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Chapter Text

Sir Oswald Mosley tapped his pen lightly on the desk, waiting for Mr. Thomas Shelby to finish reading. It was impossible to make him sign anything before he knew every implication of it, every carefully chosen word, and Mosley admired him for that when he was signing things for other people. Now, he was growing impatient. "I wouldn't ask you to sign it unless I knew you would want to sign it," he snapped. "We want the same things, remember?"

"This," said Shelby calmly, pointing at the paper and leaning over to show Mosley. "I'm not paying for this."

Mosley snatched the paper and glanced at the offending passage, then furrowed his brow. "You don't want your orphans to love their country as much as we do?"

Shelby simply stared, as if waiting for Mosley to inevitably let it go. Because that's all he ever did. Sit and wait for things to go his way. "It's an integral part of these childrens' education," pressed Mosley. "And you will pay for the class. Simple as that."

Shelby huffed a short laugh. "Simple as that, eh?"

"Yes. Simple," repeated Mosley.

They stared at one another, both waiting for the next move. In the end, it was Mosley who spoke first because he had a point to prove, and he was tired of Mr. Shelby wasting his time. "Thomas," he said lightly, placing the paper and pen down carefully, "you remind me of a diamond."

Thomas remained still and silent, as always, so Mosley continued.

"Well, I like you like I like diamonds, anyway. Something pretty to heighten my social standing, and yes, I was surprised at how many men were more inclined to listen to my message once I mentioned your name." He gestured towards Thomas as if they were having a dynamic conversation. Without any response from the man in front of him, Mosley resolved to folding his hands on his desk. "Like a woman invited to a ball simply because of her expensive jewelry. If you were wondering whether or not I boast about you to my friends, I do. Right after we discuss my porcelain vase and my Thoroughbred." He stood slowly and walked around his desk, looking down on his little parliamentarian. "So I don't need you, Thomas. You have your uses, sure. Diamonds can cut. But at the end of the day, I just like... owning you."

Still, Thomas refused to look up at him. That simply wouldn't do.

"Stand up," said Mosley.

With a heavy sigh, Thomas stood slowly, as if he were tired of playing some game. He looked lazily at Mosley through his reading glasses, and Mosley suddenly wondered how many gangsters he had looked at in the same way. He feigned boredom, as if Mosley were nothing compared to the dangerous men he faced normally. Mosley would show him that this was no game.

"No one owns me, Mr. Mosley," said Shelby, snapping Mosley from his thoughts.

He quirked a brow. "No?" Then almost to himself, "No, not yet." He looked Thomas up and down, then snapped his eyes back up to meet sapphire blue ones. "Sleep deprivation is highly unfashionable Mr. Shelby," he began, re-assuming his professional tone. "You're all... dull, and I don't like dull things."

Thomas blinked slowly, the only sign that Mosley's words were affecting him. He knew they would eventually, of course. They were songbirds of a feather, but still Mosley had been in politics longer.

Barely suppressing a smirk, Mosley said, "Don't move," and began uncerimoniously removing Thomas's clothes. Jacket thrown on the floor. Pocket watch tossed onto the desk. Glasses thrown into the chair. And unsurprisingly, Shelby didn't move a muscle. Mosley would finally use that stoicism against him.

He made sure to look Thomas directly in the eyes while he unbuttoned his vest, daring him to stop him. "I keep all of my possessions nice and shiny," he said.

At that, Thomas raised his head imperceptibly- an unconscious act of defiance. "Oh, you'll understand soon enough." Mosley dropped his vest to the floor, then turned and went to grab a small vial from his desk. He only paused for a moment to take in the Great Thomas Shelby, half-undressed and being so good for him, then stepped in close and grabbed the back of Tommy's neck, making him flinch and pull away, but Mosley held tight and tutted in disapproval.

Tommy closed his eyes and took a breath before going still again. Pretending to be unaffected again. That wouldn't last long. "Open your mouth," whispered Mosley.

Tommy glanced at Mosley, then the vial, and tried to fight his rising panic. It was showing. He knew it was showing. He swallowed reflexively, and he knew it was showing, so now he was embarrassed and panicked. "I thought you didn't approve," he said, his voice slightly hoarse.

"Oh this isn't opium, Thomas," laughed Mosley, admiring the rising flush in his songbird's cheeks. "It's just a little something to help you sleep. To refresh you. You're too young to be looking quite this tired, and it would be especially terrible if you yawned during one of my speeches. And... like any well-bred man, I keep my things in order."

Tommy was taking deep breaths now, and he knew they were slightly too loud, but the alternative was holding it. "I can sleep on my own," he gritted.

"No... no I don't think you can, can you?" He squeezed his neck a tighter and made Tommy wince, but still the man would not fight back, still trying desperately to be civil and show he wasn't afraid. It was amusing. "So who keeps you up at night, hm?" hissed Mosley. "The people you've cut? The Germans?" He smiled wickedly. "Or is it Grace?"

Finally, Tommy reacted. "You keep her name out of your-"

Mosley took the opportunity to pour the contents of the vial down Tommy's throat.

Tommy coughed, suddenly very visibly panicked indeed.

Mosley let him go and took a step back to watch the show. "It's for your own good," he sighed, looking like a concerned mother.

Thomas's eyelids were already drooping, and he gripped the back of his chair to keep from falling over. Mosley took pity on him and went over to grab his arm. Thomas, ungrateful as he was, tried to throw Mosley off of him, but he was all drugged up now, wasn't he? And it was a little stronger than he was used to, wasn't it? Mosley smiled, moving Thomas over to the couch on the other side of the office then laid him down gently, all while Thomas struggled and kicked like a toddler fighting bedtime, his focus fading in and out.

Now, he stared up at the ceiling with a faraway look in those cold, diamond eyes and Mosley idly wondered which demon was tormenting him now. Eventually, Tommy's eyes did close, and Mosley walked back over to his desk to get more work done. Assuming he could get any work done with Thomas Shelby in his office, unconscious and helpless and-

He glanced at the orphanage contract, then sighed as he realized that it'd be hours before Mr. Shelby could sign it.

Chapter Text

Sir Oswald Mosley cancelled meetings and turned down visitors so he could stay in his office and admire the beam of sunlight that fell across Thomas' slowly rising chest. He knew it was wrong. He was a fine Englishman of high society, and some Gypsy low-life politician should not be able to distract him in this way. Should not be able to tempt him...

When Mosley let his thoughts wander, he found himself recalling something he'd read about homosexuality in ancient Rome. Acceptable as long as the man you were fucking was beneath you. Half the time, Mosley wasn't even sure if Shelby deserved to be called a man. Just some clever tinker with pretty lips. With a sudden surge of annoyance, Mosley got up from his desk and went over to kneel by the couch.

"We can do whatever we want," he whispered to his sleeping gangster. He tentatively traced a cheekbone with his thumb. "With whomever we choose."

Shelby's eyes began hurriedly fluttering awake, as if he had been fighting the drug this entire time, even sound asleep. "Good morning," said Mosley before Shelby had regained full consciousness. It was early evening.

Tommy tried to clear his throat, but it came out like a sigh, and Mosley would kill him for making noises like that. Simply indecent. "Did you sleep well?" he asked.

Tommy glared best he could, though his focus was still fading in... then out...

"Hm. Seems you still don't understand." Mosley reached out to brush the hair off Tommy's forehead.

Tommy reached up to push Mosley's hand away, but he could barely lift his arm, and Mosley caught his wrist easily. Tommy turned his head away in frustration, obviously still distraught by whichever dreams plagued him in his sleep. Mosley took him by the chin and turned his head back to face him. "You will go home and get some proper sleep, understood?"

Tommy laughed shakily, and Mosley's mouth twitched in annoyance. "Understood?" he repeated more forcefully.

"Out of all the people," drawled Tommy. "Out of all the fucking people..."

"What is that supposed to mean?" snapped Mosley.

Tommy breathed deeply, and his mask slipped back into place. "Let go," he said.

Mosley scoffed and grabbed the side of Tommy's neck, running a thumb over his jawline. "No." He shook his head. "I'm not finished." Still holding Tommy's neck, Mosley began unbuttoning his undershirt with his other hand. Tommy's breathing started up again, and his arms still hung limply by his sides, so he closed his eyes to try and regain control of the situation for just a second, he just needed one second-

"My, my, Shelby," said Mosley once he had exposed Tommy's torso. "How do you stay so fit, hm? I'm no pot-bellied politician myself, you see, but as I age, I do find it more and more- Oh, open your eyes," he demanded, shaking Tommy a little.

Tommy opened his eyes, cool as ever, though his face was still flushed with dream-induced emotion. "Let me guess," continued Mosley. "Diet of cigarettes and scotch."

Tommy just stared at the ceiling. Mosley was losing his attention. "No, sorry," he rambled, hell-bent on winning this game. "Irish. Always Irish." He grabbed Tommy's face with both his hands, making the smaller man look at him. His stare was deadly, but Mosley was deadly too. "Look at you," he spat, not really knowing what he meant. "Thomas. Fucking. Shelby. Nobody, really, in the grand scheme of things. And it's mine. My little Gypsy mouthpiece. My songbird. My-"

Tommy surged up and delicately pressed his lips to Mosley's, causing the other man to stumble away in horror. "Sorry," muttered Tommy. "Misread your intentions." He smiled inwardly. Thank. You. Polly. At the time he'd complained that he'd never need to use a trick like that, but surprise surprise his aunt had been right.

Mosley wiped his mouth with the back of his hand while Tommy sat up slowly, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. "On the other hand, perhaps those were your intentions," continued Tommy. "There are rumors, Sir Oswald, that you don't fuck just the women in your family." He gave up on his shirt and stood up on shaky legs.

Mosley cracked his neck and slowed his breathing, realizing Tommy's strategy. The kiss was meant as a warning, but Mosley could easily turn it into an invitation. "You think I'm queer, Shelby?"

"I know how people look when they want to fuck me."

Mosley held his arms out wide in mock surrender. "Well you're right."

Tommy paused, not expecting the confession, and Mosley took the opportunity to stalk closer. "Oh, you thought you could blackmail me with this, hm? All it means is that you're in the same danger as a woman."

Tommy looked off to the side, trying to hide his nervousness, but Mosley saw the growing fear in his eyes. They were almost teary, and he wondered if he could make them spill over. "Are you planning to rape me, Sir Oswald?" Tommy challenged. Dared. And the word 'sir' slapped Mosley in the face because gentlemen did not rape people.

"No." stated Mosley. "No, I'll wait until you ask for it." Their chests were nearly touching now, and it would be so easy to just take him by the jaw and taste the cigarettes. To give him a new addiction, and to ultimately change him for the better. No more drugs, no more of that draining family drama, just the cause. Their cause. Together.

"You flatter yourself," said Thomas lightly. "And I'm not attracted to men."

Mosley smiled as his hands moved to unfasten Tommy's pants. "Neither am I, Thomas. I simply like to keep my things in their places."

Tommy clenched his jaw in frustration when Mosley reached into his underwear and fucking squeezed and just kept his hand there and held it tight. His head fell forward onto Mosley's shoulder, and Mosley brought his other hand up to hold it there. "Shhhh," he said, splaying his fingers against Tommy's shaved head. "It'll be over as soon as you tell me who it is you belong to."

Thomas glared at the floor, realizing that he was still too weak from the drugs to get out of this any other way. Not that wrestling Mosley would be a smart political move under any circumstances. Thomas huffed as he remembered- though it was easy to forget- that they were supposed to be on the same side. This was how Mosley fucking treated the people he trusted. The people he liked. Tommy sighed. Oh fuck this guy was fucked in his fucking head and fuck what had he gotten himse-

"It's alright," chuckled Mosley, thinking that Tommy's sigh had been about the hand on his cock. Tommy rolled his eyes against Mosley's shoulder because Lizzie had done worse to him under his desk. During a meeting. With the Italians.

Fine. If this bastard wanted to pretend like he had control, let him play pretend. "I..." started Tommy, pretending to hesitate.

Mosley squeezed his hand in... encouragement? Whatever the fuck. Tommy winced. "I belong to you," he breathed, turning his head so the words were whispered into Mosley's neck.

Mosley fought back a shiver, knowing his time for pleasure would come. This was about Thomas. "Say it again," he demanded, then started moving his hand.

Tommy jerked away, but Mosley held him close, and Tommy told himself that the next noise from his throat was out of annoyance.

"Say it," repeated Mosley, gripping firmer, moving his hand faster.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Tommy swallowed his pride and whispered it again into Mosley's neck. "I'm yours."

"There's a good boy," said Mosley.

Tommy felt his face heat (out of anger, surely), and a small noise of protest was wrenched from his throat.

"Oh, you like that," murmured Mosley, misinterpreting yet again. To be fair to him, Tommy was an experienced agent of the Crown. And this was all part of the strategy, right? Tommy was suddenly feeling very drunk- all warm and disoriented.

"You are," continued Mosley, moving his hand like it was his own orgasm he was chasing. "You are so good for me, Thomas. So compliant."

Tommy felt the pleasure building. "You've made your point," he gritted, his face still hidden in Mosley's neck. No matter. Mosley still saw the blush creeping up his neck.

"Not yet," he replied, moving his head to press open-mouthed kisses to Tommy's neck.

"Don't," he said. Mosley thought of it as begging.

"Don't what?" asked Mosley before kissing beneath that jaw.

"Fuck," was the last thing he breathed before he came silently into Mosley's hand. Nothing Earth-shattering, what with the drugs and all, but enough to make him go limp.

Mosley held on to him, reveling in just how light he felt. Knowing that the man he would run the country with could be thrown over his shoulder if he misbehaved. But that was evolution, wasn't it? Those that were meant to be weaker were.

Carefully, almost lovingly, he brought Tommy back to the couch. Tommy was panting and half-delirious by now, so Mosley went to his desk to retrieve another dose of the sleeping medicine. He wanted Thomas bright and healthy. Was there anything wrong with that?

Tommy's glassy eyes found Mosley as he leaned over him with the new vial. "Please," he whispered, and this time it really was begging. "Don't."

Mosley frowned, though his eyes smiled. "This is for your own good," he said, then pressed the vial between open lips.

Tommy reached up to push his hand away, but it was too late. He kicked a foot like someone was choking him, whether on purpose or impulse neither of them knew. Then, his hand fell back down to his side and his eyes rolled up into his head. His breathing started to even out despite the panic, and this reassured Mosley. You see, Thomas Shelby was always tired and stressed, and that simply would not do. Mosley was doing this for him, yes, but mostly for himself. One doesn't go out with a wrinkled suit. One doesn't go out with a run-down Gypsy.

Mosley stalked back to his desk, wondering how the hell he would get Thomas home now. That's when he saw the contract again.

Goddammit.

Chapter Text

Tommy slowly swims to the surface as fast as he can. Pushing through cold water without any power, muscles aching like a sprint. But he still moves slowly. Grace says he can stop, so why doesn't he? Grace says the water gets warmer when you stop fighting it. He tells her that he can't drown because he can't spend his final moments below the surface. He's had enough final moments below the surface, just without the numbness afterwards. After every time, he came back. A tunnel caves, and he comes back. He cracks his skull, and he comes back. He's black-out drunk, but he comes back. If he drowns here, he won't come back, and he doesn't want to die underground again. Did that enough already. Grace's voice blurs with his mother's, and that's the last person he needs to fucking hear it from right now. So he swims.

And he comes back. Fucking Rasputin at this point, Jesus Christ. So which is it? Rasputin or Jesus Christ? He sits up and rubs his hands over his face, ignoring the dampness on his cheeks, and aware that he is thinking entirely too much like Alfie Solomons. All fast and nuanced. He opens his eyes to find himself on the couch in Mosley's office, gray morning light shining in through the window.

He was alone.

He stood up slowly, this time buttoning his shirt with sure fingers before buttoning his pants. He ignored the distinct lack of any mess and the implications of that. It meant nothing to him if Mosley wanted to fucking... clean up. It was his fault anyway. While Tommy was thinking, he went to take a cigarette from the box on Mosley's desk. He grabbed his coat off the floor and hurriedly found his lighter before throwing his coat at the couch like it was the coat's fault for leaving Tommy's body yesterday. What good were nice clothes if you could remove them the same as the bad ones?

He shook his head and scoffed, then lit his cigarette and put the lighter in his pants pocket. Why was he fucking doing this? And why did Mosley have to be such a freak? Out of all the fucking people, Mosley was the one most concerned with his sleeping habits. More than Ada, more than Lizzie, more than fuckin- Churchill. And because what? Because Tommy looked dull. He looked dull. Tommy laughed out a cloud of smoke.

Just then, Mosley burst into the office, his suit freshly pressed and mustache trimmed. His eyes seemed to burn with a dark fire, and his skin glowed. Tommy wondered if he was supposed to look like that. He hadn't looked so alive since... since before the war, he guessed. That was the last time he looked in the mirror and told himself he looked fresh, anyway.

"Good. You're awake," said Mosley simply. "We've a meeting at eight."

"What time is it now?" asked Tommy casually, though he reached down for his vest more hurriedly than he meant to.

"Seven-forty," replied Mosley, crossing the room to rifle through his desk drawers. He tried to stay focused on the drawer while Tommy was getting dressed like he imagined a soldier puts on his uniform. Tired, sure, but it still has to look good. Sharp. The anxiety that Tommy will do it wrong gets the better of him though, and he finally looks up to find Tommy trying to fix his hair without a mirror or product, cigarette dangling precariously from his lips and shirtsleeves baggy without his arm garters and cuff links. He was so focused on his hair that he was taken off guard when Mosley appeared directly in front of him and said, "Here. Let me."

"Don't touch me," growled Thomas without fully opening his mouth, on the verge of losing his cigarette now. But Mosley ignored him and grabbed a wrist, Tommy's cuff links cradled in his palm.

"Now's not the time," he muttered, suddenly just as stressed as Tommy. He began fixing Tommy's sleeve while Tommy smoked his cigarette with his other hand, having given up on his hair. It wasn't too bad, thought Mosley, but one could tell that it wasn't fixed like it normally was. Curling slightly too much at the ends. He sighed and got to work on the other cuff. "Did you sleep well?" he asked, meaning it to sound mocking, but it came out genuine. He wanted to know. It was important.

Tommy didn't answer, but snatched the arm garter from Mosley's hand instead. "I'll do it myself," he snapped, but Mosley didn't move.

"Did you sleep well?" he repeated, shifting on the balls of his feet. Still, Tommy didn't answer, and Mosley got so impatient that he reached out to help Tommy with his hair.

Tommy snapped his head up without finishing his sleeve and backed up, looking like Mosley had just slapped him across the face. Mosley scoffed. "I'm only trying to help," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. It infuriated him how just yesterday, he was in control of everything, and now Thomas Shelby was staring at him like he was just a kid who had fucked up and would hear about it later. He felt the anger bubbling up in his chest. It wasn't fair. Shelby should be grateful.

"I know," said Mosley, his tone bordering on gleeful like it did whenever he was first getting upset. Tommy wasn't listening. "We can use the whisky." He turned to his glass liquor bottles and took the stopper out of the... scotch, he decided. Just to add a little salt to the wound. It was petty, he knew, but he was pretty sure that pettiness was invented in England, and he was nothing if not patriotic. He crossed to Tommy, who was finally finishing with his second sleeve, and poured just a drop of Scotch into his hair.

"The fuck is that?" asked Tommy, his hands shooting upward. It was the most honest reaction Mosley had drawn from him so far.

Mosley swatted his hands away before Tommy could process what was happening, and began fixing his hair. "We don't have water in here," he said, pouring a touch more into the unruly strands before putting them in their places. Damp with sweat and alcohol, they stayed.

Tommy just stared up at him while he worked, trying to pretend like this was just what a close business relationship looked like sometimes. Having a fascist fix your hair with whisky after waking up late from drug-induced nightmares. And fucking scotch too. Tommy breathed out steadily. We're on the same side. Same side. Same. Fucking. Side. Let him.

Apparently satisfied, Mosley took a step back and admired his work. Thomas looked better than yesterday, actually, which wasn't saying much but still. His facial features seemed more connected after the full night's sleep, like his body had released some stress that had been stretching his skin too tight. He also looked more pissed. Win some, lose some. Mosley sighed. "Our guests will be here in-" he checked his watch "-right now. You'll have to sit over there," he said gesturing towards the couch. "Else they'll smell you. And we wouldn't want them thinking you're some sort of drunk. Although, that would explain why you slept here last night," he muttered.

Tommy glared at him. "If you intend to harm my reputation-"

"Oh don't be silly," reprimanded Mosley. "At times, your vices only seem to make you more popular, Mr. Shelby."

Oh, so he was back to 'Mr. Shelby' now. How professional.

"I suppose the men around here are bored. You inspire them with your air of danger." He waved his hands dramatically and walked to his desk.

Just as Mosley sat down, there was a knock at the door, and Tommy moved to the couch.

"Come in," called Mosley, standing back up to welcome the newcomers and shake their hands.

Tommy wanted to disappear because he knew he would have to shake their hands. He stood by the couch, knowing they would come over and shake his hand and smell the alcohol and notice some- I don't know- wrinkle that told them he had slept here. Tommy was perfectly calm on the outside, of course, and he waited like a gentleman.

Only the men didn't acknowledge him.

That was worse.

All four men sat down. Mosley and his guests by the desk, and Tommy over on the couch. He crossed one leg over the other, disguising discomfort as polite reservation.

"Gentlemen, I'm sure you've met Mr. Shelby," said Mosley, gesturing to Tommy. Tommy watched their movements like a hawk.

One man half-turned and nodded. Tommy did not nod back. The other man began opening his briefcase and taking out papers. "These are... the documents..." he huffed.

Mosley took a sheet in hand, then held it out to Tommy without a word.

It took Tommy a minute to realize that Mosley wanted him to get up and fucking grab it. He sat stock-still for longer than he meant to, and both guests stared at him while Mosley kept his eyes resolutely forward. So that was his game, eh? Treat Tommy like an attentive secretary? Fine. It was fine. He would get up and take the paper and be civil about things for the sake of politics.

He uncrossed his legs and stood up from the couch, straightening his jacket before walking slowly over to Mosley. The other two men stayed silent, and Tommy wondered what they thought of the situation. And what situation? There were no guns, no threats, no situations. It was fine. He took the paper and retreated all the way back to the couch, hoping the men hadn't smelled alcohol.

Finally, the man that had nodded at him cleared his throat and asked, "Would you care to join us at the desk, Mr. Shelby?"

At the same time, "Oh, I'm quite alright," and "He's fine where he is."

That made Tommy pause. "Actually, I think I will join you," he said, another strategy forming. Mosley wanted him to be embarrassed by the alcohol. The wrinkles. The fact that he woke up twenty minutes ago. But there was one person who cared more about appearances than Tommy, and that was Mosley, so he would join them.

As soon as Tommy stood, Mosley stood, drawing odd looks from their guests. Mosley flushed and sat back down. "Uh, my apologies," he said. No further explanation.

Tommy sat in an armchair closer to the desk. Still apart from the other, but close enough that Mosley could smell him. "Drink?" Mosley asked the men suddenly, deciding to hide the smell.

"My God, it's eight in the morning," said the man with the briefcase.

"Oh yes. Quite right. Quite right," muttered Mosley.

The man with the briefcase eyed Mosley suspiciously. "Though you won't offend me by satiating your... habit," he phrased delicately.

Holy fuck. They thought Mosley was the drunk now. It had been a long time since Tommy had had to fight so hard to suppress a grin. But when Mosley glanced over at him, Tommy knew he could see the amusement in his eyes. Fine by him. It was all fucking fine. "Have a drink, Mosley," said Tommy. "Nothing to be ashamed of, right gentlemen?" he asked without really asking. Neither man would dare disagree with Thomas Shelby. It was a poor political move, and just a poor move in general, really.

"I'm quite alright," gritted Mosley. "We have work to do."

"Quite so," said the gentleman with the briefcase, putting his glasses on to look at his paper.

Except Tommy didn't have his glasses. His glasses were on the far corner of Mosley's desk, and Mosley caught him staring at them.

"Are you missing anything, Mr. Shelby?" he asked in mock concern.

Tommy's eyes flicked to Mosley's, but he did not answer. Their guests had been pointedly trying to ignore the tension in the air since they got there, and that was why they both gazed at their papers without reading. Tommy glanced at their unmoving eyes, and the man who had nodded chanced a glimpse at Tommy before lowering his gaze again. Was this what power felt like? A really awkward situation? Tommy wasn't so sure he wanted political power if it would be this awkward. He's come to realize that politicians are just failed gangsters. Awkward and defenseless. He'd never met a better political mind than Alfie Solomons, and he'd never met a man like Alfie that would be a politician. If they were good at it, they were gangsters- sorry, businessmen. With sporting habits.

Mosley took Tommy's glasses in hand and stood. He leaned forward slowly, and the man with the briefcase was watching intently now.

Tommy didn't move. He wouldn't move. Or react. Just sit still.

Mosley leaned over and placed the glasses onto his ears, then lowered them onto his nose. And as he pulled his hands away, he let a thumb catch on Tommy's lower lip, then sat down heavily in his chair. He gestured loosely at Tommy. "What do you think?" he asked the briefcase man.

"Sir?" questioned the man.

"Of my glasses," he clarified. "What do you think?"

The man looked between Tommy and Mosley, still confused. "Are... those not Mr. Shelby's glasses?" he asked.

"No, no," replied Mosley as if it were a preposterous thing to ask. "Nor is that Mr. Shelby's coat, nor his watch chain, nor his cuff links." He made a little frown with his mouth, like he was divulging some terrible news that he actually found rather amusing.

Tommy sat politely, giving Mosley his full, undivided attention. And he hoped it burned holes.

Mosley sighed. "You see, Mr. Boswell, everything of Mr. Shelby's... is mine." His mouth quirked upward. "So what do you think of my eyes?" he asked lightly.

Mr. Boswell glanced at Mosley, only to find him still staring at Tommy. He gulped. "I- uh, they're nice... sir."

Mosley pursed his lips. "Yes, they are, aren't they? They make my wife's tourmaline lariat look... dull," he mused.

Silence.

"Well. Let's get down to business, shall we?" said Tommy.

Both men agreed readily, grateful to go back to shuffling papers. But Mosley just kept idly staring. He answered questions when asked, but mostly he just enjoyed watching Thomas do the work. Watching him talk. Watching him operate. Perhaps he should give his wife those gemstone eyes for Christmas. Prettier than that ugly fucking lariat. Tommy was reading intently now, blue eyes moving from side to side carefully. It reminded him of yesterday... Mosley sighed and ran his hands over his face. That contract would be the death of him.

Chapter Text

Mosley very much enjoyed watching Thomas speak in the house that afternoon. Amidst the booing politicians (imbeciles, but they'll learn), Thomas sang beautifully with his accent that was so charmingly low society. Mosley's accent was occasionally too formal for this sort of thing, and that's why he had Thomas as his man of the people.

While Thomas' lovely voice droned on, Mosley imagined just standing up and going over to him. Nothing unspeakable, just going over there to smell the alcohol in his hair, a smell he never got from the old, boring politicians here. And if the others smelled it, they knew. They knew that Thomas was younger than them, and maybe he went to a party last night and fucked, yet he was still here speaking eloquently as always. But another part of Mosley didn't want them to assume it was a party. He wanted them to know that he had put it there. It was his office Shelby slept in last night, more comfortably than he could in his own home next to his own wife. But they would never know.

So Mosley imagined it. It would be a long afternoon, so there was no harm. He imagined that they all knew that Thomas was his, so no one objected when he went over to him. Thomas would continue speaking because he was a professional after all, and Mosley would just... stand there. Behind him. Looking down because up close, Thomas was so small. Mosley really didn't know what Jimmy McCavern was ever so worried about when he could just... suffocate Thomas at any time. No guns, just put one hand over his little mouth and nose, then hold on while he claws at you like a scared animal. He was provacatively small, and his head was shaved so invitingly. Mosley would bend down and mouth at the back his neck, making him falter slightly in his words. But the others would ignore it, eyes cast politely downward. Except for Churchill. He wanted that bastard to watch.

Thomas would clear his throat and continue, trying his best to fight the rising blush, but Mosley would not relent. He would inhale and exhale where Tommy's neck met his shoulder, loud enough for the timid politicians to know how close he was. Then, he might bite down, and Thomas would flinch. He never got to see Thomas flinch, but this time, he would flinch, and he would continue spreading their message nonetheless.

Mosley would look up at Churchill, still while holding on to Tommy, and Churchill would be jealous. Mosley sees the way he eyes Thomas in the house, so he knows that Churchill would be jealous. And oh, if Churchill only knew that he had already made Thomas come once. Here. In the House of Commons. He would leave a mark next time, and Thomas would speak with his hickey on full display.

Fuck it. Mosley would make him come out here. Would wind him until he couldn't speak anymore, and Mr. Boswell would have to listen to his helpless panting and contented sighs before he could hear the end of Tommy's speech. Mosley shook his head as a terrible, truly indecent thought passed through his mind. He would enter him. Here. Just pull his pants down a little and slip right in, and Churchill would know that Thomas had been ready for him. Mosley would have bent him over his desk that morning and opened him up before their meeting, and Thomas would've had to go about their business open and wet until now. Mosley would make only shallow thrusts, just enough to send jolts through up Tommy's spine and make his knees weak. He'd hold Thomas against his chest until he started squirming, desperate for movement, still reading his notes but not knowing what he was saying, and then... and then he'd say, "If you want me to fuck you properly, Thomas, you'll have to ask Mr. Churchill first. This is his house, after all."

Thomas would try and fail to suppress a whine as Mosley mercilessly grinded against his prostate, and he would say, "Mr. Churchill... I- I believe this house meeting would be-" Mosley would snap his hips, and Tommy's eyes would flutter. "-be expedited if Sir Oswald Mosley has anything to say on the subject matter at this time?" Wait. That wasn't right.

"I do not," Mosley replied to whoever had just asked him that question. Tommy had finished speaking, and Mosley glanced back to find him reserved and put together as always. His fantasies still plagued him throughout the day though, and that night his wife had no idea who he was thinking about while he fucked her. She moaned enthusiastically anyway, more of whore than Shelby's wife, and that was when he saw himself in their full-length mirror. He looked fit, in his opinion. More muscle on his abdomen then Tommy had, albeit more fat too. But that was simply because he was stronger. Bigger. Right then, he wanted it to be Tommy's little body beneath him. He wondered if Shelby was eating and if he would get any smaller. He had the strange desire to help him and hurt him all at once. To make him smaller. To make him perfect.

He came inside his wife, then collapsed on the bed without saying a word to her and lit a cigarette.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, supporting herself on her elbows.

"Work," he replied.

"Are people being difficult again?"

He sighed. "Just the one, but he'll understand soon enough."

"...understand?" she asked, rolling onto her side to face him. He didn't want to look at her.

"I just need him to sign some things is all," he said, putting his cigarette out on the bedside table. "Otherwise, I've had a rather pleasant day."

"Yeah, well it's been a helluva day, Lizzie," replied Tommy.

Lizzie crossed her arms, hiding her concern with anger. "You said no more of the heavy drinking, remember?" She crossed his office to pull the bottle from his hand. "It's not good for your head." She wrinkled her nose. "God, Tommy, are you sweating the stuff now?"

"I put some in my hair," he explained.

Lizzie's eyebrows shot up.

"To get ready for work," he continued.

She moved to sit on the coffee table in front of Tommy's slumped position on the couch. "Tommy, why didn't you come home last night? Get ready for work here?" Yesterday she would've guessed that he was off fucking another woman, but now she wondered if he'd finally found himself an opium den. Or maybe he passed out in a pub.

He sat up straighter, fighting to look sober like he always did when he was drunk. It made Lizzie wonder why he ever bothered getting drunk, if he still wanted to act sober. "I was working," he said. "Fell asleep at my desk."

Lizzie reached out and put a hand on his face. She didn't know why she did it, but he leaned into it a little so she left it there. "Finally got some sleep, huh?" she whispered.

"Do you like being mine?" he asked suddenly.

Lizzie furrowed her brow and discreetly moved her hand upward to check him for fever as well. "Sure," she said. "Why not? You're good in bed, anyhow."

He exhaled a laugh and closed his eyes for a second, dropping his head onto her shoulder. "Wish it'd been you," he muttered.

"What is that supposed to-"

Tommy had left his spot on the couch and lifted his head to kiss her deeply. The type of kiss that sent tingles down her spine, and when she kissed back she felt desperation coming from him too. Something wasn't quite right, she knew that, but things hadn't been quite right for awhile, and there was nothing to do about it but fuck. They kissed and kissed, Tommy cradling her head while she rubbed gently up and down his back. They were moving much slower than they normally did, but that was alright with her. Much nicer than the desk. And she liked hearing him breathe. Made him seem more human.

She slowly moved her hand lower and lower until she could begin unbuttoning his pants, but he grabbed her wrist and broke the kiss. "No," he breathed. "Not tonight."

She quirked an eyebrow because that was unusual indeed, but before she could question it, he picked her up off the coffee table and they collapsed onto the couch. Lizzie laughed, then realized it had been awhile since she'd laughed. She laid down completely while Tommy held himself over her on all fours. "You're beautiful," he whispered before leaning down to kiss her again.

Lizzie kissed back and laughed again and smiled. She didn't know what had gotten him in this mood, but she certainly wouldn't mind if it happened more often.

Chapter Text

Just a touch of opium to keep him steady because this was a place where all emotions served a political agenda, and Tommy's racing heartbeat didn't help the socialists or the fascists. Just a touch of opium to get rid of the ocean in his ears that he guessed was his own breathing. Just a touch, and maybe his thoughts would organize themselves like a normal, slower man's would. He would be a normal man for just a second. A peaceful second of floating instead of swimming.

Tommy closed his eyes and tipped his head back, savoring the taste of silence. The footsteps outside his office faded, and the rushing wind in his ears died down to a breeze. He looked at the little glass bottle and wondered if he could handle another taste.

The door burst open, and Tommy immediately stood up straight with his hands folded around the small bottle.

Mosley raised an eyebrow. "At ease, soldier," he said. "I have news." He strode across the room with a manila folder in hand. He stood next to Tommy and opened it to show him the new and improved terms and conditions of the orphanage contract. "I've worked it all out," he continued, too preoccupied with his own genius to scrutinize Tommy's constricting pupils. "You'll sign it now, but we won't enforce the classes until after I'm in power. You were right to be cautious, Thomas. The socialists would disown you if we did this now."

Thomas focused in on what Mosley was saying, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through his body.

"Your signature would be a simple assurance," said Mosley, holding out the pen. His brow furrowed as Thomas swayed slightly.

"After you come to power?" asked Thomas, just to make sure.

"Yes... Are you feeling quite alright, Thomas?" asked Mosley, concerned that his parliamentarian might be getting sick. It was not the time to be getting sick.

Tommy closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. This was good. He could sign, and nothing would happen because Mosley would never come to power. "Alright," he said. "Leave it on my desk."

Mosley laughed because Thomas was being so annoyingly slow today. "Sign it now," he said, holding the pen out further.

"I have to read it first," insisted Tommy.

"Read it now. Come on, let's get this over with," snapped Mosley.

Tommy looked up at him, blinked slowly, then looked back at the documents. "I don't have my glasses," he said.

Mosley turned and threw the folder down on the desk. "Thomas, I'm starting to think you don't trust me," he complained. He turned back around and looked Thomas up and down. He shook his head, not in the mood for yesterday's fantasies to flash through his mind right now. He glared at Thomas's eyes, and Tommy just stared passively back. Windows to the ocean, barely marred by black, like two faraway ships in the sea... "Oh," whispered Mosley. He glanced side to side as if to make sure no one else was seeing Thomas like this, then strode back over and grabbed at his hands.

Tommy moved them to the side, but Mosley grabbed them anyway and wrenched the hidden bottle from his grasp. He held it up and scoffed. "I never would have guessed," he mused.

Tommy just sighed, looking so tired and uncaring.

"To think. All this time looking for your weakness, and it was in your desk drawer."

Tommy looked up at the ceiling like he did when he wasn't listening.

Mosley pushed his shoulder, and Tommy stumbled back a step. Still unphased. "Fuck," spat Mosley, louder than he meant to. He rubbed a hand over his mouth. None of this was part of the plan. He held the bottle out, barely stopping his hand from shaking out of anger. "Here," he said. "Drink it."

Thomas's lip quirked upward- his version of a smirk, and he exhaled through his mouth. Mosley sometimes wondered if he just held his breath so he could exhale strategically. Controlling everything, including his own lungs. Except he wasn't in control anymore. The opium was. Mosley was. "Drink it," he repeated.

Tommy tilted his head, considering, but fuck it. It was one of the few of Mosley's orders he didn't hate entirely, so he reached out and took the bottle back. Without breaking eye contact, Tommy tilted the bottle onto his tongue for his second taste.

God, why did Thomas always have to be so whorish about things? Mosley stared in disgust as Tommy licked his lips once before tilting the bottle upright and holding it back out. "Care for some?" he dared to ask.

"No, no," said Mosley politely, shoving his hands in his pockets. His mouth twitched. "But you're welcome to have some more."

Tommy smiled slightly to hide his surprise. "I'm alright," he said after a minute, still holding out the bottle.

"No," mocked Mosley. "You're not."

Tommy shook his head because this guy was unbelievable, then turned to put the bottle back in its drawer.

"No," snapped Mosley, making Tommy pause. "No, have some more."

Tommy swallowed thickly. It was a game he hadn't played before.

"Are you sure it's not him in your head, Tommy?" asked Grace from the corner.

Tommy just stared, frozen now.

"Are you sure it's not your head telling you to do these things?" she asked.

He wanted to tell her no, but he couldn't let Mosley know she was there.

"You can talk to me, Tommy," she insisted. "There's no one here but you."

Tommy just shook his head slowly.

Mosley cleared his throat. "Thomas, do as I say," he drawled, stalking forward, "else I'll be forced to question your loyalty."

Tommy turned slowly, bottle in hand and Grace in the corner of his eye.

Mosley was close enough to see the red rimming Tommy's eyes now. "Drink. It."

Tommy breathed, as he had been having to do a lot lately. He didn't remember ever having to breathe like this before. Nowadays he was always breathing. It was just a touch of opium, after all. Nothing he hadn't done before. And sure, in those days he did it at night in the privacy of his bedroom, but this was fine too. He operated with a constant buzz most days, what with having whisky for lunch, so this would be nothing. He'd just have a cigarette when Mosley left. Those always woke him up a little. He closed his eyes for his final drop, and when he opened them, all the colors blurred and the room filled with haze. He was aware of how his muscles weren't tensing the same as they were a second ago, and everything was heavier.

"I hope this teaches you your lesson," said Mosley, and Tommy didn't remember him getting that close.

Mosley lifted Thomas's chin just a little so he could study his eyes, but Tommy closed them on accident, and they were too heavy to open just yet.

Mosley smiled at that and wondered which Thomas would hate more: being taken to the gentlemen's club like this, or going to meet the representative from Berlin that was here today. Realizing that he didn't want to risk the Berlin representative, Mosley took Thomas by the hand and started towards the door. "We're going to lunch," he stated.

Tommy couldn't really tell if he was panicked, but he knew he wasn't as bored as usual. He let Mosley lead him down the hall with a firm grip on his upper arm, and focused intently on not tripping. Other politicians were hurrying by, but they didn't look like they were in a hurry, so Tommy supposed it was just his eyes being slow. Maybe this is how they saw the world. Not everything at once, but just a hallway at a time. He didn't have a plan. He wasn't writing a script. Was that bad? It seemed bad.

Once Mosley had closed them both in the elevator, he felt he couldn't suppress his rage any longer. He despised drugs. He hit Thomas once across the face, pointed his finger at him and said, "You will learn." Tommy just blinked, and Mosley really considered making his other cheek red too, but alas they were on the ground floor now and it wouldn't do to be seen hitting Mr. Shelby, would it?

He dragged Tommy towards the gentlemen's club on the first floor, where all the respectable parliamentarians went to have lunch. He nodded curtly at his colleagues as they hurried past, then all but burst into the dimly lit lounge. He glanced at Thomas, who's head was lolling every so slightly, then took him by the jaw to straighten it before he could check if anyone was watching. They weren't. He let go of Tommy and strode towards Mr. Boswell's table, praying that Tommy was following him.

"Mr. Boswell, how good to see you. Do you mind if we join you?" he asked, not waiting for a reply before pulling out one chair for Thomas and another for himself.

"Not at all, good sir, not at all," replied Mr. Boswell, though he was looking intently at Tommy.

Tommy, beyond caring right now, took a seat. Simple as that. He took his fucking seat like a good fucking soldier because he had chosen to do this. Let Mosley have his fun, or risk blowing his cover. Also, he wanted a drink. "Whiskey," he muttered so only Mosley could hear him.

"Two whiskey. Irish," called Mosley on impulse. Then he cursed himself for ordering for Thomas so quickly. It wasn't supposed to be up to Thomas what drink they had.

"How's work?" asked Mr. Boswell politely, and that was the question to fucking ask, right? Both Mosley and Tommy scoffed. Mosley shot Tommy a glare, but Tommy just fixed his eyes on a random spot behind Mr. Boswell's head.

Mr. Boswell turned to see what Mr. Shelby was looking at, then looked back to Mosley. "Is he quite alright?" he asked lowly, as if that would keep Tommy from hearing him.

"He's fine," replied Mosley lightly. "We were just discussing the ingenius features of your latest bill."

Tommy smiled then as a strategy emerged through the fog. An impulse, really, compared to his other plans, but a strategy nonetheless. "And the flaws of it," he added. "Sir Mosley was just telling me how you must have thrown it together overnight." He fixed his eyes on Boswell and hoped that he wasn't slurring.

Boswell's face darkened. "Is that so?" he asked before taking a sip of his scotch.

"It is," replied Tommy. He reached into his pocket for his cigarette case because something told him it was time to start waking up.

"It is not," said Mosley hurriedly, wondering why the fuck Thomas would admit that. Was it the opium talking? Oh God, maybe it was the opium talking.

"Yeah," muttered Tommy, an unlit cigarette between his lips. He was focused intently on getting his lighter to work. "It is." He flicked, and flicked, and flicked, and flicked, but his hands weren't really working right then.

Eventually Mr. Boswell got fed up and leaned across the table to light Mr. Shelby's cigarette for him.

"Thank you," said Tommy, leaning back in his chair. He turned his head to blow smoke in Mosley's direction.

Mosley smiled awkwardly at Mr. Boswell, who was looking more and more offended and confused. It hurt him to accept the defeat, but he knew there was no use denying it now. Point Thomas. Just then, the waiter arrived with the whiskeys.

"Thomas," said Mosley after taking a sip. "Would you go to Mr. Kensley's table and invite him over? Perhaps it would be good to have all four of us here."

Tommy turned his head to look at Mosley, and they both knew. They both fucking knew why he wanted Tommy to get up. The fucker. Tommy sighed and stood up, only swaying a little as Mr. Boswell watched, aware that something was wrong now. "He says you need larger clothes," remarked Tommy before starting his trek across the lounge. And yeah, so he might of slurred that time.

Mosley just chuckled uncomfortably and drank more whiskey as Boswell glared silently. "Fuck you, Thomas Shelby," he muttered. He started to feel better as he watched Tommy move awkwardly through the room, like every single one of his muscles was sore at once. Tommy gingerly picked his way through the crowd, bumping into three gentlemen on the way. When he leaned down to ask Mr. Kensley to come over, he nearly knocked their heads together. But alas, he made it back without embarrassing himself too badly, and all but collapsed into his chair. Mr. Kensley reflexively reached out to catch Mr. Shelby should he have fallen, and asked, "Are you quite alright?"

"Yes," said Tommy, raising his voice and making Mosley blink from the noise. "I am quite fucking alright, alright?"

Mr. Kensley suppressed a smile. He quite liked it when Mr. Shelby cursed because it was delightfully improper.

Mosley and Mr. Boswell did not find it delightful.

Mosley cleared his throat once Mr. Kensley had gotten comfortable. "Now gentlemen, yesterday we neglected to discuss Item 44, and-"

"'We discussed it," interrupted Tommy. He breathed out smoke. "You were just too busy admiring your things to notice."

That was it. Mosley stood up suddenly, took Tommy by the arm, and marched them both out of the lounge, severely regretting allowing drugged Thomas Shelby out in public. He didn't know whether to be embarrassed or aroused by Tommy's last comment because on the one hand, he had missed Item 44, but on the other hand... Thomas had just referred to himself as property. He ran his free hand through his hair, and told himself it was the opium talking.

Tommy just watched him with lazy eyes as they walked, enjoying freedom of speech for once in his life. Blame it on the drugs.

Back in the lounge, Mr. Boswell asked, "Do you think they were quite alright?"

Mr. Kensley smiled. "Mr. Shelby seemed quite alright to me."

Boswell humphed and opened his newspaper, and Kensley decided there was no harm in finishing Tommy's drink.

Chapter Text

Mosley paced the guest bedroom that Thomas would be staying in, wondering why the fuck he wasn't there yet. When Mosley told him to arrive early, he expected him here late afternoon, not early evening. There was a difference. A profound difference. It was things like this that reminded Mosley of Thomas's poor upbringing. It was worse than being raised in a barn, to be raised on a boat. Fucking Gypsies. They were never where you wanted them when you wanted them.

A knock at the door. "Sir, Mr. Shelby has arrived."

Mosley's wave of relief nearly made him pass out, and he held onto the bedpost for support. "Coming," he called once his breath evened out, and he all but ran to the front door.

Thomas stepped out of his Bentley and squinted up at the decorated edifice. Mosley's mansion was nearly as intricate as a cathedral, and certainly more luxurious. Where those golden spires on top? Of course they were. Tommy felt a familiar jealousy, the product of his ambition. He had traded his soul for Arrow House, yet Mosley got to live in a better mansion because he was born rich. Mosley thought he had been born better, but he was just born richer. Socialites tended to get those two things confused.

Mosley hurried down the steps, glad that Thomas had put at least some effort into his appearance. He dressed in black, as he was so fond of doing lately, like he was preparing for a funeral garment by garment. Luckily he hadn't worn a bowtie, because when Mosley had said it was a party, he hadn't meant that type of party. It was a dinner. It was business.

"Come," said Mosley, arms wide. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Tommy raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he thought he was presentable like that. This was why he needed Mosley's help. "This way," said Mosley, guiding Thomas with a hand on his lower back. Tommy shot him a side glance and walked faster so that Mosley's hand lost contact. Mosley grinned briefly. He was such a skittish thing.

"So who are we meeting tonight?" asked Tommy as they walked across marble and kashmir and ebony. All Mosley had told him that afternoon was "fashionable people. They make your dress look cheap." Tommy had nearly rolled his eyes at that. He never used to get these insults before his business was legal, back when his suits weren't cheap- they were free. There were some things he missed about those days.

"They're rather influential people from Sussex who are interested in the cause. If we convince them of it tonight, they will convince their own social circle."

Tommy thought for a second before asking his next question, trying to make sure he hadn't missed anything. "Boswell and Kensley?" he asked, then clicked open his cigarette case and rubbed one over his lips. Before he could light it, Mosley plucked it from his mouth and put it in his own pocket without explanation. Tommy looked at him in wide-eyed disbelief because Mosley never got better, did he?

"Their proposed tax exemptions will appeal to our new friends," he explained. "Also, I think it's time they joined the cause, don't you?"

Tommy stared straight ahead. It was not time for them to join this hellish cause. Boswell, for one, was an uptight asshole that Tommy did not want to trade secretive looks with in the House of Commons, as if they were suddenly friends. And Kensley was nice and decent. Nice and decent people weren't meant to be fascists, but they were always gullible, and that's why Kensley would end up joining. He was frustrated because he was here to undermine the party, but right now he was helping to expand it. Doing the Devil's work because God's work was indiscreet. It was just Thomas Shelby, tunneling his way in, unable to save the lives above ground because he was busy digging. He was the long game, always the long game.

Mosley opened the doors to his best guest room and ushered Tommy in. It had a wide bed with a blue comforter, golden crown molding, a glamorous vanity, and so on and so forth. He knew that their company could arrive any moment. Thomas had to be ready. He took a short cylindrical container off the vanity, unscrewed the top, and dipped his finger in the gel. "Thomas," he called.

Tommy looked up from a precious vase he had been examining, but did not go over or acknowledge Mosley any further.

Mosley huffed and took the cylindrical container over to Thomas. There really wasn't time for games. "Hold still," he muttered.

Tommy held still, of course. He stared at Mosley's eyes as they stared at Tommy's lips. He refused to look down at the container, or follow Mosley's rising index finger, because it didn't affect him. Nothing affected him, and especially not the things that made his heartbeat audible. Those things affected him the least because otherwise they would hurt. So he stared.

Mosley carefully dabbed the balm onto Tommy's lower lip, making sure he spread it evenly. "Part your lips," he said as he dipped his finger in the container again. His mouth twitched upward when Tommy didn't comply. "Thomas, if you do not cooperate, I will hurt you." When he raised his finger back up, Thomas parted his lips ever so slightly, still refusing to break eye contact, and that was the real danger of his stare. Made it too easy to picture him on his knees, and Mosley was trying to focus right now. He rubbed over the top lip to give it a slight shine, something that winter in Birmingham did nothing to help with. Once satisfied, Mosley took off towards the vanity again. "That's why I pocketed your cigarette," he explained with his back turned. He shook his head and reminded himself that he didn't owe Thomas any explanations. He returned to Thomas with tweezers and began studying his eyebrows. Without warning, he plucked a single hair, then retreated back to the vanity.

Tommy just stood there. Really, what else could he do? It was a special type of crazy he was dealing with, but at least it wasn't Russian Roulette with the duchess. He would let Mosley 'perfect' him if that's all it took to gain his trust. Tommy watched him shift nervously by the vanity and realized that this was the most uncomfortable he had ever seen him. Should he reassure him? About what? Was he supposed to be Mosley's friend? He rubbed his lips together and found he did not like the newfound smoothness. "All this for a few dinner guests?" asked Tommy, his way of asking what the fuck was going on.

"All this for a business deal," replied Mosley. He decided on a gold and emerald collar pin to replace Thomas' black tie.

Tommy, on seeing the pin glint in the lamplight, began removing his tie without being asked, just to speed things along.

"Good," murmured Mosley as he approached. "I like you when you're good." As he worked to fasten the pin, he became aware of how close his hands were to Tommy's neck. They were breathing the same air this close, and if Mosley leaned down just a little, Tommy would have nowhere to go. He was in his house, wearing his pin now, and there was nowhere to go.

The maid knocked. "Sir, more guests are arriving."

Tommy raised his arms mockingly. "How do I look?"

"Better," answered Mosley, obviously still distracted by what was to come. And the thing was that Mosley hadn't dressed any nicer than usual, as if it were only Tommy who needed to look perfect. He felt like he was standing on a boat that was slowly tipping sideways, but on the other hand he might just be drunk. The situation was so nuanced it was hard to tell.

"Let's go, shall we? It's impolite to keep guests waiting." Mosley took off through the hallway, and Tommy strolled casually behind him.

"Lady Cavendish," greeted Mosley, his arms wide as he descended the grand staircase into the foyer.

A blonde woman in a long golden evening gown smiled up at him. "Sir Oswald," she said fondly. When he reached her, she kissed him on each cheek. While she was pulling away, she nearly froze at the sight of the man that was following Mosley down.

Tommy had lit a cigarette by now, Mosley be damned, and was walking down the stairs with his hands in his pockets, the stark contrast of polite hospitality. Sunbeams passed over his face, making his eyes and the gemstone at his neck flicker. He was infamous, and he was prettier than expected. Lady Cavendish decided that this night would be worthwhile indeed.

"Hello," he said off-handedly when he reached the foyer. "I'm-"

"Thomas Shelby," she finished.

Tommy squinted his eyes a little and studied her. He took a drag of his cigarette, nodded, and said, "Yeah."

She grinned.

"Good afternoon, Mosley," said a thin voice from the doorway. A tall, stooped man approached them and stood by Lady Cavendish with his hand on her lower back.

"My husband," she said, gesturing.

Tommy nodded hello.

"Right, well if you'll all follow me to the dining room. We're just waiting for a few more guests to arrive." Mosley turned and strode away, and Lord Cavendish followed immediately. Lady Cavendish didn't move, her eyes fixed on Tommy, waiting for him to follow after her husband.

Tommy almost smirked. It was amusing. "After you," he said, gesturing with his cigarette.

Lady Cavendish smiled and looked him up and down, then she followed after her husband slowly, her heels clicking on the marble.

Tommy stood there, knowing exactly what type of business deal this was now. He exhaled a tired laugh, threw his cigarette down on the floor for Mosley to find later, and walked after them without a care in the world. It didn't affect him. Nothing affected him.

Chapter Text

Tommy sat at the head of the table in someone else's house. The back of his chair was taller than the rest, and it was like he was sitting in the throne at someone else's house. It was Mosley's house, so Mosley was in charge, and Mosley had made him sit at the head of the table because in this case, it wasn't a seat of power- it was a window display. He couldn't touch his food because Lady Cavendish was eyeing him, and he didn't want to get anything in his teeth that she could find later. Also he was nauseous. He sipped his wine and stared straight ahead, feeling her eyes like spiders crawling up his neck. Lady Cavendish sat on his left, then her husband, then Kensley. To his right were Mosley and Boswell.

"Aren't you hungry?" asked Lady Cavendish, breaking the silence. Everyone looked up from their plates to stare at Tommy.

He sighed, still refusing to look at any of them. Taking his time, he retrieved a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, focusing on the flick of his lighter and the smoke in his lungs. He breathed out, then nodded, satisfied. "Talking to the leverage now, eh?" he asked, and it was like storm clouds rolling in- he had changed the air itself. Lady Cavendish smiled wickedly, and he took note. If he was going to do this, he had to know what she liked.

Mosley gulped down his wine before clearing his throat. "Business first. Then-" He gestured awkwardly at Tommy. "-pleasure."

Tommy smirked (or at least moved his mouth upward a little), then chanced a look at Boswell. The old man was cutting his steak with so much focused intensity that Tommy thought he might have an aneurysm. He flicked his eyes over to Kensley, who was blushing and staring at his hands in his lap. And Lord Cavendish? He didn't process any of this. His shoulders were still relaxed into that slouch of his, and he chewed away like a happy turtle. God, no wonder his wife was so ready to fuck someone else. And she wasn't bad looking, by any means. Just happened to be the enemy. But that had never really stopped him before, had it?

"God, look at them move," she sighed, referring to Tommy's eyes.

He raised his eyebrows, shocked at her desperation. He took his cigarette from his mouth and leaned forward. "Lady C-"

"Mira," she corrected, leaning forward to copy him. "Call me Mira."

He took another drag, then blew the smoke out along with her name. "Mira."

Her pupils widened as she inhaled the smoke.

"How about... we skip business?" He let his eyes roam towards her cleavage, knowing she was watching them. "Some things... are more important than business."

A thud on the table. "No! No," said Mosley, perhaps a bit too loudly. He withdrew his hand from where he had hit the table.

Tommy sat back in his chair, and took in the sight of Mosley's pale, anxious face. Small victories.

"This business is important," he continued, trying to capture Mira's attention. "And any deals made will be fulfilled after dinner." He took a sip of his wine. "Right, so let's talk business."

Tommy just went back to staring, knowing he wouldn't exactly be involved in this conversation. Not as a negotiator, anyway.

"W- we've proposed certain tax exemptions," squeaked Kensley, deciding that someone had to get them started.

Boswell grunted in agreement.

"B-but we may need help getting them through the House of Commons," he continued.

"Would half a million pounds help?" asked Lady Cavendish without taking her eyes off Tommy.

Kensley blushed again. "Yes. Yes, that would help."

"Done," she said, her shoulders rolling like an impatient lioness's.

Boswell threw down his knife and fork suddenly, making Kensley jump. "I do not approve of this," he huffed. He stood up to leave.

Mosley smiled as something inside him snapped. Anxiety turned to anger because who the hell was Thomas Shelby to ruin Mosley's plan? "Sit down, Boswell," snapped Mosley. "We're not finished here." He glared up at the old man dangerously.

Boswell paled and sat back down.

"Good," said Mosley, turning his attention back to everyone at the table. "Now, since we're all aware that Mr. Shelby plans to whore himself out-"

Tommy exhaled either a laugh or something darker- he couldn't tell, so he continued with his cigarette.

"-would anyone else like to fuck him in the guest room after dinner?" He turned to Tommy, who was still staring at some point across the room. "Could be good for business. And politics. Is this what you wanted, Thomas?" If the Gypsy was going to announce himself the whore, Mosley would let him be the whore. So long as they got something out of it.

"Kensley?" Tommy asked, ignoring Mosley. "Boswell? Are you interested in joining the new British Union of Fascists with Mr. Mosley and myself?"

"Good Heavens," complained Boswell.

"I- I'm a socialist," supplied Kensley.

Tommy fixed his gaze on Mosley. "That's what I wanted," he replied, nodding towards Kensley. "We can't trust them," he said in a quieter tone. "They won't give themselves to the cause."

Mosley looked into Tommy's cold eyes, trying to decipher his strategy. Was he genuinely trying to help the cause, and knew that Kensley and Boswell were rats to begin with? Or was he scaring them off on purpose? It was strange, but sometimes Mosley wasn't sure whose side Tommy was on. Had his conversation with Lady Cavendish really been meant to test the loyalty of their guests? Mosley couldn't tell because Tommy's eyes contorted his true motives like a diamond refracts light. Fuck. Back to that, are we? Mosley smiled and continued looking at Thomas. "Get out," he said quietly. No one knew he was talking to.

Mosley stood suddenly and faced Boswell and Kensley. "Get. Out," he repeated, barely containing his rage.

Both men started hurrying out of the room, but Tommy stopped them. "Wait," he called, getting up from his own chair and walking over. He was damage control. "Both of you know my past, yeah?"

"Yeah," gasped Kensley. Boswell just glared.

"Right." Tommy took a wad of cash from his pocket. "Take this," he said, handing half to Kensley and half to Boswell. He pointed a finger at them. "I've put my past behind me. Don't make me unbury it, yeah?"

"Y-yeah," said Kensley.

"Good man," said Tommy, patting him on the shoulder. Then finally, Kensley and Boswell left that godforsaken dining room to forget any of this happened (if they knew what was good for them). Tommy breathed deeply, then realized he had put his cigarette out on the table. He turned to find Mosley still standing and looking livid. Mira was standing too now, but she looked more predatory than angry. The only man still sitting was Lord Cavendish, and Tommy realized then and there that he would never be able to appear as calm and unaffected as this deaf eighty-year-old. He didn't exactly know how to feel about that.

"You tell me your plans from now on," demanded Mosley.

Tommy nodded slowly. "You have whiskey?"

Mosley laughed darkly. "Fuck you, Thomas."

Mira smiled.

Chapter Text

Mosley stared miserably at Tommy and Mira. He stood by the fireplace in the sitting room, too appalled to drink his whiskey. Lady Cavendish- who had offered her first name to Tommy within an hour of knowing him, but had still never given it to Mosley- was all but draped on top of him. While Tommy stood by the liquor bottles, evidently intent on drinking as much as possible before he was pulled away, Mira hung her arms over his shoulders from behind and bent slightly at the waist so her lips were level with his ear. Tommy was a little thing, after all, and Mira was a few inches taller than him with heels. Mosley could see her lips moving, but could only imagine what she was whispering. And Tommy... Well, Tommy was worse.

With each drink, his cheeks became more flushed as if they were already fucking. Those eyes of his became softer- glassy like they'd been after Mosley had taken care of him so well in his office. Tommy had just let him, remembered Mosley, as he was letting Mira hold onto him now, and Mosley felt jealousy poisoning his blood. He was more than Mira. He was stronger. He could give Thomas what he needed- what he wanted. Mosley wasn't sure if he regretted making this deal or not. At the time, he had found no issue in loaning his toy out for the night, but he had never imagined having to witness something like this. Hands where they didn't belong, and Tommy doing his damndest to get all loose and relaxed and so easy for Mosley to just walk over and kiss his slackening mouth, met with no resistance. He'd show Mira how good Tommy could be for him.

Mosley ran a hand through his hair, then decided that he did want to drink his whiskey after all.

Tommy drank his fourth glass on an empty stomach, hoping he'd have time to reach the sixth before Mira got too impatient. Luckily, she didn't seem inclined to hurry through this.

"Do you want to know a secret, Mr. Shelby?" whispered Mira.

Tommy finished his fourth and frowned. He didn't know why his heart was beating so fast.

"I'm an excellent horse tamer. May Carleton told me so." She giggled into his neck.

Tommy shrugged his shoulder a little and reached out to pour his fifth. He ignored the hand snaking into his hair and the memories of May snaking into his head.

"They say you're dangerous," she continued.

He downed his fifth. "Do they?" he asked, trying not to cough. He coughed anyway.

Mira nodded against him then pressed her lips into his temple. "But I helped tame Dangerous," she murmured.

Flashes of a falling black body. The feeling of cold metal against his temple, but it was just Mira's lips so calm down. He glared at his shaking hand as he reached out to pour the sixth.

Mira caught his wrist gently. "We don't want you falling asleep," she laughed.

"He doesn't sleep," said Mosley.

Mira whipped her head up to look at him, having forgotten he was in the room. Tommy took the opportunity to reach his goal of six.

"Shall I show you to the bedroom?" he asked, ever the polite host.

Mira grinned. "Lead the way." She abandoned Tommy to his drink, hooked her arm into Mosley's, then disappeared with him down the hallway.

Tommy threw back his final drops of whiskey, swayed only a little bit, and started off after them. In the dark hallway outside the sitting room, he heard Mira's laughter echo against the marble, her heels fading away. That was fine. He remembered where to go. Tommy turned right and started for the grand staircase.

"Which part is this, Tommy?"

Tommy froze in the dark, his head swimming with the alcohol. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. When he opened them, Grace was there.

"Which part?" she asked again.

"You can't be here," he breathed. "I'm working."

"That's why I'm here, Tommy." She reached out a pale hand and rubbed her thumb over his cheekbone. "Don't you remember?"

Images of Grace in her red dress, twirling and alive, while his tired mind planned on giving her to Billy Kimber. Music, and Grace is upset, and- "Everyone's a whore, Grace. We just sell different parts of ourselves." Tommy reached up to touch Grace's hand, but she was gone, and all he felt was the wetness of a tear. He opened his eyes again- didn't realize they were closed- and rubbed his eyes with his palms. "Every part," he said to no one. He swayed then started walking again, faster now. "Every fucking part, Grace, if the price is right." He rounded the corner and came out into the moonlit foyer, then started climbing the stairs. "And now we have everything," he whispered. "Every. Fucking. Thing." he said, getting louder with each word. He saw warm light coming from under a doorway, and he smiled because that's the room Mosley had gotten him "ready" in, and somehow he knew even then that this was how it would go. Good intuition means there's never a moment of blissful ignorance- he always knows. I Always. Fucking. "Know."

"No?" asked Mira, opening the door for him. Mosley peered over her shoulder.

"He's drunk," spat Mosley. "Ignore him."

Mira grabbed his arm and pulled him into the bedroom. He stumbled, and she laughed. "Careful, Dangerous," she said.

"Don't call me that," he snapped reflexively. Damn.

"What would you like me to call you?" she asked, ignoring his poor reaction. She dragged him over to the bed and pushed him down.

"Mysterious?" she teased, straddling him while he laid there fully clothed and unmoving. "Deadly?"

"How about Gypsy?" suggested Mosley as he poured himself another drink. Remind Tommy what he is.

Mira paused, considering. "Gypsy," she said, tasting the word. "So... exotic. I like it. It's so, well, dangerous!"

Tommy looked upward because something was happening with his eyes and chest, and it wasn't the time for that, so he turned that part of him off, took Mira by the waist, and switched their positions without warning. "You want to fuck a Gypsy, then, eh?" It was time to put on a show.

Mira almost squealed. "Yes please," she said enthusiastically.

Tommy reached underneath her to start unzipping her golden gown, and she reached up to tap at his collar pin. "Is this cursed?" she asked, all smiles.

Why would she ask that? Why would she fucking ask that? His hands and face faltered- he knows they did- but people are clueless, aren't they? So she didn't notice. "It's Mosley's," he answered honestly, too distracted to lie right now.

A change came over Mira's face. Her smiling eyes glinted with desire. "And why are you wearing Mosley's collar pin?" she questioned.

Tommy heard quick feet heading for the door. "I'll leave you two," said Mosley, and then Tommy wondered why the hell he hadn't left earlier.

"Stay," snapped Mira. She refocused on Tommy. "Answer the question, Gypsy."

He pulled away suddenly to sit on his heels and ran a hair through his hair, not caring if it got messed up.

"Didn't you know?" asked Mosley, suddenly all confidence at the sight of Tommy falling apart, at being told to stay. "He belongs to me."

Tommy froze, his head still bowed.

"You're welcome to stay," drawled Mira. "If you want to make sure I don't break your things."

Mosley smirked and came to stand at the foot of the bed directly behind Tommy. "Lady Cavendish," he gasped, pretending to be shocked. "I didn't know you liked such things."

Mira simply grinned in response, then turned her attention back to her Gypsy. She put a finger under his chin and raised his head so she could see his eyes. "Ooooh," she murmured dramatically. "They're on fire."

Mosley stalked around the bed to see. He took Tommy by the hair and angled his head so the firelight turned his face skeletal. "Yes... I suppose they are." Mosley could see Tommy slipping away- whether it be the alcohol or something else in that fucked brain of his, he didn't care. All he knew was that Tommy didn't so much as blink when Mosley started removing his clothes. First the collar pin, which he sat on the bedside table carefully. "He'll let you do anything to him," said Mosley conversationally as he started on Thomas's shirt.

"Really?" gasped Mira. "How do you know?"

Mosley had thrown all Tommy's outer layers on the floor by now and was working on his buttons. "Because I'll let you do anything to him, and I'm the only one who has any say in the matter." He slid the shirt off Tommy's shoulders and drank in his lithe body, something very few other men got to do. He ignored the twinge of jealousy he got when Mira started rubbing circles into his shoulders and he actually started to relax.

"There we go," she whispered.

Tommy took a shuddering breath, exhaled, then crawled up the bed and positioned himself over Mira. "Are we going to fuck?" he asked. "Or is he just going to keep talking?"

"Fuck," replied Mira, hurriedly unbuttoning his pants.

Tommy kissed at her neck, then whispered in her ear like she had done to him, "Good choice."

Mosley sipped his whiskey and sat in an armchair by the bedside table to watch the show. His toy was good, he had to admit. Possibly even better than him. Mosley would be annoyed, except he knew the difference between them: he made love, and Thomas Shelby took notes. How could he, a man that fucks how he likes it, compare to a man that fucks how she likes it? Tommy started slow, giving Mira time to adjust while he kissed her shoulder and hung his head for her to grab at his hair, acting all overcome with emotion like Mosley knew he wasn't.

But Mira drank it in, her gasps genuine now. Tommy noticed it too, so he moved faster.

"Find his weakness," ordered Mosley.

"Wh-what?" gasped Mira, distracted by how her Gypsy had started fondling her breasts. They worked together to remove her dress completely, then threw it down at Mosley's feet.

"Find his weakness," he repeated. "Or he'll make sure you finish before he does."

"Fuck," breathed Tommy, going still and hanging his head for real this time. Mosley just couldn't leave well enough alone, could he?

"Oh, was that the plan, baby?" asked Mira, rubbing circles into his back again. It felt more like a threat this time. "Were you going to finish off mama first? That's so sweet, darling."

Tommy furrowed his brow when his face went unexpectedly red. And apparently Lady Cavendish was clueless because his reasons were nothing but selfish. Get her off, get out.

"He's not- he's not trying to be considerate," explained Mosley, and Tommy was glad they agreed on something.

"Oh, don't say that," cooed Mira, shooting Mosley a furtive look over Tommy's shoulder. "It's just what good toys do, hm? Pleasure their owners first?"

Mosley nearly protested again, but held his tongue when he saw the back of Tommy's neck go red and heard his breathing get almost imperceptibly heavier, but heavier nonetheless. Mira was smarter than he had given her credit for. He licked his lips. "Well keep fucking her, Thomas," he commanded. "Since you're such a sweet little thing."

"I'll take care of you, baby," she murmured.

Tommy breathed and tried to clear the fog in his brain. Every time she said those- words- it was a shot of liquid gold through his veins. One fuck shouldn't be this difficult, but he was also suddenly very aware of Mosley in the room. He didn't want him to see how Mira was affecting him. It would shift the balance in Mosley's favor- give him ammunition. But the only way out was through, since he was fucking her for the cause and all, so he started moving again.

"There's a good boy," drawled Mosley.

Tommy's breath caught in his throat, but Mira's gasp meant Mosley didn't hear. "I told you," said the wispy, Irish voice that haunted his dreams. He felt a cold finger trace down his spine and shuddered. Mira's eyes lit up as a pained exhale escaped him.

"I told you how good you are," continued Grace, sitting on the bed next to them. She couldn't be here- couldn't see this. He wanted to scream at her to go, and he wanted it to be her beneath him. He blinked and Mira's hair flickered into Grace's shade of blonde. He squeezed his eyes shut and was met with Grace's laughter. "After all these years, Tommy, you still think of me before Lizzie." He blushed, ashamed at how easy it was for him to ignore the wedding band on his finger. But Lizzie would understand. Her past meant she would understand, right? Sex doesn't mean anything, really. It's just a transaction. Just a transaction.

Tommy took Mira by the waist and switched their positions, so she was on top and he was sitting up supporting her lower back. He rolled his hips like he knew Lizzie liked it, and Mira let out a surprised moan. He had the upper hand now. With one hand on her waist and a finger on her clit, Tommy deigned to finish this.

It was adorable, really- Tommy's barely hidden look of determination. He tried to pass it off as passion, but Mosley had seen that tight-jawed look too many times not to recognize it. The thing was, Mosley didn't want Tommy to finish yet. They had really just gotten started. "Somewhere to be, sweetheart?" asked Mosley, crossing his legs and lighting a cigarette.

Tommy huffed as though he were in pain and closed his eyes briefly. He was getting tired, and his hips were faltering. "Oh don't be cruel, Mira," reprimanded Mosley. "Help him along."

Mira laughed breathily and pushed Tommy down. Before he realized what was happening, Mira took control of the pace, moving his hands over his head and pressing down on his wrists to support herself. He let out a shocked gasp, but refused to make any other noise.

"Come on, Mira. I want to hear the pretty sounds he makes."

Mira, huffing like a marathon runner now, just smiled and became both masochist and sadist. She moved one hand from his wrists to his neck and held on, then picked up the pace. Tommy bucked beneath her, decided that this wasn't part of the deal, and freed one arm to try and dislodge the hand on his throat. But she squeezed harder. Tommy let out a strangled groan, too clouded by the pain and pleasure and alcohol to stop it.

"There we go," murmured Mosley, almost to himself. Thomas Shelby was coming entirely undone, an open wound Mosley could dig his heel into.

But Mira was only human, and soon enough she tipped over the edge with a cry and collapsed bonelessly next to Tommy, who inhaled sharply and coughed as soon as her hand went slack. "Did I hurt you?" she mocked, still catching her breath.

"You're not Russian," he rasped. Mira furrowed her brow.

Mosley uncrossed his legs and stalked over. He stared down at Tommy, who was propped up on his elbows, and tutted in disapproval. "What will we do about that?" he asked, looking down Tommy's body.

Tommy blushed and started to rise off the bed, but Mosley held him down with a firm hand on his chest. He let his eyes roam idly, deciding how far he wanted to push his prized possession. In the office, he could at least claim that he was teaching a lesson, but here, intimacy between them was difficult to disguise as anything but lust.

"I've fulfilled my end of the deal," growled Tommy (or at least tried to growl). He opted to stay as still as possible under Mosley's hand.

"I was promised a night," chimed Mira, who had lit a cigarette at some point. "In Sussex, a good host provides dinner and a show."

Mosley smiled down at his glaring gangster, who was still all hazy-eyed and flushed. "Well we wouldn't want to be impolite, would we Mr. Shelby?" He traced over the sunbeam tattoo on his chest and waited for a response. When none came, he pinched his nipple harshly, drawing a twitch and nothing more from Tommy. "No," he answered himself. "We wouldn't." He traced a familiar path down Tommy's abdomen- one he had imagined over and over again- and gripped his cock, still slick from Mira.

Tommy's toes curled as he tried not to squirm. Mosley pumped him slowly and irregularly- three, then nothing. One, then nothing. Eight, then nothing, until he finally caught Tommy's hips buck on their own, searching for friction that had been taken away. "So fucking good," he murmured.

Tommy closed his eyes and wished he could sink into the bed and stay there forever.

"Kiss him," demanded Mira softly, as transfixed as Mosley.

The next thing Tommy knew, there was a tongue in his mouth and a tickling under his nose, and he let it happen. It was the alcohol, the drugs, the words, the nightmares, the pain, the shame, and every fucking thing that made him kiss back. He sold this part of himself for a shot to the brain and the growl Mosley made when he opened his mouth to him completely. Tommy's hands were in Mosley's jacket, and Mosley gripped Tommy's head. The tongue in Tommy's mouth was searching for something to use- it never ended, not even here- and when Mosley found it, he didn't let up. He attacked the nerves in the roof of Tommy's mouth, then bit down on his bottom lip, drawing out the first moan.

"Yay!" laughed Mira, but neither man acknowledged her.

"Knew you'd sing pretty," breathed Mosley into his mouth while Tommy tried to catch his breath. He was almost entirely on top of Tommy's naked body now, still fully clothed. He chuckled and bit along Thomas's jaw to distract him from the hand he was sneaking between them. When he gripped his erection again, Tommy let out a short whine and reflexively pushed at Mosley's chest. "Fuck," cursed Mosley, not prepared for what a sound like that would do to him. "Don't tease me, Thomas," he spat, then attacked his mouth again for punishment.

Tommy whined again at that, and Mosley bit down hard, the taste of blood driving him further into a a haze of hate and lust and jealousy. "You like that?" he asked between kisses, moving his hand at a steady pace now. "You fucking like that?" He suddenly became very aware of Tommy's hipbone against his groin, and laughed darkly. "You fucking Gypsies," he spat, digging his nails into Tommy's skull.

Tommy turned his head away from the kiss, but Mosley just followed him, not letting him catch his breath before trapping him with his mouth again. He would suffocate him like this, all raw and bloody and dying, then revive him for their cause. "We are the instruments," he panted, the rhythm of his hand punishing now, "of a new world order." He didn't let up when Tommy's eyes rolled back in his head, and he arched off the bed helplessly, putting pressure on Mosley's own erection. He didn't let up when Tommy squirmed pathetically, too disoriented to really articulate what he wanted. He didn't let up when Tommy really started pushing, and instead he just licked the salt off his face and kissed him some more. Eventually though, his orgasm snuck up on him and he shuddered and fell limp on top of his breathless, teary-eyed doll.

"Untouched, Mosley," congratulated Mira's voice through the haze. "A very good show, indeed."

Slowly, Mosley lifted himself off the bed and looked down at Tommy. His red-rimmed eyes were already fixed on the ceiling, and his exhales shuddered like winter. Mosley was exhausted at the sight- an endless assault of beauty and apathy and strategy. He knew they'd be dancing for a long, long time.

Tommy turned his eyes lazily towards the sudden crash to find Mosley standing by the bedside table surrounded by broken porcelain. "Worthless now," he explained, and Tommy sighed.

Mosley reached into his pocket, pointedly ignoring the growing cold spot between his legs, and took out a cigarette. He put it carefully between Tommy's lips, who's head was still turned towards him, then Tommy craned his neck to allow Mosley to light it. He dropped his head back onto the pillows, and smoked the damn thing because it was that type of relationship. Take it and smoke. Drops of water escaped his eyes and rolled down his cheekbones, so he filled his lungs with smoke and watched it shudder back out into the air.

"Fucking priceless," muttered Mosley as he lit his own cigarette. He looked down at the broken vase, disgusted by how cheap it looked now. Porcelain was ancient. Diamonds, on the other hand, were revolutionary. He laughed quietly and looked back at Tommy. "It's fucking priceless, isn't it? And all of it..." He made an 'O' with his mouth and blew the smoke at a despondent Tommy. "Well, all of it is mine."