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[mercurysmaelstrom]

I’m obsessed with this photoshoots

[mercurysmaelstrom]

got a major pest problem this year actually

[mercurysmaelstrom]

Bite the Hand

pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Knight!Reader

summary: Labelled as a kinslayer, you flee from your city, finding solace in a seaside town. Years later, Gwayne Hightower, an old friend whose house is allied with your own, comes in search for you now that your house is in need of a new head.

or

Gwayne looks for you in hopes of rekindling the relationship you ran away from.

contains: angst, smut (18+), no use of y/n.

word count: 3.1k

notes: this is for my service tops. reader is gender neutral. also reader is more of an ex-knight. happy reading!

You poured a tankard of ale into your cup as your crew conversed.

Your table sat all the way in a far corner of the wharf-side tavern, a booth you swiftly suggested when you and your fellow dock workers first arrived. With the full room in view, your eyes glided along the area, observing the several port laborers and merchants—most of them rowdy men, as to be expected.

You took notice of the tavern waitress and the blank expression on her face as the very same men harassed her, indicating that she was used to it. Thus, the next time she approached your booth, you flipped a gold coin in her direction, following it with a small nod as her eyes briefly widened at you.

She smiled tightly, grateful, yet confused, then walked away when she realized you had no intention of asking for anything.

“How gracious of you,” you heard a voice in the booth behind you, the one spot out of your line of sight.

The soft look you’d presented to the waitress hardened once you recognized who the voice belonged to.

You continued to look forward as you spoke. “What are you doing here?”

Gwayne Hightower slurped the rest of his wine before returning his cup to the table. “I could ask the same of you. Your house is missing an heir.”

The redhead wasn’t worried about being heard. The myriad of voices in the room easily flushed out his own, including yours.

You snorted. “If that were true, I would have claimed it long ago.” You took another swig of your ale. “My father was not particularly keen on passing it on to me.”

“Perhaps I need to speak more bluntly.” He leaned closer to you. “I would not be here if your father were not desperate for his heir. Age has caught up to him.”

Finally, you turned toward him with a furrow in your brows, seeing the face of a childhood companion. No cloak hid his armor, not that anyone paid him any mind. Many knights came and went in this town.

“The Stranger has taken him?” Was it relief or grief you were feeling? You weren’t sure.

“Not yet,” Gwayne answered. “But he is weak.”

You turned away, wretched memories furiously swimming their way to the surface. Even after all these years, the truth of your doing was not any easier to accept. It mattered not if what you did was right or wrong. Guilt had a way of latching onto you and never letting go.

You stood up, your crewmates much too distracted with their beer-medicated laughter to notice you. You momentarily scanned the room before looking down at Gwayne you peered up at you expectantly.

“Let’s speak elsewhere.”

The two of you pushed past the cramped room, exiting the tavern and its slippery concrete floors. When you decided speaking outside a lively business would be reckless, Gwayne followed on foot with his horse by his side as you reluctantly led him to the small cottage you owned not far from the wharf.

“Have a seat,” you told him once the two of you escaped the cold wind of the coast, entering your home.

While you decloaked, Gwayne unsheathed his sword, laying it on the gray wooden table you had handcrafted yourself.

The moon beamed through the kitchen window, enough to help you see where you were going as you headed for the makeshift altar you had set above the fireplace, lighting a few of the candles you used more for reading than praying, although your first year in this town mustered more prayers from you than your life in Ecraen altogether.

You occupied your focus on the hearth below as Gwayne removed his pauldron and arm braces, the metal clanking against the table until he was left clad in a dark green gambeson and leg armor. He did not sit after, but instead roamed curiously around the small kitchen dining room, examining nothing of importance.

“This place—no one’s suspicious of your ownership?”

You stoked the now-crackling fire. “No one’s been here. Except you.”

Gwayne cleared his throat, remembering why he was here in the first place. “As I said, your father needs an heir.”

Your brow twitched. “What of my cousin?”

“You truly believe your father would rather his brother’s son become head of your family house? Regardless of your…” he paused for a moment, treading lightly as he looked out the window, “familial matters and, of course, his pride, he would rather foresee his own.”

“My cousin should be of age in a year,” you disregarded his answer.

“I do not trust that your father has a year.”

“Hm.”

Gwayne turned to face you, your back still in his direction. “Are you not even the least bit eager to claim your position?”

You sighed, setting down the stoker and facing the Hightower. “I am not fond of the reasoning, no. And even in Ecraen, I failed to see my father glance at me for consideration. And now he’s old. And gray. And desperate for the spare he cared not for all those years ago.” Now that Gwayne was in front of you, your mouth regrettably couldn’t stop running. “And you: why even send you? Of all people in my family- oh, unless the dishonor of the kinslayer was all too much, they had to send a Hightower instead.”

“You know I am much more than that,” Gwayne gruffly retaliated, taking a step forward. You could see he had lost his patience. “I was your companion, was I not?”

You swallowed.

“Before you left. Without a word. Not a whisper, nor a note.” He took another step forward. “We were close, you and I.”

Recollections of breathless sparring lessons between you and Gwayne when you were only squires ran through your mind—wooden swords clacking roughly against each other before you graduated to the sharp clangs of iron. You remembered joining your cups together, laughing with fellow young knights. And you remembered the redhead taking your lips with his own behind a tavern in Oldtown after more than enough drinks, drunk yet chaste.

Then you remembered his lack of remembrance for that kiss.

You never blamed him for it, though you certainly never reminded him either, even as you endured the heartache before disappearing.

You tore your eyes away from him, anxious to face the flame again. “I fear you may have wasted your journey here.”

Before you knew it, the knight had made his way closer, only an arm’s reach away.

“If you think I’ve traveled all this way simply on your father’s volition, you are mistaken,” replied Gwayne.

His gaze flustered you just as he did in your youth. And you loathed it; honeyed words that never meant what you shamefully hoped they meant.

With that, you sidestepped from him and the hearth, positioning your body to catch sight of him solely through the side of your eyes as you busied yourself with needlessly adjusting the tapestry of the seven-pointed star.

You were never heavily spiritual, not really. Neither was your father. Your mother was a different story. But time alone in this coastal town eventually pushed you toward the Faith.

You spoke again, your voice weaker than intended: “What other reason would you have for being here?”

“I came to see an old friend,” he answered earnestly.

An old friend.

You continued to fidget with the wool. “Alright then. You’ve seen me. You’ve spoken about my father; my house needs a new head? They can find that in cousin Alren. You’ve done what you needed, you may leave now.”

The knight’s lips parted at the haste of your words, his head tilting before his mouth closed. He moved close to the furnace, staring into the swirling fire.

Gwayne chuckled humorlessly. “Is that all?”

You could no longer see him, your back once again faced to him. You didn’t know how to feel. In this moment, you weren’t certain if you truly wanted him far away from you. Not when a part of you itched for the opposite.

“I have a life here, Gwayne,” you said, your focus still on the dimly lit tapestry.

He scoffed, his focus still on the flame. “And what life is that? Port labor? Drinks with a crew whom you hardly acknowledge? Days with no one but yourself?”

Gwayne lifted his head to see the seven candles above the hearth.

He knew your relationship with the Faith lacked stability. Frankly, he could not recall your faith being firm enough to see you in a sept, much less creating an altar for yourself, an attempt at one that is. Seeing one here made him wonder how desperate you were for the company of another that you seemed to have finally leaned on the presence of the incorporeal.

You sniffed. “‘Tis better than a life of shame.”

He spun his incredulous gaze to the back of your head. “Shame was your punishment in Ecraed. Yet you’ve told me no one has been in this sullen home of yours before me. Do you not see how you’ve isolated yourself? You traveled far to distance yourself from shame only to carry the damned thing with you all the way here!”

Frustrated, he furthered himself from you, drawing closer to the dining table with a hand on his hip and the other wiping down his mouth.

He tittered, eyeing the floor. “Better than a life of shame.”

“Do not mock me,” you spoke gutturally over your shoulder, dropping your hand from the tapestry.

“‘Tis but a repetition of your own words.”

The fire sputtered, its sizzling hum filling the room when you had nothing else to say, because as much as you hated to admit it, Gwayne was right, and all you could do was sit with the hard truth.

You glanced up at the seven-pointed star, embarrassed. Ashamed. Always ashamed.

Fuck, it was exhausting. Most of all, it was distracting.

You heaved out a sigh and looked to see the side of Gwayne’s face. The flame warmly flickered on his skin. You hadn’t taken the time to process how much older he had become since you last saw him.

Your stare broke when Gwayne turned suddenly, his face out of view as he went to retrieve his armor.

In fact, he wasn’t sure why he removed it in the first place.

“Mayhaps…you were right. I’ve done what was needed.” He lifted the pauldron over his head, proceeding with the rest of his protective plates. “Now I shall take my leave. Send a raven if you’ve changed your mind.”

“Gwayne.” You took a step toward him. Regret quickly seeped into you like venom from a snake.

“You live your shameless life hiding in this town.” He worked on his arm braces, moving much too fast to buckle smoothly. “And I will journey back to Ecraen.”

Your feet moved faster than you could think—you grasped his forearm. “Don’t.”

He tried to pull out of your hold, but you remained firm, pulling him toward you. Again, he tried to pull away until you confessed, “You’re right!” putting his movement to a halt. “You’re right. I know not how to live without shame.”

Gwayne’s body stilled. He only looked at you with sternness on his face.

Your eyes flickered between each of his, seizing his braced arm in anticipation that he would leave at any moment.

“Even before my brother fell from my sword,” you carried on almost hurriedly, “I knew shame all too well. But that is no excuse for how I’ve…for how I’ve treated you, I-I see that now. But you must understand, I was young; tunnel-visioned. I could only see so much, and all I could truly see…” you peered at your hand on his relenting arm, “was my own guilt—the disappointment I brought to my house.” Then you peered back up into his eyes, blue with tinges of orange that gleamed from the hearth. “I am truly sorry I did not see you.”

Gwayne didn’t move as he took in your confession; your realization.

In retrospect, he understood why you left. He understood the weight of your crime, and he understood why you did what you did. He recognized why you left your house and Ecraen; he recognized why you broke your knightly vows.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t understand how you left him, as selfish as it sounded. At least not at the time. But seeing crinkle in your brows and hearing the desperation in your voice, he realized that mayhaps he had been thinking too much of himself as well.

Gwayne looked down at the small space shared between the two of you.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

“You’re sorry,” he murmured.

You angled your head to see Gwayne’s face and moved your hand from his forearm to his elbow. “I am.”

His eyes glided to your hand. This close, the redhead could smell saltwater off of you, a scent you lacked in Ecraen. He did not mind it.

He swallowed. “I suppose…I did not see you either.” He raised his head and your own followed as he returned his gaze on you. “And it seems I am not the only one in need of an apology.”

You scoffed softly. “I don't believe I want an apology.”

“What is it that you want then?” Gwayne whispered.

With no words left to say, you took hold of the back of his neck and pulled him in, pressing your lips onto his. Despite the small pause of shock, Gwayne didn’t fail to reciprocate. Both of his hands shot for the sides of your face as he inhaled, breathing you in.

Gwayne consumed you, chasing for a flavor he hadn’t remembered lingered on his tongue. The taste of your lips rang bells of familiarity, and even lost in your touch, he hazily wondered why that was.

Ignorant of what occurred in Gwayne’s mind, you took in the feel of him, remembering what you thought you had long forgotten.

You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, and he parted his lips, allowing your tongue to enter. His allowance didn’t end there. It didn’t end when you guided him to the table and it didn’t end when you started to remove his armor all over again, sneaking in kiss after kiss as you pulled the pauldron over his head. You lowered it to the ground as Gwayne unbuckled his gambeson, revealing a beige tunic beneath.

You returned to kiss him again, laying a hand on his hip before hesitantly sliding it toward his groin.

You pulled away again. “Can I…?”

“Yes,” Gwayne answered breathlessly, chasing for your lips again.

A muffled moan escaped his mouth when you cupped him, trailing your lips to his jaw and down his neck, snaking a hand under his pants. Gwayne murmured your name groggily as you grabbed hold of his stiff cock, rubbing up and down, feeling him out. Then you pulled your lips away from his neck and lowered his pants, the knight intently watching you. He continued to watch when you spat in your hand and grabbed him once again, and in response, a whimper released from the back of his throat.

You stared back at him, reveling at the sight of his mouth parting wordlessly as you rubbed your thumb over his leaking tip. You enjoyed having him here, eager for your touch; his member in your hand as he gazed at you with so much anticipation. Equally as eager to please him, you moved your fist up and down his length, slowly first, just to witness him writhe.

You didn’t fail to notice his hand tightly holding on to the edge of the table, his body more sensitive than you expected, presumably from his days on the road.

He dropped his head between your neck and shoulder. “Please.”

You couldn’t help but place your hand on the back of his head, lightly tugging at his red hair while you quickened the pace. You hadn’t expected to hear the vulnerable whimpers from a man you’d seen in battle, killing men left and right, especially when you twisted your hand near the tip of his cock.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“Don’t tell me you're nearly there already?” You teased him, smearing pre-cum along his length to help lubricate him even more, earning more profanities from his tongue.

A subtle smile appeared on his lips, though you couldn’t see it. “No time for sex.”

Your pace began to slow, hoping to prolong this moment with him. “I don’t recall you taking a vow of chastity in Oldtown.”

“Don’t…”

“Mm?”

“Don’t…don’t slow down.”

You tilted your head. “Look at me and I’ll do as you say.”

Gwayne obeyed, lifting his head with no reluctance.

Your hand snaked around to his face, and you patted his flushed cheek. “There we go,” you told him, keeping your hand on his jaw as your other hand jerked him faster. “There we go, Gwayne.”

Soon after you spoke, he grunted.

You licked your lips as you watched him squeeze his eyes shut, his mouth wide open as he came. Simply listening to him—gods, the sound of him, you never wanted it to stop. And so you kept rubbing, milking him of all his worth.

“Shit.” Gwayne’s body squirmed, but you continued, dropping your other hand on the table beside him.

As smooth as your hand moved, from your spit or his own bodily fluids, there was something about the calluses on your palm that added to the sensation; calluses that stemmed from the hilt of your sword. Feeling that you still had them, somewhere in Gwayne’s disheveled mind, he put together that you hadn’t put down the sword completely.

Memories of you swinging your sword almost sent him over the edge again right then and there.

“Want me to stop?” You leaned in. “I can stop.”

There was a smugness in your tone that took him back to your sparring lessons; you used to ask him the same thing when he seemed too tired to fight back.

“No, don’t.” He lifted his head to the ceiling. “Keep going,” he requested and you listened.

You could feel your hand start to cramp, but you ignored it, too enthralled by Gwayne moaning your name. You kissed his neck initially, then sucked, smoothing over newfound bruises on his skin with your tongue before he lowered his head, impatient to claim your lips right as he came again, light splatters of additional cum inevitably landing on your fingers and pants.

You pulled your lips away, your body still pressed against his as you snickered. Gwayne’s forehead landed on your shoulder again as he came back down to earth.

You caressed the back of his neck. “Feeling alright?”

Gwayne hummed, lifting his head back up, still somewhat high from your cramped hand.

“Interested in me returning the favor?” He tugged at the hem of your trousers.

“Very.”