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!
He asks and she delivers, shivering under his ministrations, soft gasps and brazen mewls pealing from her coral lips. He knows the notes to play upon her, the ways to make her sing; Amalia arches, a bow, a cello, low soft moans in her smoky alto filling the space where hethey live. Sinful and succulent he traces the curves of her body, making each nerve and sinew sing, thoughts of doubt and fears for the world chased away by the heat of his tongue. Here, in this space, the girl is safe; here her shoulders do not ache from the weight of mountainous insecurities, the trials and failures and glaring inadequacies that fester and boil inside her mind.
He is her lighthouse, her bastion, her haven, and she did not realize just how much she needed this respite from the storm. Fluid and flagrant she eases into him, letting her brain concede to her body, letting baser urges change her from Shield of Safrin to simply his. His scorching tongue, his searing kisses, the way he plays along her core; it makes her figure shudder and shiver, completion rising closer and closer to the surface of her soul. Long nails tangle in the basket, tearing a little as she grasps and gasps, her hips rising up, sweat on her sternum, dark eyes closed in rapturous delight. "Deimos," she murmurs, howls, prays, sings into the sinful air as her toes curl and her body shakes. "Please, I want... to feel you-"
And her hands reach down to try and tug him back up to her, wanting him, needing him to fill her completely, to push away her lingering darkness and ride with her into the sun.
These were not the songs of sadness or despondency, these were not the tidal waves of broken, dispirited things. Misery had no place here, not in the scintillating sketches of gasps and moans, not in the graceful, wanton arches of backs and spines, not in the declarations, the begging, the pleading, the rapture and reverie. Within and along this threshold, they were coiled, contorted things, horizons and halcyon sparks, drawn within the moments of interludes and sanctuaries, havens and refuges in one another, instead of the darker presses of the world beyond windows and responsibilities. A respite, a repose, desires instead of depravities, sedition instead of woe, release instead of distortions and entanglements. The only thing gnarled seemed to be her hands clutching at blankets, a sizzling chuckle from his throat following her movements, her motions, pressing teeth and tongue again at sensitive skin, a molten touch, a blinding inferno, intending to send her over the edge. He wanted her descending, reeling, delighting, echoing and bounding; free to scream away the torment and agonies of their constant bombardments and upheavals, permitted to climb in ecstasy, to plummet in pleasure. Yours and yours and yours was the embodiment and inherent measures, obliging, giving, taking, encouraging the sun’s rays to dazzle, to spark, to incense over walls and canvases, an outcry, a shuddering, a trembling benediction curved, then unraveled, by their nerves, by their inclinations, by their needs, by their ardent crusades.
At her murmurs and howls, feverish, singsong measures into the ether, he had half a mind to continue his taunting, his teasing, playing her out, plucking each and every string until her tunes were ravished and glorified. She must’ve been close, the signs in her gasps, in her grasps, in the rise of her hips and the salt on her flesh; she shook, and he encouraged her to bask, to fall apart, rendered boneless in his grasp.
But her hands were pleading, entreating; he followed their motions on an unwinding, almost serpentine, sinuous dedication, meandering on the depictions he’d scorched before. His head dropped and mouth scalded on her navel, tongue dipping, teeth snatching, fingers splayed on her ribs, as he worshipped, as he exalted, venerated, and honored. Her figure was the earth, the moon, and the stars, and he climbed and climbed until he’d thought to spin and dedicate his mouth to every one of the constellations and galaxies: her breasts, her shoulders, her nape, before rising, rising, rising, hovering over her form, her name a searing, simmering refrain on his lips. Only thereafter did one of his hands emit their familiar gilded glow, creating the customary sheath, sliding it upon himself; before his mouth found hers again, a gasp, a groan, bounding and billowing upon skin as he coordinated their connection.
He stops and leaves her on the cusp, terrible disappointment and wonderful anticipation sparking through her like electricity as his lips meander up her body, hands on her skin, mouth on her nerves. She does not slow her incessant pawing, coaxing and begging him to travel upward while simultaneously enjoying each teasing moment, her soul that much more ready with every gasped breath. Hungry and eager she grabs and caresses, palms splaying out over shoulders and back, slinking down slowly to capture his ribs as he comes more and more into her reach. Teeth on her breasts, breath on her nape; each one incites a different reaction, passion and ardor and pleasure and pleading until at last he is in her grasp, and her hands slip down upon his chest, eyes like stone sinking into blue and falling, falling, falling.
And then rising- rising up to meet him with a deliberate arch of her back, hips aligning and knees drawn up as she invites him deep into her core. Her fingers are back upon his hair, his neck, his back, anything she can grab to bring him closer as her tongue delves deep into his mouth, hungry, starving, needy and ravenous, pleading for distraction from the doubts in her mind. Already close to her completion she rides his rhythm with steady hips, her long leg wrapping tight around him to keep close contact between their skin. With everything that has been happening of late she needs this, needs him, the intimacy of physicality, the trust in another to take care of her desires, the wanton and ravenous lust. His name is a prayer as she reaches her crescendo, body pulling tight as a bow; it is a hymn, an anthem, as she crashes down from it, riding waves of pleasure within his embrace.
The ruse and taunting were only there for mere moments, then played out on rhythms, on scales, on desire, ardor, and pleasure; coaxing on each twist and turn of his hips. They were wanton things, much less generals and bakers, and more scintillating forces, pressed together in their feral, savage needs, in their gasping reels, in their gaps and moans. Here, they were not worthless or failures. Here, they were not broken, bent, or damned. His throat barbed a croon from the rumbles of his chest as her fingers splayed across undulating muscles, a song for her and only her, no battle minstrels, no war outcries, no bellowing howls, no silent well, tucked away and reticent. Movements and motions were for her, for her, for her, tongue inciting an anthem behind their teeth, breath rushed and irreverent, a sibilance as her leg hooked around his back and urged him closer. He wanted her unleashed, without consternation, without trepidation, without all the other nuances and sentiments miring and muddling her sights – drowned in ecstasy, in contentment, away and away from the crashing world outside those doors. She arched and he followed, ravenous, rapacious, greedy, and acquisitive, mercenary emblems in the heat of their infernos – when his lips were not scorching on her mouth, they trailed down her nape, behind her ear, hot, infernal breath billowing and grasping, an echo of her name like prayers he’d rarely spoken or uttered. They were plumes and sighs and lust along begging, pleading intervals, and Deimos waited until her figure was drawn and taut, until she crashed, until the embers of her igniting seared, simmered, and smoldered, taking her psalms, her paeans, played out their crescendos, their waves, their crashing tides. He wanted her scorched, set aflame, ready to ignite the world on the alms of her convictions, her vows, her oaths.
Then his senses were immersed in the storm, a guttural groan smothered and hissing in the gilded strands tucked against her neck, in the heated, glorified weight of the world, released and unraveled, a shudder in potent, powerful brawn. Sentiments overrun on the beacons of satisfaction, his lips chased her down once more, a chuckle immersed in unsung accolades, kisses running down the length of her throat as their breaths rushed and chests expanded. He hovered over her once more, a curious tilt to his head, hooded gaze taking her in, staring into sable and black and nothing like voids or abysses at all, but evening skies and their illusive enigmas. Then he dipped again, tongue sweeping along the salt at her breasts, following down again when idle curiosity took him, when the promise of more beckoned and beat at him. The fiend returned to her hip, where unknown scars stood out, and he found he craved their story, just as much as she’d strived to enamor his – all the lines, all the brutalities, all the tales of survival. “How did you acquire these?” He deliberately inhaled, then exhaled across their expanse, a tickle, a torment, a tease over ravished skin, beard purposefully bristling along flesh.
She gasps and purrs as he drops down into her, his mouth on her neck, arcing back up into his own crescendo, hands and lips and legs and skin welcoming him int the haze of bliss. Long fingers curl indulgently in his hair, dancing lightly along the shell of his ear as he shudders his completion, enamored and inflamed. Feel good? she wants to ask, but her voice comes out as nothing more than a rumbling hum, a purr against his skin. Feel good is already said, an unspoken comment in the heat of their actions; love you exists in the spaces that no longer exist between their forms. There is no need for words, in this time of silent aftershocks. Everything she wants to say to him she has already gasped and sang.
In the afterglow of her crashing release her breath begins to slow and deepen, water lapping on a distant shore, relaxed and gentle, steady and warm, lazy as she traces scars and symbols down his spine, her fingers floating upward as he travels down her curves. A pause at her hip (more, more? she could take more, take it all) to rumble a question causes Amalia to lift her head, rising up on bony elbows as though to remind herself of the mark in question. "Mmm?" she murmurs, hands still gently caressing locks of his wild hair. The scar is a distinctive one, arcing electric from hip to ankle, silver slivers on her olive skin. "From the lightning storm. When we rescued Ashetta." Better days, and worse ones, too. There is no quantifying when life goes well, not anymore. There are only moments for them to enjoy, and she does not want to give this one up yet.
Basking in contentment, in satisfaction, he reaped the benefits of her singsong, intending on escorting and kindling another inferno. Before then though, her hands were in his mane, in long, likely wild tassels, stirring more rumbles and croons, a growl beneath the beats of his feral, thawing heart; voices barely more than breathless whims, conveying anything and everything between skin and molten flames; incandescent desires in the coils and raptures of the sun. His devotion was endless as the sea, as the mountains, as the rising heights of the sky, granted and given time and time again. The lazy haze drawn over their figures was hardly familiar, tethered peace they’d carved for themselves, and he was hesitant to let it go, to set it off into the rest of the day – savoring the opportunities they had (greedy predilections set aside; but an avaricious plunge was not). The beast repaid her skimming motions along devil’s backbones and fiend’s spines, over scars, over tattoos, with an irreverent hiss, with a tremble, a shudder, in his figure, never receding from her orbit, lingering in her pull.
His mouth does the same, toying and taunting, listening as she rose up on her elbows, as she unfolded notions of new scars. He tilted his head, studying, examining, her frame beginning to become another with tales of woe, tribulations, and trials along its roots, fortifications collected in survival and perseverance. Why she’d be out in a lightning storm was beyond him, but he didn’t question it – he’d committed enough asinine endeavors and exploits in his two lives to understand and comprehend motivations that went well beyond sensical. To hear some good came of it though – Ashetta’s liberation and rescue – was enough to bear the lines no ill will; electricity in arcs and sparks, a sizzling display of silver fragments and contortions. The Sword followed it with his mouth, teeth, and tongue, lips a wanton display as he sought to stoke a constant hum along her skin, enticing, tempting, inveigling, maneuvering on a deliberate, slow, meticulous pace. They’d already savored one another once, and he had every thought to incite the heat, the simmer, the searing rapture and reveries – serpentine and sinuous, sliding down from her hip, threading along her thigh, down to her calves, until finally ending on the ridges of the sparked scar. His eyes, hooded and shameless, unholy and decadent, glanced up to watch, to wonder, as lips pressed back into skin, as his vocals resounded with no space in between, a rush of his smoldering convictions sketched and billowing. “What do you want?”
He does not question the tale behind the scar, does not chastise or implore, and Amalia appreciates the quiet confidence in the motive behind her foolish quest. It had been largely unsuccessful but for the rescue of Ashetta, and though she may not fully trust the other girl yet, she has developed a sort of affection for the waiflike assassin.
Her musings on the topic are quickly interrupted, redirected to present moments and baser urges as Deimos' lips once more carry on in their pursuit and descent. Delicate and tantalizing with hot breath and cold teeth, Amalia has no choice but to succumb to the ministrations, the heat in her belly rising once more as he expertly stokes the flames of her lust. His trailing kisses take him lower down her leg, to the calf, the spindling and splintering ends of the strange lightning scar.
But if they are silver he is gold, molten and aureate, shimmering and splendid. A soft whimper escapes her as he speaks against her skin; unable to teach him with her hands, Amalia resorts to sitting up in the bed, reaching for his face and tugging it toward her, urging him to return to her embrace while simultaneously attempting to maneuver into his lap. What does she want? "I want you to come back," she whispers, growls, purrs, voice low and gravely, black eyes hooded with lust. "I want to taste you." His lips, his sweat, his cock- she wants it all, avaricious and greedy, posessive and jealous and desperate and in love.
Amalia had earned her scars; through heroics and curiosity, through intrigue and sometimes battered luck. They were similar in that regard, occasionally unraveling themselves to save others, neither bothered nor rankled by the notion of their own sacrifices – time and time again proven in the rattled chords of his poisoned lungs or the depths of her wounded heart, seemingly incapable of leaping out of the way. Shields and Swords, layers of offerings between the pair, and while he promised brutality, she proffered faith, and somewhere they settled in the middle, artfully weaving dedication, devotion, ardor, and support, a stoking of conviction and rapture that went farther than they’d likely understood.
So he conducted the same for her here, in dapples of sun and forgotten duties, responsibilities cast aside, neither perilous nor terrifying; intending to ravish and embolden, intoxicate and devour, consuming in the enamoring, enticing plays of bliss. He smiled against her whimper, intending to fan the flames, to curl the distinction of merciless pleasure in the motion of her movements, a consistent, constant hum filling in the spaces between hearts, ribs, and souls. His inquiry had been for her, for her, for her, mind and body and entity driven to the decibels of her desires, waiting, wafting, hovering along the threads as she lingered for a moment. When she rose, it was only to ask for his presence again, and he arched a brow, frame tugged upon, an insistent lure, a siren pull, a temptress’s sway, dipping his head so his mouth skimmed along her palms, lips hot and infernal against warm skin.
Deimos had every intention of reveling and wallowing in her growls, purrs, the arches of her lust-driven pursuit. His gaze still hooded, smirk still chiseled, he embarked on a thorough exploration of thighs, navels, and breasts again - while his face was in her grasp, deliberately brushing skin against skin, dragging contortions and portions, slinking, sinuous. He hovered instead of releasing too much brawn and weight, like shudders, like traces, like sketches, outlines, a tantalizing, rich tease, until he was before her all over again. They were like a twisted conflagration of limbs, no end and no beginning, the arch to his brow still there, playful and bold – the smile on his features all she’d require for permission – to taste him, to consume him, to embolden him back into the flames too (and he’d ensure she’d join).
He takes her hands and consecrates them with kisses, his mouth like fire upon her skin. And then he descends, again, again, lips leaving lines of eloquent hymns upon the tendons and slender angles as her fingers curl back into his hair, guiding and coaxing, easing and asking, reveling in the wonder of his unquestioning ardor. Amalia arcs and aches and croons, an instrument played with expert skill, impatient and yearning with equal parts as he works his way upon her figure. What do you want?- this, forever: to have this place with him, in his arms, in his eyes, in his home, to embrace and adore, to love and be loved.
It is not until he is upon her again that the baker shifts her tune and tone, raising face and lips to meet him, her leg swinging suddenly over his hip. Capture: she pushes, eases, flows, falling fluidly into his lap, her arms wrapping greedily around his neck as at last the girl claims her prize. His name is a whisper on her lips, a moan against him as she plunders and pleases; she lets long fingers slip down his spine, his other hand caught in his hair. Flush against him, her skin is blazing; she presses aches, for further contact, greedy for intimacy, for closeness, for love.
Slowly the girl begins to travel, her mouth tracing over the curve of his jaw and over to the shell of his ear, tongue slipping out to suck on the lobe, teeth nipping gently upon the soft flesh. Then down, even further, onto his neck, licking and lapping, kissing and biting, possessive and ardent as she tries to show with each ministration how much she is willing to give.
He couldn’t carve eternity, not this man, with his scars and potential for ruin, but he has never let the world stop him. Death had rung around his ears and choked his ichor, but only for a time, only for a stead, his determination too great, his convictions too strong, his emboldened, bestial weight too much for the underworld to capture and ensnare for too long. He’d give and grant and offer everlasting Elysium for her though, a promise left unsaid but drowned and erotic in their movements, in their heated expanse, wanton adoration and feral fervor, no need for words when everything was stated in the shudders of desires, in the trembling arcs of croons and murmurs. The Sword captured, ensnared, and inveigled, simply settled into the arches of temptation and the embraces; a willing siege, a conspirator in claiming. His eyes flickered into hers and there were galaxies and stars in the open, midnight abyss, despite the press of the sun, despite the hallowed fixtures of the winter world from beyond windows – he saw and heard and tasted only her, her, her.
He listened to his name uttered as a sibilance, as a storm, as an unearthly thing, sparked and sizzled and smoldered within, suddenly his most favorite thing – not the Reaper with his wraith scythe and his savage upheaval, not the Sword with his stalwart pride, not the General with responsibilities suddenly placed along his brawn and might. A whisper, a seething intimacy, a growl on ethereal lips, teeth, and tongue, like something adored, like something treasured, instead of hated, instead of reviled. The monolith shuddered into the traces of its infinite qualities, leaning into a hand on his spine, his frame taut, eager, fervent, undulating under potent, blazing ministrations, everything an opus, everything a canvas. At her press, his hips rolled in return, mouth aching to trace, aching to implore, aching to do something to sculpt and whittle his ardency –
But then she traveled too, and the only thing he could even begin to conduct was tilting his head, permitting, allowing, bestowing, a coiling, curling, fanning moan shaking from his lips as hers began their own sojourn, lacing and lancing along his jaw, on his ear, on his nape. Eventually, savoring, humming, billowing below her efforts, he bent too, a stretch of devotion and passion, tongue settling in the same refrains and patterns, equal incandescence; sometimes a trace, a tease, sometimes an opus, the full force and brink of his vows and oaths. Her name was a serpentine, sinuous design along the shell of her ear, on the curve of her jaw, on the juncture of collar bones and shoulders, heated and molten, carnal and free.
There is a particular intimacy that Amalia feels, seated upon his lap. A closeness, a vulnerability, a promise made between bodies; I want you the song of her legs wrapped around him; You have me the oath of his hands on her back. His moans are the orchestra to her sonata, his name the solo sung in growling alto tones. He rakes his lips along her ear and she hisses in her pleasure, hips rolling and back arching, a guttural groan escaping her chest. She replies with teeth upon his collar, the gentlest of love bites from a leopard's fangs: not to injure, not to maim, wanting only to assert her ownership of him, to claim him as her lover, her prize.
Then she slips out of his lap once more, coaxing him back onto the bed as her mouth begins its languid voyage, traveling down the map that is his skin. Fluttering on silver scars, pausing to press curiously against nipples, glancing up with a wicked grin as she checks for a response- then down, down, even further, until she finds a place in his hip. Here her tongue takes a sojourn and she kisses up his iliac crest, relishing the muscle, the sweat, the sweetness, before crossing slowly over to the other side. Here, too, she lavishes attention: then further, closer, but never quite there, soft bites and mewling sucks upon his inner thighs, the heat and smell and musk of him leaving her tantalized and emblazoned with lust.
Her fingers have not been idle, either; they too have traced and carved a path, cupping his skin, caressing his sinew, palms flat now upon his thighs. Raising her head for just a moment she looks at him, her dark eyes heady and hooded as she regards him, tongue flicking out to lick her lips. "More? she asks him, needing to hear it, even as her right hand wraps around his length, mouth aching to follow, to taste him, to bring him all the pleasure she can. This, this, is what she wants: to be the reason he gasps and shudders, to make him sing and moan her name.
Vulnerability didn’t gnarl on his surface as it would any other time; not here, not now. There was no weakness, no susceptibility, no weak and helpless void, wrapped and ensconced and held, a mantra of all the unspoken things shared on skin and pulsing, beating hearts. His trust and conviction were immersed in the shape of their motions, in the scintillating gestures of his mouth, in the predilection and unholy grace of his growls; a repeated refrain: for her, for her, for her. The beast absorbed her hisses and closed his eyes at their feral intricacies, unraveling groans and unleashing sibilances, a rake of her teeth over brawn and sinew and flesh further entangling his guttural reverberations. He would’ve never thought to have been anyone’s prize, much less hers; seized and possessed and taken in, a willful snare, an enticing rapture, an inveigling reverie he’d be content to remain within for a lifetime.
Persuaded, beguiled, by her sojourns over his form, only a solitary, rapacious moment had him at a loss, incapable of simply remaining, of simply waiting, itching, aching, to do something. But then her ministrations continued, patterns and complexities, a sharpened edge to his loosened growls as she followed argent lines and scars he’d never been ashamed of, eyes shut again to merely sink into the pleasure, into the rapacity, into the avaricious entanglements. He might’ve gasped on several turns of her grin, missing its wicked nature while his hooded gaze was locked away, expanding on senses, on touch, on the teasing, the taunting. As she stoked her finery, as she kindled more flames, more lust, more wanton decrees along his hips, he rolled them once more, encouraging, inviting, always a maneuver instead of words and phrases, always an action in absence of his discourse. It was likely payback for his earlier deliberations, but he savored it all the while, the rush of promise, the heat of ardor, the tension, the intertwining depths of when and where they'd go – eyes opening, hands reaching for the softness of her skin and the lavishing qualities that came with it, imploring, imploring, imploring.
Perhaps he’d unleashed some sort of monster, the way she indulged and satisfied now, his glance downward taking the voracity, the fire, the hooded incandescence in her stare – roused by it all the more, watching, waiting, spiraling, muscles undulating, rippling, in her attention. He watched her tongue and might’ve whimpered, silencing the plea with a vicious growl saying, sparking, exactly what he required – not intending to beg. “More,” slipped behind his teeth and tongue though, coming out feral and savage as her hand wrapped around him, another moan, another groan, following over, eyes half-closed again, chest expanding, breaths wild and willing.
She isn't looking for him to beg, doesn't want to bring him low, to entice him to grovel and plead. No, Amalia knows that Deimos is too proud and stalwart to let his voice raise into a whine, and she loves him for it, loves the confidence in what he wants, the way he treats her as someone deserving of respect. His hands on her skin are almost distracting; she whimpers against them, her head still unbowed, waiting for the answer she so desperately craves. More- not weak and mewling but savage, commanding, the words of someone who knows what they want and that they are fated to get it.
Because Amalia is not one for prolonged teasing; she is too impatient and impetuous for that, too eager and hungry to lavish and please. As soon as permission slips through his clenched teeth the Shield lowers her lips to take him, a swift and unapologetic motion, taking him in as far as she can-
-and coughing, choking, just a little, as her overzealous nature proves once again to be her undoing. Drawing her mouth up she flashes Deimos a bashful grin, hopeful he isn't too perturbed by her inexperienced fumble, the zeal which has so spectacularly backfired. The next time she descends it is with more caution, tongue reaching out first to caress his length, following fingers and rising up to flicker across the sensitive skin. Then her mouth: slower, careful, taking him gradually, letting him settle in the warmth of her mouth. Steadily, steadily, she finds a rhythm, body swaying with the ministrations, pace increasing as she gains confidence, hands assisting to tease and appease.
He waited for some tumultuous teasing, the way they meandered back and forth on quips and challenges, on dares and provocations; entertaining diversions even when they were strung along their enamored, devoted moments, even when they pulsed and pervaded within the denizens of lust. It was nearly an expectation now, for ruses and duplicities, for games and entertainment, but he’d forgotten the simmering, smoldering tides of Amalia’s whims, and on the echo of his breath, she’d dove – swift and keen and his sharp intake of air was smothered down by her cough, by her choke. He raised his head, his torso, in alarm, in concern, for her, not for himself, snatched out of any reverie, “All right?” on his lips moments before her grin. Then she seemed eager to continue, and his form undulated without any prompting but her motions, cranium falling back against the bed’s surface while her ministrations sought to overcome.
Surrounded and encompassed by her mouth, by her orchestrations, by her hands, by her fingers, he was just one more writhing mass of movement and encouragement in her wake. The sun scorched and he trembled in its light, in its fury, in its haze, brought back to the molten inferno time and time again on the presses of her wake, of her teeth, of her tongue. Control and composure had long since fled, muscles rippling, breaths sharpened and wanton, ending on croons, on sighs, on invigorated, emboldened, roused efforts, never quite a plea pulsing from his mouth, but echoes and reverberations of them, collected on fringes of ether and air. The monolith wanted and wanted and wanted, her and her and her, hands reaching on impulse, fingers striving to settle somewhere, share his sentiments, his ardor, while his hips bucked and coiled into impetuous notions, following her in slow, unraveled motions. You too he almost said; he shouldn’t be the only one experiencing the lustful indulgences, unwilling to be the sole participant.
Once hooded eyes were now completely closed, jaw raised as if in defiance and sedition when it was just a way to contort his body into further extortions and fortifications of pleasure. Somewhere along the way his legs had sought to wrap around hers, calves brushing, entangling, touch extended, fervor and edges of release behind his eyes. Her name was a guttural groan, a bristling hymn, croons and murmurs and howls unleashed on the feverish, fervent rhythms. It might’ve been a warning too, tucked along growls and clenched teeth, ivories pressed together in feral hisses and a blistering sibilance, pending release, the satisfaction and contentment beginning to gather behind his spine, along his abdomen, down, down, down along her descent.
