After seeing The Nice Guys with my Ryan Gosling enjoying partner, I (predictably) fell harder for the other nice guy. There is not very much Healy x Reader fic though, so I felt I should be the change I want to see in the world. So. Here it is.
Safe Hands
Jackson Healy x Reader. gender neutral reader, not explicit (sorry y'all) but with some suggestive elements. About 1300 words
content notes: off-screen violence, on-screen injuries, implied sexual harassment.
“This guy bothering you?” Healy asks finally.
You look from him and then back to the guy whimpering on the stairs to your apartment. The smaller man's fingers are bent in a direction that they probably shouldn’t be bending, and it’s possible they’ve grown extra knuckles but you don’t think that’s it.
“Not anymore,” you say, swallowing hard.
“Oh—oh, yeah, jeez,” he says, and puts a hand around your shoulder, but you flinch from it; that hand had just broken another man’s fingers. “C’mon. Up the stairs. Sorry you had to see that.”
“Should we call an ambulance or something?” you ask.
“Hm? Nah, he’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it. You’re in the apartment next to mine, right?” he says, and says your name. You nod, shakily. “Right. Uh. I’m Healy.” You nod, because you’d seen his name on his mailbox. You’ve passed him once or twice, with polite nods of the head. “You got your keys? You should really be careful coming home at night, you know. All kinds of crazies out here.”
“Yeah,” you say, and without touching you, he leads you away from your whimpering assailant and up towards your apartments. You fumble for your keys and drop them, and he gently pushes you back, picks up your keys, and unlocks your door for you. His own hands are steady.
“Here,” he says. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” you assure him.
“No, you’re not, you’re shaking,” he says, and he opens the door and brings you in. He puts his hand on your back again, guiding you gently into your apartment.
You are surprised to find that his hand is steady and warm through your shirt. You realize abruptly that you are shaking.
“Come on,” he says, and gets you sitting down in your armchair, and goes to your sink, getting down a glass. “Sure the guy didn’t hurt you before I got there?”
“No, he didn’t,” you promise. “He was just being an asshole. I’m not even sure you needed to, uh, intervene.”
He shrugs a little, and brings you a glass of water. “People don’t intervene enough,” he says. “Sometimes you gotta. I only broke one hand anyway. He’ll be fine. Don’t worry about him.”
You take the glass from him, and take a drink. “I can’t believe you broke a guy’s hand. And you don’t even want anything for it?”
He looks down at you then. He’s a big man—not just fat, but solid. Well, you know how strong he is. You’d felt his hand on your back. You’d seen how he’d hit that guy on the stairway before crumbling his fingers like dried kindling. That had been powerful. And for a moment, you put it together—all that power, and surprisingly gentle blue eyes, his brows knit into a little frown.
“I never said that,” he says, and his voice is a low, rough grumble.
And that’s when you think of what else all that power could do. You lower your glass of water and look back at him. He’d just rescued you, you think. The least you could do is show him some gratitude—or pretend it’s gratitude, and not just a sudden desire to have all that power against you, moving into you—
“I have these fish,” he says then.
You blink at him a moment, jarred out of your fantasies. “What?”
“I have a fish tank,” he repeats. “I’m going to be gone for a week. Could you come by Tuesday and Thursday and feed ‘em?”
It takes you a long, long moment to process that. “That’s it?” you say.
“That’s it,” he says. “If you feed them every day the tank gets dirtier, and I won’t be there to clean it. They’ll be okay. Can you?”
“I…” You look at him again, your eyes on his soft, stubbled jaw, the breadth of his shoulders. “I mean. Sure. Yeah, of course I can.”
“Great,” he said. “You a little less shaky? You could come over now, I could show you where I keep the fish food and all that.”
“Sure,” you say, and set down your glass of water, rising to your feet.
When you go out of your apartment, you don’t look down to see if the guy’s still on the stairs. But you do look around his place when he unlocks it and lets you in. The fish tank is the brightest thing in the room, well-lit and colorful. He gestures you over, shows off his fish, and opens the cabinet for the fish flakes.
“Just a pinch,” he says. “That’s all they need. It’ll be fine. I just hate leaving them all week with nothin’, y’know?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah. No problem.”
“Okay, then,” he says, and gets down a spare key for you. “Tuesday and Thursday. Try not to forget.”
“I won’t,” you promise. “Your fish are in safe hands.”
A poor choice of words, bringing up hands. You think of the mangled fingers on the stairwell again and swallow hard.
But he nods, smiling a little, and you also think of his hand on your back, his hands carrying a glass of water to you. Maybe it’s not that poor a choice of words.
He brings you the key, and when you take it, your fingers brush against his again. You look down at both of your hands, and then you take a breath.
“Y’know,” you say. “When you said you wanted a favor from—from that, I wasn’t expecting it to be, y’know. Aquarium-related.”
“I’m not going to pretend I didn’t think about it,” he says, his voice low, and you look up at him. “Well, I did. But I didn’t want to ask you for that. Not this time.”
“Why not?” you ask. “I’d have been…”
“Because,” he said, “you were scared.” And then he takes his hands and thrusts them into his pockets, looking a little apologetic for having noticed.
“I wasn’t that scared,” you say.
“You were shaking,” he reminds you. “I’m not gonna ask a terrified stranger to have sex. Come on. I’d have to break my own hand for that.”
You let out a little laugh, but then your laughter fades a little. “Look. You know. I wasn’t scared of you,” you say, assuring him. “You’re a good guy.”
The smile he gives you is rueful. “Not all the time,” he says.
“Maybe enough,” you say.
You both stand there for a moment in silence, in his tiny apartment, a twin of your own. You can hear the fish tank filter, and somewhere a clock is ticking. And then you approach him.
“You were a good guy when I needed a good guy,” you say.
You put your hand on his soft, broad shoulder for leverage, stretch up a little, and press a kiss to his cheek, feeling the stubble rough under your lips, the softness of his skin underneath.
And then he turns, and his mouth finds yours, his hands curling onto your shoulders. And yes, you can feel the strength there, that same power. But you can also feel his restraint, a gentleness that does not surprise you, not after the things he’s said, not after the things he hasn’t said. And you kiss him back, pressing into it, pressing yourself against him, assuring him that he is not making any demands—any requests—that are more than what you’re willing to give.
When he breaks the kiss there’s a flush to his cheeks, and he reaches up to cup your face, his eyes serious for a moment. “I still need you to feed my fish next week, though,” he says, his eyes searching.
You bite back a giggle, and just nod. “I promise.”
“All right, then,” he says. “So. Where were we?”
And he spends the rest of the night proving to you that his hands can do a lot more than break fingers.
i'm so so sorry for being so inactive, i've honestly just been so all over the place the last few months, i've been a mess
i'm gonna try to force myself to empty out my requests/drafts asap, i have a hella busy month kn august and i start university in september so i'm hoping to get everything out before then
if i remember rightly i have requests for healymarch (x2), ryland grace (x2), courtland gentry (x1), dan dunne (x1) and henry letham (x1), and also a luke glanton fic i wanted to make
so with any luck i'll have these out soon
i love you guys so so much, i'm really sorry it's been so long
my requests and dm's are still open, just let it be known my response time for requests is abysmal but please feel free to pop in and chat ★
Listen, I've been thinking about the nice guys too much. Specifically healy. And I've been reading way too much owner!Rygos ch x puppy reader. Could we imagine for a moment, owner!Healy x Puppy!reader, or alt. owner!healy x puppy!march x puppy!reader. God what id love for healy to say and/or do while reader is in pupspace. And if March is added to the equation? The possibilities
“Okay. You remember everything I told you?” Healy asks.
“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Okay. Good. That’s good. So. Let’s try it.”
Given Healy’s line of work and the things he’s seen, it’s not a surprise he was concerned that you didn’t really know any self-defense.
Healy is sweet. You’ve seen him throw men around, and you’ve seen him throw punches that would probably break bricks. It’s hot, but he’s never like that with you. He touches you like you’re made of spun glass. You don’t see yourself as particularly delicate, but he does. That’s why he’s a little protective. And that’s why he insists you learn to defend yourself, too, just in case he’s not there to do it.
So you’re here, in your garage, while he’s giving you a few pointers. He’d taught you to throw a punch; you’d hit him as hard as you could, and he’d nodded in approval and seemed unmoved. But at least it was to his satisfaction, you suppose.
Now he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around you. “Okay,” he says. “Someone gets ahold of you. What do you do?”
You try to throw him the way he’d explained.
But it’s Healy. He’s immovable as a mountain, and your attempt at a throw just has your ass jabbing back into him, your hands grappling uselessly on his big arms around your chest. Well, a throw isn’t the only thing you can do, so you try to move, to slip out of his arms, but they’re strong and hard around you. You squirm against them, against him, and nothing happens. You aren’t weak, but trying to get away from him is like trying to break free of a goddamned bear.
You jerk back against him and quickly realize you were wrong.
Something had happened.
You squirm again in his arms, but this time you aren’t trying to escape. You can feel him hard against your ass, and now that you’re listening for it, you can hear the hiss of air when you grind back into him. Maybe you should stop.
Maybe you don’t want to.
You grind back against him again, this time very deliberately, and he lets out a groan.
“That’s—cheating,” he manages.
“I gotta do anything I can to get away from an assailant, right?” you ask him, all innocence. If he could see your face you’d probably flutter your eyelashes at him.
“Behave yourself,” he says, his voice gruff.
“Or what?” you ask. “You’ll grab me and pin me down?”
He lets out a sound just short of a growl, and then suddenly he does exactly that, so quickly it almost takes your breath away.
You’re flat on your back, on the mat he’d insisted on putting down in your garage, and he’s staring down at you. His hands are on your shoulders, pinning you in place, and his own big shoulders are heaving as if it had been an effort. It wasn’t, and you know that. You’ve seen him beat the shit out of people without breaking a sweat.
You have never seen him let go like this. Not Healy, not the man who touches you like he doesn’t entirely believe you’re real. But right now, you’re very real, and so is he, and he’s being almost, almost rough with you.
“Oh, no,” you say. “There’s this big, scary man here. Who’s gonna save me?”
“You,” he says gruffly, “are being a brat.” But even as he says it, he grinds his cock into your clothed crotch.
“You love it,” you say, letting out a rough breath because fuck he feels good.
He lets out a grumble and pulls away to push down your pants. He usually undresses you like you’re a wrapped gift. Not now. His movements are rough, jerking your pants down to your knees.
“You love me,” you add.
That gets him for a moment, and he looks at you, his expression softening, blue eyes sweet. “Yeah,” he says. “You know I do.” He reaches up and touches your cheek.
You give him a smile back, reaching up to set your hand over his.
“That doesn’t mean you aren’t a brat, though,” he adds, and pulls his hands away to spread your legs.
You let out a shaky breath as he takes his cock out, and you reach up and grip his shirt, stretching up to kiss him.
And then he jerks his hips, filling you in one swift movement. The stretch of him hurts, just for a moment. And then it’s good. And then it’s everything. Healy between your legs, Healy over you, his belly pressing down into you, his body covering you, and his fat cock pressing inside of you, everywhere, everywhere. You let out a moan and try to roll your hips, but his hands are on your hips, keeping you in place as he buries himself into you and tries to catch his breath.
The mat under you is thin, and you can feel the concrete floor of the garage underneath your back and ass. Your hands hurt a little from practicing your punches, and now you’re wondering if the floor might leave bruises. No, not wondering. Hoping. Wanting.
“Bruise me,” you say, without thinking, and your voice hitches. “Leave a mark. Hurt me.”
This time the groan echoes around your garage, and he starts to move, to thrust hard into you. His fingers dig into your hips, harder than he needs, anchoring you to the floor, to him, and you can feel his short nails cutting into your skin. His hips thud hard into yours, again, again, pounding you down into the mat. The thickness of his cock strokes every single inch inside of you, his body hair rough against your clit, all of it relentlessly building pleasure as he keeps going.
When you come you cry out, but you barely hear it over the sound he makes as you clench hard on his cock, on and on, your orgasm dragging out forever because he’s still moving, still thrusting in and out of you with an abandon you have never seen from him before.
And when he comes he jerks his hips into yours, harder than before, and you let out a shout as you come again, drawing his come up into you. Your pleasure is everywhere—in the bruising on your ass, in his fingers on your hips, in your fingers and toes. And at last he rolls off of you to collapse onto the mat next to you, breathing hard for a long moment, putting his hand over his face briefly.
Then he puts his weight on one elbow and turns to look at you. One hand comes over to touch your face again, his brows raised in a silent question.
“Oh, I’m fantastic,” you say cheerfully. You can still feel everywhere he had touched you, and you lean into his hand on your cheek, then turn to kiss his fingers. “Really.”
“Okay,” he says, and sighs, flopping back again, and then, “Ow,” because his head had cleared the mat and hit the floor. “I’m fine.”
You both lay there together for a moment, blinking in the harsh yellow light of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling before you roll onto your side and into him. And he responds in kind, turning onto his side and drawing you in against him, holding you close. His arms had been inescapable earlier, but now you don’t know why you would ever want to.
He kisses your hair, then sighs. “You’re still a brat, though,” he says.
“I know,” you say. “But it’s worth it.”
“This is not going to teach you to defend yourself,” he points out, but you can hear the smile.
“Well, I think I’d win any fight against you that way,” you say. You’re rewarded with his soft laugh, and you press your face into his chest to feel it against your cheek.
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as always, this will be on ao3 eventually. reblogs are welcome and appreciated!
