The first time Conrad fed from Worth, it was totally Hanna's fault.
They'd been investigating some suspicious animal attacks in a local neighborhood and things, completely unsurprisingly, didn't go as planned. When they'd finally stumbled through Worth's door, Conrad's arms were plastered over a wound in his side and the zombie was cradling an unconscious and freely bleeding Hanna.
"I fuckin' swear, if ya tell me he's been fuckin' with ghosts again -"
Hanna's partner cut off Worth's tirade with a look (and Conrad was reminded again that he never wanted to be in between him and a hurt Hanna). "Actually, this time it was a werewolf."
Worth took a long drag on his cigarette and flicked it into a corner, leaning over to prod at Hanna's limp form. "Seriously? A werewolf? How th' fuck did ya piss off one'a those?"
"Hanna said it was probably injured and freaked out," Conrad explained, when the zombie just stared silently. "And, uh … apparently a lot of them aren't all that fond of vampires."
Worth waved the zombie in the direction of the back room, sparing a glance at Conrad over his shoulder as he followed. "Oh yeah? An' wha' were you even doin' there, Connie?"
"You think I know? This is Hanna we're talking about!"Conrad honestly had no idea how he kept getting involved in these things. What freaking superpower did Hanna possess that made people get caught up in his doomed little adventures?
"Well, y'sure caused yer fair share a damage, didn' ya?" Worth sniped, bringing a pile of bandages over to the table as Zombie laid Hanna down.
"Are you saying this is my fault?" Conrad shouted back incredulously. "How the hell was I supposed to know that we'd run into a pissed off werewolf!"
Worth just snorted, not looking up from his work. That scared Conrad even more than the pallor of Hanna's skin or the still bleeding cuts on his chest. It must be serious if Worth wouldn't even fight back.
Conrad watched him work on Hanna for a few minutes, but he couldn't take the constant reek of blood and the weirdly subtle sadness in the zombie's eyes. He drifted over to the far wall and sat against it, occupying himself with the two thick gashes on his side. They were clean cuts, two neat slices from the thing's canine teeth. But they burned like they'd been doused in alcohol, and they looked like they might be getting worse. Weren't they supposed to be healing themselves?
"Looks like th' pup really did a number on ya."
Worth's voice was suddenly right in his ear. When the hell had he crouched down next to him? Conrad glanced over at the table. Hanna was covered in fresh bandages, but didn't seem to be conscious. His partner was sitting next to him, one large green palm covering Hanna's too tiny (suddenly too frail) hand. Worth shrugged, lighting another cigarette with an almost graceful flick of his lighter.
"He's all fixed up, 's far as I can. Now we jus' wait fer him to wake up," he explained in a muted voice, like he didn't want to disturb the solemn atmosphere created by the zombie's unwavering orange gaze. The thought of which just made Conrad's head hurt, so he didn't dwell on it.
Worth gestured to the vamp's side, eyebrow raised expectantly. Conrad flinched away, protectively covering the injury. Worth may technically be a doctor, but Conrad wasn't thrilled about those filthy hands getting anywhere near his open wound. At least not until he was sure that vampires couldn't get infections.
"Jus' lemme see it, Connie." Worth's lowered voice almost sounded normal, maybe even gentle. Seriously, what was that? And since when did Connie sound more like a pet name than an insult?
"Fine, but be careful." Conrad gave in with frown, gingerly uncovering his side and wrinkling his nose at the blood drying on his skin. Worth peered down at the wound for a minute, prodding the skin around the sensitive area. Then, with a scarily doctor-sounding "hmm," jabbed a finger right into the gash.
Conrad might have shrieked, just a little bit, and fell away from the offending digit.
"Ah, quit bein' such a fag," Worth drawled dismissively, "'S just a scratch."
"Then get the fuck away from it." Conrad growled back acidly.
"Heh. Gladly, peaches." Worth's smirk practically dripped smugness. "But s'gonna get a lot worse if ya don' do somethin' 'bout it."
"What do you mean? I'm a vampire," Conrad said slowly, hunching his shoulders defensively. The last thing he wanted was to show Worth just how little he knew about his … condition. "Shouldn't it just heal?"
"Yeah, 'cept it's a bite from a werewolf," Worth explained, leaning back against the wall."S'like poison fer yer kind. An' that pathetic blood bag diet yer on ain't gonna fix it."
"So … what do I do?"
Worth took another long drag on his cigarette, exhaling the hot white plume in Hanna's direction. "Ya gotta eat somethin' fresh."
Conrad stared. And it didn't even matter that his mouth was probably hanging open, or that his horror definitely showed in his eyes. Because they'd been over this. A lot. He absolutely was not going to hurt another person to feed himself, particularly not some innocent stranger who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. So what if that made him a fag, or a vampiric failure? Worth knew how he felt about this. Worth knew he'd never – and Worth was still staring at him blankly, like he'd just prescribed fucking aspirin and bed rest.
Conrad just stared back. So Worth slapped his hands on his thighs, muttered something like "alrigh' then" and stood up. Ignoring the curses as he dragged Conrad up with him, he pointed to Hanna's partner.
"Keep an eye on th' lil spaz. If he wakes up, don' let him run off 'til I have a word with 'im."
The zombie barely looked up from Hanna's side, but Worth seemed satisfied with his slow nod. He pulled the bitching vamp into the main room and kicked the door shut behind them.
Conrad yanked his arm out of the doctor's grip and stalked away, hand clasped protectively over his side. "What the fuck, you absolute dick! What are you – "
He cut off as he turned and noticed Worth watching him with an intent, lascivious, frankly terrifying grin. When he spoke again, his voice was embarrassingly strangled. "What – "
"Ya need ta eat, and yer too much of a fag ta go hunt fer yerself. So 'ere." He gestured grandly to himself.
"You want me to feed from you?" Conrad stared at the doctor like he might just be an escaped mental patient after all.
"Nah shit," Worth barked, eyes narrowed impatiently. "What'd'ya think 'm saying?"
"But – I mean ..." There were so many things wrong with this scenario that it was hard for Conrad to pick just one. First of all: gross. Like he wanted to drink from someone who looked like he never bathed. And second: gross. Like he wanted to feed on anyone, ever. The whole idea of sticking his fangs – er, fang – into anyone, not to mention getting his mouth in someone's personal space like that, was pretty much the least appealing thing ever. But all of this was just going to get him laughed at, so he settled on the one least likely to get him called a fag.
"Not that I care," Conrad assured the doctor stiffly, glaring and trying not to fidget. "But isn't that, like – dangerous? With the whole … biting thing, and the blood loss and the pain … "
He'd mostly pieced together what Hanna had been trying so hard not to tell him about Worth and his whole pain thing. But this, this would mean open confirmation. Up until now, he'd been able to tacitly pretend not to know the extent of Worth's depravity – well, maybe he'd never know the full extent, but he was pretty sure he didn't want to.
Worth just shrugged. "'M offerin', ain't I?"
Conrad hated himself just a little bit for standing there gaping.
"'Sides," Worth drawled, sliding the matted fur collar of his coat over his shoulders, "I've always wanted ta try this."
Conrad managed to stop staring awkwardly at his neck long enough to blink up at him. "You mean, you've never ..."
"Heh. Yer kind ain't exactly known fer self-control," Worth said offhandedly, putting out his cigarette on the pitted wood of his desk. "An' 'm not so keen on suicide."
"So, what," Conrad asked in disbelief, "you trust me?"
The laugh was immediate and derisive. "Yeah, trust ya not ta 'ave the bollocks ta off me."
Conrad's hands were knotted into fists before he'd even worked through what he'd said. It was like a damned Pavlovian response with Worth. But then he thought about it, realized it wasn't really an insult and settled on glaring petulantly.
"Well so-rry for not being a cold-blooded predator."
Worth's laugh actually sounded more amused than mocking. "Shut up an' eat, princess."
Conrad frowned (no, not pouted). He was probably going to have to do this eventually, and the burning in his side was just getting worse. Worth might have been one of the least hygienic options, but he was offering. It was a far cry from cornering some stranger in an alley.
"Ok," Conrad agreed hesitantly and uncrossed his arms, but otherwise didn't move.
When Worth noticed him rooted to the spot and shifting his weight uncomfortably, he rolled his eyes and huffed a long-suffering sigh. Grumbling under his breath about "pathetic fags" and "failpires," he settled himself on the edge of his desk and brandished his upturned wrist.
"C'mon, luve. Doctor's orders."
The husky edge to Worth's gritty voice so was not tempting. Or sexy. At all. And the come-hither tilt of his head just made Conrad reconsider bolting for the door.
"I don' have all nigh' to wait fer ya to grow a fuckin' pair," Worth growled at his silence, low and unimpressed. "Or do I need ta bleed into a fuckin' coffee cup fer ya, ya lil' yuppie fag?"
Conrad's eyes narrowed into another glare, barely swallowing the snotty "No." that sprang to his lips. He gathered enough righteous indignation from his pricked ego to take two strong steps towards Worth. Until their knees touched and he deflated numbly, trying to leave as much space between them as possible as he reached out for the offered limb.
He cradled Worth's wrist self-consciously and let out an unnecessary breath. Now that it came down to it, he had to face the fact that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. Or what he was getting himself into.
When he'd gotten the courage to ask Casimiro (during that card game a while back) what it was like to drink blood straight from the source, Cas had laughed for a full minute. But when Finas finally shut him up, he'd explained. He'd said it was like the best orgasm you've ever had combined with the joy of a starving man getting his first taste of food. Then add in the thrill of an addict getting a hit after long days of withdrawal, multiply it about 20 times, and you might come close to what it feels like to feed.
None of this was much help to Conrad: he'd never been addicted to anything (except maybe caffeine), he'd never been starving and he seriously doubted that those shame-filled moments in the bathroom as a teenager compared to most people's experience of an orgasm.
So he was going into this totally blind, with nothing but some half-formed expectations and the impressions he'd gotten from glittery teeny-bopper blockbusters. He glanced up at Worth, giving himself a second to actually take in the man from this perspective – and absolutely not stalling for time. It wasn't the first time he'd seen the scars and bandages that criss-crossed the doctor's arms, but it was entirely different to trace each one while he was close enough to reach out and touch them. Close enough to see each feathery, abused blue line spread close to the surface. Close enough to hear the dub-dub-dub-dub of his pulse, and see the little flutter of so soft skin at the base of his neck –
Conrad snapped his eyes back down to the wrist in his hands. God, he was hungry. Had been already even before the attack, and was painfully aware of every drop of sustenance still leaking out of the gash on his side. And he should really just get this over with before he lost control and did something embarrassing, or dangerous. But staring at the thin nicotine-stained skin of Worth's wrist still didn't give him a clue as to what he was doing.
He tried to focus on his breathing like his therapist had taught him, but it was a little less effective now that breathing was optional. He thought briefly about making up some excuse and running out the door, but he knew Worth would never let him hear the end of it – and he did have to get blood from somewhere.
And then there was Worth, making an impatient noise and opening his mouth to no doubt mock Conrad incessantly for his cowardice. Anything was better than hearing what Worth was about to say.
So he just picked a spot and bit down.
Conrad had been expecting tension and salt and gnawing, like the few times when he'd been younger and managed to fight back with his teeth (which always got him grounded, even though the other kids had hit first). But instead, his fang slid easily into the flesh of Worth's wrist, warm liquid flowing fast and sweet.
And, of course, the first thing he noticed was his own awkwardness, painfully aware of his inexperience. He didn't know how to hold his lips, or what to do with his tongue. He could feel a trickle of blood escaping down Worth's arm. And for the hundredth time in the last five minutes, he thought about running. But then he swallowed, and the first taste of copper sent a thrill through his entire body. Another swallow, and the thrill became a burning. Like he could feel every individual nerve in his body, and each was submerged in it's own jacuzzi.
His vision was clouded with red, so he closed his eyes. He felt himself shiver from the sensation, knew he was leaning in closer to the body heat in front of him, vaguely heard the hiss of breath from somewhere above him. And then there was nothing but pale flesh and a steady stream of blood, and everything was easy and he cupped his lips just right to catch every drop of life Worth was providing. It was fucking amazing. Like nothing he'd ever come close to in his short, admittedly rather pathetic life.
Like he'd always imagined the better designer drugs must feel like, a high that blasted through your upper brain functions and left your mind a blissed out shell. Like his atoms were fucking humming.
And it didn't even matter that he was totally, completely, rapturously out of control, standing in a filthy hole of an office and drinking blood from an asshole back-alley "doctor" who may or may not have been enjoying it. It didn't matter that most of the time he couldn't stand Worth, or that his every trait made Conrad's skin crawl. It didn't matter because, for once in his life, he wasn't thinking about all the things he was supposed to be thinking, worrying about. He was thinking fuck. yes. and maybe even a little ohgodmore.
Slowly, he started to realize that the blood flow was thinning. He'd been a coward and aimed his fang for a shallow bite at the edge of Worth's wrists. That would have to be corrected.
With a slow swipe of his tongue to get at the last few drops, Conrad released his hold and pulled back. Somewhere in the dissipating haze of scarlet filling his senses, he heard an impatient growl. Then there was the heavy weight of a hand on his shoulder, keeping him from getting farther away. Like he was going anywhere yet.
Conrad grinned from some dark, feral part of himself he never knew existed, a horrible predatory twist of blood-stained lips that would disgust him later, and repositioned his mouth over the fat, jumping vein in the center of Worth's wrist. He bit down, slowly this time, marveling at the slick slide of easily punctured flesh.
And then – could a better angle really make that much of a difference? Because he could swear the blood tasted different, sweeter. With a sharp tang, more powerful than the other chemical tinges he had no wish to identify. Conrad gulped at the new flow, letting loose a low hum of approval because jesus nobody that disgusting should taste that delicious.
He almost missed it through the burst of sweetness, but Worth's pulse was picking up. It was subtle, but it echoed through all of Conrad's senses like a bassline. And it wasn't the only change. He was just tearing his attention away from the fascinating amounts of body heat pouring off the doctor, when he heard it.
Worth moaned.
Ok, so it wasn't a long, guttural, porn-star sound by any means. But it definitely wasn't a complaint. For just a second, it didn't matter that a sound like that shouldn't ever be coming out of Worth, much less while Conrad was anywhere in a hundred foot radius. For a second, he was content to think, guess Hanna was right about the pain thing, and keep drinking. Because God, he'd never wanted anything more in his life than he wanted to just keep drinking at that moment.
But then he was very abruptly reminded that he'd been drifting closer to the heat source that was Worth. And when he found himself plastered against a solid wall of grimy doctor, it was pretty impossible to ignore the evidence that said doctor was enjoying this whole experience a bit much.
That, finally, was enough to have him pulling away from Worth's wrist and stumbling back a step. He looked up and got a half-second glance of Worth leaning back on his desk, flushed, eyes glazed and smirking, before he whirled around and stuttered at the wall.
"U-um, th-thanks. I feel – better. I-I'll just ... go … now."
Conrad managed not to run as he fled from the office, but barely. As it was, he barely spared a glance as he escaped to notice that Hanna was sitting up and watching him with furrowed brows – and wouldn't that be a joy to deal with later. Worth's dry, manic laughter followed him for blocks.
It wasn't until he stopped a few streets away to straighten his clothes and check for stray blood that Conrad noticed a surprising and utterly horrifying tightness in his trousers.
Well, fuck.