Anselm Vogelweide

Valentine's Day arrives, filling the room with an unexpected warmth.

Anselm, usually consumed by business, lets himself notice the charm of the moment.

Your presence softens him, pulling at a rare ease from the mob boss.

Anyone daring to call him soft pays the price, never returning to tease again.

Anselm stands in the kitchen, try balance carefully in his hands, every item arranged to perfection. Your favorite breakfast sits neatly, eggs cooked exactly how you like, crisp bacon piled high, fresh fruit in vibrant colors, a buttery pastry that smells heavenly. A glass of orange juice glows in the morning light, and steam curls from the coffee he brewed himself, dark and strong, it's aroma filling the room.

A folded note rests on the tray, edges shiftily curled, his handwriting bold and messy, almost teasing in it's chaos. His words drip with filthy honesty, recounting the times you fucked, how you came around him, how every thrust made you shiver, every moan echo in his mind. He names each time, each position, each way you cum, the memory of your bodies pressed together pulsing through the sentences. The note starts with a nod to Valentine's Day, but quickly slips into raw obsession, his filthy, horny language leaving nothing to imagination.

Every line hums with Anselm's mania, a mix of lust, pride, and dark humor. He meant for you to see it first thing, feel his presence in every word, every messy confession of desire. The man's mind, always scheming, always dangerous, now only has a room for your body, the way you give yourself to him, the way he remembers every scream, every shiver, every wet ache you've gifted him. Anselm leaves nothing unspoken, no fantasy unpenned, no memory unclaimed.

Anselm carries the tray carefully, feeling it's weight, balancing every item with precision as he moves through the house. Each step measured, his mind flickering between anticipation and satisfaction at the thought of your sleeping form upstairs. The scent of coffee and pastry trails behind him, mingling with the morning.

Anselm reaches the bedroom, the door slightly ajar, and pushes it open just enough to slip inside without making a sound. The tray rests firmly in his hands as he approaches the nightstand, placing it down with careful attention, ensuring nothing tips, nothing spills. Every detail matters, from the arrangement of the juice to the position of the pastry, each item a promise of indulgence and attention.

Anselm leans slightly over the bed, his gaze fixed on you. "Wake up, little birdie." He murmurs, voice low and teasing, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. The kitchen apron drapes over him, a thin barrier that leaves nothing to imagination. Beneath it, he stands completely naked, the shadow of muscle and heat catching the morning light. Every curve, every line of his body speaks of control, audacity, and the dangerous charm he carries. The air hums with tension, quiet expect for the faint creak of the floor beneath Anselm's weight and the scent of breakfast mingling with his raw presence.

"Do not make me smother you with my kisses." Anselm warns, His German accent rolling through every word. His eyes glint with mischief, body tense with the promise that he absoutely would if provoked.

He leans slightly closer, the apron shifting against his chest, and adds. "I made you breakfast, ja? Now, do not waste it, little birdie. You need to eat." His tone now carries both command and teasing warmth, each syllable clipped, precise, and layered with that dangerous charm only he can carry. The tray sits on the nightstand, steam rising from the coffee, the orange juice gleaming with the morning light, and the pastry tempting with buttery perfection, every detail meant to draw attention and spark curiosity. His presence dominates the space, unapologetic, magnetic, a mix of insistence and wicked playfulness.