#set the thames on fire | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cinnxmxngxrl · 26 days ago

Text

“Family”

Alfie Solomons x Shelby!Reader

Part seven and final of Camden’s sin

Check Alfie’s Masterlist here to read the previous parts

Summary: Just as tensions explode between your brother Tommy and the man you love, Alfie, the family begins to grow—you’re carrying Alfie’s child, and that could shift everything forever.

WC: 12k

Warnings/Tags: smut, minor DNI, dirty talk, unprotected piv, creampie, oral (f!receiving), breeding/pregnancy kink

It had been brewing for days—the suspicion curling low in your belly like the smoke from one of Alfie’s cigars. Your breasts were tender, your appetite unpredictable, and every morning the nausea hit you with the precision of a ticking clock. More than once, you’d caught yourself crying for no reason at all—over a burnt piece of toast, or the way Cyril tilted his head at you. It wasn’t just your body changing; it was the weight of what those changes meant, pulling you deeper into something both terrifying and wonderful. You knew your body. And you knew what this meant.

You’d made up your mind. Tonight. You would tell him tonight.

The night air seeped through the cracked window, heavy with the salt of the Thames and the faint tang of coal smoke. London’s quiet was always unnerving, more a prelude to chaos than peace. You lay curled in Alfie’s bed—your bed now, too—draped in one of his shirts that smelled of his cologne, the fabric soft and worn. Your legs were bare, tucked close to your chest. One hand rested lightly over your stomach, fingertips brushing against the still-flat skin. It didn’t feel different yet, but you knew it was. You could feel it. It was strange, knowing that something so monumental could exist without anyone noticing. Not even him.

The moonlight pooled on the bedspread, casting everything in soft silver. You rehearsed the words again in your mind, the ones you’d been repeating all day, the ones you’d whispered to Cyril when no one else was around. You’d burned toast pacing the kitchen, told the dog your secret like it was between you and God. It was easier to say in the stillness, without his intense eyes watching you, waiting for answers you weren’t sure how to give.

The sound of the front door slamming yanked you from your thoughts.

It wasn’t the usual slam. This one was different. Violent. Like a warning shot, rattling the walls and sending a stack of books tumbling from the desk. Cyril barked sharply, but then—silence. A tense, ominous silence. Your heart leapt into your throat. You sat upright, clutching the edge of the blanket as the sound of heavy footsteps began pacing below. Circling. Uneven. Like whoever they belonged to was trying not to break something.

Or someone.

The bedroom door flew open.

Alfie filled the doorway like a storm. His coat hung askew, as if it had been half-ripped off in a fit of rage. His hair was wild, and his eyes burned with a fury that made the air feel thinner. His fists were clenched, veins bulging against his skin, and his jaw worked furiously as though holding back words that might burn worse than fire. He looked like a man who had lost everything and couldn’t stop himself from taking it back.

“Alfie?” you whispered, your voice small, trembling. “What’s happened?”

He didn’t answer. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth. But his breathing was sharp, his chest rising and falling in jagged bursts, and the silence between you felt like it might shatter any second. The way he looked at you—raw, broken, furious—made your skin prickle.

“Warehouse,” he muttered at last, voice gravel-thick and slurred at the edges. “East End, yeah? Big bastard—loaded with the good shit. You know the one I’m talkin’ about?”

You nodded, your pulse thudding painfully in your ears.

“Gone,” he snapped. His voice cracked like a whip, harsh and unrelenting. “Set alight. Went up like a fuckin’ lantern.” He stepped further into the room, his shadow stretching long against the walls. “You know how I found out?” His voice rose, dangerous and biting. “Your dear brother Tommy. Left me a fuckin’ note, he did. Real polite, real proper. Like he was sendin’ condolences after a bloody funeral.”

Your breath hitched.

“Three of my men,” he hissed, shaking his head. “Trapped inside. They didn’t stand a fuckin’ chance. Burned to ash.” He made a harsh sound in the back of his throat, something halfway between a laugh and a growl. “And all my stock? Years’ worth of work? Gone. Just gone.”

You crossed the room carefully, the floor creaking beneath your steps. “Alfie—”

“Don’t,” he barked, his voice breaking. The word was sharp, almost a plea. “Don’t you start with that look. You didn’t see it. You weren’t there pickin’ teeth out of rubble, tryin’ to tell what bit used to be a man, smellin’ a man’s skin burnin’ off his back like meat on a spit. He’s started a fuckin’ war.”

He grabbed a bottle from the sideboard, yanking the cork out with his teeth before downing a mouthful. The burn made him wince, but he didn’t stop. You didn’t move to stop him either. Not yet. His boots left muddy prints on the rug, soot smudging the floorboards. You didn’t care. You only cared about the fire in his chest, threatening to consume him whole.

He paced like a caged animal, one hand dragging through his hair. “I’m going to return the favor.”

“No,” you said firmly, stepping in front of him. “No, you’re not.”

He stopped short, his eyes narrowing. “The fuck I’m not.”

You reached for him, your fingers brushing his wrist. His pulse was wild beneath your touch, like a drumbeat out of rhythm. “Alfie,” you murmured, softer now. “Please.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a shuddering breath, he let you pull the bottle from his hands. You set it down on the sideboard, ignoring the way his shoulders shook beneath your palms.

Then you held him.

And he broke.

Not fully. Not loudly. But enough. His arms came around you, crushing you to him like you were the only thing keeping him upright. His breath was fast and uneven at your neck. You felt the rage, the grief, the vengeful weight of his anger cracking open in his chest. It wasn’t weakness; it was survival. A moment to breathe before the storm took him again.

“You don’t walk away from this kind of thing,” he said hoarsely, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Not now. He set fire to my house, love. And I ain’t lettin’ that go unanswered.”

“Alfie,” you said, your voice trembling. “I need to tell you something.”

His hand came up to the back of your neck, rough and shaking. He looked down at you, his eyes searching. “What is it?”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding. “I’m pregnant.”

He stilled completely.

For a full five seconds, he didn’t blink. His chest rose once, then again, slower this time. You could see it—the exact moment the words sank in, the rage bleeding out of his eyes and being replaced by something raw and electric.

“…Come again, yeah?” he rasped, blinking slow, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d heard you right. “Say that again for me, love. Nice and slow.”

You stepped closer, your voice steadier now. “I said I’m pregnant. You put a baby in me, Alfie.”

It hit him like a punch to the gut, all the anger from moments before completely forgotten. He staggered back a step, his mouth opening and closing as if he were trying to form words but couldn’t. Then, finally, a sound burst out of him—a half-growl, half-laugh that was so full of pride it sent a shiver down your spine.

His breath caught, voice going hoarse as the truth hit him like a punch.

“You—you’re tellin’ me you’re serious, yeah? That you got my fuckin’ kid in you?” His eyes searched yours, wild and glassy with disbelief. “Christ.”

You nodded, breathless from the force of him. “Yeah.”

His face lit up with something wild and primal. His mouth fell open—then came the laugh. Low and dark and utterly deranged with pride. It rumbled up from his chest like something that didn’t belong to the man but to the animal that lived just under his skin. He sank to his knees in front of you like you were royalty and pressed his face against your belly.

He let out a low, reverent groan, mouth dragging down your shirt, brushing skin, lips moving like he was whispering prayers straight into your belly.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, rough and raw. “Look at you, yeah? That’s mine, innit. My baby, right there. Growin’ in your sweet little belly like it belongs. Fuckin’ Proof, that is. Proof you’re mine.”

You carded your fingers through his wild curls, your breath hitching when he looked up at you with those blazing, filthy eyes.

There was hunger there, yes—but something else too. Worship. Terror. A kind of mad devotion that made your knees weak.

“Alfie…”

“I fuckin’ knew it,” he growled, voice turning darker, hungrier, as he pushed the shirt off you, kissing up your torso like a starving man. “Knew you’d keep it, love. Knew your little body’d take me—take all of me—like it was made for it.”

His mouth was everywhere, devouring the shape of you as if he could taste the future through your skin. Every kiss was a promise, every breath a vow.

He stood up and scooped you into his arms before you could argue. Carried you like a ragdoll to the bed, laying you down gently, like you were porcelain.

But there was nothing delicate in the way his eyes drank you in—dark, dilated, searing through layers of flesh and bone straight to your soul.

“You alright, yeah?” he asked roughly, like he didn’t trust his own voice. “Nothin’ hurtin’? ‘Cause I swear on every drop of blood in me—I’ll murder every fuckin’ doctor if they so much as look at you wrong. You’re royalty now, yeah? And they better treat you like it.”

His thumb stroked your cheekbone, trembling faintly—he was trying to control himself, to not fall apart entirely. You could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his lips parted like he couldn’t find enough air.

Your legs wrapped around his hips without thinking, dragging him in, anchoring him there like gravity had shifted just for you. You felt his cock already straining in his trousers, thick, hot, twitching with need, pressed right up against your soaked core like it knew exactly where it belonged.

The heat between you flared like a match to gasoline—raw, immediate, inevitable, a spark turned inferno as your soaked cunt clenched around nothing, already aching for him.

“Alfie—”

His tone shifted fast, low and guttural now, thick with want. “Nah. Nah, don’t stop me now, darlin’. Can’t. Not after what you just said. Can’t walk away from that. You don’t say shit like that to a man like me unless you want him inside you again immediately.”

He lowered his body onto yours, forehead against yours, his hips grinding slow, deliberate, right against your throbbing clit through the fabric.

The friction was maddening, even through the layers—like fire dragging against silk. You felt every ridge, every pulse of him—thick and leaking, trapped behind his clothes—your body already weeping, pussy so slick you could feel the mess soaking through your knickers and into his trousers.

“Fuckin’ bred you,” he whispered, voice ragged. “Put my seed so deep you’re still carryin’ it. Jesus Christ. Do you have any idea what that does to me? What that fuckin’ means to me?”

Your hips bucked up. “Tell me.”

His grin was pure sin. “Makes me wanna do it again. Right fuckin’ now. Deeper. Slower. Meaner. Make you drip for a week.”

He undid his trousers, the sound of his belt unbuckling sharp in the haze, shoved your knickers aside, and dragged the head of his cock through your wet folds—slow, reverent, almost shaking.

Your slick coated him instantly, strings of it clinging to his cock as he slid it through your folds, nudging your swollen clit with every pass.

His breath hitched like it hurt to touch you this way—like the sweetness of it was too much for his rough, bloodied world.

“Gonna fuck you,” he growled, “soft and deep, the way you like it, so it settles in even more. Gonna make sure you never forget who did this to you. Who got you like this.”

He slid inside you slow, with a deep, guttural groan—like it physically hurt him to go at anything less than brutal. But he did it. Because your body was different now. Precious now. His now.

And his rough hands moved with almost reverence over your hips, gripping you like you were a sacred thing as he pushed all the way in.

The stretch made your breath leave in a rush, your hands clutching at his back like lifelines. You could feel the thickness of him—every vein, every inch— the deliberate press of him splitting you open all over again, dragging against the swollen walls of your cunt like he wanted to leave a mark on your insides.

“There she is,” he breathed. “Sweet little thing all full of me—fuckin’ hell. You feel different, d’you know that? Already. Swear I can fuckin’ feel the change… can feel my baby inside you.”

You gasped as he bottomed out, thick and pulsing, so deep you swore you could feel him in your belly.

His slow rolls of his hips ground perfectly against the spot that made your spine light up, made your thighs tremble, your belly tighten.

Pleasure sparked up your spine like electricity. Your belly tightened, nerves blazing, the whole world narrowed down to the rhythm of his body inside yours.

The drag of his cock was sweet torment, every inch leaving you raw and wanting.

“You like that, yeah?” he murmured, watching your face. “Still takin’ me so sweet after I’ve already knocked you up. Jesus Christ, love… look at you. Look how you grip me—like your cunt knows I belong here. Like it’s never lettin’ me out.”

The words alone made your walls flutter around him, tight and wet and greedy.

Shame and heat flooded your chest, your whole body reacting to him like it was built for this. He did belong there. You didn’t want to imagine what it felt like not to have him inside you.

“It’s too much, fuck, but I don’t wanna stop—” you sobbed, overwhelmed by the pleasure. “Your cock feels so fucking good. So right.”

He dipped down, kissed your neck, your cheek, your mouth—then nuzzled your jaw as he thrust again, slow and deep. His cock dragged along every trembling inch inside you, painfully slow, like he was carving the shape of himself into your memory. Like he wanted to live there.

He grunted against your neck, hips rocking forward again, thick length pushing deeper than you thought possible. Every thrust was like a heartbeat—anchoring you, binding you, melting you into the sheets beneath.

“I’m gonna keep you like this,” he muttered, voice shaking with how fucking gone he was. “Gonna keep you barefoot and full of my fuckin’ baby, over and over. Yeah? One’s not enough. Wanna see you waddling, belly round as a moon, tits full of milk, so every bastard in Camden knows who ruined you.”

Your breath caught—because the heat in your belly said yes. Fuck yes. His filthy obsession was infectious, and it made your thighs tremble.

You could see it now—feel it: his hand on your belly, his cock buried deep, grinding slow and heavy into your overstretched cunt while his teeth dragged over your throat, his beard scraping your skin.

“Alfie… Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop. Just keep fucking me like this.” You breathed, voice thick with lust and something deeper.

“I’ll fuck you in the bakery,” he growled, voice going deeper. “On the rum barrels. On the fuckin’ counter. I’ll bend you over with flour still on your tits and cum inside you ‘til you’re drippin’ in front of everyone. I’ll take you everywhere, till the whole fuckin’ city smells of your cunt and my cum. I’ll be feedin’ you pastries while you ride my cock—big belly in my face—fuckin’ dream come true, that is.”

You clenched around him, moaning shamelessly. Your body sang for him, thrummed with need, already teetering on the edge. Your pussy pulsed around him like it was trying to milk him already.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” he grinned against your throat. “Yeah, you do. ‘Course you fuckin’ do. You’re mine. Mine to fill, mine to breed, mine to ruin.”

He braced one hand under your thigh, dragged it up high around his waist, angling his hips just right—and that was it.

Your nails raked down his back, dragging angry red lines as you came, gasping, your whole body locking up around his cock.

“Yes, yes, fuck—right there, Alfie, that’s it, gonna cum—” you cried, hips chasing every deep grind of his.

The orgasm tore through you like a storm, blinding and wet and violent. Your back bowed off the bed, mouth open in a silent cry, slick pouring down your thighs as your cunt spasmed around him, milking every inch.

Alfie’s face twisted like he was in pain. “Ffffuck—Jesus, darlin’—gonna make me do it again—gonna—shit—”

He pulled out just enough to watch himself disappear again into your slick, fluttering cunt—then slammed forward, one last thrust, and came with a hoarse groan that sounded half like a prayer and half like an exorcism.

His whole body shuddered, muscles locking, cock pulsing deep as he emptied himself inside you. Thick, hot ropes spilling into your cunt, so much you felt it dripping already, leaking from where you were stretched open around him.

He spilled deep inside you, trembling from head to toe, collapsing half on top of you as he breathed against your neck.

His heart pounded hard enough to rattle your ribs.

He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, lips moving in reverent, broken murmurs you could barely catch.

And even while still inside you, cock softening, he murmured:

“I’m not stoppin’, you know.”

You laughed weakly against his chest. “Stopping what?”

He raised his head, eyes wild, grin crooked. “Fillin’ you. Every fuckin’ week, I swear it. I’m givin’ it siblings. Six, maybe seven. Peaky fuckin’ brood, yeah? Little gang of curly-haired monsters.”

“Alfie—”

“Shut up, I’m talkin’. We’ll name the first one after me. Or maybe after you, if it’s a girl. She’ll be beautiful. Mean as fuck. God help us.”

You giggled, and Alfie leaned in to kiss you again, slow and filthy, his thumb sliding over your still-trembling cunt as if he couldn’t stop touching you.

The kiss was messy, desperate—full of tongue and need and too much love to fit between teeth. You whimpered into it, drunk on him, on the future he’d already built in his head.

“You,” he whispered, “are the best fuckin’ thing that’s ever happened to me. And now you’re makin’ more of you.”

His voice turned reverent again, a little cracked.

“Thank fuckin’ God for this miracle.”

The late afternoon was cloaked in a thick, gray sky that seemed to press down on the city like a weight. The streets of Birmingham smelled of rain and smoke, a constant reminder of what had been lost—and what might be lost still. The thick clouds seemed to echo the tension in your chest, heavy and unyielding, as though the city itself braced for what was to come.

You and Polly sat in the back room of the Garrison, the air thick with cigarette smoke and whispered tension. The wood paneling felt colder than usual, and every tick of the clock seemed amplified in the silence. The room, dimly lit by a single flickering gas lamp, felt suffocating. You ran your hand along the edge of the table, trying to ground yourself in something tangible, but even the rough wood felt distant.

“We need this to work,” Polly said quietly, her voice steady but serious. “This war… it’ll kill us all if it’s not stopped. And now that you’re carrying Alfie’s child—Tommy needs to know. Needs to understand there’s more at stake than just revenge.” Her voice softened slightly, the steel giving way to something more vulnerable. “We’ve lost too much already, love. This can’t go on.”

You swallowed hard. The truth felt like a weight in your chest, heavy and fragile all at once. You thought of the life growing inside you, a tiny spark of hope in the midst of all this chaos. It was too soon for you to feel it move, but sometimes, when you were alone, you placed your hand on your belly and whispered prayers for its safety.

“He won’t like it,” you said quietly.

“No, he won’t,” Polly replied, her tone clipped. “But he’ll listen. He’s still my nephew, and deep down, even Tommy Shelby knows when to shut up and take advice.” Her words were confident, but there was a flicker of doubt in her eyes that she couldn’t quite hide.

You weren’t sure if that was true. Tommy’s temper had only grown worse since he declared war on Alfie, and every action he took seemed more reckless than the last. The destruction left in his wake was a constant reminder that the brother you once knew was slipping further away, consumed by vengeance and pride.

“He’s a stubborn son of a bitch,” Polly added with a bitter smile. “But he’s not a monster. Not completely. We’ll see if he can still be reasoned with.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “When are we doing this?”

“Tomorrow night,” Polly said. “Neutral ground. Somewhere they can’t pull their guns without the whole city knowing.” Her lips pressed into a thin line as she exhaled sharply, flicking ash from her cigarette into the tray. “But don’t expect miracles. These are men we’re dealing with, not saints.”

…

Later that evening, you found Alfie in his study. He was leaning back in his chair, reading over some papers by candlelight. The room smelled of leather and smoke, the warmth of the hearth casting flickering shadows across his face. The glow softened the usual harshness in his features, though his furrowed brow made it clear his mind was far from restful.

“Alfie,” you said softly, stepping into the room.

He looked up, his eyes instantly softening when they landed on you. “Ah, look who it is—my little treacle and my tiny tot,” His voice, usually gruff and sharp, had an uncharacteristic warmth to it when he spoke to you. “What’s this then, eh? What’s got that pretty face lookin’ all troubled?”

You moved closer, sitting on the edge of his desk. He reached for you instinctively, his large hand covering yours. The callouses on his palm were rough against your skin, a stark contrast to the gentleness of his touch.

“I spoke to Polly today,” you began.

His brow furrowed. “Yeah, well, that don’t sound promisin’, now does it?”

“She wants to arrange a meeting. Between you and Tommy.”

The tension in his jaw was immediate. “No.” The single word hung in the air like a thunderclap, final and immovable.

“Alfie—”

“No, no, darlin’. No fuckin’ way am I sittin’ in a room with that fuckin’ cunt. Just so he can flap his gums and call it ‘negotiation,’ yeah?” He leaned back in his chair with a groan, crossing his arms like the decision was already carved in stone.

You leaned forward, gripping his hand tighter. “This war is going to destroy everything, Alfie. And not just for you or Tommy—for me, for our baby.”

“Don’t you bloody start bringin’ the baby into this,” he grumbled, his tone sharp, though his gaze briefly flicked to your stomach with a softness that belied his words.

“The baby has everything to do with this. It’s the reason this fucking war between you two has to stop!” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t care. If there was ever a time to fight for something, it was now.

His gaze dropped to your belly, and for a moment, the anger in his eyes dimmed. “And you think he’ll listen to reason, do you?”

“He’ll listen to Polly,” you said. “And you’ll listen to me.” Your hand rested protectively over your stomach, a silent reminder of what was at stake.

Alfie smirked, but there was no humor in it. “Oh, I always listen to you, don’t I, treacle? ‘Specially when you’re screamin’ my name and beggin’ me not to stop—”

“Alfie.” You cut him off with a glare, though your cheeks flushed.

“What?” He feigned innocence, his grin widening at your reaction. “S’true, innit? Maybe I should jog your memory later, yeah? Just so you don’t forget who’s runnin’ things ‘round here.”

You sighed, fighting a smile. “I’m serious, Alfie.”

“So am I,” he murmured, leaning forward until the rough tip of his nose brushed yours, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “But alright then. I’ll go. For you, right? And for this little one.” His hand rested gently over your stomach, his calloused fingers strangely tender. “But I’m tellin’ you now, treacle, if your brother so much as breathes wrong, I won’t be held responsible for what happens next, yeah?”

…

Alfie even promised he’d go unarmed. That, of course, had been a lie. You saw the glint of steel as he tucked his revolver into his coat before leaving the house. You begged silently that he wouldn’t have to use it, clutching your belly as if to shield the baby from the chaos brewing.

The warehouse Polly chose was abandoned and quiet, sitting on the outskirts of Birmingham. The air was cold and damp, carrying the faint metallic scent of rust and decay. The only sounds were the distant hum of the city and the occasional creak of the old building’s walls, like a living thing groaning beneath the weight of its history. It was an eerie kind of peace, the kind that pressed against your ears and made every breath feel too loud.

You arrived first with Alfie, his hand gripping yours as he surveyed the space with narrowed eyes. The weight of his presence was grounding, even as his tension radiated like heat. You could feel the restrained energy in him, the readiness to pounce, like a predator pacing the edge of its territory.

He glanced around the space, his nose wrinkling in disdain as the faint echo of his cane tapping against the floor punctuated the silence. “This?” he muttered, waving his free hand dismissively at the building. “This is what you lot are callin’ neutral ground, is it? Fuckin’ ‘ell. It’s a shithole, love. Thought the Shelby name carried more weight than this.”

“Behave,” you murmured, squeezing his hand. Your tone was soft, but there was a firmness beneath it that only he could draw out of you.

Before he could respond, the creak of the warehouse door interrupted. Tommy entered with Polly at his side. His sharp blue eyes locked onto Alfie immediately, his posture tense and coiled like a spring. It was the look of a man walking into a trap he’d already planned ten ways to escape. Polly walked slightly ahead, her heels clicking against the concrete with a deliberate rhythm, her presence commanding enough to keep the room from erupting—at least for now.

“Tommy,” you greeted softly, stepping forward.

Alfie straightened beside you, his posture loose but his presence commanding. The smirk tugging at his lips was deliberate, sharp, and as much a weapon as the revolver tucked into his coat. “Ah, Tommy-boy,” he drawled, the nickname stretched out with a mocking lilt. “Come to kiss and make up, have we? Thought you’d at least bring flowers.”

Tommy’s gaze flickered between you and Alfie, his jaw tightening. His hand moved like lightning, drawing his gun and pointing it straight at Alfie’s head. The air crackled with sudden, electric tension, every breath frozen in anticipation.

“Tommy!” you gasped, stepping between them. “Put that down right now.”

“Yeah, mate, go on then—put it down,” Alfie said, chuckling in that maddening, gravelly way of his, like he already had the upper hand. “Don’t wanna leave your niece or nephew without a dad now, do ya? That’d be a bit cold, even for you, eh?”

Tommy’s brow furrowed, his aim steady as a rock. His voice cut through the air like a blade. “What’s he talkin’ about?”

The question hung heavy in the air, the room shrinking around you as all eyes turned to you. Your heart raced, each beat reverberating in your ears as you swallowed the lump in your throat.

“There’s something you need to know,” you said, your voice trembling but determined. You took a steadying breath and said the words that could change everything. “I’m… pregnant.”

For a moment, time stood still. Tommy’s eyes narrowed, disbelief hardening into something colder. It wasn’t anger—it was worse. It was calculation, the quiet devastation of a man piecing together a puzzle he wished he hadn’t started.

“That’s right,” Alfie said, his grin growing wider, more brazen, as he pulled you closer with a casual arm around your shoulders. “Went and put a bloody baby in this one, didn’t I? Bound to happen sooner or later. Every time I tried to pull out, she dragged me right back in.”

He winked, eyes glinting with wicked delight, utterly shameless, enjoying the effect his words had on the room. “Can’t blame her though, right? Warm little thing like that? She was like ‘Please, Alfie, I want it insi—’”

Tommy’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his face ticking with barely suppressed fury. His tone was flat but dangerous. “I didn’t come here to listen to your bullshit, Solomons.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate, innit?” Alfie shot back when Tommy snapped, his tone a mockery of sympathy. “Real shame, ‘cause my mouth’s got plenty more to say. Like how while you’ve been busy throwin’ your little war games, I’ve been takin’ real good care of your sister. Knocking her up and all—seems I’ve been a bit more productive, eh?”

Tommy lunged, his gun lowering slightly, but Polly stepped between them, her voice cutting through the tension like a whip. “Enough!”

The room fell silent, the weight of Polly’s command pulling everyone to a standstill. Her eyes blazed as she turned to each man in turn, her sheer presence silencing even Alfie’s retort.

“We’re here to end this,” Polly said, her voice steel. “Not to throw punches like bloody children.”

Tommy’s gaze shifted to you, cold and hard, his disappointment barely hidden. “You had to get yourself pregnant, didn’t you?” The words were spat like venom, deliberate and sharp.

“You don’t know the half of it, mate,” Alfie cut in, grinning like the devil himself. “Beggin’ for it, she was. Practically pullin’ me into bed every night. What can I say? She knows what she wants. But I bet you remember my little letter too well.

“Alfie,” you hissed, your cheeks burning with mortification.

“What?” he said when your mortification bubbled over, his grin refusing to waver. “I’m just bein’ honest. Tommy oughta be thankin’ me, truth be told. His sister’s looked after. Gonna make her a mother, give her a family. Done him a favor, really.”

Tommy’s hand twitched, finger toying with the trigger, his fury threatening to boil over. You stepped forward, your voice breaking through the chaos. “Enough! Both of you!”

Tommy sneered. “You shut up. This is between me and him.”

“Oi, you watch your fuckin’ mouth when you talk to her,” Alfie growled, his voice low and razor-edged when Tommy barked at you. The shift in tone was immediate, dangerous, and unmistakably protective.

His head turned slightly, his icy stare fixed on you. “I’ll speak to my sister however I damn well please.”

Alfie took a step closer, his body taut with barely restrained violence. “Listen to me, you fuckin’ cunt—”

Screams, reproaches, and obscenities flew from one side of the room to the other like cannon fire, the echo of their voices bouncing off the walls, leaving no corner untouched. Alfie’s booming laughter and sharp retorts clashed with Tommy’s seething growls, creating a cacophony that rattled your bones. Polly stood to the side, her arms crossed and her face taut with frustration, her sharp eyes darting between the two men like a general assessing the battlefield.

It felt endless—a storm without a lull, a fight that would never find resolution.

“Fucking stop with this nonsense!” you yelled, your voice slicing through the chaos like a lightning strike. The force of your words silenced them, leaving an aching quiet in their wake. Even Polly turned to look at you, her expression unreadable.

You took a shaky breath, your hands trembling as you stepped forward. “I’m not asking for you two to be friends,” you continued, your voice cracking with emotion. “Not asking for family dinners, or for you to act like you don’t hate each other’s guts. I’m just asking for the man I love and my brother not to kill each other in front of me.” The words came out in a rush, a desperate plea that left your chest heaving.

Tommy’s cold eyes fixed on you, but the hardness in his gaze faltered for a brief moment. You pressed on, the weight of your desperation driving you forward.

“Please, Tommy,” you begged, your voice softening. “If you love me, if even a shred of that love still exists, and if you want to see me happy, you’ll put an end to this. Before it’s too late. Before I lose my brother and the father of my child at the same time.”

Your voice cracked on the last words, tears welling in your eyes as the raw emotion spilled out of you. The sight of your pain seemed to pierce through Tommy’s defenses. His jaw tightened, and his shoulders slumped slightly as if the weight of your words had landed squarely on his chest. He looked away, his mouth opening and closing like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

After a long, tense silence, he spoke. His voice was low, rough, but there was a heaviness to it that you hadn’t heard before. “You know I’ll never accept this decision you’ve made,” he said, each word deliberate and firm. “And don’t think for a second I’ll ever call this… dog family.”

“Don’t worry, mate,” Alfie interjected, his voice breaking through the solemnity like a crack of thunder. “The feelin’s mutual.”

Tommy’s head snapped toward Alfie, his glare sharp enough to cut, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned back to you. “But at the end of the day it’s your choice,” he continued, his tone softening ever so slightly. “And I’ll respect it.”

Your breath hitched, relief mingling with the ache in your chest. “You’ll stop with all this war nonsense?” you asked cautiously, your voice barely above a whisper.

Tommy nodded, the motion slow and deliberate. But his eyes shifted to Alfie, the tension between them still tangible. “You’re gonna marry her?” he asked, his voice low and controlled, though the simmering anger beneath was unmistakable.

You froze, the question hanging in the air like a challenge. Your heart pounded in your chest as you turned to Alfie, whose ever-present smirk softened into something more serious. He leaned slightly on his cane, his posture as steady as his voice when he spoke.

“Course I’m marryin’ her,” Alfie said plainly, as if the answer was obvious to anyone with a brain. “Ain’t that right, love?” His eyes softened just a fraction when they landed on you, but the intensity was still there, as unrelenting as ever.

“Ain’t about to let my kid be a bastard,” he added, his grin widening into a cocky laugh. “Just waitin’ to find the right bloody rock, yeah? Can’t propose to a woman like her with some cheap little trinket. She’s worth more than that.”

Tommy’s fists clenched, his knuckles whitening. “Good,” he said, his voice dropping to a near growl. “Because if you don’t—or if you hurt her—I will make you suffer in ways you can’t imagine. Doesn’t matter where you go or how many men you hide behind. I’ll find you. And when I do, you’ll wish for death long before it comes.”

Alfie’s chuckle then wasn’t warm—it was the sound of a man issuing a challenge, his words a provocation. “Oh, you’ll kill me, will you? That’s cute, mate. Real cute. But let me tell you somethin’, yeah?” He stepped forward, his grin turning razor-sharp, his voice dipping into that deep, rumbling mockery that made men uneasy. “I’m not the type to hurt her. Unless, of course, you’re countin’ all the times I’ve made her scream my name loud enough to wake the bloody dead.”

“Alfie!” you hissed, mortified, but he didn’t stop.

“See, Tommy,” Alfie continued, gesturing lazily with his cane. “Your sister—she’s happy with me. Proper happy. And if you’d just pull that stick outta your arse, you might just see it for yourself.”

Tommy’s hand twitched at his side, his restraint hanging by a thread. For a moment, you thought he might actually hit Alfie. But instead, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing himself to step back.

“I don’t like you, Alfie,” Tommy said plainly, his voice cold. “And I never will. But for her…I’ll give you one chance. Just one.”

Alfie raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “How generous of you, mate.”

Polly, who had been silently fuming, finally stepped forward, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Enough of this back and forth,” she snapped. “You two are going to spit and shake on it like men, or not? Agree to keep out of each other’s business and leave it at that.”

The two men exchanged a long, loaded look. Then, with a reluctant grimace, Tommy spit into his palm and extended his hand.

“Fine,” he said curtly.

Alfie mirrored the gesture, his grip firm as he shook Tommy’s hand. “Fine,” he echoed, his tone laced with irony.

The handshake was brief, a brittle truce that felt more like a fuse waiting to be lit. But it was enough.

Polly let out a sharp exhale, muttering under her breath, “Men and their bloody pride.”

Two months later…

The sound of laughter and clinking glasses spilled out of the Shelby dining room before you and Alfie even made it through the front door.

The muffled din pulsed against the cold air outside, a boisterous warmth pressing against the quiet tension coiling in your growing stomach. Alfie’s large hand hovered protectively at the small of your back, radiating heat even through the fabric of your dress.

“Right, then,” Alfie muttered, glancing sideways at you, brows lifting. “What we reckon, eh? Who’s first to sling a bloody insult across the table? My money’s on Arthur—bloke’s wound tighter than a knackered watch.”

You sighed, already regretting this. “Please, Alfie, for once in your life, just try to behave.”

Your fingers twisted together at your side, the air sharp with the scent of roast meat and tobacco seeping from under the door.

“Behave?” He scoffed, tilting his head with that crooked grin, hand brushing gently over the small swell of your stomach. “Right, listen, yeah—if it’s quiet you lot wanted, then they shouldn’t’ve invited me, right? I’m not a fuckin’ church mouse, love, I’m Alfie fuckin’ Solomons.”

“I invited you.”

“Exactly.” He grinned. “You knew what you were gettin’.” His smile was crooked, dangerous, but softened when he glanced at the curve of your belly again, his thumb brushing there just long enough to make your breath catch.

Before you could respond, Polly’s voice rang out from the other side of the room. “If you’re going to stand in the doorway all night, Solomons, you might as well piss off now.”

With a low chuckle, Alfie strode into the dining room, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards.

He walked like he owned the house, his coat brushing the backs of chairs, his presence sucking the air from the room like a shifting tide.

“Lovely to see you too, Pol,” Alfie said, voice dipped in sarcasm and the ghost of affection.

The room went momentarily quiet as you stepped in, Alfie at your side.

The Shelby clan turned their heads in unison—like wolves scenting an intruder. A dozen eyes settled on you, cold, curious, calculating. Your spine stiffened.

Arthur pointed his fork at Alfie, eyes blazing. “Who invited this—”

“Arthur!” Polly’s voice cracked like a whip, silencing him before he could finish.

Your pulse thudded behind your eyes, the thick scent of whiskey and roasted meat suddenly cloying.

“Please sit down,” Polly asked you.

You joined the table with the rest of your family. Alfie beside you, his thigh pressing against yours beneath the table like a quiet promise of chaos.

Tommy’s eyes hadn’t left Alfie once. Ice blue, unblinking. Sizing him up like a gun with one bullet left. The air between them was electric, coiled like wire, and you could feel it crackle along your skin.

Ada broke the silence first. “So, Alfie. How’s the bakery?”

He took a sip. “Still full of flour and Jews, thanks. No shortage of either.”

Ada choked on her wine.

Arthur laughed, even if he tried not to. “He’s fuckin’ mental, innit.”

“Oi!” Alfie said brightly, gesturing with his glass. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not sittin’ right fuckin’ ‘ere, yeah? It’s rude. I’m sensitive, me.”

“It’s been a month since the wedding,” Ada said. “How’s marriage life going?”

“It’s goin’ very well, thank you kindly,” he said, eyes glittering. “Plan is I’ll keep shaggin’ her ‘til me legs give out, and if she still fancies me after I’m knackered and half-dead, I’ll let her chain me to a bloody chair and spoon-feed me soup ‘til I croak.”

Silence.

Tommy blinked.

Arthur spit his drink.

Ada was howling.

“Jesus Christ,” Polly muttered.

You just sighed, resting a hand on your forehead. Your cheeks were hot with equal parts exasperation and reluctant amusement. A flicker of warmth curled in your chest despite everything.

“That’s romantic for him,” you said.

Alfie turned to you, grinning like a man in love. “Ain’t no higher praise, is there, darlin’? You shagged the knees right off me.” His voice was rough velvet, eyes glittering with mischief and adoration that sent a flutter through your ribs.

Tommy’s voice cut through the laughter. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

Alfie didn’t even glance at Tommy. “I talk about my missus like I want every bastard in this room to know she’s mine. Because she fuckin’ is.”

“You’ve got a fuckin’ death wish,” Tommy said.

“It’s a family dinner,” you reminded everyone, though your voice was lost in the chaos. “Can we just�� eat and have a good time?”

“No,” Tommy said, exhaling smoke in Alfie’s direction, “because your man here invites himself and thinks he can sit at this table, in my house, and pretend he’s anything more than a cocky little bastard with delusions of grandeur.”

Alfie smirked, leaning back in his chair now, his broad shoulders filling the space like he was born to it, chest broad, posture loud as a shout. “She invited me, didn’t she? And you, Thomas… you’re just a boy in a big bloody coat, marchin’ around like you’re Moses with a gin problem. You’ve got the charm of a wet sock and the temperament of a rabid dog.”

You groaned. “Alfie.”

“What?!” Alfie barked, gesturing toward Tommy like he was on trial. “I’m defendin’ meself, love! Man’s been givin’ me the stink eye since I walked in—like I pissed on his horse or somethin’.”

“That’s because you don’t belong here.” Tommy snapped.

“Don’t belong?” Alfie’s voice shot up, tone biting now as he gestured to you, eyes blazing. “I’ve got a baby on the way with your sister, mate. Your sister, yeah? The one I married. So if we’re talkin’ about who belongs, maybe it ain’t the geezer who tried to burn me out of business three months ago, eh?”

Tommy stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “And I’d do it again if it meant keepin’ you out of my family!”

He stood now too, chest puffed, voice booming. “Your family?” he sneered. “Hate to break it to ya, mate, but she’s mine now, right? That little one in her belly—also mine. So how about you sit the fuck down and stop actin’ like you’ve got exclusive rights to what’s best for her.”

Polly stood then, slamming her palm on the table so hard it silenced everyone. “Enough!” she roared, her eyes sharp and unforgiving. “Both of you, sit down and shut up before I knock your heads together!”

Alfie turned to you, his expression softening just slightly. “Love, I was just—”

“I don’t care what you were just,” you snapped, glaring at him. “I brought you here because I thought—God knows why—that we could try to be a family.”

“Family?” Tommy scoffed. “He’s not family.”

“Neither are you,” Alfie said coolly. “Not when you torched my fuckin’ warehouse.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” you yelled, throwing your napkin onto the table. “Can we get through one bloody night without bringing that up?” Your voice cracked with exhaustion, the words punching through clenched teeth.

Polly raised her glass, her voice cutting through the tension. “Here’s to family. Dysfunctional as it may be.”

Tommy and Alfie exchanged one last glare before reluctantly raising their glasses.

“To family,” Alfie muttered, though his eyes never left Tommy.

“To family,” Tommy echoed, his voice dry as ash.

The toast landed like a lead weight, the clinking of glasses little more than the sound of temporary truces. And yet you felt a flicker of triumph low in your belly. After everything that went down, after threats and near bloodshed, you had them both seated at the same fucking table without pulling their guns at the other. You knew the insults would always be there, but still… this was the closest you could be to a family.

The dinner began awkwardly, but as the whiskey began to flow freely, so did the shoulders loosen.

“Well, Alfie,” John drawled, his grin wide and mischievous as he leaned back in his chair. “The man, the myth, the legend. Didn’t think you’d have the bollocks to show up at a Shelby dinner.”

“This one…” He jerked his chin toward you, eyes gleaming with both admiration and amusement. “She’s got a knack, right? Twists a man’s arm without ever liftin’ a finger. Fuckin’ lethal, she is.”

“Twists a man’s arm or breaks his back,” John quipped, his grin wide. “Which, by the way, mate, I’m still strugglin’ to figure out how someone your age managed to, y’know, put a little one in her. Must’ve been a fluke.”

The table erupted into laughter, and you felt your cheeks burn as Alfie barked a laugh of his own.

“Ohhh, Johnny boy,” Alfie drawled, leaning forward, voice oily and smug. “You ever seen a bull past his prime, mate? Still fucks like thunder, doesn’t he? You think it’s a fluke, do ya? Nah, mate. That’s heritage, yeah? That’s lineage. Generations of Solomons. You won’t find stronger swimmers unless you dip your bollocks in the Thames and pray for divine intervention.”

You kicked him under the table, mortified, but Alfie only smirked, popping a piece of bread into his mouth as the entire table roared. He was impossible. Completely, delightfully impossible.

John snorted, lifting his glass with a grin that bordered on scandalous. “Well fuck me, old man’s got some kick left in him.”

As the night wore on, the barbs and jokes gave way to something softer. Alfie was still loud and impossible, but he made Arthur laugh so hard he choked on his drink, traded insults with Polly that left even her smiling, and somehow managed to charm Ada.

You watched him with something between awe and disbelief, the way he fit himself into this jagged puzzle of a family like he was always meant to be there.

Alfie behaved—for a bit. Ate with a knife and fork. Mostly. Chewed like a man forcing civility down with each bite. But beneath the table, his hand had other plans.

You felt it creep to your thigh, fingers rough and warm, dragging up the side of your leg with infuriating slowness. A warning. A promise. A test. You cleared your throat, shifting your legs, but his grip only tightened, thumb brushing maddeningly close to the seam of your underwear.

“You sittin’ there all proper, yeah? All neat and nice in that fuckin’ dress like you don’t know it’s killing me? That’s cruel, darlin’. That’s fuckin’ warfare, that is.”

“You’re at my brother’s table, Alfie.”

“I know exactly where the fuck I am,” he muttered, eyes fixed on you like a man possessed. “Right here, under your brother’s nose, with my hand halfway to heaven and my cock beggin’ for mercy.” His hand crept higher, fingertips brushing dangerously close to where you were now clenching around nothing.

“Then behave.”

“That dress, yeah?” His voice dropped even lower, “It’s murderin’ me. Gonna be the death of me. Hope you’ve got a fuckin’ black veil ready.”

You didn’t dare look at him. “Eat your roast, Alfie.”

“Can’t eat,” he said matter-of-factly. “Got a hard-on so big, I’m surprised the fuckin’ tablecloth ain’t risin’.”

Yo nearly dropped your fork.

He leaned in close—closer than necessary—his breath hot at your ear, his beard tickling your neck.

“I’ll behave,” he promised, low and wicked. “But after this, yeah? You’re sittin’ on my cock in the car. Legs wide, skirt up, not a single scrap between us but the sound of you moanin’ like a bloody hymn. My hands on your tits—big fuckin’ tits, yeah?—and you’re gonna take it like you owe me somethin’.”

Your face burned so hot you thought it might peel the paint off the walls.

Alfie, the bastard, was delighted.

Tommy’s voice sliced through your haze. “You alright?”

You cleared your throat, nodding too quickly. “Fine.”

Alfie popped a bite of roast into his mouth, chewing slow and smug. “She’s just eager to leave, ain’t she?” he said, voice syrupy with fake innocence. “Knows what’s waitin’ in the backseat, don’t she?”

“Alfie,” you hissed under your breath.

“What?!” Alfie barked, throwing his hands up in full theatrical disbelief. “We’re all bloody adults here, ain’t we? I’m givin’ her a compliment, right? That’s all. She’s divine, this one. Fuckin’ divine. Walks into a room and the walls start sweatin’. Can’t blame me for sufferin’ a bit.”

Tommy’s jaw locked, the muscle ticking in his cheek. “Keep your compliments off my fuckin’ dinner table.”

“Yeah, well that’ll be difficult now, won’t it, mate?” Alfie said, voice bright and bold. “She’s sittin’ right fuckin’ next to me. And I happen to like where she is.”

Tommy stared him down. “Not excited to hear the details about you sleepin’ with my sister.”

Alfie snorted. “Mate, I’m not sleepin’,” he said, casually reaching for another piece of bread. “You seen her? Ain’t no fuckin’ sleep happenin’. She’s like a fever dream with legs. Keeps a man up all night beggin’ for salvation.”

You kicked him under the table—hard.

Alfie didn’t even flinch. His smirk grew into something feral, victorious. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you, and he’d double it just for the thrill.

The table buzzed with tension, amusement, and the kind of dangerous energy that came right before someone either kissed or threw a punch.

And Alfie? He just chewed his bread like a king at a feast, hand still claiming your thigh like territory he’d conquered.

The front door barely shut behind you before Alfie had you pinned against it.

The slam echoed like punctuation to the hunger in his eyes—his body caging yours, heat rolling off him in waves. His chest heaved, breath ragged as his hands slammed flat against the wood on either side of your head, trapping you.

“Upstairs. Now.” His voice was a low growl, thick with something primal. He didn’t wait. Just grabbed your hand—hot, rough, shaking with restraint—and hauled you through the hallway like a man possessed.

The moment you reached the bedroom, he turned on you.

“Get on the bed,” he rasped, already tugging his shirt over his head. “Let me see you.”

You backed toward the edge of the mattress, breath short, heart hammering, the look in his eyes making your knees weak.

You sat, slowly, spreading your knees apart just enough to tease, your dress riding up over your thighs. Alfie stood at the foot of the bed, his chest rising and falling like he’d run miles, one hand working at his belt, the other dragging through his beard.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered when he looked at you—really looked. “You know what you do to me lookin’ like that? Open for me with my fuckin’ baby in you?”

He tore the belt open, the buckle clattering to the floor. “All glowy an’ soft and full. S’drivin’ me outta my fuckin’ mind.” His voice cracked, throat thick with reverence and lust, eyes wide with something close to awe.

You didn’t have time to answer. He was on you. Lips crashing into yours like a man drowning, drinking you in with starved desperation.

“All night I’m sittin’ there watchin’ you—dress clingin’ to your belly, tits heavy, eyes on me like you knew exactly what you were doin’. You tryin’ to fuckin’ kill me?”

His mouth was on yours, kissing you like he needed you to breathe, hands everywhere. One gripped the back of your neck, the other palmed your belly with such aching reverence it made your throat tighten, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real—like worshiping something divine.

“Look at you,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to pant against your mouth. “So fuckin’ perfect. So round. Every part of you just beggin’ to be touched.”

He pushed you down onto your back, and hauled over you like a man possessed, settling between your legs, his mouth already working at your breast the second your bra was off.

His eyes drinking in every inch of you like you were the altar and he the worst kind of worshipper.

“These fuckin’ tits, swollen with milk already—Christ.” He cupped them, heavy and tender in his hands, thumbing your nipples until you whimpered. “So heavy for me now, yeah? Full and achin’. Like they know I’m gonna be suckin’ from ‘em every night.”

His thumbs rolled over your nipples with maddening slowness, watching your body shudder beneath him with unspoken satisfaction.

“Look at how they bounce when you breathe,” he muttered, voice thick with hunger. “Beggin’ for my mouth. My tongue.”

You moaned, arching into him, back bowing as he suckled at your breast like a man starved. His lips sealed around you with heat and pressure, drawing moans from deep in your chest, as if he could taste the shift in your body’s purpose.

“Could suck on these for hours,” he muttered, mouth already descending, tongue dragging over one aching bud. “Bet they’re sensitive, eh? Bet you like bein’ touched like this now.”

He latched harder, like he meant to draw every drop out of you, slurping noisily, tongue flicking over your nipple until it was red and glistening. His beard scratched at your skin, rough and possessive.

“You were leakin’ this morning,” he muttered, thumbing your nipple. “Nearly lost my fuckin’ mind. Want you like that again. Want milk in my mouth, my beard wet with it.”

You groaned as he licked a slow circle around your nipple, then sucked hard—drawing the softest taste from you with a guttural sound of approval.

“Fuckin’ sweet,” he groaned. “You were made for this. To be fucked, bred, worshipped. Gonna suck you dry one day, love. Gonna fuck you full while I drink from your tits, taste both ends of you at once.”

He let go of your nipple and dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed. Hands ran up your thighs, thumbs dragging up the insides until he reached your soaked underwear. He hooked a finger under the band and dragged them down, slow, keeping his eyes locked on yours the whole time. His breath hit your skin in hot, heavy bursts, lips parted like he was praying silently before a feast.

“Gonna worship this wet little cunt tonight,” he muttered, voice nearly broken with hunger. “Swear to God, gonna make you cum so hard you see stars.”

You whimpered his name, lifting your hips to help him, desperate for friction, for anything. Your thighs trembled as the cool air hit your slick folds, your body open, throbbing, already soaked just from the way he looked at you.

“You carryin’ life in you, and I still wanna fuck you into the fuckin’ mattress. What does that say about me, eh?”

“Says you’re a depraved old bastard,” you breathed, fingers threading into his hair.

“You carry it so good. You know that?” He looked up at you, eyes dark and full of something between worship and possession. “Tits full, belly round, cunt hot all the time—fuckin’ miracle, innit?”

He leaned forward and kissed your belly first. Soft. Devout. Then he dragged his tongue down over the curve of your skin, over your hip, and into the wet heat between your thighs. One lick, two—and you were already shaking.

His tongue parted you, slow and deliberate, licking from your hole to your clit with a long, obscene groan. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he muttered. “Your cunt’s fuckin’ singin’ to me, love.”

He groaned into your cunt like it fed him, mouth sealing over your folds with reverence, filth, and fire. The sensation was overwhelming—slick heat, obscene sounds, and the slow swirl of his tongue on your cunt that had your whole body locking up with need.

“Tastes sweeter now,” he groaned, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your swollen lips. “Your body knows, yeah? Knows it’s mine. Knows what it was fuckin’ made for.”

He sucked on your clit, loud and messy, pulling lewd little noises from your soaked flesh. “Fuck, you’re clenchin’ already,” he growled. “Like your cunt’s tryin’ to pull my tongue in deeper.”

He fucked you with his mouth like he meant it, like he’d die with your scent in his nose and your taste coating his tongue. Your hands twisted in his hair, moaning as he feasted like a man starving, the sounds vulgar and wet and perfect.

His tongue circled your clit with practiced filth, then sucked it between his lips, groaning into you. Your hips jerked but he held you still, thick arms locking around your thighs.

You thrashed beneath him, pleasure flashing hot and high, but he pinned you down like a predator savoring his kill.

“That’s it, treacle,” he murmured, breath hot against your folds. “Cum on my fuckin’ face—give me everythin’. Want it all, yeah?”

You shattered with a cry, hips arching off the bed, thighs trembling against his shoulders. The orgasm hit you like a wave, pulling sound from your throat you didn’t recognize, stars bursting behind your eyelids.

He held you through it, never stopping, licking you through every aftershock until you begged him to stop— but he didn’t. Not yet.

“Alfie—fuck—can’t—”

“Yes you can.” His voice was raw, ragged, wrecked with the kind of need that bordered on madness.

He pulled back finally, mouth wet, eyes blazing. His beard was matted with slick, chin shiny with the proof of how hard you’d cum.

He pulled down his pants and underwear at the speed of light and climbed up the bed, kneeling between your thighs, undressed and painfully hard, cock flushed and leaking.

His cock throbbed in his fist, flushed an angry red, veins bulging. The tip was slick, resting against your belly like he needed to mark you everywhere, he leaned down to kiss you again. You could feel it throb against your skin, searing heat, a promise of what was to come.

“Feel that?” he rasped, hips rolling as he dragged the thick, leaking head of his cock through your slick folds, grinding it slow and punishing against your clit before nudging down to your soaked entrance. “That’s need, love. That’s the kind of cock that doesn’t care you’re already full. Doesn’t care you’re stretched and stuffed. It wants to go deeper. Wants to fuck you to the womb.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling as your fingers gripped his shoulders, nails sinking into his skin. “Please, Alfie—inside. Now.”

“Look at this,” he breathed, cupping your stomach. “You carryin’ my fuckin’ child. My legacy. And you’re still the filthiest little thing I’ve ever known.”

He lined himself up, teasing the head of his cock against your soaked entrance. “I’m gonna fuck you slow first,” he said, dragging the tip just inside, watching your face twist in need. “Real slow. Wanna feel you stretch around me. Wanna watch your pretty tits bounce while you moan my fuckin’ name.”

You nearly sobbed when he pushed in—inch by inch, thick and unforgiving, until he was buried inside you, panting into your neck.

He groaned like it hurt. “Fuck, you’re tight—so tight now. Hotter too. That’s the pregnancy, innit? Your body knows it’s mine. Clings to me like it knows I put that baby there.”

“More, Alfie—” you sobbed, one hand clawing at his back, the other fisting the sheets. “More, please—”

“You feel that?” he rasped, voice wrecked with awe. “That’s me. All of me. Deep where I fuckin’ live now, innit? Right up against your womb—fuckin’ home now, yeah?”

You nodded, moaning against his shoulder. He thrusted once—hard, deep, slow—and you screamed.

“I’m in there already, buried so deep in this cunt,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to yours. “Laid the claim. Fuckin’ planted there. And now you’re carryin’ it. You’re mine, love. All the way.”

“Alfie—”

“Shh. Just let me fuckin’ feel it.”

He didn’t move, just held himself there, buried deep, letting your cunt flutter around him, adjust to the stretch, feel it all. Then he rocked—just a little. Slow. Rolling his hips until you gasped.

His rhythm was slow, deep. “Gonna fuck you soft, yeah? Real soft. But deep. Deep like I’m fuckin’ etchin’ my name in your womb.”

He rolled his hips again. Slow. Deep. One slow thrust that made you gasp, then another that had you clutching his shoulders.

“Every time I’m inside you now,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours, “I’m talkin’ to it. To them. Gonna make sure they know who I am, right? Who you belong to. From the fuckin’ start.”

The stretch burned, sweet and brutal, as if it was your first time all over again, your body yielding around him with aching slowness, every inch making your breath hitch.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned. “So warm. So full of me already, yeah? I can feel it. Can feel how different you are now. Grippin’ me tighter. Like your cunt knows I’m the one who knocked you up.”

His hips rolled more now, grinding thrusts that had you clawing at his back. You dug your nails in, dragged red lines across his skin, every movement pulling a needy moan from your lips.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the backs of his thighs to urge him deeper. He obliged, growling.

“You want it deep, yeah?” His voice was ragged. “Want me fuckin’ that pretty little hole like I’m tryna put another one in you?”

You cried out—words lost to pleasure, head thrown back. He grabbed your thighs, pulled your legs up over his shoulders, shifting deeper, angling until you cried out and clenched hard around him.

“That’s it,” he grunted. “Give it to me. You take me so fuckin’ good, every time. Knocked up and still hungry for cock, yeah?”

You whimpered, nodding, breathless. “Y-Yes, Alfie.”

“Yeah, you like the sound of that. Takin’ cock like a good little mum. My fuckin’ girl. All round and swollen and—”

He was groaning now, nearly lost in it, sweat beading at his temple, eyes locked on the bounce of your tits, the movement of your belly. He looked ruined, feral—his body pounding into yours like it was the only way to stay sane.

“Makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind,” he groaned, grabbing your hips, pushing your legs higher. “Can feel your cunt suckin’ me in like it wants another load. That it, love? You want more? Want me to fill you up again, right while our baby’s inside you?”

He started thrusting harder, faster, the headboard slamming against the wall. His hands found your tits, heavy and swollen, and he groaned into your mouth as he palmed them greedily.

“So big,” he panted. “So soft. Taste like fuckin’ honey, they do.”

He leaned down and took a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and you swore you nearly came again.

“Mine,” he snarled against your skin. “Every fuckin’ inch of you. Mine to love. Mine to fuck. Mine to keep.”

He grabbed your hips harder, anchoring himself. “You wanna cum? You want your husband to make you cum on his cock like a good girl?”

You nodded, tears in your eyes, body too close to the edge.

“Then fuckin’ cum for me, darlin’,” he growled. “Cum while I fill you again, yeah? Fuckin’ perfect little wife.”

And then his hand—hot, wide, filthy—slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with terrifying precision. He rubbed in cruel, devastating circles, slick with your wetness, pressing just right, just hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

Your second orgasm tore through you like lightning—loud and shaking and too much. Your walls clenched around him and he lost it, roaring into your shoulder as he came, deep and endless, hips jerking wildly, flooding you.

His release was brutal and overwhelming, his whole body shuddering against you, the weight of it anchoring you both in something beyond words. His cock pulsing and spilling inside you like he was trying to breed you all over again.

He stayed there, buried deep, chest heaving, forehead resting against yours. His hand cradled your belly, thumb stroking over the curve of it like it was the most precious thing he’d ever touched.

“Never loved anythin’ more,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You, this—our baby. You make me fuckin’ feral, treacle. You know that?”

You stroked his back, his hair, pressing kisses to his temple as he finally started to calm. He didn’t pull out. Didn’t move. Just stayed locked to you, hand between your thighs, keeping every drop inside.

You lay there together, tangled in heat and sweat and sated silence. His hand rested protectively over your belly, thumb stroking slow circles as he caught his breath.

“Don’t think I’ve ever loved you more than I do right now,” he murmured. “You—all soft and full and mine. Gonna spend the rest of my life fuckin’ worshippin’ you, I swear it.”

You felt full in every sense—body, heart, soul—like the universe had collapsed to just this bed, this man, this love.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Strongest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen. Carryin’ a life in there. Carryin’ me, in a way, too.”

You blinked, the words catching somewhere in your throat. “You soft bastard.”

He looked up with a crooked smile. “Told you I ain’t soft, just possessive.”

He pulled the covers over both of you, dragging you into his chest with a grunt of satisfaction. One arm tucked around your shoulders, the other around your middle, hand still splayed over your belly.

“Oi,” he murmured finally, voice a low rumble in your ear. “You feel that?”

You nodded, not knowing if he meant his cock, his hands, the way your pulse was still racing—or all of it at once.

“That’s fuckin’ peace, that is,” he muttered, nose nudging against your shoulder. “Fuckin’ perfect,” he whispered against you. “Better than any deal, better than money, better than a whole empire full of posh cunts tryin’ to talk in circles. I’d trade all of it for this, right? Just this. You. Me. And that little thing you’ve got brewin’ inside you.”

“I think this little thing’s gonna be a boy,” you whispered after a while.

He hummed. “Yeah? That your sixth sense talkin’?”

“Mm-hmm. He’s gonna be loud. Just like his dad.”

That made him laugh, a warm rumble that vibrated through your back. “God help us both, then.”

You smiled against his skin. “You’ll be good with him.”

Alfie was quiet a beat too long. Then: “I’m gonna try. Try real fuckin’ hard, treacle. He’ll never go without. Not while I’m breathin’.”

“I know.”

“Gonna be good, I will,” he muttered. “For you. And ‘im. Or her. Or whatever the fuck we made. Long as it’s got your bloody eyes.”

His head dipped again—and this time, instead of mouthing at your tits like a feral thing, he just… rested there. Face pressed between them, beard scratching against your sensitive skin. His breathing slowed. Deepened.

Even in sleep, he held you there. As if some part of him—mad, possessive, and utterly yours—never truly shut off.

And you let him.

Because for all the filth and madness, the chaos and clawing need, Alfie Solomons was yours too.

And this? This was his version of love.

Epilogue

He stood in the nursery doorway like a man lost at sea, one large, calloused hand cradling something impossibly small and warm against his chest. The soft knit blanket—cream-colored, handmade, stitched with love and trembling hope—was wrapped tightly around the little bundle, only the top of his dark hair and the faintest trace of his nose visible beneath it.

And fuck, he was so small.

“Right, now, listen ‘ere,” he muttered under his breath, voice thick. “Didn’t even know they made ‘em this small, yeah? Like—fuck me, you’re not even a full loaf, are ya? Half a bloomin’ baguette, maybe, and already rulin’ my whole fuckin’ life.”

The baby yawned, his little fists flexing against his chest, and Alfie froze like he was made of glass. His heart thudded a little too hard.

“Nah, nah, I got you, alright?” he murmured. “You’re safe. That’s the fuckin’ arrangement, innit? You stay soft and small, and I… I stay close. Always.”

He walked the room in slow, measured steps, careful not to jostle him too much. The nursery was soft and sun-dappled, pale curtains swaying slightly in the breeze. The scent of powder and fresh linen hung in the air, mixed with the faintest trace of you—something warm and sweet that always made him think of home.

You stepped quietly into the room, barefoot, wearing one of his old shirts, eyes bright with exhaustion and affection.

“He settle?” you asked softly.

“Mm. He’s got his claws in me already, that one.” He glanced down at him, and his face changed in a way that still made your throat tighten. “Won’t sleep unless I’m holdin’ him, the little manipulative beast.”

“He’s a newborn, Alfie.”

“Yeah, well. He’s also a criminal mastermind already. I can feel it. Lullin’ me in with the cuteness and all that, but I see it. Fuckin’ schemin’, he is.”

You crossed to him slowly, resting a hand on his back, peering down at the baby nestled against his chest. His mouth was open in the faintest O, his breath coming soft and even. Alfie looked like he might crumble from the weight of him.

“He’s got your scowl,” you murmured.

“Oi. He’s beautiful. Don’t slander the boy already. I’m very expressive, thank you. This face won me wars. Got me outta a few, too.”

“I meant that lovingly.”

You kissed his bicep, and he turned just enough to press a kiss to your temple.

“He’s got your mouth too,” you added. “Your nose. Looks just like you.”

“’Course he looks like his fuckin’ daddy, don’t he?” Alfie said, puffing out his chest like he’d personally handcrafted the child with divine hands. “Strong jaw, big miserable eyes, bit of a frown goin’ already—yeah, that’s me, innit? Poor sod never stood a bloody chance.”

You leaned against him, both of you watching your son sleep. And for a long, quiet moment, everything stilled.

No violence. No fear. No war waiting at the doorstep. Just the three of you, wrapped in the silence of a warm afternoon, a love that had nearly destroyed you both—now rebuilt, tiny and pink and sleeping in Alfie’s arms.

He looked down at him one more time and whispered, “I’ll kill for you, alright? Anyone, anytime. I’ll die for you too, if that’s the ticket. But more than that—look—I’ll live for you, yeah? Which, let me tell ya, is harder some days. But I’ll fuckin’ do it. Every single one.”

And you believed him.

Because for the first time in his life, Alfie Solomons had something worth being soft for.

A/N: As you might know, this is the final part of this series—at least for now. You never know what the future might hold.

I’d truly love to hear your thoughts and opinions on the ending. I hope I didn’t let you down with this last part. I hope it met your expectations and gave the story the closure it deserved.

Thank you so much for sticking with me through it all. Your constant support and kind words have meant the world to me. You’ve made me so happy and inspired me to keep writing. Seriously, thank you.🥹🫶🏻

If you enjoyed it, don’t worry—I’ll be writing more stories for Alfie. And if you’re part of the hardy nation, I’m also writing for Harry Da Souza and planning something for Eddie Brock too. Let me know if you’d be interested in that!

That’s all for now. Thank you so, so, so much. I love you all.🩷

@rach5ive @namelesslosers @meetmeatyourworst @itisjustwhatitis

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

431 notes · View notes