Did I need help from certain people (@strange-n-unbluusual) for certain parts of this, including the title? Yes!
Am I dipping my toe into a different fandom? Maaaaybe.
NSFW. Karl Heisenberg/f!reader.
Enjoy!
It was rare, but even Lord Heisenberg could relax occasionally.
That was the case now, with him lounging in a careless manspread on a ratty sofa, pulling on a cigar. Thin curls of smoke twisted above him, and he watched them lazily.
“I’m bored,” you dared to whine.
This could backfire. If he didn’t want to deal with you, you might end up encased in scrap and left to think about how you interrupted him when he was resting. On the other hand, if he was in a benevolent mood, it could definitely work to your favor and alleviate your tedium.
“Bored, eh?” the Lord repeated.
“Yes. Will you let me have a smoke?”
He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and examined it, like he wasn’t quite sure what it was or how it got there. Without lowering it, he lifted his eyes and focused on you standing a few feet away. His eyes, not hidden by his dark glasses or shadowed by the brim of his hat, were pale. Their color had surprised you, the first time you’d seen them.
“Bring me my hammer,” he mused, “and I’ll let you have a drag.”
You cocked your eyebrow at him. “A challenge? Just for a smoke?”
The Lord stuck the cigar back between his lips because he knew you couldn’t help watching his mouth. “Let’s see how badly you want it, buttercup,” he replied, smoke spilling out around the words.
A shiver went though you and settled between your legs. He knew you liked the pet name, and what it did to you--
With a sharp turn on your heel, you marched over to his oversized, ridiculous hammer. Once, when he was the most mellow you’d ever seen him because he finally came after you’d edged him an impossibly long time, you’d made a dry comment comparing his favored weapon to his favored body part. He’d actually laughed at that. Unlike what passed as his typical laughter: sarcastic, studded with superiority, he’d chuckled from the bottom of his lungs. The low timber of his true amusement had sent shivers down your spine, in a good way.
You felt a little superior yourself, being one of the only ones he allowed to sass him.
In front of his hammer on the floor, however, you silently despaired. There was no way you were going to be able to heft this thing. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained . . .
First you simply attemped to pick it up by the handle, as it was intended. Starting from the end furthest from the head of the hammer, you tested it to see if that was all it would need.
No way.
Slowly you moved your way up the handle, readjusting your grip each time to be tighter and tighter. Your hands were soon streaked with rust, which left orange streaks on your skirt when you rubbed your palms there to dry the sweat on them. Why was is always so hot in here?! That was a dumb question that Lord Heisenberg had already answered for you: the furnaces ran day and night to keep the factory’s production at a steady pace.
You shook your head to loosen the stray thoughts that had weasled their way in. You needed to focus. Mostly what the movement did was free some of your hair from the tie it’d been held back by. You blew at it from the corner of your mouth when it fell in front of your eyes.
One last chance to pick this thing up by the handle. Wiping your hands dry again, you carefully placed them, one underneath the grip right below the head, one on top--like that was the trick to this--and, after taking in a large breath, letting it out, and filling your lungs again, you made another attempt to pick it up.
You failed.
From behind you, Lord Heisenberg chuckled in that low tone that made you weak. In your determination to lift his hammer, you’d managed to block him out completely.
“Nice try, buttercup,” he praised lightly.
The barest tinge of sarcasm was there too, and you flicked a glare back at him as you huffed. “I’m not done yet!”
Amusement crossed his face. “Then by all means . . .”
He waved the cigar between his fingers back at his hammer, and your task.
With another huff, you turned back to it. The problem was the head of the hammer. Welded together of random scrap metal and gears, it most likely weighed more than you did. You walked around it, studying it carefully, deliberately ignoring the man still on the couch watching you.
There were plenty of handholds here, and it was solid, which meant you weren’t concerned you were going to lose a finger if you grabbed it wrong and the metal shifted inside. Of course, the Lord of House Heisenberg could make that happen, but he seemed so entertained by your determination that you believed it unlikely he’d maim you. For another moment you considered your options of how to lift it and win.
A lever? Would he consider that cheating, or would he be pleased you were innovative? You decided not to risk it, and besides, there was nothing here in his private room that you could use to wedge under it and try to rock it upright. He’d probably say it wasn’t a victory anyway, claiming he expected you to lift it, not just knock it over.
So you just went back to doing what you’d done before: putting your hands on it and trying to hoist it by sheer strength alone. First you tried it from the side opposite the handle. No luck, and at the Lord’s continued chuckle you waved it off, saying,
“That was dumb. The handle of this thing was working against me.”
He laughed out loud at that dismissive, obviously untruthful, statement. You ignored him.
You moved so you were facing him, found new fingerholds in the gears on the surface, and tried again. Still nothing. This hammer had either been welded to the ground, or you were as unworthy to hold it as you would be lifting Mjöllnir.
One last attempt, and you were admitting a pouting defeat.
This time you moved around the tool again, so Lord Heisenberg was at your back. Crouching, you twisted your skirt to your hips as if that had been the whole problem holding you back all along, and let your hands skim the irregular surface of the head for a good grip. Once you’d found some that seemed like they would work best, you took a breath and lifted.
Using your legs, straining till beads of sweat erupted on your exposed skin, you gave it your best attempt yet. It was moving! Was it moving? It had to be moving--your arms shook with the effort and you groaned--
You were grabbed from behind.
“You fuckin’ knew what you were doin’, didn’t you buttercup?” Lord Heisenberg growled in your ear. “Teasin’ me like this. Strugglin’, liftin’ your skirt like a flirt, knowin’ I like to see you sweat--”
It was an awkward position he’d caught you in, squatting between him and this tool. and now off balance. You dared trying to rock backwards and reaching one hand behind you to his thigh and waist, to be supported more by him, but he smacked your hand lightly away to discourage that, and moved back himself. It hadn’t been quick enough to prevent you from dragging your fingertips over his crotch and feeling the hardness behind his fly., however.
Still, you stumbled over a reply. “N-no, my Lord, I, I--”
“Shhhh,” he hissed in your ear, making you shudder.
You stopped trying to answer him.
“Lean forward,” he ordered, with just as much quiet command as shushing you.
Complying, you leaned over the lumpy surface of the tool you’d been trying to heft to prove what, exactly? It was difficult to remember, when Lord Heisenberg was whispering in your ear and was shifting behind you while doing something with his clothing. The metal of the hammer dug into your chest, so you risked keeping yourself slightly raised so your tits weren’t compressed as much. Even the quick kiss of cool metal through your thin shirt had tightened your nipples.
The sounds of the clink of a metal belt buckle and faint whisper of a fly coming undone followed by the clear rustling of fabric being pushed down, filled the air. Lord Heisenberg finally repositioned himself behind you again. His calloused hands slipped up the backs of your thighs, and rucked your disheveled skirt up to your waist and over your back, exposing your ass.
You trembled and a faint moan slipped from your mouth.
He caressed the soft skin of your ass for a moment.
“No panties,” he announced, unnecessarily. “You did have a naughty plan in mind, didn’t you buttercup?”
You remained silent, muzzled in indecision because no, but now yes.
The Lord leaned forward over you again, to whisper in your ear, “Cocktease.”
You could feel his cock press against your legs. You held your breath.
“Widen ‘em,” he ordered, and once again, you could do nothing but comply. You spread your legs and arched your back, waiting for what you knew came next.
Even as he straightened back up again, Lord Heisenberg’s fingers continued to stroking you for a moment, You waited for a smack to your ass that never happened. Just as you relaxed and let the breath you’d been holding out, he spit, making you jump as the wet landed right along the crack of your ass, and slid its way down to your pussy.
Sweat would provide some lubrication too, and sometimes he liked it when there hadn’t been a lot of foreplay--“Friction isn’t great for machines, buttercup, but it’s fucking divine on my cock,” he’d told you more than once--but he spat again, missing you this time. The distinctive sound of him stroking his cock made you tremble in anticipation, and when he shuffled forward between your knees you waited with bated breath once more.
The initial stretch of the head of his cock in your cunt made you whine in a much different way than you’d talked to him at the beginning of this. You panted, waiting for a slow thrust so he could feel every bit of you opening under him, but once again he surprised you and popped his hips forward, driving his cock fully into you in one movement.
You cried out as your body was filled.
Lord Heisenberg groaned too.
The pace he set was brutal, snapping his pelvis in sharp, calculated thrusts. The points of his hips slammed against your ass, and if you hadn’t needed to support yourself with both arms, you could have reached back between your legs to cup his balls instead of letting them slap against your pussy. Then again, you might not have touched them, because they also slapped your clit and that sent additional bliss though your belly.
Once he’d gotten into a rhythm that suited him, the Lord leaned over you again. It became obvious he hadn't discarded his shirt, but taht was okay, you were still wearing yours too. His weight pressed you into the hammer, making your nipples ache, but you didn’t dare complain. When his breath exploded into your ear in time with his thrusts, you relinquished your handhold and wrapped your arm around his head, keeping him close as he continued to fuck you.
Cries dissolved into mewls as he continued. Your cunt spasmed around his cock, which made him groan at the additional tightness, so you strove to squeeze him as best you could.
“You’re a fuckin’ angel, buttercup, takin’ my cock like this--” he grunted against the side of your neck. “A . . . fuckin’ . . . angel--”
His truncated sentence was cut short as his hips juddered out of rhythm. There was a pregnant pause, and then with one final, heavy thrust that ended with him balls’ deep in you, he came. That last movement scooted the tool you were draped over several inches across the floor dragging you with it, leaving you in a slightly painful position stretched out under him. As hard as you’d worked to squeeze yourself around his cock, all that effort now went into not bending your spine too far backward with his weight atop you.
The Lord took a few moments to catch his breath. His cock continued to twitch inside you. After he’d collected himself, he pushed up and away. As your own hips were allowed to relax and you also straightened upright again, his come leaked out of you, painting the insides of your thighs.
Lord Heisenberg got to his feet, leaving the trousers he hadn’t discarded completely hang open. His cock was slick and a residual bead of semen welled at the tip; if he wanted, you’d shuffle forward and clean him off--
Instead, he held out his hand and helped you up too, taking you back to the sofa. The cigar he’d set aside was still smoldering in an ashtray; he plucked it back up but instead of putting it back to his lips, he held it invitingly in front of your face.
“Looks like you won,” he said.
Your brow furrowed as you looked between the cigar and his face. “My Lord, I didn’t bring you your hammer . . .”
“But you managed to move it. That’s better than I expected, buttercup.”
The amusement was back in his pale eyes, and you knew better than to argue any more. With a smile like this was exactly the outcome you’d wanted, you plucked the cigar from his fingers and took a drag on it. You grinned more widely, and holding the smoke in your lungs, you stretched upward to kiss him.
I would like it known, for the record, that I am not in the midst of a fandom change. I still consider myself in the Beetlejuice and School of Rock fandoms, but sometimes something new catches the muse's attention.
Who am I to argue with him?
This is 100% courtesy of our discord server. We're all sorts of monster fuckers there, not just dead guys and scary clowns. Thanks to all of you who've put up with my questions about this character. You know who you are.
@clairjohnson @go-commander-kim @mrs-geuse @strange-n-unbluusual
Mature. Probably OOC Karl Heisenberg x reader
Enjoy . . .
Heisenberg was a genius. He was ambitious and driven. He was also a lazy bastard, sometimes.
Case in point: tinkering with some mechanical monstrosity, muttering half under his breath about something you couldn’t quite make out, and needing a tool on the workbench to your left. Instead of walking the six steps it took to pick it up, he threw out his hand and willed the screwdriver to him. Several items on the bench moved too. Some clattered to the floor.
You, sitting quietly because you’d learned that was safer--not safest, because safest didn’t exist in this place--didn’t move as the screwdriver flew passed your head. You didn’t make a noise even when Heisenberg’s power slightly lifted your arms; he’d fitted your wrists and ankles with makeshift, scrap metal manacles, so he could position your body anyway he wanted, when he wanted. He’d only recently removed the brace on your jaw once you’d proved you wouldn’t bite his dick when it was in your mouth, and you didn’t want to lose the minute freedom you’d been granted.
You couldn’t, however, completely contain a slight gasp.
From inside the machine, Heisenberg cocked his head. You bit your lips. He straightened up and spun on you.
“What was that, little pet?” he asked. His voice was soft. You knew that was deceptive.
“N-nothing,” you stuttered, quickly tacking on a, “sir.”
The steps he refused to take for his tool were now taken to loom over you. You lifted your chin. He preferred it when you looked in his face so you could see your own reflection in his dark glasses and know what he saw too.
“That didn’t sound like nothing,” he mused.
A flick of his fingers and your right arm was anchored to the chair’s metal arm. Then your left arm suffered the same. Your legs, however, weren’t pinned to the metal he’d affixed to the chair’s legs; they were spread and his power over metal kept them held to things further away.
Your pelvis was still on the chair seat. He clucked his tongue and told you to scoot forward. You complied until your ass was off the edge of the seat, how you’d learned he liked it, even as it put a strain on your back.
“So, pet, what was it?” he asked, moving his hand slowly, idly, as if simply stretching and examining his fingers.
He’d never undressed you. Every time he’d done anything to you, he’d simply exposed the parts he wanted access to, and stuck whatever part he wanted into them. It’d been done often enough that the taste of sweat undercut with motor oil didn’t even make you gag any more.
What he’d never done because he’d apparently thought nothing of it, was strip you completely. His little, less than accurate demand that his screwdriver come to him spread a net over the general area, and you’d been caught in it too. It’d tugged on the thin metal pierced through your nipples, and you’d be unable to muzzle the flick of pleasure it’d given you.
Examining you closely, Heisenberg dragged his hand downward in front of you without touching you at all. Upper mid-torso, he stopped and palm up, curled his fingers as if beckoning you closer.
Under your shirt, your piercings sang at the invisible tug and another groan passed your lips. Even when the stimulation stopped, your nipples remained tight peaks.
Heisenberg smiled, showing too many teeth. “You never told me you had something under there I could play with. You think that's good, pet? Wait till I get my mouth on them. You’re gonna see stars.”
You couldn’t deny his vaguely ominous statement excited you.
I pretend to be complex and clever but in reality, nothing has ever made me laugh harder than those bad Chinese subtitles from the bootleg Lord of the Rings DVDs. Tears streaming down my face, core aching, slowly suffocating because I’m laughing too hard.
titsay
ellievsbear
germansingergirl
tangentwithtanner
turnnoffyourmind
gamechangershow
