theia

𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙫𝙖𝙢𝙥𝙞𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙣 .ᐟ⸝⸝

[silkaurum]

...★... theia ⋆ 21 ⋆ she/her ⋆ hopless romantic ⋆ mother of dachshunds ⋆ musicholic ⋆ delusional ⋆ overthinker ⋆ asoiaf is my main fandom ...★…

- masterlist ⋆ rules ⋆ taglist ⋆ adults only territory (18+) .ᐟ -

- latest works: „ the sacredness of prayer ” ormund hightower x betrothed .ᐟ reader -

- my inbox is always open for your questions and requests -

© 𝘀𝗶𝗹𝗸𝗮𝘂𝗿𝘂𝗺 જ⁀➴ 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆 𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗺𝘆 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻

[ser-duncan-the-best]

Say about Maekar what you want, but he certainly never threw his boy into the air and caught him again to celebrate a tug of war they won together like a proud father.

[undefiinedd33]

[cosimads]

ANTHONY BOYLE as ARTHUR GUINNESS House of Guinness (2025–)

[dreamfxyre]

pillow — by dreamfxyre ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

[vlarrtrgryn]

WOOOOOO 😛🙈

[breakspearz]

(SOME THINGS ARE) FLAWED BY DESIGN;

dancin' in acid rain alone it's new, but i don't wanna do it anymore; i guess i'll sing alone (modern!ormund hightower x fem!reader). synopsis: weeks after you and ormund have called it quits, your car breaks down, your cellphone battery dies, and you're stranded on the side of the road under a pouring rain. and somehow, in an act you have yet to decide is either a blessing or a curse, you're thrown back into the dangerous spiral that comes with the very last person you wanted to see. cw: smut (18+, MDNI!), angst. modern!au, canon divergence. age difference (ormund is implied to be in his early 40s and reader in her mid 20s). oral (male!receiving), masturbation (female!receiving), objectification, praise as dirty talk. power imbalance, toxic dynamics. reader is aegon’s ex, mentions of cheating, ormund is manipulative and a jerk! | 1.4k words

ORMUND lets out a breath, swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, and the thin silver chain that adorns his neck sways like a pendulum with every thrust of his hips.

“you’ll touch yourself to this when you go back home, won’t you?” he whispers, and his words burn through your skin until they’re scorched on your bones. “finger that pretty pussy thinking of me?”

you're in his kitchen, and your knees feel tight against the cold wooden floor, and you're bobbing your head up and down, up and down, up and down, along the length of his cock.

you're in his kitchen, and your shirt lies discarded by your side, pretty tits jiggling with every move, and he does not part his eyes from the sight.

excuses materialize inside your head like wisps of smoke.

you are on a break. yours and aegon's relationship was broken before you officially called it quits, either way. and you are on a break. he's probably doing the same thing, anyways, and he was barely loyal to you when you were actually dating. and you are on a break.

you stop yourself before you can conjure any more.

in this moment, none of them matter.

none of them make up for the fact that he, the man whose cock is far down your throat, is almost twice your age. none of them make up for his steady hands and careful sounds. none of them make up for the fact that he, the man whose cock is far down your throat, has already broken your heart.

it does not matter, not when you swallow around his length and he lets out a quiet groan.

“you look so beautiful like this,” ORMUND hisses through clenched teeth, and a cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth. “it's easy to see why aegon was so besotted by you. hard not to be when you look this pretty on your knees.”

a moan breaks past your lips. 

you’re certain that his words will come back to haunt you later, when you’re back home and start dissecting the evening by its seconds, but at the moment, you close your eyes and do your best to tuck them away.

you run your tongue down the side of his cock, tracing a vein, and your hands travel down between your legs.

and it’s the stretch, and it’s the heat, and it’s the way he’s holding back from thrusting inside your mouth, and your mind is spinning with how good it feels.

“no, pretty girl,” he says, words falling out of his mouth in a purr. you decide you hate how soft it sounds. you cannot help but want to hear it again. “eyes open. come on, keep looking at me.”

you obey. you look up at him through your lashes, and he twitches inside your mouth. one of your hands slips under the hem of your shorts and starts to circle your clit over your panties, your own body trying to match his pace.

it’s not enough. 

you press your digits harder against your throbbing pearl, try to circle them faster, but you’re dripping down your thighs, warm and sticky, and as you struggle to take his cock deeper inside your mouth, you cannot help but think of how it feels when it is splitting your cunt open instead.

you can still feel his hands on you. you can still feel his lips on your skin.

it’s been months since the last time you laid with him—the night he said it would be best if you stayed clear of each other for the sake of your relationship with aegon, speaking against your embrace as he held you after fucking you—and you can still feel his hands on you: his soft skin and long fingers, his thick knuckles and strong hold.

it all remains, like the ghost of a touch over your skin, sending shivers down your spine at the memory it evokes.

you wonder if it will ever leave you.

“look at you, pretty girl, making such a mess for me,” his hips thrust against your face again, cock pushing down against your throat. he takes a drag from his cigarette, inhaling deep, and you swear you can feel it in your lungs. “is this turning you on? mhm, are you getting off on the taste of my cock, pretty?”

a nod. you whimper around his length, and he hisses. he removes his right hand from the back of your head and curls his fingers around his base, pulling his cock out of your mouth as your pleasure begins to take form at the bottom of your stomach. a ribbon of spit bridges the empty space between his tip, reddened and leaking, and your lips, swollen and glistening.

ORMUND smirks, angling your face upwards, and runs the head of his cock over your lips.

you open your mouth and stick your tongue out, moaning as your orgasm ripples through you with a force that makes you realize that you have bitten more than you can chew; because this kind of bliss is the kind that has teeth, and is the kind of bliss that bites back.

it’s the kind of bliss that leaves its mark.

“by the seven, look at that,” he mumbles, and a clump of ash falls to the floor. his words are messy and slurred as he strokes his cock faster, and faster, and faster, chasing the same pleasure you have just surrendered yourself to. “you’re beautiful. seven above, you’re beautiful.”

and he comes undone.

a hoarse, broken moan leaves his mouth when he lowers his guard. he continues jerking his cock as he cums, balls drawing tight as he streaks your waiting mouth with ribbons of white. they fall all over your lips, down your chin, along the expanse of your cheeks.

he drinks up the sight, pupils growing wide to take it all in, and his euphoria, unlike yours, is the kind that has wings.

you swallow, and the moment he closes his eyes to take a breath in, you wipe at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand. you lower your head to put on your top, and miss the way in which his eyes search for yours.

the lightning fixture shines over your head, golden and gentle like a low-hanging moon, bathing the kitchen in a faint amber glow. light bleeds over every surface as the day leaves little by little, and, for a moment, there is silence: silence as he gathers his thoughts and silence as you comb through yours.

he feels himself isolated from the world and is only standing in a quiet kitchen; glowing warmly under an artificial moon, and is sure that this is all there is, with his gaze set on the horizon and his anchor dropping on a bed of sand. silence, and the smell of grapefruit dish soap.

then, an exhale.

the world is the world again.

“this cannot happen again,” he whispers, voice soft as silk, words set in stone. they sting, hot and painful, running like acid down your spine. you can still taste his cum on your tongue. “we don’t work, you and i. not really. you know that, don’t you? and he loves you still, i know he does. he wants to try again. and you two—he's a better fit for you.”

your words die on your throat, and you answer what you can. “i know.”

ORMUND nods, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, and tucks his softening cock back inside his pants. he squares his shoulders, picking up the boulder, shouldering the weight.

“you should stay the night,” he adds, after a moment. he leans over your form and leaves the bunt of cigarette on the counter. “there’s pasta, if you want something to eat.”

the daze is over as quickly as it began. your knees, raw and reddened, sting when you stand, and you're left with his words, quiet and regretful, as the bitterness of bile rises up your throat.

to you, it only smells of smoke.

©BREAKSPEARZ — thank you for reading, let me know what you think! do not copy, translate, modify, repost, or feed to ai.

[silkaurum]

my most honest reaction to this very good fic in these pictures. a little shocked, a little not shocked hehehe so hot

[classicalcanvas]

The Daryal canyon (1862) by Ivan Aivazovsky

[silkaurum]

Something intimidate and a bit dark/possessive Ormund? Reader asks for their wedding to be held according to Ormund’s religion, not because she’s deeply religious herself, but because she wants to honor the man she’s marrying 😌 (only bsc he spoils her well ✨)

my dear, firstly, i'm incredibly nervous because i want you to like everything, and secondly, thank you so much for your request. you can only imagine how much pleasure it was for me to write this fic, especially knowing that it was for someone so wonderful. ohhh i really really hope you like what i wrote ♡.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ

and here it is ⤷ „ the sacredness of prayer ”

[silkaurum]

THE SACREDNESS OF PRAYER

pairing: ormund hightower x betrothed .ᐟ reader

summary: you are to become the wife of a man whose fate is deeply intertwined with religion. you wish with all your heart to be worthy of your lord hightower. you ask him for a small mercy, to teach you to see the world through his eyes. ormund cannot help but bask in the feeling of pride as he watches you, folded in humble prayer

word count: 2.5k

tropes: religious themes ⋆ possessive .ᐟ ormund ⋆ dark undertones ⋆ tender moments ⋆ comfort ⋆ mutual respect

warnings: 18+ audiences only ⋆ sexual tension ⋆ mention of faith ⋆ possessive behavior ⋆ emotional intensity ⋆ mild anxiety ⋆ religious guilt ⋆ implied sexual desire ⋆ heated moments

thea's note: i didn't plan to make a reference to prince andrei bolkonsky, but when i finished writing the paragraph about the tree compared to the mighty man who embodies it, i realized i had. it was such a pleasure to write this fic, oh gods how appropriate is that exclamation here? and it became especially special because i wrote this for someone very sweet @fire-joestar <33

Walking through the lush, life filled gardens of House Hightower, you could not help but feel a light nervousness settling like grey ash in your heart. You paced along the neatly paved paths without any of the pride that many brides surely felt, preparing to claim these grounds as their own. You kept stopping with an internal anxiety that had already wrapped your chest in unpleasant metallic threads. Ormund, walking behind you, mirrored your steps, though he looked relaxed in contrast. His face was smooth, almost blissful. His blue eyes took in the sight of the garden with reverence, but it was nothing compared to the way he looked at you.

A chestnut tree spread its branches with a sense of dignity. The tree looked proud, full of color. Among the lush greenery, reminiscent of your future husband's house colors, lush white flowers peeked through, resembling candles. A sweet, almost honeyed aroma filled the morning air. Looking at the plant, you could not help but think how this garden reminded you of Ormund himself. He carried the same unshakable calm, the same majesty, with an air as if it meant laughably little. Lord Hightower wore a heavy velvet cloak in a deep emerald color. His body seemed tense almost all the time, as if he held an entire sky on his broad shoulders. In this, he reminded you of the crown of a majestic tree.

You awkwardly touched the cold silver of your earrings, adjusting them periodically, not because they sat unevenly, but because you wanted some way to calm yourself. The trinket was a recent gift from your betrothed. They were heavy, the lobes of your ears felt the pressure, like a promise that being the wife of the head of such a house would not be simple. The earrings swayed slightly and settled against your neck, kissing your skin with the points of their rays. Two little stars with seven points and pearls set in the middle. This generous gesture from Ormund had become a nagging thought for you. You wanted to be worthy of it, and that extended far beyond just the earrings. You wanted to wear seven pointed stars in your ears with the same honor with which he carried his faith. You wanted to be part of his world, steeped in beeswax and quiet, devoted prayers.

You were the middle daughter in your family, and perhaps because of that, you did not receive the same attention as your older sister. This applied not only to your parents but also to your septa. You did not want to blame that good woman for not instilling in you the necessary love for faith. But as far back as you could remember, you recalled fingers pricked by a needle more than hands folded in prayer. You felt somewhat detached from this world. You had never been particularly religious, and before, you had never even thought about it. But now, walking shoulder to shoulder with your future husband, Ormund Hightower himself, you could not help but ask yourself many questions about your previous life.

The head of House Hightower noticed how your expression had changed. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, as your head was covered in a white cloth like a dove's wing. Ormund could not help but admire you involuntarily. You looked so innocent and pure, like an angel descending from the heavens directly into his arms. The curve of your cheek was softly outlined, and the fabric clung to your beautiful face. Your gaze was captivatingly hidden beneath the shadow of your lashes. You could not have imagined that your image radiated so much temptation. You were a mystery covered in a patterned veil.

"You've grown quiet. Has something happened? Is it because of the wedding? Have you changed your mind?" Ormund chuckled quietly. You guessed he was trying to tease you sweetly, but his shameless nature pierced through this armor of sweetness very successfully.

You shook your head with a slight smile. This marriage was desired by both of you. It was almost surprising. When you were a very young maiden, you had already resigned yourself to an arranged marriage, because that fate had befallen many of your friends and acquaintances. Some of them married so young, and their husbands were much older, that you were involuntarily grateful to the gods each time for the love you shared with Ormund.

"I wouldn't refuse. Too much has already been done. It would be a shame if all the flowers prepared for the wedding went to waste."

The irony that slipped into your voice gave Ormund a slight thrill. Those rare moments when you teased him while still looking like such a pious lady made him weak. All good and proper thoughts left his head. Lord Hightower turned his head away, pretending that a neatly trimmed bush was occupying his attention. He did not allow himself to cross the boundaries of propriety, for later he would never forgive himself. Such sweet lies, convincing himself that he was not waiting for the wedding night as much as a starving man waits for food.

"But something is bothering you, isn't it?" Ormund rasped quietly, his voice hoarse from pent up emotion.

"I would like everything to go perfectly. I don't want to do something that will later become a constant reminder of my ignorance regarding religion."

"Ignorance is too strong a word, and I would say unworthy of you."

"Lord Hightower, you don't understand. I don't even know how to pray properly," you whispered with some desperation. These words had slipped from your lips, and you regretted not being able to hold them back. Your cheeks warmed with a blush that spread across your skin.

The man stopped and looked at you intently. Something predatory flickered in his spring like eyes. He smiled with the corners of his lips. You blinked in confusion. Shouldn't he be outraged? Did this not truly make you ignorant? But Ormund simply extended his hand to you silently. In this gesture, there was barely a hint of authority. You obediently reached for him. Something was pulling your body, tugging at the strings, forcing you to obey.

His hand covered yours, and it felt pleasantly right. His fingers were long and elegant, like swords forged by a skilled master, clinging to your fingers with a sense of ownership. Ormund still tried to hide the fact that you belonged to him no less than Oldtown. In his "my betrothed," there was a rough love. No one doubted that the marriage would take place, because it was the will of Lord Hightower.

"It's pleasant to be the first at something, hmm?" he purred quite ambiguously. You were slightly less innocent than he imagined, so you caught his hint. The upcoming wedding night troubled you no less.

You nearly gasped when you saw where you had ended up. You had walked through these gardens before, but you had never wandered into this spot. Before you stood a white marble gazebo with a dome of green stained glass and silver swirls that reminded you of ripples on seawater. There were seven columns, unsurprisingly, each representing a familiar figure. The silhouettes of the Seven bathed in golden sunlight, and their smiles at this time of day looked blessing and kind. The work was so masterful that you could make out every fold in their garments and every wrinkle on the faces of the statues. In the center of the gazebo stood an altar, a massive square polished at the edges, made of the same white marble but with graphite veins.

You froze, overcome with reverence. You could not believe that your future husband had brought you to such a sacred place. For you, this meant the same as opening his soul. Ormund gently urged you forward, or rather pulled you along, slowly ascending the low steps.

"This is not the sept, but I tried to make it a little like one. There is a little less strictness here and more freedom." Ormund nodded at the ivy that wrapped around the railings with its green tenacious paws.

"I think for a first time, it will do perfectly." His voice became deeper and quieter, as if he was afraid to disturb the peace of the Seven.

Lord Hightower's knees touched the cold floor. The cushion remained peacefully lying beside his feet. It was clear that he had never performed a prayer with anyone before. You pressed your hands to your chest. Unease gripped your entire spirit. The faces of the Seven could not set you up for confession, nor could Ormund who spoke so gently. His hair caught the light, glowing with copper threads, sparkling almost like amber.

"Come here, my lady. There is nothing to be afraid of." He insisted softly. Your cheeks warmed again. A bad, unrighteous feeling made the pit of your stomach clench into a tight knot.

How intimate it was to see the man who would belong to you kneeling before you. Ormund seemed ready to pray not to the gods, but to you alone. It would cost you nothing to step closer and run your hand through his thick hair. It would cost him nothing to leave a kiss on your stomach and travel lower.

You swayed and quickly sank onto the cushion he offered, afraid that he might hear your bold fantasies. Or were you already sharing one fantasy between the two of you as spouses?

"This might seem humiliating, but it is a posture of humility. Pride is a terrible vice, and how else are we to atone for it if not before the gods?" he whispered softly, like a gentle breeze against your trembling back.

His fingers picked up a thin wax candle, fingers that could easily break it in half, but they held it with the tenderness of a lover. He lit his candle. The flame danced smoothly, swaying from side to side. The glow of the lit candle played in your eyes. Ormund held his breath almost imperceptibly. A protective feeling spread through his chest. One of your locks slipped from under your headscarf and fell onto your soft cheek.

He cleared his throat hastily, realizing he had been caught openly devouring you with his eyes. Ormund offered you the candle so you could light your own, but he could not let go of your fingers. He squeezed your flesh with hidden passion. Desire clouded his mind. Would the Seven approve of him imagining biting your lower lip to push his tongue into your sweet mouth?

The marble face of the Mother now looked stern, and perhaps she was saving you from some foolishness right before your wedding, because Ormund pulled back, trying to straighten up. You watched the dance of your candles' flames standing close to each other. Two thin wax pillars desired each other no less than you and Lord Hightower.

"Place your palms together, warm them, feel the blood in you, that you are alive, and that it is thanks to the Seven, my lady." Ormund sighed quietly. He closed his eyes with extraordinary submission. With each new word, a composure awakened in him. He only occasionally glanced at you, checking how much you were giving yourself to the prayer or to his gentle commands.

"You can pray aloud. That is usually how it is done in the sept. That way you feel your involvement, and also that you are not alone, how faith fills you, making you the strongest person in the world. But you can also pray silently. That is your conversation with the gods. They will hear you because you are their daughter."

Lord Hightower whispered something completely unintelligible, but so tender that it made an indescribable impression on you. Your heart trembled, afraid of bursting. You were not praying. You were looking at your future husband without blinking. He was so devoted, so removed from the whole world, and the Seven, how beautiful he was! You forgot how to breathe. You wanted to immediately confess to the gods for all your sins, especially for the sin that had soaked into the skirt of your dress. Sometimes nature conquered any morality.

"Are you still worried about the upcoming wedding?" he suddenly asked, lazily opening only one eye like a cat. "You are not praying, dear."

"I am praying silently! And yes, I am worried, because I want everything to follow the strict traditions of your house." You began playing with your earrings again to occupy your trembling hands.

His blue eyes watched your nervous fingers. He was curious to feel your pulse, not just to run the pad of his thumb over your thin skin, but to warm your wrist with his lips, to trace the beating vein with the tip of his tongue.

"Everything will be as my wife wishes." Ormund swallowed. "And I appreciate that, my lady, your devotion. I swore to the Seven that my wife would lack nothing, that I would be everything to her that she desires."

You lowered your head so he would not see the wide smile that had appeared on your face. His words warmed you like strong Dornish wine.

Ormund approached without asking, lifting your chin with his fingers and kissed not your forehead or cheek, but your lips. His lips pressed against yours hotly and tenderly, his tongue tracing the outline of your upper lip, and you timidly allowed him to deepen the kiss with a shameless sigh. All you could do was part your lips a little more, letting your betrothed kiss you with pressure. His tongue slid against your inexperienced one. He was teaching you again, but this time there was no trace of anything as pure as prayer. Ormund's teeth grazed your soft lips, gently biting them and kissing them as if immediately comforting you, apologizing. Your moisture trickled down the inside of your thighs, which you pressed together to keep it from spilling onto the silk cushion.

You moaned pitifully, and that became something sobering for him. He did not pull away immediately. Ormund kissed you again, but tenderly this last time, unhurriedly sealing your swollen lips together. A wet thread stretched between your mouths, not allowing you to part so soon.

"The gods are merciful, as you can see, my lady." Lord Hightower whispered with eyes darkened and gleaming with arousal. "For I asked them for this."

You still could not calm your heart and your ragged breath, let alone the ache of your pussy craving sin.

Ormund did not look so agitated, or he hid it well. He meditatively dipped a sprig of hyssop into a bowl of water. With his brows furrowed in concentration, he ran the plant across your heated forehead. Water dripped onto your skin, but could not cool it.

Something vaguely told you that it would be different in the sept, certainly without that beastly kiss between prayer and aspersion, but your future husband looked as if he had done everything exactly as the rules you had so sweetly insisted upon required.

taglist: @lustedbby @pinkdoeweirdo @userhotd @rottenbites @ghostlybfgf @sedonasummer @risingraisin @icebearcucumber @baskettis @senatorpadmeamidala @sinarainbows @believeyourgalaxy if you want to be tagged, let me know .ᐟ

[userhotd]

JEALOUS! JO 𝜗ৎ HEADCANONS

jealous! jo who insists she doesn’t get jealous because “that’s middle school crap,” then spends the rest of the hunt glaring at the person who kept flirting with you.

jealous! jo who suddenly has an arm around your shoulders the second someone gets a little way too comfortable standing next to you.

jealous! jo who rolls her eyes every time someone laugh at your jokes. They’re not even that funny.

jealous! jo who starts finding excuses for the two of you to leave the room together before someone else gets your attention before her.

jealous! jo who tells herself she’s only keeping an eye on you because hunters should always watch each other’s backs. The way she never looks away is purely coincidental.

jealous! jo who hates hearing you say someone else’s name a little too often.

jealous! jo who catches someone checking you out from across the Roadhouse and suddenly decides she’d rather stand between you and the rest of the room.

jealous! jo who becomes ten times more sarcastic whenever your attention drifts toward someone else.

jealous! jo who claims she couldn’t care less who you spend your time with, yet always ends up sitting beside you anyway.

jealous! jo who keeps interrupting conversations just to remind everyone that she already knows that story about you.

jealous! jo who notices the second someone starts flirting with you, even if she’s halfway through cleaning a shotgun.

jealous! jo who pretends to tease you about your “admirer,” hoping you’ll immediately tell her you’re not interested.

jealous! jo who acts normal until someone touches your arm. Then suddenly she’s asking if you’re both ready to leave.

jealous! jo who would rather fight a nest of vampires than admit the reason she’s in such a bad mood is because you smiled at somebody else.

jealous! jo who always volunteers to be your hunting partner before anyone else gets the chance.

jealous! jo who starts remembering every detail about you just to prove herself she knows you better than anyone ever could.

jealous! jo who tells dean she’s “not jealous,” then literally asks him what he thinks that guy wanted with you.

jealous! jo who softens the second you reach for her hand without thinking, because maybe she was worrying over nothing after all.

jealous! jo who realizes her jealousy was never really about other people. It was about the terrifying possibility that someone else might make you happier than she could.

taglist : here to be add <3 (divider by @pixopix)

© userhotd ‎ ‎𐙚 don't copy, translate or repost my work without my consent. english isn’t my first language so sorry for any grammar mistakes or faults <3

[silkaurum]

so i finished the ormund request, so the fic will be up soon, and i'm a little nervous !! requests always make me the most nervous compared to everything else i write

[pupisized]

[bobbole]

René Lalique Pendant Bat Woman

[truelovedotcom]

youthful decadence by casey childs, 2012, oil on linen

[silkaurum]

Ormund Hightower, who feels desire for a married lady and can only be close to her in his dreams. He is consumed by shame because he is still a man of faith, and thoughts of another woman are the greatest sin weighing on his soul. It is vile and two-faced, but he thinks of you in the most improper way. He undresses you with his eyes, wondering what lies beneath all those silks. His imagination works in the most lavish way. He would love to fuck you right in front of your husband. Would your husband do anything about it? Ormund realizes his thoughts are so dark and unworthy, especially when you don't even suspect a fraction of the filth he has imagined in his sick mind. How can you smile so sweetly at a man who shamelessly pictures you in his enormous bed? Lord Hightower is more than certain that you would agree to be his lover, because your affection for him is obvious. But he would never do it. That would betray himself and the vows he made to his younger, not yet fully corrupted self.

[silkaurum]

i'm sad because tumblr has been driving me crazy all day with images. either they won't attach or they won't sit next to each other the way i need them to