John goes back to Birmingham by train the next afternoon, which is a big concession on his part, because he hates taking the train with a passion.
“You gonna… you know. Fix things?” he asks when Tommy drops him off at the station.
“No,” Tommy say reflexively, and it doesn't feel like a lie, even though it probably is. “Absolutely fucking not.”
“Right, ‘course,” John says, sounding very sarcastic, and gets out of the car.
Tommy spends the entire rest of day running errands in London, checking up on certain things, keeping in touch with certain people. The later in the day it gets, the more restless he feels and when he finally knocks on Alfie’s door – did considered calling beforehand, but then decided against it, because it’s not like that bastard deserves the warning – he half-expects him not to open; despite the fact he’s most definitely there.
Tommy can see the light through the windows.
Turns out he’s completely wrong in his assumption, because Alfie wordlessly opens the door and wordlessly steps aside to let him into the hallway. Locks the door afterwards, meticulous about it as always, which is either a good sign or a very bad one. Tommy decides not to wait for him and marches off into the the direction of the living room, once he’s done stuffing his cap into his coat pocket and depositing his overcoat on the coat rack next to the door.
He can hear Alfie following him, footsteps heavy and a bit uneven. He’s actually using his cane today. Once they’re in the living room, they just stand there for a few seconds, measuring each other. Tommy crosses his arms in front of his chest, resists the urge to take out a cigarette.
“So,” he says. He’s not sure what’s going on. Maybe they’re having a fight, maybe not.
“So,” Alfie says, sounding deceptively good-natured. “Right. Interesting day we’ve had yesterday, mate, wouldn’t you say?”
Given the fact he basically ended the whole thing, the last time he thought somebody from Tommy’s family knew about them, this seems like a strange reaction. It’s not what Tommy expected from him at all, but then again, that’s Alfie for you. This time around it’s even worse, because it’s not a misunderstanding and there’s nothing vague about it:
There is no reversing that fact, nothing that could fix it – apart from maybe a bullet to the head, Tommy thinks suddenly, feeling pretty numb about the thought. Other people don’t think these kind of things, he’s pretty fucking sure, because normal people don’t feel the need to circle through all the possible and impossible options all of the fucking time, just because their brain won’t stop until they’ve considered every single angle there is, except…
He realizes that the exact same thought must have crossed Alfie's mind. Couldn’t even explain how that works, how he knows, just that all of a sudden, he does. Time seems to slow down to a crawl. He blinks at Alfie and Alfie blinks at him, looking taken aback, chin coming up; he’s squaring his shoulders a bit, the way he always does when he’s caught out.
The silence drags on, becoming more and more tense by the second. They’re staring at each other like two animals that just rounded a corner and didn’t expect the other one to be there, caught off guard, but confrontational.
Tommy thinks, weirdly detached, that he should feel worried right now, or maybe scared. At the very least reconsider this whole bloody thing. Walk out of here, something, because the guy he’s been fucking on a regular basis is seriously contemplating murdering Tommy’s brother, but for whatever godforsaken reason, the only thing he feels is quiet, seething fury. Who the fuck does that bastard think he is?
“If you ever,” Tommy says, as slowly as he can manage, and he feels like he’s shaking, despite the fact that he knows that he isn’t. Never does, not on the outside. “So much as try. Ever. We're done. We're fuckin' through.”
There's a scoff from Alfie, because Tommy is reusing his threat, something he's painfully aware of, so he has to up the stakes. “And not only that, but I'm gonna fuckin' come for you. Eh? I'm gonna spend every single second for the rest of my life making sure- ”
Alfie sighs then, a big, defeated gust of air, because clearly, he's insane. Doesn’t even pretend not to know what Tommy is talking about, doesn’t try to deny anything either. Rubs a hand over his mouth, visibly calculating.
"Yeah, all right, mate," he says, like he’s testing the waters. "Bloody calm down, fuckin’ hell. Not gonna try that, am I."
And the fucked up thing is… Tommy wants to trust him on this, because… hell. This is the guy who fried them eggs two nights ago and spent over ten minutes telling his dog all about the he fancy new upholstery in his car, and sucked Tommy off in his bed, and argued with him about the monarchy afterwards, but it's fucking impossible. Tommy might as well stare up into the sky one day and just decide to take flight. He can't.
He wants to, but he can't.
Alfie can tell. It's fucking obvious he can tell, and he doesn't even seem to care, is the thing, because he just stands there, easy as anything, and says, “From where I’m standing, mate…” like he’s being reasonable here, like this is the most logical thing in the world. Christ, Tommy thinks, Jesus Christ, he hates this fucking arsehole.
He shrugs off his jacket and Alfie goes very still, narrowing his eyes.
He silently watches as Tommy opens his cufflinks and takes out his collar, then sets everything down on the dresser. Pulls the suspenders off his shoulders, one at a time.
“The hell you’re doing,” Alfie says, but it’s a purely rhetorical question at this point. He’s already staring at Tommy like a dog might stare at somebody holding food.
“Fuck you,” Tommy says.
He’s down to his shirt, starts unbuttoning it with quick, familiar movements. Alfie, close enough to touch, still doesn’t move, but he’s not blinking either. It’s entirely predictable and a triumphant fucking feeling at the same time. Feels like a victory, almost, not because it’s never happened before, but because… Tommy can just decide, can just make that happen, apparently. Deep down, he always knew he could, but for whatever reason, he’s never tried it before.
Alfie reaches out then, maybe to help him get rid of the shirt, maybe just to touch him, but Tommy slaps his hand away. He’s not holding back in the slightest, palm connecting with the side of Alfie’s wrist, skin meeting skin with a loud crack. The force of it knocks Alfie’s arm sideways.
There is a moment of stunned silence, and then Alfie makes a noise, breath going out of him in a big whoosh, halfway between amused and derisive. The whole mood capsizes from one second to the next, something tight and electric vibrating through the whole room. All of the air seems to have disappeared as well, leaving only hot, breathless tension behind.
Tommy shrugs out of his shirt, starts unbuttoning his fly. Pretends to look down to see what he’s doing, but all of his attention is still focused on Alfie, who reaches out again. Doesn’t try to be quick about it, because they both know what’s going to happen; he’s just doing it to test the waters. Wants to see if Tommy is going to slap him again, probably, which… yeah. Yeah, he fucking is.
This time, Alfie’s arm doesn’t go that far because he’s expecting the hit, so there’s some tension in him now. Tommy slaps him away so hard his palm stings. When he looks back up, Alfie’s eyes have gone sharp, calculating. When Tommy takes a step backwards, he follows along instantly; carefully keeping the same distance between them.
The couch is right behind him and Tommy sits down on the armrest, putting one of his feet over his knee at an angle, starts unlacing his shoe. The first one drops to the ground with a dull sound. Tommy switches it up, unlaces his other shoe. As soon as that lands on the floor, he gets back up again.
His face feels hot, adrenaline coursing through him,because Alfie is now staring at him like he wants to eat him alive. Tommy’s holds his gaze, pushes his pants down over his hips. Can’t help but smirk when Alfie’s eyes flicker down, registering the fact that Tommy left his underwear on. Did it on purpose, too, just to be annoying.
When he steps out the pants pooling around his ankles, he has to actually look down, and suddenly, there’s cool pressure against the left side of his neck. He knows what it is even before he checks, faint tremor running through him – Alfie's cane pressing right against his neck.
He visibly has to put most of his weight on his good leg in order to do it and Tommy doesn’t feel sorry for him in the fucking slightest. It feels... proprietorial, like he’s staking his fucking claim, with a subtle threat of violence underneath. Could just decide to hit Tommy with it, wouldn’t take much at all. Not like he’s never done it before, either.
Anybody with an ounce of common sense would be worried, Tommy thinks, except he can feel himself getting hard instead.
Alfie watches him closely; seems to have arrived at the conclusion that Tommy’s not going to protest this maneuver, because he drags the cane down along Tommy’s collarbone until it’s sitting right against the bottom of his throat, right above his sternum, pushing into the spot where everything is soft and vulnerable none too gently.
Tommy swallows reflexively. The pressure point of the cane doesn’t exactly restrict anything, because it’s too far down for that, but it’s… noticeably there. If Alfie decided to swing for him, he’d manage to crush Tommy’s windpipe without effort – probably wouldn’t even have to go that hard, flick of his wrist with some force behind it.
“Fuck you,” Tommy says again, sounding hoarse for some reason. Fuck, he’s hard. Alfie could kill him right now, could do all sorts of things, except he won’t, because Alfie wants him. Wants to put Tommy on his knees, wants to fuck him, wants to make him lose his bloody mind – wants to own him, probably, and they both know it.
“Do yourself a favor, mate,” Alfie says, low and tense. “And shut the fuck up, yeah?”
“Go to hell,” Tommy says. He slowly reaches up and wraps his fingers around the cane and there’s nothing indecent about it, not really, but for some reason it feels fucking pornographic. Drags it downwards just as slowly, in a straight line over his chest and stomach until he reaches the top of his underwear where he’s teasing it against the fabric, pushing it down an inch with the cane.
They’re both panting when he stops.
“Get on the fucking couch,” Alfie says. “Go on.”
“No,” Tommy says.
“Yeah,” Alfie says, nodding almost absentmindedly, like that’ll convince him. “Yeah, mate. You, right, you’re gonna fuckin’ move right the fuck now.”
“No,” Tommy says again, trying to sound as bored as possible.
Alfie takes a step forward, and then another, thumb and two fingers wrapped casually around the cane, tilting it up and out of the way, sliding his hand downwards as he goes, because Tommy still hasn’t let go of the other end.
It’s a slanted barrier between them when Alfie stops, so close there's barely an inch of separation left. There's murder written all over his face, but he’s not trying to touch.
“You wanna fuck me,” Tommy tells him. “You wanna do anything at all, you're gonna do it in your fucking bedroom. I'm not your fucking whore, you don’t get to order me around.”
“Yeah, I do,” Alfie says immediately, which… well, Tommy thinks, heat pooling low in his stomach. It's true. He does. Doesn't mean he can’t fucking work for the privilege, though. “Also, forgive me, mate, yeah, maybe I'm missing something here, but what the fuck, right, what the fuck makes you think, in your head, that I even wanna fuck you? Hmm? What gives you that idea?”
Tommy scoffs, because… it’s a ridiculous fucking question. Tightens his grip on the cane and guides the heavy, wooden handle towards him, slides it under his own chin. Immediately, there’s pressure there, because Alfie doesn't miss a beat – pushes Tommy’s head up past the point where the angle is entirely comfortable. They’re both breathing hard, panting right into each other’s faces.
Alfie is chewing on the inside of his cheek, jaw working.
“Ask me that again with a straight fuckin face, eh?” Tommy rasps.
Alfie seems to seriously consider it, because of course he fucking does. Fuck, Tommy wants him. This mad, contrary, unpredictable bastard of a man who will make everything harder than it needs to be, for no other reason than he wants to sometimes, just because he’s feeling like it; who will fight Tommy every step of the way if he has to and not only keep up but enjoy doing it.
Half of the time, Tommy’s not even entirely sure if he wants to punch him or spread his legs for him, but he’s absolutely fucking sure that he wants, wants so badly his teeth are aching with it.
"Get up the fucking stairs then," Alfie grits out.
He doesn't move out of the way, doesn’t give him an inch, so Tommy has to brush past him, still wedged between the armrest of the couch and Alfie's body. He leaves his clothes where they are, because fuck it. This is Alfie’s stupid fucking house, almost as familiar as the back of his own hand by now; he can collect them later.
Alfie takes longer on the stairs – Tommy’s not entirely sure if it’s because his back is acting up or because he is taking his sweet time, wanting to make Tommy wait for it. Bit of both, probably. Tommy doesn’t slow down for him, stomping up the stairs without looking back. In the bedroom, he crosses his arms, standing right next to the bed. It should feel ridiculous, wearing nothing but his underwear and socks with garters, but for some reason, he doesn’t fucking care. Not like Alfie is going to care. Alfie is going to want him no matter what; probably wouldn’t bat an eye if Tommy was waiting in here in full uniform or drenched in somebody else’s blood.
As if on cue, Alfie ambles into the room. The stairs took something out of him, but he’s obviously moving a lot slower than he actually needs to – Tommy’s not entirely sure when he became an expert on the matter, just that he knows. Alfie rakes his eyes over him without an ounce of shame. It feels like being touched, like an actual, physical sensation ghosting over Tommy’s skin. Always does.
“Bed,” Alfie says and doesn’t seem surprised in the slightest when Tommy says “No.” instantly.
He’s still moving at a glacial pace, but he’s not stopping either, coming closer until he’s standing right in front of Tommy again, chest to chest. For a long second, they’re just staring at each other. Then Alfie raises his cane, fits it back underneath Tommy’s chin, tips it up casually, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to inspect something he might buy.
Tommy bites his lower lip, just to see what’ll happen, and Alfie makes a low noise in the back of his throat.
“Look at you,” he says, sounding almost reverent. “Pretty as anything. The fuck you’re being so bloody difficult for, hm? S’entirely unnecessary, mate, is what that is.”
“M’not being difficult,” Tommy says, which is a blatant lie.
Alfie sways forward then and kisses him. It feels like sticky summer heat, Alfie fitting their mouths together like it’s the most familiar thing in the world. Tommy is so distracted by the sensation he forgets to react at first; just stands there and kisses him back, cane still a hard point of pressure against his neck.
Then he gets his bearings again, pulls back and smacks Alfie right across the face.
Alfie doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even react at first, even though the slap was hard enough for his cheek to turn red. Just keeps his eyes closed and sighs, like Tommy is a child that keeps trying to kick him in the shins. When he blinks his eyes open, there’s a strange glint to them, something confident and predatory that makes some animal instinct inside of Tommy flare up; makes him want to flinch away and draw closer at the same time, heart pounding.
“You do that again, mate,” Alfie says, eerily calm, like they’re having a casual discussion about what they are going to have for dinner. “And I promise you right fucking now, yeah – I’m gonna fuck you through the bed and put you away wet after, and you’re not gonna like it.”
Tommy stares at him for a few seconds, nostrils flaring. Then he slaps him again.
Alfie must have expected him to, because he’s ready for it; not quick enough to keep Tommy’s palm from connecting again, probably not even trying to do that, but he catches Tommy’s hand right after, crushing his wrist in an iron grip that feels like it’s grinding down to the bones. Tommy tries to tug his arm away and to the side, experimental, not even trying to get out of it and Alfie uses that moment to body-check him.
It’s a lopsided move – leading with his bad side, shoulder first, good leg planted firmly and taking most of his weight. He’s surprisingly quick about it and what’s more, it comes totally unexpected, even though it probably shouldn’t, so Tommy stumbles backwards before he even really knows what’s happening, topples over when he hits the edge of the mattress with the back of his knees.
He goes down hard, which is fine, because he lands squarely on the mattress, bouncing a bit on impact. Alfie catches his own forward momentum with practiced ease, manages to put his cane down before he has to put too much weight onto his bad leg. Tommy pushes himself up onto his elbows immediately, ignoring the throbbing in his own shoulder and collarbone. By the feeling of it, there are definitely going to be bruises tomorrow.
From this angle, Alfie looks as imposing as a fucking building, staring down at him with something that almost looks like confusion; like he’s not entirely sure how Tommy got here or what he’s doing, sprawled out on the bed. Then he brandishes his cane, carefully touches it to Tommy’s knee, and pushes. Tommy resists a bit at first, just because he can, before giving in and letting his leg fall to the side.
Alfie hums at that, a deep, satisfied noise that seems to shiver through the entire room. Puts a knee on top of the mattress and traces the tip of his cane along the inside of Tommy’s leg, up and up, until it’s pressing into the crease of his thigh, right next to Tommy’s balls. Tommy resists the urge to roll his hips. Alfie can probably tell he wants to, anyway, but that’s not the point.
“You gonna take these off?” Alfie says, meaning Tommy’s underwear, because he finally seems to have figured out he’s going to have an easier time trying to negotiate than giving orders.
“You want me to?” Tommy says. He’s squirming around now, just a bit. The single pressure point of the cane shouldn’t be such a fucking turn on, but here they are.
Alfie is watching him like a hawk, tilting his head a bit at the question. “Well, see, that depends, now doesn’t it?” he says. “Yeah? On whether me answering that in the fuckin’ affirmative is gonna make it more likely you’re gonna do as your told, or less.”
“Guess we’ll have to find out,” Tommy says, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Hmmm,” Alfie says, pensive. He abruptly takes his cane away and sits down on the bed with a grunt, halfway turned towards Tommy, and looks him over slowly, visibly calculating.
“I’m gonna swear to you,” he says. “Right here, right now, on my mother’s life, mate, I’m not gonna try and put a bullet in your brother. Yeah? If you stop being such a difficult cunt about everything, right, and start being more agreeable.”
Tommy blinks at him, speechless, feels himself flushing hot all over; not even entirely sure if it’s anger or arousal. Probably both. Pushes himself into an upright position and closes the space between them on the mattress, until they’re face to face.
“Who the fuck,” he growls, “...do you think you are? Eh?”
“Right fuckin’ now, by the way,” Alfie adds, unimpressed. “Case that wasn’t obvious.”
God, Tommy hates him. Hates everything about him, his face, his beard, his scar, his messy hair and the knowing look in his eyes. Hates the way he smells, and that up close, he’s radiating heat. Hates the fact that this is turning him on – that Alfie just said that out loud, not even feeling bad about it, that he’s willing to make this into some kind of game.
“You gonna try and be a fuckin’ prick again, mate?” Alfie murmurs. “Hmm?”
Tommy’s not even sure how they got so close, all of a sudden, but before he can even answer the question, Alfie’s hand is on his neck, fingers curling loosely under Tommy’s jaw before gripping tight, holding him in place, and then they’re kissing. Alfie’s other hand ends up on Tommy’s thigh, sliding inwards until he’s groping his cock through the fabric, working him roughly.
Tommy makes a low noise, surging forward and into him.
They kiss for a long while, clutching at each other, until Alfie, still holding him by the jaw, guides him away a few inches. “Do us a favor and go get the oil, mate, yeah?”
“Fuck you,” Tommy says reflexively. His mouth feels used already, numb from kissing, the area around it tender with beard burn. “M’not doing you any fuckin’ favors.”
“The fuck we just agree on,” Alfie says and he’s gently pushing him away by the jaw. “Hm? ‘Bout you being more agreeable and all that?”
“Go to hell,” Tommy says, because they didn't agree on anything at all – leave it to Alfie to just carry on like they did anyway. Alfie’s hand slips to the top of his head and into his hair, making a fist. It hurts a bit, but Tommy resolutely doesn’t react. Alfie’s pulling him close again, staring at him for a few seconds like he’s trying to read him, trying to figure out what Tommy is thinking, before he licks over Tommy’s lower lip; playfulness a stark contrast to the steel grip he has on Tommy’s hair.
“You either get the fuckin’ oil, mate,” he murmurs then, presses a kiss to the corner of Tommy’s mouth. “Or we’re gonna do it without. Hm? Up to you, innit. Whichever you prefer.”
Tommy sways into him with a soft sound and kisses him again, can’t even help himself. Alfie kisses him back instantly, easy as anything.
“Get your fuckin’ hands off of me, then,” Tommy eventually pants, and Alfie tightens his grip for a few seconds just to show he can, making him wince, before he finally lets go. Tommy considers hitting him again, except Alfie is obviously expecting him to, Tommy can see it in his eyes, so he doesn’t. Starts moving instead, slow and reluctant; clambers over the bed until he reaches the nightstand on Alfie’s side.
As always, the drawer is filled with an amalgam of random things – pencils and buttons and loose bullets, frayed pieces of string and empty piece of paper, clean handkerchiefs and a broken pocket watch and some pieces of jewelry that look actually valuable. Somewhere in the middle of it all, used and familiar, is the vial with oil.
He takes it out and leaves the drawer open out of spite. When he turns around again, Alfie has maneuvered himself onto the bed and is leaning against the headboard, fingers casually interlaced over his stomach, watching Tommy with what would be mild interest if it wasn’t for the look in his eyes, his gaze raking over Tommy with barely concealed want.
Tommy stays where he is. On a whim, he throws the vial of oil with a flick of his wrist – half expects it to hit Alfie square in the chest, but Alfie actually manages to get his arm up in time, fumbling a bit but ultimately catching it in one fist.
“Oi!” he says, mock outrage in his voice.
Tommy smirks at him. “Just being agreeable.”
“Ohhh yeah, mate, yeah,” Alfie says and he’s trying not to look amused now, even though he so clearly is. “That’s what that was.”
This is insane, Tommy thinks. Can’t help but wonder how this whole situation might seem to an outsider, all of a sudden – what a stranger would make of their interactions. Licks at his lower lip again, just because he can, just so he can watch Alfie watch him as he does it.
“You plannin’ on coming back over here, yeah, at some point this evening?” Alfie says.
“You gonna take any of that off?” Tommy counters, which is a fair question, because Alfie is still wearing… well, basically everything. He’s down to his shirtsleeves because of the late hour, but it’s not the only layer he’s wearing, Tommy knows. Alfie hums, a pensive sound. Folds his hands over his stomach again, vial of oil between them.
“Nahh, don’t think so, mate,” he says then. “If it’s so important to you, right... you fuckin’ do it.”
“As long as you keep your fucking hands to yourself,” Tommy says. He shuffles across the mattress on his knees, before stradling Alfie and sinking down into his lap. Alfie is watching him without blinking, like he can’t miss a single second of anything, head tilted up towards him without being self-conscious about it in the slightest. The full-body contact of Tommy settling down makes both of them exhale, makes Tommy feel shaky with arousal all of a sudden. He can see Alfie’s fingers twitch where he’s folded them, and resists the urge to grind against him, just a bit.
“How's this gonna work, then?” Alfie says, low and raspy. “Hmm? You gonna think my shirt off really hard?”
“Not my fucking problem,” Tommy says and starts unbuttoning.
Alfie moves his hands out of the way, right one still holding onto the oil. Doesn’t put them on Tommy’s thighs, the way he most certainly would have if this was any other night, but flat on the mattress instead. Tommy is well aware he’s being stared at, but pretends to be focused on his task, which is why it comes as a surprise when Alfie suddenly pushes himself up and into his space, and catches his mouth again.
Tommy slaps him, partly just out of reflex, except this time Alfie grabs his wrist immediately after he’s done; wrenches it away without being gentle about it and just keeps kissing him.
Tommy bites at his tongue, manages to hiss “The fuck’d I tell you-” against his mouth and Alfie growls back “S’not my fuckin’ hand though, is it-” which makes no sense at all, because it is, he’s using it to grip Tommy’s wrist like he’s trying to grind the bones there into dust, and Tommy can’t even bring himself to care, too busy digging the fingers of his other hand into the meat of Alfie’s shoulder, kissing him hard and like he’s never going to stop.
It should be brutal and yet, somehow it isn't, turned into a slick slide of lips and tongues, the occasional hint of teeth. They're rocking against each other without finesse or self-control. Alfie's hard as well, Tommy can feel him through the material of his pants, hot and insistent underneath Tommy’s thigh.
He’s not exactly uncooperative when Tommy wrenches the shirt off his shoulders, before he starts pulling the undershirt over his head, but he’s not helping either. As always, his skin is very warm and fuck, Tommy honestly fucking hates the broad expanse of his shoulders, hates that he can't stop himself from smoothing his hands over them. Alfie is busy grabbing at his arse, first over Tommy’s underwear, then under it, sliding his palm inside, and all of a sudden they’re unified, moving frantically with the same goal in mind.
Tommy scrambles off of him to shed his remaining layer of clothing, can see Alfie unbutton his fly out of the corner of his eye, before he shoves everything down to mid-thigh, doesn’t even have the decency to take it all off entirely. Tommy couldn’t care less if he fucking tried, back to straddling him again in no time, and watches him uncork the oil with a strange, feverish buzzing inside his head.
Alfie works a finger inside of him first, slow but inexorable, coating his own cock at the same time with his other hand. Tommy stares down, mesmerized by the visual – the way the muscles in his underarm shift, the way his cockhead is pushing through his fingers, blunt and dark with blood, the way the oil makes everything glisten – and doesn't really register what this might mean at first. Only catches on when Alfie pushes a second finger in alongside the first in no time at all, not trying to be cruel, but very deliberate, not softening the sensation in any way.
“What the fuck,” Tommy breathes out, back arching in surprise, stunned and intrigued at the same time. He already knows where this is going. They both do.
It’s bearable, but definitely uncomfortable. Tommy tries not to squirm, tries to keep his head up, despite the urge to just let it fall forward, to press his forehead against Alfie’s shoulder and let him deal with this. Alfie’s opening him up quickly, almost too efficiently, which is the whole point; fucking into him with two thick fingers, slow and deep, scissoring them a bit, spreading the oil around. Tommy’s moving in time with his thrusts automatically, before he’s even made a conscious decision; holds onto him for better leverage and rocks back onto his fingers.
“You, right,” Alfie says eventually, voice gone raspy and low. “You ask me very fuckin’ nicely, mate… and you might get a third one before we really get started, yeah?”
There is a second of silence and then he grabs for Tommy’s hand, which is a smart decision on his part, because Tommy half-wrenches it out of his grip almost immediately, trying to smack him again. Can’t use the other hand, because he’s up on his knees and needs to hold on for balance.
“Yeahhh, s’what I thought,” Alfie says, looking almost smug, before he takes on the strange, business-like air that never fails to be a turn-on when they’re in bed, whatever the fucking reason may be. “Fine then, have it your way. Right? Here we go.”
He pushes into Tommy two more times, quick and precise, dragging his fingers over the perfect spot in the process, which makes Tommy bite back a moan, trying to chase the sensation. Then Alfie takes his fingers away, lines himself up and pulls Tommy down with a heavy, unforgiving hand on his hip. His cock feels fucking massive – everything is slick with oil and Tommy does his best not to panic, tries to relax. Still, it seems too big, seems fucking impossible at first, except somehow, probably through sheer will power alone, Alfie manages to push past the initial resistance and sinks inside.
Tommy takes one deep, shocked breath that shudders in and out of him helplessly, and then he stops doing anything at all.
It’s tight – too tight to do anything except hurt, but at the same time, gravity is helping the whole process along and Alfie doesn’t let go of him either, doesn’t give him an inch of control over anything, just pulls him down until he comes to a stop flush against Alfie’s thighs, taking the entire length of his cock in one slow, unbearable slide.
“Ffffuu-” Tommy chokes out, doesn't even manage the entire curse, can't, because he feels like he can’t breathe, it’s too much, every muscle in his body tensing up; feels like his spine has liquified at the same time, knees going weak with the pain.
“Shhhh, shh, see, there we go,” Alfie murmurs against the side of his jaw and it barely even registers. “There we fuckin’ go, hm? Not so fuckin’ feral now, are we? Just look at you, yeah, sweet as anything-”
“Fuck- you-” Tommy hisses, clutching at him for dear life.
He can feel Alfie press a kiss to the shell of his ear. There’s a steadying arm wrapped around Tommy’s waist now, warm and secure, and Tommy tries to focus on that, tries to breathe through the overwhelming sensation of being full. Doesn’t dare move, except he’s fucking trembling for some reason, can’t seem to stop.
“Easy, mate,” Alfie says. “Doin’ so well, like you’re made for this-”
“You come after my fuckin’ family,” Tommy pants. “And I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you, all right, you’re gonna wish you were dead-”
“Don’t doubt it for a second,” Alfie says, sounding entirely sincere, and his other hand is curling around Tommy’s cock now, oh Jesus fucking Christ, it’s too much, at least right this very second, Tommy can’t-
He tries to get away, except it's impossible, because he can’t seem to fucking move, immobilized by the stretch of Alfie’s cock inside of him, every limb feeling shivery and uncoordinated, so he frantically reaches for Alfie’s wrist instead.
“Don’t,” he manages, and maybe it comes out as a moan, maybe it doesn’t, he can’t even bring himself care about that. “Don’t, Alfie, fuck- do not-”
“Shh, calm down, bloody hell,” Alfie mumbles against his jaw, but he’s miraculously holding still, of his own volition no less, because right now Tommy couldn’t stop him if he wanted to, his grip on Alfie’s underarm completely useless, muscles feeling like water.
“M’serious,” Tommy says again. “If you ever-”
“I won’t, ” Alfie says, sounding hoarse and very exasperated. “All right? Yeah? I fuckin’ swear to you, on my life, on my bloody dog’s life, I won’t, categorically, ‘cross the fuckin’ board, s’over and done with, now can you shut the fuck up about it-”
Which is about as far as he gets, because Tommy sways forward and kisses him again.