THERE WILL BE BLOOD (2/3), PREVIEW. (GWAYNE HIGHTOWER X FEM!READER X ORMUND HIGHTOWER)

“And what of Ormund?” Gwayne wonders aloud, cracking one pale eye open to study your face as you rake the suds through his long auburn hair. The dull strands slowly return to their proper flaming color with each gentle pass of your fingers, as the last of the war’s blood and grim stream down his pale shoulders in dark rivulets. “I trust my cousin treated you well in my absence. He can be insufferable, I know, but he is not unkind… Not truly.”

You falter at the mention of him. Your hands still briefly in his damp tendrils as a sick feeling curls in the pit of your stomach. You swallow hard through the hands of guilt strangling your throat and force your fingers to keep moving, praying he doesn’t notice how they tremble faintly against his scalp.

“He was… accommodating,” you answer carefully, with your eyes trained on his hair rather than meeting his attentive gaze, lest he read the whole truth of it upon your face. “He kept me fed. Housed. Safe… For the most part— Tilt your head back; let me rinse your hair.”

You lift yourself slightly off the man’s lap to reach for the pitcher resting on the table beside the tub. Glittering rivulets of bath water cascade down your arms and glimmer along your breasts in the dancing candlelight. Gwayne tips his head back to oblige you when you settle astride his scruffy thighs once more. His long fingers smooth absently over your hips beneath the water.

“You’ve gone rather short with your answers, dear wife…” he observes lowly, peering at you from the bridge of his nose. “That’s not like you…”

“I’m just tired, is all…” you deflect, cupping one hand over his rounded hairline to shield his eyes while your other pours the clean water steadily over his scalp. The suds slip and run clear down his temples and back into the bath below. “It’s been a long day… A long several months, if I’m honest…”

“Yes. For us all, I’m sure,” Gwayne sighs and lifts his head when you shift to place the pitcher back onto its table once more. He arches a brow and musters a quiet smile — the simple ease of being with you returns to him by the minute as his fingers settle on your waist again. “Though I do hope my letters kept you some company… Small comfort as they must have been.”

You tense suddenly above him, muscle going terribly still despite yourself. The guilt that had been simmering in your chest surges up your throat all at once now, a red-hot flame that makes you feel halfway sick. For a long moment, you fail to make sense of the words — his letters — after so many months of waiting to hear from your husband, and hearing Ormund tell you each day that there had been not a single word from him.

“…Your letters?”

COMING SOON.

THERE WILL BE BLOOD (2/3), PREVIEW. (GWAYNE HIGHTOWER X FEM!READER X ORMUND HIGHTOWER)

“And what of Ormund?” Gwayne wonders aloud, cracking one pale eye open to study your face as you rake the suds through his long auburn hair. The dull strands slowly return to their proper flaming color with each gentle pass of your fingers, as the last of the war’s blood and grim stream down his pale shoulders in dark rivulets. “I trust my cousin treated you well in my absence. He can be insufferable, I know, but he is not unkind… Not truly.”

You falter at the mention of him. Your hands still briefly in his damp tendrils as a sick feeling curls in the pit of your stomach. You swallow hard through the hands of guilt strangling your throat and force your fingers to keep moving, praying he doesn’t notice how they tremble faintly against his scalp.

“He was… accommodating,” you answer carefully, with your eyes trained on his hair rather than meeting his attentive gaze, lest he read the whole truth of it upon your face. “He kept me fed. Housed. Safe… For the most part— Tilt your head back; let me rinse your hair.”

You lift yourself slightly off the man’s lap to reach for the pitcher resting on the table beside the tub. Glittering rivulets of bath water cascade down your arms and glimmer along your breasts in the dancing candlelight. Gwayne tips his head back to oblige you when you settle astride his scruffy thighs once more. His long fingers smooth absently over your hips beneath the water.

“You’ve gone rather short with your answers, dear wife…” he observes lowly, peering at you from the bridge of his nose. “That’s not like you…”

“I’m just tired, is all…” you deflect, cupping one hand over his rounded hairline to shield his eyes while your other pours the clean water steadily over his scalp. The suds slip and run clear down his temples and back into the bath below. “It’s been a long day… A long several months, if I’m honest…”

“Yes. For us all, I’m sure,” Gwayne sighs and lifts his head when you shift to place the pitcher back onto its table once more. He arches a brow and musters a quiet smile — the simple ease of being with you returns to him by the minute as his fingers settle on your waist again. “Though I do hope my letters kept you some company… Small comfort as they must have been.”

You tense suddenly above him, muscle going terribly still despite yourself. The guilt that had been simmering in your chest surges up your throat all at once now, a red-hot flame that makes you feel halfway sick. For a long moment, you fail to make sense of the words — his letters — after so many months of waiting to hear from your husband, and hearing Ormund tell you each day that there had been not a single word from him.

“…Your letters?”

COMING SOON.