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oscengrim · 3 days ago

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Once again, I'm lured back to this creators content. This was a really good one. I may be a slow and causal consumer, but I do recommend this one

Through the Keyhole

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader Genre: Smut 18+ Word count: 3,1k Summary: Thomas Shelby can fuck you without touching you. Yes, even—especially—if you're his new maid. CN: Masturbation, domination/power imbalance…ok, heavy ownership vibes, orgasm denial. Please note that this is all just fantasy. Things that happen in my stories should always be consensual. Take care. Author’s note: Feel free to leave comments and share my story if you enjoy it—I truly appreciate every bit of motivation to keep writing. Even though I'm not a native speaker, I'll do my best 😉

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Masterlist

You shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t be standing outside Mr. Shelby’s office, your hand pressed against the cold wooden door, your breath shallow as you peer through the keyhole. But here you are, heart hammering in your chest, unable to move, unable to look away. What you hope to see behind the closed door seems way too tempting.

You have been working at Arrow House for only a few weeks, assigned as one of the maids responsible for maintaining the estate. From the beginning, you sensed something unusual in the air—a quiet, charged tension between you and Mr. Shelby that neither of you acknowledged aloud. You told yourself you were imagining it. You kept your head down, kept your hands busy, and did your best to ignore the way his presence seemed to command every room he entered. But the feeling never faded. If anything, it grew.

It didn’t help that the uniform they gave you felt… wrong. The skirt hem a touch too high, the bodice a fraction too tight. More decorative than practical. You’d worked in other houses before, but none had required anything like this. But you felt like you had no choice. You needed this job. Badly. Which meant you couldn’t afford to let yourself be noticed—not for the wrong reasons. You were careful. Controlled. Professional.

And yet.

The day had been a haze of tension, a slow burn you hadn’t been able to shake since this morning. It had started with an offhanded remark—a quiet comment as you polished the desk in the drawing room. “If you bend over any further, sweetheart, I’ll start thinking you’re trying to tempt me.”

Your fingers had tightened around the cloth, your pulse skipping, but you had swallowed your response, pretending not to hear him.

Except, he knew.

He had seen the flush creep up your neck, the way your hands trembled ever so slightly when you set the glass down in front of him at lunch. And later, when you passed him in the hallway, he had let his fingers brush against the back of your hand—it would undoubtedly have been possible to pass you without any physical contact. Still, you doubted your perception and wondered if you had just imagined it.

You hadn’t.

It wasn't a coincidence, not carelessness. It was something more deliberate, more testing. As if he were watching, waiting, pushing just enough to see when you’d break—when you’d lose that carefully practiced composure. Was this how Thomas Shelby flirted, seduced? Making it seem like an accident, yet inevitable, until you mistrusted your own senses and wondered if it was you who initialized it? And yet, beneath the provocation, you sensed something else. A warning. A dare.

You had resisted. Because you weren’t foolish enough to believe that giving in would lead to anything good at the end of the day. For all you knew, it was a test. One misstep, one moment of indulgence, and he’d decide you weren’t suited to this kind of household. That he had hired a whore, not a maid. Not only would you lose that much-needed job, but you might find yourself in another job sooner than you'd like. You've heard too much about Thomas Shelby and his shady businesses.

So, you pretended. You ignored the heat curling in your stomach, the unspoken challenge in his gaze. You kept your head down and did your job.

But the tension had only grown heavier.

Which is why, when you saw the flickering glow of the fireplace under his office door late tonight, long after you should have knocked off work, you had paused. And then you had done something you shouldn't have.

You decided to secretly watch him.

Inside, Mr. Shelby sits in his armchair facing the fireplace, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the armrest, the other holding a glass of whiskey. His head is tipped back slightly, exposing the sharp cut of his jaw, the hollow of his throat. The light from the lit fireplace casts dancing shadows on his face, making him appear gentle and peaceful. But this is deceptive.

He takes a slow sip, his lips parting just enough for the amber liquid to slip past them before he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

Just the sight of him sitting there and the knowledge that you're doing something forbidden makes your knees go weak.

And then—he sets the glass down on the small wooden side table, his fingers drifting lower, slow, unhurried. Your pulse slams against your ribs as you watch his other hand move to his belt, fingers working the buckle open, then the button of his trousers, then the zipper. Heat is pooling between your legs as he slips a hand inside.

God.

You should leave. You know you should leave as fast as you can.

But you don’t.

You watch, paralyzed, as he exhales slowly, his fingers wrapping around his twitching cock, his grip firm, practiced. His hips lift slightly as he pushes his trousers lower, exposing more of himself, and when his head tips back further, eyes fluttering shut, a quiet groan escapes his lips.

A shudder rolls through you, your fingers gripping the doorframe as your thighs press together involuntarily. You find yourself thinking about ripping open the door and sitting on him without warning. But nothing seems more unimaginable and inappropriate. He's your boss.

You shouldn’t be seeing this. You shouldn’t be feeling this. But the sight of him like this—so controlled even in his own pleasure, so unbothered by the rest of the world—it makes something dark and forbidden twist inside you.

You have to stifle a scream of terror when you suddenly hear him shout something—

"Y/N"

Holy shit. How could he—

For a moment, you think you must have hallucinated it. He couldn’t possibly—

"Y/N. Come in. Now."

His voice is sharper this time, edged with command, and panic spikes through you as you stumble back. No doubt that he caught you. Your feet move before you can think, and before you know it, your hand is on the doorknob, pushing it open. You don't know if it's blind obedience to your boss or a suppressed desire trying to find its way to the surface.

The room feels impossibly warm as you step inside, your skin burning under his gaze. He’s still seated, still exposed, but his hand is no longer moving. Instead, he watches you with the same quiet intensity as always—calculating, knowing. The fact that you can watch him in this intimate moment, pleasuring himself, doesn't seem to embarrass him in the slightest. On the contrary, it seems as if he's holding his cock like a weapon against you.

He leans back slightly. "You enjoy invading your employer’s personal space, eh?"

Your mouth opens, but no words come out.

“So, is this your idea of how to do your job conscientiously?”

You indicate a shy shake of the head and avoid returning his gaze.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?” He picks up his whiskey again, taking a slow sip, smirking. “I know maids. Always curious. They listen when they shouldn’t. They watch when they think no one sees.”

Your heart hammers.

He shakes his head with mock regret. “And do you really believe a man in my position wouldn’t have his own ways of knowing when someone is creeping around his house?”

“But, I haven’t—” you try to justify yourself, knowing full well that it is hopeless.

"I’d suggest you stop lying to me," he interrupts you, voice calm, steady. “Because I’d hate to punish you for it.”

Heat coils in your stomach at the quiet warning beneath his words.

And then—his fingers tighten around himself again, moving just slightly.

“Tell me,” he says, watching you, measuring your reaction. “Do you like what you see?”

He lifts his cock toward you as if he's aiming it at you. He not just his very personal weapon against you, but also an invitation you know you'd better decline—if you can.

He hums while still shamelessly stroking himself, breathing heavily. “Tell me the truth.”

Heat floods your face, you lower your chin in shame, but your body betrays you before you can deny it—your thighs pressing together, your fingers twitching at your sides. His eyes flicker lower, catching the movement, and his smirk deepens.

“Thought so.”

And then he says something that makes you gasp.

"Well then... let’s make things even, shall we?"

Your eyes snap to his, wide, disbelieving.

His voice remains calm, even. "It’s only fair, isn’t it? You watched me. Now, I watch you."

Your breath stutters, your legs frozen. "I—I can’t—"

"You can," he says simply, his fingers tightening ever so slightly. "And you will." His tone is almost lazy, but his eyes—his eyes are anything but.

When you hesitate, he exhales a quiet laugh.

“Or should I assume that you are defying your boss? With all consequences? Do you want me to think that my lovely new maid is looking for trouble? That would be a very bad thing.”

The way he says it—slow, deliberate—makes you realize, in that moment, that this isn’t a test at all.

It’s an order, the silent warning brought to life, which you now realize too late, when there is no way back.

Silence stretches between you, thick and charged. His gaze never wavers, pinning you in place, commanding you to obey him.

Thomas Shelby, the man who is used to have a whole town follow his commands.

The way he’s looking at you leaves no doubt that he already knows you’ll obey. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s still lazily stroking himself, still impossibly composed, while your own skin feels too tight, too hot, too sensitive.

Whatever it is, your hands tremble as they move to the hem of your nightdress.

A flicker of approval crosses his face, brief but unmistakable.

"Go ahead," he murmurs. “Pleasure yourself the way you always do.”

Your pulse pounds as you pull the fabric higher, baring your thighs, your hips, the soft cotton of your underthings. His eyes darken, his hand moving just a fraction faster.

"I bet you do this a lot, don’t you?" He lets out a low chuckle. "Poor thing… no husband to fuck you properly. How often do you need it?"

As if his command to touch yourself in front of him wasn’t overwhelming enough already. You have a sinking feeling that his little game of question and answer is going to push you right to your limits…and beyond.

"I—I don’t know. Usually, I don’t—"

He cuts you off again. "Don’t play innocent, sweetheart. That only makes things harder for both of us." His tone sharpens. "When your boss asks you a question, you answer properly. And keep doing what you’ve started."

Your fingers slip beneath the fabric of your underwear, finding the heat between your legs. A soft gasp escapes before you can stop it.

A pause. He watches you with an intense gaze.

"Now answer my question. How often?"

"Maybe… once a week?" you offer hesitantly, trying to give him something without handing him every detail on a silver platter. "I don’t really keep track…"

He hums, considering. "And here, in your quarters—have you done it since you started working for me?"

Heat floods your face.

Yes. You have. Not just once. Not just once a week. Ever since you met him, you haven’t been able to stop.

"Yes," you whisper, ashamed.

A beat of silence.

"I see." His voice is unreadable. And then, casually—too casually—"I suppose it might be worth my while to take a peek through your keyhole sometime, don’t you think?"

Your stomach twists.

You swear to yourself—right here, right now—that from now on, you’ll keep your hands to yourself.

Or at least, you wish you could swear it.

Because if you lose this job and have to go home to confess that you got yourself fired for fucking your employer…

Your parents would never forgive you.

You look at him with wide eyes, hoping that what you’re doing in front of him will be enough of a distraction—enough to draw his focus away from his…inappropriate interrogation. The situation has long since crossed the boundaries of a professional working relationship, but you haven’t given up on damage control just yet. If you give him a little show, let him get what he wants and take his pleasure, maybe he’ll let you go. Maybe you’ll never have to speak of this… incident again.

But then, his expression shifts. Mr. Shelby doesn’t look satisfied.

"Ah, ah—" His voice is almost scolding. ""I can't see anything like this. Take off your panties and lie down on the couch. Legs apart."

Reluctantly, you slide your underwear down and lower yourself onto the plush velvet couch. From his armchair, he has the perfect view of you—laid bare before him, exposed in a way you never should be. At least the indecent sight between your parted thighs does succeed in momentarily diverting his attention from his questioning. And at least this way, it’s him pulling you into whatever this is, leaving you innocent, whatever it may be of use to you.

His breath hitches at the sight, and his grip tightens as he strokes himself, his movements quickening. But you know, with absolute certainty, that this won’t stop him from pressing you further. From giving you more orders.

Your fingers circle your clit, dip into the wet heat between your thighs. Mr. Shelby stills for a moment, taking another slow sip of whiskey, before resuming his unhurried pace. Minutes stretch endlessly between you until, suddenly, he stops and gestures toward his dark wooden desk.

"I can’t keep watching this," he says, voice low. "Go to my desk. Open the top left drawer."

You cringe. The top drawer on the left. You know that drawer.

He knows maids. Always curious. Damn it.

You hesitate but reach for the handle. Inside, nestled among the usual office supplies, are candles—thick and long enough to rival his own impressive size. Your fingers twitch slightly as you skim over them, trying to suppress any reaction, but you can feel his gaze burning into you.

"Go on, don’t act so shy now," he drawls. "Pick one. I know your sweet little fingers aren’t enough for you. Why else would one of them be missing?"

You gasp. Your intuition was right again. He knows.

Your thoughts scramble for an escape, but there’s none. This man sees everything. He has you in the palm of his hand. And now, you’re not even sure whether his comment about looking through your keyhole was just a threat— or a confession.

Slowly, you pick up a candle, red and heavy in your grasp, quickly warming to your touch. Your knees are weak as you sink back onto the couch.

"Now," he says, his tone leaving no room for disobedience, "I want to see you use it. No teasing. No shy little act. Do it like you always do. Fuck yourself the hard way. And don’t you dare stop until I say so."

You part your legs wider and guide the candle between them, pushing it inside. Even though you’re already soaked, your breath stutters at the stretch, at the slow, deep fullness of it. He’s caught you—he knows exactly what you’ve done, what you’ve thought about. And now, with every steady thrust of your hand, you feel his gaze weighing heavier on you, waiting to witness your relief. Not only is it degrading that you're supposed to masturbate with a candle in front of him, the craving for his cock is almost consuming you and simultaneously bringing you closer to climax. He's so close, almost tangible, and yet out of your reach.

Mr. Shelby’s own pleasure builds in tandem, tension coiling in his body as he watches, utterly riveted. His strokes become erratic, his breathing uneven. You hear it before you see it—the sharp intake of breath, the low groan of release. He spills over, onto the floor, onto the side table, his body shaking with the force of it. A few final, languid strokes, and then he collapses back into his armchair with a satisfied sigh.

His eyes fall shut as he basks in the aftershocks of his climax.

You’re still teetering on the edge, aching, desperate to finish. Cautiously, you glance at him, fingers slowing—

"Don’t you dare."

Your breath stills. His voice is firm, lazy but laced with authority. Of course, his eyes weren’t fully closed.

"You’ll put the candle back where you found it," he murmurs, amusement flickering across his expression.

As you stand up, your legs tremble, and your vision blurs. With a soft click, you place the candle back into the drawer.

“And the other one too,” he says coldly. “Return it before you go to bed. As long as you work in my house, you follow my rules.”

His rules. You think you must have misheard. He left it deliberately vague, but you already know what it means. It’s not just about working hours or instructions—he wants control. Control over you, over your body.

You stand with your back to him, hardly daring to turn around. But then he speaks again.

“Y/N,” he says, calm but firm. “Tomorrow, you’ll receive an amendment to your contract. I expect you to be available in the evenings as well. Don’t worry, you’ll be well compensated. Your family could certainly use the money, as maybe they can keep their house after all the debt your father has accumulated.”

That damn bastard.

Your hands clench into fists.

“It’s the right decision,” he continues calmly. “You’ve shown me that you understand. I like that.” A pause. “We’re going to have a productive partnership.”

He leans back, studying you. “And before you go to your room—take care of the mess here.” He points to the side table and the floor, which are stained with the remnants of his lust.

You take a deep breath, straighten your clothes, and head for the door.

“Where are you going?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“To the kitchen, to get a cloth. So that your office shines in its usual glory tomorrow.” You put on your fake smile and try to return to a professional tone.

He shakes his head and gets up. “That won’t be necessary, sweetheart.” His hand rests heavily on your shoulder. “I think you’ll find another way to handle it.”

His gaze locks onto yours, challenging. Your heart pounds.

"You'll clean this up without a cloth. And I'll be watching. Quite a fitting preview of our future collaboration, eh?"

***

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cinnxmxngxrl · 2 days ago

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“Jealousy”

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Shelby!Reader

part four of Camden’s sin but can be read as a stand alone

Check Alfie’s Masterlist here to see the previous parts.

Summary: Alfie’s blinded by jealousy after he finds out some man flirted with you. He’s dead set on reminding you exactly who you belong to.

WC: 3,9k

Warnings: intense smut, minors DNI, unprotected piv, fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, creampie, dom!alfie, oral (m!receiving), breeding kink, Alfie is sweet in his own way, reader is Tommy Shelby’s sister.

A/N: you don’t really need to read previous part if you only here for the smut.

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It was another week in Camden—another day pretending you were there for business. But the truth lived inside the four walls of Alfie’s office.

You barely made it three steps into the room before the air changed—thicker, tenser. Something was off. Alfie was behind his desk, slouched like usual, but the energy radiating from him was different. He wasn’t smirking. Didn’t crack a joke. Didn’t move. Just watched you, heavy and still, eyes like flint. That stare—the one that meant danger—made your spine prickle. It was the look he gave before things went sideways, before someone got a bullet in the skull or had their teeth shattered on the floor. It was nearly impossible with him to know what was going through his mind.

Your arms crossed instinctively, a shield against the weight of his silence. “Alright,” you exhaled. “What now?”

He tilted his head, slow and deliberate. His voice, when it came, was quiet, too quiet. The kind of calm that always came before the explosion.

“Tell me summat, yeah?” he murmured. “Was he ‘andsome?”

You frowned. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what I’m talkin’ about.” His eyes locked on you like a rifle sight. “That fella from the meeting Tommy sent you to. Was he handsome, treacle?”

And just like that, the world clicked into place.

The memory rushed back. A few days ago in Stepney—Tommy had sent you to deal with some young punks trying to move stolen guns. You were there to make an impression, be polite and seal the trust. One of them, a man named Carter, had laid it on thick. He’d spent the entire time flirting with you, you’d kept your distance, staying cordial but never encouraging him. He was the kind of man who thought he was charming just because women didn’t slap him across the face. Objectively good-looking, sure, but nothing else. Barely even looked at him. Because none of them were Alfie.

“How do you even know about that?” you asked, narrowing your eyes. “Are you having me followed now? Sending your men to go everywhere I go?”

“I got ears everywhere,” he said coolly. “Loyal ones, right? The kind that let me know when some wanker’s flirtin’ with what’s mine.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, come off it, Alfie. It was business.”

“Oi, don’t talk to me like I’m fuckin’ stupid,” he growled, rising slow from behind the desk like something uncoiling. “You let that posh cunt flirt with you to make a deal? Smile at you? Did you let him fuckin’ touch you?”

Your heart kicked. “No,” you snapped. “Of course not.”

His nostrils flared. His voice dropped to a vicious whisper. “Word is you smiled at ‘im. Laughed even.”

“I was being polite,” you bit out. “Diplomatic. You know that word, Alfie?”

“I don’t give two shits about diplomacy,” he hissed. “You let him look at you like you were his for the takin’. Like he could fuck you over some piss-stained table and then have a pint about it with ‘is mates. And I—” He slammed a hand against the desk, “—don’t share what’s mine.”

You stepped toward him, slow but furious, jaw clenched. “You don’t own me, Alfie.”

His face twisted like you’d punched him. “Don’t say that,” he snarled, closing the distance in two steps. His heat rolled off him, his presence wrapping around you like fire. “Don’t you fuckin’ say that like you ain’t still walkin’ ‘round with your cunt tastin’ like me.”

A flush of desire surged through you before you could stop it, betraying the fury in your voice. As much as his jealousy was annoying it turned you on in unspeakable ways.

“You’re acting like a bloody lunatic,” you hissed, the words shaking from the burn between your thighs. His madness—his obsession—should’ve scared you. Instead, it made you ache.

“I’m actin’ like a man who can’t fuckin’ breathe thinkin’ about another man touchin’ you,” he growled. “Who can’t stand the idea of someone else thinkin’ they’ve got a fuckin’ chance with his woman.”

“Since when exactly am I your woman?” You shot back.

His pupils blew wide. “Since the day you walked through that fuckin’ door.”

He leaned in, his teeth grazing your ear, voice a filthy rasp. “You want other blokes lookin’ at you like that again? I’ll put you in chains, lock you in this fuckin’ office, and make sure the only name you remember is mine.”

“Alfie it was just a stupid meeting, you’re blowing this out of prop—“

You barely got a breath in before he snapped again.

“How would you feel, right—if you saw me shaggin’ some slag, eh?” Alfie snapped, his voice low and sharp, like it cut through the air between you.

“I wasn’t shaggin’ him, Alfie,” you said, trying to stay calm. “I barely even looked at him.”

Alfie’s eyes narrowed, jaw twitching. “Yeah, but you laughed.” His voice was quieter now, rougher, like something raw was clawing its way out of him. “You laughed with him. And I only want you laughin’ at my fuckin’ jokes.”

For a moment, the room felt smaller, with something heavier than anger. You could feel it in his voice, in the way his eyes wouldn’t quite meet yours.

“I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you,” he bit out, raw and hoarse. “That’s the fuckin’ problem, innit?”

His rage unraveled, twisting into something vulnerable. Wild. He looked unhinged—every thought laid bare, no filter, no mask.

“I’d carve his eyes out,” he spat, trembling. “Feed ‘em to the fuckin’ dogs. Let the fuckin’ crows have the rest of him. I won’t let no bastard think he’s got a chance to fuck what’s mine.”

And just like that, the shift came, so fast you almost missed it. His anger turning into something softer, more desperate.

He collapsed into your space, burying his face against your neck, voice cracking. “Fuckin’ hurts me,” he whispered. “Just thinkin’ about someone else touchin’ you. Someone else hearin’ those moans you make just for me. I’m mad at the fuckin’ world that tries to take you…to tempt you away from me.”

His hands gripped your hips with brutal need, yanking you close. You gasped softly as your body reacted, arching into his hold like it was your instinct.

“You need to trust that I chose you, Alfie,” you whispered, threading your fingers into his curls. “You think I’d leave you for some bootlicking bastard who couldn’t handle a real deal—let alone a woman like me?”

He froze. His eyes found yours—wild, glassy, desperate.

“Say it again.”

“What?”

“Say it again, that you wouldn’t leave.”

“I won’t leave, Alfie. I’m here. You’ve got me.”

That broke him.

His mouth crashed into yours, brutal and claiming, like a man starving. There was no hesitation, no build-up—just raw hunger. His lips smashed against yours like he meant to devour every sound you’d ever made for another man.

It wasn’t a kiss, it was a mark, a stake in the ground. Possession. Heat. Teeth clashing and breath stolen. His beard scraped your skin and his mouth tasted like blood and whiskey, like violence and desire.

One hand grabbed your jaw possessively like he needed to hold your words in place. His grip was rough, fingers digging into the hinge of your jaw as if daring you to deny him. To say no. To even try.

The other was already hiking your skirt up, fingers shaking as he undid his belt.

Metal clinked, leather hissed free. His hand was shaking— not from nerves, but from rage, from need so tight it frayed at the edges of control.

It was the kind of urgency only jealousy like this could create.

“Yeah, see now, I want every bleedin’ fucker in this city to know, right? This cunt, yeah?” His voice was low, feral, lips dragging across your jaw. “Don’t smile at anyone else. Don’t open for anyone else. Don’t moan for anyone else but Alfie fuckin’ Solomons.”

He brought two fingers up to your lips “Open up, get them nice and wet for me” he said.

You took his fingers into your mouth, wrapping your tongue around them and sucking onto him as if it was his cock, coating them with your drool until they were dripping.

Your lips sealed tight around his knuckles, your cheeks hollowing as you drew him in deeper, slowly, deliberately. The taste of salt and skin flooded your tongue. You moaned softly, letting the sound vibrate against his fingers, and watched his pupils flare with dark hunger.

Alfie hummed in satisfaction, his eyes focused on your mouth as he pressed his thick digits against your tongue and pumped them in and out your mouth.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, more to himself than you. Each drag of his fingers from your lips came slick and slow, strings of spit clinging between them and your tongue. “That’s it, treacle… just like that. You suck anything with that mouth, and I forget every fuckin’ thing else.”

Once he was satisfied he took them out of your mouth your lips pop off with a wet gasp, breathing heavily, saliva glistening on your chin. His fingers trailed down your bottom lip, smearing it, eyes locked on the filthy mess you’d made.

Those two fingers drove deep inside your tight pussy, rough, practiced, curling into that spot that made you whimper and clutch at him.

You gasped, legs trembling, body reacting like muscle memory, like it knew the shape of him. Like it had been waiting to be claimed.

The way his fingers curled inside you was so precise, so punishing, it ripped a sound from your throat you didn’t know you could make.

“I don’t share, alright? I don’t lend, neither. I fuckin’ own,” he rasped. “An’ this—this sweet, tight cunt—belongs to me. And if any bastard so much as looks, I’ll send ‘im to God with his bollocks in his mouth.”

His voice was feral, thick with possession. Each word made your pussy clench tighter around his fingers, soaking his knuckles.

Your body bucked, your moans were involuntary, as he fucked you with his hand. His fingers pumped harder in and out of you, driving you closer to the edge.

He shoved them deeper, twisted them cruelly, making slick, lewd sounds fill the room—wet and shameless.

You couldn’t stop it—your hips grinding into his palm, needing more, needing him. You were humping his hand like a desperate thing, mindless from the pressure he built between your thighs.

“Alfie…fuck,” you whimpered, your hips bucking into his hand. “Feels so fucking good.” You were gasping, babbling—more noises than words now. Your legs shook, eyes rolling back.

“Yeah, tha’s it, innit? Tha’s my good girl,” he growled, voice gone ragged. “Say my name while I ruin you. Louder. I want all Camden to fuckin’ know who owns this pussy.”

His thumb found your clit and pressed down hard, rubbing tight and ruthless circles like he wanted to brutalize you with pleasure, sending sparks up your spine. Your entire body went taut, thighs trembling, your breath hitching as pleasure shot through your core.

Your legs trembled, and your orgasm hit fast, ripping through you like a live wire. Your vision blurred as you came, your body locking up around his hand, your cries echoing off the office walls. You clung to him like an anchor, like he was the only solid thing in a world that had just split wide open.

He didn’t let up—his fingers kept moving, pushing you through the aftershocks, milking every last ripple of pleasure until your body went slack.

You sobbed into his coat, overwhelmed, twitching with overstimulation as he wrung out every drop.

He pulled his fingers free, all covered in your slick, and sucked them into his mouth with a loud groan. The sound he made was filthy—guttural, satisfied. His eyes locked on yours as his tongue licked your taste from his knuckles. Like a man tasting the proof of ownership.

Then his cock, thick and furious was out, slapping against his stomach. Glorious and proud.

You dropped to your knees, kissed your way down his chest—tongue tracing the lines of him, teeth scraping lightly over the mess of hair beneath his sternum. You felt the way his stomach tensed, the way his breath hitched when you reached his hips.

You loved this part—loved owning him like this, making him lose my mind, getting to see Alfie in his most vulnerable state.

Your mouth was soft and wet, your hand stroking the base as you worked him slow, deliberate, teasing. You flattened your tongue along the underside of his cock, tasting salt and sweat, hearing the way he grunted every time you took him deeper.

“Look at that—fuckin’ perfect. Mouth’s so warm, so wet… I’d fuckin’ die happy right here.” He gasped.

You sucked harder, letting the spit drip from your mouth down his shaft, let your hand work slick over the wet skin as you hollowed your cheeks and made a mess of him.

Slobber spilled from your lips, running in thick strands down his cock to his balls. You stroked him with one hand, sloppy and eager, while your mouth worked him like you needed it to breathe.

“Make a fuckin’ mess, go on. Drool all over it.” He groaned. “Want you sloppy, want you lookin’ like you can’t even help yourself.”

He was grinning down at you, eyes wild, watching your mouth stretch and suck like it was the only thing you were good for.

He grabbed the back of your head now, fingers tight in your hair but not pushing—just holding, just watching you devour him with reverence and sin.

His grip tightened every time your throat caught around the head of his cock, every gag making him groan, every messy suck making him twitch.

“Look at this,” he muttered, half to himself, eyes glazed. “Sweet lil’ mouth stretchin’ over my cock like she belongs there. My pretty girl takin’ it so fuckin’ good.”

You moaned around him—loud and filthy—and he shuddered. You bobbed faster now, head moving with slick rhythm, hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach, tongue swirling every time you pulled back to catch your breath.

“That moan just now—yeah, I felt that. Felt it in your throat, you filthy little thing.” He chuckled low, breathless, like it was driving him mad. “Fuckin’ felt it vibrate round me. You moanin’ on my cock like a dirty prayer.”

You let yourself get nasty with it—strings of spit clinging between your lips and his shaft every time you came up gasping, mascara streaking your cheeks, mouth raw and shining.

Alfie’s legs tensed, hips jerking. You looked up at him—wet lips, flushed cheeks, eyes blown wide with lust—and smiled with his cock still in your mouth.

He gripped your hair tighter, holding your head steady, and started thrusting into your mouth. Slow at first, letting himself sink in deep, then harder, filthier—like he needed it.

Tears blurred your lashes as he pushed deeper, hitting the back of your throat. He watched it all—watched you gag a little, then swallow him again, eyes watering, lips stretched around him.

“You like this?” he hissed. “You like bein’ used like this? On your knees, gettin’ fucked by your man’s cock?”

You held eye contact as you swallowed him deep again, let a thick trail of spit leak from the corner of your mouth on purpose. You knew exactly what it did to him.

“Right, that’s fuckin’ enough now, innit? Can’t have you makin’ me blow before we even get to the good bit.” He growls, yanking your mouth off his cock with a slick, wet pop, spit stringing between your lips and his tip, and dragging you up with one rough hand.

Before you could even gasp, he spun you, slammed you down onto his desk, the wood groaning beneath your back, and climbed over you like a storm.

The wooden desk creaked under the weight of both your bodies. Papers scattered. An ink pot rolled and crashed to the floor. His weight crushed you into the desk as his hand shoved your legs apart.

He drove into you with a brutal thrust that stole your breath. Fucking you like a man possessed. The sound of your bodies meeting—wet, loud, obscene—filled the office. He bottomed out in a single stroke, and you saw stars.

His cock hit so deep you nearly screamed, the stretch brutal, perfect. Your back bowed, mouth open in a silent wail.

“You know what that posh little twat Carter would’ve done with you? yeah?” he growled, pounding into you. “Fucked you once, right? Bragged to his mates, then left you empty.”

He continued, “he wouldn’t know what to do with a tight little hole like this,” he sneered. “Would’ve made you fake it, yeah? But me—I ruin it. I fuck it till it forgets anyone else ever existed.”

Each word was punctuated by the slam of his hips, the slap of skin against skin echoing like gunshots. The noise was brutal, wet and violent. His balls slapped your ass with each vicious thrust.

“Alfie—” you gasped.

“I don’t leave,” he snarled, hips snapping toward. “I fuck you full. I fuck you good. I stay.” He said with a sharp thrust, as if to emphasize what he was saying.

You cried out, your nails digging into the edge of the desk, dragging against the wood as he fucked the words into you.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, sweat beading on his brow. “You feel what you do to me, treacle? You feel how deep I am? I’m so deep I’ll fuckin’ ruin every other man for you. They’ll never fit. Never dare try.

Your hips lifted to meet every thrust, greedy, frantic. You reached back blindly, dragging him deeper inside you.

“Harder,” you begged. “Please, Alfie—fuck me harder.”

He grunted and obliged with a savage snap of his hips that made the desk creak dangerously. The sound of it—so loud, so raw—made you bite your lip to keep from screaming.

“Good girl,” he hissed. “My perfect fuckin’ girl. Look at you—takin’ it like you’re made for it. Like you were made for me. Anyone else would break, but you love it.”

His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so he could see your face twisted in pleasure, so he could watch every second of you falling apart on his cock.

You moaned louder under the pressure, your lips parted, drool slicking your chin as you begged without shame.

“This is what you wanted, innit? Me jealous. Me mad. You like seein’ me go rabid over you. Want you to feel this cock every time you look at other man.”

Your cries were shattered, breathless, and desperate, each thrust of his thick cock, buried inside you to the hilt, stealing another piece of your sanity.

“This cunt’s got memory, eh? She remembers me” he panted. “Tightens up like she knows I’m the only one allowed in. That’s loyalty, that is. Better than half the blokes I do business with.”

His rhythm turned ragged, unhinged and erratic. You felt him losing control, the heat building in his groans. You could sense him coming undone—hips stuttering, voice breaking, teeth bared like a wolf. He was already close to his breaking point.

“Gonna fuckin’ fill you,” he snarled. “Want you leakin’ for days. Want you drippin’ in me every time you walk, want the boys in the street to smell me on you—saying yeah, that’s Alfie’s girl right there. Know this cunt is taken.”

He slammed into you with punishing force, over and over, desperate to bury himself so deep no one would ever get you out.

“I’d cover you in my cum if I could,” he whispered. “Every part of you. Face. Tits. Belly. Neck. Fuckin’ everywhere. You’d walk around drippin’ in me, and no one’d say a word ‘cause they’d know.”

“Alfie—please,” you cried. “Do it. Give it to me.”

“That’s it,” he growled. One hand hooked your leg up onto his chest as he pounded into you, even deeper now. Your body arched, back bowing off the desk as he found that spot that made everything go white. “You feel so perfect, treacle.”

“You know what I should do? I should put a fuckin’ baby in you. Yeah… i’m gonna fuck a baby into you. That’s how they’ll know. That you’re owned.” He said.

“Alfie, don’t—” Your moans cut you off, You knew it was a terrible idea, and that he was only mumbling in the heat of the moment, but still your walls clenched at the words. “Don’t joke about that…”

The thought of it, of being claimed so fully, so permanently, made something primal tighten deep inside you.

“I’m not jokin’,” he said, low and dark. “I’ll do it. One day, I’ll fuckin’ do it. Put a baby in you. Fill you up proper. What’ll Tommy say then, eh? His little sister walking round full of my seed, carrying my fuckin’ name inside her?”

His voice went soft and filthy, dripping with depravity. “You’d look so pretty, all round and swollen with my child. You’d leak for me every night, beggin’ to be filled again.”

His hand moved to your stomach, pressing flat against your navel as he fucked you deep, rocking his hips into you, fast and heavy. “Right here. That’s where It’d grow. My baby. Our baby.”

That tipped you over.

The words. The pressure. The stretch of him inside you. All of it crashed over you in a tidal wave.

You came hard, pulsing around him, crying out as your orgasm ripped through every muscle. His own orgasm followed quickly with a roar, hands clamped tight around your waist, burying himself into you, and emptying himself inside you with a final thrust, his body convulsing against yours.

“Take it,” he growled. “Fuckin’ take it all.”

You felt every pulse of him, hot and endless, flooding you so deep it made your whole body tremble. Thick spurts, deep and claiming, like he wanted to fill you up until you couldn’t hold anything else.

He collapsed against you, panting into your neck, holding you like he never wanted to let go, and didn’t pull out. Just stayed, buried deep, both of you trembling. You could feel him twitching still, cock heavy and spent, but not softening yet—like even his body refused to let you go.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill him,” he whispered raggedy against your neck. “If he looks at you again. Him or any other cunt who thinks you ain’t mine.”

“I know, Alfie,” you whispered, heart pounding.

“You gonna let another man look at you like that? Talk to you like that? After this? After I made you cum on my cock like it’s your fuckin’ home?”

He thrust once, shallow and slow, just to feel the way you fluttered around him—overstimulated, used, and still clinging to him inside.

His hand slid down between your thighs again, just to feel the mess he’d made—his spend leaking out around his cock, sticky and obscene. He groaned into your neck, completely feral.

When he finally pulled out, you whimpered at the loss, at the wet mess dripping down your thighs. But Alfie caught it—used his fingers to push it back in. Shoved two fingers inside, wet and messy.

“Nah, nah, none of that escapin’, yeah?” he muttered, thumb brushing your stretched, leaking entrance. “You’re gonna keep every drop, love. Need that womb soaked in it.”

He leaned over you, kissed your neck, trailing his beard down your stomach.

“Feel that?” he muttered against your stomach. “That’s my cum in you. My fuckin’ seed. Gonna do this again and again till I see you waddlin’, yeah?”

Then, slowly, he pulled his fingers out. His weight still over you, breath hot on your neck, and for the first time all day, he was quiet.

“You’re still shakin’,” he muttered, voice almost gentle. “Fuckin’ hell, I did that, didn’t I?”

“You always do,” you whispered.

He pressed a kiss to your collarbone, and when he pulled back, his eyes were softer. Still wild, still dangerous—but worshipful.

“Don’t ever make me jealous again, darlin’. I’ll kill someone. I swear to God, I’ll fucking kill ‘em.”

“I didn’t do anything, you’re a crazy bastard.”

He chuckled and pressed his lips to your throat, possessive and soft. “You’re the only thing I need,” he murmured. “I don’t need peace. Not heaven. Not forgiveness. Just you. Like this, lying under me, breathing hard, clawing my back, dripping with me.”

You stayed wrapped in him, bodies tangled, breath syncing like your souls were still catching up. Until he broke the silence.

“I fuckin’ love you.” It slipped out of him like a curse. Like he didn’t mean to say it. The words tumbled from him like a confession. “I’ve loved you since the first time you walked in here and made me feel like some fuckin’ schoolboy who couldn’t stop staring at your tits.”

You kissed his chest, breathless. “I love you too, Alfie. God help me, I do.”

He stood up on his feet, looking more disheveled than before. Hands roaming over his desk’s drawer for a cloth. He cleans you up himself, his gruff hands holding the rough towel between your legs, wiping the little drops of his seed that had dripped down your thighs, trying to be as delicate as he can, even if delicacy wasn’t his strongest virtue.

“Look at this mess. My fuckin’ mess. All over you. In you. On you. Can’t even let you leave like this—might start a riot.”

He cupped your cunt again after wiping, like he didn’t quite want to stop touching you, like he needed to memorize the way you felt—still hot and used, still twitching from being fucked within an inch of your sanity.

Alfie leaned under the desk, and you watched as he searched for something—only for him to stand up with a smug grin on his face, holding your underwear in his hand, which had somehow ended up beneath the desk.

He brought them to his nose, shameless, inhaling the scent of your arousal like it was his fucking lifeline. “Better than fuckin’ opium, this is. Gets me high every bloody time.”

“Jesus Christ, Alfie—”

“Think I’ll send ‘im your scent-stained knickers in a box—let him know exactly what he’s not gettin’.”

“Nothing you say surprises me anymore.” You chuckled, wrapping your arms around him, needing to feel the skin to skin contact between your bodies.

“I meant it before. I’ll put a fuckin’ ring on you,” he whispered against your hair. “Then I’ll put a baby in you. That way they’ll all know you’re mine.”

And he was a man of his word.

A/N: Really hope y’all enjoyed this part. Not sure know if the whole breeding kink is your thing but I think it’s hottttt.

Next part’s gonna get even spicier, there’s a big revealation coming.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about posting a new part of this every Saturday, I’m planing to make this story seven parts total cause I don’t wanna over do it, and maybe after that focusing on writing different Alfie one shots, but idk yet.

Also, constructive criticism and request of what you’d like to see next are always welcomed (as well as comments, likes and reblogs) Thank you sm for your support<3

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

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queenshelby · 2 months ago

Text

His Property (Part One)

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Virgin!Reader

Warning: Non-Con, Dub-Con, Forced Submission, Humiliation, Age Gap

Summary:

You are an innocent young woman sold by your father to Thomas Shelby in exchange for clearing his debt. Thomas views you as his possession, believing he can treat you however he wishes.

Please comment and engage to let me know what you think!

The limousine purrs to a stop in front of Arrow House, and your heart pounds against your ribcage like a trapped creature yearning to escape. You gaze up at the imposing mansion, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and curiosity. You find yourself gazing at the towering structure that looms as a sentinel over the sweeping lawns and manicured gardens, its cold stone walls as forbidding as the ice-blue eyes of its owner.

Your father sits beside you, his grip on your arm firm and unrelenting.

His face is a mask of grim determination, eyes fixed on the mansion as if it were a monster he's about to feed.

"This is it," he says, his voice as harsh as gravel. "Your new home."

Home. The word sends a shiver down your spine. You have no choice but to follow him out of the car, your heels sinking into the dewy grass. As you approach the grand entrance, the heavy oak door creaks open, revealing a man in a crisp black suit. His sharp features and piercing blue eyes leave no doubt who he is. Thomas Shelby.

The mere mention of his name sends a shiver down your spine. He stands in the doorway, his eyes raking over you like a physical touch. You feel your cheeks flush under his scrutiny.

"Y/N," he says, your name rolling off his tongue like a dark promise. He steps aside, allowing you to enter the grand foyer. The air is thick with the scent of expensive cigars and something darker, more primal.

Your father clears his throat, his eyes darting nervously between you and Thomas. "Y/N, this is Mr. Shelby. He's...

taken care of our debt." His words hang heavy in the air, a finality that makes your stomach churn. Thomas nods, his eyes never leaving yours as he assesses you, from top to bottom, as if you were prey.

"Yes, your father and I have come to an arrangement," he says, his voice as smooth as velvet but with an underlying edge that sends a shiver down your spine.

Your father shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flickering between you and Thomas before he nods, a grimace on his face. "I trust you'll take good care of her," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Thomas merely smiles, a slow, predatory curl of his lips that sends a jolt of fear coursing through you. "Oh, I intend to," he says, his eyes locked onto yours.

He turns to your father, his voice cold and dismissive. "You may go. I'll send for you when our business is concluded."

Your father nods, his eyes flickering between you and Thomas before he turns and walks away, leaving you alone with the man who now owns you.

Thomas closes the door, his footsteps echoing in the grand foyer as he approaches you. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, the power he exudes like a palpable force. He stops in front of you, his hand reaching up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear.

His touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you can't help but flinch at the contact. He chuckles low, a sound that rumbles like thunder in his chest.

"You're frightened," he observes, his voice a low growl.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. You know what's expected of you, what your father has sold you for. But the reality of it is unlike anything you've ever imagined.

"Will...will you hurt me?" The words escape your lips before you can stop them, a mixture of fear and defiance in your voice.

Thomas's eyes flash with amusement, and he leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear.

"Only if you want me to," he whispers, his voice a low, seductive growl.

He steps back, his eyes scanning your body again, lingering on your breasts, your hips, your thighs.

"I don't want you to, sir," you reply, your voice barely a whisper, but it's enough for him.

A slow smile spreads across his face, and he reaches out, tracing the line of your jaw with his thumb. "We will see," he says softly.

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, confused and slightly relieved but, before you know it, one of his maids appears, her eyes cast downwards as she speaks.

"Let's get you settled in dear. I understand you have had a long

journey," the maid says, her voice soft and soothing like warm honey. She guides you through the grand house, your footsteps echoing on the polished marble floors. The opulence of Arrow House is starkly apparent; crystal chandeliers drip from the high ceilings, casting prisms of light that dance on the walls, and paintings of landscapes and still lives adorn the walls, each one more expensive looking than the last.

You are led down a long corridor, the air growing colder as you move further away from the main entrance. The maid stops in front of a heavy wooden door, her hand on the brass handle.

"This will be your room," she says, pushing the door open. You step inside, your eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the heavy curtains. The room is large, with a four-poster bed draped in velvet curtains, a fireplace with a roaring fire, and a chaise lounge positioned in front of the window. It's luxurious, but the air is thick with an undercurrent of darkness, a subtle reminder of Thomas's presence.

"Is there anything you need, dear?" the maid asks, her eyes scanning your face. You shake your head, your mind racing with a million thoughts but your mouth unable to form the words.

The maid smiles softly, her eyes kind. "You'll be alright, dear," she then says as she turns to leave, but you call out to her.

"Wait," you say, and she pauses, turning back to face you.

"What exactly does he... want from me?" The question tumbles out of your mouth before you can stop it, a heavy weight settling in your stomach as you await her response.

The maid's expression softens, and she steps back into the room, closing the door behind her.

She walks over to the chaise lounge and sits down, patting the space next to her. "Come, sit," she says gently. You hesitate for a moment before moving to sit next to her.

"Mr. Shelby, he's... complex," she begins, her voice low and careful. "He likes things to be... just so. And he likes to be in control." She pauses, choosing her words with care. "He'll expect you to be obedient, to meet his needs, and to do so without question."

You swallow hard, the reality of your situation settling like a weight in the pit of your stomach. Your older sister had only just explained the concept of intimacy to you after you had been brought up strictly catholic, and the thought of experiencing it so suddenly and with such a man was terrifying.

"But what if I don't want to do the things he asks?" your voice barely a whisper, but your heart pounded in your chest like a drum, afraid of the answer.

The maid's eyes were kind, and she reached out, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "I am afraid you do not have a choice, dear. Not now. But in time, you may find that you want to please him. Many have before you."

"But if I do not like what he does to me?" you ask, your voice quivering slightly, the reality of your new life crashing down on you like a wave.

The maid's expression turns softer, and she squeezes your shoulder gently again. 'You will learn to like it, dear, or at least to tolerate it. Mr. Shelby has a way of... making people see things his way.'

Your heart sinks, and you feel a lump form in your throat. You want to ask more, to understand what exactly he expects from you, but the maid's shoulders tense, and she glances at the door.

'I should go,' she says, standing up. 'We'll meet again though, and I'll help you as much as I can, but for now, you should wash up and get some rest. Tomorrow is a new day.'

You nod, a sense of resignation washing over you as she leaves. Alone in the room, you let the weight of your situation sink in. Your breath hitches as you think about what lies ahead, your mind racing with questions and fears.

An hour later, a soft knock at the door startles you. You hesitate for a moment before calling out, 'Come in.'

The door creaks open, revealing a young man, around your age, with shaggy brown hair and kind brown eyes. He's dressed in a simple but well-made suit, his demeanour friendly and unassuming.

He smiles at you, and you can't help but feel a small shiver of relief at the sight of someone close to your own age.

"Hey, I'm Lucas," he says, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. "I'm one of the housekeeper's son and I help out around here sometimes."

You offer him a small smile, your shoulders relaxing slightly. "I'm Y/N," you say, standing up from the chaise lounge. "Nice to meet you."

Finn nods, his eyes scanning the room before settling on you. "I heard you were coming," he says, his voice casual.

"Thought I'd come say hi, make you feel a bit more at home."

You appreciate the gesture, even if the words 'at home' still feel foreign on your tongue. "Thanks," you say, offering him a small smile. "I could use a friendly face around here."

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yeah, Arrow House can be a bit... intimidating at first. But don't worry, you'll get used to it."

You sit back down on the chaise lounge, and he takes a seat on the armchair across from you.

The room feels less daunting with his presence, and you find yourself relaxing slightly.

"So, what's it like here? I mean, living in Arrow House," you ask, trying to keep your voice casual.

Lucas leans back in his chair, his eyes thoughtful. "It's different, that's for sure. It's like living in a castle, you know? But I know it will be different for you. I mean, I know why you are here and I am... I am not in the same situation as you," Lucas says before he pauses, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to gauge how much to say.

A shiver runs down your spine at the mention of your situation. "I don't want to be here," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lucas's expression softens, and he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I know," he says. "But try to make the best of it," he tells you.

You nod, a lump forming in your throat at his kindness.

"I'll try," you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Lucas smiles warmly; his eyes filled with genuine concern. "Good," he said simply, resting his hand on yours in a friendly manner.

His words are comforting, but the weight of your new life is a constant reminder, pressing down on you like a heavy shroud. You force a smile, grateful for his presence.

"Thank you, Lucas," you say, and he grins, standing up and holding out his hand.

"Come on, let's go for a walk in the gardens.

Fresh air might do you some good," Lucas suggests, his hand still outstretched. You take it, grateful for the offer of escape, no matter how temporary.

As you walk through the grand house, you can't help but feel like a prisoner in a gilded cage. The opulence is overwhelming, a stark contrast to the simplicity of your childhood home. Lucas guides you through the sprawling gardens, the scents of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass filling the air. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart.

"So, what's your story, Lucas?

How long have you been here?" You ask, trying to focus on anything but the heavy weight of your new reality.

Lucas shrugs, his hands tucked into his pockets as he walks beside you. "Not long. A few months. My mom got a job here, and I help out around the place. It's not so bad, really. The people are nice enough."

You nod, your eyes scanning the gardens. "What about you? Where are you from?" He asks, his voice casual.

You hesitate, unsure of how much to reveal. "Small town. Nowhere special," you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "I grew up catholic. My father had a big gambling debt, and now I'm here," you say, your voice tight. Lucas glances at you, his expression sympathetic.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. That really sucks," he says, his voice genuine. "But listen, you're young, you're smart, and you're tough. You'll figure this out."

You scoff, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. "Tough? I'm terrified, Lucas. I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't know what he expects from me."

Lucas's expression softens, and he reaches out, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"Hey, it's okay. Just know that you are not alone. I'll be here to help, alright? And I'm sure some of the other staff will be too. We're not all bad here, you know."

You nod, appreciating his words even if they don't completely ease your fears. "Thanks, Lucas. I appreciate it."

He smiles, his hand dropping to his side as he looked up, noticing Thomas Shelby 's silhouette in one of the grand windows.

You follow his gaze, your heart skipping a beat at the sight of Thomas's imposing figure. He stares back at you, his expression unreadable, before he turns and walks away.

"I should go," Lucas says, his voice barely above a whisper. "He doesn't like me talking to the... new acquisitions."

You frown, a chill running down your spine at his choice of words. "Why?"

Lucas shrugs, his expression grim.

"He just doesn't. Trust me, it's better if I go. I'll see you around, alright?" he says, squeezing your arm once more before turning and walking away, leaving you alone in the garden.

You watch him go, a sense of unease washing over you as Thomas's shadow looms large again in the window.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what's to come. You can't run, and you can't hide. You have to face this head-on.

You make your way back to Arrow House, your footsteps echoing in the grand foyer as you enter.

The house is quiet, the staff moving silently through the halls, their eyes cast downwards as they pass you. The air is thick with an undercurrent of tension, a subtle reminder of Thomas Shelby's presence.

As you climb the grand staircase, you can't help but feel like a mouse in a maze, each step bringing you closer to the lion's den. You reach your room, the heavy wooden door looming in front of you like a barrier between you and the reality of your situation.

You take a deep breath, your hand trembling slightly as you reach for the handle of the door leading to your bedroom just as one of the maids approached you from behind.

"Here you are," she says softly. "Mr. Shelby wants to see you, in his study," the maid says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart pounds in your chest, your breath hitches as you nod, your fingers fumbling with the door handle.

"Come, dear. We don't want to keep him waiting," the maid says, her voice a soft nudge, but there's an undercurrent of impatience that brooks no argument.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest as you follow her down the wide, marble-floored hallway. The air grows colder, the scent of expensive cigars and something darker, more primal, clinging to the air.

The maid stops in front of a heavy oak door, her hand reaching out to knock softly. "Sir, she's here," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

The door creaks open, revealing Thomas Shelby standing by the fireplace, his back to you. He's dressed in a dark suit, the material moulding to his frame.

He turns to face you, his piercing blue eyes scanning your body, missing no detail.

He nods at the maid, dismissing her with a minimal wave of his hand. She scurries away, leaving you alone with him.

The room is illuminated by the flickering fire, the shadows dancing on the walls, creating a stark contrast with the opulence of the study. Your heart hammers in your chest like a drum, the air thick with fear.

Thomas stands before you, his eyes locked onto yours, a dark promise written across his sharp features. He takes a step closer, the smell of expensive cologne enveloping you.

"You look nervous, Sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against your cheek, his touch causing you to flinch away.

His eyes darken at your reaction, and he takes a step closer, crowding your space.

"You're going to have to get used to my touch, Love," he says, the words a low growl that sends a shiver down your spine.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you take a step back, only to find yourself pressed up against the wall. You can feel the cold stone against your back, the rough texture a stark contrast to the smoothness of his skin.

Thomas takes advantage of your lack of space, his hand coming up to cup your chin, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.

"Open for me. Let me taste you." His voice is a command, his eyes burning into yours as he waits for your response.

You hesitate, your breathing coming in short gasps, the fear warring within you. Thomas's grip tightens slightly, his thumb pressing harder against your lip. "Now," he growls, the warning clear in his voice.

With trembling fingers, you part your lips, allowing him access. His eyes darken as he leans in, his mouth capturing yours in a brutal, demanding kiss. His tongue plunges in, exploring, dominating, leaving no part of your mouth untouched.

You gasp, your body stiffening at the sudden invasion, but Thomas doesn't miss a beat. He pins you to the wall as his mouth ravages yours. He tastes like whiskey and sin, and the fear in your chest begins to raise.

Thomas tears his mouth away, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes are wild, hungry, as they rake over your body. "You taste like innocence, like a fucking virgin," he growls, his voice a low and primal.

"Please," you whisper, your voice shaking. "I don't want to do this."

Thomas smirks, his eyes burning with hunger, and presses his body flush against yours. "You don't have a choice. You're mine now and I paid good fucking money for you."

He captures your mouth again, swallowing your whimpers as his hands roam over your body.

You feel like a deer caught in headlights, unable to escape or fight as his hands trail down your waist. He slips his fingers under your skirt, hooking them into the waistband of your panties and you tremble as he pulls them down.

They pool at your feet and a tear slips down your cheek.

Thomas smirks, his lips brushing against yours. "Sshh, it's alright Love," he whispers as his fingers first made contact with your most intimate part. "I am just getting to know what's mine."

His voice is like velvet over iron as he lets his fingers run over your still dry and untouched folds.

You can't bring yourself to respond, your mind a whirlwind of fear and uncertainty. Thomas doesn't seem to mind, his fingers exploring you, sliding against your opening, making you gasp at the unfamiliar sensation.

He then pushes a finger inside you, the intrusion causing you to cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Oh Sweetheart," he growls against your neck, "You're so fucking tight."

He begins to pump his finger in and out of you, the motion rough and urgent, causing you to gasp and whimper.

"Sshh, Love," he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. "I know it hurts, but I need you to relax and take it. You'll feel better once you get used to it."

You try to do as he says, but the sensation is overwhelming and foreign. You can feel your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps.

You try to press your legs together, to close yourself off from him, but Thomas's free hand pushes your thighs apart, his fingers digging into your soft skin.

"Open up for me, Love," he snarls, the command in his voice leaving no room for argument as, suddenly, you felt something else when he used his thumb to rub your clit, slowly circling it with the pressure of his rough thumb.

The sensation is both foreign and slightly pleasurable, sending a jolt of confusion through you.

Thomas notices your reaction, a dark smile spreading across his face.

"No, please," you plead, your voice trembling as you try to push his hand away, but this time for different reasons. The sensation was too overwhelming for you.

You can't help but let out a small moan as Thomas's thumb continues to circle your clit. He watches you closely, his eyes dark with lust and pleasure at your reaction.

"That's it, Love," he murmurs, his voice a low growl. "Let me hear you. I want to hear you scream for me."

His finger inside you continues to move, pumping in and out, painfully, but the pressure on your clit made you feel pleasure at the same time, confusing you as you tried to wiggle away from him.

"Please stop,” you whimper, but he just chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends shivers down your spine.

"Shh, just let go for me," he growls, his thrusts becoming faster, more urgent. You can feel the wetness building between your legs, a mixture of pain and pleasure. Your breath comes in short gasps, your body tensing as he pushes you closer to the edge.

"I... I can't," you stammer, your body shaking with the effort of holding back. Thomas leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot and moist.

"Come on, Love, you're almost there. Let go. Give in to it," he says as he increases the pressure on your clit, his thumb circling faster, sending electric jolts through your body.

"Please. No. I need to...you need to stop!" you cry out as you can't hold back anymore and your body convulses, and you let out a scream that echoes through the study.

"That's a good girl," Thomas grins, his eyes locked onto yours, watching you come undone under his touch. He continues to pump his finger in and out of you, drawing out your pleasure until you're a panting mess against the wall.

He finally slows down, his finger sliding out of you, leaving you feeling empty and exposed.

You're panting, your body still shaking from the aftershocks of your unexpected orgasm.

Thomas grins, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and lust as he smeared his blood-streaked finger over your cleavage, leaving a trail of your own wetness across your skin.

"There you go Sweetheart," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked but you couldn't help but feel a chill run down your spine at his words.

His fingers were still paint streaked from your wetness and virginity and he brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan of satisfaction. You felt a mixture of revulsion and shame at the sight, but also a strange kind of arousal you couldn't quite understand.

"Now, why don't you drop down to your knees for me, eh?" Thomas's voice is a low rumble, like distant thunder, as he steps back and begins to unbuckle his belt.

You hesitate for a moment, your body still shaking from the aftershocks of the orgasm he forced from you. But his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, burn into yours, and you know better than to disobey.

Slowly, you sink to your knees, your heart pounding in your chest like a trapped bird.

Thomas smirks, a slow, wicked curl of his lips as he pushes his pants down, his cock springing free.

He's long and thick, the head already damp with precum. He wraps his fist around the base, giving it a slow stroke.

"Open that pretty little mouth of yours, Sweetheart," he commands, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine.

You hesitate, your breath coming in short gasps, your heart pounding wildly in your chest. You've never done this before, never even thought about it. But Thomas doesn't wait for your consent. He grabs a fistful of your hair, his grip tight and painful as he steps closer.

"Open, now," he growls, his cockhead prodding at your lips.

You hesitate, your lips pressed tightly together, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest as he waits

for you to comply which, hesitantly, you did, slowly parting your lips, just enough to let the tip inside.

"That's a good girl," he praises, his voice thick with lust and satisfaction. "Now take more."

He pushes his hips forward, forcing more of his cock into your mouth, the salty

taste of him filling your senses. You gag, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as he hits the back of your throat. You try to pull back, but his grip on your hair tightens, holding you in place as half of his cock disappears in your mouth, stretching your lips.

"Take it all, Sweetheart," he commands, his voice a low growl. "

You whimper, your tears falling freely now as he begins to move his hips, fucking your mouth in slow, steady thrusts. He grunts with each push forward, his cock growing harder, thicker with each passing moment.

You can feel the saliva pooling in your mouth, dripping down your chin, and you try to swallow around the intrusion, but it's no use. Your gag reflex kicks in again, and you pull back, gasping for air.

Thomas chuckles, a dark and dangerous sound that sends shivers down your spine. "You're not very good at this, are you, Love?" he says, his voice thick with lust. He grips your hair tighter, forcing you to look up at him.

His blue eyes are dark with desire, his jaw set in a harsh line. "You're going to take it all, understand?" His voice is a harsh command, leaving no room for argument as he thrusts his hips forward, his cockhead slipping past your lips and forcing its way into your mouth.

You gag again, your eyes watering as he hits the back of your throat.

You try to relax, to open up, but it's hard. His cock is so fucking big, and the taste of him, the smell of him, it's all so overwhelming.

Thomas growls, his grip on your hair tightening even further. "You feel so fucking good Love," he says through gritted teeth, his hips moving faster, fucking your face with more force.

You gag again, your mouth filled with his cock, your eyes watering as you try to breathe through your nose. Your hands grip his thighs, your nails digging into his flesh as you try to pull back, but Thomas holds you firmly in place.

You can feel it throbbing in your mouth, the veins pulsing with his heartbeat. The taste of him is salty and bitter, the scent of his sweat and arousal filling your nostrils. Both nauseating and arousing at the same time. You can't breathe, can't think, as he fucks your face with efficiency.

"Open that throat for me, Love," he groans, his voice ragged with desire. "Take it all, like a good girl."

His words send a jolt of humiliation and arousal through you which, again, was strange and confusing to you. Despite yourself, you feel a twinge of desire, a heat building between your legs.

Thomas groans, a low, animal sound that vibrates through his chest. "Almost there, Love," he says, and you have no idea what he means by that

. You're dizzy, lightheaded from being on your knees for so long with his cock in your mouth. You feel like your jaw is going to dislocate as he thrusts in and out, his cock filling your mouth completely.

He pushes in deeper, his cockhead hitting the back of your throat, forcing you to take him in even further. You try to keep your teeth from grazing him, but it's hard to control anything when you can barely breathe.

Thomas's hips stutter, his cockhead pulsing in your throat, and you are unsure what is going on until he announces his impending climax.

"I am going to cum in your sweet little mouth now and I want you to swallow every last drop of it, eh" he rasps out, his voice thick with lust and excitement.

You panic, your body tensing, still unsure what to expect, but there's no escape as he grips your hair, holding you in place as he thrusts into your mouth one last time, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he releases his load.

You gag in surprise as the hot, salty taste of him fills your mouth, coating your tongue and throat. He groans, his body shuddering as he empties himself into you, his hips jerking with each spurt.

"Swallow it, Love" he growls, his grip on your hair tightening painfully. "Every fucking drop."

You try to pull back, the taste of him overwhelming, but his grip is unyielding. You gag again, his cum and saliva splattering around your lips as you struggle to swallow his release. It is simply too much.

"Good girl," Thomas praises you anyway, his voice still thick with lust.

He pulls out, his cock gleaming with your saliva and his cum. He runs a hand through your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear. His cum was running down your chin, dripping onto your chest and even on to his shoe, and you can taste the bitter, salty tang of him on your tongue.

Using his finger, he scoops up the cum that had dripped out of your mouth and on to your chin and feeds it to you, forcing you to swallow every last drop. You whimper, your stomach churning at the taste, but you obey, knowing better than to displease him.

"That's it," Thomas praises again, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and lust. He tucks himself back into his pants, his cock only semi-hard now.

You look down at your chest, at his release on your skin, and then at his shiny dress shoes, now with cum splattered on them too. You feel a wave of shame wash over you, your cheeks burning with humiliation.

"I... I’m sorry," you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't be Love. You did well," he says as you still sat on the plush carpet, your knees aching from the hard floor, your mouth still tasting like him. "But I do need you to clean up the mess you made, eh," he then ads, as if you had been careless, rather than struggling to perform a task you had never done before.

"Yes, sir," you whisper, your voice trembling as you reached up to wipe off the cum from your chest first with your bare hand and Thomas watches you, his expression unreadable.

"Lick it off your hand, go on," he commands, and you hesitate for a moment before bringing your hand to your mouth and licking off his cum, your stomach again.

"That's a good girl,” he says, his voice a low purr. "Now, clean my shoe with your tongue."

You look down at the shiny leather and a wave of humiliation washes over you. But you know better than to disobey, so you lean forward, extending your tongue, and begin to lick the cum off his shoe.

Thomas watches you, his eyes dark with satisfaction. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust. "Lick every last drop."

You continue, your cheeks burning with shame, your mouth tasting like him, feeling like you are nothing more than a slave to his desires.

The taste of him is bitter and salty, a stark reminder of what you are to him, of the role you must play in his life.

As you finish cleaning his shoe, you sit back on your heels, your body shaking with exhaustion and humiliation. Thomas watches you, his eyes roaming your body, assessing you like a piece of art.

Thomas looks down at you, his expression softening. "Good girl," he murmurs, his voice gentle. "Now, go clean yourself up and get some rest, eh?" he says, his voice suddenly softer, as he helps you to your feet.

You nod, your body still shaking slightly from the ordeal. He strokes your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle, almost comforting.

"You did well tonight, Love. Very well," he praises you once more and, somehow, this made you proud.

You make your way back to your room, your body aching and your mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. You strip off your clothes, your body still sticky from his seed, and step into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over you.

You scrub yourself clean, trying to wash away the taste and smell of him, but it lingers, a constant reminder of what just happened.

Your body aches, and your knees are bruised from the hard floor.

You step out of the shower, wrapping yourself in a thick, plush robe that hangs on the back of the door but, even despite the humiliation you feel, there is something else that lingers, something that you can't quite put your finger on. A sense of accomplishment perhaps, or maybe it's just the exhaustion that weighs heavily on your body.

You collapse onto the bed, the cool sheets a welcome relief to your tender skin. You pull the covers up, burying yourself in the softness, trying to block out the memories of the night. But sleep eludes you, your mind racing with thoughts of Thomas and the things he made you do.

You toss and turn, the events of the night replaying in your head like a gruesome movie. The way he touched you, the way he tasted, the way he smelled. The way he made you feel. A mix of fear, humiliation, and whatever else this was. Desire or arousal perhaps?

You were confused and conflicted by the mix of emotions swirling within you but, after a little while, you finally managed to fall into a fitful sleep, your dreams haunted by the events of the night.

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rei-is-still-here · 2 days ago

Text

Sweet Tooth

Alfie Solomons x Reader

Summary: You and Alfie have a very sweet and sticky breakfast to start the day.

A/n: This is a rewrite of my previous Alfie x reader fic that was posted on my previous blog which has now been deactivated.

Content includes: Foodplay-sitophilia, smut

Divider by: @strangergraphics

The morning sun filtered through the curtains in long, golden strips, warming up the worn wood of Alfie’s kitchen table.

You sat across from him in one of his too-big shirts, sleeves rolled up, collar slipping off one shoulder, eyes still soft from sleep. The table was humble with just two plates, a kettle, and two buns cut open and buttered half-heartedly.

Alfie slid a jar of chocolate spread and a bottle of syrup toward you’

“Right,” he said suddenly, dragging over a small jar. “Picked these up, didn’t I? Chocolate spread, yeah? Syrup too. Got ‘em off some French bastard in the market, swears on his mother’s grave it’s the best shit outta Belgium. Thought we’d, you know, try somethin’ new, yeah? Might be good on those buns of yours”

You grinned and scooped a generous smear of chocolate onto one and took a bite, eyes widening. The taste was rich, creamy, melting thick across your taste buds. You hummed, pleased, eyes sparkling as you chewed.

“Oh my god, this is delicious, Alf!”

He smirked, his elbows resting on the wood as he watched you like a man studying a painting. He cocked a brow as he leaned in slowly.

“Hold up, love. You’ve got something—yeah, right there.” He pointed lazily to your nose, then waved off your hand when you reached up. “Nah, nah, I got it”

Alfie leaned forward and licked the chocolate from the tip of your nose, his beard scratching against your skin like trouble. You yelped and giggled, scrunching your face, already shoving at his shoulder.

“Alfie!”

“What?” he said, smirking.

“Don’t waste good chocolate, yeah? That’s bloody rude.”

You narrowed your eyes and scooped another dollop onto your tongue, sticking it out at him.

“Try it like this then.”

Alfie chuckled, “You’re bloody cheeky this mornin’, ain’t ya?”

“Come ‘ere then”

He reached out one hand cradling your cheek, the other steady on the table, and pressed his tongue onto yours eagerly to taste more than just the sugar. His beard was still sticky. His tongue was hot as he sucked unhurriedly, teasing yours in a kiss that lingered longer than it should’ve.

“Mm. Not bad” He pulled back with a hum, licking his fingers like he was debating seconds.

“But I reckon it would go down sweeter with syrup, personally.”

You raised a brow playfully, ever the provocateur. Without a word, you tilted your head back and let the syrup drip onto your tongue slowly until it was glistening and thick in your mouth. Sticking it out again, looking at Alfie with a daring gaze.

Alfie groaned under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”

He leaned in and took your mouth again. The syrup ran down your chin, catching in his beard, but he didn’t give a damn. He couldn’t, not when you were tasting so sweet on his tongue like this. If anything, he opened wider for more. Both of you pulled away, breathless and dazed, you were already grinning.

“Do you think chocolate and syrup would taste good together?”

Alfie sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

“Only one way to find out, love. Let’s not be cowards now.”

You reached for the syrup. He reached for the chocolate and smeared a thick, shiny dollop on his tongue, you matched him with syrup, sucking the chocolate from his mouth like you were starved for it, tongues crashing and colliding to get every inch of flavour, laughing between gasps and moans.

The kitchen felt warmer now, though it wasn’t the oven. It was the way Alfie was looking at you. You were still laughing faintly, licking syrup from your lips, when you noticed his gaze change. His hands were sticky from chocolate and syrup, but his eyes had gone dark. Hungry. Not for food. For you.

“You gonna sit there grinnin’ at me like that,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, “or you gonna let me spread that syrup somewhere more useful?”

Your thighs clenched together beneath the table. You raised a brow, “Oh yeah? And where exactly is more useful, Alfie?”

He stood up slowly, “We’ll start with that sweet little stomach of yours, won’t we? Work our way down.”

The chair scraped as he pushed it back. He grabbed the jar, and with a tilt of his head and a sinful glint in his eye, he nodded toward the kitchen table.

“Up. Come on now. Lie back”

You swallowed hard. Heat pooled between your thighs. The wood of the table was cool against your thighs as you sat, and cooler when you laid back, your heart was hammering against your chest, and your breath fell short. Alfie stood over you, dragging the pads of his fingers down your inner thighs, syrup clinging to his knuckles.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he muttered, almost reverent.

“Like a feast, you are”

He opened the syrup, spilling it carefully over your belly. The golden stream landed warm and slow, trailing from your navel down toward your hipbone. You gasped at the hot trickling sensation, it was ticklish and indecent. Just the way you liked it. He used the back of the spoon to smear it all over, catching a glossy smear, causing you to whimper pathetically.

“There now,” he said gruffly.

“That’s a fuckin’ sight.

He set the spoon down and rolled his sleeves higher before descending. Flat on your back, sticky and half-laughing, you arched beneath him, his bare forearms braced on either side of your waist, his thick beard now speckled with syrup and chocolate, eyes locked on yours like he was about to bless you and ruin you in the same breath. Your stomach was slicked, catching the light like golden rays. Your thighs were drizzling with liquid sticking to your skin in all the right places that made you twitch.

“Gonna eat you proper now,” he said with a raspy vibration against your neck.

“Start with dessert. End with dessert. Fuck dinner altogether”

He dragged his tongue along your torso in slow, wide strokes, licking up the syrup, teeth grazing you just enough to make you squirm and cry out his name.

“A-Alfie fuck…” you groaned.

“Mmm, fucking sweet, sweet noises as well” he hummed against your stomach.

His hand slid between your thighs, parting them with ease. His mouth followed and his beard scratched against your trembling thighs, licking thick strokes down to your ankles. Alfie kisses your heels while you held your breath. Only after he was satisfied did he rise up from your sweetness to admire the mess he had left behind.

“Fuckin’ divine,” he panted while undoing his trousers, his fingers carefully jangling away at his belt.

“And now I’m gonna fuck you so deep they’ll be findin’ sugar in your lungs.”

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