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Just You and I

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If nothing else, the new place is not a shithole.

There’s more than one floor, and that in it of itself feels like a luxury when Worick and Nicolas have endured the confines of single-room studios, the filth of a neglected shack, and the lowest obscenities only found in the backstreets of this city.

There’s even a separate section for the bathroom and a room Worick claimed all to himself, with the mind to doll it up with the likings of Jessica. And the room downstairs, rather, the some forty-square feet around a single, heavy chair belongs to Nic.

“You know,” Worick says, angling the couch so it fits the stairwell, “it’s hardly your own room when it’s also the kitchen.”

It’s unfair, because Nicolas can read his lips as he navigates the bulk of the couch on his own, but can’t use his hands to sign as a result. He can talk, but instead he makes a face at Worick’s statement, an amalgamation of irritation and confusion (as if Worick made no sense-why would he need an entire room?).

Worick sighs. “Whatever floats your boat.”

They navigate up to the door. Worick grunts, then curses when Nicolas all but heaves the couch inside and maneuvers it according to how Worick jerks his chin that or this way. It lands with a quiet thump.

“More importantly,” Worick says around a pant, slapping the cushions of their house-warming gift, “this is the centerpiece of it all. Well, except my bed, of course.”

Granted, it’s a gift given from themselves, more on Worick’s demand they allocate funds on durability and longevity where they can. It may have been years since he’s re-acquainted himself with anything resembling opulence (just about everything at Pussy is a knock-off, if a good one), but Worick never forgot its comfort, couldn’t if he wanted to really.

“I think this is a good spot. We’ll have to get another one later over there,” Worick adds, pointing to the empty space in front of the bookshelf. It's half-emtpy, a stockpile of old works that both engrossed Nicolas when he was new to tales of knights or the drama of Shakespeare, and newer classics Worick selected for his partner and bargained from a crummy shop with a crummier owner to add to their collection.

Niclas is looking at the empty spot. He ends up nodding. Worick wonders if it’s less a matter of interior decorating and more a practicality for diving for cover should the need arise.

“Hey.” Worick knocks his heel of his shoe hard enough for the vibrations to alert Nic. “Don’t just stand there. At least try it out. It won’t bite.” Worick’s smile made no promises about that.

There’s a pause as Nicolas tilts his head, narrowing an eye at the space left next to his partner. Worick gives the cushion a pat. With a faint crinkle of his nose, Nicolas eventually lowers down next to him.

“Well?” 

Nicolas, who can sleep on a bed of boulders and have no complaints, actually blinks as he takes it in. He looks away when Worick smirks.

“I told you it was a slice of heaven.” Worick melts back into it and groans. “Oh, yes. This will do nicely."

Nicolas mimics him and sinks back deeper. [Expensive?]

Though Worick doesn't turn his face from profile view, he knows Nic can read his lips. "Ha, not for what it's really worth. The guy couldn't tell an oak finish from a walnut finish."

For a while, there’s just the comfort of the couch, and the familiar quiet between them. It was more than finding a place with space, it was hunting through buildings where screams (and other noises of the questionable sort) would not be the nightly anthem, where blood would not seep into carpets and put Nic on edge.

Funny thing it took Worick much longer to find the couch than the place. 

Their knees bump.

Nicolas turns his head just as Worick starts to lengthen his smile.

“We should break in this couch.”

Nicolas arches a brow, and when Worick doesn’t elaborate, signs: [If you want something, say it.]

“It’s not sexy to just blurt it out. Sensuality," his fingers tiptoe along the couch's edge, creeping close to Nic's shoulder, "is in the details.”

Nicolas has only Worick’s experience to rely on, but even that has him shake his head and stare hard at those fingers. Worick starts a pout, prowling his entire body closer until Nicolas, on instinct, looks straight at him. Their noses are almost close enough to bump.

Worick lifts an eyebrow, an unspoken question. He waits.

Nicolas’ eyes drop to Worick’s mouth.

Worick grabs at him then, securing his hands on narrower hips, luring Nicolas onto his lap. His weight distributes well so it’s not all bearing down on Worick, positioned just as Worick’s hands want him to be. Small as Nic is, there’s plenty of muscle packed into the lean frame to crush a man Worick’s size, muscles that are now admired thoroughly. First, with an eye, then the scratch and brush of fingers.

Worick keeps his head tilted back on the couch, a perfect angle, he decides, to observe Nicolas’ face while his hands revisit the contours of a body only he’s had the pleasure of fondling. Each memory of his hands like this, teasing over the fabric of Nicolas’ shirt, plays out for him as much as it commits this one alongside them.

And of course Nicolas’ expressions resist, but when they trip up, they’re so raw in their authenticity one may mistake this as the first time Worick’s touched him like this.

It’s not.

His fingers toy the ends of Nic’s shirt, pinky fingers sneaking under periodically. There's a missable patch of burnt threads from the most recent job that Worick scrubs lightly against Nic's skin. It's soon abandoned to pay greater detail to the skin always so warm even without clothes. Muscle shifts against Worick's palms, not quite pressing into nor shying away.

Worick thinks hours can be devoted to watching Nicolas, whose eyes catch everything, from the tic of your lip to the pulse in your neck. Now Worick soaks in everything Nicolas can’t see, the twitch in his body when Worick’s nails drag up his ribs, the color suffusing up his neck and to his cheeks, the way his eyes fog up ever so slightly.

The shirt’s discarded. Worick eyes rake over skin he knows in touch and taste, but he looks at it all as though it’s new.

When one hand reaches down to the belt, the other scoops up behind Nicolas and pulls him down. Their lips tickles against each other, Nic’s parched ones nudged by Worick’s smooth ones, a tease and then it’s halfway where they meet.

Some people think eyes reveal all in a person. Worick now knows that kisses tell far much more, from the care of lips to the taste of the mouth, and down to the level of depravity in the deliverance. Nic's kisses are honest, laughably so, and unlike all Worick's clients, he accepts every type of kiss the gigolo knows. Slow and sloppy, hard and violent, chaste and simple.

When Worick kisses Nic, everything's less an enigma. He’s certain Nicolas can kiss forever. He learns like he learned speech, the particulars of forming your mouth which now mold against Worick’s, and it's only fitting given it was Worick who taught him better enunciation, how to sign with his hands, how to read.

But hours can't be put to their kisses alone. There's errands waiting, a day to draw to a close, and clients in the morning.

Worick drops his hands to Nic's thighs and squeezes. It's enough pressure to have his partner slip off, be lowered onto his back so Worick can stare down at him the way he likes to. The rest of his clothing gets peeled away along the way down, expertly so.

Nicolas blinks up at him, face definitely with some pinks in it now. Worick notes the chain around his neck has pooled behind him.

Reaching out, Worick gropes a nub. He can't stop his smiling, not with the face Nicolas tries to keep from being obvious on him, particularly when they both know how much he insists nipples existing for foreplay is stupid. 

It's convenient Worick has the repertoire to prove him wrong each time. His other hand has something hotter to grab onto.

And Worick knows patience, knew it from a young age when it was a waiting game for the next blow to rain down. Now it’s more often a virtue under his control to extend the pleasure of his clients. Yet as his hands squeeze and pinch and stroke, it’s hardly about depriving himself of pleasure. Everything translates through Nicolas’ body, the flick of his expression, and it’s for Worick’s memory alone to own. It’s the closest to peeking into Nic’s mind as he gets.

So he digs out all he can with the expert touch of his fingers, the well placed angle of his mouth when it joins the fray. There’s not even a break as he reaches into his back pocket and withdraws what he needs for later. As he does, he lowers his head, hair spilling down, an additional input of sensory. He flashes his partner a smirk and it’s all the preamble given before he tilts his head further down, hiding the sight of his mouth and what it will do.

It makes for a jerkier Nicolas, and more than once a tiny sound breaks out of him. Worick’s mouth, hidden from view but not feel. He purposely sweeps stubble around each open-mouthed kiss planted along the stretch of Nicolas’ body. And there’s plenty to be kissed, sucked, devoured.

The tales of each scar are retold with every touch of Worick’s mouth on them. He laps at old, large ones that stretch so long Nicolas almost squirms beneath him. He ghosts over ones long received prior to Worick’s knowledge, and he nibbles on fresher ones because he can and Nicolas’ hips just barely jerk in a way that proves he is more than a little masochistic.

Worick’s hands never pause either. At one point they stretch up, push against Nicolas’ arms to keep him from interfering with his mouth’s work, and there’s much work to be done still; Nicolas’ body is a field of calamity worth every skill of Worick’s tongue.

And while it’s skilled, but it’s not a chore to descend over Nicolas’ flesh, or a nuisance to coax out bruises of his own making. Nicolas demands nothing of him, even while Worick stretches out the time spent on each inner thigh, spreads Nic's legs apart further just so he can ogle every crevice of him.

When he bites down, Nicolas tenses, glares down at him.

Worick smiles, blows on the tip, earning himself a jerk. A finger slicks up as he blows again, tongue flirting with the length of Nicolas' shaft, and never fully sealing the deal.

Then, he leans back for a full view. He waits as long as it takes for Nicolas to focus on his face again.

"If you want something," Worick tells him, his smile rottingly sweet, "then say it."

Before Nicolas can so much as glower at him or think to flip him off, a finger, eager and wet, sinks in. It robs Nicolas of his ire, muscles tensing even though he knows relaxing them will ease the sensation. And he looks down, as much as Worick's hand he can see before it vanishes under him.

Worick's smile fades, one layer of the facade stripped as his focus narrows down to the tightness around his finger. In truth, they can go almost without, and Worick never does. This, the heat around each thrust of his finger, the splay of Nic’s legs, the barest arch in his low back when Worick just teases against that one spot--it’s all worth it.

If Nicolas can spend hours on kisses, Worick thinks he can do the same with this just as easily.

More than once he has to grip Nicolas at the base to prevent a premature ending. Each time it earns him an attempt look of annoyance, but the layers of haze in his vision and the way his body fidgets dilutes the effect.

And then, Worick's clothes are a pile on Nic's, and he's home right between his partner's legs.

They lock gazes, and Worick's memory reminds him they do that each time, and there's a span of a pause, heavy with their breathing and the thrum of their heartbeats.

Worick presses in.

It's one fluid movement that realigns the center of their world and has Nicolas bow his back. Worick steadied himself tall, hands fitted on either side of Nicolas in the cramped space of the couch so he can keep as much of his partner in his vision as he can. And finally, just when Nicolas' hand on his arm become painful, he moves.

It’s leisurely and long, hard and quick, and all else in between. When Worick drags out each thrust and pins an arm down to prevent Nic’s habit of covering his face, he holds the other’s gaze. Worick doesn’t think he can call it vulnerable, but there’s something more there, and Nic’s other hand, hot and heavy, presses into his shoulder blade. Holding.

Worick fucks him hard, enough that Nic’s head falls back and he must know the kinds of noises dribbling out of him. The pressure on Worick’s back increases to promise a bruise. Worick’s chuckle is breathless as his head falls forward.

He bites Nic’s neck. Nails dig into his skin. He thrusts that much harder. They’ll share this array of abuse, and somehow it’s fine, maybe better, when it’s left in the wake of this heat and not at the mercy of someone else's whims.

The marks are not a statement to the world beyond these walls thugh; the city knows of Worick and the tag that belongs to him. Sometimes though, on the cusp of drunkenness and with an aching back from the prints of Nic's fingers, he thinks maybe he belongs a little to Nic too.

WoR...ik…”

Worick concentrates on the sound of his name as it rumbles deep into his bones, battles with the thump of his heart and the sounds of their sex. Nicolas is looking up at him, breath stumbling out intermittently between thrusts. Worick hasn’t a clue what he’s thinking.

The touch on his back softens. Worick grunts, feels himself shiver. His forehead presses into Nic's chest, engulfs the smaller body in his own so that when the orgasm hits, Worick feels the tremble all over his body, hears the thud of the other's heart so close to his own.

They both liquefy into the couch, tangled and with puddy for muscles.

Nicolas touches his shoulder and Worick wills himself to lift up enough to see him sign. It makes him smirk, and then drop his head against Nic's chest to muffle his laugh, letting his partner feel the vibrations of it. When it ebbs, he raises his head again but looks in no way ready to move from his spot.

"Yeah, we probably should have laid out a sheet."