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!
“I’ll hold you to that,” she manages to huff out in the scent moments before she’s distracted. They’ve safely entered the bedroom, it seems, and though her legs tighten around him at first when he begins to lower her down - reluctant to part from his body so soon - they soon obligingly release. He is a vision standing tall between her knees, pupils blown and hands covetous. It’s a sufficient replacement for now.
Copper hair spilling across the sheets like errant flames, the Evergreen shudders to hear his voice growl the command, hands already jumping to obey. An arch of her back, a flex of her arms, and she lets the shirt land wherever it desires. Far too focused on returning her hands to his own waist, pulling just as demandingly on his own shirt. “You now,” she commands urgently, fingers tracing the line of his pelvis that disappears agonizingly into his waistband where she cannot yet follow. Her bare stomach trembles with the force of the fire in her veins, keeping her warm even as they shed their clothes.
the ocean does not apologize for its depth and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
They could hold one another to an immense, intense amount of assurances; the only one concerning him now was the present, feverish haze. So he nodded, the state of his beard following through on pattern works along her neck, mercenary mind possessed and carved with carnal intentions. And when the shirt was gone and more skin exposed, the breadth of his breath unfurled in teasing, toying measures, lips sliding across pulse points before inevitably drifting in a slow, purposeful descent –
Until her command caused him to smirk, drawing away on mischievous endeavors. It took half a beat before he responded, either distracted by the sight before him, or stretching out the moments purposefully (a taunting little torment). But eventually his hands wound and stripped, the shirt flickering off elsewhere, tossed aside with little care or diffidence. Their return segmented behind her back, following the arch of spines and columns, flesh and bone, to tug away the last restraint of her bra.
It’s agony to prioritize his own divestment when his mouth is there against her neck, dizzying her thoughts into a hopeless deluge of pressing, shouted desires. Still, there is no rush, no matter what her body insists, and even as she squirms - pinned there beneath nothing more than the weight of his gaze, half-bare and wanting - the wait proves itself worthy.
Evie can’t help the dart of her tongue to wet her lips at the shameless show he puts on. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before, and yet there is an unmistakable newness in this unfamiliar context. Her hands long to touch, to smear possessive fingerprints over his gilded skin, like tainting a bronze masterpiece just to claim she’d left her mark. He beats her to it - the clasp of her bra parts with a snap, releasing her breasts and summarily finding itself equally discarded. Evie flushes slightly, but her confidence never waivers. She reaches for the waistband of his trousers and hooks her fingers between skin and fabric, using her hold there to draw him abruptly close into the cradle of her pelvis, not unlike an imitation of something yet to come. Badly as she wants to have him abandons these, too, she can’t resist soaring a moment to grind against him as they are, half-clothed and eager.
the ocean does not apologize for its depth and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
His lips purposefully dragged against the pale outset of her skin, eyes appreciative, beholden, to the new sights in his hooded gaze (he hadn’t forgotten their prior games, where he’d left everything exposed and open and she’d still had barriers remaining). His mouth followed the state of his stare, tongue opting for a nipple as his beard lowered somewhere below; muffled rumbles stating their claim as they echoed and reverberated against her flesh. A part of him wanted her arching and panting and simply opening for him right then and there; but those were parts and moments far ahead.
Her fingers along his trousers were another hint, and he smirked, hands sliding upwards to rest somewhere upon her ribs, drawing out a map of tracing and sketches and outlines for memorization. Deimos nearly let her simply settle them there, a mutual torment for them both while he taunted and teased, until she ground against him and the stupefying barrier between them rankled. Too much need and too much space and too much everything, a low growl settled throughout his chest, before he removed a hand to simply strip down – trousers and boxers and all. No preamble and utter indifference to his own state, his fingers returned only to tug on her own.
As his mouth descends her spine arches immediately, the shock of lips and tongue as it encompasses her nipple like lightning, strangling a whimper out of her. She hasn’t been touched like this in so long, it’s almost like the first time anew. Arched as she is his hands have miles of skin to touch, and the hard-won calloused on her sensitive sides makes her arch only further, pressing herself needily into his hands the same way she does his hips.
Whatever snap he experiences, the Gods themselves hear Evie’s praise for it, and her eyes hungrily take in the entirety of his nude form in the scant seconds she is awarded before he is upon her. Pulling, demanding her own acquiescence. So Evie lifts her hips obligingly to shed her leggings and panties, assisting with her own fumbling hands until she too is bare and laid before him like a gift. An offering, willing and desirous - and unwilling to simply be observed. Long pale legs wrap around his waist and draw him close - and this time, she feels him, hard and hot and silky where they press together. She moans freely at the sensation, hand slipping between their bodies to tease her fingertips down his navel, regretfully moving her hips back so she can grasp him fully in her hand instead.
the ocean does not apologize for its depth and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
Perhaps hallmarks for both of them; fully embracing the inevitable after forgoing and forgetting what it meant to be wanted, touched, or known. Within the moments, it didn’t matter how long or when or where, at least not to the Sword, as his head dipped and tongue followed after pathways yet found; sliding generously, sinuously, down towards her navel, wholly appreciative, approving, and complimentary. Though they’d already promised of more instances, of more chances, of more opportunities, that didn’t mean he’d forgo any portions or pieces. Covetous, greedy, seditious, hands roaming, committing –
Evie was just as obliging, and he might’ve laughed at their haste within a moment, had she not intertwined in the same fold and snagged at him. A revolutionary shudder unfurled from his figure, over skin and sinew and flesh and bone, and then a growl, some competitive goading urging him on even as temptation lured and drew. “Hang on,” he muffled, gaze hooded and throat constricted, mouth instinctively continuing its descent, intending to reach the core of her offering before he came undone; no intentions of doing so in her hands.
Her stomach twitches and shudders with every lingering kiss, every curl of his tongue, as it descends down her body. So sensitive, primed and expectant, that every little press and scratch of his beard, every gust of breath that spreads out over her body, makes her tremble. She has him there in her hand, between her legs, and all she needs is to -
But he demands she wait, slipping away and out of her grasp, leaving her with nothing to do but fist the bedsheets instead. Her head falls back against the bed with a tremulous whine, subsiding, succumbing, to his command. Her knees, lifting to bracket against his sides, begin to tremble finely. Hips arch in silent plea, and one hand finds his shoulder, fingers bracing there; needing to touch and return attention even in these moments where he focuses on her. “Please,” she begs in whisper, but she doesn’t know for what.
the ocean does not apologize for its depth and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
A thousand other things built inside him, but patience had always been a fortitude, a perseverance, means to an end and sometimes pure amusement. He couldn’t help the laugh at her begs and pleas, at the unsung whimpers, at the whines, at the innate desire to listen to her pant and moan beneath his ministrations. Entirely giving, as she’d done for him so many times before.
He openly obliged a moment later, dipping his mouth, his lips, low towards the inside of her thighs; starting in a slow, lazy, serpentine slide, teasing and taunting, waiting for a shudder or a shiver unfurled, grazing, unwinding, snagging, intending to snag an initial release. No lines drawn, all there unbidden, his piercing eyes glanced upward to behold arched hips and braced curves, a very focused deliberation, before smirking, and taking. His tongue touched upon her core, languid and testing, while hands went elsewhere, reaching, maybe along her ribcage or snagging at her back, each stroke and caress a hymn, an offering, a growl, an obvious resolve and ambition.
Patience is a bygone trait for her in contrast. Why wait, why prolong, when they could simply do it again and again until they’d ticked every box and experienced every desire? She is a giver, she wants to give herself to him, have him take and devour. Unused to being faced with the same desire in mirror. Overwhelmed by the force of his patience, his intent.
A quick inhale of a gasp has her chest swelling as his mouth caresses her inner thigh, an area she’d never known could be so sensitive. They tremble where they slowly position themselves around and atop his shoulders, making room for him wherever he desires to go. Open, wanting, waiting. She makes the mistake of watching him, for as his eyes flick up to watch her, heated, she feels her cheeks flush red. The sight of him low between her legs wrenching a new level of heat into her navel. It unravels her, and then the touch of his tongue severs the threads of her control entirely.
His hands feel like they’re everywhere, so consumed is she by the long, testing stroke of his tongue. Her cry is the loudest yet, a warble of his name that breaks differently on every syllable. Her legs clutch and cling, hips arching, head tossed back and hands fisting the sheets as he laves her with attention. She’s dripping, and she knows she is, but she can’t find any measure of embarrassment in the plainness of her wanting.
the ocean does not apologize for its depth and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
Perhaps, in the end, they’d get their rewards and gifts and sacrifices regardless of the pace. No termination of the pleasure; a continuing, consistent plume of carnal desires and infernal, wanton releases, until they were unfurled and undone and content; satisfied with the sinuous releases.
Of which he was endlessly bemused; as she trembled, as she mewled, as she panted, snagging on the quick inhalations and following through on another flick of his tongue, on a light nip of his teeth, on the roll of his mouth upon her over and over again. The catch of his name echoing against the walls and over the wooden frames, intertwining with the restless intonations of his heart caused an inward shudder – and he might’ve caught on her flesh a little more tenderly, a little more lustful.
Persistent with the chase (eternally a rapacious hunter, unrelenting in his pursuit), his lips traced lines and words along her skin; strokes and caresses in silent rumbles, some senseless, some innate, some unsaid for now in their unholy graces. In their minatory intentions. “All right?” was another chiseling of his vocals upon inner thighs, ensuring she was ready before everything else.
Any thought of even attempting the smallest of reciprocations vanishes beneath the expert twist of his tongue, the drag of his hands up and down her back and sides. She can only lay back and squirm and whimper and cry his name and senseless pleas she wouldn’t remember the structure of even mere seconds after the words leave her lips.
Pale, freckled thighs tighten slowly as his mouth works her over seemingly endlessly, time unspooling like thread on a discarded spool. Only to leave her wanting at the last moment, panting and humming intermittent, trembling moans as he pulls away before she can reach that precipice. There is no strength in her legs left to resist, to pull him back in. What remains is used to tilt her head to see him, to reach for one of his hands to hold and squeeze in place of his shoulder. “Yes, perfect, please,” she babbles, begs, all grace and wit lost in the haze of pleasure and the still-aching desire for more.
the ocean does not apologize for its depth and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
The begging was enough; intent fully on pushing her over the edge, instead of mingling on the boundaries. At the arch of her back, his hands searched, minding and unwinding, calloused fingers intermingling over pale flesh and reaching to pull her forward, tongue deeper, searching new angles and curves. Boneless in his grasp and seemingly spent (a sense of amusement there too, considering more to come), her squeeze along his shoulder was all he needed to persist and chase. Enticements and lures, building more and more with his mouth, with his digits, undulations and revolutions, seditious plumes and earnest considerations.
All he’d need was her outcry, the release, the uncoiling, a pleasurable liberation, providential pledge.
The precipice she had torturously floated on is yanked from beneath her feet before she can do much more pleading. The grip of his hands as they pull her closer atop the sheets, the deep twist of his tongue, it all coalesces into a bright, sparkling orgasm that leaves stars dancing behind her eyes and his name on her tongue once more. Her thighs truly begin to tremble in earnest as she quakes in the aftershocks. Still, she forces her heavy lidded eyes to open, not wanting to miss a moment of visuals as Deimos gives her only few moments to breathe. When had she stopped again?
Then again, it’s exactly what she asked for, and the thick, clever fingers that join the fray coax her hypersensitivity back into active interest. Though she is panting far more this time around, heart fluttering like a trapped bird in her throat as she reaches for Deimos again, trying to pull on his bicep, to have him slide over her; closer, as she wants him to be. “Please, I want you,” she urges, tone breathless and limbs shaky but still with that steel certainty in her half-lidded eyes.
the ocean does not apologize for its depth and the mountains do not seek forgiveness
A glorified smirk made its way along his lips this time, listening, watching, as she quivered and shuddered and came apart – a distant rumble echoing upon the vestiges, a tease and a taunt and a glimmer of mischief under all the other layers. “Comforted?” But he could hear the next round of pleas, the coaxing upon his arms, the ease in which she spread out before him, and his own yearning still not sated.
But it thrummed and beat a mighty crescendo in his muscles, in his mind, in his navel, lingering on and on, a carnal, wanton ease to his hooded gaze as slowly made his way up her form. He deliberately set a leisurely pace, a crawl, as his mouth roamed over forgotten flesh and portions, in the bows of her ribs, in the curve of her stomach and lines of her hips. Only when he reached the forgotten trace of her nipple, tongue rounding along the edges, did he tilt his head, release one hand to embark further downward, creating a sheath over himself, a volley of protection for both.
