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z0mbiekisses · 9 months ago

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part one- if i can change i hope i never know.

jasmine’s life was predictable. to say the least. she had a steady routine going on. her days often blended together, until good day dema came into production. jasmine was in charge of the show. well, not completely. there was always someone above her, it was dema after all. it was different. the set was filled with bright pastels. good day dema was created to dismiss the claims “clancy” made. propaganda. jasmine knew the was all an illusion, she’s seen the gray walls day after day. hell, one of the biggest rules about dema was no music. so it definitely surprised jasmine to hear they’re forcing tyler to write an entire album. jasmine knew deep down it was suspicious. but jasmine didn’t have a choice. jasmine didn’t have options, this was the life planned for her. jasmine didn’t know about anything else. sure, she’s heard of “the outside”. but this was her life, and she just accepted it because what else was she going to do?

jasmine was waiting backstage in a dressing room for tyler to show up. to be honest, she didn’t know much about him. jasmine knew he betrayed nico and escaped from dema. jasmine never read the letters or anything, it didn’t catch her interest. she often kept to herself the best she could. trying to get through each day. jasmine did feel bad that he was being forced to do this show, but she supposed there were worse ways to be punished. jasmine didn’t understand the severity of it all. oblivious of the reality. jasmine was snapped out of her thoughts as tyler walked into the room.

“hello tyler, i’m jasmine. i’ll be taking care of you today.”, she smiled reaching her hand out for him to shake. his face was blank, emotionless. which wasn’t unusual here in dema. there was never any true joy or any feelings around. just blank slates and coldness.

jasmine took in his appearance as he shook her hand. their brown eyes meeting briefly. she took interest in his soft brown curls. jasmine almost felt sad that she’d have to turn it into a bright pastel pink. she admired it for a moment before leading tyler over to a chair.

“okay so i have these two shades of pink, one is more softer and the other is brighter.”, jasmine held up the two bottles of dye to tyler. he looked confused.

“you’re asking me?”, tyler raised his eyebrow. jasmine laughed dryly at his skepticism.

“well yeah.. it’s your hair after all.”, but tyler wasn’t phased. he just rolled his eyes.

“just get this over with it.”, jasmine was a bit surprised by his short response. but jasmine understood he wasn’t too happy about the situation. they were both aware they had to make the bishops happy. they both didn’t have a say in anything. she mixed the bleach and began to lightly coat his hair. it was quiet at first, jasmine wasn’t much for conversation. she never knew how to start them.. or carry them. but she did know how to finish them.

“have you ever dyed your hair before?”, tyler spoke up. jasmine nodded her head.

“only a strand of my hair blue. that was before i was ordered to take it out.”, jasmine shared. she was happy tyler was trying to talk to her.

“blue is a pretty color.”, tyler commented.

“blue is my favorite color.”, jasmine smiled. it was hard having a favorite color that was pretty much forbidden. but the blue skies always spoke to jasmine. especially at night when the stars would light up. reminding her that she wasn’t alone at the end of the day. or the paladin strait she could see in the distance. tyler nodded, taking mental note of it. after jasmine finished with the bleach, it was quiet again. jasmine didn’t want to wait the 30 minutes in silence. so she decided to turn on the radio. though of course, the only songs it played were scaled and icy.

“sorry.. it must be weird hearing your own voice.”, jasmine laughed lightly. fidgeting with the silver bracelets on her wrist.

“it’s okay, i’m used to it.. i just wish they were MY songs.”, tyler sighed. jasmine was confused by this response.

“your songs?”

“well i made them, but these aren’t my thoughts.. my feelings. it’s what the bishops told me to sing.”, jasmine listened to tyler. that didn’t sound unusual for the bishops. jasmine was just happy she was able to actually enjoy music. jasmine felt bad for tyler, she could tell this was hard for him. tyler had songs that actually were true to him. but of course, they were absolutely forbidden here.

“well for what it’s worth, you have a great voice.”, jasmine complimented. which made tyler smile. jasmine spent the rest of the time listening to the album while she finished up on tyler’s hair. they actually had light conversations. it was the first time in god knows how long jasmine was able to actually enjoy a conversation with someone.

“here’s your mic pack, in-ears all that stuff. i’ll come back in 10 minutes before you go on.”, jasmine gestured over to the small vanity. as she was about to walk out, tyler spoke.

“jasmine, a gift from god.”, jasmine turned around. her name spoke a lot about her character. jasmine and tyler were on two entirely different ends of their place in dema. while tyler was this traitor, jasmine was highly praised. the bishops often favored her. though, jasmine was unsure why. she knew it had something to do with her family. they had a close history with the bishops. but jasmine knew it had to be more than that. her privilege was how she ended up being in charge of this whole production.

“yeah, why do you bring it up?”, jasmine raised her eyebrows. tyler just shrugged. tyler was taking into account how different they were; at least on that level. part of him wished he could leave dema WITH jasmine. to be able to show her the truth. but tyler wasn’t even sure he’d be able to leave again.

jasmine could hear in her own in ear she was needed somewhere. so she left tyler alone. eventually she came back to let him know it was 5 minutes before showtime. tyler was just sitting there, staring at the blank white wall. jasmine felt unusually sad for him. it was rare where she was put in situations where she felt these kinds of emotions. everytime she expressed them it didn’t end well. she was quite unsure how to handle it. but with tyler, she felt different. he was different. she sat on the couch next to tyler.

“pre-show jitters?”, jasmine suggested.

“i guess you can say that.”, jasmine gave tyler a small smile.

“i look forward to hearing you perform.”, jasmine’s eyes met tyler’s. there was a small spark. which was the first jasmine had seen. jasmine was normally intimated by eye contact. but with tyler, it didn’t feel threatening. both jasmine & tyler heard it was time to head up on set. jasmine could tell tyler was disappointed.

jasmine rushed around, making sure everything was perfect. she looked down at the checklist on her clipboard. on the leather couch was an older gentleman & woman. tyler barely mumbled a word to them. to be completely honest, even jasmine was confused on who these people were. but, jasmine knew better not to ask questions. not anymore. the countdown started for the show to air.

i know it’s hard to believe me but it’s a good day.

jasmine watched as the bright lights shined on the golden set. the yellow coated walls were vibrant & would practically radiate off the screen. exactly how it was supposed to be. jasmine watched as the two hosts talked, and tyler sat in the middle. however, he didn’t even look up at the camera. it was almost as if he was trapped in his own head. tyler didn’t even react to the hosts comments about his band name. tyler was just.. there. jasmine knew tyler didn’t want to be there. but this didn’t feel right. jasmine couldn’t focus on that though. this was what the bishops wanted. this was her job. she had to stay focus. besides, he only had one song to sing. soon enough this would be over. jasmine went off to grab the scaled and icy discs for the hosts to advertise. when she came back, the hosts looked different. the had wounds on their faces that weren’t there before. jasmine didn’t have time to worry about that. she set up the merch table, and listened as tyler sang.

“i was born a choker.. no one’s coming for me.”

jasmine was almost entranced by his voice. sure, she didn’t know many songs to compare it to. but she always loved listening to tyler. his voice easing the stress and worry she was facing. she loved listening to scaled and icy, even if tyler wasn’t too fond of it. it brought her comfort. a rare thing for jasmine. there was a pause and that’s when she called over the hosts to the merch table. jasmine noticed their eyes were both yellow. it was off-putting to say the least. but she moved over off camera & waited for them to begin the commercial break. she walked over to tyler who now looked.. sad?

“hey, told you you’d do great.”, jasmine smiled at him. trying her best to make him feel better. tyler still looked down at the ground.

“are you happy here?”, tyler asked, looking into her eyes. it was a sudden question. but tyler needed to know where exactly jasmine’s head was at.

“what else is there?”, jasmine answered honestly.

“trench.”, tyler spoke again. it was engraved in jasmine’s’ mind that there was nothing outside the dema walls for her, or anyone. and people who escape are merely fools leading themselves to slaughter. that’s what she was taught.

“i have everything i need here.”, jasmine answered simply. though, it felt more as if she was reading off a script.

“i promise, there’s more than this. you can do better.”, tyler tried to explaining to her. but this wasn’t an easy thing for her to hear. how was she supposed to believe tyler?

“and yet you’re still here.”, jasmine replied coldly. tyler frowned, his sad demeanor creeping back. he knew trying to convince jasmine to leave everything behind would be difficult. but he has to try. tyler knew jasmine deserved better then whatever this shitty place had to offer. it was time for tyler to finish his part of the show. jasmine walked away off set. she was taking apart the merch table as tyler finished singing. letting tyler’s soft voice help bring her some peace.

CUT!

jasmine went to go dismiss everyone from the set, but as she walked up she saw the two hosts bodies laying on the ground. their faces now fully wounded and bruised. their skin much paler than it once was. jasmine’s stomach felt ill. they were dead. the two people who were just up hosting a morning show were lying dead on the floor.

BAM!

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

hiiii guys!!^^ i hope you enjoyed the first part of this series. like ive mentioned, this will be a shorter story if you will, however ive been very into the lore & stuff. plus im a big maladaptive daydreamer so!!! i’ll try my best to update when i can! thank you for reading it means so much!!!:3

- v 🩶

#twenty one pilots #tyler joseph x reader #tyler joseph fanfiction #tylerjosephfanfic #josh dun fanfiction #joshua dun #josh dun #clancy au #clancy fanfic #clancy imagines #clancy #twenty one pilots fanfiction #tøpfanfic #clancy x reader

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the-jetset-lifes-gonna-kill-me · 13 days ago

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[ ✦ ] — ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴅɪᴇ…

CLANCY X AFAB!READER

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 summery: TOMORROW COULD VERY LIKELY BE YOUR LAST DAY ALIVE. YOU CAN’T SLEEP, YOUR REGRETS AND UNSPOKEN FEELINGS ARE KEEPING YOU AWAKE. IT JUST SO HAPPENS THAT THE ROOT OF YOUR INSOMNIA CAN’T SLEEP EITHER.

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 warnings: 18+ CONTENT, MDNI, NO USE OF Y/N, AFAB!READER, PORN WITH BARELY ANY PLOT, CONFESSIONS, A LITTLE BIT OF ANGST IF YOU SQUINT, PIV SEX, ORAL SEX (F RECEIVING), FINGERING, CUM EATING (KINDA???), UNPROTECTED SEX, MULTIPLE ORGASMS, LOWKEY JUST PURE FIFLTH.

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌wc: 9120.

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 a/n: PLEASE IGNORE ANY REPETITION OR SPELLING MISTAKES, THIS IS NOT PROOFREAD. THIS IS MY FIRST POST SO THATS KINDA NERVE WRACKING AS FUCK. THIS IS JUST PURE FILTH. ENJOY!

There was something heavy in the air.  Not a sound, not a scent, but a pressure. Something unspoken. Something that curled around your ribs and held tight.

The night was calm in the cruelest way. The moon hung high, too full, too bright, almost taunting as it cast its sterile glow over the land like a searchlight from some faraway watchtower. It illuminated the world in soft silvers and shadows, a dreamscape painted in shades of ghost.

A breeze passed gently through the camp, soft as a whisper against your cheek, lifting strands of your hair into the air like marionette strings, dancing, weightless, untouchable. Everything felt still. Everything felt final.

The only sound that dared disturb the quiet was the soft, hypnotic crackle of the fire pit before you. Flames licked upward in lazy waves, casting flickering gold across your skin like a lover tracing their fingers over your face. The embers rose and drifted like fireflies, glowing briefly before vanishing into the dark. It was dancing for you, you thought. Just you. Everyone else had long since turned in, tucked beneath thin blankets and uneasy dreams. They had the luxury of rest. You didn’t.

You sat frozen in the silence, but inside, your body was at war. Your stomach churned violently, twisting into something sharp and unfamiliar. Your throat ached with dryness no matter how much water you swallowed. Your thoughts ran like wild dogs, howling and circling and refusing to quiet no matter how many times you begged your brain to shut up, just for a minute.

But it wouldn’t. Because tomorrow, when the sun rises, you and the other Banditos would march toward Dema. Toward Nico. Toward the Bishops. Toward whatever end awaited you.

It wasn’t the danger that rattled you. You weren’t afraid of the violence or the chaos. You were brave, by now, fear was just another scar you'd learned to live with. You were prepared. If tomorrow brought death, you'd greet it with your eyes open. You could die. You might. And strangely, you’d made peace with that.

No, what twisted the knife wasn’t the dying. It was the possibility of dying unfinished.

There were words you’d never said, hands you never held long enough, songs you never got the chance to sing in full. There were people you loved too quietly, truths you swallowed whole, dreams that still slept in your chest, waiting.

That’s what kept you awake. Not the mission. Not the war.

But the ache of all the things you’d leave behind if the night turned out to be your last.

Your spine curved lazily as you leaned into the fire’s warmth, shoulders slouched, arms folded loosely over your stomach like a barrier or a comfort, you weren’t sure which. The flames swayed slowly, like they had all the time in the world, their movements unbothered, drunken. They licked at the cool air with hypnotic ease, flaring up in sudden bursts, then sinking into soft orange sighs. The heat kissed your face, prickling your skin, drying your eyes, but you didn’t blink. You couldn’t look away. It was easier to stare at the fire than face the ache in your chest. Easier to pretend you weren’t unraveling.

Until you saw it: a flicker of motion at the edge of your vision, barely there, but enough to pull you back to the moment. You didn’t startle, not yet. You let your eyes drift sideways, slow, indifferent. Just in case it was nothing. Just in case you could stay lost a little longer.

But then your entire body snapped upright. The curve in your back vanished; your spine went taut as a bowstring. Not because of what was there. But who.

Clancy.

He moved like someone carrying too many ghosts. Quiet. Measured. Like every step had already been accounted for. His silhouette cut against the firelight, carved from the very night itself. Even before his name had formed in your mind, your body knew. Every inch of you recognised him like a half-remembered dream that never left.

You were one of Clancy’s closest confidants, had been since the beginning. You were there when the first whispers of rebellion passed through gritted teeth. You were the first he entrusted with the plan to bring Nico to his knees. He admired you, for your loyalty, for your honesty, for your courage that never once wavered when others hesitated. But he rarely spoke to you.

Not really. Not like you wanted him to.

Aside from tactical briefings, clipped check-ins, and the occasional brittle joke when the tension got too thick, he kept his distance. Always a respectful one, always professional, always just far enough away to make you question whether the closeness you felt was real or imagined.

At first, you didn’t mind. You respected Clancy too much to expect anything more than what he gave. But respect turned into something softer. And then sharper. It began with admiration. Then it deepened, thickened, took root somewhere quiet and desperate inside you. Admiration bloomed into devotion, bright, wild, uncontrollable. And that devotion? It curdled into craving. A craving that lived in your throat, that coiled in your gut, that kept your mind circling his name in the darkest hours of night when sleep refused to take you.

He haunted you, not like a ghost, but like a song stuck in your head, beautiful and maddening, looping again and again, never offering the release of a final note.

And now he was here. Real. Solid. Walking straight toward you.

There was so much you wanted to say, to ask, to give. But all you could do was sit there, spine straight, fingers digging into your sleeves, trying not to look like you were coming undone.

Because Clancy was the reason you couldn’t sleep.

You settled into a posture of practiced nonchalance, even as your heart betrayed you with its erratic, uneven rhythm, a staccato beat against your ribs that felt far too loud in the silence between you. You met his gaze with a firm, quiet nod as he neared the fire, the flames casting restless gold over the sharp planes of his face. His dark eyes locked onto yours, unreadable and unwavering.

“Can I sit?” he asked, voice roughened at the edges, like something brittle trying not to crack. There was a rasp behind the words, fatigue woven into the syllables like threadbare cloth. He looked exhausted. Not just tired, but worn, like a photograph left out in the sun too long. You wouldn’t be surprised if he thought the same about you.

You nodded once more, sharp, instinctual. Despite everything he stirred inside you, you knew without question: if Clancy asked to sit with you, you'd never say no.

What you didn’t expect, what hit you like a quiet tremor, was that Clancy didn’t choose one of the other empty logs surrounding the fire pit. No, he sat beside you. On your log. Close enough for the heat of his body to blend with the warmth of the fire. Close enough to feel the shift in the air as he exhaled.

You didn’t look at him. Not yet. You were afraid if you did, something would give away what was blooming too loudly beneath your skin.

The silence that followed was no longer peaceful. It was heavy now, charged. The kind of quiet that buzzes beneath your skin and makes you desperate to fill it with anything. A cough. A word. Anything. You swallowed hard and stared at the fire as if it could speak for you.

Clancy mirrored your posture, shoulders hunched slightly, elbows on his knees, gaze trained on the flames as if they held answers to questions neither of you could voice. There was a restlessness in him now, written in the way his fingers curled into his palms, the way his foot tapped once, then stopped.

You stole glances at him in the flickering light. But It was harder now to be subtle when he turned to look at you.

You felt the weight of his eyes on your profile before you heard his voice. “Why are you still awake?”

It cut through the silence like a knife through paper. Not harsh. Not even curious.

You turned to him, slowly this time, letting yourself look fully. And something in you softened without permission.

Clancy’s face, usually so composed, so unreadable, wore something different tonight. He looked uncertain. And underneath the exhaustion, he looked... open. In a way that made you ache. In a way that made you wish he’d look at you like that always.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you answered, your voice low, nearly swallowed by the gentle crackle of the fire and the whisper of the wind through the trees. Clancy didn’t move, but you could feel him watching you, studying you like you were a riddle he hadn’t quite solved.

“Why?” he asked.

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t know the answer, but because you did. You were still deciding how much of it you were brave enough to give him.

You shrugged slightly. “Just… thinking about tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth, either. The truth was sitting twelve inches away from you, watching with careful eyes.

Clancy’s lips twitched, like a thought had almost made it to the surface but lost its nerve. “I didn’t take you for the nervous type,” he said finally, his tone somewhere between jest and contemplative. Like he was trying to decide whether he believed it himself.

You let out a soft laugh before you could stop it, light and breathy, barely there, but enough to break the tension between you like sunlight cracking through a cloud. You turned to him, your eyes heavy, but softer now.

“What gave you that impression?” you murmured.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t answer. He just looked at you, and the look wasn’t unreadable anymore. This time, he was almost smiling.

“You’re brave,” he said.

The words weren’t flippant. They weren’t tossed out to make you feel better. They were spoken like fact. Like something carved into stone. He said them like he meant them and not just about tomorrow. Not just about the war. And the way he said it, like he’d been holding it in for far too long, made your stomach twist and flutter all at once.

Your mouth tilted, a quiet movement like the ghost of a smile, subtle, unsure. The corners lifted just slightly, betraying something softer under your skin.

“I’m not scared of dying,” you said at last. “If that’s what you’re wondering.” The words lingered between you like smoke, curling slow and invisible into the dark.

Across from you, Clancy watched. The firelight caught in his eyes, turning them to molten amber. His brow twitched, just a fraction, just enough. “Then what is it?” he asked, quiet curiosity woven into every syllable. His voice was calm, but there was something intent beneath it, something patient and listening.

Your shoulders sagged in the silence that followed, your whole body exhaling as if the truth itself was too heavy to carry upright. You looked away again, your gaze falling to your boots, then to the glowing sticks collapsing into coal and ash in the fire pit.

You hated that. Hated that your body recoiled when your heart wanted nothing more than to meet his gaze head-on. But your eyes flinched away, traitorous things, even as your mouth opened again.

“There’s just… so much I haven’t done,” you murmured, your voice caught somewhere between confession and surrender. “So many things I still haven’t said. Things I’ve buried because I thought I’d always have more time.”

You felt his stare pressing gently into the side of your face, and it gave you the courage to finally look back. “I need to tell someone something,” you admitted, voice roughening at the edges. “But it’s not the right time.”

There was a beat of silence. Clancy’s expression didn’t shift right away, but then, slowly, it did. The steel in his jaw loosened. The shadow behind his eyes softened. Something inside him gave.

Understanding.

Not pity. Not confusion. But deep, quiet, aching understanding. And somehow, that was scarier than rejection. Because Clancy saw you. And it made you feel naked.

Your gaze broke away from his like it burned. This time, your mind and body agreed, turn away, say something else,don’t let this moment grow too large to hold.

Clancy opened his mouth, something forming there, but you cut in before the words could fall.

“What about you?” you asked quickly, turning your face back toward the fire. You followed the smoke with your eyes, tracing its slow vanishing into the breeze. “Why are you still up?”

He paused. Just a flicker of surprise in the air between you, but then he adjusted, slipping back into place beside you like a river rerouting itself. His body mirrored yours again, both of you hunched toward the flames like they were keeping secrets.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said, and the echo of your earlier words wasn’t lost on you.

You glanced at him sideways. “You don’t sleep much. I’ve noticed.”

Clancy turned toward you his eyes narrowing, just barely, something flickering in them. Curiosity, maybe. Caution. “You’ve been watching me?”

“You’re hard not to notice.”

He huffed a short breath through his nose, maybe a laugh, maybe disbelief. “I didn’t think I was,” he murmured.

You held his gaze this time, steady and warm. “You’re always around. Always moving. Always carrying things no one else wants to name out loud. You’re the first one up in the morning. The last one to turn in at night. You look like someone who's been running a long time and forgot where the finish line is. You look tired, Clancy. You look like you haven’t put that weight down in years.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just turned back to the fire, his features drawn in profile, shadows pooling beneath the bones of his face. You worried, for a second, that you’d been too forward. That you’d peeled too much of him back.

“Sometimes when I sleep…” he started, his voice quieter now, almost fragile. “I’m afraid I’ll wake up back there.”

He didn’t have to say the name. You knew. Dema. The place that twisted everything it touched. The place that still clung to him like ash under the skin.

You turned to him fully, your face crumpling at the edges, sympathy blooming across your expression like a bruise.

“You won’t,” you said, your voice firmer now. Not because you were sure, but because he needed someone to be. “After tomorrow, that place won’t touch you again.”

“Do you really believe that?”

You hesitated. “I need to.”

Clancy stared at you a moment longer. Then he nodded slowly, the lines in his face easing just slightly. “Thank you,” he said, and the words felt too sincere for something so small.

A quiet, bitter laugh slipped out of you. “For what? False hope?”

“For staying,” he said simply. “When you didn’t have to.”

You looked at him, and the weight of everything unspoken swelled in your throat again. “I wanted to,” you whispered.

Boldly, maybe even recklessly, you reached out.

Your fingertips hovered for a breath over the curve of Clancy’s hand, then lowered, deliberate but shaking. The contact was barely a whisper, skin brushing skin like a question asked too quietly.

He flinched.

It wasn’t violent. Just a small, reflexive shudder, like his body hadn’t been warned tenderness was coming. His hand twitched under yours, pulled back slightly as if burned, not by fear, but by surprise.

You recoiled instantly, shame rising like a flood.

“Sorry,” you said in a rush, voice breaking over the word like a wave over rocks. “I didn’t mean to-… scare you or anything.”

“It’s okay,” Clancy cut in gently, but the words felt paper-thin against the hot embarrassment curling in your stomach.

“No, I shouldn’t have,” You stood too fast, the world tilting slightly as your blood surged to your head. Panic was climbing your spine, tight and dizzying.

“I’m sure you didn’t come out here to talk to me,” you said, words tumbling out too fast, brittle and defensive. You were already stepping back, fumbling for your exit. “I’ll let you be.”

You turned on your heel, eyes stinging, ready to disappear into the dark like a coward. Your hair whipped around your shoulders, your boots kicked up dust, and you almost made it a full step before-

“Wait.”

You felt it before you saw it, the sudden, solid weight of his hand wrapping around your wrist. Not tight, not demanding. Just... present. Anchoring.

You froze.

Your name left his lips like a plea. You turned back slowly, he was still there, still seated on the log, eyes wide with something that looked dangerously close to longing.

“Don’t go,” Clancy said, voice barely above a whisper. The fire lit his features in soft, amber gold, jaw clenched, lashes low. Vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before. “Just... stay. Sit with me. Please.”

The last word shattered something in you.

You nodded before your voice could catch up. “Okay,” you breathed. “Yeah.”

You moved back toward him, slower this time, like approaching a wounded animal. You eased back onto the log beside him, the same spot you’d jumped from seconds earlier, but neither of you spoke at first. He didn’t let go of your wrist immediately.

His grip wasn’t forceful. It was hesitant. Like he was afraid letting go would undo whatever thread had been pulled taut between you both. After a few long, firelit seconds, he exhaled, eyes dropping, and finally released you. You swore you still felt the ghost of his hand around your skin.

“You should tell them.”

The words pierced through the quiet, soft but certain.

You blinked, brows pulling together like the sky before a storm. You turned your head toward Clancy slowly, searching his face for meaning, for context.

“What?” your voice came out hushed, winded, like you’d just missed a step.

Clancy’s eyes didn’t leave the fire at first. He spoke slowly, deliberately, like the thought had been sitting on his tongue for too long and now, at last, demanded air.

“You said earlier… you needed to tell someone something, but it wasn’t the right time.”

You nodded, barely.

He turned to face you then, finally, fully. His voice was softer than it had any right to be. “You should tell them.”

There was a pause, one of those full, loaded silences that stretch and strain and hang between two hearts like a thread that might snap with the wrong breath.

Your head lowered, gaze falling to the shifting glow of the coals, as if answers might be written there in ash and ember.

“We don’t know how much time we have left,” Clancy continued, his voice threaded with something aching and honest. “You shouldn’t die with that kind of regret sitting in your mouth like a stone.”

His words were heavy, too heavy, and yet they made you feel weightless. Like you could float away on them, like they mattered more than you were prepared for. You loved how they sounded. Thoughtful. Poetic. Spoken with the kind of conviction only someone like Clancy could carry.

But still, something inside you twisted. You had the distinct feeling that this was his way of asking, no, begging, for you to say what he already suspected.

Like he was trying to open the door for you so you wouldn’t have to reach for the handle yourself.

You shut your eyes tight.

Enough.

Enough hiding behind half-smiles and subtle glances. Enough swallowing the words that had been burning holes in your throat for weeks. The end was crawling closer every hour. You were done pretending time was something you had.

Your voice was quiet, breathy. Almost too soft to be real. “I think about you,” you said, “Sometimes.”

Clancy didn’t move, didn’t speak. You could feel the way he stilled beside you, utterly still, like a held breath.

“More than I should.”

The flames blurred before your eyes, but still you didn’t blink. You couldn’t risk looking at him. You couldn’t risk seeing something in his eyes that would break you.

“I want to see you more than I should,” you continued, the confession bleeding out of you in a rush now. “I like you more than I should.”

The silence after that was devastating.

The fire cracked, something popped. But Clancy said nothing. The air between you was thick and aching.

So you filled it.

“I don’t know you nearly as much as I want to,” you murmured, finally tearing your gaze away from the flames to stare down at your boots, your hands. “And you don’t know me. Not really. But I admire you, Clancy. So much. You’ve done so much, for all of us. For me.”

You ran a hand through your hair, the motion sharp, almost desperate. Your lips curved into a frown that felt too familiar, too practiced.

“But it’s too late now.”

The words cracked on your tongue like dry wood.

Your shoulders sank, your body folding in on itself. You let your head fall, eyes shutting tightly against the sting behind them. You stared at the dirt. At the soles of your worn boots. At anything but him.

Then warmth.

A touch.

You felt it first beneath your chin, a careful hand, tentative fingers guiding your face upward, like you were something fragile. Your breath hitched as your eyes opened, and there he was.

Clancy.

Closer now.

His eyes glowed gold in the firelight, deep and endless and searching. His thumb brushed against your cheek with something bordering reverence.

Your lips parted slightly, stunned into stillness. You looked up at him like he was the last beautiful thing in a world you’d already mourned.

He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against yours. “It’s not too late,” he whispered, so low you almost didn’t catch it, but you felt it like thunder in your ribs.

Then he kissed you.

It was soft at first, so soft it felt like a promise. A question with no words, a tremble of vulnerability wrapped in warmth. Clancy’s lips brushed yours with a gentleness that ached. Tentative. As if he thought any more pressure might splinter you into pieces.

So you took the leap.

Your hand rose slowly, almost reverently, to the nape of his neck, fingers sliding into the mess of hair there. You pulled him closer, deepening the kiss with every inch closed between your bodies. The shift was sudden, hungry. All the quiet yearning you’d spent days, weeks, months, silently nursing now poured out of you with desperate abandon.

Clancy responded like he’d been holding his breath. Like this was something he’d wanted longer than he could bear.

His free hand slid to your waist, splaying across your side with a careful kind of urgency, like he was grounding himself in your warmth. He kissed you back with mounting fervor, his breath hot and shallow, puffing against your mouth in rhythm with his racing heart. Yours answered in kind, thudding, wild, impossible to contain.

And then you tasted it.

Him.

Salt and smoke and something uniquely Clancy, the hum of him vibrating through your mouth, buzzing against your lips like electricity caught in your chest. His tongue skimmed your bottom lip. You gasped softly, and that small sound was all he needed. You met him eagerly, mouths melting together in a tangled, breathless rhythm.

Between kisses, he whispered against you: “I think about you too,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “More than I should.”

His words wrecked you.

His mouth broke away from yours only to trail down your neck, pressing a slow line of open-mouthed kisses to your throat, the underside of your chin, worshipping you in soft, devoted movements. Your head tilted back with a sigh, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers gripped at the neck hem of his shirt.

Every place his lips touched burned like starlight. Every breath you took felt shared, no longer yours alone.

When he finally pulled away, your eyes cracked open reluctantly. His face hovered inches from yours, pupils blown wide.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

You simply breathed.

Fast. Shallow. In sync.

The night air around you felt thick with unsaid things—desire, fear, maybe even hope. Then Clancy, still catching his breath, suddenly grasped your hand, interlacing your fingers like it was instinct.

“Come with me,” he said, no hesitation this time. His voice was low, raw, firm.

You didn’t ask where.

You followed.

Your legs felt strange, unsteady beneath you, your body light and thrumming with adrenaline and anticipation. He pulled you gently, yet insistently, across the darkened camp. It was the same churning, breathless energy that had twisted in your stomach all day, but now it didn’t feel like dread.

The tent flap rustled as Clancy slipped inside, holding it open for you. You stepped through the threshold without a word, and the moment the fabric fell shut behind you, the world was swallowed in black.

For a second, you could hear only the sound of rustling, the faint swish of movement. Then, a flick. The rasp of a match.

A small flame bloomed, a match cradled between Clancy’s fingers.

You exhaled softly, watching him in the glow. He was crouched low, his expression illuminated in soft amber light. The sharp lines of his face softened, eyes shadowed but still impossibly expressive. He looked up at you, not saying anything, but everything was there in that look.

You didn't know if you'd ever been seen like that before.

He brought the match to the kerosene lamp. With a low whoomph, light filled the tent, dim, golden, quiet. It cast everything in warmth. His hair gleamed like copper at dusk. The air between you glimmered with tension.

Your eyes followed him as he looked up at you, his gaze unreadable beneath the flicker of lamplight. With a slight tilt of his head and a quiet nod, he gestured to the makeshift bed at the back of the tent, a couple bunched up sheets, blankets and pillows bunched together in the corner. It wasn’t a command, but something softer. A request.

So you moved, albeit hesitantly. Your limbs felt too stiff, too aware, as you sat on the edge of the bedding. You didn’t know where to place your hands, didn’t know where to look.

He remained kneeling in front of you, still as a held breath. His eyes roamed over you with an almost clinical precision, but there was nothing cold in it, just something painfully earnest. Clancy watched you like you were the only thing anchoring him to this moment. Like if he blinked too long, you’d vanish.

It made you want to look away. To shrink under the weight of his stare. But you didn’t. You let him see you, every fracture, every unspoken ache.

Let him dissect you if he had to. Let him learn your bones like a poem.

He inched closer, the air between you charged and fragile. You expected him to speak, to soothe the silence somehow. But the quiet stretched on, coiling between your ribs, making every shallow inhale feel loud, ragged.

Then his hands rose, slowly, gently, framing your face. His thumbs hovered just beneath your jaw, warm against the tremble in your throat. You thought maybe he was checking if you were real. Or maybe he just needed to feel your pulse to remind himself you were alive. That he was alive.

And in that moment, you realized something: Words had nothing on this.

This was louder than language.

The way his gaze swept across your face, memorizing every freckle, chasing every crease, lingering on the curve of your lips. The way his mouth found your skin like it had a map etched beneath it, pressing soft kisses to your neck, pausing under your jaw, finally brushing against your lips like a whispered vow.

His hand slid to your waist, grounding you as he leaned in further. He gently guided you backward, your body sinking into the worn bedding beneath. One hand braced against the ground beside your head, the other found the hem of your shirt, hesitating for the briefest second.

His eyes met yours again, seeking permission, not possession.

His head dipped lower, soft tufts of hair brushing your collarbone, lips ghosting your skin as he started to lift your shirt, inch by inch, as though he was unwrapping something sacred.

But then, you stopped him.

Your hand curled around his wrists, gripping tight. Your whole body stilled, the air caught in your chest like a bird with clipped wings.

Clancy froze instantly.

His eyes lifted to meet yours, his expression softening into something painfully tender. From this close, you could see every fleck of amber in his irises, every crack in the armor he usually wore so well. His chin hovered just above the seam of your pants, breath warm against your stomach.

“Are you-…” you began, voice cracked and low, “are you sure about this?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, uncertain, propping yourself up on your elbows so you could see him. So he could see that this mattered.

His lips parted, and for a moment, he simply breathed.

“Yes,” he said, no tremor in his voice this time. Just truth. He shifted up, hands moving to either side of your head, caging you in with nothing but presence. Your noses nearly touched, eyes locked so tightly you didn’t dare blink.

“I need this,” he murmured. “I need you.”

His hand slid back down your side, grazing the edge of your ribs, shirt trailing after his fingertips. His voice dropped lower, words brushing your ear like silk.

“I need you now,” he breathed, “just in case-”

A shiver ran through you as his lips grazed the curve of your ear, his voice soft and sacred.

“Just in case,” he said again, and pulled back, just enough to see you. Just enough for you to see him.

He dipped his head, and the tip of his nose traced yours, slowly, deliberately, until his lips hovered over yours again.

And then he kissed you.

Not like before. Not tentative.

This kiss was claiming. Honest.

You gasped into it, flushed and feverish, as warmth bloomed through your chest and bloomed outward, reaching your fingertips. You were burning and floating, grounded only by the weight of him pressed above you.

When he finally pulled back, barely, barely, your voice emerged in a whisper, breathless and trembling.

“In case what?”

You already knew. But you needed to hear it.

Clancy’s hands tightened around your waist. His lips lingered at your temple before he whispered the answer against your skin.

“In case I don’t get this chance again.”

You barely had time to react before his mouth was on yours again, urgent, alive.

“Let yourself live before we die,” he said into the kiss, voice rough and full of something infinite.

Your arms rose instinctively above your head, the fabric of your shirt peeling away in Clancy’s hands with a soft rustle. The cold air met your newly bare skin like a ghost, swift, biting, and your shoulders tensed, breath catching as goosebumps bloomed across your arms. But the chill wasn’t the only reason you shivered.

It was him, his hands skimming over your ribcage, warm and instant. It was his eyes, tracing every inch of you like they were trying to memorize you.

Your bra unfastened with a tug behind your back, his fingers confident, precise. In contrast, yours trembled as they reached for him, landing unsteadily on his shoulders.

Then his lips were on yours again, grounding you.

He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, and none of it. His mouth found the curve of your neck, that sensitive place just above your pulse. Then lower, chasing the line of your collarbone, the valley between your breasts. Each kiss a brand. A benediction.

And still, he didn’t stop. His hands roamed downward, slow and hungry, learning every dip and rise of your frame. His knuckles dragged sparks across your stomach, then lower, gripping the fabric of your pants in his fists. You arched your back wordlessly, hips lifting in silent permission.

Clancy's voice broke the silence, low and hoarse with something deeper than lust. "You know…" he began, his knuckles grazing the inside of your thigh, "I never let myself think about you.”

Your breath stilled. He looked up at you, the firelight flickering in his eyes like something primal.

“Especially not like this.”

The muscles in your thighs clenched as his touch ghosted higher, and for a moment, he paused, pulling back to let his hand rest on your knee. He lifted your leg, cradling it gently as he guided it over to rest against his hip. His lips pressed to your knee, feather-light, a kind of admiration in every motion. His gaze darkened with longing and a hint of ache as he spoke again.

“I couldn’t let myself get attached,” he confessed, his eyes narrowing as though he was trying to see into you, through you.

“But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t imagined this…” His thumb traced a slow, deliberate path up your inner thigh, barely brushing the edges of heat. “Imagined you, like this. At my mercy.”

The confession left you breathless. You swallowed hard, lips parted in awe, in want, in disbelief.

"I will say," he continued, his voice roughened by desire, "you’re far prettier from this view than I ever dared to picture."

Your heart skipped and then stumbled, a single press of his thumb against your clothed clit jolting your entire system. Air fled your lungs, your ribs strained against it. Your eyes locked with his, mouth parted as your lips quivered on a word that never came.

His cheek brushed against your knee as he leaned closer, lips dragging along your skin.

"You're shaking," he whispered, almost to himself, eyes fixated on your trembling thighs.

And you were.

You'd seen him shattered, bloodied, cracked wide open by grief and rage. You'd seen him worn down, afraid, burning with resistance. But this? This, being unraveled by his hands, his voice, his care, was something else entirely.

A sigh left your lips, breathier, needier this time. Your teeth caught your bottom lip as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, pulling them off with slow purpose.

His thumb returned to your clit, this time direct, circling softly, steadily. The sound you made was involuntary, needy. Your hands clawed at the ground beneath you, gathering the sheets like you were trying to ground yourself in the fabric of reality.

"Is this okay?" Clancy asked, voice hushed. His eyes never left your face, watching every twitch, every flicker of expression as his thumb continued its rhythm.

"Yes," you gasped, hips arching ever so slightly into his hand. “Please, yes.”

He gave a faint, crooked smile.

“Stay still,” he said softly, though there was command buried beneath the sweetness. His control cracked at the edges, breath heavy now, fingers trembling as he pushed further.

His middle finger dipped between your folds, pressing gently, carefully, until he was inside you, up to the knuckle. Your entire body tensed around him.

“Fuck,” you breathed out, voice shaking, your head falling back against the bedding, lashes fluttering shut.

“That’s it,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. One hand stroked your thigh as he leaned closer between your legs. “Eyes on me.”

His voice didn’t just speak, it coaxed, soft and sinful, threading itself through your nerves like smoke. And you obeyed. Even as your eyelids fluttered and your back curved in aching response, your gaze stayed tethered to his.

Then he slid another finger into you, slowly, deliberately, curling them inside you, and pumping in and out like he was playing a rhythm only the two of you could hear.

There was no mistaking the pleasure he took in watching you unravel. It was written in the way his breath hitched each time your body clenched around him. In the sharpened focus of his eyes, how they flicked between your face and the place where you came apart beneath his touch. And still, he watched. Like he was studying every cause and effect, every flush of skin, every stuttered breath, every tremble. He knew where to press, how to angle. He learned your body as if it were scripture written just for him.

And that thumb, God, that thumb. It never stopped moving in those tight, devastating circles over your clit, pushing you closer and closer to a cliff you weren’t sure you wanted to survive.

Sweat collected at your temple. You needed to be closer, needed him, not just his hands. This was exquisite torment, but it wasn’t enough.

Your hands, unsure but aching, slid from his shoulders down to the stole that draped loosely around his neck. The fine fabric wrapped around your fingers. You clutched it, wound it around your hand, berthed yourself to it, and pulled.

The kiss you stole was urgent, messy, mouths colliding in half-breaths and heat, your desperation spilling into his lips. It was short, but it left you breathless, like you’d sprinted through a dream and woken up wanting.

Clancy's pupils dilated. His irises darkened, hardened, like a shell casing clinking inside the barrel, cold and dangerous.

He pulled back, just enough to look you in the eye, to let the weight of his words settle into your bones.

“Do you know what I enjoy more than watching you squirm?” He asked it like a secret. A sin he was inviting you into.

Below, his fingers pushed deeper. The wet, obscene sound of them inside you filled the space between your whimpers. He watched the way your body welcomed him, how your legs spread wider, hips lifting, silently begging him to go harder. And he did. With pure, deliberate satisfaction.

Each thrust matched the frantic rise and fall of your chest. Your lungs couldn’t keep pace with what your body wanted.

"Making you squirm."

The words were growled into your ear, the heat of his breath chasing goosebumps across your skin. His cheek grazed yours, stubble scraping lightly. The low rumble of his voice reverberated through you as your body began to unravel.

You whimpered. You couldn’t help it. The sound tumbled from your lips, half-drowned in a moan. Your knees were faltering, your entire body teetering on the edge, frayed and undone.

Your back arched, lifting you from the makeshift bed, your chest pressed flush against his as you gasped for air. He was everywhere. Inside you. Over you. Breathing with you.

You clawed at the sheets like an animal caught in a snare, your nerves firing in frantic, directionless pulses.

“Clancy,” You exhaled his name. Tears welled, not from pain, but from pleasure sharp enough to carve you in half.

He felt it, knew it, and doubled down. His fingers pumped faster, deeper. He curled them just so, dragging across that spot again and again until your vision blurred and your voice gave out.

Then his mouth closed over your nipple.

Your hips jerked. His tongue moved in circles, sucking gently before switching sides. The wet, sudden chill against your neglected breast sent shivers across your skin. When his teeth tugged and then let go with a snap, your whole chest rippled with the shock.

Your hands flew to his back, scratching through the fabric of his shirt, up into the roots of his hair, grounding yourself in him. Giving yourself up to his torture.

And then, emptiness.

His fingers slipped out, and the loss made you sob out a breathless protest.

“What are you-”

You couldn’t even finish the sentence.

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then bit. Sharp enough to make you jolt, thighs trembling.

Everything inside you felt combustible. A slow, pulsing fire that started in your stomach and stretched out to your fingers, your toes, the sweat on your brow.

He leaned in again. This time, his face sank between your legs, and he hooked both of them over his shoulders.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he murmured, voice velvet-wrapped steel.

“Let me take care of you.”

His tongue met your clit in one soft, slow stroke. And your entire spine bowed from the feeling of it.

You choked on a cry. He smirked against you, lips already slick with you.

So he did it again. Evan slower this time, more purposeful. Taunting.

He stared up at you, eyes narrowed in focus, as if he was memorizing every twitch your body gave in response. The predator. The artist.

One hand braced over your lower abdomen, holding you still even as you writhed under his mouth. His tongue moved with unbearable precision, soft licks, then flattened ones, then tiny pulses of pressure that made your thighs clamp around his head.

And still he didn’t stop.

You were trembling, soaked in sweat, hands buried in his hair, mouth open in a silent moan. He pulled another whimper from you, and another, and he wouldn’t let up.

You were his to break. And he was doing it so gently.

A deep rumble rolled from Clancy’s throat, feral, satisfied, and resonant, vibrating through your cunt as his tongue dragged slow strokes along your slit. He lapped at the evidence of your undoing, savoring you like a secret he’d finally earned the right to tell. The sounds, the scent, the heat of you, he revelled in them. He was on a mission now, his only objective: to drive you completely fucking insane.

He groaned again, low and wrecked, and it echoed against your skin, a vibration that struck sparks through your spine. His thumb found your nipple again, brushing over it with lazy affection, before his hand curled into something firmer, needier. Fingertips dragged across your flesh, digging in, releasing, grasping again, like he didn’t know if he wanted to comfort you or destroy you.

"Still with me?" he rasped, pausing only long enough to glance up. His eyes were molten. You nodded softly.

"Good girl."

You moaned something incoherent, threading your fingers deeper into his hair, tugging, urging.

Your legs spread wider without you meaning to. The plea was silent, but your body was loud, begging for relief.

And Clancy obliged.

His fingers slid back inside you, rougher now, his knuckles dragging against soaked walls that clenched at the intrusion with desperate gratitude. You gasped, a choked, high-pitched sound, as your hips lifted to meet him, seeking friction, chasing that ever-elusive peak.

Your clit throbbed against the hot press of his mouth. His tongue flicked, circled, sucked, slow at first, then faster, more merciless. He alternated between maddening pressure and featherlight strokes, keeping you teetering at the edge of ruin.

“God, Clancy,” you whimpered, your voice hoarse, eyes squeezed shut. “Please, don’t stop.”

He hummed against you, lips curling at the corners like he was smiling. He wouldn’t stop. Not until you broke again. And again.

Your hips ground against his face, chasing friction like it was oxygen. A bead of sweat rolled down the arch of your throat, over the curve of your collarbone. Your vision blurred, lashes fluttering, blinking through stars.

Every nerve lit up. Every breath was a battle.

Clancy’s hand slid from your cunt to your face. With terrifying precision, he pinched your chin, forcing your head to tilt back. Then, without warning, two fingers, still slick from you, slipped between your lips.

“Suck,” he ordered, low and dark.

You did. You hollowed your cheeks around him and moaned as the taste of yourself bloomed on your tongue. His skin was rough, callused from a life spent surviving, but the underside of his fingers was soft, warm, familiar.

And the sound that came from him. It was primal. A deep, guttural groan that vibrated through the air and settled deep in your stomach.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he gritted, the muscles in his jaw twitching. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

He plucked his fingers from your mouth, his digits almost immediately getting back to work, buried deep inside you, his mouth was relentless on you. It only took a matter of seconds for you to cum.

Your whole body clenched. Your thighs tightened around his head, your toes curling, nails raking down the fabric beneath you. A broken sob ripped from your throat as pleasure flooded your system in waves that left you breathless and blindingly alive.

Clancy didn’t stop. Even as you trembled. Even as slickness coated his chin, dripping onto the floor in a hot, glistening mess.

Your hips twitched beneath him, involuntary, as your cries softened into deep breaths. And still, he licked and sucked, until you whimpered out something half-like a plea, half-like surrender.

Only then did he pull back.

A final kiss pressed to your overstimulated clit. The faint pop of his lips leaving you. And then: stillness.

He exhaled hard, lifting his head with a look of feral pride carved into every line of his face. His lips were wet. His jaw was shining. And his eyes…they locked on yours with terrifying focus.

You’d never seen him look more sure of himself.

He dragged a hand slowly down his face, wiped his chin, and let his gaze linger on your dazed expression, your wrecked form, your trembling legs, your unsteady breath.

And before you could catch your breath, before you could register a thought, he surged upward.

His mouth crushed into yours, his tongue sweeping past your lips and giving you no room to protest. He tasted like you, sweet, heady, tangy, and it only made you cling tighter, your arms flinging around his neck, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

He held you close, one hand beneath your thighs, the other pressed to your lower back, anchoring you as if you might float away.

Your body folded into his as if you were made to fit there.

In a frenzy of mouths and hands, tangled in sheets and hunger, you peeled Clancy’s shirt from his body, fingers fumbling in your haste, driven by a storm beneath your skin. The fabric fluttered somewhere behind you, discarded without care, forgotten as soon as it left your hands.

Your palms mapped him like scripture, reading the ridges of his spine with worshipful reverence. Fingertips skated the trench that ran down the center of his back, dipping into valleys and dragging over belt loops like a cartographer plotting every inch of him you’d yet to discover.

His belt gave a heavy clink as the metal slipped from leather. His pants were halfway down his thighs before you could blink.

Then his lips melted into yours again, raw, unrelenting, as the weight of him drove you into the ground. You both moved in chaos, hands tripping over each other in desperation, hearts pounding like war drums, beating in synchrony for the first time.

“I can feel your heart,” he murmured into the column of your throat, voice rough with wonder. His palm pressed flat against your chest, just above your racing pulse. “I can feel you breathe.”

He drank you in like this, skin against skin, as if it proved you were real. His lips trailed lower, soft at first, whispers of kisses over your collarbone, then your breast, your ribs, then rougher, hungrier. His teeth sank gently into the curve of your shoulder. He nipped, tugged, leaving pinks and purples in his wake like you were something he could mark, could claim.

You gripped him tight, your hand wrapping around the thick length of his erection. He groaned lowly, choking on the breath that caught in his throat, and a shudder ran through him like a quake. The tip pulsed against your palm, slicked with a bead of precinct. He rocked slightly into your closed hand, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Fuck” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours.

You strokes become a little faster, and his entire body stiffened, muscles twitching under your fingers. His arms nearly gave out, his mouth falling open with a helpless sigh as he buried his face in your neck.

Then he braced himself, grabbed your hips, and aligned you with purposeful hands, fingers splayed against your skin. He pushed himself inside you.

Slowly. Torturously.

The head of his cock parted you, the thick stretch of him sinking into you inch by inch, carving space for himself until he was fully seated, deep and hot.

Your mouth parted in a soundless cry, breath stolen. Clancy’s head dropped between his shoulders, jaw slack, whispering some half-formed prayer against your chest.

“Shit-…you feel-” he tried, but couldn’t finish the sentence. Could only groan.

Every detail of him was etched in that moment: the way his brows knit tight in concentration. The tremble of his arms as they held him above you. The strands of damp hair falling across his forehead. The way his hips twitched once, reflexively, just to feel you squeeze around him.

He rocked out, slow, just a taste, then slammed back in, all at once. 

You gasped. He groaned.

Your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, ankles locking as you arched beneath him.

Clancy studied you like art in motion.

Every movement of your body was mirrored by him, a dance of pressure, adjustment, surrender. If you shifted, he shifted. If your breath hitched, he eased. When you clenched, he pressed harder.

You raked your nails down his back, leaving red streaks, and his mouth fell open in a silent snarl. He loved it.

“Again-” he panted, voice raw. “Do that again.”

You obeyed, dragging your nails again, and he snapped, rutting into you harder.

His hips ground deep, his cock pulsing inside as your walls squeezed him tight. You could feel his control falter. He was unraveling.

But still, he watched you.

Always watching. Like he couldn’t bear to miss a single flicker of pleasure across your face.

Like every shiver, every cry, was another proof of something sacred between you.

The slap of skin filled the tent, the scent of sex and sweat curling around your bodies like incense. Your moans mingled with his grunts, filthy, gorgeous music that no one else would ever hear.

He shifted, grinding in, finding that perfect angle, and your cry broke into a mewl. His rhythm adjusted instantly, rolling his hips against you, your cunt clamping around him tighter with each push.

He traced your jaw, tilted your chin, and kissed you again, tongue plunging into your mouth in perfect time with his thrusts, deep and desperate.

“I love making you sweat…” he whispered against your cheek. “I love feeling you release…”

His biceps flexed as he slipped an arm beneath your neck, lifting your upper body so he could watch as he sank in, slow and deep, again and again. Your mouth hung open in wordless pleasure, a sheen of sweat glistening on your chest.

“I love hearing you say my name.”

“Clancy-” It tumbled out broken, not enough, too much, all at once.

“Yes,” he groaned, eyes blazing, “Just like that.”

He slammed into you harder, one hand clutching your ass to push you into each brutal thrust, your body bouncing in his grip.

You bit into his shoulder, muffling your scream as tears burned behind your eyes. His taste, his heat, the salt of his skin, it was too much. He was too much.

“Look at me,” he gasped, almost pleading, his hand cradling your head as it lolled. “Please, I need to see you.”

He buried himself deep. His teeth gritted. His hips stuttered.

And even as you came apart beneath him, he held on, devouring every flicker of emotion on your face.

Your mind blurred. Your limbs stopped responding. Stars bled into the edges of your vision, your whole body going liquid under his unrelenting pace.

“Fuck” he groaned, voice breaking as your name tumbled from his lips like a psalm.

You felt yourself coming, again. Your body seized, your muscles clenching around him like a vice.

His name split the air, your final cry echoing through the fabric walls as he came, hard, cock twitching as he emptied himself deep into you.

He trembled. Cursed. Clutched you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

It wasn’t weird, the eye contact. Not with him. Not now. You wanted him to see. Wanted him to witness what he did to you, how he made you come apart in every sense of the word.

His cheeks flushed, his lips parted, and for a moment, everything stilled.

Then his body softened. His cock slowly slipped free, leaving you open, dripping, aching. His head dropped to the pillow beside you.

And for a moment, neither of you spoke. Just breathed.

Held.

Felt.

The silence settled like dust in the air, slow, weightless, unshaken.

Clancy’s chest rose and fell beside yours, still breathless, as if the echo of what you’d just done lived in the rhythm of his lungs. His arms remained tightly wound around you, his fingers twitching in the aftershocks, the pads of his thumbs tracing lazy circles along your hips.

The tent was thick with heat, air fogged by sweat and sex and skin. But neither of you moved to pull away. There was something sacred in the stillness,something neither of you dared to disturb.

You shifted just enough to see his face, flushed, damp, eyelids heavy. His lashes fanned shadows against his cheekbones, but his gaze found yours like it always did: unrelenting, soft, sure. You were both ruined. You were both whole.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead, nothing rushed, nothing ravenous. Just a tender press of lips to skin.

“No matter what happens tomorrow,” Clancy finally murmured, his voice low, steady. “I’m glad we could do this.”

Your eyes blinked open, focus sharpening on his face. Your throat tightened.

“Me too,” you whispered.

He exhaled a shaky breath through his nose, dragging the edge of the blanket over your bare bodies. The soft rustle of fabric barely cut through the thick quiet, but it felt like a balm. His hand found your waist again, slipping under the blanket like it belonged there, because it did.

He pressed his lips to your shoulder, a lazy kiss without pressure, and you felt your limbs begin to settle, like the storm had finally passed, leaving behind only warm rain and the steady sound of calm.

Outside the tent, the world remained distant. Blurred. Somewhere far off, a night bird called and was answered, and the wind passed gently through the fabric walls. But inside this small shelter of heat and breath and softness, time forgot how to move forward.

Your fingers found the back of his hand beneath the blanket, laced between his without a word. He squeezed once, and you knew he understood everything you didn’t say.

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