Chapter Text
March was alone. He was in a bedroom. It might have been the bedroom in the rental, or in the old house, or possibly a hotel room? It wasn't entirely clear. He stood in front of the bed, looking at the empty, silken sheets. There was a pang in his heart, and he wished—
Healy appeared on the bed, looking up at March through heavily lidded eyes. The bruiser was laid out, one hand caressing his own, meaty hip, the other propping up his head. He was wearing—March's mind boggled—a set of lacy black lingerie. The delicate bra was lined in frills, straining to contain Healy's heavy, hair-dusted tits. The busom heaved with heavy breaths, too-small straps cutting into the man's body. Below the gorgeous display of decolletage sat Healy's gut, spilling onto the luxurious bedspread. It was like fresh dough, set to rise, and March wanted to knead it.
And then he was. His hands sank into Healy's flesh, illiciting a pornographic groan from the larger man. Healy's face was flushed and gleaming with a light sheen of sweat, one of March's favorite looks on him. His lips looked soft and pink, pinker than March had ever seen them before. It was an incredible sight.
As March played with the belly in his hands, he became aware of Healy's lower half. Trapped under the swell of his middle, pinching into his love handles, was a black, silk thong. Healy's cock was absolutely stuffed into it, the fabric bulging. March couldn't see Healy's balls past his thick thighs, but he knew they must be hanging out one side of the thin gusset. Speaking of thighs, tight straps extended down from the frilly waistband of the panties, connecting to lace garters that pushed out the soft, furry skin above and below them in a simply delicious way. If March didn't know better he would think the whole ensemble had gotten tighter as he'd been groping Healy, fat expanding under his hands. As he pondered such an impossibility, the lingerie disappeared, melting into a more realistic look.
Healy was still laying on the bed, but where there had been black lace and frills, there were now tight jeans and a familiar blue leather jacket, covering bruised and battered flesh. March startled, hands flying back, "Jack! What happened to you?!"
Healy just grinned up at him with a split lip, "Was fightin' for you, doll. Always for you."
Well, that tracked, frankly. Since they'd met, Healy had gotten in countless fights to protect March. He was practically a human shield, throwing himself in front of the taller man before he could wander into danger. March worried sometimes, that Healy would get into a fight he couldn't win, but it hadn't happened yet, and he was starting to doubt it would. Healy might walk away with bruises and cuts, but he somehow never got as injured as March did on cases, even with Healy protecting him. It made him feel a little guilty, but March had to admit, seeing his partner all beat up from fighting bad guys definitely got him pretty damn hot under the collar. It was just so hot, the way Healy could throw his weight around, knocking assholes out with nothing more than one swift punch to the jaw. Sure, it hadn't been great to be on the recieving end that first day they met, but March would be a filthy(er) liar if he said he didn't get hard thinking back on it. Sometimes his memories warped, the Healy that shoved him to the ground and broke his arm suddenly losing a shirt, suddenly being bigger, suddenly kissing him even as he held him down.
With that thought, the Healy on the bed (which appeared to have the sheets from the rental, but the headboard from the old house, if March tried to focus on it at all) was on top of him, slightly crushing him with his weight.
March wheezed, breath being squeezed out of him, "Jack—"
Healy just grabbed his wrists, the left one stinging at the feeling, pinning them down against the mattress. March was utterly trapped, even trying to kick his legs just seemed to press him further into the bed, Healy's breath warm against his face. It was unclear what Healy was even wearing at this point, the whole scene getting muddier as March sank into the covers of his(?) bed.
He wasn't entirely certain of anything anymore, just the air being crushed from his lungs, and the sheer weight on top of him. Wait, no, there was something else. A sound. A grating, groaning noise, like a train rapidly approaching on rusty tracks. It was like a tiger growling from the shadows, or the foghorn of an ocean liner. It was getting louder as he sank, ramping in volume as the world melted around him—
March woke with a strained gasp, Healy snoring next to his ear. Oh. Just a dream. And Healy had rolled on top of him in his sleep again, always clutching him like a dog's favorite toy. Healy's heavy arm was, in fact, thrown up over March's wrists, not in any real attempt at restraint, just sleepy sprawling. Furthermore, he was wearing boxers and a wife beater, as he usually did to bed, not roughed up clothes, and certainly not any kind of tight, sexy lingerie. Damn. Well, that would be a discussion (March begging pathetically) for later. Right now? The mission was simple: wake Healy up and avoid death by incredibly hot suffocation.
Thankfully, March's mouth was as close to Healy's ear as vice versa, so all he had to do was hum a few notes, and hope they got through the haze of sleep.
"…Hmphhm?" Healy grumble-hummed, finally shifting off of March a little.
March hummed a little louder, now with more access to air.
Healy's eyes fluttered, and he started to pull back the blankets, dragging himself up, only half-awake.
"Oh, no, sweetie, come back, you don't need to go anywhere, stay with me." March whispered, realizing his error.
Healy stopped moving, but his thick brow furrowed with a pout, "But… I heard th'ice cream truck.." he mumbled.
"Shhhh, it's ok, I'll get you some ice cream tomorrow. Sleep for now."
Healy grumbled a bit of nonsense, before settling back down, his snores starting back up swiftly. Mission accomplished. Secondary mission, start: convince Healy to wear lingerie after beating someone up.