presurgery | PSL no. 2: cruel wars

PSL no. 2: cruel wars

CHRONOLOGICALLY -

i. alternate universe
ii. picture prompt
iii. quote prompt
iv. random scenario
v. psl
vi. stargazing
vii. psl
viii. psl
ix. psl
x. insomnia

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[ He watches as John slides to his knees between his legs, feeling lazy and finished from his climax as well as impatient for a new release, simultaneously. It's an odd crossing of emotions and urges and when John licks a trail up the underside of his cock, he has to make a snap decision as to which impulse to focus on. Luckily, Khan's very adept at making snap decisions.

Good decisions, too.

Licking his lips, he curls his hand around the back of John's head, stroking the skin along the nape of his neck softly. When he licks the head of his cock, his tongue glistening from a mixture of saliva and residual cum, Khan shifts very, very slightly in response. Inwardly, though, he has to force himself not to shudder, the bared head of his cock completely over-sensitive. The pressure of John's tongue, slight as it is, is too much and too little at once. If he'd been less concerned about his own composure, he would have probably tried to thrust up against his lips, just for the added sensation of friction.

As it is, he settles with whatever pace John's picking out for them. His breath heavy but even, he watches the other man intently through narrowed eyes, spreading his legs a little more to accommodate him. ]

[ There's a good man - Augment, whatever, very good. Khan just strokes the skin at the nape of John's neck and shifts a tiny bit, apart from that he seems completely unfazed by what's about to go on between his legs. John raises an eyebrow up at him, all the challenge he can muster, really, his mouth full of cum and lots of saliva, he's pretty much drooling for it, right... So he leans in more, tugging his teeth away behind his lips before following the glans with an o-shaped mouth, tightening his lips just below the dip of the head, the whole round shape of it engulfed in his mouth as a result. The tastes explode on his tongue, cock and skin and fluids and oh God, oh God, it's fantastic. It's amazing. If he'd had anything left in him, he'd get hard again, too.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, he doesn't. He's spent. Done. Means he can concentrate, yes.

Sucking sloppily on the head once, twice, before he slides down along the shaft, tongue pressed up tight along the underside, John reaches up and balances himself against Khan's naked thighs, strong, very strong, lots of muscle shifting beneath his fingers as he bends his head further. He can take about half of it, before the head gets in collision with his gag reflex and he has to stop, sadly. Shit, he used to be able to deep-throat Sholto, for crying out loud, the man was hung like an elephant. Where did that ability go?

It's a moment's dull pain, remembering exactly where it went, then he's back on track. Khan's cock, very good, very good.

He draws back a bit, feels the slide of it, drooling absolutely everywhere, then pushes back down, creating a good feeling of suction along half the length of it as he hollows his cheeks. ]

[ When John takes him into his mouth, the head of his cock sliding along the width of his tongue and into that tight, wet heat, Khan's hand tightens against the back of his neck, his muscles working all the way up his upper-arm and shoulder. Oh. Oh. Watching the other man, the visual almost as exciting as the physical sensations - John's mouth, stretched widely around him, his cock disappearing into him inch by inch - he has to force himself not to thrust inwards, the need for release suddenly sharp and imminent. He groans. Runs his hand down John's shoulder, stroking him, feeling how his body's working in parallel to his, his neck and shoulder muscles tensing and releasing. ]

Mm.

[ He shifts again, his movements more jerky and less controlled, at the feeling of suction around his length. The stimulation goes straight to his balls and for a moment, he has to look away, his gaze tracking aimlessly around the room instead, towards the ceiling, over the table, seeing nothing. Oh, but it's... so good. It's exactly right. He thinks about shoving his cock all the way down John's throat, about how it would feel, just sinking in all the way, being completely enfolded by him. He doesn't do it, of course. Besides the fact of their physical vulnerability, humans also need air.

As his hand roams down John's shoulder, his fingers slip over his bullet scar again, this time the back of it, the exit wound. It must have been a terrible injury, though he's fortunate enough that it went right through; if it had splintered inside of him, the damage would have probably been incompatible with normal function. Potentially, he could have died. Humans do that, after all, easily. Looking down at John again, on his knees, his mouth wrapped around his cock (such a vulnerable position to take, such a giving position, too) he folds his hand over the contours of scar tissue and ruined muscle, simply keeping it there. ]

[ John didn't do this before Sholto, suck cock, that is. Sure, there were certainly times he'd have liked to, but social conventions and expectations being what they were, he hadn't caved in to it. Took the outbreak of a war and, what, for all society to crumble, before he worked up the balls. At some point, it simply became unbearably ridiculous to fight himself when, potentially, he cold die tomorrow. Or today. Sholto had convinced him (do you want to go to your grave, Captain, knowing you never had everything out of it that you could?) and the rest is history. Old, ancient, dead history, even. Like the scar tissue on his left shoulder that Khan seems so intrigued by. Frowning, John focuses on the sheer volume of Khan's cock in his mouth, the way he's filling him up. Not as big as Sholto, but few people are. Luckily, it doesn't take a bazooka to shut up John Watson properly, Khan must be very happy about that right now.

Eyes closed, concentrating on tightening his lips around the width of the other man's, Augment's, whatever, it doesn't matter, cock and falling into a slow, careful bobbing rhythm of his head, he reaches up and closes his fingers around the base of the length, engulfing a bit more of it. Should help on the visual. Not much cock left uncovered, right? The sounds of his mouth are sloppy and wet as he finishes each backward motion with a good suck around the head, tongue dipping greedily into the slit for the taste of precum and, well, Khan, yeah? The essence of him. It's a little bit dirty, a little bit wanton, but what're you supposed to do, really? He's going to test himself again afterwards, hope for a clean bill and go back to his routines, most of which do not include sex with the enemy, mind you.

Most days aren't this, after all. Though, if they were, John isn't sure he'd have a problem with that either. Making someone as stoic as Khan squirm just a little is actually quite a nice challenge, comparatively to rewatching the Bond movies for the umpteenth time. Or, God forbid, reading scientific articles 12 hours a day, every day. Come on. Who wouldn't want this, yeah, who bloody wouldn't? ]

[ His breathing quickens, his point of focus narrowing down fast to the wet suction of John's mouth, the warmth around his entire length, the rhythmic friction. If he stays like this, still and composed, this blowjob might very well continue for a long time yet - he's on his second round, after all, and while he doesn't have a lot of sex and consequently, not a lot of seconds, he's intimately aware of his own physique, of the way his body works.

Yes, he could control this all the way to the finish line, until John's jaws are aching and his tongue's raw. If things had been different, he might have. He usually takes his pleasure in very restricted doses and keeping things under control is a large part of that. He looks down at John, between his legs, working his cock, the muscles in his thighs twitching each time he dips his tongue into the slit. In reality - beyond the confines of his role, the person he's become in lieu of a peaceful world - this is... maddening. Almost painfully so. His balls feel unbelievably tight.

Licking his lips again, he tightens his hand against John's shoulder. He breathes out deeply, inhales. Breathes out. Then, with a deep growl, a raw edge of desperation beneath it, combined with an urge to break loose, he grabs onto the back of his head, holds him still, and pushes in. He wants - more, tighter, more. He wants the very back of his throat. He wants what's beyond it. And John's giving it to him on his knees because they've transcended beyond their ordinary roles, the soldier slash doctor slash assassin and Khan, as a leader, who's been nothing else for the past two decades.

He thrusts inside, all the way into John's throat, and the tightness feels overwhelming so he stops breathing, staring aimlessly at the other man, his balls drawing up hard. ]

[ The shift happens from one moment to the next, pretty much, one moment John's calling the shots, working his length as quickly (not that quick) and as deeply (medium depth) as he wants, the next Khan's growling (Jesus, if he had another go in him - yeah) and grabbing onto the back of his head desperately, pushing his cock all the way down his throat in one slick slide of length and - you know, all of it, all of his bloody upper-average length, down John's throat it goes. Not to be a saint about it, John's entertained the idea of deep-throating him, sure, but to be completely fair, he hasn't done it, physically done it - in years, not since Sholto and Sholto always asked nicely, mind (please, Captain, I want to fuck your face), whereas Khan more or less (a bit more, not so much less) shoves it in. To the base, John's nose burying into his hairless crotch and his airway blocked by hot, hard flesh.

His cock hardens a little between his thighs, just whatever tiny jerk it's capable of giving and John thinks, well, okay, apparently we're doing that, and apparently we like it. Grabbing onto both Khan's thighs with his hands, fingertips digging into hot muscle and sinew and skin, he balances himself properly against the other man and stays like that for a couple of seconds, trying not to listen to the way his body's panicking. God, it's good. It's so good, it's fantastic.

Finally, with a loud retching sound, he pulls back, breathes in hard, only to push himself down over Khan's cock again, inelegantly forcing it back into his throat. One, two, three forward motions like that and he's not even really striking a rhythm, he's just eating him up, letting him fill him, take him. If that isn't enough, what with their given power dynamics, the way John's on his knees, submitting himself, bloody well the spoils of war here, he's going to say Khan's a bit greedy about the whole thing, yeah. He fixes his eyes on him, the vacancy of his face. Well, then, come on. ]

[ John simply takes it, swallowing him down and drawing away only when he's choking on it, the sound of him retching along with his staggered breathing loud in the stillness around them. It echoes he thinks, feeling almost madly untethered, it echoes, this thing they do. He's had John living here as a captive for months, knows his scent and his taste and the smoothness of his skin almost to the point of perfection. He could point him out under nearly any possible condition.

Even if he'd been buried in bits and pieces he'd be able to tell.

Eyes falling shut as he fucks John's throat, hard and fast, in, out, in, he feels his second climax building only a split-second before he actually comes. His cock pulses between John's lips as he goes completely still, spending himself down his throat. With his eyes closed, everything is darkness splintered with light, sparks exploding behind his eyelids, and if he's speaking the other man's name once, hoarsely, it's only because he's drowning in this release, drowning and floating in equal measures. His grip against the back of John's head loosens gradually, turning into something resembling a hold. He's not aware enough to make it truly count.

And despite everything, it's not a bad change at all. ]

[ Khan lets go, then, and it's about bloody time, that stuck-up, stoic... He can't really finish the thought, can he, because he's got his mouth full, his mouth and his throat blocked out and Khan's literally fucking his face, the way Sholto used to do, except this is a tiny bit less uncomfortable. He's just holding on for dear life, drawing breath when he's able (allowed) and taking it the rest of the way, yeah. His own cock's one-third hard now and it's not enough to really be a distraction, but the pleasant buzzing in his crotch mixes with everything else. The stretch of his mouth, the soreness of his throat. He sort of wishes he'll never get used to this feeling again, it feels fantastic, even if the mere thought implies repeat and they're not really there yet, are they? Oh, they're a lot of places, but not there. John thinks.

When Khan comes, however, it's not just the pulsing of his cock that gets to him, it isn't just the way he spends himself down his throat in hard explosions of (probably genetically improved) semen - it's the way Khan speaks his name, croaks out a low John and proceeds to hold him rather than claw at the back of his head, like a caress. He swallows hard, dutifully, like a good little soldier and only slowly draws back, feeling his throat empty, his mouth, Khan's cock popping out between his lips with a wet popping sound. Jesus. Christ. He's just breathing in and out raggedly in the silence, palms flattening against the other man's thighs. Holy - That was intense, huh. Is it always going to be like that?

Which, again, implies they're repeating themselves. Same stupid mistake. Inhale, exhale, inhale... John doesn't think it feels like a mistake, much. It feels pretty great. He looks up at Khan. ]

This is going to be a thing, isn't it?

[ Honestly, he'd like to say more, about them obviously not being able to keep their bloody hands off each other, about giving in to it - or not giving in to it, should and shouldn't, but his voice sounds croaked and cracked and hoarse. Cocksucker voice, if you ever heard one. Khan did give it his all those final seconds. Good. ]

[ His orgasm is powerful, the lingering feeling of overwhelming exhaustion brief but insistent. Khan leans back in his chair, tipping his head back for a moment and staring up at the ceiling, blinking slowly against the lights. John, meanwhile, pulls himself off his cock - the contrast between the warmth of his mouth and the coldness of the surrounding air makes him shudder very slightly in response. This is going to be a thing, isn't it asks John, his voice utterly raw, throat used, well-used. Khan breathes slowly, evenly. In and out. Then, he looks down at the other man, lips quirking upwards. ]

It already is.

[ He strokes the back of John's head for another half-moment, then shifts backwards a little to give himself sufficient room to move without elbowing the man in the nose. He tucks himself away and zips up, his damp skin rubbing against the fabric a momentary discomfort. Then, fluently, the traces of post-orgasmic bliss leaving his system rapidly, he gets to his feet and holds out a hand for the other man to either accept or ignore - whatever suits him, really, he'll surprise him either way which seems to be John Watson's prerogative. First, years back, when he threw himself at Khan before carrying his dead partner and comrade out of the Tower. Months back, not by shooting him (they're enemies in war, why would an assassination attempt surprise him in the least?) but by leaving himself open in the aftermath. Do what you want.

And these days, repeatedly, by offering resistance, tension, when he should (and could) by rights have given up.

So Khan offers him his hand now, having marked him and been marked in turn (if the others couldn't smell John all over him last time, they certainly will now), knowing full well that all inequalities between them aside, he's been responding to the other man completely in kind, since the very first time they met.

At this point, it's simply what they do. ]

Yeah.

[ It's a non-committal reply more than anything, the real reply lying in the way he accepts Khan's offer of a hand after he's tugged himself away and zipped up, like he didn't just ejaculate, what, two seconds ago. Where do they get all that bloody stamina from? He knows the answer, of course, seeing as he's read the papers, done the homework, yes, but it just makes you wonder what the hell those scientists were even breeding these - not things, not now, not anymore - for. Sure makes you wonder.

Usually, he'd probably have declined the offer of help, not because he's a terribly proud person, John knowns when he needs assistance and when he doesn't, he knows when to call in expertise, but because he doesn't actually need it right now. He can get to his feet on his own, thank you very much, even with his knees slightly sore and his trousers down his ankles. As it is, though, well - if Khan's offering, he's taking, apparently, seems to be the recurrent theme between them at this point. He takes what's on offer, and if you're putting it that way, Khan is being very, very generous. He could demand it all, really, yet he just wants John's hand.

So, John grasps his hand and hoists himself to his feet, releasing the other man to bend down and fix himself up, belt and zipper, careful not to zip up his still slightly swollen cock. It'll die down quickly. Especially with the discomfort of denim against his sticky skin. Jesus.

Looking around the room, then, which they've left in a even bigger mess than he'd first noticed, John takes a deep breath and crosses his arms over his chest, returning his attention slowly to Khan. He isn't going to say much, come on, his voice's in shreds, but he is going to say this: ]

It's going to get us in trouble.

[ A shrug, mostly to show that he doesn't care, he likes trouble, trouble likes him, then he steps back and turns around, not even bothering to grab his book on the way out. He'll pick it up tomorrow. Afford Khan another opportunity to fuck his mouth, right? ]

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PSL no. 2: cruel wars

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