docwithablog | does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

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does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

[ 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.

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[ If he couldn't feel the process of his cock, sliding inside John's arse to the base, all he'd have to do is read it on his face. The slight clenching of muscles, the frown, the tightness of breath. He likes the way it looks on him. He looks simultaneously desperate from the stretch of it, as well as utterly blissful. Then, John actually finds enough breath for speech and the rawness of his tone makes his cock jerk, his careful control suddenly a lot harder to maintain. Khan looks down at John, lips tight for a moment as he adjusts his position on his knees, then leans forward until he's resting his other hand by the side of John's neck, palm flat against the mattress to keep his weight off the other man.

And suddenly, abruptly, they're so close he can feel John's breath on his face.

When he speaks, his voice sounds a lot less even than usual, a hint of shakiness stealing into his words. He isn't moving yet, is still buried deeply inside the other man, and he leans in close, lips brushing over the side of his face: ]

I'd like to see you try.

[ He draws his hips backwards, muscles working across his shoulders, down his back. Then, slowly but firmly, he thrusts back in, the sudden onslaught of friction making him curl his hand into the sheets next to John's face. Ah. He repeats the motion, harder this time, and John's close enough to kiss but he doesn't do it, simply watches his face, listens to the sounds of his breath. He exhales harshly, like a snarl. Then he starts fucking him, truly fucking, pushing in and drawing back, his focus narrowing down slowly but surely to slick and hot and tight. His hair keeps falling into his face but he doesn't draw his other hand away from John's chest to fix it, slipping it onto his shoulder instead because he can't care about details now, he wants, he wants, he wants. ]

[ 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. ]

[ It becomes a rhythm, the steady slide of in and out, the feel of his cock being stroked tightly at every thrust. John moves with him after a few seconds, angling his hips and soon, soon, he's whimpering and what a lovely sound that is. Khan thrusts harder, just a bit, though he's holding back by miles. The slap of skin on skin is loud in the stillness, their breaths (ragged, rough) interchangeably in and out of sync. He can feel himself drawing closer and closer, knows that it won't be long, and looks down at John, realising that his own eyes had closed without him even noticing.

John's holding onto his hair forcefully, the tension and power in his body screaming for release. Giving a few more good, hard thrusts with his hips, Khan reaches up for John's wrist and forcibly pulls his hand away from his hair, his scalp tingling in response. He presses John's hand down against the mattress for a few seconds, mostly just for the feel of it, for linking their fingers together briefly. Just so. Touch. Connect. And, consequently, leaving slickness from residual lube all over his skin.

Then, he lets go and says, voice hard, something inside him ready to explode: ]

Do it. [ Another hard thrust. His next breath is a gasp. ] Do it, make yourself come.

[ He rocks forward, maintaining the speed and the power of his movements, gaze boring into John's eyes as he starts chasing his own climax for real, leaving John to fight for himself, to make it happen - they're so closely connected now, anyway, they couldn't be truly parallel even if they tried. ]

[ There's a weird discrepancy between what happens first (Khan forcing his hand away from his hair only to interlace their fingers against the mattress, the intimacy of that, the fucking gentleness) and what happens next, when he releases John again, telling him in a hard, deep, God, so deep voice to do it, make yourself come. John's cock jerks, hard and there's a moment where he thinks, that's it, he'll just come without being touched at all, fine, good, all good... Before he, muscles trembling noticeably beneath the skin of his upper arm, reaches down between them with his hand, closing his sweaty, now lube-slick fingers around the base of his own cock, just -- squeezing for a moment, to not come on the bloody spot. Then, he feels for Khan's pacing, falls into it easily, the first stroke of his hand following an inward thrust of the other man's cock, brushing over his prostate just in time with his thumb brushing over the head, pressing in along the slit and -- Jesus, his eyes fall closed and he makes a muffled sound that's neither a moan nor anything lesser than it, it's exactly that, throaty inhalation, sound on the tail of an exhalation. His hips push up into his own touch desperately, which only makes Khan's cock rub over his prostate again, different angle this time, still good, still so bloody good.

It doesn't take long. Following the hard, forward forcefulness of Khan's thrusts, he quickly works himself into a frenzy, palm sliding along his own length, fingertips following the curve of the head, jerking, applying pressure in time with the other man's hips, pushing forward, pulling back. It takes perhaps -- and it's probably a generous estimate, you'll allow him, four of those routines and he's gasping breathlessly, throwing his head back, all bared neck and thigh muscles clenching, arsehole clenching, everything's clenching and he can't even really make any sound as he comes, just his body drawing together into a single point of pleasure and his balls are tight as -- all hell and he's -- fuck. ]

Khan...

[ Lifting the hand grabbing onto the other man's shoulder, John reaches up, curves his fingers along the strong line of the man's neck, fingertips digging in while he strokes himself through what's got to be the most powerful orgasm he's had, period, ever, no comparison.

No comparisons. ]

[ John reaches down and complies and Khan can feel his hand working between their bodies, his arsehole tightening along with the rest of him, the surge --

When John comes, spurting over his own stomach and Khan's, he follows him seconds later, already so far along that the added clenching around his cock simply finishes him off. He gasps, burying his face - nose, mouth, forehead - in John's neck and jerking hard - once, twice - more - until he spends himself deep inside of the other man. He comes with the echoes of his name in his ears and the feel of John everywhere, in his nostrils, in his mouth, against his neck, around his cock. It's a long, outdrawn orgasm and he almost feels like he's bursting open, despite the grand impossibility of it, despite his own inherent strength.

He breathes shakily, muscles coming down very, very slowly from the high as he comes to a halt, half-way out. He lifts his head, staring at the pillow and the strands of John's hair, fanned across it in uneven lines. Then, gently, he pulls out. He's losing hardness quickly and the muscles in his upper arm actually feel tired - a trick of the mind, of course, but a good one. Very carefully, he rolls off the other man and lies down next to him on his side. Like this, he's simply watching John's profile change as he thinks, as he breathes, and Khan thinks he could possibly keep looking until he falls asleep.

And for longer, too, if he's honest. ]

[ The orgasm leaves him spattered in cum, long, sticky strings across his stomach, probably some up Khan's too, cum on his fingers that he dries off in the sheets when his hand drops to the side tiredly after a few seconds, muscles coming down from the high so gradually it doesn't really feel like it's happening at all. Quivering beneath his skin, in his thighs, abdomen, upper arms. He can feel his own pulse beat erratically in his temple, his neck where Khan's head presses in, nose, mouth, forehead, points of contact. Everywhere.

A grimace as Khan withdraws after a while, well, feels like a while, could be a bloody second, time is always relative when you've climaxed, isn't it? The man drops onto his side next to him and stares at him, John taking a moment to just -- yes, good, breathe, breathe, his entire system feeling overloaded from sensations, his arsehole feeling numb. That's going to hurt tomorrow.

Who cares. Who the hell cares. Wow.

Blinking dumbly a few times, John finally just -- eases onto his side as well, coming face to face with the other man and raising a very tired, very lazy eyebrow at him. When he speaks, his voice is groggy, you could probably convince someone who didn't know him -- and possibly someone who did, too, that he was drunk, pronunciation a tiny bit shot. Like everything else on him currently, really. ]

So, how old are you? I'm guessing, not 15.

[ No, definitely doesn't fuck like a teenager. Fucks like someone with 50+ years of experience, actually. ]

[ John lies down next to him, looking back in that fearless way of his. There's something about John's imperturbability that fascinates him. It's rare in humans, obviously, and it makes watching him fall apart in bed so much more interesting. Really, without his physical human fallacies, the man would be ideal on the battlefield. It's no wonder he's sought it out, as people do today, willingly. It's hard to imagine him anywhere else.

Good thing he's found a different job, too.

At John's question, Khan's face remains blank, unaffected. His brain is slowly forcing him away from wakefulness, body well and truly spent, and he can't be bothered to play around any longer. Earlier, in the pub, he might have. But now, he simply meets John's gaze and says, voice a rumble between them: ]

I came into the world in 1959.

[ He doesn't add that he's currently stuck in 2259 because it doesn't matter. It may, come a later date. This world doesn't have the technological advances of his own, not even when adjusting for timeline divergences. No, this place works slower, has evolved at an entirely different pace and there's something undisturbed about it that he quite likes. He shifts slightly, enough to make himself fully comfortable. In less than five minutes, he'll be falling asleep. ]

Edited 2019-08-06 08:55 (UTC)

No -- [ John replies, hearing Khan announcing (in his always rather archaic way, charming, really) that he was born more than ten years before John himself and it's a joke, of course, or at least some way or other to get around answering truthfully. No one's going to believe the man's a day over 40 and even 40 might be pushing it. That he should be in his mid-50s is just far out and John chuckles slightly, adjusting the angle of his head against his upper arm. Better position to halfway fall asleep in, a few minutes from now, he might shift even closer to the other man, sleep on him or something, he's strong enough to take it, obviously. ] -- you came into this world a liar.

[ The cum on his stomach is slowly drying and it itches, but he can't be bothered to actually lift his hand and do something about it, wipe it off, scratch it, whatever, it's just too much effort. He's so very, very, God awfully spent. Shuffling a bit closer to Khan without actually initiating touch, he breathes in the thick stench of sex hanging in the air, the smell of them both, together, together and his expression turns serious once more. He licks his lips, blinks a couple of times to keep himself awake. He's spent and he's tired. Please, God, let him sleep.

In a moment, for now his voice is casual, though the question isn't: ]

Going to be around to empty their executive lounge for food in the morning?

[ A slow eye-brow raise. Well, hard to expect much beyond that, isn't it - if he'd been in John's shoes, he wouldn't have believed it either. He doesn't respond to the liar comment - beneath him, really, having to explain why lying isn't something he'd even need to do - watching as the other man inches closer, more and more, staying out of touch. It's charming, in it's own way. How he never presumes. At his question, Khan shrugs. ]

Until my 24 hours are up.

[ It doesn't particularly matter to him what they'll be doing - whether they'll be eating, fucking, visiting another museum. Regardless, he'll be ready to return once his time runs out, to work out a new plan for his crew, for getting them all out of there. He closes his eyes slowly, breathing in the scent of John, warm and musky and very uniquely him. Then, on an impulse, he reaches out and pulls at his shoulder, urging him to roll over onto his other side. To lie against him, as seems proper somehow, with how they manage to connect more and more with each visit. He's too sated now to think about the consequences. All he knows is that the distance feels terrible.

Right now, things are not supposed to feel that way. ]

[ 24 hour window, every bloody time. Although John understands the rules, because he knows the game, it's getting increasingly more -- insufferable to see (and sometimes, not even that, sometimes Khan's just gone in the morning, isn't he) the other man leave without promises or guarantees. When what they've shared has been like this, yes? It gets harder and harder to let go of and honestly, John thinks he's let go of too much already, he's let it all God damn go, his career, his life, his -- He licks his lips and thinks about Sherlock only for a second, then Khan's hand on his shoulder, urging him to roll over onto his other side, grabs his attention instead.

He looks up at the other man in the dark of the room, his skin pale and almost translucent in the moonlight falling in through the window. Despite his height, he's not actually used to being the little spoon in this constellation of spooning people, but he rolls over anyway, a slow movement, not quite as fluid as it could have been, hadn't he just been fucked within an inch of his life. He'll be sore as all hell tomorrow, he can tell. With a harsh exhalation, he gets his back positioned against Khan's strong, strong, strong front, shuffling backwards until they're pressed against each other rather tightly, rather nicely, too.

Then, the tiredness breaks over him, like a wave and he yawns, completely gracelessly, head sinking back against Khan's shoulder comfortably, snugly. He blinks against the shadows around them for a moment, until they slowly blur into a whole lot of -- dark blobs. It occurs to him that if the man really wanted to snuggle, he could probably just have lifted John into position, like he did, right? Earlier. It occurs to him that he was urged, yes, but asked. Another yawn, bigger and louder, and he reaches for Khan's arm, slinging it carelessly over his waist.

He'll appreciate it. Until his 24 hours are up. ]

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does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

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