Chapter Text
“Ow,” Pocket groans first thing in the morning. Entirely fair, all things considered. The protective instinct rises, regardless of the why.
They don’t need him.
Lash is there already, curling himself around their back with his mouth on their shoulder, casual like this is the routine. He says something low that Abrams refuses to hear, but he can’t tune out Pocket’s quiet laugh or the light smack of Lash’s hand on their flank.
“Ow,” they say again, but this time it’s playful, even turned on.
Abrams doesn’t want to see this, but he can’t look away. Pocket’s sleepy smile isn’t for him, and neither is the lazy way they stretch under Lash’s hand.
It’s a big hand, for a human of Lash’s height. Or maybe it only looks that way when it splays over Pocket’s slim waist, digs into their flat stomach, slips beneath the sheet draped precariously over their hips.
Abrams drags his gaze away, but he doesn’t get far. He’s distracted by watching Pocket’s lashes flutter closed again — and by Lash’s eyes on him. Lash smirks, and the muscles in his arm move smoothly under the skin as he does something beneath that sheet. It doesn’t take much imagination to guess, because Lash looks perfectly composed while Pocket begins to squirm. Their head turns, gasping pink lips scraping along the rough edge of Lash’s jaw. He only looks more smug after that.
Abrams’ heartbeat strains the thick vein in his neck, thudding in his chest, darting hot between his thighs. He’s not even sure he can get it up after last night, but his cock twitches anyway.
All that’s before Lash starts talking. Of course he can’t get enough of his own voice.
“Took two dicks last night, and you’re already hungry for more,” Lash says, never looking away from Abrams. Pocket arches, one hand clawing at his arm before it goes lax, slips down to join Lash’s hand beneath the sheet. “Wanna throw out a welcome mat and see how many you can take before you cry mercy?”
Something sick spikes through Abrams’ gut. It’s one thing to have to share Pocket with Lash, but other men? He’s grinding his teeth before he knows it. It doesn’t drown out the sound of Pocket’s shuddery moan.
Lash’s motives for the offer he made last night are opaque, but Abrams doesn’t think he’d do that for real. Too selfish, maybe, or too insecure to see how he stacks up.
It doesn’t stop him from talking about it. “How many before you’re begging us to stop?” Lash has this feverish look, but he hasn’t broken eye contact with Abrams. Pocket murmurs something indistinct, and the sheet finally loses its tenuous hold. It slips away to reveal both their hands working the length of Pocket’s cock, wet red crown popping in and out of view in Lash’s big fist. “But you’d keep going if I told you to, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Pocket says, but only after a couple of wordless, failed attempts.
There’s vicious triumph glinting in Lash’s narrow eyes. The message to Abrams is clear enough: you’re not special.
What an asshole.
Not like he’s much nicer to Pocket. He smirks one last time at Abrams, then rubs his mouth along Pocket’s neck to their ear. “Then go entertain our guest.” He lets go then, and they make a noise that’s somehow indignant and needy and hot all at once.
“You’re joking,” they say.
“Nah, babe. Someone’s gotta make breakfast.” He wipes his hand off on their stomach, then he’s up.
Abrams would like to say there’s nothing remotely impressive about the guy, that he can’t see whatever Pocket sees. He’d be lying.
It would be so easy for Lash to be another top-heavy meathead, but even if Abrams had never noticed the painted on blue jeans, seeing Lash naked robs him of any hope he may have had for the egomaniac to suffer unfortunate proportions. His thighs and calves are as muscular and pleasantly thick as the rest of him, peppered with dark, curling hair, and his ass is no different. His half-hard cock isn’t the biggest Abrams has ever seen, but it’s big enough to make Lash insufferable.
Pocket certainly has a type.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” they say. They look guilty, but guilt and shame might be their default setting at this point, right after paranoia.
It takes a moment to even realize what they’re referring to. “Oh, so you’re not offended at having to entertain me?”
“No.” Their eyes rake over his chest and arms, down his stomach and… well, that’s had their attention from the start. Funny, though, how big their eyes get, like they haven’t seen his cock — haven’t had it inside them — before.
He doesn’t move, just lets them look. Maybe it’s stupid or petty, but he wants to see if they’ll come to him. “It’s alright,” he says. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He knows it’s a little manipulative. It’s hard to care about that.
Pocket’s mouth twitches, amused. “That’s not a problem.” They do come to him then, one hand sliding up his stomach to his chest.
They’re bolder than they were before. Lash’s doing, most likely.
His mark is all over them. Their neck is red from his stubble, and there’s a yellowing, mouth-sized bruise on their collar bone. Abrams knows from last night there’s another one on their flank about the size of Lash’s palm.
That asshole got to almost everything first, and anything he didn’t do before, he got to do after Abrams hand fucking delivered Pocket back to him. That’s the worst of it; not that it’s going to take forever to wipe the memory of Lash off their skin, but that it’s all his fault. He should have taken them with him. Should have shelled out for a hotel or cashed in a favor somewhere for a place to stay. Trusted that Geist was too busy trying to save her own skin to betray them — or trusted that she’s too self-absorbed to see who’s under her nose, as it turns out.
They could have been happy.
He’d never forgive himself if something happened to them though. They seem happy enough with Lash anyway. Abrams is too selfish to be satisfied with it, but that doesn’t make it untrue.
It doesn’t make any sense, except in all the ways it does. Pocket needs someone who can take care of them without underestimating them, and somehow, as far as they’re concerned, all the disrespectful shit Lash does translates as I trust that you can handle it. Lash is horrible to everyone, but outside of bed he’s done nothing but dote on Pocket where Abrams has seen. He looked sick when they were missing. Even this was Lash’s idea, because he thought they’d want it, and he was right, because he’s been paying attention — though, in hindsight, maybe that one didn’t take a genius to put together.
Jacob Lash is ass over teakettle in love. If Pocket doesn’t know it, it’s only because they’re terminally incapable of looking away from their own problems long enough to notice.
He’s in the kitchen now, clattering around and even humming to himself, and he’s in love with Pocket. Abrams kisses them, and he hopes Lash sees; viciously, he hopes it hurts.
He knows it’s ugly, and maybe it bleeds into the kiss. Pocket breaks it with eyes like some animal about to bolt, but they’ve been with Lash long enough to be accustomed to his way of doing things. When Abrams seizes them by the hair and goes in harder this time, they meet it, melt into it — surrender.
His hands slide along their smooth skin, feeling it pebble beneath his touch. If he’s honest with himself, he’s missed this at least as much as he’s missed them specifically — someone to hold, another body warm against his. That book’s been at his side too long. He was lonely before Pocket came along, and it’s only grown worse since.
It’s a weakness. It makes him susceptible to stupid shit, like accepting an arrangement where Jacob Lash makes the rules.
He pinches one of their nipples to distract them both. Not too hard; he doesn’t really want to hurt them. But it’s enough that they gasp, and he follows the flow of air with his tongue.
They arch against him, chasing the path of his palm down their back. He squeezes their ass and they shudder, lips trembling against his, but they don’t tell him to stop.
He thinks about sliding his fingers back into the mess he and Lash both left, seeing if they’d be willing to go again. But as much as it tempts his cock to finally fill out, he doubts they’d be so eager to ride him again. He can imagine it though, imagine their body clenching around his fingers, then his cock. Not as tight as last night maybe, but just as willing, just as hot. He could break them open again and fuck in dangerously deep, watch their eyes roll back in their pretty head. He wouldn’t even hate for Lash to be there.
He keeps all that in his head. What he does instead is wrap his hand around their cock to find it wet already. He gives a slow, slick pull, and with his other hand tugs on their hair, until they’re shuddering against him and breathing hard into his mouth.
For the second time in a matter of hours, they come all over his stomach, then they peel away from him. It’s not exactly the reunion he was hoping for, but what did he expect? Good things always slip through his fingers.
No time for self pity, though.
“Breakfast is served!” Lash announces. “If you get your batter on my pancakes, I’m tossing you out the window.”
Pocket lets out a sound halfway between a groan and a self-conscious laugh. A laugh. Trying to wring the slightest chuckle out of them feels like pulling teeth sometimes, and here’s Lash getting a laugh with something that barely constitutes humor.
They leave him cold when they vacate the bed. Abrams does not want to watch them walk away. He does it anyway. They bypass the kitchen in favor of the bathroom, but not before Lash lands a light swat on their ass. They yelp, then laugh again.
Abrams sits up. It’s a good distraction from the sudden knot in his stomach. “You got another place I can clean up?”
“Sink’s right there.” Lash’s tone is nothing like the one he uses with Pocket, but it’s not peevish or overtly hostile, which might be a miracle on its own.
It’s hard to ignore the way his eyes linger and the way he tries to hide it. It’s also hard to ignore the body still mostly exposed — though he’s apparently put on underwear, if only to protect his favorite body part while cooking. Abrams huffs, thinking of dogs circling each other.
“Something funny, Bluey?”
“Yeah. Feeling real entertained.” Abrams gestures at the room broadly, unsure which part to focus on first. “What about this isn’t funny?”
Lash narrows his eyes like he thinks it’s a trick question. “Glad you’re enjoying the hospitality,” he says almost sullenly.
Abrams hides his next chuckle by turning to the sink. For the briefest moment, he understands Pocket’s affection. Lash is still infuriating, but tilted at this strange, intimate angle, it’s easy to think he’s funny, even — maybe especially — when he isn’t trying.
Then there’s the loyalty he’s shown Pocket and the willingness to help them, whatever his motive may be. Abrams dries off his hands and everything else, turning to face Lash, who sneers down at the towel in Abrams’ hands. Even pulling a face, that jawline is nothing to sneeze at.
Abrams really doesn’t need this, but he wants to know what Lash will do. He steps closer, and Lash looks surprised but stands his ground. He’s tall for a human, but he has to crane his neck to keep eye contact. It satisfies some primal bullshit in Abrams’ brain.
Abrams is good at his job. He knows how to read people. Those impressive tits rise and fall with the sudden change in Lash’s breathing. His jaw tightens, and the longer they stand close, the more pink suffuses Lash’s cheeks. Abrams lingers, not entirely sure what to do with the body of evidence collecting in front of him.
“I leave you alone for two minutes, and we’re back to this?” Pocket asks, exasperated.
Lash breaks into motion immediately. “Put that towel in the bathroom,” he all but mumbles.
By the time Abrams has done so, Lash and Pocket have taken their seats at the table. He thinks briefly about leaving, but that feels like letting Lash win whatever this next phase of the game is. So he pulls on his underwear and trousers, then settles in at the table with them.
The pancakes are perfectly fluffy. Pocket is smiling and Lash looks proud of himself, disgustingly fond every time he glances at them. He’s less doting with Abrams, but he’s civil, which isn’t so bad. Abrams wants to resent all these things, but the maple syrup on his tongue makes it hard.
When he leaves, they’ll still be here like this, together. Pocket will be laughing, and he’ll be alone again.
Having Pocket in his arms felt like a win for a few minutes there, but when he finally pulls the front door shut behind him, the only sense of victory that remains is the memory of Lash’s cheeks, flushed pink.
What the fuck has he done to himself?