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The bastard never shuts up.
Holland March moves through the world mouth first, schmoozing before he tries simple manners. He hums, whistles, and sings under his breath every time there’s a pause in conversation. He shouts out whatever ideas cross his mind even if someone else was already speaking at the time.
Jackson has personally watched Holland and Holly have two conversations at the same time, each of them speaking seamlessly over the other, responding to something that was just said while simultaneously listening to their next queue. It drives him nuts, cause he can’t follow either topic when they start like that. They might as well be speaking French.
A few times, Jackson has watched March sleep. Not in a creepy way, or anything. Just in the way that it’s hard to stay awake during a second or third consecutive all nighter in the car, and Jack doesn’t make it his priority to entertain Holland’s attention span when they’re on a job. They just end up in that position occasionally. Jackson in the driver’s seat, eyes on the dark and dingy city, taking responsibility for the both of them while March sleeps off a fever brought on by a day of sobriety. He doesn’t mind it, it’s nice to be trusted like that. March doesn’t worry that Jack might let anything happen. Honestly, he seems to sleep better on stakeouts than he does in his own goddamned bed. So Jackson can’t actually be mad about it.
Anyways. The point is, Holland talks in his sleep too.
It’s like he isn’t physically capable of shutting up. March is the least subtle motherfucker on the planet, and it’s so refreshing Jackson could kiss him for it. Not that they do that. But he could.
Jack never has to guess what Holland is thinking or feeling, what secret resentment could be building or second meaning hides under his words. He’s just exactly what he presents himself to be. A mess. A loud, pathetic, weepy mess. A far-from-perfect father, and not a great person either.
An upfront, honest, loyal idiot. A gorgeous, long-legged, dangerous blond. Jackson’s Achilles heel. The soft spot in an old bruiser’s carapace.
All of that to say. It’s weird that he’s quiet when they fuck.
It’s fine. Technically. Not everyone is loud in the sack. Jackson never has been, lord knows. And the few people he’s had who were real vocal felt performative, fake. He doesn’t need his ego stroked like that. Just tell him if he got you off and move on with your day.
But when he thought about what it would be like to get Holland in his bed, when he did dare to think about it, it was just. Different.
Well, different for a couple reasons. Anatomically, he was ready to brush up on the lessons he hasn’t needed to remember since the fucking orchards thirty years ago. Learning that Holland carried Holly to term in hiding and birthed her under a different name altogether was a revelation, but it didn’t halt the daydreaming. Just shifted some things around.
He’d also assumed Holland would be just as mouthy in bed as he was everywhere else. That they’d fall into the sheets bickering about something stupid and keep it up the whole way through. That it would be a mark of honor to render March finally, finally, speechless. He’d thought about the kind of deranged shit that would slip out of March’s mouth in the heat of the moment.
He’d also thought about kissing those words right off of his lips, but March never seemed interested in taking it there, and Jackson quickly stopped thinking about that. If March wanted to leave something that romantic for the ashen memory of his wife, Jack certainly wasn’t going to push.
But Holland doesn’t fucking talk. It’s a fight just to get him to whine and moan while he goes white-knuckled in the sheets. Jackson has to actively encourage Holland to use his first name while they’re literally fucking.
It’s fine. Some people just aren’t loud in the sack. Jackson knows that! He doesn’t get insecure because his partner isn’t pulling out pornstar dialogue.
It just. It doesn’t feel right. Holland is so loud.
So sue him, he’s started taking it as a challenge.
He’s got Holland March in his bed, naked as the day he was born. Jackson will get around to taking his own clothes off soon, probably. He’s a little busy at the moment.
Holland likes a lot of things when they’re like this. He likes to be held down and thrown around, he likes to be talked to real sweet and low and slow. He likes when Jackson says he’s doing a good job, or looks real nice. He likes to get pushed beyond what must be comfortable, to get shoved over an edge and then another and another.
Jackson likes to do all of these things for him, of course. March breaks and whines when he does them just right. Sometimes he’ll even get rewarded with a chant of ‘Healy, Healy, Healy’. With a careful correction, sometimes it even turns into ‘Jack, Jack, Jack’.
But there’s something else that makes Holland squirm. And Jackson’s got a theory. A lead, if you will. A stray thought he is compelled to chase to its conclusion.
It’s no hardship, either.
Jackson is leaning back against his headboard, comfortable and lounged. He could sit like this all day, and he’s well on his way. He’s got March in his lap, tipped down so those beautiful legs are reaching up towards the ceiling. One is bent around Jackson’s neck at the knee, the other twitching uncontrollably in Jackson’s grasp. Jackson’s other arm is also at work, wrapped around Holland’s waist, lifting the mysteriously quiet bastard right up to Jack’s mouth.
Holland’s head is thrown back onto Jackson’s bed, face hot and red and sweaty. Mouth clamped shut, teeth digging into his bottom lip. That’s ok. They’ve got plenty of time for him to loosen up. Jackson isn’t the one upside down and three orgasms in.
Jackson is the one so hard in his jeans he could probably cut glass with the damn thing, but he’s good at delayed gratification. Something that sets him apart from his business partner.
It only takes one soft swipe of his tongue to feel Holland’s leg flex around his shoulders. A kiss to the inner thigh to hear a punched out wheezy sort of whine.
“That’s right,” Jackson rumbles into Holland’s skin, and gets back a high pitched, warbly thing. A beautiful sound. Still not what he’s after.
But that’s not fair to Holland, really. Jackson hasn’t told the man what he’s after. He just pulled March into his bed, stripped him down, and scooped all of March against his chest ass-first. And got to work.
Jack loves eating him out. There’s just something about losing yourself in the taste, the smell, the feel of it. It’s sweaty work, and it makes his blood sing.
Holland gets real wiggly about it. He doesn’t always let Jackson really get into it, tries to scoot around and move somewhere he can get his hands on Jack to distract him. But the few times he’s spent some real time here, March gets- not vocal, but-
Needy.
Jackson wraps his lips around Holland’s erect little cock, and March slams his head back into the bed with a keen. The sound is barely even human.
Jack knows what Holland wants. It’s what Holland wants every time he’s gotten one or two rounds in. But he’s playing oblivious, just luxuriating.
It’s possible that Jackson enables Holland too often. He’s so easy to read, it’s hard not to move with his body language and give him exactly what he’s after without a word. But Jack wants the words. He wants them like he wants to breathe. He just isn’t telling March that.
“Gimme another one,” Jackson says, pushy as anything. He affectionately bumps his nose into March’s dick, relishing in the full body shiver it earns him. He licks again, a full stripe from hole to cock, flicking the tip of his tongue against the sensitive bundle. “Come on, baby, you can gimme another one.”
March whips his head side to side, nose knocking dangerously hard into the bed. If anyone could accidentally break their face during sex, it would be Holland March.
Jack coos, a sound he didn’t know he was capable of a year ago. “No? All done, baby?”
“No,” Holland whines. “No, Healy, please-”
“Yeah,” Jack smiles into his partner. “You can go again.”
Holland moans, the end breaking off into blessed, beautiful words. “No, no, Healy, please, come on. Come on.”
It’s better than nothing, but it’s really not what Jack wanted. “What is it, sweetheart? Are you done or not?”
A frustrated huff. Jackson needles, taunting. “It’s alright, Holl. We can call it for the night.”
He pulls away, loosening his grip on Holland’s leg to let it slip down. The picture of innocence. That’s Jackson Healy. So cautious and polite. He just doesn’t want to push his partner.
The leg around Jackson’s neck spasms. “No, no, no, come on. Healy, come on.”
Jackson Healy is a patient man. But he has his limits. Holland March staring up at him in pure desperation, lost and yearning, that’s enough to make any man bend the rules to the imaginary game he invented for the evening.
Jack pushes Holland away from him, scooting his entire body until he can lay flat, feet pressed to the sheets. Like this, Jackson can crawl over him, overtake Holland completely. He plants his hands on either side of Holland’s shoulders. He lowers his face until it’s only inches above Holland’s.
It would be so easy to kiss him like this. Share the thick, tangy taste of March’s body with him. Holland loves to keep his mouth busy, Healy knows that March would be tracing his long tongue over each of his teeth. He’d kiss like a champ. He’d kiss like a man possessed. Jack wants it. Jack wants Holland to want it.
But Holland doesn’t move to connect their lips. He lays frozen beneath Jackson, eyes wide, chest heaving.
Whatever they are, it doesn’t go that far. They’re exclusive fuck buddies, business partners, even fucking co-parents. But they aren’t- you know. Boyfriends.
Jackson’s about half a good argument away from moving into the Marchs’ guest room, but that doesn’t make them married or whatever. This is plenty.
Or it would be, if March would just loosen up a little.
Jack looms over his best friend. “What do you need, sweetheart?”
Holland worries his lip with his teeth. His eyes flit frantically all over Jackson’s face.
“Come on, Holland. Use your words.”
All the air leaves March’s lungs in one long whoosh. “Please fuck me, Healy please you gotta- you gotta fuck me. Please. It’ll be good. I’ll make it good, I swear.”
It’s like getting slapped upside the head. Jack’s ears ring, his vision tilts. His sinuses clear.
He moves without a thought.
Jack doesn’t take his clothes off, there’s no time. He just pulls down his zipper and frees his aching, straining cock. Holland’s legs find their rightful place back on Jack’s shoulders, and he slides home in one smooth motion.
It’s perfect every time. Holland is white-hot and dripping wet, squeezing Jackson so sweetly. March keens, his arms flailing and head thrashing. Jackson puts one hand on Holland’s chest, and another on his hips. Steady pressure, to keep his boy grounded.
“Good, Holland,” Jackson praises. “Now, keep going.”
It takes Holland a second to turn and meet Jack’s gaze. “What, what do you- come on, man. Just-”
“You gotta talk to me, Holland.” Jackson pulls halfway out just to slide back in, feeling Holland’s walls clench down around it. “You gotta keep going. Or I’ll stop.”
“No!” Holland’s hands scramble to grip Jackson’s wrists. “No, no, no. Don’t stop. Please don’t-”
Jackson rewards good behavior with a thrust, letting out a groan of his own. His boy feels so good. He starts an easy tempo. “There you go, baby.”
It won’t last long. Holland is so keyed up he probably doesn’t even realize how near being done he actually is, and Jackson’s been ignoring his own need since they walked through his front door. But Jack will be damned if he lets all this build up go to waste.
Holland squeezes his eyes tight. A couple short breaths punch out of him. But he doesn’t talk.
Reluctantly, Jack slows down. Holland’s whole face twists. A tear bullies its way out of one closed eye.
Jackson really didn’t mean to make the guy cry. An apology is already building in his throat, he’s ready to throw in the towel, let them both finish, and grab Holland his celebratory smoke.
Holland gasps.
“I need it, Jack. I need it so bad. Need to feel you all the time, all the time- thinking about it all the time.”
Jackson doesn’t start moving again right away. It takes his brain a second to reboot, though his cock is fully online. Holland moans when Jack thrusts again, fucking into him nice and deep.
“I want-” Holland pants. “I want you to fuck me like this whenever you want. Wherever, wherever you want. I think about it in the- you could fuck me on the floor.”
Jackson’s thought about that too, playing back their unfortunate first meeting and twisting it somewhere fun and sexy. He could wrestle Holland to the kitchen floor and hold his hands right where he wants them, push Holland around until he’s face-first into the cold tile.
He groans, nosing into the crook of Holland’s knee. Holland, miracle he is, keeps talking.
“I’d do it for you, any time you want. Want you to be- I want- you’re so big. You’re so strong, so big. I want- Jack.”
Holland’s words all dissolve into mush as Jackson starts aiming deep inside him. Short, pointed thrusts. But he’s still trying, Jack’s perfect boy, his little punchy sounds making ‘I, I, I, I’ again and again. The start of a sentence, abandoned with each breath.
There’s a part of Jackson that thinks he knows what Holland is trying to say. The sentence Jackson has forbidden himself to think about since the one time it slipped out of March. He’s desperate to hear it again, nothing has ever slammed into him as hard as those few words had.
“Come on, March. Say it,” Jack demands. He leans forward, shifting the angle. Holland yelps, but Jackson buries his face into the crook of Holland’s neck, feeling the shape of his collarbone between his teeth. “Say it.”
He wants to hear it. He has to hear it. I want you to put a-
“I love you.”
Jack freezes.
Huh.
That wasn’t what he expected.
Holland is babbling, asking for the movement to come back, following the rules Jackson laid at his feet . “I love you, I want, I want you to- I want you to move in. God, Jack. Jack!”
Jack does the only thing he can do. He pounds into his boy as hard and as fast as he can, raises his face, and kisses Holland March so hard their teeth clang together. March is too strung out to be coordinated, just panting into Jackson’s mouth. It’s transcendental. There’s no going back from this.
Jack loses himself immediately. He spills inside of March’s body, twitching and moaning. He licks over March’s lips, dipping his tongue between March’s teeth to seek out someplace even deeper to bury himself.
Holland is whimpering, hands twisted into Jackson’s hair, pulling at the curls. “Please, please, please-”
Jack presses a thumb to Holland’s dick, twisting in little circles until Holland is arching uncontrollably, thighs twitching, hips bucking. He cries out into Jack’s open mouth, every muscle tensing before he relaxes boneless into the bed.
They just lay like that for a moment, trading hot, sticky breaths.
Jackson moves on autopilot after that. He stands, giving Holland a full once over. March is melted into a March-puddle, exactly as Jack intended, so he’s alright to head to the bathroom and grab a cloth to clean him up with.
Wet cloth, lit cigarette. The same as always. Like no one pushed any boundaries, or said anything they didn’t mean in the heat of any moments.
When Jack comes back, Holland is sitting with his knees curled into his chest, eyes wary. Jack proffers his offerings. Holland accepts them magnanimously.
He won’t push it today. Holland has already given him enough today.
He’ll leave March on a simmer. They’ll share the smoke, March will go home to his smart mouthed kid.
They’ll both spend the night wide awake, tossing and turning and panicking and overthinking and making foolish plans.
Tomorrow, Jack will show up at his front door bright and early, bags in hand.
They really don’t need to talk about it.