With how insane our favourite religious zealot was imagining their first time, how did Ormund and reader's first time go? Also, how does his toxic gaslighting translate in bed?
I just know reader couldn't walk straight for a good while after 🙏
The Marriage Debt
Dark!Ormund X Targaryen!Reader
TW: explicit sexual content, dub-con, non-consensual sex, marital rape, sexual coercion, power imbalance, manipulation, loss of virginity, psychological distress, degradation, rough sex, alcohol consumption.
The wedding had been everything a princess could dream of, and yet you had felt like a stranger in your own body throughout all of it.
The High Septon had droned on for what felt like hours, his voice echoing through the vast, vaulted space, and you had barely heard a word of it. Your eyes had been fixed on Ormund, on your husband, on the man you had chosen, on the man who had courted you so tenderly and written you such beautiful letters. He had looked at you throughout the ceremony with such intensity, such focus, that you had felt like the only person in the world. His eyes had never left your face, and every time you met his gaze, something fluttered in your stomach. Anticipation. Nerves. Something that felt very much like love.
When the septon bound your hands together with a ribbon and declared you one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, Ormund had smiled. It was a slow smile, a satisfied smile, the smile of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted.
You should have noticed that. You should have understood what it meant.
The feast afterward had been a blur. The great hall had been transformed into a sea of candles and flowers and glittering silver, and the noise of a hundred conversations had washed over you like a wave. You had been seated beside your new husband on the dais, your hand in his, and course after course had been presented to you. You had barely eaten. Your stomach was too tight, too fluttery, too full of nerves.
But you had drunk. Oh, you had drunk.
The wine was sweet and it went down like honey, and every time your cup was empty, a servant was there to refill it. You had not meant to drink so much—you had never been much of a drinker, had never developed a taste for it—but the wine warmed your belly and softened the edges of your anxiety and made everything feel slightly distant, slightly dreamlike, like you were watching yourself from very far away.
Ormund had encouraged it. His hand had rested on your knee beneath the table, heavy and warm, his thumb tracing slow circles through the silk of your gown. Every time you glanced at him, he was already looking at you, and his eyes were so dark, so hungry, that you felt yourself blushing and had to look away.
"Drink," he had murmured in your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "It will help with the nerves."
And so you had drunk.
Now the feast was over. The guests had retired to their chambers or continued their revelry elsewhere. Your ladies had undressed you an hour ago their hands efficient and fast as they unlaced your wedding gown, unhooked your corset, removed your stockings and your slippers and your jewels. They had chattered as they worked, offering congratulations and advice and sly, knowing comments that made your cheeks burn.
They had dressed you in the shift. The bridal shift. It was beautiful, you could not deny that, pale ivory silk so fine it was almost transparent, the fabric clinging to every curve and hollow of your body like a second skin. The straps were thin as spider silk, the neckline dipping low enough to show the swell of your breasts. The hem barely reached your thighs. When you moved, the silk slid against your skin in a way that made you acutely aware of your own nakedness beneath it.
It was meant to entice. It was meant to be removed.
Your ladies had left you then, retreating with final words of encouragement and knowing smiles, and the door had clicked shut behind them with a sound that felt terribly final. You were alone. Alone in your husband's chambers, in your chambers now, yours and his together.
You had been standing by the window for what felt like a very long time. The wine cup was still in your hand—you had refused to give it up, had clung to it like a talisman—and you raised it to your lips again, letting the sweet liquid coat your tongue. The windows looked out over the city, over the Honeywine River glittering silver in the moonlight, over the distant shadow of the Citadel and the dark expanse of the Whispering Sound beyond. Somewhere out there, beyond the city walls, Aegarax was sleeping in a field. You wished, suddenly and fiercely, that you were with him. That you could climb onto his back and fly away, fly home to Dragonstone, fly anywhere but here.
But that was foolish. That was childish. You were a wife now. You had a duty to perform.
You heard the door open behind you. The soft click of the latch, the whisper of the hinges. Footsteps on the stone floor, heavy and deliberate. The door closed again.
"Are you well, my love?"
His voice was low and warm. The voice that had spoken so many sweet words to you during your courtship. The voice that had told you that you were beautiful, that you were precious, that you were the most desirable woman he had ever seen.
You did not turn around. You could not turn around. Your heart was beating too fast, your palms suddenly damp against the wine cup.
"Yes." Your voice came out smaller than you intended, almost childlike. "I am just... I am a bit nervous."
"There is nothing to be nervous about." His footsteps drew closer, slow and measured. You could feel him approaching, feel the heat of his body, the weight of his presence filling the room behind you. "It is only me. Only your husband."
"I know." You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. The wine had made everything soft and hazy, but it had not quieted the anxious flutter in your chest. "It is just that I have never... I mean, I do not really know what to..."
What to do. What to expect. What to say. What to feel. You did not know anything. Your mother had told you that it was your duty, that you must submit to your husband and let him guide you, that there might be some discomfort at first but that it would pass. She had spoken in euphemisms and poetic metaphors, her hands clasped around yours, her violet eyes searching your face as if looking for something she did not find.
"Shh." He was right behind you now. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell him, leather and wine and something musky underneath, something that made your stomach tighten with an emotion you could not name. "There is nothing to be afraid of, my sweet girl. I am going to take care of you. I am going to make you feel things you have never felt before. Do you trust me?"
"Yes." The word came out automatically, the way it had a hundred times during your courtship. "Yes, I trust you."
"Good girl. Turn around."
You took one last sip of wine for courage. The cup was almost empty now, and you wished it were full again. You wished you had drunk more. You wished you had drunk enough to make the world disappear entirely, and then, because you could delay no longer, you turned around.
The wine cup slipped from your fingers.
He was completely, utterly naked.
He stood not three feet away from you, and he was so much. So much bigger than you, so much more solid. His shoulders were broad and heavily muscled, his chest covered in a thick mat of dark hair that trailed down his stomach in a narrowing line. His arms were thick with muscle, his hands large and strong. And lower—
Your eyes dropped before you could stop them, a horrified fascination drawing your gaze downward. The hair continued, thickening again at his groin, and jutting from it, unmistakable and impossible to ignore, was his—
You jerked your eyes back up to his face, your cheeks flooding with heat, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. Your hands were shaking. Your whole body was shaking. You had never seen a man's naked body before. You had never seen that before, that thing, that part of him, and it was so much larger than you had imagined, so much more intimidating. It stood erect, curving upward toward his stomach, and you could not comprehend how it was supposed to fit inside you. It looked impossible. It looked like it would split you in half.
He was smiling. It was a slow smile, a knowing smile, the smile of a man who had seen your shock and found it deeply satisfying. He stood there in his nakedness with the absolute confidence of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and had no doubt that he would get it.
"You are shy," he said. It was not a question.
Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. You could not stop staring at his face now, clinging to eye contact like a lifeline, terrified that if your gaze dropped again you would see it again, that thing, that impossible thing.
"I—I have never—" The words came out in a stammer, broken and breathless. "I did not realize you were—that you had already—when did you—"
Your eyes flickered involuntarily to the pile of clothing on the floor behind him. His tunic, his breeches, his smallclothes, all discarded in a heap near the door. He must have undressed while you were standing at the window. He must have stripped himself bare while your back was turned, and you had not heard a thing. You had not heard anything except your own panicked heartbeat.
"I did not want to waste any more time." He stepped closer, and you instinctively stepped back. Your bare shoulders pressed against the cold stone of the window frame, and you realized with a jolt of panic that there was nowhere else to go. You were trapped between him and the wall. "I have been waiting for this night for a very long time. A year. More than a year. Every moment I spent with you during our courtship, I was thinking about this. About having you. About what it would feel like to finally be inside you."
The word inside made your stomach clench. You pressed yourself harder against the window, the stone cold through the thin silk of your shift. "Ormund, I—"
"Do you know how many nights I lay awake thinking about you?" He took another step, and now he was close enough to touch. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that if you reached out, your hand would press against his bare chest. "Do you know how many times I imagined this? Imagined you? Imagined all the things I was going to do to you once you were finally mine?"
Your breath caught in your throat. His words were meant to be romantic—they were the words of a man who desired his wife, who had been patient, who had waited—but there was something in his voice that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
"I thought about you too," you whispered, because it seemed like the right thing to say. "I thought about... about tonight. About being your wife."
"Did you?" His hand came up, and you flinched before you could stop yourself. He noticed but he did not comment on it. Instead, he reached past you and took the wine cup from the windowsill where it had come to rest. He set it aside, his movements slow and deliberate. "And what did you imagine?"
You shook your head, your cheeks burning. "I do not know. I do not... my mother told me some things, but I do not really understand. I do not know what to expect."
"Your mother." He said the word with an edge that you did not quite understand. "And what did your mother tell you?"
"She said..." You swallowed hard, trying to remember the exact words. "She said that it was my duty. That I must submit to my husband. That there might be some discomfort at first, but that it would pass. She said that it was how children were made. That it was the marriage debt."
"The marriage debt." He smiled again, and this time there was something almost predatory in it. "Is that what you think this is? A debt to be paid?"
"No, I—I do not know. I do not know what to think."
"Then let me tell you." He reached out and touched your face, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. His hand was warm, almost hot, and you felt yourself trembling beneath his touch. "This is not a debt. This is a gift. The gift of your body to me, and my body to you. The gift of pleasure. The gift of children. The gift of becoming one flesh, the way the septon said. Do you understand?"
You nodded, even though you did not understand. You did not understand anything except that his hand was on your face and his body was so close and you were trapped against the cold stone window and you could not stop shaking.
"You are trembling," he said. His thumb stroked your cheek, gentle and slow. "Are you afraid of me?"
"No." The word came out too quickly. "No, I am not afraid. I am just... I am nervous. I told you. I have never done this before."
"I know you have not." His voice dropped lower, becoming almost a purr. "That is what makes this so precious. You are untouched. Pure. No man has ever seen you like this, has ever touched you, has ever been inside you. I am the first. I will be the only. Your body will know no one but me, for the rest of your life."
The words should have been romantic, but they did not feel like it.
"Lift your arms," he said.
You hesitated. Your arms felt heavy, weighted down by something you could not name. But he was waiting, his eyes fixed on your face, and you did not want to disappoint him. You did not want to be a bad wife on your very first night.
You lifted your arms. He grasped the hem of your shift and pulled it upward. The silk slid over your skin, cool and whispering, and then it was over your head and gone, discarded somewhere on the floor. You were naked. Completely, utterly naked, standing in front of your husband with nothing to hide behind.
The air in the room was warm from the fire, but you felt suddenly, terribly cold. You wrapped your arms around yourself instinctively, trying to cover your breasts, trying to hide, but he caught your wrists and gently pulled them away.
"No," he said. "Do not hide from me. You are my wife now. I want to see you."
He stepped back, just slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes traveled over your body with an intensity that made your skin prickle. You had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, so utterly seen. He looked at your breasts, at the curve of your waist, at the curls at the juncture of your thighs. He looked at you the way a collector looks at a new acquisition. The way a hungry man looks at a feast.
"Beautiful," he murmured. His voice was thick now, roughened by something that made your stomach clench. "More beautiful than I ever imagined. And I imagined you a great deal."
His hand reached out and touched you. Just the tips of his fingers, tracing the line of your collarbone, down your sternum, between your breasts. Your skin broke out in goosebumps, and you shivered, and you did not know if it was from cold or fear or something else entirely.
"Please," you whispered, and you did not know what you were asking for. Please stop? Please continue? Please be gentle?
"Please what?" His fingers continued their slow exploration, circling one breast, brushing over the nipple. You gasped at the sensation, it was strange and sharp and not entirely unpleasant, a tingling that seemed to travel from your breast down to somewhere much lower. "Please what, my sweet girl?"
"I do not know," you admitted, your voice barely audible. "I do not know what to ask for. I do not know what I want."
"Then let me show you." He cupped your breast fully now, his palm warm and rough against your sensitive skin. "Let me teach you. That is my role now, as your husband. To teach you what your body is capable of. To show you pleasures you have never dreamed of."
He leaned down and captured your mouth in a kiss. You had been kissed before. Chaste kisses, the kind of kisses a betrothed couple exchanged in chaperoned parlors. This was not that. His mouth was hot and demanding, his lips pressing against yours with a force that made your head spin. His tongue pushed past your lips, filling your mouth, and you made a small, startled sound against him. You did not know what to do with your tongue—no one had ever told you—so you just let him take what he wanted.
One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, holding you in place. The other continued its exploration of your body, sliding down your stomach, over your hip, around to grasp your arse. He pulled you against him, and you felt it, that part of him, that impossible part, pressing hard and hot against your bare stomach. You whimpered into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound.
"You taste like wine," he murmured against your lips. "Sweet. So sweet."
He kissed you again, deeper this time, and his hand slid from your backside to your thigh, gripping it, lifting it. He pressed himself against you, and you felt him there, right there, so close to where you had never been touched.
"Ormund," you gasped, breaking the kiss. "Wait. Wait, please. I am not—I do not—"
"Shh." He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath coming in harsh pants. "I know. I know you are nervous. But I have waited so long. So very long. And you are so beautiful. Can you feel what you do to me? Can you feel how much I want you?"
You could feel it. Gods, you could feel it. It was pressed against you, insistent and impossible, and you did not understand how this was supposed to work. You did not understand how any of this was supposed to work.
"Come," he said, and it was not a request. "Come to the bed."
He did not wait for an answer. He bent and scooped you into his arms as if you weighed nothing at all, one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. You clutched at his shoulders instinctively, your face pressed against his neck, your heart hammering so hard you were certain he must be able to feel it. His skin was hot and smelled of sweat.
The bed was soft beneath you when he laid you down. The sheets were cool against your heated skin, and you sank into the feather mattress, feeling very small and very exposed. He stood over you for a moment, looking down at you with those hungry eyes, and then he was on the bed with you, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress.
He was so heavy. So much heavier than you had expected. You had never had a grown man lying on top of you before, and the sensation was overwhelming—the weight of him, the heat of him, the sheer size of him surrounding you on all sides. You felt trapped. Pinned. You could barely move.
"Relax," he murmured against your throat. His lips were trailing down your neck now, kissing and sucking, and you felt a strange, tingling warmth spreading from each place his mouth touched. "Relax, my love. I am going to make you feel so good. You just have to trust me."
You tried to relax. You tried to let go of the tension coiled in your muscles, tried to surrender to the sensations washing over you. His mouth found your breast, and you gasped as his tongue circled your nipple, as his teeth grazed the sensitive peak. The sensation was sharp and strange and not entirely unpleasant, it sent sparks of something through your body, sparks that seemed to travel downward, settling low in your belly.
"Ormund," you breathed, and you did not know if it was a protest or an encouragement.
"Good," he murmured against your skin. "Good girl. You feel that? That is pleasure. That is what your body is made for."
His hand slid down your stomach, over your hip, between your thighs. You tensed immediately, your legs trying to close, but he was already there, his body blocking you, his hand pressing insistently against your most private place.
"No," you whispered, your face burning with shame. "Please, not there—"
"Yes." His voice was firm. "Yes, there. You are my wife. Every part of you belongs to me now. Even this part. Especially this part."
His fingers began to move, stroking and exploring, and you turned your face into the pillow, unable to look at him. No one had ever touched you there before. You had barely even touched yourself there—it had always seemed forbidden, shameful, something good girls did not do. But his touch was insistent, and despite your embarrassment, despite your shame, your body was beginning to respond.
The heat was building. That strange, unfamiliar heat, coiling low in your belly like a spring being wound too tight. Your hips moved without your permission, pressing into his touch, seeking something you did not understand. He made a low sound of approval.
"That is it," he said. "That is my good girl. Your body knows what it wants, even if you do not."
His fingers found a particular spot, a place that made you gasp and arch off the bed, and he laughed softly. "There. That is what I was looking for. Does that feel good?"
You could not answer. Words had deserted you. There was only sensation, his fingers, his mouth, his weight pressing you into the mattress. The pleasure was building and building, and you did not know what was happening, did not know what to expect, only that it felt like you were climbing toward something vast and terrifying and unknown.
"Let go," he said, his voice low and hypnotic. "Let go, my sweet girl. Let me see you fall apart."
And you did. The pleasure crested, and your body arched off the bed, and a sound tore from your throat that you had never made before, a cry, almost a sob, your fingers clutching at the sheets, at his shoulders, at anything you could reach. The world went white and hot and overwhelming, and for a long, suspended moment, you forgot where you were. You forgot your name. You forgot everything except the feeling of his hands on your body and the pleasure crashing through you in waves.
When you came back to yourself, he was looking down at you with a smile of pure, male satisfaction. His fingers were still between your legs, gentle now, stroking you through the aftershocks.
"Good," he said. "Good. Now you are ready."
He shifted his weight, settling more firmly between your thighs, and you felt him pressing against the place his fingers had just been. Your eyes widened, and the haze of pleasure began to clear, replaced by a cold trickle of fear.
"Ormund, wait—"
"This will hurt," he said, and his voice was strained now, tight with something that sounded almost like pain. "But only for a moment. Try to relax. It will be easier if you relax."
You tried. You tried to relax, tried to do what he said, tried to be good. But when he pushed inside you, the pain was not just a moment. It was sharp and tearing and all consuming, and you cried out—a real cry this time, high and startled, your hands flying to his shoulders to push him away.
He did not stop. "Shh," he said, but his hips were already moving, pushing deeper , forcing his thick cock deeper into a body that was not ready for him . "Shh. It will pass. Just breathe. Just breathe."
You breathed. You wrapped your arms around his neck and held on and tried to breathe through the pain. Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes and slid down your temples into your hair. You felt yourself stretching around him, felt a burning ache that radiated through your entire lower body, and you did not know if this was normal. You did not know if it was supposed to hurt this much. Your mother had said there might be some discomfort. She had not said it would feel like being torn apart.
"Fuck, there," he groaned against your shoulder, voice thick with lust. "Gods, your cunt is so fucking tight. So perfect."
He began to move. Slow at first, then faster. The bed frame creaked beneath you, a rhythmic counterpoint to the sounds he was making, low, guttural grunts that vibrated against your neck. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as his cock plunged in and out of your clenching hole, each thrust punching deeper than the last.
You lay pinned beneath him, body jolting with the force of his fucking, your body rocking with each thrust, and tried to find the pleasure he had shown you before. It was there, somewhere, buried beneath the pain and the discomfort and the overwhelming strangeness of it all, but you could not reach it.
"Taking my cock so well," he rasped, sweat-slicked skin sliding over yours. "You were made to be fucked like this. Made to take every inch. Made for me. Say my name."
"Ormund," you whispered, and it came out as a sob.
"Yes. Yes. Again."
"Ormund—"
He slammed in to the hilt and came with a guttural roar, cock pulsing thick ropes of cum deep inside your stretched pussy. Hot seed flooded your insides, overflowing around his shaft and leaking down your crack as his fingers bruised your hips. You felt every heavy spurt, the wet heat filling you until it had nowhere else to go but out, you realized with a distant sort of shock that you did not even know what it was. Your mother had not told you. No one had told you anything.
He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, and you lay there pinned beneath him, staring at the canopy above the bed, feeling the tears drying on your cheeks and the soreness already beginning to bloom between your legs.
"That," he said, his voice muffled against your neck, "was worth every moment of waiting. Every single moment."
You did not answer. You did not know what to say. You stroked his hair because it seemed like something a wife should do, and you waited for him to move, to roll off you, to let you breathe.
But he did not move. Not for a long time.
When he finally stirred, you felt a rush of relief. It was over. You had done your duty. You could rest now, but he lifted his head and looked down at you, and his eyes were still dark. Still hungry. Still unsatisfied.
"Again," he said.
You stared at him, uncomprehending. "What?"
"Again." He pulled his cock free, leaving your raw, cum slicked cunt gaping and dripping. The sudden emptiness made you wince. Thick white seed leaked from your stretched hole and slid down your thighs "We are not finished. This is our wedding night, my love. Did you think once would be enough? I have waited a year for this. I am going to have you in every way I have imagined. And I have imagined a great many ways."
"But I am—I am sore—"
"This is your duty." His voice hardened, and the tenderness from a moment ago evaporated like mist in the morning sun. "You are my wife. Your body belongs to me now. And I will have it when and how I choose. That is what you agreed to when you said your vows. That is what it means to be married."
You opened your mouth to argue, but no words came out. Because he was right, wasn't he? This was what you had agreed to. This was what marriage was. Your mother had told you that your body would no longer be your own. She had told you that you must submit to your husband in all things. This was just... this was just what wives did.
Wasn't it?
"On your hands and knees," he said. "Like a bitch. I want to take you from behind."
The word bitch made you flinch, but you obeyed. You did not know how to disobey. You rolled onto your stomach, wincing at the soreness between your legs, and pushed yourself onto all fours, ass raised, thighs parted, your dripping pussy fully exposed. The position felt filthy and degrading. The position felt obscene, degrading, your body exposed and vulnerable in a way that made your face burn with shame.
"Good girl." His hand stroked down your spine, and you shivered. "You learn quickly. That will serve you well in this marriage."
He positioned himself behind you, and you felt him pressing against you again—still hard, still impossibly large. How was he still hard? You did not understand. You did not understand anything about male bodies or male desires or what was normal and what was not.
"Look at that pretty cunt already leaking my cum."
This time, there was no gentleness at all. He entered you in one rough thrust, and you cried out, your arms nearly buckling beneath you. He gripped your hips hard and started pounding you—fast, merciless strokes that made your ass ripple and your tits swing beneath you. There was no pretense of making you feel good this time, no gentle words, no coaxing. This was for him. Only for him. You cried out as his cock speared your sore walls again, forcing more of his previous load out around his shaft.
"This is what you were made for. To be bent over and used. To milk my cock until I fill you again, your cunt is clenching. You like being fucked like this. You like being my breeding bitch on our wedding night."
Each savage thrust punched deep, the wet slap of his balls against your clit sending sparks through the ache. His hand reached under you, fingers finding your swollen clit. He rubbed it in tight circles while he fucked you harder, the mix of rough pounding and steady stimulation making your thighs shake.
He grunted, his hips slamming against your backside. " This is your purpose. To take my cock. To give me pleasure. To give me children. Nothing else matters."
You buried your face in the pillow, trying to muffle the sounds you were making. Your body was still responding despite everything, your hips pressing back to meet his thrusts without your permission, your body betraying you in the most intimate way possible.
"You feel that? Your body is hungry for me. Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind does not."
The pleasure built fast and sharp. Your body betrayed you again, hips rocking back to meet every thrust. The dual sensations, his cock battering your cervix and his fingers working your clit, pushed you over the edge. You came with a broken moan, walls pulsing and fluttering around him as fresh wetness gushed down his shaft.
Your body obeyed. Your body had always been a traitor. The pleasure built and crested and crashed over you, and you collapsed onto the mattress, your arms no longer able to hold you up. He followed moments later with hot cum pumped deep, mixing with the first round until it overflowed and ran down your legs in thick rivulets. He stayed buried inside you, grinding slow as the last spurts emptied into your twitching cunt.
When he pulled out, and you lay there face, down on the bed, trembling, trying to catch your breath. You thought it was over. You thought surely, surely it must be over now.
But it was not over.
He let you rest for perhaps ten minutes. Maybe less. You could not track time anymore, it had become meaningless, measured only in the spaces between his desires. He lay beside you, his hand stroking your back, your hair, your thigh, and he spoke to you in a low, soothing voice. He told you that you were beautiful. He told you that you were doing so well. He told you that he loved you, that he had always loved you, that he would love you until the end of time.
And then his hands were on you again, and he was pulling you on top of him. "I want to see you ride me," he said, positioning you so that you were straddling his hips. "I want to watch your face while you take your pleasure from me, I want to watch that tight little cunt swallows my cock." he ordered, voice thick with lust.
You looked down at him, at his expectant face, at his hands gripping your thighs, and you felt a wave of exhaustion so profound it made your bones ache. "I do not know how," you whispered. "I do not know what to do."
"I will show you." His hands guided your hips, lifting you, positioning you over him. "Lower yourself. Slowly. Yes, like that. Gods, yes."
He lined his thick cock with your entrance and pushed your hips down. The fat head breached you again, stretching your swollen walls wide. A wet squelch filled the room as you sank onto him, his previous loads already leaking out around the intrusion. The new angle forced him deeper than before, the blunt tip grinding straight against your cervix and you gasped at the sensation. He began to move beneath you, thrusting up into you, and his hands guided your hips into a rhythm that matched his own.
"Good," he said, his eyes fixed on your face. "Good. You are learning.''
Each time you dropped down, his cock punched up to meet you, the wet slap of your soaked pussy against his pelvis loud and obscene. Your breasts bounced with every impact, nipples stiff and aching.
"Look at me," he growled. "Eyes on mine while you fuck yourself on my cock."
You met his gaze, cheeks burning, as he drove up harder. His hands slid to your ass, fingers digging in, spreading you wider so he could watch his shaft disappear inside you. "Say it," he demanded. "Tell me who this cunt belongs to." face was flushed, his eyes dark and intense, and there was something in his expression that made your stomach twist.
"Y-you," you gasped, the word breaking as another thrust knocked the air from your lungs.
"Louder."
"You! My cunt is yours!"
He snarled in approval and slammed upward, the brutal pace making your thighs shake. One hand left your ass to find your swollen clit, rubbing it in fast, rough circles while he fucked you from below. Your orgasm hit hard. Your pussy spasmed around him, pulsing and milking his shaft as fresh slick gushed out, mixing with the cum already inside you. You collapsed forward onto his chest, body jerking, but he kept thrusting up into your twitching hole, chasing his own release.
With a guttural groan he buried himself to the hilt and pumped another thick load deep into your womb. Hot spurts flooded you, forcing even more of the previous loads to squirt out around his shaft and run down his balls in sticky rivulets. He stayed buried inside you, grinding slow as the last pulses emptied, keeping you impaled and full.
You thought it was over. You thought surely, surely it must be over now.
But it was not over.
He took you twice more that night. The fourth time was on your side, your leg hooked over his hip, his mouth on your throat, his hands gripping your body with a possessiveness that left bruises. The fifth time, he woke you from a deep sleep—you had finally drifted off, your body giving out from sheer exhaustion—and took you from behind again, roughly, quickly, with no gentleness at all.
By the end of it, the sky outside the window was beginning to lighten. The bells rang for dawn, and you heard them as if from very far away, as if you were underwater and the sounds of the world above were muffled and distorted.
You were lying on your back, staring at the canopy. Your body was a landscape of unfamiliar sensations—soreness and exhaustion and a strange, hollow ache that had nothing to do with the physical. Between your legs was wet and sticky and sore, and you could feel his seed leaking out of you, soaking into the sheets. There was blood too, you thought, though you had not looked. You did not want to look.
He was asleep beside you. Finally, mercifully, asleep. His arm was thrown across your waist, heavy and possessive even in unconsciousness, and his breath came in slow, even rhythms. You stared at the canopy. You stared at the ceiling. You stared at the fire burning low in the hearth, and you tried to make sense of what had happened.
This was marriage. This was what wives did. This was your duty.
Was this normal? You had no one you could ask. The only married woman you knew well was your mother, and your mother had spoken of the marriage bed in such vague, poetic terms that you had no way of comparing her experience to yours.
Perhaps it was always like this. Perhaps the first night was always overwhelming, always painful, always disorienting. Perhaps you would get used to it in time. Perhaps you would learn to find pleasure in it—he had shown you that pleasure was possible, had coaxed it from your body even when you did not want to give it. Perhaps that was the key. Perhaps you just needed to learn.
You turned your head on the pillow and looked at him. Your husband. Lord Ormund Hightower, the man who had courted you so tenderly, who had written you such beautiful letters, who had made you feel like the most cherished woman in the world. In sleep, his face was relaxed, almost boyish, the lines of age and command softened by the grey morning light. He looked like a different man than the one who had taken you five times over the course of the night. He looked like the man you had fallen in love with.
His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer even in sleep. You felt his breath against your hair, warm and steady. You felt the heat of his body, the solid weight of him, the overwhelming reality of his presence.
Mine, you thought. He is mine now. And I am his.
The thought should have brought you comfort. It should have made you feel safe, protected, cherished. Instead, it made you feel something you could not name. Something that sat heavy in your chest like a stone.
You closed your eyes and tried to sleep. Your body was exhausted, wrung out, desperate for rest. But your mind would not quiet. It kept circling back to the same questions, the same confusions, the same half-formed doubts that you did not know how to examine.
Was it supposed to be like this?
Was this what love was?
You had no answers. You had only the grey morning light and the distant sound of bells and the weight of your husband's arm across your waist.
And the knowledge, slowly dawning in the back of your mind, that your life would never be the same again.
—
You woke to the feeling of lips on your neck. Soft and persistent. A mouth pressed to the curve where your shoulder met your throat, trailing slow, open mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. You stirred from the depths of exhausted sleep, your mind foggy, your body heavy with a weariness that seemed to have seeped into your very bones.
For a moment, you did not remember where you were. The bed was too large, too soft, the pillows too many. The light filtering through the heavy curtains was grey and pale, early morning, the hour when the world was still half-asleep. The air smelled of sweat and sex and burned down candles, and beneath it all, the faint, musky scent of a man.
Ormund.
Your husband. He was behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his arm wrapped around your waist. His body was warm—almost too warm—and you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your spine. His lips continued their exploration, moving from your neck to the curve of your ear, nibbling gently at the lobe. His breath was hot against your skin, and you felt the soft scrape of his teeth, barely there, a ghost of a bite that made you shiver.
"Good morning," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and something else. Something darker. "I was beginning to think you would sleep through the entire day."
His hand moved from your waist, sliding up your stomach to cup your breast. His palm was warm, slightly calloused, and he cupped you with a tenderness that seemed at odds with the roughness of the night before. His thumb found your nipple and brushed across it in a slow, deliberate circle. The sensation was electric, a jolt that went straight to your core, and you gasped—a small, involuntary sound that seemed to please him.
"You are so sensitive this morning," he said. "I like that. I like knowing that I am the first thing you feel when you wake."
His thumb continued its lazy circles, and you felt yourself responding despite everything. Your nipple hardened beneath his touch, pebbling against his palm. Your hips pressed back against him, between your thighs a pulse of heat bloomed, shameful and undeniable.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt the evidence of his own arousal pressing against the curve of your backside. He was hard again, thick and insistent, and the knowledge sent a fresh wave of heat through you.
"That is it," he whispered against your ear, his voice low and rough. "Your body remembers last night. It remembers what I taught you. It wants more, does it not?"
You shook your head weakly, even as your body betrayed you. "I am tired," you managed. "I did not sleep."
"Neither did I." His hand slid lower, over your stomach, his fingers splaying across your belly before moving down to the thatch of hair between your legs. "I lay awake for hours, watching you. You looked so peaceful. So beautiful. I wanted to wake you, but I did not. I let you rest."
His fingers found your center, parting your folds with practiced ease. You were wet—embarrassingly, shamefully wet—and he groaned softly when he felt it.
"Oh, sweet girl," he breathed. "You are so ready for me. Even after everything. Even after I kept you up all night. Your body knows what it wants."
His fingers moved in slow, gentle circles, tracing the outline of your most sensitive places. The sensation was overwhelming—too much and not enough all at once. Your hips bucked against his hand, and you heard yourself whimper, a small, desperate sound that seemed to come from somewhere outside yourself.
"Ormund," you whispered. "Please. I am so tired."
"I know." He kissed your shoulder, your neck, the hinge of your jaw. "I know you are tired, sweet girl. I am not going to do anything you do not want. I only want to touch you. I only want to feel you. Is that all right?"
You should have said no. You should have told him to stop, to give you space, to let you breathe. But his fingers were moving in slow, gentle circles, and your body was betraying you, softening beneath his touch, your hips tilting to give him better access.
"That is not a no," he said. His voice was soft, almost playful. "That is a I do not know how to say yes because I am too shy. Am I right?"
You buried your face in the pillow, your cheeks burning. He laughed and kissed the back of your head.
"It is all right to want this," he said. "You are my wife. You are allowed to want your husband. There is no shame in it."
He rolled you onto your back gently, positioning himself above you. The weight of him was familiar now, the heat of his body pressing you into the mattress. But he did not push inside you. He only looked at you, his blue eyes soft, his curls tousled, his face relaxed in a way you had not seen before.
His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. He studied your face as though memorizing it, as though you were something precious and rare. His gaze moved from your eyes to your lips to the hollow of your throat, and you felt seen in a way that made your breath catch.
"Before you say anything," he said quietly, "I need to apologize to you."
You blinked up at him, confused.
"Last night," he continued. "I know I was... I know I got carried away. I promised you I would be gentle, and I was, at first. But then..." He exhaled slowly, his thumb still stroking your cheek. "It has been a long time for me, sweet girl, years since my wife died, years since I have laid with anyone. I had forgotten how overwhelming it could be. How consuming. The feel of you beneath me, the sound of your voice, the way your body responded to mine—I lost myself in it. I was too rough with you at times. I know I was. And I am sorry for that."
He leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours, his breath warm on your lips. His eyes were closed, his expression vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache despite everything.
"I did not mean to hurt you," he said. "You must believe that. I would never hurt you on purpose. You are my wife. You are the woman I have dreamed of for years. The last thing in this world I want is to cause you pain."
He took your hand and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. You felt it beating beneath your palm, steady and strong. His skin was warm, the hair on his chest soft against your fingers. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing, the way it quickened slightly as you touched him.
"Can you forgive me for last night? For being too rough when I should have been more careful?"
You swallowed. Your throat was tight, your eyes stinging with something that might have been tears. You had not expected this. You had expected him to be pleased with himself, to preen and boast and make you feel small for your weakness. Instead, he was asking for forgiveness. He was acknowledging his fault. He was promising to do better.
"Yes," you whispered. "I forgive you."
His face broke into a smile, relieved and almost boyish. He leaned down and kissed your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. Each kiss was soft, lingering, as though he was trying to pour all his gratitude into the gesture.
"Thank you," he said. "You are so generous. So kind. I do not deserve you."
He kissed you then gently, the way he had kissed you at the altar. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache. His hand cradled your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you felt yourself melting into him despite everything. His tongue traced your lower lip, asking permission, and you parted your lips for him, a small surrender that made him groan softly against your mouth.
When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with desire, but he did not push further. He only looked at you, his thumb stroking your jaw.
"It will get better," he said. "I promise you. The first time is always the hardest. But as you grow accustomed to me, as your body learns to welcome me, it will become easier. It will become pleasurable. And one day, you will wake up and you will want me. You will ache for me. You will not be able to imagine a morning without my hands on you."
His hand slid down your body, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hip. His touch was reverent, almost worshipful, as though he was learning the geography of you by heart. His fingers trailed over your stomach, and you shivered at the sensation.
"I love the way you feel," he murmured. "So soft. So warm. So perfectly made for me."
He kissed your collarbone, then lower, his lips brushing the swell of your breast. His mouth was warm, his breath hot on your skin, and you felt yourself arching into him despite your exhaustion.
"I am going to be so good to you," he said against your skin. "I am going to take care of you. I am going to give you everything you deserve. You will never want for anything, sweet girl. Not while I draw breath."
His hand found your breast again, cupping it gently, his thumb circling your nipple. He lowered his head and took it into his mouth, and you gasped at the sensation, his tongue warm and wet, his lips soft, his teeth grazing just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through you. Your fingers tangled in his auburn curls, holding him there, and he made a sound of approval against your skin.
He moved to your other breast, giving it the same attention, and you felt yourself spiraling, the pleasure building despite everything. The pain of last night was still there, a dull ache between your thighs, but it was overshadowed now by the heat of his mouth, the tenderness of his hands.
When he finally lifted his head, his lips were red, his eyes dark. He looked at you with an expression that made your heart stutter.
"Beautiful," he said. "So beautiful."
He kissed you again, deep and slow, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as though he could taste your pleasure. His hand slid between your legs, finding you wet and ready, and he groaned against your lips.
"I want to make you feel good," he whispered. "I want to make you forget everything but me. Can I do that, sweet girl? Can I touch you? Make you come apart for me?"
You should have said no. You should have told him you were tired, that you needed rest, that you could not bear any more. But his fingers were stroking you, circling that sensitive place that made your vision blur, and the word that came out of your mouth was not no.
"Yes," you breathed. "Please."
He smiled and lowered his head to kiss your neck as his fingers continued their work. He was gentle, so gentle, nothing like the rough urgency of the night before. He took his time, building the pleasure slowly, watching your face as you gasped and moaned beneath him.
"That is it," he murmured. "Let go for me, sweet girl. I want to see you fall apart."
And you did. The pleasure built and built until you could not hold it back, and then you were crying out, your body arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders. He held you through it, his fingers still moving, drawing out every last shiver of pleasure.
When you finally came down, you were trembling, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth.
"So perfect," he whispered. "So beautiful. I could watch you come apart forever."
He rolled you onto your side, pulling you against his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist. His hard length pressed against your backside, but he did not push inside you. He only held you, his lips pressed to your hair.
"Sleep now," he murmured. "I will hold you. I will keep you safe."