Work Text:
This situation seems bizarre to Holland even through the haze of drunkenness. He knows exactly how he got here, but at the same time he has no fucking idea how he got here.
They had been at a bar, him and Jackson, which isn't all that unusual, considering how spectacularly Holland had managed to drag Jackson off the wagon and down the neck of a bottle of too-expensive rum with him. Jackson doesn't indulge as much as Holland does and Holland for his part tries to further lower the number of evenings Jackson spends drunk by limiting the amount of times he nags and annoys Jackson enough for him to give in and have a drink with him.
But sometimes he just can't help himself. Just wants to see Jackson lose some of that tension he carries, wants to see how ruddy his cheeks become when he's drunk, how he lounges on Holland's couch, legs spread, one of his big hands absent-mindedly resting between them, close enough to the zipper of his jeans that Holland sometimes needs a moment to gather himself.
It's one of those evenings.
He had been drunk for a while now and been trying to get Jackson to agree to a drink for even longer.
“Alright,” Jackson had finally sighed, giving in to Holland's nagging. He had already been looking around for a bartender when Holland pushed one of the three glasses in front of him over to his partner.
Jackson had taken one look at the glass and asked, “Why the fuck would you order an old-fashioned?”
Holland had squawked indignantly. “Why not?” he had asked.
"Because you hate them,” Jackson had answered drily. “I know you do,” he had added, gesturing with the glass before taking a long sip.
“Maybe I started liking them,” Holland had grumbled and Jackson had looked at him with furrowed brows for a moment.
Jackson had shrugged then, and slid the glass back over to Holland. “Alright,” he had said. “You can have it. I'll get my own.”
“Alright. Good,” Holland had said, taking a sip of the downright vile drink that was now back in his hand and trying to suppress a grimace. Fuck, who drinks these?
Jackson Healy, apparently, because Holland's partner had been rather unsuccessfully trying to hide a knowing grin in his own recently-acquired old fashioned. Bastard, Holland had thought, and suffered through the rest of his drink.
A few more drinks down the line Holland had had the admittedly not-so-bright idea to wander over to the pool tables, which had forced Jackson to follow him.
“Okay, okay,” Holland had said to the two men that had just finished their game.
“I wanna play,” he had slurred, pool stick already in hand. “Can I play?”
One of the men, a short, lanky guy with a mess of brown curls, had looked him up and down consideringly. Had looked at his brown slacks, the yellow and orange-patterned shirt that was only buttoned up half-way, and had seemingly not been impressed, because he had asked, “Can you even play billiards?”
“Can I play– yes, of course I can play ‘billiards’,” Holland had replied, missing Jackson's eyebrow raise at how obvious it was that he’d had no idea what ‘billiards’ was or how to pronounce it. Probably still doesn't.
Holland had then proceeded to lose a game of pool, or billiards as the curly-haired man had said, like no one had ever lost a game of billiard before. He had been sloppy and cocky to such an extent that it was downright comical.
“That was embarrassing,” Jackson had said drily when they finally left the bar, Holland stumbling out after him.
Holland had murmured something vague about ‘one drink too many’ and Jackson laughed, knocking his shoulder against Holland's as they walked and catching him, when he had tilted dangerously into the direction of a rosebush as a result. “Careful, man.”
“Normally, I'm better at pool,” Holland had said.
After a few moments of silence Jackson had asked, “You can't play pool at all, can you?”
Holland had sighed, embarrassment coloring his cheeks and shaken his head.
Laughing, Jackson had asked, “Do you even know the rules?”
When Holland hadn't answered he'd guffawed, loud and deep. “Don't pout,” he'd added when he catched a glimpse of his partner's frowning face. “I can teach you next time we're in a bar.”
Holland had shaken his head, “No need, I have a pool table at home.”
Jackson had looked at him incredulously. “Why do you have a pool table if you can't even – you know what, forget it. Let's just get home.”
Holland had simply nodded, not wanting to get into how the rental had come pre-furnished, pool table and all, if he didn’t have to.
And that's how they ended up here; with Holland holding a pool stick, trying to focus on the colorful balls on the pool table and not on where Jackson was bent over said table, one hand carefully guiding the pool stick.
“Why the fuck are you this good at playing pool?”
Jackson shrugs. “Spent a lot of my twenties in bars,” he admits and Holland's mind immediately tumbles down the hill of what's appropriate right into the gutter, thoughts of a young Jackson Healy, drunk and flushed and so, so pretty spilling forth and, God, Holland wants –
“You turn.”
Holland jumps and Jackson steps back from the table to make space, raising an inquiring eyebrow, which Holland professionally ignores.
He steps up to the table, rolls his shoulders, suddenly very aware of Jackson's eyes on him.
Holland places the fingers of his left hand on the green felt, thumb raised a bit, and bends down and over the table a bit to lay the cool stick on his hand.
“Alright, now line up your shot.” Jackson's voice is rumbly and deep, closer than Holland expected and nearly too close to deal with.
He tightens his right hand around the stick, trying to hold it together and not do something profoundly stupid like allow a whimper to slip out when Jackson says, “Try to aim at the cue ball.”
Holland hums, not processing Jackson's words at all, still aiming at what is definitely not the white cue ball.
He suppresses jumping a second time when Jackson's suddenly there, having stepped up to the pool table beside Holland. He takes Holland's hand that's resting on the table and pushes it unceremoniously to the left. Holland follows the movement, turning his body with it and the stick follows.
“There you go,” Jackson says and when Holland throws a glance in his direction he gets back an encouraging nod.
He pulls the pool stick back a bit, tries to focus on hitting the ball and getting it to roll in the right direction, but Jackson is still so close. Holland can hear his breathing and he can almost fool himself into believing he can feel the heat that radiates from his partner's solid frame. He wishes he could smell him, wishes he could –
He takes the shot, completely misses the center of the cue ball and sends it spinning wildly in exactly the wrong direction. It vanishes into one of the holes with a dull thump and Holland grimaces.
“You didn't guide the stick in a straight line,” Jackson comments.
“Yes, I noticed,” Holland says, defensiveness and embarrassment at his own ineptitude making him snappy, but Jackson just huffs a quiet laugh.
“Try again,” he says, fishing the white ball out of the net and placing it on the table in front of Holland.
Holland bends back down, lines up his shot. He carefully pushes the stick forward and backwards a bit without putting any speed or power behind it, tries to figure out how to keep it's path straight and smooth.
He snaps it forward, but it veers off-course again, gets caught in the felt then sends the white ball into the air. It bounces only once before coming to a standstill.
There's a grimace on Jackson’s face when Holland looks back at him.
“This is a lost cause, isn't it?” Holland asks resignedly.
He's not as drunk as he was at the bar anymore and now he's seriously asking himself why he wanted to play pool in the first place. Then he remembers how impressive the curly-haired man's smooth shots had been, how intoxicating Jackson's quiet confidence was and remembers. Nowadays, half the time he fucks something up in a painfully embarrassing way it's because he's trying to impress someone. Impress Jackson, if he's honest with himself.
He thinks back to the broken thumb from throwing a really bad punch when that one case turned sideways. Thinks back to all the scratches he got from falling out of a second story window and into a rose bush, because he tried climbing after a mark. Thinks of Jackson's worried expression when he was cradling his broken thumb to his chest, the concern in his blue eyes when Holland stumbled out of the rose bush, messy and bleeding and thinks that maybe it was worth it, even if none of it had been impressive.
But this really isn't worth it, he thinks when he misses the next shot too. He sighs deeply, turning around to Jackson who's still standing next to him. “I think we're done here. Playing pool might be the one thing I can't do.”
Jackson lets out a ‘tsk’, shaking his head. “Giving up so soon?”
Holland just shrugs, looking down at the colorful balls strewn across the table.
“Try again, c'mon,” Jackson says.
Holland groans, feeling like he's back in 6th grade and desperately trying not to fail his PE tests with his too concerned teacher giving him try after try despite there being no hope at all, but he gets back into position despite it, carefully not thinking about why he gives in so easily when it comes to Jackson.
He's always been a stubborn man. Not one to give in, normally. But Jackson just… Mellows him out.
It’s probably his voice.
Holland sometimes thinks about how a few weeks ago Jackson had whispered the escape plan he had come up with into his ear, while they were hiding from a security guard in a printer room of all places.
The plan had boiled down to split and run, which Holland was insanely glad for, because his brain wouldn't have been able to handle something more complex than that with Jackson's deep voice ringing in his head anyway.
So, Holland tries again. Tries to center himself and not embarrass himself any further. He reaches back with the pool stick, when Jackson interrupts him.
“Not like that,” he says, warm hand encircling Holland's wrist and stopping his movement with an ease said man carefully doesn't think about. “You're not moving in a straight line at all.”
“I'm trying. Not everyone can be born a pool god,” Holland complains, not liking how petulantly it comes out.
Jackson sighs. “Let me help you.”
“How–” Holland starts, but the rest of the sentence gets stuck in his throat, because Jackson is suddenly behind him, warm and present and solid from one moment to the next. “Uhh,” he says dumbly, not sure what this is.
His whole back is pressed against Jackson's chest and the knowledge of just how much bigger than him Jackson is sinks in with startling clarity and Holland has to suppress a shudder, blood flowing in all the wrong directions.
Jackson’s free hand comes up on the left side of his body, big hand moving the hand Holland is using to guide the stick forward by an inch or two. He experimentally tugs a bit, but of course his hand isn't budging, Jackson is too strong for that. He awkwardly clears his throat, aware of how wholly caged in he is, Jackson all around him and again he wishes so desperately that he could smell him.
Holland jumps a bit when Jackson starts talking, head right next to his, his voice close and present and now he can feel it too, can feel it reverberating in Jackson's broad chest. He's not making it out of this alive.
“We'll do it together, alright?” Jackson says and Holland just nods, trying not to melt into a puddle of goo. “Give you a feel for the right motion.”
He's insanely thankful right that second that Jackson is the one behind him, because he knows this would all be derailing rather quickly if their positions were reversed, considering how his dick is going more and more from soft to hard with every word Jackson breathes.
It might derail anyway, Holland thinks, as Jackson crowds in closer, making him bend over a bit more in an effort to actually make him hit the cue ball in the right direction for once.
“You're way too tense,” Jackson comments and Holland has to hold back a crazed sound. “And your stance is way off.”
Holland wants to say something to that, some clever retort that's sure to impress Jackson, but it dies in his throat, because Jackson, apparently having noticed that Holland won't become a proficient pool player on his own, takes it upon himself to change that and nudges Holland's legs open a bit for a better stance, and Holland? Holland is lost, because he can't bring his hard cock under control and he also can't bring himself under control if the sound that spills out of him is anything to judge by.
It's embarrassingly loud over the quiet music that's playing, not a whimper, if you ask Holland, but nobody is asking him.
Jackson has gone stock still behind him, hands still on him for a long moment, before he releases him and takes a step back. The action leaves Holland still slightly bent over the pool table, legs spread and the fucking pool stick still in hand, his back growing cold now that Jackson's warmth is missing.
He goes to get up, embarrassment burning a trail through his body, face surely bright-red at this point, but then there's a hand at his nape, pressing him back down.
Jackson still isn't saying anything and Holland takes the moment to get rid of the pool stick that ended up wedged between his chest and the table. He miscalculates and it drops to the floor with a clatter that's ungodly loud, but Jackson doesn't comment on it.
“Did you just –” Jackson says, apparently not wanting to say the word whimper, or even worse ‘moan’, out loud and Holland is glad for it, because he can't deal with even more embarrassment.
“What, no,” he squeaks, squirming under Jackson's hand, but goddammit he’s still so much stronger. The reality that Jackson can just press him down against the table like this, literally bend him over with a single hand shoots right to his already throbbing dick and he has to bite back another noise that wants to slip out.
“I didn't – I just –” Holland's mind is racing, trying to come up with a believable excuse, a way to talk himself out of this corner he's whimpered his way in, but there's nothing.
He's ready to give up, apology already on his lips, when Jackson crowds close again and his mind goes completely and utterly blank because Jackson is hard.
His step forward means his crotch is pressed right up against Holland's ass and he might be a fool sometimes, but he knows when someone is pressing their raging hardon against him.
“Oh,” Holland says, still dumbstruck and trying to catch up with the train of events that has unfolded.
Jackson for his part is breathing heavily, hand still pressing Holland down onto the green fabric of the pool table, and Holland wants him to do something, anything, so he uses what little leverage he has to press himself back into Jackson.
His partner groans, a cut-off sound like he didn't mean to let it out and it goes right to Holland's dick, which really is hard enough to hammer nails by now.
He does it again, getting braver now that he knows he's not the only one in a bit of a predicament here, and this time it’s “Holland” that Jackson breathes out.
It comes out shakier than it was probably meant to and Holland allows himself a private grin, not quite believing that this is really happening and somewhat giddy at the knowledge that it is.
“Jack,” he retorts, voice teasing like the little shit he is and Jackson can clearly hear it, because he squeezes the back of Holland's neck. Just once, as a warning.
It has the opposite effect of course, goosebumps traveling their way down Holland's body who shudders under Jackson's hold. “Do that again,” he pants, then immediately wishes he hadn’t, when Jackson goes still behind him, again. Fuck, he wishes he could see his face, but he can't even lift his head off the table with the force Jackson is pressing into him.
“What,” Jackson says, voice lower than Holland has ever heard it, “this?”
He squeezes again, harder this time and there's really no hiding how Holland shudders at the feeling. He feels like he's falling apart at the seams and the only thing holding him together is Jackson's warm hand, while he simultaneously feels like Jackson's warm hand might be what ultimately breaks him apart.
Jackson is still not doing anything other than softly drawing his thumb across the short hair at Holland’s nape and as nice as being bent over by Jackson Healy is, Holland is hard and he's getting desperate and he needs more, so he reaches back with one hand, awkwardly searching for something to grab onto. He finds Jackson's hip and tugs him closer with a triumphant noise.
Jackson lets himself be pulled closer and Holland can really feel his dick like this, even through the confines of his jeans and when he grinds back against it Jackson groans again, drawn-out and deep.
“Come on,” Holland breathes, not exactly sure what he's asking for. He just wants.
And finally, finally, Jackson actually moves, folding himself down over Holland's back, enveloping him, hips grinding against his ass in a slow, careful circle, like he's still testing the waters.
“Jack, please,” Holland manages to say through the haze of pleasure, the shocking clarity of the situation. When he'd thought about this, and he had extensively thought about sex with Jackson Healy, it had always seemed murky and unreal. Touches only half-way there and leaving no trace.
But this? This is real, and delightfully so. Jackson is heavy and warm and present and so fucking hard that Holland has no idea how he's keeping it together and he prays to a god he doesn't believe in that it will leave traces.
They're rutting against each other now, but they're both still completely dressed and it's just not enough for Holland. He whimpers again, frustration coloring the noise and Jackson must hear it because he asks, “What do you want? What do you need?”
Fuck, how Holland has dreamed of those words coming out of Jackson's mouth directed at him, but now that the dream has come true his mind is too scrambled for him to have anything helpful to say.
“Just – something, anything,” he chokes out and Jackson hums, probably noting the shaky desperation lacing his words.
“Can I fuck you?” Jackson asks, voice carefully controlled and way more direct than expected and Holland feels like he's just been shot. In a good way.
He jolts, cock twitching at the thought of Jackson not only all around him, but in him, too, then remembers that Jackson probably needs him to say something.
“Yes, please – I mean, sure, let's – yes,” he sputters and Jackson’s answering chuckle is filled with relief and something Holland might call fondness if he didn't know better. The sound vibrates through his chest and into Holland who's still caught under him, perfectly restrained so he can just split apart and fall into pieces and know that Jackson will hold them in place until he manages to get a hold of himself to collect them all and try to put himself back together in the right order.
Jackson isn't faring much better, apparently, because as soon as the first ‘yes’ spills from Holland's lips he straightens up a bit and uses his free hand to scrabble at Holland's slacks, trying to pop the button and undo the zipper. He gives up fairly quickly, though, patience running thin, and resorts to brute strength instead, just tugging the slacks down over Holland's hips and ass, hooking his fingers into his underwear to tug them down with them.
It leaves Holland's ass bare, hard cock springing free now that it's no longer confined, which is great for all involved parties, except it forces Holland's thighs together, which isn't ideal if Jackson wants to step between them.
Jackson doesn't seem to care all that much, though, just kneads the flesh of his ass, wringing a groan out of Holland when he spreads his cheeks with one absurdly big hand, apparently content with just looking at him for the moment.
Holland squirms in his place on the table, stance becoming uncomfortable. He reaches back to try to open his slacks himself, but can't reach, giving up with a frustrated puff of air. “Jack, can you please –”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, but he's still just looking, taking a moment to ruck up Holland's shirt and undershirt, exposing the small of his back and the cut of his ribs.
“Jackson!” Holland snaps and said man finally gets himself together enough to open Holland's slacks. They fall down onto the floor and Holland steps out of them, blindly kicking them away, before he can get caught in them.
Jackson goes right back to looking, taking his hand from Holland's neck to draw both of them up the backs of his naked thighs, then to his ass, spreading him open again.
One hand wanders to the small of his back, then down to his ass again and when he starts wondering what Jackson is doing with the other hand he hears the unmistakable sound of a zipper being pulled open.
His heart has already been racing, but now it's pounding like crazy, each beat sending another wave of molten lust down his belly and into his cock and then there's the rustle of clothing behind him, that makes him feel empty – a familiar problem that's very easily solvable.
Holland takes the opportunity presented to him and looks back over his shoulder at Jackson, hoping to catch a glimpse of his cock and also the solution to his problem, but when he sees Jackson's face his breath catches unexpectedly.
Jackson is flushed, blue eyes dark and hungry. His chest is heaving and if Holland could lay his head on it, he's sure he could hear Jackson's heart rabbiting away inside it.
He's so caught that he doesn't see Jackson raise his head until their eyes lock and then there's a hand in his nape again. Jackson is fast, but gentle as he presses him back down onto the table, steady force pushing his cheek onto the felt and Holland makes eye contact with that god's damned white cue ball. It’s mocking him, he's sure of it, and worst of all he didn’t get to see Jackson's cock.
“I just want to see,” he whines. “Just let me see, just a peek.”
Jackson snorts a bit but doesn't remove his hand, not letting Holland up. “You can look all you want later, just stay there for me now.”
Holland is still completely caught on the word ‘later’, when Jackson spreads his cheeks again and unexpectedly draws a cold and wet finger over his hole. He jumps.
“Ah, fuck, that's cold,” he complains and Jackson just sighs long-sufferingly, but when he circles his rim again the lube is less cold, clearly warmed in Jackson's hand. That's pretty considerate, Holland thinks.
“Where did you even get lube –” he tries to ask then, ending in a choked sound as Jackson stops teasing right that moment and pushes a finger into him up to the second knuckle, making him completely lose his train of thought.
Holland keeps panting until Jackson has three fingers in him and stops stretching him in favour of fucking his fingers in and out of him, wet sounds loud and obscene in the room. Holland starts grinding back against Jackson's hand, tries to get him deeper and that's when he remembers that he's bent over the fucking pool table in his living room, Jackson's hand on his neck pushing him down onto it, three fingers of his other hand deep in him and cock probably hard and leaking by now. Jesus, that shouldn't be hot, Holland thinks, arousal and desire rolling through him, leaving him shaky and desperate.
He's still looking at the damn cue ball and he's sure now he'll never learn to play pool, because he'll get a fucking hard-on every time he so much as looks at one of the pool balls. He’ll remember Jackson's hand on his neck, Jackson's fingers in him, and if this has already ruined him what will happen when Jackson finally fucks him properly?
Maybe Jackson can fuck some of that skill at pool into him, actually, Holland thinks, then giggles a bit at his own nonsensical train of thought, giddiness and lust merging into a truly heady combination, that leave him dripping pre-cum onto the floor and slightly hysterical.
Jackson hums inquisitively. “What's so interesting?” he asks, pointedly driving his thick fingers back into Holland and brushing them up against his prostate with a precision that makes Holland sure it wasn't exactly an accident, heat coiling at the base of his spine and low in his belly.
“Nothing, nothing,” he moans. “Just thinking.”
“You're still thinking?” Jackson asks. “Then I'm clearly not doing my job very well,” he adds, driving his fingers into Holland again and wringing a high moan out of him.
“No,” Holland chokes out, panting onto the pool table. “You're doing just fine.”
“‘Just fine?’” Jackson asks, and Holland can't see his raised brows, but he can damn well hear them and that shouldn't be hot either, but here they are.
He didn't know Jackson would be this confident. This quietly assured of his skill.
He pushes his fingers into Holland with the same quiet confidence he sank ball after ball with earlier. He pulls them out with the same quiet confidence too, and when he draws the head of his cock over Holland's wet hole he pulls pleas out of him just as easily and steadily. Fuck, this man is ruining him, Holland realizes, but he can't help himself.
The only thing he can do is moan and whimper and beg Jackson to please fuck him already. “Please, I'm ready. Come on, you know I'm ready. Please.”
Jackson shushes him, petting Holland's hair with one gentle, somewhat shaky hand, then finally, finally, lines himself up with the other and pushes his cock into him.
Holland reaches back with one hand when Jackson has bottomed out, to pull Jackson down on top of him and then he's completely submerged in his partner. Around him, in him, it's all Jackson and that’s the only thought his brain seems capable to form. Just Jackson, Jackson, Jackson.
There must be a puddle of pre-cum on the floor between his spread legs by now and maybe he would be embarrassed by that in other circumstances but right now he doesn’t care, because Jackson is right there with him.
Holland can feel him shudder against him, can feel the pounding of his heart and when Jackson pulls back and sets a steady but fast pace, bitten off curses and deep groans spill from his lips, tangling with the drawn out moans and whines that claw their way out of Holland's throat.
Jackson pulls back a bit, and Holland is about to complain when he pulls him up with him, easily manhandling him into a more-or-less standing position with one hand gripping his hip and the other slung across his chest. Holland props himself up on his hands, the rim of the pool table digging into his belly and he knows this could get uncomfortable fast, but it doesn't matter.
He's so, so close and like this Jackson has the perfect angle to brush the head of his cock against Holland's prostate on every stroke. He's moaning and panting, focused on the strong arm that's wrapped around him and when Jackson drives his dick into him again, he comes with a shuddery moan, spilling onto the floor.
“Did you –” Jackson starts.
“Yes, yes,” Holland chokes out, still caught in the aftershocks of his orgasm.
Jackson groans at the words, buries his face in Holland's neck from behind, hand tightening on his hip as he comes deep inside Holland.
They stay there for a moment, Jackson still buried in him, Holland still holding onto the pool table. He feels warm and flushed, notices the sweat beading at his hairline and the small of his back now that he's coming down from the high.
He's so fucking glad the blinds are drawn, because he must look completely fucked-out. Jackson seems to think so too, because when he steps back to tuck his dick back into his jeans, allowing Holland to straighten up and turn around, he curses.
“Jesus,” he manages, somehow sounding just as ruined as Holland feels.
Holland says nothing, just stares at Jackson. His ruffled hair, his not yet buttoned up pants. Looks at his hands too and feels a spike of glee when he realizes that he knows exactly how they feel on him.
“Speechless for once?” Jackson asks, looking a bit awkward suddenly, throwing a glance at Holland's half-naked state.
“No, just…” Holland shrugs, bending down to pick up his slacks, and letting them fall to the floor again when he feels Jackson's cum leak out of him at the motion. He needs a shower.
He gathers what brain cells Jackson hasn't fucked out of him, offers his partner a hand and says, “Shower is that way,” pointing to the bathroom with his other hand.
Jackson relaxes, somewhat at least, and fits his hand into Holland's who looks at him consideringly.
“We might have to try the whole ‘billiard’ thing again,” he says innocently, butchering the pronunciation yet again but Jackson is beyond caring. “I hear it takes practice,” he adds.
Jackson nods, catching on. “A lot of practice.”