Just mechanics, when they're each who they are, when they're staring at each other face to face for it. Armand inside of him, brute force physicality and not just his blood. Daniel drags in his breaths and looks up at his maker, his beautiful, fucking bizarre eyes that mirror his own in their coloring, his hauntingly pretty face, the lovely pinprick teeth that made him.

Armand bears down on him and Daniel almost chokes with it, sensations he hasn't felt in ages raking through him like electricity. He squeezes Armand's wrist, rakes his other hand down his chest to reach between them and feel where his cock is pushing into him, obscene and slick, and then he has to grab his hip, nails denting skin. He's hard, which is a bit of a shock, feeling the weight and heat of it between them— good, ridiculously so.

He's going to say something else. Some mechanical, daring bullshit, but as he opens his mouth (tips of his own canines elongating, just a little) he becomes suddenly aware of the thing binding them together. How it feels. That silver thread and the way he can sometimes sense Armand's mood or his presence, and how fucking overwhelming it is in this moment.

"Yeah," another echo, the most coherent he can be. Armand is holding him still but he digs a heel into the bed and pushes into him, more, fuck.