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!
They had nothing to disrupt plans but themselves; a momentous haze, a covetous need welling between bones and ribcages, lungs and souls. What could fall away were inconsequential, pushed aside for only a timeframe, stretched moments where took and gave, without the rest of the world binding, clawing, tethering. Driven, determined, expressions blurred into wanton gasps and breathless whims; he had half a mind to assure the mugs of cocoa were well out of the way, placed without burden somewhere else within the fort. “What about dinner?” came along a pant, released briefly from her lips and her taste, a brief grumble followed by a smirk.
He had no intentions of relinquishing the instant anyway; shudders and nuances sent down his spine, through his shoulders, as soon as she grasped at his hair. Melting and molten, the stirring beginning in the press of his stomach, unsaid declarations pulled and made in every touch and caress instead. Teeth nipped and traced at her mouth, just as gently as when he’s snagged at her palm, tongue following thereafter.
Hands lured too, fingers on her neck tracing upwards, entangling amidst locks, pulling her in and in and in; the other finding its way along her waist, toying with the fabric of her shirt. But as she roamed closer his hips gave an instinctual buck, chasing down sentiments and motions.
it's not the waking, it's the rising It's the fire it ignites
If the mugs are to survive this encounter, it is a duty that falls entirely on Deimos' shoulders, for Evie is too busy drowning in hooded blue eyes and the heavy beat of her heart like a drum in her chest. "The sun's gone, we can decide to have dinner any hour," she murmurs with no small measure of self-satisfaction at her clear genius.
Regardless of whether he saw fit to counter it, Evie considers the problem solved the moment he draws her back in, lips parting to meet his tongue with her own and kiss him deeply. As his hips rise beneath her, the soft noise that curls in her throat reverberates between their joined lips, and her thighs tighten readily around his hips. One hand leaves his hair to pull at the hem of his own shirt in tandem, just enough to slip her hand inside - calloused but soft fingertips pressing slow but inexorable up his side, along the curve of muscle between his waist and abdomen. Drinking in the heat of his body, the familiar lines she has memorized blind.
Were his mind contorting directly elsewhere, and not fragmented into teasing or carnal desires, he probably would’ve pressed further into the logic and theory. As the former was the case, there was a distinct chuckle muffled somewhere in between mouths and chests, a modicum of acceptance, broaching the notions no further. Dinner could wait.
They molded to one another, and if there was any greedy or avaricious countenance left in his soul he aspired to it freely now; drawn and sketched and contorted beneath the wake of her presence. Strokes and stokes of fire, swallowing and tasting and taking, teeth and tongue following, some brink of a laugh pooling across her lips when he took scarce moments to breathe. A moan might’ve echoed, but it wouldn’t have gotten far past her mouth, the moment her fingers began to slide along his abdomen; muscles shuddering and undulating in tandem. Expectant, enthralled, incised, eager, willing, wanting.
But there were barriers and someone had to peel them away; machinations hazy but dutiful in their approach. His hand left the fabric of her shirt and opted to travel along her waist, stretching the band of her pants, a hint for them to slip away, off of flesh and skin and curves.
it's not the waking, it's the rising It's the fire it ignites
Greed flourishes beneath their strung canopy, allowed to foster and flower readily as their hands roam and touch and worship. His moan and laugh alike are music to her ears, and the flex of his stomach beneath her hand as he breathes and shudders in anticipation makes her fingers flex wantonly against the warm skin beneath them.
At her hip, she feels his fingers pull and slide beneath the band of her leggings, and she smiles against his lips. It takes a bit of contorting to take them off while still kissing him, but Evie is a dedicated enough runner to have flexibility to count on. Shameless in her partial nudity - having willingly discarded her panties alongside them - the Evergreen starts on Deimos’ own pants, deft hands pulling at ties and hem alike even as she readjusts over his lap to kiss him with a heightened fervor.
Fire was the anthem and theme: a staccato rhythm building beneath his ribs, searing over his heart. Wanton, carnal dimensions in the blink of eyes and embers, in the glow of the hearth’s flames nearby, illuminating past canopies of blankets and fortifications, onto flesh and souls. A rushing, zealous, ardent need pressing into scalding aches, forgoing past natures and boundaries.
They barely broke apart, though in the rush and zeal he couldn’t help but laugh, mouth against her cheek if she moved slightly askew, or along her ear, a nip below on her nape, before finding her lips once more. He could feel her own tug and pull on his pants, but in teasing measure, could only drag it out a further with a rapt chuckle, peeling away his shirt instead, tossing it somewhere.
Thereafter, his fingers began their instinctual outlining, from her hip and waist to her thighs, tracing along the inside of soft skin, goading, luring, beguiling.
it's not the waking, it's the rising It's the fire it ignites
The firelight is handsome on his face, but Evie scarcely notices, too enthralled with his lips and the way they trail and bite and tease when they briefly part. There is less need for sight in this moment of divestment, but as he resists her greedy, questing hands she takes the moment to wrinkle her nose at him in playful exasperation - and silently marvel at his beauty. A moment that elongates the moment he shrugs out of his shirt, revealing so much more skin for her to admire, all of it awash in the shifting light and shadows from the flames. Her hand falls away from his naps to caress gently across his torso, clearly admiring. “You are more beautiful than any painting I could hope to make,” she whispers intimately, and leans down to press a kiss over his heart.
Her lips part in a shaky exhale right over it as his hands explore boldly, as familiar with her body now as she is herself. Shaken from her musings, her hands remembers themselves enough to drift back to his pants, renewing her silent request as she simultaneously begins to kiss from his heart up to his collarbones, nipping and kissing from there to the base of his neck.
Purposeful sedition hadn’t granted him more than a wrinkled nose or exasperation, but he snagged those moments too, reaching pinnacles with his teeth, drawing out semblances until he heard a breath quake. Nor had he been expecting her direct admiration, and as the words caught, as her mouth aligned with his chest, Deimos could only blush amidst the shadows and the firelight. Self-deprecation threatened upon his tongue instantly, but he put his worth, and mouth, to better use a second later, contorting the rumble of his voice to echo along her skin, to scald against her neck, eyes following, scaling their own piercing inclinations. “And yet, you are still better,” than paintings or beauty, or any apt descriptions he could pinpoint. Altogether, from strength and dominion, from ridiculousness and mischief, coiled together in bolder flames.
He teased further though, to render the longing, the craving, the indulgence of their haze; fingers ghosting, tracing, until they reached the very center of her. Then they slowed to a deliberate crawl, following familiar maps and routes, slowly, leisurely, as if to ensure every ounce of pleasure radiated and preened.
His other hand hadn’t forgotten her requests at hems, bands, and pants, pulling them downwards while she hovered above; incessantly distracting as her lips maneuvered upon his nape. His own inhalations became sharper, a low grumble, a puncturing hiss, brawn undulating once more under the breadth of her touch. At some point, through quick reflexes, the rest of his clothing was removed, body stripped down to nothing more than muscles, mass, and scars.
it's not the waking, it's the rising It's the fire it ignites
Each time he swallows down those self-deprecating comments in deference to her love is another time she wins against all those demons in his head, and it makes her just as warm as his hands on her skin, his words against her throat. It prompts a crooning sigh from her breast all the same, because she will never tire of hearing his love spoken so plainly, the way she'd only ever read in books and never truly sought in all her rebellious, defensive years. She'd always envisioned melting anew each time hearing it, but it stokes a fire in her instead, a greed she'd never anticipated.
One that makes her impatient as Deimos lingers and teases, that's only cured by the way he bares himself at last. And she can't even fully appreciate it, with the way his fingers distract her so, light in terms of pressure but unerringly accurate. Her inner thighs begin a light tremble, clearly desiring more, but Evie has no such compunctions. Her hands trail down her beloved's body until both come to meet between his own thighs, gentle but persistent in pressure as she envelops his member immediately to shock the pleasure straight into his veins. "No teasing, love. I want you," she breathes against his lips.
They could have their greed; for touch and for love and for everything else nestled in between. For how long they’d fought for others and lost themselves along the way, for how many storms they’d weathered, for how many times they’d broken and stitched their souls back together. Her sentiments still made him wonder and fight, expect something to fall and split, but each time it was easier to accept that not everyone, not everything, left him abandoned. Tough lessons to wade within, and stronger still to learn, to believe, to instill faith and adherence in another. But the Evergreen illuminated the notions every day.
Even if he merely wanted to tease, she had no sentiments to be strung along this time. He responded in muscle undulations and a sudden, insistent hiss, a feral laugh that flickered and engulfed somewhere deep in his chest, mouth meeting along the outer shell of her ear, teeth tugging and nipping. “Fine,” registered something like amused acceptance, even if the words left his cheeks reddened again; but he could blame it on the firelight, on the carnal raptures.
His hands moved away from her core briefly, maneuvering her fingers away from his form if only for a second; simply to create the sheathe and barrier. Even if they’d discussed future parameters, neither of them were quite to those readied thresholds, and he wouldn’t risk all preparations by way of impulse (no matter how tempting). From there, fingers stoked and encouraged, roaming along her thighs once more, an open invitation.
it's not the waking, it's the rising It's the fire it ignites
The tremor of his laughter breaks her apart like a fault line. There is no hurt, no disgruntlement at her forwardness, only easy acceptance and a willingness to meet her level of desire. Even the red of his cheeks is charming. “Never doubt how much I want you. Constantly, incessantly,” she murmurs. Filling the space of moments where he conjures protection, trusting him implicitly to do so without ever looking.
Equally without looking, and with both of the Sword’s hands trailing up her hips, Evie’s hands return to the warm weight of his member, guiding it up and against her as she rolls her hips down to meet it. The first shock of penetration makes her tremble; no pain, only the sensitive ache of wanting, one she chases in a downward slide until their hips meet and she is left trembling and breathless atop him. Planting her hands on his chest, she lingers for only a moment - and then lifts herself and slams back down, wanting him with a roaring immediacy.
He didn’t quite have the right words; never did, never would, not taken aback, but encouraged, treading momentarily in the absolution of her meaning. Evie’s ability to utter her truths without preamble or hesitation was something to be admired, and if he hadn’t been hidden, tucked away, and guarded for so long, he might have been able to follow the paths so fearlessly. Instead, he permitted the gestures of so many walls down, gave himself over to her, tacit trust, sacred devotion, amidst the desires, the affection, the adoration. Actions said more than he’d ever be able to – heart open, assurances rendered – in the rush of his lips against the skin of her neck, in the distant rumble in his chest. To leave no doubt in her mind either: irrefutable and definite.
Hips rolled and bodies met; a groan uttered along the pale junctures of her flesh, a hiss soon following. A flicker of all the fire behind his eyes, before he ached to match her tempo, wanton and covetous, grasping and rapacious, thrusting upward as she hovered, ghosted, plunged, settled for half an instant more. A piercing pace, sometimes purposefully drawn out, to reach heights and tease, taunt and relish, consume and devour – sometimes perilous and dangling on an edge. Hands roamed with the same intensity, reaching and seeking, sliding along hips to steady or maneuver.; acquisitive, yearning.
it's not the waking, it's the rising It's the fire it ignites
He arches to meet her, and Evie’s breath hiccups in her chest, tangling with the deep moan that coils in her stomach. The pace is far from languid; Evie wants one thing, and Deimos seems just as on board. Her head tilts back, spine an inverted arch as her hands leave the Sword’s chest to brace on his forearms instead, using the strength there to hasten her undulations.
There are no further words, just the hiccup of moans entangled with his name - and only his name. Her thighs tremble not because of fatigue, but pleasure; they do not often succumb to such ravenous, spontaneous desires, but the change is appealing. Even without any external stimulus she can already feel the hot pool in her naval. An almost embarrassingly fast response, but she doesn’t feel it. Only feels the heat and pressure of his hands on her hips, the ghost of his mouth on her neck, and the thickness of him inside her.
Needs and wants were coiled and contorted together, a melded and molded convergence of their desires brought to flames – he’d meet her wherever she required, the pace enticing and deliberate, drawn from embers and kindled quickly. Much like an inferno, a conflagration, heightened by stoking whims; his mouth chasing the pulse beneath her skin, hands flickering along her hips time and time again, following after her set rhythm, or adjusting it accordingly.
His name was an echo against his ears, and in so he rumbled hers along her skin, upon the shell of her ear, on the lines of her jaw, on the breaths between groans and whispers, hisses and feral intricacies. Eventually he might’ve found ways to form other words and phrases, but in true facets of the Sword’s character, they were short, clipped. “You first,” a tease and an instigation, a temptation for her to fall over the edge and not look back.
it's not the waking, it's the rising It's the fire it ignites
Her name has never sounded sweeter than on his lips, muted beneath these tarps and blankets until it’s meant only for her ears, not even the greater room. She hadn’t anticipated needing him this badly, so suddenly and voraciously. It means a swift rise, an inevitably swift end. Evie doesn’t bother trying to fight it, especially not with Deimos’ encouragement striking best into her veins.
One of her hands releases to drift down between her thighs, content to put on a show instead of letting him get her off. Her hips jerk immediately, and she curls forward, the hand that had been on Deimos’ forearm balancing on his chest instead to give her the better angle to bounce her hips back against him. If she wasn’t so consumed, perhaps she’d say something like ‘as you wish’ - but there is only the whine of his name as she brings herself to completion atop him, shuddering and clenching around him as she draws out each wave until she nearly collapses on top of his torso, breathing hard. “Now you,” she urges breathlessly against his neck.
