versigny | open post & overflow

[ 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. ]

[He should probably sit up. She'd been so deft about stepping out of bed a moment ago; it shouldn't be hard for him to lever himself further up off his elbows. He'll need to do it eventually; he's laid out in the wrong direction if they actually mean to sleep.

So slowly, he does creak further up onto the flat of a palm, elbow locked. He does his level best not to look too much at the motion of her hands as she braids her long curling hair. It's too easy to flick from there to her breasts, then lower. They're naked still, but it doesn't really feel like he should be looking now that she's settling.]

Sure, I remember. [The green grocer's daughter, Kedruta, too old for him and so infinitely safe to clumsily kiss on a dare.] It was all right.

[That's clearly what she meant by 'what was it like' right?]

Just all right?

[ it's not like she expected it to be amazing, but there's something especially funny about the easily vague answer - then realizes that she's probably been surrounded by her ladies with no other company for far too long, spoiled by their ability to provide vivid accounts.

seemingly unbothered by her own nudity, she moves to give him space for the eventual position shift, winding up with both legs bent and one foot hanging off the edge of the bed while the other is planted on the floor. ]

What about the first time you kissed someone you truly wanted to kiss?

[Rather than reorient himself directly, he gathers the sprawl of his legs up a bit—not quite knees to chest, but certainly drawing them up so he has an easy place to set his hands, thumbs drawing gentle absent circles over the top of his knee caps. Give him a moment and he'll start to wiggle in the direction of that money pillow maybe, but—

This question makes him hesitate.

There's a flicker behind his wide set eyes, a moment of unprepared unease. Henry's fingers lace softly together before his knees and in spite of his recent perfectly grown behavior, regret makes him seem younger than he actually is.

'What would Bianca think?' Theresa had demanded.]

Oh, you don't want to hear about my foolish kissing. Fairly sure it was worse on both our parts than I remember it being. [Steering from the memory of a little wooded herb garden on a hillock below Skalitz where he had shyly chanced joining hands and kissing a dark haired girl over her work.] You? Do you remember it?

[ his obvious regret quickly leads to her own. it was a thoughtless question she should've been more careful in asking - until fairly recently, Skalitz was the only place he'd ever lived. if the recipient of his first desired kiss wasn't with him in Rattay, she was most likely dead. but before Margaery can figure out how to apologize without completely dipping their mood, Henry neatly sidesteps and gives her an out.

at that point, it's only fair that she answers honestly. ]

I do. [ her smile is wry; the expression of someone who's learned their lesson. ] I was much younger and fairly fond of a squire - although, now that I think about it, it was only because he was one of the few that wasn't distantly related to us. I was nervous because I didn't know what to expect, but I knew I wanted him to be my first kiss.

[ it's been a while since she's recounted this memory (honestly), and she can't hold back the cringe, or the laugh. ]

Everything worked accordingly, but when he kissed me, it was like kissing a helmet with an uncontrollable tongue and excessive saliva. His lips were so hard against mine while he shoved his tongue down my throat. And he had me up against the wall, which I thought would be arousing from everything I'd heard, but my back paid the price. I could hardly breathe, nor could I wait for it to be over.

We barely spoke to each other for the next few years, but he did apologize and told me he had been terrified as well. So I can hardly hold it against him. He did his best.

[Oh, she'd wanted a story more than an answer. No, he thinks, he's no good for that sort of thing. Not at night while naked in a bed behind a bolted door. It would be different if she'd asked while walking around Rattay or if he'd let her do what she'd intended and they'd waited until the daylight and the road to speak on any of it. He could have scraped together a bit of a story then and not been too sad or guilty about it. But not here.

Unpleasant as her accounting might be, it's a fine distraction. Good, too, that she laughs over it. It has him wrinkling his nose and a spark of something like humor resurfacing in his own face.]

Someone should really take the time in all those stories where ladies are reunited with their bridegrooms to tell children 'She went to him and they kissed with a lot less tongue and less wet than you're thinking.' It'd do everyone some good.

[ in that sentiment, at least, they are in agreement. ]

I do believe you're right. If there was a touch more realism given to us when our imaginations were allowed to roam free, it would help. The first time I ever kissed someone, I thought I hated it because of how it felt. It didn't feel magical at all.

[ and then, of course, as her purpose in life got loftier than simply finding love (easier to throw away that desire than let it throw her away first), it got much easier to categorize physical entanglements as life studies, or simply garnering experience. a muscle in her thigh quivers briefly at the thought of what they did tonight and she absently massages her hand over it.

Margaery tips her head, hopes her smile is reassuring enough that he knows he can answer however he'd like. ]

Will you be sleeping on the bed with me?

[It is, in fact, reassuring. And he's tempted, not just because she is absurdly pretty with her hair plaited simply and the warmth of her nakedness practically glowing in the light of the little oil lamp on what counts as the bedside table. Even squashed in, it would probably be nicer to sleep on a soft mattress halfway under her than on the inn's old floor boards.]

No. Not on account of— [he makes a gesture between them; any of this] I really do toss about. I'll either kick you or think about it doing hard to sleep. We'll both be better off if I don't.

[So. He gathers his knees a little higher and swings his heels up and up and over her lap, off the edge of the bed to the floor. It's a silly little pivoting motion, but it seems him up on his feet pretty deftly enough.

An enthusiastic fucking apparently isn't enough to rid him of all his bashfulness. Finding and steeping into his braies, Henry makes a real effort to bend over at an angle that's a little less cock-and-balls. But once he has them on and is securing the waist's lacing, using his foot to shift the still folded gambeson bundle into a place he'd like to put his head down, he finds it in him to say:]

It's only a very hours to Talmberg tomorrow. We could get a late start in the morning if you wanted to ride something other than a horse first thing.

[So. Not that bashful.]

[ she's too much of a lady to deflate noticeably when Henry declines, but she at least gets the treat of watching him walk away, eyes lingering from his broad shoulders and sweeping downward. with her hope for body heat lost, Margaery retrieves her chemise and pulls it on over her head.

it's back to fussing with the pillow again when his words gain her attention; she looks pleased even before she's turning back to look at him over her shoulder, eyes dancing with mirth as they narrow speculatively.

such a generous offer! ]

That's very kind of you. I've always wanted to ride someone's face.

[ words that wind up delivered with a gentle cackle - followed up with a shake of her head to show she's speaking in jest. ]

We'll see how I feel tomorrow. It's been a while since I've had reason to enjoy myself so much.

[ there's a brief moment of hesitation, and almost shyness? before she adds, ]

I wasn't speaking simply speaking from pleasure, you know. You are good. Great, even.

[Joking or not, he colors a little at the prospect—heat flushing right up into those silly ears. He bends to retrieve his shirt rather than think too hard about the semantics of that, and only has got as far as thrusting his arms into the slightly tatty sleeves when he marks that— what? Her hesitance? A tiny flicker of the demure in a place that is, frankly, mind boggling to find when not that long ago she'd contrived to strip out of all her clothes in what had seemed to him practically one motion.

Pausing with his shirt about his armpits, Henry flusters right back.]

Thanks. [There it is. The stupidest thing he could say, probably. Tomorrow he'll have to find that rocky ravine to chuck himself down after all.] You too. I didn't know ladies knew how to be so forward.

[No, that's worse still. It sounds like an insult, doesn't it? Ladies, meaning well bred ones. And reveals that he's some cock up who's hardly actually had his cock up much of anywhere. Better find the deepest ravine.]

You're impressive, I mean. Generally. Not just on account of this sort of thing.

[ she's happy to let him keep speaking if it means he'll continue digging himself into a deeper hole and amusing her along the way - by nature, very little offends her, and after the luxury of having a close-knit family like hers, even less qualifies. he can at least be comfort by the fact that her smile is closer to a knowing grin, with no presence of irritation or anger. ]

You're all right. I know I'm a little different.

[ there's more Margaery wants to say, but it occurs to her then that it's possible she'd been so determined to fall into bed with Henry to comfort herself with the knowledge that she still retained the capability of inciting desire. he'd confirmed it beautifully, but there's still an unspoken pool of concern that has yet to clear itself out.

I must be cursed, she'd said, and now she believes it. three marriages, three complete shams. ]

I was always taught that if I wanted something, I should take care to get it. What is it that Lord Capon always likes to say? Fortune favors the brave?

I have indeed heard him say that. [And a few other choice things best not repeated, no matter how badly behaved the two of them have been tonight.] Though for the record, I'm not sure I'd pick Sir Hans as my guiding star.

[Surely she doesn't need him to tell her that, though. Lady Tyrell is a perceptive young woman, and Hans Capon is—well. Neither of those things, for starters.

But no, he hasn't missed the fact that she has said she wanted something. That that something was this. To lay with a man? To lay with him, specifically? No, that's not something he's going to work through just this moment, though just the whiff of the idea puts a strange knot in his belly.

He finally shrugs into his shirt.]

[ as tempting as it is, Margaery only bites back a smile at his words; it wouldn't be appropriate for her to dress down one of her gracious hosts, even if he doesn't quite have the authority just yet. instead, a softer, ]

He reminds me of my brother sometimes. How he used to be.

[ the words float out of her, too natural for her to snatch them back without creating an awkward situation. so instead, she shakes her head to indicate that Henry doesn't need to deign her with a response - what could anyone even say to that, anyway? - and does her best to get comfortable on the bed.

the pillow somehow makes it feel as though her head is somehow even lower than her feet, which thankfully becomes less of a problem when she allows herself to relax and let the exhaustion that's been pooling on the edges finally pour in. in one moment, she's realizing she should sit up again to turn out the light. in the next, sleep is blessedly pulling her under, darkening her awareness so quickly that she has no chance to resist. ]

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