This little gesture observed, absorbed, ribbons heat through him despite the relief that has made Armand rest heavy on top of Daniel. The flash of fang in his mouth, wet tongue, that Daniel has stolen a taste of him in return. He lets out a breathed sound that seems to concur with this assessment.

Settles against him, head resting on his chest as if they were still watching cartoons or settling in to sleep, although Armand isn't certain he feels tired.

Satiated. Rare that a vampire ever knows that sensation. His mind feels heavy, like a sponge, like it might be impossible to second guess, to fret, synapses too sluggish.

And pleased, that's also what he feels. Experience a marriage of the better part of a century in which all love, romance, gratification slowly drained from the bed, watch your companion fuck a thousand men and dream of his former lover while sleeping a foot away from you, and it doesn't matter how much you have done before: you may start to believe you could never elicit this response from a person again. Shivering and desperate and choking and gasping.

No. Too much reflection. Too much past. Armand wishes to be present. Draws Daniel's hand to him, and tastes their mingling as well with a touch of his tongue to the heel of his palm.