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thepatronsaintoffilth · 2 years

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You Smell Like Trouble (A Heisenberg Smut Fic) - Chapter 6/?

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pairing: black AFAB cis reader x lycan!heisenberg

CW: dubcon, NONCON*, dirty talk, frottage (i.e. non-penetrative genital-to-genital rubbing), overstimulation, rough PIV sex, unprotected sex, slight bondage (gag), vaginal ejaculation (i.e. squirting), dumbification/mind break, creampie

*EXTRA CW/AUTHOR’S NOTE: I CANNOT stress the noncon aspect of this enough. This chapter doesn’t get overtly “violent”, but the words “no”, “stop” and “don’t” get ignored A LOT. Even in a fantasy context (keep in mind the A/B/O dynamics at play here), I want to emphasize that we’re heading into some boundary-overstepping here.

If that’s going to yuck your yum or worse, trigger you, please spare yourself.

🛑🚫✋🏾ADULT CONTENT, MUST BE 18+ ✋🏾🚫🛑

You open your mouth and try to address him.

The words you want to say are as clear in your mind as they can possibly be, considering the sheer amount of endorphins and lycan pheromones muddling your brain. You hear them echoing in your head:

Please, it's too much. We need to stop. Karl, please. Please, listen to me.

You don’t say a single one of these words.

There’s only silence punctuated by your labored breathing.

The words continue to bounce around in your skull, stuck in the hazy expanse between your ears. You open your mouth and try again, try with all your might to say them out loud.

"Uhw … ina … ahn …" is all that comes out before your mouth snaps shut.

Oh god, you lament. What the fuck has he done to me?

It’s a silly question, of course. You know very well what he’s done to you.

Lord Karl Heisenberg just fucked you within an inch of your life. He just reduced you, his chosen vassal, to little more than a loose bundle of nerves, drool and tears in his bed.

And, as you watch your Lord paw at you like he’s got all the time in the world to devote to this task and nothing else, it becomes clear that your gladiator is gearing up for another “round”.

It doesn’t seem to matter to him that his opponent isn’t at all up to the challenge. It doesn’t appear to faze him that your ability to speak is so compromised that all you can do is stare up at him and pray that he takes pity on you and stops on his own because you can’t even beg him outside the confines of your mind.

Karl … Karl, please … I can't … Karl, I can't move … My Lord, please …

You continue to think the words - or rather, a sliver of your consciousness continues to shriek these words from whatever post-orgasm pocket dimension its been banished to in the aftermath of your first sexual encounter with a lycan.

You keep trying to move. You manage to raise your head off the mattress ever so slightly, but it’s too heavy. It drops back down with a soft thud.

Karl starts laughing at you. The sound is quiet, almost vague, but the ripple of it through your skin is anything but. You feel it pouring down your back as he licks and sucks at your neck. You feel it in your belly, as he kisses down towards the curls between your legs and back up again.

"Shhh ... I know, honey, I know," your Lord chuckles.

He sounds so relaxed ... soft, even. It derails what little train of thought you were on. He’s ... content. Maybe even happy.

Isn’t that all that matters?

Your stomach lurches. Where did that come from? Why would you think such a thing?

You swat those tender feelings aside and try to get a better grip on this sense of uneasiness at odds with it, eager for some kind of handhold, something that’ll keep you from floating away again.

You catch a glimpse of his eyes peering up at you from under his brows, watching you intently as he peppers your belly with kisses. You look back for as long as you can. You tell yourself you’re just trying to keep him in your sights - the same way you would any other potential predator in the woods.

But everything - his scent, his touch, his tongue tracing arcane patterns between your breasts, your sweat melding with his, the contented little sounds he makes every so often - is drawing you further and further from the very vital and necessary vigilance that's keeping your brain from shutting off entirely.

You can still feel it - that part of you that won’t relax into your bliss, the part that won't surrender itself to the inevitable. It's still there, very much intact - growing more and more distant with each passing moment, but offsetting that distance by getting louder and louder.

You latch onto that strand of reason guiding you through the haze, holding tight to it even as his knee nudges your legs further apart.

His mouth - in your fragmented, hazy perception - seems like it's everywhere at once: between your breasts, at your throat, pressed against yours. His hands slide down, tracing the curve of your hips and your waist, gripping your thighs. Still touching you with no real aim or goal, it seems, just reveling in the feel of you while you fight the urge to fall to pieces again.

A much needed jolt runs through when his thigh draws up against your pussy, still so raw from him fucking you. Your heart thumps hard against your ribs. Your hands fly to his shoulders before you’re fully aware of the sensation having returned to your limbs.

The sensation, a fair amount of coordination ... but barely an ounce of strength,

What the … ?

You’re pushing against him, but with almost no force at all. The very same hands that subdued a soldat just a few weeks ago have been rendered purely decorative - reduced to a pair of fluttering little ornaments pressing against the broad expanse of his shoulders.

Come on, you think. Come ON ... !

You keep trying to hold him off anyway, appalled at the sight of your elbows wobbling. You seem to be fighting gravity more than your Lord, who continues to nibble at your neck and earlobe like he hasn't taken any notice of your pathetic attempt to shove him away.

Eventually, he does seem to notice, because he guides your hands back down beside you, pinning them at your sides.

“Shh,” you hear him saying, “no need for that. I’ve got you …”

Unable to form the words to tell him that’s not at all a comforting sentiment, you use your slowly returning strength to squirm underneath him. He isn’t putting all of his weight on you, but between just a bit of his heft and your lack of coordination, you’re still not getting anywhere fast.

You wriggle and jerk slightly, testing your compromised ability to move. One of these restless motions proves to be your undoing, bringing your hips up against his.

You freeze.

Then you shudder as you realize his dick - hard, hot and leaking with anticipation - is now pressed right between your legs, right where you’re still aching for more, but still too sensitive to abide his touch. Right against your throbbing clit.

Shit, if he moves even a little bit -

He’s already shifted against you before you can even finish the thought.

... Oh, fuck …

You try not to react, but it's no use. It doesn’t even matter what gave it away - the way you flinched at the contact ... the ridiculous little squeak you let out when it happened ... the way your back arches up a bit in response ...

It doesn’t matter. He knows. You hear him laughing again.

“You like that a lot, don’t you?” he asks, because knowing or not, he still wants to tease it out of you and rub it in. “Hmm?”

It isn’t enough to have the victory. No. He has to savor it.

You bite back a hysterical laugh as the random thought of scolding him for poor sportsmanship, of all things, almost knocks you (even more) off-balance.

He props himself up over you suddenly, putting some distance between you, but rubbing himself harder between your thighs in the process. You squeeze your eyes and your lips shut tight, but another squeak escapes you.

“You do, don’t you?” he reiterates, feigning shock. “I bet you could cum again, couldn’t you? Just like this? I wouldn’t even have to put it back inside, would I … ?”

You’re jerking your head from side to side, trying to deny it, but before you can fix your mouth into some sort of coherent denial, Karl is already setting out to prove his theory.

“Nuh … Nuh,” you babble. “N … Nuh -”

He’s kissing you, further fumbling your delivery of a clear “no” - not that you were having much success getting it out anyway. Your resistance melts into a whimper as he crowds in close, body-to-body with you once again as he grinds himself between your legs.

The heft and motion of his hips puts an exquisite pressure on your swollen clit and a slippery friction against your slit, parting your lips with his length.

Setting a steady pace that slowly starts to unspool you all over again, he keeps going, overriding your weak mewling as he rocks you back and forth.

He watches your eyes glaze over again; your mouth still moving without any (intelligible) sound coming out. He holds you still and stares you down the whole time, rocking you back and forth under him, watching you come apart.

You stare back up at him, unable to look away with his hands gripping either side of your head. You murmur desperate little pleas, each one rendered incoherent as you start to pant and groan. He kisses you until you give up. Your eyes drift shut in surrender.

”It’s okay … I like it, too,” he whispers against your mouth between his kisses. The two of you trade the same breath back and forth, back and forth. A bit of drool escapes out the corner of your mouth; he laps it up with his tongue and keeps going.

“K … Karl,” is all you manage to say before he starts applying more pressure and you start seeing stars.

“It’s okay,” he whispers again. “I’ll take care of you … You’ll see …”

In the end, it’s all too much at once.

Pinned beneath his bulk, pushing as hard as you can (which isn’t very hard at all) against his shoulders and shaking your head, you cum anyway. It’s a comparatively smaller climax, not the thunderous crescendo from before, but all the more ruinous for its closeness, its quiet intimacy … its inescapable, delicious inevitability.

You barely even make a sound when it happens, too overwhelmed to offer more than a gasp as you come down the other side of your peak.

He’s kissing your cheek, chuckling into your ear. “Damn, that was fast. I knew you could do it. Good girl.”

Those last two words have a disastrously galvanizing effect, almost like a spell.

You hear them, and you feel your limbs move suddenly. Your legs fold around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back. Your hands claw at the back of his shoulders as you bury your burning face in his neck.

As a method of attack, it leaves much to be desired. Less a grappling hold and more like a harmless koala clinging to a branch. He strokes the back of your head as you cling to him and try not to die of embarrassment.

“You poor thing,” he whispers against your temple before he kisses it. “We’ve barely even started -”

Your heart nearly stops.

He’s joking.

Surely, he’s joking.

There’s no way he’s serious.

“- and you’re acting this way,” he finishes, slowly tightening his arms around you in turn. His laughter rumbles through you like quakes in a fault line. You start to shake again.

He lets you go abruptly, watching you flop onto your back as he releases you. You feel his hands on your thighs, moving with renewed intent, and it starts to look less and less likely that he was joking.

You find your voice again, forcing your mouth to work against the pull of desire: “… K-Karl … Ple … Please -”

“It’s okay, that’s a good thing … I’ve got you,” he says, his velvety voice vibrating through your skin as he steamrolls over your words with ease.

He still won’t listen, you wail silently, watching in helpless fascination as he sits up, stroking himself idly. You glance down and immediately wish you hadn’t. He hasn’t gone soft even a little bit, not once. And despite dripping profusely, he’s still not in any kind of hurry to wrap things up.

I have to reason with him, you think frantically as the idea of facing off against this unholy stamina brings the feeling back to your limbs again. Distract him. Slow him down. Something. Anything. Fuck.

You tilt your head back and see something lying a few feet away on the bed.

You turn onto your side, then your stomach, rotating underneath him now that he isn’t holding you down with his weight. You start to shimmy towards it, concentrating on the object like your life depends on it.

If I could just … reach …

“Oh?” He seems genuinely amused by your limited movements, electing to observe you rather than stop you. “Where are we going?”

You don’t answer. You feel him shadowing you the whole way, eerily patient and good-natured, but still clearly in pursuit. He’s humoring you, letting you inch - half-crawling, half-dragging yourself - across his bed.

“So determined,” he teases.

You feel his hands and mouth on you as you struggle towards your destination, squeezing your breasts and your waist, kissing you down your spine till he reaches the small of your back.

Your Lord freezes suddenly, and your heart lurches. You feel the exact moment he realizes: you’re crawling towards what’s left of your nightgown.

The afterglow has hardly even begun - isn’t even yet a pinprick on the horizon as far as he’s concerned, since he’s nowhere near done with you - and you’re trying to get dressed.

He’s no longer amused.

The linen is ripped from between your fingertips as soon as you lay your hand on it. You flop forward onto your belly, arm still outstretched. All that energy expended for nothing.

You feel him covering you suddenly. You twist underneath him, barely moving as he uses his bulk to keep you in place.

“I have been very patient with you,” he mutters, a frightening new edge to his voice.

His hands slip under you. One takes you by the throat, forcing your head upright, while his other hand slips down between your legs, dipping deftly between your thighs. You cry out, still too sensitive in that area to stand the way he’s touching you. He tugs you upright onto your knees, pulling you back against him as you start to flail.

“What, you have somewhere to be? A train to catch, perhaps? Or am I boring you?”

You hear something like wounded pride, maybe even hurt, in his voice - alongside a quiet fury that ties your stomach in knots worse than if he were bellowing at you.

“Please, no,” you whimper, trying not to rub against his length so much in all your struggling, “I just - ! I need -”

Without warning, he pushes you forward, making you sputter.

“Oh, I know what you need, you little bitch,” he snarls, gripping your hips tight and pulling you up onto your knees. Misjudging the way he’s maneuvering you, you try to push yourself back up, only to feel his palm flat between your shoulder blades, shoving you facedown with your hips still in the air.

You feel the tip of his dick rubbing against your slit, the smooth head parting the opening as he grunts and positions himself behind you.

No, not this soon, not so soon after - !

“What you need is your back broken, that’s what you need. If that’s what it takes, then so be it.”

Your attempt to crawl away from him earns you a few sharp slaps to your ass and thighs.

“Gonna make me work for it, is that it? Fine … We’ve got all night for you to learn … Hold still, goddammit - !”

You stop moving to spare yourself another slap, but keep begging:

“Karl, don’t, don’t, don’t, please, I’m -“

Karl pushes into you again with a groan you can’t help but echo. His is one of triumph; yours, a jagged, shuddering little cry. You crawl forward barely an inch or two before he yanks you back against him, pulling your ass flush against his hips with a decisive smack.

“Aah, fuck, that’s … perfect. You’re perfect inside,” he moans, almost as if to himself, the feeling of your walls closing and twitching around him seeming to distract from his anger momentarily. “Nice and broken … Yes …”

You lie still and let this now-familiar, but no less overwhelming sensation, pulse through you. There’s a taste in your mouth you can’t begin to describe, something almost, but not quite metallic. You feel yourself contracting and squeezing around him, further enfolding him as he pushes deeper and deeper still.

You’re scared and more than a little disgusted with your crumbling resolve. But it feels so good, so unimaginably good. It's like your body somehow forgot the depths to which your Lord could take you. It feels like it did the first time he was inside you, brand-new and terrifying and thrilling and -

“Please,” you beg, voice trembling with the effort it takes to keep your knees from giving out. “Karl, please … ”

His palm comes down on your ass again, your barely audible whining seeming to return him to the task at hand. He starts to move inside of you, fucking you in short, hard thrusts. You sputter more half-hearted protests, every other word mangled each time his hips slam into you.

Willing or not, your body picks up his rhythm, his hands on your hips guiding you back against him to meet each punishing stroke. You feel the scale teetering back and forth inside you, veering wildly between the fear that he might stop and the fear that he’ll never stop.

“Karl, please ...“ you weep breathlessly, not even sure why or what you’re begging for anymore, if you’re begging for any reason other than that it feels so good to beg for something you’re definitely not going to get anyway.

Mercy, for instance.

He growls something at you, but you can’t parse it. You can barely hear him over the combined cacophony of his body ramming into yours, the blood churning in your ears like ocean waves, and the beleaguered wailing you’re trying to muffle with your face buried in the sheets.

He locks his arm around your neck, scooping you upright with your back arched. He doesn’t miss a beat, still fucking you so deep that you can barely breathe.

“Fuck,” you hiss. Your hands reach up to claw uselessly at his brawny arm. His bicep and forearm squeezes your throat, and you’re mortified to hear a breathy little moan escape you at the sensation.

“That’s right … Don’t be shy, sweetheart, I want to hear how much you love this … That’s it,” he growls, drinking in your sobs and curses like the brute that he is, “just like that. That’s it … That’s more like it …”

You reach both hands back and push at his hips, trying in vain to force him out or at least slow him down. He breaks his hold on your neck only to seize your wrists and hold them behind you.

He drills into you harder, and a sound comes out of you that doesn’t even seem human. A keening, desperate sound wrung from a place deep entirely too deep inside, right in your guts where he’s hitting you.

That’s when you start to feel it.

You don’t know what “it” is, but you feel it regardless.

Wait … What is … What’s … ?

Something is wrong. That spot he’s hitting inside you feels … volatile somehow. Like it could very well either break or perhaps break you if he keeps this up. Your thighs begin to wobble. Then the tremor begins to creep outward in both directions, taking over your whole body until you’re almost vibrating against him.

“Wai-Wait, wait, fuck, Karl,” you pant, feeling something strange building up alongside another impending orgasm, “Karl, stop, PLEASE -”

The renewed desperation in your voice spurs him on. You keep begging him to stop. He speeds up, digging deeper and deeper still like he’s trying to bring the thing - whatever it is - on faster.

You feel your spine turn molten hot, a column of fire running down to your tailbone. One final sob escapes you before you fall breathlessly silent. Your legs shake as you feel yourself seizing around him once again.

The climax overtakes your whole body as he’s still colliding into you, sending aftershocks through you that feel so good it’s almost painful.

And as that internal valve releases, you feel fluid coming out of you.

A lot of fluid.

Like a geyser, each burst forced out by his thrusts. So much that it takes an effort for him just to stay inside you, the pressure built to a point where it does what your shoving couldn’t, very nearly forcing him to slip out entirely.

Still managing to stay buried to the hilt inside you, he finally lets your wrists go. You crumple to the bed, sniffling and shaking. You feel that fluid drenching your inner thighs. You hear the sound it makes as he finally pulls out of you, his skin unsticking from yours.

“... Holy shit, girl …“

The awe in his voice rings true through the haze of pleasure and mortification you’re lost in. If you weren’t half brain-dead, you would be leaping for joy that he doesn’t appear to be angry with you anymore. As it stands, you barely remember your own name, much less what the hell even just happened to you.

“Wh-What did … What did you do … ?” you stammer, disoriented and confused, fearing that he actually, factually fucked the piss out of you.

Karl laughs, the sound off-kilter and slightly out of breath.

“Me? Oh, no, little one, that was all you,“ he snickers, patting you on the hip.

What the - ?

You sniff and realize he’s right. There’s a strong saline smell to it, identical to your slick.

You just ejaculated.

Before you can even begin to begin to wrap your head around this new development, you’re rolled onto your back. Karl holds your legs apart with barely any resistance from you aside from a bit of whining and more twitching.

“Look what a mess you’ve made,” he says.

Oh, god. He sounds so proud.

Fresh tears well up in your eyes. You try to hold them back, try to tell yourself this isn’t anything to be ashamed or squeamish about. You try, but it’s all too much at once, and he’s … he’s looking at you. He’s seeing you like this, and it’s too much.

Apropos of nothing, your mind flashes back to the very first time you spoke directly with this man, the first time you stood in his presence and assured him of your capability, your eagerness to fulfill his purpose for you.

Now you’re on your back, wrung out and panting like what he’s ultimately revealed you to be - a horny little bitch in heat.

You try to blink the tears away, but he notices them before you can compose yourself. He arches over you, leaning down until you’re almost nose-to-nose, trading the same breath back and forth again as he looks you over.

A smile, almost boyishly smug, parts his mouth.

“ … First time, sweetheart?”

You close your eyes, knowing you can’t shut him out completely, but needing at least a reprieve from the sight of him gloating.

“You’ve never done that before,“ he presses, “have you?“

You only have the wherewithal to sniffle and turn your head from side to side in response. He reaches down and pats you on the cheek - an affectionate gesture, to be sure, but he’s so heavy-handed, it feels like a slap.

“Oh, you’re full of surprises, aren’t you? What else can you do, huh?”

He examines you avidly, running his fingers up and down your slit, smoothing his palms over your belly, your hips. Your neck and your back. He keeps on touching you. On and on, making you squirm against the sheets, against him.

He’s taking his time again, you realize - just like he was before you went for your nightgown. You hold still this time - not difficult since you once again can’t feel your legs - and let him play with your body.

You feel him stretch out next to you, laying on his side. His arm snakes under your back and gathers you against him. You feel him wiping you between your legs with something - a rag?

You blink through the haze of tears and glance over at him with wide, helpless eyes. He’s ... tending to you? Is this an act of mercy? Could he be taking pity on you? Surely, your tears couldn’t have moved him, there’s no way, but ... He’s being so gentle.

“Shhhhh,” you hear him saying.

You feel his hand through the fabric, cupping your mound. You shudder, and he makes a distracted sound in the back of his throat. His hand doesn’t let up, no matter how much you fidget. Still gentle, but insistent.

“Please … d-don’t …”

“Hmm? What’s the matter?” He sounds so patient. Almost kind. And also blithely unaware that your sanity is hanging by a thread.

You shake your head meekly. Some small, anxious part of you fears this is a trick, or maybe even a trap. And even if it isn’t, you’re not too proud to admit that you’re scared to try “reasoning” with him again.

You know, since it went so well the last time.

He kisses you on your temple. He kisses your cheek, then your ear. He makes little shushing sounds in your ear, the calming sounds one might make to a cornered animal. He strokes your hair.

And he keeps his hand right where it is, no matter how much your hips shift and twitch.

Against whatever remains of your better judgment, you start to relax, going so far as to turn your head towards him, letting him pepper your lips with his kisses. Before you even realize it, you’ve started to kiss him back a little, unable to help yourself. Unable to tell yourself you’re just “playing along”.

“Go on,” he coaxes between kisses. “You can tell me … “

You feel his fingertips playing with your clit. You gasp. Your head falls back against the bed, pulling you away from his kiss. You shake your head again, harder this time, eyes squeezed shut as he keeps rubbing you, undeterred.

You flinch every time his fingers dip down towards your hole, your hips jerking when he gets too close. You’re not ready for him to penetrate you again. You’ll lose whatever is left of your mind if he keeps going.

“What is it?” he asks softly.

You shake your head, scared to say it, scared of his wrath. He kisses and coaxes you some more, his hand easing up just a little. You start to soften again. Eventually, he gets it out of you:

“I c-c-can’t … It’s too … sore,” you finally mumble, mortified at the almost childlike timbre of your voice. “I can’t take any more.”

With your eyes half-shut and the light so dim, you can’t see the look on his face.

But as it turns out, you don’t have to see it to know. You can feel his smile against your skin, in the way the scruff of his beard creases.

“I can’t anymore,“ you whine softly. “Please ...“

“Aww, sweetheart. That’s okay …”

The arm he’s been holding you up with slides out from under your back abruptly. You collapse with a slight gasp.

“... I believe in you.”

You blink up at him, watching him as he looms over you, speaking directly into your face and further blotting out what little light there is left.

“You’re gonna do just fine,” he assures you.

He laughs deep in his throat, breathing heavier through his nose as his fingers keep toying with your clit through the soaked bit of cloth in his hand. He licks up one of your tears.

“You should know better,” he says, watching your eyes widen, “than to sell yourself short like that, princess. I know you have it in you … You can’t hide that from me.”

The tears come in earnest now, quiet, trembling sobs hiccupping out of you as you try to speak. “I can’t ... !“

“You shouldn’t lie about these things. I know you can.”

It’s only when you feel him positioning himself between your legs again that you summon enough motor function to put your hands to his chest. You know you can’t stop him. You can’t even stall him, not really.

So you try to negotiate.

“Karl ... Karl, listen to me, please, I ... I kn-know it’s probably not the same, but ... you could just use my m-mouth, you don’t have t -“

Moving too fast for you to ward him off, he shoves your hands aside. Your plea is cut short as he stretches something across your face - the rag?

No. It’s not a rag at all.

It’s what is left of your underwear, the torn scrap he used to tie your wrists a few minutes ago. You taste your slick as he shoves it between your teeth.

“Your mouth is the problem,” he says, shaking his head as you snivel up at him. “You’re thinking too hard again. Getting yourself all worked up ... Let’s fix that, huh?”

What is he … ?

You're not sure when exactly he got his hands back on your panties.

You’re also not sure when he found the time to fashion them into a kind of gag - one that stretches tight between your lips and ties even tighter behind your head as he holds you down, fixing your jaw in place like a horse bit.

Once you're bound too tight to speak coherently, he pats you hard on the cheek. You peer up at him with a wordless moan, drooling over the bit wedged between your teeth. No matter how much you work your jaw, you can’t dislodge it.

“See, I knew it. It was all that talking making you nervous … Isn’t this better?“

You moan pitifully and search his eyes for the tenderness he displayed just a minute ago.

Much to your surprise, it’s still there, but … you seem to have misjudged its intent. It’s in service to your heat, not your fear. Genuine in its conviction, but not exactly benevolent.

He truly seems to believe he’s helping you.

His hands seem to be everywhere at once, anticipating your every effort to push him away, slip out from under him or curl up into a ball. Between all your struggling and his growing eagerness, you can’t catch all of what he says, but you can parse enough in fragments:

“... has to be this way, baby -”

“- for your own good -”

“- feel better after, trust me, you’ll -”

You feel his hips wedging easily between your thighs, unimpeded by your efforts to close them. You push at his chest, and he doesn’t even try to push them aside or pin them down, he’s so unmoved. He knows you can’t stop him.

He sinks inside of you with a long groan, shuddering as you enfold him. He doesn’t stop pushing until he bottoms out inside you, crammed in as far as he can possibly go in this position.

“There we go,” he grunts, his teeth scraping your throat as you gasp. “We’re almost there …”

Your Lord begins to move, and you know he’s not lying. He drops his full weight behind each thrust, bouncing you underneath him. Rutting into you, slow and deep and relentless.

You can’t tell if you’re about to cum again, can never cum again or if you’re cumming right this second; you seem to have gone to a place beyond where such distinctions matter or can even be made. You’re a raw nerve, a cluster of pulsing sensation barely held together by flesh.

Every move he makes seems to spark and agitate you, igniting little chain reactions everywhere he touches. With no real build-up, it’s like starting right at the peak of climax and cruising at that same altitude.

And all you can do is pray the fall doesn’t kill you.

The heft of his pelvis rubbing and rocking against your clit makes your cunt twitch and flex around him - something he’s sure to thank you for as he’s sucking on your ear.

You’re not sure when it happened exactly, because your sense of time has thoroughly splintered by this point, but you went from pushing at his chest to holding onto him for dear life, arms wrapped tight around his neck.

“Shit, here it comes,” he rasps. “You ready?”

Ready …?

“Shh, shh, yeah, you’re ready. Almost there, kid, just …”

It takes a minute for his words to sink in, for them to make sense. For you to understand.

Inside. He’s going to cum. He’s going to cum inside, inside me, oh, fuck, he’s -

And before you can even finish - or even start - coming to grips with that, the moment arrives, bearing down on you whether you’re ready or not.

You feel him emptying himself inside of you, filling you to the brim as he growls obscenities against your throat in a tangled mix of English, German and wordless, lupine snarls. Your cunt seems to milk him, contracting and squeezing him like it wants to draw him in deeper than he can go and wants to drain him dry.

Your eyes become unfocused. Everything is getting hazy. You must jerk or otherwise twitch, because you hear him trying to settle you again.

“Aaaah … Don’t move, baby ... don’t move … Need to get it all inside, that’s it … Just like that ... Fuck ...”

You make a broken little sound against the bit wedged into your mouth, biting down on it as the tears keep pouring down your face.

“It’s like medicine … You gotta take it all …”

So you lie still and take your medicine - every thick, warm spurt of it. He rocks you back and forth some more, fucking it in deeper for good measure.

You feel it inside you and know that something has changed. Something too big, too profound for you to get a handle on in your fucked-out state.

You’ve had cum inside of you before. True, it’s been a while, and it wasn’t exactly an everyday occurrence even then, but you remember what it feels like.

You remember what it’s supposed to feel like.

This … isn’t that.

A feeling of sticky warmth spreads through your torso and limbs, emanating from that place where his satisfaction is pooling inside you. It’s … rewriting something in there. Changing something. Something inside is different, like the feeling of soil after the rain has seeped into it.

Your mouth hangs open. That limp, almost boneless feeling in your body becomes amplified to a point where you feel strangely adrift; so untethered you might float away and so heavy you might sink. You feel your pussy twitching still even as he pulls out of you.

“There,” he pants, his labored breath gusting over your skin as he sits up. “There you go ...”

You feel nothing. You feel everything. There’s a profound ache, but somehow no pain. It makes no logical sense, but you’ve never felt clearer.

You try to say something, to tell him something of what you’re experiencing, to ask him what this could possibly be, but you can’t find the words. Apart from a faint gurgle, you can’t even make a sound.

The last thing you feel before your senses finally overload is him unknotting the gag in your mouth.

The last thing you hear before before you sink into a sleep that feels more like a near-death stasis is his voice, rich and hypnotic and relaxed:

"... Good girl … We’ll do the rest next time …”

***

The second you wake back up, you know it isn’t the morning following your ordeal - it’s been longer.

As for how much longer, you can’t say for certain yet, but there’s no denying that more than a night has passed.

The sheets you’re sleeping on are clean, for one thing; you can smell the washing powder.

Meaning that, while you were still unconscious, the bed had been stripped, the bedding laundered and then placed back on.

You strain to remember anything in the black void of sleep, seem to dredge up the vaguest impression of being lifted and maneuvered at certain points before sinking immediately back into slumber.

The next clue is your hunger. You’re absolutely ravenous, having skipped god only knows how many meal times in your stupor. You’re not just craving breakfast when you wake up. You’re ready to empty the fridge at the first rumble of your stomach.

You do notice you aren’t particularly dehydrated, so you must have had some water at some point.

Whatever the next hint might be will have to wait, as that rumbling is the only thing on your mind. You dress in a hurry, throwing on the first things you can get your hands on, and go in search of food, so determined to eat that you barely bat an eye at the fact that what you’re wearing is one of your Lord’s shirts, your unlaced boots and not a stitch more.

A few minutes later you’re parked in front of the fridge in the dining area, a pitcher of water and an almost comical amount of food piled in front of you on the table.

Once you’ve eaten enough to stop shaking, you walk to the workshop. You feel somewhat bold doing this, creeping into your Lord’s inner sanctum in nothing but his shirt.

You look around to confirm: he’s not there. Then, heaving a sigh, you turn and take a look at the calendar tacked to the wall above his desk. You stare at it for a long time. As you let the truth sink in, two things become apparent:

First: It was Tuesday night when Karl fucked you, and the calendar says that today is Friday.

So you’ve been unconscious for two days.

Second: This isn’t just any old Friday. This is the final Friday of the quarter. The agreed-upon day that the Lords gather for a family visit. Which explains why he’s nowhere in sight with no other scheduled obligations on his itinerary.

He’s with his family.

You close your eyes and exhale slowly, almost but not quite grateful that there’s another potential calamity to take your mind off of Tuesday night.

God help us. He’s with his family …

#smut #heisenberg #heisenberg smut #heisenberg x you #heisenberg x reader #daddy heisenberg #heisendaddy #lycanberg #karl heisenberg x reader #karl heisenberg x you #karl heisenberg #lord heisenberg #lord heisenberg x reader #lord heisenberg x you #you smell like trouble #you smell like trouble series #yslt #black!reader

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thepatronsaintoffilth · 2 years

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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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