"Heh." Cassidy helps out where he can, lifting his shoulders off the bed just enough to awkwardly pull his t-shirt up and over his head in a mess of limbs and tousled hair.

Those fangs earn a hissed inhale of breath, muscles tensing just slightly under the scrape of teeth, because they sure are a lot more noticeable that the usual bluntness of a standard set of teeth. But he's not complaining, instead encouraging as a tattooed hand curls into dark locks, firm and supportive, but not controlling. There's not usually much controlling Eccarius.

"Christ, do you sharpen those things?"