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pleasuretrade · 21 days

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hi here's the very rough(!) first chapter of a fic that i'm not done with.

if anyone wants to beta or just offer feedback i would be grateful :') but i'm writing this very slowly and don't plan on seeing it done for at least a few more months

March x Healy

Summary: 1980. March and Healy take your classic "reunite me with my estranged adult child" case and may or may not wind up getting involved with a cult, irritating 80's toys, shady business, gardening, and drugs. Oh, and they're pretending to be boyfriends because that's totally a perfect cover??

Rating: 18+ for the eventual porn

Length: I'm gonna guess 30k? I'm at 15k rn and we're maybe halfway through. frankly i got no idea

Tags that aren't exhaustive and mostly aren't applicable to this first chapter, but just a sneak peek: pretending to be boyfriends and there's only one fucking bed anyway bitch, March wearing jeans

The thing about kitsch dolls was that they were supposed to be cute. In abundance they became disturbing. An uncanny noise of soft pastel abstraction, dotted with innumerable eyes, staring at you from living room walls and display cabinets. It didn’t help that almost all of them were religious; angels with halos, praying children, robed biblical figures. March felt like he might combust if he made direct eye contact with the teeming mass of holy ceramic.

“March, did you write that down?”

Holland whipped his head toward Healy, and then at their client, and then at his open, empty notepad. See, you shouldn’t have that many dolls in one room, it’s distracting. It’s weird. “Sorry, ma’am, could you repeat that?”

“Benjamin Larry Hooper. We called him Benny.”

“Bejamin….L… Hooper… Benny.” March mumbled, pen dashing across the page with a show of gumption.

Mrs. Hooper nodded at him, all patterned dress and curled hair, hands placed politely on top of their respective thighs. “He was fifteen when he left, he’ll be twenty-six now. Tall for his age, I’m sure he’s giant by now.”

Holland wrote in big block letters: DOB 1953 TALL

“This is my most recent picture of him, just a few months before he left.” Mrs. Hooper, Francis, reached across her doilied coffee table to hand Healy a framed photograph. It was obviously some kind of family reunion, the photo lined with folks like a tin of sardines. “That’s Benny.” she said, tapping a young man sitting cross legged in the very front row.

Benny Hooper looked like any other fifteen year old at a family reunion, irritated or bored or both. He had a great mop of hair, a downright halo of pitch black curls reaching every direction. The slacks and short sleeved button-down were probably not his normal choice of attire, so that wouldn’t be helpful even if the kid had disappeared less than a decade ago. The shot was too wide to memorize the details of someone’s face on top of being old. The Benny in the photo hadn’t even finished puberty yet. Overall, the photo wasn’t great.

“Very helpful, thank you. We could use any other photographs you have, too.” Healy smiled pleasantly the way he did. It was freakish, the way the guy could go from deadpan bruiser to soft-eyed teddybear in an instant.

Holland smiled along, ignoring the everpresent eyes of Mrs. Hooper's kitsch, even though he knew that there was no chance in hell they were finding Benny Hooper.

“There’s no chance in hell, man.” March lit his cigarette in the passenger seat and donned his sunglasses.

Healy tapped his fingers where he rested his arm in the open window. “We have a lead.”

“If you wanna call maybe seeing a glimpse of someone you haven’t seen in eleven years driving a truck a couple of times a lead, sure, we have a great lead. Can we stop at Hammy’s? Told Holly I’d bring home dinner.”

“Y’know, I bet I could count on two hands the number of times you’ve gone proper grocery shopping since I’ve known you.”

“That’s not true, you went grocery shopping with us like two weeks ago.”

“And you bought eggs, bread, a gallon of neon colored juice, a gallon of whiskey, and five frozen pizzas.”

“Are those not groceries? Is that not sustenance?” March waved his cigarette for emphasis.

“Anyway,” Healy redirected, taking the turn toward Hammy’s, “all we have to do is stake out the spot she saw the truck, right?”

“If everything worked out just that easy we’d be out of a job, Jack.” March took a drag from his cigarette, thanking the stars that loaded, aging ladies were willing to shill out for the most unfeasible asks imaginable time and time again. Healy let it sit because he knew it was true by now, well over two years down the line as a PI.

“Why do you think the kid really left?” Healy asked after a while, expertly flat when Holland had figured out eons ago that the guy really was invested in each case, even the small ones.

“I don’t know, too many doilies? An aversion to puce colored carpet? I wouldn’t stay long either.”

Healy ignored him. “I find it hard to believe he just up and left for no reason.”

“Maybe Mrs. Hooper’s chicken is dry.” Healy purposefully hit the curb pulling into Hammy’s, jostling March’s cigarette nearly out of his hand. “I mean, it’s not like it matters. Even if we find the kid, he’s not comin’ back. Ten fuckin’ years. Remember that girl, Arrow or Rainbow or whatever she named herself?”

Healy grunted in reluctant remembrance. They’d found her after a long, boring two months and by the end of it all she’d had to say was ‘thanks for letting me know my family's looking for me, you can go now.’ Not that it mattered much to Holland. They made out with enough money to take a couple of weeks off so they could take Holly to Catalina Island. She got food poisoning on the first day but still claims it was the best trip they’d been on in years (which wasn’t very meaningful considering they’d gone on maybe three of them since she was little).

“Guess you’re right.” Healy parked the car in the crowded parking lot. The line at Hammy’s was always so damn long. “Not getting paid to psychoanalyze the guy.” He sounded reluctant. Any time Healy couldn’t slip in one more act of Good it made him feel like a failure. It was something March secretly admired, however harebrained it was. He glanced a punch off Healy’s shoulder before getting out of the car. “That’s the spirit.”

“So why do you think he really left?” Holly asked through a mouthful of burger.

“Jesus, you two should become shrinks.” March grumbled.

Healy sat comfortably sunken into the couch, a March sitting cross legged on the floor on either side of him. “It might be useful to know.” he added.

“Right. Like maybe you’ll be able to narrow down what kinds of places he’d go if you knew.” Holly agreed.

“Our only lead is a truck. Anyone can drive a truck. I don’t care why he’s driving it. All we have to do is follow.”

“So you admit, it’s a lead.” Healy pointed at him with a french fry.

“It’s a crumb of a lead. It’s the suggestion of a lead. It’s a lingering scent of maybe a lead.”

“Says the guy with no sense of smell.” Healy winked at Holly, who bit her lip to stop her smile from blooming. “A lead’s a lead.”

“Did you notice anything about Mrs. Hooper’s house? Like, anything that might make someone want to run away?” Holly was fifteen and already putting in more work than March.

“Yeah, puce carpet.”

Healy nudged March with a socked foot. “She seemed nice. Boring, maybe. Said her husband died a few years ago and her other kid’s off at college somewhere, so the house was pretty quiet.”

“Boredom could drive someone away.” Holly said thoughtfully.

“And if it did that still gives us absolutely nothing to go on. Some kids just hate their parents, alright? Guy probably just hitchhiked to New York or something.” March said.

“Sounds nice.” Holly murmured under her breath. Healy nudged her with his other foot.

March, begrudgingly, loved the gentle way Healy mediated. Fatherhood was something Holland hadn’t really been prepared for, much less being the single dad of a teenager. It didn’t help that he was a big time fuckup or that Holly was too smart for her own good. Having another person in their lives— having Healy in their lives— was a saving grace.

Recently, Holly had started dating her first boyfriend. Or at least the first that she’d admitted to when she’d lost all plausible deniability after that time they’d picked her up from school and seen her drop some young punk’s hand like a hot iron. It was a point of contention now, between Holly and Holland. Boys were pigs, and Holland would know, he used to be one. It was one of the endless number of things Healy had become referee over, but also something Holly had adopted a near constant attitude because of.

“So when are you starting the stakeout?” Holly asked, fiddling with the cracked straw of her milkshake. March looked at Healy for an answer. He was always better at managing their schedule. Unlike March, he usually remembered what day of the week it was. Healy looked back at him and shrugged. Wasn't like they had another case on, much to the dismay of their wallets. “Tomorrow, I guess.”

Holly got that look on her face. “Can I come?” Tomorrow was a Saturday.

March shook his head. “Don’t you have normal teenage things to do? Shouldn’t you be like sneaking vodka out of someone’s mom’s cabinet on a Saturday?”

Healy chimed in before she could argue. “It’s gonna be boring anyway, Holl. You’ll be sitting in the backseat twiddling your thumbs all day.” She knew that. She’d been on stakeouts with them before. But Healy’s say was more valuable to her than her dad’s, apparently, so she dropped it.

It was late when Healy headed home, agreeing on the asscrack of dawn to reconvene and start their stakeout.

“Why doesn’t he just live here? You guys spend every day together anyway.”

March wandered into the dimly lit kitchen for a glass of rye. Their (second) rental, real house unbuilt as ever, was always so still when Healy left. Another item on the laundry list of things March tried not to think about. “Because he’s a grown man, Holly, with his own house.”

“I wouldn’t call that dump a house, and anyway it’s an apartment. He should be sleeping here and not in an attic with a laughtrack that plays until two in the morning.”

“Well then you can invite him to stay for a sleepover next time. You guys can paint nails and read magazines.” Holland wasn’t stupid. He knew that wasn’t really what girls’ sleepovers were like. One time he’d walked in on Holly and her friend eating donuts and saying such depraved things about Joe Strummer that he’d vowed to not open the door without knocking ever again. He never looked at that Clash poster on her wall the same way.

Holly scoffed in time with the ice tinkling into Holland’s tumbler.

The sun shone way too brightly for Holland. When he’d woken up he’d still been a little drunk, but now out of the house and into Healy’s car a hangover had eagerly seeped in. They’d agreed to start the stakeout before the sun came up, but March had skillfully convinced Healy to take him through a drive-thru breakfast and they were running late. He now nursed a coffee as the sun rose into the perfectly wrong spot in the sky. They watched cars zip lazily by from the corner of a parking lot.

“I just think it would be good to have a dog around.” They’d had this discussion every other day for a month now. March wanted a dog in the house for the very logical reason of alerting them to intruders, Healy nay-sayed because he was a killjoy with no imagination.

“I’m telling you, March, putting in a doggy door just isn’t gonna be enough for a German Shepherd. And we all know you’re not gonna walk it.”

“Why do you even care so much, man? It would be my dog.” And more importantly, why did Healy even have a say in whether or not they got a dog?

“I care because I’d somehow get stuck taking it out half the time. And your sorry ass wouldn’t train it. We’d have an untrained, overpriced menace tearing around the house.” The house. Not Holland and Holly’s house, but The House.

“Well, whatever, even if that was true it’d make a good guard dog, right? No one’s getting past a pent up, feral German Shepherd. Might shit on the carpet but it’ll take a guy’s dick off. Balls too.”

“You should really consider a shrink. I think you’ve lost your damn mind.” Healy shook his head, but Holland caught his smile.

“You taking new patients, doc? I’ve been told by my teenager that I’m a headcase.”

“I could make some room in my busy schedule. Gonna cost you about the same as a purebred German Shepherd, though.”

March smiled and leaned back into his seat. Absolutely nothing of interest was happening outside at all, which was just fine now but give March three or so more hours and he’d start going stir crazy and the headache wasn't helping.

Mrs. Hooper had seen the truck twice, once in the morning and once in the early evening, which gave them an unfortunately broad window of time. She’d described it as a white, short cab semitruck, maybe a GMC, with a small trailer on it, which narrowed it down almost not at all. It sounded like every third short haul semi chugging around Los Angeles, of which there were many. Very many.

The only thing they had to go off of was that the second time around she’d seen what she thought was some kind of blocky hand-lettering on the driver’s side door, done in “nearly illegible” multicolor. When Healy had asked what she meant by “multicolor” Mrs. Hooper had only elaborated as “horribly garish.” So at least there was that.

The odds that the guy driving the bespoke truck was this Benny person were essentially zero. That was about half their cases these days, desperate longshots funded by desperate rich people. The other half was still taking photographs of idiots who fuck with the curtains open. It was wearing a little thin. Couldn't people invent more important problems to investigate? Whatever. A job’s a job’s a job.

The coffee in March’s cup had gone cold just in time to meet the creeping heat from outside. He downed the tepid sludge before wrenching the little metal fan out of the back seat and plugging it in. It whirred to life gracelessly.

“Hey.” Healy tapped him on the arm, which startled and excited Holland enough that he flung his empty coffee cup onto the floorboards.

“What—what, you see something?”

A short cab semi puttered toward them from a distance, aiming for a perfectly timed red light. Healy pulled up the binoculars and squinted through them, waiting for the cab to pull into view enough to see the driver’s door. March’s breathing was shallow in anticipation.

The truck moved, and Healy tutted, and March could see the glaringly blank door even without the binoculars. “Driver’s blonde. Ginger beard.” Healy said, still staring through the eye pieces like the truck and driver might magically change. “False alarm.”

“They’re all gonna be false alarms. This is gonna be like finding a needle in a haystack, only the needle was never in the haystack to begin with.”

Finally, Healy let the binoculars fall into his lap. “I ever told you how much I love your optimism?”

#the nice guys #the nice guys fanfiction #march x healy #healy x march #nice guys #holland march #jackson healy

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le-scenariste · 5 months

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sorry for party rocking

#imagine thr last one they're kissing #the nice guys #holland march #jackson healy #ryan gosling #russel crowe #march x healy #FUCK INSHOULDA MADE HOLLY THE THIRD PERSON IN THE TOP TWO ONES

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deputy-ajay-ghale · 1 month

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Help. I’m realizing that Healy knew March for like two days but didn’t hesitate to help him hide a dead body to keep March from getting implicated in a murder.

#the nice guys #detective dads #marchhealy #March x healy #jackson healy #holland march #original post

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ziri-likes-stuff · 4 months

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I am the OP of this petition. Idk but it seems like people are actually starting watching and recognizing how good The Nice Guys was, so...

I guess y'all can drop by and sign this! (It's been online for almost five years now, and I still love them so much 💕)

Thanks to @niceguysnlove @marchhealys @marchhealys @hollandstrophyhusband and all the ones who keep this fandom alive!

#the nice guys #the nice guys 2 #holland march x jackson healy #march x healy #remember to sign the petition if you haven't already #ryan gosling #russell crowe

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stupidfuckingwindow · 5 months

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Three's company // Holland March, Jackson Healy.

Word count: 1.5k

Content/Warnings: NSFW, Holland cums a lot. Gets romantic real fast. Takes place after an upcoming fic. Slight crack in the beginning, emotional at the end.

Big thanks to @hoppingonjim for writing Jackson Healy fics. He just does something to my mind and I need him, I fear. I love their fics, go check them out. I reread their stuff to help me with writing my own version of Healy.

It's barely been thirty minutes and Holland's already cum twice, flecks of white splattered onto his chest. (And, by God, listen when I fucking tell you that it's an absurd amount of cum, Jesus CHRIST.) His suit- the blue and orange one you like so much- is nothing short of a disheveled mess, and his hair is in a similar state of disarray. At this point, it seems like Holland is having the most fun between you and his partner, despite the fact he's barely even been touched. Despite that fact, he's literally panting.

Going back to his made mess of cumming, he'd actually managed to get both you and Healy, who's a good enough distance away that you could almost consider Holland's unorthodox ability impressive. No matter how surprising that little idea seems to be, Jackson sure isn't impressed.

"We've barely even taken off your damn clothes," he tells Holland. He isn't given a response that's coherent, just a loud 'Fuck!' from March when his hips jolt upwards at the feeling of your hand wrapped around his cock. And, even with that, your grip is relatively light and Holland is doing all the work, fucking into your hand again like countless nights before this. The cigarette hanging from his mouth is on the verge of leaving him, just barely managing to stay between his lips.

Jackson mutters something under his breath along the lines of "Oh, Jesus fucking Christ," before he's tugging off Holland's suit jacket for him and starting to peel clothes off the older man. Even though he seems annoyed at best and irritated at worst, the erection straining against his jeans tells you that he's anything but.

..Maybe a little annoyed, definitely frustrated- You know that for sure.

You're in a similar state of arousal, heat having simmered in your lower half. But you and Healy had simultaneously and wordlessly agreed that it'd be best if you dealt with Holland before helping one another out. The only problem now is that Holland is still hard, still going, and is making such a racket that you're sure someone'll be at your door to complain in the early hours.

In an attempt to start pulling off the rest of Holland's clothes, the P.I. starts to grind his cock against your still clothed hips, letting out a low moan. His head falls back, eyes squeezing shut and making the skin around his nose scrunch up when he accidentally hits the back of his head too hard.

It takes you a minute, but you finally slide his boxers and dress pants off of him, haphazardly tossing the articles of clothing to the floor. His hips shift a little, legs moving to trap you between his thighs and keep you there. You squeeze the base of his cock in a positive response, and another curse leaves Holland. His whole body jumps in its attempt to seek more pleasure out of your grasp.

There's already pre-cum starting to collect on the head of his dick, pooling down your knuckles and onto your thighs that rest beneath him. More leaks out and spreads over your fingers, and your thumb brushes over the sensitive tip.

But you've already paid enough attention to Holland, you think. Your grip loosens around him, but you keep it there. Still, your attention switches to Healy (who's much more patient than you'd given him credit for, in all honesty). His focus is on you, too. Interest in those blues of his that you find to be lighter than Holland's. It's a subtle detail, but one to still be noticed and kept in mind for whatever reason. It's not important, it shouldn't be, but it is, to you, and you don't know why.

With your free hand, you wipe away a little of Holland's ejaculate from his face and bring your lips to his. Something new pokes through his usual exterior, surprise at your movements. He doesn't make any move to pull away or resist or even hesitate, his tongue against yours. You doubt he's been touched in a while. You think he'd admitted it himself to you, once, but you can't exactly recall.

Not like this, with Holland fucking your hand and his enforcer of a partner kissing you. In your home, because Holland didn't have the patience to drive to his place. Because Holland had wanted this now, with you and Jackson and no one else.

And, now that you think about it, Holland hasn't been touched in a while either. He's pent up, has been for a while, ever since his wife passed.

But, even knowing that he could have picked someone else, he didn't. He knows you, he chose you. And, even if he's not yet ready to say 'I love you', yet, you know he does. Some part of him cares, bothers enough to still talk to you. And it makes you feel wanted, even if this is a somewhat unconventional pairing, you and Holland and Jackson.

Even Jackson seems to care, as you two finally part for air. He's paid to protect, but that's not what this is anymore. It's unconditional at this point.

There's a faint string of saliva still connecting you and him when your attention turns back to Holland. And you were so lost in thought and the feeling, that he'd cum again unnoticed, large cock finally going soft in your hand while he gasps for air. "Jesus," You hear him mutter, to himself, see his eyes flutter shut. You let him go, leave him to curl on his side and sleepily mumble to himself about indecipherable nonsense.

You and Jackson are on one another pretty quickly, still a little slower and shy with one another as you get a feel for what the two of you even want to do. The two of you are still covered in Holland's release, but it's not a problem. The most it gets in the way is in the form of a taste between the two of your tongues, adding a tang of salt.

Your clothes are off before his, warm hands embracing your hips to pull you further against him while you work on undressing him. Your hand slips into the front of his jeans, pumping slow strokes up the length of his cock. He groans into your lips, hands squeezing your hips a little at the feeling.

And, just as the attention had just been stuck on Holland, now it's on you.

Another set of hands join your hips from behind; Holland is up again, already. Jesus Christ. And he's already hard, grinding his erection against your ass while he whispers praise into your bare shoulder. Kisses trail the back of your neck, and you feel his hair tickle the side of your face. His breath is hot on your shoulder, naked body flush against yours. His scent is cigarettes and peppery cologne that he can't even smell.

"You're so good for us," He quietly tells you, nose buried in your shoulder while he rocks his hips against yours. The movement pushes you slightly against Healy, as well, pleasure shared between everyone involved. Thick fingers stroke at your hips soothingly, passion exchanged for a quiet, calm moment. It's less like the heavy, heated tension of arousal and more similar to the sweet focus of romance, only heightened by Holland's sweet kisses that are peppered across your skin.

Healy takes a second to remove the rest of his clothes, leaving you in his partner's embrace and care. But his presence is drawn close again, bringing back warmth to your front.

Holland shifts you and himself so that your legs will wrap around Jackson's waist, and his head moves to your other shoulder, chin resting in the crook of your neck. He kneads loving circles into your right thigh, keeping your legs open for his partner. Two of Healy's fingers slide into your cunt, thumb pressing against your clit. His eyes switch between your face to his fingers, watching how they move in and out of your wet centre.

As Healy fucks you on his fingers, Holland's free hand traces little shapes and patterns into your skin, his eyes fluttering shut. He's still tired, no doubt, but it doesn't matter more to him than this does.

Every side of you is warm, seen and touched and handled with care.

And when the tip of Healy's cock finally pushes past your folds, Holland's praise is just as unwavering. His kisses are slow and deliberate, matching in perfect timing with each drag of Jackson's hips against yours. Holland's arms wrap around your torso, practically radiating warmth into your skin that settles along your body.

"I love you," Holland finally admits, long after you and Healy have cummed together. Once the three of you had finally curled into bed together and Holland and Jackson held you. Long after the lights had turned off. And it's a confession that matters, to you. One telling the truth. He's fully sober as he says it. And even if Healy is asleep and no one but you can hear it, it's a step in the right direction.

#ryan gosling #n.sfw.#ryan gosling x reader #holland march #the nice guys 2016 #the nice guys #holland march smut #holland march x reader #russell crowe x reader #russell crowe #jackson healy smut #jackson healy #jackson healy x reader

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hoppingonjim · 6 months

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ACTION ! - holland march + jackson healy x reader

summary: holland cannot resist but record you getting eaten out by mr healy.

cw: oral (f receiving), afab!reader, mention of thickness around thighs, recording, cuck?? idk holland likes watching you be a mess, 3some somewhat, aspects of dom&sub. dom!jackson healy. dom!holland march. sub!reader. mocking/degrading kink.

༺♡︎༻

his recording is driving you mad.

ever since his partner had been finding his way around your body with his tongue, he couldn't hit the stop button. for some reason, a reason he couldn't quite explain, it was incredibly sexy to watch you lose all control under someone else. especially jackson.

the brunette is forcing stars upon you with the way he thrusts his tongue in and out of your weeping pussy. with heavy eyelids you attempt to keep your gaze on the enforcer but it proves to be too difficult. lacking will-power, you allow your head to fall back. letting him have total control of over you. until soft fingers gripped your cheeks, imprinting on them before tugging your head to view jackson once again, “c'mon baby, don't you wanna watch what he's doing to you?”

aged fingers explore the gentleness of your thighs. clawing the supple skin and tugging, kneading the dough coarsely. the way you're rutting your hips like an animal in heat so desperately against his gaping mouth is enough for his cock to bulge against his jeans. aching to be touched.

keeping your eyes open for the working man is tough, but your real man eyes you as prey, ensuring your eyes don't close unless you're blinking. the sensations being thrown upon you are too much. with quivering legs and a weeping clit, you can feel your high wave close. the camera lingers in front of your face and hypnotizes you. the consistent flash kissing your irises only adds to the sudden sensations. jackson isn't letting up, his tongue reaching desperately for whatever he can. hopefully your g-spot. the thrusts he blows inside of your sopping slit are enough to already make you cum. but holland's above you, tauntingly peering down and devouring the helpless sight below him. licking his lips he encourages you to hold out longer. let jackson work some more of his magic.

except jackson's hands grow savage. nails dig into your hips and mark his terriorty on the thickness of your thighs. crescents littering your once chaste skin. the way his tongue abuses your clit suddenly is too much. it's all an overkill. your legs quiver as you let go, cumming hard and heavy for the muscle man beneath you.

“fuck, fuck yeah.. damn baby, keep fucking moaning oh fuck yeah, fuck you sound so pretty..” complementing his words is the slender movements of his fingers caressing your cheeks. his thumb moves to swipe the deserted strands of hair away from your dazzling eyes. like a hawk observing prey, narrowed eyes never fall from your sight. to him the melodic sounds pouring through your lips in the form of helpless cries. the mascara once twirling your lashes is suddenly clumping around the thin hairs. collecting around the waterline and smudging towards your undereye. there's no prettier sight in holland's eyes and he feels a need to point the camera obnoxiously into your face. your messy face.

lapping up all of your sweet cum, jackson pulls away with a hefty sigh, a curiosity twinkles in his eye as he stares at his associate, “so.. do i get to feel her for real now? i think she wants that, huh princess? you want that?” so badly you do. the man is strong, similar to your holland, but this one is rough. he's not suave. leather and brass share his stature, fighting over their own sections.

it's not completely your decision though. and that's the way you like it.

holland is only able to shake his head. within seconds he's ushering his, friend, out the door. towards the door. then out the door.

“think i want my girl to myself now jackson, uh buh bye .”

suddenly, hands fall down to his belt buckle. game on.

#holland march #holland march smut #holland march x reader #holland march x you #holland march x y/n #holland march fic #the nice guys #the nice guys fic #ryan gosling smut #ryan gosling fic #ryan gosling x reader #ryan gosling x you #ryan gosling x y/n #nasty smut #excuse me for this ty #jackson healy x reader #jackson healy smut #nice guys smut

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drivinmeinsane · 5 months

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Give Me the Night

※ Holland March x Jackson Healy ※

{ masterlist } ※ { ao3 }

※ Summary: Like most jobs involving stakeouts, the night is going by slowly. That all takes a turn, however, when March finally pushes his fellow Nice Guy too far.

※ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content

※ Content/Tags: Idiots in Love, Blow Jobs, Tit Jobs, Inappropriate use of a Semi-Public Space, Excessive Cum, Internalized period-typical homophobia, Emotionally Constipated Jackson Healy, Typical Idiot Holland March, Porn with Comedy AND Feelings, Collaboration

※ Word count: 7,759

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

※ Author's Notes: This fic was written in collaboration with @danime25. We worked up the outline together and she kindly took the reins and wrote Holland's POV after our good pal Healy makes a break for it. It was wonderful working with her on this!

Yellow light filters through the windows of Holland’s car. The streetlights have been on for hours now, illuminating the sleepy street just enough to make out the shapes of shrubs and mailboxes. The two detectives inside the car are not concerned with the small details. They are looking out for the comings and goings of a man located in house number 1438. It’s a rather plain ranch style home with new porch railings.

The Nice Guys Detective Agency had been called the day prior by a woman who was concerned that her husband of three years was stepping out on her with another lady. It was the same old story that Holland March had handled his entire career as a PI. He gets a new one about once or twice a month. More over the holidays since the offending partner claims overtime at their place of employment to explain the sudden absences at home. The cases pay well enough, easy work to boot as long as the survailed party stayed none the wiser.

Holland shifts uncomfortably in his seat, drawing Healy’s attention. The bruiser eyes him with a passive curiosity. His back is stiff from being confined in the vehicle for so long, but he knows that his investigation partner must be feeling worse. Instead of breaking Holland’s left arm like he had planned, he had fractured the radius in Holland’s right. As fucked up as it sounds, he hadn’t wanted to risk damaging whatever issue the other man has going under the bandage of his left. The result was that the PI was down to limited functionality in both arms. The left is still full of stitches while the right is weighed down by a palm to elbow length cast. Still, the arm situation does not directly correlate to Holland’s current bout of bizarre behavior in any way that Healy can discern.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, March?” Healy asks, aiming for politeness. He misses by a mile.

“Excuse me? Why the fuck are you looking at me like that for?” Holland retorts with a disgusted tone.

“Because you’re acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird. You’re the one acting weird.” Holland’s voice is shrill, and a bit defensive.

“I’m not the one squirming around like I gotta take a piss.”

“Fine! You really want to know?”

“No, March,” he throws up his hands, “I asked because I don’t want to know.” His tone is sarcastic.

“Well… it’s been a while since you broke my fucking arm .” He flings the affected limb in a sweeping gesture for dramatic effect, narrowly missing Healy.

“I said I was sorry.”

Holland scoffs and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket along with his lighter. “Well, your apologies are worth shit to me when I can’t crank one out in the bathroom.”

The look on Healy’s face is incredulous. “Seriously? That’s it, asshole?”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘that’s it’?” He places a cigarette between his lips and lights it, letting it rest loosely in his mouth.

Healy is almost upset enough to snag the cigarette right out of the other man’s mouth. He has no reason to be this bothered by their conversation. His skin feels too warm, the collar of his shirt too tight.

“What the fuck do you want me to do about it? You want me to give you a little handy between partners?”

“Well, for starters, don’t look at my crotch like you enjoy it,” Holland snarls back, using his more functional hand to block Healy’s view. “I just need something to get myself off with.”

A light turns on in the house closest to them. The porch light follows shortly after. Their shouting must have been loud enough to wake the occupant. The last thing they need is the actual police getting called and thrust into their business.

“Shut up and stop thinking with your dick. We’re on a job,” Jackson responds, irate.

Turning the key in the ignition, Holland starts the car and floors it. They pelt out of the neighborhood in an obnoxious screech of tires on pavement. If their yelling hadn’t woken the entire block, Holland’s maneuver certainly finished the job. He pulls into an empty lot. The only source of light is the vehicle’s headlights.

“Real subtle,” he mutters under his breath, still ruffled.

The other man hits the steering wheel with the palms of both hands. He lets out a gasp at jostling his injured arms unnecessarily. He turns on the man seated beside him once he shakes off the pain. “Great, we’ve lost at least three days on that lead thanks to you.”

“‘Thanks to me’,” Healy repeats, “Do you even hear yourself sometimes?”

He fumbles for the door handle and gets out of the car. He slams the door hard enough to rattle the entire machine. The bruiser needs a moment to cool down or he will do something that they will both regret. He is almost shaking. From what? He doesn’t know exactly.

Holland doesn’t leave well enough alone and exits the car in pursuit of his partner. He stops with the door ajar and his hand on the roof. “Yeah, I do hear myself. I have a pretty voice, thank you very much.”

The shorter man shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and walks further away from the Benz. He forces himself to accept the PI’s words with equanimity. He’s struggling with it. Does the other man ever stop running his mouth?

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Holland slams the door, shutting his blazer in it without realizing. He tries to set off after him, but comes to an abrupt halt when he gets yanked back by the caught jacket. He struggles out of it, leaving it hanging sadly in the door and gets up in Healy’s face.

“See that? You just cost me my favorite jacket and for what?”

“Get out of my face, March,” Jack says calmly, too calmly. His tone is a warning of an imminent punch to the face if the detective doesn’t comply. He puts a hand on the other man’s chest, cautioning him.

“Or what?” Holland sneers, “You gonna kiss me?”

Healy doesn’t say anything, He drops his hand from Holland’s chest and takes a step back, turns partially away. Nausea rolls through his stomach.

“Hey, hey, Jack, I was just kidding.” Holland sounds a little softer.

He waves a dismissive hand with forced casualness and starts walking back to the car. “Let’s get back to work. Don’t want to waste the time here.”

The detective purses his lips and follows after him only to stop a few feet away from the vehicle. He has a calculating look on his face. It’s the kind of look Holland gets when he is about to make a decision that is going to make whatever partner of his want to tear their hair out. Healy opens his mouth to ask him what he is about to do right as Holland throws the keys. All he can do is watch in speechless horror as they go sailing into the darkness and clatter noisily somewhere onto the ground. He’s damn near blind during the day with his reading glasses on, much less at night without any aid whatsoever.

“What the fuck , March?” He growls once the initial shock has worn off.

Holland gestures at him, equally upset. “Enough of this. Just say you want to fuck me or something.”

The nauseous feeling grows more prominent. It feels like his stomach acid is trying to crawl up his throat. Why the hell was his partner doing this? Healy had tried hard to be normal around the other man. He had not let his eyes wander because that was the kind of shit that got your ass beat in an alley.

“Yeah?” He lets out an unconvincing laugh, “What makes you think I wanna fuck you?”

“I mean, look at you,” the PI scoffs despite having to adjust himself so his erection isn't so obviously tenting the material of his white slacks.

“Me? You’re the one panting over there like a dog. You can’t control yourself, March.”

That spurns Holland into crowding against him. Healy holds his ground, he’s not going to be bullied around by his partner. The other man leans down to speak, but he misjudges the distance in the dark and his lips brush against Jackson’s mouth. They recoil from each other like gunshots had been fired in their direction.

“I knew you wanted to fuck me,” Holland says, laying the blame for his own error onto Healy. He makes a show of looking him up and down.

Impulsively, he grabs the collar of Holland’s shirt. He twists his broad hand into the expensive fabric and jerks the taller man forward until they’re nose to nose. “I never said anything about wanting to fuck you. Sounds like you’re making excuses to fuck me.”

“As if,” is the response he gets, but Jackson does not miss the considering way March eyes his mouth. The detective adjusts the angle of his head, aligning their mouths, mere millimeters between them.

At the feeling of Holland’s mustache brushing over his upper lip, Healy makes a small sound. A whine? A moan? He panics, and his fist swings up without his permission and collides solidly with the face of the man coming onto him. His hand slips off the other man’s shirt, and Holland takes a few staggering steps backwards.

“What the fuck?” March whimpers and looks up at Healy, “The hell was that for?”

Healy refuses to look at him and instead starts fruitlessly scanning the ground. “Shut up and help me look for the keys.”

He hears the other man rub his face with a groan. The bruiser knows his partner has a good chance of sporting a black eye tomorrow. This entire night is turning into a nightmare. He has not felt this unsteady since Joanne had admitted that she was fucking his father. The scuffle of shoes on the ground is the only warning he gets before Holland grabs ahold of him. Before he can protest, the taller man kisses him. It’s an awkward clash of mouths, too much teeth, but Holland is making up for it by sheer enthusiasm.

Healy stiffens, but then he is grasping desperately onto the PI. He kisses him back like a man lost in the desert who has just been given a glass of water. He chases after the other man when he pulls back for air, capturing his mouth once again. His hand rests heavily on the nape of March’s neck, worked in the short hair. They shouldn’t be doing this. They’re old enough to damn well know better than to do this.

That line of questioning does not stop him from wedging a thigh between Holland’s legs, rubbing it against the taller man’s clothed erection in the process. His partner catches on quickly and chases the friction. Healy wraps a hand around March’s narrow hip, encouraging him further until the detective is all but humping his leg like a dog in heat. They’re panting into each other’s open mouths, eyes closed.

Holland moans out a soft little, “Fuck.”. He sounds almost as though he is begging for more, even as his hands grab desperately at the back of Healy’s jacket.

“Yeah, you would like that, March,” he mutters against the side of the PI’s neck. He slides the hand cupping the back of Holland’s neck to his front and works at pulling the other man’s shirt free from his pants. Healy almost feels drunk despite turning down his partner’s offered flask more than once during the stakeout. A shiver courses through him when he feels Holland start to return his interest by putting his hand underneath his jacket, not seeking bare skin yet, but the heat of his touch through the tropical patterned shirt is enough to get Jackson to grind his own hard dick against his partner’s hip.

He feels the wet pressure of Holland’s lips connecting with his cheek and has to swallow. This is more intimate than he had ever dared to imagine in the most repressed corners of his mind. Maybe Holland had bashed him over the head in the car with his cast and this was all some kind of fucked up wet dream. The twitch of the other man’s cock against him feels real enough though.

“Whaddaya want, huh?” Jack dares to ask.

“I want…” Holland trails off, clearly contemplating, but instead of coming up with a response, he shoves his face against Healy’s shoulder. All traces of his bravado are gone.

“You’re never this quiet, March,” he grumbles. He drags his thick fingers down the detective’s stomach to right above his belt. “If I knew this was all it took to get you to shut up… Look, do you want me to give you a handjob or what?”

“No, I want,” Holland makes a gesture with his hands that suggests he’s cupping a pair of invisible breasts, “you know, that .”

The look Healy gives him is flabbergasted. “March, you… you know I’m not a woman, right?”

“Yeah, I fucking know that.” Holland looks down at where he and Healy are pressed together like a pair of randy teenagers, “I’m not a fucking idiot.”

Shaking his head, he opens his mouth to say something in response to him, but just shakes his head instead. There’s no use in arguing with him. Healy knows that the other man is a fucking idiot sometimes and that knowledge is enough for him right now. He decides to humor March and strips off his jacket and tosses it onto the ground behind him. He makes short work of the buttons on his shirt and leaves it hanging open to reveal the white wifebeater he wears as an undershirt. Jack fights the instinctive urge to cover himself, knowing that his body is not in as good of shape as his companion’s.

“We’re actually doing this?” Holland asks despite already beginning to work his belt off with the hand not encased in a cast. He’s doing such a poor job of it that it prompts Healy to swat his hand away and undo it for him.

“Whatever ‘this’ is,” he says with a shrug of his good shoulder. He pulls the detective’s belt free of the loops and tosses it in the vague direction of where he threw his jacket just moments before. They’ll have a considerable scavenger hunt on their hands at the end of this.

Holland undoes the zipper on his dress pants and unceremoniously pulls his dick out. “Okay, I’ve never done this before.”

Healy watches as March closes his eyes in preparation. For what? He doesn’t have the faintest damn clue. “Why fuck are you closing your eyes. This isn’t jumping off the diving board,” he says incredulously.

“ Jesus! Just shut up,” Holland snaps back, opening his eyes reproachfully. He puts a hand on Healy’s shoulder and tries to encourage him onto his knees. Jack doesn’t budge. “Just… let me use your chest.”

“For what?” He grumbles. He decides to humor Holland’s cues and lowers himself to the ground. A rock digs uncomfortably into his shin and he mutters a complaint under his breath, shifting his leg into a spot with less gravel. He tries to tune out how hard his dick is in his own pants. The kneeling position has pulled the fabric taut over his crotch, and he has to suppress a groan that’s more arousal than discomfort over this indignity. This is right up near the top of the most asinine things his partner has asked him to do since they met about a month ago. He’s gone along with the other man this far though, and he might as well continue.

Holland moves to get onto his knees, but he pulls up short of actually doing it. “This isn’t going to work, let’s go to my car,” he says, offering a hand to Healy and helping him to his feet without bothering to tuck his dick back into his pants.

“You have to be fucking with me,” he protests but follows the taller man back to the car all the same. He hovers awkwardly next to the rear tire on the passenger side. He’s really starting to be on the verge of regretting this. Holland has to be playing some kind of joke on him. His hands hover over the buttons of his open shirt and he’s about to start doing it up when March pats the top of the trunk.

“Come on,” he says encouragingly. The PI sheds his own over-shirt, stripped down to his undone pants and sleeveless undershirt.

He instantly follows Holland’s lead and lets his own touristy shirt fall from his shoulders and onto the ground. This entire vacant lot is going to look like some type of crime scene by the end of night. He heaves himself onto the trunk, heels briefly making contact with the tire. He’s perched on the edge, tense as though he’s ready to fight. Jack is not given much time to work himself into abandoning this whole ordeal because Holland steps up into his space, forcing a home for himself between his legs. Desperation and arousal is written all over the taller man’s face. Either Holland is a surprisingly good actor or he’s actually not yanking Healy’s chain.

The detective puts his full weight into the kiss. Healy’s breath hitches when March’s tongue swipes over his bottom lip. He feels the other man grin in response to his reaction. It’s all Jackson can do to put a calloused hand on the back of his partner’s neck and hold him close. Holland’s facial hair is surprisingly soft against Healy’s stubbled face.

“Fuck,” Holland says softly and drags his pants over the curve of his ass, down far enough to be able to kick them off before crawling onto the car.

The bruiser lays back across the trunk, the metal is cold against his skin, but Holland is blazingly warm against his stomach as he gets into position on top of him. He takes the hem of Healy’s shirt in his hands and encourages it up and over his head to get discarded somewhere on the ground by the driver’s side of the car. Holland shifts so he’s properly straddling him, knees bracketing his sides. The detective’s cock rests in the divot between Healy’s pecs.

“The fuck you doing, March?” It comes out as a near whisper in the darkness.

“What I wanted,” Holland says and spits, slicking the space where his dick rests just enough that it glides smoothly on the first few thrusts as he begins to rub himself off using Healy’s chest.

Suddenly, Holland’s comments about using his chest to get off are crystal clear. Taking a deep breath, Healy pushes his elbows against either side of his chest, forming a tighter passage for his partner to fuck against. It was like something he’d seen women do in pornos sometimes. His chest is quickly made slick by the copious amounts of precum leaking from the man on top of him.

Above him, Holland lets out a broken whine as he chases his release. He’s thrusting against Healy like both their lives depend on it. March’s hands are firmly planted to either side of his shoulders. Jack can’t hold back an answering groan, so uncomfortably hard in his jeans with no relief in sight. His chest hair is going to be a sticky, matted mess. All of this shouldn’t be as appealing as it is. The only thing that could make it better in this moment is if he could just see his partner a little more clearly. He wants to know what Holland’s face looks like when he cums.

“C’mon, March. You wanted this,” he says, spurring him on. He has a good, if a little blurry, visual of the other man’s upper body with their current position. If he were not occupied with holding his amble chest together for Holland to use, his hands might be tempted to wander.

In response, Holland whines and picks up the pace, nearly rubbing them both raw as he brings himself to the finish line. Jack swears he catches a glimpse of tears in Holland’s eyes as the man finally orgasms. He releases the pressure against his pecs and catches his partner as he goes limp on top of him. Healy feels like he is getting sprayed down with a hose. The other man’s cum floods in the valley of his chest, pooling at the base of his throat and trickling down either side of his neck. A stray shot or two catches him in the face. He tastes bitter saltiness on his lips when he reflexively licks them. It’s a lot of cum, way too much really.

“Shit,” the PI sighs and gingerly scoots out of his hold, further down his body. His dick twitches and a few stray droplets of cum fall onto Healy’s stomach. His own dick is throbbing in his pants when Holland unintentionally makes contact with his crotch.

Healy continues to lay back across the trunk, slightly dazed as his partner shimmies off the vehicle and pulls his boxers and pants back on. He had just let another man rub himself off on him and he hadn’t hated it. He’d enjoyed it even. Near his feet, Holland zips his trousers up and Jack feels himself tense at the crisp sound. He braces himself for the punchline now that the other man has had his fun and gotten his rocks off. He did not particularly think March would be cruel enough to mock him, but this… he didn’t have a script for this.

“What do you want?” Holland asks after a moment of awkward silence, cutting right to the chase.

“Surprise me, March. You’ve been doing a real bang up job of it tonight.” Healy responds, a little hoarse. He doesn’t know what the hell he wants.

“Okay… uhh… sit up, I guess,” he replies, getting onto his knees. His eyes are level with Healy’s crotch.

He obliges him, ignoring the pop in his back as he does. Holland’s cum slides coldly down his chest before stopping somewhere on his stomach. He’s too struck dumb by arousal to care. The other man is on his knees for him, how could he have any rational thought? This has gone far beyond Healy’s wet dream hypothesis and the handjob only gay porno he’d dared to sneak a look at once.

Encouraged by Holland’s hands on his knees, he spreads his legs further to make room for him to shuffle in between them. He manages a reassuring nod when his partner checks in on him with a raised eyebrow that he can barely make out in the dark as he feels the kneeling man slide his left hand up his thigh to get at the front of his pants. Holland has no trouble with the zipper and button on Healy’s jeans despite the fumbling of his own belt earlier. There’s no underwear to tug out of the way. Jackson can’t be bothered to do any more laundry than strictly necessary.

“Shit, I thought I was big…” Holland mutters under his breath and puts his mouth over the head of Healy’s cock.

It was a line straight out of a skin flick, but damn if it didn’t send a hot rush of arousal down Jack’s spine all the same. His head falls back and he lets a guttural noise in response to the way his partner is tonguing along his shaft. Shakily, he puts a hand on his shoulder, gripping firmly. His thumb rubs back and forth against the side of Holland’s neck. He can feel the other man’s throat working as he gives him a blowjob.

A Holland-esque whine almost bursts from his lips when the detective pulls off of him with a wet sounding pop. “Good?”

“Yeah, yeah, real good,” Healy admits, breathing heavily. “Now, please shut up and y’know…”

“Keep going?” Holland finishes with a smirk that’s blinding even in the dim light, and then his mouth is back to work doing something other than engaging in his usual vices of smoking, drinking, and talking way too fucking much.

He tightens his fingers on March’s shoulder like he’s a dog gripping onto a squeaky toy. As inexperienced as the PI clearly is at this kind of thing, it’s almost more than Healy can handle. He’s torn between shoving the other man away or pulling him closer. It has been so long since he’s gotten off. He hadn’t even wanted to touch himself after his wife admitted to cheating on him with his own father of all people. There had not been a single pair of pretty legs that had gotten his attention until Holland came along. Hell, if he admits it to himself, even his wife hadn’t really done it for him. There had always been an undercurrent of wrongness to the whole situation. He’d chalked it up to the fact that she was cheating on him during their marriage, but upon reflection, he hadn’t exactly been performing in the bedroom before that whole relationship started.

“Fuck,” he groans, fighting to keep from thrusting up into his mouth. He’s close, too close. He’s about to- “Holland… Holland .”

The other man moans around Healy’s cock. He’s doing his best to swallow down what he’s given, but some of it leaks out of his mouth and onto his goatee. They make eye contact as he proceeds to milk Jack dry. He pushes against Holland once the suction becomes too much around his softening dick. The other man lets him slip free and while Healy hastily tucks himself, oversensitive, back into his jeans, he leans against his car.

“That was… good,” Holland offers into the silence between the two of them.

Healy takes a moment to respond, busying himself with zipping up his pants and sliding the button home. The turmoil of feelings that he was experiencing earlier is back in full force. They’d both gotten off but no… there was the aftermath.

“March…” he starts but peters out. He slides off of the car. He’s all too aware that he’s still shirtless and covered in Holland’s semen. It’s slowly drying into his chest and stomach hair, getting clean in the dark with no water and no spare cloth is a lost cause.

“Yeah?” The PI responds the moment he realizes Healy isn’t going to add onto the thought. His tone is hopeful, bordering on needy.

“Why…?” He's not sure how to find the words. Hell, what does someone say in this kind of situation?

“Why what?” Holland asks with a touch of tentativeness, as though Healy is going to lay into him.

“Why’d you… this wasn't some kinda joke was it, March?” He questions, shoving his hands into his pockets and curling inward slightly. What he would give to be fully dressed right now. Not that it would help much, he hasn't felt in control since he and Holland started fighting in the car. He isn’t a feelings kind of guy. That would mean he's weak.

“No!” Holland’s voice peaks and cracks. It settles into a more normal range as he continues. “I don’t know… I don’t know how to explain it. This feels different than the way I felt about my wife.”

Healy mutely nods as the taller man starts feeling himself up for his pack of cigarettes before realizing that they’re still in his jacket pocket. Holland wanders around the other side of the car, out of his field of vision, to go after his suit jacket.

The new addition to the Nice Guys Detective Agency can agree though. Whatever is going on between them feels different than it had with his own, now ex, wife. For him, it had felt… right. He absentmindedly follows March around to the other side of the car and picks up his undershirt. He pulls it back over his head, grimacing as his wet chest makes contact with the fabric. The minute he has a chance, he’s jumping in the shower. In the middle of shrugging on his Hawaiian shirt, he hears what sounds like the door of the Benz being opened followed by the rustling of fabric. Incredulous, he turns to stare at the other man.

“The door was open.” Holland says to him, not looking up from the ground.

He doesn't even have it in him to be mad, just lets out a helpless chuckle. “You have to be fucking joking.”

“No,” he sounds sheepish, “but we still gotta find the keys to get out of here. Unless you’d rather talk about what,” gesturing between the two of them, “ this is first.”

“Let’s find the keys first, then we can talk.” Privately, he wants the option for Holland to just leave his ass here if things go south. He doesn’t want his partner to feel trapped with him.

“Sounds good,” Holland says, closing the door and slipping his jacket back on. He flashes Healy a wide smile and bounds over to the approximate location of where he had thrown the keys a while earlier.

Healy locates his jacket and pulls it on. It’s dusty from the dry soil of the lot. He squints into the darkness, scanning the ground for the keys. He almost feels like he would be better off getting onto his hands and knees like that chick in the orange turtleneck that was always losing her glasses on the show Holly’s been into, the one with the talking dog.

He moves to stand next to Holland, brushing shoulders with him in a friendly way. “Why did you have to throw the keys?” He finally comments when his straining eyes fail to see a glimmer of metal.

“I don’t know,” he admits flatly. “We had to resolve whatever that tension was between us somehow.”

Jackson frowns, shrugs. He takes a few steps forward away from Holland, kicking at the ground fruitlessly. He doesn’t get rewarded by the sound of pebbles hitting metal. “What kinda tension you talking about?”

“Y’know… Where I was up in your face and you were trying to get out of mine. That tension.”

“Right, yeah,” he grumbles. “Look, March. What are you wanting outta this?”

“I dunno. Right now it just feels nice when I’m around you.” He shrugs, “You know what I had on my hand when we met? ‘You’ll never be happy’?”

“Yeah? What about it?” Healy tries to not sound choked up over Holland’s words. Where did all these emotions come from? He was an even tempered man, occasionally angry, but this… There was no word of the day for this.

“When I wake up and see you and Holly on the couch… I’m happy.” Holland shrugs and looks at him.

Healy is silent for a long moment before he speaks, his words slow, measured. “You and the kid… it gives me a reason to get up in the morning. Don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“Jesus.” Holland lets out a sigh, putting a hand over his own chest, “Haven’t been this nervous since I got down on one knee… you know, for Holly’s…” he clears his throat, not finishing the thought.

He teeters on the cusp of saying something sincere, but it’s not the time. He doesn’t want to go down an upsetting path, not tonight. They had enough to think about. “Guess I’ll be the one getting on one knee then,” he jokes. A gleam of metal catches his attention when he shifts in place. Holy shit, it’s the keys. He doesn’t dare move in case he loses sight of them with his crap depth perception. He grabs the air in Holland’s direction with one hand while pointing at the keys with the other. “March! March! Keys! ”

“Yes! Fuck yes!” The detective yelps and dives for the keys. He snatches them off the ground with a flourish and crowds into Healy’s space, heys in hand. He kisses him, an enthusiastic press of his mouth against his. He’s smiling even as he pulls back and a shy look crosses his face. “I mean, thanks.”

Healy can’t help himself and draws the man back in, allowing himself to initiate for the first time tonight. He brushes his mouth gently over Holland’s. He lingers for a moment before breaking away. Perhaps if the spell doesn’t break, he could get used to having this.

“Let’s… go home.” March rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. They stare at each other until Healy raises his eyebrows at him. “Right! Home,” he says with a nod and hoofs it back to the car. Jack follows and settles himself into the passenger seat. He feels more content than he has in years.

The drive back to Holland’s house is free of any drama. Holland spends the time aimlessly chattering. It relaxes Healy. He’s nearly asleep by the time they pull into the driveway.

“Huh,” he hears Holland say, and he opens his eyes to see the light of the television flickering from the living room window.

He gets out of the car with a groan and the two men make their way to the front door. Holland fumbles his house key into the lock. Opening the door reveals Holly and Jessica standing in the living room in front of the tv, clearly surprised at being caught still awake.

“Jessica, what are you doing in my house?”

“Sorry Mr. March. My sister’s busy,” she apologizes.

“Yeah, I bet she is.” Holland scoffs. Jack resists the urge to kick him in the back of the leg.

Jessica looks at the men and blurts out. “Oh! Do you go to the same nighttime baking class as my sister?” Holly makes a noise like a stepped on mouse.

Healy is ready to shrug it off as one of Jessica’s eccentricities and Holly having a hiccup, but a cold knife of cognizance suddenly impales him. He remembers that he and Holland didn’t wipe off their faces. He can feel the mostly dried jizz so clearly on his neck and lower half of his face. Oh fuck.

“What…” Holland starts to say before looking at Healy. His eyes go wide in his own realization. “Yeah. Baking. Baking class.”

“Yeah, cinnamon rolls tonight. The icing is real. Uh… real tricky. Gotta make it from scratch. Gets messy.” Healy manages. Why can’t he shut up? He’s sweating. Holly is staring a hole into his soul. Oh, god, she knows he and her old man were doing the hanky panky like a pair of teenagers while they were supposed to be working. If she looks at them any harder, they are both going to catch on fire and burn into two piles of ash right here in the entryway.

Making things worse, Holland dips a finger into the mostly dried cum on Healy and brings it up to his mouth, sucking on the finger. “Wow. Um, really good icing.”

“March, what the fuck are you doing?” Healy questions as nicely as he can manage given the circumstances. Holly makes a retching sound. Jessica as always is oblivious to anything going on around her.

“Just… getting the last bit off you,” the man says with a shrug. Healy watches in fascinated horror as a bead of sweat rolls down his partner’s face. He can see his own release dried into Holland’s goatee. This is too much.

“Well, uh. I’m going to use your shower. If you will please excuse me,” Jackson says politely, too politely, and tries to pretend he isn’t fleeing the scene of a crime. He leaves Holland to deal with the fallout and ducks into the master bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror. What a mess. His undershirt is ruined, but he should have enough clothes to get back to his own apartment after this.

───※ ·❆· ※───

“Well then, let’s get you home Jessica.” Holland clasps his hands together and keeps his lips pressed tight to one another to avoid the awkward smile that was creeping across his face. He feels the cold, sharp daggers that his daughter’s eyes are shooting at him and he turns around to pull his coat back off the hanger. Holland is looking for any excuse to avoid the lecture that he knows Holly has in store for him when he gets back. Unfortunately for him, Jessica has one of the first rational thoughts in her life. She digs her heels a bit into the shag carpet as Holland attempts to push her out the door and says,

“Wait, Mr. March. I live just across the street, remember? I can just walk home.”

Holland’s eyes go blank. He didn’t remember, honestly. “Right. That’s right,” he repeats to himself mostly

“Anyway, bye Holly. I’ll see you at school!” Jessica walks out of the house like she’s a member of the Brady Bunch. That’s the show Jessica liked, right? He shakes his head. It doesn't matter now. What matters is how the hell Holland is going to get out of the scolding that Holly has at the ready for him. He puts the poor coat back onto the hook before slowly turning around to face his daughter. What could he say? She already looks more disappointed in him than the first time she had to drive and pick him up from the bar.

“Hi, honey.” He waves slowly at her, hoping to diffuse some of the tension in the air. This does not work. While he was trying to skirt on out of his own house, Holly had stood up from the couch and crossed her arms in front of her.

“Did you and Mister Healy have… sex and stuff?” She gets right to the point

“Don’t say ‘and stuff’...” Holland starts on his usual spiel. He zips his lips back up when he can see the look in Holly’s eyes getting even more venomous.

“Were you and Mister Healy having sex and stuff ?” She doubles down, making sure to punctuate every word as she repeats her question. She is not about to let her father out of this.

“Fine, we were… having sex.” Holland rubs the back of his neck as he says this. He looked like a teenager caught having a house party while his parents were out of town. Holly rolls her eyes at him and sighs, the gesture laced with disapproval for her dad’s carelessness. She sits back down on the couch before looking back at him and telling him,

“At least clean him up next time, Dad.”

“Fine. I will.” Holland huffs a little bit. His chest puffs up defensively before asking, “Why do you care?”

“Parents should treat each other with respect,” she shrugs. “Also maybe you don’t need to soil the eyes of your teenage daughter by bringing him back looking like that.”

“Okay, fine. You’re right.” He looks away. Up, down, anywhere that wasn’t the direct gaze of his daughter’s judging eyes. He begins doubling down on himself, “I just thought you’d be in bed.”

“Whatever. Just go check on him.” She settles in and watches the tv. She’s going to push her bedtime because her dad is the bigger problem right now. He had no room to judge when his own house wasn’t in order.

“Fine.” He walks to the bathroom with his tail tucked between his legs. He holds his ear up to the door for a second before knocking on the wood. “Hey, Healy?”

“Yeah?” Healy calls back over the sound of the water. He had barely set foot in the shower. It had taken him an age to peel himself out of his undershirt, his hair sticking uncomfortably to the cloth. How the hell did Holland cum so much? The other issue at hand was trying to figure out how to use the shower. After a couple of false starts, he managed to switch the water to the shower handle instead of the bath faucet.

“You mind if I come in?” Holland asks, his voice soft again. He doesn’t want to intrude on the other man if he isn’t welcome, but he wouldn’t be upset if he got a full look at Healy. With Healy’s permission, of course.

The other man hesitates for a moment but decides that it’s fine. He replies with a quick, “It’s your bathroom, March.”

“Yeah, but…” Holland lets out a quick sigh before he opens the door and walks in. He manages to undress himself quickly and glances over at the mirror. He uses his hand to run over his facial hair and mentally mark down where he needs to clean himself up. That was a problem for another day, however. He tugs gently on the shower curtain before asking, “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” The bruiser moves to the side to make room for the lankier man. It’s become second nature for Healy. As of late, his entire life has somehow molded around being a part of Holly and Holland’s little family. Not that he’d complain about the recent lack of loneliness.

“Hey.” Holland grins. It’s a quirky little half smile where his lips are almost hidden but there’s just enough there for Healy to see just how happy Holland is. He almost looks like a golden retriever. That’s before he asks the other man, “Can I… kiss you again?” He closes his eyes firmly, fully expecting a ‘no’ or ‘that’s too much’ from Healy, but Healy seems to have no problem with this. He leans in, taking the dive yet again. He pulls Holland into his arms by his waist. He kisses the other man in a way his probably shaky voice could never begin to explain. After they break their contact Holland just kind of laughs, “I was just gonna do this…” he explains. His lips meet with the crown of Healy’s head. His arms work their way around his kind of boyfriend and rests his chin atop the other man’s head. They stay still in the water like this for a moment together. It was oddly intimate, even though a mere hour ago the blond was using the other man’s chest to get himself off. Healy lets a soft pleased moan slip from his lips while Holland cleans off his mess from Healy’s chest. He reaches up and gets some shampoo lathered in between his fingers. His fingers work their way through the blond’s hair. This is a moment of intimacy Healy hadn’t had with someone outside of sex before.

A couple minutes later, after the two were clean, Holland reaches behind Healy’s back and switches the water off. He carefully pulls the shower curtain to one side and reaches for a towel, offering it to Healy. He steps out of the tub and starts to rummage through his bathroom closet. It shouldn’t be this hard to find a damn towel. After he finds one he starts drying himself off and looks over at Healy, who offers him a quick, “Thanks” in return for the shower. Jackson picks up his pile of clothes and forces himself back into his jeans. At this point, he’s sure that Holland’s sick of him and is just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Before that can happen Holland interrupts his thoughts.

“You wanna… sleep in my bed?” Holland asks, again expecting that it’s at this point Healy’s gone along for the ride for too long, and he’ll finally want to stop. He offers further, “Or if you don’t, you can sleep on the couch. Just kick Holly out and back to her room. She should be asleep anyway.” His sentence continues to trail as he fills in the silence that had settled between the two of them. Healy sighs and runs the palm of his hand across his face before saying,

“I didn’t know staying was an option.” His words are soft, and a bit hesitant. “Where do you want me?”

“I…” Holland starts to stutter. He takes a breath to calm himself down before finally saying, “Honestly? I want you in my bed.” He scoffs to himself. If he hadn’t done it before, Healy was sure to get off now. It was really an outlandish thing for Holland to ask of the other man.

“Okay. Okay, yeah, I can do that. Forgot to bring my pajamas though. Wasn’t expecting a sleepover,’ He jokes, using this opportunity to zip up his jeans.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Holland rubs his eyes as he starts getting tired. He walks over to his dresser and scans through his clothes for something to wear. He settles on an undershirt that’s clean enough for Holland’s standards and a fresh pair of boxers. He lies down and sprawls across his bed before making room for the other half of Nice Guys Agency to lie besides him.

Healy uses the blanket on the bed to cover himself up a little, but lets his hands rest on top of his still bare stomach. He’s trying his best not to break some unspoken boundary between the two but he can’t help but feel tempted when he sees the way Holland takes up the space on his bed. Holland’s no better than him, not with him sliding a cautious arm around the other man's back. He lets that hand lean against Healy’s side, fingers running through the other man’s body hair ever so slightly. Healy seems to notice this discrepancy and looks down at Holland’s arm.

“Thought your left hand was too fucked up to stroke anything, March.”

“I… yeah it is.” Holland slides his hand back, doing his best to pretend that it was still screwed up. His face was bright red, not that anyone would be able to tell. He didn’t want to admit it, Healy hadn’t really caught him, had he?

Without a thought, Healy catches Holland’s arm before it gets too far away. He moves it back to its previous spot. “If you wanted attention, you could have just said something. Woulda saved us some trouble.”

“And say what?” Holland snarks back at him, “ ‘Hey, Healy, give me a handy will ya?’ No thanks.” Jack shakes with a silent laugh.

“I did offer you one, y’know. In the car.”

“Yeah. I know.” He rolls his eyes, “I was probably thinking more with my schwantz than I want to admit.”

#the nice guys (2016)#the nice guys #the nice guys fanfiction #ryan gosling #holland march #jackson healy #holland march x jackson healy #healland #holland march fanfic #ryan gosling fanfiction #my work #my posts

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drivers-toothpick · 3 months

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It’s boat 🚢

#the nice guys (2016)#the nice guys 2016 #the nice guys #holland march #jackson healy #holland march x jackson healy #ryan gosling #russel crowe

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danime25 · 5 months

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Doing a little thing with @drivinmeinsane for the holiday season! Thank you for writing with me during this

Here is the masterlist for my 12 days of Goosemas fics! Fics starring characters played by Ryan Gosling. I hope you'll all enjoy!

My timezone is GMT-9 and I'll be posting starting on December 12th at Midnight, with a fic uploaded every day until the 24th.

ALT Text:

' Last Christmas: Colt Seavers/Reader (SFW)

Wrapped Up In You: Sierra Six/Reader (SFW)

Nog On The Noggin': Holland March/Reader (SFW)

Silent Night: Lars Lindstrom/Reader (NSFW)

Wonderful Christmastime: Lars Lindstrom/Reader (NSFW)

Santa Baby: Holland March/Jackson Healy (SFW)

Rockin' Around: Sebastian Wilder/Reader (SFW)

Silver Bells and Silver Screens: Ken/Reader (SFW)

Mistletoe: Holland March/Reader (NSFW)

Winter Wonderland: Driver/Ken (SFW)

Jingle All The Way: Sierra Six/Reader (SFW)

A Christmas Miracle: Sebastian Wilder/Reader (NSFW)

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ken-dom · 6 months

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Forever

Holland March x Jackson Healy

500 words

A short, smutty, tender drabble in which Holland discovers he’s messy in yet another area.

Author’s notes: inspired by @hollandstrophyhusband giving Holland the cute pet name ‘Sir Cumsalot’

Warnings/content: nsfw, frotting, crying, Holland being klutzy and mildly panicking, smoking, a lot of cum

Holland thought Jackson was beautiful like this, or at least he would think so if his every thought hadn’t been clouded with that delicious haze of pleasure Jackson had brought on so unexpectedly easily.

They came at the same time, panting, red faced, foreheads pressed together, lengths squeezed close inside Jackson’s pumping fist.

After a drawn out, guttural cry that vibrated through Jackson’s entire being, Holland glanced down, eager to see the mess they’d made between them as it pooled, thick and hot, on his stomach.

‘You didn’t cum?’ Holland whined, voice high and shaky as though he might cry at the thought.

Jackson needed a moment before he could speak, chest heaving and mind still very much connected to his dick rather than his brain.

‘I came, Holland, Jesus Christ,’ he breathed gruffly, mouth pulling up into a smug grin as he too gazed down at their creamy seed combined on Holland’s perfect body. ‘See, I came a normal amount, you came… I don’t know, ten times that? Is it always like that when you… y’know?’ He gestured a crude motion with his fist.

‘What?!’ Holland exclaimed, head shooting up off the pillow to try and look closer, and head-butting Jackson in the process, who simply closed his eyes and waited for Holland to catch up.

‘You’re telling me it’s not like that for everyone?’

Jackson chuckled. ‘Alright, Sir Cumsalot, time to clean you up,’ he huffed, amused, and climbed off Holland to find a towel.

‘You’re telling me this is abnormal?’ Holland squeaked. ‘Shit. Do you think I need to see someone about it?’

‘And say what? I cum ten times more than my boyfr- than… than other guys?’

‘Well, shit, yeah I guess!’

Jackson took a steadying breath. Either Holland hadn’t noticed or didn’t mind. And any of the two options were fine by him.

‘No I don’t think you need to do that. But I do think I need to make it happen a lot more often because… wow.’

Holland relaxed back on the bed, running a trembling hand through his tousled golden locks, the other reaching for a cigarette.

Jackson returned to Holland's side and gently wiped up the evidence of their passion from Holland’s belly. His eyes were fixed on the downward direction of that gorgeous happy trail, only distracted by his deliciously sharp hip bones and how he’d like to feel them digging into his flesh.

Holland sighed and Jackson snapped his head back up.

‘Hey, does it feel good?’ he asked bluntly.

‘Yeah,’ Holland breathed, puffing out a long stream of smoke. ‘Lasts for almost too long, like it’s never gonna end, but it’s bliss so I kinda don’t want it to. And then after I feel so… so…’

‘Sated?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Wanna do it again?’

‘Yep!’

‘Insatiable. I knew you’d be fucking insatiable the moment I laid eyes on you,’ Jackson mumbled, shaking his head, his voice laced with a lust he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Holland hastily stubbed out the remainder of his cigarette on the bedside table and pulled Jackson back down on top of him for a bruising kiss, the damp towel dropping to the floor.

Healy’s cheek turned suspiciously wet but he didn’t break the kiss to see if Holland was really crying.

‘And again, and again, and again,’ Holland muttered against his partner’s curling lips, ‘forever.’

#not s f w 💀#holland march #jackson healy #holland march x jackson healy #holland march smut #holland march fic #jackson healy smut #jackson healy fic #the nice guys #the nice guys 2016 #the nice guys fic #ryan gosling #ryan gosling fic #ryan gosling smut #ken-dom writes

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amerileste-cressderqueen · 9 months

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I know I'm Hella late to the party BUT

Healy x March AU where everything is the same except March has Six (The Gray Man) childhood

#does this mean anything #the nice guys #the gray man #healy x march #ryan gosling #allie speaks

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webbo0 · 5 months

Text

*Cowboy voice* “I Ain’t Quitting You”

Holland March x Jackson Healy

AO3 link

Length: 2,183 words

Summary:

"In my psychology class, we talked about something called an Oral Fixation; Freud made it up. Maybe you just need to have something else to like, chew on and stuff." "Sweetheart, we’ve talked about this —" "Oh my god, Dad, just get some gum or whatever!" AKA 7 things Holland March tries to help him quit drinking, plus the 1 time Jackson Healy helps him out. AKA Holland does NOT have an oral fixation, Thank you very much

Content/Warning: Idiot to lovers, Oral Fixation, Kissing, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Smoking, Sobriety, Quitting Smoking, Post-Canon, chosen family, 5+1 Things, technically it's 7 + 1 things, slight angst, Mature Content, implied/referenced sexuality

Authors Note: This is actually the first fic I ever published back in September '23, but I never posted it to Tumblr, so here ya go!

Original Notes:

Welp. I finally did it. Almost a decade in fandoms and it was Ryan fucking Gosling that made me cave and finally write fanfiction. Shoutout to the Goosecord for the motivation/encouragement to write this and for the feedback, especially @sandpapersnowman for helping me format this for AO3!! Y'all are the best!!

Anyways enjoy!!

***

"March, we gotta talk."

Holland jerks up and immediately regrets it when his head pounds and everything tilts about 270° too far to the left. He groans and falls off the bed. Bed? He doesn’t remember getting there. Or undressing, apparently, because looking down, he quickly realizes he’s wearing nothing but some embarrassingly old boxers. And Healy’s standing above him. Holland scrambles back into bed and covers himself in a blanket.

"Stop pretending I haven’t seen you half-naked before. You’re acting like a Victorian duchess."

"A man must preserve his — hrrk — dignity," Holland retorts back in a bad British accent, having to pause and suppress a wave of nausea halfway through his sentence.

Healy scoffs

"Dignity, my ass! Holly found you passed out on the diving board. You could’ve gotten hurt! Again!"

Holland feels suddenly defensive. "And why do you care? What are you, my fairy drunk-mother?" Not your best comeback there, March, he thinks.

"You’re my business partner; I have a vested interest in having an income, so forgive me if I want my co-detective alive to work with me. You need to stop drinking."

Holland rolls his eyes. "I’ve got it under control, Healy. I’m a big boy, y’know?" God, he wishes he could take a nap right now.

"March, I’m serious; you’re going to do permanent damage to your liver. Plus," Healy hesitates as if he’s trying to figure out a way to finish his sentence without sounding like an asshole, "it’s not fair to Holly. You’re the only family she’s got left; you have to be there for her. She’s a teenager now and needs someone to guide her through adolescent idiocy. You’re her dad, you owe it to her."

That wakes him up. He’s always pushed down the guilt he has over his behavior, but when Healy lays it all out in front of him like that? He knows he’s deluded himself for years into thinking Holly wouldn’t notice, but she’s not a kid anymore. And the thought of her as an impressionable teenager following in his footsteps makes him nauseous for a whole different reason.

He sighs.

"Alright, alright, cut my balls off, why don’tcha? But fine, I get it."

"Thank you," Healy looks relieved.

"I can’t just quit cold chicken, though, withdrawals can be dead—"

"Turkey"

"Hm?" "The phrase is cold turkey."

"No, I’m pretty sure it's chicken."

"Why would it be — never mind. And yeah, it would be pretty dangerous to just stop altogether. What if we cut it down to one drink a day?"

"One? No way, pal, three a day minimum."

"Three?! There is something seriously wrong with you, March."

"Hey!"

An hour of negotiations later, they settle on a begrudged compromise.

That was a month ago, and Holland was regretting ever saying yes to the whole stupid plan. To substitute for the flask he always took a swig from whenever he needed to calm his nerves, he kept an extra pack of cigarettes, so he was smoking twice as much as usual. And Holly isn't a fan of his new habit. It’s a Monday morning, and Holland sits at the table, sipping his coffee, while Holly gets ready for school. Healy had stopped by to drop off some paperwork for their latest case, and now, for some inexplicable reason, is making them all pancakes. He bites back a comment about him making a great housewife and instead turns to Holly, arms out for a hug. She had a big test today and has insisted on the Mandatory Good Luck Hug before tests since kindergarten. She makes a face at him.

"Ugh, Dad, you smell gross!"

Tchk. Teenagers. "Holly, it’s rude to say that to someone’s face."

"It's true, March, you smell like an ashtray had sex with another ashtray," Healy comments from his place in front of the stove, not even turning around.

"Yeah, and then their house burned down." Holly adds, "You do know those will kill you one day, right?"

"Pfft, no way! Doctors used to give these to you! My own father had a prescription for a pack a day!"

Healy turns around. "Didn't he die of lung cancer?"

"Yeah, why?"

Healy pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks like he has a headache brewing.

Holly waltzes into the kitchen and steals a pancake from the ever-growing stack.

"In my psychology class, we talked about something called an Oral Fixation; Freud made it up. Maybe you just need to have something else to like, chew on and stuff."

"Sweetheart, we’ve talked about this —"

"Oh my God, Dad, just get some gum or whatever!"

She still leans in for a half hug while wrinkling her nose, because tradition is tradition. As she walks to the bus stop, Holland considers her words. Was he obsessed with things in his mouth? He took a sip of coffee before anyone could notice his face flushing a lovely shade of magenta.

The first thing he tries is Holly’s initial suggestion: gum. He gets a shit ton of flavors to try to find one he won’t get tired of. He settles on Bubblicious watermelon wave. The idea is largely effective, and Holland's smoking is cut down to what Holly decides is a "normal amount."

Unfortunately, Holland has the manners of a barn animal, so after only nine days of chewing with his mouth open non-stop, Healy is about to strangle him.

"March, buddy, I’m glad this is helping with your ‘mouth thing’," he starts. Holland opens his mouth to protest before Healy quickly cuts him off to finish. "But we have to figure something else out before I make the ‘arm incident’ look like a harmless prank."

Holland shuts up. No problem, he’ll find something else. He was getting tired of the gum sticking to his teeth anyway.

Holland’s next plan; a toothpick. More similar in shape to a cigarette and they last much longer. Bonus points: Holly thinks he looks “far out”. This plan lasts about 3 seconds before he gets a splinter in his gums. Toothpick is out.

Plan C is to just chew on the end of his pen as he works. Holland thinks it makes him look distinguished. Healy’s just kinda grossed out. Everything is fine until he finds a break in their case, jumps up in excitement, and promptly inhales the pen cap. Healy has to use the damn Heimlich maneuver on him, frantically grabbing him and squeezing harder than Holland thinks is necessary. But what does he know? And, wow, he definitely isn’t thinking about how Healy's strong arms feel around him.

When Healy silently hands him a teething ring meant for fussy toddlers, Holland almost punches him (attempted sobriety has him more on edge than usual). But hearing Holly’s muffled hysterics around the corner instantly dissolves his irritation. Something about Jackson and Holly working together just makes his heart flutter.

And sometimes, when he’s sure no one is looking, he’ll hold up the ring on a chain around his neck to his mouth. Softly, not biting or chewing, just letting it rest between his lips. And no matter what Jackson softly asks him one night, tears are not falling down his face. Those are the nights he really regrets cutting down on his drinking.

It’s when he starts keeping a lollipop in his mouth most of the day he notices Healy acting… Different. When Holland’s doing his work, going over papers and poring over phone books, he lets himself loosen up. Often he’ll tap his pen in random patterns, or jiggle his leg up and down (which drives Healy crazy), or more recently, he’ll hold his lollipop between his fingers like a cigarette and slowly lick circles around it. It’s a mindless behavior that helps him concentrate, but for some reason, Healy doesn’t like it. March can tell. He notices Healy glance at him and then darts his eyes down as if it weirds him out just to witness it. It hurts; Healy knows how much Holland is trying to be better, why would he judge him for how he’s coping? He tries to brush it off, wondering why it bothers him so much; he should be used to people not getting him by now.

They’re sitting next to each other on the couch in Holland’s living room, working on their latest case. It’s late at night and Holly is sleeping at a friend’s house for a birthday party. Holland is losing himself in the details of this case (who kidnaps a pet snake??) when he senses Healy’s attention on his mouth, which he currently occupies with a new blue raspberry lollipop.

After the fifth time Holland catches Healy staring at his mouth he snaps.

“I know I’m a fuck-up and everything but can you at least try to hide how much you —"

He’s cut off when something covers his lips. Oh. When Healy covers his lips. With his mouth. Oh. Holland’s brain takes about three seconds to catch up with what’s happening. Jackson’s kissing him. Holy shit.

Holy shit.

Jackson must’ve taken his frozen state as rejection because he quickly pulls back. Holland almost whines from the loss of contact.

“Fuck. Fuck! I shouldn’t have done that, I’m so sorry, Holland,” Jackson runs a hand through his hair, clearly panicking, “You’ve just been such a goddamn tease with the fuckin’, whatever it is you’re doing with those lollipops and I couldn’t hel—”

This time he’s cut off from finishing his sentence by Holland grabbing his face and kissing him so hard he’s distantly worried about breaking Jackson’s nose. Holland’s hands rest on the side of Jackson’s face and cup the back of his neck, bracing himself in a desperate attempt to hide how much he’s shaking. Jackson’s lips are firm and his 3-day-old stubble is rough against his skin; one of his hands automatically threads into Holland’s hair, and the other hovers over his side before settling on his hips. He squeezes and the feeling goes straight to Holland’s dick. He lets out a wet groan into Jackson’s mouth who responds with a deep rumble.

“Fuck, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” Jackson growls, pulling away from Holland to let him catch his breath.

“Tell me,” is all that Holland responds, dipping his head and latching his mouth to Jackson’s neck, drawing out a strangled gasp.

“Since the day you fell asleep on my shoulder during that stakeout, and grabbed onto me like a fucked-up koala. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you,” Jackson is visibly struggling to keep his composure as Holland's fingers move to the buttons on Jackson's shirt, frantically undoing them and pushing his hands under the cheap cotton. Holland moves his mouth down his neck, biting and sucking and doing things with his tongue that must be good because Jackson is making sounds that frankly should be illegal.

“Maybe Holly’s right, you really have a fixation on —”

Jackson yelps before he can finish his thought because Holland bites down hard into the soft skin of Jackson’s shoulder.

“Please don't mention my daughter while I’m giving you hickeys, it’s weird,” Holland mumbles while sucking what is sure to be a large dark splotch into Jackson’s collarbone.

“What I’m saying,” Jackson starts, as he grabs Holland's hair and jerks his head up to look him in the eyes, pupil’s blown. Holland would’ve whined from the loss of contact if he wasn’t moaning from Jackson’s hand tugging against his scalp.

“What I’m saying, is that maybe you just need to be doing something useful for once with that pretty little mouth besides drinking and talking non-stop.”

“And smoking, can’t forget all the smo—” Jackson shuts him up by shoving the thumb of the hand not tangled in his hair into Holland’s mouth, pressing down on his tongue. He moans around his hand in a way he knows must sound obscene. Jackson curses as Holland simultaneously starts sucking his fingers like it’s his job and fumbling with the buckle on Jackson’s jeans.

“God, you are something special, Holland,” he murmurs softly, and Jackson says his name with such reverence that if Holland doesn’t get the other man’s pants off immediately, he might explode.

He drops to his knees between Jackson’s thick thighs, because if everyone and their mother were so insistent he has this ‘mouth fixation’ or whatever, he might as well blow their expectations out of the water.

Heh, blow. Good one March.

He stares at the crotch of Jackson’s jeans, already starting to drool.

___

After that night, Holland sticks with the lollipops (now sugar-free, because his dentist nearly had a conniption when he last went in for a cleaning). No longer worried about Healy’s judgment, he loosens up and allows himself to fidget weirdly in peace. And if he and Jackson are alone on the nights when needs a little help with his mouth thing (because fine, yes, he might have a little fixation. Sue him), and he’s having a particularly hard time not turning to his vices? Well, that’s between him, his gag reflex, and Freud.

***

Hope y'all enjoyed!!! You get bonus points if you find all the other Ryan Gosling movie references Again, this is the first full fic I've written so any and all feedback is welcomed!

#the nice guys #holland march #jackson healy #holly march #Holland x Jackson #the nice guys fic #holland march x jackson healy #the nice guys fanfiction #holland march fanfic #ryan gosling #healland #Holland March fanfiction #fanfiction #ryan gosling fanfic #my writing

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