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mirrorwitches) wrote2023-07-12 11:23 am
mirrorwitches) wrote2023-07-12 11:23 am
(hotd) no democracy, chapter two
NO DEMOCRACY, CHAPTER TWO
🐉masterpost🐉
“Once there’s a child, I think it will be fine. That’s all he cares about. A child who will one day sit the Iron Throne and be known to history as having a Velaryon for a sire,” Laenor is saying as Daemon enters Rhaenyra’s chamber from the hidden passageway. “As long as there is a child.”
Daemon hears Laenor’s words but his eyes go to Rhaenyra’s miserable face. “And what does your mother think?”
“She worries for my safety,” Laenor says delicately.
“My cousin thinks I won’t be satisfied having my children known to history as those of another man. Or be content with not taking you to wife. And that when the day comes when I can no longer tolerate you belonging to another I might be content to remove Laenor as an obstacle.”
“I don’t belong to another,” Rhaenyra says, her hand unconsciously flying up to touch the pendant of her necklace, prompting her husband to make an exaggerated retching noise that turns into laughter when she pinches him on the arm. “It’s absurd anyway. You never removed Rhea as an obstacle.”
“Well, it’s certainly not because I never thought about it.” Daemon can see from Laenor’s expression that he’d had the same thought. “I just always knew it didn’t have much of a chance of getting me what I wanted. Which I now have, and so Rhea is welcome to live to a ripe old age. I’m sure she’ll be as happy as I if we never lay eyes on each other again. Laenor has nothing to fear.”
“Thank you,” Laenor says weakly.
He’d been summoned to the chambers appointed to the Lord Admiral and the Princess Rhaenys. It had been easy enough to guess why. Corlys had been warmer than ever on Daemon’s return to court, grateful to him for using his money and ships competently to secure the Stepstones. Rhaenys had been cold, but she’d never liked him. Corlys’ warmth had not even dimmed as much as Daemon had expected after that morning in the throne room when Otto had made his move against him. Lord Velaryon was ambitious and he’d at last secured a path to his dream of having his blood, and the blood of his denied wife, one day rule the Seven Kingdoms. Or so he'd thought. Almost three years had passed since the lavish celebrations marking the marriage of his son to the heir to the throne, but even as Rhaenyra became queen and Laenor prince consort and Corlys truly cemented his place as one of the most powerful men in the realm, no child had materialized. He must know somewhere what part his son’s nature played in this, but Daemon’s presence, and the partiality Rhaenyra could not totally hide, the secret visits in the night to the queen’s chambers—it must have changed the calculations slightly. There would be a child, and although it would bear the name of Corlys’ house…well, through the twisted vines of their family tree it would still bear the blood of his wife and son, it would not bear that of Corlys. That might gall, and others would assume it galled, but Daemon, as a man content to have children of his blood that he could not officially claim, feels that Laenor might be right in his assessment of his father’s ultimate acquiescence to the state of affairs the three of them had arranged.
But as of this afternoon, the reconnaissance had been wary, barbed. Daemon had arrived to find Laenor already facing his parents, and it had been an interrogation from mother and father to make his blood spike. They’d known it was coming and as Corlys and Rhaenys tried to work out the terrain and form their strategies—no heir to the throne has appeared, Corlys murmured and Laenor stoutly said, I bed my wife frequently and pray just as often the gods see fit to bless our union with a child, meetings at night to the queen’s chambers by secret means, opening her up to unsightly rumors, especially since everyone knew, Rhaenys added sharply, his great love for his niece, and Daemon said yes, he would see his niece, his family, and he used such secret means exactly so as not to open Rhaenyra up to such whispers by entering her chambers publicly.
“Laena says your performance was loud enough but not altogether convincing,” Daemon announces as he pours himself a glass of wine.
“What would she know about it?” Laenor scoffs.
“It’s hard to moan loud enough that the Queensguard on duty can hear it,” Rhaenyra splutters. “Which is good to know—” she swats Laenor on the arm again as he nearly spits out the swallow of wine he’d just taken laughing again “—but it makes the performance more difficult when you have to scream it.”
“It was audible. She was very firm on that.” Laena had come by with a note she’d asked a stoic Ser Westerling to give the queen in order to ascertain the evidence of Rhaenyra bedding her husband might be heard from the hall.
It would only do so much. Emboldened by the dismissal of Otto, Rhaenyra had summoned Laenor’s paramour, sent packing to Driftmark by Corlys upon his son’s marriage, back to court. Daemon did not only see Rhaenyra in private, of course: he sat in council, attended feasts and danced in masques as the highest ranking member of the royal family next to the queen herself. He was often in the city, and preferred the company of his men or ending the evening with a drink in Mysaria in her brothel which she still owned and operated out of half the time despite her new position, maintaining the intimate knowledge of everything that occurred in King’s Landing that had made her so valuable in the first place—there was a reason, aside from his brother’s rejections, why he had fled the court for Flea Bottom’s streets. But he let her dance with others, turned and flirted with Laena or Alicent or other ladies to let the eyes of the court take it in and speculate. And yet the truth would out, become an open secret. All this was simply a veneer to cause reasonable doubt that could be pointed to when the issue was pressed, material to allow those who wished to construct whatever fictions they would.
As long as they had this room, this world of just the two of them, Daemon didn’t much care. Of course it was never just the two of them, not really. Here was Laenor, and on other nights Daemon had entered to find him there, and Laena, and Alicent, and Harwin Strong as well—the queen’s small circle of intimates. Rhaenyra invited him to join them playing cards or gossiping, here or in other small settings where they were as free from prying eyes as she ever could be, and there was no impropriety in such a thing anyway, uncle and niece, courtiers and queen. Daemon always felt somewhat stiff, out of place, although talking to Harwin was easy enough. They were all so young. In his own youth, his grandparents aged and worn out by grief, the court had been muted, hushed. Viserys’ reign had seen the Red Keep come back to life, Aemma a gracious, charming queen when she was well, and Daemon had danced and hunted when he was in residence, but even then preferred to be elsewhere.
Often Daemon might join Rhaenyra and whoever might be found keeping her company for a drunk, until those one or several of the trusted few departed for the night—by the main door to the chamber, usually, but sometimes, like tonight when they want to give the impression that Laenor had been so exhausted by the young queen’s ardor he slumbered by her side all night, through the secret passageway that would allow him back to his rooms unobserved. But Rhaenyra has fallen silent, eyes gone distant as some anxiety turns her inward. Laenor exchanges a glance with Daemon and then rises, saying, “I’m off, cousin,” and giving her a kiss on the forehead that earns him a vague smile in return. He clasps Daemon by the arm in farewell and departs.
He sits down at her side. Rhaenyra says, “Rhaenys spoke to me too. She said that as the first Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, everyone is waiting for me to prove myself unworthy. That if I have children suspected not to be my husband’s, men will call me a whore, and if I’m a whore, men will resent having to follow me even more.”
“Didn’t you tell me she told you that men would rather put the realm to the torch than allow a woman to sit the seat you now sit?”
“She’s just jealous. Bitter.”
“Yes, she’s disappointed.” He lets her rest in that more youthful conviction that envy clouded Rhaenys’ vision. “She’s also not wrong.”
“You said it yourself. I sit on the throne.”
“You do. I didn’t say she was entirely right. But someone—I don’t yet know who—will come and attempt to remove you from it someday, sooner or later. It does us no good to hide from that fact. But it will happen no matter what you do. We must always be ready. No moves have been made yet. Everyone waits to see how things will shake to see out first. To see what I would do is part of it. I’m sure the rats will start sneaking from the shadows to make their overtures to me, offering to dedicate men and arms to my cause, imagining that if I rise high so will they. There are no real appealing alternatives to gather around. After me Laenor is next in line, and married to you.”
“The rats might emerge to make overtures to Corlys.”
“No doubt.”
“You trust him.”
“I trust his self-interest. Were he to overthrow you and place his son on the throne, he would be facing a similar issue—how to get an heir out of him. There are many very willing to cuckold whichever bride he gets for him less congenial to Corlys and his ambitions than I. Besides, he’s no kinslayer, no murderer of girls.”
“Still, it’s hardly what the Velaryons would prefer. I did marry Laenor intending to bear his children. Rhaenys isn’t wrong, you weren’t wrong. It’s not the same as it is for men. If they don’t try to overthrow me, if my children are known to be illegitimate, it will be grounds for rebellion.”
“They’ll be Targaryens. They’ll have dragons.”
“Should I open up my children to danger, the realm to bloodshed, just because I can’t bring myself to let my cousin fuck me?”
“Yes,” Daemon says savagely.
He knows what advice he should give. Paternal wisdom: to lie back and take it. He can’t. He’d advised her to make this marriage when he thought her lost to him, but now, if legitimate children are what she wants and yet Laenor’s touch is unbearable, he’d rather kill Laenor, kill Rhea, than have her suffer it.
“It can’t possibly be that bad, not really. I love Laenor, truly. I don’t find him unpleasant to look at. I trust him. It would be nothing compared to—I’m being a spoilt, selfish child—”
“Is it good?” he cuts her off.
“What?”
“Is it good with me?”
Rhaenyra laughs incredulously. “Gods, can’t you tell?”
“Yes. So. Perhaps it’s not that bad. But when it can be—that good—”
She isn’t wrong. Perhaps doing her duty with her husband wouldn’t be that good—what could be?—but it wouldn’t be that bad, either. Daemon has known bad, endured it for eight years, and he could not force himself to endure even not that bad again for duty’s sake in his marriage. It would be unacceptable hypocrisy to council such a thing. He has known other varieties of not bad, too, a way to pass the night, pursued from boredom, a substitute for some ache that could not be soothed, a hunger that could not be filled. He doesn’t ever want Rhaenyra to know even that much. Perhaps he should: he didn’t want to deny her anything, did he? But he found he did. He did want to deny her this knowledge, of the body surrendered to duty. He even wanted to deny her the simply mediocre fuck. Still…
“If you want to try again—if you truly wish for your husband’s children—”
“I can’t,” she says wretchedly. “I can’t—”
“I forbid you then.” She glances back up at him. “I absolutely forbid you from fucking your husband again for any reason. Permission revoked.”
Rhaenyra laughs, slumps against him. Relief surges through Daemon. He’s just as selfish. They were all right; he'd lead her to ruin. The father of any children she might bear—that is what he wanted.
“I don’t know,” she says slyly. “I found you and Laenor together quite…appealing. I have thought of asking Laenor if I could join him and Joffrey abed.”
“We can invite him into ours. Poor Laenor never even got off that night, did he? Or invite the both of them. They can fuck and I’ll attend to you while you watch your fill.”
She giggles and then her face falls a bit. “Maybe it won’t even be an issue. Who fathers my children, I mean. Maybe I won’t be able to have them at all.”
“Why do you say that?”
“My monthly courses started today,” she answers glumly.
Inwardly, Daemon thinks, that’s all? But then he remembers what she'd said about Viserys’ hunger for a grandchild.
“We’ve only been at it a month, Rhaenyra. I wouldn’t pronounce all hope dead yet.”
“But we’ve fucked so much. Oh, don’t laugh!”
“We have. But the last few times…I thought you might be relieved.”
“I am. Another way I’m selfish and unnatural, I’m sure.” As always, he’s proud at how briefly this maidenly shame lasts. “As it needed one for twenty years. As it needed one from my mother. I’ve never been enough. She was never enough. She was made to produce heirs until it killed her."
Grief and fear are thick in the words. “What happened to your mother was a tragedy. But this is a tragic world. I don't want you to forsake the best parts of life for fear.”
Rhaenyra could not move through the Red Keep, through her life without being dogged by her mother’s shade. Neither could Daemon. The memory of Aemma’s bloated, tired body, her haggard, grief-number face darkened everything they might do, and, also, always, Viserys. She was made, and someone had made her.
“The best parts of life can only come through a woman’s body. At the cost of her body.” She smiles bitterly. “My body bleeds and aches because it knows it is not doing what it ought.”
Is it the best thing? Viserys' single-minded focus, his mother promising her brother an army of sons, Aemma’s devastation every time her womb brought forth only death. Many thought it to be, and if it was so, Daemon had been denied it.
The white line where Rhaenyra’s parted hair reveals her scalp, her plaits swinging against her cheeks as she looks down. “She was young. Too young. When did you first flower, Rhaenyra?” he asks as it occurs to him he doesn’t know.
A hollow laugh. “The week after my mother died.”
It had terrified him. Her body telling her what it was for. A small stricken face.
“When your mother—she came to me one night with blood on her nightgown. She was upset. I wasn’t sure if it was her first blood, or…I didn’t ask. I just let her sleep with me that night.”
Rhaenyra sucks the end of her braid. “I hadn’t really thought about it before, but as Alicent showed me how to wrap myself so I didn’t bleed on everything—she’d gotten hers just a few months before and acted like such a smug expert—then I did. I was scared and I just wanted my mother, and she was dead. And I thought about how when she was my age she’d already had that first boy, dead in the cradle. On Dragonstone, I was blubbering to you like a child, and at that age, she’d borne me.”
“She was a child.” Rhaenyra, eight-and-ten, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Long in the tooth. And yet, still, a child, yes. He was fucking a child. She insists it’s different, because she wants and knows and knows enough to want and know her want. It is different. And yet. You will always be so young, to me. She’d been kept young for longer. She was still young. Aemma had been a child as she fled one cousin’s bed or the promise of it for another’s. Had she still been, when she first held her daughter? Daemon had felt the boy with her, and also they’d both seemed a thousand years old, and when she first got pregnant, you couldn’t even tell it apart from the puppy fat of her belly. “Your mother was my first kiss, you know,” is what Daemon ends up saying. “Well, the first that…”
“What?”
“She was pregnant with that first boy. We were on Dragonstone, and I took her to the Dragonmont. To get an egg for the babe. I came out of the cave caked in mud, a bit singed—Vermithor was testy—and she couldn’t stop laughing, not at all grateful for my heroic efforts—” A giggling peck to his lips, the only clean part of his face. “Just a couple kisses. That once.” Shy, both of them blushing as his brother’s child bloomed within her, before he returned her to her husband and took to the air on Caraxes to find a willing whore for the night in Spicetown.
Daemon only belatedly realizes what he’s said, and for some reason he worries this is the revelation of entanglement with her parents that will prove too much. But Rhaenyra smiles, a bit sad. He smiles too. Sweet kisses, the kisses of children. Hers disappears first.
“She never talked about that dead boy. Neither of them did. I never even knew he existed until Lady Redwyne mentioned him once, saying what a shame it was I didn't have an older brother.”
“No.” He'd died two days after birth, and then it was as if he had never existed.
“She never really spoke about any of them. She talked about me as a baby. I liked that. How beautiful I was. How she would wake in the night to creep to my cradle, terrified I'd stopped breathing. How she couldn't believe she'd made me. How wonderful I smelled, of all things.”
“You did. Babies do smell wonderful. I'm sure the maesters have their theories.”
“I wouldn't know, I guess,” she says sadly. “I knew she wanted more—I mean everyone hoped for a boy, an heir, but even aside from that, just from how sad the thought of them made her. And I wanted a sibling. But then that girl, Alysanne, the one that lived only a few weeks when I was eight. I couldn't see what all the fuss was about. A limp gray little thing that never cried, that I was only allowed to see twice, and never hold, that we all knew was going to die. She cried every day my sister lived, because she knew she wouldn’t. Even if it was just another girl. I couldn’t see how it was worth it, all that pain and sadness, just for that.”
“It’s worth it. You were worth it. The very best thing.” He remembers the wonder of holding his niece in his arms, a baby that smelled wonderful, so perfectly made, and watching her become Rhaenyra: unique, irreplaceable. He thinks of the longing he is only now allowing himself to know, for children, for Targaryens, for more dragons, but not only that, for her children, and his, yes, one made of both of them, another perfect child, loved because it was of her, that one miracle of his life. He is selfish for that, selfish as Viserys, even as he thinks, knows, Aemma would say the same thing. Rhaenyra was worth it. Was it worth it if it might cost Rhaenyra her life? Dread fills him. “The best thing. It wouldn’t be worth it, not if it meant your life.” How had Viserys not realized it? This one perfect thing he’d been given. “My mother said she’d give my father twenty sons, an entire army. Weren’t two enough?”
His mother, her odd beautiful eyes lit up, exhausted and exultant. Daemon, come and look. A little brother for you. You’re a big brother now. You’ll have to take care of him. Daemon had been so proud. He loved his big brother, and now he was one, and he promised his mother he'd take good care of him just as Viserys took good care of him. But the baby died, and his mother no longer came and gave unladylike whoops of pride when he disarmed the master-at-arms in the training yard because she was too weak to leave her bed.
“The best things in life. Without that risk you wouldn’t have me,” Rhaenyra says. “I want to go back in time and spare my mother. And yet I’m glad I was born. I’m not ready, I’m terrified, and yet…I hated being a child. I hated being told what to do and being told you couldn’t teach me how to use a sword and being made to do things that weren’t eating cake and flying and playing make believe with Alicent that we’d been kidnapped by Myrish slavers and sold to a pillow house—”
“That was your choice of game?”
“We took turns, being the Triarch who had bought our maidenheads. And then you would come save us, but I’d already cut our way out after stealing his sword—after he had ruined me and I’d wept and rent my clothes and contemplated using the sword to end my life honorably. You’d come find me, Caraxes would lead you to Syrax who of course felt my grief and shame and broke her bonds and smashed through the ceiling of the Dragonpit to come to our aid. You’d have to come all the way to Yunkai. We’d be taking in the pyramids by the time you got around to it. I hated being a child, but I loved being a child with you. I think about a baby, and teaching her Valyrian. It was our language. A whole separate world we shared with no one else. And it was a world I liked being a child in, the one where I was ñuha prūmia, zaldrītsos, darilaros. Don’t you want that?” she says plaintively. “There should be babies. I don’t even know what they’re like, really, and yet I feel it—there should be babies in this place, Targaryen babies, ones that don’t die.”
“There should be. I just wish you didn’t have to run the risk. That Aemma had not been made to.”
“At least I don’t think Laenor would cut me open for the son inside me,” she says with a ghastly grin. “Then again, I never would have thought my father would do such a thing either.”
“I wouldn’t let them,” Daemon says.
“I know. Good thing. Because then, in the childbed, I’ll just be a woman, not a queen. They might not ask me. But if they’d asked my mother—if they’d let her know—I think she might have said yes. She said it was our fate, because we had royal wombs. It was how we served the realm. I would get so fucking angry. I wanted her to realize her importance. Or maybe I just wanted my fucking mother. I wanted my mother to matter more than some possible brother. And yet I got so excited, picking out his egg. Maybe she wouldn’t have,” Rhaenyra says desperately. “Maybe she would have said no, we both die. Maybe she would have chosen that at last. Maybe she would have fought either way, and maybe my father didn’t want to know that. He knew and didn’t want to know. To imagine it was a mercy, because of course she’d agree if she asked. But who knows? She’s dead.” She gives a hard, angry shrug and he puts his arm around her, pulls her to him so she leans her head against his shoulder. “Just—ask.”
Daemon feels sick. “What would you answer?”
“I don’t know. I know the right answer, the unselfish answer—give you a child, give the realm an heir. House Targaryen cannot vanish from the world. But if I’m gone I don’t want you to have a child. I don’t want the realm to have an heir I died to give it."
He wonders whether it would comfort this part of her to know he could not see being around to see what became of either child or realm.
“You’re right. There should be Targaryen children in this keep once more. You shouldn’t have to bear them, but there should be babies.”
They kiss, and Rhaenyra says in her little girl voice, “Uncle, I think I’m dying.”
“What is it?” Daemon asks, calm, steady. “Tell me.”
“I’m bleeding between my legs. From my special place, from the little hole there.”
“Show me.”
Rhaenyra lifts her robe up and emits a noise of frustration at the twist of linen obscuring her cunt, and it echoes his own as he sees nothing but that snowy plug. She gets up and goes to a wardrobe and finds a dark blanket, a midnight blue so deep it was almost black, and spreads it across the bed, slipping out of the cloth, the bright scarlet stain on the inside fluttering to the floor. As if there was no interruption, she perches on the edge of the mattress and tries again: lifting the nightgown and robe, spreading her legs shyly.
The first day: a hesitant flow of blood. Daemon has to part her cunt and rub at her to earn himself a red smear on the pads of his fingers that sets up a telltale tightening in his groin.
“You aren’t dying, rūs riña. It’s just your moonblood, niece. It’s your body telling you it’s ready to have babies.”
“It hurts, uncle,” she whispers. “My stomach hurts.” That high, small voice fraught with a twang of genuine discomfort. She lifts up her shift further so she can put her hand to her lower belly and Daemon’s breath catches. The normally flat plane is distended with the unshed blood that marks her womb’s vacancy, thrusting it out just slightly over her hip bones, as if it swelled for the opposite reason.
He moves her hand and cups that swell. His palm nearly spans the entirety of it, her little belly and its phantom burden. Rhaenyra sighs in relief and bonks her forehead against his shoulder. When he makes to pull it away she holds him to her with a hand over his. “That feels nice. You’re so warm.”
“There’s another way I can make you feel nice. Like last time, remember?”
He puts his hand to where the blood flows, quickened at his touch.
“Uncle…you don’t have to, it's—it’s disgusting.” Her nose wrinkles in an unfeigned distaste.
“It’s just blood,” Demon says scornfully. “Of course a baby is scared of blood. But your uncle isn’t.”
Daemon moves his fingers over her curiously, but when one darts too close to her entrance, she hisses, “Sore." The blood begins to seep faster as he watches. She’s sensitive, doesn’t want anything inside, but she’s so slick with it he’d be able to slide right in, her hot blood easing his cock, a smooth squelching glide, no oil needed. It is crimson, strong, but as he plays with her clit it comes lighter, watered by her arousal as it paints her thighs a sticky pink.
He has her lie back on the blanket and puts his lips to her, and he can hear her start to say his name in a worried tone—can he want even this, yes, yes, she’d get it eventually—but when he places his hand over her inflamed abdomen again, a large molten anchor weighing her down, she goes limp as his eager tongue gets her lips puffy and gored and then, gentle enough to be allowed entry, slides in to gathers her up in ruby rushes into his mouth.
“My body is ready to have babies,” she pants. “Will you give me a baby?’
“I can’t yet,” he says as she bleeds as if cut, as if torn, as she comes for him, the stains sinking into the protective coverlet and disappearing from sight, only visible against her thighs and the silver of her pubic hair, the Crabfeeder’s hearts-blood had caked his braids, had filled his mouth like this, but this bitter metallic tang is even sweeter. “You’re still too little. See? Even a little blood causes it to swell.” He massages her, his breath catching as she holds her own, pushes her stomach out so her navel thrusts against his caressing knuckles.
“I’m big,” she insists. “I want you to give me a pretty little baby.”
“I already have a baby. Your body is saying one thing, but I know.”
She does not react as he raises his grisly visage to her, not quite as gory as the Crabfeeder had made it but more unsettling, as it might have been if he feasted on his carcass instead of giving it to the waves. She shudders in gratitude. “I want to be your baby a little longer,” she admits with a heartfelt tremble in the words.
“Oh, sweetling. You’ll always be my baby. Always. I’ll give my baby a baby, but you’ll always be my baby. And maybe I want my baby all to myself a little longer, hm?”
Her body tells her what it’s for, but it also tells it it’s for something else. I want you while you still won’t give me babies. She’s still so little. Fuck, it’s arousing, the thought of her small frame so altered by him. He looks at her belly under his hand as she swells it out against him and rubs her thighs together with a whine.
Daemon disrobes and rubs the head of his cock against her until it too is stained with her, but she says, “Not inside.”
“No, if I came inside, your body doesn’t know it’s still too little, that you’re still a little baby, how big you’d get with uncle’s baby.” Contemplation of her slenderness distorted turns immediately from arousing to nauseating. Aemma’s youth had been a danger, but despite the generous give of Rhaenyra’s hips that tell her for a woman grown, it still knots him up with worry. No, not quite yet.
“I won’t.” He situates them on the bed, Rhaenyra lying on her side and Daemon pressed in at her back. She tenses as he pushes one of her legs forward: he’d fucked her like this just the other morning.
“Daemon—”
He kisses her ear. “Do you trust me?” He feels the tension in her body, the strength in his. How easily he could overpower her—she’d heave and thrash, he can feel her twitching like a horse ready to buck under his hands—thrills him.
“Yes,” she murmurs, and he closes her thighs around him, the bloodied flesh slick enough that the initial thrust is just as good as if it was her cunt, and she laughs and moans and says, “Yes, yes, yes.”
“I’ll give you a baby.” Her hand flutters over her cunt, and although she looks down fascinated some residual squeamishness remains and he wants to do it for her, bloody his fingers until his nails are black with making her scream, but he bites at her ear and says, “Come on, my girl isn’t scared of a little blood," and with a delighted gasp, she puts her hand to the tacky hair at her mound so the swollen head of his prick bumps her working murderous fingers with each rolling churn of his hips. “But I’m as selfish as you. I want you all to myself for a bit longer. You’re so much fucking work. Someday, though. I want another perfect baby just like you, gods, I couldn’t believe you were real, and they sent me away from you, I wasn’t there—”
“I want a baby, your baby will give you a baby, I can’t remember any of it but I want to see it, I want to give that to you, a baby of your own, you’re so good.”
But not yet. Not quite yet. There were ways, there were means, he thinks, as their come mingles again with her blood between her thighs, and if it came down to it, he could wait some more, he could keep out of this tiny baby cunt until it was ready, until it was time.
🐉masterpost🐉
“Once there’s a child, I think it will be fine. That’s all he cares about. A child who will one day sit the Iron Throne and be known to history as having a Velaryon for a sire,” Laenor is saying as Daemon enters Rhaenyra’s chamber from the hidden passageway. “As long as there is a child.”
Daemon hears Laenor’s words but his eyes go to Rhaenyra’s miserable face. “And what does your mother think?”
“She worries for my safety,” Laenor says delicately.
“My cousin thinks I won’t be satisfied having my children known to history as those of another man. Or be content with not taking you to wife. And that when the day comes when I can no longer tolerate you belonging to another I might be content to remove Laenor as an obstacle.”
“I don’t belong to another,” Rhaenyra says, her hand unconsciously flying up to touch the pendant of her necklace, prompting her husband to make an exaggerated retching noise that turns into laughter when she pinches him on the arm. “It’s absurd anyway. You never removed Rhea as an obstacle.”
“Well, it’s certainly not because I never thought about it.” Daemon can see from Laenor’s expression that he’d had the same thought. “I just always knew it didn’t have much of a chance of getting me what I wanted. Which I now have, and so Rhea is welcome to live to a ripe old age. I’m sure she’ll be as happy as I if we never lay eyes on each other again. Laenor has nothing to fear.”
“Thank you,” Laenor says weakly.
He’d been summoned to the chambers appointed to the Lord Admiral and the Princess Rhaenys. It had been easy enough to guess why. Corlys had been warmer than ever on Daemon’s return to court, grateful to him for using his money and ships competently to secure the Stepstones. Rhaenys had been cold, but she’d never liked him. Corlys’ warmth had not even dimmed as much as Daemon had expected after that morning in the throne room when Otto had made his move against him. Lord Velaryon was ambitious and he’d at last secured a path to his dream of having his blood, and the blood of his denied wife, one day rule the Seven Kingdoms. Or so he'd thought. Almost three years had passed since the lavish celebrations marking the marriage of his son to the heir to the throne, but even as Rhaenyra became queen and Laenor prince consort and Corlys truly cemented his place as one of the most powerful men in the realm, no child had materialized. He must know somewhere what part his son’s nature played in this, but Daemon’s presence, and the partiality Rhaenyra could not totally hide, the secret visits in the night to the queen’s chambers—it must have changed the calculations slightly. There would be a child, and although it would bear the name of Corlys’ house…well, through the twisted vines of their family tree it would still bear the blood of his wife and son, it would not bear that of Corlys. That might gall, and others would assume it galled, but Daemon, as a man content to have children of his blood that he could not officially claim, feels that Laenor might be right in his assessment of his father’s ultimate acquiescence to the state of affairs the three of them had arranged.
But as of this afternoon, the reconnaissance had been wary, barbed. Daemon had arrived to find Laenor already facing his parents, and it had been an interrogation from mother and father to make his blood spike. They’d known it was coming and as Corlys and Rhaenys tried to work out the terrain and form their strategies—no heir to the throne has appeared, Corlys murmured and Laenor stoutly said, I bed my wife frequently and pray just as often the gods see fit to bless our union with a child, meetings at night to the queen’s chambers by secret means, opening her up to unsightly rumors, especially since everyone knew, Rhaenys added sharply, his great love for his niece, and Daemon said yes, he would see his niece, his family, and he used such secret means exactly so as not to open Rhaenyra up to such whispers by entering her chambers publicly.
“Laena says your performance was loud enough but not altogether convincing,” Daemon announces as he pours himself a glass of wine.
“What would she know about it?” Laenor scoffs.
“It’s hard to moan loud enough that the Queensguard on duty can hear it,” Rhaenyra splutters. “Which is good to know—” she swats Laenor on the arm again as he nearly spits out the swallow of wine he’d just taken laughing again “—but it makes the performance more difficult when you have to scream it.”
“It was audible. She was very firm on that.” Laena had come by with a note she’d asked a stoic Ser Westerling to give the queen in order to ascertain the evidence of Rhaenyra bedding her husband might be heard from the hall.
It would only do so much. Emboldened by the dismissal of Otto, Rhaenyra had summoned Laenor’s paramour, sent packing to Driftmark by Corlys upon his son’s marriage, back to court. Daemon did not only see Rhaenyra in private, of course: he sat in council, attended feasts and danced in masques as the highest ranking member of the royal family next to the queen herself. He was often in the city, and preferred the company of his men or ending the evening with a drink in Mysaria in her brothel which she still owned and operated out of half the time despite her new position, maintaining the intimate knowledge of everything that occurred in King’s Landing that had made her so valuable in the first place—there was a reason, aside from his brother’s rejections, why he had fled the court for Flea Bottom’s streets. But he let her dance with others, turned and flirted with Laena or Alicent or other ladies to let the eyes of the court take it in and speculate. And yet the truth would out, become an open secret. All this was simply a veneer to cause reasonable doubt that could be pointed to when the issue was pressed, material to allow those who wished to construct whatever fictions they would.
As long as they had this room, this world of just the two of them, Daemon didn’t much care. Of course it was never just the two of them, not really. Here was Laenor, and on other nights Daemon had entered to find him there, and Laena, and Alicent, and Harwin Strong as well—the queen’s small circle of intimates. Rhaenyra invited him to join them playing cards or gossiping, here or in other small settings where they were as free from prying eyes as she ever could be, and there was no impropriety in such a thing anyway, uncle and niece, courtiers and queen. Daemon always felt somewhat stiff, out of place, although talking to Harwin was easy enough. They were all so young. In his own youth, his grandparents aged and worn out by grief, the court had been muted, hushed. Viserys’ reign had seen the Red Keep come back to life, Aemma a gracious, charming queen when she was well, and Daemon had danced and hunted when he was in residence, but even then preferred to be elsewhere.
Often Daemon might join Rhaenyra and whoever might be found keeping her company for a drunk, until those one or several of the trusted few departed for the night—by the main door to the chamber, usually, but sometimes, like tonight when they want to give the impression that Laenor had been so exhausted by the young queen’s ardor he slumbered by her side all night, through the secret passageway that would allow him back to his rooms unobserved. But Rhaenyra has fallen silent, eyes gone distant as some anxiety turns her inward. Laenor exchanges a glance with Daemon and then rises, saying, “I’m off, cousin,” and giving her a kiss on the forehead that earns him a vague smile in return. He clasps Daemon by the arm in farewell and departs.
He sits down at her side. Rhaenyra says, “Rhaenys spoke to me too. She said that as the first Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, everyone is waiting for me to prove myself unworthy. That if I have children suspected not to be my husband’s, men will call me a whore, and if I’m a whore, men will resent having to follow me even more.”
“Didn’t you tell me she told you that men would rather put the realm to the torch than allow a woman to sit the seat you now sit?”
“She’s just jealous. Bitter.”
“Yes, she’s disappointed.” He lets her rest in that more youthful conviction that envy clouded Rhaenys’ vision. “She’s also not wrong.”
“You said it yourself. I sit on the throne.”
“You do. I didn’t say she was entirely right. But someone—I don’t yet know who—will come and attempt to remove you from it someday, sooner or later. It does us no good to hide from that fact. But it will happen no matter what you do. We must always be ready. No moves have been made yet. Everyone waits to see how things will shake to see out first. To see what I would do is part of it. I’m sure the rats will start sneaking from the shadows to make their overtures to me, offering to dedicate men and arms to my cause, imagining that if I rise high so will they. There are no real appealing alternatives to gather around. After me Laenor is next in line, and married to you.”
“The rats might emerge to make overtures to Corlys.”
“No doubt.”
“You trust him.”
“I trust his self-interest. Were he to overthrow you and place his son on the throne, he would be facing a similar issue—how to get an heir out of him. There are many very willing to cuckold whichever bride he gets for him less congenial to Corlys and his ambitions than I. Besides, he’s no kinslayer, no murderer of girls.”
“Still, it’s hardly what the Velaryons would prefer. I did marry Laenor intending to bear his children. Rhaenys isn’t wrong, you weren’t wrong. It’s not the same as it is for men. If they don’t try to overthrow me, if my children are known to be illegitimate, it will be grounds for rebellion.”
“They’ll be Targaryens. They’ll have dragons.”
“Should I open up my children to danger, the realm to bloodshed, just because I can’t bring myself to let my cousin fuck me?”
“Yes,” Daemon says savagely.
He knows what advice he should give. Paternal wisdom: to lie back and take it. He can’t. He’d advised her to make this marriage when he thought her lost to him, but now, if legitimate children are what she wants and yet Laenor’s touch is unbearable, he’d rather kill Laenor, kill Rhea, than have her suffer it.
“It can’t possibly be that bad, not really. I love Laenor, truly. I don’t find him unpleasant to look at. I trust him. It would be nothing compared to—I’m being a spoilt, selfish child—”
“Is it good?” he cuts her off.
“What?”
“Is it good with me?”
Rhaenyra laughs incredulously. “Gods, can’t you tell?”
“Yes. So. Perhaps it’s not that bad. But when it can be—that good—”
She isn’t wrong. Perhaps doing her duty with her husband wouldn’t be that good—what could be?—but it wouldn’t be that bad, either. Daemon has known bad, endured it for eight years, and he could not force himself to endure even not that bad again for duty’s sake in his marriage. It would be unacceptable hypocrisy to council such a thing. He has known other varieties of not bad, too, a way to pass the night, pursued from boredom, a substitute for some ache that could not be soothed, a hunger that could not be filled. He doesn’t ever want Rhaenyra to know even that much. Perhaps he should: he didn’t want to deny her anything, did he? But he found he did. He did want to deny her this knowledge, of the body surrendered to duty. He even wanted to deny her the simply mediocre fuck. Still…
“If you want to try again—if you truly wish for your husband’s children—”
“I can’t,” she says wretchedly. “I can’t—”
“I forbid you then.” She glances back up at him. “I absolutely forbid you from fucking your husband again for any reason. Permission revoked.”
Rhaenyra laughs, slumps against him. Relief surges through Daemon. He’s just as selfish. They were all right; he'd lead her to ruin. The father of any children she might bear—that is what he wanted.
“I don’t know,” she says slyly. “I found you and Laenor together quite…appealing. I have thought of asking Laenor if I could join him and Joffrey abed.”
“We can invite him into ours. Poor Laenor never even got off that night, did he? Or invite the both of them. They can fuck and I’ll attend to you while you watch your fill.”
She giggles and then her face falls a bit. “Maybe it won’t even be an issue. Who fathers my children, I mean. Maybe I won’t be able to have them at all.”
“Why do you say that?”
“My monthly courses started today,” she answers glumly.
Inwardly, Daemon thinks, that’s all? But then he remembers what she'd said about Viserys’ hunger for a grandchild.
“We’ve only been at it a month, Rhaenyra. I wouldn’t pronounce all hope dead yet.”
“But we’ve fucked so much. Oh, don’t laugh!”
“We have. But the last few times…I thought you might be relieved.”
“I am. Another way I’m selfish and unnatural, I’m sure.” As always, he’s proud at how briefly this maidenly shame lasts. “As it needed one for twenty years. As it needed one from my mother. I’ve never been enough. She was never enough. She was made to produce heirs until it killed her."
Grief and fear are thick in the words. “What happened to your mother was a tragedy. But this is a tragic world. I don't want you to forsake the best parts of life for fear.”
Rhaenyra could not move through the Red Keep, through her life without being dogged by her mother’s shade. Neither could Daemon. The memory of Aemma’s bloated, tired body, her haggard, grief-number face darkened everything they might do, and, also, always, Viserys. She was made, and someone had made her.
“The best parts of life can only come through a woman’s body. At the cost of her body.” She smiles bitterly. “My body bleeds and aches because it knows it is not doing what it ought.”
Is it the best thing? Viserys' single-minded focus, his mother promising her brother an army of sons, Aemma’s devastation every time her womb brought forth only death. Many thought it to be, and if it was so, Daemon had been denied it.
The white line where Rhaenyra’s parted hair reveals her scalp, her plaits swinging against her cheeks as she looks down. “She was young. Too young. When did you first flower, Rhaenyra?” he asks as it occurs to him he doesn’t know.
A hollow laugh. “The week after my mother died.”
It had terrified him. Her body telling her what it was for. A small stricken face.
“When your mother—she came to me one night with blood on her nightgown. She was upset. I wasn’t sure if it was her first blood, or…I didn’t ask. I just let her sleep with me that night.”
Rhaenyra sucks the end of her braid. “I hadn’t really thought about it before, but as Alicent showed me how to wrap myself so I didn’t bleed on everything—she’d gotten hers just a few months before and acted like such a smug expert—then I did. I was scared and I just wanted my mother, and she was dead. And I thought about how when she was my age she’d already had that first boy, dead in the cradle. On Dragonstone, I was blubbering to you like a child, and at that age, she’d borne me.”
“She was a child.” Rhaenyra, eight-and-ten, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Long in the tooth. And yet, still, a child, yes. He was fucking a child. She insists it’s different, because she wants and knows and knows enough to want and know her want. It is different. And yet. You will always be so young, to me. She’d been kept young for longer. She was still young. Aemma had been a child as she fled one cousin’s bed or the promise of it for another’s. Had she still been, when she first held her daughter? Daemon had felt the boy with her, and also they’d both seemed a thousand years old, and when she first got pregnant, you couldn’t even tell it apart from the puppy fat of her belly. “Your mother was my first kiss, you know,” is what Daemon ends up saying. “Well, the first that…”
“What?”
“She was pregnant with that first boy. We were on Dragonstone, and I took her to the Dragonmont. To get an egg for the babe. I came out of the cave caked in mud, a bit singed—Vermithor was testy—and she couldn’t stop laughing, not at all grateful for my heroic efforts—” A giggling peck to his lips, the only clean part of his face. “Just a couple kisses. That once.” Shy, both of them blushing as his brother’s child bloomed within her, before he returned her to her husband and took to the air on Caraxes to find a willing whore for the night in Spicetown.
Daemon only belatedly realizes what he’s said, and for some reason he worries this is the revelation of entanglement with her parents that will prove too much. But Rhaenyra smiles, a bit sad. He smiles too. Sweet kisses, the kisses of children. Hers disappears first.
“She never talked about that dead boy. Neither of them did. I never even knew he existed until Lady Redwyne mentioned him once, saying what a shame it was I didn't have an older brother.”
“No.” He'd died two days after birth, and then it was as if he had never existed.
“She never really spoke about any of them. She talked about me as a baby. I liked that. How beautiful I was. How she would wake in the night to creep to my cradle, terrified I'd stopped breathing. How she couldn't believe she'd made me. How wonderful I smelled, of all things.”
“You did. Babies do smell wonderful. I'm sure the maesters have their theories.”
“I wouldn't know, I guess,” she says sadly. “I knew she wanted more—I mean everyone hoped for a boy, an heir, but even aside from that, just from how sad the thought of them made her. And I wanted a sibling. But then that girl, Alysanne, the one that lived only a few weeks when I was eight. I couldn't see what all the fuss was about. A limp gray little thing that never cried, that I was only allowed to see twice, and never hold, that we all knew was going to die. She cried every day my sister lived, because she knew she wouldn’t. Even if it was just another girl. I couldn’t see how it was worth it, all that pain and sadness, just for that.”
“It’s worth it. You were worth it. The very best thing.” He remembers the wonder of holding his niece in his arms, a baby that smelled wonderful, so perfectly made, and watching her become Rhaenyra: unique, irreplaceable. He thinks of the longing he is only now allowing himself to know, for children, for Targaryens, for more dragons, but not only that, for her children, and his, yes, one made of both of them, another perfect child, loved because it was of her, that one miracle of his life. He is selfish for that, selfish as Viserys, even as he thinks, knows, Aemma would say the same thing. Rhaenyra was worth it. Was it worth it if it might cost Rhaenyra her life? Dread fills him. “The best thing. It wouldn’t be worth it, not if it meant your life.” How had Viserys not realized it? This one perfect thing he’d been given. “My mother said she’d give my father twenty sons, an entire army. Weren’t two enough?”
His mother, her odd beautiful eyes lit up, exhausted and exultant. Daemon, come and look. A little brother for you. You’re a big brother now. You’ll have to take care of him. Daemon had been so proud. He loved his big brother, and now he was one, and he promised his mother he'd take good care of him just as Viserys took good care of him. But the baby died, and his mother no longer came and gave unladylike whoops of pride when he disarmed the master-at-arms in the training yard because she was too weak to leave her bed.
“The best things in life. Without that risk you wouldn’t have me,” Rhaenyra says. “I want to go back in time and spare my mother. And yet I’m glad I was born. I’m not ready, I’m terrified, and yet…I hated being a child. I hated being told what to do and being told you couldn’t teach me how to use a sword and being made to do things that weren’t eating cake and flying and playing make believe with Alicent that we’d been kidnapped by Myrish slavers and sold to a pillow house—”
“That was your choice of game?”
“We took turns, being the Triarch who had bought our maidenheads. And then you would come save us, but I’d already cut our way out after stealing his sword—after he had ruined me and I’d wept and rent my clothes and contemplated using the sword to end my life honorably. You’d come find me, Caraxes would lead you to Syrax who of course felt my grief and shame and broke her bonds and smashed through the ceiling of the Dragonpit to come to our aid. You’d have to come all the way to Yunkai. We’d be taking in the pyramids by the time you got around to it. I hated being a child, but I loved being a child with you. I think about a baby, and teaching her Valyrian. It was our language. A whole separate world we shared with no one else. And it was a world I liked being a child in, the one where I was ñuha prūmia, zaldrītsos, darilaros. Don’t you want that?” she says plaintively. “There should be babies. I don’t even know what they’re like, really, and yet I feel it—there should be babies in this place, Targaryen babies, ones that don’t die.”
“There should be. I just wish you didn’t have to run the risk. That Aemma had not been made to.”
“At least I don’t think Laenor would cut me open for the son inside me,” she says with a ghastly grin. “Then again, I never would have thought my father would do such a thing either.”
“I wouldn’t let them,” Daemon says.
“I know. Good thing. Because then, in the childbed, I’ll just be a woman, not a queen. They might not ask me. But if they’d asked my mother—if they’d let her know—I think she might have said yes. She said it was our fate, because we had royal wombs. It was how we served the realm. I would get so fucking angry. I wanted her to realize her importance. Or maybe I just wanted my fucking mother. I wanted my mother to matter more than some possible brother. And yet I got so excited, picking out his egg. Maybe she wouldn’t have,” Rhaenyra says desperately. “Maybe she would have said no, we both die. Maybe she would have chosen that at last. Maybe she would have fought either way, and maybe my father didn’t want to know that. He knew and didn’t want to know. To imagine it was a mercy, because of course she’d agree if she asked. But who knows? She’s dead.” She gives a hard, angry shrug and he puts his arm around her, pulls her to him so she leans her head against his shoulder. “Just—ask.”
Daemon feels sick. “What would you answer?”
“I don’t know. I know the right answer, the unselfish answer—give you a child, give the realm an heir. House Targaryen cannot vanish from the world. But if I’m gone I don’t want you to have a child. I don’t want the realm to have an heir I died to give it."
He wonders whether it would comfort this part of her to know he could not see being around to see what became of either child or realm.
“You’re right. There should be Targaryen children in this keep once more. You shouldn’t have to bear them, but there should be babies.”
They kiss, and Rhaenyra says in her little girl voice, “Uncle, I think I’m dying.”
“What is it?” Daemon asks, calm, steady. “Tell me.”
“I’m bleeding between my legs. From my special place, from the little hole there.”
“Show me.”
Rhaenyra lifts her robe up and emits a noise of frustration at the twist of linen obscuring her cunt, and it echoes his own as he sees nothing but that snowy plug. She gets up and goes to a wardrobe and finds a dark blanket, a midnight blue so deep it was almost black, and spreads it across the bed, slipping out of the cloth, the bright scarlet stain on the inside fluttering to the floor. As if there was no interruption, she perches on the edge of the mattress and tries again: lifting the nightgown and robe, spreading her legs shyly.
The first day: a hesitant flow of blood. Daemon has to part her cunt and rub at her to earn himself a red smear on the pads of his fingers that sets up a telltale tightening in his groin.
“You aren’t dying, rūs riña. It’s just your moonblood, niece. It’s your body telling you it’s ready to have babies.”
“It hurts, uncle,” she whispers. “My stomach hurts.” That high, small voice fraught with a twang of genuine discomfort. She lifts up her shift further so she can put her hand to her lower belly and Daemon’s breath catches. The normally flat plane is distended with the unshed blood that marks her womb’s vacancy, thrusting it out just slightly over her hip bones, as if it swelled for the opposite reason.
He moves her hand and cups that swell. His palm nearly spans the entirety of it, her little belly and its phantom burden. Rhaenyra sighs in relief and bonks her forehead against his shoulder. When he makes to pull it away she holds him to her with a hand over his. “That feels nice. You’re so warm.”
“There’s another way I can make you feel nice. Like last time, remember?”
He puts his hand to where the blood flows, quickened at his touch.
“Uncle…you don’t have to, it's—it’s disgusting.” Her nose wrinkles in an unfeigned distaste.
“It’s just blood,” Demon says scornfully. “Of course a baby is scared of blood. But your uncle isn’t.”
Daemon moves his fingers over her curiously, but when one darts too close to her entrance, she hisses, “Sore." The blood begins to seep faster as he watches. She’s sensitive, doesn’t want anything inside, but she’s so slick with it he’d be able to slide right in, her hot blood easing his cock, a smooth squelching glide, no oil needed. It is crimson, strong, but as he plays with her clit it comes lighter, watered by her arousal as it paints her thighs a sticky pink.
He has her lie back on the blanket and puts his lips to her, and he can hear her start to say his name in a worried tone—can he want even this, yes, yes, she’d get it eventually—but when he places his hand over her inflamed abdomen again, a large molten anchor weighing her down, she goes limp as his eager tongue gets her lips puffy and gored and then, gentle enough to be allowed entry, slides in to gathers her up in ruby rushes into his mouth.
“My body is ready to have babies,” she pants. “Will you give me a baby?’
“I can’t yet,” he says as she bleeds as if cut, as if torn, as she comes for him, the stains sinking into the protective coverlet and disappearing from sight, only visible against her thighs and the silver of her pubic hair, the Crabfeeder’s hearts-blood had caked his braids, had filled his mouth like this, but this bitter metallic tang is even sweeter. “You’re still too little. See? Even a little blood causes it to swell.” He massages her, his breath catching as she holds her own, pushes her stomach out so her navel thrusts against his caressing knuckles.
“I’m big,” she insists. “I want you to give me a pretty little baby.”
“I already have a baby. Your body is saying one thing, but I know.”
She does not react as he raises his grisly visage to her, not quite as gory as the Crabfeeder had made it but more unsettling, as it might have been if he feasted on his carcass instead of giving it to the waves. She shudders in gratitude. “I want to be your baby a little longer,” she admits with a heartfelt tremble in the words.
“Oh, sweetling. You’ll always be my baby. Always. I’ll give my baby a baby, but you’ll always be my baby. And maybe I want my baby all to myself a little longer, hm?”
Her body tells her what it’s for, but it also tells it it’s for something else. I want you while you still won’t give me babies. She’s still so little. Fuck, it’s arousing, the thought of her small frame so altered by him. He looks at her belly under his hand as she swells it out against him and rubs her thighs together with a whine.
Daemon disrobes and rubs the head of his cock against her until it too is stained with her, but she says, “Not inside.”
“No, if I came inside, your body doesn’t know it’s still too little, that you’re still a little baby, how big you’d get with uncle’s baby.” Contemplation of her slenderness distorted turns immediately from arousing to nauseating. Aemma’s youth had been a danger, but despite the generous give of Rhaenyra’s hips that tell her for a woman grown, it still knots him up with worry. No, not quite yet.
“I won’t.” He situates them on the bed, Rhaenyra lying on her side and Daemon pressed in at her back. She tenses as he pushes one of her legs forward: he’d fucked her like this just the other morning.
“Daemon—”
He kisses her ear. “Do you trust me?” He feels the tension in her body, the strength in his. How easily he could overpower her—she’d heave and thrash, he can feel her twitching like a horse ready to buck under his hands—thrills him.
“Yes,” she murmurs, and he closes her thighs around him, the bloodied flesh slick enough that the initial thrust is just as good as if it was her cunt, and she laughs and moans and says, “Yes, yes, yes.”
“I’ll give you a baby.” Her hand flutters over her cunt, and although she looks down fascinated some residual squeamishness remains and he wants to do it for her, bloody his fingers until his nails are black with making her scream, but he bites at her ear and says, “Come on, my girl isn’t scared of a little blood," and with a delighted gasp, she puts her hand to the tacky hair at her mound so the swollen head of his prick bumps her working murderous fingers with each rolling churn of his hips. “But I’m as selfish as you. I want you all to myself for a bit longer. You’re so much fucking work. Someday, though. I want another perfect baby just like you, gods, I couldn’t believe you were real, and they sent me away from you, I wasn’t there—”
“I want a baby, your baby will give you a baby, I can’t remember any of it but I want to see it, I want to give that to you, a baby of your own, you’re so good.”
But not yet. Not quite yet. There were ways, there were means, he thinks, as their come mingles again with her blood between her thighs, and if it came down to it, he could wait some more, he could keep out of this tiny baby cunt until it was ready, until it was time.