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Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Tommy Shelby, maid!reader
Summary: you’ve adapted to your employer’s moods, but you don’t realise how attached he’s become to you .
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
You stand near the stove and hold out your hands. A lantern glows behind you as the brazier radiates the only warmth in the frigid night. Mr. Shelby sits on a stool nearby, snapping his cigarette case open and closed.
“Hen, you want me to listen and now you say nothing." He intones.
You drop your arms and fold your hands. You inhale and shift, not quite looking at him as you stay close to the stove. You nod.
“I've thought a lot but I've still some to do," you say. You sniff and watch the amber glow through the stove door.
He shuts the case and tucks it away. “We can go… speak where it is warm.”
“Mr. Shelby. I want you to tell me why I left.” You ignore his none-so-subtle suggestion.
He tilts his head and stares at you. His cheeks tauten and his brows lift. He sits up straight.
“You were not of the mind to tend your wifely duties–”
“Sir, I am unhappy with you but I know you are not stupid.” You snip. "I am trying to resolve this and you continue to thwart me.”
He clucks and shrugs. “You wish me to beg forgiveness.”
“I wish you to understand, or try to understand, my perspective. I've strived to know yours yet you cannot be bothered to do more than try to mute my person with gifts and touches and–”
“I’ve done all I should as a husband,” he retorts.
You shift and cross your arms. “Shall we continue at stalemate?”
“You did not say you were going,” he says.
“And you did not ask to read my private thoughts.” You toss back. “How could I have stayed after that? Did you marry me only to demean me? To denigrate me down to nothing more than another possession?”
“I married you because…” He pauses and drops his face down. He drags his hands over this forehead and cheeks. He stares at the floor then sits up. “I meant every word I said before. I do value you, hen. I cherish you. I admire you. More now than ever.”
He exhales and stands up. His arms hang heavily as he turns to pace. He shakes his head. “You are twisting my arm.”
“Only because you’ve made me.”
“So I have,” he stops before the window, the moonlight limning one side of his silhouette. “You left me on the floor on my knees. Drunk, a mess. I confess it. I would not have wanted to be around me.” He opens and closes his fist. “And you stayed gone. You eluded me.”
He angles around so you can see his profile. “You avoided your parents because you knew I’d go there. You went to the bank and took out some notes. You were all about town and I was made to know it.” He faces you completely. “You showed me, hen, what you are. You showed yourself to be my wife. Mrs. Shelby.”
He strides toward you and stops right in front of you. He takes a deep breath and grabs your hands. The fire flickers behind you. He lowers himself to his knees and you look down at him.
“Forgive me, hen. I did not act as your husband should. I beg of you. I am sorry.” He kisses your knuckles, each and every one. “You have made me hurt. To the bone.” He guides your hands to the sides of his head. “Please, forgive me. Hold me. I am cold without you.”
You look down at him and weigh his words. More than that, you weigh the moment. You could never expect this. You wanted to punish him any way you could, even if it wasn’t much at all. Even if you regretted it after.
But you think you did more than that. Going any further, is dangerous, not only for yourself.
You brush your thumbs along the shaved sides of his head. He leans into you, turning to rest his head against your stomach. You wrap your arms around him.
“Do you forgive me, hen?” he hooks his arms around your waist. “Please tell me you do.”
You look down at his dark hair. You play with a few of the long strands. “I will try. You understand, I remain sore.” You close your eyes as they sting. “I loved– love my brother very much. You tried to make him a weapon against me.”
“I didn’t know…” he murmurs.
“Now you do. And I know a few things myself.”
You lift your head to stare at the window as he stays like that. His warmth swathes around you. The night ripples through the glass. It isn’t an easy peace, but a truce you can agree to.
🚬
“We can still go home,” Mr. Shelby says as you pull back the covers.
“It’s late and it’s not so bad in here,” you argue as you sit and lift your legs onto the bed.
He clucks as he nears and the mattress dips with his weight on the opposite side. You slide under the blankets and yawn. Your husband mirrors you reluctantly. The house will be better once the renovations are complete. You know now to expect impatience from the man beside you.
“It does remind me of our wedding day,” he rolls onto his side.
“Mm, yes,” you agree sleepily.
The blankets ripple and he brushes his hand up your arm. “I thought of it… when we were apart. Did you?”
You put your hand on his. “We’re both tired.”
“Are we?” He sidles closer and purrs. He trails his nose along your cheek.
“Yes,” you insist as he slips free of your grasp and snakes his arm across you.
“I’ve missed you, hen. Even just to have you close.” He clings to you and nestles his head on your pillow. “That is all I desire in this moment. Told you near.”
You close your eyes. “Yes, Mr. Shelby.”
He hums. “Mrs. Shelby,” he kisses your temple.”
🚬
You wake first. Sleep has never been a close companion. You never were allotted many hours so you learned to live on what you could. As many things in life. You make due.
Perhaps it is why you and your husband do not see the world the same way. He hasn’t had to in a very long time. Yet, there will always be those who do. Fortune should not inspire apathy.
You sit up and shiver. The brazier has burnt out. You can see your breath. Before you can stand, the tickle on your back sends another roll up your spine.
“You sneak away once more?” Mr. Shelby intones.
You look over your shoulder, “you accuse me… once more?”
He keeps his fingers on you, swirling them on your undershirt. “I am talking to you. As you wish.”
“So you are,” you sniff and turn your head straight. “I only mean to get the day started. Janic and his men will return to continue their repairs. Mitchell as well. I should go to fetch bread from the bakery since I could not prepare any. And some other staples…”
“You are far too busy.” He grabs your hand.
“Those men work hard. I wouldn’t want to waste their time.”
He clings to you, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “You make me feel neglected.”
“Sir,” you turn and put your hand over his. “I should have something to keep me busy in this life you chose for me.”
His brows furrow and he sits up. “Is that how you feel? You did not choose this? You didn’t choose me?”
You stare at him. “You are Thomas Shelby. I didn’t choose that. I didn’t choose what you are. You did.”
“What am I?” He challenges.
“I’m still figuring that out, sir.”
He snorts. “Me too.” He pushes the blankets down and jostles across the bed to sit next to you. “Say my name again.”
“Mr. Shelby.”
“No, you said it then. Except… everyone does call me Tommy. Thomas is for the priests.” He rasps.
“Mr. Shelby,” you repeat and stroke the back of his hand.
He inhales and lets it out heavily. “Hen.” You look at him. He grins. He leans in slowly. “You drive me mad.”
“It isn’t very hard to do, I think.” You return.
He chuckles and recoils, as if he’s shocked. He tilts his head. “You are…witty. I never knew it. I never bothered to realise it.” He leans in again and brings his hand up along your neck, tracing along your throat. “You see, I’m figuring you out too.”
Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Tommy Shelby, maid!reader
Summary: you’ve adapted to your employer’s moods, but you don’t realise how attached he’s become to you .
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
The cold air stirs the tails of Mr. Shelby’s jacket. He stands staunchly, one hand around his other wrist, jaw set, eyes as icy as the temperature. You don’t falter.
“Well, there is plenty work to go around,” you say at last. “Only about an hour left of daylight–”
“Work?” He scoffs. “Hen.”
You tilt your head subtly and lift your brows. “You’ve come to help, yes? You did say this old place would need some updating–”
“Hen,” he steps closer and lowers his chin. “This isn’t about the house.”
You stare back at him without emotion. The turmoil storming in your stomach makes it hard to be still but you must. There are many things in life you’ve done simply because you’ve must. One stands right across from you.
“Mrs. Shelby,” Mitchell trods up to stand next to you. “Anything I can assist with?”
“Boy,” Mr. Shelby scowls as his eyes flick over to the young man. “You can mind your business.”
“Yes, find Mr. Shelby some work gloves and a hammer–”
“Hen,” Shelby repeats for a third time. He steps even closer and Mitchell bristles. He moves with Mr. Shelby and puts his shoulder between the two of you.
“Mr. Shelby, they need help with the hatch–” Mitchell begins.
“Get away from me, boy,” Shelby growls.
“If you’re not here to lend a hand, then you best go back home,” You gently touch Mitchell’s arm and nudge him away. “I’ll attend to my husband. Go.”
“You will,” Shelby rasps meanly.
You blink calmly. Mitchell lingers. “Go on,” you assure him.
“I’ll be near,” the young man promises.
You listen to him trod off before you address the man in front of you. “I’ve got work to do, Mr. Shelby, so if you are not inclined–”
“Hen,” he blusters and throws a hand up. He extends his fingers in frustration then puts his hand to the side of his head. He scratches the edge of the longer shanks on top. “Hen…” he repeats as he looks you up and down. His throat bobs as he thinks. “You’re in trousers.”
“Better for labour.” You return evenly.
“Would you just–” He snarls into a choke. His words evaporate with his breath as he gapes and narrows his eyes. He leans to see past you. “Art? Defected, I see?”
You twist to see Shelby’s brother, picking at the basket of baked goods, his clothes disheveled from his work. He cradles a scone before his mouth and blanches.
You face Shelby again. “He’s been helping me. Your wife.” You insist.
“My wife,” Shelby hisses. “Yes, my wife. Who has been errant for over a week. Who has not called or shown hair or hide. Who in this moment deflects me and refuses to speak of the matter at hand–”
“Mr. Shelby,” you step closer this time, defiant as you keep your head up. “If you wish to have this conversation right here, with all these spectators, so we will.” You push your short coat back and brace your hips. “Or you can come help your wife with the gift you so generously gave her on your wedding day.”
His eyes blaze hotly as his cheeks draw. The play of affront and frustration is underlines by a hint of confusion. His lips thin and his brows arch. He dips his chin once.
“Right, then, show me what needs done,” he waves past you in exasperation.
“Very much indeed,” you reply as you spin on your heel and strut ahead of him.
He follows with measured steps, a sigh escaping him. The men around you peek over but do not stop. Your husband snorts, “Michael.”
His cousin passes by with an evasive nod, “Tommy.”
Mr. Shelby rumbles with discontent but says nothing further. Your heart flutters nervously. You have a shield from his fury for at least a few hours or so.
🚬
“Thank you, Janic,” you shake the foreman’s hand as he stands by his truck. “You’ll be back tomorrow, yes?”
“Weather permitting,” he affirms.
“Course,” you agree as you let him go and back up to watch the grand exodus.
Horses, carts, and automobiles roll down the winding street, disappearing into the obscurity setting over the barren trees. Only a few linger. You turn to look up at the house. It’s coming along better than you could foresee. Of course, you’ve never done anything like this.
“Ma’am,” Mitchell approaches with Ian. “We’re about to pack up…”
“Harriet will be ‘specting you,” Ian adds.
You give a soft smile. “I think you should go see her. Without me.”
“You sure?” Ian drawls.
“Janic said if need be, the house is liveable. I am not without haven,” you counter. “Please, I’ve kept you both long enough.”
“You can come…” Mitchell lowers his voice.
“No, it’s time,” you say. “Please, go.”
“Ma’am,” Mitchell nods.
Ian clucks and shakes his head, “you know where to find us… and we know where to find ya.”
You patiently step aside and watch them load into the automobile. You sense the hammer above you, ready to fall. It drops a little lower as you hear Arthur pleading with his brother.
“Was only helpin’. Family ‘n all.”
“Always such a fucking standup, Art. Really,” Mr. Shelby retorts as his feet kick up the cold dirt. “Get out of here. Both o’ya. Michael, I thought you had more sense than him.”
“She’s your wife. What’re we gonna do?” Michael hurls back. “Come on, Arthur. Let him wallow.”
The two Shelby kin near you. Michael leading the way. “Ma’am,” he keeps his hat in his hand. “Nice seeing ya.”
“Yes, ma’am. The scones were very good,” Arthur adds.
“You’re always welcome,” you chime back.
They both turn their heads as they sense the figure coming up behind them. They hurry off to get in their car and leave you to face it alone. Mr. Shelby tugs down his sleeves as he bears down on you, buttoning his cuffs derisively.
“Well, then,” he pushes his shoulders straight. “Shall we go home?”
“You may return to the manor. I will remain–”
“You will be with your husband,” he comes up right in front of you. “As you have not been these last days.”
You look at him. This is what he does. He intimidates. You saw him with his own brother and cousin. He rules with a big red hand.
“With reason, I have been away.” You return. “Have I not?”
“What reason?” He hisses.
“You will not put this upon me, Mr. Shelby. You know the answer.”
“You…” he points in your face. “Are so bloody stubborn.”
You reach up and grab his finger. You push his hand down. “I am your wife. You do not point in my face.”
“I am your husband! You do not tell me what to do–”
“Clearly,” you reply as you let him go. “I’ve never sought to do so. If you wish to speak, then you must listen. As I’ve requested a dozen times over but if you cannot trouble yourself to do so, then you best go.”
“Listen? Hen, it is you who is not listening to me,” he barks. “I am telling you–”
You sweep around him and stride toward the house. He growls and follows. He grabs your arm and swings you back to face him. He grips both your arms.
“You will not walk away from me again.” He snarls.
“It’s is getting dark and colder. I must light the stove before I cannot see.” You insist.
“You will come with me. There is a stove at home. There are proper lights. A bed–”
You push on his chest but he clings to you. “Can you not see your own wrong through those you perceive against you? You expect me to grovel, sir, but I’ve nothing to regret. I will not beg you, Mr. Shelby. I did before. I pleaded with you to only speak to me, to listen. I’m done.”
“Hen,” he drags his hands down your sleeves. “I wish to… sort it out. At home.”
“And I will not go home until it is sorted,” you shrug and shove him again. “I have been tolerant. I allowed you to violate me. My body and my pride, but you will not do so to my spirit. That is what you did. Then you accused me.” You shake your head and, with all your strength, push him off you. “You wanted Mrs. Shelby. You’ve got her.”
You turn and stomp away. He is quick to follow. You keep just ahead of him as you enter the house. You slip your hand bag down your arm to search for the matchbox as you near the stove. You can only just see the outline in the dimming evening.
“Hen,” Shelby steps between you and the stove. Your fingers slip into the side pocket and you pinch the slender metal blade inside. He reaches for you and you bring up the razor, pushing it against his collar.
“Mr. Shelby, you will move away from me. You may stay if you will speak to me as a person.” You press the blade until it touches his skin. “But if you insist on lecturing me like a spoiled child, you may go and be alone.”
He inhales and pushes against the blade as you hear him swallow. You tremble slightly as you stand in the dark, shrouded in his shadow. He grips your hand and forces the razor hard against his skin.
“As you wish. Mrs. Shelby,” he drags it across his throat. “Let’s talk.”
He squeezes and you gasp. He swiftly frees the razor from your grasp and tosses it away. You recoil as you feel warmth on your fingertips. You smell the iron of his blood.
“You know I will bleed for you, hen. I have bled for you,” he takes out his lighter and flicks the wheel so the flame illuminates his face. “And I will listen. For you.”
Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Tommy Shelby, maid!reader
Summary: you’ve adapted to your employer’s moods, but you don’t realise how attached he’s become to you .
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
The world mirrors your inner conflict. The sky is grey and dense, yet the sun still tries to shine through, a muddled orb behind the pillowy clouds. Through the days of uncertainty and apprehension, there’s a spark on you that keeps you going. That sear away the moments of doubt that pull you back to Mr. Shelby.
Eventually, you will face him. You will need to. When you are ready. Not him.
Right now, you have work to do. A lot of it. Keeping your hands busy, keeps your mind busy.
Harriet stirs a pot of oats at the new stove as you slice into a barley loaf. She hums as her husband grunts around his pipe. It’s a calm morning but your mind is already deep in the chaos of all to come.
The front door opens and a gust accompanies Mitchell in. He sniffs and huffs. “Ma’am. I’ve got nine.”
“Nine?” Harriet looks over her shoulder.
“That’s wonderful.” You praise. “Ian, are you coming too?”
“S’pose wouldn’t be too bad.” The older man growls. “Better’n shoveling coal.”
“Still hard work,” you assure him as you set out the thick slices of bread. “Janic and his men should already be setting up. You’ll need to sit and enjoy this lovely breakfast before we’re off.”
“Ian,” Harriet chimes as she spoons porridge into a bowl. “We have cinnamon.”
He hums in content. The scent alone is enough to tickle your appetite. You spread marmalade on the barley and hand it over to Harriet. She brings both to her husband as he sits at the table.
“Mitchell,” you say as you take the next slice. “You too.”
“Oh yes, dearie,” Harriet flutters back and scoops up another serving. “Sit and eat. You must be chilled to the bone.”
You hear him cross the room and the chair creaks under him as he sits.
Ian rumbles. “Eh, this marmalade is… tasty.”
“Pear honey,” you explain. “Not really honey but sweet enough.”
“She made it,” Harriet preens. “There’s a dozen jars in the pantry.”
“Hm, I see Mrs. Shelby has truly arrived,” Ian intones. “Do you ever sit still?”
“Perhaps to balance the ledger,” you bring Mitchell his breakfast. “Eat.”
You back away and go to your chest of clothes, tucked against the wall to be out of the way of your hosts. You sift around then find what you’re looking for. You go behind the wooden screen that lends about the only privacy stored in the one-room home and change. It’s cold and it will be better the be prepared to help.
You emerge and search for a cardigan to go over your blouse. Mitchell snorts and chokes on a mouthful. “Mrs. Shelby. What’re those?”
Ian grumbles and Harriet places another bowl on the table. “Oh my,” she cheeps.
“I’ll be helping. We need all the help we can get. After yesterday, I think that’s clear.”
“Trousers?” Mitchell chortles. “Ma’am, you’re wearing trousers. Like a man.”
“Aye, I’m sure she’d give the husband a go,” Ian banters.
“I’ve got a crew of men to feed,” you take the small notebook from your handbag and check the pencil scrawl. The list is ever growing. “And those men have much to do.”
“Please sit,” Harriet pleads.
You take a seat and thumb through the book. You’ve crossed over a lot already. After a day of baking loaves for the orphanage, you bought out half the butchers to send along to the charity house.
Then a walk through of the second house with Janic, all your notes made upon his consultation. Yesterday was the first real day of renovation on the property. With only his crew, it proved a tall task.
“Wish I could help,” Harriest says.
“You are,” you insist without looking up. “You keep this place and these men in order.”
She chuckles. “Ah, not really.”
You look up and close the notebook. “Make sure you eat, too.”
🚬
The sight of the house takes you back to the fateful day of your wedding. You have to remind yourself that it’s yours. Mr. Shelby gave it to you and you may do as you wish with it. As you have done with his money; your marital allowance.
Janic greets you with a smile as you carry a basket of scones and marmalade for the men already at work. The men Mitchell gathered together to lend their muscle arrive in a horse cart not long after yourself. You go over the day with the foreman as he explains the need for new support beams at the back of the house.
The frenetic labour soothes your nerves. Each day you are a refugee, the more you feel the hammer hovering over your head. It will fall soon.
You help clear out some debris and make a few rounds through the property. Your part is to pay and feed these men. You do as you can but they are stronger and know what to do.
The air is full of shouts and the clatter of wood. The horses nay as they are used to move bigger planks and some dislodged stone from the foundation. You look over your tiny empire of your own. This will be your own little palace, where Mr. Shelby isn’t etched into the walls.
A thrum rolls in the air and grows to a rumble. You tense and turn to face the lone automobile driving behind the trees that speckle along the road. You shudder and cross your arms. As you watch the headlights draw closer, Mitchell comes up to stand next to you.
“Is it him?” He asks.
“Not sure,” you reply.
You put your arms straight and push your shoulders back. You set your feet and your chin and ready for what you will never be ready for. The car rolls around and you nearly cry in relief. It isn’t your husband but not much better than.
Arthur Shelby steps out, a cigar poking out from under his mustache, and another you recognise from the opposite side; Michael Gray. Mr. Shelby’s brother and cousin; his closest allies. You smile at them as they exchange a look then approach.
“Mrs. Shelby,” Arthur begins. “Didn’t think to find you all the way out here.”
Your heart pumps and nearly stops. They will not ruin this. You can’t let them. You need just a little longer.
“So wonderful of you to come offer your help,” you smile. “Arthur, Michael, you’re rather strapping. Perhaps you could help with the heavy work.”
“Eh?” Arthur scowls and Michael’s eyes narrow.
“Tommy sent us,” Michael says.
“Oh, very good. Nice of him to offer the help,” you step between them and spin. You grab their wrist and urge them forward. “We’ve got scones and jam. Help yourself. And I’ll have some roast beef sandwiches for lunch. Do your fair share and you get a plate.” You force them forward as they drag their feet. “And coffee and tea.”
They stop and you do too. You let go and move to face them again. “Unless you’ve eaten already.”
Arthur chews his cigar then takes it out of his mouth. “Nah, Tommy sent us out at the crack fo dawn, didn’t he?”
“Mm, got me in the middle of… well,” Michael shrugs.
Arthur hums and blots out the cigar on the sole of his shoes. “What kinda scone, ma’am?”
“Blueberry, apple, or cinnamon,” you declare.
Michael huffs and shakes his head as he peels off his overcoat. “I’ll take some coffee, please.”
🚬
The sky dims as the labourers load a cart with scrap and Janic trawls through the property, taking measure of his men and the work done. You have maybe an hour before the sky is too dark to work without lanterns and you wouldn’t make them go on that late. You start to gather up what you can.
Ian tromps over and takes a seat on a wood stump. You near him with a shiver. He pulls a tin pipe out of his coat, not so nice as the one he has at home.
“You alright?” You ask.
“Ya worry too much,” he girds as he pulls out a match. “Good at it, I s’pose. You got all these men like ants on the hill.”
“Hm, yes, I think things are going well,” you glance over at the house.
He lights the tobacco and you rock. A low drone melds into the whistling wind and you lift your chin to stare out at the trees. You see the glint of something off in the shadows of the roots. You shift in your lace-up shoes and clutch the front of your coat.
“And so the reaper comes…” Ian mutters.
You stare into the distance as the black speck passes behind the trees and veers through the dust. Gloom puffs out with the exhaust as the automobile approaches. The men behind you continue to shout and work.
“Good luck, girl,” Ian says. “‘less you want me to roll my sleeves up a bit higher.”
“No, it’s time,” you murmur.
You calmly march forward, not truly knowing how you aren’t running in the other direction. The golden grill of the cadillac steers up toward the house and you pass the carts and the other vehicles parked in the dirt. Mr. Shelby cranks his brake as he stops, only a few inches from you.
A cloud of smoke obscures him as he pulls the cigarette from between his lips. Slowly it clears and your eyes meet through the windshield. You stare at each other for a moment before he opens the door and tosses the butt into the dirt.
He turns and drops out onto his feet. His soles crunch in the dirt and he snaps the door shut sharply. You don’t flinch. He struts up to the headlight and stops there. You look at each other.
Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Tommy Shelby, maid!reader
Summary: you’ve adapted to your employer’s moods, but you don’t realise how attached he’s become to you .
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
Mitchell’s nerves ripple over to you. You do your best to bite down on the tension as you wait your turn at the teller’s desk. You remind yourself to hold your shoulders up and back. You’re not a natural liar but truly, you’re not lying. You’re only using the truth for devious means.
As the bell rings to beckon the next in line, you march across the floor, heels echoing to the high ceilings. The polished plum shoes go perfectly with the dress Lucille plucked out for you. Along with several others over Mitchell’s shoulder. There is also the jacket over your shoulders with the soft ermine trim.
You set your chin and smile at the teller. “Hello, I’ve come for a withdrawal. Mrs. Thomas Shelby.”
The teller nods and skims you with his eyes. You hold your expression. Mitchell coughs at your side.
“Shelby?” He utters unevenly.
“Yes, recently married. I’m sure you’ve heard,” you insist. You don’t like it. You’re not the sort to presume or to bolster yourself. But if your husband chooses to give you nothing, you need to take.
“Well, we would need some sort of confirmation to dispense a withdrawal,” he rebuffs.
“Oh but you understand, my papers have not been issued yet with my marital name,” you cluck. You hope they can’t see the tickle at the back of your neck.
“Then, perhaps, we could call Mr. Shelby to confirm,” he challenges.
You measure the words. It’s the worst case you could imagine. “You’re welcome to do so. He’s a very busy man and I hope he’d pick up the phone. He told me he called ahead but I’m certain it wouldn’t be a bother to repeat himself.”
The man sighs and sneers at you. You sense the attention from your fellow patrons as the teller next to yours leans forward to see you past the wooden divide. You recognise her from your last visit, when you wired money to your parents.
“Clarence,” she hisses over the wooden screen. “That is Mrs. Shelby.”
Your heart plucks in relief. You’re not sure if it’s fate or luck, but it seems the winds are blowing in your favour. You nod at her.
“I recall you too.”
She preens, “you and Mr. Shelby are so sweet together. I couldn’t forget.”
“Thank you,” you look at the teller across from you. “So, shall you call Mr. Shelby? I might like to tell him how expedient your services have been.”
The man swallows and sniffs. He backs up and beckons to the teller to his right. He lowers his voice but you hear him clearly, “you sure it’s her.”
“Clarence,” she snips back. “Go on and call then.”
He glances over at you. He wipes the lines from his forehead and approaches the desk again. “How much would you like, Mrs. Shelby?”
🚬
“Mrs. Shelby… ma’am,” Mitchell bounces next to you, the haul of garment bags hanging from two fingers as the wind blows his scarf loose. “That was… amazing.”
“Yes, I don’t particularly like lying…” you chew your lip as you keep your arm folded firmly over your handbag.
“Lying? S’your money too, isn’t it?” He counters.
“I suppose. Not sure he’ll see it that way.” You keep a brisk pace as he follows.
“Where to now?” He asks, breathless.
“Not very sure,” you stop and usher him into an alcove set into one of the brick buildings. “There’s much to do. Your parents need a new stove and bed. You’ll need a new bed as well. Oh–” you pause and reach to touch one of the garment bags. “Where might we get a car?”
“A car?” He furrows his brow.
“We’ll need one. Perhaps a rental.”
“Hm, there’s a dealership near the other side of the city square. They’ve got some Austins. Oh, they’re nice, ma’am,” he whistles. “Me and Ernie, we used to watch the suits drive em off the lot–” He stops himself and chuckles. “Not that ya know, I was plottin’ nothing.”
You narrow your eyes, “I hope not.”
“I’ll show ya. But ma’am. I don’t know how ya go ‘bout buying one.”
“It isn’t me buying it. It’s Mr. Shelby.” You insist as you step out of the alcove. “Let’s go then. It’s cold and the time’s fading with the sky.”
Mitchell catches up to you and points you down the next block. It’s further than you would like but affirmation of the purchase itself. You’ll need something if you’re to play your role as Mrs. Shelby.
You enter the brick building with a line of cars parked in the lot next to it. A man approaches confidently, hand outstretched to Mitchell. Your young escort hesitates before he accepts it and shakes the man’s hand.
“How can I help ya today? Looking for a vehicle?” The man blusters. “Two of ya are young. Newlyweds?”
“Uh….” Mitchell retracts his hand. “She is…”
The man looks at you and raises a bushy brow. You hold out your hand, focusing on keeping it steady. “Mrs. Thomas Shelby. I’ve come to purchase a wedding present for my husband.”
“Oh, a present?”
“I know it’s somewhat late but…”
“Never too late, Mrs. Shelby. Heard he got his wagon hitched… again.” The man grins as he shakes your hand. “I’m Lester. I can help ya out. Looking to order something?”
“No, I’ll have something off the lot,” you insist. “It’s a very big surprise and word travels, doesn’t it? I’d like to give it to him today.”
“Well, miss– Mrs. Shelby, we’ve not got any luxury automotives in–”
“He has a Cadillac. I’m looking for something practical. To drive around in the country, you see?” You surprise yourself with how easily you can come up with your lines.
“Oh, I see. Well, Austins or Morris’s aren’t bad. Reliable but not the prettiest.” He explains.
“Well, I’d love to see my options,” you urge. “And as you can see, my companion has quite a bit to carry. He’d certainly like to rest his back.”
Lester looks at Mitchell. He nods. “Like the hat, son.”
“Thanks,” Mitchell says.
The man’s eyes linger on the younger man a moment before he faces you. “It’s the style, isn’t it?” He smirks. “Specially in Birmingham.”
“Oh yes, a rather popular choice.” You agree. “I hear the lining is rather comfortable.”
The man clears his throat. A twinge of guilt flickers in your chest at the allusion to what your husband and his men hide in their caps. You don’t like what your husband does but you must make some good of it.
🚬
Mitchell steers through the streets, a big smile on his face. The car putters and plumes off smoke behind you as the wheels roll over the cobble. You stare through the windshield and think.
“Mitchell,” you say.
“Am I goin’ too fast, ma’am?” He asks brightly. “Sorry, I’m just… excited. I only driven a few times… for jobs.”
“No, it’s… you’re… fine,” you assure him and shift on the seat. “Will you be honest with me?”
“Always, ma’am.”
“Hm,” you hum. “Do you still have blades in your hat?”
He gulps and grips the wheel tighter. His shoulders hunch slightly. “Er, yes, ma’am. But I… I never used them on no one.”
You frown. You reach over and take his cap off his head. He veers slightly and you tut.
“Keep driving.” You order. “Appliance shop.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”
“I’m taking them out now. You’ll cut yourself–”
“Ma’am, be careful,” he girds.
“I can handle a blade,” you insist. “Your mom wouldn’t be happy to see these, would she?”
You slip the blades free from the inner brim. He sniffs and keeps driving. “I’m sorry, ma’am. S’what they do is all.”
“I know,” you cluck. “Is it what you do?”
He sighs. “Ma’am, I didn’t… I never wanted to hurt no one. ‘Specially not you. It’s just… it’s money, ya know? I wasn’t makin’ much shoveling coal with da and I tried the factory but this big guy, he knocked my shoulder out and took my check. Then… I suppose I wanted to learn to keep thugs like that away…”
“I’m not… I’m not lecturing you. But you’re not like that and you don’t need to pretend to be anymore.” You feel his cap one last time then lean over to put it back on his head. “There ya go.”
You hide the blades in the inner pocket of your handbag. The motor rumbles on and so do your nerves. You have a lot in mind. Stove, beds, maybe a rug. But that’s for them. It’s easier to worry about others than yourself and you haven’t figured out the latter.
Girl what will you do???? You should be think what will he do when he finds out you spent all his money. that is that man's first and only love. You playing with fire girl.
Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Tommy Shelby, maid!reader
Summary: you’ve adapted to your employer’s moods, but you don’t realise how attached he’s become to you .
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
You’re restless. Harriet adds to your unease as she flits around the kitchen. You peel potatoes to keep from pacing as she clatters around with dented pans. Ian’s gone out to work. Mitchell told you he goes with him sometimes to help shovel coal, yet the younger Pimm didn’t mention where he was off to that day.
Harriet examines an onion as you glance over. The family doesn’t have much in their pantry. You think of Mr. Shelby’s shelves and plot to empty some of the excess to send back with Mitchell. Whenever it is you see them again.
“If your husband out of town then?” She asks, jarring you from your dread.
“Oh, uh… he does have a lot of business outside the house.” You shrug. He used to. Thinking back, the sudden shift is obvious. You wonder how you didn’t notice. “It just feels so empty…”
“Big house, Mitchy says.” She comments.
“Yes, too big,” you agree.
“Hm. Not big enough to avoid him.” She clucks.
“What do you mean?” You set down the last potato.
“Women know these things. I see it’n ya,” she turns and hands you the onion. “Week in. Not very good.”
You put the onion on the splintered cutting board and sigh. “I know. I’m afraid I’ll be making up for it for so long as the marriage lasts.”
“You? Oh, me and Ian, we got into it early too. Stubborn if’n you can’t tell,” she says. “He liked to holler and I told’im, you wanna blow like a horn, do it outside. Then I locked the door behind him. He slept in the gutter for half a week ‘fore he was beggin’.” She chuckles. “But he did beg and didn’t raise his voice no more.”
“Oh,” you cut the onion into chunks. “I’m glad it turned out.”
“Mm, he’s sweet, he only don’t like to show it.” She giggles. “In the summer, he brings in the flowers. Claims he was tryna clear out the weeds. Somehow they always end up in a jar all nice beside the bed.”
You smile. “Reminds me of my da. He’s quiet so sometimes he comes of…”
“Daunting? The sort that makes you squirm ‘cause you can’t help but try to guess what they’re thinking…” She finishes. “Yes, you’ve got the same about you.”
You look at her, “I do?”
“It’s not bad. Good to be able to stay in your head.” She rubs her hands over her apron. “I get quite but you know, ‘cause I’m so nervous. I don’t…” She pushes her shoulders up, somehow looking smaller. “I don’t leave too much. Ian and Mitch do. I get all turned around.”
“Well, I must say, the love you keep in your home shows. You’ve made me feel very welcome,” you praise.
She laughs. “You have a way, don’t ya? Make’n the good bad and all. I’m a big– little ole scaredy.”
“I don’t think so. Can’t be so if you take care of those two so well,” you counter.
As you pick up a handful to dump in the scratched soup pot, the door swings open. Harriet humps and claps her hands in surprise. “Oh, it’s just you.”
“Ma,” Mitchell answers. “Ma’am, you got some time to talk?”
You look at his mother. She nods and hands you the hand towel from her apron pocket. You take it to wipe your hands as she continues to move the vegetables into the pot.
You cross the room to Mitchell. He backs up. “Outside?” He sends a look over your shoulder.
You nod and put the towel down to take your coat. You follow him out into the blistering gales. The fog has yet to lift as the temperature thickens it to white clouds.
“It’s my husband, isn’t it?”
“Mm, in a way.” He rubs his hands together. His gloves are wool without the fingertips. “I wanted to ask, you goin’ back today?”
You stare at him. “I should…”
“Hm,” he nods and looks around. “Why?”
“Why– he’s my husband. Mitchell, the longer I keep away–”
“The worse he’ll feel,” he insists.
“No, he’ll come–”
“Come here?” He suggests. You nod and furrow your brows as if to say, obviously! “I don’t think so, ma’am.”
“And why not? I’m sure he’s been in worse parts.”
“Well, with all honesty, I ain’t that important. He don’t even know where I live and he don’t know who I know. Only the men who know him and they never cared neither. They had me run around ‘n’ get ‘em their whiskey.” He crosses his arms and shivers.
You narrow your eyes. “Mitchell, your parents. I wouldn’t want to put them at risk.”
“Not a problem. I got Isaac up the lane, you asked him ‘bout me. You’d been a man, he’d say nothing. I got my own friends ‘round here.” He unfolds his arms and makes himself as tall as he can. “I got Jacob uptown watchin’ your folks.”
“My… parents?”
“Sure, I know ya worry about them. Mr. Shelby’s not been around. I go down to Mr. Hall’s. He’s got a phone. I gave Jacob pennies to call me. He checks in twice a day or if he sees something.”
“Mitchell,” you bluster. “You’re… Mr. Shelby’s got more men than you.”
“Yes, but he don’t care about no boys.” Mitchell insists. “You shouldn’t go back. Not yet. I can see you don’t want to.”
“Mitchell. I can’t stay. Your parents are generous but they aren’t rich. I press on their kindness.” You sigh. “I’m afraid the shillings in my hand purse are all I can offer and not anywhere as much I owe them.”
“That’s easy, ma’am. You keep your money. I take care of ‘em.”
“No, Mitchell. That’s not how this works. Without Mr. Shelby, I’ve got nothing. I’m a fugitive. No money, no freedom, just hiding.”
“That’s if he catches up to you, but ma’am, you’re smarter than him. And he might be Mr. Shelby but you’re Mrs. Shelby.” Mitchell moves to block the wind as it blows across your front.
“What good does that do me?” You shake your head.
He grins. “Well, don’t you wanna see?”
You stare at him, perplexed. You hug yourself and rock in the frigid air. Slowly, your mind churns.
“He’ll hear about it. We know he will.”
“Let him. Then what? Ma’am, he hasn’t even been ‘round your parents. He’s licking his wounds. He goes there, he has to admit you’re gone. He goes askin’ bout you, same thing. And people wonder, oh now, where’s Mrs. Shelby off to? Why is she not at home with her husband?” He pauses. "How's it that her own husband doesn't know?"
You frown, “Mitchell…”
“Not meanin’ to slander but people always assume the worst. Everyone but you, ma’am.” He sniffs and rubs his reddened nose. “So I wonder if we might hope for the best and you could play his game too.”
You chew your lip. “He won’t wait forever.”
“He’ll wait long enough.”
🚬
You get off the streetcar, Mitchell at your shoulder. He measures his long steps to keep stride with you. You keep your head high and straight, despite the urge to look over your shoulder.
You cross the road and turn the corner. You slow as you approach the store front and finally let your eyes wander. A chill rises from inside of you. You stare at the cobbles at the far end of the street.
“Ma’am…” his voice is brittle. “Why’re we here?”
He knows this avenue too. As well as you. Though there’s no sign of what happened, you can both see it.
“That day, when we met,” you say. “Mr. Shelby brought me to buy some dresses.”
“And then I…”
“That’s not why we’re here.” You insist. “Mitchell, stand straight and act like you belong. You are my escort. A very important man who protects me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I will be Mrs. Shelby,” you smooth the front of your jacket and lift your chin. “And you are my fearsome gangster guard dog.”
His lips slant, “ma’am.”
“All he’s given me yet is his name so let me use it,” you hiss. “Stop smiling.” He wipes his expression and you take a breath. “If I’m going to play the part, I have to have the costume.”
You strut down to the shop front. You swallow down the wave of nerves that rises in you. It’s not just your uncertainty. It’s the reminder of that day all around you. Everything makes you think of it. You touch your side then shake it off.
Mitchell opens the door and you step inside. He follows you as you look around. You recognise the woman as she taps out on her kitten heels.
“Lucille,” you greet. “Do you remember me?”
“Mrs. Shelby,” she blinks. “Oh, I am so happy to hear you recovered. I heard the shot and...” She comes up to meet you and takes your hand. “And married, too. How wonderful.”
“Yes, yes, it was all very… expedient.” You smile. “My husband gets an idea in his head and no one can stop him.” You squeeze her hand. “I was going through my closet and all the wonderful clothes you sent but I need some winter pieces. And I hear that I am behind trend.”
“Oh, well, Mrs. Shelby, of course. Whatever you like, we can put it on credit with your husband.”
“That’s great,” you preen, swallowing down the shakiness in your throat. You can’t believe it worked.
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Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Tommy Shelby, maid!reader
Summary: you’ve adapted to your employer’s moods, but you don’t realise how attached he’s become to you .
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
Mitchell holds the door for you. You enter the one-room townhouse as the cold from without follows you in. He trails in after you and shuts the door, grunting as he forces the lock into place.
“Ma, Da,” he calls over his shoulder. “Got some company.”
You patiently stand by the door as he turns and unbuttons his coat. You only just patched one side some weeks ago when you were bored in your sickbed but he needs another already. That old thing could have fallen apart in your hands.
“Comp’ny, eh?” A grizzly voice rattles.
“Oh, Mitchy, you didn’t say so ‘fore,” a squawky woman flutters forward. She’s tiny. Barely more than the size of a child, though her hips and chest betray her age, along with the lines in her forehead. “I would’ve had tea or… or… tidied.”
“S’Alright, ma.” He assures and glances over at you.
“Hello,” you force out, recalling yourself. “I’m so pleased to meet you.” You offer your name. She stares.
“Ma, it’s Mrs. Shelby,” Mitchell intones.
Her eyes go wide. “Shelby? Oh, I…” she tugs at the curls around her face, her hair an assortment of waves and spirals drawn back into a low bun. “We weren’t ‘spectin’ you.” She twiddles her fingers frantically. “Oh, oh. I’m Harriet, this is my husband, Ian.”
She shuffles back to the chair where a man sits, tamping down an old pipe.
“Harriet, Ian, pleased.” You say. “I do hate to come unannounced. I apologise for the intrusion.”
“Shelby money… should charge her a fee, eh, Mitch,” Ian snorts.
“Da,” Mitchell sniffs.
“S’only a jape,” the bald man insists without looking up from his pipe tray.
“Mrs. Shelby, can I get your coat?” Mitchell whispers.
“Er, yes, thank you, Mitchell.”
You put your handbag on the scratched chest of drawers near the door and unbutton your coat. You slip it off and hand it over. You turn back to the room as Ian strikes a match to light his pipe. Mitchell nudges you forward into the light cast by a single lantern.
“Don’t look like no Mrs. Shelby,” he mutters around the mouthpiece. “S’matter, don’t want your fine clothes be dirtied by Brum?”
You give a gentle smile. “These clothes are fine,” you insist as you touch your wool skirt. “I put my first pay to this skirt. Sewed the blouse myself.”
The paternal miser tilts his head. Harriet fusses at the stove, the gas clicking without spark.
“I’m sorry you missed the wedding,” you say. “I would’ve loved to have you–”
“To meet your criminal husband?” Ian scoffs.
Your cheeks twitch and you let yourself smile. “Fair, he isn’t everyone’s kind.”
“Yours, though.”
“So the law says,” you agree plainly.
He chuffs then sucks on his pipe. The smoke plumes around him as Mitchell shifts beside you. He leans down to whisper in your ear. “Sorry.”
You shake your head at him. “Well, Mr. Pimm, if you don’t want this criminal’s wife in your home, I’ll go.”
He looks up and hovers his pipe in front of his lips. He narrows his eyes. “Heard ya kept my boy’s head on his neck.”
You glance at Mitchell. You’re not sure how much of that episode is known. You shrug.
“He’s a fine young man. A hard worker. He keeps his own head.”
“Pfft,” he clucks and shakes his head.
Harriet continues to fight the stove. You calmly cross the room and pass Ian’s tattered armchair. You are met by the scent of gas.
“May I?” You ask.
“Oh, it’s old and stubborn.” She squeaks. “Most days we have cold stew.”
“These things can be tricky,” you assure her. “I recall I never used one til I worked for Mr. Shelby. At home, we had the woodstove.”
“Woodstove?” She says. “Yes, we had one when I was a girl. For a while.”
You twist the dial as you push the starter. The flame flicks up under the iron burner. Harriet titters excitedly.
“Hmph,” Ian grunts behind you. “What’sa man like Shelby marryin’ a woman with a firestove for?”
“You’ll need to ask him. Can’t much say myself.” You reply.
He snorts then chortles. “Ain’t you so bloody sensible.”
“Try to be,” you say. “Please, let me make the tea. You’ve welcomed me in, least I can do.”
Harriet bats her lashes and wrings her tiny hands. “Mrs. Shelby, I couldn’t–”
“No, not Missus. Not tonight,” you insist. “I don’t mind at all.”
“You are so kind. And elegant.” She teethes her dry lip. “Mitchy, you didn’t say she was so pretty.”
“Didn’t I?” Mitchell counters unevenly.
Harriet flits away to stand by her husband’s chair as he mutters and taps his pipe on the tray. You take the canister of leaves she left open and drag the tea pot over the counter. The tin kettle sits above the flames and you watch them lick in long tendrils.
“So, how long is the devil’s mistress staying?” Ian asks.
The air thickens and you keep your back to him. You’re not surprised. You knew this would come with the vows. You stare at the ruby and diamond on your finger. You should’ve taken that off.
“Da,” Mitchell utters.
Suddenly, he guffaws. “Oh, lighten up.” He coughs through his laughter. “I like her.”
🚬
Ian snores in his armchair. Harriet covers him with a threadbare blanket then retreats behind the curtain hung to hide the small bed in the corner. It was quite the argument when she offered it up. You didn’t come to put anyone out.
Mitchell apologises as he shows you his cot. He hands you a flannel blanket. “Mrs. Shelby, really, you should take the cot.”
“No, I won’t do that, I can take a piece of floor,” you argue. For about the third time.
You slept on floors before and in worse circumstances. At the moment, it is much preferable to the four-postered bed that, by law, should be yours. A night to yourself is worth more than feathered down.
“If Mr. Shelby knew you slept on the floor–”
“You won’t worry about him,” you gird and unroll the flannel. “Or me. You’ve done more’n enough.”
“It will never be enough, ma’am. Not after all you’ve done.”
You get down onto the flannel. You turn onto your rear and look up at him, pulling the other half of the blanket over you.
“Mitchell, what you can do for me is sleep.” You lay back slowly. “That would make me content. More than.”
“Ma’am.”
“I mean it, Mitchell. I am inside and safe. You’ve done that for me.” You roll onto your side and curl the blanket around your shoulders. You close your eyes. “And I’m terribly spent.”
He hesitates but puts out the lantern before finding his way to his cot. The winds whip outside the walls, blowing up between the floorboards, the only heat from a vintage brazier in the corner. It would be rather costly to run the radiators at night.
You shiver but your exhaustion does not heed the temperature. You slip down into a thick sleep, spun with ribbons of black and grey. Beneath the layers of fatigue, a scene builds around you.
The leather chair in the study, Mr. Shelby sneering at you. He flicks his lighter, the flame sparking then snuffing with the movement of his thumb. The flames build around him, carpeting the floor in pillowy waves. You look down at yourself and find your body consumed. You try to scream but it’s silent.
He watches calmly. He sets the lighter down and reaches into his pocket. He stands and rounds the desk. He approaches as he takes a cigarette out of the silver case. He lights it from the flames spiraling over your arms. He sucks on the tobacco and the smoke comes out his eyes, fogging over his bright blue irises until they are nothing but deep pits.
You wake with a start. You stare at the wall as you calm yourself. It wasn’t real. You’re here. You’re… at Mitchell’s. For a moment, you forgot.
You sit up and find Mitchel awake. He watches you from his cot as he sits up. He winces at being caught.
“You were making noise, ma’am,” he says. “I was makin’ sure you were well.”
“Dreaming,” you put your soles to the ground and push yourself up with a groan. You gather up the blanket. “I need air.”
You fold up the flannel and set it aside. You go to fetch your coat at the door and step into your boots without tying the laces. Mitchell follows and grinds back the lock. He opens the door and you step out with a sigh.
“It’s cold, you don’t need–”
“I need air too,” he insists as he shuts the door behind him.
You sit on the crooked step, next to the broken lantern. He fills the empty space on your other side. He blows into his hands as he leans his elbows on his knees.
“You think he’ll come today?” He asks.
You hum. “Don’t want to talk about him.”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
“Don’t be.” You pinch the cuff of your coat, dragging your fingertips around the wool. You exhale and it steams in the early frost. “I had a brother, you know?”
Mitchell’s sniff, “you didn’t say before.”
“Mm, he’s dead. Went to war…” you explain. You tut and shake your head. “Oliver. That was his name. We never say it though. We just… don’t talk about it. Saw his name in the paper, got the letter from the king… then he was just gone. Forever.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am–”
“I’m not. I got to know him. I loved him. I still do.” Your nose tingles. “I’m not sorry for me. I’m sorry for him. But I think… I think the war always kills men. Even if their bodies survive. I try to make sense of Mr. Shelby and that’s what makes sense. He was lost there too.” You sniffle. “Or maybe he’s just always been this way.”
Mitchell is quiet. He reaches to put his hand on yours. You open yours and squeeze his fingers. You lean over and rest your head on his shoulder.
“You remind me of him. Of Oliver. He was so… bright and he always to do good. Then he went off into the worst of it. It was never in his heart to harm anyone, it’s only that circumstance made him.” You say. “Like you. So please, stop blaming yourself for hurting me. Neither of us would’ve been there if it wasn’t for Shelby. If he hadn’t done whatever it is he did to stoke that man.”
Neither of you move. Or speak. Your words dissipate into the crisp air with your breath. You stare off at the grey sky and the slanted eaves. You will take peace before chaos arrives in his razor-lined cap.
Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Tommy Shelby, maid!reader
Summary: you’ve adapted to your employer’s moods, but you don’t realise how attached he’s become to you .
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
You grab your handbag and not much else. You don’t have time to stop. Your feet race just as fast as your mind. Your destination is as far from Mr. Shelby as you can get.
You pull on your coat. Your coat and your boots. The ones you bought yourself. The ones that you prefer. Not that heeled boots he prefers or the fur-trimmed jacket that makes you itch.
You swing the door open and storm out. Your lip trembles and your nostrils flair. You’re not just angry, you’re hurt. You’re frustrated too. No one has ever made you this angry. No one but him. You hate that you’ve let him go that deep.
And ashamed. You are humiliated at how much you’ve tried. How much you’ve done. For him.
He stole your integrity. He came to you and gave you no choice but to hand over everything to him. Your pride, your morals, and your independence. And it wasn’t enough. It will never be enough for Thomas Shelby.
You don’t look back. You’ve never been that type. All your life, you just kept going. It was never a matter of getting more, just getting through.
You head down the road, as you’ve done a dozen times before. Alone, until that fateful day he decided to follow. And the ones that came after. Each was just another rung down to his level.
You stop and stomp your foot. In all your life, you’ve never been furious. Irked, agitated, dismayed. Never like this.
You huff and keep going. You look back. He could follow you, even ask drunk as he was. That thought almost turns you around. No, he must take care of himself. It doesn’t matter that he might be in a drunk stupour.
He told you time and again. You are no longer his maid, you are his wife. If he will not act as your husband, then you owe him nothing.
The flames spark higher as you think of what he did. The one thing you have to yourself, your thoughts, and he stole even those. There will never be anything that is truly your own. You and everything about him will always belong to him.
Your anger recedes, still simmering, but your grief clouds your mind like the fog before you. Moisture rises from the ground and seeps through your wool jacket as you trod on. You shiver but don’t let up.
You just need time. Like you told him. Let you figure it out and you can be what you need to be.
🚬
The grip Mr. Shelby has on your existence comes into focus as you enter town. There’s not a soul in Birmingham that doesn’t know his name. Not only that, but your own insignificance blares in your face. You don’t have many options, if any.
You don’t have illusions as to evading him. You know you can’t do so forever, or even for long. As much as you know that if you stayed, this divide would not be resolved. He won’t talk and you no longer want to.
You stop outside your parents’ townhouse. Not theirs, his. Like everything else. They live on his kindness and that is only won by your own acquiescence.
You stare at the front doors. You wanted that so badly for them. You spent nights troubling and days toiling all at the daunting dream of getting them out of the village. Of seeing them stable and safe. He’s taken even that from you.
You don’t cross the street. You keep walking. Mr. Shelby will look there first. The clock is ticking in his veins. When he sobers up, he will come.
You sit on a bench. Your feet ache from the hours’ long trek and you doubt you will go much further. You should wait here for your husband. He will win in the end.
A streetcar dings and draws you out of your doom. You look around as it brakes not far from you and a cluster of passengers get on. You get up and hurry over, digging in your handbag for some change.
You get on and the driver greets you.
“Sir, would this car go to Brum?” You ask.
He gives you a look. “Well, ma’am, it’ll stop about six blocks east of. We don’t go too far into those parts.”
“Very well.”
You pay for your ticket and find a seat. It’s a last resort. Not entirely one you should opt for. It isn’t fair, is it?
You patiently watch the city pass through the windows opposite you. The driver lets you know when to get off and you thank him a second time. You notice the doubt in his eyes. Yes, you are a helpless little dove. Isn’t that what has benefited your husband so well?
You step off and head east. You follow the grime on the bricks and the laundry lines in criss cross as linens hang in the foggy air. Children with dirty faces holler even as the sky dims and mothers chide them for going astray. It reminds you of the village only much much bigger.
A young man in overalls and a stained jacket walks your way. Before he can pass, you call to him.
“Sir, apologies to interrupt, would you happen to know where I could find a man. Mitchell Pimm?”
“Man? Ha. That’s a boy if I’ve ever seen’n,” the man scoffs. “Go south, left, and you’ll see a broken lantern by the steps. Think its the fifth unit or so.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You know ‘im?” He asks. “Cause if you don’t, go back to where y’came.”
You nod and press on. You follow his direction to the corner and onward. Your doubt wrings around the strap of your handbag. As you pass the cramped townhouses, windows swing shut as mother’s whistle for their broods.
You see the broken lantern. You cross your arms as you face the crooked walkway up to the door. It’s not too late. The longer you drag this out, the worse the end will be. Delay is rarely the friend of peace.
The fog thickens around you. It’s as if the world around you is a reflection of your emotions. Dreary but difficult to wade through.
“Mrs. Shelby?” The voice startles you.
You turn as Mitchell approaches. His figure comes clearer through the dense air and he removes his hate as he stops beside you. “What’re you doin’ all the way out here? Tisn’t safe for ya.”
“You needn’t worry for me, Mitchell,” you reach into your jacket pocket instinctively. You tug out your handkerchief and reach to wipe the oil smear from his cheek. “I’ve come at a bad time.”
“No, ma’am. Never a bad time.” He smiles crookedly. “I wasn’t ‘specting you. Thought you were still out of town.”
“Hm, it was a quick trip to the seaside,” you shrug. “Forgive me, I brought you taffy but I’ve left it behind.”
“Ma’am. You didn’t have ta,” he protests. His brows lower and his head tweaks. “Eh, you didn’t tell me why you’re here.”
“I…” you take a breath and look around. You sense him stoop.
“Ma’am. These parts aren’t for people like you.” He tries to tidy his strawish hair.
“These parts are like my own,” you assure him. “Mitchell, I’m afraid I’ve not thought this through. I need a favour but it come with risk and now I consider it, I don’t think I can ask that of you.”
“I’ll do it. Whatever you want, ma’am.”
“No, it’s… I think I should go.”
“It’s late,” he argues. “And I mean it. I owe you my life, ma’am. I really do.”
You nod and swallow. “I need to be away from Mr. Shelby. Just for a moment.”
“Eh,” his lashes flutter. “He hurt ya, ma’am?”
“Mm,” you hum. “Not the way he hurts men, no.”
“But you’re hurt?”
“In a manner,” you confirm. “I’m tired, Mitchell. I’ll sleep and go.”
“Ma’am you stay as long as you like.” He insists.
“Mitchell,” you sniff. “You understand–”
“If he comes ‘round, I’ll tell ‘im I’ve not seen ya. Not hair or hide.”
“But you know–”
“He would’ve skinned before. You kept him from that. I know if he catches my lie, he’ll do it now. But it would be worth it.” He assures. “So you should come in and meet my parents. They regret they missed the wedding.”
You frown, “Oh, Mitchell, your parents? I can’t… they would be at risk.”
“I will deal with Mr. Shelby if he comes,” Mitchell says firmly. “Besides, my parents should meet you. You're the only reason they still got me.”
You put your handkerchief away as you smile grimly. You reach to touch Mitchell’s sleeve. “You are brave, Mitchell. You protect people. You are loyal.”
“I’m… surviving,” he says.
“No, I mean it, Mitchell. That day we met, was because you were protecting Mr. Shelby.” You squeeze his arm. “I know that. I’ve always known that. He’s a fool who can’t see what’s right in front of him.” You let him go. “Now, I’d be honoured to meet your parents.”
Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Tommy Shelby, maid!reader
Summary: you’ve adapted to your employer’s moods, but you don’t realise how attached he’s become to you .
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
You sit on the bed. Alone. A peaceful scene but for the thickness of the air. Even the sea air cannot soften the tension.
You work at your embroidery, poking and pulling your nerves through the linen. That rose looks more like a carnation. Nothing is ever what it seems. There's always something unsaid.
Mr. Shelby emerges from the lavatory, a cloud of steam around him from more than the shower. There is a heat in his blood that radiates from his stiff muscles.
“How do you feel about tea?" You ask. “I was thinking of calling the desk."
“Whatever you like," he puts his hands on his hips, above the knotted edge of the bath sheet.
You look up and rest the embroidery frame on your lap. You could ask but you know he won't say. The afternoon's been only sharp tones and smoky sighs.
You stare at him. “I’d like you to be happy.”
“You do?” He arches a brow as his lips tauten and he nods.
“I… am your wife, so yes.”
He clicks his tongue and exhales heavily. “Are you happy?” He asks.
“I’m trying.”
“Trying,” he mutters.
You bundle up the thread and put the embroidery aside. “Mr. Shelby. What can I do?” He hums and tilts his head. “To make you happy. If you were, then I could be, I think.”
He considers. His shoulders rise and fall then he slowly strides to the bed. He stands by the corner.
He reaches to grip the post and leans slightly, “you would?”
“Yes. Wives are supposed to make their husbands happy. Honeymoons are supposed to be happy.”
He steps forward and drags his hand down the post. He stops at the side of the bed and sits. He shifts closer and looks you in the face. He takes your hand.
“What would make me happy… how about… a kiss?” He drawls.
Your lips part slightly and you nod. You move closer to him. He leans in to meet you. You peck his lips and pull back. He tuts.
“That’s it?”
You blink and press your lips together. “I can try again.”
He watches you. You lean in again. You close your eyes as you tilt your head and press your lips to his. He smushes his mouth to yours. He grunts and parts.
“Kiss me,” he snarls.
“Sir, I am–”
“Like you mean it. Like you want to!” He raises his voice. “It has been all me. I kiss you, I adore you, and all you can do is treat me as some beast.”
“Mr. Shelby–”
“I’m begging you,” he retorts. “To show me that you love me.”
You stare at him, struck by his words and his passion. A twinge of guilt plucks in your chest. You get up on your knees and get closer.
You put your hands on his shoulders. He shudders as he watches you. You brush across his shoulder to his neck and frame his jaw. You bow to kiss him as he leans his head back. Your lips meet and you flick your tongue over his soft skin. He hums and opens to you.
You do as he did to you before. He grabs your hand and squeezes it. His other crawls up your side and he grips your hip.
He guides your hand down to his chest. You tremble as you keep your mouth on his. He puts your fingertips on the top of the bath sheet. You flinch.
He growls and lets go of you. He takes you by your shoulders and pushes you away. You frown as he shakes his head, rescinding his hands as if he’s been burnt.
“I don’t want you to try, hen. I want you to feel something.” He sneers and stands up. “You say you want to be a wife…”
“I… I…” you stutter. “I feel… I do. But… I’ve never… not before you and– you are my first everything. I’m still figuring it all out.”
“Figuring it out?” He repeats darkly and spins away. “You do that.”
🚬
The next day, you drive back to town. The hours it takes to get to Birmingham are torturous. Mr. Shelby smokes silently. You sit with hands folded and watch the road.
You don’t know what to say or maybe you don’t have anything to say. You’re not sure he’d hear you if you did. Every attempt at trying to understand him, or getting him to understand you, has ended like this. Stalemate.
He cranks the break as he pulls up to the manor. He comes around to open your door. His courtesy is stiff. You thank him but get no acknowledgement.
The desolation of his displeasure pervades the house. He goes upstairs and you remain on the first floor. The sky is dimming with the winter afternoon. You sit and watch it.
When it’s dark, you retire upstairs. Mr. Shelby’s study door is closed. For a moment, you are drawn into the past. You are the maid, shut out by your employer until he has need of you. It was simpler then. You tried to tell him that.
You go to the bedroom and change in the lamp light. You sit with a book but don’t read. You resign the book to the nightstand and get up. You go to the dresser and take out your journal.
You put the date on the top of the page but don’t write much more. ‘Honeymoon was quick. The day slow. Tired but I don’t know if I’ll sleep.’ You close the journal and cap the glass pen. You’ll thank Mitchell again for such a lovely gift.
You leave the lamp on and close your eyes. You’re tired but restless. At midnight, you shut off the light. You know Mr. Shelby won’t come. Like before, when you were only the maid, he will sleep in his study.
If only you could truly go back. If only you could undo this all. But what about your parents? And what happens to them if you can’t be what Mr. Shelby desires?
You’re lost. Before, you didn’t try and he wanted you so badly it scared you. You’re still afraid.
What happens when all your doubts come true?
🚬
The bed is empty as you rouse from a shallow slumber. You get up and wash before you dress. You thought it might help you leave behind those last few days. It doesn’t.
You emerge into the corridor. You pass the study door and continue downstairs. The routine is all too familiar but feels so new. You put the kettle on, measure the leaves, and steep. You arrange the tray as you wait.
Maybe you can go back. Maybe that’s what Mr. Shelby would prefer. An annulment or a divorce? You’re not sure how those things work.
How do you tell your parents? One thing at a time. First, tea.
You carry the tray upstairs and stop at the study door. You balance the tray on a nearby table and open the door. You retrieve the armful and push through with your back.
Mr. Shelby is behind his desk, his head on the wood. There’s a bottle of liquor beside him. The absence of a glass suggests he drank straight from the neck. His hair would add credence to the assumption.
You put the tray down. You go to your husband and touch the back of his head. He doesn’t move but for his breath in his back.
You put your hand on his shoulder and bend over him. You smell the whiskey. It’s so pungent it nearly makes you retch.
“Mr. Shelby,” you rub his shoulder. “I’ve brought some tea.”
He groans. You push on him until he sits up. He leans heavily against the chair, his head lolling.
“You didn’t sleep,” you tidy his hair.
He drones again. You slowly back away and go to pour his tea. You add milk and bring it to him.
“The tea will help clear your head–”
“Whiskey’s done that,” he growls. He reaches past you and nearly lurches forward as he grabs the bottle. “Think I’ll have some more.”
“Sir,” you carefully set the cup down and put your hand on his. “It’s early.”
“Is it?” He belches and rips his hand free, the liquor sloshing in the glass. “I sat here all night and you didn’t come in one. You slept. Alone. Without me.”
He swigs and you catch the end of the bottle. You push down until he relents. He slams it back down.
“I bet you liked that. Content. On your own. Rid of your husband.”
“That is not true. I waited for you.”
He scoffs and shakes his head. “You did? Mm, I’m sure…”
“I did. Why didn’t you come to bed?”
He cackles and looks up at you, his face contorted with derision. “Waiting for me?” His head bobbles. “Or Oliver?”
You wince. You shake your head and swallow. “Pardon?”
“Stop lying to me,” he hisses. “You’re lying to me!”
He stands and points in your face. You lift your chin, shaking but not backing down.
“You said his name. When you were hurt. Oliver.”
“I don’t remember that.” You say.
“You– you’re lying. Tell me who he is.”
“Mr. Shelby, I never lied to you–”
“Who is he?” He barks as he looms over you. “Tell me the fucking truth!”
You look up at him. Your eyes sting and your jaw ticks. You don’t know if you can explain.
“Ah, Christ!” He throws his hands up and turns. He stumbles and catches himself on the desk. “I know you’re lying. It’s here!” He searches the desk drunkenly with his hands. “I found it. Last night. When you were sleeping.”
“What?” You utter. “Sir–”
He swipes his quarry up and faces you. He wiggles it before your face. You must’ve slept heavier than you thought. You never heard him come in the room.
He snorts and opens it. You reach for it and he keeps it out of your grasp, swaying on his feet. “It’s here…” he flicks through the pages. He clears his throat and squints as he reads. “‘Today is the day of my wedding. I deeply wish Oliver was here. As I do…’” He looks at you and sneers. “‘Every day.’”
Your lip trembles and your cheeks pinch. You step back as a current of heat flows through you. Shock, hurt, anger. The last more potent than the rest.
“Who is he?” He staggers closer and you evade his grasp. He throws the journal and stomps his foot. You retreat further as he trips and falls to his knees. He groans as he sits on his heels and heaves up at you. “Tell me who he is.”
You shake your head and spin away. You march across the room and stop. You look over your shoulder as you put a hand on the door knob.
"Oliver..." You croak, a name you can barely think at times, "is-- was my brother.”
You pull open the door and swing it shut behind you. The slam echoes over your harried footfalls as you flee. You don’t care what Mr. Shelby wants. All you want is for him to leave you alone.
Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Tommy Shelby, maid!reader
Summary: you’ve adapted to your employer’s moods, but you don’t realise how attached he’s become to you .
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
“You give him hell, girl.”
Without the banging and yelling to drown them out, your father's words echo in your ears. You try to shake them out but they stick. You didn't just make a promise to Mr. Shelby, you made one to your da. You have to be strong.
Your reflection is tired. Your skull threatens to crack at the slightest movement and your stomach clutches violently. You have nothing more to spit up.
You rinse your face and repeat the words, “give him hell." It's as much as he's done for you.
You stand straight and look around. You pull on a white silk robe hung from the back of the door. You have to face him eventually and the longer you draw it out, the less nerve you'll have, and the less patience he'll have.
You slide the lock back and pause. You listen. You turn the handle and open the door. You look into the suite, the smell of tobacco greeting you.
You step out. Mr. Shelby sits on the cushioned bench near the wall. He puffs on a cigarette as he glares at the wall opposite. You can tell by his posture that he knows you’re there.
The tension keeps you quiet. You grab your luggage and unbuckle the straps. He lets out a long sigh.
You take out a silk blouse and tea-length skirt. You sift through and find some undergarments as well. You carry them to the bed and lay them out. You return to the bags and bring out a full suit for him, draping each piece over your arm.
The sudden clatter brings a gasp to your lips. A cloud of ash rains over the clothes on the bed as the tray leaves a dent in the wall. You face Mr. Shelby as he stands.
You set your shoulders and your jaw. He marches toward you but you don’t falter. He opens his hand, just below your jaw, fingers curving in the shape of your throat but never touching. He growls and flings his arm out, the air rushing over your face.
“We can talk,” you say calmly.
He scoffs and tilts his head until his neck cracks. He turns and shakes his head. “Talk.”
“Yes. Even if it is only for you to tell me how little you care for what I have to say,” you suggest.
He spins and faces you again, eyes blazing. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“I don’t mean. I am trying to speak to you. We haven’t had much chance for that.”
“And what does that mean?” He hisses.
Your heart races. You cannot meet his mood. You have to keep calm. You exhale and keep your expression placid.
“Mr. Shelby. Do you know that my favourite sweets are butterscotch?” You ask.
He scowls and shakes his head, “pardon? Butterscotch. What do you… No, I don’t know that.”
“What are yours?”
His eyes roll up to the ceiling and he crosses his arms. “Pear drops.”
“Yes, you keep a bowl of them in your office.” You say. “They were always tempting.”
He blinks and chews his lips. “Why are we talking about sweets?”
“We aren’t talking about sweets. We are talking about us. To each other.”
He growls. You pick up the blouse and shake off the ash. You shrug.
“So,” you set the blouse aside and take the jacket, “you do not want the grey. There’s a navy jacket I saw–”
“It was a rather rude awakening–” He snarls.
“It was,” you snap as you lay the jacket on your blouse. You turn to him. “I do not drink. And when I do, it isn’t very much.”
“I see why,” he snorts.
“I am not a violent person. I will not become one to communicate with you.” You retort.
“You hit me. That’s pretty violent,” he argues.
“I did and I regret it. I am sorry,” you say. “But you were hurting me. I told you to get off. I needed you to get off.”
“You didn’t give me a chance–”
“You haven’t given me a chance. Not to breathe, not to adjust. Not only that, but you will not give me a chance as a person.” You don’t flinch as he steps closer. “Mr. Shelby. I know you like pear drops. I know how you take your tea. I know that you like your rashers crispy around the edges and you do not like when your hair flips over right there by your temple.” You lift your chin defiantly. “I know these things. Tell me one thing about me?”
He stares at you for a moment before his eyes slowly drift away. He backs up and walks in a circle. He sits down on the bench.
“You enjoy… film?” He suggests.
You smile. “Mr. Shelby. I’ve never seen a picture. That’s for rich people.”
He looks down and shakes his head again. “You paint?”
“It’s an expensive hobby,” you reply. “I have two books of my own. I read them when I have the chance. When I was your maid, I was often too tired. I do my embroidery but it is to keep my hands busy. It isn’t anything I especially enjoy.”
He stares at the floor and exhales heavily. “I didn’t know…”
“Another thing about me,” you go to the luggage and take out the navy suit. “I’ve never been to the seaside. Not ‘til now. I’ve never had a honeymoon either. So I think this is a good opportunity for us. Do you agree?”
He taps his fingers on the bench and lifts his head. He looks at you.
“You aren’t afraid of the water?” He wonders.
“I’ve lost quite a bit of fear these last months.” You say. “A few other pieces too.”
🚬
The tension remains. It’s almost like hesitation. Not just from you, but Mr. Shelby.
Your venture out to the water was a ploy to distance yourself from the night before. A last effort to bandage the wound left by the morning. All it's done is caused it all to fester.
You stand at the side of the boat and watch the foam at the crest of the waves, like frills on a dress. The water flows over itself, under and over. The noise is as peaceful as the sight.
Your husband stands at your side, smoking. You shift over, away from the cloud of smoke as potent as his mood. Despite your efforts, he remains grey.
“What is it, hen? Are you so repulsed by me?” He challenges.
You look at him. “No, only the cigarette.”
He curls his lip. “Can hardly taste it for the salt.”
You peer out at the water again. “Do you like the water?”
“Mm. Not much.” He pauses to suck on the cigarette, blowing the plume of smoke at you. “When they deployed us, they stacked us on boats to cross the channel.” He takes another drag. “I only ever wanted to see the water once more. To go home.”
You nod. Everything you say is wrong. Clearly, talking is not very effective. Still, you are not like him. Your strength is not fists or fury. Yours is patience.
“It must’ve been nice then, when you did see it on the way home? You must’ve been relieved? Happy to see your family?” You say.
“I saw friends torn through by bullets, shredded by shrapnel, and gutted by Germans,” he sneers. “That’s what I saw when I got back on the boat. Home was full of people whinging over not having sugar in their coffee. And I was still down in the mud."
“I…” you begin.
What? You’re sorry? For something you don’t understand? That you can’t? Your brother went there but he never came back. You don’t even know his story. Only that it ended in a place called Ypres.
“Perhaps we should go back ashore. I saw a sign for donkey rides.” You say.
“Donkey rides?” He clucks. “When did you grow so frivolous?”
“Or we could walk along the promenade?” you offer.
“Whatever you like, hen,” he throws his cigarette into the sea. “Lest you swat me like the vicious dog you take me for.”
You flinch and look at him. “Mr. Shelby.”
“Don’t fret. I’ll remain on my leash.” He growls. “Maybe then you’ll realise how much I’d do for you.” He turns and leans against the rail. “How much I have done.”
Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Tommy Shelby, maid!reader
Summary: you’ve adapted to your employer’s moods, but you don’t realise how attached he’s become to you .
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
You hold your head with one hand as you keep your other arm around Mr. Shelby’s back. You lean on him as your legs threaten to give out with each step. You’ve drunk too much and he’s made sure of it.
After the ascent on the lift, you’re even more dizzy. As you approach your room, he chuckles and digs in his pocket for the key. He shifts your weight as he unlocks the door and you nearly keel over. He catches you as you stumble and you’re right against his chest. He guides you into the suite, your toes dragging on the floor.
He angles you around and dumps you onto the settee. You fling your arms out to keep from slumping to the side. Your head bobbles and you blink, trying to clear your vision.
He hums as he watches you. His hands move in streaks as he strips off his jacket. You bring your hand up rub your cheek. You lean forward only to keel over your lap. You groan.
“Sir, I think… I should lay down.”
“Yes, Henny, think you should,” he agrees.
You stay as you are, cradling your head. The world is spinning too fast. You feel sick and your head pounds.
The rustle of fabric continues as you moan senselessly. You flinch as he grabs your shoulders and pushes you up. He’s in his undershirt and slacks. You shiver, unable to stop the quiver in your lip.
“Here’s fine, isn’t it, hen?” He leans you against the couch and sits next to you. “I’ll help you, dear wife.”
He pulls your sleeves down your arms. You gasp as he exposes your tits and you try to cross your arms. He nudges them away and you slacken against the upholstered cushions.
“Mm, hen, you are even more beautiful each time I look upon you.” He bends to kiss your breasts, a kiss on each nipples. You drone as your eyelids sag.
“Mr. Shelby… I’m… I’m not…”
He hushes you as he slips your hands out of the sleeves. He tilts you onto your side and rolls the fabric down your torso and pelvis. He slides his hand under you as he tugs down the skirt. He strips you down to your panties and stockings, your heels falling off your toes.
He bends one of your legs against the back of the couch as your other hangs over the edge. He looks down at you and chuckles in his throat. He pulls off his undershirt and undoes his trousers. You close your eyes and let your head loll to the side.
He climbs between your legs. You moan and turn your head up. Your lashes flutter as you try to see his face. It’s all blurry as if a light’s being shone in your face.
He kisses you. You shudder. He smears his lips over your cheek and his hot breath scalds your throat. He shifts over you and tugs aside the loose silk of your panties. You drone again.
“Mr. Shelby…” you murmur.
“Yes, love, I will take care of you,” he drawls as he pokes around your cunt. “As a husband does.”
He rubs between your folds and dips into you. You close your eyes and hiss. Your body tingles beneath the shell of numbness.
“You recall… when we were in that hotel… on the sofa…” he pushes into his limit. “I could’ve fucked you then.” He slides back and hums. “I didn’t…” he thrusts. “I waited…” he snaps his pelvis again and you slap the cushion. “I didn’t have to. I did and yet you behave as if…”
He rocks his hips into you, the curled feet of the settee scraping on the floor in time with him. You push on his shoulder weakly and whine. You squirm as he pumps harder.
“You are my wife,” He grabs your jaw and rests his forehead against yours. “And you want me. I feel it.” You squeak and drag a hand to his chest, pushing harder as he ruts so hard the wooden frame sounds ready to crack. “The way you cling to me. The way you are ready for me. So tell me…”
You babble and cough out a breath.
“Say it. Say you want me.” He sneers.
“I…” you close your mouth and wet it with your tongue. “I want you, mister… mister…”
Your voice trails off as he hammers into you. You sink your nails into his skin and bite down. The glaze of alcohol dulls his force as he pounds you down into the thin cushions. He growls and bows his head down next to yours.
“You are mine. Forever,” he rasps. “Say it to me.”
“Yours…” you gurgle as your stomach ripples. “Yours… forever.”
“Forever,” he repeats and keeps going, even as your body goes limp and you can’t move. Even as your eyes roll into your skull and you can’t think. He doesn’t stop. He will never.
🚬
You wake up out of sorts. Your head is a stone and your body is fragile like crumpled paper. You open your eyes and quickly close them again. You ache deeply, full and fiery.
You try again. The canopy greets you first then the soft rhythm of snoring. Right next to your ear. A warmth radiates around and through you. It’s unbearable.
You try to push the blankets off you. Why are they so heavy? But they don’t feel like fabric. You feel a pulse, you feel blood coursing. You turn your head and dark hair tickles the tip of your nose.
Your legs are bent and splayed. Mr. Shelby lays between them. You don’t remember how you got to the bed or how he got on top of you. You don’t remember much more than the hazy bulbs of the chandeliers and the bubbles zipping up the side of the champagne glass.
Your stomach boils with acid and your skull thrums with your heart beat. You squirm and shove Mr. Shelby’s shoulders. You dig in your heel and whine. He’s inside you. You nearly retch at the realisation.
Mortified isn’t the right word only because it’s not enough. What you feel is disgust, with him as much as yourself. You let yourself get drunk, you thought it would be better. No, it only made you unaware and weak. And him. It made him… repulsive.
Your skin speckles with flames and you use your body weight to move him. You only manage to lurch him until he snorts. He groans and pushes into you. You smack his arms and snarl.
Bile burns with something else. Helplessness, humiliation, and… fury. You squeeze his biceps and push again.
“Get off me!” You cry.
“Hen,” he drawls and turns his head to kiss your jaw.
“I said get off!” You sink your nails in. “Now!”
“You’re fine, hen. It’s al–”
Your vision throbs and your ears burn. You gnash your teeth and your veins flow with fire. You wriggle wildly. “Get! Off!” You smack his head.
He grunts and slips out of you. He rolls onto his back and cradles his skull. You don’t look at him as you sit up and throw yourself out of bed.
“Hen? You– you–”
You stagger and catch your balance. You are in only your stockings. One above your knee, the other rumpled around your ankle. You limp out, holding your pelvis as you find your way into the lavatory.
“Hen!” You hear his feet slap onto the floor.
You stand straight, nearly tipping over, and spin. He marches across the room and you grab the door. You swing it shut and turn the latch. You flinch as he hits the other side.
“Hen! Open the door!” He thumps it again. “Fucking let me in.” You ignore and lean on the door. You feel his rage as he bangs on it and keeps on. “What the fuck are you thinking?”
You turn and slump over the sink. You touch your forehead and your insides constrict. You heave up a splatter of bile into the porcelain and groan.
You don’t know what you’re thinking, you just need him off of you. Away from you. Even if it’s not for long. Even if you know that it will be forever.
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Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Arthur Shelby, (short)maid!reader
Summary: you’re employer proves to be the most difficult mess to tend to.
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
Prudence never did anyone poorly. It would be impractical to resist the four brutes sent to curtail you. Even if impossible, you do not bristle any less at their accostment. Your head itches with the urge to take the pin out, then again, it's a poor match for a bullet.
You are no stranger to obstinacy but no less unfamiliar with common sense. You sigh and hold your sewing hoop to you middle and step into the aisle of the train. You glare down the men in their caps and suits.
“Well then, are we to stand and gawk at each other?” You challenge.
One scoffs. The one closest to you tilts his head. He lets his jacket fall over his pistol.
“Donny, get her bag,” he grabs your arm and you recoil.
“There is no need to touch me. I will go along.” You grit.
Another snort.
“She's snappy,” one says.
“Aye, shut up,” their ring leader lets you go. “Art won't like the talk.”
“And who's gonna tell?” The other sneers.
“Good not to make a habit,” the leader huffs and beckons you with his thick fingers. “C’mon then, miss.”
You keep your eyes from rolling back in your skull. This is rather dramatic, all for a maid, all for fragile pride. You are led by two men, the other two at your back. The doorman stands, gaping at the intimidating party, and nods at you grimly.
Weak. All of them. They carry guns to mask it but you see it clearly. They've not an ounce of intelligence to rub together to spark a thought.
The first man jumps into the dirt, the second staggers after him. You're helped down by the leader as the third brings down your bag. Your heels sink into the flatland.
The leader whistles and the train door closes. You're herded away as the tracks whine and the locomotive grinds away. You grip your sewing hoop as your handbag hangs on your wrist.
“Is this going to take long?” You ask dryly.
The leader grins and shakes his head. “You know, the big man isn't happy.”
“Drunk, no doubt.” You mutter.
This time he can't help but laugh. “You best keep that tongue in line, eh. You've left him quite ornery.”
You blow out between your lips. The tail of the train disappears in a cloud of dust. An abrupt honk draws your attention across the rails. A truck waits on the other side.
“This way, lady,” the leader offers his hand. You ignore it.
You put the hoop in your hand bag and set off across the ground. You watch your feet as you step along the wooden slats of the tracks and lift your toes over the iron frame. You come to the other side, chin high, and march to your fate.
The leader catches up to you as the other men grumble. He points you around the cargo of the truck and once more offers assistance. You don't even look at him as you grab the side and haul yourself up with a foot on the bumper.
“Sharpe, miss.” He says from behind you. “Just so you got a name…”
“I don't care. Same as all the rest.” You sit on the wooden bench mounted in the cargo.
He climbs up and sits beside you. You rest your purse on your lap and stare off into the vague horizon. They've not earned your wrath so much as their boss.
🥃
You arrive at a rather dreary house. It reminds you of your upbringing, less about nine children and a hollering patron. You stare dully ahead. Surely your fate is not the same as your origin.
You smell a fire, see it puffing grey from the chimney. You watch the furls and chew on your temper.
Sharpe is the first out. Again, you ignore his kindness. You nearly pay for it with a twisted ankle.
Your heels sink in the muck and you yank each step from the soft, wet ground. Can a Shelby not afford better than a crooked hut in the ether? You march for the door only to be drawn back by Sharpe. You shake him off your sleeve.
“Let me knock,” he urges and steps ahead of you.
He taps on the door rhythmically. You don't hear much. He backs up and nods.
“You go in. Boys, have a smoke.”
He turns and waves you past him. You're irked at how he commands you but you haven't much of a choice. You pass him, wary of how close he remains.
You push the lever down and the door creaks inward. You feel only agitation as you enter. This is not a fine house in Oxford where you should be but some ramshackle house where this equally ramshackle man has dragged you.
The fireplace glows amber. The glass in the iron door is cracked. A single oil lamp burns beside a chair. Arthur Shelby lounges in it as he swigs dark liquor from a bottle. It's not so lofty a sight as he might assume.
“What do you want?” You snip.
He chuckles, covering his mouth as he puts the bottle next to the lamp. He wipes the dribble of liquor.
“Fine day to you too,” he snarls.
You note your misstep. He is far too amused by the effect of his disruption. You clasp your bag and clear your expression. You stare.
“Not too cold but those eyes do chill a man,” he taunts.
You remain silent.
He groans and grips the arms of the chair. He pushes himself up. You don't move.
He slowly traipses toward you.
“You know what I want as you seem to know everything.”
You blink.
“I get it. Ladies. Needa play a game. Keep the men biting at the hook. Ya know, not much of a fisherman myself.” He stops before you. “I don't like waiting on a dead line and yanking out nothin’ but bait.”
You nearly yawn. You twist slightly to look around. The place is dusty and the furniture a bit mildewy from neglect. It was once a welcoming home you're sure.
“Are ye gonna fuckin’ talk?” He snaps in frustration as he grabs your chin and forces you to look at him.
You slap your hand around his wrist. He snickers as he squeezes. “See, you don't know me. Not what I can do to ye, miss. And ye don't want to find out so you best just let me on the hook.”
You drop your purse and reach for your hat. It falls off your head as you slide the pin free and you ram it up and forward. You feel it pierce the layers of his jacket and sleeve, lodging firmly in the muscle of his shoulder.
He retracts with a yowl and you stumble back. He grips the pin and whines as he bends over and tries to pull it free. He gnashed his teeth as he wiggles it and you grab your purse by the strap.
He tosses the pin with a clatter. You reel back. He turns his blazing eyes on you, the firelight flickering over him. You swing your purse as he charges you.
You hit him in the face. The metal clasp bounces off his cheekbone and he growls. You swing again and get his wounded shoulder. He yipes and catches the third assault in both hands.
He tugs the bag so you stagger forward. You let go and he throws the purse away. He reaches for you and you recoil.
You'll have to try a shoe next.
“Sharpe. Get yer arse in here!” He blusters as he grips his shoulder and pants. “Ah, bloody piss. Bobbin,” his voice wobbles at the end, “why'd ya have to be so mean? I wasn't gon do nothin’. Just… messin’...”
He retreats as the door opens behind you. Sharpe enters, his shadow pooling over you. You fix your posture and tidy your jacket.
“Art,” Sharpe says.
“She needs to calm down.” Arthur grimaces. “And I need a fuckin’ drink.”
He turns and reaches for his bottle. His arm shakes as he tries to lift it. He drops the liquor and snarls.
“Take her to the room. She gonna act like a dog, tie her up like one,” he kicks the chair then stomps. “Ey, Bobbin, you gotta be nice if ya want me ta be.”
Sharpe grabs your arm. This time he doesn't let you pull away.
“Who said I ever wanted that?” You spit. “Or you.”
Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Arthur Shelby, (short)maid!reader
Summary: you’re employer proves to be the most difficult mess to tend to.
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
“Sorry, dear, but we’ve enough help ‘round here,” Elizabeth says as she keeps the door behind her.
You look down at the newspaper then at her again. She hums and crosses her arms against the bitter winter. You lower the listing and tilt your head.
“I’m rather sorry but we’ve filled the vacancy. That advert is out of date.” She explains.
“It’s today’s issue,” you argue. “But no matter. I understand.”
“Truly, dear. We’d love to take you on but the timing, you see…”
“Yes, yes.” You nod and fold the paper. “Thank you for your time. Have a good day.”
“Mm, you too,” she frowns.
She’s more upset over the rejection than you are. You think you have a good idea why. You turn and tuck the paper into your handbag.
You think that ticket to Oxford may just be in order. Your cousin says there’s a family looking for a governess. You’re not one for children but you won’t turn away a decent income.
You stride between the barren branches of frost-bitten hedges, your heels echoing in the frigid lull. Another set of steps approach and you look up at the shadow as it approaches. You hide your disappointment as Thomas Shelby steps onto the cobbles.
“Mr. Shelby,” you greet. “What chance.”
His cheek dimples. His eyes drift away and his brows arch. “I’ve not time for this, eh. I’ve a wedding to get in order.” His blue eyes narrow on you. “Go back to my brother. Clean him up.”
Your expression pinches and you flutter your lashes. “Sir, I’ve quit his employ. And I was never under yours.”
He scoffs. “You know who I am. What I am.”
“I know,” you assure him. “And I’ve no interest in remaining around you ilk.”
He sighs and brings his leather gloves to his temples. “Eh, I know Art can be an arse. He’s my brother, I’ve known it well all my life. Whatever he’s done, I’ve spoken to him. Won’t happen again.”
“What he did should never have happened once. And that’s that. I’ve made up my mind.”
He inhales through his teeth and reaches under his jacket. You stiffen as you see the butt of his pistol. He slides out his cigarette case and puts a smoke between his lips. It takes him several tries to get a flame on his lighter, cupping his hand against the wind to light the tobacco.
He exhales and rolls the smoke back on his tongue. He frowns. “Go back to Arthur. He’s a wreck.”
You push your shoulders back and slide your handbag down to grip the strap in both your hands. “There are other maids in Birmingham, sir.”
He tuts and sucks on the cigarette again. “Christ. So fucking stubborn.” He taps the ash off the tip. “You think I don’t have better to do than to chase around an errant maid?”
“I know you do. Perhaps, sir, it would be prudent to let your brother clean up his own messes for once.” You step closer to him. “I won’t be.”
You turn and strut away. He growls at your back. “He might just… you don’t know Art.” He sniffs.
You shake your head. You know enough about the man to be done with him. All of them. The Shelbys will no longer be your problem.
🥃
You haul your suitcase to the platform. You approach the train and show your ticket to the attendant. They wave you on but before you can drag your bag in after you, it’s lifted from your grasp. A man in a cap nods at you.
“Got it, ma’am.” He assures as he flashes a ticket with his other hand. The attendant backs away and waves him on.
“Sir, I can–”
“Little lady can’t be doin’ all that,” he insists. Three men line up after him.
Not wanting to hold them up, you climb aboard. He follows and places your bag in the baggage compartment nestled between the door and the seats.
“Thank you, sir. Safe travels.” You nod and quickly march away.
You find a seat and watch the platform through the window. You clutch your handbag as you sense the man pass your row; then the others that followed. You make note of their caps and their suits. It could be coincidence or paranoia but you can never be too cautious.
The car fills up with travellers. Women in brimmed hats and men with briefcases. You hook your leg over the other clasp and unclasp the mouth of your purse.
The train lurches into motion. Your nerves calm as you watch Birmingham roll into the distance. Good riddance.
When you arrive, you’ll be on your way to an interview with Lady Florence Kew. She has an eight-year old daughter and young toddler boy. It is much preferable to the other offer of a household of eight children and another on the way.
It will do for the time. You might find a widow who needs a maid. She might live in a dusty old mansion all alone. Somewhere you won’t have to deal with screeches or spills. Though you suppose minding children isn’t so different than your previous position.
The train stops and several passengers disembark. The man who brought your bag aboard moves to a seat closer to yours. One where he can see you and you him. Another of the men sits parallel to you.
You pretend not to notice. You reach up to shift your hat, feeling the pin in it. The same you pointed at Shelby’s throat.
You lower your hand and stare out the window. They might not be; or they might. All you can do is be prepared.
Again, the train chuffs away from the station. You take out the small frame in your purse. You poke the needle through the linen. As you weave the rose into the white cloth, you are aware of the shifting bodies.
One of the men strolls by. He’s watching you. He taps the sleeve of one of the other men. You have to be ready.
The train stops. You peek out the window. There is no call for arrival. No one else rises to depart. There isn’t even a platform.
A shadow appears over the top of your seat and the man behind you leans over. You feel something pressing through the cushion into your back. You hear the click of a barrel rolling into alignment.
“It’s your stop, love.” He growls as the other men stand, hands twitching over their jackets. You lower your embroidery. You peer around at them, one at a time.
You stand and tuck away your needle and frame. “Four of you?” You look at the man as he brings the pistol over the top of the seat. “For just me?”
They let her believe she really got away huh. I thought they would've refused her at the station from getting on the train. Four men huh he aint playing.
