#Swann Arlaud fanfic

[coryosbaby]

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

[simplymarr]

Chapter one.

summary: vincent renzi x fem!reader.

A young law student is navigating her last year in university, where she meets a misteryous french professor that is going to help her getting her thesis done. A strong chemistry and a love for books and hard work it's what gets them to work so well with each other. But how much are they going to resist when temptation arrives?

warnings: age gap (legal ofc) he's 43 and she's 26. Other that that, none (yet).

London. 8 am and a room full of people on a rainy day. Cold fingers on the desk, waiting for something to happen.

I looked over and the clock was still; maybe it was broken or maybe the time was way too slow in the morning. Even for me.

Today it was the last-first day i was going to have on that university. Five long years studying law, yet it felt like i was still a stranger in that big, cold classroom.

I was, finally, going to get my thesis done. No more wasting time, no more fear. I had to be strong.

How difficult could it be?

The world with its unique, hidden irony seemed to have answered my question when, all of a sudden, he walked through that old, wooden door.

Mature, maybe in his early forties. Tall but not too much; quite skinny. Long neck and serious countenance. Silver hair, some strands fell on his forehead as he walked across the room until he reached his desk. His polished clothes didn't look wet even though it was raining, and even for me to be so far away from him i could, somehow, sense that he smelled like cigarrettes and old fashioned, classic cologne.

Professor Vincent Renzi was his name.

He came from France. He said that he had recently won a case in the city, and that a colleague of his needed him to replace him for a few months at the university. A two-hour weekly class and, most importantly,

he was in charge of correcting some of the theses.

I hesitated the rest of the class, unsure of what was going to happen. Would he be easy on me? or would he be an idiot? After all, all male professors in law school seemed to treat women like they were not smart enough to be there. Or worse, like they fucked their way to the top.

Suddenly my feet stepped on earth again when i felt a deep voice making, in a strong french accent, a question that no one dared to answer.

"So, has anyone already started working on their thesis?"

Silence.

Then, for inertia or maybe an obscure, unconscious desire to be seen by his blue eyes i raised my hand.

He smiled at me; perhaps relieved that he hadn't been ignored. Little wrinkles formed on each side of his mouth as he spoke:

"Great, at least someone is doing their job. Now, enlighten me, please".

........................................

I tried to leave as soon as the class ended.

Maybe it was the shame, the blushed cheeks as i explained to him the central themes of the thesis. For the first time, i felt like my tongue wasn't mine as the words kept coming out of my mouth, but i felt grateful for that.

However, due to how far away i was from the exit, i was the last one to leave. I slid between each seat until i reached the door where, luckily for me, he was standing, waiting.

"That was good. Very good actually". He said as he reached out for a pack of cigarettes between his pockets.

I stuttered.

"Well, thank you. There's still some issues i need to fix, you know. References and stuff". I tried, without luck, to sound as calm as possible.

"That's why im here". He said, staid but in a soft tone.

As he left the building and got into his car, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear and lighting a cigarette, i couldn't help but wonder

what the hell was i getting into.

next chapter soon

[corleonewrites]

La Vérité

AU: Anatomy of a Fall (2023)

Vincent Renzi x Original Female Character fanfic.

Summary: Two people connected by the same past. Two lawyers. And one tangled case which brought them back together again, giving them the opportunity to sort out their feelings towards each other, no matter how painful memories are to both of them can be.

Chapter 1. Consolations, S. 172: No. 3 Lento placido

Life is full of unexplainable chances, turns and vicissitudes, which are leading to the mind-blowing conclusions. By these forces people can meet again after years apart, when they promised to never see each other. And it happened to me.

It was the regular cold winter morning in Paris, when I left my apartment, listening to classic’s music playlist in my headphones, while heading to the bureau where I work, reading a book while in the crowded underground. Paris was slowly waking up for the last day before the weekend, streets were busy with people hurrying to their working places, but I made my trip to the bureau fast as I usually do, and I opened the door to the lawyers' office when Franz Liszt’s composition was finishing its tune in my headphones.

“Good morning, Madeleine”, I said to my colleague, entering the bureau.

“Morning, Camille”, she replied, checking her makeup in the small mirror, “I hope you didn’t forget that we’re celebrating your solved case tonight at Brasserie Lipp”, she said, before I disappeared in my cabinet, “I’m not giving up my plans to find you a handsome boyfriend there”, I rolled my eyes when I heard the ending of her sentence but thankfully, she didn’t see it.

“How could I forget about this evening, especially after that hard case, we deserve the celebration”, I turned to Madeleine and smiled, “But I’m working just fine without boyfriend, but thanks for your consideration” I finished, and closed the door behind me, when she replied: “I won’t give up, Camille, you know me” which put a smile on my face.

I didn’t like to discuss my private life with anyone, not with my friends nor, of course, with my colleagues. Besides, I had my own love secrets which never led to anything and after which I decided to give up finding someone for me. Probably I wasn’t designed for love and I was full of hard job as a lawyer, trying to find balance between work and my life, and enjoyed every minute of my free time. I didn’t need no one. Or I thought I didn’t.

______________________________________________________________

During her teenage years, my mother read the play Camille by Alexandre Dumas and was so impressed by the name that she decided to name her future daughter the same way. So, when she married my father and when I was born, I got that name. Camille Cadieux. My parents were successful and very important lawyers and both of them came from lawyers’ dynasties: English and French. And since my childhood I spent summer vacations both in countryside in Cambridgeshire and in Provence, where my grandparents live. My childhood was full of literature and old films, I loved to get lost in stories that they were telling me through pages of a book or film frames. As a grown-up woman I continued to enjoy these hobbies of mine, they helped me not only to relax after hard long working day, but also to forget my thoughts.

I always knew that I would be a lawyer, just like my parents. For a 27-year-old lawyer I’ve achieved great heights in a short time, taking a couple of factors in mind: I’ve known a lot about law since I was a teenager, with the help of my parents of course, and I didn’t want and had no right to let them down.

______________________________________________________________

My computer was turned on, I poured fresh coffee in my cup and started to check e-mails. Regular morning routine. But suddenly my eyes caught an e-mail with painfully familiar name and surname, which I wanted to forget and thought that I succeeded in it:

“Hello, Camille,

You are probably surprised to see this e-mail from me, after a long time since we’ve spoken for the last time. But I recalled how good you were at your studies in my class and I’ve heard about your successful cases at court in the past year, so I’m asking you to help me with one case on which I’m currently starting to work. I will understand if you decline it, and I will be happy if you agree.

Please, reply to this message as soon as possible. I will be glad to hear from you again.

Best regards,

Vincent”

I reread this message a couple of times trying to process what was written there. I knew only one person named Vincent. Vincent Renzi. Maître Vincent Renzi, who was my tutor when I was studying MA at law school, whom I wanted to forget and never meet again. But at the same time deep inside me I wanted to meet him once again, even though it’d probably be hard, but couldn’t resist.

After tapping the reply to my ex-tutor, I took a sip from my coffee, stood up from the desk and looked at the streets of Paris from the window, opening it slightly to have a smoke. Funny how our paths connected again in the strangest way possible. But it wasn’t so strange, because we work in the same sphere, solving cases and being presented during courts. We never met in courts before nor worked together. Maybe it was the right time to start.

The reply came fast. We agreed to meet each other the next day, on Saturday, at the small bistro to discuss the case and after we confirmed the meeting my heart started to beat a little faster, so quiet, like hidden and almost forgotten feelings which I have towards Vincent started to wake up. I wish I couldn’t feel anything, but it just won’t stop easily, all that I needed to do was to be professional, just how I always was at first during my studies and now during my work.

______________________________________________________________

Office hours finished fast and the computer with lamp on the table were switched off, and I stood up from my chair, taking the coat and tying scarf around my neck, brushed my long dark brown hair a little with right hand and exited my cabinet agreeing to meet Madeleine before the Brasserie Lipp’s entrance at 20:00.

______________________________________________________________

Brasserie Lipp was crowded and loud as always, with a big queue of people waiting outside to have a seat at the famous bistro. The atmosphere at our table was busy: me and Madeleine were discussing solved cases, thinking about future ones, when my thoughts were interrupted by the memories and anxiety to meet Vincent the next day. The ideas about the case on which he wanted to ask me to work on together with him combined together with bubbles from champagne which I was drinking at Brasserie Lipp’s and this strange mixture was circling around, trying to build the right narrative and thick line of evidence even though I had no idea what the case was going to be like and how it’d turn everything upside down.

______________________________________________________________

The taxi drove me away from the noise of working Friday and evening at Brasserie Lipp as I was heading back home, with the only aim to get inside my bed and have a good sleep, which I didn’t have for a long period of time and thought that wouldn’t have if I’d agree to help Vincent with the case. But one thought still couldn’t leave me: why did Vincent write me after all these years of silence and why even me? It wasn’t a lie when he said that I was very good and very successful lawyer, I was flattered when he said in this letter that I was one of the best in the class, because it was true, not only because he wanted to satisfy my ego. Leos are all the same, we need to please ourselves and our egos.

I took a quick shower, put on my pajamas and after I finished my evening skincare routine, I looked at myself in the mirror while brushing my long brown hair: gray-green eyes which looked a little tired after a hard-working week, a scar on my right cheek, which I got as a child. My scar especially was my highlight which I loved, together with my short height. I sighed and walked into my bedroom, turning off the main light leaving one lamp on bedside table on.

The bedside table was occupied with everything: a book which I was reading at that time, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, lip balm for my dry lips, small photo frame with a picture of me when I was a child and the clock which was showing almost 1 o’clock in midnight. I turned off the vinyl player which was playing beautiful jazz compositions and finally jumped inside the warm blanket hoping that I’d fall asleep very fast as I was afraid to drown in endless thoughts and memories about my past with Vincent and anxiety about meeting him the very next day, acting that nothing never happened between us.

[bibistatic]

lovely writers

we need more swann arlaud with a mustache stories

thank you

[euphoriaslux]

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

[imninahchan]

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐙚 ⌜ 𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐒: 3some, swann!namoradinho, enzo!fotógrafo, fetiche por foto como chama não sei, bebida alcoólica, cigarro (não fumem!), dirty talk (elogios, dumbification e degradação tudo junto) oral e masturbação fem, tapinhas, masturbação masc, sexo sem proteção (proibido entre as sócias desse blog). Termos em francês ou espanhol — petit poète (pequeno poeta), merci (obrigada), pour la muse (para a musa), Sé que más tarde suplicarás por mí, nena, tan lejos que tu gringo no oye (sei que vai implorar por mim mais tarde, nena, tão longe que o seu gringo não ouve), Eres una perra, lo sé (você é uma cadela, eu sei)⁞ ♡ ̆̈ ꒰ 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑨𝑺 𝑫𝑨 𝑨𝑼𝑻𝑶𝑹𝑨 ꒱ colidindo dois mundos diferentes das girls ─ Ꮺ !

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⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ───── 𓍢ִ໋🀦

VOCÊ NUNCA DUVIDOU DO TALENTO DE ENZO nem por um segundo. Aqui, finalmente apreciando a exposição, seus olhos se enchem ao ver o resultado de tantas horas frente às lentes dele naquele estúdio. Se vê maravilhada com a perspectiva artística do uruguaio, na forma sensível com que te captou. Os seus pezinhos no chão de madeira do apartamento dele. Os seus joelhos manchados de tinta esgueirando por baixo da barra do vestido. O seu olhar perdido, sentada na otomana vintage ao piano, os fios de cabelo bagunçados, na sala da sua casa mesmo. É de uma satisfação enorme se enxergar pelos olhos dele quando a visão é fascinante o suficiente pra beijar o seu ego. É como ler poesia, e não ser o poeta enfim, mas o poema.

“Para o nosso petit poète!”, Swann saúda, servindo a taça do Vogrincic. Champanhe escorre pela garrafa de marca chique, recém-aberta. Já é a segunda rodada de espumante e comemorações, se contar o festejo de taças e elogios cordiais durante a exibição mais cedo. Agora, um pouco mais intimista, só vocês três no conforto da decoração boho maximalista da casa. Merci, Enzo arrisca na língua local, espalmando a mão no peito, por cima da camisa social, e com aquele olhar agradecido. “Pour la muse”, Swann te serve, com um sorriso, e você faz charme, balançando os ombros.

A garrafa retorna para o balde com gelo. O francês puxa do bolso do blazer o maço de cigarro e saca um, guardando o resto. Risca o isqueiro, acende. Depois do primeiro trago, prossegue, “Foi um sucesso. Definitivamente.”, embora o artista latino pareça mais humilde. “Amanhã você vai estar no Le Monde, no Le Parisien, todos os jornais… Todos aqueles críticos de nariz empinadinho pareciam maravilhados.”

Enzo faz que não, com certeza ainda incrédulo após um dia inteirinho nas nuvens. “Obrigada pela oportunidade, é a minha primeira exposição assim, numa galeria fora do Uruguai”, explica, “e mostrar o meu trabalho junto com artistas incríveis é… Uma honra. De verdade.”, os olhinhos castanhos brilham. 

Swann não quer levar as flores sozinho, te oferece um olhar de canto de olho, “Tem é que agradecer a ela”, lembra, “está apaixonada pelas suas lentes.”

O uruguaio te mira com doçura, “claro”, diz. Pega na sua mão, trazendo à meia altura, “não poderia deixar de agradecer à minha musa”, e beija, “a maior arte dessa noite era você, nena.”

Você se exibe mais diante o elogio, pomposa. Já sente as bochechas queimando de tanto sorrisos fáceis, tanto regozijo, mas mantém a pose de diva, o que não falha em fazê-los rir. “Sempre quis ser musa”, conta, ajeitando os cabelos, de queixo erguido, “quando eu conheci o Swann, ele já estava trabalhando na galeria, não pintava mais”, os beicinhos crispam, numa adorável tristeza teatral, “ainda bem que a sua câmera me encontrou, Enzo.”

“Impossível não te encontrar quando se destaca tanto”, o tom dele se torna ainda mais terno, “não precisei de muito esforço, só tive olhos pra ti desde o começo”. Leva a taça à boca, prova um gole, “Acho que morreria de ciúmes se você fosse minha”, os dedos correm pelos lábios recolhendo a umidade, enquanto os olhos retornam para a figura grisalha no ambiente. 

Não, ele não sente ciúmes, é você que rebate primeiro, com bom humor, ele é francês. Swann ri, sopra a fumaça na direção do quintal, a porta de vidro aberta. Descansa o braço nos seus ombros, “E não posso ser tão egoísta ao ponto de ficar com uma obra-prima dessa só pra mim, não é?”

Você toma nos dedos o cigarro da boca dele, oui, mon amour, e traga. Enzo te observa puxando a fumaça, o seu batom vermelho marcando o pito. Nota, também, a maneira com que o Arlaud te contempla — os olhos azuis banhados a afeto, cintilantes. Tão rendido, tão vassalo. Não o julga, entretanto. Enquanto te eternizava nas imagens, com certeza deve ter te mirado com a mesma significância. 

“Não acha, Enzo?”, o eco da voz caramelada do outro homem desperta o fotógrafo, ao que murmura hm?, molhando a garganta mais uma vez para escutá-lo. “Quer dizer, olha só pra ela… me apaixonei na primeira vez em que a vi”, Swann confessa. Vai chegando com o rosto mais perto de ti, revelando, “...tão bonita, saindo do mar. Pele salgada. Parecia o nascimento de Vênus, ali na minha frente”, até recostar a ponta do nariz na sua bochecha, rindo quando você ri também, vaidosa. “Não dá vontade de beijá-la?”, a pergunta tem ouvinte certo. Os olhos claros voltando-se para os castanhos. “Eu sei que teve vontade de beijá-la em algum momento durante as sessões. Não precisa mentir.”

Em outro momento, talvez com pessoas diferentes, Enzo não se sentiria tão à vontade feito está agora. É que a energia entre vocês três é singular, entenda. Desde o primeiro momento que conheceu o uruguaio, a sua atração física e pelo cérebro de artista dele foi perceptível — além de mútua. E Swann, ele é francês, e são um casal que foge o tradicional, que experimentam. Não é uma ameaça pra ele saber que um homem te deseja. Na verdade, dá ainda mais tesão. 

Enzo pega o cigarro dentre os seus dedos, leva à própria boca. Traga. A fumaça escapa, nubla a face de traços fortes de uma forma cativante, quase que sensual. “É”, admite em voz alta, “tive vontade de beijá-la… tocá-la… diversas vezes desde que a conheci”, está com o foco das íris castanhas nos seus lábios, “aliás, tô sentindo agora.”

O sorrisinho de satisfação estampado na sua cara é inevitável. 

Swann recolhe o pito de volta para si, das mãos de um latino totalmente indiferente ao tabaco, preso à sua figura. Enquanto traga, a voz do francês soa como um demoniozinho nos ombros do outro homem, encorajando, então, beija, como se a solução fosse a mais simplória do mundo. 

O Vogrincic assiste a sua mão espalmar no peito dele; os anéis dourados, as unhas num tom terroso. Você mergulha os dedos entre os botões defeitos da camisa social dele para capturar pingente da correntinha. O olha. Aquela carinha de quem tá querendo muito ser tomada nos braços, devorada. Uma ânsia à qual ele não te nega. 

Pega na sua nuca, a palma quente conquistando espaço. Firme. Fica mais fácil te conduzir para mais perto, trazer o seu corpo pra colar no dele. Encaixar, invadir, sorver. Sente o gosto do espumante, o pontinho amargo do cigarro na sua língua. Um ósculo intenso, diferente do que está acostumada. É puramente carnal, desejoso. Parece que quer te engolir, verga a sua coluna um bocadinho, sobrepondo o próprio corpo por cima. Estalado, e profundo. Cheio de apetite. A taça por pouco não cai dos seus dedos. 

Quando se aparta, é porque o peito queima de vontade de respirar. Ofegam, ambos. A visão dos lábios dele até inchadinhos, avermelhados pelo seu batom, é alucinante. O uruguaio nem se dá ao trabalho de limpar as manchinhas rubras, como quem sabe que a bagunça ainda vai ser maior.

Swann apanha a taça da sua mão para entornar um gole. Ri, soprado. Bom, não é? A pergunta faz o Vogrincic se perder, outra vez, no deslumbre da sua figura. Um olhar de fome, daqueles que precedem o próximo bote. Vê o francês estalar um beijo na sua bochecha, bem humorado, e depois ir descendo pelo seu pescoço. A forma com que segura na sua nuca, guia a sua boca até a dele. Faz o uruguaio sentir um tiquinho de ciúmes, sabe? Mesmo que tenha plena consciência de que não teria justificativas pra esse tipo de sentimento. Já era de se esperar um nível aflorado de intimidade entre você e o seu homem. O roçar da pontinha dos narizes, o mordiscar implicante que ele deixa nos seus lábios, rindo, feito um menino apaixonado, não deveria surpreender o fotógrafo. Mas surpreende. Instiga. Esquenta. 

Enzo traga o pito pela última vez antes de se apressar pra apagá-lo no cinzeiro da mesinha de centro e soprar a fumaça no ar. Ávido, as mãos viajando em direção ao seu corpo — uma firme na sua cintura, e a outra ameaçando tomar o posto na nuca. Swann o interrompe, um toque contendo o ombro e a proximidade de um certo latino com muita sede ao pote. “Aprecia, mas não se acostuma”, avisa, com um sorriso, “tem que tratá-la muito bem pra fazê-la te querer de novo.”

Enzo te olha, analisa. Parece que as palavras estão paradinhas na ponta da língua, porém as engole, prefere te beijar novamente, te tocar novamente. Afinco. Te domina, mostra soberania com o corpo pesando sobre o teu. Você cambaleia, abalada por tamanha intensidade, as costas se apoiam no peito do Arlaud. 

Os beijos escorregam pelo seu pescoço, desenham o decote da sua blusa, por cima do tecido, descendo até a barriga. É crível que vai se ajoelhar, porém acaba tomando outro rumo, retornando com o foco pro seu rosto. “Vou deixar o seu homem te chupar”, diz, com uma marra tão palpável que um sorriso não deixa aparecer nos seus lábios, “porque eu sempre morri de vontade de saber como era meter em ti”, e oferece um olhar ao francês, “deixa a sua mulher molhadinha pra mim?”

Tipo, a construção da frase, a entonação, os trejeitos do uruguaio; tudo faz soar como uma provocação. E, de fato, é. Um homem como Enzo não sabe amar mais de uma vez e muito menos partilhar esse amor. Mas Swann leva tudo com o bom humor de sempre. Faz um aceno com a cabeça, ajeitando-te para que possa encará-lo. Aquele sorrisinho de dentes pequeninos que você tanto acha um charme. O assiste retirar o blazer, fazendo um suspensezinho, além de dar a entender que vai literalmente ‘colocar a mão na massa’. É engraçado como o seu corpo não abandona o estado de calmaria. Poderia estar com o coração acelerado, o sangue correndo nas veias, por diversos motivos, porém tem tanta certeza de que vai sentir prazer ao máximo que não anseia por acelerar nada. 

Swann te conhece muito bem. Cada detalhezinho na sua pele, cada região erógena, cada fio de cabelo que nasce por mais fininho e imperceptível. É um artista que aperfeiçoa a sua arte — dedica tempo, esforço, e não se importa com a bagunça molhada ou com a língua dormente. Antes de se ajoelhar, pede, com ternura, “um beijinho?”, para selar a boca na sua, rapidinho. E afrouxa as mangas da blusa, uma das suas mãos apoiando-se na mesa enquanto a outra mergulha os dedos entre os fios grisalhos à medida que a cabeça dele está na altura da sua virilha. Te liberta da saia longa, da peça íntima, apoia aqui, colocando a sua perna pra repousar sobre o ombro dele. 

Corre as mãos pelo interior das suas coxas, sem pressa. A boca deixa um chupãozinho no seu joelho, mordisca. É louco como ele sabe até o quão forte tem que ser o tapa na sua buceta pra te fazer vibrar e quase perder o equilíbrio. Sorri, sacana, calminha, meu bem, e ainda tem a pachorra de murmurar, é só um tapinha. 

Você até cerra os olhos, prende o lábio inferior entre os dentes praticamente sem notar. O seu corpo se contorce sob o toque, é natural. Swann percorre o dedo de cima a baixo, se mela todinho na umidade que ali já tem, e não vai desistir até que exista muito mais. 

Contorna o seu pontinho doce, te arrancando um suspiro dengoso. Leva o olhar pra ti, “vai gemer manhosinha pra ele ouvir, vai?”, quer saber, “Tem que manter a pose, divina. Não pode mostrar que derrete todinha nas minhas mãos”. Você apenas escuta a conversa suja, já perdida demais no deleite do carinho que recebe, e pior, na visão de acompanhar Enzo se sentando no sofá, com os botões da camisa social desfeitos, e a mão dentro da calça. Aham, é tudo que murmura, alheia. A carícia concentra no clitóris, o dedo circulando mais rápido, mais forte, que a onda de prazer te faz arrepiar dos pés à cabeça. Boquiaberta, por pouco sem babar pelo canto. Swann, você chama, manhosa, me chupa. E ele sorri mais, a língua beira nos dentes de baixo, brincando com a sua sanidade quando só mostra o que tem pra oferecer e demora a te dar o que quer. 

Mas quando te mama, de fato, porra… Chega a ver estrelas, os olhinhos revirando. Ainda bem que aperta os fios dos cabelos dele nas palmas, pois, aí, tem algo pra descontar o nó delicioso que sente no ventre. Quer fechar as pernas, involuntária, no entanto o homem te mantém, faminto, sugando a carne inchadinha. Passa os dentes pelo seu monte de vênus, dois dedos nadando por entre as dobrinhas quentes, ensaiando, parece, até afundar lá dentro e fundo, fundo. Você chia, preenchida na hora certa, na medida certa, pra se sentir conquistada, excitada. Encara Enzo, pornográfica com as expressões faciais, como se quisesse instigar uma prévia do que ele vai provar posteriormente. 

Os lábios de Swann até estalam, tudo tão ensopadinho que escutar a umidade do ato contribui ainda mais pro seu regozijo. O francês bate a palma da mão na sua bucetinha, esquenta a região, antes de voltar a chupar o seu pontinho. A língua dança pra cá e pra lá, também, tão rapidinha, habilidosa. Ai, você chega a sentir uma inquietação, balança os ombros, se contrai, espreguiça. Mas ele quer estar olhando nos seus olhos quando te fizer gozar, porque deixa só os dedos lá e ergue o queixo pra encontrar os seus olhos. As íris azuis brilham, um marzinho cheio e cintilante no qual é fácil querer se afogar. Os cabelos grisalhos estão bagunçadinhos, os lábios finos reluzindo de babadinhos. “Goza pra mim, meu amor”, a voz ecoa numa doçura tamanha, caramelada e derretida feito o seu doce preferido, “quero te beber, você é tão gostosa. Quero chupar você até não sobrar uma gotinha, hm? Vem pra mim, vem. Ver esse seu rostinho de choro quando goza, bobinha, docinha… Daria um quadro e tanto essa sua carinha de puta. Hm?”, e fica difícil resistir. Quer dizer, se entrega sem nem mesmo tentar resistir. É possuída pela ondinha elétrica que percorre seu corpo todinho, eriça os pelinhos e te faz gemer igualzinho uma puta. 

Tremendo, frágil. Quanto mais a boca suga a buceta dolorida, mais você se contorce, mais choraminga. Os olhinhos até marejam, o peito queima, ofegante. 

Quando satisfeito, o homem se põe de pé. Nem se dá ao trabalho pra limpar o rosto melado, sorrindo largo, mas sem mostrar os dentes. Você envolve o braço ao redor do pescoço dele, só pra se escorar enquanto recupera-se, os olhos ardendo sobre a figura do latino masturbando-se no sofá. “Vai lá nele”, Swann encoraja, tocando o canto do seu rosto. Beija a sua bochecha, ganha os seus lábios assim que você mesma vira a face pra alcançá-lo. A saliva misturando com o seu melzinho, um gostinho obsceno. A língua dele empurrando a sua, ao passo que o maldito sorriso canalha não abandona o rosto estrangeiro. 

Ao caminhar sobre os próprios pés, dona de si outra vez, Enzo está com a mão erguida na sua direção. Os dedinhos inquietos até que possam apertar a sua coxa. Vou montar você, é o que diz, num fiozinho de voz, se acomodando sentadinha no colo do fotógrafo. Sustenta-se nos ombros masculinos, alinha-se pra engolir tudo — está babadinha o suficiente pra ser um deslize só. 

O uruguaio suspira, completamente no seu interior, até o talo. Embaladinho lá, no calor divino, delirante. As mãos cravam nas suas nádegas, está pulsando dentro de ti, domado. “Acabou de tirar a buceta da boca dele pra vir sentar no meu pau…”, observa o seu rebolar lento, a maneira jeitosa com que se equilibra bem, não perde nem por um centímetro que seja, “jamais deixaria a minha garota sentar em outro pau senão o meu.”

Então, ainda bem que eu não sou sua, é o que você sussurra. Chega com o rosto perto do dele, a pontinha do nariz resvalando no nariz grande. Enzo aperta o olhar, mascara um sorrisinho. Você sente as unhas dele machucando nas suas nádegas, ele te encara com uma vontade louca de rancar pedaço. Daí, começa a quicar no colo dele, jogando a bunda pra cima no compasso ritmado. Pega nos cabelos negros que se somam, espessos, na nuca alheia, vai me avisar quando for gozar, ordena. É fria com as palavras, mas tentadora, carrega no tom um certo nível de erotismo, que parece deixar Swann orgulhoso, recostado na mesa. Não vou guardar a sua porra porque você não tá merecendo. E o Vogrincic ri na cara do perigo, cheio de si. Abusa da língua materna pra murmurar, “Sé que más tarde suplicarás por mí, nena, tan lejos que tu gringo no oye.”, porque sabe que o francês não vai nem sacar uma palavra que seja, mas você sim, “Não me engana. Eres una perra, lo sé.”

Você maltrata os fios dele entre a mão, como um sinal para que ele pare de falar em espanhol, soltando essas frases riscosas, sujas. Mas Enzo não te compra, não engole essa marra toda. “Faz o que quiser, musa”, fala só por falar, pois o outro escuta, quando quer dizer exatamente o contrário. A rebeldia te excita, faz acelerar os movimentos, torturá-lo com mais intensidade. Lê no jeitinho que ele retesa os músculos da coxa, no ar se prendendo nos pulmões que está logo na beirada, próximo de jorrar. Não o perdoa, não permite que o desejo mais lascivo dele se torne realidade hoje. Finaliza o homem nas palmas das suas mãos, ordenhando o pau duro, meladinho, até que a porra morna atinja as suas coxas, respingue na sua blusa. 

Enzo respira com dificuldade, pela boca. Cerra os olhos com força, parece irritadinho, indignado — uma reação que te deixa com água na boca. Se inclina pra pertinho do ouvido dele, adocica a voz, perigosa, se quer brincar, tem que aprender a respeitar as regras do jogo, okay, bonitinho? 

[robattinsonn]

i've been obsessing over anatomy of a fall for quite a while now and i seriously can't believe there's no one writing a fic of the hot lawyer and sandra. i expected more of the ao3 community 😭

[swann-song]

daydreaming

your a librarian in a sleepy town and when pierre chavanges, the cow prince borrows a book your dreams blur into reality

part one : part two : part three : part four : part five

finale

the aesthetic for my fanfic, it's my first time writing so thanks to everyone who reads it ilysm <3

[violetrainbow412-blog]

PLEASE if you know of any Vincent Renzi fics, don't hesitate to comment here and if anyone has ideas for something, send them and I'll write them up. It's honestly driving me crazy that there is no material and the edits on tiktok only make me more obsessed

[mx-pastelwriting]

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.

[luxlisbons]

Voulez-Vous? - part ii

Mencken's ego takes a hit when Harriet's eye wanders to the newly elected French president. In response, he engineers a grand state dinner, turning diplomatic affairs into a battlefield of jealousy.

part i

part of the "before there's hell to pay" universe: part i - part ii - part iii

pairing: jeryd mencken x original female character. 4k

warnings: affairs, unhealthy relationships, dubious morality, explicit language, age difference, smut, religious imagery & symbolism, unprotected sex, pov first person, the french

Read on AO3

ATN Breaking News: President Mencken to Host French President Reynaud in Historic State Visit

WASHINGTON — The White House announced on Monday that it would host President Marcel Reynaud of France and his mother and acting First Lady, Brigitte Sadier, in December in the first state visit of President Mencken’s administration. This marks a significant diplomatic move, bringing together leaders with differing political ideologies. The event is poised to shape the narrative around international relations, with both leaders expected to discuss a range of global matters.

Vera Schultz, the White House press secretary, highlighted the unprecedented nature of the visit. "This state visit reflects President Mencken's commitment to engaging with leaders across the political spectrum, fostering open dialogue despite ideological differences.”

While specific information about the agenda remains undisclosed, the visit is expected to cover various topics of global importance. Observers anticipate discussions on diplomatic cooperation, international crises, and potential areas of collaboration between the United States and France.

As the world eagerly awaits further details, this historic state visit has already sparked intrigue and speculation. It represents a departure from conventional diplomatic norms and underscores President Mencken's approach to engaging with leaders whose political perspectives diverge from his own.

_____________________________________________________________

When news of President Reynaud's impending visit made headlines, the gears of the Mencken administration started turning to prepare for this diplomatic spectacle. The announcement, strategically made in late August, granted us a three-month window to navigate the intricacies of hosting the French president.

Fresh off my Italian adventure, I wasted no time informing Tom that I would resume my role as the chief liaison between ATN and the White House, effectively taking on the responsibilities of a press secretary in all but name. The coordination of the media team became my domain, ensuring that the narrative surrounding Mencken was meticulously crafted. 

"Glad to have you back, Harriet," Tom greeted me.

"Cut the shit, Tom. You knew exactly what I was getting myself into."

"Yeah, well, you too. Or better said, what you let Mencken get into when you let him stick it in you. I mean, my God, it's so high school—the popular guy finally seeing the weirdo girl for who she is, and, well, you know the rest. Well, not really, because trust me this does not end with him taking you to prom.”

“But it does end with the rich girl happy with the nerd?” I replied, knowing exactly where to salt the wound.

“Ouch, harsh!” Tom chuckled, acknowledging the sting of my retort. "Alright, you've made your point. But you can't deny you're relishing every moment of this."

“You got me there, Tom Tom. And for the record, I don't need a running commentary on my personal life.”

Tom leaned back in his chair, his gaze locked onto mine. "True, true. Apologies for the friendly banter. But seriously, Harriet, you're handling this like a pro. It's almost... admirable. I’m glad you put your big girlboss shoes on. Keep it up, and keep Herr Fuhrer happy. Maybe soon enough, you’ll be making the calls in the White House."

I arched an eyebrow, intrigued by his cryptic remark. "Are you offering relationship advice now, Tom?"

His lips curled into a knowing smile. "Perhaps, in my own peculiar way."

I couldn't help but glance at the framed photograph on his desk. It showed him, Shiv, and a baby girl with a head of dark hair. I hadn't asked about Logan before, knowing it was a topic best avoided. But now, with the picture in front of me, curiosity got the better of me.

I nodded towards the photograph. "Logan, huh? That's an interesting choice. Must have some deep meaning, right? Daddy issues, perhaps?"

Tom chuckled, his voice tinged with amusement. "You could say that. It's a family name. Shiv picked it." Of course, she did.

I couldn't resist a playful jab. "Well, let's just hope little Logan doesn't need too much therapy when she's older.”

Tom laughed and added, "Ah, therapy. It's practically a family tradition at this point."

Tom leaned back in his chair, his gaze locked onto mine. "Circling back to the main point of this meeting… Do we have you back one-hundred percent? No more pussyfooting? You're brilliant at what you do, and having you closer to the action, well, it could benefit us all."

A subtle, knowing smile played at the corners of my lips as I added, "In more ways than one, perhaps." Finally, I nodded, a determined glint in my eyes. “Yes, Tom. I'm in."

_____________________________________________________________

In the following weeks, as the anticipation for the historic state visit grew, my days were a whirlwind of meetings, strategy sessions, and keeping the ATN team aligned with the White House agenda. The city buzzed with excitement, speculation, and an air of preparation for an event that promised to be a departure from the usual diplomatic routine. We needed this to be perfect, not just to avoid any potential diplomatic hiccups, but to not tick off Mencken’s fickle temper. It was during one of those hectic afternoons that a text message popped up on my phone, disrupting the chaotic rhythm.

M: “So Frenchie’s First Lady is his mom… mommy issues much?🤱🏼”

H: “Be glad for those types of issues, they are the reason why I’m fucking you in the first place 👨🏻🦳”

This tidbit of information made me curious enough to kill the little free I had and go into a Google fuelled rabbit hole. In my deep dive into Marcel Reynaud's life, I uncovered the juicy details that make him more than just a politician. A divorced bachelor who embraced fatherhood at 26 with a fellow activist, he quickly realized that the institution of marriage wasn't his cup of tea. Unlike some people I know, he managed to navigate a divorce amicably and is currently co-parenting a fifteen-year-old boy, Pascal.

But what intrigued me more was the unconventional First Lady setup. Marcel's mother, Brigitte Sadier, a feminist activist and a signer of the Manifesto of the 343, plays the role of his First Lady (Mencken would have a field day with that fact “ Hey, she’s part of your club Mrs. Abortion” ). It seems like the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and the Reynaud family has a penchant for shaking up norms.  

The more I read about him, I could feel a warmth spreading in my chest, a little bit of affection if you will. Everything that Marcel Reynaud represented was the complete and total opposite of Mencken. The stark contrast fascinated me, and I couldn't help but acknowledge a growing sense of affection for the French president. It was a sentiment that danced on the edges of my consciousness, like an unexpected guest at a well-planned party.

As I delved further into Marcel's life, the nuances of his character painted a different picture—one that stood in stark juxtaposition to Mencken's brashness and often self-centered demeanor. The warmth spreading in my chest wasn't just from the interesting tidbits of his personal life; it was a response to the realization that, in Marcel, there existed a leader who embodied a different kind of strength.

If there's one thing I'm consistent about, it's my ability to be inconsistent. The unpredictable currents of my emotions seemed to be steering me in uncharted waters, like an unmoored ship. I reached for my phone and found myself dialing my White House contact.

“Hey, June? How are you? That’s good. Look, can you do me a favor? Set up a dinner in the agenda for me and Marcel, I want to explain to him all the key details and prepare him for the President. I don’t want him to be caught off guard. Yeah, yeah, make it discreet. Maybe a small gathering at one of those quaint French restaurants. No, nothing official—just a casual dinner. I'm sure Mencken won't mind; he's got his own affairs to attend to. Great, thanks, June."

As I hung up, I couldn't help but wonder about the path I was treading. It wasn't just the professional interest anymore; there was a personal curiosity, a desire to understand the man behind the political persona. My thoughts swirled like leaves caught in a gentle breeze, and I found myself questioning the nature of this newfound fascination.

My mind wandered briefly to Mencken's potential reaction. I could almost hear his gruff voice in my head, questioning the motives behind this seemingly casual dinner. It wasn't that Mencken disapproved of diplomacy; it was the clandestine nature of the gathering that might not sit well with his penchant for control.

A few hours later, as I navigated the White House halls, I found myself face-to-face with Mencken, who was deep in conversation with his assistant. The stern furrow on his brow momentarily softened as he glanced in my direction before returning to his usual mean stare.

"Harriet," Mencken called out, his voice carrying a mix of curiosity and authority. "A word."

I followed Mencken in a more secluded part of the corridor. His sharp eyes fixed on mine, and I could sense the gears turning in his mind.

"I heard about your dinner plans with Marcel," Mencken stated bluntly, wasting no time with pleasantries. "Care to explain what game you're playing?"

His tone was measured, but there was an underlying intensity that hinted at a mixture of curiosity and caution. I met his gaze directly, my response poised and calculated.

"It's a simple dinner," I replied, injecting a note of nonchalance. "Just a way to ensure a smooth interaction between Marcel and the President. No hidden agendas."

Mencken's gaze lingered, a silent exchange of understanding and unspoken challenges. "Keep it professional, vögelchen. This isn't a social club; it's politics."

A sardonic smile played on my lips as I met Mencken's gaze head-on. "When have we ever played by the rules, Mencken?" I retorted, injecting a touch of mockery into my tone. "Politics is just another game, and I'm simply playing my hand."

Mencken's expression remained unreadable, a subtle acknowledgment of the unspoken truth. With a nod, he continued down the corridor, leaving me with a sense of defiance that simmered beneath the surface. 

_____________________________________________________________

The days leading up to the anticipated dinner were filled with a mix of excitement and trepidation. It was as if I was preparing for an unexpected rendezvous, unsure of what the encounter might reveal. The rational part of me scoffed at the idea of a simple dinner having any profound impact, yet the subtle flutter in my chest suggested otherwise.

When Marcel Reynaud's arrival day came I found myself at the airfield, playing the role of the welcoming committee. My task was to explain the media aspects, subtly weaving ATN's interests into the narrative of the state visit. 

Mencken stood beside the First Lady, extending a welcoming hand to Marcel and his mother, Brigitte. "Welcome to the capital, President Reynaud, Ms. Sadier. We're honored to have you."

Marcel shook Mencken's hand firmly, and Brigitte exchanged a few words with the First Lady, which was a miracle. She lately has been speaking of such irrelevant and unexpected subjects that it was impossible to get to the bottom of what was worrying her.

At moments she was cheerful, but for the most part, she was thoughtful, though she did not know herself what she was thinking about. She would suddenly begin to talk of something and then she would suddenly break off and cease speaking, responding to further questions with a vacant smile, without being conscious herself that she was being questioned or that she was smiling. It took an entire task force of uppers and therapists to get her ready for this. By the looks of Brigitte, she was not all impressed.

As the group engaged in polite conversation while nearing me and the team, Mencken's eyes occasionally flickered in my direction, a subtle acknowledgment of my presence.

"Bonjour, President Reynaud. Welcome to Washington," I greeted him with a smile, adding a subtle flirtatious tone to my words. “I’m Harriet from ATN, and I’m glad to be finally meeting you in person.”

"Ah, Harriet, the pleasure is mine. Please, call me Marcel. I’ve heard a lot about you,” he responded, reciprocating with a charming smile that didn't escape Mencken's watchful eyes.

"Now, let me walk you through our media strategy during your stay. We want to ensure this visit is not only impactful but also strategically covered."

Marcel nodded, his attention unwavering despite the diplomatic pleasantries. "I appreciate the effort, Harriet. Your insights will undoubtedly make a difference."

As we concluded our briefing, I noticed a shift in Mencken's demeanor. His eyes narrowed slightly, a silent plea for subtlety. Ignoring the unspoken request, I gestured toward the waiting motorcade.

"Shall we? The convoy is ready to take us to the heart of the capital."

Brigitte gracefully entered the car with the First Lady, leaving Marcel and me to follow suit. As we stepped into the vehicle, Mencken's voice, low and tinged with jealousy, reached my ears.

“Can you at least try to be subtle? It’s childish and pathetic.”

I smirked, catching his gaze. "Subtlety is overrated, Mencken."

Ignoring his disapproving stare, I settled into the car. The air crackled like a brewing storm with unspoken thoughts and veiled intentions.

_____________________________________________________________

In the intricate tapestry of diplomatic engagements, Marcel Reynaud's visit to the United States unfolded like a grand theater production, each scene brimming with political intrigue and subtle flirtations. As I waded through the sea of formalities, the air crackled with anticipation, ripe with the promise of Franco-American collaboration and the undercurrent of personal connections.

Amidst the polished halls of power, Marcel, a master of charm and wit, engaged in discussions with our Vice President, Samuel Bennett, at NASA's headquarters.  Accompanied by the enigmatic Brigitte, his unconventional yet captivating First Lady, Marcel ventured into the vibrant heart of Washington's cultural scene. At the Duke Ellington School of the Arts, Brigitte's presence infused the air with an aura of elegance and intrigue, her effortless grace drawing admirers like moths to a flame.

Meanwhile, our conversations during a working lunch on climate and biodiversity with US Climate Envoy Richard Thompson took on a playful tone, punctuated by quips and innuendos that danced on the edge of propriety.

"So, Mr. Reynaud, while we save the planet, do you have any guilty pleasures to confess?" I teased, a mischievous glint in my eye.

Marcel chuckled, his response dripping with subtle flirtation, "Ah, Mademoiselle Harriet, the most tempting indulgence would be to explore the hidden delights of Washington with you once our work is done."

As the day unfolded, Marcel's visit to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington National Cemetery was a poignant reminder of the shared sacrifices that bound our nations together. Amidst the solemnity, a shared glance between us spoke volumes, our unspoken connection weaving through the somber silence.

At the French Embassy, Marcel's impassioned speech about the US role in World War II stirred the depths of our shared history. After he awarded the Legion d'Honneur to deserving veterans, our banter continued, a playful reprieve from the weight of the moment. 

As the veterans, now adorned with the prestigious medal, mingled with the dignitaries, Marcel and I found a quiet corner away from the ceremonial spotlight. The room seemed to fade away while our whispered French words hid beneath the symphony of polite conversation.

In a more relaxed manner, I leaned closer, the scent of his cologne mingling with the fragrant aroma of the room. "Your words tonight were truly moving, Marcel," I whispered, my voice barely audible above the soft murmur of conversation.

His eyes, alight with passion, held mine captive. "Thank you, Harriet. It means a great deal coming from you," he replied, his tone sincere yet tinged with a hint of something more.

A soft chuckle escaped him, and he cast a playful glance towards Mencken, who observed the proceedings from a distance. "Unlike some, I prefer speeches that speak to the heart, not just the ego," he said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Our laughter, a shared symphony, resonated through the embassy. Mencken, relegated to the sidelines, watched our interaction with a growing sense of frustration. His eyes, usually sharp and assertive, now betrayed a hint of jealousy as he observed us.

Meanwhile, my phone buzzed with a message. Glancing discreetly, I saw Mencken's name on the screen. The message read, "A bit too cozy with the French, aren't we?”

I couldn't help but smirk. Ignoring the message, I continued my conversation with Marcel, our laughter carrying through the embassy like a secret shared between conspirators.

As the guests began to disperse, Mencken approached, a forced smile on his face. "Quite the performance tonight," he remarked low enough for me to hear, his tone attempting nonchalance but failing to mask the underlying tension.

Marcel, ever the diplomat, extended a hand to Mencken. "President Mencken, a pleasure to be in your country."

Mencken's handshake was firm, but his eyes bore into mine. "The pleasure is ours, President Reynaud."

Marcel's departure was marked by a subtle yet lingering glance, promising more encounters. Once he and his entourage left, Mencken turned to me with a raised eyebrow. "A bit too friendly, don't you think?"

I responded with a shrug, "It's called diplomacy, Mencken. Something you might want to learn."

[simplymarr]

Chapter three.

warnings: none. just some angst at the end.

Since that very first day, everything just flowed naturally.

I saw Vincent two days a week for weekly classes; tuesdays and thursdays. Two-hour classes in which it felt like a convesation between the two of us. He seemed excited about my enthusiasm and i was astonished about his intelligence. The way he carried himself, the ideas and visions he had just resonated with me.

Then after class and almost religiously, he waited for me inside his car with a cigarette on his mouth and drove me to the bus stop. We never spoke explicitly about this agreement, nor we questioned it. It just felt natural, like gasping for air or falling in love.

We both knew these rides were just an excuse to keep talking about everything we couldn't inside the classroom. Not only about my thesis and his corrections, but book recommendations, law philosophy, even music and art.

And we laughed. We laughed a lot.

"So, is it really as difficult as it seems?" I asked, gasping for air between laughs and taking more of a serene tone.

He turned his head and looked at me. Both hands on the steering wheel.

"What do you mean?"

"You know, being a lawyer. How do you know you're doing the right thing? That you're not fucking it all up?"

The question lingered in the air for a moment. Perhaps it wasn't just about being a lawyer.

He took a breath before answering.

"Well, that's the thing, non? you never know." He said. His gaze meeting the pavement in front of him as he drove. "Like all aspects of life, sometimes you need to guess". This last line pronounced as he looked at me softly, like someone who's hiding a secret.

Silence between the both of us until he broke it again.

"Well, of course it gets easier once your fucking thesis is done" He joked to lighten up the mood and we laughed once again.

The bus stop made it's presence again, and each time we arrived i still felt like it wasn't supposed to be there that quickly.

I looked at him with a strange nostalgia; like something else was supposed to happen, like i wanted him to give me an answer to a question i hadn't yet made.

I smiled at him weakly and he reciprocated, but his smile was filled with kindness, with mercy. His blue eyes pierced into mine for what i thought it was an eternity, but it didn't felt awkward at all. It seemed like he, also, didn't want me to leave the car.

Suddenly a loud horn from the street broke the tension and he quickly lowered his gaze. I stepped out of the car and waved at him as he looked at me through the window.

"Goodbye, y/n".

"Au revoir, Vincent".

-------------------

From there, that one final interaction, the river that made our chemistry started to get motionless. My innocent question became something darker, premonitory.

As the next week arrived and found me, once again, in the classroom i noticed something strange in Vincent. Although i was standing quite far away from him it was the first time he didn't look at me, not even once. Maybe an occasional glance that he amended by looking away almost instantly, like he was just trying to make sure i was still there.

His hands moved with more fervor than usual, his tone quite hessitant. He asked a question and, as usually, i raised my hand, trying to ignore the now awkward tension between us. He looked at me quickly but then pointed at someone else to answer.

Strange, i thought to myself. I mean, it was okay. After all there was a room full of people, i wasn't the only one, wasn't i? Besides, we could discuss everything we wanted later in the car. I didn't have to worry about anything.

The class ended a couple of minutes earlier. I waited until everyone left so i could reach to him. I wanted to ask him a couple of questions about the remarks he emailed me last week, and maybe we could talk. To be honest, perhaps i just wanted to talk to him about anything.

"Vincent, hi. I hope you don't mind me asking about the remarks but-"

He stopped me mid sentence.

"We can discuss about it on Thursday, during class schedule". He said, with a firm voice, almost trying to sound convincing.

"Oh, i'm sorry, i thought there was no problem".

"If you're concerned about something you can email it to me and i will answer you whenever i can". He barely looked at me and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear as he turned away to reach his books.

I hessitated and left in silence. My face pale and a total confusion on my mind.

We still had the car. Right?

The world, as it was used to, once again proved me wrong. When i stepped out of the big, cold building no one was there. Well, at least no one waiting for me. I looked at the empty parking lot where the dark-green chevy was missing, and even if he never agreed explicitly to wait for me, i found myself feeling betrayed.

"Oh, for fucks sake, he's just your professor. Nothing else." I thought to myself, trying to make sense.

The walk home, for the first time in weeks, felt incredibly lonely. I looked at the bus stop from far away and i felt like it was laughing at me.

Head resting in the dirty window and my earphones on, i wondered:

"Was it something i said?"

"Did i just fucked it all up?"

next chapter soon

[corleonewrites]

La Vérité

AU: Anatomy of a Fall (2023)

Vincent Renzi x Original Female Character fanfic.

Summary: Two people connected by the same past. Two lawyers. And one tangled case which brought them back together again, giving them the opportunity to sort out their feelings towards each other, no matter how painful memories are to both of them can be.

Chapter 8. Symphony No. 5 in C-Sharp Minor: IV. Adagietto. Sehr langsam

Startled from a dream in which my body seemed to be falling, I opened my eyes, trying to breathe normally as my heart was beating faster.

The TV in the hotel room was turned on: I didn’t realize that I fell asleep after that conversation with Vincent when he tried to reach me, making pathetic try to explain the relationship between him and Sandra. I didn’t even change into pajamas.

Crimson Rivers was on air. I liked that film but wasn’t ready to rewatch it especially when it was 3 o’clock in the morning and busy day for both Renzi and me was waiting for us: the last hearing was scheduled in a few days and we needed to be ready for it. I turned the TV off, put pajamas on, but couldn’t go to sleep again without the help of my sleeping medication and putting socks on: my feet were too cold.

Of course, I knew that there needed to be a serious talk with Vincent, because I couldn’t take it, that uncertainty between us: either we could stay friends or colleagues, if it could be possible at all, I wasn’t sure about it, or we were about to break all the strings which were connecting us. Our common romantic past needed to be in the past. It was clear for me that he found someone else.

______________________________________________________________

We were in a team, so, of course, we needed to spend the days which were left before the final hearing together: looking through documents, writing speeches and checking the evidence. He invited me to his hotel room and from early in the morning until late evening we were working, even forgetting to have lunch.

Somehow both of us began to believe that we would win the case: I always had that particular feeling which I couldn’t explain but when I knew that the case was going to be successful – I always felt it. And that particular feeling started to appear in my head.

“Well, I think we’re done for tonight. And for this case. We can finally relax before the hearing, and we have time until the day after tomorrow to make sure that everything is ready”, Vincent closed his folder with documents and notebook and looked at me, “I think we deserve a bottle of nice wine and good dinner, don’t you think?”, he looked at his watches, checking the time, “And we definitely need the fresh air”

“There is a good place near my hotel”, I said, “We can sit there”

I put my documents inside my bag and looked at watches as well. It felt so strange to talk to him after that evening, the pressure was floating in the air, and it felt like if we didn’t go outside – the eruption was about to begin.

______________________________________________________________

Of course, one bottle of wine at the restaurant wasn’t enough for us, and since both of us knew that we needed to talk, no matter how drunk we could be, we decided to spend the rest of the evening at my hotel room, talking and drinking wine.

“What are you planning to do after this work?”, the conversation at my hotel room started with a very ordinary, when Vincent asked me this question.

Finishing twirling the lighter on the table and putting the leftovers of my cigarette in the ashtray, I replied, without looking at him:

“I’d love to have some days off – it was one of the most dreadful cases that I’ve ever had before.”

“Honestly, mine as well”, Renzi replied, and poured more wine in our glasses, “But on the other hand, it was very nice experience to work with you, Camille, I’ve heard about your work and I can see why you’ve been recommended as one of the best”

I just smirked, but he caught it

“Why are you smirking? It’s the truth”

“Oh, please, Renzi, just stop sugar coating yourself.”, I finally looked at him, trying to find the courage to tell him everything that I was keeping inside me. Vincent looked at me with frown, “I will never forget how did you trample on our relationships, and now you’re trying to shove it off with pleasing me, it’s so pathetic”

“Camille”, Vincent moved closer to me, trying to take my hand, but I shoved it off and stood up, moving back, and stood near the sofa. The rage was growing inside of me. I was angry at him and his attempts to keep me calm.

“Why the fuck are you acting like you are an innocent person?”, my voice started to break into a scream, “I can’t believe that you forgot that it was you who decided to break up with me saying that it was a mistake to begin relationship with me because I’m a lot younger than you and you didn’t know that it would go that far?”, I paused, catching my breath, when Vincent raised from his seat and moved closer to me, placing his hand on a sofa which was separating us:

“Because I had no idea that it would be so hard not to think about you and not to care about you. It was I who was afraid scared of the responsibility, of other people’s opinion about us.”

“Now you sound ridiculous.”, I smirked crookedly, I couldn’t believe that he was talking like that and was taken aback, “You’re acting like a young adult and now you’re playing with my feelings. You could at least tell me that you and Sandra are a thing and I would understand it”, my voice broke down, when Vincent made the last attempt to catch my hand when I moved back again, and this time he was successful, when I tried to pull it out, he squeezed it harder, talking loudly:

“Sandra and I are NOT a thing, Camille!”, it felt like the walls shook after his words and I finally gave up trying to pull out my hand, “We were never a thing”, Vincent finally released my hand and stood behind the window, looking outside, and I accurately sat on the sofa.

“I know that I was a child. I understood it long time ago, how wrong I was, but was trying to defend myself. Funny how I couldn’t do it, because, believe it or not, I was looking for our meeting but was avoiding it at the same time. I was thinking about you. Sometimes too much”, he looked at me with certainty, “When the case came around, I thought that maybe it would be a good time to finally meet you and talk about us. I was trying to deny it, but when I saw you, Camille, when we began to work together…”

Vincent’s voice broke a little when he started to move closer to me, and I stood up, but keeping the distance, “…what we had years ago, of course, was lost, but I understood that I wanted to come back to what we had together”, he finally finished, but I couldn’t move.

My mind was telling me that it was all lies, but my heart, no matter how hard I tried not to hear its voice, was saying that it was true. Tears came from my eyes, when I asked Vincent with my hoarse voice, as if it had disappeared:

“How can I believe you, Vincent? You hurt me, my feelings, how can I possibly believe you?”

He moved closer to me, couple of centimeters were separating us. Suddenly, everything seemed so quiet, even clocks couldn’t be heard.

“What about trust?”, Vincent whispered, looking in my eyes,

“It’s hard to find”, I whispered, but I moved closer to him, I think I heard not only the beat of my heart, but Renzi’s as well

“But can it be gained back again?”

“Can it?”, without realizing it at first, I put my hand in his hand, when my mind was circling.

“We can try... I don’t want to lose you, mademoiselle Cadieux”,

“Neither do I, monsieur Renzi”, I finally breathed out these words and our lips merged into deep kiss, which I didn’t want to break, but dived deeply into it. How long I’ve been waiting for it, how long my mind and my heart were fighting between each other, but finally my heart won the battle.

We fell on the bed, kissing each other madly, Vincent kissed my neck, when I put my hands in his soft hair, trying to catch my breath. The kisses were deeper and deeper when finally, Vincent took off his sweater and I took off mine, unbuttoning my bra. Renzi took off his jeans and layed down on me, when I closed my eyes, diving into the passionate night which was ahead of us.

[ladyseaforth]

Feline Arch, p.2

——

And that case had come. It had come and hit Vincent like a bus, a ton of bricks in the form of Sandra. Beautiful, self-assured Sandra from all those years ago, who stood before him in the kitchen she shared with her son and dog and husband (deceased).

Her tears came in rushes. Sudden bursts as she pointed out the location of plates in the kitchen and described her son’s godmother. The boy was hidden away somewhere in the house, irreparably scarred from stumbling upon his father’s cold, battered body. The dog follows everywhere he goes like a little ghost.

Vincent puts himself to work, whipping out his little black notebook every so often as each new thought, theory and argument occurs to him. He already pictures himself in the courtroom, seeking out the gaps in the story before the enemy can.

He traverses the building, meek but steady behind Sandra, as he examines the attic, the window, the distance of Samuel’s fall. He listens to Sandra’s recount of the anguished day, the music that man played to agitate her, the way her husband drove her interviewer away. The traces of a petty, insecure man.

He still feels the desperate hug that Sandra greeted him with, the first instance in which she did not have to be the reassuring party. A moment’s respite from the vigil she kept over her son who stared blankly at the wall of his bedroom.

He churns all of this information over in his mind as he drives home at midnight, through the snow and sleet. Vincent thinks of ghosts and lost chances, his bed, wine and the cold. He thinks about all of these things in English. The meeting ground.

…

You are typing today, fingers rapid and dancing on the keyboard. Wine practically untouched. You had received a transcribing job, decent pay to supply subtitles to a semi-popular television show in the UK that was spreading over into mainland Europe. Whilst it wasn’t creative, it was something.

The sun bears down upon the city with an unrelenting ferocity, baking the pale shoulders of tourists and causing workers to sweat in their fitted black suits. The inside of the cafe is silent as every customer opts to sit at the tables outside, sunglasses over their eyes and a cigarette dangling loosely between their fingers. A beautiful, urban bliss.

Salomé has escaped to the countryside for the weekend, a work getaway or a team-building exercise or whatever the fuck those corporate ‘families’ do to stop everyone going insane. The apartment had felt too empty, too silent for your liking. Particularly with headphones on, unable to hear noise beyond the sound being projected into your ears. Thus, the cafe.

You had not seen Vincent since your last meeting. You had thought of him extensively. A beautiful, reserved man who had spoken little but when he did, he was kind. The perfect recipient of your romantic daydreams. You did not know what he did, but it was clearly sophisticated. Intelligent. From the elegant cut of his tailored clothing to his deeply perceptive eye, Vincent was an unspoken force.

You pull your headphones off with a sigh, placing them to the side of your laptop. You take a sip from your house Sauvignon and stretch. The mobile phone, abandoned on the table, begins to buzz. You peer at the name on the screen.

‘Sandra.’

Strange. You hadn’t spoken to her in years. Not since the last dinner party, that dinner which still caused your teeth to grind with anxiety. The provocations that bit in the air. Samuel’s hangdog expression. The little boy, sweet and unseeing. Sandra’s power at the centre of it all. It was bound to happen with that many writers in a room. Forces of nature.

You pick up the phone, tapping accept and placing it against your ear.

“Hello? Sandra?”

Her sniffles at the other end, beaten and unlike herself.

“Hello, sorry, yes it’s me.”

…

Vincent intends to be measured, quiet and trustworthy. He has always been a listener, he absorbs the performance of the other and evaluates them in a contained silence. It is what makes him a good lawyer. He tries.

He drags a bony hand through his hair as he surveys the notes he took when at Sandra’s. His office is haphazard, piles of paper and books piled on top of one another. The streets are alive outside, the shouts of drunkards and club-goers ringing from the pavements. The pungent smell of weed hanging in the air.

Vincent’s interest in this case is twofold: victory is good and Sandra must be absolved. He thinks of her in that house, each sound echoing into the vastness that surrounds the chalet.

His posture is bad, spine curled over as he writes out every potential attack and defence that the prosecution could give about this moment in time. About the weighted days that come after. The thunderous wake of Samuel’s fall.

He is too invested. He leans back in the brittle, wooden chair and drags weary eyes over the papers. Information from the post-mortem, the forensic team, initial witness statements. All of the burning emotion boiled down to statistics and impersonal eyes.

Vincent thinks of Sandra. Her bright blue eyes. Her discerning gaze. He thinks of downing a bottle of wine to dull himself to sleep. He thinks of Sauvignon Blanc. He thinks of you.

…

One can write from anywhere, and that is a beauty when it comes to life’s fickle turns. Particularly when you are driving to a remote chalet at the crack of dawn in a shitty pickup, heading towards a family that has been blown apart.

Sandra explained that she had few friends when she moved to the isolated home in France that she occupied with her husband. The husband that demanded they live there. In his territory.

On that stilted phone call, Sandra described little joys in chatting with visitors and interviewers who came (rarely) to the house to talk to her about her writing. Through shaky breaths, her thick German accent informed you that Samuel had passed very suddenly. That she was desperate for someone that was not within the law or legal sectors. That she was sorry for what had happened between you both before.

And now you were gripping the wheel with white knuckles as the tyres of the pickup grappled with the icy terrain. Cheeks rosy with the cold.

You were more interested than entirely sympathetic at this point. Interested as to why Sandra saw you as the first port of call in her time of need. Not entirely sympathetic because of who Samuel was. Devastated for Daniel, a little boy tested by life far too young.

The radio was playing a shitty top charts track with a piercing female vocalist and a worn out beat. The juxtaposition between the song and your thoughts made you laugh, the whole situation being so ludicrous. The black comedy of it all. The suspicions that were yet to develop.

The house drew up over the horizon, nestled in an awkward patch upon the hill. Everything appeared very still.

Oh so still.

…

Sandra answers the door with half of her typical stature, looking worn and pallid in her thick, knitted jumper. Relief lightens her heavy eyes. She does not speak.

“Hi,” you try, bouncing on your toes from the cold.

“You came,” she states, in a typically German matter-of-fact manner. She smiles gently, descending the small stairs and taking you into an embrace. One far stronger than her appearance betrayed.

“I did,” you respond, into her neck, “I’m so sorry, Sandra. This is awful for you and Daniel, how are you both keeping?”

Sandra holds the hug for a moment longer before withdrawing, still holding you by the shoulders.

“Come in, you must be cold. I have the fire on,” she says, ignoring the question. You let it slide and follow her lead into the space. The place smells homely, of wood and dog and flowers and smoke. The light shines white through the expansive windows.

“Where is Monica?” you try again, aiming for easier questions that do not concern feeling or Samuel. Sandra hums to herself in response.

“Upstairs,” she speaks, “with Daniel and Snoop. She has been helping us with keeping the house together. I have not had much time for it. The police and my lawyer have been occupying my time. All of their questions.” You nod deeply, trying to show your understanding for her situation which you have never experienced. Sandra laughs a little at your eagerness to empathise. To alleviate her misfortune.

“You do not have to do that, I don’t even want to talk about the case - or Samuel - or any of it really,” she explains, locking eyes with you, “I just wanted to talk to you, unhindered by… him, you understand?” You manage a breath before she continues, “No, not unhindered, that is a bad word choice, it is more -”

“Sandra,” you interrupt, “I understand what you mean, and I’m glad that you reached out to me. I was a little surprised, but I’m glad.” You smile and search into her eyes, attempting to communicate your earnestness. She smiles waveringly in response, rubbing her face with her hands. Wedding ring glinting on her finger.

A silence settles between the two of you, the only sounds being the scuffling of Snoop’s paws upstairs and Monica’s voice.

“Would you, uhm, like some wine, I have some wine in the kitchen?” Sandra’s voice searches through the quiet, “Just so we can talk, catch up, before I am interrupted by my lawyer again?” You nod, smiling gently and relaxing from the tension.

“You remember me well, Sandra,” you quip, coming closer to her in the kitchen space. You settle your hip against the island in the middle of the space. Sandra exhales amusedly, turning to pick two glasses hanging from a rack overhead.

“I am not one to forget,” she retorts, setting the glasses onto the surface and reaching for a bottle. A deep maroon with a wrinkled, vintage paper label.

…

The sun is low on the hills, the light blinding in combination with the pure snow on the ground. Vincent’s sunglasses are struggling, he continues to wince at the brightness.

He hoped that Sandra had had a bit of a break. From him, from legal tongue-twists, from accusation and suspicion. From her having to repeat her line ‘I did not kill him’ and for him to respond ‘That is not the point’.

The house appears untouched, apart from the new feature of a battered pick-up resting on the makeshift driveway. It is spattered with salt and dirt from the roads, baking in the cool sun. Vincent frowns slightly, Sandra would call him if anyone had visited to interfere or ask any more questions. She hadn’t informed him of anyone that was close to her, from what she had explained her life was isolated. Controlled in regards to friendships.

He pulls the car over and parks alongside the pick-up. He peers inside the vehicle as he walks past it. Haphazardly packed bag, shoes, scarf, coat, books. Vincent does not linger. Knocking on the front door, he waits by the step, shivering through the cold air.

He hears voices, muttering and responding to one another behind the doorway. It slides open, revealing Sandra, rosy cheeked and eyes brighter than when he had last seen her. When they were dull and wet with swollen eyelids.

“Vincent,” Sandra murmurs, broken out of her trance before turning back to the room, “It is ok, it is my lawyer.”

Vincent stuffs his hands further into his pockets, “Ah, you have company. I’m afraid - I am sorry I did not realise. I was hoping to consolidate more information with you, there may be more - ah- police coming to visit, inspect.”

Sandra nods solemnly, “No, I understand. Come in, come in,” she sweeps the door wide open, “It is a friend of mine, you are fine, come in.” Vincent glances at Sandra with hesitation before shuffling through the door. She turns away to head back to the sofas situated around the fire. Sandra picks up a glass of wine, filled halfway, from the table and settles back into the armchair.

Vincent’s eyes search for the guest, always ready to identify friend or foe. It is to his surprise that his eyes land upon you.

You, holding a glass of wine once again, returning a similar expression of shock.

“Uhm,” you start, ever so eloquently as Sandra looks between you two.

“You both know one another?” she asks, leading Vincent to cut in with his reply, “No, not particularly, we met at a cafe in the city before. It is one where I do a lot of my paperwork.”

Sandra makes a noise of recognition, features breaking into a polite smile as she glances over at you. She chuckles lightly into her glass, looking over the rim at you in a manner all too similar to Salomé. An acknowledgement of a bite in the air.

“Yes, uhm, it’s the Italian place I go to for writing, and uh, the wine,” you add, awkwardly lifting the wine glass to back your statement up. Vincent nods, almost as if he were corroborating your statement. Agreeing that ‘yes, you do that.’

“Well, Vincent is my lawyer for everything that is, uhm, to do with Samuel and the accident,” Sandra’s tone darkens slightly, words slow and precise, “and well, you are a friend from long ago.”

She turns to Vincent, “She interviewed me for a piece a long, long,” Sandra laughs, “time ago. We always kept in touch but hadn’t spoken much since we moved out here. I thought it would be a good time to reconnect.”

You found it slightly strange, the way she explained to Vincent who you were and why she had reached out to you but you smiled and nodded all the same. You sipped your wine as Vincent took the information in.

“Ah, well, that - that is good,” he encourages gently, “It is necessary in these circumstances.” He pauses awkwardly, unsure of where to look. You were beginning to enjoy his uncertainty, his demure nature, not weak but gentle and steady. Sensitive to each change in the conversation, to the energy of a room.

Despite the tone, Sandra laughs to herself. A black comedic laugh as her lawyer and old friend try to tiptoe around the topic of her dead husband who she may or may not have murdered.

“Vincent,” she finally says, “Will you join us for some wine? Afterwards we can talk legal things in private, for now I just want to,” Sandra makes a hand gesture, searching for her words, “I just want to chat, act like normal human beings, yes?”

Vincent shifts on his feet, looking between Sandra and you, where you are curled up in the corner of the sofa. Socks facing the fireplace, the flicker of flames dancing across your face. Your eye contact wavers like the fire.

“Yes,” he finally agrees, “Of course, the ‘legal things’ can wait,” he gently mocks her phrasing, leading both women to smile. Vincent steps further into the room, walking past Sandra as she goes to retrieve another glass. He sits down on the other side of the couch to you, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye and smiling. Your mouth quirks upwards in response.

The orange glow dances over everyone in the room.

—

Part One!

[coryosbaby]

Vincent’s Corner

(Aka, all of my works featuring Vincent Renzi)

Fics:

priest! Au — pt. 1

Blurbs:

Drabbles:

[imninahchan]

[#𝓕𝓮𝓶𝓓𝓸𝓶]⁺　　　　🍷 　　﹒﹒　　não revisado　♡

𝐃𝐄𝐕 ───── se submete naturalmente. Não é algo que vocês pararam pra refletir, ou desejavam desde que começaram a se relacionar, só... acontece. Ele pode ser aquele que te despe, te deita sobre a cama. Cujos beijinhos estalados estão sendo distribuídos do seu pescoço ao ventre, mas quando ele põe os olhos em ti — os olhos de luxúria — todo o controle que pareceu possuir se esvai no brilho das íris castanhas, das pupilas dilatadas. É automático, como a regência parece vaga, você acaba recebendo o poder nas palmas das mãos, e somente sendo muito tola para não aceitá-lo, não?

Não é sobre se aproveitar do estado de transe em que ele sempre se encontra quando teso, é saber agir no momento certo. Usa a pontinha dos dedos do pé para impedi-lo de te devorar entre as pernas de imediato, olha-o com carinho, a voz tem que soar mais baixa, mais manhosinha para poder orientá-lo, afinal ele é tão bonzinho pra ti, não há necessidade de dureza. Fala exatamente o que quer que o homem faça, cada detalhe; toque, lambida, sucção. Ele escuta e atende, não questiona. Apenas o fato de que vai sentir seu gosto se espalhando pelo paladar já é suficiente para acatar quaisquer que sejam as suas vontades. É porque gosta tanto do vaporzinho que ficam nos lábios e nos dedos molhados sempre que se aparta, da bagunça melada e dos sons que tremem na sua garganta, que diz para si mesmo que poderia ficar com o rosto ali até o maxilar magoar.

Talvez apaixonado seja o termo correto. Dev ama não só o que te faz perfeita pra ele por dentro, mas, claro, também por fora. Um sorriso estampa o canto do rosto ao te notar estremecendo, trêmula, a respiração desgovernada porque se desfez na língua dele mais de uma vez. E o sorriso dobra de tamanho se você diz pra ele que quer senti-lo, agora, dentro. Seja meticulosa novamente, pode exigir uma velocidade, ou o nível de profundidade. Vai te moldar ou a si próprio na posição que você deseja na cama, na sala, no banheiro, na cozinha...

Se considera sensível demais quando está mergulhado em ti, é estranho. Pode ser culpa do amor que sente, que acaba aflorando os sentidos, porque é como se entrasse num estado febril. Tão quentinho, bem abraçado, e se você pulsa, nossa, ele pulsa junto quase toca um pedacinho do céu. É uma tentação grande, para mais do que pode suportar. Embora servil e fiel à servitude, fica difícil não se deixar levar pela sensação. As mãos seguram no seu quadril e o foco se torna continuar prolongando, prolongando, acelerado, o prazer que se acumula, esquecendo completamente do pedido. Usa todo o cérebro, frágil e estúpido demais para racionar além do arquejar rouco. As têmporas suando, os olhos cerrados e a boca entreaberta. Você não se incomoda nesses momentos, é bonitinho de ver a ânsia o cegando — é quando te desobedece que mais se mostra submisso.

𝐒𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍 ───── se submete dentro do lúdico que se faz o sexo. É uma grande performance, ele admitiu uma vez, mas não se deve atuar de verdade. Vocês brincam com certa frequência entre quatro paredes; nada que soa condenável, tudo que fuja o convencional. E de todas as possibilidades, confesse que essa é a última que se passou pela sua cabeça. Ele se porta territorial em demasia, seja na conversa ou no jeito de te segurar, e pela diferença de idade, não acreditou que fosse de dar tamanho crédito. Não poderia estar mais enganada.

Não é um homem de comer na palma da sua mão. Não diz palavras de serventia, ou fisicamente se coloca a um nível inferior. Pelo contrário, caçoa de todas as suas tentativas de tentar dominá-lo. Ri, despretensioso, o cigarro queimando entre os dedos enquanto assiste o salto fininho deslizando pelo peito dele até repousar perto da braguilha da calça. É complacente com falsidade quando te escuta dizer você é meu, porque sabe que o pronome possessivo, sozinho, não te dá o poder que você espera. E esperar é justamente a questão aqui.

Deixa ele te guiar, te morder e virar do avesso. Deixa ele cansar, fazer a sua pele arder. A caça é sobre paciência. Observe-o respirando pesado. Corra os dedos pelos fios grisalhos, monte sobre o corpo estirado. Ele está mais mansinho, não? O oceano dos olhos cintilam de volúpia. Aproveite que Swann gosta de se divertir e traga a diversão materializada no silicone transparente para a cama. Banhe no seu mel ou no artificial disponível na garrafinha antes de, bem alinhadinha, se empurrar pra dentro.

Os olhos dele se cerram, os lábios separam mas não te oferece um lamúrio vulnerável. A postura sisuda permanece até quando a dinâmica está invertida. Mas é isso que deixa o momento satisfatório. Capta a face madura, as linhas de expressão, e se regozija por ser você, com toda sua existência fresca, aquela quem está arruinando-o. Ele te encara de volta, como um rei que não abandona o trono. Não é uma competição, entretanto. Não está interessado em te derrotar o que há de viril em ti, pois, caso contrário, jamais conseguiria provar do deleite que o momento proporciona.

Vai manchar o abdômen todinho com o gozo, os músculos formigando e a vista turva. Aceita as suas mordidinhas no pescoço de bom grado, acariciando a sua lombar. É do lúdico que se faz o sexo, por isso o bom humor não abandona o vocabulário masculino nem quando mal tem fôlego pós orgasmo — “Você faz direitinho, mas vou te ensinar a meter melhor.”

⠀⠀

𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐄 ───── se submete porque existe contento em ser usado. Usar, um verbo que soa agressivo, porém aqui é sinônimo de “utilidade”. Desde que o conheceu ele sempre se pôs verbalmente inferior. As declarações de serventia respaldam-se no olhar caído, nos ombros encolhidos e nas mãos escondidas pra dentro do bolso. Foi conquistada sem demora, feito formiga cegamente atraída pelo torrão de açúcar. Ele segue os seus passos, imita as suas reações, não como uma sombra irritante, mas como um súdito aguardando a oportunidade de ser útil.

Deixou clara as intenções: faça o que quiser comigo e na hora que quiser. Por isso, não há sensação mais gostosa senão a adrenalina que corre as veias ao ser acordado de madrugada pelo esfregar do meio das suas pernas na coxa dele. O colchão afunda conforme o seu joelho se escora para que possa montar no colo do garoto. Um sorrisinho cresce de lado, grogue de sono. Te oferece justamente o que te excita nele: os murmúrios quebradinhos, ronronando, o sexo teso e farto, prontinho para te abarrotar. Ele mesmo descansa as costas das mãos na cama, antes que você o prenda os pulsos.

Te olha. As suas expressões de prazer são o que dão vida à existência masculina. Emula a forma com que os seus lábios se entreabrem quando o seu quadril desliza pra baixo e guarda cada centímetro. O sorriso vai aumentando, absorto, enquanto assiste o seu torso vibrar, o choque na virilha dele se tornar mais audível. Saliva, tomado pela sensação de que está sendo ignorado diante das suas pálpebras cerradas. O peito aperta, sem fôlego. Da garganta, se não decorada pelo seu toque ríspido, ecoam os ecos do deleite que desfruta. Cheio de manha, incapaz de se calar mesmo ao deslizar dos seus dedos pelos lábios dele, se afundando pra dentro da boca. Chupa, lambuza de saliva quente. Transmite pra língua habilidosa a sordidez de tudo que se passa pela mente.

De praxe, não se importaria se você apenas se aliviasse e tornasse a dormir. No entanto, mais aprazível é para ambos se o rapaz não se segura, jorrando primeiro, fraco, e, maldosa como pode ser, você não cessa a velocidade apesar da sensibilidade masculina ser gritante. O sorrisinho fácil dele se torna uma risadinha quase de escárnio. Ri da própria fragilidade, da maneira com que os músculos adormecem e até a pontinha dos dedos está formigando. Não leva a sério o vazio nos ouvidos, ou os espasmos do corpo. Se você parasse agora, ele te sobrecarregaria com soluços incessantes até que continuasse o compasso que detinha anteriormente. Use-o. Use. Use. Use.

Quando dói é quando fica mais gostoso. Quando você o aperta no interior é quando sabe que está sendo prestativo. Só termine depois do ápice — o seu ápice. Mas não se esqueça de reconhecer os sacrifícios do seu servo: pode mordê-lo pelos ombros, acertar um tapa na bochechinha até deixá-la rosada ou derramar um filete de saliva entre os lábios separados. Tanto faz, você escolhe os mimos e você escolhe as palavras; bom garoto.