He says something, incoherent, kneejerk without the actual kneejerk. Maybe it's Armand's name, maybe it's Ohfuckyes, maybe senseless noise. Not aware, just knows sound leaves him, and for a second after he thinks maybe he popped off early like a fucking teenager— no, but maybe it was a near thing, this kind of pleasure he's never felt before that somehow goes past it. Fucking miles past it when Armand drinks, the bite a quick pain-pleasure jolt deeper than he's ever known, and then more.

Daniel goes weak for a second before he's clawing at his shoulder, the back of his neck, his other hand grabbing at Armand's on his abdomen. He doesn't think about heroin. He feels and goes to some fucking other dimension. Everything is blood, connected, a glowing conduit made of nerves and magic. There's desperate, aborted pleasure in his dick where it's still hard practically pressed to the side of Armand's face, feeling his silky hair, there's mind-melting pleasure in his thigh where he's bitten into him, and everything runs head to toes like a shock from something deeper that holds the note instead of sparking and moving on.

He knows better than this - this, sitting here, not reciprocating - he's always been pretty good (no complaints at least) (how's your head), but he's caught too expertly in Armand's claws and teeth to do anything besides gasp, in this moment.