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Speaking in Tongues

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Harry Goodsir was not, as he was frequently having to gently remind the less medically-inclined members of the expedition, actually a doctor. He was an anatomist. For the majority of the hands this distinction meant very little; for others onboard, it meant quite a lot and was not a fact permitted to fall by the wayside. Doctor McDonald didn’t very much care what Harry Goodsir’s official title may or may not be, but at the moment he was caught up in thinking that anatomist was in no way a qualification to be ashamed of, if his studies of the human body had in any way given Goodsir a deeper understanding of how to wring pleasure out of a man- Goodsir was currently kneeling before the narrow bunk afforded to McDonald onboard Terror, fit neatly between McDonald’s shaking knees, making a feast of the more delicate parts of his -anatomy- with enough enthusiasm that it might have been a roast dinner on his lips rather than what it was.

McDonald was beginning to regret taking Goodsir up on his shy offer made that evening as they had been settling into the intimacies that had become routine only fairly recently; this was torture. Exquisite torture yes, but still torture nonetheless. Goodsir licked and pressed kisses here and there, his lips first puckering then smoothing over McDonald’s hole, coaxed open to flinch helplessly beneath Goodsir’s tongue and the suction of his mouth.

A hand floated down towards his cock, as of yet untouched and hard as an ice pick. Goodsir smacked it away without even pausing in his task and McDonald groaned, not caring how needful he sounded. “Harry, for God’s sake, a little pity.” He wasn’t entirely sure that he could come from Goodsir’s tongue lathing at his arsehole alone, but his body certainly seemed to be trying and ratcheting itself towards a trembling, aching stalemate in the process.

He received no response but could feel Goodsir’s answering smile, the curve of lips against moistened skin. McDonald knew every minute detail of Harry’s smile by now. His move to Terror had certainly been good fortune- although even before, when they had been separated on the two ships, McDonald had made it his business to seek Goodsir out as much as possible. It had been intensely gratifying to make Goodsir blush so prettily in their conversations. And even more gratifying to then follow that blush steadily downwards.

At the moment, however, the blushing was occurring on the other side of the equation. Goodsir traced his rim lazily, the smile of his mouth curving down and McDonald quivered and had to bite his lip to stop from shouting out.

A curve back up. Another. McDonald could hear a murmur, as if Goodsir was speaking directly into him, a perversely decadent form of communication. Or a form of something. A memory from long ago drifted down through the muddle of consciousness: a rather daring classmate who had been the first boy McDonald had kissed, stealing away hours under the pretence of study. Whispering into each other’s mouths.

Another muffled scrap of a word audibly escaped. McDonald blinked through pleasant haze fogging his thoughts. Frowned. “Are- are you conjugating Latin verbs down there?”

Laughter this time, against his overheated skin. “And have been for some five minutes,” Goodsir said, finally raising his head. McDonald was forced to revise his earlier thought: Goodsir was also decidedly flushed. His rosy face was a sight to see hovering between trembling thighs and McDonald drank it in greedily. “To be honest I’m surprised it took you so long to notice that I was saying something.”

“In my defence I was rather being distracted by a certain young man with his tongue in my arse,” shot back McDonald, tartly. “Of all the cheek.”

“Cheek would be the appropriate term for the current engagement,” murmured Goodsir, petting the curve of McDonald’s behind with a soft little motion, soothing where his whiskers had rubbed the skin red. It was the sort of unthinking, affectionate touch that he always offered so freely and so sweetly.

Despite feeling quite disarmed by the gesture, McDonald attempted to give him a sideways swat with his heel for the pun.

“Shall I go on, then?” Goodsir asked innocently. “Only I was in the middle of the subjunctive, fruar, and wouldn’t mind getting back to it.”

“Oh, that I don’t doubt,” McDonald said, not at all displeased, and then let his head drop back with a curse as Goodsir returned to his attentions.