Easy come, easy go. Once his cock is thoroughly admired and just as thoroughly dismissed, Danny tucks everything back into neat order, greased motor efficient, hitching his trousers up his hips and tying his laces as he watches John through dewy lashes. The mess made on his hand, spiraling his forearm in avant-garde streaks like another tattoo, is mostly wiped, absentmindedly, onto his wrinkled tunic, though Danny licks a sticky pearl of cum from his inner wrist.

He could go again, but he usually can. What's itching in his blood now is a sharper, toothier need. He follows John's roaming gaze, spots his toga first in a crumpled pile near the wall and hooks it with his toe.

"Maybe," he replies flatly. He folds John's clothes into halves, corner to corner, then into quarters. Holds it out to him, just out of reach. "You gonna ask me nicely for it?"