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[ ✦ ] — ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴇᴀꜱʏ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ʏᴏᴜ…

CLANCY X AFAB!READER

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 summery: YOU AND CLANCY CAN NEVER COME TO AN AGREEMENT, ARGUING ENDLESSLY ABOUT STRATEGY. YOU PUSHED EACH OTHERS BUTTONS AND NEVER CAME TO A CONCISE MIDDLE, INSTEAD LEAVING MORE LOST AND ANGRIER THAN YOU HAD BEEN GOING INTO THE ARGUMENT. THAT IS UNTIL ONE DAY YOU GO A LITTLE TOO FAR.

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 warnings: 18+ CONTENT, MDNI, NO USE OF Y/N, AFAB!READER, STRONG LANGUAGE, PORN WITH VERY LITTLE PLOT, HATE SEX, ENEMIES TO LOVERS ISH, SEMI PUBLIC, DIRTY TALK, PIV SEX, UNPROTECTED SEX, SIZE MENTION, ORAL (M RECEIVING), TROAT FUCKING, FINGERING, USE OF NICKNAMES (BABY, GOOD GIRL), HAIR PULLING, LIGHT CHOKING, ORGASM DENAIL (I GUESS), THE FILTHIEST THING IVE WRITTEN SO FAR.

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌wc: 8863

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 a/n: REQUESTED BY ANONYMOUS, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR REQUESTING THIS, I JUST KNEW I HAD TO WRITE IT AS SOON I READ IT. PLEASE IGNORE ANY REPETITION OR SPELLING MISTAKES, THIS IS NOT PROOFREAD. THE FILTHIEST THING IVE EVER WRITTEN I FEAR. PART ONE OF TWO. ENJOY!

“We must be swift and ruthless. That’s the only way this will work.”

His voice cut through the tent like a blade, clean and cold, and they listened, of course they did. The Banditos drank his words like lifeblood, clinging to every syllable as though the war itself were wrapped in them. As though he spoke in prophecy, not peril.

It made your stomach churn.

You stood near the fringe of the circle, arms crossed tight, watching the way the others leaned in, hungry, hopeful. Desperate. Desperate enough to mistake recklessness for brilliance.

The tent stank of sweat, smoke, and the raw, electric tension of waiting. Dozens huddled around the warped wooden table, yellow bandanas tied tight like nooses at their throats. In the center of it all was Clancy. Leaning over the map, palms spread flat against the weathered parchment, fingers twitching with the rhythm of a thousand restless thoughts. His body cast long shadows under the flickering lanterns, a hunched figure of fire and fury, already halfway into a battle that hadn’t begun. A martyr in the making. Or a fool.

He was building a war plan with the kind of urgency that suggested doom didn’t frighten him, only stagnation did. And he spoke of swift and ruthless like they were virtues.

You knew better.

This, whatever this was, wasn't a strategy. It was a suicide note with nice handwriting.

Clancy didn’t just walk into danger; he invited it. Arms open, eyes wide, the kind of man who would dance on a minefield if he thought it’d rally the crowd. He didn’t fear death, he flirted with it. Because in his mind, the war was already won. And the dead? They were the cost of glory.

You wanted to scream at him. To tear the map in two and force him to look at the bodies his plans would leave behind. But you’d done that before. Too many times. And still, he stood. Unmoved.

Because you were the opposite current, always pulling away. You planned for the worst, and hoped for nothing. You counted exits in every room and memorized the names of every soul you swore to protect. You bore the weight of what-ifs like armor.

And so, of course, you clashed. You, the tactician. Him, the spark. He called you cold. You called him careless. And together, you created storms, loud, relentless, dangerous.

But here you were again. Both of you staring down the edge of something that could either burn Dema to the ground… or bury every Bandito with it. And still, they followed him. Still, they listened.

You tightened your jaw, eyes fixed on the map. If this was going to be the end, you’d be damned if it ended his way.

It hadn’t always been this volatile.

In the beginning, it was small. A difference in approach, a divergence of thought. You’d offer a counterpoint to one of his risk-soaked ideas, laying down a safer, more calculated route. He’d raise a brow, maybe flash that crooked grin that made others forget the stakes. And you’d both agree to disagree. No harm. No heat. Just friction, controlled, manageable.

But embers don’t stay quiet forever.

The disagreements evolved into something sharper. Tiffs that bit at the edges of meetings. Snide remarks whispered under breath or flung like daggers when tension cracked the air. The kind of words meant to sting just enough to leave a mark, but not enough to draw blood.

Until they did.

Now, when you and Clancy clashed, it wasn’t friction, it was fire. Full-blown arguments that shook the walls of the tent and sent the others scattering like ash in the wind. No longer polite. No longer professional. Just raw. Loud. Unyielding. And worst of all, pointless.

You rarely found resolution. Only exhaustion. Each time you walked away feeling more lost than before, as if something sacred had crumbled a little more between you. You’d glare at each other from across the war room, hearts pounding with fury and something else, something unspoken and dangerous. And then… silence. The kind that lingered long after the shouting stopped.

But it hadn’t always been like that.

You remembered the nights, early on, when you both stood guard on the outskirts of camp. Just the two of you beneath the bruised sky, voices low and careful. You’d swap stories of your time in Dema like whispered confessions, offering up your scars as proof that you had survived it. He told you about the horrors he’d seen, the friends he couldn’t save, the guilt he carried like a second spine. You told him about the people you lost, the indoctrination you clawed your way out of, and the lingering ache of never quite feeling free. In those moments, you weren’t rebels. Just two broken souls living on borrowed time, finding refuge in one another. And maybe, just maybe, you were friends. Once.

But that was before the war hardened your edges. Before strategy turned personal. Before every word he spoke sounded like recklessness and every word you uttered sounded like doubt.

You fought with Clancy because deep down, against your better judgment, you cared. You cared in a way that made you angry. Because he made you feel too much. Because he didn’t take enough care. Because he reminded you of everything you had already lost. And if something ever happened to him, if he bled out on a battlefield you tried to stop him from stepping onto, you weren’t sure who you’d become.

But you’d never say it. Not to him. Not even to yourself. So instead, you argued. Because that was safer than saying the truth out loud.

“We’ll come down from the west,” Clancy said, his voice carrying that familiar edge of command, just shy of arrogance, but not far enough to ignore. His finger carved a deliberate path across the map, dragging through the jagged terrain until Trench gave way to the looming walls of Dema.

The tent was silent. Still. The only sound was the rustle of the wind outside the sacred walls and the low hum of breath.

Until you spoke.

“Why would we do that?”

Your voice sliced clean through the quiet, the only one brave, or foolish, enough to challenge him in front of the others. It landed sharp, jarring, like a bell struck in a chapel too late at night.

Clancy’s eyes snapped up. His body didn’t move, not even a twitch, just his eyes, dark and burning, locked onto yours.

There was a tension in him, quiet and coiled, like a fuse waiting to ignite.

“What?” he asked, though it wasn’t confusion that colored his tone. It was warning. A low sound behind a question he didn’t really need answered.

He’d heard you the first time. You both knew that.

You met his stare without flinching. “Why would we go west?” you repeated, your voice firmer now.

You didn’t wait for him to respond.

“Sacarver’s tower has a window, did you know that?” You said smoothly, almost mockingly, your tone just bordering on smug. “Looks east. Looks over everything, the walls, the outer wards. If we approach from the west, we’ll be spotted before we even come within eight thousand yards.”

Your finger tapped the map with a crisp, deliberate rhythm, landing on the sketched silhouette of the tower. The soft tch, tch, tch echoed like a metronome in the tense stillness.

His face tightened.

For a flicker of a second, Clancy looked… off balance. Like he hadn’t expected a challenge this precise, this public. You saw it in the way his brow twitched, in the tight curl of his lip before he smoothed it out again, masking surprise with anger.

His voice came low and sharp. “Why is that a problem?”

You blinked at him, stunned for half a breath. “Maybe because we lose the element of surprise?” you snapped, incredulous. “We have a chance, a real chance, to catch them with their guard down. If we march straight into their line of sight, we might as well hang flags over our heads and announce our arrival with drums.”

You broke eye contact for the first time, your gaze sweeping down to the map. You traced a new path along its edge, your fingertip following the outer shore, curving upward. “If we must come down from the west, fine, but we hug the coastline, move north, then breach from the side. It adds a day, maybe two, but it gives us the upper hand.”

You didn’t look up. But you could feel his stare, hot and unmoving. Like he wanted to burn a hole clean through you.

“That adds time,” he bit out, pushing off the table with both palms and standing tall, spine stiff like he was made of stone.

“There it is,” you said with a humourless laugh, eyes narrowing. “I forgot, you don’t want this done right. You just want it done fast.”

The words hit hard. The air thickened.

Clancy’s jaw clenched, the cords in his neck taut. “We all want this to be over,” he said tightly, each word carved from restraint.

“And we all want to come out this alive,” you shot back, folding your arms over your chest like armor. “But some of us are more concerned about legacies than lives.”

The silence that followed was deeper than before. Heavier. You could practically hear the hearts beating around the room, fast and nervous.

The Banditos stared, wide-eyed and uncertain. Some looked curious, others shocked. No one dared speak. It felt like watching something sacred unravel, too intimate, too dangerous to witness, and yet impossible to look away from.

“If we follow your plan,” you continued, your voice cool and detached now, sharpened to a blade, “people will die. A lot of them. But that’s fine, right? So long as our fearless leader gets to plant the flag and say it was worth it, as long as your freedom is ensured, you’re fine with forgetting your people, leaving them to rot.”

Clancy didn’t speak.

But something in his face changed. His glare went from fire to ice. There was a snap in his gaze now, a fracture, as though you'd cracked something that had been held in place for too long.

You had gone too far.

A part of you knew it, saw it in the slight twitch of his brow, the way his fingers curled against the edge of the table like he was holding something back. But the fury boiling in your chest didn’t care. Not now. Not with so much on the line.

Let him be angry. Let them all be. Because someone in this war still had to care about the ones bleeding for it.

A thick, heavy silence hung in the air like smoke after a detonation. Clancy’s jaw ticked as his eyes dragged across the stunned faces of the Banditos still frozen in place.

“Meeting adjourned,” he bit out, voice low but thunderous in the cramped space. He made a sharp, dismissive gesture toward the tent flap without looking away from the table. “We’ll pick this back up tomorrow.”

You turned before he finished speaking, fury still burning in your chest, your feet already moving fast toward the door. You didn’t want to see the way people looked at you, like they had witnessed something raw, something they weren’t meant to see.

You weaved through the stunned crowd, nearly brushing shoulders with someone.

“Not you.”

His voice hit your back like a command barked in a battlefield, low, simmering with rage. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be.

You froze. You didn’t need to turn around to know he was talking to you. No one else had dared speak, let alone challenge him. The air shifted. Tense. Choked.

A few Banditos hesitated at the tent’s exit, eyes flicking back, hoping for more spectacle. You caught the quick flash of curiosity on one of their faces before Clancy’s glare chased them out. One by one, they filed into the dark, and when the flap closed behind the last of them, it was just you and him.

Silence settled like dust after a collapse. It was suffocating.

Clancy took a step forward, his boots heavy on the grassy floor. “I don’t know what kind of game this is, but it needs to stop,” he snapped. “You don’t get to undermine me like that. Not here. Not in front of them.”

You spun around, shoulders tense, eyes wide and blazing. “Game?” you echoed, disbelief dripping from your voice. “You think this is about you? You think I stood up to you in front of everyone for attention?”

His silence was deafening. It answered the question better than words could.

Your jaw dropped open, and the fury surged.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you seethed, stomping a few steps forward until you were nearly toe-to-toe. “You think I challenge you because it’s some desperate attempt for you to notice me? I do it because your plans are reckless, Clancy! Because people will die!”

Clancy’s glare darkened, his shoulders taut with barely-contained frustration. “You think it’s easy?” he hissed. “Leading a broken army of scared people who look at you like you’re their goddamn savior?”

“No one asked you to be that,” you growled, pointing a finger into his chest. “You appointed yourself. And you’ve been flying too close to the sun ever since, dragging everyone else with you.”

His face twitched, the insult digging in deeper than you intended, but you didn’t stop.

“You’ll burn, Clancy. And so will we. You’ll lead us all into the fire just to prove you can walk through it.”

“And I’m sure you’ll be standing there smug, waiting to say ‘I told you so.’”

You recoiled, eyes narrowing. “God, that’s not what I’m doing and you know it!”

“You sure?” he barked. “Because every time I falter, you’re right there. Waiting. Watching. Judging. You think I don’t see it?”

“I do it because I care, you idiot!” you shouted, your voice rising to a yell that echoed off the tent walls. “Because I don’t want to see you bleed out in the dirt for the sake of a goddamn martyr fantasy!”

“You care?” he laughed bitterly, venom dripping from the sarcasm. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Sometimes I could choke you,” you shouted, fists clenched tight at your sides, your whole body trembling with rage.

His brow lifted, his mouth parting, already loading the next weaponized line.

You saw it coming.

“Don’t,” you warned, voice low and deadly. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He stepped closer. The heat radiating from him was suffocating now, his chest nearly brushing yours. “We’re out of time,” Clancy stated. “You think Nico’s just going to sit back and wait for us to find the perfect strategy? If we wait, we lose the advantage entirely.”

“If we rush, we’ll die! You’ll die!” you snapped, your voice cracking. “You’re going to die doing this. You’re going to die wearing that stupid mask!” You lunged for it before he could stop you, ripping the mask from his pocket and flinging it to the ground like it disgusted you. It landed with a soft, pitiful thud. Symbolic. Ashes of a man trying too hard to be more than human.

Your breath was ragged now, your vision hot with angry tears that hadn’t yet fallen. “You know, sometimes I-”

“Go on,” Clancy snarled, stepping even closer, eyes locked on yours like a dare. “Say it.”

“I hate you,” you spat, voice trembling with truth and fury. “Sometimes I really, truly hate you.”

The words hung there, fragile and heavy, like a glass trembling on the edge of a table.

Clancy didn’t flinch. “Yeah?” he said, voice quiet now, too quiet. “Well, the feeling’s mutual.”

His words didn’t explode like yours had. They landed like a slow punch to the ribs, cold, bruising, final. And for a second, you swore the earth tilted beneath your feet.

Your chest heaved with the force of a storm, lungs working overtime to keep up with the adrenaline burning through your blood. Clancy’s words echoed in your skull like gunfire, and for a second, the pain carved out something hollow inside you, until rage surged up to fill it.

“Fuck you,” you spat, your voice breaking into a snarl as you slammed your palms into his chest. “Fuck. You.” The second shove was harder, more reckless, your hands meeting muscle as he stumbled a step backward.

“Fuck me?” he roared, voice hoarse and sharp, catching your wrists mid-lunge before you could push him again.

“Yeah, fuck you!” you snapped, voice trembling with fury as you tried to twist out of his grip. Your fingers strained against the cage of his hands, nails digging into his skin. The tension between you coiled tighter, breath to breath, like a wire pulled taut.

“You’re so fucking immature,” he seethed, stomping forward with the force of his frustration, dragging you with him. His grip tightened around your wrists, his knuckles pale.

“And you’re a fucking coward!” you hissed, refusing to be the one who backed down even as the edge of the table dug sharply into the backs of your thighs.

Clancy didn’t stop. His body pressed into yours, breaths coming hard and ragged as they ghosted over your face, warm and fast. The space between you vanished, chests colliding, hearts pounding, noses brushing. Your breath caught in your throat as you stared up at him, your vision tunneled to the rage and fire burning in his eyes.

But the tension didn’t break. It thickened. Mutated. Became something else.

You could see it now, just behind the fury, in the flare of his nostrils and the clench of his jaw. That look. That dare. Back down, it said.

But you weren’t built to surrender.

You held his gaze like a blade held to his throat. “I’m not going anywhere,” your silence screamed.

And neither was he.

Then, without warning, Clancy’s mouth crashed against yours.

Your breath hitched, eyes flying wide as the heat of him poured into you through the kiss. His lips were rough and demanding, tasting of defiance and desperation. Your hands flew to his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket, but you didn’t push him away.

You pulled him closer.

Your lips moved in frantic rhythm, bruising and eager, the kiss more like combat than affection. You tilted your head, giving in to the hunger that had been festering beneath the arguments and snippet remarks and late-night stares across firelight. It was wild. Messy. The kind of kiss that only happens when words fail and rage gives way to need.

Clancy’s hands slid down with purpose, gripping the backs of your thighs and hoisting you up like it cost him nothing. You barely had time to gasp before you felt the cold, rough surface of the table beneath you, legs parting to accommodate his body between them.

The kiss deepened, sharpened. Your noses bumped awkwardly but neither of you slowed. One of his hands curled around the back of your neck, the other tangling in your hair, pulling just hard enough to make your breath hitch. You let your own hand slide from his shoulder to the curve of his neck, thumb tracing the frantic pulse at his throat.

Then you felt it, his tongue ghosting along the seam of your lips, asking for entry.

You denied him.

Your lips remained locked against his, refusing to yield, but it didn’t matter. Clancy grunted, low and rough in his throat, and used one hand to grip your jaw and force your mouth open. His tongue slipped inside with maddening control, fighting yours for dominance.

It was filthy. Frantic. A car crash in slow motion.

You let your teeth sink into his bottom lip, hard enough to taste copper. He groaned and kissed you even harder, like he wanted to drown in the way you hated him.

You broke first.

You pushed him away with a hard breath, hands still resting on the curve of his shoulder blades, chest heaving like you’d run miles through gunfire. “Why…” your voice cracked. “Why did you do that?”

Clancy stood there, panting, eyes wild and unreadable. “Why did you kiss back?” he countered, voice low, breath brushing your cheek like a secret.

Silence swelled between you, thick with tension, with confusion, with a million things unsaid.

You inhaled sharply, and before logic or doubt or anger could stop you, you grabbed the front of his jacket, fisting the collar with both hands.

“Shut the fuck up.”

And you dragged him back in.

Your mouths crashed again, harder, hungrier. A second detonation.

The kiss was raw, blistering, furious, sinfully delicious. All teeth and tongue and unresolved tension. You clutched at him like you were starving, and he tasted like smoke and spite. But it didn’t last. It was over before your mind could catch up.

Clancy pulled away suddenly, chest rising and falling against yours like he’d been gut-punched. His eyes darted between yours, as if searching for some kind of clarity in the storm. His breath ghosted over your lips, hot, ragged, ruined.

You stared up at him, half-expecting the wall to slam back down between you both. Half-expecting him to look away, step back, and leave you alone in the ruins of this moment. You wondered if he saw it, your heart trying not to scream. You wondered if he was about to hand you your dignity like a coat you forgot on the floor. Tell you to get out. Pretend none of it had happened.

Then, barely above a whisper, he asked, “Tonight changes nothing, right?”

Your stomach twisted. A silent sting, like barbed wire tugging at your insides. But you nodded anyway. Swallowed the weight of it. Pretended it didn’t feel like your lungs were collapsing.

“Right,” you lied, the word tasting like ash.

Clancy nodded slowly, but his jaw was tight. His eyes were a stormcloud flickering with indecision. “Nothing that happens tonight has to matter,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You exhaled through your nose, trying to kill the ache before it bloomed. “Right,” you said again, softer this time. And maybe a little broken.

“Good,” he rasped out, voice cracking like something had torn loose inside him.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but then his hands were back, threading through your hair, gripping with such reckless desperation you gasped.

“Then fuck it.” and just like that, he was kissing you again.

No, devouring you.

There was no hesitation this time, no fragile delay cloaked in longing. This was war. His lips crashed into yours like a blade into bone, brutal and demanding. His hands clutched your hips hard enough to bruise, dragging you toward him as if he needed to feel your ribs against his.

Your jacket was ripped from your shoulders, discarded behind you, fabric crumpling onto the cold surface of the table. Your mouth was fire and his was gasoline. Every insult you’d ever thrown at each other, every snarled command, every bitter glance, was alive in that kiss.

Clancy kissed like he hated you. And you kissed him back like you hated him more.

Your fingers tangled in the soft hair at the base of his skull, yanking hard enough to draw a guttural sound from deep in his throat. He groaned, because of you, because of the damage you could do, and somehow that made everything else irrelevant.

The war, the rebellion, the consequence.

None of it mattered. Only this.

He broke the kiss just long enough to rasp out, “You-” then bit down on your lip, groaning as you moaned into him. Another kiss, and then: “fucking-” more punishing, breathless and frantic.

“-infuriate me,” he spat, forehead pressed to yours, breaths shattering between your lips, bodies trembling and locked.

You didn’t flinch. Not from his words. Not from the heat in them. You recognized them for what they were.

“Good,” you whispered, your voice frayed and defiant.

His next kiss was vicious, almost feral. He bit your bottom lip hard enough to make you whimper, and you retaliated by tugging harder at his hair, dragging him deeper into your mouth like you could swallow his rage whole. One of your hands fell to clutch the worn fabric of his jacket, fisting it between your fingers like it could anchor you both.

And then he pulled away, barely.

Your mouth chased his instinctively, needing more. Always more. You didn’t care about breathing. You only cared about him tasting the desperation on your tongue.

That’s when he crossed the line.

His hand slid up, slow and deliberate, to curl around your throat. Not rough. Not yet. Just enough to pin you in place, possessive, grounding, scorching.

A sound escaped you before you could help it, needy, feral, soft.

“Oh, don’t be so desperate,” he muttered, voice dark with venom and desire.

The last thread between you snapped.

There was no line now. No boundaries. No moral compass pointing either of you home.

Only him.

“Me? Desperate?” you scoffed, leaning into his touch, savoring the pressure. You tilted your chin so your lips brushed his, teasing. “You’re the one who started this, not me.”

His eyes flared, and suddenly you were both on the same side of the wreckage, breathless and burning in the aftermath of a fire you’d built together.

“I need you to stop pretending this is new,” you whispered, your lips barely touching his. “I’ve known how this ends since the first time you looked at me like you wanted to strangle me and kiss me in the same breath.”

His grin returned slowly, wicked and serrated.

“So you’re telling me you’ve pictured this?” he asked, mouth now brushing the shell of your ear as he buried his face in your neck, his breath scorching your skin. “It’s all starting to make a little more sense now. I bet that’s what you’re doing after we fight, after you run off back to your tent. You’re laid awake at night, frustrated and pathetic, fingers deep, wishing it was me making you fall apart, isn’t that right?”

His fingers tightened around your throat just enough to make your head spin. Your pulse drummed under his thumb, loud, frantic, helpless.

You couldn’t lie to him. Not here. Not like this.

So you deflected.

“In your dreams, Clancy,” you said, but your voice wavered, breathless and wrecked.

He breathes back into you like resurrection, a ragged inhale against your lips as his hand falls from your throat and shifts to your jaw, thumb grazing your bottom lip with a gentleness that doesn’t match the hunger in his eyes. He tugs at your lip, slow and deliberate, almost reverent.

"You would fucking like that, wouldn’t you?” he rasps, voice thick with disbelief and desire. “Me? Dreaming about you?"

His thumb rests against your lips. The challenge is implicit.

Your hand finally drops, slides down from his collar, fingers gliding along his chest, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt like a whispered promise, and then lower, past the hard plane of his abdomen, until you cup him through his pants.

He stiffens.

And so do you.

He's big. More than you expected. More than he had any right to be.

You falter for a breath, just enough for him to catch it. His lips part into a slow, cocky grin, head tilting with the kind of arrogance only earned through cruel timing and unholy confidence.

He’s fucking lucky, you think. Lucky his cock lives up to the size of his ego. It’d be tragic otherwise. An asshole without anything to back up his big talk.

"You want honesty?" he asks suddenly, his voice low and carved from something rawer now, no longer teasing. His fingers still rest on your chin, holding your gaze hostage. You nod, tiny and immediate.

His eyes flicker. “I do dream of you.”

Your heartbeat falters.

“I dream about that pretty mouth wrapped around my cock. Dream about you down on your knees, those wide, teary eyes lookin’ up at me while I fuck your throat like I own it.”

You groan before you can stop yourself, heat shooting straight between your legs, and your grip on him tightens.

You retaliate the only way you know how.

You part your lips and suck the tip of his thumb into your mouth, tongue swirling around it slowly, deliberately, as your eyes lock onto his with glassy defiance.

He groans, loud, helpless, and throws his head back, the muscles in his neck tightening as he bucks faintly into your hand.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, voice cracked wide open.

The second his grip slackens, you strike, surging forward and catching his exposed throat between your lips. You drag kisses down the line of his neck, your mouth skimming along the pulsing vein just beneath his skin, tasting sweat and skin and sin. You pause just beneath his jaw.

"I'm trying to," you whisper darkly, then bite.

He groans again, even louder, obscene, his voice ricocheting off the fabric walls of the tent. The hand on your waist grips tighter, the one in your hair yanks hard, drawing you away from the bloom of red now flowering on his neck.

Your scalp burns, your lungs quake, but your fingers are still where they matter most, tight around him, pressing down through the fabric, feeling him twitch under your palm.

You don’t care how it looks.

You are desperate.

Desperate for him to snap. For him to give up the pretense. To quit pretending this is just revenge or power or catharsis. You want him to ruin you. You want him to say your name like it means something and make you forget every reason you hated him in the first place.

“Is that what you want?” His voice is quieter now, nearly reverent. “You want me to ruin you?”

He’s not taunting anymore. He’s trembling on the edge with you. Asking for permission to fall.

Your chest aches with the weight of it, of him. The anticipation coils so tightly in your stomach you’re seconds from shattering.

You smirk, one last bluff. One final card. You shrug like you haven’t been seconds away from falling to your knees.

“I guess,” you purr. “That’s one way to resolve our differences.”

The moment he breaks, he shatters.

It’s violent. It’s sudden.

He bends you back onto the table so fast your spine arches and your hips buck. You're so close to climbing onto his thigh just to find something to relieve the ache.

Then his hands are everywhere, groping, grasping, claiming, as his mouth slots back onto yours.

You lose yourself.

Your entire mind narrows to the taste of his mouth, rough and unyielding and soaked in desperation. To the way his fingers press bruises into your lower back. To the scent of him, the musk of heat and sweat and nighttime clinging to his skin like a second layer. You taste the unsaid things neither of you will admit until it's too late.

He’s swallowing you whole, mind and body and soul.

It’s a bad decision. This is going to cost you everything.

You don’t stop it.

Neither does he.

He yanks you forward so that you’re teetering on the table’s edge, thighs spread wide as he wedges his knee between them. You nearly moan when the pressure hits just right, fabric dragging cruelly against where you need him most.

And God, he’s beautiful like this.

Even more than that first night you had met him, his lips swollen pink, kissed raw, spit-slick and trembling. Your bruise on his neck gleams like a signature.

He’s breathing heavy, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing left that’s real. His hands grip your knees, holding them open like a silent command.

You’re burning from the inside out.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers suddenly, the words choked and unfamiliar, like they’ve been buried under rage for too long. “Tell me you hate me.”

His hands climb higher, gliding over your thighs, squeezing, as if mapping the route to his destruction.

Your lips tremble. Just for a moment.

You almost tell him you can’t.

Because you can’t tell him to stop when your thighs are wrapping around his hips, when he fits so perfectly there in the crook of your knee. You can’t tell him to stop when his fingers dip beneath your shirt and sear into the skin at your hips.

You won’t.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice sharp and soft and barely intact.

His eyes snap up to meet yours.

“I hate you,” you continue, breath shuddering. “But don’t you fucking dare stop.”

He moves at a torturously slow pace, the kind that makes your skin ache with anticipation. Clancy's fingers drift to the button of your pants, undoing it with excruciating precision, as though each movement is part of some sacred ritual. The sound of the fly being forced open echoes too loudly in the charged air. But he doesn’t move further, just lets his hand rest there, poised at the threshold like he’s savoring the moment before crossing it.

And then, his lips. They trail up your neck in a patternless, messy line of kisses, blooming heat wherever they press. Over your pulse, up the slope of your throat, until he reaches the edge of your jaw. He doesn’t kiss, he devours. Sucking, nipping, painting maroon bruises that will flower violet by morning, his own brand of retribution for the hickeys you left blossoming across his throat.

"I was hoping you’d say that," he murmurs into your skin, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating down to your bones. His mouth never stops moving, lavishing attention on the skin already marked by him, like he wants to tattoo you with his mouth alone.

You’re so drunk on the feeling of his lips, you barely register the way his hand dips past your waistband, knuckles brushing the trim of your underwear. His fingers move in slow circles over the fabric, dancing along the edges like he's teasing the idea of sin.

Then he slides beneath.

Your breath catches in a sharp, stunned gasp when his fingers part the cotton and find your wetness. His touch is light, exploratory, grazing over your folds like he’s mapping them to memory.

“Fuck,” you breathe, hips twitching, voice barely a sound.

“God, you sound so needy,” he grins, amusement curling around his words like smoke.

“Fuck you,” you whimper, helplessly grinding against his hand as your ankles lock behind him.

He smirks. “I’m trying to,” he echoes your own words back at you with wicked satisfaction, and you curse yourself for ever giving him that line.

His teasing stops, but not for mercy. No, he’s more dangerous now. His fingers ghost over your entrance, circling it with the barest tip of one finger, dragging your slickness across your folds but never breaching.

The frustration builds to a scream inside your chest, but before you can move, his hand grips your hips tighter, pinning you hard against the table.

“Beg for it,” he demands. The command hums in your ribs. “Be a good girl. Say please.”

His finger teases, presses, backs off. Again. Again. You whine, involuntary, a mess of nerve endings and restraint. Your thighs tremble with the tension. You wonder, absurdly, if you’ll bruise from how hard his hands is holding you down.

It's a battle of pride now. You both know it.

He leans in, nose nearly brushing yours. He sees it in your eyes: the blaze building. He’s fanning the flames.

“I’ve been far nicer to you than you deserve,” he mutters, eyes narrowing with dark glee when he sees the way your whole body coils, trying not to give in. “We both know it. Just say it. Say the word, and I’ll keep playing nice.”

His fingertip slips just barely inside you, and your back arches hard. A desperate sound leaves your mouth.

“When have you ever been nice?” you gasp, lips trembling.

He tsks, shaking his head as his finger retreats and drags upward, stopping just short of your clit. You feel the ghost of it, and it makes you twitch.

“I’m always nice,” he says, and somehow makes it sound like a death sentence. “You just never notice.”

You think about it. About all the times he’s been cruel in words but careful in actions.

“Please fuck me,” you whisper to the ceiling, throat dry and shaking. Then, slowly, you lower your chin and meet his eyes, burning, and you let it all bleed out. “Please ruin me.”

You’ve seen him wear rage, contempt, lust. You've seen him smile, scowl, smirk. But this? This is something entirely new. His expression crumbles into want, raw, unfiltered want, and you realize how close he’s been to snapping all along.

“Gladly.”

His fingers return with purpose, circling your clit once, twice, a third time, until you're panting through clenched teeth. He thrusts two fingers inside you with little warning, and the stretch steals your breath.

You cry out, back bowing, thighs trying to close around his hand as your body clamps down on the sudden intrusion. He gives you no time to adjust. You said the magic words. You gave in. You played the game. Now he’s keeping his promise.

Clancy fucks you with his fingers like he’s trying to carve the shape of them into you. Deep, sharp thrusts that curl just right. He finds that spot quickly, and when he brushes against it, your entire body jolts.

He doesn’t stop. He hits it again. Harder.

“Is this what you wanted?” he hisses, leaning in until your noses brush. “Is this what you meant by ‘ruin me’?”

You nod violently, the words lost to ragged gasps. “Y-yeah fuck. Please. Oh my god.”

His eyes flutter, drunk on the sight of you unraveling, legs spread, back arched, begging into his hand. He watches you with a kind of reverence, even as his thumb finds your clit and starts rubbing brutal circles over it.

You keen, hips bucking, fingers clawing at the table beneath you. Your body isn't yours anymore, it's his. He has the skill, the rhythm, the cruelty to draw you to the edge and hold you there.

“Arch your back more,” he orders. “Come on. Look at how tight you’re clenching around me.”

You obey, because what else is left of you? Your spine curves, your hips lift into his palm, your breath stutters. You're so close, one flick, one curl, one whisper away.

And then, he stops.

You let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a sob and a scream. The pressure vanishes as he pulls his fingers from you entirely.

“You didn’t think I’d let you cum that easily, did you?” he murmurs, lips brushing yours, voice thick with smug satisfaction.

You whimper against him, dazed with disbelief. You hate him. You hate him.

But you’ll beg again if he tells you to.

And he knows it.

You pull back slowly, lips still parted, breath trembling in your lungs like a storm about to break. Your eyes lock on his, furrowed brows shadowing your face with something unreadable. Calculation. Defiance. Hunger. Then- A twitch at the corner of your mouth. A thought crosses your mind like a flare through the dark, and it burns through you, illuminating the ache pooling low in your stomach. A slow, wicked smile curls on your lips like smoke catching flame.

You tilt your head to the side, just slightly, and watch Clancy through your lashes, gaze heavy and deliberate. Then, with a gentleness that only makes the tension more unbearable, your palms press to his shoulders. You guide him back a step, off-balance in more ways than one.

He arches a brow, confused but compliant, breath snagging as you slide off the table with a feline grace. His eyes never leave you. You don't break eye contact even as you drop slowly to your knees.

“What are you-” he starts, voice hitching as your fingers brush the buckle of his belt, “Hey, what are you doi-…?”

His words die.

You’ve already freed him from his pants, pulling his cock out without ceremony, as though you’ve been dying for this and didn’t have the patience for pretense. His breath falters the moment you lean in, your mouth hovering over the flushed head. You kiss the tip delicately, reverently, tasting the faint salt of his arousal as your lips catch on the wet spot beading there.

“Fuck,” he groans low, his voice barely audible.

You trail featherlight kisses down the underside of his shaft, tongue flicking along a vein with teasing precision.

“You still wanna fuck my mouth?” you murmur, voice feather-soft and saccharine sweet, like a threat dressed in silk. One hand wraps around the base of him, the other steady on his hip. You meet his gaze from beneath your lashes as you swirl your tongue around the leaking tip, letting your spit mix with his precum before closing your lips around him.

“Jesus Christ, fuck, just like that,” he gasps, his hand flying instinctively to the back of your head, fingers twisting into your hair like he needs the anchor or he’ll lose what little composure he has left.

You begin to take him deeper, inch by inch, the stretch filling your mouth as you hollow your cheeks. His cock presses past your tongue, touches the back of your throat, and you don’t flinch. Instead, you inhale slowly, deeply, nose pressing against the hairs at his base. You let your throat adjust, proud of the way your eyes gloss just enough to blur the edges of his form. You know what you look like, mouth full of him, throat tight around him, spit glossing your lips. You know he’s watching you, trying to, at least.

But he can’t. His head falls back, jaw slack, eyes fluttering.

You pull back with a wet pop, grinning wide and smug.

“Better than you imagined, right?”

He glares, though the way his chest heaves betrays how hard he’s trying to keep it together.

“Fuck off,” he growls, breath catching again as your tongue flicks out lazily. His hand tightens in your hair, punishing and desperate. “I-…fucking obviously. Of course it’s better. Of course it fucking is.”

“It better be,” you hum, before taking him fully back into your mouth with far less mercy. This time, you suck harder, bobbing your head with deliberate rhythm. The pressure of his grip on your hair sharpens, tugging at your scalp as his hips instinctively twitch forward.

“Shit.”

That’s all he manages. His vocabulary starts slipping into silence, reduced to ragged groans and choked-out curses as you move faster. You’re relentless now. A woman with a mission. A storm that has broken loose.

You wanted this. Wanted to see him crack. After everything, his snide remarks, his maddening smugness, the endless tug-of-war for dominance, you want to leave him unraveling. And he is.

No, he’s not unraveling, he’s splintering.

His composure fractures as his hips begin to meet your mouth, shallow, desperate thrusts that make your throat tighten further. You don’t flinch. You take it. Eyes wet, spit dripping from your chin, throat burning, but you don't stop. You hum around him, the vibration making him grunt sharply, head dropping forward as he stares down at you in utter disbelief.

“Fuck, if you don’t stop I’m gonna cum,” Clancy groans, voice low and fraying at the edges. One hand braces against the table, the other still tangled in your hair like he’s afraid of letting go.

“Good,” you murmur around him, pulling back just enough to pump him with your hand, saliva slicking every movement. You stare up at him, wild and wanton, eyes dark with lust.

You let him fuck your throat, every thrust ragged, needy, frenzied. You can feel it, the twitch, the tightening, the gasping breath, and then-

You pull back. Completely.

His cock falls from your mouth with a wet, obscene sound. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, smirking through shallow, heated breaths. A glistening string of spit clings between you and him like a thread pulled too tight.

“Fuck, why’d you stop?” he hisses, voice unsteady, pupils blown wide, skin flushed to the collarbones.

“Just giving you a taste of your own medicine,” you say sweetly, settling back on your heels. Your tone is pure sin, velvet-wrapped vengeance.

He stares at you, gapes, more like, chest heaving, hair a mess, cock still twitching and wet and begging for release. He��s ruined and furious about it.

You drag your tongue across your bottom lip slowly and shrug. “I think I win.”

He scoffs, dragging a hand down his face, looking somewhere between exasperated and turned the fuck on. “Win?” he repeats. “It’s not a fucking competition.”

“It is,” you say simply, like it’s a universal truth. “And I fucking won.”

He’s quiet for a breath. Maybe two. Then he moves, fast. A blur of heat and frustration and barely-checked desire.

“Yeah? You think you won?” His voice is low again, ragged around the edges, but no longer shaking. He grabs your wrists gently but firmly and pulls you to your feet, crowding you until you hit the edge of the table again. “In that case, if this is a competition, I think I deserve a second chance.”

You opened your mouth, breath hitching on the cusp of something cruel, something mean, something sharp enough to slice him back open the way he'd carved through you so many times before.

But he stepped back.

Not away from you, no. Away from pretense. Away from restraint. And into something stormier. The want in his eyes had curdled into something more dangerous, commanding. A silent hurricane lashing at the edges of his composure, eyes dark with an appetite unquenched.

He lifted you onto the table again, slow and deliberate like he owned time.

“Strip,” he said, voice low and serrated.

“I-…” you started, sarcasm dying halfway to your lips.

“Now.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t shouted. But it cracked down your spine like thunder, splitting you clean through. The fight burned out of you in a blink. The fire fizzled, the ocean dried up. All those beautiful weapons you sharpened on his name slipped from your fingers like ash.

You did what you were told.

Even as you felt exposed, naked not just in body but in something more sacred, you peeled your shirt over your head, dragging trembling fingers to the waistband of your pants. You pulled them down slowly, acutely aware of his gaze never wavering, every inch of you under scrutiny.

Clancy leaned against the table like he had all the time in the world, hands braced on either side of you and him. Casual. Patient. Predator.

“Still feeling like a winner?” he asked, tilting his head. His fingers reached to hold your jaw, making you face him, soft pressure, but final. You felt the pad of one calloused fingertip ghost across your thigh, and then grip your knee, parting you.

“Always,” you answered, but your voice betrayed you, breathless, shaking. A lie even you didn’t believe.

His rough hands found your hips, pulling you toward the edge of the table, spreading your legs until they hung open around him. He lifted one thigh against his waist, anchoring you there, the other hand dragging down your side like he wanted to brand you with the memory.

“I can’t wait to fuck the brat out of you,” he whispered.

And then, without another word, he buried himself inside you.

Your body lit up, electric, split open, aching as he pushed in with the weight of every argument, every withheld apology, every glare and biting remark. You lurched forward, gasping, clutching at his shoulders like they were the only thing tethering you to reality. Your forehead hit his shoulder.

He was too big. You knew it before, but now? Now you felt it. Felt it in your ribs, your stomach, your soul. It was a stretch and a burn and a breaking all at once, like your body had to make space just to survive him.

“F-fuck,” the curse fractured as one clawed at his jacket, your nails dragging half-moons into the thick fabric, the other reaching down onto the table for stability.

“God,” he muttered. He sounded calm. Too calm. But then he leaned in closer, and you caught it, the slight catch in his breath. The way he faltered just for a moment. “Look at you,” he rasped.

His hand found your throat again, just like earlier. It wasn’t rough, it was precise. His thumb pressed into your pulse as he pushed you upright, making sure you saw him, making sure you felt him.

You moaned, the sound strangled and high in your throat, and he grinned like the devil himself as he began to pull out at an excruciating pace.

“You’re pitiful,” he groaned, voice breaking like glass in your ear as he pressed his thumb harder against your throat, just enough to make your head spin. “You say you hate me. Say you can’t fucking stand me. But one good fuck and you fall apart.”

Your walls clenched tight around him, and the whimper that spilled from you was as humiliating as it was involuntary.

He chuckled darkly. “Pathetic, baby.”

Then he slammed back into you, and your arms buckled. But you didn’t fall.

You arched, offering yourself, your throat, your everything, and he took it.

“But you’re winning,” he taunted between brutal thrusts. “You’re the winner here, right?”

You didn’t answer, couldn’t. Your mind was static, a rush of heat and pain and want, your jaw slack as he curled his fingers into your hair and pulled hard. You gasped, body tightening around him, vision going white at the edges.

“Say it,” he snarled. “Say you fucking hate me.”

You choked on a moan, hips rising to meet his as he hit deeper, sharper, a rhythm that bordered on violence.

“Say it, baby. Say you hate my guts.” His hand released your hip just long enough to rub furious circles on your clit, and your legs shook violently. “Say you can’t fucking stand me.”

“I-I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide, glassy, watching him with awe and surrender.

He was ruining you, and god, it felt divine.

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I… mean it,” you gasped, eyes locked to his, your forehead pressed to his as your back bowed under the weight of truth or fiction, you weren’t even sure anymore. “Fuck, Clancy, right there-please, please…”

He stilled, buried to the hilt, his mouth brushing yours like a question.

“Say it again,” he whispered, “like you mean it. And I’ll let you cum.”

Your fingers were digging into the table so hard they ached. You looked down, wood splintered beneath your grip. You had no energy left to lie. None left to keep pretending.

Because you didn’t hate him.

You hated everything around him. The walls, the rules, the silence, the way he disappeared behind his own shadows. You hated the ache of him not being who he used to be, and the way it made you feel like maybe you never really knew him at all. But him?

He was still the man who pulled you from the wreckage. Still the man who showed you safety, then stole it back, yes, but he never stopped being that anchor.

“I hate you,” you repeated, hollow. Desperate. Clutching the front of his shirt like a lifeline.

“Good,” he hissed, letting his lips crash against yours, teeth dragging your bottom lip as he took your breath. “Then this changes nothing.”

And then he fucked you like he meant to erase the moment. Like it never happened. Like you were just bodies colliding in fevered war.

His fingers were relentless on your clit, hips thrusting so hard the entire table shook. You shattered.

You screamed, but the sound was distant, carried off into oblivion. Your muscles seized, your vision went white, and your body pulsed around him until you collapsed forward, gasping into his shoulder.

He came seconds after you, pulling out to finish on your stomach, stuttering against you, heat blooming deep inside as his arms locked around you, anchoring you together like wreckage on the tide.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Your cheek pressed into the cotton of his jacket, now damp. Your arms curled tight around his neck. You could feel his heartbeat. Fast. Real.

You matched your breathing to his, dazed.

Everything ached, your throat, your cunt, your scalp, your chest. You’d been wrecked. Used. Worshiped. Destroyed.

And yet, somehow, what lingered the most was not the pain. It was the taste of that lie.

I hate you.

A brilliant, foolish, laughable lie.

Because even now, skin burning, eyes wet, mind undone… all you could do was hold him tighter.

And pray he wouldn't let go.

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the-jetset-lifes-gonna-kill-me · 2 months ago

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back on my bullshit - i need tyler joseph BIBLICALLY

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the-jetset-lifes-gonna-kill-me · 2 months ago

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[ ♡ ] — ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ʀɪꜱᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛʀʏ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ…

TYLER JOSEPH X GN!READER

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 summery: YOU AND TYLER HAVE THE SAME ROUTINE EVERY MORNING.

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 warnings: NO USE OF Y/N, GN!READER, PURE FLUFF, DOMESTIC BLISS, I GUESS ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP, SHORT AND SWEET.

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 wc: 2133

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 a/n: PLEASE IGNORE ANY REPETITION OR SPELLING MISTAKES, THIS IS NOT PROOFREAD. JUST A SHORT AND SWEET LITTLE ONESHOT, TO HOLD YOU GUYS OVER. ENJOY!

You and Tyler had your routine. And though no one ever set it in stone, it blossomed all the same, quiet and certain, like something the heart remembers before the mind even wakes.

It wasn’t something either of you had planned. It just became, gently, naturally. A rhythm carved in soft mornings and sleepy smiles. Like clockwork. Like a hymn half-whispered between the sheets. Like a song only the two of you knew the words to.

Every morning followed the same steps, a dance you both moved through without thought, only feeling. And in a world full of chaos and change, there was something sacred in that small, steady ritual.

You wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not even the sun rising faster.

The earliest light of morning would creep through the gap in the curtains you always forgot to close. Golden rays spilled across the white sheets, painting them in a warm, molten amber, the kind of glow that made everything look softer, quieter. Tyler always mumbled about it, half-asleep and half-annoyed, grumbling that one day you’d need to learn to draw them fully shut. But you never did. And truthfully, he didn’t really mind.

He always woke before you.

You could feel it before you even opened your eyes, the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his chest rose just a little fuller, the low sound rumbling in his throat as he surfaced from dreams. He never jolted awake. Tyler came back to the world like the tide rolling in, unhurried, inevitable.

The moment he realized you were still there, still warm, still curled into him like you belonged, his arms would wrap around you tighter. Not possessively, but protectively, reverently, like he needed the confirmation that you hadn’t disappeared in the night.

His fingertips would trace slow, meandering lines across your skin, whichever part of you was exposed to the dawn. Sometimes your shoulder, the curve of your back, the dip of your waist. Feather-light touches that left goosebumps blooming in their wake, like he was painting you with morning itself.

And you, always the actor, would stifle your smile and pretend to still be asleep. You’d bury your face deeper, into your pillow, into the crook of his neck, into the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, doing your best to stay still, to prolong the moment. But he knew. Of course he knew.

Your breathing would shift ever so slightly. The corners of your mouth would twitch, just once. And that was all it took. He’d hum low in his chest, maybe press a kiss to your temple or mumble something against your hair, something soft and stupid like “You’re terrible at pretending.”

But neither of you would move. Not really.

He hums, low and absentminded, the melody threading its way between you like smoke in still air. It’s a song you recognise, borrowed from the birdsong outside your window. The sparrows have been chirping since dawn, their tiny voices weaving into Tyler’s, like a duet only the morning understands.

You can’t help it, your smile breaks through, wide and honest, the game of pretending to be asleep lost to the sunrise. And right on cue, Tyler’s smile follows. It’s slow, lazy, unbothered. Like it was waiting for yours to arrive.

You’re the first to open your eyes, as always. Not out of duty or habit, but for the quiet joy of watching him. He’s so still like this, so entirely untouched by the world. His features relaxed, lashes dusting his cheeks, hair a mess of soft waves and flattened spots from where he’d buried his head in the pillow. You study him like a painting in a gallery you’ve visited a hundred times but never get tired of standing in front of.

Your fingers reach for him without thinking. Not to fix, but to ruin, to rake through his hair and make it even more disheveled than the night’s sleep already had.

He grunts, predictably, swatting at your hand with half the energy and none of the commitment. “Stop that,” he mumbles, though there’s no weight to the words. His eyes remain closed, but his mouth quirks like he’s fighting off a laugh.

When he does open his eyes, it’s always the same.

He squints into the golden light streaming across the bed, his features scrunching as if the sun itself were some personal enemy. His brow furrows, lips pressing into a brief scowl as he adjusts to the brightness, but then he looks down. At you. And the moment he sees your face, it all softens.

The scowl disappears like it was never there. His eyes melt into something warmer, something gentler, like the sun isn't so bad, after all, not when it's lighting you up like this.

“Stop staring,” he mutters, voice still heavy with sleep.

You don’t answer. You just keep looking. Eyes locked on his as if you’re trying to memorize this exact version of him.

And even when he huffs and rolls to bury his face in the crook of your neck, you know he’s smiling. You feel it in the shape of his cheek against your skin.

You always stare.

He never really minds.

You would lie like that for a while, wrapped in the hush of early morning, where time felt suspended and the world beyond the walls of your bedroom didn’t dare intrude. The air between you was warm and slow, thick with shared breath and the subtle comfort of skin against skin. You curled deeper beneath the plush duvet, as if it might be taken from you at any moment, like the last thread tethering you to a dream you weren’t ready to leave.

The rise and fall of your chests moved in tandem, a quiet rhythm only lovers learn. His breath would ghost along your forehead, and you’d bury yourself further into the hollow of his body, chasing every bit of warmth he gave without question. In those moments, there was no yesterday, no to-do list, no outside noise. Just him. Just you. Just the steady, golden silence.

But Tyler always broke that peace.

He was restless by nature. Stillness never sat easily in his bones for too long. You’d feel him shift beside you, his weight pulling from the bed, and every time your reaction was the same, an instinctive little protest, a quiet noise caught in your throat as your arm tightened around his waist, clinging to him like he was gravity itself.

“Don’t go,” you’d murmur, voice thick with sleep.

He’d always smile at that. The kind of soft, crooked grin he only ever wore in the mornings, when the world was still slow and kind. Gently, he’d disentangle himself, effortlessly slipping from your grasp, no matter how tightly you held on. Your fingers would trail after him as he sat up, grasping at the warm air he left behind.

Then, with all the gentleness in the world, he’d lean down and brush the mess of your hair away from your face. His palm would linger against your cheek, thumb stroking over your skin like he was trying to memorize the feel of it.

“I’ll be right back,” he’d whisper, like a promise.

But you hated that part of the morning.

Even though it was only minutes, it always felt like an eternity. The bed was colder without him, quieter, lonelier. You’d lie in the space he left behind, nose tucked into the pillow that still smelled like his skin, counting heartbeats until the soft thud of his footsteps returned.

And then, he’d come back. Always.

Two mugs in hand, his nearly untouched, yours filled with the coffee he never drank but always made for you. He couldn’t stand the taste of it, but he knew how you liked it. He’d hand it over carefully, like it was something precious. Like you were.

You’d always manage to spill a bit, no matter how careful you tried to be. A drip down your wrist, a splash onto the white bedding that would leave a faint, sepia-tinted mark behind, proof of love in the smallest, clumsiest ways.

He’d roll his eyes at the mess, but never once did he complain.

Tyler would always pull you in again, as if the brief distance between you had been too much to bear. His arms would loop around you with the ease of ritual, closing every inch between your bodies until you were tucked perfectly into him, no space left untouched, no silence left uncomfortable. It was as if his body remembered yours, like muscle memory woven into the very shape of morning.

He’d rest his chin lightly on top of your head, or sometimes tilt his own to nestle against your crown, breathing you in like you were the first breath he took each day. One hand would remain anchored around your waist, warm and grounding, while the other would reach for your free hand, the one not preoccupied with nursing your still-steaming mug. He’d find your fingers and lace his through them, fitting them together like puzzle pieces. A tether. A silent vow.

This was your favorite part of the morning.

The world hadn’t quite started yet, time moved slowly here, and so did you. Sometimes the two of you would talk, voices low and scratchy with sleep, trading soft conversations or half-formed thoughts about dreams you barely remembered. Other times, you wouldn’t say anything at all. Just sat in the hush, in the warmth, letting your shared presence do all the speaking.

And it never felt awkward. Never felt like something was missing. Because the quiet was full. Full of breath and closeness and the little clicks of ceramic mugs meeting lips.

Inevitably, you’d burn your tongue, you always did. You never waited long enough, never let it cool. The first sip was always too eager, too soon. You’d hiss slightly, recoiling, lips pulling back in a grimace.

Tyler would fight the smile threatening the corner of his mouth every time. He’d shake his head, but he never said I told you so. He’d just tighten his fingers around yours and run the pad of his thumb gently across the back of your hand, like that simple motion might somehow ease the sting. Like he could rub the heat away.

And in a way, it did.

But eventually, even the gentlest mornings must come to an end. The sun, ever persistent, continued its quiet climb up the sky, casting sharper light across the rumpled sheets, turning golden hush into day’s insistence. The world outside your window stirred to life, cars groaned to life in the street, birds changed their songs, and the soft blue of dawn shifted into something brighter, louder, less forgiving.

Time never waited. The clock ticked on, steady and indifferent, and the hours nudged you forward whether you were ready or not.

There were tasks to be done, responsibilities that tugged at your ankles like gravity, pulling you both back into motion. Life, in all its inevitability, waited just beyond the door.

Tyler was always the first to shift, the first to sigh and stretch, to untangle himself from the soft cocoon you’d made together. He’d press a kiss to your hairline or your temple, something light and lingering, and murmur that it was time. Time to get up. Time to move. Time to leave the quiet behind.

You’d groan, dramatic and petulant, burrowing deeper into the warmth of the blankets, clutching onto him like a child who didn't want to wake from a good dream. “Five more minutes,” you’d plead, even though you both knew what came next.

He’d chuckle under his breath, tugging gently at the covers, pretending to be stern but smiling all the same. It was the same game every morning, your resistance, his resolve. And still, eventually, he’d win.

You hated that part too, the unraveling of the moment, the breaking of the spell. The way the room changed once feet touched the floor and real life came flooding back in. The morning had been your pocket of stillness, your slow dance before the noise.

But even in that reluctance, there was comfort. Because you knew this wasn’t a goodbye. Not really.

It was a pause. A comma, not a full stop.

Because in just a few short hours, when the day had run its course and the world quieted again, you’d return to that space. You’d crawl back beneath the same sheets, into the same arms. And together, you’d build the morning all over again, from the hush of shared breath to the warmth of tangled limbs and sleepy smiles.

It would come back. It always did.

And that was enough to carry you through the day.

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the-jetset-lifes-gonna-kill-me · 2 months ago

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I’m so obsessed with the way you write twenty one pilots. You characterise them AMAZINGLY and I’m so excited to read anything you write in the future. As someone who’s writing a tøp fanfic on tumblr rn it’s SO hard to characterise Clancy esp and you ATEEEEEE with the Clancy x reader you posted. So much love in so excited for anything else you post <3

First of all, TYSM POOKIE 🤭🤭

I really really appreciate it, honestly. It’s honestly so so good to hear that others enjoy my characterisations as much as I do, and it’s great to know I’m doing at least something right. I’d also love to read your tøp fanfic! I have so much more ideas and lots of things to come in the future, so I hope you can check it out. Again thank you so so much, much looove 🫶🫶🫶

#• ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 the-jetset-lifes-gonna-kill-me

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the-jetset-lifes-gonna-kill-me · 2 months ago

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You should write a book sometime. I’m not joking. Like- literally. Your writing is so vivid and elegant and immersive. The way you narrate your stories is so poetic and intentional I could not stop reading. And I don’t even usually like reading smut. There were times I had to actually take a moment and stare off into my room to grasp the intensity of your words. Like- jeez. I have no words left. I also loved how you structured your story, like, when you set punctuation marks, how long or short a sentence is. And your writing feels poetic but not pretentious. Please don’t stop writing. Please write more. Like now. Go sit down and feed me more of your thoughts.

Brooooo 😭😭😭

You have no idea how much this means to me. I’m always my own worst critic when it comes to my writing. It’s kinda like making art, like, you start out thinking, “Okay, this is kinda fire.” Then you finish it and you’re like, “Oh. Huh. Maybe not as fire as I thought.” And after staring at it for too long, you fully spiral into “Actually, this is ass, I hate it.”

So honestly, your words mean so much. You really made my day (and maybe made me tear up a little, not gonna lie). I’m gonna keep writing as much as I can, and I hope you’ll check out more of my stuff in the future.

Thank you again for being so, SO, kind and for taking the time to read my silly little stories. Love youuuu 🫶🫶

#• ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 the-jetset-lifes-gonna-kill-me

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the-jetset-lifes-gonna-kill-me · 2 months ago

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How’d they find my POV 🤭🤭

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the-jetset-lifes-gonna-kill-me · 2 months ago

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[ ✦ ] — ᴍᴀʀʏ ᴊᴀɴᴇ (ᴀʟʟ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ʟᴏɴɢ)…

TYLER JOSEPH X JOSH DUN X AFAB!READER

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 summery: TYLER HAS BEEN FEELING A LITTLE LEFT OUT LATELY, SO HE ASKS IF HE CAN JOIN IN ON YOU AND JOSH’S SMOKE SESH. AFTER FINDING OUT WHAT YOU TWO REALLY GET UP TO WHEN HE’S NOT THERE, YOU AND JOSH NEED TO FIND A WAY TO MAKE TYLER FEEL MORE INCLUDED.

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 warnings: 18+ CONTENT, MDNI, NO USE OF Y/N, AFAB!READER, PORN WITH NO PLOT, WEED, THREESOMES, SEX WHILE HIGH, DRY HUMPING, ORAL SEX (M AND F RECEIVING), PIV SEX, MULTIPLE ORGASMS, EIFFEL TOWERING, JOSH AND READER ARE KINDA FWB, FEELINGS ARE FELT ON ALL THREE SIDES, EVERYONE IS INCREDIBLY DOWN BAD.

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 wc: 8137

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 a/n: PLEASE IGNORE ANY REPETITION OR SPELLING MISTAKES, THIS IS NOT PROOFREAD. I NEED THESE TWO BAD BITCHES AT THE SAME DAMN TIME, IM SORRY. ENJOY!

“So… how does this work exactly?”

The question hung in the air, naive and uncertain, and it cracked something loose in you. A laugh, light and unguarded, spilled from your lips, your hands trembling ever so slightly at the sensation. You dragged your tongue slowly across the edge of the brown tobacco paper, sealing it with practiced ease. Josh’s soft, breathy chuckle followed, warm against your arm, and in your peripheral vision you caught him shaking his head, amused at Tyler’s question.

Tyler’s face shifted, subtle, but you noticed. His curiosity had left him exposed, and your laughter, unintentional as the sting might’ve been, seemed to make him shrink inward. His mouth twitched like he was swallowing down self-reproach, mentally scolding himself for asking something he thought he should’ve already known. But really, how could he? He was out of his depth.

You paused, lips forming a faux pout, and reached out to give his knee a reassuring pat. “It’s okay,” your touch said without words.

“Well,” you began, voice soft but laced with a playful edge, “you’ll hold this between your lips, and when I light it, you inhale as deep as you can, hold it for a second, then let it go.” You demonstrated with delicate precision, pinching the joint between your fingers and rolling it gently, letting him watch the ritual up close. His eyes curious, a little tense, tracked every movement. “And if your throat burns a little? That just means you’re doing it right.”

You could feel the weight of his gaze, of both their gazes, fixed on your hands as you finished rolling the joint.

Honestly, you hadn’t expected Tyler to ever ask to be part of this. You’d known both of them for years, thick as thieves, the three of you, but this? This was always a you-and-Josh thing. A small sanctuary of smoke and shared silence. Not that Tyler wasn’t welcome; you’d just figured it wasn’t his scene. He’d always seemed too clean, too careful, too focused on keeping his edges sharp.

You still remembered the first time you offered, ages ago now. He’d smiled, polite but firm, and turned you down. You hadn’t asked again.

But tonight was different. Lately you’d started to sense it, the way Tyler lingered at the edges of these moments, as though the inside jokes and hazy conversations between you and Josh had begun to form a wall he wasn’t sure how to scale. He wasn’t the kind to say it outright, but you saw it: the way he hated feeling left out. The way his laugh would falter when he didn’t understand the reference. The way he watched you both with quiet longing, wanting to be in on it.

So when he asked to join tonight, you hadn’t hesitated.

“So this is what you two do when I’m not around?” Tyler’s voice broke through, his tone light but edged with something that felt like yearning. His eyes darted between you and Josh, pointedly not looking at your hands as you worked.

You and Josh shared a glance, silent understanding passing between you.

“Mostly,” you said, the word hanging in the air, ambiguous enough to keep him guessing.

Tyler let it go, though you could see the question lingering behind his eyes.

You stole a look at him as you finished your task. His expression was a careful balance of indifference and intrigue, but you weren’t fooled. The signs were all there, the slight press of his lips, the way his fingers twirled with a loose thread on his jeans around his finger, the tension that held his back straighter than usual, like he was bracing for something.

Josh, on the other hand, was the picture of ease. He sprawled across your bed, head propped on his hand, scrolling aimlessly through his phone as he waited, patient in his own lazy way.

His eyes flicked up, probably to complain about how long you were taking, but he followed your gaze to Tyler.

“Hey,” Josh said, pushing himself up, his voice easy but touched with sincerity. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“Yeah,” you echoed, leaning over Tyler to rummage through your bedside drawer for a lighter. “No pressure. Seriously, dude. You can back out anytime.”

But Tyler shook his head, quick, almost too quick. “No- I want to. I mean, I never really had a ‘party phase,’ you know? Might as well start now.” His laugh was soft, a little forced at the edges, but it endeared you and Josh all the same.

“Yes, yes, we know. B-ball champ, singing prodigy, we’ve heard it all before.” you smirked. “Couldn’t risk damaging your pretty little lungs with smoke, right?”

“Shut up,” Tyler muttered, but he laughed for real this time, the tension slipping from his shoulders bit by bit.

You grinned and finally found the lighter, holding up your prize. “Alright, Dun,” you drawled, turning to Josh, holding out the joint and lighter like an offering. “Wanna do the honors?”

Josh tried to play it cool, but the way he sprang up betrayed him. His hand was quick, eager, snatching the joint from your palm like he’d been waiting all night for this.

“Yes Ma’am,” he said, already reaching for the light.

You watched in silence, the world seeming to narrow to just the three of you. Josh placed the blunt between his lips with an ease born of habit, his fingers steady as he cupped them around the lighter, shielding the flame from the nonexistent breeze of the room. The lighter clicked, once, twice, before the flame flared to life, a soft glow that reflected in his dark eyes for the briefest second. The tip of the joint smoldered to orange, embers blooming like a firefly in the dim room as he drew in a slow, deliberate breath.

Beside you, Tyler watched too, his posture rigid, eyes observing Josh carefully.

Josh held the smoke in his chest, deep and sure, before exhaling in a long, deliberate sigh. The smoke rolled out in thick, silvery ribbons, curling around him like mist, framing his features in a ghostly halo. The room filled with the scent of burnt paper and earth, and for a heartbeat, the world felt softer, slower.

You and Tyler both watched, caught in the quiet gravity of the moment.

Josh took another hit, his canines brushing his bottom lip in a grin that tugged at the corner of his mouth. His voice was strained as he held the smoke, eyes crinkling with amusement as he looked at Tyler. “See?” he managed between breaths, a puff of smoke escaping with the word. “Not so bad.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, your voice dry with affection as you shot him a deadpan look. “Don’t listen to him, Ty. The first time Josh smoked, he got a bit too cocky, took way too much, and greened out hard.”

Tyler’s brow arched, amusement flickering across his face like sunlight through blinds. “Greened out?” he echoed, glancing between you and Josh with growing intrigue.

Josh groaned your name, the sound stretched out with smoky exasperation. “Don’t you dare,” he warned, though the protest was weak at best.

You grinned wider, delighting in the story as much as you did the first time you told it. “It’s basically a weed overdose,” you explained, seeing the flicker of concern that darted across Tyler’s features. You hurried to add, “Not as scary as it sounds. It’s not dangerous. Just… humbling.”

Josh sighed, already bracing himself for the tale he knew too well. “Please…”

“It was a few years back. I gave Josh half of a weed gummy, right? And five minutes later, he’s pacing the room like, ‘This is shit, I can’t feel anything. Are you messing with me? Does this even have weed in it?’ I told him to wait it out, but he begged for the other half- practically on his knees.”

Josh buried his face in his hands, shaking his head as Tyler started to laugh, his shoulders bouncing.

“So I caved. And what happens next?” You could barely keep your own laughter in. “He lays on the floor for hours, hours, mumbling about how the walls were melting, asking where his mom was like he was six again. Then he passed out, slept for twelve hours straight, and puked in my laundry hamper when he finally woke up.”

Tyler doubled over, his laughter spilling out, breathless and unguarded. His head tipped back, the sound filling the room like music. “Oh my god,” he wheezed. “I don’t think I could top that if I tried.”

Josh shot you both a mock-glare, but the smile he tried to hide tugged at his lips. “Sure, laugh it up,” he grumbled, though the warmth in his eyes betrayed him.

“Aww, I’m sorry, Joshua,” you cooed, reaching out to ruffle his faded red hair, fingers tangling for a second before you deftly snatched the blunt from his lips. “Now stop hogging.”

The laughter faded into its usual comfortable hum between you three. You brought the joint to your lips, the waxy paper familiar, grounding. The burn was immediate as you inhaled, slow and deep, filling your lungs until they felt too full, the heat blooming in your chest. You held it there, savoring the ache, the way it buzzed through you. Then, with a shaky exhale, you let the smoke flow free, thick clouds streaming from your lips, your nostrils, curling toward the ceiling like small ghosts escaping your body.

A cough caught in your throat, soft and involuntary, and when you looked up, Tyler was staring at you again. His expression had shifted, no longer merely curious or amused. There was something else there now. His lips were pressed together, his head tilted just slightly, eyes darkened with an intensity you didn’t recognize. Like he was seeing you anew, the haze of smoke and the glow of the moment casting you in a light that made his breath catch.

It was the same way Josh sometimes looked at you when you weren’t paying attention.

You took a few more slow, savouring drags, the world growing fuzzier, edges softening as that familiar hum filled your veins. A lazy grin spread across your face as you leaned forward, offering the blunt to Tyler.

“Wanna give it a try, Ty?” you asked, your voice warm, inviting.

Tyler hesitated, his gaze flicking from your face to the joint, weighing invisible scales. You could almost see the thoughts running behind his eyes, what if he took too much? What if he ended up on the floor like Josh had, babbling nonsense? What if he embarrassed himself in front of you both?

But despite it all, he nodded, quick and sure. “Okay,” he said, soft but certain, fingers brushing yours as he took it from you. He shifted closer without realizing it, the three of you drawn tighter into the little circle you’d made, as if the smoke itself was weaving invisible threads between you.

Tyler’s eyes lingered on the blunt, watching as the ember at its tip faded to nothing but a cold ash, the fire snuffed out, leaving only a curl of smoke that drifted between you. His fingers twitched slightly, unsure of what came next, shoulders stiff with the weight of unfamiliarity.

“Here,” Josh murmured, his voice low, worn soft at the edges by the haze in the room. The word slipped from his chest like smoke itself. He leaned in, close enough that Tyler could feel the heat of him, close enough that his breath might’ve stirred Tyler’s hair. Personal space forgotten, irrelevant. Josh struck the lighter, the flick of the spark loud in the stillness, the flame small but sure as it touched the end of the blunt, bringing it back to life. Tyler watched him with an intensity that was almost startling, eyes fixed on Josh.

Hesitantly, Tyler mirrored what you’d shown him. He held the blunt with awkward fingers, too conscious of every move. His tongue darted across his lower lip, dampening it in a nervous tic before he brought the joint to his mouth. He inhaled, a little too hard, too fast, the musky heat of the smoke catching him off guard. It filled his throat like fire, raw and unkind, and he spluttered, coughing as the smoke burst from his lips in staccato gasps.

But neither of you laughed. Not this time. Josh’s hand reached out, steady and warm, resting on Tyler’s knee. His thumb moved in slow, grounding strokes, silent reassurance in the spaces where words weren’t needed.

Tyler swallowed hard and tried again, drawing in a smaller breath this time, holding the smoke for just a moment before releasing it in a shaky stream. He coughed once, then again, but softer, less frantic. He took another drag, and another, growing steadier, his confidence building in tiny increments as you and Josh watched him.

“You alright?” you asked, your voice low and honey-warm, leaning closer so the space between you narrowed, your grin tugging at your lips like it was second nature.

Tyler nodded, still catching his breath, but there was a flicker of triumph in his eyes. “Yeah.”

“You did good,” Josh added, his smile easy, the kind that made you feel safe. He patted Tyler’s knee before pulling his hand back, and only then did Tyler glance down, realizing it had been there all along. His gaze drifted from Josh’s hand back to his face, something unspoken passing between them.

You caught it too, and your grin widened, a knowing glint in your eye.

The joint made its lazy rounds, the three of you sinking deeper into the mattress, the weight of the world slipping off your shoulders as the room blurred at the edges. The whites of your eyes tinted pink, your limbs heavy, the laughter softer now.

“Alright, who wants the last drag?” you asked, twirling what was left of the blunt between your fingers, the ember small but stubborn, glowing faintly in the dim light.

Josh reached for it, always the opportunist. “Well, if you’re offering-”

But you pulled back, laughter bubbling up in your throat. “That was a test, and you failed.” You smirked, holding the joint out instead to Tyler. “Ty’s our guest. Don’t you think we should be good hosts and accommodate him?” You arched a brow at Josh, your expression teasing but firm.

Josh’s gaze met yours, a silent conversation flashing between you, one of those wordless exchanges built from years of knowing each other inside out. Something softened in his face, and he leaned back, a smile blooming there despite himself. “Go on, Ty. Finish it off.”

Tyler hesitated for a heartbeat, caught in the unspoken conversation between you and Josh, but then he took the joint with a small smile. “Alright,” he said quietly, and with care he burned it down to the roach, exhaling one final puff of smoke, this time smooth and easy. He stubbed it out in the ashtray at the center of your little universe.

For a moment, stillness settled over you all. Smoke hung in the air, delicate tendrils drifting lazy patterns toward the ceiling. The scent of burnt herb and paper clung to everything, your clothes, your hair, the walls themselves. The silence wasn’t awkward. It felt thick, warm, shared.

“How you feeling now, bud?” you hummed, turning your head to study him.

The sight of him made you want to laugh, though you held it in. His face was soft and open, cheeks flushed just a touch pink, that single dimple on his left cheek deepening as his smile became permanent. His brow crinkled, eyes bright, caught between dazed and delighted.

“Weird,” he admitted, the word stretching out with his slow, lazy laugh. “But, like… good weird. My brain feels like static. And warm. Everything feels warm.”

“Warm, huh?” you mused, shifting closer, closing what little distance remained. Your palm found his chest, fingers splaying gently across his ribs, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath. “Like here, right?”

Tyler’s gaze dropped to your hand, lingered, then lifted to meet your eyes. His grin never wavered, wide and unguarded. “Yeah,” he breathed.

Josh watched the exchange quietly, his teeth pressing into his lower lip, his gaze flickering between you and Tyler as though trying to read what passed in that small, charged space.

“So what made you wanna join us this time?” Josh asked, voice low, leaning in till his shoulder brushed Tyler’s, till the air between all three of you seemed to hum with closeness.

“I don’t know,” Tyler shrugged, the movement exaggerated, the haze loosening his tongue before he could stop himself. The truth tumbled out. “I guess I was feeling kinda left out.”

Josh’s brows drew together, softening. “Left out?”

Tyler rubbed at the back of his neck, his laugh sheepish. “Yeah. I mean, you guys have your thing, your inside jokes, your plans. And I’m just kinda… on the outside of it, sometimes.”

You snorted gently, tilting your head against his shoulder. “You feel left out? You two ditch me for months at a time to go tour the world. If anyone should feel left out, it’s me.”

Tyler laughed, the sound bubbling up without hesitation, his head tilting toward yours.

Josh bumped his shoulder into yours, his smile bright and easy. “You can’t play anything, and you’ve got zero rhythm. I’m afraid we’d have to leave you at every rest stop.”

“Rude. I’d have brought the vibes.” You feigned offense, laughing along with them. “I could’ve been a groupie,” you teased, grinning as Josh burst into laughter beside you. “Or your merch manager. Any excuse to tag along.”

But then your voice softened again, your grin gentling. “Seriously though, Ty. We didn’t mean to make you feel that way. This doesn’t have to just be a me and Josh thing anymore. It can be a you, me, and Josh thing, if you want it to be.”

“Remember earlier,” Tyler began, his voice soft, threaded through with a note of hesitation, “when I asked if this was what you guys did when I wasn’t around, and you said ‘mostly’?”

You stiffened, just slightly, your head resting against his shoulder but your body no longer as relaxed. The question hung there, heavier than it should’ve been, filling the space between the three of you like the lingering smoke. Your gaze shifted instinctively toward Josh, who had already met your eyes with the same flicker of tension mirrored in his own. The kind of glance that speaks volumes without a single word.

Tyler didn’t miss it. His brow creased faintly, his curiosity sharpening. “What else do you guys do?”

You lifted your head, feeling the weight of the moment press down as you searched his face. The easy grin you offered him felt sheepish, like a kid caught doing something they shouldn’t. “Did you know,” you began, voice lighter than you felt, “that some people say pot’s an aphrodisiac?”

Tyler blinked at you, his confusion genuine, his brow quirking as he echoed, “What’s an aphrodisiac?”

“Oh god, here we go again,” Josh groaned, letting himself sink back onto his elbows, head tilted toward the ceiling. The look on his face was one of pure exasperation, the kind that said he’d been down this conversational road with you more times than he could count.

You smirked, leaning into the familiar rhythm. “It’s a substance that’s supposed to increase, y’know… libido.” You watched Tyler’s expression shift, the confusion deepening, brow furrowing as he tried to piece it together. “Like oysters. They’re considered an aphrodisiac too.”

Josh let out a laugh, sudden and unrestrained. “Who decided oysters make people horny?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know!” you shot back, narrowing your eyes at him. “Do I look like a scientist to you, Josh?”

“Definitely not,” he quipped, grin spreading wider, eyes glinting with mischief.

Tyler cut through your bickering, voice rising slightly in bewilderment. “What does this have to do with anything?” His gaze darted between you both, trying to keep up, trying to make sense of where this was going.

You sighed, running a hand down your face as if trying to smooth out the awkwardness along with your own nerves. “Weed can, uh, for some people anyway, increase sexual desire. That’s what I was getting at.”

Tyler opened his mouth to ask something else, but you watched as realization dawned on him mid-thought. His eyes widened, his head jerked slightly back, and his gaze snapped between you and Josh like he was trying to solve some impossible puzzle. His lips parted in shock, words failing him for a second as the pieces fell into place.

“What the fuck?” The words tumbled out, rare and raw from Tyler, who almost never swore. That alone told you how off-guard he was. “What the fuck?” he repeated, like maybe saying it twice would help him process.

“Ty-” Josh started, tone gentle, but Tyler wasn’t finished.

“So you’re telling me…” He trailed off, disbelief thick in his voice. His eyes moved between you and Josh again, searching, questioning. “You two have been… hooking up this whole time?”

You winced at the phrasing, but before you could say anything, Josh answered, watching Tyler carefully. “Well, not the whole time.”

“It first happened last year,” you said quietly, fingers fiddling absently with a loose strand of hair near your cheek. “It’s not a constant thing, Ty. It’s just… sometimes. When it feels right.”

Tyler stared at you, his expression unreadable for a moment, his thoughts clearly racing. His mouth opened, then closed again as he tried to settle on the right words. When he finally spoke, it came out in a breathy huff. “I can’t believe you guys didn’t tell me.”

You reached for him gently, fingers brushing his shoulder, soft and tentative. “You’re not mad, are you?”

He slumped a little at your touch, the tension in his frame loosening as he exhaled a long, slow breath. His eyes dropped to your hand for a second, then lifted to meet yours. “No, just-”

“Feeling left out?” Josh joked quietly, his grin small and sheepish, like he already regretted the words as they left his mouth.

Tyler’s glare cut through the haze sharper than any smoke. His eyes narrowed, and Josh’s grin faltered, vanishing altogether.

Josh wasn’t wrong. The look on Tyler’s face, the flicker of hurt, the edge of longing, said it all. He wasn’t angry. He was lonely, and this revelation only deepened that hollow space inside him.

The silence that settled between the three of you this time was different, thicker, charged, heavy with a tension that neither smoke nor laughter could soften. It clung to the air like humidity before a storm. No one spoke. No one dared to break the moment, as though the first word would shatter whatever fragile thing was holding you all together.

“Ty,” you murmured, your voice barely above a breath, coaxing him from his stunned stillness. You lifted your hand, gentle and sure, guiding his chin with a single finger so his gaze met yours. His eyes were wide, searching, waiting. “Come here,” you nearly cooed, your voice soft enough to melt through his hesitation.

You shifted, folding your legs beneath you, rising onto your knees, drawing him toward you. The distance between you closed in slow motion, as if the world had slowed to watch. Your thumb grazed his jaw as you tilted his face up, and then your lips met his, tentative at first, soft and slow.

It was exploratory, gentle. Your hand slipped from his jaw to the nape of his neck, fingers threading into his hair at the nape of his neck, drawing him deeper into you. A soft hum escaped you as Tyler, spurred by your touch, he brought his hands up to cup your face, palms warm against your cheeks. His kiss grew surer, more eager. His lips parted when your tongue darted over his bottom lip, and a low, unexpected rumble of a groan vibrated in his throat as you deepened the kiss, tasting him, pulling him under.

Curiosity tugged at you, and you peeked one eye open, glancing at Josh. What you saw made heat curl low in your belly. His pupils were wide, dark eclipses swallowing the slightly lighter shade of his irises. His lips were parted ever so slightly, breath shallow, chest rising and falling a bit quicker than before.

When you finally broke the kiss, Tyler chased after you, lips seeking yours again, but you were already turning. Your mouth found Josh’s without hesitation, and he met you there like he always had, like a dance you both knew by heart, each step perfectly matched. His kiss was hungrier, rougher, the heat of him poured into you, teeth grazing your bottom lip as he pulled at it, savoring the taste of you. You pulled away only long enough to swipe your thumb across your lip, catching his saliva, before glancing at Tyler. His awe mirrored Josh’s earlier, eyes wide, lips swollen, breathless.

Your hands found the back of their necks, fingers curling around warm skin as you tugged them both closer. The three of you met in the middle, mouths colliding in a messy, uncoordinated tangle of lips and tongues. It was frantic, needy, hot, teeth clashing, tongues seeking, not knowing or caring whose lips they found at any given moment. The taste of weed, of shared breath, of want was dizzying.

You let your hands fall, fingertips brushing down the lines of their spines as you slowly leaned back onto your elbows, chest heaving, heart pounding against your ribs like a drum. You watched them, spellbound, as they turned that same hunger on each other. Tyler’s fingers curled around Josh’s jaw; Josh’s hand slid to the back of Tyler’s neck, pulling him closer, as if closeness could erase all the space that had ever existed between them.

You bit your bottom lip, the sight almost too much to take, heat pooling low in your stomach. A soft sound escaped you, barely louder than the thrum of your pulse.

You cleared your throat, amused at the way they froze, slowly turning to look at you, lips red and swollen, eyes dazed and dark. Your grin was slow and wicked. “Don’t let me interrupt,” you murmured, pushing yourself upright, voice dripping with invitation. “Keep going.”

And they did. With a glance at each other, a silent agreement passed between them, and they closed the space again, mouths finding one another as if they’d done it a thousand times before.

You leaned in, nuzzling the curve of Josh’s neck, your breath hot against his skin as you placed soft, open-mouthed kisses there, tasting his skin. You trailed higher, leaving wet prints up to his pulse point where his heartbeat thrummed beneath your tongue. You sucked at the spot, felt the low groan tremble through him, his body taut beneath your mouth. You bit, licked, soothed, painting his throat with bruises.

Before you could move to Tyler, he broke the kiss with Josh, his eyes dark with something raw and urgent, and captured your lips again. His kiss was greedy, desperate, like he was drowning and you were the only air he had left. His hands roamed, skimming down your sides until they found your hips, fingers digging in as he pulled you closer, guided you into his lap.

You went willingly, straddling him, wrapping your arms around his neck. The kiss deepened, grew frantic, his breath mingling with yours, his lips slick against your own.

Josh pressed up behind you, his chest warm against your back, his presence surrounding you, caging you between them. His lips found the right side of your neck, his hands skimming your sides, making you shiver under his touch. He mirrored your earlier attention, kissing, biting, sucking at your neck, until your skin burned beneath his mouth.

You felt Tyler beneath you, hard and wanting, his cock twitching beneath the press of your clothed cunt. Behind you, Josh’s dick pressed firm against your back, his breath hot as he groaned into your skin.

Josh’s teeth sank gently into the junction of your neck and shoulder, his hands sliding down your frame till they met Tyler’s at your hips. His fingers wove with the others, and then he guided your hips, rocking you forward, grinding you down onto Tyler’s lap. You gasped softly, the friction sending shivers through you, your hips following the rhythm he set, slow at first, then faster, your need building, heat radiating from where you met.

Their hands were everywhere, on your hips, your thighs, your waist, as they moved you together, every breath, every touch, every tremble shared between the three of you.

“Fuck,” Tyler exhaled, the word spilling from his lips in a ragged sigh as he tore himself from your mouth, his chest heaving as he gulped down air. His gaze flicked up, catching sight of Josh behind you, and the low groan that left him made your insides twist.

A soft, desperate mewl escaped you, the sound trembling on your breath as your chest shuddered. You rocked your hips harder, faster, grinding down on Tyler’s lap, driven by the insistent tempo of Josh’s hands guiding you, his fingers digging into your hips with a grip so fierce you knew it would leave marks, imprints of this moment etched into your skin.

The heat of it all became overwhelming in the most delicious way as Tyler’s mouth found the other side of your neck, his lips searing a path over your skin. He nipped, sucked, kissed, while Josh mirrored him on the opposite side, two mouths devouring you, their touch sending shocks of pleasure down your spine. The overstimulation made your head swim, your body burning between them.

“God, fuck, that feels so good,” you gasped out, voice thick and trembling as your hips continued their slow, grinding dance. Your back arched, your ass pressing harder against Josh, dragging along the stiff line of his cock through his pants.

The sounds that came from both of them were downright filthy, guttural groans, breathy gasps, hungry, animalistic noises buried in the hollow of your throat, meant for your ears alone. The friction at your cunt was a maddening combination of too much and not enough, every roll of your hips driving you closer to the edge and yet leaving you wanting more, aching.

Without thinking, your arms lifted, surrendering to Josh as he tugged your shirt over your head and discarded it carelessly to the floor. His rough, calloused hands found the soft skin of your ribs, tracing upward, reverent and greedy all at once. When his palms cupped your breasts, you shivered beneath his touch.

You felt Tyler’s hands leave your hips, relinquishing control, letting you ride him as your body pleased. His fingers fumbled at your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, sliding the straps down your arms as Josh’s fingers worked one nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, coaxing soft, breathy moans from your lips.

Tyler’s hands were back on you in a heartbeat, one strong arm curling around the arch in your back, holding you flush against him. Still, your hips moved in slow, grinding circles, savoring the friction, the pressure. His other hand slid forward, bold and sure, and you felt him palm Josh through his pants, a low, heady groan rumbling out of Josh in response.

Josh buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he nipped at your throat, his fingers tweaking your nipples just enough to make you whimper. Tyler claimed your mouth again, kissing you like he couldn’t bear to be apart from you, your breaths mingling, desperate and uneven.

And then Josh’s hands returned to your hips, halting your movements with a firm grip. You blinked, dazed, lips parted, ready to ask why, but you didn’t get the chance.

“C’mere,” he rasped, his voice rough, need threaded through every syllable. He drew you back against him, settling you between his thighs, his legs bracketing yours. His hands cradled your jaw, tilting your face toward him, his lips crashing into yours with hunger that left you dizzy.

A sigh slipped from you as Tyler’s mouth began its descent, kissing a heated trail down your chest. His lips worshipped every inch of skin, pausing at your breast, his tongue circling your soft flesh before sucking it into his mouth. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, tugging them down with slow, deliberate purpose as his mouth worked you, marking you, claiming you.

You gasped as his teeth grazed your breast, not hard enough to make you bleed, just enough to leave the imprint of his teeth. Josh took advantage of your parted lips, his tongue sliding into your mouth, tasting you, deepening the kiss.

Tyler moved lower, his lips leaving a warm, wet path down your stomach, his breath ghosting over your skin, leaving goosebumps in his wake. He paused just above your hip bone, his eyes lifting, locking with yours, dark and molten with longing. The sight of him there, framed between your thighs, made your heart race, your breath catch.

Slowly, reverently, he pressed feather-light kisses along the inside of your legs, switching from one to the other, teasing, building the anticipation until your thighs trembled. His breath fanned over your clothed cunt, the heat of him maddening, his nose nudging against your clit through the damp cotton of your underwear, making your whole body shiver.

Then, with a look that smoldered, he hooked his arms around your legs, pulling you closer. His teeth caught the lace trim at your hip, gripping it between his canines as he dragged it down, slow, torturous, his eyes never leaving yours. When they reached your thighs, his hands took over, easing the fabric the rest of the way down.

“Fuck…” The word fell from your lips in a shaky breath, your head tipping back onto Josh’s shoulder, your mind hazy with want.

“Holy shit…” Josh husked in your ear, his voice thick, his cock twitching against your back as he watched Tyler, his breath ragged, his need just as palpable as yours.

Tyler’s tongue found your clit with a slow, deliberate stroke that stole the breath clean from your lungs. It was soft at first, agonisingly soft, and yet your entire spine arched, a silent gasp snagging in your throat. The world blurred at the edges, the only clarity in the heat pooling between your thighs.

A moan spilled from you, low and shivering, as you pushed your head off of Josh’s shoulder, then forced your heavy lidded gaze down, seeking Tyler. And there he was, looking up at you, lips already slick with you, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide with hunger. His tongue flicked out again, slower this time, more purposeful, as though he wanted you to feel every inch of him, every deliberate drag.

And then his gaze shifted, sliding past you to meet Josh’s eyes over your shoulder. There was something electric in that look, silent understanding, shared desire, and when his tongue met you again, you felt it in your bones.

Your thighs trembled, hips bucking instinctively, chasing more, chasing friction, chasing that high.

“Stay still,” Josh murmured against your ear, his teeth grazing your earlobe. His hands slid down, firm and steady, gripping your knees and spreading you wider, holding you open for Tyler’s mouth. His control made your breath hitch, made the need coil tighter in your belly.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Tyler groaned, voice wrecked, reverent. And then his tongue was moving again, soft licks that made your toes curl, flat strokes that set your nerves on fire, tiny pulses that left you gasping. Every flick, every swirl, every press of him against you was maddening, precision and passion combined.

Your thighs tried to close around him, instinct overtaking you, but Josh kept you spread, his grip unyielding. Your body shook, sweat slicking your skin as the heat between your legs built to a fever pitch. Desperate for grounding, you tangled your fingers in Tyler’s hair, the strands damp beneath your palm, tugging gently, urging him on. Your free hand reached blindly for Josh’s, threading your fingers through his, clinging as you shuddered with pleasure.

“Feels so good, don’t stop, Ty,” you managed to gasp out, the words falling from your lips like prayer. Tyler groaned, deep and feral, the sound rumbling through you as his tongue worked you, dragging slow, firm strokes through your slick folds.

Your eyes fluttered shut, head tipping back, but Josh wouldn’t have it. His fingers pinched your jaw, tilting your head down, forcing you to watch. “Eyes open, baby. Watch,” he breathed, voice thick, dark, his lips brushing your ear. And you did, you looked down at Tyler as he devoured you, as he lapped at you like a man starving. The sight of it, the sound of it, the scent of your own arousal mingling with their breath, it made your pulse thunder in your ears.

Tyler groaned again, broken and low, the vibration of it sending sparks through your spine. His hands slid up, cradling your ribcage, pulling you closer, pressing you down into him. His thumbs stroked your skin, rough and tender all at once, like he couldn’t decide if he meant to soothe you or ruin you.

You cried out, the sound raw, unfiltered, the heat between your legs unbearable, and yet you didn’t want him to stop. Couldn’t bear for him to stop. Your body was no longer your own, every nerve alight, every breath a battle. You tugged at his hair harder, your other hand squeezing Josh’s, grounding yourself in them both.

Tyler hummed against you, lips curling into a grin that you could feel more than see, pride and want tangled together. He drank in the way you trembled for him, the way your body surrendered to his mouth, the way your words dissolved into moans and incoherent babble.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you whimpered, voice breaking, your back arching off Josh’s chest, stars bursting behind your eyes. Josh released your knees, but before your legs could fall, Tyler’s hands caught them, hooking them over his shoulders, locking you to him. Your hips ground against his face, chasing that friction like you needed it to breathe. A bead of sweat rolled down your throat, over your collarbone, as your vision blurred, lashes fluttering.

And then you shattered. Your whole body clenched, thighs tightening around Tyler’s head, toes curling, fingers white-knuckled where they gripped Josh’s. A cry tore from your throat, raw and beautiful, as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you, leaving you breathless, boneless, burning.

But Tyler didn’t stop. Even as you trembled, as your slick coated his chin, dripping down onto the sheets, he kept going, licking, sucking, worshipping you. Your hips jerked involuntarily beneath him, sensitive and overstimulated, and still he feasted on you, until your soft cries became pleas, until you could do nothing but whisper his name like a prayer, broken and undone.

Finally, he lifted his head, lips swollen, chin glistening, his eyes dazed and dark as he looked up at you, then at Josh.

And before you could catch your breath, before you could even think, Tyler was pulling you into a kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth, letting you taste yourself on him. You melted against him, weak and wanting, lost in him.

Josh’s breath was hot against your shoulder, his chest rising and falling against your back. You turned your mouth to Tyler’s neck, pressing kisses along his throat, trailing lower, your hands fumbling with his belt, trembling fingers desperate to free him.

And when Josh finally claimed Tyler’s mouth, hot and hungry, you felt the heat of them both, surrounding you, consuming you.

As Josh finally broke from Tyler’s lips, his hands found your hips, his grip ironclad, fingers sinking deep enough to leave bruises like secrets only they’d know. His breath was ragged, low in his throat as he rasped, “On your knees, sweetheart. C’mon.” The demand was rough, but laced with affection, as he guided you upward, his palms insistent and trembling with restraint.

You obeyed without hesitation, moving onto your knees, your hands bracing against the mattress, grounding yourself in the swirl of heat and hunger between you three. When you lifted your gaze, Tyler was already watching you through his lashes, teeth caught on his bottom lip, his chest rising and falling like he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

“Shit,” he exhaled, voice thin with awe, hand sliding under your chin to tilt your face up, keeping you tethered to his eyes even as your fingers deftly popped the button on his jeans, pulling the zipper down in a slow tease that made his breath hitch. Behind you, the sound of Josh rummaging through your drawer mingled with the thrum of blood in your ears.

Together, you worked Tyler’s jeans down his thighs. He tugged his shirt over his head, casting it aside, his skin flushed and tan in the dim light. You couldn’t help but trace your finger along the ink etched into his chest, pressing kisses to the warm plane of his stomach, savoring the faint salt of sweat on his skin. The tip of your nose brushed the trail of hair leading from his navel down, down, until it disappeared beneath the band of his briefs.

Both of them watched, their stares burning into your skin. Slowly, deliberately, you hooked your fingers into Tyler’s waistband, dragging his briefs down, baring him inch by aching inch. His cock sprang free, thick and hard as a lead pipe, veins running like rivers along the shaft, the tip flushed a delicate pink, glistening with a bead of precum.

A shaky sigh spilled from Tyler’s lips as your fingers wrapped around him, stroking him slow, savoring the weight of him in your hand. You met his gaze again, eyes heavy with lust, as you leaned in, your tongue flicking softly over his tip, tasting him, making him shudder. His groan, raw and desperate, made your knees weak.

Behind you, Josh watched, entranced, as if he couldn’t believe the sight before him. His hand caressed the curve of your hip, the soft flesh of your ass, as he tore open the condom with his teeth, foil falling forgotten to the floor. His hands were steady as he rolled it on, but his breath betrayed him, uneven with want.

You took Tyler deeper, your mouth sliding down his length, feeling him pulse against your tongue as you hollowed your cheeks, each movement slow, measured, driving him wild. His fingers threaded into your hair, tugging just enough to make your scalp tingle.

Then came the press of Josh behind you, his cock brushing your slick folds, his touch lighting every nerve. The head of him teased your clit, drawing a moan that vibrated around Tyler’s cock, making him groan deep, his hips twitching.

“Ready, sweetheart?” Josh asked, voice softer now, his fingertips trailing down the curve of your spine, grounding you, worshiping you. You hummed your answer, mouth full, and that was all the encouragement he needed. With care, he eased himself inside, the slide made easy by how wet you were, how ready.

“Oh fuck- don’t clamp down on me like that,” Josh half-laughed, half-moaned, voice breathless as he stilled, savoring the way you gripped him. Tyler’s head fell back, throat working as he swallowed hard, groans rumbling from his chest.

You bobbed your head faster now, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t take, Tyler’s grip in your hair tightening with every pass of your lips. Josh began to move, slow at first, hips rolling into you, drawing a whimper from your throat that vibrated along Tyler’s cock, making him shudder.

Josh’s pace quickened, his thrusts deep and sure, his fingers digging into your waist as you rocked between them. The heat in the room rose, the air thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and the faint musk of weed, an intoxicating blend that made your head swim.

Then Josh snapped his hips hard into you, and the force sent you down deeper onto Tyler’s cock, making you gag, throat clenching around him, sending shocks through you both. Tyler’s voice broke into curses, eyes dark with pleasure, torn between watching your mouth take him and watching Josh claim you.

Josh’s rhythm became relentless, his hips slapping against you, filling the room with obscene sounds, the wet slide of bodies, the sharp slap of skin, the chorus of your moans and their groans, tangled and raw.

“God- just like that, don’t stop,” Tyler urged, his voice frayed at the edges, his grip on your hair rough now, the burn of it making you whimper, fueling you. His hips began to move, shallow thrusts into your mouth, fucking your throat as his eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and desperate.

Tears pricked your eyes, your vision blurring as you looked up at him. And then you saw it, Tyler’s hand shooting out to Josh, pulling him down into a kiss that was all teeth and tongues, messy and needy. The sight, the sound, the sheer heat of it, shattered you.

Your climax crashed over you, violent and all-consuming. Your thighs shook, your cunt clamped down on Josh, milking him as a high, broken cry tore from your throat. Josh groaned, low and wrecked, a few more hard thrusts before his cock twitched, his release filling the condom as he buried himself to the hilt. His breath stuttered against your back, his body shuddering.

Josh’s slow, lazy thrusts pushed you forward, driving Tyler deeper into your throat, until he hissed, “Fuck- open your mouth, baby.” He pulled back, stroking himself hard and fast, his jaw tight, his body coiled. And then he came, thick and hot across your tongue, painting the wet pink flesh white.

You met his gaze as you caught your breath, mouth open, tongue coated, before you closed your lips and swallowed, slow and loud enough that they both heard it. And they stared at you, wrecked and ruined.

The three of you lay sprawled across the bed, bodies slack, limbs tangled, chests rising and falling in shallow, uneven pants. The room was heavy with the heady scent of sex, sweat, and satisfaction mingling in the thick, humid air. Your skin glistened under the soft wash of lamp, casting your forms in a warm, hazy glow. Drops of sweat traced lazy paths down your ribs, your neck, pooling where your bodies met, where heat still radiated in waves.

For a long moment, no one spoke. There was only the sound of your breathing, three heartbeats trying to slow. Tyler’s arm draped over your waist, his fingers idly tracing shapes along your side, while Josh lay half on his back, head turned toward you and Tyler, his lips parted as he tried to catch his breath.

Finally, it was Josh who broke the silence, his voice low, rough-edged with exhaustion but softened by the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You were right, Ty…” he huffed, the words curling out on a sigh as he glanced over at him, eyes warm, crinkling with the force of his smile. “We shouldn’t have left you out.”

Tyler’s breath hitched with the quiet laughter that escaped him, his eyes flickering toward you as if to see if you shared the sentiment.

“I second that,” you murmured, your voice a soft rasp, still catching on the remnants of moans and gasps. You turned your head, pressing a tender kiss to Josh’s cheek, his skin still damp and warm, then to Tyler’s, his lashes fluttering at the touch, a faint flush still painting his cheeks.

The quiet stretched again, but this time it was peaceful. The kind of silence that wraps around you like a blanket, thick with unspoken understanding. Your bodies remained tangled, Tyler’s leg hooked over yours, Josh’s hand resting across your stomach, thumb stroking down your supple skin. The world outside felt impossibly far away; here, in this moment, there was nothing but the soft press of skin, the shared warmth, the afterglow humming in your bones.

Eventually, you lifted your head, hair sticking damply to your temple, gaze lazy as it flicked between them. The corners of your lips quirked in a grin, voice low and playful as it broke the stillness. “Anyone want a smoke?”

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the-jetset-lifes-gonna-kill-me · 2 months 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.

— • ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐔌 wc: 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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