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lauraneedstochill · 9 months

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Find my body covered in confetti

pairing: modern!Aegon Targaryen and F!Reader summary: Aegon is a regular at your bar but he doesn’t come only for the drinks. warnings: a bit of angst, a pinch of violence, brief mentions of blood but it does have a happy ending (he deserves one) words: ~5000 author’s note: my first time writing for Aegon! I’m not nervous at all song inspo: Charlotte Cardin — Confetti (Spotify / YouTube)

>>> He’s broken from the inside out but the pieces he’s assembled of are not sharp and don’t cut like glass. The blunt edges of them are hidden behind his shirts, covered with the ink of tattoos, splatters of scars you want to trace with your finger and know more of. He doesn’t stay long enough for you to ask questions.

The first time he comes in, it’s a summer evening, the air veiled with humidity, the dancefloor is filled with heated bodies and flooded with blinking lights. He goes right to the bar counter, asks for a glass of whiskey, and smiles at you but says nothing else. He dawns the alcohol in two sips and orders a second one and then a third almost immediately, and your curiosity peaks just as fast. It’s a routine you’ve gotten used to — the more people drink, the more they want to talk, even the most quiet and prideful ones, and it works with practically everyone. Yet, with him, it doesn’t. He’s wearing dark colors — a grey tank top, black shirt thrown over, and matching jeans, and you descry a dice inked into the inside of his forearm. The cube is as blank as his face: it betrays nothing of what he’s feeling, what he’s thinking of, and his fingers stay glued to the glass.

The music rumbles, and some girls — in short, glittery dresses, glamorously pretty — come by to say hi to him, to lean in closer, their lips grazing his cheek, leaving shimmering strokes of gloss. But he looks through them, and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes which are the depth of the sea and hide just as many secrets. He is carelessly polite, he makes dry jokes, he buys more whiskey. A few times your gazes meet, and he doesn’t look away.

You learn his name from the check he leaves. He asks for yours the second time he comes to the bar.

>>> Aegon starts coming every weekend, and two weeks turn into three, then into a month, and he quickly becomes a regular. He sits on the barstool in the farthest corner, where the scattering light of the disco ball can’t reach him, he doesn’t cause problems, he drinks way more than you think he can handle. Still, his gaze stays sharply sober, and the green of his eyes reminds you of storm waves raging with unexplainable, deep-rooted sadness.

He’s generous with tipping but never with his words, and it seems wrong to disturb his melancholy, so you don’t allow yourself to, only pouring him more whiskey and keeping your empathy from pouring out of you. But with Aegon, the silence never feels heavy, and you catch yourself thinking that walking up to him is like retreating to an oasis of calm in the midst of a roaring torrent of voices. You also sometimes think there are glimpses of his eagerness — to talk to you, to be in your presence, and when you give him his drinks, your fingers brush more often than not. And yet, something holds him back from making the first step. But maybe you’re only imagining that.

And then it turns out that you aren’t.

“I find it weirdly coincidental that the guy only comes here on your shifts”, the bouncer nods in Aegon’s direction while stopping by to grab a bottle of water. It’s one of the last days of August, its agonizing heat finally fading away. “Does he want to make a move on you or something? Does he ever move from that spot? Looks like a part of the interior, I swear.”

You laugh it off, but your face flushes, and you feel Aegon watching you even before you turn to him. He calls for you barely a minute after the bouncer goes away. Aegon’s wearing a dark green shirt, silky and carelessly unbuttoned, and there’s a hint of a smile in the corners of his lips.

“Am I in trouble?” he leans in on the counter ever so slightly and taps on his glass.

You pour more alcohol in, and even though he’s the one drinking, you suddenly feel tipsy. You wonder if it has something to do with how his gaze feels on you — like a touch of warm summer breeze, like he wants nothing more than to have you in his arms. And you’d love to know what it’s like.

“I think you’re the only one here who doesn’t bring trouble,” you tell him as his fingers hook around the glassy surface — and he’s looking straight at you. With the bravery that usually only comes after three shots of tequila, you add: “You’re quickly becoming a favorite customer of mine.”

When your eyes lock, you catch a spark of mischief in his. It’s the first evening when he leaves without finishing his drink.

>>> September brings in some fresh air, and while the trees start dropping out their leaves, Aegon slowly drops his guard: there are layers to it put over the years — brickwork over concrete, and you tear them down with patience and care. He opens up to you cautiously but with so much candor, you wonder if anyone ever bothered to look past his feigned restraint before.

There are a lot of good things about Aegon — you get to them first, and it feels like you’ve never laughed as much as you do with him. He’s charming but with no underlying motive behind it, he talks with his hands and fiddles with his rings, he is childishly enthusiastic about the things he enjoys. He can play guitar, and you talk him into showing it to you one night, when most of the customers have left, and the approaching dawn is hidden by a veil of the rain clouds. The blasting music is turned down, and he only had one Gin & tonic so far.

He touches the strings with tenderness, with focus, and the flow of the melody is so perfectly smooth, he plays the song like he owns it. You busy yourself with wiping cocktail glasses just so you can fight the urge to touch him. When Aegon starts singing, it comes out almost accidentally, as if the lyrics slip out of his mouth on its own. He stops the very next second.

“ ’m sorry, that was uncalled for,” he mumbles.

“I quite liked it,” you assure him — and you are not lying. His voice is soft but with veiled depth, and you want to listen to him singing until the rain stops; maybe even longer. He’s sitting across from you, your bodies only separated by the counter. Sometimes it feels like if you take a layer off too fast, he’ll grow another one, so you tread lightly. “Who taught you how to play?”

“I’m self-taught,” Aegon gives you a short smile. “But I never took it seriously.”

“It looks to me like you made some effort,” you tilt your head at him. “Do you play often?”

“Nah, only when I’m in the mood for it.”

“And what mood is that?”

His fingers absentmindedly follow the contours of a guitar he’s got tattoed on his wrist.

“A weird one,” he manages. “But music helps to take my mind off it, I guess.”

That thing he doesn’t want to think of — you fear that it never goes away, always lurking up there in his head, with its eyes glowing in the darkness of the worst of his thoughts that he’s yet to share with you. He eagerly welcomes any distraction — you are eager to provide him with one.

“What was the first song you learned how to play?”

The grin comes back on his face, and his sadness recedes, like the water at low tide, and the unnamed weight is temporally lifted off his shoulders.

“Oh, it’s silly,” he starts playing again, and the rhythm builds up, cheerful and catchy, and you instantly find it familiar. You’re trying to remember where you heard it before — and the realization brings a smile to your face.

“Is this from Duck Tales?”

“Yeah,” Aegon chuckles. “My youngest brother Daeron used to love it, could spend hours watching the telly,” he’s maybe a little abashed but he isn’t ashamed of talking about it. “It was an easy tune to learn. Kinda helped to negotiate the terms of his bedtime.”

“Well, I’ll take Duck Tales over... whatever it is that our DJ loves,” you share a laugh. “And what’s your favorite tune?”

Any other guy, you think, would’ve tried to impress you and rushed to strum some rock or botch some classics (you’ve had that unfortunate experience before) but Aegon doesn’t play pretense. At least, not with you.

“It’s usually just a mix of everything I can think of,” he shrugs. “Like, maybe some Oasis, Rolling Stones, The Black Keys,” he trails off, eyes not leaving your face.

He’s so obviously hesitant about sharing that as if his music choice is what can scare you away. Not him drinking, or regularly staying up late, or bottling up decades-worth of feelings — all that is seemingly a given. But somehow his playlist is the real secret, and it wrings your heart to know he trusts you that much.

“That’s an intriguing mix,” you smile wider in a sign of approval. “What will it take to convince you to play me a snippet?”

“That’s a suspicious amount of confidence that you have in my abilities,” Aegon narrows his eyes with a fake concern. He beams at you in barely a second.

“You can call me an optimist.”

“Well, you’re getting a front-row seat to my impromptu concert, then. No predictions on the genre, though.”

“I think I’ll like it either way,” you put the last glass aside to give him your full attention.

Aegon adjusts the guitar and swiftly gets it in tune, and the intricate melody comes to life in his hands, made of bits and notes both known and unfamiliar to you. He’s in his element, and for a few minutes it’s smooth sailing, and your heartfelt excitement is his tailwind.

But then you notice the slightly lost look in his eyes like he’s got reminded of something he wants to run from, and he knocks down the rhythm a little — and then he picks it up, and it quickens as if he’s racing against the past that will inevitably catch up to him. He’s got no guitar pick, it’s just his fingers against brass-plated strings, and his movements are violently concentrated, visibly too harsh. You’re unduly afraid the metal will cut into his skin in no time.

You lean over the polished benchtop to intercept his hand, and Aegon flinches at the touch, and the flow of the music is cut off. While his subconsciousness is swimming out to the surface of reality, you pull his palm away from the instrument and intertwine your fingers with his, his skin heated and pale, the guitar inked into his arm being the only bright spot. And then, without really wanting to, you realize that the tattooed horizontal strings were meant to cover something of a similar pattern. You run your thumb over the black stripes laid on top of the long-faded white ones, barely visible but still palpable.

“Did it hurt?” you ask him in a whisper, careful as if you’re tiptoeing around a sleeping beast. And you are not talking about the tattoo.

The silence only lasts for a heartbeat.

“It was bearable,” Aegon tells you, not entirely avoidant of the truth but maybe still tormented by it. “I’m all good now,” he adds in a soothing tone, even though he is the one whose heart needs to be soothed and patched up. Pressing him for details feels like asking to rip open a wound, and you don’t think his have healed properly.

He’s still holding your hand but you know he’ll flee away soon like he always does, and you have no right to hold him back. You wish he could stop holding on to the things that left him so anxious and scarred.

“It’s fair for the last drink to be on the house,” you grant him another smile and let go of his hand, and there’s a flash of regret on his face that you can’t help but share.

It also feels fair to not make him dive into that black void of his memories so you put a clean glass in front of him and reach for the ingredients. Aegon curiously watches you adding cubes of ice, mint leaves, lemon juice, slices of lime. Then you pull out a cooled glass bottle of San Pellegrino.

“An interesting choice,” Aegon notes joyfully.

You actually don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone being so thrilled about drinking water. While it fizzles and fills the glass, it dawns on you: he does want to break the cycle of his self-destruction. He’s just so used to it, he stopped looking for a way out.

“Anything can pass as a cocktail if you make it look fancy enough,” you drizzle the drink with orange-flavored syrup and push it toward him.

Aegon takes a big sip and grins. “Tastes like Fanta,” he gulps half a glass, then chews on ice, his lips glistening with melted liquid. “Haven’t had it since I was, like, fifteen or something.”

“Well, if you are ever in need of some sweetened water, you know at least one bartender you can ask,” you joke as he pulls out a phone to get an Uber.

His finger stops an inch away from the screen, and Aegon gives you a long, wistful stare, but you struggle to read the meaning behind it, as his eyes are a kaleidoscope of emotions. You wish you could discern just one so maybe you’ll have a reason to justify whatever it is that you are feeling for him.

“I don’t go to any other bars,” he says, looking through car options. “So you better stock up on that water. Because your bartending talents are quickly winning this cold heart of mine.”

Aegon makes it sound very casual, like a joke made in passing, and you try not to think too much into it. But right before leaving, he glances at you again, and his whole face lights up. And then comes the awareness, like the sun emerging from the clouds: he is winning your heart, too.

>>> October is muddy and grey, lacking sunlight but not rainfall, and you think it’s the brightness of neon lights that beckons people in, and the bar stays packed night after night. You can’t seem to catch a break, your hands moving on their own accord, repeating all the well-learned steps, memorized recipes — swirls of orange and cranberry juice in Sex on the Beach, Bloody Mary garnished with a celery stick, the balance of sweetness and the tang of lime in Margarita. Surprisingly, Aegon is deadset on drinking nothing but fancy-looking water. Not surprisingly at all, you still think about him every spare minute that you have.

Getting to the deeper layers of him feels like drilling through an iceberg, and the baggage of his past is so big, it will hardly fit in any plane’s luggage compartment. You try not to pry, cherry-picking the words, the topics, the questions. Aegon lets you without ever resisting. Each evening, he chooses a different flavor of syrup as he tells you more about himself: he was a menace in school, hated chemistry and never been good at sports, prefers to avoid vodka since that one time he tried it in college and it didn’t end well. He has pictures with his mom, with two brothers and a sister, but not with his dad, and he never talks about him. You think he does it instinctively — like avoiding a bump on a road he’s taken even since he was a kid.

There are a lot of blank spots in his retelling of the childhood years but he does mention he got his first tattoo at fifteen. It’s a razor blade, and he taps on the area of his shoulder where it’s at, covered by the material of his blue shirt. You don’t dare to voice the question but it’s ringing in your head: has it all started when he was fifteen? Or that’s when he got better? Did he actually get better?

Some days, by the looks of it, he is getting better. When he’s excitedly stirring his drink with a straw, when he’s asking about your day, when he comes up with playful descriptions of every customer in the nearest proximity to make you smile (it works wonders). In these moments, you dare to think that he seems bored with everybody else but you.

But there are other days too, when he is joined by the motley crowd of people consisting, as you guess, of his friends. It feels like they hardly have anything in common — they are loud, giggling, making toasts for no reason, throwing money away. None of them notice that his tastes have changed; none of them are aware of all the little things you notice. That his fingers drum to the rhythm of the music but he refuses to go dancing, glued to his chair, clinging to his glass. That he’s the life of the party but he looks out of place, and his loneliness is the only thing that stays by his side. Sometimes it seems like he doesn’t even want to be here — drinking, thinking, cursed with his desire for solitude — and you wonder why he keeps coming, then.

And it’s horrifying how much it hurts you to think that one day he might stop.

>>> November passes almost in a blink, and the weather cools down, but the crowds of customers don’t get smaller, and you think your smile looks too pained to even bother forcing it. With the cold season comes bitter Old Fashioned with a cherry on top, spicey Mulled Wine, blood-colored Sangria. There is the never-ending clinking of glasses, chattering, cozy jazz playing in the background, and you save your energy for Aegon only — for when he comes with his tireless jokes, his sincere laugh, his gaze enveloping you like the fuzziest blanket.

The month is nearing its end, and so does your patience which some drunk man has been testing for almost two hours. You keep watching the clock — Aegon usually comes around 10 p.m., and you all but count minutes, and then seconds... and then it’s half past 10 but he hasn’t shown up.

In thirty minutes your worry grows, spreads, takes the form of a tsunami. It dawns on you that you don’t even have his phone number. He can just disappear, like a homeless man swallowed by the ocean, and you won’t ever find him.

“Hey, are you retarded? Come fetch me another drink, I’ve been calling you for five minutes,” the drunkard whines from the other end of the bar.

You hold back a huff and give an insincere apology and whip him up another Whiskey on the rocks. Your gaze absentmindedly scans the crowd when you see Aegom coming — and it looks like he emerged from a blizzard. For a second it seriously confuses you — it’s too early for snow, and you don’t remember what was the weather forecast. But after Aegon plops on his usual spot, you come closer and realize: it’s confetti. He is covered almost head to toe in the tiniest pieces of paper, multicolored and shiny, stuck in his hair, sprinkled over his shoulders, sparkling on his snow-white shirt.

Aegon looks like he might as well be covered in ashes — he is unbearably beautiful but also visibly, tragically unhappy. You all but dart to him.

“Can I have, like, a glass of vodka or something,” he asks morosely. “Vodka on the rocks maybe? I don’t know if it’s a thing.”

Your eyes are watchful, searching for clues, but you can’t dissect his mournful gaze, can’t see through his despondent face expression.

“Is there a reason for —” you are thinking of a word but he cuts you off.

“No reason,” and his tone is cold like ice, and he isn’t looking at you.

Aegon blinks once, twice, shifts on his seat, sighs. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” his gaze finds yours, almost desperate as if he’s drowning and looking for a life ring. “It’s my birthday. And I hate it.”

You involuntarily reach for his hand — you almost touch him but then the annoyed voice comes again:

“Can anyone get me whiskey in this godforsaken bar?!”

Aegon turns his head and looks in the man’s direction, very obviously displeased. You go to the disgruntled idiot again, put some ice cubes in his glass (he loudly counts them), pour him whiskey (he demands you add more), fight the urge to throw it in his face (maybe that will sober him up). Out of the corner of your eye, you notice that one of the security guys stealthily moves closer.

You come back to Aegon, your chest overflowing with both relief and concern.

“Why don’t you like your birthday? I mean, I also don’t throw parties on mine so I get it. But if you don’t want to celebrate it, you can pretend it’s just another day.”

Another day of him not drinking, another day of him staying on track to some happier future, you mean. A future where you’ll manage to finally help him heal every scar of his. You see a small, weary, somber smile growing on his face, and Aegon opens his mouth and —

“Your whiskey is some horseshit!” the familiar voice cries out.

Before you can react, Aegon interjects. “What the hell is your problem?” he looks at the man again without a smidgen of fear. The drunkard bores his gaze into him in return, red-faced and sweating with anger.

“Aegon, it’s not worth it, really —”

“No, he’s being disrespectful toward you, and you don’t deserve it,” he punctuates, specks of darkness in his eyes.

“O-oh, am I offending your darling?” the man mocks. “Are you two fucking? Maybe I should also bend her over the counter so she’ll give me some decent booze.”

He is quite irritating, yes, but you see men like him as just a part of your job, and you are used to them being armed with pathetically exaggerated self-esteem. But Aegon doesn’t see it that way, and ire sweeps him over like a tidal wave.

“You need to apologize,” he insists, looking the man dead in the eyes.

“Or what, huh? I’m the one with the money here, and the customer is always right!”

“She isn’t paid to tolerate your fucked-up behavior,” Aegon bristles, and the man jumps down the barstool and clasps the glass, spilling what’s left in it on the counter. You don’t care about it. You can’t care about anything but the fact that Aegon also gets up. It’s a new layer of his — with stubbornness, bitter temper, a frown plastered on his face. But you are not afraid of him. You are afraid for him, and fear leaves you frozen on the spot.

“I bet she gets paid enough for her to move her feet instead of making customers wait,” the man snarls, raising his voice, attracting attention. “These bitches can only flash their tits and complain! Never get their fucking job done!”

You think he isn’t talking about you anymore — drunk people will take any chance to overshare, — and you want to reassure Aegon you are not insulted or upset, and you see the security guy wading through the crowd and toward you. But then the situation escalates with a speed of a shot arrow.

Three things happen, barely a few seconds apart: the drunk man swings the glass at you, Aegon moves to stand in his way, then comes the sound of the glass breaking. It shatters into pieces that go everywhere — on barstools, on the counter, and behind it, some even reach the wall you are standing next to. You only come to your senses when the troublemaker is pried away from the bar.

“It’s not even Halloween yet, and I’m already seeing nonhuman creatures,” the security guy scoffs, grabbing him by the collar, then shoots Aegon a cool glance.

You rush to intervene. “He only tried to help!”

The bouncer gives him a look over. “Man, you are bleeding,” he notes and then drags the boozer away.

The manager comes running up to you, suggesting you take a break, but your gaze is drawn to Aegon — he’s got a cut on his cheekbone, and blood is coming out, bright maroon running down his face. He raises his hand to touch the wound, then looks down at his stained fingers in disarray.

“I didn’t really feel it, I —”

“We’ve got a first-aid kit, come on,” you take him by the hand and lead the way, taking big steps, rounding the counter, pushing the back door wide open.

Aegon doesn’t make a sound, only following you obediently, his fingers tugging at yours. You reach the utility room, and you sit him down on some impromptu chair made of stacked-up boxes, then go to look for medical supplies. He keeps his eyes on you.

You bring a cold pack, antiseptic wipes, bandages, and turn on the flashlight on your phone to examine the cut.

“It’s not that deep so you won’t need stitches,” your voice comes off too stern, and you notice how he shrivels at the sound of it.

You feel determination, guilt, and anger — not at him but at yourself, and the fear still hasn’t left, and the words that are filled with it flow out first.

“That was very stupid of you,” you tell Aegon, applying the cold pack to the wounded side of his face, “You could’ve been injured, seriously injured,” with your other hand, you wipe the dried blood off his skin. “You got lucky the man was too wasted to aim well. He could’ve cut you way deeper, or poke your eye, or —”

It’s the lack of response that makes you stop, and your eyes glide over him. Now he does look ashamed, but his shame comes off as a meek, habitual reaction to yet another mistake he made. You think back to his deep-rooted sadness, scars covered with ink and shirts, pain hidden under layers of mirth.

You don’t want to add to his misery, you want the exact opposite.

You throw away the wipe streaked with blood, get another one. And then you place a finger beneath his chin to lift it.

“I mean, it was also brave,” this time, your movements are more gentle, and so is your gaze. “No one ever did anything like that for me. And I should totally thank you.”

He considers the change in you — and welcomes it, grinning boyishly again, his irises the color of the sea that merged with the sky.

“What can I say? I’m doing my best to maintain my very manly image,” Aegon cackles, taking the cold pack from you, wriggling his face a little at the numbness.

“This might sting a little,” you warn him and put the wipe soaked with the antiseptic right to his cut.

“Ouch-ouch-ouch,” he mutters, eyes squeezed shut, nose scrunched.

You let out a short laugh. “That’s a crack in your macho image,” you remark, lightly pressing on his wound for just a moment. “But I am willing to look past that.”

Aegon is suddenly in no hurry to open the eyes. His smile falls away, his glee disappears as if swept away by a gust of wind. He’s both the drifting ship and the force of nature that ruins it.

“I am not the best company, you see,” he says sullenly after a pause, averting his gaze. “I’m all cracks and hollow.”

His wound isn’t bleeding anymore, but his heart is, and you can only patch one thing at a time. You take a band-aid, unwrap it and carefully place over his cut, smoothing out the adhesive edges.

“Leonard Cohen would’ve disagreed,” you respond, your fingers delicately brushing his cheek. “He said that’s how the light gets in.”

Aegon is quiet at first, positively stunned as if you are a guiding star, and he’s only seen utter darkness before that. You almost get shy with nervousness but then he stands up. “Dance with me,” he says, in a voice low and pleading.

“But there is no music, how can —”

He lays a thumb on your lower lip, silencing you. “Shhh, just listen,” he murmurs.

For half a minute you hear nothing, wondering if the walls are soundproof, but then you catch it — the notes of music echoing from the bar, muffled but still audible. You don’t know what song is it, what the lyrics are, what’s it about. But Aegon takes your hand in his — and it’s just you two in the middle of the dimly lit room, the walls separating you from the outside world, your bodies only getting closer, slowly swaying to the faint rhythm.

Him cautiously laying a palm on your waist is what gives you the courage to speak up.

“Someone told me it’s a weird coincidence that you come only on my shifts,” you mention, watching his reaction.

Aegon doesn’t shy away from your gaze. “Not a coincidence,” he confesses. “Does it bother you?”

“Not at all,” you assure him quickly. “I find it flattering that you appreciate my cocktail-making abilities that much,” and then you draw in a deep breath as if you’re about to dunk underwater. “But maybe there’s more to it... Maybe there is another reason?”

You notice his cheeks flushing with a touch of pink, and you expect him to take time to unravel the tangle of excuses or to make some. Instead, he lists fervently, like it’s something he’s always wanted to tell you:

“You are caring. And funny, and gentle. You are easy to talk to, accepting and calm. And you listen, without judgment or disapproval. And you never... you never ask me to be someone else,” that last part is the hardest one — and yet, he adds, “With you, I feel like I’m enough.”

There are no layers left, you realize, — it’s just him: sad and broken and lost. But with his eyes still shining with warmth, his gaze searching and hopeful. He is still beautiful, no matter how scarred.

Your fear crumbles into pieces, small like confetti, and you close the distance between you two, your mouth finding his, hands gliding up his shoulders. For a second his lips don’t move, and his breathing hitches. He blindly tucks away your lock of hair, and his finger slowly traces the angle of your jaw, as if he wants to make sure he’s not dreaming.

And then Aegon tugs you closer, and his hand cradles your face — and he kisses you.

He is tender, his lips soft like the foam of a wave, their movement steady, like he’s writing down all the words left unsaid, leaving you infatuated, breathless, and enamored of him. There are no secrets, no doubts, no regrets. In place of his darkest memories, you are planting new ones, and his affection is blooming already.

When you open your eyes and meet his, his gaze is nothing but loving, and Aegon holds you in his arms, the way you’ve always dreamt of. You brush a few pieces of confetti out of his hair, and you hope that one day his pain will disappear just as fast.

He is broken from the inside out but you find it easy to love every single piece he’s assembled of.

✧ technically, I got inspired by the piano version of that song (it’s sad) and the live version (it’s even sadder), and that was the reason I decided to add a kissing scene. not that anyone asked but now you know lmao ✧ this photoshoot of Tom deserves way more attention ✧ as does his band! go give them a listen ✧ Duck Tales theme guitar cover as a bonus

✧ another one-shot inspired by some music (Aemond x reader) ✧ my HOTD multi-chapter fic because why not ✨my masterlist

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

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