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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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