Chapter Text
Holland March would never call himself a good man. Neither would his daughter, Holly, but she would be too busy working to tell you that herself anyway. Her drive never quit; Even on the days she wanted to clock her own father across the jaw.
Today might’ve been one of those days. Holland sat at the kitchen counter, nursing a glass with what could’ve been any alcoholic beverage under the damn sun, all too quietly contemplating their most recent client and his request. He swung his neck back, Adam's apple bobbing in his neck as he took the rest of his beverage like a shot. “Holly. Where the hell is Healy?” He turned on the barstool to stare at where she lay on the couch, legs dangling off an arm of the furniture.
“Why don’t you just, oh, call him?” She glared, picking herself up with her hands to stare at her dad.
“Thought you did that now, shithead.” She only shook her head back that time, supposedly off to maybe, maybe-not call Healy. Holland couldn’t give less of a damn, really; they were business partners, not his goddamn wife. He sighed, pouring another heady glass of booze, fishing a cigarette from his breast pocket, along with a lighter in the same swift, familiar movement. His nose crinkled, not cause he could smell, but involuntarily. Almost a sniffle, he thought. But, as expected, the cigarette fixed the problem. They had a fun habit of doing that.
“Yeah, yeah. Dad! Talk to him. He’s on the phone.” She holds out the corded line in Holland’s face, where he zones out, staring at the wall. “DAD!” He shocks back into reality, reaching out and fumbling the phone between his hands like a fucking idiot. He nods in thanks towards Holly.
“Hey, hey, what’s up?” The other line is gravely sounding, not a good line. Maybe a payphone, he thinks, but he can’t quite tell. There's too much sound in the background for it to be enclosed, he decides.
“March. I need you to meet me at the bar; we’ve got a lead. Don’t be late, hmm?” And, annoyingly, before Holland can even reply, the line goes dead. Healy has hung up before even getting a response. That’s so annoying, truly, fucking annoying. Holland has half a mind to smack him when he shows up at the bar. He refuses to think about how he can't refuse to go to the bar, and how he won’t be late. In fact, for the first time in his life, he shows up early. He doesn't have time to dissect that choice when he takes the cigarette from behind his ear and lights it, crossing from the real world into the dimly lit room, full of sin, sex, and booze. Hell, in an easy-open can.
“Healy, spill. I’m a busy man, busy life,” He ogles a bartender at the end of the bar from them, staring at the way her chest bulges through the size-too-small tank top. If he squints, he can see the outline of her areolas, dark pink against pale skin. White tank tops; truly any man's dream.
Healy does the talking, and Holland half-listens, the other half thinking about bending that bartender over the wooden lacquer top and shoving his face in her pussy until she couldn’t stand anymore. Around the end of Healy's rant, Holland realises his daydream is more than just what he initially thought. Healy is there too, fucking her mouth. Rugged, bruised hands curled in blonde hair, pulling her onto him like she was a machine built for it. Eyes low and teeth glinting in the neon plastered along the bartop. He watches in astonishment when Healy pulls his heaving cock out of her mouth and slaps it against her cheek, spitting in her face, and-
He practically gets electrocuted when Healy punches his shoulder. “March, figure this the fuck out, now. Are you even listening?” He stares at him like he’s the dog that took a shit on the carpet while his owner was at work, with an air of anger alongside. Not that Healy would say it, but sometimes, his job felt like babysitting a drunk toddler. He didn’t expect the response he heard, though, not one bit, not in any reality.
“Hit me.” Oh, March. He literally smashes his own head against the bartop in embarrassment. Healy does a literal spit-take, and Holland is waiting for someone to come into the bar, point a pistol at the back of his head, and fire.
He half hopes it would be Healy himself. He thinks about the diner incident, and he even found old news footage after four months of searching everywhere he could find. Thinks about how Healy used the back of a slug shotgun to give a man traumatic brain damage. He wants Healy to grab him by his hair, smack him, pistol whip him.
He now realises he's still being stared at in genuine horror. To make things much, much worse, he’s hard. Pressed against the zipper of dress pants, because he didn’t put on underwear the day he put the suit on. (When that was, he couldn't tell you.)
“Healy, uh, hey-” He starts, stuttering to a stop when his eyes meet Healy’s, and he sees the way his eyelids have lowered since he last made eye contact, whenever that had been. His hand was twitching where it was pressed against the bartop, white-knuckling it as if it owed him insurance funds. His eyes dropped lower for one moment, experimentally, and then again in astonishment when he saw it. A genuine bulge. In Jackson Healy’s pants.
The way the blood rushed from his head to his dick could’ve genuinely caused him to pass out if he hadn’t shaken his head and laughed it off, trying to put a thought in his brain other than being abused by his fucking coworker. “I think, I think we should reconvene tomorrow, I’m not, uh, sober, for sure,” He idly thought about the phrase, ‘Drunk words are sober thoughts’, and kicked himself for it. Fucking idiot. He might as well just shoot himself, honestly, at this point.
“No, actually. We’re gonna talk about that for sure. But sure, let us blame the booze, March.” His body shuddered at the intrusive thoughts he had. He could only look akin to a bee, buzzing in never-ending anxious energy. Healy flagged a bartender, and March literally hid his face against his own shoulder in embarrassment. He felt flabbergasted. He was not that drunk, not enough to confess that. Let’s also not ignore the way Healy dropped his voice into a grumble when he said his name, almost threateningly, a hint of manipulation weeping out behind the scenes.
Healy paid the tab, and they went out to their respective cars. Of course, Healy slid into the driver's seat, and Holland sat next to him. Force of habit. It was all force of habit, including Holland asking to be hit by him, and they still haven’t talked about it, and he feels like he is going literally and figuratively insane in the passenger seat of another man's car. Healy reaches his right hand over and puts it on Holland's thigh, slowly, testing. Experimental.
“Do you really want that? For me to, uh, hit you?” He whispered the last part, keeping the scene calm. March was really starting to enjoy the feeling of his hand on his pant leg, against his thigh. It was so warm. Warmer than the coil in his gut from his bubbling arousal. He could barely speak. He lit up another cigarette, puffing with the only full breath he could conjure in the moment. Chest heaving and falling.
Fuck it.
“Yeah, fuck, yeah, I really do,” He babbled a bit, wet lips clicking where they connected, the cigarette dangling precariously. “Remember when we met? No one has ever, ever tossed me like that.” He choked down a cough, his throat drying with every word. “I can’t stop thinking about, about you, God, just fuckin’, tossing me on the floor, kicking me, watching me squirm,” He was breathless, and he couldn’t shut his mouth if it meant saving his own life.
Healy cut him off by putting a calloused palm across his mouth, setting the car into drive faster than March was even able to think, and grumbling, low and deep in his chest, “You’re coming home with me tonight, Holland.” His hand gripped for only a millisecond, maybe less, before dropping down into the centre console once more, shuffling for his own pack of cigarettes. Healy barely ever smoked a cigarette, more often an expensive blunt once every payday. The cigarettes were a sex thing, he had said it himself, one day, while too drunk for him to remember it. But Holland was too drunk all the time. He remembered.
As soon as they both were inside his apartment, Healy practically turned on Holland like he had been possessed. He gripped his tie between his hands and slammed him up against the wall like he was trying to beat information out of him. “Listen, and really, actually fuckin’ listen for once in your pathetic life,” Holland felt his cock angrily throb in response, deviating the anger he felt at being called such a rude term. “You wanna be hit? I’m gonna hit you. But, I’m not gonna stop unless you really need me to. Safeword is Jeopardy.” Holland nodded dumbly, squirming, itching in his fucking skin. He felt so hot. He was sweating; What he didn’t notice was that he was whimpering. Had been for 30 minutes, and Healy was irritated that Holland hadn’t even noticed his own pathetic nature in his drunken haze.
His head felt like it was spinning, and he stared at Healy, trying to figure out what had happened, until the warmth bloomed over his cheek. His throat closed and opened erratically, almost in pain, after he had shrieked at the impact of the palm against his face. It burned like a cigarette that was too close to the filter; he could get even more addicted to it. “You ever suck dick, March? Not a metaphor, I swear,” He adjusted himself in his pants, brushing his waist close to March’s, just for the sound of his breath hitching in his throat at the personal space intrusion.
Holland dropped to his knees as if the words turned his bones into gelatin. His knees hit the wood floor like it was nothing; he knew he’d feel it tomorrow. He was excited to touch himself in the shower the next morning and find out where he was bruised the worst. “Please, Jackson,” He clawed at the tweed dress pants, hands raising to the belt loop at the very top, eagerness dripping from him faster than precum from his cock. But his plans were simply interrupted, his hands grabbed and spun uncomfortably to be held above his head, not unlike a contortionist from the circus. His previously broken wrist screamed in pain, and it only made his cock swell more, drip more.
“Stop doing things. Just let me do my job, slut.” He squeezed his wrists so tight that Holland couldn’t help but absolutely melt against the pressure, his legs sliding open, ass pressing against the carpet while he tried to get closer to Healy, breathe him in, like a breath of fresh air, or a fresh menthol cigarette. One of the expensive ones, he thought.
He didn’t see Healy slide his belt off until he felt it whip against his shoulder, leaving a path of flame in its wake. Healy let go of his wrists, and Holland stayed. He couldn’t move them if he wanted; his cock was running the show. It said to listen to Healy. He tsked, cocking his head to the side and pressing a dress shoe toe against his bulge, cocking his eyebrow questioningly. It took a lot of Holland to not double over and come on the spot, but he just started crying instead. “Ooo-oouh, fuck, fuck, God, please, Healy-” He pressed his hips forward and groaned loudly, unabashedly, like they were the only two people left alive. Like it was just them, just for tonight.
“Healy, I need, I ne-eed you, oh fuck,” He couldn’t help but grab at Healy’s leg, one arm around his calf and the other around his thigh, rutting like a dog. He could pass out. He could die, really, God willing, because he felt humiliated. Humiliated to death is what his headstone would read. Goddamn his life.
Healy was so taken aback that he couldn’t even tell Holland off. He was clearly here for a reason, and Healy was willing to let his reason finalise itself. His foot pressed and pulled, slowly against the weight of Holland's dick between the two of them, and Holland was a bloody mess. Healy grabbed his jaw between his forefinger and thumb, staring into his eyes. Tear-streaked, red-faced, even his lips were red from biting and pulling. He couldn’t help but lean down and press a kiss to his forehead.
“You’re such a good boy, March. You look so fucked up. You want a bloody nose too, whore?” His other hand clocked back and met Holland’s cheek like concrete, the sickening crack of his nose inaudible compared to the pump of blood in his ears, the taste of metal and blood blooming on his tongue where his mouth shot open from the impact. The punch sends his head bouncing off the wall, wobbling forward and rubbing his face almost directly into Healy’s crotch. Grey tweed stained maroon, spit-slick while Holland rubbed his cock against his leg. He mouthed and breathed, and fuck, Healy, he could really, truly feel it through the fabric, if he watched hard enough.
His pants slid down just far enough to pull his dick out, flopping unceremoniously in front of Holland's face, even touching his bloodstained cheek for a moment. At that contact, Healy takes a second to grab himself by the base and slap his tip across the smear on Holland's cheek, before pulling back and pressing his tip into the open gasp of his lips, brushing teeth and seeing red for a moment as he adjusted to the unfamiliar sensation.
His lips mouthed at the head, glistening and red and heavy in his mouth. “Hmhn, oh yea-ah, that’s it, babe..” Healy put a hand in his hair and pulled, slowly but incessantly. They both needed to come before Healy really started beating Holland, and not in a sexy way.
He tested the water, pressing in further while Holland gagged around the intrusion. He didn’t once move away, though, not for a second. He sucked, hard, his nose dripping blood so profusely it stained the spit around Healy’s cock a red tinge. His head bobbed faster, and faster, and Healy eventually realised his hair was a hotspot, the way Holland rutted hard whenever he tugged it. The grinding never quit, only sped up, rabbit thrusts against his fucking shoe.
He yanked his hair roughly, curling it around between a couple of fingers and pulling like he was walking a dog, and he felt Holland's hips stutter against his leg. Groaning, moaning, even bubbling spit up around Healy’s cock in the process, he jizzes in his own pants, from grinding against a shoe. Holland sucked as if his life depended on it, and really, it probably did, at this point. Healy is groaning, grunting, mumbling praise under his breath like a prayer. He watches Holland slump against the wall behind him while he fucks his face, only held up by hope and a hand in his hair that gripped so hard it had pulled out sweaty strands.
When Healy finishes, he doesn't warn Holland. He pulls his head flush with his mons pubis, wiry, curly pubes tickling his nose and intertwining with his moustache when he comes down Holland's throat. He doesn't let go, either, not until Holland swallows tightly against him, throat compression making Healy shudder hard, barely able to pull out from the texture of his throat surrounding him.
They stare at each other with too many complicated feelings to tackle in one night, so March calls his daughter, tells her he’ll be back tomorrow morning, and climbs into Healy’s bed. They share one of Healy’s expensive Marlboros while they lie together, falling in and out of dreams of being in love and happy, for once in his life. If he woke up the next morning with his body wrapped around the other man, it was nobody else's business but their own, now was it?