"Why do humans derive such pleasure from getting dirty?" Sometimes John will just blurt out questions, when there’s nothing to do but wait. Arthur finds it charming, although he'd never let John know. (They share so much—too much, sometimes; he clings to what he can keep private.)
"I suppose it feels transgressive. Cleanliness is associated with morality, next to godliness and all that." He can feel the change in the silence, the way John mulls over this new information, taking it in.
"Do people not want to be good, then?"
Arthur wants to laugh, the way John couches such a deep question so simply. "It's not like that. There is physical satisfaction in making a mess, creating disorder. The way a child splashes through mud puddles. Scientists say entropy is the state the universe naturally devolves towards, so I guess it feels more… natural."
"And is that something you enjoy, then?" John's tone is inquisitive, but there's more. A low smolder, perhaps also an arched eyebrow, a flirtatious look if circumstances were… different.
"I’m not quite sure what you mean." An absolute fiction, of course, but Arthur is British; sometimes it happens. They've never quite determined how much John is able to sense parts of their body that he doesn't control. Arthur wonders if he feels the pulse of their blood quicken, how the catch of a breath translates without ears.
"I just have a difficult time imagining you jumping in puddles, that’s all." His tone is wry, almost teasing, and Arthur smiles before he realizes it.
"So. Which ones do you like?" John's voice has dropped further, and Arthur clenches his fist.
"Masturbation is fairly predictable, as is sex with someone else." He's hard now, shifting on the bed. There's no way John doesn't notice.
"And what is it you enjoy about it, besides the obvious?" John's hand moves up the inside of Arthur's thigh: light, exploratory. Even through the fabric of his trousers he can feel the warmth of John's fingers.
All right, so they’re doing this. "I—I suppose it's the intimacy, the trust. There is something vulnerable about letting someone else see you disheveled like that. Undone."
"Mm." John sounds like he's only half-paying attention, the way Arthur can feel light brushes against his straining cock. Their adventures have left little time to think about such things, and John's touch reminds him how long he's neglected this need.
"John, your fingers. My mouth, please." His voice is shaking with the ache of it. Perhaps another time he would be embarrassed about it, but right now he doesn't have the capacity for shame.
John's hand curves to the side of their face, brushes his thumb against Arthur's lips. It is startlingly tender, and Arthur gasps at it. John pushes his thumb inside and Arthur closes round it, tasting skin and salt.
"Arthur." There is something half-wrecked in John's voice, cracked and flayed open. He draws back, shoving three fingers in. Arthur does his best to accommodate, relaxing his throat, sucking and tonguing around and between.
"Your mouth, Arthur. It's so warm, wet. The way your tongue moves against my fingers, fuck. It feels… better than pleasurable."
He eases John's fingers out of his mouth, placing a kiss into the center of his palm. Arthur traces the lines that cross it, saliva flowing from his mouth until it drips down his chin, John's hand. They both moan at it, and Arthur can feel the throb in his cock in response.
He fumbles at the opening of his trousers, shoving them down their legs. The air is cool against his prick and Arthur shivers, although he's certain the temperature is only partially at fault.
"Your cock is flushed and dark, jutting from the hair between your legs. There's a bit of liquid at the tip, trickling down the side, glistening." John pauses, like he needs to compose himself, and Arthur feels like he's going to burst into flames. Christ, he hasn't even been touched yet.
“May I?” He’s not heard John uncertain like this. Confused, not clear of the next step, yes; but tentative, like he’s not sure he’s allowed, or might be rejected? Never.
“Please.” It’s practically a whine, but John’s hand is on his cock and oh god, god, it’s incredible; slick with his own spit and fluid and John moving around him.
“I don’t think I need to ask if it’s good,” John purrs, the absolute goddamn shit. The quiet of the room only emphasizes the slippery-wet sound of skin against skin, quick and rough with an edge of pain that’s not entirely unwelcome.
“Fuck off,” Arthur manages.
“I could stop, if that’s what you really want.” John’s voice is all faux solicitude and if he had a neck to get fingers round, God help him, Arthur would.
But John hasn’t slackened his pace a bit, gripping Arthur just a bit tighter so he can thrust against his fist. It’s absolutely exquisite, to not just be pleasured, but also not have to think. He can’t remember the last time he could just exist, let go of everything and expect it all to be okay.
“Don’t, please. John, I—” His breath quickens, the way it does when he can feel the panic rise. Of all the times this has happened, this is absolutely the worst, including those where mortal peril was involved.
“Arthur. Breathe.” John’s voice is gentle, with that bit of steel Arthur is starting to have somewhat complicated feelings about (and will probably have even more after this). “Don’t think. I’ve got you.”
“You always have me, don’t you?” He's not sure what he's trying to say, if he even knows himself. It's definitely not just one thing, but which combination of possibilities he can't begin to sort out, especially not at this moment.
"I do." The certainty of it, how John doesn't hesitate at all, makes something in Arthur's chest ache, like it's full enough to crack and overflow. And isn't that a thing, to have a surfeit of emotion where he thought there would be none; enough to drip and puddle and mess. It is wondrous, and terrible, and absolutely fucking beautiful.
"Let me see you, Arthur." John sounds frayed, like he wants this just as much as Arthur does. "I want you to be filthy because of me."
"God, John. John—" He arches off the bed, John's hand still round his dick as it pulses, covering his torso in warm streaks of spend.
He comes back to himself eventually, breathing slowing to its usual rhythm. "Well then."
John makes a noise like he's trying to smother a laugh, and Arthur can't help but smile at it. "Well indeed."
They lie there for a bit, enjoying the post-orgasm lassitude.
"You look good like this." John's voice is soft, almost confessional.
“Oh?”
"There's a… looseness about you, like something's unwound. I don't think I've ever seen you this relaxed." His hand idly trails through the mess on their stomach.
"You like that you made me dirty."
John's hand stops, like he's been caught. Arthur circles John's wrist with his fingers, squeezes. "What I meant is I liked it too."
"Would you do something for me?"
"If I can, of course." His curiosity is piqued. John asks for very little outside of the practical and necessary, but Arthur is usually happy to oblige.
He feels John drag his fingers over their skin, scoop up a measure of come and bring it to their mouth. "Tell me what it tastes like."
“I would be happy to.”