[Adult] speak in tongues

[Timothy Anderson]

He wouldn't have thought of Ambrose Wilkes ever again, if it weren't for the tail.

There was little that he could do with a seemingly permanent Black Powder shadow, and the longer it was allowed to continue, the higher the risk that someone from Greenstreet would notice and start asking questions. Even still, Tim hadn't made up his mind until the morning of the appointment; taking out the already-well-worn card, his thumb again smoothed over the time and address inscribed upon it, and then he'd finally swore and left for the nearest bath house.

It wasn't for Wilkes' benefit that he cleaned up and dressed well. It was like dressing for any other role he'd played in his career; that was the thought that he had kept coming back to, the past few nights – often while staring at the drawer that contained the absolutely perverse 'gift' that had accompanied the card. Wilkes wouldn't be likely to drop the tail without reason, and missing the appointment seemed more likely to result in another unwanted visit than finally being left alone.

So, Tim would play Wilkes' game; he'd play the whore, trading dignity and body in exchange for being left alone. If it was for a purpose, and on his own terms, he could stomach it. No doubt Wilkes would lose interest soon enough, anyway. Tim could still hardly fathom what had prompted this borderline obsession in the first place, especially once Wilkes had learned about his past, and his origin.

In the end, it hardly mattered. Whatever the cause, he was still standing in front of an East End door, far too close to the Gun for his own comfort, but at least it wasn't the actual Black Powder headquarters. Tugging at the knot of his tie to ensure it laid properly, his flatcap in his hand, Tim took a final slow breath and lifted his hand to knock – exactly at the time written upon the card, not a second before.

[Ambrose Wilkes]

It had been an idle thought, the dildo. A joke, if only in Rosie's own mind, the sort of item that he felt certain would both fluster Mouse and provoke him into a painful degree of arousal. An idle thought that refused to let him be once it had entered his mind, until he'd been standing in the back of a shop of dubious repute with his stiff prick in his hand to be weighed and measured to the inch.

If he was going to do the thing, he was going to do it properly.

Anderson was a contrary little mousy, and Rosie had accounted for a generous sixty percent chance of his showing on the day. There was quite a lot one could learn about someone by being their lover even once, but the fact remained that they two were yet essentially strangers regardless of edicts or sulks. There was, too, the ever-present shadow of Greenstreet looming over them both, and there was no accounting for what someone like Mouse might toss aside to earn back favor.

And so Rosie had arrived a mere five minutes before the scheduled appointment, and had barely set the kettle to boiling when the knock sounded on the door. Poised in the kitchen with a tea cup in hand, he had smiled to himself and waited a tick before allowing himself to move. Cup set aside, he took his time crossing the little space to the door — The apartment was better-appointed than most in the East End, but not large — and pulled in a deep, fortifying breath before he reached for the knob.

[Timothy Anderson]

The moment his knuckles had hit the door, Tim had to wrangle down the temptation to leave (flee, more honestly). It wasn't a new sensation, wasn't unique to this situation with Wilkes; when it came down to it, there was always a moment of doubt. There was always the breath held before he hit the water.

This water was deep, and more than ever he wasn't sure that he'd be able to keep from drowning.

His mouth went dry as soon as Wilkes opened the door, of course. No matter how much he had reassured himself, no matter how he had rationalized his actions, the fact was that the tall Englishman had a presence that could not be denied. Maybe by a better man; maybe by less of a molly – but not Tim. It was something to resign himself to, it seemed, as much as he had resigned himself to the whole of ... this.

"I'd like to speak to you, before anything else." The words had been chosen carefully, and were delivered with a remarkably even tone, even if he spoke softly. His jaw was still set, his brow furrowed almost in sheer reflex of seeing the other man, but his hands were steady and there was less of the frenetic energy that had filled him with their two previous interactions. Whether or not he liked any of this, it was part of his job now, and he was better than his previous actions implied. "May I come in?"

[Ambrose Wilkes]

Wordless, Rosie arched his eyebrows and then stepped aside to sweep a welcome with his free arm. As with their last meeting, he'd come prepared with the sort of blithe self-control that only having fucked earlier in the day could provide, yet still the mere sight of the smaller man, his bright-eyed, dark-haired Mousie, prompted a tightening low in his groin.

He could fuck the most talented whores all day whilst picturing this man, and it would never be the same.

"Sit if you like," he said, with a gesture to the parlor with its new chintz sofa and wingback chairs. "I've just put on the kettle." Had he perhaps held out a scrap of hope that he'd open the door and be pounced upon? Of course. But he'd also not been certain Anderson would turn up at all.

After a brief retreat to the kitchen, he emerged with two tea cups — Not the most expensive porcelain, but proper cups with saucers — and passed one to Mouse. "I've not any sugar or milk here, apologies," he said as he settled into one of the chairs with a soft sigh.

"Now what have you to tell me, Mouse? You look very grim, darling mine. I hope it's to do with Greenstreet and not that you've disobeyed." He lifted his cup and took a tentative sip, watching Tim through the gently drifting stream.

[Timothy Anderson]

Half of him expected Wilkes to be as forward now as he'd been the last two times they'd spoken; that he seemed to be respecting Tim's wishes prompted equal parts suspicion and relief.

Stepping into the parlor, thoroughly unsurprised that the gang leader could afford such comfort, he remained standing until Wilkes returned with the tea. "Plain is fine." And then, because Mrs. Franklin had raised him well (for all that she had not raised him at all), he added a, "Thank you," that managed to be almost not begrudging at all.

Finally he sat on the sofa, successfully fighting the urge to roll his eyes or grimace at the endless endearments. Darling was at least better than Mouse. (And he tried not to think over-much of how he still liked to hear Wilkes voicing such easy ownership of him.) "I'll fuck you," Tim started bluntly, ignoring how his neck began to heat with the crassness of the words, and the memory of them doing just that. "I'll play your games, and obey your rules. In exchange, you call off the men following me, and you never visit my apartment again without my express permission."

The tea remained held in his hand but otherwise untouched as he watched the other man, unable to entirely hold back the frown from his expression. It was dangerous to tip his hand, to admit an awareness of his tail and a protectiveness of his home, but these things were required if he wanted to do the job he'd been set to, and neither seemed a ridiculous request to his own ears.

(He ignored, for now, the matter of his disobedience.)

[Ambrose Wilkes]

Rosie's unruffled demeanor remained in place as he listened to the list of demands. Only after Mouse was finished did he lower his cup to his lap with a preemptive click of his tongue against his front teeth.

"You seem to think this is a negotiation," he began, and leveled the smaller man with a steady gaze. "You came here to be fucked or you didn't, Mouse. There's no game involved in it. If you're not interested, if you don't like having my cock in your greedy little arse, if you don't get off on being ordered about, you're welcome to be on your way." He motioned toward the door and then lifted his cup for another slow sip.

He ought to have known better, using Jimmie for the tail; there simply hadn't been anyone better at the time. If he'd pulled Silas or Reg from their current assignments to follow this slip of an Irishman not even properly in Greenstreet anymore, there would've been far too many questions.

"I'm going to assume this means you've come since we last spoke," he added, and arched one dark eyebrow.

[Timothy Anderson]

It shouldn't surprise him, how crass Wilkes was. This was the East End, and he had been a pimp before a gang leader. That alone no doubt explained much of his apparently predilections. (The implication for Tim's own preferences was unpleasant and set aside.)

"I don't want to worry about what Black Powders think of you being interested in an Irish man." He was careful to break the word apart; each half of it equally problematic, equally dangerous. "I– I am interested," and God the admission was like pulling a tooth, but it was also God's honest truth. "But I need to feel safe if we–" he wet his lips, reconsidered his words, continued, "If this is to be a regular... engagement, between us."

The burn on the back of his neck was only made worse for the point-blank assumption, and the accuracy of it. Well aware of the color on his cheeks, neck, and ears, Tim closely examined the tea he held. Taking a bracing breath, he forced himself to meet Wilkes' eyes, tried to lean into the defiance that raised its head at any detection of unjust authority – which the other man had in spades. "Twice, but one was... an accident," he admitted, the words coming almost too quickly for the nerves that drove them. For want of anything to occupy his mind but those shameful memories, he sipped his tea. Beyond that shame though, which he was beginning to become accustomed to, was a very strong curiosity of what Wilkes would do with that information.

[Ambrose Wilkes]

God but his Mouse loved to snipe. Little snapping attempts to wrest control that went straight between Rosie's thighs. Cup and saucer held with care in one hand, Rosie reached to his stiffening cock with the other and pointedly adjusted the curve of it beneath his trousers.

"Why should I give you anything when you've not done as I asked?" he pondered, and lifted his cup to his mouth again. "You knew there would be consequences, Mouse. One small thing, that's all I asked."

With a sigh, he looked away to the window across the room, gossamer curtains obscuring the view between heavy drapes. "I can understand the need for safety," he allowed, and set his cup and saucer aside as he returned his gaze to Tim. "You've no reason to trust me when I say I'll make sure you're safe. So I'll consider what you're asking, if you're good. But first—" He threaded his fingers together across his abdomen. "Tell me about your accident. And don't skimp on details."

[Timothy Anderson]

The man had no shame. A hypocritical thought, given how hungrily and openly Tim watched the man adjust himself. His own pants were far less comfortable for the nature of the conversation, but he couldn't quite bring himself to indulge in the same sort of open vulgarity that Wilkes so delighted in.

Worse was the aggravation at being denied his requests. Wilkes could claim that this was no game, no negotiation, but then he teased and held a reward over Tim's head that was merely the barest evidence of respect. But this was also why he was here; why he swallowed hard before realizing that he would, indeed, have to debase himself by doing as Wilkes ordered.

"I– You didn't say I couldn't... touch myself," he started, stiltedly, face truly burning now even as the arousal in the pit of his stomach began to ache with need. "So I would stroke myself, just not enough to... finish." It got easier as he spoke, for all that he could only manage short glances at Wilkes' face; at his groin. Another lick of his lips, and he continued, miserable and breathless at once, "I was trying to use your... gift." The word was bitten off, the memory of Wilkes' brazen, sleazy 'gift' pulling Tim from the headrush arousal and prompted a brief glare.

Then his gaze dropped and he finished, fully humiliated, voice near as stiff as his prick, "It was hard– difficult to make it fit, and when I finally got the head in, I– it was too much and I... came." The final word was said in such a small voice it could have been a whisper, or perhaps a whimper, and emboldened by such open depravity in discussing the event, Tim squeezed his legs together slightly, shifting in his seat at the memory of it.

[Ambrose Wilkes]

It was good that Rosie had set the cup aside.

Seated in his chair, hands still folded across his belly, he'd gone as stock-still as a deer who had scented a predator, his lips parted and eyes as dark as slate as he watched the shivering admission on the chaise.

He'd never been as hard in his life.

Had he hoped Mouse would use it? Of course. More than anything, however, he'd meant the toy as a token, a memento: One more way to make himself impossible to forget, with the bonus of pushing the other man far out of his tidy comfort zone, if only mentally. Now, in the wake of Mouse's confession, it was all Rosie could do not to let himself fall utterly into the memory of how tight he'd been, how he'd begged for every inch.

Focus still fixed on Anderson's exquisite discomfort, Rosie pulled in a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring. "And the time that wasn't an accident?" he asked, voice a deadly calm that could all too easily be misconstrued as anger or displeasure when in reality he was hanging onto his self-control by a thread.