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lifblogs · 3 years

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do a oneshot about anakin ft a lot of padme's back ;) maybe some fun times with them and that backless dress after they're married

Okay, so I’m gonna level with you, anon. This really came across as a demand, especially since I didn’t state I was taking requests, so there is an etiquette that was lacking. However, this idea was fantastic, and I’m in a fun Anidala mood anyway, and I know you didn’t mean anything by it. Besides, this fic was fun. Please enjoy!

War Will Tear This From Us

1753 words

read on ao3

Padmé’s breath was labored as Anakin slowly began to undress her. Even after their time spent in Varykino on Naboo after the Battle on Geonosis, giving Anakin time to heal and grow used to his new mechno-arm, he still struggled. But Padmé knew he didn’t want her help with this, that he wanted to do it all on his own.

But maybe—

No.

She inhaled deeply—so deep in fact that she felt as if she needed more air—when Anakin finally managed to have the intricate lace of her wedding dress start sliding off of her. This was all new to her, but it was a newness that she wanted to explore with him.

Her back still bore scars from the Nexu during her attempted execution, but Ani didn’t seem to care. His fingers—both skin and metal that was warming to her touch—brushed against the raggedness of them. The scars would fade in another week or so with proper treatment, but for now they were real, and they were a reminder of what they’d faced together. She trembled from the care of which he caressed her, heat running in liquid trails down her spine.

“Ani…” she breathed, not sure what she had even been planning on saying.

She could tell he was smiling, could hear it in his voice when he asked quietly, “Yes?”

“Shouldn’t we undress together? I want to see you.”

Her cheeks reddened at this admittance, the entirety of this relationship so new to her. Yes, she’d already had her first kiss, and she had been close with Clovis, but after all she’d been through, she was married, and to Padawan Anakin Skywalker. She couldn’t calm the fluttering in her stomach or the soaring in her heart. The light in her seemed to grow even as the burning sunset faded over the lakehouse.

“Well let’s just make sure this dress doesn’t get in the way of you taking my clothes off.”

Again she found herself taking in far too much air. Part of her wanted to hold her dress up over her chest as it began to slip off of her body. Anakin, noticing her tension, pressed himself up against her and caressed her arms.

“We can wait,” he said. “Though the images I have in my mind of you… I can barely stand it.”

For a few moments they just existed together, bodies moving in tandem with their breaths. She could feel the strong, racing beat of his heart through her back.

“No.” She turned to him, and did hold up her dress, just so it wouldn’t slip around her legs and entangle her. With one hand she reached out to run her fingers through his short hair, and then caressed his face, holding his chin. “We’re married, and I’m choosing to do this with you, not because I have to as your wife, but because I want to.”

“Then why so tense?”

Testing him, she ran her hand over his body, and found him tense as well, though slightly more relaxed than her. His pupils grew larger from her touch, and this close to him, she was beginning to feel a hardness in between his legs, pressing against her stomach.

“Don’t pretend you’re not nervous too.”

At that, something in him seemed to snap and release, and she was swept up into his arms. They kissed, a kiss that sent liquid fire down in between her legs, and he tugged the rest of her dress off. Something about being bare before him while he was still in his Jedi tunics and tabard tugged at that wildness inside her. Her nipples peaked, and she found herself moving her body against his, in ways she didn’t know it could move or even wanted to, as he brought her over to their bed.

Anakin was gentle about laying her upon it, but there was nothing tender about the way their mouths came together again and again with the force to bruise.

Oh stars, this was her husband. How had any of this happened? How was she so lucky to reconnect with that boy from Tatooine?

During their decade apart she would wonder what he looked like as he slowly became a man, and now, she wasn’t at all disappointed. He was tall, toned, and now possessed a strength about him that made her want to melt, and with a face so handsome it broke her heart. He was melting into her too, so in love with the angel from the stars who’d wished for his freedom.

Anakin’s mechno-arm found her waist, and he hissed in a breath.

Padmé smiled. “How are those electrostatic fingertips working for you?” she asked.

He squeezed, clearly amazed that he could still touch and feel. His kiss-swollen mouth was open in awe. “Just wonderful.”

Anakin took this time to survey her body, and she was faced with all those dreams he’d had of her, all those thoughts he’d tried banishing with his training, all the things he had tried to keep buried. All of it burned like warming and steaming ice in his blue eyes, and Padmé was sure she was flushing down to the roots of her hair.

He caressed, and, wanting more, she slowly began to open her legs.

“You’re so beautiful,” he told her.

“I assume you are too underneath all those robes.”

“You really want to see me naked, don’t you?”

Padmé was breathless as she answered, “Yes.”

So Anakin stepped back, and began to undress for her. Padmé immediately leapt off the bed, completely unashamed by her nudity now, and the ways in which her body moved. She reached for him, slapping his left hand away from his belt.

“I want to do that!” she snapped.

It turned into a war to see who could get his clothes off faster, leaving them giggling. The fight ended with Padmé on top of Anakin on the bed, legs spread over his muscled thighs. He’d just finished kicking off his loose-fitting pants that she had done the honors of untying the laces of, and for some reason she still had his belt. Jokingly, knowing she could explore and play with him, she made to tie the belt around his wrists.

His grin was lecherous.

“Padmé, you don’t want to do that.”

She leaned in, kissed his nose, and asked, “And why not, Jedi?”

“Because I can do this!”

On this, he grabbed the belt, and used it to pull her off of him. He twisted her onto her stomach. Her surprised scream turned into a moan as he pressed against her. Oh, he was hard, and Padmé wasn’t sure since she didn’t have any other measurement to refer to, but he seemed so large. The hot length of him throbbed against her ass. Then that strange, but welcome sensation became a myriad of pleasure as he began to kiss her back, holding her hips all the while.

“What is with you and my back?” she got out, voice low and throaty.

The laugh that had been building in her throat died as he kissed her topmost scar. That cut had been the longest, the deepest, and it was still sore. But his touch there brought something new to her body. Not pain. But care, pleasure. It brought tears to her eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” he responded, sounding drunk off of her. And Padmé herself was getting drunk off of his voice, his touch, feeling his thighs against hers, closing her in.

She got up on her forearms, and twisted, reaching back, grabbing him by the back of his neck as he leaned in. Even while twisted in a slightly awkward position, Padmé couldn’t stop herself from marveling at the sight of her husband, naked above her. Each muscle had a soft gleam in the dimming light, proving just how hot he was, how much he wanted this. The promise of sweat and movement left her practically drooling, and she shifted against him, moaning with want.

“I love what I see, too.”

They kissed, and then he ever so gently extricated her from him and made her face forward again.

“Stay still.”

“Oh, so you’re going to command a senator?”

“I serve the Republic,” he answered. “But I’m detached from it, so, in a way, I can do as I please.”

“In your dreams. Besides, if there really is going to be a war, you have to follow my orders since you’ll be directly serving the Senate.”

“I thought that was a dictatorship.”

“Fine, then do we vote that I can give you orders?”

“Of course.” Anakin gyrated against her, leaving Padmé even more hot and wanting, moaning beneath him. He went on, “And what are your orders, my lady?”

She pressed back, trying to shove him off of her, but it didn’t work. Instead, it left Anakin holding himself up with his core, running his hands over the front of her body. Their motions turned into a wild thing of desperate, dry-humping, and Anakin’s left hand finding the wetness in between her legs.

“That you stop this nonsense, and fuck me already,” she growled.

“As long as I get to take you from behind first,” Anakin negotiated.

Padmé didn’t even care in which way they came together. They had all night to explore each other, and right now she just wanted him inside her, even while a part of her wondered how he’d even fit.

“Blast, I don’t even care,” she breathed. “Just figure out how to get in me.”

“Can I have help?”

She giggled, realizing that he was as clueless about her body as she was about his—maybe even moreso.

Rolling her eyes, she relented, “Sure.”

Anakin let out a victorious whoop of joy and then continued to lavish her back with kisses, even beginning to lick her. All the while, he lowered himself down her body, and she lifted herself up, ass in the air, ready for him to learn her.

Anakin was an eager Padawan, and with desperate and humorous fumbling, he eventually managed to fill her. With her back pressed against his muscled torso, his cock in her up to his balls, she realized she wanted to experience this for the rest of her life. He held her as he took her, and Padmé gripped his arms, even the mechno-arm.

This was her life now. This was her husband. And for now she didn’t spare a thought for the war that could tear it all away.

#ask #anon #star wars #anidala #fanfiction #nsft #writing #my writing #Anonymous #anon I had 11 tabs open for the research for this #star wars clothing and prosthetics are complicated

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batmansymbol · 4 years

Text

Common Household Poisons

The evening she met Luna Lovegood, of course Ginny had fractured her tibia. And twisted her ankle. Also possibly sprained her left wrist, though it was difficult to tell, because pain was referring across her body like sound echoing through a mountain range. // A brief history of Ginny Weasley’s injuries.

a luna/ginny oneshot

(possible triggers for self-harm. adrenaline junkie ginny has a complicated relationship with pain)

also find on FFNet and AO3!

By the time her Hogwarts letter arrived, Ginny Weasley had nearly died six times already.

She was one of those children—the kind who wore bruises from everyday wear and tear like they’d been fingerpainted. Something in her thin and nearly translucent skin made her susceptible, probably—or maybe it was an issue of sheer physical proximity. The Burrow overlapped on itself, all its elements colliding endlessly like pelagic cross-currents. Even as a twig of a child, Ginny was always clipping herself on counters, doors left ajar, chairs left askew, wood for the fireplace, Fred and George’s experiments, half-full cauldrons, et cetera.

The six near-deaths, in no particular order: two falls from broomsticks; a violent bout of Kneazle Pox; an unintentional whack on the head by a frying pan held by a gesticulating Percy; the backfiring of an old wand; and, of course, the drinking of a potion designed for scouring stubborn stains from glass. This last was the most serious. Ginny was ten. Two hours after the incident, Molly Weasley had a shouting match with a Poisons Specialist at St. Mungo’s who had the temerity to suggest she should have been looking after her daughter more closely.

“And I suppose one of you—” Mrs. Weasley snarled, rounding on her sons, once the Healer had scurried, terrified, from the ward— “dared her to do it, did you? Did you?”

All six broke into protests. “Mother,” blustered Percy, “you don’t really believe that I would encourage—”

“We’d never—” said Fred—

“—ever—” said George—

“I told her to stop!” Ron protested.

“We’re not twelve years old, Mum,” said Charlie, arms crossed, beside an equally indignant Bill.

Molly Weasley’s eyes narrowed to slits, and she leaned forward. All six boys leaned backward.

“She did it on her own, Mum,” Fred said.

“And why would she do that?”

Six shrugged shoulders. Molly looked to Bill, the most even-headed of the family, their anchor.

“It’s true,” Bill said. “She said, ‘Look at this,’ and then she was doing it.”

They turned as one to the girl in the bed. She was asleep. Ginny was scraped elbows and a sunburned face and bruises on her knuckles from where she’d drummed them insistently on the table. She was the picture of exposure, of involvement, of the refusal to withdraw. She would not go through life unmarked.

Ginny didn’t think Hogwarts would be different. She didn’t want it to be. She had no interest in a different world than the one she’d somehow punched her way into—a world where she was, at all times, on the brink of something that might mean permanent alteration. This was the feeling of Chasing, and of being alive: hurtling forward, tackling in midair, risking freefall and immediate vascular rupture, nose bloodied from where it had crunched into someone’s shoulder, always about to fling something into the wind—caution? self-preservation?—because that was the only way to achieve a goal.

So, the evening she met Luna Lovegood, of course she’d fractured her tibia. And twisted her ankle. Also possibly sprained her left wrist, though it was difficult to tell, because pain was referring across her body like sound echoing through a mountain range.

All she knew was that George’s Comet 260 had taken a turn at half-field with a bit too much drag to the tail end, and suddenly she was rocketing over the handle with a scream that sounded nearly like a laugh, and she fell twenty feet and struck field, plowed right the fuck into the dirt, and then she was lying very still on the ground, no air left in her.

Ginny tried to stand and couldn’t. “Fuck,” she said, and then she yelled it, for good measure. If Hooch came down and saw her here, not only having nicked George’s broom from the team storage areas but also having nearly killed herself, she’d write to Mum, and the resultant Howler would probably give her an eardrum injury to add to the pile.

Lying there on the field, she started to laugh. The evening was rolling over the Hogwarts grounds like mist, softening everything. That was when she saw a ghostly figure drifting onto the field.

She was like a mirage, the girl, with her long straggly hair and her round face, her wide pale eyes glowing out of the gloaming like lights.

The first words she said were, “Does it hurt very much?”

An agonized laugh came out of Ginny. “Yeah. Yeah, it does, thanks. You’re Luna, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Luna only seemed slightly perturbed. She looked back toward Hogwarts, and then to Ginny. Instead of trying to help Ginny up, she sat down beside her. She didn’t crouch, didn’t kneel, nothing with the expectation of further action, just sat. Ginny, nearly delirious with pain, stared up at her face. She looked like a gibbous moon. She looked like a silver coin in a dark pool.

“What do you think?” Luna said. “Better to try and do something ourselves, or better to go and fetch Madam Pomfrey? I don’t think I’d like to be left alone if it were me, but it’s not me, so, what do you think, Ginny.”

“I think you’re,” Ginny said, dazed, breathing hard. Mad? Something else?

“Let’s see. May I see?”

“Yeah,” Ginny said roughly. “Sure.”

Luna tugged up Ginny’s robes to see the ankle and the tibia in question. The only change in her expression was a slow, hesitant blink, the gradual unfolding of tissue-thin eyelids, in which Ginny could see every delicate vein, over those expansive grey eyes.

“How did you do it?” Luna asked.

“Trying a Rivka Defensive Block,” Ginny said. “I’ll get it eventually.”

Luna nodded, considering. “Well,” she said, standing, “I don’t think there’s much I can do, unfortunately. I’d conjure a transport, but I can’t do that kind of conjuration yet. Unless you can?”

“No.”

“I’ll fetch Madam Pomfrey, then.”

Hogwarts was not a large school, and Ginny saw her often after that. Ginny soon realized that her first instinct—that Luna looked like the moon—had been incorrect. Luna was, obviously, a misnomer. She was staid and unchanging; she had no phases. She had an identical ratio of composure to raggedness every time Ginny saw her: in double Transfiguration, or outside on the lawns, or studying under an orb of light she’d conjured in the corner of the library. Luna made Ginny acutely aware of the way the world tore at her own body, because Luna seemed to drift out of its reach, always untouched.

“Hey, Luna,” she’d say, coming up to disturb her, wanting to make an impact, but she never did. Luna would never startle, or laugh at a joke. When Ginny approached, she would look up, as unperturbed as she’d been that night on the pitch. Then she would look Ginny over and point out something she’d perceived, speaking very mildly; always she’d do that. It became a ritual.

“Quidditch?” she asked in third year, about a scrape on Ginny’s arm.

“Potions?” she asked in fourth year, about a red raised welt where Ginny had burned herself on her cauldron.

“Dean Thomas?” she asked in fifth, when Ginny hadn’t cast the concealment charm quite strongly enough on the love bite on her neck, just below her jaw.

“How do you always know?” Ginny said, grinning. “Budge up.” And she settled in the roots of the birch tree beside Luna as Luna smiled. She thought Luna’s cheeks were slightly pink, but the color was gone so quickly, leaving her as pale as frost, that Ginny thought she’d probably imagined it.

Sixth year, Ginny staggered out of a detention shaking and sweaty. It was Saturday afternoon and the Carrows had kept her for hours, but she’d distracted them from catching Neville last week, so it was all right.

She couldn’t even make it up the steps out of the dungeons. She collapsed on the stairs, waiting for her body to stop shaking.

A figure appeared at the top of the steps. Then Luna was at her side. She didn’t kneel, she didn’t crouch, she didn’t fuss. She sat on the steps.

Ginny looked up at her, breathing hard, and cracked a twitchy smile, her facial muscles still slightly out of control. “Well?” she said. “What do you think?”

She hadn’t even finished speaking when Luna leaned close to her and cupped Ginny’s face in her hands. Ginny’s body flooded with strange chills. Luna’s hands were cool and dry as if she were made of parchment, and Ginny thought about the heat and sweat that were coming from her body onto Luna’s, bleeding some of the way she was into her. She looked at Luna’s small soft mouth, the line of her jaw, her nearly invisible eyebrows that feathered over her browbones.

“Do you have to do this?” Luna whispered.

Ginny thought, for the first time in years, of the bitter taste of the potion she’d drank at age ten. Look at this, she’d said, grinning at her brothers. There was nothing then but to impress, and to shock, and to veer off the roads of the life that had been assigned to her, into something that was wild and her own. Luna’s path, though unusual and untrodden by most, was still safe; the Carrows still hadn’t touched her, hadn’t managed to catch her at anything.

Ginny thought it might not be so bad to be safe, but it wasn’t for her. It never would be.

“I can’t stop,” she said.

They took Luna two months later. Three Death Eaters forced their way into their compartment on the Hogwarts Express. Ginny, Luna, and Neville were on their feet at once, wands drawn, but before they could cast, Ginny and Neville were flying backward, pinned to the wall. Ginny let out a half-yell through the Binding Hex as they struck Luna to the ground, as they bound her feebly stirring body, as they wrangled her upright and backward out of the compartment.

There was blood on Luna’s face. Blood moving in a line down her cheek. It was so wrong that it made Ginny feel sick, the disruption. Her eyes were half-open. She was looking at Ginny, and Ginny tried to scream, to yell, as they dragged her away.

Spring was restless. Ginny was stuck at the Burrow after Ron was spotted on the run. She and Charlie and Fred and George and their parents were all there, moving and shifting on top of each other. Ginny paced the garden and got splinters in her palms from climbing the tree. She wanted to fly, to move, and when the summons came for the Battle, for the final return to Hogwarts, she felt as if she could breathe for the first time in six months. Coming out into the chaos, wand clutched in her hand, she was alive again.

She was at the top of a stairwell, the castle shaking with bombardment, an hour into the fighting, when the Cutting Hex struck her.

The impact flung Ginny across the hallway and into the wall. Her head cracked against the stone. She flung her arms out as she slid down onto the ground. She was bleeding hard from the shoulder, where the hex had hit, and she thought she was probably concussed. She groped around for her wand, which had come out of her fingers, but couldn’t find it.

The Death Eater had slowed in his approach. He was stalking toward her, his wand held lightly in his hand. He said something about blood traitors, something mocking that Ginny didn’t hear, or if the words struck her eardrums, they came through mistranslated into her mind, and anyway, him doing some sort of tragically unoriginal monologue at this moment seemed very funny to her, somehow. A lifetime of dancing around the veil … naturally she would pass through it before all this was over, but did it have to be this idiot?

Ginny started to laugh. The Death Eater stopped walking. He was speaking angrily now, growling or snarling something. She laughed harder, clutching at her bleeding shoulder. She was going to die. She had pushed it too far, chased too hard after the feeling. Luna had been right, after all. Luna. Luna … Ginny thought of her face in the evening half-light, like a gibbous moon.

The man lifted his wand.

A jet of light lanced up the steps from a great distance, a miraculous shot of magic aimed with a Chaser’s precision, which struck the Death Eater in the neck. He flew backward, immobilized.

And then she was there, moving toward Ginny. Luna. Miraculous and light on her feet. Her hair was no more disheveled than usual and she looked untouched. Ginny gazed up at her, concussed, remembering the delirium of their first meeting, feeling it all over again. Maybe every time she’d seen her it had been delirium.

Luna sat beside her. The icy feeling of a poultice conjured onto her shoulder. Luna looked at the wound, at the sweat trickling down Ginny’s face, at her fingers, which were twitching upon the stone steps. Even now her face was calm. “Does it hurt very much?” she whispered.

“Touch it,” Ginny murmured back.

A moment’s hesitation. Then Luna let her wand clatter gently to the floor. She reached out with steady hands and ghosted her fingertips over Ginny’s shoulder. She slid her cool papery hands against Ginny’s cut cheek, her burned neck, her tired wrists, all the soreness in her body. Ginny closed her eyes and focused on Luna’s touch, but she couldn’t be calmed by it, only agitated. More, she thought, more. She moved, her shoulder aflame, the pain coming all through her like floodwaters bursting a dam, and she staggered upward, catching Luna around the waist as she did, holding onto her, propelling them both to their feet. Unsteady, she turned Luna to the wall and lifted Luna’s chin with a shaking hand and kissed her. Ginny’s lip had been split in the fighting and it came open immediately, but she couldn’t stop. She felt Luna melt, for a moment, back into the wall, and then Luna was shaking, kissing her back, sliding one hand up from the back of her neck into her hair, clinging onto her. When Ginny broke back from her, breathing hard, Luna’s face was as she’d never seen it. The unshakable had been shaken, rattled, split all the way open. Luna was blinking hard, staring up into Ginny’s eyes. Her expression was quivering and ecstatic and between so many things at once that it might have meant nothing, but Ginny knew what it meant.

Luna kissed her, and this time it was a Luna kiss, a soft light thing like a moth’s wing to the lip, like a drizzle of rain to the inside of the wrist. She tasted like rock dust. She kissed Ginny’s neck, her jaw, her earlobe.

Ginny leaned forward and took Luna’s lip between her teeth, and Luna tensed, made a sound. Ginny let go, but didn’t draw away. They were a millimeter apart. “Does it hurt?” she whispered.

“Yes,” Luna said, strangled. “Don’t stop.”

#linny #my fic #i wanted to write some moody linny as a warmup for disappearances #and i was like 'ok NO MORE than 1k words'#and of course it turned out more than twice that limit. why am i like this

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believerindaydreams · 3 years

Text

Dead dove: do not eat

unless you're really looking for bad things to happen to Arcade Gannon

The truth is, you don't even want him.

People don't appeal to you. Voices, maybe, sometimes- a half-heard murmur across the Muddy Rudder, the call of soldiers talking to each other under an open polluted sky, maybe these things stir something. But flesh? No. Absolutely not.

Desire has very little to do with what's happening right now; this is rage.

Arcade's cry is audible even across the room, as you check the door locks one more time. Nobody can come in short of an authorization slip for President Eden himself, and Eden...will not interrupt unnecessarily. He's learned his lessons well enough to be shot through with violence for the sake of violence.

"Why me?" The blondish hair is damp, soaked with sweat. You stroke it gently with one hand, using the other to check Arcade's handcuffs. They're satisfactory.

"If you were an enemy of the Enclave I wouldn't bother. You're something worse."

"How can there be something worse?"

"A traitor." He's cuffed at the ankles as well, pinned to the bed with tight sleek ropes wrapped in velvet- less likely to give you a burn or an accidental strangulation. This isn't about giving you pain, either. "As an ally, you'd be untouchable. As an enemy, there are still some rules of war. What you are is nothing."

He troubles himself to twist his head sideways, looking up at you best he can. "Is that why the Mesmetron? Why I can't remember anything?"

"Right."

"Why can't you tell me what you want me to be?"

There's still a lightning-fast mind working behind those unsettled eyes, good Enclave stock through and through. He could have made himself known to Raven Rock a long time ago, if he wished. He didn't wish.

"All right. Be a piece of meat."

That's not how this goes. There wouldn't be any satisfaction in cutting cloth away from a cow or a corpse, nothing to raise the hairs down your spine like watching the careless stroke of a combat knife nick through enough skin to make blood well up. He gasps, clings to a stony silence. Childhood training took, it would seem.

"If you are truly amnesiac, I suppose you won't remember the bamboo conumdrum."

His backside is slippery, too much sweat and salt. The smell isn't wholesome.

"...I'm sorry?"

All this and there's a touch more inquisitiveness than fear, somehow. He should have signed up as a Scribe. "A thought experiment. How do you torture a man who himself doesn't know what he's afraid of? There were thoughts that such a person might be the best couriers of war messages..."

He hears your voice, feels your hands pressing against his bones and probing for weakness. To him, this must be the terrifying prelude to unknowable horrors.

To you, it seems hardly worth the trouble you've gone to. The binds and safeguards, yes, but he's wearyingly human after all. The biological apparatus to be expected of a well-bred human male. Remnants of a peeling sunburn at his neck- you swipe your hand across it.

He splutters pleas for mercy. It's very tiresome; for a moment, you almost think you'll let him go just out of distaste.

But there's something that burns inside you with a comforting inner fire, the one thing that you love and won't ever need to question.

Arcade's cock is in a subdued state; it's soft beneath your hands.

"Now I want you to repeat after me. I love the Enclave."

He stays stubbornly silent.

"I love the Enclave. It isn't difficult, Arcade."

Still working his cock with one hand, you take up the combat knife with the other, let him feel the flat against the soft useless fat of a buttock. Cold steel makes him welp.

"Fine! I love the Enclave! I love it a lot!"

There's plenty of defiance left in his voice even now. America's last are still her best.

"Fine. Keep saying it."

"I love the Enclave. I love the Enclave. I love the Enclave...this can't seriously be what you want?"

Forcible stimulation is starting to show some results.

"You're right. I'd rather have your thoughts than your words, but words will have to do. Now you keep saying that until you get off to it."

"I..."

You leave the knife delicately balanced on his spine, and set to work with both hands. The rapid motion is more like reloading than anything else, and pleasant by association.

"I love the Enclave. I love the Enclave. I love the Enclave..."

He sounds exhausted now, already worn. It was a time sensitive operation: the further away from the rigors of the Paradise Falls battle, the more he would be able to recoup a sense of self, regain his usual faculties. As it is, you think you've timed this about right. Most of the work's already been done for you.

"...I love the Enclave, I love the Enclave, I love the Enclave...."

He's warming up now- a drop of homemade gun oil probably wouldn't hurt, though the notion of carrying on until he's bruised and painfully insensate has attractions of its own. But there's still tonight's punch cards for Eden, and range practice. You'd prefer not to miss that.

Gun oil it is, then. A dollop of it actually quiets Arcade's ragged breathing for a moment.

"I love the Enclave...love the Enclave..."

He's twisted around his head again, peering hazily at you with his weak eyes. There are tear-tracks down his cheeks, he licks wet lips.

"I love the Enclave, I love the Enclave, I love the Enclave-"

Arcade's stare isn't much, but there's a intensity to it that might well turn murderous. So be it, if it happens. Nobody would miss him.

"-love the Enclave. I- love the Enclave-"

The raggedness is unmistakably the sign of overstimulation by this point; your hands and his speech are moving in rhythm now, the recitation a schematic for motion. His cock is engorged now, clearly on the verge-

"-I love the Enclave, I love-"

His voice has reached a high, shaky pitch, and there's something undeniably compelling there, to stir something in the deep silence where your private thoughts live-

"-love the Enclave- I love- I love you."

He slumps firmly to the bed, crushing your hands under two hundred pounds of meat and sticky cum.

It's an act of defiance, of course. He's trouble. No good will come of humoring him.

But the proof there's some kind of truth to it is literally in your hands.

#fallout new vegas #rape cw #ttw draft #fallout 3

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alexandriteobscuraarchive · 5 years

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~For that 'muse does something stupid, yell at them' meme with it coming from Neil pleaseeee

meme

She’d been a literal space cadet all day, so much so that he had the feeling of being her babysitter rather than her lab partner which was….worrisome. As if he didn’t have enough on his mind already.

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts—-and pains, as if he could ever forget those—that his attentions towards his friend waned. At first it was a brief zone out, just a few seconds, no big deal. And then a minute, and then two, three, four, fifteen—

Neil was just coming back into focus when a sound snapped him out of it and back into the present at full speed: it was a car horn. A big one. His head immediately shot right towards the road they’d been walking along and horror surged through him.

There was Michelle standing in the middle of the street right in the path of an oncoming truck, her gaze distant and glassy (not unlike a person who misused one of their precious machines) and seemingly unable to register the vehicle bearing down on her. There’s another horn blast and Neil finds himself running, her name leaving his lips in a scream.

“Michelle—! MOVE!!!!”

With his coat flying behind him he charges at her with hands outstretched. Now the horn blast is a deafening thing, rattling the teeth in his mouth and making his ears ring but still he moves. Time; as the cliche so often goes, seemed to slow down to a crawl and the scene of him missing her, of missing one of his steps and falling flat in front of the car had enough time to run through his mind a thousand times–and then his hands closed at first onto fabric and then someone’s arm. Neil screamed again and all but vaulted himself out of his shoes in one last desperate lunge. He felt one of the side mirrors of the car clip his ankle as he squeezed by. He felt the girl’s body collapse into his like a bundle of sticks. He felt his foot miraculously touch the hot pavement of the road one last time as he poured on one last ounce of effort. He felt the wind from the car ruffle his hair and send sweat flying—and then he was off the ground entirely with her clutched in his trembling arms. The pair sailed through the air for only a few seconds and then they both connected with the pavement with a hard, bruising snap and then they were rolling violently in the dirt on the side of the road.

A cloud rose up where they had landed and the two of them lay there for a time. Neil couldn’t get up. He lay there with his arms wrapped around his friend and trembled as if on the verge of a seizure and definitely on the verge of one of his attacks.

The car never slowed nor did it return and that was just fine with him, he had enough on his plate.

Michelle lay there blinking up at the hazy blue sky overhead, her countenance hardly changed and that only served to throw Neil even more over the edge. He finally found the strength (not to mention the will) to release her only for his hands to slam down into the dirt on either side of her shoulders, his fingers balled into vibrating fists.

“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING YOU IDIOT?!” His voice was hoarse and wild, ripping out of his throat with a supreme effort. His gaze was bare and altogether furious, as his glasses had fallen off due to how violently he had jerked himself upwards, the spectacles now resting on the girl’s slim chest. “WHY WEREN’T YOU PAYING ATTENTION?! You could’ve been ki–kil—-…!” His throat locked up on the word and constricted and his head dropped sharply as a gagging sound clawed its way out of him. Neil’s head dropped as sharply as it had come up, his emerald colored eyes now screwed tightly shut.

Not now, not now, not now, dammit—-

His trembling increased from what one would consider a seizure to someone being electrocuted at a steady rhythm and his head bobbed lower as he slumped still half over his friend and half in the dirt. This would be the point where he’d grab the pill bottle in his coat and upend it over his mouth like a kid in a candy store but he knew instinctively that his precious pills had bounced out of his pocket and had landed god knew where while he was attempting his rescue. This realization made his throat cinch even tighter, his heartbeat ramming into his ribs with all of the force of a battalion using a battering ram on a stronghold’s door. Neil forced his mouth to open and a string of drool dropped into the dirt. He coughed and more bile came up. He coughed again, he coughed until it hurt his already strained throat and more still, his eyes squinting weakly in an attempt to see blood in whatever it was his body was ejecting. There was none, not this time. Thank god for small favors.

Perhaps it was due to the rush of adrenaline or the weight of his responsibility but Neil found that as the minutes—as excruciating as they were—-ticked by he felt his chest ease. Eventually he shifted and rolled off of his friend completely until he lay next to her in the dirt, his chest rising and falling as if he’d just run a marathon.

Michelle never spoke but he eventually felt her small hand creep into his and give him a small squeeze—–at least that was a somewhat positive sign. Neil shut his eyes and focused on his breathing, counting the raggedness out of them with a patience that suggested he was an old hand at it. Of course he was. When he’d finally calmed down he spoke again, his tone having lost its edge completely. God he was so tired.

“We’re….going back to work and then we’re going to get one of the cars and then…we’re driving to the store and buying a tub of ice cream that we’re going to shove our faces in like pigs. For three hours. Sound good..?” Another squeeze. It was a good idea apparently. He didn’t want to work out further details, he didn’t want to focus on what’d just happened. There’d be time for that later, during the night when he couldn’t sleep and paced his office floor hard enough to warrant the carpets being replaced almost every month. He sat up and pulled her along weakly after him.

#;;ask response: ic neil #;;ask response: with squiggles #under a rm because of potential tw's #anonymous

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