prompt: anything involving the secretive brushing of fingertips against inner thighs in public places
It starts as something of a game between them.
He first meets Margaery at one of the parties for their families' respective companies, parties that he never enjoys going to, but goes anyway. His mother tells him they are not an option, mandatory, to which he brings Theon so he's not entirely alone. At least when his best friend isn't distracted by something, someone, nothing he ever desires to know the details of.
Theon shares them anyway
It happens like clockwork. Theon rises from the table and he's out of sight within the minute, leaving Robb to find his own entertainment, at least for a little while. Until he's back with his hair a mess, cheeks gone red, and telling the story of all the things the girl did to make it the best encounter. He says that about them all.
Margaery introduces herself while taking his drink, little talking, many exchanges of looks, a hall closet something they found one another in. It's reckless, he knows better, finds it too difficult to care, doesn't think, not as his hand slides up her dress, the feel of her warm flesh against his palm just right.
Until Sansa ruins it all.
Little sisters.
They part, the "see you later, handsome," ringing his ear for the rest of the night, ignoring the looks delivered by his sister.
He never lives that night down.
Robb notices Margaery more after that, wondering if she's always been there and he was just too distracted to notice. Sansa spends more time in the warmth, Margaery dates Joffrey, and Robb finds it difficult to keep his eyes from her.
Her little prick of a boyfriend helps even less, someone Sansa held her own little infatuation with. Until he stumbled upon them and the little blond ran away with a broken nose and a bonus black eye, Theon physically holding him back before more damage plagues him, nearly tearing their families apart, still not quite welcome around those parts. He doesn't mind and as he joins Sansa to a gathering on direction from his mother, he does happen to wonder what Margaery sees in him.
"Hey, man. You don't want to get messed up in that." Theon warns as he hands him a drink in the middle of the gathering.
Mostly quiet he's not surprised when Theon notices where his line of vision is, Robb just looks over at his best friend, only for a moment, unable to really keep his gaze to himself. "Gonna take your own advice?"
"Never." Theon's grin proves as much as he finds a pretty girl to distract him with.
Robb tries not to be as obvious when Theon disappears, finds a second drink, nurses it slowly, thinks of anyone but Margaery Tyrell. Until she finds a seat next to him, Sansa off mingling with someone he likely would never like, no excuse to turn away from her. He vaguely looks for his sister, not trying hard, taking a shining to so few people there, he'd rather be distracted, except when he turns and realizes Margaery's far more beautiful than he recalls.
"You should be with Joffrey." Is the only thing he can think to say, because really, he suspects there's a fine line drawn in the sand.
"He's busy."
Robb has half a mind to look to see if it's true. He doesn't.
She's about as forward as he remembers, her hand slipping under the table, moving along his thigh. Robb only bites down on his inner cheek in response, attempting to keep some semblance of composure, to keep everyone from taking notice that they were most certainly not being appropriate. Had Joffrey been a friend he might try to be nice, stop her, ask questions. He doesn't, not when the guy is horrible, not worth anything. Instead he enjoys it, moves a touch closer to her, thinks of touching her, thinks of them being anywhere but in that room full of other guests.
"You should go back to him." Robb cannot help the tone when he mentions him, barely even tries, only speaking the works to seem decent.
"Do you want me to go?" Her hand strokes his thigh, gently, but higher, moving slowly, pressure only increasing as she does, the glint in her eye speaking for itself.
When he breaks from her gaze, thinking of something to say, he notices Joffrey across from them.
"Margaery." Joffrey bites, in that usual tone of his. "We don't associate with mutts."
Robb waits for her to remove her hand, to pretend she was innocent, that she wasn't there so close to creating a little problem for him, only she never does. "Might want to tell that to our sisters." He ends up simply replying, swallowing, not letting his own little temper boil at just the sight of him.
When Joffrey leans over the table it's to seem threatening, "You infect everything you touch."
"Too bad you're still here." Robb shrugs, calm yet irritated, not fearful in the least. It'll escalate sooner rather than later, he's aware, so he turns to Margaery, the girl who really should be with anyone else but Joffrey. His reputation precedes him. "You should go."
Margaery nods, tapping her hand against his thigh as she rises, "Goodnight, Robb Stark."
He doesn't bother to watch either of them the rest of the night. Not when jealousy is definitely an emotion he is capable of, but an emotion he doesn't wish to experience. Instead he listens to stories told by Theon, rolling his eyes per usual, watching out for Sansa, and pretending that Margaery Tyrell doesn't even exist.
It's not until a few weeks later he declines the Halloween invitation. It's Jon that volunteers to take Sansa. The only thing he'll ever hear about that night is Margaery inquiring about him.
That helps. A little.
When Christmas rolls around his mother tells him he's going, they all are. He doesn't argue, doesn't bother, just allows himself to go.
They are both single and maybe that's part of the reason he watches her closely from the moment he steps foot in the ballroom filled with people and decorations.
Sansa instantly got a pretty little picture in her head, leading them to sit at the same time. His mother isn't fond of the idea, he can see it, in the way she watches, as if suddenly she's going to corrupt him. His father only uttering something about him being good and would not get into trouble. He doesn't get into too much trouble, nothing more than a typical twenties boy does. It isn't his fault Joffrey deserved what he got and it really isn't his fault when Grey Wind decides he hates someone.
Anyone Grey Wind hates is an automatic enemy.
It might be a little his fault when Sansa nearly crashes his car when he allows her to drive even though she's not licensed. He always finds it difficult to say no to his little sister, as much as true now as he sits there, watching the way she tries to get him and Margaery to speak. something more than small talk.
All his thoughts are not little sister appropriate.
He does learn enough to know she has older brothers who will probably kill him, and he has a million younger siblings of his own who would equally like and hate her depending on the day. Sansa is already in a little love with her and Arya is so indifferent she didn't even want to be at the party anyway, Theon only talks about how good of a lay she probably is, she doesn't really interest the rest.
"You look like you need to relax." Margaery whispers as she leans in.
She's not wrong. "Do you want to dance?"
"My pleasure."
The song is slow, Robb pulls her close, her body flush against his, her dress is pretty, he doesn't tell her that, doesn't speak at all, not when he just looks at her. His blue eyes are darker, unable to hide anything he's thinking, feeling, wanting, hardly trying to be good. His eyes only snap from her when he takes a moment to look, to see where their parents are, where their siblings are. The coast is clear by the time he carefully slips a hand between her legs, lifting her dress just enough, the fabric draping over him.
"Robb."
"Yes?"
When she doesn't reply he allows his hand move higher up, feel the warmth radiate, watch as her eyes turn darker. She's composed, barely, he aims to break that. All he seems to think about with her is what he missed that one night, the night where he could see what was she was like. He's careful, yet impulsive, stuck on things the way he wants them. She wants them as much, it seems, falling right into him, spreading her legs just a little.
He knows they can only play so much but he's tempting fate. His arm snakes around her, keeping her close, grazing against the lace, barely. She responds with something akin to a whine, wanting more than just a barely touch, he doesn't comply much further, not when his fingertips trace his name along her thigh.
"Song's over." He whispers, a true and tried smirk across his lips.
"Robb." The scold is quiet, no less harsh as he walks back to the table and simply takes a seat. She was right, he did need to relax.
They only sit for a few moments before Margaery's hand meets his thigh, his lips meeting the glass for a small sip, to find some semblance of composure. It doesn't really work. He flushes red and has to think of his Old Nan to not be that guy at the party who made everyone uncomfortable.
She's not slow and gentle, clearly knowing what she wants, palm flat against him, the motion too much for a man already too attracted. His teeth sink into the flesh of his lower lip to keep from losing control, hand holds her wrist, she fights against him and moves away.
In a way, he's not complaining.
Robb isn't exactly the master of self control and never has been.
When she unzips his slacks he knows he is in trouble. Her hand is instantly cold against him, causing a little jolt, the glass slamming against the table. So much for composure. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her smile. Devil.
He doesn't expect Sansa to sit down on the other side of the table.
He doesn't hide his groan.
"Introduce me to your friend, Robb." Sansa smiles in that way that she does when she's not leaving.
Robb briefly closes his eyes and wonders what on Earth he ever did to deserve this. To his surprise, Margery doesn't seem to let up, tapping her fingers lightly against his half hard cock.
"Yes, Robb. Introduce her to your friend."
"Sansa this is Margaery," He begins, looking over to the woman in question, "Margaery this is my little sister, Sansa."
"Sister." Margaery smiles so innocently.
Innocent only happens to make him want her more, the mere thought of her anything but too enjoyable, even with the little faces she puts on.
"I'm the better Stark." Sansa states, clasping her hands in front of her on the table.
Robb rolls his eyes.
"Then the pleasure is all mine." She kept that smile as she wraps her hand around him/
He has to do everything in his power to keep his composure, but his body betrays him. He's hard by then, unable to think of anything but the feeling, looking anywhere but either woman at the table. "Don't you have somewhere to be?" He eventually manages to grind out.
"No."
"Don't be rude to your sister," Margaery chastises softly. "She's not bothering us."
She's not bothering you, he thinks. The pressure of her hand tightening just as Sansa gave him the 'I won' look she'd gotten especially good at lately. He rolls his eyes, again, adjusts himself in his seat, pushing himself further into her hand, unintentionally, but he can't deny it feels good.
The conversation gets tuned out then, can't bother to listen to them, to care, to not think of anything but her tightening grip, the way her movements are lazy, soft mixed with hard, thumb swiping his tip, so casual. Everything about Margaery is so bloody casual and he wonders how she's so calm.
It's not her sister, is probably the answer.
He's throbbing as he looks up only to see Margaery laughing, the way she looks at him out of the corner of her eye, wheels churning. He's not drunk enough for any of this, not composed enough either, his breath getting away from him, trying to remain still, it's nearly impossible, he can't, it's a lot, more than a stupid hand job should ever be.
As his mind travels to a variety of places he wonders how he got himself into the position with Margaery Tyrell. Her reputation is as clean as his own, which isn't saying much, is it? She's not simply teasing him any longer, no, she's full on wrecking him, and he's nearly done for, he has no intention of stopping her either.
Finally, he notices the way his sister rises. Vaguely muttering something about being nicer to her. Frankly, he doesn't care, not as the weirdest part of the whole interaction is gone, the internal war is gone, letting Margaery do whatever she wants.
"You're cruel," is all he can manage to breath out, looking at her now, biting down on his lip too obviously.
"Your sister likes me." Margaery says as she wastes no time spreading her hand, the friction a lot, too much, so much. "And so do you."
"Margaery." The tone is warning, unable to pretend he's not lost, not dangerously close to losing it, to doing what he shouldn't be doing, not there. It's exactly three strokes before he's spilling into her hand, making a mess, fully biting into his lip, the taste of blood hitting his tongue, the quietest he's ever been, that's for certain.
When he comes to, not lost in the haze of pleasure, he's really hopeful no one noticed. Too afraid to look, only looks as the napkin disappears and they're both about as clean as they'll get.
"C'mere." Robb whispers, eyes falling on her lips.
She stands, leans down enough to whisper in his ear. "Not tonight, handsome. I'll see you on New Years' Eve."