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foxdev1l · 14 days

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► Easy lover

Colt Seavers x afab!reader || Masterlist

Wordcount: 3,488

Summary: You've started visiting Colt on set during his breaks and, hey, why not make the most of it?

A/N: Someone requested Colt smut and then I went and accidentally deleted the ask. I would like to also partially blame tumblr, though, because this site is broken and the circumstances in which the ask ceased to exist were rather suspicious. Title is from here.

Content (Warnings): nsfw, piv, fingering, hickeys

There's something to be said for visiting Colt at work.

If you're lucky you catch a glimpse of a stunt or two before he goes to take the break you often share together.

Colt Seavers is most at home when he's being hit by cars, driving a motorcycle, or falling out of windows. He's a vision like that, all sweaty, tousled hair and bright eyes, and you're glad when you get to see it.

You can't be there all the time, though, because you're trying to keep your relationship on the down-low. It’s not necessarily because there could be any serious consequences for you or Colt if it came out that one of the stunt people is dating one of the writers, it’s just that you don't need everyone asking questions and being nosy when you've only just started something. It's still new. Fragile, even though you can feel the sheer potential you and Colt have together. You don't want it to burn itself out, but it's hard with Colt being who he is. He's so desperately earnest, about ten times as impressive as he thinks he is, and just about the best partner you've ever had.

Being with him is comfortable and he's safe. He'd never hurt you. The coffee incident doesn't count even though you know Colt is still beating himself up about that. He's weirdly clumsy. If you didn’t see his skill for yourself on a weekly basis you would seriously question his choice of career path. But there's a calm that settles over him as soon as he's on set. Shoulders falling, breathing evening out, hands relaxing at his sides, and then he's letting himself fall out of a fucking helicopter of all things.

That day wasn’t great for your nerves, but he immediately texted you ‘All good 😎👍🏻’ after safely landing on an absolutely massive airbag and being patted down by his fellow stunt people for injuries, despite being only like 20 yards away. You appreciate that he doesn't ridicule you for showing fear in the face of your boyfriend doing breakneck stunts day in and day out, even if he doesn't exactly understand it himself.

He's already on break when you arrive today. By the time production starts, writers are really only needed for small changes to the script and the writing room is empty and dark most days, so you've found yourself a bit of free time. You've been enjoying it, but today you had woken up restless and bored already. You had shot Colt a quick text, asking if he was around and wanted to see you. He was of course and, yes, he did.

So, with a small smile, you got your things together and drove down to set.

You're most of the way to his trailer already when something interrupts you.

“Hey!”

You turn around, a smile brightening your features as you see Colt jogging towards you, holding two cups of what you assume is coffee in his left hand.

He gives you his right hand to shake and you roll your eyes but indulge him. “What was your name again?”

“Colt.”

“That’s right, I remember now.”

Colt rolls his eyes good-naturedly, squeezes your hand one last time before letting it go to instead root through his pockets for his keys to open the door of his trailer for you. He’s having a bit of a hard time with it, though, considering his keys are in his left-side pocket and said hand is occupied.

You could take the coffee, but instead, you take a step closer and bat his hand away. His eyes snap up to yours as you snake your hand into his pocket with a teasing grin you can’t hold back.

“What are you doing?” he asks with his own small smile.

You shrug. “Nothing, just,” you lay your hand flat against his thigh, warm even through the fabric, “getting the keys.”

“Careful,” Colt says, voice low and playful. “Someone's gonna see.”

You shrug but you also remove your hand from his jeans, keys held in your grip.

You turn around and he crowds up against you like an impatient puppy wanting to be let in.

“Patience,” you admonish him, trying to fit the key into the lock.

It requires a bit of effort to focus the needed amount of attention onto what you're doing in front of you instead of letting all your attention flee to what Colt is doing behind you. Which actually isn't much. He's just… Very big and very warm.

You finally manage to get the door open and you've barely stepped past the threshold and let Colt in behind you, when you turn around with every intention of kissing your boyfriend within an inch of his life.

“Woah, woah,” Colt says, leaning back, “careful!"

You look at him a bit confused until you spot the two coffee cups he's holding behind his back, shielding them from you and any more attacks. You roll your eyes. “Really?”

“It took me nearly an hour to get these,” he hisses. “I don't know why but the goddamn coffee machines keep vanishing.”

“Do you guys need a room?” You ask, point from him to the coffees and back again. “Because I can go.”

Now it's Colt's turn to roll his eyes. “Don't be like that,” he says, carefully placing the coffees on the table to his left. “You know I love all of you equally.”

You huff, mock offense in your tone when you say, “I see how it is.”

“That's a compliment!” Colt insists. “You know how much I love coffee.”

You do, actually. He's not subtle about it. It's not that he even needs it to function, not really, he just really, really likes coffee.

“I need it to live,” Colt adds, then realizes what he's just said. He goes a bit red, but he doesn't take it back.

“Is that so?” you ask, stepping closer again until Colt is all the way pushed up against the door.

“Yep,” Colt says, not at all focused on your eyes anymore.

“Can I have that kiss now?” you ask.

Colt doesn't reply.

“Colt?”

His gaze snaps back up to yours. “Yes?”

“Kiss me,” you demand, deciding to forgo any more asking.

A grin breaks out on Colt's face, and in the next second he's pressing his lips to yours.

You can feel his grin against your mouth, which prompts an answering smile to tug at your lips. It turns the kiss into more of a messy ‘breathing the same air’ situation.

“You're so pretty,” he mumbles when he pulls back, quiet and earnest.

You hum, feeling warm. He's never skimpy with compliments, more likely to overdo it a bit, but he always means them.

“Let's try that again,” he decides, forehead laid against yours.

You nod, “Yeah,” and the next time you meet in a kiss it's better.

The slow, easy movement of your lips against each other is comfortably familiar by now, but it still sparks something low in your belly. His right hand cradles your cheek while the other is a warm weight on your hip.

Colt manhandles you around, gently but firmly pushes you up against the door instead and you let him with a laugh. The hand on your hip wanders lower until he can comfortably cop a feel of your ass, and pull your hips closer to his at the same time.

He grinds your hips into yours, just once, then stops and pulls away.

He looks flushed, hair standing in all directions from the hand you've still got buried in it. It looks good on him. Colt is never all that put-together but you still like taking him apart even more, making him properly messy.

“Sorry,” Colt says, but his hand is still on your ass, “Got a bit carried away.”

“Oh, you think?” you ask, trailing a hand down his dusty shirt to the crotch of his jeans.

You can feel his dick straining against the fabric and when you press down a bit Colt lets out a surprised noise, hips bucking in an effort to chase the friction.

“Rude,” he gasps.

You laugh, removing your hand from his crotch to instead brush his fringe to the side so you can properly look into those blue eyes of his.

He squeezes the flesh he's still gripping with one hand. “Wanna fuck?”

You snort. “That's very nicely phrased.”

Colt has the decency to look a bit sheepish. But only a bit.

He shrugs. “Wanna make love instead?” he asks, voice too low to be natural. He breaks a second later with a snort and you can't help but join him.

“How about,” you say, lightly scratching your nails through his hair in a move that you know sends shivers down his back, “we do neither of those and instead just have sex?”

“Sounds great,” Colt breathes and then he's on you again, pressing you against the door and pushing his tongue into your mouth.

You gasp into the kiss but the noise gets lost somewhere between you. Colt, with both hands on your ass now encourages you to roll your hips against his. It feels good, sending slow waves of pleasure through your body that build and build until you're just as flushed and turned on as he is.

He pulls back again, tugging you with him. “Alright, come on,” he says. “Let's take this to the bedroom.”

You muster the bed at the far end of the trailer skeptically. “I wouldn’t call that a bedroom.”

Colt rolls his eyes, turning you around again to push you down onto the mattress.

“You know what?” he asks.

“What?” You reply, breathlessly, staring up at him from the sheets.

“I really don't care,” he says, crawling onto the bed after you, his body easily covering yours.

Colt toes off his dirty boots at some point, awkwardly helps you get rid of yours too, even though the sheets are already kind of a lost cause. This is what happens when you fuck a stuntman.

“Come on, up,” he says, gesturing for you to raise your arms.

He helps you take off your shirt, groaning when he sees that you're wearing decidedly nothing underneath.

“Have mercy,” he says and you laugh, tugging him close for another kiss.

When you break apart he shrugs off his own shirt, baring tanned skin to your eyes. You trail a hand down his chest, hook your fingers into his jeans for a few taunting seconds just to let your hand fall back down onto the mattress.

“Have to do everything myself, huh?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say simply, then settle back to watch him unbutton and push down his jeans.

“Off with those,” you demand when he's left in only his briefs, snapping the waistband against his skin.

You send a vague prayer to whoever is listening when you're faced with an uninterrupted view of his hard cock, framed by thighs made thick and muscular from the work he does day in and day out.

Colt looks up from where he's carelessly dropping the rest of his clothes to the floor, his gaze meeting yours. He must see something in your expression because there’s suddenly a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

He bends down again, dick grazing your bare stomach, and kisses you deeply.

When he pulls back you let him, because he's moving down your body efficiently ridding you of the rest of your clothes too.

He taps your left knee. “Spread your legs for me, please.”

You do and he shuffles between them. You don't miss the hungry look on his face, so different from his usual easy-going, kind of dopey expression. You swallow heavily, legs subconsciously falling open more.

Under your watchful gaze, Colt pops two fingers into his mouth, gets them wet and glistening.

He moves even closer, hand disappearing between your legs. He takes a few moments to circle your clit. You sigh, laying back into the feeling, hips grinding slowly up against his fingers.

After a while, he pulls away and then you can feel his fingers at your entrance instead.

“Yeah?” Colt asks.

“Go ahead,” you tell him, feeling relaxed and open in exactly the right way, and he does, carefully pushing his fingers into you.

As he works up a steady rhythm to get you ready for his dick, he leans down, peppering kisses over your chest, pressing little bites to your skin here and there that have you gasping and squirming.

He’s mumbling something into your skin as he spreads and crooks his fingers inside you, sending tingles up and down your spine, his breath fanning warm over you, but you can't make out the words.

You use the hand that you had buried in his hair somewhere along the way to pull him off of you. He looks at you, lips spit-slick and slightly open as he tries to catch his breath. You have no idea how he's already panting when all he's done is fuck you on his fingers, but you're definitely not complaining about his wrecked state.

“I’m ready,” you say.

Colt's eyes widen. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He looks at you like you've just given him the world. It's always like that with him, his focus always so intense in its adoration, and your breath hitches.

Colt wipes his slick fingers on his dick, gives himself a few strokes before he finally lines himself up, one hand on your hip to keep you steady.

He pushes in slowly, giving you more time to adjust than you really need, considering how well he's prepared you, but you let him. He's always been the one slowing things down. Kissing you all soft and sweet instead of hurried and hungry. It's endearing. Makes you feel precious and adored.

But so does this. So does Colt, thick and so, so warm inside you, filling you up right to the brim.

When he's bottomed out he folds down on top of you, hiding his face in your neck as he catches his breath, letting himself adjust too.

This time when he mutters soft words into your skin you catch them. “You're perfect.”

You softly card a hand through his hair, keeping him close to you for a few moments. Then you lightly tap him on the back with your free hand.

“Move,” you tell him.

Colt props himself up, hands on either side of your head. “Can I?”

“I'm asking you to.”

“Alright,” he says with a smile.

He bends down to give you a surprisingly chaste kiss, pulling out almost all the way just to press back in, steady but too slow for your liking.

You let out a small ‘tsk’. You know he likes it faster than that. He forgets himself sometimes, loses control a bit when he's either very desperate or drunk, or both, and you love it. Slow and sweet is good, it is, but God you need this man to fuck you like he means it right now.

Which is exactly what you tell him.

“Oh, that's how it is?” he asks.

You roll your eyes, clenching down on him just because you can.

He lets out a broken noise and you can't help but grin.

“Yes, that's how it is.”

“Fine,” he says. “Hold onto the headboard for me.”

It's not really a headboard. More of a frame made up of a single iron bar but it serves its purpose well enough. You move your hands to hold onto it and Colt takes that as the sign to let go.

And let go he does, because when he’s pulled his cock almost all the way out he snaps his hips forward, quick and sharp.

You let out a punched-out moan, then another as he does it again.

He quickly finds a rhythm that works for both of you, settling easily into fucking you hard and fast, strokes deep enough that your head would be meeting the headboard if you weren’t pressing yourself down with your arms.

There are some undeniable perks about fucking a stuntman, too, you think to yourself, thoughts dizzy and jumbled up by the red-hot arousal that's washing over your body.

Colt is letting out little grunts and low noises that make a shiver spring up at your nape and chase down across your body to where the two of you are connected.

“Good?” he asks, looking down at you through the blonde strands of hair that are falling in front of his eyes.

A strained, “Yes,” is all you manage in return and he grins, keeping up the strong grind of his hips.

You can't bite back the noises he's fucking out of you anyway, so you give up completely, moaning and gasping into the air of the trailer. You can hear it when he pulls out of you and the noise when he pushes back in is even clearer, wet, and vulgar.

You had your suspicions when you first started dancing around each other that he would be reasonably good at this, but he blew all of your expectations clear out of the water and continues to do so. His normally straying attention is fully centralized when he has you spread out under him, and it shows.

When both of you get close, he lets himself fall to his elbows, molds himself along your body, pressed together from hips to chest.

He buries his face in your neck again, bites and sucks at the skin there, then seemingly remembers the whole ‘on the down-low’ thing and tries to pull back.

You try to keep him there but he's considerably stronger than you.

“Someone's gonna see,” Colt gasps.

You nod. “Yes. Let them.”

His eyes brighten and when you try to pull him down again he goes willingly, latching onto the sensitive skin you bare to him.

You know you're going to have a hickey right there, high on your neck, but you don't care. It feels good. Colt's lips on your skin, the short bursts of pain he teases out with his teeth.

And like you said. Let them see.

There’s not going to be any question what you've been getting up to in his trailer anyway because you're both a fucking mess by this point.

Both of your hair is mussed and you're sweating. The new position doesn't exactly make that better, not that you care, but it does make everything else better because Colt is so, so close like this. With the comforting support of the mattress beneath you and Colt heavy and warm above you, you know it's not going to take long.

He cums first, with a low groan, and you can feel him twitch and pulse inside of you. He keeps fucking you through his peak, unceremoniously pushes a hand between your bodies to get two fingers on your clit. Despite the strength of his thrusts and how hurried this has become, he's gentle when he brings you to your peak, guiding you through it with rhythmic movements, burying himself deep again so you can clench down around him as your orgasm rushes through your body.

You shudder in his hold, head thrown back against the pillow, Colt's face pressed to the bared line of your throat.

He keeps you close until your muscles have stopped contracting, until you go almost completely lax in his grip. Only then does he carefully pull out and collapse next to you on the bed.

You turn your head to look at him and when you meet his eyes there's a bit of shock in them.

“What?” you ask him.

He winces. “I might have overdone it a bit,” he says, pointing to your neck.

You prop yourself up on one elbow and raise a hand to it. The skin is warm and still slightly slick under your palm.

You let your hand fall away again, instead bending down to kiss Colt who eagerly meets you in the middle.

“Sorry about that,” he breathes.

You shake your head, pushing the sweaty locks off his forehead. “It's fine. I don't care.”

He smiles at you, easily pressing up into your hand. “Alright.”

“When do you have to be back?” you ask, fingers absently carding through his hair.

“I have no idea what time it is, so,” Colt shrugs, throwing a glance at where his phone is probably lying among the pile of clothes on the floor.

“I'm not getting up,” you say before Colt can even come up with the idea.

Colt rolls his eyes. “I'll do it,” he gives in, shuffling down off the bed, still completely naked, to root around for his phone.

“I have to be back,” he says, straightening back up, phone in hand, “in twenty minutes.”

You nod, patting the space next to you. “Come back here.”

He grins at you and does just that.

#colt my beloved <3 #so very tasty #can't get enough of him #he's ruined me #and im partially blaming you bc your fics really aren't helping #colt seavers #colt seavers smut #colt seavers x reader #colt seavers fanfiction #ryan gosling #the fall guy #ryan gosling fanfiction #colt seavers fanfic #x reader fanfiction #x reader

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foxdev1l · 16 days

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#K ON A LEASH #I WILL NEVER RECOVER FROM THIS #officer k #blade runner 2049 #ryan gosling fanart #ryan gosling

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foxdev1l · 17 days

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RYAN GOSLING CHARACTERS

AS HOZIER SONGS [by @foxdev1l, @ken-dom & me]

Julian: Take Me To Church

Driver: From Eden

Colt: Jackie & Wilson

Ken: Unknown / Nth

Dean: Tell It To My Heart

Richard: Dinner & Diatribes

Dan: Sedated

Noah: Talk

Lars: Wasteland, Baby!

Sebastian: All Things End

Henry: In The Woods Somewhere

Luke: Someone New

Six: Who We Are

Jacob: Why Would You Be Loved

Holland: Francesca

K: Like Real People Do

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foxdev1l · 17 days

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thank youuu for the tag :]

tagging anyone who wants to take part <3

Thanks for tagging meeee @lily-leaves 🩵

Im tagging anyone that wants to do it! Also -> @mollyhale @opalsiren @tarte-au-beurre @southerntinkerbelle @venus-kisses @thisperfectmonsoon @cruel-style @meaningtotellyou @singlethread @chiptunecreature @rosebian

No pressure ✨💅🏼🌸💋

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foxdev1l · 18 days

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he is so horse girl coded

#Colt Seavers #The Fall Guy #the fall guy fanart #colt seavers fanart #Ryan gosling #ryan gosling fanart #the fall guy 2024

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foxdev1l · 19 days

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$$$

#the beanie stays on #i said what i said #colt seavers #the fall guy #ryan gosling #the fall guy fanart #colt seavers fanart #ryan gosling fanart

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foxdev1l · 19 days

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Stay Quiet, Stay Near, Stay Close

Colt Seavers x gn!reader

2.2k words

∘₊✧ Summary: You help Colt unwind with a hot bath and a massage.

Can be read as a part two to my previous Colt fic or can be standalone.

∘₊✧ Author’s notes: I don’t know what it is about Colt Seavers (particularly with long hair) that makes me desperately want to soothe him via handjob but here you have the second version of exactly that — unlikely to be the last! @heresthestorymorningglory was my partner in crime as usual and gave me the perfect Colt song for the title, from Hands Down by Dashboard Confessional.

∘₊✧ Warnings/content: nsfw, hot bath, hair washing, massage, handjob, praise, crying, before during and aftercare!! Long hair Colt!

∘₊✧─────────────────────✧₊∘

Even beneath the shimmering softness of warm, soapy bath water, Colt’s body lays heavily against yours as he sinks further into your safe, massaging hands.

With your legs either side of his waist and his back to your chest, you can feel every breath he takes, slow and steady. It’s kind of like a physical meditation that soothes you from the outside in, and you wonder how heavy you’ve become, too, while you’ve been soothing his aches away.

His head rests, lolling in the crook of your neck with long damp strands of blonde sticking to your flesh among the rising steam, slightly darker where the tips have met the water.

Kneading the flesh at his broad shoulders in a soothing rhythm, you bite your lip to resist the urge to let your fingers wander. You want to slide them further down his muscular arms and caress those firm contours, but that would be purely for your own pleasure and this is about Colt.

You can’t quite see his face from here, just a glimpse of his handsome profile out of the corner of your eye, but you can hear the infrequent little catches of breath and feel the way he tenses up for a moment every time he bites back a moan.

You can see the rest of his body clearly enough though, golden in the warmth of the candlelight. His slowly rising and falling chest, his knees protruding from beneath the bubbles where his legs are spread, feet planted firmly beside yours. And you can see the way his body is reacting to your touch; as your eyes drag over his form again, you notice his fingers tighten their grip around the rim of the bathtub.

‘Huhng-’ he grunts, knuckles turning white.

‘Sorry,’ you breathe, withdrawing your fingers and gradually resuming the more measured pace you’d set before letting yourself get carried away with his big strong arms carrying you and the way his muscles might flex as he touches you, and accidentally pressed your thumbs just a little too sharply into his shoulders.

‘S’alright,’ he slurs, dropped against you again, far too relaxed to bother much about separating words unnecessarily. ‘Felt good.’

Oh.

Despite sharing a hot bathtub, your naked bodies pressed together under hot, steamy water, you’re very aware that you’re here because you’re trying to help him relax, to ease his pain and hopefully to get a good night’s sleep. But the way your body reacted to those two innocent words that dripped off his tongue like warm honey — Felt good — isn’t exactly conducive to focussing solely on Colt’s shoulder tension.

You close your eyes and recompose yourself.

‘You… want me to do that again?’ you offer, hands hovering, and Colt nods his approval with a quiet hum.

Watching his hands closely, you dig the pads of your thumbs firmly above his shoulder blades, loosening the knots you can feel there with a little more force than before. You feel him jolt as you work them out, and see his knuckles turn white again as his fingers grip the edge of the tub.

And you hear him moan.

Oh no.

You know Colt’s moans exceptionally well. They’re always so loud and unrestrained, and you’re surprised he’s lasted this long through a massage without one or two escaping until now. No mistake, you want to hear them – of course you do! But you’re not sure how good of a job you’ll make of soothing him for a restful night when all you can think about is the way he sounds when you pleasure him.

Please him, you correct yourself.

Then again. Perhaps that would help…

You slow the rhythmic circles to a stop. It’s reluctant, but necessary if you’re going to at least attempt to concentrate. You can always return to rubbing steady patterns into his supple flesh as he lays in bed beside you later. With that in mind, you grab the shampoo bottle to move things along.

‘Scalp next, handsome,’ you say softly, mindful that he’s already somewhat of a puddle and the last thing he needs is a bolt of your over-enthusiasm at getting your fingers tangled in his luscious hair.

‘Mmmh,’ he hums, not even bothering to nod this time. He can feel himself melting against you, feel how heavy he must be becoming while he actually feels like he’s floating.

You wonder if washing his hair will finally send him off to sleep and you’ll have to drag him out of the bath after somehow managing to slide yourself out from underneath his burly frame… but whatever. He needs it, it’s working, let him have it. Worry about the rest later, post-hair wash and scalp massage.

You squeeze out a dollop of shampoo, warming it between your palms, sliding your fingers from the nape of his neck and up, deliberate and so sensual that Colt begins to hum again. It’s a little more high pitched this time. Whiny.

He shivers against you, skin prickling with tingles, and with some effort, he lifts his head to allow you the space to continue exactly what you’re doing. Don’t stop, he thinks, but he isn’t sure how to say it out loud. Maybe he is saying it? He can’t quite tell. It doesn’t matter. You’re not stopping. He knows you won’t stop as long as he needs it.

A low groan drags from his throat, though, head as heavy in your hands now as his torso feels against yours, and his hair tangles around your fingers as they drag, slow and mesmerising, over his scalp. Another little moan.

You allow your eyes to drag over what you can see of his body again. As a treat. The way the light dances on the contours of his chest, those husky arms, the tip of his thick cock appearing from beneath the bathwater…

Oh.

‘B-blended… ice…’

You’re brought back to your senses by Colt’s incoherent muttering, realising that your fingernails are scraping quite harshly against his scalp, but he mustn’t mind it too much because there’s still a low groan lacing his stuttered words.

‘Spicy…’

Margaritas. He’s putty in your hands, achingly hard, and muttering about margaritas.

This is the man you adore. And he needs you.

You rinse the shampoo away as best you can at this angle, and reach for the conditioner, squeezing a helping onto your palm.

‘Wanna make margaritas later?’ he drawls. It's the most coherent he’s sounded since insisting that you use the neroli and amber bath bubbles he likes, but that was before climbing into the tub and immediately melting, mind and body, against you.

Even Colt isn’t sure where his question came from because all he can think about now is how he wants your hands, soft, clever, precise hands, between his thighs now instead. Another question he isn’t sure how to translate from hazy thought to speech. But margaritas, sure. That appears out of nowhere.

Maybe he isn’t sleepy at all but just… zen? Random thoughts he matches up with feeling close to you spilling out while he feels safe enough to let them?

‘I think we can stretch to margaritas if you’re not too relaxed to sit up,’ you appease him.

‘Mmh. I’ll manage.’

‘You sure about that?’

You finally allow a hand to glide down over his chest, soft from the steam, and rest it at his belly where the water gently laps against your movements.

Your breath catches in your throat at how firm he feels under your palm, the way he trembles just slightly as your hand travels lower. The way he whines.

His breath catches at the exact same moment; your touch sending tingles coursing down to his core. The hazy air thickens in the split second that you both freeze, and he grits his teeth, seeming to regain some coherence now you’re doing exactly what he wanted. Kind of embarrassing though, right? To get a hardon from a scalp massage and the way your fingers pulled at the long strands in the process…

‘Was kinda hoping you wouldn’t notice.’

‘Pretty hard not to,’ you reply under your breath, but he hears you and you can practically feel his smirk. ‘You know, I’ve heard that hair conditioner has some excellent… other uses.’

‘Oh?’

You slide your other arm around his waist, revealing your palmful of the silky product.

‘Trust me?’

‘Yeah-hhhnnng-’

Your fingers close around his length, conditioner-covered palm coating the half of him visible above the water. He shifts to reveal more and you begin to stroke, long and slow, kneading lightly, just as you had with his aching muscles.

But it’s easier to massage with the addition of this impromptu aid, the thick, glossy liquid allowing your hand to glide over his skin with ease.

‘Feel good?’ You press your mouth to his neck, keeping the pace of your slicked up hand steady as your tongue slips from between your lips and drags over the sensitive flesh, lips closing now and again to nip at his skin and feel him shudder.

His cock twitches inside your grip, strong enough that you can feel it begging you to jerk him faster before his blissed out brain catches up and he moans, ‘Please- please-’

He’s bucking his hips enough that the gentle lapping of the water escalates to loud sloshing against the sides of the tub and hot, scented water splashes over onto the floor, steaming puddles quickly cooling against the tiles.

Every laboured breath Colt takes in is exhaled laced with a grunt or a low whimper, echoing around the room and surrounding you both with the sounds of his pleasure. It’s turning desperate though, and you don’t want him desperate. You want him to enjoy the journey, ride it out with nothing but bliss.

‘Shhh,’ you soothe him, working the heel of your other palm over his shoulder again as you stroke his cock in the same rhythm. ‘It’s ok. Tell me what you need.’

The combination of the soothing touch at his shoulder and the electric touch lower down – the one setting something ablaze in his gut – is driving Colt wild.

You can feel it radiating from his pores and don’t require a verbal response to decipher what he needs. He needs exactly this, until he doesn’t anymore. And then he’ll need you.

‘You need to cum, don’t you, baby? Is that it?’

Colt’s head drops back against your shoulder, heavy again as the tension that’s been coiling, hot in his gut, subsides with the increased speed of your hand and the languid swipes of your thumb over his steadily leaking tip.

He manages a low hum, and you don’t push it. You could carry on, slow your hand back down and force him to use words, to beg, before you’ll allow his release. But that’s not the point of this, and it’s not what you want. You want him sated and comforted and safe.

‘It’s alright, let go for me,’ you coo, and without a beat, he does, a thick creamy rope splattering up over his chest and dripping down, mingling into the bath water.

A growl tears from his throat as his peak hits, tapering off into a weak little whimper, and he slumps, his weight almost crushing you if it wasn’t for the small volume of water still in the tub with you. Colt wonders if you’ll notice the tears dropping into it.

You do, but you say nothing. In another position, you’d have wiped his cheeks, so instead you file it away.

You manage to release the bath plug with your foot, letting the water drain as you hoist him forward and upward, clumsily reaching around for a jug of fresh, warm water to rinse the both of you off. Untangling your bodies, already sweaty from shared heat, you climb out and wrap yourself and then him in a fluffy towel and help him climb out of the tub.

Colt’s legs feel wobbly, and his head is spinning a little as his blood finds its way back from his core to his extremities. The heat of the water he’s been soaking in for probably too long isn’t doing much to help matters. He feels woozy, but still safe.

Before he knows it, you’ve dried him off, guided him onto his bed, plumped his pillows to support his back, and slipped his favorite joggers on for him. He can’t remember if he saw you bothering with underwear, and he doesn’t care. He can feel aftershocks in his soft cock, and it’s reassuring, somehow.

You realise as you sit on the edge of the bed that you didn’t actually condition his hair. You’re careful not to cause any knots where it’s still wet as you brush through it for him. It doesn’t matter. Next time, you will, if the feel or smell of it doesn’t get him too excited and distract you both again.

Colts whole body feels incredibly silky against the fabrics, and he can’t remember ever feeling quite this good as he wriggles against the sheets, settling in.

‘Still want that margarita?’ you tease, and with his eyelids too heavy to keep open now, he just huffs a gentle laugh and lets sleep wash over him.

#this.#him.#FUCKK #colt seavers #the fall guy

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foxdev1l · 19 days

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»{ 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 / Ongoing ※ 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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#on the floor #on my hands and knees for this #DEAR LORDDDD #the nice guys (2016)#the nice guys fanfiction #the nice guys fanfic #holland march #jackson healy #holland march x jackson healy #russel crowe #ryan gosling

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