John's fucked wet insides set Danny's instincts on a razor's edge, jackrabbiting thrusts calling him home, tempting him to fuck him until he — they — cum, then maybe fuck him again because he's twenty-four, invincible, and live round loaded. It's John's patronizing calm, even while impaled up to his guts, that slows the relentless hitch in his hips and the rough jack of his dick through his fist.

His teeth dig in again, to break skin, maul him bloody, then pause and lift away, harmlessly.

"You first, John." But he says John the same pornographic, arousal-static way he'd say slut, the same way he'd say you fucking whore. With a sideways slant of his chin, he offers John his throat for the guillotine, soft and fluttery, corded muscle squeezing in on a hummingbird pulse. "Put your fuckin' teeth in me."