Older wolf!hybrid roomate that lets you stay rent free as long as he can grope and fondle your tits every once in a while uninterrupted.
He’s gotten to the age where he’s not really interested in going out to meet new people. He’s content getting to take one of your nipples into into his mouth and jerk off while you scroll on your phone.
If you let him fuck your tits he’ll even pay for your nails and groceries for the month. Licking the tip or letting him cum on your face means he’ll treat you to a trip out of town.
You’ve let him fuck your doughy thighs once and he made a mess all over them almost immediately…
He wouldn’t call himself your sugar daddy. He’s not exactly rich and doesn’t pamper you like he wants to, but you’re taken care of and he’s grown quite fond of you.
He’s been saving up so he can knot that pretty, fat cunt of yours at some point… he just doesn’t know you’d let him do it for free if he just asked.
Summary - Devotion will never be enough to make the Gods forgive you for the sin of your existence. They will keep finding new ways to punish you.
Warnings - fem!reader, bastard!reader, septa!reader, mostly edited, heavy religious themes & guilt, angst, yearning, *slightly* ooc gwayne but mostly cause he's drunk and bitter lmao
Word Count - 1.3k
!MINORS DNI!
// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //
Dark obsidian walls glisten like the night sky as you enter the Starry Sept from the motherhouse. Towering statues stand sentinel around the round-altar, carved in the likeness of the Seven. Forever repenting for the sin of your existence, you often acknowledge them as you draw close—with a nod, a prayer, an offering.
But not tonight.
Even with his forehead pressed to the altar, you recognize Gwayne by his tawny hair, shimmering like bronze in the candlelight. His tunic is wrinkled, half-untucked from his trousers. The sharp scent of alcohol burns your nose, strong enough to smell it from across the Sept.
For a moment, a smile touches your lips. You think of lost nights spent by the Honeywine river. Skipping rocks on the water and drinking from a bottle of arbor gold, snagged from his uncle's cellar.
But nostalgia is all too fleeting, soon replaced by deep worry for an old friend.
Cavernous and austere, the Sept echoes your every footfall. Consumed by a drunken haze, Gwayne remains oblivious to your presence, even as you sink to your knees beside him.
It’s only when you speak that he looks up.
“I’m reminded of a verse from The Warrior’s Edicts.” Armed with sword and helm, the God's stony eyes seem to peer down as you recite His wisdom: “Drink muddles the sensible mind. ‘Tis the duty of knights to remain sober-minded, to pave a path of rectitude so that all men might follow.”
Gwayne’s voice is unusually hoarse, wavering slightly as he tells you, “You won’t find a sober knight in all of the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Perhaps that’s why there are so many indecent men,” you turn your head to him with a soft smile, “because none are willing to pave a better way.”
Altar candles flicker, bathing his features in dim warmth. You note the faint stubble along his jaw, the dull shine of sapphire eyes. When was the last time you sat this close? It feels like a lifetime ago, now.
He swallows, looks down at his lap. “How did you know I was here?”
“Septon Halleck saw you come in,” you tell him. “Thought you looked in need of a friend.”
In the years since swearing your vows to the Faith, the aging Septon was your only blessing. Between services, he spins tales about his life before coming to Oldtown—of a youth spent north of the Neck, about a pale castle surrounded by frigid waters.
You tell Halleck stories about your life, too. He pretends not to notice that Gwayne Hightower is at the center of them all.
Softly, you tease, “Though if he had known you were drunk, he might’ve sooner tossed you onto the streets.”
Gwayne scoffs. Starts fiddling with his fingers, picking at them. “If the Septon’s life was half as grueling,” he grumbles, “then he would understand my need for a drink.”
“And what’s so grueling about the life of a trueborn son?”
It’s not meant as a slight, though a certain bitterness seeps through.
Raised in the shadow of trueborn siblings, you know well of the luxuries they’re afforded. Watched as your sisters were swathed in silk and coddled with gold, freely given all which you were made to claw for.
You recall a quote on envy that Halleck recited during your novice years, when your blood still ran thick with resentment: He who sits at the head of the table will still covet crumbs off a beggar’s plate.
But what if you’re the beggar? If the Gods gave you nothing but crumbs. Would envy still be a sin? Or a sign of injustice.
Gwayne shakes his head. Mutters under his breath, “You’ve never understood.”
“Understood what?”
“What it’s like to be shackled by your father’s name,” he answers, frustrated.
His thoughtlessness is a fist around your heart, squeezed tight.
If he was sober, he would apologize. If he was sober, he wouldn’t be here at all.
You suck in a calming breath, interlacing your fingers and resting your elbows upon the altar. Heat from the flames caresses your forearms as you utter a wordless prayer to the Warrior, asking Him to keep your voice from wavering.
“You’re right. I don’t understand.” Images flash in your mind. The hazy face of a father who didn’t want you. You clear your throat, say, “But I know it is to be nameless, and I can’t imagine the shackles of a noble-name hurt any worse.”
“Better to be nameless and free,” he says, “than noble and in chains.”
You fight the urge to laugh, instead citing a relevant phrase from The Book of Reflections. “Those bound in chains oft discover they were forged by thine own hands.” Gwayne’s head tips back, groaning. Your lips briefly twitch. “It’s not your fate to be nameless,” you tell him. “But, even if it were, the shackles are of your own making—you would bear them all the same.”
Drunkenness exaggerates his expression. Pulls his brows together, tugs his wine-stained bottom lip into a deep frown. “If I had known you were just going to quote scripture at me,” his words slur slightly, “then I wouldn’t have come.”
You don’t let yourself wonder at the implication there. That maybe he had come to see you.
“Why come to a Sept if not to receive wisdom from the Gods?” You ask.
Gwayne’s stare shifts upwards, settles on the scales of justice clutch in the Father’s stone fist. Sapphire eyes begin to blaze like searing flames. “For forgiveness,” he answers slowly, without inflection.
Hesitant, you ask, “So that’s why you’re here tonight? To ask the Gods for their forgiveness?”
His head shakes. His fingers never still, never stop tearing at his cuticles.
He holds the Father’s stare and, with a voice like death, says, “I’m here so they can beg for mine.”
The pressure in your chest grows tighter, his words resonating with a part of yourself long since buried by the Faith. The angry, bitter part of you—the nameless, the beggar, the bastard.
Instinct tightens your fingers, still interlocked. You look to those stone Gods. Feel an old weight settle on your shoulders as they look back.
Strained, you ask, “For what reason?”
Gwayne doesn’t answer. Asks his own question, instead. “Why did you join the Faith?”
You think of the Honeywine. Of the last time you sat this close.
Of a boy born with such honor, cherished by his Gods.
Of a girl born with such shame, scorned by them.
You think of the Faith. Of the passage that led you away from his side.
A Bastard's life is a testament to the reach of sin.
Tainted and tarnished, all they touch will come to rot.
Tears sting the back of your throat. Unsure of a better answer, you tell him, “Because we all bear our own shackles.”
As if comparing wounds, Gwayne offers up his own answer, too. “There was a feast tonight,” he tells you. “My father announced that I am to be wed.”
There’s such hollow silence. Obsidian walls wrap around you. Starlight burns your skin.
“To who?”
Something tells you that you won’t like his answer. A soundless voice, a whisper on a phantom wind.
Quietly, voice wavering, he tells you, “One of Lord Mullendore’s daughters.”
A stone drops in your stomach.
“Lord Mullendore…” Your mind begins to reel. Images flash. A hazy face. Silk and gold and clawing clawing clawing. “One of his daughters…”
All at once, the air is sucked from the room. As if oxygen is yet another thing denied to you in the name of repentance. As if all your devotion still isn’t enough to purge the rot from your existence.
Both soft and resentful, he murmurs, “She has your eyes…”
You keep your fingers interlocked. Gwayne picks his bloody. The Gods watch.
The path of devotion is fraught with pain. But fear not! Trials endured in Faith shall always be rewarded with Light. The Seven are just. The Seven are wise. The Seven are merciful.
a/n - Honestly, I just wanted to explore the internal conflict that might come from a bastard going the Faith of the Seven considering that, while they're welcome to become Septons/Septas, they're still viewed as being sinful and treacherous by nature. Additionally, the idea of a bastard being so in love with a pious, honorable man that she turns to his religion just feeds something inside of me?? like, her turning to scripture to communicate with him?? him beginning to resent the gods that 'cherish' him?? neither of them ever getting what they want??
anyways--all thoughts/opinions/feedback are welcome and very very appreciated!
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