h. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mirrorwitches) wrote2024-01-04 12:48 pm
mirrorwitches) wrote2024-01-04 12:48 pm
(hotd) a son is a son until he marries
Title: a son is a son until he marries
Fandom: House of the Dragon
Pairings: Alicent/Aegon, Alicent/Helaena
Length: 2.5k, 1/1
Rating: Explicit
Tags: Rape/Non-Con, Parent/Child Incest, Past Rape/Non-con, Childbirth, Vaginal Sex, Cunnilingus, Come Eating, girl the cycles
Author’s Note: sequel to a daughter is a daughter all her life.
Summary:
“Your sister…”
Aegon rolls his eyes. “Did she run and tattle to mummy?”
It is a month after her daughter’s wedding.
Helaena’s skin has always bruised so easily.
The lightest brush against a table, a chair; she flinches away as if it had cruel hands that reached out and pinched and slapped and scratched. It was almost as if they did, as if her flesh manifested a rough handling others could not see, that delicate contact making itself visible in bruises of mauve-rose that curdled to yellow-green. Under her brother’s pinches and slaps and scratches her eyes are dreamy, far away, bored, not at all the sudden rush of tears glazing them after she leaps back from the table, the chair, only to be met by the wall, the window, to turn around and around desperately, pinned on all sides with her palms clasped over her ears as if the reaching hands are actually mouths that ceaselessly shout. The marks that peak out that same evening from under the collar of her nightgown or adorn her bare goosepimpled knee seem to shock her, their origins in Aegon’s twisting fingers mere hours before not even registered as memory. “I expect it from Aegon, I suppose. But I just never expect chairs to be as present as they are,” she explains, incomprehensibly.
The dawn after Helaena’s wedding night rent it with a morning of piercing brightness that thrust through the windows of Aegon’s chambers, flooded across the floor with a burning white light that picked out every last one once it clawed up the bed and over the sheets to lay itself hot on her pearly skin when Alicent drew back the coverlet to allow it entry.
Now she stands by the bed in her son’s chambers once more. The bruises continue to proliferate. Handholds on her narrow hips. Purple fingerprints on her soft inner thighs. The imprint of teeth on her small breasts.
“You cannot turn her black-and-blue like one of your slatterns. She is your sister, and now your lady wife. What were you doing with her?”
Aegon slumps by the window and even though it is no later in the morning than when Alicent went to wake her daughter, he is already swilling wine from a flask.
(Not immediately, Allicent entered and sat on the edge of the bed and simply looked at the bursting radiance that erupted from the nest of bedding where the sun met the top of Helaena’s skull, the long tangled strands of her hair escaping the burrow she’d made to filigree the pillow, light, light racing along gilt wire. She hadn’t wanted to disturb it, that dim fleshflushed cavern where her daughter’s transformed body cradled.)
“Exactly what you wanted me to do. Pumping her royal cunt full of future princes.”
Alicent wants to smack him. She tries to smile sweetly. He is trying his best to provoke her, and she hates how often she allows him to succeed. “You are right, my love. You are doing your duty by your house. The fault is mine. I have not given you proper guidance on how best to perform it. Your father is not well enough to give proper guidance.”
“Isn’t that exactly the guidance he gave me?” Alicent had insisted that Viserys talk to his son before he wed. She had explained to their daughter her duty, and as king and father he must do the same with Aegon. She had been there as he fiddled with his model and explained that whores were fine before marriage, but now he would treasure his wife, the mother of his children. He’d nattered fondly about his own parents. You are lucky enough to have a sister. “I did exactly what you and father wanted me to do.”
“Your father would not want you to treat your sister roughly.” Viserys had never been rough with her. “As I said, we did not give you enough guidance. On how to be a loving husband, a tender husband.”
Alicent sits on the bed, and pats the place beside her. He looks at her warily before shuffling over. He stares down at his lap. She grabs him by the chin to turn his face up and towards her. His eyes search hers with that foolish, bewildered expression that makes her want to scream. She tucks his hair behind his ears and sighs. Gazes into his bloodshot eyes and tries not to flinch from the sour breath that gusts against her cheek.
“There are ways to make it a good experience for a woman.” Whores were well enough before marriage, according to Viserys, but they did not teach one how to treat a princess, a queen, a wife. Aegon knew too keenly that he could do whatever he liked to them, and could give in to his basest instincts without consequence. Viserys’ days on the Street of Silk were long past when Alicent came to his bed. He often said how his beloved Aemma had made a man of him. Alicent remembered Rhaenyra’s elegant, gracious mother and wondered how much she owed her predecessor for encouraging an instinctive gentleness in her husband. Alicent is queen; her daughter will be queen after her.
She kisses him. A soft, teasing brush of her lips. She tries to stop the thought but such a kiss brings to her mind Rhaenyra, beneath the weirwood. A kiss that was so careful, so new.
For a moment, Aegon kisses her back just as carefully, almost tremulously. Then he slips his tongue in her mouth.
Always demanding too much. Like Rhaenyra. Alicent makes a noise of disgust and jerks back.
“Is that what father did with you? Nice little kisses until you spread your legs?”
“Aegon.”
“I know all this. I know how to show a woman a good time. I can show you.”
Her son puts his hand to her crotch. She tries to push him away, but he paws at her. Like Aemond, her baby, the child she’d insisted on feeding of her own breast, digging for the teat with his fat grasping little hands.
“I want you to show your sister.”
“She’s my wife. I don’t have to. I can do whatever I want with her and you can’t do anything about it and it drives you mad.”
Aegon is trying to get under her skirts, bunching the fabric in his fists and pushing it up her legs. She tries to fend him off, but he bats her hands away easily. She realizes with a lurch of her stomach how much stronger her son is than her.
He shoves his fingers up her. She clenches her thighs together around his wrist and feels the digits sprouting from it wriggle like worms into the cleft of her cunt. “The whores don’t like that,” Alicent snaps. “They only moan because you’re paying them.”
She takes a deep calming. Right. She is here because she needs to show him.
Alicent grips his wrist. She widens her legs, and in surprise he stills his questing fingers. With her hand over his she pushes his fingers against her slowly. For a moment he lets her guide him, pliant, teachable, his breath coming faster.
Show him how much better it could be. What genuine moans sound like, a woman’s genuine pleasure. Helaena’s genuine whimpers as she’s treated so sweetly. Alicent moans herself, thinking about it.
“I know father never licked at you. Has someone ever eaten your cunt?” Aegon says excitedly.
“Don’t be filthy,” Alicent hisses. “If you can’t stop yourself from saying disgusting things—”
Aegon goes totally still.
“I’m disgusting?” His laugh is harsh and grating and before she can even try to fight him off he has her pinned to the bed by her wrists holding himself above her. “You fucking hypocrite. I saw you. The morning after the wedding. Licking at your own daughter’s cunt. Why shouldn't I get a taste too?”
“I didn’t let her touch me. I only gave the poor girl a bit of pleasure, after you mauled her.”
(When Alicent finally woke her daughter, the morning was growing old. But there is still only so much allowance that can be made for an exhausted or bashful bride. She must be gowned, seen, Princess Helaena Targaryen, Aegon’s sister-wife, the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and anyway it was better to get it over with. Alicent remembered how brutal the morning after had been, the lingering looks, the sly smirks: what had happened in the night was not over, she had been transformed, from daughter to wife, girl to woman, lady to queen, and she brought the self that had been transformed with her. That was the point of it all, that was what had happened to her, she wasn’t allowed to leave it behind her in the bed. People’s eyes on her made it present in every moment. They knew what had happened, it was in every murmured Your Grace because it was why they must, and it was better to get it over with and then it faded a bit, it wouldn’t be so present, it could remain in the bed in the night, she was a queen and being a queen was yoked to that, she wasn’t born to it, she was made into it by what happened in that bed but it faded a bit, because being queen spoke for it, melded with it, and thus effaced it, or rather eclipsed it, at least until she was pregnant, with Aegon, and then it started up again, the queen was making a prince within her and every approving smile conjured it.)
Aegon is shoving his pants down his hips, trying to find her entrance. She feels the wet head hard cock bumping her inner thighs, smearing them. Panicked, she says, “Alright, you can—you can—”
“Say it.”
Her mouth works uselessly.
“Say it, mother. Say eat my cunt.”
“E-eat,” she stutters. Rolls her eyes at herself, at this farce. “Eat my cunt,” she finishes flatly. “Really, you fool, you’ve had your fun, made your point, humiliated your mother—”
“Too late,” Aegon grins, and pushes into her.
Alicent goes limp, even though her mind is screaming. Get out, get out, she wants him out, just as she did in childbed. Her cunt seizes, trying to force him back out, her breath distressed, she needs him out, he can’t come back in.
(She had been alone that first morning. She had ensured that Helaena would not be alone as Alicent had been when she woke in the king’s bed and felt the seep of mingled blood and semen between her legs, trying to breath evenly and deeply and imagining that when she opened her eyes the morning after her wedding would go as she had always assumed it would go: Rhaenyra perched on the edge of the mattress asking her what it was like, or perhaps if she had wed first saying, See, it’s not so bad, I told you, demanding to know how much it had hurt or smugly telling her it would soon get better. If only what trickled from Alicent’s cunt was not her father’s seed, the seed that would gods willing make the brother that would cast her down.)
That brother grips Alicent’s hips. It is now the turn of her thighs to have these bruises worried into them. His eyes are screwed shut as he thrusts into her, grunting. This is what her daughter sees, how his father used her. His eyes open onto what his father saw, when he could still summon Alicent to his bed. Her cunt spasms and relaxes, spasms and relaxes, in an instinctive rhythm. Not wanting to take it, knowing she must.
“This is what you wanted, mother. This is what I did, just like you wanted.”
(Her cunt spasmed. Viserys’ had said, You’re too tight, sweetling, maunovering her with a hand on her thigh so she was forced to open to him, groaning as he sank a little deeper. Try to relax. She had tried. She was being good, and he was being so considerate with her, she was lucky—any of those bold young lords that Alicent expected to marry and that would have allowed Rhaenyra to dance into the room eager for gossip about the night’s secrets would not be so mindful. Like Aegon, they would take what they wanted. They would not pause to let her relax, to let her mind instruct her body in its duty, to take her husband where he was made to go. In the childbed she had looked down at the purple dome of Aegon’s head splitting her cunt apart between her blood smeared thighs and remembered the moment she felt Viserys’ cock rip her maidenhead, the sharp sting of sundered flush, and the midwife had said Do not push now, Your Grace, you’ll tear and cried aloud shocking everyone, Get out, get out, get out! She could get this one out, she must, and she bore down, and felt herself tear, not to modest little droplets of blood on the sheets like she saw when she finally opened her eyes to the empty room and looked down at her queen’s body, but a great, satisfying gush, laughing in giddy relief, lighter than air, as her first son worked with her to claw himself free with his own heartbreaking wail of shock.)
She surges up to kiss him. First savagely, then softening. The frantic drill of Aegon’s hips into hers slows, halts, as grinds within her and kisses her back on a whimper. Yes, this is what she wanted. Just—gently. Be gentle. So carefully, the light caress of her tongue against his. Fuck a queen, exactly like this. Alicent puts her hands to his own hips so she can guide him through rhythmic rolls. She slides her hand between their bodies. He knocks it away to replace it with his own. He stares intently into her face as he touches her.
(Alicent pulled back the sheets to reveal her daughter’s bruised body. She stroked the outside of Helaena’s thigh while her daughter peered at her through the white-gold cloud over her face and said, “Show mother, now,” there would be no hushed gossip, no giggling, no burying her blushing cheek in Rhaenyra’s shoulder as she shook with laughter and asked how he kissed, was there too much tongue, did his breath smell sweet or did it taste of garlic, none of it was unknown, there were the bruises, there was her daughter’s cunt turned a puffy, angry red from hard use, her son’s seed oozing from her swollen passage and battered lips and Alicent lowered her head to brush apologetic kisses across the aching flesh, Helaena hissed and she said, “Let mother kiss it better, my darling,” and Helaena relaxed, she wouldn’t go inside her poor brave hole, just these butterfly kisses against her to reward her for being so very good, the salty tang of Helaena’s wetness on her tongue, originally she was dry but she started to dampen as her hips rose against Alicent’s mouth and little snorting sighs fall from hers, and the dry crust of Aegon’s spend reliquifies with her spit and Helaena’s arousal and he didn’t give her girl pleasure, he was rough, until he could give his royal seed to her with respect owed it and her it should not take root in her daughter, so she ate up every last drop onto her own tongue, licked her daughter clean and trembling.)
“It makes you tighten up,” Aegon says breathlessly. “Good. You’re loose from churning out brats.”
From you. From bearing you. A wound. Plugged.
She almost comes. She squeezes herself on him to make him come, to get him out. His face is buried in her shoulder. She touches his hair and he moans, “Mother,” so she keeps stroking it, kisses his ear, so he gasps, so she keeps kissing it, flutters her cunt around him and thinks about him kissing her so softly between her legs as he fucks into her steady as they work to get him out.
Fandom: House of the Dragon
Pairings: Alicent/Aegon, Alicent/Helaena
Length: 2.5k, 1/1
Rating: Explicit
Tags: Rape/Non-Con, Parent/Child Incest, Past Rape/Non-con, Childbirth, Vaginal Sex, Cunnilingus, Come Eating, girl the cycles
Author’s Note: sequel to a daughter is a daughter all her life.
Summary:
“There are ways to make it a good experience for a woman.” Whores were well enough before marriage, according to Viserys, but they did not teach one how to treat a princess, a queen, a wife. Aegon knew too keenly that he could do whatever he liked to them, and could give in to his basest instincts without consequence. Viserys’ days on the Street of Silk were long past when Alicent came to his bed. He often said how his beloved Aemma had made a man of him. Alicent remembered Rhaenyra’s elegant, gracious mother and wondered how much she owed her predecessor for encouraging an instinctive gentleness in her husband. Alicent is queen; her daughter will be queen after her.
“Your sister…”
Aegon rolls his eyes. “Did she run and tattle to mummy?”
It is a month after her daughter’s wedding.
Helaena’s skin has always bruised so easily.
The lightest brush against a table, a chair; she flinches away as if it had cruel hands that reached out and pinched and slapped and scratched. It was almost as if they did, as if her flesh manifested a rough handling others could not see, that delicate contact making itself visible in bruises of mauve-rose that curdled to yellow-green. Under her brother’s pinches and slaps and scratches her eyes are dreamy, far away, bored, not at all the sudden rush of tears glazing them after she leaps back from the table, the chair, only to be met by the wall, the window, to turn around and around desperately, pinned on all sides with her palms clasped over her ears as if the reaching hands are actually mouths that ceaselessly shout. The marks that peak out that same evening from under the collar of her nightgown or adorn her bare goosepimpled knee seem to shock her, their origins in Aegon’s twisting fingers mere hours before not even registered as memory. “I expect it from Aegon, I suppose. But I just never expect chairs to be as present as they are,” she explains, incomprehensibly.
The dawn after Helaena’s wedding night rent it with a morning of piercing brightness that thrust through the windows of Aegon’s chambers, flooded across the floor with a burning white light that picked out every last one once it clawed up the bed and over the sheets to lay itself hot on her pearly skin when Alicent drew back the coverlet to allow it entry.
Now she stands by the bed in her son’s chambers once more. The bruises continue to proliferate. Handholds on her narrow hips. Purple fingerprints on her soft inner thighs. The imprint of teeth on her small breasts.
“You cannot turn her black-and-blue like one of your slatterns. She is your sister, and now your lady wife. What were you doing with her?”
Aegon slumps by the window and even though it is no later in the morning than when Alicent went to wake her daughter, he is already swilling wine from a flask.
(Not immediately, Allicent entered and sat on the edge of the bed and simply looked at the bursting radiance that erupted from the nest of bedding where the sun met the top of Helaena’s skull, the long tangled strands of her hair escaping the burrow she’d made to filigree the pillow, light, light racing along gilt wire. She hadn’t wanted to disturb it, that dim fleshflushed cavern where her daughter’s transformed body cradled.)
“Exactly what you wanted me to do. Pumping her royal cunt full of future princes.”
Alicent wants to smack him. She tries to smile sweetly. He is trying his best to provoke her, and she hates how often she allows him to succeed. “You are right, my love. You are doing your duty by your house. The fault is mine. I have not given you proper guidance on how best to perform it. Your father is not well enough to give proper guidance.”
“Isn’t that exactly the guidance he gave me?” Alicent had insisted that Viserys talk to his son before he wed. She had explained to their daughter her duty, and as king and father he must do the same with Aegon. She had been there as he fiddled with his model and explained that whores were fine before marriage, but now he would treasure his wife, the mother of his children. He’d nattered fondly about his own parents. You are lucky enough to have a sister. “I did exactly what you and father wanted me to do.”
“Your father would not want you to treat your sister roughly.” Viserys had never been rough with her. “As I said, we did not give you enough guidance. On how to be a loving husband, a tender husband.”
Alicent sits on the bed, and pats the place beside her. He looks at her warily before shuffling over. He stares down at his lap. She grabs him by the chin to turn his face up and towards her. His eyes search hers with that foolish, bewildered expression that makes her want to scream. She tucks his hair behind his ears and sighs. Gazes into his bloodshot eyes and tries not to flinch from the sour breath that gusts against her cheek.
“There are ways to make it a good experience for a woman.” Whores were well enough before marriage, according to Viserys, but they did not teach one how to treat a princess, a queen, a wife. Aegon knew too keenly that he could do whatever he liked to them, and could give in to his basest instincts without consequence. Viserys’ days on the Street of Silk were long past when Alicent came to his bed. He often said how his beloved Aemma had made a man of him. Alicent remembered Rhaenyra’s elegant, gracious mother and wondered how much she owed her predecessor for encouraging an instinctive gentleness in her husband. Alicent is queen; her daughter will be queen after her.
She kisses him. A soft, teasing brush of her lips. She tries to stop the thought but such a kiss brings to her mind Rhaenyra, beneath the weirwood. A kiss that was so careful, so new.
For a moment, Aegon kisses her back just as carefully, almost tremulously. Then he slips his tongue in her mouth.
Always demanding too much. Like Rhaenyra. Alicent makes a noise of disgust and jerks back.
“Is that what father did with you? Nice little kisses until you spread your legs?”
“Aegon.”
“I know all this. I know how to show a woman a good time. I can show you.”
Her son puts his hand to her crotch. She tries to push him away, but he paws at her. Like Aemond, her baby, the child she’d insisted on feeding of her own breast, digging for the teat with his fat grasping little hands.
“I want you to show your sister.”
“She’s my wife. I don’t have to. I can do whatever I want with her and you can’t do anything about it and it drives you mad.”
Aegon is trying to get under her skirts, bunching the fabric in his fists and pushing it up her legs. She tries to fend him off, but he bats her hands away easily. She realizes with a lurch of her stomach how much stronger her son is than her.
He shoves his fingers up her. She clenches her thighs together around his wrist and feels the digits sprouting from it wriggle like worms into the cleft of her cunt. “The whores don’t like that,” Alicent snaps. “They only moan because you’re paying them.”
She takes a deep calming. Right. She is here because she needs to show him.
Alicent grips his wrist. She widens her legs, and in surprise he stills his questing fingers. With her hand over his she pushes his fingers against her slowly. For a moment he lets her guide him, pliant, teachable, his breath coming faster.
Show him how much better it could be. What genuine moans sound like, a woman’s genuine pleasure. Helaena’s genuine whimpers as she’s treated so sweetly. Alicent moans herself, thinking about it.
“I know father never licked at you. Has someone ever eaten your cunt?” Aegon says excitedly.
“Don’t be filthy,” Alicent hisses. “If you can’t stop yourself from saying disgusting things—”
Aegon goes totally still.
“I’m disgusting?” His laugh is harsh and grating and before she can even try to fight him off he has her pinned to the bed by her wrists holding himself above her. “You fucking hypocrite. I saw you. The morning after the wedding. Licking at your own daughter’s cunt. Why shouldn't I get a taste too?”
“I didn’t let her touch me. I only gave the poor girl a bit of pleasure, after you mauled her.”
(When Alicent finally woke her daughter, the morning was growing old. But there is still only so much allowance that can be made for an exhausted or bashful bride. She must be gowned, seen, Princess Helaena Targaryen, Aegon’s sister-wife, the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and anyway it was better to get it over with. Alicent remembered how brutal the morning after had been, the lingering looks, the sly smirks: what had happened in the night was not over, she had been transformed, from daughter to wife, girl to woman, lady to queen, and she brought the self that had been transformed with her. That was the point of it all, that was what had happened to her, she wasn’t allowed to leave it behind her in the bed. People’s eyes on her made it present in every moment. They knew what had happened, it was in every murmured Your Grace because it was why they must, and it was better to get it over with and then it faded a bit, it wouldn’t be so present, it could remain in the bed in the night, she was a queen and being a queen was yoked to that, she wasn’t born to it, she was made into it by what happened in that bed but it faded a bit, because being queen spoke for it, melded with it, and thus effaced it, or rather eclipsed it, at least until she was pregnant, with Aegon, and then it started up again, the queen was making a prince within her and every approving smile conjured it.)
Aegon is shoving his pants down his hips, trying to find her entrance. She feels the wet head hard cock bumping her inner thighs, smearing them. Panicked, she says, “Alright, you can—you can—”
“Say it.”
Her mouth works uselessly.
“Say it, mother. Say eat my cunt.”
“E-eat,” she stutters. Rolls her eyes at herself, at this farce. “Eat my cunt,” she finishes flatly. “Really, you fool, you’ve had your fun, made your point, humiliated your mother—”
“Too late,” Aegon grins, and pushes into her.
Alicent goes limp, even though her mind is screaming. Get out, get out, she wants him out, just as she did in childbed. Her cunt seizes, trying to force him back out, her breath distressed, she needs him out, he can’t come back in.
(She had been alone that first morning. She had ensured that Helaena would not be alone as Alicent had been when she woke in the king’s bed and felt the seep of mingled blood and semen between her legs, trying to breath evenly and deeply and imagining that when she opened her eyes the morning after her wedding would go as she had always assumed it would go: Rhaenyra perched on the edge of the mattress asking her what it was like, or perhaps if she had wed first saying, See, it’s not so bad, I told you, demanding to know how much it had hurt or smugly telling her it would soon get better. If only what trickled from Alicent’s cunt was not her father’s seed, the seed that would gods willing make the brother that would cast her down.)
That brother grips Alicent’s hips. It is now the turn of her thighs to have these bruises worried into them. His eyes are screwed shut as he thrusts into her, grunting. This is what her daughter sees, how his father used her. His eyes open onto what his father saw, when he could still summon Alicent to his bed. Her cunt spasms and relaxes, spasms and relaxes, in an instinctive rhythm. Not wanting to take it, knowing she must.
“This is what you wanted, mother. This is what I did, just like you wanted.”
(Her cunt spasmed. Viserys’ had said, You’re too tight, sweetling, maunovering her with a hand on her thigh so she was forced to open to him, groaning as he sank a little deeper. Try to relax. She had tried. She was being good, and he was being so considerate with her, she was lucky—any of those bold young lords that Alicent expected to marry and that would have allowed Rhaenyra to dance into the room eager for gossip about the night’s secrets would not be so mindful. Like Aegon, they would take what they wanted. They would not pause to let her relax, to let her mind instruct her body in its duty, to take her husband where he was made to go. In the childbed she had looked down at the purple dome of Aegon’s head splitting her cunt apart between her blood smeared thighs and remembered the moment she felt Viserys’ cock rip her maidenhead, the sharp sting of sundered flush, and the midwife had said Do not push now, Your Grace, you’ll tear and cried aloud shocking everyone, Get out, get out, get out! She could get this one out, she must, and she bore down, and felt herself tear, not to modest little droplets of blood on the sheets like she saw when she finally opened her eyes to the empty room and looked down at her queen’s body, but a great, satisfying gush, laughing in giddy relief, lighter than air, as her first son worked with her to claw himself free with his own heartbreaking wail of shock.)
She surges up to kiss him. First savagely, then softening. The frantic drill of Aegon’s hips into hers slows, halts, as grinds within her and kisses her back on a whimper. Yes, this is what she wanted. Just—gently. Be gentle. So carefully, the light caress of her tongue against his. Fuck a queen, exactly like this. Alicent puts her hands to his own hips so she can guide him through rhythmic rolls. She slides her hand between their bodies. He knocks it away to replace it with his own. He stares intently into her face as he touches her.
(Alicent pulled back the sheets to reveal her daughter’s bruised body. She stroked the outside of Helaena’s thigh while her daughter peered at her through the white-gold cloud over her face and said, “Show mother, now,” there would be no hushed gossip, no giggling, no burying her blushing cheek in Rhaenyra’s shoulder as she shook with laughter and asked how he kissed, was there too much tongue, did his breath smell sweet or did it taste of garlic, none of it was unknown, there were the bruises, there was her daughter’s cunt turned a puffy, angry red from hard use, her son’s seed oozing from her swollen passage and battered lips and Alicent lowered her head to brush apologetic kisses across the aching flesh, Helaena hissed and she said, “Let mother kiss it better, my darling,” and Helaena relaxed, she wouldn’t go inside her poor brave hole, just these butterfly kisses against her to reward her for being so very good, the salty tang of Helaena’s wetness on her tongue, originally she was dry but she started to dampen as her hips rose against Alicent’s mouth and little snorting sighs fall from hers, and the dry crust of Aegon’s spend reliquifies with her spit and Helaena’s arousal and he didn’t give her girl pleasure, he was rough, until he could give his royal seed to her with respect owed it and her it should not take root in her daughter, so she ate up every last drop onto her own tongue, licked her daughter clean and trembling.)
“It makes you tighten up,” Aegon says breathlessly. “Good. You’re loose from churning out brats.”
From you. From bearing you. A wound. Plugged.
She almost comes. She squeezes herself on him to make him come, to get him out. His face is buried in her shoulder. She touches his hair and he moans, “Mother,” so she keeps stroking it, kisses his ear, so he gasps, so she keeps kissing it, flutters her cunt around him and thinks about him kissing her so softly between her legs as he fucks into her steady as they work to get him out.