The television hums in the background of your head, the both of you settled on Billy’s couch, his arm draped around you in the way that always feels more like possession than anything. The show- the show that you’re meant to be paying attention to considering you’ve both been invested in it for months now- marches on, plot twisting, dialogue firing, but you’re hopelessly adrift.

Your eyes flicker, not over the screen, but over the arm he has wrapped around you.

Muscle stands out beneath taut skin, veins shifting with the smallest movement of his hand against your thigh. You trace the lines in your mind, needing to clench your jaw to keep yourself from putting your hands all over him. Or mouth. Both?

It’s definitely not the first time. Billy was sat at a table in the safehouse last week, guns disassembled before him, the metallic scent of oil sharp in the air. He was focused, cleaning and reassembling piece by piece, while you were perched right next to him, fingertips brushing his forearm and squeezing his bicep again and again. He didn’t mind. Who would complain about a pretty birdie like you perchin’ and touchin’?

And this morning, too. Like always. Billy was at the stove, frying pan in hand, talking about- wait, what was he talking about?- while you hovered like a moth to flame. You clung to his arm, dragging your hands over the definition in awe. He huffed, called you insufferable, but never once pulled away.

Here on the couch, it’s no better. Not at all. The screen could go black and you wouldn’t notice. Your eyes are fixed, greedy, tracing the line from his bicep down to his knuckles. Every ridge, every twitch, every-

A low, husky chuckle vibrates against your side. You blink, caught, and tilt your head up to see his smirk already waiting- sharp, smug, utterly knowing. “Oi,” he rumbles, eyes narrowing and eyebrow cocked. “Not even payin’ attention, are ya? Whole bloody show’s wastin’ away right in front o’ ya, and all you’ve got is eyes for me arm.”

How does one explain the feeling of being in the vicinity of Billy Butcher’s arms?