#holland march fic

[ken-dom]

March Magic

Holland March x afab!reader

4k words

∘₊✧ Summary: Three times Holland March couldn't get it up, and one time he could.

∘₊✧ Authors’s notes: I've missed Holland, but upon a rewatch of The Nice Guys, he crashed my doors down and proceeded to experience erectile dysfunction in my living room so. Here you have it. Thank you to the wonderful K for beta reading and being the best as usual!! The warnings are pretty wild on this one so... strap in.

∘₊✧ Warnings/content: NSFW, erectile dysfunction, crying, passing out, smoking, oral sex, shotgun kissing (both the pussy and the mouth), mention of bee mating rituals/bee death, hand job, blow job, premature ejaculation, Holland having hyperspermia as usual, kind of established relationship, general wet cat pathetic energy

∘₊✧─────────────────────✧₊∘

‘Mmh- I uh- I’ll be right back,’ Holland mumbled against your kiss-swollen lips, ‘wait there- don’t move-’

His body clumsily moved off the bed until he was stood, stooped over you with lips still attached to yours until you dropped back onto the bed and finally freed him.

‘Don’t be too long, sexy,’ you winked at him as he slinked off toward his adjoining bathroom, and he huffed a faux coy laugh.

What the fuck did he need to go to the bathroom for at this late stage? Maybe it’s where he keeps the condoms, you thought, relaxing against his luxuriously soft pillows. Makes sense, he probably hasn’t used one for a while, what would be the use of keeping them by the bed?

Meanwhile, Holland let out a long, steadying exhale. You hadn’t noticed. Jesus. How he’d got this far without you trying to grope him and realising what was going on (or not going on), he’d no idea, but he’d managed to distract you long enough by pressing his thigh between your legs while kissing you sloppily and needily, and you seemed to drink it up, moaning into his mouth and writhing against him.

Hell, he could feel your heat through his trousers and wondered with a smirk whether he’d need to get this suit dry cleaned and make up an excuse about the mysterious wet patch just above the knee.

Your fingers in his hair were sending shivers down his spine, and heat was pooling in his lower belly, and you kept breathing his name, and it was all so incredibly fucking hot, but for reasons he didn’t want to acknowledge, his dick just wouldn’t respond.

He slipped into the bathroom and clicked the door shut behind him, collapsing against it and closing his eyes. He didn’t bother to switch on the light; he could feel the room spinning, he didn’t need to see it too.

His hand slid down over his flaccid cock, and for a moment, he thought, Pathetic, but then he tried to focus his thoughts back to you. Back to the way your body felt pressed against his, the way you uttered his name like a desperate, horny prayer, how good you’d feel when he finally managed to get it up and bury himself inside you.

He palmed himself over his trousers halfheartedly, knowing deep down it was a lost cause, and with his voice lower than a whisper, he uttered a shaky, ‘March, March, he’s our man! If he can’t do it, no one can. Maaaarch!’

Not even a twitch.

He slid down to the floor and sobbed, banging his head back against the door, and the darkened room turned suddenly darker.

Until the morning, when he found you asleep on the bed, clutching his pillow in lieu of the man himself.

****

‘Wanna taste you-’ Holland slurred against your throat. He wished he could smell you, smell the perfume he could taste, bitter against his tongue, but at least he could bury his face between your thighs and intoxicate himself in you that way.

There was also the small problem of his cock not playing ball again, despite tearing your clothes off, his hands exploring every inch of you, despite you telling him you needed him in that sultry, seductive voice that drove him wild.

He wasn’t going to leave you dissatisfied and alone again, no matter how far gone he was. Not this time. Come on, March.

He felt you nod, heard the desperation in your whine of agreement, and slipped lower, realising as he gripped your thighs to spread them apart that he still had an unlit cigarette propped between his fingers from when you’d kissed him while trying to light said cigarette. Who could blame you for getting distracted by those gorgeous, sparklingly sad eyes and pressing your lips to his instead?

‘Oh shit- give me a second-’ he mumbled, more to himself than to you, but as he moved to drop the cigarette, you grabbed and held his hands firmly against your thighs to stop him moving it away. When he looked up at you, questioning, you reached for the lighter on the nightstand and lit it for him.

‘Carry on,’ you smirked.

Holland swallowed hard. That was the hottest thing you’d ever done. Well, the second hottest, besides actually letting him eat you out whilst smoking, which was about to take first place.

‘Jesus…’

He took a long drag, partly a need, since he hadn’t smoked in a hot fifteen minutes, partly a show for you. He relished in the way you bit your lip as you watched his eyes sliding shut at the brief satisfaction at the nicotine hit. He exhaled slowly too, relishing in it as though it were giving him the pleasure he should be feeling from you.

Fuck. He shouldn't be focusing on that right now. He dragged a soft fingertip through your slick folds and felt you shudder. Taking another drag, he exhaled right at the moment he dove down to wrap his lips around your swollen clit, smoke spreading a tingling warmth around your exposed core.

Somewhere between lapping at your folds and devouring your clit, Holland realised he’d neglected his cigarette and the consequences could be… fuck, stop thinking- just-

Feeling your thighs clench around him, he half-reluctantly pulled back for another drag, and to flick some loose ash into the ashtray by the bed, and you whined in protest, already so close you could feel your bundle of nerves throbbing in the absence of his tongue. Holland sure worked fast, but he was easily distracted, too, and you couldn’t even blame him for this since this was technically your idea.

This time, as he exhaled, his tongue dipped inside, the smoke hot against your cooling slick as it swirled back out of your entrance and up around your folds, and, admiring the combination for moment, Holland licked a stripe right up to your clit to start right back where he’d left off.

He carefully slid a finger inside this time, too, surprisingly delicate in his movements as he beckoned, stroking that spot inside you that made your toes curl so precisely as his mouth took care of the rest.

Jesus, he sure knows his way around down there- 

‘Fuck- f-fuck- Holland-!’

Your climax was so close you could practically taste it, and so could he, but there was the small complication of his cigarette still burning by your thigh.

Hips rolling to rut against his tongue as he lapped eagerly, fingerfucking you with enthusiastic vigour, your back arched off the bed and your fingers found their way into his messy sun-kissed hair, and just as your breath turned ragged, he pulled away again for another nicotine hit.

Not only did he leave you exposed to the cold air without his mouth covering you, but his finger apparently couldn’t continue to fuck into you while he was focussing on the cigarette, either. He’d never been great at multitasking and obviously the Camel was just too delicious to try. Fucking hell.

‘Tease,’ you groaned weakly, and Holland, sobering slightly (only very slightly, and very, very briefly) finally realised what this was doing to you and shoved the end of the cigarette into the ashtray, diving back down to finish the job properly, almost choking on the combination of smoke and pussy in the process. God, it tasted incredible together and he was so into it that it took no time at all for you to get that simmering feeling right back.

He felt your orgasm approach, and then shake through your body, felt you turn limp after the high subsided, and carried on for a while, softer and slower, until your thighs were clamping around his head again with oversensitivity and he ate you like a man possessed once again.

Just as your second orgasm approached, Holland seemed to slow, so you jerked your hips to spur him on, but suddenly he felt heavier too, and when you called his name in frustration, he didn’t answer.

You guessed he’d finally passed out, and propped yourself up on your elbows. You inadvertently slid your folds over his handsome nose as you manoeuvred, gasping at the sensation which, although subtle, tipped you over the edge. Your breath caught and your blood boiled and every fibre of you trembled with pleasure you hadn’t expected. 

His finger, although still, was still firmly thrust inside you and your walls clenched hard around it as you slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from yelling out and waking him.

Jesus… I’m gonna have to ride that nose for real, you mused when your thoughts turned coherent again, and then you began the process of sliding out from beneath him and dragging his messy, half-dressed form further up the bed and onto his pillow for some rest.

You cleaned yourself up before sinking into bed beside him to sleep, but you left his moustache soaked with your essence. You knew it would drive him wild in the morning, and maybe it would be the push he needed to finally chase his own pleasure.

****

It wasn’t.

He woke to you suckling at his neck, your arm thrown around his waist from behind, fingers toying with the waistband of his trousers.

His head was pounding when he woke, and with just one eye half open, he turned into you, a big dumb smile pulling at his lips.

His lips felt dry so without even thinking he licked them, tasting you immediately and groaning.

‘You taste incredible, you know that?’ he croaked, your fingers now working on the button of his fly.

Holland had absolutely no recollection of how last night ended. He could taste you, sure, but he barely remembered how he’d ended up in bed with you this time. He was a detective after all, though, and what kind of lousy detective would wake up with their lover wrapped around them, fingers teasing at their belly, their taste fresh on his lips, and not put together that he must have spent some time downtown? 

And you did taste delicious. Fuck, he really wished he could smell you.

He wanted you. He needed you. Since the moment you’d laid eyes on one another. And right now, he was so thankful to wake up with you already trying to satisfy him despite what a mess he probably looked. And yet, as usual, he couldn’t perform. 

‘Wait-’ he breathed, hand flying down to wrap around your wrist and gently ease you out of his trousers before you actually felt how soft he was.

‘What’s wrong, baby?’

Holland’s eyes snapped shut, his hand dropping yours to press his fingers into his eyelids instead.

He knew this would be it. 

‘I- I can’t-’ he tried, gesturing vaguely to his cock. ‘It’s not your fault. I just- I can’t-’

He cut himself off with a dramatic, choked out sob, and scrambled for a cigarette on the nightstand. There was only an empty packet and he dropped himself back onto the bed, whimpering, shoulders shaking as tears began to roll down his cheeks.

‘Fuck! I’m pathetic, I’m-’

He felt the mattress bounce as you moved away and whimpered, knowing he’d likely never see you again.

He did, though. A split second later when you sat cross legged beside him and popped a cigarette between his lips, offering a light, which he gratefully accepted.

The first inhale relaxed him more than he could comprehend, and he shuffled up to sit against the headboard, trying to steady his breathing.

‘Thank you,’ he said huskily. He meant it as gratitude for not leaving, but you handing him a cigarette masked thay enough for him not to feel more pathetic than he already did.

You placed a hand on his thigh. It wasn’t suggestive of anything other than comfort, and he appreciated that.

‘Take your time, ok?’

His brow furrowed, but he nodded anyway. Why would you wait for him?

‘Besides, when you eat me out like that, I’m hardly in a rush,’ you smiled, playfully.

Holland managed a small smile at that too.

‘That’s the March Magic,’ he muttered.

‘Oh, so that’s what you call it?’

‘Call what?’

‘Shotgun kissing my-’ you pointed between your legs.

‘I did what?!’

‘You don’t remember? Jesus. It was good, anyway. You’re good, March. And I’m sure when you’re ready, your cock will be just as delicious.’ 

He turned weak at your choice of words, turning temporarily dizzy as you absentmindedly licked your lips.

‘Wanna kiss me? Just kissing. Nothing else this time, ok?’

He whined and nodded again, leaning forward to enjoy the most tender kiss he could remember since- well. For a while.

You could taste yourself on him, but not for long as your mouth filled with his second hand smoke and you choked a little. You kept your lips pressed to his, though, tongues sliding together sweetly, with no expectations beyond this simple affection.

You felt your own cheeks grow damp and knew he was crying again. But you didn’t stop. He needed this, you realised, and you were more than willing to give him whatever he needed right now.

‘March,’ you whispered when you eventually pulled back for breath.

‘Mmh?’

‘How about you get yourself cleaned up while I run out to grab us some lunch? I can run you a bath?’

‘Yeah,’ he sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Yeah that would be really fucking good actually.’

****

‘That one’s a keeper.’

‘Huh?’ March was trying to get to sleep, but his mind was whirring with thoughts of how you’d cared for him today.

How you’d washed his hair after he sunk into the warm water, covered by bubbles, laid him some fresh clothes out for him, shared a nice lunch together, and spent the afternoon watching a movie and laughing and kissing. 

He hadn’t thought about his little problem all night, and you were to thank for that. 

He was pretty sure he was falling in love actually, and his thoughts were so occupied with the joy and despair that came along with that old, familiar feeling reigniting inside him, that he couldn’t fall asleep. The fact that he’d barely drank a thing today probably contributed to that too.

Maybe he should-

‘Don’t even think about it.’

That voice again. Who the fuck-

Holland turned, frowning to find his old pal, Bumble wedged right between you and him, hogging the covers.

‘Bumble. What do you want?’

Bumble took a long drag of his cigarette. 

‘Listen, I’m telling you — that one’s a keeper.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I’ve been stuck on. You really think so?’

‘You can’t even fuck and you’ve got room service and cigarettes being lit for you and kisses on tap. Yeah I think so.’

‘That’s not why I lov- I mean-’

Bumble chuckled. Holland frowned.

‘You worked the March Magic, huh?’

‘How do you know about- what? No. I mean. I- yeah but that’s not-’

‘Look, March, when killer bees fuck, the bee with the dick usually dies. You get to cum and live to tell the tale! You’ll be fine. You just gotta relax.’

Holland felt hazy. This was almost too much information to take in. But he remembered the relaxing part. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Just take it easy. Your dick’ll be hard in no time. Night.’ 

‘Night, Bumble. Thanks for the pep talk.’

Holland yawned, and Bumble was gone.

****

Holland shifted in the warmth of the morning light. Something was off.

He stretched his legs and rolled onto his back to look at you, see if you were awake yet, see if he could figure out why he felt kind of… weird.

You were sleeping soundly beside him, your arm still draped over his middle beneath the sheets. Nothing unusual there, over the last couple of months you’d come to stay over with him more nights than not when he wasn’t working a case, and even then he’d sometimes find you in his bed when he returned home, and thanks to this he’d actually slept in his bed instead of finding a spot somewhere he felt safe. You’d made bed safe. You’d made him feel safe.

He smiled at the thought, and tried to shift his focus onto this feeling he was trying to place. It must be early – he’d not woken up before 10am for as long as he could remember and the clock on the dresser said 08:07.

He propped himself up to take a look around the room and actually screamed when he saw the huge tent formed in the sheets between his legs.

Jaw dropping, Holland fell back onto his pillow, muttering wildly, ‘Am I dreaming? Jesus, am I actually hard? Is this real?!’ 

He poised his thumb and forefinger over his other forearm and laughed, loudly and heartily, pinching his arm so hard he hurt himself and let out a little yelp mid giggle. It was real! He was awake, and he was hard.

Head spinning, Holland called your name in an excited whisper at first, turning himself to lay face to face with you and careful not to accidentally prod you with his raging hard on. What a nice problem to have to worry about! He let out a little, ‘Ha!’ at the thought.

He called your name again, louder this time, gently gripping your shoulder in sheer excitement. He hadn’t even considered yet that you’d want to actually do anything with his boner. He was just so thrilled that his dick still worked, he wanted to share it with the whole world. There was even a fleeting moment that he considered calling Healy, but he shook the thought from his head and tried to focus.

When your eyes blinked open, although taken aback that he was awake before you, you automatically smiled at his gleeful face and leant forward to kiss him, but in the buzz of excitement, he completely missed his cue and rolled away to demonstrate the tent in the sheets once again.

‘Look! It works! Ha! It really works!’

‘Jesus…’ you breathed, propping yourself up to get a good look at the size of him. ‘Holland… that’s so great, baby, I knew you could do it!’

‘It’s all thanks to Bumble!’ he smiled like an idiot. You didn’t ask.

Giddy, you sang out his little mantra; ‘March, March, he’s our man! If he can’t do it no one can! Maaaarch-mmh!’

His lips joined with yours then, cutting you off until he pulled back to get another look at the magnificent sight of his dick in full working order.

‘Holland…’ you started, and he hummed in your direction. ‘May I… touch you?’

All of the breath seemed to exit his body like a juice box being crushed underfoot. He wheezed out a, ‘Yes- please!’ followed by a slightly more coherent, ‘Touch- lick- anything. Go nuts!’

You slipped your hand back to his stomach, gradually pushing lower until you reached the waistband of his pyjamas (another new development; he wasn’t sleeping in his suits nearly as much these days).

‘Holland, are you sure you’re ready?’

‘I’ve been ready for months,’ he sighed, ‘it’s just a shame my schwanz has taken this long to catch up. Listen, I-’

‘It’s alright,’ you stopped him, feeling his body tense up, knowing where his thoughts were going. ‘I know it might be… quick. I don’t mind. Actually it’s kind of hot…’

Holland relaxed. Jesus, why did you have to be so understanding – and in such a sexy way? It was jarring. It felt nice. It made him fall for you all the more, and knew then that Bumble had been right about you. Holland had no intention of losing you.

Your fingers ghosted over his tip, and your palm slid down to feel out the length of him before you wrapped your fingers carefully around the base and pumped slowly. You planned to learn his body like he was learning yours, to memorise every response your touch elicited, know every trick in the book to drive him wild.

You glanced up from the hypnotising view of your hand stroking him beneath the sheets to see his face already slack with pleasure, mouth agape and eyes shut in bliss. Jesus, he was receptive. Delicious.

You moved your hand up to swipe your thumb over the tip, and discovered that not only did it cause his hips to buck, but there was already a thick bead of precum waiting for you there. 

He was moaning almost nonstop at this point. Your fist moved faster and Holland began to writhe. Actually writhe beneath you – legs trembling, toes curling, didn’t have a clue what to do with his limbs, or his hands; other than try and grasp at the bedding.

‘Jesus! F-fuck! Oh!’ he cried, loud and desperate, and you were so tempted to bring him off like this, to pump him furiously until he stained the sheets, but equally you craved more.

You wouldn’t ever say this to him, but the thought wouldn’t leave you alone; what if he couldn’t get it up again for a good couple of months and you’d passed up the chance to taste him when it was given so beautifully to you? No. You had to grasp this opportunity with both hands. Or, as the case may be, with one hand and your mouth.

Keeping your movements steady, you shuffled down, pushing the covers lower, too, and got your first proper look at his hard cock. It was quite the sight; as long and thick as it felt, handsome, steadily leaking – fit to burst actually. 

You wasted no more time, carefully kissing his tip first, slowing your hand a little to test the waters without overwhelming him, and he whimpered so prettily you almost lost composure.

As your lips wrapped around his tip and you sank down lower, sucking, swirling your tongue, keeping your hand pumping fast where he wouldn’t fit, you suddenly felt bitter heat coating your tongue.

Not just coating your tongue, filling your mouth. You did your best to keep going, to suck and lap and massage him through his peak, but it wasn’t just his drawn out screech of pleasure that was distracting you, it was the amount of cum he was still spilling all the while. Despite swallowing down what you could of the never ending hot rope, choking a little on the sheer volume, it still dribbled out past your lips, dripping onto his legs and stomach and the surrounding sheets that he was balling into tight fists.

When you emerged from the mess to crawl up over him and check he was doing ok, you were faced with the most blissed out, fucked out, sated, dumb smile you’d ever seen on his handsome face. He’s never looked more peaceful, and, as much as your core was throbbing after what you’d just done, you wanted more than anything to let him rest.

So you did. You settled on his chest, not caring about the stickiness drying between your flush bodies or around your lips, and listened to his heart, steady in his chest.

‘Fuck,’ he whispered after a long pause. ‘That was- fuck…’

You smiled to yourself, sure that after so long, anything he could get would have felt incredible, but you still took a little pride in the fact that you were the one to experience it with him.

‘You want me to make breakfast?’ you offered gently.

‘I want you to be my breakfast, does that count?’ he smirked.

‘No, Holland, I just want you to enjoy the moment. Don’t worry about me.’

‘Oh, I’m not worried.’

Holland shifted beneath you and you felt the beginnings of another erection stiffening his cock.

Your eyes widened as his opened, and your gazes locked.

‘You fixed it.’

‘Holland, please,’ you laughed. ‘I did not fix your dick.’

‘Of course you did, it’s the only explanation! Anyway, look, do you want to fix its current problem?’ His hips thrust upwards to nudge his now rock hard cock against your thigh to make sure you felt it.

‘Holland, if you’re not fucking me the March way within the next minute, I’m out of here.’

He laughed again and it occurred to you that you’d never spoken to him this early, or heard him laugh so much in a morning.

‘The March way?’ he raised an amused eyebrow at you.

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’m hoping you’re about to show me.’

And show you, he most certainly did.

[hoppingonjim]

Venturing- Holland March

summary: with a suddenly boring sex life, holland decides to spice it up with anal!

cw: i forgot about the cast first of all. other than that there's anal, lube, afab!reader, cum kink (?) , mocking/degrading it's very soft, teasing, spanking, praising and implied that holland eats the reader out after. (not the ass!!!)

all of it had begun with a quick tap to your ass. the newspaper consumed you that morning and the detective could feel jealousy writhe within him. a heart pierced and a cock needy. o forgetting the suppleness of your curves and flesh. all of it had begun when he slammed himself with the realization he couldn’t withdraw from the sweet saccharine of your pleasure.

boredom had seeped through the gates of your relationship. the moat once shielding you two from sighs and wandering eyes suddenly blunt. level to the ground. making love to you, although ravishing, had become routine. holland was never a man for routines and he expected you to be educated on that matter.

experimental. the word thrilled him as his eyes ventured towards the curvature of your clothed ass. hips protected by cheaply sewn denim with embroidered silver pockets. the swirls stamped his mind and served his cock with ideas. the routine of slamming himself into you, reeling in your mewls and screams, all of it remained exciting. your tightness never faltered for his cock. the warmth and compactness of your pussy satisfying as ever to the detective. change was needed to keep staleness only something out of an imagination.

magazines fell into his possession. hot pink words plastered on creamy paper, educating him on expeditions to embark on in the seclusion of his bedroom. your bedroom. ideas sprung into his mind, a hand falling to relieve the sudden spring in his crotch. was this it? had he finally found the cure to boredom?

the bedroom that night became a jungle. the adventure he’d partake in new territory for you and him. again, he’d be stealing your virginity for his own possession. the way he liked it.

all these ideas came into conversation when you were lulled by humming in his arms. the melancholic tattoo adorning his hand becoming a tracer for the daintiness of your fingertip. the voice speaking was one that climbed towards persuasive, falling into its clutz shape. with a politician's lip he articulated his desires. the blandness of your intimacy was dulling him. there needed to be a liveliness again, he recommended. for him the apex of the discussion drew when you could nod your head, eyes directing him to the nightstand. carefully placing you aside, he'd reach for the silver curved handle, pulling it out softly. the contents inside were enough to satisfy him, a hand proudly obtaining the lube. the pop of the cap rang throughout the room and a cheeky grin was thrown your way. you could've swooned.

crawling towards him from your once fetal position, your fingers curled over the hem of his sweatpants. only a tug would suffice to bring the thick cloth to the root of his leg. which, he'd kick away to the floor below. it the span of seconds you were able to note how the topic of anal aroused him already- you two had barely even begun. the only starting point was him holding the lube mischievously in his fingers.

the world seemed to halt when he witnessed you slide down your thick white gown. the milky fabric slinking off to collet in the swamp of clothing beneath. the breath he needed was lodged in his throat, his hardness speaking speeches for him. upon seeing him desperate your tongue would swipe over your bottom lip. wetting the once dry surface, eyes stayed pasted to him.

the squirting of the bottle lingered in the room. the nodding of his head escorting you to arrange on all fours. there was no thong blocking his view nor a bra to hold your breasts, it was a sight he knew would play in his mind for ages. you, so obedient, patiently exposing yourself to him. waiting. surely in agony- at least he hoped so. his hand adorned his cock in strokes, applying the slick substance. the leftover liquid on his fingertips was used for another purpose, you. his index finger, oiled in lube, traced your puckered asshole. the timid hole he was so excited to ruin.

“can you handle it, princess? me inside your ass?”

you can only answer with a nod.

the position you're in remains too upright for his liking. a hand swoops down, slamming your back flat (as flat as it could go), relishing in new arch your stature provides, with your pussy glistening in need, he can only put those thoughts on the backburner in his mind, “looks like you like the idea a lot, huh baby?”

with a grip jailing your hips, he works to prevent tiring squirming. your wiggling, although arousing, would chip away his concentration. indentations of fingernails were already littered deep into your gentle skin as his free hand circled his tip over your asshole. it's annoying, the tedium lurking in his actions. the all knowing grin you can hear through his little tsks.

but your jaw drops when you finally can feel his tip inside of you. a groan erupts from his lips within seconds. you're tight, clenching around his hard cock, “how's it feel, princess? can i keep going?”

“y-yeah.” your words are chopped and thrown out. loops swarm your head as you already feel dazed with the new sensation. a quarter filled with cock, and half full of lube, you're already aching for more. the assurance you gift is brought with a seemingly pauperized nod.

more of him is slid inside of you. his thrusts are choppy, the groans mirroring the ruggedness. your tightness isn't comparable to your pussy, it's beyond that. the sensations already begin to seclude him. losing himself in your clenched ass, his thrusts grow harder. pleasure conceives restless strings of rubble groans. savagely he makes sure you feel all of him. the pain transcends into something enjoyable, at least for you. the adventure of a puckered entrance seeps into your own conscience. finally you can understand the craze. the mad man behind you bottoms himself out, heavy balls slapping your weeping slit below. each time moans slide from your lips. whines follow when he pulls himself out- he teases you, “you need it baby? beg for it sweetie, c'mon.” and like the good girl you are, you oblige. obliging means he slams himself into you again. ramming his cock as far as he can in pure desperation. sweat drips from his dusted gold tresses that grow tousled with every energized plunge. his words harmonize a sweet melody for you, having your edge creep closer and closer. in the frenzy, the hand keeping your back down migrates to land a coarse blow onto your ass.

a squeal rips from your mouth. the smirk tugging his lips only stretches, “yeah? does my dirty girl like that? fuckin nasty, say it. you love me spanking you.” his demands reign true.

“fuck yeah, holland, keep spanking me- please . need it, need you so bad-” you're cut off by another smack. the print plastered on your ass screams in rouge while the abdomen of his fingers scream in slight pain. your words only egg him on further. the animalistic thrusts only grow increasingly coarse, you feel his fat cock twitch in your ass. it's too much, for both of you. another thrust, your eyes squeeze shut. your pussy welcomes another wreck of his balls, hitting your sopping hole hard.

it's only a few more seconds until you can feel his hot load shoot into you. just not the familiar way. your own release follows suit and of course holland notices. the cracked moans you mewl, the way your body flinches and almost falls limp. yet once he pulls out, you finally give in to complete limpness. he's slow in his movements, eyes glued to the way his cum leaks from the security of your forbidden hole. proudly, he still watches. his chest puffed outwards in complete confidence. the mattress sucks him in once he decides to fall beside you, tapping your ass for good measure. except the tap is soft and gentle.

“how was that baby, i can clean you up, if you want.” the scorching thought of his mouth lapping up your own cum, swallowing it all, is one that pleases you.

again, you give him a nod. the words are too late to arrive.

“i'll go gentle sweetheart, i promise.”

[elusivewildflower]

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[sabrinasopposite]

afterglow (little women version)

prince!tom holland x march!reader

! this story is inspired by the book and movie; little women. Y/N is also inspired by Jo and Amy March, which also includes some quotes of them in this AU.

Summary: Y/N March, one of the sisters from the March family, is spending time alongside her father, who is working for the rightful king in London. She isn't like the glamorous girls who dream of meeting a prince at a ball; she is the kind of girl who loves archery and painting. She dedicates her time to giving lessons to the king's sons, though one of them proves to be a challenge. A challenge that Y/N didn't like.

As minutes passed, the entire ballroom became crowded with elegance and wealth, something that Y/N March couldn't claim. Nevertheless, her father was the right hand of the King, and they didn't suffer as much as the citizens in London who barely had enough food and clothing. Y/N lived in a house with warm meals and clothes, leading a normal life for a young lady. However, she never felt like a conventional lady or woman. 

She didn't fit into society's stereotype of a woman defined by love and elegance. Y/N considered herself a rebellious and boyish girl, much like her dresses, which lacked ladylike colors, and she often carried a bow with arrows on her back. She didn't want to marry merely for financial security that would ultimately belong to her husband; instead, she sought to live her own life and feel the freedom in her veins, and that's what archery represented for her.

Walking around the ballroom in a tight, darkened dress that emphasized her features made her feel like a vivid nightmare. The tight corset was uncomfortable, making her look constricted and ordinary. Her hair was braided, and she felt like a different person, but she knew deep down it was for her father. She wanted to make a good impression on the Holland family and her father, although no one had to know her true feelings or thoughts about the Holland family.

The room echoed with laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses, and classical music from the instruments played in the background. Y/N's eyes scanned the room for sympathy or interest, but nothing appealed to her; it was just another dull night. Leaning against the wall, she delicately brushed her dress with her hand.

"I see Mrs. March all formally dressed up. For what occasion, if I may ask?" The accent teased her ears, and she looked up to meet Harry's gaze. He smiled softly at her, hands clasped behind his back. Y/N's unbothered expression transformed into a beautiful bright smile. "Oh, Harry, I'm so glad you're here." "Of course, I'm here. It's my father's ball! It would be weird if his son disappeared." The two strolled slowly and calmly around the room. 

"Unless his son stuck his face in a book or in the kitchen for some pastries." Y/N playfully poked her elbow into his arm, and he laughed heartily. "Hey, it was one time! What do you expect of me, not to sneak around for some Victoria Sponge?" "You could have waited like everyone else, but lucky you... you're friends with me, and I stole it for you." Y/N grinned as she stopped to look at him. 

Harry was the only boy in the world of royalty that Y/N liked. He was different, just like her. He didn't care about the world as much as Thomas did, blindly following his father. Maybe it was because Thomas was the oldest son yet behaved like the youngest. Harry was more into science, the history of the world, or interested in the cultures of other countries that he would love to visit one day. Sam was the one who was more observant and calm, keeping to himself. That's what Y/N noticed.

He would sneak around the castle, just to cook or bake something in the middle of the night to give it the next day to the people in the streets who were yearning for it. It was Sam’s hidden secret that Y/N found out but gladly helped deliver the food that Sam made. If his father found out what Sam was doing, he would be in trouble, something that Y/N didn't want to put Sam through.

"Thanks to you, Archer. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be friends with you?" Harry grinned. "Your brother?" Y/N raised her brow. "Sam? That's nonsense. I thought you guys are friendly together, and Paddy likes you as well. Do I need to remind you how his face was when he saw you in archery?" Harry folded his arms, and Y/N chuckled. He looked handsome in his navy blue suit that matched his brown curls. "I am not talking about them; I am talking about your brother who stood me up on his, and may I repeat, his lesson." "Classic Thomas." 

"That's what I am thinking too.’’ ,,Maybe you should confront him, Y/N. I mean, how many times has he stood you up?" Harry asked with a calm yet disappointed voice. He didn't understand why Thomas behaved like that in front of Y/N. "I lost count a while ago. May I remind you that it was your father—the King's decision and kind request—that Thomas would take archery lessons?" "Yeah, to move his ass around and not sip champagne all day and put his face between brea-"

"Harry?!" Y/N's eyes widened in shock as she heard how Harry bragged about his older brother. "You shouldn't say such things about your brother. Maybe I am allowed to say that, but he is still your brother." Y/N glanced at Harry and noticed how his jaw was tensed and his fists were formed together.

"I don't like how he treats you, Y/N. You are my friend, and I really appreciate what your father does for our family. You take time to teach us archery, painting, and all that. You don't do it on purpose; you do it because it is your passion, and that's why I appreciate you as a person."

Y/N's eyes met his, and her heart warmed. She didn't hear it regularly—a praise or empathy over her ideals or interests. People judged her for that. She wasn't the stereotype, and that was something people hated. She was a beautiful girl who was intelligent and remarkable, even a people pleaser. But she wasn't the woman everyone wanted; that's what she thought. "Thank you, Harry." Her attention was snapped when she heard loud laughter from behind; Harry's eyes were fixed on the person lying on the couch, arms wrapped around two ladies covered in beauty and elegance.

His hand held a champagne glass, and he chuckled his charms out. Y/N stared at him, Thomas. Her heart was beating low, and her gaze was fixed on him. How can someone so handsome have such a low personality?

"Go talk to him. I'll look for my Victoria Sponge," Harry pushed Y/N's shoulders while she muttered his name. He walked away, leaving Y/N alone, so she walked over to him.

"Prince Thomas," Y/N said with a sour yet venomous voice, her stare fixed on his behavior. His hair was messed up, and his jacket was open; he looked disheveled, not properly put together. His glance hinted that he was tipsy from the champagne he held in his hand. His attention was on Y/N, his eyes wide. She looked different and beautiful in his eyes, as she always was, but now he saw her as ladylike, and his heart raced.

Thomas composed himself, sitting properly and speaking with a charming, bleary voice. „Y/N." 

"I waited hours for you."

"I don't recall inviting you for a dance," he chuckled, signaling the ladies to walk away, presumably to bring him more champagne. Y/N watched the ladies pass with observing glances that felt like daggers on her back. She rolled her eyes and turned away from Thomas and his childish words. As she walked away, he stood up and almost ran after her. "Y/N, wait!“ "Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?"

"What do you think?" Thomas walked after her, realizing every word she spoke was filled with honesty and stung like arrows. "I despise you.“

He laughed it off, as usual. "Why do you despise me? Just because I missed a lesson? Come on, that's nothing.“ "Because with every chance to be good, useful, and happy, you are faulty, lazy, and-" As Y/N listed his faults, her tones grew harsher and deeper. He chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, this is interesting."

"Oh yes, very interesting. Selfish people do love to talk about themselves.“ "Oh, now I'm selfish? Do I need to remind you of who you ta-"

"Yes, you are very selfish." Y/N scoffed at Thomas's drunk and childish behavior, despite being the next king of England, not behaving like it. "With your money, talent, beauty, and health." Thomas interrupted her again, pinning his jacket together drunkenly. They didn't realize they were in the midst of people, solely focused on each other. "Oh, my beauty?" Thomas questioned.

"Ah, you like that, you old vanity. With all these good things to enjoy, you can find nothing to do but dawdle your way." Y/N finished her berating, but Thomas drunkenly placed his hand over hers. "I promise I'll be good for you, Archer Y/N. I'll come to your lessons now, Master!" He mocked his voice, making fun of her as usual.

"Aren't you ashamed of a hand like that, Prince Thomas?" Y/N spoke with a disgusted voice and glance.

"No, I'm not." He replied with a self-confident aura. "It looks like it's never done a day of work in its life." She pulled her hand harshly away and looked at him. "I don't understand why you react like that, little March, hmm?“ "To give you some words in your brain instead of that stupid champagne that you sip around and act like this occasion is for you.“ "Which certainly is.“ "It is from the king personally, which you aren't."

"I will be one day, and you will be under my rules," Thomas smirked. Y/N looked into his eyes and shook her head. "I feel really sorry for the people in London, having a king who behaves like a child and doesn't value the things around his life."

"You are just saying that because you're a girl who has nothing and is not loved by a man." Thomas chuckled, making Y/N frown in surprise and a little pain. "You are right, but I'd rather be respected for who I am, even if I couldn't be loved." She turned around and walked out from the crowd towards the exit of the ballroom.

♡

The next morning was calmness flying in dust around the castle, the ball was over and the guest were gone. Toms head ached from a dozen bubbly champagne glasses, and he felt his throat was swollen. He could barely open his eyes through the exhaustion, but he knew that any minute his butler would come in and suggest a fresh, warm breakfast. He got up from his king-sized bed, walked over to the shiny window, and looked at the scenery in front of him—the blooming garden of colorful flowers.

A knock on the door caught his attention, and as he turned around, he saw his butler walking inside. "Prince Thomas, you are awake?" "Yeah, I kind of woke up from the sunshine," he chuckled. "Indeed, it is a beautiful daylight. Nevertheless, your father proposed breakfast for you." "I'll be there in minutes," he nodded with a calm glance at his butler.

The breakfast was delicious, as always; that's what Thomas couldn't complain about. He looked around the room and noticed that his brothers weren't present. "Where are Sam, Harry, and Paddy?" Tom glanced at his father, who was reading with focus on the developments that James offered him. They were invitations to galas, conferences about other kingdoms, or updates on affairs in London. King Dominic looked up to his son, "Around the castle, engaged in their usual activities—something you should participate in, Thomas."

Tom rolled his eyes and mumbled between his sentences, "Do you have anything else to brag about, Father?" "Did you say something?" "No, sir. I'll get myself ready for my archery lesson." "Miss March is giving Paddy his art teachings. I don't think it's your turn for archery today, Thomas," his father pointed out sternly. Tom looked at him and nodded.

It wasn't like Tom despised his father; on the contrary, he loved him. Yet, sometimes, he felt like people expected too much of him. He knew he would be the future king of London, and he realized he often boasted about himself, showcasing only his best side. However, no one saw the real him—the genuine thoughts and feelings he drowned in champagne and partying.

Thomas made his way around the castle and reached the art room. His hand brushed the doorknob, and something paused inside his body. A sudden nervousness rushed through his bloodlines. Was it because of the small fight between him and Y/N? He remembered it vividly. He even knew exactly what he did after she walked out of the ballroom, and how his hands landed on the champagne bottles until his brothers took them away from him.

He felt ashamed of the words he said to her, truly. Now, the realization that she might never talk to him again made it even harder for him to confront his actions. Nevertheless, as he opened the door, expecting hell, he found himself in heaven.

His eyes met the random paintings on canvases, beautifully painted in soft colors. Paddy was sitting next to Y/N, who wore a casual dress that wasn't as tight as last night. Her hair was loosely open, not in a stern high braided bun. She felt like herself—authentic. That's what Tom thought as he observed her. 

Paddy turned his head around, locking eyes with Tom, and his smile brightened even more. "Look, brother! Y/N taught me how to draw our garden with the dozen of flowers!" Paddy was so proud and happy, something Tom couldn't relate to as he felt like a failure. "It looks great, Pads," Tom smiled calmly, but his smile dropped slightly when he noticed Y/N's stare. It was obvious—the "why are you still here" stare.

Y/N cleared her throat and placed her soft hand on Paddy's shoulder. "That was enough for today, Paddy. I hope you enjoyed the day as much as I did." "Yes, it was very delightful with you. I can't wait for our next session!" Paddy laughed with excitement, grabbing the canvas and rushing out of the room to show it to their father. Now, it was just Tom and her alone.

Y/N turned her back toward Tom, starting to clean the small atelier. "What are you doing here?" Her sentence was short and harsh, not soft and calm like before. Tom sighed and touched some stacked canvases with his fingers. "Y/N, I'm sorry for how I behaved." "Have you been drinking again? It doesn't suit you to apologize to an ordinary girl." She walked around the atelier, avoiding all around Tom. She placed the brushes and paintings away, mirroring the way she was avoiding her feelings.

"No, I'm not. I still have a headache from last night, so please don't be hard on me," Tom said as he looked at her. "Well, someone has to do it or not?" she stopped and looked at him. There was a small silence between them until Y/N continued to clean up, "I talked with your father. I won't give you any archery lessons anymore."

Tom's eyes widened. "What? Why?" „because I'm a failure," Y/N stated, avoiding the worried yet shocking glance of Tom. "Jo is in New York being a writer, and I am a failure." "Well, that's harsh to say when you are talented and have so much energy," Tom stated, and Y/N turned around to face him directly in the eyes.

"Talent isn't genius, Thomas. And no amount of energy can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing." Her voice felt flat and harsh for Y/N. She loved art and archery, two things that made her feel herself. Archery made her feel alive, like no one stood in her way. Art was someone she could talk to, a medium to express her thoughts and emotions. ,,I don’t see the point to do the things that aren’t archiving my hopes and dreams while being a women.’’ 

,,What makes you think that Women with dreams cant achieve things?’’ Thomas asked with curiosity. ,,You really ask me that?’’ Y/N frowned her eyebrows. ,,yeah I am asking you that. What women are allowed into the club of geniuses considering you are saying that talent isn’t genius?’’ Thomas walked to a chair and sit himself down on it, not breaking the intimate eye contact of Y/N. 

,,maybe the Brontes? I don’t know.’’ Y/N cleaned her fingers with a tissue. ,,Hm standing a point but who declares whose a genius?’’ ,,Men, I suppose.’’ ,,They’re cutting down the competition. If you may ask’’ ,,Look Thomas I don’t know why you want to have this complicated topic with me.’’

,,i just want to find a way to reasoning with you. I don’t understand why you view yourself like that, you are talen-„ ,,How does it matter anyway? Soon or later I will marry one day a man, who provides the money. One day I will let go of all the things I like because I need to be in the role of a mother.’’ Y/N looks at Thomas with a glance, a glance that Tom noticed how aching it is for her. She knew she said the truth but she didn’t want to acknowledge it. ,,But what is marriage if there is no love in it?’’ Tom looked at her, with eyes that were trapping her.

,,Well, I believe we have some power over who we love, it isn’t something that just happens to a person.’’ Y/N throws the tissue away ,,I think that poets and books disagree on that.’’ Tom stated with confidence and calmness. 

Y/N stared at him, he was just a man. He could say these things but he will never know how it is to be a woman. 

,,Well. I’m not a poet, I’m just a woman. Even though people don’t consider me as a woman, because I don’t fit in the picture of the societies eye, I am still a woman. And as a woman there is no way for me to make my own money or to earn a living or to support my family. Don’t get me wrong I am lucky to be under a warm house with clothes, because my father works his body out for the King, to give me that opportunity to live. Even if I had my own money, which I don’t, that money would belong to my husband the moment we got married. And If we had children they would be his, not mine. They would be his property. So don’t sit there and tell me that marriage isn’t an economic proposition, because it is. It may not be for you because you are the son of the King of London, but it most certainly is for me.’’ 

Her eyes felt sad, the words she said came out of her deepest heart and she hold her fingers together to reduce the nervous tendency. In her voice Tom felt the acceptance of her life, he could tell that these words that Y/N just told him were words that implanted to every woman that was breathing on earth. 

,,now if you excuse me, I have to go to the library’’ Y/N walked away from Thomas and took her small vest that was laid on her chair. She wrapped it around herself until Tom spoke with a light and calm voice. ,,the things I said yesterday night weren’t meant to be told, I am sorry about that. And I as well feel sorry for the way how you see yourself.’’ Y/N looked with a conflicted eye contact at Thomas but the sudden warm feeling that embraced the words of him on her made her feel calm. ,,I know this sounds hideous but would you allow me to follow you to the library?’’ 

,,you don’t need to sound so formale in front of me Thomas.’’ She chuckled softly.

,,then you don’t need to call me Thomas, it makes me feel old.’’ His face grimaced by the name.

,,so Tommy?’’ She raised her brow.

,,Tom would be alright’’

(its a very old AU that I wrote last December and man... I had to release it)

[lifeiskentastic]

gn!Reader in one car with Holland March in the middle of a traffic jam

Gif by @adoresbenho

A/N: Tell me, would you read a fanfic about Ryan Gosling's five-minute role as a lecherous elf on snl New Year's episode? (this sounds so crazy, but Ryan is so cute with the pointy ears, bangs, and tall hat... I just need to write it.)

Summary: Agency partner Reader once again gets stuck in a traffic jam with Holland;

Song I recommend: Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy by Queen was just made ror Holland;

Word count: 724 words;

Nice reading!

It was just another morning as the third member (counting from the moment of join, although Holland always argued with Hilly to take over as "second" as if it were something really important) of the detective agency. It was just another morning traffic jam in Los Angeles, the only advantage of which was extra time to shave or drink a cup of coffee. After all, as it turned out, working as a detective requires punctuality, which in the case of Holland March was a big problem. So from the very beginning of the day, you were in a hurry, rushing to get things done, and only during irreparable traffic jams could you afford to exhale.

Holland could finally shave, and you could have a cup of strong coffee instead of breakfast.

For such occasions, Holland even kept a thermos of coffee and mountains of plastic cups in the car. No matter how many times you persuaded him to get rid of at least half of them, he categorically refused, calling it a "necessity of life." Well, given that he also used them to drink his liter-long supply of alcohol, it's not surprising.

The only thing that remained a mystery even to the three detectives was why a jar of whipped cream kept appearing in the glove compartment of his car. Although you had a bold guess that after you told Holland that you loved whipped cream coffee, he took it too much to heart.

"Do you think Healy is there yet?"

You asked, sipping from your cup.

"Oh, yeah, Mr.I'm-right-on-time-because-this-is-an-important-job has been there since sunrise."

You couldn't help but laugh out loud at that. The special relationship between your two partners couldn't help but make you laugh, literally, every day.

Holland beamed with pride when he managed to make you laugh.

"Oh, and also..."

But another laugh from you didn't let March finish his sentence. But what could you do? Still, the naive look on Holland's face with a piece of shaving foam on his cheek was more amusing than you could have imagined.

"Pfft... Ha-ha, wait..."

You reached for his cheek to brush away the remaining lather as Holland watched you in pure embarrassment. His eyes looked even more confused when you were a few millimeters away from his face.

However, you quickly returned to your seat, showing traces of white, puffy foam on your palm.

"Is that what made you giggle so much?"

This made you think back to that unsuspecting look on March's face, caught up in his own joke, and made you laugh uncontrollably again.

"I'm sorry... You just looked so cute."

"Did I?"

Holland leaned closer to your seat, scrutinizing every part of your face. You were about to ask what he was going to do, but...

"Aha! Found it!"

His head came as close to yours as possible, and he touched something near the tips of your lips with a triumphant exclamation.

"Is that cream? You're such a sloven."

Holland's finger did indeed show traces of cream from your coffee. And your partner seemed to be expecting some kind of funny reaction from you, looking expectantly into your soul, but you were honestly not in the mood for it... Still, your heart was still racing from being so close to Holland. For some reason, when there were so small distance between the two of you, you began to feel strange jolts inside your chest.

When you barely regained consciousness, the only thing you could do was to move your whole body as close to Holland as possible, making your partner's eyes widen in surprise once again. You didn't know what was driving you at that moment, but you knew you had to work, and you were within a pinkie nail's distance of March's face.

"You're one to talk..."

You ran your fingers through Holland's mustache, wiping away the subtle streaks of shaving foam that had started this whole thing.

Although you wanted something like this, you hadn't expected Holland to do it first. That he would push forward, quickly crossing the short distance between you, and confidently touch your lips. Of course, you immediately returned his kiss.

It seems that car horns were already blaring behind you and angry drivers were furious, but for now you were too busy with each other to pay attention to such trifles.

[imwritesometimes]

Trick or Treat

Holland invites Jackson to come along for the night while he chaperons Holly and her friends as they trick or treat

Fandom: The Nice Guys

[must be logged in to read]

Pairing: Holland March/Jackson Healy

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 4,036

Warnings: None

Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, they are totally co-parents, one shot

[gcslingss]

i'm alec, and have such a soft spot for ryan gosling and david tennant. i'm a writer and graphics creator, and this is my general masterlist!

open for requests :))

dni if you are below 15, above 35.

i only write fluff, angst, and rarely smut if my asexuality loves the character enough at that moment :)

fluff: f, angst: a, smut: s

ryan gosling characters!

nothing yet :)

don't wake me, i'm not dreaming (series, oc)- f, a, possible s: six had an old friend from his time in prison. he didn't expect her to come back.

heart to heart - f, slight a: the last two days were being especially shitty. your close friend colt invites you over to a scene shoot, and suddenly everything becomes a little bit better.

concerns of a stuntman - a, f: because of reasons like a tight schedule and an asshole director, when your stunt goes slightly askew, colt’s the only one who comes to your rescue.

good boy - s, f: you didn’t think driver would be so good at listening to orders.

real - a, f: he wishes he could tell you all the things you made him feel, but there just weren’t enough words for it.

nothing yet :)

nothing yet :)

nothing yet :)

in your arms - a, darkfic you’re tired. you trust julian to help you say goodbye.

nothing yet :)

nothing yet :)

la la land gfx #01

[drivinmeinsane]

»{ Holland March x Merman!Jackson Healy }« ※ { ao3 }

next chapter -»

※ Summary: Struggling, he can’t seem to reach the surface no matter how hard he paddles upwards. He’s going to die down here if he can’t cover any distance. He’d failed to take in any air when he went over on account of knocking himself senseless. Making a mistake, Holland looks down and sees the darting shadow of a pointed dorsal fin. Shark. There’s a fucking shark in the water with him. ※ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content. ※ Content/tags: Alternate Universe, Merman Jackson Healy, Canon-Typical Crack Taken Seriously, Frottage, Excessive Cum, Anal Sex, Cum Eating, Teratophilia, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Smoking ※ Word count: 6,739 ※ Status: Multi-chapter (1/2) :: Complete ※ Author's note: Happy Mermay! 🦈

“But mermaids aren’t real,” Holland protests with a wild gesture of his arms.

In all honesty, the private investigator wishes he were sitting down for this consultation. It’s turning out to be one hell of a doozy. Unfortunately for him, his prospective client hadn’t offered him a seat. Holland feels a prickle of resentment.

“Aye, but this one is. Got m’self a real fish man out in those waters and I aim to catch the bastard for what he did.”

When the call had come to the March residence, Holland hadn’t thought much of it. He doesn’t always get the most… reasonable individuals seeking his services. Still, after driving himself all the way to this man’s house after dropping Holly off at school this morning, he hadn’t expected to be asked to track down a myth.

It’s all complete bullshit in his opinion. This man—Sam… something—must be out of his mind. Holland, of course, is a professional and has taken on more asinine and pointless jobs than this. Money is money and it makes the world go ‘round. Or so they say. Anyway, he has a house to rebuild.

Humoring the older man, he says, “Tell me again what you’re wanting me to do about your mermaid. You’re the fisherman.”

“You want a drink?” Sam calls over his shoulder instead of answering him. Already, he’s going for a cloudy looking jug on a clearly handmade shelf alongside a stack of dented metal cups. “I distill it m’self.”

Never one to turn down alcohol, Holland doesn’t protest. “Why not, but about your mer—”

He’s cut off by the grizzled man shoving a full cup of liquid into his chest, forcing Holland to take it. He narrowly avoids dropping it when Sam takes his free hand in between his.

“Got the hands of a city boy,” he comments. He doesn’t sound put out by this, especially not with the way he rubs a calloused thumb over March’s smooth knuckles.

Feeling himself color with a flush, he takes a swig of the beverage he’s been given. It burns like fire going down. He should probably stay away from open flames after he finishes it. He’s liable to be a victim of spontaneous human combustion if he doesn’t. The alcohol itself tastes little better than he’d imagine nail varnish remover from the 50-Cent store does.

Sam gives his hand a tight enough squeeze that he has to suppress a yelp as his bones are pinched together. Thankfully, he’s released almost immediately. If Holland is a little honest with himself, which he is never is, he might be likely to admit that he finds the other man attractive in some kind of rugged, outdoorsy way. Who’d have thought he would like scruffy men who could snap him like a stick if pushed? He tacks that information onto the ever growing list of his failings.

“About the fish. I just want you to keep an eye out for him. See where he hangs out, yeah? You don’t have to do anything more than spotting him and letting me know where he is.”

“You said he tried to kill you,” Holland says, uncomfortably taking another drink and casting a critical eye at their surroundings.

The investigator has been in some strange homes over the years, but this one very well might be in the top three. While it’s clearly the abode of a bachelor, lifelong if Holland had to guess, there are some things that would give anyone pause. Sam has stacks of Campbell’s tomato soup towering on various shelves. That alone wouldn’t be too terribly strange if it weren’t for the shark mandibles hung up all round his home and the too many copies of Moby Dick stored away on a warped and leaning bookshelf. The cherry on top of the sundae is an oversized pot of water clearly filled with more shark jaws that is boiling merrily away on the stove. Sam’s home must smell like fish and Holland has never been so grateful that his sense of smell got knocked right out of his head along with any additional cognitive abilities that would have benefited him.

“I said he stole m’net and pulled me off the boat then tried to drown me. He’s a big ol’ fucker but if you aren’t fishin’, I don’t think he’ll mess with you none,” the fisherman explains patiently. He’s grinning.

Holland thinks on his words in addition to what he’d been told earlier. Three hundred dollars and all he does is have to dick around on the boardwalks up and down a very small bit of the coast. Maybe he’ll have to take off his loafers and put his toes in the sand. All that for up to a week if he doesn't find Sam’s fish man before than. It’s not a bad job, not at all. At the very least, it offers him the privacy to drink without Holly’s knowledge.

He can’t stand to be home right now. Even though it’s a different house—just a rental and meant to be a temporary thing—part of him still expects to go around the corner and see his wife. Holland knows he’s being selfish by planning working with the anniversary of her death tomorrow, but he needs tonight to grieve and then he can scrape together the fragments of himself to be a… well, not a good dad, but maybe not a complete fuck-up of one tomorrow for his daughter.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” he agrees.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Before Holland heads out to drag himself up and down the beach, he makes the drive back to the rental. Sam had advised him that the mermaid they’re seeking won’t be out until after the sun sets. Something about being shy, or having the behavior patterns of a shark. March doesn’t care. He’s just relieved he won’t have to slather himself in sunscreen and rub elbows with tourists under the sizzling rays of the sun. It’s not summer, the days are too short for that, but it’s never truly cold in California.

With Holly being away at school, it’s lonely at the rental. Holland drifts through the rooms like he’s a ghost himself, putting together what he needs for tonight. His supplies consists of a wrinkled map, a refilled flask, a pack of cigarettes, and his lighter. All the items get left on the coffee table next to his keys to shove into his pockets when he goes to leave for the majority of the night.

Holland makes the effort to be a responsible father, or his version of one anyway, by writing a note for his daughter to find when she gets home. It reads: Working case tonight. Won’t be home until late. Pizza money under the lamp. OK for Jessica to visit. Love you Kiddo.

He tapes it to her door at her eye level. She won’t be able to miss it.

Laying down on the couch, he tries to get comfortable enough to get a few hours of sleep. He turns on the TV to feel less lonely. It’s going to be a long night and this way, he is spared the restless stretch of time spent in bed wishing there was another body tucked underneath the covers beside his own.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Darkness begins to swallow the world with the setting of the sun. Visibility becomes murkier as the lights of the city fade away the further he gets from the heart of it. At least the moon looks like a sizable one tonight. He won’t be going into the dark totally blind even if he did forget to grab a flashlight. Holland isn’t even entirely sure the March family owns one these days.

He pulls off of the street and into a deserted parking lot. The Benz coasts to a stop, tires crunching over sand as it does. March puts the vehicle into park and makes sure to crank the parking break before removing the key from the ignition. One of the last things he needs is for the car to somehow roll down the embankment in front of it and get stuck nose-down in the beach’s sand. He doesn’t bother to close the top as he gets out and heads towards a flight of stairs leading down to the boardwalk that perches on the shore like some Lovecraftian monster.

While he’s descending the stairs, the PI tucks a cigarette between his lips and lights it. The rush of nicotine into his lungs is a familiar comfort. It makes the journey downward feel shorter.

This part of the coast is devoid of after-hour entertainment. There is no Ferris wheel, no stands selling popcorn and cotton candy. No pier-side carnival with young hopefuls or drugged out daredevils. It’s peaceful, almost too much so. If he’s frank, Holland thinks it’s creepy as all hell. Anyone could be lurking out here in the sands. Their footsteps on the wood boards would be covered up the steady roar of the waves. His skin crawls and he fights down a reflexive shriek at the thought of an imaginary boogeyman.

Overcome, he whips around to survey his surroundings with the desperation of the pursued. There’s nothing out here that he can see. Water laps against the pier supports. His panicked breathing finally slows. The cigarette he’s smoking burns down right to the filter as he looks out over the waves for any sign of a shark or a fish man. He plucks the spent stick from his mouth and grinds it between his fingers before flicking it out into unknowable depths.

He pulls his flask from his shirt pocket and takes a swig before tucking it away and continuing on. The investigator’s shoes are squelching over the sodden wood. He tries to keep the money he’s been offered in mind as he thinks about the damage the salt water might be doing to the leather.

Between the lulls in between waves, March hears a knocking sound. There’s a pier jutting off the boardwalk. Curiosity leads him into diverting his path. There’s a small boat tied to one of the mooring points. As he gets closer, his suspicion that it’s only the boat knocking against one of the wooden supports grows. Holland chalks himself up to just being jumpy from being out here alone with ideas of aquatic monsters swimming around in his head.

It’s not nothing. He looks down in the dark water and the rising moon illuminates a dead body knocking against the side of the boat. Holland screams and goes failing backwards, arms pinwheeling at his sides. He slips and hits the boards hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He whines getting to his feet only to slip again and hit his head on one of the mooring posts.

He renders himself unconscious and rolls into the ocean. The shock of the water makes him come to and he opens his eyes underneath the water. The salt stings his throat more than Sam’s shitty homemade alcohol had.

Struggling, he can’t seem to reach the surface no matter how hard he paddles upwards. He’s going to die down here if he can’t cover any distance. He’d failed to take in any air when he went over on account of knocking himself senseless. Making a mistake, Holland looks down and sees the darting shadow of a pointed dorsal fin. Shark. There’s a fucking shark in the water with him.

March redoubles his efforts but it’s useless. He’s not going to make it. Even under normal circumstances, he barely is able to swim.

Oh Jesus, he thinks, Who’s going to take care of Holly? Widow Wanda on the corner is going to have to look after her and her house always smells like cat piss. I’m such a terrible father.

In a rasp of skin gliding across cloth, the shark brushes against him. Holland forgets himself and screams. Water rushes into his lungs and he faints. His last conscious awareness is of human hands grabbing him around the waist and the sensation of behind towed through the ocean by a large animal in the way an orca might drag a seal.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Holland’s world explodes in stars. Pain shoots across his face in the wake of the slap he’s dealt. It’s a hell of a way to be brought back to the world of the living. His head is pounding an a way that provides a rhythm for the way his teeth feel like they’re doing the tango in his mouth. What the hell had happened to him?

Another slap goads him into putting his arms up defensively. “I’m awake! Jesus!”

Opening his eyes, he only sees darkness at first. Then his vision clears and he can make out the shape of a large, scruffy man looming over him. Unable to help himself, Holland screams. The shrill noise bounces off the surrounding rocks.

“Shut up,” the stranger tells him, not unkindly.

There’s no way to easily escape. He has been propped up against a boulder and his way is blocked by the man. He squints, looking closer at him. For a moment, he’s shocked into stunned silence at what he’s looking at. Holland tries to be logical. He is going to be normal and reasonable about this because he is a professional. March will not be the certified freak of the beach tonight.

“Nice costume,” he says, aiming for chipper.

“It’s not.”

“Not what?” Holland asks, feeling slightly strained.

“A costume.”

Silence falls between them while he tries to process that. Okay then, his savior really is off his rocker.

The private investigator chooses to act like he’d been told a joke and he laughs. “Don’t fuck with me, man. I’ve had a bad night. There’s a dead body in the water and you’re out here getting off on seeing Jaws too many fucking times. Well, listen here. I’m pissed at being the victim of your little shark prank and you need to cut that shit out.”

As fast as he can manage, he lunges towards the mystery man and tries to pull his costume tail off. It’s disturbingly realistic—smooth one in one direction and rough like sandpaper in the other. He gets a solid punch to the face for his efforts. It’s like being hit with a whole fucking ham on Black Friday. Holland goes reeling back against the boulder from the pain throbbing over his cheekbone.

“So... you’re a real mermaid then,” he says like it’s no big deal. It’s alright, he just hit his head too hard and tried to pull his presumed rescuer’s leg off. He’s imagining things.

It’s nothing a drink won’t fix, March decides. He fumbles for his flask and finds it still tucked into his shirt pocket. Somehow it hadn’t fallen during his dip in the water.

“Merman. Do I look like a maid?” The stranger sounds decidedly unamused.

“Suppose not.” he agrees. He unscrews the lid of his flask with a flourish.

Holland’s flask is dented and split right open. The only liquid left in it is an unholy bacterial mix of saltwater and liquor. It’s just his luck. Not realizing this, he takes a swig. He ends up coughing and choking. The fish man gives him an unimpressed look.

Eyes steaming, he finally stops coughing. The flask is a bust. He motions to throw it away, somewhere out into the ocean. It’s nature’s trashcan, isn’t it? The United States is dumping barrels of chemical waste out there. One little piece of metal won’t make any difference.

With the speed of a striking snake, the fish guy’s arm shoots out and pins March’s hand to the sand by his wrist. The flask is still clutched in his grasp. A yelp escapes Holland as he feels the bones in his forearm creak warningly. Any more pressure and his arm will snap.

“You won’t litter. What if I came into your home and threw trash into it?”

“How would you get to my house? You don’t have legs,” Holland spouts nervously. “Would you just crawl there? Maybe get a skateboard and—”

“Shut up.”

“Okay,” he says, agreeably, but continues, “So, about the—”

“What did I just say? I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re not going to flap your lips about it. Got it?”

Holland nods and mimes zipping his mouth shut with his free hand. The fish man gives him a skeptical look but eases up on his hand and leans back. Meekly, he tucks the broken flask back into its usual pocket.

“Why are you out here? You don’t look like a jumper or one of those night swimmers.”

“I’m a PI and I have a case, thank you very much.”

Seemingly confused, the mermaid—merman—squints down at him. His eyes are flooded with a solid color. It looks black in the dim light, makes him look like an alien. His hair drips in curls over his forehead. Holland notes that the facial hair has been trimmed. He wonders how. It’s hard to imagine they have shaving razors down in Atlantis.

“What’s a PI?” he asks.

“It stands for private investigator.”

With each breath, the merman’s gills flutter on either side of his neck. The only response Holland gets is a blank look in those inky eyes.

“You know… a detective? A private detective? Private eye?”

There is not so much as a spark of recognition on the merman’s face. March is completely baffled.

“A cop? I’m like one of those but I solve mysteries for people?” he tries.

“You don’t look like one. A cop.”

“Because I’m a PI. I investigate mysteries. Like Scooby-Doo?” he offers, thinking about the masks being pulled off in the cartoon that Holly has been watching on Saturdays to agitate her hungover father off the couch. Well, he’s only hungover for as long as it takes for him to get another drink down his throat. That’s the thing. If you’re always drunk, you feel the aftereffects less. It’s March’s favorite trick.

“The dog?” the merman’s voice rasps. Holland can almost feel the vibrations from the fish man’s chest in his own. He’s still that close, nearly between Holland’s legs. He’s warm and Holland is shivering. He finds himself spreading his legs wider and shifting closer. Shamefully, the PI has to make an effort to stop from plastering himself against the stranger.

He blinks. His voice rises as he asks, “How the fuck do you know what Scooby-Doo is but not what a detective is?”

This night has been overly surreal. Maybe he hit his head harder than he thought. Maybe his brain is having the final functions of a dying man while floating next to the dead body that had sent him into ocean in the first place. Maybe he’s being eaten by the shark right now and is too far gone to realize and his mind is trying to make sense of it by conjuring the animal up as this handsome fish man. Maybe he shouldn’t have rented Splash from the video store the other night. It crossed some wires.

Dismissively, the merman waves a webbed hand. “Right. Who are you?”

“Holland March. I’m a priv—”

That same hand gets shoved into his face, cutting him off. “Jackson Healy.”

Why did his dying subconscious have to make up someone so goddamn rude? Holland shakes it warily. His eyes are still stinging from the saltwater.

“I expected a fish name. Something like Swimathy or James Pond or… Gillbert. I don’t know.”

“Swimathy?” Jackson mutters, disgusted.

Holland makes an offended noise. Hey, at least he’d been trying.

“Why are you out here, March?” he asks.

As Holland thinks about the question, he realizes he hates how the edges of his thoughts are too sharp. The investigator wishes he had alcohol to smooth out his mind until it washed away the discomfort.

“I have a case. Some guy wants me to track down a mythological fish man that tried to drown him the other day. Which I don’t think is even possible because fish men don’t...” he trails off, blinks, his brain kicks into gear. “Jesus! You’re the fish man.”

Healy looks at him, contemplative. The lack of visible pupils makes it more intense than it would be from a human. He squirms under that stare.

“He was hunting and he shouldn’t have been. Not here.”

That’s all but a direct confession. Holland shakily reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out his sodden pack of cigarettes. He puts the wet filter between his lips. A bit of saltwater spurts out with the pressure, coating his tongue in brine. He plucks it out of his mouth, spits, puts it back in place and flicks on his lighter. The cigarette doesn’t catch. Of course not.

Not wanting to be reprimanded for littering again, March shoves the cigarette back in the pack. It explodes tobacco all over his fingers that he has to wipe on his pants before returning the whole situation, pack and lighter, into his pocket.

“I don’t see how that’s my problem. Look, he paid me. A job is a job, alright? You dragged him out of his boat and he wants to know where you are so he can talk it through.”

“Talk it through by sticking me, maybe,” Healy says, bitter tone to his voice, His hand goes to a scar bisecting his upper arm. It flashes silver in the moonlight. Holland had assumed it was a natural marking to go with the other lines and speckles adorning the merman’s skin.

“I don’t ask questions, I just accept payment. It’s a job.” He’s all too aware of how defensive he sound.

Besides, he reasons, this guy… fish… merman is big. Jackson can hold his own, surely. Holland wouldn’t tussle with him, not after feeling some of the strength residing in that thick body of his. He’s built like an old-fashioned bruiser. March can easily picture a pair of brass knuckles on those webbed fingers. All at once, he realizes that Healy’s teeth are sharp and it fully dawns on him that he’s looking at an actual predator, a shark with human intelligence.

Jesus, Holland thinks with dawning horror, what kind of damage could he do if he tried?

“What if I pay you?”

“What? What do you mean pay me? Pay me for what? I don’t solve fish crimes. You lose Bruce out there and need to find him? Do you not have fish detec—”

“March.”

Holland shuts his mouth.

“If I pay you, will you do a job for me as well? You can tell your man where I am, collect on that money and get payment from me after you do my job.”

“What—I don’t accept seashells or whatever fish currency,” he protests, desperately confused.

“You accept paper money? Coins? Jewelry?”

Holland pats himself down in vain. He’s automatically reaching for the crutch of a cigarette before he remembers. Put out, he asks, “How much are we talking?”

“Enough.”

“How do you know what’s enough? How do you even have the means to pay me?” He’s half expecting the fish man to give him a soggy five dollar bill.

Healy moves his wide shoulders up in a shrug as he says, “Your kind leaves shit behind all the time. It all ends up in the water. Finders keepers.”

“But…” he trails off, inarticulate.

“Name a price.”

“I don’t know what the job even is.”

“There’s an organization that deals with illegal hunting—”

“Fishing.” Holland interrupts. In the back of his mind he’s having to come to terms with the idea of fish law and fish court. How else would Jackson know about legalities?

Healy directs a frown at him. “I need you to stick around and tell somebody when he’s out on the water with a net and harpoon doing it. He needs to get caught.“

“Not all fishing is illegal.”

“Yes, I know that,” Jackson says with almost condescending patience, “but what he’s doing is. Some other human got in trouble for doing the same thing. The human has been a real pain in my back, March. I don’t appreciate my life bring thrown around. I’m not going to be his trophy catch.”

“Five hundred. Cash. Paper money. Half up front, other half on delivery,” Holland bursts out, not truly expecting the fish man to agree.

“Done. Meet me where you fell,” he says.

Mouth hanging open, the private investigator watches as the merman pushes out into the water and slips underneath the surface. He’s left behind to get to his feet and traverse through the sand in what he hopes is the right direction of the boardwalk. The beach does its best to steal his shoes.

“Would have been nice if Flipper could have taken me back,” he grumbles.

It’s a relief when he finally climbs the stairs leading up onto the elevated path. Less of a relief is the presence of the body. The dead man is still bobbing unpleasantly by the small boat. A dingy? A rowboat? He’s not sure what to call it. Holland has never been a seaman. He’s not about to start now.

Exhausted, he sits down, letting his legs dangle over the side. It’s been a night. The cold breeze coming off the ocean’s surface makes him shiver. He’s itching for a smoke or a drink. Something. He can’t have shit can he?

March is not sure how long he sits there, soaked and uncomfortably shifting from the chafing of the sand that’s worked its way into places it should never be. He finally gives in and lays down. The back of his head hits the wood with a thunk that makes him wince. After a while, his eyes drift shut and he dozes off.

Something slaps him on the cheek, startling him awake. In a repetition of just a while ago, Holland opens his eyes to see a large figure hovering over him and he stifles a scream.

“How the hell did you get up here?” he gasps. He’s clutching at his heart.

“Jumped. Here. Your money.” Jackson answers, tossing a wet bundle of bills onto his stomach.

Suddenly in much better spirits, Holland sits up and combs through the money with an eager thumb. Two hundred and fifty dollars exactly. The fish man hadn’t been yanking his leg when he said he could pay.

“Meet me tomorrow night at the spot where I dragged you out of the water. Tell your client I’ve been around the pier.”

Before he can respond, Healy turns and launches himself off the wood. He slips into the water with more elegance than the investigator would have expected from something the merman’s size.

“What about the body?” he mutters to no one. The fish man hadn’t explained that at all. Jesus, he hopes that Jackson hadn’t killed him. He shoves the wad of bills into his pocket after standing up.

It’s a long climb up the stairs. He might as well be trying to scale the Great Wall of China. By the time he reaches the top, he’s wheezing and desperately wants to collapse on the ground. Rather making for his car, he digs a fistful of change out of his pocket and goes to the payphone at the edge of the parking lot. He slips some coins, ten cents worth, into the slot before pocketing the rest.

Holland presses the 0 button and waits, debating on just pulling his shoes of. The sand really is aggravating. Only the thought of rubbing his bare toes all over the pedals of his car stops him.

“Hi, operator, can you connect me to the police?”

He listens for the confirmation and waits some more for the connection.

“Los Angeles Police Department.”

“I need to report a dead body. It’s down at the dock from the parking lot at the uhhh…” Holland thinks for a moment,” just off Via Riviera and Paseo.”

“Sir, what—”

“Anyway, super dead. Very much in the water. Don’t know what happened. Goodnight,” and he hangs up.

Not wanting to deal with the arrival of the police to be asked questions he doesn’t know the answers to, he wastes no time launching himself behind the wheel of his Benz and getting out of the lot. He’s going to straight home and rinse off in the shower before collapsing into bed. When he wakes up in the morning, things will be normal and fish free. He’ll laugh all of this off as a hallucination.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Light burrowing through the gaps of the blinds and through the curtains is what drags Holland from his slumber. He lays on his side for a moment, taking stock of how sore his body feels. Straining, he makes out the numbers displayed on his bedside block. It’s already well past noon. There’s only a few more hours of daylight left.

With a sigh, he sits up and drags himself out of bed only to immediately trip over the discarded pile of clothing on his floor. It’s wet.

“What…?”

Last night comes rushing at him and Holland snatches up the bundle of cloth. He starts tearing through his pockets looking for evidence that it hadn’t been some kind of alcohol induced dream. He finds the cracked flask and the still damp wad of cash.

March stumbles back, still holding onto the stiffening pants and sits on the edge of his bed. It had been real. That means… Jackson Healy the merman had been real too. Fish people aren’t just myths. The pants slip out of his slackened grasp and fall back onto the floor to join the rest of clothing he’d worn last night.

Feeling dazed, he goes to the kitchen. He doesn’t bother to get dressed in anything more than the boxers and undershirt he’d put on after rinsing himself free of saltwater last night.

He aims for some normalcy, as much as he gets given his choice of employment, and starts the coffeepot. He sets a mug out on the counter. Deciding he’s going to need a bit of a kick while he thinks about the events of the past twenty-four hours, he drags over a bottle of bourbon.

“Dad?” comes Holly’s voice. He’s surprised for a moment then he realizes that it’s a Saturday, no school. Holland is on top of things enough to know that.

The private investigator knows that he’s lucky to have such a good kid. In his more sober moments, he loathes having been the cause of her needing to be so independent at a young age. Holland March is a fuck-up and everyone knows it. He wishes he were a better man, one that wasn’t making his daughter pay the price for his shortcomings and self-inflicted issues. One of these days, he’s going to kick the drinking habit and do right by her, but… today is not going to be that day.

“Hi, honey,” he says, fetching a second mug from the cupboard without her needing to ask. Should a thirteen year old be drinking coffee? Probably not, but March isn’t going to stop her.

Once the coffee finishes dripping into the glass carafe, he fills both mugs two-thirds of the way in order to leave room for any additives. He pushes Holly’s at her along with the sugar jar. He fills his own the rest of the way up with bourbon while she fetches creamer from the fridge.

“What did you do last night? There’s sand and stuff all over the place.”

“I... uh... I had a case last night. I need to check in on the client today and meet with Jackson tonight. Also don’t say—”

` “Were you just drinking again?” she asks before he can finish his word policing. Holly is skeptical, too jaded to hope. She knows him too well to expect real progress from him. It would sting if it weren’t so accurate.

“No! No, my flask actually broke. I didn’t have a drop, promise.” He neglects to mention he had already drank about half of it and had whatever backwater distillery project Sam had handed him prior to Holland doing a nosedive off the pier.

“Dad.”

“Remember that case I mentioned? The mermaid guy? Well, I found his fish man and he wasn’t bullshitting. There’s an actual mermaid, well he said he wasn’t a maid. I thought he was a shark at first, but he saved me and—”

“Dad.”

“Yes?” Everyone seems determined to interrupt him when he’s speaking. He takes a drink from his mug.

“I’m going with you today.” she says, holding up a hand to stop him from saying anything further.

“Okay.” He gives in, doesn’t protest a bit. Holland doesn't want to leave her alone, not today.

Holly looks surprised at the lack of protest. She’d clearly had expected a fight about it.

“I’ll get dressed. Meet you by the car in fifteen?”

Holly flashes him a thumbs up and shoots off down the hall to her bedroom like the Roadrunner off LoonyTunes. He’d been just as high energy back when he was a kid. Holland’s own parents could barely get him to sit still enough to eat dinner most nights.

Burning his mouth a little, he downs the rest of his coffee in two swallows. He goes to his own room at a slightly more sedate pace to find a set of fresh clothes. He’s already mourning the future spent without a functioning flask. He’s going to have to rely on cigarettes alone until he can pick one up on Monday when his daughter is at school. He doesn’t want to have to face the disappointment in her eyes if he purchases one while they’re together. Upsetting her this afternoon is not an option, not with it being the anniversary of her mom’s death.

In preparation for everything tonight might entail, Holland gets dressed in clothing he’s less attached to. If he’s running the risk of sand and finding himself in the ocean again, he’s not styling himself up to the nines. Khaki pants and a short sleeve button-up on top of his underthings are as fancy as he’s getting. Grimacing, he puts on the same pair of loafers he’d worn last night. The traces of sand still lingering in the corners try to breach the barrier of his socks.

When Holland leaves the room, he finds Holly’s bedroom door open without her in sight. He scrapes his keys out of the bowl. He also makes sure to write a fresh copy of Sam’s address on the underside of his forearm, right below his watchband, before he steps outside. He doesn’t feel like trying to remember the house number and street.

As expected, his daughter is waiting for him by the Benz.

“You ready, kiddo?” he asks.

Holly nods, only to look surprised when he loops around to the driver’s side and takes a seat behind the wheel. He’s so disgustingly sober he feels capable of driving with his daughter as a passenger.

“Where are we going?”

“To visit the client. I need to tell him what I found.”

“Oh right… your mermaid,” Holly says doubtfully.

Unbothered by her disbelief, March cranks up the radio, and they’re soon flying down the streets of LA. He slaps the outside of the car door in time with the beat. Holly can be a skeptic all she likes, but she’s going to be surprised when she sees her old man isn’t lying after he takes her with him on his house call to see the merman himself.

In no time at all, he pulls to a stop alongside the curb in front of the same ramshackle house he’d been in just the afternoon before. Holland probably should have called ahead, but it’s too late for that now. He hops out of the vehicle and makes his way up the sidewalk to the front door with his daughter trailing behind him. The private investigator taps his knuckles against the peeling door. It’s promptly answered by the same man as yesterday who peers at him suspiciously from around the door before flinging it open wide.

Sam adjusts his hat and looks approvingly at Holland from below hooded eyes. “Surprised to see ya back so soon, city boy.” He looks at where Holly is standing beside her father with her arms crossed. “And who’s this little lady?”

“My daughter. Holly.”

“Nice to meet ya. I’m Sam. Your dad’s doing me a real big favor,” he says, before turning to Holland with a grin, “Come on in and tell me what you found, yeah?”

Without hesitating, the father and daughter follow Sam inside. Holland doesn’t miss the way Holly has to suppress a gag at the smell the boiled shark cartilage must be putting off. He wonders if the fisherman still has a sense of smell and has just grown immune to it, or if he is like Holland and simply can’t smell.

“I found your fish man,” he blurts out, wanting to get this over with.

Sam’s eyes light up with uncontained glee. “Yeah, where did you find the slippery bastard?”

“By the pier. The one attached to the boardwalk by Via Riviera and Paseo.”

“Ah, he’s moved further north than when he pulled me out of my boat. What time did you see him?”

“Not long after dusk. You were right about his… patterns being like a shark.”

The rugged man claps him on the shoulder. Holland’s knees nearly buckle with the impact. Sam praises, “Good work, we’ll get him yet.”

Failing to successfully wave of offers of tomato soup from the many cans, Holland finds himself seated on a threadbare couch next to his daughter while their host regales them with old seafaring tales from his time on commercial fishing boats. All three of them have chipped bowls of soup in their hands. No spoons. The thick liquid had been heated on the stove next to the ever boiling pot of shark parts. He’s sure it has to affect the taste given the despairing glances Holly keeps sending his way when Sam isn’t looking.

Trying to not bounce his leg impatiently while the other man talks, Holland gulps down his soup. His mind keeps going to the fish man that will be waiting for them soon. It’s going to be a significant drive to the ocean followed by a too-long walk along the shore to reach the spot where Jackson had pulled him to dry ground.

After a while, he simply cannot take any more and manages to speak during a lull in the fisherman’s bottomless, one-sided storytelling. “Sorry, Sam. We’re going to have to head out. Holly’s got homework. You know how it is. Thank you. Bye.”

Sam’s own goodbyes and reassurances that he’ll let Holland know when he “catches that big brute” follow them out of the door while they make their escape to the relative safety of the vehicle. Holly sags back into the seat while he starts the Benz and begins the drive. The sun is already beginning to set. Nervously, he drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

The lot is empty again just as it had been the evening before. Police tape marks off the stairs, though there are no officers milling about. He probably should have checked the news, but regardless, he pulls into the same spot he’d been parked in.

Having learned enough from last time, he strips off his shoes and socks and gestures for Holly to do the same. They toss it all onto the back floorboard to retrieve later. Pleasantly, the parking lot is still warm under their feet as they make their way to the stairs. March holds the tape up for his daughter to step below before ducking under himself. As she passes him, he notices that she’s carrying two Yoo-hoos. The investigator doesn’t say anything. Maybe she is planning on being thirsty after their walk.

Holland digs a cigarette out of the pack and lights it once it’s between his lips. It dangles there while they amble downwards and finally make it onto the level surface over a dozen feet below the parking lot level.

“Dad… Are you sure you weren’t just imagining things?” Holly asks when he leads them off the boardwalk to the beach. Sand threatens to engulf them up to the ankles.

“You’ll see,” he promises.

next chapter -»

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[heresthestorymorningglory]

Daddy's Girl

Summary: It's a big day for both Holly and Holland.

A/N: I was missing my Mom this week and unfortunately can relate more to Holly than I'd like recently. Give your moms (and dads) a big squeeze while you can because friends, one day you won't be able to anymore and it sucks hard.

Holland x Holly (With a small dash of Marchly...it is Pride after all <3)

740 words

As per usual, @ken-dom my beta reader, soul sister extraordinaire, as always my darling, I thank you for your support and inspiration and late night chats.

This one is just a fluffy feel good (I have them on occasion) none of the usual warnings, but as is par for the course with the Holland works, it comes with a loss trigger.

Enjoy my loves <3

She took a deep breath in through her nose studying her reflection in the mirror. She swallowed hard as someone knocked softly on the door before it cracked open. 

Glancing over her shoulder as Holland poked his head in the room. 

He opened his mouth to speak and she watched as he took in the woman standing in front of him. 

She laughed a little as he came into the room closing the door behind him, his eyes immediately welling with tears. 

“Hi Daddy” she whispered 

Holland came to stand in front of her taking her face in both his hands and kissing her forehead before he stepped back, tears streaming down his cheeks. 

Holly laughed, reaching to wipe her hands down his face as tears slipped down her own cheeks. 

“Jesus Daddy, keep it together, we still have to walk down the aisle”

Holland nodded, carefully wiping the tears from Holly's cheeks with his thumbs, but kept her face held firmly in his hands. 

“You look just fuckin’ like your Mom” he whispered, barely able to keep his voice from cracking. 

Holly pressed her lips together and clenched her hands into fists briefly before releasing them. 

“I still can't believe you kept her dress” 

Holland snorted “She would have haunted me if I didn't”

Holly sniffed with a laugh wrapping her arms around Holland’s neck and hugging him tightly. 

He hugged her back just as tightly kissing her cheek. 

“I wish she was here” she muttered against his shoulder. 

He nodded, a hand rubbing over her back gently “I know, sweetheart,” 

Holland sighed and took a step back before unclasping the chain around his neck; Holly looked at him quizzically before shaking her head when he held it out 

“Turn around”

“Daddy no, I- I can't”

He shook his head and motioned for her to turn around. 

She sighed, turning and gently lifting her hair and veil out of the way as the wedding band on the dainty chain landed heavily on her neck, dropping slightly as Holland clasped it into place. 

Holly's manicured fingers rubbed gently over the metal as she turned back around to face Holland. 

He stood in front of her with his hands at his sides. She had seen him in a suit every single day for almost her entire life, but today, he looked more together than she'd ever seen. His black pants creased perfectly, meeting the tops of his shined shoes. Holly stepped forward adjusting his matching jacket over his crisp white dress shirt. 

“I'm so proud of you, Daddy” she smiled, adjusting his tie 

He huffed a laugh “I think the roles of this conversation are backwards” 

“Well,” she smoothed out the front of his suit jacket  “Today is a special day for you too”

He cocked his head slightly in a way she knew all too well. 

“What?” She laughed lightly “You didn't think I'd forget did you?”

“Didn't think you'd kept track” he muttered more to himself. “It's only  been a year” 

“Daddy, you've been sober for a year “ she smiled “You should be proud, Mommy would be proud”

He snorted again with a laugh “Your mom would have beat me senseless, kid”

“I can ask Healy to break your arm again?” She smirked 

As if on cue there was another knock on the door, and Healy peeked around the door. “Showtime, kid”

“I'm not a kid anymore, Mr. Healy” Holly smiled, making her way to where he stood

“And I’m not Mr. Healy anymore” he bent to kiss her on the cheek.

“Sorry, Dad” her smile exaggerated as she squeezed her eyes shut before giving him a more genuine smile.

“You'll always be a kid” he winked before disappearing. 

Holly scoffed, rolling her eyes. 

“He's right y'know,”  Holland nodded, coming up behind her and offering her his arm. “You'll always be my baby”

Holly took it without saying anything more and they walked together to the second set of double doors where her future husband waited mere steps away. 

“Daddy?” Holly turned to look at him swallowing hard. Her hand squeezing hard on his forearm. 

Holland looked at her, and looking back at him was his little girl, scared and uncertain. She let out a shaky breath before she spoke again. 

“Don't let me fall, okay?”  she whispered 

He nodded “Of course, baby”

She held up her pinky finger “Promise?”

He hooked his pinky around hers and smiled “I promise”

[ken-dom]

A Long Time

Holland March x afab!reader

Summary: Holland wants you, but he's scared to move on.

Warnings/content: nsfw, reader has a vagina, fingering, hand job, angst, mentions of Holland's wife, crying, praise, alcohol and smoking mention

The record comes to a crackling end, but Holland carries on swaying with you, snaking his lithe arms ever tighter around your waist, holding you impossibly closer.

He presses your bodies flush as though he's worried that the end of the last song means the end of your arms around him, but he wants to stay here forever, head dropped to bury his face against your neck, your arms reaching up around his shoulders.

'Mmh. You feel so fucking good,' he mumbles against your shoulder, his voice weak and cracking halfway.

He shifts his hips and you feel his hard cock brushing against your stomach through the layers of your clothing.

'Holland...' you breathe, pulling back to encourage him to face you.

Your gaze flicks down to his lips and back up to meet his eyes. They’re shining, full of adoration and sleepiness and just a touch too much alcohol. And something else. A sadness you can't quite place.

His shaky breath fills the inch between you.

'It's been a long time... I-' he hesitates, almost too whispered to hear.

His eyes follow the same pattern yours just did, and he doesn't flinch when you edge toward his lips, testing the waters.

He pushes forward too, lips crashing onto yours, and it's tingly and soft and hot, and he’s overcome with a sensation of drowning in you. He hasn't felt like this since... well, since-

All the wonder he felt from slow dancing with you amplifies until an all-encompassing wave engulfs him in the most comforting way, pulling his soul clean from his body and proceeding to carefully piece it back together until he feels almost whole again.

Your tongue slips between his lips for a moment and you taste the liquor he’s been sipping all night and the cigarette he smoked immediately after dinner.

His tongue brushes against yours, playful and excited.

When the kiss slows to a natural end, you drop back.

'Jesus!' He exclaims through a heavy exhale. 'Can we do that again?!'

You chuckle as your hand slides down from his shoulder, biting your lip mischievously when your fingers reach the waistband of his trousers.

Holland freezes. 'Oh, I- uh-'

You drop your hand to your side while your heart sinks, heavy and sad. You think he'll ask you to leave so he can wallow in unhappiness all while you taste him for days, feel him pressed against you for days, wishing he would finally open up to you.

But he hasn't let go yet.

'When I said it had been a long time... I meant, it's been a really long time... Jesus, I’ll probably cum before you even touch me.'

You take a deep breath and smile up at him, core clenching at hearing him talk about cumming so openly, watching the way his long eyelashes close over his eyes and his cheeks glow with the prickling heat of shame he feels at admitting it.

'I'm trying to be romantic and I already said the word cum,' he huffs, annoyed with himself.

'You have been romantic. All night.' Your hand comes back up, softly cupping his cheek this time so your thumb can stroke gently at the corner of his moustache.

'And I don't care when you cum.' - His eyes widen in surprise at hearing you say it - 'We can just carry on dancing, or we could kiss again, if you'd like.'

'No, no, I want to- I... fuck-' he growls in frustration.

'It's alright,' you soothe, gesturing to the sofa.

He loosens his arms and drops down onto it, spinning the both of you around and unintentionally pulling you on top of him in the process, so that you end up sitting sideways in his lap, legs stretched across the seats and Holland’s arms still around you, as if he's carried you here bridal style.

He gasps when you shift to get comfortable and unintentionally rub against his aching length, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment to compose himself.

'It's ok if you want to take it slow. I can wait for you, as long as you need... Dinner with me was a big step… why don't we aim to start off with something you feel comfortable doing?'

Your simple suggestion seems to spark something in him; his face lights up and he licks his lips in thought. It's kind of silly and yet somehow seductive, and it makes your core clench.

'Well... my wife always said I was good with my hands...' he drawls, considering the tattoo across the top of his right hand and wondering if perhaps it would be an untrue statement tonight. He felt happy when you ate dinner by candlelight, and then while he was dancing with you. He was sure of it.

'She used to say a lot of shit I didn't understand. You know she was British? But I know one thing I could start with that she used to really like... something that drove her wild. Maybe you'll like it too?'

There's a touch of heartbreak in his voice and it crushes the fluttering butterflies in your stomach for a moment. You're overcome with wanting to hold him, to help him through his pain, but even he doesn't know where to begin with that.

Whatever he wants right now, though, you know you'll do for him. That would be a start, at least.

'Show me,' you request simply, expecting him to hold your hand while he kisses you, push his fingers up to bunch in your hair, maybe even massage your shoulders a little.

But as the arm beneath you moves to cradle your neck, his other hand slides down, cupping your slightly bent knee.

'Spread your legs for me,' he says softly, pulling at the knee he's caressing.

It's so unexpected, so throwaway, that you almost miss what he's asking of you.

'Holland? Are you sur-ohhh- mmh...'

His fingertips trail up your thigh as he watches your face intently, sparks shooting up to your core as his fingers drag ever closer. It already feels electric, and he hasn't even started touching you yet. At least, not where you're already aching for him to.

'H-Holland, are you sure you- w-want to-' you try again, breathless.

'Shhh,' he smiles, fingers finally toying with the elastic of your underwear. 'I want to do this more than anything... god I've missed this...'

He slides your underwear aside with ease, dipping his middle finger inside to collect your slick, spreading it through your folds and up to massage your throbbing clit.

You jolt upward as he circles your sensitive nub with incredibly delicate precision, his elegant fingers dancing in perfect time with the needs your body, as though he can read your mind and predict what you'll need next.

As much as you've daydreamed about his long fingers playing with you just like this, you never thought he'd actually be any good at it. Holland isn't elegant, precise, delicate... he's klutzy, kind of dumb... often drunk. You half expected he would rub at you fiercely without skill or thought, but this? This feels like he knows your body better than you know your own.

'Jesus, you're so wet...' he coos delightedly through smirking lips, pushing his finger back inside and curling it perfectly against your sweet spot while you moan and writhe in his lap.

Your back arches and he pumps faster, holding you tight with his other arm to keep you from sliding off his long legs in your throes of ecstasy.

His own arousal is killing him, simmering beneath his desire to bring you off spectacularly. He needs to see your pleasure before he can focus on his own, needs something to think about instead of how his wife used to feel.

He can hold off, he's sure of it, but it's getting harder to ignore now that precum is steadily leaking from his throbbing tip, and you're squirming across his lap with your legs spread wide, eyes squeezed shut, mouth dropped open, a never-ending string of desperate cries echoing around his house from the pleasure he's bringing you.

You wrap your fingers around his tie, pulling him down, and scream his name as your climax finally hits, his finger buried inside you and his thumb pressed to your clit, fucking you mercilessly with his unexpectedly clever fingers.

When you come to, blurred vision clearing and the ringing of pleasure in your ears subsiding, you look up to see him sucking his fingers clean. You almost pass out at the sight.

'Fuck, Holland. I wasn't expecting that... I can see why your wife was such a fan.'

You slide yourself up to straddle him, adjusting your underwear as you settle above him.

'I think I'm pretty good with my hands too, you know... do you think you're ready for me to show you?'

Holland's face crinkles in confusion. 'Aren't you spent?' he asks incredulously.

'No, Holland, I mean on you.'

His eyes widen in realisation, and he nods.

Without hesitation, you pop his trousers open and slip a hand inside, humming at the copious amount of precum coating his thick, throbbing length.

'I don't know how your wife would do it,' you whisper carefully, 'but I hope you like it the way I do.'

Holland whines and buries his face into the crook of your neck, a tear slipping from his glistening eyes, wetting your cool flesh. You wrap your other arm around his shoulders when you feel it, holding him close to you.

'Just relax, ok? Focus on my touch, on my voice. I've got you... you're so hard... you need this, baby. It doesn't matter if you cum-'

'UGH! Jesus! Fuck!' he cries, muffled against your throat, voice cracking into a high pitched whine.

He shudders through his release, safe in your arms, trembling as the last of his seed spills inside his underwear and over your hand, thick and hot. There's so much of it you wonder when was the last time he came.

You lean forward to place him against the back of the sofa again, and he shakes, tears pouring down his face. You brush his mussed hair away from his forehead and loosen his tie enough to remove it, tossing it behind you.

'Shhh, baby, it's alright.' You wipe the tears from his cheeks with your clean hand, and he leans into your touch. 'You did so well for me. I know it's been a while.'

'Please... kiss me again,' he breathes helplessly, reaching up to push his fingers into your hair and pull you closer.

It's not as heated as your last kiss. It's slow, languid, needy but without the sexual tension. A different kind of need.

You feel him relax beneath you and pull away to catch your breath, opening your eyes to see Holland fast asleep. Smiling.

[danime25]

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)

[hoppingonjim]

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.

[webbo0]

*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!

[stucky-starnes]

Expanding my Niche| Requests Open!

Happy Tuesday! I am looking to expand my writing, I'm still going to write for Bucky and Steve of course but I want to branch out. I noticed there are like four fics for Ryan Gosling/ his characters and I want to fix that. Send in your requests! anything and anyone that you want. If i know who they are I'll probably write it :)

[gcslingss]

i’m baaaaaaack

what petnames do you think diff ryan characters use

HIIIII

omg i love this one HEHE <3

ok so -

i think dan, jacob, colt, holland, noah, luke, dean are all people who would settle for basic, yet classic petnames like 'baby', 'babe' - holland and colt would also use 'sweetheart'. holland i feel, when he's drunk or particularly endeared, would say 'my love' or 'my girl/man'. jacob would use 'sweetheart' occasionally. colt would be the kind of guy to shorten the person's name and use it as a petname very often as well!

court, julian, driver - all three very reserved men, with feelings they just can't entirely comprehend and express. i feel like court would treasure the person's name and just call them by it, but everytime he does his tone just changes entirely, becoming soft and fond - but he does occasionally use 'sweetheart' and 'darling'. julian uses few words, but when he does, I suppose he would use 'darling', or 'love'. driver doesn't say shit LMAO - he sticks to the basic few words, doing all the talking through his eyes. if he had to use a petname, it would probably be 'sweetheart'.

as for lars and k, tricky, tricky boys. lars...would be very respectful, i feel, only very rarely using petnames, more used to saying your name, but he would use 'baby', sometimes. k would use 'darling', 'love', 'sweetheart' - highly doubt he'd use 'babe' or 'baby'. he has a preference for 'darling', though.

as for ken, I'll split it pre and post patriarchy. pre-patriarchy, the boy is DOWN BAD. he worships your name, not even joking - he could never call u ANY petname without your consent. post-patriarchy, he would probably pick up words like 'baby', 'babe', and maybe 'babygirl/boy'? MAYYBE.

THATS ABOUT IT HAHA

i mightve missed a few but that's probably cuz I haven't watched those movies yet. otherwise, do tell me!

hope this was like at least 5% accurate - this is very subjective btw :))

thanks for the ask, jade! hope you're well <33

[drivinmeinsane]

»{ Holland March x Merman!Jackson Healy }« ※ { ao3 }

«- previous chapter

※ Summary: Struggling, he can’t seem to reach the surface no matter how hard he paddles upwards. He’s going to die down here if he can’t cover any distance. He’d failed to take in any air when he went over on account of knocking himself senseless. Making a mistake, Holland looks down and sees the darting shadow of a pointed dorsal fin. Shark. There’s a fucking shark in the water with him. ※ Rating: 18+ for explicit mature content. ※ Content/tags: Alternate Universe, Merman Jackson Healy, Canon-Typical Crack Taken Seriously, Frottage, Excessive Cum, Anal Sex, Cum Eating, Teratophilia, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Smoking ※ Word count: 9233 ※ Status: Multi-chapter (2/2) :: Complete ※ Author's note: I ended up taking a trip and getting a new full-time job in the middle of writing this, so uh... this chapter took way longer than I intended. Whoops. Special thanks to @danime25 for mutual suffering during this process and helping me out with some of Holland's... Hollandisms. You saved my entire life.

Uncaring about the sand trying to worm its way into every crease of fabric it can find, Holland tosses himself into a seated position on the beach. The granules give way and cradle his body in a sun-heated embrace. It will be hours before the ocean tide laps away the warmth of the day.

Already, the sky is turning the purple of a dusky haze. The last rays of sunlight bounce lavender and orange off the gathering clouds. It’s breathtakingly beautiful if you care about that kind of thing. Holland has never slowed down and had appreciation for the mundane. Why should he? He’s always chased the extraordinary.

The PI pats the sand beside him, indicating for his daughter to take a seat next to them while they wait. She doesn’t take the offer. Instead, she stands and keeps her arms crossed. The two Yoo-Hoos clink together in her grasp.

Typical teenager, he thinks. He’d been no different at her age.

“Sooo,” she starts, drawing out the word, “where is he, Dad?”

Holland’s eyes are straining on the horizon. There’s nothing approaching on the waves, no fin cutting with the water in the clear sign of an apex predator’s arrival. Doubt starts to trickle in as if in the hull of a cracked boat. Maybe he had knocked himself senseless the other night and was caught up on the wake of Sam’s delusions in his rattled state.

“Uh… I don’t know. I don’t have a…” he trails off, struggling to come up with the word he’s thinking of. It’s on the tip of his tongue. There! He snaps his fingers, triumphant. “whistle.”

Sensing that his daughter is unimpressed, he scrambles to speak before she does. “He’s not trained, honey. We’ll just have to wait until Flipper swims on up.”

As if actually summoned by the private investigator’s words, something cuts through the water. A dark shape breaks the surface. First, a head appears, then webbed hands grip into the sand. The merman that they have been waiting for pulls himself onto shore with a forceful surge of motion.

Jackson’s expression is carefully guarded as he takes in the sight of the two humans. Holland is relieved that there doesn’t seem to be hostility swirling in those inky eyes, only a hint of surprise.

“March… and?” The merman’s voice tilts up in a question.

“My daughter, Holly,” he says before turning to the girl standing at his side. “Holly, this is Jackson Healy.”

Much to his alarm, Holly steps forward and drops to a crouch to be on the shark man’s level. She sticks out her hand with all the confidence in the world, like she shares a handshake with mythological beings every day of her life.

“Looks like my dad was telling the truth.”

Healy takes it. Holly’s hand is small in his webbed grasp. From his vantage point, Holland can tell that the merman is being careful to catch her skin with his clawed fingers.

“Looks like he was,” he says with a twitch of his lips—a smile.

He feels no small amount of relief when Holly retreats to drier ground and allows Jackson to move further onto shore. Waves lap over the merman’s tail, reaching all the way to his pointed dorsal fin. The stripes along his back are clearly visible in the moonlight. Holland thinks that the fish man resembles a type of shark he’d seen once in an encyclopedia. He taps his fingers against his knee. He doesn’t remember Great Whites having stripes. Cat sharks? Leopard sharks? Tiger sharks? Fuck if he knows. He’s never been one to bury himself into books.

“Did you tell your client?” the fish man addresses him.

He blinks, gathers himself. “Yeah, he’s all in the know.”

"Good." Healy says, voice gruff. "Think he'll be out tonight? Sky's going to be cloudy."

In the distance, he hears the call of seabirds. A glance at the sky reveals v-shaped outlines darting over the horizon. He drops an arm around his daughter when she takes a seat next to him. She’s still holding onto the two glass bottles she’d brought with them.

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “Sam seemed pretty gung-ho.”

At the merman’s acknowledging nod, March pulls out a cigarette and puts it to his lips. Holly leans forward to ask their newfound friend a question. As he lights it, he watches his daughter and Jackson begin to talk in earnest. His parental instinct raises its head, curious. The PI should want to put a stop to their interaction, rather than serve his only child up to a possibly man-eating creature, but everything about Healy seems gentle, courteous.

Holland sags back, pocketing his lighter and the pack. He’s content enough right now to not intervene. He’s only half paying attention when Holly says something that catches his ear.

“What’s this guy—Sam—doing? Like why are you after him and stuff?”

Before Holland can correct her word usage, the merman speaks up. “He’s hunting for specialties. I think he’s selling them to others of your kind. He was talking to some kind of black rectangle about money the night he tried to stick a spear in me.” Healy’s gills flair in frustration and he clenches his hands as he resumes speaking. “Said a merman would be the trophy of a lifetime.”

“So, the plan is just to tackle him? What’s your angle here, Jackson?” he cuts in. The details had been vague when he’d agreed to do the job. Surely, the fish man would need Holland to do more than just to call law enforcement.

With a flash of his teeth bared in what could pass as a smile, Healy is close enough to clap him on the shoulder with a large hand. He dips under the impact, nearly going back first onto the sand with the large merman atop of him.

“Look. One of these nights—hopefully sooner rather than later—your client is going to show up to catch me. I’m going to keep him busy while your human magic and notify somebody that someone is hunting in forbidden waters for a rare species of fish. He is going to have some of those fish in his boat because that’s what he does. He strips the ocean of anything he thinks he can sell.” Healy leans in closer, nose nearly brushing the PI’s. “You ever hunt, March? Bait and bite. It’ll be real simple once your guy shows up.”

Feeling a flush inappropriately rising to his face, he swallows hard. He busies himself with his nearly finished cigarette. He’s already pulling out his pack for a second. Holland manages to scoot back away from the fish man who, himself, retreats to a more respectable distance.

Jesus, what is wrong with me? he thinks, embarrassed and looking anywhere else but at the merman.

Mercifully, his daughter breaks the silence following Jackson’s intimately delivered plan. “Mr. Healy, would you like a Yoo-Hoo?” she asks, holding one of the glass bottles out in the shark man’s direction.

He looks surprised at being addressed. “A Yoo-what?” he questions, but he extends his hand and takes the bottle from her all the same. As he does, Holland notices that the merman’s stripes are faintly present on his forearms. The patterned skin shifts and flexes over his muscles while he turns the object over in his hands, squinting at the text.

“It’s a drink,” he supplies, trying to distract himself from ogling. “Like chocolate. They’re pretty good.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he chides himself for not being able to shut up when he gets nervous. All it would take is keeping his lips together and he could stop embarrassing himself with inane chatter or misplaced commentary.

Jackson’s answering noise is little more than a deep rumble in his chest. Holland swears he can almost feel the vibration through the sand.

“Shake it,” Holly instructs. The merman does. Cautiously.

Holland’s daughter cracks open her own bottle takes a swig. Jack twists the lid off of his and carefully sets the small piece of metal aside on a rock above the current tide line. The PI isn’t surprised to see that he’s hell-bent on avoiding becoming a litterbug.

Under the watchful stares of the father and daughter duo, the man smells the liquid and cautiously takes a sip. It’s followed by a more enthusiastic second mouthful almost immediately. A smile, genuine this time, spreads across Healy’s face.

“Never had anything like this before,” he remarks.

Holly jumps to ask him what he has experienced. Holland lets their voices fade out as he sits there in the sand. Jackson’s voice is rough and even while the younger March’s is light and excitable. They sound like family. God, it makes the PI miss his wife with a pain so sharp he nearly doubles over. He remembers evenings like this—tucking himself into a comfortable seat while he listened to the most important people in his life laugh and read stories aloud.

Unable to handle the smoke rising from his current cigarette. He ashes it against a nearby rock before leaning over to pick up the discarded bottle caps. He crams everything into the breast pocket of his shirt before laying down, eyes stinging with unshed tears. Holland stares up at the barely visible stars. He has to look towards the vast ocean, out where the smog of the city at their backs doesn’t yet touch.

Laying in the sand, he realizes that the merman has been unfalteringly patient in answering Holly’s questions. The private investigator isn’t sure even he has that much tolerance sometimes. It leads him to wonder if Jackson is also a parent. He seems like the family type. Questions about the merman’s biology rise to the surface, but he doesn’t dare utter any of them out loud for fear the fish man would deck him since he’s a grown-ass man and doesn’t get a pass to be nosy.

Still, Holland muses that Healy could be like a seahorse. Don’t the males carry the babies? That would be wild. He shakes the thought loose, flushing.

Conversation becomes broken up by Holly’s yawns. Jackson’s voice grows quieter, almost soothing, as the girl inches closer and closer to slumber. She falls asleep in the sand beside her dad. As Holland looks over at her, he wishes he had brought a jacket. He smooths a careful hand over her blonde hair. She doesn’t stir.

“You’ve got a good pup,” Healy says.

The PI feels pride light up in his chest, warming him. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Holland is happy that her mind had been taken off the death of her mother. Healy had been enough of a distraction to keep things from spiraling into agony as they had the during past couple years. He knows they will talk about her later, as they should, but for now, Holly is able to rest.

Speaking of the fish man, he turns to find that he has shifted to face the horizon. If he feels Holland’s eyes on him, he shows no signs of discomfort. They do not speak.

Minutes bleed into hours. The roar of the ocean’s steady waves eventually lure Holland into drifting into slumber himself. He accepts the touch of oblivion willingly.

He wakes to a hand slapping him on the knee.

“Up you get, legs. Your client isn’t going to show.”

With a stiff back, he sits up and dusts the sand out of his hair. When he speaks, his voice is thick with sleep. “What makes you say that?”

“Fish have all gone home. It’s hunting hour for the sharks.”

The merman looks alien in the total darkness. He’d been right. The clouds did swallow the moon.

Fair enough, Holland reasons and gets to his feet. He looks down at his daughter with no small amount of remorse. He wishes he didn’t have to wake her up to get her back to the car. For a moment, he also wishes Jackson had legs. Of the two adults, he knows that a belegged Healy would be the one capable of picking Holly up and carrying her across the beach and up the flights of stairs to the Benz. He’s eyeballed up the merman’s upper body enough to be certain of it.

It seems like just last month that he’d held her for the first time in the hospital. She’s grown so fast. Everything is slipping by Holland at speeds he can’t wrap his head around. It makes him want to take a drink from a flask he hasn’t yet replaced.

“Same sky. Same place for tomorrow. Goodnight, March,” Healy says and slips under the waves.

Right. Fish men don’t have clocks, he thinks as he crouches to wake his kid.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Much to Holly’s very vocal dismay, Holland goes alone to see Jackson. He had insisted that his daughter stay home at the rental and work on her schoolwork. Of course, she’d protested that she hardly had any, but he remembers his own days at school. There had always been assignments.

The walk down to the meeting spot doesn’t feel as arduous of a journey tonight. Anticipation puts wings on every step. He’d made sure to prepare for a long night of keeping watch on the shore. He’s gradually learning from each encounter.

Tonight, he’s outfitted himself with a new flask, a fresh pack of cigarettes, a refilled lighter, and all the other crap he’s always got kicking around in his pockets. He’s also got a beach towel rolled up under one arm with a pair of binoculars tucked in alongside it. Holland also made the choice to leave his shoes behind in the car again. Sand in his loafers was an unforgettable sensation he’d rather not experience again.

Upon reaching the prearranged meeting location, he spreads out the beach towel. He has barely sat on the cloth before Healy heaves himself onto shore. There’s a still wriggling fish clasped in his hand.

Holland’s mouth falls open and he lets out a sharp “Jesus!” when the merman calmly bites the head off the fish and swallows. It goes limp after a final twitch.

Jackson raises an eyebrow. His second eyelids pass over his dark eyes. He looks entirely unbothered by the PI’s dismay.

“Gotta eat,” he says dismissively.

Protests and complaints rise to Holland’s lips. But before he can put his foot in his mouth, he realizes that of course the merman would eat raw fish. You can’t have fire under water. Healy is not out there cooking away in the depth of the deep blue.

“Right,” he says meekly and pulls out his newly acquired, as of this afternoon, flask. He takes a shallow pull from it. Holland hesitates and offers it in the direction of the merman.

“Alcohol?” Healy asks.

“Yeah.”

“No thanks. Don’t drink anymore.”

Holland blinks. “Anymore?”

In lieu of a verbal answer, Healy grunts. He doesn’t offer up more than that. Without any care to Holland’s emotional state, he takes another mouthful of fish. This time he rips open the belly. Small intestines ribbon out in the wake of his bite. They glisten in the moonlight, and the PI has to turn away so he doesn't throw up on the sand. Already, he can feel the pre-vomit sweat gathering under his arms and along his sides.

Trying to keep the contents of his stomach where they belong, he fiddles with the wedding ring on the chain around his neck. He looks everywhere else but directly at the fish man. Snatching up the binoculars, he peers through the lenses at the horizon. Despite his intense scrutiny, he sees nothing. There’s absolutely fuck-all.

“Are there others? Or are you swimming solo?” he blurts out, lowering the binoculars once he no longer hears the sound of the merman chewing. His gaze shifts to where Healy is cupping water in his hands and wiping over his face and gills. Drops of moisture sparkle in his facial hair. Holland is beyond relived to see that he’s finished eating the fish.

In response, Jackson sighs. The shark man adjusts himself more comfortably into the shallow water, clearly settling in.

“Just me. My mate decided to nest up with my father instead.”

Holland chokes on air. “Is that normal?”

Surely it’s a merperson thing. Like do they just do that? Holland doesn’t fucking know.

A bitter laugh. “No.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry,” he apologies, face burning. He takes a hasty swig from his flask. He needs to learn how to shut his mouth without his ankle between his teeth and his toes lodged firmly into his throat.

“It’s done,” Jackson responds with a shrug. “I’ve come to accept it with equanimity.”

Holland’s eyes nearly pop from their sockets. “That’s a thousand dollar word. The fuck?” he mutters.

“I do know things, legs.” Healy’s laugh is rich and thick. Holland swallows. The heat in his face isn’t dissipating. He can’t take his eyes off the merman.

The moon is unobstructed by clouds tonight. Jackson Healy is awash in silver light. The broken pattern of striped markings is like swaths of ink across his body. Holland finds himself drawn to curiosity. Is the skin different between the shark parts and the human parts or…? There’s a distinct difference in coloration along his back, surely it has to feel different if touched.

“Is the water cold?” he asks abruptly.

“Not to me.”

He’ll take that answer. The PI needs to cool down anyway. He withdraws the items that could be damaged by the saltwater out of his pockets and drops them on the towel. He doesn’t want to lose another pack of smokes to the ocean. He moves the few feet into the shallow water beside the merman. His khakis are instantly soaked, prompting a yelp from the man. He flinches closer to Healy, instinctively seeking warmth. He stops himself short of actually touching him.

Seemingly content to let Holland orbit him, Jackson doesn’t move.

“You didn’t bring your pup this time.”

“What? Oh, no. Holly has to go to school in the morning.”

“Lessons?”

“Yeah. Do you guys have formal education?”

“I think our definitions would be different.”

“Ah…” Holland withdraws his flask and takes a sip. The alcohol is already making him loose-limbed and chatty. “Do you have kids… pups? You were so good with Holly, I wondered.”

“No. It never happened for me.”

Another winner for the world’s best private investigator. Pat on the back for him. Chagrined, he screws the lid down tight and puts his flask away.

Healy shifts and turns those dark eyes on him. Holland is captivated like a deep sea creature drawn to the glow of an angler fish. The spell is broken when Jackson does something with his tail and sends water erupting over Holland’s upper half.

Sputtering, he pushes his dripping hair out off of his forehead. When he clears his vision, he sees that Jackson is smiling, all teeth. His gills flutter as he chuckles.

“Chin up, legs.”

In return, he splashes water in the direction of the merman. Healy remains completely unphased. After their squabbling play, they sit in silence. Holland feels surprised that it doesn’t feel opressive or troubling. He hates being alone with his thoughts. There’s too many skeletons lurking around the corners. He’s a regular haunted house, but it doesn’t feel so lonely like this.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“Do you know how that body got there? That night you fished me out?”

“No fucking idea.” He pauses, frowns, brow furrowing. “That’s why I swam over. Then your dumb ass fell right on me.”

A weight comes off his shoulders with the confirmation that Healy didn’t murder the stranger, but a chill runs down his spine and crushes any relief. There is a good chance he hadn’t been alone in the dark after all. There could have been a killer watching him from some hidden vantage point.

“That’s good,” Holland nervously laughs. “I thought you might—you know… been a predator like a normal shark and—“ he draws a finger across his throat before letting his hand drop.

“Who says I’m not?”

Holland’s breath seizes in his chest. Oh, Jesus. Oh, fuck.He hadn’t pegged the merman as a liar but—

“Just fucking with you.” Healy interrupts his spiral with a hard slap to the PI’s upper arm. The fish man’s hand lingers, his fingers wrap around the curve of Holland’s bicep. Jackson’s pinky and ring finger are resting below the edge of his sleeve. With a start, he realizes that the merman’s hands are warmer than he would have thought. Jackson fails to break the contact, and Holland doesn’t shrug him off.

“You’re not in the food chain, March,” he adds, soft.

They meet each other’s gaze silently. Holland can’t read the expression in those dark eyes, but it’s an intent look. Just on the right edge of buzzed, he thinks that they’re not so different. Too lonely men who don’t seem to fit in anywhere. He sways forward, about to make a mistake. Jackson doesn’t lean away.

“Are all pairs for your kind guys and gals?” he asks.

“No. Not always.”

“And that’s okay?”

“Yes.” Healy’s voice is low. There’s a reticence to his tone, as if he’s not sure how Holland is going to react.

Despite the realization he shouldn’t, he does feel surprised. Of course fish people would have a different society than humans. A different set of restrictions and norms are to be expected. It only makes sense. Jackson’s trepidation also checks out. Who knows what he’s adsorbed from their world over the years. He’s certainly gained quite the vocabulary at the very least. He still can’t believe the shark man knew the word “equanimity” but not what a private investigator is.

What a jackass, he thinks.

Holland raises his hand and reaches out to the merman. His fingertips brush over Jackson’s collarbone. He skates his touch up over his throat, nails catching on the stubble there. He doesn’t have the guts to graze his touch over the fish man’s gills just yet. They look delicate, fragile.

A distant rumble reaches them. Initially, the private investigator thinks that it’s just thunder, but the merman in front of him goes tense. Healy’s fingers clench down on his upper arm before he lets go and withdraws from his space just as a floodlight sweeps across the ocean’s waves. It’s a boat. A fishing trawler.

“He’s here. Go.”

“Shit, shit, shit,” Holland says, growing increasingly shriller as he checks his pockets for change. His frantic pawing is met with the hard jangle of coins. He has what he needs for his role in the plan.

Scrambling to his feet, wet pants clinging to his legs, he feels himself starting to tremble with nerves. He watches helplessly as Healy pushes himself out into deeper water.

“I’ll distract him,” the merman calls. He takes off with a speed Holland would have never expected. Jackson’s agility and strength is continuing to surprise him.

“I’ll make the call,” he says to nothing but the night air. The heavy weight of being alone wraps around his throat.

For just a moment, the private investigator hesitates, looking out into the blue-black water. He’s trying to gather his thoughts before he takes off for the parking lot, but he’s unable to when he sees his new friend surface in the direct beam of the fishing trawler’s floodlight. There’s a distant shout that manages to bounce across the water to the shore. Sam has seen the shark man.

A spear from a harpoon gun gleams in its deadly arc into the sea. A rope trails from it. The fisherman clearly wants to haul the merman in, and he does not care about injuring him in the process. Holland doesn’t see if the metal object makes contact. The distance is too great. He can barely make out Jackson’s broad back and the notched point of his dorsal fin as he goes under the waves.

The fear of Healy getting injured, if not killed, has Holland bolting for the boardwalk and the stairs leading up into the parking lot. His heart is pounding in his throat as he combats the terrain. Why does running in sand have to feel like he’s experiencing slow-motion. It’s as though the frame rate of his world has slowed to a crawl.

He is running so hard in the effort to combat the sinking of his feet that he nearly pitches forward once he makes contact with the solid mass of the set of stairs leading up onto the wooden walkway. Hurrying across the worn planks, he reaches the stairs that will take him to the payphone. His lungs are burning and the climb to higher ground seems unreachable.

Holland does the impossible. He fights against his body’s desire to lay down like fresh roadkill and hauls ass up the stairs with a ferocity he’s never felt. It’ll be over his crumpled corpse that real harm comes to the merman. He’s grown dangerously fond of him.

Every time that he has fallen for someone—it has always been hard and fast. He never thinks things through, relying on emotions and instincts. He’d barely known Holly’s mother for a week before he was flinging himself to his knees and begging her to marry him so they could have a family together.

Impulsive. Reckless. Stupid. Irresponsible. Holland March has heard it all. He has had a stream of negative words thrown at him while he navigates life by the seat of his pants. Sometimes, he thinks they might be accurate.

He trips on the stairs. He lands hard, rattling his brain inside his skull. His teeth slam down on his tongue. Blood explodes in his mouth and he chokes on it. Still, Holland gets back up. He grabs the handrail and all but drags himself up the steps. He landed on his arm weird. It’s throbbing in time with his frantic heartbeat. The PI hopes it’s not broken—it would be just his luck.

The sand covered asphalt of the parking lot is harsh against his feet. It’s another discomfort to join the dozens he’s already feeling. Weighed down by the sand clinging to his wet pant legs, he pushes himself to go to the payphone. He snatches up the receiver, rummaging in his pockets to pull out change for the machine. Coins fall out of his shaky hand and rain down onto the ground like meteors.

He struggles to maintain composure while directing the operator to put on the local police department. He’s rocking on his heels. His eyes are straining out at the ocean to see what’s happening. It’s hard to make out anything in the dark. The boat is still in roughly the same spot. Healy must be giving Sam a hell of a struggle.

Holland rushes through the conversation with the police, mouth going a mile a minute. “Okay, Hi. Hello. Good evening. I need to report a crime. There’s a man we saw illegally fishing and he attacked my friend when he confronted him about it. There’s a weapon involved.”

“Sir, have you been drinking?“

He ignores that.

“They’re just offshore by the boardwalk where that dead body was pulled out. Via Riviera and Paseo. Fishing boat. Can’t miss it. Please, come quick. My friend is in the water and it’s looking bad. I thin—“

“Hey. man, whatcha doing?” a voice cuts him off.

March freezes. The hair on the back of his neck and his arms stands stands to attention. The fisherman hadn’t been alone after all. With feigned calmness, he puts the phone back on the hook. He just has to hope the cops take him seriously and send someone out. If he ever sees Sam again, Holland has decided that he’s going to wring his tomato soup loving neck for putting both him and Jackson through this experience.

“You causing trouble? Who’d you call?” A bespectacled man with a beard peers at him.

“Nobody.”

“Bullshit,” the man disagrees and pulls a gun. That’s his cue to hit the bricks.

Taking off into the darkness beyond the lot, he skitters left then right. He immediately hears the stranger in hot pursuit. Even if he thought he would be able to loop around and make for the stairs, it would be easy to shoot him during the descent. The PI would prefer to get through the night without any new holes. He’s fine with what he’s already got.

The edge of a cliff confronts him mere yards into his flight. He stops so abruptly that he feels like the motion should have been accompanied by a cartoonish squeal of tires. Inertia almost sends him head first over the edge.

In the distance, he can make out the noise of approaching first responders. He catches the strobe of red and blue lights in the corner of his eye. The cavalry is arriving and arriving fast.

“Shit!” the gunman says as the sirens draw nearer to the parking lot behind them.

A bullet hits the ground mere inches from his heel. Holland knows a second one will be coming. He flings himself off the cliff, hoping beyond hope that there’s water waiting for him below and not rocks. He hadn’t had the time to look.

As expected, another shot blazes past his ear as he goes over the edge, deafening him. Holland is so glad he’d put his parenting foot down and not brought Holly with him tonight.

He belly flops onto the surface of the ocean. The air is knocked clean out of his lungs and he goes under in a rush of bubbles and weak struggling. Holland isn’t sure how long he spends drowning despite his best efforts to claw his way upwards before he goes limp. The fringes of his vision are going dark. Static is building in his brain. He thinks again of his daughter.

Something brushes against his legs. He thinks he feels the boney cartilage of a fin graze against his stomach before the dark shape under the waves captures him in its arms and boosts them to the surface with a few powerful motions of its tail.

“You’re an idiot, March,” the merman chides.

Holland’s first response to is to cough so hard he’s almost worried that his lungs are going to shoot out of his mouth and into the depths. Healy thumps a large hand over the PI’s chest. The pressure against his sternum helps to dispel some of the water from his respiratory system.

Able to breathe, he screams a little in a delayed reaction only to cough again before sagging limply against the fish man holding him. Healy is easily keeping them afloat. The firm arms around Holland’s torso are better than a life jacket.

“I know,” he finally says, voice scratchy.

Across the way, a police boat is pulled up next to the trawler. If he squints, he can see an officer duck into the cabin. Another cop seems to be babysitting a huddled form. Even at this distance, Holland can see a dark spray of blood along the fishing boat’s side, marring the white paint just above the waterline. Both boats start chugging off towards the marina and out of the swim zone. At the very least, there’s going to be a violation for bringing that large of a boat into the swimming bay. They’ve fucking done it. Sometimes things work out.

Wordlessly, Jackson swims them back to their meetup location. Holland lets himself be toted along like luggage, rotating only so he can wrap his arms around the merman’s wide shoulders. He feels like safe this.

Too soon, the fish man is rolling slightly and releasing him. The investigator's feet make contact with the sandy bottom of the shallow water. The shells and small stones are smooth against his tender skin. He wades to shore towards his abandoned towel. He’s relieved that he left his cigs behind. A quick pat of his chest reveals that his flask has once again miraculously remained in the pocket of his shirt. Holland could jump for joy. He’d have hated to replace it again so soon.

He turns back to Healy about to say something, and realizes that the merman is bleeding from the side of his arm. It’s clearly been hit by a bolt from the fisherman’s harpoon gun, nearly in the same spot as the merman had been speared in before. Horror dawns on him—the blood on the side of the fishing boat had been Jackson’s.

“Jesus!” He goes splashing into the ocean again, arm outstretched to make a grab at the merman.

He’s stopped by Healy’s hands clamping around his own. “I’m fine, March. I’m fine.”

“At least put something on it.”

“It’s already sealing shut. I’m alright.”

Holland presses in for a closer look at the injury. Jackson is right. The blood has clotted in the wound. It looks like jelly in a way that has the PI backing out of the water and onto the shore to keep from passing out. He’s never been able to handle blood very well.

Shakily and ready to drop from exhaustion, he gathers up the meager belongings that he’d brought with him. As soon as he gets back to the rental, he’s collapsing. If it wouldn’t worry Holly, he’d make sleeping spot right here on the sand for the night while the fish man does whatever the hell he does when he’s not lounging around out of the water and making Holland wrestle with his rapidly growing feelings.

It makes sense that the merman would be nocturnal. It keeps in the likelihood of him being discovered to a minimum. In Holland’s opinion, nobody in their right mind would be going night swimming in the fucking ocean.

“I’m getting you dinner tomorrow. Same place, same time, as we’ve been doing. You, Jackson,” he announces while pointing emphatically at his partner in justice, “are going to experience the greasiest fucking fast food of your life.”

Healy looks at him, bemused. “Alright, legs.”

They stay there. Unmoving.

The fish man speaks again. “You good to get back to the dock?”

“You offering a ride?” The words are out of his mouth before he can think about them. He could rip his own lips off with the embarrassment that has his face feeling like a lit firework. “Yes! Yes, I can walk. Goodnight. Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a great evening. Glad we could get handsy—the case handled.”

With an abrupt turn, he starts walking. He doesn’t dare look back at the merman. Each step to the parking lot feels as though it were a thousand. By the time he reaches the top step, he’d almost welcome the gunman appearing out of the darkness to finish the job so he doesn’t have to get his weary body back home. No one interrupts him on the final leg of the journey to his Benz. The lot is empty. Nothing was left behind to indicate there had been a swarm of officers just an hour before.

Man, Holland thinks as he wrestles on his shoes so he can drive, shit sure moves fast in Los Angeles.

It’s all too easy to lose yourself in this part of California. The environment here has allowed Holland to let himself slip away and not feel so out of place among the thousands of others doing the same thing. Vices are aplenty in the city of stars.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Holland makes it home before his daughter wakes up. The PI has just changed into sleepwear and laid on the couch with the television quietly playing in the corner when Holly comes barreling into the living room. She’s fully dressed and ready to go to school. She tosses her backpack on his stomach on her way to the kitchen.

Throwing an arm over his eyes, he groans, “Jesus, kiddo.”

He tunes out the noises of her serving herself breakfast. If he were to put his money on it, he’d say she’s getting herself cereal. The clanging of her spoon against the ceramic of a bowl is almost enough to set off the ringing he’s had off and on since nearly getting a bullet lodged in his skull.

The PI is half asleep when his kid retrieves her backpack off of him. He can feel her standing by the side of the couch, looming over him.

“You ready?”

“No,” he says but gets up anyway to get his car keys out of the bowl so he can drive Holly to school.

He hates making her wait for the bus when he can take a stab at being a decent parent and do this one thing for her no matter what. Holland might be doing it in his undershirt and boxers with a pair of loafers on. If he’s not going to make sure his daughter gets an education and gets to be anything she wants to be in the world, he can write himself as a complete failure. Holly is just like her mother—too damn smart for him to do anything but support her.

“How did it go?” she asks the minute they’re buckled in and on their way and he’s got no escape short of pulling off onto the side of the road and leaping out of the vehicle.

Holland is too tired to even light up a cigarette fetched from the pack in his glove compartment. “Oh, you know. It went off without a hitch. Nothing exciting.”

He doesn’t mention that he jumped off a cliff rather than get a bullet in the ass.

“You got the soup guy?”

“Sure did, honey. Just like Scooby-doo.”

She hums. “Are you going to see Mr. Healy again?”

“I might.” He doesn’t mention he’s going to do so tonight.

“I’d like to see him again, he was really nice and st—” she cuts herself off.

Holland doesn’t offer up any corrections to her speech. He just lets his daughter adjust the dials the radio in peace.

“Can I hang with Jess tonight?

“Her mom going to pick you both up after school?”

“Mmmhm.”

“Go for it. Don’t do anything I would do.”

Sagging back into his seat once she’s out of sight, he catches an aghast look at his state of dress from one of the other parents. March sticks his tongue out at her before putting his car into drive. He’s doing his fucking best, alright.

He swears that he can feel her roll her eyes at him. A glance in her direction as he pulls along the curb reveals a small smile. Good. She lets herself out of the car with hasty goodbye. Gathering up all the energy he can, Holland waves at her. It’s over the top and obnoxious.

“Have a good day at school, kiddo!” he calls after her while she pretends to be embarrassed on the way to the front doors.

His eyes want to drift shut on the way home. Holland manages to keep them open. He sloppily parks in the driveway. The lurch over curb is enough to jolt him into enough wakefulness that he’s able to get inside the rental and on the couch before his brain shuts off completely.

───※ ·❆· ※───

When he wakes up next, the living room is awash with the red light of the setting sun. He stares uncomprehending at the ceiling for several long moments before he shoots to his feet. He has a date of sorts that he needs to be getting ready for.

As he’s pulling on a pair of board shorts, he realizes that he’s slept through the newscast. He’ll have to wait and see if last night’s incident shows up in the paper in the following days. Holland shrugs a thin shirt on over his undershirt and leaves it unbuttoned. Now that he is aware of his penchant for ending up in the ocean, he’s accepted that he’s going to have to dress for it.

On the way out of the door, he puts on an ancient pair of sandals that he hasn’t worn since Holly was a toddler and grabs another old towel.

Holland makes sure to swing by a fast food place for the dinner that he’d promised Jackson. The investigator purposely avoids getting anything containing fish. Healy can get that at any time. The merman has a whole ocean of sushi to swallow down. Memories of last night’s fish dinner make him want to gag.

A carhop brings the food out to him. Holland hopes that he’s made the right choices. He sets the bag on the seat next to him and shoves the two milkshakes he ordered into the cupholders before driving towards the beach.

He’s cautious when he pulls into the usual parking spot. Holland takes his time gathering up their meal, scanning the area around him all the while. Nothing springs out of the darkness at him. Thank fuck.

With no small amount of relief, the PI heads down the stairs. He even whistles a tune while he picks his way through the sand to the meeting spot. His noise trails off when he sees a familiar shape in the distance. Healy is waiting for him, laying atop of a rock a few feet below the tide line.

Silhouetted against the night sky like this, the merman does look like a creature of myth. It’s enough to make Holland pause and take it in.

What the fuck am I doing? he thinks to himself.

There’s a half-cocked idea of putting the moves on the merman, but it suddenly seems absurd. They’re different species. Besides, Holland is Holland, nothing special there, and Jackson is… mindbogglingly implausible.

“Legs,” Healy rumbles when he gets within speaking distance.

“Hey…” he struggles to come up with something witty to say, “fins.”

The merman chuckles. Holland feels his face grow hot.

“Here,” he says, shoving the two milkshakes at the fish man followed by the bag of food. Healy sets the items aside while Holland scrambles for purchase on the rock. He’s halfway up it and struggling for another place to grasp onto when Jackson to places firm hands on him hauls him up with his own brute strength. Holland smooths his mustache and tries to not let on how much that gesture had affected him.

“Got you chocolate. Since you liked the Yoo-hoo,” he says with a halfhearted point at one of the paper cups.

Healy wastes no time in determining which drink is the aforementioned chocolate one. “It’s good, real good,” he says, sounding slightly awed.

Feeling a warm glow, Holland starts passing food off onto the merman. They eat in companionable silence. He’s more transfixed on watching Jackson eat than on speaking. For once, there’s nothing he wants to say.

Wrappers and fry containers get tossed back into the paper sack. They put a sizable rock on top of it so it doesn’t get blown away in the breeze and end up joining the rumored garbage island floating around out there somewhere in the pacific.

“We did good, huh?” Holland says, elbowing the merman perched on the stone beside him.

“Yeah, yeah, we did,” he answers leaning into him in return. He’s warm and solid against the PI’s side.

Holland offers his milkshake to the man beside him. Instead of taking it from him, Jackson puts his mouth around the end of the straw and sucks. He watches the merman’s throat bob as he swallows and pulls off. It draws attention to the gills adorning the sides of his neck.

Making up his mind to do something rash, he plants his cup in a divot in the rock they’re seated on. He reaches up, unable to resist any longer. His fingers brush over the delicate skin. Healy’s gills feel as soft as flower petals underneath his exploratory fingertips. At his touch, the merman shudders and presses closer.

His wandering hand trails down from the sides of his companion’s neck, his thumb pausing in the hollow of Healy’s throat on the journey to his chest. The merman turns to Holland. His lips are parted to ask a question, offering March a flash of pointed teeth. He wonders what they would feel like against his tongue and he doesn’t let himself wonder for too long.

The events of the past twenty-four hours have given him enough courage to lean and brush his lips over Healy’s mouth. The shark man jolts in surprise but recovers quickly. To Holland’s delight, he grabs him with webbed hands and holds him firmly as he returns the kiss. Jackson taste of salt and sweet cream. He can feel the sharp edges of his teeth against his bottom lip.

Holland is hard enough that he would be embarrassed if he had any real shame left.

Grasping at Healy’s side, he feels the plumpness there and moans into the merman’s mouth. His fingers sink into the fat layer with ease. Jackson is well insulated for the depths off of California’s golden coast.

He’s forced to sober up when the fish man pulls back. Healy seems at a loss for words, but makes an attempt to get his thoughts out. “March… I’m not… I haven’t…

“I haven’t either. Not with a man,” the PI admits.

Holland had been so wildly head over heels for Holly’s mom. He might have been lacking in other departments, but he’d always been a devoted husband. Even after being widowed, he’d been unable to shake her ghost. He’d flirted, flashed his charm around, but nothing had ever come of it. It hadn’t felt right. There had been an itch under his skin that he couldn’t quite scratch.

Unconsciously, he’d found himself looking for his deceased wife in the faces of every woman he found attractive. With Healy—it’s vastly different. Holland doesn’t feel like he’s trying to draw an impossible comparison, erase any individualities in the search for someone he had loved—and loves still. He misses her so much that he’s killing himself slowly with the recklessness, the alcohol, the cigarettes, just to be with her all the sooner.

Holly will be grown soon. She won’t need her old man to weigh her down. He has nothing else to tether him here other than her, maybe if he—

A brush of a desperate mouth over his brings Holland crashing back to earth, grounding him in reality. Jackson is solid against him, very much real and alive. He manages to reengage in the moment.

They’re touching each other like they may not have another chance. Given March’s track record with being a fuck-up: they may not. Holland resolves to make the most of this opportunity and wastes no time in cupping the merman’s chest briefly and tracing downward over the curve of his stomach.

Exploring lower, his fingers hook on a barely visible slit. Jackson’s choked off gasp spurns Holland into carefully dipping a fingertip further inside. Unsure of what to expect, his curiosity grows as it collides with something tucked inside the warm folds. He coaxingly strokes his discovery while the merman’s hands grip him tightly. The organ grows firmer under his touch and slowly emerges, pushing against Holland’s finger.

It’s a pale pink color, slightly flushed at the tip. Holland is forced to shift his hand slightly as Healy’s dick reaches its full length. Cautiously, he trails a finger down from the tip of it to the considerably wider base. It twitches, accompanied by an involuntary groan from the merman, and slick dribbles down the shaft.

“Jesus…” Holland whines. He wraps his hand around it and experimentally jerks the organ. Healy arches off the rock, hips thrusting upward in the hunt for friction.

He feels Jackson’s calloused hands fighting with the edge of his undershirt, slipping underneath the thin material and spanning wide over his rib cage. The merman’s claw-like nails scrape against Holland’s chest. He squirms, torn between pressing closer and pulling away. It’s too much and not enough. There’s just so much of the shark man. The PI feels overwhelmed in a way that makes him wish he had met Healy sooner. God, why hadn’t they known each other months ago?

“You too, legs,” the merman groans, one hand traveling to the waistband of March’s board shorts.

Catching the implication, Holland readily obeys. He strips himself of his clothing until he is as naked as the fish man that hasn’t stopped touching him since they first kissed. In the back of his mind, the private investigator hopes that he hadn’t dropped any of his clothes in the ocean in his haste to get undressed. He doesn’t need to try to sneak into the house later. He’s a grown man nearing middle age, not an idiot teenager planning crawl back through a bedroom window once the rendezvous is over despite what his body is actively trying to tell him right now.

“C’mere,” Jackson pleads.

The merman’s voice is rough and wrecked in a way that has Holland squirming closer to straddle the lower half of Healy’s tail. He seats himself just above the fin. As he gets into position, he can’t resist grinding down as he feels the shark man’s body shift and flex between his legs. The sensation is like nothing he’s ever felt before. Healy’s skin is rough, almost sandpapery against his testicles and the head of his own cock with each upward slant of Holland’s hips, but goes slick with each downward slide.

He shudders and fights the urge to mindlessly rut against the merman. Mouth already agape with pleasure, he leans down and takes Healy into his mouth. Unused to having something so substantial between his lips, he chokes, throat tightening around the tip of Jackson’s dick. He hastily eases off and settles for a more comfortable depth. His hand works the excess, sliding easily through the gathering precum and saliva at the base.

Healy’s fingers are digging into his shoulders hard enough to draw pinpricks of blood with his nails. A quick glance upward reveals that the merman’s inky eyes are locked onto him. Jackson’s teeth are digging into his own lip and he seems like he’s fighting to not thrust up into Holland’s mouth.

The PI whines at the sight. With sudden desperation, he wants to be on the receiving end of Healy’s pent up energy. He figures that the merman’s cock is tapered enough that he can work himself open on it. Holland has never taken anything up the ass, at least nothing more sizable than a finger or two. That kind of stretch had been just fine—pleasurable. He can make this work despite his inexperience.

He lets Jackson slide free from the wet heat of his mouth. It twitches and seems to reach for his lips as he pulls away. The pink organ is ruddy with arousal and devastatingly slick. There is no need for further lubrication. It’s ready to take him.

With more eagerness than grace, he scrambles up Healy’s body. The merman’s hands come to rest on his thighs, cupping the soft skin and encouraging him closer.

“Is this okay?” he asks. He can feel his companion’s erection pulse in his grasp.

“Yeah,” Jackson responds, voice thick, syrupy.

Holland doesn’t allow himself to hesitate. He lines up and contorts enough to angle the tip of Healy’s cock against his hole. He feels himself being breached and releases his hold to rest both hands on the broad expanse of the merman’s chest. He gasps as he eases down, feeling himself slowly open up. Impatient to feel more, he lowers himself further. The stretch burns, but he’s spurred on by the promise of it feeling good. The rumbling groans from Healy drive him to sit flush with the fish man’s lower half. Holland’s legs are straining wide over the bulk of him.

“March,” the merman gasps out, hands gripping onto him so tight that Holland is sure he’s going to be wearing garters made of bruises his lover’s touch left behind.

Inside of him, he feels Healy’s dick twist and rub against him. It manages to brush firmly against him in such a way that he’s made to gasp and arch forward. He tucks one hand behind the shark man’s head and then they’re kissing.

Holland feels Jackson’s grip shift. He breaks off the kiss with a startled hitch to his breath that quickly turns into a moan as the merman holds him up with his hands on his thighs and begins to fuck into him. He’s trembling with the effort to stay upright and not go limp atop the merman. Next time—there will a next time, damn it—he’s going to lay on his back and have Healy pin him down against a beach towel on the shore while Holland comes apart on his cock.

With every thrust of Healy’s hips, the PI’s dick bobs, nearly slapping against his own abdomen He’s leaking uncontrollably. Precum drips and strings from the head of his cock, making a mess of the merman’s hair covered stomach. Gasps and moans accompany the slapping of skin against skin that manages to break above the steady noise of the ocean.

Jesus, Holland thinks, I want to—

He cums. His orgasm hits him with all the warning of getting T-boned in an intersection. His semen coats Healy’s chest, catching in the thick hair coating his pectorals. Ropes hit the merman’s chin and neck. It’s too much. It’s always been too much.

Jackson takes one hand off Holland’s hip and swipes his webbed fingers over his own stomach, gathering up the PI’s release. He brings his hand to his lips, giving it a cautious taste before earnestly licking his fingers clean. He sets to cleaning the mess off himself. Holland feels his dick give a weak buck in response.

Eyes, locked onto Healy’s face, he squirms back onto the merman’s erection. He rides it for all he’s worth—goes until he’s breathless and gasping from exertion.

With a long groan muffled by another kiss, Healy cums inside of him, holding him down on his cock like he’s trying to put a pup inside of him. The shark man fills him to bursting. Holland collapses flat onto his chest. As he tries to catch his breath, he feels the dick inside of him pulse once, twice, more before it softens. It slides out of him with a rush of wetness in its wake as the organ tucks itself back into the merman’s sheath.

Healy is humming, almost purring underneath Holland, while he traces careful hands over the PI’s back. Holland shivers at the contact and presses a tired kiss against the side of the merman’s neck, careful of his gills. He’ll get up and do the walk of shame after they clean each other off with tender touches and sea water. For now, he’s content to lay here with the fish man—ass out and without a care in the world beyond this hazy moment in time.

Impossibly, Jackson has soothed away much of the nervous energy that always plagues Holland. He could almost confess love right here and now. Maybe the next time. He’ll have to find out how merpeople marriages work.

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