"Oh, no~" Crichton says with mock alarm, "what a terrible fate." Arthur better do more of that is what he really means.

Crichton is starting to lean heavier on Arthur now because his own knees are threatening not to hold. He's gotten plenty well-acquainted with his own hand over the last couple years, sure, but that's no substitute for the erotic joy of fingernails grazing over the soft skin of his thighs, or the heat of breath blowing over him or, GOD, the nibble of teeth and lips. Arthur has turned him into a whimpering mess so quickly he can barely believe it himself.

"You forget," he answers breathlessly, "I'm as paranoid as you are. Yeah, it's locked." There's no one here to stop them. No one to barge in and ruin this moment.

"Arthur..." he puts so much need into just those two syllables. "Keep going, please...?"