Work Text:
Stumbling behind the hedges, it occurs to Will that this is not a good idea.
That thought is like the lesson he just learned on Ancient Roman geopolitical structure, it comes in one ear and falls out the other, the second Nico shoves him into the side of the building and kisses him deeply.
The air is punched out of his gut almost immediately. With the way he's reacting, you would think it's his first time being kissed, but it's not. It's not even his first time being kissed behind this building, actually, because they were here yesterday. It's also not the first time Nico has yanked his head back by the hair this possessively, or slid his tongue into Will's mouth, but it all feels new somehow. Fresh, untainted, laced with something sharper and more flavorful. Will would never call before bland but it seems that way in comparison now—like the caterpillar before its grotesque metamorphosis.
He groans, loud and strangled, and Nico follows the noise like he's starved for it. He chases Will's lips with a desperation that seems utterly deprived, morally unhinged, and soon Will's back digs into the rough texture of the stucco. It hurts a bit, in a pleasant way. He finds himself wanting more, so he grabs Nico's hips and pulls him in, asking to be suffocated in warmth.
Nico attacks his throat, he claws at the soft underside of Will's arms, he sinks his teeth into that meaty, golden flesh and relishes it. He is not an animal—if anything, there is something utterly human about all of this. That is what Will thrives on, that stutter of Nico's hips outside his realm of control, the mess of it, the fear and the ecstasy in surrendering that makes surrendering all the more special.
Their hips roll together now, unsteadily, erratically. If Will had the clarity of mind, he'd laugh. We've had sex before! Multiple times, even, and yet they're frotting against the back of a lecture hall, poorly concealed by shrubbery. They only made it halfway back from class to their dorm before they gave up, the urgency so overwhelming that they decided the bushes will have to do. It's insane, a little bit, but Will doesn't really care because he's too busy trying not to moan so loudly the Dean hears from the main offices.
Nico decides to help, gods bless him, clamping one hand down over Will's mouth with unyielding force. Will tries to breathe through his nose but he can't, not with the way Nico's pushing their bodies together with increasing pressure. As such, his face turns red and he starts to feel lightheaded, dizzy, like he might float off if every thrust of Nico's clothed dick into his own didn't punch him right back down to the earth.
Will doesn't understand a lot of things.
He doesn't understand why this time feels so different from all the other times. He doesn't understand why they're still out here, rutting against each other madly, when Nico could take two steps back and shadow-travel to their dorm room, other than the strange idea that doing so would break this spell, whatever this spell even is.
What he does understand is that he likes it, he loves it when Nico pulls away from his collarbone to kiss his lips once again, so hurried that their teeth clack together more than once. What he does understand is the boiling, brimming pleasure in his gut has managed to extend through his every limb, and he's moments away from going boneless and stumbling to the floor. What he does understand is that he craves this, the violent nature of this wanting, the way it consumes him ceaselessly.
It is strange, perhaps, to be a healer who has long since rejected violence and craved control, to give up control in favor of violence. But love is a violent thing, is it not? It doesn't ask for permission, it doesn't offer reprieve. No, it only takes, it only grows, it only rots like some living thing: Never quite still, always persisting.
Nico pulls him impossibly close, sweating with all the frantic motion, sucking in breath after dying breath from Will's mouth. Again and again, they push into each other at the core, Will's hands slid into the back pockets of Nico's jeans as if that would somehow make his ass-grabbing more discrete. He is pulled higher and higher, faster and faster, his world burrowing down to the warmth seeping into his bones.
He loves, he loves, he loves, and he loves so much it hurts a little. No, it hurts a lot. Like a dull ache and like a knife to the gut, like a thousand cuts in between. It is sharp and it is hot and just when he thinks it's all going to come crashing down, it doesn't.
Nico pushes into him again, so close their ribs could interlock like laced fingers, so close for Will to realize that no level of closeness could ever be enough.
Nothing could ever be enough.
He moans, right into Nico's lips, as his hips buck upwards and twitch helplessly, as his head knocks back and hits the spiky stucco in a way that's sure to leave him concussed, as the universe is sucked right out of his marrow and thrown out into the void. Then he gasps, and it strikes him: How he is utterly transfigured, soaring high on borrowed wings.
Falling back down, dying all at once.
Nico cries his name and bites his neck once again, and then it is over.
There is only panting for a moment. Nico pulls away, long unruly bangs sticky with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His eyes are wide and stunned and he looks around, taking in what just happened.
A throbbing ache replaces Will's adrenaline—in his head, his bones, his knees. He groans pitifully and slumps into Nico's hold, still breathing hard.
Nico catches him, and they are still for some more time, before Nico mutters something like we should go back to the room and steps into the shadows.
Later, Will traces the marks and the bruises with reverence, shivering as he recalls Nico's touch. Never before has he felt quite so transformed, but he hopes to feel it again.
Hopes is the wrong word, maybe. He needs to feel it again. Like water—toxic, perhaps, in high doses. Like life—a means of dying slowly, pleasurably, painfully loved.