Chapter Text
On the one hand, Jacob Lash works very hard to keep his life as effortless as possible. On the other hand, his dick takes charge of decision-making at least a third of the time.
Take Pocket, for example. If he’d known how much trouble they were going to be — well, he’d have made most of the same decisions, because Little Lash has been in control from jump with that one. But maybe he would have said a few more things out loud, and that could have spared him some bruises to his ego.
He really should have known they were trouble from the start, but they sort of snuck up on him. He’s no stranger to some dark-eyed, leggy piece picked up ringside or down at the bar, but he’s not usually curious about them. Pocket says one thing, then Lash’s enormous brain lights up with a dozen questions, and he can’t voice any of them, because they’d get skittish if he tried to ask about their favorite color.
He’s licked his own cock snot out of their wrecked little asshole, and they still haven’t told him their real name. That’s how married to their mysteries they are.
Figuring them out is sort of like approaching a wild deer. Got to creep up on them with food in hand until they get used to you coming close. Probably. He wouldn’t know for sure. He’s always been a city boy.
The food thing has to be right though. God knows they eat like they need it. Which is fine. He likes cooking, and it’s better when there’s someone to bear witness to how great he is at it.
He’s picked up other things here and there. They’re too young for him, for one. Not, like, in a creepy way — he’s not Abrams — but in a way that made him feel weird for maybe five minutes before he remembered they came on to him. Besides, it’s not like they invented this kind of thing; it’s a vital part of the queer ecosystem.
However close-lipped they’ve been about the circumstances that have them wandering the city like a penniless vagrant, they clearly come from Money with a capital M. He thought at first they might have worked some cozy desk job, maybe a bank clerk who’s fallen on hard times, but they’ve let slip enough that he’s sure it’s more than that.
Not like it was hard. Nobody from a modest background would offer to throw money they don’t have at every problem. Add that to the boarding school elocution and the sliver of entitlement that has survived whatever tragedy gave them a bullet scar and a thousand-yard stare, and it paints a pretty clear picture.
Few things are as fun as being told something’s off limits then getting his grimy hands on it anyway.
They’re not the first trust fund baby to fall into his lap face first. Starfuckers exist even in high society, and status doesn’t make a person resistant to Lash’s pure animal magnetism. The difference between Pocket and the others is that they aren’t just slumming it or spending a few nights rebelling against Mommy and Daddy. This is some true fall from grace family drama.
He’s the real detective, piecing all this shit together from the breadcrumbs they spill. The intrigue works for them though. It’s kept him interested long after he would have tossed somebody else out on their ass.
Now maybe he’s invested for other reasons. Instead of a steady rotation of nameless fucks with faces he forgets five minutes later, he’s just got the one — and he’s happy that way.
They’ve got a tight ass and a bottomless throat and a well of kinks he’s only barely begun to tap. They’re lightweight and flexible enough he can hold or pin or twist them into any position that crosses his mind, and they’ll still take every last inch like he’s paying them. They let him do nearly anything he wants, and they get off on it.
They’ve said no to getting tied up, which is a real shame, but he’s not gonna blame his favorite flight risk for a little justifiable paranoia. Besides, they haven’t said no to anything else yet. It’s one of his favorite things about them.
There’s no place he’d rather be than balls deep inside his pillow princess. The only thing that comes close is a good fight.
All that’s bad enough, but it gets worse.
They don’t smile enough, but as with all those mysteries they withhold, prying one out of them feels like victory. Their voice is this hushed, breathy thing that slides under his skin and their too-rare laugh is even better. Somehow he likes those more than he likes the desperate noises they make when they’ve got a dick rearranging their insides.
The idea of them leaving again makes his lungs feel like they’re going to explode out of his asshole.
This shit’s fatal. He’s a goner. The best he can do is try not to look like the chump he is while he entertains their every whim. If he plays his cards right, when they get whatever they’re after with the Patrons, maybe they won’t immediately forget him.
He knows exactly how pathetic that is. He’s doing it anyway. Maybe that’s why he’s stupid enough to take them to see Wraith.
When they show up to poker night, Abrams looks like a starving man with his favorite dessert in front of him — only Lash is standing in the way.
It’s embarrassing. Lash hopes he’s never looked that fucking stupid because of Pocket, but he probably has. They just kind of do that. The fact that they’re not trying to tie him in knots is why it works.
Ice crawls up his spine when Abrams disappears into that back room. He doesn’t distrust Pocket, but he sure as shit doesn’t trust Abrams. Who knows what he’s saying to them?
Looking at the guy, he understands the appeal. He’s fucking huge, which is attractive on its own merits. Lash has firsthand experience with exactly how much Pocket likes that sort of thing. And it’s not just the muscles. Abrams is the kind of handsome that ought to have Lauren Bacall slinking into his office with a tight dress and a suspiciously dead husband. And he’s got to be at least kind of smart, if he’s a detective; Lash doesn’t know for sure if that matters to Pocket, but he wouldn’t put it past them.
Lash is, of course, a specimen. But it’s hard not to feel challenged by the size of Abrams’ body, the cut of his jaw, and what is no doubt an absolute monster in his pants.
As with the muscles, Lash knows for certain Pocket likes that. He’s pretty sure if his dick were average sized, they wouldn’t have been so easy to win back. As it is, if they could cut it off and use it without the extra step of interacting with him, they probably would. Sometimes he thinks he’s holding them hostage by sheer virtue of his cock size. But hey, whatever gets results.
That talk is taking longer than it should. Lash would go check, but he can’t possibly look like that much of a loser. If he blinks too long though, he can see Abrams bending them over or pushing them to their knees, or worse, talking them into leaving out the back.
The first two are at least spank bank material. The last one grabs Lash by the balls and twists until he can barely breathe.
He scowls at the wall, trying not to seem restless in his chair, but when the time comes to be mad at Abrams, it’s not for any of the reasons he expected. It’s because Pocket walks out of that room wearing a miserable expression — more miserable than usual somehow.
Instead of gloating over his rival’s fuck-up like he should, Lash kind of wants to hit Abrams for hurting them.
They’re pretty clear about choosing Lash though. Looks like the big guy did him a favor in the end.
He fucks a few confessions out of them, then he doesn’t bring it up again. Maybe it was weird. Who knows? It was still hot as hell.
Not bringing it up again means he never does find out what Abrams said behind that door. Maybe he doesn’t need to know. Maybe it was just goodbye.
He watches Pocket flounder for a day or two, somehow looking sadder and wetter and more stressed out than ever, then they nearly give Lash a heart attack.
“I need to talk to you about something,” they say. They’ve got that fight or flight look about them, which makes his hands sweaty.
If they were back at Wraith’s placing bets, Lash would put all his money on the phrase we need to talk resulting in an unhappy ending for one or both parties. On the list of things he’d like to come out of Pocket’s mouth, it ranks only slightly above I’m calling the cops.
“Could you sit down maybe?” Pocket asks.
He does, right at the end of the bed, and he makes a conscious effort to relax. “Why do you look like someone pissed in your coffee?”
They don’t smile, but one side of their mouth lifts like they at least thought about it for a second. “Everybody else already knows. I don’t know how, but they do, and you shouldn’t be the only one in the dark.”
Something ugly rises inside him and seizes him by the neck. Is this what lesser mortals know as fear?
Pocket’s rubbing their hands on their trousers, and yeah, they look afraid too. His heart thumps in his chest and his throat and his ears, and he waits. They breathe deep, then let it out again. “Arin Fairfax,” they say, watching him carefully. Slowly, they add, “That’s my name.”
The freight train in his head hits the brakes, but the smoke left behind takes a minute to clear. “Okay,” he says slowly.
“Do you know—”
“Everyone and their dog knows who that is.” A few years back, you couldn’t go anywhere without hearing about the Fairfax family’s dead heir or the mystery surrounding it. The papers love a tragedy. The radio blasted that name so often that for a while Lash heard it in his sleep. He’s never asked their exact age, but it looks about right, even if the kid from the stories has always been locked in his mind’s eye as, well, a kid. He can’t help but stare at their chest, like he could see the bullet scar through their clothes. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”
“Supposed to be.”
He tilts his head, looking them over. “You’re pretty solid for a ghost.”
There it is again, that hint of a smile before it’s gone. “I’m not a ghost.”
“No? Undead maybe? Please don’t tell me I’ve been nailing a corpse, babe.”
“You have not been nailing a corpse. I’m not undead or anything. I’m just the regular sort of not dead. I think.”
“God, you had me worried there for a second. I mean, imagine fucking a wight. Or a ghoul! A vampire might be sexy, though. Are you sure you’re not a vampire?”
They scoff. “Be serious.”
“I am.” They let him grab their hand, but they resist his tugging. He sighs, resigning himself to a serious conversation for at least the next minute. “So if you’re supposed to be dead, how’d you end up here with me?”
They scowl at the floor as if it’s wronged them, then finally their gaze rises to meet his. “My father was the one who tried to kill me, and now he knows I’m still alive, and he’s put a bounty out on me, and who knows how many people are going to be looking for me now?” The words come out in a rush, then they watch his face, waiting for… something.
“Okay.”
“It’s a lot of money. Enough to motivate a lot of people.”
“Okay.”
They’re still searching his face. “It doesn’t… change anything?”
“Is that what you were worried about?” This time when he pulls, they move stiffly into his lap, warm thighs splayed to either side of his. “Sorry to ruin your dramatic reveal, but I don’t give a shit.”
They huff. It’s still not quite a laugh, but he’ll take it. “It wasn’t dramatic,” they say in that breathy, radio play voice of theirs. “It’s really serious.”
“Already knew you were keeping secrets. Already knew you grew up with a silver spoon in your mouth. Hate to break it to you, babe, but you’re not very good at hiding that part.”
“My father is a dangerous man.”
“Don’t see much difference between one rich dickhead and another.” He pauses, turning over what he’s just said. “Former rich dickheads don’t count.”
Normally it might make them laugh or even lob their own insult, but right now the wrinkle between their eyebrows is threatening to get stuck there. “My father tried to kill me. He has an arsenal of weapons nobody else has even thought of yet. He’s not just any rich dickhead.”
Lash shrugs. “Maybe your dad’s got more resources than I thought, but I already knew you were in some kinda trouble. So what was supposed to change exactly?”
“I thought—” They stop, but at least they’re flirting with the idea of a smile now. “Not much, I suppose.”
“That’s right.” He gets his hands around their waist and pulls until there’s no room to breathe between them. “Thought you’d figured it out by now. Tell me you really are a ghost, and I still won’t care. Change your name to Trenchcoat. I don’t care. Wake up tomorrow and want me to call you Miss? Don’t care. None of it makes a difference to me.”
There’s a moment where they only stare, all big wet eyes and parted lips, and he’s tempted to say more to see if he can get a real laugh out of them or something. But then their fingers are death gripping the back of his neck, and they kiss him like he’s the last gasp of oxygen before they drown.
Normally it’s not his thing — and he suspects it’s not theirs — but this kind of sickeningly sweet kiss has its place and time. He feels them sigh against him and yeah, okay. Maybe he could get used to this sappy shit. He’ll spit in their mouth later to make up for it.
He doesn’t want to think about Abrams anymore. And he doesn’t, at least not in the way people might expect him to. He’s not jealous. He’s not even all that upset by it. Whatever wounds his pride took, his come smeared across Pocket’s face makes an excellent balm.
But he still thinks about it. About all the things Pocket confessed. About that five o’clock shadow rubbing their ass cheeks raw. About the way Abrams must have dwarfed them, surrounding them in every direction. About how huge that dick has to be, and about what they had to look like by the time he was done with them.
Now they have to work together. He’s going to have to look this man in the eye, knowing what he knows about what Abrams did to Lash’s… whatever you’re supposed to call someone like Pocket. They’re Lash’s, anyway. That’s the part that matters.
But it’s because Abrams sent them back, delivered them to his doorstep knowing Lash is enough of a chump to take them back. They wouldn’t have come back on their own. That’s another favor Abrams did him, no matter the motive.
Two nights later he’s got his mouth between Pocket’s thighs and their hands fucking up his hair. Normally he’d only do this if he could get head at the same time, but he doesn’t mind so much when it’s Pocket. Every time he descends and their cock slides along his soft palate, they make this husky, breathless sound that zips straight to his dick.
He wrings the base of their cock in one hand and pins their hips with his arm so he can feel them writhe, trying to fuck his mouth and barely able to move. Slimy precome mixes with his saliva and drips down over his knuckles. Their thighs tense by his head and their fingers twitch in his hair.
Their hips buck and strain against him, and they cry out, then they’re coming hot over his tongue. He slurps up as much as he can, milking them with his hand and mouth until they’re flinching away. Then he crawls up their body, pawing at their flushed face. He grips their jaw and spits the whole load into their baby bird gape of a mouth. Whatever noises of protest they make, when he chases it all with his tongue, they kiss him right back.
They jerk him off and then peel away to the kitchenette to rinse their mouth out. They crack the window over the sink, lighting a cigarette and watching the smoke curl outward. It’s not their typical postcoital behavior. He has to keep his eyes open, at least until they come back to bed.
From the chest up they’re painted silver by the moon above and red by the neon below. If he didn’t know their background already, it jumps out in the way they hold their cigarette.
They’re all lines and angles and long limbs, naked skin glowing with drying sweat. They don’t pose or preen or anything. It’s too casual, like they take it for granted that they’re sexy. Funny, considering the bad haircut and how often they neglect to shave that sad peach fuzz off their face. They’re not wrong though.
They’ve put on some weight since he met them. He’s too familiar with the shape of their ribs under his fingers not to notice. They weren’t exactly a wilting flower before, but he’s proud of his part in filling them out.
They bend at the waist, propping themself on the counter with that fucked up hand so they can peer moodily out into the night. Their voice barely reaches him when they say, “It’s almost here.”
Lash grunts in acknowledgment. There’s no need to ask what it is. It’s the same thing that’s been hanging over their heads for weeks now. Hell, it’s the reason they met at all.
They’re pouting again, or maybe thinking. It’s hard to tell the difference. “You don’t have to, you know,” they say once the cigarette’s nothing but a stub to be ground and flicked out of the window.
He scratches at his chest even though he knows the sudden sensation isn’t physical. “Don’t have to what?”
“The ritual. You can stay back. I can… I can do it without you, I think.”
There it is, that feeling like someone’s piling weight after weight on his chest. “Is this because I made you eat your own—”
“No,” Pocket says quickly, all their poise suddenly scattered. They’re probably blushing, but he can’t tell from here. “No, I mean you don’t have to risk yourself. Not for me, or money, or whatever it is you’re doing this for.”
“Yeah, whatever it is,” he scoffs. Lash hasn’t cared about the money for a while now. He’d thought that was clear enough. He sits up to relieve some of the pressure. Might as well rip the bandage clean off. “So, what? You want to do it without me?”
“No.” They pause, their eyes too sharp all of a sudden. They’re really fucking perceptive when they manage to look away from their own navel. It would be more intimidating if it weren’t so rare. He can see the calculations in their head, and for a moment he gets it — where they came from, what that family must be like. It’s a world he’ll only ever see from the outside. But when they speak again, it’s not some distant rich asshole; it’s only Pocket. “I want the Lash there more than anything. He’s good in a fight. He’s… useful.” Their pretty mouth twists with a hint of disgust. “But I don’t want you there. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Oh,” he says, unable to breathe for a whole different reason now. He clears his throat. “As much fun as we could have if there were two of me, the Lash is one of a kind.”
Their lips twitch. “Truly singular,” they agree.
“I promised you I’d be there. How are you gonna win without the Lash?” He looks them over now, searching for the signs they’re gonna bolt. “Unless you don’t want to anymore. You don’t have to be there either.”
“I don’t see an alternative.”
Lash grins and pats the bed beside him. “We could stay right here. Lock the door, barricade the window, count how many times I make you come before the Maelstrom’s over.”
“I wish I could.”
“Aww, what’s wrong? Don’t think you have the stamina?”
“It’s not a real option.”
He refuses to let it suck the wind out of his sails. “Of course it’s real. There’s at least, like, twenty positions we haven’t tried yet. We could definitely knock out a few of those if we had a whole day.”
They’re smiling now, even if it’s sadder than it should be. They’re coming back to bed too, crawling in next to him. “A whole day, huh?” they ask. “You could wake me up fucking me. You know, get a head start. You don’t even have to wait until the Maelstrom. You could do it tomorrow if you wanted.”
The uncertainty that wavers in their voice at the end is absurd. He couldn’t turn them down at this point even if he wanted to. No need to make it that easy though. “You want me to do all the work first thing in the morning?”
“Absolutely.”
“And that’s supposed to be an incentive for me?”
“We both know it is.” That coy look says they’re right and they know it. Their voice grows huskier in that way that sinks hooks under his skin. “Show me how you’d do it.”
“Thought you wanted me to fuck you in the morning. You’re gonna be sore, babe.”
“Do it anyway,” they say with a poorly suppressed tremor.
They’re trying to distract him, but knowing it and fighting it are two different things. It doesn’t stop him from flipping them roughly to face them away from him, then brushing a hand down their side as gently as he’ll let himself.
The lube is never far these days. He barely has to move before he’s back, pressing one slick finger inside. They open up like they were made for this, made for him, even if he knows that that’s not true.
Normally he doesn’t have the patience to draw this shit out. Their body just takes it so eagerly. There’s no point in wasting time to get what they both want. He can make exceptions, though. When their ass presses back against him, he grins into the side of their neck. “You’re supposed to be asleep,” he says. “Be still.”
They shudder once then stop their squirming. He rewards them with a second finger, eased in just as carefully, just as slowly as the first. Their body is so tense, trembling with their effort not to move, hole clinging hungrily to his fingers. Shaky breaths rattle out of them, and he can hear every ounce of effort it takes them to keep quiet.
Their thigh inches forward to make more room for his hand, and their hips twitch, starting to rock then stopping again like they can’t help it. Lucky them, he only has so much patience. It’s only a few minutes before he’s lining up his cock and easing the head in. He goes as slow as he can stand it, but he’s not even halfway in before they start moving in earnest.
“Lot of activity for someone who’s sleeping,” he says.
“I would definitely be awake by now.” Their voice is tight but amused. “You’re not very subtle.”
“Well, excuse me for having a huge hog. I can pull it out if you don’t want it.”
He doesn’t even get to make good on the threat before their blunt nails are sinking into the meat of his ass, trying to hold him there. “Don’t you dare.”
He slides his hand up their side to end with a squeeze at their tit. “Aww, I wouldn’t do that to you, babe. I know how much you need it.”
Their head ducks away, but he knows them enough to know they’re probably blushing again. He’d be grinning if he weren’t so busy digging his teeth into their shoulder and shoving his cock home. He should keep going slow to draw it out or to give them some novelty or something, but they shudder and squeeze all down his length, and all he can do is drive in again and again.
“Yeah,” they say. It’s too late to be a response to anything but the cock carving out their insides, but he’ll take what he can get.
The angle’s all wrong to give them the pounding they usually like, but it’s still his cock sliding through slick, silky heat to the tune of their breathless groans and half-formed words. He slips one hand between them to grab their thigh, lifting to make more room for himself, to get as deep as he can.
They’ve got a hand on their cock and their face in the pillow now. They’re panting out nonsense, but maybe sometimes it’s his name. He’ll take that too.
He’ll take whatever they’re offering — every last piece, no matter how small. Here and now it doesn’t feel all that small anyway. It feels like the only thing that matters is right here in this bed, with Pocket’s hole milking him for all he’s worth. When he comes, it rolls down his spine and bursts out of his cock, spraying their trembling insides.
Never let it be said he’s not a giver. Even with his head still spinning, he paws clumsily between their legs, his hand joining theirs on their cock.
When it’s over, neither of them moves. Maybe when they catch their breath, it’ll be a different story.
He’s got to pull the quilt over them both before they get cold. Pocket’s arm settles on his, their hand on his wrist and his hand on their chest where he can feel their heartbeat slowing. He’ll get to the covers in a minute maybe.
Mostly his brain’s empty after a good nut, but eventually he can have more than one thought strung together. Pocket is definitely too young for him if they think he’ll be able to fuck them awake in the morning too. Oh, he will find a way, because the Lash is nothing if not a stubborn bastard, and a horny one, but they’re definitely taking that youthful refractory period for granted if they think three times in twelve hours is normal.
Those are the safe kind of stupid thoughts though. The other stupid thoughts are gonna fuck him up bad one day.
Like Pocket can hear the stuff rattling around in his head, they say, “I have to see the ritual through. I don’t have a choice.”
They’re wrong. They have so many options. They could run away, start a new life entirely with that last bit of money they’ve saved. Hell, maybe Lash would go with them if they asked. They could confront their old man directly, with or without a Patron’s blessing; he’d help them do that one for sure. It’s been too long since he got to punch somebody who really deserved it.
They could stay here. Get a real fucking job and eat his food and keep his dick warm. But they’d never be satisfied. How long until they’d start seeing this apartment as a prison instead of a quaint stepping stone?
They don’t belong here. Any claim he’s got on them will only ever be temporary.
“I know,” he mumbles against their nape, and he pulls them closer while he still can.