The temptation to prick a hole in Armand and taste his blood is there, but it would only be about intimacy; Daniel's textbook is sated, which is a nice feeling. He doesn't want to starve himself, or lose the desire to drink blood with age, or pick up dogs and cats. (Who could ever eat Peanut?) He's glad that they did this. That they do this, that they can share kills, drink together. Armand should take more in general, he thinks. People who are a little happier. It's alright. There are plenty of happy people in the world to prune a few leaves aside for the good of the whole plant.

"Mmn?"

Has he ever received a sweeter order? Daniel smiles to himself, and continues his appreciative petting. Stops only to press his index finger down on a spot at the base of Armand's spine. Playful. Hm? Oh? Does this work? Is there a button he can push?

Hands stroke up, down, the breadth of his palms, then careful, light trails of pointed claws. Thinks about how he might do that, even as they continue to shift and rub against each other. Daniel is hard, or at least halfway, a comfortable thing that's crept up on him. It feels more real, now that Armand has bid him do this, but still dreamy, high. He rubs Armand's hipbones, the curved muscle of his behind, and slides his touch into the cleft of his rear. Everything is easy and exploratory with clear appreciation to the way his body feels under his hands, and it's unhurried. When he begins to slide fingers (and the tease of nails) over hidden-away parts of him, it's mostly the tops of his inner thighs. Leisurely searching for places Armand likes to be touched.