A gut-punch. Teeth again, soaring pleasure from it even though it's superficial, in tandem with Armand coming between them, into his hand, onto his skin, his own cock, everything scorching hot there. The smell of him is like blood and sweat and more and overwhelming— and there's something else, an echo that he can feel, winding him tighter and tighter, he thinks of static on an old TV, particles made out of euphoria.

Same mind, same blood, maybe it's supposed to feel like this when they fuck. (Does this count as fucking?) (Yeah.)

He feels his fangs in his mouth, a spiral of hunger getting its hooks into him with the rush getting his maker off brings, but he doesn't bite down anywhere because he doesn't have permission to, and inspecting why he needs to figure that out first is too difficult right now. Instead he touches himself, quicker, more desperate, using Armand's come to make everything slicker and easier and faster as everything winds tighter until he fractures and follows him off the ledge with a choked sound.