Chapter Text
Initially, the only reason that he’d even been at the bar was for a quick drink.
Sure, he stayed sober for most of his life, but occasionally a hard day was an exceptionally hard day, and he wanted to sit and stew about it on his lonesome in a dark corner at a dive.
The comedy club was decidedly not the place for that.
Too many people with fake laughter and guffaws that practically rattled the walls of his upstairs apartment, watered down drinks, and not a fucking dark corner in the place.
So with a cracked rib from someone who hadn’t quite gotten the message earlier and a bruised fist thanks to one Holland March, he made his way down the back staircase and puttered his way down the blocks, feeling safer the more sketchy the streets got.
Eventually he’d settled on a place that had a broken sign above the door hanging from chains that read ‘The Rail’. Inside had been one of the crunchiest places that he’d seen, both from the actual noise of the carpet as he walked across it and the clientele.
It didn’t matter, not really, when the glass of scotch he’d gotten was practically filled to the rim and charged as one shot, and when he’d fallen into the booth furthest from everyone else to marinate on his woes.
The first message had been annoying, and Jackson kicked himself for not realizing he’d left his knuckles at home then. One little kick from the guy had agitated a healing bone and knocked him back a few weeks in recovery.
And then the ordeal with Holland March, a man with a sharp face and dull reflexes, considering how many times he’d been able to knock the guy down. Honestly, with the bandage on his arm, he’d almost felt bad about breaking it and hurting the guy further.
The scream he’d let out had been pretty funny, though.
He couldn’t taste the Yoo-Hoo anymore, not with the liquor taking over all of his taste buds, but he made a mental note to stop and buy a case after he finished this glass.
He supposed it didn’t matter, not right now, when he was exhausted and craving the thin blanket he had in his bed. After depositing his glass at the bar, and offering a nod to the bartender, he ducked towards the bathroom, intent on emptying his bladder into a functioning toilet.
(Not that the one in his apartment didn’t function; it just didn’t like to flush, and there was a hole in the floor next to it that led to the seating area of the club and he didn’t exactly want to flash his nuts to some unsuspecting woman laughing at a knock-knock joke.)
The bathroom matched the rest of the establishment, dark and dank, with one urinal that was currently occupied by a man inspecting his dick in a way that made Jackson assume he was trying to find the meaning of life in a freckle or mole on it, and two stalls tucked into the back corner.
Rather than ask the budding philosopher to move so that he could take a leak, he ducked into the left stall, pants already pushed down before he latched the door and piss leaking from his urethra.
Whatever the man at the urinal had been doing seemed to clearly be cut short, considering that just seconds after his stream started, there was the sound of rushing footsteps and the snick of the bathroom door closing.
Jackson heaved out a sigh, his free hand wiping at the sweat on his brow, mourning the fact that he was trapped into the tiny space when he could have a nice view of the door and a wide stance.
And then there was a noise to his right, soft enough that he had to perk his ears up to catch it, loud enough that it made his head turn to the side to see where it came from.
His breath hitched, heart rate ticking up when he saw the briefest flash of fingers on his side of the wall, the fingers that had made the tapping noise that caught his attention.
Once his body left panic mode, really only a few seconds, and he was able to shake the last droplets of piss off of his soft cock, he turned fully to inspect where the fingers had appeared from.
There was a hole.
In the stall.
The hole that was taped with at least three different materials to ensure that whoever stuck their dick through didn’t get cut.
His gut clenched, not knowing if the tapping had been a beckon for his own cock, or a warning that a dick was about to greet him.
When nothing appeared, he assumed that it was the former, and the way that the stranger had been acting at the urinal finally clicked.
That man hadn’t been seeking the meaning of life in his pubes; he’d been recovering from a blowjob.
A blowjob that was now being offered to Jackson.
After a moment, the fingers reappeared, once more beckoning.
He stayed frozen, save for the quick tucking of his dick back into his pants, as if protecting himself from being stupid enough to actually shove his cock through the hole and into a stranger's mouth.
The problem he was facing, though, was that in some very particular aspects of his life, he was in fact incredibly weak.
Weak enough that just the idea that there was a person on the other side of a bathroom stall waiting to suck someone off made his dick warm.
It was a man, at least it had to be, judging by the quick flash of a mustache he’d gotten when the person stuck their tongue through the hole.
The fact that it was a man was something that Jackson wasn’t concerned with, he’d had a handful of men in his proverbial bed while harvesting avocados in his youth, and had continued to invite them over well into his adulthood. He wasn’t worried about the idea of sticking his cock through the hole and being smacked away either, not when the sole purpose of every glory hole was to have a dick poked through it.
In fact, he wasn’t concerned about his identity being leaked at all. He’d watched the doors at the front of the building and to the restrooms the entire time that he’d been moping, and hadn’t seen a single soul go through to the room he was in now, save for the man who had just exited, which meant that whoever was on the other side had just been sitting and waiting for someone to show up.
With all the grace of a bull in a china shop, Jackson fumbled his soft cock out from his jeans, pinching a few fingers around the shaft to pump it a few times so that it wouldn’t hang limply through the hole.
He didn’t know proper etiquette for having one’s dick sucked anonymously, but he assumed that making the other person work to get him fully erect was a faux pas.
Another faux pas would probably be stuffing his balls through the hole, even if the wet heat that suddenly surrounded the tip of his soft dick made him want to crash through the flimsy metal stall to shove himself down their throat.
Jackson cleared his throat, and focused on trying to clear his head, every ounce of his grey matter going to how it felt to have his cock in someone’s mouth after years.
It was hot and wet, and Jackson wanted to strangle himself for thinking about that so much because of course a hot and wet mouth felt that way.
His forehead pressed against the stall, and his hips pitched forward as much as they could when the mouth swallowed him down to the hilt.
And sure, maybe Jackson hadn’t exactly been getting any since his wife had left him, but this had to have been one of, if not the, best blowjob he’d ever gotten.
Through the hole he could see the lips of the man, swollen and practically red from how hard he’d been sucking his cock.
It made his balls clench, the pressure in his gut building with each flash of their mouth through the tiny gap of the hole.
The gut in question was making it hard for him to stuff the last few inches of his dick into the stranger’s mouth, Jackson instead gripping the top of the stall and clumsily humping forward in time with the bob of their head just to try and get that last bit over the threshold.
It seemed to work, at least, the other person seemed to know what he was trying to achieve, their tongue cupping the bottom ridge of his cock and pushing out until the tip of it brushed against the seam of his sac.
Briefly, he abandoned the grip he had on the top of the stall to reach down and scoop the mass of his stomach up so that it rested higher on the metal wall and allowed his cock to push through even more.
Spit was slicking down his pubes, wetting the rim of the hole and his jeans.
It made his dick twitch.
Which made Jackson realize that whoever was on the other side of the stall had swallowed him down without a single gag, and that the jerking of his cock wasn’t making them choke at all.
“Fuck—“
There was a loud slurp, the man sucking up the dripping spit that was sluicing off his cock, and then only the tip was left in the stranger’s mouth.
He couldn’t blame himself for how it ended, not really, not when his brain was entirely focused on the way that the man’s tongue was prodding at his urethra, as if nursing out a few more drops of precum to taste.
It happened with the scrape of lower teeth, and the feeling of a punch to his gut, his balls tightening as his cock pulsed and pushed out line after line of spend into the stranger’s mouth.
Lines that were happily swallowed up, he noted, his chest heaving with breath as he came back down to earth.
Did you tip at a gloryhole?
Jackson pushed out a breath and let his weight rest on the metal wall behind him, his knees still weak from having one of the best orgasms he’d had in years, maybe in his entire life.
It wasn’t like he expected an invoice to be pushed through the hole, and there wasn’t a hand reaching through with beckoning fingers to ask for money, but it felt wrong to leave without at least leaving something.
Still, he fumbled with his wallet and fingered through the bills he had, his twitching dick now cold in the air as it hung out from his fly. Eventually he settled on a twenty, clumsily folding it up and pinching it between his first and second fingers to pass through the hole.
In return, warmth was pressed to his fingertips, a kiss, and then the bill was gone.
That seemed to be the end of the transaction, the shadow from under the stall receding, so Jackson just… tucked himself back into his jeans and stumbled out of the bathroom.
It would have been better if he’d stayed there, he thought, after returning home with a crate of Yoo-Hoo only to promptly smash it while being ambushed.
At least the bar had a warm mouth on the other side of a cold wall that could keep him company.
—
And then with everything that had followed, Jackson hadn’t had time to stop back in to visit his… friend?
Buddy?
Whatever the stranger was.
The one time he had been able to drop in, after hauling an exhausted Holland and a slap-happy Holly home from the party, the stranger hadn’t been there.
Fine, reasonable even, considering it had been one in the morning and it wasn’t like there were posted hours for a gloryhole, but still. His own hand hadn’t been as good.
Now that things had settled, that the court cases were over with and handled, and Holland was standing on his own two feet most of the time, it seemed like the exact perfect time to go and reward himself.
Especially because he and Holland had wrapped up a peeping tom case in less than two hours and were now nursing their own respective beverages at a bar that was close to the client’s house.
(Holland had said they needed to decompress after the case, which Healy had laughed at, considering that most of their time ‘following the lead’ had been Holland making multiple stops to find the brand of cigarettes he’d wanted, but he’d agreed nonetheless.)
“What’s the time?”
From where he was seated next to Jackson, Holland cocked a brow and twisted his wrist to check the watch face.
“‘lil after ten. Why, you got plans?”
He did, but it’s not like Holland had the express right to know everything about his life.
“Meeting someone.”
“Yeah?” Holland shot him a sleazy grin, his fingers toying with the rim of his glass. “Hot date?”
“Try an actual fuckin’ meeting, pervert.” The last of his scotch was swallowed easily, Jackson clinking the rim of his empty cup against Holland’s. “You ever been to The Rail?”
Holland barked out a laugh that made Jackson flinch and look at him with a raised brow. In an instant, the man’s face had twisted into a pinched expression, and he was greedily sucking down the rest of his booze, one hand fumbling for the bottle to refill it.
“Hell n— nope! Never had the pleasure, man. If you’re the clientele then it’s not, ha, it’s not for me!” His glass was filled to the brim, and when it started to overflow, Holland leaned down to slurp at the liquid on the counter. “The Rail, huh? I think I've heard of it. Heard it’s nasty. Like-like there’s piss on the walls in the bathroom. Gross.”
“March, who the fuck cares about the bathroom? What, you go to a bar based on if the fuckin’ floor is bleached?” Jackson pursed his lips together. “If that’s the type of place you’re try’na pick then you ain’t doin’ a good job, considering you puked on the bar last week when I came to haul you home.”
“I’m just sayin’!” Holland was fidgeting with the empty glass, his bottom lip poked out. “Yknow. Standards.”
“You’re lecturing me about standards?” After a quick finger through his wallet, Jackson left a few bills on the bar counter, tapping his finger against them so that they stuck to the condensation. “That’s like a pile of shit trying to sell bleach. I’ll see you around, March.”
“I’m not picking you up! If you get trashed!” It was true that Holland had driven them around for the case, and that his car was parked outside, but Jackson was no stranger to walking or hailing a cab. “Jus’ so you know!”
“I know, March.” Jackson clicked his tongue against his teeth and shot the other man a wink. “B’sides, it’d be Holly driving and you know that.”
The door shut behind him before he could hear the indignant spluttered noise that Holland would surely make.
Jackson spat into his palm, brushed the hair that curled against his forehead back, and started the trek towards his destination, intent on making this meeting an absolutely outstanding one.