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Crichton is mid-giggle when Arthur's mouth closes on him and it turns into a full-throated moan. His hips hitch forward and it's only by sheer force of will that he manages not to accidentally thrust himself back down Arthur's throat. (Look, it's been A WHILE.)

"Oh, oh God! Yes!" Arthur's tongue lavishing against his head like that is threatening to turn him into a puddle of goo right here on the bed. He's having not a single thought about how wrong or right this might be, because that would require having the capacity for thought at all beyond one giant word flashing in neon across his forebrain. MORE!

"Arthur! Don't stop!"

Oh, Arthur's not about to stop, not when Crichton is losing his entire mind under Arthur's attentions. Not when he's calling Arthur's name like that. He sucks hard at Crichton's head, hot-cheeked and thinking up his next move, his approach not unlike tackling a puzzle whose goal is to draw out as many of those loose, wanting moans as possible. For just a moment, then, he pulls his mouth away-- but only to spit on his hand and put it to work at the base of Crichton's cock.

(At which point he notices that he's drooling way more than he realised, and also that his shoulder's kind of sore from holding him up, and also that Crichton's pubic hair feels weird with spit in it-- okay no no no he's in the moment he's in the moment.)

Crichton slides back between his lips again, and he'll feel another brush of teeth, restrained and exploratory, delivered alongside a lapping tongue. The ace in the hole, if you will, while Arthur's hand pumps out of rhythm with his mouth.

Maybe he should be going more gently, maybe someone with more experience would use an expert touch to draw this out longer; who knows. But Arthur's virtues have never included patience, and he wants to experience every bit of this, and he wants it all now. He wants to know everything he's been missing out on all these years.

Edited (natural 1 said i should include that last paragraph while i still can) 2023-04-16 20:19 (UTC)

Arthur should be more careful what he wishes for, because he's about to get it all right now.

Teeth, tongue, hands... Crichton's got no defense for this. And, apparently, no resistance either. [Thanks nat 1]

"Oh, s-shit!" he gasps, realizing just how close that last pump got him to climax. Before he can string together enough words to constitute a warning, he's shooting off like a Fourth of July fireworks display that's been delayed three years for drought conditions--making up for the lost time with a big bang.

Oh, it's a magnificent display. His back arches up until his ass is threatening to lift off the bed, while his hands scrabble wildly for something to hold onto, catching on Arthur's back and holding tight. A howling moan erupts from his throat, loud enough that the neighbors will have no doubt what's up. As for poor Arthur... sure hope he likes the taste of salt because he's getting a big helping of it.

Well! That's possibly a new record for Arthur for the shortest time between fucking around and finding out.

"Gmnmfn--"

God that's loud -- god that's sudden -- and god, that's a lot. Arthur freezes in surprise -- not sure if he's supposed to- to- swallow? to spit? it's not unpleasant but there is a lot of it -- until the next moment, when he instinctually tries to breathe and he starts to choke and splutter all over again. Crichton's Fourth of July display overspills from his mouth, and comes out of his nose, and he jerks back, up onto his knees.

He's coughing, and he's laughing, in a blend of triumph and embarrassment and delight, and once he's breathing again he licks his lips exaggeratedly, grinning in Crichton's general direction. Well how about that!

Not even the fog of bliss can keep Crichton down when he hears Arthur start to choke. No. Uh uh. No way. He is not letting his boyfriend die like this, God help them.

He sits up and reaches out saying, "Whoa, Arthur. I'm sorry... I..." Wait. Arthur's laughing. (Which means he's breathing, whew.) Crichton lets out a relieved chuff of air and lets himself fall back on his elbows, starting to laugh himself--until he sees Arthur lick his lips like that.

Oh.

Damn that's hot.

Before he really even knows what he's doing, he's sitting up and leaning in, putting a hand to the back of Arthur's head and drawing him in for a sloppy, salty kiss. How about that, indeed?

The creak of bedsprings warns him that Crichton is incoming. Arthur makes a noise as he's kissed, short and hungry, and pushes his tongue into Crichton's mouth. God, he's almost feeding Crichton -- feeding him his own -- jesus christ. There are electric currents running over Arthur's skin. Another briefer sound escapes his throat, and he shifts at the waist for the small relief it gives, and lifts his hands to the sides of Crichton's face.

Crichton eats it all up hungry for the taste of Arthur underneath his own musk, hungry for more of those sounds. He's surprising himself, finding that despite his orgasm he's still got a lot of energy left to expend. Hell, give him long enough even his dick might catch a second wind. But he's less concerned about his own body at the moment, and more interested in running his fingers wildly over Arthur's back, not breaking from the kiss, but letting Arthur drive that with his tongue while Crichton's attention goes to the way Arthur's hips shift.

When he comes up for air, finally, he husks, "Your turn now. I want a taste of you."

Well that statement has Arthur almost seeing stars. He hasn't-- is it because it's been so long, or because of the wrongness about him that Bash pointed out, that it's taken him until now to really want Crichton's mouth around him? Now, though, the idea makes his breathing stutter, and anything other than this moment and that promise is dashed clean out of his head.

"Yes- I, I- r-right." Unfortunately he's so very in the moment that the obvious next step of 'take your trousers off' doesn't immediately occur to him.

His breath rushes out in a heavy whoosh of released tension. Arthur said yes! Arthur wants him to... oh...wow, he's just remembering how this going to be a first for him too. There's a tiny blip of "Can I do this?" that crosses his mind but from the bleachers comes a resounding "Yes!"

One more kiss, on the lips, then another on his chin, and then the breastbone, Crichton's already way ahead of Arthur. "Lay down for me, let's get the rest of your clothes off." Crichton's already reaching for the waistband. Let him see what he's working with here.

"Right-- right." Thank goodness Crichton has the presence of mind to tell Arthur what to do or this might take forever.

As he lies down -- carefully, elbows-first, skin burning wherever Crichton's lips touch it -- he starts to think again, and his nervousness peaks at a level somewhere between 'giant deer-eating spider' and 'breathe out and squeeze into that tunnel'. Which is ridiculous -- he trusts Crichton, he feels safe with Crichton, he's been vulnerable with Crichton a hundred times before. He closes his eyes (old habit) and breathes, and the nerves are crowded out by excitement, each pushing against the other as if he's trying to have every reaction at once.

The breathing turns into a shallow gasp as he's freed from his trousers. Now there's only a loose pair of boxers between him and the room, and they do nothing to hide the fact that he's nearly all the way to hard. The fly of the boxers is parting where his cock pushes against it, a little flushed skin visible.

If only he could play this off the way Crichton did. His mind seizes on something said earlier, and he pipes "Hello," before realising that Crichton refused to give his dick a voice, and that he sure as hell isn't going to either. Mortified, all he can do to save himself is backtrack, in a rush: "I-- I, I don't have any suitable joke f-for the occasion." Can they please pretend that didn't happen?

Crichton's feasting his eyes on that little peek of skin through the boxer slit while dragging Arthur's trousers the rest of the way down. His face is hovering close enough that his hot breath will blow across Arthur when he laughs.

"God, you're so frelling cute. You know that?" There's a world of affection in his voice as he says it. He loves his poor, nervous, adorable boyfriend. Loves him to pieces. He's going to show him just how much.

"All I wanna hear from you is how much you like this." He hooks his thumb in Arthur's boxers and yanks them down. No more hiding, you're all his now.

Well if you're going to breathe directly onto Arthur's dick then Arthur's going to get distracted again, realising just how close Crichton's face is to that part of him and experiencing another wave of duelling 'oh god???' and 'oh god yes'. His cock twitches, up and down, and he forgets to lift his feet to help get his trousers off.

"Er- so- I, er, so I have heard," he says. Usually he'd scoff if anybody else tried it, since it's a clear display of both delusion and bad taste, but somehow whenever Crichton calls him cute it makes him feel buoyant. And that on top of everything else... he is, he realises abruptly, happy. Happy to be here, happy to be doing this. Well blow him down.

But at the same time, lying nude and prone on his back like this makes him feel exposed, vulnerable in a way he's not a fan of. And so, at the same moment that Crichton is pulling off his boxers, he's pushing himself back up onto his elbows, lifting his feet to let the underwear past and putting them back down flat on the bed, and reminding himself that the door is locked. It's fine. He tries to force his muscles to relax, which isn't really how that works.

"That, that I can do." He wants this to happen and he is not going to fuck it up for both of them by getting nervous, god damn it. Arthur moves his feet further apart, the spreading of his legs almost shy, urging Crichton to move in on him. He adds: "Please."

Crichton is entranced watching Arthur's cock bob in place, knowing he's the cause of that. It's going right to his head so hard he's forgotten they haven't actually even smoked their stash yet.

"Hope you never get tired of hearing it," Crichton has to yank to get the trousers off since Arthur's a bit too distracted to help, but that's fine. He can handle it. He can handle all of this. Some part of him is still amazed about it.

When it comes to the boxers, though, he is starting to sense Arthur's worry creeping up. He's attuned to Arthur's body language probably more than the man knows. So, once he's discarded the last garment between them, he slides one hand up Arthur's chest, gently, until it rests over his lover's heart.

As Arthur spreads his legs apart, Crichton hovers closer, his breath once more hot against exposed skin. "Just so you know, you can always put the brakes on. I'll understand." He will punctuate that with a tender kiss on Arthur's tip.

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.

That information will never leave this room, but it's never going to leave Crichton's brain, either. He could listen to that squeak on repeat and never get tired of it. Nor will he ever get tired of watching how Arthur reacts to this. He no longer has any doubt that they are compatible, despite how long it's taken them to get this far.

"Oh yeah?" he answers, the warmth of laughter in his tone. "Here's hoping I can finish strong with a high C." Don't worry Arthur, he can turn anything into an innuendo.

That's enough talking. Time for more than just a kiss. Now that Arthur's collapsed back onto the bed, Crichton's hand on his chest stays in place, resting, not pressing down. His other hand wraps around Arthur's shaft to help guide him to Crichton's waiting mouth. Time to blow baby blow.

Maybe it's Crichton's sheer talent for innuendo, or maybe it's all this zig-zagging between anxiety and pleasure, but Arthur is rendered incapable of reply. Instead he whimpers involuntarily as he's grasped by Crichton's hand; and when it's followed by his mouth, warm and living and wet, Arthur starts up a quiet o-o-oh my god, oh my god, prayed directly into his own palm.

His knees bend further, hips twitching up despite his efforts. And yet the rest of him feels frozen, ignoring his commands entirely, as if it's paralysed itself in sleep and left him wide awake and helpless. At the back of his mind, crawling forwards, are thoughts of his soft belly and chest and throat, pinned and pointed to the ceiling like a frog asking to be dissected. How little fight he could put up, lying here.

But he makes a fist, and attempts to drag those thoughts back into the dark, and to focus only on the much nicer things happening around his lower half.

Edited 2023-05-16 20:57 (UTC)

Crichton is enjoying the hell out of listening to that. He really thought this might feel awkward but the soft yet hard texture and even the slightly salty taste of Arthur is anything but unpleasant. Jesus christ, he really actually does like sucking dick. Who the fuck knew?

At first, it all seems fine. Arthur's hips twitch on impulse and Crichton takes the bending of his knees for a good sigh. But he's watching closely, aware of the stiffness in places that shouldn't be stiff right now. It's about the moment when he sees Arthur making that fist that he decides to pull back and check-in.

He strokes at Arthur's chest gently and asks, "Still good up there?"

The thing is that, despite Arthur's sense of safety circling the drain, Crichton's mouth does feel good, so it's a confused sort of mnh that comes out of him when that mouth pulls away. He hesitates in answering, unwilling to admit defeat, but sensing that now of all times is not the time to pretend to be fine.

"I-- well, I..."

Then there are footsteps and laughing voices in the corridor, moving past their room, normal for a Christmas morning and not particularly loud. Arthur is back up on his elbows like a jack-in-the-box. Rapidly: "Well actually--"

He slows it down, and brings it back down an octave while he's at it. Decides to answer with the truth. Pre-emptively attempts to defuse that truth with an unconvincing laugh.

"I-- no, no knock on your ability, but brilliantly enough I keep thinking how easily I could be stabbed. I - suppose you could say I'm incredibly bad at setting the mood."

He says it as if it's a joke. It would be a better joke if his various scars didn't stand out in quite such livid pink against his pale torso.

"Arthur," Crichton says gently. "I get it. It's not easy to just turn that fear off." Arthur has to remember how he reacted when it felt like his hands were being tied, right?

Crichton's fingers stroke the hairs on Arthur's chest, pointedly avoiding those scars that still stand out so prominently.

"Why don't we go back to the original plan? Think you might be relaxed enough by now to give smoking a try?"

Arthur remembers it vividly, and it's the foremost reason why his judgement is staying internal instead of getting projected like crazy onto Crichton. "It's not," he says, and lets out a longer breath than he realised he was holding. Crichton understands. Of course he understands; he gets Arthur so well that it's uncanny, sometimes. "It's not."

He's slowly relaxing again, though, both at Crichton's touch and at his willingness to just... pause this.

"Thank you," he says, not sure how to phrase what he's thankful for, but hoping Crichton will understand that, too.

The fact that he's calming down aside, that question, coming right after he has to tap out of sex because of his over-tuned sense of danger, surprises a laugh out of Arthur. If that was Crichton's plan, then it worked perfectly. "I-- yes, why not? Only..."

He pushes himself upright, not sure if or how to finish that sentence; it comes out as: "Let me hold onto you, a moment."

"Thank you for trusting me this much," Crichton answers. Not just with his body, but with his fears too.

That laugh is like sweet music. It breaks the tension in Crichton so he can relax and briefly nuzzle his nose against the inside of Arthur's thigh. They'll get there. They have all night.

"Sure. Let me come up." Crichton has to take his hand back for just a minute so he can reposition and wriggle up alongside Arthur, resting his chin on his lover's chest. "Better?"

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can't believe the dice did me like this

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brief internalised aphobia warning

brief internalised aphobia warning

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oh my god i thought i replied to thissss

aaaa it's okay it happens!

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