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It must’ve been about 7 am when Jackson Healy came to consciousness. His head was pounding a deep, heavy rhythm and his mouth was dry as LA’s summer streets. Great, a hangover. He hadn’t had one in over 10 years, thanks to the whole sobriety thing. Of course, a lot about his life had changed when Holland March came into it, the hangover being the direct result of the younger man’s labors.
Where to begin?
It started with their newest case. They were stumped. Another vanished girl and a list of inquirers who kept checking in on the Nice Guys Agency to threaten, maim, or otherwise. So she was important. Probably. Either way, they were without a lead and time was running out, presumably, so they agreed to pull an all nighter and get something out of this mess. All in all, it was a pretty typical night at the March household. They had dinner with Holly, filling her in on all the March-approved details, watched TV and wished the teenager good night, sweet dreams, don't try to eavesdrop on us. She was none too happy about this but rules were rules and she agreed, half-heartedly, to behave. That worked for March.
"Firecracker, that one," Jackson remarked fondly when the two made their way into March's bedroom/office. His partner's daughter had quickly become one of his favorite people, dramatic generational gap notwithstanding. March snorted, lighting what seemed to be the hundredth cigarette of the evening.
"Ever since that first case she thinks she's made partner too. Probably drew up her own ad and everything."
Jackson chuckled. It was probably true.
The two settled into their paperwork, photographs, and barely-there leads; March sat on the edge of his mattress while Jackson took the chair at the desk. Not five minutes had passed before March got up and grabbed a bottle of room temperature scotch to keep himself occupied through the mind-numbing dullness of paperwork they had to peruse. For a missing person case, it was fucking boring . Not for the first time, Jackson wondered if the girl even existed or if they were, in fact, being pranked by some gang that was eager to keep them out of any real cases. Deciding they weren’t yet that notorious, Jackson stowed the thought, adjusted his glasses, and kept reading.
Three glasses of scotch and two cigarettes later, Jackson spoke up.
"You're a terrible host."
March’s head snap up at the jab, clearly taken aback.
" Excuse me?"
"You're not going to offer me a drink?"
March narrowed his eyes skeptically, "For real?"
"If we're going to be bored out of our skulls with an uncrackable case, I might as well make it worthwhile."
"And the whole sobriety thing?"
Jackson shrugged, as if a virtue he'd held since finalizing his divorce was a passing phase. March didn't like it. Of course, he was in no position to criticize anyone's lifestyle when his own was comprised solely of horrible mistakes.
March shrugged, "Alright, let's get you liquored up."
-
It wasn't a contest. Not at first, anyway. Then March started noticing just how empty his bottle was getting and how many times he'd seen a large hand grabbing at the neck out of his periphery. He wasn’t a very competitive person by nature but something about how fast Jackson was putting away drinks drove him to grab another bottle (or two) from the bar in his kitchen. Whiskey this time. Jackson grinned to himself as the younger man poured a tall drink.
"We're done working," Jackson observed with a smugness that made March's skin prickle.
"Fuck you, working ."
Jackson laughed a deep belly laugh. Yeah, they were done working.
He'd forgotten this. He'd lost a lot of friends in the divorce, simply because they were either her friends or married to her friends. It hadn't mattered much to him, being a quiet sort more often than not and his self-enforced sobriety had alienated almost everyone who had wanted to stay. But this... This was nice. Sitting, talking, and drinking with a buddy, nothing on his mind but the drink in his hand and the lightness of his head. He felt young again, younger than Holland was now, when he and his friends would get riled up at whatever dive bar in uptown New York would have them. Those nights weren't clear memories anymore but he'd always remember the feeling of being young and careless, staying out late because he wanted to rather than a job or insomnia. That feeling got lost in 30 years of anger, guilt, and betrayal to the point that alcohol and misery had become synonymous.
Enter Holland March.
Not that March was any evidence to the contrary. He was more like living proof of how badly you can fuck up your own life, but amazingly it didn't seem to matter. It would be almost inspirational if it weren't so annoying to deal with a perpetually intoxicated business partner. Of course, Jackson had previously only experienced March’s dependency while on the job, which was aggravating to say the least. Now, with business finally tabled for the day and the two of them just hanging out together, Jackson saw March in a new light. A fun light. An energetic, slurring, nut ball light that had him in stitches while he ranted and raved and bounced all over his room. He mentally noted what he called the Nixon Phenomenon, grinning at the young man who was nearly hoarse from telling what must be a very exciting story. He didn’t actually know. He wasn’t listening but he was laughing, mostly because of how cute March was when he was really excited about something.
Cute .
"N-no I'm serious! The dog was bigger than me! So like... You."
Jackson laughed again and March grinned, continuing to animatedly tell his tale which apparently involved a dog in some capacity. It was hard to believe the man pacing before Jackson was in his mid-30s and the father of a teenager. He had the energy of a boy decades younger and about the same wits, which Jackson supposed endeared him. Maybe “endeared” wasn’t the right word. He’d have to consult his calendar and find something that better described March’s unique charm.
“T-then we were up the tree and—” Back to the man himself. He’d gotten up on his bed and was bouncing (apparently this was crucial to the narrative). Then one bounce went a little weird. Maybe he landed on his ankle wrong or maybe it was the catch of the duvet; either way, March suddenly, and with a sharp squawk, fell off the bed.
Face. Carpet. March.
Jackson couldn’t stop laughing. He was doubled over in his chair with tears streaming down his cheeks, laughing himself hoarse at the idiot he’d been mooning over not 5 seconds ago. On the floor, March remained still. Then, a groan.
“F… fuck.”
Jackson’s laughter quickly abated, dying down into a steady chuckle, cheeks ruddy from mirth and alcohol. He slid gracelessly to the floor, crawling over to his partner.
“You… yeah?”
March rolled over, groaning again. There was blood all over his moustache and chin and his nose was scrunched in the middle. Incredible. Jackson sighed, grin now fading into a fond smile.
“How does a guy break his nose on shag carpet?”
“There’s wood underneath it. Asshole.”
Jackson giggled again and helped the poor man up before struggling to stand. The floor had other plans for him, however, and lurched underneath his feet, sending him crashing into the chest of drawers. Jackson’s back met the ground once again while empty bottles rattled on the dresser top. Some fell, hitting the thick carpet with a soft but definite thud. Jackson, on his back, groaned, long and low. Jesus fuck that hurt. Maybe the kid wasn’t shitting about the hardwood. At his feet, March was laughing. Then he lurched into Jackson’s skyward view, grinning through a bloody mustache. Jackson winced.
“That was just stupid!” March gloated, giggling, “You didn’t even do anything! You just fell!”
“Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Jackson shoved at him playfully. Normally it would’ve been a sharp, quick push; enough to upset March’s balance and maybe even topple him. The copious amount of alcohol in their systems changed this however and Jackson’s hand simply pushed at the center of March’s chest, weak and ineffectual. He could feel the other man’s heartbeat, strong and fast, and could feel the warmth of his flushed body slipping through his thin, cotton button front. For some reason it occurred to him then that Holland March was real; living and breathing and thinking and sliding his legs over his hips and watching him dreamy, alcohol-laden eyes. Wait, what?
“Oh,” March breathed blissfully, pushing his hips down against Jackson’s, “Yes.”
He must’ve hit his head harder than he thought. Jackson gaped owlishly as the younger man writhed slowly, hands wandering over the expanse of his stomach and up under his shirt. Skin on skin. Jackson swore his heart stopped.
“Fuck, you’re fat.”
No, this was real. This was happening.
“And old. Jesus Christ. You’re so fucking fat and old.”
Asshole.
“Asshole,” Jackson grunted, putting belated power behind the hand on March’s chest and shoving hard. March flew back, yelling, before catching himself on the mattress behind him.
“Maybe I’m complimenting you!”
“Yeah?” Jackson growled roughly as he sat up, now nose-to-broken-nose with the man on his lap. March blinked owlishly, “You get off grinding on fat old guys? You sick or something?”
“No…” March replied in the smallest voice Jackson had ever heard. His heart softened at the sound, “I… It’s just…”
That did it for him. Whatever happened happened and Jackson had had enough. He wrapped one strong arm around March’s slim waist, pulling his flat stomach to Jackson’s considerably more portly one, and kissed away whatever March had prepared to defend himself with. He tasted blood from March’s broken nose, felt the soft scrape of the other man’s mustache, and heard him gasp with surprise and relief. Jackson groaned when he felt shaking, wiry arms encircle his shoulders and the subtle shifting of his hips situated snugly against his.
And that was it.
—
7am. Headache. Dry mouth. Rough tongue. The whole nine yards. Holland shuddered and pushed his face into his pillow, only to snap it away again. Christ his nose hurt. Gingerly, he tapped the bridge, feeling the unsightly swelling and recalling the violent congregation of his face and the apparent hardwood floor last night. Well, not the whole event. Bits of it, like the sensation of falling and the bone fracturing crack of his nose against the floor. That was how he recalled most of his nights; in foggy bits and pieces that put his powers of deductive reasoning to good use. Sherlock Holmes had nothing on him.
Sighing, Holland rolled onto his back and blinked blearily at his ceiling. He thanked God he at least made it onto the mattress before passing out, rather than settling for the floor just next to it. That’d happened too many times already and his back was not thanking him for it. As consciousness slowly flooded his senses, Holland mentally ran through his customary wake up checklist.
Location: My bed. Point, March.
Injuries: Broken nose. Point, alcohol.
Clothes: None. Point, alcohol.
Memories: Hazy at best. Point, alcohol.
And the game goes to alcohol. Holland closed his eyes and sighed through his nose. Unfortunately, this caused him to snort an unattractive clot of blood onto the corner of his mustache. Fuck, that’s gross . As he went to wipe at it, his arm brushed something large and warm right beside him, maybe five inches from his shoulder. Holland’s eyes shot open from their previously half-lidded, half-conscious state. Holy fuck, who the fuck is that?? Is this even my bed?? That was a stupid question, he realized as his eyes darted around and he patted the soft, familiar sheets. Of course it was his bed. It’s not like he and Healy went anywhere last night—
Oh Christ.
Turning his head confirmed his suspicions. Lying on his side, not a half foot from Holland’s person, was the broad, muscular back of Jackson Healy. It was rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm; so he was asleep, thank fuck (as if the dull snoring hadn’t been enough indication.) Holland’s mouth twitched, annoyed with his own senses working out of sync. But back to the issue at hand: how in pluperfect hell did he get Jackson Healy into the sack?? Jackson Healy. Jackson “Brass Knuckles, Skull Crackin’, Baseball Bat To the Back, Wrestle A Shotgun From a Lunatic In A Diner” Healy.
Point, March.
Just because.
Boy, he really wished he could remember last night. It must’ve been some smooth work to get Healy undressed; he’d love to bask in some sort of glory before Healy woke up and broke his neck. That’s what was bound to happen, right? Maybe the guy wasn’t homophobic (he hoped not; it was the 70’s after all. Times were changing) but he seemed pretty set in certain ways. Healy was a man of plans and schedules and Holland respected that, though he couldn’t personally abide. Last time he checked, switching to dudes for a night under the influence of alcohol was one of the bigger schedule changes that could occur. Last time Holland missed lunch with him, he got a 10 minute lecture and a pop upside the head. Who knows what might happen now.
Still. Holland would’ve liked to remember last night.
He’d had his fantasies about how they might approach the event, should it be under ideal conditions. Maybe a few drinks, Holly out of the house for the night (or weekend), dinner and a movie, turning fluidly into a passionate necking on the couch and maybe a blowjob. Even something so tame as that, if Healy was involved, usually had Holland seeing God (or Nixon, depending) in the span of a commercial break. Fuck, he was so weak around the older man. And screw that Kinsey bullshit, Holland March was straight as an arrow except when Jackson Healy was within arm’s reach. Like right now. Fuck!
He decided he’d probably been lying there agonizing long enough. Holland sat up unevenly, stomach tossing and head spinning with the exercise. Deep breaths . He longed for the Alka-Seltzer he knew was sitting on his bathroom sink but that required getting out of bed and, hi, he still had Healy there. More than anything, Holland wanted to stay by the sleeping man’s side for as long as possible, broken neck or not. But then again, he was never good at the whole self-preservation thing. He sniffed, wincing at the pain in his now-throbbing nose, and turned to look back over his shoulder at the man in question.
He could leave. He could go get that Alka-Seltzer and get some clothes, run out and grab a decent breakfast, pretend this all never happened. It might even work, depending on what kind of drunken stupor Healy had worked himself into last night. Luck might just be on Holland’s side for once. Every dog has his day, after all. Now if he could just sneak off the mattress without waking him...
Healy shifted just then, rolling onto his back with his hands resting on the outer curve of his stomach, snoring renewed. It was jarring enough for Holland to have to slap his hand over his mouth to stop a startled squeak. The squeak then attempted to become a moan. Holland felt his heart sink with the amount of lust that overcame him in that moment. And really? This is really what does it for him now? A fat old guy snoring in his bed?
Well, can’t beat ‘em.
Licking his lips, Holland shifted up onto his hands and knees and crawled the short distance to the sleeping man; all the while his internal monologue chanted mockingly, “ You’re a creep, you’re a creep, you’re a creep …” It wasn’t wrong. But Healy looked so soft and inviting, Holland couldn’t help but gravitate toward him. It happened constantly; Holland would stand just a bit too close to him, grab his arm a little too much, look at him a little too long. Thank God Healy wasn’t the most observant person otherwise the aforementioned broken neck probably would’ve come much sooner in their business partnership. The man just did things to Holland he couldn’t hope to understand or explain. Why? Why Healy when his wife had been one of the most beautiful women in the world, and his girlfriends before her were equally as attractive. All of them petite little beauties with full lips and bright eyes. So conventional. Nothing like fat old Jackson Healy, who had small, pouty lips and sleepy eyes, who was anything but petite.
God, that stomach. Holland fixed his gaze on Healy’s belly, slowly rising and falling with the man’s even breath. Fuck. Fuck! Holland chewed his lower lip, trying to resist touching him. It was just so round and full and soft-looking and even the considerable smattering of hair didn’t turn him off like he’d assumed it would. In fact, he loved it. He wanted to touch it so badly, feel the hairs smooth and upturn under his palms, run his fingers over the underside of the swell, right above his groin. Holland trembled slightly, feeling himself utterly consumed by lust.
Before he even realized what he was doing, he was in Healy’s lap, just shy of actually sitting across his hips so he wouldn’t wake the older man. His hands were perched barely an inch over his stomach, still terrified of the inevitable consequences of his invasive perversion, but God . There he was, beneath him, and it quickly became what Holland hoped would be the last thing he’d see before he died. Fuck you, Nixon. Carefully, and with the assured knowledge that he would probably die as a result, Holland pressed his palms to the heavy curve of Healy’s stomach.
Fuck .
He had to bow his head and take a minute. He felt too close to coming and he absolutely refused to do that over Healy’s sleeping body. Even he had his limits. Honestly, what was wrong with him? He'd been fucked up his whole life and it seemed to only get worse as the years passed. Drinking, lying, stealing and stuff, and now add minor molestation of his coworker/employee/best friend (sad, wasn't it?) His obituary wouldn’t be kind, should Healy and Holly actually spring for it.
Holland James March, 1942–1978. Loser, drunk, pervert. He will not be missed.
Figuring no one lives forever and he couldn’t possibly stop now, he ran his hands slowly up and around Healy’s stomach, getting used to the shape. His cock was embarrassingly hard the entire time, just shy of actually jabbing Healy in a way that might wake him up. Holland thanked God for small miracles that Healy was apparently a pretty heavy sleeper. Maybe he’d survive this. Maybe he could get his fill, jack off in the bathroom, and put the matter to rest. Maybe he’d be lucky for once.
Healy stirred.
Jesus!
There was nothing he could do. Healy's eyes were already open, he was already awake, and Holland was going to die. He hoped Healy would take last requests; he never formally asked the man to be Holly's caretaker should anything happen to her accident prone father, but he probably didn't need to. Holly would do that herself. But he should still check, out of courtesy.
A soft hum, "Morning."
Holland stared. Healy was... smiling?
"... Hi?"
The older man's smile was disarmingly fond. Holland almost recoiled, unused to the affectionate gaze, "Seems like you have a favorite spot."
Holland sputtered, now distracted by the two large, rough hands caressing up his legs, "W-what's that supposed to mean?"
"It's where you ended up last night," Healy nodded to their current position, thumbs rubbing small circles on the soft, sensitive skin of Holland's inner thighs. The younger man shuddered, acutely aware of his own nakedness and arousal. Fuck, his hands were so close. Holland tried to maintain composure but it was nearly impossible with Healy's hands squeezing and rubbing and fucking teasing him . That’s what it was. He was fucking teasing him! There’s no way the fucker didn’t see how hard he was; for God’s sake it was pressing into his stomach and about 2 inches from his hands—his hands! Fuck! Holland felt like he was about to explode. God damn Jackson Healy. And all the while he was just watching Holland’s face like he’d hung the moon.
"Ready for round two?"
Maybe he was dead already. Maybe Healy had broken his neck so fast he didn’t even see it coming.
"W-what?`"
Healy raised an eyebrow, "You don’t remember? I would’ve thought a boozer like yourself was past blackouts by now."
He must be dead. He must be in Hell. Serves him right. Holland pouted at nothing in particular and ground out a vicious, "Well I don't ."
"I could fill you in on the details," Healy replied coolly while moving those damned hands up higher and higher on Holland's thighs until his thumbs pressed into the juncture of his hips. Holland's cock, hard and red and steadily getting wetter at the tip, twitched. The man himself moaned openly, cheeks and chest bright red. This was it. Death.
"You were sitting on me, a lot like this," Healy's voice rumbled, low and seductive, "Practically begging for my attention. You were touching my stomach a whole lot and calling me fat, which I still don't appreciate."
"Try not being so fucking fat," dead men may tell no tales but it wouldn’t stop Holland March from getting a wisecrack in. Healy laughed and shifted his shoulders, getting good and comfy in the plush pillow top of Holland's bed. Holland felt the older man’s legs come up behind him, giving him a proper seat across his hips. Holland could feel the thick length of Healy’s cock nestled along the crease of his ass, steadily growing into a firm, insistent pressure. He was utterly trapped.
"Something tells me you don’t actually want that."
"This isn't happening."
Then the hands were gone, snapped away and presented, palms up, like Holland had him in the crosshairs. Holland was about to scream. His cock ached in protest. No. No!
"Do you want me to stop?"
Oh Christ, now he had to say it. Holland's mouth tightened, eyes downcast, before he could will himself to admit it. Admit he wanted Healy, admit he wanted to stay in bed all day and fuck him until he couldn’t move; admit he finally felt okay with Healy’s warm, heavy weight surrounding him and his low voice lulling him into peace; admit he would give his left arm for the ability to smell so he could shove his face in Healy’s neck and breathe in whatever cologne, cigar smoke, and musk he might be wearing; admit he finally felt like someone could love him after three years of guilt and self-loathing; admit he wanted to choke on his cock.
He mumbled something just short of any of these things, hands flat on the heavy curve of Healy’s stomach. Not good enough, he was told, and then forced to repeat himself in a louder, clearer voice. And really, fuck this guy for caring so much. Hadn’t he ever read a pulpy romance novel? What’s a guy gotta do to be ravished?
“Just fucking touch me!”
It’s amazing what you get by asking. Those hands—those blessed, work-roughened hands—returned to his person once more, this time going straight for his cock. Holland swore he blacked out for a second. Jesus Christ .
“Jesus Christ,” He breathed, bowing over the man beneath him. It was rough and dry and almost painful but it felt like heaven for just a moment. Sitting in Healy’s lap, feeling him get hard beneath him, getting possibly the worst handjob of his life and relishing every second of it, Holland was blissed because it was Healy. He panted, shifting his hips just a bit, needing more but resisting outright fucking into Healy’s grip. But God, he wanted to.
“You did that last night too,” Healy practically purred. He was loving this, the bastard. Holland shuddered, ducking his head so he wouldn’t have to face the humiliation of being taken apart so easily, like he was a Goddamn teenager. He didn’t have to look to know Healy was smiling that fond, lovestruck smile, which Holland now dubbed The Worst Smile In The World. Seriously, fuck this guy.
“Did I,” Holland gritted out, nails pressing into the softness of Healy’s stomach, “Well.”
“Well?”
Holland, turning red and shaking slightly, had no answer. Fuck, thinking was impossible right now. What gave Healy the right to be so fucking smug? “Is this even doing anything for you or is embarrassing me enough to get you off?”
Healy chuckled, pulling a hand away, much to Holland’s dismay and panic. It wasn’t gone for long though; a quick swipe of Healy’s tongue along the length of his hand and it was back and holy shit . Holland couldn’t hold back a groan.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Holland shook his head, hips bucking into the now-wet grip stroking him maddeningly slowly.
“Answer’s both,” Healy rolled his hips up, pressing his cock into the crease of Holland’s ass. Jesus fuck , if he wasn’t dead already (the jury was still out on that one) he would be soon. No question. Rest in fucking peace.
“After I tortured you a bit,” oh great, he really was recounting last night, wasn’t he. Holland let out a shaky breath, feeling like his chest was going to cave in, “I pulled you up to my chest.”
“You what?” Holland sputtered, confused in the haze of his arousal.
“I’ll show you. Come on up here,” Healy’s hands were gone but Holland did not whine. He almost did. He almost cried at their absence, but figured the quickest route to getting them back would be to listen to the smug asshole currently in control. Fine. He’ll get on his chest. He didn’t see what that—
Oh .
No sooner had he knelt in the crook of Healy’s arms—legs spread a bit farther than he was strictly comfortable with—Healy found the proper angle to take his cock into his mouth in one smooth motion. Holland made an odd sound; it was something like a sob mixed with a moan, accompanied with an uncontrollable buck of his hips. Fuck. Fuck!
“Fuck!” he hissed, hands grabbing at Healy’s hair and gripping tight, “Holy shit! Oh, oh my God…!”
At least he couldn’t keep narrating like this. Holland thanked God for that and Healy’s tongue. Holy shit , did he thank him for his tongue. It took all of his willpower and concentration to not fuck into Healy’s mouth and choke him to death (what a way to go) but if he kept moving his tongue like that and swallowing around him, Holland might not have a choice. Instead, for the moment, he held onto Healy’s greying hair for dear life and prayed he’d survive this. If only Healy would stop making those moaning sounds.
“Fuck,” Holland gasped, chest heaving. He must be close. He didn’t know anymore. He’d been a breath away from orgasm since he first crawled on top of the older man about half an hour ago, so his point of reference was a little skewed. His body was absolutely on fire, covered in a light sheen of sweat, cheeks ruddy, eyes bright. He was gasping, grasping onto Healy’s hair but slowly collapsing over him so that he was braced against his headboard, body a tight curve. Underneath him, Healy was going to town, sucking and licking at him, hands roaming up his thighs, round the back… Oh .
“You do that last night too?” Holland gasped raggedly, as if Healy could answer. The man’s eyes crinkled at the corners mirthfully, as if to confirm, yes, and you loved it. Even if not, it wasn’t like Holland would stop him. Fuck. He closed his eyes and moaned, loudly, as Healy continued to squeeze and rub his ass, fingertips just barely grazing at the crease, so close. He wasn’t some sort of kinkster, honestly, but the more Healy flirted with the idea, the more Holland wanted it.
Fuck, now he was fucking Healy’s mouth. He didn’t even mean to but between the fingers and his tongue, Holland had started wiggling so much that it turned into an actual rhythm. Fuck, he had to be in his throat by now. Holland shuddered, uttering a belly-deep moan. Healy took it like a champ, snuffling for breath whenever he got the chance but never slowing down, as if Holland’s pleasure was his only concern. If Holland was a praying man, he might thank God for Jackson Healy. Hell, why not go for broke?
Thank God for Jackson Healy.
Holland couldn't help it anymore. Healy was too good and it had been too long. He started moaning more and louder, starting with the man’s last name, though those gradually faded into wordless exhales of varying pitch and volume. Shit. He was close. He was getting too loud. Holly would definitely hear this shit if he didn't shut the fuck up soon but he couldn't help himself. Healy was just too fucking good.
He pressed his palms to the cool wood of his headboard, completely abandoning any hope of restraining himself. His pants and moans were ringing in his own ears, loud and pathetic, so they had to be deafening. Fuck. They were so fucked. He was so unbelievably fucked. Eyes closed, back bowed, mouth wet and open and suddenly there were fingers pressing against his tongue and closing his trap. Holland balked, making a muffled noise of confusion, until he saw Healy's admonishing expression below. How that man managed to chastise him around a mouthful of his dick was nothing short of black magic. Holland moaned, apologetic, and reflexively swallowed around the thick fingers against his tongue. Healy moaned around him, eyes closed. Oh.
Holland licked and sucked at Healy's fingers with enthusiasm that surprised even himself. Healy echoed his moans below him, copying the swirls of Holland’s tongue and the reflexive swallows until Holland was shaking with the anticipation of climax. It suddenly occurred to him, in that moment of all times, that Healy wasn’t actually getting any relief from this; that he was hard and wanting this entire time but enjoying it as if he too were getting the most mind-blowing fellatio in the known universe. But any bad or guilty feeling at the revelation was suddenly jettisoned from his mind when Healy started laving his tongue, thick and wet, over the head of Holland's dick.
Oh!
Orgasm hit him by surprise. It was sudden, sharp, and left him spasming with the force of pleasure that overcame him. Wave after wave, Holland came, crying out wanton, whorish sounds around the thick fingers in his mouth, drool escaping his lips, hips bucking, muscles seizing. He came in strong, thick pulses down Healy's throat, coating his tongue and lips when Healy pulled away to catch his breath. Holland was an absolute wreck, shuddering and weak, making pathetic mewling sounds long after his climax subsided. His body collapsed slowly and unevenly, sliding off of Healy’s chest and into the space beside him where he attempted to catch his breath. He wheezed like he was dying, probably due in large part to his habitual chain smoking, but he blamed Healy.
The man in question had sat up and was searching for some napkins or tissues to deal with the mess Holland had made of his beard. Summoning the last of his strength, Holland abruptly stopped him without a word and pulled him in for a fucked out, sloppy kiss with plenty of tongue. As far as he knew, it was their first, and he was pretty damn satisfied with the circumstances. Fuck, he could taste himself all over Healy's mouth. It gave him a brief second wind; enough so that he could shuffle closer so their bodies were pressed together and he could snake his free hand down to Healy's dick, hard and hot and aching between them. The older man groaned like a grizzly bear; low and dangerous, which drove Holland insane with lust. He stroked him quick and tight and had Healy fucking into his fist in no time, clearly right at the edge. And to think he’d gotten like this just from getting Holland off.
Presently, Healy was about to smother him while Holland gave him an awkwardly angled but enthusiastic handjob. But it was nice. The heaviness of Healy’s body was something like a ballast. An anchor. Holland felt safe and secure beneath Jackson Healy. He also felt incredibly turned on, so go figure. Holland moaned, biting Healy's lip just as his palm slipped over the head of the older man’s dick, and that was it. Healy groaned, coming all over Holland's hand and stomach, and kissed him breathless. But really, air was pretty overrated.
Finally, their need to breathe won. They parted, though Holland kept close, ducking his head to nuzzle into the space between Healy's face and the pillow. Healy smiled—Holland could feel his cheek against his own—and he rolled his massive body over to sling an arm over Holland's comparatively smaller frame, keeping him close. Holland sighed, happy.
"Did we cuddle?"
Healy chuckled, "No, you pretty much passed out."
Holland hummed. That sounded about right.
Just as he began to drift into the welcoming arms of both Morpheus and Healy, the latter sat up slightly, the motion jarring Holland back into consciousness. He protested, almost whining, until he felt large hands cup either of his cheeks, rough thumbs pressing to the sore sides of his nose. Wait—
Crack!
Holland shrieked, blood flowing freely once again into his mustache, the result of his reset nose. Well, that answered one long-forgotten question at least. Holland sputtered, making helpless and confused noises of pain, all of which were hushed away at Healy’s gentle shushing and the press of a clean tissue to his mouth. Holland glowered, eyes watering, at the older man.
“Seriously??”
Healy chuckled, pressing a kiss to the younger’s forehead.
“Thank me later.”
So that was it? This was Holland’s life now? Maybe it was presumptuous or premature but Holland had good instincts about certain things and right now, watching Jackson Healy discard the blood soaked tissue and pull him back into the soft cradle of his body, Holland saw it all; saw the many mornings he’d wake up with his face pressed into Healy’s neck, saw the birthdays Healy would unintentionally outshine whatever meagre present Holland would get for his daughter, saw the late evenings passing out on the couch, saw the breakfasts shared in a new kitchen; everything. And it scared him, of course, because Holland March could barely finish a meal, let alone a whole relationship. But with the great big bear of a man by his side, Holland figured he might be able to get through anything. For right now, however, he would settle for a good night’s sleep.
And so he did, late into the day, with the sounds of Healy’s log saw snore to comfort him the whole while.
End.