theotherright | come sail away IC inbox

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."

Well that gasp-moan is more than encouraging. Arthur feels his chest compress, a pleasant thrill going over his skin.

At the joke, he lets out a faint, almost disbelieving laugh, which turns quickly into a smirk as the instinct to tease takes over.

"Really."

Knowing how it will feel, and hoping to knock another noise like that out of his partner, he holds him just firmly enough to feel the foreskin slide over the harder core, and waggles his dick up and down as if shaking its hand.

"A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

"Y-yes, really."

Crichton's knees wobble a moment before he locks them. His breath hitches hard as Arthur's hand slides over him and then he breaks into a thready giggle at the "handshake" he receives.

"I'm not going to give it a voice. That's taking it too far. But the pleasure is... all mine."

Don't mind him just putting a hand on either of Arthur's shoulders to support himself in case his knees decide not to stay locked.

"Holy crap... we're doing this." Well, someone had to say it out loud.

"Is it now?" This, with a circular movement of his thumb for good measure.

Arthur's shoulders twitch upwards as he braces himself to support Crichton; abruptly, the idea of rendering Crichton unable to stand by his own power is very big and very compelling. He has to swallow again, amazed and a little dizzied.

"Holy crap," he echoes, "now come here." And with one hand sliding round to the dimples on the small of Crichton's back, the other staying right where it is, he encourages Crichton forward a step or two so that he can lay a kiss on the warm skin of his belly. The smell of Crichton surrounds him now, surprisingly exciting.

Crichton lets out a full-throated groan as Arthur's thumb moves over him, his fingers digging into Arthur's shoulders.

"Yes, sir."

He moves in, eyes closing as he revels in the pleasure of it all. This closeness, the tender kiss that makes his belly jump and flutter, he almost can't believe it's real. Since when do good things like this happen to him?

He bows his head as if in prayer, and murmurs against the top of Arthur's head, "I really love you."

That groan only sharpens Arthur's focus even further. As for the title that follows it-- he huffs out a slight breath, because, well, hmm, yes, oh boy, he could sure get used to that.

And as for the words that follow that: if Crichton was trying to melt Arthur emotionally as well as physically, then he succeeded. There's a pressure welling inside Arthur's chest that threatens to burst not into tears, but into irrepressable joy. And it-- god, it's like an alarm bell that they're on the edge of a disaster. But he pushes that down. He pushes it way back down.

"Heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee." He says it low in his throat, between more kisses; he diverts from Crichton's dick for the moment to run long fingers over the rest of him, mapping all the places that till now have been hidden. "Crichton... god."

Arthur:

"So good I got you quoting Shakespeare, h-huh?" Yeah, he knows Shakespeare. He's a man of culture sometimes.

"Mmmm, yeah..." This attention is everything. Fingers combing over him, 'looking' with such care, it makes him feel so utterly wanted.

"Check out the caboose while you're at it~ It's award-winning, you know."

Arthur isn't necessarily surprised to find that someone else educated knows Shakespeare, but given that Crichton is from a fuckoff number of years in the future and who knows what still gets taught then, he is quietly delighted. "Shakespeare is only to set the mood. Just wait until I start to quote Chaucer."

Strong words. Let's see if he can back them up!

Speaking of backing up: Arthur's hands slide behind Crichton, like two adventurers scaling the mountain of his arse. "Ah yes," with a straight face that's definitely trying to turn into a smirk, "I would like to get in on the joke at last."

...oh wow.

Oh, that is-- that is a really nice arse.

Don't mind if he spends some extra time and attention mapping this bit, while he kisses down Crichton's side to mouth at his hip. There's the slightest graze of teeth there, to see if it draws forth any more really good noises.

Edited 2023-03-02 16:03 (UTC)

"Now, that's romantic," Crichton teases. He's not familiar with Chaucer other than in passing but when isn't having poetry quoted to you from your boyfriend romantic as hell?

"Play your cards right and maybe you'll get in on a lot more." He can't believe he just said that with a straight face and Arthur can't even see it. Although it comes with an audible gulp right after because... maybe he's actually serious about that. Terrifying. And exhilarating.

The nerves recede, however, as Arthur's fingers caress the mounds of his ass and he can see the way that smirk is trying to break free on his lover's face. That's right; he told no lies. He's got the finest cake in town and it's all for you, Arthur, baby.

"Like what you s-see--mmmm!" he starts to quip, but it's interrupted when that graze of teeth drags a moan straight up from his dick. Oh, hello. He loves that.

Arthur doesn't know how literal that innuendo was, and at this point he's too afraid to ask.

If he weren't already sitting down, he feels like Crichton's moan would take him out at the knees. He laughs under his breath, and then says into Crichton's skin, in a voice that's had the bottom fall out of it: "Well. You've doomed yourself to a lot more of that."

How about more nibbling, and a thumbnail drawn carefully up the inside of Crichton's thigh, followed by lighter fingertips, something Arthur can hardly comprehend himself doing despite the evidence right in front of him. He knows in broad strokes what this is leading to, but he's so much more compelled by every moment, movement and sound leading up to it, and it keeps fading out of view, like something huge under the water.

...not to spoil the mood, but: "Did, er... did- did we lock the door?"

"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...?"

Arthur laughs just as breathlessly at Crichton's answer -- at both the paranoid pair of them, really. Maybe also a little in relief. And at the fact that, well. No excuses -- and no need to hold back, then.

And the way Crichton says his name is fucking intoxicating.

"O-okay," he says, hoarsely, since that's the most intelligent reply he can come up with in the moment. He bares his teeth against Crichton's thigh, presses fingernails into his skin, sucks in a breath and tries to deal with the things he wants to do to this man.

Well, first he wants a more advantageous position. He tilts his face up -- flushed and awed -- more for Crichton's benefit than for his own. "Lie down down on the bed," he says, summoning his most authoritative voice. "On your back."

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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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