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Lark 14, Grant 16
“How long are you going to be staring at me?”
Lark doesn’t say it like a question, and Grant doesn’t have much intention of responding. Not that Lark wants an actual answer even if he had one to give.
The blood dripping down his face was mesmerizing.
Thick, red, messy—Clearly Lark hasn’t attempted to do much to clean it besides smearing it around as he wiped it from beneath his nose, streaking it across his cheek.
The normal drop of his stomach just isn’t there. A heat replacing it that rivaled the fire of the camp they should be sitting around. Instead Lark had disappeared earlier, and Sparrow refused to elaborate. Grant has always had an affinity for tracking, and well, a fascination with Lark.
“Gonna go get my stupid Father, huh?” Lark spits blood onto the dirt, knees scraped up as he sits on a large rock in the growing dark of the woods around them. The colors of the sunset mostly blocked from the leaves, bark and pine cones scattered on the ground between them. “Tell him that I ran off?”
Grant licks his lip, shaking his head, “I’m not saying anything.”
Tilting his head, Lark narrows his eyes. Whether he is squinting against the setting sun or glaring at Grant for finding him is equally likely. A shiver runs down his spine that has nothing to do with the chill of the evening. The very thought that crosses his mind of Lark using his bruised knuckles to his advantage, to push Grant to the forest floor, to punch him in the jaw—to make Grant bleed—to make him feel—
“Then what do you want?” Lark snaps his attention back up to his face, his voice not as guarded.
What does he want?
Lark 19, Grant 21
“Stop trying to piss me off.” Lark seethes, already well into the deep end of furious.
Grant turns his head, looking off into the distance. It’s not an eye roll, it’s not a scoff, and if it were anyone else it would be a sign of giving in, rolling over, but it’s not—Not if it’s Grant Wilson. Something about the indifference makes him angrier. Lark wants to ring his neck.
Look at me. Lark wants to say, Pay attention when I’m angry with you.
Grant won’t hate him the way Lark really wants, completely refuses to give him the satisfaction. Even in the office after an incursion that had completely gone south. All because of Lark.
The disappointed looks from Father, the worried ones from Sparrow. The annoyed, but knowing looks from Nicky and Terry. None had quite the effect of the blank expression that was currently sending him further and further into blinding rage.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Lark growls.
Backing him into a space just behind Glenn’s desk, Lark slams him against the wall with a fist full of his shirt. Grant goes too easily. The strength difference between them was laughable—another thing that sets him off.
There's a gun strapped beneath the desk.
It’s not a secret, they both know how to use it.
A quiet sound escapes his mouth, cutting Lark off from the one-sided yelling match that was almost certainly about to happen. Hazel eyes blown, the freckle in his right almost as distracting as the hand that comes to grab at his wrist. Grant isn’t pushing him away, but not pulling him closer either, just holding onto Lark, thumb pressed against his veins.
The neutral expression is still there, but at least Grant is looking at him now. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Lark slams him back against the wall again, carefully watching the way Grant’s eyelashes flutter, the way his lips part in a hiss.
There isn’t an answer to his question, but he’s catching on, thinks he knows. Fuck, Lark is reckless, and he wants a reaction, or something—anything from Grant.
The inches between them are gone when Lark slams him a final time, using his whole body weight to his advantage. The sound of Grant’s skull hitting the wall is loud, but not nearly as loud as the gasping moan that comes from him when he forces a knee between his thighs.
Lark was right.
Grant is already half hard against his leg, thumbnail digging into the soft skin of his wrist, but he is still not pushing him away. The desire on his face is deceptively hidden, eyes darker, cheeks only a dusting of red. Something strikes his memory, Lark has…seen this look before.
They had been fighting, Lark and Father. Another screaming match that ended with him trying to throw a punch, but Grant got in the way. More like threw himself between them, took the fist right to the cheekbone as Lark dove them to the floor. It had infuriated him enough that before Darryl could pull him off, Lark had punched him three more times in quick succession. Cracking his nose and cutting his upper lip on his front teeth, making bright red blood leak down his chin, staining his shirt. Even as he was pulled off him shouting, in a distant uncaring way he noticed Grant lick at his bloody lips.
Another time, Lark was sneaking around HQ with Sparrow trying to find the newest intel of the incursion that Father hid away. They stumbled upon a room where Grant sat practically motionless pressing hard on a fresh bruise of his inner arm. The same spot that Lark had slammed his knee into during their wrestling match the day before, had watched Grant hiss as his body hit the mat. The brightness of his eyes caught his attention only seconds before Sparrow ushered him away.
Last week, Nicky had pissed him off when Lark was trying to sharpen a knife. It wasn’t a real attempt at stabbing him, and even if he had connected with the right person at least Nicky had the benefit of demonic healing, but Grant quickly sidestepped between them. Got the sharp end of his knife directly into the flesh of his hip. It wasn’t a grunt of pain, more of a gasp, then a groan —Lark couldn’t pay attention because Nicky was there, pushing him back, growling, ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’
Everything.
Each passing second Grant quietly pants in the space between their mouths. The anger inside his chest is quickly being replaced by a tightness. A need for violence. Lark wants to tear something to pieces, and the man in front of him looks like there is nothing he wants more than to be broken down.
“Wilson.” Lark reaches forward with his free hand, guided only by instinct, not rational thought, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Grant doesn’t have the time to respond before Lark wraps his fingers around the front of his throat, squeezing with the full intent of cutting off his air.
Shifting even closer, Lark pushes their bodies together, feeling a rush of power when after an initial moment of surprise Grant completely relaxes into his grip. Tilting his head back into the wall, letting Lark slide his hand further up, pressing roughly against his adams apple.
Both of them are fully hard.
Spreading his legs further, Grant gives Lark more space to force his thigh higher against him.
There isn’t any room for misinterpretation as they grind against one another. The violence in his mind tells him to bite, sink his teeth into skin, to draw blood and taste iron. If Grant were able to make a noise, Lark is sure he would have as he tears at his shirt to clamp teeth down onto his collarbone.
The jerking of his hips is telling enough.
Lark eases up on his grip when Grant starts to shake. A wheeze of air blows his hair, but he’s too busy repeatedly biting fragile skin, feeling fingernails dig into the flesh of his wrist.
Another hand falls onto his own that’s holding Grant’s throat, encouraging him to press harder. A hoarse voice breathes into his ear, “M-more—” The words cut off as Lark immediately squeezes tight.
They cum that way, messily grinding, flush together with Lark choking him out, and biting into the scant neck he can reach with his teeth. There's bruises on both his wrists and a hand-shaped one on Grant's throat when they are finished.
Dark purple marks that set Lark on fire.
Lark 23, Grant 25
Grant takes the punch that Lark tries to throw at him as he pins him face down to the wrestling mat. They’ve been at it all morning, circling each other around the gym like a pair of vicious animals who want to cause bruises, bite marks and bleeding.
“Fuck —”
“You can get out of this,” Grant growls into his ear, flexing his fingers on Lark’s forearms, “C’mon Garcia, you’re not this weak.”
Lark struggles, less trying to get out from underneath him, and more testing his hold. As if he wants nothing more than to stay where Grant twists him against the mat.
The air is hot despite the various ceiling fans. Sweat drips down his neck and under his shirt, tacky. There’s a red flush against Lark’s neck, beneath the way his hair curls just above his tank top collar, so distracting, so tempting that Grant nearly bites a mark directly against the bumps of his spine.
Lark twists his wrist, pulling his skin in what must be a painful way. Grant grips tighter, swearing for a second he hears a low whimper. The growl he responds with is animal—Not like the ones that Sparrow can turn into, and god not like Henry, but just uniquely his own. Beneath him Lark pushes back into his chest, forcing their bodies together, and he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Garcia—”
“Shut up, ” Lark snaps. It’s breathless, sharp, but his body relaxes with his intent clear. “Wilson—fuck.”
“Already giving up?” Grant snorts, hoping to make him bristle, to make him fight harder, but nothing comes from his jab. “I’m disappointed.”
Lark tenses, “Fuck you.”
Letting the obvious go without saying is easy when Grant knows what’s coming. Folding his body over Lark is like coming home. Something vicious that will tear him to pieces with the blade like love hidden inside his heart.
Giving into temptation, he bites the slightly pointed tip of Lark’s ear. Almost instantly Lark shudders against him, another sound that is dangerously close to a whimper. Grant keeps his grip tight.
It will only make Lark happier if he bruises.
They’ve never bothered with condoms, occasionally they even forgo on lube during nights when harm is just too alluring to resist its call. Spit, blood, thrusting into each other dry. Impatience looked good on the man beneath him, especially when pinched with pain. Luckily for Lark, Grant has long since learned to carry a small bottle of lube in his gym bag.
Pressing down on Lark with all his weight for balance, Grant stretches out a leg, circling the fabric handle of the bag around his ankle, dragging it toward them. The gym was empty. No one should be here at HQ today. Even if they were, Grant doesn’t think it would stop him from moving both of Lark’s arms into one hand to roughly pull down his partner's dark green gym shorts to his knees.
Exposing Lark, ass now bare and hard cock free to dangle between his thighs, has the man below him twitching. Easily submitting where once upon a time he would have fought Grant to exhaustion just for the sake of claiming a victory. The subtle movement of his knees shifting, hair falling around his pretty face as Lark drops his head down onto the mat. Seeking a comfortable position to get fucked in.
A more enticing position. Grant throbs.
One handed he unzips the gym bag's side pocket, digging through the few items before grabbing the small bottle. There isn’t a need for decorum. Today Lark really wants it. The desire is clear in the way his muscles tense and relax over and over again in the bruising grip, yet he makes no effort to escape.
The bottle cap clicks open. Simultaneously, Grant hears the smallest sigh of relief.
Pouring lube directly onto his hole, Grant doesn’t care about the mess as it starts to slide down to his balls, catching on the hair, dripping down further. The mat will need to be wiped down after anyway. Unless they want to hear about properly cleaning the gym equipment from Darryl.
The thought of his dad makes Grant wince internally, mouth twitching downward into a frown, makes him reflexively tighten his grip.
Lark shakes.
Flicking the cap closed, Grant drops the bottle to the mat. There’s no warning he gives Lark. The man doesn’t want it, preferring the anticipation that coils within from the unknown. Starting with a hard smack to his right ass cheek, Grant leaves his palm on his warm skin to help spread him. Lark chokes on a responding shout, hole fluttering.
The lube is shiny from the yellow lights of the gym. No point in having Lark wait, Grant slides some of the fluid onto his fingers. It shouldn’t turn him on so much to hear Lark beneath him, grunting in what can only be called restrained pain—from the bruising grip, the way Grant has adjusted his knees on top of his calves to keep him pinned, forcing two fingers into his hole without waiting for him to relax.
Wilson, what the fuck is wrong with you?
The words echo in his head as they do every single time he and Lark do this.
“F-fuck me,” Lark growls, only now jerking in his grip as he realizes that Grant intends to give him the barest minimum of prep. “Now.”
“S’only two,” Both his fingers are a tight fit inside of him. The muscles tensing against their intrusion from Lark’s dissatisfaction. Even that sparks desire inside his gut. The horrible contradicting feeling of wanting to hold his partner down and take whatever he wants regardless. The battle within him wages constantly with Lark’s defiance. “Garcia, relax—”
Lark snarls, “Wilson— now—”
Grant hears the command, but he doesn’t listen. It has been four years like this between them, and he isn’t going to start taking orders. Not with the coiling hunger in his chest, the throbbing in his dick.
Continuing to thrust with his pointer and middle finger, Grant spreads him with his thumb and pinky. The growling words from Lark’s mouth become background noise to holding him down. Each push and pull with his fingers Grant gets closer to the little bundle of nerves. An ironic punishment for the man who is straining in his hold.
“If you had tried harder today,” Grant says, rubbing his fingertips against his prostate, feeling Lark briefly spasm against his chest. Momentarily stunned from hissing and cursing, “I might have fucked you like you wanted.”
That’s not true. Grant would have if only he hadn’t opened his pretty, sharp mouth.
The reply is lost among the distraction that is holding him down, to the sounds of his own breathing. The stretch around his fingers relaxes, tightens, flutters as Lark reacts to him prodding at the bundle of nerves that Grant gets a twisted satisfaction in. Every twitch has him pushing closer, dropping their bodies in what must be the most incredibly uncomfortable position possible for the man beneath him. Sweat sticks them together, smells salty and when Grant spares a pause to bite into the firm flesh next to his face, he tastes salty too. Musk, and sex, and the smell of the wrestling mat.
Time loses meaning to him, the clock ticking on the wall, the rest of his plans for today mean nothing. Nothing can pull him away from the tight throbbing in his pants, the forceful weight he places on an aggravating man he has felt tidal waves of complicated churnings that go beyond the sex they have.
“Grant,” Lark moans his name like a prayer, not an aggravated Wilson , as he shakes so hard he might break, “Let me—fuck, ah, flip over?”
The sound of his breath heaving, feeling him squirm. Grant doesn't stop. Everything within him only wants to crush Lark harder against the mat. To feel his bones break beneath his weight. To have him be like struggling prey as he screams for release—
“Please–?”
That makes him pause. Stuttering his fingers to a halt. Lark has only used ‘please’ with him a handful of times. All during moments that struck him off balance, made him feel uncertain in their dance.
Pulling back, slipping his fingers free of Lark, feels like the hardest thing Grant has done in months. Forgetting the monsters, the hard conversations, the dark, dark nights where he thought to a God he doesn't believe in that he wouldn't make it to morning by his own hand. Letting Lark flop over, watching him reach for Grant to pull him back like Grant is the rock inside a rushing stream. There is a partial part of his mind not focused on dropping down to nudge his cock into a hole that swallows him eagerly, thrusting in without more hesitation, that part of his mind is grateful that Lark will not notice his lack of breath that has nothing to do with the arms that wrap around his sweaty shoulders, pulling them flush together.
Grant loses himself entirely, burying his face into where neck meets shoulder, biting teeth, filling Lark up again and again. The swears in his ear, the nails biting into his back, blood tastes on his tongue. Its over far too soon.
Both arms and trembling legs take their time to release him, Lark's puffy, abused hole leaking cum that Grant didn't mean to shoot in him, but they're long from caring about cleanliness or worry about keeping semen from dripping onto the mat. Grant pulls away, but doesn't go far, watching as Lark drops his forearms over his fluttering eyes, blocking the florescent light from the ceiling, chest heaving. Another thing he started keeping in his bag because of Lark alongside the lube is a pack of his preferred cigarettes. As he waits for Lark to come down from his orgasm he flicks on his zippo and lights it. Admiring him from above, kneeling between his knees, the flush on his chest and the parting of his lips.
Halfway through the smoke, Lark peeks an eye out behind his arms. Grant flicks off the ash onto the mat, then leans forward to set between it his lips.
Lark takes a long drag, “…thanks.”
Lark 25, Grant 27
“Why’d you come back?”
Grant wasn’t sure what to make of the question. Lark sat across from him at the table, cleaning his gun from the incursion—the same as him. Though instead of a pistol, Grant neatly took apart his sniper rifle, cleaning piece after piece with care. There was something off about Lark all night. Silent, like usual, serious, as always, but thoughtful as if he were somewhere else. Inside his mind rather than there on the battlefield.
Grant adjusts his scope, “What?”
“You were out.” Lark meets his eyes, piercing like he is watching his every breath, his every twitch. “When you went to college.” He clarifies when Grant furrows his brow, “Why’d you come back?”
Oh.
The scope is placed next to the rest.
The Oak-Garcia twins never went to college, with Lark himself barely graduating High School. Immediately they both went to work at HQ despite their fathers clear reluctance. Nick was in and out of Hell those years, while Terry followed him to college.
Their families still saw each other. No one ever went far. Meeting once a week, sometimes more.
Grant saw the dark spots under Lark’s eyes, he was losing weight, drinking and smoking more. Sparrow barely managed better. Dad said HQ was doing their best, but incursions were getting harder, more violent and unpredictable.
Ron retired early, Dad got injured. Glenn lost his wife a second time and left for Hell for good.
One night, Lark came to his apartment door bloodier than he’d ever been. Pressed tight against him and begged for Grant to make him feel something.
Anything at all.
The next morning Grant had a 9am class. It didn’t seem real leaving Lark alone, dead asleep beneath his blanket in bed, scarred and bruised while he spent hours inside a lecture hall. A month later he dropped out of college, and never looked back.
’I came back for you.’ Grant doesn’t say, because he knows that it will only make Lark angry.
“I couldn’t just leave.” Is what he eventually decides on, staring straight into sharp green eyes that have seen more horrors in one lifetime than most ever have or will, “Our family needed help.”
The corner of Lark’s mouth twitches, like he can’t decide if he wants to smile or frown. “Ours, huh?”
“Yes. Ours.” Grant refuses to back down, “Whether you like it or not, Garcia.”
Ours.
It’s not a confession, and Lark certainly isn’t going to say anything like one out loud himself, but… Fuck.
It’s close enough isn’t it?