Nonbinary Bela Dimitrescu Icons for @nyaspirit
Nonbinary Bela Dimitrescu Icons for @nyaspirit
omfg do i have any horse people here. I just got mad about having to figure-eight bridles again
For Ethan Winters, nothing is more important to him than saving his daughter. So, when he’s caught in a time loop, cursed to die over and over again until he makes it out alive, he finds himself connecting with Karl Heisenberg. It’s an unexpected turn of events for Ethan, instead of falling into Heisenberg’s factory as an enemy, they come together as allies and — eventually — close friends. At first, Ethan has no choice but to team up with the man who wants to use his daughter, but in the end, all he wants is to leave hand-in-hand with Rose and Heisenberg at his side.
- 11/18 chapters complete
- Upload schedule: Wednesdays and Fridays (5-6pm BST)
- Rated: Explicit (Warning: Violence & death)
- Ship: Ethan Winters/Karl Heisenberg
Chapter Nine: Ghost of a Dream (18+)
Hey y'all!!!! Guess who's back with more trash!!!!! (IT ME)
Before we jump in, I just wanted to thank you all for your never-ending patience with my baby hiatus after the convention ♡ Y'all are awesome, and I'm so grateful for all the kind messages encouraging me to take time to myself between chapters ♡♡♡
As a token of my appreciation, I offer you our first 18+ chapter of the fic, clocking in at 6k words! (It's been a good long while since I've written anything Spicy™, so you'll have to forgive my rust!) For those of you who are just finding us, be sure to check out the master list, and for those of you who have been around the block a few times, I ask you "WHY?"
Buckle up, buttercups ♡ It's gonna be a bumpy ride.
CW: blood, body horror
Fingers ghost up the smooth warmth of your thigh, causing your breath to hitch in your throat. They’re rough, calloused from years of hard labor, and they press into your soft skin with an expertise you’d never known. Your pulse hammers in your ears as they tease at the hem of your silk nightgown, and when you dare to meet the gaze of your pursuant through your lashes, you find his eyes ablaze, all traces of perpetual tiredness scorched in the path of lust. His hungry look pins you to the couch as easily as though you were a butterfly to be spread, pointed, and admired.
Your eyes flit between his as you wait for him to make his next move, and his lips curl into a wolfish grin at the sight of your gently heaving chest. You wet and part your own, struggling to grasp at the threads of rational thought as he slowly closes the distance between you. He pauses a moment longer to drink in the heat and the scent of his soap as they pour off your skin, and quirks an eyebrow as he begins to ask if this is what you really want.
You impatiently close the gap between you in answer, his words lost against your mouth as your lips finally collide; he tastes exactly as you’d imagined – like bitter black coffee, the intoxicating sweetness of cigar smoke, and a lifetime of need. The bristles of his beard brushing against your face barely register as he groans low in his throat, thick arms circling you and pulling you flush against his frame. You tug at the leather cord holding his silver locks hostage and allow his unkempt hair to fall around his face, its softness a pleasant surprise as you tangle your fingers in it.
How long I’ve waited…
His tongue hungrily pushes against your teeth, and you suck at its tip before obliging and opening up under his insistent press. Every other kiss you’d shared feels wrong in the light of this one, and you seek to drown them all out in the taste of your shared want. In him. Your skin is electric as he runs his hands up your sides, all senses flayed open and made raw under his urgent touch, and you clutch at his shirt in a desperate attempt to keep your body from shaking. The sensations overflow, spilling over when your tongue brushes the sharpness of his incisors, and the small sound that escapes you provokes a half-growl from him as you imagine them pressing at your throat.
He shifts his weight over you and slots his leg between your thighs, trapping you between the deliciously cool leather and the cage of his arms as he lays you back on the couch. You hook your leg around his waist to pull him in closer, closer, closer, and he hisses as your body rocks up to meet the hardness in his trousers. His grip on your hip tightens and you swallow his subsequent moans as you further dig your heel into his lower back, pressing every available inch of your form into him.
“Lord Heisenberg,” you breathe, and he seizes the opportunity to attack the junction of your neck and shoulder.
His mouth burns a painfully slow trail up your throat, tongue taking the sting out of his nips at the sensitive skin. You nervously fumble over the buttons of his shirt, and his coarse hands find the edge of your nightgown once more before roughly hiking it up over your hips. The words begin to rumble in his chest yet again.
“Doll, are you sure you want to-” he whispers against the shell of your ear.
“Certain,” you whisper in return before shoving him back just far enough to hastily help him out of his shirt and tank top. You toss the items off the back of the couch and he chuckles lightly, trying to hide his bewilderment at the fact that you could want him at all, let alone like this.
“It’s rude to keep a lady waiting,” you taunt, fingertips carving delicate trails through the wiry hair on his broad chest. There’s a softness, a roundness to be found there, but the cords of muscle underneath hardly go unnoticed. The last bit of his resistance crumbles as he rakes his eyes over your disheveled form – pupils blown wide, a deepening blush spreading over your face and chest, thighs gripping his knee. He cups your face, tracing his thumb over your cheekbone, and you lean into the touch before catching the finger between your teeth. He recaptures your lips momentarily before breaking the kiss with a smirk.
“Well, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m some sort of brute,” he mumbles.
“And if I’d prefer some sort of brute?” you challenge. His eyes glint, but whether in mischief or the dusky light of the dying fire, you’re not certain.
“Then who am I to deny you that?” he purrs, the burden of his weight nothing short of delicious as he situates himself half on top of you.
The earthy scents of leather and tobacco flood your senses as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his hot skin as he fondles your breasts none-too-gently. Your flesh pebbles in response, eyes going unfocused as his mouth finds your decolletage. The heat that had crept across your face earlier surges into your belly when his free hand slides up your inner thigh, and you twitch underneath him as his fingers tease at the edge of your panties. White-hot spikes of desire shoot through your core as he threatens to slip into the growing wetness between your legs, and your hips arch instinctually in search of further stimulation.
When he doesn’t instantly give in to your want, you run your hands down the soft paunch of his stomach and trace the waistband of his pants with the pads of your fingers before palming his length through them. You give an appreciative hum at his size, and lightly sink your teeth into the meat of his shoulder.
But the sound that breaks from him is wrong – pitched too low – and you falter.
His breath feels hotter, wetter, and the brush of his beard has been replaced with something more akin to an incessant scratching that causes your skin to feel raw. The moans and groans drawn out by your ministrations grow distorted, coming out instead as low, carnal growls. The coppery tang of blood hits your nose, and you recoil when you find that his dexterous fingers have been replaced with terrible, razor-sharp claws. They dig into your flesh, causing rivulets of scarlet to run down the curve of your thigh before spattering against the leather of the sofa. The lacerations smart rightfully, and you choke out a confused sob as you meet his eyes, immediately recoiling at the sight of him.
His usually steely grey eyes glow an icy white, and his muscles quiver violently as more dark patches of fur sprout from underneath the surface of his skin. Your hands tremble as you reach out to try and steady him, but the panic blooming in your gut prevents you from connecting. He howls out in agony as his bones audibly snap and shift inside him, and his body convulses as his spine elongates and hunches, forcing him to collapse on top of you on all fours.
The last of his clothing falls from his body in shreds, and he stretches open his extended maw in time for you to see his teeth draw into points that flash in the dim light. No longer recognizable as a man, a silent scream builds in your chest as he rounds on you. You try to scramble out from underneath the monster, but your shoulders remain pinned to the couch under the weight of its massive paws. Your blood crashes in your ears as it roars at you, the acrid scent of its breath an assault on your nose, and you flinch as hot, viscous spittle lands in your eye.
The monster rears, muzzle snapping as its wicked claws sink into your shoulders with a sickening crunch, and it takes its first and final lunge at your face.
You idly scrub yourself with the washcloth, the sound of dripping water falling back on itself distant as you attempt to chase off the ghost of your dream. The musk of Heisenberg’s skin and the urgent press of his fingers linger, haunting you well into wakefulness, but so too do the tang of blood and the sting of your wounds. You wring the rag out and hang it over the side of the copper tub before drawing your knees to your chest, causing goosebumps to erupt over your skin as the cool air of the bathroom nips at your exposed limbs. You curl in on yourself, tucking your chin against your chest and resting your forehead on your knees as if this will somehow stop the heat from spreading across your face.
You’d be lying to yourself if you said you hadn’t ever thought of him in that way. The ride home from the bar was often a long and mindless one, and after all, he was the mysterious nobleman, the unknowable stranger at the end of the counter.
“And now he’s your employer!” you whisper to yourself. “So get a grip!”
You pull the drain plug and stand, roughly toweling off before getting dressed. You don’t dare to look in the mirror for fear of what your face looks like, but instead, quietly crack the bathroom door open before tiptoeing past Heisenberg’s room and down the stairs to pull on your boots. You couldn’t be sure that he’d come up for the night, but didn’t want to risk waking him if he had; maybe it was just your imagination, but you could swear he’d grown more tired-looking since your arrival.
“Perhaps if he bothered to maintain any sort of real schedule outside of mealtimes,” you mutter to no one in particular. You look to the clock – hour hand suggesting that it’s much too early for you to be up – and stifle a yawn. Not that I’m much better myself these days, you think, closing the door to the flat behind you.
The steam in the air does little to warm you as you walk the factory floor, stopping only to survey the more finicky pieces of equipment and scribble down your notes. You’d grown accustomed to their temperaments, the little peculiarities that set them apart from one another. Granted, you still had little idea what they did or what part they played in Heisenberg’s work, but you took some small amount of pride in being able to correctly predict their mood swing all the same.
The steady hum of the oversized, incandescent lights overhead is interrupted by a single flickering bulb, and you watch it blink as it struggles to cling to the last few seconds of its life. The lights collectively flare for a split second, and you instinctually cover your face when the weak bulb pops, sending glass raining down on you. Your quick efforts gain you a cut on the back of your hand, and you suck your teeth as you watch the beads of blood form while contemplating if it’s worth it to go rummaging through the flat for bandages.
“Damned lightbulb,” you grouch, opting to press your mouth to the cut instead.
Wonder what it is he does to keep the things on, anyways… I imagine it’s costly to maintain this place.
You distractedly tap the edge of your pen to your clipboard a few times as you briefly consider the thought, and toe the larger pieces of glass out of your way before searching for a broom.
He adds the most recent of his cigar stubs to the already teeming ashtray before crumpling up the shoddy schematics he’d wasted the last few hours on, tossing them into an equally as overflowing waste bin. Guilt had taken one too many a bite out of his conscience through the night, and he, preferring not to let it further consume him, had only just decided that labor of a nonsurgical nature was the closest he could get to an antidote.
His chair scrapes the floor as he pushes back from the chaotic bench, and he rounds up his multitude of coffee mugs from around the room, rinsing the cold, gritty sludge that had settled in their bottoms down the drain of the nearby utility sink. Not wanting to actually deal with the dishes, he plugs the sink and fills it before dumping the chipped cups into the steaming water.
He shuts the door to the drafting room and turns out the lights as an afterthought as he steps into the lift. The cage slams behind him and he wills the whole thing upward, each floor of the factory casting varying shades of dim light through the woven bars of the lift shaft; he had an intimate knowledge of them all, having spent the last few decades defiling them, but he had no interest in them today. He disembarks on the ground floor and looks to the clock with a gruff sigh. The pity that tinged your eyes each time you came downstairs in the morning to find him awake and in yesterday’s clothes was not lost on him, and he knew it was only a matter of time before your concerns morphed into suspicions.
She won’t know how long I’ve been awake if I can get back and change before she’s up for breakfast. Should give me a few hours at least.
Despite his near-perfect attendance at mealtimes, he didn’t actually need to sleep or eat anymore. Not if he didn’t want to. They were pleasant enough ways to pass the time, but the Cadou repaired any damage he sustained as a result of abstaining from either, and he was happy enough to make the damned parasite work overtime. Maybe if he continued to run it into the ground like this, it’d finally give up on him – its perfect host. But how was he meant to explain any of this to you? It wasn’t exactly what he’d call light dinner conversation.
Evenin’, Y/N. Food looks great. Now I know you’re a bit concerned that I haven’t been sleeping, but don’t worry your pretty little head over it; I’ve been made nigh immortal by a parasite. Oh, and would you pass the butter?
He drags his hands down his face, smothering the sarcastic laughter that follows the thought, and ambles through the factory doors as they creak under the strain of his mental command. While reflexively weaving through the perilous piles of scrap, it occurs to him that he ought to organize them for fear of them toppling over onto you, but decides against it when he considers that the contents of the yard shifting overnight would do little to minimize your doubt.
Is there anything I don’t have to lie to her about? And if there was, would she even care to hear it?
Parasite or no, he was bone-weary. He told himself that his exhaustion as of late stemmed from the fact that he was moonlighting as a mundane around you, but it was easy enough to physically stir your coffee with a spoon, set his glasses down on the table, cross the room to grab the lighter off the bookshelf. Deep down, he knew it was because he had been torturing himself with hypotheticals.
Hypotheticals about the Cadou.
Hypotheticals about you.
He’d had no use for them prior to your arrival, no space in his day to even consider them. But he had an abundance of time now. They tormented him when you smiled at him as he came into the kitchen for mealtimes, or when you left out covered plates for him on late nights. When you read his favorite books across from him in the evenings, probing him with questions. When you abstractedly tucked your hair behind your ears while skimming the paper or washing dishes. When you handed him carefully prepared mugs of tea and watched him take his first sip to make sure it was to his liking. When you gently bullied him into dancing, and laughed in his arms, and collapsed against his chest smelling like his favorite soap. He pushes the last thought from his mind.
The stable air is warm as he unbolts the doors, and he’s accosted by the customary odors of hay, sweaty tack, and pine shavings. He shucks off his coat before tossing it onto a nearby crate, his shirt and hat following soon thereafter, and flicks on the lights. The hens are loosed first, and he casts them a wary glance as they collectively bob out of their shared stall. That’s not to say he didn’t appreciate their routine contributions to breakfast, but he felt he was within his rights to remain unsure of the little beasts. The horses both give a soft snort at the sight of him and are happy enough with a quick pet before following their feathered friends out into the foggy yard.
With all the animals out of the way, he climbs the ladder to the hayloft, and his fingers close around the handle of the rusted pitchfork as it hurtles towards him. He grips it hard, trying to recall the last time he had done this manually. Poring over the soldats was his time-tested method of untangling his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to so much as look at them since learning of your descent. He tosses a few bales down before driving the pitchfork into the last of them.
More lies still. I robbed her of her family. Robbed her of a chance at a decent life. I’m no better than Miranda.
He pinches the bridge of his nose and rubs the place where his glasses sit, allowing bitter regret to make its home in his chest at his last memories of your father. None of you would have ever found yourselves in this position in the first place if not for that self-centered bitch, but he knew he wasn’t without blame.
To think, she had to spend all these years alone as a result of my actions.
He reclaims the pitchfork, funneling his misery into mucking out stalls. Where exactly would he be if not for Miranda’s selfish experiments? He’d been groomed from a young age to take over the family business, but would he have accepted it? Or would he have made his own way in the world, traveling far away from this place to indulge in the delights of other countries? He’d always imagined that he’d have studied a craft, spent his life working with his hands. Waited for someone kind, and gentle, and a little bit wild to stumble into his workshop. Maybe he’d have taken them out for dinner and dancing, nights on the town, and they’d stay out too late one too many times and fall in love. Perhaps they’d get married. Settle down and start a family. Age together. Die comfortably, knowing they lived out their lives in bliss.
He would never know.
He’d largely refrained from entertaining these scenarios and asking himself these questions over the decades, but in those rare moments of weakness, the words only ever hung in the space between him and the mirror. They still did, his gray reflection unwavering in its apathy and age while he waited for a reply that would never come.
Only now he had a face to put to it all.
“Give it up, old man. She took the job because she had no money, no family, nothing to lose,” he reminds himself, and not for the first time. He can’t bring himself to say the thought that follows aloud.
And you’re to blame.
The sun is yet to grace the mountains as you stumble across the misty factory grounds towards the stable, but the animals greet you from the yard in spite of this.
“What are you doing out? I know I put you up last night,” you whisper at them. Per usual, they pay your quizzical look no mind, too preoccupied with having been turned out to graze. You cautiously poke your head in the open half-door to see piles of dirty straw accumulating in the stable aisle. Another pitchforkful joins the pile furthest from you, and you crack the bottom door open enough to skirt your hip around it, noiselessly creeping up on the far stall. You relax when you see that it’s only Heisenberg, visibly absorbed in thought as he shakes bedding through the tines of the pitchfork. You watch him for a short time – only wanting a glimpse of what he might look like at work – and have to corral your thoughts as they begin to wander in the direction of the study again.
Alright, we agreed there’s no place for that here.
“For fuck’s sake,” he jumps, brows furrowed as he turns to look back at you. His face softens slightly when he sees the dark circles under your eyes and the soft slump of your shoulders. “You’re up early.”
“You’re one to talk,” you retort, nodding at the soiled pile between you. “What’s eating you?” He gives a snort in reply, and with a roll of his eyes, tries to return to his work. “Here, let me,” you start, reaching for the pitchfork.
“I’m plenty capable, thanks,” he says, pulling it just out of reach. Your heart jumps as he catches your extended hand and turns it over to examine the fresh cut on the back of it. “How’d you manage that?”
“Oh, uh, one of, one of the lightbulbs in the factory broke while I was-“ you start to stammer out, but you stop at the sight of your free hand as you gesture upwards toward the ceiling. You draw your other hand back from Heisenberg and inspect your upturned palms, both miraculously free of yesterday’s abrasions.
“Everything alright?” he asks, eyes narrowed.
“Hmm? Oh, yeah,” you recover, shaking away your incredulity. “I’m fine. One of the lightbulbs broke and bit me on its way down. It was nothing.” You wave him off as you start to gather up the animals’ water buckets and make for the back door.
“Uh-huh,” he draws out.
“What?” You stop, turning to face him. His brows are raised as he props himself up against the pitchfork, and you do your best to hide your admiration for both the casual pose and the thin sheen of sweat his scarred skin carried. He stands upright, leaning the tool against the frame of the stall, and slowly advances towards you.
“So everything is,” he waves his hand around, prompting you.
“Fine,” you answer too quickly.
“Fine,” he nods, sucking his teeth. “You want to know what I think?” He pushes his glasses up onto his head so that he might better stare you down.
You shrug your shoulders and nod in concession, all but withering under his gaze.
“I think that you’re keeping something from me.”
“Keeping something from you? I-” you step backward, caught off guard by both the sudden accusation and the prowling nature of his approach.
“And I think,” he continues, cutting you off as he drives you several steps further, “that you’re a terrible liar.”
“I-” You’re stopped in your tracks as you connect with something behind you, and the buckets clatter as you catch yourself.
“And I think,” he looms over you, trapping you against whatever was behind you, “we’re going to have to work on that.” He takes a moment to observe you – wide-eyed, pulse hammering in the hollow of your throat – and cocks his head so that it matches his smirk just so. The haughty look has your thoughts tapdancing the thin line between thrill and fear, and he jerks his chin behind you.
“The wheelbarrow, Y/N.”
You look over your shoulder at it, and he chuckles as your eyes reconnect again.
“Right,” you breathe, face aflame as you shuffle out of his way. He guides it back to the far pile and with his back turned to you, begins to fork the dirty straw into it. You clench your eyes shut.
Idiot. Of course he was going for the wheelbarrow. Have you never mucked stalls before?
“Now, I’m not going to force it out of you, but if you want to talk about it…” his words trail off as you slip out the back, pretending not to hear him.
You drop your face into your hand and groan as your mortification fully consumes you.
Talk about it? Like I haven’t given him enough reasons to think I’m crazy? What would I even tell him? “It’s nothing, really. I only scraped my hands running away from some monster that wanted to eat me, but look, it’s okay! I’m fine now!” You wave your free hand around in mock emphasis before letting it drop to your side.
Breath coming out in short huffs, you focus on the thin sliver of light that escapes the cracked door. It bathes the lush space in a soft amber glow, and you watch the moths flirt with the dust motes on their papery wings as you will your face to stop burning. When the worst of your embarrassment finally passes, you splash the dregs of the buckets out into the bushes and get to work drawing fresh water from the well.
What’s this about anyway? Could I have imagined the scrapes? You chew your lip as you second guess your memory, but you could practically still feel the sting of your palms against last night’s hot mug of tea while you turned the crank. You shake the idea from your head. Maybe there was something special about the pool I washed my hands in? Or maybe the scrapes weren’t as bad as I remember?
You send your muddled mind down with the last bucket and raise with it the only thought you were truly sure of.
I have to at least tell Heisenberg about the beast. What if it gets the animals? What if he runs into it? Your blood runs cold as you realize you’re out here alone, and your eyes sharpen as you search the trees closest to you. What if I see it again? Cool water sloshes over the sides of the buckets and lands at your feet as you hastily gather them up and return to the stable.
Some minutes later, Heisenberg reappears with the empty wheelbarrow and you shift the handle of the egg basket to the crook of your arm as you watch him put the tools back. He wipes the stray chaff from his front when he notices you anxiously wringing your hands in his direction.
“Look, doll, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”, he starts, but it was your turn to cut him off.
“I saw something yesterday.”
He stiffens at your words, eyes frantically searching your face as he prepares for the worst.
“What did you see?”
“It was like a…” Your hair stands up at the memory, and you struggle to find the words to describe the monster. “Like a big wolf, or a sick bear or something.” You furrow your brows in puzzlement. “But its eyes were all wrong.” Regret washes over you before the last sentence has completely left your mouth, and you watch as Heisenberg’s temples flex, his reply coming through his teeth.
“You were close enough to see its eyes?”
You clear your throat nervously.
“We may have had a run-in.”
“Run-in? Define, run-in,” he practically spits, taking a couple of steps towards you. “Are you alright? Did it hurt you?” The question is asked in earnest, sharp eyes already looking you over for injury. “Your hand?”
“I’m fine, really. That genuinely was just the lightbulb," you answer, holding your hands up. He lets his shoulders down a fraction. “But I think that maybe it’s what’s been attacking the village, and I’m worried it’s going to come for the animals.”
“I’ll see to it that it doesn’t.” His eyebrows knit together, eyes darkening underneath them. He doesn’t elaborate any further and trusting him at his word, you don’t ask him to. The two of you stand there facing one another, the agonizing beats of silence hanging between you like a taut rope; when you can’t stand to walk it anymore, you hold up the basket of eggs.
“Too early for breakfast, you think?”
He surrenders a small half-smile at the suggestion.
“Never too early for breakfast.”
You head for the doorway, pausing while Heisenberg breaks away to gather his belongings, and you find yourself feeling lighter somehow. It was as if the burden of the beast had been split between you. He stops abruptly, and you tilt your head around him to see what for when you lay eyes on the fowl nestled on top of his things. You scurry to scoop her up under your arm and dust a few stray feathers from his hat, doing your best to look apologetic for the two of you as you hand it over to him.
“Curses, like chickens, come home to roost,” he mutters as he places it on his head and busies himself with buttoning his shirt. The hen tilts her head and clucks in what you can only assume is affirmation, and nervous that he’ll ask to have her for dinner as restitution for the affront, you shush her and deposit her out into the yard. You face him in time to see him shake a few more feathers from his coat before he hangs it over his arm, and you press your lips together in wait.
“Perhaps I start by making them a coop,” he proposes, lazily scratching at his chin. You can already see the gears turning behind his eyes, and your worry melts just as quickly as it had arrived.
“I think they’d like that.”
The girls were already hard at work scratching at the newest addition to the compost pile, and you envy them their ignorance as the two of you head back to the factory. They didn’t have hags or beasts or secret cottages or freak curatives to consider; they only had to worry themselves with digging up breakfast and deciding on what kind of mischief they’d be getting up to during the day. You shake your head, wishing that you could be so lucky.
The morning sky is still as dark as the air is brisk, and you gaze upward, bathing your face in starlight. They wink at you as they stretch across the void-black heavens like a great glittering veil, and you can’t help but feel insignificant under the great expanse of their domain. In a short while, the sun would escape the small hours of the morning and claw back its sovereignty, but with each passing day, you could feel that its hold grew weaker. Night and the stars would soon reign king, and bring with them a bleak winter.
You stumble over something jutting out from the grass, and Heisenberg reaches out to steady you before you can fall on your face.
“Would you be careful?” His hands burn against your chilled skin as he rights you, and you shiver underneath his grasp. He releases you a little too quickly, and you pull at your rolled-up sleeves, suddenly very aware of how cold you actually were after the abrupt loss of warmth. “Don’t bother.” He shakes open his coat and draws it around you despite your protests, tugging it snugly around your shoulders. You’re hardly surprised that its smells like his cigar smoke, but there’s more to be found there – coppery notes, spicy liquors, the earthy sweetness of leather and vanilla, something like pepper. A sensual, bittersweet concoction. You want to drown in it.
His hands find his pockets, and he picks up his strides again, leaving you behind.
“C’mon, then,” he calls over his shoulder, and you puff out a breath you didn’t know you were holding before hurrying after him. You quickly catch back up to him and the two of you fall into step as the dark shape of the factory rises in the distance.
“What are you doing up anyhow?” he asks, looking down at you out from the corner of his eye.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you reply, voice not as steady as you’d have liked. It wasn’t a total lie. Sure, you might have gotten more had you not stayed up so late reading the journal you’d pinched from the cottage, but who knows how many more nightmares you’d have been subject to if you had? Better to have clambered out of bed and gotten a head start on the day than to have risked your dreams picking up where they’d left off. “You?”
“No luck here either.”
You nod, having figured as much.
“How’d your meeting go?” His head lolls in your direction, mouth pressed into a wry line as he glowers at you. “That good, huh?”
Guess I won’t be made privy to those goings-on. Fair enough.
You forego any further exchange of words until you reach the factory, preferring instead to savor the crunch of grass underfoot, the distant rush of water to your right, and the birds’ dawning chorus.
“How come the factory doors open for you, but I have to shove them open? Didn’t you say they were automatic?”
“In a way.” You can almost hear the smile in his voice. “I have a sort of sensor.”
“Can I see it?”
“Could I have one?”
You hear the outside doors clang shut as you shuffle down the hallway, and Heisenberg holds the door to the flat open, ushering you inside. You take one last discreet inhale of his coat as he removes it from your shoulders, and you both sit on the bottom step of the stairs while you unlace your respective boots. You bump his shoulder and he squints at you, suspicious of whatever dumb question you might deign to ask next.
“What do you want, kid?”
“What’d you think of the cabbage rolls last night?”
“Wish I’d been here to eat ‘em while they were still hot.”
You bank the terse compliment, and mentally remind yourself to thank the Duke again for the recipe. Heisenberg takes both sets of boots and tosses them near the door before following you into the kitchen.
“What’s all that?” you ask, eyeing the mountain of books on the table as you unwrap last night’s scones from their tea towel. He pulls the coffee canister down from the shelf and begins to unceremoniously dump grounds into the filter of the percolator. He doesn’t bother to look up from the task.
“I’d like for you to read them.”
You open the icebox and paw through it, looking for the butter and the elderberry jam you made with yesterday’s pilfered berries.
“Sure. Might I ask what for?” You had never turned down the chance to read a new book and you weren’t about to start now, but what was so special about these?
“I’m going to require more help with my work soon, but I need you to have a basic understanding of some things first."
“The ‘experimental’ half of the job listing, I take it?”
“The very same.”
You set everything down on the table and pick up the topmost tome.
“Principles and Theories of Hematology,” you read aloud, unable to keep curiosity from seeping into your tone.
"You'll start with that one." He takes his seat at the table, and you skim over a few more titles before raising a brow in his direction.
Microbiology? Neurology? Cybernetics?
"What exactly did you have in mind?”
He’s too preoccupied with attacking his scone with a jam-covered knife to meet your eyes, and you take the seat next to him, your side of the table being half-buried as it were.
“Eat,” he urges, handing you the knife. “You’ll see soon enough.”
Taglist: @artist-bby @ambiguous-g @honimello @butterflysist3r @spac3witch @xyinparadise @fantrashtic-emily @emmathedestroyer @eleeloo @strayczennies @reddbishop @cakelover365 @jackysenpaii @lilcocakitty
So my mom yesterday was helping me sew Angie's dress but... her leg broke off 💀
You can see my pajamas at the corner but oh well djshbdhs
So, a while back @words-etched-in-her-skin wrote me a little headcannon about Alcina's maiden wearing some...pretty short shorts 👀, and it was absolutely amazing! I wanted to try my hand in that same prompt. @words-etched-in-her-skin you and @demonofpuns have definitely inspired me to write, and to keep writing.
And of course....smut
For what like a lifetime, Summer returned again to the mountains of Romania. The trees and flowers were blooming, the birds were chirping, and for the first time in ages, an unbearable heatwave tore through the village. The inhabitants rid themselves of their winter gear, and replaced it with comfortable shirts, pants, and summer dresses-you too would do the same. As long as Alcina had been around, she really should've invested in an air conditioning unit; you knew her girls had to come first as they could not withstand freezing cold, or even cool temperatures, so you swallowed your pride and carried on.
You rummaged through your suitcase hoping to find a least a light cotton dress, thinking you packed everything, but to no avail. You did however find some shorts that you slept in whenever you got hot. They were a tad bit too short, but the castle was empty as everyone went home for the weekend, so you could skate pass some of the indecency these shorts possessed....or so you thought.
You put on your silk night shirt over the shorts and trekked downstairs to the kitchen for some food. You decided you wanted to make some pancakes; the only problem was that the flour was at the top of the pantry with all the other cooking and baking mixes; an inconvenience to you seeing as you were only 5'4. But pancakes were at the top of your priority today, and were going to have them. You grabbed one of the chairs and stood on its seat, stretching with all your might to reach. The further you stretched the more your shorts rode up, leaving a cool breeze on your derriere.
"Yikes! Thank god, no one is here to see this," you panted, tired from your excursion.
You tried reaching again when you heard Alcina's voice behind you.
"Well, what a lovely view I have this morning. Did you wear those for me, little one?"
"Oh, my gosh! A-Alcina! I didn't know you were already up. I thought I'd make myself breakfast and then hurry back to my room."
Alcina arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow and strode over towards you. Her eyes pierced your soul as she stared at you up and down, darkening with lust.
"No need to apologize, darling," she said as she leaned down, exposing her breasts to you.
"I must say, you look rather...delicious in those shorts. You have quite a beautiful body. Those legs, and that soft, pretty tummy of yours."
Your breath hitched as her hands grasped your hip and fiddled with the string on your shorts. She leaned in to whisper in your ear, voice dropping even lower,
"Your bottom is quite pretty, too! A naughty little minx you are for not wearing any underwear," she chuckled. "I like that...I like that very much."
She slid her hands down to grip your ass, which nearly caused you to pass out. She loved toying with her pets, before she utterly and completely wrecked them, and you were no exception. You looked back at her with stars in your eyes, completely forgetting about your hunger. Although, you were hungry for something else. Your arousal dripping from your shorts made it clear. She looked down at the growing spot and smiled.
"A lucky woman I am. A beautiful castle, beautiful powers, and a beautiful girl quivering before my very eyes."
With one quick motion, Alcina turned you around so that you were facing the counter, her large hands pinching and stroking your ass. You felt her grind on you a little and you nearly lost your mind. She pulled your shorts down as she bent you over placing kisses on the round fleshy skin, and upon your pussy lips. You felt that long, dexterous tongue tease your clit, but she would rather wait it out until you two were in bed before she went any further inside you.
"Please, Alci! I don't think I can hold on," you whimpered.
She kissed the dimples that resided on your lower back, which sent shivers up your spine.
"All good things come to those who wait, my little princess. You're such wanton little tramp, aren't you?" She reached up and tugged your hair. "Aren't you?"
"Oh, Mommy! Yes, Mommy!" You cried out.
"Good girl! So obedient... and you're all mine." When she licked your neck, your eyes rolled in the back of your head. You just wanted her to take you on the kitchen counter. Alcina smelling your growing arousal sighed.
"Alright, my little dessert, we shall go up to bed. But I insist that you keep the shorts on. They drive me absolutely wild, draga."
Alcina picked you up in her arms as she carried you bridal style to her chambers. It was going to be a fun, and utterly exhausting, weekend.
I love the "free camera" in Village so much, otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to see this side of Alcina. It truly is one of my favorite gifs of her. A shame you don't have "free camera" on PS4.
mistakes were made, specifically for my friend @dukeysquid check out their heise sick fic!!
Miss D and the Pallboys @lesbian-alcina-dimitrescu @askalcinadimitrescu
“Sister” piece to that last Heisenberg drawing I did
Finally finished her body!!!
I also just finished dying some fabric to make it look aged for her dress and I'm very nervous about sewing it 😅
Here's Angie laying on her soon to be dress
The only reason why they gave Heisenberg a dad’s bod is because a ripped Heisenberg would be too powerful. Like.
Imagine Lady Dimitrescu and the Heisenberg some fan artists have drawn…in the same fucking game. We are already attracted to the man as he is.
The world would have exploded.
Miranda: *has the lycans throw your unconscious body in front of the lords* Heisenberg, this one has been implanted with a cadou. You are to watch over them and have them help with your research.
Alcina: Mother Miranda, I must protest
Karl: of course you do
Alcina: Heisenberg always breaks the wards you give him. Plus look at the poor dear, if they wake up in his awful factory they'll be so frightened.
Miranda: they have electrical abilities similar to Heisenberg, so naturally he's the best fit for training them and, if need be, keeping them under control. You'll probably have to bleach their hair or shave their head to get rid of that obnoxious hair color.
At the factory
You: *wakes up*
Karl: sleeping beauty awakes
You: where am I?
Karl: *sighs and sits down in front of the bed he has you on and explains the situation*
You: why does she want you to cut my hair?
Karl: she has a bug up her ass about the color
You: aw, but I like this color
Karl: Not going to lie, I like it as well, I may even cut a piece of it to keep
You: ooh you're one of THOSE men
You: you have a knife?
Karl: *hands you one*
You: *cuts off a lock of hair and hands it to him* here for your collection
Karl: *understand exactly what you meant but takes the hair none the less while mocking you* here for your collection
You: *smirks at him*
Karl: get the fuck up and let's go you little smart ass
You: go where?
Karl: we have work to do
You:. You're letting me keep my hair?
Karl: for now, now hurry up.
Got a little over excited over the summer for my upcoming lip sync project and snagged a bit of the Duke’s dialogue, but I can’t do it for class so I’ll post my Cat Duke doodles!
Having trauma is the worst because it fucks up every area of your life, & like no one tries to tread carefully or feels remotely sorry when they trigger it or make it wildly worse, even when they know it exists.
Do you ever feel like one of Donna’s dolls in the snow bc same