#that and ofc Queen/Freddie Mercury | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

agirlsawalittlerose · 3 months ago

Text

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, Anxiety, Panic attacks

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 7: Under Pressure

The guys at the pub hadn’t stopped teasing her.

The moment Vic walked through the door, she saw Rhys bow dramatically, and Sara quickly joined in the pantomime, starting a round of applause that soon included even the few clueless patrons sitting around in the early afternoon.

“Our illustrious songwriter has descended from Olympus to grace us with her presence!” Rhys announced sarcastically, while Vic rolled her eyes, a mix of smugness and irritation crossing her face at having her absence so publicly acknowledged.

Luckily, Tony quickly restored order, and Vic slipped into the back to change before starting her shift.

Later, she stood outside with Sara, smoking in front of the pub. The sun was already setting—too early for Vic’s liking. She hated winter, especially the oppressive darkness that crept in by four in the afternoon.

“…Of course I wouldn’t pick a Pitbull song, come on,” Vic said, pulling her coat tighter as Sara stared at her in mock disgust.

“So, you’d rather hear Pitbull ruin every song ever than have Freddie Mercury sing ‘I Know You Want Me?’” Sara asked, incredulous.

“Obviously! Queen’s songs are good enough to redeem Pitbull, but Freddie doesn’t deserve that trash,” Vic shot back, deadly serious.

“And what if you had to pick that and eat a spoonful of mayo?” Sara pressed, after a moment of thought.

“Like, straight out of the jar?” Vic asked, horrified. Sara nodded, barely holding back her laughter.

“No way, gross! Mayo’s one of those weird things—divine in small doses but…” Vic trailed off, noticing Sara choking on her cigarette smoke, eyes wide as she stared at something over Vic’s shoulder.

“Well, hello there, very blond mate. You alright?” Sara said suddenly.

Vic spun around, and of course, it was Aegon standing behind her, sunglasses on despite the near darkness.

“Good evening, ladies,” he greeted them with a small bow, as theatrical as ever.

“And what brings you here, Cinderella? It’s almost dark,” Vic shot back, raising an eyebrow as she gave him a once-over.

Aegon chuckled softly. “I know! Also I’m sure my odds of dying are about the same whether it’s day or night. But hey, if you want, you can go plead my case to the big boss.”

Sara glanced at Vic, puzzled, but Vic waved her off, pulling her coat tighter against the cold.

“This is Sara, by the way,” Vic said, gesturing to her friend.

“And very single,” Sara added, leaning around Vic to offer Aegon her hand. He shook it with a smug smile as Vic jabbed her elbow lightly into Sara’s side.

Vic tossed her hair and straightened up, grabbing Sara by the arm. “Thanks for stopping by. Break’s over though, we’re heading back in.”

But Aegon followed them. “Yeah, well, I need to talk to you,” he said.

“Of course you do,” Vic muttered as she stepped into the pub, followed by Aegon and Sara, who kept sneaking amused glances at him before turning to Vic and mouthing a silent “hot.”

Vic rolled her eyes and disappeared into the back room to hang up her coat. When she returned, Aegon was perched on one of the barstools in front of the taps.

Work was impending though and she had to turn her attention to the two middle-aged men in front of her, her indignation masked beneath a practiced, cordial smile in under two seconds.

While preparing two gin and tonics for the guys at the bar, Vic kept sneaking glances at Aegon. He was on his phone, swiping right repeatedly in a way she instantly recognized. Then, he fiddled with the plastic pumpkins Tony had placed near the register. Finally, he shot her another look, and she immediately turned away, feeling her cheeks heat up.

When she returned to the bar to cash out the two customers, she glanced at Aegon again. He was staring right at her, smiling.

“So, what do you want?” Vic asked, forcing herself to sound as annoyed as possible, trying to sell her too cool for you attitude.

“I’ve never tried a Cosmopolitan, but Sex and the City really made them look good…” he started, picking up a drink menu from the counter and flipping through it absentmindedly.

“Aegon…” Vic interrupted, exasperated, leaning on the bar with both hands.

He paused, set the menu down with a clink of his rings against the counter, and rested his chin on one hand. He wore the mischievous expression of a kid caught sneaking cookies.

“I might’ve done something really stupid,” he admitted, smiling sheepishly and scratching the back of his head like he was trying to comfort himself.

Vic arched an eyebrow. “Shocker.”

“I promised my dad I’d finish writing enough songs by the label’s Christmas party… and perform a single there,” he said, grimacing like he was bracing for a lecture.

She crossed her arms. “And?”

“And we have just started, we have only a couple of months and I haven’t written shit.”

There it was.

Vic exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to rub her temples. “So, what—you want to plagiarize Sum 41’s entire discography?”

Aegon frowned. “I can write, you know.”

She tilted her head. “Then why haven’t you?”

He hesitated. Not in the usual way—not like he was about to say something slick or self-deprecating.

"Listen, Aegon, I fully intend to help you—they're paying me for this," Vic began, rolling her eyes as she grabbed a cloth and started wiping up the beer that had spilled from the tap. "But you need to trust me a little more and... COMING!"

She cut herself off as Tony shouted her name from the back.

"We'll talk later," she said to Aegon, hurrying toward the door behind the counter.

******

Trusting Vic Dawson. Right. That way, she’d get all the credit for the album. In front of his father, in front of Aemond, who would never let him live it down, and then—Aegon didn’t even want to think about what he’d have to tell his own reflection every time he thought about his first album.

Written entirely by Vic Dawson.

A shiver ran down his neck as another thought hit him like a punch.

His father had said it to him, cold and merciless as a needle in his vein: his album—the one he had written by himself months ago, before rehab—wasn’t good.

His music wasn’t good.

He wasn’t good.

Otherwise, why would they have sent him to that damn institution, hoping to reprogram his brain?

Aegon suddenly found himself trapped between a rock and a hard place, both already spelling out his death sentence.

Caught between the need to show up at the Christmas party with a finished album and shove it in his father’s face—

And his distrust of that royalty-sucking leech, Vic Dawson.

“You playing here tonight?” asked a voice beside him.

It was an old man, obviously. A huge, red mountain of a man, just like his sweater—he was easily three times Aegon’s size. His face was worn, his voice ruined by who knows how many thousands of cigarettes. Aegon didn’t need long to confirm his suspicion, spotting a pack next to a half-full glass of whiskey.

“No, I’m just here for the drinks and the charming company,” Aegon joked, earning a rough, raspy laugh from the man.

“What’s your name?” the man asked once he’d settled back.

“Aegon.”

“What the fuck kind of name is Aegon?” the old man asked, sounding almost genuinely annoyed at having never heard it before.

The swear word made Aegon laugh. And maybe, just maybe, it helped him loosen up a little.

“Believe me, I have no clue. My family decided to ruin me from birth,” Aegon replied, avoiding the old man’s gaze—and any potential questions about his family.

He figured the old man had caught on.

The old man gave him a knowing look. “Ah. One of those.”

Aegon turned fully toward him, leaning his elbow against the bar. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Young. Think you’re washed up already. Can’t write, can’t play, can’t do whatever it is you used to do—so you come here, sit on that stool, and hope brooding will fix it.”

Aegon felt sudden anger at the assumption. “How do you even know I want to play?”

The old man laughed. “I’m the old one here, but you’re the idiot. I heard you talking with Victoria earlier about one of her musical contraptions.”

Aegon felt like a complete idiot. So busy trying to be defensive, he hadn’t considered that, of course, talking with the pub’s darling would draw attention.

Damn Victoria Dawson.

“Bold of you to assume I ever could do it,” he muttered.

The old man chuckled. “Oh, I don’t assume. I know.” He gestured at Aegon’s hands, drumming absentmindedly against the bar. “They don’t stop moving. Bet you do it in your sleep.”

Aegon looked down at his fingers, now still.

“…Doesn’t mean I’ve got anything worth playing.”

The man sighed, tapping a cigarette against the table but not lighting it. “You ever hear of Sonny Rollins?”

Aegon shook his head.

“Saxophonist. Big in the fifties. One day, he decides he ain’t good enough—just up and quits. Spends two years playing alone on a bridge, practicing, thinking. People thought he was mad.” He smirked. “Then he came back, better than ever.”

Aegon frowned. “So what—you think I should go sit on a bridge somewhere?”

The man chuckled. “Nah. Just saying—maybe you’re not done. Maybe you just think you are.”

Aegon said nothing.

The jukebox changed songs. Sara wiped down the counter. Somewhere in the back, Vic’s laugh rang out, quick and sharp before cutting off.

The man patted Aegon’s shoulder, then stood, collecting his things. “You’ll figure it out, lad.”

Aegon wanted to ask how—how the hell was he supposed to figure it out when every time he tried, he felt like he was standing at the edge of something vast and empty, waiting to fall?

But he didn’t.

Instead, he just watched as the man walked toward the door, pushing it open with a creak before stepping out into the cold.

Aegon exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face.

Then, almost unconsciously, he tapped his fingers against the bar again.

Okay, you know what? She may have won last time in the studio, but tomorrow, Aegon would bring all his ideas—even the dumbest ones—and Vic would be so impressed that she'd beg him to let her write for him. She'd beg to strip off her underwear and apologize for the terrible offense of ever doubting him.

"Anyway, as I was saying..." the bitch began, stepping closer to his stool—those damn perfect lips of hers making him angrier than all the world’s injustices combined, because the only thing they were good for was spouting judgments and sarcastic remarks.

"I have to go. See you in the studio tomorrow morning," he cut her off, already slipping on his coat—without even giving himself the pleasure of savoring the confused, surprised look on her face.

The next day Aegon walked into the studio feeling something close to confidence. Not the reckless, coke-fueled kind that had once convinced him he was untouchable—but a quieter, more fragile thing. A flickering candle instead of a neon sign.

He had ideas.

After last night’s conversation with the old man, he’d gone home and worked. Properly worked.

Jotted down progressions, hummed out melodies until his voice cracked, pieced together a shape of something that could maybe—if he was lucky—become a song.

So when Aemond had pointed out—again—that he was late, he hadn’t even bothered to answer.

Aemond and Vic were sitting on the sofa near the bass amp, caught in an animated discussion about something that would’ve been easy to make fun of under different circumstances, but Aegon wasn’t in the mood.

He pulled out his notebook and reached for his favorite Telecaster in the room, only to feel Vic’s gaze settle on him.

“I saw you talking to Arthur yesterday,” she said when it became clear he wasn’t going to waste time making small talk, fetching breakfast, or filling awkward silences with one of his jokes.

“Yeah, nice man,” he said shortly, almost annoyed that his babysitter was so damn attentive she apparently kept tabs on him even off duty. God forbid he had a casual conversation with an old man at a pub without it being filed away in her mental dossier for future use against him.

Somehow, the strategy worked—Vic let it go and resumed chatting with Aemond.

Aegon didn’t sit, didn’t get comfortable.

He just took a breath—hoping to shake off the gnawing feeling in his gut telling him she’d hate everything he came up with, just like others had dismissed him before.

Then, he started playing.

Nothing complicated, just chords at first, feeling out the skeleton of the thing. Then he added variations—a passing note here, a suspended chord there—until he found a voicing that felt right.

Victoria and Aemond finally shut up, but she said nothing.

He kept going.

He played through a verse, then a chorus. Tweaked the rhythm. Moved one chord down a step, then up again. Still nothing from her.

He glanced over his shoulder. Was she even listening?

She was.

She was watching him, her coffee cup halfway to her lips, expression unreadable.

Fine. Maybe she just needed to hear the full thing.

He played through the entire sequence again.

When he finished, the room went quiet.

Aegon turned to her, waiting. Expecting—what, exactly? A nod? A that’s good? Something?

But she just tilted her head slightly and said, “Keep going.”

That was it.

Not bad. Not good. Just keep going.

Was this what fucking maieutics was about? If so, Aegon hated it.

That might be the first time Helaena was wrong in her entire existence.

Aegon clenched his jaw and played the section again, this time adding more movement. Still, she only watched, eyes flicking between his hands and his face, like she was studying him rather than the music.

He finished again.

Nothing.

His frustration sharpened.

“Any notes, coach?” he asked, fully turning toward her.

She just blinked. “Not yet.”

That answer pissed him off more than if she’d just told him it was shit.

And as if that weren’t enough, Aemond had started furiously scribbling in his goddamn notebook, pausing only to watch Vic’s reactions and smirk to himself like he knew something Aegon didn’t.

Aegon exhaled sharply, ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Vic. At least pretend you’ve got an opinion.”

“I do,” she said, finally setting down her cup. “I think you’re onto something.”

It should have made him feel better. It didn’t.

His stomach turned at her blatant indifference. He could see her fingers twitching, like she was dying to snatch the guitar out of his hands and do it better herself.

Not that Aegon was surprised. What was she, if not yet another person treating him like some washed-up fuckup who had to be handled carefully, already planning how to clean up whatever damage he’d inevitably cause?

“Great. Thanks. Really helpful.”

She gave him a look, like she could see straight through him. “You want a real note?”

He gestured for her to go ahead, leaning back against the wall.

Victoria unfolded her legs and stood, walking toward him.

“It’s the resolution,” she said, resting a hand on the edge of the guitar’s neck. “You’re playing the V chord like it’s a resolution, but it’s not. It’s an extension.”

He frowned.

“It wants to move somewhere,” she continued. Her hand brushed Aegon’s for a second, lightly resting on the neck of the guitar, then guided it two frets down before pulling away in an instant—like she’d just touched a burning pot. “It needs to go home. Right now, it’s just hanging there.”

Aegon played the new chord, listening. She was right. Of course she had the answer, that smug I-know-everything attitude.

He hated her. Aegon fucking hated her. Hated the way she talked about music like it was the easiest thing in the world, hated the way Aemond nodded along to every goddamn word she said. Hated that she was clearly just here to take half his royalties and all his credit. Hated that when she stood up, he caught a glimpse of the tattoo on her hip and his dick betrayed him by stirring at the worst possible moment.

Hated that she didn’t even have the balls to call him an idiot to his face. At least then he could react, get her thrown out like he had with all the other songwriters they’d forced on him.

So instead of acknowledging her point, he smirked.

"Wow, Vic, well done! I was just thinking—instead of giving you 50% of my royalties, why not, I don’t know, 80%? Maybe then you could afford to grow a pair and actually work on something of your own in front of someone younger than an eighty-year-old. What do you think?"

Vic didn’t say a word, but Aegon could count, one by one, every muscle in her face and shoulders tensing up instantly.

Her dark eyes were so full of rage he half-expected them to shoot laser beams at him.

Finally, a reaction.

In a sharp motion, she grabbed her jacket and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Aegon’s satisfied smirk died the second he heard her—despite the soundproof door—mutter, “Pathetic asshole.”

Aemond tried to stop him, but in the blink of an eye, Aegon had shrugged off his Telecaster and bolted after her.

“Say that to my face!” he shouted down the hall, completely unfazed by the receptionist smacking a hand over her face.

Yeah, Lizzie, Lisa or whatever the hell her name was—welcome to another episode of my show.

Vic didn’t even turn around. The elevator doors slid open in front of her.

“I have nothing to say to you,” she said, with the same infuriating calm that had been getting under Aegon’s skin all damn day.

He stepped in right behind her. When she pressed the button for the ground floor, he immediately pressed the one to hold the doors open.

She followed the motion of his hand with her eyes, her expression twisting into something almost scandalized.

"Are you seriously stopping me from leaving?" she asked, her voice calm, though her face said otherwise as she reached for the panel again.

Aegon was faster, blocking her.

"I’ll let you go when you apologise."

He could feel her breath, hot with anger, against his skin.

Not exactly how he’d pictured having her this close to his face.

Vic scoffed, but Aegon didn’t find a fucking thing funny.

"Sorry for calling you pathetic," she said, bold as ever. "I should've gone with nepo baby with a god complex and the audacity of a man twice as useless. Happy now?"

She shoved an arm between him and the wall, jabbing at the ground floor button again.

"Jesus, how old are you, twelve?" Aegon shot back, almost grateful that, for once, he wasn’t the one acting like the biggest child in the room.

That moment of distraction cost him.

The doors slid shut, and the elevator started moving.

Aegon, in retaliation, hit the opening doors button again.

And, of course, the elevator—caught between their opposing demands—screeched to a halt.

And with it, so did Aegon and Vic’s frantic bickering.

“Fucking perfect,” Aegon commented dryly, his eyes fixed on the panel as if he could will this damn tin box to work with just his gaze.

“So what now? You gonna climb out the hatch like a badass, or are we just gonna stand here?” he continued sarcastically. When he received no response from that infuriating bitch, he turned toward her.

Vic was motionless, staring at the elevator doors. She could’ve passed for a marble statue if not for the way her nostrils flared with each uneven breath.

“Vic?” Aegon tried.

Nothing. Just another sharp inhale through her nose.

Aegon straightened, suddenly unsure.

“Hey,” he attempted once more, stepping toward her, but she wouldn’t even meet his gaze.

He studied her for a moment—her fingers twitching and her throat working as if she were repeatedly swallowing to check if it still functioned.

It clicked.

“You’re claustrophobic?” he asked carefully.

“Shut up.” Tight. Barely above a whisper.

Well, that wasn’t a no.

He lifted a hand, intending to place it on her shoulder, then thought better of it.

“It’s fine. We’ll be out in a few minutes.” He kept his voice level, watching for any shift in her expression.

It was strange—seeing Vic Dawson like this. Afraid. For a second, he saw the same look she’d had the first time he ever laid eyes on her, when their gazes met from across the stage.

And he’d wondered for days how someone so sure of herself, so infuriatingly cocky, could’ve looked so vulnerable in that moment. He’d even convinced himself he imagined it—chalked it up to how damn good she’d sounded that night.

But no. That side of Vic was real. And now, he was watching it unfold in real-time.

Her breath stuttered. Her nails pressed into her palms.

“Breathe,” he said, voice low and steady. Then he regretted it. “Breathe”, groundbreaking, Aegon, good job.

Still, she didn’t look at him.

“You’re not gonna die in here.”

“Yeah, no shit,” she muttered, flat but strained.

Aegon stepped directly in front of her, pressing both hands against the base of her neck.

That got her attention.

Vic’s eyes snapped to his, and a tremor—so unlike her usual controlled self—passed through her.

“If you force your shoulders to relax, it tricks your brain into thinking it can, too,” he explained, applying gentle pressure, running his hands from her neck to her shoulders and back again.

Somehow—miraculously—she listened.

“You’re not having a heart attack, or a stroke, or an aneurysm, or any of the million other worst-case scenarios you’ve already played out in your head,” he went on, pulling from the same reassurances he told himself whenever panic started creeping in.

“And there’s no reason you’d conveniently drop dead in the ten minutes it’ll take the techs to fix this piece of shit.”

Vic let out a long, shaky breath, nodding stiffly.

It worked.

When her breathing evened out, Aegon pulled back, sinking onto the elevator floor and motioning for her to do the same.

A long pause. Vic exhaled again, slower this time, leaning against the wall. Aegon watched her—then, because humor is all he fucking had, tilted his head.

“Would’ve bet money I’d be the one losing my shit first.”

That earned a tiny, humorless huff. Aegon latched onto it, pushing forward.

“So what is it? Small spaces in general, or just the ones with me in them?”

Vic, still tense but dry, shot back, “Just you.”

Aegon grinned, easy now. “Knew it.”

She rolled her eyes, but her breathing steadied. Just a little.

Aegon watched her a second longer before leaning back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You know, for someone who acts like she has her shit together, you’re doing a great impression of a total mess right now.”

Vic scoffed, but there was no real bite to it.

Aegon smirked, but there was no real malice to it.

“You’re such an asshole, Aegon,” Vic muttered, letting her head fall back against the elevator wall.

Aegon chuckled. Old familiar words.

“Are you trying to do what you did with Aemond the other day? Mess with me until I quit?” she continued, voice edged with frustration. “Because, unfortunately for you, I’m not in a position to do that.”

“You were about to,” he replied—not accusing, just stating the obvious.

“Well, yeah. You’re not the only one who deserves the luxury of being impulsive,” Vic shot back.

She shifted slightly where she sat, the cold metal of the elevator floor probably seeping through her clothes by now. Still, she kept her spine straight, chin high, regaining her usual bravado. “And anyway, I don’t see what’s so wrong with wanting to get paid.”

“Oh, then you could’ve just signed with the label yourself instead of sticking your nose in my business,” Aegon snapped, frustration bleeding into his voice.

“And sell my music to that gremlin of a father you have?” Vic countered, voice rising, just as frustrated. But then, as if realizing she’d let something slip, she straightened her shoulders.

Poor thing. She had no idea who she was talking to.

“No offense,” she added, awkwardly.

“None taken,” he said smoothly, almost amused by Victoria Dawson’s sudden honesty.

“What I meant,” she pressed on, “is that it’s not worth the risk of watching my work get abandoned like—”

“Like they did with mine, you mean?” Aegon interrupted, a bitter smile playing on his lips.

But she didn’t look away. And there wasn’t a trace of pity in her eyes.

That surprised him.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said carefully, and Aegon could tell there was something she wasn’t saying—something he didn’t know.

Curiosity ate him alive.

“And what did you mean?”

She hesitated, then continued, “I’ve seen how they treat the artists they sign, Aegon. Trust me, if I had any other offer, from anyone else, that wasn’t exploitative or risky, I obviously would’ve signed for my own album.”

Aegon wasn’t satisfied with that answer, but before he could push, she went on.

“Some of us don’t have the privileges you had. We have to take different routes. Pay a shit-ton just to study. I need your royalties to pay for St. Louis. If I even pass…” Her voice lost some of its fire, that last part tinged with doubt.

Aegon blinked. Then scoffed, genuinely incredulous.

“Are you fucking serious, Vic? What the hell do you need a songwriting program for in that nest of lobotomized pseudo-intellectuals?”

“They take ten people a year,” she said simply. “It’d be a nice accomplishment, wouldn’t it?”

And just like that, Aegon got it.

Even Victoria Dawson needed someone to tell her she was good.

“Oh yeah, validation is such a wonderful thing, isn’t it?” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Imagine how great it must be when people respect you and your work so much that they just have to assign you watchdogs in every aspect of your life.”

Vic stared at him for a moment. And for once, no matter how hard Aegon searched for signs of the greedy, gold-digging opportunist he was certain she was, he found nothing.

“Look, I have no interest in babysitting you just for the hell of it,” she said. “I like writing music. And your song wasn’t bad at all, you know?”

“Then why didn’t you just say that?” Aegon shot back.

Vic let out an exasperated groan, pressing a hand to her forehead. “I was giving you space! The other day, you made me do everything, but I don’t think that’s exactly how co-writing is supposed to work.”

Co-writing.

Aegon turned the phrase over in his head, the satisfaction of being acknowledged as an equal, for the first time in who the fuck knew how long, warming him from the inside out. Sweet and rich—like he imagined a mother’s embrace might feel.

Not ready to deal with that particular revelation, he pushed on stubbornly. “That’s still not a great reason to only open your mouth when you’ve got a critique to give.”

“Well, I didn’t think you needed to hear you were good,” Vic muttered, looking away.

“Fucking hypocrite,” Aegon smirked.

She stared at him for a moment.

And then, suddenly, the elevator moved upwards and the doors opened.

#aegon #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen fanfic #aegon x oc #hotd #hotd fanfic #modern au #modern au aegon #modernauaegon #Spotify

29 notes · View notes