Work Text:
It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Putting the radio on made sense; after all, Holly usually had her record player on, book in hand on her bed. Sometimes she would be at school on a day that they happened to have off, or with a friend if it was a weekend, but most of the time they had to work around the childcare schedule. It was just an easy way to ensure that they weren't heard.
It was something that Holland March hadn't had to worry about for a long time; the only times sex had been on the table in the past few years, given his marital situation - or lack thereof - had been after nights out on the town, once Holly had a designated place to stay. It had worked pretty well. She had only come home to barely-dressed men and women in the kitchen a couple of times. Overall, he considered that a solid win.
Of course, Healy had screwed that up completely. Suddenly sex had been a very possible and very desirable option. Therefore, action needed to be taken to ensure that they could get their hands, mouths, and whatever else on each other as often as possible.
Anyway. They were in the bedroom. The radio was on, loud, which Holland was thankful for because he was damn near sobbing as he gripped the pillow with one white-knuckled hand and Healy's arm with the other.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck, Jack, shit-"
It was a hot day in LA, as usual, but the mid-afternoon paperwork session at the bedroom desk had very quickly been derailed. It wasn't important, really, just some case about another old lady who thought she'd been robbed of all the loose change under her bed. Turned out her grandson had set up a bank account for her and she'd agreed to put it in there.
Anyway.
March arched his back, whining. He loved the low, guttural grunts that Jackson let out with each thrust, eyes closed in concentration. He loved the feeling of Jackson's hands on his hips, gripping tight as he fucked him hard. Seriously, it was like a fuckin' dream. He couldn't imagine anything better.
However, Holland couldn't help but tune in to the fact that Rock'n Me by the Steve Miller Band had been playing for the last couple minutes or so. Jesus, this was one of his favourite songs, and he'd had to work not to absent-mindedly sing along already. Finally, he couldn't hold it in any longer.
"You know, I love this fuckin' song," he gasped, jutting his hips upwards to angle the other man deeper into him.
Healy opened his eyes and smiled politely, face flushed.
"Oh really?" he asked, and March scowled at the sarcasm that filled the words.
"Yeah, asshole. Just trying to make conversation. Jesus, why do I try?"
Holland's words were considerably less effective when they were interrupted by high-pitched whimpers. He made a mental note to work on his poker face. Or, like, his sex poker face. Whatever.
"Shut up," Jackson chuckled fondly, punctuating the statement by wrapping his hand around Holland's cock and roughly stroking.
"Fuck," Holland groaned, digging his fingernails into Jackson's shoulder blades in response. Jackson, satisfied with his distraction, continued to do just that. The song on the radio faded out, and the older man enjoyed the few seconds of silence between the tracks. He hated it when they had to have a full critical discussion of various musicians in between every fucking song. As endearing as his partner's excitement was, sometimes a man just wants a bit of attention, right?
As the next song started, he brushed a strand of stray, sweaty blond hair away from the other man's closed eyes. Overcome with a sudden wave of fondness, he leaned forwards to press a few soft, quick kisses down the line of March's throat, finishing with a playful bite. He let his forehead rest in the crook of Holland's neck for a moment and relished in the feeling of his partner as the music continued around them.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" Holland suddenly yelled, eyes shooting open, and Jackson moved back up to smile at him.
"That good?"
Completely ignoring him, March exclaimed, "This is- fuckin'- The Isley Brothers! Love the -oh Jesus- One You're With! I haven't heard this in years!"
Healy raised an eyebrow at the other man's excited look, continuing his thrusts. Maybe all he needed was to get the name of the song out. That seemed like a Holland March kind of thing.
Then he realised that Holland had started to quietly sing along between moans and yelps, and decided it was time to take action.
He reached up and wrapped his left hand around Holland's throat. Immediately, the man's eyes rolled back in his head. He opened his mouth and made a sound somewhere in between a gasp and a moan, tongue sticking out slightly. Effective, Healy noted.
He knew that Holland loved this. Despite his partner's attempts at evading talking about it, his reactions to Jackson treating him rough spoke for him. Choking, holding him down, telling him exactly what to do; it was clear that March needed to be dominated, and Healy was more than happy to oblige. After all, it wasn't like it was one-sided.
"I told you to shut up, March," he said, soft and simple, tightening his grip.
Ten seconds later, give or take, Holland was groaning, voice rough and high, as he came onto his stomach.
"Oh fuck. Jackson, Jesus Christ, don't stop."
"Wasn't gonna."
It wasn't long before Jackson was swearing as he came inside the other man, pulling their bodies close as Holland continued to moan in his ear.
He took a second to rest against the younger man's chest, just catching his breath and enjoying the feeling of March's arms now wrapped tight around his neck.
"Fuck. Okay. Fuck. I love you, Jack," March murmured, still breathing heavily against his partner's chest.
They both groaned as Jackson pulled out and rolled to lie next to him. Without really thinking, he leaned in for a kiss, which March instantly reciprocated.
God, you're so in love, Jackson's brain told him.
Yeah, dumbass, I know, Jackson replied.
After a few minutes of clean-up - and Healy making sure to get up to turn the fucking radio off - the two were closely settled back in bed. Both men had ended up in a pair of Jackson's boxers, which wasn't surprising. Even before he had officially moved in with the Marches, half of his clothes had ended up here anyway. The fish had really been the only reason he had kept paying rent on that place above The Comedy Store for so long.
Assholes, he thought, not for the first time, before remembering how much Holly loved them. It had been nearly a year, anyway. Maybe it was time to let that fucking fish-based rent money go.
While Healy lay on his back and thought over the ethical position of his pet fucking fish, Holland lit a cigarette with a book of matches on the bedside table and leaned back to lie on his partner's chest. They both lay in silence for a while, just enjoying the presence of the other.
"Sorry about the, uh, singing," March suddenly said, not meeting Jackson's gaze, "I just, y'know, really like those songs."
Jackson laughed and pulled him closer. As if he had been fucking Holland March for nearly a year and didn't expect something like that to happen.
"Don't worry, darling," he chuckled, pressing a kiss to Holland's forehead, "I love you. Also, all things considered, it's pretty cute."
The blond man warily turned his gaze to his partner's, brows furrowed.
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means I love you, asshole. Now go to sleep," the older man said, "We've got to work tomorrow."
So Holland, red in the face and muttering inaudibly, stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray on the bedside table and eventually let himself fall asleep to the feeling of Jackson's strong arm wrapped around his waist. As Jackson began to doze off, nose nestled in his partner's blond hair, he thought about the pancakes that Holly had excitedly told him she'd make tomorrow morning.
For once in Jackson Healy's life, everything seemed to be working out just fine.