Hearing his own name on the tail of those soft, fond sounds, causes a shiver to climb up his spine, offset by the warmth sitting in his stomach and the heat of of his face under deliberate fingers. His face isn't flushed with color, but perhaps Tidus can tell anyway that he has no idea what to do with the difference between what he's being offered and what he thought he'd be offered.

"Is this what you wanted?"

It doesn't need to be asked; he knows that it is. That's not why he speaks, that's not why he brings his hands back up along his thighs, wrinkling his shorts, rucked up, showing more skin. That's not why he tucks his fingers beneath his waistband and slides his shorts down to his knees. Loose and unbelted, they go easily, leaving only his skin-tight jammers as a last layer, sheer, smooth to the touch and warm under his fingers.

There's a twinge of humor to his voice, but the joke's on him. His mouth is crooked into a half-smile, his single eye lidded heavily. He should have done better. As it is, the only thing he knows how to do now is bend. So, he bends to press his mouth to the side of a graceful neck, a shoulder. Bends his fingers around muscled thighs, hips, the curve of his ass.