#vincent renzi smut
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Sour Switchblade … Priest! Vincent Renzi x fem! Reader
Synopsis: She tempts him, just like she did before.
Content Warning . 18, MDNI Age Gap, blasphemy, religious themes & references, a plot with no context, demonic reader? Mutual masturbation, degradation, dom! Vincent
Author’s Notes: what I mean when I say that I need him biblically.
♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
It starts with the simple art of a short dress and a prayer.
Vincent’s eyes roam to her from across the church pew, blue orbs peeking out through a see of browns, greens, and other blues. His hand adjusts his priests collar as she moves towards the center of the room. Another priest settles a wafer into her mouth, which she takes with a soft tongue. Vincent’s eyes can’t help but wonder down her body after that, as she takes a sip of communion wine.
Her dress, a lacey white thing with puff sleeves, adorned with white tights and thigh high stockings, will surely be the talk of the church going women later. Especially with the way her breasts seem to spill out of the fabric, the red bra that is already showing through threatening to make itself fully known.
Vincent almost can’t breathe.
He knows it’s wrong to look at her like this. He’s a priest, and on top of that, she’s significantly younger— not underage, obviously. Maybe in her early twenties or so. But it still makes the man confess his sins almost every night.
And even with how taboo his stares are, she seem to look at him right back, everytime, exactly the same. Her lashes seem to flutter, her eyes seem to have a glint to them whenever he nervously mumbles a prayer or greeting to her. Even now, as she takes a sip of the red wine, her eyes meet his.
He smiles. She smiles back. The communion is over.
And now, the confession begins.
Vincent sits in the compartment a mere hour later, waiting for her to show up. She always seems to have something to confess when he’s the one in charge and it’s his last shift. Vincent twirls the cross necklace around his neck in anticipation.
It’s a few seconds before he hears the cluttering of the confessional door. Her scent evades his nostrils— sweet vanilla, chocolate, and something earthy underneath. Something that makes Vincent’s eyes want to roll to the back of his head.
“I’m here to confess.”
Her voice is a soft lilt, something tinted with mischief. She’s trouble.
“And what would you like to confess, my child?” Vincent asks. He can hardly see through the film between the two of them, but he sees a flash of white, then red.
“I’ve been bad,” she replies. And then, in almost a whine, “I’ve sinned, father.”
His lips part. His cock kicks underneath his robe, but he’ll have to wait for that— wait for later, when he’s alone in his chambers and can touch his cock freely, in secrecy. Priests are supposed to sustain abstinence— Vincent is no virgin, but since his training and initiation as a priest he hasn’t had sex since. Masturbation is forbidden, but it isn’t something he can control in himself. It plagues him every day.
It’s a lot harder for him than the others, he thinks, to contain his urges when he’s already felt the warmth of a woman’s touch. But he’ll try this time. He won’t make another mistake. By God, he won’t.
“What have you done?”
“I’ve been…” she pauses, sighing, and he hears the rustling of fabric. He wonders what she’s doing on the other side of that barrier. “I’ve been having these… dreams, father. Dreams where…”
Vincent clenches his jaw, his palm gripping his cock through his confines. By God, he’s a sick, perverted man.
“We all have dreams,” Vincent says gently. “Dreams that may help us along our path. What have you dreamt about, child?”
He’s shaky as he says the last line, hopes of her lying to him furrowing in his chest. Hopes of her leaving it alone, this entire thing. This entire game.
God does not come through for him. Perhaps he doesn’t want to, or perhaps he can’t. Perhaps she is the one to stop him.
“I’ve dreamt of you, Father Renzi.”
Vincent’s head tilts back, a small gasp leaving his throat. His hips buck against his hand. No no no no..
“What do these dreams entail?” He asks, breathless. He can hear the amused tone in her voice.
“You start out by giving me communion,” she explains. “You hold the wafer out so I can put it into my mouth, but instead it’s your tongue that lands against mine.”
Vincent’s eyes clench shut. His hand moves against its own accord. God help him. She continues with a drawn out, airy lilt.
“You touch me in a special place. It feels so good that I cry out your name like a praise. It makes me tingle all over, makes me lose all control,” and then, with a pause as she hears Vincent’s robes lifting, “Do you have dreams like that, Father?”
His cock is straining against his dress pants when the robe’s hem is pulled to the top of his thighs.
“I do,” he admits, popping the button on his pants. He’s hypnotized, her smell and the image of her body in his mind making him lose it. “I have them often, little one.”
And it’s true. He dreams of her painted in red and white, dreams of her, a she demon, on top of his body, writhing. Him, hands curling against her skin, under her spell. She is his temptation, and Vincent is sure that she will be his destruction.
She’s just as desperate as him now. He can tell because she lets out a sweet, sultry whine, a wet sound reverberating throughout the small compartment.
“Vincent,” she lets out, keening. He doesn’t remember if he told her his first name, but he has a feeling she figured it out either way. He groans, thankful that the church is nearly empty now since the service had just ended.
“espèce de petite prostituée. What would your parents think?” You little harlot.
“Are you touching yourself?” she asks, ignoring him. And then, after a wet sound and a cry, “I’m.. I’m touching myself too, Vince. I’m so wet.”
His hand slips past the waistband of his pants and he dips it inside. Wet, warm flesh and pleasure behind his eyelids emerges as he strokes himself up and down and catches a whiff of her natural scent.
“Fuck,” he grunts, arousal pooling in his lower abdomen. “Cheríe, what are you doing to me?” Sweetheart.
She lets out a tiny giggle, scissoring her fingers inside herself as she hears the man beside her fall apart. Vincent is her favorite— he gives her the most fun she’s ever had.
“My fingers are inside, Father,” she whimpers. “Fuck, I’m so warm.”
Vincent’s cock, red and tip dripping pearls of sweet arousal, slaps against his stomach when he finally gathers the nerve to pull his pants and underwear down past his thighs. He spits into his palm before stroking himself again.
“You are unholy,” Vincent states, though his mouth falls open when he hears the increasing sound of her wetness. “Fucking yourself like this, like a dirty whore… your cunt is drenched, isn’t it, chérie?” Sweetheart.
She grasps the side of the confessional, heat spreading up her neck and down to her toes. None of them have ever made her feel like this.
“Yes,” she says, rubbing the bundle of nerves in between her cunt lips. She’s close. “Father… sir. I want your cock.”
Visions come to Vincent’s mind, plagued thoughts of her kneeling down and taking him into her mouth, of him choking all words out of her. His cock thrusting into her roughly, stretching out her tiny hole and bringing her to her peak over and over. That would be her punishment for teasing him, for being such a godless creature. He would ruin her, just as she’s ruined him.
“You want it, yes? You want me to stretch your little cunt and leave your legs shaking,” he chuckles, almost darkly. She brings out the worst in him. “You want my seed dripping down your thighs, putain de salope.” You fucking slut.
She cries out, legs spreading further as she nears closer and closer to her peak. Vincent continues to speak, almost as close as she is.
“Your cunt in my mouth. Licking you, tasting you..” and then, with a delicious whisper, “Chérie, how do you taste?” Sweetheart.
That last sentence has the girl seizing up, her pussy spasming as her orgasm overtakes her. Sweet arousal gushes around her fingers, thighs, and underneath the seat below her. Her eyes roll back and she cries, “Vincent!” like a prayer.
This has the man on the other side whining, his teeth biting into his wrist as he spills over his fist with a loud grunt. He fucks himself through his orgasm, hearing her precious sounds overcoming him like a heavenly sin.
When the man comes down, his spend is drying on his hand and pants.
He sighs, satisfied and spent. He’ll have to confess this later, won’t he?
Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t.
Her voice rings out, smooth and teasing.
“Until next time, Father Renzi.”
He hears the open and closing of the confessional door, and out she goes like Lilith with her wings.
:: @mysticpenguincreation @nightmare-niko @iheartinkonpaper @claireyberryy @becauseseaotters @emmalandry @princesstiti14 @aerangi @kaithoughs @jamespotterismydaddy
#bunny writes ͟͟͞☆#Vincent renzi#Vincent renzi x reader#Vincent renzi x fem! reader#Swann arlaud#Swann Arlaud x reader#Vincent renzi smut#Vincent renzi oneshot#Vincent renzi fanfic#priest! Vincent renzi#dom! Vincent renzi#Vincent anatomy of a fall#Vincent Renzi anatomy of a fall#anatomy of a fall#anatomy of a fall fanfic#Swann Arlaud fanfic#Vincent Renzi Drabble#Vincent renzi blurb
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Please imagine asking Attorney Vincent Renzi for help after his successful case, begging him to represent you in court and that you're willing to pay with any means he wants just for him to take your case🥺 💦
anon YOUR MIND !!!!!
ok but i can see this being a hidden fantasy of his🫢 like not so much something that he’d genuinely go for in his career, but in the bedroom, as some sort of roleplay? oh my god yes. (please note: this got away from me and i couldn’t stop thinking about vincent being confident and teasing and aidnjsnsjdn)
any means
word count: 1.8k
warnings: smut, vincent x fem reader, coercion (?)—not really, but idk what else to call it, dom vincent, whole lotta flirting and teasing (my fav), some thigh riding/grinding, not proofread
vincent comes home after a successful case—a major one at that, so it’s a huge win for his public image. but for whatever reason, he just can’t seem to relax. maybe it’s from spending the past four months in a near constant state of stress, or maybe it’s the lingering anxiety of the next case, and the next case, and the next case.
whatever it is, it has him sat at the dining table with his head in his hands. his shoulders are tense and you can tell he’s in his head, undoubtedly plagued with overthinking.
you walk up quietly behind him, the house suspended in a tranquil stillness as the hours dip into the late evening. from behind him, you softly place your hands on his shoulders, the lean muscles flexing slightly under your touch. with the diligence of quiet devotion, you work the tightness from his neck and shoulders, fingers soothing the ache before slowly trailing down the front of his chest. you lean more into him, your chest against his shoulders as you bring your lips to his ear. your voice is gentle, a playful lilt in your tone:
“what’s wrong, mon cœur?”
his shoulders rise slightly as he inhales, his palms falling from his face with a sigh. from your angle, you admire as he rubs a hand down his face, his high cheekbones made more prominent as he sucks in his cheeks a bit—a habit that alerted you of his stress.
you wait for him to reply. your hands come back up to massage the nape of his neck, and you can’t help but want to try and find some way to make him feel better.
“i can’t help but think of what’s going to be next. we won this one, but i want to win the next one too, and the one after that, and the one after that…” he sighs again. “i’m tired, but i feel like i should be preparing.”
“for what?”
“i’m not even sure.” he runs a hand through his silver hair, and you catch the way his eyes glow in the dim light of the lamp. “but it feels like a waste to simply sit here and wait.”
you keep your voice soft and your touch even softer as you continue massaging up his neck, your fingers gently combing through the hair at the back of his scalp. “rest and relaxation are part of your job too. you can’t work well if you don’t have balance.”
you watch as he closes his eyes, leaning back slightly into your touch. he has a faint smile on his face.
you quirk a brow, a small grin tugging at the corner of your own lips. “what’s so funny?”
“hm?”
“you’re smiling.”
at that, his smile broadens and you can see the faintest bit of a toothy grin starting to break out. he shifts so that he can bring his arm behind your waist and pull you to stand at his side. vincent turns in his seat to face you, his eyes smiling gently up at you. “i just had a thought, that’s all.”
“what kind of thought?”
“i thought of something that would combine both work and relaxation.”
you tilt your head slightly, an inquisitive expression on your face. “wouldn’t that be counterproductive?”
“you haven’t even heard what it is yet.”
you shake your head a little with a snake roll of your eyes, smile biting at your lips. “okay, fine, what’s this idea of yours?”
you can tell he was proud of whatever it was, from the way his eyes shone and smile was full of confidence. his hand on your waist fell to your hip while his other hand fell to your thigh, his fingers tracing small nonsensical shapes across the skin.
he seemed to pause for a moment, eyes peering into yours with a mischief you hadn’t seen in a few months. the look had your stomach submerged in a pool of heat almost instantly.
his voice was lower now, only by a fraction, but the minute difference meant all that much more to you. “i just thought what it would be like if you were my client.” he watched you as he spoke, undoubtedly noticing the way your thighs twitches under his fingers.
you lick your lips quickly as you gather your thoughts, cheeks beginning to flush as the temperature in the room shifted, but you willed yourself to match his confidence. you stepped even closer into his space, one leg positioned between his as he remained in his chair, eyes glimmering up at you.
“oh? and if i was your client… would you represent me for free then?”
he chuckled, and you had to hold your breath to keep composure. “oh darling, i’m no charity worker. even a pretty girl like you would have to pay.”
your hand is in his hair, playing with a few strands of the soft silver, tugging only a teasing fraction as you speak, “and if i have no money?”
his hands both made their way to the back of your thighs, cupping the skin just below your ass, his fingers lightly gripping the plush skin. “then i suppose you’d have to find another, suitable form of payment.”
you could feel the heat emanating from your core from only a few minutes of flirting, but there was no denying the effect he had on you.
you bring another strand of hair between your fingers, angling his head back slightly as you made a face of rumination, bottom lip pulled gently between your teeth. if you were going to play this game, you were going to play it to make sure he won, no matter the depravity of your words.
“the great attorney vincent renzi…” you bring your face to hover a couple inches above his. “how could i ever get such a great man to support me?..” you let your lips ghost over his.
“flattery would get you nowhere.” you could feel his lips twitch into a smirk as his eyes watched yours intently.
you give him a faux pout, still nose to nose, his grip on your thighs tightening ever so slightly.
“but i would do anything to have the most handsome counselor of france represent my case.”
“anything?”
“anything.” your voice was barely above a whisper, the heat radiating off your entire body was near oppressive. “anything maître vincent renzi wanted.”
“such as?”
the octave of his voice had your brain short circuiting, and it took everything in your willpower not to clench your thighs right in front of him, under his attentive touch.
“if you wanted to touch me, i’d let you touch me anywhere. if you wanted me on my knees, i’d stay there for hours.” you swallow, breath stuttering softly as excitement tingled down your spine. “however and whenever, you’d want to use me, i would let you.”
vincent seemed pleased with that answer. he was leaned back slightly still, his posture slouched a bit as he relaxed more into the chair, his hips closer to your legs as he brought a hand to his mouth as if to strike of pose of mock contemplation.
“is that so… i suppose i may accept such an offer, however…”
you hold your breath. “however?”
he sits up again, his face directly in front of your chest, both hands on the back of your thighs again. he stares up at you, piercing blue eyes silently challenging you. “you don’t seem very convincing.”
you bite back a whine at his damn composure. feeling your neediness build up, you finally say fuck it and take hold of one of his hands from your thigh and bring the palm to your chest. your knee kneels on the chair between his thighs as you lean over him.
the wrist in your palm flexes slightly as he teasingly gropes at your chest, just enough to make you pull your lip between your teeth.
“is this supposed to convince me?”
the cool vibrato of his voice had your thighs clenching together. “please vincent.” you whisper, voice breathy and bordering on a pathetic whine.
he only chuckles, hand gripping onto your breast more firmly as his other hand pulls your waist closer so that you’re straddling his thigh. his touch his mindful now as he deliberately pushes the fabric of your bra aside, his fingers quickly finding your nipple and rubbing it over your shirt.
“tell me, would you really become so desperate as to let me take advantage of you like that?”
maybe it was the way he so easily took control of you, or maybe it was the look in his eyes, or the diligence of his touch, but you knew without a doubt you were not above letting him fuck you for compensation if it would be like this.
“yes,” your answer was breathless, nearly moaning. you felt him flex his thigh under your pussy, “fuck- yes. i’d let you use me just like this.”
you noticed how his chest rose and fall with bated breaths, his hand on your hip slowly encouraging you to rock your hips along his jean clad thigh. as you begin to rock your slick core over his jeans, you felt his words warm against the side of your face, his lips tracing the shell of your ear.
“such a pretty girl like you… who thought you could be so dirty—practically selling your body.” your breath shuddered as he began to trail love bites down the side of your neck. “would you do this for just any kind of services? would you let the mechanic fuck you for free maintenance? or the professor for good grades?”
you grind your aching clit against the muscle of his thigh, whimpering as he bit marks into your sensitive skin. “n-no.. no, only you.”
“only me?” he pulled his face away from your neck and brought a hand to your chin, his fingers holding it as he studied your expression.
his eyes flicked from your half lidded eyes to the flush of your cheeks before finally landing on your bite-swollen lips, blushed a pretty pink from your teeth. the pad of his thumb swipes across your bottom lip, pulling it to the side gently.
“suppose if it’s only for me, i’d accept such an offer.” he pulled your chin so your head was angled down slightly. his eyes met yours again, his pupils blown. “so go ahead and show me what this good girl would do for me in return.”
#ꕤ ₊˚✧ mailbox .#♱₊˚✧ filth .#swann arlaud#anatomy of a fall#anatomie d'une chute#anatomy of a fall vincent#vincent renzi#vincent renzi smut
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we can’t be friends
summary: you hate vincent. vincent hates you. and yet somehow you end up in his bedroom.
word count: 4262( i… am so sorry.)
warnings: fem reader, smut(f oral receiving) vincent being a meanie, drinking and smoking, disrespect of the french justice system (désolé) me making head canons about vincent’s family life, some mischaracterization of sandra (ily sandra huller)
a/n: folks i was locked in when i was writing this, can you tell because it’s autocapitalized? i was Serious! this was supposed to be like a thousand words and ended up being 4k… i apologize i have to spread my illness (being my obsession with swann). i had SO much fun writing this i hope yall enjoy, all the reblogs on my first post make me all warm and fuzzy. drop some requests if you’d like, and im going to make a masterpost of all the fictional characters im obsessed with bc i’m chronically online. i’ve reread this like a million times so if there are any spelling errors i simply do not see. enjoy!!! <3
You cannot fucking believe you’re going to be late to trial.
Well, actually, you can believe it. Somehow, during the two hours of sleep you got last night, you managed to unplug both your alarm clock and your phone charger, leaving you to blissfully sleep through the multiple alarms you had set the night before. It was only when your cat sprawled across your face, her paws tickling your eyelashes as she eagerly awaited her breakfast, that your body decided to wake you up. An hour after you were supposed to.
Your methodically planned out morning routine for the indictment today was quickly replaced by you sprinting around your apartment muttering curse words under your breath and trying not to trip over the copious amounts of documents on your floor. You nearly cried when your tangled hair would not cooperate with you, but somehow managed to make yourself look halfway presentable. You didn’t have the time to be stressed today, especially because of the attention you know this case is going to get.
And because you knew you were going to see him.
After driving like a bat out of hell in the Parisian rain, violating multiple traffic laws, you somehow make it to the courthouse only one minute late. Jogging up the steps, you push the door open and yell out apologies to the bewildered lawyers and judges in the courthouse as you sprint against the browned hardwood floor, your briefcase thumping against your side in tandem with your heartbeat. Your eyes scan the chamber numbers and you breathe a sigh of relief once you find the one that matched the summons notice, pausing to smooth down your pantsuit set and pat the beads of sweat off of your forehead.
You push open the chamber doors as gently as you can, but you quickly realize there is no use as every head in the room turns towards you, gawking at you. Some have a slight frown on their face, looking at you with thinly veiled pity, but most have a clear show of annoyance. With your head down you speedwalk over to your team’s side of the chambers, pulling out a few labeled folders before you place your briefcase next to your seat. You take a deep breath and force yourself to look up, and right across from you is the defendant’s lawyer.
Vincent is wearing a black turtleneck and a matching black blazer, with effortlessly swooped gray hair and his arms crossed over his chest. He looks perfect, too perfect, in a way that pisses you off. He’s already staring at you when you glance at him, his mouth slightly turned upward as he leans over to talk to his client Sandra, maintining eye contact with you as his whispers in her ear.
“Glad you made time to join us Mademoiselle,” the judge says as she shuffles some papers around, using a few fingers to wave over a magistrate to her right, ostensibly for the indictment sheets.
“I am so, so sorry I-” you start before the judge moves her hand to wave you off, finally sparing you a sharp glance.
“Enough time has been wasted. Let us proceed, yes?” she asks, and you almost start to answer before you realize it was rhetorical. There are a few quiet laughs in the courtroom and you fix your eyes on your folder, feeling like a child who was just scolded in class for sneaking a cookie from the lunchroom. You feel Vincent’s eyes on you but you don’t dare to look up. You won’t give him the satisfaction.
Sandra was indicted, of course. This case was going to be a media circus because of her literary career, and you knew this was not going to be an open-and-shut case. Part of you hated trials like these - when the media would decide an angle that they found the most titillating and not leave a single person involved alone until they got a headline that matched their narrative. Another part of you, a massive part of you, hated working with Vincent. You could just constantly feel the smugness dripping off of him, and with every snarky comment and reply you could sense the anger just drilling deeper and deeper into you. Each interaction you had with him managed to make you even more and more mad. At least you’d hopefully only see him for another couple of months.
five months later
Like clockwork, you stepped out of your taxi to be bombarded by reporters with an endless sea of microphones and cameras, a cacophony of aggressive voices yelling your way. You keep your head down and try to push through the crowd, noticing Vincent talking to a reporter with Sandra to his side. You hear a few words, noticeably about Sandra’s innocence and the ignorance of the defense, and that word makes you stop in your tracks. Reporters are asking you questions but you look for the first microphone you can find and start to talk, making sure to project your voice.
“Judicial integrity is what’s most important to me. Not a narrative, not a story. I took an oath to protect this country. Some people don’t take that seriously, but I do, and that’s what I am focused on.”
There is a sea of follow-up questions but you weave through the hoard of people to the top steps of the courtroom, making your way inside. You arrived a bit early to trial today because you knew Daniel, Sandra’s son, was testifying today. You couldn’t shake the unease you’d had all week knowing you had to cross-examine him, seeing his grief-stricken face as he heard the prosecution and defense make a myriad of accusations about the one parent he had left.
“Were you talking about me?”
Vincent’s voice makes you jump, and you turn around to see him staring at you from behind the court pew. You must’ve had a look of confusion on your face because he then clarifies:
“Outside, when you were talking to the reporter from Euronews. Are you implying that I don’t have judicial integrity?” he cocks his head at you, his eyebrows slightly raised. You shrug, grabbing the manila folders with notes from your bag and putting them in front of your seat.
“If the shoe fits, I suppose,” you say with a tight smile as you sling your bag from your shoulder to under your chair. Vincent scoffs, lightly brushing his hair out of his face.
“Right, I should have looked to the attorney who walks in late smelling like cheap wine for… integrity,” he emphasizes that last word, each letter feeling incredibly loud in the silent courtroom. You feel the heat rise from the back of your neck, both in embarrassment and fury. You take a step towards him and he doesn’t move, your faces only a few inches apart.
“Do you think you’re any better? You took this case because you are plagued with this superiority complex that you have to subject everyone to.”
“Hm, so being a good lawyer makes you think I have a superiority complex, good to know,” Vincent says, touching his chin in mock curiosity. Jesus Christ, this guy irritates you.
“No actually, I think I figured it out,” you say with a laugh, poking your finger at his chest.
“Is it because you used to fuck Sandra, and this is some weird fucked up sort of foreplay that you’re forcing us to watch? I wonder if there’s a tape in evidence, of Sandra telling her now-dead husband how many times you two had shitty sex.”
Your sentence sits in the air as the smirk falls from Vincent’s face.
“Do not project whatever bullshit you’ve created in your mind onto me,” he says, staring at you with an intensity that makes you start to squirm.
“You don’t know me, Vincent,” you turn to end the conversation but Vincent grabs your arm, turning you back around to look at him.
“But I think I do,” he says, and you are so close that you can make out the pack of cigarettes in his jean pocket through his cloak is what’s pressing against your thigh.
“I think you put on this show, that you are meek and timid, but it is all an act. Every movement of yours is calculated. Nothing you do has any underpinning of integrity.”
You feel tears well in your eyes and you quickly wipe them away, opening your mouth to speak as the chamber doors open and members of the jury begin to walk in.
“Fuck you,” you tear your arm away from his grip and walk back to your seat.
four months later
It’s been two weeks since the trial ended. The chaotic hustle and attention has died and reporters are gone, with no more requests for comment or interviews on morning TV filling up your inbox. You were called to the courthouse to go over some documentation that the court needed to provide a final report on the case, arriving late on a Saturday night. You shudder as you get out of the taxi, the chill of Paris air sparing no part of your body. You wrap your jacket around yourself and sit on the sidewalk, taking a deep breath as you prepare to go into that same courtroom. You put your head in your hands and sit in silence for what feels like forever until a familiar voice breaks the stillness.
“Hey.”
You don’t move a muscle when you hear Vincent’s voice, hoping that somehow if you stayed completely still he’d believe you were a figment of his imagination and he’d leave you alone. Instead, he takes a seat next to you, the corduroy fabric of his trousers very gently grazing your skirt.
“If you’ve come to gloat, I’m truly not in the mood,” your say, your voice muffled by your hands over your mouth. Vincent says nothing but you hear him rustling through his pants and then the familiar click of a lighter, and you bring your face up to see Vincent taking a drag of a cigarette. He breathes out wafts of smoke, and after a beat, extends his hand towards you. You glance down at the cigarette and then back at him, and he is still looking forward at the architecture across from you. Plucking the cigarette from between his fingers you inhale deeply, tilting your head up to blow the smoke into the sky. You both sit in the quiet for a few moments as you smoke about half of the cigarette. He doesn’t seem to mind, or at least doesn’t say anything.
“How do you feel?” he finally asks, and you chuckle as you take another inhale.
“How do you think I feel?” you look to him and he nods, taking the cigarette from you. You try and ignore the tingly feeling in your stomach when his lips touch the same part of the cigarette that yours did, with no hesitation.
“Did you genuinely believe she was guilty?”
The question throws you off guard.
“I don’t know.” you answer honestly, bringing your knees up to rest your hands on top of them.
“I don’t often think anything is too personal in a court of law, but that phone call with Sandra and Samuel felt, invasive?”
“It didn’t seem like you had any qualms when you were questioning about it,” he questions.
“Well of course not. I wanted to win.”
Vincent laughs, a real deep laugh, and you can’t help but crack a small smile at the noise. You realize you hadn’t heard it before, at least not before it preceded an insult hurled your way.
“What do you mean, invasive?”
It’s hard to collect your thoughts on his question, and you are suddenly transported back into that courtroom, listening to that call.
“It was like I felt every molecule of anger, resentment, disappointment. I just felt like I was right there in the middle, taking both of their punches. Like,” you take a beat, trying to formulate your words.
“Like I was their son, with no vision of what was happening but so desperately aware of the anger in the air. And feeling guilty that I caused it, somehow.”
Vincent hums.
“I’m sorry with how often I pried, about you and Sandra,” your voice is quiet, and you pick at the straps of your heels.
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago. The feelings I have for her have changed.”
This time you hum, unsure of what to say. For the first time in your years of knowing him, you feel bad about possibly making Vincent uncomfortable. You’re not sure why. You sit in awkward silence for a couple of minutes before you stand up, brushing the stray tufts of cigarette ash that stuck to your skirt.
“Well, I won’t keep you, I have to go turn in evidence of my defeat” you gesture towards the papers in your hands. “And you have to go celebrate, I presume.”
Vincent stands up as well, flicking the cigarette onto the floor and stomping it out with his boot.
“No celebrating for me,” he says with his hands raised. You smile, and he does the same.
“How will you be … coping?” he asks and you roll your eyes.
“Not sure, probably at home with a really cheap bottle of wine.”
His lips purse as he puts his hands into his pockets. “I guess I deserve that.”
You rock slightly on your balls and feet, not sure if you should walk away from him or not. You’re just about to step out of his way when he starts talking.
“I have a nice Pinot Grigio I’ve been waiting to open, if you’d, you know, like to … join,” Vincent’s voice gets quieter as he keeps talking, and you swear you can see a soft pink hue on his cheeks, but perhaps that was the night playing tricks on you.
“I don’t want to impose-”
“You wouldn’t be,” he cuts you off. “I’ll wait for you out here?”
-
Vincent’s house - not apartment - was somehow exactly and nothing like what you would have imagined. It’s a one-story Victorian-style home with a dark exterior, but the inside is painted a warm yellow with tons of books littering the floors and walls and miscellanous trinkets and birthday cards tucked in between. There’s empty pizza boxes and wine bottles on the kitchen floor, and through his tall back window you can see a mini garden in his backyard, with vines of tomatoes and bushels of leafy greens sprawled amongst the grass. It looks very lived in - you can imagine Vincent waltzing around in the morning, reading his big law books with big glasses of wine, like the one you have in your hand right now.
The two of you are currently halfway deep into a bottle, talking about nothing and everything. The case, bad clients you’ve had before, your favorite pastry shops in Paris, the funny face that one of the Magistrates makes every time the Judge looked at him.
“Thank you for the wine monsieur,” you say with a dip of your head and an exaggerated bow.
Vincent shakes his head before taking a sip of wine, and you notice how the soft pink you thought you had noticed before has turned into a deep red from his forehead to his chest. Vincent being tipsy was such an odd thought to you that you couldn’t control your laughter, your hand flying up to cover your mouth as you started to giggle incessantly.
“What? Is there something on my face?” Vincent giggles alongside you, and you shake your head no.
“The serious, smart lawyer is wine-drunk with the person he probably hates the most. I could not have imagined ever being in this situation,” you manage to collect yourself, putting your hand over your chest as you take the final sip in your glass and wave off Vincent as he motions to pour you another one.
“I don’t hate you,” Vincent mutters as he pours himself another glass of wine.
“You’re pretty good at acting like you do.”
He just nods. Suddenly the air in the room has changed, and it feels constricting. Like all of the arguments and venomous insults you’ve thrown at each other has coagulated in this massive living room
“I actually, um, envy you a lot of the time.”
“Envy me?” you can’t help your incredulous tone after his sentence. “You don’t have to say things to pity me, you know,” you laugh, but Vincent’s face is still serious.
“You are just naturally someone people want to spend time with. Even when you annoy me beyond belief, some part of me is always, drawn to you, I suppose. And I envy that. I don’t really know who I am without doing things for others.
You furrow your brows at his sentence. “What do you mean?” you lean over your chair to be a bit closer to him. He plays with the silver ring on his index finger.
“Sometimes I feel like the people I’ve loved, only want me when I can do something for them, you know? I mean, even my own mother, I remember- ” he stops to take a large sip of wine.
“I was almost done with primary school, and my Dad was gone on some inane business trip. I told her I wanted to go to a birthday party downtown, and that I wouldn’t be able to make dinner that night. She got so mad at me that she threw the bottle of wine she’d nearly finished at my head.” He swirls his wine glass around staring into it.
You put your hand on top of his, and he looks up at you, staring into your eyes before clasping his hand arond yours.
“I’m really sorry,” you whisper. He shrugs, and before you can stop yourself, you bring his hand up to your mouth and press a featherlike kiss against his skin. Vincent’s eyes are glassy, and he separates his fingers from yours to place his hand against your face, his thumb gently caressing your jaw.
“Do you have more cigarettes?” you ask, softening into his touch.
“In my bedroom.”
His statement - his ask - reverberates through your head as you both stare at each other, trying to discern what will happen next. Your thoughts are so loud that you’ve afraid that somehow they’ll extend out into the room.
is he saying what i think he is?
And normally, you would say a snarky remark about how he wishes he could get you in his bedroom, and how you’d rather die than see where he sleeps, but the wine has made you slightly woozy and all you can think about is how good he looks with his hair gently sticking to his face and his t-shirt tight around his arms, and what it would feel like to fuck him.
So you say “okay”, and leave your phone on the dining room table.
Vincent opens his bedroom door, moving to let you walk in first before closing the door behind him. He opens his mouth to speak and before you can think your mouth is on his, and he’s shocked for a moment before he kisses you back, your lips melding together. You push your body into his as Vincent wraps his arms around your waist, his hands digging into your skin as he quietly moans into your mouth. Your intertwined bodies make it to the bed and he hovers on top of you, his hard cock pressing against your thigh and you reach down to touch him over his jeans, feeling him shudder against you. You pull away from him.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” his voice is a little hoarser than it was before. “I’m okay.”
“Good,” you pull your shirt over your head and tug at the bottom of his and he laughs he does the same, and you admire his shirtless body as he reaches back down to kiss you again, but he’s not as gentle this time. He’s aggressive, dipping his tongue into your mouth and holding your face in his hands.
“So beautiful”, he murmurs, tilting your head so he can suck on your neck and graze his teeth against the bruises spot he left. “So much more beautiful than I imagined”.
Your head falls back on the pillow as you feel his hands reach behind your back and unclip the hooks on your bra, his mouth moving to your breasts and licking your nipples.
“You’ve imagined me?” you pretend to be bashful as your mouth falls into an o-shape, feeling Vincent’s mouth on your chest and his hands on . He moans and you can feel it throughout your whole body as you lean down to shimmy out of your skirt and underwear in one move.
“In every way possible,” he says as he dips a finger down, past your belly button and into your cunt. You’d feel embarrassed at how wet you are already if his hand didn’t feel so good inside of you.
“I’ve thought about what you would taste like, how you would sound when I first fuck you for the first time,” his mouth moves down from your chest, leaving a trail of wet kisses down your abdomen before he’s just above your heat and you sigh, involuntarily jerking your hips up. He puts his free hand around your lower stomach to hold you in place.
“But nothing,” he nips at the spot right in the crease of your hip, licking a long stripe just next to your heat.
“Could’ve come close to how pretty you really are.”
“Christ,” your hands grab fistfuls of Vincent’s sheets as his tongue finally swirls around your clit, pressing just a bit harder as he puts another finger inside of you. You can feel the pressure building in your lower stomach as you and Vincent’s grip on your stomach get firmer as you wriggle under his touch. He groans into your mouth as you start to grind your hips into him, fucking you faster with his fingers as he rolls his hips into the bed.
“Vincent,” you say with a gasp and grip his hair, pulling as you come around his mouth, your head dizzy with the feeling of Vincent’s tongue on you as he stares up at you from between your legs. He pulls his hand out of your cunt and licks his fingers before putting his mouth back on your clit, making you jump at the contact. You hiss as he licks the sensitive area, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you tug so hard on Vincent’s hair that you’re afraid you’re hurting him, but if you are, he doesn’t stop you. He interlocks his fingers across your stomach and holds you into place, groaning into your clit.
“Okayokayokay,” you move your hands from his hair to head to pull him up, your breathing labored as you try to get yourself together. He leans over to kiss you, his lips softly molding against yours as you wrap your arms around his back.
Breathless, you move your hand down to touch Vincent but he quickly stops you.
“It’s- um-”
You look down and notice the wet spot on Vincent’s boxers, and your eyebrows raise to the top of your forehead as you come to the realization that he came while he was eating you out.
“Did you-”
Vincent groans, hiding his face in your neck as you giggle, coming down from your high.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” you thread your fingers through his now disheveled hair. “It’s kind of hot if I’m being honest.” Vincent looks at you with a questioning look but you just smile.
“Plus, we have all night to try again.”
-
You wake up in Vincent’s bedroom, with a few strips of sunlight peeking through Vincent’s closed blinds. You haphazardly reach over to his side of the bed to grab his arm, but find it empty, raising your head from the pillow to see that you’re completely alone. Vincent’s clothes that he had taken off during the night and tossed onto the floor were gone. You waited to see if you could hear Vincent in his kitchen, or in the garden, but you were in complete silence.
To be fair, he didn’t say anything last night to insinuate that he wanted a relationship with you, or even liked you. Maybe this was secretly a win for him - he could beat you in a courtroom, and now he got you in your most vulnerable state to declare that you actually felt something other than hatred for him. And maybe that’s all he wanted. You’re not sure why you expected anything differently.
You throw the blankets off of you and find your clothes neatly folded on his desk, and his courteousness manages to upset you even more. You put your clothes on and try to collect yourself, taking a few deep breaths as you walk out of his bedroom and out towards his kitchen. You scan the room for your phone, which you swear you left on the dining room table, only to finally see it on top of a note on the kitchen counter written in messy cursive.
“Went out for cigarettes and coffee.
Bringing back croissants and a capuc- cappuccino.
Will be back in ten.
Go back to bed.
V”
-
taglist: @ghostlytide
graphic credits: @glasvera
#vincent renzi#vincent renzi fanfiction#swann arlaud fanfiction#swann arlaud#vincent renzi x reader#swann arlaud x reader#anatomy of a fall fanfiction#anatomy of a fall#anatomie d'une chute#vincent renzi smut#swann arlaud smut#smut#fanfic
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explicit sexual content; teasing; MDNI 18+
w/ VINCENT RENZI
vincent taps your cunt with his cock before he goes in. he joked once about it always being polite to knock before entering when you both were a little too inebriated and therefore insanely giggly, and it took you a while to get over the hurdle of finding the memory amusing when he would do it again. but how good it feels, and how torturous and cruel it is, immediately wards off any air-headed laughs that could have possibly come from you. they're nonexistent when you're holding your breath, waiting for him to do something other than drag the soft skin of his bare cock through your oozing folds, or tap his blushing head against where your labia blooms to reveal your entrance.
as soon as you're whining his name out, the syllables slurred with a blend of your native accent and the one you've picked up from him, he's shushing you through pursed lips that glisten from the remnants of your lipgloss. "wait," he tells you, tutting and clicking his tongue. "patience," comes his next warning. you're close to complaining, your lips parted to prepare for chastising and bratty remarks. but he leans down and kisses you, and you're dumbed down enough to barely notice when he nudges his tip against your entrance and slides home in one go.
#juji ref in there w “oozing”#vincent renzi x reader#vincent renzi smut#swann arlaud#anatomy of a fall x reader#celeste writes misc#vincentsworld!
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For Business Only [Masterlist]
I surrender, okay, I can't resist the hot lawyer anymore 🤧🥺 Idk what I'm doing but uh, I'll post the first chapter later this week :D
Vincent Renzi x Fem! Reader
-> Next
Synopsis:
After the whirlwind affair Vincent and you shared years ago, he was sure his goodbye was definitive. A fleeting memory filled with both regret and a peculiar ache that he can’t quite place.
But life wishes to scorn him once again when his newest case obliges him to seek out your help. Though this case isn’t the only complicated thing in this strictly professional relationship—not with the way his heart seems to jump at your proximity, or the already familiar tune of your voice.
For all the things that had changed, would this mean your story could have a different ending now?
General Tags: Second Chance/Exes to Lovers | Slow Burn | Reader's an Art Lawyer/Art Consultator bc self-indulgent 🤡 |They were Coworkers | Denial of Feelings | Pining & Longing | Idiots in Love | Friends (?) with Benefits (?) | Mentions of Death, Blood and Violence | Trying to make a murder mystery fic we'll see how it goes | More punctual tags to be added in each chapter |
Chapter 1 | To Reap What You Sow
Chapter 2 | The Room of a Hundred Faces
Chapter 3|
#vincent renzi#vincent renzi x reader#vincent renzi fanfiction#anatomy of a fall fanfiction#swann arlaud x reader#vincent renzi smut#(eventually)#im gonna make a header soon kdjhskdkjf for now the pwetty gif will suffice <3
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Chapter five.
warnings: +18 smut; fingering, penetration, kinda praise kink?
notes: FINALLY i was so nervous but excited to write this. i know some of you were waiting for this so this chapter is long af. enjoy.
Head buzzing. Cheeks still warm. Heart racing.
As i went to bed that night i couldn't stop thinking about it. That kiss. My skin still shivered just thinking about his touch. His hands cupping my cheeks, his warm lips against mine.
He'd be the death of me.
One side of me was completely mad about him, and the other side was just as concerned.
What would we do now? What if someone found out? My heart almost hammering in my chest as i thought of my classmates' faces if they found out. I didn't want them to think i was trying to seduce him to get my thesis done, i didn't need to do that. I wasn't that kind of person, and he knew it. Or i least that was what i expected.
Thursday morning was already slamming at my door. All my thoughts still rambling through my head as i entered the classroom, and then there he was.
Formal but simple clothes as always, his hair always in-between of being put together and decontracted, his characteristic front strands fell on his forehead.
He looked at me stealthily among all the people during all class, and i could sense that he was thinking about it too.
As the bell rang, always at 10 am, i hessitated. Should i go and talk to him? should i go? All my doubts vanished as i saw him slowly walking towards me, as he was doing time while all those people left the place. Hands in his pants pockets and a side smile. Oh my fucking god.
"Hey".
"Hey".
Silence; the tension almost intoxicating the two of us. He broke it first:
"Listen, i was thinking about last tuesday and-"
"You don't have to worry about it, you know?" I said, stopping him mid-sentence. "You're my professor, i'm your student, it's all clear". My tone trying to sound convincing as if we didn't just made out in his car two days ago. Obviously, it wasn't that clear.
He smirked confidently, looking at me. "I know that".
I looked at him quite confused; Was he the same man that acted all nervous an hessitant last week? Didn't he care at all?
"Well, okay then".
"I've read your progress on the thesis, it's going very well" he continued like nothing happened, though i sensed some tension in his tone. "Though I have made some corrections starting from page fifteen that i would like you to look at".
"Oh, okay." I didn't even know what to say. "I will look at it when i get home then".
I looked at him, batting my eyelashes nervously as he kept watching me stoic, almost analyzing my movements.
Then, all of the suden, he grabbed me from behind my neck with both hands and pushed me against a near wall where nobody that would enter the room could see us. He kissed me hungrily, breathing heavily due to the fast movement that he had recently made. I responded quickly, closing my eyes and grabbing him from behind his neck as his hands traveled from my own neck to my waist, bringing me closer to him. Our mouths devoured each other, this kiss was not like the previous one. This was a hungry, sinful one, as if neither him or i could wait any longer. As if we both knew that all this could only bring trouble.
Heat starting to fill my body and his when suddenly a loud noise echoed the space, like a door slamming in the distance, not the one in this room but it felt like it.
We both broke the kiss in a heartbeat as a instinct reaction. Chests coming up and down quickly, eyes filled with unsatisfied hunger.
"I want to see you again". I whispered to him. If it was still a bit of shame left in me, it was already gone.
"Would you like to come home? you could bring all your drafts"
I laughed at his innocent proposition, given to what just had happened.
"I would love to" I said, smiling at him.
"8 pm is alright? I could pick you up if you want"
I looked at him, smiling nervously.
"What? it's not like you haven't been in my car before" He said, with a smirk.
I laughed and gave him a playful hit on his arm. "8 pm is just fine".
He smiled, quite hessitant. I could sense that he was just as nervous as me.
I mean, the damage was already done, right?
-------------------
Nighttime had already come beneath us as he parked outside his house. A big, but modest one. Light grey walls and big windows, now covered by dark blue curtains.
The inside felt very cozy; warm lights, a round, wooden table at one side with a brownish sofa and big book shelfs.
A few wall paintings and a wine cellar from where he picked a bottle and two wine glasses. I looked at him almost blushing at the whole situation.
He was wearing a grey sweater and dark jeans, a bit more casual than what he'd wear at class. Silver hair perfect as always, the lines forming in his mouth as he smiled and handed me the filled glass.
"Thank you". Our fingers touching so slightly as i took the glass. He sat besides me at the sofa.
"Well, how did you do?. He said as he pointed at the drafts and papers on my hands.
"Pretty well, i would say. What do you think?" I handed him the papers as he put his glasses on.
He observed them in silence with a hand in his chin as i looked him with doubt. He chuckled to himself as he read them.
"What?" I said, opening my eyes to him.
"You are very incisive" He said in a playful tone, french accent dripping deliciously onto each word.
"I thought you already knew that".
He smirked as i continued: "Takes one to know one, right?"
The warm, subtle lights carressing his features as he drank the red wine.
"What makes you think that?"
"It just seems that you always know what you want".
He stayed in silence and sat closer to me. One hand on the sofa backreast, behind me. I continued:
"Do you?". Maybe it was the wine, already starting to hit on my words, or the way his eyes looked darker in the night. He smiled softly at me.
"I don't always know, no" I looked at him over my eyelashes, silence echoed the room as he continued. "But i think i know what i want just now".
He carressed my cheek with his fingers, the touch so tender but intoxicating. I needed his touch, his mouth on me again. I couldn't wait any longer.
"Vincent" His name coming out of my mouth as a pathetic moan as i begged to him. "Please, kiss me"
"How could i ever refuse?"
He then broke any remaining tension grabbing gently my cheeks and kissing me deeply. Slowly this time, as we had the night to ourselfs. He tasted like the sweet red wine we just drank and so was i. His perfume smelled, in fact, like a classic one. Wooden but not too harsh, just perfect on his skin My fingers ran into his silver hair as we kept deepening the kiss, both now lying down the sofa.His warm tongue intertwined with mine as his hands ran through my waist and i could feel the heat coming down my body.
He broke the kiss, heavy breathing as he whispered near my mouth.
"Are you okay with this?"
I nodded at him and attempted to kiss him again but he insisted:
"I don't want you to do anything you're not comfortable with, baby"
My entire body shivered just hearing the petname coming out of his mouth and his tenderness at each moment made me feel secure.
"I need you, Vincent. Please" My words coming out as weak whispers as my head buzzed, i needed his touch more than anything in that moment. His eyes getting darker as he was hearing me beg. He lifted me up softly in his arms and carried me into his bedroom.
The room was dark as only the weak, pale moonlight entered through a window besides de big kingsize bed. We were standing at the edge of the bed as i could feel my cheeks getting warmer and warmer under his touch. His hands slowly taking up my shirt as he stared with devotion at my body. His eyes wandered at each mole and each mark. Then he slowly kneeled in front of me, leaving a trail of gentle kisses down my stomach. He looked at me from below with greedy eyes.
"Can i?" He whispered to me, touching the button of my jeans. I nodded slowly as he began undoing them. My body now covered only by black lace underwear and bra.
"Mon Dieu" He whispered, still on his knees. "You're beautiful".
I carresed his chin with my hand as he stoop up slowly, without breaking eye contact.
"Now it's my turn" I said, as i took his sweater and the rest of his clothes off.
His skin soft and warm as we kept kissing deeply on his bed, the air so intoxicating as his touch. Wet kisses on my neck and collarbones. His hand slowly playing with the hem of my panties as i cursed under my breath.
"What's the problem, dear?" He whispered in my ear with a cheeky tone.
"Vincent, please"
"Give me words and i'll give you what you want" His fingers almost touching my aching flesh.
"Touch me, please" My words almost tripping.
He smiled and ran his fingers into me, playing with my clit as i left out a pathetic whimper.
"Merde, you're so fucking wet" He whispered to my ear as he kept touching every fold. He then slid two fingers into me, almost making me lose all reason.
"Oh, Vincent" I kept moaning his name, my core aching under his touch as i could feel his bulge growing against my leg.
"Yes, chérie?
"Please, fuck me." I begged to him, leaving all sense of shame behind. I needed him so badly, like i never needed anybody.
"I love it when you say my name like that" He said as he slid my panties down my legs and freed himself from his own underwear, his big length against my stomach as he pumped himself a few times.
He then stretched out an arm to reach the drawer of the nightstand from where he picked a condom. His firm body glistening as he put it on and then positioned himself between my legs, grabbing them firmly.
He sank into me slowly and i could feel every inch inside me, his head resting on the crook of my neck. He stayed still for a moment, feeling me warm against him.
" Putain. You feel so fucking good" He said as he began thrusting me, slowly picking up a pace.
My nails against his back as i could feel him so big inside me, my head buzzing as i heard the sinful sounds of his thrusts getting more wet and more sloppy.
"Fuck, Vincent" my moans getting more and more out of control. "Keep going, please".
He smiled and then bit my lower lip. "You're taking me so fucking well, baby"
Then he rolled me over the bed. My face now against the pillow as he began thrusting me from behind, hands grabbing my waist as he fucked me deeper and faster.
"You're being such a good girl. Just look at you"
I turned my face so i could see him while he kept fucking me, his silver strands of hair falling into his glistening forehead and his eyes dark and seductive. I started feeling pleasure waves getting bigger and bigger, my core aching for a release.
"Fuck, i really want to ride you" I whispered to him as i could, with half my face still resting on the pillow.
He smiled at me and slid himself out. I whimpered instinctively at sudden lack of contact.
"Go on, then. Show me how good you can fuck me" He said as he lied on the bed.
I climbed on top and sank into his length slowly, almost painfully slowly. My eyes pierced at his as i did it.
"Putain, tu vas me faire jouir" He moaned, almost cursing, under his breath.
My movements took a faster and faster pace as i felt closer to my orgasm. He grabbed firmly my breasts as i went up and down, playing with my sensitive nipples.
"Oh, God. Vincent, i'm gonna cum"
"Go on, chérie. Go on and cum all over me".
My body trembled as i felt closer and closer, i tried to close my eyes but he stopped me.
"No, no. Don't do that. Look at me, i want to see your pretty eyes"
Those words sending me even closer as i felt my orgasm reaching every part of my body, trying to keep my eyes opened. His eyes filled with magnetic lust.
"Fuck, Vincent" I moaned with the little energy i had left as he pushed himself one last time, cumming inside me.
"C'était tellement bon, chérie" He whispered into my ear as i lied on the bed besides him, totally surrendered by his words. I loved it when he'd speak to me in french.
He gently kissed me on the forehead as he put his arms around me. My head resting on his chest as we instantly fell asleep in the still warm bed.
next chapter soon
#vincent renzi#vincent renzi x reader#vincent renzi smut#vincent renzi fanfic#swann arlaud#swann arlaud fanfic
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𝙑𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙍𝙚𝙣𝙯𝙞 (𝘼𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙤𝙢𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙁𝙖𝙡𝙡) 𝙂𝙞𝙛 𝙋𝙖𝙘𝙠 #16
Vincent Renzi in Anatomy of a Fall (2023) Actor Swann Arlaud
♥ mx-pastelwriting does consent to their gifs being used. Do not claim as the maker of these gifs. ALL FREE TO USE (DO NOT CLAIM) REMEMBER TO CREDIT.
#vincent renzi#swann arlaud#vincent renzi gif#vincent renzi x reader#vincent renzi x you#vincent renzi fanfic#vincent renzi fanfiction#vincent renzi smut#gif pack#anatomy of a fall
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𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐙚 ⌜ 𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐒: swann!maridinho te fodendo enquanto você usa a camisa do che dele, swann!brat na skin de pai [barulho de sirene], tenho que dizer que a leitora é uma loba, dirty talk (degradação, elogios), tapa na buceta + tapa na cara (dele), choking (cof nele cof), masturbação e oral fem, masturbação masc, sexo sem proteção [proibido especialmente com europeu safado]. Isso é apenas ficção, não é da minha intenção pressupor nada sobre a posição política do Swann. ⁞ ♡ ̆̈ ꒰ 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑨𝑺 𝑫𝑨 𝑨𝑼𝑻𝑶𝑹𝑨 ꒱ leitura gratuita pros comunistas, pros capitalista tô cobrando 100 reais ─ Ꮺ !
⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀
⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ───── 𓍢ִ໋🀦
A SUA ATENÇÃO DESLOCA DO LIVRO em mãos para o som dos passos descalços sobre o assoalho. Inclina a cabeça, a figura franzina do francês se formando a partir do corredor do apartamento. Os olhinhos azuis correndo pela sala de estar, apressado, coçando o cotovelo quase que num tique nervoso. Sem camisa, o fecho da calça desfeito e o cós da cueca sobressaindo. Mô, te chama com um bico bonitinho, em português, igualzinho aprendeu contigo, viu minha…
E pausa sem finalizar o raciocínio, quando põe os olhos em ti; deitada no tapete felpudo, uma das panturrilhas apoiando na mesinha de centro. Ah, achei, ele conclui, abrindo um sorriso.
Você passa a mão na camisa estampada que está usando, “desculpa”, diz, “não sabia que cê ia usar pra sair. Tá velha.”
Ele dá mais uns passos pra perto, os pés próximos à sua cabeça. “É”, olha pra baixo, mãos nos bolsos, “é que hoje tem reunião de pais, né? Queria incomodar um pai fascistinha.”, no que você segura na barra da calça jeans masculina, puxando de implicância, enquanto murmura um hmmmm, olha só ele, que orgulho!
O seu marido estica outro sorriso, mais de canto, sem mostrar os dentes. O foco vai da sua face risonha pro exemplar de capa dura que ele te deu de presente no mês passado; pra estampa com o desenho icônico da personalidade revolucionária histórica; e, por fim, se perde na visão tentadora das suas pernas desnudas, a calcinha de fundo primaveril. “Quer que eu tire?”, a sua pergunta ecoa sozinha pelo ambiente. O homem parece preso demais ao que vê para sequer cogitar usar um neurônio que seja para prestar atenção em outra coisa. Hm?, ele murmura, escapando do mar de pensamentos sórdidos que o inundou a cabeça.
“Eu perguntei se você quer que eu tire a blusa”, você repete, “Pensei que fosse usar aquela que tava em cima da cama, e essa tava pendurada atrás da porta…”
Swann umedece os lábios, o sorriso se tornando mais suave, porém com uma certa indecência. “Quer tirar a roupa?”, te questiona e soa tão, mas tão imoral que você não segura o riso de acanho, sentindo as bochechas mais quentes. Ele se ajoelha, o rostinho corado mais pertinho do teu, a ponta do nariz resvalando na sua bochecha, enquanto ri junto de ti. “Na verdade, te fodo com ela mesmo, tira não.”
E você acerta um tapinha no ombro alheio, que desrespeito com o comandante, brinca. “Não, relaxa”, ele tem uma resposta na ponta da língua, “tenho certeza que o camarada sabia conciliar o tesão e a luta de classes.”
“Uhum, bobo”, você devolve, entre os sorrisos tolos, deixando ele beijar pelo seu rosto, roçar a pontinha do nariz na sua. Os lábios até chegam nos seus, o encaixe é estranho, de cabeça pra baixo, especialmente porque você não para de sorrir, não concentra pro ósculo, e tudo que sente é a língua masculina procurando a sua, molhando demais, o bastante pra você virar o rosto. Daí, ele cansa do ângulo e se apruma por cima de ti, o joelho se colocando entre as suas pernas. Pega o livro das suas mãos, joga pra qualquer canto entre os sofás da sala, teatral nos trejeitos.
Quando você descuida, está completamente dominada pelo francês, sob o peso do corpo magro, sentindo as mãos dele descendo pelos cantos, o rosto afundado na curva do seu pescoço. Suspirando contra a sua pele, um sorrisinho de puto toda vez que te mira. Os olhos azuis se perdendo nos seus lábios esticados num sorriso de alucinadinha. Sente o perfume que ele emana; o sabonete fresquinho, algumas mechas dos cabelos grisalhos ainda molhadas, o cheirinho do seu shampoo cai tão bem que nem te dá ânimo de zangar.
A reunião, você o lembra, os braços o envolvendo. Swann resmunga, incompreensível quando está com a face madura escondida na sua clavícula, até que ergue o olhar, “Eu tenho um tempinho…”, espia no relógio de pulso pequenino, “...mais precisamente: vinte minutos.”, abre um sorriso de canto, canalha. “Deixa eu comer a sua bucetinha por vinte minutos, bébé?”, e você jura, a carinha que ele faz é de tão necessitado, carente que você tem vontade de empurrá-lo pro canto.
O seu marido toma o teu riso como uma confirmação, se põe a escorregar os beijos da sua clavícula abaixo. Sobe a barra da blusa, as mãos se deliciando por baixo, quando encontram seus seios soltos. O beijo chega molhado na sua barriga, na mordidinha que ele arranha justo num ângulo que te faz cócegas. E com os dentes, o homem puxa a sua calcinha, os dedos se juntando à soma para te livrar da peça.
Você o observa com gosto. Se tem algo com o qual já se acostumou desde a época em que namoravam, é a dedicação absurda que ele possui com o oral. Os olhinhos se prendem na visão do seu íntimo, chupa a ponta dos dedos para te acariciar no pontinho em específico, encarando a carne vermelhinha, suculenta e quente, que vai se tornando mais apetitosa, mais babada conforme ele acaricia. Alterna a atenção para registrar as suas reações, claro. Quer saber qual é a sua expressão quando solta um suspiro, um gemido tímido. Quer saber porque quer zombar — não seria o Swann se não zombasse.
Franze o sobrolho igual você faz, deixa sair o mesmo sonido que ti, copiando descarado até o mesmo tom, o exato volume. Tsc, awn, mia, numa falsa complacência, assistindo o seu quadril rebolar contra o carinho que te é oferecido. Mas o melhor vem quando ele leva à boca, não é?
Está com os olhos nos seus, a língua beirando os dentes até se aproximar do banquete molhado que tem entre as suas pernas. Swann, o nome dele ecoa com facilidade, o jeito com que é abocanhada te rouba o fôlego, faz com que contraia a postura, agarre os fios acinzentados entre os dedos. As perninhas por pouco não se fecham, né? De tamanha a sensação do nó que te apetece no ventre. Porém, o francês te mantém aberta, aperta com as mãos na sua canela, te devora.
E, nossa, como ele sabe chupar… Normalmente, sexo com ele já é prazeroso por dezenas de motivos, só que quando ele te chupa… Porra… A visão nubla, tem até devaneios. Sente os músculos adormecendo, formigando depois de uns segundinhos. É como se adentrasse num limbo, arruinada com tão pouco tempinho que passa a ser covardia, uma vergonha da sua parte se render tão fácil.
Ele ama isso, sabe? O jeito que você se permite gozar do prazer que ele pode te proporcionar. Não arreda os olhos de ti, dos seus lábios entreabertos, bobinha o suficiente pra saliva quase vazar pelo cantinho. Se diverte, sorrindo. Tu aimes ça, mon amour? (gosta disso, meu amor?), a língua sedutora emerge, huh?, por mais zonzinha que você possa parecer, ele insiste no diálogo. Oui, je sais que vous aimez ça. Tu es ma petite pute, n'est-ce pas? (é, eu sei que você ama. É a minha putinha, não é?), e o pior é que por mais que você reconheça uma palavrinha ou outra na voz mansinha, perigosa, os outros termos te confundem, deixa afogada nesse mar de não ter certeza se ele está te chamando dos nomes mais deliciosamente feios, ou te cultuando da forma mais bonita possível — o fodido é saber que o seu marido é capaz de fazer as duas coisas.
Hmmm, ele range a garganta, de boca cheia, comme c'est belle, chérie (que linda, amor). O eco da voz charmosa te faz até arrepiar. Levanta os quadris, rebola contra a língua masculina, com vontade, suspirando, até que os músculos das pernas reclamem, que a dorzinha localizada na panturrilha te desanime e faça colar as costas no tapete mais uma vez. Awn, qu'est-ce qui s'est passé? (Awn, o que aconteceu?), tem a ousadia de ameaçar um sorrisinho de canto ao te ver paradinha sob o toque lento dos círculos que ele faz no seu pontinho novamente, êtes-vous fatiguée? Huh? Déjà? (cansou, foi? Ahm? Já?). Ri, soprado. O carinho preguiçoso que recebia até então é substituído por um tapa certeiro que te faz arder a virilha. Você chia, e ele imita, malandrinho, feito não desse crédito nenhum pra sua reação imediata. Ça fait mal? (doeu?), te pergunta, nada interessado em compreender o calor louco que queima a sua pele, mas até arqueia as sobrancelhas, fingindo preocupação, Un peu? Dis-moi (Um pouquinho? Me diz).
O francês deixa um beijinho no seu joelho dobrado, descansa a bochecha por cima do local. O rostinho maduro transborda uma certa doçura — mas só uma “certa” quantidade, porque você conhece esse homem, não é? Sabe bem o quão dissimulado pode ser, principalmente quando está te fodendo. Por isso, não se assusta quando o escuta questionando, com o tom mais enganoso um huh? Encore? (Ahm? De novo?), e como se a sua resposta tivesse sido positiva, estala mais um tapa na sua buceta.
Dessa vez, você até estremece, o quadril sendo jogado no ar assim que a pele arde, e retornando pro tapete gostosinho quando só quentura te apetece. Não só chiar, os seus lábios são mordidos pelos dentes inferiores, o olhar afia na direção do marido. É um aviso, ele sabe. Mas é claro que ignora completamente. Oh, tu es fâché? (oh, você tá brava?), quer saber, sonso, avec moi? (comigo?), a cara de pau inocente surge ao perguntar: pourquoi? (por quê?)
Você revira o olho, “para de falar assim.”
Comme ça? Mais comment…? (Assim? Mas como…?), se faz de cínico mais uma vez. O seu sangue ferve ao notar um vestígio óbvio de um sorrisinho maroto nos lábios finos, no que ele se esforça pra soar o mais inocente possível, garantindo Je n’entends pas, chérie.
Porque ele acena negativo em meio a esse teatrinho, você nem se pega as palavras que ecoam na voz suavezinha. “Para de falar em francês”, reforça, “e para de me bater”, joga o último pedido sem nem encará-lo mais, arrastando a pronúncia da sílaba final, manhosa, a frase solicitando por uma coisa enquanto o tom rege por outra. E isso é um prato cheio pro canalha com o rosto entre as suas pernas.
Swann corre a boca pela sua virilha, sorrindo. Oui, d’accord (sim, pode deixar), murmura, docinho, e você sabe bem o que ele está prestes a fazer, mas mesmo assim ainda é pega de surpresa com o tapa na mesma região já magoadinha. Você choraminga, cheia de dengo, tentando colar as coxas embora a presença dele ali no meio te impeça. Non, non, non, ele faz aquele biquinho francês, repetindo a negativa ao segurar nos seus pulsos, a carinha de sofrido, como se fosse ele quem estivesse ardendo outra vez mais, Oui, je sais, mais calme-toi (Sim, eu sei, mas fica calminha). Está fazendo que sim agora, todo tranquilinho, os olhinhos azuis se fechando lentamente a cada aceno com a cabeça, os lábios fininhos se apertando pra completar a expressão descarada. Acontece que a adrenalina deliciosa de explodir de tesão ao mesmo tempo que sente raiva do deboche dele te facilita resistir à prisão dos pulsos, uma das mãos escapando dentre as do homem para desferir um tapa na bochecha alheia.
Ele vira o rosto com o impacto, e quando vem retornando o olhar para ti novamente, um sorriso pequeno começa a florescer.
“Te odeio, nossa”, a sua fala entre dentes serve pra o encorajar a estender o sorriso, os lábios se esticando sem mostrar os dentes. “Seu puto…”
Moi?, ele retruca, mantendo a pose de desentendido, até apontando pra si próprio. “É, você”, dá outro tapinha na bochecha dele, dessa vez mais de leve, apenas pra não perder a graça. Pourquoi?, no que você responde na mesma hora a perguntinha fingida dele, “não se faz de bobo”, o seu polegar avisando, balançando no ar, no sentido da face do homem. E ele observa o dedo, propositalmente disperso, já na intenção de murmurar mais uns huh?, hm?, só pra morder, implicante, e rir da sua cara de bravinha.
Você até comprime os lábios, raivosa. Ele te tira do sério, caralho… Detesta a forma com que ele fala baixinho, todo calmo, quando tá sendo um grande filho da puta. Mais ainda, detesta a audácia. Porra, te dá tanto tesão...
Il y a un bébé furieux juste ici (Tem uma bebezinha furiosa bem aqui), ele toca a pontinha do seu nariz com o dedo. “Para de falar em francês, Swann”, você até soa fria, erguendo as costas do tapete para ficar frente a frente com ele, porém o sorrisinho que escapole te denuncia. Oh, mon dieu, o fingimento dele só aumenta, Quoi? Je devrais être effrayée? (Quê? Devia tá com medo?). “Swann”, você chama, séria agora. Me pune.
O seu silêncio é a primeira resposta. O olha, não incrédula, mas estimulada. Swann pende a cabeça pro canto, me pune. Se tô te irritando tanto assim, o foco das íris clarinhas desce pra sua boca, chérie, sussurrando, e volta pros seus olhos, me pune.
Uma provocação dessa somente vem porque ele sabe, tem plena consciência de com quem está lidando, é claro. Aí, assiste com um sorrisinho patife o seu corpo engatinhando pelo tapete para mais perto, fazendo-o se sentar sobre as panturrilhas, prensado com as costas contra o sofá. Você o monta, nem pensa na possibilidade de outra posição senão essa, a mão apoiada no ombro dele enquanto ergue a barra da camisa pra se acomodar sobre as coxas masculinas. “Não me toca”, é o que avisa logo, porém é exatamente o que ele ignora ao cravar as unhas na sua bunda assim que você senta nele.
Você nem se dá ao trabalho de revidar, nem gasta mais o restinho de “paciência”. Prefere afrouxar mais a calça jeans que ele veste, puxando a peça até que não precise apertar a mão por dentro da cueca para tomar o pau na própria palma. Circula a cabecinha melada, espalhando o molhadinho pro comprimento abaixo, descendo e subindo de volta até engatar numa punheta. O homem te repara; posturada, a cara de poucos amigos, a habilidade perfeita com a mão, ao ponto do barulhinho úmido não demorar a preencher os ouvidos. Ele entreabre os lábios, não reprime o gemido baixinho, arh, soando junto com o ar que deixa a boca. Um sorriso de canto, “que boazinha, olha… É disso que você gosta, né, ma princesse?”, e outro tapinha aquece a bochecha dele. Mas igualzinho um menino levado, o sorriso vai aumentando quase que em câmera lenta, só enrugando os ladinhos da boca, sem mostrar os dentes pequenos. “Sem francês?”, a pergunta soa praticamente retórica, “Ah, esqueci que você gosta de mandar em mim... Te dá tesão. Pensar que manda em mim te dá tesão, não dá? Hm?”
Pensar?, você levanta a sobrancelha. E ele faz igual, debochadinho, “o quê? Você acha mesmo que me manda? Ô, bébé…”. De regra, mais um tapa seu estala na face francesa, automática, sem nem remediar a força do impacto, porém acontece que não esperava é que ele fosse revidar na mesma hora, abusado. O encara com tamanho ódio que passa toda a frustração pra velocidade da mão na punheta, recuperando a satisfação ao vê-lo deitar a cabeça pra trás, derretendo de prazer, ah, mon dieu, gemendo, rouquinho, o olhar cintilando pra finalmente poder te sentir por dentro.
Você o encaixa na bucetinha, faz hora pra engolir, roçando a ponta do nariz na dele. Swann beija o seu queixo, prende o seu lábio inferior entre os dentes, sensual. Aponta a língua, beirando os limites da boca, pra ameaçar uma lambida, sorrindo. Allez, alors, allez-y, (vai, então vai, vamo’), e a provocação na língua estrangeira é o que você precisava para descer total, a mão se fechando ao redor do pescoço do francês.
“Minha mulherzinha mandona você é”, ele nem se deixa abater pelo aperto, muito menos pelo bater pesado das suas coxas nas dele, por mais que arqueje. Cala a boca, você retruca, ao que ele desdenha, mudando de assunto, “vai sentar com força, hm? Vai se vingar de mim? Me dar mais tapinha, né? Tsc, que bonitinha, tão bravinha a minha mulher…”
Vai se foder, cara, a sua voz soa ofegante. As unhas escorregam da garganta dele para peitoral nu. Vai rasgando, a pele alva ficando com linhas vermelhinhas conforme raspa sem piedade até a altura das pintinhas gêmeas que ele tem na costela. “Ah, me arranhando todo, amor…”, ele comenta nem um pouco afetado pela ardência. Vou quebrar você, e te devolve, sacana, “é, vai? Que sexy”. As suas sentadas se tornam mais brutas, o desejo aumenta, ferve. O sente estremecer, o corpinho magro tendo que resistir ao seu domínio. Você esconde o rosto na curva do pescoço dele, a boca vai direto para sugar, babujando a pele, sem receio se vai marcá-lo ou não, vou te mandar todo vermelhinho pra essa reunião. Swann sorri, “faz mal não”, te garante, pegando firme na sua garganta pra te fazer encará-lo de novo, “Blesse-moi rouge comme la révolution” (me machuca vermelhinho igual a revolução).
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#desculpa gnt esto ovulando#aaaaaaa#imninahchan#swann arlaud#swann arlaud smut#vincent renzi#anatomia de uma queda#anatomie d'une chute#anatomy of a fall
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hi dear, i am so in love with the vincent fics, thank you a lot for writing them and if it is not a bother could you write one nsfw taking place in his office, the first time doing it there, thank you ♡
Hi lovely!! Not a bother of course :]
CW: consent is sexyyy, p in v, NSFW
wc: 419
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You were sitting on Vincent's desk the papers he was working on, long discarded. He was ovewhelming your senses with gasps and moans escaping him between the kisses he was giving you. He was standing between your open legs grinding against you and making you needy with desire.
"What if- somebody hears us?" You managed to get out in between the breathtaking kisses. He hummed. "Well-" He pushed you down onto the table. "It was your idea, wasn't it ange?" You shuddered at the pet name and blushed at the reminder of the night you suggested it.
"You ever think about us having sex in public?" You opened attempting to sound as nonchalant as possible. It was truly impossible to stay serious when he turned aroud with a shocked-questioning expression on his face
"I mean..." Vincent paused. "Once... or twice... it happened yes." He turned a slight shade of red. "What makes you ask that?" "Oh you know..." this time you paused. "The spirit of adventure." You grinned widely.
The sudden push that came from him was expected, he wanted you to be comfortable. You were looking down at him, anxious as if it were your first time doing it. "You sure about this lovely?" He asked attempting to reassure you. You nodded.
He got a glint of darkness behind his pupils pushing him to go further. He unbottoned your pants and guided you to raise your hips to slide them down your legs. Impatient, he undid the clasp of his belt fumbling with the buttons of his own corduroys. Pulling off his boxers in one swift movement stroking himself for a quick moment.
"You ready?" He leaned towards you, your anxiety dissipated completely with one last kiss from him. He entered you with a groan from both of you. "Oh- my god." He smiled faintly swearing he saw angels whenever you two were in the throes of passion.
The act went on for a few minutes when suddenly you heard a knock at the door. You went pale. Vincent looked at you with a shit-eating grin. "Keep quiet." You wanted to protest but he covered your mouth. "Where's that spirit of adventure lovely?" He teased.
You thought he'd try something but he just shouted out "I'm busy!" The person gave up and walked away which made you relax. "That scared me to death. Oh my g- od!" You chocked back a moan when he thrusted hitting a particular spot. "We need to get back on track, don't we?"
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long day.
title: long day
rating: explicit
pairing: vincent renzi/you
words: 1,049
warnings: smut (non graphic)
notes: Okay, so, smut happened. And there’s very little discernible storyline to any of it. So this’ll be a Tumblr-only special, I think. All of them are written in second person perspective (”you”).
Here’s one, for now. If it anyone cares enough to read it, I might post some more.
—
The day had been long, and weary — the kind of one you just had to wash off at the end of it all. And so when you’d finally arrived home, feet throbbing and head swimming and mind made up of little more than mush, you’d shucked your clothes almost as soon as the front door had clicked shut behind you, leaving an unwitting trail from doorway to bathroom on your way to warm water and suds and steamy nothingness.
So, the first thing Vincent sees when he walks through the door himself is the rumpled mess of your blazer heaped on the floor. His tired blue eyes dart awake at the sight of it, but even so, it takes him a moment to realise that the shower is running. He’s too distracted at first by the sight of your one shoe, abandoned, followed by your skirt, your other shoe, then the hint of indigo lace that’s been left trailing last behind the rest of it.
And he would have stayed that way, maybe — distracted, the fog of his own exhaustion clouding his baser instincts — if it weren’t for the lilting gasp he soon hears floating on the misty air.
He knows that sound, he thinks — knows what it means, what it says, what it tells him you need. And so at the hint of it, and at the lower moan that follows, he tosses his own blazer, his own socks and shoes, onto the floor with yours, and escapes into the bathroom to join you.
You hear the door creak open, hear the familiar sound of his footsteps padding across the floor, and so by the time he teases the shower glass open, you’ve managed to arrange your face into a lazy smile. You know he knows what you’d been doing in here without him — you can see it in the quirk of his grin, in the spark behind his blue eyes. And so as penance, or an apology for starting without him, you lean back against the cool tile and make room for him under the spray of the shower.
‘Salut,’ he murmurs first, the words only barely escaping his lips before they’re slipping across yours.
‘Comment ça va?’ You gaze back at him with one raised eyebrow and try not to gasp when he simpers in response, his hands greedily exploring the slippery wetness of you.
Everything that’s left is touch — his face nuzzled briefly in the crook of your neck, the playful nip of his teeth on the soft skin of your nape, the way his fingertips make their way gently over your neck so that he can swallow up the burst of your giggles that pour from your lips at the knowing of him, and this, and what’s to come.
You bite him back, his bottom lip between your teeth, once his face is again level with yours and then you watch, dazed, as the water from the shower runs in rivulets down his face, his nose, the curve of his jaw and the jut of his chin.
Before you can protest — you want to just keep looking at him, you think — Vincent turns you gently, places your hands against the wall, then lines his body up against your own.
It’s just him, everywhere — his hips pressed against yours, his chest against your back, and his mouth chucking devilishly all the while between kisses that land on your temple, your shoulder, your wandering fingertips.
‘Let me?’ He says, and it’s a question, but it’s also a want. He wants to do this — to make you feel good, after whatever day it is you’ve had to make you run from the door into here, your steamy escape. ‘Hmm?’
His nose is pressed against your cheek, his one hand spread wide across your chest, hovering over your beating heart, while his other trails lazy circles over your abdomen.
You had started something before he joined you, and now, he wants to help you finish.
‘What about you?’ You let your head fall back onto his shoulder, your bodies tangled beneath the sluice of the shower. But all he does in reply is shrug, then smile, then kiss you.
You take Vincent’s hand from your hip and guide him downwards, your stomach fluttering in anticipation. You feel unmoored at the simple touch of him, like organised static, but safe all the while at the feel of him, solid and real, behind you.
His touch drifts and teases, exploring. His fingertips graze over the crest of your hipbone, the tops of your thighs, wandering slowly, slowly, towards where you both want him most.
‘Yeah?’ He murmurs, his mouth close by your ear, all the lines of him pressed against all the lines of you. He knows the answer — yeah, like that, more, please, more — but he asks anyway, and then chuckles at the little sound you make against his neck when his other hand ventures downward, too.
He’s leant against the tile, and you’re leant against him, the beat of the shower and the touch of him combined making your skin spark and your head swim. You’re far enough gone by now that your brain has finally shut off, and all that remains of the world is his playful touch, tracing patterns against the centre of you.
Everything is wet, and warm, and so are you, and when you gasp at the tightening knot in your stomach, he drinks you up, stealing what’s left of your panting breath for his own.
There’s a squeak of slick bathtub underfoot, and it’s almost a distraction until he whispers in your ear, ‘I’ve got you,’ and in so many ways, you know that to be true.
You manage to glance up at him, dazed, just before you topple over the edge of it all, his blue eyes crinkling into a fond smile, his face awed and determined, both at the same time.
The bathroom echos with the sounds of you and him, of moans and whispers, kisses, and oblivion. And just before the final wave of white-hot pleasure crashes over you, he tightens his arm around your waist, keeping you safe.
Then, he watches you dissolve in his arms and waits, kissing you while he helps to put you back together again.
—
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# introduction + navigation !
call me ilo! | any pronouns | 20. minors please do not interact. this blog is not suitable for anyone below 18.
# info + rules !
requests and asks : open. there are key things I won't write and that includes any form of incest or noncon (dubcon is acceptable).
# medias I will write for !
anatomy of a fall: vincent renzi my beloved. but any of the characters work too!
jujutsu kaisen: pretty much any of the adults. none of the students.
honkai star rail + genshin impact: again, adults. I won't write characters like xiao, scaramouche, etc. even if they are adults, their child models make me uncomfortable.
one piece: i am pretty new to one piece and so the only character I am interested in writing right now is shanks, but I'm sure that as I continue I'll be interested in writing other characters!
bungou stray dogs: specifically odasaku but I will write anyone.
©gepardings 2023. do not translate, modify, rewrite, or repost on any platform.
#honkai star rail smut#hsr smut#shanks smut#jujutsu kaisen smut#genshin smut#bsd smut#jjk smut#one piece smut#hsr x reader#genshin x reader#jjk x reader#bsd x reader#one piece x reader#anatomy of a fall#vincent renzi x reader#swann arlaud
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Vincent’s Corner
(Aka, all of my works featuring Vincent Renzi)
Fics:
priest! Au — pt. 1
Blurbs:
Drabbles:
#bunny’s masterlist ੈ✩‧₊˚#Vincent Renzi#Vincent Renzi x reader#Vincent Renzi x fem! reader#Vincent Renzi smut#Vincent Renzi fanfic#Vincent Renzi oneshot#Vincent Renzi Drabble#Vincent Renzi blurb#Vincent Renzi masterlist#Swann Arlaud#Anatomy of a Fall#dom! Vincent Renzi#sub! Vincent Renzi#dom! reader#sub! reader
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₊˚⊹ ᰔ ok but what about vincent who likes to see his pretty girl squirm??
word count: ~625
warnings: smut, vincent renzi x fem reader, implications of oral sex (f receiving), fingering, poorly used french, dom vincent, throat holding (no choking), implications of p-in-v
a/n: this is just a quick lil drabble i thought up while making dinner (i need to be sedated), also the way he looks in that gif legitimately makes me lose control of my frontal lobe
“ba- baby, wait.. wait-“ you plead, what feels like a futile attempt to get the man between your legs to give you a moment of reprieve.
through fluttering lashes, you’re able to glance down and see soft locks of ash-grey pull away from your core, a pair of blue eyes, shining bright in the glow of the golden hour, peering into you.
wet lips brush against the inside of your thigh, his smirk evident as he kissed the skin. “yes, my love?”
fuck, the teasing tone should irk you, but the butterflies in your stomach can’t seem to stop pulsing against your ribcage. your heart is nearly hammering in your chest as you attempt to calm down, stabilize yourself. when you don’t say anything, vincent merely chuckles quietly. his sharp eyes study you for a moment longer before he lets your knee fall from his shoulder and slides his body to hover over yours. you admire him up close now, cheeks flushed with want.
the quiet rasp in his voice sends a chill down your spine as he speaks close to your ear, his breath warm against the skin. “what does my pretty girl need from me?”
you swallow, a newfound shyness overwhelming you as you feel your pussy clench around nothing, embarrassingly wet as if he hadn’t just spent the last 45 minutes using his tongue til you were begging for a moment to catch your breath. your thighs twitch as his right hand teasingly cups your poor pussy, his fingertips tracing your wet folds. the lewd wet-clicking sounds only served to make your blush grow fiercer, your chest rising and falling as he kept his cool gaze trained on you, seemingly nonchalant.
if it weren’t for the prominent buldge in his boxers, a small spot of precum already staining the material, you would’ve fallen for his indifferent demeanor.
with a skillful brush of his finger against your pulsing clit, you’re drug from your scattered thoughts, a sharp whine coming from the back of your throat.
“i asked you a question.” his voice vibrated in your ears, his accent more prominent as he willed his composure to endure. the tip of his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip as he sucks in a sharp breath. “putain (fuck).. you’re so wet..” as if to prove his point, he slipped two fingers into your heat with an embarrassingly wet squelch, barely audible over your sweet moan.
you felt your eyes flutter as he slowly began to tease his fingers in and out, falling into a soft rhythm that had you digging your prettily manicured nails into his shoulder, mouth agape as you pant and whine in time with the thrust of his experienced fingers.
he couldn’t pry his eyes from you, his own lips parted as he watched your body react so readily to him. before he could stop himself, his lips were against your cheek, his eyelashes tickling your skin as he whispered, “tu es tellement jolie, putain- je vais me faire jouir, merde.. (so fucking pretty)- (gonna make me come, shit..).”
you squeeze your eyes shut, damn near whimpering as he pulls his fingers away from you. you open your mouth to complain, but a gentle hand on your throat pushes any thought of objection out of your mind.
vincent’s face ghosts over yours, his pupils blown. “i’m going to fuck you.” his eyes flick to your swollen lips and then back to yours, “think you can handle that, ma chérie?”
you suck in a breath, your own hands coming to wrap around the wrist of the hand holding your throat. you nod dumbly, your mind empty aside from the man above you.
“mots (words), words love, i need to hear you say it.”
“please, vince, please fuck me.”
your pussy clenches as he smirks at your admittance. his lips are warm against yours, his tongue teasing your bottom lips before he pulls away an inch. “that’s my girl.”
#♱₊˚✧ filth .#swann arlaud#anatomy of a fall#anatomie d'une chute#vincent renzi smut#anatomy of a fall vincent#vincent renzi#actor
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Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Anatomie d'une chute | Anatomy of a Fall (2023)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Vincent Renzi/Sandra Voyter
Characters: Vincent Renzi, Sandra Voyter
Additional Tags: Slice of Life, No Angst, Romance, Domestic Fluff, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Small appearances by Daniel and Snoop, mentions of the pandemic
Series: Part 2 of Cartography
Summary:
Vincent attempts to navigate his newfound relationship with Sandra. Things don't go as easily as anticipated, but it's not all for the worst.
--
Part two of the series is up! I am now in fear, but I'm sure it'll be fine.
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we need more vincent renzi plsss 🫶
squirting; some angst?; MDNI 18+
it’s an unfortunate situation, but it’s one that exists. and you have to make amends with it.
your legs are wrapped around vincent's waist as you lay on your back, taking whatever he’ll give you, and you know it’ll likely be the last for who knows how long. neither you nor vincent know exactly when you’ll be able to replicate this again, and you’re sure the undetermined gap between this occurrence and the next is what spurs him on. it’s what provides adrenaline and a boost to his stamina. its what cuts his refractory period in half and creates the desire pumping through his veins.
he has so much pent up inside of him, caused by the work he dedicated most of himself. then there was the side of himself he dedicated to you and the things that only you knew about him, all pertaining to the itch he hasn’t scratched until here and now.
he stops thrusting into you for a second to grab your legs and press them back towards your chest, creating more room that he quickly fills with his lithe body. his face lowers to press kisses into the skin along your clavicle. you can’t tell, but you feel like they’re apologetic. either for what he has done before, or for what he has yet to do.
idiotically, naively, you accept them. especially whenever he begins to fuck you harder and deeper, his hips rolling into firm thrusts as soon as he’s as deep within you as he possibly can get. and even then, he attempts to go deeper.
it’s simple fucking really, but something about it feels perverse. maybe it’s the lack of condom paired with the depth. it creates a message, one that says vincent has motives he has yet to share with you. you know he won’t act on them without talking to you about it, but you can’t help but wonder.
he lifts his body off of yours just enough to create a view of his cock entering you over and over again.
he sucks in air through his teeth and looks up at you with a small, amused smile. “look,” he tells you. his hands press your legs back a little more until the stretch burns, but the pleasure of his cock entering you at a slightly different angle alleviates your discomfort.
you do as he says, looking down enough to get a view of vincent’s cock disappearing and reappearing into you. you don’t really know what exactly he wants you to see, but maybe it’s just this. knowing vincent, he wants you to see how well you take him. how well he fits in you without much difficulty at all, save for the initial stretch that you are quick to get over.
you take in as much of it as you can—the view of vincent’s cock working you open again and again, slipping deeper and deeper until you wonder when he’s going to hit your cervix. there’s a ring of white along his dick, broken and distorted but there nonetheless. you know it’s a mix of your own cum from times before, but your fucked out brain implants the idea of it being his cum, and suddenly the presumed motives that vincent could have don’t seem so perverse. they seem more like a happy accident rather than a damper on the comfortability of your current lives.
you had assumed him to have been watching your cunt just as you are, but it’s not until you lift your eyes and see him watching you that you’re proven wrong.
he has his lips quirked up on one side, revealing the earned set of lines that border his mouth. “beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks you, as if he’s talking about a painting or the sunset and not the way his dick is fucking you.
still, you nod and agree, letting your head fall back and your eyes close as you start to anticipate the delicious feeling of your orgasm creeping towards you. it’s one that runs away as if it’s scared of coming to fruition yet again. scared of what another orgasm could entail, and what it could release.
you’re not afraid of the possibilities, and neither is vincent.
the orgasm is still being searched for, but vincent refuses to let you relax.
“no, no, no.” his chastising tone is all it takes for you to open your eyes. “keep watching. look at us.”
you really have no other choice but to do as he says. you watch him continue to please you, over and over and over again. you watch his fingers dip towards your entrance and gather all of the cum that has leaked out. you watch his hand disappear lower, and your eyes flutter as he teases your ass, rimming it with two fingers before probing just one in to the first knuckle and then bringing it back out. you watch as he switches hands, and uses the other to circle your clit. and then you watch your cunt gush around him, releasing the very thing neither of you shied away from.
#glad u asked anon#i was sitting on this#vincent renzi x reader#vincent renzi x you#vincent renzi smut#celeste writes misc#vincentsworld!
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౨ৎ rules ―
⑅˚₊ i prefer suggestions or prompts, but i will take detailed requests!
⑅˚₊ i'm horrible with messages, but feel free to message me to become mutuals, or to ramble and brainrot-- as long as it's appropriate!
⑅˚₊ ageless blogs or minors please do not interact with my nsfw works!
⑅˚₊ please do not post my writings anywhere else or turn them into ai bots!
౨ৎ characters i will write for ―
⑅˚₊ rick grimes, daryl dixon (the walking dead)
⑅˚₊ jill valentine, leon kennedy (resident evil)
⑅˚₊ jonathan crane (nolanverse batman)
⑅˚₊ joel miller, tommy miller (the last of us, hbo series)
⑅˚₊ abby anderson (the last of us ii, game)
⑅˚₊ vincent renzi (anatomy of a fall)
౨ৎ what i'm comfortable writing ―
⑅˚₊ i'll only write reader-insert! no ocs, no ships, sorry!
⑅˚₊ fluff, angst, and comfort. i've never written smut, but i can try!
⑅˚₊ LEGAL age gaps, teacher-x-student only if college age, daddy/mommy kinks (not ddlg or age regression)
⑅˚₊ breeding, strap usage (wlw), spanking, manhandling, light biting
⑅˚₊ smoking (cigarettes/weed), drinking
⑅˚₊ some dacryphilia but in the lana del rey pretty when you cry way (if that makes sense)
⑅˚₊ alternate universes! feel free to pitch, but my personal faves are college au, bookstore au, and coffee shop au
౨ৎ what i'm not comfortable writing ―
⑅˚₊ p3dophilia, foot, scat, pee, dub/noncon, incest/stepcest, age play/age regression, ddlg, kidnapping, abuse of any kind, substance abuse or greater than ones stated in 'comfortable writing', anything with self harm or suicidal ideation
⑅˚₊ even if something in your prompt/request is not written above, if i am uncomfortable writing it, i will not post it.
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