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 extends a hand to her, calloused fingers gracing over her slender digits, an invitation extended into the insecurity, the tense air. Come- "Okay," she answers, obedient and generous, letting her hand press into his a moment before rising back up off her knees.
Slipping her fingers under her waistband she lets her trousers fall to the floor. Stepping out of the puddled fabric she steps toward the tub once again, coming in behind Deimos and laying her palms upon his shoulders. "Scoot forward," the Shield invites, orders, directing him to give her space. Space to slide in behind him, her legs wrapping around his torso, her knees rising up so he can put his arms on them should he choose.
Reaching around to grab the washcloth from him, she begins to trace it over his back, following the paths of his silver scars. As she does she begins to hum, low alto vibrating in the small space. With patience and purpose she takes her time, pressing fingers into his muscles, massaging even as she scrubs in an attempt to work out the months of exhaustion that have settled into them both.
A quiet admirer, he watched as she agreed, stepping out of seams and strands, unfurled before him – and he was half-inclined to immediately reach for her, to touch and scorch and unravel, bring forth the smoke and fumes, the softened sighs, the breadths and breaths of release.
Except she gave orders, and the mischief, the impish accord suddenly clambered, tempted and inveigled to ignore the notions entirely, and commit to something else. Perhaps for both their sakes he didn’t relent to the Cheshire tenacity, silently maneuvering forward as she bid her command, a ruffian, seditious edge to his arched brow.
But it all fell away as her palms settled on his shoulders, as he was suddenly surrounded by her, entangled, shrouded, contorted around; snorting in the midst. In another time, he would’ve been entirely unnerved, taut, rigid, and unyielding. But it was her, layers of trust, of affection, of love chiseled, sculpted, down in the ramparts of his essence, so he leaned forward, arms falling to her knees, cranium slightly bowed, eyes closing while his fingers lowered, meant to brush lightly along her ankles, her calves.
Scar paths and laceration lines were traced over and finessed, and a sigh welled, brimmed, from his chest, before slowing to a singularly, long breath, a release of years and months of fatigue, of exhaustion, of too many hours spent gnarled and knotted. Within her hum, her patience, her fortitude, his chest reverberated along a purr, a growl, a ricocheting mixture of the two. He found himself leaning back into her touch, muscles rippling under her caresses, a low moan reverberating within the space. Thereafter, without his notice, twin, ivory ears, noticeably tiger in their appearance, appeared along the top of his crown.
There is a moment of conflict and uncertainty, but it passes without causing any more ripples than those formed by bodies shifting in the water. And in its place, contentment, peace. He melts beneath the pressure of her palms, succumbing to her ministrations; encouraged, she only increases the force, letting the sinew and musculature guide her, trying to react to his pleasure, to incite more purring and arching of his back.
His ivory ears are met with her own, smaller and spotted but similarly curved. A dappling of silver-lilac scales follows, pattered on her arms, her back, her neck, each one matching the ring she gave him, the armor of her heart he will always carry.
Hands rise back up to his shoulders, fingers pressing above his scapulae, into the musculature and up, over, running down his biceps, her chest pressing forward against his skin. When she kisses his neck there are fangs in her mouth, the gentlest of love bites until they are not. Pressing her lips over the smooth skin Amalia sucks, hard, intending to leave a blooming bruise, intending to mark him thoroughly as hers.
Sinuous and unwinding, serpentine rhythms pressing in along muscles; soothing and maddening to the core, pleasure and fatigue brewing, brimming, contorting in guttural groans. Nothing to hide in the veracity of her motions along his shoulders and skin, arching beneath strokes of finesse, unknotting the rigid muscles until they were fluid structures, fortresses, ramparts, strength, power, precision notched into contentment. The purrs hastened, drawn along his throat, rumbling in accord with the rest of his fervent, unsaid, silent pleas, leaning back into each and every touch. Absorbing, taking, bound and unwound, pieced back together again with the shape of her palms.
Eyes closed, he missed the alterations across the upper contortions of her skin, his own fingers shaping and tracing outlines along her calves, teasingly drawing towards her knees, purposefully light, dulcet. Fleeting, as if they were feathered or never there at all, before another sketch, another canvas of soft caresses.
The kisses along his nape were met with shudders and shivers rolling down his spine, feral enticements searing and smoldering beneath his flesh, harsher intakes of breath, control and composure scarcely, barely maintained. They lingered on a fine threshold somewhere in his brain, fogging, clouding, mystifying, clarity gone on a sensual coil. He remained for a moment, until her fangs notched indentations, marks, bruises, claims along the bend of his neck, towards the skull tattoo, ensuing the briefest of growls. The Reaper would’ve roared his defiance, because no one was ever entitled to his person: unattainable, unreachable, an figure poised for demolition and ruin.
But the Shield had long since possessed the Sword, and there was no arguing that he was hers, tangible or otherwise.
He turned, twisted, still surrounded in her clutches, but his gaze was hooded, carnal, a maelstrom in piercing, rapacious blue. They followed her movements, lingering down her face, ceasing when they came to her lips – mouth descending, hungry, yearning, longing, devouring.
Fingers on calves, featherlight and warm; her thighs tighten around him in response, pressing his body toward her, aching with the heat of need. Her kisses are hungry now, hands clenching over bicep and deltoid as she presses her lips against him, marks him as her own. Beside the skull tattoo it blooms, crimson and violet and unmistakable. Has she ever given a hickey before? She doesn't think so, but now that she sees it she can't help the satisfaction and pride that rises within her, a growl in her chest, her throat. Mine.
Then he's shifting in her arms, her legs, turning toward her, towering over her, the hunger in his eyes matching her own. She reaches for him as he lowers toward her, arms rising, weight anchored in his shoulders. When their mouths meet again it is with a note of passion, the girl wasting no time in exploring the space between his lips.
At the same time her left leg hooks over his hips, pulling her toward him, the intention clear. Her hair is nearly entirely purple now; claws clutch with dangerous ferocity at his shoulders, not enough to do any damage but enough to leave welts. The scales on her have multiplied, and if he pulls back enough to look at her face he will see her exhale a puff of harmless flame, her dark eyes hooded and her angled face flush with passion and desire.
Nothing gentle, dulcet, delicate, or light thereafter, all wilderness, all savagery, all maelstroms, all mayhem. Tempted, enticed, inveigled, sworn and done in, every ounce and undulation of his might, of his potency, rippling through accord of muscles and mass; turning entirely towards her now, a bastion, rumbles of predacious expanse in his chest. Motions of heat and carnality, rapacity and ruin, threatening to take and devour, to consume and ravage until they were naught left but satisfied, contented bones and flesh. He heard her growl of possession and seared, everything hot and molten, crescendos of beating hearts bursting; tongue intending to slide between her lips, sink in amongst fangs and vehemence. Breaths passed in fanning waves, billowing in guttural grasps and groans, escaping through their mouths, in the spaces of sighs and ferocity.
Minor shifts and alterations in their stances, and he intended to push, to lure, her form until she was at the back of the tub, braced along the sides, hooked into her hold; no intentions of evading. Caught and clutched, his hands maneuvered with raw power – what were once promises and convictions embedded, immersed, in vehemence, in rage, in contempt, were presently marked for consuming, for smoldering, for inching them closer and closer towards brinks of oblivion. They etched over scales, not whispers but roars, starting their outlines from her neck, to her shoulders, down the length of her arms while their mouths possessed one another’s. The paths only ceased their trail when they reached the outline of ribs, the slight swell of her breasts, teasing, taunting, lips inching away from hers only to traverse and enrapture her neck.
Except he paused, momentarily, at the brimming of flame on an exhale – to muffle a bout of laughter into the crook of her nape and shoulder – before teeth sought out the juncture too, wanted her wanting, shaking, unraveling. In response, in accord, the water around them billowed and warped, rising up along the sides of the tub, enveloping, as if they were entanglements of broad shields, droplets held together above their heads, drawn in makeshift ramparts, closing in them in from nothing and everything all at once.
He gives with his characteristic generous abandon, and she takes with all the fervor of a wildfire, happy to burn them both if it means she can have him now. Backed to the rim of the tub, she shivers against the cold of the porcelain, tantalized by the contrast of it against the heat of his body, his mouth. Hands find purchase in his hair, clinging and cupping with gentle ferocity; she wants to adore him, to consume him alive.
The separation of lips is met with a mewl of protest, her head falling back as he continues to travel with fingers and teeth down her delicate form. Her shoulders, her breasts, her ribs- each stop earns him another whimper, her grip on his hair tightening appreciatively. She bucks her hips, her desires clear, feeling his length against her pelvis and wishing it was somewhere else.
She knows he knows he's tormenting her, and the aggravation only heightens her anticipation, her need. When the water rises around them the Shield hardly registers: they may now be shielded against the world, but she was already alone in a world with him. "Daaaaaaae"- she moans into the steam, his name simultaneously abbreviated and drawn out. "You're so mean"
Lured and lured and lured, to take, to unravel – half of him wanted to reduce her to nothing but shudders and moans, to a chaotic shamble of pleasure and contortions, veiled and shrouded in wanton, yearning, longing persistence. No masks, no veils, no semblance of anything but their temptation, the other portions to him intending to pull and draw her along until she was begging, pleading, aching, constantly on the edge, requiring only the slightest touch to send her singing, to send her spiraling. At her shiver, he growled, persisted, pursued, a wolfish rapture in his complete, utter irreverence, closer and closer while her fingers entangled in his locks, while he was just as possessed and consumed. Devoured; giving and granting, chasing and willing.
He laughed into her skin, billowing breaths meant to instigate another shudder, another ripple, another outcry of protest; hips bucking towards his, her intentions abundantly clear, and his patiently stoking, bringing to flame, kindling, rousing, stimulating, coaxing her over and over. Her moan, merely an extension of some syllables, wasn’t enough; he chased it down, down, down, one hand braced against the back of the tub, one hand reached down to the small of her back, large palm and span intending to raise her breasts slightly above the water, where nipples peaked and peeked. There his head bowed, like a fervent, illustrious prayer (but he was seditious, he was a rebel, a revolution, a tirade), mouth gliding over the mounds, tongue granting the only worship he’d ever provide another living, breathing soul.
The Sword craved his name mewled from her lips, choral oeuvres and opuses on soft sighs, pants, and moans, even before, before, before over and over, and then eternally thereafter. Longed to hear it again, in the spaces in between, amongst the domed water, amidst smoke and fumes and plumes; mean in his torment, in his pleasure, in his chuckles, tongue beginning its generous slide down her sternum, following paths to her navel. “Maybe you deserve it,” echoed between teeth and tongue, on a grating hiss, on a ferocious rumble.
Arching spine and head thrown back; her chest heaves, rising and falling, breasts pushing through the surface of the water and into his waiting embrace. Any hope of escape is thwarted by the hand on her sacrum, but of course she does not want to evade his grasp. She presses into it, whimpering, mewling, begging wordless for more and more.
His mouth continues to trace its way down, following the lines of musculature on her sternum, causing her to shiver and shudder with desire. Tantalizing, tormenting, well-deserved torture. An attempt to pout prettily devolves into gasps, any true sense of discontent melting away beneath his ministrations, only one thought, one word, coherent in her mind.
An echo, a prompting, his name bounding and reverberating within intertwined minds. His eyes glanced up along skin and muscle, their puncturing weight capturing attempts at pouts, savoring the twist and turn of gasps instead. It only encouraged him to continue his torturous assailment, ruffian and amused, relishing in the enticed dominion, in tantalizing, in beguiling, in luring, breathless incantations sighing into their sanctum. Heated billows of laughter rumbled through his chest, meant to bound and chase along her flesh, hand still underneath, carrying, lifting, raising, while he intentionally dragged his chin, his jaw, his beard, down the length of her sternum, mouth following suit, wanted her simmering, wanted her smoldering, beneath each raw ministration.
But to more of the carnal, feral reverence, his lips continued their seditious pathways, sliding and skimming, tracing along until they reached the insides of her thighs. He pulled her more towards him, there and his and poised, wanton, hungry, a fervent, feverish decorum – portions of him left to shudder and shiver too, seeking, devouring, consuming, naught left to say, intentions clear and voracious. An intentional provocation, ruse, and goading ensued, teeth and tongue taking their time along skin, purposefully missing the center of her – arching a brow, instigating, inciting, rousing, inch by inch.
Her arms snake over the rim of the tub, grasping, white-knuckled, as he continues his descent. Teeth and lips and mouth and heat tracing over sinew and skin - it lights a fearsome blaze within her, causes toes to coil and back to arch. A low, rough laugh leaves coral lips as his beard tickles over her flat stomach
Her hips rise up again, insistent, despite the distance he still has to cover, despite the teasing she knows will continue and continue and continue until she's begging for more. Her right leg hooks over his shoulder, trying to press him further, closer, to make apparent what she wants and needs: him at the core of her, washing away her stress and anxiety into waves of perfect, shuddering pleasure.
Spurred and stirred, a carnal, feral motivation, schisms of feverish fervor, eyes going to her white knuckles, to the hands clasping over the rim, to the shudders and insistence, the arcing provocation and incitement in his grasp. He wanted her simmering and teetering on the edge, brought to sinuous, satisfied heights, varnished and lacquered in their reams of quiet, teasing laughter, on the brim, on the quell, on the seas. Brewing and brooding gratification, bringing, bringing, bringing, a wealth of pleasures amidst the sensual, corporeal, tangible taunting.
Her hips rose, continually persistent and adamant in her silent requests, in rapaciously, hungrily, devouring and clambering over the waves. The Sword chuckled again into her skin as her leg hooked over his shoulder, not permitting his evasion, any other ploy or maneuver he might have been scheming. Hooded eyes traced over the arches of her figure, the declaration of so many other unsaid things, tilting his head to trace over the inside of her thighs again, soft and dulcet, barely more than a breath, a whisper, before finally drifting to the core of her. His lips, his mouth, his tongue, stoked and stroked, caresses of dedication and ardor, of lust and satisfaction, of love and passion; tantalizing, smoldering, catering to her release.
Pleasure and fervor in equal measure from teeth and hands and lips and tongue. He teases her mercilessly and she loves every moment, agonized by the sheer anticipation, mewling with hunger for more and more. More pressure, more pleasure, more him on her body, skin on skin and the heat of it all igniting the inferno in her core.
And when his tongue finally reaches her, oh, but if she doesn't see stars. There is a gasp of surprised pleasure that leaves her in a plume of lilac flame, followed immediately by a low moan, a mewl, a series of sharp inhalations, a groan.
And when at last she can take no more - when the heat and desire have culminated, climaxed, when the pressure inside her is fit to burst - then does her voice rise in musical fulfillment, choral notes of pleasure pealing out like alto bells. A taut string plucked, she vibrates beneath his ministrations, resonates and resounds in song for him alone to hear. "Deimos," is a whispered, succulent refrain, a hymn she sings into steam and water, the only prayer she has to offer as she worships of the altar of their lust.
The smoke and fumes, the curl of teasing, of sighing, of wanton moans filled and echoed, bounded over skin, over flesh, over the reaches of his mouth. Her hunger incensed and clamored, and he gave, gave, gave, proffering worship to her and no one else. His name in between the hymns of groans and mewls instigated and fueled, a devouring, all-consuming rousing, until there was nothing left to prolong – a release along water and cascades, eyes raised to watch her unfurl, unwind, uncoil.
Thereafter, he followed the same pathways he’d christened and marked before, hands slowly settling her back into the heat of the water, dipping her down as he traced, as he outlined, as he sketched. Lips caressed, softly, dulcet and light, nearly airy, a whisper in the plumes, in their ascent, sliding across navel, along ribs, over breasts – all the while her name billowed from his tongue, a reverent rumble in the back of his throat, scrawled into the arches and arcs of her skin. It wasn’t anything more than beloved, devoted art, sinuous, serpentine motions amongst her vibrations, skimming, outlining, memorizing. Then he reached for her nape, for the shell of her ear, for the shudders and trembles immersed and laden, the heat of his gaze closed off – lids falling as his mouth went for hers.
Then another assembly of movements, palms grazing along her hips, intending to lift, to settle her into his lap, knees on either side, water undulating amongst and amidst the swift motions.
