Work Text:
Against all odds, this thing between them was easy.
Nothing about Holland March or Jackson Healy was easy. It was a rule of their professions and a hazard of the kind of people they were: life was difficult to navigate, very fucking complicated as March had said that day in the bowling alley. Half the people they talked to were straight-up lying, the other half had no idea what was going on, and most of the time it was a mixture of both.
Maybe that’s why it was easy. Life throws curveball after curveball your way, and so maybe love is knowing exactly what the other person is going to pitch.
Well, in the grand scheme of things, anyway. Healy knew March would tell him the truth and that he wouldn’t make big decisions without input from him and Holly. The trouble was that what March considered “big decisions” and what the truth was to him had been filtered through March’s incomprehensible thought processes before it ever reached Healy, meaning that a lot of their conversations consisted of Healy saying something like “Did you stop by the bank to cash that check?” and March responding with something like “One time I ate a whole package of moldy Eggos without realizing it.”
March refused to admit that the way his brain worked was utterly mystifying to everyone who wasn’t him. This was evident by the way he irritably told Healy that the question about the bank made him think about the meeting with the loan people about the money for the house, which made him think about appliances, which made him think about washing machines, which made him think about mold, which made him think about the Eggos. He said all of this like Healy was slightly stupid for not understanding his process.
So yes, while March was occasionally inscrutable, the way that they slipped into casual intimacy had been so natural as to feel like it was always there. It certainly hadn’t changed much- Healy knew how March took his coffee, and now he knew what it tasted like on March’s lips in the morning. March knew the shape of Healy’s side because of all the times Healy had dragged him to bed from the back porch, and now he knew what it felt like when they held each other at night. Holly reserved the right to make loud retching sounds when they got affectionate in front of her, but never missed a chance to snuggle up against Healy during movie nights, her father on his other side, both of them inevitably starting to snore the same way around an hour in.
All of this experience made Healy reflect later that, with the way March’s mind worked, he probably should have slowed them down sooner.
In his defense, it started with March squirming in his lap on the couch in an incredibly distracting way.
“Mh- Jack?”
Healy broke the kiss to move down March’s neck. “Yeah, baby?”
“We should- fuck- take this, take this to my- holy shit-”
Making use of that spot behind March’s ear that Healy knew drove him crazy was perhaps fighting dirty. But hey, all’s fair in love and war. “Use your words,” he teased.
“Ah- you asshole, c’mon, my bedroommmoh fuck!”
That last part was a high squeal as Healy unceremoniously picked him up. March’s legs tightened around Healy’s waist in a death grip, before kicking at the small of his back as Healy copped a feel.
“Fuck you, oh my God, you nasty old motherfucker,” March babbled. “I swear to God if you drop me because you were grabbing my ass I’ll shoot you in the dick-”
At this, Healy did drop him, gangly limbs sprawling across their bed as March fell. He shot Healy a death glare that was undercut by just how pink his face was.
Healy snorted and tugged off his shirt. “What’s the face for, babydoll?”
“You’re a real show-off, you know that?”
“Yeah,” Healy responded, climbing onto the bed over March. “But you like it.”
Any retort March had was swallowed up by a warbling moan as Healy began to mark up his neck again. “OhsweetJesus, Ja-ack, fuck,” he whines. He’s so vocal. Healy loves it. “Jack, please, mm! Fuck me, oh my God, fuck me.”
That gives him pause. They’ve mostly stuck to the occasional handjob when Holly is away (and once on a stakeout) and Healy had sucked March off that one time, but they’d never gone that far.
“Yeah, sweetheart?” he asks lowly. “Want me inside you?”
March’s eyes go heavy-lidded. “Yeah.”
Healy chuckles and kneels up. “Alright, get your clothes off.”
March stares at him dazedly for a second, before jumping to it with the frenetic energy Healy is used to seeing from him. He tosses his clothing in a messy pile on the ground.
“Uh-uh.” Healy points at the crumpled fabric. “Fold it neatly.”
“Fuck you, seriously?” March sneers. Any hint of the sweet thing he became for a second is gone.
Fortunately, Healy is just as stubborn, if not more, than March is. “Seriously. That’s a nice shirt. Fold it up before it gets wrinkled.” March opens his mouth, but Healy is faster. “Your pants too.”
March rolls his eyes dramatically but complies. He makes a show of it, though, bending slowly at the waist to retrieve his things, sauntering over to his dresser with a sway in his hips. Healy chuckles.
“You know, acting like a whore just means it takes longer for you to get fucked.” At that, March jerks like he’s been slapped and a red blush travels over his shoulders. When he turns around to come back toward Healy, he’s blinking fast and stumbling a little bit. Interesting.
March gets back into bed and Healy takes the opportunity to smooth his hands up and down the warm skin in front of him. You wouldn’t know it by looking at him on the street, but underneath the baggy tailoring and sharp lines of March’s bright suits he’s absolutely gorgeous. Solid shoulders and a lean chest leading into a waist that Healy can almost wrap his hands around entirely, miles and miles of soft golden skin begging to be explored.
“So are you just going to pet me or are we doing this?”
Healy arches an eyebrow and pointedly tweaks one of March’s nipples, eliciting a yelp and another glower. “I know you’re eager to have me inside of you, but that’s no excuse to be rude.”
Feigning disinterest, March stretches out lazily. “Maybe you just can’t get it up fast enough, old man.” The words sound thoughtless, but March is watching him intently, waiting for a reaction.
Ah. Healy recognizes this attitude. Whenever March is uncomfortable with attention or care, he gets prickly, says nasty things to try and make Healy mad enough that he’ll stop being nice. Usually, this is a sign for him to dig deeper into whatever has March acting like this, but tonight he thinks he’ll try a different approach.
Using his strength again, he flips March over onto his front and yanks his hips down the bed. March looks over his shoulder with a vicious grin.
Let’s see how smug he is when he’s getting put through the mattress, Healy thinks.
Digging around in the bedside table, he finds the little tin of Vaseline he knows March keeps there and slicks up a finger. Despite his attitude, he doesn’t actually want to hurt March, and he doesn’t know how much, if at all, his partner has done this before. He starts slow, circling a finger around March’s hole and gently pushing in and out, just the tip. He’s grabbing the tin to add more lubrication when March speaks up.
“You know, when I said fuck me, I didn’t really mean with your fingers,” he says. “I don’t know how much experience you have with this kind of thing, but usually at least one person’s dick is involved.”
Healy doesn’t even dignify this with a response, just grabs March’s ass so hard he squeaks and goes back to working his index in. He gets up to his second knuckle before March cranes his head around to look at him, squinting as if Healy is playing a prank.
“Seriously, Healy, c’mon. I mean, if this is what works for you, but…”
A whole host of ideas to get March to shut up flicker through Healy’s head. Push his face down into the pillow by his hair. Smack his ass red. Rim him within an inch of his life. Something about March’s voice, though, sounds oddly sincere, like there’s real confusion there, so Healy decides to pull on this thread, and hope he’s not rewarding bad behavior.
“It’s cute how bad you want it, but let’s work on your patience. I’m not gonna hurt you just because you can’t control yourself for ten minutes.”
March snorts. “Man, fuck off, you’re sticking your dick in my ass. It’s gonna hurt. Just get to it.”
And that really brings Healy up short. Because once again, something has happened in March’s mind that he can’t understand. Or, at least, Healy hopes he doesn’t understand. Because if he does that’s somehow even worse.
“Holland, I get maybe you haven’t done this before, but-”
At that, March fully pulls away from him, looking genuinely mad. “Oh, don’t fucking start. You’re about, what, ten years older than me? So don’t start with this wiser than thou bullshit. I’ve done this before, Healy, I’m not an idiot-”
Healy cuts him off. “Hey. Answer me honestly, how many times have you- been on the receiving end?”
To his credit, it does seem like March is telling the truth when he responds “I don’t know, three or four?”
Three or four. Knowing March, they were guys he met in a bar somewhere and never saw again. Just enough times to convince March’s detective’s mind that there was a pattern. Just enough times to mean the chances of him never running into someone kind enough to slow down were fairly high. Healy rubs his clean hand over his face and entertains a brief fantasy of turning the men who convinced March that sex had to hurt into piles of bloody pulp.
Speaking of. “Why did you ask me for this if you thought it was going to hurt?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even.
March’s anger turns mostly into a shifty kind of anxiety. “I- It doesn’t hurt the whole time. Just at the beginning and then afterwards it’s sore. Look, it’s good. It feels nice. Eventually. C’mon, it’ll feel good for you, and I really-”
“Holland. It doesn’t feel good for me if I know you’re hurting.”
At that, March stops completely short. “Okay. I’m sorry.” His voice is hushed, tinged with embarrassment.
“Hey. Cut that shit out, alright?” Healy says fiercely. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.” March starts saying something, but Healy cuts in before he can fully express whatever it is. “You didn’t ruin this, you’re not stupid, so quit telling yourself that’s what I’m thinking because it’s not true. Honey,” he takes March’s hand, hoping that his partner has calmed down enough to allow the chaste intimacy that he sometimes shies away from, “I still wanna do this with you. Just… lemme show you how good it feels when you do it right, huh?”
March hesitates and then nods, before trying to flip back over. Healy stops him. “Hey, no. C’mon, pretty, I want to see that beautiful face.”
“Oh my God, cut the schmaltz,” March groans.
“No,” Healy responds cheerily.
Despite his putting a brave face back on, Healy can feel that March is still tense. That won’t do, so he leans in and kisses the other man again, cradling his face in one hand and stroking up and down his flank with the other. March sighs into the kiss, mouth going lax and eyelashes fluttering against Healy’s cheekbones. As he pulls away, March makes an aborted little movement to follow him.
“So easy, baby,” Healy croons, pulling off his undershirt and rolling his shoulders in the way he knows gets March hot to cut off his snippy reply. It has the intended effect, as he can almost see March’s pupils dilate, eyes fixed on his chest.
He pushes March’s legs up until they hover around his waist and reaches back over for the Vaseline. Slicking his index and middle fingers back up, he begins the process of circling March’s hole again, even more careful this time, watching his face intently for any signs of discomfort. Immediately, March’s gaze darts away from the eye contact as he blushes impossibly further. Healy allows it.
Gently, he strokes inward, rubbing his thumb in even circles on March’s hip in time with the movement of his other hand. Only when he starts to feel the resistance ebb away does he attempt to push in, and even then it’s just shallow little motions, not even up to his first knuckle.
March squirms pointedly. Healy arches a brow. March huffs. It’s a microcosm of their entire relationship.
Gradually, he works his way up to the base of his index.
“How are you feeling?”
“You’re never going to believe this. Like there’s something in my ass.”
Healy doesn’t take the bait. “Yeah, it’s kind of weird. Does it hurt?”
March wiggles oddly and scrunches his brow. “...No.”
“Good. Hey, question, how about this?” Healy crooks his finger up and is rewarded by a sharp uh! and March’s legs spasming around him. It’s adorable how instant it is, how quickly his eyes go unfocused and his mouth lolls open, but Healy is feeling a little bit mean.
He takes the pressure off of March’s prostate and says in the most sickly-sweet voice he can muster, “Was that good, baby? Tell me how you’re feeling, hm?”
“Fuck off,” March whines.
Healy draws his brows up in exaggerated concern. “Oh, I’m sorry, I won’t do that again.”
At this, March kicks his heels against Healy’s sides. “It was good, it felt good, you asshole, c’monnnnohhhhh fuck, Jack!”
Gently tapping his finger against March’s sweet spot, Healy gradually starts to repeat the same process with his middle finger. Slowly, slowly, he nestles the second in alongside the first, then starts on the third, encouraged by the way March seems to have fully lost his words. He makes noisy little whimpers at the end of every exhale, face flushed and hands gripping at the sheets.
Healy leans up to whisper in his ear. “You’re gorgeous like this, look so good taking it. How is it, lovely?”
“Ghh- it’s, oh, it’s good!” March yelps. He’s teary-eyed and stammering, always so responsive to anything Healy does to him. Perfect thing, he thinks fondly.
Healy admits that he might get carried away fingering March. He knows that he’s pretty decently sized, (no complaints before, thank you very much,) but after four fingers, the thumb toying with March’s rim is probably overkill.
It’s all worth it, though, when March blinks up at him, pupils blown so wide he looks like he’s tripping on something, and says “I’m ready, c’mon, Jack,” in this high, shaky whine.
“Ready for what, babydoll?” Healy simpers, which is maybe a little bit cruel, yeah, but when March wails out “Fuck me, please, fuck me,” breathy and shaking, he can’t bring himself to regret it.
“Okay, sweet thing, don’t worry,” Healy soothes, shoving his boxers down as fast as he can and tossing them clean across the room. He grabs a glob of Vaseline and groans as he works it up and down his dick.
Inch by inch, he works himself into March’s body, gritting his teeth and taking it as slow as he possibly can despite every cell in his body urging him forward into the tight heat. For March’s part, he’s staring up at Healy with an expression that can only be described as rapturous, gasping at every movement of Healy’s hips and tears threatening to spill over. After what feels like an eternity, Healy bottoms out, and has to take a second to gather himself so that he doesn’t immediately come at March’s strangled yelp.
The moment doesn’t last long, as March starts to roll his hips, making frustrated noises and trying to fuck himself on Healy’s cock. Healy grabs his waist and holds him in place, which has the opposite of the intended effect and just makes March let out a strangled keen from the back of his throat and redouble his efforts.
“Shit, baby, so good, so good,” Healy grits out. “Sweetheart, how is it? Can I move?”
In response, March just grabs onto Healy’s wrists and yanks, nodding briefly before his head lolls back onto the pillows, breathy whines spilling out of his lips.
Well, alright.
Healy begins to thrust, shallowly at first before speeding up. March is hot and tight and twitching around him, and his fucked-out face is better than any wet dream Healy’s ever had. Every time he bottoms out, March makes this high-pitched ah sound, gasping for air in between noises. He’s sweaty and dazed and he’s drooling a little. Healy’s never seen anything more beautiful, and he tells him so, an endless stream of filth directly from his lips into March’s ear.
“So lovely, so sweet, so fucking perfect for me, you know that? I should just keep you here- shit- in bed all the time, wet and open and ready for me, you just have to lay there and look pretty and feel good, yeah? God, you’re brilliant, Holland, wish you could see yourself, completely gone on it, love you so much-”
March is crying in earnest now, and Healy has a bit of a moment.
“Baby, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Healy asks, a little frantic, slowing his pace down.
March sobs, immediately kicking his heels into Healy’s back, choking out “S’good, feels so good, don’tstopdon’tstopdon’tsto-oo-p,” his face a mess of tears and sweat on a blotchy red canvas.
So Healy doesn’t stop. Instead, he pushes in further and further with each stroke, each going just the tiniest bit faster until, before he realizes it, he’s chasing his pleasure in March’s body and his orgasm is rapidly approaching. Healy grits his teeth and angles his hips until March wails to the ceiling and his twitching and squirming redoubles. Wrapping a hand around March’s dick, he tries his best to match the pressure from both sides and only succeeds in producing wheezing, ecstatic sounds from his partner that are yet unheard.
Well, whatever. He has about 30 seconds before this is over for several hours at least, and he’s a firm believer in equal opportunity. So, he tightens his fist on March’s dick and leans in to whisper “good boy, that’s it, c’mon, let it go for me” until he feels March’s whole body tighten and hears a keen that echoes in his ears. March and spasms around him, and it isn’t long before he’s almost there as well.
“Where do you want it,” he asks, showing incredible restraint by holding off long enough to ask.
“Inside,” March gurgles, almost too quiet to be heard, and the noise is what pushes Healy off of the edge. The orgasm feels like it goes on forever, watching March’s body twitching underneath him, and when it finally ends, pulling out is a monumental challenge. He does, though, if only to avoid as much of March bitching as possible, and goes to get supplies to clean up, leaving his partner sprawled out like a loose pile of limbs, utterly relaxed.
By the time he gets back with a washcloth and a glass of water, however, March is shifting on the bed with a sour look on his face.
“My whole ass feels like I’m sitting in jam.”
Healy cringes. “Fuck off, that’s gross.”
March throws his hands up, the exasperated effect of which is slightly undercut by his dick being out. “Motherfucker, you’re the one who got it everywhere!”
Healy hands him the washcloth and shoos him up so he can change the sheets, replacing them with the ones in the closet that he had bought after he asked “how often do you wash your bedclothes?” and March responded “uhh… sometimes?” He can’t help himself, he smirks a little at March’s wobbly gait as he gets up. March retaliates by flicking the wet washcloth at his back, which, fair, he deserves that.
Pretty soon, Healy’s relaxing into bed and March is wrapping his gangly limbs around him like a koala, pillowing his head on Healy’s chest and letting out a contented sigh. Healy presses a kiss to the top of his head and starts dragging his fingers through March’s hair, causing his eyelids to droop further.
“Hey,” March says quietly.
“Hay is for horses.”
March smacks him on the chest, but he’s so sleepy it’s more of a pat than anything else. “I’m serious, dickhead. Thanks. For… all of this.”
Healy doesn’t know exactly what ‘all of this’ means, but he doesn’t care. “Whatever you need, baby. You know I’m good for it.” Wrapping both arms around March, he burrows them deeper under the counterpane and they fall asleep just like that.