#sandra voyter x reader

[lichenes]

do you write smut for sandra ? <3 shes so fine i would love some wlw smut

!!! i love my evil bisexual queen Sandra... idk if she killed him, all women deserve one kill per week tbh. (she looks soooo pretty in that gif... good god.) Enjoy :** Sandra Voyter x fem!reader CW: porn with plot, consent is sexy<33, sub!reader, fingering, eating out, NSFW wc: 948

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Checking the adress for the hundreth time you rung the doorbell waiting for a response. "Hi, I'm... Samuel." Said the burly man greeting you at his door. He looked you up and down as if to asses you. You weren't sure what went through his mind but he must've blown it off because the next second he was inviting you to their house.

"Sandra is just in the living room." Entering the house you immediately spotted her, lounging on her dingy armchair and your breath got caught in your throat. You knew from the pictures that she was stunning but in real life she looked positively ravishing. You felt your knees go weak as she invited you to sit down on the armchair opposed to her.

"P.I.M.P." started being blasted upstairs as she got up to greet you. "It's my husband he's... insulating the roof." You nodded sympathetically.

Before sitting down you introduced yourself extending your hand towards her. She shook your hand with a certain tenderness. "Tea? Coffee?" She asked jas if she were suddenly rejuvenated. "Wine?" She added pointing to her own glass. You chuckled. "Since you've opened it, I guess it'd be a shame to let it go to waste."

You spent the late morning chatting away, not wanting it to end you kept coming up with questions not included in your interview's intenerary. "Are you sure the publishers asked you to question me about my favourite colour?" Sandra said with a drunken giggle. Your cheeks got hot, pretending you were certain it did indeed matter. You were chalking up her redness to the drunken stupor but in reality, she was enjoying your shy little questions.

When she was escorting you out she pulled out her business card from the little paper holder next to her door and handed it to you. "In case you have any more questions Madame." You curtsied awkwardly and walked, away your cheeks still hot with excitement.

You weren't sure what you were doing, performing a booty call of sorts? You've been texting with Sandra for a while and it became apparent that you were made for eachother, at least in your eyes. Maybe it was the heat of the moment, maybe the fact that you haven't been satisfied with any of your recent hookups. Possibly the stress of her going to jail soon. None of it mattered actually.

"Yes?" Sandra answered with a worried tone, you've never called her before. "I..." you found yourself unable to formulate any coherent thoughts. "Sandra... I need you." She hung up. You looked at the screen displaying her name, hurt but not shocked. How could you have done something so stupid? You've ruined everything.

Twenty minutes later you were taking a cold shower, attempting to quench the thirst you were feeling for her. And then the doorbell rung.

Sandra was standing in your bedroom's doorway panting, ready to pounce on you. "Sandra I-" You were standing opposite her in a towel only. Your wet hair was sticking to your forehead and you could feel yourself getting more anxious by the minute. She launched at you animalistically grabbing you face and smashing her lips into yours.

You were floored by her forwardness. She always presented herself as confident but you never thought that she would be this bold. Deepening the kiss, you put your hands on her waist pulling her closer. She was fillling up all your senses with pure lust and adoration.

Time stopped when she put her knee in between your thighs, feeling the heat emanating from your core. Sandra broke the kiss and looked deep into your eyes. "Do you really want this?" She said almost panting. You nodded fervently. "No, no. Use your words."

Your words got stuck in your throat as you attempted to choke out an enthusiastic 'yes'. Fortunately she didn't need any more convincing and ripped the towel off of you pushing your breathless form onto the bed.

Minutes passed and you got increasingly more and more desperate. She refused to do anything else besides groping you as if to tease you even more. "I wanna... see you Sandra..." You said in betweeen kisses. She looked at you with an evergrowing desire and tore down all her clothes, as if in one fell swoop.

She kneeled on the bed. Her hand returned back to your thighs spreading them and entering one finger into you. You shivered at the sudden intrusion. She reassured you by shushing your anxieties away. With a questioning look she asked. "Are you sure?" As if to tease you she put a second finger in and you gasped out a quiet "Yes, fuck... please."

She didn't waste any more time. Sandra leaned down and gave two kitten licks to your clit. You went cross eyed from that alone but when she put her whole mouth on you, you went cross-eyed. "Fuck... Sandra..." You gasped. She kept sliding the two and soon three fingers in and out making you go crazy.

Moments of bliss passed as she continued her work. You were approaching your edge not wanting it to end so soon. "Sandra, please! I'm- oh god." With a final thrust Sandra hit that one spot inside you which made you see stars as you came, honestly and truly spent. After you came off of your high you asked her "What about you?" She shushed you and gave you a mind-numbing kiss.

You laid like this for quite a while and for a moment you could feel yourself drifting to sleep. Sandra grabbed your cheeks and placed a delicate kiss on your lips. "I have to go... call me again soon." She added quietly. "Please."

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[ladyseaforth]

Feline Arch

Vincent Renzi x reader

——

That feline man slinks to the curb, upon which he sweeps his hand into his grey coat pocket and pulls out a pack of expensive cigarettes. He subsequently pulls out a lighter, the movement liquid smooth and self-assured and velvet.

His silver, boyish head of hair flickers gently in the breeze of the street as his cigarette is lit, the smoke waltzing with the patterns of the air. Yet he is pensive, deep in thought. Upon that pavement, he appears completely absorbed in his own thoughts, completely unaware that he is a very watchable figure. Routine must have gotten the better of him, he comes to that curb, outside the Italian cafe, nearly every other day.

You watch until he inhales one last drag from the cigarette, and look away as he comes back into the cafe.

You have seen him before, but it’s difficult to say if he has ever truly seen you. He may have sighted you, but has he really seen you? His gaze comes in such glimpses. That little notebook he pulls from his pocket takes a significant amount of his sweet attentions.

He has a very serious expression. You want to rub the crease between his brow and light his cigarettes for him. Clasp your hand around his slim, narrow shoulders and slide your chin into the crook of his neck. Imagine the smell of smoke and expensive cologne.

He is a man of good taste, you can tell.

Today, he is wearing a jumper. A sweater. Whatever may suit your vocabulary. It is unusual due to his usual pattern of simple suits and tailored coats. He has a black coffee and a glass of wine on the table before him. He is reading this time.

No haphazard scribbling in that notebook. No serious phone calls before he inevitably rushes off into the busy streets.

You sit behind a glass of red, in a booth on the other side of the quiet room, nursing the scarlet liquid slowly. Your laptop is on the table, the screen light dimming from lack of use. Of stimulation. It is simply there for the random bursts of thought, strands of language that may come to mind as your head wanders.

It is the nature of a writer: waiting for the little things.

“Watching him again? You pervert.” Salomé slides into the other side of the booth, causing you to jump out of your meandering thoughts.

“I don’t blame you for it,” she adds, before you can speak, “If I didn’t have places to be, I would probably be doing the same thing.” Her lipstick smile grows wide and mischievous.

“I do have places to be, I’m just not legally contracted to be at them,” you retort, gently closing the lid of your laptop and picking up the glass of wine.

Salomé rolls her eyes playfully, “Yes, well, we’re all slaves to capitalism, mon ami. Dust we begin and dust we shall return. Now, what red is that?”

You hold the glass up to the light and swill the liquid around a touch.

“Today we return to the merits of Merlot. My writing calls for it. Was simply begging for blood.” You grin back at your friend’s arched eyebrow.

“I see, and is it working?” Salomé gestures to your glass, hand held out in request. You acquiesce and gently set the stem of the glass between her open fingers, watching as she smells the fragrance of the drink and takes a sip.

You shrug lightly, “I can feel it kicking in, it would be doing more if I wasn’t so distracted.” You smirk and turn to give a look to that man, the obstacle to your concentration.

Yet you are met with direct eye contact. And a thin, amused quirk to his lips.

You go visibly rigid and blush as Salomé snorts into the wine at your expense. The man smiles regardless, giving a gentle nod before returning to his book. He runs a hand through his hair as he is reabsorbed into the novel.

“Brilliantly done,” Salomé remarks sarcastically, setting the wine glass back down in front of you. “And a very nice Merlot she is, too.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, replacing your hand around the neck of the glass. You are a grown woman with a career in a foreign city and yet you are defeated by the human trait of blushing.

Salomé cocks her head, surveying your expression. “You overthink,” she says, “And at the end of the day, he is just a man.” She clasps your hand and gives it a small squeeze, patting your fingers before drawing herself up.

“Right, I will see you back at the apartment then. Will you be much longer?” she asks, readjusting her scarf around her neck. You shake your head in response, a small smile playing on your lips.

“Just until this glass is finished.”

Salomé nods, throwing her handbag onto her shoulder. “Parfaite, I will start cutting some vegetables. Will find something to make.”

You wave her off as she departs your booth, her coat tails wavering behind her as she strides across the cafe. As she walks past the man, he glances up at her from his book. You quickly look down before he can catch you watching him again.

You don’t see him turn to look back at you now that you are alone.

You sigh into your wine, reopening the laptop to gaze, eyes glazed over, into the bright screen. This was just taking too long. Nothing was happening. Mental constipation.

With resignation, you tip the rest of the wine into your mouth. It is dry, hints of spice undercutting the flavour, causing you to clear your throat at the sensation.

A light chuckle emanates from across the room. You blink and look up.

The man is smiling wryly into his own glass, the book now closed and abandoned upon the tabletop.

“Difficult day?” he prompts, his English spoken with a heavy French accent, the syllables curving and loose. His fingers run up the bulb of the glass, absent-mindedly tracing patterns into the crystal.

You flash a smile, giving a small cough at the same time. You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear in a moment of loss with what to do with your hands.

“Of sorts,” you supply, giving a self-deprecatory exhale. He arches a greying eyebrow, half-lidded eyes resting upon your face.

“Would you like another one?” he asks, nodding to your now-empty glass. “I can get you another one, if you would like.” He speaks gently, his tone almost betraying a sort of uncertainty. A humility perhaps.

You look down at your hands and back up at him again in a flurry.

“Oh, no. You don’t have to do that. It’s ok, I promised I would leave after this drink.” Your words spilled out in a rush, nervous under the attentions of the handsome stranger and his offer.

He laughs at your response, nodding his head. “Understood, do not worry.” His expression is modest and sweet.

You give a small, breathy laugh in response, a ‘thank you’ in a whisper, and shut your laptop screen. Bowing your head, you pack away your things into your bag and begin sorting your coat and scarf. You look up subtly to glance at the man who has returned to his reading, taking a sip of his wine. White, looks like a Sauvignon Blanc.

As you walk to exit the cafe, you see he is watching you out of his peripheral vision. You decide to take a chance.

“What white is that you have? It looks nice,” you softly inquire, surveying his face reproachfully. He looks up at you, eyes taking in the way you stand over him. Becoming such a presence without meaning to.

He smiles to himself, “Just the house Sauvignon, nothing special.”

You nod awkwardly in response, slightly surprised that he settles for the house wine.

“I will try it next time I come,” you reply, smiling as his lips quirk into a slight grin. Both knowing it will be soon. Perhaps even the next day.

“Good,” he answers, “It is good.” His face flushes slightly with his quick response and subsequent clarification.

You take a step towards the door, taking hold of the handle and pulling it open to a rush of cool outdoors air. You hear his voice behind you.

“It was nice to meet you…” his words drift off. You turn and give your name, before waiting expectedly for his response. He blinks as he remembers himself.

“Vincent,” he supplies. You imagine his name in a multitude of different circumstances. Imagine saying it into the crook of his neck. As he smokes.

“Vincent,” you affirm, smiling, nodding then stepping out the door. The cold air is stark upon your blushing face. It will be a long night of placing his name to new fantasies.

Vincent watches you disappear into the buzz of the city, before returning to his book and waiting for the next case to come.

[softieekayy]

I’m writing another Vincent fic 🤭

[gepardings]

okay officially taking requests for anatomy of a fall fics! go wild, the ask button is open!

[wackapedia]

Remnant

Vincent Renzi x reader Vincent finds a woman living in Miss Voyter's former chalet and finds a new outlet for his feelings. Wordcount: 1,670 Warnings: Attempt at comedy, one swear word, Anatomy Of A Fall spoilers, ghosts for comedic effect

Vincent sighs and lights a cigarette just as the sun sets behind the mountain. He is sitting in the driver seat of his car, which is parked outside the chalet. It's been empty for months, since Sandra-

Miss Voyter, he corrects himself.

 Since Miss Voyter sold the cabin and is turned into some sort of B&B thing just as Samuel intended, she would say.

Miss Voyter and her son moved back to Germany after the case, Vincent remembers. He then wonders why he's parked outside their former chalet.

As of late, he finds himself driving up the uphill road to the cabin, maybe to think or to reminisce. Maybe he's trying to heal from a wound he would never acknowledge.

The lawyer, who is now gaining popularity since that widely-broadcast case, stubs out his cigarette and starts the car. What am I doing here? He mumbles to himself. He tosses the cigarette out the window and moves to start the engine. Someone suddenly shows up by the side of his car.

"Hey, did you just come here to throw your shit? Pick it up!" A woman yells, standing a few paces from his car. Vincent feels embarrassed. He decides to suck it up and apologize.

"Je suis desole, madamoiselle... " He steps out of the car and picks up his rubbish. He then looks up at the woman, who seemed a bit stunned.

He stuffs the stubbed-out cigarette in his pocket and smiles apologetically at the woman. He feels his face heat up.

"I've seen you come here a few times; are you following me?" The woman stumbles through her broken French.

"Oh, no... I'm just..." Vincent doesn't know what to say. "I'm a lawyer." He attempts, as if it explains anything.

"Am I in trouble?" She replies. Vincent tries to take advantage.

"Depends. How long have you lived here?"

"Three weeks. Why?"

"Nothing, Make sure to lock your doors at night." 

Vincent tries to escape from the situation he's found himself in. He begins to open his car door and longs to just drive back to the city.

"What? Wait! What do you mean? Is that some sort of threat?" She takes two steps closer to him. 

"Threat? No! What do you mean?" Vincent stops. He looks at her, surprised to see her face clearer now that he's up close.

"They say this house is haunted... Someone died here. Is that true?" She whispers, almost afraid to mention it out loud. At this, Vincent chuckles.

"That's just silly." He answers her as he settles himself in the driver's seat.

"Wow, and you think standing outside someone else's house isn't as dumb? You could be a pervert for all I know!" She stands next to his car door, addressing him through the window.

Vincent decides he's tired of defending himself like he's in court. Instead of answering, he hands her his business card.

"You're a lawyer?!" She asks after taking the card in her hands. Vincent offers her a kind smile before starting the car and driving off.

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

That night, she sits alone in the bedroom of the rented cabin, playing with the lawyer's business card. She still wonders why she felt odd around Mr. Vincent Renzi.

"That guy's probably some sort of stalker..." She jokes to herself, tossing the business card next to her phone as she opens her laptop and types his name on the search bar. Good news! The name matches the face. Bad news: He is featured in a couple of news articles.

She browses through them and reads about the success of his recent case, which happens to be quite popular. It's not bad news after all. Mr. Renzi was defending a woman who was suspected of murdering her husband. She was ruled out because the death was proven to be a suicide.

She goes deep into the research rabbit hole after staring at a couple of photos of the said lawyer taken from press release interviews. She then discovers that the scene of the crime was the house she was staying in at the present. She then organizes her thoughts after reading through several articles.

1. Mr. Renzi is indeed a lawyer. 2. He is quite handsome. 3. He had reason to come by the house. 4. Someone had died here, and therefore; 5. The house is haunted.

She gasps, and her skin erupts in goosebumps. She looks around the dark room and feels the darkness staring back. Was it just her imagination? No, there's a cold wind enveloping the room. The windows are closed. There's some sort of noise in the attic. Footfalls? Walking down the stairs? Outside her room? She panics and picks up her phone and the card next to it before running down the stairs.

Who to call? The cops? What if they think you're insane? The owner of the house? What's he going to do—ward off the vengeful spirit who's about to kill you? 

She looks at her phone and pulls up the phone app to call the only person who can help her.

"Hello? Vincent?" Her voice trembles. She was outside the house, trembling, both because of the cold and the fear of what could possibly be inside the house.

"Oui, c'est moi; comment puis-je vous aider?" He answers in his charming French accent. She briefly wonders what he just said.

She quickly told him her name, although she doubted he would recognize her.

"Its me, the one from the cabin? I think there's someone in the house!"

-----

Vincent stays with her on the phone throughout the whole fifteen-minute drive. She seems to have calmed down a little, shivering mostly from the cold and less from fear. The moment he arrives, he immediately spots her outside the chalet. As the car stops, she runs toward him.

"What happened?" He catches her like its the most natural thing. 

"Someone died here, right?" She looks up to him and positions him between her and the house.

Vincent sighs. "Is this about the haunted thing again?"

"You never answered me! I fact-checked your business card, and everything made sense!" 

Vincent rests his forehead on his palm. He is still wearing his green home slippers, their bright color catching his eyes. 

He tries to catch his breath after his mini-heart attack, expecting her to be in danger. 

So this place is actually haunted, and she begins to feel a little sorry for him. She looks up at the house, noticing she failed to turn on the lights. Is there a figure in the attic window? Her mind might be playing tricks on her, but she is genuinely scared. She moves closer to the lawyer who is standing there, watching her.

"What?" Vincent pretends to be annoyed with her.

"Can you help me inspect the house?"

"I'm a lawyer, not a cop."

"You were observing the house this morning..." She mumbles.

Vincent sighs. He can't seem to say no to this woman.

-----------

"There. Happy now?" Vincent faces her with his hands on his hips. All the lights in the house are on, and Vincent checks the attic, making sure there are no "vengeful spirits" there to hurt her. She seems to be satisfied.

"Okay.... Thank you..." She mumbles sleepily in the living room. Vincent can't help but smile at how she looks right now.

The lawyer hesitates to leave her there, sleeping in the living room with all the lights on.

"Go on now; get to bed." He tells him, sounding like he's scolding a toddler.

"Okay. Goodnight." She walks up the stairs slowly. She now feels very comfortable around him, which is a wonder since she scolded him just this morning.

Vincent smiles to himself as he drives home.

--------

The minute Vincent wakes up the next day, he checks his phone for any texts from the woman in the chalet. He got her name when she called him last night and has been repeating it in his head since. Unfortunately for him, there were no calls or texts from her. He watches his phone closely in case she reaches out, but the only messages on his phone are text ads and messages concerning work.

As that Sunday progresses without her reaching out, the grumpier Vincent becomes. 

So he heads out there.

----------

She had just come back from town, carrying a basket full of fresh fruit and produce. As she steps up and comes into view of the house,. He is surprised to see another car parked and a certain lawyer standing by the stairs.

"Where were you?" He tries to sound nonchalant.

She raises her basket, showing the obvious.

Vincent seems out of words. She is about to ask, 'Why are you even here?' and he would have no answer. Vincent looks down hard, trying to find the answer on the gravel. Ah, there it is.

"You deserve to know the truth." The lawyer blurts out suddenly, just as she was about to ask something.

"About what?"

"The man who died? He died right here," Vincent bluntly says, pointing to the spot next to them. "So, yes. This place is very haunted." 

She gasps in surprise. She wasn't expecting him to believe her bullshit excuse to see him again that night, right? You guess he's one of those superstitious small-town folks.

Vincent waits for her reaction. She hasn't reacted the way he hoped. He expected her to be shocked and cling to him, but no, she just stands there and stares at the gravel. 

"Hey, did you hear what I just said? This place is hau-"

"Do you want to grab coffee sometime?" She decides to just go straight to the deal, a slight smirk playing on one side of her face. Now it's Vincent who takes a breath of surprise.

"Um... Sure?" Vincent finds himself replying. He can't believe this turned out well for him when he literally had no roadmap for what he was trying to do.

"Okay. Let me just put these inside the house, and we can head to town together?"

The lawyer nods. She smiles and comes out of the house a while later and walks with him to town.

part 2?

[lichenes]

jealous sandra pls? <3

Thank you for the ask anon! Kinda deviated from the ask, I'm a mess sdsjhkdsjh btw sorry for not posting, I've got some exams coming up and I've been focusing on that mostly :( I'm hoping to get back to writing!! Hope you enjoy<33 CW: kissing, possessive Sandra near the end, SFW wc: 514

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She was leaning against the wall, in a room full of people, yet her sight was trained onto you. Oh how lovely you looked tonight. How well did your shirt compliment your eyes. How good your hair looked and how great your accessories were picked. Unaware of her gaze you chatted away with the fellow partygoers. Sandra felt pangs of jealousy prickling her heart. She averted her gaze from you.

Sandra was aware of the passing crush you had on her. She didn't try to deny it by all means. Afterall you've confessed to her not long ago. As she did yours, you were plaguing her every waking thought by now and she was afraid this was starting to turn into an delusional belief that you two were destined for each other.

"Sandra?"

"Hmm?" You must've approached as she was deep in thought. She straightened her back and put the glass she was drinking from, to her lips. "You need anything?" She asked. "No, no just wanted to talk you for a while." You smiled and put your back to the wall she was leaning against. You chatted for a while, your jokes earning a few laughs from her.

You felt... safe. In her presence all your problems seemed to decay and rot away leaving you rejuvenated anew. Sandra didn't seem to grasp how much you adored her. She didn't reject you per se. It was more like putting off the inevitable. You just couldn't fight the feeling that you should be lovers.

Sandra kept telling herself that it wasn't meant to be. That faithful day when you took her out to the park and confessed was the most beautiful moment of her life. She felt lighter around you, like life was just... easier. Why couldn't she bring herself to say 'yes'?

It'll pass... she assumed. But how could it pass if every time she saw you talking to another woman she would imagine swooping in and claiming you as hers, in more ways than one. Sandra didn't even realise you were dragging her somewhere.

You were stood outside in the pleasantly chilly night. You cheeks already getting warmer as she asked if you weren't cold. "Sandra." You said with purpose. Oh no. She wanted to run. She wanted to wait you out but every time she pushed you away you only got closer.

"Sandra you know exactly what I want so say." You were trembling, unsure what to do with your hands. She grasped them lightly as if to not damage your delicate skin. "I do." She smashed her lips into yours. You could smell her sweet perfume, you weren't sure if it was the thing making you dizzy or the fact that the love of your life just reciprocated your affection.

You pulled away your foreheads still touching. "I can't live without you." Sandra admitted. "You're mine." She said pulling away and letting go of your hands. She put hers on your cheeks and pulled you in for a more delicate, lighter kiss.

"I won't let anyone take you away from me." _____✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ … ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ … ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ … ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿_____ masterlist

[ladyseaforth]

Feline Arch Part 3.

Vincent Renzi x reader/oc

Here’s part three! Hope you enjoy!

It is evening and they have sunk two bottles between one another. Rich scarlet slips down the throat, leaving the lips tinged with purple and flavour. Kissable.

Your back faces the fireplace, one leg draped over Vincent’s lap. His hand rests upon your shin mindlessly, his chest shaking as he laughs at something Sandra said. His wine flicks in the bowl like the crest of a crimson wave. You study it loosely, head rocking on the sofa.

You are down to your loose linen shirt. The heat of the fire permeates the room, swelling the atmosphere with a tangible energy. Everything feels simultaneously far away and alarmingly close.

Studying Vincent’s profile, you smile as your eyes trail over the sweep of his silver hair, down his gently curved brow, his glittering eyes, his pinkened nose, small, quick lips. You study his lips as, every so often, he loses himself in his native language; you follow the foreign mouth shapes and sounds with rapture. The gestures he makes with thin, sculptured hands when he gets over enthused.

You turn your head to Sandra as though it were on a hinge, your movements lagging and unrefined. With a fist under your cheek, you absorb the lightness in her features and the colour that has returned to her face. Samuel-be-damned.

She quickly catches on to your slow, sleepy gaze and grins, “Have we already outdrank you? For shame!” Sandra cackles at your expression, your own smile widening into a falsely seductive, wine stained smirk. You feel Vincent’s gaze upon the side of your face now.

“Not at all!” you retort, perhaps a little louder than you intend. You hear Vincent’s light chuckle, shy and boyish as he runs his hand up and down your shin. Sandra tilts her head teasingly, arched eyebrow over narrowed, blue eyes.

“I just didn’t have dinner,” you acquiesce, eyes dropping to your glass and running a finger round the rim. The small whine elevates in the room, a soft, ringing background to the conversation.

“Help yourself to anything in the kitchen,” Sandra offers, almost pleading, “I have not been up for using, or eating, anything; it will expire if not.” The tone simmers down a bit, the gravity of the situation returning to you all. You cease your finger’s movements on the glass. Vincent shifts.

“Perhaps, Sandra,” Vincent begins, “If you are up for it, we could go over a few developments in the investigation? It can wait until tomorrow - if not - I just thought you would like to get ahead of things.” His words drift away awkwardly and he clears his throat. Sandra looks suddenly lost in thought. You look between them.

“I can give you some space for that,” you offer, sliding your leg off of Vincent’s lap and placing yourself the right way up. “You guys will want to talk in private.” You search for eye contact with Sandra, who looks up at you and smiles gently, small and fragile. Vincent fiddles with his, now, unoccupied hands. His expression is mild.

“I’ll go for a walk around the house, won’t be far,” you gather up your wine glasses and head over to the kitchen sink, carefully placing them to the side. Something to worry about in the morning.

“Please be careful, the snow turns icy when the temperature drops at night,” Sandra says, elbows resting on her knees. You turn to her as you put your coat on and nod reassuringly. You sway slightly as you put your boots on and hope the pair aren’t watching, that they won’t stop you from getting that breath of fresh air you feel you need.

“See you soon,” you wave to them, and open the door. You carefully descend the steps onto the driveway and close the door beyond you, officially out of the space. The moon is bright and clear in the starless sky, a sign of the cold night ahead.

Vincent watches every inch of you as you disappear from sight, putting every part of you to memory before turning back to Sandra, who is watching the floor.

“How significant are these developments?” she finally asks, face stolid and resigned. Vincent sighs gently.

“Quite significant, but nothing we cannot work around,” he responds, training his face to remain neutral and unworried. “Shall I begin?” Vincent continues. Sandra nods solemnly and waves her hand, gesturing to start. And so, Vincent does.

The facts and discrepancies pile up, extracting the very air around her.

…

You stand and stare at the very site where Samuel is meant to have fallen. The ground is churned with the amount of footfall it has received, after the body was removed. Tomorrow they do tests with a sand-filled dummy to see if the way Samuel fell could be natural. That it was a sudden suicide. Or whether it was something else.

That is what Sandra said to you. Whispered over the fireplace. Her face had remained somewhat impassive. You stared into the blue.

The drop was extensive. Injuries consistent with a collision upon the shed’s corner, before finally slumping to the snow-covered ground. But it had to be checked all the same. They were to take it step-by-step.

You think of Daniel, worry about him tucked in his room. Wet pillow and misty-eyed in the dark as strangers invade his home. As they descend to determine whether his mother could have killed his father or not. Unable to look these strangers in the eye.

And Vincent would watch like a hawk. Staring eyes locked on everything they touch in Sandra’s house, anything they move, they affect. He will protest. Be the ever-intercepting lawyer, he will be good and he will be present. And you will watch him.

A chill runs through you, the sky vast and stretching over your head. What must it have been like to simply fall? To become a dead-weight, helpless and loose? At the mercy of gravity. At the mercy of it all.

…

You return to a household in darkness, safe for the last burning embers of the fireplace. Shrugging your coat off and hanging it on the rack at the front door, you see Vincent’s shape in the dying light. He is still on the same part of the couch that you saw him before. He looks over at you and gives a tight smile.

“Eh, Sandra has gone to bed. It will be a long day tomorrow,” Vincent begins, “she said she told you what will be happening?”

You nod slowly, “yes, the tests. Things to do with a dummy and seeing whether Samuel’s fall was accurate.” Vincent nods in response and shuffles a couple of papers that sit before him upon the coffee table. Silence falls upon you both.

“Do you think there is anything suspicious about Samuel’s death?” you ask, suddenly and without much thought. You shock yourself. Vincent’s head jerks up, lamp like eyes fixed on your own. He blinks a couple of times and frowns.

“Do you think there was?” he retorts, head tilting and gaze full of scrutiny. A lawyer at work. You blink back at him and hold your ground.

“I do not know all of the details or what the police find difficult to believe about the fall. What I do know is that Samuel was a bastard,” you speak firmly, holding eye contact with all the conviction you can muster. Vincent looks back, face unmoving.

“And why was he, as you say, a bastard?” he asks, thumbs running up and down the paper. You shift your weight and step forward. Vincent is forced to tilt his face upwards to maintain eye contact with you. He waits.

“Did you ever meet him?” you look down into Vincent’s face, intense and searching. He inhales deeply as his eyes traverse your face. Pupils flickering.

“Oui,” he admits, “once, or twice. A long time ago.” You lean down a little further, face coming closer to his own. You can feel his exhale on your face, ghostly wisps of air.

“Then you will already know that he was a bastard.” You hold his gaze, ensuring that the words hold enough weight to your satisfaction. Once content, you break away, turning to your haphazardly packed bag that lies at the foot of the other sofa.

“I’m taking this couch, by the way. Hope you’re ok with that,” you add rhetorically, not looking for a response. You hear Vincent shuffle a little behind you, placing down the papers.

“Yes, that is fine by me.” You hear him pull a blanket off the back of his sofa. You keep your back to him as you open your bag and pull out an old university t-shirt for your pyjamas. Still, you do not turn as you unbutton your shirt and throw it to the side, replacing it with the t-shirt. Yet, you turn to look at him before slipping off your trousers.

Vincent lies upon the sofa, blanket over his body as he faces you. His eyes flicker listlessly over you, seemingly without much control. The colour of his cheeks undecipherable in the darkness, the fire reduced to smoke. You turn away again and unbutton the waists, letting the pair drop to the floor. You step out of them and pull a blanket off of the back of your sofa.

You lie down and draw the blanket over yourself. You lie so that you face Vincent, whose vision continues to be dusky and unsettled. “Goodnight, Vincent. I hope you enjoyed the Merlot tonight,” you quip into the dark, only catching the glinting whites of his eyes.

A brief silence follows, and so you turn over to face the couch. You settle your head into the decorative cushion and exhale slowly. Eyelashes almost brushing the material.

“I enjoyed having a drink with you.” Vincent utters gently into the silence. He clears his throat in the following quiet.

You hear a similar shuffling, him finding a comfy position to lie in. You let his statement be the last word.

The tension only melts when sleep takes over.

…

The dummy makes a dull sickening thud as it collides with the shed, slithering onto the wet ground.

There are people standing at the top of the balcony, looking down over the pulley system which repeatedly throws the human form off the edge, and jerks it back up again for another go.

Vincent is on top of everything again. Surveying the scene, making sure they’re being good to the house, to Sandra. Asking ‘is this really necessary?’ or challenging a decision to photograph Daniel’s bedroom. He is protective, more than a proactive lawyer.

They pull the dummy up again, discussing it in their little group. ‘Yes, the head did collide off the corner but that does not account for this injury…’ and ‘there are discrepancies between the angle of the window frame and his collision with the shed…’ and ‘the marks on his skull allude to a blow more like this…’.

Marsha and Sandra were unable to force Daniel to stay away from the house whilst these experiments were being done. The boy had cited a fear of going alone to take Snoop for a walk, considering what had happened the last time. So he settled somewhere in the house, no doubt listening to the repetitive thumps of a dead weight beating the earth. The replicated sound of his father’s body meeting death.

You found yourself without a purpose, having made three cups of tea in the past hour alone. You had tried to write whilst all the commotion went on but achieved little. Sandra was determined to oversee her household, appearing stoic but frequently giving in to confusion and panic. You texted Salomé under the table, reassuring her of your whereabouts when she came back to an empty apartment.

The time dragged on as the house, Sandra and the fall were scrutinised bit by bit. The anatomy of it all laid bare and vulnerable. And heavy with suspicion and concern, it was.

…

It was a good week of this before they decided to conclude with the results they had recorded.

After a week, a meeting summoned you back to the city. You promised Sandra you would come back in a bit to see how everything was. That she was to call you if the investigation proceeded any further. She had nodded, eyelids heavy and her expression set, save for a small smile and accompanying squeeze of your hand.

Vincent watched you from afar, employing a new habit of standing at the opposite side of the room to you. In a thick, knitted jumper and hands shoved in his pockets, he looked you up and down as you said your goodbyes to Sandra. After a hug, you glanced over to him and met his gaze.

“When will you be heading back to the city?” you ask, picking up your scarf and arranging it around your neck. He shrugs, woolly shoulders jutting up to his ears.

“I am unsure,” Vincent begins, “possibly in the next day or so. The police may return again so I have to be near. They’re already making conclusions, and they’re being incredibly heavy handed about it.” He tries to keep his body language open, cooperative.

His eyes follow the winding material at your throat. You smile plainly. The cold air outside muffles the windows.

“Of course,” you say, “you are very dedicated.”

Sandra laughs at the expression upon his face, Vincent’s cheeks giving in easily to the rush of blood. He chuckles in response to his own reaction, tugging the sleeves of his jumper up his lean forearms. Vincent ducks his head as he approaches you.

“Do you have much writing to get back to?” Vincent ventures, “I presume you will be equally occupied.” His adam’s apple bobs under his pinkened throat. Tendons stretching into the collar of his expensive jumper. He reminds you of a nervous boy in a man’s body. Out of his element. You want to see him in court. You want to see him in his territory.

You smile wider, trying to catch Sandra’s eye, but find that she has turned away in favour of tidying the kitchen counter. Turning the labels of the jars, bottles, boxes of food items so that they face away from her. You look back and Vincent’s eyes glint.

“There’s always more writing to get back to,” you quip, meeting his gaze with a grin, “and you never really stop. I’m always writing - in my head.”

Vincent’s shoulders jump with a small laugh and he nods, bobbing his head in understanding. The conversation stalls quietly, the ticking clock in the empty kitchen becoming the primary sound.

“If you need me to transcribe anything for you, or write out any documents for your records or anything really,” you find yourself saying before your brain can catch up with you, “let me know. I want to help you out.” You smile restlessly, tucking a loose lock of hair behind your ear.

Vincent arches an eyebrow, somewhat taken aback. Sandra turns away from her food rearranging and looks to you in an amused surprise. A sparkle coming back to her eyes.

“With Sandra’s case, that is. I want to make sure you have more than enough hands for everything that’s happening,” you add, glancing between Vincent and Sandra. His face visibly warms and he nods again. Sandra’s eyes crinkle with mirth.

“That is a very kind offer, thank you,” Vincent says, “there is not much to do at the moment until the police conclude their findings but I will keep you in mind.” His eyes search earnestly into yours, trying to communicate his gentle gratitude.

Keep you in mind. One could only hope.

You blush lightly, and without having anything else to say, you duck your head in an awkward bow and reach for the door. As you descend the steps, you hear Sandra call from behind you, “Have a safe drive, liebe! Send my love to Salomé. I hope to see you in the city soon, we can write together.”

You turn and grin, waving your hand, “I will see you soon, Sandra! You will be a free woman soon,” you promise, eyelids fluttering under the bright sky.

Sandra laughs through the doorway, the shifting figure of Vincent disappearing behind her. As the door closes and you settle into your battered car, you continue to hear her laughter in your ears.

Flying towards the city, both your hands on the wheel, the atmosphere feels light but heady. It was a sign of things to come.

It would only be the very next morning that Sandra would be charged with the murder of her husband. The evidence stilted and accusatory.

The court beckoned.

——————

[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!

[lichenes]

✿°•∘masterlist∘•°✿

all fics are 'x reader' unless specified otherwise :^]

"Anatomy of a Fall" ~ Vincent Renzi - you look for you keys and find love [sfw] Vincent Renzi - you go on a walk [sfw] Vincent Renzi - morning kisses [sfw] Vincent Renzi - a fantasy, a meeting and a fall [slight nsfw] Vincent Renzi - pt 2 to this^ [sfw] Vincent Renzi - alphabet [nsfw] Vincent Renzi - making up for a fight [nsfw] Vincent Renzi - reader jealous over Sandra [sfw] Vincent Renzi - jealous vincent [sfw] Sandra Voyter - smut... [nsfw] Vincent Renzi - you meet him during your law school days and then years after... [sfw] Vincent Renzi - a sequel-prequel to this^ a nice not-date in the park with him during your law school days [sfw] Vincent Renzi - he reads you a French book [sfw] Vincent Renzi - 7 minutes in heaven and a confession [sfw] Vincent Renzi - museum date!! [sfw] Vincent Renzi - doing it in his office [nsfw] Vincent Renzi - first meetings and physical contact [sfw] Sandra Voyter - jealousyyyy [sfw] Vincent Renzi - hcs [sfw/nsfw]

"The Bare Necessity" ~ Pierre Perdrix - meeting pierre and he's awkward [sfw] Pierre Perdrix - two oblivious idiots in love [sfw] Pierre Perdrix - sequel to this^ drunkenly confessing to eachother [sfw] Pierre Perdrix- domestic moments [sfw] Pierre Perdrix - taking a bath together [sfw]

"Bloody Milk" ~ Pierre Chavanges - slow mornings [sfw]

"Romantics Anonymous" ~ Antoine - meeting him for the first time [sfw]

IRL people ~ Swann Arlaud - teaching you french and giving you a reward [sfw] Swann Arlaud - looking after you when you have a cold [sfw] Swann Arlaud - domestic moments with him... [sfw] Joost Klein - enemies to lovers [sfw] Joost Klein - mutual pining [sfw] Joost Klein - domestic moment [sfw] Ski Aggu - bro is ticklish idk [sfw] Joost Klein - hcs [sfw] Ski Aggu - hcs [sfw] Joost Klein - lazy night in [sfw] Ski Aggu - he notices you at a concert [sfw] Barman - eyefucking turns to.... [nsfw] Metal Singer - NK loml. [sfw]

"Good Omens" ~ Aziraphale&Crowley - dadfic :D

"CoD" ~ König - flowershop owner x the scariest mf you've ever seen [sfw] Ghost - Ghost falls for the receptionist [sfw] König - flowershop au pt2!! [sfw] Ghoap - idiots fucking too loud and reader is pissed [sfw]

"Dead Boy Detectives" ~ Cat King/Thomas - platonic times w the guy [sfw] Charles Rowland - established relationship shenanigans [sfw]

"Resident Evil Village" ~ Karl Heisenberg- he loooves teasing you [sfw] Alcina Dimitrescu - first meeting [sfw]

Monsterloving ~ Orc - angst and make up thigh riding<3 [nsfw] Werewolf - size difference, shopping together [sfw] Werewolf - neeeerd being bullied [sfw]

🇵🇱🇵🇱🇵🇱 "Ojciec Mateusz" ~ Ksiądz Mateusz - wyznanie miłości [sfw]

"Stardew Valley" ~ Shane&Elliott - oooh drama [sfw] Harvey - cockwarming!! [nsfw]

"Arcane" ~ Viktor - angstttttt [sfw] Silco - Silco looking for a mum for Jinx and dancin... [sfw] Silco - angst !! [sfw] Silco - x male!reader, reverse comfort [sfw] Silco - au where you're actually happy [sfw] Silco - brothel worker reader, Silco's love not reciprocated [nsfw] Silco - oblivious idiots in love... [nsfw] Silco - actor au, thirst tweets and more! [sfw]

"Nerdy Prudes Must Die" ~ Max Jagerman - sucking and fucking :D [nsfw]

"Rivals" (2024) ~ Declan&Rupert - oooh jealousy oohhh [sfw] Declan - arguin and making up<3 [sfw]

asks open :D