hi, i'm virgil. sometimes i write stuff. main blog is fusrodie. i write for: dragon age, elder scrolls, fallout and resident evil. if you'd like to request something, askbox is always open!
currently really invested in resident evil, but I also write for dragon age, elder scrolls and fallout. I write a little bit of everything, genre-wise, though writing angst is by far what I enjoy the most. let me hurt your faves <3
wanna skip straight to the writing tag? here it is!
I’m always open to ideas and I also intend on posting headcanons and reblogging ask memes/prompts on this blog. feel free to reblog things to your heart’s content, even if you don’t want to send a prompt or expand on an idea. everything will be tagged accordingly, and I also don’t mind tagging triggers and other things, just drop me a message.
I’ll write for basically any ship if the idea strikes the fancy. my only no-no is m/m ships, which I don’t feel comfortable writing for. everything else is fair game!
hello, yes. fresh start. new people! fewer sideblogs. fewer fucks to give! tumblr has the new account on probation so i'll make a post on this one too.
i'm looking for new blogs to follow at the new account! if you fancy you can follow the new blog (it's still a lil empty.)
here
while we're at it, if you post, or create, or reblog, or vibe with
resident evil
elder scrolls/fallout/bethesda games in general
dragon age/mass effect
red dead redemption
stardew valley
rpgs
control, vtm, silent hill, metro, horror and horror-ish games in general
original character stuff for any of those fandoms
i'd love it if you could give this post a like so i can check out your blog and follow from the new account! if you could reblog for your mutuals who don't peruse the tags to see it, too, i'd be most appreciative (❁´◡`❁) see you on the other side!
Something I’ve always been a bit confused about regarding Heisenberg is his age. Is he not immortal like the others? Because if Miranda brought him to the village as a child (as the wiki states) surly that would mean he wasn’t turned for like, what 40 odd years? He looks to me like he’s at least in his early 50’s and we know that immortality will cause the person to remain the age they are upon turning (as is the case with Alcina). So did Miranda not bother using him in mold related experiments until he was, well, old(er)?
I'm going through another playthrough, so I'm going to keep an eye on the files, but I don't recall anything in the game confirming Karl's age when he was caught or turned. there is a file that mentions Alcina was 44, if I'm not mistaken, and another that says Bernadette Beneviento was 10. would make sense if Heisenberg too was experimented on as a child, but we don't know for sure. it is implied that Moreau was not a kid, for example, considering he has sea related tattoos, so it's possible that Heisenberg was an adult as well.
personally, my headcanon is that their aging or not is related to cadou maturity rather than the age they were turned. as the parasite reaches maturity, your mutations stabilize and you stop aging. Moreau's never fully stabilized but instead of aging my boy just turned into something else entirely. Alcina's mutation is described as the "most favorable", which I take to mean cadou worked quickly, so she didn't age much past that. there is nothing explicitly saying that the lords don't age aside from Alcina, though I'm inclined to believe they don't by Heisenberg saying that he spent decades serving Miranda.
interesting to mention that for all we know, Donna's age would match with what little we know of her backstory though, so there is actually a possibility she's not immortal at all. Claudia died in 1996 and dev commentary says her parents committed suicide when she was a child. the game happens in 2021, so she could just be in her 30s and aging normally.
I'm excited to see what they'll do with the dlcs, but until then, juicy headcanon material here lol
I will never be over the dumbass way Ethan goes under the barbed wire in the intro sequence.
some of y'all (Ethan) never ducked under barbed wire to sneak into the neighboring property to steal some fruit or to run away from really angry farm animals and it shows
Kieran, the dragonborn, awakens after his first night as one of Hircine's chosen.
prompt taken from this generator here- "Got something to say?" / "That's a shamefully absurd way to go around in public."
mostly SFW, mentions blood/gore, violence and nudity. :) around 850 words.
Midnight, moonlight, surrounded by death.
It would have been almost romantic in the most macabre of ways, eyes towards the sky when he woke, metallic taste in his mouth that is becoming all too familiar. Blood, thick and heavy and not at all his, a chunk of something stuck between his teeth, a strand of dirty copper hair wedged on his eyelashes and poking his eyeball. The night is silent but his mind raves, deep down he knows without meaning to, knows what he has done, knows he will not be able to lay on his back watching the stars forever. Knows he will have to face it eventually, the mangled body laying next to him in an awkward twist, a chunk of flesh missing where the neck should be, claw marks that tore the torso open, strong hands (paws?) pulling it apart like one rips a piece of paper.
Metal dagger burns against his skin when he rises, the shape of the blade leaving its mark on the palm of his hand. No choice, he tells himself, him or me, silver pointed right at his heart, face flushed with anger, an incriminating pendant around the neck, a cry for destruction of monsters like him. He meant to tell him, he had no choice in this, had no say in what he had become, but no words come out of his mouth, nothing but the deafening roar half wolf and half man, teeth sharp and ready, tongue rolling out to lick his lips but finding fur. He has never been good with words, always too crass and simple, and this time they have been taken from him regardless.
He plucks the amulet away from the gory mess, a memento to feast his eyes upon, so shiny and well polished, bloody as it stands, but the lake is not far and he pockets it before continuing. Every muscle aches as he rises to stand on two feet, flesh seeming to rearrange itself on his back, fur giving way to skin, taut and slick with perspiration. There is a moment of panic as he tries to figure out if something is missing, if something is different, if his teeth have turned to fangs and his nails to claws. He is sure there is more hair than usual, just about everywhere, his chest and his belly and between his legs - between his legs, his cock is still there, a relief, truly, the one fun thing he still had in his miserable life. Excited to be here, it seems, excited to be alive, he smirks towards it with a promise of getting it wet, later, when he is not naked as a newborn in the woods of Falkreath. It seems… Bigger, why was it bigger? Why was he bigger, thighs and ribs and shoulders impossibly wider like he had eaten for three and worked for four, his had never been a lithe frame to begin with, but at this rate he would have trouble fitting through doors. Fingers crossed this was a one time change, body adapting to the sinister gift of the Prince of the Hunt.
The guard sees him approach from afar despite the dimness of the torchlight, engulfed as it was by darkness, hand resting uneasy at the pommel of the sword to answer whatever violence came in kind. He can see the terror in the poor man’s eyes with every step he takes closer, his body eclipsing the hanging lantern light, can see the trembling of his fingers as he tries to pull the blade from its sheath but fails in his fear. He is surprised the poor guardsman has not broken into a sprint when he straightened his back to adjust his posture, more than a good head taller than his fellow Nord and twice as wide.
“Got something to say?” Kieran snarls, voice coarse, feels like there is a ball of hair stuck in the back of his throat. For all he knows, might just be.
“Well now,” the guard recoils, takes a step back but puffs his chest, suddenly aware that there is no need to be afraid, his face a familiar one, his deeds well-known. “Shamefully absurd way to go around in public, is it not?”
There is a moment of tense silence and brief examination, intimidating but alluring, awful but tempting. Kieran is the first to chuckle and soon the nervous guardsman follows along, but his laughter dies down quick when a heavy hand comes rest on his shoulder.
“Well now,” the mimicry makes the officer’s knees shake. “No need to be jealous. You ask nicely, I might just give you some.” A reassuring pat later and Kieran has resumed his march, through the main road that leads up to Riverwood, pained but proud, wishing desperately to tumble down on his bedroll and be done with this bloody night.
He pretends not to notice how the guard has turned his head around to take a good look at his behind, but somehow knows he will be the talk of the town come morning, and if he were too be honest, it does not sound too bad.
Welp, here I am participating in my first WIP Wednesday thanks to the wonderful @rakimaiirisa!! Just a little disclaimer before I get started, I am dyslexic so there will probably never be a single thing I post that doesn’t have some sort of error. Regardless, I enjoy writing and (though it isn’t the only goal) I hope y’all are able to enjoy what I make too!
I will also be tagging @kloud, @hungover-dovahkiin, @jessaryss, @reachfolk, and @korvanjund! Absolutely no pressure, lovelies! But if you didn’t get tagged and would like to do this, please consider yourself as such by me! Also when trying to tag people I realized I hardly know anyone who writes fics so please let me know if y’all do because I’d love to give y’all a follow and tag you in stuff!
I currently do not have a title for this WIP, but it is possibly gonna be my first multi chapter work that I have ever made staring my oc Bealka Spear-Bane, Kaidan, and their merry band of single brain cells!
been wanting to write a oneshot/drabble/something between writing full sized chapters, in particular stuff with more action than feelings so i can get some practice in.
sooooo, anyone have anything that tickles their fancy they'd like to request?
hi yes I have restarted my fourth playthrough because I got my hands on a snazzy “remove text from photo mode” mod. now screens are beeyootiful and with no capcom text. gonna use them for wallpapers this game’s so pretty. ANYWAY
was taking a stroll down in castle dimitrescu again. the armchair Alcina’s sitting on when Ethan is brought in is pretty damaged. gashes and blood everywhere. wonder if they sit people here to uh, taste?
speaking of taste, into the tasting room we go to find...... baby birds???
but wait that’s not the best part. I’d missed this in all my other playthroughs somehow but as you’re making your way down to the war room
excuse me ma’am is that a hand coming out of that barrel??
So was Alcina and the girls starving inside that castle since they were living off flesh and blood? All the maids were killed off while there was barely anyone alive in the village (plus the remaining survivors all die in Luiza’s house) So what were they eating? Yea it’s possible they could have ate animal flesh since we do see livestock running around in the village but I would imagine their primary food source was human. And I doubt they had any to save for later because how would they keep it fresh? There’s no freezer in the castle because the daughters can’t withstand negative temperature.
So were they being provided food at all? Or were they slowly starving to death in that big death prone castle (I say death prone because there’s so many cracks within the castle that can allow the cold to draft in, and like others say ain’t no way Alcina would have let that happen when she knows the girls could die) And also, if they was storing blood in barrels it wouldn’t last long since blood expires in 42 days. So it wouldn’t really last the entirety of the year or winter when everything warmed up
I'm glad you made this post because it's something I've been wondering a lot too while planning my new fic.
My thoughts:
- The village doesn't appear to be a big place. During all these decades Alcina and her daughters were alive, they'd have to kill the villagers very often. Let's also remember Miranda also used the villagers for her experiments. The population would've been extinct in a very short time.
- Right when Ethan enters the castle, there's a file with Alcina's schedule. It shows there's someone named 'Rednic' that delivered her one man and three woman. Possibly to have their blood and flesh consumed. It makes me think these people were captured outside the village.
The meeting took place about one month before the events of the game. That could mean they consumed one human each week.
- For Alcina, we can see some information regarding the feeding matter on her medical report:
If she doesn't feed on human flesh and blood, she loses her regeneration properties. What means she'd probably be affected by her blood disease and possibly die (?).
- Now for the girls, I've seen a lot of discussion. Do they really need human flesh and blood to live or it's an habit they acquired from their mom? In my opinion, they would survive for a certain period without blood, probably more than Alcina herself. Maybe they'd lose their regeneration properties and/or their abilities of turning into flies only, but I don't think they'd die, at least not so fast.
- Now my question is: Who the hell is Rednic??? This is why we need a Dimitrescu family DLC ASAP.
Shit I didn’t even know there’s a person named Rednic doing deliveries. This makes me wonder if Miranda knew or was this being done in secret? We really need a dlc on the family
Ethan arrived during a very singular moment - Miranda was doing the ritual and for reasons? she unleashed the lycans on the village. we are led to believe the villagers kind of expected it, in the house where we see the old lady for the first time we find a file saying “may the lycans come and feast on our flesh”. now, this doesn’t answer how Miranda kept the population stable while experimenting on them, but it explains why we don’t see many villagers around. some other things to consider: there are some parts of the village, like big open fields next to the fallow plot, which we cannot explore. some roads are blocked too. there is also the part of the village Moreau drowned but I’m not entirely sure whether that’s old news or not. so I think the village was sizeable enough for them all to have a nice supply, but we don’t have access to it because of engine/game constraints. considering there were roads before the lycans blocked them, abducting foreigners is also a possibility.
ah, we should also keep in mind that everything Ethan did was within the span of one day. man just steamrolled that village. so it wouldn’t be enough time for them to be starving, but it does leave the question of what would happen afterwards. Miranda probably didn’t intend to leave them alive regardless.
onto the Dimitrescu: I suspect Rednic was the person living in the shack you find after you defeat Lady D. you find a note called “Craftsman’s Note” that says the item requested was finished. does not sound totally legal by Miranda’s rules, so it would make sense if Rednic was the guy you go to to get your hands on stuff you wouldn’t normally get. but this is very much conjecture on my end.
inside the castle, we find notes written by maids and the grand chambermaid, which means that there were staff working there regularly. my guess would be that when Miranda gave the order to purge the villagers, she meant all villagers, staff included. that a woman lived long enough to become grand chambermaid means they didn’t kill them straight away, and it was probably very hush hush. you disappear if you ask too many questions or you’ve seen too much. keep your mouth shut and your head down and you live.
as for the daughters, I do think they have the same needs as Alcina; we have some indication that those experiments were based on her cadou, the same way Donna split hers into the dolls. we find experiment notes down in the dungeons, journals detailing the process on the three daughters, and even a picture of Miranda holding the cadou close to one of them. here’s why I think they’re all connected: bugs! all three daughters can do the turn into a mass of flies thing. Alcina, once mutated, also has a shitton of bugs around her. Alcina’s mutation was near perfect, but the girls’ was not. Alcina does not seem to have a weakness to cold, while the girls do. perhaps if she hadn’t taken so well to cadou that would have been her weakness too, but the lady’s a tank.
Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (Heisenberg x OC)
on AO3: chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five | chapter six | chapter seven (ao3 only) | chapter eight | chapter nine | chapter ten | chapter eleven | chapter twelve | chapter thirteen (ao3 only, smut) | chapter fourteen
chapter 14 - prince
SFW, around 4.7K words. Heisenberg is a man of absolutely no feelings I guarantee you
Heisenberg has never done this before, not in almost a hundred years of existence, this tangling of limbs and shirking of duties. He has never once given in to such base urges without careful thought and consideration, instead preferring his encounters planned, short and sweet, in and out before anyone could get attached. He racks his brains looking for things to say once she is awake, for ways to tell her that this means nothing and that they will go back to being flirty acquaintances who spoke to each other in riddles. He digs deep into his thoughts to bury his feelings, refuses to acknowledge their existence long before they can rear their ugly heads. He breathes in, eyes closed, to gather his confidence, to build his persona like he did with the dawn of each new day. Whoever Karl Heisenberg truly was, truly wanted to be, he died every morning and was replaced by a driven, heartless monster.
She was a smart woman, she would get the hint. He will unwrap her arms from his torso, put his clothes back on and make some stupid comment about how she had a pair of tits to die for, but he had already been far too generous by gracing her with his presence this long. Then he will smirk and exit stage left, hold the mask until he is out of sight and has entered the forest, and will finally be done with the theatrics. Perfect plan, until his breath catches in his throat when she first stirs, fingers sleepily caressing his chest like she did the night before. He curses her for never making things easy on him.
She seems confused as she pulls away from him, her lazy stretch reminding him of a cat after a long nap. Her face has softened some, the usual furrow of her brow relaxed, deviant smile replaced with one of pure serenity, like a burden had been lifted off her shoulders. “Good morning, my lord,” she greets as she rubs sleep away from her eyes, and he is glad to notice her tone has changed, away from the throes of their passion and back to the casual nonchalance they had become used to treating each other with. “Did you sleep well?” He has no intentions of answering and she does not expect it, either, slides off the couch to gather their clothing scattered about. She hands him his without looking at him, dresses in silence as he does the same. The silence is tense but not awkward, like they were both content to ignore the existence of the other and of everything that had happened between them just hours prior. “Are you staying for breakfast?” The implication that she did not expect him to is crystal clear. If there was any hope of staying longer in his mind, she had quelled it quickly with that question, like she was done with him for the day, perhaps enough to last her a lifetime. It stings, but he is glad for it.
Heisenberg busies himself with putting his clothes back on - whoever’s clothes those were in the first place -, oblivious to her pacing around the house. He believes he is out of the woods and her reserves of kindness have run dry, only to lift his head and find her holding a basket with a loaf of bread in one hand and his trench coat in the other. From afar he can see it looks ten times better than it did when he walked in wearing it, cleaner, for one, holes stitched back together. He doesn’t stay and she sees him off with the same joy she has always shown him, watching him as he grabs the trench coat and food, then his hat from a hook next to the door, waving him away like she has done every time. They sign an unspoken contract that dictates they never speak of it again, though the fine print reads that it is not off the table and might once again come to pass if the opportunity ever presents itself. His journey back to the factory is quiet and uneventful in more ways than one, the forest sleeps away the early hours of the morning and his mind is void of thoughts and worries. He cannot help but notice that the world feels different, brighter, more vibrant even, the wind not hostile and instead a gentle breeze.
Heisenberg seems enveloped in a mist of cheer and placidness for the days that follow, all he has set in motion moving along like clockwork. Sturm awakens unbidden one night, for good this time, both a blessing and a curse upon him. He manages to study its performance and sketch improvements, however finds that he has forgotten to install an off switch on the damn creature. The freak hums and whirs night and day like it is singing him the song of its people, sometimes joyfully, sometimes in mourning, and that he is able to identify when the fucking thing is happy or sad is a clear indication that he has been listening to it for far too long. A stab of guilt hits him every time he yells down towards the bowels of the factory to tell the monster to shut it, he needs to work and the noise is maddening, but he is always reminded that he is the reason for it all, he has bestowed them all with a new lease of life and now has to deal with the consequences. This is all for a good cause, he reassures himself, and once the rebellion is over he will see to it personally that those who remain are given a humane dismantling and burial.
Every now and again he visits his little witch in the woods, when his days could have been better and he needs a pick-me-up. They never speak of the stormy night and the things they had done, not unlike he had planned, but speak of everything else, and they slowly climb the steps to an awkward friendship that is never truly allowed to blossom. It felt as if every time they would give each other a key, an intricately designed, golden key that would open the lock in their hearts. And every time one would try to open it, they would find yet another, stronger lock, closer to the end but not quite, mystery maintained. It was infuriating and addicting all at once, and he had grown quite fond of the back and forth that had become the most exciting part of his life.
Happiness is a drug that he should not indulge on, he decides. Amidst his work he plans something other than rebellion, other than murder. Sketches something other than machines, looks out the window on the top floor of the factory to daydream about the cabin that stood long abandoned at the edge of his land. It was large for a home in this ass-end of the world, two floors and an attic, a cellar that was used for coal storage and doubled as secret entrance to a tunnel connecting the house and the factory. A fenced garden in the backyard, a shed for tools and firewood. The outhouse was awkwardly placed, too close to the edge, but he had always thought it gave it some extra charm. Answer nature’s call while being dangerously close to it, as it were. The masonry oven outside had not been used for at least half a century, and the well had probably dried up by now. It had been his home for many years, before Miranda took away everything that was theirs and his life with it, before he began dedicating his life to rebellion and dreams of freedom. His room was the one at the end of the corridor upstairs, with a view of the river and the forest extending beyond the confines of the village. It was cramped and cold, a single floorboard always rattled during the night when the wind hit it, the window never fully closed and his father never bothered to fix it. Still, it was home, or it had been, and he sometimes found himself thinking of the good memories he’d had before it all went to shit.
Could it be home again, he wondered? It would be one hell of a spring project, between clearing the debris, dusting and fixing everything up. Nails and the corrugated metal roof would not be a problem, naturally, and the stonework of the first floor was still intact. But he hadn’t fixed a fence in many years, hadn’t sawed nor sanded a plank of wood in longer still. He had never been very good at cleaning anything except weapons and machines, and interior decorating was simply something that had never gone through his mind. It could be a home again, he mused as he brought the blowtorch close to his face to light his cigar, and maybe it would do him good to step away from the damp vapors of the factory every once in a while. But then again, would it be worth the effort and upkeep? He doubted the haulers would make good housekeepers, and he was content enough with his independent, bare, unkempt bachelor lifestyle. But those had never been his intentions, had they? A home but not for him, a home for her, right where he could see her, where he could walk a few minutes and knock on her door whenever.
All strictly professional, of course. She would be effectively isolated from the village and the outside world. Effectively isolated from everyone but him, and he could keep tabs on her and call upon her services when necessary. It was a proposal she would be dumb to refuse: a home easily three times bigger than the one she owned, a larger plot of land for her animals and garden, peace and quiet, access to the Duke for supplies, and even some fun every now and again if she played her cards right. There was also the matter that she would be… Safer, living so close to him, but that was of little importance. Naturally. It had only just occurred to him. He had not begun at that, no. He will give it some more thought over the next few weeks - neither of them would be going anywhere, now would they?
Mother calls him later that day to inform of a family meeting two weeks and a half away, to discuss usual business. They will gather at Donna’s this time around, and it should give them all an opportunity to parade themselves to the public. This is important, you see, she begins like she always does, for their worshipers grow restless with their absence. Heisenberg often feels like she has trained the villagers as one would a dog: starve them for long enough and give them a meager treat to keep them going, teach them that their devotion is rewarded with small miracles brought by hellfire and the tearing of flesh by lycans. He has spent far too long away from the public eye and it is always good practice to remind the villagers of his splendor, she continues. He agrees to strut down main street, bless every crafter that he comes across, and kiss the top of the head of every snotty child pushed in his direction by their parents. He even agrees to wear his Sunday best: the same thing he wore every single day, but with a shiny pin in the shape of his house’s crest.
He conceives his greatest idea yet in the meantime, a soldier that combines the combat capabilities of Eins and Zwei with the mobility of an aircraft. He has Sturm to thank for it, the incessant spinning of the blades having given him the spark to try and create a flying machine. No propeller blades, he decides as the very first thing when he begins drawing the schematics. He has had enough of the noise to last him a good couple of decades. Unsurprisingly, he is caught in a trance of working and passing out and waking up to work some more in the weeks that follow, entire days spent combing through the scrap heaps to find the right materials. He is reminded that the goddamn bed had done wonders for his back every time he deadlifts another engine to pick apart, but still refuses to say goodbye to his uncomfortable armchair and the wonderful massage of its loose springs.
He figures the name for it will strike him at the right moment, and for now focuses on adjusting the thrust speed, ensuring the soldier will land adequately and not simply crash while airborne, as funny as that would look. While Sturm required a sturdy specimen, this will need someone lighter, lankier, and he finds the perfect specimen in Miranda’s latest failed experiment, a young boy of some twenty years who had been orphaned long ago and had turned to the Black God for guidance. In truth, he was nothing more than an errand boy for Mother, bringing messages to and fro, collecting tithe and offerings for her. Heisenberg is curious to know what horrible sin has led him to where he is now, dead and open on his operating table, a wound bigger than his fist where the top of his spine should be. Cadou had begun to take hold when he passed, tendrils shooting out of the infection, and he saved the recently dead nematode for further study later.
Removing the organs is always the messiest part, and he drops armfuls of guts into a nearby bucket to discard later. The boy has broken ribs and is missing his heart, a sign that he had greatly felt Mother’s wrath. Heisenberg almost pities him, alone in the world with nothing but his faith to keep him going, but sooner or later he would have to learn that was the way of the world. It had worked just fine for him, painful but invaluable. He had played the cards he had been dealt and come out on top. Perhaps in another life he would have reached out to give the kid a hand, take him in and give him a job, so long as he stayed out of his way and kept his mouth shut. But then again, perhaps in another life circumstances would not have turned him to a ruthless bastard only out for himself.
Setting up the tubing always takes the longest, delicate work that requires his full attention and steady hands. It feels like fighting an octopus at the best of times, and it is a fight he does not always win. He blows away a hair strand that insists on obscuring his vision, but all he succeeds in is having more of it fall onto his face, beads of sweat also finding their way down his forehead to pool on his brow and slide onto his eyelashes. He wishes he had an assistant every time he does this, every time he pulls a corpse open and finds that his body seems to get in the way every time more than the dead one does. He wishes he had an assistant, remembers the offer he never made her, and regrets it an instant later.
Suddenly his mind has wandered away from his subject on the operating table and has wandered off into a fantasy world, where his little witch gently pulls his hair back to tie it securely away from his face, where she dabs away the sweat on his face with a cloth that smells of wildflowers. She stands patiently next to him, takes notes and follows orders, brings him refreshments and even gives his shoulders a good rub when she feels he has been working too hard. A world where she awaits him every night after a long day, where she greets him with the comfort of home and a hearty meal. His focus is lost from that moment onward, for he is taken with the need to see her, to spend time sitting quietly beside her near the fireplace. To hold her and watch her fall asleep in his arms, to hear her laughter and exchange glib lines with her after dinner.
Goddamn witch.
The poor boy suffers the brunt of his annoyance when Heisenberg punches the side of his ribs, the body resists but does not complain and helps none with doing away with his wishes. What was he thinking, losing sight of his goals because he wants his cock sucked? This is why it was always so much better to stay indoors, to kill such annoying roaches on sight. His carefully constructed mental balance has tumbled, his nirvana disturbed. He was doing just fine before she decided to kill some random lycan and forgot to hide the fucking body. Bored, but just fine. Lonely, but fine. Incredibly depressed, but f-i-n-e. He tries in vain to return to his work once, twice, and gives up on the third time, finally accepting that it would be impossible.
Perhaps it is best if he gets it over with, no? This was but a momentary stumble. He had all but forgotten about her for the better part of a fortnight, having instead turned inward towards his work and growing his intel network by skulking around and reading through papers Miranda had ‘lost’ in transport. Just as quickly as he had latched onto her, he had let her go, back to the hum-drum day to day of developing his metal army.
Or so he thought, faced now with a burning need to walk, almost run towards the forest to catch a glimpse of her again.
He looks down at himself, for the first time conscious of how presentable he was, and decides that it is probably best if he wears something that is not covered in rotting chunks of flesh. Somehow he does not think she will mind it; she strikes him as the kind of woman who would think it adds to his charm. He changes into cleaner clothes regardless, the same moss-colored shirt she had given him the day he showed up at her cabin. An idea shines upon him as he tightens his shoelaces, and he is soon giving orders over the comm system to all haulers: clean the damn place up. Throw the garbage up and over the railings onto the scrapheap, hide it under a carpet, it doesn’t matter. He wants the place presentable enough for him to bring his little witch over - he will tell her a little bit of what he intends, he will show her some of his plans, and he will ask her to work for him. The cabin would take a while but she could always drop by for a visit. All that he has decided in the span of less than a minute, and he hopes there will be enough time for everything to be set up when he makes his way back, holding her hand tightly as he shows her all of the wonders he has created. He also hopes he can keep up the momentum and not soil the plan by chickening out a while later, though something in his mind tells him that might be best.
Heisenberg stops in front of a mirror-like metal plate to check out his hair and wipe the blood of his face, at last satisfied with his appearance and ready to make his next move. He almost skips through the factory on his way up and out of the garage. He is getting laid tonight, goddamn it.
He is surprised to find the Duke’s carriage standing just outside. It must be a Tuesday, though he feels like he last saw the man yesterday; the merchant always completed his regular schedule around the village by making a last stop near - and in - his humble abode. He had much to discuss with the Duke, things of both professional and personal nature, but now was not the time, and he walked by briskly and greeted the man with a tip of his hat, intent on simply passing by.
He knows something has gone terribly wrong when the Duke cackles, and he spots the familiar tail wag of a furry hoofed animal beside the carriage. Heisenberg stops dead on his tracks then, a cold tingle running up his spine, his mouth dry. He stares at the man, mouth agape, trying to form his question but failing miserably. Had something happened? Had the Duke known about her all along? Had he done something to her? The Duke is the first to speak, his usual jolly self, oblivious or uncaring for the situation that has begun to unfold in front of him. “Ah, Lord Heisenberg! How’s the day find you?” There is a pregnant pause as Heisenberg looks at the merchant and back at the tiny goat that bleats at him incessantly, and the Duke roars in laughter, his massive frame shaking the entire carriage. “Oh, it seems the little one likes you! Two hundred lei and it is all yours, my lord. Should be quite the tasty dinner.”
Prince seems to understand its predicament, and cries ever louder, until it is all they both can hear and the sound almost drives him insane. “Where the fuck did you get it?” Is all he manages to say, his tone vicious, but the Duke does not seem to mind it. He looks around for any other signs of her, the dog, or the horse, a chicken, anything.
“My friend in the woods has sold it to me, of course. She no longer has any use for it where she is going, and thought it best to rehome it.” The merchant’s hand reaches out to pet the goat on the head and the whole carriage almost topples over with the weight.
“You know her.” It is not a question, and though there is much he needs to ask there is little he is able to process.
“Indeed. We have been friends for many years, her and I. Since she was a malnourished little girl living under Lady Heisenberg’s protection. Since long before you were born, my lord.” The man takes a long drag from his cigar as if to give Heisenberg enough time to go through his words, and he is glad for it, mind racing a thousand miles a minute. A hundred and something years, the mention of his grandmother’s name. “She has always been quite the ravaging beauty, however. Although I’m sure that has not escaped your notice.” He can hardly contain his exasperation, not at all used to the feeling that currently boils within him. If that man had ever touched her- “She is quite a talented healer, you see. For many years now she has supplied me with the most wonderful of concoctions.” As if to prove it, he lifts up a bottle of the antiseptic he has become so famous for, gives it a little shake and flashes Heisenberg a bright smile.
“She’s gone.” Again he doesn’t ask, simply repeats the information he has been given, and wishes he had his hammer close by to crush that smirk off the Duke’s face.
“Why yes, she has left, of course. It would not be the first time,” the merchant says with a shrug. “A free spirit she is, always has been. Off to find herself some excitement and adventure, I’m sure. I have told her many a time that the village life does not suit her,” he puts the bottle down and interlaces his fingers in front of him, resting on his enormous stomach. “Yet she has come back every time. Sweet, idealistic Morganna, always so kind for her own good.” In his confusion, Heisenberg realizes he has forgotten to breathe, and inhales sharply, blow after blow though he tries to recover, and the Duke is relentless. “Ah, that reminds me, she has left something for you.” He is no longer listening after the Duke’s mouth closes, far too stunned to process what is happening. The blond man hands him a small wooden box that smells like her, and Heisenberg does not care that he can see how much his hands are shaking as he pushes off the lid. He does his best to swallow the rage and the tears that well up in his eyes, the bittersweet thought that she had remembered him before she parted. The woolen slippers lay perfectly arranged inside the box. “If you wish to find her, I am sure she has not made it very far.” Heisenberg continues to stare down incredulously, and the Duke continues to yap like nothing has happened. He has tuned out completely by the time he closes the box again and raises his head to face the merchant. He might as well have been a shadow, disoriented as Heisenberg was, his face a misshaped blob in his eyes. There is no space for thoughts and he lets himself go instead, anger bubbling so close to the surface underneath his skin.
He grabs the goat before the Duke can protest, tucks it safely under his arm, box secured in the other as he marches back inside the barn and closes everything behind him. Gone? The way down is hazy and red, one foot after the other, instinct taking him through the halls and down elevators. Gone. He feels the haulers’ gazes upon him, and hopes they won’t dare showing vestiges of humanity now, or he will kill every last one and set fire to the corpses. The door to his quarters is kicked with entirely too much force and flies off its hinges, he places Prince gently on the floor in the last showing of kindness he would ever allow himself. Gone! The box is thrown across the room and shatters against the wall, tears in his eyes, a strangled cry coming out of him before he can stop himself.
“She’s gone.” He repeats and the words feel like sand in his mouth. He knows them to be true and it only serves to hurt him further. Behind his eyelids, she takes him by the hand and skips down the stairs ever onward towards the darkness, and he knows he is far too weak to stop it now. He has no tools to explain any of it, the crying and yelling and the way his body has slid against the wall and onto the floor like a puddle of muddy, gooey, revolting water. One last bit of control tells him that he should not care, that she is not important, that this is good, that he is free from her grasp. But its screeches are drowned in the uproar within him, and all he can think of is that she is gone and he misses her.
He is once again alone in the world and, for the first time, he knows what heartbreak feels like.
Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (Heisenberg x OC)
on AO3: chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five | chapter six | chapter seven (ao3 only) | chapter eight | chapter nine | chapter ten | chapter eleven | chapter twelve | chapter thirteen (ao3 only, smut)
chapter 12 - cabin fever
SFW, around 5K words.
chapter 13 - liebchen (ao3 only, smut)
The sheets underneath him were worn but comfortable, ancient-looking in design but well taken care of. The bed frame is barely there, mattress a well-placed lattice away from being on the floor. He can’t remember the last time he’s been on a bed, the last time he’d laid his body down at all, for any reason. His back complains every other second, not because of the comfort of the bedding, but because it had gone without for so long. A wonderfully comfortable blanket covers him up to the hips, the soft mattress almost makes him feel like he is floating. Fuck, he really missed having a proper bed now.
He inspects himself carefully, still not fully convinced this is not a fever-induced hallucination. His hand is where it should be, and so is his leg, and every other part of his body that he recalled having before. There are half a dozen new scars that he can count, all healed over perfectly like they’d opened years ago instead of hours, forming a map of stories he would rather not tell. He is shirtless but is wearing pants now, his trench coat and hat nowhere to be found. He pushes the blanket aside to find the damn woolen slippers waiting for him on a woven rug. It doesn’t take him long to realize where he is, but nothing resembles her, no personal belongings on the nightstand, no desk or mirror or even a dresser. It looked as if the room was rarely visited, kept clean but empty, and he wondered if sleep was a foreign concept to her, too.
Hesitant, tentative movements take him down the ladder and into the living room, and he expects to find her hard at work at something or another, humming a tune while she cooks, petting the goat and telling it asinine, cutesy things in a soft voice. But the house is silent and she is nowhere to be found, the dog sits in front of the closed front door and watches his every move. It is not aggressive but watchful, like it had been given the task of keeping an eye on the ailing man and alerting his owner in case anything was amiss.
“I’m fine, fleabag.” He laughs at the dog and gets a huff in response, an acknowledgment, and the shepherd moves from its post at the door to give him passage if he so desires. Heisenberg gives it a well deserved pat on the head as it passes by, tail wagging hesitantly as it tried to make friends with him. He is glad to be alone - if anyone ever used this against him, he would deny it.
A plate awaits him at the dinner table, and despite his intentions of running out of there before she could see him again, breakfast is an offer he cannot bring himself to refuse. Bread and jam, a robust omelet served with sprinkles of cheese and herbs. He can almost see the aroma the coffee has left behind, and finds the pot on the side of the wood stove, cup and saucer set for him nearby.
He eats slowly and in silence, chews thoroughly before swallowing, as if he fears some abrupt movement would rip reality apart and throw him back into the pit of suffering he found himself in the night before. There is no blood, no pain; no sign of the madness he had come so close to drowning in. He is safe and comfortable, there is good food in his belly and a warm hearth to keep the cold at bay. His problems are far and cannot catch him, and maybe if he keeps stalling to finish breakfast he can stay in this bliss forever. The world is quiet outside, and so are his thoughts, for once in his life.
A shirt and sweater are neatly folded and arranged as to call attention on the couch, no doubt to replace his blood-stained, ragged trench coat. He feels naked without it, he muses as he pulls the moss-colored shirt over his head, and it feels awkward not to wear the hat and the glasses. It would be unpleasant if she were to catch him now, free of his usual regalia; he felt that she would see right through him, stare deep into his eyes and find out all he had worked so hard to hide.
He did not feel like Karl Heisenberg, Lord of the Village, powerful mutant capable of unspeakable acts of violence. He was… Karl, middle-aged immortal man who enjoyed tinkering, was a big fan of meat an potatoes and didn’t know what to do when he had time to waste in his hands. Karl, of German origin but Romanian by birth, come from a long line of miners and steel workers. People of few words and fewer luxuries, hardy of constitution and blunt to a fault. He had been content to be those things and nothing more, to carry on what the Heisenbergs had done for centuries, until life dumped him on his head and led him to where he is today.
But not today, because maybe just today he can forget, and let his gracious host distract him with her mystery and the delicate curves of her buttocks. Perhaps tomorrow he would go back to treating her like a tool he would use and discard, but today she would be none the wiser, and neither would he. The fresh air of the mountain and distance from the cramped confines of the factory would do him good, he decided, help reinvigorate his spirit and refresh his ideas, spark some inspiration. And if not, well, the food was excellent and she was easy on the eyes.
A pair of boots that didn’t belong to him were by the door, just the right size to fit him. He had walked all the way up barefoot, he remembers, but he would very much like to know how she seemed to have everything that he needed readily available. Was she clairvoyant alongside being a healer? Did she bleed money that she could buy information on him from the Duke and the apparel to go with it? He opened the door to find her outside, looking like the cat that ate the canary, a couple meters away from the gate that separated her plot of land from the heart of the forest. She had just emerged from amongst the trees, heavy coat over her shoulders and leather boots to keep the ice off her feet. Her hands were free, no basket for foraging or firewood in her arms. No sign of a knife or any other kind of weapon, but judging by the look on her face, he could swear she had just committed murder. Her eyes told him she would not speak of it.
“Good morning, pumpkin,” he began, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, at least trying to fish an explanation out of her. Instead she pretended to forget the suspicious circumstances and focused on him instead, her face lighting up at the sight of him up and about, like she didn’t expect to see him anytime soon. Had it been that bad?
“Good morning, my lord. Are you well?” Shame and madness aside, he thought, things were going swimmingly. “I hope the accommodations were to your liking.” Once again with the pleasantries, with the caring for what he thought of her hospitality. Did she get a kick out of being so kind? That was the most foolish thing he had ever heard. He tried to come up with a witty response that would catch her off guard, but the night had been long and there was too much tiredness swamping his mind, and all he got was honesty:
“Quite. Hadn’t slept in a bed in decades.” As if to validate his words, he stretched and grunted in approval, pains he did not even realize he’d had gone like magic.
“Well, it remains at your disposal,” was her response as she chuckled, wiping her hands on the embroidered apron before gesturing an invitation. There was dirt on her palms. “It may not be much, but it’ll give you a good night’s rest.” She motioned for him to follow, something he would grow accustomed to.
“You know,” he began, following her into the shed, accepting the shallow basket she handed him. “I bet it’d be even better if you were there with me.” She hummed in approval, a smile as devious as his on her face. The damn woman would always catch him off guard; Heisenberg was not used to being flirted with, words thrown about only half-seriously, only to make the villagers blush and Alcina mad. He had never followed up on any of it, because it was always meant to annoy, and the fact that she not only took him seriously but fired back pulled the rug right from under him. And boy did he like it.
They laughed but spoke no more of it, tension like static in the air, both fully aware the joke had more than a few nuggets of truth to it. A dozen different scenarios ran through his mind, on ways he could take her, mark her, ruin her. Inside the shed, behind the stables, propped on the porch railing. Standing, face pressed against the floor, legs tightly wrapped around his waist. She smirked as she passed by him, smirked like she could tell every image that went through his mind. Smirked like she knew he would not do any of it, that his flirting was just a front and he had never found the courage to take the plunge, not even once. Her wink was the cherry on the cake, the challenge that made his cheeks flush at just the right moment so that she wouldn’t see it.
The morning was spent tending to the animals and the garden, and she instructed him on how to feed the chickens and keep the tiny goat happy. Its name was Prince and it demanded to be treated like royalty, lest the puny humans faced his wrath and for now adorable headbutts. The thing followed him around the whole time, demanded his attention when he collected the eggs from the coop, when he let the horse out of the stable to let it stretch its legs. Only when the weather took a turn for the worse did it scurry off to hide in the pens with its mom, settling down on a nice and dry bundle of hay.
He was put in charge of firewood while she tended the garden. The innuendos were kept to a minimum, but the static never left, and he felt her eyes heavy on him as he brought the axe down, muscles flexing and veins showing on his forearms with the effort. Maybe he ought to do more housework around her, and she’d come around and do his bidding without hesitation.
When the wind blew away his hat, Heisenberg realized there would be no going back to the factory unless he hurried. The storm had been mounting for days now, but he had never been one to pay much attention to the tells of weather; he rarely left his hideout, and with the factory being mostly underground, he would be trapped inside for a few days at best. He had perhaps half an hour for a journey that would take him one or two under such bad weather, and he would have to be lucky for the bridge to hold if it got too bad. She wasted little time paying attention to his inner turmoil, and went about securing the animals instead, making sure they had food, water and a warm place to spend the night. Snow was falling fast by the time she was done, and she ushered him in when he’d stood there too long, snow coming up to his shins already. They brushed off as much as they could on the porch before heading inside, water dripping down their shoulders. There was a long pause as they both watched the storm come down through the living room window, a knowing silence that the day would be long, and the night longer, and neither would be leaving that cabin for at least the next day.
“Well, it seems the bed is yours for the night again, my lord,” were her words as she bolted the door, a hint of joy in her voice. He imagined it was a lonely existence, secluded in the mountains and feared by all, not part of any community and especially not theirs. She always seemed so happy to see him, to see another human whose first instinct wasn’t to attack her. He would pity her if he cared, if his existence wasn’t equally as lonesome, if he hadn’t fashioned it to be exactly what he wished. He’d never needed anyone yapping about everything and nothing in his ears, interrupting his work and diverting his attention from what really mattered. Alcina was insane to have taken in the girls, really; children sounded like an exhausting chore that never ended. He never understood why she always looked so content in spite of it all. His mother always told him one day he would understand, he would want to keep someone close, and then he would want someone else just like them to cherish and love, to teach and share the good and bad moments. He would turn a hundred soon and never quite felt like it; maybe in another hundred years?
His only answer was a lopsided smile, tired and sad, and he tried to brace for the barrage of questions and comments that were certain to come. She was trapped inside her living space with the stranger who emerged from the guts of the forest, come from a village rife with death, where he was sovereign save for Mother dearest. He was the favorite son and the most powerful, gifted with strength and wits and influence and power. Those he could not talk down he could easily buy out, and those he could not buy out he could easily destroy. He was a fabled recluse and rumors ran rampant of the work he’d conduct in his factory, of treasures he kept deep underground. It would be a long day, the first in forever that he would spend so close to another breathing, talking human, and he did not know what to expect aside from a lot of chit-chat and a mounting headache. Surely she would like to know all about him, now that he couldn’t run away from her. Surely she would pry into his motives, pepper in questions about his siblings and the village. A thousand smug answers he conjured in his mind, each snappier than the other, every retort a question thrown back at her. It was only fair, of course; she had thrown much at him, bits and pieces of improbabilities that he couldn’t put together, and if she intended on digging deep, he would do the same.
To his surprise, all she did was leave her boots behind next to him and proceed to ignore him, going about her daily life like he was of no consequence. He found himself stunned, rooted in front of the door with a puzzled expression on his face. She looked at him as if to say well, this is it, make yourself at home and enjoy the day, and once again the domesticity of it all broke him more than words could ever have. He felt weird as he reached for the papers he had brought with him the night before, tucked next to the myriad of books on her shelf. They remained silent when he took a seat at the table and pushed open the schematics to get a better look at them, the potted plant centerpiece serving as a paper weight so he could work properly.
First, she dusted the shelves, reorganized her herb cabinet and found a place for his hat. The curtains were drawn and she took a peek outside, checking on the pens and the stable to make sure the animals would have a comfortable enough day. Then she bound off to a corner of the living room, producing a basket with threads and fabric, yarn and needles that she brought over to the couch. She sat cross-legged, close to the fire, and only spared him a brief glance before tending to her needlework. He felt weird as he reached for the papers he had brought with him the night before, tucked next to the myriad of books on her shelf. They remained silent when he took a seat at the table and pushed open the schematics to get a better look at them, the potted plant centerpiece serving as a paper weight so he could work properly. The first few minutes were nerve-racking, his paranoia telling him he would look away and find her peering curiously over his shoulder, trying to steal away his secrets to use against him as leverage. He read the same words again and again only to realize he hadn’t understood them, eyes turning to her every minute to make sure she still hadn’t moved. She caught him eventually, eyebrow raised in his direction as she tried to make sense of the situation, mouth turning into an “oh” as she jumped off the couch and stood on the tips of her toes to reach the very top of the bookshelf. A minute later and she had brought him a candle and holder, a half-empty box of matches in her other hand. She stood at the other end of the table and pushed it in his direction, still not curious regarding his work, but figuring that, even in daylight, the cabin was dark and he likely was not used to doing things by candlelight. It took him a moment to process and bring the light closer, shocked as he was to see that she intended to leave him to his own devices but cared about his comfort.
The hours were a blur then, when he convinced himself she would not surprise him, and his suspicions were correct; a change of environment had done wonders for his creativity, solutions jumping at him paper after paper, a multitude of new projects and ideas for him to try once he was back at the factory. He can’t remember the last time he had been so productive, the last time he had folded everything in and told himself he was done for the day, because he had done more than enough. She had brought him tea and bread at some point and he had eaten absentmindedly, crumbs and drops of jam staining the papers, but he could not bring himself to care. After tea she had brought him coffee, and then a jug of water, and while he felt a bit like a caged animal being fed periodically, it did wonders to keep his work flowing.
Night had already fallen when he finally took a break, got up to stretch his legs and look around to see just what she had been doing this whole time. Her crafts basket was back in its place, a sock taking shape on the needles. A book abandoned where she was sitting instead, the little witch nowhere near it. Instead she was busy preparing dinner, swaying her hips to a tune but quiet as a mouse, like she was going out of her way to give him peace and quiet. He appreciated it, try as he might to deny it, how she cared without meddling, made herself present but not intruding.
Maybe he should hire her to be his assistant, help him organize the half-done office he had begun building on the upper floors of the factory. She certainly would be great at helping him keep his affairs in order - and by that he meant she would keep him fed, mostly, the one thing he kept forgetting to do and that always set him back. He could provide her with something better than this, surely, her very own quarters with modern wonders such as electricity and proper plumbing, a bathroom of her own, maybe even a fridge. Had she ever seen a fridge before? He imagined she would decorate the place with all manner of silly things that would only serve to gather dust, knickknacks and wreaths and woven things, and that it would smell of flowers and fresh-baked bread. Her responsibilities would include housekeeping and Heisenkeeping - organizing his papers so he wouldn’t lose them, keeping track of all of the family meetings he had to attend, dealing with the Duke for supplies so he wouldn’t have to. He’d reward her handsomely, give her days off, be a good employer unlike his parents had been. Not a bad plan, if he did say so himself.
He had only forgotten to factor in that she was, still, a powerful, self-described blood witch. He had been entertaining himself with the thoughts of having her around as he watched her prepare dinner; she’d gone hunting in the morning, he realized, two hares hanging upside down from an iron ring. She took one down to place it at the cutting board, its insides clean but pelt still intact. He had no doubt she would be skilled at skinning it; when one lives as long as she has with no contact with the outside world, such skills are necessary for survival. What he did not expect was the way she’d go about it: a firm hand grabbed a handful of fur, gave it a gentle twist and pulled, effortlessly, the entire thing coming off in her hand, no cuts and no tears, neck and head and all. He could see the knife from where he was sitting, placed blade down into the ceramic jug.
Heisenberg bent forward to see better when she did it the second time around, and it was as unexplainable and horrifying as the first. Gross but humane, like she simply coaxed the skin to slide right off the flesh. If the thing had been alive, he imagined it would have been quite painful, a whole human suit in her hand and living flesh left behind. The thought almost makes him gag, a disgusted sound escaping his lips and making her realize she’s not alone. She slowly turns to face him with a sheepish smile, like a child caught red-handed. “Pretend you didn’t see that?” She offers, but he shakes his head no. Not in a million years he would forget the sheer brutality of it. He waits but she doesn’t explain it, goes back to making dinner like nothing had happened.
“Could you do that to something… Bigger, darling?” He approaches her slowly, like a predator carefully stalking its prey, though he feels far from a position of power at the moment. She nods her head yes. “Like, say, a good ole’ human?” He whispers in her ear, a shiver running down her spine at the sudden intrusion and hot breath against her skin, flirting his go-to attempt at getting back the reigns of any situation.
“Want me to test it on you, my lord?” She quips in the same whisper tone, and he is wise enough to back off for now.
“Think I’ll pass.” Before he can run back to his seat, she hands him the smaller, bone-bladed knife and pushes a bowl of potatoes towards him, the sudden motion startling him and eliciting a chuckle out of her. Looks like he’ll have to earn his keep. For a while they work shoulder to shoulder in peaceful silence, save for his grunts of frustration at not being able to peel a potato successfully. It’s been a long time. “You ought to show me what you can do one of these days. I’m awful curious.” She considers it for a second, head moving left and right, knife following the movement.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” and she doesn’t mean metal bending and knife juggling, he knows. He can’t think of a reason why she would want to see him, truly see him, monstrous appearance and all, but if that’s the price to pay, he’ll gladly do it. It would be good for his ego, too, that priceless look on her face as he shifts into the stuff of nightmares.
There are no more gruesome sneak peeks for the night and soon the stew is ready, he helps set the table and she finds a bottle of wine she’d stashed away for a rainy day. She explains over dinner that he was quite feverish when he arrived, and it’s a wonder he made it through the night. He truly was sturdy, no ifs or buts about it, she said in appreciation. There were cuts and bruises all over him, all shapes and sizes, like he’d fallen through glass. Did he have an accident at the factory? There was genuine concern in her voice, though they both knew that she knew better.
His curiosity gets the better of him and he experiments with a few questions, each answer leaving him further in the dark. How old was she? Somewhere around a hundred and thirty. She remembers being old enough to read around 1902, when she saw the date on a newspaper she fished out of the gutter, but beyond that time was either a blur or she’d been too young to remember. Where did she come from? Not a clue, but she’s been around: she’s seen Italian castles, been to centuries old British pubs. She’s seen the Brandenburg Gate and visited Chateau de Versailles. She’s bathed in the beautiful waters of the Greek coast, made a pilgrimage to the volcanic beaches of Iceland. She’s never made it past the ocean to the Americas or down to the warmer climates of Africa, but time has never been an issue, and she figures she’ll get to it eventually. He asks her why all the wandering, is someone after her? Her breath hitches and her eyes lower, shoulders slump, a deep breath before the replies. Something like that, and he understands maybe it’s best if he doesn’t push.
They returned to the topic of his feverish display once dinner was over, with her cautioning that he had been lucky this time around, lucky that she was home, lucky that he even made it across the bridge and found his way home. Home, her use of the word is deliberate and strokes something warm and fuzzy within him. Disgusting. There was the matter of the shard, he took a sit on the couch as she reached into a drawer to pull out a bundle of clean cloth, and he feigns confusion when she unwraps it to reveal a piece of metal shaped similar to an arrowhead. He recognized it, the shavings of a project he had worked on… Maybe a year ago? It’d been sticking out through his ribs when he arrived, she said, and it looked anything but recent; infection had taken around it, skin red and swollen. She could see that it was agonizingly painful - had he not noticed it at all?
“Ah, so that’s what it was.” He blurted without really meaning to, a humorless chuckle that left her confused. “I’d been feeling this weird poke in my ribs for the longest time - thought I’d broken something.” He shrugs and she nods, clearly aware of their peculiar situations, perhaps now beginning to comprehend just how many layers of fucked up he was made of. “You’re a miracle worker, doll.” His fingers instinctively trace over the spot where the shard had been, nothing there but a scar that had healed remarkably well. “How can I ever repay you?”
Money, gems, jewelry? She didn’t strike him as the materialistic kind. No, she was all about the meaningful gestures, the showing of kindness. There were a few ways he could think of showing his appreciation - slamming her body against the wall to press a hard kiss on her lips, a nice, firm tug on her hair as he nibbled on her neck. Or maybe something softer if she was so inclined, more romantic even, like a well-placed, resounding slap on her ass cheek. “I’ll be sure to think of something, my lord.” Was the answer she gave, though he was sure she meant something else entirely judging by the way she let her coat slide off to reveal her bare shoulders as she set about getting ready for bed. Her hands gathered more and more of her skirt until it’d reached the middle of her thighs, delicate lace adorning the band of her stockings, tiny suspenders disappearing from sight but serving to peak his curiosity. She undid the hooks that kept it in place, fingers threatening to roll the garment down agonizingly slow. Instead she turned to look at her enraptured audience, the pose propping her ass up and so close to his hands. He had thought it had all been an act, carefully orchestrated to put him on edge, but the gasp of surprise she let out told him otherwise. “I am so sorry, my lord.” She quickly let go of it all and stood up straight, a flush running across her face. “I am not used to having visitors.”
“You needn’t stop on account of little ole’ me, darling.” He is quick to say, rich laughter that filled the room with mischief. Heisenberg sprawls further onto the couch, legs parting like an invitation. Best seat in the house, in the whole village even. “I did enjoy it.”
When it was time to say goodnight, he kept his composure and even helped her move one of the pillows and blanket down the ladder. If his mother were alive she would chastise him for not being a gentleman, for not refusing vehemently to let her sleep on an uncomfortable couch instead of her own bed. But the day was over and so were the pleasantries, and he would have to take the time to cleanse her off his mind, ease himself back into his usual mindset. She was impossibly alluring, impossibly annoying, impossibly loving. There was no figuring her out and it seemed there would be no delving deeper in. Playtime was over and it was back to work tomorrow as soon as she storm had passed. He needed to shed away her kindness before it managed to ooze under his skin, but she had no intention of making it any easier on him.
“Here you go,” Heisenberg had no time to stand on ceremony, shoved the pillow in her direction and flashed her a smile to keep up appearances, mind wandering somewhere else, somewhere where he did not care about her. It was better this way. “Good night, sweetheart.”
Even though he tried, he never truly reached that fabled place where she was of no importance. Not that he would ever acknowledge it.
also, totally agree. I wish we actually would of seen him use the hammer more, and more him just using his powers in his human form, he was too big and slowed down as a giant mech monster :(
yess, I just wanted to see him actually fighting with the hammer. a phase/form boss fight would have been awesome, like a first part fighting him as a human and the second as the mech monster. oooh man that would have been so cool!! the funny thing for me is that the concept art says they wanted him to be the fastest of all the bosses, because he gets parts of vehicles to create the mech. I mean, he is fast, but it just… didn’t have the effect they planned for me
@bunnyplots
He converted the factory to create his army, so I’m going to assume the farm stuff was from before that. However, dude’s gotta eat too so who knows?
yeah, I wish we had a clearer picture of how things were before the lords, or before things were how we found them, rather. in Alcina’s journal she mentions she was “given” the Castle alongside her daughters, but you’d think it had always been her family’s. same for Heisenberg’s factory, I can’t find the source but it says on the wiki he was given the factory “back”. there are lots of vehicles and war memorabilia around, and it just raises so many questions.
we know the factory was storing war vehicles because we see it in the debris, the entrance to the factory is a literal barn. so if it was ever just a farm it was likely before at least WWII. then there’s the fact that we find a couple of rusty tractors and machines, but then we also find ones that seem to be in working order. there’s the hay, the animal cages. man’s def gotta eat so uh…..
Yeah, I really wonder a lot about his background. He’s obviously a jack of all trades country boy from Germany; and, coming out of the 30s, there would have been a great need for farmers and ranchers at that time. Farming and ranching could be huge business then too which would explain the factory in Romania.
Also, the dude’s sigil is a horse head inside a horseshoe. So really, where are all his undead horse minions? Karl Heisenberg: horse stolat whisperer.
The real team up we missed for Ethan and Heis was the farming side quest that takes as long as you want but doesn’t distort the timeline of the game 😆
yes! I’m sorry but you kind of activated a trap card, friend. I think about this a lot.
I’m 100% on board with country boy, I just don’t think we was actually born in Germany. from the notes we find in game the families have been around for a long time, so I think he was born in the village, his family just traces back to Germany. which leads me to a very specific headcanon: German immigration was very common here where I’m from, and the communities are really tightly knit and hold onto their culture, though it has obviously changed over time. to the point there are distinct dialects and everything.
my headcanon is that even though they came from Germany, his family kept culture and language. I’d go as far as saying he was taught German first and learned English later - in that scene where he’s fighting Alcina over who’s killing Ethan, he kinda slips when he says “sore loser”. I was talking to my (German-speaking, linguistics nerd) partner and he said it could be a carry over from speaking German as a native language.
I really like your perspective of the need for farming and ranching. if you’re ok with that I’m going to implement that in my fic!!
yes, everything is horse, he is referred to as the iron steed in the story, and yet there isn’t a single horse to be found?? where is the steel cavalry??
lol it’s fine! I think about this too much when I should be doing my first paper of the semester my own self. >_> (also curse this app! It showed a reblog but it took me an hour to be able to see it.)
That the family immigrated makes total sense, and I hadn’t thought about that before. I had just assumed they had multiple holdings in different countries for business purposes.
I do love his occasional slip ups while speaking. He lays on the transatlantic accent thick in his showmanship but breaks code every now and then when he’s angry.
Someone else mentioned that the lycans had to get their horses from somewhere and that makes sense too. Once all the village horses were taken or eaten, there had to be others. (I’ll have to look up the svreen name again to give credit. I’m using this stupid app rn.)
And you are most welcome to use the farming idea! Run wild! Let good farmer Heisenberg be free!
oh mood, I have a paper due in 5 or so hours and I haven’t finished it yet 🤡
I like to think they were pretty careful with moving to Romania though, and probably own land somewhere, like an estate in Germany. I like to think he’s making arrangements to move back to the ole ancestral homeland once the Miranda business is over. then he can finally farm and raise his damn horses.
yes! I was looking into the transatlantic accent today because I kept thinking about how he puts the -r after words sometimes. I was then informed this is called an intervocalic r and is actually pretty common in British English. the way he does it, putting an -r after words when the next word begins with a vowel sound (”gotta keep Donna-r and Moreau entertained”, “Mother Miranda-r is gonna love you”), is apparently ‘not allowed’ in transatlantic though, whatever that means, which makes me wonder if it was intentional on Neil’s part.
the lycans are pretty much my explanation too. there’s probably only so much they can control them, and I imagine if Heisenberg was keeping horses they were all either eaten or stolen by the lycans - which in turn makes me think that’s prob the reason why the entire factory is surrounded by fences and barbed wire when it’s already hard to reach in the first place.
also, totally agree. I wish we actually would of seen him use the hammer more, and more him just using his powers in his human form, he was too big and slowed down as a giant mech monster :(
yess, I just wanted to see him actually fighting with the hammer. a phase/form boss fight would have been awesome, like a first part fighting him as a human and the second as the mech monster. oooh man that would have been so cool!! the funny thing for me is that the concept art says they wanted him to be the fastest of all the bosses, because he gets parts of vehicles to create the mech. I mean, he is fast, but it just… didn’t have the effect they planned for me
@bunnyplots
He converted the factory to create his army, so I’m going to assume the farm stuff was from before that. However, dude’s gotta eat too so who knows?
yeah, I wish we had a clearer picture of how things were before the lords, or before things were how we found them, rather. in Alcina’s journal she mentions she was “given” the Castle alongside her daughters, but you’d think it had always been her family’s. same for Heisenberg’s factory, I can’t find the source but it says on the wiki he was given the factory “back”. there are lots of vehicles and war memorabilia around, and it just raises so many questions.
we know the factory was storing war vehicles because we see it in the debris, the entrance to the factory is a literal barn. so if it was ever just a farm it was likely before at least WWII. then there’s the fact that we find a couple of rusty tractors and machines, but then we also find ones that seem to be in working order. there’s the hay, the animal cages. man’s def gotta eat so uh…..
Yeah, I really wonder a lot about his background. He’s obviously a jack of all trades country boy from Germany; and, coming out of the 30s, there would have been a great need for farmers and ranchers at that time. Farming and ranching could be huge business then too which would explain the factory in Romania.
Also, the dude’s sigil is a horse head inside a horseshoe. So really, where are all his undead horse minions? Karl Heisenberg: horse stolat whisperer.
The real team up we missed for Ethan and Heis was the farming side quest that takes as long as you want but doesn’t distort the timeline of the game 😆
yes! I’m sorry but you kind of activated a trap card, friend. I think about this a lot.
I’m 100% on board with country boy, I just don’t think we was actually born in Germany. from the notes we find in game the families have been around for a long time, so I think he was born in the village, his family just traces back to Germany. which leads me to a very specific headcanon: German immigration was very common here where I’m from, and the communities are really tightly knit and hold onto their culture, though it has obviously changed over time. to the point there are distinct dialects and everything.
my headcanon is that even though they came from Germany, his family kept culture and language. I’d go as far as saying he was taught German first and learned English later - in that scene where he’s fighting Alcina over who’s killing Ethan, he kinda slips when he says “sore loser”. I was talking to my (German-speaking, linguistics nerd) partner and he said it could be a carry over from speaking German as a native language.
I really like your perspective of the need for farming and ranching. if you’re ok with that I’m going to implement that in my fic!!
yes, everything is horse, he is referred to as the iron steed in the story, and yet there isn’t a single horse to be found?? where is the steel cavalry??
