Here you go: all of my (that is, Snowgrouse's) Conrad Veidt character fic under one roof. There's a detailed guide to the collection here in case you were wondering where to start. And if you want an idea of why this Veidt guy's villains inspire so much porn, this vid is basically a summation of the reasons why. Most of the fic consists of Jaffar's medieval Persian sex panther antics and Torsten's extremely depraved debaucheries, but various other Connies get their share of the action, too. Expect long, poetic, indulgently sensuous and kinky erotic scenarios woven into detailed historical settings, basically.
Fandoms: Conrad Veidt/Basil Rathbone, Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, German Actor RPF - Fandom, Old Hollywood RPF
24 Feb 2018
There are but Connie's hands in his hair as Basil leans in to nuzzle that which the morning had stolen from him: the fragrances of must and of sweat and of sperm and of piss and of musk and of moss. He sobs as he fills his mouth with the heat, the salt, the blood-iron taste of Connie's flesh; but then, even his sobs are stopped as this blessed flesh swells in his mouth and fills him, fills him so that there is no room left in him for regret or pain or sorrow.
The wet, rainy earth swells up to meet him, swallowing him into its womb; the room darkens and again he is in a nightly forest: this thanks to Connie having blessed him with a makeshift blindfold, the silken sash of his dressing gown pulled over his eyes. And another blessing, the velvet ropes of the bedcurtains, tying his hands to the bedposts: a silken handkerchief in his mouth a third, a holy trinity of absolution, dissolution of all his guilt. Connie made me, Connie overwhelmed me, you know how persistent he can be.
Thus, he is by his own desire taken, claimed: the forest that had represented all that he'd denied in himself now taking him in the form of a man.
- Part 2 of Pursuivant
Fandoms: Conrad Veidt/Basil Rathbone, Veidtbone, Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, German Actor RPF - Fandom, Old Hollywood RPF
22 Feb 2018
Basil has a vivid, fantastical dream of his forbidden desires and the one mythological figure around whom those desires converge. Connie, the very embodiment of all the sins of Berlin, of all that Basil's denied unto himself: Connie, his friend, Connie, his temptation, Connie--oh, it's simply too dreadful to think about.
Yet he thinks of him still, thinks of him, dreams; dreams of a twilight forest.
As he runs, the trees creak about him; in the setting sun's light, it's as if Pan himself were laughing at him: Pan cackling at his feeble, Christian excuses, so wan, pale, bloodless in the face of vibrant life and roaring lust; life and lust and the must of hairy thighs. Hairy thighs and between them (don't look, Basil, don't look) testicles full and lush and furred, a monstrous prick, a horse's (don't look at Blaze like that, Basil dear), and he remembers the scent, the scent of men's dressing rooms, the scent of when he'd pressed his face into the bush of--
And it's upon that scent that he falls, its tripwire; he stumbles into the meadow of his dreaming, the field of his yearning, stumbles upon Desire's skein spun of pubic hair and of sperm and of piss and of musk and like unto Enna he falls, falls.
- Part 1 of Pursuivant
Within the mirrored hallways, upon the chequered floors and amidst the Rococo furniture of his pleasure-palace, Baron Kurt von Kolb teaches his 17-year-old fiancée, Lady Ursula, everything she must know about the perversions of a true aristocrat.
She'd thought she'd feel a princess the day he finally took her to his castle, but instead of the sumptuous dinner she'd been expecting, he had but led her to a marble bathroom and presented her with razor and enema syringe instead. So that her sex would be bare for his pleasure, he'd said; so that he would be able to see and touch and taste everything, he'd said; so that she would be clean for him tonight when he'd take her more deeply, more completely, more thoroughly than she'd ever been taken before, he'd said.
He runs the spur of his jackboot up her breastbone, dipping it into the hollow of her throat.
"Good girl," he purrs, smirking through his monocle. "You did not flinch once."
"Thank you, sir," she says, squeezing her shivering hands into fists, proud of her self-control.
For now, she rests in a state of complete nakedness at his feet, he towering over her in his uniform as she lies there upon his drawing room floor.
Fandoms: Thief of Bagdad (1940), كتاب ألف ليلة وليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights
23 Jan 2018
Jaffar, son of Yahya of the Barmakids has arrived in Basra, come to ask for the Princess's hand.
At first, Sultan Mahmoud is overjoyed, but soon puzzled, perplexed. For the new Caliph requests a most intimate audience with his prospective bride, one with a most curious requirement: that he be allowed to gaze upon her--the woman no man has seen!--unveiled, and that he might inspect her head in particular for himself.
"But what for?" The Sultan sputters. "She is not some slave girl, to be examined by all who would purchase her! Is not seeing her face enough?"
"I believe," Jaffar states in all seriousness, "that you have done well to keep her from all eyes. For my astrologer tells me a very special child was born this hour seventeen years ago. 'A child in whom meet the moon and the sun...?'"
The Sultan's eyes fly wide; he shakes his head, blubbering. "Nobody knows that. Nobody! Why, I had her swaddled, the astrologer beheaded, and the midwife--"
Jaffar but tilts his head. "I have astrologers of my own, and means of seeing past walls. Seventeen years have I waited, until such a conjunction was upon us again. Today, I was told, was the most auspicious time for me to seek her as bride."
“There’s one fairytale princess I quite like,” Torsten said and dragged his fingertips up the small of my back, my nipples hardening against his suit just as I could feel him hardening against my belly; our heat rose with our pulses, our pulses with the music's, the orchestra playing faster and faster. “That version of Snow White, where she's dead when the prince comes to her, makes love to her--or at least the prince thinks she’s dead. And that’s the point," he said, his eyes as sharp as shards of glass; as if to follow a cut made, he now pressed his lips to my jugular. "Do you follow me?”
“I follow you,” I said, and to demonstrate, I let myself fall dead in his arms, completely listless, lifeless but for the fraction of a second, so that we both staggered; he had to catch me to stop us from falling over. And oh, but the helpless, high-pitched moan he let out now, at my acquiescence, my surrender, my promise of the liebestod to come: the way his eyes widened, the way his cock leapt against my dress!
“We’re going home,” he rasped as the song reached its crescendo, his lips as wet against my ear as I was wet between the legs; he swept me off my feet and carried me to the taxi waiting outside.
- Part 8 of Devilry