Claws in his back, his ass, his hips. Drawing white lines, his fledgling beading blood to the surface of his skin, a scrambling desire that feels sharper for the way Armand feels so close to satisfied. Lazily turns his head to meet that kiss, gives a small hiss at where fangs catch against his lip. More blood. Only answers it by kissing Daniel back deeply, bearing down.

If there is some removed part of him, it's barely a sliver, the rest of Armand too present for the kinds of dissociative analysis that he has often made room for, retreated to. This tiny part of him, observing the side this brings out in Daniel. Clawing and demand and desire, naked desire, unmediated. Not unfamiliar. They can be so cynical, sometimes, but honest too.

But enough of that. Armand has the briefest urge to tell Daniel he's about to come, some twisted up thing that is both seeking permission and giving apology, and ultimately too far gone to do anything but sink into this role of taking he has begun, that Daniel encourages with words, with hands and teeth. Grasps a hold at the base of Daniel's throat, the curve of his shoulder, kiss breaking in the moment, mouth red and wet with blood and spit.

Claws sinking in. Doesn't pause his rutting. Even the abstract part of him looking on doesn't give him a helpful reminder to see to Daniel's pleasure.