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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months

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Warnings: dark elements, noncon, cheating, other dark elements. Proceed with caution.

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Part of The Club AU

“Tommy knows the owner,” Grace trills as she leads you upstairs, “he’s around here somewhere, I’m sure.”

“Right,” you follow her up into the violet-tinted lighting of the private room, “Mr. Shelby must know a lot of people.”

“Mm, yes, that is the upside of our marriage. There isn’t a single restaurant or shop in this city where they don’t know his name,” she boasts as you stop at the door and she struts across to the slender bar. She hums, a hint of disapproval in her tone, and she pops the cork of the bottle. “That and the drinks.”

She catches the foam from the neck in her mouth, her lipstick staining the torn edge of the golden seal. She gulps and puts the bottle down, blotting her lips with her knuckles. She turns and strolls around the curved sofa and looks through the windows that peer into the flashing club.

“Pour me a glass,” she demands, “it isn’t my brand but good enough.”

You obey. Mrs. Shelby is very precise in what she wants. She never leaves you in need of further directive. Your previous employer often expected you to know what they wanted without saying so. That stint did not last very long.

The private room is decorated in silver and gold banners, vases filled with matching confetti, and an ivory cake with a big ‘40’ mounted on top. The decor clashes with the rest of the club. This isn’t a refined venue, it’s a place where coeds come to wile away their weekends.

You fill a stemmed glass with champagne and bring it to Grace as she toys with a pale blonde wave. She is a pretty woman. She has all the elegance her name would suggest. Still, there is a staunchness to her that keeps you diligent.

“Hmm, I do wonder why my husband is so fond of this place,” she tuts, “though I might guess it.”

You peer down at the writhing bodies dancing below. Skimp skirts, crop tops, flirty moves; it isn’t your sort of place and you didn’t think it was hers either. She turns and struts away, sitting on the sofa to nurse her champagne flute. You turn to face her, staying by the windowed wall.

“I won’t complain. Charlotte will appreciate the effort. It might even bring back a few memories for her,” Grace continues on, twirling the glass between her fingers. “The rest of the ladies should be content enough with the champagne and—oh my, please, go to the kitchen and inquire after the appetizers. I was promised brie and crustinis.”

She sighs as you move for the door and she slurps loudly. As you reach the door, you hear her mutter, “...ever trust him...”

You leave her there, wallowing with her golden nectar. It is no secret that the Shelby’s are facing marital woes. Even beyond the scope of Mrs. Shelby’s personal assistant, it’s obvious. Their last dinner party erupted in an argument which had their social circle whispering even months later. She blamed the alcohol and he blamed her.

You find your way to the kitchen, past the burly man serving drinks behind the upper tier bar. You’re permitted past upon the mention of your employer’s name. Within, a man lines trays with tidy hor d’ouevres. Despite his greasy apron, his work looks no different than the private chefs that often serve the Shelbys.

You hate to ask but you have to. Your ‘when’ is met with a ‘soon’ which sounds more like ‘can’t you see?’ You thank the cook and quickly retreat.

As you get back to the stairs, you see Mona, Lilian, and Charlotte. The latter looks confused at her surroundings. She has no idea why she’s there. The surprise has worked. You linger then follow up a few steps behind.

You can hear the furor as you approach the door. Charlotte’s squealing and as you enter, unseen, she hugs Grace who looks more irked then endeared by the embrace. Your employer’s eyes lock onto you and he gestures to you. You serve the other ladies; Charlotte first as guest of honour.

“This is quaint,” Mona preens.

“It’s exactly Charlotte’s taste,” Grace snipes, “if only you’d known her twenty years ago--”

“Grace, I am a married woman now. No need to bring up the past,” Charlotte girds.

“Oh, tell me the first note of Britney won’t have you undone,” Grace challenges as she lets you refill her glass.

The woman chirp and giggle. Your employer faces you, “well?”

“The cook is finishing up. They’ll be here shortly,” you keep your voice low, an expert at not disturbing the others.

“Mm, it better be worth it.”

You don’t mention that it hasn’t cost her anything. It’s isn’t your place to say so, or to speak unless spoken to. Some may think your job oppressive but you don’t mind so much. It’s easy to be told what to do. You’ve never been very good at decisions.

She sips and scrunches up her nose, “ugh, this isn’t dry enough. Go, find my brand. Ugh, he knows what I prefer and he just doesn’t care.”

“Yes, miss,” you take her glass as she hands it over and you leave it on the bar. It’s miss, not ma’am. Ma’am makes her feel old. When her birthday comes around, it will be her fifth fourtieth soiree.

You leave the room again and venture back down. You go to the bar and wave your hand at the tall, blond bartender. He nods to show he’s seen you as he continues to serve his current customer. You wait, bobbing impatiently. He forgets you as a flurry of babbling young girls approach from the other side. He takes their orders and you sigh. You put your hand up again.

“Oi,” a voice sounds from behind you and a whistle cuts through the thrumming din. The bartender turns and his blue eyes flicker in the club lights. He nears, looking behind you, almost through you.

“Mr. Shelby,” he greets. You tense and glance behind you. It’s him. Thomas Shelby. Your boss’ husband. In essence, he is your boss, he pays your bills.

“She’s been waiting,” he points down at you.

“Of course, sir, apologies,” the bartender looks down at you, “what can I do for you?”

“Er, I'm looking for champagne. A specific brand--”

“Taittinger,” Mr. Shelby calls over your head.

You nod in agreement. That’s the one. He knows but he didn’t have it in the room. Is his wife correct in his disregard or was it merely an oversight?

“Quickly,” Shelby demands and shoos the bartender with his fingers. “My wife is here?”

You face him and confirm his assumption.

“Mm, I forgot it was tonight,” he says, though you hardly hear him over the music.

You don’t know what to say. There isn’t anything to say. You rarely, if ever, speak to Mr. Shelby. You’re usually just treated as part of the decor.

“Keep an eye on her for me,” he reaches past you as the bartender returns and he takes the bottle of champagne, “better get this to her at once. Guard it with your life,” he intones as he stares you down, “she does prize her little indulgences.”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” you make sure he can hear you above the pulsing noise.

He tilts his head and steps aside, “on you go.”

#tommy shelby #dark tommy shelby #dark!tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #series #drabble #the club #au #members only #peaky blinders

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asumofwords · 1 year

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Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Aemond and reader really be going through it together, call that shit trauma bonding ok? I'm so tired but also so keen to pump out these chapters for you so that we can finish this month long journey that has been Smoke, Fire and Ash. You are all the best!!! I love you so much! Enjoy <3

Chapter 93: Stoking the Flames

What are women but an object for men to possess?

A body they can press their hands into, and mark with their teeth. Giving them validation that they are men, man enough, above status, better born.

Noble.

A vessel for their cocks, ears to hear their woes, and arms to hold them tenderly when needed. A body for them to take out their anger, a body for them to act upon their lust. A way for them to let out the rising tensions within their own bodies without repentance.

A good wife should never say no. A good wife should never fight back. A good wife should have 'yes' at the very tip of her tongue, 'thank you' in the back of her throat, 'please' at the ends of her fingers, 'more' between her thighs.

A good wife should be smiles and curtseys, kisses on both cheeks and eyes, embroidery wheels, and laughter. The womb for his child, the mother to raise them, the teacher to teach them, the cook to feed them, the cleaner to keep the house tidy for them all.

A tongue that is bitten and raw, teeth that are chipped and broken, words unspoken and kept between brittle fingers and chewed lips. A body bent to his will, when he wants, without question because he is your husband, and that is what you are meant to do.

But you were not a good wife. At least, not in a way of being complacent and weak.

You were far more than that.

And Aemond now knew this.

Your confessions to one another seems to have begun to pull the seams between the two of you back together. Each thread being tugged, to make you whole.

To burn together. Not apart.

As one.

And despite the horrors that you had faced, despite the losses that seems to continue to mount against you, you knew that you had a duty to your mother. To the realm. To your husband even. And this duty extended itself to dining with the King without argument. To dining with the people who watched as you were dragged to the throne room, all teeth and claws, to watch your ally be slain before you.

A warning.

A threat.

Their victory.

The Greens believed in their heart of hearts, that the Maester was the only eyes in the Keep. Or at least, you suspected Aegon to believe this. Alicent, despite her sometimes lack of spine and wherewithal, had a paranoia that often worked to her favour, not to her mental health, her chewed and battered fingers and all round jumpy demeanour could attest to that, but perhaps to the way things always seemed to fall in line around her, no matter how messy.

The maids were silent as they doted on you, as though the simplest of touches would pull a carefully laid brick in your very being, and the rest of you would fall down, tumbling to the surface below with a crash.

It was a black gown you wore, not only in support of your mother, but in mourning of the mother you would not become.

High necked, and tight sleeved, the bodice wrapped around you tightly, false dragon scales lining your bust with a dark leather, the sleeves cuffed over your middle finger in a sharp point. Skirts of sweeping black, and hair braided tightly behind your head, not a hair out of place, not a strand left loose.

Stiff.

Strict.

Together.

A vision of power, despite how powerless you felt.

Aemond wore black leathers, a similar scaling press at the front of his own chest, buckles of gold reaching right beneath his chin. His own hair pulled back into a half braid at the back of his head, large rings upon his fingers, and his sweeping black leather coat that used to strike fear in you.

And so you walked, as one, in unity.

One in loss.

One in mourning.

One in fire and blood, and rage and grief.

Walking as one to the Small Dining Hall where you knew the both of your strengths would be tested by the King and all those surrounding. By the Council. By the Dowager Queen and the Hand. All eyes would be upon you, and all lips would no doubt utter false senses of condolences and meagre hints of regret.

You were exhausted.

Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.

And as Aemond walked you through the corridors, he kept with your pace, his hand in yours, letting you squeeze his tightly. Preparing yourself for the inevitable.

When you had entered the Hall together, the room instantly became silent, and the thundering roar of blood in your ears filled the noise instead. Each step that you took seemed to echo, and each breath that you breathed seemed to rattle within your lungs.

All eyes were on you.

Not Aemond.

You.

And your eyes were on Aegon.

He matched your stare with equal verocity, violet eyes glinting in triumph.

I won, they said.

And he had.

For now.

No one spoke a word as you sat in your seats, nor did they stop their silent staring at you either. It was worse, you thought, this false pity. Worse than the usual disdain or hatred.

It made you feel weak.

“Princess,” Aegon began, tone low and filled with false sorrow, “You should be resting in your chambers.”

You cleared your throat softly, shifting in your chair as you watched the tables reaction.

Everyone seemed to be on edge.

“I have rested plenty. I have a duty to my husband, and he a duty to his King.”

Aegon nodded solemnly, as though he was not the catalyst for your losses, “You are a good wife to be sure. And strong.”

You tapped your fingers against the table, looking around at the Lords and Lady Alicent, who watched you with cautious and sad eyes. The table was full of food already, piled high with meats and legumes, gravies and sauces, and large decanters of wine and ale.

Turning to Alicent, you gave her a terse smile, “Lady Alicent, might you say a prayer to begin?”

Alicent blinked at you doe-ishly for a moment, before nodding, holding her hands in front of her, “May we pray to the Father,” She began, and all Lords bent their heads to look at there hands in prayer, whilst Aegon kept his eyes on you, “And ask him to guide the child lost to the Stranger gently where it may rest."

You let your gaze meet Aegon, and fire erupted within. His lips were pulled forward in a pout as he looked at you, then to your husband beside you, who’s head was diligently bowed, and eye slid shut.

Alicent continued her prayer as heat rose within you, “May we pray to the Mother, for mercy and peace, and ask her to give blessings for a new heir.”

You swallowed thickly, hands in your lap tightening into fists, “May the Crone guide us forward, and show us the path to strength and unity.”

The prayer ended, and all eyes fell upon you again, some looking away as your gaze met theirs, others offering you a sad smile in brittle support.

“I pray to the Father,” Aegon began, hands tucked under his chin as everyone warily looked at him, “I ask that he delivers divine justice, and judgement upon my actions, and pray that he forgives me of my misdeed which led to the loss of an innocent babe.”

You breathed heavily, teeth clenched as he looked at you.

“Very good, My Lord.” Otto Hightower praised stiffly from his side, whilst Alicent looked as though she had turned a shade of grey.

Aemond dropped a hand into your lap, stopping the way one of your own pulled at the skin of the other meanly. His large fingers pressed between yours, squeezing it in a subtle show of strength, a show of support. A sign that he was there with you.

An attempt to ground you.

“I pray that he delivers such justice indeed.” Came you cool response, reaching forward to pour yourself a goblet of wine, bringing it your lips as you did not trust yourself to hold your tongue.

The Lords around the table began to eat, and their own chatter rose amongst each other, replacing the once stale, stagnant air. And as they spoke, Alicent asked after you.

“Might there be anything that you need, Princess? Perhaps we could go to the Sept together and pray.”

An attempt at kindness.

But kindness did not come to the Lady Alicent easily.

You swallowed, feeling Aemond’s hand still in your lap, “That is kind of you, Your Grace. But for now, I think I need time to spend with the Old Gods first.”

The older woman gave a crooked smile, “Of course.”

You all ate, yourself and Aemond staying quiet, listening to the filler conversations that the Lords tiptoed around, all the while Aegon continued to stare at you in a way you could not describe.

Was there remorse there behind his eyes?

“My condolences to you, brother, and to you niece.” Aegon spoke quietly to you both, “It is no easy thing to lose a child.”

Jaehaerys.

Aemond’s eye was cast down at his plate, before he gave a solemn nod.

The hand in your lap tightened.

“Have you written to your mother and father to tell them of the loss?” Aegon inquired, placing his cutlery softly against his plate, he was treading carefully.

Too carefully.

He was worried for your parents reaction.

“I had not the chance to tell them I was with child, and it would seem silly to send them such notice of losing one they didn’t know I had.” Your tongue felt like lead in your mouth.

“Of course, it would be difficult to say such things over parchment. A far better conversation to have in person, when one can convey the misfortune of it all. Not at all what I had intended, I would never wish anything like the loss of a child upon a mother.”

You ground your teeth down in your jaw, Alicent and Otto watching you and Aemond carefully.

“Your apologies are too kind, Your Grace.” The words were sour in your mouth, "You were not to know of the outcome of such a thing.”

Aegon’s violet gaze searched your face before he asked a new question, “And how are you faring? Is the new Maester tending to your needs?”

The new Maester.

“He is perfectly acceptable.” Came your stiff response.

Aegon smiled, “Good. Did you know that he was the one to treat Aemond’s eye when he lost it?”

Aemond’s hand twitched in your lap, and it was your turn to soothe him.

“I did.”

“Then you are in good hands.”

“Indeed.”

You finished your meal, and as the Lords continued to dance around you, you decided that you had had enough. Standing from your chair, you offered no bow, no apologies, but instead stiffened your posture, holding your hands in front of you as you had been taught to do, and excused yourself from the Dining Hall.

Aemond followed you, curt farewell on his tongue.

Your maids dressed you for bed as soon as you entered the chambers, and soon enough you are beneath the sheets, calling out for Aemond to join you. He crawled in from behind, the heat of his body engulfing you. You rolled in your spot, turning to face him before you asked him to hold you.

Aemond pulled you tight against his chest, lifting your leg over his hip to slot his between yours. Not in a sexual way, but in a way to have you as close as possible, to have all of you pressed against him. He tucked your head beneath his chin as you lay in the dark of the chambers.

“I wish things were different.” You whispered to no-one. It was just something that you wished. Something that you needed to speak into existence, for you feared if it was not said, it would not be true.

Aemond only pulled you tighter against him, small hum vibrating his chest as he kissed the top of your head, keeping his lips against your hair.

“I wish he was dead.”

Spoken into existence again.

Aemond’s chest stilled, before breathing again gently.

You licked your lips, inhaling the scent of your husband. Musk. Sandalwood. Smoke.

“I wish Aegon was dead.”

You felt hot air blow against the top of your scalp, but Aemond did not move to stop you, and so you let the roll of thoughts tumble out of your mouth. The thoughts and words which had been hiding in the back of your throat, your tongue bitten and bleeding, teeth chipped and raw.

“I can still feel it.” You breathed, heart beginning to race in your chest, "I can still feel the way he felt inside of me. The way he forced himself inside of me.” Aemond’s hands tensed on your flesh, and you felt the familiar sting of tears on your eyes.

“I remember it all. The fear. The terror. The pain.”

Another sharp blow of air atop your head.

“I called out to you, and he would not stop. I tried to stop him. I tried-“ You hiccupped, feeling a sob wrack your body, “But he was so strong, and I couldn’t move, and all I could do was pray you would come home and save me.”

Aemond murmured your name so quietly that you would have missed it if his breath were not above your ear.

“I hate it. I hate him. I hate that I know what he felt like. I hate that he was inside of me. How he laughed at me. How he mocked you. I think about it and I feel sick. I feel so sick and horrified at the thought of him in our bed again.”

Tears slid down your cheeks, and you felt Aemond press another kiss to your head, though his body was stiff, and vibrating with energy.

“Sometimes,” You licked your lips, tasting your salty tears as your voice crackled, “Sometimes I’m thankful we lost the babe.”

Aemond’s chest stopped again, no hot air of his breath moving across your scalp.

“B-ecause,” Your voice wavered, more tears beginning to fall, landing in the crux of your neck wetly, “What if the Moon Tea hadn’t worked. What if it was Aegon’s.” A sob fell from your lips. “What if-“

“Shh.” Aemond whispered atop your head, shifting so that your body was now atop his. You curled atop him, his hands coming to hold you against his body as you felt his chest rise and fall raggedly beneath you.

“Ēdrugon, byka mēre.” Sleep, little one, The One-Eyed Prince whispered atop your hair, pressing his lips to your forehead gently, “Ñuha idaña perzys, ȳdra daor pendagon hen ra.” My twin flame, don’t think of such things.

“Nyke vaoreznuni.” I’m sorry, You sobbed into his chest, feeling him hold you against him impossibly tight.

“Shh, konīr iksis daorun naejot sagon vaoreznuni syt.” There is nothing to be sorry for.

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