The hand over his heart, a steadying touch that places Crichton reassuringly in space above him, is exactly what Arthur wanted, though god forbid he use his words and ask for it. He untenses a little.

"Don't worry, I ^ah," he says. Yes, he did squeak when Crichton kissed the head of his cock. That information will never leave this room.

If Crichton liked seeing the thing twitch, he'll love when it stands a little straighter and fuller, already wordlessly awarding him a good grade in blowjob.

Arthur falls back into the bed again so that he can put a hand over one eye, expelling the rest of his sentence as a puff of air, hyperaware of the neighbouring rooms and ready to stifle himself if he makes any sound louder than that squeak. And he makes himself stay there, for now at least.

He's not sure what to say! This is a big development!

"You, you have the lips of a flautist." Okay, you know what, silence is always a valid option.