The clock next to your futon-mattress of a bed declares it to be nearly 4:30 in the morning, which means that Connie's going to be stuck here all day unless he leaves right at this very second. And somehow you doubt that he's going to do that, seeing how he's completely out of it at the moment, still blissed out from the…substances he sucked out of your neck an hour or so ago.
His face is buried in your neck and he's pretty much cuddling the entire right side of your body, the cute, half-high little fag. You're pretty sure he's asleep, so you ease your arm away from him so you can grab a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of your pants, which lay discarded on the floor beside your bed. Connie hates it when you smoke in bed, but it's your own damn house, so you can do whatever the fuck you want, right? Right. Screw him.
But then, just as you're lighting up, you feel a breath against your neck and you think, shit, because Connie doesn't breathe when he's asleep. (Or even move. It's like he really is a corpse when he's asleep.) But it's not like you're going to put out the cigarette now that you've lit it, so you sort of just lay there and hope that he's still too fucked up to give you hell about it. He shifts a little bit, his fingers twitching against your skin, and after a little while of that, he half-sits up to look you blearily in the face. Aw yeah, he's definitely not quite himself yet. You feel a huge grin twist your lips, and it turns into a laugh when he grimaces at you. "Hey there, hot stuff. How are you this fine mornin'?"
He glares sleepily for a moment longer before deciding to give it up as a bad job. "You're as wasted as I am," he mutters (slurs), rolling a bit and settling onto his stomach, arms folded under his chin. You laugh (cackle).
"Nah, I can hold my narcotics 'lot better than you, Connie-boy. 'M just high on life," you say because it sounds like the cheesy sort of thing that makes him smirk, wasted or not. Once you win your smirk, you half-roll on top of him, plopping your chin right on top of that silly-ass dinosaur on his shoulder-blade. He makes an annoyed little noise, but doesn't explicitly complain, so you don't move. You keep smoking lazily, trying not to drop any ash on Connie because, whoo-boy, that would go over well. You don't exactly want him making a fuss just yet; that can wait until six o'clock when he realizes that he can't go home. You like him like this—sated and sleepy and just a little bit high off his rocker. You don't get that last part very often, so you're trying to enjoy it while you can, before he goes off on you about you taking advantage of his hunger or some silly shit like that. You think it's damn funny how vehemently he insists he doesn't want you sometimes.
After a minute or so, he wriggles underneath you again, wanting to roll over, you guess. Snickering, you let him, rising up on your hands until the very second he's on his back, and then you flop down hard on his chest, knocking the wind out of him even though he really shouldn't have had any breath in him at all, the stupid git. But then he sort of just laughs and calls you an ass and whacks the side of your head, which wins him a smirk.
"Hey," he says, half-blind eyes squinting at you. Smiling. Running his hands up and down your back, fingernails dragging across your skin just right. "Hey, Worth."
"Whaddaya want."
He purses his lips, probably in thought, but you steal a kiss anyway because you know he hates being interrupted when he's trying to talk to you. But he kisses back anyway, and nips at your lower lip, just hard enough to draw blood. You both hiss, but he's not hungry right now so it doesn't last long. He just licks at the spilt blood and pulls away. Looking deeply unhappy for some goddamn reason. You cock your head to one side.
"Whath'fuck's eatin' you?"
This time he furrows his brow. And the shit that'll come out of his mouth in two seconds is going to find you so off-guard that you'll be speechless, for once.
"Hey Worth. If another vampire offered to bite you and, y'know, fuck you, would you let them?"
Holy fucking shit. See? How can you possibly respond to that? You totally do not gape at him like a fish out of water, totally not at a loss for words.
It takes a minute of you staring at his slightly scrunched-up face for him to back down, tensing up under you and looking away. "Uh. I mean—No, ugh, I didn't—Jesus—"
And watching him feeling so damn uncomfortable gives you your brain back. You push up on his chest, reach over and extinguish your cigarette on the concrete floor, and then fix him with a glare. "What the hell? Are you trying to ask me if we're fuckin' exclusive, Connie? What are we, fuckin' sixteen years old?"
He's obviously decided that he does not in fact actually want to have this conversation. "Forget it forget it forget it forget it—"
And then you have to laugh, because he's such an idiot. "Fuck, Connie, do yeh really think I've got enough time to juggle a fuckin' harem? I do work, y'know. 'M not a complete bum."
"I know, I'm sorry, forget it, please—"
But that would be giving him what he wants. And you're a bit too distracted to do that. "And I know a fuckin' thing or two about succubus and incubus, lemme tell you. You're one o' the only vamps I know of that fucks, eats, and leaves people alive."
His face pales. It's a testament to how much blood you're willing to give him that he can temporarily blush and pale, as if he were human. It's cute in the kind of way that makes you want to mock him. But there's no time for that. You laugh at his expression but also just because you feel like laughing.
You pat his cheek because he thinks it's condescending, and it kind of is. "Don't worry, princess. Yer th' only one in my life."And then you laugh again and he looks pissed off and maybe a little nauseous, which only makes you laugh more.
And then you rest your cheek on his collarbone, still laughing. And he starts doing that fantastic thing with his fingernails again, because you've probably just made him the happiest little fag in the tri-city area.