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My little Cinnamoroll. 🩵✨🩵✨🩵

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For a hound, he sure looks a lot like my meow meow. 🥰🥰🥰

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Alright, alright. I did the damn thing.

My dream rotation for your viewing (and judging) pleasure.

I have no shame, and no regrets. 🙂‍↔️

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whatever you do don’t think about your favourite Papa staring up at you from between your legs, utterly sex-drunk on the taste of you. don’t think about his mouth dripping with the evidence of your previous releases but him being insistent on just one more time, tesoro, for your Papa. don’t think about the way his eyes roll back when he licks, the groans he makes in the back of his throat as your body hitches, how his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips to keep you still so he can enjoy his feast. don’t think about how he could spend hours worshipping you with his tongue. don’t think about the fact that you’re his favourite altar to kneel before.

or do, idk

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The King’s Midnight

King Baldwin x Reader

Summary: As King Baldwin weakens, the nights grow longer. Only you are allowed past the threshold of his chambers after sundown.

The physicians no longer lied.

They spoke in whispers outside the marble columns of your shared quarters, using words like calming and manageable.

But you knew what they meant.

The disease that had made Baldwin a legend in his youth was now stealing him away in his manhood.

By day, he remained a king, respectable, commanding, dressed in crimson and gold. His silver mask glinted beneath the sun, and his words held the weight of law.

But after sundown, when the courtiers retired and the candles were drawn low, he allowed you past the curtain.

Only you.

You said nothing the first night his hand trembled too hard to remove his own rings.

You helped and placed each piece of his regalia on the tray as if it were sacred.

There were nights when he could not sleep.

The pain would grab him in waves. He would not cry out, but his body would shake, and you would hold him, whispering in soft prayers your father had taught you as a child.

He never asked what the words meant. He only closed his eyes.

One night, late in winter, the wind tore through the halls like a beast.

You entered his chamber quietly, as always. He was by the window, masked, robed only in linen, staring out over Jerusalem’s rooftops.

You reached for the warm towel you always brought, intending to press it to the ache in his left shoulder. But he moved.

“Don’t,” he said, gently.

You paused. “Shall I fetch the oil?”

“No.” His voice was distant. “Come here.”

You obeyed without question, stepping barefoot across the thick carpet until he was close enough to touch. But he didn’t reach for you.

“Dance with me,” he said softly.

You blinked. “Baldwin…”

His hand lifted slowly, offered in that old knightly gesture.

He wore gloves tonight, black silk to hide what the linen could not.

“No one’s watching,” he whispered. “Not even God.”

You pressed your palm to his. You could feel the tremble.

There was no music.

Just the wind against the stone and the distant creak of banners along the citadel walls. But you moved together, slowly, as if you’d done this every night of your lives.

He guided you gently and carefully, avoiding sudden turns or pressure. His steps were more shuffle than stride, but he kept rhythm. You followed, breathless.

The fire cracked behind you. You caught his scent, sandalwood, myrrh, and something faintly bitter under it.

Your fingers drifted to the edge of his mask. He didn’t flinch.

“I love you,” you murmured.

His head bowed slightly, his masked brow pressing to yours.

When he spoke, it was barely audible. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

His arms came around you, slow and reverent. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, body trembling, not with fever now, but with something more human.

More helpless.

Love.

“I forget sometimes,” he rasped, “that I am allowed to be a man.”

You held him tighter. “You are not only allowed. You are mine.”

He kissed your temple with a trembling mouth, still masked.

And you thought, If this is the end, let it be like this.

No crown. No court. Just the rhythm of his breath. The curve of his shoulder underneath your hand.

The mask between you and the love that made it disappear.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[d1sc0s8n]

Obsession ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧

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WHY CAN’T I LISTEN TO THIS SONG WITHOUT THINKING ABOUT GETTING THE MUSTACHE RIDE OF MY LIFE FROM CAPT. PRICE? 😭

I MEAN FUCK-

Am I gonna turn this into a fanfic if I can work up the motivation? Lol absolutely.

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y'all reckon Soap'd say grace before goin' down on his bird?

you think this man doesn't know he's gotta thank the lord for the succulent meal he's about to enjoy? very least he's crossing himself, but you might feel his lips moving in prayer against your cunt.

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Confess your sins to the Cardinal, he will understand.

I don't know what to say other than it's Umbra's fault.

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oh yeah baby we’re BACK in BUSINESS

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Sweeter the Sun

Primo finds that retirement comes with pleasantly few distractions – though he does not mind spending the heat wave with one writhing in his lap.

content: 1.8k words, reader has a cunt, otherwise non-descript, italian pet names, smut, soft dick play, frotting, v fingering, sweat, old man loving, primo's pov, second person pov, it gets a bit romantic at the end

Masterlist – Ao3 link – RATED E – 18+

It’s dark inside the old stone cottage, only errant rays of light stream in through cracks in the splintered wood of the shutters that keep the rooms cool and secluded. Even so, a fan is blowing, distantly, circulating the air for some semblance of control over this hot and humid summer. The heat has left him too lethargic to do much of anything. But what would he be doing anyway? Retired, finally left alone, the days that remain to him are surprisingly peaceful.

“Papa!” you whine, a sweaty forehead falling against his cheek.

Ah, yes. That.

Primo smiles, wicked, as he crooks his fingers inside of you. He resumes to fuck you despite the stiffness in them, eliciting a plethora of mewls and whimpers that tell him he’s not quite out of practice yet. You came to seek refuge from the heat, that’s what you’d said, and yet here you are – naked, writhing and sweating in his arms as he makes sure you feel every knuckle. It’s not the first time, though, no, and he’s sure you had exactly this in mind when you came knocking with a hesitant hand and flaming cheeks.

What a poor little lamb.

“Please,” you whisper, running out of air to speak, and then you come around his fingers.

He can’t see much of your face but your body is shaking on top of his, the armchair creaking as your hips buck and you clench around him. He strokes you through the sensation and picks back up, his pace never slowing. It’s his favourite game, to see just how delirious he can get you, and he passes hours like this, the only distraction from retirement he allows.

You reach for him, then, and by now you’re not surprised anymore when you pull him from his pants. He’s soft in your hand but you don’t seem to mind when this happens, no. You are just as eager, touching him with reverence, aware that it does not speak of a lack of arousal or attraction.

It tugs at his heart, or what remains of it, how gentle you are with him. Your fingers are cautious at first, cradling, feeling what little blood has gathered. With the help of some spit you stroke him, thumb gently pressed to his frenulum, just to see if you can coax it a little more. Primo closes his eyes, enjoying your soft hand on him. He remains limp but it is no matter, your touch is pleasurable all the same.

Your lips press to his neck, then, and he startles, a kiss followed by a moan and he twitches just the tiniest bit in your hand. You do it again and then your lips travel, along his jaw and to the corner of his mouth. This is new, entirely, but he does not stop you when you finally kiss him. At first, it is a tentative thing, soft, plump lips ghosting over his thin, old ones, and then you find your courage and press in with a desperation he didn’t know you carried. Primo indulges you, how could he not, and he makes sure to push his fingers deeper inside just to feel your gasps. As your mouth opens he regains control, using his free hand to angle your head however he likes. It has been a while since he’s revelled in the taste of another, let alone someone so sweet.

“What does an angel like you want from an old devil like me?” he hears himself asking, once you come apart.

You look at him, though he can’t see more than a reflection of light in your eyes. “Would you rather I stopped visiting you, Papa?”

“No,” he says, holding your cheek in his weathered palm. “But that is not an answer.”

He has stopped moving his fingers and you squirm, deflating until he can feel your warm breath against his neck where you’re hiding. “I just– I want more of you.”

Primo smiles, satisfied with your answer, though he is not insecure. He knows you could get taken care of in someone else’s arms, knows that a younger man could please you in ways that are lost to him. But you would not be the first with a preference that defies reason. If you want his stiff, worn hands, his flaccid cock and brittle lips, then who is he to deny you? He’s seen you fall apart in his lap enough times to know that you are not left wanting in his presence.

And he does appreciate the company.

“More, hm?” he whispers. “Perhaps we can try something else today, fiore mio.”

”What– Ah.”

He retrieves his hand and you wince at the absence. You’ve been dripping into his palm for the better part of an hour and he spreads your arousal on his cock, grasping your smaller hand to help him along. You seem to understand his meaning, swinging your leg over his hips until you’re straddling his narrow hips.

“Get comfortable” he says when he notices you hovering.

“Are you sure I’m not too heavy?”

In reply, he seizes your waist and pulls you forward. Your cunt meets his overly sensitive cock and he loses himself in the moment. Deep moans in perfect synchrony, your soft flesh, the warmth and wetness of you pressing down on him. Your fingers grasp at his shoulders, scrambling for purchase before your upper body crashes into his.

“I am old but not fragile,” he retorts after too much time but you huff a laugh anyway, leaning further into him, and you’re just so soft.

He feels your hand on his cheek, then, softly alerting him of the kiss that follows. With your other hand you reach down, aligning his cock to fit between your folds. It feels different today, everything. A growing affection he can’t deny, the way you are so open about your desire for him, and now these sweet, sweet kisses. He’d blame the heat for playing with his mind, or his sentimental age for making him soft, but deep down he knows that he’s grown fond of you.

“Is this okay?” you ask against his lips.

“Sì, tesoro, move however you please.”

His hands roam, he can’t help himself, up your back, back down to your hips, sharp nails trailing over smooth skin, leaving a few marks, no doubt. He’d leave more, he plans to, but then you slowly begin to roll your hips, trapping his cock in your heat. Primo growls, the sensations so much more saturated compared to your hands or even your mouth.

You whimper in reply, hesitation making way for a senseless need for more. It drives you into a faster rhythm, grasping at his shirt until the buttons rip open. A hand buries into his white chest hair, scratching lightly as your mouth keeps teasing his. It is thrilling, to witness you taking what you need from him, so utterly shameless.

“Very good,” he whispers proudly, using his hands to urge you along, leaving dents in your soft flesh that will bruise come morning.

With the next roll of your hips the hooded tip of his cock catches at your entrance, sending a bolt through him, and you both keen, overly sensitive. It compels you to grind down harder, feeling him dip in and out, just so, just barely, and it’s enough to drive him mad. When he feels your heat clamping down on him he can taste a prayer at the tip of his tongue. What a divine creature you are, heaven bows to the light you’ve brought into his life.

“Ah, Papa–”

“I know, angelo mio.”

“I’m gonna come.”

“Baciami, tesoro,” he says, a long finger at your chin, angling it up.

He’s not sure you understand his words but you lean in anyway, kissing him urgently as your peak tears through you. Your thighs shake on either side of him, your cunt fluttering where he’s pressing against you, pulsing with each tremor. And to his own surprise he feels it, the way his muscles constrict, how his lower body tightens, the final tug that drags him along with you, so intensely that his lungs hollow out. His moan is swallowed by your bruising kiss and with a hand on your head he traps you there, pushing his tongue into you with a violent force. He only manages to break away when his head start to spin, wondering when he last felt a pleasure this acute.

“Papa,” you whisper between choked inhales, no doubt feeling the sticky mess between your bodies where sweat and come mingle.

“Breathe,” he says. “You made your Papa feel very good, tesoro.”

You hum, quite content, leaning on him in an embrace that he is far too eager to return. “Is this okay for you? Are you in any pain?”

“No pain,” he whispers. “And I am not done with you.”

It’s a half-truth, the strain on his back is persistent and his joints are aching more so than usual. But he’d be damned if he didn’t draw a few more orgasms out of you, until you are so exhausted that your feet won’t carry you back to the abbey and he can coax you into staying.

“But Papa,” you whisper, “I can’t move.”

A deep rumble falls from his chest. “You can still talk, fiore mio.”

You wince at the implication, just the tiniest bit, but the evening is still long and he sees no need to hurry. Vaguely, he notices the fan still whirring, wondering if he should offer you a shower and take you to bed, more for his comfort than yours. The cottage is cool enough, but the sun won’t set for another few hours.

“Fiore,” he whispers to avoid startling you, though his voice comes out raspy.

A nose lazily nuzzles against the loose skin of his neck. “Hm?”

“Would you like to stay, tonight?”

You sit up abruptly, meeting his gaze in the half-dark. “Are you sure?”

“I would not offer, otherwise.”

He can see the vague shape of your mouth curling upwards and you struggle to suppress the giggle that comes with it. “Do I get to rub your ointment into your back?”

“If you wish it so, tesoro.”

“I love how it smells.”

Primo smiles a rare, genuine smile when your sweaty face nestles back to his neck, his old, withering heart quite taken. For a while he lets you rest, ignoring the complains in his lower back at the added weight on the strained muscles. It’s true, he he has grown soft with age to allow for such domesticity, but he lives a secluded life, the only witnesses you and the birds chirping outside his window, and the thought is so very fleeting.

You want more, you said, and perhaps, at last, Primo wouldn’t mind more either.

thank you for reading <3 likes, kudos, comments and reblogs are appreciated but most of all i hope you had fun reading this story!

Masterlist – my Ao3 – Join my tag list

[d1sc0s8n]

Spare prompts you say!

Creature coded Perpetua trying to court/flirt with a Sister of Sin but uhhhh he keeps accidentally scaring her. 😅

Don't know if its up your alley but I can't stop thinking about it.

He just wanted to give her a gift why is she jumping back in shock!?

Poor him, he doesn't know its an unusual thing to give!

What do women like?

V waits until his brother is well asleep to sneak into his new office, so overstuffed and golden-yellow it shines like the sun itself, typing in his request to the strange device and wincing as the too-bright screen returns a list of results.

There’s not much about being a human being that he instinctively understands, and what he does understand is so contradictory it hardly helps at all. The world is too bright, but the stage lights feel comforting. The sounds around him are too loud, but behind the snug fit of his in-ear monitors, the pulse of the beat rings throughout his marrow. People say one thing, then do another, but music is his constant.

And there is (as there always is, in times of emotional turmoil) a woman who has caught his eye, one who makes him pine, and yearn, and anguish, and yes, even step outside of his comfort zone.

Hence: The computer. The box full of answers. The oracle, his very salvation.

V reads the results and devours them, making a list of objects and ideas. Surely this will help him. Surely, even though his own language fails, this beautiful woman - so lovely, so bright-eyed and happy, with a smile that makes him want to fling himself off the roof of the bell tower and a laugh that makes him want to dig his way back to whatever hell he was drug out of in the first place - will understand what it is he means to convey.

Attempt #1 - Women Like Flowers

V waits for her with his hand wrapped around his gift, palm sweaty, dirt scattering on the marble floor. This is the best of the flowers in the gardens, because only the very best will suffice to show his admiration to her. Yet when she approaches (he’d know her voice anywhere; he hears it in his dreams) he only sees her eyes widen when he jumps out from the shadowed alcove. The scream she makes… she screams at him; he’s frightened her. Panic rushes in like the tide, and he hastily shoves the uprooted azalea bush at her before running away.

Conclusion - Women Like Flowers, but she does NOT.

Attempt #2 - Women Like Chocolates

V reconsiders. Though it nearly crushes him, he summons his courage travel into the nearby town during an early summer market day. Under a black parasol he slinks from tent to tent, looking for his quarry. There are baskets of summer fruits, which he buys, because he himself enjoys them. There are vendors selling wood-sculpted objects, things made of old forks and hubcaps, stained glass sun-catchers that glint in the light prettily, like hellfire. There is a booth that sells local whiskey, which tastes like hellfire. (He buys a bottle for the ghouls, to give them a little taste of home.)

There, at last, he finds an artisan chocolate maker. He buys two of the nicest boxes, tucks them carefully out of the sun, and returns to the ministry, leaving a trail of concerned citizens and fascinated children behind. Even though he left his paint off, to blend in, there’s absolutely no denying that a grown man in a metal half-mask and all-black clothing does make quite the impression.

Last time, he surprised her. That was, perhaps, a bad choice. This time, he leaves the chocolates outside of her door, waiting in the high shadows, perched on a nearby archway and watching until she finds them. His heart flutters with nerves and with longing, and when she appears and crouches down to pick them up it’s only then that he realized he… never put a name on the gift.

So she stands there, holding chocolates in her hands, looking left and right. She mutters something to the companion she walks with, something like: “…dairy in them. I can’t even try one! Do you want to take them? I have no idea how these even got here?”

V’s heart sinks as her friend hugs her happily, accepts the chocolates, and they part ways.

Conclusion - Women like Chocolates, but she does NOT.

Attempt #3 - Women Like Jewelry

No flowers, no foodstuffs.

He must not get this wrong.

He must put his name on it, too. (Stupid; he’s so stupid. Satan never made a stupider, more pathetic, more miserable, lovestruck creature than he!)

V asks the ghouls to make a simple golden grucifix for him. He sees her when she walks among the roses, knows she always bends to smell them. He knows she sometimes tucks flowers in her hair, and knows she prefers simple wildflowers even more than roses. So he does not have the necklace adorned with any gems at all. Just simple gold, to match the warmth of her smile, the soft light in his heart she makes him feel.

V holds the little box in his hands and waits for her after unholy mass. He can sing and dance in front of thousands, but simply speaking to one woman is beyond him, it seems.

There is no way he can find a way to talk to her, just her, without jumping out and scaring her.

And when she smiles at another one of the Brothers of Sin, when she gives him that laughter, V pockets the necklace and slinks away.

Conclusion - Women Like Jewelry, but She does NOT.

She does NOT like… him.

He’s the common thread, here.

He’s the flawed creation.

He should have known.

Papa is loved, but V is just a creature. Misunderstood, and misunderstanding everything. She owes him nothing, but it does nothing to soothe the pain in his heart. She is scared of him. She would run from him, if she could. If she knew he felt this deeply, she would run - and by Lucifer he would still want to chase her.

Pride wounded, V hides away in the little ruined temple out in the grounds. It sits on the border of the field and the forest beyond. He sits on the dirt with his back to a pillar, holding the necklace in his hand, debating whether to leave it in the dirt or fling it into the trees. He was a fool to even think someone as lovely as he would want—

“Papa?”

V sits up so fast he nearly cracks his head against the stone. It’s her.

“W-what…?”

“I was just leaving,” V lies. “Please, don’t let me…”

“I was looking for you.” She smiles tentatively at him. Outside, beyond the little shelter of the temple, it has begun to rain. “I wanted to thank you.”

V blinks up at her.

“One of the… one of the siblings was at the market the other day. She told me she saw you there, buying chocolates.”

“I… did?” He does not mean for it to come off like a question, but it does. “I did. Yes.”

She gives him a tentative, shy smile. “That was very kind of you. To leave them for me. I can’t have dairy, though. I’m, like, really allergic. It’s so stupid, I’m so sorry. If I had known—“

“You do not owe me anything,” V says, standing up, taking a little step back to give her distance, like one afraid of spooking some kind of beautiful, wild creature. “I am sorry to have been so thoughtless and inattentive.”

“It wasn’t thoughtless,” she says, tucking her hair back behind her ear and giving him a wider smile. There is a light in her eyes he cannot even hope to read. “It was really kind of you. I’m just sorry I couldn’t have them. Built wrong, I guess.”

“No!” At this, V steps forward, hesitating, holding himself back from rushing to embrace her the way he wishes, the way he has yearned to do for months, now. “No! You are built to perfection. Every bit of you is wonderful and perfect. If you wish it, I will find every cow in the city and offer it to Satan’s pyres to safeguard you!”

She laughs and shakes her head. “No, no, that’s okay. I wouldn’t deny anyone else their cheese!”

Oh, he is a fool. Her smile is so lovely, her gaze so tender. He could take flight at this very moment. She could pierce him with a stake and he would thank her for penetrating him.

They’re both just staring at each other, with awestruck gazes equally, wonderfully matched.

And he remembers the necklace in his hand.

“I… had this made for… for you.” V opens his shaking hand and her eyes widen. Her gaze flicks up to his, then back to his hand, then to his eyes again. Her own are watery and full of wonder.

“Why?”

“It is a necklace,” V explains, holding the clasp, showing her. “You wear it—“

“No, I mean… why me?”

V has frightened her. He has misunderstood her. He has failed to show her how he feels and now he may never be able to express it unless he does so right now. So with the courage granted to him through prayer and fervent devotion to the Great Unmaker, he takes a breath, and confesses his feelings.

Needless to say, if any of the siblings look out the south-eastern window that evening and catch a glimpse of a formless shadow horror being ridden by a very naked Sister of Sin, or if any of them hear noises too unholy and erotic to be put to print, or if anyone up before dawn the next day sees a pair of figures hand-in-hand limping back to the main building, kissing every five feet, well, that’s between them and Satan, now, isn’t it?

[d1sc0s8n]

Snow Beneath the Stone

Count Orlok x Reader

Summary: When the world turns its back on you, only monsters remain to offer comfort. Trapped by snow, haunted by memory, and drawn to a man.

Snow eats sound.

You learn this the first night you sleep in the chapel ruins.

There are no carols, no speeches, just cold breath fogging the air and stained-glass windows cracked by time.

You curl on a blanket under the fractured statue of a weeping saint, unsure if your shivers come from the cold or the fear clinging to you.

The forest outside groans like it’s breathing. Like it recognises you shouldn’t be here.

But no one comes looking. Not until him.

You don’t know his name at first.

Only that he steps silently over the snow like it parts for him, his shadow long even in the dead of night.

You hide behind the altar when he enters, watching the way his long fingers drag along the cracked stone, the way he seems to listen to the silence as if it speaks.

“You’re not from here,” he says, voice low and dry. “You’re running.”

You say nothing. Your heart hammers.

He tilts his head. “I won’t hurt you. But I will come back.”

And he does.

Every night.

At first, he only brings firewood. Then a small lantern. Then food, dense, bitter bread, dried fruit, a flask of water that never freezes.

He never eats, but he watches you while you do, quiet and still as if learning your shape by the way the candlelight catches your breath.

Eventually, you ask him, “Why are you helping me?”

A long pause. “Because no one else will.”

He sits on the floor beside you that night, not touching, but closer than usual. He watches the snow fall through the shattered roof.

“I used to pray here,” he murmurs. “Before it burned. Before the wolves came.”

“There are no wolves anymore,” you whisper.

“Are you certain?”

You look at him, really look, at the ash-pale skin, the thin lips, the long coat smelling of old earth.

“Are you one of them?” you ask.

A long silence.

“I don’t know what I am anymore.”

You tell him your name. He gives you his, Orlok.

You learn he does not breathe like you. He does not sleep. But he listens to everything. Your voice, your silence, your nightmares.

One night, your scream rips through the cold when sleep brings your past crashing in.

You wake sobbing, gasping his name.

He’s already there.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, shaking. “I didn’t mean to-”

He pulls you close without asking. His body is cold, but his arms are steady.

“I will never let anyone touch you again.”

And you believe him.

Days blur. Nights deepen.

Sometimes you find fresh clothes beside your blanket.

Sometimes books, dried flowers, and old music boxes wheeze lullabies from another century. You ask him why.

He shrugs. “You smile when you see them.”

Sometimes, he asks you to brush your hair.

“I forget softness,” he murmurs, fingers untangling knots with strange reverence.

“Have you ever been in love?” you ask one evening.

He hesitates.

“No. But I think I am learning now.”

Spring tries to melt through the trees, but the snow clings around the chapel like a memory refusing to fade.

You stand by the doorway one morning, staring at the path. “I suppose I could leave soon,” you say.

He says nothing.

“Orlok?” you ask, turning. He looks at you with a stillness that aches.

“You may,” he says. “If that is your wish. I will not stop you.”

But there’s something in his voice.

You walk to him, place your hand against his cheek.

“I could go. But I don’t want to.”

He closes his eyes.

“I am not good,” he whispers. “Not holy. Not human.”

“I know,” you say. “But you are mine.”

He kisses you that night. Gently, almost reverently. He touches your skin like it is something sacred, like he’s afraid he might break the moment if he breathes too deeply.

You guide his hands. Let him learn you, inch by inch, with unhurried devotion.

When he finally joins his body to yours, it is not just lust, it is worship. Quiet gasps against your throat, his voice shuddering as he says your name like a prayer.

You cling to him, wrapped in arms that once promised nothing, and feel something bloom where only ruin once lived.

After, you rest your forehead on his. The fire crackles low. His hand never leaves yours.

“You saved me,” you whisper.

“No,” he says. “You stayed. That saved me.”

The snow fades. The forest blooms.

But you stay.

Not out of fear. Not out of pity. But love, strange and deep, rooted in frost and silence.

He brings you to his castle. You fill it with laughter.

That night, you lie together beneath the remnants of stained glass, the moon spilling silver onto the cold stone.

You curl into his arms, and he surrounds you, the warmth of your body drawn into his, his hand on your stomach, fingers tracing idle patterns.

“There are things I cannot give you,” he murmurs. “Sunlight. A family. A normal life.”

“I don’t want those things,” you whisper. “I want you.”

Silence.

Then, “Say it again.”

You shift, face brushing his neck. “I want you.”

He holds you tighter, breath caught in his throat. “Even as I am?”

“Especially.”

His lips find your shoulder, reverent, slow. You feel the heat that simmers beneath his restraint, the tension that has lived in his body for centuries. And still, he waits for you to say more.

You kiss him.

It is soft. And then not.

Because your body belongs to no one but yourself, and tonight, you give it to him.

And Orlok, for all his power, treats it like a holy thing.

No hunger, only worship.

No demand, only devotion.

When his mouth finds the curve of your neck, it is not to feed — it is to learn. When his hands explore your form, they tremble with wonder. And when you arch beneath him, whispering his name like a vow, he breaks.

Not in fury.

In awe.

Because monsters can love too.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[d1sc0s8n]

¤ Sweet, Silver Affliction ¤ (pt.9)

▪︎ King Baldwin × f!Reader arranged marriage work

《 In the hours later, Baldwin was at the head of the long, ornate refectory table where most of his men in the Christian crusades had gathered to share petitions with their king. As the minutes turned to hours, it was steadily becoming a boasting game of tall tales spun by one hand to the next.

The Crusaders were relaxed around him, something that admittedly Baldwin didn't care for. He didn't prefer them to believe that he was friendly in their company but he minded their small talk cordially, knowing that saving face was always the higher road. He found himself more understanding of lower societal issues after immersing himself in their banter.

The king admittedly wasn't paying close attention when one spoke up at him in the silence between chatter,

“Your Grace, we have yet to see your Muslim bride. There are some that say that she is a ghost.”

Baldwin found small, menial offense to this characterization of yourself that was shallow, yet none to his surprise. He tilted his mask and entertained the question monotonically,

“She's neither a ghost nor Muslim. Tuunda’an is newly converted in Christian belief.”

The room became quiet after his informative mention intended to clear any disbelief of your upbringing but another voice seated at the table rose with another question made from rumor in the city,

“I thought she was intended to a nephew of Saladin. One that was in strong camaraderie with her father in Hadjari.”

“Saladin has too many kin within Arabia to make mention- it could have been Saladin himself for all we know of.” Another said, jesting the others around him with a nudge of his elbow.

The room grew in laughter except that of the king. It was true that had you not been married to Jerusalem, Saladin had relatives in line for your marriage. But your father wanted differently in terms of alliance in the great war across the Jordan. There were rebellions taking place near your homeland and finding good trust through either marriages or gold, was wisest.

But you were worth so much more than the gold promised by a king. Or an ally with the strongest army in the world.

He silenced their laughing with a hand raised above his hardened gaze. When man by man became hushed at the sight of the king demanding their quiet respect, he spoke firmly to redirect their intentions,

“I cannot punish your curiosity for the finer details of my wife. But what I can reprimand is loose tongues who choose to misinform others about their future Queen. Should you refrain from slandering the likes of me, do her the same respect or live to regret it.”

~

Meanwhile, before supper, you were in the private ward with the sunset falling low, soaking in one of the baths with the castle girls running about to have you prepared for dinner with the King. You were at peace although your mind was still weighed heavily by Baldwin's previous words. Suddenly, Risha tapped your shoulder to ask whether you wanted a cool blue silk or maybe a taupe velvet for your gown tonight.

You turned in the bath, deciding which one would look better in candlelight since you'd be with the King and you spoke up to say that you'd be fine with the velvet taupe. Yasmeen chimed up after you made your decision and said with a cheeky remark,

“This one is easier to take off, anyhow-”

You giggled with them, feeling the sense of girlish mischief creep into the air upon their mentions of you romancing the King and you turned again in the bath, resting your elbows onto the stone ledge to tell them in secrecy with whispered words in your mother tongue,

“I think I will be with him again tonight.”

All three of them grew loudly in joy, troublemaking smiles framing their mouths as they charged closer. Hana only found it close enough to be in the bath with you, damning her skirt and shawl to the water to hear just exactly what the king had told you.

“What if he shows you his face?”

“I don't think he means that- i think he meant differently.”

They argued the true nature of his intentions but what he meant or didn't mean- meant little. You were so scared of displeasing him even unintentionally and you spoke your fears with a mousey tone, unsure if they'd understand your worries or not.

“What if….the king doesn't like…when I'm with him?”

Their eyes grew wide and Yasmeen spoke up, always being the most surprising when it came to adding her input and she said lowly in contribution to the secrecy in the air now,

“I used to sew dresses for a girl….who worked in a pleasure house. She told me once…that all men, kings or thieves- like the same thing when they are with you.”

Everyone including you stayed silent, feeling the suspense clawing at your throat to know the one thing that could buy his satisfaction forever and she leaned in, knowing this must be said even below that of a whisper.

“Your eyes, Princess. If your eyes tell him that he is the only man in the world- he'll be sated..even on the first try.”

Your cheeks blushed, almost expecting her to say something far, far more vulgar but you were glad for the simpleness behind it. If she was right, maybe your virgin experience wouldn't damn you if he intended….not to show his face after all. The girls giggled louder, egging you on in flattery and timidness that only felt like the beginning of a warm friendship - at last.

~~

At supper, you were surprised to see that the room where you usually took to eating at the King's side was empty. Your long dining table was already set and lit with soft candles. The curtains were drawn to let in the twilighting glow of the sky during sunset, something you would've liked to see with Baldwin.

You were told by his Majesty's servants that the king was kept in his last advisory hearing of the night but that you should begin your meal without him. In the minutes later, thinking that maybe you'd be without the king during your evening meal altogether- the doors clattered open to the royal dining space.

Baldwin felt different when he approached the table and you felt his spirit hang heavy in the air when he asked the cupbearers and other servants to leave at once. He passed by you entirely to stand at the window, lying his palms on the flat half wall while they all made quick to depart from the room.

You felt pulled to him with the silence setting in so loudly now and you stood from your seat. Together your hands writhed as you treaded close to him, nearing his side in the evening breeze that caught the curtains and you asked in meekness as to not hinder his already ignited feelings.

“What troubles thee, My Lord?”

His eyes closed beneath the mask, signaling a haggard inhale meant to gather his composure and his thoughts to try and tell you with a calmness that seemed otherworldly for what he described,

“Something tells me that….the Lord Crusaders do not favor you. Either your heritage or something more... meaningless”

The words hung heavy between you after leaving his lips and he focused his stare towards you when he began explaining with emphasis, realizing that this was the first time in so long that he'd opened up to someone about the harshness of ruling those you didn't care for,

“Their approval couldn't mean lesser its weight in bronze to me. But they are brave. Dare I say conniving-”

You wondered to what resolution this matter of thinking was headed and he said in conclusion with his body turned to face you more intimately,

“When you're crowned, swear to me that their words will never find you. One's perception of talk will either align your morals as a ruler or destroy them.”

You smiled hearing that this sour mood was coming from a place of worry for your feelings and you nodded to give him his promise. But only before explaining that you weren't unaccustomed to unsavory rumors or being disliked by the more provincial side of the caste.

Softly, you entwined his hand into your own and spoke of what knew from your life in Hadjari, remembering to give him your eyes as Yasmeen had described,

“My father's rule did not go unspoken of. I am the one who is worried, your grace. I wanted our union to try and stop some of these undeserving rumors that you receive.”

“They'll always talk of me, angel. It's a life that I'm used to enduring. Undeserving rumors of yourself is what I'd like to avoid entirely.”

Your face became cupped in his gloved hands, making your heart swell as well as your breathing. His gaze swallowed you in, telling you with only a gesture that this was the beginning of his peace being found only within your presence. His twilling fingers stroked down your hair sweetly and he said once he'd taken the needed breath to regain away from his anger,

“Did I interrupt your meal, beloved?”

You shook your head but when he turned to see your plate hardly touched, he moved his eyes in only a silent glance for you to be reseated so that you may continue. He petted your head, nudging the side of his mouth to your temple in a figurative kiss through his mask when you sat down again. He then made his leave to the adjacent side room that sometimes he used as a study.

He always left you alone as you ate, whether it was your morning breakfast or the last evening meal, which perplexed you.

When you made sure to leave a more convincing, empty plate that wouldn't cause him to argue, you stood to find where he'd wandered off. You found him at one of his empty scribing desks. The candles were hardly aflame high enough for you to see through his thick cloud of frankincense but as you approached, you saw now that his left hand was completely unbandaged.

He was changing his coverings and when your presence was finally noticed, you were surprised that he wasn't reprimanding you for sneaking,

“Princess….please do not come closer so soon after eating.”

Your first instinct was to ask if that was to imply that you were meant to be disgusted and the thought alone moved you faster to his side.

Baldwin's eyes noticed your bravery but still quickly hid his wounded and unfortunate limp hand under a silk cloth he used for cleaning his skin. You began reaching forward as to move the delicate silk and he stopped you again- making you say carefully so as to not appear impatient,

“I drank every drop of that awful drink this morning made by the apothecaries. Please- my lord, let me see.”

He sighed heavily from under his mask, in a way that which you hadn't heard from him ever since you arrived in Jerusalem. It was the sound of his desperate grip on his perceived image being let go… but only slightly.

Slowly, with his understood permission, you removed the cloth from his troubled left hand where you saw that he had just begun wrapping his new bandage around his palm. He then turned his wrist, afraid you would reach to do it yourself and you saw then his true skin where the lesions of his leprosy became revealed to your eyes.

After a moment, hearing his heart beginning to drum with such a murderous intent that swelled his veins, he swallowed to then watch your reaction. Your eyes were softened in pity, which he expected, but not of fear….or disgust. His skin was tragic…even if this was the hand that had no feeling from nerve damage. You didn't want to stare, so you asked with your eyes glancing away to find his own, something he hoped wasn't intentional,

“Does it hurt? Even with no feeling?”

“It-..” he said, hating that he was beginning to stammer like a child,

“It takes a great deal…”

You reached forward, knowing he'd most likely tell you to stop- but you slowly raised your hand upon the table. His movements in the hand were slow, you saw it in his languid fingers that were laboriously flicking to the desk as your touch became closer.

Carefully, knowing you couldn't necessarily hurt him, you turned his palm to face upwards- lying his hand flat in a brush. With the gentleness of a breath, you began to intertwine your hand into his own, somehow in amazement that he hadn't protested the idea altogether so far.

His eyes widened to see you willfully touching his bare skin, putting your hands palm-to-palm with little concern of his condition, and what little was known to contract it. You laced his fingers in with your own, but then felt as he locked the demure embrace by squeezing his hand ever so gently against yours.

You turned to find him already staring and you wondered again if he could be smiling under his mask. Gradually, both of you became closer, easing into the tender space where both of your voices would turn to a whisper and he finally broke the silence,

“Kiss me…-please.”

His soft, broken request melted you inside, even as you remained unaware of how deeply he was affected by seeing you pay no reaction at all to take him by the hand….as lovers do.

It was mindless to lean in and you thought he would want just a small sentiment of touch upon his mask but you watched as he slightly adjusted his veneer upwards, remembering he wouldn't be revealed from the candlelight being so dim.

He pulled you to his mouth with his free hand cupping the back of your head, while his other squeezed your careful grip with all the strength he could muster in his wounded limb. Something that made your face burn to know that he was placing effort into the embrace- no matter how menial.

It struck him as you were joined in the kiss that the feelings between you were changing. Of course you were beautiful and rightly, he desired your touch. But it was more now.

Admiration in your marriage would spawn respect- something essential for a King and Queen. Understanding would bring patience, lust would bring children- but what of love? For the first time, as your hand held the back of his head just the same, he felt you to be lovers.

Real lovers instead of two parts of a union luckily attracted to the spouse they were arranged with.

His heart thundered at the thought, never thinking of himself to have a romance that made him feel like a youngling love swept by a girl but he swooned with a nervous breath as the kiss continued, wanting to savor every moment of having butterflies in his stomach at the thought of... being in love for the first time. 》

[d1sc0s8n]

rare seen a plus size with koing would love a story where he obsessed with the reader their stretch mark,rolls everything

König with a plus size reader is just meant to be. I mean, have you seen the way that man takes out enemies in hand to hand combat? Those soldiers are packed with muscles, and muscle is denser and heavier than fat, so he clearly has no issues picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder when he notices you're being mean to yourself, ready to show you just how much he loves your body.

All That He Sees

Summary: König finds reader staring into the mirror a little too much and just has to show them his thoughts on their body

Cw: plus size, gn!reader, fluff with some spice at the end (mdni), reader having a hard day for body image

Word count: 1.6k

Steam clung to the edges of the mirror, curling and dripping like tears down the sides. You stood there anyway, towel wrapped around your torso, the quiet hum of the bathroom fan the only sound as you stared yourself down.

It wasn’t always like this. Some days you didn’t look. Some days you didn’t care. Some days your skin felt like yours, and your reflection didn’t bite.

But not today.

Not with the way your fingers lingered over the stretch marks across your hips, the soft rolls that folded when you breathed, when you moved, when you existed. The self-loathing was silent, heavy, familiar. And thanks to years and years of training, you didn’t notice the door creak open. Didn’t hear the soft steps on tile.

Didn’t see him until that towel was gone.

You turned around, startled as if you had forgotten you weren't home alone, arms instinctively crossing over your stomach, but there was nothing there that he hadn't already seen.

Not just seen. Worshiped.

König stood in the doorway like something out of a fever dream. Chest bare, hair messy, the sharp line of his jaw and the slight parting of his lips. One hand gripped the doorframe, the other clenched at his side. And his eyes — God, his eyes.

They roamed over your body like he was starved. Like you were his last fucking meal, served to him on a silver platter.

You turned back to the mirror, flustered. “Can you knock?”

“I did,” he said, voice low and thick, that Austrian accent wrapping around the words like silk. “Twice. You didn’t answer, Liebling.”

You sighed, reaching for the towel and wrapping it around your body again. “I was busy.”

“I saw that.”

Silence.

You didn’t move when you saw him shift, didn’t flinch when he walked closer until his massive frame pressed to your back. Just watched your own eyes shift in the mirror as his arms came around your waist, his hands were firm but his touch was gentle, careful not to break you, as if you were made of glass.

“I was looking at myself,” you muttered with a bitter edge to your voice. “Not very fun.” You let your confession out with a nervous yet almost emotionless chuckle.

He leaned in, the heat of his breath ghosting over your neck. “I was too.”

“König—”

“I love what I see.”

You froze.

He said it like it was the only truth in the world. Like he couldn’t comprehend why you’d ever think otherwise. Because he couldn't.

Your hands tightened around your towel.

“You’re staring at the parts I hate,” you whispered.

“I’m staring at the parts I love,” he cut in, voice firm. “Every mark. Every inch.”

His fingers dragged slowly over your belly, the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips, his touch reverent like he was tracing something holy.

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m not here to convince you. I’m here to remind you.”

You didn’t expect to be lifted.

But König scooped you up with laughable ease, one arm beneath your thighs, the other snug behind your back, holding you like you were made of nothing but air.

You yelped, clutching his shoulders. “König— what the fuck are you doing?”

He didn’t answer.

Just carried you out of the bathroom like a man with a mission, down the hall and into the bedroom, dropping you onto the mattress. And when he loomed over you, all muscle and shadows and a type of hunger that could only be found in his eyes, you felt the very familiar heat curl low between your legs.

He didn’t move right away. Just looked at you. Took his time. His hands settled on your knees and slid slowly up your thighs, pushing the towel open with a tenderness that made your heart ache. No rush. No pressure. Just quiet, heavy want— no, need.

“Every time you stand there hating yourself,” he said, slowly crawling up the bed until he was over you, knees bracketing your thighs, hands pinning your wrists gently to the sheets, “you forget what I see.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he didn’t let you.

His mouth found your collarbone, kissed it. Then the top of your chest. Your stomach. Lower.

Each kiss was slow. Deliberate.

“I see softness made to be held,” he murmured, lips against your skin. “I see skin marked by time, by life, and I want to trace every fucking line with my tongue.” His voice was getting whinier and more desperate with every kiss, like it hurt him not to be closer.

“I want to map you,” he said, hands sliding along your sides. “Memorize the way you feel under me. Burn it into my brain.”

You shifted under him, flustered, unsure what to do with your hands until he pinned them above your head again, his gaze sharp. Commanding.

“You’re not allowed to look at yourself like that,” he growled, voice dark and low, the air between you charged. “Not when I’m here. Not when I’d kill to have you see what I see.”

You stared up at him, all shaky breaths and incredulity. “And what do you see?”

His lips curled into something crooked. Dangerous.

Worshipful.

“A body that drives me mad,” he said. “A body I dream about every single night when I’m out on a mission. That I crave every second of every day no matter where I am.”

He leaned in like he couldn’t stay away any longer, the edge of obsession in his voice so raw it made you shiver.

“You walk past me in the hallway and I lose my breath. You laugh and I forget what I was doing. When you wear that worn-out shirt that hugs your hips just right? It ruins me.”

You squirm, hands twitching ever so slightly in his hold, and his eyes darkened at the sight.

“Say it,” he murmured, lowering his face until his lips grazed the crook of your neck.

You blinked. “Say what?”

“Say you’re beautiful, Schatz”

You hesitated and averted your gaze, heat flooding your face.

“I—”

“Komm schon, Liebling.” His voice dipped, thick with accent. “For me.”

Your throat bobbed. “I’m… beautiful.”

He smiled, a slow, wicked thing, and kissed your mouth like he’d been waiting centuries to taste you. And when he pulled back, pupils blown wide, he stared like a man who had just found God.

“You’re mine,” he said, possessive and certain, like it was carved into stone. “Every inch. Every curve. Every mark. All of it— mine.”

Your breath hitched, the weight of it crashing into you like a wave. You didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Not when he kissed you again like he’d never stop. Like he’d spend the rest of his life showing you again and again how perfect you were in his hands.

And maybe you’d never stop fighting that mirror. But with König wrapped around you like this, loving you with all the soft brutality only he could have, you were starting to believe that maybe the mirror didn’t know shit.

He didn’t move for a long moment, just stared down at you like he was trying to memorize the exact way you looked beneath him. The rise and fall of your chest, the still damp skin, and those lips, parted and unsure.

His thumb dragged across your cheek.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “No idea what you do to me.”

You blinked, the weight of his gaze too much, too intimate. “König—”

“You think it’s just lust? Just desire?” He chuckled under his breath, but there was no humor in it. “It’s obsession, Schatz. I think about you all the time. When I’m training. When I’m falling asleep. In the dead silence after a mission, covered in blood, the only thing I want is to be back here. With you.”

He paused, eyes flicking over your face like he was checking to see if you were about to pull away, if this was too much. He wanted to make you see what he saw, and he would never forgive himself if his words were too much for you to process, if they sounded fake to you.

This exact fear made him lower his head, resting his forehead against your sternum like the weight of it all had finally caught up to him.

“I hate when you hide from me,” he said quietly, like it hurt to even speak the words. “I hate when you flinch, when you turn away like you’re ashamed. As if there’s a single part of you I wouldn't adore.”

Your fingers brushed his jaw and he couldn't help but lean into it, he could never not lean into your touch.

“I would carve your name into my skin if it meant you’d believe me — believe that I don’t just want you,” he whispered. “I need you. Exactly as you are. Nothing less.”

You reached up, threading your fingers through his hair, and the look he gave you was soft and wild all at once, and it shattered something inside you.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay?” His voice broke a little on the word.

You smile. “When you talk for this long with so much conviction it's a little hard not to believe it.”

That was all he needed. His mouth crashed into yours, not rough, but desperate in the way someone kisses a person they thought they’d never have. Like he’d been starving and just now gained permission to feast.

And you kiss him the exact same way, holding the back of his neck and pulling him close to you to ensure he wouldn't break the kiss before you were ready. You let him worship you the way he always wanted to.

Because now you didn't doubt him. Not when his words were so true, when you could feel how desperate he was to make you feel the sincerity of them.

[d1sc0s8n]

going cuckoo bananas at the thought of being könig’s passenger princess <3

because we all know what a control freak he is, right? he eats the same 3 meals every day, he gets the same groceries every week, he gets the same brand of shampoo and conditioner he’s been using since he was sixteen, and he most certainly drives the two of you everywhere. and of course he always takes his beast of a car. his volkswagen atlas is one of the very few vehicles than can fit his staggering frame, and you don’t think your feet can reach the pedals even with the seat all of the way forward. years upon years of driving military vehicles has allowed him to be more relaxed behind the wheel. of course, he’s always careful. he has precious cargo, after all. but as soon as könig sits in the driver’s seat, it’s as though every car on the road listens to him. and even during the times traffic gets a little chaotic, könig is still as under control than ever. though, his language does get a little more colorful…

with one hand on your thigh and the other on the 9 o’lock position of the wheel, könig finds that being your personal chauffeur scratches the very same itch that carrying your grocery bags does. the itch to dote on you, to make sure you never lift a finger around him, to prove to you that he is worthy of being yours and that he’s more than just a governmental battering ram. he’s your driver, your pillow during the nights he’s home, your personal chef because he always fusses so much over you once he sees what food you survive on while he’s away, your handyman. hell, he even tried being your accountant when you were struggling with your taxes, but you had to put your foot down at some point.

the best part about könig being your driver, you think, is the fact that he has no qualms about pulling to the side of the road and pulling you into the backseat. it doesn’t matter where you are, what time it is, how many other vehicles are on the road—könig will find the nearest secluded place to fold you in half if you so much as look at him a certain way. it’s gotten to a point where the middle console consists of your favorite gum, his personal handgun, and three boxes of condoms. and if you wear a skirt? oh you bet your pretty ass his hand is gonna be up it. and, gods forbid, you forgo underwear as well? yeah his fingers are going inside of you one way or another. it’s just one of the many roadside services that come with having könig as your driver <3