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beatlebvm · 18 days ago

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This is Me Trying

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

Fresh out of rehab, Aegon Targaryen is looking for a way back into music when he meets Victoria, a talented but stubborn singer-songwriter who wants nothing to do with his family’s record label. Reluctantly thrown together, they form an unexpected creative partnership, finding common ground in music and shared struggles.

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction, Sexism

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 14: Walkway Blues

Wine, Pringles, the red sofa in the living room, and her best friend. Vic couldn’t think of a better evening.

She desperately needed it, after the chaos of the past few weeks and the looming threat of the Christmas party hanging over her like a dark cloud.

On the TV, a contestant on MasterChef was having an absolute meltdown over an undercooked lamb chop.

“This is embarrassing,” Sara said, shaking her head as she tucked her legs under her. “How do you get on MasterChef without knowing how to cook lamb?”

“I know, right? How difficult can it be?” Vic agreed, narrowing her eyes at the screen. “You season aggressively, sear it hard, baste it in butter. It’s not complicated.”

Sara turned to look at her. “Love, why do you sound like a non-Scottish Gordon Ramsay?” she asked, grinning proudly.

Vic barely knew how to fry an egg. And as for Sara, 99% of her diet consisted of Tesco meal deals and Taco Bell.

Vic ignored the question, leaning forward slightly. “Oh, here we go. He’s gonna cry.”

The contestant, a man far too confident for someone presenting a piece of meat that was still practically alive, was stammering his way through an explanation. The judges were unimpressed.

“I bet he blames the oven,” Sara muttered, taking a sip of wine.

And, as if on cue—

“It’s just… I think my oven wasn’t calibrated properly,” the contestant said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sara groaned. “Unbelievable.”

Vic scoffed. “That’s like blaming your guitar when you play a bad gig.”

Sara smirked. “Or the tap for a bad Guinness.”

“Oh my God, Sara. Depressing. That’s the best you could come up with?” Vic asked, half exasperated, half laughing, she noticed Sara laughing with her mouth open, before turning back to the screen. “Look at his face. He knows he’s done for.”

They watched in silence as the head judge cut into the meat, exposing a raw center that could’ve still been bleeding.

Sara exhaled dramatically. “Pack your knives and go.”

“That’s Top Chef,” Vic corrected.

“Same energy,” Sara said, taking another sip.

Vic grinned and reached for her own glass, only to find it empty. Without thinking, she stood up and stretched. “I’m getting another bottle.”

Sara glanced at the clock, then at Vic. “Don’t you have studio tomorrow?”

Vic waved a hand. “Not until the afternoon.” She walked toward the kitchen, calling back over her shoulder, “I’ll be fine.”

Sara didn’t reply, but Vic felt the weight of her silence. She ignored it. Focused on getting the bottle.

When she returned, Sara was watching her with an expression Vic didn’t like. Careful. Attentive. Concerned. Or at least something close enough to make her skin prickle.

Vic poured the wine, taking a long sip before settling back on the couch.

“So,” Sara said, her voice quieter now. “How are you?”

Vic blinked, caught off guard. “I’m fine.” She forced a lightness into her voice, but she could already feel the tension creeping in.

Sara gave her a look. “I mean, really.”

Vic took another sip. “Still fine.”

Sara set her glass down, watching her carefully. “You haven’t been yourself lately.”

Vic frowned, playing dumb. “What does that mean?”

Sara sighed, shifting to face her fully. “I mean, you’ve been a little… off. Since, you know—”

She didn’t have to finish the sentence.

Since St. Louis. Since her brother’s incident. Since Aegon, the red bricks, and an unfinished cigarette.

Vic’s stomach clenched.

She took another sip, keeping her expression neutral. “I’m fine, Sara.”

Sara didn’t look convinced. “You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?”

The words hit harder than Vic expected.

She should say yes. She should say of course. But the truth sat heavy in her chest, pressing down on her ribs, making it hard to breathe.

So she just smiled, small and tight. “Obviously.”

Sara didn’t push. Just studied her for a second longer, then let it go.

The silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable, until Vic grabbed onto the first distraction she could find.

“Oh, shit, he’s eating his own raw lamb,” she said, nodding toward the screen, forcing her voice to sound easy, amused. “Man’s got balls.”

Sara exhaled, but a small smile tugged at her lips. “I hope he gets kicked off just for the oven excuse.”

Vic laughed, taking another sip of wine—only to realize Sara was still watching her.

“I talked to Aegon…” Sara started.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Vic cut her off, lifting a finger. “Sara, babe, love of my entire existence. What did I tell you about using that name outside of work hours?” she asked, comically serious, her head light from the wine.

Sara huffed, rolling her eyes. “I know, but I talked to him and—”

“And unless you’re in mortal danger because of him—and honestly, not entirely impossible—I don’t care,” Vic interrupted again, trying to sound firm but keeping it lighthearted.

Sara sighed, clearly unimpressed with that answer. There was definitely something she thought Vic should know. But Vic had shoved Aegon under the rug as much as possible—she could even look at him now without feeling like an earthquake was ripping through her stomach. She didn’t need revelations.

“What about Aemond, then?” Sara tried again.

Vic raised a brow, grabbing a handful of chips. “What about him?”

Sara gestured vaguely. “I mean… you two have been spending a lot of time together.”

Vic snapped her head toward her, looking somewhere between bewildered and horrified. “Oh my God, Sara, no. We’re friends.”

“Friends like you and Aegon?”

“No, babe. Actual friends. He’s not my type.”

Sara shrugged, finally—finally—looking convinced for the first time that night. “Just checking.”

“For fuck’s sake, Sara, our conversations would not pass the Bechdel test,” Vic muttered, shaking her head with a laugh as she picked up her wine.

Sara burst out laughing, lifting her own glass and turning to her.

“Fuck men.”

“Fuck men,” Vic echoed, clinking her glass against Sara’s.

The next day, Vic stepped into the studio, nursing a mild hangover and a Coke zero. She wasn’t wrecked, not really, just slightly off-kilter in the way she always was after a night of drinking—like her brain was moving half a second behind everything else.

The studio was mostly empty, save for one familiar figure sitting on the sofa, guitar in hand. Aegon.

She stopped in the doorway. “Where is everyone?”

He barely glanced up, fingers still idly plucking at the strings. “Aemond sent an email. Moved rehearsal with the band an hour later.”

Vic blinked. “Oh.”

Aegon finally looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “You didn’t see it?”

“No.” She exhaled sharply through her nose, shifting her weight. “Didn’t check my emails.” Which was true. She hadn’t checked much of anything after she got home, too busy drinking and ignoring the part of her brain that sounded a lot like Sara.

Aegon didn’t comment, just nodded once before looking back down at his guitar. His fingers moved, coaxing out a quiet arpeggio.

Vic lingered by the door for a moment, fingers tapping against the side of her Coke. The silence stretched, awkward and heavy. Aegon was still fiddling with his guitar, picking out the melody to Oblivion, the designated single, almost ready for the Christmas party.

She hated awkward silences.

Without thinking too hard about it—because thinking too hard would mean acknowledging things she didn’t want to acknowledge—she wandered over to the bass resting against its stand.

Aegon’s eyes flicked to her, his fingers pausing for half a second before he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He started playing again, and Vic fell in easily, plucking out the root notes first before letting herself settle into the groove.

But then Aegon, like the little shit he was, changed the chord progression.

Vic’s fingers stuttered for a split second before she adjusted, following the shift smoothly. She shot him a sharp look.

Aegon grinned.

Oh, so that’s how he wanted to play it?

Fine.

He changed the rhythm next, and Vic was right there with him, keeping up like it was second nature.

He sped up. She followed.

He threw in an unexpected pause. She anticipated it.

It became a game, a test of reflexes, a silent challenge wrapped in melody. Aegon kept throwing curveballs, expecting to trip her up, and she kept meeting them head-on, adapting so fast it was like she knew what he was going to do before he did it.

The grin Aegon was trying to fight off finally broke through. “Alright, show-off.”

Vic smirked, not even pretending to be modest. “You started it.”

He rolled his eyes and Vic did the same in reflex.

He settled back into the original progression, and Vic followed instinctively, their playing falling into sync like they hadn’t spent the last few weeks barely speaking to each other.

******

Aemond just didn’t know how to handle women—there was no other way to put it.

Sure, Aegon had occasionally caught him flirting with the harpist who dropped by the label every now and then. Maybe he’d even managed to sleep with her half a time, but it was painfully obvious that any woman worth her salt could eat him for breakfast without breaking a sweat.

But whatever, Aegon was in surprisingly high spirits that evening, thanks to that day’s rehearsals being particularly satisfying.

They were packing up their instruments when his brother showed up carrying a black coffee in a to-go cup and ceremoniously handed it to Vic, blushing like a schoolboy just because she’d said thank you.

Hazelnut syrup cappuccino—that was Vic’s favorite, Aegon thought as he plopped down onto one of the armchairs, momentarily marveling at his own memory. Maybe quitting drugs did have its perks after all.

But Vic had wasted no time and had already taken a sip.

“You were absolutely right, this stuff isn’t bad at all,” she commented, one hand resting on her hip as she shot Aemond one of her soul-destroying looks.

Aemond hunched his shoulders in response, his face holding something dangerously close to a smile—a sight rare enough to be noteworthy—and then launched into a ramble about aromatic qualities and how cigarettes supposedly tasted better after a black coffee. As if to prove his point, he pulled out the steel cigarette case he always kept in his pocket and offered her one.

She accepted. The two of them strolled out to the terrace, chatting away like it was the most natural thing in the world.

What a pathetic sight. What a complete disappointment.

Aegon forced himself to look away, muttering something under his breath as Cole and the rest of the session players packed up their gear. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

Maybe it was time to tell Cole to start looking for another bassist. It was only a matter of time before Aemond’s terminal awkwardness rubbed off on Vic, and she started driving Aegon crazy with nonsense about flat-wound bass strings. There was no way he’d put up with that.

"What do you think? Are you ready?" Cole asked, placing a hand on Aegon’s shoulder and snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts as he stared at the two idiots out on the terrace.

"Why? Did I seem not ready to you?" Aegon replied, his posture stiffening. He suddenly felt insecure, caught off guard by the question.

The label’s Christmas party was set for that Friday, and no, he wasn’t ready—not even close. But Aegon knew he probably never would be ready to endure his father’s sharp-edged judgment.

Of course, he couldn’t tell Cole that. Especially not with the other musicians in earshot.

"I think the track’s a hit, and you guys sound tight," Cole said with a quick glance toward Dan, the other guitarist, "but Dan’s an asshole, and I don’t trust him." Cole whispered to his ear.

Aegon laughed, unable to disagree. Dan had tried more than once to sneak in flashy flourishes that, first of all, sounded awful, and second, reeked of desperation and a need for attention—exactly the kind of thing Aegon couldn’t afford to let slide.

"What if you played it acoustic?" Cole added after a moment.

Aegon considered him, his mind churning.

If he performed it acoustic, his father wouldn’t be able to attribute the success of the song to anyone but him. And it would mean no Vic and her new sycophantic fanboy getting in his way for at least a few days.

It was a win-win.

“Oh Cole, you wanker, don’t threaten me with a good time," Aegon replied with far too much confidence.

*****

"You haven’t played me anything new yet," Aemond said to Vic as she huddled into her jacket, bracing herself against the biting December wind.

He immediately regretted the way it came out. His tone had been too stern, almost authoritarian—the last thing he needed was to put Vic on the defensive, especially now that her attitude toward him was no longer one of outright rejection.

She was finally starting to warm up to him, even agreeing to come to the Christmas party and perform in front of his father. The idea of her signing with the label felt closer than ever, a tangible reality within reach.

Thankfully, Vic didn’t seem rattled. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, taking a long drag from her cigarette, and smiled faintly.

"I don’t have anything good," she said, shrugging lightly.

"Bullshit," Aemond replied, his eyes glued to her in a way he couldn’t quite control. "Don’t make me show up at open mic night just to prove you wrong."

Vic smiled, shifting her gaze to the city sprawled out below them. “I thought you liked coming to open mic nights,” she said, throwing him a sly look.

“I only go to hear you,” Aemond replied impulsively, his carefully constructed filter—the one that had taken years to perfect—suddenly malfunctioning.

It wasn’t exactly how he would’ve phrased it if he’d given himself a second to think, but too late now. And, really, it didn’t matter; it was true. As she turned her eyes back to his, he thought he caught the faintest hint of a blush rising on her cheeks.

Surely he was imagining it.

“Need a ride?” Aegon’s voice broke through, startling them both as he appeared in the doorway leading to the terrace.

Of course. Of course his brother had to show up at the worst possible moment, as if timed by some cosmic joke.

Aegon tossed out the question with his usual cocky, indifferent air, the same attitude that grated on Vic just as much as it did on Aemond.

She raised an eyebrow, her expression sharp and skeptical, as if silently asking him to explain himself further.

“I have to drop something off with Sara,” Aegon added, his tone offhanded and deliberately vague.

Aemond smirked to himself at the flimsy excuse—probably the oldest one in the book. Why not just admit outright that something was going on between him and Sara? Aegon’s newfound sense of discretion was puzzling. Usually, he couldn’t help but brag about his latest fling.

And yet...it wasn’t like him to keep quiet.

Vic seemed to share Aemond’s suspicion, her confused expression lingering even now. “Isn’t she working?” she asked.

Aegon shook his head. “She worked the morning shift.”

Vic stubbed out her cigarette against the ashtray mounted near the doorframe, the motion so swift and feline that, for a split second, Aemond half-expected her to put it out on Aegon’s face instead.

Then, she turned back to him, handing him the lighter he’d loaned her just minutes ago.

“I’ll let you know if inspiration strikes,” she said lightly, her hand briefly brushing his as he took the lighter back.

And just like that, she was gone, disappearing into the night with Aegon following closely behind.

Aemond wanted to respond with something clever or even mildly charming, but all he managed was a useless, muted “mh.”

*****

Vic didn’t want to know what the hell they were talking about in the kitchen.

It wasn’t her business. Aegon wasn’t her business, and besides, she trusted Sara.

And yet, this whole he had to return her t-shirt excuse seemed like complete bullshit.

For one, Aegon claimed he’d borrowed it on the night Charlie stayed over—the same night Sara had closed at work and Vic had gone home early with Charlie. But Vic knew Sara’s wardrobe like the back of her hand, and there was no way—absolutely no way—Sara would have shown up to work in that shirt.

Also, why would Sara have lent Aegon a shirt in the first place? It wasn’t like she kept a stash of spares for emergencies. And even if, for some bizarre reason, Aegon had needed one, why the hell would he have chosen a Paddington t-shirt at least two sizes too small for him?

And if he’d borrowed it for whatever dumbass reason—why hadn’t he just given it back the other night at the pub?

Vic didn’t want to know what the hell they were talking about, and yet lying on her bed in silence, staring at the ceiling, was only driving her closer to insanity.

She sat up abruptly, brushing her bangs out of her face with a nervous swipe before slapping a hand over her face and glancing around for her tobacco. Her gaze caught on the guitar.

She felt a pang of guilt for lying to Aemond.

It wasn’t true that she had “nothing good.” She’d been writing nonstop ever since she and Aegon had stopped speaking.

“All You Wanted” had come out of her in one rush of emotion during a rare night when she hated him a little less. She’d been thinking about all the things she wished she’d said to him instead of...well, instead of what she had done.

Of course, maybe she hadn’t technically lied to Aemond. The song wasn’t ready. She was still tweaking it, still figuring out the last details.

But even if it was ready—even if it was perfect—she still wouldn’t play it. Not at open mic, not anywhere.

Too personal. Just a bit too revealing.

As she sat there, cigarette unlit, thoughts swirling, Vic found herself struck by the ridiculous dramatic irony of the moment. Here she was, about to pick up “All You Wanted,” while the man who’d inspired it sat just ten meters away, separated only by a wall.

Talking to her roommate. Sitting on her sofa. Probably drinking her tea.

Abandoning the tobacco, she reached for the guitar instead.

******

“You’re both pathetic,” Sara had said, without ceremony or even sparing him a glance. She sat at the kitchen table with her legs perfectly crossed, a cup of tea in her hand, shaking her head like a disappointed preschool teacher.

What annoyed Aegon even more was that every single attempt to steer the conversation away from Vic had failed miserably. Sara kept pressing him for updates—had they talked about what had happened? Had he grown a pair and told Vic how he felt?

If she weren’t the closest thing he had right now to the possibility of vulnerable sex, he would’ve told her to screw off.

No, actually.

If she weren’t the closest thing he had to a friend, he definitely would’ve told her to screw off.

“I don’t get what the hell you want from me!” he snapped, frustrated, slamming the tea mug down onto the table with more force than necessary.

“I’ve got nothing to say to her. I don’t want to talk to her, and even if I did, she’s practically glued to Aemond now!”

Sara snorted, the sound sharp enough to cut through his growing irritation.

“Unbelievable. You’re actually jealous of your brother.”

AS IF. Aegon didn’t even dignify the comment with a response. No, he wasn’t jealous—he just meant that even if he did want to figure out some way to smooth things over with Vic, maybe even talk her into ditching whatever girl code nonsense was stopping him from taking Sara to bed, he couldn’t exactly have that conversation in front of Aemond.

Or in front of the Uber driver who had ferried the two of them here together.

Damn Vic Dawson for putting him in this position. The entire ride over, he’d had to endure 20 minutes of painful small talk about Arsenal matches with the driver, all because of her.

“Why are you the one changing the subject every five minutes?” Aegon asked, finally fed up with circling around the real reason he’d come here.

Sara turned her face toward him suddenly, arching a single brow, though she radiated an air of total awareness. She knew where this was going, and maybe that was why she deliberately shifted her legs, angling them away from him.

“Because I’m not going out with you, Aegon,” Sara said firmly, her gaze steadfastly avoiding his.

Yeah, okay. Bullshit.

Aegon could smell bullshit a mile away—it was practically his second language.

“And why not?” he pressed, confidence rushing in to fill the space left behind by her discomfort. Her hesitation was like a soothing balm to his recently battered ego.

He had at least two solid counterarguments ready for whatever nonsense she might throw at him about not dating someone who’s been in your friend’s bed. For one thing, technically, he’d never been in Vic’s bed. Not practically.

And for another, it was obvious Sara was into him.

Painfully obvious from the way she turned toward him again, her chin resting on one hand, those green eyes of hers locking with his. Aegon could practically taste the victory teasing his tongue, sweet and just within reach.

“Because I don’t do placeholders or stand-ins,” she replied coolly. “Especially not for people who are clearly hung up on someone else.”

Aegon felt the blood in his veins freeze. He’d heard exactly what Sara had said, but his brain had processed her words in an entirely different way.

Sara had asked him not to use her—not to make her another one of his stupid coping mechanisms, just a temporary fix to make himself feel better.

His mind darted back to that damn night weeks ago, to how Vic had made him feel. Just a placeholder. Someone to fill the void because Charlie hadn’t wanted her back.

Suddenly, the blood in his body started flowing again—but now it was molten, boiling with shame.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his eyes dropping to the floor, unable to face what he had just suggested.

Sara didn’t say anything.

In the heavy silence of the kitchen, the only sound that broke through was the faint strum of a guitar.

The sound yanked Aegon’s head around almost instinctively.

“Does she always do this?” he asked, his irritation barely masked now that Vic had started to sing. Part of him was annoyed—Vic seemed to have a knack for getting under his skin without even trying—and part of him just wanted to dissipate the thick tension between him and Sara.

Sara shrugged, feigning exasperation. “Always,” she replied.

Suddenly, Aegon had no desire to stay in that house any longer.

He got to his feet, catching Sara’s glance as he moved. “Thanks for the shirt... and for the tea.”

“Anytime,” she said, her tone casual. But perhaps she noticed the guilt that clouded his expression, because she added, “We good?”

Aegon paused, studying her for a moment before giving her a genuine smile. “I hope so.”

Sara returned the faintest of smiles before standing to clear the empty cups off the table.

Aegon knew it was borderline psychopathic behavior to wander silently through someone else’s house, but he couldn’t stop himself. Curiosity had taken hold, steering his legs toward the partially open door of Vic’s room.

Vic was sitting on her bed, a pair of oversized headphones clamped over her ears, plugged into an amp. An old green notebook lay open in front of her, and from the way she was playing now—nodding furiously—Aegon could tell she’d just worked through something she hadn’t liked. She always nodded like that when she thought she’d nailed it.

She was turned three-quarters toward the window, and yet Aegon couldn’t look away from the curve of her cheekbone, the subtle line catching the glow from the room. It tilted upward as she smiled, the unmistakable signal that she was about to start singing.

It felt almost like cheating, but after everything that had happened, if there was a shortcut to Vic’s thoughts—even a morally questionable one—Aegon wanted to take it.

Maybe, despite the fear of stumbling into yet another irritating love letter to Charlie, he hoped he had been enough in her thoughts to force her to pour them out like this. After all, she hadn’t actually spoken to him about what had happened.

And while the first verse hadn’t offered him any real comfort, the moment Vic started singing about someone who seemed cold on the outside but needed someone to guide them, Aegon felt something stir in his chest.

And if that hadn’t been enough to convince him that Vic was singing about him—about the wave of insecurities they’d faced and how they could have ridden it together—when the chorus hit, the words shattered any lingering doubt.

Aegon felt like an idiot for ever doubting, even for a second, that everything Vic had done—her silence, the desperation with which she’d sought him out—hadn’t been anything less than a cry for help. One that she’d believed only he could hear.

He didn’t know what it meant entirely, not yet. He hadn’t figured out if this was the grand declaration of love he’d been waiting for that night outside his building. But for someone who’d spent weeks believing he was just a footnote, a scribbled thought lost in the endless sea of an old notebook, he now understood something else entirely:

He wasn’t just a passing idea.

He was an entire song.

In her mind.

In her chest.

In her voice.

Footsteps startled him, pulling him from the moment. Aegon instinctively stepped back, not wanting Vic to realize he’d been standing there, listening. His gaze snapped toward the source of the sound—and when he spotted Sara at the bottom of the stairs, her grin told him everything.

“I knew you’d like this one,” she said, her tone sly.

Hello, beauties! A quick message to thank you for all the love, you’re truly amazing 🥹 and to remind you that yes, I stole one of my all-time favorite songs and gave it to Vic. We declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist and she deserves THE WORLD, and that’s exactly why I wanted to pay tribute to her. Plus, I think it fits perfectly with the dynamic of our two idiots. Thanks for your understanding, I hope, as always, that I haven’t ruined your suspension of disbelief 🤍

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beatlebvm · 19 days ago

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This is Me Trying

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction, Sexism

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 13: Sunday Morning

“Negative,” Miss Hughes announced, snapping him back to the present.

The doctor—mid-fifties, thin to the point of looking fragile, with blonde hair falling perfectly over her shoulders—was the picture of composure. Fitting, really, that she was the director of this pastel-colored hellhole with its endless supply of potted plants, the place he’d been trapped in for five months.

She held the papers confirming his toxicology results.

No shit it was negative.

Beside him, his mother let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck in her throat for about thirty years—give or take, since the moment he was born. Aegon noticed how she almost glanced at him, her brown eyes flicking in his direction for a fraction of a second, even though she didn’t move her head.

He reached for her hand, a silent acknowledgment that he understood. But she stiffened instantly, so he let go.

“On behalf of the entire clinic, well done, Aegon.”

Miss Hughes’s voice was syrupy, overly sweet—so much so that Aegon could hear the insincerity dripping from it without even looking at her.

“He really didn’t use anything?” his mother asked, as if she couldn’t quite believe it.

Great. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

“No cocaine, no opioids, no amphetamines, not even cannabinoids,” Miss Hughes confirmed with that same artificial smile.

“Thank God…” his mother murmured, finally meeting his gaze—only to be met with resentment. Another reminder that she had never truly believed in him.

“Well, in that case, we can schedule the next follow-up in six months…” Miss Hughes began, addressing his mother, before suddenly catching herself and turning to him, as if it had only just occurred to her that he was, in fact, an adult. “…And if you’re ready, Mr. Dalton is waiting for you on the second floor.”

No, he wasn’t ready. He had no fucking interest in having his brain poked at by some shrink.

But then again, he had no fucking interest in being here at all.

The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he’d be out of here and back in London.

Mr. Dalton was younger than Miss Hughes. He still had all his dark hair—though Aegon, ever the cynic, wondered if he dyed it—neatly parted to the side in a way that looked ridiculous.

He sat slouched at his desk, the kind of studied casualness that screamed I’m cool, I’m young, I’m laid-back. But, like every other mannequin in this place, the reality was something else entirely.

“Miss Hughes said you’ve stayed clean,” he began, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped in front of him.

“Are you surprised?” Aegon shot back, just as lazily slouching into his own seat.

Dalton chuckled—because, of course, he couldn’t pass up the chance to seem even more easygoing by laughing at Aegon’s sarcasm.

“I’m not surprised—I’m proud, Aegon,” he corrected.

Mhm, Aegon thought, not quite sure if he bought it.

“What have you been up to lately?” Dalton asked next.

“I’ve been playing a lot…” Aegon replied absently.

“Good.”

“I’m working on an album. And this time, it’s actually going pretty well.”

“Great. Music’s a positive outlet—”

No shit, Aegon thought.

“—Are you picking up where you left off?” Dalton pressed, carefully choosing his words.

Aegon stared at him for a second, debating whether he even wanted to give him the details.

“…No. I started a new project from scratch. Switched up my whole team.”

Vic’s face flooded his brain like a tidal wave.

He shut his eyes for half a second, trying to push her out.

“We’re working on the arrangement for the single now. The producer pulled together some session musicians, including the bassist—she actually plays basically everything, also she’s co-writing the song, along with a bunch of others on the album. We’re supposed to debut it at the label’s Christmas party.”

Dalton nodded along with his usual brand of forced interest.

“Whoa, big debut at your dad’s party,” Dalton remarked.

Aegon cringed. Every word out of his mouth sounded like it belonged to someone who still thought groovy was cutting-edge slang.

“How do you feel about it?”

Aegon froze for a second, actually considering the question.

Awful. That was how he felt.

Anxious. Unsteady. Like he was balancing on razor wire.

“Sick,” he muttered.

Dalton pulled out his best attempt at a sympathetic frown.

“Well, that’s only natural. What does your brother think?”

“What the fuck would he think?”

“I know you two don’t get along, but he knows what your dad is like. Maybe talking to someone who understands that pressure could help.”

Right. Sure.

Having a heart-to-heart with Aemond. As if.

Aegon still didn’t fully understand why the grim reaper had even bothered backing him up when it came to convincing their father to produce the album—let alone why he’d suddenly start trusting him enough to talk about any of this.

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable discussing it with him,” Aegon said flatly.

“Anyone in the band you trust?”

Vic’s smile flashed through his mind. Her hair on his shoulder. Her eyelashes, damp with rain in Ruskin Park. The heat of her skin under his hands, pressed against a brick wall—

“No. No one.”

Dalton nodded, not pushing it. “Well, if it ever gets overwhelming and you need to talk, you have my number.”

Aegon nearly shot back with something sarcastic—Oh, yeah, I’ll definitely call you when I’m feeling down—but then he caught something in Dalton’s expression.

Something that actually looked… genuine.

For a second, he wondered if he was imagining it. Maybe just stepping into this place was making the withdrawal symptoms return, messing with his head.

Better not risk sticking around to find out.

He nodded, shook Dalton’s hand, and got the hell out of there.

His mother was waiting on one of the chairs by the door. She shot up the second she saw him, giving him something that almost passed for a smile.

“You did well,” she said, placing her hands on his shoulders. “I need to know what I can do to help you keep getting better.”

Aegon paused, thinking it over.

Yeah.

He had an idea.

The pub was crowded—not elbow-your-way-to-the-bar crowded, but busy enough that Aegon had to duck under a flying arm and narrowly avoid a pint glass to the face.

Not that he gave a shit. He wasn’t here for the atmosphere.

He was here for Sara.

Sara was talking to the other guy who worked with her—a scruffy-looking giant who probably hadn’t touched a bottle of shampoo since 2008.

And speaking of disappointments—

Vic.

She was leaning against the counter a few feet away, elbow propped up, looking thoroughly unimpressed with whatever the guy next to her was saying. Her eyes flickered to Aegon for half a second, then away.

He ignored her.

“Hey,” he greeted, riding a sudden wave of confidence.

“Hey!” Sara trilled, almost too enthusiastically, like she was grateful for an excuse to escape the giant’s attention.

“So, have you thought about it?” Aegon cut straight to the point, leaning on the bar and drumming his rings against the wood.

Sara smirked at him, but for some reason, he got the distinct impression that no, she hadn’t thought about it. She flicked a glance in Vic’s direction.

Aegon followed her gaze, rolling his eyes.

Vic must have felt them watching her because she looked over—just for a second—before quickly turning back to the customer in front of her.

Sara arched a brow at Aegon. “Have you thought about it?”

For fuck’s sake.

No, he hadn’t thought about it. If he was here tonight, it was exactly because he didn’t want to think about it.

Sara gave him one last deeply skeptical look, then—before he could even think of his next move—announced, “I have work to do,” and disappeared into the back.

Aegon blinked at the now-empty spot where she’d been standing.

Well.

That had been a record-time rejection.

He sighed, shifting his weight onto the bar—only to find a pair of brown eyes watching him.

Vic.

She raised an eyebrow. He raised one right back.

Then, with an exaggerated air of disinterest, she turned back toward the counter.

Aegon scoffed. “Yeah, alright. You’re dying to talk to me.”

She glanced at him again. “You wish I was dying to talk to you.”

“Oh, come on. I can practically hear you itching to ask what the hell is Cinderella doing out past curfew.” He smirked, propping his elbows on the counter.

Vic snorted. “Seems to me like you’re the one dying for me to ask, Cinderella.”

Okay, maybe she had a point—but there was a damn good reason for that.

She gave him a look, waiting. “Well?”

He tilted his head. “You keeping tabs on me?”

“Someone has to.”

“Cute,” he said. “Actually, I just had my check-in at rehab today.” He leaned in a little, lowering his voice mock-conspiratorially. “Guess what? Clean as a fucking whistle.”

Vic’s expression didn’t shift much, but she paused—just for a second, just enough that Aegon noticed.

Then she shrugged. “Congrats.”

He scoffed. “That’s it?”

She feigned confusion. “What, you want a balloon?”

“Maybe a little more enthusiasm,” he said. “A confetti cannon. Fireworks. A marching band, at minimum—”

Vic didn’t even look up as she poured a pint for him. “I can grab a cocktail umbrella and stick it in your beer if you want.”

He smirked. “Wow. Your generosity knows no bounds.”

Then, just as casually, she said, “Well, I knew you’d be clean.”

Aegon paused for a moment.

He’d heard it all day—Hughes and Dalton repeating it in that irritatingly performative way—but somehow, hearing it from her, from that damn viper, despite the cold war still raging between them… it actually felt good.

That bitch sounded sincere.

Maybe he’d been wrong about the way he’d processed his fascination with her. She didn’t need a man; she needed an addict to sponsor.

Maybe Vic was a witch—like Stevie Nicks, blessing people through bodily fluids—and suddenly, not only could you resist the urge to snort a line, but you actually felt genuinely proud of yourself for it.

It was the only explanation he could come up with for the stupid boost of confidence he’d gotten from the way she’d said she knew he’d stay clean.

Aegon huffed a quiet laugh, half amused, half exasperated. “You really gotta stop hyping me up. It’s messing with my whole vibe.”

Vic smirked. “Yeah? What vibe is that?”

Aegon leaned on the counter, smirking back. “Tragic rockstar. Hopeless case. Miserable, self-destructive lost cause—”

Vic handed off another drink to a woman, then shot him an unimpressed look. “Maybe you need a new brand.”

Aegon scoffed, drumming his fingers against the counter. From the corner of his eye, he noticed a guy onstage strumming an acoustic guitar. His voice was decent, but nothing spectacular—one of those breathy, indie types who thought looking miserable while singing made them deep.

“Oh, come on,” Aegon groaned. “This guy gets a turn?”

Vic shot him a look. “It’s open mic.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, rolling his eyes.

She smirked. “And yet you sound offended.”

“I am offended. This guy sounds like he’s narrating his own funeral.”

Vic just shrugged, turning back to her work. “We let anyone sing. That’s kind of the point.”

They were both interrupted by the familiar sight of a horror movie scarecrow approaching the bar.

“This must be your lucky day, princess,” Aegon drawled, smirking. “Full house tonight.”

Aemond ignored him, stepping up to the bar—where Vic greeted him with a nod.

“Aemond,” she said simply.

Aemond nodded back. “Vic.”

Aegon couldn’t help but notice how Vic didn’t so much as blink. She didn’t look surprised to see him—if anything, it was like she’d been expecting him.

Interesting.

Aemond didn’t even glance at him before speaking again. “You’re playing tonight?”

She shrugged. “Later.”

Then, finally, he acknowledged his brother.

“How was rehab?”

Okay, that was weird.

It was one thing for Aemond not to look like he actively hated sharing air with the other eight billion people on Earth—who were, of course, all inferior to him—but to ask Aegon a personal question, and actually sound like he meant it? That was new.

Aegon hesitated for a beat before shrugging. “Fine.”

Aemond gave him a look. “Just fine?”

Aegon rolled his eyes. “What do you want me to say? They poked at my brain, asked how I was feeling, I said ‘peachy,’ and they let me go.”

“Brilliant,” Aemond deadpanned.

“I graduated,” Aegon continued, spreading his arms. “Finally unleashed, free to go out at night without a babysitter.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow. “Does Mum know?”

“She practically suggested it.”

Aemond made a thoughtful mh, clearly skeptical.

Vic, who’d been watching the exchange with mild curiosity, a rag slung over her shoulder, smirked.

Aemond turned back to her. “Too much to ask for a pint?”

Aegon was probably hallucinating, because he could’ve sworn he saw his brother’s ears go red.

Vic brushed her bangs out of her eyes, smiling at him. “Not too much at all,” she said before disappearing toward the taps.

Aegon noticed she hadn’t asked what kind of beer he wanted.

Suddenly it all clicked.

“You’ve got a little crush.”

Aemond’s jaw tensed. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“Hey, no judgment here. She’s got that whole tortured, I-drink-myself-to-sleep-but-make-it-poetic thing going on. I can see the appeal.”

Aemond’s eye flicked toward him, sharp and assessing. “What did rehab say about your addiction to being a dickhead 100% of the time?”

Aegon’s smirk didn’t waver. “Unfortunately, there’s no cure for that.”

“Hm.” Aemond looked unconvinced but didn’t press. He stood, straightening his coat just as Vic approached with his beer. “Stay out of trouble tonight. Don’t make Mum regret that stupid decision she made.”

Aegon’s grin sharpened. “Stay out of her pants. Not very professional, is it?”

Aemond didn’t dignify that with a response.

Vic was making her way toward the stage now, guitar in hand, adjusting the strap as she went. The low hum of conversation around the pub dipped slightly, just for a second, just enough to make Aegon wonder how many of these people were regulars—how many had come here just to see her.

Aemond, for one, wasn’t going anywhere.

Aegon watched him take a seat at the table closest to the stage, posture perfectly straight, hands clasped together in front of him. He wasn’t drinking, wasn’t looking at his phone—just watching Vic with a level of focus that made Aegon snort into his glass.

Unbelievable.

He leaned back against the bar, pretending he wasn’t watching.

Pretending it didn’t matter.

Jesus Christ.

Aegon turned his head, scanning the bar until he found Sara a few feet away, drying a pint glass. He leaned over.

“Hey.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You’re still here?”

Aegon ignored that. “What’s with my brother?”

Sara blinked. “What?”

He jutted his chin toward Aemond, who was still locked in like a soldier at attention. “The hell is that?”

Sara followed his gaze, frowning.

Aegon gave her a look. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

She shrugged. “I mean, I knew he came here sometimes.”

Aegon scoffed. “Yeah, well, that—” he gestured vaguely at Aemond, who was currently staring at Vic like she’d hung the damn moon—“is something else.”

Sara narrowed her eyes slightly, tilting her head as she watched Aemond for a few seconds longer. Then she just shrugged. “Beats me.”

Aegon huffed, shaking his head. “Hilarious.”

Sara smirked and turned back to her work.

Aegon took another sip of his drink, settling in as Vic adjusted the strap of her guitar and tested a chord.

Her fingers moved easily over the frets, like she wasn’t even thinking about it. Like the guitar was just another part of her, something stitched into the fabric of her being.

And then she started to sing.

Aegon exhaled sharply, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek.

Because fuck her.

Fuck her for this, for being so good at this, for making something beautiful out of nothing while he was stuck clawing at the edges of whatever the fuck was left of him.

Fuck her for looking like this, sounding like this—like something effortless, something whole.

And most of all—

Fuck her for that night.

For taking what she wanted, for leaving him like nothing had happened.

Aegon’s grip tightened around his glass.

Because the worst part?

He still wanted her.

22 notes · View notes

beatlebvm · 20 days ago

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MY SHAAAAYLAAAAA 😭😭😭😭

Old / New Pics

#tom glynn carney

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beatlebvm · 25 days ago

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This is Me Trying

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction, Sexism

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 9: You

That book was amazing.

Aegon had devoured it the night before, somewhere between a video call from his mother—checking that he was home and not out trying his best to die—and a half-hearted attempt to sleep.

He’d never really thought about the concept of anticipation, yet it had shaped his life so much that he almost believed Vic had worked some kind of witchcraft, understanding him before he even had the words for it.

At least, that’s how it felt after their last studio session.

There was no denying it—Aegon had to admit it had been a success. He hadn’t even thought it was possible, not after all the times he’d tried writing with other people, only for them to either fall for his provocations or treat him like an inconvenience while they did all the work for him.

But Vic had kept every unspoken promise they’d made to each other.

And that filled him with anticipation.

Maybe it was because he’d woken up with a hard-on more persistent than usual.

Maybe it was because when she’d been standing next to him, rewriting the bridge, he’d been hit with the sudden, overwhelming urge to pull her to sit onto his face.

Or maybe it was just because Huron had explained to him exactly how this psychological process worked.

Expectation triggered a series of emotional responses, each slipping in before he could catch them.

Reaction—like telling Vic to fuck off every time she annoyed him.

Tension—like not knowing why she hadn’t asked him to fuck yet.

Prediction—like calculating that two more sessions like the last one would end with her naked in his bed.

Imagination—like fantasizing about tracing his tongue along the outline of her tattoo. And then there was

Appraisal—according to Huron, that’s what happened once conscious thought kicked in, but Aegon preferred to imagine it as the moment when he would come on her tits.

“Jesus, Aegon, you scared the shit out of me,” Helaena yelped, appearing from behind a column, clearly not expecting to find him sprawled out on the chaise lounge in their parents’ living room.

He’d forced himself downstairs because if he stayed alone in his attic any longer, he was going to spend the entire morning jerking off.

“Sorry! Just taking advantage of Mum and Dad being out to mooch some food that isn’t Chinese takeaway,” he said with a lazy grin before sinking back into his book.

“Put a damn shirt on, it’s freezing,” Helaena muttered, pulling her robe tighter around herself as she made her way to the kettle on the kitchen island.

Yeah, okay, maybe lying around in just his boxers at the end of October was a bit much, but Aegon wasn’t about to explain to his sweet sister that he couldn’t shake this fucking heat that had been crawling over his skin since this morning.

“I’m okay,” he shrugged.

Helaena shot him another look as she filled the kettle. “Are you… reading?”

“Incredible, my siblings being astonished when I do completely normal things. Should we call Daeron in Paris and inform him I can, in fact, read?”

He sank deeper into the chaise lounge, twisting a lock of hair between his fingers, trying desperately to focus on the book.

“Touchy, aren’t we?” Helaena raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“A book by some psychologist explaining the emotional processes behind anticipation and how certain tricks in music—syncopation, cadence, meter, tonality, climax—can be used to satisfy a listener.”

“That actually sounds interesting,” Helaena mused, leaning against the counter with her cup of tea.

“It is! Vic lent it to me.”

Just saying her name was enough to make his dick stir back to life.

He smacked the open book against his groin, shifting slightly, trying to make sure Helaena didn’t notice.

Luckily, she was too busy gazing out the window, watching the sun hesitantly break through the otherwise gray and chilly autumn morning.

“Nice of her,” Helaena commented absently.

It was.

“It is,” Aegon echoed his own thoughts.

He should thank her.

“I should thank her,” he added, now completely incapable of redirecting blood flow away from the center of his body.

Helaena gave him a look—he wasn’t sure what she was searching for—but then she just shook her head and turned to leave with her cup of tea, muttering under her breath, “fucking weirdo.”

Aegon grabbed his phone, caught somewhere between carnal frustration and genuine excitement over everything this madman David Huron was teaching him. He wanted to talk to Vic. He wanted to discuss syncopation, test different meters and tonalities, and hell—maybe even reach a climax together.

He smirked at his own joke.

“Destroying yourself at the gym?” he texted, gathering his things and heading for the attic, but not before swiping a Naked bar from his parents’ pantry.

“No. Woke up too late,” Vic replied just as Aegon, devouring the bar in two bites, turned on the shower—cold, obviously.

“The book is fucking amazing! Want to meet up and try some of the things our good friend Huron talks about before heading to the studio?”

He stepped under the freezing water, letting it ground him a little. He didn’t even bother opening his eyes, just focused on the steady stream against his skin.

Then his phone buzzed from the sink.

He lunged for it, soaking everything in the process.

“Glad to hear you’re doing your homework! Could be an idea.”

Bingo.

“You could come here, then we could head to the studio together. And if you want, I’ll even drop you off after, as a thank you for the inconvenience.”

The water pounded against his back as he leaned over the sink, struggling with his screen as droplets made it glitch.

She was typing.

Then she stopped.

Then she started again.

“Thinking about it, we should be in the studio in a couple of hours anyway, and I need to take care of a couple of things, see you there."

Damn Victoria Dawson.

Well, it was worth a try.

The shower had helped—not completely, but enough to let him focus on the songwriting session rather than the session he actually wanted to have with Vic.

He’d arrived at the studio first, picked up coffee for everyone, and made himself comfortable on the sofa, the Huron book in his hands as he idly toyed with the arm of his sunglasses.

Psychologists were cool—at least, the good ones, like Huron, not the morons in rehab. If someone had explained to him that people fall into self-destructive behaviors because they crave control over the outcome, even if it’s a bad one, and if they’d used something as simple as expecting a C chord to resolve after an F and a G, maybe he would have left three months earlier. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so guilty every time he thought about getting high.

“You really liked the book, huh?”

Vic’s voice pulled him from his thoughts as she walked into the rehearsal room. Aegon should have kept his eyes down.

He hadn’t thought about sex for a whole ten minutes, and now, thanks to Vic, her leather skirt, and her bare legs under those high boots she’d decided to wear, he felt an overwhelming urge to sink his teeth into her thigh.

“Vic, it’s insane!” he said instead, forcing himself to sit up properly on the sofa. “It’s genius! I’d never thought about why a song works when it works. Now I get what you were saying the other day about that chord progression resolving.”

She smiled at him, then bent down—like a damn sadistic menace—to pick up one of the bass guitars resting on the stand. As Aegon realized he was leaning forward without thinking just to catch a glimpse of her ass, he had a fleeting thought: Naturally, Victoria Dawson played a dozen instruments—including bass.

“I was thinking we could switch the bridge to 3/4,” she said, slinging an Ibanez over her shoulder before plugging it into the bass amp.

“I think it fits with the new lyrics you tweaked the other day.”

That you did something warm to his chest—and, frankly, to his dick.

“I never really got how these weird-ass time signatures work, but we can try,” he said, finally putting the book aside and reaching for his favorite Telecaster.

“Of course you don’t,” came the voice of doom from the doorway.

Aemond.

He walked straight to the table where Aegon had left the coffees, picked up his, and—after cautiously inspecting the contents—took a sip without so much as a thank you.

Ungrateful bastard.

Then he turned to Vic. “You should stop by Laura’s office at the end of the day to give her your banking details so she can—”

Blah, blah, blah. Aegon tuned him out the second he realized it was something insufferably boring.

Luckily, his phone buzzed with a message.

It was Martin.

And that son of a bitch had impeccable timing because he was inviting Aegon to his Non-Halloween party.

“Martin and Leon are throwing a party in Brixton tonight,” he said casually to Aemond, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

Aemond, who was still mid conversation with Vic, shot him a look of weary disdain. “Good. I hope the police raid it,” he said dryly, clearly fishing for a laugh from Vic.

Aegon smirked. “Why? Planning to get arrested?”

Aemond froze for a second as he sat down on the sofa. His expression shifted as the meaning sank in. “Oh no, Aegon. Don’t even think about it. I’m not taking you.”

“And why not? Princess Victoria’s coming. We already made plans,” Aegon lied smoothly. In reality, he’d only promised her a lift to her place, but Brixton was on the way. If she had refused, he had a whole arsenal of excuses and pleas ready to rope her into playing along. But to his surprise, Vic didn’t object. She simply raised an eyebrow at him before glancing at Aemond, perhaps trying to gauge his reaction.

Weird.

“Because I’m exhausted! This week, I’ve slept maybe two hours a night dealing with all the mess with the technicians, drafting Victoria’s contract, and Cole constantly asking me to cover for idiots who can’t keep a commitment,” he snapped.

It was true—his dark circles were downright terrifying.

“Even better. At least you’ll get to relax a little,” Aegon countered with fake altruism.

Aemond’s eyes flicked between them, suspicion etched across his face, clearly trying to uncover the catch. No doubt wondering why Vic would willingly associate with the “bootlicking idiots who cling to Aegon,” as he so eloquently put it.

“Two beers, and then we’re leaving,” Aemond muttered with a resigned sigh, shooting another glance in Vic’s direction.

Perfect. No—better than perfect.

He felt a thrill of anticipation. It had been ages since he last saw his old friends and had some serious fun. And honestly, with Vic meticulously dodging his every attempt to get her to come to his place, he seriously needed to fuck.

His mind drifted to Cassandra. He hadn’t seen her since rehab, but if he remembered correctly she was a wild force of nature. Utterly insatiable in bed, with an ass that could stop traffic and the best blowjobs of his life.

Though, to be fair, he couldn’t recall most of their wild nights together, he was always so fucked up that his cock shooting its load felt more like a reflex than any real stimulation reaching his brain. But one image had alway remained seared into his memory: Cassandra’s face, her blue eyes glassy and pupils blown wide as she proudly showed off swallowing every inch of his dick.

After all, he was just a a man.

He suddenly got dragged back to earth when Vic leaned in and whispered, “You’re actually taking me to this party now.”

He stared at her for a second, trying to reassemble his lust-clouded brain, before smirking and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Perfect, love. Now I don’t even have to figure out how to keep Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass entertained,” he said, nodding toward Aemond.

“Can we start working now?” That boring crow said exasperated.

****

Victoria knew exactly what her final thought would be before dying. She could see it clearly—old, maybe 80 if things went well and her liver held up, hooked to some machine, with Sara by her side. Proof, as always, that men were unreliable and they’d truly been forced to marry each other in the end. “I didn’t live enough.”

That was Vic’s kind of FOMO.

She loved the idea of parties. Ever since she’d seen the trailer for Skins on MTV at 12, the idea of chaotic, wild gatherings had enthralled her. Sure, she hadn’t been to many that reached that level of insanity, but she knew one thing for certain: she was no introvert.

Which is why, even though she loathed giving Aegon a helping hand—especially at poor Aemond’s expense—she hadn’t objected when that idiot roped her into his ridiculous plan.

On the Uber ride to this supposed party, the vibe between the brothers couldn’t have been more different. The older one was buzzing with excitement, staring out the window like a dog being taken to the vet. The younger one was glued to his phone, obsessively checking emails and occasionally shooting her glances, as if trying to figure out what she was thinking.

The house was one of those typical brown-brick homes you’d see around South London, complete with a small front gate, a backyard, and a sloping roof with modest windows.

As soon as they arrived, Aegon lunged at some blonde guy’s neck. He introduced himself, but between the blaring music pounding from the next room and her immediate disinterest, Victoria didn’t catch whether he was Martin or Leon. Didn’t matter. If forced, she’d just call him mate. That tactic never failed.

Martin-Leon led them into the next room, packed with people. Surprisingly, it was far tamer than Victoria had anticipated. This seemed to relax Aemond, though—he’d probably expected some post-apocalyptic chaos but instead found a crowd of relatively normal people laughing, chatting, and not dressed in costumes despite the claim of it being a Halloween party.

They were also treated to terrible music, and Aemond gave her a look, mock-hissing in disgust. She couldn’t help but laugh.

They settled on a sofa, the party swirling around them—loud but distant, like waves crashing on the shore while they sat just far enough away to stay dry. Victoria took a slow sip of her beer, the glass already half-empty. Aemond, arms crossed, leaned back, exhaling sharply through his nose as if resigning himself to being here.

“Are you always this much fun at parties?” she teased, tipping her glass toward him in mock salute.

“I don’t usually go to them,” he admitted. His voice wasn’t defensive, just matter-of-fact.

Vic hummed, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Yeah, I got that impression.”

He arched a brow. “What gave it away?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The brooding? The general air of ‘I’d rather be anywhere else’?” She smirked. “Not to mention, I think this might be the first time I’ve seen you sit still for more than five minutes. Usually, you’re pacing around the studio like a man on a mission.”

“That’s because I am,” he said simply, a confident smirk on his face.

Vic laughed. “Right. You do take this whole music thing very seriously.”

Aemond’s expression didn’t shift, but something flickered behind his eyes. “Shouldn’t I?”

She shrugged. “Sure. But there’s a difference between taking something seriously and letting it consume you.”

His gaze lingered on her for a beat, unreadable. “And which one do you think I’m doing?”

“Ask me again when we’re not at a party,” she said, flashing him a grin. “I charge for deep conversations in social settings.”

Aemond huffed, shaking his head slightly, but there was the ghost of something—almost amusement—at the corner of his mouth.

“So if you don’t go to parties, and you never take music lightly… what do you do for fun?”

Aemond huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. “I work.”

“Come on, there’s got to be something else.”

“Reading,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “Boxing. Motorcycles.”

Victoria raised a brow. “Motorcycles?”

That earned her a glance, like he hadn’t expected her to be surprised by that detail. “Yes.”

“Do you actually ride, or are you one of those guys who just buys an expensive bike to look cool?”

His smirk was almost imperceptible. “I ride.”

She looked at him, weighing his answer. “Figures. You’ve got that whole lone-wolf aesthetic down. Let me guess—fast, sleek, all black?”

Aemond didn’t confirm or deny it, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth was enough.

“See, I’d picture you more in some vintage British bike. Classic. Precise. Maybe a Triumph,” she mused.

Aemond finally turned to face her fully. “You know motorcycles?”

“I know a little about a lot of things,” Victoria said with a smirk. “And I know bikes. My father was obsessed. I hate them.”

Aemond considered that for a moment before nodding. “That explains the tattoos.”

Victoria glanced down at her inked arm, lips twitching. “Yep, I got these to impress my dad’s biker gang”

“Wouldn’t be the worst strategy.”

She laughed, warm from the alcohol.

They lapsed into silence for a moment, the party humming around them. Vic glanced across the room, where Aegon had somehow found himself at the center of attention, dramatically reenacting some story, drink sloshing in his hand as he gestured wildly.

She turned back to Aemond, catching him watching the same thing. “Let me guess—you’re the designated responsible for Mr. Menace?”

Aemond didn’t react right away. He just blinked once, slowly, then took a sip of his drink. “It’s not exactly a choice.”

Vic nodded as if she understood. Because she did.

She followed his line of sight back to Aegon.

“Yeah. I get that,” she said after a beat, her voice light, almost absentminded. Her thoughts circled back to her own brother.

Aemond turned to her. “Do you?”

Vic just smiled, taking another sip. “Yeah. I do.”

His expression flickered—just a split second, like she’d struck something raw. But then he exhaled, tilting his head back against the couch again.

There was a pause.

And then, just like that, he was asleep.

Victoria stared. At first, she thought he was just ignoring her, but no—his breathing had slowed, his posture slackened. He’d actually passed out.

She let out a breath, shaking her head. “Wow. Riveting conversation, apparently.”

Still, she didn’t wake him. Instead, she sat back, finishing her beer, watching the party swirl around them.

Aegon, however, had vanished. Whether it was the beers or a sudden pang of sympathy for Aemond and his thankless role as his brother’s keeper, Vic instinctively got up from the sofa, took another beer from the messy kitchen, and started scanning the house. She wandered through the hallways, spotting Martin-Leon wielding an absurdly large bong, surrounded by a circle of partygoers. He coughed violently after taking a hit, earning cheers from his audience.

She pushed open the door to another room and, in a scene straight out of a bad cliché, stumbled upon a couple mid-hookup. But no, that wasn’t Aegon.

Determined, she kept exploring the house with as much precision as her tipsy state allowed, until muffled giggles from the pantry caught her attention.

She swung the door open to find Aegon on the floor, leaning against a shelf, laughing with a dark-haired girl straddling his lap. Of course.

But before she could dwell too long on the familiar sting of jealousy, her focus shifted. When the two noticed her presence and turned toward her, Vic saw Aegon holding a small bag of coke.

“Out,” she ordered, her voice firm, directed at the girl.

The brunette, with strikingly blue eyes, shot her a defiant look as if to say Vic had no authority here. Aegon’s expression, however, was unreadable, but he stayed silent.

“I said, out,” Vic repeated.

Maybe it was the steel in her voice or the glance she threw at Aegon—who merely shrugged and gave the girl a light pat on her thigh, a silent cue to leave—but the girl, clearly wasted, wobbled to her feet and stumbled past Vic, muttering a slurred “bitch” as she left.

Vic closed the door behind her and turned to Aegon, her eyes locking onto his. He was obviously enjoying himself, probably misinterpreting (or correctly interpreting?) the reason for her intrusion.

Still seated on the floor, Aegon swung one knee lazily, biting his lower lip in that infuriating smirk. He didn’t say a word.

Vic walked toward him, her steps deliberate, heavy, like an executioner approaching the condemned. She knelt to his level, and with her free hand, she snatched the bag of coke from his grip.

He didn’t react. She couldn’t tell if it was because he recognized he’d messed up or if he was simply too far gone.

“You do any?” she asked, straightening up.

“No,” he replied, almost offhandedly.

“Sure about that?” Vic pressed.

“Straight from the bag? Do you even know how it works?” he shot back, his tone laced with sarcasm, mean-spirited and amused.

No, she had no idea.

Vic scoffed. Without another word, she strode over to the small window at the back of the room, slid it open, and emptied the bag’s contents outside.

Snowfall, party edition.

Still, Aegon didn’t react. He watched her quietly, his gaze sharp and unwavering. Even when she shot him a triumphant look, expecting to see him get furious, he stood exactly where she’d left him, staring.

Suddenly, he pulled a face—the kind you make when you're impressed, mouth corners dipping downward, sarcasm radiating from every pore. With a groan, he stood, stepping toward her.

Vic felt her cheeks heat as Aegon stopped uncomfortably close, his eyes boring into hers. Mustering every ounce of her willpower, she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and gave him a defiant glare.

Her newfound confidence, however, wavered slightly when he placed a hand on her shoulder. Slowly, he traced his fingers down her arm, brushing her tricep, then her forearm, before resting them on her wrist. Vic followed the movement with her eyes, and when his hand stilled, she shot him a questioning look.

He answered with a smirk.

Before she could process it, Aegon gently pried the beer from her grasp. Without hesitation, he stepped to the window and poured the remaining liquid out.

The empty glass landed with a deliberate clink on the windowsill. Aegon threw her one last glance before sinking back to the floor, lighting a cigarette with practiced ease.

And then Vic understood.

She saw it in his silence, the way he didn’t argue or make a snide remark when he took her beer—her own little crutch. He could’ve mocked her, turned her action into a joke, but he hadn’t.

This wasn’t a game. It wasn’t him trying to piss her off, or assert some kind of dominance.

It was a trade.

He let her take care of the reckless part of him, the part that still ached for something he couldn’t have. Aegon had chosen to stay clean.

And in return, he took care of the part of her that pretended it wasn’t aching at all.

This wasn’t about petty revenge or annoyance. He didn’t want to needle her; he wanted her to see him, to understand that no matter how neatly her addiction was wrapped in legality, he had seen through it.

Aegon wanted her to know they were the same.

The realization hit her hard. Without a word, Vic lowered herself to sit beside him, plucking the cigarette from his fingers. She took two drags, then leaned her head against his shoulder.

Aegon exhaled smoke into the silence.

When she handed the cigarette back, he rested his head lightly atop hers.

No words. No promises.

21 notes · View notes

beatlebvm · 26 days ago

Text

This is Me Trying

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction, Sexism

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 8: Electric Feel

What had happened at the label was absurd, and it was on the verge of becoming genuinely dangerous and counterproductive.

It was one thing to be a fucking thorn in everyone’s side—a useless junkie good for nothing but giving people headaches. Compared to what had happened the day before, even burning bridges with every collaborator Aemond had introduced him to seemed like nothing.

But putting someone else’s safety at risk just because he couldn’t go two minutes without provoking whoever was in front of him?

He should’ve stayed in rehab.

That night on that sidewalk, he should’ve…

And yet, there he was, sprawled out on their parents sofa, lazily strumming his guitar like he wasn’t the human equivalent of a dumpster fire. Like he hadn’t raised hell just to get his attic back—though Aemond had known from the start that he didn’t actually need it. He just wanted a place to fuck in peace before coming back here, throwing some beans on toast, or picking at whatever leftovers the housekeeper had made for dinner.

Completely unfit for life.

Of course, Aemond hadn’t thought his incompetence extended to something as basic as using an elevator. And yet.

If Victoria decided to tell them all to go to hell after this stunt, she’d be completely justified. Especially since, without a contract and the looming threat of a hefty penalty, it would be easy.

So he’d had Laura prepare all the documents and asked their lawyer to draft up a contract as quickly as possible.

He was skimming through section 6.3 when Aegon interrupted his thoughts.

“When are they coming back?” he asked, without much interest.

He was talking about their parents, who had fled to Barbados in a desperate attempt to soothe their mother’s anxiety over the album and everything that would come with it.

“Sunday,” Aemond replied curtly, eyes already back on section 6.3.

Aemond didn’t bother to gauge his reaction. He couldn’t have cared less. His leg kept bouncing as his eyes flicked between section 6.3 and his phone, waiting for Victoria’s response.

Texting her to come sign the contract at his place wasn’t exactly the most professional move, but the anxiety was eating him alive. The possibility of becoming an indispensable asset to the company felt both incredibly close and a messy elevator ride away.

He allowed himself a small moment of triumph when he saw her short but incredibly satisfying reply: coming.

“Victoria’s coming over,” he announced, hastily setting the contract down and looking for a more appropriate place to put it—anything to make up, at least a little, for how unprofessional this was. The coffee table in front of Aegon seemed like the best option.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, now I have to deal with her here too?” Aegon groaned, stopping the mindless tune he had been strumming and humming.

Aemond shoved his feet off the coffee table to make space for the contract.

“Well, if you hadn’t almost killed her, I could’ve had her sign it yesterday,” he shot back, barely restraining his disgust.

“Oh, come on—it was an accident! She put in just as much effort as I did to get that fucking elevator stuck,” Aegon defended himself, but Aemond wasn’t listening.

“If her presence bothers you that much, go annoy Helaena,” he said, leaning against the half-wall that separated the open kitchen from the massive living room.

“She’s editing. She doesn’t want to be disturbed,” Aegon replied, already strumming again. Lies. As if he had ever once given a shit about not disturbing people.

Aemond didn’t even have time to dwell on how irritating his brother was before his phone buzzed—Victoria was downstairs.

He made a quick sprint to the front door, pausing for some reason to adjust his hair before opening it.

“Hey,” she said the moment he let her in.

She looked tired, her fringe messy, a beer stain on her shirt.

“Come in,” he said, stepping aside to let her walk past him into the apartment.

“Thanks for suggesting this,” she started as he shut the door behind her and motioned for her to follow him down the hallway toward the living room. “Not to be shallow, but knowing that once I sign, you guys are legally required to pay me makes me feel a lot better.”

“Our father’s going to be away for a while,” Aemond lied smoothly. “He wanted to make sure everything was in order before he got back.”

She suddenly tensed up as soon as she stepped into the living room.

Who could blame her? She’d just spotted the atomic mushroom cloud.

"Hey," Victoria said to Aegon, definitely annoyed, though she was making an effort to sound diplomatic.

"Hey," he replied from the sofa, stopping mid-strum.

"Have a seat, Victoria," Aemond suggested, gesturing toward the sofa. But she hesitated, glancing at him first, then at Aegon, who was sprawled out across the cushions.

Luckily, that idiot picked up on it and got up, abandoning his guitar against the side of the sofa before moving over to the record player, disappearing behind the glass cabinet of vinyls.

Only then did Victoria sit down, picking up the contract and squinting at it. Probably nearsighted. Aemond thought glasses would suit her.

"If anything is unclear or if there’s something you want to discuss, just ask," Aemond said, settling into the armchair next to the sofa.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, still reading, pausing only to throw a couple of glances in Aegon's direction—probably annoyed by the racket he was making while messing with the vinyls.

"This might as well be written in ancient Greek. How can I be sure I’ll be properly credited when my contribution to the songs is significant?" she finally asked, not looking up.

Smart.

And cautious.

He couldn't blame her.

"I’m keeping track of all your sessions and exactly how much of your work makes it into the final album," Aemond replied, reaching back over the half-wall behind him to grab his notebook.

"I have no intention of screwing you over, if that’s what you’re thinking," he added, flipping it open and waving it slightly, hoping his smile looked convincing.

Of course, he had no intention of screwing her over. That notebook was his ultimate proof—his trump card—to show his father that if Aegon's album worked, it would be solely because of Victoria.

"And you’re free to check it anytime you want."

Victoria looked at him, impressed. She didn’t say anything, just nodded before turning her attention back to the contract. Though not before throwing another glance at Aegon, who had apparently finally found whatever the hell he was looking for.

Maybe now he'd stop making a mess while Aemond was handling things that were infinitely more important than his brother’s entire useless existence.

"Just to make sure you understand the technicalities. The label has final say on synchronization deals."

Victoria leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "Meaning?"

Aemond looked up from his notes. "Meaning, if a brand, film, or TV show wants to use one of the songs you've written, the label decides whether to approve the deal. You'll get your cut, obviously, but you won’t have the authority to say no."

Victoria's voice was flat. "So if some toothpaste brand wants to use my lyrics, I just have to suck it up?"

Aemond gave a shrug. "If a toothpaste brand is willing to pay a six-figure licensing fee, then yes." He paused, his tone turning more serious. "I did, however, ensure that any political or ethically controversial uses will require your explicit consent."

Victoria placed a hand on her chest, dramatically feigning extreme gratitude. The gesture made him laugh.

"Next," Aemond continued, shifting back to business. "The advance. You’ll receive a non-recoupable advance of twenty-five thousand."

Victoria frowned. "Non-recoupable? Are you serious?"

Aemond was matter-of-fact. "Would you rather they front you money you'd have to pay back with your own royalties? Because that’s the standard."

Victoria grumbled under her breath. "Fine. How soon do I get it?"

"Half upon signing, half once production is complete."

"And the royalties?"

"Quarterly payouts, standard processing time of sixty days post-accounting. Meaning, if the album drops in January, you'll see your first check around July."

Victoria shook her head. "I love how artists are the last ones to get paid."

Aegon let out a chuckle at that, as he got up, pulling a vinyl from its sleeve. Victoria suddenly turned her head toward him.

"That’s the industry," Aemond said dryly, trying to bring her focus back to the important matters.

Aemond continued. "Right of first refusal. If you write anything new, intended for the album, during the next eighteen months, the label gets first dibs. If they pass, you're free to shop it elsewhere."

Victoria narrowed her eyes. "So, basically, if I come up with something great, I’m stuck waiting on their approval before I can do anything with it?"

Aemond's voice was calm. "Not stuck. Just... on hold."

Victoria’s tone was flat. "Right. Totally different."

Aemond leaned in slightly, making eye contact. "You’re getting a fair deal, Victoria. Most labels would lock you in for years. I got them to limit it to eighteen months, no exclusivity after that."

Victoria scoffed. "How generous."

The sound of music filled the room, followed by the sliding door to the terrace opening and the click of a lighter. Aemond noticed Victoria turn her head again, watching Aegon at the open door, smoking and gently bobbing his head to the music. Her expression was one of someone barely containing the urge to comment, but Aemond quickly redirected her attention.

"Arrangements," he said, sliding the contract toward her and pointing. "The label and producer have full creative control."

"No," Victoria said firmly. "No way."

Aemond raised an eyebrow. "You expected to have veto power?"

Victoria crossed her arms, leaning back. "I expect to have a say. If they completely butcher my songs, I just have to live with it?"

Aemond's tone was cool. "Not completely. You'll be consulted. But final decisions on production choices—instrumentation, mixing, even lyrical edits—will rest with them."

"Why?" Victoria asked, her voice demanding an explanation.

"Because they’re investing in the album. And investments require control."

Victoria exhaled sharply, sitting back. "Wow, and you really softened this for me?"

Aemond nodded. "You should’ve seen the first draft."

"Jesus," Victoria muttered, grimacing.

Aemond smiled, then pulled out the pen he had tucked into his notebook and handed it to her.

Victoria stared at it for a moment before turning back toward Aegon. Aemond couldn’t blame her. He just hoped—desperately—that his brother, the elevator incident, and even just his presence in the room wouldn’t be enough to make her change her mind at the last second.

But then Victoria exhaled sharply and nearly snatched the pen from his hand.

“Fuck it. Better sign now, because if I think about it for another two seconds, my brain will explode,” she muttered before bending over the coffee table and finally marking the blank space at the bottom of page 26 with her name.

She had a nice signature.

Aemond felt a wave of relief crash over him, almost startled by the sheer euphoria the transaction caused him. His plan was working—despite Aegon’s best efforts to ruin his life.

When Victoria finished signing, she dropped the pen onto the table with a clatter.

“I need a cigarette. Writing my name has never been this exhausting,” she said.

Aemond smirked, pulling out his steel cigarette case and offering it to her. Victoria accepted without hesitation. He took one for himself as well and followed her toward the balcony doors, where Aegon was still smoking, staring into space, drumming his fingers against his thigh.

Aemond held out his lighter, but Victoria shook her head, showing him her own. She thanked him silently with a small nod before lighting up.

“This could be the best album of the last twenty years,” she said suddenly, looking over at Aegon.

He turned his gaze from the void to her but remained unfazed.

“I liked Junk too, but Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming is an unrepeatable masterpiece,” Aegon replied.

Aemond had no fucking clue what they were talking about.

“Literally the soundtrack of my life,” Victoria said with a smile. “Or at least, I wish it was. My life is probably way too boring for M83 to be its soundtrack.”

Aegon turned to face her fully, leaning his back against the half-open door.

“I know, right?” he said, flicking his cigarette to shake off the ash. “Those bastards make me feel a weird kind of nostalgia I don’t even understand.”

Victoria’s face lit up. She didn’t hesitate.

“Like nostalgia for a life you never lived—and probably never will?”

“Exactly! Fuck, yes! I couldn’t have said it better myself!” Aegon exclaimed, smacking her shoulder with a little too much enthusiasm.

Victoria tensed. There it was—that familiar, grating idiocy. Incapable of any kind of human interaction without being either obnoxious or excessive.

Still, she straightened, acting as if nothing had happened.

“You know how people like to theorize about what music plays in heaven?” she asked.

Aegon thought for a moment. “No doubt about it. Hoppípolla by Sigur Ros plays on an eternal loop—it’s perfect, and there’s no risk of ever getting tired of it.”

Victoria let out a sharp laugh, almost choking on her cigarette smoke in her eagerness to agree.

“FUCK! I’ve never thought about that before, but it’s perfect!”

Aemond glanced at her. She seemed genuine.

“For me, though,” Victoria continued, smirking, “Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming is what plays in purgatory.” It sounded like something she had been waiting a long time to say but had never had the chance to share.

“One hundred percent. And Lower Your Eyelids to Die With the Sun is what the universe plays the moment you’re dying,” Aegon said, grinning at her.

“Or what will play the moment the world ends,” Victoria countered.

“Oh my fucking god, Vic, dark,” Aegon chuckled.

“I know, sorry,” she said, pressing a hand to her forehead with a laugh.

“No, no, it’s perfect—I totally see your vision,” Aegon reassured her, still laughing.

Aemond had had enough.

“Do you want something to drink?” he cut in abruptly. Both Aegon and Victoria turned their heads toward him at the same time.

Victoria smiled, and Aemond felt his shoulders loosen slightly.

“On any other occasion, I’d say don’t bother,” she said, riding the high of the conversation. “But does the label, by any chance, offer me a beer as a signing bonus?”

Aemond returned the smile, nodding slightly.

“Of course.”

As he turned toward the kitchen, his brother’s obnoxious voice rang out behind him.

“Grab one for me too?”

Aemond rolled his eyes.

Fucking parasite.

He took two beers from the fridge and set them on the island, then searched for a bottle of red wine to open for himself.

Canned Guinness was disgusting.

In the background, Victoria was animatedly recounting how she had seen M83 live three times earlier that year, and Aegon mentioned that he had seen them a few years ago. He had to skip last year’s tour because he had been in rehab.

Aemond glanced up, watching for Victoria’s reaction to the mention of rehab, but she didn’t even blink. She just kept chatting cheerfully, praising the band, Anthony Gonzalez, and the same album that was still playing in the living room.

Aemond wasn’t sure how to process this sudden common ground between them. He took a moment to observe them more closely while he poured himself a glass of the finest red he had found.

Pinot Noir, 2021. Santenay Premier Cru Les Gravières.

Well, this was certainly better than having to call in the studio techs after every session because the two of them had trashed the place.

And Victoria, even if she wasn’t a professional yet, probably understood the weight of the opportunity she had been given. Maybe she was making an effort to present herself in a more mature way than his brother.

Perhaps her enthusiasm was a good thing. A sign that she was opening up—to their name, to the contract, to the possibility of signing as an artist herself.

To them. To his plan. To him.

Aemond thought back to their conversation that night at the pub. Victoria knew what it was like to have a difficult brother. Maybe she was just better than he was at dealing with lost causes.

He put the wine bottle back in the cellar. On any other occasion, the idea that someone could be better than him at anything would have annoyed him. But not this time.

This time, as he approached the two of them, still deep in conversation, he felt something closer to admiration. And when he handed Victoria her beer and she gave him a genuine smile, thanking him, the sudden shift in his stomach confirmed it.

He had bet on the right artist.

*****

Vic and Sara had, of course, met on SpareRoom.

When Vic’s old roommate announced she was leaving for Cambodia to embark on some kind of spiritual journey—one Vic had no intention of questioning, lest she get roped into yet another analysis of her dark and depressed soul—the last thing she wanted was to go through the whole ordeal of finding someone new to split the rent with.

But the moment Sara stepped through the door of the available room and made a comment about the billions of Post-it notes covering an entire wall—left behind by the hippie roommate, each one filled with aggressively positive affirmations—it became clear the search was over.

“Are you sure you weren’t living with a member of the Manson family?” Sara had said, and Vic had immediately fallen in love with her.

Beyond an absent father—and, as a result, a shared disdain for straight men—Vic and Sara also had a common passion for music, though in different forms. Sara, with her dramatic energy and the kind of presence that turned heads every time she entered a room, was destined to be an actress. She had moved to London from a small town in the North to chase her dream of making it on the West End.

Unfortunately, lacking both the malice and that particular brand of strategic evilness required to win over casting directors in non orthodox ways, she had to settle for a temporary job while waiting for her big break. Vic had been thrilled to bring her into the pub. Tony had adored her from the start—she wasn’t as efficient or precise as Vic, but she had a way of captivating customers, keeping them at the bar for hours, talking, laughing, and ordering round after round of drinks. Vic usually made them for her, just so she wouldn’t have to break the spell of whatever wild story she was weaving.

Some were fragments of real life, embellished for dramatic effect, of course. Others were completely made up, always with her as the protagonist—tales so compelling that not a single old-timer at the bar ever doubted their truth.

Vic found Sara’s lightness utterly captivating. Sometimes, she even envied her ability to avoid falling into the trap of self-sabotage. But Sara was so incredible that her magic extended even to Vic, reminding her—when Vic let her—that she, too, could choose not to self-sabotage.

Not that it always worked. Vic was stubborn, and Sara—despite what Vic might have sworn—was not actually a fairy-tale fairy.

That's why, that morning, when she saw her emerge from the alley in Leicester Square where she had disappeared—unexpectedly early and stomping furiously toward her—Vic was confused.

“What happened?” she asked, getting up from the stone bench near the Harry Potter statue. She had just bought herself a coffee, and if she’d known Sara would be out this soon, she would have grabbed one for her too.

“That absolute dickhead of a director,” Sara snapped, dropping onto the bench with enough force that Vic could swear it creaked. She wrestled with her lighter, trying to spark the cigarette dangling from her lips.

Vic raised an eyebrow and gestured for her to continue.

Sara took a deep breath, finally managing to light the cigarette. “Two minutes. Two fucking minutes of singing, and then he cuts me off. And you know what he does next? Starts grilling me with crazy questions. ‘What’s your favorite Sondheim musical?’ ‘Can you name all the Olivier Award-winning productions of the last ten years?’ ‘Do you think Andrew Lloyd Webber’s influence on modern theater is net positive or negative?’”

Vic let out a low whistle. “Jesus. Did he want you to perform or write a dissertation?”

“Right?!” Sara gestured wildly, nearly smacking Vic with her cigarette. “I mean, I love musicals. I live for this shit. But am I supposed to memorize the entire history of the West End just to prove I can belt out a song?”

Vic took a sip of her coffee, nodding. “Honestly, sounds like he was just stroking his own ego.”

“Oh, it gets better.” Sara leaned forward, eyes blazing. “So after this interrogation, he asks me to do a cold read of a monologue. Fine, whatever. I start reading, and halfway through, he’s looking at his phone. His fucking phone, Vic. Didn’t even try to hide it. And then—then—when I finish, he just sits there for a second like he forgot I existed and goes, ‘Hmm. Do you have any dance experience?’”

Vic blinked. “Dance experience? Was that even in the audition brief?”

“Of course not! If it was, I wouldn’t have dragged my ass out of bed at six a.m. to get there on time!” Sara threw up her hands. “So I tell him, ‘Well, I can move. I mean, I’m not a trained ballerina, but I can handle choreography.’ And he does this face, Vic. Like I just told him I had tuberculosis.”

Vic exhaled sharply through her nose. “Pretentious wanker.”

“Right? And then he goes, ‘Hmm. That’s a shame. This role requires someone with a strong dance background.’ And I’m sitting there thinking, then why the fuck did you call me in?”

“That’s some next-level bullshit,” Vic muttered.

“Oh, we’re not done yet,” Sara said, voice dripping with venom. “Because then, after all that, after treating me like a goddamn TED Talk on musical theater and deciding I wasn’t ‘dancy’ enough for a role that, mind you, had no mention of dance in the casting call, you know what he says?”

Vic could already tell she wasn’t going to like the answer. “What?”

Sara took a long drag of her cigarette, exhaled, and then mimicked the director’s voice with exaggerated smugness: “‘You’re very pretty, but I just don’t think you’re the right fit.’”

Vic’s grip on her cup tightened. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Yeah. Yeah. As if that was ever relevant. Like, what does that even mean? Should I just accept my fate and become a decorative prop on stage?”

“You should’ve told him you’d love to discuss it further over dinner and then stabbed him with a salad fork,” Vic muttered.

Sara snorted, finally exhaling a long stream of smoke. “Don’t tempt me.”

For a moment, they just sat there, the noise of Leicester Square filling the silence between them.

Then Vic nudged her. “Listen. That guy’s an asshole, but you are good. You know that, right?”

Sara gave a half-hearted shrug.

“And auditions are bullshit. Half the time, they don’t even know what they’re looking for until they see it. Maybe you weren’t what he had in mind, but that doesn’t mean you’re not talented. It just means he’s got shit taste.”

"He has shit everything," Sara muttered under her breath, her lower lip jutting out in a pout. She looked like a sulking child, but there was no mistaking the exhaustion in her voice. Her big green eyes, usually so full of fire, were dulled by disappointment, and something about it made Vic’s chest tighten.

Vic refused to let her sit in that feeling.

An idea sparked in her mind, and she nudged Sara’s knee with her own. “Well, at least you’ve got the rest of the day free, right?” she said, her voice deliberately light.

Sara sighed, still staring at the ground. “Yeah. And to think, I actually believed I’d make it to the second round. What an idiot.”

Vic’s stomach twisted. She knew that voice. The one that picked at you from the inside, kicking you when you were already down.

"Sara..." she said, her tone firm but gentle. A warning.

Sara huffed, like she already knew what was coming, but Vic caught the way her fingers tightened around the cigarette.

“Come to the studio with me,” Vic suggested, tilting her head toward her.

Sara scoffed. “Oh, come on, Vic. I don’t want to get in your way while you deal with your—what’s the word?—oh yeah, tormentors.”

Vic rolled her eyes, but a smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. “Nonsense. Fuck them. I’m not leaving you alone, not even for the ridiculously overpriced contract I signed the other night.”

That seemed to snap Sara out of it. Her whole face lit up, a little of the usual spark flickering back in her eyes. “Alright then! But we’re taking the stairs.”

Vic laughed, shaking her head as she downed the last sip of her coffee. “Of course we are.”

Once they arrived, Vic was surprised to find both brothers already in the studio, ready for the session.

“Morniiiiing,” she greeted, tiptoeing in with a guilty expression, hoping they wouldn’t make a fuss about Sara joining them that morning.

If either of them dared to make her feel unwelcome—especially today, of all days—she was fully prepared to smack them both over the head with one of Viserys Targaryen’s ridiculously expensive semi-acoustic guitars.

Both of them turned sharply as Vic shut the door behind Sara. It was obvious that Aemond was holding back a comment, sitting on the usual sofa with his ever-present notebook at his side, though he still managed to shoot her one of those disapproving looks he usually reserved for Aegon. Vic ignored him and turned her attention to Aegon, who pushed his sunglasses up from the bridge of his nose to the top of his head.

“Morning, princess,” he chirped, totally unfazed by the unexpected guest, before going back to lazily strumming the Telecaster slung over his shoulder.

“You remember Sara, right?” Vic said casually, dropping her bag on the sofa next to Aemond’s notebook and rummaging through it.

“Of course. The very single one,” Aegon replied with a chuckle.

Vic rolled her eyes, already gearing up to tell him off, but then she heard Sara answer, amused, “Indeed,” and decided to let it go—for now. At least Sara didn’t seem uncomfortable.

“This is supposed to be a closed session,” Aemond said sharply, almost under his breath, leaning toward Vic. She paused just long enough to meet his gaze.

“Sara’s an amazing singer. Her input could be valuable. And she’s excellent at keeping secrets,” Vic replied evenly, unbothered by the reprimand. She turned to Sara as if to confirm, and Sara wordlessly ran a hand across her lips, miming locking them shut.

Vic grinned before going back to digging through her bag.

“If we’re making this about who belongs here and who doesn’t,” Aegon chimed in, “I’ve explained to you multiple times that your presence in this studio unsettles me and distracts me from the delicate artistic process we’re engaged in, but you’ve never given a single shit about that.”

His tone was meant to sound serious, but it was unintentionally hilarious.

“Well, I am the artistic producer,” Aemond shot back icily.

“Really? That’s the first time I hear that,” Aegon replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Vic finally found what she was looking for, pulled out a book, and walked over to Aegon.

“Here, Pete Davidson,” she said, handing it to him.

Aegon frowned in confusion, taking the book from her hands. “What’s this?”

“Sweet Anticipation by David Huron. Completely changed the way I think about songwriting. You might like it,” she explained.

Aegon looked up from the cover and smiled at her.

Vic felt her face suddenly flush, cursing herself for not thinking ahead. Because, of course, along with this purely professional gesture, there had to come his gratitude. And probably—no, definitely—one of those damn perfectly white, 32-tooth smiles.

The “Thanks,” he said, sincere and warm, hit her like a grand piano falling from the sky, forcing her to get as far away from him as possibile.

She made a noise—one that, in her head, was supposed to mean “Don’t mention it”—before promptly turning on her heel and making a beeline for the piano.

“It’s a shame Aegon can’t read,” Aemond remarked caustically, clearly pleased with himself as he flipped open his notebook.

“What a mean thing to say,” Sara chimed in suddenly, gracefully throwing herself onto the sofa beside him.

Aemond shot her a baffled look, while Vic had to bite back a laugh. Yep—bringing Sara had been an excellent idea.

“You tell him, very single Sara,” Aegon said absentmindedly, still focused on the Telecaster as he resumed strumming.

“We’re brothers. This is normal,” Aemond replied, composing himself like he was explaining a basic life lesson to a first grader. He turned to Sara expectantly.

“I’m an only child,” she said defiantly.

“That explains it,” he declared flatly, giving her a once-over and then flipping through his notebook as if nothing had happened.

Sara ignored him right back, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, glancing between Aegon and Vic, who was settling in at the piano.

“So, what’s the plan for today? Completely break the elevator? Full building blackout? Plague of locusts?” she asked, a little too on edge.

Unfortunately, since she only ever heard about these sessions secondhand from Vic, she had no idea how mind-numbingly boring they could actually get.

Aegon snorted, and Vic echoed his amusement—earning them both yet another withering side-eye from Aemond.

“I was actually thinking of starting with your song,” Vic said, looking at Aegon.

He froze for a second, clearly not expecting that.

Vic noticed him swallow—not that she had been looking at him, his neck or the glimpse of his chest visible through his half-unbuttoned shirt or anything.

And fuck, it wasn’t her fault he wore an entire goddamn jewelry store around his neck that jingled every time he moved his head, or that his tattoos were right there.

By the time she’d finished her entirely inappropriate and unprofessional train of thought, Aegon had already recovered from his initial surprise.

“Sure,” he answered—sharp, steady, and, surprisingly, proud.

Vic settled her hands on the piano keys, trying to ignore the strange heat creeping up the back of her neck. It was fine. Completely fine.

Aegon adjusted his guitar strap and tapped the Telecaster’s body, his gaze flicking toward her. “Alright, so where were we?”

“You tell me,” Vic said, tilting her head—giving him the reins.

Aegon tentatively strummed the progression with that tweak Vic had suggested the day of the elevator incident, then fell into the progression like muscle memory. Vic followed, pressing into the keys as if the melody had been waiting there the whole time.

Aegon’s strumming stuttered for half a second. He shot her a quick look—half surprised, half impressed—but didn’t say anything. Just kept playing, adjusting to her seamlessly.

Something twisted in Vic’s stomach. She ignored it.

“Oh, that works,” Sara murmured from the sofa, sounding about 40% invested in the song and 60% invested in watching them.

Aemond made a noise that could have meant I approve or I hate this. Impossible to tell.

But Vic wasn’t paying attention to either of them. She was watching Aegon, who was watching her, both unconsciously shifting to match the other.

Well. That was new.

“You should bring the second verse up sooner,” she said, unwilling to acknowledge whatever the hell was happening here.

Aegon arched a brow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She played under the line, letting the shift settle into place.

Aegon adjusted immediately, picking it up without hesitation.

Too easy. Too easy.

And then he smirked, because of course he did. “Damn, princess. That’s good.”

Vic gathered all the coolness she could muster. “I know.

Aegon laughed, and for some reason, it made her want to throw something at him. Or maybe kiss him. Or maybe just slam the piano lid shut and walk out.

Suddenly, it was fun. She liked how he adjusted his rhythm to fit hers, how she let him lead without losing herself in it.

She scowled at the keys like it was their fault.

Vic cleared her throat. “Again. From the top.”

Aegon’s grin widened. “Bossy.”

“Shut up and play.”

And he did.

And, annoyingly, it was good. Again.

So they ran through it again. And again.

And okay—maybe Vic was enjoying this a little too much. Professionally, obviously. Because she wasn’t used to sharing the creative process. She had never even done it with Charlie, and yet suddenly this fucking nepo baby just got it—adjusting on instinct, following her changes without hesitation, pushing back just enough to make the song better.

It was infuriatingly natural. And fun.

Not that she was going to tell him that.

After the third run-through, she cut him off mid-chorus. “Okay, this—this actually works.”

Aemond, still unreadable, tapped his pen against his notebook. “The progression is solid. The chorus sticks. But the lyrics in the bridge could be stronger.”

Aegon groaned, flopping back dramatically. “Fucking knew you were gonna say that.”

Then, with the expression of a teenager forced to leave a party too soon, irritation flickering in his eyes, he shrugged. “Alright, genius. Fix it.” He said, turning to Vic.

“You’re fixing it with me,” she shot back, pointing at him.

Aegon stared at her for a second, like he hadn’t quite understood. “Yes, ma’am.”

They leaned over his notebook, which rested on his amp. Vic tapped the page with the end of his pen. “The phrasing’s off. You’re stuffing too many syllables into the first line.”

“Oh, I’m stuffing too many syllables?” Aegon repeated, feigning offense.

“Yes,” Vic said flatly.

He put a hand over his heart. “Unbelievable. Insulted in my own studio.”

“Not your studio,” Aemond muttered.

Aegon ignored him. “Alright, fine. Where do we cut it?”

Vic hummed the bridge under her breath, fingers drumming against her knee. “Here, I think.” She pointed to a section and crossed out a couple of words.

Aegon narrowed his eyes at it. “That works, but now the second line feels unbalanced.” He tapped the notebook. “What if we stretched it out here?”

Vic considered it, adjusting the words, shifting the stress on the syllables.

She couldn’t help but glance at him from her vantage point standing while he remained seated, the Telecaster in his lap like a brick wall between them—yet not nearly enough to keep the electricity of his proximity at bay.

He was focused, slipping off his sunglasses and setting them on the amp, running a hand through his hair. His dedication to what they were doing was, without a doubt, the most attractive thing about his already perfect face.

Vic had to snap out of it.

She tested the new bridge under her breath.

Aegon nodded. “Yeah, that flows better. But—” He hesitated. “The last line’s still missing something. Needs a sharper hook.”

Vic glanced at him. Serious. Focused. Not performing.

“Okay,” she said, softer now. “What about this?”

She muttered a phrase, half-formed, and Aegon caught onto it instantly, tweaking it, flipping the words just enough to make them hit harder.

They both paused. Looked at the notebook. Looked at each other.

The electricity had just turned into the blackout Sara had been hoping for moments earlier.

That worked.

Aegon tested it, letting the words slip into the melody, adjusting his grip on the guitar as if he already knew how it was supposed to sound.

And Vic—felt it. The way their instincts locked together like it had always been there, waiting.

Well. That was dangerous.

Vic cleared her throat and turned to Aemond. “See? Stronger.”

Aemond, who—thankfully—didn’t seem to have noticed whatever that had been, nodded slowly. “It’s an improvement.”

Vic ignored all of it. “Alright. Again.” She all but ran toward the piano.

Aegon, still watching her, huffed a quiet laugh.

Then he nodded, adjusting his grip on the guitar.

They ran through it once more, and this time, it was perfect.

The song settled into place like it had always been meant to be there, like they hadn’t just stitched it together minutes ago. The whole thing locked into rhythm, effortless, inevitable.

Aegon played the last chord, let it ring out, then exhaled sharply.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “That’s it.”

Vic, heartbeat unreasonably fast, forced herself to act normal. “Took you long enough.”

Aegon shot her a look—half amused, half something else—but didn’t argue.

From the sofa, Sara let out a slow breath.

Vic turned to her and—oh.

Sara was grinning, wide-eyed, unable to look away from them like she had just witnessed something borderline supernatural.

Vic frowned. “What?”

Sara glanced between the two of them, then turned to Aemond, her voice equal parts amused and stunned.

“Are they always like this?”

Aemond, who had spent the entire session watching with careful scrutiny, didn’t answer immediately.

He just blinked once. Then, in a voice far more controlled than his expression:

“No.”

#aegon ii targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd #house targaryen #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen #hotd aegon

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beatlebvm · 26 days ago

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“Tom Glynn-Carney brings Aegon alive in ways we have not seen before; he’s more than a villain here, he shows us the king’s rage, his pain, his fears and doubts. His humanity.”

GEORGE R.R. MARTIN — about tom glynn-carney’s performance as king aegon ii targaryen.

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beatlebvm · 28 days ago

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y'all are sleeping on this!!

This is Me Trying

Masterlist

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction, EDs, Sexism, Sex in general, MDNI)

CHAPTER 1: This is me Trying

CHAPTER 2: Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage

CHAPTER 3: Alice Practice

CHAPTER 4: Death by a Thousand Cuts

CHAPTER 5: Lounge Act

CHAPTER 6: Fake Plastic Trees

#aegon #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen fanfic #aegon x oc #hotd #hotd fanfic #modern au aegon #prince aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #house of the dragon #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen ii

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beatlebvm · 29 days ago

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please give me ideas for aegon, i want to write something 😭😭

#aegon ii targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd #house targaryen #aegon ii targaryen smut #aegon ii x oc #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #prince aegon targaryen #hotd aegon #aegon x reader

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beatlebvm · 1 month ago

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. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ about me ࿐ྂ

daniela. 21. she/her. infp. an italian obsessed with sports and british men. currently busy studying communication ˃̵ᴗ˂̵

⊹ ࣪ ˖ › i love to read a lot and sometimes i dedicate myself to writing. which already doesn’t happen very often. and i am too much of a procrastinator :/. love also to despair about f1—charles leclerc & scuderia ferrari—and tennis too. or whoever steals my heart.

you just stumbled on my diary where i’ll just simp over my celebrity crushes and share whatever crosses my mind. feel free to stay! ˃̵ᴗ˂̵

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ masterlist ࿐ྂ

𝐰𝐞𝐭 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 | ♛ aegon II targaryen

› his sweet niece has a surprise for him.

ꜜtags:

#masterlist #aegon ii targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd #house targaryen #prince aegon targaryen #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader

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beatlebvm · 1 month ago

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CHRISTOPHER WISEMAN | Tolkien

✨ Happy 30th Birthday, Tom Glynn-Carney ✨

#he was so beautiful in this omg please

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beatlebvm · 1 month ago

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happy birthday to our king ♡

TOM GLYNN-CARNEY photographed by emilia staugaard for behind the blinds (2022).

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beatlebvm · 2 months ago

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plEASE GAIUS PLEASE

𝐓𝐎𝐌 𝐆𝐋𝐘𝐍𝐍-𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐘 as 𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐒

Gaius' tunic with purple and golden details and red toga for Livia's Wedding. DOMINA SEASON ONE EPISODE ONE.

#i need him

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beatlebvm · 3 months ago

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wet dream

summary: after a long night of intense activities, aegon targaryen falls asleep in the arms of his sweet and pretty niece visenya not knowing that in the morning there will be a surprise waiting for him.

pairing: aegon II targaryen x visenya targaryen (rhaenyra's daughter)

word count: ~1.6k

warnings: not proofread, 18+ mdni, language, smut, just filth and little fluff if you squint at the end, oral sex (m receiving), it's con — basically waking him up with head :P. ugly ending :/. ENGLISH ISN'T MY FIRST LANGUAGE!!!

author's note: this might be the last and only thing i'll ever publish in my life since i still have traumas from my wattpad era of 10 years ago lmao. i feel super insecure about this, it sounded nicer in my head but i hope you like it too!

maybe it was a dream.

such a beautiful dream — as the ones you don't want to wake up from, the ones you want to live through until the last second, the last bit. and it was so good.

too good to be true. visenya's mouth was so warm and welcoming, soft and wet just as aegon liked, and her lips moved eagerly and confidently, playing and sucking him off with the only ways she knew. aegon sighed, his hips shifted and he could already feel himself harden in his state of semi-unconsciousness, between wakefulness and a deep slumber.

her sultry gaze was fixed on him, a mischievous smirk lingered on her pretty lips and aegon just wanted to tear it away with an harsh thrust of his hips, wanted to feel her gag around his cock. but visenya just chuckled at his weak attempt to. gods, why was she so warm? why did it feel so real?

aegon shifted again, the dream was starting to get uncomfortable, his cock was rock hard and borderline painful and he couldn't bear it for any longer. plus, a strange stickiness between his legs seemed to grow and the targaryen was pretty sure that he might've spilled on his bed sheets with just that dream. a fucking dream. how embarrassing if someone found out that he wetted his bed at the modest age of twenty?

he shifted again and again, until the maddening image of visenya sucking his cock vanished in a blurry corner of aegon's mind, much to his displeasure. he could've stayed like that forever. but the discomfort and the wetness didn't leave, his cock still hard.

and the sounds too.

wet sound after wet sound, a few soft sighs and aegon was pretty sure that it wasn't just a dream anymore, and when finally sleepiness was slipping away and he was finally back into the real world, his eyes opened — visenya was there.

laying on his bed, her body still bare in all of its glory and naked from the night before when they indulged in their pleasurable and greedy company, her head dipped on to his lap. but she wasn't supposed to be there. not at that time — weak sunlight penetrated the windows of aegon's chambers, shades of orange and yellow sealed the dawn just creeping over king's landing and also aegon's full attention on the girl in front of him.

it wasn't just a dream. a wet dream. visenya was there, her lips really moving on him and the smirk on her face widened as she realized that her uncle finally awakened up. “good morning.”

good fucking morning indeed.

aegon blinked a few times, rubbed his eyes until his vision was clear just to make sure that his sweet niece was really there, and a rush of pleasure crossed through his body when visenya’s tongue teased and pressed on the slit of his dick. she shouldn’t have been there — by dawn visenya should’ve sneaked out of his chambers and gone back to her own to avoid unpleasant encounters within the halls of the red keep, unpleasant questions about her strange presence at such late hours in those corridors, or why the daughter of rhaenyra targaryen was just coming out of prince aegon’s chambers.

“w-what the fuck are you doing here?”, aegon asked, his voice low and raspy from a deep sleep which sent a shiver down visenya’s spine. but despite his harsh words, aegon wasn’t displeased by visenya’s presence, at all.

he wanted so bad to fuck that pretty face, thrust his hips up her mouth and claim her throat just like they both needed to, but aegon’s body was still heavy and stiff from his slumber — his hand found visenya’s silver hair and gripped them in a weak fist, guiding and following the motions of her head down his cock but not forcing her, jut telling her silently to not stop and continue with the superb and lovely job she was doing.

“isn’t that obvious?”, visenya teased, her voice hoarse too but holding that suggestive tone that always characterized her everytime she was in aegon’s company. her hand stroked him gently, not wanting to overwhelm him and leave him without attention as she spoke at the same time.

aegon whined, his fingers tightened around visenya’s wavy strands as he watched her mouth engulf him once again and swallowing him whole in her warmth. fuck, she was so good, too good to him. he was an asshole, and sometimes he felt he was just using her, taking advantage of her need for him — it was so wrong, sharing the bed and getting his cock wet from who aegon considered a bastard hs entire life, even if her hair were silver and her eyes of pale purple, her other features didn’t lie. but he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t pull away, even if visenya was rhaenyra’s daughter. “you shouldn’t be here.”

visenya cocked an eyebrow up, the idea of leaving didn’t even cross her mind when aegon’s protest sounded and came out of his lips more lighthearted than he wanted. he didn’t want for her to stop, she could read well the signs of his body well, no matter how weak they were: the slightest twitch of his hips, the way his hand seemed to push her head down more and more. “do you want me to stop?”

aegon didn’t reply in that moment, a moment of silence followed and only interrupted by the soft sighs and grunts leaving his lips and visenya’s mouth wet sounds. his body reacted once again, his hips weakly buckled up searching for more pleasure — which visenya didn’t give to him, and aegon couldn’t simply take it anymore. he needed her, needed that release. “n-no, fuck—”.

and his sweet niece didn’t need any more words, resuming her motions and giving aegon the good morning she planned to gift him and he was glad to take everything, feeling any resistance leave his body the moment pleasure settled in completely. not that there was some actual resistance. the farce was pathetic as much as aegon’s pretense that it was just sex between him and visenya, that there was no actual feeling growing for his favorite and only niece.

the obscene sounds of visenya’s mouth only grew louder as she doubled her efforts, her cheeks hollowed around him and the sight alone was almost enough to make aegon come on the spot — he couldn’t wait to fill that mouth with his seed, claim it and see her swallow his cum like the greedy and good girl visenya was. he shutted his eyes, and his mind was soon filled with memories of previous night, when visenya rode his cock like her life depended on it and with her pretty tits bouncing everytime their hips met, her moans echoing in the four walls of his chambers.

fuck, it couldn’t be already it… and yet visenya noticed aegon’s body tensing up, his balls tightening up under her warm palm, and she knew that in a matter of seconds and a few other gags around his cock ropes of his cum would paint her throat. and she couldn’t be more ready for it, more eager to taste him and not waste a single drop. “vis, i—”.

and just like visenya predicted, it took aegon a few moments to completely shudder and let the bliss overflow his body and mind, coming and spilling into her welcoming mouth with a single and beautiful moan that made visenya quiver too. aegon seemed to lighten, he buckled his hips up a few times, the tip of his dick kissed the back of visenya’s throat and spurts of his warm cum marked her as his, and he made sure that no drop went to waste. aegon could’ve died right in that moment and he would’ve been the happiest man in the whole world — no better awakening than that one could’ve existed and aegon couldn’t have felt better than in that moment. he was so fucking lucky to have her, he couldn’t believe it.

sadly, to aegon’s displeasure and reluctance the peak didn’t last as much as he desired and the effects of it inevitably subsided but he couldn’t help but groan again as he felt visenya’s thighs straddle his hips and her settle on top of him once again. just like last night. with a satisfied sigh and a greedy lick of her lips, visenya hid her face in the crook of his neck and wrapped her arms around his torso, leaving a few sloppy and lazy kisses on the pale skin of his throat. aegon sighed too, his arms doing the same with her and let himself enjoy the warmth that her sweet embrace brought. he could’ve done that every morning and never got tired of it — fuck anybody’s suspiciousness.

a weary smile creeped on aegon’s lips as he nuzzled his nose against her soft hair, his heart swelling with content as he heard visenya chuckle lightly at his gentle tickle. his fingers caressed her kindly, with a sweetness that rarely characterized aegon and that he never showed in public, but for a reason or another, it felt right to act around visenya like that, almost unconsciously even. he brought his lips to her hair, tilting her head to kiss her forehead, eyelids, nose, cheeks and eventually her lips with chaste but sweet pecks. aegon could briefly taste himself on her soft lips and it almost spurred him on and made his cock to stiffen but he held back, wanting to savour the moment with visenya.

“good morning indeed.”

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