baelor's dowager princess

The first time you see Baelor naked, the air catches in your throat and you can sense every inch of your body tingling with thrill.

The atmosphere is electric, heavy with his scent, with longing. He has been lusting after you all through the wedding ceremony, and even worse, throughout the entire time that he has been courting you, so patiently and earnestly.

And finally, the night had come.

Baelor has helped you pull down his pants and smallclothes, and your lips fall open when his manhood springs out, so hard and dripping already, so ready for you.

Sure, the size is remarkable and appetizing to say the least, but the most arousing feature is the trail of little curls that leads to his crotch.

More specifically, the path of white curls that marks the way through his dark hair below his stomach.

Your tongue follows it religiously.

Baelor trembles and moans and grunts in response to your sweet attention, glancing down at you with hazy eyes and a face transfixed with desire and love.

“So this is where Valarr inherited his own little white streak,” you tease, a sly smile peeking out of the darkness as you snuggle closer between his opened legs.

Baelor blushes deeply, suddenly feeling like a shy young boy in love, and is relieved that his embarrassment is obscured by the shadows of the bedchamber.

Even so, his sudden self-consciousness is plain to hear in his low, trembling voice. “You—you don't like it?”

You huff warm air against the sensitive skin of his pelvis, kissing the silvery hairs once again before looking up at him through your lashes, “My Prince, I think it's one of the most beautiful and attractive things you have.”

He flutter his closed eyes, one of his hands sliding down to your hair as your tongue teased the plump tip of his cock, gasping your name under his breath.

“Which one is the most for you?”

You smile lightly at his hesitant question, understanding that the passing of the years and the absence of his former wife has left their mark on him. On his body, on his sense of self-worth. And definitely on his desire to please you, to be worthy of you.

You kiss his tip, greedily scooping up the drops of seed that trickle from his slit, and his thighs twitch beneath your hand.

“Your eyes, your voice, your hair,” you begin to recite, grabbing his cock in your hand so you could drag your tongue all over it, giving yourself extra time to kiss the spot in between his heavy, full balls before heading back up. “And definitely this now.”

Your husband chokes out a small laugh that crawls up from deep in his throat, cutting short the moment when you guide his cock into your mouth, sucking on the tip.

His hand sinks into your hair, tugging gently. “Slowly— slow. That's it. Go easy, yeah?” he pleads in his rough voice, interrupted by pants and grunts. “It's been a while...”

To his pleasant surprise, you do as he asks, taking your time to appreciate him and make him enjoy his own pleasure. Every single time your warm tongue glides over his silver-haired path, you feel a spasm course through his body.

You indulge in the salty-sweet taste of his desire on his skin, feeling his cock throbbing hard in your hand, demanding for more.

And you move up again, tracking the length of his shaft with the tip of your tongue, outlining the veins that bulge beneath the taut skin, all the way back to the white trail that adorns his lower abdomen so beautifully.

You kiss him right there, where the dark hair turns snowy white, a sign of lineage that now belongs solely to you.

“So you do like it...” Baelor teases you from up above, unable to hide the way his back arches and his fingers pull unconsciously at your hair. “Gods—”

“So beautiful,” you keep whispering sweet praises, kissing and petting him. “So pretty, Bae”

When you're finished and you're both trying to catch your breath, tangled up in the mess of bedding sprawled out on the bed, you lean towards him, gazing at him with a dazed smirk, your eyes gleaming with love in the afterglow.

“Do you think my child will have any white streaks in their hair?” you wonder, full of enthusiasm.

Baelor chuckles softly as he looks into your big, bright eyes, and then turns to face you, his hands sliding around your waist to pull you closer to him.

“If they do not,” he coaxes, thumb tracing lazy circles at your hip. “Then, we shall simply have to try again. And again. And again—”

You laugh, breathless, pressing your forehead to his chest affectionately. “Is that your only solution to everything, my love?”

“When the problem is this delightful?” he asks back, delicate lips brushing your hair. “Yes.”

Baelor rolls with you gently until you are beneath him, careful, mindful, his weight supported on his forearms so he does not crush you. And he looks down at you with those beautiful tow-toned eyes, beaming with love and deep affection.

“If the gods grant us a child,” he murmurs drowsily, arms embracing your body as he lets himself fall on top of you, his face snuggling into your chest, “they will be born of love. That much I swear.”

“Then let them have your stubbornness,” you whisper sleepily. “And your white streak.”