Spiritual Overflow

Shiv finds Pocket standing shirtless at the sink, shaving their face. They’re close enough to finished that he doesn’t feel bad about easing in behind them, hands on their hips. They try to ignore him while they deal with the last of it, wiping the remaining foam from their face. 

He kisses their bare shoulder, then their neck, then he sinks his teeth in.

Pocket squirms in an unsuccessful attempt to dislodge him. “Come on, I’m not a chew toy.” 

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, then he swaps to the other side. There are already bite marks on their shoulder here, left over from last night.

“Like an animal.” They roll their eyes, but they’re not fooling him; their head tilts to make more room for his mouth. 

They’re not wrong, not really. Every part of him likes them, likes the way they feel under his hands and his lips, the way they sigh and lean back against him, the way they slowly, slowly have let their guard down for him. He’s the worst person they could do that around, but now that it’s happened, he feels an almost overwhelming need to honor it somehow. 

It would be nauseating if he could be bothered to care.

He grins against their skin, hands tracing up their sides. “There are worse ways to mark my territory.”

Their nose scrunches in the mirror. “That’s so gross.”

Their voice is always nice to listen to, but sometimes it hits just right, slithering under his skin without them even trying. “Say it again.”

They turn their head, glancing at him sidelong now, but they’re game. They’re always game. It drives him crazy how willing they are to fight past all that high society shame and propriety or, in this case, to wield it for the sake of indulging him. “You’re so gross,” they say. It’s not quite the same; it’s better, more forceful, their voice pitched slightly lower. Shiv can feel it in his spine. 

Pocket turns between his arms. Shiv’s distracted for a moment by wiping a forgotten fleck of foam from the spot between their jaw and ear. Their mouth twitches before they fix it again into a firm line. “You’re repulsive.”

Shiv hums his agreement, boxing them in with his hands on the sink’s edge. He’s going in for a kiss, but they catch him by the jaw, holding him inches away. Oh, so that’s the way they want to play.

Something tightens in his stomach. “Sweet talker,” he says. “Tell me more.” 

With their mouths inches apart, Pocket says, “You disgust me.”

They smell so good, this close, this time of morning. They smell of toothpaste, of the soap they used on their body and the other one they used for their face, of shampoo and clean skin and Pocket and maybe a little like Shiv, like proximity has gotten them intertwined in this way too. 

Shiv doesn’t ever feel that clean. There’s blood on his hands that’s never coming off, caked into his knuckles and under the nails and soaked all the way to the bone. Turning it into some kind of game makes it easier to bear. 

He crowds closer, one knee sliding between theirs. “Tell me what a dirty, bad man I am,” he jokes, even if it’s not really a joke. 

Pocket isn’t a cruel person. It doesn’t come naturally to them the way it does to him. He feels something like pride when they curl their lip and say, “Why? So you can hump my leg like a dog?”w

“That what you want? I’ll do it.”

“Of course you will. But who says I want anything from someone like you?” 

Oh, that one almost hits where it hurts. It’s exciting in its way, not so far from the thrill he gets on a hunt. How close can they get to doing real damage? Closer than Shiv would let anyone else, at least. 

“What would the Baxter Society think if they knew about you? If they knew you were going to be late because you’re too busy trying to — what was it? Mark your territory? Like some mangy animal.” A hint of real disgust, like before, creeps into their voice. 

“Oh, you really hated that,” he says, laughing. “Would you rather it be you markin’ your territory?”

And okay. He didn’t entirely mean to say it. He was just following up, saying “yes, and,” and all that. But now that it’s out, well. 

There’s total silence while Pocket absorbs what they heard. The first time Shiv suggested something other than your run of the mill, accessory-free sex in the dark on a Sunday night, Pocket’s blush stretched so far down their chest that the bullet scar stood out stark and pale amid the vibrant red. They buried their face in their hands and made choking sounds— and then said yes. 

Now, they won’t quite meet his eye and they’re still blushing, but it’s only a light, flattering spread of pink across their cheeks. Again, he feels a strange sort of pride — in them, in this relationship, how far they’ve come.

“Oh my God,” they finally say. “Are you— oh my God.”

He could back down here, but he’s learned over time that Pocket being shocked very rarely leads to Pocket saying no. Sometimes, like that first time, it means they like the idea an awful lot now that they’ve realized it’s a possibility.

He decides to push instead. “You can do anything you want. I’m all yours.”

“Okay. But you want me to—”

They still can’t say it. Shiv bites back a laugh, mostly because that would delay their response further. Instead he watches while they come to terms with something brand new. 

They’re still blushing, but they meet his eye. “You want me to treat you like my private urinal?” Their voice is tinged with disapproval, but it’s also dropped low again, signaling the game is back on. 

“Oh, hell yes.” 

Pocket sneers, almost believably. “I guess that would make you good for something. Take your clothes off.”

“Jumpin’ right to it, huh?”

Pocket laughs, breaking character again. “If not now, I will literally never get up the nerve again. Besides, I kind of have to go.”

“Very practical.” He thinks about leaning in for a kiss. 

As if they can read his mind, Pocket holds him at bay with a hand on his chest. “I said take your clothes off.”

Shiv does as he’s ordered. It’s rare enough that someone gets away with telling him what to do these days. If he’s going to make an exception for anyone, they’re right in front of him. 

He doesn’t really do the sniveling obedience shit. That’s not his style. But he doesn’t mind the way Pocket looks or sounds when they’re flexing the authority he handed them. He minds even less the way they look at him when he undresses, gaze traveling slowly down his whole body like they’re seeing it for the first time, breath hitching at the sight of him. 

He’d do a whole lot of fucked up things to keep their eyes on him like that. This barely scratches the surface.

“Get in the tub,” Pocket says once they’ve looked their fill.

Compliance with that comes easy enough, even if it’s going to be hell on his knees. The porcelain is cold, and it’s cramped here. Pocket looks uncomfortable, but they’re fighting it, looking down on him like he’s ⁠— like he’s something they don’t even want to touch. Like it takes a force of will to stare at him. His heart thuds in his chest, up his throat, between his legs.

“Can’t believe you actually want this.” They scoff. “Is it even debasing yourself if you’re already this revolting?” 

He flushes deeper at that one. Hitting below the belt in more ways than one, but at least one of those ways is hot as hell. His breaths come faster, short and stuttery.

Pocket’s breathing matches his, and the color rises in their cheeks, and their eyes are these big dark glittering pools that he’s stuck staring into like a fucking sap while they open their trousers with too-steady hands. 

They swallow visibly. “You’re disgusting. A fucking animal.” Their eyes drop lower. “Are you going to touch yourself?” they sneer. 

They’re not wrong ⁠— about either thing. His hand has been drifting up his own thigh without his conscious permission. Now he digs his fingers into his thigh.

“Go ahead. Show me how nasty you really are.”

He reaches between his legs, gathers slick and smears and strokes until his stomach tightens and his thighs go tense. “Come on,” he says. “Do it.”

“You’re really going to get off to it, aren’t you? God, you’re sick.” Pocket reaches into their pants and pulls their cock free. Whatever their face and tone of voice say, they’re half hard from this, from watching him fuck his own hand and confess he wants them to drown him in their piss. 

He could stop right here if he wanted. Just lean forward and get his mouth on their cock, and it would still be good like always. But now that this possibility has been opened up, he knows it’s going to run through his veins until they help him leech it. 

“You’re so filthy,” Pocket says, more hushed now. They wring their hand around their cock like they’re trying to convince it to go down. “What kind of person wants to be treated like a toilet? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

He learned long ago to save his shame for things that actually matter, things like the blood on his hands and the mistakes that have hurt people and the way he still feels a sick thrill after a kill, but this one tests his resolve. He can feel it crawling up his chest and warming his face, but it can’t compare to the heat curling in his core or the way his hand trembles with excitement.

Pocket’s closer now, face flushed and not quite able to meet his eye, and they are absolutely not backing down any more than he is.

They take a steadying breath. Then he watches almost in slow motion as their cock flexes the tiniest bit before the stream starts. It’s hot and faintly alkaline and it hits him in the chest, the initial spray so forceful he feels it rebound against his chin. He works his hand faster, harder, desperate as rivulets run hot down his stomach, into the furrows of his hips, winding down his shaking thighs.

Pocket is still muttering, calling him filthy and foul and fucked up, and they’re right. The only part of this he doesn’t deserve is Pocket themself. 

But they’re here anyway, pissing all over him, soaking the hair on his chest and dripping into his pubes. Some gets on his hand and he just⁠— keeps going, stroking himself through it. Oh, he’s so fucking close now, but the stream peters out. 

After all that buildup, all that tension, he wanted it to go on forever. Instead he watches miserably as the last drop spills into the tub, running down the ceramic inside, instead of on him. Some part of him wants to lick it up, wants to rub his face in it, and the thought makes heat shiver through him, pooling into a tight knot in his belly.

“Let me⁠—” he says, leaning forward.

“You’re not touching me,” Pocket says, at least a little bit of actual disgust there. 

Shiv suppresses the sound that wants to escape his throat. They can probably see the hunger on his face anyway.

“Come here,” they say. It seems they’re choosing mercy.

They move closer to the edge of the tub, and they hold their cock out. The bead at the tip is probably just precome, but he can use his imagination. Everything is precariously slick beneath him, but he balances with the metal hand curled around the edge of the tub and pops the head between his lips.

Pocket’s cock fills out in his mouth, growing heavy on his tongue. After a moment, Pocket guides him closer by his hair. Touching that is something no one else is allowed to do, but when they do it, he melts, goes all soft and gooey in a way no one else gets to see either. He practically falls forward onto their cock, pulling as much of it into his mouth as they’ll let him.

His skin’s growing tacky with drying piss and the echoes of Pocket’s cruel words are bouncing in his head and all he can do is suck them down and jerk himself off. His legs are cramping from the position and the size of the tub and the tension building in all his muscles, and he doesn’t care, not as long as they let him keep going. He gets lost in the rhythm of it and the matching one between his legs. 

They do eventually use their grip on his hair to pull his mouth off them. He makes a noise dangerously close to a whine then, but they don’t let go of his hair. Instead they tug his head back, and they fist their cock. It bobs close to his face, and he doesn’t think they’d fight him if he lunged forward and swallowed them down again, but he stays where he is, hips rocking uncontrollably.

He knows what they’re going to do now, and his breath feels like it’s being punched out of him as he works himself into a frenzy. When the first splash of come hits him in the face, that’s when he loses it, toppling finally over the edge. His body seizes up, but he stays in place well enough that Pocket stripes his face with their come. It lands across his nose and on his cheek, right into his panting, open mouth while he spills all over his hand.

When it’s over, fully, he falls back on his heels. His knees are fucking killing him, but the rest of his body⁠— well, it’s kind of disgusting, but mostly worth it.

Pocket crouches down beside the tub, although it doesn’t escape his attention that they’re timid about getting too close. It will be funny any minute now. Once he’s caught his breath.

“Do you want help getting cleaned up?” they ask in a tone that says they very much do not want to help. They would anyway, if he asked them to.

“No.” He leans back, letting the far edge of the tub prop him up. “Don’t need it. But I should make you, for fuckin’ up my hair.”

“All that, and you’re upset about the hair?” They laugh then, faintly echoey in the bathroom. “Never mind. Of course you are.”

“Get outta here if you’re not gonna help. Let me wash up.”

Pocket leaves him to his own devices, but not before depositing a towel within reach for when he’s done. 

The hair thing is a pain in the ass, but his whole body feels lighter than it has in weeks, muscles loose and relaxed. Once he’s out of the shower, he’ll get dressed, redo his hair, have some coffee, finally get a real kiss good morning, and maybe start figuring out how to convince Pocket to do it again ⁠— after a little time has passed. It really was hell on his knees.