Betting is, generally speaking, Tommy’s field of expertise. It’s part of his job, after all. So really, he should be smarter than to agree to this. But see, Alfie’s job is being a crook and he’s damn good at it. So he’s definitely not going to tell his opponent that he’s being an idiot.
It’s not the best combination, bet-makers and crooks, but that’s what they’re made of, isn’t it? Bad combinations. Promises and blood-sticky money. Gunpowder and salt-rich air. The scent of fresh ink on official documents and fogged tabletops. Boredom and alcohol.
Alfie leans in, the leather of his armchair creaking. “So what’s it, Love? No hands for me?”
“No hands for you.” Tommy Shelby’s a fucking riot, is what he is. The cunt’s downed about four glasses by now and someone who doesn’t pay such close attention to him wouldn’t even be able to tell. But Alfie specialises in looking at Tommy Shelby, and he can see the little flicker in his lashes. Not quite drunk, but just balancing on the edge of that cutthroat, daredevil tipsiness.
Alfie nods. “And you, then?”
“No help for me.” He has that nice voice, smooth and deep with that Birmingham rasp that makes Alfie want to smash glass. But he’s had about four whiskeys, and he’s being stupid.
Alfie nods. “Alright, Love, no help for you. For how long?” Four glasses. And Alfie knows Tommy. Fogged tabletops and the way his voice breaks when someone’s got a proper grip on his hair, the pale arch of his back. Alfie’s getting hard. Or he has been anyways, but now he feels it. But that’s not the point. Alfie knows Tommy, he knows the man’s a cat in heat fighting to breathe in a starched collar. He won’t last three minutes.
Alfie laughs. “Ten minutes?”
“Ten.” He’s got his business face on, the cool poker face Alfie likes so much. The best things happen when Tommy’s got that face on.
They shake on it, and Alfie uses his grip to pull Tommy in. There’s a table in the way, both of them sitting on their respective sides, getting drunk while keeping a comfortable distance. Now Tommy bumps against the table and the bottles clink and glitter. He’s still good on his feet, though, and doesn’t topple into Alfie’s lap like Alfie’d halfway hoped.
Instead, he leans against the armrest of Alfie’s chair, looking down. In the dim light Alfie prefers these days, his cheekbones look unreal. “Let me get some slick first.”
Alfie doesn’t let go, smiles up at him instead. “Oh? From where?”
Still as a statue and twice as cool. “My coat.”
And isn’t that just sweet? The thought that Tommy Shelby came all the way over to see him with a tin of slick in his coat pocket turns the warmth pooling in Alfie’s belly into proper heat.
And yes, Tommy’s still and cool and the light isn’t good, worse with Alfie’s eye, but he can still make out the faintest kiss of a flush on his cheeks. Alfie doesn’t let go of his hand and doesn’t take his eye(s) off him, instead using his free hand to reach into his waistcoat pocket, pulling out a tin of his own.
“Oh,” Tommy says, and finally sinks into Alfie’s lap. Cigarettes and wool and horses. Underneath, close to the throat a hint of warm gold and dusty velvet and dried flowers, Eau de Catholicisme.
Alfie leans in a little for a proper whiff of it, then sinks back into the cushions with his hands firmly planted on the armrests. “No help for you?”
There’s a rush of largely uncoordinated but rather determined movement that Alfie can’t really appreciate from this position, then Tommy spreads his thighs a little to get more comfortable, easily sliding closer to him. One arm draped around Alfie’s shoulders, eyes on the jar he’s holding.
Magpie, fascinated by the silver shine of the tin, the way it catches the dim light in flashes of silver. Or he’s just tipsy enough to be outright about how eager he is to get fucked. “Yes,” he says, distracted and belated. The stuff itself is not what they’ve grown accustomed to using, thick and gleaming, dripping from Tommy’s fingers.
The monosyllabic answer doesn’t phase Alfie. He doesn’t need to make conversation – he’s fine just looking at Tommy. In the few seconds he’s shuffled around on Alfie’s lap, he managed to go from the buttoned-up porcelain-cold doll he likes to be seen as to Alfie’s favourite stage of messily undressed. Trousers and shoes discarded, shirt unbuttoned and slipping over his shoulders with every move, undershirt pushed up. The four glasses are starting to show, then, considering he managed to make up so prettily without Alfie’s hands on him to help.
There’s a hickey just above his left hipbone, not even two days old. They’ve gotten accustomed to one another lately. Really, it’s no wonder they’re getting playful with it.
And really, Alfie thinks as Tommy proceeds to drip slick everywhere, the bet in itself isn’t particularly risky. A decent sum of money, sure, but nothing that Alfie isn’t willing to lose.
On top of that it’s an easy win, too, isn’t it? They’ve been doing this for a while, Alfie knows what Tommy can take. He knows the way Tommy’s head tips back, his eyelashes flutter and his body melts into the sheets as soon as Alfie fucks his cock into him. There’s no way the man will get past even ten strokes before dissolving into a mewly mess. Betting he’d last 10 minutes bouncing on Alfie’s lap without help is laughable.
Tommy leans in a little to put a stabilising hand on Alfie’s shoulder as he slips a second finger into himself and his breath stutters against Alfie’s cheek. And sure, arousal is pooling whiskey-hot in Alfie’s abdomen and sure, it’s always a delight to watch Tommy lose himself, but Alfie knows that his self-control will outlast that display. It should be easy enough to keep his hands off him for the four to five minutes it usually takes until Tommy’s slips into his pillow-princess mindset, anyway.
By that time, he’ll paw at Alfie’s shoulders, begging him to flip them and fuck him good and hard. A nice win for Alfie, right there. (And then, he’ll flick his nipples and suck on his throat and squeeze his hips to his heart’s content.)
Tommy exhales, soft and tinted with a first hint of that sweet neediness and a shiver goes through him, hand tightening on Alfie’s shoulder. In turn, Alfie’s fingers dig into the soft-worn leather of the armrest.
Not that it’s really about the money, but there’s a certain smug pride tied to the fact that he can make Tommy lose it that quickly. It’s a matter of honour, if anything. A point to prove. And Alfie’s ready to prove his point, even if it means keeping his hands off of Tommy for the time being.
Tommy, who makes another soft sound that sends a thrill down Alfie’s back, hands flexing with the Pavlovian desire to twist and turn his fingers inside him, feeling him clench around him. But no, that’s fine. Four minutes. Four glasses. It’s hardly likely that Tommy will even manage to get a decent rhythm going with how desperate he is for Alfie’s cock.
There’s a slick sound that has Alfie’s mouth watering and Tommy rearranges his weight a little to finally get his knickers off all the way. His right hand is gleaming when he pushes the fabric over his hip, dripping in the dim light and leaving a slick smudge on his hipbone.
Alfie swallows thickly. He’d been half-zoned out, gaze lost in the width of the room, vague arrangements of shelves and potted plants, the thick curtains heavy with the last traces of the salt-drenched, golden afternoon outside.
Now, however, he finds himself utterly focused on Tommy, on the cotton and ink and muscle mass of him. The flush spilling down his chest is more prominent now, a dusky rose that compliments the delicate touch of gold around his throat, slipping between his pectorals.
It would be sweet, but Alfie knows Tommy better than to assume it’s some sort of shy-delicate prudishness. It’s just greed. And it’s not difficult to dig his fingers into warming leather and sit back, but oh, it’s a shame that he can’t wrap his hand around Tommy’s cock and suck bruises on his chest, cross brushing his jaw, and make that blush deepen a little more.
“Alright?” Tommy’s voice is soft-deep, and isn’t that just sweet?
The corner of Alfie’s mouth twitches a little and he sits back, forcibly melting the tension out of his shoulders. “Of course, Love. Proceed.” He even gestures a little, for effect. His rings catch the light filtering in.
Tommy gives him another of his porcelain-cool looks, eyes like marbles, long lashes. He really is a pretty doll, especially when he’s about to make stupid decisions.
Without breaking eye-contact (and that would be impressive, really, on anyone but an ice queen like him), Tommy reaches between them with his left hand to undo Alfie’s trousers. Alfie doesn’t move to help him and bites his tongue when the cool air hits the hot-delicate skin of his cock. He’s hard enough to throb at the mere brush of Tommy’s slick fingers, but the throughout, greedy bastard doesn’t let that stop him from stroking him languidly.
His grip is warm and slick and pleasure seeps through Alfie. He can feel his lashes lowering, hips twitching ever so slightly, and he’s about to ask Tommy to speed it up when the man pulls back on his own.
The loss of contact is another rush of cool air, which somewhat clears Alfie’s head. Ten minutes aren’t terribly long, and with the self-indulgent way Tommy’d squeezed his cock, Alfie knows the man needs it bad.
Flushed cheeks and dark eyes and lips bitten pink - Tommy has many bad qualities, and greed is certainly one of the most prominent ones. Thankfully for Alfie, he thinks as he watches Tommy spread his thighs a little, one hand fisted in the material of Alfie’s shirt to steady himself as he lowers himself, restraint isn’t one of his good qualities.
Then Tommy actually sinks down on him and Alfie’s train of thought comes to an abrupt halt. Since Alfie hadn’t been allowed to help prepare him, the feeling is a shock to his system. Tommy’s hot and tight, which in itself is awe-inspiring time and time again, but what’s even more breath-taking is the smooth way he sinks down, all self-control and strength.
He makes a soft sound as he settles on Alfie’s lap, cock buried deep inside his hole. Alfie, still a little light-headed with the way Tommy took him in one go, watches somewhat helplessly as he slips out of the shirt and then pulls his undershirt over his head, drawing the eye to his muscular torso. Faded ink and shimmering gold. Fabric is dropped on the carpet, then Tommy rocks his hips slowly, experimentally.
The glide of his hips is smooth, practised, and his thighs tense around Alfie’s, warm-strong. He makes a soft, appreciative noise, then rises up to his knees before dropping down in one controlled, smooth move.
It’s then that Alfie has the faint realisation that he might’ve misjudged.
Because, see, what he forgot is that Tommy’s field of expertise isn’t just betting. There’s also the matter of the fucking horses.
And Alfie hadn’t really thought about it before, had paid little attention to the leather and the gleaming fur and the golden bridles that flicker and glint and neigh (or whatever it’s called) from the photos and paintings and etchings Tommy spreads around his home. He’s never been to the stables, has never seen Tommy on one of the damn beasts. Had he been, he probably would’ve thought twice about accepting the bet.
His head falls back and he blinks at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath as Tommy really starts moving. Liquid spine, warm palms Alfie’s chest. Silk heat clenching around him rhythmically. A moan, nails digging into Alfie’s chest through a thin layer of soft cotton.
Alfie swallows, closes his eyes. It doesn’t help, of course. In fact, it gives him nothing to distract himself from the heat of Tommy’s body, the easy-slick way he’s grinding down on him. His fingernails dig into the leather armrests of his chair.
Tommy’s breath hitches, he sinks down until he’s almost sitting on Alfie’s lap, cock almost buried to the hilt, and starts grinding on him, not lifting himself up far enough for Alfie’s cock to slip out of him, instead just squeezing around him, using him to find the angle that’ll make Tommy’s eyes roll back, Alfie’s name soft on his tongue. Alfie gasps, shivers, and starts counting his breaths.
Salt stings in his eye and he blinks, swallows. He feels as if a great weight pushes him into his seat, although Tommy isn’t even using him to steady himself anymore.
Alfie glances at him, bites his tongue. Tommy’s leaning back a little to give himself more room to properly roll his hips, his mouth falling open and brows furrowed, eyes rolling back and lashes fluttering. The golden cross sticks to his chest, right next to one of his hard, pink nipples that make Alfie’s mouth water and his cock throb painfully.
In the end, it takes less than six minutes before he reaches for Tommy, who laughs breathlessly and leans in, chest pressed to Alfie. The angle is worse like this, it has to be, but still Tommy keeps swirling his hips, thighs tensing with every move, and his moans brush against Alfie’s mouth until his voice finally breaks and he slips his thighs impossibly wider apart, moans trailing off into desperate, high pitched animal sounds as he fucks himself on Alfie’s cock like he’s paid to do it and the realisation that he is hits Alfie like a lightening bolt, abdomen clenching with arousal.
Helpless to do anything but take it, Alfie chokes on pleasure and his own moans, fingers digging bruises into Tommy’s hips. He tries to keep his eyes open and keep still, hold on just a little longer, but pleasure pulses through him and he finally can’t take it anymore, hips snapping up instinctively, roughly fucking his orgasm into Tommy’s hot hole.
That seems to do it because finally, Tommy crashes against him, swirling his hips and clenching around him, shivering and pawing at him in an uncoordinated frenzy. He gets impossibly tighter, fingernails digging into Alfie’s shoulder and mixing the over-stimulated pleasure with a first hint of pain as Tommy uses his softening, twitching cock to ride out his own orgasm.
It seems to go on forever, Alfie’s own pleasure lengthened and intensified by Tommy’s, but finally they both sink back into the armchair. Alfie feels like all his bones melted and his brain, too, but he opens his mouth and returns Tommy’s messy kiss, lets him suck on his tongue and nip on his lips while he tries to form a coherent thought again.
His mind clears a little, eventually, and he tils his head to kiss Tommy’s neck, tasting salt and a hint of gold as he sucks fresh marks over the fading ones from two days ago. His hands, finally free to move, squeeze Tommy’s hips in something like wonder.
Tommy lets him and tilts his head a little, a soft laugh rumbling through his chest, soft like a purring, self-satisfied cat. “I’ll expect an envelope with the money when I come by tomorrow.”
That’s what you get for making bets with someone who’s made his fortune by fixing races and running illegal betting booths.