John is enjoying this in the way he enjoys all novelty, any hedonistic sensation that can stave off his own personal void for just a minute longer. His legs wrapped agilely around a handsome stranger's hips isn't new, but the dark tone in Danny's voice is, the bite and snap of him, spitting hisses and flexing tiny little claws. The implication that he's been fucked over by something other than human.

"I think," he says, "You've never met anything stranger than me."

He could do something here to show off, really punctuate the sentence with some reminder that he's a fucking genocidal death god, Imperial Emperor, Earth's specialist little necromancer, but on the other hand that seems like it might be a distraction from what's important: getting that dick inside him. John doesn't have a lot of traction in this position, his hips stuttering uselessly in a way that just snubs Danny past his hole, has him rutted into the slick hairy squeeze of John's cleft but not where he goddamn wants him.

"I also think you should stop talking shit and fuck me, kitten," John adds, a little fuel to the fire.