does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

[docwithablog]

[ He's standing in the doorway to the kitchen while Khan, a couple of hours into his stay, is sitting at the table, fixing -- something on the kettle again, what is it with the bloody thing, it worked fine last he used it, didn't it? Licking his lips a bit nervously, he steps into the room fully and walks over to the kitchen counter, leaning back against it, facing the other man. Hands gripping the edge of the counter. Sock-clad feet shifting a bit restlessly from side to side.

It shouldn't be this damn hard, honestly. It's just a -- suggestion, the man can tell him no and they can go fuck in the bedroom as per usual. But John isn't stupid, he knows what the implications are. You don't go from being fuck buddies to buddies, once you decide a friendly outing is in order, no, if you go out, then -- you go out as something else entirely and he has absolutely no idea how well that is going to play out. For either of them.

Nevertheless -- okay, good, here goes. A deep breath. ]

I was thinking I'd take you to the National Army Museum today.

Comments

[insuperiorstrength]

[ John's led them to a pub not too far from the museum. Khan's no expert on interior design but the style, overall, looks classic and soft, the darkness of the floor broken up by chairs and sofas in blues and yellows as well as the light from outside spilling in through the huge window panels lining the dinning area. They're sitting quite close - if he were to stretch out his legs fully, he'd be playing footsies with John under the table which is a funny albeit ridiculous thought. He's taken note of all possible exits as well as the table close to the counter where a group of younger men are glaring at them while no doubt drinking forth enough courage to stage a confrontation.

He ignores them and focuses on John, leaning in slightly. He's ordered a pale ale from the menu, picking one at random as he's always done when it comes to beer. In a casual situation, he only very rarely picks something he already knows. ]

That must keep them occupied. [ There's a hint of humour in his voice. ] If they find anything on me, let me know.

[ Dimension-hopping is great for laughs, apparently. Though, it is somewhat amusing to think of this man, whomever he is, fighting to dig up information on Khan when his dimensional equivalent happens to be his own flesh and blood. He reaches out, running one, long finger idly over the top of John's hand, just tracing patterns back and forth. They should play that game again, he realises. A question for a question. It's hard to know exactly how much info John's actually waiting for and there aren't any questions as such Khan wouldn't answer. There are definitely things he wants to ask John. About his family. About his job - has he left it yet? If they'd been crew - family - Khan would have gladly burnt down the place to convince him. And really, if he did so in this reality, who would ever know? ]

[docwithablog]

Yeah, Mycroft insisted you didn't exist. [ A chuckle that quietens down relatively quickly when Khan reaches out and lets his finger trace patterns over the top of John's hand. He could move it, of course, his hand and he probably should, they're surrounded on all sides by people, after all -- yet, he rather doesn't want to, actually. This is good. This is fine. It's all fine. So, instead of withdrawing, he leans in closer over the table again, lowering his voice a tad. For privacy or pretenses or whatever you'd like to call it, he really doesn't care. ] I told him I would personally vouch for your corporal presence on this plane.

[ An eyebrow raise.

He leans back again in his chair, shifting slightly in his seat, their knees bumping under the table, because Khan has beanpole legs like -- certain others, like Sherlock and John wonders whether the lack of curls has resulted in longer limbs as compensation. There's a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, he can tell, mostly because there's also a warmth in the pit of his stomach and at this point, with Khan's finger brushing over his skin like that, it isn't just deep-felt and pure, let's be real, it's also quite physical and hungry and wanting.

The waitress returns to the table with their orders, placing a pale ale in front of Khan and a Scottish in front of John, glancing down at their hands as discreetly as she possibly can before politely telling them to enjoy and moving out of the way, exchanging looks with a group of younger guys a couple of tables over. John frowns. Moves his hand, though he meets Khan's gaze as he does so, gesturing towards his beer. Explanatory. Pouring his ale, he ignores the stares which seem to come from approximately half the pub at this point. How lovely the air of prejudice, truly. Briefly, very briefly, he thinks about Harry. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ That makes him smile, genuinely if briefly, as he pours his own ale and takes a sip. John draws his hand away and feels the need for a nonverbal explanation which probably reveals more of his discomfort than he'd like. Khan doesn't bother looking around, reading the atmosphere effortlessly simply by the change of mood alone, the rustling of clothes and the changing of breaths. It doesn't bother him, barely even serves to make him alert. He wouldn't care if a handful of ants found his presence objectionable and this is barely any different. Instead, he brushes his knee lightly against John's underneath the table and straightens up in his seat, gaze dark. Heated, somewhat, by the implications. ]

There are things even British intelligence isn't privy to. [ Aside from his untimely appearance in this dimension, he remembers from his own days - it's never easy, playing games with any governments, a former empire, least of all. But it's amusing, in its own right. One out of many ways to power. ] He should be more concerned about you. You haven't found a new job or you would have told me, presumably. Why?

[ Near the counter, the men have started talking quite loudly amongst themselves about queers and fucking faggots. He remembers this from his own time and day. Humans really can be exhaustingly puerile. He doesn't bother looking at them, simply keeps his gaze fixed on John, waiting for his answer. The beer is a bit too light for his tastes but he'll drink it anyway, it's fine and he's not, as a rule, picky. ]

[docwithablog]

[ And -- because those other guys start running their mouths pretty damn loudly with slurs John's sure they can't even muster the collective IQ to spell, much less comprehend the social significance of (idiots, he'd call them, if now had at all been the time to quote Sherlock in regards to anything, least of all other human beings), he's endlessly grateful when Khan leads them onwards into safer territory. Are they doing the question thing again? That game from -- couple of times back? Well, it beats anything he can think of currently with his one hand resting on the tabletop, fingers curled into a tight fist while he lifts the glass of dark Scottish ale to his lips with the other, taking a drink, deeply. The taste is nutty, slightly caramelized, notes of sweetness underneath the hops, the liquid cool down his throat. He's beginning to feel overheated and it isn't just the darkness of Khan's gaze, no, pity, really.

John swallows something thick and decidedly unpleasant in his throat, careful to uncurl his fingers every now and then, drum a beat on the tabletop to do something with his body that doesn't involve -- what does he know, picking fights with stupid teenagers about things like his personal distaste of being called a fag when, really, the playing field is so much wider than that, kids. What kind of shitty sex ed teacher has taken them through the books, seriously?

Shaking his head, he focuses. Refocuses. Shifts in his seat, his legs getting entangled with Khan's and this time, he sure as hell isn't going to withdraw anything. He meets the other man's gaze over the rim of his glass, putting it down slowly and shrugging once. ]

Because you can't hurry processes with the Albany Street Barracks.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He's tuning out the jeers from the men, infinitely more interested in John's reply. The other man is definitely having a hard time not letting the lowlifes get to him - Khan mostly leaves it as a footnote for now, in case something happens later on that'll require his attention (it will, obviously). John's answer, however, pleases him. A lot. He leans back slightly, without withdrawing his legs and nods slowly at John, very visibly satisfied. ]

Well done.

[ Another sip of ale. The glass is half-empty by now and he leaves it sitting on the table, conscious of making it last. He doesn't get drunk easily, doesn't feel the effect of alcohol unless he's positively injecting it into his bloodstream, but he isn't completely without manners and seeing as his body doesn't currently need for him to be fast or efficient about his intake, there's no reason why he can't be polite.

Poking John's foot lightly with his own, he gives him an expectant look. Surely, he must have caught on to the point of this already, they've done it once before. ]

[docwithablog]

[ He laughs, mostly despite himself, fingers relaxing visibly against the tabletop. He leaves his beer half-finished for now, raising an eyebrow at Khan across the table, cocking his head somewhat, amused. ]

Yes, good, make me feel like a fucking dog.

[ Normally he wouldn't throw around a word like fucking in polite conversation, but he's still a bit agitated, probably noticeably, too, because anger management always was an issue with him, so it slips out with the rest, sounding coarse and exactly as loud as the very stupid, very loud-mouthing teenagers a few tables down. Khan will have to excuse him, since he's being so very generous with the rest, the acknowledgement and the praise. Honestly, John deserves it as well, because he's pretty sure he's only half a step away from telling Dr. Johnson to kindly sod off and that, oh God, will be the greatest relief he can possibly imagine, safe for Sherlock showing up at his (their) door alive and don't dally on your way there, either, will you...

A moment's quiet while that particular scenario plays out in his mind. They're just looking at each other, Khan and him, Khan expectantly, because if they're playing the game, it's John's turn now, to ask. John smiles slightly, eyes narrowing in expectation. Listen, he's probably waited too long asking this anyway, but only because he's at least certain you're legal, Mr. Free Agent. ]

How old are you?

[insuperiorstrength]

[ Though John's reply is anything but outwardly respectful, Khan clearly senses the warmth beneath the words, the way John looks happy, amused, despite the increasing tension filling the atmosphere in the pub. The men by the table are getting worked up, visibly so, possibly egged on by the lack of response. He's paying only slightly more attention to them than before, mostly because he can see, even without looking directly at them, that one of them is planning on visiting their table soon. People. Does he really have to deal with people, just when he's managing to escape them so very successfully?

John looks at him for a moment before asking his question. It's a tough one, at that, at least in terms of maintaining the illusion of normalcy. He could, naturally, pretend to be younger than he is - John's born in the 70s and going by looks alone, Khan ought to be at least slightly younger. The fact that he's 10 years older, plus his 300 years in cryosleep, is an interesting topic to breach and he's just about to do so, when they're interrupted by one of the angry men, this one younger than the rest. He's bulky, showcasing the sort of muscle you set when you spend too much of your life, working out.

Khan ignores him. He doesn't answer John's question, however, seeing as he wants the man's attention for this conversation and right now, he most certainly doesn't have it. He watches the newcomer blankly, as the boy looks between them, his under-nourished frontal lobes clearly choosing quickly, instinctively, between them before he rounds on John (Hey, fag, didn't you hear me? I said, why don't you two fucking leave and do your nasty business somewhere private? This is a public place!). The pub is eerily silent. Violence in the human world has been a spectator sport, after all, since ancient times. ]

[docwithablog]

[ Khan's about to answer, when one of the men -- a younger model, very young, in fact, very bulky and very aggressive comes over to their table, looking between them pointedly once before turning to John and calling him fag again, this time directly to his face, rather brave of him, really. The quiet falls over the entire pub and John faintly remembers Sherlock on his knees in front of him, fingers tearing at his bomb vest, undressing him. People might talk, John had joked back then. People do little else, Sherlock had replied with a huff of laughter and it had been very funny, very entertaining, because despite all the dumb shit they've pulled during their time, Sherlock and him, they've never faced -- well, this. Then, John thinks about his sister, about some of the shit he knows she's taken, in turn. Maybe it's simply his turn now.

Or maybe Mr. Louder Than Thou simply ought to shut up.

John cocks his head in Khan's general direction, though he's mostly looking at him without seeing him now. He blinks, frowns, blinks again and then narrows his eyes, before turning his head towards the newcomer slightly. Looking the guy up and down -- and he's leering back at his little, stupid friends from time to time, then at John, what, 20 years younger than him. Oh, the roaring 20s, what a time to be alive, right. John eventually lets a smile slip onto his lips, an entirely unpleasant one. ]

Good. Great. Now, fuck off.

[ That's all he says. He's not going to argue with some wimp about his legally protected right to do whatever the hell he wants in a public place, yes, you are so very correct, kid, Christ. The man looks more provoked by him turning his attention back on Khan again than by what he actually said which is quite telling in its own right, so John shrugs and gives the tabletop a small slap with both hands as he makes to get up to indicate that -- okay, he's paying now and they're getting out, this is not how they're ending their night, that much is certain.

As he starts to shuffle, moving to get up, the man's expression hardens, he notices out the corner of his eye and he leans in closer. John sees this going very wrong, very quickly and although he's got relatively quick reflexes, the other man is still faster, fingers stretching out for the glass on the table (coming in here, holding hands like a pair of fucking poofters, fucking disgusting).

Oh, for God's sake. They should've just gone home, they'd be doing some actual fucking now, Khan and him. Much preferable. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He sees it in stages before it happens - John's face growing colder, patience well and truly spent; the young man losing his temper even faster, itching for an excuse. Then, John makes to get up, slapping his hands against the counter after telling him to fuck off and that, apparently, is all it takes to push the fool into action. Khan knows where his hands are going seconds before he even reaches out; his eyes and his body movements give it away.

Khan's fingers close around his wrist like a vice, lightening fast. The glass remains untouched on the table.

Silence. The stranger stares at his hand, at Khan, for a long moment. Then, quite stupidly, he tries to pull away which, for such a little rat, amounts to much the same as trying to free a limb from hardened concrete. Khan keeps his arm still through the younger man's wrestling moves and consequently, within seconds, there's a loud, hard snap as the radius bone breaks cleanly in half. The hand goes limp between Khan's fingers. The boy's lower arm changes shape.

Then, he starts screaming, his face paling almost to white, and Khan releases his arm without further ado, straightening up slightly in his chair and sipping his beer. The quiet in the pub, at least, is broken now by the sounds of the man's friends getting up to help (too little, too late); chairs scraping across the floor and cutlery being dropped; and the young man, stumbling backwards against a nearby empty table before he overbalances, rolling onto his back like a fat turtle and crashing to the floor, limbs flailing through the air.

Khan looks at his beer. Looks up at John. ]

You want to leave?

[docwithablog]

[ It all happens -- rather fast, Khan reaching out and catching the angry, young man by his wrist, his movements clean and efficient. Shit. As the man starts flailing against the grip, John sees it happen even before the loud snap sounds. A grimace. Well, that's going to be decidedly unpleasant, radius bones don't exactly heal themselves. As Khan releases his arm, he starts stumbling about until finally dropping onto the floor in obvious agony, much deserved, but still -- there is a moment where John's morals as a doctor battle his maybe slightly more innate instincts, where he quite honestly considers helping the man, getting him to the A&E, doing some initial first aid on the way, but then Khan looks at him and asks whether he wants to leave. John meets his eyes across the table, straightening up, ignoring the screaming mess of a thug on the ground, ignoring his stupid friends gathering around him, throwing enraged looks in Khan's direction now. ]

Sure.

[ They better.

Not only because someone's bound to call the police at any time now, but because John certainly isn't sticking around to elevate the man's arm or keep the bone in place with compression bandages or whatever they've got in their first aid kit out back. He actually couldn't care less what happens to the guy, he should have taken John's advice and got lost while he had the chance. Besides, there's a slight buzz to the way his blood is pumping through his veins currently, a heat in the pit of his stomach, his palms feeling sweaty and his cheeks heated. All right, they're getting out of here now and then he's finding a tree or something to suck Khan off behind. To hell with decent use of public spaces anyway, yes. Come on.

Breathing slightly irregular, he moves past the group of men, their attacker curled well and truly in on himself while clutching his hand. Medical attention, he wants to tell them, if only out of a professional pride -- but honestly, he doesn't give a damn and keeps quiet, turning around to wait for Khan to follow. The guy's friends are beginning to look slightly agitated and one of them is whispering angrily to -- someone else, gesturing wildly with his hands before stepping forward, in between them (what the fuck do you think you're doing, huh). He turns towards Khan.

John raises an eyebrow, at this point very much expecting a show. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ So, they're leaving. Khan empties his beer before following suit, straightening up and walking languidly past the group of men who're looking ready to attack either him or John any time. He's quite happy to see John, doctor that he may be, disregard the whole spectacle as they head for the exit. Good. Confirming once more that the man is no push-over.

He comes to a halt, when one of the men - slightly older than the other one, not by more than year or two and equally bulky - steps in front of him and blocks his path, putting himself directly between him and John. That's very annoying, and then there's his disrespectful language and those hands, flying everywhere, like there's a point to them. Or to the man himself. Khan stares at him for two seconds, tops, before he contains himself and makes to simply brush past. Would have been easiest. Would have been the peaceful way and he can do peace, certainly, if the alternative is pointless violence.

The stranger then makes the mistake of reaching for his shirt, presumably to hold him back. Without blinking, Khan simply grabs onto his face, fingers digging into his cheekbones and forehead, the man's nose and lips moving against his palm as he starts writhing and yelling in response. With an expression of complete boredom, Khan holds the man out in a stretched arm, taking what's supposedly a punch to the side of his face and the top of his chest without moving a muscle. He looks at the idiot, then at his friends and raises an eyebrow in question. Then, mostly to finish off this thoroughly thrilling, nonverbal conversation, he tightens his grip slightly, hearing the man's nose creak, dislocate, at the pressure before flinging him out of the nearest window, the glass exploding on impact and the man sailing through the air, landing on the pavement outside. It's not a very long fall. Khan's pulling his punches.

The remaining men - and guests in general - seem less than inclined to challenge him further. There's mostly quiet now, except for the man with the broken wrist who's making some odd, high-pitched sound of distress and some of the other guests, muttering to themselves in disbelief - and so, he simply turns to leave. He waits for John to leave first, mostly so as not to leave the other man's back open for repercussions. ]

[docwithablog]

[ John gets -- quite the show, actually.

The man stepping in between them makes to grab hold of Khan and John could have told him that would be an insanely stupid idea, borderline suicidal, probably, but doesn't -- instead letting events run their course as Khan... what. What. Smashes his palm in the guy's face and keeps him out at an arm's length while punches rain down over his face and chest, something he seems exceedingly unbothered by. John just stares, meanwhile. Just -- that. Stares. Khan, on the other hand, glances over at the rest of the group of men and promptly -- yes, good, very good, great, cracks the guy's nose single-handedly before throwing him out the window. Single-handedly. Fuck.

The quiet in the pub has deafened to almost unbelievable degrees and John glances around quickly, catching sight of people frozen with food halfway to their mouths, wine glasses left untouched, a spilled drink on a table in the corner... They all got a show, it seems. From the looks of it, he's not the only one thinking Khan looks awfully hot this way, flashing the skill set that they talked about earlier, correctly deduced by one John Watson. For once. Good, but they're going now, they're definitely doing now, because they need to get to either a hotel, if not home, anywhere with a suitable bed, really, so Khan can bloody well fuck him already. His blood is pumping hard and fast in his veins. His adrenaline levels are shot, completely. His breathing harsh, shallow.

He leads them out. Stops on the pavement outside, not too far from the groaning, glass-covered guy handled by Khan 2 minutes earlier and turns around, sharply, facing the other man, pupils no doubt dilated and his voice slightly hoarse. ]

Fine, quick question: 5 minutes or 11 minutes?

[insuperiorstrength]

[ They step outside, past the groaning man on the pavement. John turns towards him, pupils blown, breathing fast. Though Khan's not winded in the least, the irritation has transformed into something hotter now, the violence - low-level as it may have been - going straight to his blood. They mirror each other as they stand there, John's question hanging between them. Both of them, wanting to act, to do. And both of them ready to translate this urge into sex.

5 or 11 minutes? Khan breathes out harshly through his nose, eyes narrowing very slightly. On the street, people are taking care to walk around the bleeding man whilst from inside the pub, sounds can be heard of resumed activity, phone calls being made and first-aid kits being dug out from the backroom. He can feel the echo of the fight between his hands, like a lingering layer of heat running over his fingers, his palms, up his arms and downwards. He could have easily killed them all, re-painted the pub walls in blood, in sprinkles of bone marrow and entrails. 5 or 11 minutes? What sort of a question is that?

Stepping closer, he looks down at John. Says, voice slightly rough: ]

5. Lead the way.

[docwithablog]

[ There are a vast selection of hotels in the Chelsea area, the even vaster majority of them expensive as all hell, but watch him not care as he orders a room, double (two beds, sir? one, he replies) at the nearby My Chelsea Hotel, the receptionist displaying the first proper example of real, British politeness this entire evening by not even batting an eyelash at the sight of them, clearly in from the street, no luggage, simply making him plug in his credit card, sign the receipt and they're good to go. Good. Good.

God, it's eating him up, the urge. All the way in the lift where they're standing next to each other, shoulders brushing, because he bumped them up on the first floor, a superior double room or whatever she called it, it's fine, it'll do. He can still vividly picture Khan's hand in that poor guy's face, breaking his nose with just the pressure of his palm and is that some serious non-Spec Ops trick they don't learn in Special Forces? Christ.

The room is big, really too big for what needs they have (he means, seriously), but on the other hand -- who the fuck knows, maybe Khan intends to throw him around a bit, too. The thought makes John raise an eyebrow slightly, a shiver running down his spine as he finally slams the door shut behind him, turning towards the other man fully. The air between them is positively charged, impatience and raw, unfiltered lust, lots of adrenaline, pumping, pumping, pumping -- it's a real good high, this, for even the advanced adrenaline junkie, he'll give Khan that. Stepping forward, he frowns slightly, staring straight up in Khan's face without touching him, just standing there, very, very close, breathing in his proximity...

He always manages to push all John's bloody buttons. ]

All right, are you done?

[insuperiorstrength]

[ Within long, they're standing in a hotel room - large, a light-red, bordering on pink colour scheme, huge bed near the windows - and they're staring at each other again, as if the time keeps stopping around them. In the back of his mind, Khan knows that it's ticking in more ways than one; timing both his upcoming departure for home and his exit, the one that will leave them parted for good. John asks him, are you done, as if he's ever really begun, and there's something incredibly harsh and beautiful about what's happening. What's been happening, ever since he arrived here by accident all those weeks ago. He doesn't feel done in the slightest. His hands are still tingling, muscles aching for more.

Are you done.

With a half-strangled growl, he crosses the distance between them and grabs onto John's shoulders, pulling him close and fisting one hand in his hair. He stares into his face, taking in his features almost desperately, thinking that there are really only so many uses for regular human beings and isn't it ironic, isn't it grandly typical, that this once... this one time... He swallows, forcing out the next words, few as they are. His cock is rock hard already, straining against the fabric of his trousers. ]

Not by far.

[ He pauses. Slips his hand from John's hair to his neck in a brief but gentle touch before stepping back and nodding at the jumper he's wearing, the jeans. It's a single command, wordless, as he pulls off his own, black shirt and drops it on the floor. He doesn't care about putting it away nicely, it's on the floor and it'll stay there until he's ready to pick it up. Until he's done, as John says. His trousers and socks are next and he works efficiently, fast, to move on from this small, insignificant intermission and take them where they both want to go. ]

[docwithablog]

[ It happens in an explosion, much like it did at the pub -- Khan crosses the distance between them with a growling sound, grabbing onto John's shoulder, pulling him close before fisting his other hand in his hair, a harsh, demanding kind of touch that makes John's breath catch in his throat. They stare at each other, unblinkingly, intensely, John not pulling a single muscle even as Khan's yanking at his hair and basically showing him muscle enough for, what, ten people. Not by far, the other man replies and it's a promise, isn't it? It's a promise of what's to come, tonight, beyond, wherever they end up taking it. It's good -- he exhales shakily, yes, it's good like this, it's exactly what he needs. It's exactly what he's needed for so long.

A brief, but gentler touch -- and Khan steps back, nodding at John's clothes, wordlessly ordering him out of it and John waits only as long as it takes the other man to pull off his own shirt, eyes running down over his chest, his stomach, further down to the waistband of his trousers, a bulge clearly visible at the front. Okay, then, fine. His own cock, almost fully hard in his jeans, jerks slightly at the implications and he licks his lips while finally pulling first his jumper off, then starting in on the buttons of his shirt underneath, a plain blue thing, maddeningly slow to work open. Fingers aggressively undoing the first five buttons, he just -- gives up, dragging the shirt over his head and dropping it on top of the jumper. Gets to work on his jeans, but not before pulling the small bottle of lube out of his left back pocket and aiming it carelessly at the bed, throwing it with a good, old rugby aim, landing the vial somewhere near the square middle. You know you're getting laid regularly again -- and that your partner is male when lube's become one of the basic carry-arounds.

Only then does he start toeing out of his socks, pushing his jeans down impatiently. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ His eyes follow the movement of John's hands as he pulls out a bottle of lube and dumps it on the bed - nice aim - before toeing out of his socks and pushing down his jeans. He's bared his body for Khan in stages, rapid stages, but stages nonetheless and in the meantime, Khan's sense of want has grown exponentially into starving hunger. Staring at the man for another couple of seconds as he wrestles out of his jeans, he pushes his briefs down, drops them with the rest, and pounces.

In one, fluent move, he's crossed the small distance between them once more, thrown his arms around John's lower body right underneath his buttocks and hoisted him off the floor. The other man isn't small or light by any means, but Khan is happy to carry him anyway and he'd better know it. He buries his face in John's midriff, lips and tongue dragging over skin, fingers digging into his buttocks. The scent of his arousal is strong and enticing, John's cock hard underneath his briefs and he wants him right now, almost overpoweringly so, he wants him on his back, writhing and moaning. He wants to swallow him whole.

On a hard exhalation, he sets off for the bed, tightening his grip on John, his mouth never leaving his skin. He tastes of himself, of sweat and arousal and the remnants of cologne (sandalwood, fresh and spicy), the one he always uses when he dresses up. There's something about this sense of familiarity that makes him ache; he knows his scent, yes, and would recognise it anywhere, a thoroughly useless ability when you think about the future and thus, resolutely, he doesn't. Think. Instead, he mouths his way down to the waistband of his briefs before tipping him onto his back on the bed, gently, narrowly avoiding squashing the tube of lube. ]

[docwithablog]

[ Khan's a step ahead, perhaps a couple, while John wrestles out of his jeans, he dumps his briefs and -- pretty much plays big cat again, pouncing across the small distance at John, lifting him up with his arms thrown around his lower body, beneath his buttocks and John exclaims a wow while grabbing onto the man's shoulders with both hands, fingers digging into the exemplary display of muscle and tissue. Bone. God, he's strong -- John isn't exactly lightweight and he's carrying him around like, what, John carried around his lube, that's reassuring, isn't it? It's not, but he'll take it, fuck, if he won't take it right here and now.

It's not a long walk to the bed, but Khan is pressing his face in against John's midriff, mouthing his way down over his abdomen, licking and kissing and breathing his way heavily downwards while they go and it's driving John absolutely nutters, the stimuli, the heated feel of expelled air, saliva, soft lips, wet tongue. Feeling his own breathing pick up, he doesn't even try to temper the pace, his cock growing fully, completely, utterly hard in his briefs the closer Khan draws to the waistband -- where they don't get any further, because the other man tips him like timber onto the bed, John releasing his hold on his shoulders accommodatingly, dropping onto the mattress with a soft thud, avoiding to make contact with the tube of lube, that would have been uncomfortable. Apparently, Khan has a good aim, too. Do they play rugby in the Spec Ops he isn't affiliated with?

Pushing himself up on his elbows, John looks up at the other man from his reclining position, chest rising and falling rapidly, his briefs definitely more a display of his cock's outline than anything else. He wonders, just for a second, how old the man is, he never got his answer to John's question and he sure as hell isn't going to inquire about it now, it doesn't matter, but he's curious all the same. Body, posture and face says -- hardly older than 35, but he has a tendency to talk like John's old military commanders, well into their 50s, if not their 60s, pension-aged and weathered, experienced men, that's what Khan -- well, feels like.

You wouldn't think that kind of rather perfect combination existed, but there you go. John purses his lips. ]

Come on, get down here.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He obliges, dropping to his knees on the bed and shifting upwards, until he's got one arm on either side of John's hips. The small pause between action and inaction is minute, feels more like a quiet inhalation, and his blood pumps faster and faster, as he leans down and presses his lips to the skin beneath John's navel, his happy trail tickling his chin. He doesn't work slow; after all, he's ravenous. Drawn-out exploration will simply have to wait. Instead, he reaches up with both hands and pulls John's briefs away, hooking them quickly behind his balls. Then, with a quick glance up at John's face, he bends down and sucks his cock between his lips.

The head feels big like this, a bit like a stretch, and he presses his tongue against it, coaxing it deeper into his mouth. When it hits the back of his throat, he draws back only briefly, sucking it back inside. He doesn't care about making the man climax before they've fucked, he'll just as happily take him there twice. All he knows is that John feels large and solid and altogether present like this and it's intoxicating, it's exactly what he wants. So he draws back again, he curls his fingers around the base of his cock, keeping it angled and dipping in, running his tongue over the head and around the retracted ridge of foreskin. The taste and feeling of it goes straight to his cock and in none too many moments, he'll fuck him just like this, on his back, windswept and disarranged.

He swallows him again, this time to the base, the stretch nowhere close to painful. Burying his nose in his pubic hair, there's an almost overpowering sense of John all over and he thinks about some idiot offending him, showing him disrespect for no reason whatsoever, just to prove himself, to play pretend, and he's almost sorry he didn't hurt the man any worse. It's simply not allowed. It wasn't before, in the world where John may or may not have been and Khan made the rules across continents and seas, and it isn't now. ]

[docwithablog]

[ Sure, Khan gets down there -- after which he pretty much just goes down on John, never making it past his crotch where he leans in and kisses his way over his stomach instead, downwards, very downwards, very focused, shit. Briefs, out of the way, a glance up at John who's basically in front row seats for the show, then the man just unceremoniously sucks his cock in between his lips. John stares. A couple of dumbfounded seconds, just stares, mouth falling open and his heartbeat exploding in his chest, blood pumping quickly, as the surge of heat rushes through him, from his cock and out into every single functional limb he's got. Khan just keeps coaxing him further into his mouth, down his throat, easing into an uncoordinated back and forth movement between the man's lip, the suction of his mouth, the wetness, warmth, it all makes John's toes positively curl, doesn't it? ]

God. [ Head dropping back as he breathes heavily through his mouth, John stares up at the ceiling, shadow and light playing across the white surface. Khan then, good man that he is, fuck, swallows him to the base, burying his nose in John's pubic hair and staying there, because John is apparently sleeping with the only bloody man in the entire universe who doesn't actually need oxygen, Christ... He makes a low noise in the back of his throat, remembering how he could actively fuck the man's throat last time, without any complications and he licks his lips a bit nervously, going for a careful first thrust forward, pushing down the man's throat just that extra inch, the thought making absolutely every nerve ending he has anywhere, bloody hell, sing. If they keep this up, he's going to come before time and that's no fun, no premature orgasms today, please. It's been too good, too good. He stops himself from thrusting forward again, the muscles in his thighs straining underneath his skin. Sweat breaking out. It feels quite -- perfect, really, spectacular, incredible, he could literally go on and on and on.

He just chooses not to. Restraint for the sake of -- what, exactly? Khan will be gone in the morning. And John will go back to waiting for everything and everyone. His muscles tremble. He groans, slowly reaching down with one hand to run his fingers softly through Khan's hair. A dark shadow in his lap. ] -- Amazing.

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He can feel the tension in John's body to begin with as he catches up gradually to Khan's pacing of choice. It's understandable; John, by instinct, does things slower than Khan, likes foreplay and thoroughness and inch by inch. There's something very enticing about that, charming in a way. When you've been designed for speed and agility and forcefulness, the contrast is almost exotic. Right now, however, they're doing it Khan's way. And judging from John's words, the noises he makes as he tries desperately not to just give in and fuck Khan's throat, he has zero complaints. Drawing back slightly, lips wet from saliva, he runs his palm along the jut of John's hipbone, over his stomach and back again before resting it against his lower abdomen. He doesn't press down but it's a hold, all the same. Support.

Then, eyes closing, he bends down and takes him in again, bopping his head up and down and feeling the shaft of his cock grow slicker and slicker. He leaves John's hand in his hair to do as it likes, keeping the movements of his mouth and throat slow but relatively consistent. His own arousal feels like a burn, harsh and overwhelming, growing steadily in his lower body. His cock is hard enough to ache. Throat working, he goes on for another half minute or so before drawing back with a wet slurp, popping John's cock gently out of his mouth. It looks pink and wet from precum, no doubt incredibly sensitive, and he could probably make him come now, if he wanted to, just rub the head between his fingers and curl his other hand around the shaft.

But going by John's reaction, he'd rather wait. Khan isn't opposed. Right now, he isn't opposed to anything. All he can think is more and as he draws back fully, he pulls at John's briefs, signaling for him to take them off. He reaches for the lube bottle and sits back on his knees, watching the other man through narrowed eyes. He can taste him on his tongue, in the back of his throat, and it's good. It's not enough but it's good. ]

[docwithablog]

[ The muscles in his entire body are tightening up from his attempt at holding back, shoulders, upper arms, thighs, abdomen -- but then Khan reaches up and presses a hand supportively against his lower stomach, fingers splayed out and the warmth is just another addition, making John groan and thrust upwards while the other man bops his head up and down, creating the mere skeleton of a rhythm, strikes the beginning of a pace and John has to think to himself, then, that should he really come now, they'll just do it some other way, they'll figure it out, he'll blow Khan in return, it's fine, it's good... Because, shit, he's so close, he's aching for it, he's aching. Finally, Khan pops his cock out of his mouth, gently and that's bloody well nice of him, and draws back, signaling for John to get rid of the briefs, an order he sure doesn't need repeated twice.

It's just a shuffle, then the briefs land on the floor, soundlessly, disappearing amongst the shadows of the bed and John watches Khan out the corner of his eyes, how he reaches for the lube and sits back on his knees, all hard front and hard features and hard, hard, hard cock. John thinks, he should probably get a pillow to push under his lower back, if they're going to do this the hard way and even if they aren't, if they're taking it easier (mood doesn't seem to suggest it, though), some elevation will only help, in any case. So he turns slightly and grabs a pillow from the other end of the bed, arranging himself across it, so his bum is lifted up, his entire lower body -- okay, well, he's kind of on display like this, isn't he, his glistening cock, his balls, his perineum -- that entire area free for all access, yes, good. That's... He isn't blushing, John honestly isn't the blushing type, but his cheeks feel slightly heated and his lips are parted while he tries to draw breath, quicker and quicker, never enough air in his system.

He shifts, spreads his legs a little. Resting on his elbows, he looks back at Khan, meeting his eyes straight-on. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ John takes his briefs off and - turns, shifting towards the end of the bed and - ah, obviously. Pillow. Khan watches as he pops the pillow beneath the small of his back and lies down again - mm. Would you look at that. With his legs slightly spread, the man looks positively inviting. There's the hard line of his cock, weeping against his abdomen - there's his balls, drawn up slightly - the soft-looking skin of his perineum, glistening slightly from saliva - and then, his arsehole, very much displayed and vulnerable underneath. He takes a moment to look up at John, too busy staring at his lower body but when he does, the other man's looking right back at him, a strength in his gaze that somehow makes the blush on his cheeks all the more lovely. Lovely and thoroughly fuckable. Head tilting slightly sideways, Khan shifts closer on his knees, unscrewing the lid on the lube bottle on the way.

He crawls closer until he's right between the other man's legs. Just one look at John's cock convinces him that it won't take much to send him hurtling over the edge. He'll leave it be for now, then. Expression focused, he pours lube over his fingers - a generous amount - and leaves the bottle on the mattress next to them. Then, smoothly, he settles down enough for his chin to hover mere inches above John's cock, looking up at him once more and quirking an eyebrow very slightly. ]

Tell me. Would you like it gentle -- [ He shifts onto one elbow, and leans in, sucking John's right testicle into his mouth for a few seconds before continuing: ] -- or would you like it rough?

[ He gets the choice tonight, as he didn't the first time they met. Things have changed since then and Khan doesn't actually prefer one type of sex over another at most times. Tonight, he just wants it close. And they will be, no matter what sort of pacing they end up setting. ]

[docwithablog]

[ Swallowing thickly, he watches the other man shift closer on his knees, unscrewing the bottle of lube and pouring a generous amount over his fingers, once he's settled in between his legs, close, close, John can almost feel the warmth of him on his bloody skin. It's maddening. Leaning down until his chin is inches above John's cock, Khan looks up at him again and quirks an eyebrow, something almost -- what, teasing about him, something lighter, something funny, yes, very funny as the man proceeds to ask him how he'd like it and then sucks one of his testicles into his mouth so he can't breathe and definitely not answer for a good while. Just focusing -- on not jerking upwards, not create more wet, warm friction, he's so dangerously close as it is. He stares at Khan for a long moment, forcing him to wait on him, because he deserves it, the idiot, until he finally draws in a shaking breath and replies, voice more harsh than amused, but amusement sure runs as an undercurrent anyway, to your luck, Mr. Free Agent: ]

I'd like you to get a bloody move on or this will be a very one-sided shag very soon. [ He's tempering his breathing carefully, throwing in a cold shower thought every now and then for good measure, just glimpses, nothing that lingers -- can't, when Khan's right there with his stupid cheekbones and his even stupider pecs and his determined gaze, his hard cock. John licks his lips and meets Khan's quirked eyebrow with a quirked one of his own as he adds, a bit more accommodatingly: ] I'd like it good, so how are you better, gentle or rough?

[ Just make me writhe, seems to be the implication, unspoken for now. Khan's smart, however, he'll catch on -- he'll get it, John knows, because weirdly enough they seem to have a mutual understanding of these things, despite all the stuff that they don't have in common, the things they don't share, the things John doesn't know, not even how old the man is, fuck, it's kind of pathetic, actually. Doesn't feel pathetic, though. Feels very, very genuinely fantastic and he'll take that over the full picture any day. Shifting on his elbows, he lifts his chin and angles his lower body a bit, spreading his legs more. He wants Khan in his own time, at his own pace, that's what he wants. ]

[insuperiorstrength]

[ A pause. He doesn't look up this time, his eyes narrowing slightly. How are you better, John asks and that's quite something, isn't it, from the man who's currently lying on his back with everything between his legs firmly on display? How very cocky of him. The truth is, of course, that Khan is better at everything and if John's got no preferences tonight, it really is no matter. He nods once, then leans right back in and sucks his other testicle into his mouth, coating the skin in saliva and flicking it lightly with the tip of his tongue. Shifting, he angles his lubed-up hand and pushes two fingers against his arsehole, not penetrating but simply circulating the muscle, slicking it up. He draws away and uses his thumb to track a wet path from John's ballsack over his perineum. He's soft, here, and very hot. With a long, even exhalation, he sits up and scoots closer on his knees, his hard cock sliding along John's inner thigh and sending sparks of pleasure shooting into his system.

Mm.

John's tight but he'll adjust, as he does, as he did. So Khan keeps his eyes on him, on his face, just to see his expressions change as he pushes his fingers - both of them - inside of him, slowly at first but very insistently. He pauses at the first knuckles, gaze hooded, thinking about the way the man's going to feel around his cock and restraining himself from just pushing inside, all the way, forcing his body open. He's showing him an awful lot of trust, is John Watson, without knowing anything about him truly worth knowing. He has given Khan no reason to betray that trust. Working his fingers slowly in and out, he stretches him open gradually, going deeper at every third or fourth stroke inwards.

He stays away from the man's prostate for now. Instead, he reaches for the lube and manages to one-handedly squeeze the last half of its contents onto his other hand. He sits back between John's legs. Keeps working him open with his other hand, as he starts stroking himself lightly, slicking up and providing some much needed relief, simultaneously. His gaze is fixed on John's face still, eyes heated and dark. ]