[ I'd like to see you try, says Khan like they're doing lines from a western, complete with gunfights and Mexican standoffs and this, apparently -- I'd like to see you try. God, that's horrible and horribly hot, because as the other man adjusts his position to lean in over him, holding himself up on one arm next to John's head (and once again, how, is the man bloody well cast in iron), Khan slides his lips over the side of his face, nothing but wet breath and that low-key voice of his, seemingly only dropping deeper when they fuck, sex voice, Jesus.
John is about to turn his head towards Khan, catch his lips in a kiss, that would seem fitting with how everything else is wet and slick and muscle inside cavities, but then Khan -- draws his hips back and John automatically throws his free arm across his shoulders, feeling his musculature work beneath his skin, hard and smooth. He groans, eyes falling shut, halfway in surprise, mostly in response to the sensation of friction and stretch and slide surging through his lower body, fuck. The motion is repeated once more and he groans, once more, voice sounding choked to his own ears, before Khan just -- takes it there, them. Thrusting in, pulling out, in a rhythm, he's adding rhythm to the repetitive explosion of tight, pulsating, beating pleasure from every forward push into John's body and it's almost desperately, how he angles himself to have the other man's cock rub over his prostate, because -- Christ, he just needs -- he needs that --
Khan moves his hand to his shoulder, so John moves his as well, lifts it to bury his fingers in his hair, pulling it back from his face, grabbing it, holding on for dear fucking life.
The first brush over his prostate makes him grunt, the next makes him moan, reluctantly and low in his throat, but by the third it's a whimper and he's done caring, thank you very much. His arsehole is honestly tightening too much for every stroke to care about -- well, caring. Shit. He needs to touch his cock, he needs, he needs, he needs. ]
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John is about to turn his head towards Khan, catch his lips in a kiss, that would seem fitting with how everything else is wet and slick and muscle inside cavities, but then Khan -- draws his hips back and John automatically throws his free arm across his shoulders, feeling his musculature work beneath his skin, hard and smooth. He groans, eyes falling shut, halfway in surprise, mostly in response to the sensation of friction and stretch and slide surging through his lower body, fuck. The motion is repeated once more and he groans, once more, voice sounding choked to his own ears, before Khan just -- takes it there, them. Thrusting in, pulling out, in a rhythm, he's adding rhythm to the repetitive explosion of tight, pulsating, beating pleasure from every forward push into John's body and it's almost desperately, how he angles himself to have the other man's cock rub over his prostate, because -- Christ, he just needs -- he needs that --
Khan moves his hand to his shoulder, so John moves his as well, lifts it to bury his fingers in his hair, pulling it back from his face, grabbing it, holding on for dear fucking life.
The first brush over his prostate makes him grunt, the next makes him moan, reluctantly and low in his throat, but by the third it's a whimper and he's done caring, thank you very much. His arsehole is honestly tightening too much for every stroke to care about -- well, caring. Shit. He needs to touch his cock, he needs, he needs, he needs. ]