Chapter Text
Chester Campbell cannot believe his luck when the phone call comes in at 3 a.m. on a Sunday morning.
"Joyriding?" he repeats.
"Yes, sir. Caught in a Maserati Levante near Westminster Bridge."
"And he's in the cells now?"
"Yes. With another lad. Kid named Isaiah."
"Thank you, Moss. Hold them for now. Don't charge them until I say so."
Campbell's interest in the Shelby family is longstanding and obsessive; he's tracked their every move with a fervour some might call fanatical. Thomas Shelby has wriggled from his grasp far too often, but each time Chester's resolve has hardened (much like his own flesh in his hand when he calls up the image of wet blue eyes and spends like a lust-sick teenager).
He's long-since come to terms with the sinister form of attraction he feels for the head of the Shelby family. Hatred is a passion as fierce as any other and will not be constrained by the borders of propriety. He no longer fears his fantasies, he indulges them; embelishes them until they're almost tangible. Till he can hear Shelby's screams in the dark.
Sleep is impossible with the weight of this unexpected opportunity lying in his lap. Power has always turned him on, both having it himself and seeing it artfully wielded. Shelby — with his blend of intellect and audacity — has amassed more than his birth should ever have allowed. It's a shame he bleeds such arrogance with it, which brings Chester to the greatest aphrodisiac of all: taking power away. Someone needs to put that fearless little gypsy back in his place.
He waits until 7 a.m. before dialling Shelby's number.
"Good morning, Mr Shelby. Sorry to bother you this early on a Sunday."
"Superintendent Campbell. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"It's Chief Superintendent, actually—" no thanks to you, "—and the pleasure is entirely mine."
A woman's sleep-groggy voice whines in the background, "come back to bed, Tommy."
"I do hope I'm not disturbing anything, Mr Shelby."
"Nothing that won't wait."
"Good. Good. Well, I'm afraid I have some rather bad news. Your little brother appears to have found himself in a spot of bother."
A lighter flicks, followed by a long, unhurried intake of breath that crackles through tobacco. "What's John done?" Shelby asks.
"No, no, believe it or not it isn't John this time. It's your youngest brother. Finn."
There's a turgid silence on the line. Chester smiles as he imagines the cold fury in Shelby's eyes.
"I thought perhaps you and I should discuss how we might resolve this unfortunate matter. In person. Say, The Lord Hamilton? 9 p.m.?"
***
Chester treats himself to a haircut that morning and a shave at the local Turkish barber's. He rather likes what he sees when Berat has finished shaping his newly cultivated beard — it's almost white and lends him a certain air of gravitas.
"Quite the silver fox, sir!" Berat beams enthusiastically. Chester gives him a polite but curt nod and departs without leaving a tip.
He whiles away the rest of the day in smug solitude; reading the newspaper; sipping coffee at a pavement cafe; instructing Moss to check on the rumour that Shelby is founding a charitable foundation. He hadn't seen that coming, he'll admit, but it certainly fits the trajectory. Not only is Shelby now Director of the Greater Birmingham Chambers of Commerce, he is actively courting high profile members of both main political parties. As if his burgeoning empire makes him safe. Untouchable. Such reckless presumption cannot be left unchecked.
When six o'clock rolls around, Chester takes himself home to shower and change. He dresses in a grey flannel shirt, dark chinos, and a navy blue wool coat, checking his pockets before he leaves. Good — he has everything.
He's mildly hungry, but he doesn't eat; there's a steak-house around the corner from the Hamilton at which he plans to treat himself to a T-bone and a glass of the '95 Bordeaux. It's a year since he transferred to London and Shelby last slipped from his grasp. And now, by serendipity, poor feckless Finn has put his brother's tail beneath Campbell's paw once more. It's a fitting end to their game of cat and mouse. Campbell fully intends to enjoy playing with his food.
***
The Lord Hamilton is one of The City's oldest pubs, a dark, Dickensian bar beneath which sits an even danker space. It's this subterranean hideaway that Campbell favours for meeting with informants and other low-lifes. The barman, Louis, nods in recognition and readies a glass of brandy as Chester descends the stairs.
It's quiet, being a Sunday. Four men perch on stools at the end of the ancient mahogany bar; they stink of dirty money and dirtier habits; Chester knows them all.
"You want them to leave?" Louis asks.
"No. They're fine," he confirms. They might be useful. "I'm expecting someone in fifteen minutes. See him through to the end room and ensure we aren't disturbed."
Louis nods once more.
It's two minutes to nine when the door to the small, windowless snug opens; the hinges protest violently as Shelby throws it wide.
"Good evening, Mr Shelby."
Shelby stops, still as stone, framed by the dark red doorway. Something hot slips down Chester's throat — like the burn of potcheen on an empty stomach — he's going to savour the next hour.
"No need to stand on ceremony; join me. Have a drink."
"I came here to talk," Shelby says, closing the door with his foot. He doesn't sit.
He's thrumming with a dangerous energy, and God knows far more powerful men than Chester Campbell have quaked beneath that glare, but his own response is more troubling (even in its familiarity). He's fascinated. Enthralled. Compelled to see that fury boil up so that he can slap it back down.
“Joyriding, Mr Campbell. Really? That's what you've got?"
"Joyriding is a serious business," he says.
"It's a first offence. No damage to people or property. Accomplice's father's a preacher. No judge'll send him down."
"Over-confidence has always been your downfall, Mr Shelby."
"They're the facts."
"Hmm. They are indeed. But it would seem that you're not in possession of all of them."
Shelby raises both eyebrows in question — an impatient gesture that Chester has always found rude.
"Unfortunately for Finn, 22 wraps of heroin were found in the door bin of the vehicle he was driving."
"That is a fucking LIE!" Shelby roars.
"That is intent to distribute."
There's the briefest of pauses before Shelby lunges at the one small table, hurling Chester's brandy to the floor. It explodes in a cloud of glass.
A thrill shoots through Chester's guts at such an open loss of control. He tuts and shakes his head in response. "You're really going to have to keep that temper in check, Mr Shelby, if this discussion is to continue."
"Finn has NEVER—"
"—never what? Partaken in the family business? Oh I know. You've been very careful on that front, haven't you? He's never passed his driving test either, by the way. Scared to tell you he'd failed apparently."
"He's a kid! A fucking kid. He has nothing to do with this. With us." It's really quite endearing how Shelby even points his finger.
"I'm glad you acknowledge that there is an us, Thomas." Chester stands, rounding the table to brush glass from his lap.
"How much do you fucking want, Campbell?"
"Oh now, now, Mr Shelby. Surely you're not so naive as to believe I'd be satisfied with something as distasteful as money?"
"Everyone has a price, Campbell."
"You see, that's your problem, isn't it? You think you can buy your way out of anything."
"What then?" Shelby asks. "What do you want from me?"
"There's something that's been troubling me," Campbell says. He keeps his voice light, chooses his words carefully.
Shelby does his best to look disinterested as he pulls a packet of cigarettes from his jacket's inside pocket.
"Do you ever get a question stuck in your head? A question that simply won't leave you alone?
Shelby lights his cigarette; it's impressive how much anger he can inject into the flick of a lighter wheel.
"I have such a question on my mind," Campbell continues, "and it's been keeping me awake at night. All through the wee small hours. It's hard to function at one's best without a good night's sleep, don't you think?"
"Your sleeping habits are not my concern."
"Oh, but they are, Thomas. You see the question that's troubling me relates directly to you." He jabs a finger at Shelby's chest.
Shelby sneers at the physical contact, but doesn't step back. "What question might that be?"
"I'm afraid it's rather ... delicate." Campbell leans in as if to tell a secret. God, he smells good up close. Expensive. "What sound does Thomas Shelby make when he's being fucked?"
He lets the question hang a moment, watches Shelby's skin pale. It's a barely-perceptible change in pallor that anyone else might miss. Not Chester. Chester has watched too closely for too long; he catches the reaction and uses it to strike, shoving Shelby hard against the wall and pressing a hand to his throat.
"Does he grunt like a pig, I wonder? Or does he moan like a whore?"
Shelby glares as if his eyes alone had the power to harm. He lifts his hands to pull Campbell off, but seems to think better of it, settling for holding on rather than losing a struggle.
"Maybe you'll screech," Chester says, "like the foxes that stalk the filthy alleys after dark."
Shelby, feral creature, spits at him, and any impulse Chester had to be measured vanishes. He slaps Shelby hard across the cheek before wiping the muck from his own face.
"Vixens snarl like that, you know, to warn off their would-be suitors. You've probably heard them yourself, filling the night with their terrible screams."
Shelby looks a picture, lip twitching in silent fury as his cheek blooms livid red. But what is fury if not another form of passion?
"They always give in, the vixens. Surrender to the dominant male."
Shelby smirks a little at that. "That's what you think you are, eh? The dominant fucking male?"
"A quick assessment of the facts, Mr Shelby, would seem to make it so. Right now, I have your brother in a cell, my hand around your throat, and a significant height and weight advantage. Not to mention four men outside that door who will do my bidding and deny all knowledge afterwards."
Shelby's face is turning slowly crimson — whether from rage or lack of air — which lends his fierce glower a certain desperation. Chester's cock pulses. "So, how about we strike a deal? That's how you like to work, I believe?"
"What deal?" Shelby says. His voice sounds beautifully strained.
"I get an answer to my bothersome question and you get your brother out."
Shelby takes an infuriatingly long time to respond. So long that Chester's hand starts to tire.
"And off all charges," he eventually says.
"And off all charges." Chester steps back, slowly. The room is small; the door is closed. Shelby won't run, not with his brother at such risk.
Shelby grinds out the cigarette he dropped earlier beneath one expensive shoe. "Best get on with it then," he says, unbuckling his belt with quick, angry movements.
Chester tuts. He's not so naive as to think Shelby would crumble under his threats (even if, in his dreams, Shelby cries and begs). But this defiant acceptance? He can admit, it's disappointing.
"Bend over the table," he says, and Shelby moves like a cat — too slow and too proud for Campbell's liking. He stops when his thighs are pressed to the edge of the table.
"It's fucking filthy," he says, nodding at the ring-marked wood. "This is Italian wool." The vain bastard actually starts fumbling with his tie.
Campbell is losing his patience; he rips the leather from Shelby's belt loops and wraps it around his fist. "I don't care if it's Italian wool. Irish wool. Knitted from the hair of your mother's filthy cunt. Bend the fuck over and get your trousers down."
Making Shelby bare himself is the stuff of Chester's dreams; he likes the element of complicity almost as much as he likes the sight. So pale and human, bent over like this. Hard to believe this is the man so many have come to fear.
"Get the fuck on with it," Shelby grates, shifting his weight on his forearms. His movements are small but agitated, a delightful show of nerves.
"Stop fidgeting, Mr Shelby."
He waits for Shelby to still and, when he does, whips the belt across bare skin as hard as he can manage. The angry sound that Shelby stifles is music to his ears. Voices from the bar mimic a wince and a peel of laughter follows. Good. He wants them to hear. He lays half a dozen red stripes over Shelby's arse, and drops the belt to the floor.
"Have you forgotten where your cock is, Mr Campbell?" Shelby says, when his breath has settled.
"Impatient little whore, aren't you? You surely didn't imagine I'd touch you without precautions?"
He takes his time rolling on a condom, stroking himself with lubricant — he isn't the devil himself. He likes the loud squelch of his fist and the anticipation it creates. When he's ready, he approaches the table and spreads Shelby's cheeks with his thumbs. He could almost feel sorry for him, looking at that tight little hole, such an innocent shade of pink.
"Stay where you fucking well are, Mr Shelby," he growls. Shelby doesn't make it easy, clenching hard against the intrusion and roaring through gritted teeth as he's breached. Chester stops when his thighs are flush with Shelby's, forcing him hard against the table. He takes a moment to enjoy the spasming muscles, the way Shelby shudders and pants, fists clenched as if ready to fight. When he's sure he's in control of himself, he dares to move once more — pulling out slowly, until the crown of his cock tugs at Shelby's tight rim.
"I hope you're ready, whore," he whispers, grabbing a handful of black hair as he drives himself back in. The second roar of surrender is even more gratifying than the first. "It's about time someone taught you some humility," he snarls as he repeats the motion again.
Each slow, hard thrust slams Shelby into the table. Again. Again. Again. Shelby is defiantly quiet. "I can't fucking hear you," he says, leaning close to that scented neck.
"Fuck you," Shelby answers, his usual gravelly drawl now barely a rasping of breath.
"Have it your own way," Campbell says, letting go of Shelby's hair to hold onto the sides of the table. He fucks until he's out of breath, until Shelby is panting loud and hard, his head pressed into the wood.
"Thomas Shelby pants like a dog," he says. "Like a fucking mongrel bitch."
An angry growl escapes Shelby's lips, and that's more fucking like it. He wraps himself over Shelby's back and pauses to catch his breath. "Beg me not to hurt you," he says. When there's no response he slams in so hard that the table rocks on two legs. "'Please Mr Campbell, sir, don't hurt me.' Something like that would do."
Shelby maintains his defiance. He doesn't obey, but he bites his knuckles, which turns Chester on more than it should. "Or maybe you like it when it hurts. Like being put in your place."
"No," Shelby grunts.
"Then beg me."
"Fuck off."
"Fine," Chester says, picking up his pace, "maybe your brother will beg instead."
Shelby gasps and tries to push himself up on his arms. "We made a fucking deal!" he shouts. It's really quite endearing, his trust in Campbell's word.
"The deal said your brother gets off. Not what happens to him first."
Shelby visibly slackens beneath him, like the fight is draining out of him. Chester slams in all the harder, over and over again. "You think you hate me, Shelby? You think you don't want this? And yet you won't say the words to make it stop."
"Please," Shelby says. His voice sounds thin. "Please leave Finn alone."
"Beg me," he repeats.
Shelby does. It's pathetic and lovely and sends Chester over the edge far quicker than he’d have liked. He comes with a long, hard groan.
***
"That won't be the last time," Chester says afterwards, warm with satisfied lust. He rests his head on the back of the leather banquette. "We're too useful to each other."
Shelby looks up from fastening his tie, his face an unanswered question. He doesn't deny it.
"You were hard," Chester adds. Because it's true. He really is a filthy whore. "Next time maybe I'll let you come. After I've made you cry."
"Ring him," Shelby answers. He looks surprisingly together with his suit back in place, though his cheek remains pleasingly pink.
"Who?" Chester asks.
"Moss, you fucking cu—"
"—ah, ah, ah," Chester wags his finger, "we've spoken about that temper."
"I've kept my side of the deal. Now you fucking well keep yours."
"I will, Mr Shelby. Thomas. You don’t mind if I call you Thomas? It seems more appropriate now that we've—"
Shelby grabs Chester's phone from the table and throws it into his lap. "You think you're the first man I've bent over for? You think it makes you special?"
"I think it makes me hungry, Thomas. Which reminds me, I have a reservation. Do you like steak?"
"Do I like fucking st—"
"l'll make that call in an hour. Once we've finished dinner."