Harry's been listening to enough of John's music that some must inevitably filter through whether deliberate or not. If there's an urge to tease about using that music to play over sex, he swallows it down. There's the barest thump of tunes filtering through from the party yet, at least.

He puts up no resistance when John stalks close and pushes him to bed. Not quite onto it. Every touch is a thrill, burning hot, and when fingers find themselves at his fly, his grin is huge. "You already got the neck taken care of. Nobody's going to miss that." His own hands do some roaming. Neck, shoulders, back, ass. Give that a squeeze. "Consider me your canvas."