beanhardy

[beanhardy]

The Wall

Pairing - Michael Kinsella x Fem!Reader Summary - You and your cat strike up a friendship with the infamous Michael Kinsella. Author's Note - This bittersweet little one shot was inspired by an image that popped into my head - Michael bonding with a cat. A sketch of it can be found at the end of the fic. :D

You sucked in a breath when he finally made an appearance, your chest tightening nervously as he fussed Frodo who had sat waiting for him on the front wall. You could see his eyes subtly flick up every so often and look towards the kitchen window, where you stood at the sink rinsing the blood from your finger. 

You lingered longer than was necessary at the tap, the water running clear now, no longer tinged with red. But you were scared. Scared to tell him. You knew it needed to be done, that you couldn’t put it off forever, but you were frightened to break an already broken man.

Finally turning off the tap, you dried your hand and covered your torn skin with a plaster.

Damn roses. How could they be so beautiful yet so lethal at the same time. You glanced back up and your gaze fleetingly locked with his.

Michael Kinsella was rather like a rose bush. Beautiful and lethal at the same time. Part of you wished he had never turned up in the first place, talking so endearingly to Frodo on the wall, and captivating you with his wary smiles and Irish charm.

You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly who he was and what the Kinsella’s were all about. You couldn’t live a few houses down the street from them and not know.

Your husband had actually gone to school with Michael and Jimmy, though that was where it ended. He had always known they were a dangerous family to get involved with and he had told you as much when you first moved in with him. They had actually offered him a driving job at one time, but he had tactfully declined, preferring to remain on the straight and narrow. He had joked that working for the Kinsella’s was a one way ticket straight to the morgue. Though in a cruel twist of fate he had ended up there without their illicit intervention. Killed instantly in a car accident on his way home from his boringly safe legitimate job. You had only been married a year. 

The first time you met Michael Kinsella, he had just been released from prison, and you were approaching the six month anniversary of Liam’s death.

Coincidentally, you had been tending to your roses that time too.

He had approached a little hesitantly. Of all the things you had expected of the infamous Michael Kinsella, shyness wasn’t one of them. But there was definitely something about him, almost a vulnerability, which had taken you aback, given his…reputation. 

He had scrubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I…er…just wanted to say that I was sorry. Sorry to hear about Liam.”

You immediately tensed at the sound of your husband’s name. It still sent a flood of pain through you. 

“Knew ‘im from school,” Michael smiled tentatively. “He was a good un. Had his head screwed on right.” 

You struggled to return a smile as he regarded you restlessly, obviously concerned that he might have said the wrong thing. 

“Yes, he was. He did.” You blinked back your emotions. “Your brother and sister-in-law were very kind. Bought him a lovely wreath.”

He looked pleased about that. “That’s grand. Glad to hear it.”

“And Birdie came to the funeral.”

He nodded. “Got a good heart, has Birdie.”

“Apparently, she went to school with Liam’s mum.”

“Small world around ere,” he grinned.

“It appears so,” you returned guardedly. 

There had been an awkward silence until Frodo had suddenly appeared and jumped up on the wall.

Michael had immediately reached out to him. “Well, hello there. An’ who might you be?”

Frodo was usually quite skittish around strangers, but to your surprise he had pushed into Michael’s hand straight away.

You stared in shock. “Wow! You’re honoured! He doesn’t usually do that.”

“Always liked cats,” he smiled gently, as he tickled Frodo beneath the chin. “Can never resist saying hello if I see one.” 

“His name’s Frodo,” you told him, even more stunned when Frodo actually started purring.

He quickly met your gaze, his brow quirking. “Lord of the Rings fan?”

“Yes,” you admitted a little self-consciously. 

“Bit of a fan m’self,” he reassured you. “Read the book several times when I was -” 

He faltered but you nodded soberly. “I know where you’ve been.”

He swallowed thickly before resurrecting his smile. “Frodo suits him.”

“Yes, I thought so too. He’s not only rather small for a male cat, but has unusually large paws.”

Michael returned your grin. “Aye. He does.”

But at that moment you caught sight of his brother, dressed in his biker leathers, staring impatiently down the street. You gestured towards him. “I think Jimmy’s looking for you.”

Michael turned with a frown and you were just able to pick up the subtle sound of his sigh. 

When he met your gaze again there was regret in his eyes. “Family calls.”

Instead of duty calls? you wondered.  If you had to translate that frustrated expression on his face, it would be something along the lines of can I ever get a moment of peace?

You’d frowned as you watched him walk away, shoulders slightly hunched as if he had the weight of the world pressing down upon them, and you felt a twinge of pity, despite who he was. You had no idea what position he held in the notorious Kinsella family, but you had the strongest feeling that it was a reluctant one.

He kept returning over the months that followed. Once, maybe twice a week. So perfectly timed with when you were tending to the garden, that you begun to suspect he might be purposely keeping an eye on you, waiting for the opportunity to come over. 

You’d talk about mundane, insignificant things, as he fussed Frodo.  As far removed from your loss, and his family business, as you both could get. Your little garden, the weather, cats, occasionally his daughter Anna, but most of all books, particularly Lord of the Rings. You sensed that Michael needed it somehow, the distraction. That he actually yearned for it. That he came to you for a moment of respite, that peace Jimmy had shattered the first time you met him. And as time went on, you realised you sought out the same thing from him, a diversion from the pain of losing Liam.

And then one day, when Liam had been gone about nine months, he dropped a bombshell. 

He asked you out for a drink.

While part of you had almost been expecting it, guessing that all the time spent chatting over the wall had been leading up to it, it was still a bit of a shock. This was Michael Kinsella after all. You felt bad that you might have encouraged it. But you so enjoyed chatting to him. Had been so lonely since Liam had died. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, immediately picking up on your reservations. “It’s too soon, isn’t it? Too soon after Liam?” Panic laced through his words as he flashed you a strained smile. “Let’s just forget I said it, pet. Yeah? Can we do that?”

You stared down at the wall. At your beautiful roses. “It is too soon,” you confessed, bracing yourself. “But…” you looked back up at him sadly. “It’s not the only reason.”

You knew that you could never become involved with a family like the Kinsellas. Not only because it was simply a no-brainer, but Liam would’ve turned in his grave. 

Shoulders heaving, he nodded his understanding, knowing exactly what you were referring to, and you were relieved that you didn’t have to explain. But he looked so crestfallen that guilt overwhelmed you. 

“We can still ‘ave this, though, can't we?” he smiled desperately. “A wee chat, now an’ again?”

“Of course,” you returned a little too brightly, forcing your own smile. “I’d miss them too much.”

“An’ I’d miss this little fella,” he declared, giving Frodo a particularly thorough petting. “Wouldn’t I, boy.” Though he looked at you while he said it. 

You hadn’t seen him again for several weeks, but you heard there had been some trouble. That was pretty much the norm for the Kinsellas but it was supposed to be pretty bad this time. 

You had worried about him. Terribly, despite yourself. Even Frodo seemed restless. Sitting on the front wall far longer than usual. As if he were waiting for him.

When you finally heard his familiar voice, talking to Frodo again, you had smiled your relief and hurried out into the garden, wishing, with all of your heart, that he wasn’t a damn Kinsella. You didn’t know what had happened recently, in truth you didn’t want to know, their world frightened you too much, but he looked as if he had aged ten years since you had last seen him.

Things resumed to normal. The drink date swept under the carpet and forgotten. But during those weeks you had come to an agonising decision. Something you had been putting off for far too long already. You had decided to leave. Leave Ireland for good. And you had to somehow find the words to tell him.

Your finger throbbed painfully as you returned out into the garden and Michael immediately honed in on the plaster.

“Everything alright, pet?” 

“Just caught it on a thorn. Damn things are lethal.”

“But worth it for the roses, eh?” he returned with a twitch of a hopeful smile. “You wouldn’t grow ‘em otherwise, would ya.”

You gaped at his insightfulness, the way he seemed to have read your mind. Or was it simply coincidence?

But he seemed so happy to be back with you and Frodo. You had lost count of how many times you had both stood here now, chatting contentedly.  Him on the street side, leaning casually back against the wall, arms folded, while you weeded or pruned on your side. Laughing, as you both tried to decide if Aragorn would be a cat or a dog man. Or why the Eagles simply hadn’t carried Frodo and Sam to Mount Doom. But though you had brought him a glass of lemonade when it had been particularly warm one day, you had never invited him in, not even into the garden.

No, the wall was important. It divided you. Kept you separate. Kept the Kinsella’s - Michael’s dangerous world - at arms length. It had to. It was your choice but Michael had always respected it. Even though the subject had never been discussed, there remained a silent understand between you. And the gate had always remained firmly closed.

“There is something wrong, aint there,” Michael broke into a silence that had stretched a little too long as you continued deadheading the roses. “And not just ya finger.” There was a dread in his tone that was at odds with the formidable man that people feared.

You couldn’t meet his gaze.

“Has it anything to do with the recent troubles?” You glanced back up at him in surprise. “The family's troubles, I mean.” His small smile was weighted with concern. “Out with it, pet.”

Your heart pounded in your chest. At the same time you felt a rush of emotion. 

“I’m leaving.”

He looked at you with a start, his brow furrowing.

“Leaving Ireland,” you ploughed on before your courage left you. “I intended to leave sooner but…”

But you distracted me, you realised, as you watched him despairingly.

“Leavin’?” He stared at you in shock. “When?”

You shrugged. “Soon. A few weeks time.”

“Where?” He seemed to visibly pale. “Where y’gonna go?”

“Home. My family. I only stayed in Ireland for Liam.”

But I can’t stay and wait for you to die too.

It finally hit you, so hard that it snatched your breath away, the terrifying fact that, despite everything, who he was, what he was, you were falling in love with Michael Kinsella. 

He searched your face frantically, eyes glistening. “You really have to go?” He struggled with a smile. “But what’ll I do…without ya?” He tried to laugh, lighten his tone, but it came out hoarse and wretched. “Who’ll I chat with…about…about Orcs and Hobbits?” 

It would have been amusing if he didn’t sound so tragic. 

“About the little things…the good things…” His voice kept breaking but he continued on regardless. “books…an’ cats…an’ roses…an’ Anna…” 

You wanted to joke that there were such things as phones and the internet and Zoom, but the words lodged stubbornly in your throat.

“You’re the only one I can…” he stopped, took a breath, but you could see that he was wrestling his own emotions. “This is the only place…”

He reached down to where your hand rested on the wall, and gently covered it with his own. Its warmth sent a shiver of desire snaking down your back. It was the first time he had ever touched you.  His gaze locked onto yours desperately. “The only place I can find any peace.”

That was the trigger. You tried to hold it back, but finally acknowledging your true feelings had suddenly changed everything. The floodgates opened and you couldn’t stop them; the tears. 

Michael squeezed your hand but then anger flared into his eyes. “No more fuckin’ walls.”

And for the first time ever, he hurried to the gate and crossed the threshold. 

As he pulled you into his chest, crushing you in his arms, you started to babble uncontrollably. 

“I can’t be a part of your world. I just can’t. I’m just not strong enough. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know it’ll only be a matter of time. Before something terrible…” the thought made you cry harder. “I can’t…I can’t sit by and wait for that to happen. Not after Liam.”

His hands swept up to cup your cheeks. “Shhhh, pet, shhhh,” he soothed, his thumbs tenderly sweeping the dampness away.  “It’s ok. It’ll be ok. You don’t ‘ave to. You don’t ‘ave to be a part of my world. I don’t want ya to be. I’ve never wanted that.”

You flinched back, blinking through your tears, frowning your confusion.

Smiling, his forehead pressed gently against your own. “But I want to be a part of yours…”

***

Hope you enjoyed! Comments are always appreciated!

***

Here is the sketch, which I might paint at some stage. Though the wall is much lower in the sketch than in the fic.

[beanhardy]

Fingertips

Pairing - Michael Kinsella x fem!reader Tuna Tober Prompt - Day 25 - Playing with their Hair Summary - you discover that Mikey loves it when you play with his beard.

Author's Notes - Just a quickie. Hasn't had much editing so might be a tad wordy and have the odd mistake!

“That feels so good, pet…so fuckin’ good…don’t ya stop…please don’t stop.”

Usually, when Michael Kinsella was nestled between your thighs, it was you whimpering the majority of those words. You, groaning, moaning, begging those words, as he buried himself in your heat like a man possessed. He was normally facing you too. Not zoning out staring up at the ceiling, like he was doing now, heavy eyes closing gratefully.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you softly reassured him. “I’ll do it for as long as you like. Until you want me to stop.”

“Never gonna want ya to stop,” he warned, letting out a little gasp of pleasure when you tugged fractionally harder.

You bit back an affectionate grin. “Not even for dinner? I'm making your favourite tonight.”

“Ah, ya so good. So good to me,” he sighed placidly. “Don’t know what I did to deserve ya, pet.”

Your fingertips immediately stilled. You had lost count of the number of times he had declared himself unworthy of your love. Not only verbally. You would often see it in his face, in the tightening of his handsome features, or feel it palpably in the air.

“Now what have I told you about saying things like that?” 

He let out a playful little whine, peering up at you imploringly from those beautiful, soulful, puppy-dog eyes. You tried to remain unimpressed as you frowned down at him, but it was hard when he looked so damn cute.

"Darlin'...c'mon...please...I need those magic fingertips..."

Finally admitting defeat with a click of your tongue (but laughter in your eyes), your fingers resumed their lazy circling and you felt the twitch of his smug smile as his eyes closed again.

You had discovered Mikey's adorable little quirk a few weeks ago. Something surprisingly and delightfully innocent. That could reduce the notorious Michael Kinsella to putty in your hands within seconds. Have him purring for a very different reason while down south.

He had returned home, angry and irritable, after a long unproductive day with Jimmy and Amanda, but rather than flop down beside you on the sofa and pull you close, like he usually did, he had lowered himself to the floor, scooted between your legs, and rested the side of his head against your knee. The action had been so submissive, so stoical, so very bone-weary, that it had taken you aback as much as it had made your chest tighten. Your hands had instinctively swept forward to cradle his head in your arms, urging him back against the warmth and softness of your parted thighs. 

As much as you had wanted him to turn around and pleasure you, you'd been overwhelmed with a greater desire to comfort him instead. Give him some form of pleasure that wasn’t necessarily sexual. You loved it when he drowsily tickled your back after sex. It made you tingle and bliss out, but didn’t turn you on. It was about affection and closeness. You wanted him to feel that too.

And that’s when it happened. When your fingers had idly trailed into the soft coarseness of his beard.  

His mouth had dropped limply open, expelling his frustrations in a long drawn out sigh. It was almost as if your touch had activated a pressure release valve inside him. You had watched his slackening features in surprise. While you did run your fingers through his beard during love making, it was always fleeting, the two of you far too preoccupied with more carnal activities.

Spurred on by his reactions, you lightly cupped his face and continued your tentative exploration, biting your lip hesitantly.

"You like that?"

“Aye…” he had breathed encouragingly. “Aye, love…”

As he had relaxed deeper into your touch, you had settled back against the sofa cushions, closing your own tired eyes, your hands lovingly caressing his beard, teasing the hairs, dragging them languidly through your fingers, pulling ever so slightly, enjoying their pleasant coarseness against your skin. The fact that they were slightly more bristly than the hairs on his head made it all the more pleasurable somehow. The grooves between your fingers were particularly sensitive to the sensation. And going by Michael’s clipped whimpers as you lightly raked your nails along his jawline and swirled patterns through the thicker hair there, he was loving every second of it too.

It became a daily ritual. The first thing you did to unwind at the end of a long tedious day. You were usually home before Mikey, so would wait patiently for him on the sofa, reading a book and sipping at your tea until you heard his key turn in the lock. He’d walk into the room with that harried look on his face and you’d immediately stop what you were doing and gesture for him to sit on the comfy pillow at your feet.

“Love ya, pet,” he murmured, promptly returning you to the present as he clasped your hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing it tenderly. “Want ya to still be doin’ this when I’m old an’ grey.”

Praying that you would see him live to be an endearingly grumpy old man, that he would finally break free from his destructive family, you leaned down and returned a kiss to his forehead. “Love you too, Mikey.” A mischievous smile shivered across your lips. “Though do you think you’ll be able to get down on the floor when you’re old and grey?" You ribbed lightly. "You might have bad knees, you know.”

“Not me,” he threw back amused, and it gave you so much joy - and relief - to see him calm and unruffled again. “I’ll make sure to keep m’self limber ‘specially for it.” He met your gaze wickedly, suddenly reviving. “An’ other things.”

“Other things?” You feigned innocence as you grazed through his beard a little more zealously, his heated eyes igniting a fire inside you. You gave him a coy look. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean?"

His deep chuckle vibrated up through your fingers, sending a delicious shiver running along your spine. “Then get ya straight up those stairs an’ I’ll show ya exactly what I mean.” 

He turned slowly, predatory, no longer putty beneath your fingertips, and your heart skipped a beat. "I'm givin' ya a ten second start..."

Squealing your excitement, you scrambled from the sofa, and bolted for the bedroom.

************

Tuna-Tober Prompt Challenge 2024

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If you would prefer to read it over at AO3 - LINK

[beanhardy]

Warm (Kin Fan Fic)

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x fem! Reader

Word Count: 568

Summary: Michael keeps you warm. In more ways than one.

Warnings: Swearing, unprotected p in v sex

Written for Mandy's Sweater Weather Writing Challenge using the "Don't move, you're warm" and "Let's stay in bed" prompt. This is my first time writing Kin. And I haven't written a lot of smut before . . .

Tagging @she-likesorchids since I believe this is your challenge, then @bellaxgiornata since she has mentioned the low amount of Mikey fic out there.

Warm

by Shiori_Makiba

It was cold this morning. So cold that you decided that you were not getting up. Not unless the house was actually on fire. You were going to stay right here, in your cozy blanket cocoon, snuggled with your boyfriend, until you got hungry. Or it got warmer. Whichever came first.

Which was why you were very displeased when Michael lifted the edge of the blanket – letting the cold air invade your cocoon – and even compounded the error by trying to slide out of bed. You tightened your grip around his waist, pulling him back into the nest. Something you knew he allowed you to do. Your Irishman was more than strong enough to break out of your grip or resist your pulling if he wanted to.

You burrowed your face until his chest and ordered, “Don’t move, you’re warm.”

“Pet, I have to go to work.”

“No, you don’t,” you retorted.

“Amanda will be mad if I don’t show up again.”

“Amanda can go fuck herself,” you said mulishly.

He sighed. You didn’t know why. He knew perfectly well that you didn’t like Amanda. And not just because she was his ex. Besides the feeling was entirely mutual. Amanda didn’t like you either.

“Ya are always cranky before yer morning coffee,” he said. “Let me up and I’ll make ya some.”

It was a tempting offer. Michael made good coffee. But that would mean letting him leave. Which was not happening. Not today.

“No, let’s just stay in bed,” you said, shifting into you were straddling his hips. Since you were still naked from the night before, his cock immediately took interest. Interest that you encouraged by grinding yourself against him, moaning at each brush of his cock against your clit or your entrance.

“Fuck pet,” he groaned, his hands grabbing onto your hips. “Ya killin’ me.”

But rather tellingly, he didn’t stop you. Even more telling, his own hips begin to move, matching your movements with his own. It felt so good but it wasn’t enough. You needed more.

“Michael,” you whined. “Need you now.”

Thankfully he didn’t need anything more to get the message. He lined himself up with your entrance and began to press himself inside of you. Inch by inch, your aching cunt was filled. He tried to give you a moment to adjust to his size, like he always did, but you were impatient. You raised your hips, then quickly thrust back down, making you both cry out.

It didn’t take him long to start meeting you thrust for thrust, hitting that spot deep inside of you that felt so good. Soon, the room was filled with your cries and his grunts of pleasure. Cries that got louder when his hand snaked down and started rubbing your clit. You felt the familiar pressure began to build and build until it peaked. Your cries of ecstasy were quickly echoed by a deep moan as your cunt clenched tightly around him. A few more deep thrusts and he was coming inside you.

Now feeling warm and blissful from orgasm, you were even less inclined to let Michael out of this bed. But you relented when he promised that he was only grabbing a washcloth to clean you up and would be right back. He kept his word and soon you were both drifting back to sleep, warm and safe in your cozy blanket cocoon.

[beanhardy]

Mo Ghrá (Kin Fan Fic)

Words: ~1500 Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Reader Summary: You're on your period and you miss Mikey. Warning: Period symptoms, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff, pumpkin obsession Masterlist / A03 Tags: @bellaxgiornata, @shouldbestudying41, @loves0phelia, @nowheredreamer, @beezusvreeland, @lulukings92

This little story interrupted the writing of "Bound". Guess Mikey wanted a little attention.

Thanks to @shouldbestudying41 for the title suggestion.

Mo Ghrá

You were on the couch, trying to find a position that was comfortable. It was a struggle. Your abdomen was in favor of the fetal position. Your lower back disagreed. Vehemently. Right now you were seeing if on your side, pillows supporting your back and heating pad pressed against your belly, would work.

You hoped so. You were so tired. You had gotten, maybe, two hours of sleep last night. If you added it all up. Yesterday hadn’t been much better. You had called off work, knowing there was no way you were hauling your ass into the office. Not today.

After failing for umpteenth time to find a comfortable position on your bed, you had given up on it. The couch wasn’t much of an improvement. Best thing you could say is that it wasn’t covered in sheets that smelled like stale sweat. You needed to change your bedding but that sounded like far too much work today . . . maybe, if you got lucky, you’d find the energy to fix that before attempting to sleep tonight.

You wished Michael was here. You wanted to bury your face in his chest hair while he rubbed your back with those large, warm hands. You wanted his voice softly murmuring into your hair. But you stayed at your place last night and yesterday night. Like an idiot. You didn’t know what Past You had been thinking. Probably some nonsense about needing to spend some time at your own place since you were still paying rent . . .

But you were also glad that Michael wasn’t here. Because you felt gross. You had scrapped up just enough energy for a shower this morning. But it was the second day of your period. When you had the worst cramps and the heaviest bleeding. So it didn’t take long for the refreshed, clean feeling to disappear.

You whimpered when another cramp ripped through your abdomen. The painkillers were wearing off. Granted, the ibuprofen was barely dulling your cramp pain. And it did absolutely nothing for your headache . . . But it was all you had. In a minute, you would get up and take more. Refill your water bottle while you were up. In a minute . . .

The knock on the door startled you. You weren’t expecting any company. Michael had mentioned something about running errands when you had called him to cancel your lunch date. Another disappointment, you had been looking forward to that date . . . you weren’t going anywhere special. Just the little cafe that you two had discovered that had really good coffee. Really good everything actually. Anna liked it too . . .

Another knock alerted you to that you had gone woolgathering instead of getting up and answering the door. It was tempting to pretend not to be home. But curiosity won out. Reminding yourself that you needed more medicine and water anyway, you wiggled out of your blanket cocoon and stood up.

Your abdomen protested the loss of the heating pad with an enormous cramp. The kind that made you double-up and brought tears to your eyes. It only lasted a few seconds but it felt like an eternity. You slowly straightened back up, then shuffled just as slowly toward the door. You reached it just as a third knock came. Whoever this person was, they were persistent.

You unlocked and opened the door to discover Michael standing here, a soft smile on his handsome, bearded face. “There ya are, pet. I was startin’ to think I had missed ya.”

“Mikey!” you said, torn between delight and embarrassment. You were happy to see him, of course, but you were also a mess. Crazy hair still wet from the shower, wearing old sweats, oversized tee shirt, and one of his hoodies. The one that you had shamelessly stolen from his house the last time you were over there.

Your unattractive messiness felt especially stark today. Michael’s hair and beard was neatly combed. He was wearing jeans, the ones that displayed just how fine that very fine ass of his was. And that sage green sweater that you had bought him, that really brought out those little flecks of green in his eyes, peeked out from under his jacket.

“I thought you were busy today?” You said.

“Just a few things,” he said. “Can I come in, pet? The coffee's gettin’ cold.”

“Coffee?” you repeated, suddenly realizing that one of his hands was occupied. In it was a drink carrier with two coffees in it. Coffees with the name of the little shop written across the cups. You also noticed a small white bag with the same logo dangling from that wrist. A bag that smelled like fresh-baked pumpkin bread.

Your mouth watered. You hadn’t eaten much today. Just lacked the energy and had been vaguely nauseous. You had nibbled on a cereal bar with some tea hoping that it would stay down. It did. But the nausea remained and nothing sounded appealing . . . not until your nose caught a whiff of that pumpkin.

“Pumpkin bread?”

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “And yer pumpkin spice latte.”

“Really?!”

“I know ya love yer pumpkin,” he said.

He was right. You loved pumpkin. Pumpkin bread. Pumpkin pie. Pumpkin cookies. Pumpkin spice coffee. One of your favorite things about autumn was all the pumpkin things you could find. Michael had teased you about it, said it was very American. You had retorted that his snobbiness about whiskey was very Irish of him.

Remembering that he was still standing on your doorstep and it was a rather brisk autumn day, you moved to the side and ushered him inside. You watched him move through your living room. Particularly when he bent down to put the coffees down on the little table. As predicted, his ass looked incredible in those jeans . . . you felt a spark of irritation at the universe. If only you weren’t on your period right now . .

As if to remind you of that little fact, you got another cramp. It wasn’t quite as bad as the last one but it still had you pressing your hands against your abdomen in a vain attempt to stop the pain. A pointed reminder that you needed to take that ibuprofen and put the heating pad back on. While Michael sliced off a few pieces from the loaf of pumpkin bread, you slipped off to the bathroom to take those painkillers.

“How are ya feelin’ pet?” Michael asked as you settled back on the couch.

“I’m grand,” you said. “Why do you ask?”

While his lips did give an amused twitch at your borrowing of his phrasing, his eyes flickered over to the heating pad and the blanket piled on the couch. “Ya were wincin’”

Of course he had noticed. Michael was nothing if not attentive.

You fidgeted. He had never exhibited any disgust for periods. Never made any crude jokes, reacted with calm practicality every time it had come up. Anna had been more embarrassed by her dad buying her tampons than he had been going to shop to buy them. But your period wasn’t something you enjoyed talking about. You really didn’t want to talk about it with Michael.

For some reason, he seemed to think you were beautiful. And you didn’t want anything to destroy that particular delusion of his.

On the other hand, you didn’t want to lie either. You and Mikey were trying to build something solid here. Something that would last. Honest communication was key to that goal. And . . . well, your periods weren’t going to stop anytime soon.

“It’s just my period,” you muttered, staring at your feet. Your socks didn’t match. One was a bright pink. The other was black. You hadn’t even noticed before now. Tears filled your eyes. Couldn’t even dress yourself properly. You really were a disaster.

“Pet?”

His voice was closer than you expected. It startled you into looking up. Seeing your tears, the concerned frown deepened. “Can I sit with ya?”

You nodded. He sat down next to you, then turned so he was mostly facing you. He held his arms open in clear invitation. One you couldn’t resist. You slide into his arms, borrowing your face into his chest. The sweater might not have been the chest hair you had been craving earlier but you still had his strong arms around you. You had his cologne that smelled like a blend of whiskey, coffee, vanilla along with notes that you couldn’t describe as other than Mikey in your nose. Which was pretty damn good.

It got even better when one of those wonderfully warm hands began massaging your lower back while the other helped maneuver the rest of you into a more comfortable snuggling position. Michael was so warm. He was just as good as your heating pad. Better. Because your heating pad couldn’t murmur sweet nothings into your ear.

One of these days you were going to have to ask him what mo ghrá meant. Everyone had refused to tell you. Just smiled and told you to ask Michael.

You did eventually manage to drink your coffee and eat your slice of pumpkin bread, followed by more snuggles with Mikey. You felt your eyes getting heavy as the combination of comfort and warmth lulled you into sleep. The last thing you felt before you drifted off was lips pressing against your forehead with another soft mo ghrá.

END NOTES

mo ghrá is Irish for "my love".

[beanhardy]

Not Tom Hardy coming back into my adult life full force. Forrest Bondurant in Lawless was my sexual awakening. Harry Da Souza in Mobland is my second sexual awakening because what the fuck.

[beanhardy]

Not Tom Hardy coming back into my adult life full force. Forrest Bondurant in Lawless was my sexual awakening. Harry Da Souza in Mobland is my second sexual awakening because what the fuck.

[beanhardy]

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[beanhardy]

Oh you beautiful bastard

nsfw alphabet - chris dixon

masterlist | main masterlist

a = aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

aftercare with chris is deeply affectionate but never overbearing. he teases you all the time, but the second you’re spent and soft beneath him, he’s gentle. kisses your forehead, grabs a warm towel, murmurs things like “you good, baby?” while rubbing circles on your hip. he’ll pull you onto his chest and stroke your back until you fall asleep. if you ever need reassurance, he’s already giving it—quiet, real, and constant.

b = body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

on you: your neck. he’s obsessed. always leaving kisses there, always dragging his teeth gently over your skin like he wants to mark you. he lives for the way you shiver when he breathes against it. on himself: his hands. he knows what they do to you. watches you go wide-eyed when he flexes them, rests one on your thigh and smirks when you press closer. they’re strong, sure, and he knows how to use them.

c = cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

chris is messy. unashamedly, deliciously messy. he likes seeing it -dripping from your thighs, smeared on your stomach, catching on your lips. it’s visual, it’s his, and he’s lowkey obsessed with the aftermath. his favorite? pulling out last second and finishing all over you while panting, then leaning down with a smug, “look at that. so fuckin’ hot.” but he’ll clean you up after, whispering sweet nothings while he does.

d = dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

he secretly wants you to dominate him - just once. not full-time, not all the time. but enough to flip the script. pin him down. make him wait. tease him until he’s whining your name and twitching under your touch. he gets off on the idea of losing control, of being at your mercy while you take what you want. it’s buried under all that confidence, but it’s there. and it’s loud.

e = experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

chris knows what he’s doing. he's been around. but he's careful with that confidence—never cocky, just capable. he reads your body like a language and gets better every time. every sound you make, every time you clench around him—he takes notes. fast learner, deeply focused.

f = favorite position (this goes without saying)

doggy. he loves the view, the way he can grip your hips, pull you back into him, go deep and rough while you moan into the pillow. he’s obsessed with watching you arch your back, with the way your breath catches every time he changes the angle. that sound you make when he grabs your waist? he lives for it.

g = goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

he can be. especially in the buildup. teasing comments, cheeky grins, maybe a “you look desperate already, babe” with a wink. but when things get hot? he’s locked in. voice drops, eyes darken, and all the playfulness turns to focus. he knows when to stop joking and start ruining you.

h = hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

well-groomed. keeps things tidy. likes a little hair but nothing wild. same with you—he doesn’t care what you do with yours, as long as he’s invited to be between your thighs regardless.

i = intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

when he’s in love? he’s so intimate. keeps your face close to his, says your name like it’s a prayer, whispers soft praise into your skin. even when it’s rough, there’s a tenderness underneath. he wants to be close to you. always. it’s not just about the high—it’s about you.

j = jack off (masturbation headcanon)

he does it—especially when he's away or you're teasing him too hard. he’s visual, uses vids or your photos (the private ones you send at 1am when you miss him). he groans your name when he finishes. then immediately texts you something filthy and needy.

k = kink (one or more of their kinks)

he’s into teasing, praise, a little control play. loves when you need him. when you whimper, beg, pull at his shirt. also into mutual masturbation—watching you get off while he does is a scene for him. lowkey has a thing for lingerie and seeing you in his hoodie with nothing underneath.

l = location (favorite places to do the do)

the bedroom is ideal, but chris gets ideas. he’s done it in the backseat of a car, a quiet stairwell, even once in the dressing room of a store. he loves the risk. the thrill. especially when you wear a skirt and give him that look.

m = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

your voice. your laugh. the way you bite your lip or roll your eyes at him. any outfit that hugs your waist. you sitting in his lap and acting like it’s innocent. he gets worked up so easily, especially if you act like you’re not trying to.

n = no (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

he won’t do anything degrading or that makes you uncomfortable. hard no to anything involving pain beyond light spanking or rough grip. if it crosses a line, he’s out. respect first, always.

o = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

he’s obsessed with giving. obsessed. buries his face between your thighs like he was made for it. moans into you. grips your thighs. won’t stop until you’re pulling his hair and crying his name. he likes receiving too, but giving? that’s his religion.

p = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

he can go slow and teasing or rough and fast depending on the mood. either way, he keeps it steady and deep. he likes dragging it out, watching you squirm, then flipping the switch when you beg.

q = quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

absolutely down. especially if you’re in public and whisper something filthy in his ear. he gets hard instantly. fast and messy in the bathroom or car, hand over your mouth, whispering, “quiet, baby, or they’ll hear.”

r = risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

he likes taking risks. semi-public, toys, mirror play, blindfolds - he’ll try most things once. if you bring up a fantasy? he’ll listen, then make it happen. no shame, just curiosity and confidence.

s = stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

he can go for multiple rounds, especially if you keep teasing him. one round? not likely. two? standard. three? depends how badly he wants to prove himself (spoiler: it’s often).

t = toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

yes and yes. loves using toys on you - vibrators, plugs, handcuffs. he gets off on making you fall apart. also into remote-control toys in public. the little remote stays in his pocket, and the smirk never leaves his face.

u = unfair (how much they like to tease)

very. teases you until you’re begging. will edge you for fun just to see how long you can take it. says things like “not yet, darling” while you’re whining under him.

v = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

low groans, deep moans, breathy curses. he talks a lot - dirty, praise, commands. growls, “just like that, baby,” and “fuck, you feel so good.” gets louder the closer he gets.

w = wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

he’s filmed you before. not to share. never that. but just once, on his phone, with your permission - grainy footage of you riding him, his hand gripping your hip, both of you moaning like it’s your last night on earth. he watches it when he misses you. or when he needs to feel you.

x = x-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

he’s thick. above average length, but it’s the girth that ruins you. curved just right. when he pushes in, you feel every inch. leaves you sore, satisfied, and thinking about it for days.

y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

very high. he thinks about sex a lot. especially when you’re around. he’s always touching you, kissing your neck, running a hand down your back like he’s deciding whether to be good or ruin your night.

z = zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

he doesn’t fall asleep right away. holds you close, murmurs sleepy compliments, traces your skin with his fingers. eventually crashes, but not before making sure you’re warm, clean, and tucked in against him.

taglist: @themdera @beanhardy (sorry if you didnt want to be tagged, i can remove you, if you want - i'm just assuming you did based on your reactions from when i revealed i was writing this.)

[beanhardy]

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

[beanhardy]

Imagine Harry Being Sent to Discipline You

Harry da Souza x female reader (Conrad Harrigan's granddaughter)

Harry and the Brat Masterlist

A/N: We all seem to agree that we'd like Harry to threaten us so let's explore that here, shall we? 😈 Jan does not exist in this AU!

Warnings: 🔞, mention of drug use, spanking, sex

No spoilers!!!

🍒 Closing your bedroom door quietly behind him Harry exhaled a heavy sigh. He's been here before...many times. When your grandfather wants to give you a proper scare, he always calls Harry.

🍒 To you, the notion of Grandad sending his fixer to deal with your temper tantrums amuses you, a little smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth the moment you exit the en suite to find him waiting.

🍒 Glimpsing the white powder beneath your nose, he dabbed at his own face to signal you to do the same.

🍒 Utterly exhausted from cleaning up your latest mess, he ran a large hand down his stubbled jawline. The abundance of gray in his beard is your doing, the task of keeping you safe a full time job unto itself.

🍒 Somehow you never seem to learn your lesson. Whether it's shoplifting, drugs or unsuitable romantic partners, you're a media scandal waiting to tarnish the family name.

🍒 Your latest infraction should be the least of Harry's concerns, but Conrad has grown weary of your incorrigible nature and demands you be punished.

🍒 "M not gonna draw this out because I think you know your grandfather is unhappy with you and has been for some time," Harry began calmly.

🍒 "Oh, gosh...Grandad is unhappy?" you simpered, giving your best doe eyes as your lips settled into a pout.

🍒 "After last night? Yeah, I think he has the right to be upset," Harry stated without blinking once.

🍒 You can't help but giggle as Harry pulls up a chair opposite you, close enough for you to smell the musk and sandalwood in his cologne.

🍒 "You won't be fucking laughing when I get done with ya, love. Not this time," Harry warns in a deep growl.

🍒 "Why? What are you going to do to me?" you ask, biting your lower lip seductively.

🍒 You've tried this routine before, but Harry's always stayed strong in the face of temptation. What he wouldn't give to twist your hair around his fist as he mercilessly pistons into your tight little cunt.

🍒 Noting his far off look, you asked, "You reconsidering?" Turning away from him, you added dismissively, "If so, I'll go about my day."

🍒 "Sit down!" he ordered, voice booming with authority.

🍒 Doing his best to regain control over his thoughts, he focused on the task at hand. "We've got a problem, haven't we?"

🍒 You tilted your head at him coquettishly, exchanging a glance of desire that couldn't be denied. "Can't we work something out?" you ventured in a soft lilt.

🍒 "I'm afraid not," Harry informed you, rubbing his palms together with a sense of finality. "Conrad says I'm to get an apology out of you," he revealed with a look of fixed determination.

🍒 You nodded to show you were playing along, but simply had to test boundaries as you queried, "And what am I to apologize for?"

🍒 "You'd know better than me so talk me thru it," he prodded.

🍒 Unwilling to admit your part in the debauchery of last night, you pursed your lips tightly in a show of defiance.

🍒 "See that...that won't work, love," Harry informed you, pointing at you accusingly. He knew all too well your skill at dodging difficult topics and he wasn't about to let you get away with this.

🍒 Leaning forward to get a bit closer, you rested your elbows on your knees and narrowed your eyes at the imposing man before you. "I won't say a word," you challenged him.

🍒 "Want to do this the hard way?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrows at you. When you didn't respond he only replied in irritation, "I ought to take you over my knee right now."

🍒 "So what's stopping you?" came your bratty reply. Calling his bluff, you stood so you could push your jeans down to your ankles, presenting your thong covered backside with a flourish.

🍒 You could hear him gulp behind you, but he didn't move from his spot. He was obviously more loyal to the family than you gave him credit for.

🍒 Watching you shake your ass in front of him caused the tightly wound tether to snap inside Harry. Today was not just the final straw for Conrad, but for his desire as well.

🍒 You gasped as you felt him grab you from behind with a punishing grip. Chest heaving with adrenaline, you struggled beneath him only to realize how quickly he was able to overpower you.

🍒The feeling of him pushing you down against the bed was intoxicating and you could only issue a muffled cry of protest as he began to raise his hand to you.

🍒 "You're going to count every fucking one," he hissed in your ear as his palm crashed down on your supple flesh.

🍒 Too surprised and turned on to protest, you did as he asked, squeaking out the slow count of each deliberate slap.

🍒 Watching the flesh jiggle after each blow, Harry promised himself he would stop before he'd broken you. However, your tears came sooner than he expected.

🍒 "I'm...I'm...s-sorry," you stuttered, your tremors shaking the mattress beneath you.

🍒 Just as Harry relinquished his hold on you, you gave up the stunt and whipped around to capture his jaw in your talons. Pressing your lips to his insistently, you licked into his mouth to deepen the kiss.

🍒 The jingle of his belt buckle signaled his surrender to desire, quickly ripping away the impediment between you so he could finally give into his need.

🍒 You pressed his cheek to yours as he sunk into you with one deep thrust, a shuddered breath shared between you as you crossed a line that assured your mutual destruction.

[beanhardy]

Bloom Baby Bloom / Harry Da Souza

Warnings: age gap, mostlysmut.

Reader tells Harry that she's been having problems in her situationship with Eddie who has called her "frigid"... So Harry helps her out. Mostly reader x Harry but mentions of Kevin and potential reader x Harry x Kevin too.

This fic is written by someone who has been on the recieving end of that word for similar reasons to those mentioned in the fic (shitty partners) so I've written it a way which i hope is sensitive to that.

You knocked twice on the door to the office down by the docks which you knew Kevin and Harry used for meetings. You knew Harry would be there today, you were just hoping to god that he was alone.

When you heard his voice from inside call out that it was unlocked you knew he must have been assuming you were Kevin or one of the other men they had working down the docks.

So as you pushed the door open you called out to him, letting him know that it was only you, preparing him for what you were sure would be a surprise.

He wouldn't be expecting you. You were only Eddie's girlfriend, barely even that... In fact the longer things went on between you the less certain you were of that fact.

"Hi Harry..." you said, your voice sweet but self assured. With the things you were about to ask of him you needed to maintain that tone for as long as you could.

"Y/N?" he said, brows raised in surprise at the sight of you stood in his doorway. You didn't look lost but he could only assume that you were. The girlfriend of Eddie Harrigan had no business down at the docks. And certainly none with Harry... "What you doin here babe, you lost or somethin?"

"No, I'm not lost..." you said, fixing him with quiet but clever eyes. "Needed to see you about something..."

"What you? Need to see me about something?" He couldn't believe his ears but he also wasn't surprised. At one point or another a Harrigan always came worrying his door about one thing or another. It was just that you were barely a Harrigan and he was surprised that you even knew that he was the person to call if you got into trouble.

"Know what you do Harry..." you said, determined to remain cool despite the nerves fluttering inside you.

"Yeah babe whats that then?"

"People come to you with their problems an you sort them out..."

He looked you up and down with a quiet smirk, amused by you. In the time you'd been dating Eddie Harrigan Harry hadn't been able to discern much about you. Only that you weren't compatible with the Harrigan heir at all. Sure you looked the part with your tight black baby tees and the thongs you let peak out the top of your too low waisted jeans. But there was something about you, something just below the surface, something you tried to hide with your carefully curated appearance. He was sure he'd work it out in time, but he hadn't worked it out yet.

"That why you're here now is it?" he asked, eyes flickering over you. You'd entered the room with such confidence, chest puffed out, naughty little smile on your lips but already that was beginning to fade away.

"Uhuh..."

"Got somethin you need me to sort out have you sweetheart?"

"Yeah..." you said softly, trailing off, losing a little more of your resolve with every back and forth. He was watching you carefully, sitting back in his chair, hands relaxed on the armrests. Looking at you expectantly. For a moment you couldn't understand why but then he raised his brow, gestured for you to carry on. Truth be told you were making him nervous, he was half expecting you to tell him Eddie had gotten you into trouble of some description. You certainly seemed flustered enough. Ashamed enough...

"Alright sweetheart come in yeah, close that door behind you..." he said nodding you into the little office with a warmer smile. One entirely for your benefit because he was growing more concerned by the second that you were about to confess something troublesome to him. He didn't like the way you bit your lip nervously when you closed the door and turned the lock. Didn't like the frown which flickered across your brow before you composed yourself. Because he didn't like Eddie, he didn't think this could possibly be good.

When you remained quiet he realised you were waiting for his permission to speak. It was sweet but it was also another notch on the list of reasons Harry couldn't understand why you and Eddie Harrigan were even a thing.

"Well come on then darlin, ain't you gonna tell me what this problem is... Or do i have to guess?"

You bit your lip. With both hands held behind your back you stood a little awkwardly, a little too shy to speak.

You could barely look at him, your cheeks flushing a telltale red before you'd spoken. Giving you away completely.

You glanced behind you, checking that the door to the office was shut tight. That no one but you and Harry would hear the confession you were about to make.

"Eddie says I'm frigid..." you said softly your words shocking Harry just a little, his lips forming a tiny oh as you carried on, "says i dont give him what he needs but.."

"Eddie's a brute?" harry smirked, "an he don't give you what you need?"

When you nodded your head he nodded his slightly too then leant forwards with his elbows on the desk, interlocking his fingers as he remained eyes locking on you.

"And you reckon I can help you with that do you?"

For a second you felt panic rise in your chest, felt a sudden desperation curdle with indignation.

"I've seen the way you look at me..." you blurted out a little too quickly, blushing deeper as you covered your mouth. "I have, you and Kev... Know you don't understand what I'm doing with Eddie... Know you want me for..." you didn't mean to trail off but for a moment your confidence faltered and your desperation to be heard stifled you, "yourself."

Harrys brows had raised in quiet surprise. Not so much because everything you were saying was correct, but because you were actually saying it. You were usually so quiet around the older Harrigans, usually so mild mannered and polite. This was a shock but it was also impressive and he couldn't help but grin, taken back but impressed.

"Is that right?" he chuckled, his brow creasing slightly when you said yes. He took a moment to think about it. A moment in which he forced you to try and remain standing there, looking him in the eye, your chin held high.

"Alright," he said softly, still that same thoughtful expression on his features as he cocked his head to one side and beckoned you over, "come on then darlin come here..." he said summoning you with his finger.

He was sitting on a low chair and when he spoke he patted his lap. For a moment you were uncertain, your heart nervously fluttering in your chest. You couldn't quite work out what he wanted you to do though harry thought it was pretty obvious.

"C'mere sweetheart don't be shy now yeah? Brave enough to ask for my help so you're brave enough to come sit in my lap ain't you..." he said gently, his eyes watching you, still trying to work you out.

Mostly trying to work out where the fuck Eddie Harrigan had found you... Because he was certain now that you were not that boys type, you couldn't possibly be. The shyness glowing in your cheeks, that demur way you kept looking at him from under your lashes... None of that was of interest to the arrogant little fuck Kevin and Bella had raised.

You tried to gather resolve, tried to look him in the eyes when you approached him. Tried not to blush when you went to perch in his lap and he opened his leg, patting his right thigh for you to sit on.

But you weren't so naive as to not know what he wanted you to do now and as his hand found your waist you lowered yourself into his lap, straddling him obediently.

You felt the pressure immediately, the teasing little ache between your legs. The promising little flutter as your underwear rubbed over his black jeans. And you couldn't help yourself, your hips rocking almost involuntarily as you tried to chase that sweet little feeling. Your thighs squeezing his thighs as you tried to find friction.

His big hand held your waist and slipped beneath your baby tee, but didn't stray. His simply splayed his fingers out across your back, let his thumb brush over the curve of your waist and held you balanced. Already he was treating you far more carefully that Eddie ever had.

"You ever touched yourself sweetheart?" he asked you, the question so sudden that for a monent you sat there blinking back at him quite stunned.

Once you realised what he had said however your shock turned to embarrassment as you squirmed in his lap and he smirked.

He already knew what that meant but he wanted to hear you say it.

When you didn't say anything, only bit your lip and remained blushing, remained trying to subtly rub yourself on his thigh Harry shook his head and tsked at you, gripped your hip with his hand to hold you still.

"Right see what we're doing now babe, this is a consultation right, in which we work together to establish exactly how I can help you... But in order for us to work that out yeah, you and I are gonna have to have a little chat yeah?" he asked. As he spoke his hands absentmindedly wandered your body. His fingers trailing up your arm, one hand caressing your face, cupping your cheek and then tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The other smoothed over your thigh and then he changed his mind, tickling over your waist to make you squirm and squeek again. Adorable.

"Where the fuck did Eddie Harrigan find you eh?" he asked with a little smirk, marvelling at the sight of such a pretty thing sitting in his lap, before returning to his previous question. "So are we gonna do this y/n, we gonna have a little chat?"

"Uhuh," you managed to squeak out. Harry being particularly unfair then and bouncing you on his knee just to watch your pupils dilate and your lips to form an "oh"

"Alright then," he said softly, taking a whisp of your hair and winding it round his finger. "I'm gonna let you get away with that one this time yeah babe, but in future when I ask you a question I'm gonna need you to use your words, can you do that for me yeah?"

"O... Okay Harry..." you said softly, looking up at him from under your lashes when you said his name. Heart hammering in your chest when you said his name and he rewarded you by pushing his thigh harder against you.

Your breath caught in your throat and you let out a little whimper as your hips rocked again, your instincts giving your desperation away much to your despair.

"Good girl." Harry was intinidating at the best of times but up close that only intensified. His broad chest, his aged but chiseled features. Something mean looking mixed with the gentle way he touched you. The way he'd begun to soften his tone for you making you feel quite safe despite his reputation and the risk you were taking by going to him with your complaints about Eddie.

"So... Guess I'll ask you again y/n, you ever touch yourself?"

You nodded your head, suddenly unable to break his gaze, his considering pout undeniably the most attractive you'd ever laid eyes upon.

"Yeah..." you said finally, ever so quietly. Harry was determined to break you out of that shell in good time. For now though teasing you like this was more fun than he'd had in awhile.

"Yeah?" he asked, practically cooing at you, "where?"

"Uh..." you faltered then, losing your words despite having promised him only moments ago that you would use them. Your hand rose before you could stop it. Not that you didn't want to be good and tell him, it was just so... Embarrassing.

Harry considered your movement for a moment and then raised his own hand, let it carress your breast slowly.

"Here?" he asked you, nodding when you nodded. As if checking over a faulty car.

"Y... Yeah..."

"Yeah," he nodded along, "good girl, thats very good..." he said, squeezing your soft breast in his hand, kneeding it gently and then brushing his thumb over your nipple, his eyes widenning when he felt the piercing beneath your tshirt. That was a surprise. One which put lewd images in his head, one which struck a desiring chord in his gut. He felt himself stiffen a little more beneath his jeans but he kept his cards close to his chest.

"And when you touch yourself here..." he asked, "how does it make you feel?"

You bit your lip. Your cheeks were warm and your breath was a little shakey, you felt so nervous and yet, with every gentle probing question your excitement grew a little more. That needy feeling in your core tantalising, sparkling unignorable between your legs.

"G... Good..." you breathed, realising after a mortifying moment of quiet tension that he was waiting for you to elaborate. "Feels sensitive an... Makes me wanna do more..."

"Good," he chuckled, endeared by your sweet language. He knew now that he was right about you... You weren't the kind of girl that should be wasting her time with eddie harrigan. You needed a different kind of man entirely. "Promising." he gave you a cheeky smile then one which reassured you and put a cheeky little smile on your lips too. His thumb was brushing over your nipple in teasing strokes, sending little pulses of electricity through you, but his other hand was gentle and coaxing, still caressing your face and neck soothing your nerves. Lulling you in an almost hypnotised state. You were already looking at him so dependently and he feared that if he wasn't careful he might become obsessed.

"And when it makes you feel that way yeah babe, like you wanna do more, what do you do then?" he asked, massaging your breast in slow but purposeful movements. Noting with pleasure the warmth against his thigh, the pressure you were applying thinking you were getting away with rubbing yourself against him unnoticed.

"I.. I touch myself through my..." your voice trembled as Harry trailed his fingers slowly down your waist, making quick work if unbuttoning your jeans and sliding the zipper.

"Do you sweetheart?" he hummed approvingly as your hips jutted and you cut yourself off with the most pathetic of whimpers. He knew for certain now that despite your confessions you were still about as pure as they come. "Very good, you are doing very well indeed darlin..." he said as he slipped his fingers into your jeans and tugged on your panties. The little moan that elicited from you was music to his ears and he could feel his cock straining against his jeans now.

"Tell me babe, does that make you wet?" he asked looking up at you as he bounced you softly on his thigh.

You were so pliable it was delicious and as he stroked your cheek with the back of his knuckles your eyes fluttered shut and you answered him softly but clearly. Your voice full of need as you began to slip out of your shell the way he desired.

"Yes..." you half sighed. All you could really think about was the growing excitement in your core. As you confessed to how you turned yourself on you could feel yourself growing wet, a needy slick forming in your underwear. Harry slid his fingers beneath the elastic of your thong and pulled them up a little tighter, the sting of friction drawing another little whimper from you. He smirked along, rubbing your cheek tenderly.

"Very good sweetheart, very good... An tell me babe, do you feel that way now yeah? Nice an wet?"

"Yeah..." this time when you spoke it was with a needy whine as he slipped his hand back into the front of your jeans and rubbed you slow and teasing through your panties. "Yeah..." you said again, your heart racing, your breaths short and faint, Harry was barely touching you and yet with his words he was working you up into a frenzy. You could feel your clit and your core pulsing needily, begging for attention.

"Perfect.." he said stroking his thumb over your bottom lip, "thats beautiful," he murmured, "now darlin, when you touch yourself yeah, who do you think about?"

So far you hadn't lied to Harry. Now however your heart skipped a beat... You knew who you should have been thinking about...

"E... Eddie..." you squeaked, your cheeks flushing when he saw right through your lie. Shaking his head and tsking softly.

"No," he smirked, "you don't..." he said withdrawing his hand from your underwear, letting his fingers skim up your snail trail before he instead set his hand down firmly on your thigh. "Now babe," he said with a little frown, "this is only gonna work if you tell me the truth yeah..." he said softly, "an sweetheart I know you don't think about Eddie fuckin Harrigan when you wanna cum..."

"S.. Sorry Harry.." you said feeling a twist of nerves in your tummy, nerves he immediately quelled with both hands cupping your cheeks, guiding you closer to him, so that he could look you in the eyes.

"S'okay sweetheart," he said, "know you're a clever girl," he spoke so gently it was hard not to give into his lulling tone, "an if anyone else ever asks you that, thats what you're gonna say ain't it... But when it comes to me yeah, when it comes to askin for my help, you never lie yeah, cause I can't help if I don't know the truth..." he said gently, drawing you in closer still and placing a little kiss by your ear. One which tingled and lingered, one which warmed your whole body. One which drew the truth straight from your lips.

"You..." you breathed, your eyes fluttered shut as he kissed your neck and let his fingers play with the hair which hung loose around your pretty little face. As he kissed you he breathed in your sweet scent and smiled.

"Yeah," he hummed, "I know, i know... Good girl y/n, well done yeah... Who else?"

Now that question really did make you nervous because the second name really would be a sinful confession. Really could get you into trouble, even with Harry. When you hesitated he knew once again that his suspicions were correct.

"Kevin?" he asked you, a slight teasing tone in his voice as he purposefully dug the knife in to make you blush with shame, "you been thinkin about your boyfriends dad have you sweetheart? Thats very naughty that is ain't it babe..."

You couldn't deny it and when you looked at him you felt little tears prickle in your eyes as your nerves began to eat you alive. Again, Harry was quick to soothe you. His hand stroked your cheek and he ran his thumb over your lips whilst his other caressed down your back. Thinking you needed a little reminder than he wanted to help you, he bounced his knee once more, and when you felt the pressure of his thigh pushing up against your core you felt a rush of need which clouded your brain and made you suddenly fearless of consequences.

"Yeah, I have... I think about you and... And kevin..." you said, rolling your hips and grinding yourself shamelessly against his thigh. He spread his fingers across your lower back to guide your movements, helping you along as he nodded in approval.

"Good girl, see... Honesty is in fact the best policy..." he said with a mischievous but sweet sort of tone which made you giggle. And the sound of your giggle only encouraged him. The sweetness of your laughter quite in contrast with the devilishness which drew you to his door.

"An babe, when Eddie is fuckin you... Who do you think about then?" he asked, feeling somewhat cruel because he knew the answer to that to. Knew that you would stop rocking your hips, that your whimpers would cease and that your cheeks would burn a shameful shade of rosy red. You would look gorgeous but there would be an edge of sorrow in your eyes.

"Eddie hasn't fucked me..." you said so quietly he could barely hear you.

"What was that babe?" he asked gently, his head tilted to one side as he looked up at you with exaggerated sympathy.

"Eddie, he doesn't f... Doesn't fuck me." You said softly, so ashamed to admit that actually you'd never managed to get that far. Thinking that it was all your fault - because thats what Eddie had always told you.

"Don't he?"

"No..." there was a bitterness in your confession, your lips a trembling pout, "says I ain't doin it right or somethin I don't know... We've tried but he can never get it in.."

"Right..." nodded Harry sitting back in his chair as he rubbed your thigh with his hand, even in your moment of shame the movement was a comfort, a comfort which kept you on the edge of that needy desperation which had taken over before and was most certainly threatening you again. "Right an I spose he says thats your fault does he?"

"Uhuh..." your little pout was breaking Harry's heart as he looked up at you. Such a gorgeous creature, completely wasted on Eddie fuckin Harrigan.

"Right well, babe... What you need to remember is that Eddie Harrigan is a useless little cunt right... Now I know that ain't a nice thing to say about ones boyfriend really but the way I see it he ain't exactly been very nice to you has he?"

You hesitated to shake your head. Knew that even now you couldn't bad mouth a Harrigan to Harry Da Souza. He was dutybound afterall to be on their side.

"S'okay sweetheart," he cooed to you, beckoning you in nice and close so that he could murmur softly into your ear, "your secrets safe with me alright. Ain't anythin wrong with not wantin to fuck Eddie Harrigan babe, he shouldn't use that word cause it ain't very fuckin nice..."

Your breath caught in your throat as his hand traced its way to your hip, tugging you a little further up into his lap.

"An for the record sweetheart, from what we have discussed here today yeah, I know for a fact that everything here yeah... Is in complete workin order... Think it is very important that you know there is absolutely nothin wrong with you babe... An I would like to prove to you yeah, that there ain't anything wrong with you... If of course you will let me?"

You looked at him for a moment, catching your thumb between your teeth as you considered his offer. You knew that you'd already crossed too many lines to go back now. Knew that he could give you everything you wanted.

With his hand on your hip he began manipulating your body once again, gently massaging your waist as he encouraged you to return to grinding against his thigh.

"S'okay babe," he said softly, "you don't have to decide right now... You can use me like this for as long as you like..." he said stroking your inner thigh with his thumb, digging into your flesh with just enough pressure to trigger another little whimper from you.

Your head was so clouded with lust now that once again you found your fears were beginning to slip away.

"Don't have to decide right now babe but, I promise you yeah that I will be kind to you yeah? I will be gentle and tender an I will give you what you need... I ain't Eddie Harrigan so I will not hurt you..."

As he made you his promises he trailed kisses down your neck, all the while guiding your hips to roll over his thigh. The movement seemed to rock you into a trance like state and as his kisses lowered your head tipped back and to the side granting him full access to your body. He could feel your pulse racing beneath his warm tongue and he already knew your answer before you'd managed to get it out.

"Please Harry..." you whispered, your voice breathy and sweet, "want you to be the one who takes it..." you said, those words confirming his suspicions and striking a pleased, proud chord inside him.

"Of course sweetheart, anythin you like babe, you just ask..."

AN/ there will be a part 2 and maybe a part 3, if you enjoyed this please let me know what you think and what you'd like to see happen next x

[beanhardy]

Master List  (June 11, 2025)

I write about MCU characters, their actors, and their various characters outside the MCU. 

* NSFW/Explicit Content ~ # Series ~ ^ One-shot

New! The Arrangement Chapter 14*#

New! Under His Skin Chapter 9 *#

New! The Obsession Protocol *^

New! The Arrangement Chapter 13*#

New! Under His Skin Chapter 8*#

New! Under His Skin Chapter 7 *#

New! The Arrangement Chapter 12*#

Avenger Tales

Claiming the Queen*# (Reader x ?) In Progress (MCU x GoT crossover)

Dance Hall Days*^ (Steve Rogers x Reader) Complete

Fill Me Up*^ (Steve Rogers x Reader) Complete

How Blue, How Beautiful*# (Steve Rogers x Nebula) Complete

How to Dismantle Steve Rogers*^ (Steve Rogers x Reader) Complete

The Little Things That Give You Away*# (Pre-Serum Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes AU) Complete

Loki’s Holiday Lesson*^ (Loki x Reader x Bucky Barnes AU) Complete

Lost Boy’s Life*^ (Pre-Serum Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes AU) Complete

My Winter Romance: Helena *# (Bucky Barnes x Reader) In Progress

One Night With You*# (Bucky Barnes x Reader) Complete

Pyramania*# ~ Pyramania (Bucky Barnes x OC) Complete + Sign of Fire (Steve Rogers x OC) In Progress

The Shape of My Heart*# (Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes x OC) In Progress

Dark Avenger Tales

Innocence Series

All Heaven in a Rage*# (Steve Rogers x Reader) Complete

Waves That Beat on Heaven’s Shore*# (Bucky Barnes X Reader) In Progress

Other Titles

Bad Intentions*# (Tony Stark x Reader) Complete

Clint’s Seaside Christmas*^ (Clint Barton x Reader) Complete

Dancer in the Dark*# (Steve Rogers x Reader) Complete

Dark Commander*# (Dark Steve Rogers x Reader) In Progress

A Gentle Frost*# (Steve Rogers x Reader) In Progress

His Inheritance*# (Mobster Steve Rogers x Reader) In Progress

Misled*# (Steve Rogers x Reader) Complete

Project Venus*# (Steve Rogers x Reader) In Progress

Someone You Loved*# (Bucky Barnes x Reader) Complete

Stand Alones

The Arrangement*# (Tommy Shelby x Reader) In Progress

Barber & Weiss*# (Andy Barber x Reader x Mike Weiss) In Progress

Black Invitation*^ (Werewolf!Ransom Drysdale x Reader) Complete

Darkness on the Edge of Town*# (Charles Blackwood x Reader) Complete

Dynamite & Whiskey*# (Andy Barber x Reader) Complete

Final Girl*^ (Robert Pronge/Mr. Freezy x Reader) Complete

A Gentleman and a Scholar*# (Bryce Langley x Reader (Finn!Female)) In Progress

Getting Clean*# (Mike Weiss x Reader) In Progress

Hot Girl Bummer*# (Jake Jensen x Reader) Complete

House of Shadowed Roses *# (Edward Lemuel X Reader) In Progress

Jealous Guy*# (Chris Evans x Reader) In Progress

Johnny Storm and the Blizzard*# (Johnny Storm x Reader) In Progress

Midnight in the Garden of Evil *# (Charles Blacwood x Reader) Complete

Naughty Ransom Holiday Tales*# (Ransom Drysdale x Reader (Marta’s sister)) In Progress

The Obsession Protocol *^ (Bucky Barnes x Political rival’s daughter) Complete

Out of Darkness*# (Curtis Everett x Reader) In Progress

Pretty Baby*# (Robert Pronge aka Mr. Freezy (The Iceman) x Reader) In Progress

Tonight I’m Yours*# (Ari Levinson x Reader) Complete

Under His Skin*# (Jonathan Crane x Reader) In Progress

Randomness/Asks

The Aphrodisiac*^ (Steve Rogers x Reader) Complete

The Intern*^ (Mike Weiss x Reader) Complete

Challenges

Dark Curtis Holiday Stories* December 2019

30 Days of Chris Stories* June 2020

4K Challenge Stories* August 2020

J’s Haunted House* October 2020

60 Days of Chris Stories* June-August 2021

Friday the 13th Flash Fiction* August 2021

Out of this World Halloween* October 2021

Concept art by Stitch Kingdom

[beanhardy]

One Night With You Masterlist

One Night With You ~ A Halloween Tale in 3 Parts

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Neighbor reader

Warnings: A little language, references to the sound of people having sex.

Disclaimer: The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and any original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content in the third act. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I don't consent to having my work reposted or translated.

Summary: For @iheartsebstan who was my very first follower here on Tumblr and one I adore. 💕 It's all about a chance encounter and how it can make everything in your life so much better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3

[beanhardy]

How to Dismantle Steve Rogers

A request from an anon:  Ooo so for the soft dom Steve ask I’d like maybe Steve being a bit possessive over you because you spend too much time with thor Or Tony. Even if you don’t write this I’ll love you 3000❤❤

I hope this fits the bill. 💖🙏💖

Story Rating: Explicit, 18+ only Warnings: Explicit sexual content, furniture abuse Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader

9.1k

Tony Stark had just reached the lab to make some adjustments to his bleeding-edge armor when the notifications started rolling in.

He took a sip of his coffee, the dash of bourbon in it at added the extra kick he’d need for this, took a deep breath, and slowly let it out.

“Friday, show me notifications,” he said to the AI.

“Yes, boss.”

A screen materialized before him, showing a series of notifications from the team that started at around 4 AM.

Well, fuck.

They started out explaining that the upgrades he’d made to the Quinjet were working great. The additional power was good, handling and performance enhancements awesome, new landing system perfect.

The new user interface?

Well, with Barton flying the jet, to the mission site, it hadn’t been a problem. Barton was a little more tech-savvy than the average human and he was usually able to adjust to upgrades quickly. No problem.

The mission itself had apparently been a complete cluster fuck. The intel Fury had given them wasn’t entirely accurate. Instead of it being a simple cloak and dagger mission to infiltrate a suspicious Middle Eastern installment to gain access to an old HYDRA base they were trying to conceal, the team had pretty much walked into a trap.

There were only five on the mission: Rogers, Barnes, Barton, Wilson, and Nat. Wilson’s suit was down. Barnes’ arm was damaged, and Barton had taken a hit to the chest, but he was stable.

Rogers had apparently flipped shit over the entire affair and none of them were having any luck talking him down. The good news was that he’d been so pissed, he’d pretty much taken out an incredible number of insurgents and HYDRA agents with just Barnes backing him up while the Wilson and Nat got Barton back to the jet.

The bad news? The user interface. Rogers and Barnes could fly the jet. If he put controls in it to simulate the kiddie helicopter ride from Coney Island. Barnes, with Barton’s help, got them in air and got them out of there after Steve had apparently gotten super frustrated in trying to get the team out of there.

They weren’t expected back until tomorrow, but it looked like now they’d be back by tonight. He scanned the last few messages.

Black Widow Baby: Steve’s fuming. I’m not sure Fury is going to be able to do a lot with him in this state.

Mother Goose: Fury owes all of us an explanation. The intel was shit. We’re lucky someone didn’t get killed.

  Tony nodded. Wilson wasn’t wrong.

Mother Goose: Steve wants to talk to you about the jet.

  Tony snorted. He just bet Rogers did.

Keep reading

[beanhardy]

Love this series so much ❤️

Johnny Storm & the Blizzard Masterlist

When the Avengers team up with the Fantastic Four, you find yourself paired with Johnny Storm. Considering your powers are ice and snow, it’s ironic. What happens when fire meets ice?

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 |  12 Days of Christmas: Committed

[beanhardy]

Out of Darkness

Story Rating: Explicit, 18+ only Warnings: Non-con, kidnapping, explicit sexual content, dubious consent, loss of virginity Relationships: Curtis Everett/Reader Characters: Curtis Everett, Reader

Summary: A Snowpiercer tale at the request of an anon who needs some cheering up this week (you can do this, I believe in you!). The story assumes you’ve seen the movie. Curtis kept his arm and survived the crash as did other passengers from the front and tail. The reader is a worker in the greenhouse car and her luck goes from bad to worse when she tries to help other passengers, only to be captured by a gang of young, pillaging tail section men. When they take her to the man they consider their leader, did her situation get better - or much worse?

6.5k ~ A one-shot unless someone wants more… (I’ll get it on AO3 this weekend)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the days after the Sacred Engine came to a stop, the few remaining survivors made their way out of the wreckage of the Snowpiercer and into the frozen wasteland many had only glimpsed through the windows of the train.

News of the tail section revolt got around quickly, and no one in the front expected it to amount to much.

But the rebellion didn’t go as they told you it would. The people in the front weren’t supposed to die. The rebels were supposed to be suppressed and put back in their place – what you were told.

The alerts kept coming that day and into the next day.

When the rebels reached the greenhouse with Minister Mason as their hostage? You were terrified. Particularly of their leader, a taller man in a long dark coat with an intensity about him that scared you on many levels. The blend of disbelief and anger on his face as he glanced around the greenhouse was unmistakable.

You didn’t mean to stare at him as you did as they walked further into your car.  You’d never seen anyone from the tail section before. They were as ill-kept as you heard, the rest of his group looking like normal folks aside from the desperation in their faces and the grime covering them.

Not him. No, there was something about him…

Keep reading

[beanhardy]

We have a spare room- Part 6

When all else goes wrong, moving in with three guys will solve it?

As the door to your room clicked shut behind you, you took a deep breath, letting the luxury of the resort wash over you. You’d been a bit nervous earlier, but now that you were here, everything seemed... fine. The boys’ banter and the strange sense of calm were enough to help you settle. Still, your mind wandered back to George and that brief moment when his gaze had lingered on you. It wasn’t much, but there was something about the way he looked at you that left you feeling... off balance.

~

The door swung open a few moments later, and in marched Chris and Arthur, as if they owned the place.

“Don’t mind us,” Chris said, grinning. “We just wanted to make sure you were properly settling into this place.”

Arthur, already sprawled on the bed, gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’m waiting for the butler to bring me a foot massage,” he announced dramatically, causing Chris to roll his eyes.

“I can’t decide whether you’re joking or serious,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Do you actually need one?”

“Only if you’re offering,” Arthur grinned.

Before you could respond, Chris jumped in. “Nah, mate. Forget foot massages. Bathrobes are where it’s at. They’ve gotta have the best robes here.”

“Really? Bathrobes?” You looked at him, genuinely amused.

“They’re comfy, alright?” Chris said, flopping back on the couch. “And we need matching ones. All four of us, walking around in them. That’s the dream.”

Arthur’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I’m in. Imagine the Instagram photos. Perfect.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Alright, I’ll admit, they probably do feel nice. But that’s it. No matching robes.”

At that moment, the door creaked open, and George appeared. He glanced over at the three of you, his face instantly lighting up with that familiar sarcastic grin. “Are we seriously talking about robes now?”

Arthur grinned, leaning in with a smirk. “You’re turning down the robes? George Clarke, what happened to you?”

George rolled his eyes, clearly amused. “I’m more interested in the poolside bar than some robe, mate.”

Chris laughed. “Ah, there it is. George Clarke, always after a drink.”

Arthur leaned toward George, wagging a finger at him. “You’re going to regret this. You’ll be begging for a robe by the end of the night.”

You caught George’s eye as he turned toward the window, his gaze flickering toward you for just a second. It was quick, but you felt it, that little shift. His expression was unreadable, but something about the way he looked at you made your stomach flip.

“Whatever,” George muttered, shrugging it off and walking away with his usual carefree attitude, though his movements seemed a little more deliberate than usual.

You stayed quiet for a moment, the others continuing their conversation about bathrobes. But that brief glance from George, the way it lingered in the air, kept nagging at you.

~

Arthur jumped up from the bed, heading for the door. “You know what? I’m getting one, bathrobe or not.”

Chris followed suit. “You’re on your own with that, mate.”

You stood up, smoothing your dress as you gathered your thoughts. George was still standing near the door, chatting with Chris, and though he was laughing, his gaze was still flicking over toward you, almost like he was waiting for something.

As you walked toward the door, George’s eyes met yours for another brief moment. It wasn’t anything overt, but there was something in the way his expression softened that made your heart skip a beat.

“Ready to go?” Chris called, breaking you out of your thoughts.

“Yeah,” you replied, forcing a smile, trying to shake off the strange feeling. The boys were already heading down the hallway, the chatter picking up again, but you couldn’t shake the lingering thought that maybe, just maybe, there was more to George’s glances than you’d thought.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N- hey guys!! surprise i guess? sorry i’ve been gone for a while your girl has had some progressions in the love life apparently (still single :( ) but i’m back for this part and maybe a cheeky 7th soon if we’re lucky!! have an amazing night or day

tags- @loveheart-123

@ooostarwarsfandom501st

@rougetv

@le-le-lea

@onlinesuzie

@44-ilton

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