The first curl of Armand's fingers around him makes his cock twitch, the edge raw and cranked. Getting fucked had felt so good, and the way Armand is staying here like this, sated and language but still seemingly present, is making it even better as much as it's making it more surreal. (Will they do this more? Will Daniel get used to it, lose the nerves, end up coming while Armand is still fucking him, get to feel him while he's hypersensitive in the immediate aftermath, everything tipping to one side of pain?)

Something about it all feels so decadent. Too rich, overwhelming. Armand fucking him and finishing first, Daniel using his hand after. Fetishizing self-indulgence. He realizes Armand is looking at him, their folded-over hands on his cock which is leaking and desperate.

Fuck, he thinks he's going to say it, but his breath catches in his throat in some shattered half-sound. It hits him like something sharp, makes him flinch, orgasm shocking him with its intensity. One more experience lost to age, brought back again in death, ten times better, a hundred times better.

"Armand," gasped, grit out, instead of swearing. Maybe his name is an obscenity, though.