Work Text:
Holland kneels over Jackson, his hand reaching for Jackson's cock. They're both naked, clothes discarded hastily between the front door and the bedroom. Jackson is struck by Holland's youth in these moments. He's twitchy and rushed, always sprinting towards the finish line when there isn't even a race - or maybe it isn't youth at all, maybe it's just Holland.
Jackson lightly bats his hands away.
Holland makes a frustrated sound and reaches for him again.
“Holland, stop it.”
Jackson reaches down and gently entwines Holland's fingers with his. Holland falls back on his heels and looks incredulously down at him.
“What the fuck, Healy?”
“Holland,” Jackson says, tugging Holland towards him. Holland lands on his chest with a soft oomph. They’ve got all night - Holly is at Jessica’s house for a birthday sleepover, the front door’s locked, the blinds are closed. It’s a rare moment; one that Jackson isn’t going to give up without a fight.
“Why're you always in such a rush?” Jackson murmurs against Holland’s mouth, stubble scratching against moustache. Up this close, Holland goes a little cross-eyed trying to keep Jackson’s gaze. “Let me take care of you.”
Holland snorts. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days? 'Taking care.'”
Jackson rolls his eyes, and shifts them so Holland lies underneath him, blanketed by his body. When looks he looks down at Holland, he sees a pink blush has formed high across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.
“Sure,” Jackson says. “But let me.”
There's a pause before Holland answers.
“Well, hop to it then,” he says, making a little c'mon gesture with his hand, voice pitched like he's doing Jackson a favor. But Jackson notices the way Holland's eyes shift to the side, confused and squirmy beneath him.
Jackson leans forward and catches Holland's mouth in a kiss, lips and tongues sliding against each other. Holland kisses back like he's hungry for it, like Jackson's a banquet laid out in front of starving man. Jackson pulls back from him, slows the pace down.
They're both hard, have been since they stumbled into the bedroom. Jackson can feel Holland pressing hot against him, already so wound up.
Jackson kisses down his chest, pausing on the way to feel the thud of Holland's pulse point against his tongue. He takes one of Holland's nipples in his mouth, and lightly pinches the other between his fingers. Holland's whole body twitches against him.
Jackson keeps a hand on Holland's chest as he leans over to grab the lube out of the bedside table. Holland follows the movement with hooded eyes.
He lubes up his fingers and settles back between Holland's thighs. Slowly pushes a finger against his opening. Holland grabs onto the headboard and grinds down against him, head tilted back and throat exposed.
“Gonna make you feel good,” Jackson promises, before taking Holland's dick into his mouth.
“Fucking Christ,” Holland whines, stomach muscles tightening and loosening as Jackson sucks on the head of his cock, keeping him distracted as he brings a second finger up to rub against the first. Slowly starts to scissor his fingers.
He pulls his mouth off Holland's cock and keeps thrusting his fingers, working Holland open. Sees Holland watching the flex of his forearm.
Holland starts to push back against him in earnest, tries to make Jackson go faster, harder, anything. It's not an uncommon situation for them - Holland trying to take a mile when he's given an inch. “Jackson, c’mon. I’m ready, let’s go.”
“Will you calm down? I’m trying not to hurt you, you moron,” Jackson says, adding lube to a third finger.
“C'mon,” Holland groans, his head falling back against the pillow. “Fuckin’ fuck me already.”
“Slow down,” Jackson says, before kissing Holland slow and deep, licking the complaints out of his mouth. When he pulls back, Holland is flushed, his eyes glazed over. “I’ll get you there. Just lie back and enjoy yourself.”
He starts to tuck his third finger alongside the other two, and Holland's whole body stutters to a halt.
“Shit,” Holland says, a hand grasping at Jackson's hair. “Holy shit, holy shit.”
Jackson pauses, waits for Holland to adjust before moving forward. “Okay?”
Holland nods, blond hair mussing on the pillow with the movement. His body is strung taut like a live wire, and Jackson soothes his free hand over his side, fingers dipping in the bumps of his ribs.
“Gonna keep moving now,” Jackson says, and does just that, fingers pushing deeper. Holland is making high-pitched, broken whining sounds and Jackson kisses him, swallowing the noises whole.
“Doing real good,” Jackson says when he pulls back. “Not much longer.”
Jackson starts languidly thrusting his fingers, and Holland pushes back against the movement. He's hot and slick around Jackson, but it had taken him months to be able to ask for this. To get past freaking out about the idea of it, to stop freaking out of the queerness of it, to just - stop freaking out.
Jackson adds more lube, scissoring his fingers and relishing the obscene squelch. He brushes against Holland’s prostate, enjoying the way it makes heat rise red across his chest.
“S’wet,” Holland gasps, and shudders so hard Jackson’s half-surprised he doesn’t fall apart at his seams.
“Yeah?” Jackson murmurs, leaning over to drag his lips over Holland’s ribs. Tastes the tang of salt on his skin. “You like that?”
Holland squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head into the pillow, sobbing out a muffled, “Fuck.”
“You like it wet,” Jackson says, a little in awe.
Holland shakes his head, the tendons in his neck pulled tight, the glimmer of his wedding ring pooled in the dip of his collarbone. Laid out like this, Holland is an oasis, and Jackson could sustain himself on the sight of him alone.
“You do,” Jackson repeats, voice rough and low, keeping Holland in the moment.
"Yes," Holland hisses, the consonant stretching like it's being pulled slowly out of him. “Fuck, Jackson -”
“I got you. Doing so well, sweetheart,” Jackson says, his voice catching slightly on the endearment. It's a testament to how far gone Holland is that he doesn't give Jackson shit for it. Makes sure Holland is looking him in the eye as he continues, “I'm gonna pull out now, okay?”
“Okay,” Holland gasps, leg twitching slightly as Jackson removes his fingers and wipes them on the sheets.
Jackson pulls Holland's legs up so his heels are resting on the bed, and Holland lets him, made malleable by Jackson's attention. He strokes himself, adding more lube. He lines up, pulls Holland’s hips towards his.
“Ready?”
Holland nods.
Jackson pushes in inch by careful inch, nestled between Holland’s shivering thighs.
Holland arches against him, his back bowing and showing the curve of his waist, the shadow of his ribs. Jackson’s thumbs find purchase in the dips of Holland’s hip bones, hears him swallow a gasp. Jackson pauses, caught up in the slide of his rough fingers against Holland’s smooth skin.
He’s struck, suddenly, by Holland’s vulnerability.
He’s exposed, here, in a way that none of the other people Jackson knows came before him have ever seen. Knows that no one else has spent the time to take Holland apart and put him back together again; to trace the soft skin behind the concave of his knee, to lick the milk taste from his collarbones, to suck soft bites into the crease of his thigh.
It’s a crying shame, really. But Jackson is selfish, and glad to keep this version of Holland between his sheets, away from others.
Jackson rests his chest against Holland’s, reaches up to smooth the ever-present furrow between Holland’s eyebrows.
“You okay?”
“Jesus,” Holland mutters, his voice raw and breathy. “Finally.”
Jackson breathes in deep through his nose, pauses – feels the way Holland is relaxing around him, opening up – and thrusts forward, once, as hard as he can.
“Fuck!” Holland yelps, hands flying up to clutch at Jackson's shoulders.
“What?” Jackson smiles to himself, slowing to a measured glide. “That's what you wanted, right? For me to fuck you?”
Holland groans low in his chest.
Jackson falls to his elbows, propping himself up on his forearms. Angles his hips until Holland jerks against him and cries out - aims for that spot over and over and over again, relentless and unfaltering.
Holland wraps his legs around Jackson's waist, heels digging into the backs of Jackson's thighs. He bites into the meaty skin of Jackson's shoulder, muffling his cries.
Jackson noses at his cheek until Holland catches his mouth in a kiss. Jackson can't hear anything beyond the creak of the bed, the rustle of the sheets, the slick sounds of their mouths, their ragged breathing, the cut off moans Holland's making in the back of his throat.
“Jack – I –” Holland stutters when they pull apart. Jackson looks at him, and his eyes are bright and glassy - the bluest thing Jackson has ever seen.
His breath catches in his chest. “You okay?”
Holland nods, and Jackson can see his throat moving around the words he can't say. “Don't stop.”
“Not going to,” Jackson grunts, reassuring.
Jackson lays a hand on Holland’s cock, begins to grasp his fingers around him, and Holland throws his head back and comes with a silent shout.
Jackson picks up his thrusts, and comes with and sound that gets pulled right from his core.
“Oh,” Holland flails and grasps his hair as Jackson’s thrusts stutter to a slow halt – Jackson winces slightly at the pain in his scalp. “Oh, god – it’s – it’s so wet, Jack.”
Holland looks shocked and amazed beneath him, his eyes open wide. He reaches up to untangle Holland’s fingers from his hair, rhythmically strokes his thumb over the back of Holland’s hand.
“Yeah,” Jackson says, leaning down so his mouth is right near Holland’s ear, panting into it. “Next time, I’ll take you apart with just my fingers and half a bottle of lube – get you real slick.”
Holland gasps and shudders hard – looks like if he could, he’d come again from the thought of it alone.
Jackson kisses him, deep and thorough, pulling out as he does so. Holland hisses slightly against his mouth. Jackson briefly toys with the idea of fingering Holland more right now, watching the breath hitch in his chest, watching him sob into the sheets - but Holland looks strung out enough.
He gets off the bed and goes to get a washcloth from the bathroom.
When he gets back Holland is splayed out like a starfish, staring at the ceiling.
“That – ” Holland starts. He clears his throat. “That was something.”
He joins Holland on the bed and wipes him down, rolls him away from the wet patch so his head is pillowed on Jackson’s shoulder. Doesn’t look Jackson in the eye the whole time.
“Sure was,” Jackson says, and he knows if he doesn't ask that Holland may not tell him, will try to weasel out of the question. Jackson's pretty sure he know what the answer is going to be, but he appreciates clarity. Wants to be sure he's given Holland what he wanted, even though he may not have known it himself. “Wasn't too much?”
“No,” Holland says, shoulders hunching up around his ears, and tapping his foot against Jackson's ankle. “We could - that thing you mentioned. We could try that next time.”
Jackson smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sure.”