Zadza is as much about violence as sex, and John prefers it like this: begged for and bloody, not the blunt fight clubs out in the crowd. But he still doesn't bite, drawing back to watch Danny's face.

Only because he doesn't need to. He doesn't even need another point of contact — Danny's meat is joined to his at the hips, and from there John extends his divine will, curls mental fingers around his lungs and heart and throat, the sweet wet throb of his body going through its mortal motions.

There's a sudden spray of blood, and Danny will feel the dizziness of his blood gushing all over the two of them instead of going on to the brain where it's needed. It's a precise, gory wound, and John plays his nervous system like a keyboard, sending bright pain all the way down his spine to his balls.

It's healed before he can scream, every last drop of blood just a pink mist returning home, the skin sealed, the artery repaired, not even a scar to show for the minor surgery. He's showing off. John's eyes are hooded, cheeks a little flushed, licking his lower lip to catch a speck he missed — deliberately, wanting to taste him, that vital thalergic essence. He's throbbing in Danny's hand, agonisingly close and still trying to play it cool.