Chapter 10: Stress
Telemachus awoke in a cold sweat, his body wrapped around someone's. He was in... Heisenburg's factory, in his private quarters.
The heavy chain dug into Telemachus’s swollen flesh, each rattling breath pulling it tighter. Blood soaked through his ruined hoodie, warm and sticky beneath him, the gaping wound in his backside pulsing agony with every heartbeat. He stared at the crushed rose petals dissolving in his blood, their sweet scent drowned by copper and fear. Karl hadn’t let him heal. The bastard wanted him broken.
He tried shifting his weight off the wound, but the chain binding his cock and balls yanked viciously. A raw, silent sob shook him. He fumbled with trembling, blood-slicked fingers at the cold iron links. Get it off. Need to stop bleeding. His claws scrabbled uselessly against the metal, too weak to find purchase. Kiss… just one kiss… But he couldn’t reach the wound himself. Couldn’t heal himself. Ever.
The clang of metal assembling itself echoed from the doorway where Karl had vanished. Tools, bloody shards, and the heavy U-bolts Karl had torn from the walls were welding themselves into some grotesque sculpture under his magnetic command. Telemachus squeezed his eyes shut behind the mask. The radio. Focus on the radio’s faint, tinny hum beneath the pounding in his ears. Not the pain. Not the cold. He pictured his bookshelves across the room, the half-finished gyroscope schematic on his desk. Sanctuary? Not anymore.
A low growl vibrated through the floorboards. Telemachus froze. Not Karl. Something else. Out in the dim hallway, beyond the shattered doorframe, yellow eyes glinted in the shadows. More Lycans. Drawn by the blood. Drawn by the noise. They hadn’t all been dealt with. His hand spasmed, smearing blood across the floor. Karl was distracted. Busy with his fucking metalwork. Trapped.
Heavy footsteps thudded closer. Snuffling sounds. The scent of wet fur and decay filled the ruined room, overpowering the blood. A massive Lycan, larger than the last, filled the doorway, drool dripping from yellowed fangs. Its gaze locked onto Telemachus: vulnerable, bleeding, bound. A low, hungry rumble escaped its throat. Easy prey.
"Fuck off, mutt!" Karl’s voice roared from the hall, laced with irritation and power. A twisted shard of rebar shot like a spear past the Lycan’s head, embedding itself in the wall with a sharp thwack. The beast flinched, snarling, but didn’t retreat. Its eyes remained fixed on Telemachus. The mangled rose petals. The blood pool. The chain glinting between his thighs. Hunger overrode fear. It took a step inside.
Panic flooded Telemachus. He scrabbled backwards, tearing the wound wider. Fresh blood pulsed hot. The chain bit deep. He kicked out weakly with a clawed foot, catching the Lycan’s shin. It barely noticed, a low chuckle grating in its chest. It crouched, muscles coiling. Ready to spring. Not like this. Not torn apart by this thing. He squeezed his eyes shut.
A wrench flew through the air, smashing into the Lycan’s shoulder with bone-crunching force. Karl stood framed in the hallway, eyes blazing behind his glasses, metal shards orbiting him like shrapnel. "I said," he snarled, his power humming, "FUCK OFF!" The magnetic field surged. Every loose piece of metal in the room – screws, the crumpled gyroscope casing, even the heavy chain binding Telemachus – vibrated violently. The chain constricted like a vice. Telemachus arched off the floor in silent, unbearable agony. The Lycan yelped, staggered by the sudden, invisible pressure.
Karl strode into the room, stepping over Lycan corpses. "Persistent fucking vermin," he spat. He gestured contemptuously at the wounded beast. The U-bolts anchoring the chain inside Telemachus ripped free from the floor with a sickening squelch, tearing at ravaged tissue. Telemachus choked, vision swimming. The U-bolts rocketed towards the Lycan, smashing into its skull with a wet crack. It dropped.
Silence. Thick, heavy, broken only by Telemachus’s ragged gasps and the dripping blood. Karl loomed over him, boots planted in the crimson pool. He nudged Telemachus’s hip with a toe. "Still causing problems, toy?" His voice was dangerously calm. He crouched, the reek of ozone and violence clinging to him. His gloved hand grabbed the chain between Telemachus’s legs, giving it a brutal, possessive twist. "This little leash seems inadequate." Telemachus whimpered, writhing.
"Need you… secured." Karl’s gaze swept the room, landing on the heavy, partially assembled metal sculpture near the door. A low hum built. The chain binding Telemachus’s cock and balls suddenly went taut, yanking him violently sideways across the bloody floor towards the sculpture. He cried out silently, clawing at the ground, the open wound grinding against splinters. Karl rose, following the dragging body. "Got a better anchor point."
The sculpture pulsed under Karl’s magnetic command, reforming. Twisted pipes and plates welded together, forming a cold, angled metal frame. Karl guided Telemachus towards it. He grabbed his hair, wrenching his head back, forcing him onto his knees before the structure. The chain binding his genitals pulled cruelly upwards, forcing his hips forward, presenting his bloody, ruined ass towards the cold metal.
"Bend over the bar, mutt," Karl ordered, his voice rough. He shoved Telemachus’s upper body down hard onto a horizontal pipe. The cold metal pressed against his torn hoodie, against his cheek. The position stretched the gaping wound obscenely, making fresh blood seep. The chain kept his hips high, ass exposed. Helpless. Karl ran a gloved hand over the curve of his ass, tracing the torn, bleeding rim. "Still loose. Still greedy." He spat onto the wound.
Telemachus flinched, trembling violently. Karl chuckled. "Gonna plug you up. Keep the mess inside." He stepped back. The heavy bearing Karl had forced inside him earlier, discarded on the floor near the dead Lycan, lifted into the air. It hovered, cold and slick with gore, directly before Telemachus’s ruined entrance. "Remember this?" Karl purred. "You screamed so prettily taking it before." He pressed the cold, heavy sphere against the swollen, bleeding flesh. Telemachus stiffened, a muffled sob escaping the mask pressed against the pipe.
"Open wide," Karl commanded, shoving the bearing forward. It breached the torn ring of muscle with brutal force, stretching already ravaged tissue once more. Telemachus convulsed, biting down on the inside of the mask, tasting blood. The immense weight filled him, pressing down onto internal injuries, a cold, crushing agony replacing the open wound’s throb. Karl pushed it deeper, seating it firmly inside the battered channel. "There. Corked." He patted Telemachus’s ass cheek roughly. "Tidy."
But Karl wasn’t done. He unzipped his own trousers with a sharp rasp. His thick cock sprang free, already hard. He spat into his palm, slicking himself roughly. "Still need to finish what we started, fox." He pressed the blunt head against the bearing still protruding slightly from Telemachus’s entrance. "Gonna fuck that plug right back into your greedy guts." He shoved forward.
His cockhead mashed against the cold metal of the bearing, forcing it deeper into Telemachus, grinding it against raw nerve endings. Telemachus screamed silently, body straining against the metal frame, the chain cutting off his air. Karl groaned, pushing harder, his cock sliding alongside the bearing inside the impossibly tight, packed space. "Fuck, yes! Like a vice!" He gripped Telemachus’s hips, fingers digging into bruises, and began to thrust. Hard, deep strokes that hammered the bearing deeper, grinding metal against torn flesh and Karl’s own cock in a searing, brutal friction.
Karl’s hips pistoned, driving his cock alongside the heavy sphere impaling Telemachus. Every thrust hammered the cold metal deeper into his battered guts, forcing ragged, voiceless screams from behind the mask pressed against the filthy pipe. "Take it!" Karl snarled, sweat dripping onto Telemachus’s back. "Take my cock and the fucking plug! Stuff that worthless hole!" The chain binding Telemachus’s cock and balls pulled impossibly tighter with each violent shove, a white-hot agony competing with the brutal fullness splitting him open inside. Blood and pre-come slicked Karl’s driving cock as he fucked the brutalized channel.
"Gonna cum," Karl grunted, his rhythm turning jagged, desperate. He slammed deep one final time, burying himself to the hilt alongside the embedded bearing, grinding it mercilessly against Telemachus’s prostate. A guttural roar ripped from him as he emptied hot spurts deep into the packed, bleeding cavity. He held himself there, pulsing, panting harshly. "Filled you with metal and cum, mutt. Just like you begged for." He pulled out slowly, his cock and the bearing glistening with a mix of blood and semen.
Telemachus blacked out, his internal organs bleeding. The last thing he heard was Karl panicking.
The world snapped back into focus like a cracked lens, sharp edges of agony slicing through the fog. Telemachus gasped wetly behind the mask, tasting blood and dust. The crushing pressure low in his belly was still there, a cold, leaden weight – the bearing Karl had forced into him, plugged deep like a stopper in a broken bottle. Above him, Karl wasn't just panicking; he was roaring, a sound torn between fury and something else, something raw. "Get the FUCK back! NOW!"
Metal screamed. The heavy chain binding Telemachus’s cock and balls suddenly went slack, falling away with a heavy clank. Freedom was a fresh wave of nauseating pain. He tried to curl in on himself, to protect the violated core of him, but the movement jostled the embedded bearing, sending white-hot sparks behind his eyes. He choked back a soundless scream.
"On your feet, mutt!" Karl bellowed, not even looking down. He stood braced near the shattered doorframe, one hand outstretched, trembling with the strain. A maelstrom of metal swirled around him – twisted rebar, shattered tools, the U-bolts ripped from the floor, even the heavy sculpture frame he'd been building. They formed a whirling, lethal barrier, screeching as they clashed against snarling shadows forcing their way through the broken door. Yellow eyes, wet fangs, matted fur slick with gore – Lycans. Two more massive beasts, driven wild by the bloodbath. One lunged, claws raking the air inches from Karl's face. A jagged piece of pipe shot forward like a bullet, punching through its throat. It gurgled, collapsing.
"Telemachus!" Karl's voice cracked, strained. He risked a glance back, his face pale beneath the sweat and grime, eyes wide behind cracked glasses. "Get the fuck up! Heal yourself! NOW!" His command was desperate, almost pleading. The second Lycan, seeing the opening, slammed against the weakening magnetic barrier. Metal groaned, bending under the impact. Karl grunted, shoving his power harder, sweat dripping off his chin. "I can't hold them!"
Heal. Karl wanted him to heal. The absurdity almost made Telemachus laugh, a silent, trembling spasm. He tried to focus inward, past the agony radiating from his core. His power, warm and familiar like sunlight on closed eyelids, flickered deep within. He could feel it, the potential to knit torn flesh, seal the ragged hole Karl had plugged. But it recoiled. It flared uselessly against the cold, heavy intrusion of the bearing, a foreign object violating the space it needed to work. His own body rejected the healing touch. He couldn't. The tears under his mask were hot and hopeless. He shook his head weakly, a small, defeated movement against the cold floor.
Karl saw it. Saw the denial. A snarl ripped from him, part anger, part terror. "Fucking useless!" The barrier buckled. A clawed hand ripped through the spinning debris, raking deep gashes across Karl's forearm. He roared, stumbling back, blood welling black in the dim light. The magnetic field faltered. The remaining Lycan, its muzzle smeared with its packmate's blood, surged forward, jaws wide enough to crush bone, aimed straight for Karl's throat. Karl scrambled back, boots slipping in the slick mixture of blood and fluids pooling beneath Telemachus. He was cornered against the wall, his creation, the metal monstrosity he'd been building, looming behind him.
Something primal, something deeper than thought, deeper than the searing pain, ignited in Telemachus. Not healing. Survival. His friend. The one who hurt him, used him, was about to be torn apart. His gaze locked onto the Lycan's exposed flank as it lunged past him. Instinct took over. His clawed shoes, the ones with the wicked talons front and back, lashed out with surprising speed and force, driven by desperation and bioweapon reflexes Karl hadn't considered. Not a kick. A rake.
The rear claw on his boot hooked deep into the Lycan's hamstring. Not bone, but sinew and muscle bunching for the leap. Telemachus twisted his ankle with every ounce of strength left in his shattered body. The talon tore, ripping through tough hide and tendon like paper. The beast shrieked, a sound of pure shock and agony, its lunge turning into a clumsy, crashing stumble. It slammed into the heavy metal frame beside Karl, howling, its leg buckling at a sickening angle. Karl didn't hesitate. A heavy wrench, orbiting nearby, shot downward with brutal force, crushing the Lycan's skull against the ironwork. Silence crashed back, heavier than before.
Karl stood panting, back pressed to his own creation. Blood streamed down his arm, soaking his coat sleeve. He stared at the crumpled Lycan, then slowly, disbelievingly, down at Telemachus. Telemachus lay curled on his side, one leg still extended, the clawed boot dripping gore onto the already stained floor. He trembled violently, the movement displacing the bearing inside him, making him whimper. Karl's expression was unreadable – shock warring with the fading adrenaline, maybe even a flicker of something else. He opened his mouth, closed it. His gaze dropped again to the bloody claw on Telemachus's boot, then back to his own bleeding arm.
"...Need that fixed, fox," he finally rasped, his voice rough but devoid of its earlier cruelty. He gestured vaguely at his wound, then his eyes flicked to Telemachus's exposed hip, to the torn, bearing-plugged ruin. A muscle in Karl's jaw clenched. "Can you...?" He trailed off, the unspoken question heavy in the gore-scented air: Can you even move? The silence stretched, broken only by Telemachus's ragged, muffled breathing and the distant, persistent hum of the forgotten radio. Karl, the master of magnetic fury, looked suddenly, profoundly tired, watching the broken bioweapon who might be his only way out of bleeding out in this ruined sanctuary.
Karl sighed, using metal scraps to drag Telemachus onto a dirty mattress.
Telemachus flinched, trying to squirm away, the aftershocks from the... stuff that happened terrifying him. "n-no... no more...."
The silence choked the room, thicker than blood and dust. Telemachus lay twisted on the filthy mattress Karl had dragged him onto, every shallow breath a jagged blade scraping his insides. The cold, heavy bearing was a lead weight lodged deep within him, pressing against violated organs, a constant reminder of the brutal stuffing. He trembled, not just from pain, but bone-deep terror at the man looming over him. Those panicked words – "Need that fixed, fox… Can you…?" – hung in the air, absurd and terrifying.
Karl stood silhouetted against the ruined doorway, clutching his bleeding forearm. Black blood seeped steadily between his gloved fingers, staining the leather darker. His usual swagger was gone, replaced by a grimace of pain and the frantic energy of a cornered animal. He looked down at Telemachus, his gaze flickering from the bioweapon’s curled form to the obscene bulge beneath the torn hoodie, then back to his own wound. The radio’s faint hum was the only sound besides their ragged breathing.
"Can't leave this," Karl muttered, mostly to himself, wiping sweat and grime from his brow with his good hand, smearing blood across his forehead. He took a step closer to the mattress. Telemachus flinched violently, a high-pitched whimper escaping the cracked wood of his mask as he instinctively tried to scramble back, claws scrabbling uselessly against the stained fabric. "Easy, mutt," Karl snapped, though the command lacked its usual bite. It sounded strained. "Just... hold still." He raised his uninjured hand, fingers curling as his magnetic power flared, a low thrum vibrating the air.
Telemachus froze, eyes wide behind the mask slits. He knew that hum. It meant metal moving. Pain coming. The embedded bearing inside him shifted. A raw, silent scream tore through him as the cold sphere grated against torn flesh and bruised viscera. Karl wasn’t gently extracting it; he was pulling it magnetically, dragging it out the way it went in – brutal and efficient. Tears streamed hot under the mask, mingling with sweat and grime. He arched off the mattress, fingers digging into the fabric, the agony eclipsing even the Lycan attack. It was happening again.
It slid free with a final, sickening squelch, landing on the mattress beside him, slick with blood and internal fluids. The sudden absence was almost as agonizing as the intrusion, leaving a hollow, burning emptiness. Telemachus gasped, his body shuddering uncontrollably. He felt split open, raw, the wound Karl had plugged gaping anew, hot blood welling freely. He instinctively curled tighter, trying to protect the violated core of himself. "There," Karl grunted, breathing heavily, his power subsiding. He wiped his gloved hand on his coat, leaving dark smears. "Now fix this." He thrust his bleeding arm towards the trembling figure.
Telemachus stared at the offered wound through tear-blurred vision. The jagged gashes were deep, dark blood welling slowly. Karl needed his kiss. The healing power he couldn't use on himself. The power he’d offered Karl roses for, before… before the pole, the wires, the bearings, the chain, the hook, the knife, the stuffing… His pain, inflicted by this man. A wave of nausea rose, bitter and choking. Why should he? Let him bleed. Let him feel a fraction of the agony.
Karl shifted impatiently, wincing. "Fox. Now." The command was sharp, edged with pain and the unspoken threat that lingered always between them. "Unless you want more Lycans finding us while I'm leaking." His eyes, fierce and demanding behind cracked glasses, locked onto the kitsune mask. Telemachus shuddered. The threat was real. If Karl weakened further, neither would survive the next pack.
The thought of more teeth, more claws, more rending… it overrode the searing resentment. Survival. Simple, brutal necessity. With trembling, blood-smeared hands, Telemachus slowly, painfully pushed himself up onto his elbows. He flinched as his weight settled on torn muscles. He looked at Karl’s arm, then slowly, hesitantly, lowered his masked face towards the dark, oozing gashes. The scent of Karl's blood – sharp, metallic, human – mixed with the stench of his own violation and the gore of the room. His breath hitched behind the mask. Could he even do this?
He pressed his lips, hidden by the cracked wood, against the deepest gash. He concentrated, pushing past the fog of his own pain, the memory of how Karl had forced his mouth open earlier, the taste of… He pushed it down violently. Focus. Warmth bloomed from his core, the familiar, alien healing energy surging outwards, flowing through the point of contact. It felt like sunlight after years of cold, but it cost him. He sagged against Karl’s arm, the effort draining what little strength he had left.
Karl hissed, not in pain, but surprise. The raw edges of torn flesh beneath the mask began to knit together with unnatural speed. Skin flowed over muscle, sealing the ragged wounds cleanly, leaving only faint pink lines amidst the drying blood. The throbbing agony in his arm subsided, replaced by a strange, deep itch. He flexed his fingers, stared at the healed flesh. The relief was immediate, profound, a stark contrast to the bioweapon collapsing against him. Telemachus slumped back onto the mattress, utterly spent, breathing in shallow, ragged gasps. The kitsune mask hid his face, but his whole posture screamed exhaustion and residual pain.
Karl looked down at his healed arm, then at the broken figure on the mattress. Silence stretched, heavy and complex. No thanks. No acknowledgment of what it cost the fox. Just the slow drip of blood elsewhere in the room and the radio’s persistent, tinny hum. He zipped his coat over the healed wound, the motion brisk, practical. "Right," he said, his voice regaining its usual gravel, though quieter. He scanned the ruined room, the bodies, the scattered metal, the gaping hole where the door had been. "Can't stay here. Smell'll draw every fucking mutt for miles." He kicked a piece of Lycan carcass aside. "Get up."
Telemachus didn't move. Couldn't. Tremors still wracked his frame. The raw agony of removal echoed where the bearing had been, a phantom weight. Moving seemed impossible. He made a faint, choked sound behind the mask, more whimper than word. Karl sighed, a harsh exhalation. He crouched, movements stiff. "Up, I said." Not gentle, but not violent either. He hooked a hand under Telemachus's ruined hoodie, hauling him roughly into a sitting position. Telemachus cried out silently at the jolt, head lolling. Karl steadied him with a grunt. "Lean on me. Or crawl. Don't care. But we're moving. Now." He pulled Telemachus's arm over his shoulder, the bioweapon's slight frame a dead weight against him. Telemachus's clawed shoes scraped the floor as Karl half-dragged, half-carried him towards the shattered doorway, leaving the bloody mattress, the discarded bearing, and the oppressive sanctuary of his ruined room behind. The radio played on, oblivious. Karl's grip tightened. "And fox? We're not done."
Telemachus tensed, his body turning away from Karl. He didn't say anything, but was clearly saddened by it.