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The first time Nicolas notices it, he doesn’t give it a second thought. He’s a busy kid in grown-up’s clothes, with too many things to do to think about the way Worick plays with his smokes.
It’d be much easier, though, if Worick would notice when he does it. It’s funny—Worick notices everything in the world, except the one thing that Nic suddenly sees all the time. So really, it’s not his fault when his eyes drift from watching Monroe’s instructions, settling instead on the back-and-forth way Worick’s cigarette rolls between his lips.
A shake of his shoulder snaps Nicolas back to reality, at least for a little while, and he puts the thought behind him.
Until later, anyway.
It comes back like a pest, the kind that seems to be everywhere once you first catch sight of it. Only Worick isn’t a pest: he’s an open book, his soul carefully shielded behind one blue eye and one flimsy patch, quips and witty responses at the ready under his tongue.
Maybe that’s why he can’t keep his tongue still. He’s always one step ahead.
Worick bites his fingers. Nicolas can see the tiny indents his teeth leave behind. He does it when he’s thinking, his brow furrowed and his mind far away somewhere Nicolas has no use for. Sometimes, Worick will catch him staring, and wiggle his eyebrows or something equally obnoxious. Nic points out that he listens to hands and reads lips, you overgrown child, so he’s had to pick up the habit of watching them.
Not his fault something’s always at Worick’s mouth.
Pencils. Pins. Worick’s always got his lips wrapped around one thing or another, between his teeth and tongue. His thumb teases his bottom lip, running along the surface absently, agonizingly slow.
Nicolas doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s getting to him. Distractions are not appreciated in his line of work, and Worick is the biggest distraction there is, whether he knows it or not. So when he looks up from the book he’s skimming – keeping his eyes busy, at the very least – to catch Worick’s index in his mouth, he huffs in what he hope passes as annoyance and tosses the book at him.
Worick’s lips form a perfect, innocent ‘o’ as he attempts to dodge the book, with little success: it hits him in the leg and flops to the foot of the couch they’re sharing. “What was that for?”
You and your hands need a room?
Worick blinks and looks legitimately confused for a moment before laughing. “My bad. I don’t really pay attention to when I do it, ya know?”
Nicolas doesn’t know.
“If it really bothers you, I can try to, uh…” Worick’s gaze flickers to his hands, still half up towards his mouth. “…not?”
Nic shakes his head. It doesn’t bother me. It just… His signs falter and he drops his hands to his lap, suddenly at a loss for words. Just what? What is it about Worick’s habits that has wormed its way into his brain despite his best efforts?
It just seems like…there are better things than your fingers.
A glimmer of interest lights up Worick’s eye. “Really.” He leans forward, a smile Nicolas is getting to know too well tugging at his lips. “You sound like you have something in mind.”
Too late, Nicolas realizes his mistake. Not really, he tries, raising his hands in surrender.
Worick seizes his wrist.
It’s not that Nic can’t pull free—he’s more than capable of wrenching his hand away, more than capable of snapping Worick’s arm in the process. It’s that a part of him…doesn’t want to. Part of him has caught the darkening of his eye, the whiteness of Worick’s teeth, the warmth of his breath as he brings Nic’s hand to his lips.
Worick traces Nic’s knuckles with his tongue, ghosting over discoloured skin. Stray strands of hair fall in front of his face, tickling Nic’s fingers as Worick moves up his hand. He looks up, briefly, and Nicolas can catch a strange mix of something – part mischief, part curiosity, part desire, all Worick – that blond bangs can’t hide. Worick doesn’t look away when he opens his mouth and wraps his lips around Nic’s index finger.
It gets to him. Nicolas feels heat pool low in his stomach, and he dimly wonders if Worick can feel it too, because he grins around his finger; teasing, maddening pressure. He pushes Nic’s middle finger closer, parting his lips wider to take it in. Nicolas watches in something like fascination, and pretends he can’t feel his pants already tenting.
If there were any chance Worick didn’t know how much he’s turning him on, it’s gone now.
Worick’s grip tightens on his wrist, and Nicolas reflexively pushes his fingers deeper. He’s met with no resistance—Worick doesn’t gag, only watches his reaction with that playful spark in his eye. He moves against Nicolas, his thigh pressing between Nic’s legs just enough to make him squirm.
Another thing that Nicolas has grown to know about Worick is that he never plays fair. Then again, neither does he.
Nic gives up and pushes against Worick’s chest. He pulls away, and Nic’s fingers leave his lips shiny and bare: easily remedied, by any means. And Worick seems to know this, from the way his tongue darts between them and his hands trail over Nic’s chest to the waistband of his pants.
Worick’s had plenty of practice at this. It’s a fact Nicolas knows well, but not one that bothers him. They’re intertwined, wrapped around one another’s lives; connecting and separating, connecting again. Blood is thicker than water, or however that saying goes. At any rate, it’s the farthest thing from Nic’s mind—Worick’s hands make sure of that, clever fingers along the inside of his thighs.
His mouth is on him again: chaste, taunting kisses over his pants, and again over his boxers. Nicolas wants to kick him, but settles for giving his hair a tug. Worick’s head is forced up to look at him, but all he does is grin and raise one hand.
Better already, isn’t it?
Even when he doesn’t talk, Nicolas thinks, Worick never seems to shut up.
The sudden exposure when Worick finally pulls down his boxers provides little relief, especially not with the way Worick’s tongue immediately finds the most sensitive areas like a treasure map. Nic feels his teeth graze the skin of his thighs, pinpricks of pressure where he leaves a trail of bite marks, proof that Worick’s been here and proof that Worick knows how to unravel Nicolas.
He teases the underside of Nic’s length with full lips, coaxing a shudder and an exhale that may have culminated into an impatient moan—Nicolas has no real way of knowing, and Worick isn’t giving anything away, not when his tongue teases the head of Nic’s cock with slow, lazy flicks of the tip.
It’s infuriating.
Nicolas doesn’t give Worick the privilege of seeing his face when he finally, finally takes him into his mouth, warm and inviting. Instead, he fixes his eyes on the ceiling until it blurs out of focus and the waves of pleasure between his legs make it hard to concentrate on anything at all.
Anything, except for Worick, stupid fucking Worick and his stupid fucking mouth that seems to be made for this—for Nicolas, when he rocks his hips against the other’s face and is met with bitten nails against his legs. His cock slides easily down Worick’s throat, tight and hot, and part of him wonders why this habit ever bothered him in the first place.
He risks a look down, raising his head off the couch. Worick looks back at him, his bangs over his face: his eye is a darkened blue, a storm of wanting only Nicolas can see. Nic’s hands move, undoing the elastic from Worick’s hair to wind his fingers in it. Worick seems to like that—a hum from his throat sends a shiver through Nic’s body.
Worick is taunting, with his tongue and his clever hands, and soon Nicolas is arching off the couch, increasingly desperate gasps hissing out between his teeth. Worick pulls away just long enough to grin up at him, running his tongue along his cock before Nic feels heat surround him again, pushing him to the brink. It’s hard to tell if he’s being loud, but from the look on Worick’s face when his cock twitches in his mouth he’s doing something right.
Nicolas jerks his hips up and Worick moves to meet his climax, hands on his hips and hands in his hair, a tangle of body parts and heady breaths.
When Worick sits back on his heels and licks off his fingers, Nic watches him with something between accusation and apprehension. He raises his hands in a wave, wiggling his fingers.
Lewd. Nic’s signs are lax, though, and he pulls up his pants with little hurry.
“Lewd pays the bills, my friend,” Worick replies; he plays with the hair elastic, reaching to tie it up, then thinking the better of it. “But hey.”
Nicolas cocks his head.
“If you catch any other habits of mine, you can point those out, too.”
Pass me my book so I can hit you with it again.
Worick grins once more, and Nicolas takes in every detail of the curve of his lips, of the secrets Worick keeps under his tongue, and wonders how many more there are to unlock.