Summary: A chance meeting in the rain reveals Alfie Solomons' disturbing fascination with Isabel, a vulnerable young woman whose innocence ignites his darkest desires.
WC: ~2,3k
Warnings: Non-con/dub-con, forced marriage, emotional manipulation, physical violence, sexual assault, power imbalance, psychological trauma, victim-blaming, captivity.
Pairing: Alfie Solomons/OC(fem).
Margaret’s lips trembled. She rose slow from ‘er chair, movin’ like each word she was ‘bout to speak weighed a bleedin’ ton. And it made sense, din’t it? ‘Cause it weren’t just ‘er daughter’s life ‘angin’ in the balance—it was the whole family’s. Alfie weren’t the sort to flap ‘is gums for nothin’. If ‘e said ‘er boy an’ girl’d meet their end if she said no, well… that’s how it’d be. Margaret saw it in ‘is eyes—cold, ‘ard, no room for feelin’s. Just animal instinct, the itch to own people, to break ‘er poor girl proper. The thought of what ‘e’d do once them car doors shut, cuttin’ Izzy off for good… Christ.
“I…” ‘er voice cracked. She looked at ‘er daughter.
Izzy stood frozen. ‘Er eyes screamin’ without a sound: "You’d really do this? Sell me off?"
Margaret dropped ‘er ‘ead. Shame an’ ‘elplessness crashed down like a sack o’ bricks, like she’d never scrub clean the sin she was ‘bout to commit. Handin’ over ‘er own flesh to a wolf—battle-scarred, war-rotten, a right emotional cripple she’d never loved nor wanted to know.
“…I agree.” Barely a whisper. Then she looked up. Izzy’s face was apology an’ guilt all at once. At least she won’t starve with ‘im. Ain’t that what matters?“Izzy, I’m sorry… forgive me, if ya can.”
But the girl ‘eard none of it. That one word—agree—‘ung in the air like a death sentence. Izzy stopped breathin’. Gone numb, like she’d already stopped existin’. Fingers locked, ‘eart skippin’ beats. This is ‘ow it ends? Not ready to be ‘is wife, sure as ‘ell not ‘is toy. When she’d said she’d do anyfin’ for family, she din’t mean this. She’d rather work three jobs, starve, live day-to-day than kneel in fear, waitin’ for ‘im to snuff ‘er out over some tiny slip.
Alfie, though? Grinned wide—a cat wi’ a mouse at last.
“Knew you’d see sense. Pleasure doin’ business, love.” ‘E clapped Margaret on the back like ‘e’d just closed some top-dollar deal. But it weren’t a business. Just a girl. Some poor scrap who’d now live or die by ‘is wallet, trapped in a gilded cage. A life that could’ve been… anyfin’ else.
Margaret flinched away, not wantin’ ‘is touch, ‘is rotten energy. Alfie didn’t blink. Just jerked ‘is chin at Izzy while adjustin’ ‘is suit.
“Your money comes tomorrow. I’ll send a bloke ‘round—‘elp ya move.” A last glance ‘round the room, then ‘e strolled out, bodyguard draggin’ Izzy behind. No bags packed— “Why bother?” ‘E’d burn ‘er rags, buy ‘er new. Wouldn’t ‘ave ‘is missus shame ‘im in second’and rubbish.
Izzy didn’t fight back as the bruiser dragged ‘er out. She stumbled like a sleepwalker—legs givin’ way, tears streamin’ down ‘er face, burnin’ tracks into ‘er skin. When they hit the street, she didn’t even get to beg ‘er brother for ‘elp. No last-minute mercy from Alfie. Just a yank on ‘er arm, a shove toward the motor.
Then—snap—she tried to wrench free, grabbin’ at the bodyguard’s sleeve, sobbin’ raw.
"P-please…" ‘er voice cracked like glass under a boot. "I… I ain’t what you want… see? I can’t do nuffin’ right…"
Alfie didn’t look back.
"You’ll learn, angel. Everyfing comes wiv time."
The car door slammed like a coffin lid on ‘er future. Izzy pressed against the window, fingers clawin’ at the handle like some tiny bolt could save ‘er. Alfie slid in next to ‘er, watchin’ the way she shook—a scared little rabbit tryin’ not to piss off the wolf.
"Shhh, shhh…" ‘Is thumb swiped a tear off ‘er cheek. "Look at these pearls you’re droppin’…" ‘E marveled at the silk of ‘er skin, like the poshest satin. A treasure, now ‘is to ruin. The motor pulled away, ‘er whimpers music to ‘is ears.
"I… I don’t want this…" ‘Er voice trembled like a leaf in the gutter.
"I know, I know…" ‘Is hand slid lower—shoulder, then knee, burnin’ through the thin skirt. ‘E could feel the purity in ‘er, the untouched bits ‘e’d spoil proper. "You’ll like it. Not yet. But you will. From now on, call me Alfie, darlin'"
Izzy shoved ‘erself into the seat, thighs clenched, lookin’ anywhere but ‘im. Alfie just laughed—low, thunder-rough. The kind that warns of a storm comin’.
"Shy, are ya?" His fingers dug into her knees, prying them apart with slow, brutal force. "Christ, you’re perfect. Pure as a spring, ain’t ya? A proper little lamb."
His breath turned ragged, eyes dropping to where her hands desperately shielded herself.
"Move ‘em."
"P-please… don’t—" She shook ‘er head, tears spillin’ fresh, breath hitching. No one’d ever touched her like this—thumbs creeping higher, like he meant to commit sin right there in the motor.
Alfie froze. Eyes flashing something feral.
She saw it—the way ‘is trousers strained, the twitch of ‘im stiffening under the fabric, roused by ‘er fear. The sight near made ‘er sick. How far’d ‘e go? If she was trapped in ‘is car, the answer was: far as ‘e bloody wanted.
"Ah, my angel…" He leaned in, ignoring ‘er flinch, lips brushing ‘er ear. "You dunno ‘ow sweet you cry. ‘Ow sweet you smell." A wet inhale. "Soap an’ rainwater. Like fuckin’ innocence itself."
His hand jerked higher—under ‘er skirt, calluses scraping tender skin, thumb pressing where only thin cotton shielded ‘er.
Izzy shrieked, legs slamming shut, shoving ‘im back. For a blink, Alfie looked stunned. Then—darkly amused.
A beat of silence.
He exhaled sharp through ‘is nose, nostrils flaring like a bull’s. Christ, ‘e wanted to *break ‘er right there. Show ‘er what ‘appens to birds who cross ‘im. But ‘e leaned back instead, adjustin’ ‘is tie.
"Alright, dove. Mercy for today." A grin like a knife. "Do that again though? Won’t answer for meself. Cute as your fightin’ is."
But ‘is eyes burned—promise, threat, hunger.
"Tomorrow, though…" No need to finish. The bulge in ‘is trousers said plenty.
Alfie’s place loomed—grim as a tomb outside, hollow as one inside. They shoved Izzy out the motor; she fought harder this time, knowin’ once that door shut, there’d be no leavin’.
Solomons watched, then—crack—backhanded ‘er so hard ‘er vision blacked out. Dragged ‘er inside by the wrist while she staggered, half-conscious.
Corridors blurred. His grip crushed ‘er fingers as ‘e marched, ‘er near-runnin’ to keep up. Then—a shove into a room, like she weighed nothin’. Like she was just a doll ‘e could snap.
The Bath ~30 Minutes Later
Huddled in a corner, knees scraped raw, Izzy rocked and sobbed. Useless.
Then—Shoshanna. 40-ish, kind eyes but knowin’. Hired to "ease ‘er in." To teach ‘er the rules of this hellhouse.
The woman ran a bath, helped ‘er undress (tactfully lookin’ away), then left.
The water stung every cut. Izzy grabbed the scrub brush—hard bristles—and scoured ‘er skin. Knees, thighs, neck—anywhere ‘e’d touched. Red welts rose, but ‘is fingerprints stayed.
She scrubbed till ‘er skin screamed. Till tears mixed with the steam.
"Filthy. Filthy. Filthy."
But scrubbin' didn't make 'er clean.
The water'd gone cold.
Izzy sat in the tub, knees hugged to 'er chest, watchin' droplets slide down 'er raw skin. The brush lay useless at the bottom-like all 'er tryin' to scrape today away.
"Mum…"
The thought snapped like a thread. What was 'er mother doin' now? Countin' cash? Cryin'? Or packin' already, refusin' to think 'bout who she'd sold for a dry roof?
"Mark…"
Worse. 'E was alone in 'is room, cough rippin' through 'im, meds on the nightstand that might not even matter now. She pictured 'im starin' at the ceilin', whisperin' 'er name, wonderin' why she never said goodbye.
"I should've… I should've at least-"
Words stuck in 'er throat.
Footsteps outside-heavy, steady. 'Is steps.
Izzy froze. 'Er 'eart pounded so loud it might've echoed through the walls.
""Ow long's it been? Ten minutes? Fifteen?"
She 'adn't kept count. Every second 'ere dragged like an 'our.
The steps stopped at the door.
"Izzy."
'Is voice through the wood-calm, near tender.
"Time to come out."
She didn't answer. Maybe if she stayed quiet, 'e'd leave?
"Don't keep me waitin', love."
The edge in 'is tone sharpened. Alfie was boilin' over, like Mum's kettle when someone lingered too long in the kitchen.
Izzy rose slow, water sloughin' off 'er like the last traces of 'er old life. The towel Shoshanna left was soft, fluffy-nothin' like the scratchy rags at 'ome.
"Why? What twisted thrill 'e get from this?"
She pulled on the robe-silk, foreign, stinkin' of perfume she didn't know.
The door opened.
Alfie stood there, rakin' 'is eyes over 'er.
"Startin' to look proper. Nice seein' ya outta them rags." A grin, noddin' at 'er damp 'air, even the robe she 'ated. She didn't ask why. She knew.
""Ow often we gotta do this?" she muttered, leanin' on the vanity, trailin' a finger over its polished surface. All 'ers now. She should be grateful-fine food, no moldy walls, Mum an' Mark safe. But livin' without feelin' for 'im? That was its own 'ell. 'E'd already 'it 'er once. What else'd 'e do in a rage?
"As often as needed," 'e said simply, closin' in, fingers grazin' the robe's belt. "Not takin' ya tonight. Wanna savor it." A whisper as 'e backed 'er against the table. "Sound fair, dove?"
Izzy turned 'er 'ead, showin' off the bruise 'is 'and left. Alfie frowned, thumb brushin' the yellowin' mark.
"I 'it ya 'ard, din't I? My fault-got carried away." A kiss to the bruise made 'er flinch. "Sorry, angel. I'll keep a lid on it… if you don't push me. Deal?"
'Is palm slid down 'er shoulder, back, thigh-makin' 'er gut twist with fear and 'ate. She gave the tiniest nod.
'Is erection pressed into 'er belly. No pretense left.
"Tonight…" 'Is belt clinked loose. "We start small. Reckon ya can 'andle that, eh?"
Izzy recoiled, shame burnin' 'er cheeks, but Alfie gripped 'er shoulder, forc'n 'er to look.
And there it was 'is trousers saggin' with the weight of 'im, the outline of 'is cock thick, strainin' against the fabric.
"No," she trembled, meetin' 'is eyes at last. Tears welled, but 'is gaze was ice and hunger. "I… I dunno 'ow-"
"That's why I'm 'ere, sweetheart."
'E fisted 'er 'air, yankin' 'er to the floor. Knees cracked on parquet.
"Open."
She shook 'er 'ead, but 'e was already shuckin' 'is shorts free.
'Is cock sprang out-thick, veiny, the tip slick with pre-cum. The musk of 'im hit 'er nose, sharp and alien.
"Alfie, please…" She scrambled back, but 'e stepped on the robe, pinning 'er. "I don't wanna-"
"Think I bought ya for decoration?" 'E dragged 'is length up 'er cheek, leavin' a wet streak. "Open wide, love. Don't piss me off."
When 'er lips stayed shut, 'e backhanded 'er.
"Ya want me angry, girl?" 'Is cock smeared over 'er face as 'e growled.
Sobbin', she parted 'er lips-just enough for 'im to shove the tip in.
"Wider."
Hot flesh filled 'er mouth, hittin' the roof. She gagged, spit poolin' instantly. The taste-salt, skin, 'im-made 'er stomach lurch.
"There's my girl…" Alfie groaned, twistin' 'er 'air in 'is grip. "Now suck. Gentle-like. Use yer tongue. No teeth."
She tried to pull away, but he shoved 'er deeper. The head slammed into 'er throat, 'er body convulsin' with the gag. The sound was vile-wet, chokin'. She coughed, hands braced on 'is hips, tryin' to push back, but 'is grip in 'er hair was iron-tight.
"Deeper." His hips pistoned, drivin' into 'er throat with every thrust.
Izzy choked, tears streamin', drool drippin' down 'er tits. Each time 'e nearly pulled out, she'd gasp-only for 'im to slam back in, rougher, faster.
"You… Christ…" Alfie's 'ead rolled back, "so fuckin' tight… Perfect hot little slit made for my cock, ain't ya? Keep suckin', love-please -" 'E groaned, ignorin' 'er gags, the way 'e battered 'er throat raw. 'Is balls slapped 'er chin. Somethin' tore inside, burnin'.
"Swallow, dove. Do it an' I'll give ya anythin'… Gold earrings, rings, anythin', just-fuckin' hell-" 'Is roar was near animalistic, hips jerkin', fist twistin' in 'er hair.
She felt 'im pulse, then-hot spend down 'er throat. 'E pinched 'er nose shut, forcrin' 'er to gulp it.
"See?" 'E pulled out, cock glistenin' with 'er spit. "Not so bad."
Izzy collapsed, retchin', scrubbin' 'er mouth with 'er sleeve. The taste clung-'im, everywhere, 'is filth in 'er nose, on 'er lips. 'Er robe was soaked with tears and spit, but nothin' erased 'im. Just made 'er sob 'arder.
Alfie loomed over 'er, breath ragged, lips split in a blissful grin. Eyes half-lidded like 'e'd just woken from heaven. Like she wasn't a weepin' mess on the floor-but somethin' beautiful.
"God…" 'E rasped, strokin' 'is slick cock, smearing the last drops. "You ain't got a clue 'ow good that was…"
Flashes. Yeah, there were flashes—bright, scorchin’ little bursts, like tiny stars goin’ supernova behind ‘is eyes. Every thrust down ‘er throat, every choked cough, every muffled whimper from ‘er lips—all of it melted into one ‘ellish firestorm, now fadin’ slow, leavin’ nothin’ but a thick, lazy satisfaction low in ‘is gut.
He looked at ‘er.
Izzy was curled on ‘er side, shakin’, knees pulled to ‘er chest. Spit an’ tears glistened on ‘er chin, ‘er sleeve soaked from scrubbin’ at ‘er skin like she could wipe ‘im off. ‘Er eyes—empty. Like she wasn’t even there no more. Like ‘er mind’d fucked off somewhere this couldn’t touch ‘er.
Alfie frowned.
"Oi…" ‘E reached down, grazed ‘er shoulder. She flinched but didn’t pull away. Too wrecked. "S’over, dove. Ya done alright."
‘E hauled ‘er up—gentle, almost tender, like she’d crack if ‘e gripped ‘ard. But when she tried to lean back, ‘is fingers dug in just enough, remindin’ ‘er: ‘is patience had limits.
"C’mon. Let’s get ya cleaned up." ‘E steered ‘er to the sink.
Izzy stumbled, legs near givin’ out. The water was cold, but Alfie didn’t let ‘er adjust it—grabbed ‘er wrist, shoved ‘er ‘ands under the tap, then cupped water in ‘is palms an’ scrubbed at ‘er face. Rough. No fuckin’ ceremony.
"See? S'already better," 'e smudged the tears off 'er cheeks with 'is thumb. "Ain't nuffin' bad 'appened. Just did what ya was brought 'ere for."
She stayed quiet.
"T'morra'll be easier. Day after? Even more. An' then…"—'is lips brushed 'er ear—"…ya'll be beggin' for it."
'Is hand slid down, groped 'er arse through the flimsy robe. Izzy froze, but didn't fight. Not anymore.
"Now—bed. Big day t'morra, my dove."
He let go, gave 'er a playful slap on the backside—like it was all just a laugh—and turned to leave.
"Left ya clothes in the wardrobe. Don't even fink 'bout sleepin' in that rag—can't stand seein' ya lookin' like gutter trash at breakfast. Oh, an'…" A shark's grin over 'is shoulder. "Pick yer wish smart, girl. Keep it realistic."
Summary: When a late-night walk home turns dangerous, the last person you expect to rescue you is James Cook-college fuckboy, resident troublemaker, and the guy you've spent years avoiding. But after he saves you from an alleyway creep, he won't leave you alone
A/N: This week's been rough-would love to hear how you're all doing.Drop a comment or message me on TG. Your support keeps me going♡
Many wondered how he even managed to get you. You came from different worlds, had different upbringings—you couldn’t stand guys like him. But chance and James’ damn luck played their part. One evening, you were heading home late after practice. Your dad couldn’t pick you up ‘cause he was away on business, and of course, some creep had to latch onto you, lurking in the shadows, eyeing your figure and the cherries printed on the back of your burgundy hoodie. Cute, sure—but it drew the wrong kind of attention.
"Hey, sweetheart—don’t be like that. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Just wanna get to know a pretty thing like you. Do an old man a favor, eh?" The bastard chuckled, rubbing his crotch through his filthy jeans, tongue darting over cracked lips.
"Piss off, freak," you spat, quickening your pace, adjusting the strap of your gym bag. You might’ve looked tough, but inside, you were screaming—scanning the street for somewhere to run, someone to help. And of course, your phone was dead. Just your bloody luck.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, breath hitching as his footsteps closed in. You could *feel* his slimy gaze crawling over you since the moment he spotted you by that brick wall, tailing you slow and steady. Maybe he was just some bloke looking for a quick thrill, too skint for a proper prossie, so he settled on a teen girl who looked soft enough—flushed cheeks from training, messy high ponytail, strands sticking to her temples, chest rising fast under that hoodie. And of course, he’d come from a dark alley. Who the hell thought those were safe?
You were about to bolt when you heard him curse behind you—then a sharp whistle cut through the air, followed by a voice you knew too well. The same handsy bastard from your college, the one who’d copped a feel under more than one girl’s skirt. Cook.
"Oi, you rotting cunt!" The shout ripped through the dark.
You turned just in time to see James—stocky, dishevelled, cig dangling from his lips—grab the creep by the collar and deck him square in the face. The bloke didn’t even make a sound before he hit the pavement, blood gushing from his nose, curling into a ball like a beaten dog. Cook, pissed as hell despite his own shady rep, kicked him twice in the ribs before you yanked him back, dragging him away from the groaning mess on the ground.
"Jesus bloody Christ, James! You’ll kill him—stop, please!"
You’d had enough trouble in your life without leaving some bloke with multiple fractures. Sure, the bastard deserved it, but that didn’t mean you needed a manslaughter charge—or worse, if this creep crawled to the cops and spun some sob story.
Cook didn’t even look winded. Just wiped the blood off his knuckles, gave the half-conscious wanker one last kick, then yanked his arm free from your grip.
"You got any idea how thick you’ve gotta be, wanderin’ round this shithole alone past ten?"
His voice was rough, but his eyes—usually all cocky arrogance—were sharp. Pissed. Not just at the bloke who’d been thinking far worse than biscuits and supper. At you.
Your breath hitched. You hadn’t expected his anger to turn your way.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Your heart still pounded, palms slick with sweat, throat tight. That… that arsehole had almost—You couldn’t even finish the thought. But instead of relief, now your skin prickled for a different reason: him. You wanted to shrink, to vanish into somebody’s pocket—anything to escape that judging stare. He was only a head taller, but right now, he felt twice your size, like he might shake you just to check if your skull was empty.
The whole thing was mad, really. Because here you were, being scolded by Cook. The same Cook who’d groped half the girls in college, mouthed off to teachers, and acted like a proper twat. The one you couldn’t stand. And now he stood there, knuckles split, glaring at you like you were the idiot—like he wanted to yell or make you burn with shame.
"You got a death wish or what?" His voice grated, rough from fags and sharper than his punches. "Swanning ‘round backstreets at night alone… You tryin’ to get jumped?"
Your head snapped up. Gratitude? Yeah, maybe a flicker of it. But right now? Buried under something hotter. This tosser really thought he could shame you for just walking home? Who the fuck did he think he was? He ought to sod off back to the doctor's if he reckoned he had some holy right to lecture her.
"Oh, piss off already!" It burst out -voice shaking, but fury drowning the fear. "Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?! You, who's shagged half the college, who-"
"Yeah, right," he cut in, sarcasm dripping like cheap lager. "'Cause I'm the big danger here, ain't I?" Hands shoved in his jeans pockets, he smirked. "Not the dickhead who wanted to drill you full of holes and leave you in some alley with his spunk leakin' out-nah, definitely not the bloke who could've choked you dead. Never that." Cook barked a laugh, shaking his head. "You're a funny one, Y/N. Worryin' 'bout my rep's got my balls tinglin'. Fancy puttin' your mouth on 'em tonight to-"
You slapped both hands over his mouth, face burning scarlet. Christ, what kind of demon bit him at birth? What twisted urge made him need to prove he was some hard, reckless bastard?
"Jesus Christ, shut your filthy gob. Please." Your palms trembled against the heat of his mouth. His lips under your skin were warm. Too warm. Rough at the edges from fags but soft in the middle -a bloody paradox, just like him. You felt them move, trying to form words against your fingers, and it sent a weird tingle up your wrists.
And then-
"WHAT-"
You yanked your hands back like you'd been scorched.
"You-you LICKED me?!" Your voice cracked into a shriek.
He stood there, grinning like a cat that got the cream.
"Well, yeah," he shrugged, tongue swiping his bottom lip. "Hands were salty. Sweaty. Means you were nervous."
"Oh, and I s’posed to strip and dance on a pole for you now, yeah?" you spat, voice dripping with venom.
"I’d even pay extra," he shot back, rubbing his palms together like a fly eyeing rotten meat.
Your face burned—not just from rage, but from that. From the memory of his tongue, wet and quick, sliding over your skin. From the way your body reacted, even now, while he acted like a complete bastard.
Everything inside you clenched—and not from fear. Between your legs, warmth pooled, traitorous and thick, desire spreading low in your belly like your body had been waiting for this, shutting off the brain that still remembered being chased by a creep minutes ago. Instead of adrenaline, something else took over: sticky, shameful arousal that made your teeth grit and your thighs press together.
No-no-no, not this, please don’t say James is my type, anyone but him, God if you’re even up there—
But he cut through your panic, flooding your skull with him—his raspy laugh, the stink of tobacco and blood, the way he held you (rough, no permission asked). It all made your skin prickle. Even his filthy jokes about street blowjobs didn’t disgust you—just sent a nasty shiver to your knees, making you hate yourself more than ever. Without even trying, he’d started a civil war inside you: shame in one corner, want in the other.
"Let go..." you hissed, but it came out weak—whether from the night chill or the way he stood too close, crowding you.
"Wha’? Scared I’ll drag you home and demand a thank-you?" He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "Relax, sunshine. Won’t ask unless you beg."
Their Walk Home:
You never asked him to follow. He didn't say a word-just trailed behind as you stomped down the pavement like a pissed-off mare, hissing curses under your breath. Something about your reaction amused him, gave him a twisted little thrill-seeing you flustered, cheeks burning under that ridiculous pink hoodie like some demonic Barbie, a wet dream for incels and virgin nerds in specs.
The walk was dead silent. Neither of you spoke, the only sound the scuff of trainers on tarmac.
Then-
"So. How many?" His voice was rough from smoke.
"What?" You whipped around, scowling.
"Blokes." He smirked, taking a drag. "Or d'you save yourself for Prince Charming?"
Your face flamed.
"Not your bloody business," you snapped, speeding up.
Predictable reaction. Of course, that just made him chuckle, catching up in two strides, matching your pace.
"Ohhh. So, zero." A pause. "Fingering, though? You even touch yourself?"
"Shut up!" You nearly tripped, ears scorching. "Why the fuck d'you care?"
"Wow. Not even that?" He whistled, mock-impressed. "Proper freak, you. Look decent enough, though."
"James!" You stopped dead, fists clenched.
"Alright, alright-don't burst a vein, princess." He raised his hands in exaggerated surrender. "Just... fascinatin'. All that fire, and underneath? Soft. Virgin."
You hated him. Hated that voice, that grin, the way your body reacted to his words.
A Week Later
A full seven days had passed since that night, and to your shock, Cook had latched onto you like a fucking limpet. The second you wandered into his line of sight, he’d swagger over, cursing loud enough to rattle windows, waving his hands like a pissed-off traffic warden—acting, in short, like a complete wanker. You kept squeezing your eyes shut, praying it was just some twisted daydream, not your actual life. After that alley, he’d apparently decided he had an open invitation to invade your space, whispering "nice arse" every time he passed you in the corridors, doing everything in his power to make you combust with embarrassment.
Sure, he still hung with his mates and skipped half his classes, but whenever he did show up, it meant guaranteed psychological warfare.
Today, you’d stayed late to study—partly for exams, partly because the library was right there in the college building, and your flat was a trek across town. (And if you were honest? Home was… quiet. Dad was always away for work, and your mum—well, she’d left years ago, started a new family, happy as you please. Maybe you should be glad for her. But Christ, even a text once in a while would’ve been—)
You hunched over a battered textbook, thumbing through yellowed pages stained with coffee rings and God knew what else, when—
Hands slammed onto your shoulders.
You jolted so hard your heart did a backflip, a tap routine, then nearly gave out entirely. Clutching your chest, you whirled around, ready to murder whoever had just shaved a decade off your life.
His hands were still there —hot, heavy, like he had some fucking claim on you. You jerked back, nearly toppling off the chair, pulse hammering loud enough to drown out thought.
"What, you finally decided to finish me off after a week of terror?!" Your voice shook, adrenaline sour on your tongue.
He loomed over you, grinning like the ginger devil he was—ripped jacket, cig tucked behind his ear, looking pleased with himself.
"Fuckin’ jumpy, ain’t ya?" He leaned in, close enough you caught the stale tang of tobacco and—mint gum? "Sat here like a library mouse. Not even livin’."
"I’m studying" you hissed, snatching the book up like a weapon. "Unlike some people, I’ve got plans. Goals. Things that don’t involve being a waste of oxygen."
"Oh, goals," he mocked, yanking the book from your grip. He flipped through it like he understood a word (who knew? Maybe he was a ruined genius). "Shaggin’s a goal too. Protein in spunk, friction’s basic physics, babe. Just gotta find the fun in it."
He was still crowding you, breathing filth into your ear, when—
Ahem.
The librarian—a battle-axe of a woman—glared over her glasses. "Out. Now. "
Old biddies like her hated noise, which explained why Cook was never here. Heat flooded your cheeks. You’d never been kicked out before—now you were getting lumped in with him, like you were some troublemaker too. Lips pressed tight, you grabbed your bag, ready to stomp home to your empty flat.
Cook caught your wrist.
"Oi. Not that way." He dragged you toward the lockers instead.
"Let go! I never agreed to—what the hell are you *doing*?!"
"Liar." He turned, eyes alight with something reckless. "You want to. Just too scared to say." A shrug. "S’better than rotting at home, yeah?"
You opened your mouth—then shut it.
Bastard.
He wasn’t wrong. Your mates were off with their boyfriends, at parties, doing stupid shit while you… didn’t. Clubs bored you, smoking made you cough, and after that one time with vodka left you puking for two days, your dad had near kicked you out, snarling "I didn’t raise a pisshead slag."
Against Your Better Judgment
You caved. Maybe it was his stupid pinky-swear that he wasn't planning anything illegal (like you'd believe that otherwise). Maybe it was the way he made momentum sound like something you could grab by the throat. Either way, now you were both lurking in some dingy college corner, you shifting awkwardly while he took his sweet time finishing that damn cigarette.
"Well?" You crossed your arms, glancing around. "Why're we here?"
He took a drag, leaning against the brick.
"Gotta know the rules first, ain't I?" Smoke curled from his lips. "S'how it works when you fancy a girl who's got her shit together."
"I don't know how it works," you admitted, slumping beside him, shoulders brushing. "Thought you'd ask me to a club or... I dunno, walk around town." The words came out too soft. There was something terrifyingly vulnerable in this-in how you'd started anticipating his crude compliments, the way he talked to you like you were already his. And Christ help you, part of you liked it. Wanted to be on his team.
Or at least look like you were.
"Could do." He exhaled, watching the smoke drift. "But be honest-don't wanna piss you off turnin' up pissed if some bouncer lets us in." A smirk. "You're hotter'n you think, and that brain of yours? Just makes it worse. Wanna take you proper-cafés, shit like that. Where you take nice girls."
You choked. Was that... a compliment? Or just his usual filth repackaged?
"That's not-I'm not-"
He didn't let you finish.
His mouth was on yours, in yours, before you could react. Hands pinned you to the wall, his tongue mapping yours like he owned it. You tasted tobacco, felt the cheap cologne stuck in your nose like poison-or maybe something you'd choose to drown in. His palms slid lower, and fuck, fuck-
Summary: A random hookup at a dodgy diner with some ginger tosser leads to... well, a proper turn of events, innit?
A/N: Keeping my promises, yeah? I'm absolutely obsessed with Cook 'cause he's... such a fucking idiot you wanna throttle, but at the same time, he's just so fit and hilarious-I'm sick in the head for this wanker.
WC: ~1115
Предупреждения: непристойности, незащищенный секс, публичное дурачество, Джеймс Кук есть Джеймс Кук.
Pairing: James Cook x f!Reader
You ended up getting fucked in the bathroom of a 24-hour diner by some cocky redhead after wandering in high as balls and starving. In your defense, it wasn't a bad shag-ignoring the fact he came way too fast and left you a sticky mess with his cum soaking through your knickers. Probably a habit of his, but whatever. Normally, you don't just drop your pants for randos who can flirt, but there was something different about this one, y'know?
After the sloppy quickie with Cook (yeah, he introduced himself after blowing his load, which made you cackle at the absurdity), you're slumped on a grimy diner booth, chewing cold potato wedges and trying not to think about how your underwear is still damp. You should have tossed them, but your stoned brain decided walking home with some fabric between you and the world was better than none.
James swaggers back to the table with two sodas, slamming one down in front of you with a shit-eating grin.
-Tastes like cat piss watered down, he grimaces, plopping across from you. -Shoulda just taken 'em off. Squirming around with my jizz in your knickers ain't helping, love.
James Cook lounges like he didn't just fuck you in a filthy diner toilet but pulled off some heroic feat. His ginger mop sticks out in every direction, that smug smirk plastered on his face, eyes screaming "Yeah, I'm like this-what're you gonna do?"
You glare at the half-empty soda.
-Did you seriously drink mine?
-Had to check for poison, yeah? He shrugs like it's the most logical thing.
-Plus, after blowing my load, a man's gotta rehydrate. Basic science, babe.
You roll your eyes but can't help the smirk. Christ, he's obnoxious, but there's something magnetic about it. You've known him less than an hour, and already, his brand of chaos is weirdly charming. Not a gentleman, not a complete animal-just a bloke who loves sex, pretty girls, and makes zero effort to hide it.
The way he sprawls in the cheap booth, arm slung over the back, makes your cunt clench like he wasn't just pounding into you minutes ago, groaning in your ear like a desperate pup as he spilled into your panties. Fuck, those sounds were heaven-left you shivering, cheeks burning like he'd paid you the filthiest compliment.
Absurd, but true.
-You even realize how you look right now? He leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. -Sitting here, all disheveled, my cum still in your knickers, munching chips like it's nothing.
Fuckin'... hot.
You scoff, but heat floods your stomach, making you slick all over again.
-You came in, like, ten minutes, Cook.
-You counting? His hand slides up your thigh under the table, fingers teasing bare skin. -Means you liked it. I know how to fuck, just had an off day. Usually, I make girls squeal like hamsters.
You take a sip of the shitty soda (which does taste like diluted cat piss, but after smoke and his fingers in your mouth, it's almost tolerable). A laugh bubbles up, and you clap a hand over your mouth to keep from spitting it out. So your suspicions were right-he was that guy. The one girls whispered about, maybe even older women. Not that you cared. Just... observations. Classic lad move, really.
-Alright, you slam the cup down, -if you're so legendary, why not take me somewhere better than a diner loo?
James grins, eyes glinting, and in a flash, he's beside you. His fingers dive under your skirt without shame, rubbing your soaked knickers like he's smearing your mixed fluids back into you. Your thighs fall open with a shaky exhale.
-Fuck, you're drenched, he murmurs against your neck, breath hot. Keep this up, you'll have to hide my hard-on with your hand. Wanna embarrass yourself? Make us look like rabbits who can't stop shagging on every surface?
You just lean back, gripping his shoulder. Couldn't give a fuck if the cashier sees him finger you right here. If he asked, you'd probably come screaming his name loud enough for the whole diner to hear.
-James... Your whisper trembles. Fuck me properly. Not just your fingers.
He laughs-low, rough-like you've said something hilarious instead of begging.
-That quick? His fingers don't stop; if anything, one slips under the waistband, soaked with his own spend. You clench around him, hot and wet. Thought I came too fast earlier. Now this?
You glance at the cashier-some old bloke pretending not to notice your hips twitching under James' touch.
-Changed my mind. You yank his hair, pulling him close until your lips brush his. -Fuck me right, Cook. Or can't you?
His eyes darken, like you've just challenged him to the best game of his life.
-Christ, the mouth on you. He grins.
-Hope you suck cock as good as you talk, or I'll paint your face 'til you choke on the smell.
Then two fingers sink into you, stretching, curling-your back arches, legs jerking, but he pins your knee to the booth, keeping you open.
-See? He watches your face twist.
You're already clamping down. If I shoved my cock in now, you'd come in a minute. Then bitch that I finished too fast again.
You open your mouth to retort, but he yanks his fingers free and smacks your inner thigh-sharp, stinging.
-Up.
-Wha-?
-I said up. He hauls you to your feet, nearly sending you stumbling. -We're going to yours. 'Cause if I fuck you here, that fossil'll call the cops, and I'd rather not get nicked for public indecency.
You protest, but he's already dragging you out, not even letting you ditch your ruined knickers.
-What if I don't want to?
He turns, and the look he gives you steals your breath.
-Say no, and I walk. Done.
Вы этого не сделаете.
- Я так и думал.
Он засунул руки в карманы, идя рядом с тобой, его глаза метались по сторонам, словно он искал свидетелей. Сначала ты не поняла, какого черта это имеет значение — неужели рядом какой-то случайный придурок — пока он внезапно не остановился, не присел рядом с тобой и не засунул руку тебе под юбку. «Какого хрена ты творишь?!» Ты шлепнула его по руке, заправив выбившуюся прядь волос за ухо. Не говори мне, что он собирается выкинуть какой-то безумный трюк прямо здесь, посреди кровавой улицы.
"Relax, doll," he smirked, batting your hands aside like they were nothing and diving right back under your skirt. "Just helpin' you lose some excess baggage." In one smooth motion, he hooked his fingers into your knickers and yanked them down. The black fabric pooled at your feet, and you stepped out, the night air hitting bare skin, making your thighs instinctively press together as you crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the breeze where there shouldn't be one.He scooped up your discarded underwear, chucking them onto the pavement like trash."There. Now you're officially ready for round two," James stood, dusting his hands off on his jeans, his gaze dragging down your body-lingering where the wind now teased bare skin.
You bit your lip, cheeks burning. This was the first bloke you'd ever met who had zero filter-dirty thoughts, dirtier actions, no shame. And somehow, instead of putting you off, it was infectious. "You actually just binned my knickers?""What?" He shrugged, but his grin said everything. "They were fucked anyway. Besides-" His eyes darkened. "-this way's more convenient."
Ваш дом — это типичная двухэтажная коробка в районе, где все занимаются своими делами (по крайней мере, вслух). Родители спят внизу, ваша комната наверху — с окном, которое не закрывалось как следует годами. Идеально для пьяных побегов.
And, apparently, ginger idiots.
-You seriously expect me to climb a drainpipe? James eyes it like you've asked him to wrestle a shark.
-Either that, or knock and explain to my dad why you brought his daughter home at 3 AM with no knickers.
Он думает, потом усмехается. - "Ладно. Но если я сломаю себе шею, ты будешь чистить мою могилу своим языком. Don't forget to carve on the stone: 'Died with a stiffy in his jeans, fell like a bloody legend.' "
Ты фыркаешь, когда он вскакивает, как обкуренная обезьяна. Минуту спустя он влезает в твое окно, втаскивая тебя за собой.
- Еле-еле. Он отряхивается. - А теперь скажи мне, что у тебя есть резинки, или я умру по-настоящему.
"Shut the fuck up," you hiss as he kicks your laptop. Your heart's hammering-less from lust, more from sheer terror that your dad's about to burst in.
James doesn't care. He's already got you against the wall, fingers digging into your thighs as he hikes up your skirt.
"You're shaking," he murmurs against your neck, teeth grazing skin. "Scared we'll get caught? Or just desperate for my cock?"
You don't answer-his hand clamps over your mouth, the other sliding between your legs, finding you soaked.
"Christ, you're dripping," he growls, fingers smearing your own slick back into you. "And you dared say I came too fast?"
You bite his palm, but he just pins you harder, his erection grinding against you through his jeans.
"No rubbers," you pant when he finally moves his hand.
"Fuck it." He unbuckles his belt one-handed. "Already pulled out last time. Only difference is now you'll feel how hot I am."
"Тсс..." - ты хватаешь его за плечи, но он просто ухмыляется и одним плавным движением скользит в тебя, впитывая каждую вспышку эмоций на твоем лице, как топливо для своих ебаных фантазий. Без сомнения, он будет дрочить на это завтра или трахаться с какой-нибудь другой птицей, представляя твое милое маленькое "собирающееся-заплачь" личико - просто потому, что он, блядь, вошел в тебя. Ты запрокидываешь голову, сдерживая стон. Он горячий, как следует горит, и без резинки ты чувствуешь, как каждая его жилка, каждый дюйм заполняет тебя.
"Так лучше, не так ли?" - бормочет он тебе на ухо, начиная двигаться. Медленно. Слишком медленно. "Чувствуешь это? Какой я скользкий внутри тебя? Чувствуешь, какая ты узкая?" Ты не отвечаешь, просто впиваешься ногтями в его спину, стараясь не издать ни звука. Но он ускоряется, и твое тело выдает тебя — бедра покачиваются в такт его толчкам, словно у них есть собственный разум.
"Ну же," - он хватает тебя за подбородок, заставляя посмотреть на него. "Хочу услышать, как ты кончаешь. Хочу услышать, как ты скул, как та шлюха в баре, умоляющая меня трахнуть ее". И, черт возьми, ты почти у цели. Но потом - скрип. Дверь внизу. Вы оба замираете.
"Блядь". Твой взгляд устремляется в коридор, откуда доносится шум. "Закрой его, черт возьми", - Джеймс прижимает тебя сильнее, его дыхание обжигает твою кожу. Шаги. Вниз по лестнице. Ты чувствуешь, как его член дергается внутри тебя, но он не вытаскивает его - просто прижимает тебя к стене, ожидая. "Если он подойдет, я выпрыгну из окна", - шепчет он.
"You off yer head?!" You glare at him, hissing like a pissed-off cat.
"Oi, it's this or yer dad catchin' his daughter gettin' railed against the wall like some cheap slag."
You wanna kill him.
But the footsteps fade. Must've been Dad-he's always sneakin' out for a cuppa or a midnight snack, innit? Done it all his bleedin' life, and of course he'd pick now, when some stranger's bangin' his girl in her own room. You've cursed him and the whole damn heavens a thousand times already, scared stiff to yer bones.
Then, a second later, he's at it again.
"Y'know what?" He speeds up, voice goin' rough. "Might even be proper hot if we get caught."
You try to snap back, but he silences you with a kiss and all you can do is give in.
Summary: A chance meeting in the rain reveals Alfie Solomons' disturbing fascination with Isabel, a vulnerable young woman whose innocence ignites his darkest desires.
WC: ~2,500
Warnings: Coercion, Implied/Referenced Sexual Exploitation, Emotional Manipulation, Chronic Illness (Consumption/Tuberculosis), Poverty, Implied Violence, Power Imbalance
Pairing: Alfie Solomons/OC(fem).
All week, Izzy'd been runnin' 'erself ragged, tryin' to make 'erself useful -though truth be told, she was knackered. Day after day, she'd scoured the streets for a second job, anythin' to take the weight off 'er mum's shoulders and 'elp 'er brother. But no luck. Doors kept slammin' in 'er face the moment they 'eard 'er name. By week's end, she was startin' to believe what 'er mum always muttered -that the name "Isabel Clark" was cursed. Or worse.
The thought that she was just another burden made 'er sick. At first, 'er mum'd been furious, snappin' things like, "Y'must've broken somethin' in there, ain't no way they'd toss ya otherwise!" or "Prob'ly took one look at them clumsy 'ands of yours an' thought better of it." But even 'er anger'd faded into pity, like she knew somethin' weren't right.
"Listen, love," Mum'd said awkwardly, barely pattin' 'er slumped shoulders, "proper money's always 'ard-earned. Keep lookin'. Y'll find yer place." Support from 'er was rare-not 'cause she didn't love 'er kids, but 'cause the never-endin' work kept 'er too bleedin' tired to be anythin' but a ghost in 'er own 'ome. Strange way to live, but that's what 'appens when three people scrape by on wages barely enough to feed two-let alone cover rent, or the medicine keepin' 'er brother alive.
So once again, Izzy came 'ome empty-'anded, bitin' the inside of 'er cheek as she washed up and slipped into 'er brother's room.
Mark's room stank of medicine, damp, and decay. She perched on the edge of 'is bed, carefully turnin' over 'is brittle leaf collection in 'er 'ands. He'd be gutted if she broke one, so she handled 'em like glass, holdin' 'em up to the lamplight with a faint smile. She didn't wanna talk about 'er day, didn't wanna look weak-but that was gettin' 'arder to hide.
"Ничего", - пробормотала она, слегка скомкав листок. "Сегодня старый парень в табачной лавке сказал, что я "невезучая". Даже не выслушал меня. Она пожала плечами. "Я не из знатных дам, но даже это было по-настоящему грубо".
Mark coughed, coverin' 'is mouth with a blood-speckled handkerchief before stuffin' it under 'is pillow.
"Maybe stop tryin'?" 'E sighed, straightenin' the blanket. "The pennies from the laundry'll 'elp. We'll manage."
"I can't," 'er voice cracked. "If I stop-"
"Y'll drop dead?" 'E gave a bitter smirk. "Welcome to the club."
Silence. Somewhere in the kitchen, Mum was slammin' dishes into the sink.
"Mark..." Izzy leaned in, lowerin' 'er voice. "Somethin' ain't right. Too many 'coincidences.' Too many doors shut. Don't that seem odd to ya?"
"Or yer just paranoid," 'e whispered -but there was a flicker in 'is eyes. Mark knew better. Izzy was sharp, 'ard-workin', willin' to get 'er 'ands dirty. Any place'd be lucky to 'ave 'er.
"No." She grabbed 'is wrist. "Someone warned 'em off. Someone don't want me workin'."
"Bollocks," 'e muttered, tryin' to pull away but too weak. "Who'd even care?"
No answer. 'Cause the answer hung in the air, thick as the stench of rot.
Maybe 'im. That man who'd stared at 'er like she was a prize, eyes crawlin' over 'er like a predator markin' 'is prey. Worst part? She'd never told 'er family. Mum'd call 'er a slag or assume she'd been messin' with gangsters. And Mark-'e 'ad enough on 'is plate.
Dinner was dead quiet. Vegetable soup with scraps of meat-barely enough to call it a meal, but after a day of nothin' but weak tea and dry bread, it might as well've been a feast. Mum didn't speak, lost in 'er own 'ead. They never talked, not really. Mum only knew 'ow to scold, and Izzy only knew 'ow to shrink into the shadows.
"She loves ya," Mark'd told 'er once, coverin' 'er 'and with 'is clammy one. "She's just scared for us. Don't 'old it against 'er." And she'd tried.
But the fragile peace shattered with three sharp knocks at the door-like nails in a coffin.
Izzy froze, spoon mid-air. Mum's 'ead snapped up.
"Bloody 'ell-" Mum hissed, stuffin' 'er napkin into 'er apron as she stood. "Who the devil's callin' this late-?"
The door swung open before she reached it.
There 'e stood. Alfie Solomons. Impeccable three-piece suit, cashmere, tailored sharp enough to cut glass. A burgundy silk tie, a pearl stickpin with a tiny Star of David. And behind 'im-a brick-'ouse of a man with a face like a butcher's block.
"Evenin', Mrs. Clark," Alfie's voice dripped like treacle. "Apologies for the late visit. Meant to call sooner, but business keeps a man busy, don't it?"
Mum gaped. Not every day a stranger in a suit worth more than the 'ouse strolls in like 'e owns the place.
Izzy, wipin' 'er 'ands on a threadbare towel, stepped into the hall-and 'er blood turned to ice.
'Im.
Alfie's grin widened as 'e spotted 'er. "Ah, Isabel. Lovely seein' ya." 'E brushed past Mum like she was furniture, bodyguard lockin' the door behind 'em.
"Glad yer in good 'ealth," 'e purred, adjustin' 'is cuffs. "Lookin'..." 'Is eyes dragged over 'er worn dress, 'er chapped 'ands. "...charmin'."
Mum lunged.
Five minutes later, Alfie sat at their table like 'e belonged there, finger tracin' the wood grain like 'e was measurin' it for a coffin.
"Simple terms," 'e said. "Yer debts? Mine. The boy's medicine? Mine. This roof? Mine."
Mum's fists clenched. "And in return?"
"Nothin' much," 'e smiled, all teeth. "The girl."
Mum's voice shook. "Y'think I'd sell my own daughter like-like livestock?!"
Alfie didn't blink. "I'm offerin' to save yer son. Consumption ain't cheap. Death is free."
Mum's chair crashed to the floor as she stood. "Y'mad bastard-talkin' like that in front of 'er, with my boy-!"
"Everythin's got a price, Mrs. Clark," 'e said, tossin' a wad of notes on the table. "Yer son could even go to school -if yer girl asks nice. Refuse?" 'E leaned in. "The boy won't see winter. You'll drink yerself to death in a gutter. And Isabel?" 'Is eyes locked on 'ers. "She'll be on 'er knees scrubbin' floors in a brothel. If I allow it."
Then 'e turned to Izzy, grip tight on 'er chair. "Yer a virgin?"
Вопрос повис, как пощечина. Лицо Иззи горело.
Вопрос повис, как пощечина. Лицо Иззи горело.
Mum sobbed. "She's pure, for Christ's sake! The girl 'ardly 'as time to sleep, let alone-!"
Alfie laughed a sound like a rusty saw. "Good. That's real good." 'E straightened, smoothin' 'is tie. "So, Mrs. Clark. Ready to live proper? Or d'ya like starvin'?"
Иззи уставилась на маму, ее душил ужас.
Mum's eyes darted to Mark's door-where 'e was coughin', too weak to stand. Then back to 'er daughter.
Izzy's eyes were wide, wet-a deer in a snare.
Alfie's thumb stroked 'er shoulder, markin' 'is property.
Okay guys, not like I forgot I gotta write the sequel to The Glass Cage or anything, but GOD I’m so obsessed with these blond/ginger fine-ass men rn that I need to crank out some mini-fics about them (right after I drop Part 3). Is it just me, or is this, like, a whole specific type?
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, rough oral sex (face-fucking), gagging/spitting, power dynamics, degradation/praise kink, alcohol use, mild violence (hair-pulling), religious themes (Catholic guilt), semi-public setting (bar bathroom).
A/N:Had a shitty day at work and just wanted someone to pin me in a bathroom and throat-fuck me like I belonged to them...
Краткое содержание: Вы пили с Мэттом у Джози просто еще одна ночь между вами двумя. Но ваши отношения всегда были... особенными. И сегодня вечером это привело к очевидному результату, даже если вы все еще были в середине чертового бара.
It all starts with you being roughly shoved onto the toilet seat in the dingy, filthy bathroom of Josie's bar, the door slamming shut behind you, sealing you and Matt in that cramped little space together.
- "Y'been a right little brat all day, actin' out, givin' me lip. Swear to Christ, I oughta wash that filthy mouth out with soap right in front of Foggy-shame a sinner like you proper." - Matt growled, gripping your chin, his thumb pressing hard on your lower lip, forcing your mouth open. And of course, you obeyed, sticking out your warm, wet tongue with a shaky exhale, knowing damn well he'd catch the scent of alcohol mixed with the honey-lemon candies you sucked on when nervous-or just when you needed something to occupy that mouth of yours. Matt knew the stench of liquor on a person's breath, but he also caught the sweetness, the citrus, and with a noisy sigh, he licked his lips
- "Dirty, dirty girl. So desperate to have that pretty mouth stuffed, huh? Wanna do me a favor an' finally put it to good use?"
You nodded eagerly, drawing a pleased smirk from Murdock-and God, that smirk... It was beautiful enough to make you squirm on the toilet seat, heat pooling between your legs.
- "Good girl. That's it," - he cooed, tilting his head as if listening to the way your tongue danced obscenely behind your lips, feeling the heat radiating from your mouth. He didn't waste time -his fingers, rough and damp from the condensation on his glass, slid along your cheek before his thumb pressed down on your tongue again, pinning it to the floor of your mouth. You felt saliva flood instantly, and he just chuckled lowly, watching your lips tremble around his skin. -"There we go... But we're just gettin' started, baby." His index finger slipped inside, dragging along the wet surface, deliberately brushing the roof of your mouth. You swallowed reflexively, your throat tightening, but Matt didn't stop -another finger, then a third... Your jaw ached, drool spilling thicker now, dripping down your chin and onto his hand. He worked them slowly but insistently, stretching your mouth until you coughed, his fingertips nudging the back of your throat.
- "Ah, fuck-" he rasped when your cough turned into a gag, your eyes rolling back, tears welling. Spit bubbled at your lips, mixing with the tears as he added a fourth finger, making you choke. Your hands clutched his wrist-not to push him away, but to pull him closer, riding out the spasms as he growled approval. - "That's it... Swallow, baby. Didn't ya want that mouth filled?"
He pulled his fingers free, leaving your lips parted, strands of saliva still clinging to his skin. You gasped for air, coughing, but he immediately covered your mouth with his palm, forcing you to swallow your own mess.
"Perfect. Fuckin' perfect. Now..." His free hand unbuckled his belt. "Think ya earned somethin' tastier."
Your gaze dropped to his fly, and you nodded again, already anticipating how he'd replace all that spit with something much harder.
The zipper came down with a sharp sound, and you heard his strained exhale as your trembling fingers freed him, pushing his boxers aside. He was already hard, hot to the touch, pulsing in your grip. You licked your lips, feeling fresh saliva gather, then leaned in, pressing your mouth to the head. Matt sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers tightening in your hair.
-"Oh yeah... There ya go..."
You took him slowly, sinking down until your tongue pressed against his frenulum, your palate meeting thick flesh. He felt every movement-the way your lips tightened around him, how your tongue traced his veins, how spit dripped onto his base.
- "Jesus... Y'tryin' so hard..." His calloused fingers-marked with faint bruises under his sleeves, a scratch on the back of his hand-petted your hair almost tenderly before fisting it again, guiding your pace. This man knew how to control you, how to shatter the image of the righteous Catholic, the blind lawyer fighting for justice by day, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen by night.
You found a rhythm, working what couldn't fit with your hand. Each time you took him deeper, he nudged forward, until your throat clenched around him, making you cough, tears spilling again. He wasn't the longest, but the girth made your jaw ache, your mouth stretched obscenely, sparks dancing behind your eyelids as you clenched the sheets beneath you, growing wetter by the second.
- "Don't stop..." he gritted out, voice shaking.
You obeyed, alternating deep strokes with teasing sucks at the tip, taking him nearly to the hilt before swirling your tongue around the head like candy. His balls tightened in your palm as you squeezed lightly, and he jerked his hips forward with a sharp groan.
- "Fuck-fuck-" His breath hitched, fingers trembling in your hair. - You felt him hardening further, his stomach tensing, and sped up, knowing he was close.
-"I-" - He yanked your hair back suddenly. - "Christ... Wanna feel ya swallow every drop, darlin'. Wanna feed that throat, stuff that mouth full.
- "Do that for me, angel"
His voice was rough, low, yet pleading, and your heart melted. Looking up, you saw his parted lips, his heaving chest, his glasses hiding those sightless eyes you knew were darting, searching for an anchor-Matt always did that when overwhelmed. And holy fuck, you'd worship this version of him over any god. You'd kneel in this shitty bar bathroom gladly, suck him dry just to ease his tension, be his in every sense -his fuckhole if he wanted, his good girl who'd crawl to him in the middle of the street if he asked.
You opened wider, submitting, and he filled your mouth again, this time w no restraint.
- "That's it... Take it all, yeah?"
You nodded, his grip tightening, and braced yourself.
Matt Murdock comes in your mouth.
His fingers clenched in your hair, holding your head steady-not painful, but firm. You felt him tense to the breaking point, his cock pulsing on your tongue before his choked groan-low, ragged, almost a growl-filled the air.
- "Yeah... Just like that, baby... Swallow..."
The first hot burst hit the roof of your mouth, thick and salty. You closed your eyes, feeling his cum coat your tongue, drip down your throat, mixing with spit. He didn't let go, rocking shallowly, milking himself into you.
- "All of it... Every last drop..." - His voice shook, breath ragged.
You swallowed obediently, then again, making sure nothing spilled. When he finally loosened his grip, you didn't pull away, instead licking him clean, savoring the last traces.
Matt shuddered, his body twitching with oversensitivity.
- "Good girl..." He swiped his thumb over your lip, catching a stray drop. - "Mouth like yours? A fuckin' sin."
You nuzzled into his stomach, breathing in his scent-booze, sweat, him-as his hand petted your hair, almost gentle now.
-"But I think... ya liked it even more than I did."
Summary: A chance meeting in the rain reveals Alfie Solomons' disturbing fascination with Isabel, a vulnerable young woman whose innocence ignites his darkest desires.
"That was horrible. The way he looked at me, touched me, just spoke to me... For the first time, I felt like nothing compared to 'im—like some bug 'e could crush under 'is shoe without even blinkin'."
"I’d met posh blokes before, sure. But rich folk live in their own worlds, don’t they? Never dirtyin’ their 'ands with the likes of us workin’ class. Money, opportunities, careers—none of that’s meant for people like me."
"Christ, I hope I never see 'im again. Let this be the last time."
She barely remembered sprintin’ through the streets, her heart poundin’ so hard it might’ve burst clean out her chest. The moment she crashed through the door, trippin’ over the rug and scrapin’ her knee raw, played on loop in her head. Blood seeped from the torn skin, leavin’ rust-colored stains on the worn-out mat.
Before she could even get up—
- "Bout time! Where the bleedin’ 'ell you been, girl?"- Her ma stood in the doorway, arms crossed, face red as a beet. The apron was splattered with soap suds, and her glare could’ve peeled paint off the walls.
Isabella’s stomach twisted into knots. Every breath felt like fightin’ through wet wool. The sour taste of bile rose in her throat, but she forced it back down.
- "I—I fell..."
- "Fell, did ya?" - Her ma snatched the laundry basket. - "Bloody 'ell, this is Mrs. Harper’s linens! You know 'ow much she pays us?"
Isabella ducked her head. Four pence. Nearly a day’s wages.
- "It... it got ruined..."
"Ruined?!" - Her ma’s voice pitched higher. - "Who’s gonna pay for new ones, eh? Me? Or maybe your brother’ll crawl outta bed and get a job?"
A weak cough rattled from the next room.
Isabella shrunk into herself.
The air in her brother’s room was thick with medicine and damp. Fifteen-year-old Mark lay under a thin blanket, pale as chalk, dark circles under his eyes.
"Got in trouble again?" His voice was rough as sandpaper.
She nodded silently, perching on the edge of the bed. Since entering the house, she hadn't dared lift her eyes to meet his - the shame burned too brightly. Because of her mistake, Mark likely wouldn't get the medicine the doctor prescribed. His condition would worsen now, the feverish tremors returning tonight.
- "Ruined the laundry," she muttered. - "'Alf of it's fit for nothin' but rags now."
-"Ah well..." - He attempted a smile, though it cost him. - "Nuffink to be done now, eh? You did yer best, yeah?"
Again she nodded, twisting her index finger until the knuckle cracked. In moments like these, she felt smaller than her bedridden brother - this boy who spent his days listening to their mum's ceaseless cursing from the kitchen. Fifteen-year-old Mark understood the weight of words better than most, though each one came at him like a punch to the lungs. Never whined for toys or games, just asked sometimes about the weather... or for a new leaf to add to his collection beneath the bed. Her brilliant little brother. The best person she knew. And she'd failed him. Again.
The girl bit her lower lip, fighting back panic—her mother’s hysterics, her own urge to cry in front of her brother. She didn’t want to upset him before bed. Instead, she closed his bedroom door so he wouldn’t hear her sobbing or the shrill wails from the other room. From her damp pocket, she pulled out a yellow maple leaf she’d picked up on her way home, long before the rain started.
- "Gonna look for another job tomorra’, prob’ly try me ‘and at dishwashin’ in some posh restaurant. If I’m lucky, I’ll bring ya some leftovers, eh? Whaddya think?"
-"Yer a right disaster, you are. Gonna muck it up again an’ come ‘ome with bad news, ain’tcha? I know me clumsy sis too well."- His laugh turned into a harsh coughing fit, his face twisting in pain as he clutched his chest. Isabella handed him a small handkerchief and a little bottle of syrup—somethin’ he said soothed ‘is throat and made it easier to breathe. The attacks left ‘is throat raw, so bad ‘e couldn’t even breathe through ‘is nose proper. - " If I wasn’t born a sickly git, I’d ‘elp ya proper. Shame I can’t… Jus’… stay outta trouble, yeah?" Exhausted, he sank back into the pillow, resting his cold, feverish hand over hers. Then he said no more, driftin’ off into a deep sleep. ‘E always did that when the sickness took ‘im—whole nights an’ days lost to it. She couldn’t even imagine ‘ow much ‘e was sufferin’. All she wanted was to make things easier, so ‘e’d get stronger—strong enough to walk outside again, like when they were kids.
Alfie's POV:
"Right bleedin' day this turned out to be," the man muttered as he strode into his office. The kind of silence that'd make a coffin seem lively hung heavy in the air, broken only by the fireplace spittin' and cracklin' like an old tart's knees.
The wall clock tick-tick-ticked away as he shrugged off his soakin' jacket, tossing it over the chair. Water dripped onto the polished floorboards - dark stains spreadin' like bad rumors. Alfie worked at his cuffs, rollin' up sleeves where the damp fabric clung to his goosefleshed skin like a whore who don't know when to leave.
"Isabel..." The name curled off his tongue like toffee - sweet, sticky, meltin' too quick for his likin'.
Shuttin' his eyes, there she was: that little bird turnin' her head as she fled, skirt clingin' to ripe curves, hair comin' undone like a present he meant to unwrap proper. Not just a glance back - a proper frightened jerk of her pretty neck, checkin' if the wolf still followed.
Christ, them eyes though. Wide blue saucers full of proper animal terror.
"Ain't you just a tasty bit o' trouble," he chuckled darkly, runnin' his tongue along his teeth.
...
The office was dead quiet 'cept for the fire spittin' and the tap-tap-tap of 'is fingers drummin' on the polished desk. Loungin' back in 'is chair, legs stretched out like he owned the whole bleedin' world - but them sharp eyes of 'is? Nah, not bored today. Proper hungry look about 'em.
That bird's face kept pokin' at 'is brain like a bad tooth. All he 'ad was her name and bits of 'er - straw-coloured 'air, them big blue peepers like a startled rabbit, lips... Christ, them lips. Soft pink things, partin' just so when she got scared. Proper innocent, like no bloke'd ever tasted 'em. That'd be a right treat for 'is ego, if some street rat 'adn't got there first. Either way, 'e'd find out soon enough.
Alfie ran 'is tongue over 'is teeth, imaginin' nippin' at 'er bottom lip, feelin' 'er shiver like a leaf in the wind.
"Wonder 'ow pretty you'd look painted with me," 'e mused, voice rough as gravel.
Shuttin' 'is eyes, the picture came clear as day:
There she was, on 'er knees where she belonged, 'ands tied neat behind 'er back - not that she could put up much of a fight, but where's the fun in that? Liked watchin' 'em wrists twist about meself. Tears makin' tracks down 'er cheeks, but 'is fist in 'er 'air kept 'er right where 'e wanted.
"Open wider, little dove," 'e'd growl, and Christ, 'e could near feel 'er throat workin' against 'is -
She's gaggin', chokin' proper - but 'e don't let up, not for a bleedin' second. Spit's runnin' down 'er chin, mixin' with them tears, and 'e just pushes 'er deeper, watchin' them cheeks go from pink to proper scarlet like she's 'bout to pop.
When 'e finally lets 'er up, she collapses forward, coughin' up a lung, and 'e smears his spend all over 'er face - them perfect lips lookin' right filthy now, just how they ought.
Alfie's eyes snap open.
"Fuckin' 'ell."
He glanced down - stiff as a poker and no hidin' it. "Like some randy schoolboy wankin' to dirty pictures in 'is 'ead," he muttered with a dark chuckle.
His hand moved of its own accord, adjustin' the strain against his trousers. Tonight'd be interestin', no mistake. Already had his boys scourin' the streets, turnin' over every stone to dig up more on that little mouse. Christ, the things he'd imagined doin' to her enough to make a whore blush. Hours crawled by. The fire burned down to nothin' but embers, barely warm now. The whiskey helped, course good single malt that set his blood pumpin' and his mind racin' like a priest what's been too long without a taste of sin.
As 'e waited for the info, Alfie got to wonderin' - was this little lamb worth the bother? Corruptin' some innocent dove just for 'is own amusement? Too bleedin' philosophical for 'is likin' right now. Maybe 'e'd know better after seein' 'er again. And see 'er 'e would turn up at 'er doorstep proper, see if she got 'is blood up like before.
She were pretty enough, that's for sure. Might even be worth breedin' -imagine that tiny body swellin' up with 'is kid after 'e'd been pumpin' into 'er day and night. Right temptin' thought, that.
The sweetest fruit's the one you ain't tasted yet, innit? Just as 'is thoughts were gettin' properly filthy, in comes one of 'is street rats, face dirtier than a navvy's shirt.
"Got 'er, guv," the boy wheezed. "Isabel Clark. Eighteen winters. Dad's fish food down the docks - drunkard what owed too much. Mum's Margret, stitcher by trade, three months behind on rent. Brother Mark's fifteen, coughin' 'is lungs up proper consumptive, ain't 'e? And the girl... takes in washin' for pennies."
Alfie licked 'is lips. Could wipe their debts clean with a flick of 'is wrist. Get the sickly brat a doctor, make 'is end quicker. But the little miss'd 'ave to earn 'er keep proper. The money meant nothin' to 'im, but 'e weren't runnin' no charity.
"Right," 'e muttered. "We'll make 'er mum an offer she can't refuse. Wrap it up all nice like - 'specially for the missus."
But first? Let the dove think she's flown free. Give 'er a week to forget 'bout 'im.
Summary: A chance meeting in the rain reveals Alfie Solomons' disturbing fascination with Isabel, a vulnerable young woman whose innocence ignites his darkest desires.
Pt. 2
WC: ~590;
Warnings: Power imbalance, predatory behavior, non-consensual touching, sexual tension, dark themes;
Pairing: Alfie Solomons/OC(fem).
Rain hammered against London's rooftops, turning the streets into muddy rivers. England always knew how to treat its residents to proper weather.
Alfie stood under the tobacco shop's awning, watching people scramble for shelter. Pathetic and amusing at the same time. Always runnin', always rushin' the moment the skies open up, like they're bein' chased.
Couldn't see the point in all that fuss - you're gonna get soaked to the bone anyway, 'less you're some bleedin' athlete. Weather's a right proper bitch, changin' its mind like a whore after each client.
Some might wax poetic 'bout the beauty of rain or curse it. Alfie? He just despised it. Didn't care for downpours, couldn't stand scorchin' sun - what he loved was control. Power. And rain was chaos, answerin' to no one.
His gaze drifted lazily across the thinning crowd - then caught on a fragile figure tryin' to cover her head with a worn beige scarf (might've been white once?). The scarf slipped off, revealin' hair tied in a messy knot.
The young miss was in such a hurry to escape the downpour she didn't notice the uneven pavement. Stumbled. The laundry basket slipped from her hands, spottin' clean linens in muddy water.
Her face did somethin' peculiar then - like a deer catchin' scent of a hunter. Proper terrified over spilled laundry. Might've been important to her, might've been nothin'. Either way, she stood frozen, hand over her mouth, lookin' like she'd just been told the Queen died.
Alfie felt that familiar prick of interest.
She started gatherin' the clothes, fingers tremblin', face goin' through emotions - frustration, confusion, shame. Like she might burst into tears over such nonsense.
Amusin'.
Driven by curiosity, he stepped into the rain without botherin' with an umbrella. Felt the water soak through his suit, clingin' unpleasantly to his skin. Didn't care. His steps were measured, near silent, till he was right in front of her, crouchin' down to help gather the scattered laundry.
Now this was odd - Alfie didn't make a habit of helpin' distressed women. But somethin' about this one…
"Proper shame, that," he said, voice cuttin' through the rain's din. "My old mum would've had kittens seein' this mess."
She flinched, head jerkin' up.
And he saw her eyes.
Big. Blue. Terrified.
Like that stained-glass angel in the church he'd burnt down years back.
"I… I was just…" Her voice trembled, barely audible over the rain.
"Just what?" Alfie leaned closer, enjoyin' how she instinctively shrank back.
No answer. Just those frightened eyes dartin' about, lookin' for escape. Adorable.
He took her elbow - not hard, just firm enough to say 'no runnin'.
"Just tryin' to get home…" she mumbled as he guided her under the shop's awning.
"What's your name, angel?"
"Isabel…"
"Isabel." He rolled the name around like fine whiskey. "Got a dad, have ya, Isabel?"
She looked down, shakin' her head slightly.
Oh, what a picture.
Eyelashes flutterin', lips pressed tight. Whole body tensed like a hedgehog ready to roll up. Made him want to poke at her, see if she'd really curl up.
Her blouse, soaked through, clung to her skin, outlinin' delicate shoulders, the dip of collarbones. Slim waist. Small but shapely breasts - proper girlish.
Felt that old familiar heat in his gut.
"No?" Like a content cat, he traced a finger along her wrist, feelin' her pulse rabbitin' beneath the skin. "That's rough, that is. Must be 'ard, no dad about. Doin' everythin' yourself, helpin' dear ol' mum…"
She tried to pull away. He didn't let go. Knew even timid little mice would try to bolt. Didn't realize it only made him want her more.
"I… I need to go."
"'Course you do." Made a show of slowly releasin' her. "Run along home, Isabel. Mind how you go."
The moment she was free, she bolted like a shot rabbit. Didn't even say goodbye.
Alfie watched.
The way her skirt hugged her hips. Rainwater trailin' down her legs. The way she glanced back - scared he might follow.
When she disappeared round the corner, he felt it - that dark, hungry pleasure he hadn't felt in ages. Didn't just want to have her. Wanted to ruin her. Take her apart piece by pretty piece and keep the broken bits somewhere deep in his rotten soul.
A/n: Hey guys, hope you enjoyed it! If not – my bad, I’ll do better next time. Drop some feedback though, it’s my first try and I wanna know how to improve. 🥹
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