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!
His sounds were muffled things, borne in concentrations within his lungs on breaths and sighs, moans and grunts, until he filled the space with echoes of contentment, pleasure, and carnal avarice. Yet to fully succumb, he was right on the edge and verge regardless, striving to appease the situation while simultaneously craving and yearning to plunge and persist and forgo all of it entirely. It built in the base of his spine and whittled away at edges, bones, and muscles, building into a wild and craving crescendo the moment her lips went further; barely capable of indulging another warning on the tip of his tongue. “Evie,” came out as extended, roughened growl, an intentional signal of impending release, hands fisting into the sheets and hips still undulating, the tips of her nails driving into sensations and semblances.
Whether she’d choose to abide the physical notice, or continue onward in taking him fully was entirely up to her – she’d have a few moments to decide before he unfurled with stars behind his eyes and bestial moans.
the ressurected sword
Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd
01-10-2024, 01:51 AM (This post was last modified: 01-15-2024, 01:03 AM by Evie.)
Evie
tell me all of the things
that make you feel at ease
For a long moment, she considers which ending is the most desirable. To have him finish in her mouth, to feel him close and trembling beneath her hands? Or to pull away and make good on his accusations of calling her a tease? Her goal is his pleasure, but she is also - rightfully so - wary of the revenge he might call down on her while he is physically recovering.
Still, that is something she's willing to risk if it means seeing through her own personal gift to the end. So she ignores his warning readily, calming her breathing enough to take him all the deeper, making it quite clear that she isn't going anywhere. And if she hums a little when she can feel him in the back of her throat, well, it's preemptive gloating as well as extra stimulation.
There was going to be carnal vengeance regardless of any outcome; a heady bout of promised pleasure they could both share, meticulously extended, contorted, and courted. The ignoring of his warning, however, caught him outright, her mouth maneuvering over him so there was only the salvaging and welling of impending release; honed into a shake of his head as she seemed much prouder and smug than before. He struggled to come up with something witty thereafter, but his mind was currently occupied by a myriad of other physical designs and machinations, eyes flickering upward as his lungs heaved a few more long breaths.
Perhaps his warnings had been enough.
So as she exulted and triumphed and preened, he moved, long limbs catching over her and switching their positions entirely – so he crouched, knees on either side, hovering in towering indulgence. He could surmise with absolute certainty that she was satisfied in her efforts, but not in everything else – serpentine maneuvers had his frame suspended and poised above hers, naught yet touching but the nimble trace of his fingers beginning to wander beneath the hem of her shirt. “While I appreciate your consideration and generosity,” and then some; he’d have those mental images and magnanimous efforts conscripted into his mind for ages, “You are overdressed for the occasion.”
the ressurected sword
Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd
When his shaking has subsided and Evie has artfully swallowed and given him peace lest he become far too overstimulated, the Evergreen begins to gently rub her hands up his thighs, aware she likely won't have the chance to -
Ah, there it was. Evie bounces slightly on the bed and can't help the laughter that accompanies her oomph, amused that she hadn't even been able to finish thinking about the final grains of sand in the hourglass before Deimos had turned the tables. "Oh am I?" She can't even remotely begin concealing her mirth and self-satisfaction, but she equally can't hide how her lower back arches off the bed at the touch of his fingertips at the hem of her shirt, skin overly sensitive with her own longing desire.
"Seems I'll have to fix that," she murmurs, hooking her thumbs in the top of her waistband and pushing her leggings down slowly, revealing little more than her hip bones. Only to wink and pull them off entirely, unwilling to torture Deimos too much longer. Though she takes his hand next and guides it up her navel, rucking up her shirt as she stares into his eyes, the headiness of having been so in control going to her head. "Unless you're willing to help?"
He didn’t bother stifling the deep and warm round of laughter following her own; the bliss and reverie and subsequent ridiculousness combining into raw amusement; shaking his head at the smug notes and tones. Deimos fully intended to change them into sultry decibels and avaricious sighs, lustful moans and heady wakes; all in good time.
His brow arched and eyes followed the trail of her movements with such an air of hooded longing behind the piercing sentiments of his gaze that it wasn’t worth hiding; he might’ve said something clever, but it was lost in the heady reaction, the jut of hip bones, the arc and rise of her spine. His unsaid promise had been momentarily forgotten in the midst of visions and flesh, before shaking his head, succumbing to another chuckle as her shirt rucked and revealed, mouth lowering to skim over her ear, a smirk tucked within as breaths pulsed over skin. “Am I allowed?”
Regardless if he was or not, his fingers slid, following paths he’d long since learned but yearned to travel over and over again. The slightest, ghostly touch along curves, the peeling away of layers, the snapping away of bras and waistbands, gone and gone and nothing in between. From there, his mouth began to make and mark its own bearings, winding along so lips touched and scorched along soft pulse points upon her neck, digits gliding and tracing amidst the top of her thighs. An inquiry persisted, an offering made, another rumble of shadows and whispers tucked into her nape. “What do you want?”
the ressurected sword
Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd
For all the ease and lightheartedness that shines like sunbeams through mist, there is no mistaking the headiness and longing of that cloying fog, and her humor subsides willingly at the sight of such things in the intense stare that pins her without ever touching her skin.
When he finally does touch her it’s almost too much. Worshipping him had not left her unaffected, and every nerve feels twice as sensitive. Even the familiar way he blocks out the world with his body above hers makes her ache. “Always,” she assures, though her voice is soft and breathy around her surety. Her mind catches up a moment later, and a half-there laugh escapes her. “Special circumstances of today aside,” she corrects herself, eyes crinkling in shameless self-satisfaction.
Vixen aspects dissolve as his hands move at last, disrobing her with intimate familiarity and descending upon her at last - though far too slowly, which she can certainly complain about without any level of hypocrisy. Tilting her head to the side as her breath hiccups softly and her pulse picks up beneath his lips and tongue, her own hands come between them in the scant space he has left to curl her fingers around his waist. Maybe it’s not having to look him in the eye, the satisfaction of her precious worship, or the fact it’s their honeymoon, but Evie feels no embarrassment descending as she responds boldly. “I want you in every way I can envision having you, as frequently as I can in the time we have. But for now I’d really rather you make love to me,” she murmurs, voice thrumming beneath his lips on her throat, grateful he can’t see (yet) the pink suffusing her cheeks. Somehow it feels stranger than saying fuck instead, despite having luxuriated her attention on him plentifully already.
The guileless look directed at him should’ve made him flush; instead, he rolled his eyes, catching along the fringes of their humor, even amidst the heady glow of longing and yearning and desire; the core of them, no matter which element they threaten to entangle. Beyond that though, he waited, taking in the hiccup and hitch in her breath, the wanton lush already beginning to build, the fingers tightening around his own bare waist.
For the boldness, for the designs, for the desires to unfurl in their wanted decrees; he muffled another laugh, letting it build and billow across her skin in echoes of adoration. “I will see what I can do,” came along touches of beard below her nape as he began to travel and traverse, another emboldened promise pressed behind his teeth. “No rules for you though,” an open invitation – to touch and linger and scale and take, his own ravenous and torturous artistry could thrive even with her impatience.
His fingers were purposefully tormenting; no longer idle, maneuvering and hovering along the inside of her thighs, but never directly to the core – along soft skin, rushes of crimson, tracing and sketching, his thoughts a blend of craving ministrations – wanting to hear, wanting to chase, wanting to revel in her undulating hymns or frustration; a swift and sweet vengeance. His mouth could keep her occupied too, slinking downwards, from exposed nape and pulse points, and down her chest, lips encircling her left nipple.
the ressurected sword
Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd
She has no doubt that any of her clawing, craving, clutching would do little to impact his own plans, but she exhales something too thready to be a laugh and arches subtly into the sensation of his beard and lips traveling down her neck anyway as she affects a tone of gratitude. “How generous.” Playfulness aside, that’s precisely the kind of lover he is, and Evie’s thighs shake as his fingers brush and caress, never quite where it would feel best but stoking the embers and flames of sensation and arousal.
Her body arches slow and luxurious, soft little sighs and whimpers at every sensitive spot he skirts past, and then a strained noise that evolves into a gasp of his name as his mouth descends far enough to torture the peak of her breast. With no rules to follow, her hands bury into his hair - not controlling, but idly clenching around the roots, thighs converging until she feels his hand between and reminds herself to relax lest she impede his lovely ministrations.
“I try,” he muffled into her skin with another laugh; poignant rumbles across the surface of her skin. Evie would voice her concerns if his efforts weren’t lavish enough; but he’d openly extended generosity throughout his life – he’d do the same here, time after time.
The mewls and moans were enough encouragement anyway; unfurling his own carnal persuasions the moment her hands thread through his hair, deepening grumbles meant to further the notions, enticed and lured by the pleasurable link along scalp and spine and nerves. Not to leave anything undone, his free hand brushed against the otherwise unoccupied breast, following the arcs and sighs, the whimpers and contortions, tongue caressing until it began to travel further downward, towards navels and more pathways, more journeys.
He couldn’t help the next chuckle as her thighs threatened to lock over his other palm – and gods, the temptation to inveigle and unravel just as she’d done to him with all the pleasurable torments reared its avaricious notches in his mind. But, perhaps, given all that was to come, and figuring he had other plentiful opportunities, Deimos relented, curling one finger directly along her core, soft, slow, ministrations, meant to keen and temper and unwind.
the ressurected sword
Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd
He plays her body like a fine-tuned instrument, and her chorus of sighs and whimpers are inevitable when he lays his hands on her with such intent. Her hands tighten and release in his hair in direct response to the way he touches her; tightening near the temples when his hand cups her breast, sliding over his crown and pressing lightly there as his tongue travels down her navel.
Her hands fall away to his shoulders, and then down to the bed when she finds him too far away to cling - needing something to clench her hands into when one, torturous finger unfurls and strokes down her core, already slick. "Love," she sighs, but it comes out a little garbled with the weight of her pleasure. Her thighs rise and spread, letting him settle further between them - and perhaps tilting her hips higher, seeking out more of his touch in a languid roll as her head falls back against the sheets.
“Mm?” echoed on a boyish grumble, a wealth of laughter, a horde of pretenses in pretending he didn’t know what she was begging or pining for. Part of the facets of their game, to toy and taunt even amidst the most longing circumstances, until eventually giving and giving amidst the unraveling proportions. His mouth slid down further at her welcome and open encouragement, content to find the wanton sighs and mewls still a part of the background reflections; musing and fusing them to his intentions, aspirations, and purposes.
The residual arc of her frame, the lilting of her spine, the rise and fall of her thighs, was more than enough of a hint; and he persisted and pursued, no less predacious. A second finger curled and contorted along her core, a trace, a sketch, an outline, a caress, while his tongue lingered just above – writing out ministrations and machinations with the orchestration of slow deliberations.
the ressurected sword
Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd
She knows that he knows exactly what he's doing to her and exactly what her beseeching tone had communicated, so she only groans softly in response. Words are already slipping further away from her with each second - time and energy are better spent on trying to entice him into moving things along.
Perhaps she bit off more than she could chew though, as she jolts on the bed as if electrified as his mouth descends upon her at the same moment as another finger slides inside, forcing her halfway up onto her elbows as her thighs jerk around him and she mewls in a fashion that would otherwise be embarrassing. Words dissolve into a mantra of "fuck, fuck, yes," as the heat in her belly sharply and swiftly increases. His hands will always be the death of her, and her own grip the sheets given he's too far to cling to any longer, twisting and knotting them unrepentantly as the petals tumble and brush against her skin. She catches the please just behind her teeth, hesitant to plead for more and faster when she'd just (sort of) tortured him herself.
Deimos tried to do well on his promises – whether they were made from compassion, pettiness, vengeance, or somewhere in between. These laden throngs were swift paybacks for her earlier gifts; a fleeting touch of his fingers along her thighs or upon her core alone, a whispering rhythm of his tongue tracing, outlining, with the incited moans and yearning, pining mewls. If he were more acrimonious, he might have drawn it out a little longer – until there were merely echoes and fringes of caresses, her voice a begging notion far removed from meditation.
But at some point he’d have to give and grant and beseech – so, on a guttural rumble through his chest, the Sword proceeded; curling his fingers into a diligent precision, recalling steps and pathways of emboldened layers and lavishes before. His mouth did the same, until there was a unison of carnal endeavors, persistent in the intention of casting her over and over on pleasurable heights.
the ressurected sword
Code blatantly stolen from the fantastical, wonderful Odd
There will be hours and days yet for teasing and torturing, and her voice is a sob of relief and pleasure as his fingers curl and press inside, familiar with every angle and stroke that has her legs tightening and beginning to shake as they cradle around him. It's not enough to get her to completion, but for that she's grateful. She only wants to reach that edge of bliss when he's inside her, and she doesn't mind being strung out and pleasured half out of her mind while he recovers. Obviously.
Her crooning and panting becomes thready whines as she tries to tilt her hips and wriggle to match the tempo of his fingers, as if he needs the help. Now it's almost enough to send her toppling into orgasm, and though she's more than capable of multiple, she lifts a hand from strangling the sheets to beckon him forward back into her reach. "Please, want you honey," she moans, fiery hair a chaotic halo of pleasure and blue eyes hazy with want.
