Daniel's hand opens to him, glint of sharp, hard nails, the blue veins in his wrist, the sheen of blood and come. Instinct and pleasure both, driving Armand to lick him clean. Shivers beneath the taste of Daniel against his tongue and the feeling of his other hand petting through his hair, down his back.

Bolting is not off the table, but the spark of that impulse doesn't surface, not while they attend each other in this way, not while it feels there is nowhere else for Armand to be.

Eventually, a kiss to inner wrist, to forearm, and then settling again. They will need to get clean, but the animal in him doesn't particularly care, nor the vampire, nor the figment of a person caught between these extremes. Silence, then, and Armand says, "Say something," as he rests his chin on Daniel's chest.