Chapter Text
Abrams knows a few things about Jacob Lash. One, the obvious, he fights in the Bear Pit and makes a pretty decent chunk of change doing it. He’s obnoxiously good at the fighting part. Better than he has any right to be. The money clearly isn’t life-changing, but comfortable enough that when he pulls it out from wherever he’s stuffed it, he’ll have a nice little nest egg.
Two, he has a day job down at the docks, which may or may not grant him opportunities to participate in some occasional extracurricular smuggling. Three, he has almost no friends, or none that seem willing to admit it beyond bragging rights at the Bear Pit; for someone with so many fans, he’s sparse on genuine connections. Four, he’s arrogant, petty, and impulsive, and he’s not afraid to make enemies.
Abrams knew all of this before the whole situation with Pocket began. The only thing he’s learned since is that, five, Lash is in love. Abrams wonders if Lash even knows it himself.
Pocket probably doesn’t know. They’re harder to read, which is why Abrams only has half the story here.
None of it should matter. It’s not his business anymore, and a one-off threesome doesn’t magically change that. He’s still on the outside, burdened with this wretched tome and all the assholes who want their hands on it, and they’re together. Without him. Happy, or near enough.
Abrams is not in love. He likes Pocket, likely more than he should, but he also knows his own weaknesses. He’s lonely, has been for too long, and he’s got a soft spot for big brown eyes asking for his help. He’s surprised Pocket came on to him, but he’s not surprised he said yes.
Contrary to popular belief, Abrams leads with his head. Or, okay, maybe sometimes with his fists, but not his heart or his dick — even if the latter does sometimes takes control when his faculties are compromised and there’s a naked person in his long-empty bed, and then that part talks the heart into getting involved.
Just because it wasn’t love doesn’t mean there was nothing. He cares about Pocket, and that hasn’t changed. It’s easy to imagine they would get to love eventually, if he hadn’t gone about this all wrong. But now, no. Not really. He doesn’t think so, anyway. What he misses is the possibility of love, but that’s not quite the same.
Besides, it never would have worked out. Pocket wants their old life back, and there’s not a place for someone almost twice their age. No place for a worn out private eye when the life they’re reaching for is lived between a mansion and a boardroom.
He wonders if there’s a place for a pit fighter. Probably not.
He wonders if Lash knows. Probably so. Lash is an idiot, but he’s not that stupid.
Abrams saw it at the start, Lash’s soft, gooey feelings barely contained inside that crunchy asshole shell. They’ve only grown more obvious since. Still, Lash doesn’t strike him as particularly self-reflective; even if he is more astute than Abrams previously gave him credit for, it’s easy to clear a bar that’s floor level. The point is that whatever Abrams let Pocket do to his tired, lonely heart is chump change compared to what they’re going to do to Lash’s when they leave. You’d be a fool to think if stands a chance against when.
It’s not pity, what Abrams feels. What do you call it when you’re envious but know you dodged a bullet? Is it gratitude or something else?
The Ritual can’t come fast enough, as far as he’s concerned. He’ll be able to put all this behind him just like he’s hoping to do with the tome. Naturally, every day leading up to the Ritual drags on endlessly.
He gets antsy at Geist’s place. Feels like the high ceiling is closing in on him if he looks too long. She’s out again, and it makes his skin crawl to think what she might be up to. Makes his skin crawl to stay here without her too.
Against his better judgment, he lets his restless feet take the lead while his mind wanders. He’s not aware of where they’ve taken him until he hears the crowd.
The Bear Pit.
The whole place reeks of alcohol and humanity. The metal tang of blood is a faint base note beneath the sweat and oil, even if it’s soaked from floor to rafters at this point.
This close to the Ritual, it would be stupid for Lash to risk an injury. But he always wins, and he is stupid. His face is on all the posters for tonight. And if Lash is here, Pocket won’t be far. Abrams lights a cigarette and skirts the crowd, looking for the familiar mop of hair in the audience.
He finds them before the round begins, leaned against a wall and half in shadow, which he should have expected. Their paranoia feels contagious, rippling across his skin. All the ease they showed in Lash’s apartment is gone here in the crowd. They smoke with stiff movements of their arms, jerking their hand to their mouth and away again.
As if they feel him watching, their eyes flick toward him. Maybe he should take it as a compliment that their shoulders inch away from their ears at the sight of him. Whatever they had before can’t be what they have now or maybe ever, but it wasn’t built on nothing.
Pocket’s mouth twitches like it’s considering a smile. “Not sure I expected to see you again. Not so soon, anyway,” they say.
“Couldn’t stay at Jeanne’s without her there. That place gives me the creeps.”
“Jeanne,” Pocket repeats. He’s not sure if it’s a question.
“Yeah, we’re close now. Best friends.”
They do smirk then, head lolling against the wall to look at him more directly. “I bet.”
If he’s not imagining it, they give him a once over then seem to think better of it, turning away more quickly than they turned to look.
Abrams wants to say more, but the lights dim and the spotlight goes wild, and the sudden thunder of the crowd drowns out even his thoughts. Lash leaps into the ring to deafening screams — and plenty of boos. Even the audience knows he’s fun to hate. Not so easy anymore though, Abrams thinks with some chagrin. He wonders if some of the same magic Lash worked on Pocket has rubbed off on him. Just an ounce of it, maybe.
Once the first round starts, Pocket leans forward, a half-smile on their face as they zero in on Lash like they’re proud of him. This isn’t the dutiful appearance at a match one might expect; they want to be here, actively rooting for him.
Abrams follows their gaze to the ring, and maybe he gets it. Lash dances around his opponent obnoxiously, flashy and loud, but when he hits it’s fast, brutal, efficient. It’s a sleight of hand. Look over here at the imbecile so you don’t see the hit coming.
Strange to think Jacob Lash might be relying on someone to underestimate him. If Abrams were in the ring, he probably wouldn’t be so willing to buy the ruse. This is Lash’s calling, and he is great at it.
It’s annoying, how good he is at it. It’s annoying that he can be so unthreatened by his opponent and that it pans out in his favor anyway. It’s annoying that when he brags about his beautiful physique, he’s not wrong. Annoying that he’s handsome, annoying that he gets the one that got away from Abrams, annoying that his dick is as big as he says it is, annoying that he’s so goddamned cocky and so right to be.
Abrams grunts in irritation, trying to resist the roar of the crowd that pulses in his veins. When he tears his gaze away, he finds Pocket still rapt with attention. In the dimmed lights, it’s hard to say, but he thinks their cheeks are flushed, eyes feverish as they watch Lash’s every move, lips parted, breath coming fast.
Abrams doesn’t need more reminders of this. Pocket might not be in love with Lash, but they certainly want him. There’s no faking that kind of look, not when they aren’t even aware of their audience.
He remembers that first time, catching them in his bed, writhing around their own fingers. Remembers the way they looked up at him through their eyelashes and said please and offered him exactly what he felt so stupidly guilty for wanting. But he’ll never know if they looked at him like that when he wasn’t paying attention, if they want him as bad or in the same way, if they would want him the same way if he had made a different calculation.
He wishes they would. It doesn’t have to be love to make him jealous. That doesn’t feel like the whole story even to him, though. It’s the other part that nags worse, no matter how hard he tries to shove it down.
He stands with them, one hand dangerously close to theirs, like this is some delicate Victorian flirtation where the brush of their pinkies is considered scandalous. After the things they’ve done together, it’s almost funny. He doesn’t touch though. He can’t. So he leans against the wall and he watches the fight and he pretends he can’t feel their excitement.
Lash wins, of course. The other guy loses a tooth. He’s lucky to get out with his jaw intact. The crowd goes crazy for Lash, and Pocket glows with an easy, proprietary pleasure. Half this audience would fuck Lash right now, and word on the street is he hasn’t so much as looked at another person since Pocket came around. They’re proud of him, sure, but they also seem to like having something other people want.
They burst into motion when Lash exits the stage. “Are you coming?” they ask, eyes sweeping down Abrams’s body. They’re not so confident they can’t do it without blushing, but still, bolder than before. He wonders if there’s any way to tell that they’ve rubbed off on Lash too.
His feet have minds of their own again. Pocket beckons, Abrams follows. They keep to the back wall until it’s time to descend into the crowd. Down at the floor, they skirt around the ring, then make it to a door packed with people waiting to catch a glimpse or an autograph of their favorite fighters.
Pocket waves at the two meatheads flanking the door and they’re ushered through, familiar enough to the Bear Pit staff that nobody asks why Abrams gets to follow. Why did he come down here anyway? This is Lash’s territory, maybe even more than his apartment is, and Pocket’s right at home here.
Sweat and hairspray overwhelm the back hall, and glitter sticks to the floor. Pocket clings to one side of the hall, so Abrams follows suit. He’s grateful for the precaution when he’s almost barrelled over by a tiny woman dashing by with only half her costume in place.
It’s easy to piece together: the doors closest to the exit are dressing rooms. Farther back are a matched pair of locker rooms. When Pocket enters this one and locks the door behind them, it seems clear that the resident champion gets his own.
“It’s me,” Pocket calls before Abrams even catches sight of Lash.
“Did you see the whole thing?” Lash asks excitedly, rounding the corner. He’s shirtless, down to only a pair of shorts that can’t contain his muscular thighs, and he’s gleaming with sweat. Pocket doesn’t have time to answer him before he’s sweeping them into a kiss — one they seem to try and fail to pull away from, by virtue of whatever Lash’s hands are doing inside their coat.
Abrams clears his throat awkwardly once it’s clear Lash will keep going if he doesn’t. “We have company,” Pocket says, belated, unnecessary, and breathless.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Abrams mutters.
Lash smirks. Abrams has to remember he’s more perceptive sometimes than Abrams gives him credit for. “Aww, Detective. You missed me.”
Abrams would like to deny it, but loneliness let him fall into bed with them before and it probably will again, provided the opportunity. Still, he can’t let Lash think too much of it. “I found myself in the neighborhood.”
“You wanna watch the Lash get his post-match reward, that’s no skin off my nose.”
“Actually, that’s not—” Abrams stops himself. What is he doing here? He’s not begging Lash for permission to fuck Pocket again. God, he probably couldn’t. Not here, not where the best usable surface is a narrow bench. He’s more than aware that it takes a certain amount of work to get most people — human and Ixian alike, but especially human — ready for him. This sweaty environment isn’t exactly the place for it.
“Cat got your tongue?” Lash asks with a smirk.
“Stop antagonizing,” Pocket says. Lash’s mouth shuts immediately.
Lash studies him for another moment, looking increasingly pleased as Abrams’s cheeks grow hotter, before he turns to Pocket with a stage whisper. “Babe, I think he wants to watch you suck my dick.”
“Oh, is that what he wants?” Pocket asks.
“You’re not gonna break tradition just ’cause we’ve got an audience, right?” Lash’s hand tangles in their hair, which Abrams knows from experience that they like. The quiet sound they make is a sharp reminder that it wasn’t just him they were responding to before.
With an almost guilty glance at Abrams, Pocket nonetheless sinks to their knees, shrugging off the overcoat on the way down. They toss it aside, which is all they really have time to do before Lash is pulling them closer, rubbing their face against the tent in his shorts. They mouth at him through the fabric, a pretty flush staining their cheeks right away.
Abrams swallows, tongue dry and clinging to his palate, and he’s half aware that Lash is smirking again. Smug asshole. Heat swirls in Abrams’s belly and he can feel sweat prickle under his arms, but nobody’s invited him to do anything. He can only stand there while Pocket and Lash work together to ease Lash’s waistband down.
Pocket’s fingers tug those shorts and the jock strap beneath down Lash’s thighs, but their lips are already on him, starting with his balls before smearing spit all the way up the length of his cock. They bring one hand into the mix when they finally ease the crown into their mouth, lashes fluttering closed.
Breath rushes from Abrams’s lungs at the sight. He remembers seeing Pocket from above while they did this, thinking they seemed to like it then, but from this angle it’s somehow more. They suck Lash’s cock like they could do it for hours, like when he finally breaches their throat it’s as good as when they’re the one getting all the attention.
The hot flush crawls from Abrams’s face down to his gut, leaving pinpricks of sweat all down his body. He needs to get out of this thick coat.
Lash strokes a hand through Pocket’s hair, leisurely fucking their mouth, but his heavy eyes are on Abrams. “You should see how turned on he looks, babe,” Lash says. “Can’t take his eyes off your slutty mouth.” Pocket makes a sound around Lash’s dick that causes his fingers to spasm in their hair and his eyes squeeze shut for a moment. They fly back open right away, zeroing in on Abrams. Lash might sound a little breathless, but he’s perfectly in control of the situation when he says, “He’s so hard I can see it from here. Bet he wants to jerk off so bad right now.”
Lash isn’t wrong. Abrams’s dick strains almost painfully against the front of his trousers. He could walk over there and join and they wouldn’t protest, he thinks. Lash probably has lube in here if this is their alleged tradition. For a moment, the idea that he could slam Lash into one of these lockers and fuck him until that smug look disappears is so overwhelming that he has to focus on breathing to keep himself in check.
“You wanna take pity on him?” Lash asks. “Wanna let me watch you suck that fat blue dick?”
He tightens a hand in Pocket’s hair, yanks until their mouth dislodges with a pop. They look dazed, red in the face, fluid dripping from their lips and the tip of Lash’s cock. “Yes,” they say when the fog clears, and it feels like someone’s punched Abrams in the gut.
Lash glances at him, a challenge and an invitation, and says, “Take your coat off before you overheat, Detective.” In his mouth, the title sounds like an insult.
Humiliation burns in his gut as he complies. It means unlatching the handcuff holding the tome to himself, and it makes him feel strange to leave it sitting on a bench so near Pocket and even Lash, as dangerous as it is. But it hasn’t done anything merely by lying around, and it’s not going to start in the middle of an ill-advised threesome. He drops his coat right on top of it.
He shrugs out of his suspenders and steps closer, trying and failing not to look as eager as he is while he fumbles the button of his trousers. While he’s busy, Pocket also wriggles out of their top layers, leaving them shirtless on the floor with their knees spread, ignoring the obvious erection in favor of the two now in front of them.
Lash guides their head, but it’s Pocket who reaches for Abrams, Pocket whose mouth opens and wets the tip of his cock with their soft lips and eager tongue. “Shit,” he mumbles, eyes closing as they suck at the crown, content to let their hand do most of the work at the moment. It’s fair, he thinks; it’s not any less of a struggle to get his cock down this end as it is the other. But he knows they could if they worked up to it, because they have once before, and that knowledge burns in his spine and makes his tail and toes curl restlessly.
Their mouth eases off but their hand stays as they go back to Lash, who fucks their throat with ease. Pocket’s arm has to reach so far to get to Abrams that it’s ridiculous. His eyes catch on Lash’s face, so close now, at the pink bottom lip just visible under his stupid mustache, shining wet with his spit. He steps closer until their hips are brushing, for Pocket’s sake.
As if they’re trying to incentivize him, their mouth returns to him, slippery with more than just spit, and it’s insane how good it feels to know that Lash’s precome is easing the way for their mouth. It’s a filthy thought, one that steals the air from his lungs. They look just as content like this as they did getting their mouth fucked by Lash, even when Lash’s grip in their hair pulls them back then shoves them down so far on Abrams’s dick that their throat spasms around him.
They withdraw, back to Lash’s again, and he gets lost in it, in watching Pocket’s lips redden and swell as they fuck their mouth onto two different cocks, watching the way they make it farther along Abrams’s length with each attempt. Their chin shines with spit and their face flushes red, and they look like they’re exactly where they want to be forever.
It could be minutes, hours, seconds. He’s so distracted by Pocket that he doesn’t notice when Lash settles a hand on his hip, but he notices when it begins to move along the top curve of his ass. The tip of Pocket’s nose nearly brushes his pubes and their agile fingers tease his balls, and at the same time, Lash’s hand closes around the base of his tail, the rest of his fingers dipping down into the crack of Abrams’s ass. “Oh, fuck,” he says, feeling it from scalp to toes.
“I knew it,” Lash says smugly, still toying with his tail. Abrams doesn’t have any recourse except to yank the back of his neck and kiss him.
He doesn’t know what the boundaries are here, because they were never set, but he knows this one feels like crossing them. What they did agree to was sharing Pocket between them — Lash acting like he’s loaning them out, magnanimously sharing some possession, which should not be hot but which somehow so clearly is, if only because any one of them could reveal it for the lie it is at any moment. Lash is wrapped around Pocket’s little finger, not the other way around.
Still, Lash himself was never on offer. Maybe that’s why Abrams does it, why he sinks his teeth into Lash’s bottom lip, clenches his fingers around the nape of his neck, digs his thumb into the pressure point behind his ear. Whatever Lash thinks of this breach, he doesn’t stop Abrams, and in fact his fingers abandon Abrams’s tail to dip lower, rubbing down the crease of his ass until they’re brushing dry over his hole.
Between that and Pocket’s mouth, he’s about to shake apart where he stands. It’s a matter of willpower not to fall to his knees. He wants to do more, wants to grab Lash and shove him around, show him that Abrams isn’t a pushover, but when he’s trapped between the two of them like this, maybe he is.
The pressure that’s been building in his gut finally tightens, coalesces, then spills. Pocket makes a sound of surprise but swallows dutifully. He comes with Jacob Lash’s mouth under his, and he tries not to think too hard about it because at least his cock was somewhere less involved with Lash himself. Still, it feels… damning.
When he’s done he backs away, knees still rubbery, to watch Lash wrench Pocket’s head back by the hair and strip his cock. Still dumbfounded by his recent orgasm, he’s mesmerized by the way Lash’s come stripes Pocket’s face. Despite its recent workout, Abrams’s cock tries to twitch.
Lash drags them to their feet, gets a hand down their pants — the same hand that was in Abrams’s, which he tries not to think too hard about — and they’re coming almost as soon as he touches them. Then he laughs, wiping at their face with his comparatively cleaner hand. He smears a streak of his come off their cheek and sweeps it into their mouth. Their red lips close around his thumb like it’s reflex, and he says something quiet to them that Abrams can’t hear over the ringing in his ears.
Pocket leans their weight into him like their strings have been cut, forehead pressing into the enormous pecs that even Abrams can’t pretend aren’t impressive, and Lash’s face goes soft. Sweetness doesn’t suit his craggy features, the rugged jaw or the stark cheekbones or the caveman brow, Abrams thinks. Lash punctuates the thought when his mouth comes to rest on the top of their head, filthy fingers stroking through their hair.
He catches Abrams looking and the expression hardens again. It’s not outright hostility for once, but certainly whatever soft thing is at the core of him wasn’t meant to have a witness — not even Pocket, and certainly not Abrams.
“You’re a mess,” Lash says, squeezing a hand around Pocket’s hip. “Why don’t we say bye-bye to the detective then hit the shower so nobody out there knows how nasty you are?”
Pocket snorts into his chest, but they nod too.
Abrams is dismissed, just like that. He doesn’t know what he expected. Not like there’s a place to spend the night here in the locker room. And he’s absolutely not going to beg to stick around or head back to Lash’s place, so yeah, he’s done here. He’s not exactly getting any of that authority back.
“Yeah,” Abrams says, tugging his clothes back into place. His trousers aren’t as sticky as they could be, and he’s walking back in the dark with a coat. He’ll be fine. “Guess I’ll see you around,” he says as casually as he can. With no rules or expectations, he figures he doesn’t get to be disappointed either. He excuses himself before Pocket can do something ill advised like try to kiss him or say something sweet, and before Lash gets any further opportunities to reassert his control over the situation.
Abrams returns himself to his usual state, drags himself out onto the street, and lights a cigarette hoping it will wipe the taste of Lash’s tongue out of his mouth.