Forbidden Alliances // Alfie Solomons Peaky Blinders

(55) The Strangest Pillowtalk

*edited 03/10/23*

When Freya finally moved to crawl off of Alfie's body, she turned toward the fire and pulled her dress up her waist. She pulled the sleeves over her arms which were coated in invisible remnants of Alfie's kisses.

She could hear Alfie shifting in his seat as she was turned away from him, running her hand over her arm. She held the dress against her chest to keep it from tumbling down her body with the buttons open and unclasped at her back.

Her head turned as Alfie's hands went out to her elbows, gliding his fingers up her forearms and clasping his hands over her own. He placed a kiss on her cheek and earned himself a smile of appreciation.

"Do you mind?" she asked innocently, motioning to the buttons of her dress.

His hands trailed down her arms and found the fabric at the bottom of her spine. The sound of the fire raising its arms with a chant went harmoniously with Alfie's breathing. The feeling of her dress being buttoned by this big, 'scary' man was pleasing to Freya.

He was Alfred Solomons II, a World War I veteran, a captain with four years of service under his belt, Jewish gang leader, jeweler, and distillery owner of Camden Town. This man had many dangerous dealings and yet with her, he was a delicate man. He was a loving man, a caregiver, a worshipper.

He wasn't Alfred Solomons II to her, he was only Alfie.

Alfie, who liked to talk a whole lot and make himself seem bigger and badder than he truly was.

Alfie, who kept her dagger's tip in the surface of his desk at work as a small reminder of who she was.

Alfie, who read fictional literature and wasn't afraid to recite his favorite quotes when she was around.

Alfie, who had these calloused hands and scarred knuckles but insisted on meeting her skin with passion and elegance like she were made of glass and would shatter under intense pressure.

Alfie, who hid the lightest parts of himself under a dark exterior.

Alfie, who experienced terrible discrimination as a child. Alfie, who refused to use his power to do the exact thing that broke that little boy he used to be all those years ago.

Alfie, who felt on a strong and passionate level that only few would ever be able to comprehend.

Alfie.

Alfie, this broad, strong, daunting man—half naked and buttoning her dress with a careful hand. This violent, confusing, and dominant man held her in his grasp with a gentle touch, an undeniable reverence for the strength this woman held; not only in the shadows of society but over him as a man. She held this power over him that he wasn't sure if she was even aware of.

He was convinced this woman could ask him to kill anyone in the world and he would do so without a second thought.

"Tell me," he grunted into her ear as his fingers looped in the last button at the backside of her neck. "When will the wanting stop?" he sighed, running his hands into her hair and looping the strands around his index and middle fingers.

Freya's skin began to burn with want. Alfie's fingers slid the two pins at her skull free, lifting the hair just above it to see the deep red scar forming at the center of it all.

The hair had begun to grow back but very slowly as the stitches were now gone. He dropped the hair in his hand and began to gather all of her locks more confidently. Both his hands began working at the loose strands cascading down her back in the manner a quilter would approach a new bedspread.