#wornick

He wants to hurt. To hurt and /be/ hurt. Take on enemies, slash off limbs with precision, kill without mercy. Overdose uppers, make himself numb from pain, only to make him feel it all in one swoop once the drugs die out.

Nicolas Brown is crashing down non-stop. And Worrick Arcangelo can’t do anything about it.

Worrick can’t do anything about it, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to find ways he /can/ help. He wants to make Nic /not/ hurt, even for a little while, a kiss or two, a pat on the back as they joke around, or a long night of endless passion (if Nic complies long enough).

Every night that they engage in such passions is a tough challenge. To top Nic, when the short one’s most of the time (meaning always) in the mood to be dominant, Worrick can’t ever let his guard down, even for a moment. Once he does, Nic is sure to take the chance. Worrick isn’t strong, after all. His strength is nowhere near Nic’s. He’s easy to topple, to dominate, to conquer: the easy target. Some nights, when he can’t keep Nic down, the next morning he’ll have to ask Nina to come over and make sure the deep bites on his shoulders and the gashes along his arms are properly disinfected and bandaged. (Nina, the poor, sweet child. Never has she questioned why Nic ever leaves him such awful marks—or more importantly /how/, in what situation. But Worrick sees it in her eyes. She knows, for sure. She’s a smart kid, after all. Perceptive, truly fit to become a doctor. He can only pass her a sincere, heartful smile and an affirmative pat on her head as he says his thanks.)

Worrick can’t keep the short one down unless Nic is distracted, /completely/ submerged in pleasure, be it through a kiss with Nic’s wrists in Worrick’s hands, Nic’s cock inside Worrick’s mouth while the latter massages his thighs, or Worrick deep inside him, Nic’s name ever spilling from the gigolo’s lips. (Even though Nic wouldn’t hear. Even though Nic can’t read his lips if Worrick is at his back.)

Sometimes, Worrick can’t help himself either. He /feels/ it too much. For Nic. For /this/. For /them/, whatever this bond is between them. He can control his libido for his customers, be gentle as requested be, but for Nic—with the way the shorter dares him even just with his eyes—Worrick can’t resist. (When has Worrick ever resisted Nic? Not years ago. Certainly not now.)

Often times, rather than gently holding onto Nic’s hands, lacing fingers as he thrusts into him, Worrick’s hands go along Nic’s back, clawing marks, making his nails go as deep as they can to hear Nic’s broken screams. In those rough nights, Worrick would hurt Nic the way he begs to be. He would fill Nic’s thick, tough skin with marks that would heal in the morning—teeth on shoulders, scratches along back, reddened buttocks from slapping.

In the morning after rough nights, Worrick would ask, “I bet that hurt good, didn't it, darling?” between smokes, right as Nic coughs upon the dark mist Worrick had blown to his face before speaking. The gigolo’s cigarette lights yellow upon their faces, then upon his fingers when he takes it from his lips to kiss Nic on the lips, down to his chest. He would pull Nic down to lie upon his front, and then Worrick would kiss the faint nail marks and scratches, quickly healing from the night before.

/Why does it have to be this way?/ He’d ask himself. /Why can’t things be better? Why can’t Nic’s life heal the way his wounds do?/

Then as if reading his mind Nic will sit up. Pull him to a kiss, tongues in disarray, rough, messy, Nicolas style.

“Work?” Nicolas grunts, a twang to the way he says it. He scowls as he pushes Worrick to lie on the bed, his eyebrows deeply furrowed as he hovers over him.

/Man, isn’t he hurting from last night? Are my powerful thrusts like chicken to him?/ Worrick thinks, but on the outside he laughs. He says with his hands, “Nothing scheduled today.”

Nic nods his head affirmatively, then presses his lips to Worrick’s neck. The gigolo shivers when Nic just breathes there, takes in Worrick’s scent like he hadn’t had enough the night before. His arms wrap around Nic, and he says to the other’s ear, loud enough for Nic to hear against the buzzy whirr that always fills his ears. “Nicolas. Let’s feel good the whooole day today.”

The shorter pulls away from Worrick, a wicked grin (like the ones before he slices someone in half) on his face, an excited glimmer in his eyes. The gigolo bites his lip, the sides of it pulled to a smile. To be looked at with such desire, such passion, perhaps Worrick wouldn’t mind to forever be Nic’s doll, the one Nic hurts most, Nic’s way out from all the shit that kills him.

Worrick will want Nic to stop crumbling, to stop hurting and being hurt. But now, the gigolo succumbs. He lets Nic destroy him, lets himself crash down with the damned tagged he’s been stuck with since ages ago.