It's not convincing, an aspartame kind of sweetness, but Danny's in luck because John's into that shit. Even if it dials his own obnoxious calm up to eleven. "Okay, kitten," he agrees, made indulgent with the assplay. His stance shifts a little wider as he presses back onto it, hole flaring and gripping but it's still loose from the last guy's use — plus Danny's right that that wasn't his first partner of the night — and takes his finger with the kind of ease that says it could take a lot more.

But he still doesn't kneel; instead he leans further back on the wall, shoulderblades scraped into the rough brick, and lifts a leg to bracket Danny's hips. John made a few vanity adjustments back when he first got the meat magic — to his dick, of course, but also his flexibility. So they're going to stay face to face, those l'appel du vide eyes always measuring.

The groping explorations from earlier turn practical, finding whatever ties the leather and undoing it, slipping a hand through sweat damp hair to palm Danny's shaft, easing it out into the night air. "That'll do nicely, yeah," John murmurs, low and husky, as he traces the vein on the silken shaft with light fingers. "You normally let strange men in an alley play with your pretty cock?"