Chapter Text
Alfie hummed to himself as he stepped around the hotel room, putting the finishing touches to his preparations. There were flowers. In a vase, on the windowsill. Carnations; nothing fancy, but still. Flowers. There were candles. Thick as his wrist and waiting alongside a box of matches. He got the hotel to bring in a gramophone cabinet and brought along some records to put on. Background music. Soft, end-of-the-night slow jazz. On the side table was a plate of savoury pastries and some thick slices of dark ginger cake wrapped in paper. There was a carafe of water. He brought wine. Something red and expensive that he’d been assured by a lad who worked at Tommy’s members-only club that Tommy would appreciate. Whisky, obviously. Irish. And rum.
Rum’s for fun and fucking, innit?
In the bathroom he’d run a bath so scaldingly hot he still had a red splotch on his forearm where the water had splashed him, but it should be just about perfect when the time came. Into it he’d poured some oil, which had filled the room with cedarwood and bergamot scented steam. Several big fluffy towels hung over the rail, with another couple of less luxurious ones discreetly tucked into the lower shelf of one of the bedside tables.
On the next shelf up were three bottles of massage oil.
It was ready. It was perfect.
He glanced around one last time, going through his plan of tonight’s events. A drink or two. A bath for Tommy. (Alfie was already squeaky clean inside and out.) Some music, or the wireless, maybe. Wine. Whisky. Rum. Kisses. Falling into bed. A massage, if Tommy would let him, which would turn into slowly, so slowly opening him up. And then…
Then he’d give Tommy his first ever fuck.
The thought of it sent a shiver down his spine. Made his cock twitch in anticipation. The culmination of years of wondering, fantasising, wanting to get his cock into that beautiful man. He’d almost given up. After all his flirting and hints had been met with utter blankness - pure dumb obliviousness, he now knew - he’d assumed that Tommy was entirely disinterested in him in that way and had, after some sulking, resigned himself to being business partners and… ‘friends’ only.
But now. Now in the blessed year of their lord nineteen fucking thirty, he’d finally got himself into Tommy’s Saville Row trousers. Now they’d been fucking and sucking and groping at each other at every available opportunity for the last six and a bit of months. Not that opportunities came by often, what with Tommy being an MP with actual fucking legitimate businesses to go alongside his extracurriculars, and Alfie technically being a dead man.
They’d seen each other, what? Seven? Eight times? Four of which had been nothing more than a hasty fumble in a dark corner somewhere, getting it done as fast as possible with - the last time - literally seconds to spare before Tommy had had to button himself back up and run to get on his train. Alfie’d had him in a bed, private and unhurried, just three times. And each time, he let Tommy fuck him. Not that that was any kind of hardship, mind you. Tommy tended to fire off quick at first but once you got that out the way he was a pretty fucking good lay, putting in the work with his hands and tongue to get Alfie writhing into a moaning mess and then moving onto a hard, fervent fuck that Alfie didn’t think he’d ever get tired of. It was good sex and Alfie knew he was fucking smiled upon by God to be getting it.
But they’d never switched roles.
And normally this wouldn’t bother Alfie. Yeah, he liked to top. Liked to throw his weight about, fold a bloke up, fuck him through the mattress and leave him remembering Alfie every time he sat down for the next fortnight. He had his little tribe of deviants, who came to him to get hurt and used and demeaned and then fucking thanked him for it afterwards, getting out their diaries to eagerly schedule in another round of being smacked about and used as a fucktoy for a night.
He’d got himself a nice bit of a reputation amongst exclusive circles for being able to deliver a decent belting alongside a handjob drawn out over three hours of almost, almost, almost coming but never quite getting there until Alfie decided they’d earned it. Or that they hadn’t earned it. When he just sent them away, cocks stiff and red raw with wanking, telling them to try harder next time. And fucking hell, didn’t they just try the next time, eh? He had a waiting list of the horny sods. And he liked the way they twitched when he raised his hand, how they squirmed after he’d laid a fresh stripe across a bright red backside. How they fucked so eagerly up into his hand when - if - he allowed them to do so, working hard to get themselves off, wriggling like grubs towards the rotten fruit of orgasm. He liked sex to be hard and dirty, and for him to be very much in charge of proceedings.
And he liked to be fucked.
Some blokes were ashamed of that. Like shagging another man wasn’t as bad as long as it was their prick going into someone else’s hole. Like bending over for someone was somehow more sinful than bending someone over. But as far as Alfie was concerned God had put a tiny piece of heaven up the back passage for a reason, so he was going to fucking enjoy that gift as often as he fucking well wanted. Because who was he to question God’s almighty plan? So yeah. Given the chance he’d take a prick just as often as he used an arsehole, but now that he was known for his particular brand of erotic violence, and now that he was older, more solid round the middle, and - oh yeah - a fucking underground rum running gangster, the chances of finding a prick that was up for it and wasn’t attached to someone who would blackmail, nark, or outright murder him had dwindled down to virtually nil.
Tommy wanted it.
He knew it. Tommy’d almost said as much outright when they’d last shared a hotel room. This exact room, in fact. When they’d woken in the morning all relaxed after a good fuck the night before. When Tommy had curled into Alfie’s arms and wriggled his backside against him. When Alfie had his fingers in him, got him flushed and rocking himself down harder onto those fingertips. When he looked up through his lashes and murmured, “are you gonna…?”
And when Alfie suppressed the urge to just say ‘yes I fucking am, mate’, flip him over and sink his cock into him as fast as possible, but instead had asked softly, “do you want me to?” When Tommy bit his lip and given those two tiny fast nods… He really thought it was going to happen. Tommy got on his knees for him, arched his back and glanced invitingly back over his shoulder for him. But when Alfie’s cock bounced gently against his arse, he froze up. Dropped his head to hide his face in the pillow and went completely wooden in the way people do when they're gritting their teeth, waiting for something unpleasant to happen. And Alfie wasn’t the kind of bloke who took an absence of ‘no’ to mean ‘yes’.
He pulled back. Went back to using his hands and fingers in case Tommy was just a bit tense, but when even that produced no reaction from Tommy he stopped entirely and just lay down on the bed next to him until Tommy peeked out from the folds of his pillow with a questioning look. And Alfie shrugged and pulled him gently into a kiss. And they sucked each other off instead.
Later, when they were both procrastinating about getting dressed to leave Tommy stared out the window, his back to Alfie. “I just haven’t… yet. You know? And now it’s such a big thing in my mind.” He’d lit a cigarette and looked moodily down through the net curtain across the square. “It doesn’t mean–”
Alfie interrupted him. He came up behind him, kissed his bare shoulder and pulled him into a hug. “S’alright, love,” he said, “If you don’t want to, that’s not a problem. And if you do, you just let me know when you’re ready.” And they kissed and set a date for their next rendezvous, and left, separately and seven minutes apart, heading in opposite directions.
Then this morning, a lad brought a telegram marked Private and Confidential to the Camden bakery which had simply said:
READY.