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A quick, one-two knock on Eric’s trailer door. Assad shifts restlessly from foot to foot. Already his jaw is tight, fighting the urge to grind. Blessedly, Eric is inside, and he’s quick: calls, “Yeah, come in,” and so Assad does, pushing through the door like he’s beginning a full-scale barrage or, possibly, coming home.
“I hate these things,” he complains as a greeting — doesn’t bother to work around the lisp, so things sounds like fings.
Eric hums, belatedly aware of Assad’s presence, finishing whatever of his lines he was reading and tossing his script onto the vanity. He always starts as soon as he gets the scripts rather than wait a couple of weeks like anyone normal would; by the time they’re running lines together, he’ll be off-book. This makes Assad slightly insecure, should spur him into action, but sometimes he misses the smell of Eric’s cologne enveloping him, and because Eric doesn’t have a script book, Assad will dip closer, press them shoulder to shoulder, point to a line, and say, “What do you think of this?” and inhale slowly, quietly, while Eric chatters at him for a few minutes. It all works out.
He greets Assad by swinging his arm around the back of his chair and craning his neck up for a kiss.
This makes Assad feel like he’s the housewife in some quaint, Old Hollywood sitcom: he trips over himself to grant Eric this, lips colliding with his cheek, then his temple.
“They’re making you wear them already?” Eric asks, looking up at him. “Oh, lock the door. I should have said.”
“Until I show Carol,” Assad laments, stretching until he can click the lock on the door. It’s a wise thing. Being back in Eric’s space on a regular basis — just being back in the same city, really — has turned him into an overexcited opportunist. He smiles every time he remembers Eric’s hotel room is just two floors up and down the hall, that his trailer is just across the lot — and then, usually, he goes to knock on Eric’s door.
The reunion has made Eric feel the same, he thinks, or it’s at least made him indulgent. He never turns Assad away. At worst, he says, “sorry, kid, I’ve got to make some calls” or “return some emails” or “run my lines” or “shower, but you can hang around.”
Assad loves hanging around. It’s a shame that Anne Rice’s vampires don’t turn into bats, because he thinks he’d like to. To curl in the pocket of one of Eric’s button-downs or sink his little claws into the flesh of his hand, the fabric of any of his clothes. A more thematically-suited fly on the wall. Assad on Eric’s body, never to be parted save for only the most necessary excursions.
Eric’s instruction gives him the permission he needs; it’s essentially his way of saying, Assad, I know you’re a horndog who’s desperate to climb me like a tree, so I’m going to grant us both the courtesy of letting you do your freaky shit in private. Assad climbs happily into his lap, sits side-saddle.
Here, another kiss, this time pressed into the curve of Eric’s mouth. His curls look particularly tight and buoyant today. Assad, delighted, runs his fingers through them.
Eric touches his jaw until Assad obediently opens his mouth, lifting his top lip to show off his fangs. “What’s so bad about them?” he asks, investigating like a careful dentist. “Should know, shouldn’t I, before I get fitted for my own.”
“You’re going to be so bad at keeping that a secret.” Assad’s lips close over the tip of Eric’s thumb while he talks. “It feels unnatural, you know? Everything about the dialect changes. It’s like waking up with entirely new teeth. I just want them out.”
“You don’t get used to them?”
Assad shakes his head, shrugs a tiny shrug. “I grind them down until they’re ruined or they come off my teeth. They keep giving me smaller ones to accommodate, but still—” he makes a face.
“You just need a teething ring, is all,” Eric says, and then he hooks three thick fingers into the soft palate of Assad’s mouth. They fit snugly over the fangs on his bottom row of teeth, fingertips coating his tongue.
Assad whines; his legs clench together as if to keep his dick from bouncing up like a spring. It doesn’t help, of course, because Eric hooks his fingers behind the bottom row of Assad’s teeth and fills more of his mouth and shakes, tugs him forward like he’s a well-trained dog, says, “Come on, babe, bite down, it’s okay.”
Assad, with a soft and keening sound, bites down. He tastes of skin and soap and familiar lotion. Assad’s tongue flips up happily to lick at the webbing between Eric’s fingers.
Eric laughs. “Better?” he asks.
It is, actually. Eric’s fingers are knobby, not quite soft, but having the weight of them in Assad’s mouth is better than just the fangs. He nods.
Eric, with his free hand, in quick order, checks his phone and then grabs his script, returns to it without a second thought.
“I’d talk to you,” he tells Assad, “but I’d feel a little bit like I’m keeping you hostage.”
It works quite well until Assad’s drool starts dripping out and landing on his shirt, which he realizes after far too long. He extracts himself with a worried sound and a great hissing suckle to follow as he attempts to pull all the saliva back into his own mouth. “Sorry,” he says, massaging at his jaw. “Was getting a bit wet.”
Eric makes an amused hmph at this, but he’s long since been locked into his script, and he doesn’t really look up. What he does do is wipe his fingers off on the cotton of Assad's sweatpants (this, he forlornly reports, turns him on terribly) and flip his arm over to offer his wrist instead.
“Oh, come on,” Assad says, ducking his head in a way he knows will get Eric’s attention.
Eric looks up. Wiggles in his seat to nudge Assad onward. “You’ve done it with Sam, haven’t you?”
“It’s different.”
“It is not,” Eric argues, knowingly. “Everyone wants to fuck Sam.”
“Yeah, well.” He bites down gently into the meat of Eric’s forearm to avoid the rest of the conversation. He does it like he’s been trained: arms curled on either side of the mouth, not hard enough to leave a bruise. This second part changes after a minute, as Eric’s skin is nice and thin and soft, and his bite deepens as he settles in. It’s harder to hold it there, and he has to suck his spit back in, and he doesn’t last half as long before he pulls back, then picks an adjacent spot to bite down again. A couple more times of this, and it’s apparently enough of a distraction that Eric abandons his script.
“What do you think, Assad? Is Armand excited to bite me? You know, deep down.”
“Rolin says,” Assad tells him, pulling away and swallowing, “I shouldn’t get my hopes up about the inclusion of a turning scene. He told me, specifically, not to get my hopes up.”
“No, he told me the same.” Eric hums. “I’m ready for my turn in the fake bloodbath.” Assad bites, and he carries on: “Looks like Luke gets one before me. Should I be jealous?”
“I think,” Assad decides, “the fact that you’re so unblemished is what makes Armand want it the most. Beyond all of the psychological melodrama.”
“Oh, yeah?” Eric peers down as Assad’s fangs sink into the meat right below his elbow.
“Daniel does a lot of work to make himself look and feel like the professional one in the room,” he says. “He wants to look buttoned-up but casual, sharp but trustworthy.”
“Remind me to come to you later for character notes.”
“Sometimes, though, and I don’t know if this is because he’s really comfortable or you need to adjust your back or if it’s also sort of performance? You’ll just slouch, just a bit. You’re totally relaxed, or it looks it. Effortlessly sexy. I think he gets the urge to bite then.”
“You think whenever you want to crawl in my lap is when Armand would want to bite Daniel.” Eric laughs good-naturedly. “I think your wires are a bit crossed, babe.”
“They’re corresponding desires!” Assad protests, then he looks down at the red, slick mess of Eric’s arm his mouth left behind.
“Oh my god,” he says, now laughing with him. “I’m going to give you the world’s biggest hickey.”
“Might as well do it where it counts, then, yeah?”
Assad makes a soft, pained sound as Eric stretches his neck. As if he isn’t hard enough already. He won’t say no, though, wouldn’t dare say no. Eric offers him these little things on a silver platter, the most appealing hors d'oeuvres, and he can’t help but devour them.
Much like the way he devours Eric, sinking his fake fangs into the flesh of his throat. Eric, at last, groans. It short-circuits his head, the low, deep rumble Assad can feel in his chest.
Wait, he thinks, trying to catch up with himself, wait wait wait wait wait—
He shoves his hand between Eric’s legs, determined to find — and he does, Eric’s dick a stiff bulge in his jeans.
He likes this. Assad realizes it like a sharp slap. He likes me in his lap. He likes being bitten.
Assad squeezes. Eric groans again. “Easy, kid,” he says, bucking up. “I’m not sure I want to test the structural integrity of this chair.”
Assad, breathless and excited, kisses him open-mouthed. Eric’s tongue curls around one fang.
He’s quick to clamber out of Eric’s lap, though, quick to drop to his knees, to reach to undo the button of his jeans.
“Fuck me,” Eric says, tilting his head up toward the ceiling. “Just be careful.”
Assad is careful, opening his mouth wider than he might normally. One fang scrapes gently along the side of the shaft of his dick, which makes Eric shiver and jerk his hips forward. It’s wildly impractical, but he makes do, mostly by keeping his efforts to sucking at the tip and licking up the length of him like he’s administering a tongue bath.
All things considered, it’s a quick success: Eric comes into his mouth, is quick to offer a tissue for Assad to spit onto, and his hands tug at Assad’s hair to get him to his feet.
Assad leans against the top of the vanity, shoves down his sweatpants, watches as Eric spits into his palm and leans forward to wrap a hand around him. It’s like hitting a live-wire, being touched, is everything he didn’t know he needed, and he’s closer than he thought — oh god, he’s so close, and his hips jerk, and —
Everything whites out, except for two sickening, crunchy pops, the telltale sign that he’s lost his teeth.
“No,” he laments, battling his eyes open, as his dick spends uselessly into Eric’s palm. He spits two fangs into his palm, groans a whiny groan and curls in on himself, attempting to recover from the aftershocks and the shame both. “Noooo. Fuck.”
Eric is laughing at him — wiping his hand on a tissue and laughing.
“I have to go—” Assad laments, and Eric pats a consoling hand down his chest, says, “Yeah, yeah, I know, lest Carol look at you with a smidgen of dismay. Go.”
“Ugh,” Assad says, tucking the fangs into his pocket before he tucks himself back into his pants.
“We’ll get you something in silicone next time,” Eric says, and he laughs until Assad is out the door.