Chapter Text
One of these assholes decides it’s a good idea to plan ahead. Lash’s money is on Wraith. She didn’t get to where she is by flying by the seat of her pants, or by being shy about inconveniencing everyone around her, especially Lash.
The conference room they meet in is only a few blocks from the Bear Pit, where the apartments and businesses start putting on airs despite their proximity to the docks. This part is definitely Wraith; whether she owns the building or extorts the real owner, she’s the one with access. The only other possibility is Geist, who looks so disgusted to be somewhere without marble floors that it rules her out right away.
“These are your friends?” she asks Abrams.
“Acquaintances,” Abrams says with a stillness that suggests he’d be glaring at Lash if he let himself turn his head.
“Colleagues now,” Wraith says pragmatically.
Geist looks them all over, before making a disgusted sound. “You, I understand,” she says to Wraith. “And that one, I suppose.” She gestures at Lash without quite looking at him. He bets Abrams would hate knowing he’s got that in common with her. “But I don’t understand the urchin. What do you do? Are you a burglar?”
Pocket’s eyes anxiously flick around the room before they settle on her. “Me?”
“Yes. Are you deaf as well?”
“I— you really don’t—” Pocket makes a sound that isn’t a laugh. “I’m not a burglar.”
“I don’t know where you got that overcoat, then. It certainly does not belong to you.”
Lash tries to look at the garment with new eyes, but he doesn’t see shit. Other than being in better condition than any of Pocket’s other clothes, it looks like any other overcoat.
“It’s mine,” Pocket says firmly.
“Hardly.” Geist scoffs.
Before she can press further, their final teammates arrive in the form of a giant mole and… whatever the other guy is. Lash groans inwardly, because he’s dealt with Mo and Krill before. Apart from Geist, everybody here is from roughly his neighborhood — or below it, in the Tunnel Rats’ case.
“Pocket!” Krill exclaims, while Mo envelops them in a hug. Whatever Pocket says next is muffled in stinky fur. Krill reaches into the tangle to pat Pocket’s arm, then addresses the others. “Wraith, Detective, a pleasure as always. Lash,” he starts, then pauses. “Oh, my. Lady Geist, it’s an honor.”
“For you, perhaps,” she sneers.
“For you,” Krill says with a sudden edge, before he returns to his typical polite manner. “Forgive Maurice. He can be shy, but I assure you he is also pleased to be among such esteemed company.”
Pocket has been released from Mo’s embrace, but not before their face has turned a deep red from nearly suffocating. “We know each other,” they say to Lash.
“No shit.” He brushes their shoulder, and a white puff drifts to the floor. “You got fur on your stolen coat.”
Pocket meets his smirk with something approaching a smile of their own. “Shut up.”
Behind them, Krill pauses his efforts to pull out a chair in order to stare at Lash in disgusted disbelief. He’s not the only one.
Lash couldn’t care less. In fact, he’s starting to feel smug again. If these jokers think he’s undeserving, then victory is even sweeter. Maybe he won’t get to keep the prize forever, but Pocket is his. Nobody else here gets to say that — not even Abrams.
Abrams tried to fight dirty, and Lash won anyway. He won. He can’t even bring himself to hate Abrams for any of it, not really.
Lash’s hatred is reserved solely for Bebop, whose single victory over him was total bullshit. He’s beat that golem’s ass a dozen times, and once he gets one past Lash? Complete and utter bullshit.
Abrams is a little bit bullshit, but the hot knot that tightens in Lash’s stomach when he thinks too hard about the detective is not the same. Lash isn’t jealous of Abrams, and he’s definitely not threatened by him, no matter how huge and square-jawed Abrams is, and no matter how many times he glances at Pocket during the meeting, and no matter how many times Pocket evades eye contact with him, and no matter how frequently Lash wonders what it’s like to be that deep inside Pocket or sometimes maybe even what it’s like to be Pocket in that scenario, and no matter how much everyone here seems to like Abrams, or at least respect him, or think he’s nice. Lash is fine.
He is so fine that he misses a lot of the discussion, but he gets the broad strokes: pair up, work together, blah blah blah. He’s with Pocket anyway. That was always the plan, even if there are more people involved now. Trying to come up with contingencies is overthinking it.
When it’s over and everyone has begun to trickle out of the room, Abrams grabs Pocket by the wrist. “Can I get a second?” he asks. “Alone?”
“Really?” Lash mutters. Wraith is the last of the others to leave. She glances back like the nosy busybody she is underneath the crime lord veneer, but she seems to decide it’s not worth her time.
The door shuts on all three of them. Pocket stands frozen between him and Abrams, though their eyes are on Lash. “No,” they say after too long. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it doesn’t need to be a secret.”
Abrams looks like he’s got a bug up his ass, but that’s not unusual. “Fine. Are you sure about this? About him? You’re trusting Jacob Lash to keep you safe out there.” He says Lash’s name like it’s a curse word.
“I’m sure,” Pocket answers gratifyingly quickly this time, but they look irritated.
“Didn’t you bring them to me just for that a few weeks ago?” Lash asks. Abrams also threatened his reputation and his career and his life and his balls for good measure, but maybe Pocket doesn’t need to hear about Abrams’ excesses right now. If the detective keeps acting like he’s the only one with a level head here, Lash might reconsider.
“Yeah, I trusted you to fuck up a few goons if you needed to. This is different. We have to expect whoever’s out there to be at least as prepared as we are. We don’t need you showboating when you should be watching their back.”
“They hired me for a reason. The Lash is more than capable of making up the difference.”
“What?” Pocket says, frost creeping in around the word. “Let go of me,” they snap at Abrams, then wheel on Lash. “You think you have to make up the difference? You think I can’t carry my weight?
“Isn’t that what you’re paying me for?”
“I never asked for you to do everything. And I didn’t ask to be kept safe.” Their eyes cut toward Abrams with equal annoyance before they’re back on Lash, who feels strangely like a bug about to be pinned. “I need you because it’s not a one-person job. That’s strategy, not helplessness.”
“Come on, babe. You don’t even have a weapon.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You do?”
“You do?” Abrams echoes.
“More than one,” Pocket says. “I’ve been preparing for this for months. I should be asking you two if you’re ready, if you need my help.”
“Babe,” he starts, and even he doesn’t know where it’s going next.
Pocket doesn’t let him figure it out. “You don’t think I can do it, do you? You think I’m going to hold you back.”
“Nobody said that,” Abrams cuts in.
“But you thought it, didn’t you? Both of you did. You’ve been assuming you’ll have to carry dead weight, because I’m weak and incompetent and I don’t solve all my problems by punching them or drinking myself to death.”
Floundering, Lash grasps for one of the few things he’s good at: making Pocket laugh. “I kick things too.”
“You’re not funny,” Pocket says. He thinks about telling them that it’s not nice to lie to your boyfriend, but then their face screws up and their big eyes shine wetly, and a pit of despair opens inside him. “I thought you were the only person who didn’t underestimate me.”
Lash gets punched a lot. It’s part of the gig. Mostly he avoids taking them to the face, but it’s standard to leave the ring with some scrapes and bruises — always victorious, but rarely unscathed.
When Pocket’s words settle in, combined with the naked betrayal on their face, it hits harder than any punch he’s taken. He’s gaping like a fish out of water.
“Babe,” he croaks again, humiliated by the pleading note in it.
“Don’t.” Pocket yanks the suitcase closer to them, then straightens their coat. “I’m going for a walk.”
Abrams clears his throat. “I understand you’re upset, but one of us should really come with you.”
Something snaps inside Lash. “They weren’t even talking to you.”
“Excuse me for giving a shit,” Abrams mutters.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you? Keep your big blue nose out of—” Lash is cut off by the sound of the door clicking shut. By the time he yanks it open, Pocket has disappeared.
Panic squeezes his throat so hard he can’t speak for a moment. But Abrams is right here — not coaxing them into leaving, not stealing them away, but in the same boat Lash is. And Pocket only said they were going for a walk. He has to believe it.
Until the ritual is over, they need him, if not quite in the way he assumed. They won’t disappear just yet. Not for long.
Abrams stalks the hallway, searching for clues as to where they went, but even he has to give up eventually. If their roles were reversed, Lash would probably make fun of him or something. Abrams simply broods in his general direction.
“What?” Lash asks after Abrams has stared too long for his liking.
Abrams grunts, shakes his head. “Guess the honeymoon phase is over.”
“They’ll be back.” Rolling his eyes distracts briefly from how tight his chest feels. There’s a noncommittal noise from Abrams, which annoys Lash enough that he adds, “Again.”
“You’ve noticed I’m twice your size, right?”
Lash has, in fact, noticed this, maybe two or three or thirty times, but Abrams doesn’t need to know that. “Is that another threat, Detective? You’ve noticed I never lose a fight, right?”
Abrams takes a deep breath, then knocks his glasses askew when he rubs a hand over his face. “I’m not doing this.”
“You’re smarter than you look.”
Abrams’ jaw tightens, making him look surlier than usual. “I’m not having some schoolyard fight over them.”
“Good, ’cause you’d lose.”
“Don’t push it. If I punch you because you’re really, really annoying, that’s a different story.”
Honestly, it’s kind of a relief not to have to follow through. Abrams would probably hit him in the face. He’s pretty sure Pocket’s favorite part of him is farther south, but his striking mug has to make the top five. Besides, then he’d have to hit Abrams back, and Pocket would probably disapprove of that, and they’re already mad enough that they’re going to have to talk about things. “Whatever,” he mutters lamely.
“Still don’t know what they see in you,” Abrams says.
Lash ticks them off on his fingers. “One, the face. Two, the body—”
“Three, the ego?”
“Three, the dick. Not that you’d know, but trust me. They can’t get enough. Four—”
“So a real deep relationship.”
“Oh, it’s deep, alright.”
Abrams makes a disgusted face. “Do you know anything about them, you know, as a person?”
“I know enough. I know who they are. Their real name, all of it.”
There’s a pause while Abrams absorbs that. Then he says, “Yeah? They tell you their name before or after they found out about the bounty?”
Lash scoffs, but the memory bubbles up, unasked for: the way Pocket seemed poised to run, asking him whether learning their identity changed anything. What was it they said? It’s a lot of money. Enough to motivate a lot of people. Lash distracted them after that. Maybe all they were ever after was assurance Lash wasn’t going to turn them over to their father. Maybe they even thought he would.
He passed that test with flying colors. But still, he thought they were nervous about the effect it might have on their relationship, like someone who’s invested would.
“So after,” Abrams says when Lash takes too long to answer.
“Whatever,” he says again. “Not like they ever told you. You had to act like a creep and detect it.”
“Like a creep? Is that how they told it?” Lash doesn’t answer before he continues. “I was looking into a cold case, and they were a potential informant. I had to do some digging. Professionally.”
“Cold case,” Lash mutters.
Slowly and as if it pains him, Abrams says, “That’s detective lingo for a case that hasn’t—”
“I know what it means. I’m not an idiot.” Abrams makes a skeptical sound that Lash graciously chooses to ignore. “So what, you were looking into the murder of Fairfax’s kid and found them less dead than expected?”
Abrams blinks in surprise, enough that he answers without any vitriol. “Yeah.”
“And then?”
“And then I buried it.”
Lash would like to say something impossibly cool in response to that, but his brain sort of putters in circles. By doing this, Abrams almost definitely saved Pocket’s life, or at least made it easier than it would have been otherwise. It might explain at least some of Pocket’s attachment, loath as he is to admit it. But more than that, it’s one more favor Abrams did for Lash, whether he meant to or not. By his mental checklist, that’s at least three.
“Shit,” Lash mutters.
“What?” Abrams asks. He doesn’t even sound like a dick right now. He’s staring at Lash like he’s some creature at the circus.
Owing anyone for anything is something Lash goes out of his way to avoid. Unfortunately he didn’t have much say in this one. He grunts, irritated, and changes the subject. “I don’t know if they’re coming back,” he says, voice surprisingly steady. “Here, I mean. They might go home.”
“I could wait here, if you wanted to go on.” There’s no challenge in it like there could be. Not like Lash could stop him anyway.
“No, they’ll think that’s annoying. If they come here first and we’re all gone, they’ll know where to look next.”
“I need to know they’re alright,” Abrams says.
Lash scowls at the wall for a moment. If he doesn’t invite Abrams, the guy’s just going to brood around outside his apartment until Pocket shows up anyway. Lash can’t keep him away, but he can pick the method that lets him keep an eye on Abrams. “You can wait at my place,” he says, a picture of fucking civility.
He thinks Abrams is going to argue, but the big guy is digging around in his coat for something. Eventually he frees a small pad of paper and thrusts it at Lash. “Maybe leave a note though.”
With Abrams looking over his shoulder, Lash is too aware of his own clumsy grip, his blocky penmanship. Went home, he writes, then lets the pen linger so long it leaves a spill of ink on the page. It shouldn’t be this agonizing to sign off, but it feels like he should say something more. In the end, he chooses to end it only with his initials.
Abrams is like a dog at his heels for the whole walk home. A very, very big dog with heavy footsteps. It’s like he thinks if he doesn’t keep up, Lash will run on ahead and lock him out. It’s admittedly tempting, but he’s trying to set aside the pettiness for the moment. Just until they know Pocket’s fine. Because he owes Abrams a teeny, tiny bit.
The wait could be worse without whiskey. Abrams takes some without Lash having to use a single word. It’s more tolerable when they have an unspoken agreement not to speak.
Abrams is too big for the apartment, including Lash’s dining chairs. He turns away from the table and splays his long, long legs four miles out in front of him and sips from a cup that looks dainty in his huge hand. He soaks in the details around him, and he doesn’t even try to pretend he’s doing anything less than cataloguing the whole place. Detecting, or whatever.
When he’s finished the first cup, Abrams lets out a prolonged groan, rubbing at his face. “You would have done the same thing,” he says finally.
It takes a moment for Lash to catch on. He’d rather scowl out the tiny kitchen window than look at Abrams now. “Wrong. I wouldn’t have been stupid enough to bring them back to you.”
“You think that was an easy choice? Do you have any idea how much shit I’m dealing with?”
Lash risks a single sidelong glance, but he refuses to be curious. “Doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t have left them.”
Abrams snorts. “You’re mad I left them?”
“No.” Lash drains his glass and thinks about lancing a boil. “I’m mad you hurt them. I’m mad you could. I’m mad that you talked them into leaving, and I’m mad you slept with them. I’m mad that I’m mad, and that I have to be grateful you fucked up, and that I can’t even punch your stupid chiseled jaw to make us even because then they’d be sad.” Not that he’d ever go for the jaw literally. With a guy as big as Abrams, he’s better off taking him out at the knees. But that’s not as sexy a metaphor, nor would it bust up his devilishly handsome face enough. Knowing Lash’s luck, Abrams would probably look good with a few scrapes anyway.
“Yeah, well, you won in the end. Hope it feels good.”
“It does.” With the reminder of his victory, he’s feeling more magnanimous. Lash pours them both another drink.
They don’t have to wait much longer. It feels like forever, but it’s only another half hour or so before there’s a tentative knock at the door. Lash has been meaning to get them their own key, but they haven’t really needed it until tonight.
He finds Pocket standing on the other side looking uncertain. They suck in a breath then very quickly say, “I can’t blame you for not knowing things I didn’t tell you, but don’t underestimate me again.”
“I don’t think you’re helpless. I just assumed you’d leave the skull cracking to me.” He pulls Pocket across the threshold just in case they get any funny ideas about disappearing again. Then he smiles until it makes Pocket’s stubborn mouth twitch. “I know you’re capable. If you can handle the Lash, you can handle a Patron no problem.”
Pocket snorts. “You’re an idiot,” they say fondly, he hopes.
Behind him, Abrams clears his throat. Pocket stiffens. They don’t put any distance between themself and Lash, but it still feels like it.
“What’s this?” they ask with a feigned ease that isn’t convincing anyone.
“Maybe it’s crazy,” Abrams says dryly, “but when you run off like that, we worry a little.”
“You don’t have to worry about me.” Pocket’s words are clipped, testy.
“I’m not gonna apologize for caring what happens to you,” Abrams says, just as short.
Lash’s pettiness and spite make him thrilled at their failure to get along, but for once he’s not rooting for Abrams’ downfall.
“I didn’t ask you to apologize,” Pocket starts, before Lash, for God knows what reason, steps in.
“There’s a lot of scary shit going on out there these days. That’s all,” Lash says.
“You two are on the same page now?” Pocket asks with a laugh. “I wasn’t gone that long.”
“Yeah, well, turns out we both prefer you not-dead. We might even have some things in common, even if I’m sexier and better at punching stuff and smarter and—”
“And so modest,” Abrams says.
“Modesty is for losers.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“This peace only lasts as long as I say it does, buddy,” Lash snaps. “You’re in my apartment.”
“And why is that, exactly?” Pocket asks.
“Did you want him to wait outside? That’s what he was gonna do,” Lash says, but it’s not convincing even to his ears.
“You’re not exactly a courteous host,” Pocket observes. They’re so rude sometimes, even when they’re right.
“You’re barely housebroken,” Abrams says.
Lash sputters, stares at the ceiling for a moment. This has gone off the rails, and he’s the only one who can get it back. Besides, there’s still that wormy feeling in his brain telling him he owes Abrams. “Fine, the detective came here for a drink while we waited for you, and now that you’re back, I’m about five minutes from letting you make it up to me by sucking my cock, and if you want him to stay and watch, he can.”
Pocket blinks at him like there’s nothing but air between their ears. Abrams makes a sound like he’s a telephone that’s been left off the hook too long.
“What?” Lash asks. He glances back at Abrams. “Is that a no? It doesn’t sound like a no.”
To his credit, Abrams recovers faster than Pocket, which makes sense; he’s a lot more experienced, because he’s fucking old. “What the hell, Lash? Is that why you really brought me here?”
“Yes. Obviously.”
“I’m not here for a pity fuck.”
Lash rolls his eyes. “It’s not pity. I owe you one, and they’re not gonna say no. Unless they do, then I guess we can work something else out, but they won’t.” He turns his attention back to Pocket, whose entire face has flooded red. “Will you, babe?”
Their mouth works awkwardly while they try to gather up their wits again. “I don’t— I mean, no? Yes? I’m— there were double negatives in there.”
“Do you want the detective to stay the night?” he asks.
Pocket can barely look at him, and they’re certainly not looking at Abrams, which is how Lash knows he was right about all of this — and how he knows it’s important. Their thoughts are all scattered and flighty now; it’s written all over their face. There’s one solution he knows of.
He grabs their chin and forces them to make eye contact with him, watches their pupils dilate and their cheeks flush, feels their breaths come quicker across his hand. But their body starts to relax like they know he’s got them, because he does. “Do you? Yes or no?”
“Yes,” they answer, quiet and shaky.
“Say it louder. Say it to him.” Lash doesn’t want to look at their face when they do it, so he looks at Abrams instead, taking vicious delight in watching him squirm.
“Yes,” they say again, louder this time.
Abrams is too busy gaping to answer.
Lash has to do everything around here. “What do you say, Detective?”
Oh, there’s anger simmering under there somewhere. Or maybe that’s just his face. But probably if their roles were reversed, Lash might feel bitter. Lash took this away from him and now he’s offering it up again, because as the winner, he can afford to be generous. It’s funnier, knowing it rubs everything in Abrams’ face and that he wants it anyway. He might feel bad about using Pocket this way, but the kid’s wild-eyed look says they don’t mind at all, even if they’d never have come up with it on their own.
“Yeah, okay,” Abrams finally says. The hint of self-loathing only makes it sweeter.
When Lash dares to look at Pocket again, their eyes are wider than he’s ever seen them. “Take off your clothes,” he says, which shakes them out of their stupor. Their hands are shaking when they begin. They never even got a chance to take the scarf off before Lash pulled the rug out from under them.
He can barely stand to let them shrug out of their coat before he’s yanking them forward into a kiss. They sink into it, body angled heavily into his, almost as reassuring as the solid feel of them under his hands, the heat of their flesh when he rucks up their shirt to grab them.
There’s a distracting weight at his back though: Abrams’ stare. It’s palpable, heavy as his breathing. Lash extracts his tongue from Pocket’s mouth long enough to ask, “You just gonna stare or what?”
It’s all the detective needs to lurch into action. He has to set aside that book, shrug out of his big coat to reveal the wrinkled white shirt and suspenders beneath. They’re barely able to contain his huge shoulders, his huge chest. There’s not time to appreciate it before he’s grabbing Pocket by the collar, angling their face up, and kissing them like he wants to suck the air from their lungs.
Pocket sags against him, seemingly held up by Abrams’ mouth. Those huge hands are moving though, tugging at their clothing. The kiss has to break for their vest to come off.
Lash takes advantage to pull them close again, tugging at the buttons of their shirt. Their mouth finds his easily, hungrily, even with their lips still wet with Abrams’ spit. Abrams plasters himself to their back, big hands dwarfing their waist as he bites at their neck.
This is how they undress Pocket. It’s not quite a tug of war, but it’s too messy to be proper cooperation. Their efforts are still rewarded with a Pocket who looks dazed and overwhelmed.
“Come on, baby,” Lash says. “Let’s show him how much you love the Lash’s cock, and maybe you can have both of ’em.”
He steers them toward the bed and down onto it with a swat on the ass, which hasn’t entirely healed from the last time he got too enthusiastic about it.
Lash yanks his shirt off, but he doesn’t bother doing more than unbuttoning his pants before Pocket is climbing into the bed next to him, batting his hands away so they can do the rest.
Their dark eyes catch his and their lips part, and they’re so unbearably pretty in that moment that his chest squeezes and he has to look away. Abrams still stands, now looking between their legs like he’s seen the pearly gates. As far as Lash is concerned, Pocket’s ass might as well be heaven, but he’s not sure he’s ever taken the time to admire it. He’s usually too busy wearing it out.
“You just gonna stare, Detective?”
He waits until he knows Abrams’ hot eyes are on him, then Lash’s hand tangles in Pocket’s hair. He might have guided them here, but they rub their face along his cock all on their own. They drag their tongue down the underside then suck his balls into their mouth one at a time.
They’re still there when they let out a moan, vibrations buzzing pleasantly all through him. A glance tells him Abrams has eased a slick finger in. He’s staring at Lash’s cock though, or at least at Pocket’s mouth on it.
When their lips trace back up to the tip of his cock, Lash smirks right at Abrams. “You don’t have to baby them,” he says. Then he yanks them forward by the hair until he’s buried to the root down their fucking perfect throat. They stiffen once with surprise, but then they relax into it, letting him guide their mouth along his cock however he wants.
Abrams is still watching, so Lash says, “See? Told you.” To punctuate his point, he eases his cock all the way in and holds them there, listening to the sound of their breath coming faster in between their throat constricting around him. They don’t even try to move, utterly content to stay there keeping his dick warm all night if they have to. “They’re not gonna break. They like it.” He gives them a light smack on the cheek. “Don’t you, babe?”
Not like he’s given them much way to answer. They manage to moan something that sounds like a yes, and they stare right up at him, eyelashes damp and lips stretched pastel pink.
As much as he’d love to spend all night giving their gag reflex a workout, there’s Abrams to contend with. Whatever he does to their ass, they shudder all over, and Lash is sure the only thing keeping their attention on him is his fist in their hair, his cock wedged down their throat.
When Abrams’ hand lands hard on their ass, the slap practically echoes off the walls. Their mouth leaves Lash’s cock with a wet pop. They keep staring though, face flushed and eyes huge and looking at Lash like they feel things he knows they don’t. That guileless, open expression would make it easy to pretend.
He doesn’t care to lie to himself today, but it does tempt him into a single moment of gentleness, fingertips tracing the line of Pocket’s cheekbone.
Then Abrams drags them away, pulls and turns until they’re up on their knees. They’ve never been delicate, but they look so small in Abrams’ huge arms, swaying like they’re drunk. He grabs them by the jaw, staring at their red, wet mess of a face.
“You wanted me meaner, you should have said something,” he growls. Then he hooks a hand behind one of their knees and yanks until they’re straddling his wide lap, nearly unbalanced by the motion.
Lash’s neglected cock is already throbbing between his thighs, but the sight of Abrams, naked and posed between Pocket’s long legs would have him hard in an instant. Abrams reclines back against the wall, and Lash fixates on Pocket’s long fingers splayed over one of those enormous pecs.
Abrams’ cock is enormous too, somehow bigger in person than Lash imagined in even his worst moments. And now he’s lining up the fat crown of it with one hand and steadying Pocket with the other. “Go on then,” he demands.
For a moment, Pocket hovers there, thighs tense and shaking. Then they sink, clumsy and infuriatingly slow, down, up again, testing. Lash never makes them do any of the work, so it’s fascinating to watch the way they work up to getting even the head of Abrams’ cock inside them. It stretches them wide right from the start, and the wordless sounds they make shoot all down Lash’s spine.
Eventually gravity helps things along. “God, fuck,” Pocket grits out when they finally sink down on the thickest part. They’re flushed and panting, starting to squirm, and they’re barely halfway down. One thigh muscle visibly spasms. The hand on their hip urges them upward, then back down, and their breath comes shaky and thin, but it does let them take another inch or two.
When progress stalls, Lash sighs, grabbing the lube. He wraps a rough hand around Abrams’ cock, getting a grunt of appreciation. Pocket moans softly when Lash eases more slick around their tightly stretched rim, around Abrams’ cock where it meets their body. Everything feels hot to the touch, feverish.
“Come on, baby,” he says. “Relax. I want you good and open when it’s my turn.” The glide is smoother now, and when they’re finally seated on Abrams’ lap, they sag back against Lash for a moment.
“Oh, you’re not done,” he tells them, both hands sliding to their hips. He pushes down, steady pressure until they sink that little bit farther, until Abrams moves beneath them, almost involuntarily, digging his cock upward.
When Lash claws his fingers into their stomach, he can almost — holy shit. There it is, Abrams’ huge fucking cock hitting so deep inside them that he can feel it, almost see it. With a feral sound, he eases both hands under their ass, guiding them back up, back down. He’s doing all the work again, really, but Pocket picks up the rhythm and starts participating on their own after a few turns.
Abrams looks like he’s lost at first, but when he finally rejoins the action, it’s to seize Pocket’s waist again to speed them up, urging them on until he’s sliding them along his whole length like some kind of sex toy. It’s a far cry from the patient, tender care Pocket described from before. Abrams fucks them like they’re nothing more than a hole to bury his cock in, and they cry out, overwhelmed, blunt nails digging into his chest like it’s all they can do to stay upright.
Why hasn’t Lash ever made them do this? What they lack in rhythm they more than make up for in how fucking wrecked they look. Abrams is so deep that they’re shaking all over, eyelids fluttering, mouth open wide and all but sobbing.
When Abrams finally comes, it’s with a slam of his hips so hard he nearly unseats them. He pins their hips down as he empties those huge balls inside them, jerking and grinding up into them like he doesn’t want to waste a drop. Then he collapses back against the wall like his strings have been cut, panting hard and eyelids heavy.
Lash helps Pocket slide carefully off his cock, which slips free wet and easy, still impressive even when it’s soft.
“Looks like you’re gonna be sore, baby,” Lash says. Some of his sympathy is even real. When he bends them forward over Abrams’ body, their hole is an angry red. They mumble something in response that almost sounds like words, but then they moan softly when he nudges his cock in.
It slides in easier than it ever has, like a hot knife through butter. Everything is wet already, and scorching hot, and they curse and shudder on his cock, sagging their weight right on top of Abrams, who watches their face with an unreadable look on his own.
A wet mess is dripping down Lash’s balls before he’s done. Pocket has to be so sore by now, but they still whine for it, barely managing to wiggle their hips backward into him. He could be kinder after all they’ve been through, but they keep on moaning for him, “Please, Lash,” again and again, and sinking down farther until their mouth is right against Abrams’ skin, and that’s all he really needed out of this.
When he comes it’s with a sense of triumph, knowing that Abrams watched him fuck every ounce of the detective’s come back out of them. The guy can’t even let Lash revel in the thrill of victory; while his head is still spinning, Abrams’ mouth suddenly crushes against his. Lash blames the recent orgasm for making him kiss back.