Liz turns the news off with an exasperated sigh.
She’s settled onto the couch, phone in hand, prepared to spend the next few hours casually panicking - but Finn puts a damper on her plans as usual, barging in mid-sentence on a phone call.
“ - we’ll support the new Mayor, whoever that may be. The Commissioner’s own political views have no bearing in the matter. And you can’t speculate based on race. It didn’t affect operations when Sharon Franklin opposed him, running on a pitch to integrate people of colour without a hint of irony. It didn’t affect their working relationship afterwards.”
The thing about (dating? fucking? being in cahoots with?) Finn is that every space becomes a battlefield. They don't small-talk. They can't enjoy themselves without turning whatever they’re doing into a minor debate. This usually suits Liz just fine, because she’s already raring for a fight over 80% of the time; he happily soaks the bloodspill of her righteous anger like a sponge or, come to think of it, a solar panel absorbing sunlight to convert it into energy. But for approximately 5% of her life, it’s really, really fucking annoying.
Luckily, she has ways to shut him up.
The call ends. Scowling, he opens the fridge. No greeting. No explanation. No fun suggestive leering. She sets her phone on the coffee table and props her elbow onto one arm of the sofa, an eyebrow raised.
“Hi, Liz,” he says curtly, pouring himself a glass of water.
“Finn. That seemed exciting. Care to share?”
“Random journalist, nobody important. Don’t take it personally, but people are reluctant to discuss politics with you, American and all.”
Finn joins her on the couch, sips his water, then resumes talking. She suspects that he hasn’t swallowed all of it yet before he's launched into an impromptu tirade about the mayoral election: a recap of the early stage of campaigning; a rundown of media endorsements; an overview of the concurrent PCC elections. He sounds like a perpetually pissed off text-to-speech software reading the Wikipedia page. And it hasn't even been five minutes since he walked through the door.
“...Not to mention the Islamophobia and racism, Jesus Christ, we're going to have our work cut out for us like the bollocks of a neutered dog - “
“No offence,” Liz interrupts, “this very second, I’m more worried about what’s happening at home. You understand.” She pauses. "FYI, they tend to remove the dog's testicles but not the scrotum."
Big mistake. Finn turns to face her, slowly, as if he’s so appalled by her dismissal that it somehow froze his neck joints.
“You're sitting on the shit hill and we're climbing the shit mountain,” she argues.
"Okay,” he begins, far too civil to be serious, “since you’re preoccupied with the state of your country, let’s examine the ethics behind your vote.”
Liz gapes at him - she doesn’t expect ‘ethics’ to leave Finn’s mouth unless it’s preceded by the words ‘I don’t possess any’. "Are you having a fucking stroke?"
"I'm just pointing out that you won't be living in the U.S. in the future."
“You're awfully certain about that."
He pretends to ignore her observation; rather clumsily, given how he flushes, and she smiles cannily at the sight. "Cataclysmic political situation or not, it doesn't seem right for you to have a say on domestic affairs when you chose to work abroad."
Her smile stretches in irritation. "I pay the same taxes. I lived there for most of my life. And it's about the far future, too." Liz side-eyes Finn as she prepares to dangle the bait, or more accurately, slap him in the face with it. "The future of my kids and grandkids and their robot dogs."
"That's assuming America will be intact.”
"Which is exactly why I vote," she snaps. "And London might be underwater by 2100, so, you know, fuck you."
"Yellowstone Lake sits atop a supervolcano waiting to erupt."
"Within the next hundred centuries!"
"You don't know shit about volcanoes!" Liz sips her tea to punctuate the finality of her declaration; her eyes immediately widen. “Fuck!” It burnt her tongue, so much for the calming blend. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she continues, "Anyway, what about the ethics of your vote? You work in the public sector. You have a vested interest."
“52% of all employees in Copeland work in the public sector. Are you implying that they shouldn’t vote, either?”
“I’m saying you have no right to imply that my vote has less worth than an American resident’s, since yours will directly affect your job.”
“That means I understand the impact of my vote from the inside-out,” Finn claims, earning an eye-roll. “Speaking of which, you're a foreigner in a high-level position in our public sector - do you have a single clue about our political system outside policing?”
“I tried,” Liz insists. “I'd usually end up on a British lolitics blog and read smut for an hour.”
“It was surprisingly educational.”
“About what? How to tug off a Tory?”
“Isn’t that all you need to know?”
In the span of seconds, Finn’s expression cycles through several conflicted phases, ranging from disgust to pride. “Maybe,” he concedes.
Liz preens and pats his knee in a mockingly conciliatory manner. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I should get back to blocking everyone from high school on Facebook - ”
“I can begin to solve your government. Hypothetically,” he adds, pre-empting her arguing about how pointless his opinion is and presenting at least four wars’ worth of evidence. “Like a washed-up parent giving suggestions to their wayward adult child who isn’t really listening.”
“Tactical nuclear strike?” she guesses.
“No need to be violent, Liz.”
“I have certain expectations for your concept of fixing things.”
“I’m thinking of voting requirements. You could implement a literacy or common sense test. Weed out the...undesirables.”
“That’s incredibly classist and ableist.” Her head tilts. “Not to mention undemocratic.”
“Not necessarily,” Finn defends. She watches the trajectory of his passionate gestures with growing interest. “Look, America is a special case. Your system is so thoroughly fucked from the top-down that some eggs need to be broken in order to make a remotely edible omelette that you force-feed to the world.”
Liz laughs angrily. “Voter suppression is already a huge problem, and you think it should be an official part of the process? Brilliant, Finn. The one time you come up with an original solution, it's more dystopic than the shitty reality. You’re fucked from the top-down.”
He huffs and takes a strategic sip of his water, eyeing her darkly. “I wish.”
Her lips crash onto his as soon as he lowers the glass, denying him the chance to continue his inane rant. Their kisses are blistering and relentless, a dam of tension bursting after a whole day with little physical contact. And - oh, his mouth is cold from the ice water while hers is warm from the tea.
“That feels nice,” she admits. She swipes her tongue around the insides of her cheek, to prolong the soothing sensation.
Finn nips at her exposed collarbone. “Imagine that on your cunt.”
Liz looses an involuntary whine, tightens a fist in his hair and tugs as he messily kisses down to her cleavage. But despite the desperate heat building between her thighs she can’t quite let go of the thread of thought he’d snipped - it’s tangled, an energized jumble of fears and theories and plans.
“Bed. Now,” he demands.
“Is there something wrong with my orgy-sized couch?”
Apparently not. Liz finds herself flat on her back with one squirming PR deputy on top of her. She reaches to unbutton her jeans, grazing his cock on the way. Her touch lingers; he watches, licking his lips.
“Fuck me,” she breathes, rubbing circles into the gap of her zipper. “Fuck me like how Trump’s fucked America.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask you to elaborate. Hard, fast, and dirty?”
“Loud, punishing, and penetrating to the core of my fundamentally flawed foundation.”
“Jesus.” Finn shudders. “But first I'm going to suck you dry like an offshore tax haven.”
"That's not how it works at all," Liz objects, lust temporarily dimming in the face of his questionable simile. "I mean, eating me out, not tax havens - "
Sitting back, he tries to remove her jeans and panties in a single smooth motion but winds up having to give them several frustrated tugs.
“Fuck! Fuck your fucking jeans, this is typical American craftsmanship, how the fuck do you get out of these?”
“They’re probably made in China.”
“Like your national surveillance program.”
“Yeah, it’s much better here, where the corporate news media could be spying on you,” Liz snipes.
He snarls in triumph, tossing the offending garments across the room. She grabs his glass from the coffee table and hands it to him; he drains the water and is about to toss the glass aside as well before remembering what it is.
“Fuck you,” he responds to her bemused grin.
Liz wiggles enticingly, hitching an ankle over his shoulder. “I’m waiting.”
An answering growl, and long fingers spread her wider, slick themselves with her wetness. Finn bends and flicks his flattened tongue in the area around her clit; she keens, fidgets in protest of his pace. It’s as if he’s tasting one of his fucking meeting room-bowl lollipops. Trust Finn to only ever dawdle when it involves getting her off.
He cuts his own chuckle short by pressing a kiss to her cunt. And another. And another, with his cold tongue making a welcome return.
“Shit!” Liz’s palms and heel dig into the couch cushion as she arches up, nearly sharply enough to displace him. She exhales his name, helplessly writhing in time with the forward motion of his laps. He licks nonstop in steady strokes which, she deliriously reflects, might be a pattern. “Fuck, Finn. Please. Please.”
Soon the pad of his his thumb circles her clit with the perfect amount of pressure, counterpoint to his sweeping tongue. Sighing in contentment, she surrenders to the moment, muscles clenching and relaxing and clenching in anticipation -
Suddenly, Finn pulls away with a moan.
“Could you feel that?” he asks, scratchy-voiced.
Liz sputters in disbelief. “Of course I could fucking feel that!”
“I'm tracing words inside you.”
That explains why his strokes felt painstakingly precise. “An argument?” she questions shakily.
“Obviously. Not with you, for once.”
“I hope I’m not expected to remember it.”
His eyes gleam. “I’ll remember.” With that, he dives back in. She urges him closer with her legs, locking her calves around his neck.
Finn stops merely tracing words and starts talking, or something close, his muffled noises an onslaught of vibrations against her cunt. In the sliver of sanity she retains, she figures it doesn’t have anything to do with how he’s taking her apart. More likely, he’s lamenting about an upcoming election - it’s unclear which. It doesn't matter much. It matters a lot, because she's not just fucking a body, she's fucking a brain; sex was never this satisfying with polite, happy boys or shallow jerks.
Craning her head after a particularly potent wave of pleasure, Liz notices him rubbing himself over his trousers.
“Hand off your cock,” she rasps. He grunts and gives it a squeeze before obeying, fully concentrating his effort into fucking her with his mouth. It might be nice to see the same level of devotion in the workplace, but she’s not complaining, not when she’s practically dripping on his face. The squeak that’s been lodged in her throat for the last minute finally forces its way past her parted lips.
“Finn, I’m - I’m - oh, fucking shit, Finn, Finn.” She intends to whimper once, soft and demure. Instead it extends into a frantic series, pitching higher with each subsequent drag of his tongue. Then he twirls his tongue on her clit while two fingers curl inside her in a come-hither motion, and that’s it, she cries out and comes and comes and comes, nearly sobbing from the white-hot bolt of pure want.
Tiny aftershocks wrack her body. Finn lifts his head. His lips are wet, there’s some moisture on his chin and, fuck, if that doesn’t wind her up all over again.
“Hurry while I’m extra tight,” Liz purrs. The smirk melts off his face and he groans, kicking away his trousers and clambering onto her. She shifts to accommodate him, teases his cockhead between her still-quivering thighs.
“No joke about walls or borders?” he murmurs into her ear.
“You fucked the sarcasm to sleep. The kind of nap the disaffected middle class took up until recently."
Humming in agreement, he pushes into her; they both gasp as he bottoms out, their hips bumping together. “Shit, Liz.”
Calling Finn ‘pent-up’ is an understatement. It’s a wonder he didn’t lose control while going down on her, it wouldn’t be the first time. He ruts into her like he’s hatefucking the establishment. Ever the eager radical, Liz opens up for him, rolls her hips to meet his harsh thrusts. This is the sole area where they effortlessly work in tandem, and she wouldn’t trade it for anything.
“You do feel...good," he manages, gaze unfocused.
“Do you wanna keep me to yourself, Finn?” she whispers, amused at how he tenses, how he quickens in an unsuccessful attempt to distract her. It's a thrillingly risky line of inquiry, the relationship equivalent of pressing a finger behind his balls. “Want to immerse me in your politics because you think mine are irrelevant to my life in the long run?”
“The Met needs you. Until I decide otherwise.”
Finn slides a hand up her shirt, beneath her bra. She splays one arm over her head, to grant him easier access. “Plus you have to admit, amoral arseholes or not, our politicians are far more appealing for smut.”
Liz kisses the side of his neck, delights in the resulting shiver and answers it with her own. “Like you’d know.”
“Ah - my experience doesn’t matter. I’m aware of your preferences.” He holds himself above her, quivering, his cock brushing her slit tantalizingly. “Or did the orgasm not clue you in?”
“The orgasm was -" His fingers close around her nipple and twist. "Nnngh - a purely biological reaction. Nothing to do with preferences.”
Finn fucks back into her, the impact rattling to her bones, coiling renewed need up her spine. “It sounded like you were really enjoying yourself. You remember it, right? ‘Oh, Finn, I’m coming, Finn, Finn...’ ”
Liz bites his lower lip, almost hard enough to bruise. “Can you mansplain why it’s so hot hearing you moan your own name? ”
“No.” It’s silent for a minute other than occasional moans and the slap-slap of flesh. He sucks a hickey onto her clavicle and asks, “What were we talking about before being sidetracked by your weird kinks? The police force? Politics? Your insatiable lust for me? All of the above?”
“What's your stance on corporal punishment?”
He blinks at her, dangerously close to cutely. “What?”
She smacks him on the ass. Once, twice. The third time, she strokes her index finger down the crack, lightly, and he yelps and latches his mouth against hers as he comes in hot spurts that leave her gasping and shuddering underneath him. They stay entwined as they recover, sweat drying on each other's skin.
“Did you learn that from lolitics?” Finn pants.
Liz grins, smoothing his hair. “It's pretty effective on whatever the hell you are.”
He responds by groaning into her shoulder. Embarrassed, maybe. Or too post-fuck-dazed to muster a proper reply, which she'll gladly count as a victory, though he may contest it later and quite possibly that debate will lead them back here...
She pecks his damp forehead and murmurs, “We’ll get it right, no matter what happens.”
Thankfully, Finn doesn’t ask what it is. Liz isn’t sure, herself. What she is sure about is that he's quiet and pliant following sex, that he absently ghosts his fingers over her arm, that he doesn't flinch from her touch as she ruffles his hair and rests her palm on his chest to feel his heartbeat.
"I'll believe it when I see it," he says, at length.
"You will." Liz kisses him again. “Now get the fuck off me so I can check Facebook.”