avarkriss - Tumblr blog

avarkriss · 4 days ago

Text

not yet

for @beskars (sorry for edging u while i was hungover)

vanco/reader. 2k-ish. edging. afab receiving oral (like a lot of it); dirty talk; orgasm denial; delayed satisfaction; they're both meanies in this idk i was possessed when i wrote this at like.... 3am. (no y/n, no she/her, but this reader has female anatomy). unedited as per usual if you see mistakes: no you don't.

stop looking at me like that.

You barely have time to breathe before you feel it - Vander’s mouth, low and open and reverent, just as Silco shifts to sprawl across you, pinning you down with his weight and heat.

They don’t speak. They consume.

Vander licks a slow, flat line up the seam of your cunt like he’s worshipping at an altar, savoring every drop. His hands slide beneath your thighs, holding you open with a gentleness that only makes the hunger in his touch burn hotter. Above, Silco leans in - kissing Vander over you, tongues brushing through your slick, lips meeting at your center like they’ve done this before. Like they dreamed of this.

You choke on a sound - half gasp, half moan - as your spine arches, hips caught between them.

Silco groans into the kiss, one hand spreading you wider so Vander can lick deeper, slower, more precise. Vander hums low, the vibration sinking into your bones as his tongue circles, flicks, worships - tracing you like a map he intends to memorize.

It’s too much. Too good. Not enough.

You writhe, hands clutching the sheets, mouth open in a silent cry as heat coils tighter in your belly. Every time Silco rolls your clit, Vander follows with a slow, grounding drag of his tongue just below - and then they meet again, mouths brushing, tongues tangled, like they’re sharing the sweetest thing they’ve ever tasted.

“Please,” you gasp, breath caught somewhere too high to reach. “Please, I - I need -”

Vander lifts his head, voice wrecked. “Need what, honey?”

Silco licks his lips, grinning into your thigh. “You gotta say it.”

Your answer comes out as a whimper, too ragged to shape into words.

But that only makes them smile.

Silco trails two fingers up your trembling stomach, slow enough to be cruel. “Poor thing,” he murmurs, voice thick with mock-pity. “So close you can't even speak.”

Vander chuckles, deep and dark, and licks another stripe up your cunt, leisurely, like he has all the time in the world. “We could let you come,” he murmurs, tongue circling your entrance, breath hot against your slick skin. “But where’s the fun in that?”

You sob, hips lifting in search of pressure, friction, anything - but Silco pins you easily, shifting just enough to trap you beneath him while his fingers toy with your clit in slow, teasing circles.

“Not yet,” he says, and it’s not a suggestion.

You feel Vander’s breath catch, just before he mouths at you again - sloppy now, greedy, as though your desperation is making him drunk. His tongue presses deeper, curling inside while his thumb brushes the edge of your rim, teasing, never pushing. Every lick is patient torment, every motion deliberate.

They know what they’re doing.

They want you like this - panting, shaking, hot from throat to thighs with the ache of almost.

Silco leans down, mouth brushing your hip as he whispers, “Not yet.”

Then he bites you - just a scrape, just enough to make you arch - and Vander moans against your cunt, the vibration sending you hurtling right up to the edge again.

Close. So close.

But they don’t let you come.

Not yet.

Slowly, he shifts - his weight dragging across your chest, heat trailing in his wake as he slides down to lie beside you. One hand drapes casually across your stomach, fingers still slick from your cunt. The other slips between your legs again, spreading you open with lazy precision as he leans in close.

He brushes his lips against your cheek, breath hot.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs. “Use that needy little voice. Or are you too fucked out to think?”

His fingers glide through your wetness, teasing, circling - then tapping your clit in a slow, rhythmic beat that makes your thighs jerk.

“Still can’t answer?” he mocks softly, tilting his head. “Tsk. Maybe they don’t really want it.”

Vander growls low against your inner thigh, his breath molten. “I think they do want it. Just need a little help asking.”

Silco clicks his tongue, dragging his fingers back down and letting them hover - so close to your clit it makes your whole body flinch.

“C’mon,” he says, soft and cruel. “Tell us. What do you want, sweetheart?”

You try to answer, but it comes out a shudder, a sound more like need than language.

Vander presses a kiss just beside your cunt, close enough to feel, not close enough to satisfy. “Want our mouths?” he murmurs. “Want me to tongue-fuck you until you shake? Want Silco to suck your pretty clit until you cry for him?”

You nod, frantic, desperate - but it isn’t enough.

“Say it,” Silco demands, voice sharp. “No more wriggling. No more whining. Use your words.”

You moan, breath catching hard in your chest. “I - I want -”

Silco’s fingers pause mid-circle. “Start with who,” he prompts, slow and deliberate. “Who do you want first?”

Your face burns. “Vander,” you whisper. “I want Vander’s mouth inside me. His tongue.”

“Where?” Vander’s voice is rough, already wrecked from holding back.

“My - my cunt,” you gasp. “I want you to fuck me with your tongue. Hard. Please.”

Silco smirks, lips brushing your ear. “Good.” He drags one finger down the length of your slit, gathering slick. “And what about me?”

You tremble, thighs trying to close, but Vander’s hands keep them spread.

“You,” you breathe, wrecked. “I want you on my clit. Sucking it. Using your mouth until I can’t see straight.”

Silco groans like he’s been waiting to hear that all night. “That’s better.”

Vander bites a kiss into your thigh. “Let’s give them what they asked for.”

He moves first, slides his hands under your thighs again, settling between your legs like he belongs there (and he does) then licks one long, deep stroke from your dripping entrance to your clit, groaning into the taste like it’s his reward too. When he starts to fuck you with his tongue, it’s just like you asked - slow and thick, obscene with every stroke, pushing in deep enough to make your hips buck.

Above you, Silco smiles against your cheek. “Good little mess,” he murmurs, almost fond. “So polite when you’re desperate.”

He lowers his mouth and takes your clit between his lips, hot and slick, sucking softly at first, then harder when you cry out, rolling his tongue in maddening circles as your body starts to tremble.

Everything tightens.

Your legs, your gut, your throat - you’re right there, teetering on the edge, the pleasure spiraling into something huge and shattering -

And then they stop.

Both of them.

Vander pulls back, licking his lips, chest heaving. Silco lifts his head with a low, satisfied hum, wiping his mouth on the inside of your thigh like he knows it's his.

You sob, trembling, the denial hitting so hard it’s dizzying.

“You didn’t think we’d let you come that easily, did you?” Silco purrs, the edge of his voice cruel and smoother than silk.

Vander kisses your hip, breath warm and smug. “You asked so pretty, honey. But I think we want to hear you beg.”

You can’t stop the sound that escapes, half sob, half growl of frustration, as your hips twitch upward, empty and aching, your whole body vibrating with their denial.

Silco leans in close, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You said please,” he murmurs, fingers teasing circles against your thigh, maddeningly close. “But I think you can do better.”

Vander's voice is deeper now, rougher. “You want us to let you come? Say it. Show us how much you need it.”

You gasp, wrecked and still wanting, the words trying to catch behind your teeth.

Silco tilts your face toward him again. “Don’t go shy now,” he says, cloyingly sweet. “Tell me how much you love our mouths. Tell me how close you were. How good it felt when I sucked your clit like I owned it.”

Vander kisses the inside of your thigh, slow and wet. “Tell me how deep you want my tongue inside you. How you need it. How you’ll do anything if we just let you come.”

Your whole body trembles. “Please -” you gasp. “I’ll say anything, I’ll - I need it, please - your mouths, your tongues, I need it back - need you back -”

“That’s not good enough,” Silco whispers, biting down gently on your jaw. “Get specific again. Like before. But now I want you to whine.”

You whimper, fingers clawing into the sheets. “Vander - fuck me with your tongue again. Deep. Don’t stop this time. I want to feel it - feel you - until I come on your face.”

Vander groans, the sound low and hungry. “Fuck. That’s it.”

You turn your head, panting against Silco’s mouth. “And you. Silco, please, put your mouth back on my clit - suck it, don’t stop, don’t tease - make me scream for you.”

Silco’s eyes flash with heat. “Good.” A pause. “One more.”

“One more?” you sob.

Silco smiles, slow and sharp. “Beg to be ruined.”

Your voice breaks on a sob. “Please. Ruin me.”

It slips out like a prayer; wrecked, raw, and undeniable. For a moment, there’s silence.

Then they move.

Vander growls like he’s been unleashed, dragging you down onto his mouth as his tongue plunges back inside, harder this time, deeper, grinding into you with a rhythm that says mine.

Silco doesn’t bother with teasing anymore - he drops between your legs and devours your clit, lips sealing over it, tongue lashing as he moans into you like he’s drunk on your taste.

The pleasure hits like lightning, sharp and sudden, pleasure crashing through your body with every flick of Silco’s tongue, every thick thrust of Vander’s. Your hands scrabble uselessly for something to hold, legs shaking, your spine arched clean off the bed.

“Come on,” Silco growls into your skin. “Come for us.”

Vander hums his agreement, the sound vibrating inside you - and that’s what shatters it.

You break like a wave, like a dam bursting - eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream as your body locks and lets go. Pleasure crests and curls and keeps going, keeps taking you with it, because they don’t stop, not even as you come, not even as you cry out, not until you’re twitching and trembling and collapsing between them, every nerve lit up and singing.

Vander pulls back first, breath hot against your slick skin, his voice low and reverent. “Fucking beautiful.”

Silco licks one slow circle around your clit, just to hear the way you whimper. Then he kisses your thigh, sharp and claiming. “Ruined. Just like you asked.”

You can’t move. Not really.

Every part of you is loose, trembling, slick with sweat and come and spit. Your limbs feel like liquid, nerves still sparking from the aftershocks as you collapse back into the bed, gasping for air.

Silco doesn’t give you space. He never does - not when he’s like this.

He slinks up your body, slow and dangerous, until his chest presses against yours and his hand finds your jaw. He tilts your head until your eyes meet his, even though they’re barely open.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice molten. “Fucked dumb by our mouths. You begged so sweetly. Said you wanted to be ruined.” He leans down, lips brushing yours - soft, almost loving. “Now you are.”

Vander settles beside you, big hands stroking gently over your hips, your thighs, your stomach - everywhere, like he can’t stop touching you. His voice is quiet, rough with heat and awe.

“You’re perfect like this. Messy. Wrung out. Ours.”

You make a soft, choked sound, too wrecked to form words, and Vander just smiles, leaning in to kiss your shoulder, slow and lingering.

Silco’s thumb strokes along your bottom lip. “You should see yourself, sweetheart. Spilled open like this.”

“You took it,” Vander adds, his hand ghosting down to the slick between your legs again, not with hunger this time, but reverence. “Everything we gave you. You gave it right back.”

Silco hums, pleased. “Didn’t even come until we told you to. Such a good little thing.”

You whimper, body twitching under their praise, still wrung out and open and aching.

Vander pulls you into his chest, his arms curling around you like shelter. “We’re not done,” he murmurs into your hair, soft and dark. “Not even close.”

Silco kisses the corner of your mouth. “But we’ll go slow next. You’ve earned it.”

They hold you between them, comforted yet still drenched in want, and you swear you could fall apart all over again just from the way they talk.

#vander arcane #silco arcane #vanco #vanco/reader #vander/reader #silco/reader #vander/silco #posting this and going to sleeeeeeeeeep #jk i haven't slept more than two hours a night for the past week lmao but i can have hopes and dreams #the dreams are mostly that vander and silco come and find me and *foghorn noises*

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avarkriss · 13 days ago

Text

only if you want

Summary: Vander is Big, and reader climbs him like a tree in 5.879 words

For @beskars - love you

Tags: gender-neutral reader insert; no y/n, no pronouns, no explicit definition of reader genitalia despite very explicit sex lmao; gentle giant vander; size kink; body worship; the artful ritual that is a tequila body shot; first time but a long time coming; aftercare; dirty talk; emotional sex; plot what plot/porn without plot; porn with feelings

a/n: the vaguest of vague reader inserts. does reader have a dick or a cunt? no one knows, but vander is having the time of his life anyways. also, doesn't matter how big or small you are, this man will dwarf you. enjoy the first thing i've written on this account in (checks watch) five thousand years

The bar hums around you; soft lighting, low music, the scent of citrus and warm bodies rising with the buzz of conversation. You're halfway through your drink, fingers trailing condensation along the rim, when you feel someone step up beside you. The warmth of him is familiar before you even turn.

“Hey,” Vander says, quiet, like the rest of the room isn’t even there. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

His smile is fond, a little lopsided. Like you’re a welcome surprise in a long night. He leans against the bar with easy grace, his eyes flicking over you once, slow and thoughtful.

“I was gonna get something simple,” he murmurs, glancing toward the bartender, “but maybe you'd like to get a drink with me instead, something a little more complex?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Just lets the words hang in the space between your glasses. “It’s a bit strong. Sweet, though. Good kind of burn.”

You tilt your head, intrigued. Vander’s gaze flickers to your mouth, then back to your eyes like he’s catching himself.

“I’ll walk you through it,” he offers, gentle now. “Salt, tequila, lime. Classic.”

His fingers rest on the bar near yours, close but not touching, giving you the space to choose. “If you want,” he adds, softer still. “Only if you want.”

You smile and nod once, and that’s all it takes. Vander gives a quiet hum, almost pleased, and signals the bartender without breaking eye contact. The man knows what to gather like this is something Vander’s done before. But from the way he’s looking at you, like this moment is new and delicate, you know it’s not just some routine.

He slides the salt shaker toward you first.

“Here,” he murmurs, turning his wrist palm-up beside your empty glass. “You can pick the spot.”

His skin is warm under the golden light, stretched smooth over strong tendons and the ridges of veins. It would be so easy to lean in. To press your lips there.

But Vander waits.

You glance at him and find his expression open, just a small crease between his brow. He’s not pushing. Not performing. Just watching you with that gentle focus, as if you’re the only one here.

You sprinkle the salt onto his skin, brushing your fingers along his wrist and his breath catches, subtle. His smile twitches, not cocky, but a little shy around the edges now. Like your touch undid something in him.

“Picking the spot is the hardest part,” he says, low and easy. “Now just the fun.”

He lifts the shot glass, offering it to you with his free hand. Your fingers brush his as you take it, and neither of you move right away.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Vander says, voice like velvet. “Take your time.”

You shift closer, the space between you narrowing until there’s nothing left but the steady beat of music and the rise and fall of Vander’s breath. His arm stays where you placed the salt and when you lean in, he doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. Just watches.

Your tongue meets his skin in a slow, deliberate pass.

The salt is sharp, almost electric on your tongue, but what you notice more is the way his pulse jumps beneath it, an instant, instinctive reaction. A soft inhale breaks from him, almost inaudible, but you feel it. The tension coiled in his shoulders. The way his fingers twitch ever so slightly on the bar.

You pull back slowly, and when your eyes meet his, he looks completely undone. Not in a wrecked way, just open. Soft.

He swallows.

“Okay,” he says, breathless but smiling, “maybe that was the hard part.”

His voice is still warm, still teasing, but quieter now. Like he’s afraid if he speaks too loud he might break the spell.

You lift the shot glass between you, and he watches the motion like it’s some sacred ceremony.

“Go slow,” he murmurs. “Let it burn a little.”

You hold the glass between you, the rim catching the light, golden liquid gleaming inside. Vander’s eyes don’t leave yours, not even for a second. The buzz of the bar fades to the edges, muffled by the hush that’s bloomed between your bodies, thick with something slow and tender.

You start to lift the shot, but his hand moves, light and careful, and settles on your hip.

Not to pull you closer. Not to guide. Just... there. His palm warm and grounding.

You glance down at the touch, then back at him. His smile matches yours, small and a little breathless.

And then you take the shot.

The tequila rolls over your tongue, hot and biting, and you let it burn, just like he asked. You let the warmth spread through you like a fire waking up in your blood. Vander watches every flicker of sensation cross your face, and when you exhale sharply through your nose, he hums like that reaction alone was worth the wait.

Before you can reach for the lime, he’s already holding it, wedged gently between his fingers, offering it up like a gift.

His voice is low, teasing again, but it carries that same quiet reverence. “Want me to feed it to you?”

The lime hovers inches from your lips, his other hand still resting at your hip. His gaze drops to your mouth, then flicks back to your eyes.

You smirk back at him. "If you want."

You meet his eyes as you lean in, slow and deliberate. Vander doesn’t move, lips parted slightly, breath hitching when your mouth brushes his fingers. The lime is cold and tart, a jolt of citrus that makes your lips pucker around the edge of it. But you don’t pull away, not yet.

Instead your teeth scrape lightly against the pad of his finger as you bite down, taking the lime from his hand.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Your mouth on his fingers. His eyes locked on yours.

And then he laughs, soft, wrecked around the edges. “You did that on purpose.”

You don’t answer, but your smile says enough. You chew the lime slowly, watching him from under your lashes, and his thumb brushes the side of your hip in a slow, absent circle, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

Vander shifts closer, just a little, until your knees brush under the bar and his voice finds you again, lower now. Rougher. “You keep looking at me like that, honey,” he says, “and I’m not gonna make it through another drink.”

His fingers trail up from your hip, skimming your side, slow and careful like he’s learning your body by touch alone.

“You want a turn? You can pick the spot," you murmur, catching his earlier words and tossing them back with a tilt of your head.

He grins. “Only if you want.”

You nod once and that’s all the permission he needs.

Vander straightens in his seat enough to scan you, eyes trailing over your collarbone, your arm, your throat, before finally reaching for your hand. He turns it palm-down, then shifts his grip. His other hand lifts the salt shaker, gentle as ever.

“May I?” he asks, and when you nod, he lifts your hand and traces the tender space between your thumb and forefinger with the pad of his thumb. Then, with great care, he dusts a line of salt there like he’s marking you gently.

His hand lingers a second too long before he leans in.

The warmth of his breath hits your hand first, and then his mouth follows, tongue dragging slowly over the salt, lips brushing the delicate stretched out skin. His hands dwarf yours, long fingers wrapped easily around your wrist like he could hold the whole of you in one palm if he wanted. But there’s nothing forceful in his grip.

You feel the tremor in your arm, the way your fingers twitch against his, overwhelmed by the heat of his mouth, the slow deliberate press of his tongue. You feel small like this, not in a way that shrinks you, but in a way that leaves you feeling seen. Like your whole world has narrowed to the place where his mouth touches your skin and the way your body answers him.

And he hasn’t even kissed you yet.

Vander makes a soft, pleased sound like he feels it too.

He pulls back just enough to grab the shot glass, lifts it without breaking eye contact. He throws it back in one motion, his throat bobbing as he swallows.

Then the lime.

He picks it up, but instead of biting it right away, he catches your gaze again, holds it tight as he raises it to his mouth. He sinks his teeth in with a slow, deliberate twist, eyes half-lidded as the juice runs over his bottom lip. He licks it away with the tip of his tongue.

“Sweet,” he says, voice a little rougher now. “But not the best part.”

His thumb brushes yours where your hands still touch, casual and electric.

“Your turn," he murmurs.

You glance at the salt again. Then at him.

Vander arches a brow, smile still soft, but there’s a question behind it now, something waiting.

You reach for the shaker.

He stills.

Your hand comes up slow and deliberate, brushing aside a lock of hair at his neck, baring the stretch of skin just beneath his jaw. His breath catches, not from nerves, but from the weight of your attention. He tilts his head, offering more, exposing that sliver of throat like a gift.

You tap a thin line of salt against his skin.

“I pick here,” you say with quiet confidence.

His eyes darken, not with surprise, but surrender. His voice drops to a hush. “If that's what you want.”

When you lean in, tongue brushing over the salt in a slow, lingering drag, he exhales like you’ve reached inside him and touched something private. His pulse thrums under your mouth. Your lips barely graze his skin as you pull back, just enough to catch the scent of him, clean and warm, something saline beneath it, like the memory of summertime.

You don’t even reach for the shot. Vander’s already holding it, offering it up like a toast, like a promise. You take it from his hand, down it clean, and before you can reach for the lime -

He stops you.

His hand covers yours gently on the bar, fingers curling just enough to anchor you there. When you look up, there’s no more teasing in his expression. Just a quiet intensity.

“Let's get out of here,” he says, voice quiet and rough with need. “Come upstairs with me?”

You nod before the words can form, and he’s already in motion, grabbing his keys, thanking the bartender with a nod. His hand finds yours as you follow him past the bar’s side door, through the short hallway, up the private staircase tucked behind a curtain. Everything about it feels inevitable.

When he opens the door to his apartment, dim and warm, the air still scented faintly with the spices from downstairs, it already feels like the rest of the world is falling away.

The door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly it’s just the two of you. No hum of the bar, no low music, no space for distraction.

Just quiet.

Vander pauses in the entryway, keys still in hand, like he’s trying to hold himself together. But the moment you step closer, it all slips. The keys drop to the counter with a dull clatter, and then he’s moving.

His hands find your waist, your back, your jaw; big hands, broad and warm, spanning more of your body than they should. He doesn’t choose just one place to touch; he touches all of you, like he can’t decide where to land, like his restraint fraying at the edges. His palms settle heavily, but still with care, like he knows exactly how much strength he’s holding back.

And then his mouth meets yours, hard and hungry, heat pouring off him like a furnace. The gentleness from before isn’t gone, it’s just buried under layers of want he can’t hold back anymore. You feel it in the way his body folds around yours, how easily he surrounds you. How when he pulls you closer, your whole frame disappears against his chest.

You press into him, and he reacts instantly. His breath catches, his arms tightening, pulling you into the full breadth of him. He’s so much bigger, so much more everything; a wall of heat and muscle and tension, and yet he still holds you like something precious.

Every part of him says mine, but his hands ask permission.

You press yourself into him and feel the way his body responds instantly, a little match to dry kindling.

Vander groans into the kiss, low and breathy, and his fingers slide beneath your shirt, palms rough and reverent against your skin.

He walks you backward with surprising care, guiding you through the apartment like he knows it by touch alone. You get through another doorway before the backs of your knees bump into something soft, but neither of you care to look.

You break the kiss just long enough to breathe, and he leans his forehead against yours, catching his breath.

“You -” he starts, voice hoarse, “you’re driving me insane.”

You smile, lips brushing his. “All part of the plan.”

His laugh is short. “Dangerous.”

His hands grip tighter, broad palms spanning your waist like they were made to hold you there, like he could lift you with one hand if he wanted. There’s nothing uncertain in his touch now, no hesitation left. Just need, blooming hot beneath his skin. He kisses you again, open-mouthed and hungry, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your lips with his own.

And when he shifts, when his body slots to yours, it’s overwhelming. He’s everywhere. His arms bracketing you easily, making you feel impossibly small and impossibly safe all at once. His hips roll forward, slow and grinding, the full weight of him pressing into you with purpose. The size of him, the sheer strength barely held in check, makes every movement feel deliberate.

You feel his breath stutter against your cheek as he moves with you, and even though he could dominate this moment completely, he doesn’t. He lets you feel the power of him, the scale, the weight, the quiet control, but never uses it to take.

Even still, every grind of his hips says exactly what he wants without a single word.

Vander pulls back just enough to look at you, his lips red and kiss-bruised, eyes dark and tender. One hand stays firm on your waist, holding you steady, while the other drifts up your side, slow and careful. His fingers span across your ribs easily, tracing over your shirt.

“Look at you,” he murmurs in awe. “You fit in my hands like you were made for me.”

His thumb brushes the curve of your side, follows it up to your shoulder, then back down again like he can’t stop touching. “So fucking soft,” he says, quieter now, like the words are more to himself than to you.

He leans in, pressing a kiss just below your jaw, then lower, his mouth trailing along the line of your throat. You feel the heat of each breath before his lips find your collarbone, the press of them worshipful.

“Every inch of you,” he breathes, his voice a low, rough promise against your skin, “I want to learn it. Taste it.”

You gasp when his hand slides lower, over your thigh, squeezing just slightly. The contrast is dizzying, his size, his strength, the gentleness behind it all. He touches you like he knows he could break you and chooses not to every time.

He pulls you closer again, your body completely enveloped in his, and he groans like he’s the one overwhelmed before kissing you again.

When your fingers thread into his hair and tug a little, he moans into your mouth like it undoes him.

“I want to feel you,” he whispers, panting. “All of you.”

Vander eases you down onto his bed like he’s afraid of breaking something; maybe you, more likely the moment. He follows you down, his body settling over yours, weight pressing just enough to make your breath catch. One of his knees slides between your legs, opening you up to him, anchoring you to the mattress.

Palms smooth over your sides, your chest, mapping out every line he’s been aching to touch. When his fingers dip beneath your shirt and brush bare skin, you feel it in your spine.

You tug at his shirt in return, and he breaks the kiss only long enough to help you pull it over his head. Then he’s back on you: mouth on your neck, your shoulder, kissing like he needs the taste of your skin to stay steady.

You feel the scrape of his stubble, the slow drag of his lips just beneath your jaw, and you arch into him without thinking. He hums against your throat, pleased.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath.

His hands skim down your sides again, catching the hem of your shirt. He waits, barely holding it in his fists, gaze flicking up to meet yours.

“Can I?” he asks, and there’s nothing teasing in it now. Just aching want.

You nod, and he lifts your shirt slowly, dragging his thick fingers along your skin as he goes. Your shirt hits the floor, quickly followed by your pants, and he just stops.

Takes you in like you’re something to be savored.

His mouth finds your chest first, soft kisses, slow licks, the occasional gentle scrape of teeth and beard that makes you arch into him without meaning to. He hums low in his throat like your reaction feeds something deep in him, and it does. Every twitch, every gasp, every shift of your hips is met with more.

More mouth, more hands, more him.

He trails lower, pressing a kiss between your ribs, then lower still, down the curve of your stomach. His hands follow, big and steady, sliding under your thighs and lifting them slightly, just enough to spread you open a little wider beneath him. It’s easy for him. He handles your body like he’s made to, like you're light in his arms, effortless to arrange just how he wants you.

His lips find a spot just above your hip, and when he kisses there, slow and open-mouthed, your breath catches. He lingers, nosing into the softness of your belly.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, voice muffled by your skin. “I touch here -” he kisses a spot that makes your stomach clench - “and you give me everything.”

His hands stroke up your sides again, smoothing over your waist, your ribs, framing your body like he’s memorizing every line.

Vander kisses his way lower, deliberate and slow, enjoying the anticipation almost as much as the act itself. His hands spread wide on your thighs, coaxing them open further with that same quiet confidence he’s carried all night. Just warm palms, a deep breath, and that dark, devoted look in his eyes as he settles between your legs.

He looks up at you once, his breath warm against your inner thigh. “You good?” he asks, voice low and a little rough.

You nod, already breathless. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he murmurs, and then he leans in.

The first pass of his tongue is slow, hot, wet, and deliberate. It slides across you, silk dragged across fire, and your hips jerk before you can stop them. He groans at the taste, the sound low and guttural, and the vibration of it sparks in your spine like it’s wired directly to your core.

And then he does it again.

And again.

He takes his time, licking in slow, languid movements, his hands anchoring your thighs as your muscles shift under his grip. Every time your body reacts, every gasp, every arch of your hips, he chases it. Builds on it. Learns it. His tongue grows more focused, more sure, until he’s working you in long, firm strokes that leave your head spinning.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he murmurs between kisses, voice thick. “Could stay here all night.”

One of his hands slides up your side, holding you in place as you begin to squirm beneath him, overwhelmed by the steady, unrelenting pleasure. He lets you move, lets you roll your hips into his mouth, encourages it with a soft moan like this is what he wants, you taking what you need.

When he focuses in, lips and tongue working in perfect, devastating sync, you cry out. You fist your hand into his hair and he hums in satisfaction, locking his arms around your thighs, pulling you closer like he can’t get enough.

But you’re too close now. It’s all building too fast, heat curling tighter in your belly with every slow drag of his tongue.

“Vander,” you gasp, voice shaky. “Wait - stop.”

He pulls back instantly, eyes wide and lips slick, a flush rising high on his cheeks. “Too much?”

You shake your head, tugging him gently upward. “No. I just -” you swallow, breathless. “I want to come with you inside me.”

For a second, he doesn’t move. Just stares, chest heaving, pupils blown wide as the words settle in his chest like a lightning strike.

“Fuck,” he breathes, already shifting up your body, kissing a line along your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone. “Yeah. Yeah, honey. If that's what you want.”

“I want you so bad it hurts," you murmur, running your fingertip over his ear.

Vander lets out a soft breath, half-laugh, half-groan, and rests his palm low against your belly, grounding you both.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “But let me take care of you first.”

He shifts back down your body with practiced ease, trailing kisses across your chest, your stomach, lower, never losing contact. His hands are steady as he settles between your legs once more. One hand strokes along your thigh, while the other reaches down for a small tin tucked inside a drawer beneath the couch.

You hear the sound of the lid and the quiet slick of something on his fingers before you feel it, his touch returning, slow and gentle as he works you open with care. Each motion is patient and attentive, never too much at once. He watches your face the whole time, checking every breath, every sound, like he’s reading you more clearly than words ever could.

“You’ll tell me if you need anything different?” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “Anything at all?”

When you nod, his touch deepens just slightly, testing, coaxing. The slick heat of his fingers sends a tremor up your spine, and he groans at the way your body opens under his hand.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers, kissing the inside of your knee. “Only want you to feel good.”

And when you finally arch into him, soft and wanting, he knows.

He kisses your thigh one more time, slow and grateful. “Ready?”

You nod, breath shaking, but sure. “Yes,” you say, barely above a whisper. “But... Can I ride you?”

Vander stills, just for a moment, and then he smiles. Not the teasing grin he wore at the bar, not the sly curve from earlier, but something quieter.

“'Course,” he chuckles, voice thick. “If you want.”

He shifts back, hands careful on your hips as he helps guide you over him, not rushing, just offering support. His touch never pushes, only steadies, invites.

The sight of him beneath you makes your breath catch. He’s broad, yes, all strength and heat and overwhelming presence, but at this moment, he’s letting go. Letting you choose the pace, the angle, the depth. Letting you have him.

You reach down between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance, the head of him slick and hot against your skin. Vander’s hands flex on your thighs, the only sign of how tightly he’s holding himself back.

You sink down slow and steady, every inch of him stretching you open until the breath leaves your lungs. You're not even fully seated and yet the weight of him deep inside you is pressing against something raw and aching. There’s no room for anything but him.

No air. No thought. Just heat.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked, his hips trembling beneath yours. You move again, just a little, and it steals the rest of the breath from his lungs.

Then he’s dragging you down, forehead to forehead, his eyes dark and blown wide. “You look so good when you’re taking what you need honey,” he says, cracked open and honest. “Like you were made for this.”

His other hand traces down your spine, slow, reverent. “Don’t stop,” he whispers. “Please don’t stop."

You savor the drag as your body stretches to take him in. The burn is sweet and overwhelming, bettered by Vander groaning beneath you, jaw clenched, like he’s holding himself back by sheer force of will. One hand finds your thigh, then your hip - fingertips digging in, reverent and desperate.

He’s so thick, the kind of stretch that makes your breath catch, muscles tremble. Every part of you feels open, exposed, filled. He looks up like he can’t not watch you take him.

Your thighs ache, already slick with heat and effort, but you don’t stop. You rock forward just enough to take the last of him, feel the press of his pelvis flush against yours, and the way his cock pulses, deep inside you. His thighs tense beneath yours, the restrained roll of his hips betraying how close he already is to falling apart.

And still, you stay in control. You roll your hips slowly, deliberately, feeling the slide of him, the way he hits deep and perfect inside you. It makes your whole body shiver, makes him pant beneath you - every muscle taut with restraint he’s quickly losing.

“Please,” he murmurs, raw and breathless. “Need you to take all of it.”

You keep moving, slow and intentional, hips rolling in a rhythm that’s more about connection than urgency. Every glide, every subtle shift brings a new wave of sensation. The drag of him inside you is exquisite, deep and steady, every stroke brushing that perfect spot that makes your breath catch at the back of your throat.

Vander is breaking down beneath you.

His hands can’t stay still; one strokes up your spine again, the other slides along your waist, then your ribs, fingertips searching like he’s learning you in real time. His eyes are locked to where your bodies meet, jaw tight with restraint, but his touch is gentle.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, almost dazed. “You feel -” he cuts himself off with a quiet groan when you grind down just a little harder. “Fuck. You feel like heaven.”

You lean forward, bracing a hand on his chest. His skin is flushed and hot beneath your palm, his heart thudding hard against your fingers. You trace down the line of his torso, watching the way his muscles jump under your touch, the way his breath stutters when your nails scrape lightly along his abdomen.

Then you shift, changing the angle, just slightly, but it’s enough to make him unravel.

Vander gasps, his hands flying to your hips like its instinct.

“There,” he says, voice shaking. “Right there, honey.”

Your smile is slow, wicked in its softness. You do it again, same motion, same drag, and he curses under his breath, head tipping back like he can’t take it.

Your own hands keep moving too, tracing the curve of his bicep, the line of his collarbone, the hinge of his jaw. Every part of him feels like fire under your fingertips, and still he lets you lead, lets you take, lets you move.

His hands slide up your back now, curling into your hair as he pulls you down into another kiss, slow and messy. You moan into him, your body clenching around him in response, and he shudders, hips twitching up once before he steadies himself again.

“You’re driving me out of my fucking mind,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours again. “I’ve never - no one’s ever felt like this.”

And you believe him. Because you feel that, too.

The stretch, the sweat-slick slide of skin against skin, the warmth of his body beneath yours, it’s all consuming.

And neither of you is ready to stop.

You find the rhythm again; stronger now, more certain. Your movements shift from exploratory to purposeful, hips grinding down with a firm, deliberate roll that drags a low moan from deep in Vander’s chest. His head tips back, exposing his throat, his lips parted as if he’s lost the ability to speak.

He’s close, you can feel it in the way his breath hitches, in the way his hands tighten on your hips, trying to hold on and hold back at the same time.

But you don’t let up.

You ride him steady and deep, your hands braced on his chest, watching the way his body responds to you, shuddering under your control, every motion pulling him further from composure. Sweat beads at his temples, his hair sticking to his skin, and when you lean forward to press your lips to his neck, his entire body jerks beneath you.

“Let me have you,” you whisper, your voice warm against his skin.

His hands slide up your sides, one cradling your back while the other tangles again in your hair, trying to anchor himself but his strength is unraveling fast, caught in the relentless, perfect pace you’ve set.

“You have me,” he chokes out. “God, you have all of me.”

You clench around him and he groans loud; it sets off a slow, electric hum deep in your core. Every thrust now pushes you both closer to the edge, your thighs burning, your body overwarm. You grind down harder, angling just right, and the friction sends a bolt of pleasure through your spine.

Vander’s hips twitch up in response, but it’s not control anymore, it’s desperation.

He’s trying not to come.

But you want it. You want to see him fall apart.

You sit back, hands dragging up his chest, and ride him harder now, pushing into that sweet, brutal rhythm that has his eyes rolling back, his voice reduced to curses and gasps.

“I’m not gonna last,” he groans, the words raw. “Fuck, honey, please -”

You press your palm to his throat, right where it’s hot and pulsing. His skin shines with sweat, his breath catching in shallow gasps beneath your hand. Your fingers don’t even span halfway around his neck, he’s that big, but he doesn’t move. Just lets you feel.

“Come for me.”

That’s all it takes.

His whole body arches beneath you, muscles seizing as he shouts your name, absolutely gone. You keep moving through it, feeling him pulse deep inside you, and the intensity pushes you over the edge with him.

Your release rolls through you in waves, hot, blinding, and unstoppable. You collapse against his chest, your breath mingling with his, both of you shaking, sweating, hearts pounding in sync.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing. Of quiet touches. Of something soft settling back into the space between you.

You don’t move at first. Just stay pressed against him, your cheek resting over his heart as it thunders beneath your skin. Vander’s arms curl around you without hesitation, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other drawing slow, soothing circles along your spine.

His breath is still uneven, catching every few exhales like he’s trying to come back into his body.

“You okay?” you murmur against his skin, your voice a little hoarse.

He lets out a soft laugh. “More than okay.”

He shifts just enough to press a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the curve of your jaw. “I’m fucking incredible, thanks to you.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to see his face, and he’s glowing. His hair is damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed, and there’s a dreamy haze in his eyes that makes your chest ache a little.

He brushes a thumb along your cheekbone. “That was…” He trails off, then laughs again, even softer this time. “I don’t have words for what that was.”

“You don’t need to,” you say, letting your fingers drift lazily across his chest, tracing the slow rise and fall of his breath.

He catches your hand and lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to each knuckle. “You were perfect,” he rumbles.

You feel heat rise under your skin, but it’s a different kind now, something quiet and full, like you’ve been seen and cherished in the same moment.

Vander shifts slightly beneath you, just enough to get more comfortable. He doesn’t let go but he sighs, completely boneless beneath you, a crooked grin spreading across his face.

“You know,” he says, breath still a little uneven, “I think I saw God for a second. Pretty sure they winked at me.”

You snort against his chest. “That good, huh?”

“That good,” he murmurs, tightening his arms around you with a groan. “You’ve officially ruined me for anyone else. Hope you're ready to live with that responsibility.”

You lift your head just enough to meet his gaze. “Oh no,” you deadpan. “A lifetime of mind-blowing orgasms and free tequila shots? However shall I cope.”

Vander laughs, the sound loose and unguarded. “See? That right there. You take control and you’ve got jokes? I’m fucked.”

You grin, nudging your nose against his. “Yeah you are.”

He kisses you, soft and lingering, before pulling back just a little. “For real though… you okay?”

You nod. “More than okay.”

He grins wider. “Good. ‘Cause I was this close to sobbing into your shoulder and asking if we’re in love now.”

You laugh and tuck yourself further into his side. "So... what do we do now?

He smiles at you brightly. "Whatever you want."

You hum at his answer, satisfied, and press a slow kiss to his shoulder before settling in fully. His arms wrap around you without hesitation, one hand tracing idle patterns along your back, the other curling protectively at your waist. The steady rhythm of his breathing starts to slow, syncing with yours.

The room is quiet now, the city hushed outside the windows, only the occasional creak of old wood beneath you or the distant hum of something mechanical reminding you the world still turns.

But here, in Vander’s arms, everything is still.

He shifts just slightly to nuzzle his nose into your hair. “You’re staying,” he murmurs, more a statement than a question, like he’d already made peace with the answer.

You smile against his skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A sleepy, contented noise rumbles in his chest. “Good. You’re warm.”

“You’re sweaty.”

“Shhh,” he whispers, tucking you in tighter. “Don’t ruin it.”

#vander #vander arcane #gender neutral reader #pwp #idk how else to tag this my guys it has been a thousand years #hi good morning this will give everyone whiplash lol

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