Work Text:
“Cut! That’s a wrap for now, thanks everyone. Go enjoy your weekend, intimacy coordinator should be here next week.”
Eric slumps a little, puppet strings snipped as the end of another workday has been called. Assad, however, finds himself still panting, frozen in someone else’s righteous fury as he stands over Eric.
Eric, to his credit, knows by now when to leave things as is for a bit. So he calmly looks at Assad as the crew mills about, waiting patiently for him to slip out of his current state. Assad is… grateful. Somewhere, distantly. He thinks.
But really, more than anything, Assad is stuck.
They’ve been working through some devil’s minion scenes. Assad knew from the start this was coming, he’s been looking forward to them ever since he signed onto the project, even more so when he met Eric and Luke. And while he’s been inhabiting Armand in his myriad of forms over the past few years – servant Rashid, submissive Arun, quietly commanding Armand, full-blown gremlin pushing young Daniel straight into suicide watch – he somehow wasn’t quite prepared for what he’s doing now, what he’s experiencing now.
Most scenes they’ve done so far have been with Luke, flashbacks slowly returning to Daniel after his turning. They’ve been interesting, they’ve been intense. Not quite as intense as their scene – that scene – from season two, in the broken-down apartment in San Francisco, but enough that he and Luke have both needed some time to wind down afterwards here and there. Luke in particular has been affected, even if he won’t admit it.
Assad, meanwhile… Well, it’s been… building. Sneaking up on him. Each scene, despite their varying levels of intensity, have required a little more time from him to slip out of Armand’s skin and back into his own. Like he’s losing part of himself a little in the process of filming, and he finds it increasingly harder to find it again each time.
Sam’s been wonderful when he talked to him about it, recognising the sensation. He’d found filming the finale of season two a particularly hard moment to let go of Lestat. His advice had been to indulge in what he thought his character needed, like a moment of closure to put the scene to rest.
Assad cannot follow that advice now.
You see, they haven’t fucked yet. Armand and Daniel. Not in the scenes they’ve shot so far.
Nor have Assad and Eric.
And, like, alright. Assad has shown his interest. Eric’s never actively told him no thanks, kid, but Assad’s never outright asked, either. They’ve been dancing around it, casually not-quite-flirting here and there. There’s been tension, especially with the new season’s script.
It’s all coming to a head, now. Armand is a hurricane, Daniel a storm-chaser refusing to back down. Armand is pushing him, seeing how much he can do to tear him apart without chasing him away fully. It’s cruelty and dominance in full force, and Daniel is withstanding it all. And it’s infuriating Armand. He wants to tear at the seams, he wants to see this stronger, older, tougher, more infuriating version of Daniel yield before him, and he’s close, he believes, so close.
It's left them both on a cliff, ready to tumble over the edge.
If Assad were to follow this thread, like Sam suggested, it could go only one way: to bed. Armand would fuck Eric, dominant to a fault, and while he suspects from Eric’s older works that the man does not mind in the slightest to be tossed around and told what to do in the bedroom, it’s not naturally in Assad’s nature. He’s not averse to playing with it, of course. But rather than give him the closure he needs, he suspects it might drive him further into Armand, the one person – character – his mind is trying to shirk off.
So he stands frozen before Eric, stuck in a character that needs to let off steam in the one way Assad does not want to. Not like that, at least. He stands there for a few minutes, Eric’s patient gaze growing ever so slightly concerned. The crew is slowly starting to filter out, and Assad is still unsure of how to bring himself to move.
“Assad?” Eric asks, quiet, carefully.
“Help me,” he manages to get out.
Eric’s expression shifts from mild concern to determination. He pushes himself up out of the armchair he was leaning back in, getting a little too closely into Assad’s space, who feels his nostrils flare in a way that is pure Armand. Eric notices it too.
“Let’s go, come on,” he tells his co-star, tangling their fingers together and leading him out of the room. Assad follows him blindly, his contacts still in, but he’s also a little out of it in general, mind and body bristling, internally warring with himself. Armand would go willingly, he thinks, he knows, even now. Would go willingly with his fascinating boy, despite it all, despite his frustration, his fury. That character may want to kill and tear and drain, but when push comes to shove, he cannot harm Daniel. He is entwined with Daniel, is weak to his wants and whims.
It does not temper the fury.
“You’re squeezing, babe,” Eric says casually, voice still low so passers-by don’t catch it. He doesn’t even look back. Assad blinks. He is, can feel the bones, the solid core of those thicker, calloused fingers. Eric’s hand must be hurting. He tries to ease up. It works a little. Just a little.
They make it out onto the parking lot. Eric greets one or two people, wishes them a good night. They get into his car. Assad isn’t quite sure how; he vaguely remembers being led to the passenger side. Eric must have peeled Assad’s fingers off him.
Eric’s eyes are still not meeting Assad’s, remaining focused on the road as he drives. His hand is on Assad’s knee, though. Nothing lascivious, just… grounding. It helps his breathing a little. Eric chats away, but Assad isn’t catching any of it, the words just white noise to him.
They get to the hotel’s underground parking. From there, they can just take the lift up with Eric’s keycard. Assad stands still as a statue for the entire ride up. Armand’s fury is slowly easing down to a simmer, but he’s still so very much there. Assad just cannot seem to shake him.
“C’mon,” Eric tells him when the metal doors open, “this way.”
He follows a few steps behind, every move measured. He feels like a mirage, shaking in and out of reality the way Armand’s eyes shake when he unleashes his power in full force. Eric still isn’t looking back, but that’s okay. Soon, they’ll be confined to one private space.
What Assad might do then, he truly has no idea.
Eric unlocks the hotel room door with a click and enters first. He holds the door open for Assad, keeping his distance, both physically and emotionally. Other than holding his hand and the hand on Assad’s knee, he hasn’t touched him.
Assad steps over the threshold, and the door falls shut behind him with a click. Assad is reminded of the snap of a mousetrap, and when he turns his eyes onto Eric’s, he feels the heat of a thousand suns in it, Armand trying to obliterate his captor, his keeper, off the face of the earth.
He realises all of a sudden; it isn’t the room. It isn’t even something to be solved with sex. Armand feels trapped, tied to Daniel in a way he never felt with Louis. He chose Louis, ludicrous and unhealthy as that decision might have been. Daniel… Daniel keeps happening to him, keeps drawing him back in. He cannot untie himself from him. He cannot turn his back, he cannot escape.
“Get him out of my head,” Assad pleads through gritted teeth.
A muscle in Eric’s jaw jumps. Assad briefly wonders if it’s anger, directed at Armand. He wouldn’t find it unsurprising, not with this cast, this project. He feels it too, the anger, there beyond the love he has for the character.
Eric is toeing out of his shoes, and Assad mirrors his movements mindlessly. He watches as his friend moves into the bathroom, listens to the sound of him washing his hands before emerging with a contact case and saline solution. He sits down on the edge of the bed and places the items beside him carefully, then finally, finally, meets Assad’s gaze.
“Come over here,” he tells the younger man.
Armand considers the man before him for a moment, head tilted. He cannot choose to stay away, but he can choose not to obey.
“Now.”
It jerks Assad into motion, though Armand keeps his chin lifted, haughty. A front. Assad scoffs at it, though the sound doesn’t make it to the surface.
Eric looks a picture before him. Eyes sharp, top button of his overshirt unbuttoned, showing a hint of chest hair. Assad and Armand both want to muss up his curls, which have survived a hectic day of shooting, want to card their nails through that patch of hair on his chest. The expression of the man before them however is one that does not accept arguing or disobedience, let alone an unpermitted touch staking claim to his curls.
“On your knees.”
“Eric –”
“You asked for my help,” the older man interrupts him. “So trust me.”
That, Assad can do.
With a sharp intake of breath he allows himself to sink to his knees, sat between Eric’s spread knees. Fuck, he’s dreamt of being here for how long now? And yet he can’t quite enjoy it, feeling taut like a spring, coiled for release.
“I’m going to touch you now,” Eric tells him, casually, easy as anything. With slow but certain grip he takes hold of Assad’s jaw. Assad feels his face contort into a silent snarl, and Eric gives him a sharp smack on the cheek for it.
It shocks him. Armand, too. The vampire’s grip slips a little.
“None of that,” Eric tells him resolutely, as if he didn’t just slap his coworker. “C’mon. Stay still and trust me.”
And Assad does. He lets Eric carefully take out his contacts, eyes watering but vision clearing after he blinks away the salt. It helps, brings his surroundings into focus so that he sees more than just the vignetted tunnel vision before him. His next breath is deeper, shakier. Something softens in Eric’s features at it, and he gently strokes Assad’s cheek. But while Assad leans into the touch, Armand is still there, ready to pounce on the brief show of weakness.
“Is that the best you’ve got?” he taunts.
Eric’s face hardens. His grip on Assad’s jaw returns and tightens, while his other hand slips into Assad’s curls, tugging his head back. Assad’s scalp stings, and he hisses as Eric tilts his head this way and that.
“I know you’re in there,” Eric tells him hotly. “I’m doing what I can to bring you out, kid, bring you back, but you have to throw me a bone. What do you need? C’mon, tell me.”
Assad’s eyes are trained on Eric’s, watering as he forgets to blink and the tug at his roots stings in not unpleasant ways. “I need…” he tries through gritted teeth. “I need…” Shit. He needs control taken away. He needs to be snapped out of this, made calm, quiet, small, relaxed. “Tell me what to do.”
Those piercing seafoam green eyes search his, sharp, critical, keen. Then he lets out a hum, a low rumble, before letting go of Assad and straightening up, hands on his thighs. “Turn around. Stay on your knees.”
Armand wants to snarl again, but Assad is starting to gain the upper hand. He shuffles around, still between Eric’s knees, but now facing the opposing wall. The lack of contact is only brief, though, as Eric’s hand returns like a vice grip to the back of his neck. “Stay,” Eric tells him hotly. Like commanding a dog.
A full-body shiver wracks through Assad as he settles into place, hands on his knees. His breath is growing laboured, but it’s his. Armand is bristling, but with each command Eric gives him, he finds himself a little more.
The touch withdraws again, and he lets out a low keen. He can just about hear something behind him at that, some response Eric must be pushing down, though he’s unsure what.
He wants it back. He wants Eric’s hand on him, wants to be grounded. But there’s nothing. He doesn’t dare beg for it, trusts Eric to take charge in this. He has to.
But after an indeterminate amount of time, he’s starting to shake with it, with the need.
He’s vaguely aware that he and Eric have never done something like this. They’ve kept their respectful distance, Assad in part because Eric is married of course, Eric because… Well, the same reason, Assad assumes. He also wanted to keep some of that tension for their scenes together when everything would finally come to a head in the show. And here he is, letting Eric… What, dominate him?
Yeah, that is exactly what is happening. And Eric is doing a stellar fucking job of it, making Assad’s head swim a little as the need slowly comes to a boil.
“…Please,” he whispers almost inaudibly when he can nearly not take it anymore. There’s no response, no touch, no sound. He feels like he’s losing his mind, embarrassment washing over him. Is Eric actually going to make him beg? His coworker, his friend?
He waits a moment, then breaks again. “Please,” he tries, a little louder now.
A low rumble. “Please what, kid? Speak up, come on.”
“Touch me.”
“You think you’ve earned it?”
Fuck. Yeah, this is blowing all their carefully built boundaries out of the water, Assad knows it. It’s not sexual – not yet, not officially – but he’s absolutely growing hard in his jeans.
Is he really going to ask Eric – beg him for this? His wife –
“Answer me, kid,” Eric snaps, and Assad realises. The man knows exactly what he’s doing. What he’s asking for. There’s no way he doesn’t. He’s choosing to do this. And he’s asking for something he can undoubtedly guess Assad wants. He just wants Assad to say it.
“Yes,” he says then, voice shaking. “Trying, am trying, trying to be good –”
Suddenly, Eric’s hand is back, fingers raking through his curls for good grip. It doesn’t sting this time, simply cups the back of his head, his mouth against the shell of Assad’s ear.
“Oh, and you are,” is all he says.
It rips a moan from Assad.
There’s a moment where time stands still. Assad’s eyes slip closed, his face flush with heated embarrassment. It’s pathetic, it’s bereft of any shreds of composure he’s tried so hard to keep around Eric all this time, it’s vulnerable in ways that scare the shit out of him –
“Fuck,” Eric breathes then, quiet enough that it’s almost inaudible. But his breath ghosts the shell of Assad’s ear, hot and damp and with a twinge of need.
Eric needs too.
His grip disappears again, and this time, Assad truly keens. It takes him a moment to realise what the sound is behind him, too caught up in his own brief sorrow – it’s Eric, letting out a low groan, along with the brush of skin against rough fabric.
He’s touching himself. Maybe grabbing himself to ease the ache. Assad knows how he must feel, his own cock throbbing now.
“It’s okay, shh,” Eric tells him, hand back on the side of his neck now, careful, gentle. “Here. C’mere.” He guides Assad’s head to lean against his inner thigh, and Assad sighs at the abundance of touch, comforted again.
God, he can smell Eric. The scent of not-quite-sweat, a subtle musk of a long workday, along with something headier. He can smell Eric’s arousal.
He can’t help it; he nuzzles into Eric’s jeans, eyes still closed, as if it makes it any less embarrassing. It doesn’t quite feel real if he doesn’t see his surroundings. Eric lets out another groan, causing his face to flush again.
“Christ, look at you, needy fucking thing, you want it that bad, huh? And to think I could’ve had this all along, like some kitten – you been wanting this all along?”
Assad nods hotly, eyes squeezed shut even more strongly.
“Words, babe.”
“Yes,” he pants, the words torn from him. “Been wanting you since I met you.”
“Yeah, you weren’t subtle about that. But what did you want, kid? Come on, tell me. I wanna hear. I need you to say it.”
Assad shakes his head, and it results in a sharp tug on his hair, causing him to suck in a shocked breath. His cock throbs with it.
“Tell me.”
“Wanted to be on my knees for you,” he tells Eric. And with that confession, it’s like a dam has broken, the dirty fantasies finally all flooding through, one confession tumbling over another. “Pull your cock out right there and then, suck you off, moment I met you. Wanted to ride you on that couch during the Dubai scenes. Wanted you to walk over and slap me, hold me, spit on me, kiss me, hurt me a little, want to bite you, want you to bite me, throat, wrist, chest, thigh, need my mouth on you so bad, Eric, Eric please –”
“All those times Armand has been eye-fucking me from across the room,” the older man growls as Assad pants into his thigh, leaving a damp spot in his jeans, “that wasn’t all character shit, was it? That was you, horny for a man forty years your senior, you filthy fucking thing – you gorgeous, angelic, perfect – shit–”
His hand retreats again, this time to undo his zipper, Assad knows it for a fact, can feel his hand brush against the edge of his curls. He wants to look, wants to look so bad, but Eric’s hand is still in his hair, and while the grip isn’t strong enough to fully restrict his movement, it’s strong enough for the message to get through – you move when I say you can move.
“I won’t lie, kid,” Eric tells him then, his voice rough, and Assad pants again against his leg at the sound of it. “The things I’ve been wanting to do to you as well… I mean, shit, look at you. But I couldn’t, you know? I like to think I’ve grown a little as a person. Felt filthy for thinking of all those things.” He scoffs. “Should’ve known you’re as eager.” He lets out a breathless laugh. “Slut.”
Eric’s tone is loving as he says it, affectionate. Wondrous. His grip loosens a little, and Assad finally feels safe to let his eyes flutter open. He looks up at Eric’s face, sees it flushed, grinning, eyes dark with lust. “And what did you want?” he asks. “Told you mine. What are yours?”
“Honestly?” He lets out another breathy laugh. “I’d rather show you. But first…” He releases Assad’s curls, and Assad takes it as his cue to shuffle around, finally facing Eric properly again. The man has indeed undone his trousers, the tip of his throbbing cock peeking out over his underwear, resting flush against his stomach and staining his shirt. Assad feels his mouth water. “What’s your name?”
“Mm?” Assad looks up, a little drowsy and confused, but Eric is serious.
“Indulge me.”
“Assad,” he breathes, feeling himself lighten.
“And are you yourself, Assad?” Eric asks. “No gremlins rattling around in there anymore?”
“Just me. All me, all for you.” It’s perhaps not fully true; he feels Armand curled up like a cat or some sort of lizard, retreated to its burrow, huddled with one sleepy eye open in the back of his mind. He’ll probably always be there to some degree, at least for as long as they’re shooting this show. But he’s quiet now, docile. Has retreated his claws from Assad, left him to breathe freely again as himself.
“Good.” A smile finally breaks through on Eric’s face, and it’s like the sun has broken through. “Get up here.”
He leans back as Assad scrambles up to climb into his lap, whimpering a little as he feels the tip of Eric’s cock brush against him, even through his jeans. It draws a shuddering breath from Eric too, but he recovers with a little laugh.
“I should’ve specified,” he adds. “Take off your clothes, then get up here.”
“…Oh.” Right. Yeah. Those trousers have been in the way long enough. He nearly falls off the bed in his haste to get to his feet and take everything off. Eric takes the moment to pull down his own trousers, then kick them off, followed by peeling off his shirt. Before they know it, they’re touching again, Assad back in Eric’s lap.
It feels surreal, like a fever dream he’s been having for the past years. Eric feels hot against him, hands rough but the rest of his skin soft as velvet. His cock is burning against Assad’s, both of them leaking all over one another. Fuck, Assad is shivering with need, but he doesn’t dare move. He still feels like he’s on some precipice, some tightrope he might still walk and keep this from teetering over the edge. So he simply sits there, shivering slightly in Eric’s lap, foreheads pressed together, panting a little from the effort of keeping still.
“Kid,” Eric breathes, and Assad feels the heat of it against his lips. “What’re you waiting for?”
“I don’t – I can’t –” He lets out a shaky laugh. “I’m not sure.”
“You’re here, yeah? This is happening.” A soothing hand runs up and down his spine, easing the shivers. “It’s okay. Been wanting you for so long, fuck, you have no idea. We’re here. It’s okay. It’s all good.” He moves his face impossibly closer, his next words a not much more than a whispered breath.
“Let go.”
Assad kisses him.
It’s dizzying. All air leaves the room, none left but the oxygen exchanged between them. Eric’s mouth is soft, willing, warm and wet. It feels like neutral ground, after the way he’s taken such brazen charge.
It doesn’t last.
What starts as wet and pliant and willing soon turns greedy, playful, nipping and tugging and biting and claiming. Eric’s tongue pushes into his mouth and takes over, his hands splayed on Assad’s back and waist, guiding the way the younger man rolls his hips. Even that, Eric controls. His head is spinning with it.
“Assad… Babe –” Eric manages between filthy kisses. “You ever been eaten out?”
Assad nearly chokes on his spit. He can’t even answer, burying his face in the crook of Eric’s neck to avoid his gaze as he cautiously shakes his head.
“Fuck,” is the only response Eric can give to that. “Okay. Yeah, we’re – I wanna eat you out. Fuck, I need you to come on my tongue, I need you to be so pliant and embarrassed, look so fucking pretty when you’re embarrassed…”
“That’s not fair,” Assad whines, unsure what is. It’s just too much to handle all at once. But Eric only smirks at him.
“Trust me, kid, you’re gonna melt.”
And, well… Trusting Eric has gotten him this far without letting him down, so how can he refuse?
Turns out, it’s a little harder than expected, since the first step involves peeling away from Eric when he was just seated, clinging on like a koala that has found its home tree. Thankfully, Eric never stops touching him. He guides the younger man off him and onto the mattress.
“Hand me a pillow, won’t you, babes,” he tells Assad as he slips off the bed himself for easier access. The pillow tossed at his head he quickly places beneath his knees. Assad can’t tell much of what is happening back there, but next thing he knows, his ass cheeks are palmed with almost religious fervour.
“Fuck,” he keens. What Eric wants, Eric gets, he’s learning here. He’s embarrassed, alright. He can practically feel Eric’s gaze as it focuses on his hole. “What…” he tries, craning his head with what little energy he can muster as Eric has been slowly turning him to putty. But Eric’s nails dig in a little, a warning to not let him interfere in this. Assad lets out a moan at the pinpricks of sharpness, heightening his pleasure. His cock is leaking into the space trapped between stomach and mattress, he needs to thrust, needs friction so bad, but Eric won’t allow it. So he won’t.
“So good for me, hmm,” Eric hums, nuzzling into one of Assad’s cheeks, teeth nipping briefly. Assad gasps. “You know, the way you’re dripping… I don’t know how much longer you can hold out.”
He licks a stripe up Assad’s hole. It comes as such a shock, Assad lets out a cry, hips jerking forward. Eric hushes him, but there’s something playful about it, a hint of meanness as he revels in Assad’s delirious pleasure and humiliation.
“I mean, I am going to make you come,” Eric tells him as if they’re discussing their plans for the weekend. Oh, it’s cruel. “But I’m thinking, what then, you know? I’m still hoping to get my rocks off. Preferably inside you.”
Assad lets out another cry. Of course Eric would be good at dirty talk. He’s written plays full of it. And Assad is starting to realise that he’s in over his head, this is so much more than he’d banked on, more than he could possibly handle –
“Hey, hey, Assad, darling, come on, gorgeous.” A kiss on his inner thigh. “You’re doing beautifully. Me and my fucking mouth, hmm?” Assad can feel his chuckle, an attempted apology. “You with me?”
“…Yeah,” he manages. “Eric?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“You actually going to…”
“Oh yeah,” Eric promises him in a low voice. “That is, if you were serious about that laundry list of wet dreams about me, kid.”
Another shiver wracks through Assad. He looks back again, eyelids heavy as he meets Eric’s keen gaze. He gives a slow nod. Eric’s expression breaks into a smirk, Assad suddenly feeling a little closer to the show again – not to the vampires, but their victims. He can see the fully-fledged vampire Daniel in a brief flash of those teeth.
“You said something about spit?”
“You can’t be s-”
A glob slides down between his cheeks. He feels filthy. Fuck, he feels ecstatic.
Eric’s tongue returns to his ass, then, pressing, slipping, toying with him until he’s keening, high and needy. When Eric finally presses in, breaching him for the first time, the knowledge of it, the feeling of it washes over him in one great rush. His back spasms, all muscles taut, lifting him off the mattress a little from the force of his orgasm.
When he comes down a little, thrusting weakly into a puddle of his own spend, Eric is still eating him out, one hand soothingly kneading his lower back, his ass, his thighs.
“Next time,” Eric tells him when he retreats, “I’m going to eat you out for hours.”
Yes, Assad thinks. Please. Please. He wants to be mindlessly pleasured until he forgets his own name, and Eric wants to give it to him.
“Assad, love?”
“Hmm.”
“Do you remember what I told you?”
The words reach him through the thick fog of his mind. He doesn’t. He barely remembers how this all started.
“’S alright, babe, all good,” Eric tells him when he realises Assad is probably beyond really knowing anything. He gently helps him roll onto his back and shift away from the wet puddle. Nice of him, Assad thinks faintly. “You still with me?”
“’M trying.”
“Doing beautifully, too, babe,” Eric tells him. He preens a little under the praise. “Good for one last thing?”
“Would let you do anything to me,” Assad slurs. Eric barks out a laugh.
“Dangerous things to tell me, kid. I might keep you for myself. Won’t get any work done, might have to cancel the show.”
“’S fine,” Assad retorts. “Got you, don’t I?”
Eric shakes his head with a huff. “C’mon, darling. Easy, there you go.”
He’s so loose and pliant, it takes him a moment to register the pressure against his hole. Then, the sensation shoots up his spine, eyes shooting wide open. “Eric –”
“I’ve got you, you’re doing beautifully, easy, shh, easy…”
He’s so overstimulated. How is he this overstimulated? Eric is filling him up so much, he might be pliant from his orgasm but Eric is big, stretching him, filling him, and he’s actually losing his mind.
Eric’s eyes flutter shut when he bottoms out. It’s a gorgeous sight, Assad almost wants to photograph it. Next time, he thinks.
“Fuck,” the older man breathes before opening his eyes again. The way he looks at Assad… It’s how he looks at him on set, sharp and curious and keen. It’s how he looks at him outside of work, right as he snaps a picture for his IG account. It’s how he looks at him when no-one else is looking. It’s more than he can handle.
Eric lets himself drop forward, his weight pressing against Assad’s spent cock. He lets out a whimper, but he relishes the way Eric plasters against him, the way his weight presses him down. With arms heavier than lead Assad cradles the man above him, holds him close, feels the width of those sturdy shoulders. “Please,” he whispers once more, unsure what he’s asking for now.
Eric seems to understand, though, by some magic intuition he must be stealing from his journalist counterpart. One hand back in Assad’s hair, the other used to keep himself perched up a little, and his mouth warm and hot and open against Assad’s. He kisses him slowly, messily, as he thrusts into him, movements soon growing more erratic. Assad just about manages to pull him in with his calf, needing all of Eric inside him, though he supposes for tonight, he’ll have to settle with his tongue, his cock, his spend.
“Come on,” he mutters, “come on, come on, come inside me, make it leak…”
That does it. Eric finally hurtles over the edge after him, spilling his seed in impressive spurts with a moan. Assad feels it, feels Eric’s cock twitch, feels the hot wetness inside him.
Eric finally collapses next to him with a groan. “I’m gonna feel that tomorrow,” he laments. Assad doesn’t think he minds as much as he lets on.
He feels unmoored, feverish. Empty. But Eric is there, plastered against his side, a little too warm now, sticky with sweat and fluids, one hand gently kneading his chest. He’s humming something, something Assad suspects is a heavy metal song not fit to try and turn into any hummable melody, but the low rasp of his voice is soothing. Grounding.
“Pushed a bit far,” Eric says eventually, when Assad blinks out of his stupour and looks at him. His voice sounds a little sheepish. “Sorry.”
“Don’t. Ever. Apologise.”
Eric’s smile at that is tentative. “Alright.” It drops a little again, though. “We’re good, then?”
“We ruined the tension I built for our first, you know –” Assad limply waves a hand, still wrung out.
“Scene that requires an intimacy coordinator?” Eric finishes. “Honestly, that’s probably for the best. I’d have ended up sucking you off right then and there if we didn’t release some pressure beforehand. Poor thing would’ve had a meltdown.”
Assad snorts at that. It’s probably true. “Fuck you,” he says then.
“For what?”
“Being… coherent.”
Eric smirks. “Years of practice. Though you really got me good, kid.”
“Gonna try harder, next time.”
“Oh god, yes please.” He looks tentative once more, then throws caution to the wind before leaning in for one more kiss. Assad languishes in it. “Definitely good,” he mutters.
Assad manages a brief shower later, mournfully rinsing off some of the sweat and come leaking from his ass, though he feels like a newborn fawn on his wobbly legs. Eric refuses to move, claiming enough exercise for his age on one day, as if he doesn’t frequent the gym and probably has about as much stamina as Assad, if not more. Assad suspects he only does it so he can make sponge bath jokes as the younger man wipes him down with a cloth. He smiles throughout it, though. Fuck, he’s fond. And horny. And weak. And over the fucking moon.