UnPretty

inksteaks:

Manthing and I used to be like this but then he stopped reading for a while and so now I just sort of spew Homestuck at him and he nods and pretends to listen.

COURT OF CARDS SEXY VALENTINE’S EDITION AW YEAH

Actually this is possibly the least sexy sex scene I have ever written since I was writing it for plot and not porn. Probably later I will write a scene where someone has sex for hours and I describe everything they are doing in excruciating detail, but for right now here are two buddies having meaningless rough sex and making fun of each other. This will make no sense if you do not read the rest of Court of Cards first. I mean, it will make sense, but it will just be a boring out of context sex scene and there are better places to find those.

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Marianne’s day was much improved by the time Josiah was pounding into her from behind with a fist in her hair. Admittedly, she was pretending he was someone much bigger with red eyes and sharp teeth, but nothing in life was perfect. Neither one of them had bothered undressing – they were unlikely to be disturbed, but assuming they might be added an intoxicating touch of danger. It was simply too bad that Josiah hadn’t grown his nails longer: it was the only imperfect touch as his fingers dug into her hips.

“If I were a less confident man,” Josiah told her between gritted teeth, even as his cock plunged in and out of her, “I might be offended by your not wanting to watch me violate you.”

“If you don’t stop acting like I’m made of glass,” came the reply between gasps and moans and grunts, “you will be able to watch me violate you when I show you how it’s done.” There was probably a more eloquent response, but Marianne’s brain never seemed to function properly during sex. Unlike Josiah, who tended to become inexplicably chatty. Perhaps on a different day she would have more patience for his foreplay, for his skillful fingers gently teasing all the right places until she reached a gentle crescendo. Today, however, she’d already had her foreplay.

For hours now, her thoughts had barely wandered from Benedict, from those sharp nails grazing her skin and that tongue against her hand. She was desperate to know if his body could keep all those promises he’d made, what his fingers would feel like on her back and what those teeth – those horrifying, magnificent teeth – would feel like sinking into her shoulder as he made her sing. No, Marianne was done with foreplay; what she needed now was release.

“Fuck,” Josiah snarled, immediately rising to her challenge and pushing her into the ground by the back of her neck. His other hand held her hips in place as he rammed furiously into her, and she yelped as each thrust pressed her chest against the wood. “If that’s how you want to play,” he snarled over the sound of skin slapping skin, “I am happy to oblige.” He then pulled the whole of his length out of her wet slit before shoving it back in to the hilt, as if his member were an exclamation point. Had it not been for the muffling effect of the hedges, Marianne’s pleased scream would have been easily heard near the castle. He certainly had learned some new tricks; she couldn’t recall having ever felt so wonderfully full before, and so bereft when he withdrew.

“Don’t even try to pretend you don’t like it, you dirty slut,” she teased huskily, her voice shaking as his thrusts made her bounce. Rather than dignify this accusation with a response, Josiah grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked, and Marianne cried out as pulled her off the ground to grab roughly at one breast with his other hand. She had a vague sense that there would probably be bruises where her breast was crushed beneath his fingers, but between that and the cock driving deeper and deeper between her legs, she couldn’t bring herself to care. She noticed, as if the sound was coming from someone else, that strangled noises were escaping from her throat as Josiah pulled her hair to make her tighten before each long thrust. It was really quite unfortunate, as it drowned out the sound of his skin slapping against hers.

“You’re just lucky,” he growled finally as her gasping gave way to desperate, whimpering moans, “that you make the cutest fucking noises when you’ve got a cock inside you.” With that, her back arched and pleasure washed over her in a violent wave, expressed in an undignified groan that she’d find embarrassing when she was in her right mind. Josiah stayed buried inside her until she went limp, then rocked more gently in and out of her while Marianne murmured mindless agreement to whatever it was he had been saying. He finished shortly after her, pulling out to spill his seed on her thighs before rolling over next to her.

Marianne was the first to break the silence: “Fuck.”

“Yeah – I’m pretty great.”

If she hadn’t felt so spent, she’d have punched him. “No, I mean fuck, as in: now we have to climb back out of the stupid maze.”

“… I told you we should have just fucked in my caravan.”

“It wouldn’t have been as fun.”

“I’m not the one that has to sneak back to my room in wet bloomers.”

“… fuck.”

Oh hey it’s a continuation of this thing! Benedict is getting more awkward which reflects on my inability to write people that are not me. :I Also the formatting was all fucked but hopefully I fixed it?

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Benedict wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find when he headed back to the royal maze. Perhaps it simply bothered him, not getting what he wanted. It was doubtful he’d be able to see anything interesting, even in the moonlight. If he was honest, he was just a bit drunk and entertaining the notion that he’d find an Eight of Clubs waiting for him in the gazebo, possibly naked for some reason. He’d be disappointed when he got there, and it would be embarrassing when the gardeners found him in the morning, but he was the Ace of Hearts. He did as he pleased. 

If nothing else, he could try climbing the hedge himself. Why had that never occurred to him? Marianne had climbed it with the ease of a squirrel. He wondered if she spent a lot of time climbing those big thorny trees down south. 

Thanks to his altered mental state, it took him longer than it otherwise might have to hear the voices in the dark. When it finally registered, he stopped to listen more carefully, being currently incapable of doing more than one thing at once. 

“We can’t just go climbing in there! Don’t you think they have precautions against that sort of thing?” Whoever it was, they were whispering in a very urgent sort of a way – Benedict was pretty sure it was a man, but it was hard to tell when it came to whispers. Did everyone climb into the maze except him? The idea that everyone had been having fun without him did nothing to assuage his bruised ego.

“I know that they don’t take any precautions, you coward, because I went in earlier today and I am perfectly fine.” That, he could tell, was a woman. He was fairly sure he knew which woman, as well. He did his best to creep quietly in their direction, hoping they’d be too distracted to notice him.

“I thought you said sneaking was cowardly? Now not sneaking is cowardly? Make up your mind, madwoman.” The exacerbated sigh that met this statement almost made Benedict snicker.

“We are not sneaking, we are exploring. If there were people in the maze who wanted to kill us, then this would be cowardly. In that case, we’d need to announce ourselves.”

“I am never going anywhere that someone might be hostile in your presence. Never.”

There was silence then but for the rustling and occasional cracking of branches, and Benedict got close enough to catch just a glimpse of a fellow with a halo of blonde hair. A Spade? As he watched, the hair – being large and bright, it was the easiest thing to follow – moved haltingly atop the hedges. He was sure that the hair was following a much more graceful Marianne, hidden by shadows and her own dark coloration.

Benedict had never been so glad that the gardeners ignored him. He’d hinted many a time that they needn’t bother oiling the gate, as he wouldn’t mind a warning when he was about to be interrupted. The men and women whose job it was to maintain the maze dutifully continued to oil the gate despite this, which was now the only reason he was able to get in without alerting his quarry. It wasn’t spying, necessarily; it was a reconnaissance mission. He was gathering valuable data about… his subjects. Potential subjects. He also had a vague notion of strolling in and announcing himself at an inconvenient moment, simply because if he wasn’t having fun, no one else could either.

Realistically, he admitted as he navigated to the center garden with practiced ease, he probably wouldn’t do any of those things. He just wanted to know what the devil they were doing. Current evidence was pointing to the notion that Marianne was the greatest actress he had ever seen, and not only was she not shy, but she was also completely uninterested in him. With time and more mead, he could come to accept this. But it just didn’t seem to fit. She was like a puzzle he was desperate to solve, not because of any traits inherent to the puzzle, but because not knowing the solution was excruciating.

When he reached the garden he crouched between a rosebush and the hedge, until he heard Marianne giggling in the gazebo. “You see what I mean?” she insisted to the fuzzy blonde man, “Isn’t this spot just perfect?” Benedict was tempted to move closer so that he could see, but ultimately decided that eavesdropping was creepy enough without being able to see them. If he’d seen someone else doing what he was doing right now, he’d have them arrested.

“Personally I think we probably could have just grabbed a candle and gone into my caravan, but yes, this place where we are trespassing is very nice.”>

“The trespassing it what makes it fun and exciting! Where is your sense of adventure?”

“Where is my sense of adventure, asks the woman who until now had never left her homeland, the woman who panics when forced to talk to strangers, the woman who – unlike other people in this gazebo – has never made love to a married woman under the stars while her husband sleeps in a nearby tent.” It did not occur to Benedict until this moment that there were Jokers in the area, though of course it made sense. It made less sense that an Eight of Clubs would be cavorting with one, but they seemed to be old friends. It was so easy to forget, sometimes, that people had lives and stories all their own – and whatever Marianne’s was, he was thus far fascinated by it.

“… I could probably manage that last one if you give me some time.” Hearing her, apparently in her element, made him sad that she hadn’t been this clever before. Not that it was her job to entertain him. But it would have been nice if she had.

“Are you going to show me your tattoo, or not?” Benedict frowned in his hiding place behind the roses, trying to remember if he’d seen any tattoos on Marianne’s arms. He was fairly sure he hadn’t, and it had made perfect sense if one assumed she was not allowed to participate in any of the activities that would have earned her one. So why did she have a tattoo? And… where? Before he could ponder this more thoroughly, the Joker accompanying the dainty Club burst into loud laughter that would have given them away if it weren’t for the muffling effect of the hedges. “If you came to him with an idea like that,” the blonde said when he recovered himself, “it’s no wonder the royal tattooist was willing to defy his liege lords.”

“I felt very clever when I thought of it,” she admitted in a shy tone that Benedict found more familiar. Eventually, he would need to get to know her in a less questionable context. He was certain of this now.

“So did you bring me all the way here just to show me your tattoo, or are you also trying to seduce me?”

“Trying? I should hope that showing you my backside counts as more than just trying.” Oh dear. Benedict was suddenly very sure that he should not be here – Ace of Hearts or no. Soon enough he’d have to arrest himself, on principle.

“For all I know, that was platonic backside-showing. What are friends for, if not the occasional impartial evaluation? I prefer mine a bit bigger, by the way.”

“Thank you for your constructive criticism. I shall keep it in mind before showing my backside to potential partners. Are you going to rip my clothes off, or not?” Benedict chose to believe this was a reference to his earlier attempts at seduction, if only to soothe his self-esteem.

“That seems like a waste of a perfectly fine, if admittedly flimsy, article of clothing.”

“Are you or are you not going to take this opportunity to show to me all the exotic lovemaking skills you have acquired during your travels, you colossal ass?” If she’d said something like that earlier, Benedict would never have doubted for a moment that she was a Club. There was silence for a moment, and Benedict was in the middle of leaving the garden, when she spoke again. “Is that… are you kidding?”

“You never complained before,” came the defensive reply, and Benedict found that he absolutely, utterly, thoroughly needed to know what exactly had just happened.

“Before, I was fifteen and so desperate to get laid that it was not physically possible for me to care less about foreplay – which this isn’t – so no, I did not complain at that time about you half-assedly tweaking one nipple while kissing me like I’m your grandmother.”

“I’m going to assume you are exaggerating and don’t actually kiss your grandmother like that, but that aside, there is nothing half-assed about this. I am being gentle, because this is foreplay, and I’m not going to go skipping straight to the part where I pull your hair and smack your ass and fuck that’s what you want isn’t it?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“With the look on your face? Yes.”

“Is that bad? You can keep being gentle, if you want. I just thought you were trying to go easy on me, or something.”

“No, no, I’m not complaining.”

Benedict fled before the negotiations could continue any further, because the sound of Marianne’s voice was starting to arouse him and even he had to draw the line somewhere. He would continue, however, to justify this to himself as a reconnaissance mission.