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i do not write things that make me uncomfortable. there aren't many things that do, but i do not write incest, characters that are minors (including sfw, i don't do 'aged up'), and i don't write about s/a.
Headcanons about Heisenberg being a gross old man and indulging in scent and marking kinks.
(I think Heisenberg should have some werewolf/lycan traits. So these kinks do play into that.)
Pairings:
Karl Heisenberg x Masc!Reader
Warnings:
Sexually explicit (obviously), scent kink, marking kink, biting (hard enough to leave scars), stealing clothing to jerk off with, sexualization of sweat/body odor, obsessive behaviors
The reader is written as transmasc. I'm not overly descriptive, but the reader is referred to in masculine and neutral terms.
Wordcount:
1453
…
Heisenberg is extremely possessive and will go great lengths to claim you. He wants to make it clear that you are his and his alone.
It starts small and relatively tame. Keeping tabs on you, but rarely directly interfering. Lingering in the background to make his presence known. Few would dare to cross one of the four lords after all, his very existence is often enough.
Sporadically, he’ll come up behind you and pull you against his chest. One hand firmly planted on your hip, while the other grabs your jaw to tilt your head and allow easy access to your neck.
He’s rough, fingertips leaving a lasting impression while he clumsily covers your neck in hickeys. Affection is still foreign to him.
The assortment of bruises only serves as proof of how badly he wants to love you, even if he doesn’t know how at first. Not unlike a rescue dog still learning how to be gentle.
But as time passes, he grows bolder. Biting hard enough to leave permanent marks, preferably in places everyone can see. His favorite “love bite,” as he calls it, is the perfect impression of his fangs encircling your bicep.
Heisenberg had roughly pinned you against a wall, calloused hand wrapped around your throat. Not enough pressure to choke you, but enough to get the point across. You were not allowed to escape. You had no choice but to submit to his whims.
Something had upset him. Maybe you strayed too far from him for too long. Maybe one of the other lords tried to take you from him. The exact details didn’t matter; he was beyond reason. The fear of losing you quickly transformed into fury. Any rational thought was entirely overtaken by instinct.
He snapped forward, catching your arm in his mouth, and he clamped down without hesitation. His sharp, wolf-like fangs pierced your skin with ease. It hurt, of course, but the second your blood dripped onto his tongue, he closed his eyes and moaned into the bite. That alone was enough to dull the pain.
His grip softened, hand drifting away from your throat to caress your jawline. His touch was oddly gentle in contrast to the vice-like grip his jaws held you in. As if he were torn between the anger that’s ruled his life and the reverence he holds only for you.
His frenzied need to claim you was soon satiated. But the damage was done. And now, you wear a badass scar that shows who you belong to.
Whenever you catch Heisenberg staring at the scar, you can see a combination of satisfaction and regret in his gaze.
And it doesn’t take long for you to figure out just how far his obsession with you goes.
You start to notice certain articles of clothing disappear over time. It’s little things at first, and infrequent enough to brush it off.
But Heisenberg has no shame. In fact, he wants you to catch him.
Soon, you begin finding said missing clothing stashed around his factory. Only now adorned with various stains. You can put two and two together.
Eventually, you catch him in the act.
You find him hunched over a table in the foundry. He’s wearing a dirty white tank top, soaked with sweat and streaked with oil stains. This, in and of itself, isn’t an odd sight. But the noises he was making certainly caught your attention.
Heisenberg is panting and groaning softly, needy sounds from deep in his throat that paint a picture of desperation. Evidently making no great effort to hide what he’s up to.
Muscular, slicked in sweat, and decorated in scars. Truly a sight to marvel at. The way his back muscles ripple in sync with the movement of his arm is mesmerizing in a way.
And when you move closer? He has the audacity to laugh and invite you to watch.
“I was wondering when you’d catch on. Just sit back and enjoy the show, pretty boy.”
Heisenberg turns to face you. A pair of your boxers in his left hand and his heavy cock in his right.
Precum is already streaming from his tip, coating his dick and hand in a copious amount of fluid. Effectively acting as a lubricant with which he’s jerking himself off. The slick sounds that follow are downright obscene.
He’s stroking himself at an almost casual pace. Not chasing his release, but rather, prioritizing the languid display he’s putting on for you.
He maintains heavy eye contact the entire time. Even as he brings your boxers to his face and inhales your scent. Huffing whatever residual musk he can find. His cock twitches in response, and he picks up the pace.
When he speaks up again, it’s with a low whine as his movements begin to stutter.
“As much as I love your scent, you need to smell more like me.”
And just like that, he’s cumming. Even he looks startled at how abrupt his release is, and he clumsily readjusts to spill the rest of his load into the pair of your boxers.
“Ah— fuck.”
He recovers quickly, and a smirk spreads across his face while he admires the mess he made. His hand, your underwear, and the floor are all splattered with various amounts of cum.
“I suppose you can have these back now. You can thank me later.”
I doubt Heisenberg would care about bathing regularly. He gets too wrapped up in his work. While engrossed in a project, he barely eats or sleeps, much less bothers with personal hygiene.
So if you’re into a bit of musk and engine grease? Great! If not, you could probably convince him to bathe more often if you offer to join him. Or just blast him with a garden hose on occasion until he gets the point.
However, when it comes to your bathing habits, Heisenberg absolutely cares. Those sharp senses of his miss nothing. And he fucking loves your natural scent.
What you consider basic personal hygiene and self-care, he considers a nuisance. Your deodorant and cologne mask your body odor. Your frequent showers/baths rob him of the opportunity to taste your sweat. And your clean clothes carry no trace of the previous day's hard work. (Hence why he’s resorted to stealing your dirty laundry.)
Sooner or later, he decides he’s had enough.
After a long day of helping him around the factory, you wander off to clean up for the night, but he quickly intercepts.
“And just where do you think you’re going?”
His tone is almost accusatory, as if you’ve done something wrong.
“I could lend you a hand this time.”
He steps in front of you and places a hand flat against your chest. Something about his expression and the way he stopped you in your tracks gives you the sense he wasn’t asking.
At this point, it’s no surprise when he abruptly cages you against the nearest wall. You’ve grown used to how his muscular form dwarfs yours, and how he uses his size and stature to his advantage. Not that you’re complaining.
His eyes are practically glowing with excitement as he starts to tear your clothes off with all the grace of a rabid animal.
Once you’re shirtless, his left hand grips both of your wrists and pins them above your head. And then, before you can even think about resisting, he shoves his face into your armpit and inhales sharply. Taking in as much of your concentrated scent as possible.
He shivers, his voice lowering to something close to a growl.
“Heh— finally.”
He’s immediately hard. Because of course he is.
Heisenberg wastes no time; he’s palming his erection through his pants with his free hand while he savors your scent. But the greedy bastard can’t get enough. He needs more.
So the obvious solution is for him to start licking up the sweat dripping down your bare chest. Any protests fall on deaf ears. He’s far too enraptured with you to care about little things like dignity.
The taste of your sweat elicits a heady whine from him. He releases your wrists and trails his hands down your sides as he lowers himself to his knees. Any pretenses of control were quickly forgotten.
Oh, now this is downright pathetic. But what a sight to behold.
You reach down and lightly comb your fingers through his hair, prompting him to look up and meet your gaze. He’s practically drooling while he nuzzles your happy trail.
It’s funny how quickly the dynamic between you can change. Just moments ago, he was dominantly pinning you against the nearest wall. But now? He’s at your mercy, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he started begging.
“my father is a boy and my mother is a girl so i’m mixed” is the funniest possible response to someone asking your gender and it came from 6’5 Viking footballer and notable weird little guy Erling Haaland on a Snapchat
