versigny | open post & overflow

[ a month passes swiftly.

without him even aware of it, Henry's visit has become the catalyst of change for Margaery. if her handmaidens notice the subtle difference in how their lady goes about her day (as if she's been broken free from a reverie), they wisely keep it to themselves while diligently working on the dress she's decided to gift Lady Stephanie.

winning over Lord Hanush is the biggest obstacle, but she manages to barely clear the hurdle by pleading her case - while my brother and I are forever indebted to you for your kindness, I do not believe God has allowed me to survive to do nothing in the safety of your castle walls. surely, He means to use me for more than enjoying the comforts of your home - or perhaps he has also seen the dimming will to live in her eyes, and has no choice but to prefer the reason for her impassioned arguments.

(he does ask her why she's chosen Henry as her escort, and despite having an extensive, roundabout answer prepared, her response winds up being much simpler: I feel safe with him.

to which he gives her a look, but, well. errare humanum est.)

so to Talmberg they ride. it's not the turn of events she'd have expected when she fled Highgarden, but it's not unwelcome. having fun, for instance, continues to remain an alien concept in her grief until she finds herself already laughing at something Henry's said or done, like curtains being drawn back to let the sun in.

Margaery wonders how much he's regretting the suggestion of the longer route for an inn when they stable the horses and she's slyly seizing the opportunity to stick to his side like a bur. her hair is pulled back into a braid (which, in her opinion, is enough to make her unrecognizable) and she does her best to be conscientious of the mannerisms which might give her away, but it turns out her efforts are hardly necessary. ]

I suppose I should be grateful the inkeeper's wife only had eyes for you. [ she muses in their private room, aching from hours of riding and determined not to show it. ] You managed to hold both of their attentions and secure us a room in record time.

[It's been an exceedingly strange month.

He'd been fit for that brown brigandine piece. Capon had retaliated by giving him a set of boots and spurs. He'd suffered enough arse kickings that he'd miraculously begun to win a sparring match every now and again. He'd done a great deal of riding to and fro and to and fro at the behest of people who seemingly against all odds find him useful. He'd stayed for a week in his lord's camp near Merhojed, and done a great deal of letter writing while he'd sat there. Radzig Kobyla clearly considers himself something of a scholar, and for some reason he thinks his newest man at arms should practice his writing at every given opportunity.

(He's also done a fair bit of jerking himself off, and Margaery Tyrell's bosoms and lovely long hair have not been entirely absent from the usual string of fantasies his hand conjured up. But that's not important, as he begs for forgiveness at confession on a semi-regular basis. If God can forget his sins, then it'd be a bit rude not to follow suit.)

And then, impossibly, the day comes. He and Margaery ride out of Rattay, sweeping their way first east and then north in a long steady curve that will eventually see them turn westward, slipping past the very edge of the Uzhitz and Talmberg woods, and finally see Margaery delivered to her new companion. The two women had better get along after all this effort, he thinks only a little sourly and very privately. Imagine if they didn't. Christ preserve him.

The let room is small and sits directly above the inn's taproom. The sound of laughter coming up through the floor is fairly loud, so he assumes their conversation is private enough to be indelicate about certain things like the fact that they're lying scoundrels. They've had a simple dinner and a few beers each in the way that ordinary people ought to, and Henry has bolted the door shut firmly behind them.

Presently, he's finding a place to lay his saddlebags (he'd stripped out his armor when they'd first arrived and been shown the room), and is rolling up his sweat smelling padded gambeson into an approximation of a pillow. If he's going to sleep on the floor, then he's going to make sure he at least has something soft to rest his head on.]

Amazing what you can get done with a fat stack of groschen.

[He's fairly certain the silver he'd produced from his purse had done most of the convincing. Ticking the gambeson's sleeves inside the bundle he's made of the garment, he chances a sidelong look in her direction. He's been looking at her regularly enough all day in the course of traveling and conversation, but for some reason it feels different to do so behind a bolted door in a small little room.]

Are you comfortable, m'lady?

[ comfortable is a stretch. the bed is lumpy, and she's certain that she'll wake up far more sore than she already is just by lying on it all night. a bath would do wonders, but it'd be far too much effort for very little relief in this particular inn, and she's actively avoiding taking a closer look at the darkened corners of the room. if she can't see the spiders, they can't see her either.

but the door is solidly bolted. the food had been half-decent, and all the beer she'd downed is keeping her pleasantly warm. plus, the sheets are ratty, but clean. even the raucus of people downstairs is comforting, in its own way. ]

Quite.

[ Margaery answers honestly, plumping up the pillow to the best of her ability before giving up and tossing it back onto the bed, where it serenely flattens itself back out. she looks over to Henry, brows furrowing in confusion - ]

What are you doing?

[This prompts a more direct and fantastically blank look from one Henry of Skalitz. He pauses in his gambeson rolling efforts.]

I'm making my bed.

[He gestures between the saddlebags propped on the floor, and the rolled heavy quilting, and the general stretch of boards that he intends to occupy. See? This bed right here.]

[ it's a gesture she can't truly fault him for - a gentlemanly assumption that would render any awkward conversation about sleeping arrangements unnecessary. but on the other hand, ]

Why would you sleep there when we're sharing this bed?

[ Margaery asks as if she's genuinely perplexed by Henry's logic. and as if the bed in question isn't clearly meant for one person only. (maybe two, if one was sprawled on top of the other. totally not at all what she has in mind.)

she's so befuddled that any potential smirk he might see is totally a play of the light, of course. ]

Come here.

[A number of weeks ago, he'd happened to mark Lady Tyrell in the upper castle courtyard in the company of one of her maids and someone or other—he'd have recognized them if he'd been looking especially close at at anyone other than the women in that little knot of conversation. It'd been a brief glance, seconds at most as he'd wandered past the portal on his way toward the north gate. But afterward, he'd had the very prudent thought: Don't you dare, Hal. That's dangerous.

So, very sensibly, he'd mentally confined Lady Tyrell inside a castle he liked to call curiosity. It was the sort of place a lad might visit from time to time and peer over the wall into the garden, but he'd had a great number of bedtime stories drilled into him as a child about what happens when naughty boys drop over the wall and go chomping on fruit they shouldn't eat. They usually get eaten back.

Henry is fairly certain he does not want to be devoured.

(Fairly.)]

I don't know that that would be a very good idea.

[Come here hadn't been a question. But she's clearly a bit confused—maybe she shares a bed with her maids? Or her poor sick brother? God knows how noble women sleep—, so it's fair to refuse her.]

I stink like a horse. [Well so does she, probably.] And I roll all over in my sleep.

[ she could patiently disarm both of his excuses and coax him to where she wants him to be gently; the smell of sweat and long distance is far more preferable to the heavy perfumes she's had to sit and smile through in her lifetime, or it's fine if he rolls around in his sleep, so long as he makes sure not to take her with him if he tips off the bed.

but even on a good day, Margaery Tyrell is hardly known to be patient. and after hours of riding and feeling distinctly unclean, well. sleep is hardly going to come easily if she can't fuck them both into proper exhaustion and use him as her mattress instead.

her hands start unlacing the back of her dress as she maintains eye contact, loosening the fabric until it hangs off of her frame in an unflattering shape - only to slip at a breath and settle in a heap at her feet, leaving her bare.

seemingly unbothered by her abrupt nudity, she works on freeing her hair from its braid next, finally deigning to raise an eyebrow as she shakes her curls free. ]

Come here. [ she considers her tone, the way need has subtly altered it without her permission. ] Please.

[Do the ladies of Highgarden hunt for sport? Do deer run there in the verdant hills and woods above the Mander? Has Margaery ever ridden her fine boned courser from out of some canopy of young stripling trees into dusky meadows and startled young deer into stricken stillness, big dark ungulate eyes staring at her progress?

If they do, if she has, then the look on Henry's face and the cut of his posture as she goes naked in front of him will be familiar. Like some red buck old enough to have grown his first points and too young to have the sense to run, he stares at her with large round eyes and does nothing to stop her. His last act of propriety has been to clutch the rolled gambeson to his front—the faintest hint of old womanish shock to his otherwise very male paralysis.

Please, she says, sounding very much like some beautiful fruit he is not meant to sink his teeth into.]

Shouldn't we sleep? [Behold, the last pitiable cry of a slain boy-or-buck, belied by his dropping the gambeson with a soft fhwump and a half step toward her.]

[ God. he's so maddeningly cute. any irritation that she may have felt at his hesitation to follow her direct(!) command twice is swiftly ignored in the light of his likely sound reasoning. going by his expression, it's difficult not to feel more like she's luring him to the edge of a cliff instead of inviting him to carnal knowledge, but for some, the sinful weight of both are equal. ]

Do you want to?

[ Margaery watches him take half a step forward, knowing she should let him cover more distance before thinking of moving herself. someone downstairs laughs again, a pitch above the rest. ]

If you're too tired, we can sleep. I'd still prefer you on the bed with me though.

[ her ribcage expands with her breaths, intentionally slow, intentionally deep. a suppressed shiver ripples over her skin, nipples tightening at the lingering sweep of his gaze. try as she might, she's not unaffected. ]

I promise I won't bite unless you want me to, Henry.

[What does he want?

A piece of him wants magically fly back in time to a rainy night in Rattay, put a hand at the center of his own back, and insist on shoving him right along through a flooded back yard. Keep walking, you pitiable fool, and thank me for it. I've just saved you your dignity. He wants Theresa not to hate him for saying too many nice things about the young noblewoman visiting Rattay. He wants the little silver ring that has spent nearly six weeks in his purse after he'd taken it from poor Bianca's finger not to burn him the next time he touches it. He wants to tell Capon, that clown, that some people aren't slaves their cocks. He wants to make an excuse, flee the room, and go sit in the stall where his old gray mare's big brown eye can communicate enough disdain to make him feel fairly ordinary in his idiocy.

He wants to put his face between Margaery Tyrell's legs and lick up into the wet heat of her like she's some woman he has any business putting his tongue inside.]

I'd rather you didn't bite me, [he says shyly, and then makes to heel himself out of his low boots and unlace the ties of his hose.

His stupid prick takes this as am extremely positive sign; by the time he has stripped out of both legs of his woolen hose, shed his shirt and is down to only his braies, he's hard enough that it makes getting that last scrap off a real exercise in 'don't trip over your own prick, you prick'. And then they are both very naked. Which had seemed fair when he'd started undressing.]

[ she isn't disappointed even with the consistent swell of anticipation that has been gently rolling up higher and higher in the past few weeks. those deer-like eyes are such a pleasing contrast to the sturdiness of his physical build; she can't wait to feel that strength rendered helpless underneath her hands and mouth. ]

A pity, [ she lets him know she's not at all serious by the warmth of her smile; they're sharing a secret together now ] but understandable.

[ the wooden floorboards creak underneath her feet as she finally begins to step closer. slow, like she's approaching a skittish horse that still needs to be tamed. (the bed is no longer a requirement for what she wants to do to him. the floor will be fine, especially since he'd had the foresight to bundle up his gambeson.) Henry's got plenty of time to step back if he wishes, or otherwise indicate that he's uncomfortable -

but if he doesn't, her hand touches him first where his abdominal muscles cast soft shadows, fingertips following up the smattering of hair higher and higher, until her fingers are curling around the back of his neck and she's so much closer, face tipped upwards so he can see the flutter of her eyelashes against her cheekbones when their bodies finally meet.

she bumps her nose against his, letting him get used to her presence. ]

Henry. [ she's not playing fair, saying his name like she would if she was dreaming about him and his touch. ] Will you let me kiss you?

[He doesn't flinch. Not even when she slides in against against him, breasts pressing close and her soft body hot against the line of his excitable prick. His hands (hard with callouses, gentled by an absurd tentativeness) find her ribs and her neck, fingertips fluttering at her back and beneath her ear with the same doe-ishness that Margaery had bat her eyelashes. In the narrowness of the space between their faces, breath warm and thick, his breath pants a little over the question.

Yes, obviously. Good God, she can do whatever she wants.

Only, he might not say it in those words exactly. Instead, Henry bends and kisses her. Apparently he knows how to do that much.]

[ her exhale is a rush of relief and an expression of exultation wrapped up in one, swallowed up in the perfect timing of his mouth on hers. she has been untouched for far too long, she thinks, if the gentle suggestion of calloused hands on her body is enough to make her shudder, but maybe it's just Henry, doing what he annoyingly does best.

which disarming her equally at every turn, until her other hand is gliding up his back to grip at the muscles there, embarrassingly sweet noises escaping from her throat as their lips move and his tongue slips against hers in a surprising display of finesse. (her curiosity of his experiences rises and falls, tabled for a later time.)

the soft chill that has settled over her skin is easily shattered by the heat he brings, and for a moment, she's content to be here - letting her heart stutter against the solid line of his body and chasing the taste of beer from his mouth. but he's been so frustratingly kind where it matters, and this probably isn't the best way to properly reward him, but Margaery has never considered herself a very good Christian woman anyway.

eager fingers wind around his cock with slow, mindful pumps, fully utilizing the fluid that pearls over his tip in response. her cunt aches at the thought of it inside her. not yet.

their kiss comes to a natural end, but she stays close, letting the harshness of their breaths soften together. ]

Has a woman ever used her mouth on you?

[He stutters across the tail of their kiss, fingers pressing soft dimples into skin like a reflex in answer to the slow stroke of fingers. Fucking hell—

All the heat in his mouth dries. His tongue goes briefly thick and stupid in his mouth, all the thoughts in his head draining directly out of both ears. They probably leak between the floorboards and drip into someone's unsuspecting cup in the taproom below. Some hired hand is going to toss back his beer and wonder why he's suddenly gone ramrod hard.

Henry can't say no, even though it'd be the truth. He already feels like the biggest fool in the world. So:]

Has one ever used their mouth on you? [Wait, fuck—] I mean, can I? Put my mouth on you.

Edited 2025-07-04 03:09 (UTC)

[ she draws back to look at him properly, eyes widened with surprise before they curve with the slow spread of her smile. her voice is just a touch huskier when she answers, ] Yes, you can.

[ it's not at all what she might've said just a moment earlier. a more likely answer then would've been an imperious wait your turn, but against the endearing hesitation he still carries even while actively being seduced by a naked noblewoman, Margaery feels her ambitious plans dissipate as her heart melts, leaving behind more equal consideration and care.

back to the bed it is.

except this time, instead of issuing a command, she takes his hand and walks with him. and instead of crawling suggestively on the bed to arrange herself in a way that artfully highlights her nudity, she waits, trailing her fingers up his inner forearm and sneaking a kiss to his bicep. ]

How do you want me?

[It's a great deal of power to put in his hands when he has been largely spent these last minutes being coaxed along like a wobbly foal. The devil only knows what he'll do with it.

He starts with turning his hand, taking her fingers and gently urging her into the bed. Lay back, say all these little touches. Lay down. When he's certain she's going—please go—he clambers in after her.

The mattress is surprisingly fine, he thinks. Only a little lumpy. And with a proper pillow here, which he makes some effort to fluff before she put her pretty head in it. More importantly, Margaery is agonizingly pretty there. If he spends very long kneeling at her feet, he'll start to get ideas about spreading her legs and putting his cock in her instead of his tongue.

His hands find her knees. Henry looks at her with his big sad eyes and his pretty long lashes; he doesn't much look like the sort of idiot who knows how to use his tongue, but he doesn't much look like the sort of idiot who knows how to kiss or woman or show her into bed, either. So maybe it's not all lost.]

All right?

[ she goes, very willing and only with the very slightest hint of amusement, the relaxed length of her body suggesting complete trust in Henry's capabilities. it's strange to be cared for like this, to not have to put on a performance and still find desire consuming her partner's gaze, but she's enjoying it too much to be properly shy about it.

at least, until his hands are on her knees and she realizes where he's supposed to focus his full attention. the thought of catching his gaze as his mouth closes over her makes Margaery's face heat up to where he might see red blooming in her cheeks -

it's only embarrassing because of how much she wants him. and how easily he'll be able to tell. ]

More than.

[ her legs part a few inches on their own accord, as if to reassure him. her blush deepens from the rare spike of vulnerability she feels. anticipation webs itself across her heartbeat, holding it captive. she thinks about telling him that she has no expectations to ease pressure, that she's grateful he would attempt to undertake this at all, but the steadiness of his gaze silences that sentiment.

instead, the silent movement of her legs spreading wider, and a whispered, ] Please.

[Well.

Well.

He's not exactly going to refuse her now, is he? Now when she's looking at him like that all warm in the face and bright in her big eyes. Not when she's parting her knees of her own accord. His attention draws religiously downward, the color high in his chest and neck thickening as he gets a proper look at her. He can feel something clench in him at the sight of her, his stupid prick heavy and needy enough to—

Then he presses her knees further open, hands running down the insides of her thighs. Slipping in under the crook of knees, thumbs finding her hips as he bends. He isn't shy. His mouth is watering. He gives her a brief kiss high at the inside of her pretty soft thigh, and then his mouth finds her directly. Gentle breaths and teasing kisses are for boys who do their tongue fucking in a bed, not for lads who crawl in under their girl's skirts while they're hiding from her da' and brother. So he sucks and licks, a brisk and dedicated cunt eater if ever there was one.

And God, she tastes good. Hot as summer, a deliciously thick sweetness he's happy to lap up.]

[ fuck.

the moment his mouth closes over her, any and all her coherent thoughts flee in the overwhelming pleasure that descends - she'd fully anticipated teasing breaths and tentative licks, perhaps even a pause of confusion at her texture and taste, not this incredible enthusiasm that clearly belies experience.

her initial startled cry is sharp and loud, but thankfully timed perfectly with another burst of laughter downstairs. she clamps a hand over her mouth to make sure she doesn't risk being heard a second time. another hand rakes through his hair, fisting enough for a gentle tug. her hips move eagerly against his mouth, meeting his fervor with her own. ]

You're so good.

[ she manages to say when she's wrestled the volume of her noises under control, although her hand stays close to her mouth at the ready. any attempt at eloquence would just twist her tongue to the point of no return. ]

Fuck, Henry -

[She tangles her fingers in his hair and the groaned out noise he buries panting against her sounds very like approval or agreement. She's good too. Or the tug of her fingers is a novel enough surprise that it makes him hot from his hairline to his fingertips. Or—

He licks her deeper, pressing his tongue into the slick heat of her cunt and whines like a needy dog between her legs, fingers tightening impatiently to encourage the roll of her hips. Fucking hell, he'd forgotten how good girls taste and how sweet they sound when they're trying to be quiet. Imagine if he'd knelt under Margaery's skirts a month ago there in the upper castle's herb garden and licked her shaking instead of intermittently fucking his own stupid hand afterward. That'd've been bright of him. Maybe she would've whimpered like this then too.

Head emptied by how abruptly they've gone from reasonably respectable to sweating in a single bed, Henry laps back to her clit. Kisses her there. Kisses the inside of her thigh, mouth and chin sticky and wet with her own heat. Kisses her knee, a hand slithering around to stroke a soft line between her folds with a single finger. When he looks up her, there's something needy in him.]

Can I?

[Sweet like a boy who doesn't use his tongue like he has. He's flush in the face, fingertip growing slick as he restlessly pets her.]

[ the vibrations of his groans make her toes curl from how deeply she feels it, pulling on her resolve to be quiet like careless fingers tearing up blades of grass, and the lewd sounds of her needy cunt being devoured with Henry's devastating single-minded focus drowns out everything else Margaery might've used to tether herself to her identity.

in the firm strokes of his tongue and the throbbing pleasure that follows, she's given reprieve before she can talk herself out of it. for once, her mind is free of strategy and prediction and only cares about what she desperately wants in this moment -

she almost sobs when Henry's soft lips brush her clit and then pull away, her fingers reluctantly letting go of his hair despite her thighs struggling not to close around his head. ]

Yes.

[ anything else she could say splinters apart at the look they share; she doesn't know how he can look so sweet after taking her apart so well, but the lower half of his face glistening with evidence of his effect only adds to his appeal. and in her own eyes - the dewy glow of pure need, seeing him for the first time all over again. ]

[There between her shivering knees, Henry smiles bashfully up at her in reply—dark eyelashes and flush cheeks, something guileless in the way he licks the taste of her from his lips. Like a lad who's stolen something and is a little ashamed but mostly pleased with his own cleverness, he gives her another little kiss at the inside of her knee and watches her face, curious as a cat, while he slicks his finger and then pushes into her.

Christ, she's fire warm; prettily tight and gloriously satisfying to touch. It makes his cock ache, and his mouth water, and he wishes she'd be loud for him. They're supposed to be married, aren't they? That's practically an obligation for a loud fuck, isn't it? But he supposes he can settle for her visibly struggling to keep her voice down. That's fine too.

Anyway, he can make as much noise as he cares to as long as he does it there between her legs. So after a moment's study, he bows his head again—watching his own hand in the shadow of their too-close bodies as he tests the way she gives. Then he obediently (she hasn't asked, but it feels like obeying a command anyway) puts his mouth on her clit again, murmuring an appreciative sound as he buries his finger in her.

But this is a little quick too. Not impatient, but eager as if worried about how long he has. Given a few shy strokes (if fingering a cunt can be called shy), and then he's driving her properly and insistently between it and his tongue.]

[ she almost glares back at him when Henry has the audacity to smile like that - so fucking cute that it makes her want to kiss him again and suffocate him by riding his face - but instead, he gets to witness the way his kiss scatters her instinct to get herself under control with the soft crumple of her expression that grows more pronounced with the introduction of his finger. having Henry's attention in this way is heady too, more potent than the beers she'd indulged in -

but while his touches are careful and his gaze is intense, she feels consideration more than curiosity or genuine uncertainty. he's perceptive, attuned to her needs even without explicit instruction, finally drawing out a helpless smile from Margaery as she tries to relax through the stretch. ]

Just think, [ breathless, still guttural thick with need. gone is the noblewoman's teasing lilt and the melodic cadence. ] soon it'll be your cock.

[ she means to encourage him, maybe make him smile again so she can feel the bump of his nose against the crease of her thigh and feel an unexplainable surge of fondness from it, but it turns out he doesn't need instruction either.

between the dedicated focus to her clit and the smooth movement of a finger much larger and more calloused than her own, she's back to muffling her noises, although with much less success this time. her arousal has become a much deeper, greedier well after being denied, and she risks being heard to convey its demand. ]

Give me one more -

[It takes a moment. —No, it takes a few. But somewhere between lapping those little noises out of her and stretching her around a second finger, the thing he'd agreed to moments ago with an eager whine actually penetrates far enough into his dumb skull to register. He raises his face to stare dumfounded at her, mouth open and panting, and tongue briefly too thick to do anything productive.

(His hand at least doesn't forget what it's meant to be doing, fingers sinking steadily into her until he's knuckle deep and curling.)]

You want me to—?

[The rest of the question dries out inside his mouth. So there's that uncertainty. Apparently, there are village girls who know a thing or two about how to avoid real trouble.]

[ he looks so much like a puppy that even as her heart feels like it's pulsing in time with the sharp ache between her legs, Margaery's laugh is low and fond. her eyes flutter as his fingers curl, but she breathes out the spark of white behind her eyelids to regather her thoughts.

a torn maidenhead is one of the many perks of being an avid rider from childhood, and after having felt Henry's cock in her own hand, she cares less about risk than not knowing what it might feel like inside of her, or how he might taste, or what expression he'll wear when he sees her kneeling between his legs, eyes glimmering with tears from the stretch - ]

Yes. Or rather - I want to ride you, and then you can finish inside my mouth. Is that -

[ his fingers move rhythmically despite their conversation, and she pauses to breathe out a moan, gathering up what's left of her dignity to echo his earlier question. ]

- all right?

౨ৎ swage

no subject

no subject

sometimes a tag must be short for comedy

CACKLING

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject