#rainbowdrabblechallenge

Another giggle escapes you as you stumble further in, your eyes never leaving his. The action nearly earns your face to his floors as you catch yourself on the table. His hands linger in the air where he had lurched forward to catch you had you fallen. 

“I should sit,” you sing, slumping into the seat beside you. 

“You should” he agrees, eyes softening over your drunken form as you lean back to take another drink from the bottle. “Have you been drinking with zoro?” he inquires, leaning against the countertop, watching you. You hum in agreement, earning a scoff from the tall cook. 

“That was a bad idea,” he sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. You shrug with a sloppy grin. 

“Maybe!” you nearly shout, but, catching his wince, lower your voice considerably. “But the wine you got was too delicious. And then I thought of you… so I had to see you.” you state as a matter of factly, nodding firmly. You groan at the action, your vision swimming around you – his brilliant eyes the focus. 

He chuckles.

“You’re drunk,” he can't help his smile. You sought him out while you were drunk, and for some reason, that felt like an accomplishment. 

you don't pay his comment any attention as you lean forward on the table, eyes zeroed in on him, resting your head on your hand. 

“Goodness, you're gorgeous.” you murmur, meaning to speak more to yourself. Unfortunately, you might as well have screamed it, your voice echoing perfectly back to the blond man who had begun trying to scrub at the dishes in the sink. He pauses again, quickly coming to the conclusion that he won't be able to get any work done with you like this. 

“You’re really drunk,” he comments with an exasperated sigh, hands stilling in the water. You nod with a sheepish grin. 

“Sure,” you slur. “But you're still hot.” 

His movements are slow, well aware of your eyes on him as he dries his hands before stepping over to you. Your smile seems to grow the closer he gets, the unbridled excitement in your eyes earning another painful thump in his chest. That smile drops when he leans for the bottle of wine. 

“Last drinks, pretty girl,” he hums as you try to tug the bottle away from him. You whine, eyeing it. 

“But it's good.” he nods, trying to keep from laughing at you outright. It may not be taken well with you being so far gone. 

“That is why I bought it,” he agrees. When you continue to pull it away from him, he sighs, settling into the chair across from you. “Can I have a drink?” he asks, hand outstretched. He is shocked when he finds it in his grasp moments later, your drunken giggles settling around him again. 

“You’re going to drink with me,” you sing, elongating several of the words drunkenly. He swirls the bottle in his hand, noting how light it already is. There are perhaps only a few drinks left in it. With a shrug, he tips the bottle back, swallowing the rest. The weight of your gaze causes the heat to rise up his neck as he gives you a sweet smile. 

“Not much to drink, love.” he states. “We should get you to bed.” you shake your head quickly, fumbling forward as you reach for his hand. He lets you take it, palm resting upwards so that he can wrap his fingers around yours – an anchor as your head sloshes like the sea fumbling along the shore line not too far away. 

“But I just got here,” you whine, looking up at him pleadingly. “Play a game with me?” you request sweetly, jutting your bottom lip out in a pout. He sighs, setting the bottle off to the side, nodding. 

“What game?”

“20 questions!” he snorts, shaking his head. 

“Fine,” he agrees. “Who goes first?” you tap your chin slowly, the movements clumsy and over dramatic as you pretend to think. 

“You.” 

“What is your favorite color?” he asks plainly, motioning for you to answer as your nose scrunches, a pitiful frown twisting your face for a moment. 

“Awe,” you grouch. “You’re no fun!” The implication that you were hoping for something more, either naughty or personal, does not escape his attention. Though neither of those things are good options with how far gone you are. 

He is sure you won't even remember this come morning. 

“Just answer the question,” he hums, offering you a smile. You pause, staring up at him, eyes softened with wonder as you watch the ocean in his eyes, the way the waves seem to calm as he smiles. The gentle sloshing of the ship resting in the harbor doesn't help as you tip back and forth, clutching his hand like the lifeline it is. 

“Blue,” you hum, laying your head on your arm that is outstretched for his hand. He softens, reaching over to tuck your hair behind your ear gently.

“Your turn,” his voice is soft, slow. Sighing contently, you shift your head to rest your chin on your arm instead, looking up at him through your lashes. 

“Favorite color,” you grumble, hiding your smile. He snorts. 

“Ah, no fun,” he mimics, eyes sparkling in the low light of the moonlight glittering through the galley window behind you. He goes to answer, his mouth open to speak when you perk up quickly, jerking back. With your hold on his hand, you jerk him forward slightly in your excitement. 

“Can I guess?” he pauses before nodding, head tilting to the side, smile stretching in amusement. 

“Sure, sweetheart. Give it a go.” there isn't a moment's hesitation as you bounce up onto your knees to get closer to him, tugging him down to you until you are nose to nose. 

“Red,” you state as a matter of factly. 

=====

Since that night, Sanji has not been able to see the color the same. He sees it in everything, and in it, he sees you. 

He could live in it, now. 

“What do you think?” you call out to the cook, catching his attention from the gourds he had been staring at for what seems like forever. Blinking quickly, he refocuses on you, a broad smile tugging at his lips as he steps closer to you. 

“Perfect,” he breathes, rubbing the crimson fabric between his fingers, delighting in how your cheeks seem to warm, darkening to nearly the same color. Clearing your throat, you turn back to the vendor with your Berry as she laughs quietly at the exchange. 

“Thank you,” you smile, trying to ignore the way your cheeks seem to warm further when his fingers brush yours. His fingers wrap lightly around your finger tips, tugging them lightly to lead you away from the stall. 

“Come, love,” he grins, his voice a rumble in your ear. “I can hardly wait to see you in that.” he looks pointedly at the dress hanging limply over your arm. 

======

“Where did you bring these from, again?” you ask from the kitchen as Sanji goes to lock the door for the night. You can hear the clipped sound of the open sign being flipped followed by the click of his heels as he makes his way back to you. 

“Island in the south seas,” he hums, settling in behind you with a smile, his hands resting on either side of you. 

Smiling brightly, you turn in his arms to look up at him, a large vibrant strawberry in hand. 

“They're perfect,” you giggle, lips stained red from the last one you ate. He swallows a bit before forcing a teasing smile to his lips. 

“I brought them thinking you could bake something with them,” he grouses playfully. You laugh, tapping the strawberry to your lips.

“Have you tasted them?” he shakes his head. 

“I did well to keep their existence hidden from the crew,” he huffs. “Mainly Luffy.” grinning up at him, you take a bite of the strawberry, your eyes never straying from his. Your eyes flutter closed with a sigh, tongue darting out to catch the juice threatening to slip past your lips. 

“Would you like to?” you hum, looking up at him through your lashes, the strawberry resting in the open between you. His breath shakes as he presses closer, fingers tugging your chin towards him. 

“Yes,” he breathes desperately. 

=======

The evening has been calm, both of you settling into the familiar rhythm you've created every time Sanji is able to drift to your shores. He grabs the basket he put together, topped by the blanket he had insisted on buying at the market the other day. 

“Red?” you question, fiddling with the edges. He just smiles, shrugging. 

“It’s my favorite color.” he insists gently. 

Beaming up at him, you link your arm with his when prompted. His visit had been peaceful, no need to duck and hide from various marine patrols as you would usually have to. Their ships have yet to dock for the month, and Sanji plans to be gone by the time they do. 

“You’re in your thoughts again,” he states, calling your name gently, poking your cheek as you shift on the blanket. Blinking quickly, you turn to face him, smiling softly. He is laying out on the blanket beside you, one arm resting behind his head watching the sea without a care in the world. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, shifting to grab a snack from the basket. He shakes his head, turning his gaze back to you. 

“What is bothering you?” he asks gently, tugging your hand, imploring you to not bottle it up, to share your burdens. 

There is a pause as you stare at the blanket, picking at it before lifting your eyes to meet his again, smiling sadly. 

“The marines will dock again in a few days' time.” he nods slowly, knowing where this is going. 

“Indeed they will,” he agrees, bringing your hand to him, brushing his lips along the knuckles. “Will I lose what little time I have with you to the thought of my leaving?” he asks gently, frown twitching at his lips. 

Humming in thought, you set the sandwich down as you shift to settle over him, your back to the ocean. He stares up at you in open appreciation, one hand coming to rest on your hip as you lean forward before you start to pepper kisses all over his face – his cheeks, nose and forehead before hovering over his lips, admiring the brilliant crimson marks littering his skin. 

The red he had picked for you two trips ago, and his favorite. You grin to yourself, noting how the red brightens his already brilliant blue eyes, making them pop. 

Red may not be your favorite color, but it is a close second. 

“No,” you answer him, leaning down to kiss him properly.

======

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Except, there you are, filling his chambers with a comforting presence he had only felt with his late wife before. Holding one of the many books from his private library, leaning over the arm of the decadent chair, he can’t help but take in the beauty of your youth illuminated by the vibrant red sky of the dying sun. 

A spinster, by technicality, but that made you all the more alluring. Why have you not been wed? Is it by choice or circumstance? The answers hold no real sway over his life, but his inquisitive mind yearns to know your truth. 

He knows the facts: you’re a daughter of a lower house taken in as a ward by one of the lords within the Red Keep. 

But you never left, did you? You lingered and learned. Read every book in the royal library until you had to come to Otto Hightower himself with your thirst for knowledge. And he indulges your curiosity, often much later in the day than would be deemed proper. 

How easy it would be to latch the door. To lock them inside this scarlet-painted paradise. His hand over your mouth to preserve their secret. Your body pressed against his. The ruby light a perfect complement to the blush on your cheeks. 

The soft clink of his pen against his desk rouses your attention, he watches with well-practiced indifference as you blink the fatigue away from your reading-strained eyes. Your soft smile stokes the fire in his soul, and the way you trail your hand down the length of the page pushes him to the edge of a poor decision. 

“The hour is late, my lady.”

The words, well practiced, come easily. He is no stranger to denying himself the pleasures of life, however hard it may be. You are a distraction; something he cannot afford. 

His words have little effect on you. You are accustomed to his cold demeanor by now. He shows no softness with anyone but his daughter, but you suspect he cares for you all the same. Who else would send you a sweet gift of strawberries than the man you spend most evenings with?

“Before I go, may I ask?” You inquire innocently, hands tracing the book’s ornate leather cover gently to soothe your rising nerves. 

Otto’s eyes follow the movement intently before placing his quill neatly on his desk—a silent signal for you to continue. 

“A portrait would compliment a man of your station well, my lord. Yet I see none here.”

“My station is not lofty enough for such frivolous gestures,” his words bite, tone laced with poison. 

“Forgive me, my lord,” you bow your head, knowing silence was the better option but choosing to go on. “Is your name not recorded in the historical texts of Oldtown as the Hand of the King?” 

“It is,” he confirms, tone cooling into indifference but his continued glare makes your skin prickle. 

“I would be honored to paint your portrait, my lord, if you would allow it.”

He scoffs, a cruel smile painting his face in the orange glow of the evening fire. “I would trust only the royal painters to fulfill such a task”

“It is true—I am not recognized in any formal capacity for my arts, but I am quite skilled. I would not shame you, my lord.”

“Show me,” he commands simply, although it is clear from his spiteful tone that he thinks little of your arts. 

You pull a notebook hidden in your dress folds and flip to a clean page, eager to prove yourself. He does not need to know how much you’ve practiced. How many pages did you rip from the binding of this very notebook before coming here today? Hidden under a loose floorboard, now only to be gazed upon when you are overcome with desire. 

Glancing up from your quick beginning lines, you find him scratching away at the letter again, and your shoulders relax. You normally seek his piercing attention, but, at this moment, it would guarantee your failure.  There is no room for nervous hands and fleeting thoughts. 

It has to be perfect. 

Your intense focus renders the world silent; there is only you, the paper, and the most regal man you’ve ever seen, poised in relaxed concentration over his work. 

While you are toiling away, losing yourself in the minute details of his face, time passes unnoticed. 

It is the clearing of Otto Hightower’s throat that rips you from this busy trance. When your gaze finds him, you have to blink the fatigue away. The fire is low, painting the room in an enchanting amber hue. How much time has passed, you wonder? 

Ser Otto’s exhausted face and burnt-out candles say you’ve overstayed your welcome. 

You straighten from your crumpled posture, a blush creeping into your face as you carefully rip the paper from your notebook. Rising slowly on weak legs, your heart pounds in your chest. It takes just two steps to arrive at his desk, yet they seem the length of the throne room. 

You nervously place the sketch in his outstretched hand, breath hitching as his hand brushes yours.  

It was the faintest of touches, yet the most significant in your life, causing the heat in your face to also settle between your thighs, hot as dragon fire. Even so, it fails to distract you from the knife-edge of his approval or disdain. 

After a spell of tense silence, Ser Otto sighs heavily, shifting in his chair as he offers you the paper with a curt nod. You cannot hide the joy blossoming in your heart, and smile warmly when you bid him goodnight. 

Blessed by the man himself, this sketch lives in your nightstand drawer, unlike the others. It lights a fire in your soul, one that keeps you awake far into the night. Your fingertips dance over your nightgown, the temptation of the forbidden too much to bear. 

You’ve come to terms with living the rest of your life alone. It is your wish to live free unless the right match comes along. As the years passed, the hope of dual happiness faded and you set on attaining a full life despite the loneliness. 

You know the ways of pleasure. From sneaking books to traveling hidden passageways to peek into brothels, you learned of the art of sex. There is nothing quite like the euphoric spasming rush that takes over your mind and body–and tonight’s put all others to shame as you cry out Ser Otto’s name through hand-covered lips. 

The following day you spend a hefty sum on the royal paints needed for a painting of this caliber, eager to begin. 

There is nothing anyone could say that would ruin this wedding, for the worst was already done. A maid brought you food at his request, and he stayed to watch you eat and drink. His steely gaze would have read as disapproval from any other, but you know it is out of concern. 

The care a man such as he provides is stern, without flowery gestures with a mind reminiscent of a glacier, and you cannot wait to see what lies beneath the surface. 

To your astonishment, a week later you are married in Baelor’s Sept, the oldest and grandest temple of worship. When you are draped in Ser Otto’s cloak, you feel the warmth of love and gratitude melt your heart, and you blink away tears of happiness. 

Oh, how different your life will be from the nightmare you found yourself in. You never thought you would find happiness with a man by your side, let alone one you chose. 

The feast is the most delicious you have ever eaten, yet you only eat enough to be lightly sated. Easy enough to do with the Queen herself, who is also Ser Otto’s daughter, studying your every movement. 

You know most of what happens after—more than any maiden should—but you cannot help the nervousness blooming in your belly. 

You have not been able to talk with Ser Otto in private since your argument. Open doors were standard for an unwed couple if you were alone in a room together, you know, but you grew to hate it with each passing second. 

Why did he decide to marry you? What did he promise your family? What did he tell the drunken lord?

So many questions swirl around your mind in a dizzying, but soothing pattern. Or is that the effects of the wine? 

You drink a little more and smile at the regal man seated beside you, warmth radiating from your heart. He smiles as well, softer and more subtle while taking your hand in his and leaning over to whisper in your ear. 

“I think it is high time we depart, don’t you?”

You swallow hard, blush painting your cheeks a deep red, and simply nod your agreement. The pair of you make your farewells quickly and retreat to Ser Otto’s private chamber. You have never seen his room before, it would not have been polite for an unwed Lady to visit, and he so rarely uses it. 

Thrice as large as yours and filled with decadent furniture, you feel lost as you enter through the heavy wooden door. So taken in by the environment, you barely register Ser Otto bolting the door closed, ensuring your privacy. 

His arms snaking around your middle startle you. Turning within his embrace, you face him, meeting his gaze lovingly. 

“Why?” You ask, not knowing the precise question to ask. “How?”

He smirks, one hand smoothing up your back while the other holds you to him ever tighter. “Your loyalty to your family is admirable, Lady wife.”

The title sends a rush of warmth in between your legs, and you cannot help the lustful way you bite your lip. His sneaky hand delves into your hair, grabbing it from the root to pull your head back. A surprised moan escapes your parted lips at the feeling, and you’re as good as his when he leans in close, beard and hot breath tickling the cup of your ear. 

“And did you truly think I could have you, and not crave you again?” His other hand wanders lower, taking firm hold of your ass. “You are mine, don’t you remember saying so?”

His words leave you speechless and aching with only one focus. 

“Remind me?” You reply, wit somehow returning through the rush of lustful thoughts. 

His eyes darken with hunger as he leads you to the bed, where he undresses you like a present, slow and methodical. Your garments are hung over a nearby chair one by one until your skin is bare to him. 

He steps back, admiring your body with an intensity that makes your heart flutter and you approach him with shy, uncertain steps, smoothing your hands up his chest. 

“It is your turn, my Lord husband.” The words are foreign on your tongue but incite such happiness. 

Your clumsy fingers work at undoing his doublet, but he waits patiently. His clothes adorn another chair, his heavy leather doublet first to drape over the back. Undershirt next, warm cotton revealing his soft stomach, body hair thick and graying, trailing down his torso, disappearing beneath the hem of his trousers. 

His skin is hot to the touch, your hands feeling up his bare chest experimentally, loving the feel of the coarse hair. 

He cocks his brow, smirking as he teases. “Is that all you wish to see?”

You shake your head with a smile and sink to your knees slowly as an answer, your hands never leaving him. Licking your lips enticingly, fingers hovering over the string holding his pants closed, you almost giggle at the look of frustration on his face as you untie his boots instead. 

After you place his boots off to the side, the strain of his cock against his pants makes it more difficult to unlace them, and you hopelessly struggle with it. Patience wilting, Ser Otto saves you more embarrassment, thumb sliding under the string and deftly loosening it. 

You slowly pull the fabric down, eyes going wide as his cock bounces free. 

He sits in one of the clothes-lined chairs before you take off his pants completely, your eyes never leaving his swollen cock. Ser Otto lets out a shuddering breath when your hands run up his bare thighs but grabs your wrists when you reach his groin. 

“Leave that for another night, Lady Wife. I have misgivings to atone for.”

He helps you rise to your feet gently before standing and leading you to the bed. Your heart pounds in your chest as the moment grows near. The ache between your legs pulses as he lays you on the soft fabric, a royal dark emerald to match his family crest. His knees push your legs open, cock so close to where you need it most and yet so far.

The yearning grows too large, taking over your every being. Fuck his atonement! You need his skin pressed against yours, his breath filling your lungs—his cock stretching your cunt. 

Giving in to carnal pleasure, you let your reservations burn away and embrace him. Greedy hands bring his face to yours, lips passionately interlocking, each of you eager to show your love, devotion, need for the other. 

He melts in your resolve and sits back, long legs splayed in front of him, allowing you to straddle him. Brazenly, you reach between your legs, softly gripping his length to line it up with your entrance. Hot, surprisingly soft skin, he twitches in your hand, a drop of precum adorning its head like a tiny crown. 

You whimper, high-pitched and shaky, his cock sliding through your folds, pleasuring your hardening little clit so deliciously. It is not what you meant to do, but it feels so divine that you do it again, slower this time. Ser Otto moans into your mouth, one hand gripping your ass to steady your quickening rhythm and leaning back on the other. 

Your hips buck as you grind against him, the movement as natural as breathing. Slick sounds fill the air as the familiar tension grows in your core. 

“Let me hear you.” He commands, voice breathy and deep. “Let King’s Landing hear you!”

Ser Otto lifts your hips a little higher on your next pass, and his cock slides into you with ease. Your head tilts back as you sing from the delightful stretch of him, taking in his length slowly until your hips are flush with his.

Desperate little thrusts of your hips, you keen as you balance on the edge of marital bliss with Ser Otto’s shuddering moans painting your neck in his hot, panting breath. You could live in this moment forever—make love to him forever. He clings to you ever tighter like a mooring in a storm, with each wave stronger than the last until his nails are digging into your skin. 

His cock grows ever harder inside of you, massaging your bundle of nerves deep within in a mind-bending way. 

“Otto!” You cry out, hips bucking uncontrollably toward your release. 

Cradling him to you, you feel the base of his cock pulse and twitch, your name fast on his lips to call out his bliss. The pinnacle of your climax takes the breath from your lungs–back-arching, throbbing elation that reaches from the tip of your toes to the top of your spine. Your pleasures are so intensely entwined you do not know where you end, and he begins; even the air itself is heavy with the scent of your communion.

Ser Otto leans back on both hands, utterly spent, but you still cling to him, head nuzzling into the crook of his neck.   

“Are you satisfied, Lady wife?” he muses, kissing the top of your head.

You lift your head and smile mischievously, “For now.”

Ser Otto raises his brow in question, and you elaborate.

“What was the atonement you spoke of, I wonder?” 

“It was letting you have your way with me.” He rolls you onto your back and looms from above with the commanding presence you fell in love with. “I will not be so docile in the future.”

“Promise?” You ask, heat returning despite the soreness settling in between your legs. 

He smirks in approval and kisses your forehead before rising slowly from the bed. Without his heat, you curl up to conserve your evaporating warmth, the ambient air assaulting your bare skin. 

He retrieves a small wooden box from atop the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed, torso turned toward you. 

“In truth, this is my atonement. It is no mere object, but a symbol of my promise to be a good husband.” He pauses, bowing his head. “To be better.”

Heart aching for him, you move to his side, arms touching as you lean on him with loving but silent support. He offers you the small box, and you look into his kind hazel eyes before gently taking it. The top slides off easily enough, revealing a beautiful ring. Gold filigree frames a brilliant amethyst, its violet hues dazzling you despite the dimming light of the fire.

The gesture overwhelms you as much as it pleases you, rendering you silent as he takes your right hand in his and adorns your ring finger with the precious stone. 

“I love you.” You confess suddenly, unable to find any other words but those.

The day of, you sit in your room from morning till dusk. Not eating, barely drinking. Only able to watch as time slowly whittles away, until the blue sky changes into the telltale sunset hues. 

You make your way to his official chambers just after sunset wearing a dress that would be more difficult to discard than the last. A heavy book encumbers your steps, but it comforts you to have an excuse for the guard lurking outside Ser Otto’s chambers. It shows good faith, or at least you hope. However, you cannot help the sinking feeling that he will see right through you, and not wish to go further.

One does not play with a man like Otto Hightower and get away with it, even if it is for pleasure’s sake alone. 

When the letter arrives on Otto Hightower’s ornate desk, he struggles with the prospect of breaching your trust. The blue wax seal of your house taunts him for a week before he opens it. The contents were upsetting to him on many fronts, and he stewed in his boiling pot of emotions for another week, unable to bring himself to deliver the letter to you. 

Ser Otto’s attention snaps to the door from the first muffled sound of your voice in the hallway. Anger swells in his belly as you walk into the room, just as he hoped and feared. He does not rise, only glares as you approach. The physical separation should make this easier for him.

Once safely alone with the door shut, he makes the first cut.

“Was it your plan to entrap me for personal gains?” he growls, his unmoving stare pinning you some feet from his desk.

Eyes resembling that of cornered prey, you stand there, speechless, mouth opening and closing as if you thought better of whatever excuse you were going to spout. Enraged at your lack of response, he slams his palms down on his desk as he stands, chair scraping violently against the stone floor. 

You flinch at the display and lower your gaze, not daring to meet his ire face-to-face. He rips the letter from the top drawer of his desk and tosses it at your feet.

“Read it,” he commands through gritted teeth.

Gently, you place the book on a nearby end table and gracefully retrieve the offending paper. Shaking hands open it, but you remain steadfast as your eyes move across the letters. With the signs of sadness written clearly on your face, you calmly fold the letter and drop it in his wastebasket. 

“I should have known you were a liar,” his words seek to wound, “have you come to tell me of the bastard growing in your belly?”

“No!” You finally find your voice and your spine. “Your books are not the only ones I have read, Ser Otto. I have learned a great deal from the Maester’s texts, like how to track my fertility cycle. I left nothing to chance–there was very little chance of my womb quickening the night we…”

You cannot utter the words. ‘Fucked’ is too obscene, and does not fit your idea of what you shared that night.  

“You cannot know such things,” he sneers, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“I only wished to taste happiness before it forsakes me forever!” Your voice breaks, and you pause to take a steadying, deep breath. “My family asked my permission to betrothe me to save them from financial ruin. I gave it willingly and I would not do anything to jeopardize the plans they have made!”

“How many times have you done this? How many men have had their way with you?” He slowly walks around his desk, eyes trained on you like a predator, cold and full of anger.

“Do you think I would risk so much for any other?” You snap, fisted hands shaking at your side as you stand your ground. “When I said ‘only for you’, I meant it with all of my heart! But if you truly think so low of me, my words matter not.”

“I would do anything to save my family. Please, if nothing else, believe in that. I bid you farewell for the last time, Ser Otto.” Your voice trembles ever so slightly as tears begin to well in your eyes, betraying the war raging inside you. 

Ser Otto holds his head high as you turn away from him. He almost stopped you from opening the door to leave, but begging is not in his nature. He is a man of clever action, and that is precisely the method he is going to use here. 

Otto Hightower’s head snaps to the open door, annoyance in his eyes. His gaze softens when he focuses on you, and he places the crow's feather quill neatly beside his unfinished letter before rising from his chair, palms flat on his desk. 

“The hour is quite late, my lady.”

“I apologize, my lord, I could not wait.”

He hums, but you do not know if it is from annoyance or just a simple agreement. Slowly, he walks around his ornate desk to stand in front of you. Holding your breath, you hand the covered painting to him delicately. He flips the fabric off of it unceremoniously, removing it entirely before taking a real look at the work within. 

His brow raises in surprise and a small smile softens his face as he appraises his portrait. 

“You have a regal air about you, Ser Otto, I hope I did you justice,” you place a cautious hand on his forearm as you speak. 

Your touch seems to startle him slightly. He gazes at your hand for a long moment before meeting your longing eyes. 

“You did well,” he praises, breaking the small embrace to walk to the burning hearth. 

Gently, he leans the painting on its ledge where it holds a prominent display within the room. The sentiment makes your heart swoon with pride, giving you the courage needed to carry out the more devious notes of your evening plans. 

You had readied yourself for this moment, playing to slick paradise but never to satisfaction. Pleasure is not always a given during sex, you read, and you are bound and determined to see bliss with him inside you. 

The front of your dress comes untied easily, the soft fabric flowing open, letting the fire-touched air chill your skin. Heart racing, skin prickling with excitement, your breath hitches when he begins to turn. 

Ser Otto’s eyes go wide at the sight of your naked body. Blinking hard once, twice, before registering the scene and stumbling a step backward, hand shooting out to hold onto the hearth’s ledge for support.  

“What do you think you’re doing?!” He hisses, but the anger in his tone doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“I am a woman grown, Ser Otto, belonging to no man. I have the authority to make my own decisions, even if they could bring me to ruin.” You close the gap between your bodies and brazenly run your hands up his finely clothed chest. “I choose you, Ser Otto. I cannot bury my desires any longer.”

After a moment of stunned silence, your hands begin to retreat, the sting of potential rejection quickly dissolving your confidence. 

“However, if you do not feel the same, I will bid you farewell for the last time, and ask you to never speak of this night.”

Ser Otto takes your hands in his with a grip that could be called punishing. For the first time, you recognize his struggle. Despite his bruising touch and creased brow, he is not angry. 

He is conflicted. 

Through gritted teeth, he growls, “Stay.”

Just as you prepare to be ravished, he leaves your side, hastily plucking something off his desk on the way to the door. You panic at the thought of the guard seeing you in such a state and hurriedly close your dress. Facing the fire as the heavy door opens with a creak, you cross your arms, fingers digging into your biceps uncomfortably, even through the fabric. 

Did he tell you to stay just to tell the guard of your shame? Did you underestimate his affections? Or was there none to begin with—just a fantasy born of a lonely spinster’s mind?

You hear him speak to the guard, but it is too low to be understood. The click of the door latching is clear as day, and you glance toward it just in time to see Ser Otto slide the iron bolt over the top of the frame, locking you in. 

He leans on the door, head bowed, and sighs, long and heavy. You watch him intently like a Maester studying for a chain, heart racing from the anticipation. 

Abruptly, he turns toward you, expression dark. Quickened, purposeful steps bring him closer, and only then do you see the determination in his eyes. 

They have the look of a man starved. 

His large hands cup your face and his lips descend on yours as if he’s drowning and you’re his air. Unpracticed and greedy, you return the kiss passionately, hands smoothing up his chest to wrap around his neck while he deftly unties your dress. The motion pulls your body flush against him as his hands delve under the fabric. 

You gasp, the skin-on-skin contact causing a dizzying head rush. The Maester’s books never mentioned the pure, unadulterated bliss another’s touch can instill. It was a feeling you could lose yourself in, and you are. You melt into his embrace as his hands trace the curve of your breasts, thumbs lightly teasing your nipples. 

He drinks your shy moans like a fine wine, hands caressing your breasts, waist, and hips. 

“Ser Otto,” you whimper as he gropes your ass, pulling your hips flush with him. 

Something in him breaks, hearing his name. With a frustrated grunt, he pulls the open dress off of you and throws it behind him as he leads you to the armchair by your forearm. 

Hastily, he turns you around and pushes you to kneel on the soft chair. How many times have you thought about him taking you in the very chair you spent most evenings in? And here you are, face to face with the soft, dark green fabric, completely naked, with him behind you. 

Like a dream come true, he embraces you from behind, his strong, thin fingers wrapping around your neck, encouraging you to lean back against him. The metal fastenings of his doublet dig into your back, and the pain takes on a different color, adding to the pleasures rather than negating them. 

The feel of his hot breath against your neck sends chills down your body, and you’re clenching around nothing when he cups your sex and growls. 

“Do you like being treated like a whore?”

“Only for you, Ser Otto,” you barely recognize your voice as you speak, so heavy with lust. 

His fingers part your lips and massage your entrance, and as you shudder with delight, he is moaning into your neck and pressing his hardness against your ass. Fingers slick with your wet, he circles your little clit, chuckling darkly as you start to squirm against him. 

You beg and plead for more as his fingers slowly circle your aching bundle of nerves, keeping you on the edge of bliss. A rhythm forms between his hand and your canting hips, and just as the cliff comes into view, he pulls away. 

Your hands stop your fall forward, supporting you against the plush back of the chair. After some ruffling of clothing, he’s back before you can truly miss his warmth. Cock lined up to your entrance, and he gathers you in his arms again. One hand on your neck, the other delving between your legs.

Eyes closed, your mouth sings your consent as he pushes in, parting you so delightfully. Ser Otto buries his nose in the crook of your neck, chest heaving with the tattered restraint of a touch-starved man. Slowly, he rocks his hips, his cock slipping into you a little further with each thrust.

Thighs quivering, you hold onto any part of him that you can as the tension in your core begins to unwind with every bit of length he presses into your needy cunt. The feeling opens pleasure pathways throughout your body that you never knew you had–your fingers never filled you quite so perfectly. 

When he finally pushes fully into you, you can’t fight the wave that washes you over the edge. Back arching, the pressure in your core expands until it breaks on the pulsating shores of bliss. 

“Good gods,” he lets loose a strangled moan as you come undone on his cock. 

Hands shaking, he holds back for just a moment longer before gripping your hips and pounding into you slow and rough. The movement forces you forward, face pushed into the soft fabric of the chair while he chases his pleasure. 

Ser Otto only lasts a few thrusts before doubling over, hands holding you to him tightly as he ruts. Another small rush runs through your cunt when you feel the base of his cock pulse, and you buck your hips, grinding him against your newly found pleasure spot deep inside to ride out the high.

He moans and laughs lightheartedly into your shoulder as his hips shudder from the overstimulation. It is the sound of a man relieved of his burdens, if only for a night, and you revel in it. 

You would have liked to stay longer—long enough to at least talk of the little piece of bliss you both shared—but the guard was due back, and you should be long gone. 

His seed drips down your thighs as you walk back to your chambers; hidden by your long dress, but felt every step of the way. You try to cherish the memory, burning it into your mind’s eye.

You have read every text Ser Otto has to offer, except for a single chapter. He knows you feigned exhaustion the evening before. How could he not? It is part of his duties to know when someone is lying. It is also not in his nature to deny the chance to spend more time with you. 

You stand perfectly poised in front of his desk, finally meeting his gaze. A beautiful blush paints your face as you gently clear your throat. 

“My lord, I would like to present you with a token of my appreciation for allowing me to study your texts these past weeks.”

Raising his brow in stoic interest, he takes the offering, hands touching for a heartbeat before you retreat. The contact made him greedy for the intimate and obscene, something he could only dream of in the loneliness of his private chambers. Cool eyes cast down to the box as he lifts the hinged lid.

Inside lay five bare quills in a neat row atop rich green velvet. They seem finer than the ones he typically uses at first glance. He’s inspecting one in his hand when you begin to explain.

“They are crow’s feathers, my lord. I was told they produce a finer line than any other.”

Ser Otto nodded in agreement. He was told the same but due to their more expensive nature, he chose to remain with the common goose feather for his missives. However, his hand often cramped after long hours of writing, and he wondered if the finer edge would save him that pain. 

“Thank you, my lady. It is a most gracious gift,” he politely accepts the gift, his voice cold and unaffected by his internal turmoil. 

“It is the least I could do, my lord, for encumbering you with my presence for so many evenings. If you would indulge me one more kindness–may I hand deliver your portrait in a month’s time?”

“You may,” his answer is curt, but you wouldn’t know it from the brilliant smile lighting up your face. 

Anger flares in Ser Otto’s belly. Not for you, but for the absolute yearning you instill. So honorable he has lived, where other men visit pleasure houses, Ser Otto upholds his morals. He would take no whore, and the mere thought of ruining you disgusts him. To rip you of your worth for a moment of bliss is unthinkable. 

The emotion leaks into his expression, stealing your smile with it. 

“I’ll take my leave— I know my lord is a busy man. Farewell, Ser Otto, may your days be kind.”

“To you, as well, my Lady.”

The door shuts behind you, leaving Ser Otto to reflect in cold silence. Whatever warmth these chambers provided left with you, and he could feel the loneliness creeping up his spine. The sight of your gift wards off the cold, and the light weight of the quill in his hand brings forth the memory of the warmth you so effortlessly tended. 

A smirk pulls the corner of his lips as he remembers your feigned exhaustion the day before. You make such a beautiful liar, with an innocence he cannot even think of punishing.