Moonlightmuse

"It's the middle of the night."

"I've got time," he said, and the certainty in it — the same flat, unbothered certainty sent a fresh pulse of want through you even as your thoroughly used body tried, half-heartedly, to protest.

"You're insufferable when you've got a project between hands."

"I'd have this particular project between hands for the rest of my living days," he said, without an ounce of remorse and without thinking of the effect it had on you, and kissed the inside of your knee, working steadily upward with no apparent urgency at all. "Lie back."

He started slow.

That was the thing about Maekar that people who only knew the blunt, four-word version of him never expected — when he decided something was worth doing properly, the patience he brought to it was almost unsettling.

His fingers traced light, exploratory patterns first, reacquainting himself with what was already sensitive and swollen from everything that had come before, watching your face with a particular kind of intensity.

"Still with me?" he asked, teasing.

"Cocky," you managed.

"Confident," he corrected, and pushed two fingers inside you, slow and deliberate, curling them immediately to find the spot he already knew — had mapped, over months, with the same thoroughness he applied to everything — and the sound that left you was immediate and unguarded.

"There," he said. Satisfied. Filing the reaction away.

He worked you with steady, unhurried pressure, his fingers curling against that spot with a consistency that built fast — not rushing toward the goal but building a foundation, the engineer in him understanding that this required structure before results. His thumb found your clit, circling slow, and the doubled sensation had you gasping within minutes, your hips already rocking against his hand.

"Maekar—"

"Not yet," he said. "Just getting started."

He kept the pressure inside you constant, his fingers never quite leaving that spot, the rhythm steady and relentless in a way that built something different from his usual overstimulation — not the scattered, overwhelming chaos of being pushed past one orgasm into another, but something concentrated, specific, building in one precise location with increasing pressure.

"You feel that?" he said, low, watching your face. "Building right here."

"Yes—"

"Good," he said, and didn't change anything. Just kept going. Steady. Relentless. The same focused patience he brought to anything that presented as stubborn, knowing the solution existed and was simply a matter of sustained, correct application.

Your thighs began to shake. The sensation building inside you was different from anything you'd felt before — fuller, more specific, a pressure that felt like it needed somewhere to go and didn't have anywhere yet, building and building without quite tipping over.

"I don't—" you gasped, grabbing his forearm with both of your hands, hard, not to remove him, but to ground yourself. "I don't think I can—"

"You can," he said, with total certainty. "Stop fighting it."

"I'm not—"

"You are," he said. "I can feel you holding back. Stop." His fingers curled harder, the pressure increasing, his thumb never leaving your clit. "Let go. I've got you."

Something about the absolute certainty in his voice — the same certainty he used for everything. The certainty that had driven you mad with desire since the first time you met him and that had made you go feral ever since and said yes to a hundred things you wouldn't have done for anyone else. That certainty now made something in you finally, fully release.

"Oh—" The sound that left you was nothing like your usual ones, higher and more startled, your whole body tensing around his hand. "Maekar—"

"There it is," he said, low and intent, not stopping, not slowing, his fingers maintaining the exact pressure and rhythm that had gotten you here. "Don't hold it. Let go."

The pressure built past the point you thought you could contain it, your back arching off the bed, your hands gripping his forearm as a vice, and when it finally broke it broke completely — a rush of sensation entirely unlike your usual orgasms, your whole body shaking, a cry torn out of you that had no composure left in it whatsoever, and you felt yourself release around his hand with a force that startled you as much as it apparently delighted him.

He made a sound low in his throat — pure satisfaction, pure male pride, the sound of a hypothesis spectacularly confirmed.

"Fuck," he said, watching, his fingers still moving, gentler now but not stopping, working you through every aftershock with the same focused attention he'd applied to building toward it. "Look at that."

"Maekar—" Your voice was wrecked, barely yours.

"Yeah," he said, low and pleased, easing his fingers slower as the waves subsided, watching your whole body shake through the last of it with an expression of deep, almost reverent satisfaction. "That's what I thought."

He didn't withdraw his hand immediately — kept it there, gentle pressure, watching you come down from something that had clearly rewritten several of your previous assumptions about your own body.

"You're insufferable," you managed, when you could speak again.

"You dared me," he said, finally withdrawing his hand and looking at it, and then at you, and moving his hand to his mouth to lick at your release from his fingers with the specific satisfaction of a man surveying completed work.

"I was half asleep."

"Doesn't count," he said, smiling after releasing his digits. "A dare's a dare. And I never lose."

You laughed, breathless and still shaking slightly, and he settled beside you, pulling you against his chest with an arm that had gone notably gentler than five minutes ago.

"How do you feel," he said.

"Destroyed," you said honestly.

"Good destroyed?"

"There's a difference?"

"There is with me," he said, with total confidence, and you laughed again, weaker this time, and felt him press a kiss to the top of your head with something that was almost tender underneath all the smugness.

"You're going to be impossible about this," you said, into his chest.

"Yeah," he agreed. "I'm going to need to confirm it wasn't contextual."

"Maekar, I genuinely cannot—"

"Not tonight," he said, and you felt the almost-smile against your hair. "Give it a minute. We've got all the time in the world."

The bed sheets are ruffled, tossed from side to side in a heap, and yet he’s still on top of you, muscles flexing as he drives into you. It’s an aching slowness, teasing and agonising in the most delicious way, because he takes his time purposefully. He works you up with his fingers, tracing over your skin so intricately it pebbles under his hands, your breasts peaked and swollen from his mouth and his touch, the heat between your thighs dripping wetness as you attempt to rub them together.

But he holds them open.

“Now now, my love. Just feel..” Baelor coos, kneeling between them as he fucks himself inside of you.

And that’s the worst part, because he can feel how much you need it, already knowing how much he wants it as well, you even see it in the reflection of his eyes. Golden amber and violet lidded and blown with lust casting tenderly over you, though hunger sits beneath it.

A few thrusts is all he gives, raising his hips just to drag his cock further into the wet heat of your cunt. And you suck him in greedily, enveloping him around the burn as you take him, hands reaching out at his ribs and shoulders to pull him closer.

He obliges.. eventually. His nose nudging your own as he nestles completely, the tip of his length reaching the plug of your cervix in one final drive. The moan you let out is guttural, punching from your lungs in a jolt that he captures with his mouth, humming into the kiss like it’s something he savours. And he does, rocking into you as he begins to move. Taking his time to set a merciless pace that has you keening and your bodies dripping in more sweat that had covered you to begin with.

“There you go, my girl. So well for me..”

He thumbs at your clit shamelessly, rubbing circles so sharp that it has you arching and clenching around him. His groans brush over your jaw, his breath sweeping at your neck as his teeth bare. And he has the nerve to only keep going, to push you to your edge like he isn’t chasing his own, like he hasn’t lusted over the thought of having got come undone on his cock since dawn.

Like the heat doesn’t even make the greatest man, your own husband, crumble being able to have his wife.

Because it does, and in the very moment, he himself can’t find it in him to repent for such a thing. Your moans fill the space, punctuated in little “uh uh uh’s” with every pump of him deep inside of you, the tip of him throbbing around the pulse of your walls. And he moves faster, not unkempt, but rougher, hands clamping down to take fistfuls of the fat of your hips, tugging you carefully back down onto him.

“Let go for me..” He rasps, skin slapping into yours as his eyes flutter, head falling to his chest before rising again, utterly lost.

“Baelor..” Your thighs seize, fingers fisting the sheets at whatever you can grab as you whine, your mouth parted. The pressure builds with every movement, pleasure coiling a hot, blinding ache in your belly and you feel it ready to snap.

“Hush, I know.. let go for me, my heart. Come around my cock.” He shuffles closer, pressing your knees up to his chest as his lips brace your forehead, shushing you in encouragement.

Just feel, just take me. Take what you need..

And you do, the tender cruelness of his voice, and the relentless stroke inside of your cunt he continues to give, it throws you over the edge. Your hands wrap around his pack, tightening around the taut muscle as you tense, orgasm wracking your body as you shiver and moan. But he doesn’t slow, he continues fucking you through it, thrust after thrust, pulling from you only to settle himself fully inside once more with a sharp groan.

“Good girl, good girl..” He whispers as his hands find your hair, bringing your lips to his in a seering kiss. His hips stutter, spilling as you pulse around him in short bursts, your chest heaving where you glow under the candlelight.

You closed the door behind you, biting your lip.

“You look so tense,” you said, before he even had a chance to speak, that tired expression marring his face; he flashed a smile, an exhausted, almost tormented smile, and let the pen drop from his long, nimble fingers. 

You knew what was bothering him - your relationship, the undefined hookup you had last week. He kept repeating after, how it shouldn’t have happened, even apologising once that he took an advantage over you, you being a junior employee, and him a psychologist technically in charge of your well-being.

Not that you ever had a session together, but morally, your situation was definitely grey, and yet, not only did you not care, but it turned you on.

Your sweet, pliable, stunted boy, moaning hard from the moment you impulsively kissed him until the moment he came, gripping at your hips like his life depended on it, his fingers leaving a faint bruised imprint against your skin.

“We should talk,” he finally mustered, a long sigh escaping his lips after you sat on the table, in front of him. Still, he didn’t tell you to get off. Sure, the glass was frosted, but anyone could see an outline from outside. Worse, the door wasn’t locked. You bit at your lip to suppress your own sigh, trying to ground yourself, pace yourself.

“About how you’re overworking yourself? You need to relax, baby,” you pouted, trying to get a reaction, but he remained silent. Still, you could see signs of his resolve faltering when his fingers wrapped around the knot of his yellow tie, pulling at it. You smiled.

“Please, let me help you relax, baby,” you whispered again, sliding down, all the way to your knees, rough carpet scratching the skin of your palms as you steadied yourself. You could see him already straining against his trousers, his mouth slightly open, his chest already noticeably going up and down. You moved a little more under the table, waiting for the moment his resolve would finally break.

You knew he wanted you, in any way imaginable. He was a little insecure and repressed, and utterly obsessed with you already. When you kissed him first, he looked at you with those confused puppy eyes, almost as if believing you mistook him for someone else. 

It turned you on a little how, despite being older than you, he was still a little inexperienced. You still giggled just thinking of how red his face was when he asked if he could take you from behind, like he was asking for something perverse.

Finally, he slid his chair closer, his hand already grasping against his thighs before you even had a chance to unzip. Slowly, sliding your hands up, you freed his cock, a wet spot already blooming on his boxer shorts, surprised all over how heavy it felt against your palm. Your thumb reflexively slid over the raging, glistening head, and you kissed the tip of his cock, your hand grasping him at the base.

He was trying so hard to stifle his moans, grasping so hard at his things, you almost felt sorry for him. You kissed the knuckles on his hand, sliding your tongue over his fingers, before you finally took pity and started licking his cock. A glorious whimper escaped his lips, and you looked up through your eyelashes, his blue eyes already locked onto your face, his breathing rough and uneven. You didn’t even take him into your mouth, and he was already unravelling.

“Tell me when you’re close,” you whispered against his hot skin, tracing a bulging vein with your tongue, before finally taking him in your mouth. Another drawn-out needy moan filled your ears as you started to suck, just a little, intent on teasing it out for as long as possible. You had this one specific fantasy, and the heat was pooling in your pussy already, but you firmly decided on focusing on his pleasure only, not wanting to push him that hard at the moment. 

You took a break, parting your lips from his cock, a thick line of spit connecting you; he whimpered at the sight of it, his cock twitching in your hand. How was this man unravelling so hard above you, all because of a sloppy blow job, was escaping you, but you were enjoying it. His office, usually clinically silent and devoid of any scents, was now filled with his tiny gasps and a faint smell of his sweat. He hopelessly pulled at his tie again, and you returned to worship at the altar of his cock.

It felt so divinely heavy against your tongue as you struggled to take him deeper, to swallow it all, desperate to feel the soft hairs of his happy trail caress your face. You succeeded for a moment, despondently trying to breathe through your nose, but his cock was pressing so deep and hard you gagged around him. Your eyes teared up, and you went back to sucking him, listening to his moans growing louder. 

You wanted him to tangle his hands in your hair, to pull you against himself, drive his hips against your lips, fuck your mouth the same way he fucked your pussy, just give in and use you as if you were nothing more but a vessel for his pleasure, but you knew he was too timid for it, for now. He was still swallowing hard, his eyes almost shut as he looked at your puffy lips, his fingers grappling at the fabric of his pants, his whole body rigid and controlled, acting as if he was inconveniencing you.

“I’m close,” he muttered to your surprise, because you really didn’t do that much at all; you could feel the slick dragging against your panties from how horny you were, knowing you were making him this crazy. You continued, working with both your hands and your mouth, to bring him closer, until you heard the beginning of that one long moan that would always betray him.

Then, you pulled your mouth off him slightly, still jerking him a little, his seed painting your face in hot little spurts; he came with a broken whine that was awfully close to turning into a sob. You licked the tip of his cock clean, feeling the sticky fluid glide down your cheeks and nose, before your fingers greedily guided it all to your lips.

“Can I fuck you, please?” His voice was quiet, stuttering.

You looked up to see his face red again, embarrassed, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Of course, baby. How would you like it?” You smiled, still licking your fingers.

He whimpered.

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