A drabble of reader wanting to stay buried in Vander's massive tits despite the subpar airflow plz and thank you
You find yourself standing in the storage room of The Last Drop, gripping the edge of a shelf so hard your knuckles have gone white. The light overhead buzzes with relentless persistence, each flicker another needle under your skin. You came down here for water, or whiskey, or some excuse to move when staying still felt impossible, but now you can't remember why any of it mattered.
The exhaustion sits heavy in your bones, the kind that sleep can't touch because it comes from fighting yourself every waking moment. From trying to make peace with a body that feels like it belongs to someone else, from the dysphoria that presses against your ribs like something alive and hungry, obstructing each unsteady breath.
"Hey." Vander's voice cuts through the white noise in your head, low and careful. You hadn't heard him come in, but somehow you're not surprised—he has a way of appearing when the world gets too sharp around the edges.
You turn to face him, trying to arrange your features into something that resembles okay, but his pale eyes take you in with that quiet, careful attention that misses nothing. He doesn't ask if you're alright—he can see that you're not.
"Want to talk about it?" he asks, and the simplicity of it, the lack of pressure to explain or perform, makes something in your chest crack open.
You shake your head, lower lip trembling, not trusting your voice.
"Come here," he says, so gentle it's almost a whisper, and opens his arms.
You don't hesitate. You can't—the gravity of him pulls you forward, and suddenly you're pressing against him, face buried against the soft cotton of his shirt. His arms come around you immediately, broad and encompassing, pulling you close until there's no space left between you. His heartbeat thrums steady and strong beneath your ear, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, the gentle expansion of his ribcage. The scent of him surrounds you—cedar soap and ale and something indefinably warm that's just Vander.
The pressure should be uncomfortable, should make the trapped feeling worse, but instead it's like being held together by something stronger than yourself.
"This alright?" he murmurs, his arms encircling you completely, one hand settling between your shoulder blades while the other cradles the back of your head. "Not too much?"
In response, you press your face deeper into the cleft between his pecs, seeking that perfect pocket of warmth and safety. The fabric of his shirt is soft from countless washes, and you can feel the steady heat of his skin beneath it, the solid reality of muscle and bone that makes him feel unshakeable.
"Can you even breathe down there?" he asks, and there's a hint of amused fondness in his voice that makes something tight in your chest loosen. His thumb traces a gentle arc along your scalp as he speaks.
"Sort of," you mumble against his chest, the words vibrating through the cotton. You don't move away—instead, you somehow manage to nestle even closer, your nose pressed against the seam where his shirt meets skin. "Don't let go."
He stills for a moment, then his embrace tightens, drawing you even closer. "I won't, love," he promises, voice rough with something that sounds like understanding.
pairing: halsin x reader, they/them pronouns, no use of y/n
rating: explicit
beta: @avarkriss
summary:
Looking up, your breath caught slightly. The man approaching the counter was tall—very tall—with broad shoulders that strained against a well-worn flannel shirt in deep green, the knees of his canvas work pants stained with earth. His brown hair fell just past his collar, half of it pulled back away from his face to reveal tributaries of scars that began at his temple and reappeared on his chin. But it was his eyes that made you momentarily forget where you were—hazel shot through with gold flecks, the color of the first leaves to usher in autumn.
He moved with a quiet confidence that seemed to settle the air around him, and you caught the faint scent of something outdoorsy—juniper and pine needles—as he approached.
Smokey kiss with Vander... "you'll learn to love it..." *inhales heavyly* SMOKEY KISS WITH VANDER TO TEACH US TO LOVE IT
acquired taste
vander x gn reader | 524 words
The Last Drop settles into its nightly slumber – chairs upturned on tables, floors swept clean of the day’s debris, the constant hum of conversation replaced by comfortable silence. You finish polishing the last of the glassware while Vander counts the evening’s earnings, his large hands moving deftly despite their size.
Task complete, he reaches into his worn leather jacket, extracting an intricately carved pipe and small pouch of tobacco. The ritual is familiar by now – his broad shoulders relaxing as he settles onto a barstool, strong fingers expertly packing the bowl with practiced motions. You find yourself watching the way the dim light catches on the silver at his temples, contrasting with the darker strands framing his bearded face.
“Don’t know how you can stand that stuff,” you comment, leaning against the counter with feigned casualness.
Vander meets your gaze, those expressive blue eyes crinkling slightly at the corners as he strikes a match against his thumbnail with an effortlessness that makes your breath catch. The small flame illuminates the sharp planes of his face, casting shadows that accentuate his strong jaw and the fullness of his lips.
“Acquired taste,” he replies, voice carrying that rumbling depth that never fails to send warmth cascading through your system. He brings the flame to the bowl, inhaling slowly, the tobacco glowing amber as smoke curls upward in lazy spirals.
“Definitely not one I’ll be acquiring,” you counter, watching as he exhales, the rich scent of spiced tobacco filling the space between you – earthy, slightly sweet, unmistakably him.
A hint of that rare smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “I think you could learn to love it,” he murmurs.
“Yeah?” you challenge, pulse quickening at the dark amusement in his gaze.
“Yeah,” he confirms, the single syllable somehow both promise and warning.
Before you can respond, his large hand rises to cup your jaw, fingers splayed along your cheek with surprising gentleness. The calloused pad of his thumb traces your lower lip, parting it slightly as he leans forward on the stool. His eyes hold yours, seeking permission without words.
You yield willingly, breath hitching as he takes another slow draw from the pipe before setting it aside. His face hovers inches from yours, close enough that you feel the heat radiating from his skin. When his lips part, he exhales deliberately, the smoke drifting into your slightly opened mouth – warm, fragrant, intimate in a way that makes your knees weaken.
The taste floods your senses – cloves and honeyed oak, undercut with something distinctly masculine that’s all him. Before you can process the sensation fully, his mouth claims yours, beard surprisingly soft against your skin as his lips press firmly against your own. The lingering smoke passes between you, intensifying the taste, his tongue seeking entrance with unhurried confidence.
When he finally pulls back, satisfaction evident in his expression, you find yourself chasing the contact, leaning into the broad palm still cradling your face.
“Still think you won’t acquire the taste?” he asks, voice rougher than before, pupils dilated with obvious desire despite his controlled exterior.
rating: explicit
word count: 3.7k
warnings: shameless smut, porn without plot, jealousy, resolved sexual tension, dirty talk, oral sex (fem receiving), possessiveness, subby silco if you squint, 'good girl' + other pet names. no use of y/n
[ao3]
“Is that what you wanted?” he questioned, his voice dropping lower as he crowded you against his office door, “To make me watch while you let that worthless nobody touch what’s mine?”
The admission hung in the air between you as his gaze burned into you, demanding an answer.
“Yours?” you challenged softly, “that’s interesting, considering how deliberately you’ve been pushing me away all this time.”
He reached for you then, his hand dropping to his side before it found you, clenching into a fist.
“Pushing you away?” he murmured, a short, bitter laugh punctuating his response. “No. On the contrary, I have let you get closer—far closer than I ever should have. Do you have any idea how hard I’ve fought to maintain what precious distance I am able to keep from you?”
undisclosed desires
You’d chosen your outfit for the evening carefully, selecting an ensemble that would draw his attention without being too obvious in its intention. A part of you felt slightly embarrassed that you’d resorted to such measures, but after months of subtle attempts to convey how you felt about him had been met with that same practiced distance he maintained with everyone, you had grown almost desperate in your need to provoke a reaction from him. Even contempt would be better than indifference.
The Last Drop was crowded tonight, the thrumming bassline vibrating the floor beneath your boots as you wove through a mass of bodies to position yourself just below the balcony he often occupied. You resisted the urge to look up, but you could feel his presence — could picture him standing there, hands folded behind his back as he surveyed the scene below. How many times you had stood beside him, the distance between you a fathomless chasm, cataloguing the elegant lines of his profile. Hoping he wouldn’t catch you staring. Hoping even more that he would.
There was nothing especially memorable about the man who approached you, though he was handsome enough in a plain way. What he lacked in looks he made up for in enthusiasm, eagerly drawing your back against his chest as you undulated to the pulse of the music. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you even closer, and you tried to ignore that the shape of them was all wrong, the fingers too broad as they dug into your skin. Nothing like the fine-boned hands of the man watching you from above, whose stare was now too heavy to ignore.
Tipping your head back against the shoulder of your nameless partner, you caught a groan escape from his lips as you rolled your hips back.
“Fuck, you’re so hot,” the man breathed out, and you forced a smile, willing yourself to keep up the false display for your audience of one.
Unable to stop yourself from glancing up, you caught sight of Silco’s jaw tightening for the briefest of moments before his usual placid expression slid back into place. He held your gaze for a beat, his face betraying nothing, before he turned and strode in the direction of his office, disappearing from your line of vision. You tried to swallow around the lump in your throat, but found yourself unable to, suddenly suffocated by the closeness of the man behind you and the heat of his breath on your neck.
“I’ll be right back,” you told him, disentangling yourself before he could ask where you were going, pushing through the crowd toward the bar.
You were stopped in your tracks by one of Silco’s employees, his hand wrapping around your bicep firmly but carefully as he guided you through the club.
“You’re wanted upstairs,” he said by way of explanation, only relinquishing his grip once you reached the bottom of the steps.
The walk to his office felt longer than usual, anticipation and dread building in equal measure with each stride you took. He was standing at the window when you entered, the angularity of his face thrown into even deeper contrast by the sickly glow of the city lights behind him. He was silent for several long moments, giving you ample time to take in the rigidity of his posture, the displeasure pulling down the corners of his mouth.
“Would you care to explain,” he began, a dangerous edge to his silky voice, “what little game you think you’re playing?”
“I’m not sure how what I do in my free time is any of your concern,” you replied, watching his features go taut at your insolence.
“No?” he asked, moving toward you with a predatory grace that made you shiver. “Then perhaps you’d like to explain why you were watching so closely for my reaction when that man had his hands all over you.”
Your pulse quickened as he all but closed the distance between you, fighting to maintain your defiant expression.
“Maybe I wanted you to watch,” you told him, the words slipping out before you could trap them behind your teeth.
“Is that what you wanted?” he questioned, his voice dropping lower as he crowded you against his office door, “To make me watch while you let that worthless nobody touch what’s mine?”
The admission hung in the air between you as his gaze burned into you, demanding an answer.
“Yours?” you challenged softly, “that’s interesting, considering how deliberately you’ve been pushing me away all this time.”
He reached for you then, his hand dropping to his side before it found you, clenching into a fist.
“Pushing you away?” he murmured, a short, bitter laugh punctuating his response. “No. On the contrary, I have let you get closer—far closer than I ever should have. Do you have any idea how hard I’ve fought to maintain what precious distance I am able to keep from you?”
“No, I don’t,” you snapped, unable to keep the hurt from seeping into your voice. “It doesn’t seem to be hard for you at all.”
He let out an uncharacteristically frustrated exhalation, his good eye fluttering closed.
“Then know this,” he said, his gaze snapping back to yours, “I have lain awake every night for months , replaying every single touch, every lingering glance you’ve given me. I have spent so long trying to convince myself that keeping you at arms length was the right choice, the rational choice, only for my resolve to crumble within seconds of being in your presence.”
Your breath caught, heart beating wildly in your chest as you watched him.
“If that’s how you feel, then why—” you started.
“Because everyone I allow close becomes a weakness,” he gritted out, “because watching you dance with that man tonight made me want to tear him apart with my bare hands. Because the way you make me feel, the things you make me want—that loss of control will be my undoing. You will be my undoing—”
He stopped, seemingly struggling for words, before reaching for you, his hands cradling your face tenderly even as his lips met yours with bruising intensity.
“Tell me what I make you want,” you whispered against his mouth when you finally broke apart, your fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Everything,” he admitted roughly, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “Anything you’ll give me.”
“Silco,” you breathed, reveling in the almost pained groan he let out against your skin, “it’s all yours. I’m all yours, have been for so long—”
He drew back to look at you, his composure beautifully disheveled, chest rising and falling rapidly as he caged you against the door within his arms.
“Do you have any idea what it did to me,” he murmured, “watching you touch him like that? Knowing you were doing it to deliberately provoke me?”
His fingers found your waist as he bowed his forehead against yours, silent for a moment as he attempted to steady himself.
“I could see it in every movement,” he continued, “the way you glanced up, hoping I was watching— knowing I was watching—”
“Yes,” you admitted quietly, “I just wanted to know you felt something for me, anything—”
“I feel everything for you,” he told you, the words scraped from somewhere deep within him as he clutched at you tighter, “every moment of the day, wanting you, needing you…”
He trailed off, his hands slipping beneath the revealing top you’d chosen so carefully, his thumbs tracing possessive patterns against your sternum.
“And then you show up here, dressed like this…” he paused, his eye fluttering closed as you shivered beneath his touch, “knowing exactly what you’re doing to my control, knowing I couldn’t bear the sight of someone else touching you like this—”
You hummed in agreement, arching into the warmth of his hands.
“Yes,” you whispered, “wanted you to stop being so fucking careful and just give in.”
Tilting your head, you pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the side of his neck, inhaling the scent of cardamom and tobacco, tasting the salt of his skin.
“Fuck,” he exhaled, the uncharacteristic loss of eloquence causing scintillas of heat to race up your spine. “Getting exactly what you wanted, aren’t you?”
You nodded, trailing kisses down the column of his throat until you were hindered by his shirt collar, letting out a frustrated sound as you tried to undo his tie with trembling fingers.
“I shouldn’t reward such behavior,” he told you darkly, “shouldn’t give in to you like this when you behaved so wickedly downstairs, making me watch the way you pressed against him like he was the one you wanted—”
His hands stilled and you whimpered in protest, cupping his jaw desperately.
“You’re the only one I want,” you promised, pressing a kiss to his lips before continuing, “the only one I’ve ever wanted like this. Gods, if you knew the things I think about you…”
You trailed off, tracing his lower lip with your thumb, heart fluttering as he kissed the tip of it with unexpected tenderness.
“Tell me,” he commanded, his hands continuing their exploration of your torso, leaving your skin flushed and aching in his wake. “Make me believe you want this as badly as I do.”
Drawing in an unsteady breath, you leaned into him, your breath fluttering against his ear.
“I’ve lain awake at night thinking of you, too,” you whispered, a heat rising in your cheeks as you continued, “imagining us here, in your office, sitting on your desk while you kiss me, your hand between my legs so you can feel how wet I am for you…”
“Fuck,” he breathed out, his voice hoarse with desire, clutching at your hips.
“Pretending my hands are yours while I touch myself,” you went on, tracing the shell of his ear with your tongue, “not letting myself come until I imagine you giving me permission to—”
He sucked in a breath at your admission, turning his head to capture your lips in a dizzying kiss.
“The mouth on you, sweetheart—” he choked out, “saying things that make me want to—”
“To what?” you challenged, watching his control unravel bit by bit, “show me. Show me exactly what I make you want. Show me who I belong to.”
With that, his composure finally snapped, his mouth claiming yours in fierce, possessive kisses as he pushed your top up before finally lifting it over your head and discarding it.
“Mine,” he murmured, kissing his way down your neck, licking into the hollow of your throat as your fingers carded through his hair. “Mine to touch. Mine to taste. Only mine.”
“Silco,” you keened, clutching just tightly enough for him to exhale shakily against your stomach.
Dropping to his knees, his hands skated down your sides to stop at your waist, holding you exactly where the stranger had earlier.
“Mark me,” you begged, unable to stop yourself. “Make me forget anyone else has ever touched me, please—”
Letting out a quiet, desperate curse, he acquiesced, pressing heated kisses to your skin, erasing the memory of each point of contact from earlier with his mouth. He glanced up at you, a question in his gaze, and you nodded, gasping as his teeth sank into sensitive flesh. Each mark he placed was careful, deliberate, his tongue tenderly laving each bruise before he moved on, leaving you a trembling mess.
“Perfect,” he breathed, leaning back on his heels to admire his work, his fingertips tracing the blooms on your skin. “You’re so perfect like this, so beautiful.”
You barely had time to bask in the adoration in his voice before he was reaching for your remaining clothes, hesitating at your zipper as if waiting for permission before you urged him on with a whispered plea. With painstaking slowness he dragged the garments down your legs until you could step out of them, kicking them to the side to join the rest of your outfit. Silently, reverently, he lifted one of your legs to hitch it over his shoulder, turning to the side to press a line of kisses to the inside of your thigh.
“Tell me you want this,” he urged you, looking up pleadingly. “Tell me I can have you—”
You nodded frantically, nearly sobbing with need.
“You can have me,” you babbled hoarsely, “you can have all of me, I’m yours, only yours—have been for so long—”
He let out a gratified curse, leaning forward and engulfing you in the heat of his mouth, moaning at the taste of the arousal gathered there. Your hips jolted forward at the contact, and you let out a soft cry as his tongue flattened against your clit. The sound seemed to bring him back to himself, pulling away and getting to his feet even as you whimpered in protest at the loss of his touch.
“Need you in my bed,” he told you, grabbing your waist and drawing you flush against him, “need to know that I’m the only one who gets to hear those pretty little sounds you’re making.”
His hand slipped between your legs, fingertips brushing against you teasingly before he covered your mouth with his, swallowing your moan. He walked you into his bedroom, his thumb tracing achingly light patterns against your clit all the while, stopping only to lock the door behind him. It was quieter here, the pounding bassline of the club a dull muffle beneath your feet as you watched him, your trembling breath audible above the faint music. When he reached for you again, you caught his wrist, giving a single shake of your head.
“Get undressed,” you said, somewhere between a request and a demand, and he halted momentarily, a vulnerable look flashing across his face. “Please,” you added, finding the fastenings of his vest, “let me see you.”
He nodded, his hands covering yours as you started on his tie, gently guiding your movements until you could pull it from his collar and let it drop to the floor, where it was soon joined by his vest. Slowly, deliberately, you began undoing the buttons of his shirt, covering every inch of skin in kisses as it was revealed to you. A tremor ran through him as you pressed a kiss to his sternum before taking a step back, pushing his shirt open to expose the lean, elegant lines of his torso.
“Gorgeous,” you breathed out, reveling in the sight of the corded muscles of his forearms, the map of silvery scars that adorned the left side of his body, the tributary of dark hair that began beneath his navel and disappeared into his waistband.
You circled him slowly, your hand anchored on his narrow waist, leaning up to whisper in his ear.
“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” you asked, inhaling the scent of spiced cologne and pomade mixed with the lingering cigar smoke that clung to his skin. “How perfect?”
He didn’t answer but you felt him shiver as you placed a tender kiss between his sharp shoulder blades, your hand slipping down into the front of his trousers.
“Take these off for me,” you murmured, kissing the nape of his neck once before he acquiesced, shucking off the remainder of his clothes and turning to face you.
Cupping your jaw in his hands, he kissed you slowly, licking into your mouth as the warmth of his skin seeped into you, stoking your burning need into an inferno.
“Silco,” you pleaded against his lips, arching into him.
“Say it again,” he commanded, walking you backwards toward his bed, lifting you onto the edge of the mattress and fitting a hand back between your legs.
You obliged, watching his face transform with something like wonder.
“Again,” he breathed against your mouth, his fingertips sliding through your slick heat as you shifted beneath him, desperate for more. “Keep saying it. Let me hear how my name sounds when you’re completely undone.”
You bit back a sob as one of his fingers sunk into you, his thumb drawing insistent circles against your clit.
“Silco–” you cried out, an incoherent mixture of curses and pleas falling from your lips as a second finger joined the first, beckoning at something deep within you.
Kneeling beside the bed, he bowed his head between your thighs as if in prayer, his tongue replacing his thumb, licking at the most sensitive part of you as you clenched around him. His moans vibrated against your core as he devoured you, letting out soft sounds of need that seemed beyond his control to contain. When your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him even closer, his efforts intensified, each touch intent on making you fall apart for him.
“Baby, please—” you gasped, the endearment earning a desperate groan from him, his gaze lifting up to meet yours. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop—” you urged, a telling heat creeping up your chest as you felt yourself go taut.
When you came with his name on your lips, he made a sound that was almost broken with need, working you through it slowly and methodically, pressing soft kisses to your aching flesh. Overwhelmed, you stifled a sob into the back of your hand, squeezing your eyes shut as tears began to well up. In an instant, he was there, wiping the salt from your skin with his thumbs, capturing your cries in his mouth.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured soothingly, “so perfect. The way you look when you fall apart for me…the sounds you make…the way you taste—” he broke off, bringing his fingers to his mouth to suck them clean of your arousal.
“Fuck,” you whimpered, the ache between your legs already returning as you watched him, “come here, please—wanna feel you, all of you—”
Pushing yourself back to make room for him, you pulled him down beside you, gasping as he slotted his thigh between your legs, giving you something to grind down on as he kissed you.
“That’s right,” he murmured approvingly against your mouth, “take what you need, sweetheart.”
He pulled back slightly, groaning at the sight of you undulating against him, before looking back at you, a possessiveness in his gaze that made you tremble. His thigh flexed against your sensitive flesh and you whined, leaning into his touch as he cupped your face with one hand. The pad of his thumb traced your lower lip, and you opened for him instinctively, moaning as he pressed down on your tongue.
“Oh, good girl,” he praised softly, the words pulling a muffled whimper from deep within you as you ground your hips against him, seeking the friction you needed to ease the throb between your legs.
It was too much and not enough all at once, the feeling of him everywhere but where you desired him most. Carefully, you shifted your positions so that you were straddling him as he pushed himself back against the pillows. As he pulled his thumb from between your lips, you caught his wrist, pressing a tender kiss to his palm before pinning both his wrists over his head.
“What are you doing?” he asked, shifting beneath you as you bent down to kiss him.
“Taking what I need,” you whispered in response, sinking down onto him inch by inch, so full of him it forced the air from your lungs.
“Fuck,” he gritted out, throwing his head back, exposing the column of his throat as you began to move. “Gods, you feel perfect. Like you were fucking made for me—”
“I was,” you murmured, slowly circling your hips down as you pressed open-mouthed kisses along his sharp jawline.
He arched up into you, breathing out your name with a reverence that made your heart stutter.
“Let me touch you,” he begged, whining in protest when you shook your head and adding, “ please—”
“Not yet,” you told him, “I want you like this a while longer. You look so fucking perfect like this,” you continued, and though he let out a frustrated curse, he relented, his hands unclenching from where you had bound them over his head.
You slowed your movements, watching as he surrendered to you, a beautiful flush rising in his chest. His lips were kiss-swollen and indented where he had worried at them with his teeth, errant locks of dark hair falling across his forehead, every shred of his usual composure gone. In its place was Silco as only you would ever see him, completely and utterly wrecked, gazing up at you with unabashed devotion.
“So good for me,” you praised, delighting in the shiver that ran through him at your words. “Making me feel so fucking good—”
He let out a sharp exhalation, straining against you once more.
“I can make it even better for you,” he gasped, “just let me touch you, I’ll make it so fucking good for you, please— please let me touch you—”
Your resolve crumbled.
“Yes,” you breathed, relinquishing your hold on him, “touch me—”
He complied without a moment’s hesitation, one hand reaching for the place where your bodies met, the other curling around your hip, both working in tandem to bring you closer to the edge.
“Silco, Silco, Silco,” you whimpered, any semblance of coherent speech now gone, his name the only word you could conjure.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his brow furrowed intently, focused entirely on your pleasure, “just like that. Let go for me.”
With one last cry of his name, you did. Trembling, you grabbed his hand as he slowly withdrew it from between your thighs, interlacing your fingers with his as he sought his own release. When he came, your name a broken plea on his lips, you brought his knuckles to your mouth, softly kissing each one before bending down to rest your forehead against his. You stayed there a moment, listening as his breathing slowed before pressing a gentle kiss to his lips and whispering,
“Yours.”
You felt his mouth curve into a small smile as he repeated the word back to you.
We need your hcs for Vander in a romance. Is he romantic? What does he love the most about being in love? Give us ALL
is he romantic? yes! but not in like a grand, sweeping gestures or dramatic declarations type of way. more in a steady, quietly devoted way.
his brand of romance is practical but no less meaningful for its pragmatism: remembering preferences, anticipating needs and responding to them without being asked, always thinking of ways to make your life not only easier but also just better.
he's romantic through his presence and attention. he listens with his whole body when you talk, positioning himself to give you his undivided focus. even when you're discussing something you might deem inconsequential, he treats it with the same gravity as he does a serious conversation because to him, everything you say matters.
he's a possessive but it's not controlling—it's cherishing. he wants to claim you publicly because you're precious to him, not because he wants to own you. when he calls you his, it's him acknowledging both the responsibility and the privilege of being your partner, letting you know that it isn't something he takes for granted.
what does he love most about being in love?
being in love gives him the ability to channel his natural caretaking instincts without restraint and in a different way than how he would channel those instincts towards the kids/friends/community members.
because with everyone else, he's fulfilling that role as a caretaker due to others needing that from him. with his partner, he can be wanted and not just needed. devoted, not just dutiful.
rating: explicit
word count: 4.6k
warnings: porn without plot, dirty talk, oral fixation, spit kink, thigh riding, dry humping, possessive + dominant vander. gender neutral pronouns, no use of y/n.
[ao3] [beta @avarkriss]
When he finally speaks, his voice carries that rumbling depth that never fails to send shivers along your spine.
“So that’s it? You’ve been snapping at me all night because you’re tired?” he asks, a hint of amused condescension warming his tone. “Interesting. I’ve seen you work double shifts without this sort of behavior.” He steps closer, his imposing frame making the storeroom feel suddenly smaller. “Want to try again? Or do you want me to try and guess what’s really bothering you?”
You glare up at him defiantly. “I want you to guess,” you reply, the challenge clear.
“So you can be honest about what you want,” he says thoughtfully, studying you with those pale blue eyes that seem to see straight through your defenses. “Alright then.”
The Last Drop hums with its usual late-night energy — the clink of glasses, murmured conversations, occasional bursts of laughter from the corner where Benzo is entertaining regulars with exaggerated stories. You’ve been working alongside Vander for months now, long enough to anticipate the rhythm of the place, to move efficiently behind the bar without colliding with him despite the limited space.
Tonight, though, every near-miss feels charged with electricity. When his broad shoulder brushes yours as you reach for the same bottle, you find yourself irritated by the contact rather than apologetic. It's been building for weeks — this hyperawareness of his presence, the way your body seems to track his movements even when you're focused on other tasks.
“Low on Gray Harbor,” he says, his deep voice carrying that gruff authority that somehow never feels domineering despite his imposing size. “Should be more in the back storeroom.”
“I know where it is,” you snap, immediately regretting the sharp tone. It’s not his fault that you’ve spent the last three nights dreaming about those large hands, wondering how they might feel against your skin rather than merely passing you clean glasses.
He pauses in wiping down the counter, a slight furrow appearing between his brows as his expressive blue eyes study you with careful attention.
“Everything alright?” he asks, the question simple but weighted with genuine concern.
“Fine,” you mutter, focusing intently on measuring out precise amounts for a Midnight Oil.
Your hands betray you, though, trembling slightly as you pour. Vander notices — of course he does, he notices everything –— but doesn’t comment. Instead, he positions himself slightly between you and a rowdy group that’s just entered, a subtle protective gesture so ingrained he likely doesn’t realize he's doing it.
Somehow, this unconscious consideration irritates you further.
The night continues with this strange tension humming beneath ordinary service. You find yourself increasingly frustrated by his measured calmness, by the careful way he maintains professional distance despite the cramped conditions behind the bar. When he reaches past you for the cavernberry-infused gin, his movements deliberately slow to telegraph his intentions and avoid startling you, you nearly drop the glass you’re holding.
“Careful,” he says, steadying your hand with his own for just a moment before withdrawing. The brief contact sends heat cascading through your system that has nothing to do with the Last Drop’s perpetual warmth.
“I don’t need your help,” you bite out, pulling away with more force than necessary.
A slight lift of his eyebrow is his only immediate response — that and the thoughtful pause that follows, where he seems to be weighing options with characteristic deliberation. The silence stretches between you, broken when a particularly demanding customer snaps his fingers to get your attention. Vander shifts his substantial frame slightly, turning to address the man with quiet authority that immediately dampens the aggressive display.
“They’ll be with you in a moment,” he says simply, his low voice carrying that particular tone that brooks no argument despite its even delivery.
The protective gesture only deepens your irritation. “I can handle difficult customers myself,” you tell him once the man has been served, your voice sharper than intended.
“Never said you couldn’t,” Vander replies with infuriating calmness, continuing to dry glasses with practiced motions. His large hands handle the delicate glassware with surprising gentleness, a contrast that draws your eye more often than you’d care to admit.
By closing time, your nerves are completely frayed. Every measured word, every careful movement, every considerate gesture has somehow managed to increase your frustration rather than alleviate it. When he suggests you take inventory while he handles the last few customers, you nearly snap the pencil you’re holding.
“I can finish up out front,” you counter, deliberately contradicting him for reasons you’re not entirely willing to examine.
He studies you for a long moment, those perceptive eyes seeing far more than you’re comfortable revealing. Then he does something unexpected — he leans slightly closer, his imposing frame commanding attention without effort.
“Take a break,” he says, the words falling somewhere between suggestion and instruction. “You haven’t had one all night.”
“I don’t need a break,” you insist, stubborn despite your exhaustion.
Something shifts in his expression then — a subtle darkening in his eyes, a slight straightening of his already impressive posture. The change is minimal but unmistakable, transforming his presence from merely authoritative to commanding.
“I think I know what you need,” he says, his voice dropping lower, rougher at the edges. He turns to Benzo, who’s been pretending not to notice the tension brewing between you as he nurses a beer at the far end of the counter. “Watch the bar for me, would you?”
Before you can protest, his hand settles at the small of your back — not pushing, but guiding with gentle pressure that somehow feels impossible to resist. He leads you toward the storeroom at the back, his touch burning through the thin fabric of your shirt.
The heavy door closes behind you with a decisive click, plunging the small space into relative quiet after the constant noise of the bar. Vander turns to face you, crossing his arms across his broad chest as he leans against a shelf of supplies. In the confined space, his height and breadth seem even more imposing, yet he’s careful to leave you room to exit if desired — never using his size to trap or intimidate.
“What’s your problem with me tonight?” he asks directly, his gruff tone softened by genuine confusion rather than anger. “And don’t say ‘nothing’ — we both know better.”
The direct confrontation, this evidence he’s been aware of your strange mood throughout the evening, momentarily steals your ability to respond. Heat rises to your cheeks as you search for an explanation that doesn’t reveal too much of your increasingly complicated feelings toward him.
“I don’t have a problem,” you attempt, the weak deflection sounding unconvincing even to your own ears.
Vander sighs, running a hand through his hair in a rare gesture of mild frustration.
“We’ve worked together long enough for honesty, don’t you think?” he says, studying you with that level gaze that seems to see beyond surface pretenses. “If I’ve done something to upset you—”
“You haven’t done anything,” you cut in, avoiding eye contact. That’s precisely the issue, your mind unhelpfully adds.
Understanding dawns in his expression, something darkening in his eyes that sends a flutter through your chest despite your irritation. He pushes himself away from the shelf, taking a single, slow step toward you.
“So, what then?” he prompts, his deep voice pitched lower than usual, resonating in the small space between you.
The tension stretches taut between you, charged with months of unacknowledged awareness. His proximity makes it difficult to maintain your fragile composure, every careful breath drawing in the scent that’s distinctly him – spiced tobacco and oak mixed with the subtle sweetness of honeyed wine.
“I’m just—” you falter, looking away from his intense gaze. “It’s nothing. Just tired, I guess. Long day.” The feeble excuse hangs in the air between you, transparent in its inadequacy.
When he finally speaks, his voice carries that rumbling depth that never fails to send shivers along your spine.
“So that’s it? You’ve been snapping at me all night because you’re tired?” he asks, a hint of amused condescension warming his tone. “Interesting. I’ve seen you work double shifts without this sort of behavior.” He steps closer, his imposing frame making the storeroom feel suddenly smaller. “Want to try again? Or do you want me to try and guess what’s really bothering you?”
You glare up at him defiantly. “I want you to guess,” you reply, the challenge clear.
“So you can be honest about what you want,” he says thoughtfully, studying you with those pale blue eyes that seem to see straight through your defenses. “Alright then.”
He circles you slowly, his large frame moving with surprising grace in the confined space. You feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, raising goosebumps along your skin despite the storeroom’s warmth.
“You’ve been watching me all night,” he begins, his deep voice pitched low enough that you have to focus entirely on him to catch the words. “Every time I handle the glasses, when I reach for the bottles on the high shelf, when I step between you and particularly difficult customers.”
He stops directly in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “You’re not irritated with me,” he says with quiet certainty. “You’re irritated with yourself for noticing these things.”
Heat floods your cheeks at his accurate assessment, but pride keeps your chin lifted defiantly. “That's quite an assumption.”
“Not an assumption,” he counters, a hint of that rare smile ghosting across his features. “An observation. I pay attention too, you know.”
The implication sends your heart racing — the possibility that he’s been as aware of you as you have been of him, cataloging each of your reactions and responses for future reference.
“So what if I’ve been watching?” you snap, crossing your arms defensively. “It’s a small space. Hard not to notice who you’re working with.”
Vander’s eyebrow lifts slightly, unconvinced by your flimsy explanation. “There’s noticing,” he says, “and then there’s what you’ve been doing.”
He takes another step forward, eliminating what little space remained between you without quite making contact. “Your fingers tremble when our hands touch passing glasses,” he observes, his voice dropping to a rumble that you feel as much as hear. “Your breathing changes when I stand close. You’ve memorized my movements so thoroughly you can anticipate them, yet you’ve been deliberately moving against that pattern all night.”
His hand rises slowly, giving you ample time to retreat if desired, before his calloused fingers brush a strand of hair from your face. The simple contact sends electricity coursing through your system, confirming everything he’s just articulated.
“Tell me I'm wrong,” he challenges softly.
Words stick in your throat, trapped behind pride and uncertainty. His gaze holds yours, patient yet unyielding, waiting for honesty he clearly already knows is coming.
“You’re not wrong,” you admit finally, the confession barely audible despite the quiet storeroom.
Something shifts in his expression — satisfaction mingled with a darker hunger that transforms his usually composed features. One large hand slides to cup your cheek, thumb brushing along your cheekbone in a way that makes your knees feel suddenly unreliable.
“Was that so difficult?” he asks, the condescension now tempered with genuine warmth.
“Yes,” you reply honestly, earning a low laugh that vibrates through the minimal space between you.
“Stubborn,” he observes, though the word carries appreciation rather than criticism. “I’ve always liked that about you.”
Before you can respond, his other hand settles at your waist, spanning nearly half your ribcage with ease.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, the instruction contradicted by the certainty evident in his posture, in the careful way he’s positioned you against the shelves. He’s not expecting rejection — he’s giving you one final opportunity to retreat into comfortable denial.
“I don’t want you to stop,” you tell him, surprising yourself with the steadiness in your voice despite the heat pooling low in your belly.
Something darkens in his gaze at your response, his control visibly shifting from absolute to merely exceptional. When he speaks, his voice carries that commanding tone that never fails to send shivers along your spine.
“Then stop fighting what you want,” he says, drawing you closer. “And let me give it to you.”
When his mouth finds yours, there’s nothing hesitant in the contact — just absolute certainty, the culmination of tension that’s been building since you first stepped behind his bar. His beard is surprisingly soft against your skin, a contrast to the firm pressure of his lips as they claim yours with unhurried confidence.
You yield willingly, hands finally rising to grip his shoulders, feeling the substantial muscle beneath the worn fabric of his shirt. He makes a sound of approval low in his throat, the vibration passing between you as his hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, eliminating what little space remained between your bodies.
The kiss deepens, his control becoming less absolute as your fingers thread through his hair, tugging slightly with newfound boldness. The action draws a growl from him that sends heat flooding through your system — evidence that he isn’t as unshakable as he appears.
When he finally pulls back, his breathing is noticeably affected, pupils dilated with obvious desire despite his otherwise composed exterior. His thumb traces your lower lip, slightly swollen from his attention.
“Seems I finally found a way to keep that smart mouth of yours occupied,” he says, voice rough with satisfaction. “Should’ve tried this weeks ago.”
The arrogance in his tone should infuriate you, but instead sends another wave of heat coursing through your veins, your body betraying any attempt at indignation. Torn between irritation and desire, you fix him with a glare as you catch his thumb between your lips, sucking the tip of it into your mouth.
His pupils dilate instantly, a barely perceptible shudder running through his substantial frame. “Careful,” he warns, voice dropping to a dangerous rumble as he withdraws his thumb, replacing it with two fingers that press insistently against your lower lip. “Don’t start something you can't finish.”
You part your lips willingly, accepting the intrusion, watching his expression darken further as you swirl your tongue around his fingers. The taste of him is intoxicating — traces of citrus from the garnishes he’s handled all evening, mixed with salt from his skin. The way his fingers press against your tongue carries clear intent, a demonstration of control that sends liquid heat pooling between your thighs.
When he withdraws his fingers, they leave a trail of moisture across your lower lip that he watches with evident satisfaction. His hand drops to your throat, large enough to encircle it completely, though his touch remains gentle despite the implicit dominance of the gesture. You let out a barely audible whimper, and his grip tightens just slightly in response, never constricting but clearly displaying how easily he could if desired.
“I knew you’d be like this,” he murmurs, satisfaction evident in his tone as he studies your reaction. “Defiant on the surface, but underneath…” His thumb strokes along your pulse point, monitoring the racing heartbeat that betrays your arousal. “Underneath, you’ve been wanting someone else to take control, haven’t you?”
The accuracy of his assessment is infuriating and thrilling in equal measure. “Not someone else,” you manage, voice hoarse with need. “You.”
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes at your confession, a momentary crack in his composure that reveals just how thin his control has become. His hand tightens almost imperceptibly at your throat before he releases you, both hands moving to grip your waist instead.
“Is that what you’ve been thinking about?” he asks, sliding one muscular thigh between your legs. “While you’ve been glaring at me across the bar, imagining my hands on you?”
The truth of his words brings a flush to your cheeks that has nothing to do with the warmth of the storeroom. “Yes,” you breathe, the single syllable laden with weeks of suppressed desire as you cant your hips slightly, seeking to alleviate the growing ache between your thighs.
The slight movement draws a hum of approval from him, large hands tightening on your waist to hold you steady against his thigh. The pressure is exquisite, but deliberately inadequate — a taste of relief without true satisfaction.
“So eager,” he observes, one hand sliding up your ribcage, thumb tracing maddening circles against your over-sensitized skin. “After all that stubbornness.”
You bite your lip, struggling against the urge to arch into his touch. “Are you going to keep talking about it, or actually do something?” you demand, the challenge an attempt to regain some semblance of control despite the overwhelming desire coursing through your system.
“Do you think you deserve anything after how you’ve behaved tonight?” he asks softly, the question carrying the weight of command despite its deceptively mild delivery.
The words draw a shiver from you, a realization that his control extends beyond the physical, that he intends to make you earn whatever pleasure he might grant. The knowledge should frustrate you further, but instead deepens your arousal, your body responding to his dominance in ways your pride would never willingly acknowledge.
“No,” you admit, the confession coming easier than expected.
His satisfaction is evident in the way his eyes darken further. “At least you’re being honest now,” he says, one large hand rising to cup your jaw with surprising gentleness that contrasts with the firm grip at your waist. “But is that enough?”
His thumb traces your lower lip again, this time pressing between them with clear intent.
“Open,” he instructs simply.
You comply without hesitation, any remaining pretense of resistance dissolving under the weight of his commanding presence. He watches as you accept his thumb between your lips again, sucking gently in a gesture that draws a low sound from deep within his chest.
“Good,” he murmurs, his approval sending a wave of satisfaction through you that rivals the physical pleasure of his touch. “Now show me how sorry you are for being difficult all night.”
His free hand moves from your waist to tangle in your hair, guiding your movements as you work your tongue around his thumb, demonstrating skills you both know could be applied elsewhere. When he withdraws his thumb, replacing it with two fingers that press deeper, you accept them eagerly, hollowing your cheeks as you maintain eye contact with him. The undisguised hunger in his gaze makes your knees weak, grateful for the shelf supporting you from behind.
“So eager to please now,” he remarks, voice rough with arousal. His fingers thrust deeper, testing the limits of your throat, watching your eyes water slightly with the effort of accommodating him. “Such a dramatic change from earlier.”
Tears well up as you choke slightly on his fingers, pulling your head back just enough to give yourself a reprieve. “You’ll have to do better than that, sweetheart,” he tells you, and his disappointed tone sends a shameful pulse of desire between your legs. “How do you think you’re going to take my cock if you can barely handle my fingers?”
The challenge in his words sends a thrill through you. Determined to prove yourself, you lean forward, taking his fingers deeper, swallowing around them as tears spill down your cheeks. His expression shifts, approval replacing disappointment.
“That’s better,” he murmurs, his free hand stroking your hair with unexpected tenderness. “But I think you can take a little more.”
A third finger joins the others, stretching your mouth uncomfortably wide. Your jaw aches with the effort, but the pleased rumble that escapes his throat makes the discomfort worthwhile. Your eyes water further as you struggle to accommodate him, pride compelling you to prove your capabilities despite the challenge.
“Look at you,” he says, voice thick with appreciation. “So determined to take everything I give you.” His thumb brushes away a tear that spills down your cheek, the gentle gesture at odds with the demanding thrust of his fingers. “Let me help you take a little more.”
With that, his free hand gently grips your jaw, tilting your head back while his fingers pull away slightly, allowing him to spit into your mouth. His saliva combines with your own, creating a slick wetness that eases the renewed invasion of his fingers. The gesture is filthy, possessive, and sends a bolt of desire straight to your core.
“Better,” he says, fingers thrusting deeper with the added lubrication. “Relax your throat.”
You struggle to comply, fighting against your body’s natural resistance as his fingers press toward your throat. The stretch burns slightly, discomfort mingling with arousal in a heady combination that leaves you lightheaded. When you finally manage to swallow around his fingers, taking them to the knuckle, a flash of pride crosses his expression.
“There you go,” he praises, voice coarse with desire. “I knew you could do it.”
He withdraws his fingers slowly, leaving a trail of moisture along your chin that he doesn’t bother to wipe away. Instead, he leans down, gathering your saliva on his tongue before claiming your mouth in a kiss that’s far more demanding than the first. His thigh flexes between your legs and you moan into his mouth, grinding down against him in a desperate attempt to create the friction you need.
His large hands grip your hips firmly, stilling your desperate movements. “Not yet, honey,” he admonishes, the endearment sending a thrill through you despite it dripping in condescension. “You’ll get what you need when I decide you’ve earned it.”
The promise in his words sends another wave of heat coursing through you. His control is maddening and intoxicating all at once, your body responding to his dominance in ways you never anticipated.
“Please,” you whisper, the word slipping out before you can stop it.
“Ah,” he says as heat rises to your cheeks. “There it is.”
His eyes darken at your plea, satisfaction evident in the slight curve of his mouth. “I’ve been waiting to hear you say that,” he admits, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. “Say it again.”
“Please,” you repeat, voice steadier this time despite the way you’re trembling against him. “Please, Vander.”
His control slips visibly at the sound of his name on your lips, a shudder running through his substantial frame as his grip tightens on your neck.
“Good,” he grits out, the raw edge of approval in his voice causing a flutter in your ribcage. “And since you’ve finally learned to ask nicely…” he trails off, his hands sliding beneath the hem of your shirt to clasp your waist, dropping his mouth to your ear, “I’ll let you use my thigh to get yourself off.”
The permission ignites something feral within you. Gone is any pretense of resistance as you rock against his muscular thigh, the friction exquisite against your aching core. His hands remain firmly on your waist, guiding your movements with controlled pressure that ensures you maintain the pace he desires rather than rushing toward release.
“That’s it,” he encourages, voice dropping to that low rumble that seems to resonate directly through your body. “Show me how much you want it.”
You grip his shoulders for stability, fingers digging into the substantial muscle as you chase the building pleasure. One of his hands tangles in your hair, tugging your head back to expose your throat to his hungry mouth. The combination of pain and pleasure draws a keening sound from you that would be embarrassing if you had any capacity for shame left.
“Look at you,” he murmurs against your skin, teeth grazing your pulse point. “So desperate after all that attitude. Were you hoping I’d snap? Push you against the wall and take what we both know you’ve been aching for?”
“Yes,” you admit, the confession torn from you as his teeth scrape a particularly sensitive spot beneath your ear. The admission of your fantasies seems to fuel his hunger, his grip tightening possessively as he guides your movements against his thigh with more insistence.
“I should make you wait,” he says darkly, his tongue slipping over the indentations left by his teeth. “Keep you right on the edge until you’re begging properly.”
“Please,” you breathe out, your head dropping back against the wall, gasping as his thigh flexes beneath you once more.
“Please what?” he demands, abruptly stilling his movements.
“I want to beg,” you whisper. “Please.”
A sound halfway between a growl and a groan escapes him, his eyes darkening to midnight as he studies your flushed face. “You want to beg,” he repeats, the words carrying a weight that settles heavy in your core. “Then beg.”
“Fuck, Vander, please—I need—I need to come,” you gasp, words fragmented by desperation as you strain against his iron grip that now holds you frustratingly still. “Please let me come. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks…dreaming about your hands on me…imagining what you’d feel like—please—”
His composure fractures visibly, control slipping as his breathing grows ragged. For a moment, he simply watches you with those intense eyes, something dangerous and possessive darkening his gaze.
“Since you asked so prettily,” he finally responds, voice rough with barely restrained desire. His grip adjusts, one hand remaining tangled in your hair while the other slides down to control your movements as he positions his thigh more firmly against your center. “Show me how badly you want it.”
The permission breaks something inside you, dissolving the last fragments of your pride as you grind against him with abandoned desperation, chasing release with single-minded focus. His mouth returns to your throat, alternating between gentle kisses and sharp nips that leave marks you’ll need to hide tomorrow. The thought of carrying visible evidence of his possession sends another wave of heat through you, pushing you closer to the edge.
“Please,” you gasp again, the word now a litany falling from your lips. “Please, Vander, fuck—”
His hand tightens in your hair, the slight pain grounding your arousal rather than diminishing it as his thigh flexes beneath you, providing the perfect pressure while his mouth claims yours in a kiss that’s more possession than affection.
“That’s it,” he encourages against your lips, his large hands guiding your movements with unerring intention. “Take what you need.”
The permission unleashes something primal within you. Your hips move with increasing urgency, chasing the building pressure that coils tighter with each roll against his muscular thigh. His beard scrapes deliciously against your sensitive skin as his mouth travels along your jaw to your throat, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. The sensation of his teeth grazing your pulse point sends a fresh wave of arousal through your system, making your movements increasingly desperate as you chase your climax.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice leaving no room for disobedience despite its roughened edge.
You force your heavy lids open, meeting his intense gaze as pleasure builds to an almost unbearable peak. The vulnerability of being watched so closely while coming undone should be terrifying, but instead intensifies every sensation.
“Don’t look away,” he instructs, one hand sliding from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you more firmly against him as your movements become increasingly erratic. “Say my name when you come.”
His name falls from your lips in a breathless cry as your body seizes with pleasure, your release coursing through you with an intensity that takes you by surprise. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, seeking stability as you shudder against him.
“Good,” he murmurs, the approval in his voice sending another tremor through your oversensitized body. “So fucking good for me.”
He holds you through the aftershocks, one large hand stroking soothingly down your spine as your breathing gradually returns to normal.
“Benzo’s probably wondering where the fuck we are,” you say after a moment, the tremble in your voice betraying your attempt at humor.
A low laugh rumbles through Vander’s chest, the vibration against your still-sensitive body drawing another small shiver from you.
“Let him wonder,” he replies, his voice carrying that particular blend of authority and amusement that seems uniquely his.
His large hand continues its soothing path along your spine, the gesture feeling possessive rather than merely comforting.
“Besides,” he adds after a moment, his thumb tracing idle patterns at the small of your back, “he’s been taking bets on how long this would take since your second week.”
pairing: silco x reader, she/her pronouns, no use of y/n
rating: explicit
summary: Even having never met him, you knew immediately who he was. The head chef moved with deliberate purpose, his lean frame accentuated by his chef’s coat—not the traditional white that dominated Piltover kitchens, but a sharp black with asymmetrical copper buttons that caught the light as he moved. The garment was impeccably tailored to his form, sleeves rolled precisely to mid-forearm, revealing the deft strength of his hands. A pair of culinary tweezers protruded from his breast pocket—a subtle signal of his exacting standards and the meticulous plating for which Crucible had already become known.
beta: @avarkriss
[chef silco / fic cover by @dreadfulmallow]
[chef silco by @averagesilcoenjoyer]
[chef silco by @yubikyu]
chapter one; carefully arranged constellation
chapter two; not a flaw, but a signature
chapter three; the original architect of the concept
chapter four; when potential becomes realization
chapter five; memory preserved, then elevated
chapter six; a deliberate disruption of expectations
chapter seven; the illusion of intentionality
chapter eight; indifferent to memory, resistant to significance
chapter nine; a space briefly occupied by something unnamed
chapter ten; the small flame between you
chapter eleven; with such obvious familiarity
chapter twelve; when the world is breathlessly poised
chapter thirteen; in manageable quantities
chapter fourteen; as the body found room for language again
