Vautour Bleu X Reader - Blog Posts

blue eyed french girl got me tripping

when your girl is so gorgeous even afternoon tea gets you impossibly needy </3

fluffy and smutty, top!vautour bleu, sub!femreader, fingering (r receiving), 5k words

A/N: this was just an excuse to write about my slight fixation on bleu’s fingers, they’re really pretty okay… also i dream of sitting on her lap .

will fix the spacing issue in the morning i have class at 8 💔

The pearly white porcelain cup, adorned with blooming flowers, looks even more delicate when picked with her thumb and index finger and brought to her mouth in one fluid motion. She lifts her free hand to lightly rest her fingertips on the warm bottom of the teacup, and you follow the liquid’s journey out of its confines and past her painted lips. She slightly tilts her head back as she swallows her sip of orange tea, some strands of her golden bangs caressing her cheeks with the movement; your gaze lowers to the fleeting bulge in her throat, captivated, before it disappears and she softly sighs in contentment. You watch her put her cup back on its saucer with a quiet clinking sound. A finger slowly traces the rim and passes the indigo mark where her lips have just been, effectively attracting your attention.

One, two, three deliberate turns around the cup then she abandons her tea to pick up the previously discarded fork on the table to her right. She holds it loosely between her fingers and the metal scrapes against her plate as she sinks the fork in a moist coconut cake topped with fresh lemon zest. Her head leans forward, her lips slowly wrap around the silverware and when she takes a small bite, some of the cream sticks to the corner of her mouth. The tip of her tongue peeks out to lick it up. She hums, pleased at the taste. Every gesture she makes is elegant and executed with practiced grace as if she’s used to putting on a show, which would make you her enamoured audience. She savours her daily treat without a care in the world and you neglect your own slice of cake and rapidly cooling tea for the sake of observing her mannerisms in the sunlight.

It’s not like you haven’t done so a hundred times before, it’s simply too easy to lose yourself in the way her eyes crinkle with pleasure whenever dessert gets delivered to her door, or how tendrils of smoke curl around her frame in a tender hug after she’s taken a drag from her beloved pipe. Now, you can’t avert your gaze from her long hair, blessed by the sun, cascading down her back and lovingly brushing her bare shoulders— it should be your touch, you think, skimming across her skin. Your fingertips to the lines of her shoulder blades, your palms brushing down the gentle curve of her spine, your nails spelling words on the expanse of her back. Under the afternoon sun her skin seems even softer than you know it to be, her expression warmer. Her smile is without the tinge of wistfulness that usually accompanies it and she gazes longingly at the pastry on her plate like she hasn’t had one in ages.

The soft clink of metal against porcelain along with Vautour Bleu’s satisfied French mumbles make up the quietude of her living room. You shamelessly stare at her and she lets you. You’re certain that she’s aware of you drinking her in, and this little show she’s putting on is solely for you. You don’t mind. She finds her satisfaction in the lovesick veil over your eyes, the admiration in your expression like she is the person most deserving of it. Sometimes she wonders if your features would twist in hatred and disappointment if you knew all that she was hiding, then she wills the upsetting thought far from the forefront of her mind, back in that little corner where it constantly resides.

Once Vautour Bleu is far enough into her dessert, her head tilts to look at you. Fond amusement gleams in her eyes. “You’re staring, ma chérie.”

You pass your tongue over your lips and smile. “Well, you’re beautiful. And you’re making eating a piece of cake into something very erotic.”

“Is that right?” She asks like it hasn’t been on purpose.

She leans sideways into her chair and leisurely crosses one leg over the other, the fabric of her nightgown rising up her smooth thighs a few inches. Her right hand is casually placed on her hip as she turns her full attention to you. You glance at her bare legs for what you meant to last only a second but the sight has you swallowing subtly, and you pause on the fair skin of her thighs too long for it to be called anything but shameless ogling.

You’re drawn to the light drumming of her manicured fingers. They’re slender, long, and would seem delicate if you weren’t already sure of how firm they could be around your wrists, your hair, the hollow of your throat. Your mind drifts to a heated memory of them digging into the flesh of your waist, her round nails painting crescent moons on your skin. You think of how they feel against you, her hard knuckles and cool jewelry pressed on your body or brushing up the walls of your dripping cunt until they’re as slick as you are. She has this habit; her ring finger goes first to test the resistance, carefully inching inside until you can feel the metal of her rings teasing the edge of your entrance, then her middle finger follows suit and she curls her digits on the way back out of your pussy before quickly plunging them back in. The accessory brushes against you with every thrust and adds a dizzying sensation to having her fingers inside of you. Sometimes, when you beg properly, she won’t take off the band around her middle finger. It stays comfortably around her first knuckle and she mercilessly slides the digit into your wet heat, fucking you just how you need it. Her jewelry warms up quick and is coated in your arousal even faster. It grazes your inner walls so heavenly you can’t help but you whine pathetically after each intrusion, a sound she delights in forcing out of you. You stare at her hand now, heat steadily growing in your stomach and pulsing between your legs.

“Seems like I’ve lost you again,” Vautour Bleu’s playful voice pulls you out of your reverie and you blink rapidly, looking back at her. “Where did you go just now?”

You’re only half sure she knows the answer to that question. “Uh…”

“You were quite fixated on my fingers for a moment there.”

Yeah, she knows.

“I like your rings,” is the first excuse that comes to your mind. Her widening smile lets you know it’s an unconvincing one.

“Oh, I’m aware.” She wiggles her fingers. “You like my rings so much you’re squeezing your legs together just at the thought of them.”

Embarrassment fills you from head to toe as you realize that she’s right, you force yourself to relax the muscles in your thighs and clear your throat nonchalantly, shrugging once.

“It’s not like that,” you lie futilely.

“Like what?”

You don’t know how to respond, and her quiet laugh makes you sheepish. You glance away from her like a child who’s been caught reaching for something they shouldn’t. She’s not mocking you, her amusement is genuine and without malice. You’re still surprised by how much you want her, so whenever something like this happens you’re left a flustered mess before her. You know what draws you to her— her charming composure and easy smile, her care for fragile and fine things, the wistfulness in her eyes that reveals more than she knows— but the way she gets under your skin is somehow always unexpected. You would be screaming injustice at the heavens if it didn’t feel so right.

“Come, mon coeur.”

Vautour Bleu uncrosses her legs and gently pats her thigh, watching you approach expectantly. You obediently rise from your seat with no need for further encouragement and make your way to where she comfortably lounges in her chair. When you’re close enough to touch, her hands reach out for your waist to pull you to sit on her lap. You straddle her thighs warmed by the sun and face her, your hands loosely hanging around her neck. Your fingers toy with the vibrant blue collar she often wears. She holds onto your waist and tilts her chin up to look you in the eye. From this close, you can see the tenderness in hers.

“I should get you matching ones,” she says. “Would you like that?”

“Matching rings?” You take one her hands and look down at the pristine jewelry adorning her fingers. Your thumb traces their silvery surface. “I don’t know if they’ll look as good on me as they do on you.”

“Don’t be silly.”

You lift her hand to your lips and kiss her fingertips. “I’m serious,” you rest the backs of her fingers against your cheek, the metal slightly cool to the touch, “no one wears them like you do. But I'd love matching ones.”

“I think you like them for a completely different reason than how they look on me.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Vautour Bleu strokes your skin with her knuckles, eyelids drooping as her gaze follows the affectionate gesture. She draws a path up to the apple of your cheek then back down to the corner of your mouth. It parts almost instinctively for her touch. She smiles knowingly, and you drop the indifferent facade when she brushes your bottom lip with the side of her index. You plant a chaste kiss on her first knuckle.

“I think,” she continues, watching her digit slowly push past your lips, “you’re entranced by them because of how they feel.”

You can’t protest in your current position nor do you want to anymore. You meet her eyes and suck her finger deeper into your mouth. For a moment she simply keeps it there for your tongue to swirl around, coating her in your saliva. Then she presses down on the wet muscle, strokes the flat of it, and pulls a small sound of surprise from you. Your hand wraps around her wrist, your thumb to her steadily quickening pulse. It thumps against your skin and directly contradicts her calm facade. Her middle finger is brought to your puckered lips and they open in a warm and wet welcome. You shift on her lap, heat starting to pool in your core the longer you sit there with her fingers in your mouth, but Bleu only squeezes your waist in a silent command to stay still. She takes great pleasure in reducing you to this helpless state and enjoys it even more once pretty pleas fall from your lips as you beg for more of her.

“Tell me, ma chérie, how do they feel?”

You can’t speak properly, so you suckle her digits harder in response. Your tongue quickly swipes over the band around her middle finger, not leaving a single spot untouched. She seems to get the answer she’s looking for, however, judging by the pleased look on her face. You think she likes being adored, yet something also tells you that she’s unused to it. Perhaps it’s the way she can’t resist chasing the feeling like she’s doing now, foregoing passivity to steadily thrust her fingers inside your mouth with expanding pupils. She’s composed as ever but there’s an edge of wonderment that accompanies her actions, like she’s discovering something new and exciting each time the both of you explore the deeper feelings between you.

Her digits slip from your mouth with a slick sound and Vautour Bleu spreads them apart in the sun, admiring how they glisten so beautifully. She rests the manicured tips on your lips, wetting them. Your thighs clench around hers.

“That’s what it is, isn’t it?” Her fingers move down your face, her painted nails lightly scratching under your chin. “You think about them on your body, in your mouth, and lose all of your composure.”

You nod wordlessly because it’s what she expects from you and, though embarrassing, it’s also the truth. She reads you like the lines of a book she’s already annotated a dozen times and you’ve long accepted the fact that you can’t hide anything from her even if you enjoy pretending otherwise. You sit before her, open, and let her regard you with that alluring, pleased smile on her lips.

“Lost your voice?” Vautour Bleu teases. “Speak up, mon amour. Tell me what you want.”

“Your hands… all over.”

“Mmm? You’ll have to be more precise for me.”

You lean closer until your chest just barely brushes hers and stop inches away from her mouth, arms linked around her neck. She watches your eyes drop to her lips but makes no move to close the remaining distance. Her hand on your waist sneakily slips under your shirt and lazily wanders over the curves there, her touch warm on your skin.

“I want…” you begin slowly, and each word is felt on her lips, “your hands on my body everywhere they can reach, on my throat, my tits, my thighs. Your fingers in my mouth— one at a time or stuffing it full, doesn’t matter. I want them inside me, buried so deep I can feel your rings threatening to slip inside too, until I can picture the feeling every time I close my legs. And then, I want them in your mouth so you can taste just how wet you make me. ‘That precise enough?”

Your declaration arouses you both, you can see it in her stare and feel your desire throb between your thighs. Unlike you, Vautour Bleu maintains her composure effortlessly. Her nails are dragged across the plane of your back, unhurried and tantalizing.

“So lewd. You must need this very much.”

“So bad, Bleu.”

“Then where are your manners?”

You almost huff impatiently at her indirect order but you need her to give you exactly what you want, so you muster the one pleading look she can never resist for long and press even closer to her, your arms tightening around her neck. Your breath fans over her lips as you utter one of the few phrases she taught you some weeks ago.

“S’il te plaît. I’ll be good, I promise.”

Her smile widens. “Well, since you promise…” Her hand leaves your back to join the other that has started unbuttoning the front of your shirt, starting with the first button between your collarbones. “I see no reason to refuse such an adorable plea.”

Her fingers are nimble and efficient, they leave behind a trail of undone buttons on their journey down your torso, exposing your body to her expert hands and lustful gaze. You bite the inside of your cheek in barely contained anticipation and squirm on her lap again, the throb in your cunt now harder to ignore. You press grateful kisses to the curve of her jaw, your lips following the path towards her chin then up to the corner of her mouth. You don’t kiss her properly yet, you want her to initiate the first one. It doesn’t take long, soon you feel her slender fingers curl around your throat as she tilts her head upward to meet your lips, capturing them in a firm kiss that she deepens after a moment. You welcome her tongue when it seeks entrance into your mouth and it slides languidly over yours, so familiar and warm. Your fingertips tangle in her blonde hair and her palm runs down your chest, fingers tugging cheekily at the band of your bra. Her insistent kisses reflect her need; she keeps you close with her hold on your neck and forces you to submit to her pace until your head pounds and your pulse goes off the rails. You exhale sharply through your nose, the need to breathe too important, yet don’t attempt to pull away. Her lips are moist and taste of coconut, much sweeter than the dessert still sitting on the table.

You feel her slipping under your bra to cup your breast. Bleu chuckles low into your mouth at the stuttering gasp that she tears from you. She greedily steals the rest of your broken breaths, thumb wandering close to the stiffening peak of your nipple, then it presses against you and your hips buck forward, seeking stimulation from her thighs. The position you’re in makes it slightly difficult with both of your clothes still on. A muffled, petulant whine registers to your ears and it takes a few seconds to realize that it came from you. You don’t have the time to be embarrassed however, Vautour Bleu’s mouth withdraws from yours just as your nipple is rolled between two fingers; the sensation is heavenly and goes straight to your fluttering cunt.

“Impatient little thing…” She reproaches your behavior with a click of her tongue, “I’m starting to think there’s only one place you truly want my fingers.”

“You have two hands…”

“I do. But only one of them wears the rings as you like them, non?”

To prove her point, she lifts her right hand where gorgeous jewelry adorns her index, middle and ring fingers and traces the metal on your heated cheek. Your thoughts drift to how it would feel coated in your slick arousal, and the crease forming at the corners of her eyes from her smile tells you that she’s following your exact train of thought.

“Just touch me,” words laced with a soft plea, you can only focus on her pretty face and the hand still toying with your chest. Your hips move forward once again, gliding across her thighs, so as to squash any confusion concerning your desperate demand.

“I am touching you, mon coeur.”

“Well, go faster.” She raises an eyebrow, and you hurriedly add, “Please…”

You lean into her, nuzzling her cheek with the tip of your nose and murmur devoted pleas into her skin until you believe she’s finally caved in and will give you what you’re craving for. Her right hand teases the waistband of your pants for a few anticipated seconds but shifts upwards to brush the curves of your stomach instead. She smiles yet takes her time despite your begging, an implicit lesson that she only ever moves at her own pace. She fondles your breast and feels the goosebumps up and down your abdomen, your waist, your lower stomach. She is slower than usual, almost lazy in her repeated motions on your body because she’s enjoying this moment as much as you do her touch, and Vautour Bleu savours what she likes. You can only find solace in the crook of her neck, underwear now damp with need, while she takes you on her terms.

Her head turns and her question tingles your eardrum as she speaks, her nails lightly scratching your skin the lower they travel— another one of her little habits that has you melting in the palm of her hand.

“Let’s see just how wind up you are, shall we?”

You breathe a sigh of contentment when you feel her fingers swiftly undoing the buttons of your pants. She allows your erect nipple some reprieve to open yourself up further to her attention. With a steady hold on your hip, her digits teasingly sneak past the band of your underwear one by one and feel the damp curls there, already slick from her earlier ministrations. She hums in contemplation, unsurprised by your desperation. You cling to her with your arms linked around her shoulders and your face buried where her neck meets her shoulder, and Vautour Bleu touches you like she’s done over a dozen times by now: with the intent of turning you into pudding for her to lick up afterwards. Her index grazes your clit and your next inhale gets stuck on the way to your lungs. You stammer, pressing your pussy into her hand for more stimulation, and a quiet sound leaves your mouth when she purposely repeats the action to hear you again.

“So sweet,” she inadvertently comments on your moans with an aroused sigh of her own.

Her heavier breaths near your earlobe and the way her fingers dig into your hip with every twitch of your body are the only indications you have that this is affecting her too. Your cunt continues to drip around her digits and clenches around nothing, achingly empty. She leisurely rubs your wet folds as if it was her first time exploring you, delighting in the soft moans you breathe out over her skin. A shiver runs down her spine and were you more sober-headed, you would have noticed the small tremble of her limbs at the sensation.

You long for her fingers inside you, stuffing you to the brim until you can’t take any more, but Bleu is no longer interested in your wants and needs and rather prioritizes her own desire to enjoy the feel of you against her skin. Her hand fits snugly inside your soaked panties, she runs down your slit almost in wonderment of the depth of your attraction to her then plunges only the tip of her digit just past your entrance. The rounded edge of her nail sends a sharp thrum of pleasure through you, pleasantly tightening your insides, and you can’t help sinking your teeth in the creamy expanse of skin before you in response in an attempt at muffling the pitiful noise that tumbles from your lips. You vaguely hear a soft hiss somewhere through the haze of your addled mind. It feels so good, what little she gives you. You’re unable to do much but clamp around her finger in a greedy demand for more.

“Ah, careful…” Bleu chastises in amusement but still tilts her head to the side and gives you more access to her neck.

You playfully suck the bitten skin into your mouth until it turns a gorgeous shade of reds and purples and her grip on your hip tightens fractionally as a pretty gasp escapes her. Your tongue swipes over the newly formed bruise, such a sharp colored contrast to the smooth beiges of her bare body. In the afternoon sun, it shines with the sheen of your saliva like the golden bangles around her wrist. Her finger doesn’t push any further inside you, its owner momentarily caught in the sensations of your mouth on her, so you take the opportunity provided by lapse in control to grind against her and litter her neck with love bites. Your clit grazes the heel of her palm, pulling yet another helpless mewl from you.

“God, fuck,” there’s a clear rasp at the edges of your voice, perhaps it’s what brings Vautour Bleu out of her daze because what follows is what you’ve anticipated for ages— she buries her finger into you in one smooth movement, the metal band around the first knuckle brushing the edge of your entrance, and you almost gush into her hand instantly.

You moan into her, drawn out and lustful, eyes fluttering close .Your hand flexes in her hair, gripping her long locks tightly as you adjust to the intrusion. Your mouth closes in on her once more seemingly instinctively, marking her shoulder with teeth indents and saliva, and this time the airy moan coming from Vautour Bleu is clear to your ears. She brushes up the walls of your cunt and effectively coats her digit in your arousal before slowly thrusting into you. You feel the pleasure in your gut and it spreads to the tip of your toes, making your thighs clench around hers and your mouth utter near unintelligible words or phrases in encouragement. Vautour Bleu smells of datura flowers and something sweet you can’t quite place, comforting and intoxicating all at once. You lose not only your composure but all thoughts not pertaining to her fucking you on her lap.

“Mmh, since you’re so intent on using that mouth, ma chérie, why don’t you tell me how this feels?”

Her playful words are followed by a second finger sliding inside your clenching pussy without an ounce of resistance. Your chest stutters for an instant, and you don’t register her free hand wandering up your waist to pinch at your nipple when you take too long to answer.

“Hah…!” You can barely reply to her taunting, eyebrows pinched in pleasure and a hint of pain from the sudden added layer of stimulation. “Fuck—”

“So vulgar. Are you such a mess already? I’m only using two.”

Deliberately, her pace quickens as you part your lips to answer and the wind is knocked out of you a second time. You tug at her hair in retaliation and her head is pulled backwards, to which she simply chuckles. You give up on spoken words and instead press your lips to her neck, planting hasty kisses all the way up to her jaw. Her fingers curl deliciously on their way out of your cunt then plunge back in and spread apart in scissoring motions that have your arms trembling around her neck. The best part of loving her pretty, jewelry-adorned fingers is that she knows how to use them. You meet each thrust with your hips as best as you can but your mind is hazy and when she shifts to press her lips against yours in a firm kiss, you struggle to even reciprocate. Her tongue licks at your lips, prompting them to open, and her kiss turns messy quickly. Clearly she doesn’t mind leading while you’re overwhelmed, slipping into your mouth and swiping over the bottom of your upper teeth, the flat of your tongue, the underside of it. A trail of saliva, yours or hers or both, gathers at the corner of your lips. She steals the air from your lungs with every kiss she takes from you and every thrust inside your gushing pussy. The wet sounds of her fingers inside you and her mouth on yours are positively sinful, filling the open living room of Vautour Bleu’s apartment. In the heat of the moment, you both forget the open patio doors steadily letting in the gentle breeze wandering through Désir.

She withdraws from you to speak, her breath short, “Can you take another, mon coeur?” She asks, already teasing your entrance with a third finger.

“H-Huh?...”

“You can, can’t you? Heh, perhaps you’ll come immediately, I can feel you getting close…”

Bleu tests her theory by inching her digit into you to join the other two, and your mouth falls open in a silent, blissful cry. She stuffs you full and the coil in your lower stomach nearly snaps at the dizzying sensation. Her left hand travels down your side and up your back as if to ease the transition. She hungrily watches the emotions play out on your face, the quiver of your bottom lip, the crease between your brows, the flutter of your lashes— she drinks them all in as the telltale squelching noise of her fingers paired with your desperately needy moans muffle both of your ears. Your cunt squeezes her digits, sucking them in deeper, and she knows you’ll fall over the edge right before you do. Your body tenses, toes curled and fingers closing into a fist, and in the next instant, you cream around her fingers. She slows her pace but keeps you filled up, switching to a tantalizing massage to prolong your orgasm. The moans out your mouth are a broken symphony that Vautour Bleu deeply revels in. You lean into her with the force of your orgasm and she is there to hold you with an arm around your back, soothing caresses along the curve of your spine.

Your heart pounds for long moments after the brunt of your high has passed. You pant into her skin, and she allows you time to slowly come back from your peak with some soft French words spoken into your hair that you don’t know the meaning of. Vautour Bleu gently slips out of your overstimulated pussy, one finger after the other, and you bite your cheek at the feeling of her nails grazing your walls.

“Ah…” You feel her leave your ruined underwear altogether and spare a glance at her cum-covered hand once it reaches your line of sight. Your mind is starting to clear and you have the decency to be slightly embarrassed by how drenched it is.

“This might be a record,” she wonders out loud, amused and a touch impressed as she examines the slick dripping from her wrist, “what do you think?”

You don’t respond, flustered by her observation, but your current speechless state doesn’t seem to bother her.

“What was it you said? You wanted my fingers buried deep, and then…”

Vautour Bleu teasingly lifts her fingers to her lips and sucks them in, tasting you fully while you stare at her disappearing digits until they come out coated in a mix of spit and cum. She licks up the palm of her hand and smiles wide at the entranced look on your face as you watch her, unable to tear your gaze from her tongue. She pulls you close by the lapel of your shirt, languidly meeting your mouth with her own in a tangy kiss. You melt further into her embrace. Her slow kisses and praises uttered across your lips make you giddy despite the heaviness of your body. You stay like this for some time, with her hand absentmindedly rubbing your back and her mouth everywhere she can reach— she plants kisses to the corner of your lips, your jaw, your cheek, and the muscles of your face start to hurt from how big you’re smiling.

It’s only when Vautour Bleu decidedly pulls away from you that you’re made aware of how uncomfortably the fabric of your soaked underwear clings to your skin, and you shift one too many times on her lap for her to notice your predicament.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we? I think I’m due for a nice nap. Will you stay?”

“Of course.”

You don’t tell her that you would stay past today, past tomorrow and the following weeks, but you think that maybe she knows because the colored depths of her eyes gleam with something other than the sunlight as she offers you her clean hand to help you up.