Note: These boys belong to the amazing Tessa Stone. Check them out if you haven't.! But the slash is pretty much a fan thing, so don't blame that on her.

Sooo much love to the best beta in the world, Demyrie! She cracks the whip like the best cruel mistress, and never lets me get away with showing too much of my vamp obsession. Couldn't do it without you! 3

Oh, and just in case you want to check it out, the first one in the series is "Doctor's Orders."

The first time they mixed blood and groping, it was all the rain's fault.

Thick, gray storm clouds had been camped over the city for days, rumbling menacingly with the promise of rain but never delivering. Conrad, pacing his apartment like a trapped and starving animal, had forced himself to go get blood from Worth, convinced he could make it before it actually started coming down. He was wrong.

He was about halfway to the alley when, with a crack of thunder that he could swear actually shook the ground, it abruptly started pouring.

Shitshitshit. Like he wasn't freezing enough already. He scrambled to the doorway of an apartment complex and pressed up under the overhang. He'd thought to bring an umbrella – a bright, canary yellow one that had been a gift from Hanna and turned out to be the only one he owned – but, of course, the wind had picked up. So it was raining fucking sideways, heavy sheets of freezing water that would blow right up under the thin plastic.

It was a toss up at this point. He'd get just as wet heading home, but he wouldn't have to deal with Worth being Worth while he was soaked and freezing.

But no, he absolutely couldn't go back now. Not while he was still starving, and not while his apartment still felt like a prison.

The first few days after he'd fed from Worth, Conrad had felt fine. More than fine, he'd felt amazing: strong and focused and actually warm. He'd spent about a week generally feeling awesome, getting way too far ahead on his work and absolutely not avoiding Hanna or Worth. But eventually, the high faded – along with the warmth.

As much as he'd tried to deny it, he'd eventually had to admit that he felt like shit. He was always freezing and could barely convince himself to get off the couch half the time and it couldn't have been that bad before, could it? He'd barely noticed the chill after he'd been turned, and he'd thought a little fatigue was understandable after he'd died and all. Now it felt like he had the vampire equivalent of the flu, and all he could think about was getting warm again.

So he'd spent the rest of the week trying to pretend that everything was fine. But with the hunger and the chill slowly encroaching, it was impossible to stay focused on anything productive (like denial).

He couldn't stop thinking about what had happened last time. And since he couldn't think about things like what it meant or what it would be like to deal with Worth now, he thought about things like Worth's blood. Or the way heat just poured off him, all mixed up in his cigarette smoke. Or how weird it was that he didn't smell anywhere near as disgusting as he looked, just musky and human and alive. Or that vein in his neck, the one that stood out bright blue-green against his thin skin and positively jumped with his pulse –

Or the fact that the closest thing he'd ever had to a sexual experience with another person was a disgusting pseudo-doctor pressing a pain-induced erection into his thigh while Conrad chewed a hole in his wrist to suck out his blood.

And he tried thinking about Mr. Carter's commission like he should, about saturation and white space and typography. But then the dull ache in his joints or the hunger or the cold would catch his attention, and he'd be back to remembering that first swallow of fresh blood.

By the end of the week, he was starving and miserable and ready to face the fact that he couldn't keep himself from obsessing over the whole debacle. But it had to be the hunger's fault. Because it wasn't like he wanted to repeat the experience. Worth was disgusting and annoying and way too into it, and the whole thing was just a giant ball of fucked-up. Which he was not signing up for, thank you very much.

So he'd told himself he had nothing to worry about, had no reason to avoid Worth. Told himself he was not going to spend another night feeling trapped in his own house, especially just because some asshole doctor might make a pass at him. Told himself he would just go over there and ask for a blood bag like he had every time before. And if Worth even mentioned what had happened last time, he'd just tell him to fuck off.

And now he was walking down an empty, dirty street in the middle of the night, in the pouring rain. As he got closer to the alley, the streets were getting darker and dirtier. For a moment, it was so disorienting – so different from everything that he'd known in his clean, safe, human life – that it felt like it was happening to someone else. But then the wind gusted and that damned chill wormed its way in just a little bit deeper, and he was right back in his newly-dead body.

He didn't understand how he could feel cold so acutely when he was naturally so much cooler now. But after a few days of feeling almost alive, the contrast was torture. He'd never been this cold during his life; it wasn't even the same kind of cold. It seeped into places that shouldn't even feel temperature. It was the kind of cold Conrad guessed corpses felt. Which wasn't so poetic a thought when it was technically true.

He just needed to get to Worth's and get his dinner. Even if blood was still not the most appetizing thing in the world (and now bagged blood was even further down the list), he would do anything to feel normal … warm … human again. Anything so that he could stop laying around his apartment, imagining that he could feel himself decay – even though that was impossible, that was the point of the whole immortality thing – with nothing to occupy his mind but obsessing over every awkward detail of what had happened.

What had happened being, namely, that Conrad had bitten someone to Drink. Their. Blood. No big deal, or anything. And not just someone, but Worth.

Not that he'd been obsessing about Worth or anything. No, he definitely wasn't constantly distracted by the sweetened copper bite that still stuck at the back of his throat, the one that was undeniably him. Wasn't having trouble getting that last, wrecked image of Worth out of his mind. Most of all, he certainly wasn't seeing that last pleased, slightly surprised, still smug smirk every time he closed his eyes.

Fuck. What the hell was wrong with him?

Conrad shook his head to clear the image away and kicked out at a nearby streetlight with a frustrated huff, wincing at the resulting jolt of pain.

And he knew he was really screwed when a broken Australian drawl flitted through his mind and called him a "fuckin' prissy fag," like a masochistic mental knee-jerk, or a sadistic Freudian slip.

When he finally stumbled up to Worth's door, he knocked (he had no idea why) and called out the doctor's name in what ended up a strained, shaky whine. A string of increasingly loud curses ended in Worth yanking open the door, ready to bitch out whatever unfortunate customer had made him get up. He took one look at Conrad, clothes soaked through and brandishing an inside-out tangle of canary yellow and wire that had once been an umbrella, and slammed the door in his face.

Conrad just blinked. He thought briefly about leaving, but he didn't have the energy to face the long, freezing walk back in the rain. So he stared at the spot on the door where Worth's face had been, numbly wondering how many hours he had until sunrise.

There was a long pause from inside, then the door drew back again with a muffled scoffing noise. And there was Worth, leaning down a little to peer at him with furrowed brow.

"Wha'? No faggy bitchin'?" When Conrad just kind of looked miserable at him, Worth stepped aside with a scowl and growled, "Well get th'fuck in 'ere. Don' want'ya standin' there looking pathetic all nigh'. S'not good fer business."

Worth was back in his chair before Conrad even got through the doorway, so he shut the door behind him conscientiously and just kind of stood there, dripping.

And while Conrad shivered unnecessarily and probably looked very much like a drowned rat, Worth lounged behind his desk with a half-finished cigarette and a smug grin.

"Knew ya'd be back ta see me soon," he drawled lazily, rocking his chair back with one foot on his desk. "But I didn' expect ta see ya on a night like this. S'prised all yer faggy clothes don' fuckin' melt in the rain."

What was he doing there, seriously? Standing in a disgusting office, soaked and freezing (and, indeed, in a very trendy and very expensive outfit he was seriously regretting wearing), Conrad was not at all the empowered individual he'd convinced himself he was twenty minutes ago. He was just miserable and a little needy, and wanted nothing more than to be dry and fed and curled up under the covers where asshole doctors couldn't find him.

"Must'a really missed me, eh peaches?"

"Hardly," Conrad finally managed to scoff, knowing how weak it sounded even as he said it. "But it's been two weeks. I need a blood bag."

Worth ignored him in favor of giving him a once over, taking in the mangled mess of yellow wire still twisting in his hands.

"Seriously, fagula? Decide ya need a lil' sunshine in yer life?" Worth taunted, tone torn between disgust and glee. "Doesn' really fit you, though. Yer more of a brigh' pink, don' ya think?"

"It was from Hanna, asshole." The fuck off was on the tip of his tongue, but what was the point?

Worth didn't seem to mind the lack of rebuttal, an amused smirk tugging at his lips.

"Yer shiverin'. Tha's cute," he mumbled around his cigarette, taking another drag. "But ya do realize ya don' need to do that anymore, righ'?"

"Well it's habit, I guess," Conrad snapped impatiently, focusing on holding himself still. "It's freezing out there, if you haven't noticed."

Worth shook his head, leaning back further in his chair and staring up at the ceiling. "Yer cold 'cause ya need to eat, dipshit."

"Isn't that what I just said I was here for?" Conrad snapped, exhaustion eating away at the intended sting. "Can you just give me my dinner so I can leave?"

Worth shrugged lazily and gestured at the freezer without looking. "You know where they are."

He actually looked almost bored with the whole exchange, and for a second Conrad thought he might be off the hook.

"But," Worth added, before Conrad had even made it past his desk. And fuck, he knew it couldn't be that easy. "Ya don' want the bagged shit."

It was just such a statement that Conrad had no idea what to say. So he settled on a very eloquent, "What?"

"I can practic'ly see ya gaggin' at the thought. It migh' take th' edge off, but ya know it won't feel th' same."

Conrad crossed his arms and glared, not having the energy to argue with something that was very clearly true.

"Bet ya felt pretty good when ya got some fresh from me though," the doctor said smugly, looking over at Conrad and exhaling a slow stream of smoke. "Bet yer fuckin' droolin' at the thought of gettin' at m'neck."

Fucking bastard. "Worth, can't you just –"

Worth cut him off with a smirk that was half-challenge, half-taunt. "Tell me s'what ya really want, an' you can have th' bag."

Conrad wanted to wipe the utter, unshakable confidence off of Worth's face. But he also wanted to be warm again, and if he said otherwise, they'd both know it was a lie.

Worth took Conrad's silence as confirmation, and probably consent. "Thought so," he drawled, flicking the last inch of his cigarette into the corner and dropping his chair back to the floor with a heavy thud. When he swung his legs down and stood up, Conrad took a step back, aware of the predatory gleam in Worth's eyes and the way his own throat went dry with hunger.

And it was wrong, so wrong, the way Worth was the one to prowl forward, when Conrad's gut was the one to snarl dark and viscous – something like the antelope stalking the lion – but Conrad had decidedly never felt like a predator, and Worth already seemed to have it down to a science.

Without the desk in the way, Conrad could see Worth wasn't wearing the usual button-down under his coat, just a slightly ratty undershirt. That left the corner of a fresh bandage visible, evidence of a still-bleeding cut near his collarbone. Conrad could smell the faint hint of blood from across the room.

The week without blood suddenly sat heavy in his gut, as he drew in deep breaths to catch more of the infuriating smell. It wasn't nearly enough. Worth must have noticed the change in his focus, must have seen him close his eyes, because when he wrenched them open the doctor was right in front of him.

Fuck, he could be quiet when he wanted to be. Like some kind of skeezy, back-alley ninja. Wasn't Conrad supposed to be the powerful, creepy creature of the night here?

He took a step back without thinking, without realizing what a sign of weakness it was. He just needed his personal space, needed a chance to figure out what the hell was happening without being distracted by blood and warmth and so many little things that screamed human and food at the same time. Worth's smirk twisted into something somehow even more smug, like he'd already won and was just waiting for Conrad to figure it out. He closed the gap between them again with a completely gratuitous sway of his hips.

Conrad took a few more quick steps back and flinched when he hit the wall. He had just enough time to realize what a bad position he was in, and then Worth was right there in his space, a solid tower of languid, insistent human. A fur-lined wrist braced against the wall near Conrad's face, the other splayed on the filthy brick somewhere near his hip, effectively cutting him off from everything that wasn't the bundle of warm flesh and urgent heartbeat in front of him.

"Worth – " he muttered, low in his throat. And he'd meant it to be a complaint, he really had, but it came out sounding more like fuck, please, closer. Which might have been more honest, but Worth really didn't need the encouragement.

And Worth hadn't missed it – hadn't missed the fact that Conrad wasn't saying no or insisting he didn't want this or doing any of the other things he should be doing in that moment. Hadn't missed the fact that his completely unnecessary breath was coming faster, or that his dilated pupils were fixed on the bandage on his chest. No, it was obvious from Worth's sultry little laugh, and the way he leaned in just that little bit closer, that he hadn't missed a thing.

"Come on, princess" he urged in a weirdly calm, low little growl as he tilted his head to display every last inch of pale, yielding, supremely available neck. "Take what ya want fer once n'yer fuckin' life. Bite me."

And Conrad groaned, because he'd lost this fight. This was inevitable, had been inevitable since he'd first left his apartment. He'd wanted it since at least then, if not the second he'd run out on Worth the first time.

And it was that heavy inevitability that made Conrad give in, made him look up and demand, voice clearer and stronger than it had ever been in this office, "Just keep your hands to yourself."

Worth smirked victoriously, hands up in a gesture of innocence. "A'course, puppy. Promise."

Conrad didn't trust the sweetness in Worth's voice for a second, but he'd already made up his mind. And the cagey beat of the doctor's pulse in his ears was telling him to get on with it already.

So his fingers found the edges of that stupid bandage and ripped, only managing to get it halfway off with the first jerky motion. Ignoring Worth's deeply unimpressed snort, Conrad got a better grip and pulled again, managing to remove the bandage along with a good chunk of partially scabbed-over tissue.

Conrad grimaced, an apology on his lips, but fresh blood blossomed where it had been congealing and Worth's grumbling seemed more impatient than hurt. So Conrad just bent to trace the crimson trails with his tongue, humming approval despite himself at that first metallic jolt.

But Worth was still grumbling above him, obviously unsatisfied with Conrad's technique. That is, right until his tongue found the edge of the cut and pressed inside.

Worth jerked, hissing out a surprised breath that twisted into an edgy groan when Conrad probed deeper. The hand near Conrad's head flexed, clenched into a fist, but didn't move closer. Hell, maybe he could trust him after all.

This should be disgusting – the whole thing should be disgusting, but especially this – but from the second Conrad got that first taste all that mattered was more, more, more.

He chased a stray drop of blood along the sharp line of Worth's collarbone before returning to the source, lathing the edges of the cut until Worth was practically squirming in front of him (except he couldn't imagine ever calling anything Worth did squirming). When the blood flow started to lessen, he nipped at the red, abused skin at the edge of the cut with his fang, widening the injury and earning another groan from above him.

But the collarbone only has so many blood vessels close to the surface. No matter how much attention he gave it, the blood flow wasn't going to increase. And it wasn't enough. Each lick was just a tingle. Little sparks, like pop rocks on his tongue. Pop rocks that left him frenzied and desperate.

It's not like Worth was the foreplay kind of guy, anyway. He was already sounding impatient, pressing Conrad harder against the wall and growling low in his throat.

So Conrad leaned back just enough to find that fat blue-green vein in Worth's neck, grabbing a handful of the yellowing fur at his collar and ripping it back over his shoulder. His other hand found a grip in the coat somewhere near the doctor's ribs and stayed there (because what the hell else was he supposed to do with it, seriously?). There was a moment of pervasive silence as Conrad let go of his unnecessary breath, and the next thing he heard was Worth's own catching as his fang made contact with his throat. He paused for just a second, just long enough to feel Worth swallow and go tense, before he clamped down hard.

Maybe it was perverse, the way he wanted to hurt Worth (for being a dick, for making him want this) even though he knew it would just get him off (make him press against his teeth, get him to make that little noise). But Worth didn't seem to mind, if the way he moaned into Conrad's shoulder, loud and sharp, was any indication.

And then there was blood in Conrad's mouth and in his throat, and it didn't matter whether it was perverse or what Worth was thinking because fuck.

There was nothing but hot hot red, draining into him and surrounding him and his senses were filled with it and he was being filled with it, and there was nothing else. He couldn't remember what it meant to be cold, or what it had felt like to be a corpse, because in that moment he was human. Hell, with that impossibly hot, sweeter-by-the-minute life flowing into him, he was more human than the source, more human than Worth …

Worth, whose heartbeat was suddenly thudding through every one of his senses. Who was pressing him heavily against the wall, groaning incomprehensibly into his shoulder. Whose fingers had managed to reach up and tangle in his hair when he wasn't paying attention, twisting and pulling at the sopping wet strands.

Ok, yeah, he'd said hands to yourself. But that actually felt pretty amazing, and it wasn't exactly intimate. And, anyway, they had to be pretty close for this whole blood drinking thing, and Worth had to put his hands somewhere. So Conrad didn't say anything, just swallowed and shuddered at the rush of ecstasy and the warmth of an arm around his shoulder.

And when the hand in his hair dropped to his waist and tangled in the fabric of his shirt (better grip right?), he still didn't say anything, didn't make a move to protest. When one of the doctor's stick-thin legs pressed between his, crushing a rather … excited part of Worth's anatomy into Conrad's hip (been there, done that), Conrad just tightened his grip and pressed harder into the bite. When the hand on his hip drifted up his back and clawed its way back down, he just might have shifted into the touch.

And then Worth was ripping his shirt untucked, hand skimming up along exposed chest, and Conrad's skin was still so wet and numb, a shaky whiteness that sunk much deeper than when he'd been turned, and Worth's hand was so hot, fucking feverish, against his skin.He felt himself make a kind of pathetically needy noise, then he was pushing back against the touch, arching into Worth's hand encouragingly.

Worth scraped the rough pads of his fingers over the vampire's soft stomach, pushing backed the heavy wet fabric of his shirt. Conrad shivered when blunt, dirty nails scratched a line down his side. When those so hot fingers dipped into his pantline, Conrad was too caught up in the blood again to notice, more than to shiver again and press into the touch.

And then with one little flick of a needle-marked wrist, Conrad's pants were undone and Worth's hand was surrounding him firmly. He jerked in surprise, leaving Worth's neck without even licking his lips and pushing back against the wall, eyes wide. Worth froze, watching Conrad with suddenly lucid eyes, not moving and not withdrawing his hand.

For a moment, nobody moved. Conrad stared at Worth with slightly glazed eyes; Worth stared back with predatory clarity. Then the vampire's shoulders relaxed just the tiniest fraction, and Worth pressed against him with a vicious little grin, twisting his grip with languid precision.

Conrad made this helpless groan before he could stop himself, before he could decide if he wanted to stop himself. And then Worth was smirking down at him, pressing and moving in earnest, and it was good. Better than anything he'd ever had. Better than the whole thing had a right to be. Worth was fucking talented. Surgeon's fingers, Conrad's brain supplied, which made him laugh breathlessly and arch up into the touch and he knew he was gone. But he couldn't give in without one more jab.

"You promised," he gasped out, fingers twisting in the grimy fur.

Worth let out a huff that might have been a laugh, grinning wickedly as he pressed closer again, "I lied."

Conrad slumped against the wall, brain temporarily shorted out by the wonders Worth was working with his hand. There was warm sweetness still clinging to his throat, and Worth pumping slow and velvety below his waist. He felt himself twist, tensing and releasing against the unfamiliar sensations. He let his head fall back with a huff, shuddering and groaning and generally trying not to white out.

But even a hand in his pants couldn't keep him distracted from the smell of blood for long. Conrad's head rolled back up, eyes a little unfocused, and he was promptly reminded of the oozing punctures on Worth's neck. He leaned down slowly and licked the runaway trails, able to take his time now that he'd taken the edge off his hunger.

The first lick of blood completely distracted him, whiting out everything but the sparks against his tongue as he licked Worth's neck clean. But slowly his awareness expanded, lazily unfolding to include the doctor again.

"C'mon, c'mon." Worth was urging, gruff and insistent, pressing up into his mouth. "Come on.

Part of Conrad wanted to laugh, and another small part of him (that he'd never known about before) wanted to take it slow, wanted to lick and mouth and stall just to see what Worth would do. But most of Conrad still wanted the blood, and it was right there under his lips and on his tongue, and Worth was asking for it. So he licked up over his old bite, found another not-quite-dangerous spot and snapped down.

Worth went rigid and moaned, long and hot, crushing his cloth-trapped dick into Conrad's hip. When Conrad swallowed, the blood pumped thick and tangy, with the usual chemical bite of nicotine and probably a handful of other things he didn't want to know about. But it was still tingly and good, a little sweet from what he'd finally realized was arousal, and so distinctly Worth.

And when he shifted his thigh, pressing it up and against Worth, the older man cursed against Conrad's shoulder, shoving him harder against the wall and tightening his grip. So Conrad did it again, harder, matching the pressure with his teeth. And he was sure it was too much, too hard, but Worth arched into both and moaned, low and husky.

His blood blossomed chocolate-sweet with arousal, and Conrad suddenly wanted. He wanted more of that taste, wanted to hear those sounds from Worth again, wanted to see him as strung out and needy as he was. So he slid a hand around Worth's bony hip, fiddled for way too fucking long with the zipper, and finally got his fingers around him. It was an awkward angle, and it wouldn't have mattered anyway because Conrad had no idea what he was doing, but stuck in Worth's blessed personal orbit of action-first, it was impossible to be self-conscious.

So Conrad just moved, half trying to mimic the amazing things Worth was doing with his hand, half just trying to stay focused through the haze of blood and pleasure and the constant mantra of fuckfuckfuck in his brain.

Conrad was rewarded for his initiative. Worth moaned against his ear, that low gravely noise that sent heat right to the vamp's crotch, and bucked his hips into Conrad's hand. He sped up his own pace, twisting and squeezing with just the right amount of added pressure, and ohgodfuck Worth was a genius. Like some kind of creepy sex savant.

With Worth's hand pumping at his dick and his blood pumping into his mouth, his weight heavy against him and his moans in his ear, Conrad could finish pretty embarrassingly fast. At this rate, he was more than willing to be embarrassed. But Worth's pulse was starting to flag, a barely perceptible flutter that signaled the beginning of the 'too much blood loss' territory. It was surprisingly difficult – some part of him wanted to chase that flutter until it stopped – but Conrad knew he had to letup.

He managed to pull back and swallow thickly, tightening his grip below and nipping his way up Worth's neck. Gasping in breaths because it felt right, because it helped him match Worth's stuttering rhythm, Conrad grazed his fang along the line of his jaw, at the tip of his chin, then dragged it across his lower lip. Worth moaned into him, grinning hazy and loose and gone, before leaning in and licking the blood off Conrad's chin with one thick, wet drag.

Conrad blinked blearily, honing in on Worth's lidded and mostly pupil eyes as he hesitated, stupidly and far too late, over the weird intimacy of their lips. But the worry was fractured and distant, and Worth was panting hot and ragged in his ear. So he grabbed again at the flesh of his lower lip with his fang, pressing until he tasted blood and heard Worth groan. Conrad licked and nipped at the wound, and Worth groaned and pressed and bit back. And it wasn't really a kiss, but it was pretty damn good anyway.

They stayed that way, gasping and licking and biting and sharing Worth's blood between them, as their hands pumped and twisted and squeezed. And if Conrad had the presence of mind to be impressed with himself, he might have been, because Worth was matching him moan for moan. But he didn't really have the presence of mind to think about that while there was blood on his lips and none in his brain.

It didn't take long before Conrad felt himself tensing, his hand's rhythm faltering. Worth took notice, speeding up and twisting his wrist in a way that actually made Conrad choke. He knew it wouldn't be long now, and he meant to turn away, didn't want to be plastered to Worth's lips when he came. But, somehow, the first twitch of build-up made him press closer instead, sinking his fang deep into Worth's lip.

Worth let out a ragged moan, snapped his hips hard against Conrad and went rigid against him. And then Conrad's own world went white at the edges, and he was spilling warmth over Worth's jerkily stroking hand. That's when he said it.

"Yes, fuck, Worth."

He said it because it's one of those things you say, one of the lines hardwired into us from our birth into a culture of media mass consumption. It's hard to formulate more than "oh god" or "fuck yeah" when there's no blood in your brain, and in TV and movies they always call out their lover's name in the throes of passion, and even if it's the height of artificial it's still something to hold onto in the strung-out wasteland of your arousal, so you say it because you're desperate and wrecked and it's what you're supposed to say.

Except Worth wasn't his lover, and this wasn't a movie. And those three little words brought him crashingback to the filthy little street office where he was currently wrist-deep in another man's pants. It took just three little words for him to freak the fuck out.

The come-down was harsh and immediate: a sudden awareness of the blood on his lips, the sticky dampness on his pants and the dirty, matted fur still clenched in his fist. He really wanted to hyperventilate, but was pretty sure he couldn't. So he just pushed against Worth, eyes darting towards the door, trying to get his verbal faculties working so he could make his freak-out known.

Worth noticed before he could say anything though, must have seen something in his widening eyes, because he squeezed his own shut with a very loud, disagreeable, "Ugh."

That 'ugh' held a world of meaning – mainly, I knew this was coming, but why do you have to be such a fucking fag? – but Conrad was a little too busy having a meltdown to pick up on it. Worth's weight was still pinning him to the wall, so he struggled against him for a minute, a convulsive spasm that probably screamed 'trapped animal.' What the fuck had he just done? What the fuck had he just done?

Worth stopped his struggling by shoving back against him, holding him still with an arm across his chest and staring down at him, annoyance tempered by bemusement and (mostly) sex. He reached up with his other hand to flick Conrad on the nose, which made the vamp jerk and stop and frankly cease freaking out long enough to look up at Worth like what the fuck? Because, seriously, what the fuck?

"Sh," Worth commanded, and it came out every bit an order. "Jus' don't. Yer ruinin' the moment, fagarella."

"But – we just … I mean – " Conrad sputtered to a stop, not sure what he wanted to say and a little spooked by the roughness of his voice.

"Didn' s'actly hear ya complainin'." Worth capped the statement by pulling out a cigarette and lighting it in what seemed like all one motion. The whole thing was so familiar that Conrad couldn't help but relax a little bit, feel like maybe the whole world hadn't changed just because they'd (he'd) crossed this line.

"You didn't exactly give me a chance," he snapped back, but it was lame and they both knew it. And, honestly, there wasn't much Conrad could complain about. Well, as he reached down to redo his pants and noticed the mess (gross), he could think of at least one thing to bitch about later. But all things considered, and as fucked up as it was, the whole thing had been … good.

It wasn't supposed to be good. Nothing from the very first moment he'd met Worth should have been good – and god, if he couldn't just hear his mother shrieking about the diseases he could catch from this office and this man, and how he must have finally lost it like she'd been expecting for all those years because this was not the kind of thing normal, well-adjusted, sane individuals did, at least not without running away screaming or seriously regretting it.

Hell, the hysterical voices of his mother and every other concerned, upper middle-class mother in the world were probably right. It definitely wasn't normal. And maybe he had gone a little bit crazy. He just couldn't really bring himself to care like he was supposed to. Because it had been good.

Amazing, if he were being truthful. But at least a resounding good, put firmly in the 'things not to regret' category. And from the way Worth responded, it was very likely in the category of 'things to be repeated, often.'

With a disinterested little 'hn,' Worth pushed himself off the wall and wandered over to his desk, apparently satisfied that Conrad was done being Queen of All Faggots. Not bothering to clean himself up at all, he swaggered over to his chair and draped himself across it, closing his eyes lazily and taking a long drag on his cigarette.

Conrad gaped for a full minute at the blood smeared on Worth's neck and lips, at the way his coat still hung off his shoulder and his pants still hung low on his hips. Then he snapped himself out of it, busying himself with preening until he was as presentable as possible, all things considered. A few moments passed like this in silence, Conrad fidgeting and Worth smoking, before Conrad suddenly looked up and over at Worth.

"Liar," he accused, arms crossed and eyes narrowed into a glare.

Worth cracked an eye open and grinned around his cigarette. "See ya next week, Connie."

It was the weirdest thing, but as Conrad shuffled back out onto the dark city streets, into a much lighter rain, he had the hardest time keeping a smile off his face.