The Great Grey

I like who you are, Wilkes said, the fucking liar. He didn't know who Tim was, for all his pretty words. He wouldn't like him if he knew the truth of it all.

(It still sent a thrill through his chest; left him uncomfortable with the compliment of it.)

But then came those soft words, and the soft touch, and Tim nearly wanted to crawl out of his own skin for the softness of it all. He didn't move in actuality – his spine stiffened, and he froze like a rabbit under a dog's curious jaws, but he didn't move. It was a reaction he wasn't proud of; was even less proud of how his back arced away from those wandering hands, before he could think to stop himself.

"I'm not nervous," he protested sourly, for all that it was rather the wrong take-away from the entire exchanged. Swallowing hard, he allowed his gaze to fall to Wilkes' tie; hesitantly tugged at it, searching for approval in the other man's expression, trying to prove the point. His lips were a thin line as he forced the words out in answer to the offer. "It's easier to be told to do something, or be made to do it. I– I've never been treated that way, pushed against a wall and... And I liked it."

The thin grimace had softened into a thoughtful frown by the time he lifted his gaze again properly, considering what Wilkes had said. "You'll call your dogs off?" Hope wasn't allowed to enter his voice, but the possibility of that admission surprised him. Tim had no idea what other ground rules Wilkes might mean.

That his Mouse liked being ordered about and physically manhandled had never been in question, but Rosie bit his tongue and allowed the smaller man to explain himself — It was obvious he both hated and loved the exquisite vulnerability of that part of it, too.

"I will," Rosie consented, meeting Tim's eyes, his fingers continuing their leisurely filigree against the warm skin of the other man's back, as if this were a normal sort of foreplay. "As long as you don't give me a reason to put them back on. You won't know next time."

It was one thing to catch a Mouse; another entirely to tame it. With a romantic history littered principally with brief, rutting encounters, Rosie knew he wasn't the most qualified to be leashing this man, but he supposed he wasn't his mother's son for nothing.

"I don't want to hurt you; not truly," he admitted, and stilled his roaming hands. "I think I've made that clear, but in the event I haven't—" His hands slid back down to Mouse's arse to hitch him a fraction of an inch closer. "I'll make you mine, you've no worries on that count. But I'll not be playing with blood or making you afraid of me, no matter what you think you want. Understand?"

The concession shouldn't have surprised Tim so much, but it did; more than that, he wasn't entirely certain he trusted Wilkes to keep his word. A searching look saw no sign of deception, but then he didn't much expect to see evidence of that. He'd make for a poor gang leader if he couldn't lie well, when he wanted to. There was also no reason to boast of Tim's own ability to recognize a tail, even if Wilkes thought his men very good. The Black Powders were a serious organization, and it wouldn't do to be overconfident and suffer those consequences.

So, Tim nodded, taking the gift for what it was: A stay of execution, until some better answer could be arranged for the conflict between his work and... this.

Completely divorced from the details of the matter, Wilkes' clarification, his rules, were sensible. Still, it did prompt a snort of laughter from Tim – after those possessive hands had drawn a slight, sharp inhale from him, his hands abandoning the pimp's tie to unnecessarily brace himself against that broad chest. "I've yet to find you frightening, Wilkes," he informed the man archly, and it was even mostly the truth. Wilkes himself was just a man – and regardless of anything else, Tim had survived worse at harsher hands than the Englishman had proven to have.

And the mention of blood... "You're the one who brought blood into it. All I wanted was a convincing black eye." A scoffing denial, as though he hadn't felt that sick thrill to be so marked; hadn't allowed his tongue to clean the trace of it from his upper lip and shivered with the sick want of it. Discomfited at the memory of it, Tim's head turned; as though he could ease that discomfort simply by looking elsewhere, pretending that it hadn't happened in the first place. "What do you want, then?" For all that Wilkes had spoken his fondness of Tim, it felt far less believable than some perverse appetite the pimp sought to use Tim to sate.

Rosie's gaze dropped to the hands against his chest, and then lifted again to Anderson's face. "That's been intentional," he replied, voice flat, although he refrained from any additional rolling of his eyes. He did, however, squint at the pure, ignorant audacity of the man, sat here on Rosie's lap like a princess.

"Yes, Mouse, I bloodied my knuckles because I don't want to hurt you," he repeated, and tracked Tim's attention as it shifted away to an easier view.

"What do I want? I thought that was obvious." He released one cheek to curl the cup of his hand over Anderson's unmistakable erection where it was trying to raise a bloody flag beneath his trousers. It was like a truth serum or a divining rod, that. "I want to watch you come to pieces—" The tone of his voice dropped, low and commanding. "Don't you dare come."

Arguing the point further wouldn't be productive; for all that it was something far more comfortable for Tim – he was well-versed in violence, and found it much easier to deal with the prospect of an angry, vengeful Wilkes than... this – he was supposed to be playing the role of the indolent, retired gangster. Baring too sharp of teeth wouldn't serve him, and so he merely halfway shrugged, allowing Wilkes to play himself the muzzled monster.

"I wouldn't have broken from a single punch," Tim started to scoff, willing to play brash in favor of lingering too long on that adamant protectionist streak, but instead the words were quite effectively cut off with a strangled noise at the feeling of Wilkes' hand on his poor hard (formerly) unattended cock.

Fingers curled in Wilkes' clothes, his back arched as he pushed his hips forward – his cock forward, into that cupping hand. Belatedly, the order lingering in his ears even as he fought to obey, one hand shot down to tightly grip Wilkes' wrist, to tug away the offended touch. "Please," he begged, less a word and more a tortured sound, and it wasn't remotely clear to him which he wanted more: The slightest brush more, sure to push him over that forbidden ledge, or for aid in doing what was demanded of him.