#how sad is it im so selfish and self absorbed that i don't even miss the people that much just being with people | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mintjamsblog · 3 years

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Hey, I miss your writing! I don't know if you're taking asks but hate-sex? Argument-sex? Make-up sex?

Okay, sorry for the delay, have a horny ficlet

Tommy/Alfie Hate-sex

It's not that Tommy means to be selfish, Alfie's pretty sure of that, it's just that selfishness comes to him naturally. It's no doubt a byproduct of the life he's led, a combination of ruthless self-sufficiency and entrenched self-preservation that manifests in occasionally infuriating ways. He spends so much time wandering around in his own labyrinth of a head that 'e don't always seem to realise where 'e is or how 'e got there. How 'is food got onto that plate in front of 'im for that matter. Which is kind of a case in point.

Alfie scrapes the remnants of an individual salmon encroute into the kitchen bin, dislodging the perfectly-cooked pastry that's now curling upwards, like the ribs of a rotting cadaver, protecting what's left of the messily pecked-out pinkness inside. He can't help being stung that Tommy couldn't even be bothered to finish it. It's as if the cocky little bastard thinks perfectly-prepared dinners-for-one just appear in the oven of their own accord. As if the cupboards are self-replenishing — automatically restocking his favourite whisky and tea (and semi-skimmed milk, 'cause skimmed tastes like dishwater and full-fat's too creamy) every time supplies run low.

But communication is key in any relationship, innit? So rather than run his mouth off half-cocked, Alfie decides to conduct an experiment. See how long it takes Tommy to communicate his appreciation for the things Alfie does.

The answer, it turns out, is a fucking long time — longer than Alfie's patience will last at any rate. When he walks in for the fifth night in a row to find the meal he prepared half-eaten, dirty dishes next to the sink, and Tommy so enthralled by his laptop he barely nods, "hello," well ... Alfie has had enough. He schools himself though. Clenches his fists and forces his voice to taken on a deceptively breezy tone.

"You eaten, treacle?" he enquires.

"Yeah," Tommy answers with a quick glance up. The living room's in near total-darkness, not a single lamp switched on, which means Tommy's lit only by the bluish glare of whatever's on 'is screen. It's not a flattering light. Makes 'im look tired — haggard actually — all sharp angles and purple shadows. Then again, it is one o'clock in the morning. (It'd have to be some quality porn to have Alfie absorbed at this hour, but the sad reality is that it's far more likely spreadsheets.)

"What did you 'ave?" Alfie asks.

"Eh?"

"To eat."

Tommy sighs. "Er ... that thing you left in the oven." He glances up again, irritably this time.

"Hmmm," Alfie says. "Bouillabaisse."

"What?"

"Bouillabaisse. French fish stew."

"Yeah, it was fish." Tommy's typing something now, bashing the keys impatiently — workaholic little prick.

Alfie looks round the room. There's a bottle of whisky on the coffee table and a glass (no sign of a coaster). A sea of stale bread crumbs flecks the sofa — the accompaniment to tonight's lovingly prepared meal. The man himself sits cross-legged, bare feet tucked up into the backs of his knees, socks discarded amongst the pale shreds of sourdough like twisted creatures in a gloomy velvet sea. He doesn't acknowledge Alfie's scrutiny; doesn't even seem to notice.

Alfie would like to start an argument right here, right now, to ask Tommy what his last slave died of and who the fuck he thinks he is. Instead he finds himself gritting his teeth and swiping at crumbs with brusque, rigid movements. He pairs Tommy's socks and collects up the discarded innards of this morning's Financial Times, seething quietly all the while. He's worked damn hard tonight, serving one hundred and forty covers in two sittings, (one hundred and forty three if you count Prince Tommy's dinner. That thought irks him more than it should). He needs a shower more than a row, but he can't help himself from needling.

"Nice was it?" he asks, crumpling the newspaper into the fire-bucket.

"What?"

"Your dinner."

Tommy huffs and finally looks up, dropping his hands from the keyboard to rest either side of his legs. "Is there a problem, Alfie?" he says.

"Problem?" Alfie says, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise. "No, nah. No problem. Just wondered if it was nice? Ya know, the bouillabaisse?"

"Yes. It was nice," Tommy says, digging thick fingers into his eye sockets as if the bloodshot orbs were the source of his irritation. "I have to send this to Pol in the next fifteen minutes or she'll fucking skin me tomorrow. Alright?"

"S'not Pol makes all your dinners," Alfie mutters under his breath.

"What?"

"I said Pernot. Makes all the difference."

"Right."

"To bouillabasisse."

"Fuck's sake..."

"I'm going up for a shower."

"Fine. I'll be up when this is done."

Alfie stands under the hot water and lets his anger simmer, stirs it just enough to intensify the flavours. He pours over the paltry slights, the daily irritations and provocations that come from sharing a home. And alright, each annoyance on its own might not sour the dish, but combined they begin to thicken. Alfie's careful not to let his anger boil, he don't want to turn it bitter, but by the time he walks into the bedroom he can taste it on his tongue.

Tommy is already in bed, one hand tucked behind his head as he reads a document of some kind, several creamy pages stapled together. He tuts and turns the page, without looking over to Alfie. And p'raps that's what does it, finally tears Alfie's patience; he strides to the bed and rips the papers clean out of Tommy's hand, hurling them across the floor.

"What the fuck?" Tommy says. He looks shocked, and slightly bewildered. There's anger there, but dulled by a visible weariness.

Alfie ain't in the mood for concessions; he climbs onto the bed, boxing Tommy in on all fours.

"That's fucking rude," Tommy says, his mouth a mean little line.

"Rude?" Alfie says. "Me?" He laughs so unexpectedly it comes out as more of a bark. "You're fuckin' unbelievable, mate."

Tommy's face hardens in that way that suggests he's about to say something deeply unwise. Alfie leans down to kiss him, hard, before he has the chance. There's a startled sound and a clashing of teeth as Tommy tries to shut him out, but one strategically-placed hand around his throat and he opens for Alfie's tongue with an audible exhale.

Alfie licks into him, probes the inside of his mouth, overwhelmed with a desire to retake what Tommy's withheld: his attention. His full, undivided attention ... by god, he's gonna give it now. Tommy's defences start to weaken — his tongue softens, his mouth falls wide — when he lets out a whorish little moan, Alfie pulls away. He's hard with lovingly-nurtured anger and ready to put it to use. "Over," he says, nudging Tommy's hip with a knee.

Tommy rolls reluctantly, looking rather bewildered. Alfie reaches into the bedside drawer and slicks himself one-handed, cursing as the lube falls noisily onto the floor. Don't matter, he's done enough.

"Got something to say to me, Tommy?" he asks, fumbling in his haste.

Tommy doesn't answer, though he can be in no doubt as to where this is leading. It's a source of unending wonder how he can look so fucking truculent when he's splayed face-down on the bed.

"No?" Alfie prompts. "You sure about that?"

Tommy stays defiantly mute, so Alfie wraps an arm beneath him and slams in with a single thrust. The sound of breath being knocked out of Tommy shocks the air in the room, and sends fire licking through Alfie. He hauls Tommy closer still, squeezing his slender waist as if emptying a soda-bottle of air. His hips and forearm are opposing forces, jaws clamping down on a pelvis — he lets Tommy feel the bite of his strength, of his want, until a cry of anguish fills the air.

Then he waits, breathing slowly through the seconds of charged stillness as Tommy fights to yield. Ten seconds turn into fifteen, twenty, followed by a convulsion — one rigid spasm that travels the length of Tommy's body and ends with a shuddering groan. The precious sound of acceptance. Only then does Alfie ease back, sliding out an inch or two purely for the pleasure of pressing back in and making him cry out again.

"Thank me," he says, voice low as he presses a kiss into Tommy's neck.

Tommy groans and tips his head but doesn't form the words.

"Thank me," Alfie repeats with a thrust. "I want to hear you say it."

Tommy buries his face in the sheets and doesn't make a sound.

"Alright, if that's how you want to play it." Alfie heaves himself upwards, and presses his weight into Tommy's shoulder-blades. "You will thank me," he promises, "if I 'ave to fuck you into next week."

Maybe that's what Tommy needs, Alfie ain't giving any more chances. He builds up the pace with increasingly vigorous thrusts, which Tommy just lies there and takes it. And takes it. And takes it. The sheets come untucked, the pillows bank up against the headboard and Alfie fills with dark delight when Tommy starts to falter, to let little growls and mewls escape. He sounds like a wounded animal. Perhaps he's expecting sympathy ... poor deluded boy. Alfie slows his hips and shifts position, wrapping his arms beneath Tommy's armpits and locking hands in front of his chest. The position puts his mouth against Tommy's ear.

"If you ain't gonna say it, darlin', you'd better shut the fuck up." He pulls out achingly slowly, feeling the grip around his cock before slamming back in with a groan. The angle clearly changes something because this time Tommy sounds desperate — a series of high-pitched sounds ripples out of him, ending with a whine.

"Say it," Alfie growls, repeating the exact same movement to even more delightful effect. He pulls out for a third time, about to fuck in again when

Tommy whispers something that sounds awfully like compliance.

"What's that?" Alfie says, pausing to pull him out of the pillows by his hair.

"Thank you," Tommy says, his voice barely a whisper as he quietly obeys.

"Again," Alfie says as he drives back in, pulling hard on the black locks so that Tommy's neck is bared.

"Thank you," Tommy repeats. This time the response is a gasp, two gasps, but still Alfie isn't sated.

"Again," he says, with another thrust.

"Thank you," Tommy replies; the struggle in his voice drives Alfie on like a racehorse under the whip.

"Again," he says, "again ... again."

"Thank you," Tommy murmurs, "thank, ahh, thank y—"

Alfie lets go of the hair and fucks Tommy hard, cutting off each gasped response before it's fully formed. Soon it's like an echo that follows every thrust. "Thank—, than—, tha— urgh!" Tommy's fingers splay out like flags of surrender but Alfie ain't feeling merciful.

"Again," he growls. "Thank me again, thank me until you can't say it."

Tommy does, he says it over and over, until he's so battered by Alfie's desire that every pitiful, "thank you," is a breath forced into the mattress. Is a plea. Is a please ... "please Alfie, fuck, god, please ..."

***

Afterwards, Alfie curls onto his side and basks in the faintly horrifying afterglow of his own cruelty. It takes a good few moments until he feels his own pinkness subside. Tommy shuffles closer, ducks into the concave space formed by the curve of Alfie's body. His arms slide around Alfie's belly and he holds on tight, in the way he only ever does after a particular type of sex. Alfie bends to kiss the top of his head, a single peck that's suffused, somehow, with more tenderness than an hour of tongued kisses.

"Thank you," Tommy whispers into the hair on Alfie's chest. Alfie strokes the back of his neck and feels overwhelmingly and incongruously protective.

"For the dinners or the sex?"

"Both. You always know what I need."

"Good job one of us knows what's good for you."

"You are."

"Hmm."

Alfie wishes he were more certain of that.

#tommy x alfie #tofie #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #alfie solomons #my fic #tommy/alfie #writing #sholomons #asks #anon #why can't i write anything short?

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