His name in Daniel's mouth, spoken like that. (An echo of a memory, Amadeo, Arun, drawing blood, and worse still, later, later when he thought of it again, with the memory of Daniel's blood in his mouth, the way it had made him want.) Textured, a friction to it, like it interfaces directly with his nerve endings without needing to bother itself with physical contact.

But Daniel hitches up against him. Makes a good case for exactly that.

Armand gets his fingers in Daniel's waistband and drags the fabric down, just dexterous enough to make it a smooth enough process, a sudden baring. Panting, a little bit, with the desire to taste, and his hand captures Daniel's cock, a feeling and assessing kind of contact, memorising his specific dimensions, a fingertip questing over the head of it.

His, his, his. At this point, requesting permission would be an overly polite show of manners, but Armand thinks he would have asked or found a way to extract it before he slides further down and tastes him with an open mouth. Does not, clearly, his cupping hand and the hot-wet of his tongue sudden things in the dark, hungry too for the sounds Daniel is making, the shape of his hands on his back and shoulders.