UnPretty

Court of Cards First Draft, Part One

OKAY SO i guess i am writing some kind of fucking fanfiction about playing cards. The main character is as horrible and awkward as I am, because let’s face it, I have no conception of how to even pretend to be confident in order to write about it. If you like this, you might want to read the rest, or at least what I’ve posted of it so far.

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Marianne had a serious problem with taking responsibility for her actions. Not that she had any trouble admitting to having done things, when caught – it was that she had difficulty explaining why exactly she had done it. She couldn’t really say that it had seemed like a good idea at the time, because it usually hadn’t. It was more that it occurred to her sometimes that it was possible for something to be done, and then she would do it. Like climbing into the royal hedge maze of the Kingdom of Hearts.

As Eight of Clubs, she would normally be expected to join the international hunting party. The men of the Hearts and Diamonds, the women of the Spades, and all of the Clubs always joined in for the noble tradition of chasing animals with sharp objects in between betrothal arrangements. But Marianna couldn’t join, for the same reason she couldn’t hunt back home, and so her options were limited. She had no desire to embroider with the ladies of the Diamonds, nor meditate with the men of the Spades. The Hearts were presumably watching the hunt, claiming no desire to participate despite their obvious bloodlust. Marianne found the Hearts unnerving, the same way that everyone who wasn’t a Heart tended to. With luck, she wouldn’t have to marry one.

The hedge was proving surprisingly easy to climb, and she began to wonder if anyone else had tried it. Perhaps that was the origin of all the stories of the man-eating hedge, loyal to the crown – a ruse to hide the uselessness of the official gate. If it hadn’t been for the stories, and if the hedge maze hadn’t been forbidden, she never would have bothered trying to climb it. Probably.

Once inside the maze, she was astonished and a little pleased by how isolated she felt. The hedges were high enough, and muffled enough sound, that the bustling castle beyond was easily forgotten. If the other stories were true – if indeed she would be doomed to wander forever without the assistance of a Heart – she might not mind so terribly. She’d prefer the quiet to the hustle and bustle of the marriage mart.

Nonetheless, it wasn’t long before the monotony began to bore even Marianne’s sensibilities. In retrospect, she should have brought a book. The problem with a well-tended hedge is that it tends to be a very uniform green, in this case one that matched the well-tended grass. She was a black and brown smudge in a sea of green, and not only was it tedious, it was making her a bit dizzy.

Only a Heart, she decided, would make such a silly thing as a hedge maze. Too impractical for a Club or a Spade, not impractical enough for a Diamond. There wasn’t even really a game to it – either one memorized the path from entrance to center, or one became lost. It was not as though there were any clues or landmarks. Did any of the Hearts even use this thing? Perhaps the Ace, for his infamous trysts. Her cousin Briana had been quite saddened when it became clear he’d be betrothed to the Ace of Diamonds. While no one had expected much to come of their raucous affair, to hear Briana tell it, they’d been quite evenly matched. Even now, she might be flirting with the man on the hunting grounds, betrothals be damned.

Except she wasn’t, Marianne realized as she turned a corner, because the Ace of Hearts was in the maze. Twenty feet away, walking in her direction. How she recognized him without having seen him before was questionable – perhaps the circlet in his fiery hair, or the understated finery of his dress – but there was no doubt in her mind that this was the Ace. If she’d had the sense to backtrack, he might not have seen her, lost as he was in thought. Instead she had frozen, as though he were a dragon unable to see that which did not move. As he was not a giant lizard, he saw her, and he froze in response.

They spent a long moment staring at each other, but it was the Ace who collected himself first. Marianne intended to curtsy as he approached, to minimize the amount of offense she had caused, but to her horror she found herself backing up instead. The part of her brain that caused her to climb hedges now had her taking a small step back for his every stride forward, until her back was buried in a hedge and one of the most powerful men on the continent was towering over her.

He was taller than a Heart was supposed to be – taller even than Briana, an appropriately statuesque Club – but she might have been able to control herself if he’d simply been taller than she. Everyone had always been taller than Marianne. The problem was the long red hair, and those red eyes – like he was filled with fire. It would certainly explain why his skin was so bright. He bent down so that his face was level with hers, and when he opened his mouth to speak, the sight of his teeth – why do Hearts have such sharp teeth, why – made her heart stop.

“You’re a Club.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” If her eyes had been any wider they’d have taken up the whole of her face, her voice a squeak.

“Do you know where you are?” Some part of her recognized that his voice would have been attractive, perhaps even soothing, if she had not been irrationally terrified. A warm, low sort of a thing.

“Yes.” Shit. Even as she said it, Marianne could not fathom why she didn’t lie. She could have pretended to be scatterbrained. He might have believed it; it wasn’t entirely false. One did not get into these sorts of situations without being at least a little scatterbrained. Indeed, scatterbrained was a great way to describe the way her mind had gone completely blank at the sight of him, as if her thoughts were cockroaches exposed to the light.

“How did you get in here?” In her state, it was impossible to tell if he was interrogating her, or simply curious.

“I climbed?” That was probably not the answer he was looking for, and she was completely horrified by the sound of her own voice. When had it gotten so high and wobbly? Marianne was sure she sounded nothing like that, wished she could explain to the Ace that this was not what she was like.

“Why?” At this, she could only open her mouth to respond before realizing she had nothing to say – trying until she realized she probably resembled a fish. Now she was truly convinced he was made of flame, for there could be no other explanation for why her face felt so hot. He smelled like burnt incense and mead, and she wished desperately that he’d stop looking into her face with those bright red eyes.

When he realized an answer was not forthcoming, he took a step back and stood upright; he was towering again, but at least this way she could stare vacantly through his chest instead of having to look in his eyes. She did not notice while doing so that he was looking her over. “You’re quite small for a Club.” When she remained mute, he added, “and pale, for that matter. I imagine the one is related to the other?” She gave a quick and tiny nod. Marianne wasn’t trying to be enigmatic – it was no secret that she was not stout enough to participate in the activities of a proper Club woman. It was simply that all the thoughts she might normally form into words had left her.

The warm feeling in the pit of her stomach wasn’t helping matters. It was the dresses fault, as far as she was concerned. Clubs were so accustomed to the frozen climate of their homeland that the more temperate land of the Hearts required a change in wardrobe. Rather than the layers she was used to – or even the layers worn by the Hearts themselves – she wore little more than a thin black dress and a single layer of undergarments. It was scandalous, was what it was. She could hardly be blamed for reacting to the presence of a known rake in close proximity with so little clothing to protect herself. To say nothing of the numerous intimate details her cousin had not hesitated to share.

Without warning, he took her hands in his gloved ones, turning them palm-side up for examination. She could tell now that she was blushing – it seemed that even with a Heart, her soft hands were a source of shame. Marianne noticed after a moment that his gaze had moved back to her face, and she immediately attempted to quash any fancies about where his warm leather gloves might feel more welcome. Heaven forbid he divine her thoughts from the look on her face. He seemed distracted by the fact that she was mauling her own lower lip, and so she stopped, hoping she had not somehow caused offense.

“Clubs also don’t usually turn that shade of red,” he observed after a moment. “You’re sure that you’re a Club?”

“Eight of Clubs, my Lord,” she clarified in a slightly defensive tone of squeak, before realizing her error. The Ace caught it, as well, and his eyebrows shot up.

“Are you a Club, or am I your Lord?” Marianne thought he was probably teasing her now, but it was so hard to tell, what with all the… feelings going on. He still hadn’t let go of her hands.

“You could be my Lord,” she backpedaled, adding hastily at his expression, “if I married a Heart.” Her voice was still shaky, but at least she was managing sentences now. That was progress.

“They brought an Eight all the way out here to marry!” he marveled, and she hoped it wasn’t obvious that the observation stung. “They couldn’t let you marry back home, odd little Club?”

“I am not a good fit,” she mumbled, her humiliation complete. She’d have been better off embroidering with the Diamonds – but no, their barbs would be more pointed.

“Ah – I suppose Clubs are a bit too practical to consider a wife who cannot hunt or fight or bear many large children.” This statement did little to help her blushing problem. “But did they consider,” he mused, bending down to look her in the eye again – and still holding her hands, her fingertips brushing against his chest in the most distracting way, “that you are absolutely adorable?”

They had not. Nor had she. Given her previous reaction to this man, Marianne’s being rendered speechless was practically a given. Yet, instead, she blurted the words, “you’re a rake.” At which point her mouth clamped shut with the speed and ferocity of her own dismay. This, this was why it was a good thing she was home alone so often while everyone else was hunting. She was simply not fit to interact with other human beings.

The Ace’s only response to this was to toss his head back and laugh, the sort of boisterous laughter more befitting a Club than a Heart. Of course, it was no wonder Hearts generally didn’t make such a scene, with teeth like that. The wide mouth full of white daggers made it hard to appreciate the throaty sound emerging from it.

“You must be a Club,” he said finally, pulling her away from the hedge by her captive hands, “for there is no other people in the world so tactless.” It took her a moment to realize he was leading her along, apparently confident in his ability to navigate the maze backwards.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To the center of the maze, of course.”

Court of Cards First Draft, Part Two

Part One is here and is necessary in order for this to make any fucking sense whatsoever. This bit is shorter and possibly boring, who knows. Please let me know if you like it because then perhaps I will finally know joy~

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Benedict had never found anyone in the maze that he’d not brought before.  That was the first thing to pique his interest. The second was that while her skin was the color of copper and her eyes the same almost-black as her hair, she was otherwise nothing like any other Club he had ever seen. Certainly nothing like Briana, the Three whose braid was bigger than this Eight. He generally enjoyed the company of Clubs, if he was honest – they were as large as he was, a boisterous and practical people that generally did not bother with intrigues and coquetteishness. Logically, then, he should have found this shrinking wallflower distastefully unlike the Clubs he typically admired. Had she been a Diamond, would he have noticed her at all?

Presumably he would have if she’d been in the maze.  Someone who is meek to the core generally does not go climbing hedges to explore forbidden areas. A rabbit among rabbits is one thing, but a rabbit raised among bears – or perhaps a bear that thinks it’s a rabbit? – is something else altogether. He was curious to find what it was about her that had kept her from being eaten – metaphorically speaking.

Not that it was all innocent curiosity. He did not lack self-awareness to that extent. There was also the fact that she had great big eyes and a little bow mouth, that she blushed prettily and let her hair fall free down to her shoulders in the most inappropriate way. The women of other kingdoms restrained their hair for propriety, and women of the Clubs did so for practicality, but this little Club did not have to worry about her hair getting in the way during battle. Was it her choice not to bother, or was it her family’s? So many questions.

To say nothing of the clothing worn by visiting Clubs. For most, the lack of layers and corsets served to emphasize their physiques, the raw power inherent in someone large throwing their weight around. It was a bit scandalous, certainly, but primarily it was intimidating.

On this Eight, however, all it did was emphasize her figure. While not voluptuous by any standard – had she been wearing a corset she’d likely have looked boyish – what gentle curves were displayed to great effect. Could she tell he was admiring her? It might explain why she looked so terrified. He paused, and was a little disappointed when she didn’t stumble into him. He ought to let go of her hands – so small in his own! – but he worried she might bolt.

“I am being forward, aren’t I? I’m afraid we’ve not yet been properly introduced. Would you like to tell me your name, little Club?” He hoped that his tone of voice would help calm her, though it hadn’t done so thus far. It was a tone he tended to use exclusively on skittish horses and shy women, and it had always served him well in the past.

“Marianne.” Still only the shortest answers possible; he hoped she wasn’t feebleminded. She didn’t look it, but one never knew. Was she trying to sound all breathy and quivering, or was that a happy accident?

“It is a pleasure to meet you Marianne, Eight of Clubs. I am Benedict, Ace of Hearts – but I suppose you already knew that.” He lifted her hands to place a kiss at the center of each palm, his eyes never leaving her face as he tried to gauge her reaction.

She was blushing, but that could just be embarrassment about her hands. Clubs took great pride in their calluses. Those damnable dark eyes, charming as they were, made it difficult to tell the state of her pupils. That meant two of his usual ways to gauge interest were useless here. His only clue was that she once again took that plump lower lip between her tiny square teeth – a habit he found pleasingly exotic. Hearts, as a general rule, tried to refrain from biting themselves.

“Marianne,” he purred, in the most seductive tone he could muster, “would you like me to escort you to the center of the royal maze? … or would you rather I escort you back to the castle directly?”

“I – yes?” For a split-second his heart sank, before she continued with a fumbling, “that is to say, I mean… the center would be…” She trailed off, looking somewhere between hopeful and chagrined. Was she worried that accepting his offer might be presumptuous? What a strange time to be worried about decorum, alone with a man in a maze she had broken into.

At her nervous assent, he released her right hand and took a tighter grip on her left, pulling her along behind him as he turned to make his way through the maze. The proper thing would have been to offer her his arm, but he liked the way her hand felt contained within his own. It was really too bad he was wearing gloves.

If Benedict were being considerate, he’d have slowed his steps, rather than making her run to keep up with his long strides. But he wasn’t in the mood to slow down, or be considerate – he rather liked knowing that he had the advantage, liked keeping his company on edge without pushing her over. It was an abuse of power, he’d admit, but she wasn’t one of his subjects. That made her, to a certain extent, fair game. And he loved a good game.

He was surprised that she did not lose her balance, managed to stay always a decent distance from him. Perhaps he would have been better off offering his arm, as at least then she’d have been a bit closer. He’d not normally rush so with a shy woman, but there was nothing to be done for it. Soon, Benedict would be betrothed. Everyone loves a rake, but no one cares for a philanderer. Marianne might be betrothed soon, as well, most likely to a Spade. They were more her size.

If he hadn’t been holding her hand, he might not have known she was there. He’d been pulling her along a while now, but she didn’t seem to be breathing hard. He couldn’t even hear her footsteps – was she really that light? Benedict nonetheless resisted the urge to look back and check on her; it seemed better at this stage to act disinterested. So manipulative of him! But he’d never pretended otherwise; after all, he was a Heart.

Court of Cards First Draft, Part Three

Other entries can be found here, you should probably read them if you want to read this! If you want it to make any sense, anyway. Or don’t read any of them, see if I care. _{(please love me)}

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Marianne wished that he’d slow down, though of course she could not say so. There was at least one good thing about running to keep up: she could pretend the exercise was why her heart was racing. It might have been her imagination – in fact, it probably was – but it seemed like he was treating her like the proverbial randy milkmaid. Not that an Eight of Clubs would rank much higher, to an Ace of Hearts. She could not imagine what he was planning when they got to the center.

That was a lie. She could imagine all sorts of things. It was just that few of them seemed plausible.

Had he actually been flirting with her, or was she being presumptuous? Was he really being forward, or did she only think that because of her limited interactions with Hearts? They didn’t seem to make such constant use of physical contact, but perhaps she had seemed too aloof to invite such things. This sort of behavior wouldn’t seem at all unusual coming from a Club.

Except the part where his lips had brushed against her palms and felt alarmingly warm and soft and generally exquisite. A Club would not have done that. Thankfully he hadn’t yet bothered to look back at her, or he might have seen her looking him over. Not admiring, of course. Just… considering.

He had more shape to him than most men she’d seen – but then, most men she’d seen had been Clubs. Rather than the barrel shape she had come to expect of a man, his back formed a sort of V, broad at the top and narrow where it met his legs. And what long legs! Not the thick stalks that formed the base of a Club. Come to think of it, the legs of a Club man were also sort of barrel shaped. Barrels upon barrels, were Clubs.

Benedict, the Ace of Hearts. She would never call him by his given name, of course. She might be so bold as to break into the maze, as to accept an invitation to its center, but even she would not be that bold. Hopefully he didn’t notice when she gripped his hand a little tighter, indulging briefly in the fantasy that they were longtime lovers going to their usual meeting place.

And oh! What a meeting place it turned out to be. There weren’t many flowers in the land of Clubs, and while she’d seen a few wildflowers here and there since leaving, Marianne hadn’t seen anything like this. She’d had a vague sense of what a rose was meant to look like, but she had never seen so many – all shades of red and all different sizes, buds as small as her fingernails and blooms bigger than her head.

She looked sidelong at the Ace, but he wasn’t looking at her; he seemed to be looking for something, instead. While he was distracted – if he was distracted – she pulled her hand from his to get a closer look. 

Such delicate petals! So soft and fragrant, Marianne wished she could make a bed of them. The thorns were wicked, to be sure, but they had to be if they were going to protect a treasure so precious. She supposed she ought to be more impressed by the fountains and the statues in the little park, but she’d seen masterpieces carved from ice, and it was the flowers that left her awestruck. 

“You know,” the Ace pointed out, standing right behind her – when had he gotten so close? – “the larger blooms are near the center of the garden.” She had jumped in surprise when he’d started to speak, and in the process backed into his chest, only mortifying herself further. Marianne pulled away quickly, as if burned – he was very warm, really – twirling off to the side to avoid being trapped between the Ace and the roses. He seemed amused, but it was possible she was imagining things again. 

When he simply waved an arm in the appropriate direction, she moved a little too quickly to see the roses he spoke of.  It was difficult not to look back to see if he was following; no point making him think she was paranoid. She didn’t need to bother anyway: the soles of his boots were loud enough on the neat cobblestone pathway, the sound muffled as it was buried in the hedges. Marianne slowed her steps deliberately, realizing that she didn’t want it to seem as though she was running from him. Though she was, a little. 

The best blooms were indeed in the center, atop the thorny vines crawling up the sides of a delicate white gazebo. The columns were carved spirals of filigree, and she could not imagine how they supported the roof, to say nothing of the curtains of roses. What a lovely little place for a liaison, she found herself thinking, though she buried the notion immediately. It was unfortunate that she was not tall enough to reach even the lowest of the large roses, for she longed to bury her face in one. 

“Would you like me to help you reach one?” the Ace asked, appearing at her side as though he’d been there all along. She did not jump as much this time, but she was sure now that he was trying to unnerve her on purpose. 

“Yes, please,” she answered decisively, not taking her eyes off the flower she had her heart set on. 

However she had expected him to assist her, she had not anticipated that he would lift her up and sit her on his shoulder, like she was a child at a parade. She was stunned first by the feeling of his hands on her waist, and then by the fact that she was sitting on the shoulder of the Ace of Hearts. It was a good thing he was in no position to look her in the eye, as they’d taken on a bit of a glazed quality.

“Well?” he asked, apparently noticing her lack of movement. Quickly she caught the nearest rose in both hands and buried her face in the petals, breathing deeply. It felt as lovely as she’d hoped, and had the added benefit of hiding her face while she composed herself. What a strange, strange day she was having.

Feeling a big unbalanced as she pulled herself out of the rose, she found herself placing a steadying hand on the top of the Ace’s head. Manhandling his royal coiffure would have been bad enough, but as her fingertips grazed his circlet, she had one of her moments. As the Ace hoisted her off his shoulder, he seemed surprisingly blasé about the fact that Marianne had placed the symbol of his power crooked on her head. She hadn’t meant for it to be crooked, but it was far too big for her. She could probably wear the thing as an eyepatch, were she so inclined.

“I’m sorry,” she said helplessly, as the monarch-to-be gingerly took back his circlet, and she could not fathom why she had thought it a good idea to leave her assigned sleeping quarters today.

“Your mother is the Six of Clubs, correct?” he asked as though nothing had happened. When she nodded, he looked briefly thoughtful. “I recall her as being quite a hearty woman.”

“When she was with child she grew ill,” she explained, understanding immediately what it was he was asking, “and so she could not hunt or participate in bouts, or even leave her bed until I was born.”

“Is that so,” he murmured, and it was not clear to her if he really understood the implications. She had been told that it was the norm in the Kingdom of Hearts for a woman with child to stay indoors and do little; she could not imagine how the King of Hearts had borne a child so large and athletic if this was indeed the case. “Is she here?” he continued, and Marianne frowned slightly.

“No, she is still wed to my father – she’s no need to be.”

“So who is handling your wedding arrangements, little Club?”

“The King and Queen, of course.” Marianne’s brow was furrowed in confusion, unable to follow the logic of his line of questioning.

“Are they not busy making arrangements for the Ace, the Jack, and the Three?” Ah! That certainly explained his confusion.

“The Ace is already all but betrothed,” she clarified, certain he would understand the feeling, “and I need no arrangements made for me.” Marianne did not bother to elaborate further, feeling humiliated enough at having to explain her position. The Ace caught her meaning immediately, of course: she’d been brought along in case anyone here might want her, the marriage equivalent of an impulse purchase. Perhaps she would even be a consolation prize, a salve for one of Briana’s rejects. Either way, there would be little political maneuvering involved in her match.

“You’re bleeding,” he said abruptly, and she followed his worried gaze to her right hand. She lifted it up to her face curiously, and found that yes, there was a red line from her knuckles to her wrist. The work of a thorn, no doubt, leaving its own red blossoms in its wake. Any other member of her family would have ignored it as trifling, so of course she traced it with her tongue. Not out of any love of the coppery taste, but rather out of a preference for the clean look of an unbloodied welt. It wasn’t even of any use in that regard: red droplets reappeared just as soon as she’d gotten rid of them.

It was a bare hand that took hers, and she could not imagine what had possessed the Ace to take his gloves off. How odd that the first thing she noticed was how neat he kept his nails. Not quite filed to points, shaped more like almonds; how strange they were, these Hearts. Marianne opened her mouth in query, but he shushed her before she could ask. Her breath caught in her throat as he brought her hand to his lips, traced the welt with unerring precision with only the very tip of his tongue. It had never even occurred to her before that a tongue could be clumsy, but now she was sure that hers was. Her eyelids fluttered closed and she bit her lip again, wondering if this was what it meant to swoon.

“Is that better?” he murmured over her hand, lips brushing against her knuckles, and her eyes shot open at the sound of his voice. It was strange, how surprised she was that she wasn’t alone – as though intimacy involving another person was so rare as to be unthinkable.

While she could have responded in any number of ways, what came out was: “Why am I here?”

He took his time in considering the question, mulling it over while her heart pounded painfully in her chest and she was achingly aware of his bare skin against hers. “Because,” he said finally, still murmuring against her skin, “you were small, and pretty, and faintly indecent, and you were meek even when you’d just been bold. Because sometimes when a predator sights prey, he hunts more from habit than from hunger. Because I was craving rabbit. Because I am the Ace of Hearts, and I do as I please for none can refuse me. Does it matter?”

It was the last that gave her pause. “I most certainly could refuse you,” she said before she could stop herself, because that was really the only thing to be said. This time he was the one brought up short, though only a little. He did not, from the look of things, seem to be taking this suggestion too seriously.

“Could you really,” he wondered, and his tone had her taking her hand back immediately, stepping away from him and crossing her arms. This, at least, seemed to surprise him.

“I don’t see why not,” though of course she could, because she was alone with a man twice her size who would practically rule the continent someday. When he stepped forward to close the gap between them, she resisted the urge to take a step back. The trouble with Marianne was that she was only meek when she was not busy being stubborn, and neither made her very popular. She tried drawing herself up to full height, but as that was still only five feet, it was not a very effective tactic. Once again she found herself with the Ace of Hearts bending down such that his face practically met hers – and if he hadn’t gone and ruined the moment, she’d probably be using this opportunity to kiss him. It was really too bad he’d ruined it.

“Because I’m irresistible?” he offered, with a wide grin that displayed his sharp teeth to full effect. His tone was almost threatening, and it occurred to her that he could probably rip her throat out with teeth like that. How oddly exhilarating.

“Your nose is too big,” she said bluntly, easily dismissing his claim. That wasn’t really true: it was aquiline, certainly, was a bit crooked and admittedly large in profile, but it suited his face well. It was simply the first thing that came to mind.

The Ace of Hearts frowned and drew away from her at that, and she wondered if she’d hurt his feelings. What did an Ace do, when his feelings were hurt? “You don’t find me attractive?” he asked, seeming thoroughly puzzled. He had her there. While she certainly couldn’t admit to it – not now, it was the principle of the thing – she also couldn’t bring herself to lie.

“That’s not relevant to the discussion,” she said finally, hoping to divert the conversation. No luck, there; he perked up immediately. He begin stroking his chin with that well-manicured hand, looking her over with a critical eye. Marianne felt herself reddening again, and realized that this was not likely to go her way.

“So you do find me attractive – but you’d refuse me anyway.” Marianne said nothing, unwilling to admit to the now-obvious first portion of his statement. “What a clever little rabbit you are, resisting the carrot and avoiding the snare.”

“Is that a compliment?” It came out sounding more timid than she would have liked, and she cursed herself, her apparent inability to stand up to anyone properly.

“It is a compliment and a curse, sweet Marianne,” he sighed, placing his hands over his heart melodramatically, and she hoped he didn’t notice the way her knees wobbled. He probably did. “For now there is absolutely nothing I want more than your willing submission to my adoration.”

“You’re already much beloved,” she pointed out.

“But not by you – or not that you’ll admit,” he countered. “So now I must make it my mission to hear in your own words how badly you wish to be mine – and then make your dreams come true, of course.”

“If you’re so sure that I’m willing, why bother waiting?” It came out more harshly than she’d intended, and she shrank back even as she said it. At this he only smiled a faint smile, reaching out a hand to brush her cheek – but not quite. Instead his hand simply hovered by her cheek, close enough for her to feel its warmth but not actually touching her.

“If I wanted, Marianne, I could take you here and now. If I wanted, I could take you in my arms and tear that flimsy dress to shreds; if I wanted, I could take you in the flowers and be sure that I would not be interrupted; if I wanted, I could do to you things that you had not imagined, things to make you gasp and scream and whimper and cry and wonder why you ever would have hesitated. If I wanted, I could fondle you roughly and caress you gently, and love every inch of you with only my fingertips. The only reason, Marianne, that I don’t want to do these things is that I would rather wait for you to beg me to do these things. I would rather wait until there is not a shadow of a doubt in your mind that you want me, until you cannot even pretend to regret the things that we will do.” She managed not to whimper when he pulled his hand away, but that only made her angrier, that he had the audacity to be correct. For a moment they simply looked at one another, until he finally asked, “shall we head back to the castle, then?”

“We?”

Again, he looked confused; she did not bother hiding her pleasure at having puzzled him. “You don’t think you can find your way out of the maze yourself, do you? Even you cannot be that foolish.”

“I plan to get out the same way that I got in,” she said haughtily, and with that Marianne twirled away from him and headed to the nearest hedge. She did not look back to see if he was surprised when she began climbing, and she tried not to make it obvious when she made her way to the top that one foot had sunken into the leaves. From atop the hedge the castle was obvious, and so she headed in the appropriate direction, bypassing any worries about getting lost by simply staying above the maze. It was the most obvious solution, really.

“Don’t let any of the gardeners see you,” she heard him call, “or you’d better believe they’ll have your head.” His laughter burned in her ears and on her cheeks, and she realized as she walked wobbily back to safety that she was shaking. It was as though all the strength had left her limbs the instant the Ace had left her sight, and she could only hope that she would make it back to the castle without losing her balance and falling back into the maze.

Court of Cards First Draft, Part Four

The rest of Court of Cards can be found here! Here is part four, on a huge delay because I forgot all about it. (´･ω･`) Personally I really like the Ace of Diamonds and I wish I could see a real life version of her hair. LET’S LEARN MORE ABOUT POLITICS AND CULTURES THAT IS WHAT WE ARE HERE FOR RIGHT

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Marianne must have hidden in her room for the rest of the day, as Benedict did not see her at all when the hunters returned. Nor did he see her at dinner, though he supposed she’d have been easily hidden between the sizeable Clubs. He could not exactly inquire after her without drawing attention to his interest.

Circumstance forced him to sit alongside the Ace of Diamonds through dinner, presumably so that they could get to know each other before their betrothal. He really should not have been so displeased with his future Queen; she was, after all, stunningly beautiful. Tall, though not as tall as he, willowy with blue-black skin and violet eyes. Her bone structure was exquisite: she could probably cut glass with her cheekbones. Her hair was the color of chocolate, and she kept it in braids so long and so numerous he could not imagine how her neck supported the weight of her head. Most of them spiraled atop her scalp, while others fell in loops to frame her face; in each braid were tiny flowers he didn’t recognize, preserved in resin and brought from her homeland. She looked like a goddess who grew vines where mere mortals had hair, and the overall effect, while lovely, was intimidating.

The Ace of Diamonds was also, unsurprisingly, an expert in the art of embroidery so unique to her land. From what he could tell, she had embroidered the dress she was now wearing while everyone else had gone out to hunt. If he was interpreting it correctly, it told the story of her trip from the Kingdom of Diamonds to the court of the Hearts, filled with perilous near-misses, homesickness, and hope. It was hard to be sure, since he had never been good at translating the Diamond symbology of flowers in art. Some kind of strange taboo against depicting anything with a heartbeat meant that the Diamonds made good use of the hundreds and thousands of flowers to be found in their jungles. Was that curly pink one with the large stamen intended to represent her marital hopes, or was he simply being lewd? She must have been fast with a needle, at any rate: that was a lot of tiny stitches to make a lot of tiny flowers.

Even her Northern accent, sing-song and sibilant, was carefully pleasing to the ear. Of course, she was mostly using it to address the Jack of Hearts – Benedict’s brother Stewart. Not that it was meant to be obvious she was doing so. That was the problem with Diamonds, to Benedict’s mind. They did not say what they meant, or mean what they say. While the whole thing was transparent enough to the appropriately trained ear, it gave him a bit of a headache. It was not that they were untrustworthy, necessarily: it was that a Diamond had a different way of looking at things than a Heart, and it was easy for misunderstandings to occur. It was a dialect that spoke much and seemed to say little, but the important parts were between the words. It could be a fun game, at times… but sometimes he’d rather just be told his nose was too big.

Not that it was. He had a fine nose. A strong, distinguished nose. A nose with character. Any woman would be happy to have someone with a nose like his. Any claims to the contrary were patently ridiculous.

“This soup,” the Ace of Diamonds was cooing, “is bitter, but nostalgic. It is like an old wound. It is nothing like the foods of home – and yet its artistry is more familiar to me than other local dishes I have sampled.” Benedict thought she was lucky that her parents could not hear her, and the whole affair felt more than a little ironic.

There had been rumors, when Stewart was born, about the legitimacy of his birth. It was hard to blame the gossips: where Benedict looked like he’d been wrought from flame, the brightest and most noble shade of red seen in a century or more, Stewart did indeed look more the color of an old wound. They’d thought his hair and eyes to be brown, at first, and only when they held the child up to the sunlight had the reddish tint been visible. The gossip had only died down thanks to Stewart’s disposition. It was hard to speak ill of a boy so gentle; no leadership qualities at all, and even less ambition. Benedict often worried that if something were to happen to him, Stewart’s reign would be the undoing of the kingdom. He’d spend the whole treasury on paints and shrug helplessly when everything collapsed around him.

Even so, it was not hard to see why the Ace of Diamonds would be infatuated with him. That didn’t stop Benedict from resenting the implication that Stewart was some kind of cultural oasis in a land of boors.

“Did you know,” Stewart seemed to be asking his brother, “that the berries used in this tart can be mixed into paints of the most magnificent color?”

It was bad enough having to be the middleman in a conversation, but the fact that it was getting raunchy only made it worse. “While I’m sure the tart is lovely, dear brother, I think that you might want to try the caramels,” Benedict suggested diplomatically. Stewart pouted, understanding that what Benedict really meant was shut the fuck up about how much you’d like the paint the future Queen’s tits, you moron, I am your brother and do not need to hear that shit. While the Ace of Diamonds was not familiar enough with the tooth-sticking properties of caramels to understand the nuances, her wistful sigh suggested she got the gist. Benedict may not have liked the Diamond dialect of triple-entendres, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use it when it suited him.

Boisterous laughter came from down the table – unmistakably the Clubs. This was a good an excuse as any to glance in that direction, where Benedict saw Briana standing to relate the story of the day’s hunt. From what he had gathered earlier, the madwoman had managed to fell a boar. It was the best catch of the day, and she’d been on foot with nothing but her whalebone sword. He almost wished he’d been there to see it – almost. He’d always been terrible at hunting animals, and he’d managed to find more interesting prey.

“Ben!” came the sudden call, and his eyebrows shot up as he realized that Briana was shooting him a smug grin. “Since you missed out on the hunt, will you at least have the fortitude to come see my tattooist with me?”

“You brought along the royal tattooist?” Under normal circumstances, Benedict would never be so gauche as to yell across the room and give a show to guests, but Clubs were visiting, and that changed the rules a bit.

“Obviously,” Briana scoffed, “I’m going to be getting married, aren’t I?” At this, the Ace of Clubs – Gaston, Benedict recalled – clapped her approvingly on the back. Was that a challenge in her eyes? There usually was, but this was different, somehow.  It suddenly crossed his mind that perhaps she’d been wanting to take his hand in marriage, before it became clear the Hearts had more need for a Diamond alliance. He had never been more grateful for politics.

Not that his fling with Briana had not been fun, those years ago. He wouldn’t have bothered if it hadn’t been fun. She was all muscle and power, coppery skin darkened in the sunlight shining off the snow, and she always smelled pleasingly of blood and sweat. Benedict had been fascinated by the scars that covered her body, and the tattoos of ash around each one to commemorate its cause. Wolves danced around the imprint of teeth on her calf, slashmarks became the spines of knives, and a large burn on her thigh became the spilled contents of a bottle of beer.

He could not, however, imagine maintaining such a relationship for longer than the few months he already had. While fun for a time, a relationship with Briana was more like a series of wrestling matches than it was a romance. Benedict had not previously known that sex could have winners or losers, but based on how competitive Briana had been about things, there was some kind of secret points system. It was never really clear to him which one of them won at any given time, but he took the ability to walk afterward as a victory. Oh yes, it was fun – and certainly a change of pace. Unfortunately for Briana, Benedict was a born leader, which was to say: a control freak. When it came to the bedroom, he simply preferred that he not be the participant who left the bedroom sore.

“Briana, I assure you that none is more jealous than I of your ability to show off your victories to the world – but what, pray tell, would I have to commemorate? I am not the one who has felled a boar this day.”

“It is not my fault that you did not join the fun! But I am sure you had fun of your own while you stayed behind – perhaps made another kind of conquest to immortalize in ink?” Her dark eyes twinkled, the Clubs guffawed, the Hearts chuckled, the Spades smiled knowing smiles, and the Diamonds focused on their meals and their dignity.

It was a delicate balance, amusing some guests without offending others, sidestepping his reputation without refuting it. He adopted the most melodramatically mournful expression he could muster. “I am afraid my only conquest today has been but a pale shadow of your own, and it seems to me that the skills of your great artist would likely be wasted immortalizing upon my flesh the mighty ham that I have brought low.”

When in doubt, make a self-deprecating joke about food.

“Someday,” Briana chided when the laughter had died down, wagging her finger at him, “if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll take you to get your skin marked like a proper adult.”

“And when you do,” Benedict agreed, holding up his glass in a sign of promise, “I shall cry like an infant and bring shame upon my family.” The table toasted universally to his eventual humiliation.

Court of Cards First Draft, Part Five

HEY GUESS WHAT here is another thing because Josiah is my homeboy. The rest of Court of Cards can be found here, for context.

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When the servants came to ask Marianne if she’d be coming to dinner, she asked them to relay to the King and Queen that she was having difficulty adjusting to the climate and would need to rest. 

If Marianne had been a different sort of person, she could have proved herself long ago. She could have insisted on participating in a tournament, or returned home with a felled elk, or something to show her family that she was still a Club. But Marianne was herself, and so instead she did not protest when they simply assumed that there was something wrong with her. And while it probably would have been satisfying to show that being on the small side did not mean she was sickly or feebleminded, that would have meant she could never have gotten away with crying sick. 

It wasn’t entirely a lie. She had no plans except to curl up in bed and stare at a wall for a while. The day’s events had left her exhausted, and she just wanted some time to mentally unpack everything. Why had she done… any of it? Nothing she’d done had made the slightest bit of sense, or was even in character for her. Didn’t seem in character, anyway, from an intellectual standpoint. That was always the way these things seemed to go. She could be absolutely certain, when thinking about a hypothetical situation, that she would react in a certain way – and when the situation ceased to be hypothetical, it was almost guaranteed she’d behave entirely contrary to her own sensibilities.

What she was really fixated on was the fact that she had not flirted, not properly. She’d been alone with a notorious rake that she apparently found quite attractive, and yet she’d not flirted at all. Opportunities like that came about not at all, and so the sensible thing to have done would have been to make her desire clear so that they could get the preliminaries out of the way and skip right to rutting in the grass. Instead she’d shrank and kowtowed and later been belligerent, and none of it made any sense at all unless she assumed she was insane. She was sexually and emotionally frustrated, and if she’d had to go to dinner she might have tried to drown herself in a bowl of soup.

Finding wall-gazing unsatisfying, and the bed too soft, Marianne shuffled to the window to gaze at the moon and feel sorry for herself. Her noble quest did not last long, as her attention fell on a cluster of lights at the edge of the forest. For a moment, she could not fathom what it might be. Had someone at dinner decided to take the party outside, or to continue the hunt? It was not until she noticed that some of the lights were green, blue, purple, that the reality occurred to her. The unofficial fifth kingdom of the continent had decided to join the Shuffle.

Climbing out the window and down the outer wall of the castle was easier than she’d thought it would be, as was hiding herself in the shadows behind the various topiaries. While she doubted anyone would complain if she’d simply strolled up to the visitors, Marianne wanted to wait and see if she actually recognized any of them. Heaven forbid she embarrass herself by acting excessively familiar. It was hard not to get her hopes up as she got closer to the strings of lanterns, the caravans and tents and the sound of laughter and half-wild animals. Logically she knew that she ought to be prepared for the fact that her old friends might not have come – there was no reason at all why this would be them, why it wouldn’t be just about any other troupe.

When she saw the familiar blond curls – for no one else in all the land could possibly have hair that mad – it was all she could do not to break into a run.

“I didn’t know the Jokers had been invited!” she called teasingly, hoping against hope that he hadn’t forgotten her. Josiah turned away from the woman he’d been talking to at the sound of Marianne’s voice, and she was thrilled to see recognition when he saw her walking towards him. He barely looked different from when he was young, still elbows and knees from top to bottom. He’d gotten taller, but only by a bit – only a few inches more than she, assuming one did not count the height added by the hair. He’d developed more of a tan, but he was still that pale olive color she’d found so charming as a girl. The goatee was also new, and in conjunction with his dandelion mane meant that he now had hair growing literally in every possible direction.

“You should know better than anyone that Jokers invite themselves, Rain,” he bellowed back, throwing his arms wide so that she could leap between them for a hug.

“That is still the silliest nickname I have ever heard,” she sighed with a roll of her eyes that Josiah could hear but not see.

“You started it.”

“Josie is a perfectly reasonable nickname,” she sniffed, before pulling away and changing the subject. “Don’t tell me the Jokers are here to join the marriage mart.” Josiah snorted derisively.

“Jokers have no need of your silly political maneuverings. We’re just here for a chance to see all our friends in one place and to save us some travel for trading. The Shuffle only comes around every three hundred years, like hell we’re letting it go to waste.”

“I don’t know that many of the royal families will be coming down for nest-cakes and trinkets,” Marianne observed sardonically.

“You Suits are always worried about your silly Kings and Queens,” he mocked, tousling her hair with one disproportionately large hand. “I bet you anything by tomorrow there’ll be maids, valets, and footmen aplenty coming to see what’s on offer and maybe get a taste of home. Personally, I’m looking forward to getting my hands on some embroidery.” Josiah rubbed his hands together with anticipation, and Marianne couldn’t help but laugh.

“Aren’t there Jokers up North? I didn’t think you’d be wanting for pretty fabrics.” The look Josiah gave her made it clear he thought her either mad or an idiot.

“Rain, I don’t know if you’ve ever been North, but it is hot, and wet, and there are insects absolutely everywhere, and once you’ve managed to get there with your goods in tow you’ve got to get back out with the things you’ve traded for. I have never in all my life met a river-rat that did not despise that trip. Fine enough place once you’re there, but the back-and-forth is a nightmare. This-” Josiah swept his arms in front of them, presumably indicating the gathering of different nations within the castle, “this right here saves us all that trouble and heartache. We can sell the goods right where we bought them and never have to worry about losing cargo. If you Suits would do this sort of thing more often, maybe we Jokers wouldn’t have to do so much running around.” Marianne harrumphed, displeased by his pointing out her ignorance in matters of trade.

“I think we could do this sort of thing every year, and you’d still find an excuse not to stay put.”

Josiah scoffed. “Don’t act like you’ve figured out some kind of secret; staying in one place for too long is unnatural. Makes a person go mad. You wind up with people who think it’s a good idea to grow bushes that look like cows.” He stuck two cigarettes in his mouth and lit them, then handed her the second. She took it as much by reflex as anything else. She’d never figured out what he rolled them with to make them taste like coffee, and he’d been gone by the time it occurred to her to wonder.

“So what have you been doing for the last – what has it been? Five years?” Marianne asked as she blew smoke into the sky.

“Oh, the usual. Drinking some things, smoking others, traveling, trading… getting taller. A variety of activities you’d know nothing about.” He blew a neat ring of smoke in the air with a smirk, adding insult to injury. “Since you’re here, I’m going to assume you didn’t find yourself a nice sixteen to marry in my absence.”

She punched his shoulder with a pout, hoping it wasn’t obvious that she was feeling lightheaded. After five years, her tolerance for nicotine was nonexistent. “You know very well that there’s no such thing as a Sixteen, you ass. And no, for your information, there is no one in the House of Clubs so desperate as to lower themselves to a marriage with me.”

Now it was Josiah’s turn to roll his eyes. “Don’t tell me you still think you’re some kind of mutant just for being on the small side. I told you back then and I’m telling you now, only the royal family thinks that way. You go out to the country – and don’t give me that look, Rain, I know you’ve never bothered going out to visit the farmers and the merchants – you go out to the country, and you’ll find plenty of Clubs even smaller than you. Smaller, lighter, darker, thinner – only you Suits give even half a shit about meeting ye olde standards of excellence.”

“That’s all very well and good for you to say, Josiah, but since I am one of those Suits, I don’t see what there is to be done about it. Unless you’re suggesting I run away from home to join the Jokers.” She was feeling a bit aggravated, since she hadn’t snuck out for a reminder of her inadequacies.

Josiah smiled ruefully. “I told you before, you’d be one hell of a scout, sneaky as you are.”

“I don’t see how accusing me of cowardice is supposed to convince me.”

“It’s not cowardice! The House of Clubs need to learn to work smarter, not harder.”

“Sneaking is… unwomanly. It is for those not brave enough to face their problems head-on.”

“Sneaking doesn’t mean you don’t face your problems head-on. It just means that you do it while your problem isn’t looking. Besides – would you tell the lady Spades they you consider them cowards?”

Marianne stubbed her cigarette out in the grass; she’d always smoked faster than Josiah. “They’re Spades. That’s different.”

“Tch! Double standards.” Josiah gave her a playful shove when something seemed to occur to him. “I have my own caravan now!” he announced proudly, and Marianne feigned awe.

“You mean you aren’t still sleeping in the grass now that you’re a grown man? My word!”

“Don’t laugh! You remember how bad we used to wish I had my own? It’s a nice one, too, not like that old one I was saving up for back then. I had it made custom – the paint’s so fresh it still smells like lacquer. The wheels don’t even squeak! Want to see how comfy the bed is?” The question threw Marianne for a loop, unexpected as it was after his preening.

“Josie, are you flirting with me?”

“Flirting? Rain, if a Joker’s got time to flirt it means he should have left town last week. I’m just asking if you’d like to screw around for old time’s sake.”

“For old time’s sake?” If they hadn’t been friends, Marianne likely would have slapped him.

“I didn’t mean it like that. We had fun, didn’t we? We could probably have more fun now that we aren’t a couple of fumbling kids. It’s not like I’m offering a pity fuck – you’re as pretty as anyone else that’s been in there.” Then Josiah grinned, adding, “And as a bonus, you’ve actually got tits now.”

Marianne was about to tell him exactly what he could do with his fancy new caravan when her stomach made a keening noise, ruining the effect of her annoyance. Josiah made a disapproving noise, waving at her to follow him closer to the center of the enclave. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and become one of those types that doesn’t eat for fear of your looks. My cousin Jacques used to do that, now he can’t pass more than broth and they show him off for a pittance as the living dead over in the Kingdom of Spades. Can’t take him out of the desert, he’d freeze to death even in this weather.”

“First off, you’re full of shit,” Marianne accused as she followed him towards the smell of food, “and second, I am not intentionally starving myself and I refuse to believe you actually think that I would. I did not care to go to the banquet tonight, as I was in the mood to be alone.”

“Based on the fact that you came running out here about as soon as the first lights went up, you did a dreadful job of wanting to be alone. If I know you – and five years or not, I think that I do – you were sitting in whatever suite they gave you, feeling sorry for yourself. Were you brooding? Is it a man? Have you been writing love poems? I bet you only saw we were here because you were staring at the moon and pining like a lovesick stableboy.” Marianne was saved from responding to his almost-accurate accusations by the fact that they’d arrived at the main bonfire, and Josiah handed her a small loaf of bread filled with stew.

“Do you know what I did after you left the court?” Marianne asked between bites, thinking it better to steer the conversation away from his assumptions about her character (or lack thereof).

“Stared at the moon and pined like a lovesick stableboy?”

Marianne rolled her eyes as she finished her meal, bread and all. For someone as small as she was, she could eat with astonishing speed. “I got a tattoo.” The look on his face was worth the fact that she’d been keeping that a secret since the day she had it done.

“I thought there wasn’t enough room between your skin and your bones,” Josiah asked incredulously, echoing the reason she’d been given by her family since she was young.

“You know as well as I that was a silly excuse, and so did the royal tattooist. He knew it was unfair and he liked the idea, so – I got a tattoo.”

“And no one else in the Court of Clubs noticed?”

“I had him place it on skin that does not often get exposed before family,” she explained primly, and Josiah guffawed.

“Well do I get to see this ink of yours?”

“Not in the middle of camp, you don’t.”

“My caravan?”

She considered this for a moment. “Does it let in enough moonlight that you’d be able to see?”

“Not really,” he admitted, and before he could go any further Marianne was struck by what she felt was a brilliant idea.

“I know exactly where we can go.”

Court of Cards First Draft, Part Six

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.

Court of Cards First Draft, Part Seven

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.”

Court of Cards First Draft, Part Eight

I HAVE NOT POSTED OR WRITTEN THIS IN LIKE OVER A MONTH WHY DIDN’T ANYONE REMIND ME

admittedly I haven’t written anything because someone pointed out something and suddenly writing turned into this potential obligation that made me anxious and want to die but whatever. IF YOU ARE NEW TO COURT OF CARDS and would like to read an elaborate fanfiction about playing cards, my posts are tagged chronologically here. You should probably read that before this!

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In the far-too-bright light of day, it was obvious to Benedict that he’d gone about things all wrong. He could pinpoint the exact moment it had happened, even though thinking was difficult when his head was pounding. When Marianne had asked him why she was in the maze, he ought to have asked her why, indeed, she was there. Instead, all overwhelmed with lust and his own self-importance, he’d gone and asserted himself in a way that made her input seem irrelevant. He ought to have treated her more like a Heart – a particularly gentle Heart, at that – instead of like a Club.

A relationship with a Club – the Clubs he’d known before, at any rate – was at the core of it a game of power. The only way that he’d ever managed to hold his own with Briana was through careful manipulation of the situation, and even then, there was the constant risk that she’d break his nose anyway.

He was much more careful with Hearts. He’d been raised from birth with the notion that a person ordered to do something will do it much more poorly and bitterly than one simply asked. He’d seen men and women throw themselves at the opportunity to serve their Queen in their area of competence, seen the lowliest peasant refuse the King with no care for explanations. His grandmother had only given orders once, and that was because the castle was on fire. It wasn’t always the most convenient system – for a Suit, anyway – but happy people do good work, and Benedict would not argue with results. 

Even so, Benedict was always very careful when seducing a Heart of low station. While the minder of horses could refuse him, he’d have found himself mightily displeased if they failed to do so out of a sense of obligation. It was the very opposite of the game he played with Briana: finding subtle ways to raise them high and bring himself low, to emphasize always his willingness to leave them alone without seeming disinterested. It was impossible to know if he always succeeded, but he hoped that he had.

Considering all of this, it was obvious now where he had gone wrong. Marianne had not participated in his power games, had let him trample her quite thoroughly. A part of him was certain that she’d quite liked him despite – because? – of it, but that was nonetheless where he’d made his misstep. Based on what he’d deduced from his excessively creepy reconnaissance mission, Marianne was not someone accustomed to holding her ground. She could spar with a Joker, but a Club? A Heart? An Ace?

No, he was almost certain now that this was someone used to having decisions made on her behalf, and ostensibly for her own good. That was how a rabbit survived in a den of bears: by not being a rabbit at all. By being an entirely different sort of bear, disguised as a rabbit, free only to remove her false furs when the other bears weren’t looking.

This metaphor was getting away from him.

The point, however, was that if his groggy new theories were correct, his typical posturing would not do at all. He hoped that he was correct, or else he was liable to make a complete fool out of himself the next time he saw her. And he would see her again. He would make absolutely certain of it. He had a week before the betrothal ball, a week in which to learn as much as he could about this fascinating human being. A week for one last affair – for him, and for her. That was assuming she wanted him, which he would continue to do for the sake of having something to do with his time.

She still wasn’t showing her face at any of the planned events, insofar as he could tell. It was a bit difficult to say for sure, when she was so small and quick. All of this subtlety was grating on his nerves; he wished he could just ask. He didn’t even like picnics; whoever thought it would be a good idea to eat outside where there was sunlight and birds and his cousin’s yappy dog? Other than his mother, anyway. For as long as Benedict could remember, the King of Hearts had always enjoyed coming up with excuses to take meals outdoors. Much as he wished he could hold it against her, she always looked so damnably happy while the sun was burning freckles on her face.

Benedict was avoiding his parents, lest they try to convince him once again that he ought to fall in love with his future bride. He would fall in love with her in his own good time – it wasn’t like it was difficult, anyway. The King and Queen also had a distressing tendency to shout whenever he’d had too much mead, and he couldn’t say he much cared for it.

No one else seemed to be having as much trouble as he was with mingling. He’d have to do something about that soon, or else he’d look a dreadful leader indeed, standing off to the side with a greasy mug of soup and a sour look on his face.

“You should try drinking water,” came a quiet voice from his side, and he turned to find a rather lovely Spade considering him – a tankard of water in hand.

“Do you suppose so?” Benedict murmured politely, even as he sipped his broth instead. His mother had told him once that it was the desert sun that made the hair of a Spade so absurdly bright, and he found it hard to disagree. If this woman‘s hair had been straight rather than curled, Benedict could have used it as a mirror.

“Strong drink dries a person out as well as salt. You need to get your head wet again if you want to set yourself right.”

At this, Benedict had no choice but to accept the gift she offered, discarding his soup over his shoulder and narrowly missing the dog. “Far be it for me to refuse a woman offering to help me get my head wet,” he said with a grin, tossing back the water as easily as he had the mead. The Spade woman seemed entirely unfazed, and he could not tell if she was flirting or if he was simply a lecher. Spades generally weren’t the flirtatious type.

Then again, Spades generally also were not as tall as this one was. She still stood a head shorter than Benedict, but that made her a head taller than every other Spade he’d seen in the Suit. Her earlobes, as well, were the smallest he’d seen – the hoops in her ears were barely bigger than his pinky, nothing at all compared to the fist-sized stones he’d seen the King and Queen wearing. Benedict would have to see if he could find out why; it was probably some sort of important cultural thing that he knew nothing about.

“My head seems to be feeling better already! Who might I thank for having saved me from my wretched state?” She smiled faintly, and it had a mesmerizing effect on her eyes – blue like a sapphire, shaped like almonds, astonishingly bright next to her cinnamon skin.

“I am Nandi, Two of Spades. You are Benedict, Ace of Hearts. Soon to be married to Vivienne, Ace of Diamonds.” What must a Spade sound like having an argument, quiet as they were?

Benedict gave an exaggerated pout, furrowing his heavy brows and jutting out his lower lip like a child. “Now how am I meant to introduce myself, with you having done my half for me?”

“My apologies. I am often remarked to be excessively talkative.”

“Oh yes, I can see that. A dreadful chatterbox, you are. At any rate, Nandi, thank you very much for your unsolicited advice in regards to my poor decision making. Might I ask what I did to invite it? Are you simply so goodhearted that you could not bear to see me suffer?”

“You were alone, and helping you with your headache seemed a good way to initiate conversation without drawing undue attention.”

“I admire your forthrightness, but if your goal is discretion, a picnic does not seem the place to initiate a torrid affair.”

“I am relieved to find you as forthright as I had been lead to believe, as it makes you a valuable source of unbiased information. I wish to know more about your brother.” Benedict’s eyebrows shot up at this.

“Stewart? Stewart is an open book. Why would you need to talk to me instead of him?” At this, Nandi seemed to look faintly uncomfortable for the first time.

“He is sketching, presumably to deflect attention while he steals longing glances at the Ace of Diamonds. As such I thought attempting contact might be counterproductive.”

“Are all Spades so observant?”

“Most are moreso. I speak too much to truly listen.”

“So are the earrings intended to reflect on listening ability? That would certainly explain why the Queen’s are so massive.” Nandi smiled faintly again, but this one did not reach those charming eyes of hers.

“The King and Queen adopted me but recently, and those short years have not been sufficient to bring my ears to a more regal stature. As I shall be marrying out of the fold, it is presumed their current status shall be sufficient for my spouse.”

“I am an insensitive lout,” Benedict apologized immediately, “and should not go poking my great big nose into matters where I lack understanding.”

“How else is one to acquire understanding? It is that insensitivity I require, for I must know soon if it is worth attempting to court your brother.”

“You want to marry Stewart?”

“He is currently uncalled for, and I require a match. I must focus my attentions where they are most likely to bear fruit.”

“There are numerous unclaimed Clubs.”

“Indeed, but determining their status in terms of connectedness shall be a touch more difficult.”

“Efficient,” Benedict mused, “but unfortunately, it is that very efficiency that would make a match with my brother… difficult. He is a romantic, one prone to moodiness and excessive words, with a love for those things which he perceives to be delicate or ethereal. You are slender, and ethereal is indeed a good way to describe those eyes and that hair of yours… but you are still a Spade. I may not know much of jewelry, but I know enough about the women of the Spades – and so does my brother. He prefers women who break men more figuratively. The power differential would make him pout.”

Nandi took a long and quiet moment to consider this, and he hoped he had not hurt her feelings. It was possible Benedict was selling his brother short, but he’d known the man his whole life, after all. Stewart was someone that loved to have his heart broken, but who could not bear a bruise, or even the possibility thereof. He had his own strengths, but strength was not one of them.

“Consideration of the facts leads me to believe your assessment is likely to be correct. Thank you very much for your time.”

Nandi was turning to leave him when Benedict asked, “Would you like my unsolicited advice?” She turned back and raised an eyebrow, and he pointed to where he could see a few Clubs and Diamonds mingling as best they could. “While the Ace of Clubs is all but spoken for, the Jack is not. His name is Alphonse – or perhaps you knew that already – and if you wager him whether or not you could fell him in under a minute, his pride will not allow him to refuse. When you do fell him – and I know that you will – you will have won from him a kiss, and in doing so, his heart. Unlike my brother, the Jack of Clubs cannot resist a woman who can break his limbs as easily as his heart.” Nandi gave this a moment’s thought before giving him a nod of thanks, gliding in the direction of the unsuspecting Jack.

“You made Shishi sick.”

Benedict twirled on his heel to meet the gaze of his petulant cousin, her arms crossed and her toe probably tapping impatiently under her voluminous skirts. “I don’t see why I’m responsible for the fact that your dog eats out of the grass, Yolanda. If I tried to do that I’d be the laughingstock of the Suit.”

“That is because you are not literally a dog,” the freckled 14-year old explained patiently, “so you know better. Shishi is incapable of knowing any better, because he is a dog.”

“And a fine dog he is. I am sure he will spend the rest of the day no worse for wear despite the horrible ordeal of tasting a delicious soup twice.”

“That’s gross, Uncle Benedict. You’re gross.” Yolanda had never had a very good grasp on the idea that someone so much older than her could be a mere cousin, rather than uncle, and he had given up on correcting her.

“Why am I the gross one when your dog is eating trash and then getting sick? And for that matter, why are you talking to me when you could be mingling? Wouldn’t you like to arrange a marriage with someone from an exotic foreign land who can take you away from all these gross uncles and dog vomit?”

At this, the lanky teen was forced to go on the defensive, feigning apathy as only a 14-year old can. “Foreign lands seem boring,” she said, though Benedict thought that this probably meant she didn’t want to leave her parents behind. Uncle Bruce and Aunt Tia had given up on children before Yolanda was born, and they were quite attached to her as a result. The very thought of sending her away made Tia nearly faint. “Besides,” Yolanda added, as an afterthought, “Mei and I have already decided that we’re going to get married.”

“You cannot marry Mei, Yolanda.”

“I don’t see why not. She’s only a little younger than me.”

“Because she is your cousin. Marrying your cousin is for people who don’t know any better.”

“It’s too late. I already told her we’re to be married.” Benedict sighed, rubbing his forehead with one gloved hand.

“Mei is twelve, and she is far too nice as a result of her father’s influence. She’s not going to keep wanting to marry you when she grows up.”

“Yes she is. She said I’m pretty.” Yolanda was doing an admirable, if not entirely successful, job of trying not to blush. It was silliness like this that made the Shuffle so important: a Suit that only mingles with itself tends to get problematic appallingly quickly.

“How do you know that Spade over there doesn’t think you’re pretty?” Benedict pointed to the first girl he could find around Yolanda’s age, a tiny thing with pudgy cheeks and whose curls went down to her waist. Yolanda considered the other girl critically.

“She’s not as pretty as Mei, I don’t think. And she probably isn’t as good at games.”

“You will never know unless you talk to her so you’d better go do that now before she decides she’d rather go do something interesting without you,” Benedict insisted while pushing his cousin in the Spade’s direction. It was probably not a good idea to go rushing his cousin around when her feelings were obviously conflicted, but he’d just spotted a petite Club lingering behind where the Jack had been – before Nandi had knocked him to the ground, that is. He had a clever plan, and this one would work better than his last clever plan.

Stewart was, as Nandi had said, sitting in the grass with his sketchbook. His attempt to look busy was undercut by the fact that he had drawn nothing but a circle, over and over again, while staring at his brother’s bride-to-be. This was not, strictly speaking, healthy behavior.

“You’re going to get grass stains on your trousers,” Benedict called, startling Stewart out of his reverie.

“I don’t mind the added color,” came the wary response; Stewart was clearly feeling defensive. Which was good, for Benedict’s purposes.

“No, but I’m sure the fellow who does the laundry minds quite a bit. Not to mention the tailor. Clothing is wasted on you.” This had been a legitimate source of tension between the brothers before, though they’d both come to terms with the disagreement. Benedict would simply continue to wear his hair in immaculate ringlets, have his boots shined to mirrors, keep his cravat folded with borderline deadly precision, and his shirts carefully fitted to show off all that they concealed; Stewart, meanwhile, would continue to think this was completely ridiculous. Benedict had tried to help him when they were teens: combed his unruly mop of rosewood hair, put him in clothes not stained with paint, cleaned beneath his fingernails, and attempted to get him to stop smelling like burnt coffee. None of it had stayed for longer than an hour, and left Stewart thinking his brother was unspeakably vain and shallow.

Which he was. But that wasn’t really the point.

“Not everyone seems to mind.” At this, Stewart could not help but glance at the Ace of Diamonds, who was currently engaged in conversation with their father. Benedict rolled his eyes, but refrained from smacking his brother upside the head; he was too prone to nosebleeds for that to end well.

“You’re really going to have to work on your discretion if you plan to keep dallying with her.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re staring at Vivienne like she’s the last glass of water in the Kingdom of Spades, and your drawings of a circle aren’t likely to fool anyone.” Stewart slammed his sketchbook shut looking shamefaced, and Benedict couldn’t help but grin. “It doesn’t matter anyway, I have a plan to help you get some practice in.”

“Your last plan ended with our parents thinking I was a girl.”

“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t a good plan. This is a better plan. This plan will get you alone with a lovely woman with flowers in her hair, somewhere private where you can make all sorts of metaphors at one another. Possibly she can teach you how to embroider.”

“It is a skilled art that-”

“Yes I know that was the joke. Do you want to hear my plan or not?”

“Fine. I’ll listen. But if it involves putting on a corset I reserve the right to ignore you.”

Court of Cards First Draft, Part Nine

WHO’S READY FOR MORE BODICERIPPING DRAGONFUCK aka two people don’t actually have sex because they’re too busy talking about their feelings and making sure they have enthusiastic consent or at least a safeword. Today we get a more in-depth introduction to Stewart, who is basically some kind of bishie crossed with a flighty broad. That’s what the kids like, right? Artsy prettyboys who can’t remember to wear clean clothes half the time?

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Marianne’s plan of hiding behind one of her cousins for the day failed miserably when a strange woman appeared and threw him over her head. That the woman then stole a kiss from said cousin, thus completing some sort of mysterious mating ritual, did nothing to make her feel better about it. It might not have been so bad, except that Alphonse refused to get up, apparently as dazed with love as he was by the fall. She tried to hide behind the Ace, as he was the larger cousin anyway, but Gaston was more active than his brother. He was also attempting to get to know his future bride – the Jack of Diamonds – an activity which was not helped by having a small relative lurking behind one’s back. There was no point trying to hide behind the Three; Briana was too observant for that, and would be thoroughly curious as to why she was hiding.

This left Marianne with no choice but to wander between crowds, hanging around just long enough that she felt disguised without feeling obligated to actually converse. She was simultaneously relieved and distressed when she saw the Ace of Hearts and the Ace of Diamonds head away from the main party to go for a stroll along a secluded forest path. Of course he wasn’t actually going to confront her here, where his peers could see him cavorting with an Eight of Clubs. It was a silly notion to begin with.

Then there was a hand on her shoulder, and she squeaked in alarm, twirling around to find an almost equally surprised looking… Heart?

“You are a dainty little Club.” Yes, there was no mistaking those teeth; definitely a Heart.

“And you’re a great big mess of a Heart,” she blurted before she could stop herself, though really it wasn’t as if he could take offense. No cravat, vest unbuttoned, and what seemed to be grass stains on his trousers; for a Club that was almost fancy, but for a Heart?

“Yes, well,” he coughed politely, “You are the Eight of Clubs, correct? I am Stewart, Jack of Diamonds.”

“Oh! I suppose I see the resemblance.” He looked surprised at that, but Marianne meant it. He was darker than his brother, neither as tall nor as wide, his nose smaller and his chin more of a point; but the eyes were the same shape, topped with the same thick brows, and the mouths were similar if not exact. Marianne found his to be less kissable, though she quashed that thought as best she could.

“I would like, if you would not mind, to take a walk with you, that I might get to know you better.” He offered her his arm, and she stared at it in confusion for a moment before looking back to his face. He looked… uncomfortable. Sincere, in a more general sense, but specifically uncomfortable now.

“If you would like,” she accepted uncertainly, placing one hand tentatively in the crook of his arm. Immediately, and with a ferocity she had not expected, he clapped his hand down on hers and began striding purposefully towards the shaded path. Once again she found herself practically running to keep up with a Heart, though this time she was simply confused rather than intrigued.

“I assure you that ordinarily I would be much more considerate, and would not rush you so,” Stewart confided in low tones, “but I’m afraid I am in a terrible hurry, and as Benedict is far worse than I in such matters, I thought perhaps it could be forgiven of me this once.”

“Benedict?”

“Oh yes, I’m sure you’re still too smitten with him to see his many flaws, but even so I cannot imagine you’ve failed to notice the way he makes a person run after him – like he’s a pig and you’ve got a hat.”

“… you sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

“I most certainly am!” he shot back heatedly, his steps slowing slightly as he became engrossed in conversation. “I was only seven, practically an infant, and that – that Ass of Hearts – tells me that if I can catch a pig and put a hat on it, it will be my lifelong companion and tell me its secrets. What secrets does a pig even have? I still don’t know, as I never managed to catch the thing.”

“I meant the Ace’s manner of walking, actually. I didn’t think that it would be a problem with you, as you’re closer to his height.”

“Oh. Yes. I’m fairly certain he walks faster in my presence on purpose, as otherwise I don’t think I’d have such trouble keeping up with him.”

“They had to renovate the Court of Clubs to widen all the doors,” Marianne empathized, though the look this brought to the Jack’s face made it clear he had no idea what she meant. “Alphonse and Gaston,” she clarified, “the Jack and Ace of Clubs? Queen Adrien proclaimed that when they are together, they must pass through doors next to one another. I am not sure if he actually declared it law or not.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“It started with buckets above doors, and then platters above doors, and eventually baby yaks above doors. Eventually neither would allow the other to walk behind him, and they would stand before doorways for hours, insisting that the other brother be the one to pass first. Even if one could get past them, all one got for one’s trouble was a yak on one’s head. It made the halls very difficult to navigate, and so my Lord had the doors widened such that both brothers could pass through at the same time.”

“While I can see your point, I would say that their sibling rivalry is not at all comparable, as they are twins, and thus are doing honorable battle with their peers.”

“When Leon turned twelve, Alphonse and Gaston got him a bear for his birthday.”

“… I take it this is not a Club tradition?”

“It was a surprise bear. In his bathtub.”

They were in the woods now, and walked in silence for a moment, Stewart looking contemplative. Finally, as they neared a secluded area beside a riverbank, he ventured, “Clubs are very different from Hearts, culturally speaking.”

“Not that different.”

Stewart sighed, releasing Marianne’s arm and indicating that she should sit on the lovingly carved stone bench – was everything the Hearts built intended for romantic liaisons? “Eight, you are far too clever and too sweet for Benedict,” he proclaimed, “and if I were not busy being in the thrall of a goddess I would probably try to save you from him. Or perhaps you do not want to be saved. Clubs are a mystery to me.”

“Clubs are a mystery to Clubs,” she responded automatically, but before she could say anything else, he was headed off to her left with a cheerful wave down a winding path, without so much as a goodbye. “But… why am I here?” she asked the air where he’d been, in what was once again a dreadful squeak.

“Because I asked him to bring you,” came a throaty purr from the direction she wasn’t looking, and Marianne found herself frozen again. If she hadn’t been so busy being terrified, she’d have wondered at how conveniently he seemed to appear exactly outside her field of vision. “It has come to my attention,” the low voice continued, coming closer, “that I have very likely gone about things all wrong – indeed, I would go so far as to say in the worst possible way. As such, I would like first to apologize, and second to clarify.” Marianne continued not to move as she heard and felt Benedict sit down beside her. Looking at him didn’t seem like it would help matters, even if she did look rather silly, twisted around such that she could sit beside him with her back turned.

When Marianne remained silent, Benedict continued, apparently unfazed, “Marianne, Eight of Clubs, you may consider this a formal apology from the Ace of Hearts for having spoken to you in a manner both rude and presumptuous, and having behaved in a manner much the same. My behavior was based on assumptions that in retrospect I ought not to have made, considering how little I know of you – to say nothing of how little I know you. You are under no obligation to forgive me, though it would please me greatly if you would find it in your heart to do so.”

“Of course,” came her instantaneous response, an appalling little sigh of the sort that ought to be reserved for lovesick schoolgirls. Every word that came out of his mouth made her stomach tie itself into new and exciting shapes, her skin felt downright prickly, and even though he wasn’t touching her, Marianne’s back felt absurdly warm from his mere presence.

“May I touch you?” he asked gently, and it was a wonder she didn’t fall right over in a swoon.

“Yes,” Marianne sighed again, more wobbily this time, because she thought that if she opened her mouth too long she’d find herself saying, “I made someone fuck me from behind last night so that I could pretend it was you.” While he probably would have appreciated that sort of directness, it wouldn’t do either of them much good when she keeled over dead of horrified embarrassment.

She was a bit disappointed when, instead of whatever lascivious seductions she had hoped for, he used his permissions to take her shoulders and gently turn her to face him. Her first thought on seeing him this close was how can he possibly be more handsome than I remembered, followed by there is dappled light falling across his face for goodness’ sake, and subsequently so that’s what dappled light looks like.

The problem, Marianne realized, was that she had only remembered in a vague way that he was handsome, and that his features were arranged generally where they ought to go. She had not remembered the way his hair was curled with such absurd perfection, nor the way it shone, the way light falling on it made it look five different shades of on fire. She had not remembered his mouth being so wide, like his jaw would fall off if he grinned, nor how that tiny beard made his chin come to such a point. Had it not been for the small bit of fullness in his cheeks, his whole face would have been nothing but sharp edges, as if just looking at him would cut her eyes right out. Here he was, all gentle and contrite, and yet Marianne was filled with a deep and instinctive conviction that he was about to eat her alive.

“I find myself in a conundrum, Marianne,” Benedict confessed in a voice so soft she could wrap it around herself like a blanket. “I would like very much to get to know you better, but because of my current state of ignorance, I cannot divine on my own whether this would be agreeable to you. What I need at this moment is for you to tell me, in no uncertain terms, whether or not you have any interest in me.”

“Well that’s no fun,” she croaked weakly, realizing even as she said it that this was the opposite of what he’d asked for. The Ace at least did not take offense, the corner of his mouth crooking upward with faint amusement.

“Under normal circumstances, I might agree – but I’m afraid that as of right now, unless you can give me an unequivocal yes, I cannot in good conscience persist when my doing so has the possibility of hurting you via misunderstanding. Don’t deny the possibility! Just yesterday I tried to say ‘you cannot resist my wiles’ and instead you heard ‘I am bigger and stronger and have more power politically’. You are a mystery to me, little Club, and one I will not risk solving if it might destroy you.”

“I am not that weak,” Marianne protested defensively, and Benedict’s expression moved just the slightest bit towards exasperated.

“I am not saying that you are, but you are not helping your point when you refuse to say whether you find me intriguing or appalling, and it helps even less when you persist in looking utterly terrified.”

“I am not a coward!” she protested yet more vigorously, ignoring the fact that she had been terrified until she’d become too offended to notice.

Benedict let out a horrified groan and buried his face in his gloved hands, his gentleness and understanding lost in the frustration of a plan gone all wrong. “It also does not help when you insinuate that I am some sort of trial to be braved.”

“I did no such thing!” Marianne squeaked indignantly.

“Marianne, if you cannot even tell me whether or not you are potentially interested in some sort of relationship, then I absolutely will not take that risk and will go retrieve Stewart to take you back to the picnic.” While Benedict’s voice was muffled by his own palms, it was nonetheless clear that he was using a tone of voice typically reserved for mothers who would rather you did not make them come in there.

“If a bear flops down and proclaims its own yearning for death, the hunter who kills it might be doing it a favor, and it might technically still be considered a hunt, but it would be a fairly dreadful one.”

“It is bad enough you have resorted to metaphors but that one does not even make sense.”

“Look – not literally, put your head back in your hands, it’s easier this way – when you were visiting the Court of Clubs, how did you usually tell when someone wasn’t interested?”

“Typically they punched me and told me to go away,” came the muffled droll.

“Have I done that yet?”

There was a long pause, and Marianne began to wonder if Benedict was deciding that she was more trouble than she was worth. She wouldn’t blame him, really; she probably would have given up by now.

Court of Cards First Draft, Part Ten

You know what I haven’t posted in a while? BODICERIPPING DRAGONFUCK in which no bodices are ripped nor dragons fucked. You’ll probably want to read the rest of it if you’re planning on reading this~ Anyway let’s learn more about cultural differences and some backstory on Marianne I guess because HAHA SHOW DON’T TELL WHAT’S THAT

♣♥♠♦♣♥♠♦♣♥♠♦

“Do I really need to keep my hands over my face?” Benedict asked even as he stopped doing so. The moment his eyes rose to meet hers the question was answered, as she turned into a bowstring, all tense and withdrawn.

“You don’t have to,” she conceded in that quiet, breathy way she had that made him want to kiss her. He still couldn’t figure out if she was doing that on purpose; the alternative was that being terrified made her more attractive, and that had implications he did not dare to contemplate. Bad Benedict, he scolded himself, very, very bad.

“Here,” he suggested, turning to straddle the bench so that his back was turned to her, “does that help? Let me know in advance if you use this opportunity to flee, so that I don’t just sit here talking to nothing.” His heart almost stopped when she giggled, a tiny and impossibly happy sound.

“This is all very silly,” she admitted contritely, but she already sounded more confident. Perhaps it was the eyes? Benedict had been told that even other Hearts sometimes found them off-putting.

“If it makes you happy, Marianne, I shall make as much of an ass of myself as is necessary,” he proclaimed grandiosely, and for a moment it occurred to him that this might be true.

“Stewart called you the Ass of Hearts.”

“He would. I’ll have you know he stole that line from me, before you go admiring his abilities as a wordsmith.”

“He seemed nice,” she ventured.

“Please,” he entreated, “do whatever you like but I beg of you not to go swooning over his artistic temperament and fragility. Anything but that.”

“I can see the family resemblance.”

“I wish,” Benedict mourned, not sure why he was admitting this except that it might make him less terrifying to her. “It takes a good deal of hard work and dedication and a team of skilled artisans to make me this pretty. Stewart stumbles out of bed in half-torn trousers and a sunbeam lands on him out of nowhere, a flock of songbirds appearing to drop rose petals from the sky while they sing his praises. Perhaps a baby deer jumps in his window to butt its head against his hand, and he pats it absentmindedly.”

“That is plainly absurd.”

“Yes. Yes he is.”  There was a brief moment of silence between them, and Benedict wondered if she was watching him while he couldn’t see. The thought made him sit up a bit straighter and try to widen out his shoulders a tad. He hadn’t bothered thinking about what his back would look like when he’d gotten dressed this morning, and that had obviously been his first mistake. “What’s your family like?” he asked abruptly, diverting the subject away from his myriad of insecurities.

“You’ve met my family,” Marianne pointed out uncertainly, and he smiled despite himself.

“I’ve only met up to the Three – the King and Queen but briefly, Briana extensively, Alphonse and Gaston more than is healthy, and I think Leon punched me once. Why isn’t Leon here, in fact?”

“Oh, Leon,” and Benedict could hear in her voice the sound of her eyes rolling, “he’s only a Two but you’d think he was Ace with the way he martyrs himself. My Lord and Lady told him he was being left behind to learn a lesson about responsibility, as punishment for breaking the arm of the Head of the Hunt-”

“Alaric?” Benedict interjected.

“You know Alaric?”

“I knew Alaric. In a sense. Briana gave me a black eye for it, and I think that might be why Leon punched me. Never knew he was so protective of his sister.”

“He isn’t,” Marianne snickered, “Leon is the only one that hasn’t figured out he’s madly in love with Alaric.”

“… that explains some things.”

“Yes. So in the best interests of Leon, as well as anyone who might otherwise get stuck with that great big sourpuss, my Lord and Lady left him behind to mind the Court and hopefully realize his error.”

“It can’t take that long,” Benedict pointed out teasingly, “since Leon already broke one of Alaric’s bones. That is part of the courtship between Club males, is it not?”

“You should know very well that it’s not,” Marianne huffed, and Benedict imagined that she was furrowing her brow in annoyance in the manner he’d come to recognize. “Leon believes in the letter of the law – thus why he is a great big sourpuss – whereas Alaric believes in the spirit of the law and occasionally no law at all.”

“I’m afraid these intricacies went straight over my head during my stay. I must be worse at politics than I thought.”

“Not really. For the majority of your visit, the two were out hunting. At any rate, by the time the Shuffle is over, Leon ought to have come to his senses and they’ll be busy wrestling in an entirely different context.”

“I’d think he’d have realized it sooner, if all he needed was to be left alone with the fellow for a while.”

“Not entirely alone. He’ll have an aunt and uncle helpfully pushing them together whenever possible, and if nothing else he will give in just to put a stop to their gleeful meddling.” Marianne’s tone had a hint of resignation, as if she were the one on the receiving end of such interference. It did not take much effort to put two and two together.

“Your mother and father?” Benedict ventured, and he heard her shift uncomfortably.

“Yes, well. As I said, they’d no need to be here.”

“I’m afraid I never met the…” He trailed off as he realized he did not even know if Marianne was an only child.

“Annabelle the Six and Maurice the Seven,” she recited mechanically. No older siblings, then.

“Yes, I think I might have heard their names once or twice. Anne and Maury, usually?”

“… yes.” It took a moment to realize the source of her hesitation.

“… Maury-Anne.”

“Yes.”

“Why.”

“I had heard that originally they were going to name me for whichever parent I most resembled. It took enough time for a child to take that they did not anticipate getting a second, so I imagine they put a good deal of thought into naming their only progeny. It would have been difficult to come up with an alternative when things turned out… as they did.”

“Stop that,” Benedict scolded, wanting immediately to put a stop to the determined apathy in her voice. “You needn’t make it sound as though you were some great disappointment simply for being short.”

“Because I was thought to be the cause of mother’s illness,” Marianne clarified, in a tone that conveyed how little she thought of his opinion on this subject, “it was hoped that her bedridden state would not lead to any weakening on my part. The hope – indeed, the assumption – was that I was so very strong from conception that I was simply overpowering my mother from within.”

“If the Six and Seven had truly thought so little of you, they’d not have kept you.”

“In this instance it was not their opinion that mattered, as I was inexplicably blessed.”

This statement was made with no acknowledgement of its extraordinary nature, and so it took Benedict a moment to realize what she meant. The only response he could then think of was, “I did not know they had phoenixes in the South.” There was a pregnant pause, and it occurred to Benedict that it was quite ignorant to think that only Hearts could achieve greatness.

“I was wrong. You are worse at politics than I thought. How is it even possible that a future King, who has spent time abroad, is unaware that only Hearts become phoenixes?”

“My focus tended to be on concerns of a more practical nature,” he deflected loftily, hoping he did not sound as silly as he felt.

“Ancestral signs are not practical?” Marianne persisted, and he was glad she could not see that he was pouting. A man had to keep some dignity about him. “You graced the Court of Clubs with your presence for a year, and you never thought to visit the library?”

“I had things to do.”

“Things, or people?” Benedict’s indignation was disarmed immediately by her mischievous tone, and he smiled despite himself.

“Both. Let’s get back to the fact that you are apparently blessed by your ancestors, who are not phoenixes.”

“When Hearts achieve greatness they burn up and become phoenixes, Diamonds disappear into the trees and become megatherium, Spades throw themselves at the sky and are made dragons, and Clubs leave for the final hunt and become mammoths.”

“So you were blessed by a mammoth.”

“Mammoths travel in herds. But yes, on the night of my birth I was blessed by the appearance of my maternal great-grandmother.” Marianne’s tone was so matter-of-fact, and yet Benedict was sure that she was mocking him somehow.

“I am doing my best to be respectful, but I am not clear on how your mother recognized a mammoth to be her grandmother.”

“She knocked down the wall of the ballroom and pulled down the chandelier. Queen Lorelei hated that chandelier. I suppose when one becomes a mammoth, one stops caring about how long it took one’s husband to collect all those antlers.”

“I openly admit now to my cultural ignorance,” Benedict said slowly, “but I do recall my history. Is Queen Lorelei not the one who killed her husband?”

“Yes, but that’s unrelated to the chandelier,” Marianne assured him, though that didn’t actually assure him at all. “Actually, I suppose it could be a little related, since that would explain why she never had it taken down when she was human. It might have seemed unsporting.”

“So your parents were certain that your great-grandmother’s renovations indicated approval rather than indictment?” While Benedict was undeniably interested in the mariticidal tendencies of Clubs, he thought it best to keep the conversation focused on things he could not discover later with independent research.

“If she wanted to warn them, she’d have destroyed the nursery.”

“A practical enough distinction.”

“I imagine you have a similar story, as you’re meant to be blessed yourself,” Marianne pointed out shyly, and Benedict could not help frowning. The subtext here seemed to be I am not actually special or interesting, and he disapproved of that notion.

“Not really,” he admitted flippantly. “No one’s actually seen a phoenix in years. Everyone assumes I’m blessed because I look so… as I do. I thought I saw a phoenix once when I was ten, but it turned out someone on the castle wall set his hat on fire and tossed it down. An impressionable young Ace sees fire shooting past his window, assumptions are made.” Benedict gave a nonchalant shrug, hoping that Marianne would at least be amused by his younger self’s enthusiasm.

“You’ve never even seen a phoenix?” Whatever he’d expected, it had not been her incredulous disappointment, and he felt himself getting defensive about something he’d only moments ago been ambivalent towards.

“It’s not as though you’ve actually seen a mammoth,” he pointed out, and there was a long silence before he continued, “Mammoths aren’t that common. Briana would have bragged about it if they were, and the ignorance I displayed today would have been corrected long ago.”

“They’re not that common,” Marianne admitted quietly, and he wanted desperately to turn around and see what was written on her face in that moment. “I only saw them by accident. They were on their way to bless someone else, I think. They weren’t for me, anyway.” She sounded fairly ashamed, and Benedict wondered if seeing someone else’s mammoth was like reading someone else’s mail.

“Marianne,” he said finally, “I would like very much to turn around so that I can see you. Would that be acceptable, or would you stop talking to me?”

“… I think I might like that.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, so quiet he could barely hear her over the sound of his own pulse, he’d turned around with astonishing speed. He chose to believe it was surprise rather than intimidation that lead to her recoiling when he did so.

Benedict could not recall the last time he’d wanted so badly to kiss someone. How could she possibly have room for a mind that clever with eyes that big? Some of that inky black hair had fallen in front of her face, and despite his previous determination not to make her uncomfortable, he could not help reaching out to brush it aside. She seemed frozen again – did she think he was a dragon? – and he found himself gently running his fingers along her jawline, taking her dainty chin in his fingers and tipping her face towards his. Marianne bit her lower lip again, and he decided that this was a habit designed deliberately to drive him mad. She just looked so damnably… vulnerable.

“I am aware that I might be pressing my luck,” he ventured, hoping that his attempts to keep his voice even were successful, “but I don’t suppose you would also like it if I held you, for a moment?” He could not determine from Marianne’s expression whether she was considering matters, or if she had simply turned to stone. The only indication came when she lowered her eyes away from his, inched closer to him on the bench, and headbutted him gently in the cravat. Her hands were balled into fists in her lap, and the whole scene was so endearingly earnest Benedict hadn’t the slightest idea what to do with himself. Neither did she, apparently.

“I was sneaking out to go sledding,” she mumbled into his chest, and he was confused before realizing she was talking about her stolen mammoths. With a smile he wrapped his arms around her, resisting the temptation to pull her tight against him, and when a pleased hum escaped her he could not imagine a more perfect sound.

“Isn’t sneaking meant to be cowardly?” he teased gently, and he thought he heard her ‘harrumph’ quietly in response.

“It’s contextual. At any rate, the sneaking was forced by circumstances. I am not, strictly speaking, allowed to sled.”

“… you don’t mean that you went alone.”

“The generally accepted meaning of ‘not allowed’ is ‘stopped from doing so by others’,” Marianne pointed out loftily.

“Sledding is done in pairs for a reason, little Club,” Benedict chided, holding her just the slightest bit closer at the thought of her tiny self sprawled at the foot of the slopes.

“I was fourteen and I knew what I was doing. You may feel free at any point to stop behaving as though I am some manner of fragile buffoon.” Marianne’s indignation made it clear that he’d planted his foot firmly in his mouth once more, and he trailed his fingertips down her spine in what he hoped was a soothing gesture.

“It is not just fragile buffoons that meet their end that way, little one. But yes, that is irrelevant to the story, of which I would like to hear more. Where were you sledding that had mammoths roaming about?”

“I was at the top of the Shard when I saw them–”

“No you were not. That is not a slope, that is a cliff. A cliff made of ice. Ice, and the bodies of the foolish dead, and the frozen tears of everyone who ever loved them. Why would you be anywhere near the Shard?”

Marianne gave him an exasperated sigh, butting her forehead against Benedict’s sternum as punishment for his abject horror. “Stop being melodramatic and don’t interrupt, or I’m going back to the picnic. It’s been my favorite slope since I was ten, as the rest are dreadfully dull in comparison. That the Shard is the tallest is the only reason I saw them – that, and the ribbons in the sky. I don’t think they saw me, or even noticed my presence. At that distance, in the direction they were going… they can’t have been intended for me. But I wanted so desperately to see them. It seemed as though I ought, as they’d validated my birth when I myself could not. So I decided to slide down the wrong side of the ice, back the way I’d come.

“It wasn’t meant for sledding–” – None of the Shard was, Benedict could not help thinking – “so it was fairly rough, but… it got me so close. I could see their eyes, and their hair looked coarse, and they were just so big. Everything about them was big. Big, slow, noisy, smelly, utterly magnificent things. I don’t know about phoenixes or dragons or megatherium, but mammoths are still animals at the heart of things. I suppose that had never really occurred to me, that they would be so real and have such weight to them. That they would still be Clubs. I was hiding in the snow for hours before they had gone far enough for me to head back, and by the time I made it home the rest of the Court was waking up. I had to climb into a window and tell Leon I had fallen down a flight of stairs. I spent the rest of the week confined to my room and my cousins sent me a variety of furry dead animals that had been stuffed with more fur.”

They were silent for a long moment, at least in part because of Benedict’s fear that speaking might qualify as an interruption. When he could no longer bear the silence, he decided on the relatively neutral, “I have never actually ridden a sled.”

“Whyever not?”

“It seemed completely terrifying, and you have done nothing to disabuse me of this notion. I do not find being terrified to be an enjoyable experience, overall.” Marianne’s response to this was a nervous giggle that spoke volumes, and when he bent his head to see the face hiding in his neckcloth, he saw that she was blushing.

That’s one mystery solved.