Chapter Text
Healy ran bruised knuckles under his nose, wiping away blood. This asshole had pissed him off, and he wasn't about to let them get away with it. A swift throw of his shoulder against the guy's sternum knocked them onto their back, opening up room for Healy to slam a sneakered foot into their stomach. They spat up blood, it dripping down the side of their blurry face as they glared up at Healy, who grinned with pleasure at the sight. It wasn't often he really let himself enjoy the violence his job required, playing it up as a chore so no one would realize how cruel he could really be, how depraved. Well, arguably, it's hardly depraved if he's only happy killing sickos. One could say he's damn near virtuous. Or they could, if they ignored the twist of delight he gets when March let's him throw him around a little.
Oh, March is here, cheering Healy on as he lands blow after blow on his victim's battered face. Maybe Healy was doing this for March. Yeah, that made sense. That was a good reason.
The guy reaches up, trying to shove Healy off of them, and acting purely on instinct, Healy bites their hand, teeth sinking into bruised flesh. The weight of something between his jaws was familiar, and comforting, like the feeling of old sheets, or the touch of a loved one's hand.
And then he is surrounded by soft bedding, and March is running loving hands over Healy's body. There is still warm meat in his mouth, and he gnaws at it, lazily. The flavors of salt and iron have given way to some robust marinade and careful grilling. March looks down at Healy with low-lidded eyes, and brings more nondescript, yet delicious, meat to his mouth. A smirk plays on the thin lips under his mustache, and Healy would kiss it off of him if he weren't so busy chewing. His eyes rove over March's body, taking in the lack of pajamas he's worn to bed. No, he's actually more finely dressed than usual. In place of a loud, gaudy suit, are the clean black lines of a tux. The pocket square is missing, and Healy realizes March is using the fine silk to wipe juices from Healy's hairy chest, the fabric sinking into the soft flesh of his tits.
Where March is dressed for a formal occasion, Healy finds his own clothes have melted away, leaving him bare but for his natural fur coat. The only sensation of restriction he can find is something around his neck, digging in to his slight double-chin. He ponders what the feeling could be, pausing in his endless consumption for a moment, when March's other hand suddenly tugs, and Healy's chin is forced back up to accept another bite of food. The tightness around his neck intensifies with the movement, and he's reminded of his father's old dog, a pitbull-mix they kept "for protection." Healy was always fairly sure his dad had the poor thing in fights.
There was an odd feeling of kinship, and more steak(?) is shoved into his mouth. Bite after bite of the juicy meat fills him, March's silk-toting hand working harder to clean and rub, clean and rub. It's an intoxicating assault on the senses, and Healy only distantly acknowledges his own utter lack of attempts to remove himself from the situation, simply allowing March to stuff him full, to hold him in place. Why wouldn't he? He belongs to March. He'd do whatever he asked.
"Jack…" March whispers, clutching Healy's ever-expanding gut. His tuxedo remains entirely unrumpled, perfectly put together. Healy's never seen him like this, so poised, so truly in control. It's exhilarating.
The hand clenching his rolls of fat makes Healy squirm, grunting in pain and pleasure, but March's grip holds fast. For all Healy's strength, he is powerless against the look sparkling in March's eyes as he gropes at Healy's body. Treating his fat, hairy, aging body with such reverence, such adoration, it makes Healy want to smother him in love.
Before he can have a single thought further, the world before him blurs, a sudden sound breeching the fuzzy haze of the moment. A distant buzz, vaguely melodic, wormed its way into his consciousness, crescendoing into an eerily familiar song. He couldn't quite place it, but he had a sudden, intense craving for ice cream. Healy's body moved before he could stop it, following the siren song of what he gently realized was the ice cream truck. It was like wading through sludge, trying to reach the promise of frosty sweetness. He—
Hm. No… maybe he could have a treat tomorrow… March would let him have one, if he was good. Yeah, he'd be good.