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Whatever Baby may have chosen to believe, it's not that Johnny doesn't want it. There is no one who makes him do it, yet he still wears his shirt half-open, the red such a tempting colour against the smooth pallor of his skin. And Harry has noticed the glances he throws him when Baby's not looking, smouldering and heavy-lidded. Beneath his pretence of shyness, the boy is a slut, there is no doubt about it, and he proves it one night, when Baby lies slumped on one of the tables, passed out from too much drink and other things, Harry doesn't care much about. What he does care about is Johnny's hand in his and how the boy drags him backstage, into an empty changing room, and how he bites his lip, as if surprised by his own courage.

But Harry recognises an invitation when he sees one, pushes him against the wall and takes his mouth in a good, hard kiss. And just as expected, the boy positively melts under him, so, so eager for his touch and his tongue, and Harry only withdraws when he can make out a word between the low moans and whimpers: Daddy.

He chuckles, cups the boy's lovely face in his hand and tells him, how that does nothing for him. “Call me sir, if you like,” he says and Johnny, well, he does like it. He also likes to beg. Begs so prettily, in so many words and needy noises, Harry finds it difficult not to hurt him, not to bend him over the sofa and fuck into him without preparation, like an angry, brutal animal ravaging its prey. Instead he exercises patience and has him strip to enjoy a good view of that beautiful slender body first, has him present and prepare himself, before he pulls him into his lap and onto his cock, his fingers bruising on the slim hips.

And Johnny, he rides him with abandon and the same act of bashful timidness that makes for the most enticing contrast, and Harry can't help but tell him what a good boy he is and how well he is doing and how tight he feels and that he mustn't come without permission, and Johnny revels in his attention, touches him with reverence, like a gift, like a god, and when Harry finally, after a most endearing babble of oh and please and sir, allows him to come, wraps his fingers around him and brings him off in quick, determined strokes, he has already decided to keep him.

He holds him close after, enjoys the last twitches of his cock still inside him and the warm breath against his neck, trails his fingers through the slick silver strands of the boy's come on his belly and contemplates the source of his epithet. Perhaps it has nothing to do with stars and glamour. But then, what does it matter, he thinks and presses his lips fondly into the wild mop of sweat-damp hair, to which Johnny responds with a happy purr.