The Great Grey

Tim's mind was already providing all manner of torments and punishments that Wilkes might deem fitting for the supposed transgression. It was comfortable, then, to lean again into his own anger, to lift his chin and set his jaw in defiance. This, at least, he felt far less shy speaking about.

"The day you visited me. As soon as you left. I went into my bedroom and I– I thought about sitting on your lap, and that I didn't want to do what you told me. So I tugged myself off." Then, at least, the defiance faded. Fussing a bit with the cup in his hands, he admitted, "It... wasn't particularly satisfying."

It wasn't as thought he wanted to be beholden to Wilkes' demands. The idea of it turned his stomach, but it was difficult to decipher if it was in fear or delight. Glancing up at the other man, he ventured, "So... What now?"

For all that Rosie had denied it, all of this was a game — Just not the one Mouse believed was being played. His erection was throbbing, and if he listened to it, no doubt both Mouse and himself would have an exemplary time. But Mouse was not here simply because Rosie was well-hung and he had discovered himself a size queen. He was here because Rosie had instructed him to be, and that was the very particular key to being more than just a good fuck to this little pet.

And so, Rosie pulled up on a lifetime of masking his true feelings and ignored the hot coil of need tightening behind the base of his cock.

"What do you think, Mouse? What sort of punishment do you think would be fair for your transgressions?" In truth, both instances were enough to give Rosie fodder to stroke his own cock for months — Years, even — in just the telling. But watching his dark-haired beauty give in to what he actually wanted? There was no possible price to place on that.

Rosie drew a slow breath, reached for his cup, thought better of what his shaking hand might reveal, and clamped his fingers over the arm of the chair instead. "You've come twice. I think perhaps you shouldn't be allowed to come today." He canted his head, eyes still dark as they took in every movement, every uncomfortable twitch. "What do you think?"

This had been a question he'd hated, when the nuns at the school had put it before him. Sister Margaret, that bitch, always asked in the sweetest voice, and if the wrong punishment were suggested she would take the ruler across his palms regardless. There was no way to answer properly, particularly with how his cock ached and how little Tim liked the idea of being sent away dissatisfied. Worse and worst, he had little idea of what to offer. A ruler across his palms seemed unlikely to excite Wilkes; Tim hadn't forgotten how the pimp had preferred to break his own skin, rather than lift a hand against Tim even when it had been requested.

But there had also been that implied threat; the requirement of him being a good little bitch, by which no doubt Wilkes meant obedient. His lips twisted in his frustration, tip of his tongue held tightly between his teeth as he reined in the temper that burned at the perception, in his mind at least, of rejection. Yes, he was selfish and wanted his own release; more than that, he had come to some sort of peace with the idea of bending over for this man. Leaving as frustrated as he'd been when he'd arrived was not something he had considered.

Swallowing thickly, Tim carefully set aside his own tea and braced his elbows on his knees, returning to his old habit of glaring at the other man. "What if I made it up to you, somehow?" Each word was offered carefully, and each was edged in that same old anger. It felt like a very dangerous offer to make this man, but it was driven by desperation. "What would I have to do to– to earn the privilege back?" Tim very nearly gagged over the word, forced it out like a curse.

That was what Wilkes wanted, wasn't it? He could deny it, but his actions proved the truth of it. He wanted his stupid rules followed, wanted Tim to be the obedient pet. It shouldn't be so hard to play the loyal cur, and yet every part of him – or nearly every part, at least – bucked at the presumption of it.

A laugh barked from Rosie's throat, and he shook his head as he ducked his chin, fingers sliding across his forehead. "Make it up to me by giving me the sort of look that would peel paint? Christ, Mouse, you really aren't making this easy on either of us."

Careful of his yet-undeterred erection, Rosie hunched forward in his chair to mirror the smaller man's posture. The sharpest, most unruly part of his lust had quieted, snapped back by the reality of the situation, and he was clear-eyed and sober as he stared Anderson down.

"I'm going to ask you a question, Timothy. It isn't a trick, but I want you to properly consider your answer, hmm?" He pulled in a breath through his nose. "Which do you really want? What makes you hard to think of? Coming? Because it's brilliant. Nobody doesn't like popping one off, aye? Or... My telling you that you're allowed to come, regardless of how long it's been?" His dark eyebrows lifted, but he did not smile, however ludicrous the conversation had turned.

As ever, the laugh carried with it the sting of rejection, no matter the cause for it. Tim refused to flinch or pout, but it did little to relieve the way he glared. Easy on either of them? Wilkes certainly didn't seem to be having a problem with any of this. He held every card in the deck, and Tim was left scrambling to guess the rules.

Any inclination to offer a snide reply was curtailed when Wilkes spoke next. It was– Well, it was something to hear his name, his real name, from those lips. He didn't much care for the question that followed, but neither did he rush to snap about it or offer some half-assed answer.

In truth, it was something he hadn't ever needed to think of before meeting Wilkes. He knew that it was something that some men preferred – being ordered about, made to do things that they didn't particularly like, beaten for the pleasure of it. Never had Tim considered himself indulging in anything like that. Even now, the thought of any of that with a woman was... If not unappealing, still certainly not appealing. With Wilkes, though...

His mouth opened; shut with a click of teeth, opened again. "The second," he allowed, as though each word pained him to say. It did feel like setting an altogether dangerous precedent, though. "But I don't– I want–" God, admitting it might fully kill him. Closing his eyes, brow creased with something quite akin to actual pain, he forced the words out anyway. "I... liked it, the other week. What's wrong with just... doing it that way?" His stomach turned, and for a moment he wasn't entirely certain that he wasn't going to be sick. He hadn't needed permission then, and he didn't much care for the idea of Wilkes keeping him on edge indefinitely.

Ah, Christ. Now Rosie felt a damned idiot — A damned idiot with a painfully untended erection — because of course he'd known all of what Anderson was writing between the lines. One of the first things the man had said to him had been to assert in the most unconvincing manner possible that he wasn't a molly, and to suggest he'd expose Rosie for being one.

"Because if you just want to be fucked by a big prick, Mouse, you've a perfectly serviceable one at home," he pointed out as he sat back, and swallowed down a flare of frustration — Not at Anderson, but himself. He lifted a hand. "And I'm not saying I didn't like fucking you. I'd think it was obvious I fucking loved it. I'm certain with the sort of looks you toss me that you imagine I'm fucking little mice against walls every day, but I'm not." He made a vague motion with his hand and then let it fall to his lap. "It's just you. I suppose even after everything I ought to have considered the idea that the only part of me you liked was my cock."

That could have been it, the end of the whole business. Anderson could have gone back out the door and come as much or little as he liked, in whatever way he liked, and perhaps use the gift Rosie had sent him, or binned it whilst telling himself all of this was a bout of temporary madness. But sitting there on the sofa, he looked utterly lost — Not in this place, not even with Rosie, but in his own mind.

"Come here," Rosie said before he'd much thought about it, and smacked his palms atop his thighs. "Right here in a proper straddle, none of that priss-pot sidesaddle business from last time."

Of all the responses possible, never had this one crossed Tim's mind. His first instinct was to of course scoff. The man owned God only knew how many brothels; was a gang leader of one of the largest gangs in the East End. Maybe he had to content himself to women most of the time – and maybe he even preferred women, when it came down to it – but Tim had no doubt that Wilkes helped himself to his own girls. For appearances, if nothing else.

Bizarrely, what he took most offense to was the assertion that the only part of Wilkes he was interested in was his cock. It was a significant part of their ... relationship, Tim allowed in his own mind, but for once the furrow of his brow had little to do with insult or anger, but something closer to befuddlement. "An' how am I supposed to have any opinion a'tall of the rest of ya?" Exasperation bled through his voice, bringing with it the Belfast. "The only things we've spoken of are yer cock and me arse."

Of course he knew rumors, knew stories, knew the rough history of the man, as much as Scotland Yard or any East Ender knew. That wasn't at all the same thing as knowing Wilkes, having any opinion about him, himself.

The invitation – order, really – spurred an initial, reflexive denial at first. Then, trying not to think too closely at all on what Wilkes was saying, what he meant, how honest he was really being, Tim finally stood from the couch (doing his best to ignore how his trousers still tented) and perched himself less on Wilkes' lap proper, and more on his knees. It was uncomfortable for more than one reason, but he couldn't help it, any more than he could help all the rest of his hemming and hawing and anger. Each conversation with Wilkes had been easier than the last, but given their starting mark it wasn't the kind of feat one bragged about.

"Last time you were the one who pulled me down like that," he felt obligated to point out, feeling pinned by those intense eyes but not quite able to convince himself to look anywhere else – save, perhaps, for Wilkes' lips in daring glances.

None of what had been said was fair — They both knew there had been more to it than that, ways that Rosie had shown his character beyond the domineering facade he'd pulled on for the other man's sake. But what might have been a flat stare was instead rather round instead, because faith n' begorrah, that was a hell of an accent. "Christ, are you going to start beating away snakes next?" he asked, bewildered by the intensity of the change.

Even more bewildering was the way Anderson managed to climb atop his lap in the most awkward manner possible. "You may be the most contrary person I've met in the whole of my life, Mouse," Rosie muttered, and grasped hold of the smaller man's arse to tug him forward onto his thighs. He deserved some sort of medal, he thought, for staunchly ignoring the tentpole that was now trying to spear him in the gut.

"I happen to like yer arse," he said, and he allowed just the corner of his mouth to quirk up. "I like the way it feels tight around my cock." His voice pitched softer, and his pale eyes dropped to Mouse's mouth. "I like your fight. I like that you're the most contrary person I've met. I like the look of you, and how you blush like you did just now because the thought of me fucking you flusters you even though you begged for it like an accomplished tart. I like when you're angry as a wet cat and want to keep away but can't. You make me hard as a rock just to look at you, and I cannot stop thinking about you." He lifted his gaze again and held Tim's long enough that the moment edged into awkwardness.

"I think it might be time for you to reevaluate what you want by being here, Mouse."

It was galling, really, how the slightest sign of disapproval, the slightest hint of mocking from Wilkes immediately turned his stomach and left him tender, off-kilter; the way he hadn't felt since he was newly transplanted from Belfast, one of many hungry squalling mouths even just among his own siblings. He knew better than to relax around the other man, no matter what sweet nothings he seemed inclined to spout on about now. There had been a chance at trust, if Wilkes had been inclined to take his earlier request seriously, but at least Tim knew better than to offer it again.

Not that it stopped him from perching on that offered lap; not that it stopped the excited twist of his stomach to be casually manhandled to Wilkes' satisfaction.

Whatever he'd been expecting, though, this wasn't it. If his face and neck had burned before, now they were truly ready to combust. Never, in the entirety of his entire life, had Timothy, MacCleary or Anderson, heard such things from another soul. There was no reason to doubt Wilkes, but that hardly stopped him from looking desperately for the catch, the joke, the rug to be pulled out from under him. It hadn't yet manifested, but he knew that the shape of it was there somewhere. The worst part of all was that, even knowing that it must be there, Tim already knew he'd be stepping upon it willingly.

Then again, for all that Wilkes had said, there was the elephant that only Tim was aware of in the room: He was a Detective Inspector, and if Wilkes knew that, it didn't matter how hard his cock was for Tim. Maybe he would regret it, when he killed him, but he would push that knife deep no matter what.

"This isn't ... easy for me," he started slowly, knowing how unnecessary a statement it was to make. The Belfast had been locked away again, proper London making his words exacting and harsher to his ears, when he could hear it through the heartbeat pounding in his ears as well. "I've never done any of this– been with another man, before you." Licking his lips, trying to draw moisture to his impossibly dry mouth, Tim shrugged.

"But I've dreamt of you, near every night since we... met. I can't get your voice out of my head, telling me that I'm yours. I want to try to– to be who you want me to be." Hesitantly, as though he feared the simple action would burn him, he allowed one of his hands to rest against Wilkes' chest; to feel the rise and fall of it, and the faint calm beat beneath it.

Rosie hummed with a brief upward pop of his eyebrows in acknowledgment of how utterly unprepared the other man was for any of this. They both knew that much had been obvious, even if it hadn't been explicitly stated.

Warmth bloomed low in his stomach, though, at what was said next — More than lust, although that was certainly still palpable — and Rosie dropped his gaze briefly with a tuck of his chin, Anderson's hands settled atop his chest in his periphery.

"I like who you are," he said, and when he lifted his head again to meet Mouse's eye, his mouth was curved into a soft smile that transformed his expression utterly. "I'd like to know you if you'd allow me," he murmured, and lifted a hand to brush a bit of dark hair from Tim's brow. "Your body, and that nervous mind." He had never kissed much — There was a level of intimacy that could come with it that scared him, a little — and so he resisted now, but it was no mean feat. He contented himself with allowing his broad hands to tug free the tail of Mouse's shirt so that they could wander over the warm skin of his back.

"If you want me to tell you what to do, Mouse, because it makes you feel good, I will happily do it. But..." he sighed, and let his eyes slip away again, and then rolled them back, only slightly begrudging. "I reckon you're right about the ground rules."