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Baelor Targaryen is a fine master. He’s never made you sleep in a barn, never laid a finger upon your flank, no matter how much you might wish it so, and on cherished occasions, he’ll feed you bits of apple by warm, worn hand.
On these brief, agonizing occasions, his tongue will always click low against his teeth when the juice spills atop the deep grooves etched into his palm, and mismatched eyes will always follow the trail of your tongue obediently licking him clean. He will bring his opposite, dry palm up to your face, tucking it against the back of your head while a callused thumb slots against the base of your long, fuzzy ear. He’ll rub it twice, hold your gaze, then withdraw.
Baelor Targaryen drives you completely mad.
He is generous in his ownership, and you are grateful for the fair treatment you receive, but it remains a devastating truth that the prince will never be yours. No half-cow blood would ever be permitted to sully the Targaryen bloodline, and in compliance, Baelor cannot lay with you.
When your heat cycles through you are confined to your room and attended to only by human women. Baelor is always absent during this time, and you only allow yourself the guilty pleasure of whimpering his name late into the night when you’re alone.
As much as it may feel true in your heat-addled mind that begs and pleads for the prince, you know that he is not a cruel master. He does not torment you, he does not abuse you, and while you’ve been told the purpose of half-cows like yourself is to breed more half-bulls, he has not shackled you to anyone yet.
Perhaps foolishly, you hope it is because his heart finds it difficult to pair you with another male. He tells you it is because he will only take good men, good bulls, good knights under his leadership, and you find yourself hoping more for his sake than your own, that it is an accomplishable feat.
“Well, I’ve started with you, haven’t I?” He murmurs, and your gaze is drawn up from the swaying green grass beneath you. The Kingsguard follows ten paces behind the two of you, duty-bound to guard the prince and his “pet”. He has joined you on a walk, the creaking braided straw of your basket the only barrier between you.
“Forgive me, my Lord, but I am just breeding stock. It does not matter if I am good, only fertile.” The last word comes out as a scoff, and your hooved feet scuff the ground before you shake your head, quick to correct yourself. “Forgive me, I misspoke.”
“You need not apologize. It is true, the mistreatment of your people is cruel, and widespread. Something I am hopeful to change, one day.”
It goes without saying, when I am king. His footsteps halt, and he turns to face you fully, your basket sways at your side as your body mimics him without thought. The herbs within the basket are fragrant and the scent wafts up and around the pair of you. You wonder how strongly sage graces a human nose. You wonder if the prince finds it pleasant.
His hand reaches up towards your head, and your heart beat jumps into your throat as the heat of him sears along your temple. He doesn’t touch you, merely plucks a white fluffy wisp from you hair, granted to you by the trees you walk beneath.
“I have no desire to burden you with duty.” His steps continue, and you find yourself cemented in place in your shock. When he glances over his shoulder, you’re quick to rush back to his side.
Words can’t seem to find you, but you have no need for them as Baelor speaks again.
“I will not force you to breed for my gain, it is this only true peace I can grant you.” His eyes meet yours, pained and glossed with something akin to regret. “I do wish that I could do more for you, be more for you.”
You think your heart may soon spill out of your mouth with the way it fights, thunderous and desperately towards him.
You’d thought this over many, many nights. What you had presumed to be your duty, your purpose. You’d made peace with it, content to aid your prince in any way that he needed. Now, faced with the rare gift of choice, you find yourself still aching to support him in the only way you know that you can.
You suppose this could be a ploy, sweet, tempting promises to goad you into loyalty, give you the illusion of choice because he knows it’ll make you more compliant. By now though, you have a strong sense that Baelor is not that kind of man. He could’ve already forced motherhood upon you. After all, you’ve been through many heat cycles under his care.
Anyone in the kingdom with sense knows that Baelor will make a good king, because he is a good man, a sensible man, and honorable man. If it is a ploy, to be charmed by a good man, then it is one you will give yourself to most willingly.
“I wish to serve you, my Lord. All that I ask is you choose a man you deem worthy as my pairing.”
A soft sigh heaves forth from his chest, pained gratefulness.
“I would pair you with nothing less.”
It doesn’t take long for the ideal knight to appear.
When Baelor first meets the half-bull, Ser Duncan the Tall, his sheer size peaks his interest. His horns nearly scrape the ceiling as he bows his head and pleads for Baelor to remember his mentor. He pleads not in vain, as the dark-haired prince readily recalls Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and perhaps he would’ve vouched for this hedge knight anyways. There is something startlingly genuine about the giant hybrid, and Baelor’s perception of his character only seems to continue to grow the more they cross paths.
When Ser Duncan strikes the prince’s nephew, Baelor finds his admiration only grows, and after he wins the Trial of Seven, against Aerion’s own half-bulls of the kingsguard, it solidifies Baelor’s choice.
“Your Grace, I am your man. Please, your man.”
“I need good men, Ser Duncan.”
As you see it, good people are drawn to the prince by his own righteous nature. They see in him the reflection of all that the realm may be under his rule. Baelor is the kind of man that other men willingly lay down their lives for, and you soon come to find that Ser Duncan is much the same.
His speech before the trial, as he pleaded for a seventh knight. Had humans been allowed to fight against half-bulls, you know without a doubt that Baelor would have joined his side. Seldom will you find human knights anymore, with the prolific breeding of hybrids, humans were quick to force duty upon them.
Yet another unfortunate truth arises, that those who have been forced to live under the cruel hand of human nature have a knack for honor, and as hybrids are so poorly treated amongst humans, their power is found in community. A volunteer from the crowd was quick to join Ser Duncan. A Ser Callahan, of house Buell. A small house built upon its breeding of cattle hybrids, politically neutral with a festering resentment amongst its hybrids, eager to stand for something.
You’d watched the trial, awestruck and equally horrified by the brutality of battle. Ser Duncan stood out by mass alone, although the prince had mentioned his intrigue to you before. Sparing a glance, you found Baelor already watching you as the trial raged on. The familiar beating of your heart crept across your skin when your gaze returns to the giant. If he won, and swore his loyalty to Baelor, you knew that this half-bull would be your pairing.
And a bloody victor he was, like a giant elm amidst a storm, branches swaying yet the tree remaining rooted firmly, unshakable.
You first meet him when Baelor asks you to assist in tending his wounds. Your free time is often spent amongst the healers and maesters of House Targaryen, and you are quite confident in your capabilities, and in the fact that you are far more than just a womb.
You find him first beneath a tree, and a gentle blue gaze slides up from your hooves to your eyes.
He seems to startle when he realizes you are not whoever he’d been expecting, quickly moving to stand.
“Oh! Please Ser, do not strain yourself.” You try to settle him back down with a gentle yet firm touch, wary of his wounds.
“Forgive me, my lady, I was not expecting the company of a maiden.”
Heat floods to your face, and you can feel the content swish of your tail behind you. The one, non-swollen eye he has open catches the movement, and he coughs, his long ears twitching below his horns in embarrassment. You grin, settling yourself to the ground beside him.
“I am no lady, Ser Duncan. Prince Baelor is my master, he has asked me to attend to you.” You offer him your true name, and recognition flashes behind a tired eye.
He flusters, his torn ears pinning back against his head as he struggles to decide whether he should maintain eye contact.
“I, well the prince he- you and I are supposed to?” He stumbles over his words, and your grin only grows.
“Yes, but not now, and not if it is something you do not wish for.” You soothe, turning your attention to the basket at your side that is stuffed with the salves and tinctures you’ve prepped to aid your bull.
“I would be a fool not to wish it so.” He seems to forget he’s answering you, his own attention drifting elsewhere, before he quickly regrets his wording. “I mean, only that I wish to serve the prince in any way that he needs it! I do not want you to do anything you’re against, I will readily reject the offer, you only need say the word.”
There’s a tick of something familiar in your chest. Some sliver of fond warmth you’d thought you’d only be able to feel for the prince. A coil of tightly wound nerves within you begins to fray, the knot of worry that you’d piled all of your wariness over this stranger onto, all of your longing for a prince far out of your reach. It slips loose. Not entirely, and you don’t think it will ever really go away, but it comforts you deeply to know it does not need to plague you forever.
“You’re a good man, Ser Duncan.” He’s taken aback by this, ears flicking forward, the copper tint of the fluff on them catching the few rays of sun that peak through the canopy of leaves above you.
You reach out slowly, careful not to spook him, and his gaze merely flits to your hand for a moment before settling back on your face. Cupping his long, low hanging ear against your palm, your thumb runs delicately over where it has been split. Thin skin and cartilage sit stiffly on either side of the tear, the rusty tinge of crusted blood flakes under your thumb as you observe the smallest of his wounds.
“You’re a good knight.” Your thumb smooths down his ear once before you withdraw, and he shudders beneath it. A mountain rumbling beneath a soft touch.
“That does not indebt you to me.” You’re surprised by the firmness in his tone, and when you meet his gaze once more, you feel that coil slip a little looser.
“I know. I agreed to this on my own accord. I also wish to serve the prince, to aid him any way that I can.” It’s quiet for a moment as he observes you. A gentle breeze sweeps beneath the tree, blowing his hair away from his forehead, it sways like sweet grass, gentle and soft.
Your gaze is only moved by his gentler tone.
“You love him?” There’s no malice, no accusation. Only soft, kind understanding.
The smile you give him is not sad, nor forced.
“I do, but duty will always keep him out of my reach.”
“I am sorry, that you must settle for a man like me. There is nobody so honorable as his Grace.”
You huff a fond laugh, shuffling to his side to lift his shirt and view his deeper wounds.
“Do not sell yourself short, my bull. I have long accepted the irony of my love for the prince. It will not condemn me to a life of longing. This may be cold.” You warn as you collect one of your salves onto your fingers, carefully applying it across where the bull was stabbed. His body doesn’t react, and his good eye remains on you, forlorn.
You sigh, sending a side glance to him as your ears twitch beneath the filed stubs of your horns.
“There is something about the prince that anyone can recognize upon first meeting and know that he is good, that he is true.” Duncan mumbles a quiet ‘ay’ in agreement, waiting for you to continue.
“I admire him greatly, his goodness is what drew me to love him. But it is a goodness that you share, Ser Duncan. I have only just met you and yet my heart knows it just as clearly. That you are good, that you are somebody I could very possibly love.”
This startles him most of all, and suddenly he is squirming beneath your hands as they continue to aid his wounds.
“Hold still.” You scold, and he is quick to obey.
A glance at his face shows it has turned a bright, rosy hue, and you manage to fight off a grin for his sake.
“Do not worry yourself over it more than you need to.” You assure, and his breath leaves him in a punch. Nodding, he settles back against the tree, allowing you to continue your work.
It's quiet between the two of you as you finish up, and you try not to think about the size of him below your hands. Even in his slouched position, he is broader than a tree, built like a stone wall. Hair dusts his soft chest and belly, darker than that on his head and ears. His ears are missing patches of hair, scarred tissue rough and impenetrable. His horns are big, one of them jagged and rough at the end where it's been broken off during the trial no doubt.
He starts to doze off, weary from the energy his body uses to heal himself.
“Ser Duncan?” You whisper, aiming not to spook him.
One blue eye flickers open, finding you as you roll his short back down over his stomach. You sense the apology rising on his tongue, and you are quick to speak before him.
“May I help you to somewhere more comfortable?”
Kindness still appears to startle him, and the gratitude in his gaze is nearly tangible.
“Oh, no, thank you. I’m partial to sleeping under trees. Hedge knight.” He adds the last part bashfully, and you know instantly that perhaps he has been mocked for this title before.
Nodding, you tuck your things away in the basket, settling against the tree beside him. Heat radiates from his side, and you have to prevent yourself from chasing it and leaning into him against the light chill of the breeze.
“I’ll stay with you, if that’s alright?” Your eyes are closed, and there's a moment of silence before he relaxes beside you, his shoulder brushing yours and staying pressed lightly to you when you don’t move away.
“Of course.”
You care for him until he is steady on his feet again, and even after, you find excuses for his company. He joins you on your walks when you’re out collecting herbs, once with Baelor as well.
There is no hostility between them, only mutual admiration, even as you grow closer to Ser Duncan.
“How do you like him?” Baelor asks you while Dunk goes off to gather mugwort he deemed was in too deep of brush for you to have to worry about.
“Very much, your Grace. You have a knack for this sort of thing.”
He huffs out a breath of laughter, his eyes finding you for a moment, and within them bittersweet emotion swirls. You know then that it pains him as much as it satisfies him that you are well taken care of by another man.
“Your heat cycle will be starting soon.” He pivots the conversation, neither of you willing to dwell on the unchangeable. You nod, your ears flicking in the direction Dunk disappeared, and a bolt of anticipation shoots through you.
“I will be there for your first pairing.” Your steps halt, your throat running dry.
“My Lord, I’m not sure if that is a good idea.” Your ears are pinned back, unease swirling in your stomach. For him to be there, to watch you. For the prince to watch when Ser Duncan takes you, it has worry pummeling into you.
“If you are uncomfortable with me there I can have an attendant take my place.”
“No! I am not uncomfortable with you. I just worry about what you may think of me, about what you may see, what you may feel.”
“I will keep my wits about me, I assure you.” He jests, and it eases the worry a fraction.
The frown fights to stay on your face, and he sighs a gentle sigh.
“I must also speak to Ser Duncan about this, and he may very well be opposed to my presence. So do not worry yourself just yet.”
Nodding seems to be all you’re capable of as you mull over what he’s told you. It doesn’t help that you have been in a jumble of confusing feelings for the two men. One, whom you love and must get over, and one whom you are beginning to love but also only just beginning to know.
“I will see you no differently.” Baelor’s voice wrenches you from your mind. “It may come to surprise you that Ser Duncan and I have a very mutual understanding.”
You frown at this, unsure of what he means, but as soon as you open your mouth to question him the rustling of brush draws your attention away and back towards your big doting bull, with arms full of herbs picked for you.
Baelor’s confusing statement is resolved rather quickly, however, as only a fortnight later your heat is upon you. You wake in the middle of the night, sweating and beginning to ache. You’re quick to strip and get into the tub that had been filled the day prior. Cool water sloshing about the brim in anticipation of your cycle.
The sun has not yet risen, and you decide that you shall wait to call for Baelor and Ser Duncan, unwilling to wake him in the middle of his rest. Your head lulls back against the tub, and you drift off into slumber until the water in the tub heats with the rising temperature of your body.
You awake and the sky is orange, and your skin is sweltering. You clamber out of the tub on shaky limbs, the clack of your hooves scattered and inconsistent as you blindly stumble to your bed. You crawl onto the sheets that feel too warm against your skin belly first, rolling over in frustration when your arm is too limp to slide under you.
On your back, knees spread wide, your fingers delve into your pussy, middle finger sliding up to rub rapid circles against your swollen clit. Slick begins to drool out of you, and the sharp stabbing pain in your abdomen only worsens. Noise is caught in your throat, and you fear that you’ll be unable to call for any help at all with the fire that crawls up your throat and scorches it dry.
A knock on the door comes like an answered prayer.
“May I enter?” You recognize the prince’s voice immediately, and you can barely manage a pathetic little rasp of ‘please’ that he must hear, because the door creaks open. He is quick to close the door behind him, his back turned to you as he makes sure your privacy is guarded from anybody passing by your room.
When he turns to face you, his body goes rigid.
“Gods.” He mutters, chest heaving. You can smell him, smooth clean leather, smoke and amber. Your mouth drops open to better breathe it in.
His eyes are drawn to your hand between your very open legs, and he blinks a long, slow blink before tearing his gaze away. You don’t have it in you to be ashamed, you can hardly think of anything but the fire eating away at you.
“Ser Duncan, wanted me to check on you first. Said he smelt you in the middle of the night. We want to make sure you’re still okay with this.”
We.
Your skin sizzles up your spine at the use of that word, lighting up like a puff of pollen thrown through fire.
“Yes.” You nearly hiss, back arching off the bed as your fingers speed up against yourself.
Swiftly, Baelor is back at the door, cracking it open and muttering something you can’t hear to somebody on the other side. He’s summoning your bull, you’re sure of it, and you whine at the promise of him.
You’re panting now, envisioning the breadth of him encompassing you, his broad shoulders dwarfing your frame beneath him. He’s so big, so big and perfect and Baelor is so good to you, finding you such a strong mate.
You writhe atop your bed, restless and searing, the thought of how well they provide for you hammering against your skull and driving the ache between your legs up into your abdomen.
Footsteps thunder down the stone hallway, and the smell of sweet swaying grass and heather finds you before he does. In all his desperate hurry, Dunk stills before the door to knock, only entering when Baelor urges him in.
Big, sparkling blue eyes find you, and his breath is punched from his lungs. His tail swishes wildly behind him, the copper tinged tuft at the end whipping against the door.
The sight of him is equivalent to the majesty of seeing a mountain for the first time. He looms, drawing your eye by his grand stature alone. The sun shines in through your window, bathing him in a light as gentle as his nature.
You sob, the fire licking at your skin muddling your mind and hindering your ability to beckon him forth. Baelor, ever reliable, does it for you. He drifts to your side, ushering Ser Duncan towards you.
“Have you had the honor of pleasuring a woman before, Ser Duncan?” Baelor asks calmly, his long rough fingers splaying across your belly, rubbing soothing circles against your hip. Instantly, you’re whimpering, unable to make out the conversation happening above you. Your whole being is shrunken down to the place where the prince is touching you. Another palm finds your side, rougher and bigger, spanning across your ribs and touching you so carefully the noise that leaves you is pained.
Light greets you once more as you open your eyes, unsure of when you’d closed them. There is still quiet murmuring above you, blurry vision makes out the shape of Baelor and Duncan, both looming above you, both with their hands on you.
Belatedly, you realize that Baelor is guiding Duncan, showing him how to touch you. That day those couple weeks ago flashes in your mind, Baelor mentioning a mutual understanding between the two men. You fight through the fog to watch the awe and admiration on your bull’s face as Baelor speaks low.
Briefly, you consider Ser Duncan’s impeccable self control, you can see the way his shoulders tense, nostrils flare, even the strain of his cock against his pants he ignores to dutifully listen to the prince.
That train of thought is ended, however, the second your wrists are snapped up in a careful grip, and a rough, sure thumb is pressed against your clit. Your gaze snaps away from the half-bull, finding Baelor’s eyes already on you. It is his thumb upon you, and your voice crackles out a moan.
Surely, you think, the dragons are not all gone, merely compacted into the body of their human bloodline, because this heat, this fire, is unlike anything you’ve ever known. You can’t draw your gaze away from his, savouring it as long as he will allow.
You moan when his touch shifts to your dripping core, and choke when a larger thumb quickly descends upon you. He mimics the fluid motion of the prince a bit clumsily, but the pressure he applies is divine. Baelor’s finger slips into you easily, and a second is quick to join. The third comes a moment later, after he’s expertly located the spongey spot inside of you that has the heat in your stomach easing from pained to euphoric.
His fingers pump into you, curling with each forward motion. You clench around him, the combined efforts of both men pushing you quickly towards release. Just when you think you might reach that peak, Baelor withdraws.
You cry out, only to be cut off as Duncan takes his place. The stretch of his fingers is absurd. You can hardly believe he’s only got two fingers in you, and when he follows Baelor’s lead and inserts a third, you come apart.
The half-bull’s breaths turn heavy, and his scent seems to shroud the room. It clings to your lungs, and you inhale greedily, mouth wide open. Baelor recognizes his companion’s control slipping, and he taps your knee carefully.
“Hand and knees.” He commands in that low, firm tone that sends pleasant shivers across your nerves. You follow the command, sluggishly rolling yourself over.
“Obedient girl.” He praises and Duncan grunts beside him in agreement.
When you struggle to force your knees beneath you, Baelor’s hands find your hips, lifting your ass into the air in one easy motion. Your head turns to look over your shoulder when you feel the heat of Duncan behind you. His gaze lifts from your exposed cunt to your eyes, and you can see the vast expanse of muscle beneath his skin twitch as he holds himself very still, trousers off, thick cock in hand, waiting for your permission.
“Please, Ser.” You beg, swaying your hips to draw him towards you, your tail swaying lazily above you. Like a spell is cast upon him, he is pulled forward, compelled. The blunt head of his cock nudges against your dripping hole, and it takes very little pressure for him to push into you.
“Oh, fuck.” He growls the words out, pained. Your slick walls swallow him, constricting the impossible size of his length and beckoning him deeper.
You’re babbling when he enters you, mind instantly empty aside from the feel of him within you. He thrusts into you slowly at first, still careful, big hands nearly encompassing your waist.
He’s fucking huge, and you’re losing your mind.
“Mm, more.” You plead, and he groans, thrusts picking up speed, hands digging into your hips to pull you back into him. When that’s still not enough, he folds himself over you. His arms, thick and solid like the elm on his shield wrap beneath you, holding you tight against him as he humps himself into you in a manner so feral you begin to wail. The heat sizzling throughout your body has shifted from a terrible ache to a terrible pleasure.
You can’t think, only aware of how big he is wrapped around you, how you’re completely immobile as he fucks his big cock into you like he’s honor bound to fuck you stupid- and what an honorable man he is.
His forehead finds the back of your neck, his horns barricade your throat so that you’re completely locked in place, every inch of you claimed by him.
Neither of you can manage to speak, the noises coming from your bed are purely animalistic. He pants and grunts above you, loud and reverent, one of his hands is splayed across your belly, big palm flat, feeling himself move within you and his fingers dipping down to press against your mound. The other hand spans your chest, cherishing your tits as they bounce with the force of him driving into you. His thumb knocks against your nipple, but he can barely concentrate on what his hands are doing as his length continues to bully its way inside of you.
Leather, smoke, and amber hits your nose and your eyes flash open, mouth caught in a moan that turns downright wanton as you catch sight of your prince. You’ve never seen him less than put together, and now he sits in the chair beside your bed, flushed cock fisted in his hand as he watches the Knight take you.
You come apart then, walls clenching tight around Ser Duncan, and he squeezes you impossibly tighter, his thirsts becoming frantic as he chases his release. Deep inside of you, he finds it, spilling his seed into your womb. Your limbs shake, turning to jelly, and you wonder if you’ll be crushed under the weight of him once he too relaxes, but Ser Duncan is strong in every sense of the word. He lifts himself easily from your back, his only struggle seeming to be pulling away from you, rather than the effort itself.
He guides you to your side, hands smoothing down your body in a comforting manner. You tremor beneath his careful attention, but soon you feel the heat starting to kick back up.
“Dunk.” Your voice is hoarse as you call to him, and he leans back to look down at you, concern written across his features.
You lift your leg, planting your heel on the bed so that you are once more spread out before him. His eyes drop to where a mixture of cum and slick leak out of you.
“More, please.” You urge, and he nods rapidly, moving to climb over you. When he does, you wind your hand up into his hair, pulling his face down to yours. For a moment, you both simply stare at one another, breaths mingling as you admire his big shining baby blues. A small grin spreads between the two of you before you press forward and push your lips to his. It's soft at first, until you lick dotingly into his mouth. He moans into yours as he allows your tongue to take control, and his hips begin to hump his cock against your stomach.
“Wait.” You pause, planting a hand on his chest, and he listens without a fuss, a string of saliva following him as he disconnects from your mouth and sits back as you readjust yourself. You lay on your back, head near the edge of the bed, turning it slightly towards the prince, whose fist is still slowly pumping himself.
“My prince.” You call to him, and he rises without question, eyes flitting over you quickly to assess for discomfort. When he finds none, he visibly relaxes.
“Just Baelor, while we are in this room.” When he speaks it is as steady as ever, yet there is a vulnerability in his eyes that makes your heart constrict within your chest.
“Very well, Baelor.” You test it with a grin, voice hoarse and sultry, and a nearly imperceptible shudder runs through him. “Come, allow me to pleasure you with my mouth while the brave knight fucks me.” Both men groan in tandem, but assemble wordlessly.
Duncan is back between your legs, cock hard once more. Your thighs burn from the strain as they spread impossibly wide to fit him between them, and the gummy, drooling walls of your cunt welcome him back like they missed him- they did.
Tilting your head back, your breath leaves you in a trembling huff as Duncan continues to fuck into you with all the stamina in the world. Your eyes lift, losing sight behind trembling eyelids, but you manage to keep them open when they finally rest upon Baelor. His cock is regal like the rest of him, standing firm even precum leaks from his tip.
Wordlessly, you open your mouth, beckoning him forth. He moves towards you, but halts before he bends down, hand cradling your jaw before his lips find yours. He kisses you deep, and his tongue is as smooth as it is in control. Where Duncan allowed you to take the lead, Baelor asserts himself without force, without question, and you give in without a fuss. You whine as he pulls away from you, granting you a fleeting peck before he rises. His hand pumps over the flushed head of his cock twice before he guides it towards your awaiting mouth. He is careful as he sets his length upon your tongue, and you find at this angle it is easy to take him deep within your throat. Reaching out and behind him, you push his hips forward, unable to move your neck where you lay.
Picking up on the cue instantly, he remains gentle as he begins to thrust. Slowly, his hips hips roll forwards into your awaiting maw, and you swallow around him, your tongue pressing into him wherever it can reach. It's loud as you hollow out your cheeks around him, savouring the smooth, velvety skin of his cock like it's a precious gift you’ve been granted- it is.
“Oh there we go.” He purrs, voice rumbling like a house cat beneath a sigh. His long, beautiful fingers dip into your hair, cording through it until he’s cradling your skull and you can feel the cool metal of his rings against your scalp. You moan around him, and the corner of his mouth quirks up into a grin. He and his apprentice are quick to learn what you like.
“Perfect little thing, you are.” He rumbles, and Duncan moans out his assent, the loud wet slap of his heavy balls hitting your ass growing louder as he picks up his thrusts. He’d been taking it slow, careful not to overwhelm you as you’re stuffed in both directions, but his control has begun to slip as the sweet wrap of your pussy around his cock draws him deeper into pleasure.
Your knight’s head falls to your ribs below your breasts, his big arms sweeping beneath you once more, now wrapping around your back. His palms cradle your rib cage on either side, and your body is blistering beneath him. The soft patchy fuzz of his ears tickle your skin, and his horns press across your breasts, cool keratin rubbing against your nipples.
His tail wraps around your limp, bobbing thigh; your own lay trapped beneath you. It brings you no discomfort, and even if it had you’re so deeply drowning in pleasure that you would hardly notice.
Baelor’s hips speed up slightly, still controlled, still careful, and you hum around him, unable to tell him that he can be as rough as he’d like. Although when you look at his face, eyes concentrated on where he disappears into your mouth, eyelids fluttering shut for a moment before he forces them back open to look again, you realize that maybe this is what he enjoys. That careful control, your doting mouth, he knows perfectly well what he’s doing. Dragging out his pleasure as long as he can, waiting till you cue him in on your own release.
It’s approaching rapidly, and your moans hum around Baelor’s cock as Duncan presses himself tight against you, and the thick, strong meat of his abdomen begins to slide against your clit in tandem with his thrusts.
“Fuck.” Baleor curses from above you.
“Oh, fuck.” Duncan curses from atop you.
Baelor pulls his cock from your throat, pumping it with his fist in the same measured strokes of his thrusts into your mouth.
“Where?” He asks, eyes on you.
You don’t speak, merely open your mouth wide once more, and he pins you with a look filled so deeply with desire that your body shudders once more, core clenching tight around the knight within you, who chokes out a ‘gods’ against the sweltering skin of your sternum.
“Seven above.” Baelor swears, before sliding back into your mouth, less calculated now that you all approach release.
You don’t know who began to match who, but somehow, the two men within you work in tandem. Synchronized thrusts throw you over the edge and your core squeezes tight around Duncan’s cock now spilling within you once more.
Baelor is right there with you, and breathily he warns you of his release before he spills down your throat. Moaning, you swallow it all, a glutton for all that he’s willing to give you.
He pulls out of you first, concerned over your ability to breathe, huffing a fond laugh as he watches your lips break out into a dopey grin.
Dunk is slower to release you this time, his arms still wound tightly around you, cock still buried deep within you. Drowsily, you watch Baelor tuck himself away. The comfort of his hand finds your head, sweeping a thumb up against your ear, he rubs it twice.
With a mournful sigh, he pulls his hand away.
“Regretfully, I have much more uninteresting matters to attend to today.”
You frown to communicate you wish he could stay, but nod in understanding.
“Though I suspect this will not be over any time soon?” He smiles knowingly, eyeing the bull still buried within you.
Duncan rumbles out a laugh against your ribs, and you don’t even attempt to bite back the eager grin that crawls upon your lips.
“We’ll be waiting.” You assure, and he dips down to press a lingering kiss to the damp skin of your forehead. He’s gone soon after, but you don’t worry about his absence. He’ll be back soon enough.