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Character of the Season
Frail in body but dangerously quick of mind, Nikandr is the sort of character who proves that curiosity can be just as perilous as any weapon. A necromancer, inventor, and problem-solver with more ambition than self-preservation, Niki approaches the world like a puzzle box begging to be opened, even when what’s inside has teeth. Blunt, dry-witted, fiercely independent, and carrying a history best left partially buried, he has a knack for making even failure feel fascinating. Whether he’s raising the dead, moving across Caido to King's End, or experiencing a hangover for the first time, Nikandr brings a wonderfully strange spark to Caido, and we can’t wait to see what trouble his brilliant mind wanders into next.
Congratulations, Niki!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
OG Skinning provided by Kaons, with functionality and many custom plugins made by Neowulf!
"Your input, as always, is invaluable," Ever murmurs, trying for nonchalance, though the words catch somewhere between his dry wit and the sharp ache of her fangs in his memory. "Replicable results across multiple variables. Extended durations. Environmental controls." His mouth has gone dry.
By the time they’ve turned from the stall and his hand finds the small of her back again, Ever’s brain is calculating nothing at all. He leans in, just slightly, just enough for his hair to brush her temple, for his breath to stir beneath her ear. "I wish we could..." he begins, but the clever euphemism refuses to arrive.
His hand presses against her back, firmer now, as if holding her steady might keep him from falling apart entirely. "I wish we could test it right now," he whispers at last, voice low and uneven, before something cracks clean through him. His jaw tenses, and when he swallows, it’s with visible effort before he's shaking his head to do away with the metaphors. "I wish I could have you, right now."
"Don't you try to sweet talk me," Isla purrs, her playful smile threatening to become something that much more heated at the mere thought of extended durations and environmental controls. Still, it's with a soft but deep breath that she does her best to quell the fire in her blood, gently clearing her throat and turning back towards the marketplace. She's about to suggest finishing off with a sample of driftwood when suddenly Ever is leaning in towards her, his breath hot against her neck, lips lingering close enough to taste.
An imperceptible shiver runs down the length of Isla's spine, and she half turns towards the aviator, reaching up to brush a gentle hand across his cheek, as if to try to tease the tension from his jaw. "Right now?" she whispers. "In front of all these people? Perish the thought. If wishing isn't enough for you, I do happen to know a shortcut back towards my apartment. Because I want you right now too."
Ever’s breath hitches like something caught in his throat—like her offer is a gust of wind against a paper-thin structure he’s spent all day carefully assembling. His hands, steady by trade and necessity, now twitch faintly against her spine before they ease off altogether. The tension in his jaw doesn’t vanish, not with her hand brushing it, but shifts. Refocuses. He shifts closer—too close—before retreating half a step like his shoes have registered the mistake before his brain has. His chest rises, then falls too fast. "I—" he tries, voice hoarse. "I want to," he murmurs, words low and fraying as he glances down toward the pressure building at the front of his trousers, damning proof of just how accurate his statement is.
"But we’re supposed to be midway through stall four of eight," he mutters, as if saying it out loud might reinforce the boundaries. It doesn't, though, not with the way she’s looking at him. Not with the heat in his spine or the sudden, aching clarity that if they stroll all the way back to her apartment, at a pace he can manage, it’ll take too long. The tension will leak out of him like steam from a valve and he’ll go back to thinking instead of feeling and the impulsivity he recalls Isla being fond of will be drained from the moment.
His gaze flits around the market, searching for a lifeline, something—anything—and lands on a stall nearby. Clothes: racks and folds and, mercifully, a changing area screened off with thick canvas curtains. A glimmer of possibility edges into the chaos of his thoughts.
Turning slightly, he tilts his head toward Isla and lowers his voice to a whisper. "If you...picked something out," he says slowly, like he’s assembling the words as he goes, "and said I needed your help putting it on—" Everest was a terrible liar, but if Isla was willing to compromise her own moral standards about truthtelling, perhaps their research could continue.
"I can tell," Isla says, her words a whisper meant only for Ever, and though she doesn't touch him directly, she does sidle in front of him ever so slightly, as if to ensure that anyone walking past isn't immediately drawn to the clear signs of his arousal south of his waist. Still, his next comment has her rethinking matters - the last thing Isla wants to do is accidentally stomp all over his boundaries, and she glances back to take his hand, as if to lead him on to the next stall after all.
But his eyes are elsewhere, and as the Remedy follows his gaze she spots the clothing rack - and the heavy, curtained off changing area - she immediately understands where his mind is going. Biting back the sudden smirk that wants to bloom across her face (and the urge to raise her eyebrows comically at the aviator), instead she gives his hand a gentle squeeze and a subtle nod, meandering them towards the stall.
Isla is a very competent liar, though she normally only uses her powers for good. Today, though, it's selfish desire that has her selecting something strappy and complicated looking, and she even has the audacity to murmur to the stall owner about Everest coming to assist her with putting it on before heading to the thick curtains, drawing them back and stepping inside.
05-30-2025, 07:47 PM (This post was last modified: 05-30-2025, 07:48 PM by Odd.)
I think I can manage being collateral damage
The curtain sways shut behind him, muffling the marketplace into a distant hum, and for a split second Everest just stands there, the fabric still rustling at his back, his eyes fixed on Isla's silhouette in the dimmed light
Then his hand reaches for Isla’s waist as if drawn by some unspoken equation, and he pulls her to him with a breathless precision that’s all need and no polish. Their bodies meet in a rush of heat and tension, and he exhales against her skin like he’s been holding that breath for hours. His fingers find the small of her back and grip there, not rough but deliberate, anchoring himself to her. "You—" he starts, then falters. His voice comes low and rough. "I don’t want to rush, but," he says quietly, each word measured like it’s part of an experiment he’s still calibrating. "But we’re in a market stall. With a curtain." His voice hitches faintly on the last word, a kind of horrified wonder laced through the syllables.
The contradiction of it all—the way his body is thrumming with need while his mind runs a dozen environmental variables—is almost dizzying. But it’s Isla. Isla. And somehow that makes it easier to find centre. "I know this isn't the first time," he murmurs. "But it almost feels like it for me." He tilts his head, brushing his mouth against her jaw—not a kiss, not yet, just a point of contact. A confirmation.
"But I want you," he adds, voice catching slightly as he pulls her against him. "Even if it’s just...five minutes. Behind a curtain. It’s not the test I would’ve designed, but I’m willing to proceed under non-standard conditions." His lips raise, ghosting above hers. "If you are."
Isla has just enough time to set the outfit on a hook where its hanger makes a convincing little clinking noise, before Ever is reaching for her and everything else melts needlessly into the background. Huffing out a soft breath as their bodies meet - all too aware of the hard press of his cock against her through their clothes, might she add - she steadies herself with one arm curling around his neck, fingers threading gently through the back of his hair, while the other drifts down his chest towards his belt as if on a quest of its own.
"I think the location makes speed quite necessary in this case," she agrees, her voice barely above a whisper, the words trickling against the shell of his ear as his lips brush the curve of her jaw. "Gods, Ever..." He pulls her closer, muttering about test designs and conditions, and eventually she has to look up at him as if intending to silence him with her lips. "I want you," she confirms. "Right now. There will be time to go slow later."
Leaning in, then, as if afraid of any last minute protests - and fully intending to steal them from his lips if there are - Isla kisses him slow and hard, shifting in his arms just enough to unbuckle his belt and to hitch up her dress as she goes.
Ever nods, though it’s less a response and more a reflex—something his body does as her voice curls through him like a ribbon of heat. The moment is all touch and texture, too fast and too much and still not enough. His fingers move automatically, precise and trembling, drawing her dress upward in loose folds and gathering the fabric into one hand. The other slips low, fitting perfectly to the swell of her ass, and the breath he exhales against her lips is half-sigh, half-groan, the sound of logic crumpling.
He's not thinking, at least, not the way he usually does. Not in terms of safety protocols or ideal environments or whether this qualifies as proper field conditions. It’s just Isla—her kiss, her voice, the warm press of her against the stiff outline of his cock that has his thoughts sparking out like frayed wires.
Her hands are already at his belt, and trusting her to finish what she started, Ever fumbles just enough to tug the waistband of his pants lower, baring himself to the cool, curtained air. Somewhere in the periphery, he registers the low clatter of something being knocked over—a hanger maybe, or a folded sign—but he doesn't stop. His hand slips free from Isla’s dress just long enough to reach back, sweeping aside a decorative card from the top of a squat wooden log meant for display, revealing a flat-enough surface underneath.
He takes a few careful steps backward, never letting go of her waist. Then he sits, breath unsteady, gaze fixed on her like he might unravel otherwise.
Isla has the sense - barely - to offer a playful shhhhh that's half-hissed against Ever's lips as something clatters and falls. They've got to be quick and they've got to be quiet, and gods if that doesn't send a lusty thrill through her at the prospect of it. Having unbuckled the aviator's belt and with her dress carefully bunched in one of his hands, the Remedy is free to manoeuvre herself as Ever sits against only the gods know what (she's neither been looking and nor does she care).
Instead, gasping a soft kiss against his lips and reaching down to roughly tug her underwear to one side, she shifts to half sit astride him. He'll find her hot and wet and wanting already, and as she sinks down onto the hard length of his cock, she stifles her moan into little more than a whimper into his mouth, relishing the feel of him inside her as if it really is the first time.
Which - it might not be - but suffice to say it's now been a while for them both.
With no time for sweet nothings and not wanting to risk speaking besides, in case volume gets the better of her, Isla rolls her hips - slow and hard - against Ever, as if to enjoy at least this snapshot of what will be quick and altogether fumbling compared to what they might otherwise get up to.
Everest is already fighting to stay quiet when she gasps that kiss against his mouth, but nothing—nothing—prepares him for the sensation of her sinking down onto him without preamble, wet and ready and tight around him in a way that wrecks every coherent thought he might’ve had left.
His gasp is muffled against her shoulder, a fractured thing, half-moan, half-whimper, and his hands fly to her hips as though drawn there by instinct. Fingers dig into her through the dress, clinging and guiding, not out of dominance but necessity, as if anchoring himself to her might slow the way his mind is unravelling. He tries—gods, he tries—to match the roll of her hips, but it’s all happening too fast, the slick, unhurried grind of her body against his turning every synapse to static.
It's like hunger remembered too late. Like he’s been starving for her and only now understands just how bad it’s been. And she’s here, warm and flush and open around him, the most perfect pressure, the most precise pleasure, and he doesn’t know how he ever went without this. "Isla—" he manages, his breath stumbling out against the curve of her neck, but whatever he’d meant to say is immediately lost. His head drops forward, forehead resting between her collarbones, the rise and fall of her breasts brushing against his cheeks. One hand slips to her thigh, splaying wide, the other still locked around her waist.
He tries again, whispering hoarsely, "You feel—" but it’s no use. Her hips roll again and the words are gone. Just a strangled, choked-off sound left in their place as his lips part against her skin, utterly undone.
Unsure how they're ever meant to get up and walk out after this - how they're supposed to act as if this isn't what Isla would rather be doing for the rest of the seasonweek day, the Remedy throws herself into the here and now, relishing the way Ever's hands find her hips and the hot flutter of his breath against her skin. Letting her fingers curl into the back of his hair, as if she's been wanting to run her fingers through it for weeks (she has), it's almost impossible to keep her moan caged in her throat, but fuck if she just about manages it.
"I know," she whispers; not a boast but an agreement, because she feels it too, even as the roll and grind of her hips grows faster. The confined space and the pressure of time, of keeping quiet, of keeping this secret, will make it quite the feat for her to get herself off, but gods if she doesn't care right now. "Cum for me," she breathes against the shell of Ever's ear, fingers tightening in his hair, "and I'll be screaming your name later."
Everest doesn’t stand a chance. Not when Isla moves like that—each roll of her hips dragging another ragged sound from his throat, each shift of her weight causing his grip to tighten, to lock around her like if he lets go he’ll fall right through the world. It’s too much; she’s too much. Perfect friction, perfect pressure, and the low rasp of her voice in his ear promising screams he never would have thought he'd be desperate to covet.
Her command lands like flint in the hollow of his spine, a bright snap of heat and instinct that makes his hips buck up beneath her with sudden urgency, chasing every grind of hers with a thrust of his own. It’s messy and desperate, a quiet staccato of movement as his cock pulses inside her, and gods but he’s close—his entire body trembling under the weight of restraint and release knotted too tightly together.
But even now—especially now—he wants her to come with him.
One hand claws at the fabric bunched around her waist, gripping tight as she sinks down on him again. The other slips up, shaking with restraint, and curls against her spine, coaxing her forward with a whispered, "Turn around."
If she listens—if she pivots as he’s asking—she’ll find herself staring into a tarnished vanity mirror hung crookedly behind the curtain. Not a perfect reflection, but enough to see the flush on her cheeks, the way he's buried inside of her.
Ever’s breath stutters as he drinks in the sight, his eyes glassy with need. His hand doesn't hesitate. The moment she’s facing forward, he fists her dress higher and slips beneath it, fingers dragging past the top of her underwear to press his fingertip against her clit. He curses under his breath at the feel of her, his hand moving with careful, reverent pressure, trying—needing—to coax her over with him. And if he does—if she starts to come undone—he’s lost. The sight of her like that, the feel of her around his cock and beneath his fingers, will shatter what fragile control he has left.
Biting back a sharp moan as Ever's hips suddenly snap up, burying his cock even more deeply within her, Isla forces herself to keep her breath quiet and steady, though the way her hand drops to clutch at the fabric of his shirt is enough of a giveaway that the restraint is a barely-there thing. And it threatens to shatter entirely at his sudden, whispered command - turn around - and her body is already moving before her mind ever fully comprehends the instruction.
Suddenly the aviator's strong arms are around her, clever fingers stroking against her clit, and if that sudden explosion of sensation isn't enough to drag her teetering towards the edge of climax, the sight of them in the tarnished and crookedly hung mirror absolutely seals the deal. "Gods," she hisses under her breath, grinding back against him hard. "Gods, I'm gonna--" Hiccuping in a breath as Ever's next thrust knocks loose something electric and burning and alive inside her, Isla cums with back of her hand pressed against her parted lips as if to contain the praise she wants to cry out for him.
Shuddering out a breath, then another, near silent with each crest and pulse of her orgasm, nevertheless something feral in her wants to reach out and ball her fist into the thick curtains, even at the risk of yanking them down completely. There aren't words for how much she's wanted and needed this, since the moment out on the isles when it felt as if what they'd had was slipping permanently away through her fingers. And whether it feels like the first time or the hundredth time, gods but she loves Ever recklessly for it.
Ever barely hears her warning—just the start of a gasp, the gods, the ragged edge of her voice as her body begins to shudder above him—and it's enough to split him wide open. Pleasure slams through him like a snapped cable, all tension and fire and release. His arms wrap tightly around her, one hand still pressed between her thighs, the other banded across her stomach, trying to anchor himself to something—anything—as his body convulses with each wave.
He buries his face against her back, into the space between her shoulders where her dress has slipped low, and moans against her skin, muffled and raw. The sound is torn from somewhere deep, entirely unpractised, as if his body is still learning how to feel this much without splintering apart.
His hips twitch helplessly beneath hers, cock pulsing deep inside her as he cums hard, drawn under by the feel of her clenching around him, by the faint scent of her hair, by the mirrored image that still burns into his mind. It’s too much and not enough, every nerve ending fired to full capacity and still reaching.
And even as his orgasm begins to ebb, he clings to her—not possessively, but like he needs her there to remember who he is. His breath is hot and erratic against her spine, and he can’t find words just yet. Only a soft, choked whisper of her name.
Isla has to remind herself not to gasp for breath in those weightless few seconds afterwards, her hand dropping to rest atop Ever's forearm, her mind utterly wrecked with the force of the pleasure he's dragged from her. Slowly she becomes aware of the sound of the marketplace all around them, the call of merchants, the creak of the stalls, the shuffle of footsteps, though it all feels perilously far away. Shivering out a near silent laugh and glancing over her shoulder where Ever is still trying to catch his breath, her fingers brush against the back of his hand as if to persuade him to - very carefully - loosen his grip on her.
Only when she can trust her feet to hold her weight does she slide off his lap, adusting her dress so it doesn't look so very obviously wrinkled from being balled up in Ever's fist, swallowing hard and turning to face him. Still helplessly flushed, it's going to take another couple of minutes before she's anywhere near presentable enough to pull off casually overheated (despite being an Ancient who is immune to such things), but she does grab for the outfit she's snagged, arranging it so it looks as if it has been tried on.
"This is coming home with me," she announces of said outfit, however it might look or fit when she eventually does make the time to wear it.
