The bare hand on his bare dick, the leg boa constricting around his hip and pinning Danny back, stab an airy exhale from his lungs, gusting damply over John's mouth. John's on one leg now, leaving Danny to support the bulk of his weight, his thighs flexing and hips canting closer to force him up, higher, onto his toes. Danny has the leverage to move them, and he considers it for a second, out of writhing spite. To the gravel, where he wanted him. To fuck pebbles into his kneecaps, something to remember him by before Danny forcibly untethers himself from his too-familiar orbit.

"I've let stranger things than you do a fuck lot worse." That's too honest, that's too close to a real truth, vomited from his fuck lot worse insides as he stares at his distorted reflection in the black pools of John's eyes. He's been found repeatedly wanting by stranger things than John, too. Meaner things. Uglier things.

Danny's an assembly of long, idly sprawling limbs, far stronger than he looks. He fucks John's cum sticky hole with a few testing strokes, then drops his hand away, palms his flank, his thigh. Grips a bruising chunk of muscle and coaxes his leg around his waist, to join his other one. The hand on his dick stays, cradled in the fused cup of their bodies, and Danny's own dick stutters through his cleft, cockhead kissing his heavy balls, his taint.

His teeth snap air, glancing John's plump bottom lip. Another echo, tit for tat: "Do you think you can do better?"