Armand, warm and pressing down on him. It sends something profound up his spine, more than a jolt, different from the kind of arousal he feels with the humans he still hooks up with sometimes; he's never held another vampire this way. The feeling is different. He hadn't noticed— how could he? Why would he?
Kissing him is unexpected richness. Light with care and reverence, dark with eons-old promises of The only two on Earth, and that silver, shivery, bond. Daniel has never truly yielded to Armand— never fought him for dominance, but made him work. At patience, at communication, at being honest, at showing up. He has never been a dutiful, studious fledgling, even in times of learning from him. A pain in the ass to teach. Impossible to steal the last word from. Armand, paying the price of saving him, fifty years and counting.
He yields here. Leaning back to let Armand sink against him. Tipping his chin and letting him kiss him the way he wants, the way that feels good for him. Holding him and sliding his hands around his back, over the ribcage that houses that too-intense heart, up his spine, touching silken black hair, cradling him with a touch that's welcoming and capturing at once.
It doesn't matter anymore, why Armand made him. They've made the rest on purpose.
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Armand, warm and pressing down on him. It sends something profound up his spine, more than a jolt, different from the kind of arousal he feels with the humans he still hooks up with sometimes; he's never held another vampire this way. The feeling is different. He hadn't noticed— how could he? Why would he?
Kissing him is unexpected richness. Light with care and reverence, dark with eons-old promises of The only two on Earth, and that silver, shivery, bond. Daniel has never truly yielded to Armand— never fought him for dominance, but made him work. At patience, at communication, at being honest, at showing up. He has never been a dutiful, studious fledgling, even in times of learning from him. A pain in the ass to teach. Impossible to steal the last word from. Armand, paying the price of saving him, fifty years and counting.
He yields here. Leaning back to let Armand sink against him. Tipping his chin and letting him kiss him the way he wants, the way that feels good for him. Holding him and sliding his hands around his back, over the ribcage that houses that too-intense heart, up his spine, touching silken black hair, cradling him with a touch that's welcoming and capturing at once.
It doesn't matter anymore, why Armand made him. They've made the rest on purpose.