With a moan John pops like shaken champagne, a loud and messy overflowing of creamy cum into Danny's palm. It's the culmination of a lot of fucking, a lot of his prostate getting trashed, so it goes on for a while, pulsing wet past the initial high, still trickling a few spurts even as John catches his breath and comes back to his body, to the reality of sweat and the grit of the wall, the cock in him suddenly an unpleasant urgency rather than a numbing fullness. And because he's a selfish little bitch about any discomfort that doesn't feed his masochism, they're immediately done, anal playtime over. John puts his weight on one of Danny's shoulders and lifts himself off, feeling the dick slip out of him followed by a sluice of wet that probably isn't even all Danny's. Grunts and drops one leg (hissing as tightly held muscles relax) and then the other, still holding onto Danny while he gets his colt-shaky legs underneath him.

He meets Danny's gaze again, reaches between them, fists Danny's cock like he's entitled to it, just a few strokes to enjoy the shape and heat of him, the cruel kick of overstimulation — and maybe to keep him occupied for a second. It's still appealingly fat, and John is still full of bad decisions, digging a thumbnail into the frenulum as he considers if he wants to go down on his knees and clean it up. But no, that seems like it would just be rewarding bad behaviour, and after one last squeeze he lets go and looks around for where the fuck he left the bedsheet-like cloth that passes for his clothes.

"Gonna tell me your name now?" he asks, like it's an inconvenience rather than the first step in an unwinding plan to add this guy to his growing little collection of shithead humans.