Adult content only! 18+ only please. Dark! There is potentially triggering stories ahead. Non-con/Dubious Consent. Anything else be marked accordingly.
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AO3
If you are looking for long winded garbage, you have come to the right spot. Also my use of commas are atrocious.
wearing this to wander the corridors of a crumbling countryside castle with my vampire lover (who looms a couple shadowy steps behind me to eye my moonlit shoulders)
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as power imbalance, violence, criminal activity, noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Your husband starts working for Tommy Shelby but when he goes missing, you find yourself drawn into the shady business of Birmingham’s most dangerous.
Characters: Tommy Shelby
Note: I think this will be a short series. Or I keep saying so.
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Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
"That's a big yawn, little sir." You say as Charlie's eyes droop. "I think your father might be right. You might be due for bedtime. As I might, if I'm most honest."
"No. If I go to sleep, you'll be gone." He pouts.
"Well 'see each other again." You promise. "But it won't do to lose anymore sleep. Me either. And your father."
He harrumphs and crosses his arms emphatically. You gently pat his shoulder. "How about a bedtime story, then? If Papa permits?"
Shelby shifts, and shrugs. "Course. He's not very fond of mine." He moves closer, brushing against you as he picks up his some. "Come, Charlie Boy, listen to the kind woman and sleep."
Shelby turns to you and gestures you ahead of him. He carries Charlie as he directs you from behind, into the corridor, through to the foyer, and up the grand staircase. Another corridor and several doors, and you reach the boy's room. You stand by the door as he enters and takes Charlie to the bed. It's bigger than your own.
He lays down the boy as he yawns again. You near from the other side. "What would you like to hear? The story of Lancelot or the princess and her kitten?"
"I like kittens." Charlie says.
"Alright, then. But when I'm done, you must sleep." You sit and pull the blanket over him.
"I will." He nods eagerly.
Shelby hovers across from you then slowly sits. You begin. "There was a princess who lived in the forest. Not many knew she was a princess for she'd been hidden there for many years..." You pluck deep into your mind to recall the story of the kitten that leads the princess to the truth. But before you can get to the end, you pause and smile at the sleeping child.
"You have a soothing voice," Shelby intones quietly. "You've almost put me to sleep."
You laugh softly. "Dull, I suppose."
"Musical," he assures. "Like poetry. I'm rather fond of a verse or two."
"Well, I should hate to wake him," you stand cautiously. "And I should be back home. In case Stuart has returned."
Shelby dips his head and exhales. He rises rigidly. "Yes, I suppose, a wife errant so late into the night might worry a man." He bends his arm and tugs his sleeve back to check his very modern wrist watch. "I'll have the car readied."
🖤
You wait at the door with your jacket and hat on, purse in the crook of your elbow. You shield a yawn in your palm and lean forward to peek through the dark slate of window next to the door. It's late. Later than you think you've ever been out. Though, you're not exactly living the high life of the flapper. You're only doing what needs done to keep house and home.
"Right then, I hate to keep you waiting longer." Mr. Shelby appears from behind the grand staircase. "I think you've had quite the day as it were."
"Sir. I... Was expecting Benjamin." You push the tired slump from your shoulders.
"I'm a disappointment?" He teases.
"Not what I meant. Or said." You assure him. "I do appreciate the trouble to take me home."
"No trouble. Not so much as you've gone to." He adjusts his coat.
"Hm. Well, I cannot say that I am not in need of the compensation." You muse.
"But I never offered any for tending my son." He returns.
"He's a good boy. I don't mind." You sway slightly, impatiently.
"Mm, I suppose then we should go. Or it'll be morning and you'll be due back at the kitchen."
"Yes, another busy day." You agree.
You go out to his car. He opens the door for you. You get in and patiently watch him stride in front of the long hood. This isntisthe same car as Benjamin. It's nicer. Luxurious with its leather and wood finish.
He gets in the driver's side and turns the engine through a series of twists and flicks. The headlights cast two yellow beams across the midnight gloom. Fog mists in their aura.
He sets off quietly. You sense the haze of fatigue over you both. Your content in the silence.
You watch the road ahead, sensing as he slows with the thickening condensation of the English eve. You fight to keep from slouching, to keep from drifting. For once, you don't fear a struggle in bed. You could sleep then and there.
The night stirs in the arcs of the headlights. You pass dormant windows and shadowy archways through the city. When he stops on your street, you take a moment to realise.
"Thank you," you make certain you have your purse. "I very much appreciate, Mr. Shelby."
"Not at all." His voice his raspy.
"I do hope you have a safe return." You say.
"And I hope you get a restful sleep." He drawls and leans across the seat to peer past you. "Shall I escort you to the door?"
"Sir, you've done enough. Please. Go be with Charlie."
"As you wish," he relents and sits back.
You sidle across the seat. He reaches over and taps your knee.
"Ah."
You pause and he points up. He lets himself out and swiftly struts around to open your door. He offers his hand to help you onto the cobblestones.
You thank him again. You face him.
"Good night, Mr. Shelby."
"Good night, ma'am." His hand slips off yours. "Until the morning."
🖤
You sleep so heavily, you feel and think nothing. So lost in your unconscious that the buzz of the door chime jars you like a ship on storming tides. You grunt and open your eyes, disoriented with drowsiness.
You blink several times to clear the glaze from your eyes. The buzz comes once more. You sit up. It's still early. You can't slept long at all. The windows are still grim.
You get up and stumble into the hallway. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hands. It could be Mary Lynn, drunk again. You've never judged her for her indulgence but she's never spared you the same.
You get to the door and hide behind it as you unlock it. You pull it open just a little. Your eyes round and you're awake at just the sight of Tommy Shelby.
"Sir?"
"I've a phone call, ma'am. Important business. You'll need to come. Now." He says urgently.
You see the lack of sleep lined around his eyes, shadowed in the deep sockets.
"What is it?" You let go of the door and it falls a bit wider.
"I think..." His eyes skim you. "You should dress."
You blanch and look down. You're in your shift and nothing else. The linen is worn enough that some parts are starting to turn sheer.
"Apologies. Let me... Sir, come in." You beckon him inside and quickly flit away.
His soles click onto the scratched hardwood. The door shuts with a snap. You retreat to find a proper dress and set yourself right.
You hide in the bedroom and put on the brown dress with the flattened pleats. You sit to roll up your stockings. You take only seconds to battle your reflection.
You come out, apologising again. Then you stop short. It can only be one thing.
"Stuart?" You gulp.
"Ma'am. I've got a call from the station."
"The station?" You eke out.
"Perhaps it is best we go down and hear it straight from them," he suggests.
"Perhaps," you agree uneasily.
You search for a semblance of certainty in yourself. It takes a moment before you can figure what to do next. Cost. Shoes.
He lingers close as you dress for the weather. You pull on a wool cap. You face him and clap your hands down to your side.
"Ready... I think."
"Yes, ma'am. This way."
He opens the door and let you out first. The world around you is foggy for more than the rainy aftermath. Your ears pound and your heartbeat radiates to your fingertips.
It could be alright. Maybe they found Stuart doing something foolish. Gambling as he does. It might be he just needs a night in a cell to sober up.
You're sat in the car before you can even register getting in. You wring your hands as Shelby drives. It'll be fine. It has to be.
He cranks the gears and the car halts. You jerk and look up. You glance over at the precinct. You've never been in one though you always feared it. With the husband you have...
Mr. Shelby walks you in the front door. He's like your shadow. He greets an officer in a helmet with a club on his waist.
“This is her.” Shelby says and you wince. You look at him.
“Ma’am, I’m Corporal Hensen. So sorry ta bring ya here like this. We believe we’ve found your husband.” He says.
“My… Husband?”
“Not sure yet but we’d appreciate if ya might have a look and let us know.”
“A look?” All you can do is repeat his words as your head refuses to accept them.
You nod. Corporal Hensen tells you to go with him but your feet don’t move. There’s a weight on your back urging you forward. Mr. Shelby’s hand.
You follow the officer through the corridors. There are others in uniforms, men in shackles scowling in chairs or held by their arms. On and on you go until you’re taken into a desolate room.
There you’re faced with a shrouded slab. A figure hidden behind a sheet. An unmoving lump once full of life. A man in a white coat awaits you and nods to Shelby and Hensen.
“Ma’am, we… have found a body and hoped you might be able to identify him.” He prompts.
You frown. “How could I…” you begin. You know what they mean, but you want so badly not to understand.
Again, Mr. Shelby urges you forward with that small touch on your back. As you near the table, the doctor pulls the sheet back. You stare down at the grey face unveiled from beneath the cotton.
You can’t move. You can’t think. You have to be asleep still. You move your hand to your wrist and pinch. Wake up.
How many times did you curse your husband? How many times did you wish him gone? You should feel bad for his fate and yet, you don’t feel anything at all. You only feel bad for that.
“That is Stuart Wilbur Cress.” You state. “My husband.”
🖤
“Ma’am,” Mr. Shelby says as he escorts you once more to his car. “I’ll take you home now.”
“Home? No. I believe we’re overdue at The Garrison–”
“Ma’am. Don’t you worry about service. We can–”
“I am worried, sir.” You insist plainly. “I’ve a job to do.”
He watches you. He’s hard to read. “I could walk. Or find a tram–”
“No, ma’am, it is only that… Stuart–”
“You found him. What else is there to worry for?” You say.
“He’s dead–”
“So he is.” You utter. “It means I must work my way on my own now. So, let us go and do so.”
He hesitates but acquiesces. He opens the door and gently holds your elbow as you get in. You sit and stare at the road; the people crossing back and forth, the tires spinning by, the horses clomping over the stones. So much life all around; it never stops, not even for death.
The ride is quick. You think. Time doesn’t mean much to you.
You enter The Garrison ahead of Mr. Shelby. Ruth has already begun on the sausage rolls and Dierdre is showing the early birds to their tables. You put on the kettle and ready a pot for brew. Shelby lingers at the edge of the kitchen.
You go through it without a thought. Toasted buns; sizzling back bacon; eggs flipped one after the other. You wipe your face with your sleeve as the timer erupts. You open the stove and take out the hot pan of rolls.
It isn’t until you put them down that you feel the burn. That you realise you’ve not used a cloth to do so. You stop and stare at your smoldering palms. You shake but don’t make a noise.
“Dammit,” Shelby startles you as he grabs your wrist and tugs you away from the counter. He turns you around to the sink as he turns the faucet. Water sprays out and he guides your hand beneath the cooling stream. “Are you alright?”
You watch the water as it spreads over your burnt skin. So what? You’re hurt but still alive. Just a burn. Could be worse. Could be dead like Stuart.
“Ma’am, ma’am,” Shelby grits. “I think you should go home.”
You look at him. “I don’t. I think I should wrap my hands and get back to my job.”
