After long moments, Armand lifts his head, and he is breathing heavier by the time the end of his tongue leaves Daniel's cock. A break, maybe, where the tight fist of his hand slides over saliva-slick flesh to make up for the absence, except Armand glances at Daniel once again—brighter orange, a thin rim of it around the pooling black, diminutive fangs beneath his lip which pulls back—

Sinks a proper bite into the meat of Daniel's thigh, blood quick to rise, coaxed beneath a languid swallow that draws golden threads beneath the surface of his skin, the blood-thick flesh in fluttering abdomen muscles, reaching for his heart.

Hand, squeezing. Service, possession, some ideal thing between the two when there will be times maybe either of them will crave one more than the other. Armand's eyes slide closed under the taste of hot blood in his mouth. It's been a very long time since he's really itched for exactly that.