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!
Aftershocks and afterglow: she is awash in both, her body vibrating, her face alight, the flush of her cheeks a radiant ruby as she basks in the final waves of her release. Each kiss he gives is a fiery reminder, a static shock, a promise. Head thrown back and eyes pulled closed, she purrs against his gentle ministrations, all the tension of her body washed away in the bath.
By the time he reaches her nape her hands have returned to his strong face, cupping cheeks and caressing hair in an abundance of ardor. The mouth on her ear elicits another gasp, one that is swiftly swallowed by his lips. Toes curling as her body ignites again, Amalia accept the kisses greedily, her fingers gripping among the locks of hair as she presses back, needing and wanting more.
He lifts her up into his lap, and though she shifts her hips to help she does not release her hold upon him, body following and pressing against his. She is soft curves and hard angles yet she fits against him as though she were made for it, legs wrapping comfortably around his waist, arms slipping tightly over his shoulders, mouth buried into the crook of his neck. She can feel him between them, his desire for her: it lights an even brighter fire, inspires a hunger only be can quell.
Lips trace hungrily to his ear, pulling the lobe gently between her teeth. "What do you want, my Deimos?" The heat of her breath trails up the shell of it; her hips press suggestively against his own, intentions clear in the warmth of her groin.
Carnal impressions, feral interludes, not a cataclysm but a portending herald, a rapacious edge still lingering between unwavering caresses and ardor. He was still ignited, still emboldened, wild tracings for her, across her, in slow, leisurely scrawls, no less when she began to return the favor. A subtle, rumbling purr resounded and ricocheted from the mighty plains of his chest, as her hands entangled into wild locks, pressed against his cheeks – compelling, demanding, enticing, and everywhere else in between. A breathless shudder crooned and fumed, spoken and given oaths on the contorted sighs, plumes of passion and desire, swallowing down on her gasps, taking them all for himself. If it was greedy, he didn’t shy away from the flaws or defects. If it was seditious, he didn’t recoil from the irreverence. He would take and give for as long as she permitted, allowed him to devour.
But it was a mutual conflagration as she fit her form amongst and amidst his. Muscles emitted a wealth of shudders and shivers where they wrapped and touched and stoked, reaching for softness, for hardened angles, for everything. His hands slid down, cupping around ribs, skimming along her spine, any other machinations, calculations, or Machiavellian contributions entirely gone. His mind was full of her and her alone, instinctual, inherent movements and motions, fervency pressing, desire rising, wanting and craving, yearning and longing. A moan passed over his lips, rushed out of his mouth, as hers hastened along his neck, another tremble and contortion in his figure.
The beast bowed his head to continue ministrations against the shell of her ear, teeth and tongue imploring, tugging, teasing, laughing when she did the same. A portion of him wanted to continue his taunting onslaught, never too far away from mischief, but she moved against him, and his breath hitched; the avaricious edges growling, persistent, pursuing. “You,” was just a mere whisper, outlined along her ear, on the fringes of her neck, the answer always the same. His hands sketched down towards her hips, then towards his groin – only to contort and create a protective sheath – before they returned to her softness; an arch, a lift in his hips, his intentions explicit, succinct.
He finds the shell of her ear again, causing her to shudder in wild delight, eyes falling closed, a smile on her lips. You - the only desire, the only demand, sending shivers down her spine. Doesn't he know he could have anything, anyone, could entice and cajole and take and demand? That she would give him the world if he asked it, so long as he kept the fire lit within her soul.
"I'm yours," she whispers, sings, attests, an aria of promise in her alto tone. "All yours. And you're mine."
And then the union, her body already slick and eager, her hips sliding down to accept him with a gasp and a moan. Clawed fingers bite into his shoulders; the lilac in her hair is wild and alive, harmless flame blossoming like a Halo on her head. There is no release of his body as she starts to move; she tucks her face into his nape, rising and falling upon his length, skin on skin on skin. Slowly, at first, to ignite his desire, every beat of her heart a hymn: yours and yours and yours.
The Reaper already had his world domination days, where he and his comrades, his allies, spread their vengeance from spirals of summits and chilling draughts. He’d already had his war-torn vehemence soaked in his flesh, in his bones, in his marrow, there until his last breath, incapable of being erased. He’d already had chance after chance, opportunity after opportunity, to remain as a detached, forlorn soul, walking the earth with his blood-soaked, stained, and tainted entity. He’d already had instances of absolute nothingness, where the melancholy, anguished reaches stuck like thorns, like nettles, like scars, like nooses, carrying them across his back, along his neck, until he could no longer forge on. He’d already had instances of love, fleeting and gone, because he hadn’t deserved any more than that – a touch, a fragment, a taste, before even the rain could no longer stay with him.
But here and now, he was allowed, permitted, to grasp those entanglements of ardor, devotion, and passion again – sizzling on his tongue, smoldering in his lungs, grasping and clenching at his heart. He would not ask for more than she was willing to give; but it would never be the earth, the moon, or the stars. She was more than enough.
Eyes slid to hooded affects, a hitch in his breath at her proclamation, something he’d known, always known, between their whispered anthems and solidified vows. But to hear it again almost undid him, along his ribs, within his chest. “Yours,” a grumble, his mouth dipping along her jaw, scalding, smoldering, lips following angles, dropping along her nape. “Mine,” a recitation, a refrain, as if his mind could do nothing else than echo the same convictions.
Then there was nothing but them; her fingers digging into his shoulder as she slid down upon him, a feral growl emitted from the ethers of his figure, alive and emboldened, while they both started to move, a cadence, a rhythm in the roll of hips and the feverish plunge of bodies. The fact that she began slower, a steady build instead of familiar impulsivity and impatience, caused a laugh to erupt, his teeth intending to skim along her throat while they conducted a rising opus, flame, and magnitude. No need to ignite, provoke, or kindle his desire; it was there, following, molding, contorting, coiling with hers, hands gripping her hips, pulling, deeper and deeper still, moans and pants no longer so hushed, the heated savoring reverberating, devouring, consuming.
Slowly at first, all her ardor focused on his pleasure, her measures of impatience and reckless abandon stifled by the recent release, the still shivering shockwaves. Head thrown back for his teeth to explore she lets him tease and taunt her, grinning in response to his laugh, an eyebrow raised in challenge.
Feigning innocence, Amalia turns hooded black eyes back down to her lover. "What's the matter? Too fast for you?" Sparkling with teasing, mischievous innocence, she slows her pace even further. Languid and luxurious the girl lowers herself, letting him fill her to completion in taunting slow motion, daring him to ask for more.
Another game; even in the haze of lust and satisfaction. The look on her face immediately goaded and provoked, an instigation of a challenge, a dare, a summoning of his more juvenile tactics. His snicker broadened, just enough for her to see the incoming dominion and scheming, before the rumble of his growls reverberated purposefully against the smooth junctures of her throat, along the dips and curves where her neck met her shoulder. His lips pressed, light, airy, mere echoes of his groans and moans, sliding along her skin, while her movements slowed. Two could play within those antics; his only answer in the form of a Cheshire grin.
He wasn’t even truly certain which angle they were contorting along, the motivation lost somewhere between coiled forms and the press, the relish, the savoring – his was perhaps to bring her to satisfaction again – hers might’ve been simply to taunt. The guess was gone as quickly as the conflagration began, as he purposefully stifled his own hips, long, lingering draws and strokes, a smoldering, brimming, rise and fall. One hand left her side, to purposefully slide upon the inside of her thighs, fingers skimming, waiting to see who would demand and plead first.
Challenges made, accepted, and thoroughly countered: it's a time honored game, and one he always wins. Impatient and irrational she stands no chance; if he does not respond with passion it falls for her to do so, desire erupting in a heart groan as his lips trace down her neck.
Distracted from her taunting by the simple pleasure of his touch, Amalia lets out another moan as she rises up again. Without much thought the page picks up again, her desire obvious in the sway of her hips, the way her breath hitches in gasps. More than anything she wants to make him feel good, and her body begs him to allow it, to be used to bring him to the edge and careening in free-fall off.
It doesn't hurt that his hand is on her inner thigh - well, doesn't hurt his cause. For her it is just another distraction from her game, another reason for her hands to tighten on his shoulder. She bows her head and hides her neck, instead pressing her face to his, nose alongside nose, lips gracing and nipping upon his as she growls her lust low in her chest.
The goading was made in impish parameters, but also selfless bestowals and grants – wanting her to fall apart first, wanting her to have the pleasure, the wild unwinding of forms, before himself. For a being who’d spent much of his first like simply taking: lives, kingdoms, bloodshed, to those he cherished and loved, he was all the more devoted to granting, to giving, to chasing down ramparts and benedictions for their benefit. Hers was all the more justified, harpooning, hovering passion and desire, his moans echoing alongside hers, intertwined fragments of heated, carnal design.
But for all his control, he could feel it faltering, flickering, curling, coiling, a rampant edge basking and brimming from within. He gave no thought to slow her down now, rising and following on their smoldering fringes, hooded gaze closing, reeling on feeling, a shudder, a shiver, revolving and reverberating through his form. With her head bowed, neck tucked away, he couldn’t reach to savor, to pluck more strings, to offer more and more and more, slipping a growl through his chest.
Except her face came to his, and the sigh, the pants, the groans bounded, stroked, and caressed her skin instead, On each thrust his mouth rose to her lips, a breathless, wanton warning contorting in his chest, in his hooded gaze; his hand inching along her thigh once more, tiny circles skimming, daring her to go before him.
Dropping into his embrace and cresting like a wave; she rises and falls to the beat of her heart, the strength of their desire both fire and fuel. Closer and closer to breaking again and never more willing to be shattered apart, she presses her hips into his hand, his groin, his cock, groaning low as stimulation leaves her dizzy and needing more.
She's close again, brought to the precipice by his expertise, but she doesn't want to jump off alone. Lips on lips and hips on hips, she pulls away just long enough to meet his deep gaze with her own flint and fire. "Come with me," the Shield demands, mouth and mind and body and soul all working together to command her desire. She's about to fall apart again, whether he comes with her or not; but oh, how sweet it is, to shatter in tandem on that glorious shore.
All the more rapacious, greedy, and giving, conflicted desires unwinding to brim, to quell, to brew in steady, demanding implications: the presses rapturously indicative that they were both closing in fast. Wanton and breathless and compelled, drawing conflagrations deeper, the shudders etching their way down his spine, his eyes only lifting to hers as she pulled away, as he leaned in, forward, chased, deigned to follow. The command caused a widening of his piercing gaze, as if the thought had never been strung together between his offerings and their games. An agreement, an accordance, made on fuming, pluming sighs and nods, incapable of any speech.
But he was insistent as his unfurling, unwinding, beckoned and called; fingers softly stroking her core, hips now a restless, fervent, ardent movement, control a long-lost opus, gone somewhere in the midst of their sinuous throng. Meant for simultaneous release, his came on an extended shiver, a tremble of backbones, muscles, and pleasure, a howl, a grumble, a roar, a moan, swallowed by her mouth upon his, devoured and consumed just the same.
No audible response, but action speaks louder. She can feel his assent in the shift of his hips, the way his fingers circle her greedily, stimulating her pleasure, pressing to her core. Toes curl beneath her as she rises and falls, clinging to him, needing him, pulling him closer and closer and closer to the edge, ready to follow him off that cliff-
His release is a melody, and the final note to her own opus. The moans are swallowed by their lips, tongues embattled, mouths heady and hot as they devour one another and yearn for more. She can feel the tension as she contracts around him, her body pulled taut, vibrating like a string. Shivering, shuddering, she rides the wave of pleasure up to its crest, clinging to his shoulders and back and mouth and cock.
Only when it ends does Amalia relax. Slumping down in Deimos' arms, the Shield lets her head drop to his shoulder, forehead pressed against his skin. There is sweat on her body from the exertion as well as the humidity of the room; she can taste the salt that is mirrored on him as she presses soft kisses to his neck, too satisfied to move.
She followed as promised; each one consuming the other, no flames or ardency quite extinguished. Clung to and taken in along each shudder and shiver, until undulations finally ceased, and they were simply left pressed – he was breathless for a few moments more, chest reverberating until his heartbeat returned to its normal cadence (the ardor for her). Boneless in the afterglow, he nearly snorted as he glanced upwards at the bizarre water incantations he’d managed to unfurl around them – permitting it to cease and desist in a matter of moments.
As she relaxed upon him, he simply modified their positions, not releasing, not letting go, but twisting and turning so he could lean against the back of the tub, support them both. His hands traced away from her thighs, soft teases back up along her hips, and then along her spine, idle and dulcet all the same. His eyes meant to survey the damage done, or whatever they’d forgotten in the intervals, brief tremors and shudders under her ministrations along his neck. If she was content he had no intention of placing her elsewhere, a light chuckle broadening from his throat. “So much for the bath.” A familiar pattern and routine for them; but he made no comment on it. He shook his head, only leaning forward and down to press a kiss against her gilded hairline, while idle incantations shifted, changed the water – as if it was being turned over, and flipped, minuscule, minute movements, like the slightest rush of a current, before it was warm and clean again.
As the last strains of pleasure die away Amalia leans into Deimos' neck, basking in his touch. She is content to stay where she is for as long as she can; no part of her longs to reinvite the world outside this hallowed embrace. If she could be here forever she would stay, safe and captured and free of the fear that that looms above their daily life, the strain of failure and loss.
The hands on her back elicit a pur, her kisses trailing languidly over his collar and shoulder until she slips down, just a little, just enough to press her cheek against his chest and hear the beating of his heart. It isn't until the water, clean and warm, washes over her body that Amalia finally draws away, looking down on her lover with warm flushed cheeks and eyes hooded by pleased exhaustion.
These opportunities were rare and fleeting, between backdrops of treachery, disaster, loss, and ruin, stretches of animosity, and the foreboding filaments of what was to come next. Other than a contented sigh, and his hands skimming over her skin, he had no intention of moving, sinking into the warmth, the ardor, the refrains for as long as they were willing. To linger in the moment, instead of outside its gone vestiges and ether, or craving it for later when everything dissipated: the here and now, the present sanctity, the devoted sanctum they’d created and contorted for themselves. Something to cherish, something to savor, something to hold – because for multiple lives such things had been an illusion.
But not in these instances, where she was real and whole and tangible, not in these breathtaking, poignant tangibles. He could stay there for an eternity and not mind, taken completely in by stars and suns. A pleasant rumble echoed and bounded from his throat, from his chest, as she slid her way down, and only when she attempted to draw away did his gaze rivet back to hers – hands remaining along soft skin and backbone, not permitting an escape. The Sword stayed perfectly still, save for the tilt of his head, the curiosity in his stare resounding along the arch of his brow, waiting for a break in the silence. She added naught, and he arched, lifting his hands to the back of her head, following through until fingers enclosed over her cheeks, holding her with calloused palms. Deimos leaned forward, brow pressing upon hers, before his mouth, his lips, traced billows of air, fire, and fervor over her mouth. “I love you,” again and again and again, an anthem, a promise, a vow he’d let her hear for eternity.
