Going Through It

Weeks. Straight up weeks of begging. And it had all led you to this, staring at your underwear drawer, contemplating if you were really going to go through with this.

You had never been the kind of girl – of woman – people thought of when they heard femme fatale. Rather the opposite. You tended to be shy, a little awkward. Being with Maekar had started to bolster your confidence, but you were a far shot from seducing your boyfriend without blinking an eye.

And still, you were about to do it. You had bought the lingerie. Black and red lace, tiny and – most importantly – crotchless.

It was ridiculous – all because you wanted his children to approve of you. 

“I promise,” you’d told Aegon. “I’ll convince him.” 

“A big one, remember? We want to get a big one.” You remembered his words with a wry smile, trying to fight down your nervousness. 

If all goes well, it’s me who’s about to get a big one.

The thought made you snort – though your boyfriend really was quite big in every sense of the word.

Boyfriend. He’d loathe to know you think of him alongside that term. “I’m over forty, I’m no one’s boyfriend,” he’d grumble. You could almost actually hear it. 

Maekar absolutely hated when his children called you his girlfriend, which naturally meant they did it all the time.

But what else could you be? There was no ring on your finger (yet – hopefully) and the two of you had ceased being merely two people going on a few dates together the moment you fell into bed with each other, releasing all of the pent-up feelings that had been building since you’d met.

Now, you wanted his brood of six to like you. Or, in Aerion’s case, at least tolerate you. 

Which, today, meant seducing Maekar Targaryen into finally getting a family dog.

With renewed determination, you shimmied out of your plain cotton underwear, and very carefully put on the lingerie – knowing it cost more than you would have liked to admit. For a moment, you were glad that Maekar never checked what you bought with his money, or surely he would have raised an eyebrow at the suspicious purchase. Which, in turn, would have ruined the surprise.

You had a window of two hours to accomplish the impossible – two hours of no interruptions, no children running around the house. Maekar was in his office, working from home, but you were about to disturb that.

He did not immediately look up when you entered the room, closing the door softly behind yourself. “Do you need something?” he asked, still engrossed in copying down some notes. 

“I’m busy ‘til fou– fuck.” He’d glanced up midway through the sentence and was startled, eyes widening as though a deer in headlights. Doing a slow double-take, he exhaled heavily, lingering at your breasts, your waist, between your thighs. 

You did your best to fake a convincing pout. “Oh, that’s too bad. I guess I’ll have to come back later…” Turning on your heel, you showed off your backside. There was only a small stretch of fabric between your cheeks connected to the rest, leaving the globes of your ass entirely bare and jiggling with every step.

You could hear his ragged breathing. Next to you on the ground, you spotted an eraser, carelessly swept aside earlier – probably in frustration – and hatched a plan. You almost had him, you were sure of it. 

“You dropped something,” you said over your shoulder, bending down to pick it up and feeling the cool air of Maekar’s study against your exposed folds. You’d made sure to angle yourself in a way that made it very clear to him just how convenient this set was.

For a single moment, you were afraid he would be unaffected. A quick peek and you realised you had either underestimated your own appeal or your boyfriend’s sheer desire for you. 

He’d completely disregarded his work, his lips parting, gaze lowered and transfixed.

The thought of his hungry eyes taking in the sight of your slit made you stifle a sigh, though a small, breathless noise still escaped your throat.

You tried to straighten, but strong hands caged you in against the door, your sex meeting with Maekar’s clothed cock, already hard and straining against its confines. 

“Don’t dare leave now, you little minx,” he grunted against you, pushing his hips into your bottom, grinding the seam of his pants for relief. 

“I just might,” you replied cheekily, struggling playfully beneath him, “unless…” 

“Unless what?” he echoed impatiently, already trying to unzip himself with one hand, dipping the fingers of the other into your wetness.

“The local shelter’s hosting an event next week – it’s all about dogs. Maybe we could go, you know – everyone – as a family, and see if any dog catches our eye.” Towards the end, you had to bite off whimpers as Maekar expertly strummed your clit, his remaining digits already stretching you open. 

“Fuck, you look so pretty in this,” he growled. Looming over you further, his lips against your jaw, he added,  “Did you buy it just to convince me?” Weakly, you nodded, unable to lie to him when he was three knuckles deep inside you.

His groan was downright sinful. “Naughty girl.” He continued fucking his fingers into your tight channel, not stopping until you were squirming, at the edge of an orgasm. That was exactly when he withdrew, much to your chagrin.

Ignoring your whine, he cocked his head, his pale hair swaying across his forehead as he used his slick fingers to palm at himself, squeezing a few drops of precum from the flushed head of his cock. He looked devastatingly handsome – which was decidedly unfair. You were the one supposed to be doing the persuading. The seducing.

Something sly entered his expression. “What if I refuse?”

“I won’t let you fuck me,” you replied confidently. Even though I want you to.

“You don’t mean that, sweetheart,” Maekar said, the statement dripping with male arrogance. 

You did secretly love when he was a bit of a self-assured prick – it was a part of his charm, and he always more than made up for it with his generosity both in bed and outside of it – but tonight, you would not bend. 

“I do mean it, I’ll walk out of here right now,” you countered, swaying your hips and stepping out from under him, ignoring the arousal leaking down your thighs, “unless you promise.”

“I’m not that desperate,” he shot back, crossing his arms and scowling, though the effect was somewhat lessened by his open fly and the twitching length emerging from it.

You raised an eyebrow, and were surprised at your own boldness when the words formed on your tongue. Clothes really do make the (wo)man. And right now, you felt very much the temptress instead of the awkward person you usually were. “Aren’t you?” 

You skipped from his study faster than he could blink, and you second-guess yourself, your heart hammering as you made your way down the corridor, bare feet thudding across the rich wooden floor.

Your path took you back to the grand bedroom and you laid on top of the sheets, counting in your head as you suppressed the urge to finish yourself off.

One, two, three, four…

The door opened again at five.

In one swift move, Maekar was on top of you, covering your body with the bulk of his own. After barely a heartbeat had passed, his weight pressing down on you, he was sheathing his thick, generous cock inside you with a single stroke, punching the breath from your lungs. “Maekar!” 

Soon, he was bottoming out, hissing as your heat enveloped him down to the root, your own lust causing your walls to suck him in greedily. 

“Fuck,” he cursed as he began thrusting, pounding you into the mattress, “fuck, fuck, fuck.” It sounded almost furious, his voice grating, sandpaper over silk.

You squirmed like a worm on a hook, helplessly caught between the reignited pleasure at your core and your mission – the reason for all of this. “Wh–what about the–” you panted, only to be interrupted. 

“We’re going on Saturday. Now let me enjoy my bribe.”

It's been a long time since you've felt this thrill—this need. Let yourself get pulled away from your friends in a crowded bar, pressed against cheap vinyl in a secluded corner as a man you barely know grabs your hips to keep you still, keep you tucked against him. Sloppy kisses beneath a framed picture of Elvis. Smearing. Wet. The scratch of stubble. The nip of teeth. A sting soothed with the lash of a soft, fleshy tongue. Fingers diving beneath the hem of your pants because he can't get enough. He's solid against you, warm—burning like a furnace. A heat you can feel, pulsing, between your hips.

You feel the buzz of alcohol a lot more, too. A potent thing in your veins—syrupy and thick; your head feels full of it, heavy and liquid. Your whole body is just that—liquid. A slow ooze. He's the only thing keeping you up, holding you steady. Without the press of his fingers, the nudging rolls of his hips, you'd melt into the sticky linoleum.

You thank him with a slurred murmur, a clumsy kiss, and he laughs it off. Tucks you tighter against him as he says to thank him later, when he brings you back to his hotel—

This isn't like you. You can't even remember his name—a laugh, and he whispers it again with an edge of teeth that feel like a reprimand; so you won't forget it this time—or how you got here, in this corner, with a man you vaguely remember offering to buy you a drink at the bar. His accent stood out, like it does now when he says come on, let's go, and just as suddenly as you ended up pressed against the wall, you're being pulled into his arms. Breathless and clumsy. Cute, he says, and it's a hazy, dimpled thing that tugs at the corner of his mouth.

You came here with friends. Know better than to leave without them, with a man you don't know—a man they don't know—but when you slur this into his chest, he peels away. Steps back. And that chasm makes you whine. Keening in the back of your throat because the space, the distance feels too big. Too wide. Your struck, suddenly, by thigmotaxis. A small, soft-bodied thing that's too vulnerable without the hard lines of his body propping you up. He fits like a corner for you to hide inside, and you miss that more than you should. Need it more than you can understand with your thoughts stuck in a gauzy web. In this state, the sheer size of him, the solid wall of skin-warmed muscle and meat, is anxiolytic.

He shushes you—more dimples. The edge of teeth. Steps back into place, and let's you melt against him, a safe nook, but his words rake across that part of you that knows this isn't normal, that this isn't like you. You've only had four drinks. Three of which he bought.

But when he says c'mon, doe, let's get outta here, all of the things you should say are damped by that ooze. That slick, sticky thing in the back of your head, cradled between your thighs. You nod, a slow, dizzy thing, and watch the shape of his maw shift up into a wide, sharp toothed grin.

It stays—a permanent etch across his too-handsome face; lingers in the spill of daylight when you wake up to something heavy, tight on your ring finger. There, pressed into the corners, all teeth and deep dimples, when the slow, steady drip of the night before comes back to you and you realise that instead of leading you back to his hotel, he took you to a sleazy, twenty-four church. The license signed—your messy, drunken scrawl on the paper confirming that you did, in fact, get married to a man you knew for less than an hour, with the bulk of that time being kissed senseless in a corner and told drink up, doe.

You slip out of the room when he's in the washroom, hurriedly running back to your apartment to scrub the night off in the shower—the phantom touch, the ghost of his words (am catholic, he'd said in the cab after telling the driver to head to the nearest, sleaziest church. cannae fuck before the ring, doe, no't' a good Catholic boy like me)—trying to find some fix for this mess you'd gotten yourself into. It can't be permanent. It can't be real.

The only place you feel safe is with your friends, family, but that charm he laid on so thick last night shows itself in a new light when you find him sitting at their table already. Oozing a sweetness that makes your teeth ache when you see the approval gleaming in their eyes as the story he tells is wrapped up in romance. In love at first sight. And the problem is that he's cunning. Too smart for his own good. He can see the vulnerability, the weakness in your family—in their penultimate dream for you: happiness, a family, one of your own—and he pounces. Convinces them that he's so good for you. That this spur of the moment decision wasn't as sudden as you keep telling them it was—chalking it up to embarrassment, of all things; that you were too shy to admit to having an online relationship with a man you'd never met before—and despite everything, they believe him.

Maybe it's wilful ignorance. Maybe he's just such a catch, a good guy, that they want this work out for you more than they want to see the cracks in a good man's veneer. Whatever the reason, it culminates in them welcoming him into the fold as your unexpected husband. Inviting him places as mean to get to know him—an opportunity for him to ooze as much charm as he needs to in order to sway them to his side. Spreading like a spore amongst your core group with the intention of sticking. Even going so far as to have your friends talk you out of a divorce, siding with him on the (manufactured) reasons why you two should stay together. Or—

give him a chance.

But it won't last long. Soap knows this. Eventually, the cracks will appear. Someone will look beyond what they wish you really had to see how unnerved by the situation you are—something he won't be able to chalk up to shyness or embarrassment for much longer. Not when you're so against this "sham" marriage.

Which is why he sneaks around to plan a "honeymoon" with your friends and family, getting them involved in a surprise trip back home with him.

Despite your misgivings about him, there is a brightside to this—a vacation you don't have to pay for. And what is the worst that could happen in a small cabin nestled in the Highlands, really.