Screw You. (Literally)

Finnick's always been in awe of you. You've slipped through the gaps he'd never been able to even peep through. Finnick's got about a billion words he would use to describe you — all of which slip his conscious right now — but he thinks that the tabloid titles are enough.

Unabashedly District.

This could've gone wrong for you, this whole strategy. You're beautiful, sure, you've got that going for you, but besides that, you're not as endearing as that Peeta Mellark kid is, not intriguing like Katniss Everdeen, you're not unfairly likeable like Finnick is, and you're definitely not as iconic as the Gloss-And-Cashmere-sibling-duo that's had the Capitol in a chokehold ever since the 63rd and 64th Games, that's for sure. You've got no star-crossed-lover-backstory, you don't appear in adverts and host parties, and you sure as hell aren't a counterpart in a dynamic duo. Hell, you've never even participated in the Games. That should have Snow reeling, that should have matches be lit after dousing your house in oil.

Yet... there's an invisible struggle between the two of you for the darling title. You'd first been spotted with Johanna Mason, as a little promo to show Panem what awaited a Victor of the Games, and what the Victor of the 71st was up to right after the Victory Tour. Well, with Johanna was a stretch. You'd been in a still of the town square, playing guitar with a couple other delinquent District 7 teens, and as Johanna passed by, you'd high-fived her. That was it. Thirty seconds of footage, thirty weeks of discussion, and thirty months of obsession. Although Snow seemed mildly opposed to putting a music group under the Panem spotlight, for whatever reasons he had, eventually you and your band were all the Capitol craved.

And boy, did you deliver.

So, yes, your paths had crossed at many a Capitol party, and Finnick had tried to figure you out. He likes to think he's the only one who's actually kept your interest long enough to have a proper conversation with you. No wonder Plutarch had deigned him with the impossible task of keeping you with him until he could come back from District 13 and properly speak to you about the Second Rebellion. How the fuck was he going to go about doing that, when he didn't even actually know you? The offhanded dating rumour aside, all you've shared was whiskey, a conversation, and a trauma bond.

He's been spiraling, Finnick has, and it's showing in his work. Every time he's in front of a camera, he's storming off, needing an entire hour of a break and a vodka, as well. He's grateful the directors do not get tired of him, that they all think he can do no wrong because he's Finnick Odair, because if they weren't like that, he'd have been fired ages ago. Or, at the very least, killed off. He hasn't been allowed to go home for nearly half a year, now, and it's probably the main cause of said spiral.

Thankfully, this spiral leads him to you, in this twisted bonding opportunity you two apparently shared — daydrinking.

"Long time, no see. You had a gig today, yeah?"

It's deafening in the silence of the desolate bar, and he nearly cringes, but he powers through, because you've just looked up at him.

"Yes."

"I thought you guys were awesome. Props.", he offers, his hand out in expectation. You shake it.

"Nice to see you again.", he tries.

You nod in return. "And you."

You seem distracted, so he follows your line of sight to the screen fastened precariously loosely to the back wall of the bar. Ah. The Victory Tour recap. You must've missed it, what with your performance here at the Capitol, so you're watching.

He leaves you be until District 7 comes, because he knows the nerve-wracking experience it is to watch the new Victor (in this case, Victors) rub it in your own District's face that their child is dead.

Finnick notices things, as always. He notices the layers of silences that permeate through the bar. He notices the disgusting taste of the beer he's just ordered. He notices the way you stiffen when one of the Victors mentions the male tribute from District 7. He notices how his instinct tells him not to speak, to allow you to feel this. He notices how his own lips part in direct disobedience to his gut. "Stele Mason. Is he related to Johanna Mason?"

You blink, seemingly snapping out of whatever horrific visions flashed past your eyes just then. "Wh— uh, no. There are lots of Masons back in 7."

"Oh. Did— do you... know him?"

You nod, turning to grab your drink, downing it. "Yeah." It's clipped.

Got it, he'll shut up now.

He stretches, inconspicuously leaning over and emptying the contents of his little pouch — courtesy of Plutarch — into your drink, before going back to normal and shrinking his attention back to his own.

He watches you drink it.

But then you order another. And another. And, oh, look at that, another. And soon enough, a spectacle that Finnick's been expecting — through mindfully quiet, restricted sips of his own drink — occurs. You're drunk.

And he doesn't know if this is because he's from District 4, or simply because he's Finnick, but he's drawn to shipwrecks like this, where the outside is perfectly preserved, all the pieces look put in place, but he knows that the inside of the ship's damaged. Floorboards have been sprung out of their places, the helm is cracked in two, and the engines are crashing in on themselves.

There ain't nothing he's ever been gravitated to that didn't require him to donate his own barely-functional parts to in order to get it started again, but he'll still do it, if to ease his own conscience and qualms about being a good person. He is, he hopes. He's always only ever wanted to be.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?"

You don't — can't — respond, and so he asks the bartender where your band is right now. He tries to find any sort of clues on you as to where your friends might be, or if you've been given a lodging to perform more. None. Nada. He's got a gnawing feeling all of this is thanks to Plutarch.

"Okay, up you get.", he mutters, hauling you up onto your feet, gripping onto the bar stool to support both of you as you suddenly dip down. "There we go, c'mon. I've got you."

He's got to get this bartender fired, he notes, internally. He'd just watched some girl get scooped up by a guy she clearly didn't know, and did fuck-all about it.

The walk to his flat's not far, by any means, but it is difficult, with a drunk girl — and her guitar case — in tow.

He flops you down on the bed, keeping his eye on you as he shoots across the room to his drawer, fishing out the white band Plutarch had given him, before gently fastening it around your wrist. He doesn't know what it does, — he'd just assumed it would be some form of tracking device.

Okay.

Finnick can breathe now that he's got the wristband on you. He's done his part, and he'll actively — to the best of his abilities — try to stop you from leaving before Plutarch says all he needs to say. But if you manage to lock him in a door and gnaw or saw the wristband off and leave? Well, then he'll be helpless and impressed.

He pads around his kitchen, grabbing a glass, opening the fridge, grabbing his juice, pouring it out. He doesn't drink it yet, though. A thought. The least he could do is play the gracious host. He's sure when you wake up, he'll look like the bad guy. And that's not him. Not who he wants to be. He takes out another glass. Pours some juice out for you.

Some time passes. He's eaten half his leftover pizza — saved the rest for you like the kind soul he is — and is currently nursing a glass of wine as he stares idly at the TV. God, for such a huge apartment, he perpetually feels like the walls are closing in on him. Today's no different, especially since he's day-drinking again. It's about eight, and he'd brought you home at about six-thirty. He's getting worried. You haven't woken up. Did the sketchy bartender also put something in your drink? Who would he be if he didn't go check?

He sets the glass down, stretches, and walks to the guest bedroom door. Tilts his head. He doesn't remember leaving it open. He'd closed it specifically so that he'd hear you coming. He knocks. "You decent?"

He'd hoped you'd have changed into the clothes he'd left out on the armchair if you'd woken up. But you don't respond. Meaning you haven't. Which is even more alarming.

Finnick presses his hand down on the handle, swinging it inwards to open it— fuck! That object — whatever the everloving fuck it was — just hit his stomach like a mother! Fuck!

Okay. So you're up.

He looks down. He did not know an alarm clock could pack that much pain, for being so compact.

He looks up. Yeah, no, they could, if thrown from a distance, and you're still next to the bed. Odd strategy, but it's okay, because you lower the hand holding your next launch-object — a fucking nightlamp — down when you see his face.

"Finnick?"

"Yeah. Nice to see you again."

"You spiked me?!"

"No, no! You just... kept going, with the liquor, I—"

"You spiked me!"

"I did not!" Little white lies, Finnick's learned, are better than teary eyes.

"What did you do to me?! Where's my coat?!"

"Nothing! And it's probably back at the bar!"

Not really. He'd accidentally torn it. The long sleeves had been fucking with his ability to get the wristband on you, so in a fit of rage, he'd grabbed a pair of scissors and got it off.

"So how am I here?! What did you do to me?! DON'T— Don't come near me!"

"I didn't fucking take advantage of you or anything, okay? That's not me! You passed out. I asked around, but no one knew where your band was, where you guys were staying! What was I supposed to do? Leave you there?!", he tries to explain, still needing to pause every two seconds and soothe his fucking abdomen, because of the alarm clock injury. God, he'd never live this down, if anyone found out.

You seem to believe him, and fully set the lamp back down, eyes still on him. "I don't believe you."

"You don't have to. This is just a misunderstanding."

"A misunderst— you abducted me!"

"I helped you! I—", he cuts himself off, running his hands over his face. "You don't need to trust me. Here.", he declares, tossing you the keys to the guest bedroom, as a last fucking resort. "You've had a long night. I think you should freshen up, and I'll get you food so you can get rid of the hangover. You probably have lots of gigs lined up at all the Hunger Games rewatch-parties, huh?", he suggests, voice softer, duplicitously so, but you don't need to know that. "My sister left some clothes here. Uh, so.", he adds, gesturing at the clothes he'd laid out on the armchair. "If you wanna get out of those."

He doesn't have a sister. These were left over from a Capitol afterparty that just had to — had to — be kept here, because what Snow wants, Snow gets.

You catch the keys mid-air, still glaring at him like he's done the things you're accusing him of. He knows what you're thinking. There's no guarantee he doesn't have another set. But he doesn't, and the fact that he's even given you these is a big deal. "I'll be out there making lunch-slash-dinner. Fuckin'.... linner. If you wanna join me when you're done.", he mumbles, gently closing the door behind him.

Fuck's sake, that was surreal. Though, he needs to applaud your survival skills. Soon as he gave you the keys, you held them between your fingers like claws. If he'd have come closer, even to set the alarm clock back on the bedside, he'd have had very nasty lacerations painting his body.

He should probably get to work on this linner thing, huh? Offering you heated-up-leftover-pizza was absolutely a kidnapper thing to do.

Pasta. Safest bet. He hasn't met anyone who didn't like it, and it was easy to make. Great. He's got some sauce leftover from a week ago in the fridge, and he'd heard it was 5-7 days, that was the accepted time to do so. Brilliant. Okay. Off to a good start.

He hears you before he sees you. He focuses on the pasta, because he's suddenly afraid that if he makes eye contact, your fight-or-flight will kick in again and he'll get the glass jar of pasta sauce that he's left out to cool thrown at him.

"I, uh..."

That'd better be a fucking apology.

"I need to go."

Or a statement that he can't allow to come true.

"Please. I feel really bad, for scaring you. Just... eat and then do whatever."

He's careful not to say 'and then leave', because he can't let you do that.

You're about to protest, but then you probably see the sheer desperation, mixed with fatigue pooling in his eyes, and then you nod, gingerly sitting at his dining table.

"What's this?"

"What's what?", he asks, though he already knows what. He deflects. "Oh. Yeah, bit of an alcoholic, I've become. But help yourself. It's really good stuff. I don't know what year it's from, but it's delicious. Here's a wine gl—"

"Not the wine, Finnick. This thing."

Yeah, the wristband. He turns, his face demonstrating tame confusion. "I dunno, thought it was some weird chic style-thing you had."

"Wasn't on before."

"Really? I remember it being on when I brought you home from the bar.", he says, with faux thoughtfulness. "You don't remember it? You were pretty out of it."

"I've never seen this thing before in my life. It— huh.", you grit, and he can tell it's through a clenched jaw, because you say his name with some effort. You're trying to get it off. "It won't come off."

"What? Hold on.", he mutters, turning the stove off before stalking over to you, at his dining table. "I'll help you."

He trusts Plutarch, so he genuinely does use all his might, all of yours, and even a spoon, to help pry it off, but it doesn't budge. "Is it hurting you?"

"No, it's just... I don't like it. It's mysterious and tacky."

"Killer combo, yeah.", he muses, rubbing his hand across the nape of his neck. "You'll need to have that surgically removed, I guess."

You groan, resting your palms onto the dining table, before looking up at him, slightly weirded out by his guilty lingering. "I'll live. Pasta's burning."

"Oh, fuck—" Finnick rushes back, slowing down when he sees the stove. Wait, he just turned it off. He hears the hurried footsteps, and pieces together that you're trying to run.

Then comes the scream. It's terrifying. If he had neighbours, they'd think he was killing someone in here. He dashes over to where you are — the door, and is met with the horrifying sight of you laying there, spasming and twitching.

And then he sees it. Your wristband. It's lit up.

Great, Plutarch Heavensbee had convinced him to put the equivalent of a shock collar on a human.

The pasta's steaming and forgotten.

The wristband's beeping and Finnick wishes it'd be forgotten.

You're fuming, and will probably be trying to remember details you have forgotten.

"Eat—", he begins, cut off by you throwing yet another plate full of pasta at the wall in a fit of rage. He closes his eyes, attempting to conjure up some strength. "Starving isn't going to help your state, honey. You're hungover and triggered."

"And fucking kidnapped! I'm not fucking eating your food!"

He fights the urge to say 'fine, do whatever the fuck you want then' because technically, he can't let you fucking die. He stands, not bothering to clean up what is the third bowl of pasta you have hurled across his living room, before scooping more pasta up from the pot and transferring it into a new bowl.

"This will stay right here.", he declares, placing the bowl at a safe distance from you on the kitchen island. "You can eat it when you want."

"What do you want from me?!"

"I told you, it's only until Plutarch comes back."

"You realize I don't know who the FUCK that is?! I have no way of knowing if this 'Plutarch' — stupid fucking name, by the way — character is even real! For all I know, there is no 'Plutarch from the Capitol who only wants a word'!"

Oh. Oh, fuck. Yeah, he hadn't realised that. You probably couldn't know he was real, because it's not like Finnick had framed photos of him around the apartment or tapes of him on his TV or anything.

"He's a Gamemaker?", he offers, gently. "Heavensbee?"

"I don't follow the fucking Games!"

He wishes you'd stop screaming, but it's not like he has neighbours who'd complain, and technically, you're well-within your rights to go apeshit on him. Still, he's got to match your energy if he's going to tire you out enough that he can gently explain that the fate of Panem depends on you chilling the fuck out until Plutarch gets here. "You were watching at the bar!"

"I knew Stele, so I paid my respects! What am I, not supposed to honour kids of my District who died because of a rebellion they weren't even around for?!"

There's a silence that he allows to slowly settle onto the apartment like a feather steadily falling from miles high. The rage was good. It meant you might be open to what Plutarch had to say.

"No.", he replies, evenly. "No, you can. But... for what it's worth, I didn't know the wristband would do that."

"Great comfort, Finnick!", you yell, clapping sarcastically and loudly. It's clear this is just a response to whatever imminent danger you think you're in, and probably stupid, considering that if he were a kidnapper, he'd have shut you up much more painfully.

"Okay, no need to be fucking annoying about it, okay? If I wanted to hurt you, I would've, but I haven't because I don't, alright?", he tries, for the last time. Honestly, if you don't start complying, he'll just leave the house and let you rot in there, until Plutarch comes . He's definitely not above that, and you know him enough to know that, too. Anything but you making him feel guilty for something he didn't even do.

"How about you j—"

The phone rings, and he narrows his eyes at you for one moment, before you sprint across the living room to it, picking it up and pleading into it, so much so that Finnick kind of feels bad for being pissed off at you. You're just panicked and trying to keep your life. He might feel a sickeningly embarrassing parasocial, delusional closeness to you because he's probably — maybe ; jury's still out — got a crush on you, but to you, he's just this guy you've spoken to a couple of times, some Victor-sellout. This is like the Games to you, except in a mildly claustrophobic apartment with only one other person who you don't actually know is going to kill you.

He stays where he is, picking up the cordless he has on the kitchen island, pressing a button with a tiny beep before the line's on speaker. Plutarch's voice comes steady from the other end. "Ma'am, you can calm down, I know, it must be scary for you—yes, but he won't hurt you, neither of us will. Trust me. I'm Plutarch Heavensbee, gamemaker, at your serv— can I speak to Finnick, please?"

He almost feels guilty, with how your face falls once you realise you're not getting rescued.

Finnick shakes his head, eyes still on you as he clears his throat. "Yeah, go ahead."

"I'll be there at dawn."

"Alright."

"Why is she so—"

"Give her a break, alright? It's a lot. Put yourself in her shoes."

"Take care of her."

"I will."

Beep. Finnick sets the phone back into place before he sighs, fingers drumming on the counter. "And he means actually take care of you. Like feed you, not eliminate you.", he tells you, eyes slowly travelling from the floor up to yours.

You look like hell.

"Plutarch is real, and I— I'm really not supposed to say anything, but if you want to know why we need your cooperation, I'll tell you. Over a nice bowl of sort-of-hot-pasta."

"You okay?"

"No, Finnick, no, I am not okay.", you mumble, before stuffing your mouth with pasta. He sighs, continuing his aggressive brooming to get even the most minute shards of broken bowl from your hurling-escapade off his beautiful hardwood floors. "You won't tell me anything concrete."

"I told you as much as I can."

"Oh, yeah — 'We need your help in something of national importance' is very—", you scoff, setting the pasta down, but fixing your gaze onto the muted TV, now playing static Reaping reruns like your own personal looping torture chamber. "That could be anything from a new gig to overthrowing the President."

Hey, he'll give it to you, you're smart. If this had been a game show like Tribute Trivia, you'd have gone home with the gold for how on-point your guess was. He pathetically tries wetting another washcloth and scrubbing his nail at the sauce on his walls, which, unfortunately, hadn't even remotely come off once in the past hour. Fine. Can't say he didn't try.

"Yeah."

"What do you mean, 'yeah', which one is it?"

"Which one do you think it is?"

"Well, you brought my guitar, so it could be the first.", you spit, sitting up on his couch, setting the pasta down. "But you also somehow hacked the phone lines so it's only incoming calls — from Plutarch — so it could also be the second."

Finnick stands at that, tossing the cloth into the washing before stalking over to the sink. "Who do you think I am?"

"A kidnapper."

"Yeah, I got that. I mean me. Who do you see in your mind when someone says 'Finnick Odair'?", he asks, running his hand under the faucet for a second before drying it.

You watch him make his way to the living room, watch the couch indent where he settles down onto it, opposite you. "I don't know."

"There's no right or wrong answer to this, honey."

"I don't know. You, I guess."

"Me, the person or me the concept?"

"You the concept."

"Right. But you know who 'me the person' is? It's a boy from District 4 that desperately misses the sea, and can't go a single day without a drink because he knows his District thinks he's a sellout. I hate the Capitol. That's who me-the-person is."

You bite the inside of your cheek, watching his face carefully for anything new. "Who from the District doesn't hate the Capitol?"

"I hate Snow."

"Again, you're not special, sweetheart. Everyone and their mother hates him. They just can't do anything about it because he's the President and he'll burn your house down or something."

He's not sure why this is turning into a competition. Maybe he needs it to feel like one, just so he can prove to you that he's not a sellout. That his being here, in this borderline kitschy apartment, has nothing to do with him. But to do that, to prove that he was deserving of your time, your trust, he'd have to tell you everything. And, uh, that's a bit above his pay grade.

So, new approach. He licks his lips, frowning down at you as he formulates his next sentence. "You know what I see when I see you?"

A subtle shake of your head.

"I see a promising young girl who refuses to give up her District identity for the Capitol. I see defiance. I see—"

"Oh, my god, you're trying to start a second rebellion." It's a whisper of surprise, a gasp of realisation, a musing of horror. "No, no, no, I'm taking NO part in this!", you yell, and he's standing up suddenly, trying to chase you away from the window, which may not be burdened by the same electrical field the door was.

Okay, he knew you were smart, but come on !

"Listen— hey! Listen before you refuse!"

"No, are you fucking insane?! I'm not putting my family on the line because some Capitol-bred Gamemaker wants to play god!"

"Plutarch is good! He's g— he's a good man, Y/N, alright? And we have the entire plan figured out. Entirely— hey, hey!", he grits, holding your arms over your chest so you couldn't flail about.

"I won't let you get more people killed! I won't do it!"

"We're making sure no one else gets killed, okay? We're not—"

"No! No, Haymitch warned me, he said Heavensbee tried this before, and—!" You're hyperventilating and he can feel tears on his sleeve.

"No, shh-shh. No. He failed, last time, but this time, we have something else, we have a Mockingjay, a poster, alright?"

"Who?!"

"Katniss Everdeen!"

"NO! She's a KID! You can't do that to her, no! I'll tell Haymitch!"

"He's IN ON IT! He knows! Everyone knows, and it's happening, everyone even JOHANNA is in on it, it's happening whether you like it or not! Okay?! Will you calm the FUCK down?!"

He doesn't like that you break down in his arms when he can't see your face and kiss your tears off.

He doesn't like that he genuinely doesn't know what to do anymore now that the lid is now blown off and you're less than impressed.

You're opposed.

Fuck.

Finnick thinks the lights of his apartment make you look younger. He thinks the stage lights that the Capitol sets up for all of your gigs and performances wash you out, age you up. He thinks his apartment's perfect for highlighting someone's actual age. The gold beams off your eyes and frames your face, like illuminating your youth.

It's been two hours. The sun's closer to rising , which is annoying, considering it was just about setting when he'd brought you home. Your silence does a very good job at illustrating the devastatingly consistent passage of time. Who cares if your world's crumbling around you? The sun will set. It will rise.

But he also thinks your silence is heavy, like you're holding back your words — no matter how sharp, how brazen — for someone more worth it. And all Finnick's wanted since he first laid eyes on you was to be worthy of your words, because you seem to have only valuable things to say.

"Hey."

"You're going to get that kid and her entire family killed. For some deluded dream of a free Panem."

Okay, whoa. You're not even giving him a minute to breathe.

"Hey. No. It's not like that. There were two Victors in the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, do you know how insane that is?", he asks, with a sort of fascinated hiss to his tone, as he wipes tears and probably fears off your cheek. "It's crazy, okay? You know that. But she managed it. She's a symbol of hope."

"She's a child!"

"So was I. So was Johanna. So was Stele."

"Hey!"

"I'm—", he states, moving back with his hands up defensively. "I'm just saying. It's children they're taking from us, so what if it's our children who take from them? Him?"

"Children.", you scoff, shaking your head as you pull away from the subtle proximate comfort you'd both created by being knee-to-knee on his couch. "So I suppose this Heavensbee character has hidden shit from you, too."

Huh?

"What? No."

"Next year's the Quarter Quell. What is it exactly that you think's 'special ' about the Seventy-Fifth Games, Finnick?", you ask, and he's suddenly mentally backpedalling because yeah, actually. Good question. Heavensbee hadn't even mentioned it. He had no clue.

"What do you know and how do you know it?"

"If you think Heavensbee is just talking about making Katniss continue this marriage facade in order to get the rebellion going, then you're an even bigger idiot than you are sellout.", you scoff. He clenches his jaw. Fine, you're hurt and scared and you can't really beat him up, can you? So, you're doing the next best thing, he supposes.

"I'm not a sellout."

"Yeah? Then why are you here blindly holding me captive for a man that's constructing a deathly Arena that he plans on throwing already-reaped Victors into?"

It's like the wind just stops, you know? A moment, that's all it takes, and all the air particles freeze. The pulse in Finnick's vessels dulls into a mild throb, the breaths he'd been sharply letting out now still and cease. Because he's... he's got to go back in. Into the Arena. Again. After a decade. He'll have to go in.

"Oh, this Heavensbee character didn't tell you that? How sad. Now you know how I feel. Hurts, doesn't it? When someone you trust fucks you over and traps you where you can't escape?"

"You trust me?"

It's silent, this question, and did nothing to demonstrate the internal turmoil he was undergoing at that very moment, what with the re-exposure to traumatic events and all, but it's potent, it's salient, to him.

"Well... yeah."

"Why?"

"You're real. I thought I told you this."

"No, actually, you told me I was a sellout, that you only saw me as a concept!", he snaps, shoving you to sit back down onto the couch. "So tell me, how do I know this isn't just manipulation to get me to turn on Plutarch?!"

"I don't give a fuck whether you turn on Plutarch, Finnick! But you better fucking know that it's that kid's blood on your hands if this deranged plan fails. It's hers, that kid Peeta's, Haymitch's, Johanna's, every other Victor in that arena, as well as every single person in Panem who'll be punished for your treason! That blood's on your hands!"

"You think you're the epitome of a clean conscience? Well, news-flash, honey, every time you pluck at that stupid fucking guitar for a Capitol asshole, or every time you take a countdown cue for the Capitol cameras, your hands are fucking painted with red! Alright?", he spits, kneeling before you to be eye-level to glare at you better as he holds your hands down onto his couch. "You think wearing your District 7 garb is some form of silent sticking-it-to-the-man? Ha. The man's loving this little show you're putting on, because it's making him fucking money, sweetheart. You're only helping the system!"

"FUCK off!"

"You're as culpable as we are, honey, but at least we are trying to do something. You're just drinking and performing. You're the worst parts of both Abernathy and Trinket. And I'm the sellout.", he scoffs, softly, his fingers playing delicately with some of your hair before he puts it over your ear.

Truth is, Finnick doesn't believe a word coming out of his mouth, but it's better to yell and insult and tear into someone else's psyche than confront the fact that he's supposed to go right back into the Arena once again. Sure, he'll know the layout because Plutarch will tell him, but how many times can he lose himself? If it's not the Arena, it's the booze. If it's not the booze, it's darkened, sickening rooms with the Patrons, and if it's not that, it's... it's the Arena again, now. He no longer recognizes himself in the mirror, and chances are, he may never live to even see one again.

So he gently leans back against the coffee table a short distance away from you, and you're in the subtle proximate comfort of the knee-to-knee again, except he's on ground-level with his knees propped up to tether himself to yours. And the two of you just sit there. In the chaos of the promise of the whim of the possibility of an impending rebellion, an upcoming Games, and a potential mass murder that costs thousands of innocents their lives.

"I hate you."

"The feeling's mutual."

Another silence.

Then : "Do you actually think I'm real?"

"I don't talk to people I don't think are real."

"I'm not a sellout?"

"You're not a Capitol sellout. You're a Plutarch sellout."

Finnick's eyes snap up to yours, running between them like his salvation was stored in the salt of your tears. Then, a small crook of the corners of his lips. A snort. Then a laugh. "I can live with that."

It's funny because he won't. He won't live with that. He won't live at all.

"How did you know Stele?"

"I only became frontman after he died."

Whoa. Ouch.

"What was he? To you?"

"Everything. Who did you lose?"

"My District partner. She was everything to me, too."

This is rich. This is funny. This is ridiculous. This is devastating. Two minutes ago, you were at each other's throats, threatening each other's conscience, sanity, morality and integrity, and yet, here you are. Reminiscing over loss like you've lived through each other's worst phases.

"Are you still hungover?", he asks, after a moment, tired, spent, breathless, tame.

His spiral's come to an end. It's a cavernous pit of despair and he's got no rocks to throw to see how deep it is.

"Yeah."

"Oh, we can't have that, can we?", he asks, scrambling up and making his way to the liquor cabinet to fish out something to drink.

"At least we're not day drinking anymore. Cheers, us.", you mutter, running your hands across your face until it reaches into your hair.

He squints up at the clock. "Hey, look at that.", he remarks, sitting down next to you on the couch as he pours some out for you. "You okay?"

"No, Finnick, no, I am not okay. You just told me something far too concrete."

"Yeah, well, so did you. But I trust you.", he declares, holding his glass up to you. "Sellout or otherwise. You're District. And that's something. To selling out."

He waits. It'll kill him swiftly and painfully if you don't accept this olive branch. Your eyes — fatigued, sorrowful and oh-so-fragile — meet his as you clink your glass with his.

"To selling out."

The door opens, at nearly exactly that moment.

Clark tangles his fingers in your hair, fisting it and pulling you upright before he slides that hand down to your jaw. The grip he has on it, thumb on one cheek and the rest of his fingers on the other, is so tight that it squishes your face a little. You bite down on your bottom lip until there’s a faint hint of iron spreading over your tongue. You grab onto his wrist and dig your nails into his skin so roughly that, if he were a normal man, he’d start bleeding.

“God, I love this pretty little mouth of yours.” He smirks and gives your face a squeeze.

“It’d be even prettier if you could keep the damn thing shut,” Clark grumbles, running his thumb over your bottom lip, forcing your teeth to release it. 

He shoves his index and ring fingers into your mouth and collects some of your saliva, then slips that hand right down to where you two are becoming one so that he could draw tight, quick circles on your very abused clit. You cover your mouth with the hand that you had around his wrist, squealing into your own palm and squeezing your eyes shut as you fall apart much sooner than you thought you would. 

The stimulation, the grit in his voice, the way he’s manhandling you? It’s all too much. You didn’t stand a chance at keeping it together. Your entire body shakes as you come, your muscles convulsing uncontrollably while you sink your teeth into your skin, a desperate attempt at trying to quiet your moans so that you don’t get caught fucking in this public bathroom. 

You’re doubled over by the time you’re at the tail end of your climax. Clark groans, shuddering as he sinks his cock even deeper into you because of your body’s new angle beneath him. He clicks his tongue at you when he notices you don’t have your eyes on yourself in the mirror anymore.

“Did I say you could look away? Open those eyes, pretty girl. Don’t make me open them for you.” 

His voice was rough, but the grip he has on your throat when he forces you back into an upward position is rougher. Almost as rough as the deep thrusts he hasn’t eased up on despite the fact that you just came. You open your eyes and he sends you a wicked grin through the mirror when you meet his. The red in them is still so prominent.

“That’s right. There you are. You’re gonna watch yourself come this time, you understand?” 

Your face floods with the heat of humiliation and need. You can’t even respond to him with anything other than a nod and a self-strangled whimper. Opening your mouth right now is a death trap; you’ll scream his name and ruin your whole operation here. You might get yourselves fired if you get caught and it gets back to the Planet, which means you’d never be able to do something like this again. 

Can’t take that risk. 

Your pussy flutters and tightens around him from his filthy mouth alone. He’s a nasty motherfucker whenever he’s been around red kryptonite, and you adore it. Clark laughs at you. It’s mean, because he’s always mean when those beautiful blue eyes of his are bright red. All it does is make your walls clench around him again. 

He leans forward, breath fanning out against the shell of your ear when he purrs, “You like it when I’m rough with you, huh? Can’t believe you’ve been hiding that from me. You’re making a mess all over yourself, sweet girl. Squeezing my cock every time I manhandle you or fuss at you. Dirty little thing.”

He’s not lying. You’d be diagnosed clinically insane if you denied it. The way you’ve essentially gone non-verbal in his arms and the lewd sound of your wetness ringing out in this room would give you away no matter how convincing the denial would be. 

You’d have responded to his dirty mouth if he didn’t make your brain blue-screen when you felt him drag his tongue up the side of your neck—from the junction where your shoulder meets your neck all the way up to your jaw. Your eyes roll back into your head and, unfortunately, you let out a moan so loud that it probably made the mirror shake. It’s not like you could see it. You were too busy dealing with the stars exploding in your line of sight after you almost went cross-eyed in his arms. 

Clark’s smirk burns against your pulse point. Burns almost as much as when he pulls his hand away from your throat, uses it to roughly slap your ass while he fucks into you, and says, “Can’t have you going dumb on me just yet, sweetheart. Come on back.” 

“Feels s’fucking good, Clark,” you slur. The tears that had been burning your lash lines start to spill down your cheeks. Clark wraps his arm around your waist and nuzzles his face in your neck, leaving wet, opened-mouth kisses all over your skin. It’s his attempt at keeping you here with him, keeping you steady and grounded, while his own thrusts get sloppy. 

It’s not long before both of his hands are at your waist, fingers digging into your skin so harshly that you know you’ll have bruises there within the hour. A tell-tale sign that he’s about to come. Clark gives you a few more sloppy pumps of his hips, ramming against the soft, sensitive spot deep inside of you and earning a weak final orgasm out of you because of it. More of a whisper than a bang, and yet still enough to make you shake and have your vision black out at its edges. 

You do as he commanded earlier and watch yourself in the mirror while you’re flung into what you hope is your last orgasm in this bathroom. 

“That’s it. Just like that. You’re always so pretty when you come, angel.” The gentle coo of his voice is so comforting that you could cry. Again.

As you’re whimpering and gushing around him, Clark buries himself into you to the hilt and completely stills. He bites down on your shoulder where he had pushed your shirt sleeve down to gain access to more of your skin earlier. It mutes his shaky moan as he spills his load into you.

You reach back and tangle your fingers in his hair as he comes down from his own high. With a soft tug, you pull his head out of your neck and twist your upper half so you can kiss him for the first time since you got in here. The kiss you share is slow and deep. There’s no clashing tongues or clicking teeth. Just a gentle ebb and flow of your lips while they slot together like a set of perfect puzzle pieces. 

Clark breaks the kiss when he pulls out of you. He gifts you a dorky, satisfied smile. When he looks into your eyes, you’re so fucking relieved to see the red has started to fade. It’s still there, but there’s more blue in them than red. Something you can count as a win, something that pours relief over your worried soul. You kiss his cheek and push out an exhausted sigh when you fall back into him.

He wraps his arms around your waist and presses a kiss onto your temple. You spend the next few minutes straightening out your clothes after he cleans you up. Clark has to actually fasten the button on his blazer because you popped a couple of the buttons on his shirt clean off. There’s a bright pink blush spreading over the bridge of his nose and bleeding into his cheeks as he watches you throw some of your hair over a hickey he left on your neck. 

“I’m sorry that I was so mean and—and careless. I hope I didn’t upset you, honey.”

His apology is sweet. Incredibly sincere, as he always is. It falls on deaf ears, though, because you roll your eyes, give him a quick, featherlight kiss on the lips, and tell him what you always tell him whenever he gets weepy over being a little rough with you:

“Shut up, Clark. I love you.” 

taglist: @unificsation @clarkscolumn

ꨄ︎ handy man pt2 I @itsrubberbisquit I

Clark has been smitten with his accident-prone neighbor for quite some time. She tracks him down to make a familiar request with an unusual ending.

ꨄ︎ happy (belated) 4th of July I @ellana-ravenwood I

ꨄ︎ neighbor!reader I @plethorawrites I

ꨄ︎ oblivious!clark I @/plethorawrites I

ꨄ︎ golden retriever bf I @/plethorawrites I

ꨄ︎ request I @/plethorawrites I

ꨄ︎ drabble I @littlesoulshine I

ꨄ︎ request I @/littlesoulshine I

ꨄ︎ panty stealing I @hanasnx I

ꨄ︎ memory loss!clark I @/hanasnx I

ꨄ︎ request I @sanguineterrain I

ꨄ︎ divorced dilf!clark hcs I @c-nstantine I

ꨄ︎ drabble I @graysonfics I

ꨄ︎ the alchemy - so high school (prequel) I @neilsbeloved I

clark’s always been adamant on being private with his personal life. few friends, low profile, and a hushed relationship. he can’t understand why people would want to publicize everything about their life. that is until he sees you talking to one of the school’s football players.

ꨄ︎ in today’s torch exclusive I @/neilsbeloved I

yeah… trying to get an exclusive interview from his girlfriend? doesn’t really end well when both of you have been kept apart for so long

ꨄ︎ mess up your white tee (i’ll do you dirty) I @/neilsbeloved I

driving back to the kent farm after your internship, you see your boyfriend in his tight white tee… drenched in sweat.

ꨄ︎ company of four I @/neilsbeloved I

your world stops the moment clark tells you he’s finally introducing you to his friends, not because you want to stay hidden as his mysterious girlfriend, but because of your distasteful past encounters with his friends.

ꨄ︎ clark kent groveling I @/neilsbeloved I

ꨄ︎ alien boyfriend I @sunsburns I

ꨄ︎ no.1 party anthem I @/sunsburns I

what was supposed to be a night for work takes an unexpected turn when you run into clark kent—alone at a restaurant, waiting for a date who seems to have no intention of showing up. poor guy.

ꨄ︎ too much? I @kjhbsies I

Clark was too busy saving Smallville, and Y/n just wanted a little attention. But when he told her to stop being clingy, She took it to heart— pulling away completely.

ꨄ︎ all american boy I @scribes-of-valar I

Your friend has been distant for months, all of a sudden he's a brand new man. He's practically a puppy dog following after you and you're not sure how to feel. What's a girl to do when she suddenly finds herself looking at not one, but two Clark Kent's?

ꨄ︎ freak like me I @/scribes-of-valar I

You've been labeled a freak after your accident during the meteor storm. Now, someone's hunting you down because of it and the only person you can trust is Clark. But he's not the all-American boy he pretends to be.

ꨄ︎ boy’s a liar I @/scribes-of-valar I

Finally taking the plunge and ruining your friendship with Clark, you go on your first date but the next day he's acting like a whole new man. Not a good one. You don't know if your relationship can recover from his cruel behavior, but he's not going to give up so easily.

ꨄ︎ request I @hederasgarden I

ꨄ︎ you can hear it in the silence I @thebestandworstdayofjune I

you have had an insane crush on Clark since he moved to metropolis, but thank god he has no idea about the way he makes your heart skip a bear every time he smiles

ꨄ︎ request I @/thebestandworstdayofjune I

ꨄ︎ in your arms I @wchswift I

you and clark have been dating for almost a month and he is insecure about saying that he is in love with you.

ꨄ︎ through your glasses I @midtalissa I

After Bruce accidentally reveals Clark’s secret, your relationship falls apart—but when danger finds you, Clark shows up, and maybe… so does a second chance.

ꨄ︎ call it what you want pt2 I @bellasweetwriting I

an incident forces clark kent to see you in a different light

ꨄ︎ unapproachable I @/bellasweetwriting I

it’s an statistical fact that clark kent can’t get within five feet of… you.

ꨄ︎ he’s all that I @fawnindawn I

as a reporter of the daily planet, you haven’t been shy of your dislike for superman. clark is desperate to prove to you how superman, and by extension, him, is not as bad as you think.

ꨄ︎ my cape pt2 I @fluentmoviequoter I

When your corner of Metropolis is attacked by an alien, you put yourself in danger to help your neighbors. Superman finds you holding his cape and develops an interest in you.

ꨄ︎ emergency contact I @/fluentmoviequoter I

Clark Kent has an emergency contact. Superman is an emergency contact. They're both a little dramatic.

ꨄ︎ kansas I @anon-188 I

clark tells you everything, but there’s just one thing you can’t get past.

ꨄ︎ the interview I @hearts4hughes I

ꨄ︎ told you so I @/heart4hughes I

ꨄ︎ the space between friends I @/heart4hughes I

ꨄ︎ lovesick I @/heart4hughes I

ꨄ︎ 'til our fingers decompose, keep my hand in yours I @alwritey-aphrodite I

ꨄ︎ we should just kiss like real people do I @/alwritey-aphrodite I

ꨄ︎ the whole truth I @leaveonthelight I

when Clark's glasses fall off at work, you learn the truth

ꨄ︎ lemonade girl I @thatfoxygrl I

you're juicing some fruit one morning in anticipation of the local farmers market when you reminisce about the first time you and clark met.

ꨄ︎ cherry baby I @/thatfoxygrl I

when you and Clark's previously nonexistent relationship hits the rocks, you're both left to wonder what you really think about one another, and if you even want the same thing. thankfully, you have Lois and Jimmy on your side, who are tired of the longing glances and missed opportunities. I mean, no one is that obsessed with someone's perfume unless they have a thing for them, right?

ꨄ︎ clark kent’s love language I @ilyasorokinn I

clark thinks his love language is to keep you safe. he likes to check in on you every once in a while during the day. one afternoon, his daily check-in's prove to be necessary.

ꨄ︎ honey I @miedei I

helping clark housesit for his parents leads to: 1. lots of teasing, and 2. getting very familiar with his childhood bedroom

ꨄ︎ ditzyroommate!reader I @groovyangelkisses I

ꨄ︎ super-headaches at the daily planet I @luveline I

Something about Clark makes your head hurt. (And something about Superman is strangely familiar.)

ꨄ︎ spider…man? I @se7entyrell I

Your relationship with Clark told through your crippling fear of spiders, aka four times when Clark is the world's best spider-catcher.

You’re up uncharacteristically early on Saturday morning, and try as you might you can’t get back to sleep. You shift, preparing to get out of bed, only for Bob’s arms to tighten around you.

“Where are you going?” He mumbles into your shirt, voice thick.

“I can’t get back to sleep. I was gonna start cleaning,” you say, trying to get up again.

“Stay. We can clean later. Unless you have plans,” he mutters, arms still tight around you.

“No plans. Wanted to clean so we could spend the rest of the day in bed together,” you yawn.

You feel him chuckle behind you as he crushes your body into his.

“We can just stay in bed together then,” he mutters. Then he’s pressing soft kisses into your neck, his hand wandering up your shirt.

“I missed you so much,” he mutters as he pushes his face into the crook of your neck.

“It was two weeks, and we slept in the same bed for most of it,” you laugh, but the truth is you missed him too. Missed seeing him this relaxed and open with you. Missed the way he always held on, even as sleeping in his arms made you start sweating slightly. It was getting warmer, April bringing a lot more sun. There was still a bite in the air, but at least you didn’t have to wear so many layers. You’re not sure how you’re going to survive summer in the same bed as Bob.

“I know, but it didn’t feel like it usually did. For me. This feels the same again. Better,” he says, pressing his lips into the back of your shirt.

“Better?”

“Better. We have a date on Friday,” he’s smiling into your back, his thumb moving back and forth in a soothing rhythm on your ribcage.

You pull away so you can turn and face him, push his shoulder so he’s lying flat on the bed and you can climb onto him.

“Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll let you take me home,” you say, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his jaw.

“I hope I’m lucky,” he says with a dopey grin. Weak rays of light float in through the gaps in his curtains, soften him in a way you’re not quite sure you’ll ever get used to. You won’t tell him because all it’ll do is make him feel bad, but every second you’d thought he was trying to pull away was mental torture. Embarrassingly attached to your roommate hadn’t been in the plan when you’d started sleeping with him, but it was where you’d landed.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, palm on your stomach as he stares up at you.

“How much I missed you,” you say, kissing him. It’s slow, sweet until he groans from somewhere deep in his chest.

“I missed you more,” he says when he pulls away. He doesn’t give you the chance to argue, instead he’s sliding his palm up over your breast, exhaling as he squeezes.

“Bob, honey,” you start, but you’re not sure what you want to say. It wasn’t no, that was something you knew for sure.

“Hm?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, and he laughs under you, eyes closed, the sound of it floating through the room. He rocks his hips up into you softly, laugh faltering when he presses into your warmth.

“Not nervous about the date anymore?” You question, palms on his chest.

“Funny. You’re so funny. Sit on my face,” he says, and the abruptness of his request catches you so off-guard, you let out a soft gasp.

“What?” he asks, brow raised.

His hands are on your hips, guiding you against him gently, slower than you’d like.

“You can’t just say that,” you explain, blinking through the quickly settling fog of want in your head.

“Why not? It was on my mind. Been thinking about it since you brought it up,” he explains, eyes half shut, his hands sliding around to cup your backside. “Do it for me, let me make up for being an idiot and trying to send you on a date.” You think he’s joking, but when you look at his face it’s clear that he’s not. “I just really want to, okay. I’ve missed you so much, let me show you.”

He’s already lifting you up, shuffling under you.

“Move up, put your hands on the headboard,” he says from where he lies, his head on some pillows. You do, shuffling your weight until your knees are on either side of his head.

“Prettier than I remember,” he says, spreading you open, a finger pressing into you. He moves slightly, and then his hands are wrapping around your thighs, pulling you down until the warmth of his tongue is pressing against you. His eyes flutter shut almost immediately, and his hands tighten.

“Don’t hover,” he chides when you tense against his hands as they bring you lower. “I’ve done this before, remember?”

You remember. It was hard not to remember, but it was different when you weren’t just watching him.

“C’mon, let me make you feel good,” he urges, eyes pleading from where he’s lying beneath you, words muffled by your pussy over him. You take some deep breaths, try to relax as you let him lower you the rest of the way. He holds you over his mouth, eyes fluttering shut as he presses his tongue flat against you. It’s not the gentle licking you’re used to, there’s no building up to him tensing his tongue as he runs it through your folds. You’re wholly unprepared for the tight knot that forms in your stomach, and if not for the uncharacteristically tight grip he has on you you’d lurch forward. You can feel him smile against you, turn his head so he can place a wet kiss on the inside of your thighs.

“Fuck I missed this. Missed tasting you,” he groans, voice slightly hoarse before he goes back to what he was doing, tongue lapping at you. You try to breathe, focus on anything but the way he has you white knuckling the headboard. Or the fact that sometimes his nose bumps up against you and it sends shockwaves through you that have you clenching around nothing.

That all goes out the window when he opens his eyes slowly, keeps looking at you as he gently pushes you closer and closer. You can feel the muscles in your thighs beginning to ache, tensing with every drag of his tongue. Your hand instinctively flies into his hair — its normal resting place when his head is between your thighs — and the way he curls his fingers into the flesh of your thighs has you keening, your hips twitching as he picks up the pace.

One of his hands comes away from it’s place round your thigh and its only when you feel him grunting into you, hear the slick tug of skin moving through his hand that you realise what he’s doing.

“C’mon honey, get me there,” he’s encouraging, voice choked as he nips at the flesh of your thigh. “Slowly, you won’t hurt me,” he assures, using the hand on your thigh to rock you gently. You hesitate, but when his mouth latches over you again you’re obeying. You’re trying not to tighten your hands in his hair too much, trying to be gentle, but between the way he sucks at you, the sounds wet and obscene in the silence of the room, and the knowledge that he’s getting off to this you can’t help gripping him tight.

He moans into you, tongue fucking into you desperately before you’re finally letting yourself relax, steadying yourself on his head board. He doesn’t stop, keeps his mouth firmly over you until you’re done, whining at him as he pushes you into sensitivity. You let him because you can feel the way he’s huffing against you, feel how fast he’s fisting himself when you press your hand against his shoulder. When he finally stops he’s pushing his face into your thigh and you’re turning just in time to see him finish, spilling onto his stomach, his abs tensing.

“You good?” he asks, breathless beneath you. You just nod, getting of his face, sighing in relief when you’re sitting flat next to him.

He sits up slowly, grimaces when he notices the mess on himself.

“You know this still doesn’t mean I’m gonna fuck you on the first date,” you say.

He just laughs, wiping himself off with a shirt he found on the floor.

“You think I’m the type of guy who tries to get you into bed on the first date?”

“Maybe. Just setting expectations,” you say sleepily, letting him pull you into his side.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be the perfect gentleman,” he mutters with a soft squeeze of your breast.

“Off to a terrible start by the way,” you giggle.

“We aren’t on our first date yet so I think I’m in the clear,” he says. He turns the two of you onto your sides and pulls your back into his chest as he presses a kiss into your hair.

The fact that you have a date with Bob at the end of the week makes you feel like you have bees under your skin. You feel jittery from the moment you wake up on Monday. Bob’s not in bed, but you can hear him downstairs opening and closing cabinet doors. You shower in his bathroom, a new habit you only recently noticed. You take your time getting ready, waiting for the buzzing beneath your skin to dull before you go downstairs. He’s there, no shirt just boxers — as always — sliding a pancake out of the pan and onto a stack of pancakes already on a plate.

“Morning,” he smiles at you, turning the stove off as he slides the pan into the sink.

“Morning,” you slide onto a stool. He presses a kiss into your hair as he puts a plate in front of you then pulls one of the stools over so he’s closer to you.

“Sleep well?”

“You know I did.”

He just laughs, watches as you shovel pancakes into your mouth.

“These are so good. You’re practically a chef now,” you sigh through a mouthful of pancakes.

“I don’t mean to brag but,” he shrugs, a smug look on his face. You just roll your eyes, keeping an eye on the clock as you eat.

When you’re done, and you’re sure you have everything, Bob walks you to the station, your bag slung over his shoulder and his hand in yours as you guys stroll. You’re in no particular rush that morning but the walk to the station flies by and you’re disappointed when he slips his hand out of yours, gently eases your bag onto your shoulder.

“Have a good day at work,” he waves as you descend into the subway station.

Your work day passes by in a blur. It’s the week before Easter, and surprisingly even your most troublesome clients seem to have chosen to take a break. Your day is spent monitoring online sentiments about one of Jeanette’s corporate clients; your attempt at keeping your brain busy so you no longer have to acknowledge the frantic energy zipping around under your skin.

It’s fine when you’re distracted by reading op-eds, and scathing blog posts, but when the work day ends and you shuffle onto the subway with the rest of the city the humming under your skin is back. When you get back home Bob is outside, the shed door open.

“What are you up to?” You ask him once you’re changed.

“Oh hi. The weather’s getting warmer so I thought I’d see if there’s any gardening stuff. I’ve never checked.”

“You’re good at gardening?”

“Not sure, but I got a bunch of free books on gardening when I went out earlier so I guess I should at least try,” he shrugs. “It’ll be something to keep me busy anyway.”

You don’t argue with that, just watch as he pokes around the rest of the shed, seemingly updating a list on his phone as he went. You wait for him to finish, helping him lock the shed before going back inside to get started on dinner while he explains his grand gardening vision to you.

Tuesday passes in much the same way: a blur of static in your brain where all you can think about is getting to the end of the week. The sun is out though, pale yellow against a bright blue sky and you and your coworkers take the opportunity to eat lunch outside. You have your sleeves rolled up, leaning back on your arms, the drone of your coworkers’ conversation fading into the background.

It takes a few shouts of your name for Jeanette to bring you back to the conversation.

“Sorry, what?” You ask, dazed.

“We’re heading back to the office.”

Almost everyone is ahead of you guys, walking slowly so you guys can catch up.

“I’m sorry,” you say, sheepish. You dust yourself off and pick up your bag, walking side by side with Jeannette.

“So what’s got your head in the clouds today?” She asks, making you guys slow down.

“What makes you think my head’s in the clouds?”

She scoffs. “You have this weird, dreamy smile on your face. You’re being patient with James despite the fact that he’s very much being passive aggressive about the fact that you rejected him.”

You’d noticed that when you rejected him last week, but it wasn’t your problem.

“I’m just happy,” you check to make sure the rest of your coworkers are out of earshot, “I have a date Friday,” you whisper, almost giddy.

“No way, is that why…” she nods towards James. He’s locked in conversation with a different coworker.

“Yeah. Also dating coworkers is messy anyway,” you shrug.

“So who’s the guy?”

You cross the street, in no particular hurry to catch up to your coworkers.

“Bob. You met him,” you say.

“Oh yeah. Your roommate?”

“Yeah, him.”

She retches when you feel a smile spreading across your face.

“So coworkers are messy, but roommates aren’t?”

“Don’t question me,” you huff.

“It’s just funny I guess, because Bob told James he had a chance,” she muses out loud.

“We talked it out,” you shrug. “Misunderstanding.”

“Just talked it out?” she questions, dodging out of the way when you swat at her.

You don’t get a chance to formulate a bad lie because soon enough you’ve caught up to your colleagues and you’d rather not share that detail of your life with them. It wasn’t that you didn’t want them to know, you just knew they’d ask questions which you didn’t actually want to answer.

Wednesday is a slow torturous slog, the skies overcast. When you get home, Bob is sitting in the living room staring at the silent TV, worry written into the soft lines of his face.

“Bob?”

“Oh hi,” he starts, shaking himself out of it.

“What were you thinking about?”

You put your bag on the coffee table at sit next to him, taking one of his hands in yours.

“I just realised we need to have a really serious conversation,” he sighs.

“Okay?”

You’re worried. Was there something you’d missed?

“I’d like to be with you long-term, I’m not sure if that’s obvious,” he starts, “but obviously we need to talk about how you feel about my job.”

You’re so relieved you almost laugh.

“I knew what you did when we got into this, I don’t expect you to stop just because we’re getting serious,” you shrug. There’s a small part of you that’s already preemptively jealous, anticipating collabs with other creators.

“Right. What about working with other creators? I’m happy to stick to the solo stuff if it bothers you.”

He squeezes your hand, and you’re grateful that he’s thinking of you.

“I don’t wanna affect your revenue, seriously I’ll just have to pretend I’m not seething with jealousy that someone else is on camera with you,” you force a laugh.

He just tilts his head, a confused smile on his face. “Oh, is that what you want? To be the only one in the videos?”

You don’t say anything, shocked at how easily you let that slip.

“I can do that. Although I’ve never run a couple’s channel before,” he muses.

“Is it super different?”

“Different audiences,” he shrugs, “but it’s nice having one consistent person. It always works easier when you know who you’re planning around.”

“Aren’t you scared of losing your current audience?”

“Audiences always fluctuate. I think it’ll help more than harm. Pull in more guys, depending how often you feature. And you don’t have to feature often that’s not why I brought this up,” he clarifies. “But you’re not supposed to worry about my work any ways, let me do that,” he says, but you’re glad to see he looks a little less worried than when you first saw him.

“I’m sorry if this is intrusive, but how have you managed the OnlyFans and past relationships before?”

It’s a question that had been on your mind for a while now.

“Truthfully? The last time I tried a serious relationship the channel was the straw that broke the camel’s back,” he half laughs. “There were other things, like being freshly sober, that contributed too but she left me the moment she realised I didn’t want to shut it down.”

“Oh.”

“I mean I was also actually a really bad boyfriend too back then, she probably tells her friends horror stories about me. Aimless drifter type y’know? Didn’t wanna leave the channel because it was the only thing I was technically really good at, even when I was high out of my mind. That turned into an argument about my shitty relationship with intimacy, we said some horrible things to each other and boom.”

“And how long ago was this?”

“Four years…ish?” He hazards a guess.

“And you never tried dating since then?”

“No. Figured I should focus on myself. I’d been in active addiction for pretty much half my life at that point,” he says, squeezing your hand as he watches you do the math. “Yeah, I was practically a baby, but it’s done now. Anyway, obviously while I was on drugs I was not a good partner, and I thought getting sober would magically turn me into this really cool guy. Everyone liked me when I was tweaking out, so I figured the switch would be easy.”

He’s staring into space, his hand warm in yours.

“Harder than I thought it would be though. Obviously I hadn’t had any pre-addiction relationships and my parents… no help. I haven’t dated since then, everything has been a casual arrangement. I’m scared that this won’t last,” he finally gets out, “I’m scared you’ll realise that I’m not fun and cool and actually fuck things up 80% of the time.”

“Bob, I think you’re psyching yourself out about this a lot. It’s been four years, and sure it’s gonna be a learning curve, but I don’t think you’re the same person you were before. We can do this,” you say. You hope you sound reassuring and not patronising.

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I think so. Don’t worry so much about what might happen, let’s just see how it goes, no pressure,” you smile.

He smiles back, relieved.

By the time Friday finally comes, it feels like all the buzzing under your skin has dissipated, but only to give way to a tight knot of nerves in the pit of your stomach. You weren’t sure why you were so nervous. It was just a date with Bob. If you were being honest, this wasn’t anything new to you guys.

Yelena had very bluntly pointed out that what you guys had done on Valentine’s day would be considered more than just a friend date by many, but still, there’s something about putting an actual name to it that makes your stomach roil.

“Dress casual, but nice,” was all he’d said to you when you got home, and it hadn’t necessarily helped. He refused to tell you what exactly you were doing. You’d tried to squeeze Yelena for information but she was proving extremely tight-lipped. You didn’t even bother with Ava, who had sent you a very clear, pre-emptive text that she would not be talking.

“Casual but nice,” you think out loud, scanning through your closet for ideas. You hadn’t been on a date in so long you felt like you were a complete beginner. You cycle through multiple combinations of shirts against the only two pairs of nice jeans that you own. You settle on your nicest (and tightest) top — one that somehow dips dangerously low at the neck without slipping into tacky — your jeans sitting just low enough that when you raise your arms and take a look in the mirror you catch a glimpse of the deep red lace of your underwear.

Perfect.

You put the finishing touches on your accessories, then switch off your lights, taking some deep calming breaths. You’re downstairs before him so you take the time to check the back door, make sure that Angie is fed and the dishwasher is running before stretching out on the couch.

You’re looking up at the ceiling, running through the week’s conversations trying to see if he might have dropped any hints. What if you were underdressed? What if this was too casual? Your pathetic attempts at sleuthing are broken by the sound of Bob’s footsteps, and you’re pushing yourself up to seated just in time for him to come around into the living room.

“You look ready,” he says as he looks you over, his eyes lingering where your top dips low.

“I am,” you push yourself off of the couch and stretch, revelling in the way his breath catches as your shirt rides up. He doesn’t say anything, just steps to the side as you walk to the front door and slip your shoes on.

“Should I wear heels instead?” you wonder, and you see Bob knit his brows before sighing and shaking his head.

“Okay so this is more of a comfortable shoes date,” you wonder aloud. “That doesn’t narrow it down at all,” you huff.

“Stop trying to guess, you’re gonna take the fun out of it,” he complains.

“But I’m dying to know,” you practically whine as he pushes you out the door. It’s just after 7pm and there’s still a little light in the sky, the days beginning to stretch in preparation for what you hope will be a good summer. You have your jacket in your hands, still not quite cold enough to put it on yet, and you walk hand in hand with Bob as he bats away any questions about the rest of the night.

“You are so unbelievably nosy, just be surprised,” he complains as you guys step onto the train. It’s a little fuller than you expect, and you and Bob end up standing near one of the doors. You can feel the city defrosting around you, preparing for whatever events may take place over the summer.

“Okay what stop are we getting off at,” you ask.

“I’ll tell you when we get there oh my god,” he says, eyes wide in amusement.

“Is it gonna be like this every time I plan a date?” he asks. “It’s fine if it is, I’d just like to be prepared.”

“You think you’re getting more dates?” you tease, and he just rolls his eyes at you.

“This is us,” he says, hand resting on your waist as he guides you out of the train. You get off near Times Square and then walk a short way until you reach a gorgeous restaurant. It seems to overflow with greenery, a little curiosity nestled among the soaring buildings and bright LED lights.

He holds the door open for you, and you’re grateful for the warmth. It feels like stepping into a different world, dim lights and soft music providing a much needed respite from the absolute sensory overload that was Times Square on a Friday night.

“Um… Reynolds, Robert? I made a reservation for two,” you hear him say as you take stock of the decor. Lush greens in hanging baskets, and neatly arranged flowers of all colours on the wall. The host leads the two of you to a small booth, away from the crowd.

“Come sit next to me,” you say when Bob slides in opposite you instead. “That’s the point of booths,” you say when he looks at you with clear surprise in his eyes.

“That’s okay? For a first date, I mean?”

“If we’re being honest, this is not our first date,” you shrug. “Come here,” you pat the spot next to you. He slides in next to you, leaves just enough space for you guys to almost touch.

“This place is nice, very serene,” you say, as you sway in time with the soft jazz playing over the speaker. The two of you pore over a single menu, heads together as you deliberate.

“I should’ve looked at the menu beforehand,” Bob groans, “I’m so torn,” he sighs, flipping the menu over when you’re both done reading the first side.

“Well as long as we have drinks and starters we’ve got time to decide on the rest,” you say as you spy your waiter making his way to you. He’s incredibly polite, throwing out recommendations when you guys explain your dilemmas.

You settle on the in-house ginger ales for drinks, get a bowl of stuffed mushrooms and some garlic bread to share.

When the waiter is gone you put one of your hands on Bob’s thigh, turning to face him.

“Tell me what you’ve been up to this week. When I’m not home.”

You’re drawing little circles into his thigh, index finger gliding against the cotton of his jeans. His eyes are fixed on your finger as he thinks, his eyebrows furrowed together like he’s trying to remember.

“Mostly just go outside. I was around here a lot, looking for stuff to do,” he finally replies.

“You came out physically… to look for date spots?”

“I wanted to make sure the place was nice. And I was scared I wouldn’t be able to make reservations online so I thought if I was here in person they’d take pity on me,” he mumbles and you fail to stifle the laugh that tumbles out of your mouth.

“Don’t laugh, you never know,” he complains, faltering when your finger moves further inward.

“Okay and besides date stuff?”

“Wandering, exploring. I have a lot of time to kill at the moment,” he says absentmindedly, threading his fingers through yours and lifting your hand off his thigh. “What about you, what have you been up to?”

“Work, then home,” you shrug. “The usual.”

“How’s work been?”

You’re stopped halfway through formulating answer when your waiter comes back with your drinks and starters.

“Are you guys ready to order?” he asks, tablet in hand.

You both end up getting steaks, opting to stick to something simple.

“You were saying?”

“It was good. Felt torturous though. It felt like today was taking too long to come,” you admit, heat blooming in your chest.

“Oh. You were excited?”

“No I wasn’t excited at all about going a date with a man I’m attracted to,” you nudge his knee with yours as you tear off a piece of garlic bread, “of course I was excited. Felt like I was gonna vibrate through my skin literally all week.”

He laughs. “Well I’m glad I’m not the only one who felt that way.”

He leans against the back of the booth, eyes fixed on you as you busy yourself with the stuffed mushrooms.

“Try them,” you order through a mouthful of mushrooms, spearing one on your fork and holding it up to his lips. He smiles, accepting your offering and then nodding in agreement as he comes forward to eat some more, his hand resting on the small of your back. After much protesting, he lets you feed him the pieces you tear of the garlic bread, lips lingering around your fingers just that little bit longer each time.

His fingers drum against your back, and he slips his hand under your shirt. You’re embarrassed at how immediate your response is, shifting in your seat just a little. He smiles at you, opens his mouth to say something when your waiter’s voice cuts him off.

“Here you are,” he says, placing your steaks in front of you. “Medium rare for the gentleman, medium for the lady,” he smiles.

Bob’s hand slips out of your shirt when you lean forward and thank your waiter for the food.

“Your outfit’s very distracting,” Bob says when he settles into his plate.

“Really. I wasn’t aware,” you lie, placing a piece of steak in your mouth.

“I’m sure,” he sighs as he tucks into his own steak. You guys eat mostly in silence, only stopping when the waiter comes over to ask if everything’s alright. When you guys are done you’re offered a dessert menu, but Bob declines before you can answer.

“We’re getting dessert somewhere else,” he says when the waiter walks away to get your bill.

“Oh, you really are a man with a plan,” you say.

“Yup. Didn’t want you to worry about anything,” he mumbles shyly. You just squeeze his hand, a little taken aback at how clearly nervous he still is despite the fact that the date is going off without a hitch.

Bob doesn’t let you see the bill when it comes, joking about how it’s too early in the relationship to be splitting bills. You scoff, slipping your jacket on as the waiter takes Bob’s card.

“So where are we going for dessert?”

“It’s a secret,” he says before thanking the waiter once he’s back. The two of you step out into the bright lights and heavy noise of the city, the serene bubble you were in broken. “It’s not a long walk though, promise,” he says. You believe him. You let him put his arm around your waist as you walk, and you let yourself press into him for a little extra warmth.

You take a small detour when you pass a store advertising a photo booth with props.

“We have to go in,” you say, immediately pressing against him so you can push him through the door. It’s empty save for the teenagers trying on props in front of the mirrors. A bored looking attendant comes over, shows you how to use the machine and where the camera in the booth is, then leaves before the two of you can even begin to utter a thank you.

You both rifle through the props, trying them on as you go. Bob tries to hide a headband with two little chicks on it but you’re faster than he is.

“You know you’re the chicken guy, honey. Don’t fight it,” you laugh as you place it on his head.

“What do I have to do to not be the chicken guy?” he whines when you’re done. He’s looking at himself in the mirror, defeat in his eyes.

“Build a time machine and not tell us that you were a sign twirling chicken,” you shrug as you put on a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses.

“It was a moment of vulnerability.”

“You should’ve known better, I can’t help you,” you say. You pick a headband that has frog eyes, and deeming it satisfying, turn around so you can pull Bob into the empty booth. The camera is in a corner in the wall, pointing down at you guys.

“We’re like bugs,” he muses when he notices the TV that has you guys on it. “Bugs under a rock,” he says. The screen starts counting down and the two of you go for a simple smile first.

“Okay, cat ears hurry hurry hurry,” you say, showing him how you want him to pose. He doesn’t have time to argue, just follows your lead just in time for the camera to snap.

“Complete my heart,” you instruct, and he does that too.

“Uh let me kiss your cheek,” you say, already leaning in as the camera counts down for your last picture. He lets you, face reddening as the camera snaps.

“That was so fun. I hope they’re good,” you say, leaning forward to scroll through your pictures.

“I look nervous. In all of them,” Bob says.

“I think nervous might be your default setting. It’s cute, don’t worry,” you say as you click accept, tucking both strips of printed photos into your purse for safekeeping.

You guys deaccesorise, thank the attendant as you step back out into the street. You loop your arm through his and let him lead you through the steadily thinning crowd of people as you head further away from Times Square. After about five minutes he pulls you into a doorway so inconspicuous you would have missed it if you were walking around. Inside, the room glows with multicolour neon lights, classic arcade machines lined up against a wall. There’s a shelf with neatly catalogued board games and some tables scattered around the space. It’s relatively empty, and most of the people who aren’t playing the arcade games have opted to sit on the floor instead and play games from beanbags on the floor.

It’s cozy, not what you were expecting at all.

“There’s more games and stuff upstairs, if you wanna have a look before ordering dessert,” he says. He helps you slide your jacket off, slinging it over your shoulder as he guides you towards the back of the room.

“This place does dessert?”

“Very good ones. I was surprised too when I first came here, but they make a mean lava cake. If you’d like to share. Or not, you can get whatever you want.”

“I would love to share some lava cake with you. I’d lava it actually,” you laugh.

“That was terrible. That was really bad,” he grimaces as he the two of you walk over to the counter. There’s a chalkboard with the desserts written on it, cute vibrant illustrations of various cakes and ice creams neatly drawn and coloured in. There’s also a drinks menu, and it’s only after reading through it twice that you realise they’re all mocktails or juices or hot drinks. No alcoholic drinks in sight.

You mention as much to Bob, just as an observation.

“Oh yeah. Sorry did you want a drink drink? We can go somewhere else.”

“No, here is good. I think I’m just used to drinks being available everywhere I go.”

You squeeze his hand in an attempt to reassure him.

“Hey Bob, what’s up man. It’s been a while,” a man says, coming out of the double doors you assume lead to the kitchen. He’s older, the soft lines worn into his face only deepening as he smiles at Bob. His dark hair falls to his shoulders in a soft wave and he’s dressed in a faded sports tee and jeans, dish rag slung over the shoulder of his prosthetic arm. “Who’s your friend?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.

“Oh well, this is my roommate,” he starts, only to be cut off by a soft “ah” and a knowing smile.

“Well it’s nice to finally meet you,” he says. “You can call me Bucky. Bob’s been a regular here for a while but he’s never brought a friend.” His voice takes on a mischievous tone when he says friend and you can’t help the giggle that slips out.

“Oh c’mon man, don’t be like that,” Bob whines, “you’re making me sound like a loner,” he complains.

“It was a neutral statement. You’ve never come here with anyone else, I’m just letting the lady know she’s special. Unless you’re saying she’s not?”

“Can I just order one lava cake. Two forks, if that’s okay with you?”

“I’ll bring it up. On the house,” Bucky says when Bob brings his card out. “Don’t argue with me kid, just take the gift.”

You let Bob lead you up the stairs as you marvel at the posters on the wall. Old video game and movie posters that look like they’ve been taken right off someone’s bedroom wall. It’s a mix, bright zany posters next to more muted ones; a combination that throws you for a loop.

“He has all the movies on these posters on DVD upstairs. When I first discovered this place that’s what I’d do. Watch old DVDs while nursing a hot drink usually.” Bob’s voice startles you, and he has to reach back to make sure you don’t fall when you stumble on a step.

“Careful, I’d rather not spend the rest of the night in the hospital,” he smiles. He hold a beaded curtain open at the top of the stairs, ushers you into the space with his hand on your back. It’s empty, the silence only interrupted by the occasional sound from a pinball machine. The room is lit only by some fairy lights, and there’s an old TV pushed up against one of the walls.

“Sometimes he does these old movie screenings. That’s how I found this place actually. My old housemates were… partiers. I didn’t know this before I moved in, and I thought I could manage as long as I wasn’t part of the parties, but they weren’t very good about not leaving all their stuff out. Alcohol, coke, pills. It was getting harder to not think about what my life used to be like.”

You let him talk as he walks up to the pinball machine and slots some coins into it. It whirs to life in a cacophony of bells and flashing lights.

“I could actually feel myself slipping you know. I’d begun rationalising and justifying the urge to just sit down one day and have a drink. Drinking wasn’t an issue for me, surprisingly, but I’m so much more… susceptible to my cravings when I’ve had a drink, so I started looking for things to do at night when they were having people over, places to go. It was hard, it felt like every place open after nine had alcohol on the menu. It was a such a relief to find this place. An old Narcotics Anonymous buddy recommended it to me. I’d just hang out up here,” he points to the high score on the machine.

He’s all three top scores, and he seems quite proud of it. You watch as he leans forward over the machine, eyes focused as he worked the buttons on the side. The lights from the machine throw shadows over his face, and his tongue sticks out a little as his eyes follow the little ball. You let your eyes just trail over him, take in the way his hair curls ate the base of his neck, how his arms flex slightly as his fingers tap at the buttons.

“Is that why you moved out?”

“Yup. I couldn’t spend all my time out of the house, and my roommates weren’t the most understanding about my requests so I thought I’d be better off leaving before… y’know.”

The ball ricochets around the machine, triggering bright lights as another ball is added to the mix. You walk around so you can hug him, press your cheek into his back and slide your hands up his shirt.

“You hands are cold,” he says, shivering slightly.

“I didn’t think I’d need gloves,” you mumble into his back. There’s a beat of silence and then: “I’m sorry they weren’t understanding, but I’m glad you moved. I’m glad you live with me now.”

“Oh. Thank you. I’m glad too.”

He’s standing up when his game is over, a new high score flashing across the screen. When he turns around you take a step back but he hooks his fingers into your belt loops to pull you into him.

“You look beautiful tonight. Did I tell you that?”

His hands come up to cradle your face, his eyes locked on yours as his thumbs caress your cheeks. His touch is soft, sweet and you feel a little bad when your stomach turns in anticipation.

“No. You did say my outfit was distracting though,” you point out.

“Hm. Not very polite of me,” he chuckles. “I’ll have to make it up to you,” he says as he finally leans in and presses his lips to yours with a softness that borders on hesitation. One of his hands moves around your waist, crushing you into him as the kiss grows more intense. He whimpers into you when you bite his lip, a hand coming down to squeeze at your butt.

You don’t hear the rustle of the bead curtain, but you do hear Bucky’s amused voice.

“I’ve got your lava cake but I can always give it to you later,” he chuckles.

Bob’s hands drop to his side immediately. He looks up at the ceiling as Bucky hands you the plate.

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” he smiles as he heads back out.

“Oh my god he probably thinks I’m a perv,” Bob complains.

“I think he thinks you’re a guy who kissed his date,” you say back.

Bob just sighs as he flops onto one of the bean bags in front of the TV. He pats his lap and you settle right in, doing your best not to tilt the lava cake off the plate. You balance it across your lap as you pick up a fork. It’s warm, steam coming off it in a long seductive whisper. When you take a section off the chocolate inside oozes out nice and slow. You try to feed it to Bob, but he gently takes the fork out of your hand and taps the piece of cake to your lips instead.

“I’ve had it before, you haven’t, so you should get the first bite.”

It’s not a suggestion, so you let him feed it to you letting your eyes flutter shut as you taste it. It tastes like chocolate heaven, not sickeningly sweet, the centre just perfectly gooey enough.

“Really good,” you say, and he beams.

“I knew you’d like it. He told me he makes the lava cakes himself,” Bob sighs as you feed him his own bite.

“Well compliments to him it’s really good.”

“I’m happy you like it.” The hand that isn’t feeding you rests on your lower back, his fingers ghosting over the waistband of your underwear. You shift — just a little — and he takes the opportunity to slip his fingers under the waistband. He stays like that as you guys take turns feeding each other the rest of the cake. When you’re done you drag your finger through the leftover chocolate.

“You want some?” you ask when you’ve licked it clean off your finger.

“Please.”

You drag your index and middle fingers through the remaining chocolate, and before you can think about it he’s leaning down to take them in his mouth sending a thrill through your arm and right down your spine.

“We should go,” you say when he’s done, your fingers thoroughly chocolate free.

“Great idea.”

He’s pulling out his phone, squeezing at you as he clicks on the Lyft app.

“Subway,” you say trying to get up.

“Not sure that’s the best idea,” he mumbles, keeping you secure in his lap.

“Okay well I’m not making out with you in a Lyft, so factor that in,” you say when he finally lets you go. You see him actually hesitate, but he requests a ride anyways.

“I’m just making sure we get home in comfort,” he says as he stands up. “We have two minutes, let’s go,” he practically tugs at you. Once you’re sure you have everything you follow Bob downstairs where he’s red-faced and stammering while Bucky claps his back repeatedly.

“Thank you for the lava cake,” you say and you watch Bob’s face lift in relief.

“Lyft is literally right here, goodbye Bucky,” he says, pushing you towards the door with more urgency than you’re used to from him.

The ride home is charged, your stomach tightening every time you look at him, eyes closed as he looks up at the ceiling of the car.

“Did you have a good night?” you ask him.

“I should be asking you that,” he smiles, “but yeah, I had a good night. Did you?”

“Of course I did.” You place a hand on his thigh. “I wouldn’t be taking you home if I didn’t,” you wink.

“Oh you’re taking me home,” he laughs.

“Yep. It’s your lucky day,” you let a soft little cheer.

He just laughs as he leans his head against the window, watching as the lights blur around you guys.

When you get home, Bob is on you before you can even properly close the door, hands on your waist and mouth at your throat while you struggle to turn the key.

“Bob, hold on,” you find yourself saying through giggles, keys left hanging in the keyhole when you finally succeed and turn around to face him.

“Sorry just, you’ve been really unfair all night,” he mumbles, his lips back on yours as he walks you into the living room, bends you over the back of couch.

“Unfair?” you ask, watching in the reflection of the TV as he leans away to pull his shirt over his head.

“Unfair,” he confirms, sliding his hands under your shirt so he can tug it off.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you feign innocence as he latches onto your neck, hands coming up to cup you over your bra. His other hand trails down and he slides his fingers into the waistband of your underwear.

“I’ve been trying to think wholesome thoughts all night and this,” he pulls the waistband up slightly, lets it snap softly against your skin, “has made it damn near impossible.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” you lie, letting him unbutton your jeans.

“Yeah? Just a coincidence?”

“A sick and twisted coincidence,” you nod, even as he snaps the waistband a little harder against your skin.

“Been waiting for you to wear this for me since I bought it, and it just happens to make an appearance today. Crazy coincidence,” he says, kissing into your shoulder.

“Could’ve worn something a lot more PG if you’d stop stealing half my stuff,” you gasp out when he slides in his hand into the underwear, squeezes a cheek in his hands.

“Not stealing if you give them to me,” he says, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. He pushes his fingers into the cups of your bra, and you hate the way it makes you shiver almost immediately. He just laughs into you, hands coming out so he can push your jeans down.

“You look so hot by the way,” he says when he’s back on you, the cold metal of his buckle pressing into your skin. “Look so good in this, just like I knew you would,” he murmurs, sliding a hand down the front of your body, reaching between your thighs so he can cup you over your underwear.

The cotton of his jeans is rough against your thighs as he nudges your legs open.

“You uncomfortable? You wanna get on the couch?”

“No… just take your belt off,” you manage to get out.

“Oh shit, sorry,” he sighs, leaning back so he can unbuckle his belt. You turn around, watching him push his jeans down his thighs and then he’s just in briefs, straining against the cotton as he leans in for you again. You put your palms on his chest, heat flaring when you feel him against you, unmistakably hard as he moans into your mouth. He presses his thigh against you, takes your bottom lip between his teeth as you sigh out.

“We need to sit–sit down. On the couch,” he laughs when he almost topples you over the back trying to press in tighter.

“Okay, you sit,” you say, grabbing his hand and leading him round the side of the couch. He obeys, eyes wide as he looks at you. He doesn’t say anything as you straddle him or as you push your fingers into the waistband of his briefs.

“Up a little,” you whisper as you pull them down just enough to get a hold of him.

“You’re killing me here,” he finally says when you wrap your hand around him and let your thumb run over his tip.

“Sorry,” you smile, before you lift up a little. You watch as he pulls your panties to the side and lines himself up. You feel him twitch against you, and then his hand is on your hip guiding you down gently, eyes locked on yours as you sink down onto him.

“That’s good, real good, just stay like that f–for a moment,” he says, head thrown back, throat working as he swallows. You can’t help but stare, struck by how beautiful he looks to you like this. Cheeks and chest flushed, mouth hanging open as he steadies himself.

You’ve got your hands in his hair, tongue pressed against his before you can even finish thinking about the action. You feel needy, the way you press into him try to feel all of him. He returns it, nipping at your bottom lip, one of his hands sliding up over the cup of your bra again.

“No keep it on,” he says when you reach around to unclip the bra. “You just look so good in it, please,” the light seems to dance across his eyes, and you can’t refuse him — not when it sounds like his voice gonna break on the please, or he holds onto you like you might vanish into thin air.

“Bob, honey, I need to move,” you say when your aching becomes unbearable.

“Sure, yeah,” he nods, one of his hands coming down to your hips. You start slow, let him press into you, leaning in to kiss him again.

You’re fucked.

Between the drag of his cock inside you and the way your tongue slides against his, you’re absolutely done for, fluttering around him. The hand holding your underwear out of the way is firm against your thigh

“Close?” He asks when you pull away, bury your face in his neck to muffle the whines falling out of your mouth.

“Okay, alright, we need to take these off they’re in my way,” he says, tugging at the lace of of your underwear. You lift up, let him slide out of you while he pushes your underwear down, tosses it somewhere over the floor. He lines himself up again, groans from somewhere deep within him as he slides back into you.

“You’re so perfect,” you hear him muttering, as he guides your hips for you, both hands on your hips until you’re doing it of your own accord. He finally lets his hands trail up your back, feather light as he unclips your bra and slides the straps down your arms. He presses kiss after kiss into your neck, one of his hands snaking between you so he can massage at your breast.

“Bob, honey–”

You’re not sure you can take much more, your thighs beginning to ache with the effort of riding him.

“You’ve got it angel, c’mon keep going you’re so close,” he mumbles as he nips at the spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “You’re doing so fucking good for me,” he encourages. All it takes is for him to move his hand, press his fingers to your clit and you’re tensing around him, his name tumbling out of your lips in a strangled moan.

Both of his hands are back on your hips so he can move you through it, desperately rutting his hips up so he can meet you halfway.

Your head feels like it’s full of static and you know Bob’s asking you to do something because he’s squeezing at you, calling your name.

“Sorry, I’m ok, what do you need?”

“Bite down,” he says. “If it’s too much, you can bite down. It’s just– I’m so close and I don’t wanna stop.”

And he doesn’t stop once, draws himself in and out of you despite the fact that it feels like every nerve in your body is frayed at the ends.

“You’re so good like this, I fit so well,” he mutters, the pads of his fingers pressing into you as he moves you. He’s desperate, you can feel him twitching in you, every little movement amplified for you. You can feel tears stinging at your eyes, and when you start pulsing again you actually do bite down. It’s hesitant — you don’t wanna hurt him — but the way he moans and jerks up into you has you pressing your teeth in a little bit harder. His hands tighten on you, almost painfully so as he spills into you, breaths coming in short ragged pants. He keeps you tight against him until he’s breathing normally again and you sit up when he finally loosens his grip around you. You trace your finger over the marks your teeth have left over and over again until he grabs your hand gently, presses a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist.

“That was so good,” he mutters into your wrist.

“Yeah? That worked for you?” You ask, turning so you can finally look him in the eye.

“Of course it did,” he smiles.

He lifts you up so he can slip out of you, laughs at the face you make when you feel him leak out of you.

“You know, I’d never take you for someone who likes biting,” you say, slipping your underwear on. You don’t miss the way his eyes follow its path, the way they linger on your slick thighs.

“I’m a man of many surprises,” he says as he stretches. “Come here,” he keeps his arms open, eyes half closed.

“I need to put the couch covers in the wash,” you say.

He frowns.

“That’s more important than hanging out with your boyfriend to be?”

“You can just be my boyfriend, I’m not interested in anyone else,” you say, falling into his lap.

“Yeah. It’s not too quick? You don’t want more dates to think this over? I could be a con-man,” he’s playful, kissing your cheek when he says this.

“A con-man. You’re so silly,” you smile, squishing his cheeks in your hand.

He blushes, skin reddening faster than you thought possible even for him.

“You are so cute. You have no problem asking me to bite you, but being called silly is what makes you blush like this?”

He just scoffs. “I’m not blushing. I’m just warm,” he mumbles, but he’s beaming, a laugh threatening to spill out of him.

“Thank you,” he says, more serious now.

“For?”

“Not sure, I just feel really happy right now,” he says. “This is really nice, didn’t think this would happen ever so… you know. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome honey. I really do need to put these couch covers in the wash though,” you whisper.

“I’ll do it, it’s fine, you can go to bed. I’ll see you upstairs,” he says, opening his arms so you can get off his lap.

“I’ll get the clothes too,” he waves you off when he sees you bend down to pick up your bra.

“Yeah right, you’re just looking for more opportunities to pocket my stuff,” you snort, but you let him take it.

“You are literally free to take it back whenever you want. I’m not holding it hostage,” he says as he strips the covers from the couch cushions.

“Yeah, yeah… I’ll see you upstairs,” you say as you leave.

“See you upstairs.”

When he finally comes upstairs he’s got Angie in tow and you’re already half asleep under his covers.

“Comfortable?” He asks, once he’s got his arms around you. You probably couldn’t move if you wanted to with Angie resting peacefully across your legs.

“Very.” You’re a little more awake now, and you grab his hand, open it up so you press your thumbs into his palm in small circles. “You know it’s been almost a year since you moved in?

“Already? No way.”

You hear him hum a little and then: “Wow, it really has been. Crazy year huh.” he yawns, the sound comically loud in the silence of the bedroom. “You know I almost didn’t respond to the listing. Rent was too good to be true, thought I was gonna get scammed,” he mumbles into the back of your head. “I still think it’s too good to be true, not in a bad way but in a like ‘woah… no way this actually happened’ way, y’know.” He’s sleepy, the words coming out thick and slow. “Like, this wasn’t what I ever expected to happen when I moved in. I was just trying to avoid a relapse and now… this. Feels unreal.”

“Maybe this is a dream and you’re stuck in your old house,” you say, still pressing your thumbs into his palm.

“Terrifying,” he shudders, pulling his hand out of yours so he can squeeze you a little tighter. You just settle into him, let your hands rest over his as your breathing grows slower.

“Night, Bob. Sweet dreams,” you yawn.

“You comfortable? You don’t need me to move?”

You probably will later on, but for now you just shake your head.

“Perfect like this,” you say and he just sighs a goodnight into your hair.