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cinnxmxngxrl · 1 month ago

Note

Can you please make an Alfie Solomons story where reader’s father is in debt and Alfie owes huge amount of money from the reader’s father. But reader’s father is greedy and can’t afford money to pay off his debts. So he convinces Alfie to marry his daughter in exchange of debt. His daughter/ reader is virgin, religious jew, does every household chores… and Alfie also liked her from the time he saw her. But reader is shy and doesn’t want to get married to a gangster like Alfie… so it’s a forced marriage story. Please can you make it?

“Owed and Owned”

Alfie Solomons x f!Reader

Alfie’s Masterlist

Summary: Maybe the monster you thought you were forced to marry has more humanity than you ever imagined.

WC: 9.9k (long af, ik, im soooorry)

Warning/Tags: smut, minors DNI, forced marriage, dirty talk, virginity loss, fingering, unprotected piv, slight dubcon at one point (dry humping), period-accurate misogyny.

The bakery reeked of yeast and damp wood and the stink of something that didn’t belong in a place where bread was supposed to be made. The men standing at the edges of the room, stiff and silent, confirmed your suspicion, this wasn’t just a bakery, this was Alfie Solomons’ kingdom, and you were a lamb dragged into the lion’s den.

He didn’t look up at first, you stood in the middle of the room like a piece of meat being offered to him, cloaked in your father’s debt, no name of your own, just a fucking transaction. The door shut behind you as his men left the room, leaving you and your father alone with him, and only then did Alfie glance up from whatever he was writing.

And when he saw you, he paused.

“Right,” he said finally, voice gravelled and sardonic, “you’re the bloody dowry, yeah?”

You flinched at the word.

He rose slowly, like an old bear from hibernation, shoulders broad beneath his waistcoat, beard thick and unruly, eyes sharp despite the faint squint of his age. You knew the name Solomons, everyone did, but nothing had prepared you for the man.

Your father stepped forward, flustered and sweating, like his life depended on this agreement going well, because in a way, it did. “Now Alfie, like I said, she’s—she’s a good girl. Quiet. Can cook and clean. And she’ll be loyal, I swear it.”

“Right. And she’s clean, yeah? No bloody clap? No surprises down there?” He made a vague, circling gesture with his fingers that somehow managed to feel both vulgar and clinical.

Your father stammered, paling now. “Of course! Nothing like that.”

Alfie hummed, eyes still locked on yours. “Can you talk, or did he gag you for the ride?”

Your mouth opened, then shut. You couldn't find words to say in a moment like this, when you were being handed off like nothing but property, practically being sold, and to a dangerous man like Alfie Solomons, no less.

He tilted his head. “Yeah, I thought not. You lot always go quiet when it’s me in the fuckin’ room, don’t you?”

Your father let out a nervous chuckle, but Alfie held up a hand to quiet him.

“No. Shut up.” He walked toward you, the thump of his cane dragging behind him like punctuation. “So here’s the thing, love. Your old man, he owes me more than he’s got. Which—normally—I’d collect in blood, but he made me an offer. You.”

He reached out and brushed his knuckles along your jaw, not gentle, but not cruel either, more like he was testing you.

“I don’t usually take wives, darlin’,” he said, voice low now. “I take respect, I take fuckin’ tributes, right, and I take silence. But he said you were gorgeous and now that I see you…”

His fingers drifted to your chin and tilted it upward.

“You look like you’d make a very fine little trophy. And I’m tired of sleepin' alone.”

You slapped his hand away and suddenly the room went still, the only audible sound was the gasp that left your father's mouth, you knew he was praying internally that you wouldn’t ruin this, that you wouldn’t do or say something smart that would get Alfie pissed off enough to walk away from the deal.

But Alfie didn't seem to mind, he just smiled—wide, feral, pleased.

“Ohhh, you’ve got bite, yeah?” He laughed then, full and rich, and turned toward your father. “I like her, yeah, I do.”

“Does that mean you’ll—?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll marry her. But I’m not doin’ no fuckin’ white weddin', right? Just papers. Done and dusted. She’ll be Mrs. Solomons by the end of the week. That work for you, love?”

You stared at him ompletely defeated, your voice so low it could barely be heard. “I didn’t agree to this.”

“No,” Alfie said, stepping close again, his voice suddenly sharp, “but he did. And see in my world, love, when a man settles a debt with a gift, I don’t ask if the gift’s got opinions.”

He let that sink in.

“But you’ve got spirit, don’t you? And if you’re clever, you’ll use it. Not against me, though. Not against your husband.” You swallowed and he leaned closer. “Yeah, you’ll realize that bein’ my wife comes with… perks. Nobody touches what’s mine. Not even God.”

You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. There was no point in that, you knew since the day you were born that life wasn't fair, and that sometimes you just had to do what needed to be done, so you just stood there, spine straight, chin up, like maybe defiance could save you.

You told your father no more than a thousand times. You told him every night after that cursed meeting at the bakery, with your throat raw from begging and screaming, eyes burning with tears he never acknowledged. But it didn’t matter, the debt still hung around his neck like a noose, and being the selfish man he had always been, he saw you as a lighter rope to throw over the beam.

The morning of the wedding, you weren’t allowed out of your room. Your dress wasn’t white, Alfie said white was “bollocks,” told the tailor you weren’t a virgin, “’cause no woman with that mouth is, right?” Your father had laughed. You hadn’t, you knew the truth.

Instead, your dress was deep green velvet, heavy and expensive, Alfie'd said he didn't want his future wife to look like a tart he'd picked up from around the corner. You stood in front of the mirror, hands trembling as you fastened the last button, you didn’t look like a bride, you looked like a girl in a costume, playing a part in a tragedy someone else had written.

The car came at noon, you didn’t try to run, what was the point? You had no place to go.

The registrar’s office smelled like old paper and damp wood, and when you looked back at how you thought the day of your wedding would be like as a girl, you would've never imagined this. Alfie was already there, leaning on his cane, arms crossed over his chest like a king waiting for tribute. No suit, no flower in his lapel, just that long coat, gloves tucked into one hand, and eyes that tracked you like you were already branded.

You didn’t speak to him, didn’t even look at him, but he didn’t seem to mind at all.

“’S about fuckin’ time,” he muttered when you entered, loud enough for you to hear. “Thought maybe you’d done somethin’ clever and run off. Then I remembered you’re your father’s daughter, and clever don’t run in that fuckin’ family.”

You said nothing.

“But beauty does, innit?” Alfie muttered, his gaze was lewd, no shame in it as he bit his bottom lip. “You look fuckin’ delightful, love.”

The clerk asked if you were ready, Alfie grunted and replied for you. You just stayed silent.

They asked you to repeat the vows and you hesitated.

“Go on, love,” Alfie drawled from beside you, voice low and curling like smoke in your ear. “Ain’t gonna get easier from now on, is it?”

Your voice cracked on the last word, husband, it tasted like ash, like it wasn't real. You were married in fifteen minutes. You didn’t kiss, he didn't even try to, just took the signed certificate, folded it neatly into his coat, and nodded like a deal had been closed, like a transaction being completed.

“Right,” he said to the room. “That’s that, then.”

You stood frozen as he offered you his arm, you didn’t take it and he didn't pressed, probably not wanting to cause a scene in the middle of the place.

He just glanced at the clerk and said, loud and dry, “Poor girl’s in mournin', mate. She just married a gangster, didn’t she?”

The ride back to Camden was silent, your hands clenched the velvet of your skirt until your knuckles went white. Alfie sat beside you, relaxed, like he’d just come from a business lunch and not a forced wedding. He kept glancing at you, out the window, then back at you.

“You’re angry,” he said finally.

You didn’t answer.

“I get that. It’s… understandable.”

Still nothing, not a single word coming out of your mouth, maybe they could force you to get married, but they couldn't force you to speak.

He tilted his head, watching you.

“You think I don’t know what I’ve done, love? Think I ain’t aware of what this is?”

Now he got your attention, you turned your head slowly. “Then why do it?”

His eyes darkened. “Because your old man’s a coward. And I’m not.”

“I offered him ways out,” Alfie continued, quieter now. “More than I usually do, in fact. Coulda paid in blood. Coulda worked it off. But he chose you. And I thought—well, fuck it. He don’t see your value—I will.”

“You think owning me makes you better than him?”

His nostrils flared. “No. I think it makes me smarter.”

You shook your head and turned back to the window, eyes stinging as you tried not to let the tears spill from your eyes.

“I don’t want this,” you whispered.

Alfie was silent for a long moment. Then:

“Yeah. I know. But it’s done now, innit? Ink’s dry.”

When you crossed the threshold into his sprawling, low-lit house in Camden, something in the air shifted.

It was final. It was real now. You two were married.

He led you through high halls that smelled of smoke and old books, leather chairs and dark wood, showing you the place, your new home. It was warm, but you felt cold, detached from your own skin. Your head couldn't focus on the tour of the house Alfie was giving you, you had bigger concerns in your mind, like what was gonna happen once the tour was over, once the time to go to bed arrived.

When you reached a wide oak door at the end of the hall, Alfie paused, glanced over his shoulder, and opened it with a push.

The bedroom. One massive bed, covered in dark wool and heavy pillows, fire already lit in the hearth.

He looked back at you, voice quieter now. “So, this is it.”

“I uh... I thought I’d have my own room.”

“No,” Alfie said simply. “You’re my wife. That means one bed.”

You looked at the bed like it might burn you alive.

His voice dropped lower. “You knew this part was comin’, yeah?”

You nodded slowly. You weren't stupid, you knew what men wanted, you knew what a man like Alfie wanted. To consummate the marriage. To fuck.

But you also knew what you were, a virgin, pure and never touched before. And you didn't trust Alfie to be the gentle type of man.

Alfie moved toward the bed, loosening the collar of his shirt, watching you from the corner of his eye. “Now listen, love, I ain’t expectin’ fireworks tonight, alright, but I do expect my wife to sleep in my bed. You’re mine now. That’s not just fuckin’ legal—it’s real. And I don’t like sleepin’ alone. So why don't you start gettin' that dress off, yeah? Lay back and get comfortable.”

His voice wasn’t angry, just firm and steady, like he’d already made peace with whatever this was.

You stood rooted to the floor, heart thudding like hooves in your chest. “And if I say no?”

He looked over at you, head tilted. “Then I’ll ask you why, yeah? Because I’m not a fuckin’ animal. But I am your husband now, and I think you know damn well what comes with that.”

You tried to keep your voice steady. “I’m a virgin.”

Alfie froze. His hands, which had been pulling at the zipper of his pants, stopped moving.

Then: “Come again?”

You lifted your chin. “I said I’m a virgin.”

Alfie let out a low, dark chuckle, eyebrows shooting up like he couldn't believe what you were telling him. "Right, you a virgin? Yeah, and I'm the bloody King of fuckin' England, ain't I?"

"I'm serious, Alfie. I'm not lying."

"There's no way you're a fuckin' virgin," he muttered. "Look at you, build like fuckin' sin in a body."

For a moment, Alfie just stared at you, expression unreadable, like part of him didn't quite believe it, but once he looked at your eyes he could tell that you weren't lying. He blinked, slowly, like the weight of your words had knocked the wind from him.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he muttered, running a hand over his beard. “Your dear father didn’t mention that.”

Your stomach twisted. “Would it have made a difference?”

He laughed—but not cruelly. It was low, surprised, and tinged with something you didn’t recognize. “Maybe. Maybe I’d have reconsidered takin’ a bride who don’t know the fuckin’ basics.”

You flinched, feeling ashamed all of a sudden, for some reason his words hitted you harder than you had expected. But Alfie saw it, and something shifted in his gaze.

“Oi. Look at me.”

You didn’t.

“Love,” he said, voice a bit gentler now. “I ain’t mad. Just… Jesus. A fuckin’ virgin? What lies had your father been feedin’ me, eh? So pretty and a virgin, fuck me.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t have a choice. My life wasn’t mine to begin with.”

“Never even sucked a cock?”

You shook your head slowly, keeping it down so you wouldn't have to face the weight of his gaze on you.

Silence. Then a sigh.

“Alright,” he muttered, walking past you to the side table, pouring himself a glass of something dark and strong. He drank it in one go, then turned back to you. “That’s… a fuckin’ curveball, innit.”

"I didn't mean to keep it a secret."

“You’re scared. I get it. You didn’t ask for this. And I’m not here to make your life harder than it already is. I ain’t gonna take what ain’t offered. I don’t do that. I might be a lot of things, love, but I ain’t a bloody fuckin’ monster.”

You blinked, startled by the way his voice changed, it was softer, no less coarse, but less performative.

“But I won’t lie to you either,” he went on. “You’re mine now. You sleep in my bed. I don’t give a fuck what you thought marriage would look like, this ain’t some pretty little fantasy. This is real. We are real. And yeah—at some point, I’ll take what’s mine. But not like this. Not when you look like you’re about to fuckin’ bolt.”

You stood there, frozen between gratitude and humiliation, shame curdling in your gut like spoiled milk. You didn't want to sleep with him, but for some strange reason his rejection wounded your pride.

“So what now?” you asked quietly. “You wait a day? A week?”

Alfie set his glass down.

“No,” he said simply. “I wait ’til you say yes.”

You stared at him with desbelief.

“Don’t mistake me, love,” he added, stepping closer. “I’ll want you. Every night I’ll think about it. But I won’t force it. ’Cause once I’ve got you under me, yeah? I want you there because you chose to be. Because you finally realized this world’s mad, and maybe the devil you married ain’t the worst fuckin’ monster in it.”

You didn’t answer, you didn’t move, but when he stripped off his clothes and sat down on the bed, legs wide, arms resting on his thighs, you didn’t run either. You walked slowly to the other side and sat on the edge of the bed, eyes closed, as you whispered your nighttime prayers, each word meant only for God to hear, until Alfie broke it with his graveled murmur.

“What you mumblin’ about, then?”

You didn’t open your eyes, bit down on your tongue before answering.

“I’m praying,” you said, voice calm, like you were still somewhere far away. “You don’t pray?”

“What for?” Alfie scoffed. “Already got everythin' I want. Though…” he drawled, tone turning wicked, “maybe I oughta ask Him for a wife who actually wants to fuck.”

You didn’t say anything, he just grinned to himself.

“You reckon that’s blasphemy?” he went on. “S’pose I should consult at the synagogue next time, yeah?”

“I thought… well… I thought religion would be more important to you.”

“It is,” he said, voice quieter now, less smug. He shrugged one shoulder. “Just don’t need to bloody pray every night, do I?”

He said it simply, like it wasn’t a contradiction. “Help the synagogue, donate to charity, give the lads jobs,” he muttered. “Don’t mean I need to be on my knees whisperin’ in Hebrew before bed. Faith’s not about sayin’ the words, it’s about how you live.”

You stared at him for a long beat, he was unrepentant, not angry, just unapologetically himself, after a few minutes you laid down, fully clothed, feeling the mattress shift as he lay beside you. He didn’t reach for you that night, didn’t speak, but long after you thought he was asleep, his voice came, low and sure in the dark:

“When you’re ready, yeah? You let me know.”

The silence in the house wasn’t empty, it was watching. Waiting.

So you busied yourself, that way you wouldn't have time to think. You scrubbed the floors, pressed linen, learned how to use the stove without scorching your hands. Started folding his shirts in the way he seemed to like, creased at the collar, sleeves flat, no starch. You began baking, not for him though, you told yourself, but for the house. For something warm to fill the void.

You started speaking to the housekeeper, then the grocer, then the boy who delivered the coal. Your voice didn’t tremble quite so much anymore.

You had stopped crying into your pillow.

That was… progress.

And Alfie—he noticed.

He didn’t say anything outright, but the way he looked at you changed. He watched you when you didn’t notice, when you pulled your hair back to knead dough, when you walked barefoot into the sun-warmed conservatory to dust the shelves, when you came home from the market with your cheeks flushed from the wind.

One night, while you peeled potatoes at the kitchen table, he leaned in the doorway and said nothing at all for a long, long time, just watched you work.

Eventually:

“You’re good at that.”

You looked up. “Peeling potatoes?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, and makin’ a place feel lived in.”

You blinked. That… almost sounded like praise, but you didn’t thank him, just kept peeling. He didn’t move.

The next morning, there was a new necklace on your dressing table, shiny and expensive, you didn’t wear it, but you didn’t throw it away either.

Two weeks later, it was raining, one of those endless downpours that went on for days. You lit candles in the sitting room and curled under a blanket with a book, determined not to watch the door like a soldier waiting for a breach.

When Alfie came in, soaked and steaming from the cold, you didn’t flinch, just looked up and raised a brow.

“Coat,” you said.

He blinked in confusion.

“You’re dripping all over my clean floor. Hang it up, or take it off and I’ll dry it.”

He smiled, not in his typical smug and amused way, no, this smile was a soft one.

He shrugged off the coat, hung it on the rack, and then hesitated for a second before speaking. “You readin’ anythin' good, then?”

You held up the book. “Murder mystery.”

“Any good ones in it?”

“No murders yet.”

He chuckled. “Bit slow, then.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not everything has to happen in the first few pages, sometimes you enjoy it more when you have to wait for it.”

He paused, thinking about what you said. And then he stepped closer, making the room feel smaller, the silence deafening.

You set the book down slowly and watched him with wary eyes as he sat down beside you, keeping his distance but still there. You could smell the cold on his skin, the faint tang of tobacco, the ghost of something herbal on his collar.

“I’ve been watchin’ you a lot lately,” he said at last.

“I know, I've noticed.”

“You’ve been tryin’, even though you hate it here.”

“I don’t hate it here.”

He turned his head. “Do you hate me?”

Silence.

Then: “Sometimes.”

His breath caught. But he nodded.

“That’s fair,” he murmured.

It was well past two in the morning when you heard the front door slam. The sound ricocheted through the house like a warning bell, heavy boots on old floorboards, a muffled curse, something glass breaking somewhere near the kitchen.

You sat up in bed, already knowing.

Alfie was drunk.

It wasn’t rare, He had come come home drunk a few other times before. But this—this sounded worse.

You hadn’t seen him since the morning. Just a brief grunt at breakfast, his beard brushing your cheek like an accidental promise, and then gone. Off to do God-knows-what with the kind of men who didn’t return home at all.

But he did, loudly.

You waited. You didn’t call for him. You didn’t get up.

And still—he came.

The door burst open so fast the handle hit the wall, and there he was: Alfie, eyes wild, cheeks flushed, coat half off, shirt wrinkled, and reeking of whisky and sweat and smoke.

“You’re awake,” he muttered, voice rougher than usual, like he’d chewed gravel all the way home.

You didn’t answer, you only stared, heart kicking in your ribs.

He leaned in the doorway, blinking slow. “Fuckin’ missed you.”

You raised a brow. “You’re drunk.”

“Yeah,” he said, and chuckled, low and dry. “That obvious, innit?”

Then he stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him, and locking it.

Your breath caught. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer at first, he dragged a hand through his beard, eyes dragging over you where you sat in bed in nothing but your nightdress. The way his gaze darkened made your stomach twist.

“Alfie—”

“You look so soft tonight,” he murmured. “Warm.”

“I ain’t gonna fuck you,” he said quickly when he noticed the way your eyes widened, his voice was still harsh. “Don’t get scared. I remember what I said. I said I wouldn’t do it ’til you asked me to. Right?”

You nodded slowly, back pressing into the headboard.

“Right,” he breathed, pacing at the foot of the bed like a caged thing. “But I want to. Fuckin’ hell, I need to.”

You swallowed hard. “Then go to your office. Sleep it off.”

His head snapped toward you. “Don’t want to sleep it off. Want to sleep here. Want to be next to you, want to fuckin’—” He broke off, jaw tightening, knuckles white where his hands clenched at his sides. “—want to fuckin' touch my wife, put my mouth on every inch of you, love. Want to make you sob for it.”

You didn’t move, you didn’t tell him to stop. And maybe that was the mistake, because in the next breath, Alfie was at the side of the bed, kneeling on the mattress, crawling toward you with something dangerous in his eyes, something desperate, devout.

“You know I want you, yeah?” His voice was rough, slurred but clear enough. “Think about you all the fuckin’ time. In my head. In my hand.” He chuckled darkly, lips brushing the space just below your ear. “Like a bloody schoolboy.”

He climbed over you, one arm braced above your head, the other trembling where it gripped the sheets, he was so heavy you couldn't move if you tried. You could smell the liquor on him, bitter and sharp, but under it—him. Heat. Skin. Man.

“Alfie…”

“No, no, I know.” He exhaled against your neck. “You haven’t said yes. I fuckin’ remember.”

And yet he rocked his hips forward, slow and deliberate. Hot pressure through too much fabric, making you feel the shape of him, thick and hard straining his trousers, leaking through the front of his pants. He hissed at the friction, head dropping to your neck. You gasped at the feeling, it was strange, something you've never felt before.

“Fuckin’ look at me,” he growled, grinding forward just a fraction more. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me. Every night. Every fuckin’ day I don’t touch you, I get worse. You got me walkin’ around half-mad, wife.”

He rutted against you again, the thick bulge in his trousers dragging along the curve of your thighs, making you feel the way his cock ached for you, how the damp patch where his tip was grew, warm and wet through the fabric, starting to get your thighs wet with his pre-cum as well.

You were still clothed, he was still clothed, but it didn’t matter, his breath hitched with every slow grind. You felt the heat, the need pouring off him in waves. His hand stayed planted on the mattress beside you, clenched into a fist.

“Christ, I’m wound tight tonight,” he growled. “You’ve got no idea. Fuckin’ months without layin’ a hand on anyone. You know what that does to a man? Got all these animals in my head tellin’ me to take what’s mine, yeah? But I don’t. I won’t. I made a promise.”

His lips grazed your collarbone. “Don’t wanna hurt you. Don’t wanna break nothin’. Won’t fuck you,” he said, more to himself than to you, as if trying to make his drunk brain remember the promise he had made. “Won’t even touch you there. You didn’t say yes, so I don’t fuckin’ take. But fuck, I need this. Just this, alright? Let me have this, and I won’t ask for more. Not ’til you give it.”

He didn't wait for you to answer, he just rutted harder.

Not fast, not frantic. But deep, controlled, like he was trying to burn the edge off a craving without giving in fully. His hands shook where they gripped the pillow on either side of your head. He wasn’t being cruel, wasn't kissing you, wasn’t groping, wasn't trying to thrust against your entrance, he was just grinding, burying the weight of his clothed cock between your thighs, breathing like a man being smothered, rubbing himself off on your body like an animal in heat, moaning through gritted teeth

“Fuckfuckfuck—” he gritted, teeth clenched. “Feels so good—God, you’re warm—fuckin’—”

You whimpered beneath him, helpless and frozen as his weight pinned you down.

Then his hands found your breasts. Big, rough palms cupping you through the thin nightdress, thumbs dragging over your nipples until they peaked under the fabric. He gripped them like they grounded him, like he might lose what little control he had left without the weight of you in his hands.

“Fuckin’ perfect tits,” he gasped. “Fuck, these tits’ll ruin me.”

Your name left his lips like a prayer, and you didn’t say stop, you never asked him to.

One last rut forward, hips jerking once, and you felt it, the way his body stilled, the sudden heat against your hip, wet and thick and unmistakably filthy, soaking through both layers of fabric. He had cum against you. Right there, fully clothed, grinding on your body like a man possessed.

His arms trembled and his breath caught. Then a full-body shudder ran through him, a final, broken exhale against your throat, like you'd given him enough pleasure, even without doing anything, to keep him satisfied through the night.

He collapsed over you, breathing like he’d just run a marathon.

You laid there, stunned, heart pounding as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, limp with exhaustion, cock still twitching in the mess he’d made in his pants.

“Fuck,” he whispered hoarsely. “That felt nice.”

You said nothing, and yet, you didn’t push him away, you tried to convince yourself that it was because he weighted too much, but maybe it was because part of you wanted to be close to him.

His breathing slowed, body growing heavy over yours, one large hand slid up to rest over your ribs, thumb grazing the curve of your breast.

And then he fell asleep. Spent, drunk, quiet, still on top of you, trapping you under his body.

All you could do was lie there in the dark, burning beneath him—confused, aching—because you were furious that he’d used you like that, used your body to get off, didn’t even ask, didn’t even wait for your permission to use you like a fucking pillow, he just spilled on you like it was nothing and fell asleep on top of you like some overgrown, exhausted animal.

But you also wished he’d broken his promise and just taken you right then and there. You’d felt everything, the way he held back, the way he shook, the way he moaned your name like it hurt him not to bury himself inside you and fuck you until you cried.

And part of you wanted it. Desperately wanted it.

When you woke up the next morning, it took a moment to register the heat of his body, the weight of the man still on top of you.

Alfie.

Your body ached, skin stuck to the sheets where his sweat had soaked through. His beard scraped your throat as he breathed, mouth open against your pulse.

The events of the night came rushing back like a fist to the gut. The grinding. The touches. The groans. The way he came, right there, without ever taking off your clothes.

A wave of disgust, rage, and something more treacherous—shame—boiled up in your chest.

You shoved at him. “Get off.”

He groaned, half-asleep and barely coherent. “Mm—no. S’cold over there.”

“Alfie.”

You pushed harder, and he rolled with a heavy grunt, flopping onto his back with an arm flung across his face. The sheets slipped low over his hips, revealing the damp front of his trousers, making you grimace.

You sat up, shoved your nightdress down your thighs, and swung your legs out of bed with a sharp breath. “You promised.”

A groggy noise from behind you. “Didn’t fuckin’ break it, did I?”

You spun. “You used me.”

He blinked blearily through the hangover fog. “What?”

“Last night.” Your voice shook now. “You got on top of me, Alfie. You humped me like a goddamn dog and then just—passed out like I didn’t matter.”

He sat up fast, teeth bared. “You’re my wife.”

You flinched at the word, his jaw clenched at your reaction, and his voice dropped low and guttural. “I didn’t fuck you. I wanted to, yeah, fuckin’ hell, you’ve no idea how bad—but I kept my fuckin’ promise, didn’t I? I didn’t put me cock in you, I didn’t even pull your clothes off, I—”

“You came on me!,” you hissed.

He paused. “Yeah. I fuckin’ did. Because I’ve got a wife that won’t let me touch her, and I’m going out of my mind, alright? Every day you walk around in those little fuckin’ dresses, all soft and sweet and terrified of me like I’m some beast in the attic—yeah, forgive me, love, if I lose myself a little.”

You stepped back like he’d slapped you. “You are a beast.”

He laughed sharp and bitter. “Course I am. And you’re the sacrificial lamb, yeah? Dragged to the altar by your precious daddy so I’d forgive his debts and leave his balls intact.”

“I never asked you to marry me.”

“And I never asked to be punished every night by a virgin wife too proud to admit she wants me back!”

That silenced you, because deep down, you knew he was right.

He stood, staggering slightly, and you were instantly too aware of his size, his naked chest where the shirt was hanging open, the sheer heat that poured off him like smoke from a forge. He walked toward you—slow, dangerous.

You didn’t move.

“I could’ve given two fucks whether you wanted it or not,” he said lowly, voice like gravel, thick with threat and truth. “Could’ve had you cryin’ and beggin’ ‘til the neighbors think I’m killin’ you—and still I wouldn’t’ve stopped. You know why? ’Cause it’s my right, yeah? As your fuckin’ husband. Mine to take whenever I please. I could’ve fucked you, could’ve split you open with me cock. But I’m tryin’ to be a gentleman here. I’m not a monster who’d take you against your will.”

You shook your head in anger, looking at him as if he was that monster he was trying so hard to deny he was.

“FUCK!” he shouted, punching the wardrobe so hard it splintered. “Fuckin’ Christ.”

You flinched, not from fear, but from the sound, from the violence he was trying not to aim at you.

He pointed a shaking finger at you. “You ever want me like that—properly—you say it. Cause I'm losin' my fuckin' mind here, love. But don’t lie to yourself. Don’t pretend you’re takin’ a man who’s gentle. I ain’t. I’m a gangster. I’m a beast. And I’ve been good. I’ve been so fuckin’ good—but I’m slippin’, love.”

You looked away, you felt confused and overwhelmed.

“I’m not sorry for wantin’ you,” he said quietly. “But I am sorry if I scared you.”

His hand rose, hovered near your jaw, then stopped. “Tell me to fuck off,” he whispered. “And I will.”

Silence.

Your voice, when it came, was barely audible: “I hate you.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Well. That’s somethin’.” Without another word, he turned and left the room barefoot and half-dressed.

You stayed frozen, feeling agry and confused

But worst of all—aroused.

You didn’t speak to him for three days. Not a word.

Not even when he brought you breakfast and left it on your nightstand with a muttered grunt. Not when he started knocking before entering the bedroom, even though it was technically his. Not even when you caught him—twice—lingering outside the library, watching you read like a feral dog might eye a piece of meat he wasn’t allowed to touch.

And Alfie, for once in his life, took it. He didn’t push or yell, or drown the loneliness in a drink, which worried you more than it should have.

You weren’t expecting flowers or an apology in ink. You weren’t even sure what you wanted from him, if anything. But on the fourth morning, you came downstairs to find something new. A loaf of bread sitting on the counter, charred black on one side.

And a note.

“Tried to bake this for you, right. Turns out ovens are tricky bastards. You don’t have to eat it, but I’d be very fuckin’ flattered if you at least threw it at my head.”

—Alfie (your husband, allegedly)

You stared at it, then stared at the hunk of ruined bread, too burnt at the edges, not looking inviting at all.

Then… almost—almost—smiled.

You didn’t throw it, but you didn’t eat it either.

Later that evening, you walked past the study, and caught him talking to Cyril.

“Now listen, mate,” Alfie murmured to the big dog sprawled across the rug. “She hates me now, yeah, and that’s fair. I did a bit of a… a madness, right? A misstep, as the posh cunts would say. But what the fuck do I do, Cyril? She don’t like flowers. Don’t like whisky. Don’t like me…”

You paused in the hall, heart thudding at how endearingly sweet the scene was.

“Can’t go buy her a bloody diamond every week I fuck up. Not ‘til she lets me touch her, at least. That’d be bad economics.”

Cyril sneezed.

“Exactly,” Alfie said. “Ungrateful little thing, yeah?”

Another sneeze.

“…Yeah, alright, mate. That was out of line.”

You left before he saw you, but two days later, there was a folded note tucked beneath your pillow.

“What did the grape say when it got stepped on? Nothing. It just let out a little wine.”

The handwriting was careful, as if he’d practiced it. Lately he'd decided that the best way to win a woman back wasn't by baking burnt bread for her, but perhaps by making her laugh, so every time he was around you he told you a joke, each one worse than the other, most of them not even making sense at all, stuff only Alfie would find amusing.

You refused to laugh, every single time. You absolutely refused. But at breakfast, Alfie caught your eye and held your gaze a moment too long.

He smirked. “Told you it was a fuckin’ good joke.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

He blinked, Sitting up straighter. “Was that—did you just speak to me?”

“I insulted you.”

“Yeah, but you spoke, didn’t you?”

You stabbed your eggs with a fork. “Don’t make it a moment.”

He grinned. “Too late. Burned it into my memory already, love.”

You tried not to look amused. Failed, maybe, just a little. Alfie didn’t press it, but he did hum under his breath as he ate, some old tune you couldn’t place. And when he got up to leave the table, he paused beside your chair, his hand brushed your shoulder, just once, just barely.

“You wanna throw that bread at me now, by the way,” he murmured, “you’re welcome to. Still got the bruise on my pride.”

You looked up at him, and for once, he looked almost human, almost like a man you could sympathize with.

One night, he stepped in while you read on the couch.

“Any good?” he asked, nodding toward the book in your lap.

You didn’t look up. “It’s fine.”

“Romance?”

“Crime.”

He chuckled, then walked slowly toward the fire and knelt, stacking logs with surprising grace for a man whose hands had likely broken skulls. “You ever read any of the Sherlock Holmes stuff?” he asked casually.

You blinked. “Yes.”

“I liked that Watson fella. Didn’t seem like a tosser. And he had a wife, right? Must’ve meant he was halfway tolerable.”

You fought the corner of your mouth twitching upward. “You don’t need to be tolerable to have a wife, apparently.”

That earned a low grunt. He lit the fire, the glow casting flickers of gold across the sharp lines of his face, for a moment, he didn’t look at you.

Then he stood, brushing ash from his palms with deliberate slaps. “Yeah, well,” he said, turning toward you with a glint in his eye, “lucky for you, I never claimed to be tolerable.”

He didn’t sit, not yet. Just hovered near the hearth, like a lost little puppy, eyes flickering between the flames and you.

“Would you mind terribly,” he said at last, “if I sit here?”

You sighed but nodded toward the armchair opposite yours. “It’s your house.”

His eyes narrowed, smile playing on his mouth. “It’s our house.”

You didn’t respond, but you didn’t correct him again either.

He sank into the armchair with a groan, stretching out like a lion basking in heat. “Fuckin’ knees are shite lately,” he muttered.

“Probably from years of kneeling on people’s necks.”

That made him bark a laugh. “You’re funny when you’re cruel,” he said. “Almost makes me hard.”

You rolled your eyes. “Jesus, Alfie.”

“What?” he shrugged. “I said almost. I’m being respectful. Practicin’ restraint, yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t as brittle this time.

He said, quieter: “You used to flinch when I came near.”

Your fingers tensed on the pages of your book.

“I still see it, sometimes. That little breath you hold.”

You swallowed hard. “Maybe I still don’t fully trust you.”

“That’s fair.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze steady. “But I think you want to.”

You met his eyes. He was right, and that made you angry, because he could see you too well.

You stood abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”

He followed, of course he followed, but when you reached the bedroom door, he didn’t push past you, he just waited again, watching you.

You slipped inside and he came in after, slower, quieter than ever. You moved to your side of the bed, pulled your nightdress over your head and slipped beneath the covers, back to him.

Alfie changed with his usual graceless muttering—buttons, belts, boots hitting the floor with heavy thuds. And then the mattress dipped under his weight as he climbed in beside you, your body stiffened, he was closer than usual, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.

He exhaled. “Can I touch your hand?”

You blinked in the dark. “What?”

“Just your hand. Nothin’ filthy. Just… touch.”

It was so absurdly gentle, it almost hurt.

“…Fine,” you murmured, turning around to face him now.

A long pause, and then warm, rough fingers brushed against yours beneath the sheets. His palm slid beneath your hand, letting your fingers rest lightly atop his., you could feel him trembling. Just barely.

“You cold?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

“No,” he said softly. “Just nervous.”

You looked at him, his face was barely visible in the low moonlight, but he was watching you steadily.

“I’m not a romantic man,” he said. “Not by nature. But I’ve been tryin’, yeah? To be… somethin’ close to it.”

You didn’t speak, he took your silence as a sign to lean in closer to you, not close enough to kiss, just close enough that his breath ghosted your cheek.

“May I ask you somethin’?”

“…What?”

His voice, now barely a whisper: “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart jumped, and your first instinct was to say no, but something in the way he asked, not demanding, not smug or coaxing, just raw and wanting, made your voice fail.

You didn’t answer right away, but you didn’t move away either, that was a start, and after a long moment he leaned in, closing the distance between you two, slow and careful, testing the waters first.

You felt his mouth touching yours, just once, just a little dry and reverent press of his lips on yours. He didn’t try to deepen the kiss. Didn’t try to slide a hand up your thigh or into your nightdress. He just kissed you like it was something sacred.

When he pulled back, he exhaled shakily.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You turned away before he could see your expression—but you didn’t pull your hand from his. And that night, for the first time, you slept pressed against him, not as strangers.

But as two people… trying.

Alfie kept trying to impress you, he kept crowding you with gifts or jokes, but most important, he was there. Always there, a warm presence at your side, a coat draped over your shoulders before you thought to ask, a hand brushing your lower back as you passed in tight spaces, a low murmur of “good night, love” every time the candles burned low and you both drifted to your shared bed.

And you… you had stopped flinching. You’d stopped pulling away when he reached for the sugar you were holding. You’d stopped holding your breath when he sat beside you, his leg touching yours, heavy and warm and real. You’d stopped avoiding his gaze when he looked at you like he wanted you, not with entitlement, but with aching, patient hunger.

So the night when it finally happened was like breathing after holding it for too long.

It was raining hard, and like most rainy nights you were curled on the sofa in the library, blanket wrapped around your legs, a book open in your lap—but unread, for some reason you felt different, unable to focus, your mind kept drifting to him.

Alfie came in without knocking, he’d been in the cellar, you guessed, because he smelled faintly of dust and aged barrels.

He paused in the doorway, then stepped inside. “Storm’s a bastard tonight.”

You nodded. “Feels like the house is groaning.”

He eyed the thunder outside. “Built to withstand worse, this place. Like its mistress.”

That made your lips twitch. “You’re calling me a creaky old mansion?”

“I’m sayin’ you’ve got good bones,” he said, grinning. “And secrets in the walls.”

You laughed quietly, reluctant, but you didn’t stop him when he walked over and sat beside you, you didn’t move when his thigh pressed against yours, warm through the blanket.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was waiting for the storm that was to come.

And then you said, barely above a whisper: “You’re not what I thought.”

He turned to you slowly. “Yeah?”

“I thought you’d take what you wanted. First night. Without asking.”

His jaw tightened. “I wanted to. God, love, you don’t even know—”

“I know.”

Your hand found his on the blanket, lacing your fingers through his, purposefully this time.

“I thought I’d hate you forever,” you said. “For taking me like this. A deal. A transaction.”

“And now?”

You looked up at him, you were suddenly aware of how close his mouth was, how his eyes were searching for yours, with hunger, yes, but also waiting for you.

“I don’t hate you.”

His throat bobbed with a swallowed breath, you moved your hand up, traced the edge of his beard, then the rough line of his jaw.

"What are you thinkin' about, love?"

“I think,” you said slowly, “I’d like to kiss my husband.”

His eyes snapped open, blazing. But even then, he didn’t pounce, he just sat there, trembling slightly, until you leaned in and pressed your mouth to his. And it was nothing like the chaste brush he’d given you before. This was hungry, wet, hot.

He groaned—deep in his chest—and his hand flew to your waist, tugging you into him like he’d been starving and you were the only thing on earth that could feed him.

His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting, exploring. One of your hands gripped his shoulder, the other tangled in his curls, and he shuddered under your touch. You climbed onto his lap without thinking, so bold it even surprised yourself, straddling him, your mouth never leaving his.

When he pulled back his breath was ragged, his forehead pressed to yours. “Love,” he rasped, “if you keep this up, I’m gonna fuckin’ lose my mind.”

“I want to do it.”

He froze. You could feel the way his whole body tensed beneath you.

“What?”

You licked your lips. Your voice shook, but your eyes didn’t.

“I’m ready, Alfie. I want to do this. With you. I want to seal this… properly. You’ve waited and you’ve been patient. And now I’m ready.”

His hands gripped your thighs like he didn’t believe it. He stood, lifting you with him, and carried you through the hall like you weighed nothing, mumbling under his breath, fuckin' hell, finally, fuck me, yes.

By the time he laid you down gently on the bed, both of you were shaking, not from nerves, not from fear, but from sheer, unbearable need. And when he leaned down to kiss you again, it was no longer about obligation. It was choice. It was yours.

You watched him hover above you, broad shoulders tight with restraint as he looked down with eyes that burned. He wasn’t touching you, not yet, he was scared of making the same mistake he'd made the night he came home drunk.

You reached up, fingers trembling, brushing his jaw. “Alfie,” you whispered. “It’s okay.”

“It fuckin’ ain’t though. I don’t wanna hurt you, darlin’. I don’t. I swear to God, I’m… I ain’t never done this, not like this—not with a woman who’s a—”

“I want you.”

His hands came to your waist as soon as you said those words, he was still being slow and cautious, thumbs stroking gentle circles over your hips like you were something sacred. His mouth coaxed yours open, tongues brushing, lips parting again and again, your hands threading through his hair, gripping tight as he deepened the kiss.

He kissed down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your chest, each touch reverent, aching, like worship. He undressed you piece by piece, pausing after each layer, like he was unwrapping a gift too precious to rush.

You gasped when he reached your breasts, tongue flicking across a nipple as his hand gently kneaded the other, like he was learning your body by feel alone.

“Beautiful, you are,” he muttered against your skin, voice suddenly reverent. “Jesus Christ, just—look at you. Every bloody inch of you, it’s like… it’s like you was made to ruin me.”

And then he bent, mouth trailing fire down your stomach, until you gasped from the heat of his tongue, your thighs clenching involuntarily. His hands stayed slow, big and calloused, but shaking a little as they smoothed over your thighs, your hips, your stomach. You could see the effort it took him to go slow and be gentle, how tightly he was wound, fighting every instinct to just take.

He was so used to commanding, claiming, but here—now—he was trying to learn you, to please you and be soft. Even when it was something he had never cared about before, he wanted to try, for you.

His mouth was on yours again in a second, rougher this time, hands gripping your hips, pulling you into him. You moaned when you felt how obscenely hard he already was, the thick line of him pressing insistently against your lower belly through his trousers.

“I’ve been fuckin’ patient, yeah?” he rasped, mouth hot against yours. “Good as gold. Slept beside you all them nights like some bloody monk, I did, achin’ the whole fuckin’ time. You got the faintest clue what that does to a man like me, eh? Do ya?”

“I think I do,” you said, hand sliding down, brushing against the hard length of him, making him moan. “But I want you to show me.”

He shed the rest of his clothes, chest rising and falling like a man on the brink of something feral. Alfie held himself up on shaking arms, looking down at you like he didn’t know what to do, looking weirdly lost, which surprised you, because you were sure that he was a deeply experienced man, he exuded confidence in every area of his life, you guessed it wouldn't be any different in bed.

He let out a groan, pressing his forehead to your chest. “Fuckin’ hell. I ain’t—look, I ain’t built for the slow shit, right? That ain’t me. Usually get myself a bird who wants it rough, quick, messy—job done, yeah? And I’m gone. But you…” He exhaled hard, voice cracked with effort. “You got me tryin’, love. You got me fuckin’ tryin’.“

“I know,” you said, your hand sliding into his curls, holding him to you. “Just… let's start slow, maybe you could... touch me a little first.”

He nodded and moved down your body, pressing a kiss to the crease of your thigh, then used one hand to gently part your folds, exposing your aching core to the air.

His breath hitched, sharp and reverent. “Ohh—fuckin’ hell, look at you, darlin’. Down ‘ere, yeah? You’re so fuckin’ pretty down ‘ere I could lose my fuckin’ mind. Christ Almighty…”

You flushed at the compliment, one you never expected to recieve, your hips were squirming, but his hand settled on your stomach, grounding you. His other hand moved slow, two fingers gliding along your slickness, testing how wet you were.

“Gotta—gotta make sure you’re ready, right?” he muttered, more to himself than you, hands tentative like they were touching sacred ground. “Can’t just go in rough like some savage bastard, nah—little thing like you, I’d split you in half.” He laughed, low and disbelieving.

He rubbed soft, teasing circles around your clit, barely there at first, his touch was exploratory, careful as if you might break. His gaze never left your face, rejoicing in the way you bit your lip and closed your eyes with pleasure.

You gasped, hips lifting instinctively, and he moaned.

“That’s it, yeah? You like that?”

You nodded breathlessly, teeth catching your lip.

“Ain’t never had nothin’ up this tight little cunt before, have ya?” he rasped. “Tell me, love—yeah? You ever even touched yourself down here, hmm? Ever made that sweet little body cum on your own fingers—or were you just sittin’ there, waitin’, savin’ it for some sorry sod like me to come along and fuckin’ ruin it?”

“I’ve… I’ve never,” you muttered.

He kept rubbing, thumb joining in, building a rhythm, not too fast, not too hard. Just right. Intentional. Learning you. The pads of his fingers slick with your arousal, moving with growing confidence.

And then, slowly—gently, he slid one thick finger inside you. You gasped again, more from surprise than pain, the sudden fullness making your eyes flutter.

He froze. “Too much?”

“No,” you breathed. “Just… different.”

“Alright,” he whispered, kissing your inner thigh again, his lips lingering like a promise. “You tell if it hurts, yeah?”

His finger curled slightly, and he started to move it, slow, shallow pumps, coaxing you open, soft groans slipping from his mouth as your warmth swallowed him in.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, hips grinding against nothing, jaw clenched like he was tryin’ to hold himself back. “So fuckin’ tight, darlin’, I don’t even know how I’m s’posed to fit inside you, yeah? Gonna wreck me tryin’…”

He added a second finger, and your eyes fluttered shut. It stung a little, the stretch was invasive, but he was patient. He pumped them carefully, fingers curling to search for that sweet spot inside you.

“Tell me what you like, yeah?” he whispered. “Tell me how to make it good for you.”

Your hips rolled up to meet his hand. “Right there—when you curl them…”

His mouth dropped open, watching you with something like awe as he obeyed, moving his fingers just like you asked him to.

“Fuckin’ hell… just—look at you,” he breathed, eyes dragging down your body like it was scripture. “So bloody pretty like this, ain’t ya? All warm, open, soft as sin… all mine, yeah? All fuckin’ mine.”

You gasped when his thumb brushed your clit again. He paused.

“That too?”

“Yes—fuck, yes—keep going.”

He did, tracing soft circles with careful pressure, watching your face every second. You were panting, arching your back in delight, your body trembling as the pleasure mounted. You could see how badly he wanted to lose control, how his cock twitched hard as he tried to restain himself, he wanted to pleasure you first.

“Takin’ me so fuckin’ well, too,” he murmured, voice thick and half-wrecked. “Like your body’s got its own bloody mind, yeah? Like it wants me… wants to keep me locked in there for good.”

“Alfie…” you moaned, hips rocking helplessly, chasing his touch.

“I want you to cum for me, yeah?” he whispered. “Can you do that, love? Right here, just like this, before I even fuckin’ take you? Want you to fall apart first, all soft and needy for me—need to see it, need to know you’re ready for what’s comin’.”

It was like your body had instantly obeyed him, cumming hard, overwhelmed by how good it felt, his name ripped from your throat, body clenching around his fingers, thighs squeezing his wrist like a vice.

“That’s it… fuckin’ look at you… that’s my wife…”

He kissed you hard, tongue sliding into your mouth, still working his fingers inside you, breath hitching against your cheek.

When he pulled back, both of you were panting.

“You feel ready, love,” he rasped, voice nearly undone. “So ready I’m barely holdin’ it together. Still want me to, yeah? You want this?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “I want you, Alfie.”

You looked down for a second. His cock was thick and heavy, flushed dark with arousal. Probably too big, you knew women liked men well-endowed, but in that moment you wished he were a bit smaller. He positioned himself between your thighs, holding the base, dragging the head slowly through your slick folds, soaking himself in you.

“That’s not… gonna fit.”

He gave you a wicked smile, then started to stroke himself, slow and slick with your wetness. “It’ll fit, love. Might stretch a bit. Might sting. But I’ll make it good, yeah? Proper good. You’ll be beggin’ for it before I’m done, swear on me fuckin’ life.”

And then he began to slide in, inch by aching inch, every muscle in his body trembling. He groaned, burying his face in your neck as he eased inside. Even with you being wet and open, you tensed at the stretch, it was so much, and your body was trying to catch up, trying to adjust to his size, your walls struggled to accommodate him inside you.

Alfie stopped instantly, noticing your discomfort.

“Talk to me,” he said, voice tight.

“I’m okay. Just… go slow.”

He nodded, jaw clenched so hard it twitched. He pushed in another inch, and you gripped his arms, nails digging in as the uncomfortable feeling intensified.

“Sorry—sorry, right, fuckin’ hell,” he gasped out, mouth everywhere, kissing your cheek, your jaw, anywhere he could land. “Jesus Christ, you’re tight, love. Like this sweet little virgin cunt was built special—for me. Yeah? For me.”

Once he was buried fully inside, he stayed still, panting, forehead pressed to yours, trying hard to keep it together, to not succumb to the warm and hard way you were gripping his cock.

“Just gimme a sec—yeah? Just—fuckin’ don’t move. Can’t bloody move yet or I’m gonna fuckin’ embarrass myself, I swear.”

You whimpered under him, your cunt starting to adapt to the feeling of having his thickness inside you. And before you realized, the burn fade into something full and deep and perfect.

You rolled your hips, wanting to feel more of him, and that was all it took for Alfie to snap.

He moaned, deep and broken, and began to move. Still slow—but each thrust was deeper, more deliberate, until you were gasping his name and clinging to him like you’d fall apart otherwise.

“That’s it… that’s it,” he gasped, hips trembling against yours. “My good girl, yeah? Fuckin’ takin’ me like you were made for it. Jesus—feels like you’re squeezin’ me in a bloody fist.”

He was everywhere, his mouth on your neck, hands gripping your hips, voice in your ear whispering things that made you ache all over, how good you felt, how he’d never had anything like this, how you were his wife now and he’d never let you go.

“You’re mine now. You hear me? My wife. My fuckin’ wife. No one else sees you like this. No one else touches you like this. Not now. Not ever.”

He pulled almost all the way out—just the tip inside—and then pushed back in, groaning loud as he filled you again. Deeper. Thicker.

“Still alright?” he asked, though his voice had turned darker, laced with possession.

“Yes.”

That one word unleashed him.

“Good girl,” he rasped again, nose brushing your cheek, voice shaking. “So fuckin’ warm. So perfect. Christ—I’ve dreamt about this. You underneath me, beggin’ for it. You like that, yeah? Like havin’ your husband’s cock inside you? My filthy little thing…”

He had managed to keep his thrusts slow so far, but they began to get heavier, and the drag of his cock made your legs instantly lift to wrap around his waist.

“You tryin’ to kill me, eh? Wrappin’ them bloody thighs round me like that? Gonna make me lose it right here—inside ya.”

“Ngggh, oh God” you whispered. “So big, Alfie…”

“Yeah, well. You’ll get used to it, won’t you? Cunt’s already openin’ up like she knows what’s good for her. Knows who she fuckin’ belongs to now.”

You whimpered, his mouth falled to your shoulder, pressing hot kisses along your skin. “You’re doin’ so well, love,” he murmured. “Lettin’ me in. Lettin’ me take you like this. Fuckin’ hell, I’ll carry this in my bones till I’m in the grave, I will.”

He started to thrust with more rhythm now—deep, steady, rocking your hips into the mattress. And all the while he kept talking to you, his voice right at your ear, a mix of filth and reverence, sweet nothings tangled with obscene praise.

“Feel that?” he whispered, grinding in even deeper, making your breath catch. “That’s me—all the way in, yeah? Right where I fuckin’ belong. Perfect little cunt drivin’ me insane, I’m gettin’ drunk on it.”

You clung to him, gasping as he angled his hips and suddenly…

“Fuck, there—” you cried, digging your nails into his back.

“Ohhh, there it is… yeahhh, that’s it, that’s your spot, innit?” He gave a dark, satisfied chuckle, watching you fall apart under him. “There she is. My wife. My perfect little wife, makin’ all those filthy fuckin’ noises just for me. Gonna make ’em every night now, yeah?”

You were shaking again, body coiling tight. Every thrust now pressed into that spot inside you, his pelvis grinding against your clit just enough to make your body tighten and coil all over again. The pleasure was so dizzying you could barely keep your eyes open, your lips falling open with every gasp.

“You’re gonna cum again, love?” he murmured, voice all pride and hunger. “That’s my girl. Let me feel it this time. Cum on my cock—let me know it’s mine. I want it all, yeah? Every last fuckin’ drop.”

Your body arched, hips rolling helplessly against his, and you moaned—loud and unashamed—as the orgasm took you. Hot and fast and full, clenching around him so tight he growled into your shoulder, making his hips stutter.

“F-fuck—fuckin’ hell, you’re squeezin’ me so good, I—” His voice cracked, fingers digging into your hips. “Can I? Can I cum inside you, love? Gonna let your husband fill you up, yeah? Want me to fuckin’ stay in you when I cum?”

“Yes, Alfie—please—yes.”

He didn’t last long, not with how tight and new and real it all was. He spilled inside you with a ragged moan, trembling as he emptied himself, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled every drop, staying buried deep, gasping your name against your lips.

He didn’t pull away. He stayed deep, full, and warm, kissing your face, your shoulders, your lips, making you feel loved like you've never had before, like you didn't know you could ever feel the day you were forced to marry him.

“Christ,” he whispered, “married life, yeah? Didn’t know it could feel like this.”

You buried your face in his chest, your heart still racing.

“Me neither.”

A/N: Who would’ve thought that 13-year-old me—writing fanfics where your parents sold you to One Direction would still be doing the same thing ten years later? lol

Thank you so much for the request, I really hope you liked it!🫶🏻🩷 I loved writing this so much!!! Every time I went back to it I ended up writing like a thousand more words (that’s why it got so long) ahhh I can’t help it I love writing for Alfie. I’ve got two more requests I’m starting to work on, one for Harry and another for Alfie, so expect those in the next few weeks.

@ohthisisanna

requests by: @/saradika-graphics

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