his thoughts have lost their strength, dwindled down to just his own intent tracing of palamedes' path down his body. there had been no shame, no embarrassment, no worry when it had been his own mouth in the same places, kissing along slender collarbones, down past narrow ribs, mapping out the skin with his tongue--but when it's his own body, when it's his own reactions, when it's his own breath trembling past parted lips, his own hand passing down to try to catch a bit of palamedes' hair between his fingertips--it feels like he should apologize, like he should be embarrassed, like he's taking more than he's giving, like he's soaking up more than he should. hard to put that feeling into words, too, when words fail him--when his tongue is less interested in speaking, and more interested in letting the soft sounds of interest crawl up from his throat, spared into the space between them.

he's barely even recognized where palamedes has ended up, down near his hips--all the tangled heat makes it hard to know what's just his own thoughts, fueling the stiff press of an erection through his sweatpants, and what's the touch of those lips, the pass of hot breath, the tangible sound of his voice that feels like it goes right through his bones.

embarrassing, really. his eyes squint open, hazy, rimmed with their usual exhaustion--but to see palamedes down there, pressed between his thighs, earns a rough swallow, like he can't quite articulate himself with the sight of it there. his face feels hot; his stomach feels hotter. )

If you go there, do I get to go there, too? ( less important then the permission--already given, in his mind, to the limits of whatever palamedes might want with him--is the promise of being able to touch him, like this, being able to press his mouth up between his thighs and learn what he sounds like when he's there. )

If I want it... ( he starts, stops--one of his hands lifts, pushing a bit of his own hair away from his face; his eyes close, trying to find the words. ) ...Can I want it? I don't want--

( it really is so hard to form the words when palamedes is there, pressed up against his hip, and even glancing down at him, faintly, has his lips twisting up into a bashful smile; he forces himself to let out a breath, his hand coming up to rub down over his face. he's not being very charming, in his mind: he's not being the kind of gallant, handsome, gentlemanly person that he thinks palamedes deserves.

so he tries again, once his hand smooths off his face, after he lets out a breathy, wry sort of chuckle: ) I want you. I'll still want you if you don't want to go any further.