Chapter Text
Contrary to their expectations, Lash does open the door, and he doesn’t immediately shut it in Arin’s face. Instead he smirks. “Well, well. Look who came crawling back. They always do.” His eyes flick past Arin toward Abrams, who’s hovering just to their left, and his expression rapidly shifts from smug to suspicious. “What is this?”
“Hi,” Arin starts, then stops. They weren’t exactly prepared for this possibility. They almost wish Abrams weren’t here; what should be a comforting presence at their back is instead only making their nerves spike. “I need a place to stay again, if that’s alright. I wouldn’t bother you if it weren’t sort of urgent, but I can also… go?”
“I got a busy schedule, kid. Places to be, people to do. It’s not really convenient.” Lash sighs, groans up at the ceiling. Then his eyes flick between the two of them. “Just you? ’Cause I don’t think there’s room in this shoebox for the big guy too.”
“Just them,” Abrams says.
Lash looks Arin over one more time while they awkwardly shift their weight. “Whatever. Come inside before I change my mind.”
There’s a strange shuffle where Arin gets to go inside, but Lash gets pulled out into the hallway with Abrams. They shut Arin in, and the only thing audible is their low voices, which sound more or less equally annoyed. When the voices go quiet, they move quickly away from the door lest they get caught snooping, trying to look busy with putting their coat and scarf away.
Lash enters alone, and they try not to be disappointed. They already said their goodbyes to Abrams anyway.
“What was that about?” they demand.
Lash shrugs, brushing past Arin as if they’re simply in the way. “None of your business.”
“If it was about me, that sounds like my business.”
“Not everything is about you.”
“Point. But in this case, it seems like a safe bet.”
“And? If you were supposed to hear it, you would have.” Lash sounds agitated, and with their nerves already jumpy, it’s hard not to match that energy.
“You don’t get to decide for me what—”
“Take that up with your boyfriend. Not me.”
Well, they were only irritated with Lash, but it’s true that it looked like Abrams’ idea to be cagey about it. “I mean, he’s not my— or I don’t know if we’re—” Arin starts, unsure why they’re suddenly changing the topic.
Lash cuts them off with only a look, surlier than they’ve ever seen him, but when he speaks, it’s only to say, “There’s food on the stove if you’re hungry.”
It’s only then that Arin sees the half-eaten bowl of stew on the table, with a hunk of crusty bread on the plate beside it. Now that they’re paying attention, they can admit the whole apartment smells good. Their stomach rumbles. Lash wears a wry half-smile as he drops his heavy body back into his chair. He eats noisily, and somehow the sound isn’t all that obnoxious.
It’s weird to move through his tiny kitchen again, to realize they still know where the bowls are and the plates and the spoons, to be able to guess that the bread comes from the bakery down the block but the stew is something Lash made himself. Not that they expected to forget any of it; they simply hadn’t expected to think of it ever again.
When they finally settle at the table and get to take their first bite, they make an embarrassing noise right into their bowl. It’s just shy of too hot, which feels perfect now that the nights are getting colder, and the last time they had a decent home cooked meal was— well, the last time they ate with Lash a couple weeks ago.
“Sorry. It’s really good.”
“No shit,” Lash says gruffly, but it’s easy to see he’s proud. He’d never admit it, but he likes cooking, or at least he likes being good at things other than only punching people.
“Thank you, by the way. I really don’t want to impose, so if you need me to go, I can.”
“Told Detective Dickhead you’d be here. He implied you were in some kinda trouble.”
“I’m not helpless. I mean, I appreciate that you care, but—”
Lash scoffs. “You can’t pay me if you’re dead.”
“Oh,” they say quietly. They should have expected it would be something like that, and they’re not sure why it bothers them. “Still, I don’t want to get in the way of you doing… whatever you were going to do tonight.”
“Was gonna go to the bar, but maybe there’s a game on the radio or something.”
“You can still go. I don’t mind.”
“Remember how I’m not supposed to leave you alone?”
“Well, I could go with you.”
“No.”
“And why not?”
“I’m not your boyfriend.”
“Oh,” Arin says again. “I didn’t—”
“I’m not taking you out,” he snaps. Whatever strange thing has been bubbling under the surface since Arin arrived finally overflows. “I’m Jacob fucking Lash, baby. I’m nobody’s backup plan. So no, we’re not gonna go paint the town, and we’re not gonna play house this time either. You can sleep on the floor for all I care.” He sniffs angrily. “You know how many people would kill for what you got?”
They shouldn’t let him rile them up, and they know it, but it doesn’t stop them from saying, “What, paying rent to some jerk by sleeping with him?”
“Says the piece of ass who used me for a place to stay. Left the minute you got another offer, and now you’re back for more favors. Didn’t even have the courtesy to blow me this time. And I’m the jerk? Un-fucking-believable.”
“Oh,” they say a third time, and they don’t know why they have to squeeze to get even that much out of their throat.
“‘Oh,’” Lash mocks.
Maybe they misread him or didn’t give him enough credit, but none of it changes that he’s still horrible, and he’s making Arin feel horrible, which is a power he shouldn’t even have. “Is that what you want then? For me to blow you?”
He sneers then, leaning back to spread his legs wide. “Sure, sweetheart. Get under the table and prove how bad you want to stay.” It’s no worse than a thousand other things Lash has said, but the tone is vicious in a way he’s never been before.
Arin’s blood spikes, and something sick turns over in their stomach, and they sneer right back at him. “And if I don’t?”
“What answer’s gonna let us skip to you bouncing on my dick the fastest?”
Something inside Arin is rearing its mutinous head, and alongside it is a stab of unexpected desire, and their breath is coming faster. “Fuck you.”
Lash laughs, an ugly gloating sound like he’s won some competition Arin didn’t know they were in. “Whatever. I gotta take a leak,” he says. He barely misses elbowing Arin on his way to the bathroom, and they’re left in a room that feels so empty it’s echoing the rushing in their ears.
They once described Lash to Abrams as an asshole who was ultimately harmless, at least to them. They’re not sure that’s true anymore.
Whatever this anger is, Lash has been sitting on it a while. Maybe since Arin left. Is he really that mad at losing some piece of ass, as he so eloquently put it?
Arin sniffs, rubs at their face. Maybe Lash has every right to be angry. They’ve been so convinced he was using them that they didn’t think about it from his point of view. All things considered, he’s given a lot more than he’s gotten in return.
There was the bed and the food and basically all of his free time, the toothbrush and razor and dancing around each other in the bathroom, coffee and breakfast in bed, making out in the hallway on the way inside, Arin laughing at his stupid jokes and making him laugh and going to his fights. They think about tonight, about Lash insisting twice now that he’s not their boyfriend — and oh, God, Arin is absolutely the asshole here.
Lash made it so easy to pretend there’s not a real person under there. Abrams tried to tell them. Abrams, who doesn’t even like Lash, saw it anyway, clearer than they did — and suggested Arin take advantage of it if they had to, which is maybe worth bringing up in the next of the thousands of conversations he likes to have.
The point is they used Lash, as much if not more than the other way around, and they were planning to do it again if they had to. They’re already paying him to risk his neck for them, and they keep asking for more, with little regard for what he feels or thinks about any of it.
What’s wrong with them? Maybe they really are their father’s child.
The thought comes with a crushing weight in their chest. Something oily and cold slithers in their gut, and their eyes are stinging. They rub at their cheeks, but it’s not quick enough.
“Stop that.” Lash is out of the bathroom now. “You don’t get to do that,” he says.
They can’t look at him. “Sorry,” they mutter, scrubbing a sleeve over their face. They try to hold it back, which only makes it harder. A tear escapes, sliding hot and humiliating down their cheek.
“Disappointed? Thought you’d show up and have me wrapped around your little finger? Tough shit,” Lash growls. His presence feels heavy in the small room.
“No, that’s not—” But it is true, sort of. Of those they could have anticipated, it was the ideal outcome, and even now, selfishly, they’re crying in part because they fear he might hold a grudge — might have a reason to dislike them. “Sorry.” Arin hates the creak in their voice. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” They can’t stop saying it, and they can’t stop the stupid tears, and wanting to stop seems to only make it worse, which is embarrassing, and being embarrassed also makes it worse, and—
A clean kitchen towel lands on the table in front of them, which almost brings on a full-throated sob, because they’re not sure they can handle Lash showing kindness right now. “Quit it,” he says again, voice tight. “I don’t want to look at you like this.”
They nod, trying to collect themself. They finally risk a glance at Lash, who doesn’t look nearly as angry as he sounds. If anything he seems like he’s on the verge of panic. “Thank you,” they manage. “Do you still want me to—”
“No.” Lash looks disgusted, which they have absolutely no right to find insulting, and yet. “Don’t want your snot all over my dick,” he says, but it’s delayed and not particularly convincing. Another few fat tears roll down their face, then Lash crumbles. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor. I don’t know why I said that.”
“I wouldn’t blame you. If you’re so mad at me, why did you let me stay?”
“You promised me a paycheck. And call me sentimental, I guess, for not wanting you to die.” Arin sniffles, wringing the kitchen towel until Lash pulls it free of their grip. He crouches by their chair, carefully wiping their face. His mouth twists, compresses, and then he doesn’t quite meet Arin’s eye when he says, “Come on, kid. You know why.”
They suck in several shaky breaths. “I didn’t before. I wasn’t trying to— I didn’t know. You never said anything.” As their sanity’s last line of defense, they blurt, “You’re not nice to me.”
It’s an absurd thing to say while Lash is gently dabbing the tears off their face, and the arch of his eyebrow says he knows it too. “I let you stay here. I cooked for you, took care of you, took you out. What, did you want flowers and candy too? Should have said something.” Lash smirks, small and fleeting. “Besides, you don’t like nice.”
Arin sputters then, but not five minutes ago, their heart was pounding in the face of Lash’s fury, and it wasn’t entirely nerves or anger. Worse, if Abrams has one flaw as a lover, it’s being perhaps too attentive, too patient, too gentle. They really thought they’d kept themself a mystery to Lash, but it seems he’s read them better than they’ve read him.
“I do sometimes,” they say stubbornly. “And you don’t know anything about me. You don’t ask me about my day or anything normal like that.”
“Since when do you want to tell me about your day? Can’t ask a question without you looking like you’re about to start running,” Lash says with a shrug. “When I asked your name, you gave me some stupid — what, nickname? Secret codename? Did you look around the room and pick the first thing you saw?”
“You literally call yourself The Lash during sex.”
“It’s literally my name.” Lash sounds exasperated. “What kind of name is Pocket?”
Explaining it would require explaining the case, which would require explaining a lot more, and that is one mystery they’re determined to hold onto. “It’s the name I go by.” It’s the best truth they can give him.
“But it’s not your real name.”
“It’s…” Arin sighs, looking for the words and coming up short. “It’s the name I go by,” they say again.
“Does he know your real name?” Lash’s voice sounds tight again.
“Well, he’s a detective. So yes, he knows the name my parents gave me, but not because I volunteered it.” Lash doesn’t look entirely convinced, and he has an unfamiliar look on his face that makes Arin’s stomach curdle, so they add, “Don’t take it personally. It’s not safe to share it. If the wrong people found out I’m here—” They rub at their chest, not entirely consciously, hand pressing into the starburst scar Lash has seen but never asked about. “I survived once. I don’t know if I can do it again.”
Lash’s rough hand brushes theirs aside. Even through two layers of clothing, he finds the scar unerringly, settling so carefully that it almost tickles where there’s any sensation at all. Arin’s heart thumps against it, and their eyes sting again, but they couldn’t name the reason if they tried. “Okay,” he says, glancing between Arin’s face and where his hand sits. “Okay. So you’re Pocket.”
They know they shouldn’t, and the knowledge doesn’t stop them any more than it ever has; they kiss Lash. For a single, exhilarating moment, his lips cling to theirs, but then he’s drawing back. “That’s not fair,” he says, rising to his feet.
“Sorry,” they mumble on reflex, but that’s not entirely true. They’re not sorry at all for trying to kiss Lash, only that the things they did before made kissing Lash more complicated than it should be. “He and I aren’t— I mean, we were— it’s confusing, but— you’re not the backup plan. You’re not second place.” Half horrified by their own words, they admit, “I like you. Kind of in spite of the weird shit you say, and you could stand to learn some manners, but I do. I didn’t understand before, but now I do, and I’m— I like you,” they finish lamely, almost afraid to look at him.
A rough hand is on their cheek though. “You’re a real piece of work, kid.”
“Yeah,” they can’t help but agree.
“Don’t know what I’m supposed to do with you.”
“You could let me make it up to you.” Their stomach flutters, but Lash is already standing within reach. They push the hem of his shirt up, pressing fingers into his skin and tracing the waistband of his pants. They’re close enough that they can feel the way his breath hitches and his stomach muscles jump. He hasn’t tried to stop them and he hasn’t said no, but he doesn’t seem entirely convinced. Flushing, Arin says, “You don’t have to be nice.”
Lash lets out a breath like he’s almost laughing, then his hand hooks under Arin’s jaw, holding their gaze firmly. “Try that again.”
That, at least, he has in common with Abrams. Their face feels unbearably hot against his hand, but they can’t look away now. “I want to. And you were right. I don’t want you to be nice. Not always. Not now.”
Lash’s whole posture shifts. He always looks arrogant, but this is somehow more. When they’re standing, Arin has a couple inches on Lash, even if he’s significantly broader. But right now, he looks huge and imposing. Arin’s heart sticks in their throat, and their cock twitches.
He says, “Get on your knees,” and Arin scrambles to comply. It’s not graceful; the chair clatters behind them as they drop to the floor. It makes Lash laugh, that mean laugh he’s always had, and some of their nerves settle from the familiarity. “Missed the Lash’s dick, didn’t you? Show me how much.”
His hand joins theirs in digging his cock out of his pants, and they don’t resist when he wraps a hand around the back of their head and pulls them forward. He rubs their face against his dick, his balls, pubic hair scratching softly against their skin. Wet lips part, suck the salt from his skin at the base of his cock, then he grinds their face in until their nose hurts. It’s degrading, and humiliation burns hot in their cheeks and throbs between their legs.
When they try to grab his cock, though, Lash commands, “No hands.” Unsure what else to do, they rest them on their thighs, digging into their trousers. “No touching yourself either,” Lash adds, and they clench their fingers harder.
He tangles a hand in their hair, tugs, and goosebumps break out all over their arms. He pulls them back, hard cock leaving a sticky trail as it slides along their cheek. Somehow that is what makes their nipples tighten.
“Open up, baby.”
Their mouth drops open without question, without thought. He guides their head and his cock, and finally the tip slides in with a burst of salt on their tongue. He’s slow at first, but it isn’t gentle; it’s a test, measuring Arin to see what they’ll do. They know it when their throat tries to close around his cock and he pauses, watching, while they fight the reflex, eyes watering for the third time this night.
Then he’s pressing deeper and deeper with each thrust, gaining momentum, fist clenching in Arin’s hair. They’ve never done it like this before, but now that they’re past the hurdle, it’s so easy. With Lash moving their head for them or holding it steady when he wants, deciding for them how deep to take it, refusing to let them touch, the only thing they have to do is mind their teeth. Everything else is out of their hands, simplified. No mysteries, Maelstroms, or life or death decisions; no past or future, just this.
“Look at you taking it like you’re getting paid for it. Knew you missed this dick.” Lash builds up a sloppy, wet rhythm, and their lips go numb and maybe their brain does too. Everything feels soft and fuzzy at the edges, even as their knees and jaw begin to ache, even with the ball of heat in their belly growing tighter.
“You’d do this all day if you could, huh?” They can’t respond, but they’re moaning before they realize. Lash laughs, changes the angle just so, and doesn’t let up. “That what you want? Spend your whole day with a dick inside you? Doesn’t even matter which end, does it?”
Their face is hot, feverish, and their cock is pounding between their legs, straining like the slightest contact could set them off. They know they’re not supposed to touch, but their thighs inch apart and their fingers flex, and Lash makes a noise above them like he’s close too.
Then he yanks their mouth off of him, and they splutter with the shock of it. “Take your clothes off,” he orders.
While they struggle to do as they’re told, they’re aware of how slick their lips feel, how hot and swollen. Their face stays flushed. Every slither of their clothes over their body feels like too much, especially when they try to peel out of their underwear.
Lash has pulled the bed down again, and they crawl in on hands and knees. “No. Roll over,” he says. They do, and he’s between their thighs, looming again, this time with his whole impressive body on display. One meaty hand clasps their jaw and the other probes slick at their hole. “You’re gonna look at me.”
They can only nod and spread their legs wider around his thick waist, watch the way his arm muscles bunch while he fingers them open.
It’s perfunctory as usual. There’s no time to get used to anything before he’s pressing their knee up and nudging the head of his cock in. He spits down between them, fucking that into their body too. It’s one more way to demean them — or mark them, maybe — which should make their stomach turn, but which causes another flare of heat instead.
He has to let go of their face to push at their other thigh, but they don’t dare to look away. Then he’s bullying that heavy cock all the way in, too much too fast like he always does. He slams in deep, nudges his hips against their ass, then backs out to do it again and again. He pushes on their thighs, their knees, maneuvering them however he wants. Their hamstrings strain and the muscles in their abdomen start to ache, but he’s also bottoming out on every thrust, hitting so deep they could cry again.
They’re so full, aching, stretched tight around Lash’s dick while it rubs them raw inside, leaves them soft and open. Abrams’ might have been even bigger somehow, but Lash is plenty big and relentless to boot. He holds them down and pounds in, bruising so deep they’ll never get him out, and maybe that’s the whole point.
Their muscles strain, and they burn where they’re speared open, and they’re trembling all over. They dig short nails into his skin, slipping through sweat and catching on hair and muscle when they try to drag him closer, pull more of his heavy weight down onto them. Their head feels foggy and feverish again, and their cock might as well have a fever too, throbbing desperately between their thighs.
“Please,” they mumble, thighs shaking around him. Their tongue feels clumsy, numb like their lips, and they’re not even sure what they’re asking for now. “Please.”
“Yeah, come on my cock, baby.” Lash rears back and grabs their dick roughly, fucks in faster still, and they’ve been so starved for it that it takes no effort at all to tip over the edge. Their whole body seizes, and they’re squeezing down around Lash’s cock, muscles locking, and they finally break on a near-sob.
Lash fucks them through it but barely lasts any longer. He crushes them when he surges forward, mouth smashing against theirs as his cock bottoms out one final time.
It’s the sort of kiss that would be unbearable any other time, too sloppy by far, but in the moment makes Arin’s slowing pulse kick up again. They meet it with the same fervor, a hand curling around the back of Lash’s neck.
It can’t last long. Without the sex to distract them, the strain in their body becomes a lot more noticeable. “Ow,” they say against his mouth.
Lash extricates himself then flops back on the bed. They can stretch out now as aches both pleasant and unpleasant settle in. A big hand paws at them until they curl up close, head coming to rest with Lash’s huge, relaxed pec as their pillow. From the way Lash stiffens, that was maybe not what he was trying to communicate, but after a moment, he curls that arm around them.
“You should finish eating,” he says after a moment. They wait for the rest to drop, and he doesn’t disappoint: “Gonna need that energy when I wake you up on my dick.”
It’s not funny, but they almost laugh anyway. “I’ll eat when my legs work again.”
The rise and fall of his chest slows, but he trails his fingertips up and down their arm, so he can’t be asleep. Still, it’s something like sleep that pulls them along with it, drifting, while the sweat dries.
Then Lash snorts quietly, almost to himself. “Still a dumb name, you know.”
They put a hand over his mouth. “Don’t ruin this.”
He still sounds amused, but all he says is a muffled “Okay.” Then he falls quiet, but they swear they can still feel the faint curve of a smile under their fingers.