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“I’ll have a sodom shot, please.”
The bartender, a stunning man named Jimmy, gave Holland a once over before nodding, stepping away from the bar counter. He subtly jerked his chin toward the rickety saloon doors to the left of the bar, leading Holland through them and around the corner. The walk down the long hallway was a long one, and Holland found himself watching the walls surrounding them becoming increasingly disheveled. It’s not a very inviting place, but Holland has come to learn that it’s by design.
“Been to the cellar before?” Jimmy asked, not looking over his shoulder.
Holland was a bit occupied neatly tucking the blue bandana he had previously concealed into the right hip pocket of his flared pants. He lit a cigarette as soon as it was situated before responding.
“A couple times,” he understated, “It’s been a while though.”
“Well we’re glad to have you back, then.”
Holland nodded a thanks toward Jimmy before they stopped in front of a sketchy looking metal door labeled ‘backstock.’ After knocking six times in an almost musical pattern, the door opened instead with a gentle creaking sound and a beckoning hand appearing around the corner.
The door closed behind Holland with a sturdy thunk, and the burly man that had been behind the door regarded him with a simple nod. He muttered a quick thanks before making his way down the stairs with an increasing pep in his step as the excitement of it all built in his stomach.
It had been a long time since Holland actually had the time to get around to going to The Cellar, but he finally got one single Friday night with an empty house. He had been more of a cruiser when his wife was still alive. She knew about it, of course, and shockingly had taken no issue with it when Holland mentioned it as something he did on occasion. She even joined in on for a few of his escapades.
With work, having a growing daughter, and regularly being injured in some way shape or form, he never really had any time to come by. That, and grief did some odd things to his brain, and a part of him couldn’t bring himself there without feeling guilty somehow. Like maybe he was getting over her too quickly. However his cast was off, he didn't have a case, Holly was at Janet– Jessica’s place, and he finally had enough time to process everything to the point where he felt like he could try again.
All of that to say, Holland was over the moon to finally be able to get back into the swing of things even if it was just for one night. The anticipation only built as the muffled music became louder and louder the further he descended downward.
One long set of stairs later, and Holland finally reached the final door. That one he could simply open himself, and he was immediately greeted by the sound of booming music and flashing lights cutting through the otherwise dimly lit space. An unpleasant scene to some, surely, but to Holland it was like a damn candy store. He’d really missed it.
Cigarette still half lit in his hand, he moseyed up to the bar with a lazy grin pulling onto his face. The man behind the counter was wearing virtually nothing, covered only by the mid-thigh length leather shorts that left very little to Holland’s imagination. He did a little hip wiggle before striding over to meet him from the inside of the bar.
“What can I get for ya,’” he purred, propping his elbows up on the table.
“Double of your cheapest whiskey.”
He nodded with a cheeky smile, turning away to grab a glass. Holland couldn’t help but take a quick gander at his ass, noting his matching blue hanky with an inward sigh of disappointment. When Holland was presented with the drink, he downed it in an instant before beckoning the bartender for another.
“Thirsty tonight, hm?”
“Damn fuckin’ right I am,” Holland shot him a grin.
He got two more rounds in before prying himself away from the bar to mingle. Most of the men he passed by were already engaged with one another, and admittedly Holland had never been a big fan of a heavy crowd unless he was the only receiver when he struck out on his own. He found himself quite liking to be the center of attention most of the time.
The booze finally traveled up to his brain, leaving him feeling fuzzy and warm even beyond the cloying heat in the room. He pregamed the ordeal, of course, but not so much that he would act a fool trying to get into The Cellar; those sorts of things were pretty sensitive in his time.
The Cellar had a total of eight rooms. There was one main room where folks started to mingle with a stage that occasionally ran burlesque and kink demonstrations; that night was a night without any performance. In the center was a classic, disco-style dance floor full of eccentrics and vanilla men alike looking for some fun. Leading out from the main room were hallways that travel out in all directions leading to five individually themed rooms, one dark room, and one fairly vanilla room.
Holland watched as a slim, younger man tugged a hulking figure in leather down one of the aforementioned hallways with thinly veiled envy. Sighing, he found a corner in the room to look over the crowd, trying to get a vantage point of anyone who might be dancing alone. So far, he hadn’t seen a single one in the low lights.
“I’m having my fucking debut and nobody’s a single in here,” he mumbled to himself, frustrated, “Just my fucking luck.”
That was when he saw it, or rather that was when he saw him. There was a man standing at the far end of the bar with his back facing Holland. He donned assless chaps, leather boots, a leather jacket, and an absolutely marvelous blue hanky tucked into the left side of his waistband. The back of his head featured salt and pepper hair, and there was a very appetizing mole resting center stage on his left asscheek; Holland’s heart rate spiked with interest. He lit another cigarette as he approached.
“All by yourself tonight, hot shot?”
The man went absolutely rigid. Holland briefly wondered if he was new to the scene, but his attire screamed experience. After a short beat of silence, Holland tried again. He came up to the man’s right side, trying to get into his line of sight before freezing himself. He would recognize that stern face and those crystal blue eyes anywhere. He saw them almost every day by that point.
“Okay, before you say anything,” the man started, “Just let me–”
“Holy shit, Healy?!” Holland whisper-shrieked.
Jackson slowly turned himself to face Holland, and just as he had suspected before approaching, he was not wearing a shirt under the leather jacket, displaying his mouth watering stomach and chest hair and a plethora of scars to Holland that he had never had the pleasure of seeing before. Additionally, the only thing hiding his dick from the rest of the room was a measly leather cup, exposing the tender upper-insides of his massive thighs.
Holland always knew that his partner had a grizzly sort of attractiveness to him, but that was a thought that he was willing to take to his grave. He only really pondered it on particularly shameful nights when he held himself and wondered what it would feel like to have Jackson’s hands on him rather than his own. However, in that moment as he stared down the leather-clad bruiser before him, he couldn’t deny the arousal stirring in his stomach. He didn’t even feel ashamed of it.
“Now I know what you’re thinking,” Jackson started.
Now, if Holland didn’t have any sense at all, he would think that Jackson was catching a peek at the cropped, tightly fitting shirt he had chosen for the night. If he somehow had negative levels of sense, he would say that Jackson might have been following the trail of hair from his navel and down to the waist of his bell-bottoms.
“No,” Holland forced out through gritted teeth, “I really, really doubt that.”
Jackson gave him an odd sort of look like he was trying to pick Holland apart with just a gaze. Holland would be ashamed to admit that it was working if he hadn’t already reached the point of being pretty drunk. In the dim light, Jackson looked so smoking hot that Holland wasn’t sure what to do with himself.
Holland swallowed thickly, opening his mouth to try and say anything to keep the conversation going, but Jackson was way ahead of him. The man bolted out of the club faster than Holland has ever seen him hustle. He frowned, pushing his brows together so tight that he could feel the creases in his skin.
After getting beyond wasted, Holland found a leather daddy to have a quick hookup with, but the entire time he found himself distracted. He kept imagining that the man behind him was someone else entirely; when he came, the name that spilled from his lips was not the–most likely fake–name the man had given him.
Jackson hadn’t come by the house for a few days after the incident at The Cellar, and Holland was starting to get worried. He stood in his kitchen with a near-spent cigarette dangling haphazardly from his lips as he scrubbed down a few dishes he and Holly had used the night before for canned ravioli. The sauce had already crusted to the bowls, so he conceded, filling them up with water and setting them back down in the sink to soak for the time being.
Holly was already at school, so Holland had ample time to sit by himself and think. He wasn’t a huge fan of thinking when he was stressed out though, which is why he found himself halfway to wasted at one in the afternoon on a Tuesday. He sighed, pouring himself another glass and groaning when he realized he drank it down to the last drop.
In his desperate rifling through the cabinets for another bottle of, well, anything, Holland failed to hear the telltale sound of the door unlocking and opening behind him. Snagging a hidden bottle of Jack Daniels, he stood up triumphantly and poured himself a generous glass. He gulped it down in one go and poured himself another.
He sighed, and moments later somebody cleared their throat behind him.
“Jesus!” He squealed, whipping around to face the intruder, equipping the bottle of whisky as a makeshift weapon.
Jackson put his hands up in surrender.
“I thought you would have heard the door opening.”
“Cleary I fucking didn’t.”
Jackson eyed the bottle of Jack in Holland’s hand wearily.
“I can see that.”
Holland was more than relieved to see him again, but he wouldn’t be caught dead admitting that at the time, so he opted for a different approach.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
“Took some time to think.”
Holland took a solid gulp of his glass, fumbling with the breast pocket of his button down for a pack of cigarettes. After lighting a fresh one and taking a long, long drag off of it, he turned his attention back to Jackson.
“Think about what?”
Jackson gave him a look.
“Don’t give me that shit,” Holland spat, “I don’t know what the big deal is. We saw each other at a sex club, what else is there to say about it?”
Jackson shifted uncomfortably. That was probably the most unsure of himself that Holland had ever seen from the man. He always seemed so steadfast and effortlessly confident that the thought of him being insecure about something had never once crossed his mind.
“March, it was a… you know.”
“What, a gay sex club? Great. We’re both fags,” Holland tried to ignore the way Jack flinched at the harshness of his words, “I mean, god dammit, what’s the big deal?”
“It’s a big deal to me.”
Holland softened a little, trying to lower his hackles. He obviously knew the risk of being queer in the seventies, and he was no stranger to the taboo nature of it all. He always had some sort of support though either his wife or his cop friend that he had fooled around with a little bit at the academy. Being ashamed of that part of his nature wasn’t something he ever had to do.
He didn’t know Jackson, not really. The man was a bit of a mystery to him all things considered. Holland knew his favorite color, the city he grew up in, and a few other mundane details about his life. However, he realized in that moment that he never got to hear any of the meat of Jackson’s upbringing. For all he knew, Jackson had been targeted before and he just didn’t know it. He felt a little guilty at his outburst all of a sudden.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. Look, Healy… I…” He trailed off, trying to find the right words, “It’s not a big deal to me, but if you want to move on and pretend we never saw each other there… I can do that.”
Jackson sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and running his hand down his face.
“I don’t really… I don’t really want that.”
Holland blinked owlishly at him, utterly astonished.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Jackson looked lost, unsure of where to go next. It made Holland wish that he could wipe the fear and confusion off of his face however he could.
“You looked nice,” Jackson seemed to settle on, though it seemed he was planning on saying more.
Holland gawked at him.
“All of that just to tell me something I already know?”
“Just shut the fuck up for a second and let me finish.”
Holland shut his mouth, listening intently.
“I saw you in that club and I… you just looked so damn good. Obviously I’ve fooled around with men before but…” Jackson cleared his throat again, “I wanted you so badly it scared me, so I ran.”
Holland nearly dropped the glass he was holding, opting to drain it before setting it down on the kitchen counter. Jackson Healy, hardass bruiser, stubborn asshole, stoic statue. He wanted Holland. He had already established within himself that he would jump Jackson’s bones in his dreams, but the idea of that being an actual possibility was utterly foreign.
“I’m sorry for going awol, March,” Jackson said with eyes so sincere it almost made Holland sick, “I didn’t really know how to–”
Holland had enough of that conversation, so he decided it best to cut Jackson off. He grabbed the man by the collar of his leather jacket–it seemed to be the one he wore at the club, Holland noticed–and yanked him into a bruising kiss.
Jackson froze for a moment, notably hesitant. Holland pulled back immediately.
“Fuck, m’sorry I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” he let go of Jackson’s shirt, moving away from him, “M’sorry. Let’s just forget about that so we can still fucking work together and shit.”
The silence lasted mere seconds before Jackson balled the front of Holland’s shirt into his fist, pulling him back with a stumble. The ensuing kiss was hot and heavy, all tongue and teeth and spit. When Jackson deepened his advances and sunk his teeth into Holland’s bottom lip, he choked out a whine.
“You look so fucking hot in leather, Healy,” Holland sighed against his lips, losing control of his words the moment his affection was reciprocated.
“Oh yeah? Maybe next time I’ll wear ‘em,” Jackson purred, “Just for you.”
All he could do was nod in response, and just as he did so Jackson was pulling him back in.
It was intense. Jackson’s hands found their way to Holland’s waist, pulling him flush against his front in a vice grip. Holland let a whimper slip out, trying to push himself even closer yet. The only way that he could get as close to Jackson as he wanted to be would be to crawl under his skin and make a home in his ribs.
“Couldn’t help but notice that bandana you had,” Jackson murmured between kisses, wrenching Holland’s button down out of his waistband.
Holland responded with a pitiful sound, going a little weak at the knees in Jackson’s arms as those warm, calloused hands rode up his front to explore the expanse of skin underneath.
“Drove me mad seeing that whorish shit you wore, March,” he said, already halfway down the buttons on Holland’s shirt, “Wanted to tear that stupid crop off of you.”
“Fuck,” Holland sighed, “I wanted you to. Wanted to go back to one of those rooms and let you do whatever the fuck you wanted to me.”
Jackson growled low and deep, dropping Holland’s shirt and spinning him around to pin his front to the kitchen counter. The marble dug cold and painfully into his now bare stomach, and there was no doubt in his mind that it would leave a mark. Despite that, he couldn’t find it within himself to care. Not with Jackson’s sturdy heat crowding him from behind.
Rough, stubbly kisses roamed from the space between Holland’s shoulder blades up to the sensitive skin behind his ear. The sound of Jackson’s desperate, heavy breathing so close to him was enough to send him into overdrive, and he knew for a fact that he was leaking into his boxers.
Holland pressed his forehead to the cool marble, trying to ground himself when his mind and body were trying hard to ascend into the clouds. He needed that even more so when Jackson reached around his front to palm at his undeniable erection.
“Shit, you want this bad,” Jackson mumbled to himself from behind Holland.
“Healy,” he groaned, “Hurry the fuck up. I’m losing my shit down here.”
Jackson seemed happy to oblige, skillfully undoing the button and zipper of Holland’s dress pants, pulling them down along with his boxers in one swift motion. The cool breeze on his exposed flesh made him shiver, but that seemed to only spur him on more.
Jackson chuckled low to himself as he collected the precum dripping from Holland’s aching cock like a leaky faucet on his fingers, drawing them back. Holland groaned at the contact, and that devolved quickly into a desperate whine as the brief reprieve from his pent up arousal was taken from him. He raised his head to try and look over his shoulder, but Jackson went and forced it back down.
“Ah ah, no peeking,” Jackson chided, roughly grabbing Holland’s ass and spreading him open to get a good look, “Holy mother of…”
“Shit!” Holland yelped as Jackson circled his hole with one finger. It wasn’t nearly enough.
“You’re nearly ready already. You hooked up last night?”
Holland simply nodded against the countertop.
“He looked so much like you,” Holland found himself admitting without a filter.
Jackson spat down onto Holland’s waiting body, rubbing it around for a moment before plunging two and then three fingers into him with minimal resistance. The stretch of all three was deliciously painful with just the right amount of burn alongside the overwhelming desire pooling in Holland’s stomach.
“Did you think of me when he fucked you?”
Holland whined out a desperate confirmation as he heard the telltale sound of a belt and zipper coming undone. A hand came to rest on Holland’s head, taking a fistfull of hair and pulling his head back with a practiced motion. Two fingers prodded at Holland’s mouth, and he obediently opened up to taste himself of Jackson’s fingers, lathing his tongue over each one and between with the foolish wish for Jackson to see his certainly debauched expression.
“Tell me, March,” Jackson pushed his fingers farther until he felt the lovely gag that rose from Holland’s throat, “Who’s name did you scream?"
The finger’s retracted with Holland trying to follow them, but the fist in his hair held him tightly in place. Holland felt a wave of brattiness rising in his throat.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Holland sneered petulantly.
Holland could almost feel the grin pull onto Jackson’s face despite not being able to see him.
“You want me to fuck you? You answer my god damned question.”
Holland grunted, not opening his mouth. Jackson sighed, removing the hand from Holland’s hair and starting to step away with the promise of making good of his statement. Holland scrambled, turning over his shoulder to grab at the front of Jackson’s hawaiian shirt.
“Yours, okay? I fucked a guy who looked like you and I yelled for you when I came all over my damn self. Happy now, asshole?”
Jackson hummed an affirmative, petting Holland’s head before wrenching it back by his hair once again. Holland moaned out into the otherwise empty house as he felt Jackson tap his cock against the seam of his ass a couple times before lining himself up. With one more unceremonious spit down onto the place their bodies met, Jackson pressed the tip inside.
From stretch alone, Holland could feel that Jackson was pretty sizable. Not a monster by any means, but girthy as anything. The moan that rose out of him as their hips became flush was something straight out of a porno, all high-pitched and breathy.
“Fu–ck yeah,” he nearly howled, his need to feel full finally coming to fruition.
Jackson wasted no time before slowly pulling out and snapping his hips back in with vigor. He set the pace at a happy medium, letting Holland savor the feeling of his partner’s cock splitting him open with each push. It was heavenly to say the least, and it was nothing like any other hookup that Holland has ever had with a man.
Holland white knuckled the edge of the counter to keep himself upright so as to not be held solely by the hand in his hair. Jackson's grunts behind him were becoming choppy and labored, and Holland had to catch himself as Jackson shifted to place both of his hands around Holland’s waist. With his newfound leverage, he pulled Holland back to meet him with each thrust, pushing him somehow deeper yet into him.
Jackson adjusted himself until he found the right angle to hit Holland’s prostate over and over without any mercy, notified by the punched out scream that came from Holland the moment he hit the spot. In an instant, Holland’s untouched orgasm hit him like a train. He spilled out and onto the cabinets and floor with his cock twitching pitifully with each spurt of cum that Jackson milked out of him as he continued his relentless attack.
Holland was overwhelmed, lost in a sea of undeniable pleasure that quickly turned to overstimulation as he felt tears pinpricking his eyes. His rational brain wanted to pull away and beg Jackson to stop his onslaught, but the lust-driven animal in him kept pushing back onto Jackson’s cock like he would never be able to feel it again after what has become the best sexual encounter he has ever had with another man.
“Just hold on a little longer,” Jackson mumbled, draping himself over Holland’s back and evilly wrapping the calloused hand Holland found himself dreaming about around his woefully spent cock. He had already gone half-hard from the overwhelming sensation, and it came to full hardness once again under Jackson’s hand with a sob.
The thrusts became rough and animalistic, more of a desperate rutting than anything with the way that Jackson had pressed himself deep inside with incremental thrusts to keep massaging at Holland’s prostate. It took mere minutes for Holland to cum again, fully crying out Jackson’s name as he hurdled over the edge and into oblivion.
With one last squeeze from Holland’s orgasm, he felt Jackson bury himself and filled him with hot spurts of cum. For a moment it felt like Jackson’s orgasm would never end with how he continued to rut with fervor for at least another minute or so before slowing down and coming to a stop. He remained inside of Holland as his dick softened, and Holland felt the tickle of a stubbled mouth pressing into the junction of his neck and shoulder.
With a gentle pop, Jackson pulled himself out of Holland with a groan. Holland was as relieved as he was utterly disappointed at the emptiness he felt in that moment. His elbows buckled, and he lowered himself flat on the counter with a breathy sigh as his tears slowly subsided.
Jackson’s hands came around Holland’s waist again, flipping him once more to pull him into a kiss. That one felt different though. Now that their pent up desperation had been put aside, the way Jackson kissed him felt a lot more intimate. It was soft and sweet with no nipping or expectations of having it lead to something more. Jackson's thumbs came to rest on either side of Holland’s face, gently wiping away the remains of his overstimulated tears.
Holland lazily stretched his arms out and around Jackson’s ribcage, linking his fingers together as they shared a moment so close to domesticity that it made Holland’s insides twist with longing. When Jackson pulled away, he looked Holland up and down with a satisfied expression, taking extra time to watch his spend run down Holland’s inner thighs.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”
Holland wordlessly nodded, feeling blissed out and fatigued beyond reason.
After Jackson dutifully cleaned him and helped him dress, he laid Holland down on his bed, turning to leave him to sleep.
“Hold on… wait a minute,” Holland found himself whispering, “Stay with me, Healy… please?”
Jackson looked at him with an expression nothing short of conflict and disbelief.
“Are you sure you want that?”
The implications spoke loud and clear to Holland: ‘Are you sure you want me?’
“Mhm… jus’ come lay down. Gonna nap for a couple hours b’fore Holly’s off school.”
Jackson remained quiet for a moment.
“Come lay with me… don’t go.”
After one last moment of deliberation so palpable that Holland could damn near read his mind, he nodded. He approached the bed and cautiously sat on the edge on the opposite side for a moment before swinging his legs up and scooching back to prop his back up on the headboard.
Holland dove in, dragging lazy kisses up his stomach and to his neck before nuzzling in, draping an arm over Jackson’s chest.
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”
Holland placed a gentle kiss on Jackson's jaw, smiling against his dewy skin.
“You love it and you know it,” he teased.
“God knows why,” Jackson retorted, but Holland could hear the smile when he spoke.
Holland didn’t reply as he drifted off. As the realization dawned on him that Jackson would still be there when he woke up, he smiled into the man’s neck and promptly fell asleep.