theotherright | come sail away IC inbox

Breathe first, then you can have more kisses!

"Smoking jacket? ...the hell? Those are real?" That wasn't just a Hollywood thing? Seriously?

"I think the kids these days just wear a hoodie. Sorry. Best I can do is a couple of silk bathrobes." Actually, come to think of it, he likes the sound of that. Arthur wrapped in silk would be a sight.

"Y-yes?" That's a baffling question? Of course they're real??

"Well, a silk bathrobe sounds closer to the mark than... whatever a hoodie is. What is that?"

(And hey, as a bonus, silk probably feels amazing when you're stoned.)

"I thought those were just made up for the movies. Now I want one." He wants to be all old-timey and shit.

"Hoodies are uh..."--he snaps his fingers while he tries to remember--"what do you guys call it a... a kind of jumper yeah. You pull it over your head and it's got a hood on it." Hence the name.

"Robes are a lot better." It's going to feel so nice. "Here, I'll grab them."

It means he has to get up, which sucks, but he will be right back. And when he does return, it will be sans his vest and shirt. Just bare chested and barefooted, as one does.

"I'll see what I can do for your next birthday." Which is a joke, unless they make port at some kind of fine tailor's shop or similar, and then it will be dead serious.

Arthur... spends the intervening seconds reminding himself to be cool, psyching himself down if you will, for the sake of not. Well. Not starting off today the way he started off the first time he smoked this stuff. Maybe he should say something. ...No, no, he's got this, as proven by him quietly muttering 'no, no, you've got this' under his breath. ...But maybe he should.

The sound of Crichton's returning footsteps is subtly softer, but still audible, and Arthur shuts up. The shirtlessness is, tragically, a perfectly silent affair.

"Make sure it's red. I look good in red." Wink, wink. Is he actually winking? Yes. Does he expect Artur to know that? Well, hopefully, he can hear it in his tone of voice.

Crichton comes back just in time to hear that. So, naturally, he has to ask. "What have we got?" Why does Arthur look so nervous all of the sudden? More than usual.

Shit, busted.

"Oh- ah, sorry, did- did I say that out loud?" The narration assumes it doesn't have to clarify that this is unconvincing.

"Nothing, just... well. I-it's nothing damning, I promise. Only a... well, all right; I suppose honesty is the best policy." One assumes that watching Arthur convince himself to change his mind in real time never gets old. He confesses: "I had a bit of trouble acclimatising to the, well, to the reefer, the first time around."

It was a mild side-effect, considering what doctors say about marijuana-smoking, but Arthur's working on the premise that the weed from Steve's world is of a less dangerous sort.

"I'm told it can happen if one is feeling particularly uncomfortable. I- I suspect the circumstances are more favourable this time, however."

"You know you're worse about talking to yourself than I am." Which is saying a lot.

Crichton comes and sits beside Arthur again, putting a hand on his thigh to add some physical support while Arthur works himself through the process of convincing himself to come out with it.

"That can happen. So I'm told." Shh, he maybe had a reefer phase in college. "It's okay if it does again, I'll be right here with you. I can think of some good ways to get you relaxed if that helps?"

That first bit is very true, and as such, it just gets a sound of reluctant agreement.

The second part gets a sigh of quiet relief. "Thank you, I a-- oh, hello--"

(Don't worry: that was just him sliding a hand around Crichton's shoulders and finding them suddenly 100% less clothed than before. Neat! Time to roam his back, then.)

"--I would, frankly, appreciate the help. I still think it's a bit of a racket for a fellow to have to be already relaxed before he can smoke something that's supposedly relaxing." No, Arthur, that's just you. He means it as a good-natured jab rather than a real criticism, though.

He chuckles lightly at that little "hello," his bare back rumbling beneath Arthur's touch. He has no problem with those wandering fingers at all.

"I think most people aren't carrying around our levels of stress and paranoia, Arthur." Yes, he's counting himself in that too.

"But tell you what? You get in your pajamas and a robe and I'll grab the Hobbit to read. Makes sense if we are going to smoke out of a replica of Gandalf's pipe, doesn't it? You can focus on the story and that should hopefully keep any worse thoughts from creeping in. How's that sound?"

"I'll grant that's possible," Arthur says, mock-thoughtfully, "though calling it paranoia is a stretch when they really have been out to get us."

Is joke.

Arthur shrugs off whatever cute old-man-festive cardigan the wardrobe provided today, and starts to pull unhurriedly at the buttons of his shirt, one-handed so that he can continue to trace the lines and muscles of Crichton's back. So that's a yes on the robe and presumably also on the reading. But he also looks amused: "What, do you carry a copy around in your pocket?"

Edited 2023-02-11 22:44 (UTC)

"I'm sure we aren't the only two on the ship that were being hunted to within an inch of our lives but... I sure as hell hope that list is a short one." When Arthur's right, he's right. They have no idea how much but tomorrow will be extra fun for them to find out. (Not.)

Hallelujah the clothes are finally dropping. Crichton carefully doesn't comment on it in case he jinxes his luck.

"I packed it along just in case. I figured it couldn't hurt to have something as a backup in case we got snowed in." Listen, it happened in the Shining.

Edited 2023-02-11 23:01 (UTC)

The clothes continue to drop: first button-down, then undershirt. Congratulations, Crichton! You have unlocked one (1) shirtless Arthur. Enjoy.

Life on the Serena Eterna has, ironically, been an upgrade for Arthur in several ways. One of the most obvious is access to free, unlimited food, of a quality and variety that he never saw during the Depression. He may have arrived on the ship looking like he'd had nothing but liquids for a month, but now there's meat on his bones, and if he could look in a mirror he'd see a silhouette more like the one he sported back in England than the one from the latter days of America.

He shivers slightly, cold without his layers.

"Not a bad idea," he's saying, as he undresses. There's a romantic note to his voice. "I think I could stand that. A few roaring logs on the fire; the wind howling and rattling outside to make it seem even warmer and cosier within... mulled wine, and nobody but the two of us about..."

Crichton is enjoying this opportunity to appreciate for himself how much Arthur has filled out since getting here. Compared to that first day spent stitching up a man that was close to skin and bones, this is a much nicer view.

That shiver prompts Crichton to move closer, a little body heat by proximity. A nice excuse for Crichton to gently run his fingers over Arthur's shoulders, rubbing to warm him up and definitely not to explore the new gains in muscle and fat. Mmhmm.

"Oh yeah?" Crichton's voice pitches hopeful and a little bit sultry. "Sounds like a pretty romantic way to spend an evening to me. But, I think I know something else we could do to warm each other up..."

Arthur exhales slowly, relaxing into the movement of Crichton's fingers across his skin. This is a rare power you have, Crichton, and with it comes great responsibility.

"Oh?" he says, curious-- and then a moment later, catching the intonation, in realisation: "...Oh." It is, for the record, a good 'oh', if a surprised one: it took dying and resurrecting for them to try anything like that before. But then, Christmas is also a pretty big deal, so...

So that's what's circulating in Crichton's mind palace. Not, in fact, the burning desire to read him acclaimed 1937 children's classic The Hobbit.

Edited 2023-02-13 15:15 (UTC)

Crichton can practically see the lightbulb going off over Arthur's head. There it is... and, boy, is Crichton relieved to hear that it's a good sound and not one of disgust. So, that first failed attempt of theirs wasn't just a fluke.

(Let it be known that only by great restraint is the narration NOT making hobbit hole jokes.)

"Think you might be interested?" Crichton asks, leaning in to brush his lips against the hollow where Arthur's neck meets his shoulders. He nibbles the skin there with feather-light scrapes of teeth.

Forgive him for taking a while to get there. Arthur finds, and has always found, the idea that someone might want to have sex with him to be faintly baffling: an unknown country that he's tried and failed repeatedly to map. It's not that he hasn't thought about it; but, left to his own devices, he could be happy with the intimacy they already have for quite some time--

Oh okay wow Crichton's really going for it. Arthur is suddenly very aware of the both of them, their bodies and the places where they're touching; and not in an unpleasant way, despite the distant ring of ex-Catholic alarm bells. His eyelids go down for a moment, and his head goes up; his hand comes up as well, fingers scaling Crichton's back to cup the base of his neck.

The fact of Crichton not just being loving, but also honest-to-god desiring him as a husband and wife would, smacks him sideways a bit, and he breathes off-beat and stammers like someone who just had a strong drink. Their desperate movements and the feel of Crichton under his hands that November morning are far from forgotten.

"Oh," he's saying again, in the vague, slightly wandering voice that communicates complete '!!!', "yes, I," as if observing and reporting on his own reaction, "I think I might." And here he's agreeing to something utterly enormous, but grasping the scope of an action before attempting it has never been something that came naturally to him.

Crichton makes a soft sound of pleasure, goosebumps raising under the track of Arthur's fingers working up his back to his neck. The flush rising at his collar will be hard to miss. He's been patient knowing that both of them had a lot to work through to get to this point. But, God, he's wanted this. He needs to see how far their connection can go.

"Yeah?" he coos against Arthur's ear. He's trailing his hand down the man's chest, skimming over subtle hills of flesh, stopping at the navel but threatening to go lower by toying at his waistband. "Why don't you let me help you out of your pants, then?"

We won't go too much into Arthur's previous experiences in bed, but they were such that he's suddenly hit with the mortifying possibility that he'll be about as excited as a dead fish, and then have to make excuses for it, and face the disappointment involved. Historically, he and his body have sometimes had different ideas about what they wanted.

He attempts to take control of the situation. "You first," he says sweetly, and the touch at Crichton's blushing neck becomes a hold. "You didn't think I-I'd let you have the whole advantage, did you? I'd like to finally take a look at you, Crichton." The soft squeeze, one finger at a time, is probably completely unnecessary for Crichton to figure out what he means by looking.

Arthur isn't the only one pushing back thoughts of potential inadequacy. Crichton's got a healthy libido and a pretty good opinion of himself but this will be the first time (that he can remember) that he's ever engaged in anything sexual with a man. He knows he loves Arthur and nothing about what they've done so far has put him off but there's always a chance his confidence will flag once the masts come out.

Still. He started this thing so... he better be willing to be the first one over the line. It's a lot easier to acquiesce to that order when it's Arthur asking so sweetly, and he's surprised at how excited it makes him to feel those fingers holding him tighter, squeezing suggestively.

"I-I guess that's only fair." Maybe he had nothing to worry about after all because his voice just pitched an octave higher like he's back in high school getting nervous in front of a date. The little head ain't nervous, though.

"Want to unwrap me yourself or should I do that part?"

Arthur's not carried away the way he was after Halloween, but he might get there soon if Crichton keeps being so audibly affected. Good lord.

He huffs, with an 'ah... hah' sort of noise, and he wishes that it sounded manly and in-charge instead of sounding like he lost control of his lungs for a moment. But there's no doubt at all when he says:

"No, I- I want to. Hold still for me."

Arthur moves both hands to Crichton's chest. The warm shape of it is familiar, but as he slides his hands carefully down, his heart pounds and his mouth goes dry like he's in the moments between jumping out of a plane and opening a parachute. He goes slowly: not hesitant, but obsessed with each inch of the way. The territory seems different, on the way to this destination. He moves his fingers as if awed by Crichton's skin.

Until Arthur gets to his waistband, and realises there might be a logistical issue with doing this sitting down.

"You--" Oh boy apparently the anticipation is too much, because his voice is hoarse all of a sudden. He swallows and licks his dry lips. "You, er, you- you may have to move, actually..."

"Can't promise I won't squirm a little," he warns playfully. "But I promise it will be the good kind of squirming."

He does try to stay still, he really does, but just as he warns, the slow, exploratory drag of Arthur's hands down his chest makes him writhe in place. His breath comes in stuttering hitches each time a particularly sensitive spot gets grazed, the curly hairs growing thick between his pecks, the sensitive strip on either side of his navel, and lower...

Oh. He's realizing the problem at the same time as Arthur. "Yeah. Should probably stand up, huh?" He does so, moving to square up in front of Arthur. "Better?"

Oh hey, and that puts him at a very practical height--

"Good. That- that's good." Though he sounds a little stunned, there's no doubt in Arthur's mind about what to do. The waistband of Crichton's bottoms is elasticated and soft, made of flannel or something like it; Arthur pulls them down, hands sliding over Crichton's hips. There's a protrusion that the waistband gets caught on and then pops over on its journey down, and his imagination does all sorts of things with that. His breathing is shallow.

Holy shit. Holy shit, he's really doing this. There's the gentle sound of fabric piling on the floor, and the welcome smell of Crichton, stronger now. He's halfway fascinated and halfway intimidated by the idea of what might be there if he tilted his head forward.

"Happy Christmas to me," he jokes mildly. It is a very stupid joke.

"Yeah..." Crichton answers, slightly unsteady after the waistband pops over his erection, "Yeah, it is."

He's still trapped in his briefs, not one for going commando if he can help it. So, if Arthur leans in he'll be met by a thin barrier of fabric still separating them.

"And to all a good night," Crichton chuckles. Stupid jokes are his favorite.

Ah yes, briefs. He can feel them under his fingers now as his hands return to Crichton's hips. Arthur gives them the same treatment as the pyjama pants, but more quickly now that he has his eyes -- for want of a better phrase -- on the prize.

He pauses, again not hesitating but rather holding his breath on the edge of a plunge into the deep end, a deep end that he'd like to swim in but which may or may not be full of monsters, and he's jumping any second now, here he goes--

"Right, I, I, I'm just going to--"

He goes for it. It's abrupt and ungraceful: one moment Arthur's hand is raised and his face is focused, and the next, his hand collides at low speeds with Crichton's dick and his fingers curl around it like he's holding a pull bar.

Arthur inhales quickly, and then kind of bluescreens a little. Holy jesus he's holding onto Crichton's penis.

Arthur isn't the only one holding his breath. Crichton can feel his toes curling around the edge of the diving board while he stares down into what feels like one of the highest dives of his life. (And he hasn't even smoked yet.)

His breath comes out in a startled mixture of a gasp and a moan the moment Arthur goes for it. Here they both are--in the deep water. Some part of him is still waiting to feel... disgusted? Unsure? He's neither. What he is, is extremely impatient for Arthur to do more than just hold on. He wants more. He could almost cry from the relief.

So, what better way to break the surface tension now, than with a patented terrible Crichton joke? "Looks like he's happy to meet you."

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i'm using this icon just for you

you're so good to me

<3

oh and a warning for nsfw for the sake of any readers huh

>:] nsfw read at your own risk now baby

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