"Alright," he pants. "Alright." Shivery and heated. With you is like lightning. It occurs to him that they shouldn't be doing this, that his hate and resentment should be too much, but he looks at this fact the same way he looks at the morality of killing mortals. Differently than before. Maybe he's just insane now, maybe Armand passed more to him than immortality. But maybe, instead of all that, he'd have fucking killed to get this kind of intensity from any other relationship. What if one of his wives tried to kill him for leaving. What if one tried to throw herself out of a window, burned the house down, left one of the kids at an orphanage. Wouldn't he have liked it.

Sweat and precome make it easier, the heat off the both of them too much for two people who are dead, Daniel keeps pressing messy badly-aimed kisses against him as he strokes them both, somehow falling easily back into muscle memory he'd tried to make himself forget. Years of I'm not, and now it feels like I was just waiting. He rasps nonsense out, that it feels good, that Armand feels so good, all of him, his hands, mouth, his teeth, he says please, please, and he doesn't know why.