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Assad is being a bitch and he knows it.
It's like he's hovering over his body, aware of his behavior but unable to change it, no matter how much he chews on the skin around his nails or tries to force himself to breathe, to count to ten, to just walk away.
He'd snapped at Jacob first thing that morning, when Jacob had brought him coffee but forgotten to bring him sugar, as if he hadn't gone out of his way to do something nice for Assad; he'd snapped at Delainey for flirting with him when he was trying to focus on running lines, as if he hadn't flirted back just the day before; and now, he's just snapped at Eric for absolutely nothing at all.
Eric just snorts and takes a sip of his coffee.
"I'm not hovering," he says. "I'm just standing. I'm not even that close to you. What, do you want me to get closer?"
Assad feels his cheeks warm. He knows he's being ridiculous, just like he knows it was ridiculous to make his already bad mood worse by dumping his sugarless coffee down the drain instead of just drinking the damn thing.
"No," he huffs. "I want you to go away."
"Uh huh."
Eric doesn't go away. He just stands there, infuriatingly unaffected.
Assad taps his fingers frantically on the arms of his chair. He feels like he might combust at any moment.
"Listen," Eric says. "I'm not going anywhere. Well, actually, I'm gonna go get a shitty Canadian bagel from craft services. But I'll be nearby, whenever you're ready."
Assad frowns. He's confused enough to break his resolute stare into space to look up at Eric instead.
"Ready for what?"
Eric tries and fails to hide a smirk behind his coffee cup.
"Nothing," he says. "You want anything from craft services?"
Assad hunkers down in his chair and crosses his arms.
"No."
Eric shrugs.
"Suit yourself."
When Eric is almost (but not quite) out of earshot, Assad shouts, "I want a donut. And a coffee. With milk and sugar."
Eric knows how he takes his coffee, and Jacob is within earshot, so that's probably another strike against him vis a vis the total bitch accusation. Which no one but he himself has made. Except in their heads, probably.
Eric turns around and gives him two thumbs up.
The coffee, of course, is perfect, but Assad grumbles over Eric's donut choice.
"Why would you get me the messiest kind of donut there is?"
Eric runs his finger through the powdered sugar and boops Assad on the nose.
"Because you're cute when you're covered in powdered sugar and raspberry jelly," he says. "Makes me wanna eat you right up."
Assad scowls and takes a big bite of the donut. It's delicious, light and sweet, the jam tart and plentiful.
"You always wanna eat me right up," Assad grumbles through his mouthful.
Eric laughs.
"That's true," he says. "Even and especially when you're being a brat."
Assad bristles. He swallows.
"'M not a brat!"
"Mhm."
"I'm not!"
"Sounds like something a brat would say."
Assad slaps Eric's arm, perhaps a little too hard, leaving white powdered sugar residue on his sleeve, and Eric's hand whips up, grabbing the hair at the back of his head.
Assad gasps.
The thing is, they've only hooked up a handful of times. It's so easy, being with Eric, that Assad sometimes forgets how new things are.
His first instinct is to lean into the painful touch. Then, he remembers that they've never talked about this; their intimate encounters have been fumbling, affectionate things, the simplest kisses and touches overwhelming. Eric doesn't know, can't know, how Assad would respond to being grabbed like this, and that makes it an insane thing to do.
Half-heartedly, Assad tries to pull away.
"What are you doing?" he says, but his voice comes out far too breathy to convey any real indignation.
Eric relaxes his grip.
"You squeezed your donut a little hard there," he says. "Here, let me help you with that."
Assad watches breathlessly as Eric pulls the mangled donut from his hands and balances it on top of Assad's coffee cup, then firmly grasps Assad's delicate wrists and brings his sugar and jelly covered fingers up to his mouth.
He starts with the pinky, closing his mouth around the base of the digit and then slowly sucking his way up. The ring finger gets the same treatment. When he gets to the middle finger, he swirls his tongue around it suggestively, catching Assad's eye with a wink.
He's taking his time, licking and sucking every little bit of sugar and jam from Assad's hand. Assad is transfixed, staring at him, until it suddenly occurs to him to look around, to see if anyone is watching them.
They are, of course. Mostly they're pretending not to, but Delainey is staring openly with a look of dawning understanding on her face.
Assad's ears feel warm.
"Eric," he whispers. "People are staring."
It's not like it's a secret, exactly. They just haven't told anyone. Or kissed in public. Or talked about what Eric's wife might make of all this.
Eric takes his time responding, making sure that Assad's thumb is thoroughly clean before speaking. His mouth is warm and wet, and Assad has to press his legs together to hide the way it's affecting him.
"We should take this back to your trailer anyway," Eric says. "We have time. And you need new pants."
Assad looks down to see a bright red jelly stain directly over the bulge in his trousers. He's not sure whether he's feeling relief or disappointment that Eric isn't trying to clean that up with his mouth too.
"But first," Eric says. "You're going to ask me for what you need."
Assad pouts. Embarrassingly, and against his will, he whines.
"Aw, c'mon, sweetheart," Eric says. Assad wishes he would stop grinning like that. "You won't be telling me anything I don't already know. But I am gonna make you say it."
Assad looks around the room again. He feels as if all eyes are on him.
"Not here," he whispers under his breath.
"What was that?"
"Not here," Assad whispers a little louder. "I'll— I'll ask when we're alone."
That seems to be good enough for Eric, thank God, because he stands and offers Assad his hand. Assad takes it with still spit-slick fingers, their grip on each other tacky with residual sugar.
Assad's face burns as he walks hand in hand with Eric, staring down at the ground to avoid seeing any faces turned their way. Eric's grip is warm and gentle, but he walks quickly, tugging Assad along.
As soon as the trailer door swings shut behind them, Eric turns and grabs Assad's other hand too, pinning him to the wall with his hands above his head. When the whole long length of his body presses against him, Assad can feel his cock against his thigh, heavy and thick even before it's started hardening.
"Well?" Eric says, when Assad just stares at him. "You said you'd ask once we were alone. So ask."
Assad swallows.
"I think—" he starts, then pauses, clearing his throat.
"I think," he tries again, "I mean, I think that I could— that I could use…"
Eric rolls his hips a little and Assad gasps.
"Yeah?" Eric coaxes. "What could you use, baby?"
Assad licks his lips, trying to gather himself.
"I haven't h-hooked up with anyone else, not since… well, not since I realized this was going to— since before we'd kissed."
Eric looks surprised at that. Assad hurries to clarify.
"I know we haven't talked about it. And I know we won't ever be— I mean, I don't expect us to be exclusive, obviously, I mean, you're… but I just… Yeah."
"You just what?"
Assad huffs.
"I haven't wanted to! Okay? But we're still in the… pre-kink phase. Which is great! I love all this gooey emotional crap! But I guess… maybe… I could also use some, you know. Release."
"Release."
"Yes, release! Why are you making this so difficult? I know you're not as dumb as you look."
Eric grins that lopsided grin that makes Assad melt even when he doesn't want to.
"Because I think it's funny that you think we need to have a pre-kink phase. You could have opened day one by handing me a whip and bending over, baby."
Assad rolls his eyes.
"Well then," he says. "Get on with it."
Eric snorts.
"I don't keep a whip in my coat pocket," he says. "And anyway, you still haven't actually asked."
Assad groans, banging his head against the wall.
"Please spank me," he begs the ceiling. "It doesn't need to be fancy, you don't need tools, I just— I'm wound so tightly, I keep snapping at the tiniest fucking thing and I hate it, I hate being like this, just… please."
When he finds the courage to look at Eric's face again, he sees that his grin has softened into a hopelessly fond smile.
"Anything you need, kiddo," he says. "Especially if it involves touching your butt."
Assad groans.
"Oh my God."
"What, you'd rather I didn't want to touch your butt?"
"No, I—"
"You think it should be a chore? Oh poor me, I have to touch Assad's perfect ass again."
Despite himself, Assad giggles.
"Shut up," he says. He pushes half-heartedly against Eric's hands where they're holding his wrists up against the wall. He can't move them at all, and he wonders if he could break free if he gave it everything he's got. He thinks he probably could, but god, wouldn't it be hot if he couldn't? "Let me go."
Eric leans in until his mouth is nearly touching Assad's. His breath is warm. Assad doesn't even care that it smells like the garlic bagel Eric must have wolfed down at the craft services table before bringing him his donut, though personally if he was planning on making this strong a move he might have picked cinnamon raisin instead.
"I don't think that's what you want, sugar," he murmurs, and Assad feels a shiver race up his spine.
"N—no?" he gasps.
Eric shakes his head, tightening his grip on Assad's wrists. It's painful now. Assad's fingers are starting to tingle.
"No," Eric says. "I think you want to fight me."
All the breath leaves Assad's lungs.
"Come on, Eric," he breathes, quietly, like he's breaking out of a scene to check in with his scene partner. "I'll hurt you."
Eric gives him a look of shocked indignation.
"You'll hurt me?" he says. "You won't even win, babe."
"No, I'm— Eric, let me—"
Assad presses harder against Eric's grip, trying to break free. Eric is surprisingly strong.
"Let me go, I'm serious, we should— I mean, this is the sort of thing that you—"
Assad gasps as Eric shoves a thigh between his legs, grinding against Assad's straining cock.
"Make me."
Something inside Assad's brain snaps at the words, like it's been heating up and heating up in there all this time, and this is what it took to push him past his limit, because Eric is spot on, he's hit the bullseye, he's fucking nailed it— this is precisely what Assad needs so desperately.
Assad takes a deep breath.
"AHHHHHHH!" he screams as he pushes off the wall and throws himself forward with all his might.
Whether because of brute strength or the element of surprise, Eric loses the upper hand long enough for Assad to wrench his wrists out of his hands and force him up against the opposite wall with a thud. The noise worries Assad— was that too hard? He shouldn't have used all his strength— but then Eric is grinning, a sexy little growl starting at the back of his throat and growing. Assad's hands are on his chest, barely restraining him at all, leaving Eric's hands free to find Assad's ass and haul him in closer.
Assad gasps at the sudden contact, moans when Eric ruts up into him, but he doesn't lose himself for long. This is his opportunity to get away, and he takes it, leaping back and running, not for the front door, but for the little bathroom, as if the flimsy accordion door with it's flimsy sliding lock could keep Eric away from him.
It doesn't matter anyway, because Eric is on him again before he's made it two yards, tackling him to the ground and pinning him with his body weight. A mug falls off the table and cracks in half, spilling yesterday's tea all over the rug, but no one pays it any mind. Assad struggles under Eric with all his might, panting and wriggling, and Eric grapples with him, throwing a leg over the leg that Assad briefly manages to get free, grabbing at his arms, fumbling them once, twice, before finally getting them pinned.
Eric laughs triumphantly.
"That all you got, sweetheart?" he asks. "Or are you going easy on me cause you want it so bad?"
He humps Assad's ass as he says "so bad" and Assad feels one of the things he badly wants.
"Nnno!" Assad manages, trying desperately to squirm away and probably only managing to provide Eric's hard cock with some nice stimulation. This has all happened too fast. He's got to be able to put up more of a fight than that against a 72 year old man, no matter how much time that old man has spent in the gym getting ready to be naked on camera.
He manages to get his hands under him and quickly thrusts his ass backward.
Eric's still on top of him, but Assad is on his hands and knees now; he has more leverage. Without thinking, he rolls them towards the table, throwing Eric's back against the single central leg holding the thing up and sending it toppling, along with his copy of Queen of the Damned and about 60 loose script pages.
"Fuck," Eric huffs, momentarily winded.
Here, Assad makes a mistake. He should make a run for it, but he's worried he might have actually hurt Eric, so he gets back up onto his knees and bends over him, reaching down to cup Eric's face.
Eric, of course, snatches his wrist and sits up quickly, grabbing Assad under his ass and throwing him over his shoulder.
"Nasty! Naughty! Little! Slut!" he pants as he wallops Assad's ass.
Assad squeals and squirms, but Eric holds him fast.
Okay, so maybe in this position he really could get away if he wanted to. Maybe he doesn't want to.
Eric, in a move that leaves Assad both stunned and horny, gets a foot flat on the ground and, slowly, grunting, pushes himself up to standing with Assad over his shoulder.
"Ah!" Assad shouts, squirming even as he clutches on to Eric, not wanting to fall.
"I've got you, babe," Eric murmurs, momentarily breaking kayfabe as he hoists Assad up into a more secure position. "Just stop squirming so much, will you?"
Assad settles on pounding his fists against Eric's back, much lighter than he might have but hard enough to bruise, maybe. He kicks his feet a little, but Eric quickly grabs him around the calves with the arm not holding his thighs.
"Are you trying to get dropped on your head?"
Eric's voice is strained, and his movement is slow as he walks Assad the short distance to the day bed. He huffs as he throws him down onto his back, pinning him with one knee on his belly and holding up a finger as he huffs and puffs.
"Let me catch my breath," he says. "That was… stupid maybe."
Assad frowns up at him.
"Is your back alright?" he asks. "You know, we really don't have to— I mean, this is fun, but I could just stay still while you spank me."
Eric is still panting, but he grins.
"I can be a good boy, he says."
Assad feels his cheeks grow warmer. He presses his lips together.
"Let me rephrase that," Eric says, when he's mostly caught his breath. "Tell me you can be a good boy."
Assad takes a little gasping breath. His belly feels warm and fluttery where Eric's knee digs into it.
"I can be good," he whispers.
Eric raises an eyebrow at him. Assad licks his lips.
"I can be a good boy," he says.
"And?"
And?
"And… And I'll… I'll take my punishment."
Eric nods, finally lifting his knee from Assad's belly and looming over him, unbearably handsome in Daniel's tight black t-shirt, his white curls full and fluffy thanks to Rebecca in hair and makeup. An overhead light right behind his head makes them glow.
"Well?" Eric says. "Hands and knees, then."
Assad wonders briefly if he should take his clothes off, but Eric didn't tell him to, so he just rolls over onto his belly and pushes up onto his forearms and knees, sticking his ass up in the air wiggling it enticingly.
Eric laughs. Assad turns his head to look up at him, eyes wide, body taut with anticipation.
"You know, you'd never get away with behaving the way you have been if you weren't so goddamn cute," Eric says.
He reaches out and runs a hand gently down Assad's back and over his ass, cupping first one cheek and then the other through Armand's jeans. His hands are so big and Assad's ass cheeks so small that they're near-perfect little handfuls for him. Assad shudders to think how thoroughly marked he'll be after just one blow.
First, however, Eric's hands slide down around the waistband of his jeans. Assad gasps quietly as Eric's fingers pop open the button and slide down the zipper of his fly, careful not to touch him, so that the only stimulation to his aching cock is the slight movement of denim and cotton.
Eric yanks Assad's jeans and underwear down to just under his ass cheeks, his cock still tucked away, entirely neglected.
Eric whistles, as if he's never seen Assad's ass before.
"You have a perfect ass, you know that?" he says. This time, when he caresses it, the touch feels electric, overwhelming and far too gentle. Assad whines quietly, desperate for Eric to get on with it.
Eric gives him a soft slap. It doesn't even hurt.
"Such a cute little thing, but just big enough to get that nice little jiggle. And tight, too, of course, we both know that. It's like the platonic ideal of an ass."
Assad is trying to think of how to respond to that when all his thoughts are driven out of him by a sudden stinging slap right to the center of his left ass cheek.
"Ah!" he shouts, indignant, but already the pain is settling into a warm, satisfying thrum under his skin. He wants more. He wants so much more.
Each smack rings through the trailer as Eric hits him, one, two, three times on the right and then two more on the left. It's just a taste, but it's a tantalizing one.
"Tell me why you've earned a spanking, baby," Eric asks, kneading Assad's ass, spreading the heat all through it.
"I— um," Assad says. He swallows. "I was… mouthy?"
Eric laughs.
"That's one way to put it. I'd say you've been a real bitch."
Assad bites his lip. His cock is throbbing worse than his ass, but he's sure Eric won't let him get a hand down his pants.
"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, I've been a real bitch."
Eric gives his ass a squeeze.
"You'll get ten for Delainey and ten for Jacob. Anyone else?"
Assad strains to remember, squeezing his eyes shut to try to focus.
"I— I told Luke to fuck off when he— I mean, he was— but I shouldn't have…"
"When he tried to corner you after your big sex scene? I mean, that might have been warranted."
"He's not a s-sex pest," Assad pants. Not like you, he thinks. "I was sending mixed signals. Trying to m-make you jealous."
"Hmmmm," Eric hums. "Thirty then."
Assad wiggles his ass again, squirmy with anticipation.
"What about you?" he asks. "For—for being a brat to you."
"Oh, so you are a brat!" Eric crows.
Assad turns his head and presses his warm cheek against the sheets, trying to hide.
"Assad, baby, have you been acting out to try to get my attention?"
It's not like he was doing it on purpose; he really couldn't help himself. But hadn't he been hoping that Eric would take notice?
"Maybe," he squeaks, his voice muffled by the bedclothes.
He gets no warning before the next blow falls. It's a real wallop, and it forces another squeak out of him, this one loud and wordless.
"You've been a Very. Naughty. Boy," Eric says, punctuating his words with three more hard blows.
"However," he adds, soothing Assad's ass with gentle touches again, "this is at least a little bit my fault."
Assad turns his head back towards Eric. He can't see his face in this position, but he looks in his direction as best he can anyway.
"Yeah," Eric says. "I should have known. Haven't been taking care of you the way you need, huh?
Assad yelps when another blow falls, the slap echoing in the small space. He wonders if Eric can see his hand print on his ass yet, if there will be bruises.
"All you had to do was ask, you know. We can start every day with a good maintenance spanking if you want. That's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."
Assad tries desperately to focus on what Eric is saying between blows. He thinks it's good, he thinks it's really, really good, but it's hard to focus on anything other than the sting and ache in his ass and the unpredictable rhythm of Eric's hand.
Next time, he thinks, he'll ask Eric to pull his pants down further, to expose his upper thighs, and to use his belt, but this is ecstatic, transcendent, absolutely perfect for their first time.
"Yeah," Eric is saying. "A maintenance spanking every morning, and then every night you'll tell me everything you've done that day that deserves another. How does that sound?"
He pauses his assault when Assad doesn't answer.
"I asked you a question, babe."
"W-what?"
"I said, how does that sound?"
What? A spanking every morning and another every night? That sounds…
"Good," Assad pants. "Sounds— really good."
"Good," Eric says, massaging Assad's sore ass. "It's one thing to be a brat to me, but you're going to apologize to Jacob and Delainey, you hear me?"
Assad is too busy panting and swooning to answer. Another hard blow lands on his tender, bruised right ass cheek and he yelps.
"I said, do you hear me?"
"Yes," Assad sobs rapturously.
Fingernails press hard into his burning flesh.
"Yes what?"
"Yes, I'll—I'll apologize."
The fingernails let up a little, scratching him gently. It isn't soothing— each scrape of a fingernail against his ass stings and burns— but it doesn't hurt as much as being spanked either.
Assad has no fight left in him anyway. He'd let Eric do anything to him now. He feels light and floaty, somehow outside of himself and also more grounded in his body than he's felt in ages. He's missed this feeling, and it's even better knowing that he's surrendering himself to someone absolutely safe.
Eric's lips press against the burning flesh of one cheek, then the other, and then he's leaning over Assad and whispering in his ear, "Feeling better?"
Assad smiles into the sheets and nods.
"What was that?"
Assad hums. It takes him a moment to find his voice again.
"Yes," he says. "Much."
"What do you say?"
"Mmmmm… thank you?"
"You're welcome, baby. Ready for a cuddle?"
Assad rolls onto his back. He wraps his arms around Eric's neck and pulls him down.
"Yes, please."
The bed is small for the two of them, but they budge up this way and budge up that way until Eric is lying on his back with Assad half on top of him, head on his chest and one leg thrown over Eric's hips. Neither of them has come, and Assad's not sure if they're about to do something about it or not. Right now, he's feeling floaty and content, even as he gently and aimlessly rubs himself against Eric's hip. Eric rubs his shoulder and kisses the top of his head. He's hard under Assad's thigh.
For a little while, they stay like that, quiet and close, but soon Assad's mind starts whirring again.
"How did you know?" he asks, when the pressure of wondering grows too great.
Eric shrugs.
"Would you believe me if I said pure intuition, baby? Years of experience in the kink scene, I can spot one of my own easy?"
Assad snorts.
"No," he says, attempting to snuggle in even closer to Eric's chest. "I would not."
Eric laughs.
"Alright," he says sheepishly. "I saw the FetLife app on your phone."
Assad lifts his head to stare at him.
"You'd've had to swipe, like, five pages over and open a folder."
Eric grins at him, like he's hoping Assad will remember how cute he is and forget all about it.
"I may have snooped a little," he says. "But in my defense, you left me alone with your unlocked phone."
"To call your wife!"
Eric tugs on one of Assad's curls.
"Listen," he says. He doesn't follow it up with anything.
Assad laughs and shakes his head.
"You're a piece of work, you know that?"
"Been told that once or twice, yeah."
Assad leans in and kisses him on the cheek, then snuggles back down into his side.
"You can call me Daddy anytime you want, you know."
Assad sits bolt upright.
"You opened the app??"