#death deferred

[dracoqueen22]

Death Deferred- Fic Snippet

There's only one type of ghost hunter.

That's the answer Newlyn gave anytime someone questioned his legitimacy or his capability. Ghosts existed, in several different forms, this was a provable fact. Haunts. Spirits. Banshees. Lingerers. Wraiths.

There were as many different types of ghosts as there were concoctions in Newlyn's alchemy book. The dead rarely rested in peace, and they always had something to say after the fact, very loudly if no one was listening. They didn't like to be ignored. It made them angry, and angry ghosts were dangerous ghosts.

Newlyn's hope was to get to them before they got angry, but that rarely happened. People tended to ignore their hauntings until they got deadly, because again, ghosts didn't like to be ignored.

So. Was Newlyn a real ghost hunter?

If asked, he'd smile and say, "there's only one type of ghost hunter," and then he'd launch into a summary of all the methods at his disposal. As long as he knew what he was getting into, he could be effective. It was knowing what he was up against that was the trick. That and plying his trade with a wealthy, but impressionable mark. 

There's only one kind of ghost hunter, and Newlyn was the best at what he did. All you had to do was ask him.

Which was why he stood outside the Nightsworn gates, watching them swing open with nary a creak. The rich, the elite, nothing they owned made a noise of disuse. The hinges were well-oiled, the ornate metal curved and gleaming.

Newlyn adjusted his vest and stepped inside as soon as there was room for him to pass. The gates immediately shifted to close again behind him, emanating magical energy. This was no cheap enchantment. Trust the obscenely wealthy to expend unnecessary arcane resources when hiring someone would do the job just as well.

Mica Nightsworn, current matriarch of the Nightsworn family, definitely counted herself among the obscenely wealthy, though most of her coin was generational wealth. Rumor had it that her husband, the original Nightsworn, died under mysterious circumstances. Perhaps that's why Newlyn had been summoned. Had the late Nightsworn made a nuisance of himself?

Nightsworn Manor loomed in front of him, a three-story construction of wood and stone, ivy crawling up the sides, and a balcony wrapping around the east side of the building. The Nightsworn crest hung in gilded platinum above the double front-doors, which opened as Newlyn climbed the stone-carved steps with taps of his boots.

More enchantments, more excess of magic.

Newlyn sighed. Oh, to have that much coin to waste. He stepped into a foyer, lit by a massive chandelier with a thousand tiny everlights casting tiny flickers in all directions. A pair of curved staircases led up to a second floor, and he counted no less than five doors from his vantage point. Huge tapestries decorated the walls, the Nightsworn crest most prominent in the handwoven fabrics.

"You must be the hunter." The cool, cultured voice echoed throughout the foyer.

Newlyn followed the statement to an adjoining door where Lady Mica Nightsworn herself stood, draped in shades of cream and purple, her hands clasped genteel in front of her. She dripped with poise, her lips painted in mauve to match her eyes, the poke of delicately adorned tusks barely visible. She was darker than Newlyn’s tawny-brown, and the coil of her long, black hair had been arranged in a careful twist of knots and braids atop her head. 

A servant would have spent at least fifteen minutes on those braids. 

"I am." Newlyn planted his most convincing smile on his face, dipping into a polite bow that was low enough not to offend even the most arrogant of nobility. "Zhem-Newlyn Grym, at your service."

[clonerightsagenda]

I invite you to a reading of my dark academia novel. You expect a bunch of smoldering boys in button up dress shirts. I start reading. Chapter one is a transcript of a two hour faculty senate meeting. You try the doors. They're locked.

[jichanxo]

call to a witch song

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

“I refuse to remain silent as religion rips through humanity like a virulent plague.

I know it's awfully rude to question and criticize this very ancient institution, but so what?”

-- Michael A. Sherlock

Better rude than complicit.

[ferinehuntress]

❤️‍🔥🫶 for Aylin and Isobel?

❤️‍🔥what’s their most erogenous zone? 🫶what does after care look like for them?

Aylin’s hand wrapped around Isobel, holding her close to her as her other hand gently played with Isobel’s hair. Isobel had reclined up against Aylin, her fingers gently brushing back and forth against Aylin’s thigh.

“Curiosity caught your thoughts, young Ophelia?” Aylin questioned as she flittered her wings and lowered them down to relax. “Should we indulge her curiosity, my love?” Her voice questioned as Isobel hummed and grinned. “Why not?” Isobel agreed and allowed Aylin to take the lead.

“Isobel knew almost instantly my most sensitive zones around my body. Naturally, my wings are extreme zones, and all she has to do is touch them and I’ll melt within her fine fingertips. Along the base of my wings is also my back, nails tracing along feather and flesh; it absolutely breaks every inch of resolve. My darling knows how to make me bend a knee,” Aylin smirked as she leaned over and kissed her shoulder. “And the strength of my shoulders is also a sensitive region. Most of my muscular strength lines within my back and shoulders, which makes them as sensitive as spider webbing,” Aylin leaned over and pressed her lips up against Isobel’s neck as Isobel softly moaned.

“My neck is very sensitive, though I only allow Aylin to touch it. After my history with the sharrans, I will never let another soul near it except the love of my life,” Isobel said as she leaned back and reached her hand back to brush up against Aylin’s hair. “My ears are sensitive, because of my elvhen heritage. Nibbles or nips will make them quiver and I easily melt into such touches. And then the last one is my wrist. I learned of that when Aylin kissed my inner wrist for the first time, and every inch of me shivered with delight. I never knew such a touch would lead me to easily melt for my lover.” Isobel turned, so she was leaning up against Aylin now, her legs draped over the side of the set as the two made themselves more comfortable.

“As for aftercare.” Isobel took the lead on this one. “Aylin is such a service. She takes care of me in every way. And I quite enjoy putting her on her knees,” Isobel smirked as she looked over to her darling, who had a smile on her lips. The two kissed sweetly as Isobel moved her arm around the back of her neck. “But no matter what we do, with all that Aylin does for me, I always make sure to pamper my Aasimar. I give her massages. We will take a bath or a shower, but most of all we will always cuddle up together and talk afterward. We never go to bed without knowing the other is satisfied and what the other liked or didn’t like. We tend to sleep in the nude. The comfort of skin to skin just brings us peace that we desperately need after so long of being apart.” Isobel leaned her head up against Aylin’s shoulder and Aylin brushed her hand up against her hair.

“There is nothing I would not do for my darling Isobel. I will give her the world, provide every comfort and joy. As much as our love delves into pleasure of the flesh, we too take comforts of the mind. Isobel will want for nothing, and I desire nothing more than to have her close in my arms, and to hear her moans reach the skies,”

[thedreadvampy]

1 week left for Charlie to do the funniest thing he'll do in his life

[autumnfangirler]

caine and chen as acceptance through faith vs caine and ortega as acceptance through obedience

[wolfeyedwitch]

I do not need another crossover. I do NOT need another crossover. I do not NEED another crossover. I do not need ANOTHER crossover...

Aaand its already got plot bunnies moving into my head. The fuzzy bastards never pay rent, either.

Feel free to ask me about my crossover ideas with an audience of one because the thing im crossing over with fandoms is my own OC and their lore.

[scum-belina]

So apparently I can't go out in public without having an immediate suicidal meltdown. That's cool.

[datastate]

not to sound unwell, but i dearly miss sara chidouin

[cuntylittlesalmon]

🫡

[snarltoothed]

woman with cptsd shower routine be like i love this music, i’m dancing and washing my body in warm water, i’m at the peak of human joy… oh, that lyric kinda cut deep. :/. sobbing silently on all fours to the point of physical pain. the suffering is in every fibre of my being. why didn’t i die three years ago

[colorisbyshe]

I just came across a tweet saying that Aaron Bushnell--the man who burned himself to death while yelling Free Palestine until he couldn't anymore--will be "in the history books" and that phrase has been coming up a lot. And it chafes me every time I read it, every time I hear it.

Cause, a. no, a lot of this won't be in the American history books. American atrocities, especially those overseas but even those against American people (especially American people of color), don't go in the literal history books. Or the figurative ones. Most American atrocities are wiped from the collective memory... sometimes as soon as they happen. They go unreported (like the first person to self immolate to protest this genocide), they go erased, they go whitewashed, they go falsely recontextualized, and they get twisted into pro-America sentiment--we were right for those atrocities, we were wrong for them but we learned, we didn't learn from it but we felt bad about it and should be comforted for that soreness.

And b. is harder to verbalize but I'm gonna try. It feels... performative in the literal sense. Like we only value what is happening today out of deference for how people in the future will perceive it. We aren't doing anything to change anything NOW, to care about other people NOW, but so that one day... we'll be remembered a caring. Like this man killed himself as gesture, as a move for his legacy.

And I see this phrase--"this will be remembered in the history books"--whipped out in extremely horrific contexts. A child's dead body hanging off a wall, "oh, this will be in the history books." What does that even mean? Was her death worth the historical context? Was it necessary to embellish the horror of it all?

Would the people reading these hypothetical history books not get the wrongness of the genocide without the death of a little girl that you're using as... window dressing?

It just seems so weirdly self satisfied. Like you're eager to note you just witnessed a real moment that people will remember decades from now. When... a lot of people won't which is what is so tragic. A lot of people don't even know it's happening right now.

Because, again, it's not being reported. And when it is being reported it's not being reported honestly.

I'm not saying this well but it just feels like such a gross reaction to things we're seeing in real time.

Why does it have to matter later to matter now? Why is the hypothetical reaction of a history book reader the thing you think about?

A lot of people won't live to read those "history books" because people, right now, aren't doing anything to help them.

[ferinehuntress]

◈　 ⇢  @estarion　 ⋯　 meme I'm to lazy to look up XD ♡ 　　⸻　forgot to edit this and already deleted the ask >< but soemthing about astarion being near defeated and Aylin comes into to aid the battle.

She had made a vow, and although it was not as binding as her own oath, she would not break such a promise that she had made to the companions she considered friends. Surrounded by ghouls, goblins, knolls, and undead and cultist at every point; they forgot one vital tool.

Never let your guard down.

Reaching Ketheric would be an all out battle; but Aylin knew his strategic and plans. She had fought by his side multiple times over, and she knew how the mind of the man worked. Perhaps some things have changed, but tactics in war always had similar strategies to be relied on. Except he didn’t know that she had escaped, which gave them the upper hand. She had been dealing with the assailants outside the walls of Moonrise Towers, blazing down with moonfire and a silver sword and unrelenting vengeance. They had destroyed her town! Her HOME! They wished to bring death and destruction to the rest of the world. Aylin had nothing but pure undiluted anger and nothing would quench it until she was face to face with her betrayal.

The shouts grew louder within the halls of Moonrise as she twisted her wings and flew downward, bursting through the front entrance. The Harpers and the ones who had freed her were dealing with more than just undead, and it was clear the advantage was on the enemy’s side. Aylin’s wings gave a powerful gust of wing and then, using gravity, she flew downward and at the last moment twisted her body and slammed her wing directly into the mage that tried to harm Astarion. Brilliant white wings flared out, applying another massive gust of wind to knock the others off balance before twisting around and dropping to her knees.

“Death will not have you, my friend,” Aylin said as she reached down to press her hand against Astarion’s shoulder. “Manus impone,” Aylin said as she reached down to press her hand against Astarion’s shoulder, and silver light cascaded from her hand, engulfing his body as she healed the wounds inflicted upon him. “I say this battle is ours to conquer, our victory is near. Fight with every fiber of vigor within you,” Aylin spoke, and then flicked her sword within her hand, providing Astarion cover as she took to the air once more, finding the archers in the rafters as her next target. She would cleanse this tower with the fire of the moon.

[moondirti]

141 x f! READER. [3k] — AO3 dub/noncon. age gaps. pregnancy. toxic price. implied kidnapping. daddy kink. uncle kink (?). gangbang. lactation. voyeurism. oral (f! receiving). feet stuff.

The captain does not keep his spoils to himself.

He's always been that way, Kyle thinks. Even before he bound them with gossamer strings, webbing his prodigal boys together under a three digit moniker — he'd feed a little bit of his pride into every conversation. Easy to spot in hindsight, the golden broach of morning illuminating spun beginnings, dew dotted on translucent lines. He heard of Johnny before he knew him. Simon, too.

It simply isn’t like him.

But you, on the other hand—

Now he's never heard of you.

And he's sure it isn't a lapse of memory. Kyle would be hard-pressed to forget a conversation of that ilk, or the mental image of his captain with someone so fresh. Skin still downy-feather soft, the whites of your eyes bright and wet, hands unsure as the porcelain bones within them. Nescient of strife, death. The metallic aftertaste of gunpowder, or the way a scar will adopt a gnarled edge. It astounds him for a moment, to think that someone could go their whole life unburdened by these things — but then again, your neck seems accustomed to the possessive curl of Price's fingers. The bullish way he urges you forward, polished feet stumbling over each other to greet the overgrown men at the door.

Fawn-like, he resolves, as you suppress your fear with practised blinks, a grimace breaking your face when Johnny wraps a rough palm around yours, shaking too forcefully to be considered polite, jostling the cleavage barely concealed by a low-cut babydoll dress. It's a combined appraisal of your attire, the late hour, your squinted eyes — still sleep drenched — that tells him you didn't know they were coming.

Funny, seeing as they received the invite a fortnight ago.

(got something t'show you. been meaning to for a while.)

It's more than something, he'd say. Caught off guard, you cling to Price, sticky demurral ensnared by the hair of his forearm, a pace behind while he leads his men to the parlour. The light is low throughout the halls — which, if he were being honest, are cosier than anticipated. It would've been anyone's guess that the captain retreated to a house of concrete during his time off, utilitarian as he is — and Kyle feels as though he's intruding upon a dream. A surreal approximation of reality, where harsher lines blur into curves and calluses are softened like under the run of hot water.

His tongue is heavy when he swallows. Behind him, Johnny whispers something to Simon, who does not reply and has yet to speak.

No reason to. You don't ask for their poison once they're settled. Conditioned, you uncap what he recognises as Price's favourite single malt and pour three fingers worth (your closest measure to two of their own) for everyone. It gains you an appreciative pat from Simon, palm heavy on the back of your leg. A rush of noise in the unsteady silence. Too sudden, he thinks — for you jump and scamper, tucking, shaken, into an armchair's side.

Kyle feels his lungs squeeze when you pass by him, the air cradling a waft of cashmere musk and bluebell. It announces something he'd rather not voice. Something they all must be thinking. A question of pause, hesitancy, in face of the way your perfumed curves dangle blatantly before them. They're strangers to holding back. Nothing's demanded deference before — this quelling of predatory instinct. Johnny's smile gleams, his shark teeth struggling to stay clenched. Simon's eyes dry out the longer he stares, red fissures spelling out want so clearly it makes him reconsider his own.

His drink carves a path through the doubt in his throat. Flitting over to the captain, he watches for a reaction to Simon's transgression.

None comes.

So the man on trial sinks into his seat, exonerated. His mask has since been tucked beneath his chin, lips, more scar tissue than anything, contorting with amusement.

"Y'have to excuse me, lads." Price says, tugging you across the safe distance you've made and into his arms. It's even more startling a sight now, your body pinned to the canvas of his larger one. This Eleusinian contrast; Persephone, pomegranate carnage smeared over her mouth, impelled to spend her days with a force that means death to so many. Kyle wonders just which meadow he managed to pluck you from, what flowers you'd been weaving when it happened.

"Been keepin' this one from you," He walks you forward another step. "was building something... delicate, see. Had to wait until th' timing was right."

"Wuid nae blame ye, Cap." Johnny licks his lips, drying sweaty palms on denim, fingers curling in and out to work through the fervour.

"Jumpy lil thing, i'n't she?" Simon returns. "Would'a made like a rabbit in shock."

"Needed to be broken in first, naturally." Kyle breathes, stomach cramping with the enormity of his desire. His ears ring with a feverish pitch. Every time he blinks, it's a few seconds before his vision comes back to him.

Your nose turns away, lashes stitching together to keep the tears at bay. He can almost feel the mortification spilling hotly off your flesh, pooling, sappy thick, to glue itself wantonly on their boots. In his periphery, Johnny lurches forward, fondling the lace edge of your night dress as if to console you.

"Mm. Still a ways to go, but–" Price cups your wrists in one hand, tightening only to guide them well above your midriff. "now tha' I know she won't run off, she can finally meet her uncles."

And it's that resolve, the flag bearing that has led them to bloodshed countless times, that preludes this next march. All of a sudden, what was off limits is thrust into their reach — on stumbling, wary legs, heels digging grudgingly into the dirt, but still there, for the taking.

(Jowls aching, salivate blooming heavily beneath a writhing tongue. It's like he's been clipped off the dog house. Unleashed. And no matter how hard he tries to find it — desperately, his hindbrain sifting through layers of depravity for the righteous man he once was — he cannot muster much concern for your say in it all.)

"Ye sure aboot that?" Johnny's eyes are as wide as saucers. Having since slipped off his seat, kneeled as he is, he's borderline reverent in this light. Looking above for security, for assent, crux immissa a dull gold between his pecs. Your diaphanous dress grows opaque where his fist curls through it, shivering with every tremble of flesh. It is not your permission he is asking for, of course.

Price nods.

"Take a look yourself, son. Go on." He says, hooking an ankle to keep you rooted in place. The scot lifts the fabric so quick it tears, coming apart in tatters. If he'd been more deliberate with it, Kyle would have taken the time to appreciate the reveal—

The rounded brackets of your thighs. Their fattened inner lines. How your panties barely fit over your hips, folded over so that your mons peaks over the trim. Tufts of pubic hair, not as neatly defined as the rest of your appearance but laying flat, as though they were brushed. Groomed.

They all take a backseat to your stomach.

Swollen, belly button protruding, darker line down the middle. Not nearly full term, but perhaps well into your second trimester, the baby just small enough to be hidden by loose garments. Your lips screw into a pout, wet shame slipping down your cheeks as the heart of their invite comes to light. Kyle wonders, almost angrily, what there is to be ashamed of.

(Nothing. Nothing. Not when the captain beams as he does, crows feet making a brief and rare emergence. If he could, he'd pay ten times your dues to see it up just a moment longer.)

Simon squeezes the bulge in his trousers, jaw ticking with perversion. While adjusting himself, he's honed in on Johnny, who trails open-mouthed kisses up the underside of your belly. You flail a little at the hot press of his tongue, wiggling into Price for salvation that does not come. He holds you still for the ravaging, fingers clamping around your wrists, and Kyle delights in your expression. Slow acquiescence, dawning on the realisation that there is no backing away from this.

"It's been hard so far, but would you look at what's come of it." He hums, nosing your temple until you bend. Behind the coarse thicket of his moustache, his teeth briefly gleam. Then, Kyle watches with rapt fascination as Price latches onto your earlobe. "Giving me what I've always asked for. Now, I needed to reward her somehow."

Simon barks a laugh, the jagged edge of it razing up your legs. "Congratulations." He derides. Your toes curl into the carpeted floor; finding purchase, or comfort, in the plush fibres. Used to being the end of a joke.

Price joins in, too. Just for a brief moment, something warm and all-knowing crackling from his chest, before he turns to Kyle, expectant. "Garrick?"

Only as he clears the fog in his larynx does he realise how quiet he's been throughout this ordeal.

"Congrats."

The captain does not comment on the grit in his tone.

"Isn't tha' nice?" He whispers to you instead, undoing the ribbon keeping your décolletage together. It's a wonder your breasts haven't burst from it already, tender and heavy, visibly relieved once the straps slip off your shoulders. You match their intrigue with equal parts dread, damp lashes downcast, lips a small O — unable to do anything but watch as your tits spill out into the open air.

"Gettin' harder tae forgive ye fur holdin' oot on us." Johnny groans, sitting back on his haunches to admire the view himself. His mohawk skims a nipple in the motions, scouring the flushed tissue, and you squeal. It's just the unseemly match to throw you further off kilter; Johnny's intensity is scalding, an attention so zealous it forces you to regress into prey. If Kyle focuses, he can see the quick-tick pulse drumming in your neck.

"Doesn’ matter no more, does it?" Simon says, patting his lap. "Why don't you c'mere, bird, show us your thanks. Don't tell me daddy didn' train you proper."

The last dregs of scepticism drain from his pores when Price nudges you forward, tumbling over, straight seated onto his lieutenant's lap. With all the composure of a fisherman feeding bait onto a hook, casting it out to the sharks, he finds his seat again as Simon seizes you under his limbs, adding to his drink to watch you be pried apart for the evening.

His paws look huge against your torso, stationed there to haul you by the chest so your back conforms to his front. Scarred knuckles ripple, thick fingers kneading into fat, disfiguring your tits to mirror the ugly skin stretched over his fists. Beyond saving after countless burns and cuts, cursed to a lifetime of spoiling everything he touches, too.

It's intentional, though. Cruel, but subdued. Simon does not use his strength when he catches your nipples between rough forefinger and thumb. Your breasts are already sore, raw and tender with the changes your body's going through. He only exploits that, fondling the swollen masses like toys, shoving his tongue down your mouth when you pitch your complaints. Plucks them, rolling the knotted peaks so that it gets too much by ways of overstimulation.

"I know they 'urt. Yeah, fat fuckin' jugs like these need to be milked, else it gets too much. Poor pet. Daddy's a selfish man, huh? Keepin' you from the attention you need." He huffs, nipping the thin skin over your jugular. If the degradation isn't enough to keep up with — which it is, your little legs kicking to combat the humiliation churning your stomach — Johnny's hunger etches itself plainly upon his face. Pupils the size of the sun, drool slicking the cracks of his chapped lips.

Kyle spoors his interest to the space between your legs.

(A competitive flame lights in him, kindled by the knowledge of what Johnny wants. It sears him out of the voyeuristic stupor he's kept so far. All too suddenly, his teeth ache with the same violent desire, the sight of your pussy trapped behind soaked cotton the only meal he can ever imagine wanting.)

Johnny pounces.

Blinded by his holy grail, he does not dodge your foot when it aims for his head. You — trapped, dazed, in the process of being devoured by their lieutenant — only catch him from the corner of your eye, tongue sucked over your shoulder, eyes incessantly teary. Kyle knows you do not mean to hit him, only to ward him off with your flailing limbs. But your vision is impaired, and your heel makes contact with his chin, anyway.

It's about the worst thing you can do for yourself.

The scot moans, hips bucking into nothing. Like a dog, his impulses easily deflect, new sights set on the foot you so graciously offered him. His mouth unhinges, tongue extending as far as it can to lave over the sole, nipping around its pillowy edge. Your toes, perfectly manicured, attempt to flick him away, sternum caving as you hold back desperate little laughs at the sensation. It draws his attention upward, eyes flitting maniacally to and from your face, lips popping around your innermost toe and assessing the way you react. Sucking it into his mouth when you're not as enthusiastic, one hand cradled around your twisting ankle, the other palming clumsily at his crotch, growing more and more erratic the shorter your breaths get.

Kyle takes his chance. Folds his collar, and unfastens the first few buttons of his dress shirt. No one pays much heed to him — not Simon, whose hands remain fixed on your heaving tits (leakin' like a bloody cow, pet. look'it it, drenchin' my palms); Johnny, seemingly endlessly enthused by your feet; or you, your work cut out between the two of them, back arched, round stomach thrust up. Skin glossy no matter where he looks; heels covered in spit, legs in sweat, tits and stomach in breastmilk.

He faces Price.

The captain has not faded from the foreground. Though he sits, perched in an armchair across the parlour, Kyle still feels him weaving iron filigrees of influence around their every limb. Like he's standing above them, puppeteering — or, rather, making good of the years of practised obedience, their bodies whittled into vessels for his will. The cool pour of it fuels this system, lends them strength to do what they've never trusted themselves to do. It is just as good as his hands groping your chest, his mouth at your feet. His passion they lay onto your poor flesh.

And they are just as good as his, in turn.

His shoulders stretch wider when he turns back to you. His voice a little clearer. "Thanks for the opening, mate." He taunts Johnny, snickering at the defiant twitch of his brow, before sinking to his knees.

The gusset of your panties is near translucent, drenched with arousal. Kyle takes a moment to admire how your pussy twitches, clit pulsing, white cotton slipping over it in concert with every spasming muscle. He can see it all like this — the oil-spill slick webbing your inner thighs, the swollen lips slowly engulfing the fabric on either side, the gentle flutter of your vulva. Pure hunger compels him forward, lips pressing over the sloppy mess, nose crushing into your mons and taking a lung-mangling whiff.

Tangy. Underpinned by a certain earthiness, like molasses but bittersweet. Your scent darts through his cerebral cortex, bridging synapses together until everything is that much clearer. Tunnel visioned, dead set on lapping it until your taste becomes a tangible weight in his stomach. Kyle's cock, already hard and leaking, jumps suddenly against the constricting button of his trousers, balls aching, looking to release the pleasure ballooning in his pelvis.

He nips, pulls your panties away with his teeth, sucking the spoiled cotton into his mouth to make the most of the slick you wasted on it. It isn't nearly enough, not as tart as it would be undiluted by his spit, so he snaps it to the side only moments later to dive face first into your cunt.

And it's a warm welcome. Balmy heat glides over his nose, spilling into his mouth like manna out of heaven. It's a feverish kiss, akin only to the throb of a wound about to fester, heartbeat about to erupt out the surface of your skin. Kyle would be concerned if not for the folds he had to explore, the dip before your insides pulse open for him, the tributaries drawn from your centre. His tongue twists your clit, grinds it under pressure, lifts the hood and targets a point that feels like too much. Your moans grow into whines that grow into sobs, air clotting with a symphony of lewd sounds. Tacky schlicks, slobbering, panting. The clink of ice in Price's glass. Simon's ceaseless insult to injury, degradation a molten river out his mouth.

"Crying, an' we 'aven' started on ya yet. Poor baby. Isn' a slut s'posed to be good a' this? Jus' gonna sit 'ere and wail for yer daddy, all while we do the heavy lifting." From his vantage point, peeking beneath his brows, your tits seem to have grown used to the lieutenant's abuse. A little less swollen, doughy in his big, nasty hands — though what they now lack in ripeness, they make up for in a hundred little bruises, already purpling. Dark and vibrant, the milk still trickling from your puffy areolas borderline pearlescent in contrast. "Look'it them."

He grabs your cheeks, forcing you to peer down at the men stationed below. Kyle, though occupied, does his best to smile. He feels Johnny puff up behind him — when he worked his way up your leg, he doesn't know.

"Nnnghhh."

"Say it." His nose crooks where he thrusts it against your temple, lip curling cruelly over your ear. A vein splits the planes of his jaw, arm bulging to reach up for your neck. Your face turns a shade darker, mouth puckering the deeper his tongue thrusts up your pussy. The words lodge in your throat, teeth chattering uselessly around unshaped air. Johnny hovers behind him. Price burns approving holes onto his back.

He doesn't expect it to happen as it does.

Your ass tenses, suddenly firm, lifting you off of Simon's lap. Kyle's hands smooth up his erection, his fingers digging into the plush crests of your pussy. Spreads them apart to be able to drive his maw further in, searching for just the right spot inside you.

But in the end, what does it is the accidental graze of his incisors over your clit. You burst, floodgates dissolving straight into his mouth — soaking the entire lower half of his face, the buttons he undid serving no other purpose than having exposed his chest to your mess, matting the dusting of hair over his pecs.

You don't look at any of them as you come down. Instead, your eyes prune shut, crusted in tears yet still snivelling wretchedly, trying to sniff and take back all that unfolded. Something buried in his heart twinges; resonant but stifled under layers of arousal. His cock spits pre-spend over his boxers, too heavy now to stand upright.

Simon does not take pity on you, flicking an oversensitive nipple.

"Still waiting." He says.

Your voice is barely legible. Raspy and whistle-toned. It occurs to him, as you sit there and muster enough energy to voice what's expected of you, that Kyle has yet to hear you speak.

"Thank you."

"Na fair." Johnny huffs against your cunt, eyes rolled to the back of his head, scleras foggy with desire. He's since shouldered his way beside him — the two sergeants sat between your spread legs —hopelessly chasing the climax Kyle managed to syphon out of you, mouth opened just in case you squirt again.

"You won't get very far with that, mate." His ego feels imperishable, amassing like a star before death. It cramps his ribs, makes him feel like nothing will ever amount to the way it crowds his chest. A smug smile stitching his lips. They both know that the half-dazed efforts won't amount to much. "Jus' focus on what you're good at, yeah?"

Not ones’ for subtly with each other, he guides Johnny hand to wrap around his width. The scot perks up, looking at Kyle's hard-on, then you, then his hard-on, then you.

"Dinnae want tae save your energy for the lass?"

But Simon's already unleashed his own cock — ruddy, angry, monstrous — lining it up to your exhausted hole. The head alone spans the space between your thighs, and judging by the panicked look wringing your little face, he shrugs.

"Think it'll be a while before he stretches her out."

[fallenrocket]

Mel's return to Doctor Who has made me so happy. She was never the most widely-embraced companion--she traveled with two different Doctors but wasn't the "main" companion for either of them, and over the years, it seems that a lot of fans consider her loud scream her most notable quality.

But in modern-day Who, she's arguably had the nicest reunion with the Doctor out of any classic series companion. Sarah Jane, Jo, and Tegan all had old hurts to deal with, and Ace hardly got to see the Doctor at all (neither did Tegan, for that matter.) But while tragedy gets thrown into Mel's personal life, she and the Doctor are nothing but good with each other.

In "The Giggle," they're both thrilled to see one another, taking a bit of time to catch up even in the middle of a global crisis. And when the Doctor's about to regenerate bigenerate, Donna isn't the only one at his side. Mel is right there too. Seeing her back this season, interacting with Fifteen, has been lovely.

I just...I love that for her, and Bonnie Langford. I love that I'm so excited every time she pops up. And especially in "The Legend of Ruby Sunday," I love that she's really there to do full-fledged companiony things, getting the lowdown on Susan Triad and helping the Doctor when he's spiraling over Col. Chidozie's death. It's been wonderful to see her get her due deference.