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#heisenberg fanfiction
thefanficmonster · 2 years
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Hello! I hope everything is going alright in your life. Could you write some headcanons for Lord Heisenberg and his beloved who is a calm and quiet person with a sensitive heart and thoughtful eyes? Thank you so much!
Of course darling! Thank you so much for your request and I'm so sorry for the wait but I hope you enjoy 💕
Pairing: Karl Heisenberg x Reader (Gender Neutral) [Resident Evil Village]
Warnings: SPOILERS for Resident Evil Village
Genre: FLUFF, Romance
Toughened by the struggles of life, Karl's thick skin doesn't let much get to him
He could take berating from both Miranda and Alcina with a cocky lopsided grin and a sarcastic shake of the head
And in the end, he'd be the one still smiling while the aforementioned two would be fuming through the ears, harboring an even more frightening murderous intent towards the man
However, there is one thing that ticks him off like nothing else
The formerly mentioned women mixing your name in when throwing insults at him, pouring them upon him like rain
Yes, just your name leaving their lips sets every nerve in his body ablaze with the need to make them regret it
Imagine what wrath he'd bring down on them if they dared to use a derogatory adjective before your name though
Yeah, that's why no one's done it
Not only because of the consequences they'll face, but also because of the fact that they themselves know better than to spew something they know won't be true
They know what an angel you are
And that's exactly what they use against Karl, making sure he never forgets or mutes that voice at the back of his head constantly telling him he doesn't deserve you
He successfully turns a deaf ear to it more often than not, choosing to spend the majority of his time doing nothing but showering you with his adoration and affection
All of which you accept gleefully and return ten fold
You're what grounds him when he's seconds away from finishing his countdown to an explosion
You're the one who possesses the strength to lift him out of any dump he's in
You remind him of his humanity, remind him of how human he still is even after all that he's undergone that tried to change that
You're his anchor and he'd be damned if he ever let anything or anyone even think to bring you harm, let alone do it
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heisendaddysimp · 1 year
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A short Essay on why Heisenberg is Austrian and not German
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(please get me some help, it's 2am and I've been watching Die Königin (the queen) all day long on Netflix)
Okay first of all — Karl Heisenberg is the most Austrian name I've ever heard. I literally have 2 or 3 great uncles called Karl :D
Second of all — Romania was once a province of the Habsburg monarchy. Let me dig deeper (but shortly) into history:
・under Leopold I, after the war against the turks, the princedom Siebenbürgen (containing Romania and other regions) became an Austrian province after forcing Michael I Apafi to hand it over to the Habsburger
・1690, after the death of Michael I Apafi, king Leopold I wrote the Leopoldinisches Diplom (leopoldian diploma) which said that Siebenbürgen is now inseparably associated with the Habsburg monarchy
・1699 Michael II Apafi fully gave Leopold I the princedom Siebenbürgen, the Vertrag von Karlowitz (contract of Karlowitz) legitimated this handing over between the Habsburg monarchy and the Osmanian empire
・1765 queen Maria Theresia and her son Joseph II declared Romania as separate, but still part of their territory
・on 31st October 1918, after the king died and before Austria became a democracy, Hungary parted from the Habsburg monarchy and until 1st December Romania stayed part of Hungary
Third of all — the economical part:
The princedom was rich of Gold, Silver, Copper, Lead, Iron, Mercury, Rock Salt, Antimonium, Arsenic, Earth Color, Marble, Chrysolite, Amethyst, Opal, Agate, China Clay, Bituminous Coal, Sulfur, Alum, Saltpeter and Mineral Springs. Thus there has been a small (compared to today) industry making paper, wine, brickworks, mills (including oil mills and sawmills) and, most important for the equation, having smelters for iron, hammer mills, rolling mills and more. And guess what? Romania is rich of Gold, Silver, coal and gas! Making it easy to build factories there and make good money!
And that's it. That's my small essay on why he's Austrian and not German (also I hate that there's literally no representation of Austrian people in media — and yes we speak German, but with an Austrian touch)
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You Smell Like Trouble (A Heisenberg Smut Fic) - Chapter 5/?
🛑🚫✋🏾ADULT CONTENT, MUST BE 18+  ✋🏾🚫🛑
AO3 Chapter Link
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pairing: black AFAB cis reader x lycan!heisenberg
CW: dubcon, chastity, choking, light bondage, dirty talk, masturbation, spanking, fingering, vaginal cockwarming, unprotected sex, more toxic yandere Karl, mind games and other red flag behavior.
author’s note: Had to save some of the goodies (the creampie, mind break, full noncon elements, etc.) I promised y’all for chapter 6 after all - this chapter was getting really unwieldy and it wouldn’t have been as good if I crammed it all in here.
He’s got you backed into a corner in his workshop.
You can’t tell if it’s night or day, or even what those two things mean, or matter to you anymore. There is only you and him.
Your legs are wrapped around him, and he’s … inside of you? Attached to you? Part of you? You can’t be sure, but either way, you can’t break free.
And the harder you try - the harder you claw at his back, the harder you bite at his throat, the harder you struggle in his embrace- the harder it gets to move at all.
“Run,” he says.
I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m -
“Run,” he repeats. He’s laughing.
You thrash around, getting nowhere in the process.
It just makes him laugh more.
You wake up gasping for air, breaking through the surface of the dream before it can drown you. The feeling of being submerged is so hard to shake that for a moment you question if the damp coating on you is sweat or saltwater.
You come back to yourself, and the tide recedes, taking the dream with it.
Your legs are twined together; thighs clenched tight against the incessant ache between them, knees drawn up to your chest in a fetal position. Your hands are contorted into claws, and you realize that what you were scratching at the whole time was your headboard, not a pair of broad, meaty shoulders.
There’s a mélange of scents in the air: sweat, stale with fear, the ungodly amount of slick between your legs, the coppery tang of blood in your mouth from where you bit your tongue some time before waking up.
Most unsettling of all is him.
You can smell him.
You sit up and look around. You’re alone. But that scent is there.
That scent which belongs to him and him alone flavors the air of your bedchamber ever so slightly. There’s no mistaking it for anything else, but it’s faint. Just enough to make you wonder when exactly he was in here. Just enough to remind you that you’re not exactly hard to reach across this narrow hallway.
You see the light of dawn beginning to peek through your window and groan at the sight. You flop onto your back and try to catch your breath. You contemplate both the ceiling and the current state of affairs.
Four days.
It’s been four days since you and Lord Heisenberg played “the glove game”.
In all that time you haven’t approached him to ask for his glove - not once.
And while you would just love to take some pride in that, you can’t. This, frankly, Herculean show of restraint is just another hollow victory in what seems to be a steady stream of them in the overarching game taking place between you and your Lord.
Translation? You haven’t tried to get yourself off once - not once - in the four days following the glove incident, knowing implicitly that any attempt to do so without asking Lord Heisenberg’s permission first will result in the exact consequences you’re trying to avoid.
To his (dubious) credit, your Lord hasn’t made any overtures to that effect either.
Oh, no. As a matter of fact …
He seems perfectly goddamned content to just watch you drive yourself mad with self-denial as you try to deal with the chastity you’ve more or less backed yourself into with your refusal to play his game.
And as much as you are loath to admit this to yourself, there’s a small, sick part of you that can’t help but marvel at his ingenuity. It’s the perfect double-bind, you see. You can’t say no to his orders, but you won’t say yes to your desires.  
It’s brilliant, really.
Like a coin flip, where both outcomes favor him and only him. Neither side is weighted, and neither side needs to be weighted. No matter where it lands, he gets what he wants.
Heads, he wins. Tails, I lose.
And so, thanks to your new, glove-mandated restriction, your sleep is suffering immensely. You hadn’t realized how much your nightly bouts of … stress-relief had become a part of your routine - until you became too afraid of getting caught doing it. 
Now you know better. It was the glue holding you together. The only thing keeping you relatively sane through this ordeal.
Without the aid of self-touch to relieve the ache of your heat, you thrash around for hours on end. You twist and turn and sweat in your sheets, restless and ablaze with thoughts and sensations demanding satisfaction.
You eventually crash with maybe an hour or two left until dawn, plummeting into unconsciousness by the sheer gravitational pull of your own exhaustion.
And even these fragments of sleep offer no respite, because each and every one is utterly dominated by Lord Heisenberg - his visage, his voice, his hands and teeth and tongue and eyes and scent, all in constant pursuit across your tortured dreamscape.
Daybreak comes, and you’re a jittery husk of what you once were by the light of day. 
Your coordination is shot to hell, so you walk into things more and fumble objects in your hands. Food tastes unbearably bland. Concentrating for more than a few minutes at a time begins to feel like an endurance trial. Even your sense of smell is somewhat off, like there’s a delay in your perception.
The only things keeping you upright and remotely functional at this point are your sense of duty and your stubborn (one might even say spiteful) refusal to bend to either your urges or his will. You refuse to blink in the face of the abyss.
Yes, no matter how badly you want “the abyss” to fuck you till your skeleton rattles apart, it’s business as usual as far as you’re concerned. Or at least you’re determined to carry on that way.
So you hold up your end of this agonizing bargain and wear his left-hand glove. You wear it at all times, and you wear it everywhere, just as he commanded. Even when you know he isn’t around, you keep it on.
You even wear it to bed for fear that he might come into your room some night to check … a scenario that fills you with equal parts dread and anticipation.
A scenario that probably already happened, you think, dwelling on the faint trace of his scent you detected when you woke up this morning.
The only time you take it off without his say-so is for the ten or fifteen panicked minutes it takes to bathe yourself, dry off and get dressed. You’re not quite convinced he won’t decide to stroll in one fine day and join you under the shower spray, so you’re sure to never linger too long to find out.
You blink up at the ceiling and realize you must have drifted off at some point because the weak light of dawn has gotten stronger. You hurl yourself out of bed and head to the shower.
You tug the glove off and set it aside before stepping under the running water.
You glance over your shoulder the entire time.
Are you scared?
Or are you just waiting?
Do you even know anymore?
Is there even a difference?
***
As usual, the only warning you get of his approach is in the form of being suddenly caught by his scent.
You’re sitting on a bench in the factory courtyard, hunched over a bowl of stew when it hits you. You grit your teeth and parse the aroma, gauging its whereabouts. He’s near you, but not close. To your left.
You poke idly at your uneaten food, more occupied with keeping him in your periphery. He’s surrounded by crew members, most of whom you remember from your time in Maintenance.
He’s far enough away that you can’t hear his voice, and you won’t allow yourself to stare at him directly, no matter how much you want to.
But that smell is inescapable, even in the tangle of other scents encircling him. Just a whiff of it on a cross breeze completely overshadows the beef right under your nose.
A few workers are beginning to peel off from the group surrounding your Lord, having been relieved of their overnight duties or given orders to fulfill. They glance at you curiously as they walk by, and then trip over themselves to greet you when they notice you looking at them.
You glance down at your hand. It’s this damn glove of his again, causing more havoc.
It might as well be a flashing neon sign, and you’re clearly not the only one who feels that way. More and more people are taking notice of this new development, and that isn’t an accident.
In stark contrast to his usual insistence that you stick to low-key tasks not far from his watchful eye, Lord Heisenberg has started sending you on more visible errands around the factory and sometimes the village - as if he wants everyone to see you wearing one of his signature gloves. 
Just to drive the point home, some of these are errands where you’re obliged to stand silently beside him as he addresses other. The symbolism couldn’t be more obvious: you’re his right hand. Well, his left, but still. 
Perhaps in the village you might have gone unremarked upon - a glove is a glove is a glove, after all. The factory is another matter. Everyone notices that the man only wears one glove now, though no one is brave enough to ask him about it directly.
And it doesn’t take long before they realize you have the other one, draw their own conclusions about your status and start treating you with a wincing reverence that sets your teeth on edge.
It was bad enough when you were out of the general public and forever glued to his side. It’s somehow even worse being displayed and  … marked in this way. True, it’s quite a few steps above being branded like cattle, but it’s just as lacking in subtlety. He’s staked his claim and doesn’t want anyone confused about who you belong to.
You ignore the jolt that blazes up your neck at the thought of belonging to him and try to return to the task at hand: namely, shoveling much-needed food down your throat despite the fact that it might as well be sawdust for all you care.
Well, you think sardonically, at least he didn’t mark his territory the way a dog would. That’s something, right?
You blink.
… Right …?
Your attempt at optimism crashes and burns as your sleepy, traitorous mind drifts. You feel your skin burning. And just like that, your mind’s eye is greeted for the millionth time with another intrusive flashback to him cumming all over your face.
You fumble the fork you’re holding, very nearly dropping both it and your bowl before you steady your hands.
Goddamn it.
You squeeze your eyes shut and give your head a little shake. Like that’s going to do a single solitary thing to shake the memory, which is still so fresh, it might as well be happening all over again.
An almost painful twinge of arousal shoots through your pussy, and it’s all you can do to stop yourself from hurling your bowl across the yard at him.
You’re still blinking down at your food, bleary-eyed and unsteady and failing to work up even an ounce of appetite when you hear someone saying your name.
It takes a second for that to sink in, as there’s a bit of lag to your ability to process the input. You realize the scent has grown stronger while you were distracted.
You come back to yourself and your environment with an unpleasant abruptness - like being snapped with a rubber band - when you recognize the voice.
You look up, and there he is - smirking down at you like he knows exactly what you’re trying not to think about, the smug son of a bitch.
“My Lord?” you say, blinking rapidly to chase away the fuzzy black spots dotting your vision.
He sits down with you, legs splayed as he straddles the bench, facing you. You don’t turn to face him, and you hope like hell he doesn’t make you.
“You’re not eating,” he observes. “Something wrong?”
Your jaw tenses as you glance at him, and you could almost swear by the grin on his face that he can hear your teeth grinding at his question.
“Well?” he presses, watching with infuriating patience as you sway sleepily in your seat, squinting at him through a haze of grogginess, resentment and frustrated desire.
You clear your throat and try to focus on the congealing food in front of you instead of the unmistakable bulge you can see out of the corner of your eye.
“I’m … perfectly fine, my Lord,” you answer with a small, stiff smile, barely able to speak at first because you have to deliberately unclench your jaw from your incessant teeth-gnashing. “Never been better. You?”
His smirk widens at your blatant lies. “Never better.”
Your hand tightens around your fork, only to immediately slacken. No matter how badly you want to jab him with the utensil, you know it would just fly out of your hand before you could get it anywhere near him.
You stare down at your food. You force yourself to keep chewing. You force yourself to breathe evenly. And you force yourself to not immediately catapult out off the bench when you notice him sliding closer to you.
He presses the back of his bare hand to your neck, turning you to stone with his touch. Your grip on the fork threatens to bend it in half as you try not to climb out of your skin and into his
“You’re sweating,” he says evenly.
And whose fault is that?!
You feel that gentle touch, feel the raised, cross-hatching scars against your flesh all the way down to the soles of your feet. You bite the inside of your cheek to stifle a whimper.
“Clammy, too.”
“It’s nothing.” Your tone is so remarkably detached that you almost want to congratulate yourself. You don’t sound at all like you’re fighting the sudden and all-consuming urge to nestle in close and tuck yourself inside his coat.
He scoffs, not the least bit convinced. “You look like you seen better days, kid. What’s on your mind?”
“It’s nothing,” you coldly insist. “Please, don’t concern yourself, Lord Heisenberg.”
He pauses, just sitting there with his hand still on you. He lowers it, but he doesn’t move away. For a few agonizing moments, there is only silence.
He pulls a cigar out of coat pocket, sets the tip ablaze with a butane lighter and takes a few puffs.
Then, out of the clear blue nowhere, you’re hit over the head with one hell of a question:
“How much do you know about camels?”
You lift your head and blink several times. It takes you a moment to process what you just heard. Was that a joke? You turn your head finally and frown at him.
He doesn’t look completely serious, mind you, but he does seem to be waiting for a legitimate answer to (what seems to him) a legitimate question.
“Camels, my Lord?”
He nods.
”Not … much? There were some around when I was young, but … Why do you ask?”
He shrugs.
“People used to think they stored water in their backs. It’s actually fat deposits. Did you know that?”
What is he saying? Is this his idea of small talk? What is this?
Your first notion is that he’s lost his mind. Or he’s finished losing what was left of his mind.
That, or you’re losing your mind, this is all just a sleep-deprived hallucination, and you’re sitting here muttering to yourself about camels.
It’s honestly a toss-up as to which is the more plausible explanation at this point.
“No, my Lord …”
You take a tentative, quiet whiff. Tobacco. Not a hint of cannabis, hashish or anything mind-altering. So he’s not high - at least not on anything you can recognize by smell.
“… I didn’t,” you reply, still not convinced.
“It only works as water storage indirectly,” he continues, contemplating his cigar as he speaks. “The deposit helps them go longer without a direct water source. Out in the desert.”
You nod slowly, waiting for him to make his point - if there even is one. He pushes the brim of his hat back, and you clamp down on the urge to reach out and pull it low again.
His eyes catch the cold morning light, glinting at you in an unmistakable warning: Pay attention. This concerns you.
“They don’t tire as easily in the heat. They’ve learned and adapted to the aridity of their climate. They know how to do without. It’s what they’ve become accustomed to … Doing without.”
Those piercing eyes run over you, and you want to shrink away because you’re painfully aware of what they see: everything. Every single damn thing you used to be so good at hiding or ignoring - he sees it.
“Nature is cunning that way,“ he continues. “That’s only one of many thousands of ways an animal might adapt to adverse conditions … Sometimes though …“
You shake your head slowly, too tired to fence with him, but fascinated regardless.
“Sometimes … ?“
“Sometimes you come across animals that have learned to go without for so long,“ he answers, “they’re unable to readjust when those circumstances change.”
You lift your head to meet his eyes straight on and immediately wish you hadn’t. You’re caught. There’s no getting away from this or from him. The people around you, the courtyard itself, even the factory - they might as well be vapor. There is only you and him.
“I’ve seen animals act that way. Self-preservation is forced to bend to their conditioning. They’re too stubborn,” he says in that spellbinding voice.
“Stubborn.” The word sounds brittle in your mouth. He’s not touching you, but it feels like he is for the simple fact that he’s sitting too close for you to feasibly ignore him, and his voice is lulling you into that headspace you’ve come to recognize all too well.
He nods slowly, eyes fastened on yours. “So stubborn they’ll refuse what’s given to them. Because it’s being given. Because they’re not used to being fed. They would rather sicken and die than go against their conditioning … Strange, isn’t it?”
You feel something burning in your chest like phosphorus. It hurts so much that you refuse to parse it as anything other than anger.
You put your fork in your bowl and set it down without looking away.
“Yes … Very strange,” you agree, watching as he inches ever closer.
You don’t pull away. You let him get closer, your posture softening a little as you feel his warmth and his scent beginning to overtake the chill in the air. For a few seconds, you allow yourself the luxury of a notion as absurd as surrender.
For just a few precious seconds, you allow yourself to vividly imagine what he would do if you told him to fuck you right here, right now, right on this bench in front of God and the factory and whoever else would have to avert their eyes. If you asked him to take your “conditioning” in those gifted hands of his and bend it until it breaks. If you were just … honest with him.
You feel the high-voltage hum of his power, his virility. He hasn’t moved much closer, but his aura is dangerously close to engulfing you entirely. You feel how it tingles over your skin, and you wonder what it would feel like, letting it overtake you, letting it inside.
Letting him inside.
Then your conditioning takes hold, and that thought is now a memory.
“But …”
Your Lord freezes. “But what?”
“If I’m not mistaken, Lord Heisenberg,” you answer dryly, gratified by the way his lip curls at your deliberate use of his formal title, “aren’t animals under duress the ones who typically behave that way?”
“Depends,” he mutters. “What kind of duress do you mean?“
You glance down at the glove on your hand, then to the hard thigh boxing you in, then back into his eyes.
“Captivity, for instance.” Your tone is icy. Remote.
He stares you dead in the face, eyebrows raised in speculation. You might have actually taken him by surprise. He laughs. The sound is quiet, but laced with a palpable danger.
When he speaks again, there no mistaking the unspoken dare in his words:
“And what do you know,” he asks, “about captivity?”
You stare back at him. You don’t blink. You let the moment hang there, seemingly unending until his eyes narrow impatiently. He leans forward, almost imperceptibly. Glaring at your mouth the whole time like he wants to lick the answer out of you.
You dare to lift your chin, seeming to invite him closer. You almost give in. You almost fall at his feet right there. You almost burst into tears and beg him to give you what you can’t give yourself.
“Enough, my Lord,” you answer instead before rising from your seat to go eat somewhere else. “More and more with each day.
You feel his eyes on you as you walk away. He doesn’t come after you. Doesn’t take you to task for leaving without being dismissed. You don’t dare look back.
You wait for the thunderous sound of boots hitting the ground, for the touch of a gloved hand on the nape of your neck.
Nothing.
The breath you’ve been half-holding for the past few minutes finally releases its grip on your chest as you exit the courtyard. You ditch your bowl near the gate. You’re heading towards the woods.
Your hurried walk becomes a gallop. You run through the trees, needing the air in your lungs and something to do with all this pent-up energy inside.
You’re not sure how, but you manage to get the final word in this perverse discussion. He lets you leave his presence, unscathed.
When you’re maybe a quarter of a mile into the forest, you finally dare to look back and then around, sniffing the air. He didn’t give chase. You got away.
But you’ve been here long enough to know there will be repercussions.
He’s not going to let this stand for very long.
***
That same night you have another dream. This one feels different. Tactile and visceral in a way that dreams really shouldn’t be.
You’re on your side. There are voices, and one of them is yours. That’s all you can be sure of.
“Tell me …”
“... Hmm …?“
“Make a choice …Tell me. Tell me now.“
You shake your head, frowning. “Mmm-mmm …”
“Tell me what you want.“
You inhale, and something irresistible fills your lungs, so thick you can taste it -
The words come to you easily, the answer rolling off your tongue with a clarity and assurance that can’t be denied or mistaken:
“ … I don’t want a choice … “
“What do you want then?“
“... You …“
Silence. Followed by a smoky chuckle.
You feel the scruff of a beard against your face, lips pressing against your cheek.
“Good girl.“
You sit bolt upright in your bed, breathing heavily.
It’s still dark out. Your heart is racing, and there is an inescapable, undeniable sense that - whether you like it or not - a bargain has been struck.
“What the fuck?” you mutter aloud.
You clutch your blankets up to your chest and look around. There’s no one here but you as far as you can tell. You lie back down, trying to puzzle it through. Instead you drop almost immediately into another fitful sleep.
When you wake up a few hours later, the details are too hazy for you to latch onto.
Within a few minutes of wakefulness, it all slips away, washed away by the tide.
***
Six hours later, returning from a morning errand to the village, you stumble across an unexpected scene.
Heaps of broken glass litter the path leading up to Lord Heisenberg’s workshop.
… the hell?
You stare down at it, hear it crunching under your boots. For a moment you just stare, watching it glint in the sunlight, unable to make sense of its presence - and then you feel something take hold of you.
No, you think, not even consciously aware of what you’re refusing, but feeling it down to the marrow of your bones regardless.
No, no, no, no, no, NO, not like this -
It seizes you so fast and so completely that you don’t even realize you’ve broken into a sprint until you feel your momentum stop abruptly.
You’re in the workshop again. You look around, frantic. Nothing. Not a single thing broken or out of place. Where did the glass come from? What happened?
Where was … ?
Where is … ?
You can’t even complete the thought. You feel lightheaded. You’re nearly hyperventilating.
You turn and slam right into a familiar mountain of solid bulk.
You look up, and there he is. Safe and sound and all in one piece, just the way you left him.
Before you can get ahold of your senses, your hands are clutching the lapels of his coat, and you’re all but yelling at him.
“My Lord! You’re - !” you gasp.
He stares down at you, genuinely taken aback. “... I’m what?”
“You’re - !”
“I’m what?” he snaps, the bewildered irritation in his voice yanking you away from the precipice and back into reality.
You blink several times, staring dumbly at his chest for a moment, listening to the sound of your own ragged breath.
Alive.
He’s alive.
The word you want to say is alive.
Slowly, you release your claw-like grasp on his coat and take a step back. You look up into his face and gradually come to grips with what just came over you.
Hysteria.
Unreasoning, instantaneous and all-consuming dread at the thought of this man having been injured or killed while you were away. Some kind of elemental fear, roughly akin to that of an animal watching its offspring wobbling near a cliff’s edge.
You shut your eyes and scoff audibly, not even caring that he can hear you.
Un-fucking-believable.
Surely, sleep deprivation has ravaged your brain more than you realized. It’s the only explanation you can come up with, because the very idea of anyone or anything getting the drop on Karl Heisenberg is beyond ludicrous.
The only ones capable of such a feat are the other three Lords, and if an attempt on Lord Heisenberg’s life had been made by one (or god forbid, all three) of them, all hell would have broken loose. There would have been alarms and sirens and far worse signs of a struggle than some broken glass and debris on the ground.
He watches as you pinch the bridge of your nose. He folds his arms. “Well?”
“... here,” you answer flatly, opening your eyes. “You’re … here.”
He squints at you, clearly registering your massive shift in tone. You’re shivering a bit as the adrenaline continues to spiral down. It spikes up again ever so slightly when your Lord leans down, getting right in your face as you’re trying to compose yourself.
“And where the hell else would I be exactly?”
“... I don’t know,” you lie, fighting (and failing) to keep the tremor out of your words. “I thought maybe you had, um … left.”
He arches his brow at this feeble response, but seems to make a deliberate effort to set it aside for the time being. “Yes, I’m still here. That’s the good news.”
You tilt your head. “What’s the bad news?”
”Bad news is, your room isn’t here.”
“... What do you mean by that?”
He jerks his head towards the hallway behind him. Are you imagining things, or is he suppressing a grin?
“See for yourself.”
You step past him and stride out of the workshop, noticing the draft coming down the hallway immediately.
You pick up your pace and find yourself faced with a complete mess where your room used to be.
What on earth … ?
Your living quarters are more than half-demolished. The window is now a gaping hole in the wall. That must be where all that glass came from. There’s crushing damage to the walls, the furniture - not the least of which is your bed, which is more or less a pile of kindling at this point.
You feel him standing right behind you, watching you survey the damage.
“How … did … ?”
“Remind me,” you hear him saying, “which one of us was the last to check the reinforcements on the trapdoor?”
You close your eyes and curse the day you were born.
“I was, my Lord,” you mutter.
“Hm. Must have been how it got out then,” he says, not sounding at all concerned, as though the matter is already settled, and he’s bored with it.
You feel him fiddling idly with one of your braids, flicking the tail end back and forth. You don’t even have to see him to know he’s doing it either - ever since he started going out of his way to invade your space, he’s made it a point to play with your hair the way a child would.
A scarred, muscular, demented child, but a child nonetheless.
You ignore him and return to the matter at hand, determined to get to the bottom of this and not burst into laughter at the thought of what he must look like back there, batting your braid around like a cat toy.
Focus, you tell yourself. 
“A soldat did all this?” you ask pointedly, eyeing the giant-hammer-shaped holes in the walls.
“Some of that was me,” he says airily, confirming your suspicions without so much as a drop of remorse. “Damn thing wouldn’t go down easy, so I had to take a few swings at it.”
Your eyes fasten on what’s left of your bed, arguably the worst bit of damage in the room. The whole room is pretty beat up, but the bed and the floor got the worst of it.
And there’s no way in hell any of it was necessary.
You know it, and damned if he doesn’t know it, too.
Maybe a soldat got out and caused some damage. Maybe it didn’t. Either way, he could have subdued the thing with a wave of his hand, with his mind, due to the metal framework inherent to the creatures’ designs; the hammer is definitely overkill.
The hammer, however, is just the right tool for demolishing your room to the point where you can’t sleep here anymore. Not that you’ve been getting much sleep lately, but still …
For maybe a split second, you consider calling him out on it, but the impulse dies instantly. What good will that do? What will you really be taking him to task for anyway? All he’s guilty of is destroying his own property, after all. Something he’s more than well within his rights to do.
In fact, as you glance around the room, you realize that he seems to have gone out of his way to spare what few material goods you own - books, clothing and the like - from his destruction. It’s all sitting in a suspiciously organized pile in the far corner of the room - a detail which cements the impression that he doesn’t care whether you buy his story about the rogue soldat or not.
Against all odds, a tiny strand of optimism unfurls. Perhaps this is just a show of dominance, a flex. An empty gesture to show you who’s still in charge? Payback for your comment about captivity, perhaps?
Whatever the case may be, you’re without a bedroom now and, if the lazy way he’s still playing with your hair is any indication, your Lord is in no particular hurry to find you other accommodations.
You take a deep breath and force yourself to stick to your usual strategy: diplomacy.
“I should have checked the reinforcements more carefully, my Lord. This might have been prevented otherwise.”
“Hm.”
You stifle a weary sigh. “I’m sorry I didn’t - Hey!”
He tickles your neck with the end of your braid, and a startled giggle escapes you before you can swallow the sound.
“Will you please - ? This is s-serious, my Lord!” you say, trying to sound stern and utterly failing because he’s still tickling you.
“Is it?” he asks, sounding like he couldn’t give less of a damn.
“Is … Yes!“ you snap.
“And why is that?”
You spin around to face him finally, yanking your braid out from between his fingers.
“Well, where am I supposed to … to … ?” Your sentence trails off when your eyes finally meet.
Oh.
Maybe if you weren’t so sleep-deprived, you would have been able to see his true motive a little sooner.
As it is, a devilish combination of sleeplessness, the fading remnants of panic-induced adrenaline from a few moments ago and your Lord’s proximity has your brain chugging a few thousand paces behind. So it only now occurs to you what an obvious setup this is.
Oh, hell.
You stare up into his eyes. He has a look on his face … a very indulgent, very patient look on his face. And a mischievous gleam in his eye that doesn’t bode at all well for you.
“Supposed to …?” he prompts, brows raised high in feigned innocence. He wants to hear you say it.
Of course.
You can’t sleep in the room he gave you anymore. He’s already told you once before that he wants you nearby, not back down in Maintenance. And you can’t very well sleep out in the fucking woods, not that he would let you do that either.
That only leaves one option. One alluring, unbearable option.
Okay, so I’m fucked then, you think, swallowing nervously at the way his eyes are devouring you. Yep. Yes, I am … I’m fucked.
But … maybe with some careful wording you can escape this trap. It’s got to be worth a shot, at least.
So you start by telling him what he wants to hear:
“Well, I can’t sleep here!” you say brightly, hitting him with a wide, beaming smile. “That much is certain.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, nodding ever so slightly. He blinks at you, obviously surprised by your swift acceptance of the situation. 
“It’s a shame.” You lift your hand and place it very deliberately on his chest, telling yourself this is a strategic decision and not just a convenient excuse to feel him up.
He blinks.
… And you blink right back, having all but forgotten your objective as you watch your hand slide from just under his collarbone down to his stomach, brushing over his dog tags along the way.
“A shame,” you repeat vaguely, barely paying attention to the words coming out of your mouth as you try to latch back onto your previous train of thought.
Holy shit, what is this man made of?
He clears his throat. You look back up to see perfectly warranted suspicion and preening male ego warring behind his eyes. You yank your hand away, abandoning your brazenness and deciding flattery might be a better tactic.
“That is, I was saying … It’s a shame, really, seeing something you made reduced to this, my Lord,” you purr, eyes lowered demurely as you fight the urge to put your hand right back where you had it. “It was a lovely room.”
His eyes narrow. He braces his hand on the doorframe, leaning down with an inquisitive look. “I suppose. It served its purpose, anyhow.”
You glance up at him, trying hard to concentrate on what he’s saying and not the way he’s looming over you.
“It did,” you say, brows creasing. “Admirably, sir.”
He chuckles. “Are you that sad to see it go, buttercup?”
… Buttercup?
A barrage of emotions hits you like a flurry of punches: queasy guilt for trying to flirt your way out of this; irritation that you feel any guilt at all when he’s the one at fault here; an obnoxiously infantile glee at being called yet another pet name in that voice that sounds like if the devil ran a phone-sex hotline; annoyance at being called buttercup, of all things … 
Just, a lot, generally.
You are a hunter, goddammit, not a flower, you tell yourself, struggling to even hear yourself over the fluttering in your stomach. You are a grown woman. You are a force to reckoned with. 
You meet his eyes again, only to realize how much closer he’s gotten. By the sly look on his face, you can tell you aren’t doing a good job of masking your internal struggle. You rush to fill the silence:
“Y-Yes, well, it - That is, um -” is the best you can come up with.
You are neither a hunter nor a flower. You are a whore, you berate yourself. You are a whore and a fool.
You clear your throat and spout more apologies, then start rattling off some solutions - all the while growing more and more concerned as you watch his hand creep closer and closer to your face out of the corner of your eye.
Okay, you had your chance, it’s time to wrap this up now, you think, realizing that you’re babbling nervously.
”- so I’ll need to move my things back to Maintenance for the time being, of course. It shouldn’t take long to fix. If you want, I can get - Ahkggh?”
The statement becomes garbled as his fingers wedge their way between your teeth, pressing down on your tongue. You try to step back, but he follows, backing you against the doorframe.
What in the - ? Hey!
You try to turn away, but his other hand grips the back of your head, holding you in place while he more or less finger-fucks your mouth. You squirm in his grasp, trying to breath through your nose and only somewhat succeeding. You reach up to grab his wrist. He doesn’t budge.
“What? You don’t like my fingers in your mouth?” he asks, casual as you please, steadily prodding deeper.
You try to answer, but all you can do is gag and retch. You shake your head as best you can.
“No? Well, I don’t like you putting words in mine, so cut it the fuck out.”
He pulls his hand out of your mouth abruptly, making you cough and sputter.
Before you can begin to gather your composure, he’s seized you by the jaw. He forces your chin up, making you look him in the eye.
”If I wanted you back down below, I would have sent you back down below,” he tells you flatly. “You’re not going anywhere. I don’t care how much you bat your little eyelashes at me.”
His face breaks into a grin, ruining the stern rebuke, but sending shivers of a different kind down your back. “Not that I didn’t enjoy your little display, but the next time you flirt to get your way, I’ll expect you to follow through, buttercup.”
An unwanted thrill ripples through you. The fact that this man clearly wants to do depraved things to you is never far from your mind, but damned if your nipples don’t get hard as rocks every time he goes out of his way to remind you.
Get a GRIP, you beg yourself. You shove his hand away, all too aware that he’s letting you get away with that because it amuses him.
“Where am I going to sleep, my Lord?” you ask through clenched teeth.
“Where do you think?”
You take a deep breath.
“If you’re suggesting -” you begin.
He moves in on you with a glare, very nearly on top of you. You have to tilt your head back to keep him in sight as he looms over you.
“I’m not suggesting anything. I don’t suggest. I dictate. And right now I’m dictating -”
A heavy bang to your right makes you jump. You turn your head and feel your stomach do a somersault. His heavy, steel-reinforced door just swung open, revealing the darkness of his bedroom. You look back at him.
“- where you’ll be sleeping from now on.”
“I couldn’t impose on you like that!” you say, caring a lot more about how he likely plans to impose upon you. “I -”
His bare hand closes around the back of your neck. You forget whatever you were about to say.
He presses his forehead to yours, speaks directly into your face. His mouth hovers just a few inches from yours. 
“You … What? Speak up.”
“I … don’t know about this.”
“What’s there for you to know? I told you how things are going to be. And that’s the way things will be,” his voice winds its way around your spine, serpentine. “You can’t impose on me if I’m ordering you to do it, you know.”
You feel unimaginably tired all of a sudden, more tired than you’ve been the last few days, and the urge to just collapse against him almost does you in right then and there.
It could all be so easy, you find yourself thinking out of nowhere. If I could just -
You shake your head, chasing those thoughts away. “I really don’t think -”
Whatever you were or weren’t thinking or were about to say is brushed aside when he finally kisses you, drawing a whimper out of you as his tongue finds yours. Your head drops back against the doorframe. Your reach up to tug at his coat, drawing him closer.
Fuck it, you think. Just fuck it.
He breaks the kiss, pulling back with a triumphant smirk. He reaches up and taps you on your temple with his gloved finger.
“You’re overthinking things again. I’ve warned you about thinking too hard, little one.”
You lick your lips just to taste him again, scowling at him the whole time. His eyes fasten on your mouth with a look of warning.
“You did, indeed,“ you admit. “Fine, I guess … I’ll …“
He drags his gaze away from your mouth. “You’ll what?”
“I’ll … see you tonight, my Lord.“ You say it primly, like the two of you are going on a formal outing and not to bed.
“Oh, well, then,“ he says with a courtly tip of his hat, fluttering his lashes at you foppishly.
You roll your eyes and try to exit this encounter with a bit of grace. But of course, he can’t abide that, can he? He can’t just let you have that one thing.
So naturally your Lord wraps his arms around your waist and hauls you up against his chest so that your feet are a few inches off the ground. He turns and places you in his bedroom doorway, then puts his hands on both sides of the entry, blocking your path.
“Why wait till tonight? You look like you could use some rest right now.”
You take a deep breath.
“It is ten,“ you hiss, “in the morning.”
He shrugs. “Perfect time for a nap.“
“We have work to do!“ you sputter. “Now if you’ll excuse me -”
You push at his chest, and he just looks down at you like you’re a kitten trying to topple at a brick wall. Your hands slide down over his tags once more, stopping at his stomach. You’re staring again, caught by the near-electrical current running through you at the feel of him.
God, you’re hopeless, you lament.
“Hey, if you want to tire yourself out, go right ahead,” he says, grinning at your discomfiture. “Call it a hunch, but I don’t think your boss gives a shit if you take some time off.”
Your heart thumps painfully, and again you feel that strange chemical flare in your ribcage. You tell yourself it's indigestion or maybe an ulcer. You know it isn’t, but you tell yourself it is as you swallow it down.
“I can’t stand you.” You blurt the words out before you’re even aware of thinking them.
He snorts, amused by your outburst.
“But you will,” he replies.
“Right. May I please go now?“ you ask, eyes pleading with him. “Please?“
He stares at you for a long moment, stroking his beard as he considers your request. Then, mercifully, he moves aside. You flee almost outright, not concerned with looking unintimidated or dignified, just needing to be free of his aura and his scent and how good and right he feels under your hands and -
STOP THAT.
“See you tonight,“ you hear him say behind you.
***
Night comes entirely too fast, creeping over the compound as the light dies all around the factory.
You wait until you can’t find any more work that can feasibly be done and can’t keep your eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time before you finally retire to his room.
In direct contrast to the chaotic workshop, this space is very minimal. Aside from his enormous bed, there is only a side table, a beat up old lantern in the corner, blackout curtains drawn against the tall windows, a dresser and a door leading to his bathroom.
The room is empty, but the light inside is already on. He’s still in the lab, it seems.
You stagger inside, then hastily change into a baggy linen shift and thick cotton underwear.
The scratch and weight of all that fabric is uncomfortably warm against your skin. You’re much more accustomed to sleeping in the nude, but that’s obviously out of the question given the state of … well, everything.
Unable to bear the prospect of being awake even a moment longer, you huff a resigned sigh and burrow under the heavy covers and furs lining his behemoth of a bed.
You have maybe a few seconds of peace and quiet before your mind kicks back into high gear, unable to cease its worrying and let you be now that you’re failing to distract it with work. Your brain trots out its litany of concerns:
At first the bed seemed too comically large for you to be worrying about accidentally crowding one another. Then you think of the space the man himself takes up, and that worry is promptly revived. 
Then you remember that if he’s going to maul you, it won’t be an accident anyway, so that’s at least one worry put to rest or at least left up to fate (i.e. him) to decide.
You’ve left his bedroom door slightly ajar so you can hear his approach. He’s still in his workshop, and you’re not sure how long he intends to stay. You’re not sure how much sleep he’s used to getting, but it’s definitely even less than you’ve been getting.
Is that another lycan quirk? Just to look at or talk to him or even just stand in his presence you wouldn’t be able to tell. That energy and power seems to have no limit, no center, no need for equilibrium. But surely he must sleep at some point, right? Why else would he have a bed?
Will he pass out as soon as he joins you? Will he expect you to make small talk? Oh, god, about what? What do you two have to talk about other than this ... thing between you? What is there to say about that?
And then of course, even though you’d rather think of anything - anything - else, you can’t help but notice that his bed has been moved at last a foot, covering up … whatever he’s been working on in here.
You think back to the hammering and drilling you heard. He was attaching something to the floor of his chamber. Something that’s down there, underneath you right this moment. Something you can get up and investigate while he’s away.
Should you? What if he catches you? What if he doesn’t? What if you just ask him what it is? What if he doesn’t tell you? Oh, god, and what if he does … ?
These are the thoughts consuming your mind as you drift in and out of jittery wakefulness and not-quite-sleep.
You’re just considering whether you should be awake or asleep when he decides to join you and weighing the pros and cons and implications of both and also whether you should just take a cheese grater to your head to escape all this goddamn thinking when you realize that at some point you stopped caring.
And started smelling.
You rub your cheek against the pillow under your head. It smells of him. You burrow a bit deeper under the covers. They smell of him. You feel your mouth watering, almost drooling as you’re tugged down and down into deepening darkness, further and further from those pesky thoughts of yours. You can practically taste him, even though he isn’t there.
Oh, thank fucking god, you think as you finally drift off, listening to the factory winding down below and to the vague sounds coming from down the hall, from behind the workshop door.
Some time goes by before the classic disorientation of sleep interrupted hits you. Days might have passed since your eyes were last open. Or seconds. It’s anyone’s guess. It’s still night, you can tell that much.
When you resurface again, there’s an unmistakable change in the air. The scent of him is stronger. Closer.
You open your eyes and see him in the dim light. He’s turned away from you, sitting on the opposite edge of the bed and unlacing his boots. He’s in his undershirt. You’re staring at the muscles in his back, at the shoulders forged by steel when he speaks:
“You up?“ His voice is low, quiet, yet the vibration of it in the room might as well be a full bellow.
“... Uh-huh …“
He grunts, but otherwise doesn’t reply. He makes an idle gesture you can’t see, and the light snuffs out, leaving the two of you in darkness.
You listen to him getting under the covers. He’s nowhere near you, yet the warmth radiating off him makes it seem like he’s right on top of you. You listen to the sounds of him settling in and to the sound of your heartbeat gradually getting faster.
“What were you yammering about earlier?”
“Earlier?” you ask. Wait, yammering?
You hear him exhale and shift positions. You get a stronger whiff of him. He must have smoked again, shortly before coming to bed. The acrid note lends an edge to his underlying aroma, making his scent even more disorienting.
You squeeze your thighs together under the covers and try your damndest not to sniff the air like a basset hound licking its chops.
“When you got back from town,” he elaborates, “you were yelling. Something about me being here.”
You flinch. Damn it.
Why is he asking you this now? Why is he asking you this at all? Surely the man has better things to think about than your panic-induced ramblings?
“Well?“ he prompts after your silence threatens to stretch into eternity. “What was that about?“
You sigh and roll onto your left side, facing away from him before answering.
“There was all that glass on the ground,” you answer. “I thought something had happened.”
“Happened?”  Neutral. Flat, even.
“... To you, my Lord,” you say in a voice so tiny you’re almost certain he’s going to ask you to speak up and repeat yourself.
Mercifully, he doesn’t, but …
“Hn.”
Oh, well, fuck me, I guess, you think tartly. That’s the last time I worry about your safety!
You know that isn’t true, but you still feel the need to posture even in the privacy of your own mind because, really, what else can you do?
“I don’t know what came over me,“ you mumble hastily, eager to get out ahead of whatever taunts he’s preparing to pelt you with. “I didn’t know what to think. I wasn’t here and I just … panicked.”
No response.
“It’s silly, I know,” you continue, at a loss for what else to say - what else he wants you to say, if anything. “I can’t imagine anyone getting the better of you so easily.”
Still no answer.
“... My Lord … ?”
You hear him breathing evenly in the dark.
You address him again, just a hair quieter than before.
Nothing. Just that slow, even, deep breathing.
He’s … asleep? Already?
You sigh, feeling the tension drain out of you. There’s a curious twinge of anticlimax, maybe even something like disappointment, but mostly there is relief. He’s not going to attack you - not tonight anyway.
You listen to him breathing behind you in the dark. You listen for a long time, gradually accepting that nothing is going to happen. You feel your heartbeat getting slower as all your concerns give way to your exhaustion.
Something about his heavy frame, the warmth radiating off of him, maybe even just the knowledge that he’s here, within reach but not doing any reaching of his own - whatever it is, you find yourself slipping under the barrier that’s kept you from slumber.
The desire is still there, but for once, even it grows quiet. Quiet enough for you to rest.
You feel it washing over you, unstoppable as the tide.
“Good night, my Lord,” you whisper to the darkness, shutting your eyes and letting the sea take you.
***
It’s mid-morning again.
Your Lord is up to his elbows in the mechanical guts of something that isn’t quite human, but not fully machine. You’re not sure if he can see or hear you or even smell your presence. He’s completely engrossed in his work.
And you’re engrossed in him. 
You’re standing outside the half-open door of his workshop, clutching his hat and some misplaced schematics in your hands.
Your bare hands.
You take a deep breath and back away from the door for the third time. You’ve been trying to work up the nerve to go in there. It hasn’t gone well so far. 
It doesn’t seem to matter that you’ve been in and out of this room at least ten times a day - likely more - every day for the past few months. The thought of setting in foot in there right now is daunting. 
And you haven’t a clue as to why.
You pace the hallway quietly, trying to think back to where things might have gotten off-track:
The first night of your new sleeping arrangement went remarkably well.
As it turns out, sleeping with him -
You stop pacing. You shut your eyes, take another deep breath and count to ten.
Let’s try that again, shall we? you think once your self-induced conniption has been averted.
As it turns out, sleeping next to him has been surprisingly beneficial for you. That first night together wasn’t a fluke. Something about being close to him, near enough to feel the warmth of his body and be wrapped in his scent like a cocoon, acts as a tranquilizer. You sleep like a baby on the second and third nights as well, better than you have in ages.
Now though, by the looks of things, it seems you’re dealing with a completely different form of restlessness.
At least when you were barely sleeping, your senses were somewhat blunted by the exhaustion. You could focus just as much, if not more, on being miserable that way rather than the other. In its own way, this had been a kind of blessing in disguise.
Now that you’re back to getting a full eight hours every night, however, every cylinder is firing as it should be, and you’re right back to being hyperaware of every stray thought and nerve impulse urging you to suck the sweat off this man’s balls till he howls.
You stop and breathe again.
Okay, even for you, that was foul. Control yourself before this gets out of hand.
You glance down again. Speaking of hands …
Sometime during your first night together, he took your - his, his - glove off of you. Just taken it back without a word or warning.
You had panicked upon awakening, thinking you had somehow lost it - only to see him shortly after, wearing the both of them.
He didn’t explain why, or even acknowledge the change, and you didn’t ask. He’s wearing both of them now as he works. As he always did prior to him making you wear the other one.
You shut you eyes. This is ridiculous. You’re literally describing things that aren’t problems. Non-issues.
Apart from your heat cycle still being as annoyingly persistent as ever, things are objectively on the up and up. You’re not being paraded around in your Lord’s glove. You’re sleeping again. He’s focusing more on his work than he is on you for once ...
If you could just get a handle on the heat thing, things would be downright normal. Perfect, even.
And yet here you are, feeling a little …
Brushed aside.
What the fuck is the matter with you?, you ask yourself, disgusted. This is what you wanted! You wanted to be left alone!
There’s a sense of deja vu about the whole thing that makes you feel ill at ease. It reminds you of the few first months in his service: that feeling of waiting and waiting for something, god, anything, to happen. The primary difference between then and now being that he was the one watching you.
Now you’re the one watching. Waiting.
Which brings us to today.
You’re standing outside his workshop, going about your business, bringing him his things before you’re relieved of duties, and you can’t go in because you’re … scared? Agitated? Overexcited? All of the above?
It’s like you’ve reverted back to the starstruck new recruit you were over a year ago, dazzled and awed by him from a distance, terrified of making a bad impression. Except it’s so much worse now because you know better, and you still can’t help it.
You jump when you hear his voice booming from the other side of the door you’re hiding behind:
“Are you going to stand out there all fucking day?“ he snaps. “What do you want, woman?“
Your stomach does a somersault. You finally enter.
“What is it?” he grunts, not looking up.
“These were left down near the production line,“ you explain, placing the papers on the worktable, in his periphery. “They need more notations.”
He grunts, still not looking up. You probably shouldn’t hover, but its rare to see him distracted like this, so you stand there staring, drinking him in.
He’s wearing a pair of glasses. Not the dark shades he generally favors, but a pair of reading glasses perched on the bridge of his Roman nose. His short hair is tied back. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, baring his forearms and some of his biceps.
That. That, your lizard brain hisses at you. I want THAT, I want to sink my teeth in THAT -
You stand there silently, shoving those thoughts back into whatever hell-pit they crawled out of and wondering if it's too late to leave before he notices the hat you’re still clutching to your chest.
Just as you’re turning to go, he looks up, sees it and scoffs. He holds out his hand.
“... Anything else?” he asks, raising his brow at you as you hand it over.
You clasp your hands behind your back and inch away, still gawking at him. Then you clasp your hands in front of you, unsure what to even do with them and feeling strangely naked as he looks at you.
Why am I acting like this? This is so STUPID, why am I acting like this? … Wait, shit, he just asked me a question, what did - ? 
He turns toward you suddenly, facing you straight on. You stand perfectly still. Caught in his gaze like a tractor beam.
You watch as he slowly, deliberately, puts the hat back on his head.
He doesn’t break eye contact once.
“Well?“
You clear your throat and close your mouth, realizing that it’s been hanging open for the past few seconds.
“Ah … No. No, nothing else, my Lord.”
He swivels back around in his seat, releasing you.
“Then get going, kid. Daddy’s working right now,“ he says absently, his attention already back on his work.
You exit in a daze, almost walking into the doorframe as you’re leaving.
Not enough of a daze to miss the unmistakable sound of him laughing behind you, but still.
***
Night has fallen again.
You were asleep again when he came to bed, much later than you. He’s breathing in the dark. You’re wide awake. Listening to him breathe.
Your hand - the same hand that until recently wore his glove - is tucked into the front of your panties. The wet squish of your fingers dipping into your folds sounds as loud as gunfire in the quiet stillness of the bedchamber.
It’s your fourth night in Lord Heisenberg’s bed.
And if your current actions are any indication, a crisis point has been reached.
You listen. He keeps breathing.
You press your lips together and suppress the shudder that runs through you, feeling your fingers on your aching clit after neglecting it for so long.
I won’t do it for very long, you tell yourself. I won’t finish. I’ll just …
You squeeze your eyes shut and keep trying to justify this act of disobedience. He’s right next to you, for god’s sake, a fact you’re all too aware of as you listen to the sound of him breathing.
I won’t finish, my Lord, you beg him silently, as if he can hear you even now. It just hurts. It hurts so bad, and I can’t … I’m sorry.
You work your fingers back and forth, drawing some of your body’s excess up towards your clit. You can practically feel every single nerve ending, sending little jolts of lightning running through you. Your other hand reaches up to fondle one of your breasts. It feels heavy and tender, responsive to the slightest touch.
It’s no mystery who you’re thinking about as you touch yourself.
There’s a petulance to your imaginings tonight, a neediness at being so ignored lately. You wonder what he might do if he catches you. You wonder how quietly you could cum if you were to finish. You wonder …
You freeze.
… what that sound was.
You heard something. You definitely heard something.
What was that?
The breathing continues as it did before, but with only a fraction of your attention on it, you could swear you heard a slight hitch in the sound.
You keep listening, hand still. He keeps breathing. You go back to rubbing your pussy, more urgently now as you fear your window of opportunity beginning to shrink.
You smell something. 
Something other than your drenched panties. Something familiar, but also not. Something you’ve been smelling traces and hints of since you started sleeping in this bed.
What is that?
Whatever it is, there’s a lot of it now. Too much of it, in fact.
And that … shouldn’t be. Though you can’t put your finger on what it is, you know instinctively that there shouldn’t be this much of it. What the hell could that be?
And then you realize. 
Pre-cum.
It’s an excess of pre-cum.
Oh.
At almost the exact same moment, you realize that those measured breaths have ceased entirely, leaving a conspicuous, heavy silence. A silence broken only by the wet, muffled sound of your fingers sliding in and out of your pussy.
You lie perfectly still, heart hammering against your ribs. You slide your fingers out of yourself, feeling the waves of furtive, guilty pleasure ramping down - and giving way to fear.
You turn your head and see a pair of open eyes glinting in the dark.
But by then, it’s too late.
Fingers as strong as steel wrap around your wrist. The covers are kicked off, exposing you.
A hefty arm slips around you, hauling you up so that your back is pressed against a broad chest. You feel one heavy thigh sliding between your legs, nudging them apart and keeping them open.
And most galling of all, you feel a hard, leaking member pressed against the curve of your bottom, slowly dampening the seat of your linen gown.
You don’t move. You don’t make a sound.
For a few delusional moments, you hold out hope that your assailant is just moving in his sleep. Just latching onto the warm body next to him and getting a little too cozy before he sinks back down into oblivion.
That hope dies a quick and brutal death when you hear his voice rumbling over your head like a brewing storm:
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
Dim, warm light begins to pour back into the room - he’s manipulating the switch on the light source, as his hands are full dealing with you.
“Um … Well,” you start, having no clue what you’re going to say, “I … I, uh …”
“No, really. Explain it to me,“ he snarls. “Explain it to me like I’m as fucking stupid as you think I am.”
Your stomach lurches. “My Lord, I-I don’t think you’re - “
He shifts his arm underneath you, and his hand is over your mouth now, stifling your words. His other hand comes down sharply between your legs with a wet pop. You cry out and try to close your legs to block another slap, but his thigh nudges them back apart.
“You must take me for some kind of fool,” he mutters, “if you thought you could get away with this right fucking next to me.”
You struggle against his hold. You don’t move so much as an inch, still crushed against his body. You reach up to tug at his hand. That earns you another slap between your legs.
“I made myself very clear,” he continues, “that the next time you wanted to fuck yourself, you were going to ask for permission.”
He releases his hold on your mouth, only to wrap that same hand around your throat.
“Did you forget who you were supposed to ask? Did you think there was a fucking form you had to fill out first? Tell me,” he growls, squeezing tighter. “Which part of this was confusing to you?”
“Y-You took the glove back …”
“And? You don’t know how to ask for shit now? Try again.“
“I … I thought - ”
“Thought what? What was there for you to think about?” he barks. “I gave you an order. And you chose not to follow it.”
You gulp, immense guilt entwining with your fear.
“I d-didn’t want to,” your tongue fumbles the lie you’re telling, making it even less convincing as you charge ahead with it anyway, “wake you, my L -“
He shakes with laughter, and the sound turns your words to ash in your throat.
“Wake me? You didn’t want to wake me? Is that what you just said to me?”
“Y-Yes, I d-didn’t -”
He laughs again, louder, almost raucous as his arm tightens around your waist.
“You really thought I could sleep with the smell of your pussy drooling all over itself all fucking night?”
Your eyes widen, darting back and forth. Your stomach drops. His breathing the whole time had been so measured. So even and rhythmic. Why didn’t you realize sooner? 
He hadn’t been asleep. He had been lying in wait with the preternatural stillness of a predator, using the cover of darkness and its immobility to lure its prey into a trap. 
Listening to you while you listened to him.
“You - !“
His hand tightens suddenly around your throat, cutting off your breath.  
“Don’t change the subject. Did I,” he draws you back against him as you fight for air, “or did I not make myself clear to you?”
“You did, you did,“ is your wheezing reply.
His other hand comes down hard once again - this time to your inner thigh - making you hiss and writhe against him.
“I did what?“
The corners of your vision are beginning to blur. “You … You made … yourself clear … my Lord.”
He laughs and releases his crushing grip.
“Still trying to hide behind my title, I see,“ he mutters as you lay there gasping. “So you’ll cum all over my fucking sheets, but you won’t use my name?”
“I wasn’t gonna finish,” you mumble.
Your Lord scoffs.
“I-I wasn’t!” you insist. “I was … It just - I-It hurt so much, I just -“
“What hurt? Oh, you mean this?“ His hand comes toward your pussy again, and you flinch, anticipating another smack.
Instead he presses on your clit and starts to rub it, catching you even more off-guard. You shudder and wince, fearing this may be a trick, but unable to care because he’s rubbing you just right … so right …
“Is that where it hurt?“ he whispers. “Right there?”
You try to answer, but his fingers are strumming at you with a near-instrumental precision, so all that comes out of you is something akin to a squeak.
“Yeah? That’s what was giving you trouble, little one? Hmm?“
You bite your lip and nod.
“Use your words, don’t make me tell you again.” His husky voice in your ear sends shivers down your back.
“Y-Yes, yes, that’s - that’s where it … “
“What? Say it,“ he coaxes, rubbing faster.
“Where it hurts … where it hurts, my Lord …“
“Yeah?” he asks, voice dripping with sweet disdain. “Right there?”
“Yes … Yes,” you sigh, nodding. “Yes …”
He takes his hand away without warning, and a desperate, shuddering sound comes out of your mouth.
“I told you this would happen,“ he says smugly. “I told you that night. I told you this would only get worse till you let me fix it. But you didn’t want my help, did you?“
You shake your head sadly, regretting every single decision that led to this moment.
“No, of course not,” he sneers. “You wanna do everything yourself, even when you don’t fucking know how … Get up.”
You feel yourself being tugged. “Wait, what - ow! Stop it!”
He drags you across the bed with an ease that reminds you of the unfair size difference between the two of you. So little effort expended on his part while you struggle against him to no avail.
“Up. On your feet.“
Oh, god, what is this? What is he about to do?
Your feet are on the floor for all of two seconds before he grips the back of your neck and shoves you forward, forcing you to bend over his knees. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and you’re dangling off his lap with your ass in the air.
Now your head is spinning, and it has little to do with you hanging upside-down.
Is this a … ?
No.
This can’t be what you think it is. He isn’t. He can’t be …
Your Lord looks down to see you staring up at him over your shoulder with a look of incredulity. He spots the recognition of what’s about to happen on your face and grins.
“What?” he asks, dragging his nails up the back of your thigh. “You’ve never had a spanking before?”
You try to stand up, and he yanks you back over his knee before you can even get a toe back on the ground.
”Hmph. This explains a lot. We really should’ve done this sooner.”
Your face is burning. “M-My Lord -”
He yanks the hem of your linen gown up, exposing your panty-clad bottom. His hand sneaks under the cotton briefs and squeezes a handful of you as your jaw drops in outrage.
“Definitely should have done this sooner,“ he mutters, temporarily distracted by your soft skin yielding to his prying fingers.
“Y-You can’t be serious, you can’t just -”
THWACK.
His palm comes down on your ass. Hard.
“OW, fuck.”
“That’s one,“ he says. “Word to the wise, buttercup. Don’t tell me what I can’t do. I’ll prove you wrong every time.“
Thwack.
“That’s two,” he says lightly. “You’re going to keep count from here on. Better not lose track, or we’re starting over at the beginning.”
This can’t be happening. “How … H-How many … ?”
Your Lord chuckles, hearing the trepidation in your voice.
“As many as it takes for me to forgive you, I guess,” he replies.
“You guess? How is that - ?” Your protest is cut off by his palm colliding with your flesh again. “Aah!”
“Count!”
“T-Three.”
Thwack.
“Four!”
Thwack.
“AH, fuck … Fiiive!” you wail, kicking your legs.
You keep count. He keeps striking. 
Some of the blows are measured and rhythmic. Others are a barrage, raining down one after another like a hailstorm and forcing you to keep up so you don’t lose track of the count.
Each and every one is heavy as all fuck.
These are the kind of palm strikes you would expect from someone who works with metal and human bodies all day. There is a residual sting left in the wake of each hit, the sting one associates with a slap, but they each land with more of a resounding thud that you can feel all the way in your lower belly.
Don’t cry. I’m not going to cry, you think mulishly. I’m not giving him that, goddammit. I’m NOT going to cry.
You don’t cry. You kick and hiss. You thrash and grumble. And you count. And the higher you count - the more he swats you - the more your resolve crumbles.
Somewhere around thirty, you stop swearing and squirming.
Around the mid-forties, you stop tensing altogether, lying limp and pliant over his thighs as his other hand anchors you in place.
And once you’ve counted into the sixties, there’s no denying the hot flush that’s beginning to settle over you - not just where he’s hitting you, but all over.
A hazy, rippling warmth. Intense, but diffuse, like a heatwave.
What is … happening … ?
That pain you feel when he hits you seems almost to penetrate you somehow. It’s not your belly you’re feeling it in, it’s your … womb, for lack of a better word. Somewhere deep inside.
THWACK.
Each hit is chipping away at something inside. Knocking something loose that you’ve been holding tight to for a very long time. Something you can feel slipping from your grasp. Something so precious and dear to you that’s suddenly too heavy to keep hold of.
Oh, fuck. You feel your face beginning to scrunch up. Don’t. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t -
Just as you feel the corners of your eyes and the back of your throat beginning to itch, he stops. You lie there, still anticipating the next blow, but it never comes.
Instead he gropes you with the same hand he was just beating you with, luxuriating in the feel of you squirming and jiggling against his touch.
“Well? Do you … forgive me?“ you ask in a small voice, sounding not at all like a grown woman, but rather a petulant child resentful of being made humble in such a humiliating way.
That regressive note brings a smile to your Lord’s face, though you can’t see it.
“Oh, I forgave you around forty or so.”
You lift your head, stunned.
“... Then why did you keep going?“ you whine.
His hand, still idly playing with you, slips back under your drawers without warning. Two of his fingers plunge inside of you, eased along by how wet you are. You cry out, too weak and overwhelmed by your punishment to try fighting him off.
“I kept going because you wanted me to keep going,“ he says mildly over the sloshing sounds of his fingers thrusting in and out of your pussy. “You were making a mess on my leg, so I figured you hadn’t had enough yet.“
“I was not!“ you snap.
“You weren’t?” he asks with theatrically feigned confusion. “What’s all this on my hand then?”
You grumble something foul under your breath, but there’s really no denying it. You can both smell how much more arousal your body is secreting. You didn’t think it was possible to be any wetter than you were already, but the sounds of his middle and index fingers pumping back and forth beg to differ.
“That’s … just -” It’s getting harder and harder to talk with him stroking your walls like this. He’s making sounds in the back of his throat while he does it, little groans of approval that make you tremble.
“What? What was that? Just what?”
You try to answer again, but every time you open your mouth, he adjusts the angle, depth or speed of his fingers, deliberately throwing you off. Your thighs shake with the effort of keeping them tensed, squeezing tight to make it harder for his hand to maneuver inside of you.  
“This is - ! This is just a …”
“What? Just a what?” he prompts, eager to hear what you could possibly have to say, but just as infuriatingly patient as he stirs up your insides.
“A b-biological … response,” you say through clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut. “That’s all, it doesn’t … mean … anything …”
“Is that so? Tell me more.”
“What?”
“About biology. Tell me all about it …”
He shifts his legs underneath you abruptly, unbalancing you. Your thighs unclench themselves as you try to find your balance, giving his hand more access to you. Your jaw drops as his fingers plunge in deeper. Your head sinks down against his calf, too woozy for you to keep it upright.
“Well? I’m listening, smartass.”
The next thing you know, he’s forcing you up by your throat, back arched, fucking his fingers into you the whole time. He whispers in your ear:
“Why’re you so quiet all of a sudden, hmm? You were making a lot more noise when you thought I was asleep. What’s the matter? Not so tough with my hand in there, are you?”
HIs wrist stops moving, but he keeps his fingers inside, letting you feel how his knuckles stretch you.
“You’re pretty bold when you think I’m not looking.” He nibbles at your ear as you paw at the hand around your throat. “Aren’t you?”
He pulls his fingers out of you and releases your neck at the same time. You crumple over his lap like a ragdoll, panting and whimpering.
Before you can get your bearings, the room suddenly spins before your eyes, and you find yourself lying on your back, looking up at the ceiling. He just flung you back onto his bed.
You look down to see him crawling over you, and your heart thuds at the uncut sight of him.
Oh.
From the hair tapering all the way down the front of his torso to the daunting girth of his dick to the man/animal musk coming off of him, it’s all … just perfect.
You never quite pictured him right in your head, it seems. You had taken him for one’s idea of a blacksmith, drawing your conclusions from what little you’ve seen of him thus far and how much his silhouette resembles those of the forge.
What you should have been picturing is a gladiator. Wide and sturdy, solid as an oak tree. Not so chiseled that you can make out the line of every single muscle, but still exquisitely hard and sculpted like marble. Dangerous and thrilling down to the very last inch.
Oh … 
You feel an embarrassing tenderness take hold of you the longer you stare, taking in the scars across his chest and stomach. Even in your current, spellbound state, the sensation strikes you as patently ridiculous - roughly akin to running into a brown bear in the woods and wanting to snuggle with the beast just because it’s fluffy.
The prospect of getting ripped to shreds never looked quite so appealing before.
“... Ahem.”
You look up and realize that he caught you staring - “caught” being a relative term, since you weren’t even trying to hide it. You have no idea where you even were for the past few seconds or if he was saying anything to you during that time or when drool started to come out of the corner of your mouth or -
Your Lord is on top of you now, straddling your legs as you scoot backwards.
“It’s too late to stroke my ego. Don’t gimme that look,” he says with a sultry scowl. 
You keep staring up at him, doe-eyed. He plucks at your linen shift with a look of distaste, gripping a fistful of the fabric in each hand.
Then he proceeds to tear the front of it in half, making a coat out of the thing.
You gasp, finally jarred from your reverie. You crawl backwards on your elbows, foolishly aiding him as he tugs the ruined garment off of you and throws it aside.
You twist onto your side, trying to make a dive for it, but you’re getting nowhere fast. He arches over you again, trapping you in place with one hand on your throat while the other slides down to grip the waistband of your underwear.
He shakes his head, just as displeased with your panties as he was with your gown.
“Why did you bother with all of this? These would have to be made of lead,” he says as he tugs at them, working them down your hips, “to keep me from catching your scent.”
You seize the other side of the waistband with both hands, trying to keep it up. He barely seems to notice your attempt, appearing curiously sidetracked as he mutters to himself:
“Look at this … look how wet they are …”
He takes his hand off your neck, impatient with your fidgeting, then rips the underwear to shreds before you can even blink.
He balls up the fabric and buries his face in it, huffing your scent before turning his attention back to you. He looks you over, licking his lips. He stretches the cloth tight between his fists so you can hear the intact threads straining further.
“I have a much better use for these,” he says. “Gimme your hands.”
“My - ?” You move your hands out of his reach, instantly wary.
“Hold ‘em out. Now.”
You do as you’re told, reluctant to cooperate, but just as reluctant to provoke him further by quibbling over every demand.
You watch as he loops the threadbare cloth around and between your wrists, moving with swift efficiency. You blink.
What is he - ? Wait!
Your jaw goes slack when you realize what’s happening, but by then he’s already done binding your wrists together. You try to tug them apart. Your makeshift restraints don’t budge one bit. He’s knotted it tight, but not so tight that your blood flow is restricted. 
How in the fuck did he do that so fast?
“W-Why are you tying me up?” you wail. “You said you forgave me!”
Your Lord stares you down, unblinking. “That doesn’t mean I trust you to behave.”
You jerk your bound hands out of his grasp and punch him in the shoulder. He laughs. 
“See? That’s the kind of misbehavior I’m talking about.”
You reel back to punch him again, only for him to pin your arms over your head. You thrash and twist against his hold, accomplishing nothing aside from amusing him as he watches you.
He smiles, looking you over with a peculiar, almost wistful admiration that feels somewhat out of step with what’s happening here. “Stubborn. You really don’t want to do things the easy way, do you?”
You tilt your head back, looking at where he has you pinned down. You tug and tug and tug, but you can’t wriggle out of his grip. You feel his unoccupied hand palming your breast as he speaks.
”I never understood that until you told me.”
“I didn’t tell you anything!” you snap, so fed up with struggling in vain (and nearly undone by his calloused thumb rubbing your nipple) that you didn’t really absorb what he just said.
“You sure about that, sweetheart?”
You stare at him, shaking your head. You have the sense that something is coming, but you don’t know what.
Then, with his teeth nipping at your neck, he tells you:
“You talk in your sleep … Did you know that?”
The blood drains from your face, and your jaw goes slack.
“In my … ?“ Oh, god, oh, no, oh fuck, oh no -
“Oh, yeah … You say all sorts of interesting things,” his voice in your ear pulls the strings tighter. “It’s been very informative. I learned things I wasn’t expecting to … What?”
You’re breathing hard, close to hyperventilating. “What did I … ? What did you … ?”
“I heard you calling for me one night. You called me by name.”  
Your mouth opens, but there are no words. You blink rapidly and suck air in through your nose harshly, forcing back the urge to swear or spit or cry from sheer embarrassment.
He watches it all play out on your face with a smile, then continues:
“I asked you what you wanted. What you really wanted. And you told me. Do you remember what you told me?”
You shake your head, less in answer and more in denial of what’s happening.
And it hits you maybe a second or two before he says it. The memory of your exchange in that liminal space. The one you thought was a dream and then promptly forgot about.
“Me,” he says with a note of finality that makes your stomach drop. “You said you didn’t want a choice. You wanted me.” 
He leans down and kisses you hard, biting your lower lip before he continues:
“Now here you are. With me. Without a choice. Just like you wanted.”
“I … You … That wasn’t - !”
He knees your legs apart, tucking his hips between your thighs so you can’t close them.
He shushes you. “Heard you loud and clear, sweetheart. I’ll see to it that you have no say in anything we do tonight.”
“That was a dream! You can’t hold me to something I said in a dream, my Lord!” you shriek.
“Sure, I can,“ he says simply, not even paying attention anymore as he takes himself in hand, stroking his shaft up and down. “Watch me.“
“W-Wait, but - !”
“Now, now,” he admonishes, “if it makes you feel any better, I wasn’t inclined to give you much of a choice in the first place.”
He rubs the tip of his dick against your slit, and it's all you can do to keep from moaning aloud. He grips himself at the base and slaps you with the tip a few times, right on your clit.
You turn your head, squeezing your eyes shut, and a second later, you feel his beard tickling your neck as he whispers in your ear.
“Feel that? That’s your fault. I’m leaking all over the place because of you. I’ve done nothing but try to help you, you spoiled bitch. Now you’re going to help me.”
“Then … Then why not my mouth at least?” you offer tremulously. “Like before?”
“I’ve had enough of your fucking mouth. Sweet as it is,” he adds.
He kisses you again, snickering when you kiss him back, powerless to stop yourself - or him. He breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to see your face.
“Keep looking at me,“ he commands, holding your gaze. “Don’t look away.”
He pushes the tip inside, startling a gasp out of you. You shut your eyes. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This isn’t -
“Stop hiding,“ he growls, slapping you on the cheek until you open your eyes again. Then he holds the back of your head in place so you can’t turn away. “Keep those eyes open … I wanna see you take me.”
With him holding your head so firmly and the order you’re under to keep your eyes open, there’s no hiding your reactions. Your jaw drops as you feel him pushing inside, stretching a part of you that hasn’t seen this kind of action in at least a year, possibly longer. Against all hope, you pray he doesn’t notice.
“... Oh, shit …“
He notices.
“Been a while, huh? … A long while,“ he says, diverting his attention from your face to glance down at the death-grip you’re putting on him.
You breathe heavily through your nose, staring him in the eyes and silently begging for mercy.
“I always said you were uptight … You have a grip like a fucking fist, woman …”
He watches your every move and expression. The burning flush of embarrassment running through your skin at his regard and his words makes you tense up, but he keeps pushing.
You watch the sadistic joy on his face when he sees your lips quivering and nostrils flaring as your breath comes in quick, shallow bursts.
He feels so heavy and wide inside you, parting you slowly, but steadily. His fingers hadn’t actually loosened you all that much, it seems, because holy hell, the man’s hung like a battering ram. Proportional to the rest of him, but still … 
As he’s pushing the last few inches in, your left eye begins to twitch.
He winks back at you and keeps going.
You open your mouth to tell him to go fuck himself, but all that comes out is a strangled little moan as he finally buries himself fully, flush against you.
“See?” He presses his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours. “That’s not so scary, is it?“
You glare up at him, eyes glassy. His grip on your head tightens.
"Is it?” he asks again, glaring right back at you.
“No … my Lord,“ you answer.
You know you’re provoking him with his title at this point, but that remaining formality is all you seem to have left. And even with his dick crammed halfway to your intestines, you’re not giving it up without a fight.
He lets go of your head, but before you can even register that, his hands are cupping your ass. He lifts you like you don’t weigh a thing and rolls onto his back, pulling you upright with his momentum.
You’re sitting astride his hips now, your bound hands braced against his chest - a position that’s familiar enough in your dreams, now thoroughly surreal to be in so abruptly. You watch in a daze as your Lord proceeds to recline on his pillows, lying at an angle instead of flat on his back.
He grins up at you once he’s settled. His eyes and his hands roam over you at a leisurely pace that makes you squirm, which just exacerbates the feeling of being stretched and invaded.
Unable to help yourself, you look down to where the two of you are joined together. The sight of you sitting pressed against him is so jarring. There’s no way you could have fit him all, yet here you are, wrapped around him from base to tip.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t pull the covers over us. I think we’ll keep each other warm enough as is,“ he says out of nowhere.
You raise your head. Covers?
“I hope you’re comfortable.”
You gape at him.
“Well - ?”
He bucks his hips without warning to get your attention. Only once, but hard enough to startle a yelp out of you.  
“- are you?”
That’s, you think, gonna hurt like hell tomorrow.
Trying to adjust to both his size and the feeling of so much of his skin against yours makes it difficult to speak, so you don’t even try. You just nod your head hastily and brace yourself for more.
“Good. You’re gonna keep this,” he shifts his hips between your legs, making you twitch, ”nice and warm for me while we sleep.”
Your eyes widen. For a moment, the only sound in the room is your shuddering breath.
“... Sleep?”
He scoffs. “What? You thought we were going to do something else? Maybe if you had behaved yourself earlier, we would be. If you had asked permission like I -”
“B-But -!”
SMACK. 
You hiss as both his palms strike your ass, still tender from your punishment. He grabs you by the neck with both hands and pulls you towards him, nose-to-nose.
“Don’t interrupt me.” Whatever teasing wink he had in his eyes before is gone, snuffed out in the split second it took for his mercurial mood to shift. Your heart bangs in your chest, and you’re reminded that you’re dealing with a very capricious apex predator.
You yield without a second thought. “I’m sorry.”
His fingers rub the nape of your neck; his expression softens. He’s gentle and easygoing once more, pulling you forward for another kiss. 
You’re too dizzy to keep up. Why even bother anymore?
“I know you’re sorry, but it’s better this way,” he tells you, pausing every now and then to lick your lips. “This is a preventative measure.”
“Prevent … ? What are you preventing?”
“There’s no room in there for anything else, I made damn sure of that,” he explains, stroking your thighs.
You stare at him, aghast. “What does that have to do with anything?”
He shrugs. “Can you think of a better way to keep your fingers out of there?“
A hot flush pours over you from head to toe. You drop your head on his chest and grumble something he can’t hear, clearly displeased.
“No? I didn’t think so,” he says imperiously. “Quit your whining. Just be grateful I’m letting you sleep on top of me and not the other way around. Imagine how uncomfortable you’d feel then.”
You sit up, pressing against his hard stomach for leverage. “I can’t sleep like this!”
“How do you know?” He speaks with the indulgent tone of an adult condescending to an unruly child. “You haven’t even tried yet.”
Hell. This is hell. I am in hell.
“How am I supposed to sleep with my wrists like this?!“ you snarl, thumping at his chest with your bound fists.
Without a word, he yanks your wrists up and puts them over his head so that your arms are around his neck, your breasts mashed against his chest and your nose touching his once again. He runs his tongue over your trembling lips, clearly pleased with himself and this configuration.
I was wrong, you think, your thoughts almost drowned out by the sound of your pulse thumping wildly. I was so fucking wrong. THIS is hell.
You turn your head away. He starts nibbling and sucking on your earlobe and your neck, hands wandering and groping wherever it’s softest. You feel your pussy contract, practically fluttering as he tastes and touches you.
He feels it, too, if the little chuckles in your ear are any indication.
“So, what, I’m just going to be in your face all night?“ you bluster. It’s hard to maintain any sense of bravado in this position, but god help you, you’re trying. You try to shift in his lap, but he holds you still, arms wrapped like steel cables around your lower back.
“Sure, why not?“ your Lord deadpans, keeping an almost entirely straight face.
“Your beard - !” you start to snap, only to cut yourself off when you realize what you’re about to say.
“What about it?“
You sigh.
“... It’s … It tickles,“ you gripe, feeling ridiculous as soon as the words leave your mouth.
At first he’s silent, brows raised high as he blinks at you. Then, as if to test the validity of your claim, he deliberately mashes his face into your neck, gnawing at your throat. You yelp and try in vain to pull away, shaking with suppressed, pained giggles as he rubs his facial hair against your skin.
“Quit, dammit!“ you hiss.
He leans back, laughing in your face as you glare at him.
“Alright, alright, point taken,” he concedes, still laughing. “Hold still.”
He reaches back behind his head and without even looking (How in the entire fuck?!) he undoes your restraints with a few precise tugs on the knots he made. You start to pull away, pushing against his shoulders. He pulls you right back where you were with a scowl.
“You keep your hands where I can see ‘em, or this,” he holds up the ruined scrap of cotton before tossing it aside, “is going right back on. Understand?“
“Understood, Lord Heisenberg,“ you mutter bitterly.
“... Night, then.”
You’re considering one last attempt at reasoning with him, but it falls apart as soon as he pulls you back down against his chest. The light next to the two of you blinks out, plunging you back into darkness. This appears to be the end of the discussion.
You’re draped against him, head on his chest and hands on his shoulders. He has one arm bent and tucked behind his head, while the other rests on your thigh.
The two of you lie there in the dark for what feels (to you, at least) like an eternity, the silence broken only by your shallow breaths and the occasional rustling of fabric whenever one of you moves against the sheets.
He’s perfectly still underneath you, seeming entirely too at ease with the way your pussy spasms and clenches idly around him, with the way your sweat begins to meld with his.
You lie there - not nearly as still - growing more and more aware of that thrall taking hold of you.
You fought it off for as long as you could - it was easy enough not to get completely sidetracked by in the thick of your back-and-forth with your Lord. But in the quiet darkness you’re left to stew in, it sneaks up on you like a thief in the night waiting for the perfect time to trespass.
It feels different this time. More potent, somehow. And it’s not hard to tell why.
His bare hand on you has been the very bane of your existence since he stopped wearing one of his gloves. It only stands to reason that more skin-to-skin contact was always going to pose a greater challenge.
You just weren’t prepared for how insurmountable that challenge would be.
You squeeze your lips together tight to keep from drooling on him; your mouth has been watering, eager to lick the sheen of sweat from his flesh. The urge to sink your teeth into him has plagued you for some time. It's only now that you realize it’s isn’t a desire rooted in aggression, at least not fully.
It’s a desire to mark him, to claim him as he’s been intent to claim you. A childish impulse to lick a coveted item and declare that it's yours now, so there.
Your hands curl into little fists - like paws - on his shoulders. With your cheek mashed against his chest, you can hear his heartbeat thumping through your skull.
This isn’t so bad, you think morosely as you wave the white flag of defeat in your mind. This isn’t bad at all … This isn’t … I might … Oh, fuck -
Unbidden, your dream from several nights ago floats back up to the surface - the time you felt attached to or part of him, struggling against what you now recognize is a bond, or some form of bonding.
That sense grows stronger and stronger as you keep melting against him, the tension and resistance draining out of you. You feel … soft. Soft and warm and very, very helpless.
With a grunt he shifts underneath you idly, a restless movement that catches you off guard. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from gasping, just barely containing the sound.
This feels right, you think, distantly horrified at the notion, but too fragile and needy at this point to really fight it off anymore. This feels so fucking right and I can’t … I don’t … I want -
Every weapon, every defense, every ruse and feint in your arsenal has fallen away. And all that’s left is you.
You and him.
“... K … ”
You swallow the lump in your throat and try again.
“... Karl …”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t appear to react at all.
But with your head on his chest you can hear how his heart skips a beat when you say his name. 
You rub your cheek against him. Not even to get his attention. Just to feel the crisp scratch of his chest hair on your face.
“... Karl … please …”
He still won’t move. Your chest constricts. It’s getting harder to breathe.
Then you feel his heavy arms around your waist, shifting you upwards. You cling to him by sheer instinct, burying your face in his shoulder and wrapping your arms tight around his neck. You draw on his scent like a bird to honeysuckle.  
“Can’t sleep?” You don’t have to see his face to know he’s positively beaming with triumph. You can hear it in his voice.
And you don’t care. You don’t care anymore. You just want it to stop aching inside.
With words being a bit of a challenge for you at this point - it seemed to take everything you had just to say his name - all you can do is shake your head vigorously in answer to his question.  
Karl rubs your back, still not moving an inch.
“Neither can I,” he admits. “You’re squeezing me so tight.”
“’m sorry,“ you murmur, your voice small and contrite.
His hands slide down your spine, stopping to cup your bottom. He holds you firmly, fingers digging into the still-stinging flesh.
“That’s okay …”
You lift your head as light begins to pour back into the room, warm and dim - only to immediately drop your head again with a gasp when he starts to move.
He shushes you and holds you close.
“Shh, it’s okay … just making some room, baby, that’s all … Lay back down.”
You squeeze him again, and the two of you wince in unison at the involuntary spasm. His hands knead your flesh, caressing your thighs and ass. You feel his breath quicken ever so slightly as he tests the give and weight of your body, hear him chuckle just a little when it makes you shiver against him.
“Room?” you ask breathlessly.
“Yeah.” 
You can hear the smile in his voice, that strange gentleness at odds with the lewd advantage he’s taking of you. It makes your pussy clench again. “You’re too tight, princess … There’s barely any room in there for me … Is there?”
“Mmm-mmm,” you mumble vaguely in agreement. He’s so right. It’s positively astounding how right he is. How did you ever argue with this man before?
“So I’ll make a little more room inside … so we’re nice and comfortable … Would you like that?”
You open your mouth to answer, but Karl chooses that exact moment to start moving between your thighs again, so all that comes out is a shuddering gasp.
“Yeah, I think you’ll like that,” he murmurs.
Karl tilts his hips underneath you ever so slightly, ever so slowly. Tilts them up and then down again. Up and then down again. Unhurried, almost lazy. Like there’s no rush. Like there’s all the time in the world.
Like he doesn’t feel one iota of the desperation that’s threatening to strangle you at this moment.
You move restlessly on top of him. Your mind is growing hazier and more diffuse, but your body is eager, impatient - trying to mirror his movement, aching to increase the speed and the friction.
All this earns you is an affectionate swat on the ass and a chuckle. He tightens his grip around your back, holding you in place as he shunts about a quarter inch in and out of you.
“Karl, please,“ you complain, “please, I can’t move.”
“And you’re not going to move, little one,” he says sweetly.
You lift your head, gawking at him pitifully. “What? But …“
Karl kisses you lightly, derailing your thoughts and your words with barely a brush of his lips. He pulls back, and your heart sinks. He’s smiling, still completely at ease.
“You’re just keeping it warm for me, remember?”
“Karl, please, I - !” you whine, your plea cut short by him slapping your ass again, harder this time. His hand stays right where it stings, keeping you pressed against him as he rocks you back and forth.
The pressure on your clit is somehow both too much and not enough, a maddening sensation that makes your toes curl. You want him to stop, but you want him to just let you move more than anything. If he would just let you move -
“Can’t I - ?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“... No.”
“Karl - !”
“No,” he growls in your ear, the word reverberating down your spine. “You’ve had all the time in the world to climb on my dick … If you wanted it so bad, you would have asked for it.”
You can’t think of a valid argument. You can’t argue at all. You peer up at him, letting him see that inner hopelessness for once, no longer too proud to hide it from him.
He shakes his head.
“It’s your own fault. I’d have let you use this thing like a toy … let you take it at your own pace … but you wanted to do everything yourself, didn’t you?”
He spanks you again, and you feel your pussy tightening in response, seeming unable or perhaps even unwilling to distinguish a slap from a caress.
“Didn’t you?”
“Y-Yes, Karl,“ you mumble. “I did, I did, but …”
“But what?“
“I - !”
“What? Spit it out. What is it?”
And at long, long last, the unthinkable happens: You start crying.
And it’s not just a stray tear this time, either.
The urge to weep has been building by steady increments since he caught you trying to pleasure yourself, gaining momentum. Fighting it back during your spanking already exhausted what little resolve and willpower you have, taxing it well beyond its breaking point.
But it’s the possibility that the thing you want the most right now, the thing you’ve been obsessing about since you first clapped eyes on this man, is well within reach - literally buried inside of you - and you still can’t have it.
The tears come in earnest. You hiccup, dousing his shoulder with a deluge.
“’m sorry.“ Your voice is shaky, clogged with more tears yet to be shed.
“What are you sorry about?” he asks. He seems unfazed, or at the very least, unsurprised by your tears.
He rubs your back and keeps going, not breaking his rhythm to speak. Fully in control and in no particular rush while you fall apart on top of him.
“I’m so-sorry,” you repeat, lamenting.
“For what? Sorry you disobeyed me? Or sorry you got caught? Which is it?”
You’re crying harder now, unable to make sense of his words and almost completely incoherent as you keep moaning that you’re sorry, you’re sorry, you’re sorry, you’re -
“I heard you the first time, I’m asking you why,” he says, laughing.
He wraps one of your braids around his fist and tugs your head back, forcing you to look at him. You sniffle and avert your eyes, ashamed that he’s seeing you like this, but too far gone to really resist.
Karl shakes his head.
“Can’t answer a simple question. Can’t look me in the face … Can’t even think anymore, can you?” he says, voice dripping with venomous sympathy. “How am I supposed to believe you’re sorry if you can’t even tell me why?”
Your mouth is moving, but it's only barely audible gibberish coming out. He’s moving just as slowly, but his upward stroke has become longer, deeper. You’re pawing at his chest, back arched as he holds your head back by your hair.
His palm flat on your lower back, keeping you pressed against him, and the new angle of your pelvis has you seeing stars.
The pressure, the friction and the way you’re stretched around him is so perfect that you know you’re going to cum if he just keeps going and going and -
He stops, and before you can throw a fit about it, he says:
“Beg for it.“
You gawk up at him, daunted by the task and somehow still holding onto a fragment of your precious dignity. Not much of a fragment, but enough to make you self-conscious. 
He draws you in close and reiterates, clearly articulating his terms in that fire-and-brimstone pitch you can feel deep inside, right where his dick is:
“Beg real pretty for me, and I’ll let you ride it. Tell me how much you want it, and it’s yours. Make me believe it,” he commands, releasing his hold on you, “and it’s yours.”
You don’t need to be told twice, it seems. The second he unhands you, you’re all over him - kissing and licking into his mouth hungrily, hands clawing at his shoulders and back.
“Please, Karl, please, please, don’t be mad at me anymore,“ you whimper between your predations. “I know I fucked up, I fucked up really bad, I’m sorry, please -”
You kiss him with everything you’ve got, everything you’ve been holding back. Your fingers tangle in his hair, clutching his head as you lap at his tongue and his lips, breaking away every so often to beg him more.
You bite into his neck and nibble at his earlobe and whisper all the things you've been trying to keep inside, that you never meant to say - things you can’t take back, things you would rather have taken to the grave than let him hear.
He takes this barrage of desperate adoration almost stoically. He nods every so often, submitting to your bites and kisses without reciprocating, prompting you to elaborate (“Oh, yeah? … Is that right … ?”) from time to time and just … drinking it all in. 
Then his hands are on your hips, and he’s surging up into you with the long, relentless strokes you knew were coming - were actively begging for, in fact - yet still somehow weren’t prepared to take.
“Fuck - !” you hiss.
You plant the balls of your feet into the mattress for leverage and hold tight to his shoulders for balance, hips swaying a forward-and-back figure eight. You move on top of him, meeting each of his thrusts as he guides you up and down.
“That’s it. Ride it, just like that,“ he rasps. “Fuck yourself stupid on it, just like that -”
He growls wordlessly, bouncing you faster. The almost arabesque pattern of your lower body’s movements grows more disheveled as you start to lose your coordination.
His thrusts become deeper, harder. Each one seems to radiate through your limbs, rendering them almost useless - it’s all you can do to stay upright and in motion, more along for the ride than actually riding.
“Karl … Fuck, Karl, I’m - !”
His arms lock around you suddenly, holding you immobile for a few breathless seconds as you shudder.
“This is the part where I get a thank-you, princess,” he says in your ear before he starts fucking into you again, holding you as a captive receptacle for his dick.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” you chant wildly, nails digging into his back as you feel your clit throbbing with the reverberation from each thrust, “thank you so - aah!”
Every muscle in your body seems to tense and contract, folding inward as your core spasms. Then they release all at once as you crest the peak of your climax, leaving you limp and fizzing all over. He keeps thrusting as you come down the other side, riding the tail end of your orgasm until you feel like your brainstem is going to disintegrate.
You fall over, pitching to your side.
Karl, seeming to anticipate this, guides you in the direction you’re already falling, catching your head in his palm before it hits the mattress. He maneuvers you onto your back, pulling out of you.
He looks you over, pleased with himself. And with you. His hands wander over you at his leisure now that you’re too fucked-out to try and stop him.
“Uuwuh …”
Holy shit. You feel like you just ran two marathons back-to-back. Like you’ve been riding a horse bareback for miles up and down the mountainside.
You hear your Lord laughing.
“That calmed you right on down, didn’t it?” he says, crawling over you as you lay twitching. He takes you by one of your wrists, holding it aloft for you to see. “Isn’t this better?”
He drops your hand, letting you see how easily it submits to gravity. You blink and try to lift your arm; it barely moves. That’s when you realize how weak you actually are, how drained you are from cumming that hard.
How helpless.
Your pulse speeds up as Karl starts fondling you in earnest. Your brain is switching back into gear. 
Shit. He hasn’t cum yet. Oh, shit. Shit.
He’s not finished yet. And that means you’re not either.
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𝑩𝒆 𝑺𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑶𝒃𝒆𝒚— 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑰
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summary: on the falconry trip with your mother and the benevientos your thoughts only were with lord heisenberg as you tried to think about a solution for your emotional chaos.
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pairing: Karl Heisenberg x fem!Dimitrescu!Reader
word count: 1163
tw: royal au
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The last day was stuck in your memories. You couldn't close your eyes without vividly seeing Heisenbergs face in front of you. Without seeing his yellow eyes scan up and down your features. Without thinking of what could have happened if the didn't back away. What could have happened if you had courage to do so...
No no no! What are you thinking of? He's an asshole! Or at least your mother told you so. He probably just messed with you and you shouldn't fall for that!
Even though you really wanted to see him again those thoughts kept sticking in your head, next to his face and voice.
A knock on your door let you focus on the real world again.
"Miss, it's time for breakfast."
"I'm coming!"
You got up and put your dressing gown over your nightgown before walking out of the room and going with the maid in the dining room.
When you arrived everyone was already sitting at the table and had starting eating breakfast. You sat down next to one of your sisters, starting to eat as well.
This time no words were said. All that could be heard was the sound of metal on metal and the one of chewing.
"The Benevientos invited me for falconry today afternoon. I want you to accompany me (name)."
You almost choked on your food when you heard the words your mother had spoken.
"And no objections (name). You're of legal age now, what means you have to participate in such activities. That's your job as my daughter."
"Yes mother."
You didn't like the idea of it. It's not like you didn't know how to ride, that you knew more than enough. You just weren't interested in hunting small animals with a falcon. Suddenly a thought popped up in your head.
"What route will we take?"
"I don't know yet. Probably the one in the other direction of the factory, after all we want to hunt animals."
Damn it. Exactly the one you didn't want to take you had to. Now you couldn't wander off like you intended to.
....
Noon came. You and your mother met in the stables, already dressed in your riding gown. The stable boy first guided your mother's horse outside and then your own. As you were about to ride to your meeting spot the stable boy called out and asked you two to be careful on the way.
With your horses it didn't take long to reach your destination, only about ten to fifteen minutes. There already waited Lord Beneviento and his daughters, his wife didn't accompany them this time.
You had no connection to them, not even the daughters who were only a bit older than you.
"Ah, Lady Dimitrescu and Miss (name)!"
"Lord Beneviento! Thank you for the invitation!"
"No need to thank me, you know I love to spend time with you!"
The two of them laughed and rode together ahead of their children. You and the Beneviento daughters rode in one line, but you didn't want that. You'd rather just ride off to the factory, but with every step you strayed further from it.
You watched your mother and the Lord have small talk and laugh together, letting their falcons do what they want, here and then calling them back for them to take a break.
As you watched them talk your thoughts started to drift off again. For the second time today you had to think about last evening. Had to think about how close Heisenbergs face was to yours. You felt your heart beat faster and your face brighten up from the thoughts you had. Hopefully nobody noticed that. Even worse would be if one of them could read your mind. What would they think of you? Above all, what would your mother think of it?
You shook those thoughts off. They were your thoughts in your head, nobody was able to hear them, except for yourself.
You turned your head around to see how far you're from the factory away. As you looked at the horizon all you could see was the big mass of tress behind you, no glimpse of a factory. Not even the chimnies you were able to see anymore. You must have been really far away from the place of your desire. But you couldn't just ride off, could you?
"(Name)?"
You looked over to your right and saw that Donna was looking at you in awe.
"Is everything okay?"
"Everything is alright, why are you asking Donna?"
She just shrugged and concentrated on riding again. Even though she was a little weird sometimes she was an overall nice young lady. An attractive one at that. You were sure she'd soon find a man of her own.
The ride just seemed to drag itself on and on, seemed like it's never going to find an end soon. All that bothered you much. You'd rather be somewhere else right now than here. Rather be in someone else's arms than here. You shook your head in surprise of your own thought you just had. How could you think of Lord Heisenberg holding you in his arms? In his strong and muscular arms... Holding you tight to his chest... His hot breath fanning over your neck... No stop! You mentally slapped yourself for the thoughts you had. There's nothing going to happen between the two of you. After all your mother would scold you and kill him for it! And still the thought of getting closer with him, the thought of getting to know him better and the thought of seeing him again gave you a weird feeling in your stomach as if you were becoming sick and have to vomit any second. You didn't know what this feeling was but it somehow made you happy. You wanted to feel it more. You wanted to feel it again. Maybe even while Lord Heisenberg is around you.
....
After what felt like hours you and your mother finally came back to the stables and leaving your horses behind in the care of the stable boy. The two of you then made your way back to the castle and up to your rooms, changing your clothing for the upcoming dinner.
You sat down on your bed, putting off your shoes and let yourself fall down onto the soft mattress. You thought about what you should do about those weird feelings and thoughts you had about Lord Heisenberg. Should you just swallow them and ignore them or should you go after them? On one hand you feared your thoughts and feelings will eat you up from inside out and in the other hand you feared the wrath of your mother if she found out about them. Maybe you should give yourself some time to sort your feelings and thoughts. Maybe you should stop thinking about the Lord and concentrate on your new role as a grown up woman. Maybe that'll work.
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𝑻𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕
@ems-alexandra | @cyberghost1009
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𝑻𝒂𝒈𝒔
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Idea: Karl Heisenberg as the gruff maintenance man in your apartment complex.
"Hey, you're supposed to give me 24 hour notice before just showing up at my apartment!" I put my hands on my hips and look at him through the space behind the chained door.
"Yeah, well. Take it up with management. Want your sink fixed or not?"
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fandom-imagines · 2 years
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Chapter Two
Karl Heisenberg x Reader
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The fourth Lord, and the most dangerous was what was running through her head, yet Y/N wasn’t afraid. Her gun was still pointed towards him, yet he didn’t care and continued smoking his cigar; it was as though he didn’t care much for the silent threat, which, in all honesty, he didn’t.
Y/N watched as the scruffy Lord raised an eyebrow. “Where is she!?” Her words were demanding, but he simply chuckled.
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” whilst hers were demanding, his words were teasing and they were testing her patience.
“Tell me where my sister is, asshole, or I swear I will blow your brains out.”
“I’m flattered, truly, but you should know that I can kill your quicker than your silly little gun will kill me.” Karl smirked, shrugging his shoulders as he tossed his cigar to the ground, stamping on it to put it out fully.
Without moving her gun which was pointing at his head, Y/N spoke again. “Where. Is. She?”
Her gun was almost against his temple, her finger ready to pull the trigger at any given moment, all whilst he simply chuckled, finding it most amusing and oddly cute at how unafraid she was; it was a nice change from the other humans being terrified of his mere existence.
“You won’t kill me,” he taunted, “You need to know what I do.”
With one final glare, she finally holstered her gun. “Fine.”
The smirk on his lips widened at her never wavering anger. Even when she didn’t have a weapon in her hands, she wasn’t afraid, not to mention, she could probably fight anyone who tried to harm her with few exceptions, him being one of them.
Now that she was no longer threatening him, he didn’t exactly know what to say. He didn’t even know exactly where her sister was, and didn’t know whether he wanted to help her at all, but then again… she could be exactly what he needs.
“I have a deal,” he said, “you help me with what I need, and I’ll help you with finding your sister or whatever.”
“What do you need?”
“I need you to help me take down to bitch who took your sister.”
“,,,Deal.”
*
The walk to the factory was painfully awkward. No matter how much Heisenberg wanted to break the silence to ease the tension, he couldn’t bring himself to, nor did he know what to say. Y/N, who was still unsure as to his true intentions, didn’t exactly want to talk to him, knowing that he could possibly have some involvement in Abigail’s disappearance. She just hoped she was all right, but something in her gut was telling her otherwise, but she couldn’t abandon hope, not until she found her.
“Where are we even going?” Y/N asked, seeing nothing around them besides trees,
“My factory,” Karl said, glad that she had finally spoke. “It’ll be easier and safer to talk there. No risk of us being watched or heard.”
His words confused her. Wasn’t he one of those in charge here? And who is the bitch he was referring to? All these questions were something that she had forgotten to ask considering the mention of information on her sister.
Silence was her chosen response and Karl was incredibly thankful that they were nearing the factory so they could finally have a conversation about everything. He had no idea what to say to her, though. It wasn’t like he could feed her false information, that wouldn’t be fair and even Karl had some morals left, especially for someone as caring as her, even if the care wasn’t directed towards him. Oh how he wished someone would care for him that way… Although he was quick to snap away from those thoughts; now wasn’t the time.
The factory, which was now in view, amazed Y/N. She had heard rumours about the village, mainly from her job at the BSAA, but she had never expected there to be a factory as big and as beautiful as this, especially not one which belonged to the awkward and messy looking man beside her. She wasn’t given much time to admire the place, however, considering how on-guard she felt, ready to whip out her gun and shoot the strange man or other enemies at any given moment.
Inside the factory impressed her as much as the outside. It was big on the inside, but felt even bigger once she was inside. Karl, who looked just as unsure as he did a few moments ago, offered her a seat in one of the rooms that she had followed him to; she wasn’t sure whether to accept or not, but decided to do so considering how much he seemed to want her on his side, yet she wasn’t entirely sure why.
“Right,” Heisenberg began, clearing his throat, mainly to give him chance to think through what he was going to say, “are you in or not?”
“Will it help me find my sister?”
“Yes. I don’t know exactly where she is, but I know who took her, is that enough?” He was silently praying that it would be, the praying becoming more desperate as she seemed to debate whether to side with him or not.
“I guess so.” She said. “It’s not like I have any other leads.”
The quiet sigh of relief didn’t go unnoticed by Y/N who became curious at how desperate he was to take down whoever had his sister. She wanted to know his backstory and why he hated them so much.
“Miranda, Mother Miranda, whatever you want to call her. That’s who took your sister and who we’re going to destroy.” He explained, keeping it short so he didn’t have to explain exactly why, but she wasn’t going to let him off that easily.
“Why? I mean, I know why I need to, but you? Isn’t she the one who you work for?”
“I should’ve know you would ask.” Karl laughed, yet there was no humour behind it. Y/N raised an eyebrow and he huffed; he had no choice, but he couldn’t tell her too much. “She took me here, no matter how much I didn’t want to.”
The seated woman’s eyes widened, unsure what tot say. “I’m sorry.” Was all she could muster up and they fell into an awkward silence when he didn’t verbally reply, just nodded. “Then, lets do this. Justice for you, and I get back Abigail.” After her words, she smiled at him for the first time and he smiled back.
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cuivel · 2 years
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Art for my short fanfiction "Another brother". Language - russian. Words - 2096.
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Okay so I didn’t see anything about you not writing this one - Karl Heisenberg smut with Living Dead Girl by Rob Zombie
oH MY GOD. literally no one's asked for Heisenberg and I do think he's an interesting character, and literally Rob Zombie could play him in a live action - but anyway, heisenberg x gn neutral reader. as for smut disclaimers - it's porn, and minors need to stay away or at least don't interact with it cause if I see the notif, I will tell your parents that you're thinking about a man old enough to be your gramps.
You were the outcast of the village.
Your family was known to be working closely with the Lords, and that scared most people out of your life. You seemed to embrace it, the idea of being the recluse in the village, people might've had a right to fear you. You were once dead, and brought back to existence with the blessing of Mother Miranda. A corpse revived, and you looked like it too.
But you didn't feel alive.
So you sought out solace in the one Lord that seemed to bring some life to you, and the one that the village feared more than that of Lady Dimitrescu and her bloodthirsty children.
Heisenberg. You two had a strange relationship since your revival, more so intimate in a physical way than in a romantic way.
He smelled of imported bourbon and cigar smoke, as he hovered over you - your nails raking down his back. Moans poured from your lips, the euphoria melting you brain as his hand held your throat. Pressing tightly against your windpipe, enough to magnify the sensation of him, his body, how it all felt against yours.
You have never felt so alive, nor has anyone made you feel so alive.
"All mine," He whispers in your ear, "Could go to anyone else, but you choose me, every time."
How could you not? Heisenberg was dangerous, in his own right, rebellious and everything that was against what you were used to. But you craved his presence, the way his body felt against yours, the way he made you feel. The way his hand fit so perfectly around your throat.
He brought you life, and you would always come back for more.
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averysexyleon · 1 year
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this is big for me
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first time a solo work of mine has gotten to 100,000k since my fallout story WAY back in the day over on deviantart. this feels like an accomplishment, truly.
thank you resident evil, particularly 7 and Village, for reawakening this in me. <3
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storiesbybean · 2 years
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Bored here’s a short blurb about Karl Heisenberg being a soft dad!
Momma Drama
Karl Heisenberg x Oc w/Baby Oc
“Karl! Karl!!” Aribella hollered from upstairs. That madman had woken up early and snatched up their baby without a trace. “You better not be showing her what a human heart looks like!” The noisy thud of an angry wife clambering down the stairs filled the factory.
Karl looked down at his daughter who was comfortably seated in her high chair beside him. Her fat hands wiggling around a small hammer. “The beast has awoken,” he boomed with a mighty laugh as he pushed himself up from his bench, “you know what that means.” His daughter giggled putting her arms up so he could retrieve her and the chase could begin. He abandoned his blueprints and note taking as they dipped out his emergency exit.
The sound of shouting and baby proofed cursing followed. Most days Ari didn’t care if he took Squirt with him but when she woke up and both of them were gone! Her poor momma heart would seize and in an instant assume the worst. What if Squirt had escaped the crib and tumbled head first into one of her husbands creations? What if Karl had caught wind of Miranda and decided to hide the child with out telling her? All the terrible possibilities raced around wrecking havoc in her mind.
“Karl you brat,” she huffed seeing how empty the workshop was. Of all days to play hide and seek of course it was today. Per the usual game Ari picked up a recorder and listened to the rules of todays match. “Hello buttercup,” her husbands voice cooed in that wonderful transatlantic accent, “I’m sure you’re in a great mood so let’s have some fun!” The audio carried on like that and the rules were spelled out. No cameras. No threats. She had to play fair and leave his creations intact. Once Karl and Squirt were found only then could preparing for the birthday party begin.
Karl kept looking behind him listening for the sounds of being followed. “I think we lost her. I told you not to worry about her putting you in that ridiculous thing.” He listen to Squirt babble for a second and then stare at him. The all powerful lord scoffed at the back of his throat. “No I don’t care if your mom bought it for you. It’s to damn frilly. You’re my little bad ass not some baby doll.” He ruffled the child’s downy soft head of hair making her laugh. Oh that laugh, he’d been hooked since he heard it the first time. Maybe his childhood was garbage but he’s move any mountain to make sure she never knew a day of sadness.
Squirt kept mostly quiet as she hid with her dad carrying her from one dingy room to another. He’d talk to her about his plans for his newest creation, how Miranda wasn’t going to ruin his plans and even how his little Squirt was getting so big and pretty like her momma. She listened to him and eventually started to dose off. If she heard her mom she’d tap Karl and hed move them to a deeper part of the factory. Deeper until eventually they’d run out of rooms to dip into.
Her patients was clearly wearing thinner and thinner the longer the devious pair was hidden away. At one point Karl swore he heard someone shout they didn’t have time for this but he was making time for this. This was the time to kill. Less socializing and parading his sweet child around he had to be subjected to.
At least the plan was going well until Squirt started fussing her little tummy hungry and needing a snack. Karl looked around the basement trying to find anything that could be seen as food. Nothing. He wasn’t expecting the child to have hunger in all this planning. A shrill wail left the babies gummy mouth. The slam of door made a rail spike of fear shoot up Karl’s spine. He was done for. Not only had he annoyed his wife but he’d let their angel cry.
“Shh shh it’s ok we’re going to have cake and uhh juice?” The soothing did nothing more than increase the crying drawing the mother bear in closer. Karl held her closer to his chest to shield from the hellfire about to rain down on him.
Aribella opened the doors to the old storage area with such force her anger was surely echoing. Dust kicked up in her wake as she stomped over to the older man, a quick hand snatching him up by the ear. She tugged him down to her level releasing him once she’d gotten her point across.
“Come to mommy baby,” Ari held out her hands to the child who practically scrambled away from her dad. She smooched her forehead soothing her. As soon as Aribella had gotten Squirt calmed down her anger was once again on Karl.
He was half trying to get out before his wife lost it with him but when you postpone your daughters first birthday party the wrath is sure to be inescapable.
Living with the German lord meant picking up on the language, it also meant being able to tell him off in two separate dialects.
“Karl, wie kannst du es wagen! You are…are-Christ I can’t even think of what you are,” her rant carried on for a few minutes leaving the all powerful and deadly lord like a kicked puppy. Squirt got a kick out of it though.
Needless to say after fussing and getting their little girl in her birthday dress, the few decorations they had made were put up, the small family sat down together. Their little girl already one. Still so tiny but definitely coming into her own. Heisenberg’s little firework. The child’s eyes lit up when she saw the little pastry with the candle in it set in front of her. The whole running from it seemed silly. Just cause there was a party for his Squirt didn’t mean she’d suddenly not need her papa, it only meant he had more reasons for killing Miranda before his daughter was old enough to understand how terrible life could be.
Once Aribella finished singing to Squirt the frilly little dress was removed and her destructive hands dove for the sweet. Karl chuckled leaning back ever so slightly to watch his family make a memory. He wiped the side of his daughters cheek giving it a squeeze.
“Happy birthday Ida.”
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veritaea · 1 year
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Heisenberg x Reader: The Villager Part Two
More Heisenberg content on my Wattpad.
More Heisenberg content on my Tumblr.
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Part one.
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  You gaze back at your sleeping father one last time before pulling the door closed behind you. He'd been taken care of by your neighbour while you were gone in the morning, much to your relief. You'd been tugging at your hair nervously as she bid her goodbye, hoping she wouldn't see the large, red marks on your neck.
 The sun has set an hour ago, yet the sky is still painted vaguely red. You close the door to your house behind you, feeling doubt twist in your chest as you leave your father behind in the night. The early night air sends a shiver down your spine as you hurry down the dirt paths. Some torches are lit around the houses, but most lay silent in rest.
  You pause at the gate, looking around you warily to catch a glimpse of the child from earlier, but she seems to have stayed at home. The old metal of the gate creaks loudly as you push it open. You pull the cloak you'd brought with you tighter around your shoulders, your steps lost as the wind picks up along the narrow bridge.
  Like last time, the heavy metal doors of the factory open as you get close. This time, Heisenberg is leaning against the wall, lit cigar hanging limply from his lips. He perks up visibly as you enter the factory.
  ''If I didn't know any better I'd say you were happy to see me.''
  He looks you up and down and smirks. ''Who wouldn't be?''
  You feel your cheeks heat up at his comment, the steel doors closing behind you. The soft humming of machines vibrates through your chest as you follow Heisenberg down to his living space. The cold of the night gets replaced by steam and metal.
  ''How's daddy doin'?'' Heisenberg asks, pinning one of his inventions to the wall with a flick of his wrist, allowing you to pass by safely.
  ''He's doing okay. Asleep, I hope,'' you feel shivers running up your spine as his hand lightly touches your lower back, guiding you along the narrow pass.
  ''He'll be fine, doll. Don't spend all night worrying or you might as well head back.''
  You bite the inside of his cheek indignantly at his blunt remark, but realize he's right. Your father rarely woke up in the middle of the night.
  You enter his living quarters first, and to your surprise it looked considerably cleaner than it usually did. An old radio in the corner of the room softly plays rock songs, distorted as the signal struggles to pierce layers and layers of metal and stone.
  You drape your cloak over the back of a metal chair, releasing your hair from the braid it had been in to cover the side of your neck. Heisenberg lets himself fall on the couch, pulling out a new cigar and lighting it swiftly. You take your seat next to him, sinking into the warmth of his body.
  His hand moves your hair out of your neck, tracing lightly over the marks he'd left. ''You've made it quite obvious,'' you say, trying to ignore the urge to move your hair back.
  His eyes find yours. ''They give you any trouble about it?''
  You shake your head. They hadn't. Not more than before, anyway. ''I guess this just confirmed their suspicions.''
  Heisenberg smiles. ''Good. They can know I'm fucking you for all I care. You want a drink?''
  You can't help but feel taken aback at how nonchalantly he handled the situation. You give him a half-assed nod as he gets up and pours the two of you a drink.
 ''If they do,'' he says, handing you your drink, ''tell me their names.''
   Heat pools in your lower stomach at the intensity of his voice at the words, a complete turnaround from his casual demeanor a second before. He downs his drink in one go before even sitting down, his hand snaking around the inside of your thigh as he sits.
   Your brain gets clouded as he starts talking to you about a malfunction he'd fixed today, his hand holding a firm grip on your thigh as he speaks. The fabric of your dress has hitched up a bit when you sat down, revealing part of your legs. You notice a smirk forming on his lips as you involuntary press your legs together at his touch.
  His story finishes, and he takes a long drag from his cigar, eyes trained on your lips. Your breath hitches as his hand trails further up your thigh, exposing more skin.
 ''You're getting desperate, aren't you Princess?'' his low voice sounds. You only manage to produce a soft whimper before his lips crash into yours. His hand travels from your thigh to your hips, pulling you on top of him without breaking the kiss.
  You shudder lightly at his touch, his hands reaching underneath your skirt, feeling every inch of you. Your hips involuntarily start grinding down on him, earning a groan as he bites your lower lip. Your moan gets muffled by the kiss when his tongue meets yours, slow at first, but steadily increasing in pace.
  The lace holding your dress together is undone much quicker than last time, making the fabric fall loosely along your shoulders. Heisenberg breaks the kiss, his eyes falling on your exposed collarbone as his hands rest on your hips.
  ''You're gonna be the death of me,'' he says lowly.
  You let out a squeal as his hands wrap around your legs, lifting you up from the couch as he stands. Your exposed back presses against the warm metal of the wall adjacent to the couch. Your core burns as he presses up against you, holding you up.
  His head dips down to your neck, but his touch is significantly less rough on the sore, red marks. Your hands lose themselves in his hair as his lips move to your collarbones. Your mind void of any coherent thoughts, you let yourself get lost in him.
//
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  No sunlight hits the small living space Heisenberg inhabits. You wake up with a start, looking around the dark room frantically as you struggle to recognize your surroundings. A large warm hand wraps around your arm softly, pulling you back into the warmth of the covers.
  You give into him, relishing the warmth of his body. He hasn't opened his eyes yet, and you were taken aback by the serenity that surrounded him as he slept. Your fingers gently brush a few stray hairs over his face, lightly tracing the scars across his cheek.
  Then, your stomach sinks, as you remember you should be heading home now. Thoughts of your father being alone sting in your chest, causing you to get up from the bed quicker than Heisenberg anticipated. He sits up slowly, watching through half-closed eyes as you scramble around the bedroom.
  ''So this is how it's always gonna be,'' he asks, making you stop dead in your tracks.
  ''What do you mean?'' you ask.
  ''I get you for only a moment, then it's rushing back down to the people who despise you?''
  You lock your jaw. His childish take on the situation wasn't what you needed right now. ''You know why I can't stay. It's not about the people down in the village. I can't run off like a teenager and leave my father to fend for himself.''
  ''Can't that neighbor girl of yours head over?''
  You shoot him a look. ''No,'' you bite out, annoyed at his attempt to negotiate.
  ''Go then,'' he says through gritted teeth. ''Get out.''
  You fight the urge to talk back to him, gathering your stuff and heading for the door. You get halfway there before he speaks again. ''Don't think about returning, either.'' Your hand's grip on the door falters.
  ''I'll find another way to get what I need up here.''
  You don't spare him another glance as you throw the door open and storm out of the room, not bothering to close it behind you. The trek through the factory is a dangerous one, and you sigh in relief as you finally make it to the exit.
  Stepping out into the sunlight you realize that it's nearing noon. A newfound panic sets you in motion, sending you down the path leading to the gate. Apart from hoping he's okay, you find yourself in a childlike fear of getting scolded.
  The road back to your home is, to your luck, crowded with people. You'd forgotten all about the proof of you and Heisenberg's situation on your neck, instead focusing on getting through the dense streets as quickly as possible.
  Drowning out the insults and stares, you catch the eye of the Duke across the square. The look in his eyes is worrying, accusatory, even. Dread settles in your bones. Something had happened.
  The house looks eerily quiet as you burst through the gate. Not a thing is out of place, the whole site looking just as you'd left it the night before. The door creaks as you open it slowly, your hands shaking.
  But even on the inside, the house looks normal. The pots above the stove dangle ever so slightly as the wind breezes through the cracks of the wood. Your footsteps sound muffled on the floor, the planks shifting under your weight.
  You push open the door to your father's bedroom and your heart falls out of your body. He's there, sure enough, laying in his bed as if peacefully sleeping. You could tell, however, that he was dead.
  Your knees give out, but you manage to catch yourself on the edge of his wooden bed. Your mind feels numb. Realizations of all that had to be done try to enter your consciousness, but to no avail.
  You don't notice the body being moved before you, a couple townsfolk kindly offering to help, though shooting you dirty looks the entire time. They helped only because they liked your father.
  Your insides are turning at the feeling of guilt. Had you not spent the night at the factory, you would have been here with him as he passed. The thought of the factory sent a whole new stabbing pain through your heart as you remembered you weren't even welcome there anymore.
  The crowd outside falls silent, followed by heavy footsteps entering the house. Your blurred vision is centered upon your father's body being carried outside. Only when the men step through the doorframe, out of sight, do you manage to tear your eyes away to find Heisenberg standing in the room.
  Your mind struggles to catch up with your heart. You wanted nothing more than to find comfort in his arms, but you couldn't. Not anymore.
  "Don't be ridiculous, sweetheart," Heisenberg softly says, noticing your hesitation, before pulling you against him.
  In his arms, you fall to pieces. The grief washes over you like a tidal wave, relying only on Heisenberg's strong arms to keep you upright. His rough hands stroke your hair, the other wrapped tightly around your waist.
  You pull away from him slightly, sighing as he brushes the stray hairs from your face. It is then you notice the stares from the crowd through the open front door, making you feel uneasy. Heisenberg glances behind him, making most of them hurry away.
  He turns back to you and wipes a tear from your cheek. "Let's go home."
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More Heisenberg content on my Wattpad.
More Heisenberg content on my Tumblr.
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ask-heisendaddy · 2 years
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(If anyone is interested, I wrote on behalf of dearest Karl. The link is below. There's three chapters so far. I'm open to suggestions/feedback. Don't be shy.)
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Gahh!!! I can't thank you enough for YSLT!!! I also don't know how I'll be able to handle any subsequent chapters after the 7th. I remembered double-checking the tags for things that haven't occurred yet, and I believe my ovaries have exploded at the anticipation. You have some nerve awakening these things in me. I can't wait for it to happen again 🥵😈
💕🥰💕Thank you, anon! RIP to your ovaries, but hey, if mine had to go, so did yours lol 🤣 its only fair
I honestly did second-guess whether I should wait to update the tags with each chapter instead of loading them all at once with everything I've got planned. I think I like it better this way ... gives us all a little something to look forward to ...
For anyone else who might want to check those tags, linked here.
- M.
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cuivel · 2 years
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So, I finally finished the art for @missrandomdreamer. I hope you liked it, dear❤️ Probably, now it's one of my best works.
You can read that amazing fanfic by link: Rusted Cages, Violet Dreams.
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mrswint3rs · 2 months
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𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ❦
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𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 [RE men] [RE ladies] [Donna Beneviento] [Leon]
𝐋𝐞𝐨𝐧 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝𝐲 ❦
❣︎ Much needed company (Sugar Daddy! Leon x Fem!) 18+
❣︎ A Step Further (Virgin! Re2 Leon x Gn!) 18+
more coming soon
𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐝𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝 ❦
❣︎ Death of a Bachelor (Vendetta Leon x Fem! x Vendetta Chris) 18+
❣︎ Playing Catch Up {part 1 }(sugar daddy chris x fem!) 18+
more coming soon
𝐉𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞 ❦
❣︎ Ink Temptress (Tattoo Artist! Jill x Fem! Reader) 18+ [Part 2]
❣︎ breakfast in bed (fluff drabble)
more coming SOON
𝐍𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬 ❦
❣︎ Uncanny Reunion (Nemesis x Fem! Reader) 18+
no plans for more
𝐀𝐥𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐫 ❦
❣︎ Sweet Surrender (knifeplay with wesker x fem) 18+
❣︎ A Warm Welcome Home (Stepdad! Wesker x Fem!) 18+
❣︎ In a Time of Need (Post RE5 Wesker x Gn!) 18+
❣︎ Missed Deadlines (STARS Captain! Wesker x Fem rookie) 18+
❣︎ Partner in Crime (Boss! Wesker x Fem! Assistant) 18+
❣︎ Paternal Paradox (Husband Wesker x Fem!) 18+ [Part 2] sfw
❣︎ Nsfw Alphabet (headcannons// wesker x gn! Reader) 18+
more coming soon
𝐋𝐮𝐢𝐬 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐚 ❦
❣︎ Exotic Temptations (Stripper! Luis x Fem!) 18+
more coming soon
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭 ❦
❣︎ Another way to pay (Merchant x Fem!) [Part 2] 18+
more coming soon
𝐄𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 ❦
more coming soon
𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐚 𝐃𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐮 ❦
❣︎ Guilty Pleasure (Best friend’s older sister! Bela x Fem!) 18+
[Part 2]
❣︎ Where The Sun Sets (vamp stuff w bela x fem!) 18+
more coming SOON
𝐊𝐚𝐫𝐥 𝐇𝐞𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐠 ❦
❣︎ Make Me Bad (dbf! Heisenberg x Fem!) 18+
more coming SOON
𝐃𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨 ❦
❣︎ Finding Beauty in the Dissonance (drabble) 18+
more coming soon!
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averysexyleon · 2 years
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Chapter 8: Donna
Read the full fic (so far) here. 
That winter, Karl's twelfth-was rather quiet after Christmas. The package from his uncle had served as medicine almost, brightening him in a way that nothing else had so far. Sister Llewellyn sometimes wandered the manor looking for the orphan. Without his loud vocals booming off the stone walls, rattling everything metal in the room during heated arguments with staff and doctors he was nearly impossible to locate. He hadn't even been scuffling with the other children ('subjects' as the scientists called them.)
Instead, he was usually propped on a bright windowsill or lounged on a far stairwell, his uncle's research papers in his hands. As the weeks went on and the new year celebrations ceased, the pages became grubbier and more dog-eared. Surprisingly the other pupils did not respond to the object of Karl's interest. Likely it was due to his correct assertion that snowy day. They're scared of me. The others would probably rather the outcast have something to occupy his unstable mind. With it, they were safe from any wrath.
The calmness of that winter was doubled with the new arrival. Sister Llewellyn, after hearing about the new charge, became eager to see the young child. She offered to meet the charge at the station. Part of it was empathy for the child's loss, but part of it was simply curiosity. This was a child from gentry, one from Miranda's land. Similar to Karl.
The Sister wanted to see if--being from the same mountain region as Karl, being adopted by Miranda--would she have any similar characteristics, accent, customs? Powers? Would they have known each other? Whatever the young nun expected, she was shocked at the strange out-of-date, glassy-eyed girl at the train station. 
She looked like something from an antique play or puppet show. A porcelain and glass tribute to the darkness and somber overreach of the Victorian embrace of death. Any nun would have approved of the black and grey dress, woolen tights, and leather boots. There was no pomp or frills to them, but they were well made and sturdy. And somehow still delicate and lovely, as if made for an accessory.
The girl's hair was in long, wispy barley curls, but bore no ribbons or lace. Sister Llewellyn tilted her head, her habit pulling at hidden blond tresses. The child seemed the opposite of Karl in status--Karl was most often barefoot. He wore his hair greasy and long, tucked into a newsboy cap. It wasn't just status that separated them, it was something about their souls that seemed different to the empathetic nun.
Karl's eyes were light and sharp, seeming brighter than the sun and twice as judgy. He had both wit and fire, a built-in aversion to authority and tradition. He derived pleasure from arguing with his elders and challenging everyone who attempted to exert control over him. Donna's were dark and full of almost inhuman sorrow. She looked more like a painting or a doll than a person. Her gaze was somewhere far away...the spirit world? Where Karl strode, almost stomping wherever he went, this child was very still. Frozen. She was hiding behind something that looked like a large lumpy blanket at first.
When the friendly nun waved and approached, the girl turned toward her and averted her eyes shyly. Now the Sister could see what Donna clutched tightly to her chest; a doll. Its face was hidden, but it was the light to Donna's dark, the silk and frills to her plain and somber clothing.
As the Sister knelt to greet the girl she noticed the darkness of Donna's hair, eyes, even an olive tone to her skin. She was reminiscent of the traveling performers who gathered outside Boston's rowdier blocks sometimes.  Loud, inviting, in their glimmering wagons. Roma. She'd always avoided them, but they had some beckoning warmth, drawing her subconscious toward them. This girl had no such warmth. The nun gently threaded her fingers through Donna's curls, but the child flinched.  The nun's heart was heavy as she led the girl toward their taxi.  
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"You should try at least, Karl..."
He scoffed, half of his carrot exiting his mouth on the exhale. Sister Llewellyn almost glared in her kind way from where she stood; dinner was over, but Karl had to eat separately from the other children. His temper was unruly enough that a magnetized knife or fork was still a real concern. At least, according to the doctors. The Sister did not fear Karl.
"Why would I want to do that?"
"Well, she's from your village."
Karl already had a full potato in his mouth. "Not my village."
"Your family moved there before the war," she gently chided him. "There must have been some reason to make a home there. Did you not meet anyone, or learn of the other families descended from kings while you were there?"
Karl seemed to contemplate this, or else he was finally attempting to chew. After a pause, he responded, "No, my father didn't care about any of that. Besides, my line isn't connected with hers at all." He glared at the nun as though her reasoning were full of logic holes. "Just because our ancestors knew each other doesn't mean we'd be friends.  There have been from Romania here too."  This was pointed, and he almost sounded accusing.  
Despite the sour demeanor, she gave a small smirk at his increasingly American accent. Those radio shows were influencing him. She supposed she should limit his exposure to their rather crass and unrefined dialogues, but she had such a soft spot for him. Compared to the other gifted children he had little to look forward to. Karl was terrible with compassion and empathy, and she couldn't blame him. He was worked and professed and tested and observed to exhaustion, the subject of so many papers and notes. His fun was limited to the few luxuries afforded him since Hughes's visit. Radios, and the parts and tools to work on them. According to the facility doctors, the radios were helping him gain small steps in controlling his 'gift.'
Speaking of, his spoon was now bent at an awkward angle and Karl angrily tossed it across the table. The Sister noted that he hadn't touched it or grabbed it. Rather a wave of his hand caused the metal to skid across the wood. Her eyebrows disappeared nearly into her habit, and the smile faded. She cleared her throat.
"Donna's family story is very tragic. She is entirely alone, an orphan. Unlike your family who..." these words needed to be chosen carefully. Karl's light, piercing eyes were now on her. "...found refuge, and will return one day..." did he believe that? "the Beneviento family is very troubled."
The gaze on Karl's face changed from shrewd to perhaps a bit softer. He was listening. Or maybe just chewing. "Her parents committed a grave sin. They left their daughter." She wasn't sure how to share such personal information with a boy unequipped to understand suicide. He just stared at the nun. She got the strange sensation that his stare held knowledge that even she couldn't comprehend.  Some sense of impending death kept its home in his head along with all the laws of physics,  mathematical formulas and whatever else he knew that she did not.
"It would mean a lot to me if you at least tried," she shrugged, feeling rather awkward. It had seemed like a good idea in her head to pair the two misfits together while Donna was here. The girl was unstable and had "fits" that landed her in and out of asylums. This Academy was Donna's last hope of staying a member of Miranda's family. It seemed important for her well-being that this home was a haven, a place that would make a difference.
But the nun had not gotten very far in making a connection with the child. To expect Karl to have better luck now seemed an impossible task. Donna had not even spoken without putting the porcelain doll's face over her own. Even then it was in a whisper. Karl only spoke to his gadgets. When speaking to others, especially if they were chastising him (as the male tutors and doctors often did) his stutter could re-emerge.  Then the screws, bolts and pipes in the room would rattle, the lights would flicker, and things would usually not improve.  
Maybe not the best idea. He was no diplomat. His calmness over the past weeks had caused the nun to see his potential, to gently urge him to try to develop his vulnerable side.
The lonely boy continued to eat in silence, now clearly deep in thought, as the nun moved to prepare a kettle for tea.  She was curious what secrets his stare from earlier held. What had he seen?
The nun frowned as she moved the kettle toward the stovetop. Miranda seemed less and less appealing as time went on
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