The factory hums around you—machinery grinding, gears turning, the air thick with the scent of oil and scorched metal. Heisenberg stands before you, tense, his fingers pressing into your thighs as if they alone could ground him—could keep him from letting his temper snap and send the entire place into a frenzy of flying scrap.

"She thinks she can control me—" his voice is rough, a growl, muffled as he buries his face into your neck, breath hot against your skin.

"Thinks she can order me around like some damn pet!"

His grip tightens—not painful, but possessive, frustrated, his fingers kneading the muscle like it might ease the raw irritation thrumming beneath his skin. He huffs, exhaling sharply, his body pressed against you now, as if seeking something solid amidst the chaos in his mind.

"I should tear the whole damn village apart—strip it down to scrap, let her see what happens when she pushes me too far!"

And yet—despite the fury laced in his words, despite the tension coiled in his body—his touch remains steadfast. He holds you like you are the only thing stopping him from losing himself completely, the only thing keeping him tethered to something that isn’t rage.

"Tch—damn it." His hands flex against your thighs, and slowly—slowly—the pressure eases, his grip softening just slightly.

"At least you’re here." The words are low, grumbled, but honest—raw in a way he seldom allows himself to be.