"That is a shame. I'm very good." For many reasons, thanks to many masters. Armand's gaze slides down to examine the cock of a death god, which ultimately looks remarkably normal, remarkably human, like the rest of him. He listens to the excited pulse of John's heart and knows he wants it, or at least wants something -- maybe just his own hand, and a willing face to anoint.

Experimentally, he tilts his head a little, enough to require John to either tighten his grip in his hair to keep him in one place. He wonders, idly, if he should erase this night from John's memory, if it would be worth risking his ire for the sake of keeping his own secrets.

"My mouth is no more dangerous than your hand, Maestro. I believe you could pull my heart from my chest, if you so chose. That you do not do so is a measure of your capacity for mercy, or perhaps simply your curiosity. Do you believe I have no such capacity?"