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There’s a moment where the wine and the endorphins hit your bloodstream at the same time. Where the music on the TV crests into an orgasmic little harmony. You sway to the feeling of the ceiling fan doing nothing to cool the heat that blooms over your whole body, to the sound of fabric kissing the floor. The glass is pebbled over with condensation, lukewarm against your lips. You run a lazy finger through the moisture. So cool amidst the lust-warmed haze in Baelor’s bedroom. Three bodies all burning together.
Baelor’s made quick work of Duncan’s trousers. They pool on the floor along with his shirt and your own clothes. You linger on a mouthful of moscato while he dips his fingers under Dunk’s boxers and frees his cock. The back of your throat burns. Those long, slender hands that have held you and undone you time and time again are utterly dwarfed by Dunk’s length. His rings shine in the low, sultry light as he strokes him once, twice, tracing a vein that pulses all the way from his heavy balls to his leaking tip.
Face turning a dozen shades of red, Dunk’s eyelids flutter before he catches your gaze. His mouth hangs agape, hands unsure of whether to clench at his sides or anchor themselves into Baelor’s shirt. He might be a head taller but he shrinks under his touch, melting into those experienced strokes. There’s a plea in that look. Sheer desperation laid bare.
“You want to fuck her.” It’s not a question, but Baelor still says it like he expects a response. Between your tipsy bliss and Dunk’s shy hesitance, you get the sense that he’s the one directing this strange film playing out between you three.
“Yeah, I… if you—” Dunk swallows, heated flush spreading down across his chest, “I mean, if you’d let me.”
Baelor steps back, fixing you with his blue-brown stare. “Is that what you want, sweet girl?”
“Yes.” You don’t even have to think about it. Your mind’s wiped clean. No anxious nagging in the back of your skull, just pure unadulterated want.
Taking your face in both of his hands, he kisses you hard, a fierce clash of lips and teeth and tongue. It’s the sort of kiss that lays claim. Leaves an invisible mark afterwards. Your head is still spinning from it as he lays back against the headboard, beckoning you into his lap. And like a good lapdog, you obey, nestling in between his legs. Practiced fingers trace the line of your spine. Your bra comes off, tossed to the side. He kisses your collarbone and your shoulder before guiding your back against his chest. Tucked tight enough to feel the rise and fall of his breath, you sigh and surrender.
Duncan hovers by the edge of the bed, hands clasped shyly in front of his erection. His eyes can’t hide, though. They’re glued to your chest, wide and blue as the sea, drinking in the sight of you. A wine-tinted giggle spills from your mouth.
“You’ve seen my tits before.” It was one time. An accident. You were changing for a night out and forgot to lock the door to the loo. You hadn’t thought anything of it then. It was the kind of moment friends could laugh about, brush off, forget. But you haven’t forgotten.
Neither has he. “Not like this.”
“Come here,” Baelor beckons, tracing the outline of your nipples with his fingertips. “Do you want to touch her?”
He doesn’t answer. Too enchanted, he kneels into the mattress without blinking, reaching a broad palm to the heat of your body. You’re expecting a clumsy touch. You’ve seen his hands coated in mud, gripping the ball during a mess of a rugby match. They’ve changed your flat tires, assembled your furniture, hauled your grocery bags halfway across the city. And yet he’s delicate. He mirrors Baelor’s motions, an astute student, barely grazing your nipple with the pad of his thumb. Goosebumps bloom like little flowers on your skin.
“Isn’t she soft?” Baelor kisses the side of your head, humming his approval. “Try using your mouth.”
Dunk lets out a quivering breath, staring at him in disbelief. You reach for his head, guiding him in, knitting your hands into his tousled ginger strands. At the first swipe of his tongue across the flesh of your breast, you gasp and roll your body into him. His warm, wet mouth closes around your nipple, sucking and nuzzling while you play with his hair. It’s a moment you could live in forever. Him lapping at your tits. Baelor planting soft kisses in a halo around your head. But your hips betray your want, bucking insistently as your core begins to simmer.
“You need to be wet if you’re going to take him.” Baelor strokes your side, down to the round of your hip. “Is she wet, Duncan?”
“Wh—” Dunk pulls away, mussed and dazed, like he’s drunk off of the taste of your skin. “Huh?”
Too impatient to let him catch up, you try to shimmy off your underwear, but Baelor stops you. “Let him do that.”
“Is that okay, Winger?” Dunk asks, earnest as ever. You know, as true as the blue sky and the rising of the sun, that if you said no he’d stop. He’d cut his hand off before it did you any harm.
“Yes,” you smile up at him, lifting your hips so he can slide your underwear down your legs. He takes the time to fold the dampened fabric, place it off to the side rather than tossing it to the floor like you might’ve done. Cool air caresses the weeping heat of you. His hands come to perch on your thighs while he stares at your glistening core. Excitement mingles with anticipation. You take his right forearm, pulling it in to press a kiss to his palm before you settle his hand right at your center. The contact makes your skin prickle, a soft moan escaping your mouth as Dunk’s eyes flit to Baelor’s, wordlessly asking permission.
“Do what she wants, sweet boy,” is Baelor’s gentle command.
You watch in spellbound fascination as Dunk’s fingers trace experimental lines over the slick folds of your cunt. Each stroke, each prod sends little sparks shimmering up to your stomach. His other hand grips your thigh like he’ll float away into the city-stained night sky otherwise. Circles spiral around your clit, over your labia, down to where arousal drips from your hole.
Against your back, you can feel the slight press of Baelor’s cock starting to stiffen. Your breath, subconsciously syncopated with his, stutters at Dunk’s exploratory ministrations. There’s a subtle shift, an oh-so-small grind against your ass, and you crane your neck to offer Baelor your mouth. His salt-and-pepper stubble tickles your cheek. Just as he slips his tongue past your aching lips, there’s a prod and a push—
“Oh, fuck.”
“Are you alright?” Worry shades Dunk’s voice. You can feel him going still, about to withdraw the lovely fullness of his finger.
“Keepgoing,” you beg, canting your hips towards him. Diligent as ever, he nods, angling his wrist so he can learn all the ridges and curves inside of you. Once he’s knuckle-deep, he withdraws just as slow. Then another finger, testing the stretch. Heat begins to build in your core. He’s observant, eager, quick to catch onto which spots are most sensitive, which movements draw gasps and moans.
“Is that good, love?” You mhm in response to Baelor, trying to lose yourself in the strong, steady sensations. “Talk to her, Duncan.”
“You’re so beautiful.” Trying to make eye contact, he keeps getting distracted by watching his own fingers shining with your juices. Mumbling, he adds: “Your cunt’s so pretty.”
Praise shoots through your bloodstream like a drug. Baelor’s throat makes a little hum of agreement, vibrating against you. You grin and preen, reaching out to run your hands down Dunk’s chest, over the slight pudge covering his abs, down to where his cock is nestled amidst ginger curls. He’s so unbelievably solid. Your mountain of a man, crumbling under your touch. He trembles as you run your thumb over the tip.
“You’re pretty too,” you murmur, eyelashes batting, and his fingers flex inside you. You’ve soaked his hand, sticky webs of fluid spreading onto the sheets and down to his wrist. Such a gorgeous mess.
“Give me your hand,” Baelor says, and Dunk offers the one that had still been digging into your thigh. “The other one.”
“Oh! Oh.”
Baelor’s chest rumbles with hushed laughter and, even though the loss of contact is an empty ache, you’re beaming as you watch Dunk offer his palm. You can smell the heady scent, the salt of you. Baelor takes him by the wrist and spits right along his heart line.
“Go on,” he prods, voice dropping dangerously low, “give her your cock.”
Fisting his cock with his fluid-drenched hand, Duncan gives you a searching look. “Is that… can I? D’you want to?”
Your hands dance against his chest, up to his shoulder, pulling him in close, forehead pressing against his. You can feel his breath minging with yours and Baelor’s ghosting across the back of your neck. There’s a split second of stillness. And then, soft as rain, Dunk kisses you.
It’s simple. No chaos. Just his chapped lips seeking out little brushes of contact. It’s you who deepens it. You tilt your head, letting his tongue trace the seam of your mouth, all while Baelor strokes your thigh and plants his own kisses along your shoulder. Whatever this is, growing between him and him and you, you want it. You want to let it grow, let it blossom, let it explode into being. You want it to encircle your whole life, live in the shade of its safety. You want this world. With them. Just them.
“I want to,” you whisper into his mouth, spreading your legs further. He’s longer and thicker than Baelor. You’ll hurt tomorrow. You want to hurt tomorrow. You can see all the muscles in his chest straining as he lines up his tip, burying his face in your other shoulder while he starts to thrust inside you.
“Is… oh, fuck, are you alright? Is this alright?” He babbles, but he keeps going. Restraint’s out the window now. Your open mouth makes a noise that might be a yes. Vision gone blurry, you blink and look down, expecting to see him fully sheathed inside you. It’s barely halfway in.
“Good girl. You can take it,” Baelor reassures you, smoothing a hand over your sweaty forehead.
Dunk lets out a whimper. “‘m not hurtin’ you, am I?”
“I wouldn’t let you do that.” Maybe it’s meant to be a comfort, maybe it’s meant as a threat. You don’t care. You just breathe in and out, head lolling to the side while Dunk starts to thrust in earnest. Warmth ripples through your body. The shallow movements start to deepen. You let the pleasure start to swallow you, so satisfied at being filled deeper than you ever have before—
Baelor takes your chin and forces you back to center, to look at Dunk while he ruts on top of you.
“Stay right here.” He kisses the shell of your ear. “Feel it for me.”
Dunk’s lips find yours you again while Baelor holds your chin. It’s inelegant. You’re whimpering and jutting your hips, trying to fuck yourself on his cock. He’s less graceful than Baelor, just humping and groaning and melting into whatever movements you provoke. But he fills you in a different way. It’s thrilling, how unpracticed and unsure he is. How eager he is to please you. And while his restraint is so handsome, you’re wondering what it’d look like if it snapped.
You want to see it. You want all of him, as much as you want all of Baelor. Their darkness, their light. As long as they took all of you in return.
He catches your eyes as he comes up for air and makes a strangled noise, going still and breathing hard. Cock pulsing hard inside your plush cunt, you can tell he’s trying not to come.
“It’s okay. I want it,” you plead.
“No, wanna… make you feel good.” He nuzzles your cheek with his nose, starting to move again. “My best girl. I should’ve… I wanna make you come.”
“We have all night,” Baelor interrupts. And from the insistent nudge of his fully-erect cock against your back, you can guess what’s next. But for now, you clutch Dunk possessively, meeting each thrust with a squeeze and a roll of your hips.
“Piss off,” he snaps, and then groans and shakes his head. “‘m sorry, sorry—”
“It’s alright, love,” you say before Baelor can intervene again. “Just take what you need. Okay? This is for you. I’m… I’m all for you.”
His cock bottoms out, balls slapping against your ass as he drives back inside with slow but forceful thrusts. Your shaky hands brush tears off of his cheeks. He’s so beautiful. Your Dunk.
“I love you,” you whisper.
“Oh, fuck, I—” His hips stutter, and he looks deep into your eyes. “I love you. My girl, my fuckin… my Winger, I love you, I love—”
All the heat crystallizes and shatters, snapping into sheer bliss that courses from your temples to your toea. Dunk bows his head, gasping as he comes. The thick fill of it engulfs you, brings you right to the edge with him. You’re so slick that his cock pops free. Still, he’s coming, painting your mound and stomach with white. He grips his shaft, trying to slip back into the heat of you, pushing the spill of his come back inside while he rides out his high. It’s the prettiest sight you’ve ever seen.
Baelor slips his hand over your thigh, collecting a dribble of semen to make the slip of his fingers against your clit even smoother. It doesn’t take much to make you come. Your release is just that: release. A cry decrescendoing into a sigh while the flutter of your walls milks the last drops of cum out of Dunk’s tender cock. Beautiful girl, Baelor’s voice echoes through your hazy head, perfect girl, sweet girl, my love.
“I love you.” You repeat, not sure who you’re talking to this time. Over and over, a litany coursing from deep in your chest, you babble nonsense and loyalty and longing. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love—
But Baelor is licking the words right off of your tongue, and then Dunk is drinking them out of the corner of your mouth, and your lips are on someone’s and someone’s hand is pressing over your heart and there’s a broken sound being lost to the white noise of the bedroom. And then you’re blinking your eyes open just as Baelor grips the back of Dunk’s head and slots their lips together. Love, Baelor’s choking out, good boy, my love, while Dunk just whimpers thank you. Thankyouthankyouthankyou.
There’s a moment where you can’t tell who’s saying what. Where your bodies collapse into each other like dying stars, reshaping the fabric of space all around you. One pulse of barren desire. All you’ve ever wanted and all you ever will want. Such a gorgeous sound you all make, wet and wanton and thrumming with devotion. Such a song.