Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
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"I'll tell you when to stop." Ronin grins and tilts his empty tumbler to indicate that she should refill the glass. He and Remi have been dining on whiskey and mango for many a morning before this; a lightweight he is not.
"Word travels quick in Stormbreak," he mutters, glancing across at the equally as painted lady who comes to join them. Providing his glass has found itself with another drink, he takes a sip and sets it down. "I wouldn't know - what do they say about me?" he wonders.
She cosies up next to him and the Star sits up a fraction; he wasn't born yesterday, and the antics of a whorehouse are like a lovely but familiar dance. "Let me guess - does it have something to do with my prowess, or anything else to do with my cock?"
And so his glass is filled. And filled, and filled, and filled. Perhaps Cian might not need to handicap the Star quite as much as originally thought, if they ever did make it out of here.
"Well, it isn't every day that Vi sends a demigod to us. Especially one who has been brought back to life." The bartender says with a smirk. "Or a soldier as handsome as you. Look, he even has all his teeth—" The twin comments, snapping her teeth together in Ronin's direction, and somehow slyly using the gesture as an excuse to lean in closer, breasts pushed together beneath white lace.
However as he steers the conversation somewhere they might all predictably be expecting, the twin at his side merely tuts disapprovingly under her breath. "Unless you're a paying customer, we've no need to hear about your cock." Her words hug this last word, the way they might indeed hug other things. "Interesting though that's where your mind went." She adds as if disappointed, her eyes dripping down from his, raising only once they land on his groin with a raised brow.
"No honeypie, we heard that you were immortal." The woman behind the bar supplies.
The ladies watch him, and Ronin watches the whiskey in his tumbler. Or he does at first, at least - but by the time it's been filled a bunch of times, well... who fucking knows, honestly? "Interesting that you'd think my mind would go anywhere else in a whorehouse," he remarks, following her gaze down to his crotch and then back up again, the roguish smirk on his face asking if she sees anything she likes.
"Immortal?" he repeats with a snort of laughter, knocking back the rest of his whiskey and turning the tumbler upside down as he sets it back on the bar, to stop it from finding itself refilled. "Who the devil told you that?" He certainly hasn't heard anything like that; it's hilarious to think about, in fact. "That I've been brought back from the dead suggests that I'm far from immortal, don't you reckon?"
"A good Safrin boy like you?" The bartender wonders, with a grin. "And with your husband oh so far away?" Her laugh is bright and brassy, her energy darker and more raw than her almost angelic-twin. "But since you've brought it up—" Not that she could see his crotch from behind the bar, "—has your stamina improved? Inquiring minds want to know." Not taking the hint, the bartender places the entire bottle on top of his upside-down cup.
"Not the devil sweet-lips." The white-clad twin remarks, though as for her sources she won't say. Playing with a bangle on her arm, it falls innocuously to the ground. "Ooops," She murmurs, slipping off of her seat and slowly kneeling down. The lace of her corset gathers at her lower back descending into nothing more than a white strip of silk that slips between cheeks of an ass so perfectly round as to be mesmerizing. Reaching between the legs of his chair, she grasps the fallen accessory, leaning back and flashing Ronin an apologetic look. She doesn't rise right away of course, her head positioned nearly between his knees, her long lashes fluttering over dark eyes. 'Give a girl a hand?' Or I could give you one, her smile seems to say.
The laugh that leaves Ronin's lips is rich and charming, and he snatches the bottle that's placed on top of his glass, as if to concede that fine, he supposes he will just have to drink the whole thing, if they insist. "Of all the things you've apparently heard about me, and you choose good Safrin boy to describe me? Shameful." He takes the cork out with his teeth.
Which is just about the time the white-clad whore takes a tumble between his legs, and in his increasingly addled mind, she looks positively mind-blowing. Speaking of such, there's definitely a flash of heat straight south which kindles his interest, and he takes his sweet time in offering her his free hand. "How clumsy of you," he says, taking a drink from the bottle.
11-19-2020, 06:59 PM (This post was last modified: 11-19-2020, 07:13 PM by Cian.)
CIAN
the eye
"Ooh." The bartender hums a note of sassy apology, her chin tilted upward as her brows dance, inviting him to tell her just how shameful her description might have been.
Stretching up a hand into his and placing her free hand on the inside of his thigh, as she stands she presses outward that his legs might spread slightly. "Am I ever."
She agrees. "It's these shoes." Removing her hand from his leg to catch her foot as it twists behind her, she looks over her shoulder and down at the offending piece of her outfit. This of course accentuates the perfect curve of her ass, and though she's more than flexible enough to hold the pose while remaining perfectly balanced on her own, she sways slightly nonetheless, pitching daintily forward.
Ronin bounces his eyebrows right back at the bartender, though he's much too busy with the bottle against his lips and the woman between his legs to offer her much of a description right now. Maybe later, when he's a little more sober and a little less... everything else. Setting the bottle down and peering over the white-clad woman's shoulder (definitely not looking at her shoes), Ronin tuts and holds her just so, that she might remain oh-so-precariously pitched forward.
With blue eyes suddenly a lot darker in the dim light of the brothel, he eventually draws her up to standing again, relieving her from her duties between his legs. "Perhaps you ought to get some better shoes," he suggests, gaze dipping lower to plunge down into her cleavage. "It might help you with your clumsiness."
Shifting slightly that her hip might press into the palm of his hand—how gentlemanly of him to hold her up—she can only nod. "I suppose I really don't need them, do I? Now that I'm off duty?" So saying she straightens, her cleavage becoming much more pronounced as her shoulders square, and the leg resting against her ass is suddenly pulled around to the front. Placing her ankle over Ronin's shoulder, her posture shockingly flexible, she leans forward to begin unbuckling her heel. Nestled comfortably between his legs now, she focuses with naive fascination on her shoe, as if had they been naked, his cock wouldn't be ghosting against the warm folds of her.
"Enjoying our little city, so far?" The bartender asks, as if completely blind to the way her twin is fawning all over the Star. Meanwhile, the white-clad twin has removed one shoe, and is in the process of repeating her balancing act on the other side.
The balancing act is certainly impressive, Ronin's breath hitching at the ankle poised delicately over his shoulder. It would be a complete lie to say that he isn't interested - and impossible to do so, given how he's pressed against her. Whatever Cian's doing, it can take a little longer as far as Ronin is concerned. He turns his head to help unbuckle the other heel. "It's growing on me," he replies to the bartender; and it isn't the only thing that's growing, in that sense.
"And it's a lot bigger than I expected." The grin on his face is positively devilish at this point, and he gazes down the long length of the whore's legs, taking in her curves, the fragrant perfume, so different from his husband. And perhaps it's that which draws him to her, the fact that there's no reminder, that there's nothing to risk hurting him.
'That's what I like to hear." The bartender says with a smile as proud as the one Cian wore earlier when speaking about the city. As for the business the Eye is conducting? Well. Cian has nothing, if not impeccable timing.
"You get used to it." The whore in white muses, taking the opportunity to slip an arm around Ronin's neck and pivoting effortlessly in his arms and between his legs. Sliding herself into his lap, she kicks off her remaining shoe, before leaning forward and suggesting the Star take another drink from the nearly-empty bottle of whiskey. As soon as he does, she's suddenly there, pressed quite close, her eyes firmly on his lips. Reaching out she drags a finger across his lower lip, before plunging it sensually into her mouth. "Mmmm." She purrs, her body relaxing against his, her ass shifting intentionally against his erection. "I just love the taste of whiskey from a man's lips."
Ronin would answer, but honestly he couldn't give a fuck about Stormbreak and how proud its citizens are of the place. Would you, with a perfect ass pressed against your throbbing cock? Taking a sip of whiskey as prompted, the Star hums a note of approval as the whore moves against him, chin tilting up a bit with the dragging of her finger across his lips. "Get used to enjoying it from your fingertip," he mumbles; she won't be getting a taste of it through a kiss, put it that way.
Shifting on the stool and moving her teasingly about as a consequence, there's a hint of impatience in Ronin rarely seen during his days at Torchline. But they aren't in Torchline any more, and it's a stark transition that will prove his undoing one way or another. "What's the going rate for a room in this place, anyway?" he wonders, like nothing is happening.
"Hmmm." The whore replies with a modest shrug of her shoulders. The words aren't a challenge, but that doesn't mean she won't take them that way. She has a habit, this woman in white does, of taking all the things she wants. Ronin's adjustments are meant with ones of her own, though she moves much more subtly but poignantly. That the bulge of his cock finds itself perfectly nestled against her ass is not a mistake, nor is the way her bare-feet have pressed themselves against the bottom rung of the stool to better leverage herself against him. 'Do you know what else I like the taste of?" She asks, her head lolling against his shoulder.
Glancing down her torso, one of her hands trickles down the lace and boning of her corset until it rests on the fleeting bit of white silk that separates her sex from the world. Her index finger dips beneath the cloth, as she touches herself she moans softly, her hips curling back against him.
"We trade in favours, darling." The bartender replies. "A favour from you, for a favour from us."
The whore in white removes her finger, shiny and scented with her arousal. Just as she places the pad of her finger against her lower lip, the door behind them opens, and out walks Cian with the Lady of this establishment, Molly herself.
"What's that?" Ronin asks, his words a rough sort of whisper as she arches and rubs back against him. Wanton and distracted by her own lust, she's the perfect show in his opinion, and his chin tilts a little towards the bartender as if trying to persuade himself to think with both heads for a little while longer. Except gods, now the whore is touching herself and that's an answer enough to Ronin's question, and the increasingly tipsy Star can only mumble an acknowledgement of favours.
But wouldn't you know it, Cian really does have impeccable timing. Glancing over his shoulder (his head lolls a bit), Ronin offers a toast to the eye with the near-empty bottle. "Your moments take quite a long time, you know," he informs the other man, his accent lilting around the words in a sing-song manner.
"Just being thorough." Cian muses, reaching into his pocket to light a cigarette. The woman at his side is like black water made flesh. She leans against the doorframe, plucking the cigarette from the Eye's fingers without asking permission. The question of just what—or who—required Cian's thoroughness might have been answered by the madame's sultry smile, had the Eye any expression of satisfaction at all on his lips.
"Hey there blue-eyes." The whore chimes over Ronin's shoulder, beaming at Cian. "You have any news for us?" She wonders, while her hand twists behind her body, sneaking down the front of Ronin's pants where his erection is pinned between his body and her ass. Though her eyes remain on the Eye, her attention is unwaveringly on the sly and subtle movements of her hand, meant to make impossible the situation Ronin finds himself in. With his back to the door Cian has come through, it appears only that the whore is draped in his lap, which is all par for the course in a place like this, surely.
