From being an Abandoned who had rarely left the Hollowed Grounds, to embracing the call of adventure, to dying and being reborn first as an Ascended and then as an Ancient, Maea has gone through quite the amount of changes in her life. One thing remains common, though, in her attempts to find out just where she belongs; she’s always had a craving for knowledge which has brought her to so many places and to meet so many people here in Caido. We can’t wait to see what else is in store for her!
Congratulations, Maea!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
Were his mouth not wholly occupied, he might have incited something else; instead, the deepening rumble of his amusements were cast upon her flesh, only idly shaking his head as she beckoned and pleaded through the moans. His intentions had been her completion, dangling the threads until she was plucked and done over and then he’d simply continue in the sensual bombardments; but Evie had never been the patient sort.
But he’d take his time, regardless.
His tongue gave and occupied for a few instances more, before he began his slow sojourn upwards. Carnal convictions across pale skin, lips tracing from the path along the inside of her thighs and up again, sweeping along her navel while she contorted and arced. His fingers did much the same, light, sinuous sweeps across her hips, maneuvering and drawing her towards his own. The hooded ventures of his gaze traversed too, a longing and devilish combination pinpointing from her breasts, to her face, making note of every wanton fixture and ensuring she knew of his own cravings and need.
“All right,” he eventually managed in some deepening grumble, sketching it into her pulse, before shifting them entirely; lifting her boneless frame into his lap – where she too could sink and take.
the ressurected sword
Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd
Patient? Evie? Perish the thought. While orgasms are a wonderful temptation, right now she wants the connection and intimacy of him inside her, and even the tightening of her naval and the intoxicating rhythm of his fingers can't distract her from that.
Overly sensitive, each kiss makes her skin jump and jolt. Her expression is open and raw for him to peruse, and though his own need is just as blatantly translated, it's not enough. Her arms reach for him, only for a gasp to abort in her throat as he picks her up like she weighs nothing - and she knows that, to him, she doesn't - and she finds herself in his lap.
Though her limbs shake with sensation she is intent on getting what she wants, and though it takes a bit of angling, she sinks down onto his cock with a whining exhale as her forehead drops down onto his shoulder and her fingertips dig into his shoulders. Already she begins to rock and lift herself in the early beginnings of a pace, the feeling too addicting to remain motionless. And, despite all the distractions, she turns her head to kiss his neck and murmur into his ear, "Love you. My love. My husband." Mine. Mine. Mine.
A favorable inclination for both; the infernal haze unbidden between minds of lust and love and yearning contorted and coiled in between – she descended and surrounded and he was engulfed, immersed. A hiss accompanied and escaped from his teeth, the feral smile tucked across his lips, some realm of laughter meaning to sojourn alongside too and simply becoming gravel and guttural. The unrelenting, instinctual drive would be to consume and take, persist and plunge until both shattered and unfurled; but where Evie had no patience, Deimos had all the time in the world.
To savor, to relish, to revel. He followed after her slow pace with a purposeful and deliberate rhythm of his own - a drawn opus where each touch might fragment and chase her a little more. Rise and fall and back again, fingers splayed along her hip as they rocked along with his, other hand pressing upon her spine; sensations everywhere, meant to coax and entice and unravel.
Despite the insistent distractions towards pleasure and need, her clutches found purchase along his shoulder, lips on his neck, whispers in his ear, laden beyond the pitches of desire. Initially, his response could only be some quiet, passionate moan, even as all those predilections and promises earned their semblances straight into his heart, lungs, and soul; swallowed down as he breathed over the crown of her head, as he bent forward to drag his mouth across her brow. “Love you.” Eyes closed, his intakes of air were shortened to groans and growls, voice barely remembered or recalled.
the ressurected sword
Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd
They are poetic puzzle pieces, their contrasting patience and appearances like the fiery sunset hues on dark ocean water; ephemeral meeting everlasting the same way tanned skin meets ivory, sweeping across the canvas of her skin and alighting sensation until she drowns in the patient depths of his waters.
And, in contrast, there is no poetry at all. Just the desperate, self-fulfilling bounce and grind of her own body chasing pleasure from his own, and he from her in turn. Each sound he makes, each returned vow of love, only brings her that much higher. His voice alone is her ambrosia, and here in this house he prepared for them, with nothing beyond but water and sky, there is no need to hold it back.
His kiss across her brow has her hands pressing up his chest and around his neck, tangling in his hair or wrapping around his shoulder. Needing him closer, closer, closer. As if there is anywhere closer to be when he is already inside her, and yet she trembles and - quite unexpectedly - orgasms without a touch. It's weaker without the external stimuli, and maybe it was a holdover from how close he'd gotten her before, but she cries and shudders and breaks apart on his lap all the same as her thighs constrict where they bracket his and her spine arches beneath his hand. And yet she doesn't stop - though her pace might falter and buck with oversensitivity - because she is greedy, and there is no amount of Deimos she could ever have that would sate the way she craves for him.
Ethereal and elemental fixtures alight and ignited; complements and foils to the divergences of their distinctions – his steadiness, her fire, a rush and resemblance of echoes and footfalls, patterns and adornments. Sometimes found in the haze of her fingertips or the mischievous quirk of his grin, caught, tethered, and looped in a contorted sanction all their own. How they’d managed to set one another ablaze again and again and again with all the incandescent measures known to their bodies and souls. How they’d entangled and stayed, despite hardships and wars and everything else laden amidst and amongst the storms and serenities. He’d grant and give and chase right alongside her basking, yearning hands, and she’d do the same. It was all they needed.
His patience alone didn’t seem to sate though, because she still coaxed and raced as though there was naught more than consuming and devouring. He might’ve laughed again, shaken his head in the glaze of salt scorching over their skin, but his mouth dipped along her brow and hovered over her cheek instead, body following hers with its resonance. Feral hisses, complex moans, still left his lips when her touch pushed and cajoled into unrelenting rhythms, as she wound her way over his chest and neck and hair, a distant growl echoing from his lungs. Incessant and insistent need amidst the love, embroiled in her motions and arches, hips rising to meet hers over and over –
Though he couldn’t help but chuckle across reddened cheeks as she reached another crescendo, clenching around him and still greedily grinding and taking; as if climbing a mountain and not pausing to rest, to breathe, to linger. “You okay?” He checked in, ghosts of his lips skimming over her flesh, before he maneuvered near her ear, teeth lightly raking as they persisted in their treks and multitudes; savoring and savoring and savoring. One hand grabbed and reached, tucking her pressing hips deeper into his, each thrust a deeper, piercing depth; while the other’s fingers lingered near her thighs, an act of lure and persuasion through more and more feverish touch. To bestow her more before he raked over, nearing the apex of his own release.
the ressurected sword
Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd
He follows where she leads, on this headlong race toward something she can't name. It's certainly nothing so simple and shallow as an orgasm. All she knows is she needs him, covets him, wants to feel the fire of his touch on every inch of her body. It feels like desperation. It feels like everything. A dance they've done one hundred times, and yet today it feels brand new. Even the wave of her completion - and she can't truly call it that when she's so far from done - can't shake the fire in her veins.
She slows only enough to languish in the brush of his lips across her skin, the rumble of his voice as he brings her head back down from the clouds. At least until he trails further past her neck, to her ear and the sensitive space beyond, and any response she had waiting in the wings is crushed by the mangled moan he forces out of her as he presses deeper than she thought he could. "F-Fantastic," she assures on a breathy note, because even in the oversensitive wake of her orgasm she craves. Desires his completion as much as her own, or another, or tens more before their honeymoon is over.
Locking her knees around his hips, she sinks into his hold, trembling and tightening around him from within. The pace is a touch slower now as he focuses on depth, but each thrust jolts a moan from her lungs that strings together into a symphonic measure of elation. Her head drops forward, lips pressing to his and pouring fire from her veins into his, needing him to burn alongside her.
He likely didn’t have a name for it either – interwoven pinnacles and heights of love, of adoration, of lust, of all the feelings and emotions built, fostered, and laden across skin, flesh, and bone. He’d give her anything: a thousand promises on his tongue and through his ribs, where lungs pooled hundreds of breaths across her body and anointed them into forged convictions. The steel of his might pulsed and pressed and crossed. The devotion, the ardor, the compassion welled into ichor and souls, everything uttered and even those left unsaid. He’d chase her through the weeds, the flames, the ocean, the broadest seas, until they were lapsed and laden together, an eternal knot of parallels – earth, fire, blades, the hereafter.
This race didn’t need a triumphant haze like all their other games; infernal boundaries tightening and drawing alongside. He tucked his mouth into her nape while she stuttered and assured, unfurled and raised all those other heights across his senses; the incessant need to drive, pierce, and pulse. A rumble of his prowess followed, something miniscule, a moan hidden and ghosted in feral platitudes, goading, needing, craving, wanting her to unfurl again before he could give way.
Locked around him only insisted his hips maneuvered in the same stead, deeper, harder, intending to overcome, overwhelm; each echoing elation a cajoling, enticing, lure further into the midst. He wasn’t without maneuvering amidst other senses, striving to bring her to heights, to abandon, one hand drawn to the inside of her thighs, curling towards where they merged and offering more sensations, the other steadfast and pulling her into him on each thrust, a tighter, vigorous motion amongst their connected bodies.
the ressurected sword
Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd
He'd give her anything in the same way that she lays herself bare for the taking, everything in her power and persuasion free for him to lay claim to. Evie had envisioned their honeymoon - and vague, faceless honeymoons in the years before him - and had always considered that the intimacy of it all would be a sweeping wonder. Experiencing it firsthand, however, is enough to make those notions seem pitiful, laughable, childish in comparison. For all the ways their bodies have come together over the years, here and now seems like the pinnacle of resonance, and even as his body drags her own further into the sweet ache of over-sensitivity she feels perfectly harmonious with him.
That hyper-sensitivity ensures further ends are not far off, especially with his clever, torturous fingers finding her clit and soaked folds. Each thrust jolts a faint whine from her throat instead of a slower, languorous chorus of moans. Her lips fall to his neck as his own does the same, biting errant marks across his trapezius and across his collarbone. Her fervent, heated breath sweeps out across his throat. "Together," she pleads, thighs shaking with both want and effort, "please. I want it." Crooning, begging, appealing. Confident he can shake her apart one more time, and wanting him to follow her over the cliff alongside her.
An artistic balance of swept over tides; where each rise was another promised crest, a brandished height, a welcome freefall. Explorations vast and once-conquered, restored and renewed, landscapes resolved into careful, sensuous vows, a bend in form and benediction. He could hear her plea, and any other time he might’ve laughed, teased, or taunted, but at these blinding, unwinding crossroads, there’d be no other concession but the simultaneous release – other binds, other convictions, already pressing away into their wake.
“All right,” he bent his face into her nape and conveyed, the rumble skimming over her skin, the insistent, incessant need clinging to every sense and semblance of his being. The thrusts drove faster, his fingers pulsed, quickened, and then contorted the lightest of air incantations – just enough to curve, coil, and curl minute vibrations against her – to drive her endlessly over, just as promised.
Then he too could unfurl and release with guttural groans and moans, mouth just below her ear, enough to echo, radiate, and reverberate the pleasure, the lack of restraint, the ravenous unwinding, back into her flesh and soul.
the ressurected sword
Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd
He sounds far more put together than she knows he is. Or perhaps, in contrast, she is so strung-out and high on pleasure that the differences between them are laughably distinct. He doesn't tip over until she does - and gods, how grateful she is for magic sometimes, fuck all that anti-Abandoned sentiment - but it's such a subtle difference in timing that his pleasure only elevates her own.
The come-down takes a while, Evie perched in Deimos' lap with thighs shaking and each huff of breath caressing his neck where she rests her cheek on his shoulder. An easy, languid embrace - until she tilts against him, urging him back down against the petal-filled bedsheets to lay over his chest.
"I think I'd call that a perfect start to our honeymoon," Evie murmurs into his chest, smiling as her hands find idle patterns on his pecs and arms. Far from the end to their first night, but they certainly need a short breather.
A reel of cacophonies pierce through and slate away everything else; he rarely gave himself over to anyone or anything but he’d take this and give in return until his heart and soul ceased. Thereafter they were an unfurling sentiment of wound forms and sensuous ichor, a rumble of laughter in the midst as his mouth moved languidly down the depths of her nape, riding out the rest of the bliss, before aligning on her shoulder, kissing the salt sheen.
Ultimately though, amidst the pleasure they end up falling back to the bed, petals stuck somewhere upon sweaty skin. He casually draped her over him, parting his legs so she’d fit along thighs or hips or wherever else was deemed comfortable and content; fingers immediately sliding across her arms, down the press of her spine. A low hum started in his throat, a distant rumble of agreement, snorting at the insinuation and not defying it whatsoever. “Mm. I recall we planned on doing other things,” as a means of a joke; ignoring the sudden rumble in his stomach (calling for predilections not inclined towards lust), for taking in the afterglow. They could have eternities here too.
the ressurected sword
Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd
Bodies go lax and languorous, sliding into more comfortable alignments and configurations, familiar and well-practiced. The thundering of her heart feels overwhelming even as her breaths begin to slow. Everything feels more. It feels like the wildness of magic, and her romantic heart could not have foreseen the sharper sides of hunger and possession that had unfurled in a moment always pictured as purely sweet and loving, for something primordial in her chest purrs at having staked her claim so thoroughly.
"They were just bumped down the list a little," she defends playfully, because the hunger caused by their exertion is a shared one. Lifting her head enough to settle both her hands beneath her chin, she watches him from her perch on his sternum, skin tingling pleasantly where his fingers trail idle patterns down her back. "Shower, then pancakes?" The heat of lust may be gone from her eyes, but it is replaced by a shroud of love just as strong, exuding contentment and peace.
His gaze was softer amidst the piercing glows, his heart light, his soul full; fingers beginning to intertwine around crimson locks. Idle touches and fragments of before; but so much more thereafter. “Of course,” he rumbled in accord, the bout of laughter threatening again as she leaned across, and he could take her all in once more; absorbed, taken into memory, bit by bit, moment by moment, to reflect and share a thousand times again. Something to hold and cherish as he did so often; with new cycles to instill over fractures – resplendence before melancholy.
Though her plan caused him to gaze along her head, eyes somewhat distant in mischievous thought. Showers would ultimately lead to other things, unless they were truly pressed for sating something other than their lust, and pancakes sounded like another peak of pinnacles. “Mm, but where are we putting swimming?”
the ressurected sword
Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd
Evie leans into his talented hands with a crooning sigh, utterly melted over his curves and edges as the pleasant sensation of having her hair played with soothes any lingering sparks of frenetic energy. It makes thinking a little harder, but Evie accepts that trade-off.
"Night swimming, or sunrise," she declares glibly. They could shower thirty times in the span of their honeymoon if necessary. There is something utterly delightful in being directionless and untethered; a complete break from their normally structured lives as Wardens.
Still, it's quite possible they'll get distracted if they shower together - loathe as she is to admit it - so Evie stirs and sits up to straddle Deimos' waist. The barest effort to begin actually moving. "How about I start on pancakes while you shower, and then we trade off?"
