Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The incursion was, as Nick and the rest of them would very well know, a shitshow at the fuck factory.

In a community center that couldn’t be considered charming even under non-violent circumstances, their yet-to-be-titled crew (keeping ‘Doodlers’ seemed like poor taste) was locked in pitched combat with a gathering of sauced-up LARPers. Many of which had weapons that, while not historically accurate, were still sharp as fuck and made of metal.

Terry Jr was stashed away high up in the rafters, slinging the occasional spell when the opportunity arose. The sidelines were preferable to him, as their ranged caster and as a wizard with the stamina and pain tolerance equivalent to that of a sickly mouse.

Terry’s good there, Nicky thinks. After too many close calls, they’d learned to prioritize the safety of Sparrow and Terry Jr as the competent, non-practicing pacifists who could be counted on to bail any of the rest of them out, wether that be from a lockup or a close encounter with getting their bell rung and/or bucket kicked. Better out of the fray than getting annihilated like the rest of them.

Sparrow was narrowly evading swings from the crazed larpers crowding them as they moved as quickly as they could to Grant, who- Fuck. Shit. Damn.

Grant was slumped over behind his apparently pretty shitty cover spot, having just taken long sword to the gut and understandably blacked out.

There was a veritable buffet of violence between their healer and sniper, but Nick truly wasn’t worried. Sparrow could hold their own, in fact usually more than Lark. They’ve got strategy and self preservation over.. whatever the fuck Lark has going on.

Nick watched Lark pin a thrashing binoclard to the ground and in so doing take an elbow straight to the chin like a champ. Nick didn’t feel any certain way about that. For sure. Why would he? Literally why?

Whatever Nick very much definitely wasn’t feeling about it distracted him from the motion of the LARPer in Lark’s grasp, a bolt of magic that sunk its sparkly lil talons onto Nick’s mind and introduced the command:

Betray.

Unwittingly, Nick lunged forward, taking his comparatively slight mass to Lark’s center of gravity and bringing them crashing to the ground. Nick made enough sense of their tangled limbs to find his way atop Lark and continue his commanded in-fighting.

Lark’s temperament was historically pretty shit, so this is far from the first time Nick’s hit him in the face, but it is the first time against his will. His fist makes contact with Lark’s jaw, he meets Lark’s gaze and instantly wishes he hadn’t.

Nick had been witness to that look in the past and chalked it up to Lark’s weird vendetta against himself that meant vaguely enjoying delivering and being dealt great violence, but Nick had never seen it like this. Not up close and personal.

Oddly in place of whatever fear or concern he probably should have felt, Nick understood him all the more. Not something to pity or be scared of, but that hushed awe you feel when in the presence of a wild animal, a respect you feel in whatever part of you never evolved past survival and id.

Passion is the wrong word, whatever was crackling in the air was more an imperative.
It clicked in Nick’s mind. That thing he saw in Lark’s eye, behind the wince of pain, beside the adrenaline: want.

Lark wanted something. He wanted something from Nick.

He’d been thinking too long, Lark started to surge up and out of his tackle but Nick, unfortunately, found a bout of strength to shove him back down. The impact punched a noise out of Lark, not a groan of pain but a keene, a small, high whine. Unmistakable.

Nick wasn’t really sure whether to be concerned, scared or turned on. It kinda ended up being a combination of all three.

Whatever realization shone on Nicky’s face seemed to wake Lark up from whatever he’d fallen into. Lark shook him off, looking horrifically embarrassed, and trying to hide it in taking the butt of his pistol to the brow of the acolyte that issued the command. The magic left Nick with a violent shiver like someone just pulled ice water from his blood and through his skin.

Lark wouldn’t meet Nick’s eye, instead clearing his throat and breaking off to find Sparrow at the tail end of an incantation of sleep, his magic manifesting in teeny little sheep that danced in front of the doodlerized eyes, sending the remaining enemies to a surprisingly pleasant unconsciousness.

The clean-up took them all the better part of an hour, and everyone looked worse than worse for wear by the time they got back to ‘HQ’ as Glenn liked to call it, ‘Home Base’ as Darryl liked to call it, ‘Do-goodin’ inc’ as Henry liked to called it, and ‘Work’ as Ron called it. Sparrow shuffled off with Grant to the makeshift infirmary they were constantly griping about upgrading rather than “Glenn’s stonerish passion projects”. May Hayles trails behind them, grumbling about preforming impromptu surgeries conveniently not being included in the job description.

They came back some time later, joining Lark, Nick, and Terry in their office that sometimes doubled as a briefing room.
Terry was taking inventory of the magic items they used, with Nick hovering behind him and making mostly unhelpful additions. Lark was still changing out of his tactical gear and putting his weapons neatly away, he was surprisingly diligent about keeping it all organized.

Lark was usually pretty quiet, and when he wasn’t he was just kind of a dick. At least, around most people. He was by no means a cinnamon roll with a rough exterior, really more of a coffee bun with too little sugar.

But he was definitely kind. Nick doesn’t think Lark would consider himself so, and a majority of people that meet him assume Lark doesn’t give a single shit about anyone but Sparrow.

Nick was of a similar opinion, until he visited the Oaks after they had Hero. He watched Lark shift entirely, his posture softened and Nick could swear he spied some heretofore unused and undiscovered dimples when Hero let out a shriek of laughter so infectious it caught Lark in the crossfire.

Tracking Lark’s emotional state was kind of like looking at one of those colorblind tests with the colored dots forming a number. Hard to parse but you knew definitively what you were looking at once you got there. Nick was a quick study.

Now Lark was quiet, but this was a pensive, kindof sheepish silence, his attention purposefully honed in on his equipment: either an attempt at distraction or an excuse to avoid conversation. Or both. Very likely both.

Terry and Nick finish the report of the incursion and turn to the pile of magical items and evidence from themselves and the acolytes. Before they can rock paper scissors about it, Lark all but bolts towards them, grabbing the pile and striding quickly out of the room, mumbling something about taking the items back down to the dungeon rooms they came from.

Terry shrugs and waves him off, while Nick tries to catch Sparrow’s eye. Sparrow was organizing the first aid kit, harried from the battle but otherwise pretty unaffected.

They either didn’t notice or didn’t care what was up with their brother. It made Nick fucking mad. He checked himself before he literally started himself on fire, but still a bout of smoke erupted from his skin.

The only sound in the room was the light clacking of plastic as Sparrow reassembled the kit.

“I’m gonna check on him.” Nick announces loud and suddenly enough that Terry and Sparrow startle hard, Sparrow dropping a roll of gauze and Terry jolting up in his seat.

“Grant? He’ll be alright, May is down there.” Sparrow picks up the gauze, their eyebrows drawn in confusion.

“Lark.” Nick snaps, not trying all that hard to tone down the fire in his eyes.

Sparrow shoots Terry a look that says “The fuck is his problem?” And Terry replies with an utterly bedraggled look that says “When was the last time literally any single one of us didn’t have a problem.”

Nick doesn’t storm out of rooms very often — that’s a little more Jodie’s style — but it seems to him like if there’s a time to storm out of a room, this is a good one.

Nick winds his way down the dungeon, preparing in his mind respectively: An intervention, an apology, a couple biting comebacks, and a statement of comfort that’s not too comforting that it sends Lark running to the hills.

Every one of these scenarios plummet merrily out the window when Nick hears what is unmistakably a human man trying and failing to cry very quietly. Jesus.

Nick stops in his tracks, completely, utterly, and totally at a loss for what the fuck to do. Before he can make sense of it all, a voice calls out from the room further down the hall, thick from crying but purposefully unwavering — Lark.

“What’s up, Nicky.” His tone is flat, and it’s not a positive greeting by any means, but it wasn’t ‘Nick’ or ‘Nicholas’ or ‘Narcolas’. Probably a good sign?

Nick rounds the corner and leans on the concrete doorway of the cell.

“What gave me away?”

“I can hear your fucking Doc Martens from a mile away, if you recall I unfortunately have great expertise in birding.”

God, Nicky forgot about that. For a while Henry tried in vain to mend the rift between father and son, and one avenue he explored was birdwatching. Lark ended up actually just hating that Henry was there with him, and took a liking to the stillness of the forest and the hunt of it.

Eventually Henry conceded to being replaced by Sparrow, who would in turn try to illustrate whatever birds they spied and bring the drawings back to Henry so he could feel included.

Nick’s mind begrudgingly crawls back to the present and the problem at hand.

It’s actually wildly annoying that Lark still looks good crying, mostly the same except for his nose being almost as red as Nick’s old highlights, and his eyelashes which cling together from the tears. It’s ridiculous. Unfair, even. Nick turns into fucking Slimer when he cries, messy and hiccuping.

“I came down here to be alone, Nicky, why did you follow me.” It’s not really a question.

“If that were true you would’ve closed the door.”

Nicky was honestly taking a shot in the dark with that, but judging from Lark’s silence he wasn’t that far off base.

“Why are you down here.” Lark repeats.

“Well, I ran into kind of a problem. See, I’ve got all these presents to deliver, but these weather conditions are really piss poor, I can’t seem to navigate em without something bright to guide my way.. something that, you know, you could even say it glows.”

Lark looks at Nick as if his head had started spinning on his neck like Betelgeuse.

“And I guess what I’m trying to say is, I came down here to ask you..” Nick steps further into the room to where Lark is huddled and extends his hand, “Rudolph, with your nose so bright - Won't you guide my sleigh tonight?"

“Oh my fucking god,” Lark’s face is doing goddamn gymnastics trying not to smile, “You fucking asshole.”

Nick has no such hesitation and throws his head back in glee, shouting “GOTTEEM!” And doing that flappy thing with his hand.

“Absolute scum of the Earth. Monumental dickhead. Shit king of fuckhead mountain.” Lark buries his head in his hands, muffling the latter half of his cursing.

After a moment, Lark’s stifled laughter and Nick’s uproarious giggles dissipate. He sits on the cool floor next to Lark.

“Why are you really down here?” Lark presses his eyes with the palms of his hands like the mere suggestion of vulnerability gave him a headache. It’s forceful, in contrast with how voice has softened. If Nick didn’t know better he’d describe it as shy.

“To figure out what’s up with you right now.” Nicky says simply, not finding it in himself to conceal the tenderness of his voice.

They’re at an impass, Lark refusing to talk, and Nick refusing to leave until Lark talks. Nicky opens and closes his mouth a couple times, trying to find the words.

“I - hm. I’m sorry for hitting you, if it- if that’s what.. upset you.” For some reason that draws a mirthless snort out of Lark. Weirdo.

“Nope, it’s all gravy.” Comes the response in a tone that implies that everything is in fact not - and maybe never has been - all gravy.

“Oh my bad, I forgot crying in the basement of a dungeon is the behavior of a person that’s totally cruising through life.”

Lark stands suddenly, lurching towards the door. Nick is not fucking having it, bolting up and grabbing his wrist to keep him in the room.

“You’re acting weird! Why!!”

Lark doesn’t respond, just tries to squirm away and when that doesn’t work, he goes to push him and Nicky grabs his other arm. What Lark lacks in dexterity he compensates in strength, and using his last weapon available, bashes his head against Nick’s.

Pain floods Nicky’s sinuses like fucked-up wasabi, he staggers back and grabs his nose - bleeding but miraculously unbroken.

“God! You’re such a fucking dick!” Nick manages to grunt out, coppery red falling over his lips, staining his teeth.

Nick lunges at him, and they become a whirling dervish of bruises and blood, neither of them would really be able to say why they’re fighting, but they’re going for it nonetheless.

“Why. Were. You. Crying.” Nick grits out, Lark pressing him into the concrete wall by the lapels of Nick’s leather jacket (which looks only a little bit douchey, thank you very much).

Lark opts to swing at him in lieu of a response, to which Nick counters in a bout of barely retained martial arts skills and maneuvers to pin Lark to the wall instead. Having a few inches on Lark makes it so his head is craned up, held in place by Nicky’s forearm.

“Why do you care?” Lark spits out.

There. There it is.

He knows Nick cares, and he doesn’t think Nick should, but he wants him to.

Badly, desperately.

The realization hits Nick like a brick factory: that this is the only way Lark knows how to ask if he’s really wanted.

Lark squirms in his hold, and Nick pushes him back into the wall, hard. The impact makes a dull thud, punctuating Nick’s reply.

“There isn’t a reason! I don’t need a reason to give a shit about you, Lark!”

It hangs in the air. Echoes dully off the cement walls. Neither of them really know what to do with that.

Lark’s sunken eyes search his face. Lark’s hair is a mess, the hair tie for his little ponytail literally hanging on by a thread. His face is flushed, and he’s got the beginnings of a gnarly bruise on his cheekbone. He’s kind of beautiful.

“Well, you… shouldn’t.” Lark says quietly, his corner of his mouth upturned just enough for Nick to catch it.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Nick snarks back, grinning. With that, the energy of the room has shifted into something that, if Nick didn’t know better, he’d label as vaguely flirtatious.

Suddenly Nick is viscerally aware of how his body has Lark’s caged against the wall, more of them touching than not.

Nick can’t think straight most days but especially not now with Lark’s face so close to his, breathing heavy from their scuffle. He catches his eye and realizes just as Lark does that he’s been staring at Lark’s mouth for approximately nine uninterrupted seconds.

Lark tilts his head up ever so slightly, something hopeful in his eyes. Nicky blinks once, twice. What the fuck is happening.

Lark’s breath tickles his nose. Nicky wants to bite him. The space between them gets smaller and smaller. Lark’s eyes don’t leave his.

He’s leaning in, Lark’s gravity drawing him in. He’s hurtling through the atmosphere as a writhing beast of fire, he’s gonna crash and burn. This is such a bad idea. This is a really really good idea.

Impact. Two violent incandescent comets collide, crackling sparks waltzing merrily to the tune of fiery implosion.

It’s cheesy, even for Nick, but he kisses Lark and it feels like the best solo he ever did on the drums. Like a wire cable snapping. Like smelling gasoline.

He holds Lark’s chin up and pulls his lips to his own. He feels Lark’s body coiling like a spring, well and truly at Nicky’s whim, caging him in and stealing his breath, Lark opens his mouth as a question and Nick answers immediately.

He maps the inside of Lark’s mouth, soft against his tongue, inviting, desperate.

He flits over where he split Lark’s lip, earning a heady gasp in response. Roger that. Nick takes Lark’s lip between his teeth and sucks, rewarded with the sharp-sweet taste of blood and the thrill of feeling Lark’s whole body spasm and start grinding against where Nick’s thigh is held between his legs.

Nick pulls back, nipping at his lip again as he goes, taking Lark’s shuddering breath with him.

Nicky embarks on a path of destruction from Lark’s jaw, gently scraping his teeth over where his beard ends, and leaning away before drawing just the very tip of his tongue in a line up the column of Lark’s neck, feeling the push of his Adam’s apple as Lark swallows thickly.

In his slow ascent, Nick catches his name in Lark’s shaky exhale, his head tipped back against the stone wall.

“Nicky, please.”

Fuck yeah. Nicky grins against the line of his throat.

“Listen, if you you’re makin’ a deal with the Devil, you gotta be more careful with what you beg for.” Nicky gets close enough to count Lark’s eyelashes. “What exactly do you want?” The last word is punctuated with an audible snap as Nick bites at the air just millimeters from Lark’s nose.

Lark’s eyes are hazy, his breathing shallow, the blood that was coloring his nose has reallocated to dust his cheeks and his lips, swollen now from kissing as well as the brawl. The cuts and bruising are welcome companions of Lark’s visage. He looks at Nick with pleading hunger. It’s hot.

“I want you to tell me what I want.”

It’s barely even a whisper, Nick wouldn’t have heard it if he wasn’t practically inside his mouth, and good god does he want to be inside his mouth.

Here’s the thing. Nicky is a simple man, who is stubborn, and caring, or whatever, but most importantly, very horny. And has been especially for Lark for some time now. Or however long it’s been since Lark quit veganism and quickly shifted from having Henry’s body type to Mercedes’.

Yeah. Yeah okay. Nicky can do that. Lark’s body is uncharacteristically slack, usually so tightly wound that he gets headaches from clenching his jaw, but now he’s pliant and eager in Nicky’s hands.

He pushes ever so slightly with his thumb to Lark’s cheekbone and Lark just goes, leaning his head to the side, offering his neck to Nicky with reverence.

The Demon puts his mouth to his ear. “Safe word is birding, yeah?” Lark nods.

Nick wants to push it. “Say it.”

“Safe word is birding.” It sounds like a prayer.

“Good boy.” And Nicky bites.

The yelp Lark lets out sends a whole fucking storm of electricity though Nick’s body.

Nicky grabs Lark’s thigh and makes a space for himself, now one leg is pressed into the wall by Nicky’s and the other is hooked around his waist.

Lark takes this as an opportunity to try and gain friction against Nick with little spasms of his hips, but Nick pushes back to hold him still, and Lark fucking whimpers.

Nicky is going to die here, today, in this dungeon, from being down so bad for Lark Oak-Garcia that he spontaneously combusts. Which is a myth amongst the human world, but is a genuine possibility and concern for demonic folks.

Nicky runs through the possibilities for what happens next, considering that neither of them bring their equipment to work and that making a portal runs the risk of time dilation. He looks around the room and locks (ha) eyes on the shackles affixed to the dungeon wall, usually used to restrain any magical beast they might have down here.

Oh shit. Nicky remembers another magical beast of sorts he’d found in the dungeon. A wily grin brightens his face. It’s Nicky’s patented ‘I have a strange and possibly ill advised plan but I’m really fucking excited about it’ face. Inexplicably, almost surprising himself, he exclaims:

“Detachable Penis!”

“..The King Missile song?” Lark’s face scrunches adorably in confusion. They went through an anti-folk 90’s phase together, heralded of course by The Moldy Peaches, Beck (Nicky’s favorite), King Missile, and The Violent Femmes (Lark’s favorite)

Nick zones out a little watching Lark’s eyebrows draw together and nudge another stray lock of hair across his cheek, scattered with freckles and dusted crimson. ‘I did that’ Nicky thinks, ‘I made Lark blush. Fuck Yeah.’

He doesn’t answer, instead he moves his hand from its tight grasp on Lark’s hip to trail a finger gently along the waistband of Lark’s black jeans, halting at the button and tapping it lightly.

He’s met with as vigorous a nod Lark can muster without head butting Nick (..Again).

Nicky has nearly perfected the traditional devilish smirk if you ask him, but doesn’t have the opportunity to hold it for long as Lark goes for his mouth again.

Nick kisses Lark back while he starts to undress him with a sort of urgency, pulling off his emptied tactical vest, his combat boots, and the straps and holsters tucked away under his clothes.

It’d be a misjudgment to liken it to the common ‘unwrapping a present’ simile, because this was more akin to shucking corn. A decidedly unsexy metaphor, Nick thinks, but it’s accurate. Quickly Lark is down to his soft, thin black corduroy Henley and his boxers.

Nick takes the opportunity to ogle a bit, Lark’s usual uniform doesn’t allow for much insight into his figure, but the Henley and briefs leave little to the imagination, which Nick won’t really need anyways if he plays his cards right.

Lark’s body type could best be described as ‘brick shithouse’. He was one fat, hairy, sexy motherfucker. Quite literally. One time he went to a PTA meeting for Hero because Sparrow couldn’t make it, and had a slut era so prolific that he nicknamed his strap Fleetwood Mac due to its popularity in the milf community of San Dimas. Nick was still only slightly convinced his own idea of Stevie Dicks was better.

Nicky runs his hands under Lark’s shirt, welcomed by warm skin, proudly textured by a blanket of hair from his years on T. He trails upwards, the pads of his fingers skipping over countless scars, healed and fresh. Nick’s hands linger on Lark’s pecs and the long-healed incision scars framing them. Nicky takes a selfish moment to palm at Lark’s pecs, soft and comforting.

Nick uses this momentum to guide Lark’s arms up and slip his shirt off his shoulders. Then.. they just look at each other. Whatever emotion paints Lark’s face is excruciatingly soft. Nick is easily half his body mass but Lark now seems so small. His breathing is shallow, now exposed chest rising and falling. Nicky wants to bite him again. He leans over Lark’s mouth and holds his jaw.

“On your knees, hands behind your back,”

Lark’s briefs hug his thighs as he folds his legs beneath him, broad shoulders scrunched up, a look of unadulterated trust on his face.

Nicky is now very aware of the steadily increasing dampness of his own boxers, and the fact that he has still yet to take his shirt off. He considers it, and decides to keep it on, his briefs too. In his mind, it adds to the power dynamic of the scene.

Still standing, he reaches down to cradle Lark’s jaw and tilt it to just the right angle. His thumb moves to Lark’s bottom lip and rests there as he says,

“Open.”

Lark's lips part immediately as if he were just waiting for Nick to give him the go-ahead. Nicky can spy just a glimpse of the tooth gap Lark is so wrongfully insecure about.

Nick supposes this move will probably work regardless, but the target he’s going for is the ideal, as he looms over and spits into the open mouth of the supplicated Lark under him.

Chapter Text

Nicky's spit is cold as it hits his tongue, errant flecks catch on his lips. Lark's thighs make little movements as tremors of excitement roll over him.

Nicky kneels down so he’s still above Lark, close enough to steal another kiss. Lark wished he had a less cheesy way of describing it, but kissing Nick felt like fiery bourbon. It was intense, it seared his throat, sharp and honeyed, pain he couldn’t stand and pain he wanted more of. And then it was warm, settling in his chest like a sleepy cat, like hot tea on steroids.

Yeah, he’d play this drinking game. He wonders if there’s a hangover to this. He wonders what kind of hurt it’ll be.

Suddenly something sharp catches on his tongue, and he realizes it's Nicky's teeth. As soon as that realization takes hold, Nicky is scraping his fangs against the pad of Lark’s tongue. Lark is in every level of hell and heaven at once, his nerves are alight and the pain sends rivulets of pleasure through him, pools of magma gathering in his sternum. 

Nicky looks down at him with something approaching fondness wrapped in a blanket of considerable lust. He keeps Larks jaw in his hand as he stands, Lark following with a little wavering stumble. Nicky crowds him against the far wall facing the still open door, his other hand working diligently on bruising where he grasps Lark's waist, his thick stomach giving way to Nick's insistent fingertips.

“Down.”

Lark winces slightly at his bare knees hitting concrete with how quickly he heeded Nick’s instruction.

Nicky looks fucking good, silhouetted by the dim light of the dungeon, his hair is still in its high ponytail while the rest of his wolf cut falls on his bare shoulders. His muscle tee is cropped enough to show his slender frame. Lark kinda wants to see if his fingertips would touch if he held Nick's waist in both hands. That thought is interrupted by Nick fussing with something above him, concentration furrowing his brow and making him frustratingly handsomer.

Confusion turns to anticipation as Lark watches Nick's face intently and hears the clink of chains just above his head. 

Nicky makes quick work of shackling Lark to the wall, the chain attached to the cuffs is adjustable, and soon Lark’s hands are suspended above him so he can only kneel, with not enough wiggle room to stand or fully sit. 

Nicky stands to assess his handiwork, and looks at Lark with that same concentration and beneath that - what can only be described as a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Alright, big boy, how ya feelin'?"

Lark is on cloud nine. He's in the lowest layer of the inferno. He's fucking smitten. 

"Good." He says so quietly it's almost inaudible to himself.

"Hell yeah," Nicky grins wide, "So here's the plan,"

“I’m going to keep you there, chained up,” He gestures to the door. “And I’m going to leave that open, for anyone to walk in,"

Here he bends down and gets so close Lark can hear the click of his teeth as they form his next words.

"Because you and I both know that in a heartbeat you’d let Grant or Terry bend you over your desk and use you for all you’re worth.”

The flush of warmth to Lark's cheeks and the slick that gathers between his legs only verifies Nicky's statement. The Demon's smile gets a little more demonic, his nose twitches almost like he can smell how hot that got Lark.

Nicky's hands move from his own waist to Lark's, he feels Nick finding the indents he made earlier and stressing them again before trailing ever so softly over the dips of his hips and the sturdy line of his pelvic bone. Lark notices Nicky's claws extend to scrape the soft skin just above his waistband. Hot sparks whirl under the skin Nick touches.

Nick noses into the crook of his neck and Lark feels him nip at the flesh there, leaving little teeth marks that unfortunately fade after a few seconds. They'll fix that later; he never figured he'd be the type to wanna be.. well, 'claimed' but he finds himself wanting to be decorated with bruises and bite marks and scratches from Nick and only Nick. 

Lost in this thought, he brings himself gladly back to the present moment in which Nick's fingers have dipped into his waistband. Suddenly, Nick pulls back his hand and lets the elastic snap back against Lark's lower belly.

Lark jolts. He's debauchedly, desperately, devastatingly aroused. He's getting impatient and quickly realizes he can't do anything about it, and for some reason that only makes him wetter.

Now Nicky is looking up to him from his new position level with Lark's sternum, and the pads of his fingers are descending down Lark's thighs as he slides his briefs down his thighs, gently unfurling his legs from underneath him to guide the boxers off entirely. 

Lark feels himself stripped bare, he closes his legs where he can feel the open air of the dungeon. 

Nicky's hands rest under his knees, squeezing ever so slightly. Lark watches him slowly lower, gazing up at him through his eyelashes. 

“Yes, no, maybe so?” Nicky has what could only be described as a gentle smirk, if such a thing exists. 

“Did you put my arms up to prevent me from hitting you for saying stupid shit like that?” Lark may be smitten, but he has fucking standards for bedroom talk. 

Nick is silent for a second, blinking coyly at him. 

“Yes, no, maybe so?” Comes the reply with an absolutely obnoxious grin. 

“Nicky, whatever method you have planned of getting inside me, fucking get on with it.”

The Demon in question hums slightly and lets his claws sink slightly into Lark’s thighs as he parts them, shooting little sparking pinpricks of pain and excitement up to where Nicky’s breathes against his cunt, slowly exposed as Nicky pushes his legs further, pressing them into the wall.

Nicky seems to take a moment to admire Lark, unfurled for him, wet and thrumming with want. Fuck, Lark’s not above begging. 

“Nicky, please.” He exhales with a sighing little whimper.

“As you wish,” Nicky whispers and Lark can hear the smile in his voice. 

He hears Nicky’s mouth part like the click of a gas stove, the anticipation of ignition makes Lark’s thighs shake in their hold, pinned into the cold ground. 

Suddenly Nick’s tongue is on him, and a shotgun blast of arousal hits him and ricochets little shrapnels of desire all throughout him. 

Nicky takes his time dragging over Lark’s folds, still pinning his legs far apart so his cunt can only welcome Nicky’s tongue.

Lark feels his pussy twitching against Nicky’s mouth, his hips bucking up involuntarily only to be forced back down against the wall. 

Nicky hums and Lark feels it in his core, vibrating through him, more slick leaving him and mixing with Nick’s spit, messy and debauched. 

Lark’s skin is ablaze, his nerves alighting a map of bright sensation to rival an aerial night view of Tokyo. 

Nicky’s tongue teases his entrance like the shock of a cold droplet falling from a tree leaf onto his skin, no way of knowing when it will come or if another will follow.

As suddenly as it was there, Nicky’s tongue is gone, replaced abruptly with the air of the dungeon and cold where Lark is still spread open for him. 

Nick releases the grip on Lark’s thighs, no longer touching any part of him, and Lark fights back a pathetic noise that threatens to escape his lips at the loss of contact. 

The Demon reaches for his own clothes as he slowly stands, frustratingly majestic and commanding in his posture.

Then Nicky begins to pull his clothes back on, and Lark looks on with vague disapproval as Nicky hops up and down on one leg, nearly falling over trying to wrestle his skinny jeans back onto his body.

Nick more or less stayed the same size after he turned 19 and had those jeans even before that, and so now the denim is so ripped to hell that Nick's foot went through about 7 different holes before he found the actual end of the pant leg.

“Back in a jiff, baby.” Nicky smirks, and Lark tries not to betray the spike in his heartbeat that causes. 

Slipping his docs on - without socks, the fucking maniac - and leaping to his feet, Nick blows Lark a kiss before turning on his heel and, true to his word, waltzing out the open door without closing it behind him.

And Lark realizes he has just about no choice but to sit there, breathing hard, feeling the slick between his thighs growing colder and unpleasant, the discomfort for some reason only worsening his damp predicament. 

Lark was still reeling, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Nicky wanted to fuck him, and even more incredulously, like this: at the whims of a power trip, shackled up in a dungeon with nothing to cover him. 

It’s like Nicky somehow found the scribbled fantasies of Lark’s teenage years, a great number of which featuring the Demon himself, especially after he got those snake bites in Junior year. 

That's impossible, as those chicken scratch tomes were burned in the Oak-Garcia fire pit in a late night bout of paranoia. But really for all Lark knows maybe the souls of the smutty works written and subsequently destroyed by adolescents have their own subsection in hell. 

The muscles in his legs burn from the strain of how he’s knelt and shackled, still sore from fighting the incursion earlier. 

He feels as an uncontrollable shiver washes over him, feels his heartbeat loud in his ears and the thrum of it in his pussy, tensing and opening almost rhythmically against the chill of the air. 

An indeterminate amount of time passes while Lark rewinds the tape of the last hour over and over before a silhouette casts a shadow from the open doorway of the cell.

A tiny lightning bolt of panic courses through Lark, splayed out and exposed for potentially anyone, only for the thunder to follow, deep rumblings of arousal flooding his system. 

He recognizes Nicky, holding something Lark can’t quite make out and by the time his eyes can adjust, Nick is looming above where Lark is supplicated.  

Lark looks up through his eyelashes at Nick as he feels the cold leather and rubber sole of Nick’s docs nudge his thighs apart, the amusement in the Demon’s eyes making his cheeks flush a darker red. 

Nicky’s hands hover over him tantalizingly for a moment, before reaching above him to adjust the shackles. Nick chuckles at the small whimper that escapes Lark as he feels his insides boil in powerless frustration and condense into something saccharine and syrupy, pooling low in his sternum. 

Nicky manhandles him into a standing position where Lark’s arms are stretched up above him, the highest the chains will go. Nick skims his fingertips down Lark’s biceps, seeming to relish the involuntary jolt as he tickles the skin of Lark’s inner arm. 

The Infernal Prince traces further down Lark’s body, slowly resting on Lark’s hips, gently thumbing over the stretch marks there. 

“How’re you doing?” Nick questions in a voice so incredibly soft that Lark has to close his eyes, afraid if he meets his gaze he’ll burst into flames that can never be put out. 

“Good, really good.” Lark exhales. 

“Need to use the safe word?”

“No.” Lark responds immediately. 

“Remember it?”

“Yeah.” Lark more so whimpers the reply that says it. 

Finding that sufficient, Nick crowds him further against the wall, using the tip of his nose to crane Lark’s head up enough to bite up the sensitive column of his throat while his hands maneuver under his thighs and lift Lark’s entire body, drawing a surprised gasp from him that Nick swallows up greedily. 

Nicky seems to catch the startled look in Lark’s wide eyes, and just shrugs with one shoulder, moving Lark’s leg up slightly with it. 

“Demon strength, man.” Nicky says like it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

“Jesus.” Lark huffs an incredulous laugh, trying not to betray how tiny pinpricks of desire whirl under the skin Nick presses against, how Lark can feel the muscles of Nicky’s hands barely flex at the effort of holding him aloft. 

Nicky brings his own thigh up to replace the hand supporting Lark’s leg, and suddenly Lark feels something warm and solid brush up between his legs, and he looks down to find Nicky’s other hand wrapped around what looks to be Nicky’s cock. 

Suddenly the random exclamation of “Detachable Penis” clicks into place in Lark’s mind, knowing Nicky to be similarly content without bottom surgery, but tracing over the shaft with his eyes, finds a faintly glowing seam of magic where the dick connects to Nicky’s form. 

Lark feels the press of Nicky’s erection on his inner thigh, and realizes that Nick is waiting patiently for his permission;

He meets Nick’s eyes and hopes that his own convey even a shred of the overwhelming need that blooms in his chest and thumps in his stomach, a little rivulet of his desire leaks down his thigh. Nick doesn’t have to ask him if he wants it, just has to raise his eyebrow for Lark to know his answer. 

“Desperately .”

Nicky’s hand splays out, his thumb moves to play with Lark’s clit as he uses the rest of his hand to guide himself to Lark’s entrance. 

Lark inhales as he feels the blunt tip of Nicky’s cock commanding his folds to give way, teasing his hole, wet and twitching. 

Nick’s breath is shaky and hot on his clavicle as he pushes in, tormentingly slow. Lark’s walls pulse around the width of him, hips moving in tiny spasms until Nick gives in, using Lark’s weight to saddle him on his cock. 

Nicky’s forehead is pressed into the line of Lark’s neck, rising and falling as they each breathe in, slow and thick, Lark’s eyes screwed shut and head tilted back against the wall. 

Nicky lifts his head and starts to move, snapping his hips up where he’s already fully sheathed in Lark, making tiny thrusts deeper inside him while starting a path of conquest over his collarbones, sucking and nipping unmistakable little marks into his skin. 

The chains above Lark clink in time as Nicky ruts into him, thighs held firmly in place by strong clawed hands that’ll leave indents and bruises that won’t fade for days. 

Lark can only rock his hips against him as Nicky renders him useless but for the pulsing slick heat where Nicky glides his cock inside him. 

His back scrapes ever so slightly against the wall as Nicky picks up the pace, not quite painful but not quite comfortable. 

The heat of the frustration radiates from his core, thrumming over his skin, he feels it melt inside himself and the wet proof of it exit him, only to be thrust back all at once as Nicky rams into him.

He needs Nicky’s tongue inside him again, needs the ominous press of his fangs bearing down on his lips or tongue or skin or anything . 

“Kiss me,” Lark pleads. 

In an instant Nicky’s lips slide against his, barely gaining purchase with the movement of bouncing Lark on his cock, his mouth seals onto Lark’s, his tongue insistent. 

It’s messy and fantastic, Lark feels suspended in amber, trapped in a vibrant orange menagerie of lust, the sole helpless subject of the Demon’s ministrations. 

Nicky breaks their kiss and pulls back only just enough to look up at Lark, the hair falling over his shoulders swaying with the rhythm he maintains and the fast rise and fall of his chest. 

“I- hah , fuck- I wanna go faster, but-“ Nicky manages through heavy breaths, “I don’t wanna- don’t wanna hurt you,”

“Do it,” Lark pants, “Do it, Nicky, fucking break me,”

He keeps rambling as Nicky grins and starts working on a hickey just below his shoulder blade.

“Fold me up,” Lark gets out between breaths, “I can be- hah- travel size.”

“What does that even mean?” Nicky’s laugh is breathless but his voice is deep and thick, Lark feels the vibrations of it where Nicky’s chest is flush against him. 

Soft laughter seems to break free from Lark’s chest as well, an airy feeling going with it and making his heart pitter patter somehow even faster than before. 

“I have no idea.” Lark admits, chest still shaking with oxygen-deprived laughter. 

It feels like lying in the sun, being submerged in a golden beam of light that grows warmer and warmer until it scalds him, but there’s even comfort in the burn. 

Chapter Text

Nick was having a hard time comprehending the situation at hand. The combination of the events leading to the visual information of Lark splayed out for him makes Nicky’s mind reel. 

He watches almost reverently as Lark’s chest shakes with silent laughter, feels it rumble all through him, down to where Nick is buried deep inside him. 

Lark doesn’t know what cruelty he’s inflicting on Nick, oblivious to how Nick is being driven further to insanity with each tremble of Lark’s body, how his cunt tightens maddeningly around Nick and sends frenzied sparks of arousal through his system. 

The amusement fades to something like concentration on Lark’s face, his lips parted slightly and a little knit between his eyebrows, trembling in Nick’s hold. 

He holds Lark’s thighs in place as he thrusts into him mercilessly, Lark’s body a coiled spring of tension, reacting beautifully to each jolt of Nicky’s hips. 

As Nicky presses into the walls of Lark’s cunt, he moves his hand from its station supporting his thighs, letting more of Lark’s weight force him further down on his cock. 

Lark makes a fucked-out little noise at that, his throat bobbing as he swallows thickly, eyes dark and pupils blown as he meets Nick’s gaze. 

Nicky uses his newly freed hand to trace up Lark’s body, brushing the beads of sweat that form along his skin, skimming over his jaw, the muscles there tense. 

Nicky threads his fingers through the shallow but thick scratch of his beard and along his mouth, gently resting on Lark’s lips and instantly they part, welcoming Nicky’s fingertips into the heat of his mouth.  

Pleased by the obedience of it, Nick strokes the velvet surface of Lark’s tongue in time with using his other hand to push Lark slightly up and sink him back down onto his cock, at this angle his sternum brushing each time against Lark’s t-dick. 

Lark feels amazing, constricting tight as Nicky tests the limits of his mouth. Nicky admires him while he has the chance as Lark’s eyes slip shut, neck exposed and craned back, mouth slack, overwhelmed with sensation. 

Nicky decides to be vaguely malicious and slides his fingers from Lark’s mouth and down his sternum, never breaking contact with his skin and slipping further down to where his cunt envelops Nicky, tracing along the wet seam of him, pulsing hot with each of Nicky’s thrusts. 

His fingers, still slick with Lark’s spit now mixing with his arousal, start to move in little circles around Lark’s clit, not quite pressing hard enough but still drawing a litany of whimpers from him that stokes a fire somewhere in a deep recess of Nicky’s abdomen. 

As Lark’s keenes start forming syllables and morph into pleas of Nicky’s name, he strokes him faster, finding the motion and force that makes Lark’s begging take on a wavering, choked-off desperation. 

Suddenly Lark spasms, and a symphony of curses and soft moans escape his lips as he comes, his entrance fluttering around Nicky’s cock, flooding his senses and making his mind go blank.

Nicky fucks him through it until Lark’s breathing gets less shallow, and his eyes seem to clear and still maintain their wanton concentration on Nick, who begins to slow the movement of his hips despite wishing desperately to drive himself harder and faster into Lark, trembling above him. 

“Um, I can- I’ll, I’ll just pull ou-“ Nicky starts, interrupted immediately.

“Keep going.” Lark’s voice is hushed, drawing in shaky breaths but keeping his eyes firmly on Nick’s until he deems his stance on the matter made, and his eyelids flutter closed again. 

Nicky, despite not being the one shackled and pinned, is helpless, now at the behest of the way their bodies rock together, slowly increasing in speed until he’s pounding into Lark again, chasing his release with urgency. 

Above him Lark is making fucked-out little overstimulated noises, and it’s this and the knowledge that Lark is not only letting but begging him to do this, to take him for all he’s worth to the Demon (admittedly, quite a bit) that sends Nicky hurtling over the edge. 

Lark groans as Nicky feels the rush of spilling into him, making little thrusts as he releases into the heat of his cunt until he’s breathing hard and his arms are shaking with the strain of keeping Lark aloft, his forehead resting on Lark’s freckled chest. 

The next actions are a series of blurry vignettes as Nicky’s mind still reels but manages to command his body into pulling out and unchaining Lark, eventually resolving into the present moment. 

Nick sits back on his haunches and looks to Lark, leaned against the wall, legs open and body slack from the exertion of the day. 

Nicky watches with an odd sense of accomplishment as his spend seeps out of Lark, a rivulet running down his thigh, a stamp of verification that really happened, despite - from the look on Lark’s face - their shared incredulity. 

A few more beats of silence pass as they catch their breath, or at least Nicky does as he looks over to Lark, who seems to be shivering at the chilly air of the dungeon, probably cooling the sweat on his skin. 

Nicky remembers a supply closet just down the hall as he had walked to grab the magic strap, which now sits atop the pile of Nicky’s clothes, no longer skin-colored but a spectral blue in its resting state until attached and adapted to its wearer. 

Nick had never actually undressed fully, just pulled his boxers down enough to sport the strap, so he makes as quick work as he can of slipping his jeans back on.

Lark makes an inquisitive noise and Nicky mumbles something about being right back before padding along barefoot out the room and down the hall, fiddling with the lock of the closet before finally harrumphing and opting to melt the door handle with his hand, glowing softly red as the metal gives way. 

Nicky walks back into the room with a surprisingly large woolen shock blanket, not quite soft but not too abrasive. Fitting a similar description, Nicky decides to just flop the blanket on top of Lark, who startles slightly, having been too tired to open his eyelids and see the Demon enter the room again. 

Nicky makes his way over and thumps against the wall with about a foot of distance between him and Lark, and slides down, his ass hitting the concrete floor not unpainfnully. He tilts his head to gaze at Lark surreptitiously. 

Lark seems to steel himself, for what Nicky doesn’t know. The guy steels himself just to stand up from a chair. Like he has to map the battlefield of whatever interaction happens next, and be equally prepared for one that’s violent.

“This wasn’t just to make me feel better, right?” Lark blurts out.

“What, the blanket?” Nicky frowns, confused. 

Lark is quiet for another second. 

“No, like.. the sex.”

Nicky barks out a laugh, startled by the sincerity in Lark’s voice. 

"Dude. If I didn't want to sleep with you I would’ve just brought you, like, weed and a pack of sunchips or something."

Lark snorts at that.

Reminded of its existence, Nick reaches over to his jacket and produces a metal tin of pre-rolls, little whiskered dragons and lotus flowers dance in their enchanted engraving on the case. 

"Do you wanna do it again?" Nicky says after another beat of silence, lighting up with the tip of his finger.  

“..Now?” Lark doesn’t look opposed. 

“No- maybe, I mean like.. you know?” Nicky says around a mouthful of smoke. 

“Oh.”

Lark is quiet for a moment. Nicky wants to die.

“Well you- “ Lark starts, “You deserve someone who can… who like. Dates people.” He seems to be spiraling. 

Dating is an all around clusterfuck with their ‘occupation’ and the others do their damndest to keep their own love lives going, but Lark more or less opts out of the romance, considering it wasn’t really his inclination in the first place.

“Yeah but I don’t want that. I want you.” Nicky says, simple as ever, passing the joint to Lark. 

“I want you too.” Lark says so quietly Nicky doesn’t think he was supposed to even hear it. 

"We can just fuck as like.. friends. I guess if we’re friends, that is.” Nicky says, knowing full well he’s the closest thing Lark’s ever really had.

Lark seems to be mulling over the thought.  

“What’re you gonna do after this? Drive yourself and Sparrow home to get shitty sleep on your permanent futon?” Nick smirks at him. 

Lark lets out a truly existential groan, smoke billowing into the air of the dungeon as it exits his mouth. 

Lark has a sortof bohemian lifestyle that Nick really shouldn’t find as sexy as he does. The only thing keeping Lark’s domicile from being littered with beer bottles and firearm accessories is the presence of the small child in the home he shares with Sparrow and Rebecca.

His lifestyle is rugged and masculine and fucking ridiculous as most rugged and masculine things are, but unfortunately also kinda hot.

"Come back to hell with me tonight."

There’s a long pause, and Lark looks puzzled. Which is weird because that’s pretty much the most straightforward Nicky’s ever been in his advances with anyone. 

“Why do you want me there?” Lark says, a guarded edge to his voice. 

“I need help throwing holy water balloons on the lesser devils, you’re better at sneaking around than I am.” Nicky lies, but after a second concedes to the glare Lark shoots in his direction.

“Wha- don’t give me that look, fucking- fine, I like your company!” Nick exclaims a little louder than he meant to. 

“I.. I sound like a self deprecating prick but what’s there to like? I’m.. mean.” Even Lark seems to be trying to convince himself of that last part. 

Nicky huffs what could possibly be considered a laugh under extraneous circumstances. 

“Well no- you’re charming and shit, it’s easy to see why people like you-“ Lark continues, almost like he’s rambling so Nicky can’t get a chance to dispute his self-hating bullshit. 

“God, Lark- are you so fucking delusional that you think any of us are stupid enough to keep hanging out with someone as dislikable as you think you are?” Nicky feels kinda bad for cutting him off with a sentence that made such little sense. 

Lark just stares into the middle distance. Nicky admires him for a moment. 

Lark’s hair was of both worlds, his roots were the rich brown of his eyes and matched his mother’s, while the ends faded into a honeyed color, a holdover of his elven ancestry. It was like the respective traits he received from Henry and Mercedes refused to meld together, wanting to stay whole and intertwined. In a way it was kind of romantic.

Lark doesn't want comfort and he doesn't like help, not even from Sparrow. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t need it. Nicky doesn’t want to pretend to know what Lark needs, maybe an intensive massage-oriented vacation, or a stint at military school, or a Neuralyzer from men in black, or a margarita.

“I still hang out with you all the time even though you’re stubborn as a steel door, and you refuse to participate in Karaoke, and you’ll bite anyone that tries to come into the kitchen while you’re cooking,”

“You’re just repeating the first thingy.” Lark says dryly. 

"You like doing the dishes 'cause of the warm water, you’re just as good as Sparrow at art but you won’t admit it, you also won’t admit that your favorite movie is Dirty Dancing,"

“It’s a Bisexual dream! Like Atonement.” Lark says defensively in a quiet voice.

"You hate apple juice and snakes, even though I think you and Nick Jr Jr would actually hit it off,"

"That naming convention is losing the thread a little bit," Lark scoffs, "And why do you call your apple juice by a name?"

"Fuck you." Nicky says, shoving Lark's face away from him and trying not to smile. Lark is obviously deflecting, but whatever. Nick isn’t Terry. 

Lark’s grin is wide enough that his tooth gap is visible as he says,

“You just did”

"I rescind every nice thing I’ve said about you, I want a refund." Nicky physically cannot facepalm any harder.

"I regret to inform you that you cannot unfuck me, Nicholas"

Nicky just grumbles in response. His annoyance is performative, he likes getting Lark high like this because of how slap-happy he gets, and not his usual very literal take on slap-happiness. Nick supposes it's a pretty unsustainable method of loosening him up, but fuck that, it's not like anything they're doing - Lark especially - is sustainable in the slightest.

There’s a beat of silence. 

“Yeah, well what about you? What's your problem? You're kinda lonely and you want everyone to like, notice you." Lark doesn't say it cruelly, just stating a fact.

"Yeah. Historically it’s worked out great for me." Nicky's head hangs low to convey just how fucking exhausted he is by the truth of it. He’s surrounded by people and he’s so fucking lonely. 

"You only drink water when there's ice in it." Lark says bluntly.

"What?”

"You like baking shit for people more than you like eating it, but what you really want is for someone to bake you something." Lark continues.

"How the fuck-"

"Your face when Terry brought you snickerdoodles. You hate cabbage with a burning passion and you think brussels sprouts are a blight on this earth, you can't whistle," He glances in Nick's direction shyly like he just realized what he admitted to. "I could go on."

"I didn't know you were paying attention." Nicky says quietly. 

“Being crazy makes you notice shit better.”

“This your way of tryna tell me you’re crazy ‘bout me, Garcia?” Nicky bumps Lark’s knee with his own.

Lark just makes a small humming noise in the back of his throat as he pulls out his pack of herbal cigarettes. 

“Why do you even smoke those fucking things?”

“Herbals smell like shit. The lingering smell repels people. That’s why I smoke them.” Lark huffs around the filter. 

“Weak shit. I’m built different.” Nicky tackles him (for the, what, third time today?) only slightly under the guise of getting close enough to press his finger to the tip of his cigarette and light it. 

Glenn would always smell like a miasma of vintage leather, fresh bud, and the musky sweet lingering smoke of a black and mild cigar. Sometimes Nick would hug him so tight he could smell the metal of the studs on his jacket. 

Seeing him was always too long overdue, it smelled like home when it wasn’t just Nick. It was nice.

He flops onto Lark, who grunts but doesn’t object, Nick tangling their legs in the linen and leaning in to the secure weight of him. 

“So. What’s the verdict?” Nicky pauses long enough for Lark to think he’s serious, “Did I do better than SunChips?”

Lark scoffs and Nicky feels it warm on his neck. 

“Better than ranch flavor, but I’ll need another shot at that to determine if you’re better than chili lime.”

Nicky was about 70% sure SunChips at no point had, like, even a ranch adjacent flavor, but he was a Close and a Foster and the only thing they seemed to have in common was a volatile competitive streak and a penchant for acting offended. 

“I’m hurt! Wounded, even.” Nicky pouts. 

Lark just hums again. He seems tired, quite understandably. Most people’s boss battles, cry sessions, confessions, and fuck sessions are dispersed throughout multiple days, not just one. 

“Do I have to dom you into sleeping in my bed too or are you just gonna keep pretending that’s the last thing you want in this world.” Nicky says, muffled slightly where his face is smushed against Lark. 

Lark heaves a sigh so disproportionate to the situation at hand that it’s mildly impressive. 

“I gotta give the keys back to Sparrow.”

Nicky’s also too tired to hide the satisfaction that brings him, doing a weak fist pump into the air. 

“Well get your damn clothes on so I can get a-movin’ on my mission to kidnap their brother.” Nicky orders, joints popping as he stands and tosses Lark’s clothes unceremoniously at his face.

“Yessir,” Lark says, a little smile dancing along where his cigarette rests on his lips, his eyes closed and head tipped back and resting on the wall.  

Nicky finishes getting dressed first, and gets his mitts batted away as he half-jokingly moseys into Lark’s space to help him button up his shirt.

It feels nice. It feels like they’re kids again. Nicky cons Lark into giving him a piggyback ride only to test the limits of how surreptitiously he can try to find ticklish spots where he can reach before Lark drops him. Lark never does. 

Walking back into the office after letting Nicky down - without having to crouch, given their height difference - so he can carve a portal to hell, Lark’s hair is all fucking over the place, his face red from being kissed and beat to hell in equal measure with stoney eyes to match the pink hue of his cheekbones. 

Nicky reaches out through the molasses of space and time to rend a jagged opening from thin air into hell. 

Sulfur and the acrid smell of boiling magma and rock drifts out of the portal and into the office, where Terry Jr and Sparrow look on in sheer confusion as the disheveled Lark does that cool thing where he hits his forearm as he throws the keys to Sparrow and mumbles something along the lines of “Drive home safe, Brother.” before tipping over unceremoniously into the portal.

Nicky shrugs at the befuddled Terry Jr and Sparrow, who search his eyes for answers as to what the everloving fuck that was all about. 

“Uhhhhhhh. ..Yippee Ki Yay, motherfuckers?” Nicky says unhelpfully, and hops into the portal after Lark.