Chapter Text
The library down the street from your apartment was always running classes in the basement to make ends meet. There was the Horror group that met on Tuesdays, the Period Romance group that met every Monday and Wednesday, the Sci-Fi group that met every other Thursday– and the crown jewel of your week: Erotic Lit. Every Sunday you’d pack your bag, walk the four blocks from your front door to heaven, and bask for two hours in the company of like-minded adults who spent their time penning smut. It was possibly the only thing that kept you looking forward to the beginning of the week.
Or it had been. Until he started showing up.
Frankly, it pissed you off. This group was supposed to be for amateurs. Well. Maybe that was a rule you made up. And okay, sure, you had an agent and a steady readership going for you. You also had a dayjob, Something Mr. Aemond Targaryen surely hadn’t had to think about in years. He wasn’t Fifty Shades level of recognition or anything, but he had two NYT Bestsellers and over thirty novels under his erotica pseudonym. Aemond Targaryen. What kind of pompous, high-horse, ridiculous pen name was that? You could respect something like kitschy Guy New York or Sally Bend, or something intriguing like Ruby Dixon or Ursa Dax– hell, anything would be better than the phonetic atrocity he slapped on all of his books in that infuriating faux-handwritten font.
The worst part? He was easily the star pupil. Sure, sure, he would be, he’s a professional. But no. It’s because he was so damn well-behaved. He came in three weeks after everyone else had paid their deposits and it took all of two meetings for each of the group's ten or so members to figure out and spread around who the hell was sitting next to them in class..
He never scoffed at the cluttered space that obviously hadn’t been re-carpeted since the ‘70s. He never complained about the chill that leeched in through the narrow windows that touched the ceiling or the heater that worked overtime, he never even took the seats in the middle of the room that were the best bet at a temperate experience being equidistant from either of the two. He watched their instructor intently, writing down her advice on other people’s stories and taking notes on things she said that didn’t even sound like advice to the rest of them. He was always volunteering to read his work for her in-class timed prompts when the rest of the class was far too shy. It didn’t matter how long they had to write their stories or how low-stakes the prompt was, he was always reading passages that sounded like they’d been through three rounds of revisions. It was infuriating.
Maybe you could have handled it if he was an asshole. Sometimes you tried hard to prove to yourself that he was, but really? He never had an unkind critique for anyone and some of the things he suggested were genius.
Maybe you could have handled it if he were ugly. Instead, you had to listen to the most brilliant feedback come from a man who was lithe and graceful, with full lips and silky white-blond hair held in an effortless bun. He was always dressed in black and since the weather had turned he’d taken to wearing an infuriating leather jacket over his sweaters. Even his hands as he held a pen were distracting, his nails short and neat and his knuckles a ruddy pink like he was some kind of gentileschi piece. Hands were something you focused on in your work, you’d probably described a thousand different hand types, poses, gestures, movements, but now when you pictured them they were always graceful and pale, with short neat nails.
That particular thought snapped you awake from your daydream. You had been staring at your yellow legal pad and mindlessly doodling flowers for the last ten minutes while you waited for your instructor, Dr. Rhaenys Velaryon, to arrive and begin the class. She wouldn’t talk about her books directly, but you’d found them anyway. She’d been a legend in her day, so good that her nom de plume was a household name before writing erotica was cool. You weren’t sure how many of your classmates knew you were learning from a master– Targaryen did, for sure. He was always calling her Dr. Velaryon and never Rhaenys like they’d all been invited to do if they were comfortable. This class had people ranging in age from eighteen to eighty-eight and it was just easier if they all treated each other like peers, because in her classroom, they were. She was the best teacher you’d ever had.
So, yeah, you were jealous when she and Targaryen walked in together with matching coffees from the same place up the street. You’d hoped to earn brownie points by getting there earlier than him to workshop your prompts up to the wire before class started, but you were a day late and a dollar short. As always.
“Oh, lovely,” Rhaenys said when she saw you sitting in your usual seat in the middle of the front row. Temperate.
“I haven’t been able to get your last story out of my head; did you bring the next bit?” She asked.
You nodded bashfully and she smiled, holding out her hand. “May I skim?”
Heart beating a mile a minute, you fumbled getting the printed copy out of your folder. It was only a couple pages double spaced, but you felt you’d made serious progress with a scene that had been giving you trouble, the alleged one night stand that led into the rising action of your story.
You were sure she only did this because there was at least fifteen minutes before everyone else showed up. She wasn’t one to play favorites in front of the class.
Targaryen slipped into the seat to your left on the draftier side of the room, always to your left. His left eye was gone and in its place was a realistic match that you could really only tell was glass if you stared or if he was rolling his good eye and the other stayed perfectly still. Two weeks ago he'd worn a dark leather eye patch to class instead and you wondered which was more comfortable. You'd never ask, it was far too impolite. And you didn't care, because you hated him.
“Any luck with the pacing issue?”
It never stopped startling you, hearing him address you directly. “A bit,” you said simply.
“What did it for you?”
Gods. Double entendre. He probably didn’t even realize he said it; smut writers were always slipping subconsciously into flirtation.
“Tension,” you answered. “Always tension, isn’t it?”
“Mm, usually. No tension, no conflict, no story,” he said.
He settled in, pulling out his writing tablet. Once, you’d seen him press a button on his screen after class and transfer his handwritten short-story into type-text. No typing manually for Mr. Targaryen.
You rolled your eyes and muttered, “Like you’d know.”
“Hmm?” He looked you up and down curiously, like he’d heard exactly what you’d said.
Biting back vitriol you said, “Nothing.”
Rhaenys from the folding table set up at the front of the room to serve as her desk tsked at you both, not looking up.
“No fighting before critiques,” she said, circling something on your paper with her green pen. She didn’t believe in marking a paper in red. “You two are always the worst; I’d kick you both out if I cared enough.”
It was a quip, but honest enough that it got you to zip your lips and turn back to your legal pad. You ripped out the doodle page and dropped it into the tote at your feet to throw away back at home.
Class was a bloodbath.
It started out normal enough. Maris read a section from her Tudor inspired fantasy warrior Queen novel (currently unnamed) where the Warrior Queen cleared a table of food in the grand hall to have her way with her Prince Consort to show him who was in charge. There was a bit of back and forth over whether it was tonally a better choice to describe a clit as a peak, pearl, bud, or simply as a clit. Maris thought it would be empowering to use the proper name but wasn’t sure if it would be believable for someone in the fifteenth century to even know the name of women’s genitals, let alone to say them aloud.
The rest of the class was going back and forth with opinions, some deeply held and some newly formed on google results, when Targaryen broke the rule of pretending the author was out of the room as critiques were given turned to look at her.
“Which is more important to you,” he asked, “historical accuracy or narrative voice?”
She paused. “The voice, I think. My novel is heavily character driven.”
He nodded. “Use clit. There’s wiggle room even in stories that rigidly adhere to history; and yours is also high fantasy. Maybe the elves invented the word before humans did.”
Watching the look on someone’s face when his advice finally clicked something in their head was like watching them be raptured. Sure, that was the exact point they were all trying to make for Maris- but he was Aemond Targryen and he just said it better,
Larys had another fetish story. He asked for feedback on new environments to explore a foot fetish in and everyone had great ideas; he especially perked up when you suggested a sensual barefoot stroll on the beach. Pride swelled in your chest when he wrote that down. Giving helpful critique was even better than getting it.
Then it was your turn. Rhaenys had handed back your piece before the rest of the class came in and you’d altered a sentence or two, but you hadn’t had time to read all of her notes and your story remained mostly unchanged from the draft you’d brought in when you read it aloud. You tried to steady your voice, but it was hard to hear it over the anxious heartbeat stuck in your throat. You wondered if Rhaenys still felt like this when she read out her stories for critique, not that she ever shared her WIPs with the class.
You paused for a breath after you were done reading, keeping your usual shakiness subdued. You were getting better. It was always harder to read your work aloud than to share a google doc, but you were getting better.
“Um, what I’d like the class to focus on for critique is the pacing and tension, as usual. This is still a part of the novel I’ve been writing. I’m worried that they’ve had sex too soon and that it’s not gratifying for the reader.”
Rhaenys nodded. “Would someone like to summarize the story?”
One beat, two beats, shy class. Okay. Targaryen raised his hand. Rhaenys called on him.
“This scene details the protagonists having sex for the first time after last week’s apprehension and doubt from the heroine about the hero’s intentions and availability. It was very… tender. Soft, even.”
The class nodded, satisfied with this. They were oddly quiet on your round of critiques, mentioning a word choice here or remarking on the coy vagueness around the sex that was uncharacteristic of some of your other works so far. You slouched in your folding chair. You knew there was something wrong with it, but this happened sometimes. If you polished a piece too much before you brought it in sometimes there wasn’t much to say about it. It left you desperately wanting to explain every doubt you had to Rhaenys and have her walk you through it, but you could never bring yourself to actually do it. Instead you’d just wrestle with it until it clicked. Best case scenario, this happened before next Sunday. Worst case scenario? It was so bad you shelved the WIP indefinitely and moved onto something else.
“It doesn’t fit very well, tonally,” Targaryen piped up just as you were about to slide your story back into the folder.
It was a rule that the author wasn’t supposed to talk during critique, in fact, the rest of the class was supposed to pretend you’d left the room entirely and be completely honest. Sometimes this worked and sometimes it didn’t. But Targaryen always played by the rules unless he was moving the class along.
He continued, “It’s not bad, but it’s saccharine. This is the same couple that last week were sharing adversarial looks across the office, and now he’s coaxing her into an orgasm that washes over her like a soft blanket and a mug of warm tea. It’s not consistent with their relationship so far.”
And because he played by the rules, he didn’t even look at you when he delivered the killshot: “I think the author might want to scrap this section and rewrite from scratch.”
He was right. Fuck him, he was right. He’d put exactly what you’d been worried about into words. You couldn’t just say that, though.
“Oh, fuck off.”
“What?” He was genuinely indignant.
“It’s a direct contrast to what she thought he was like!” Your voice is raised. “That’s the point, it adds to his mystery.”
“I disagree. It’s an undue payoff for a promise that hasn’t even been made to the reader yet.”
“Did you even read the full draft I sent?” you sneered, “Or did you just listen to this section for the first time when I read it.”
He scoffed. “I read it. When you start queries, do you plan on changing the male lead’s name to something other than Fox, or will it be published as X-Files fanfiction without the serial number filed off?”
Your face burned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He rolled his good eye, reaching into his bag and pulling out a manila folder. He produced a full copy of the manuscript you’d shared with the class and flipped to the page he was looking for with a familiarity that could only mean he’d read through it at least twice.
“Page twenty-seven, you state that Dean is someone that the narrator will never get to know because he’s oh so mysterious and he’s a temp worker who rolls in and out of town. Ten pages cover a mandatory office party where the two of them get drunk, fight in the hallway, and start getting handsy. They’re having drunken sex by page forty. Drunk people don’t fuck like this, my dear, if you’ve never been made aware.”
“Oh, because you’re such an expert.”
“Actually, I am.”
Rhaenys clapped her hands loudly at the front of the class and both of your heads swiveled to see her scowling at you. You turn sheepish immediately, ashamed of yourself.
“That’s quite enough of you two,” She says, furious. Then she looks out to the rest of the small class and her expression softens. “Sara and Mysaria will present their works next week. We’re moving into longer pieces for more depthful analysis, so please read their full documents and come prepared to discuss the drafts they’ll email you on Wednesday. Keep it civil. One more outburst, from anyone, and I’ll ban you. No refund on your deposit.”
The entire class nodded and she eyed everyone for a moment longer than she needed to for emphasis. She was serious.
“Class dismissed.”
You were about to run back home, but no. Of course not.
“Not you two. Stay.”
She waited, mercifully, for the class to clear out before she started in on the two of you.
“I do not tolerate outbursts and personal attacks in my class; if I wanted to deal with children I’d be teaching undergrad.”
You nodded, hands clasped and nails digging crescents into your palm. Targaryen stood next to you, arms crossed in front of him, looking embarrassed with his good eye cast down to the floor.
She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I almost didn’t let the two of you in when you registered,” She said. “Writers can get egos when they’re published in the genre, but I thought your critiques would be valuable for the other students. I believe it’s important for published authors to continue to hone their craft,” she emphasized. “Which includes workshopping. Taking criticism. Learning which criticism to ignore, even if it’s good, if you think it doesn’t fit your story.”
You deflated. This was like disappointing your own mother. You almost wished she’d take away your phone until next Sunday and be done with it.
“I want you two to sort this out before next week,” she said. “I don’t care how you do it. Grab lunch, read each other’s books, talk like civilized people until you can stand each other. If all you do is learn to take each other’s criticism on the chin without yelling I will be happy.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Yes Dr. Velaryon.”
The silence was filled with the clamoring of the heater.
“Well?” She said, “Get on with it. And for Heavens' sake, have some discretion, please.”
You both left in as casual a manner as you could– which meant you both skulked out like misbehaving dogs that had been reprimanded by their master.
You’d never left at the same time before, one of you always stayed back to talk to Rhaenys. It was weird. It was weirder when you started walking the same way. And kept walking the same way.
“Quit following me!” You snapped.
“For Gods sake, you're insane,” he said incredulously. “I live a street up, if you must know. In King’s Landing complex, if you're keen on sending hatemail to me directly instead of through my P.O. Box.”
You were about to protest that you wouldn't waste the paper when you stopped. Your nose wrinkled in disgust. “I live in that complex.”
He paused a step ahead of you and looked back exasperated. “Of course you do. Why wouldn't you? The one woman in the entire class who hates my guts lives in my building. Sounds about right for how my life is going.”
“I don’t like it very much either!”
If you were any less blinded by frustration you would have sworn the next step he took towards you was stomp.
“Can you quit yelling at me in public?”
That shut you up. You pushed past him, lips in a thin line, and continued on your way, determined to leave him behind. His strides easily matched yours, though, and in less than a minute it was as though you two were strolling together by choice.
The silence was thick as you entered the lobby of your apartment building and both made your way to the elevator. The seven lit up when he pushed the button, one floor above yours. When you went to select the six he slapped your hand away.
“What the hell are you on?” You demanded.
He rolled his eye. “We have homework, as if I need to remind you. I can’t deal with this paltry rivalry anymore. You’re coming to my flat and we’re settling this now.”
Oh. He had a point. You ignored how good orders sounded coming out of his mouth, it would only make you angrier and then you’d never do what Rhaenys had asked you to do.
“Okay.”
He eyed you warily. “Okay?”
“I don’t want to have to leave the class,” you said quietly. It was hard on your pride to admit he had the right idea.
He exhaled a breath of relief. “Good. Me either.”
The elevator halted beneath your feet and the doors slid open with a ding. You followed him down the hallway until you stopped outside of his door, apartment 709.
“No way,” you hissed.
He turned the key and pushed the door open, holding it for you. “What?”
“I’m 609.”
“Of course you are.” He began unwinding his scarf from around his throat to hang on the pegboard in the walkway and you did as well, hanging up your coat on an empty peg.
“Are you going to apologize for the noise the past few weeks?” you asked, toeing off your shoes to leave them with his.
“No.”
Great. What a lovely start to reconciliation.
The short, narrow entryway led straight into his living room. His choice of decor was starkly different from what you were used to, but it fit him well. There was little color; whites, greys, and blacks were accented only by shocks of deep green and the occasional maroon.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to his grey sectional. “I'll be right back.”
He returned a few minutes later with two mugs of hot tea. It was odd to see him so at ease, you’d never realized how tense he must have been in class until you saw his loosened posture now that he was in his home with his guard down. Well, half down, at least.
“English breakfast, hope it's not too distinguished for you.”
You rolled your eyes. “Not at all, Targaryen.”
He handed the steaming mug to you but made a face as he took his seat in the black leather chair. There was no TV above the mantel to offer a reprieve from the interaction and the seating arrangement practically forced you to make eye contact with each other. His chair faced opposite the couch with a cluttered coffee table between the two of you acting as a buffer. It was the one thing in the entire apartment that wasn’t spotless and you were surprised he didn’t have one of his own books as the centerpiece to stroke his ego to when he got bored.
“You can call me Aemond, you know.”
You snorted. “I’d rather call you your real name.”
He looked at you like you were truly stupid for the first time since the two of you had started the little rivalry that was threatening your spots in the class.
“What are you talking about?”
That sent a cold chill down your spine.“It’s not… It’s not a pseudonym, is it?”
Aemond was deeply unamused. “No, it isn’t.”
“Well then,” you said, sagging into the couch. “I feel like an asshole.”
“Only now?”
“Watch it.”
His movements were sharp as he gestured vaguely to signal his distress. “I don’t even know what I did to piss you off in the first place.”
His hair falling in wispy strands out of his bun and it must have annoyed him, because he was suddenly ripping the elastic out of his hair and pulling it back into place before you could even see it touch his shoulders. His hair was long. You pulled yourself together as he continued to bark his complaints to you, his eyebrows shooting up to punctuate every work.
“I’m nice to you,” he continued. “Everyone else is too afraid of critiquing you because you’re too good, I’m the only one who’s trying to help you improve.”
“You think I need improvement?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he groaned. “Can you please stop pretending you think you’re above reproach? Why else would you come to the class?”
“To learn from Rhaenys!” You countered. “I want her opinions on my work, a woman who clearly knows what the fuck she’s doing when it comes to erotica. You know, our teacher, who wrote her dissertation on the subject.”
“It takes more than one perspective to polish a book.”
You scoff. “Right. And you think I need your perspective to grow as a writer?”
“It couldn’t hurt,” he said. “You don’t agree?”
“Honestly?” You asked. He wanted to know so bad? You’d tell him. “You’re a man.”
There was a pause. He opened his mouth, then shut it. Then opened it again. Then shut it again. “I’m sorry, what?”
Gods, of course he had no idea. Of course he was exactly this stupid.
“Out with it.”
“First off, don’t order me around.” You were on your feet, unable to argue without pacing. “Second, this is exactly what I mean. You’re so high and mighty because you’re a bestseller, sure, but you’re also a man. Guys like you and Larys get into writing erotica and suddenly you’re God’s gift to women because you claim to know what a clit is.”
He scoffed. “That’s really what you think? Have you even read my work outside of class?”
“I don’t read much erotica written by men; I don’t think they really understand it.”
After several tense beats, Aemond bent down and shoved several notebooks on the coffee table aside, searching, before he noticed it and plucked his mug off of the book he’d been using as a coaster. He thrust the glossy covered, spiral-bound book into your arms.
“One of my anthology drafts,” he said. “Thumb through it.”
You almost threw it at him, almost, and then. “Only because Rhaenys said so.”
He was clearly done with the homework because he was already making his way towards the back of his apartment.
“Let me know if it gets the job done,” he called to you over his shoulder, dismissing you from his presence like you were lucky to have had his attention even that long.
Fuming, you slipped your shoes on in the hallway and carried your coat as you made your way back to your apartment. You didn’t bother to wait the pitifully slow time it took to board the elevator and took the stairs instead. He was ridiculous. He was just as pompous and arrogant as you’d thought. He was a jerk and you were sure you’d find something arrogantly misinformed about his work, you were certain of it. No one this awful should be able to write smut as good as he was sharing in class and you would prove it was all a fluke, he had to be sending this shit off to his editor before he shared it or something.
When you got home you dumped the draft on your kitchen counter and ignored it in favor of dinner. His porn would be there after you’d eaten, and maybe then you could tolerate it.
In fact, you would tear it to shreds so mercilessly he’d withdraw from the class altogether.