ChiChi — 19 (leo) ༄ Mexicana 🇲🇽 ༄ chronically online (but the good kind) ༄ 18+ (mdni!) ༄ She/Her ༄ I like anime and kpop 😻 ༄ I write mostly abt jjk (but I occasionally branch out ^_-)
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Sweet Child Of Mine (Dark Alfie Solomons x Reader)
Summary: Alfie Solomons often read his son the Torah—his favorite being the story of Lot—while you lived it in your own twisted reality
Part 1 of 2 (?)
Word count: 9k
TW: MORALLY AMBIGUOUS! Smut, familial relationship, power imbalance, unprotected sex, p in v, manipulation, obsession, love bombing, emotional conditioning, religious distortion, isolation, role confusion, bodily fluids, mild choking, breeding kink, oral, gaslighting, profanity, age gap, discussions of children, pregnancy, mentions of alcohol, pill popping, threats, coercion, etc. MINORS DNI.
A/N: i am not gonna lie... I have watched tons of disturbing materials in writing this so if you are sensitive to any of these themes, please proceed with caution. Take breaks. Step away. Protect your peace. Let me know if you guys can take or want a part two, I am good either way. This is a risky comeback fanfic after my hiatus but I hope you still enjoy!
“He thinks he’s a fucking loss? He can barely cover your tuition! Who the fuck does he think he is?!” your mother spat, stubbing her nth cigarette into the ashtray perched on the windowsill. “Listen to me, sweetheart, be with a man who worships you. Who gives you the goddamn world.”
It was one of those nights. Again. You were packing. Again. Listening to her rant about ego-driven men who couldn’t afford the jewelry she wanted, because your mother couldn’t hold a relationship longer than six months. This guy? He made it to seven. A record. You’re probably wondering, shouldn’t she be past the age of hopping from one man to the next? Yeah. She should. But she’s also a firm believer that the universe owes her the finest things. And she’s not shy about collecting.
Your mother was barely twenty when she had you. You shared the same ocean-deep eyes, wild dark hair, and pointy nose so people used to call you her shadow or her twin especially once you grew into your own body. She obviously didn’t plan to get knocked up so early, but there you are. Not saying she was the perfect image of a mother, but she was your anchor, your hero, and the only person you trusted when everyone else ran—your “father” included. Or rather, the man who contributed biologically and then vanished like a fucking coward.
Sperm donor fits better. Cleaner. Less sentimental. You didn’t know him anyway.
Little old you did not have any father figure growing up. Mother had her own rotating cast of boyfriends. No one ever really sticks and you stopped learning their names after the third one. You didn’t even know how to address the man when you were carrying your suitcase out of his house, so you just said, “Thank you for letting us stay, Mister.”
So when mother said you were moving again, you didn’t flinch. Liverpool, Birmingham, Yorkshire—you'd seen enough wallpaper to know not to get attached. This time it was Camden Town. London. The house belonged to someone she called “a very busy man.”. He wasn’t home when you arrived and it seemed like she's been here a fee times to know her way around to unpack in his bedroom. You didn’t ask questions. Didn’t care.
You were in your early twenties, some would say in the prime of your libido, when you met him. You remember that moving in day vividly: you stretched out on the carpet of his living room, legs bare, fingers tangled in the fur of his dog named Cyril. The air smelled like old wood and something sweet, molasses maybe, with a sharp undercurrent of alcohol. Then, the man walked inside the house through the front door. Grizzly. Bearded. Sharp blue eyes that didn’t blink. Towering in front of you like a predator.
Man, he can hold a stare.
He smelled earthy like an old wood, and reeked of alcohol but he wasn't drunk. You swear you both held each other's gaze for a full minute, maybe more, before his mouth slowly curled into a crooked grin and the first thing he ever said to you with his gravel-drenched voice was:
“Well now, fuckin’ hell… you’re her, yeah? You’re her—but younger... Christ almighty, you’ve got her eyes and her bloody mouth and I swear to God if I didn’t know better I’d think I’d walked into a fuckin’ fever dream.”
That wasn’t something a man should say to his girlfriend’s daughter. But then again, Alfie Solomons had never been appropriate.
He was in his mid-to-late forties when you first clocked him properly. His words were uncomfortably vulgar, and it made you squirm, made you flush—but fuck, they were charming. It made you wonder what the hell was your mother thinking but then he said he owned businesses, plural, but never specified what kind, and that explained a lot. Just muttered things like, “I deal with the wicked way of our world, sweetheart,” and left it at that. People feared his name. You didn’t know why yet. You just knew they did. He was the least of your worries, honestly. Like her other lovers, this one would not stick that long either.
You knew the choreography: pack light, don’t get attached, learn to leave before they do.
Yet somehow, you ended up in a fucking synagogue, standing beside your mother in a dress you didn’t pick, cast as the maid of honor. Watching her lock herself into that man for life just because Alfie said there was no point in wasting time, and they are not getting any younger.
She became Mrs. Solomons. And you—by implication—became his child.
At one point, mid-ceremony, his eyes flickered to yours. Just for a moment, but enough to make your skin crawl, and you looked away before it could mean anything. They didn’t even book a place for their honeymoon. Just did it in their fucking bedroom, with your mother unapologetically moaning his name. You heard Alfie grunting something about her having his children, right at the moment you assumed he’d just come.
He and your mother were actively trying. You’d bury your head under a pillow whenever it was that time of night, but it never helped. Alfie’s voice always cut through, rambling about legacy, heirs, and how she’d be carrying his blood soon enough. It occurred each night to the point that you're honestly surprised you haven’t gotten a little sibling yet considering how fixated he was on having someone who would take on the family business in the future.
Mother's got a drawer stocked up with pregnancy tests she uses to check from time to time. At one point, you heard them fighting inside their bedroom because they were still unsuccessful in conceiving one.
It deeply upset her. She got knocked up with you when she didn't want to. And now, that she's desperately trying to give Alfie the legacy that he wants, she fucking can't. You were the proof that she could once, but not now. Month after month, test after test, drawer full of plastic sticks, peeing on it, and throwing it in the trash bin as a discarded hope. Alfie always looked at you apologetically whenever your mom would take her anger and frustrations out on you.
Sometimes, after she’d storm off, Alfie would linger, asking if you're alright and he'd say sorry on your mom's behalf. Then you thought, maybe he wasn't so bad. Maybe your mother was the problem after all.
You got to know more about him when you slowly accepted the fact that his house is now your home and you have to live by his rules. He was attentive. Strict, even. And not with your mother—with you.
Just when you're finally starting to warm up to him, he did this.
It happened one night when your date dropped you off just outside the gate. You lingered, laughing, flirting, his hand brushed your waist, and you didn’t move away. You were mid-sentence, about to lean in for a kiss, when the front door creaked open.
Alfie stood there. Barefoot. Shirt unbuttoned. That same unblinking stare.
Your date saw him and straightened up fast, but Alfie didn’t speak to him and walked straight down the steps, grunting, until he was standing between you both. You could smell the rum on his breath, but his voice was clear when he said:
“Right. Now, I dunno what sort of fuckin’ pantomime this is, yeah? But it ends right here. She’s home now.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
Your date stammered something polite, tried to shake his hand, pay his respects to your stepdad, but Alfie didn’t take it. Just stared into his eyes when he cut him off.
“See, I’m not your fuckin’ mate, yeah? I’m the man whose house you’re loitering outside with your hands where they shouldn’t be. And I’m the man who’s gonna remember your face if you don’t fuck off in the next five seconds.” He said with his crazy eyes.
The poor bastard got the message and backed off, muttering a goodbye that barely reached your ears.
You stormed inside the house and didn’t speak until the door shut behind you.
“What the fuck was that?” you snapped.
Alfie didn’t flinch. “You don’t flirt on the pavement like some cheap street girl. Not outside my house.”
You stood there, arms crossed, “You can’t just do that.”
He turned to you slowly wearing a wicked, somehow sarcastic frown on his face and said, “Oh, I can, sweetheart. I fuckin’ did. And I’ll do it again, yeah, because I don’t like the way he looked at you. Like you were something to unwrap.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are? You’re not my father.”
“No?” he said, stepping closer, “But I am. I’m also the man who keeps this house safe. And that includes you," then he leaned in, voice low. “Which means you don’t get to parade yourself like a tramp where I sleep and you obey my fuckin' rules."
Alfie had loud opinions about your dating life, your late nights, even your body and how you dress. Short skirts? Off-limits. Short-shorts? Only inside the house—“where it’s safe,” he said. Now to be fair, mother had lived with creeps before. Men who tried tacky and sleazy moves on you, wrapped in the excuse of “just being friendly" but Alfie wasn't like that.
And in some warped, feral way, he spoiled you the way he spoiled your mother. He claimed you like his own when you were slowly starting to get exposed in his world. He would introduce you by splaying his hand on your waist, directly on the skin under your shirt firmly, saying, “Oi, this one here,” his voice booming, “my girl, yeah? Sharp as a blade, this one. Don’t let the pretty face fool you.”
Everyone laughed and found it adorably sweet and paternal coming from someone like Alfie Solomons but his thumb slowly brushed the bare skin just above your hip then squeezed it enough to make you stiffen. Fuck. You did not know whether to scream or run especially when his fingers curled around the curve of your hipbone.
You felt something... somehow, branded.
Whether you liked it or not—that was another issue entirely.
Over time, he’d say random things out of nowhere like, “You’re fucking stubborn, just like your mum.” and toss you a wad of cash you hadn’t asked for just because he wanted to. Or he’d bark at someone who looked at you too long in the market, then turn to you and mutter, “They don't get to stare at you, sweetheart. You’re not for sale.” He did not like it when men orbited themselves around you. Alfie watched you when you weren’t looking. He was thoughtful enough to memorize your habits, your tendencies, even your silence and what it meant.
He saved your mother the trouble of scolding you herself, and she even justified it by saying he was being protective of family. You retorted he was overstepping, treating you like you were twelve and didn’t know how to use your own skin. Maybe you didn’t. Either way, it shouldn’t have been his business.
Then something disturbing happened one afternoon while your mum was at the market. She left you with a list of instructions, the kitchen, and Alfie. Standing in front of the stove top, watching the minced garlic sizzle with the olive oil, you felt both of his big calloused hands slide on your waist again, his fingers curled around the curve of your hipbone like he did before. His body pressed against your back, and you froze with a spatula still in hand, feeling the heat rising from the pan.
He leaned in, nose buried in your hair. “What’re you cooking, sweetheart?” he murmured as you felt his breath was warm against the shell of your ear.
When you tried to step away, his grip tightened. Nails pressed crescents into your skin. His chest locked you in place. Dear god.
“Where you goin’?” he asked, casual. Like he hadn’t just invaded your body and this was normal. You gulped. Didn’t know what to say. He was your stepdad. Your mum always said Alfie was protective, family-first, loyal to the bone. You weren’t sure anymore what that meant.
“You smell like rosemary,” he said, voice low. “From that beef, yeah? Makes a man think things.”
You stayed still on your place, watching the garlic burn in front of you as you felt his hand moved slowly over your hips, thumb grazing the bone like he was memorizing it. The other slid across your lower belly, rubbing slow circles over your stomach—territorial, almost absentminded, while your pulse tick so fucking loud, you could hear it in your ears.
Just as you think this couldn't get any worse, he leaned in, nose buried deeper into your hair, breath warm against your scalp. “Your stomach’s too flat, don’t you think?” he whispered.
You dropped your spatula on the ground and he didn't even flinch. His thumb grazed the edge of your waistband. You mustered your courage to ask, it fell short and barely audible, but you still said, “What are you trying to say?”
His hand doesn’t stop moving when he hummed and said, “That maybe you ought to eat more,” he murmurs. “Put some softness where it counts. Round out the edges.”
Mm-hm. Bullshit.
“I thought you meant putting something inside to make it fuller,” you whispered.
His hand stills.
You felt his breath catch, just slightly, then heard the low rumble of a laugh in his chest. “Sweetheart,” he murmured then his tongue made a tutting sound before he continued, “you ought to be careful with words like that.” His thumb brushes your stomach again, slower this time.
The garlic was black but it was the least of your concern. You turn your head, slow and deliberate, nose brushing his. Breath mingling.
“Am I wrong?” you asked.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies you, like he’s trying to decide whether you’re bluffing or inviting. “No,” he murmurs finally. “You’re not wrong.”
You should've walked away this moment but you didn't. Instead, you tilt your head, just slightly, not breaking away from his gaze.
“My mom’s gonna be pissed when she finds out.” You said, thinking that sentence itself was enough to scare him off whatever he's thinking of. But no.
It was your first hard lesson. No one scares Alfie Solomons. It's the other way around. He did not even blink, just stared at you like you’ve said something he expected. “She won’t,” he said. “Not unless you tell her.”
“And if you do,” he adds, “you’ll have to explain why you didn’t stop me.”
Nothing happened between you and Alfie that afternoon but you did not tell your mother about the encounter either. Too threatened and convinced from what he said. You didn't come closer to Alfie again since that moment, keeping a safe distance. He acted fatherly around you, as if that conversation never happened. As if he hadn’t pressed against your back and whispered things that made your pulse stutter. You still heard him fuck your mother at night, and be all happily married during the day.
Speaking of which, your mother was graciously absorbed by Alfie into his chain of businesses. She got busy and took over some of his duties and works for him. He generously delegated tasks shared as husband and wife, and claimed he got more time to rest at home than he ever did before thanks to her.
Then she left.
Boston. Six weeks. Business transaction. You didn’t ask what kind. You just knew you’d be living alone with Alfie Solomons under one roof. He knew you weren’t fond of him. Knew you kept your distance. Breakfasts were quiet. You stretched in the garden instead of the living room. Your answers were clipped. One-liners. At night, you ate fast and locked your bedroom door.
It was week two out of six with your mother out of town when he finally reached for you.
No dinner. No pretense. Just a bottle of rum—his own brand, you’d learn later—and two shot glasses. One placed in front of him. One in front of you.
“Right,” he said. “So. We’re not gonna do the whole silent treatment thing for the next month, yeah? That’s not how I run a household.” You sat down slowly, cautious, waiting to see what the hell he was cooking up in that mind of his.
He poured the rum into both glasses, deliberate, slow, like it was part of a ritual. “Your mum trusts me,” he said. “That means somethin'. Should mean somethin' to you too."
“Now I ain’t sayin’ we gotta braid each other’s hair or talk about feelings or any of that sentimental bollocks,” he continued, eyes locked on yours. “But I am sayin’—you’re in my house, sweetheart. And I don’t like pretendin’ we’re ghosts just passin’ by. You’re… my child.”
His child he said.
That’s when he saw it. The smile you bit back as you picked up the glass. He leaned back, grinned victoriously, watching you walk straight into the trap he'd set for a long time.
You don’t know what got into you after you both finished the bottle of rum, but you found yourself riding the man who’d called you his child less than an hour earlier. Naked in his—and your mother’s—bed. Sharing slobbery, tongue-deep kisses. Legs wrapped around his waist, his hands roamed from your back to your hips, and fingers grazing your nipples. His cock deep inside you.
“Fuckin’ hell—look at you,” Alfie hissed. “You were made for this, weren’t you? Tight little cunt clenchin’ round me like the God himself stitched you together to sin.” His breath hot against the skin of your neck. "I'm halfway to hell, aren't I?"
“Don't make this fucking weird, Alfie.”
“A bit late for that concern, love,” he growled, lips brushing your jaw. “This—this is biblical, yeah? You love it when I say things I shouldn’t.”
“I should be fucking you,” you muttered, biting his shoulder.
“Oi, don’t start,” he hissed, gripping your ass. “You’re the one ridin’ me like you’re tryin’ to exorcise somethin’. Don’t start actin’ like you’re the victim of your own bloody appetite.”
You wish you could say you regret it. But fuck—it was good. The room filled with filthy noises, thank God no one could hear. He kept whispering how often he’d dreamt of fucking you while your own mother slept beside him. Kept calling you his princess, his beautiful girl—all while thrusting deep until your stomach twisted and his cock twitched inside until you both blew together.
Of course, Alfie was the first one to break the silence, his hands were still resting against your thighs while you were catching your breaths.
“Well,” he muttered, grinning, “that’s one way to break the fuckin’ ice, innit?”
That wasn’t the only thing that broke that night. You shattered whatever trust you had with your mother, and their marriage which was barely a year in. That night became the beginning of something complicit between you and your stepfather.
“You gonna tell her?” he asked.
You didn’t flinch. “Are you?”
He snorted. “No. I’m not a fuckin’ idiot.”
You did not ask him to name it. Because naming it meant admitting it happened. And admitting it meant choosing a side—victim or accomplice. And you weren’t ready to be either, or you won't admit to yourself which one you truly are.
The doors stayed locked. Curtains drawn. You stopped pretending to eat meals, just drank his rum and whispered things that should’ve never been spoken aloud. He kissed you in passing like it was habit. Called you “his girl” in front of Cyril. Watched you stretch in the living room and touched you in places he shouldn’t while you let him. He showered you with jewelry and gold and when you asked what it's for, he simply said it suited you. Then he started intercepting things. Calls. Messages. Visitors. You found out later he’d been screening everything, telling people you were unavailable, that you didn’t want to be disturbed. He justified it with a shrug.
“World’s full of bastards, sweetheart.” he said. “I keep what’s mine safe.”
He would watch you walk around his house after you take a shower, wrapped in towel, or sometime bare skinned. You let him want you, to touch you between your legs just to check if you were ready for him. You let him order you to kneel between his legs and engulf him inside your mouth until you choked in his size, eyes watering. You loved blowing him, tasting and smelling how tired he was from a long day of work, and catching a whiff of leather from his balls while you bobbed your head around his cock until he'd squirt his cum on your throat unapologetically.
"Swallow it." He ordered, staring down at you, his hand gripping your hair on the back of your head while his other hand held his half-hard cock dripping of semen. "Let your body know I own every fuckin' hole, yeah?"
You felt worshipped. You felt watched. Like a part of your brain had been unplugged—rewired to respond only to him whenever he rutted and came inside you like an animal each night.
It was disgusting.
But you saw what your mother saw in him. The way he made you feel like he owned every bit of you. Someone who will give you the world and showered you with all the luxury and attention he could give. Like every inch of you was his to protect, to ruin, to adore. And instead of pulling away, you leaned in.
He made you breakfast every morning, kissed you before heading to the bakery, he would brush your hair back when you read on the couch without asking, pulled you into his lap when he comes home from a long day of barking at his employees, tell you about how his meetings went with the 'god damn Shelbys', made you laugh so hard you are almost breathless, and he wouldn’t sleep unless you were beside him.
Every night after you two had sex, his hairy muscular arms would wrap around your waist, kiss your shoulders good night, and you would often fall asleep before him. Alfie would just watch you ease into sleeping until your breathing got more relaxed. You weren’t sure when it started but you heard him whisper "Mine" into your hair, feeling his fingers slowly run up and down your spine, when he thought you were asleep.
You didn’t know if he said it every night, but he said it enough that you stopped counting.
It was week four out of six that your mother was in Boston and you have been screwing her husband without her knowledge. You were halfway to the door to meet your friends for drinks. Coat and heels on. Alfie didn’t look up from his chair when he spoke.
“Where you goin’, girl?”
“Out.”
He nodded slowly, like he was humoring a child. “Out,” he repeated. “Right. And what exactly out there’s gonna give you what you already got in here?”
You didn’t answer right away. Just adjusted your collar, checked your phone. “I need air and I want to meet my friends."
He stood. Not fast. Not loud. Just enough to make the room feel smaller.
“You’ve got air,” he said. “Windows open. You want quiet, I’ll give you quiet. But you don’t breathe the same air and smoke from blokes who call themselves friends. You don’t need their noise.”
He's joking right? He isn't seriously making decisions for you now, is he?
“I need space.”
But no. There is no hint of foolishness in his face. He was dead serious. “You’ve got space. You’ve got my bed, even my bloody house, for whatever the fuck you need.” Alfie tilted his head and continued, “You don’t get to leave.”
“You don’t own me.” You muttered, staring straight into his eyes.
He smiled, completely ignoring what you just said, and you felt his thumb gently brush your cheek. “I lose it when you disobey me,” he continued like he was soothing a child. “It’s not ideal, I know. Not gentlemanly. But it’s the truth. I think about what you'd do out there, laughin’, wanderin’, forgettin’ what we are—and I go bloody mad.”
You looked at the handle. Then at him. “Don't test me, sweetheart.” he murmured. “Be good. Let me keep you.”
All you could think about was your mother's lectures that were carved into your memory about choosing a man that can provide you with everything you need and Alfie did. He devoted himself to you. You were drenched in expensive perfumes, silk robes, lingerie, and jewelry. Your feet were cushioned by your new velvet slip ons. Though you didn’t ask for any of it, it kept coming. And he knew enough to notice how sometimes you got quiet, or when you didn’t smile the way he wanted—he’d tilt your chin up, eyes searching yours and would say things like:
“You alright, then? Come here. Let me fix that.”
“I’d do it, you know. Anything if it meant you’d smile at me like that again."
You barely step your foot out of the house again for the remaining weeks of you alone with Alfie. By the time she came back from Boston, you were already liars. Very good ones.
Technically, you didn’t lie.
You didn’t stop either. You simply omitted the part about the reckless, fuck-filled nights. The shared kisses. The whispered promises Alfie made when the lights were low and the curtains drawn. Even with your mother back in the house, Alfie found ways: your bedroom when she was deep asleep, his back office at the bakery, the car parked under flickering streetlights, a motel he paid for in cash, even an alley once when he couldn’t wait another second.
And somewhere in the middle of it—pressed against mossy brick, legs shaking, his breath hot against your neck—you started to feel it. You felt like a whore. Not because your stepdad was thrusting his cock inside you until he came undone but because of the way you both came home separately, and walked through the door like nothing had happened just like how he instructed. She’d ask how you were and you’d say you were good.
Which, in its own twisted way, was true.
But the real lie came later.
Breakfast as a “family,” two weeks after she returned from Boston. Alfie poured tea into your mother’s cup like he hadn’t been inside you the night before. Like he hadn’t whispered promises against your skin while claiming he was out late checking inventory at the bakery. You’d said you were with friends. She believed both of you.
She was glowing. Talking about how well the transaction went. How grateful she was that Alfie let her go in his place.
Wait—what?
Something churned in your stomach. And no, it wasn’t metaphor. It was real. Sudden. Then you all heard the sound of your chair scraping against the wooden floor. Your footsteps thudding toward the sink and retched out of nowhere. Your cheeks burned but your spine went cold. So did Alfie's. Mother rushed to your side, hand on your back, asking you what happened.
And there it was. The lie.
“Stomach bug,” you said, weakly. “Must’ve been something I ate last night.” Then you forced a smile.
Oh, it was a bug, alright.
The one you and your stepfather custom-made and is due in nine months.
You should’ve known better. You should not have slept with Alfie Solomons—the man your mother married AND you should not have underestimated your mother's instincts, because a couple of weeks later, there you were: biting your lip, fully apologetic, staring into her eyes. Eyes you had never seen look that disappointed. Not once. Not ever.
It felt like a knife twisting inside your chest.
She was holding the positive pregnancy test found on the trash bin inside your room when she snooped.
Her voice was trembling, “You’re pregnant. And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I didn’t know how.”
"Who's the father?"
You blinked too fast then looked down. Your instincts were at war, one screaming to tell the truth, the other begging to protect the wreckage. Then the front door creaked open, just in time for Alfie to step in, he just came back from the bakery, and his eyes already scanned the room like he already knew.
“WHO IS THE FATHER?” Your mother's voice cranked up when she repeated the question you could barely answer.
He dropped the coat, walked in slow and annoying calm. “It’s her ex, alright?” he said. “That useless little prick I warned her about, yeah? The one with the motorbike and no bloody sense. Got her knocked up before he fucked off to wherever cowards go.”
Your jaw slackened as you stared at him. He didn’t even look at you. Just kept his eyes on her, like he was daring her to challenge the lie.
“You knew?” she asked.
Alfie nodded. “Course I knew, love. I ain’t blind. I’ve been keepin’ tabs, yeah? She didn’t tell you ‘cause she knew you’d spiral. Which, look—fair play.”
She turned to you. “Is that true?”
Alfie was looking at you now. Waiting for you to dig the hole deeper and bury yourself beside him.
So you nodded slowly. He gave you a faint nod in return. Then wrapped his arms around your mother like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just rewritten the truth in front of both of you.
It was sick and... ironic.
The conversation about your pregnancy, whether you'd keep it or not, was not up to debate. Alfie made it clear when he slipped inside your bedroom when you were two months pregnant, sitting at the edge of your bed, and he knelt in between your legs while he cradled your belly and rested his forehead against it. He whispered, "Mine."
He kissed your belly like it was scripture, breath warm against skin stretched with secrecy. Then he sat back on his heels and looked into your eyes. “You’ll carry it,” he said. “You’ll birth it. You’ll raise it with me. And you’ll do it quiet, yeah? No fuss. No bloody announcements.”
He stood and cupped your face in both hands. His thumbs brushed your cheeks like he always does. “You think I forced this?” he murmured. “Nah. You let me in. You opened the door. You nodded to every vow I whispered in the dark, didn’t you?”
You swallowed, not really knowing what to say. You were pregnant, vulnerable, and he is the only person in the world who knew about the truth about your situation.
“And now,” he said, “you stay. You carry my child. You mother it. Because this—this whole mess—it’s yours as much as mine.”
He kissed your forehead. “You made the bed, love. Now you lie in it. With me.”
Your mother saw how attuned Alfie Solomons was to you as a stepdad and she saw it. The way he showed up for you without even asking like bringing home pre-natal vitamins, cozy blankets, your pregnancy cravings, and rubbed your swollen feet. By month five you started showing, Alfie was evidently nesting, and she thought, how lucky, yeah? To have a man so tender with her poor knocked-up daughter.
She did not notice the way you flinch whenever you called Alfie 'Dad' or how he takes time in rubbing your belly randomly throughout the day.
The secrecy of the situation was killing you and he saw it. So every night, he'd slip into your room, tug your shirt up and kiss your belly. Whispered all the right things your pregnant brain craved—validation, worship, and the truth only the two of you carried. That you were his. That this child was his. That he was finally gonna have an heir for his kingdom and Camden would have its prince.
Every night, his promises became your lullabies. Whispered against your skin, tangled in breath and heat. You nodded to everything he said. Agreed to every vow, every plan, every twisted dream he painted in the dark.
“You’re mine now,” he whispers, hand on your belly. “You and our baby. You're mine. I will build the two of you a fuckin' world where it's just us."
You nod like how you’ve been nodding for months because you’re holding onto him like he’s the only thing keeping you together. You whisper yes to anything he was saying, asking, or even proclaiming.
And then one night, late into month nine, he presses his mouth to your stomach and says:
“You’re gonna give me this one, yeah?” he murmured while rubbing your belly gently. “And then we do it again. We build more. We fill this house with noise and fire and little wrecked versions of you and me.”
Then he looks at you, dead serious, and half-mad.
“You want that, don’t you?”
Yes. Yes, you do.
-
Then came your child. A boy. Your mother didn’t bat an eye when Alfie insisted on a Jewish name, even though you weren’t Jewish. She just nodded, smiled, said it sounded strong. Your son called you Mama. Called her Nana. Called Alfie—Poppa.
Hosea Solomons was a year and a half now. Still breastfed. Still impossibly adored by your mother, who peeled apples for him like it was sacred duty. Sang lullabies. Called him her "handsome loaf of bread" which was painfully endearing, considering his biological father owns a fucking bakery.
You watched her with him sometimes and wondered what would happen if she knew that her husband was the father of your child. Would she still look at Hosea the same way? Would she still love him with that same unfiltered joy?
Alfie spent so much time with his boy. He'd rock him to sleep, carry him on his shoulders, play with him, check on him first thing in the morning, sometimes take him to the bakery to give you some time to catch sleep.
To put your son to sleep, Alfie would pull out the worn-out Torah that has been sitting on a cabinet from his office for a long time. He sat Hosea on his lap, and started reading.
“Right,” he said, flipping pages. “Tonight, we read about Lot.”
You were folding baby clothes nearby, listening and peaking at them from time to time. He was dramatic as usual, your son loved that about him. Alfie read it like it was his favorite bedtime gospel. Hosea barely understood, too young to track the words, but Alfie didn’t care. He read for himself.
“Lot lived in Sodom, yeah?” Alfie said. “City full of rot. Angels came to warn him. Told 'em to run and don't look back.”
He paused. Looked at Hosea. “And what did Lot’s wife do, little man?”
Hosea blinked. Drooled. Alfie smiled.
“She looked back,” he said. “Turned into salt. Just like that. Because she couldn’t let go.”
You stopped folding. Something in your chest twisted. Alfie kept going.
“And Lot? He ran. Took his daughters. Hid in a cave. Thought the world was gone. Thought they were the last ones left.”
He looked up at you then with sharp amused eyes, daring for you to answer. “And what did the daughters do, sweetheart?”
You didn’t answer. He did.
“They got him drunk,” he said. “Laid with him. Made children. Because legacy had to survive. Even if it meant ruin.”
He kissed Hosea’s head. “That’s what survival looks like, yeah? Messy. Biblical. Necessary.”
You stared at him. At your son. At the Torah. And you realized: he wasn’t just reading a story. Alfie was telling you how he saw the world. You looked at your son. His soft curls like his Poppa's, his sleepy blue eyes like yours, and you wondered how much salt you’d swallowed just to stay in this deluded family bubble of yours.
Alfie did all that while still playing husband to your mother and you hated every single thing about it. You love your mom but you hated every single day you had to watch and listen to Alfie act around her.
There's only so much you could tolerate.
At night, when your mom's deep asleep, you let him slip into your room without ceremony, eyes already locked on yours like he’s been waiting all day to look at you properly. You don’t speak. You just shift beneath the covers, make space, let him climb in like he always does. Then you kiss him first, deep and pathetic even if you're upset.
“There she is,” he mutters. “My bloody girl.”
You don’t respond. Just press your forehead to his, fingers curling into his shirt.
“You were quiet tonight,” he says. “Didn’t look at me once at dinner. Not even when I gave you the biggest bloody helping on the plate, yeah? Generous, I was.”
Like the smug prick he is, he grins. “Jealous again, are we?”
You nod. Barely. Of course you are. Even if you hated feeling it but Alfie has his own fucked up way of disarming you. “I hate watching you play house.” you muttered.
Alfie hums, already wrapping his arms around your waist and squeezing the cheeks of your ass once. “Yeah, well,” he said, “I hate pretendin’ I don’t want to bend you over every bloody surface in this place, so I reckon we’re both sufferin’, yeah?”
You didn't respond and just kissed him again slower and deeper this time. Alfie kissed you back and responded with much more longing than you did. His hand finds your belly, even though it’s flat again. His thumb traces where you used to carry Hosea. “You remember what we said, sweetheart?” he whispers, “After the boy—we do it again. We build more. You remember that?"
"Are you serious about this?" you whispered, searching for anything that would give him away from his eyes but Alfie was already moving on top of you, tugging down your knickers and flung it on the floor.
"You want it." he answered. He wasn't asking, he was declaring. His hand slides to your hip, his breath catching, and looking you in the eyes, waiting for you to reaffirm what he just said. You nodded. Another one. Another fucking legacy or another fucking lie when you could barely conceal the first one. But your body was cemented in place, you looked up to his scrunched up face, focused on aligning himself to your entrance that's habitually slick for him. It's like your body always know that it's Alfie.
He groaned when he slipped his cock inside you while whispering "Good girl." and kissing you through his thrusts. He fucked you so hard and took his precious fucking time with it too. Your knees were folded to any direction he could twist your legs to. Pounding on you mercilessly.
“Quiet now,” he murmured. “Don’t wake the house.”
You were sobbing tearing through your second orgasm of the night because Alfie has not cum yet. His hand clamped over your mouth once, then slid to your throat, thumb brushing your pulse. All you can think about how why you're letting him do this to you, and how you're the one carrying the burden of birthing his legacy instead of your mother who was still oblivious until now. Tears slipping down your cheeks and he doesn't stop thrusting even after he notices.
He leans in, forehead pressed to yours, voice low and wrecked. “Oi, what’s this then?” he murmurs, thumb brushing the corner of your eye. “You cryin’ on me, sweetheart?”
You nod. Barely.
He kisses your cheek. “Good. Means you’re feelin’ it proper. Means you’re not just stretchin’ for the sake of it—you’re stretchin’ for legacy.”
You’ve already come undone more times than you can count, and still, he hasn’t stopped.
You sob quietly, body shaking, voice cracking.
“Alfie—please.”
He leans in, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot. “Almost done, sweetheart. Almost. You’re doing so well taking me all in.”
You gasp. “It’s too much.”
“Small price to pay for our little ones, right? Don't worry— I'm fuckin' close.” he groaned.
When he came, your eyes fluttered shut, feeling ropes of his thick hot cum paint the inside of your fucking walls. Heart thudding. Breath shallow. His weight pressed into you, cock still pulsing inside you, milking himself dry, leaving you stuffed full of him.
His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing the sweat and salt and wreckage. Your throat marked red with his fingerprints as you watch him catch his breath.
“You feel that?” he murmured. “That’s legacy, sweetheart. That’s blood and bone and fuckin’ permanence.”
God, you were exhausted. But Alfie kept bombarding you with soft kisses when your head lolled to the side from fatigue. “Oi,” he murmurs,“Look at me.”
His thumb brushes your jaw, coaxing your gaze to meet his, never failing hypnotize you while at it. “It’s done, yeah? I came. You took it all. You’re fuckin’ brilliant.”
You nod, breath catching, and he kissed you again. “Tell me you’re alright, sweetheart. Say it. I need to hear it.”
“I’m okay.” you whispered.
“Good girl. That’s my girl.”
You’re curled into him, breath slowing, skin still humming from everything that just happened. The room is quiet now, no noise, no sermon, just the soft rhythm of your heartbeat against his chest.
“Are you gonna sleep here?”
Alfie doesn’t answer right away. Just brushes your hair back, kisses your temple like he’s sealing something sacred. Then he exhales, faint smile tugging at his mouth.
“I can’t, love,” he murmurs. “Your mum’ll be up soon, yeah? Wantin’ her bloody tea and her bloody husband, and I—well, I’m still playin’ that part, ain’t I?”
No need for a fucking reminder.
“You know I’d stay if I could. You know I’d sleep here every fuckin' night if the world weren’t built on secrets and lies.” he continued.
You press your forehead to his. “I hate it.”
“I know." He sighed and continued, "But we’re good at it, innit? The lyin’. The pretendin’. The legacy.”
He’s halfway out of the bed, already pulling on his shirt, already slipping back into the version of himself the house expects. You whispered, “I wish we could be alone again.”
His fingers paused from buttoning his shirt back and tuck himself back into his pants when you sat up and met his eyes. “Just for a little while. Like when she went to Boston. When it was quiet. When it was just us.”
“Yeah, I know, love. I know.” He walks back to the edge of the bed, leans down, kisses your forehead. “We’ll get it again. I’ll find a way. You know I always do.”
He took your silence as yes, because you can never object to whatever he puts his mind onto.
He grins faintly. “You think I’m gonna let this go? Nah. You. Hosea. And the possible little one you're cookin' inside you. I'll find a way."
Alfie provided everything you and your son needed. He built a warm little bubble where you believed you did not have to worry about anything as long as he was there by your side and you believed every single word he said. He earned the title of being “the most devoted grandfather Camden's ever seen" given by those who didn’t see the way he looked at you when your mother wasn’t watching.
Night after night he slipped into your room and worked you until there was no doubt in his mind, or yours, that you’d be carrying his second. Sometimes slow, sometimes rough, but always with the same end—staying inside you, holding you there, whispering against your ear.
By the third week, you stopped counting the nights. By the fifth, you stopped pretending you didn’t want it. Your fertile young body did not stand a chance when your period didn’t come, Alfie didn’t even ask. It was on your second pregnancy when everything started to unravel.
Because how could you, a person who barely left the house and was always busy caring for her son, be pregnant again? It was harder to hide from her this time. Hosea already looks like Alfie—same wavy hair and color, same flared nose when upset, same fucking temper. Jesus, the eyes were unmistakably his. But your mom kept saying he did look like your ex. It was a lethal combination of denial and delusion from her end, and you took advantage of that. How could you tell her that the man she still called husband had already planted another legacy inside you?
Your mother watched you with Hosea lately, you kept every pregnancy signs concealed but she noticed some things.
Every night, Alfie would always bring her a cup of chamomile tea in bed, two sugars, no lemon, a splash of milk since it calms her down and helps her sleep through the night. That night, she took it but did not drink it while it was still warm, and he noticed her spacing out with her face evidently concerned.
“You alright, love?” he asked.
For a moment, your mom hesitated. She was still doubting the suspicions in her mind but said, “I think she’s pregnant again.”
Alfie slowly inhaled through his nose, his mind is already calculating and crafting what to say next. “Oh yeah?” he said. “And what makes you say that?”
“She’s been retching before sunrise. Can’t stand eggs. She’s exhausted. And those shirts—she’s hiding something.”
He nodded. “Could be stress,” he offered. “Could be hormones. Boy's a handful.”
He tried to be charming, which worked most of the time, but this time your mom didn't laugh. “No,” she said. “This feels familiar.”
“You want me to have a word?” he said. “See if she’ll cough it up.”
She nodded, finally sipping the tea, and falling deep asleep eventually.
He wouldn't have conquered Camden that easily if he wasn't too calculating and manipulative for his own good. Alfie never proclaimed himself to be above lying, tricking, and deceiving people for his own gain, especially when the future of the Solomons name was in the line. Any form of hindrance be damned, and he saw your mother sniffing around the area she wasn't supposed to.
So he pivot.
A week later, he was to resettle the agreement with the East Boston Jews but a couple days before that, his sciatica flared up dramatically and he could barely get up from bed and asked your mom to go in behalf of him, convincing her that it will be better if family went instead of Ollie or another one of his men. In which she agreed, reluctantly.
The day before she was set to fly to the States, she snooped around Alfie's office, looking for the paperworks she'd be needing for necessary briefings and negotiations. You were out with Hosea for a quick check up with the doctor and Alfie was at work. Folders, ledgers, envelopes, contracts, she took whatever she needed. In his desk, there was a photo of him and Hosea framed, which wasn't surprising because he was always fond of the little boy. She stared at the photo longer than she meant to and kept digging, following the itch her gut was telling her she wasn't done looking.
His desk was spotless even after checking the last drawer. Nothing. Said to herself that maybe she was just being paranoid then jerked hearing Alfie's car pull up the driveway and mistakenly nudged down the drawer and fuck... there it was.
A false bottom. She pried it open with trembling fingers. The first thing she saw was ultrasound pictures dated back when you were pregnant with Hosea. Polaroid photos of the boy asleep in Alfie's chest on your bed. Your son's birth certificate with a second page with a statutory declaration of acknowledgement of parentage signed by her own fucking husband.
Land titles. Business deeds. A notarized Will. All prepared by Alfie’s solicitor. All transferring to his son, Hosea Solomons, upon his death, if there are no surviving civil partner.
Her breath was heavy while she's elbow deep in the drawer and didn't even hear the footsteps nearing his office.
“You should’ve stayed out of the drawer.” Alfie said coldly from the doorway, holding her usual cup of tea, and locking the door behind him.
Your mother froze, eyes wide, seeing the monster in front of her. He looked completely fine. No cane, no sciatica. He stepped in slowly, and your mom scrambled to crawl back away from him.
“You were meant to take the papers on top,” he said, nodding toward the neat stack she’d originally pocketed. “The ones I left for you.”
Mother watched him slowly put down her usual cup of tea on his desk, crouching down a feet away from her. He did not look like Alfie the husband or the devoted lover, no. It was like unmasking someone who turned out to be the villain after all.
"Tell me the truth..." your mother whispered.
"Y-you're the fucking father?" She stammered. "Hosea is yours and n-now she's pregnant again, isn't she?! You fucking corrupted my daughter, you fucking animal!"
Her heart was pounding terribly in fear. There was no ounce of guilt nor remorse on his face. He wasn't even violent at all which scared her more. She did not feel the hot streaks of tears falling from her eyes, all she felt was anger and betrayal and everything else inside her.
Because it meant Alfie was not planning to stop with this monstrocity anytime soon. And that her daughter, Hosea, and her other grandchild inside your stomach was caught in the middle of it all. All within the palm of this man.
He took a deep breath and scratched his beard with unnerving calm. “No, no, no,” he murmured. “See, that right there—that’s where you get it wrong.”
“You think I tricked her,” he said. “You think I slithered in, yeah? Whispered sweet nothings, and corrupted your little girl like some fucking serpent in the garden.”
God, he was even smiling. Something that would make your mother swoon before but only finds maniacal now.
“She was ripe,” he said, voice rising. “Ready to carry my child because you fuckin' couldn’t!” His arms flailed, wild, erratic.
Then, just like that, he calmed. “And I saw it—I saw 'er. Not the version you raised. I saw a beautiful, lost young soul who wanted to be claimed.”
“She's young. She didn’t know what she was doing,” she whispered. “I’ll take her. I’ll take Hosea. I’ll burn every fucking paper in this drawer and make sure you never touch them again.”
Something snapped inside Alfie, his eyes narrowed, trigged by the phrase that you'd be taken away from him. So he stood up, nodded, then laughed like a mad man while pacing.
“Oh, you’re gonna take 'er, yeah? Gonna take my legacy, my blood, my fuckin' opera—and what, hmm? You think I wouldn't find ya?"
He stormed closer to your mother.
“You think I didn’t see this comin'? You think I didn’t plan for ya? You think I didn’t know you’d sniff around?”
He slammed his hand on the desk causing the tea cup to rattle, spilling some of it out on the saucer.
“You listen to me, yeah? You fuckin' listen. That girl—your daughter—she’s mine now. Mine. She gave me Hosea. She’s giving me another. She chose me. Not you. Me.”
He was looking at your mother with crazy, wide, unblinking eyes she's never seen before.
“You wanna ruin it?” he hissed. “You wanna rip 'er out of my bed, out of my house, out of my everythin' I built for 'em?”
He leaned in, looking past your mother then back at her, and said quietly,
“I’ll kill 'er.”
“Yeah. I’ll kill 'er." He was nodding as if he himself made sense of what he just said. "I think that's fair. If I can't have 'er then you won't either.”
“And I’ll take Hosea. Raise him proper. Raise him mine. And you—you’ll live your fuckin' miserable, measly life watchin' it happen. Rememberin' that you, the mother, are the reason your daughter is dead.”
Dead. The word itself froze your mother on the spot, unable to think of ways or things to say to get you all out of there. You were in it too deep, too far gone. And Alfie straightened his coat, smoothed his beard, and smiled again.
“Now,” he said, voice eerily polite, “why don’t ya sit down, drink your tea."
He placed a container of small bottle prescription pills printed with your mother's name on it on the desk beside her tea.
“… and take this. Two or three... or fuck it—four." He said then gestured toward the bedroom. "You’ll lay down. You’ll calm down. And you sleep."
-
Evening of the same day. You came in with Hosea on your hip, cheeks flushed from the cold air outside and the doctor’s waiting room, laughing as you kicked off your shoes.
“The little loaf is back home,” you sang.
Alfie was in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled, apron on, stirring a pot of Matzo Ball soup—your son loves having for dinner. He turned and smiled like nothing had happened.
“Look at that,” he said, wiping his hands. “M'boy’s back, yeah?”
He kissed Hosea’s forehead, then yours. You pulled back instinctively, eyes flicking toward the hallway, worried your mother might see.
“Where's mum?”
Alfie tilted his head, amused. “Oh, she didn’t tell ya?” he said, reaching for the salt and sprinkling a bit into the soup. “Her flight to Boston got moved earlier. She left.”
“She didn’t say goodbye.” you muttered.
A million thoughts ran through your mind in that moment. Was she upset? Was it a business emergency? Would she be safe on that trip? All you knew was: your mother never left without saying goodbye. Even if she was just running to the market or getting her nails done, she always kissed Hosea and said a sweet goodbye, a gentle see you later.
Alfie shrugged, casual. “She was in a rush. Said she’d call once she landed.”
He leaned in again, kissed you slower this time. His lips lingering, hands gently rubbing your hips, thumb brushing over your belly as he whispered reverently, “It’s just us now, sweetheart.”
You smiled back at him, half-heartedly. Part of you was happy to be alone again with Alfie, to be one big unapologetic family.
For my darling @darklydeliciousdesires - thanks for the request love! 🖤 This was supposed to be short but I got carried away 😂 I’m accepting requests through my 3k Sleepover event until end of November.
Summary: It's late in the evening and he should be at home with you but once again he's working late. Taking matters into your own hands, you visit him at the office, to encourage him - by whatever means - to leave, only to quickly find yourself at the mercy of your own attempted seduction.
Warnings: 🔞 Smut, cockwarming, mild orgasm denial, Alfie being a bit of an exhibitionist 😂 One (1) racial slur. This is a ‘x reader’ fic but no use of Y/N.
Word count: 2343 3k MASTERLIST
A Bird On A Perch
"Such a needy little thing, ain'tcha..?" Amusement laced the growl against your ear, the rough of his beard tickling the back of your neck. "Thought I told you to sit still though, didn't I? I'm busy."
"Alf…please, c'mon, you promised…" The voice that left you didn't sound like your own anymore, high and thin, the wheedling whine sending heat rushing to your face.
You were beginning to regret the stubborn determination to distract him from spending yet another evening at the office, that had got you into this particular predicament. How cocky you'd been before, sidling into his office in that dress that never failed to get his attention, making yourself at home in his lap and refusing to move until he agreed to come home with you. Had you been less desperate, you might have taken better note of the crease between his brows, or the jut of his jaw, when he said, 'I'll only be half an hour', before you'd let him hike up your skirts and seat himself inside you.
"Stop whining, you agreed to this," he rumbled, squeezing your hips in warning when you tried to move again, chasing friction, chasing anything to relieve the maddening ache caused by the thick stretch of him pressing inside you.
"I know I did, but it's been much more than half an hour," you shot back, flexing your cunt around him in protest. He grunted, rings biting into your skin in response, his breath against your neck a warm prelude to the scrap of teeth against your skin.
"Do that again and I'll make you sit here another hour at least. I'm a busy man, bird, I've got more than enough work to keep us here all night."
A gentle knock sounded at the door and you shifted in alarm, hearing him groan softly at the involuntary movement.
"Sorry! I didn't mean to..!" you gasped, fearing the worst, for Alfie didn't make empty threats. But instead he simply chuckled, carefully rearranging your skirt back over your parted knees so anyone looking on wouldn't be able to see how you were split wide around him.
"Be a good girl for me, won'tcha?" he said quietly, patting your thigh and calling for whoever was at the door to enter.
"Alfie!" you hissed but it was too late, the door opening to reveal his long-suffering assistant, Ollie.
"Sorry Alfie," he said, colour rising to his face as he took in the sight of you seated astride his boss's lap, Alfie's chin resting on your shoulder.
This wasn't the first time he'd encountered you both in what could be described as a compromising position, should Alfie have been the kind of man to give a single fuck about what other people thought.
"I didn't mean to interrupt, but you have a visitor."
Alfie grunted in annoyance. "S'fucking late for visitors. Tell them to piss off."
"It's Mr Shelby, sir."
"Alfie, no…" you mumbled.
"Fuck's sake…alright, send the cunt in."
"Alfie!" You tried to pull away, to scramble off his cock and off his lap, but he wrapped a heavy arm around your waist and all your wriggling served to do was make both of you huff for air, the delicious drag of him inside you temporarily blurring your vision.
"Evening Alfie," announced Tommy Shelby, striding into the office like he owned the place. He stopped short of the chair on the far side of the desk, casting an appraising eye over the tableau you presented. Nodding a greeting to you too, he slowly raised an eyebrow. "Please, don't get up."
Alfie shuffled himself to sit up straighter, and you bit your lip to contain the whimper that desperately tried to claw its way out of your mouth.
"D'you know what fucking time it is, Tommy? Why the fuck are you 'ere?"
The Birmingham man took a seat, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than you felt was strictly appropriate, chilly amusement in his pale eyes.
"I had some business of ours to discuss, but I can see you're…busy. I won't keep you long."
"Yeah, very fuckin' busy," Alfie blustered, making a show of shuffling the many pieces of paper on his desk, every tiny movement making your breath catch in your throat. Resting a hand on his arm, you dug your nails into him meaningfully and, mercifully, he stilled.
"What fuckin' pikey business you got that's so important it can't wait 'til tomorrow?"
Extracting a cigarette from his expensive silver case, Tommy lit up and began to talk, his words taking temporary form in the smoke around his head. Arranging your face into a picture of polite attention, you tried your best to pretend you were listening, but you couldn't seem to follow the thread of the conversation, unable to distract yourself from the thick length you were impaled on. As Tommy set out whatever plan he had in mind, you could feel your arousal leaking out around Alfie, no doubt making a mess on his trousers.
After a volley of back and forth, Alfie's voice a pleasant hum against your back, something Tommy said must have annoyed him - or perhaps he was just feeling enthusiastic; it was often hard to distinguish the difference. But regardless of the cause, he slammed a palm down against the desk, and in your distracted state, the sudden noise made you jump in his lap. The action slid you along his cock and back down, nudging this thick tip more firmly against that sweetest spot inside you, and, entirely beyond your control, a strangled wail slipped from your throat.
Both men immediately stopped talking.
Fire raced from your neck to your face and you avoided Tommy's eye, though you thought could see his face twitching with amusement in your peripheral vision.
"You alright there, bird?" asked Alfie, planting a broad hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently as you tried to remember how to breathe, the slow rub of his thumb soothing you a little.
"Fine, sorry," you choked out, before clearing your throat. "You just startled me."
"Perhaps I should let you think about it, Alfie?" smirked Tommy. "Maybe we can discuss it tomorrow, when you're not…otherwise occupied?"
Before Alfie could reply, he stood, turning his cigarette case in his hands and compressing his lips. "No need to see me out," he winked, and the door clicked closed behind him, leaving nothing but smoke in the air and burning mortification in your veins.
"I can't fucking believe you did that," you hissed, trying to turn to scowl at him, momentarily forgetting your position. The movement made you both mumble, Alfie's eyes flickering closed for half a second before he caught you by the waist.
"Don't give me that," he muttered, pulling your back against his chest and pressing a large palm to your lower stomach; feeling himself inside you, a low groan reverberated up your spine. "You've been dripping down to my fucking balls the whole time."
He punctuated the point with a light roll of his hips and you gasped sharply, rocking into him, chasing the opportunity to finally move proceedings along.
"Had 'alf a mind to let him fucking watch…" he mumbled, teeth on your neck, manhandling you up so he could pull back until just the tip was breaching you open. "Let him see just how needy you can be." He drove back in hard and your whimper at his words turned to a loud cry as bright bolts of pleasure shot through you.
His hands scrabbled at your dress, dragging your skirt to your waist again, the air chilly against where it met your arousal smeared skin. Cupping your pussy, cock pulling slowly inside you, he coated his fingers in the glistening evidence of your desperation and rolled two calloused fingertips across your clit.
"What you think, dove?" he mumbled, cursing under his breath at how your cunt fluttered and flexed at the slow circles he was sliding across the swollen bundle. "Should I have let him see you like this?"
You assumed it was rhetorical - because it usually was - and you let your head flop back against his shoulder, losing yourself in the long-awaited bliss of movement. "Oi," he said, tapping his fingers sharply against your clit, making your eyes fly open and back arch against his chest, "I asked you a fucking question."
"What..?" you could scarcely mumble, mouth dry, brain unable to recall what he'd asked only moments earlier.
"Fuck's sake, look at the state of you," he rumbled, cock sliding faster into you, his free hand pushing into the neckline of your dress to grope at your breasts. "Not a single thought in that pretty little head, is there?" He shoved up into you harder than before and you reached blindly behind you, anchoring your fingers in his hair. "Been perched on my cock too long, 'aven't you, bird? All them clever thoughts you had coming in 'ere just flown away, ain't they?"
You tried to stammer in agreement but he pressed harder on your clit and air fled from your lungs.
"Yeah, ain't no thoughts in there 'cept for my cock, is there?"
Dimly you heard the scrape of his chair legs against the floor and suddenly you were being pitched forward. He slipped from you as you caught yourself against his desk with a yelp of surprise, and then he was burying himself inside you again, the change of angle making your eyes roll back in your head.
"Fuck…Alfie…I…"
He pushed your body down flat against the tabletop, splayed palm pressing between your shoulder blades, while his other hand gripped your hip, the metal of his rings cool against your heated flesh.
"Good thing he didn't get here a bit later though, innit, dove?" he mumbled, hips snapping furiously into you, the slap of skin meeting skin and the lewd sounds of your soaked cunt providing a filthy score to proceedings. The edge of his desk dug into your hips, every deep thrust shunting your body forward hard enough that you'd have bruises tomorrow.
But you didn't feel it.
All you could focus on was the perfect stretch of him, the heavy, slick glide against your fluttering walls. The way every single time he punched the air from your lungs, his thick tip pressed deliciously against that most perfect spot that made black spots dance in your vision, sparks like electricity crackling beneath your skin.
"Wouldn't want him to see this," he huffed out, smoothing his hand over one round generous cheek, squeezing gently. "S'just for me, this perfect little cunt." Tugging one of your arms across your back, he used it to brace himself as he fucked you harder and faster, his strokes beginning to grow sloppy as the edge glimmered on the horizon for him too. "Who does it it belong to?"
You opened your mouth to answer but nothing but a strangled moan came out.
"I said, who does it belong to?' he asked again, more loudly, delivering a light smack to your behind.
"Fuck…you! Yours. All yours," you wailed, finally unravelling with a string of breathless curses, whole body shaking with the long-awaited force of it.
"Fuckin' right it does," he thundered, chasing you over the edge with a guttural roar.
He collapsed forward on top of you, catching himself just before he crushed you against the desk. Fighting for breath, he pulled back and slipped out of you, groaning with appreciation at the thick trail of white that spilled out in his wake. Instinctively, you tried to move but he pressed a hand your back, keeping you still.
"Wait there."
"Alfie…"
"I said wait there woman, for once in your life you'll do as you're told."
He huffed and puffed and then you felt something tickle at your ankles.
"What the..?!"
"Calm down, bird, it's only your bleedin' undies. Come on, one foot… that's it, good girl. And now the other…"
Stepping carefully, you felt him pulling the expensive satin - part of a set he'd gifted you for your last birthday - back up your legs, until they covered you properly, his hand smoothing across your rear.
"There we are, keep all that safe and sound, where it's supposed to be," he chuckled, helping you back to a standing position. With a shake of your head, you turned to face him, pushing your skirt back down into place and your hair back from your perspiring brow.
"Are you quite finished?"
"Thought that was obvious - it's fuckin' drippin' out of you."
Rolling your eyes, you looped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a slow kiss, revelling in familiar scent of rum and ink, and an undercurrent of sex, warmth blooming in your chest.
"Can we please go home now?" you asked softly as you broke apart, smoothing your fingers over his beard. His eyes flicked quickly to the desk you had just been spread out over and you sighed. "Alfie…"
"Thing is, I'm not quite…"
Pushing him in the chest, you stalked around the table and gathered your coat from the stand.
"Dove…"
"Come home now or you can kiss goodbye to spending any time with your - my - cunt for the next month."
"You couldn't possibly go that long," he shot back.
Not turning, you headed for the door.
Before your fingertips even brushed the door handle, you heard him grumble a loud huff and his hulking footsteps thudded towards you.
"Fucking 'ell, woman, I'm trying to run a business…" he muttered, flicking off the light on his way out behind you.
"And if I'd known it was that easy, we could have been home hours ago," you called over your shoulder, nodding at a red-cheeked Ollie on the way past but he didn't meet your eye.
Alfie caught up with you as you passed into the long corridor through the warehouse to the door, looping an arm around your waist and spinning you on the spot.
"But where's the fun in that though, hey?"
Whew! It's been a minute since I wrote for him so I hope that still feels like him 😂 I had forgotten just how much fun he can be to play with. If you enjoyed this, I'd love to hear your thoughts in all the usual ways! xx
Masterlists: ALFIE | 3k CELEBRATION | MAIN
I'm using an ancient Alfie tag list so please do let me know if you want to be removed (or, indeed, added!). I won't be offended, xx
Hiii! Firstly, I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOOOVE your writing-- I've basically marathoned your fanfics they're just too good! Secondly, I have a possible request regarding a certain Alfie Solomons 👀 Possibly a fic where Alfie is head over heels for reader from the get-go? Like, the Shelbys send reader to talk to Alfie because they know he'll respond to her better and he's all 'I'm gonna make you my wife' and she's like 'uh huh, that's great, anyways--' sort of 'one fell first, but the other fell harder' style? Idk if that makes aaany sense but I hope it does
Anyhoo, THANK YOU FOR THE AMAZING FICS~!! I hope you have a super lovely week! 💗
Hi friends! Long time no see, I know it’s strange coming back like this - but the sirens have beckoned me. And I am weak.
Dear Anonymous, thank you for this prompt and PLEASE forgive me for not coming to this sooner. But we are here now! I am so glad you like my stories. It’s so much better when I get to share with you guys.
I hope this delivers! It’s been a while for me 💕
Your Idiot
Alfie Solomons x Fem Reader
Warnings: None
What is the worst thing about the Shelby family? Is it their vicious cuts that blind? The brutal business practices?
Some would say it’s Shelby face itself. Hard and cold one minute. Warm and alluring the next. Intoxicating either way, all the time. While the Shelbys are terrifying and blood thirsty, it did not drive away the droves of lovers and hopefuls from those Shelby doorways. There should be a “Shelby Lovers Anonymous” for all the women that your brothers have seduced. Ada had broken many a heart before her marriage as well, but you - no one got even a toe in the door.
Not that you weren’t as beautiful as your siblings. Far from it. Your beauty and poise was well regarded. It was your public demeanor. They called you an Ice Queen. Which truthfully was funny, because you were the most gentle and affectionate one of the family. Sweet and tender to those who knew you truly. But that sweetness had a critical and assessing eye. You held a more ‘guilty until proven innocent’ mindset. Many had tried to win your affections; gifts, poems, outrageous declarations, one had even threatened a duel with Tommy if he could not have you. But much to the mirth of your family, nothing phased you. You were loving, and had love to give, but no man had truly swept you off your feet. You doubted that one ever would.
Saturday morning. 9am sharp, you were scheduled to meet in Camden with a certain Alfred Solomons. Rarely did you meet with “business” partners without Tommy. Only when the deal needed a special touch to seal it did you get sent in. A sweet smile (falsified or not), a gentle hand guiding the pen and promise. Allegedly Mr. Solomons had nearly put Arthur and John’s head through a window at the last business meeting, and you were deemed the most capable of smoothing things out with the big brute. Had you ever met him? No. But the fact that you were still deemed the best choice to make amends tells you that your brothers must have truly mucked it up.
So there you go, stepping oh so regally out of the car, clothes perfectly pressed and tailored, a right glittering star amongst the cosmos and chaos of Camden. A basket of gin and fine French wine under your arm as a peace offering. Solomons was said to be usually at home on a Saturday morning, so you had made the executive decision to go straight to his home. Optics of a young woman going to a bachelor’s home sans chaperone be damned.
A prim knock on the door brought forth a stout old woman with the sweetest face on earth, with a crisp floral print dress. Your heart ached, she looked like your primary school teacher. “Good morning ma’am, may I help you?”, she chirped.
You nodded, “Good morning, I’m here to see Mr. Solomons. I’ve been sent to deliver some goods to him. I believe he’s expecting me - I’m Miss Shelby.”
“Oh yes yes yes. The younger one aren’t you? Yes I have been expecting you. Come come.”
You were ushered into the fold by the older woman - the housekeeper Mrs. Fitz you would come to find out. Taking your hat and over coat, she beckoned you to the study on the second floor.
It was certainly a bachelor’s home, but kept tidy by the craftsmanship of Mrs. Fitz certainly. Books were piled in various corners, with notebooks and pens scattered throughout, “I do tell him to simply put things back where they were but… you know I think his mind moves faster than his body I really do. God forbid I touch some stacks because I ruin his ‘system’. Bless him. He’s strange but a lovely man. I wish he’d find a nice girl but he tells me he’s too busy and a woman would touch his things. I mean what nonsense truly…”
She prattled on but you could not help but laugh quietly. You loved it when the housekeepers gossiped. That’s where all the good information lay. But she didn’t speak of him like the wild animal she had always heard of. No she spoke of an… eccentric bachelor. She may as well have been paying a visit with the matchmaker and a new client.
The walls a wash of deep green, and dark wood flooring and crown molding. It felt deep and rich, like an expensive chocolate or your favorite dish on Christmas Eve. It felt luscious and hearty in the home. Making it difficult to keep your guard on full attention. Mrs. Fitz knocked on the second door you passed and announced, “Mr. Solomons sir, I have a Miss Shelby here.”
“Yeah alright.”, a voice rumbled through the door and into your chest.
Mrs. Fitz smiled and whispered, “He was raised in a stable so don’t be offended by his manners.”
You stepped through the door and were amazed. From floor to the ceiling were books tucked in shelves. On the floor there were several piles of various lengths. On the wall and opposing the desk was a large fireplace, lowly crackling but perfuming the air with its wood. In front were two plump seats, begging to be of use. Hulking over the desk on the other side, was your host.
Imposing. That’s what you would say. But it was more than that. As tall as Arthur, but where Arthur was wirey, this man was a solid brick wall. The muscles of his back undulating like the waves of the sea underneath a linen shirt. Arms filling out the sleeves that were pushed up to expose strong tattooed forearms.
But he looked a right mess. As he turned to you, it looked like he hadn’t had a proper haircut in months. His beard wild, and shirt half done. His eyes were vast and … just staring.
“Who the hell are you?”, his voice rumbled.
“…Miss Shelby?”
“Tommy’s sister? The unmarried one?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head, screwing up his mouth. “Nah that can’t be right.”
“But it is.”
“No it can’t you see because every Shelby I’ve met, instantly gives me an ulcer, even the Ada girl. The Shelbys got this little superiority complex that just right pisses me off - you… you don’t have that look so therefore you cannot be a Shelby.”
You stare at him as he rambles on in the strangest tangent you have ever heard. His bejeweled fingers catching and throwing the light all around him. You felt your eyebrows draw together as you were trying to figure out what he is saying.
Interrupting him you cut, “Mr. Solomons… that is the stupidest thing I have ever heard in my life.”
Alfred Solomons breath caught in his throat and he nearly choked, “Did you just call me stupid?”
You nodded vigorously, “Yes because that sentence made no comprehensible logic. Do you talk like that all the time?”
“No one has ever called me stupid and lived darling.”
You stuck your arms straight out at your sides, spirits clinking in their bottles, “You going to shoot me then? Go ahead, then I don’t have to explain why your logic is absolutely ridiculous.”
Alfred turned in a circle, as if looking for someone to jump out and say this was some sort of prank. Because this woman came in - into the King of Camden’s study - and called him stupid. And was not afraid of consequences. No one clarified for him, but he did see the glitter of a bottle. With a thick finger he pointed, “What’s that in the basket?”
With a roll of your eyes, you pulled out the two bottles, “Gin and French wine. Compliments of the Shelby family. I was asked to apologize and make amends for my brothers’ foolishness a few days ago.”
Something about your irritated face and pursed lips made Alfred want more. He wanted you to get angry again. “So your way of apologizing for your brother’s foolishness… was to come into my house and call me stupid.”
“You don’t want the apology and spirits, I’ll take them with me.”
Not what he wanted.
“No no darling you … damn… you sit down there and let me get us some glasses.”
“Mr. Solomons I really should be-“
“Alfie darling call me Alfie. And you must stay and take a drink with me. You’re apologizing to me now aren’t you?”
“Mr. Solomons it is 9 in the morning.”
“Perfect time to begin in getting to know each other better.”
He started with the wine, which is possibly the better of what he could’ve opened. As you sipped your wine, you tried not to notice how he was devouring you with his eyes, “Why haven’t we met before dear?”
You look at him through the wine glass. He looked like an absolute wild man. “I don’t typically go to the parties thrown by my family. And I haven’t needed to come to any business meeting.”
“I think I would’ve enjoyed the meetings more if you were there darling.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Something really good to look at. Especially when you get tetchy.”
You squinted your eyes. Who the hell did this man think he was? You allowed the silence to settle around you. The room was comfortably warm, and the fire continued to crackle and snap. You forced your heart to settle down, Mr. Solomons had launched your heart rate upwards as soon as you had locked eyes with his stormy eyes.
You weren’t able to meet his eyes right now. Which was unlike you. You prided yourself on being able to stare down men and keep them pinned. But with this Mr. Solomons, you felt a lurch in your stomach, and a desire to … run?… punch him? Punching him sounded good right now.
But Mr. Solomons, little did you know, had already decided that you would be his wife. One way or another. Even if he had to sign a shit contract or 10 with the Shelbys. From the moment you called him stupid and scrunched your nose at him, he wanted you. He wanted more than anything for you to howl and stomp your feet in anger at him. He wanted to kiss you fiercely, and dote on you. He wanted to watch you devour him whole.
And Alfie was a man of action.
“Just to let you know… I’m going to marry you Miss Shelby.”
You coughed on your wine, trying to catch your breath, but your brain was becoming scrambled eggs.
“I beg your pardon?”
Alfie smiled deliciously behind his beard. Sitting down his wine and leaning in his chair he repeated, “I’m going to marry you. I know quality when I see it.”
“Did you not just threaten to kill me moments ago?”
“No I said that no one had yet called me that and lived. But the way you threaten me… well I won’t get into that yet till you accept my ring.”
You stood up quickly, “Mr. Solomons you are the most brutish, uncouth, unmannered being I have ever met.”
He pointed at you with a wink, “You just said three words that mean the same thing.”
You felt your cheeks get hot. And when did the air leave the room? You stepped forward, “I should slap that hideous beard right off your stupid face.”
He just preened, “Oh darling please don’t tease.”
You turned swiftly, walking towards the door, “I assume the apology is accepted. Good day Mr. Solomons I hope to never see you again.”
As you walked down the wooden steps you felt his lumbering feet following you, “Ah Miss Shelby why are you running from destiny? I felt it, you felt it. Come now don’t run away from a good squabble.”
You grabbed your coat, and we’re about to grab your hat when it was so quickly plucked from your hands by his paw. As you turned you immediately ran into his chest. Soon you were pressed between the door and his strong body. He held the hat above your reach, “When can I see you again?”
“Give me my hat this instant.”
“You’ll get your hat when you tell me when I get to see you again.”
“Beast!”
“For you alone. Now… dearest tell me where to find you. Or I’ll have to hunt you down myself.”
You stared right into his eyes with fire, and his stormy eyes was molten with adoration. Pure adoration. It made you sick… you think.
You pushed his chest, to no avail, and spit out, “The Garrison tomorrow at 7. In the back room. Don’t annoy me by being late. And take a shower, you disgust me.”
He smiled warmly, placing the hat so gently on your head. “I’ll get a haircut this afternoon.”
You nodded. You hated his face. You hated his bushy beard and eyebrows. And his open shirt and tattoos. You hated those dark eyes with his long blonde lashes. You hated his mouth and that smile that just reeked of devotion. And most of all you hated that he was the only man who had actually made you feel something other than pity.
You fix your hat on your head, even though it was perfectly put on to your great irritation. And push him again with all your might, making Mr. Solomons chuckle. “Good try darling. I’ll see you soon.”
By the time you reach your bedroom that evening after dinner, there is a large bouquet of tropical flowers. The card, in quick and splotchy writing read,
For my rare flower.
I promise to behave.
Forever your devoted (soon to be) husband,
Alfie
You roll your eyes. Yet you keep the card propped on your vanity. As a trophy of another easily kept man you tell yourself.
So what if you spend more time on your dress when going to the Garrison?
Summary: Alfie wants to hear his name leave her lips.
Warnings: SMUT🔞, dirty talk, swearing, oral, creampie, loss of virginity, it’s filthy so just be warned lol
Note: This has been in my drafts for AGES! It’s my first time writing for Alfie/Tom so I hope you enjoy! Requests are open!
//
The chatter of the room had become a dull noise in her ears. Those standing in front of her continued to converse even as she stared off into space, completely bored with the event. A cliche in itself to be a woman bored at a party, but you can’t help what entertains you. She wasn’t quite sure what she’d rather be doing, but anything might have been better than this. The air wreaked of cigar smoke from the gentlemen who had taken to the parlor to discuss more private matters. It was a feeble attempt to keep the smell away from the delicate senses of the women. The irony of such a gentile gesture was many of those men had a reputation of hitting their wives and keeping company of women of the night.
It was clear which of the wives were victims of their husbands controlling and abusive nature by the pounds of make up attempting to cover black eyes, bruised cheeks, and busted lips. They were trapped by marriage with no hope of escaping unless their husbands suddenly keeled over or they ran off and were shamed from high society for the rest of their lives.
She was lucky enough that her hand had not been pledged as of yet. It wasn’t for lack of trying from her mother and father, but she always managed to run off any suitors that glanced her way, gaining the reputation as some unruly prized filly that needed to be broke. Said task wouldn’t be so easy as it was clear many of the men who tried, had failed. Needless to say, her parents were frustrated and often berated their daughter with hollow threats to get her to behave.
“Thomas Shelby as I live and breathe,” she smiled.
Tommy smirked, “Good afternoon, my lady.”
“What rotten and corrupt man are you after tonight?” she sipped her drink.
There was always the idle gossip among the ladies that the Shelby family was involved in some lucrative businesses that was rarely legal. After chatting up a couple of his brothers and friends, it didn’t take her long to figure out what Thomas Shelby was up to. Once Tommy caught wind that the little heiress knew some of their secrets, he decided to make her an ally instead of an enemy. He recognized her uncanny ability to make men pour out their secrets to her. Tommy stood next to her observing the party, “What do you have?”
“Would you like to know about Lord Haynes’ under the table campaign parties full of prostitutes to sway votes to make him head of his company’s board? Or would a Father Matthews habit of having his alter boys on their knees in his confessional booth be more interesting?”
“I will never understand how you do it,” he admitted.
“There are benefits to being a woman. Many of the men you call business partners believe the opposite sex is only good for cleaning or fucking,” she rolled her eyes.
A booming voice suddenly called out to Tommy. Both individuals turned their heads to locate the owner of the voice. Her eyes took in a burly man with a cane. He had a scruffy beard and hair slicked back under his cap. He looked out of place with his unkempt appearance. “Alfie!” Tommy called to the man. Alfie’s eyes turned their attention from Tommy to her curvy figure standing near the fireplace.
His eyes held a dark kind of mischief that she couldn’t quite place. It was the type of mischief mothers warned their daughters about when young men came calling. The two men shook hands and began a banter that indicated they had been friends for some time. One might mistake them for brothers with how they bickered.
“Right, who is this lovely creature,” Alfie cut off his conversation with the other man and turned to her.
As Tommy introduced her, title and all, Alfie took her hand and bowed dramatically before kissing her knuckles, eyes meeting hers with the same mischievous twinkle, “Charmed.”
“Quite, Mr. Solomons,” she replied.
He stood up straight, her hand still in his grasp, “Alfie. Any friend of Tommy’s, is a friend of mine. Especially one with a face like yours. You a Jew?”
“Quite a personal question. Why do you ask?” she held his gaze, raising an eyebrow.
“Because I have to tell me ma, yeah, if her grandchildren will be half or full Jew,” he smirked before laying a second kiss on her hand.
“Alfie,” Tommy began before she cut him off.
“It’s alright, Tommy. I’m flattered. Unfortunately, your mother may have a heart attack if you brought me home. I’m not Jewish.”
Alfie’s smile told her he didn’t care one way or the other. He seemed as giddy as a school boy that she was joining in on his little game. Alfie let her hand slip from his, her soft skin scratched against the calluses embedded in his own. The man excused himself to hunt out a drink. As he walked away, she turned to Tommy, “Quite the friend, Tommy.”
He rolled his eyes, “Don’t encourage him. He embarrasses me enough.”
“More than your brothers?”
//
It didn’t surprise her that Alfie would suddenly appear near out of nowhere. He would rarely talk to her directly, opting to converse with any gentlemen or ladies around her. He wanted to make his presence known and make it clear he was watching her. She was equally as intrigued by him, but she wouldn’t let on that piece of information just yet. All part of the fun and games of the evening.
Upon exiting the powder room, she came face to face with the hulking man once again. There was that mischievous look again. That look mixed with the memory of his rough hands ignited a small flame of curiosity (and desire).
“Shouldn’t you be smoking cigars with Tommy instead of preying on little girls outside the powder room?” She asked.
Alfie chuckled, “I’m waitin’ on a beautiful, curvy lass that has been eyein’ me fondly all night.”
She smirked, “By the sounds of it, you’re the one who has been doing the eyeing.”
As she took a step away from him and towards the party, she was surprised to feel his hulking presence and hear the scrape of his cane as he stepped behind her. She stopped and turned on her heels to face him once again, “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Solomons?”
“Alfie,” he corrected.
“Mr. Solomons,” she repeated, “I don’t know you personally enough to call you by your name.”
“We can change that right quick,” his smirked could only be described as sinful.
A blush flushed her cheeks, and it fueled Alfie to keep up his pursuit. The hallway, though grand in stature, was empty. The bear of a man stepped towards her until her back delicately hit the wall, and she was trapped between him and the solid surface. Her pulse picked up as the smell of him finally hit her for the first time of the night.
Cologne. Earth. Bread.
An odd combination of smells, but when mixed with his naturally manly musk, it had great effect upon her senses. It was the smell of a man that’s worked hard and fought for everything he has. He leaned a hand next to her head against the wall, face becoming inappropriately closer to hers. “Come with me,” he whispered, gravelly voice reverberating through his chest.
“And why should I?” Her confidence returning as she stood up a little straighter, “You and I are both aware the gossip that would ensue should we be seen leaving together without an escort.”
“Right, we sneak out through the servants entrance, yeah? I’ve got a nice bottle o’rum waiting at my office that has been beggin’ me to crack ‘er open,” he persuaded.
She should say no. What they were doing now was scandalous enough to get everyone talking…if they were caught. It wasn’t easy for her to admit to herself that Alfie had an effect on her she hadn’t felt yet. She was a proud woman, and this had her feeling a different kind of adrenaline high than sneaking cigarettes from the servants and ease-dropping on private conversations. This…Alfie was a curiosity she wanted to explore more.
Alfie could see it in her eyes before her pretty lips whispered her answer.
//
His office was dimly lit, floorboards creaked under their weight as the two walked across the room. Alfie gestured for her to sit before walking behind his desk and rummaging around. He set his cane and hat on the desk before discarding his coat over the back of his chair.
The bottle of rum and two glasses tinked together as he set them on the desk surface. “Ya prefer neat? Cuz that’s all I got,” he remarked as he pulled the cork out of the bottle and poured the amber liquid into the glasses. “Neat’s perfect,” she replied as she reached for a glass.
Alfie’s eyes watched as she swished the liquor in the glass. As the burly man sat down, he took his glass in his hand and propped his feet up, “What shall we drink to?”
“Do we have to drink to something?”
“S’bad luck not to,” he smirked.
She bit her lip as she thought a moment. Alfie would love to feel those lips on his. He’d been staring at every part of her anatomy since he first saw her talking with Tommy. It wouldn’t be a lie if Alfie admitted he felt a small flare of jealousy seeing her talking and laughing with Tommy, but once speaking with her, he knew she was made to give him a run for his money. “How about…to a new friendship?” he asked.
“We’re friends?” she raised a curious brow.
“For now,” he smiled.
Butterflies fluttered in her stomach watching his wicked smile. Both clinked their glasses and took a drink. His groan was damn near animalistic after slamming down the glass and wiping the remnants of the liquor from his beard. She cleared her throat to keep from coughing and set the glass back on his desk. Her eyes began to wander and landed on his cane sitting between them upon the desk. Alfie saw her studying the piece of wood, a question most likely brewing in her pretty head.
“Souvenir from my days in the war,” he said breaking the silence, hand patting his leg. She met his gaze, guilt passing her features a moment for being caught staring at it. He chuckled, “You can make it up to me by bringin’ yer pretty self right round my desk and sittin’ down,” he took his feet off the desk to pat the spot they’d just been, “right ‘ere.”
She hesitated, staring into the playful gleam in his eyes before standing. Alfie removed his hands and sat back as he watched her round the desk and slip herself on to the worn surface. “If I knew any better, Mr. Solomons, I’d say you were a down right cad,” she smiled sweetly.
He smirked playfully, “Am I now?”
Her eyes flicked down to his glass, running her pointer finger along the edge still slick with rum, “Sneaking a lady off to drink isn’t gentlemanly behavior. What would people say if they caught us in such a….compromising position?”
His eyes watched her finger for a moment before looking into her eyes again, “They’d say, ‘He’s one lucky sod.’”
She laughed. She went to bring her finger up to her lips to lick off the rum, but his burly hand quickly grasped her small wrist. Her eyes went wide as he brought her hand closer to his face, inspecting the liquid on her delicate finger before letting his lips kiss the rum away. Alfie noticed her skin ripple with goosebumps feeling his mouth against the pad of her finger. He released her hand with a nonchalant look on his face, as if what he had just done didn’t send electricity through her, before looking at her with a suspicious (more mischievous) look, “I thought I told you to call me Alfie?”
It took a moment for her to regain her composure, but her voice betrayed her, “I only call those by their first name that have earned it.”
A challenge.
Alfie stood, towering over her and leaning against the desk with arms on either side of her, “And how, pray tell, does one earn it, treacle?”
She was at a loss for words knowing the outcome should she continue this game with him. Fall into the darkness hidden behind that mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Cause I know a way I can get you to remember to call me by my fuckin’ name,” he almost growled.
His body pressed against her crossed legs like he was asking permission for entrance and bring their bodies closer. Her eyes ran down his body before looking back into his eyes. She suddenly touched his left hand with her right hand, slowly dragging it up his arm and feeling the hard muscles until she she held the side of his neck delicately.
‘Oh Lord, save me.’
He was completely opposite to the men that had courted her in the past. All well-bred, silver spoon heirs to fortunes that would never come close to eliciting the feelings Alfie was giving her. He was a hard man that worked hard, a man that would scare her former suitors out of their skins. She didn’t know what it was going on between them, but she wanted to revel in him, “Then show me.”
Alfie crashed their lips together as he took a handful of her curls, and she uncrossed her legs, allowing him to step forward and press their bodies closer. His other hand came up holding the side of her face, his rings and calluses grazed her skin and she shivered thinking of how they’d feel all over her body. Her wish was granted as the hand on her face traveled down her neck to feel the rest of her body that he’d been craving.
She wrapped her arms around his neck to pull him further into their bruising kiss. Alfie bit her lip causing her to squeal so he could slip his tongue against hers more. She pulled his hair and pressed her chest against his, needing to feel his hardened body more. Alfie pulled her lips off his with an obscene pop, licking his lips at her taste.
“Fucking minx. What’s my name?” he smirked as he stared at her swollen lips and flush face. He ran a finger down her body and between her breasts, clearly eager to see her dress gone.
Her eyes full of lust and a playful smile on her lips, she replied, “Solomons.”
He didn’t like that answer, “You’ll regret that, love.”
Before she could give a witty reply, the hand in her hair was gone and suddenly threw everything off his desk. He man handled her to lay flat on her back before pulling up his chair. Alfie was an animal as he shoved her dress up her hips and ripped her panties off her body, too impatient to bring them down her legs. She yelped and he growled as she now lay bare, for the first time ever, in front of a man.
“Wh-what are you doing?” her legs tried to close instinctually, but Alfie held them open, fingers digging into her thighs as he stared into her lust-blown eyes.
“Never had a man give you a proper lickin’?” He asked coyly.
She shook her head, embarrassment of admitting she was a virgin taking form as a hot blush creeping into her cheeks. His eyes softened a bit as he remembered she was a high-class lady kept under lock and key, virginity and all. “I’m going to devour you, treacle,” he purred. Before she could question what he meant, he pushed his head forward and his lips met her dewy center. He lapped at her from entrance to clit. Her back arched off the desk as she moaned out, her body quaking at this incredible new feeling.
She couldn’t decide whether to pull away or push further into him, but Alfie made that decision for her as he held her hips steadfast to his mouth. Her hands flew into his hair as she squirmed and writhed, the pleasure so foreign and so delicious all at once. Alfie took her clit into his mouth making her sing out her approval in the form of moans and whines. He wouldn’t relent now. Not while this beautiful angel sang his praises.
Her orgasm was fast approaching. One greater than any she has given herself, so she desperately gave her body to the mercy of his mouth and hands. She nearly screamed as he stuck one thick finger into her channel. Those rough fingers felt better than anything her imagination could cook up. Alfie took note of how she keened even more when he let his beard and mustache scratch and rub against her soft petals. He shook his head like a dog and growled, adding a second finger that led to her explosions.
Her legs and hands had him in a vice grip as her body shook with orgasm. She wasn’t able to form words as her brain went fuzzy and the tingling spread from the bottoms of her feet to behind her eyes. Alfie lapped at her gently to let her ride out the high she was on. He released her hips and ran his hand, the one that wasn’t still inside her, along her trembling body, rings slightly snagging on her clothing only raising her dress further up her body. She thought he’d release her, but instead Alfie sped back up.
“W-what are you…oh fuck! What are you doing?” she stuttered.
Alfie pulled his mouth away, “What’s my name?”
He didn’t care to wait for her response as he was drunk on her taste. Her moaning had him going mad and all he wanted was to hear and feel her cum over and over again. Tears fell from the corners of her eyes as the pleasure was almost unbearable. Alfie was driven by an insatiable need to consume her. Her walls fluttered around his fingers and her orgasm wet his face once again. Tremors racked her body as she screamed, “ALFIE!”
She felt drunk, body buzzing and whimpering pathetically as he pulled his finger out and slowly stood up. Whatever he couldn’t lick off, he wiped away with his hand before adjusting his trousers to make his hard on more comfortable. “Right, you okay then, treacle?” he asked, leaning over her to wipe away tears. She placed her hand over his that was resting against her cheek. Turning her face into his hand, her lips grazed against his thumb before sucking it between her lips.
Alfie set his jaw, internally chastising himself to be patient, “Do ya want more, darlin’?”
Her eyes fluttered open and looked into his own, she made her decision. Repercussions be damned, “Yes, Alfie.”
He didn’t need anymore clarity. Her shaking hands were suddenly at his trousers, pulling his shirt untucked in a desperate manner. Alfie was quick to throw away any piece of clothing she wanted. Sitting her up, he let her greedy hands run along his naked chest while he shimmied her dress and slip over her head. Seeing her naked flesh was like seeing an angel in its purest form. The swell of her breasts as they heaved from her panting caught his attention first. The true nature of her curves had been hidden under her clothing, and Alfie felt he could run his hands along them for hours. Looking at her flush face and disheveled hair, he couldn’t help but wonder how he was lucky enough to be in her presence.
She was a stunning beauty. An angel among men that was allowing a mere mortal like him to gaze upon her. “You’re fucking beautiful, love,” he muttered to her as he stepped closer again, hands delicately holding the sides of her neck and lips ghosting hers, “Do you want me to stop?”
Her mouth was slightly ajar, breathing in his air and hands feeling his tense abdomen muscles, “No. Please, Alfie.”
Alfie gently laid her down on the desk, bringing himself to hover over her, “A lady like you should have her first time in a marital bed.”
“If you don’t take me now, I’ll burst into flames,” she nearly pleaded.
Alfie’s laugh was wicked, looking down to undo his trousers. Her eyes watched intently as he revealed his cock. Shock was evident on her face when she saw what would be going inside her. The man leaned down to pepper her cheek and neck with loving kisses, “I’ll take good care of ya, treacle. Don’t you worry that prettily lil mind about it.”
She flicked her eyes back up into his and wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers delicately playing with the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck. The feeling made the gangster shiver and rut his hips against her center. A gasp left her lips at the feeling of his warm cock rubbing against her clit. Their foreheads pressed together, sharing each other’s air as he teased them both.
A pathetic whine slipped from her throat as she thrust her hips towards his. He was quick to respond, grabbing his hard on in hand and pushing the blunt tip against her weeping center. As he pressed into her, he felt her tense at the much larger intrusion.
“Easy, treacle. Relax ya self. There’s a good girl,” his gruff voice comforted, coaxing her body to accept him.
Alfie saw the tears misting her eyes. He reached up and held the side of her face to stroke away what fell, “Just say the word, and I’ll stop.”
She shook her head, “Please, don’t. I…need you…inside me.”
Alfie continued his efforts. He released her cheek to lick two of his fingers and reach down to draw circles around her pearl. The more his rough fingers toyed with her, the further he could push inside her. She felt so full of him. He took over all her senses to the point that she couldn’t think of anything else if she tried. When he bottomed out, she cried and tightened her legs around his waist. Alfie growled at the feeling of her soft walls clinging to him in a death grip.
In a loving gesture, Alfie smoothed out her hair and began to pepper her face with kisses. When he began to kiss under her ear towards her neck, she began to squirm her hips and making a desperate sound she was afraid to let out. Their bodies responded to one another at a slow pace. Drawing out slowly then pushing in, Alfie cursed in her ear as he felt her cunt trying to suck him back in.
“F-fuck, girl. Your little cunny feels like heaven,” Alfie moaned into her ear.
“I’m so full, Alfie,” she whimpered desperately, “Keep going.”
Who was he to deny her? The man set a slow and gentle pace, stretching her out to get accustomed to this new feeling. Her lips were next to his ear, so all the pretty little sounds he drew from her he could hear. If he looked at her, he would have seen how lust drunk she was. Enough so that she turned her head, wrapping her lips around his ear lobe and nibbling on it. A shiver ran down his spine and his hips harshly thrust inside her. The sharp moan she let out drove him wild.
She stared into Alfie’s eyes as he pulled away from her neck to watch. Her face contorted in pleasure as he began to drive sharp, slow thrusts into her. He was determined to find every little spot that would make her moan and squeal.
“You’re fuckin’ beautiful, yeah. Especially with my fat cock stuffed in ya,” he rasped.
She could only respond with a whine as she let the man do as he pleased her with body. Her head was fogged with lust, nails raking red lines down his muscular back to spur him on. Fuck whoever heard her. Fuck whoever might see her like this. As long as he kept making her feel this way, fucking her this way, she’d do anything for him.
“Let’s see those pretty eyes roll back and feel that tight cunny explode,” Alfie groaned as he sped up.
She could have sobbed at the thought of him stopping. Limbs clutched tightly to him, ankles digging into his ass to urge him deeper. God in Heaven, he wasn’t going to last much longer, but he willed himself to hold off. He picked up the pace of his thrusts, repeatedly hitting that little spot inside that had her voice becoming higher and higher. “I-I’m…I’m…oh god!” she babbled, “Fuck, Alfie!”
“Found it, didn’t I? You seein’ stars, love?” he chuckled arrogantly. Her nails dug into his shoulders, whimpering and panting. The tension was building in his lower abdomen which prompted him to quickly slip a hand between their moving bodies and circle that little wet nerve. That was both their undoings. The moment his rough fingers touched her, she cried out in purse ecstasy, back arching eyes rolling, and limbs shaking. The way her inner walls clamped down on him made it nearly impossible for him to move. A better man would have pulled out, but he wasn’t a better man. He was a gangster. The growl that left Alfie’s chest was animalistic, the tension finally releasing as he came along with her.
“Fuckin’…hell,” he groaned as he rested his forehead to her shoulder, hips still unconsciously rutting into hers. She trembled in his arms as the remnants of her orgasm flooded her body. When heavy panting turned softer, the man sat up to look into her glassy stare, “You alright, darlin’? Didn’t hurt you or nothin’?”
She shook her head, fingers still clutching on to his shoulders, “I don’t…I don’t think I’m going to forget your name.”
Alfie could stop the belly laugh and smile spreading across his lips. Even when she’s just been fucked to the moon and back, she still had enough brains left to tease him.
//
It had been near a week since their secret endeavor at the distillery. Not a day went by that her mind wasn’t occupied with the Jewish gangster. Alfie drove her home and kissed her goodbye before she left the car. As she watched him drive off, she found herself hoping she’d see him again. Many times she had thought of calling Tommy to ask about him, but she didn’t want to let anyone else know about her sinful little secret.
She was sat in the library, absentmindedly doodling on a piece of paper when the door suddenly opened. Her mother stood in the door way as she called to her, “Your father wishes to see you.”
Rising to her feet, she smoothed out the skirt of her dress and quietly followed. Her mother’s tone gave way that they wanted to discuss another marriage proposal with her. It was a tone laced with kindness but held warning to be polite and behave. One would think they were eager to get rid of her with how often this transaction happened. Approaching her father’s study, she could hear the muffled voices from the other side of the door. No doubt discussing her dowry and pulling out every stop to convince the man to take her off their hands. She knew her parents meant well, but at times, it felt they were more worried about saving face than her happiness.
As the women entered the room, her father looked from the gentleman sat in front of him to the door, “Ah! Here she is!”
Her father came round his desk as the gentleman stood from his chair. She didn’t get a glimpse of the stranger before her father stood before her, eyes glancing over her to make sure she was in proper and presentable order. Once satisfied he stepped to her side, “My dear, this…gentleman is…”
“Al…Mr. Solomons,” her breath caught in her throat.
The gangster of her sinful dreams stood before her with a playful smile.
“Have you two been acquainted?” her mother asked confused.
“We have, my lady. We met at a formal affair a week ago. Mr. Shelby introduced us, as it were,” Alfie answered.
She was no doubt blushing as she stared in awe of her secret lover. He stood tall and proud without his cane, gilded hands clasped in front of him. “Why didn’t you tell us you were acquainted with Mr. Solomons, dear?” her father asked.
She tore her eyes to her father, “It had slipped my mind. Mr. Solomons was a pleasant companion to me throughout the evening.”
“Was that why you returned so late?” her mother questioned.
Flashes of that night played in her mind before she decided to answer, “I’m afraid we were having quite the time socializing.”
Alfie cleared his throat, hiding a chuckle, “Right, we did. I do so enjoy your daughter’s company.”
The innuendo went right over her parents’ heads, neither catching the mischievous glint in Alfie’s eye or her blush. “If it’s alright with you, yeah, I’d like to speak to your lovely daughter in private,” his eyes didn’t look away from her, request directed towards her more than her parents.
Her parents shifted a bit uncomfortably behind her before agreeing to the gangsters request. It wasn’t until the door closed and the sound of feet retreating did either of them speak. “Alfie,” she spoke a bit breathlessly, “Wh-what are you doing here?”
His smirk made her stomach fill with butterflies, “Seein’ as I made a woman out of ya, I came to make you my woman.”
Her eyes went wide, “And what makes you think my father would agree to such a match?”
Alfie unclasped his hands and stepped towards her, “Because he already has, treacle. I’m the suitor that’s come a-calling who’s not going to take no for an answer. And considering I may have put me child in ya, well that makes me want ya more.”
She bit her lip as he towered over her now, unable to look directly into his eyes, “What makes you think I’d say yes? Sounds like you came out of obligation instead of infatuation.”
“Infatuation has everything to do with my proposal,” he grasped her chin between his fingers to tilt it up and stare into her eyes, “The babe would be the sugar on the cream, treacle.”
In that moment, she’d let him put ten of his babes in her if it meant he’d take her as his wife. Delicate hands rested on his broad chest, “Would I have to convert? I’m sure your mother would hate to have a non-Jewish girl in the family.”
“Shiksa or not, I’ll have you to wife,” releasing her chin, he rummaged in his pocket.
With a groan, Alfie fell to one knee and produced a velvet box. He flipped open the lid to reveal a diamond ring bigger than any gem she’d seen her mother wear. Alfie nearly chuckled at the shock on her face but barked with laughter at her response, “I would say you were compensating, but we both know that’s a lie.”
“That we do. I thought, right, if my cock couldn’t convince ya, maybe a nice big diamond would,” his cheeky remark made her giggle, “Marry me, treacle.”
It wasn’t a hard choice. Even though she hardly knew him, it felt right. His proposal felt like a new beginning and not imprisonment. Alfie smiled as an enthusiastic yes left her lips, and he slipped the ring on her finger. Taking his face between her hands, she fell to her knees and kissed him. Strong arms wrapped around her waist as he enjoyed the feel of his new bride’s body against his once again. Albeit with clothes on, they’d have plenty of time to explore each other again once they were married.
you wanted to start to undress, lifting your shirt over your head when choso stopped you. “maybe you can… stay dressed?”
you eyed your boyfriend who sat on the edge of the bed completely naked, his cock twitching and leaking against his stomach after all the heated kisses. his cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy.
“you want me to stay dressed?” you asked, surprised.
“mhmm.” he nodded shyly, biting his lip. that’s how you ended up dry humping choso’s bare leg.
your soaked panties dragged slowly against his thick, muscular thigh, the friction making you sigh softly. choso whimpered beneath you, hands trembling as they rested on your hips.
“feels so good…” his cock lay heavy and untouched against his abs, leaking messily every time you rolled your hips. “you’re so wet… i can feel it all over my leg.”
you braced your hands on his shoulders and ground down harder, the wet patch on your panties growing darker as you rubbed your clothed pussy against his bare skin. choso’s head fell back with a moan, thighs flexing underneath you.
“please… don’t stop,” he begged quietly, looking up at you with needy eyes. “use me. use my leg however you want… i just want to feel you.”
you moved faster, grinding your swollen clit against the firm muscle of his thigh. choso was panting now, chest heaving, cock twitching helplessly as it continued to drip precum all over his stomach. he looked so pretty like this—completely naked and desperate while you stayed fully dressed, using him for your pleasure.
“you’re making such a mess.”
choso whimpered, fingers digging into your hips. “i’m sorry… can’t help it. you feel too good. i’m so hard it hurts but… fuck, i love when you use me like this.”
you leaned forward and kissed him, still grinding on his thigh. choso moaned into your mouth, tongue sliding against yours obediently as his cock continued leaking, completely ignored between you.
“please…” he whispered against your lips. “keep going. make yourself cum on me. i want to feel it.”
you smiled against his mouth and rolled your hips harder, soaking his bare leg even more while choso trembled and whimpered beneath you.
“i’m close—”
“yes— please cum on me,” choso whispered. “i want to feel it. please—”
your orgasm hit you hard, riding out every wave while choso watched with wide eyes. he couldn’t look away from the sight—the way your soaked panties rubbed against his thigh, the shiny wetness on his skin, the way your body trembled on top of him.
“oh god—” without any touch to his cock at all, choso suddenly came.
thick ropes of cum spurted from his untouched cock, painting his stomach and chest in messy streaks. he whimpered your name, completely lost in the sight of you cumming on his thigh. his cock continued twitching and leaking even after he finished, still painfully hard.
you slowed your movements, breathing heavily as you looked down at him. “you came…” you whispered, a little stunned.
he nodded weakly, cheeks burning red. “couldn’t help it… you looked so pretty cumming on me.” and then he pulled you down into a messy kiss, still trembling from his untouched orgasm.
DESCRIPTION: your husband is stubborn, steel headed, and way too arrogant for his own good; such an amazing feat that you are exactly the same way
SMUT WARNING: 18 plus, minors do not interact, p in v sex, missionary, explicit arguing and language, aerion and reader are complete menaces ;)
NATASHA SPEAKS: sorry this is a day late, bday activities got the best of me😔
“shut up and just fuck me.”
the argument hadn’t started out like this; it had started nasty and violent. words thrown like blades, furniture flipped and tossed across the room. it wasn’t uncommon for you and aerion, the aftermath always what you looked forward too.
each time the two of you butted heads, it always ended with aerion on top of you, rutting his hips furiously into yours as a way to blow off steam. tonight was no different, those six words spoken opening a floodgate of rough passion and clawing desire.
passion and anger had bubbled like a hot stove. according to aerion, you had stared at a lord for far too long at a feast, rendering the dragon prince to follow you back to your shared chambers and accuse you of flirting around behind his back. when you denied, and aerion had called you a ‘silken whore’, that’s when objects started getting thrown.
“what the fuck?!” aerion had yelled when you chucked a candlestick at his head, your eyes blazing with fire as you reached for a quill pot. “you insane woman! how much ale have you drank?”
a scoff had broken from your lips, the quill pot going flying before aerion side swept it. “are you insane? you called me a whore! when i was just conversing!”
aerion wasn’t backing down, and after you had spoken, a large smirk broke out into a grin, tilting his head like a feline. it was all mocking; a flicker in his eye. a uplift of his cheek. “well, don’t deny it. you were exuding some whorish tendencies.”
a harsh breath broke from your lips, your eyes blazing violently before you had reached for the chair behind the desk, hurling it at aerion’s head. the man in question had yelped, dropping to the floor as the chair smacked against the stone wall. you reached for more items on the desk, throwing them at aerion with a slick precision. he had stayed on the floor, scowling at you with stormy eyes and a sneer that could kill.
“you psychotic bitch,” aerion had yelled, laying flat on his stomach as to not get hit by your onslaught of assault. “you could be beheaded for this!”
“behead me, aerion! i fucking dare you!”
as fiery as the argument was, it still ended with you underneath your belligerent husband, his dominant hand wrapped around your throat, softly pushing into your pulse point as he drilled his cock into your tight walls, leaving you a whimpering and moaning mess.
somehow, aerion had crawled from his splayed position on the floor to your feet, placing rough bites on your hips as he cradled himself against your frame. you knew it was his sick way of apologizing, but even as mad as you were, you couldn’t help but pull him up into a kiss.
“look at you,” aerion sneered, his thumb digging deeper into your neck. “a mess for your princely husband. does the dragon entice you, wife?”
“shut the fuck up, aerion,” you bit out, nails biting into the pale blondes biceps. “you’re the furthest thing from a dragon.”
you could see the cords in aerion’s throat work at your words, his jaw clenching as he clamped down harder on your throat, briefly cutting off your airway. “i’m not a dragon, huh? than what seed is about to thicken your womb? what blood is our babe going to be made of?” when you didn’t answer, aerion leaned down and bit your collar bone, a yelp leaving your lips. “answer me, wife. or i won’t let you finish.”
a wicked smirk took over aerion’s face as his thrusts became slower, drawing out the orgasm you so desperately yearned for. wrapping your legs around his waist, you dug your heels into aerion’s back, pulling him closer into you with a grunt. aerion sneered, trying to pull away. you weren’t having it though, pushing him further into you.
“don’t you fucking dare.” you seethed, the push and pull arousing you more than you’d like to admit.
“stop fighting me,” aerion snapped, hands grabbing the underside of your thighs in a vice grip, pulling you against him with a steely hold. “i call the shots now, sweetling.”
his thrusts became slow. languid. a soft roll of his hips leaving each in and out to make you moan loudly. you could see aerion grinning at the noise you were making, his ego probably bursting at the thought of people being able to hear how good he was making you feel.
“that’s it,” aerion drew out, continuing the rolling of his hips. “yell for me. let everyone in the seven kingdoms know who’s fucking you this good.”
a broken scoff tore from your lips, the propriety of aerion’s words sending heat of anger through your veins. his arrogance and superiority complex always made you mad, the way he believed he was better than most and that his shit probably smelt like fucking roses. it all pissed you off, and as he continued to fuck you, that anger started to brew.
that anger started making you feel more aroused, and with a final rough thrust from aerion, you found yourself coming through a loud cry, your teeth clenched as that rage you felt towards your husband simmered down.
aerion smirked, slowing his thrusts down as he rode you through your high. “good girl,” he cooed, all mocking and widened grins. “come for me, all over my cock.”
“i hate you.” the words came out in a fiery whine, leaving aerion’s smirk to grow.
Since that day he’s been avoiding you. When he sits next to you during meetings it’s complete silence, he won’t speak to you at all, he won’t even acknowledge you. Aerion knows you are forced to greet him regardless if he ignores you, and he’s using it at his advantage — he knows it’s tearing you up. The way you silently say hello and bow your head at him makes him force his smile away, your body language after the fact is even better — the way you slowly turn your head forward in hopes he might greet you back, how you gulp and straighten yourself up after, and your cheeks flushing a soft red out of embarrassment or anger or maybe even both.
He doesn’t plan on holding this up long (unfortunately for him, he enjoys doing this to you), he knows you’ll accept his apology once he does — you were stupid enough to accept his apology after he nearly destroyed your career, this is nothing.
And when that day finally comes. He knocks at your office door, coffee in hand, his face remorseful as he waits for you to allow him in. “Yes?” You shout from the other side of the door, full attention to the thick pile of files before you. Aerion comes in slowly, a small smile gracing his lips. You look up, pen dropping as he gets closer.
“What do you need, my prince?” You politely ask though there’s a hint of annoyance in your tone, you watch as he sets the coffee down before you.
“I know I’ve been a total jerk, and I did…purposely ignore you—but! There was rumors going around an-“
“Rumors?” You ask calmly, though your expression seems otherwise. Aerion nods as he takes a seat, hands gripping the coffee cup as he pretends to look guilty.
“Yes, people are already suspecting our relationship, and I decided to take matters into my own hands and prove their suspicions wrong.” And you believe him — almost. It’s stupid really, if he cared so much about your relationship why didn’t he tell you beforehand? You’re sure your body language recently seemed unnatural to others, how is that beneficial for clearing up rumors?
But still. You believe him.
You don’t know why you did, maybe because of loyalty, maybe because you love him, maybe because he fucks so good, or maybe all of it. You were stupid enough to forgive him once. What's so wrong about doing it again?
Aerion is an absolute demon, relishing in the fact that you so easily let him in and forgave him. Now — were there actually rumors going around? no. Was there an actual reason for Aerion to ignore you? Maybe.
After that night you continued on your relationship as normal, he wasn’t as touchy as before and was slightly awkward now, but you prefer awkwardness over being ignored.
Behind closed doors though, it’s a different story. He comes into your office like normal, innocent at first, talking about work and such. Then it rapidly escalates, he sits in your chair, makes you crawl over to him and take his cock in your mouth. He fucks your mouth ruthlessly, mascara runs down your cheeks and spit strings down as you gag repeatedly around him.
This has been going for some months now. He’ll make you suck him off but won’t fuck you after, leaving you all hot and bothered once he leaves your office, and when you go home you’re left to relive yourself. You started to get annoyed every time he came into your office because you knew what he was truly there for, you were brave enough to complain.
And surprisingly he listened. Or at least you think he did.
“I’m not sucking you off tonight.” You simply say as you look through documents, Aerion sits across from you, apple in hand and feet kicked up on your desk.
“That’s not why I’m he-“
“No, don’t make me feel like an idiot please. This happens every night without fail. It was fun at first, but I’m tired of it.” You look up, hands placed firmly on the table as you look him dead in the eyes.”
Aerion slowly turns towards you, his expression looks like he feels guilty.
“I give you what you want, and I don’t get the same in return…”
Aerion nods as he sits up right, he pulls himself closer to the desk and places his hands above yours. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. I think I’m just afraid to hurt you.”
A smile slightly curls your lips as you lean in closer, “I promise you won’t.”
A/N - well this embarrassing…I was planning on going all crazy for spring break but I’ve been busier than expected 😪 anyways enjoy this add on to that one fic I posted like 3 million years ago 😻
︵ ೀ mdni. higuruma loses his mind over his new intern
higuruma has two problems.
the first is this godforsaken case that makes his head hurt. but the second problem is worse. his new intern.
you.
twenty something and fresh out of law school, sharp and witty and so distractingly perfect it makes him loose his mind. you wear those fitted blazers and skirts like they were tailored by god himself, and every time you lean over his desk to point out a detail, higuruma has to grip his pen so hard the plastic creaks.
he knows better.
he’s forty-one. your supervising attorney. technically in a position of power. he’s supposed to be the mature one, the professional one, the one who doesn’t notice how your blouse gaps just enough to show lace when you bend forward, or how your ass looks when you walk away.
but he stares anyway. and he fantasizes.
late at night, when he’s the only one left in the office, he imagines you bent over his desk with your blouse unbuttoned, skirt hiked up and thighs trembling while he fucks his fat cock slow and deep into you from behind with your wrists bound behind you with his tie and tits pressed against case files on the desk.
he pictures your gasps, the way you’d clench around him every time he bottoms out, cervix kissing the head of his cock. how you’d take him, how he’d stretch you, how you’d whine and cry when it’s all too much and he pushes deeper still.
he hates himself for it. he’s supposed to mentor you. teach you. instead he’s sitting here, half-hard under his desk because you smiled at him when you handed him a file this morning.
“mr. higuruma?”
your voice snaps him back. you’re standing in his doorway, holding a stack of printed papers. he clears his throat. forces his eyes to your face instead of your legs.
“yes?”
you smile and it’s so pretty he thinks he will go insane.
“i found that precedent you were looking for.” you step closer, setting the papers on his desk. “do you want me to highlight the key paragraphs?”
he should say no. send you home. lock the door behind you and go back to pretending he’s a normal adult that doesn’t want to fuck his intern stupid. instead he nods.
“yes. thank you.”
you lean over the desk to point at the page. your blouse gaps just enough that he sees the soft swell of your breast. his cock twitches painfully in his trousers. he imagines sucking those nipples all night long.
you don’t notice. or maybe you do. he can’t tell anymore.
you leave twenty minutes later. he waits exactly three minutes after the elevator dings before he locks his office door.
he’s fucked.
he drops into his chair, exhales, and then unbuckles his belt. his cock is already thick and leaking when he frees it—painfully hard from hours of watching you, wanting you. he spits into his palm, wraps his hand around the base, and starts stroking—slow at first, savoring the feeling, the way his foreskin glides over the swollen head.
he imagines taking care of you the way a man his age should, showing you how good experience can feel. he imagines laying you out on his bed, wrists pinned above your head with one large hand while the other spreads your thighs wide. he’d take his time stretching you open with his fingers first, watching your face as you whimper “mr. higuruma, it’s too much,” but beg for more anyway. he’d slide his thick cock inside you inch by inch, drunk on the way your tight cunt clenches around him.
his strokes speed up—twisting at the head, thumb smearing precum over the slit.
he pictures dropping to his knees behind you, spreading you open with his thumbs, licking a long stripe from your clit to your entrance before fucking his tongue inside you until you’re sobbing. he imagines you riding him in this very chair—blouse open, tits bouncing, hands braced on his shoulders while you grind down, taking every inch, whispering how much bigger he feels than anyone else.
his balls tighten. his breath is uneven now.
he imagines coming inside you—thick pulses flooding your tight little cunt until it overflows, creamy white leaking out around his cock, dripping down your trembling thighs while you whimper and shake in his lap, begging him not to stop.
thick ropes spill over his fist, streaking across his stomach and soaking into his shirt. his hand keeps moving, every pulse pulling another low groan from his throat and your name from his lips again and again—
the office door clicks open.
“mr. higuruma?”
his eyes snap open.
fuck.
you’re standing in the doorway. your gaze drops almost instantly to his lap—his hand frozen around his thick, twitching cock, while another bead of white leaks from the slit and trails down over his knuckles and onto his thigh.
synopsis: in which lawyer higuruma's troubled once more by a lawyer he keeps losing to in court who just so happens to be the girl he rejected back in school
contains: mdni, rivals, a little angst, reader ditches her date for a last minute “meeting,” oral (fem. receiving), he talks to the kitty, praise, explicit smut, 3.8k words
art by etceteraart on x!
The backdrop of his dreams are formed by the silhouette of your body. Your smiles are the sun that gives them light. His name dipped in honey as it pours from your mouth is what the faceless people in his unconscious mind call out to him.
Everything leads to you. It all comes back to you. The girl he met in law school all those years ago.
The memory flickers across the inside of his heavy eyelids like a camera film. Ambient lighting, laughter, the clink of glasses as patrons of the bar enjoyed the start of their weekend.
He was ushered into the booth by his classmate, frazzled as he'd just come back from shadowing his mentor at the courthouse, hair slightly disheveled, tie loosened and blazer confining.
Said classmate teased him as he introduced him to the gaggle of girls in the booth. You were all law students too. Though Higuruma admittedly took his studies very seriously and flushed when the other man ribbed him for having his nose buried in textbooks all the time. The one sitting in his bookbag felt like lead then.
You were the only one who didn't giggle at his expense, saying that being studious is good and his classmate should take a page out of his book. That's how your friendship began if you could call it that seeing as you wound up in his dorm with his nose buried between your thighs a few weeks later.
It was all so easy with you. When he confided in you about his doubts, how he felt unfit for this demanding career and how he just wanted to sleep all day—depression and burnout creeping in—you'd told him it was good that he was getting rest as he needed it, spoke to professors about extensions and made sure he was taking care of himself.
What he thought would be the end of his dream leading to failure and becoming a dropout scrapping the pots at a fast-food restaurant ended up with him bouncing back and graduating at the top of his class alongside you.
The new lawyer was floating on cloud nine until you asked the dreadful question of “What are we?” during his celebration dinner. The room wavered then, fine dining warping into a courtroom where he was standing as the defendant for the first time and you were the judge, jury and prosecutor.
He was charged with the crime of half-hearted love but why couldn't that be enough? The times you spent studying together in the basement of the library past midnight, sharing sandwiches, the coffee breaks where you laughed at the others mishaps in practicals and the quiet evenings when you sat on a bench on a hill overlooking the twinkling city talking about anything and everything endlessly.
Love asks for so much that he simply cannot afford to give right now. He had commitment issues in that he poured all his blood, sweat and tears into his aspiring career, the internships and the cold cases he was adamant on solving to give families peace of mind and bring justice to victims.
Being present, showering you in affection, giving you his undivided attention and so much more—he couldn't do it. It's why he never asked you out and was selfishly relieved when you were fine with it. But now you were at your limit.
God, he wanted to claw out the aching organ pumping in his chest at the sight of ushed tears bubbling in your beautiful eyes. Your emotions were a flurry, bouncing between heartbreak, outrage and then settling into simmering, quiet anger as you paid for the bill and left.
When he tried to apologise, he'd learned that you had left the city to pursue your dream internship. He was glad that you did, that you didn't stay and let it pass you by for a coward like him who wasn't willing to put in the work.
Years ago, you were his little piece of heaven on earth but now, you're back, older and stunning, ready to rip the rug from under his steady feet and let him plummet into a hellhole.
It seems like every case he took on recently had you on it and you went out of your way to burrow your way beneath his skin like an insidious parasite to undo him from the inside out, peeling back his flesh and unspooling the threads of his crisp suits with the precision of someone who's known him intimately.
The hum of the air-conditioning system is the only sound in the cavernous break room, save for the frantic thud of your heart against your ribs even as your expression remained bored.
Higuruma doesn't just command a courtroom, he commands the air around him. Up close, the exhaustion under his eyes doesn't make him look weak—it makes him look predatory, stripped of his usual civil veneer.
“You’ve been pushing all day,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave as he stands in front of you, careful composure fraying now that you're alone. “Objecting to every point. Leading the witness. Trying to trip me up.”
Taking a long, lazy sip of your coffee, you loll your head to the side and regard him with abject disinterest behind your rimless specs. “It’s my job to trip you up, Hiromi,” you drawl as if tired of this conversation already.
“Is it?” He leans in, the scent of something woodsy and expensive tobacco enveloping you. Your peachy, vanilla scent with something more complex beneath it makes his head spin. “Because it felt personal. It felt like you wanted me to lose my temper. To lose my composure.”
“And it's Higuruma to you.”
A quirk at the corner of your mouth. Faint but clear enough for him to see your satisfaction as you set your cup down on the table, gazing roaming over him. The law tome under his arm is a much-needed accessory which amuses you as he's always got a book on him.
“I'll make sure the record shows,” you say, rising and brushing past him, the fabric of your blouse grazing his dress shirt with a rustle that has him tensing. “That you are currently losing both as well as this case, Higuruma.”
The click of your heels against the waxed floors drums against his skull, a throb of a headache forming there as he watches you leave, the door shutting behind you and robbing him of the sight of your swaying, confident saunter.
When it opens again, Shimizu pops her head inside, bob swishing as she looks at her boss and whistles low. “She got to you again, didn't she?”
Sighing in frustration, he waves his assistant off and yanks at the lapels of his blazer then adjusts his cuffs. “Just tell the driver to bring the car around, would you, dear?”
He needed a minute to make the traitorous erection in his slacks scarce.
Higuruma doesn't look up from his files when the office door opens, assuming it's just Shimizu trying to convince him to go home already since it's a Friday night. The bubbly assistant of his had been trying to set him up on blind dates for a while now but he can't think of such things when—
Speaking of the devil, he thinks as your peach and vanilla scent washes over him, his stomach flipping as he keeps his eyes on the paperwork he's poring over even as the source of his pent up frustrations' shadow falls across his desk in a shapely outline.
“You don't have an appointment. It's after hours,” is all he can say, not bothering with a greeting.
“Consider it a favor,” you reply smoothly. “The coroner’s report, Higuruma,” you say, dropping a thick manila envelope onto his mahogany desk. “Freshly contested and notarized. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a reservation.”
Finally, he lifts his head and looks up. His breath hitches, though his expression remained a mask of professional indifference. You, his fiercest rival since your days started at Chuo Law—the woman he had once coldly rejected to maintain his "focus"—are breathtaking.
Silk pours over your frame like the vision of a sculptor who's trying to emulate the draping on marble, your luscious hair swept up to reveal the elegant line of your throat, and your lips are painted a foxy red.
“A date?” The dark haired man with the hooked nose asks, his voice low.
“None of your business. Read the report. We’ll talk on Monday if you have any queries.”
“We'll talk now,” he counters, standing slowly. He walks around the desk, the heavy thud of his oxfords echoing in the silent office. “I need your theories before you leave."
"I’m off the clock," you snap, but he's already moving.
With a sudden, fluid motion, he catches your wrist and guides you into his swivel chair. "A lawyer of your caliber shouldn't be so eager to overlook a discrepancy.”
"I have a reservation, Higuruma," you repeat but don't move.
"And knowing you, you're about an hour early to be punctual. I'm sure you could spare ten minutes."
Torn between your commitments to your date and your passion for this career, you glance at the clock on his desk that reads 17:08 P.M. Your date is only at 18:30 P.M.
Relenting, you give a stiff nod. “I suppose we could discuss it now.”
Triumph sparkles in his dark, droopy eyes and you get a glimpse of the young man you fell in love with years ago. You almost soften but then remember his rejection and sneer.
“Excellent. And here I thought you lost your edge to a glass of chardonnay. Come now. Defend your findings."
Your eyes flash with that familiar competitive fire. Sighing, you huff out a breath of frustration as you sit back in the leather chair, reaching for the envelope.
"Fine. Ten minutes."
Higuruma doesn't sit in the other chair. Instead, he moves behind you, his hand resting on the back of your seat. “The blunt force trauma. You argued it was the secondary cause. Why?”
As you begin to explain the physics of the impact, your voice steady and sharp, the sly man slides down. You don't notice at first, absorbed in your thoughts. He doesn't return to his seat, he kneels between your legs.
“Higuruma, what are you—”
“Keep talking, Counselor,” he instructs like this is nothing more than the meeting you agreed to, his hands sliding up your thighs, bunching the silk of your dress. “Explain the subarachnoid hemorrhage. Tell me if you think my client had the intent to kill.”
Choking on a gasp as he parts your knees, you try to stand, but his grip is iron. “Higuruma, stop this. This is—”
“This is a deposition,” he whispers against the lace of your panties, pressing his lips over it in a sloppy, wet open-mouthed kiss.
“Hi, pretty girl. I missed you. Please tell her that I'm terribly sorry for scorning her back in school. I'm willing to make amends now.”
“Are you seriously talking to it like it's sentient? Ouch!” He pinches your thigh for your rude interruption.
Dotting a kiss to your pearly bud through the lace, feeling it flicker against his lips, he draws back and pats your mound. “Atta girl, I knew you'd understand.”
He doesn't wait. He hooks his fingers into the fabric and pulls it aside, exposing your skin to the cool air of his office. You're already slick, a physical betrayal of how much you still crave his attention.
Wasting no time, he dives in, his tongue swirling against your aching clit with a rhythmic, punishing pressure. You try to squeeze your thighs shut but they're barred open by his broad frame, back muscles rippling beneath his white dress shirt.
“The... the bruising patterns,” you stammer, your head threatening to fall back against the chair as he licks you from entrance to clit with the greed he had since law school. “They suggest—ah—they suggest a struggle. Not a—fuck—premeditated strike.”
Pulling back, his face glistens. He looks down at your swollen folds and leans in close, whispering directly to your cunt. “Did you hear that? She thinks he’s innocent. But she’s still holding back the best evidence, isn't she?”
He licks you long and slow with agonizing brushes of his drooling tongue from bottom to top, nose nudging your clit with each nod of his head. “Tell me the truth," he murmurs to your puffy pussy, his hot breath sending shivers through you. “Is she going to let him walk, or is she just hungry for a conviction?”
Your fingers bury themselves in his hair, tugging. “He’s guilty of—of negligence,” you moan, your hips beginning to buck against his mouth. “But the coroner... the coroner missed the toxicology. There was... oh god... digitalis in the system.”
Hiromi hums against you, the vibration thrumming through your cunt all the way up to the arousal pooling in your lower belly, making the liquid heat there ripple. Increasing his ministrations, his tongue mimics the relentless interrogation style that made him a legend in the courtroom. He talks to your sensitive flesh between laps, praising your brilliance even as he unravels your composure.
“So smart,” he mutters against your wetness. “Giving me the toxicology now because you know I'll use it to ruin you in court. You want to lose to me, don't you?”
You couldn't speak anymore. The room spun as Higuruma's tongue finds the perfect pace, his thumbs spreading you wide so he could feast. You shatter, your cry muffled by the solid walls of his office, your body trembling as you come hard against his face.
Higuruma stays there for a long moment, savoring the aftershocks. He eventually stands, wiping his mouth with a silk handkerchief. He looks down at you—flustered, ruined, and beautiful.
“I have one more report to go over. Be a dear and help me with it, will you?” he asks as if he wasn't as flushed and aroused as you are, the heavy bulge of his cock straining against his trousers as he moves to open his desk drawer and reveal another envelope.
Ten minutes passed so far as he promised but you supposed you could help a little longer. Wouldn't want the new interns at his firm pulling their hair out on Monday morning scrambling to pick it apart.
Once more, his face is buried between your thighs. “Tell me about the blunt force trauma. Does my client have the strength for it? Talk to me while I see if you’re as focused as you were in law school.”
As his tongue swipes across your dribbling hole, your head hits the headrest, sleek hairstyle coming loose. “The angle suggests a shorter attacker,” you breathe shakily, your manicured fingers knotting in his hair.
Higuruma pauses, pressing his face into your sweet pussy and inhaling your honeyed scent with a delirious groan.
“Hear that?” he whispers to your sensitive folds. “She’s still the smartest person in the room. Even when she’s coming for me.”
“Fuck off, Higuruma.”
“Hiromi,” he corrects. “Don't call me that when I'm nose deep in your cunt, Counselor.”
He surges back in before you can give a biting reply, his tongue lashing relentlessly as your back bows and a mewl falls from your pretty mouth.
“Guilty or innocent?” he demands against your skin.
“Innocent,” you gasp out, arching as he finds your release, drawing it from you like he found a string and yanked. “He’s innocent!”
“That's my fucking girl,” he growls wetly. “Now, tell me about the toxicology.”
When the report discussion is over, he comes up from under his desk only for you to grab his tie and drag him into a kiss. He groans, catching your lower lip between his teeth, a sharp, sudden nip that draws a low moan from your throat. He swallowed the sound, his tongue sweeping over the sting, tasting of bitter coffee and dark intent. It isn't the kiss of a refined lawyer, it's the kiss of a man who has been starved for a single moment of honesty in a world of lies.
His hand slides down, bunching up the hem of your dress again. His palm is calloused and startlingly hot against your bare thigh.
“You think you get to win against me all the time,” he whispers, his hand coming up to rest his thumb against your jaw. “You think you’ve dissected my strategy, but you haven't even seen me work without a robe on.”
His other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against the sharp lines of his body. “I’ve spent hours listening to your voice across a courtroom, imagining exactly how to make it break like I used to. Tell me, Counselor—are you prepared to argue your way out of this?”
“Don't think this is forgiveness, Hiromi,” you snarl, biting the tip of his nose hard, his cock kicking in his pants, then pecking it. “I'm simply granting you the opportunity to fuck me out of your system so you can get out of whatever funk you're in and give me a real challenge.”
When his mouth crashes against yours again, it isn't a debate, it's a total surrender of decorum.
“How unbecoming of you. Do you seriously plan to bend me over this desk and take me in your office?” You scoff at the lack of professionalism.
His anger sizzles in the air and you barely have time to savor it as he lifts you up, carrying you in one arm. Gosh, he's really gotten stronger and bulkier, no longer lanky and lean like he was in law school. Your mouth waters at the feel of him.
“Where are we—”
“Shut up for once.”
Pursing you lips, you suppress a smile and oblige. For now.
Walking toward the back of his office, you give his side profile a confused look but then spot a keypad which he punches a code into and the wall slides open into…a bedroom?
The room has none of the icy, black and gray tones of his office. Instead there's greens and browns with an oakwood door leading to a bathroom and a king-size bed with a cushioned headboard. It did not suit the firm at all.
“Why do you have this?”
His ears redden as he shrugs, feigning indifference. “It was a ten years of service gift. Since I practically live at the office and have been caught asleep at my desk too many times.”
Humming, you eye him suspiciously. “Is that all you do in here? Sleep?” While you knew it isn't your place, you can't help feel a twinge of annoyance at the potential of being just another woman he fucks in here to relieve stress.
Dark eyes hooding, he responds with a flat expression. “I'm a fucking workaholic, sweetheart. What makes you think I'd bring lovers here instead of my place?”
Shrugging, you suppose that's fair enough and the unopened box of condoms he pulls out of the bedside table after dropping you onto the mattress attests to that.
“And here I was thinking that this is how you negotiate with your difficult clients,” you retort as he peels off your dress and undergarments while you help him out of his suit.
“Not at all. Only a particularly stubborn woman who won't show me mercy in the courtroom.”
Laughing at that, the amusement melts into a moan as he pushes into you with one punishing, grounding thrust. The air leaves your lungs in a sharp "Oh!" as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, hair tickling your throat.
This isn't the clinical precision of his legal mind, this was the hunger of years spent pretending he hadn't regretted walking away from you in law school.
The bed groans under the sheer force of your combined weight. Higurume grips the headboard, his knuckles white, eyes locking onto yours with a primal intensity. “You think you can just walk back into my life and outplay me?”
“I don't think, I know and I already have,” you purr a salacious sound that crawls up down his spine and makes his groin tingle, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist to draw him deeper.
He groans, a low, defeated sound, as he drives into you like a man possessed, knocking the sharp gasps and whimpers out of you, marking his territory in the only room where he isn't your opposition but your lover.
Hours pass and you're still wrapped up in each other, tangled in the sheets of the sanctuary laying behind the heavy oak paneling of his office, the hum of the midnight city just outside.
Somewhere on the bedside table, your phone buzzes with texts and missed calls from your date which Higuruma snatches and replies saying that an important meeting came up and that you're terribly sorry as if you're not clawing at his ridged abdomen and back like a feral cat.
He slows his pace, leaning back on his haunches as his hips roll against yours lazily, dizzying you with the consistent filling of his thick cock in your snug cunt. The mix of your essence and his sticks to both your sweaty thighs.
Face illuminated by the white glow of your phone, the elation in his half-lidded eyes is hard to miss as he scrolls through your texts. “Aww, he's so worried about you, baby. Asking if he should come over to yours and telling you don't stress yourself.”
Cooing, he cocks his head, eyes bowed and brows creased in mock sympathy for the man, hair flopping to the side. “Should I send him a picture to show him just how good you're doing?”
You try to scowl but his cock drags against your sweet spots deliciously so it wavers. “Fuck you, Hiromi. Leave him alone.”
With a long-suffering sigh, he tosses the phone to the bed and crawls over you, crowding you once more, eyes too soft for the hate-fucking this was supposed to be.
“You're right. I already stole you from him tonight,” he purrs, nosing your cheek sweetly as if he's not stuffing you full again, bullying his cock inside you with brutal snaps of his hips.
The amber glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds was enough to illuminate your disheveled silhouette. You're a vision—hair fanned out over his pillows, eyes glazed with pleasure, swollen lips parted on shallow breaths and whispers of his name, supple skin littered with his marks as your body bounces with his thrusts.
And Higuruma knows he's not going to let you slip through his fingers again. He's going to scoop you up, unbutton his ribs and keep him tucked away beside his heart for as long as he can.
He refuses to let you be just an illusion in his dreams again.
synopsis: in which lawyer higuruma is crushing on the cute receptionist at the firm who's too young for him.
contains: mdni, tension, ten-year age gap, law student!reader, drinking, adult conversations, fingering, face-sitting, explicit sex, the dorks babble on about violations while they fuck, 2.1k words
note: art by zoromins on x!
The fluorescent hum of the firm usually felt like a cage, but lately, it felt like a sanctuary. Higuruma Hiromi, a man whose soul was etched with case law and billable hours, found his discipline crumbling every time he looked toward the reception desk.
He still recalls the day he first met you.
Breathless and clutching a red folder, you arrived at the interview in a rushed haze. Your lustrous hair was swept into a messy, high bun, several stray wisps framing a wide-eyed expression of panicked sincerity. Clad in a simple soft pink off-the-shoulder top and casual blue denim jeans, you looked more like the student you were than a legal candidate.
The man had told you that your resume was impressive but not to make the mistake of wearing casual outfits to work again. You'd given him a bashful smile and admitted that you were called in at the last minute for the interview hence your lack of preparation.
Once hired, however, the transformation was striking. Seated behind the sleek mahogany desk, you exuded a polished, academic charm. Your hair remained in a bun, but now neatly sculpted. Thin-rimmed glasses perched on your nose, highlighting an air of sharp focus. Swapping cotton for a professional black blouse and a structured plaid skirt, you finally looked the part of the law firm’s indispensable face at the front desk.
You were ten years his junior, a law student with bright eyes that hadn't yet been dulled by the judicial system. To the rest of the partners, you were the girl who handled the phones. To Hiromi, you were the only reason he stayed past 8:00 PM poring over textbooks and assignments he stopped using years ago.
"The logic in your torts brief is sound," he’d murmur in his corner office, the city lights shimmering behind him. “But your conclusion needs more teeth,” he'd gesture to the points he wanted you to flesh out with his glinting metallic pen while ignoring how you'd marvel over his long, thick fingers before snapping out of your thoughts and concentrating.
He’d spend hours guiding you through the complexities of the law, ignoring the mounting files on his own desk just to see you nod in realization. In return, you brought him life. Every morning, a coffee—black, two sugars—and on Fridays, a slice of rich chocolate cake. “Coffee and chocolate are the only acceptable pairings for a Friday,” he’d joke.
Once, a smudge of ganache lingered on his lip. Without thinking, you reached out, swiped it away with your thumb, and licked it clean. The air in the office had turned electric. Hiromi’s breath hitched, and for a moment, the professional veneer shattered into a thousand flustered pieces.
He looked out for you with a quiet, possessive intensity. He’d lightly scold interns who lingered too long at your desk, spinning your chair playfully as he walked past just to hear you laugh as he asked his usual, “Workin’ hard or hardly workin,’ kid?”
He’d even adjusted a twisted bra strap once, his fingers trembling against your skin, just as you’d often reach up to straighten his tie before a court appearance. Once, when a filing project left your hands covered in industrial adhesive, he’d led you to the kitchen sink, holding your hands under the warm water, scrubbing the stickiness away with a tenderness that felt like a confession. Your eyes had fluttered from how his dress shirt brushed your back, heat rolling off him and warming you down south.
Then came the Friday drinks.
The team was three rounds deep into highballs, and the conversation had spiraled from billable hours to the bedroom. The atmosphere was loose, blurring the lines of hierarchy. When the topic turned to “firsts” and fantasies, the group grew rowdy.
“A little choking never hurt anyone,” Shimizu, Higuruma's assistant said with a wave as she leaned back before straightening when she thought better of it and pointed to the interns. “Only if you do it properly.”
“I'm into a bit of bondage too, yeah,” your timid coworker with crooked glasses piped in, making you all turn to him in shock as he flushed a bright red. Huh, it's always the quiet ones. You nodded, impressed.
Sighing, one of the uptight, strict attorneys rubbed her brow bone when you all questioned her, an arm resting on the top of the booth. She looked way more relaxed than usual. “I have a breeding kink.”
Your mouth fell agape. “But you're a lesbian, how does that work?”
A slow, lazy grin claims her face that made your stomach tumble. “It's the idea of it. I know it can't happen but that won't stop me from trying to come inside my woman.”
Everyone grows flustered at that then continues going around the table and eventually, it's your turn. Higuruma slightly perks up, lending an ear to the conversation he found boring just before this.
“I’ve actually never... been eaten out,” you admitted, your face warming. A chorus of shocked gasps erupted. “But,” you added, emboldened by the margaritas, “I've always wanted to try sitting on someone's face.”
The table erupted in wolf whistles and teasing. You laughed, hiding your face, but Higuruma remained silent. He was staring intensely at the amber liquid in his glass, his knuckles white.
“What about you, Higuruma-san?” an associate prodded. “What’s the stoic overworked and underfucked genius into?”
Casting him a flat look, the dark-haired man with the hooked nose and tired eyes sighed. He set his glass down. He lifted his gaze, roaming over all the inquisitive, eager faces around the table then settling it directly on you. The noise of the bar seemed to vanish.
“I’ve always preferred it when a woman rides my nose,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. “Uses it to pleasure herself while smothering me.”
He took a slow sip of his drink, his dark eyes burning into yours over the rim of the glass, letting those words soak in for all of you.
While the coworkers cheered and laughed at what they thought was a rare bit of raunchy humor from the man, you felt the heat of his stare settle low in your gut. He wasn't joking. And for the first time, he wasn't keeping it under wraps.
Later, the walk to the parking garage was silent, the heavy night air thick with the unspoken confession from the bar.
As soon as the elevator doors shut with a metallic hiss, Higuruma's composure snapped. He didn't wait for his car door to open before his mouth was on yours, tasting like expensive gin and the chocolate cake from earlier.
Your surprised gasp was fucking adorable. “Mmph! Mr. Higuruma—”
“Hiromi,” he corrected you, breaking away just to tell you that before diving in again and groaning when you welcomed it.
The man practically lifted you into the backseat of his sleek sedan, the leather cool against your skin as he crowded over you. The professional, stern lawyer was gone, replaced by a man starving for the very thing he’d been lecturing you on for months when the interns would flirt with you.
“Hiromi, we shouldn't—the firm's policy on fraternization—” you sucked in a breath as his hand slid up your thigh, hooking into the lace of your underwear. Your blouse was pushed up to free your perky tits, bra unclasped.
“Article 4, Section 2,” he murmured against your neck, his breath hot. “Conflict of interest.”
He didn't stop. His fingers found you, slick and ready. There was no warning given as he shoved his middle finger inside your pooling hole. Back arching, you whimpered, hand catching on the cold steel of his watch that cost about the same as your tuition.
“You should take that off. I might ruin it,” you advised through pants.
“Don't worry about it, sweetheart. It's waterproof,” he assured you with the scrunch of his nose, slipping his dexterous finger back and forth, your cunt gurgling from the puddle of slick there. “Get it as wet as you want. Make a fucking mess.”
His filthy words had your pussy clamping down on his digit, swollen lips parted on a sharp gasp as his thumb rubbed your aching clit in firm, steady circles that had your stomach caving. He pumped it in and out of you with authoritative precision, adding the second one as his cock throbbed with another heavy pump of blood from the way your pussy fluttered and sucked him in.
The way your features furrow, brows creasing, lips parted on shallow, sharp pants and eyes glazed with desirous heat was better than the visions Higuruma conjured as he'd guiltily fuck his fist in the shower after sporting a hard-on all day from the scent of your perfume or you gracing him with a smile.
When he felt your insides swell as if you were about to come, he grew dizzy with arousal as your thighs twitch, rubbing together for more friction but he refused to let you come anywhere other than his mouth so he withdrew his fingers reluctantly, sucking them clean as you protested. He apologized with a kiss to your dewy temple.
“My apologies, sweetheart, but I'd prefer if you came in my mouth first so I could fulfill both of our fantasies, yeah?”
He didn't give you time to process the heat of his words before he was shifting, picking you up and laying himself down on the creaking leather seat. Hands on your hips, he pulled you onto him so that your syrupy cunt was hovering over his face.
True to his word, he didn't hesitate as he gripped your sides and settled your weight on his face. When his face pressed against you, the contact was electric. You gripped his silky hair, your thighs trembling as he showed you exactly what those 'college boys' had been missing.
“Stupid boys,” he muttered against your skin, his voice muffled and dark as he licked and slurped at you greedily, nose rubbing at your clit, the hook of it catching sometimes. “Noses buried in textbooks when they could have been right here. All those fools you study with, they have no idea what they're doing with a woman like you.”
You were mindless, your hips rocking against his face as he drank you in. The windows were already beginning to cloud over, a hazy white veil shielding you from the world outside. When you finally came, crying out his name, he didn't let you rest.
He moved over you, shedding his blazer and fumbling with his belt. You reached out, your stilettos digging into the pressed fabric of his undone trousers over his ass as you hiked your legs onto his shoulders. The friction of his dress shirt against your bare breasts was a delicious contrast.
"This is... a massive violation of the employee handbook," you wheezed, your heels pressing into his back as he pushed inside you, filling the ache he'd created with a deliriously thick cock.
“Gross misconduct,” he agreed, his pace frantic like he was worried you might get caught at any moment, the car rocking on its suspension with every heavy thrust. “Grounds for immediate termination.”
“And sexual harassment... if I didn't want it this badly,” you added, your voice breaking as he hit a spot that made your toes curl.
He surged into you harder, a deep, bruising thrust that forced a sob of relief from your throat. The car rocked on its axles, the rhythm of his thrusts steady and relentless.
Every time he hit the end of you, he muttered another 'violation'—an ethics breach, a workplace hazard, a total abandonment of his moral compass—and you finished every single one of them until the words turned into breathless, incoherent moans.
“I've wanted you since the first day you brought me that coffee,” he confessed through a slur, his forehead pressed against yours, sweat dripping from his brow. “Fuck, it’s been torture. Every time I adjusted your clothes, every time I drove you home, I was imagining this.”
“Me too,” you sobbed, clutching his shoulders as the windows went completely opaque, pearlescent with fog. “I've wanted you since the first time you scolded me for my citations.”
“Yeah? You like getting scolded?” he grunted, nipping at your chin.
Sheepish despite the circumstances, you nodded. “A little bit.”
Higuruma let out a low, guttural laugh, his movements becoming desperate as he reached his limit, the snap of his hips growing sporadic. “Then let's make sure this violation is thorough.”
As the car swayed and the leather creaked under the weight of months of repressed longing, the law firm and the bar felt like another lifetime. In the fogged-up dark of the backseat, there were no rules left to break—only the two of you, finally honest.
Outside, the streets shone with the pink, green, blue and other hues of neon lights from the shops nearby, the beams streaking across the gravely roads while the music blasting from the nightclubs drowned out your debauchery.
