versigny | open post & overflow

[ 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?

[It's— he visibly struggles to answer, the fingertips that still live at her hip fluttering over soft skin as if he wants to hold her but his hand has suddenly gone too shy to try pinning her there to the (only slightly) lumpy mattress. The pace of his fingers has slowed. In fact, for a moment he becomes very useless indeed as he can be seen visibly turning the picture she paints over in his head. Somewhere, trapped in the tangle of his own body at the foot of the bed, his cock aches to be inside something. Anything. A fist. Between her legs. Across her tongue.]

That'd be fine, [he squeaks, which is definitely incredibly masculine of him.

Swallowing hard, he clears his throat and rips his staring eyes from her face to the splay of her about his fingers. He feels drunk—too drunk for a few beers in a taproom nearly a half hour ago. There's a rushing sound in his head that must be all the scorching hot blood in him rolling around between his ears in place of his thoughts. Right. Well. Just give him a second, then.

His hand moves from her hip and finds the crook of her knee. With a last skittish glance up to meet her eye—Jesus Christ—he pushes her leg higher and shoulders back in between her legs. From this angle, he can press his tongue at the seam between her and his fingers, tasting the heat directly from her cunt every time they draw back.]

[ she watches him, half amused, half worried - and the latter growing steadily until he responds; she'll remember the sound of that pitch forever. it hits her then, that her natural assumptions about men thinking with their cocks might not be as crude as the aggressive behavior they all know, but it can also be this: Henry suddenly shy again, never having expected and never dreaming of demanding, even as he took care of her so well.

Margaery waits, brows furrowed with gentle concern when he meets her gaze. she means to ask him if he'd like for her to take over so they can maneuver on the bed and switch positions, but he moves, and his movements are certain, driven. she's left to collapse back onto the bed with her hands curling around the sheets. ]

Please don't stop.

[ she's so close, so stretched thin from the brief, inconsistent bouts of deep satisfaction. her heel digs into the edge of the bed, back arching, the motion rolling down to her hips. all she needs is just a little more -

one hand fists near her mouth so she can whimper out her approval, and her thighs close around his head as much as he'll let them when her pleasure crests and she comes, moan long and throaty. ]

[The sound of it shivers through him, forming a knot in the very pit of his belly that grows tighter and heavier and thicker in answer to the way her body tightens and then gives, gives, gives to the press of his fingers. He doesn't think to brace against her thighs, and so is content to be buried and clenched in against her while she makes the kind of sound that someone might actually hear.

In fact there's a bright peal of laughter from the taproom below that comes right on her heels, though whether it has anything at all to do with what they're doing here is impossible know. He'd almost be ashamed if he weren't otherwise well and thoroughly occupied, thick honey sweet tang on his tongue and groaning for how open she is in the moments after.

Don't stop, she'd begged him, so he doesn't. Even with her thighs clamped around his big silly ears and the vivid heat of her orgasm boiling off her, he urges her with the flat of his tongue. Fucks his fingers harder into her, delirious with the idea of putting his cock in her and thrilled by the wet sounds of her taking him. She can come again. It's easier if he asks her to do it right away.]

[ the respite she expects never comes. instead, Margaery's suspended between her peak and yet another swell of pleasure that thrives off of her over-sensitivity, moans overwhelmed into reedy notes aimed at the ceiling.

the tears that she'd anticipated for later lead trails down her cheeks, any elegance left in her limbs chased out by exquisite ecstasy. she wants to pull away for the sake of her sanity, but his fingers are fucking her so fluidly and every time they curl, she shakes and tries not to wail to rapidly declining success. her vision gets too blurred for her to see, and use of her arms is temporarily impossible from her trying to keep herself together; it's all she can do to dig her fingers into the bed.

the heat of Henry's grip on her knee is all that anchors her here in this moment, she's sure of it, and when she inevitably shatters under the force of her next orgasm, she'll need him to gather up the pieces. the wide-eyed look he'd worn is all but forgotten, finger-fucked into nonexistence.

she's close even before she realizes it, surprised into sobbing a strangled variation of his name when she comes again. another plea, perhaps, or a long overdue praise. ]

[The taproom below them's definitely heard all that. But the inn's stuck in the middle of nothing by wood and farmland. Everyone involved probably could do with a bit of entertainment.

Henry, meanwhile, is expressly not thinking of what anyone may or may not have overheard. He's seriously considering continuing to drive her on, overheated and shrill, to see if it's possible to chase her up toward her pleasure a third time. But this angle is putting a strange tension in his wrist and it's grown so hot between her thighs that he can only manage to fuck her fully through her second peak before the energetic thrust of his fingers begins to gentle. He's reduced to panting there above the heat of her sex, elbow trembling as he carefully, carefully, carefully eases his fingers free and relents with the pressure he's putting behind her knee.

In the slackening aftermath, he rests his cheek on the inside of her open thigh and strokes her pretty flank with the hand that isn't thoroughly slicked with her own heat. Tips his face to gaze up at her, his breath heavy and cheeks warm.

It's hard work. He looks deliciously pleased with himself there between her legs.]

[ the comedown is slow. everything recedes in increments as her awareness returns; her legs relax and drop, her heartbeat returns to its normal pace, quieting as it goes. her eyes open, clear once more, and it takes several more moments before she's making sense of what she sees. boneless takes on a whole new meaning. Margaery feels as though she's a rag that's been twisted and wrung in the best way possible; too stunned into appreciation to think any deeper.

she pushes herself up to her elbows eventually, giving Henry an incredulous look, arched eyebrows and all, before her titter becomes a disbelieving, full-blown laugh. he's managed to make her delirious to the point of giddy, which plays perfectly into her excitement of indulging herself next. ]

Come, mea catulus. It's your turn.

[ clumsily, she sits up properly while her hands reach for him, trembling only slightly as fingers tenderly cup his cheeks. a thread of lethargy from surviving two consecutive orgasms winds around her movements, but none of the initial desire she'd felt when he first stripped down has been satiated. if anything, it's heightened.

he's invited to lay himself out on the bed or sit upright. she'll find her way into his lap all the same. ]

[If he were a fraction stupider or less pleased with himself, he might prickle self consciously at her laughter. But he's neither, and so his smile tugs crooked and wide there in the shadow of her knee. A bashful kiss is pressed there—oops; good lads aren't meant to finger fuck women until they're trembling—, and then Henry surreptitiously wipes his mouth and chin on his palm as she levers herself more upright.

By the time Margaery has his face in her hand he's—well. Not respectable, just not gleaming with her climax.]

You taste good, [he tells her, fuck-silly and pliable as he sits up and she climbs into his lap. He gives into temptation, work rough hands finding her lovely bare breasts. A curious thumb circles a stiff nipple.] Really good. And you smell like, I don't know, like—

[God. His thick cock aches at her closeness and the spread of her thighs over his lap. The weight of her makes everything in him start to coil in tight with anticipation; he has to drop his hands to her hips to settle himself. Less helpfully, he crumples to lay flat on his back after all. When she sits him (sakra, if he isn't begging to spill the moment she does its going to be some miracle), he wants to see it.]

Good. You smell good.

[Behold: poetry.]

[ he keeps her smiling through the soft kisses she sneaks on his jawline as she steadies herself, and the pleased exhale of his calloused hands gliding over her soft skin. Henry might not be eloquent, but the truth of his words has already been proven, and they're all the more sweeter to hear for it.

(she also understands it far better now that she knows what it's like to have her own thoughts robbed and left with only feral simplicity.)

her hand finds a solid foundation on his chest when he lays back, the other angling his cock just right so she can slowly start to push herself down - her mind nearly goes dizzy with anticipation at the stretch, the easy glide that tempts her to just seat herself down in one smooth motion. she won't, for either of their sakes. ]

And?

[ she prompts coyly, panting from the exercise of patience when she's taken him in completely, tucking her long hair over one shoulder so he can see the gleam of sweat that accompanies her flush. ]

How do I look?

[Margaery Tyrell slowly, patiently, sweetly sinks onto him and a million angels in Heaven blast their trumpets and sing a long high alleluia note. He forgets the room and the thin floor and the sounds of conversation under them. He forgets that come morning he's going to saddle their horses and they're going to canter the rest of the way to Talmberg where he'll have to introduce Lady Tyrell to Lord Divish and his extraordinarily kind wife while pretending like he doesn't know what she feels like wrapped around his cock.

God help him, she is hot and tight. He thinks of sinking the tang of a knife into its handle and groans, fingers clenching at the tops of her thighs. Oh, he can see how she's split on him. Senselessly, he slides his thumbs to spread her a little further and is thrilled to see the tight button of her clit straining.]

Oh, [is a heady, panted groan. He flushes so hot he can feel it in his ears and neck. He's going to hell.] Please.

[That's not an answer, but also: yes it is.

(There's no possible way he's lasting long enough to satisfy her.)]

[ her laugh this time is more of an afterthought - everything is, when she can feel the solid heat of his cock, and the echoing return of desire, dredged up from how fucking good it feels to be penetrated. her hands rest on his as she experimentally rolls her hips, watching him carefully.

at least Henry can take comfort in knowing he's not the only one who can only speak in breathless groans - ]

If you think you'll come, you must tell me.

[ his earnest pursuit of her satisfaction soared above any expectations, so now Margaery feels a dark delight in watching him struggling in turn, wanting to gift him the same boneless outcome and then some.

she moves again, still slow, still breathing out every time she drops herself down because it feels like air is being squeezed out of her lungs from the stretch - one of her hands move to gently tap a finger against her clit, just once, so he can feel how her body tightens up around him in response, clutching at his cock even tighter than his fingers. ]

[He's had it once before almost exactly like this, him on his back and a woman settling herself over him. But he'd been so drunk he could barely see, much less get much of a sense of how she was taking him—just that through the buzzing, liquored up sensation, it'd felt good to be ridden. Now, he can barely remember anything about it. The part where the tavern maid had mounted him sticks out pretty clear, but after that it's mostly just the sweet scent of the hay he'd been lying in.

Meanwhile, he's fairly certain he's going to remember the feeling of Margaery tightening around him until he dies. He'll by lying in his death bed, having said his last confession to some farmer priest, and somehow still end up burning because his last thought is going to be about her breathing out when she fully seats him.

Whimpers like a dog, he can do little more than hold on and stare while she takes him slow. There's tension in his thighs and clenching in his belly, but he's too taut to dare pressing up after her. If he starts twitching up into the beautifully wet heat of her, he's going to last for exactly as long as it takes for him to beg her to get off him again. He shouldn't be staring. He should be thinking about kicking puppies, or burning his hand on a hot iron, or the very dull book about a bunch of dead kings that Capon had told him he needed to read. Capon with his annoying voice saying 'Really Henry, I can't be expected to associate with someone who doesn't know the slightest thing about what's actually been important in the world,' while jabbing his finger in the seam of the books pages to fix his attention over and over and—

Christ, don't think about Capon. Oh, he's going to throttle that idiot for intruding on his thoughts. Now? Of all times? Honestly, the fucking impropriety of it all. He'll do it right after he stops feeling like he's going to shatter into a thousand pieces, once he can stop staring at the way he's sliding into Margaery's cunt. It's not a long ride back to Rattay. He could finish here, get an ass kicking in, and still be back by morning.

(Annoyingly: it is helping to think, even this scattered, about the semantics of this petty revenge. Maybe he won't be completely hopeless after all. Still—)

With a shivering breath out, Henry slides a hand up her ribs. He takes her breast back in hand, kneading it high and pinching the nipple in the v between thumb and forefinger. He can manage that much.]

[ the longer Henry holds out, the more impressed Margaery becomes. she's not one to wax poetic about people's characters, especially not when it comes to having some carnal fun, but there's something to be said about his dogged determination making a persistent appearance no matter what they're doing. if she'd known that the pitiful-looking city guard in an ill-sized helmet was going to make her claw at bedsheets and forget her own dignity, she'd gladly do it all over again just to relive this moment.

delicate fingers curl around his forearm, and then trace down the length of his arm to press into his pectoral muscle. the pinch to her nipple earns him a hitch of her breath and a beatific smile - next time, if they have the chance, she'll teach him how she likes to be touched when she's fucking herself on his cock, grinding down like she actively wants him to lose control. her chest arches into his hand, her upper body leaning forward as a silent request for more of his touch - there's a creak from the ceiling, puncturing the ebb and flow of her heavy breathing and the white noise of the crowd. ]

You feel so good, Henry.

[ better than her stolen daydreams, even if she's much softer towards him than she thought she would be. damn him and his puzzling charm.

she picks up speed, still watching for his reaction closely; she wants to touch him in return, rake nails through the soft hair of his chest and twist a nipple and clean what's left of her essence on his hand with her mouth, but the threat of a pregnancy risk hangs over her like an unwanted cloud.

that, and she still wants him in her mouth. ]

[Thanks he miraculously doesn't say. And thank God, because he'd simply have to throw himself into the nearest rocky ravine if he had. Instead, he opens his mouth and a panting groan pinches from his throat as she begins to move faster over him. Fucking hell and Oh Christ turn into a fairly steady buzz, chasing like a naughty dog after the heel of the slick sounds of his cock in her cunt and the creak of the bed frame.

Because she'd leaned into his palm, he touches his more there—massaging her breast harder than is really polite and pinching more at the sweet shape of her nipple. It's something of a substitute for the fact that he can't, he can't, oh God he really can't fuck up into her or take her by the hips to start dictating when or how she drops herself. The most he can manage is to wrap his other hand around to grasp at her ass to feel the flex or muscle on the way up and the shiver on the way down.

He manages to cling on like that for longer than he should given how he'd been hard before dropping his braies. But there is a distinctly heated quality to the sound of his breathing that grows thicker and sharper as he watches her plunge his cock into her. Thoughts of boyish revenge melt in his mouth where he can still taste her on the backs of his teeth. After what he would subjectively consider far too little fucking, he seizes her hips with both hands and, whimpering, begs for mercy.]

I'm close. I'm sorry. Please— [just give me your mouth, he can't say because just the thought crossing his mind makes his balls clench. Saying it would be disastrous.]

Edited (Lmfao NOT THE HORSE ICON ) 2025-07-05 19:36 (UTC)

[ the thought of calling him good boy occurs once or twice or as many times as she notices his muscles flexing with effort every time she pushes down, with the careful reverence in his grip even when he gets bolder. still so damn terribly sweet. her legs begin to shake with her resolve to stay slow and controlled, but Margaery keeps to it as long as he needs her to, immediately pausing when his hands move back to her hips, everything else forgotten. ]

It's alright, sweetling, I've got you.

[ the emptiness she feels when she pulls herself off is mitigated by the sharp relief of her thighs, and the urgent, inelegant scramble to position herself - those fingers that had touched him so delicately before now tighten with an iron grip around the base of his cock, staying even as she licks him from root to tip with a flat tongue. she can taste both of them, moans at how the salty tang permeates her mouth like a spark of fire igniting. ]

Come as you need to.

[ and with that order given, her mouth closes over the bulbous head, fingers relaxing their grip and pumping the rest of his length, tongue laving over the slit before her gaze finds him and her cheeks hollow out in a firm suck. ]

[In his barely contained state, she seems to him fantastically agile—one moment his cock is twitching inside her, and then she has her mouth on him. He thinks of that silly little fable then. Of the castle garden with its sweet, sweet fruit and what becomes of boys who trespass. And maybe he does want to be devoured after all. If Margaery looks at him like that with her big eyes and her disheveled curls while she destroys him, then it seems a perfectly fine way to get what he deserves.

He writhes there, less bucking and more just squirming away the last of his restraint as she sucks and jerks him. He's never had a woman's mouth, and the obscenity of her lips around him where her cunt has just gripped him is as responsible for his panted out groaning as her tongue is. His hands grasp brief and clumsy at her naked shoulders; all the muscles in his thighs go bowstring taut; the sole of a foot finds her calf, toes curling.

When he spills, it's with a fragmented cry; half the sound is successfully smothered so high in his chest that it's practically visible there in the heave of Henry's ribs.]

[ there's a half second there, tucked between her satisfaction and the genuine pleasure of watch Henry come undone, where Margaery considers repaying his initiative in full. there's so much more ground she could cover; she hasn't even played with his balls, hasn't teased a rub at the sensitive skin of his perineum, or thumbed the puckered hole while she makes a mess of things with his cock -

but even a Tyrell must know when she's being too ambitious.

she swallows all his spend to the best of her ability, easing off of his cock and chasing the droplets that do escape. Henry's permitted to watch if he wants, when she sits up and licks her lips clean and gently massages his outer thighs with both hands as a measure of grounding comfort. and he's given reason to be proud when she gingerly makes her way off the bed to down some water, her legs quivering here and there with each step.

she returns with some for him as well, properly glowing with contentment. ]

How do you feel?

[He does watch, wide eyed and trembling like a flag in a failing wind as she licks herself clean. Frankly, it's almost a relief when she slips from the bed. It gives him a moment to catch his breath, joints oozing loose and useless. His heels slide too. He lies flat, thoroughly shocked and spent. Christ, he thinks, and not much else at all.

When she returns with that cup—]

Horse trampled, [he suggests as an answer.

And laughs, an addled pant of a humor. Slowly, slowly, he finds an elbow that belongs to him and levers himself high enough to accept the cup and not just pour it all over himself. He takes a very small sip. And then a second one, looking up at her with his big sad eyes and dark eyelashes and silly pointy ears and sweat gleaming skin. He's still a little breathless. She's absurdly pretty, he thinks, and the thought turns him red.]

[ her pleased laugh is quiet, and her hand hovers just in case Henry needs help. when it becomes evident that he doesn't, it moves on to do other things, like run through his hair and wipe away the beads of sweat that she can see. their gazes catch and hold. her smile widens. gentle fingers tug at one of his ears affectionately.

the restless hum under her skin that's been steadily growing louder has been silenced. for how long, she doesn't know. it may return tomorrow if meeting Lord Divish and Lady Stephanie doesn't go as well as she hopes, or if they return to Rattay to the news of her brother's condition worsened. hopefully neither of those things will happen and it'll be a while before she starts feeling antsy again.

it would almost be discouraging to know that the only physical activity available to her right now is fucking, but at least she's found a very decent partner.

it could always be worse. ]

I have a lot of questions for you tomorrow when we're on the road again, so you best get some sleep.

[There's something very sweet about that little tug she gives his ear. He couldn't name exactly why is strikes him so, just that it does. Lying there propped like a man with two broken legs, it inspires a strange kind of affection in him.

(It's possible that he is absurdly, uniquely, desperately lonely. Fucking is one thing—God, it surely is—, but a silly little touch in the aftermath when whether they touch one another much at all sticks to the ribs in a way he is hungier for then he realizes.)

He drains the contents of the cup.]

What sort of questions?

[ she takes the cup, places it on the floor next to the bed; there'll be time to tidy up tomorrow. her fingers deftly begin to braid her hair back up in preparation for sleep. he may have seen her naked, but it doesn't mean he's ready for the messy nest her long hair can become when left unchecked. ]

Nothing to make you name names, of course, but questions like, do you remember your first kiss? And if so, what was it like?

[ she shifts on the bed, cognizant of how lumpy it is once more, and lets her knee brush against his hip and stay there, expression expectant and eager. ]

open post & overflow

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

calling this tag 'when you're a bisexual clown'

just a guy fantasizing about his bro while balls deep in someone else, it's totally normal!!

so normal and hetero

took a look at ur icons and burst out laughing ty

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)

🎀